Kym's profile

The cigarette that Mark produced from his pocket was crumpled and limp to one side. He looked to see if anyone else along the wall had noticed his abnormality. His lighter was pink, the petrol station attendant’s attempt at humour. It sparked true and he inhaled soft, remembering to avoid the drag that would bite large into his tobacco meditation. He needed to span time. To wait for her to pass through those automatic doors that sensed only her presence, where as he had sensed opportuni...

My friend recently sent a letter to a government agency asking for a detail to be erased. It would not take them long, just a minor adjustment. The first interview had taken place a few years ago - after the 'incident'. Fin didn’t remember all of what he had said. But he remembered this detail. A few days later, Fin got a phone call from a government agent. It was late in the afternoon. He was drinking coffee by himself. The short black was a substitute for the meth-amphetamines he would norm...

Barry heard the steady electric whir of the Citroen, the patter of Pirelli over pavers, engine off . . . but no. New cars don’t have doors that slam shut: but not even a polite click? Barry knew they were finishing off a conversation about him, otherwise they’d just come inside. A deliberate, regular breath in for three seconds, then exhale. Repeat five times. A deliberate, regular breath for five seconds, then exhale, Fucking bitch, torturing me. Elaine Snow sat in the car with her daughter,...

My friend’s house is a stone’s throw from the Norwood Football Ground, closer than a decent car park. We walk the Parade, along with others converging for the game. Some supporters showed no outward indication of their allegiance, while others revelled in team colours that decorated scarfs, tops and beanies - these people have no intention of shopping at ‘Blooms’ or ‘Dignity and Impudence’. They are all football followers, hoping to claim victory from the jaws of conceit. The members of two t...

Footsteps no longer echoed from the tiled, mosaic floor that fashioned the main passage of Paringa Hall. From the doorway we moved across the hall, checking once again for a Marist presence before entering Mr Brown’s office. The door was always unlocked, even on weekends. Dean’s hands passed over the hooks until he came upon the tower key, nervously laughing at the ease of our escapade. Tip-toeing back over the faded floor, we pretended to be heading to the billiards room, before veering left...