THIS STORY, SET IN THE LOCKYER VALLEY, QUEENSLAND, EXPLORES MASCULINITY, GRIEF AND REGIONAL LANDSCAPES.
urray heard her first. The sharp, dry crack of the undergrowth, and he was down on his stomach with the rifle pressed into the hollow of his shoulder, thinking of wild pigs. His hands shook with the suddenness of it, and he couldn’t adjust the sight. It swung outwards; he saw the sky framed by the black half-circle of the top of the scope, and a tree looping wildly with the white daytime moon caught in its branches. He brought his other hand up to steady the barrel, trained the sight on the scree of lantana where he thought the sound came from. He scanned the scrub.
Read the complete story in issue 152 of Island.