Here’s an excerpt of the edited version of a piece I submitted to the West Australian’s “Best Aussie Yarn” (sic).

Turns out they’re not into downer yarns set in the here and now, nor have they been renters in the last, ah, quarter century or so.

Who’d have thunk.

Anyhoot – there’s a longer form version of this that I have plans for, but please accept this one as a taste of my recent lit-comp alienating stylings for the time being.

(Thanks especial to Steve MinOn for suggesting the edits that squeaked this one in under the word count, too).

You can read the full version in BLACK PILLS: 7 TALES TO ASTONISH & CONFOUND, out now!

THERE had been many disappointments in the DeRoche’s recent rear view, and this catastrophic pile, this hazardous sore, barely a shelter – the sole rental in their budget and within walking distance of a kindy – was the final kick in the guts, confirming the universe held them in considerable disdain.

Reggie, stoic: “Kudos to the Photoshop guy, they really earned their effing keep, eh babe?”

Tobey, succinct: “What an effing shit hole.”

Amity, nearly-five: “Does it have an effing kitty door for a meow?”

Reggie sucked air between her teeth, giving Tobes a look.

“Better apply, right, babe? Lucky thirty-seven?”

Tobes just nodded.

*

“Is that… human faeces?” Reggie gasped.

Property Manager Nickala Grezzdl made a note to get back to the bond cleaners…