I made the 5 minute fiction finals last night. It was a pretty thin field, you should really set up a reminder on your phone and give it a whirl. The prompt was, “Your story must include a thunderbird.” I chose instead to include a Thunderbird. Specifically, Marc Cohn’s “Silver Thunderbird.” Which got me humming “Walking in Memphis” all night. Which led to me hunting through the cd collection this morning while I ate my bagel looking for my Marc Cohn cd. Which led to me listening to it on the way to the train station this morning.
I will need to get my hearing aids adjusted. Not only do they not like Adele, they don’t like Marc Cohn either. For some reason the music puts them into their anti-feedback loop mode. It’s an interesting warble effect but one I prefer to skip. Speaking of which, yesterday afternoon on the train I was going through Washington Orville Hampton’s journal and found this.
August 17, 1980, Northern Territory, Australia.
Another long day on the trail to Alice Springs. It’s very hot here and the fauna are brazen. I fired a shot at a pack of dingoes that wouldn’t move from the waterhole. Despite the desolation – blessedly smog free – I have encountered many other travelers including a young family. They were very pleasant and we enjoyed a lunch of canned provisions and jerky near Ayers Rock.
The afternoon ride was grueling and must confess to falling asleep before camp was properly set up. I awoke as night consumed the outback and hurriedly set about finishing up. I paused in my labors with the distinct feeling of being watched. I slowly turned to see a dingo staring at me, her eyes reflecting the dancing fire and a bundle hanging from her mouth.
I looked again. It was a baby. Or a wallaby. She turned from my camp and ran into the wilds. It really looked like a baby. Most likely wasn’t. Most likely if I told anyone they’d accuse me of drinking too much and having a dash of sunstroke. They’d probably be right.
Dingoes don’t take babies.
|A dingo ate my baby and all I got was this dumb t-shirt.|