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HR #3

Four short prose pieces: Chris Jones


Four short prose pieces

It is raining fish
The wild melons growing in summer over the black soil plains of north west New South Wales are called paddy melons. I once told some of my Sydney friends how it rains fish out here in the violent late summer, late afternoon thunderstorms. They refused to believe me. No bullshit, fair dinkum, it rains little fish, about a quarter to half an inch long, sucked up from waterholes which have not dried out in the hot sun with strong updrafts to be dropped again into puddles and waterholes, squiggling and drying out in the small and medium sized puddles to become fish emulsion fertilizer and surviving in the larger lagoons to again be sucked up and fall with the rain down onto the plains. Bobby cod, they are called, and that is how fish spread across the plains. A cowboy has left a note for me to meet him in the beat across the road from where I live. We leave our felt tip truths on toilet walls. That is how we meet. There is nothing as sensual, as erotic as making love to a cowboy in the swishing black mud as the late afternoon summer storms belt heavy fish rain onto our wet bodies.

Line and Space: Adam Aitken


Line and Space
University of Technology

What follows is a rather unplanned and immediate response to the nominal theme of this gathering. I would also like to share with you my reflections on yesterday's wonderfully varied reading of poetry, and how I interpret poetics in terms of 'line and space'.
But first, two lines from a contemporary British novel has been obsessing me, and I hope that any discuss that follows from this will shed light on the state of my mind.
The first is:
Oh, please, say yes, it would be the best thing that has happened to me for days.'
The other line is:

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