Pangushi and his dogs were found in the middle of the great desert one Thursday afternoon around tea time…
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Astis stands wearily, his war uniform torn and ragged, his hands resting on a great longsword. The sword is bloodied, as are his hair, beard and face. Enod stands to his side. He is placing ammunition into his shotgun…
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They all watched silently as the discarded chains began to shift and writhe upon the desert sands like angry snakes, clanking and shaking where another beast might hiss and spit…
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It was all meteors and
Wizards and magic words and
Secret formulae and
Struck by lightning
And
Last son of another
Planet
Back then that was
All the rage…
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The run did size upon the day,
the myre did gimble to the lair,
the lair was dank in Treaclewood,
all was knee deep in despair…
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There is no easy answer to the riddle of why we create, but it is the question which lies at the heart of understanding who and what we are as human beings…
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Exterior shot. Funeral procession walking down road. The camera focuses on feet walking in slow motion. The shoes are all black, the ground is dusty and clouds of dirt rise as they walk. The shot is overlaid briefly with the sight and sound of static. Colour seems drained from the scene, it is mostly made up of shades of black, white, and grey with occasional tinges of blue…
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He skidded to a halt before the waterfront to see hundreds of planes buzzing above like some angry hive of insects, the droning noise of their engines a fierce hum in the air that accompanied the brutal explosions erupting from the bombs they dropped upon the vessels beneath them. Battleships and aircraft carriers rolled in the red waves, their decks breaking apart with fire, their hulls cracking like eggshells as the crews aboard raced back and forth, looking for a way to defend themselves, looking for a way to escape, looking in vain. There were bodies in the water, a raging sea already red with blood…
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And now I shall remember you, and another song too…
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It was a question she’d repeated a number of times during their rambling peregrination, from the wide halls of the National Gallery where they’d looked at the coloured canvases of Sidney Nolan, his bushranger icon recognisable as an empty black letterbox, to the whispered aisles of the State Library, where the bush forge beaten and bullet cratered armour floated suspended in a case of glass…
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