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The Yearning
Red earth is cracked and pitted like a dinosaur’s skin. White
heat scratches his eyes. Grey cactus thrusts upwards to the orange disc in
the sky. There are prickles, sharp like his rasping throat. His head
pounds, an anvil thuds against his brain.
He felt a sharp pain
in his ribs. His classmate prodded him with a ruler.
“Peter
MacKenzie. If you could join the rest of us. We are here to learn, not to
catch up on a night’s sleep. Page twenty-two. Now, how do you feel
Shakespeare is treating Lear’s despair in this scene?”
It was the second time in a week he’d nodded off in class. And it
was always the same dream.
That night he rang his Mum. He pictured her in the kitchen,
carefully placing the lid on the saucepan. He could smell the rich, meaty
casserole. She smoothed down her floral overall and patted the back of her
grizzled hair. Slowly and precisely, she closed the kitchen door behind
her and picked up the telephone in the hallway.
“Hello.
Curramulka Farm.”
Her
first question, when she knew who it was:
“Are
you getting enough to eat?”
Pete
smiled. Best she didn’t know he’d eaten MacDonalds three times that
week.
“How’s
the big city? Finding your way around?” |