Neve MacColl

Neve’s imaginative piece was inspired by a work of Australian fiction by Wiradjuri author, Tara June Winch. ‘Cloud Busting’ explores the individual relationship with the Australian landscape and uses perspective to explore character relationships with it. ‘Boiling Over’ experiments with perspective shifts in a similar manner to Winch’s text.

Boiling Over

Contemporary Australia is often characterised by its weather, specifically its blazing Sun and scorching temperatures. It’s commonly interpreted as a metaphor for Australia’s bright and energetic nature. But as I see it, the sun is weary and exhausting, dragging all life with it. My story contrasts the contemporary understanding of Australia from an outsider’s perspective, exploring the life of a girl raised and currently living in Western Australia.

We try our best to run to the pool before the heat catches us. The scalding pebbles attack our toes, biting at our flesh, and triggering the instant liquefication of our skin. Shrinking as we melt onto the ground, our steps leave small prints where we tread; just two sets, made by Charlotte and me. I lift the plastic gate opener, careful to avoid the black line of insects tiresomely marching toward their nest. We barge through the vibrant green gates and crash into the water– the cool moisture wrapping itself around our bodies, relieving our sores and crisp skin. I explode to the surface shortly after Charlotte to assess the 3rd-degree burns. We bring our goggles to our eyes and maneuver ourselves into ‘C’s to get a better look. Nothing. Pink skin stares back at me and I look toward Charlotte, just to be met by my own expression.

We were young then. Our wrinkles nonexistent, our cheeks round with innocence. The Sun hadn’t won then, its manifestation only just commencing.

Charlotte still visits, but we aren’t as close as we had been when the sun shone, its damage now clearly visible. The pool boiled over long ago, and these days we hide in the shade.

I can hear her walking across the rotting wood leading to the front door. Rubbing planks squeak with each step she takes, and I’m reminded of the times we would sprint across the porch, comforted by the short-lived effect of Zooper-Doopers and Golden Gaytimes. “Knock, knock!” Charlotte exclaims through the screen door.

“I’m comin’!” I shout back, “Just give me a minute!”

We don’t talk about many new things these days; the town doesn’t have secrets or stories. The newspapers have nothing to report except for a crime or two, mostly theft or break-andenters. We amuse ourselves as much as we can despite the lack of excitement– Beers on the porch or the occasional trip to the local markets. Sometimes Charlotte even tells me about her brother, Marcus. I never met him, nor did I know he existed for much of my life. She says he was much older than us and lived in Sydney, but I don’t think that’s true.

He couldn’t possibly have vanished from this small town without anyone knowing or caring. Nonetheless, I always find myself attentively leaning over the table with my chin between my hands.

It’s on these occasions that my skin clears, my body is energized, and I feel warm, not cicadachirping warm, but a warm that is homely and snug.

“Go on, tell a story then,” I say to her impatiently.

“I don’t have one ready though,” She grumbles, “You’ve drained me of my stories, there’s only so much I can tell before I run out and you’ll have to go across the road and ask Sandy for hers.”

I smile at her. “Tell one about Marcus.” She pauses for a few seconds to think–possibly to formulate a fictional story, but I wouldn’t care either way. “Fine,” She begins, “Here’s one you haven’t heard.”

The car’s paint wasn’t always peeling. The slide in the park wasn’t always faded. And Marcus wasn’t always in Sydney. When he was here, the plants were bright green, the flies had disappeared, and the Sun didn’t seem to bite as hard. The trees welcomed wind between their leaves while the skinks sat on rocks to absorb as much heat as they could before the kookaburras spotted them

I can’t recall the day I lost my first tooth, nor the hour I rode without training wheels, but I can’t seem to forget the minute in which Marcus said he wasn’t coming to visit anymore.

It was a Sunday. Not one of those Sundays with my friends in a pool or playing cricket in our cul-de-sac, but instead sitting with my brother in the grass of the back garden. We had been passing a tennis ball to one another – which I later lost over the fence – When he suddenly told me something.

Charlotte, I won’t be coming home anymore so I want you to do one thing for me; just a small chore: Water the plants when the sun starts to fall onto the horizon. The sun will evaporate the water, and none of it will be absorbed by the plants. Promise me you will wait until the day cools.’

It didn’t matter what I replied with. Just like a field of buffalo grass, he kept his sharp bindis hidden but when you stumbled upon them, they stung and kept on stinging. I stepped on one that Sunday.

I don’t remember ever watering the plants in our garden and I watched as days passed and the grass turned a dry, sunburnt brown. I never played in that grass again and I don’t think it ever was cared for even after I moved out.

And ever since he slid open the fly screen, wiped his feet on the shaggy doormat and stepped back into the house, the days don’t seem to cool down the same. The plants shrivel rather than flourish, lizards fry instead of bathe, and flies prefer to swarm than hide. I guess the plants needed water to cool down, just like I needed ice cream when there were heat waves. But, unlike the plants, I’ve learnt to survive here and even though I can’t play in the Sun like I used to, I won’t let the heat get to me like it did my brother. ∞