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Stories about "S Sorrensen":
I know a secret cave. Only a couple of other people know it. We’re friends. Friends of the Cave. A long time ago we swore an oath of secrecy, ritually cutting our palms with the Sacred Cave Knife, mixing our blood, like stoned Sioux, to seal the vow.
‘Find the diamonds in the shit,’ the driver says to me. We jump the speed bump as we exit the university. The Subaru doesn’t really ‘jump’ the bump – it doesn’t get air – but the car does rise up on its toes before slumping back heavily onto its hydraulic heels, like a sumo wrestler.
Two lorikeets fly out of the sun, which hovers over the neighbour's roof, and land in a grevillea near where I'm sitting. Their abrupt...
‘What are you doing this weekend?’ ‘I’m going to MardiGrass.’ ‘Oh...’ MardiGrass – the very word elicits fear and loathing. If it comes up in conversation over latte at a Lismore cafe, people blink, look at their watch and leave.
It’s dawn. It’s Anzac Day. That seems appropriate. The sun is still struggling behind the eastern hill, but the wallabies are already sitting on their tails, tummies facing the hill in anticipation of the warming rays. I’m sad, despite the happy wildlife.
What is this feeling? Why am I wheeling myself over to the kitchen to make another banana sandwich when I’ve already eaten eight, and I’m definitely not hungry? Why do I have the radio on, filling my brain with waffle? What is wrong with me?
The letter sent to the residents of Ewingsdale last year by holiday park owner Ingenia seemed fairly innocuous at first glance...