NSW GOTHIC
(This is about a very specific area but I'm not gonna mention it. not doxxing myself. If you do figure out the area, please don't say it!)
The towns nearby are spread out, but somehow together. Everyone’s face is familiar, even if you have no name for them. If someone is wrong, you know. Something will be wrong about their face.
The Port is brown after the rains. It’s just the dirt and tea tree. You don’t swim when the water is brown. It’s too dirty, with soil and other things.
It’s midsummer, and the outward-facing beaches are littered with black feathers. The muttonbirds begin to wash up. Blood trickles from unseen wounds. ‘It’s just the migration.’ say the national park officers. ‘They starve, and fall, and die, and something takes a bite.’ But there ain’t no bite marks.
The seagulls are wary. Their heads jerk back and forth, watching. They aren’t distracted by food. Something’s wrong.
The ants are making trails. The storms are coming.
The wetland is silent, something is happening. Where are the cicadas?
You drive out to the RAAF base, to the airport. You watch the planes. You watch the plane-watchers. Their heads follow the jets, all in sync.
The jets feel like they tear the ground apart.
You go to the Aviation museum, and you are greeted well. They explain the area. They tell you not to take photos of staff. They tell you not to take photos of the RAAF base. They reiterate their points. They leave you to wander. You will find one if you need to question them.
The hangars are quiet, except for the steps of unseen staff. Sometimes you catch a glimpse of them. They stare at you, waiting to be called upon, eyes like a hawk’s.
It’s raining. The clouds are a heavy indigo on the horizon. A storm is coming.
The boats are on the water. The sky is grey. The ants are making trails.
You go home, lock your doors, your windows. You have a view of the port. The boats disappear in a sea mist. The other side of the port disappears into the rain. Was there ever an other side? You aren’t sure.
The rain drenches the sand-soil. It feeds the marsh. The marsh is silent. The mangroves are almost submerged. It still won’t flood.
The next day there is sun. It’s strong. It’s watching you.
Tourist season comes round. Strange faces flood the bays. You watch in annoyance.
Nobody speaks of the missing pets. Nobody talks of the missing people. They won’t be seen. They never existed.
