"Polyester-cocooned sleepers, punters—as the festival organisers call them—don’t wake to the single lyrebird mimicking: a chainsaw drone, a wattlebird call, then something like a fire siren, mewling. Lech, he’s still ethanol-laced and dreaming in soft pinks, lemons, caramels: her. Paradise, they’ve called it, this weekend music event, yet underneath them are the charred bones of wallabies and bits of power line, felled by fire. Silver teaspoons and melted ceramic shards, kindergarten-painted: these are things that lie beneath; there were just a handful of houses there, after all."

Read my short piece, 'Paradise', over at Good Good Girl. 
Image by the talent, Purdy Jane Rhodes.

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