sample PDF HQ

AnchorageBy Eileen Herbert-GoodallThe man sits alone, nursing a drink, eyes shut against the night. Far below, the inner-city street crawls with vehicles. The blast of a horn disturbs the muted rumble of trafficand he realises it’s time. Placing down his glass, the man reaches for the phone anddials home, even though he suspects his wife will be sleeping. Several elongated beepstravel down his ear canal before she answers.‘Hello.’‘It’s me,’ he says.‘Jack? Is everything okay?’He stares through the window of his hotel room; on the other side of the street, apulsating neon sign commiserates with the darkness. For reasons he can’t pinpoint, thesight stitches a strand of sadness through his insides. ‘I need to tell you something.’‘What is it?’He takes a sip of whiskey. ‘I’m not coming home.’The words hang between them, reverberating in the quiet.‘I don’t understand—what do you mean?’His wife’s voice hums with constraint. She has always strived to remain in control; evenher efforts to conceive a child entailed a string of calculations incorporating the finestdetails, including her suspected time of ovulation and basal body temperature, so that

their sex life had lost all spontaneity. Yet she had failed to fall pregnant—an outcome forwhich the man is secretly thankful.‘We’re through, Louise.’‘Jack—’‘It’s over.’ He places the receiver in its cradle, leans back in his chair and allows themagnitude of the moment to sink in; it isn’t as liberating as he expected and deliversonly a pint-sized measure of relief countered by the unmistakable ballast of guilt.Finishing his drink, he closes his eyes once more. Outside, the neon sign continues topulsate while, deep within the man’s brain, electrical charges leap across his neurons.This strange combination of stimuli contrive to remind him that he remains tethered tothe world, anchored by the weight of corporeal existence and all its terrible truths.Far above the hotel, in the deep recesses of space, stars track their way through theinfinite loop of time, hurtling towards self-destruction. Compared with these blazing ballsof gas, the man is no more than a miniscule speck of stardust. Yet, fastened to thecentre of his private universe, he remains convinced of two things: his choices matter;and he is the master of his destiny.But, if the stars were capable of cognisance, they would surely label his beliefs as folly.



AsunderBy Eileen Herbert-GoodallThe man sat alone, nursing a drink, eyes shut against the night. The blast of a horndisturbed the muted rumble of traffic rising from the street below; the sound declaredthat it was time.He placed down his glass, reached for the phone, and dialled home, even though heknew his wife would be sleeping. Several elongated beeps travelled down his ear canalbefore she answered.'Hello.''It's me,' he said.‘Jack? Is everything okay?’He stared through the window of his hotel room. Across the road, a pulsatingfluorescent sign commiserated with the darkness; for reasons he couldn’t pinpoint, thesight stitched a strand of sadness through his insides. 'I need to tell you something.''What’s wrong?'He took a swig of whiskey. 'I’m not coming home.'The words hung between them, reverberating in the quiet.‘What do you mean?’

Not surprisingly, his wife’s voice hummed with constraint; she’d always strived to remainin control. Even her efforts to conceive entailed a string of calculations incorporating thefinest details, including her suspected time of ovulation and basal body temperature, sothat their sex life had lost all spontaneity. Yet she had failed to fall pregnant—anoutcome for which he was secretly thankful.'We're through, Louise.’‘Jack—’‘It’s over.’ He placed the receiver in its cradle, leant back in his chair and allowed thegravity of the moment to take hold; it wasn’t as liberating as he’d expected anddelivered only a pint-sized measure of relief countered by the unmistakable ballast ofguilt.Finishing his drink, he closed his eyes once more. Neon colours swamped his neurons,reminding him that—for now—he remained tethered to the world, anchored by theweight of corporeal existence and all its terrible truths.Perhaps tomorrow he would feel better.