Ironbark by Jay Carmichael

Author:Jay Carmichael
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC019000, FIC043000, FIC011000, FIC066000
Publisher: Scribe Publications
Published: 2018-04-29T16:00:00+00:00

III.

The flood

We were born toward the end of last century, so we saw the Lake the one time it filled, which was several years back. At the same time it froze, and then broke up and overflowed. An ‘ephemeral lake’ — also seasonal, intermittent, episodic, temporary — is a watercourse that doesn’t have water flow for the entire year or for many years. Some might flow for more than six months each year while others flow every six years, sixty years, etc. Water sources for ephemeral lakes can be groundwater or surface run-off. Agricultural developments and construction work can alter the water flow and cause an ephemeral system’s flow to be disturbed, declined, or even disrupt its very ephemerality. When the Lake filled, it filled from excess groundwater captured on the Plain. The Plain’s unwanted water was released from the otherwise overregulated system up there, flowed toward the lip of the cliffs and poured down into the Depression, filling the Lake and the tributary creek that cuts through the middle of Narioka.

Narioka’s nickname, Noaks, first appeared to my ears during high school. Someone said, There’s not a lot of opportunity in Noaks for the young.

I’d often stare at my naked body in the mirror, thinking of this statement and thinking about the hair coming out like shag carpet in my armpits and crotch, thinning over my chest and showing itself on my legs, on my arse. This puberty thing is misshapen for such a long time. In the shower, on any given morning, I shampoo my pubes and become hard. I shoot my load at the tiled wall and wash the silky white cum away.

The school bus picks me up from out the front of an old church. The building itself is no larger than a standard bedroom, which is why the townspeople way back when decided to disuse it and build five more in the township of Narioka, all under different denominations. This old church waits for a Catholic congregation. Wispy strands of native grasses grow nestled against its cream-coloured render, which has crumbled away in some places. For a church, you’d expect to see a steeple and a stained-glass window; this building has neither. I’m thankful for it, because at least its inset doorway provides shelter when it’s raining. Some mornings on the bus into school, and when the rain is falling, I watch the rainfall patter against the glass pane and trickle down. The droplets become sperm gametes — semen, spoof, sprog, spunk, splooge, scum, seed. Become the cream of some young guy careening to somewhere out of sight. One droplet pauses and through it, I see the landscape made miniature, as if inside a crystal ball. Your bluish shadow grows more vibrant as you run up your drive to the bus’s door. But there is no you this morning. The bus rocks onward past your place without even slowing.

I sink into the leather seat and hide my eyes from the glare off the side of the road; the corrugation rattles the vehicle and, in turn, shifts my junk.

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