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A showcase from the Way-Back-When and the Come-What-May. Fictional narratives in fact and in thought.
tarnishedpilgrim@bradleywynne.com
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Byng Marshall knew the promise of a landlocked sea had been yet another VoteOne lie. There had never been an Outback expanse of a size to warrant such a name; it had been a folly in the barrage of uncertainty that had flowed from war. We are a land between seas, the propaganda trumpeted, a sanctuary between vast unknowns. But the so-called Inland Sea on which the former doctor from Psych Hospital #7 now gazed, was little more than an insipid lake. Actually, it was a string of them connected by a sluggish river, besmirched with forests of water-logged dead things, eucalypts mainly, on which black birds wailed as if summoning up supper from the brown and yellow depths.