Many of Harry's short stories are inspired by places around New South Wales, Australia. Stories set around Sydney are based off locations such as Lane Cove, Ku-ring-gai and Balmoral. Other locations include the Blue Mountains, Myall Lakes and regional areas such as Broken Hill.
Nikon N90s, using Porta 400BW, 400, and 800 35mm film.
"My mind struggles to catch up with the events of the present, and she appears as if by magic, her image rippling into existence as the residual dream fades away."
"For two days the Biggun's strongmen slogged and bogged up the Mud Road, sniffing the thief out with their meanest dogs. They found him slumped again a lightning-blasted stump, deep in a gasp-dream, eyes rolled back, blood running down his left crook."
"The sun reaches its peak. They hide from it in the shade of the mangroves, lighting a fire in a metal bin and letting the crabs bake in a grill above the coals. Their shells glow ridiculous orange, the tips of their claws are piercing white."
"We talk for a while, meaningless things, as we head towards the tree line. We climb like kids playing hide-and-seek, where the roots of coastal trees entwine with rocks at the headland."
"I can see other children slithering in the murk near the shore. Their eyes glow like water predators while they hunt for moving things."
"The clouds thickened in the early afternoon, and the ants had hurried inside - it would rain soon, and get dark early. The captain always told us that there were things in the darkness, where the moonlight couldn't get through the gumtrees."
"Most of its walls had been torn down and the metal framework was exposed like a rusting skeleton."
"The house settled down in the mountains in summer, where cicada shells covered the tree trunks and bush floor outside. They crunched under our feet as we set up traps and gathered wood. Wasps, flying ants, the air was alive with insects. They crawled over the verandah railing and wriggled in sheets hung to dry."
"Salt cooks on their skin, muscles aching all the way, but they make it to the mouth of the estuary at the other side of the bay."
It has been decided what will be done with me. Because the war against the Dusk took my tongue and legs, robbing me of any ‘potential for mischief’, and because I am of a suitable age, I have been chosen as a keeper to a lighthouse girl, serving a small colony in the Southern Archipelagos.
On the edge of our vision, omnipresent, the dingoes lope around the rim of the camp – lithe, muscular, and hungry. The bushes are filled with the treasures they’ve nabbed and dragged off over the years, detritus from the corporate holidayers that come here in the Spring.
The superhighway was the only road out of the Desert Reclamation Zone, an empty promise that somewhere, further than the eye could see, was some form of civilisation beyond the boredom that encompassed her life.
They usually travelled by evening or night, out of the glaring heat – but Priak said if they woke early they’d reach an oasis where they could resupply away from the midday sun. There’d be other travellers, and they’d be able to play a gig.
Time seemed to slow-down, the seconds stretched behind heartbeats that became less and less frequent. Heat, delicious and delirious, more than I have ever felt, spread from my gut to my fingertips. For the first time in my life I wasn’t shivering. It was like some part of my brain was yawning itself awake, a lumbering beast that basked in sunlight. Blood in its veins, a heart that beat of its own accord.
Most of them are fat, domesticated, curling between your feet as you walk towards the highway. But there are newcomers, the ferals. They congregate on top of a boat in an overgrown yard. They're quick, they're intelligent. Their eyes glint like razors at night, watching you from behind car tyres.
We walk past the soldiers, who have set up sandbags by the wharves. They’re funnelling queues of mostly families – young, wealthy, good-looking parents and their bewildered children – onto the ferries and out to the evacuation carriers in the harbour.
The edge of town was dominated by a wide superhighway intersection. Roadtrains were sliding into slumber in their refuelling stations. A lattice of roadworks closed off the sidewalk, forcing the few pedestrians to scurry like cockroaches over multi-lanes of concrete and bitumen.
Beneath, desert plants grew in clusters, Smokebush, Prickle-Plum and Coralbloom. There must’ve been an underground wellspring here. As Priak said, ‘plants never lie about water.’