|
||
|
|
||
| PAPERBACK BOOKS | ||
Author
Biography Tom Taylor was born in Canberra in 1976 and graduated from University with a Bachelor of Education. After teaching in different school systems and writing and directing many school plays he returned to Canberra University and completed a Graduate Diploma in Professional Writing in 2002. While his short stories have been published in literary magazines this is his first collection for young adults, He lives in Canberra, Australia. READ A SAMPLE: Da Seeknass (part sample) It was well past eleven at night when my bus finally
pulled in. The bus had been full when we left Melbourne eight hours ago, but I
was the only one left. Comes from
living in Culara, the place furthest from everything remotely exciting. I’d
come from the Victorian under-fifteen’s swimming championships. Never trust
anyone who says that they enjoy swimming. Even
the Olympic swimmers hate it. How
on earth can anyone possibly enjoy getting up at three in the morning during
winter to jump into a pool and swim for two and a half-hours?
I hated swimming, but was good at it and it’d get me out of here before
I was too old. It was the only
incentive I could see in swimming. Making the big time, the big bucks and
starring on TV. The
bus lurched to a stop and the honk of the brakes sung into the dark.
I grabbed my bag and walked down the aisle. ‘Cheers
mate,’ I said, passing the driver. ‘Yeah.’ He
sounded gruff I guess he had further to go than I did, I’d be asleep before
him. As I hopped off the last step
the bus took off and I was enveloped in a cloud of exhaust. Coughing I wiped my
eyes clear of the stinging soot and looked around.
The moon was up, and way in the distance I could see silhouettes of
people moving about. The
air felt heavy and smelt like a storm, but we hadn’t had a serious one in
eighteen months. The sky was clear
as ever and there wasn’t any wind about.
It was probably just the bus fumes.
I looked around again; I’d expected the familiar bark from my Dad
followed by a slap on the back. Nothing. They had forgotten. The bus moved off
slowly as I slumped onto the hardwood bench just inside the shelter and tried to
get up the energy to walk home. It
was only early spring so it was still cold and Dad was probably still pissed off
at me. Before
I left for Melbourne I told him that I didn’t want to be on the farm. To Dad this was probably like I’d disowned him.
I hated the farm. It wasn’t that it was hard it was just pointless.
If it wasn’t one thing it was another. Hail damage, frost damage,
floods and winds or like now, drought. I could not remember a good season in my
lifetime. We only seemed to make enough to reseed.
Dad loved the farm about as much as I hated it.
He’d always told me I was going on to carry the family line, and when I
told him I didn’t want to, he just looked at me. He didn’t scream or shout,
just looked. I hated saying it to
him, but I’d been wanting to for a long time and it was like a weight had been
finally lifted from my shoulders. I
had had a great meet down in Melbourne, even spoke to a bloke from the AIS who
said he’d speak to some people in Canberra, maybe get me into the program. I
was toying with the idea of taking out my tracksuit top when the night’s
silence was broken by the screeching of tyres and the desperate wailing of the
bus’s engine. I turned and stood
to see the red taillights wobbling over the dark road as the driver fought for
control. The bus bumped up onto the footpath turned sharply and careered across
the street. In what seemed a last
ditch effort the driver jammed on the brakes and gunned the engine. The bus
swung back across the street its tyres smoking and engine howling before it
smashed into a streetlight and ground to a halt.
The
engine roared for an instant shaking the bus violently; there was a thudding of
grinding metal then silence. I took a step forward my foot scrunching loudly on
the gravel when a shriek gashed the air and the front of the bus disappeared
under a jet of flame. I
started to run, but soon slowed to a hesitating jogging walk everyone uses when
approaching a car accident. The
sound of the flame had softened from a shriek to a continuous whooshing sound.
The bus must have punctured a gas main and the escaping gas was like a
gigantic blowtorch. As I got closer the rich smell of petrol fumes wafted towards
me. As I walked the final twenty metres I could see it bubbling out across the
road and running into the drains. Keeping
clear of the rivers of petrol I walked around to the side of the bus that was
slightly shielded from the fire. Holding
my hand up against the heat I looked into the driver’s compartment.
He sat, his hands still locked around the steering wheel his head thrown
back, mouth open. His clothes were burnt off, the skin underneath sizzling brown
with white bones showing through at the joints.
I felt a deep burning in my chest. I couldn’t breathe.
Spots appeared in front of my eyes and I began to feel dizzy. I
couldn’t get enough air. I staggered away from the bus and tripped, stumbling
onto a knee. I put both hands over
my mouth and nose just like I was taught to after a heavy race and started to
take deep breaths. The increased carbon dioxide intake calmed my breathing and
the dizziness quickly went. I eased into a crouch and turned to watch the bus
burn. There was nothing I could do. I just had to wait for everyone to arrive. No one could sleep through this. With a wooden clapping a door swung shut from behind me, but as I stood to turn one of the bus’s front tyres exploded and the wreck lurched toward me sending up sparks as it grated against the road. The leaking petrol ignited and fire rushed across the road into the drains. I threw myself down as huge gouts of flame exploded out of the drains. I turned towards where I heard the door close, but walls of flaming petrol cut me off.
|
||||||||||||
| All
Prices in Australian Dollars CURRENCY
CONVERTER
(c)2004 Zeus Publications All rights reserved. |
