A thoughtful neighbour kindly shared this link; it might have been April 2025.
https://www.nycmidnight.com/—NYC Midnight hosts international, timed writing competitions where participants use randomly assigned prompts under tight deadlines while keeping their full copyrights. I said thoughtful, and it was; I think Anne might have overestimated my writing skills!
I didn’t participate, but whilst doing a scratchpad spring clean I came across NYC Midnight again and found this short story by Chloe Paige, who also calls Geelong home. In line with the writers keeping their full copyrights—here, I am merely sharing Chloe’s story for you to like, or like more. I enjoyed it.
Roo Sprayers
by Chloe Paige
A dozen trips. We’ve done this before.
A dozen trips back and forth on the B79 between Broken Hill and the hospital, and Jack’s pulled us over twice that many times to spray-paint a cross on some car-whacked dead thing. And while Sadie was kicking my ribs sore from the inside, Jack was opening pouches of the unchecked and unsprayed dead roos in case a joey lucked out and lived.
And this dead roo’s like any other we’ve found—stiff in the dirt and dark, bleaching under our headlights. But Jack’s gripping that wheel all white-knuckled like he’s done every sprayed-pink roo we’ve passed since we left the hospital two hours ago. And I’m shredding apart their business card, salty wet fingers smearing the handwriting on the back and marking me like a roo outta luck.
A dozen trips.
Jack sighs. Pries his hands off the wheel. Opens the door and the interior light floods us in sickly yellow. I wanna snap don’t bother checking that pouch and shut the bloody door so I’m not all lit up like that roo, but I haven’t made a peep since the hospital. Jack’s always doing the rough work anyways: shaking redbacks outta my gumboots; haggling down greasy salesmen at the car dealership; bellowing bloody listen at the nurses when Sadie hadn’t kicked me in days.
Each yellow hazard light flash sallows those leathery cheeks the sun’s given him. His glazed stare makes me drive the sharp corner of the business card under my nail and pierce the quick. I drop it almost gasping. I try not to think about where it fell, on the stretched-out loose folds of my jumper making rolls on my tummy, the pink wool carrying that memory when I’m tryna not think about it.
Jack’s crouching in the dirt by the roo, headlights making shadows on it. Out there it’s all just death and saltbush, and this worn-out stretch of asphalt we’ve driven dozens and dozens of times that I’m not thinking about while I brace myself for Jack to stand, to confirm the worst, to hold another limp thing, but what he’s cradling is kicking and squealing like it’s just learned breath.
And I’m clawing to open that passenger door, falling outta the car, wailing like it’s my first time breathing too. Wailing at the ink on my fingers, that business card, the number for a shrink scrawled on the back slid over a fluorescent light-bleached desk with mechanical sympathy and nobody even gave me a fucking pamphlet.
And Jack’s holding me while I’m spluttering all over this cold brown lanky wriggling critter that’s littler than I thought with its too-big ears, too-thin fur, and too-damp black eyes peering at me like we’re separate halves of different wholes.
And I’m back sitting in the passenger seat. Jack’s opening the boot for our pink spray paint. I’m not thinking about the dead roo while the joey scratches at the loose folds of my jumper, searching for a pouch.
Have a good weekend
Nick
