Joshua Lobb

He was staying in a friend's cabin; he'd been there a month. It was after what people called 'his breakdown', or what those closer to him called 'one of his breakdowns'. He just thought of it as 'normality'. It was a feeling he always had, hovering, just out of reach. Every few years it would swoop down, grab him by the shoulders and carry him away. (p.3)

Broken leaves crunched underfoot. He was careful to sidestep the knuckles of eucalypt roots. He could hear the dog, sniffing, in the semi-darkness. He wasn't sure if the dog was still following the wombat track, or the line of scent, or charting his own way between the thin trees. Their bark was smooth, mostly: lavender-grey with purpling bruises. Every now and then his hand would brush against the rougher, splintery skin of a turpentine. The treetops creaked in the rasping breeze.

Then he heard it. An oozing, matted sound. Plots of noise like snoring, sobbing. The sound was too incoherent to be nearby and yet it felt close, like a heartbeat, thumping. (p.3)