Member-only story
Luck
The brain is an unreliable thing.
Is it just luck when the eye witness remembers accurately what happened?
I was there, I know I was there.
The story keeps playing over and over in my head.
I like the story, I want the story. But the story isn’t important.
No one’s freedom is riding on me accurately remembering the story, yet more than anything, I want to recapture the poetry of that boy walking along the docks that day.
Some poems are made of words, while others work in actions, props, movements and sounds.
We’d driven down to the docks, a typical summer thing to do. We had our fishing rods and we’d walk onto the ferry, which would take us out to the island, where we’d fish on the jetty.
Catch of the day? Luck.
One day we were all reeling in the biggest squid we’d ever seen. Calamari, good eating. Like the leatherjackets, morwong, flathead, pike and whiting.
Other days? The arrow squid, cod and wrasse? Good luck if you’ve caught nothing, I suppose.
For the cogs turning in the mind, just one piece out of place is enough to turn any equation on its head. Gold or Fool’s Gold? Where does your luck sit now?
