So here we are at week 10, the series finale. It has been lovely having you along for the ride, and getting to know some of my readers in the comments section of posts which had been largely barren until we traversed the tumbleweed to rescue them from the cyber dust they’d been hidden under.
This week’s edition is a story which got a little traction in the comments when originally posted, with a few readers asking to read more. It never seemed the right time to explore the story further, and for a long time, I felt I’d exhausted all inspiration for the story line with the final punctuation mark. However, reading the funny and engaging Dalston Noir series on the blog Tomorrow, Definitely, I’ve been inspired to create a serial of sorts with this week’s travel through the tumbleweed post (thanks Dagmar!). There will be 5 to 10 installments coming up, of approximately 400 words each (theoretically, one a week*). Why 5 to 10? Well, aside from the next post I have lined up, I have no idea where the story will go, so who knows at what point:
- The story will come to a natural end; or
- I’ll get bored of it, in which case I wouldn’t want to bore you with it; and
- More than 10 is really pushing it (and my short attention sp..
Click on the image to take the final voyage through the tumbleweed. Mind the gap, and keep a look out for missing persons and objects you might stumble upon!
If you’d like to read other posts from this series, check out menu item ‘travel through the tumbleweed.’
*installments, not words
It was with a heavy heart that I worked my way through the Sandersons that had spent the better part of their youth at Henfield Primary School. There was a whole brood of them- some related, others just sharing a relatively common name. James, Felicity, Veronica, Sandra, Jack, Noel, a lot of Kates, and many Peters. Finally. Cynthia. Occasionally I received a phone call from an ex-student or the parent of an ex-student, usually with an inspired idea for a 21st or wedding. Otherwise, the time capsules were returned to the ex-students themselves at the 20 year reunion- enough time would pass by then for there to be an appreciation of the insight into what their 10 or 11 year old selves could give them.
Cynthia’s mother had called grasping for something, anything, of her daughter. I knew who she was immediately when Mrs. Sanderson told me her daughter’s name. For the past year, her face, smiling with a hand proudly holding a medal that hung around her neck, had been plastered around railway stations, at local convenience stores and occasionally on the news in what has been shorter and shorter segments as time moves on and other missing persons, wars, government budgets and natural catastrophes compete for screen time. Not for Mrs. Sanderson though. Her grieving voice told me that the world and all its news had stopped for her and her husband the day Cynthia went missing. 17 years old, at another milestone in her life, having just finished high school and celebrating on the Gold Coast during Schoolies Week. No one knows what happened to her, or at least no one has come forward with what they know. All her mother wanted was one more piece of her little girl. Continue reading