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Posts tagged ‘Byron bay’

west of byron bay

Al is a Dylan man, lifelong, plus he has no nighttime eyesight – and his emphysema betrays a swamped puddle of rotted lungs – yet he smokes and smokes.

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the deputy

Today a couple not known to him was standing on the crowded footpath outside the liquor shop. They were drinking beer and talking loudly, angrily. Alec spat and laughed silently to himself as he examined the short red velvet dress worn by the woman.

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cliques, the bondi variety

These lads are known to meet from time to time around one of the tables of the Great Northern in Byron Bay with their part Filipina grandchildren squabbling around underfoot, and they mutter and grumble over their drinks about typhoons and squalls, and Catholic wives.

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The pier astor byron bay

A collective drunkenness slowly took hold of the crowd as the night grew older and a group of local girls took a liking to the empty dance floor and all the eyes that surrounded it, beginning what became a stampede to rhythm as every man in the room rushed in to join them.

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the invitation to wategos

the past

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the house at the top of the pass. mrs brown

Mrs. Brown is home, and is watering her roses in the windless heat up there.

And a barefoot youth runs up at her from the road, he is wild eyed and blowing from some massive exertion, his t-shirt is crimson with dried blood

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doug, the hopperman

Doug stood up and backhanded him twice to the wall, all splintering glass now, and spilt beer and dumbfounded shock

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the shute

Les Heath worked there alone for each of the ten-hour shifts, and in his fastidious way he executed up to two hundred and fifty beasts each day before he made his way back to the small cottage he leased behind the southern corner of Broken Head.

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the loading gang

Myth has it that Archie, Head Ganger twenty years ago, deliberately knocked over one of these office maggots with an open side of beef and the exposed rib bones sliced away half of his face.

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the hide room

Lightless ponds that rise from time to time and issue a swell of virulent discontent from a deep rupture unmeasured.

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the slaughterman

hooded men from the freezer rooms muffled up in layers of rags and old sacking, slaughtermen with their bare forearms and faces crusted with heavy sprays of blood, local toughs wearing scabbards full of razor edged knives.

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a small town welcome ~ byron bay 1964

She leaves the café and locks up the front doors, then walks around you and climbs into the car. You notice that she has nice legs, and he is still standing there undecided, so you bleed a little onto the footpath in submission, waiting for him to go away.

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