by George Anderson
I'm not too crazy about describing historical ruins and that kind of crap and I damn near puked when the bus arrived at Port Arthur: a phony bald guy wearing shorts kept saying corny, boring things trying to make a big stink of the crummy buildings and the crooks who used to live there. He was a royal pain in the ass and a group of about a hundred rubbernecks stood around asking a million stupid questions. It was hot as hell and the guy kept a phony smile plastered on his face and never got sore at any of the vomity questions or remarks. Later, I stumbled upon a memorial garden for the victims of a mass murder - it really knocked me out - thirty-five people killed with their heads in their lunch. It goddamn made me feel so lonesome and rotten! Rain starts coming down like a madman and there I am looking awful sitting on my ass on the side of the monument with my red hunting hat crammed on my fuckin' forehead chewing the rag with a couple of nuns... we all start laughing like hyenas!
George Anderson was born in Montreal and presently lives in Wollongong, Australia. He has been published widely in mainstream and alternative magazines over the last six years. He edits the student literary journal "Ephemeral," now in its fifth print edition.