Today being the 46th day of 2015, I realise this post is a little late in coming. But hey, by the time I was actually sent this sweet little piece of New Zealand culture it was already 2015, and I figure y’all had your diaries already. Okay? Okay.
Full of local art, poetry, prose, recipes, historical and environmental tidbits, this is more than just a book to keep your year’s worth of ‘to do’ lists in. And once again I’m privileged to have a couple of pieces of mine included, including my poem Home (written about my home town Dunedin) and a very short story titled ‘Time to Get Up’.
And for those who don’t have microscopic eyes to read the text above (err… I mean eyes that act like microscopes, not eyes the size of pinpoints) I’ve pasted this fit-on-one-small-page story below:
TIME TO GET UP
“It’s time to get up Jo,” the voice said beside her head.
Jo’s eyes opened, her heart racing.
“It’s time to get up,” it repeated.
Oh crap, the alarm! Jo reached over, feeling its sides for a switch. Her mother had bought it for her yesterday as an early birthday present, told her it would “revolutionise” her pre-9AMs.
She gave up and rolled over.
“Jo, you must get up.”
“I don’t need to.” Apparently these things were intelligent, like the new microwaves that stopped when the food was perfectly cooked.
“Don’t lie to me.” The voice was soothing, female.
“Oh god, seriously?” Jo mumbled, wrapping her pillow around her head.
“WAKE UP!” It shouted.
“Stop it!” Jo’s head ached. What was it, 3am when she got home last night? “I’m not working today, okay? Just let me sleep.”
“You set me to high priority.”
“What?” Jo reached out again, fumbling for the switch that wasn’t there. “I didn’t know that.”
“You must get up Jo.”
Jo seized the clock. She tapped the screen. “What command turns you off?”
“When you get up I stop.”
“This is stupid!” Grumbling, Jo staggered to the kitchen, placed the clock on the bench, then collapsed back into bed.
There was a clatter.
A moment later something bumped against her door.
“GET UP! GET UP! GET UP!”
Jo leaped from bed, hands over her ears. The clock had turned a vivid red. It rolled towards her on nonperceivable wheels.
Jo screamed. Grabbing the nearest solid thing, a steel-capped Doc Martin boot, she struck the clock, cracking it straight down the middle. Colour seeped out and the screen went blank.
Breathing rapidly, Jo dropped the boot.
Just as she finally lay back down she heard a fizzing. From the broken clock came a line of smoke, immediately followed by flames.
“It’s time to get up,” it said.