On the Edge of an Existential Cliff

Nara’s long been known for its art scene. A while back, the council replaced all the bins in town with ones that look like bales of hay, for one. But once you’ve spent a while marvelling at those, you might turn to take in the mural that the junior primary kids did on the side of the library, or stop in to Ruth’s Bakery to see the lizards she painted on hubcaps and hung up on the walls there. Bloody beautiful, they are. She’s got names for each one of ‘em and the prices up on a little tag alongside. If you buy a pie and a cuppa tea, she’s even been known to knock off a few bob.

Old Man Shankey and the Gambo Mob

Old Man Shankey was knackered. It was in the nature of hay that it didn’t rake itself, but for fifty-four years, Shankey had been making sure that it nonetheless got raked. As a lad, he’d put in 12 good years down on the Meechum place, cutting, tying, stacking, baling, and sweating bullets in the Nara sun and for his work he was paid sweet fuck-all and a bung knee. For the last forty-two, he’d been making sure that young lads would be forever out of a summer job; forced to collect cans and rabbit pelts while a Shankey Automated Hay Rake did what twelve of them could and in half the bloody time.