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.“Go on,” my father urges.“You can do it.It’s your destiny.If you don’t, the night will never end.”I nod.Go to say goodbye and thanks to my dad, but when I turn around he’s no longer sitting there.But his smell still fills my head as I sit on the edge of the hole, then lower myself down.I hold onto the edge of the hole until my arms are fully extended and I’m knee-deep in the river.I take one last look up at the small section of my world I can see, my world for the past fifteen years, and then let go.I drop into the river, get a mouthful of saltiness as my heads dunks under and when I surface I see pipes flashing by overhead.At first I’m scared.The river is flowing fast and I don’t know where it’s taking me.The water is warm, not cold and refreshing like I expected, and sticky.The river snakes through the dim steel and concrete corridor.Soon the surroundings get lighter.I begin to relax.I kick up my legs and lie on my back, letting the rushing river take me away.The shade of night lifts and sunlight, so bright it hurts, is unveiled and finally the night is over and I smile.I cup some of the river in my hands and then tip my hands toward my face.Red runs down my arms like mini rivers and I laugh.I wonder – will the guards see the hole when they come into my cell to tell me it’s time to rise and shine, knuckleheads? Or will it have closed over, leaving only the broken glass and spilled wine?One thing’s for sure – I know that come morning, the guards will open my world and stand there looking at the empty cell and, scratching their heads wondering where the bottle of wine came from, say, “Why on earth would he escape? He was free to go today.”They won’t know the real reason; that I had to, or else the night would never end.And with a shake of their heads, they will turn and leave, the smell of piss and wine drifting in the air, leaving me in peace, leaving me to enjoy the morning light.NOTES:This story was born out of one night’s frustration at being unable to sleep.I usually don’t have much trouble getting to sleep, but on that particular night, I simply lay in bed, staring at the darkness, unable to fall asleep.As you’d expect, my mind started wandering, and I started thinking what if I could never get to sleep, and what if, because of that, time stood still and the night refused to end? What if sleep was the signal for time to continue clicking away and for night to eventually end and for morning to come, and since I couldn’t sleep, the world would remain on pause indefinitely (these are the strange things us writers think about whilst battling insomnia)?Thankfully I did fall asleep, the world continued turning, and the next morning I sat down and started writing a story dealing with a person’s desperation at wanting night to end and morning to come.‘Come Morning’ is essentially a poem written in prose form (I think of it as a hybrid, a proem, if you like), and although I don’t write many poems, this style seemed to suit the story.JUNKIESThe moment the meeting ended, I headed straight for the food and drink table.Though I wasn’t hungry for the assortment of biscuits and donuts, my stomach was grumbling, so I reluctantly grabbed an Anzac biscuit.As I took a bite, a crowd started forming around me.A low muttering buzzed around my head as the motley group of strangers indulged in banal small-talk, most seeming to welcome the change of pace after an hour of bearing their souls to their fellow addicts.A figure sidled up beside me and snatched a Styrofoam cup from the stack next to the large tin of instant coffee.“First time, huh?”I had swallowed the tasteless bit of biscuit and grudgingly taken another bite before I realised the figure was talking to me.Half-turning, I looked at the man standing next to me.He was taller than me, but younger, by about ten years.The young man was thin to the point of deathly – it looked like someone had stuck a Hoover in his mouth, pressed the ‘on’ button and proceeded to suck all the air from his body.His cheekbones were shockingly straight and pronounced, like two chiselled L shapes.A junkie for sure.“Yeah,” I muttered through a mouthful of biscuit.I swallowed.Fought hard not to gag.“So you’re an eater,” the junkie continued, tipping a couple of spoonfuls of dark brown granules into the cup
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