a member of parliament stands at each corner of London Circuit. they speak the appointed words at the appointed time. the Elder Party stirs, and then is quiet again. for now.
julie bishop’s eyes roll back in her head. her head falls back against her chair. her body begins to shake. she screams that heaven is empty and we will all be punished. she falls unconscious.
the speaker calls for order. the speaker cannot be heard over the noise. the speaker calls for order. the noise increases. the speaker calls for order. the members of parliament are silent and terrified. the noise increases. the speaker screams for order.
all senators take their seats. there are many unclaimed seats. everyone stands and checks they are in the right place. there are even more unclaimed seats when they sit again.
you are inside the governor-general’s office. you are told to go through a door. through it you find the same office again. you are told to go through another door. and another. you realise that the sky has gone dark outside. there are no stars. you go through one more door. everything is so bright.
Minister for Agriculture. Minister for Industry and Science. Minister for the Arts. Minister for the Forbidden Arts. Minister for a Sensation of Loss Felt Suddenly for No Reason. Minister for The Yawning Void.
you are in the carpark beneath parliament house. you see a door left open. you look inside. you are welcomed. you are part of the Lowest House, now. you cannot leave.
a change.org petition that you signed sends an update. when you click to open the email, a staticky voice hisses from the speakers. ‘budget cuts, budgets cuts, budgets cuts,’ it whispers.
a flock of budgerigars bursts from parliament house. a week passes with no event. then they descend on every beach at once, attacking anyone in a speedo. the death toll is in the hundreds.
at last, the sea returns him. he is gaunt and hollow-eyed. he is wearing only seaweed. he is implacable. he will reclaim his place.