2007 Entry into a short story competition that unfortunately did not win because apparently short story adjudicators don't like fantasy... I hung up my oilskin with relief. It dripped on Bruce's bunyip, who scrabbled closer to the door and watched me suspiciously. I sat down, elbows on the bar, as my staff balanced itself on my knees. 'Caught in the downpour, Alan?' Bruce asked, polishing a glass. 'Doesn't often rain here,' he continued. 'Have a beer, mate.' He swirled a finger around the rim of the glass and slid it along the bar to me while the purple clouds rumbled...
Bread and Thunder
