My very dear friend Harold “George” Foulds is blessed with an incredible talent, yet doomed with the crippling curse of being born to the wrong generation. An old soul, a wanderer, a real life 21^st century man who still scribbles poetry into a notebook, who doesn’t own an iPhone or have a Facebook account (yes, really), who is so painfully talented I’ve been telling anyone who will listen for many years now, this guy could be the Kerouac of our generation, if only he’d stop still long enough to finish a bloody story!

I begged for weeks to get a piece from George for the launch of Almost Famaus. His original piece is still on its way, because of course you can’t put a deadline on true genius, but for now I have managed to stumble across a little piece by future cult writer with a soul from the past, Harold “George” Foulds.

– Orange/Pearlescent Ender –

Harriet was reading on the porch. It was a magazine article about a singer/songwriter. There was a picture of him next to the words. He was wearing a cowboy hat and he had eyes that were straight in the middle and crowed at the corners. She liked the look of him. She pulled the folded glossy papers closer. The cowboy did not trust in nature, this is what the quotations read. He didn’t trust in something that could so easily decay. She thought this was a strange way to think or feel. Maybe some people were born and meant to be in certain places, in certain environments. Maybe he was being poetic.

She often failed to catch flighty turns of speech. She figured that he meant more than the immediate nature of trees and rocks and wind. His eyes were really gorgeous though.

Harriet smoked some more and looked around. She rolled steadily across the vista. The rented house sat away above two bays, one bay was open to the ocean and the other was shallow, sheltered and still. One was beaten grey and the other was a yellow-green. Behind her the heat of day had worked over a long eucalypt stand and the grand trees were releasing oils. The antiseptic perfume could be smelt down wind for kilometres. She imagined the same vista from a cloud perspective. The island would have been non-descript in a blue chemical haze. From down here the view is good, she concluded.

On dusk she went squid fishing on the ocean bay. There was no wind and the tide was high and the prospects were exciting. Squid came in thousand-thick swarms here. To mate, be caught and be eaten. 

Whey-hey! called the same bloke (he’s down at the jetty often). He wears a blue Makita hat.

Harriet wants to say, Give me my Makita back Mack. But she is engaged by the slow steady pull of the line. She’s got one on and she knows the Jap Orange/Pearlescent two-tone jig is the Ender. Harriet wants to tell all the old fellows and flat cap wearers that this is her pier. Her slab of reinforced concrete and driven pylons.  A clenched cigarette wiggles in the corner of her mouth. It goes erect as her bottom lip protrudes and she concentrates on the tension of the line.  

That is one Big One, admired Makita.

Crouching by the lowest step, Harriet places her fishing rod safely to the side. At the same time she keeps the line taut in her free hand. If any person watching knew about Roman goddesses, they would’ve said, Look over there! It is Diana!

Harriet bowed lower still and tried to cradle the swirling squid to the deck. The creature was alarmed and running a spectrum of shades. She quickly drew on the line as a swell relieved the weight.

Up it rose with fantastic black geysers. Her jeans and worn shoes were sprayed. She flinched. Then the glow of its lights and the rippling wings were charming. And Harriet was frightened or amazed, because the eyes were crazy and wild. She squeezed the dangling butt til it went out. 

The squid lights turned opaque, as did the eyes, and she muttered a fuck.

Makita was right behind her and he concurred, A real beauty.

The End.

Unfortunately George isn’t of this generation, therefore doesn’t have a blog of his writing set up yet, rarely answers his phone, never responds to emails and only has a fake Instagram set up by myself and his girlfriend as a joke @georgetoocool4insta, so if like what you read and want to get in touch with him your best bet is to do it through me, [email protected] or send a homing pigeon.