Tristan Foster

Brother in law


Friend’s dad killed friend’s brother in law. Don’t repeat this. Friend’s dad killed friend’s brother in law when friend’s sister called friend’s dad after friend’s brother in law hit friend’s sister. Friend’s sister said on the phone a word that means hit. Means kill. Friend’s dad hung up and walked to friend’s sister’s house and friend’s brother in law was smoking cigarettes out the front and friend’s dad bashed his head in with a rock he pulled from the garden. Or something. Did something. Killed friend’s brother in law there out the front on a Sunday at dinnertime. You can’t tell people. Friend’s dad got 12 years. Friend said friend’s dad is already getting weird. In there. Friend’s dad is already losing his mind.




Away tomorrow


The guys are in so we make it into a going away party. After a few I call Emily and say come down and soon she comes down and I ask what she wants. Friday night lingerie waitress is fetching us drinks. Tanned and toned with a perfect round arse. My favourite thing is to watch her lean against the bar like she isn’t wearing nearly nothing. She slides her foot out of her black high heel as she waits. She passes and I show her my empty glass and call her babe again. I imagine hooking a finger behind her g-string and loosening it down out of the cleavage of her arse. I get slapped on the arm and accused of tipping too much. Emily is bleary eyed. She says I’m looking too hard. I ask how hard is too hard.




Skeleton trolley


Neighbour’s kid shoves a Woolworths trolley off the footpath at the top of the street. He likes to race his racecars along the edge of the balcony. They go as fast as he can run them around the wet towels and potted ferns. Hurries home with arms swinging from school to do this. Makes the sounds he imagines they make with his mouth. Sometimes he drives them up the walls and along the floor. Rattles the trolley into the middle of the road and turns it so it faces down the hill and straightens it up and lets the handle go.

Skeleton trolley; you will be here when we are gone.




Tristan Foster is a writer from Sydney, Australia. He twitters here.


One thought on “Tristan Foster

Comments are closed.