I have to admit with this late Kindling that I didn’t plan my week very well! Apologies in advance (but I live in hope that you keep about as good a track of time as I do)!

I’ve had a couple article pitches accepted and am busy acting, working part time and writing; always writing. I sent a short story to the Sargeson Short Story Prize this month, so keep everything crossed the judges vibe with the piece!

The poem’s for the girls, gays and theys! If it resonates, it’s yours.

The story is a nod to a book my aunty bought me when I was young: From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler by E. L. Konigsburg about a young girl and her brother who run away from home to live in a museum.

Meet me halfway
gather yourself into a tote bag and jeans
Find the words you left in
unsent voice notes

Give me the night
to convince you that good
people do shitty things
to good people

If I could only hold you
Distill these moments to sip on
with ice and alternative milk
Braid your hair like I used to

Shall we go to the place
you used to love before
anyone else ever warmed that passenger seat
or promised to do what they weren’t qualified for

Come over and watch
us treat movie night like karaoke
shouting the lines we would pillage
villages to hear whispered in our ears

Meet me halfway
and I’ll drive you home
with new clothes and better secrets
with a backdrop of waves and wannabe skyscrapers

A guard walked past, their boots heavy on the stone. She spoke to her radio.

Just clearing the mezzanine and then it’s over to nightshift.

He didn’t hear a response. She continued down the hallway, her footsteps like a countdown. Step, step, step, step. When he couldn’t hear her anymore, he started counting to a thousand. He had to be sure. He’d only get one shot at this.

Around seven hundred his foot slipped and the sole of his shoe squeaked against the floor. His mind raged. Sirens, screaming, ringing. Through the cacophony he waited for the thump of boots against stone, for grates to fall from the ceiling and seal him inside like a common thief. He took a breath and silenced the noise in his head. He listened. Slowly, he pulled his foot back to where it had been and began to count again.

Roger that Mike, I didn’t, will go ‘round again. Will report back.

He hadn’t heard her come back, had she taken off her shoes? Why hadn’t she left yet? He thought about the empty carpark, the gardens filled with dog walkers and half-assed games of football. He’d parked two blocks away, outside the house of a girl he knew who he’d made plans with for afterwards – assuming he would be able to pull this off.

About a year ago he’d spotted the handheld mirror in a display case filled with other ornate and gilded objects. It had belonged to his grandmother. The day she’d died, she’d been robbed of all but the clothes on her body. The fright of it had stopped her heart. The police had managed to recover some of the more unique and cumbersome items: the artworks, her car, her sewing machine, but they weren’t trained to trace the illegal dealing of stolen collectibles. His grandmother had made a name for herself as a collector of fine and rare things. Many had guessed at the true value of her trove, but before any kind of official evaluation, she’d been robbed. When he’d seen the mirror, he’d recognised it immediately. Someone, somehow, had given this priceless piece to the museum. The corresponding description had read: Ornate Gilded Hand Mirror, C.1800, silver. Generously donated to the museum by an anonymous donor. He’d appealed to one of the curators, through the family lawyer – no dice. This was the only way his family was going to be rejoined with this piece of his grandmother’s stolen collection.

As soon as he was sure he was alone, he would jimmy the lock on the display case, grab the mirror and trigger the fire alarm. There was an emergency exit not five metres from the case. All he had to do was leave the building and feign ignorance. If they saw him outside, he’d be just another person taking an evening stroll around the domain.

He heard the guard stop nearby. The polyester fabric of her pants swipped as she switched to lean on her other leg. He worried more about how loud his heart was beating than her hearing him breathe. Step, step, step. She stopped further down the hall towards the mirror and his foot slipped again.

Sirens, screaming, ringing.

He couldn’t feel past his hips. He’d been sitting on the hard ground for too long, awkwardly wedged between the wall and the base of a marble figure. He focused everything on keeping his foot where it was. He had no idea if she’d heard it. If she was thinking there was a person behind this statue, she wasn’t showing it. It was silent. He swallowed though his mouth was dry and felt himself choke. He fought the urge to cough. His face flushed with the effort.

Right-o, Mike. All clear on the mezzanine. Over to you and Taine. Have a good night.

The sound of boots and polyester pants could’ve been the soundtrack of his demise. Instead, with his eyes closed, he smiled like he was hearing a grand overture. He counted to a thousand and slowly began to slide out from his hiding place.

No alarms sounded, but he knew better than to assume there weren’t silent ones going off in an office somewhere. Using the base of the statue he got to his feet. The pins and needles thrumming through his legs were vicious. Standing felt dizzying, walking impossible. He pulled on a pair of disposable gloves and crawled over to the display case. On his knees he could just reach the lock well enough to pick it. He’d practised, of course, but in real time it felt like he’d never even seen a lock before. Between the moment he slid his wrench into the lock, and feeling the pins line up and give way, he didn’t dare to breathe.

He grabbed the mirror. The handle was warm, like his grandmother had been holding it all this time, waiting to give it to him. He closed the glass door behind him and strode towards the emergency exit. He braced himself for anything and pushed the door open – nothing. He took the stairs two at a time, removing his gloves and slipping the mirror into the back of his waistband. He’d clean it later.

The evening was cool and light. From his vantage point he couldn’t see any uniforms headed his way. No police cars waiting for him. Sometimes justice was something you had to organise yourself.

He nodded to the runners and dog walkers and text his mum that he had a surprise for her. In the car outside his friend’s place, he’d allowed himself a glance, a glimpse at the mirror his grandmother had found and restored and kept.

He’d always looked like his dad, but that night, his grandmother’s eyes looked back at him.