Happy New Year Kindlingers! I hope you got plenty of sunshine and time with loved ones this holiday break – I know I did.

If you’re near a Chemist Warehouse this month, you’ll find an article about the low-FODMAP diet by yours truly in there. If you’re not, I’ve linked the syndicated Stuff article below. (Please note that I do not get a say in the title or images they use for these pieces!)

This poem is one I wrote on New Year’s Day two years ago, but I still feel it holds true. I gave it a light edit for this issue of The Kindling.

Enjoy this first issue of 2026, Kindlingers!!!!

On the first morning of the first day of a new year
I float atop a strong ocean current 
— no matter how much I paddle or kick
it leads me away from where I started
 
So, on the first day of the first week of a new year
I wonder if everything is a mirror
If this water isn’t just time pulling us along with it
and we aren’t just bodies floating on its vast surface 
— sometimes desperately scooping handfuls of water
to get back to where we started
But we can’t / Even if we get there 

The water we entered into has long moved on without us

Hunter shut the door to his studio and walked down the hall feeling lighter than he had in days. Leaving his studio always felt like this.

Starving after hours of hard work, Hunter opened his fridge with the broken seal and found its shelves empty. He grabbed his keys and headed into town.

As he drove along State Highway One, he felt the tugging sensation of forgetting something. He checked his clothes – he’d changed before he left the house. He pat his left-side jeans pocket and felt the familiar shape of his wallet. Stretching to see his face in the rearview mirror he saw smears of paint on his chin and forehead. That would be it.

Hunter’s mum often berated him for not being more self-conscious. People who care about how they look make a good impression on people. Most of the locals knew Hunter was an artist. They’d been to his exhibitions, bought pieces, or reposted his stuff online.

He found a park close to the entrance of the supermarket and unfolded himself from the low 1996 Honda Civic. Something pulled in his calf and he winced. You know you’re getting old when the simple act of standing injures you, he thought to himself.

Taking a green basket, Hunter nodded at the trolley boy who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else and walked through the fruit and veg department to the meat section.

‘You look like you’ve been painting,’ a smug voice said.

Hunter sighed inwardly and turned to find Shirley Geldon beaming up at him. ‘If it isn’t… Shirley Holmes! You caught me.’

Her face pulled itself into an opened-mouthed smile, her eyes almost lost between her eyebrows and full cheeks. ‘Shirley Holmes! Like the detective?’ She nodded as she spoke.

‘The one and only,’ he said trying to be good natured for once, though his calf was bothering him more than he cared to admit.

Shirley dabbed at dry eyes, making a show of recovering from a big laugh that hadn’t happened. ‘Well, one of two, now!’ She winked at Hunter and waited for his response.

‘I’ll let you get back to your shopping, Shirl. Stay vigilant!’ He turned pointedly to the wall of chicken breasts in front of him and made a show of reading the different weights and prices of each cut.

‘Before I go,’ she took a step toward him. ‘Someone from church mentioned they saw you walking along the highway last night. I told them they must’ve been mistaken, but I just wanted to check—’

‘You can tell Brian that he was mistaken. I was home last night. Case closed, Detective Holmes.’ He dropped two packs of chicken breast into his basket, flashed a smile at Shirley and left her nodding by the meat fridge.

By the time Hunter was at the till waiting to pay, he was thoroughly confused. Had he been home last night? He couldn’t remember.

The next day he woke up with a rare buzz of inspiration. He’d dreamed about a bottomless moon pool lined with forest green algae, seaweed and dark creatures. Taking a notebook from his bedside table he sketched and notated the idea before any key details eluded him. He ate breakfast and passed a toothbrush quickly ‘round his mouth before opening the door to his studio.

Morning light poured in through the far windows and canvases sat stacked against every wall. He’d ripped up the carpet years ago and the concrete floor was a cacophony of colour. In the middle, surrounded by discarded drop cloths and boxes of paints, a large wooden easel still held the finished painting from the day before.

Hunter moved to store the canvas amongst the others but paused when he didn’t recognise the scene he’d painted.

In the foreground, a road lit by an unseen car follows the curve of a cliff to the right and disappears into the background. On the left, illuminated trees cast shadows onto the bush behind them. The white lines of the road were luminescent, interrupted only by the body of a brown kiwi with its head at an unnatural angle.

Was this a commission he’d forgotten about? A joke? He searched the canvas for clues. Tucked into the back of the frame Hunter found a folded piece of paper.

When you find this painting, burn it.

Log this in the notebook under Kiwi Caught in the Headlights, 2026.

Full explanation in the back of the book if needed.

It was his handwriting. Had he really painted this? Why had he left a note for himself to burn it?

He threw open the top drawer where he kept the notebook with a log of all the paintings he’d ever done and flipped to be the back. Glued inside the back cover was an envelope. He fished inside and produced a worn square of paper.

His breath caught as he unfolded the page and found the creases worn from repeated opening. The original note had been written carefully in black pen, left-aligned and considered. Around it, amendments, measurements and asterisks interrupted and shouted.

*not TOO much!

— within 12 hours

no more than ten or the paint gets too diluted

less than three and you’ll still remember

He read the note through a few times and then took the canvas outside to burn. Before he lit it he went inside and called his mother. Instead of confirming what he was telling her, she asked what he’d painted.

Hunter peered at the canvas. ‘A kiwi with a broken neck, lit up by my car’s headlights.’

‘That’s a good one.’ She paused, he assumed, to take a drag from a cigarette. He heard pages turning. ‘Doesn’t look like I’ve had to do one for a while. Must be doing something right.’

‘Yeah. Must be,’ Hunter replied, raking his mind for memories he no longer held.

‘How many you burned now?’

He flicked through his notebook. ‘Looks like around thirty or so. At least, from what I’ve put in the notebook.’ He ran a hand down his face.

‘Might be worth holding off painting the next one, love. Sometimes it’s good to remember.’ Her voice was soft.

‘Yeah, maybe.’

They finished the call and Hunter took a piece of paper out of the printer tray. He unfolded the worn note from the back of his notebook and set about incorporating the various amendments.

For Hunter’s eyes only:

Our family carries a gene that lets us extract memories through our tears. Mum, Grandad and you all carry it.

To extract a memory for a short time (up to a day), cry while thinking specifically about the moment you wish to forget.

To permanently forget, you must write, paint or make something that encapsulates the memory using 3–10 tears (less and you’ll still remember, more and paint/ink gets too diluted with memory), within 12 hours of the event, and then destroy it completely ASAP (fire is best).

The process uses a lot of energy. If you don’t think you’ll be able to burn the memory right away, leave yourself a note – you will forget everything, including your ability to do this, when you finish painting.

Call Mum if you have questions. She remembers more than you do.

That evening, watching the painting curl in the flames, Hunter felt the urge to cry though he couldn’t put a finger on why.

He rubbed his sore calf, its pain teasing him. His body remembered what had happened last night, and that was enough.