Projected Changes in the Frequency of Extreme Precipitation Events

Right-o Jill, what’s the plan? Lovely shower, proper brekky: mashed eggs maybe, buttery toast. Get your stuff for the toilet block first. Towel, toothbrush, toiletries bag, clothes for the day. Good. Why would Woolies put a cartoon of a happy bag on the side of a bag? Look at it: it bloody loves being a bag. You’re an old bag. A bag with a bag with a bag. None of that. Too early to be mean. Let’s go when the rain lets up. It’s raining, it’s pouring. No one’s gonna help me if I can’t get up in the morning. Don’t think about that. Don’t you dare.

Darn a sock while you wait. Oof—down on the couch. Lordy, it’s cold. No point putting the heater on though when you’re about to go out. Let’s do the purple one. Over, under, over, under. Fixing all the holes in things. Maybe you can darn your old trackies. No, that’s stupid. Went to bed and bumped his head. Was that the one with the weird verse about vinegar and paper? No, Jack and Jill. Sang ‘Jack and Bill’ to Brent when he was a tacker cos he’d get worried you’d hurt yourself. He wouldn’t give a rat’s now. Such a sweet kid—what happened? The boys always look scared of him. Needs his bloody head darned. Not your job though. Not anymore. Fuck off, Mum, he’d say.

You’re a good nan. You call them up. Save up to buy presents. Even tracked down that—whatsit?—Minecraft Lego. But what can you do? Brent’s just like his dad and you’ve done your time with angry blokes. Can’t darn the whole world. It’s not getting better. Don’t think about that. Bucketing down. Need to go to the toilet though. That’s the one bad thing about the caravan park. Can’t wait till you’ve got your own lady’s room. Keep saving fifty from your pension each fortnight and there’s just two months to go. They better not put the price up. Can you get portaloos on layby? That’d be funny.

It’s nice having your own place though. Peace and quiet. Puzzles, telly, pictures on the wall. A frangipani in the op-shop vase. Maybe you could get your own shower too. A little adjoining thing like the holidayers have. Right-o. Rain or shine, you gotta go, so you gotta go. Bring your brolly, pop on your gumboots. You’d ruin your uggs with these puddles. Maybe it’s easing off a bit. Into the wild. One, two… Jeez Louise. That wind. This bloody lock never bloody locks. Need WD40. Would vegetable oil work? Stupid idea. Could ask Barry next door. Rather not. You’d be stuck for hours. Always better to do these things yourself.

Off we go. Funny: used to be embarrassed going through the park in your dressing gown. You’d get dressed properly just to take it all off a minute later. Now you don’t give a rat’s. Splash. That was a deep one. Definitely not easing up. Careful. Rushing’s how you fell on your arse that time, banged your bad hip. Barry saw the whole thing. You right, Jill? he squawked. You right? Came to help. Tried to help. But he’s on his last legs himself. Christ, that’s a terrible thing to think. Probably younger than you are. Doesn’t look it though, does he? One of those ones who don’t trust doctors. He needs a darning. The way he bangs on about the Covid. Look at him, knocking on so-and-so’s window. Mind your own.

Squelch. Ah, don’t worry about the mud. You can wash your dressing gown after you’ve washed yourself. Right, we’re in. Let there be light! Whole place to yourself. Which cubicle’s cleanest? There we are. That’s better. Flush. Now, a shower—end one’s best. Beautiful and warm. Could stay here forever. Singing in the rain, I’m singing in the rain! Yikes. You’re not gonna win Young Talent Time. Ha! That’s the first thing I’ve said out loud today.

Could go hotter. Why not? Warm up the old bones. Wish the kids were here. You could look after them properly, take them to the lake. Don’t think about that. Come on, mate, we’ve been through this. There’s only one bed and you’re older than Moses and you don’t have a car and there isn’t a school in fifty clicks. No way for little boys to grow up. Where’s their mother anyway? Can’t blame her. Last time you said anything Brent threatened to burn the caravan down. Full of it, but still. Not worth the hassle. And child protection does bugger all; only make things worse. Don’t you dare.

Where’s that cold water coming from? The window. Jeez. It’s pouring in. Is that thunder? Scared, at your age. Like a dog. Shut up. Stop. You’re not helping. Shit—there go the lights. A branch must have taken out a powerline. The windows are so small you don’t notice till the light goes. Water’s going cold too. Time to get out. The floors are wet. More than usual. Shiver me timbers. Towel off. Get dressed. Dressing gown over your clothes. Okay, done. Now or never. Go, go, go, go.

The park looks like a swimming pool. Up to your ankles. You’ll be home soon enough. Heater on, toast, a cuppa. Not without power though. Straight back to bed then, under the doona. Fingers are numb now. Should have moved north. Fuck—the brolly! Don’t cry, Jilly. Nearly there. Here you are. Bloody key. There it is, in we—

God!

Roof’s caved in. Telly’s smashed. Bed, couch, pictures: drenched. Frangipani floating past. There goes your darning, out the door. Should have got insurance. How? No one will care when you—

Jill?!

Jesus Barry, not now.

You right, Jill? You right?

What’s he got a blanket for?

Don’t cry! Don’t cry!

Stop panicking, stop panicking.

You can stay at mine till it dries out. I’ll sleep in the car.

Oh, Barry! Darn it all.

This is a runner-up of the KYD Flash Fiction Prize 2026. Read the other runner-up here.