Fiction

Light Shines from the Poker Machines

Each time I see Connor, my son, he seems to have grown two or three centimetres. Today, at least, his increased height was partly due to his light-brown curly hair which hadn’t been cut since I saw him two months ago and now bushed up high. It was his sixteenth birthday, and I’d driven to Singleton to see him and celebrate by taking him and a few of his close friends to a movie and then to dinner. Organising it had involved the usual argy-bargy with his mother. I phoned Connor as I got to the outskirts of town. “I’m…

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