Fiction

The Ravens Fed the Prophet

  On my first day as a volunteer with Meals on Wheels, the supervisor—a fat retired bloke—told me, “You’re delivering to Mrs Sampson: good luck with that!” I searched for some clue to his meaning in his florid face. He smiled but did not elaborate. My Meals on Wheels partner, Bryan, explained: “Mrs Sampson’s house is a mess, and she’s a religious nut. She takes a bit of getting used to.” We drove to her house first. It was a simple weatherboard cottage with a corrugated iron roof and wooden-framed windows shaded with fibro awnings. The front gate squeaked as…

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