Mushrooms.

Get in the bunker and out of my brain! 

I feed the man some light. 

He’s not earned much. 

I clench my jaw, study 

conclusion to end

in hypothesis: 

Humanity. 

Give it time. 

The man can’t escape through 

something so sturdy and soundless. 

“Jacob! Dinner!” I close my art-book.

My jazz feet scrambles for carpet. Two step bebop in the kitchen, I follow trumpets of the ABC News, “Stop being silly,” Mum says over plates of percussion.

“Can we watch something else for once?” I ask, sitting opposite Dad. He faces me but shakes his head past me.

“Mum and Dad are watching the news.” Mum says, serving my risotto. They’ll watch Top Gear… then some other show… a routine committed to memory… nothing ever changes!

“Please?” I try again, glancing at the magnet art-book fridge of my cartoon lions and horses. It’s mum’s collection. They’re interested in dinner more than I am.

“Shh!” Mum interjects. Skye eats mushrooms as I deport mine to her plate. No complaints with her fork of thanks.

“Can I go to my room?” I ask.

“Eat your dinner.” Dad says.

All mushrooms excommunicated, my risotto looks the worst out of everybody’s dinner. Oh well.

Reflections

The Last of Us video-games many years ago blew in a draught of my 2026 life. The photo I chose is from that series, but not my own footage. I've taken snapshots of those games due to the scenery but an image is only as good as the story it can tell. I've heard the phrase, "A picture holds a thousand words," but sometimes we only need two hundred. The Last of Us on fungi, pandemics and humanity taught this child how to respect and listen to their parents' perspective. That's the power of stories and I don't wish to wield it with wanton aggressiveness. I seek persistence (and answers) through two hundred mushrooms of endurance everyday on time written for poetry and prose.