In a series of short essays, writers consider what happiness means to them now, after the reckoning of the past few years
Three years ago my partner dropped me at Southern Cross uni in Lismore, agreeing to text in a couple of hours. My latest novel had just won Australia’s biggest literary prize, and the Bundjalung mob on campus had invited me down to give a talk. Reader, as I headed into the Indigenous Centre that September afternoon, I was walking on air. Even when our preliminary cuppas were interrupted by the misfunctioning emergency siren, my mood didn’t falter. Everyone groaned, then laughed. We waited for technicians to stop the damn thing. Conversation was impossible, drowned out every 60 seconds by a screeching siren, followed in turn by: Attention! Attention! An emergency situation has been declared!
This racket went on for five, 10, 20 minutes. Happens all the time, I was assured. I began to think I’d driven a very long way just to listen to its endless blaring. It’s funny how the worst news sometimes gets blanked out. I can’t remember who discovered the alarm was working perfectly. But whoever got that first call or text, very soon we all knew: there was a gunman roaming around on campus. The warning wasn’t an annoying mistake after all. The emergency was real.
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