Chris Keller

What a beautiful morning it is. The sounds of insects in the tall grass, bright sunlight filling the fields of the Tsai family farm. I’ve just managed to negotiate Cluckers back into his pen after he tried to bolt during feeding time, you’d think a year looking after him would give Cluckers reason to trust me but apparently our rivalry will never die, and I’m fine with that. I walk inside, taking off my boots and passing my very own fishing rod, a gift from Norm and now proudly displayed on the wall. I’ve not caught a-lot of fish with it yet, but I’m getting better, and Norm is a good teacher. In two weeks I’ll be back in Dogacre out on the rivers and the lake. It'll be good to see Norm again. A postcard from my niece, Nella, sits on the desk, alongside a picture from their newest holiday and the radio equipment moved down from the old station. It was a long time before I started broadcasting again, hell most of the time it’s not my voice on those radio waves; we've had locals on air constantly talking about their hobbies, their worklife, we’ve been playing Cut Loose songs non-stop since their tour. Though the most interesting ones have been from all those people who have gone out into the world and beyond, hearing stories from all their adventures. Anchor Rock doesn’t mean the same thing anymore; the broadcast isn’t just for the people who stayed but for every Anchor Rock-ian out there no matter what corner of the world they find themselves in, hell they say radio waves can even travel into space.

With one last look out the window down the road into the town I turn on the radio saying those four now familiar words: “Good Morning Anchor Rock…” I missed this town.

By Jack G.