Many writers have shared their thoughts with the public:

"There is something delicious about writing the first words of a story. You never quite know where they'll take you." - Beatrix Potter

"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say." - Anaïs Nin

"Sharing your writing, being enlarged by others' writing, is what makes you feel famous." - Gretchen Bernabei

"Writing is not an amusing occupation. It is a combination of ditch-digging, mountain-climbing, treadmill and childbirth." - Edna Ferber

"Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing." - Ben Franklin

"One must be drenched in words, literally soaked in them, to have the right ones to form themselves into the proper pattern at the right moment." - Hart Crane

"There are three rules for writing. Unfortunately, no one can agree what they are." - W. Somerset Maugham

The Archibald Surprise

“Fukkit.” Archie muttered the traditional curse of those who, after a heated internal dialogue between angel and demon, are forced to pull up at the front of the traffic lights. Pole position for First Place in Frustration. It wasn’t that he was in any particular hurry, but the sight of everyone else’s taillights moving rapidly into the distance irked him beyond reason, reigniting the humiliation that six-year-old Archie suffered in the egg and spoon race in Mrs Buncey’s class. He had come last, even behind the asthmatic kid who had to stop halfway up the track to use his puffer. Archie had became fixated with the injustice, convinced that the kid’s mum had Velcroed the egg onto the spoon. Years later his therapist suggested that an egg-free diet might help rid him of his demons.

Overall though, Archie was enjoying his return to Australian roads after five years in Europe. If England still had a pub on every street corner, they were all fitted with speed cameras these days, while Italian drivers were almost all homicidal maniacs, and that was just when they were parked. Driving, they were much, much worse.

Nonetheless, this stop really ticked him off, because it was the fourth set of lights in the space of 200 metres and up until now, he had smashed the man vs. traffic light war of attrition.

The first ones had turned gloriously green as he approached at a speed calculated perfectly to coincide with the colour change. Cruising past stationary mortals tapping their steering wheels in annoyance in the inside lane, Archie felt that irresistible surge of superiority, thinking 'Don’t you wish you were me, losers?'

The second set had turned amber as he approached, naturally signalling his brain to step on the accelerator.

The third set had been pushing it, the red light glaring accusingly down at him as he sailed solo across the intersection, glancing furtively around in the hope of not seeing a red-light camera. The fourth set of lights gave him no option but to stop.

As he sat waiting and glowering, listening to his Spotify feed and wondering why it had chosen Another One Bites The Dust for his listening pleasure, he noticed something blue and white hovering in the air outside his passenger window.

'Pesky drone idiots,' he thought and gripped the wheel, ready to gun the accelerator as soon as the red light blinked off. The drone hovered over his car a few moments, its electronic hum imperceptible in a cabin resonating with lyrics about bullets flying from a doorway.

The drone tilted and zipped to the side of the road; its hum replaced by the shrill wail of a siren coming, it seemed, from the bushes. Looking over, Archie was surprised to see two men emerge, pushing bikes. Both wore Lycra that appeared, on one of them, to have lost the will to live. His straining camouflage patterned top did nothing to cloak years of poor food choices. He had teamed it with white helmet, grey shorts and a fluoro vest, giving very mixed messaging about whether he wanted to be seen or not. In the basket of his bike was a sturdy black box that emitted the ear-piercing siren. His taller, younger companion was attired in pink bike shorts and top. Teamed with his white bike helmet, he looked like a flamingo with a huge zit. Adding to the optical strain, his khaki backpack had revolving red and blue lights sitting precariously on top of it.

Archie tore his gaze away to see that the traffic lights had turned green, and he hit the accelerator with gusto. Nothing happened. The vehicles on either side took off from the lights, leaving him feeling the glares of the disgruntled occupants of the five cars stuck behind him. As Archie tried frantically to revive his unresponsive Singer Electric Overlord, Fluoro Man started directing the cars behind him into the inside lane to make good their escape. Archie issued an anguished cry, as memories of long past egg and spoon races came flooding back.

Walking over to the Singer, Fluoro Man shouted through the closed window that Archie should step out of the vehicle. He was reluctant to comply, convinced he was about to the be the victim of some bizarre bicycle bandit holdup. Nonetheless, Archie opened the door and edged out, hoping that someone would wave a gun at him to make the whole episode less embarrassing and at least give him some victim credibility.

Fluoro Man gave the thumbs up to his offsider, who had been busily tapping on his phone. Suddenly the car started up and turned slowly in the direction of the roadside strip.

“Satellite remote control,” said Fluoro, grinning like the cat that got the cream and found it was mouse flavoured. "These cars aren’t just good for the environment; they make bloody brilliant little toys too.”

Archie followed his car to the roadside, uncertain whether to stare or look away as the two bike riders ferreted around in the recesses of their Lycra shorts. It was like witnessing a horrific accident or Madonna’s latest video. Simultaneously they extracted misshapen warrant cards which they proffered up for Archie’s inspection, something he chose to do at some distance.

“Detective Marcus Braham and Sergeant Daniel O’Loughlin, Plain Clothes Non-Motorised Conveyance Squad,” Fluoro explained.

“Sorry?” said Archie, feeling that someone somewhere, was having a laugh at his expense. “What the Hell is that?”

The officer now known as Sergeant O’Loughlin looked vaguely embarrassed as he recited an explanation that had clearly not got any easier with repetition.

“We are a squad representative of the modern police force and its commitment to prudent use of taxpayer’s funds. The PCNCS was established in response to the legal requirement that all road vehicles must now be electric.”

“We don’t need to chase the bastards down in fast cars anymore,” Detective Braham summarised somewhat wistfully. “Those unsafe and environmentally unfriendly practices have been consigned to history by the police CrimStop app, thus making the need to maintain a fleet of fast, comfortable, police cars redundant. Of course, thanks to global warming, we don’t have to worry about keeping out of the rain either. Mostly.” He glanced at the leaden grey sky above.

“CrimStop app?” Archie was having trouble keeping up, a capacity apparently no longer required by police vehicles.

“It gives us the ability to stop any vehicle on the road, courtesy of a satellite and this,” said Detective Braham, holding up his mobile phone.

“That must make police training gruelling,” responded Archie stiffly. “Do you get special thumb workouts?” The air around the men cooled in the silence and Archie realised he wasn’t making any friends. “So anyway, why did you stop me?”

“Modern policing methods,” replied Sergeant O’Loughlin tersely. “Police drones have been upgraded. This is the brand-new model that not only reads your car’s unique electronic data, but identifies its occupants and measures their blood alcohol, drug, and hormone levels non-invasively. Your cortisol was right up there, mate.”

“Cortisol?”

“Yeah – the stress hormone. You know how everyone feels guilty the moment they see a policeman? It’s usually just an automatic reaction, but it results in a rise in your cortisol levels.”

Detective Braham pitched in. “In other words, these things are finely calibrated to pick up guilt reactions. One sight of a police drone and crims are bricking it. Of course, we do get the occasional false-positive. Usually, religious types who feel guilty about everything.” He shrugged.

“You’ve pulled me over just on the suspicion I might have done something wrong?”

The officers looked at one another, slightly nonplussed.

“Well of course, some aspects of policing haven’t changed,” Detective Braham said defensively. “The difference is that now it’s all based on science rather than just on racial and cultural profiling. Once we’ve stopped you, it’s just a matter of data analysis until we find something.”

“So sir, to confirm your identity, you are Mr Archibald Fabian van Dries of 14 Thor Drive, Hemsworth, in the state of Republicland?”

“I see driving licences are also a thing of the past.”

“An outdated concept in this digital age, sir. If fourteen-year-old crims can hack all your personal data, it would be a sad day if the Australian Government couldn’t rise to the challenge.”

Sergeant O’Loughlin’s fingers flew across his mobile phone and his brow furrowed.

“You don’t seem to have a current Detainment Card membership, Mr van Dries.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” Archie was now as out of his depth as an NRL player in an etiquette class and was getting agitated. “I’ve been away for a few years, and Australia seems to have changed a lot while I’ve been gone.”

“Yes sir, economic and social progress has been very rapid since Prime Minister Rinehart was elected.” The officer supressed a slight shudder. “The Detainment Club was introduced to bring an element of transparent free enterprise to policing. A regular subscription helps punters like yourself mitigate the costs of an increasingly efficient Police Force, while freeing up the courts and ensuring sufficient funding for bicycle pumps and suchlike.

“For example, your car’s data has told us you’ve just gone through a red light, which incurs a fine of…” he checked his phone. “…Two thousand, four hundred and eighty-eight dollars, this being the third Tuesday of the month, which is a Quadruple-Your-Fine Day. A basic membership would have reduced that down to a single fine, while our top-tier Solid Citizen Membership would have knocked it down to 50 bucks and given you a free Starbucks coffee to help you rehydrate while you’re licking your wounds.”

Archie was aghast. “So the justice system now is based on how much you pay?” he asked.

Detective Braham looked puzzled at Archie’s moral outrage. “Clearly sir, you’ve never had to employ the services of lawyers or barristers if that concept shocks you. You can look on it as a type of insurance, but more friendly. For instance, our Stay ‘n Play Membership means that if you cop a custodial sentence of six months or more, your family get monthly movie vouchers to enjoy in your absence. It even comes with a bonus trip to Darwin Disneyland with overnight stay if you plead guilty. It’s a win-win. Less time play-acting your innocence in court and at least the wife and kids get some fun out of it.”

“I assume then that a membership pricelist is available online?” Archie was still reeling from what he was hearing but couldn’t stop himself from adding “as I doubt your bike basket has capacity for the paperwork.”

“Indeed so, Mr van Dries, the EFTPOS machine takes up too much space. Membership is not usually available retrospectively, and I’m sure you can understand the reasons, but this may be your lucky day, as we have a special promotion at the moment.”

“Oh, please do enlighten me.” Archie’s sense of normality had by now been T-boned by the runaway truck of disbelief and he was braced for a pile-up on the Flummoxed Freeway.

“Squad Sponsorship. Owing to some thieving little buggers, our EELS squad is a bit short of equipment.” Detective Braham anticipated the look of bewilderment that was coming his way. “Elite Electric Light Scooter squad. These are the boys that race to crime scenes in emergencies. They can nip through traffic quicker than a bad curry through a short granny. Trouble is, when they get there and are faced with some grisly murder scene, half the time they forget to take their front wheel off and padlock the frame. By the time they come out, the scooters have been de-chipped, resprayed and are already delivering pizzas in Geelong.”

“I’m listening,” replied Archie, his eyebrows raised and taxiing for take-off at the next revelation.

“Well of course it’s not cheap, but three grand would get you sponsorship of four scooters, with your name on a pennant attached to the handlebars.”

“That’s all?”

“No, no, of course not. Today’s infringement and fine will be covered and you get an additional voucher."

“A Starbucks coffee?”

“No. It’s a ‘Get Out of Fines Free’ card, entitling you to rack up ten demerit points without consequence. There is some small print though. Each individual infringement must be no more than three points – we have the public to consider after all, and we couldn’t be seen to be encouraging bad behaviour.” Rain started falling in heavy droplets from the sky.

Archie’s Mad-o-Meter hit the red zone and he lost it.

“OK – I’m now convinced you guys are just taking the piss. The drone is a camera for some pathetically unfunny reality TV show, is it? Highway Troll perhaps? Or are you scammers who’ve decided this is more enjoyable than tricking cancer patients out of their life savings? Well, whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying it. Now fuck off and let me go home.”

“You leave us no option then sir,” responded the Detective, rifling under the EFTPOS machine and producing a slightly rusty pair of handcuffs. “We’re going to have to take you back to the station for questioning.” The rain began infiltrating his bike shorts in a very unbecoming way, and he looked distinctly uncomfortable.

“Umm – sorry to ask, but can you give us a lift please?”