the non-profit coughs like a half-rusted generator, shuddering through another mercy cycle. it runs on leftover passion and the jittering electricity of overcommitment. frayed extension cords salted stiff, fairy lights sagging like constellations someone gave up naming. the artist’s spent more hours plunging toilets and coaxing printers back from the dead than writing grants. somehow it’s sacred.
out back, the youth gather in the gravel carpark, all mismatched chairs and the metallic tang of warm beer. it’s open-mic night. someone’s brought a thermos of two-day coffee; someone else’s vape smells like green apple and burnt sugar. moths hover over the solar lights. those weathered discs working on halftime, flickering like nervous applause. a girl with a cracked ukulele sings about leaving town but never quite manages the chorus. a boy reads a poem that breaks open mid-sentence and everyone claps like it’s a rescue.
the wind tastes of diesel and seaweed. a ute door slams somewhere down the Road. the local busybodies are probably scrolling, taking notes. but inside this gravel-ringed orbit, nobody cares. a queer kid’s got purple paint in their hair; a shy kid sketches the audience on a napkin. someone’s mum drops off Hot chips and leaves before the noise starts.
the artist leans on the doorway, bone-tired, clay dust still under their nails. they watch the lights pulse, the laughter, the effort. devotion, they think, isn’t a church thing anymore. it’s this. the hum of bad wiring, the taste of salt on the mic, the sound of futures finding their pitch in a town that pretends not to hear. imperfect. stubborn. humming anyway.