She struck the match, cupped the flame and bent her head to light the cigarette. It was her last one. She’d either have to bum her next one off some random person or steal a pack from whoever was too smashed to miss it. Jesus it was cold. Every time, she looked forward to a smoke warming her up, hoping a grey nicotine cloud would envelop her like a blanket. And, every time, she was disappointed. But only at first. Then the rush would kick in and she’d decompress instantly and rest her eyelids. Carcinogenic bliss. Followed closely by an urgent need for the bathroom. The predictability of the habit was comforting; disgusting, admittedly, but reassuringly familiar.

She headed back inside to make a coffee before her break ended. Of course, the pot was empty and the basket full of spent grounds. Bloody pigs. All of them. She put on a fresh brew – just enough for herself – and smiled at the spitefulness, relishing the petty victory. She cleared the glasses off the bar and wiped it down to kill time. The barely-lit room in front of her was full of millennials, expertly coiffured dames and dandies with slick outfits of oiled mustaches, tattoo sleeves, patent shoes and pants rolled up to ankles.

“Hey Lolo, give us a dirty basil martini and a huckleberry gin and tonic, thanks,” Sawyer (of course that was his real name) ordered over the din.

“Good thing you’re a genius drink-slinger, Lolo. You’re not winning anyone over with your personality, that’s for sure.”

“Thank you for your kind compliment, sir, now piss off and deliver these to the pretty young twats who ordered them,” Lolo replied.

Lolo’s manager, Sawyer was also 15 years her junior. That didn’t make her old, exactly, just a lot older than her workmates and clientele. Thank god for the tips. They made the job worth it. Lolo should’ve been a chemist, or a chef, with her knack for mixing substances to create bespoke flavor combinations that rendered drinkers silent, initially, and then willing to order more concoctions, drop impressive tips and make offers of marriage.

She didn’t drink the stuff herself. Never really had. She tasted what she made but didn’t finish the glass or even partake of an icy beer on a hot day. Caffeine was her medicine. And cigarettes. And running, as well. Lolo was devising a route for tomorrow’s morning jog when she felt a pelting of small, feathery projectiles glance off her back.

“What is going on …,” Lolo turned to identify the source of the straw attack. To the side of the bar, a man was sticking half his face through the door that lead to the backpackers’ hostel upstairs.

“Yeah, um, hi,” the face said. “This is going to sound strange but I really need your help. I got locked out of my room and my situation’s a bit delicate.” Lolo went to open the door but the body below the face slammed it shut.

“Look, I don’t know who you are or what’s wrong with you but you need to open up right now or I’ll call security,” Lolo demanded.

“OK OK, just wait! I’m sorry! My name’s Adam and I’m naked because my room door locked when I stepped outside to use the washroom. I don’t have any pants, let alone a phone, and I just checked in today so I don’t know anyone. Can you get me back in?”

Lolo didn’t respond. Lolo couldn’t respond. The pub was suddenly drowned out by the deafening shrieks of a fire alarm. Hipsters started running for the single point of entry. Lolo looked for Sawyer, but he was busy directing traffic and there was no way he’d hear her even if they did make eye contact. She grabbed a couple bar towels, yanked off her apron and flung them at Adam.

“We’ll go out the kitchen,” Lolo yelled at the nude backpacker, pointing down the hallway behind him. The pair dashed between the steel countertops and busted into the alley behind the building. An explosion blew out windows on the floor above the pub. Flames danced as though they were curtains defying gravity. Onlookers screamed.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Adam managed, through chattering teeth, as charred pieces of paper and snowflakes fell onto his goose-bumpy skin and the surrounding cobblestones.

She struck the match, cupped the flame and bent her head to light the cigarette. It was her last one. She’d either have to bum her next one off some random person or steal a pack from whoever was too smashed to miss it. Jesus it was cold. Every time, she looked forward to a smoke warming her up, hoping a grey nicotine cloud would envelop her like a blanket. And, every time, she was disappointed. But only at first. Then the rush would kick in and she’d decompress instantly and rest her eyelids. Carcinogenic bliss. Followed closely by an urgent need for the bathroom. The predictability of the habit was comforting; disgusting, admittedly, but reassuringly familiar.

She headed back inside to make a coffee before her break ended. Of course, the pot was empty and the basket full of spent grounds. Bloody pigs. All of them. She put on a fresh brew – just enough for herself – and smiled at the spitefulness, relishing the petty victory. She cleared the glasses off the bar and wiped it down to kill time. The barely-lit room in front of her was full of millennials, expertly coiffured dames and dandies with slick outfits of oiled mustaches, tattoo sleeves, patent shoes and pants rolled up to ankles.

“Hey Lolo, give us a dirty basil martini and a huckleberry gin and tonic, thanks,” Sawyer (of course that was his real name) ordered over the din.

“Good thing you’re a genius drink-slinger, Lolo. You’re not winning anyone over with your personality, that’s for sure.”

“Thank you for your kind compliment, sir, now piss off and deliver these to the pretty young twats who ordered them,” Lolo replied.

Lolo’s manager, Sawyer was also 15 years her junior. That didn’t make her old, exactly, just a lot older than her workmates and clientele. Thank god for the tips. They made the job worth it. Lolo should’ve been a chemist, or a chef, with her knack for mixing substances to create bespoke flavor combinations that rendered drinkers silent, initially, and then willing to order more concoctions, drop impressive tips and make offers of marriage.

She didn’t drink the stuff herself. Never really had. She tasted what she made but didn’t finish the glass or even partake of an icy beer on a hot day. Caffeine was her medicine. And cigarettes. And running, as well. Lolo was devising a route for tomorrow’s morning jog when she felt a pelting of small, feathery projectiles glance off her back.

“What is going on …,” Lolo turned to identify the source of the straw attack. To the side of the bar, a man was sticking half his face through the door that lead to the backpackers’ hostel upstairs.

“Yeah, um, hi,” the face said. “This is going to sound strange but I really need your help. I got locked out of my room and my situation’s a bit delicate.” Lolo went to open the door but the body below the face slammed it shut.

“Look, I don’t know who you are or what’s wrong with you but you need to open up right now or I’ll call security,” Lolo demanded.

“OK OK, just wait! I’m sorry! My name’s Adam and I’m naked because my room door locked when I stepped outside to use the washroom. I don’t have any pants, let alone a phone, and I just checked in today so I don’t know anyone. Can you get me back in?”

Lolo didn’t respond. Lolo couldn’t respond. The pub was suddenly drowned out by the deafening shrieks of a fire alarm. Hipsters started running for the single point of entry. Lolo looked for Sawyer, but he was busy directing traffic and there was no way he’d hear her even if they did make eye contact. She grabbed a couple bar towels, yanked off her apron and flung them at Adam.

“We’ll go out the kitchen,” Lolo yelled at the nude backpacker, pointing down the hallway behind him. The pair dashed between the steel countertops and busted into the alley behind the building. An explosion blew out windows on the floor above the pub. Flames danced as though they were curtains defying gravity. Onlookers screamed.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Adam managed, through chattering teeth, as charred pieces of paper and snowflakes fell onto his goose-bumpy skin and the surrounding cobblestones.

Captain James Cook and his First Fleet sailed into the warm waters of the Tasman Sea. Crisp sunshine beamed down on the ship's decks as the crew took in as much Vitamin D as they could. Many long weeks had passed since the sea-faring party had been able to relax. The journey from England had been fraught with illness and starvation; many of the dead convicts were offloaded as shark fodder. Still, Captain Cook was optimistic. Within his sight was the glorious coastline he would soon plunder in the name of Great Britain. He'd already thought of a wonderful name for this part of Australia - New South Wales.

“I hate to be a downer, Captain, but I don’t think ‘New South Wales’ is catchy enough,” offered Cook’s second-in-charge, Lieutenant Zach Hicks.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Cook replied. “It’s perfect. And besides, the King will love anything I suggest. I am his favorite.”

“Right you are,” said Hicks. Arguing with his superior had never helped in the past. The Captain regularly ended a debate he wasn’t winning with an illogical declaration or threat of keelhauling.

Cook packed his pipe and lit the tobacco. Nothing like a nicotine fix to complement a lungful of fresh ocean breeze. He stood smiling for a few moments, considering the fame and fortune that would be his on returning to England. Years and years of preparation (done by officers inferior to him, of course), grueling hard labor (also thanks to lower-ranked boatmen), and substantial investment (again, none contributed by himself) were about to finally bear fruit. Cook was ecstatic. But his joy-bubble was rudely busted by frantic shouts from the crow’s nest. “Bloody hell,” he mumbled and set his pipe down on the stuffed hessian bag closest to him.

A nest of burnt tobacco tumbled out of the pipe’s chamber, an ember or two still burning. Smoke soon became fire and fire soon engulfed the sacks parked at the base of a mast. Within seconds, flames tore up the mainsail and jumped to adjoining ropes that had been thoroughly dried out by successive fine days.

“Hicks! Hicks! Raise the alarm and get all hands on deck!” ordered Cook. “I look away for one second and all hell breaks loose. My job is literally now just putting out fires. Good grief.”

But Cook’s comments went unheard, drowned out by the screams of officers and convicts running to douse the flames that had spread through the bow and were roaring towards the barrels of gun powder.

There was a massive explosion. Bodies and debris flew into the air and then, quietly and slowly, the ship’s stern started taking water. More screaming ensued as people scrambled to cling to anything buoyant. The ship’s carcass eventually slipped beneath the surface and by nightfall, there were no survivors.

* * * * *

The crews of the remaining ships in the fleet observed the blast from afar. There was certainly no grieving for the Captain, whose obnoxious personality had won him few friends throughout his career.

“Oh well. We’ll soldier on without them, shall we? Long live the King!” the master said.

The fleet sailed for two more days before reaching what would become known as Botany Bay. On disembarking the first ship to land, the commanding officer saw a near-naked native man standing in the distance. The officer laid a peace offering on the ground and backed up to his party. The native man and his off-siders approached the new arrivals. Amazingly, the two groups began to communicate. They agreed to share the terrain and its resources, and to resolve any future conflict without bloodshed. Aboriginal populations continued to flourish and the European newcomers studied their ways. Despite originating from vastly dissimilar backgrounds, the settlers and the custodians of the land overcame their differences and built a harmonious existence that still thrives today.