Fiction

Endlings

Jeremy had less than an hour to get everything in place before the museum opened. God, he was tired: up all night worrying about whether they’d chosen the right font for the labels. He tapped his Apple Watch: time for one more scan.

The emu feather perfectly symbolised – if he said so himself – frailty and melancholy. He smoothed the plumage of the adorable orange-bellied parrot, reassured himself that he’d been right not to include the swift parrot: those demonic eyes!

It had taken six weeks of workshopping to develop the exhibition title: A Catalogue of Loss. Tastefully lit text on the museum wall said, “How can we adequately express the story of rapid loss of species, habitats and lifeways? In dialogue, the victims of humanity speak with three featured artists who visually express the vanished stories of the sixth extinction and inspire us all to act.”

He took two steps back, swept his head from side to side to take in a vision of the entire room. No. That wouldn’t do. The smooth handfish looked like a gawping moron: comprehensively non-tragic. He swivelled its bottle slightly to put its dumb little face on a more appealing angle. There.

The thylacine looked beautiful, of course. It always did. He breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth; in through his nose, out through his mouth, meditated for a moment on what the tiger symbolised: the brutality of colonisation, the hubris of humanity.

All was well. He would tell them to open the doors.

cricket cricket…on the ferry they were all talking about cricket…did you hear them last weekend it was they were all talking about… cricket said the Derwent River sea star.

I heard them said the handfish.

was it the same weekend it couldn’t be the same weekend could it… no I don’t suppose it could.

I don’t know how we could figure that out. Do you understand dates? said the handfish. Do you know when you stopped existing because that might help?

do you mean me when did i die me personally or do you mean when did “the Derwent River sea star” die?

Well, am i talking to the ghost of a Derwent River sea star or the ghost of the Derwent River sea star?

The sea star thought about this for a while. Was she the ghost of that little body just there or was she the ghost of a concept?

A tear tracked its way down the woman’s face as she stood before the poor stretched pelt of the thylacine. “How could we do it?” she whispered. “They were so beautiful.” Her fingers hovered over the glass.

“It’s the greatest crime,” said the man standing next to her. “Extinction, I mean. To not just kill an animal but kill a species. Gone forever!”

“How sad, to be the last of your species,” said the woman. “To be all alone in the world.”

can one of you look at my label does it say i’m an endling the sea star asked.

The thylacine ignored her, the parrot ignored her, but the emu said I’m an endling.

yes we i know you’re an endling i want to know if i’m an endling.

Well, we could extrapolate from the emu, said the handfish, and that would help us answer the question, wouldn’t it? Emu are you the ghost of a Tasmanian emu or of the Tasmanian emu?

Both, said the emu. Endlings have the privilege of being both, a privilege that is not accorded to other individuals who are only themselves and therefore less worthy of attention and perhaps not worthy of attention at all. Did you know I knew Napoleon?

surprise said the sea star, hoping the emu wouldn’t overhear but actually not minding if it did that didn’t help at all. At least the emu wasn’t, for once, pretending it only spoke French.

Jeremy popped his head in to look at the exhibition once the crowds had left. He peered at the tiny white body tucked up the back of the cabinet. The Derwent River sea star – he’d forgotten it existed. Was it even its own species? He remembered some controversy. If it was only a subspecies it couldn’t actually be extinct, could it? He peeled off the label, rubbed away the sticky residue left behind, dropped the label in his pocket. He’d have the science team double-check tomorrow. Embarrassing having the thing in here if it wasn’t extinct. He blew the thylacine a kiss and killed the lights.

No it wasn’t last weekend, says the thylacine, finally paying attention, but I reckon it wasn’t that long ago maybe it was in the ’90s. I remember now. The cricket. Yeah, I was there. Cascade light, bro. Cascade lager. Bottles and bottles and bottles of it, illegal tinnies of me shoved in pockets, oh yeah I was there, the cricket! On the billboard on the hats on the sign – the one that says you know you can’t park here – I was on that sign too. Yeah i was there. At the footy too, but not last weekend either that was ages ago, maybe you were still alive then? But yeah, the footy the cricket. Go tiges, eh!

thanks, said the sea star i thought it was last weekend but i don’t know i don’t know when i was in the river and not in the river you know it’s so hard to know what happened to you to know when you’re just dead and when you’re extinct and when the cricket was even on so thank you.

Yes, thank you said the handfish that really clears things up.

No wuckas, said the thylacine. Any time. It’s all the same to me.

This article was first published in the print edition of The Saturday Paper on July 12, 2025 as "Endlings".

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