Over the sunny Pacific, an airplane flies. It's nice weather for it...now.

Aboard, a reporter types, on a laptop computer. She's in a white top and a short black skirt. The top is a sleeveless turtleneck, with a chest window. She may be just an East Long Islander...but she's made a lot of progress, since before reporters' school...

The phone rings. Spela closes her laptop, stands, and answers it.

It's her boss, Mr. Moore. He's the editor of the website she writes for. She smiles, twirls her blonde hair, and flirts with him on the phone. She's got a nice white smile...that's just as white as her top.

Back in East Long Island, they're seeing each other...although technically, they do most of their courting in Manhattan. They don't see one another as often as they used to. She's gotten so passionate about her job, that she's everywhere except East Long Island. And very little news gets made on East Long Island. Spela would know. It was because of this, even then, that she first got on that bus, to Manhattan, to become a reporter.

Below, the Pacific goes by. Still, she talks and flirts with her boss on the phone.

Outside, all around the plane, a boomerang-shaped gadget flies, and spins, and circles the plane. Inside, Spela's in love. She pays it no heed. She probably should.

The Pacific's gone. Below, there are swamps. And there's bush. And there are very tall mesas. There are canyons, with very tall cliffs. Waterfalls fall from some of them.

At last, the boomerang hits the aircraft, and destroys it. The explosion generates bright yellow flames.

Flailing and flying through the debris, time slows down around Spela. She's looking right into the flames. Her eyes glow bright yellow. She can't stop staring at them...

The explosion speeds back up. Still dressed and unscathed, Spela begins her plummet, towards the antipodean wilderness below. Below, she can hear the kookaburras laugh. If they're laughing at her, they're the most insensitive creatures down there.

Or rather, that's what she thinks NOW. She might not, when and if she wakes...

Over Western Australia, the sun sets. The smoke in the sky, where the airplane was destroyed, has just about cleared up...

The moon rises at dusk, peaks at about 21:00, and sets at midnight. Six hours of darkness, give or take a few minutes, follow...

Here and there, the dunnarts scavenge, like carnivorous mice. The numbats turn over logs, and feast on the termites they harbor. The wambengers skulk around, like weasels. Quoll mothers, with backs overloaded with their offspring, wander here and there. Unclear as to how she keeps them all aboard...

Dingoes creep here and there. They howl.

Across the ground, many snakes slither here and there. Most are venomous.

Now, the sun rises over Queensland. The nightlife retires. Now, the more crepuscular life stalks about. They'll retreat back into their voids, just as soon as the sky gets too bright.

And it does. And farther south, in the Outback, it will soon get even worse...

Spela wakes. She's near water; she can smell it. She's got no idea how she's still alive. But she's thankful...even if that boomerang/missile did cut off a lovely conversation between her and her future husband...

She stands, and dusts off her clothes. She squeezes some of the swamp water from her crop top. It's gotten in her hair, too. She reaches around for her purse, which has, or had, her makeup kit in it. She can't find it.

She looks around, and gapes. She takes a long moment, to realize what's happened to her.

She's in a forest of grass. The grass is so tall, she could climb its blades.

A buffalo's hoof lands near her. She screams...and nearly faints. To her, that hoof's the size of a block. And above, its owner is like...no mythological monster she's ever taken the time to imagine.

It's ironic, that Spela writes feature stories. Alas, there are a couple of problems. The first is that her laptop was destroyed in the plane's explosion, and she can't write about this. The second is that she's pretty sure it's not the buffalo that's big.

Rather, it's her that's so small. She looks around her. Everything is over a thousand times the size she'd be used to, if she was used to the antipodean wild.

She's not. She's a helpless East Long Islander, and now a bit of a damsel in distress. She's going to need more than a miracle to get her out of this.