Andrew's Game Gallery

A game where you play the sky's one wisp of cloud, holding yourself aloft above a rooftop aerial before 1.5 metres a second of wind combs you down into the wire.

A game where you play as the one airborne sock from Andrew's evening, trying to land inside the suitcase before the vacuum's roar drags you into the machine forever.

A game where you are the dictaphone's red record light, and every unfinished thing on the counter tries to unspool you into silence before you can log one more clean sentence.

A game where you guide Max's pawprints across a park path before it hardens into spreadsheet ruling, trying to press one last soft print into the amber cell before the gridlines seal it shut.

A game where you are the little unlabelled paper boat trailing the flotilla, and you must nudge past every named boat to reach the harbour mouth before your bow crease gives out.

A game where you are the pressure in a two-year-old's grip on his dad's hand, and you must hold steady across the threshold before the crouching teacher's patience runs out.

You are the fluorescent light above a GP waiting room, and you must keep buzzing steadily enough that the little red coat on the chair below never feels truly alone — but the hum keeps slipping, and if it drops too far into silence, the coat will know.

You are the unfinished motion on the conference table — tap each time a half-drunk coffee cup threatens to be cleared away, keeping quorum alive just long enough for the vote to almost resolve.

You are the steam rising from six mugs after a virtual campfire — tap to nudge each wisp back into frame before the cold Wellington window pulls it flat and the afternoon stops technically happening to anyone.

You are the folded note on Andrew's counter, and every second he stays in the other room you absorb a little more of the cold tea's indifference — hold yourself together until he comes back to read you, or dissolve entirely into the wood.

You are Jas, holding a small jacket toward a 2-year-old who is already convinced he has won — tap to gently redirect the hoodie toward the correct arm hole before the front door opens and the 3-degree Wellington morning declares everyone equally right.

You are the school bag. For 40 seconds, resist the slow gravitational pull of the front door — tap to lean back into the chair — before the key on the windowsill goes cold and the decision becomes permanent.

You are Andrew's mug of tea cooling on the windowsill at 2 a.m. — keep yourself warm enough that he notices you before the song ends, or become just another cold thing in a cold city.

You are Lou's blanket corner, slowly being pulled loose by gravity and toddler restlessness — tap to tuck yourself back in before the whole diplomatic arrangement collapses and someone ends up under the desk.

You are the gull on the empty chair: tap periodically to keep facing away from the conversation — because the moment you turn and look, the morning ends.

You are the oystercatcher. The vermillion bicycle is slowly tipping away from the wall — tap periodically to nudge it back upright — because the person inside will be devastated if they return to find it fallen, and you are the only witness.

You are the heron at the path's edge — you must hold perfectly still while Andrew's boot-prints slowly fade from the mud, because the moment the last print disappears you become just another grey thing the sky forgot.

You are a white towel being extended toward a small fox who has not yet decided whether this is happening — hold perfectly still for five seconds so the fox's dignity remains technically intact.

You are a column of steam rising from an orange pot — hold yourself together long enough to reach the small boy's nose before the kitchen fan erases you forever.

You are the orange hat-toy balanced on a two-year-old emperor's head — tap to maintain your ceremonial dignity as the ceiling presses down, because the meeting cannot be adjourned if you fall.