 
Narrator Magazine

NSW/ACT

Autumn 2012

Smashwords Edition

narrator MAGAZINE is published by MoshPit Publishing

Shop 1, 197 Great Western Highway, Hazelbrook NSW 2779

MoshPit Publishing is an imprint of Mosher's Business Support Pty Ltd

P: 1300 644 680 ABN 48 126 885 309

<http://www.moshpitpublishing.com.au/>

<http://www.narratormagazine.com.au/>

Copyright Notice

The copyright for each item in this publication rests with the author of that piece. Please contact us at Narrator Magazine if you wish to contact any contributor featured herein.

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Contents

A few words from the Publisher

Apologies

Breadcrumb Novel - Art and the Drug Addict's Novel - Part 2

Cover credit

Essay

Narrator Magazine NSW/ACT Summer 2011 Winners

Poetry

Short Stories

Poetry

A Day at the River

Ambitious Dream

Aussie Outback

Circus Family

Citrus Dawn

Come to Me

Court Thought

Dawn Kaleidoscope

Dog Consciousness

intact

Lunchtime at the Park

Midnight Sun

Mingling with Sand

Mural

Ode to Rocky

Of Dogs

Pollies

Save Joey

Science is Fiction

Sting a Same Goes for a Name Debate

Sydney Summer Slow

The Black Hawk

The Commuter

The Weeping Cherry

Throw the Meat Back on the Table

Short Stories

Creatures of Habitual

Endearing

Firmino

Gender Bender

I Should be so Lucky

Iced VoVos and Lamingtons

Interiors

Memories

My Mother's New Friend

Queuing

Seeing is Believing

The Funeral

The Human Condition

The Secret

Tight Ass

To Read Aloud

Writer's Block 1

Essay

Seeking the Truth

Breadcrumb Novel

Art and the Drug Addict's Dog - part 2

Narrator Magazine NSW/ACT Summer 2011 Winners

The NSW/ACT Summer 2011 issue was judged by Mark Dapin, popular Good Weekend columnist, blogger and book author. Here are Mark's choices...

First prize—$1,000 to Peter Tonkin for 'A Portrait of the Artist as a Real Estate Agent'

Sponsored by The High School Survival Guide

Mark's comment on this story was: 'original and funny, a good ear for language'.

Second Prize—$500 to Stephen Studach for 'Brushed'

Sponsored by The MoshShop

Mark found this story 'displays a broad emotional range'.

Third Prize—$250 to Aristidis Metaxas for 'Nightshift'

Sponsored by A Reader's Heaven

Highly Commended—Mary Krone for 'Cancer Loss'

Highly Commended—Janet Ryan for 'Alice'

People's Choice Winner—$200 to Stephen Studach for 'Brushed'

Sponsored by MediKord

Many thanks go to Mark Dapin for the work involved in making the above selections. For more information about Mark, to read his blog or purchase any of his books, including his latest release, Spirit House, visit his website at <http://www.markdapin.com.au/>

A few words from the publisher ...

Well, we're thrilled at the response to the first NSW/ACT Narrator—it was so good that this issue has had to be 25% larger than any other Narrator we've produced before—as you can see by the double-column list of contributions on this page!

Sincere thanks go to Fairfax columnist, journalist and writer Mark Dapin for his generosity in being our first 'nuswhacked' guest judge. Mark's choices are opposite, and our congratulations go to all the winners!

We had hoped to challenge you further with the first Victoria/Tasmania issue this quarter, but chose the Summer/Christmas period to try to garner interest—you live and learn. We will try again over the coming months and hope to bring out the first Vic/Tas issue on 1 September instead.

In the meantime, please encourage fellow writers to sign up for our newsletter, and send links to your friends when you receive yours—especially if you've been published!

And don't forget, if you'd like a hard copy, you can purchase an annual subscription for just $43.85 for four consecutive issues—a saving of 15%, plus it's delivered to your door.

But enough from me... time for you to turn the page and enjoy ...

Jenny Mosher

March 2012

<http://www.jennifermoshereditor.com/>

Caricature:

Jenny Mosher's caricature (above) by artist Todd Sharp. Order yours at http://www.toddsharpartist.com.au

Cover: Horseshoe Falls by Linda Callaghan

Linda emigrated to Australia from South Wales in 1978 and lives in the beautiful Blue Mountains. Linda says:

'I have had a desire to paint for as long as I can remember and in 2008 picked up a paintbrush and never looked back. Painting has now become my passion! I enjoy using brilliant watercolours inspired by my inner thoughts and surroundings to create flowing, colourful, imaginary artwork. I also paint realistically and use all mediums in different styles, producing sweeping landscapes, flowers, abstracts and any subject that catches my interest. This allows me to share the enjoyment of my art with a wider audience. I exhibit yearly and was very honoured to receive the top award, the Rose Lindsay Art Prize, at the 2011 Springwood Art Show.'

You can view Linda's art gallery at <http://www.redbubble.com/explore/lindart> or follow her on Facebook at <http://www.facebook.com/pages/LindArt/212209612129863>

Apologies

We had a gremlin in the works last issue and owe apologies to the following people, and thank them for the patience and understanding:

Stephen Studach—we initially labelled Stephen's work 'Brushes' instead of 'Brushed'

James Craib—we initially had the wrong stanza break up on James' poem 'The Game'

Toni Paton and Samuel Cooney—we initially credited Toni's poem 'Come to Me' as Samuel's story 'I Should be so Lucky'. We have reprinted Toni's poem in this issue, and now bring you Samuel's story 'I Should be so Lucky' further down.

Dog Consciousness

Alan Lucas

Katoomba NSW

When I take the air

to walk my walk,

he's sometimes there

and sometimes not.

I've made friends

with the old dog,

and with the old dog's lot.

Oh once upon a time, I'm sure

that he would have barked or growled,

protecting his owner's house and yard,

but now he doesn't have much left

but trust and faith

and dog type love,

and he's learned the difference

between cruel humankind,

and others who appreciate

an old dog's gentle look.

And these he trusts in

his old dog's way.

With ever so slight a whimper

of recognition of my voice

when I say, 'hello old dog',

he shuffles rheumatically

towards the gate,

knows my look and demeanor,

trusts a non-threatening face,

and gets his pats and strokes

in return for his old dog's

wisdom.

Mingling with Sand

Allison Morris

Downer ACT

I have been rocked, cradled

in the reflection of a perfect sky—

caught laughter,

which skips across water

like pebbles.

I have wriggled into white sand

so fine, it was like dust—

hurled wet handfuls

at squealing, brown-skinned girls

who tried in vain to brush it off.

Their sharp squawks of friendly outrage

mimicked the too-white gulls

swimming through the sky.

I have been maliciously ground

into the hateful rocks of the stormy undersea,

airless and

clenched in terror against a blue

bloated fate.

I have clawed and fought

and hauled my body from the spray,

shedding water in sheets—

dragged air into aching lungs

while salty blood and salty water

poured down legs that shook,

mingling with sand.

Mural

James McIntyre

Leura NSW

Wall wall. Wall surrounds me. Imprisoned. Boiling feeling in my stomach, arms, legs. Anger—rage—heat.

Will I paint this wall? What is most important?

Wall is glowing red with streaks of black. Weep with anger. I hate you—I hate you.

Strong black lines on red. Sharp, threatening, dangerous. Flashing silver knives. Murderous serrated edges. Blood spurts out of severed arteries.

And now there is a crack in the wall. Dare I feel hope?

Rage flies free. It transmutes. Blue is the colour, signalling freedom. Freedom has strength. It is coloured blue and green and yellow. These colours appear in great waves on my mural. But hatred persists. Vindictive, hurtful, red and black on the mural. Can these join with the colours of freedom?

I weep with pain. I'm hurt. Why does this hurt so much? How can I transform my prison wall? My mural will bring this transformation.

Endearing

Darren Phillips

Lalor Park NSW

A woman is sitting on a train reading a book. Her mind keeps drifting as she reads the page and she keeps starting again.

A man is watching the woman try to read the book. He chuckles to himself after the fifth time she restarts the page, and makes his way over to sit beside the woman.

Man: That book must be really interesting.

The woman looks up, a little startled, but concludes the man is no threat.

Man: I've watched you read the same page five times now.

Woman: Do you often stare at people reading on the train?

Man: See—now you have answered one of the 10 questions in my head for me. Are you a woman who is cynical and believes everybody has an agenda? Or do you ignore the usual faux pas I have just committed by approaching a complete stranger on a train?

Woman: Isn't that 2 questions?

Man: Technically, yes. But there is only one answer ,so therefore it becomes one question.

Woman: So how did I answer one of your questions?

Man: By asking me if I usually stare at people reading on a train, I therefore concluded that you are a cynical person and believe I have some sort of an agenda.

Woman: Well, from my experience, you often do.

Man: Me personally? Or strangers on a train? Do you often get approached by strangers on a train?

Woman: Is that one of your 10 questions?

Man: Ha. No. So, what is your experience then? What has happened for you to conclude that I, like perhaps several strangers on a train before me, have, in fact, an agenda?

The woman looks out the window to see where they are.

Man: You still have several stops until you arrive where you need to go.

The woman looks back at him, shocked.

Woman: And how could you possibly know where I have to go?

Man: I was behind you at the ticket counter.

Woman: So I see you've added stalker to your resume.

The man just looks at her.

Man: What page number are you stuck on in your riveting novel?

The woman checks the page.

Woman: 76.

The man thinks for a moment.

Man: Page 76. It's not often that he found himself in this situation. He was always so careful. Diligent, in fact, as to not put himself or others in harm's way.

The woman looks at him, shocked again, as she discovers he is quoting the book verbatim.

Woman: How are you doing that?

Man: So here he was, about to step out into what only be called a kamikaze mission. Would this really be the way he died? It was as good a way as any, he supposed, and we all had to die someday.

Woman: (amused) Alright, stop it. How are you doing that?

Man: Check the author photo.

The woman checks and laughs.

Woman: Oh bloody hell, it's you! So did you come over to get a review?

Man: No. I liked the way you slightly move your lips as you read.

Woman: I do not!

Man: Yes you do. But don't get defensive—I find it endearing.

Woman: Endearing? You really are a writer aren't you?

Man: Well. Judging from your lack of interest, I'd say not a very good one.

Woman: No. I meant that isn't a word one would use every day. And besides, the word 'endearing' to me means a habit that at first you find adorable but will end up being the cause of arguments in 50 years when you scream at me for moving my lips when I read.

Man: 50 years, huh? Do you think we'll last that long? My writing may put you in a coma by then.

Woman: Well then—let's just say that I currently find your writing, and your brash confidence, endearing. And speaking of your writing, haven't these books sold something like 20 million copies?

Man: 23 million.

Woman: Sorry, 23 million. So what on Earth are you doing riding the train with us common folk? Don't you have chauffeurs or whatever?

Man: (sarcastically) And miss out on stimulating conversation and observations such as this? If I may ask a question, one that isn't one of the 10 questions, by the way; what made you choose to read my book? And I say 'read' loosely as you clearly find it a page turner.

Woman: I actually found this copy on the way to work this morning.

Man: Sounds like another satisfied customer.

Woman: Perhaps. Or they could simply have done what I have in the past.

Man: Which is?

Woman: Finish a book mid trip and then leave it as a gift for whoever finds it.

Man: How kind. Any wonder there are so many starving authors out there.

Woman: What do you mean?

Man: Well with your little system I just lost a sale of my book; how many others are doing the same?

Woman: Now who is being cynical?

Man: (changing the subject) What do you do for work?

The woman goes to answer but the man continues.

Man: No. Not one of the 10.

Woman: I am a photographer.

Man: Oh yeah? Your specialty?

Woman: Lately I've been doing a lot of product shoots for catalogues, but my passion is people.

Man: Why so?

Woman: I love how every face is different, and every one of them has a different story to tell. Then when you get that perfect shot of them it somehow tells a thousand stories.

Man: And you question why I ride the train? There is nothing more inspiring or intriguing than watching a person look out of the window of a train. When a person doesn't know they are being watched, their true self is revealed. I've sat here countless times creating stories from watching people just like you. Wondering why someone randomly smiles when they are lost in thought, or wondering what it is that was on your mind to make you re-read the same page five times.

Woman: What makes you think something was on my mind? I may have just not enjoyed your book.

Man: When you get lost in thought your lips stop moving when you read.

The woman doesn't know how to respond so the man continues.

Man: It's OK, if you don't wish to discuss it. I've just found it so much easier to speak to a non-judgmental and random stranger.

Woman: Non-judgmental? Now there's a rare breed.

A man approaches tentatively with a book in his hand.

Second man: Excuse me? Are you Luke Dean, the author?

Man: (uncomfortable at the recognition) Yes. Yeah, that's me.

The woman notices how uncomfortable he becomes.

Second man: Wow. So cool, man. I love your books. Would you mind signing this one for me?

Luke Dean: Sure. Who do I make it out to?

Second Man: Billy. This is so cool. Thanks, man.

Luke Dean: No problem.

Billy: Oh, I have such a great idea for a story.

Luke Dean: (cutting him off) That's great mate, but legally I can't hear it in case a future story I write sounds similar to yours; then I'll have an unwanted lawsuit on my hands.

Billy: Ah forget that crap mate, I won't sue you.

Luke Dean gets more uncomfortable and nervous at this fan not listening to him. The woman notices.

Billy: So anyway, your main character, Jack, is in Russia...

Luke Dean looks around for the nearest exit. The woman suddenly grabs him and kisses him hard on the mouth. Luke Dean, shocked at first, responds. Billy stops talking in his tracks, then reacts to the kiss.

Billy: Damn, man, that's hot! So where was I...

Woman: Billy. As you can see, Luke and I have a lot of catching up to do and we'd really like some privacy. Would you mind letting us be?

Billy: Sure. Yeah. Sweet. Thanks for the signature, dude.

Billy exits. Luke Dean sits in shock still from what just transpired. The woman turns his attention to him once again and smiles.

Woman: So I guess I just created question number 11: do I go around kissing complete strangers on trains?

Luke Dean: (amused) Thank you. For that (pointing towards Billy).

Woman: How is it you can approach complete strangers on a train, but get totally freaked out when approached yourself?

Luke Dean looks out the window.

Luke Dean: You missed your stop by the way.

Woman looks out the window, anxious.

Woman: Shit. I can't be late either. I'm heading to a shoot.

Luke Dean: (Pulling out his phone) Don't worry about it (pressing send on the phone and waiting for the other end to connect). Jeeves? Meet me at the next station.

Luke hangs up the phone.

Woman looks perplexed. Luke answers the question on her face.

Luke: That was my driver. I have him follow me by car when I go on my people-watching trips. I'll make sure you make your shoot on time.

Woman: (quizzical) I find you very endearing, Luke Dean. (holds out her hand) Ali Jacks.

Luke takes her hand and shakes.

Luke: Ditto, Ali Jacks, ditto.

Darren Phillips

Lalor Park NSW

Darren Phillips is a writer, photographer and film maker currently residing in Melbourne.

The story above is currently being produced as a short film and will be entered in festivals worldwide, as well as being available for viewing at www.youtube.com/user/darphiimages

Visit Darren's official site www.darphiimages.net for previous work, upcoming projects and contact information.

The Funeral

John Ross

Blackheath NSW

Lady Sarah Compton-Smyth was burying her fourth husband within the last ten years. Poor old James Smyth had been a business partner in our firm of lawyers, so I felt it my duty to attend his funeral. I had only met Lady Sarah a few times but had heard plenty of gossip about her. Three of her husbands, including James, had died of heart attacks and one of a burst blood vessel in his brain. The police had recently investigated, but all deaths had been attributed to over exertion in the marital bedroom. It was said that she never spent much time in mourning her losses but was on the hunt for her next victim, er, husband, almost straight away.

The funeral was being held early in the morning, on what was a dreary day, made even worse by drizzling rain. Lady Sarah had arrived in a limousine driven by a young chauffeur who now held a large umbrella over her. I noted that he was standing very close. Lady Sarah was dressed, well almost, in a very small clingy outfit that, let's just say, was very revealing. Oh! It was black though! My morning had started out badly when I could not get my car started and so had to call a taxi. I had also forgotten my umbrella and was trying to shelter under a large gravestone that was leaning over at a dangerous angle. During the minister's address Lady Sarah noticed me and gave a little wave and a smile.

I could not help thinking about some of the jokes that had circulated in the office. My favourite was, 'She meets 'em, marries 'em, then plants 'em'. Just then another member of our office came over and said, 'Just as well she does not have them cremated as she would be running out of room on her mantelpiece with all those funeral urns'. I tried very hard not to laugh as it was not seemly. An elderly lady standing nearby must have thought that I was moaning in grief as my attempts at covering my laugh had come out as a sort of splutter that had brought tears to my eyes. She smiled sadly and said, 'He was a very nice man taken before his time'. She must have been joking. Old James at seventy six was still chasing anything in a skirt till Lady Sarah had come along.

The service came to an end and we were all to file past the grave and throw in the usual handful of soil. Lady Sarah went first and the chauffeur handed her a little silver garden spade—she was obviously worried about getting her black kid leather gloves dirty. When she bent over to throw the soil in the grave every male eye was on her, well, a certain part of her anyway. The poor old guy in front of me was so entranced that he missed his step and fell in to join poor old James. The minister got his nice white cassock all dirty trying to pull him out.

Finally, to most peoples' relief it was all over. Poor old James was at last to be left in peace.

I was walking back to the main road to hail a taxi when the limousine pulled up next to me and Lady Sarah opened the door, revealing way too much of those long, shapely legs, leaned over and said, 'Would you like to ride with me? '

Come to Me

Toni Paton

Blackheath NSW

With arms old and scratched, a body that's faded,

I'm a comfort to all, the sad, sick and jaded.

I locate in a corner—ready to please;

Folks are drawn to me, I put them at ease.

For aching bodies, for moans and groans

Relief is with me—pleasures unknown.

I hear many stories, of highs and lows,

Observing in silence—where nobody goes.

While many things change I know I'll live on,

Remaining the same, whilst others have gone.

My purpose in life is just to be there,

A comfort to all—a beloved rocking chair.

A Day at the River

Eulyce Arkleysmith

Peel NSW

A bright sunny day, not even a breeze

We head for the river some fish would us please.

The bag that I later would wear round my waist

On the deck of the kayak was carefully placed

The bottle of water to ward off that thirst

That happens when fishing o'er drinking comes first

Along with a cushion was placed in the cockpit

With skivvy, the lines and a tiny wee bucket.

No. I'll put on my skivvy to cover my arms

About those skin cancers I do have some qualms.

Oar in my hands, one foot in the vessel

And that's when begins an almighty wrestle!

I don't lose my balance that's later to come

When onto the seat I plonk down my bum.

And that's how the whole business goes all awry

The oar's in the water. The bag's floating by

The sleeve of my skivvy gets soaked as I shove

My arm in the water to push me above

the tip over line while I grasp for the oar

And that's when I notice the bag just off shore.

By now the boat's upright I must get that bag

But now I look down and wish for a rag

For the bottle's tipped over and off's come the top

And down in the bottom is starting to slop.

I grab at the bottle and stand it upright

Not much water's left but that is all right

My friends have supplies so some I can cadge

A small drop of water they'd hardly begrudge

With the bag now on board I turn to set out

And that's when I find there's nobody about

They've all disappeared and are quite out of sight

No witnesses to my inelegant plight.

Thank goodness my boat entry wasn't perceived

For that little bonus I'm fully relieved.

I paddle down river and way past the bend

I spot a blue kayak—just the rear end

I paddle full bore and move along fast

Way, way ahead I can see them at last.

At first they go one way then back on their tracks

Going this way and that way there's heaps of kayaks.

I hope that they're there in the paddling throng

With all of these kayaks I could get it wrong.

At last I'm among them they've now found the way

To see where the river goes out to the bay.

The tide's going out so it's easy work now

But going back up will be different I vow.

Two of us reckon we'd wait for the tide

'If we fish now then we'll have a much better ride'

And that's when the rest of the saga begins.

The line baited up with the prawn slightly spins.

Soon after I'd dropped the line overboard

A sharp tug. A sure signal I had just scored.

Now this should be simple to haul that fish out

But try it when tide and fish drag you about

On top of that problem the looming moored boats

On which every owner with haughtiness dotes.

Well as you might guess it was a certainty

A catamaran swiftly was closing on me.

I had the fish in but about to go under

The great structure keeping the two parts asunder.

The line I'd dropped out while I dealt with the fish

That was thrashing around with a splash and a splish

In the water that spilled when the bottle upended

Next thing I knew the movement suspended

The oar was entwined in a rope that I'd lifted.

to let me float through and then out as I drifted

BUT now a hooked anchor and oar that was caught

In danger of hitting the hull I was fraught.

Disentanglement came with much effort at last

From under the massive hull joiner I passed.

But not giving up where there's one fish there's more

So back to the spot. Once again I might score.

This time I skilfully kept out of trouble

And managed to make it a fantastic double.

Excited about this I called to my friend

Everyone heard me from bay start to end

And each passing fisher demanded to see

What had caused such proclamations from me.

Despite all this time the tide had not turned

The wind that arose many big waves it churned.

We decided that we really should head upstream.

'gainst both tide and strong wind with effort extreme.

Why hadn't we gone when the going was easier

With head winds that seemed to be surely less breezier.

We got back to jibes about being such fatheads

We had the last laugh though 'cause we had two flatheads.

Eulyce Arkleysmith

Peel NSW

Iced VoVos and Lamingtons

Vickie Walker

Orange NSW

'Land!' The call went rippling around the old fishing boat, raising hope in the desperate faces of the people crammed onto her leaky decks. Mai Le lifted tired, sad eyes and clutched her two small daughters more tightly. Their thin, wasted bodies snuggled against her.

'Land,' she told them. 'We're near Australia. Everything will be fine now.' She tried to sound positive. The trip from Vietnam had been long and dangerous. Terrible storms tossed the over-crowded and fragile boat around; several of her fellow shipmates drowned. Food and water were scarce. Mai could barely manage to obtain rice for her daughters, let alone herself. Twice, they were lucky to dodge pirates, intent on stealing their few possessions. Mai feared they'd all die out on the lonely and endless ocean.

So many doubts assailed her, so many questions. Had she been right in leaving Vietnam and her family? War had ravaged her country and their lives under the Communist regime had been dangerous, yet she was unsure what awaited in this new land.

Mai sighed. At last the long journey was over and they were alive. She hugged her babies and watched the harbour of Darwin come into view. A cheer resounded around the boat from her fellow travellers. A new life beckoned.

A large ship intercepted their boat and voices boomed over the water. Angry men shouted and waved rifles. The Australian coastal patrol had found them.

***

Fourteen months later, Mai and her daughters were finally granted temporary protection visas and allowed to leave the Darwin detention centre. Her two daughters were now nearly five years old. All they knew was a life behind high fences, with rules and regulations. As refugees, they were in limbo, waiting for the powers to decide their fate. She had escaped one form of persecution for another.

Mai headed to Sydney and to the Vietnamese community she heard existed there. Friends found her a job in a sweat shop and a room in a crowded fibro house. She despaired of ever finding the carefree, happy life she had thought Australia promised.

She'd left behind her family, her mother, her father, her sisters, to try and give her daughters a better life. When her husband was imprisoned for 'subversive activities', he made her promise to get out of Vietnam. Australia seemed a different world, a safer world. When he died in prison, she kept her promise. With difficulty she purchased space on the boat to come to Australia. She was in an unfamiliar city, struggling to survive.

'It's not like I thought it would be,' she confided to her friend, Linh. Both were hunched over their sewing machines. The light was dim in the windowless room, a few dull yellow bulbs illuminating the space.

'What else do we do?' Linh asked. 'This is the only job I can get.'

'Not much of a job. I barely have enough to feed the girls and pay my rent. And I have to leave the girls with a neighbour.' Mai peered at the shirt collar she was stitching. 'I hardly see them. They're asleep by the time we finish here.'

'What are you two doing?' A loud, fierce voice boomed. 'Get back to work you lazy sods!' Both girls sighed and bent their heads to their work. If the boss thought they were slacking off, he would sack them. Then where would they be?

Mai had been in Sydney six months when police raided the sweat shop. The women were taken to the station to be interviewed. A refugee support worker was brought in to offer them support. Mai and the other women were frightened, thinking that they would be sent back to Vietnam.

'No! No! Of course not,' the worker assured them. 'But we must do something; you need work and a decent place to live. Maybe out of the city, there are one or two country towns that are desperate for workers.'

Most were apprehensive, not wanting to leave behind the friends and contacts they had in the city, and decided not to go. Mai figured there was nothing left in Sydney for her, so she may as well try somewhere new.

She arrived in Wongabbie on a warm, spring day. The daffodils were out, a bright spot of colour. They were the first things she noticed as she stepped off the bus. She was met at the bus stop by a smiling, friendly woman, who took charge of the children and Mai.

'Welcome,' she said, taking Mai's hands in her own. 'I hope you like our small town.' She led them to a car. 'We've put you up in a hostel to start, with other women and children. I hope you'll be comfortable.'

Mai felt her spirits lift. This was a welcome she hadn't expected.

***

Six months later the children were chubby and healthy. Mai had a job working in the local library and accommodation in a small flat. The children went to school and were rapidly making friends. The refugee support group was helping her apply for permanent residency.

Mai didn't want to go back to Vietnam. Her life was here now. In a year or two she might be able to sponsor her sisters or parents so they too could come to Australia.

***

Lamingtons and iced VoVos were piled on a white china plate. Minh Le tucked into a lamington with gusto. Her sister eyed off another plate of sausage rolls, while their little friend nibbled chocolate cake. All around them stood the families of Wongabbie. The hall was decorated with Aussie flags and balloons. It was Australia Day and Wongabbie was celebrating.

For Mai it was a double celebration. She and her children had been granted permanent residency. Her new friends toasted her and her children; the mayor made a speech welcoming them to the community.

'Cam on rat nhieu,' Mai smiled gratefully. 'Thank you very much.' Australia was home to her and her daughters. They had the new life that she had risked so much for. Wongabbie residents had seen to that.

Vickie Walker

Orange NSW

Gender Bender

Amber Johnson

Townsend NSW

Mud-splattered ballet shoes trudge into my bedroom; their occupant stares at me pleadingly. The echoes of shattered spirits radiate from emerald irises, paralysing me into a numb silence. It is impossible to ignore the freckle dusted cheeks, which are stained both with cool rain and heated tears; they are battered to a shade of blue. Slender arms are gripping the stomach of a shredded tutu. They are attempting to conceal the crimson flow that peeks through the rips and tears of nylon and flesh, but we both knew that hiding was futile.

'You're bleeding!' I gasp, trying not to cry. An unsteady groan from quivering lips responds to my shock.

'Who did this to you?' I snap. 'It was those boys that live down the street, wasn't it? I am going to rip them apart!' My mind is an emotional juggling act, as I cycle through concern, sympathy, fear and rage.

'I'm sorry, Sissy.'

'Oh darling, I'm not angry at you; this isn't your fault,' I sigh sympathetically.

'It _is_ my fault; I shouldn't have worn your dress,' he whimpers, throwing himself into my arms. I cradle his little head and hum soothingly; he still seems like a child to me even though he is edging on adolescence. My aunt once told me in a stale breath of White Ox tobacco that 'he should have been a girl.' Sometimes I think it would have been better that way; he wouldn't have to suffer Atlas' burden or pretend that he has no scars.

'Let me look,' I insist as I shift his delicate body away from mine for closer inspection of the damage. He grimaces and bites his lip, as I gently peel the material away from his wound. The depth of the gash makes me wince and cover my mouth to suppress the scream building in my lungs. I hastily strip pieces off my shirt and press them against him to slow the bleeding.

'Bubba, we need to get you to a hospital!'

'No! Please, don't send me there,' he pleads; his eyes widen in fear.

'Look at you; you need stitches!'

'Please sis, I don't want Dad to know. He's more likely to kill me than this will,' he begs with a grim laugh. I can't help but smile, even though I want to weep. I know he is right...

Our father is a former officer-general who never learned how to use his inside-voice. He is a hardened veteran who barks like a dog and has a sullen demeanour at the best of times. I recall the slapping of skin through the walls of my room late at night, the silent cries so faint as if never from a victim; the screams of 'He's just a child!' and dismissive he'll-grow-out-of-its still puncture my mind with empathy. We share a collective memory of violence, though I will never grasp the hardships faced by a twelve year old who wishes he was a girl. My brother's secret or his life; there is no hesitation in which I choose.

'I am driving you to the hospital.'

'Sissy, please, I need your help.'

'I _am_ helping you.' I know he feels betrayed, like a criminal whose best friend turned them in. He glances at the floor with crystallised eyes. It pains me to see him disappointed but I can't see an alternative.

'What are we going to do about this?' I ask. I feel the hot blood seeping through the rags of my shirt. I won't be able to stop the bleeding much longer.  
'Well you've done first aid haven't you? Why don't you do something?'

'I learnt how to do CPR, make splints and bandage wounds; this is a completely different ball game.' He frowns at me in a blend of confusion and irritation.

'Just wrap it up or something.'

'The cut is almost an inch deep! I can't just bandage it and hope for the best; get in the car,' I demand. He knows that he doesn't have a choice.

'I need to change first,' he insists, but I hold his shoulder and lead him to the passenger seat.

'There is no time for that; get in.'

He remains completely silent as I speed through the grim, overcast town. The swishing of the windscreen wipers wash away the liquid bullets that beat against the blue, metal shell. From the rear view mirror, his vulnerabilities are seen. Beneath the bruises lay deeper scars. They are bottled up torments that swell within him. The valve needs to be opened; the pressure is becoming overwhelming. Something needs to give.

'I'm a horrible person!' he bursts out crying. The shattering of his crystalline stare released the flow of pain trapped inside of him. His tears bring the relief to the anguish he cannot express.

'You're not horrible, Jacob,' I sigh, as I rest my arm on the back of my chair so he can take my hand.

'Yes I am,' he sniffed. 'everyone calls me a faggot. I don't even know what that is, but it sounds really bad.'

'A faggot is a really mean word for a boy who likes other boys,' I explain.

'But I like girls! They have pretty clothes and hair; I just want to be like them. I don't like boys! Well at least, I don't think I like them. There is something wrong with me.' He struggles to map out the contrasting places that exist in his world.

'There is nothing wrong with who you are, Jacob.' I squeeze his hand a little tighter.

'Everyone else thinks there is. Even Mummy and Daddy,' he mutters.

'Well, I think you are wonderful. You have such a beautiful voice and you are a brilliant dancer.' I smile at him through the mirror. He returns the gesture weakly before returning to contemplation. I stop for the second intersection in a row, leaving the engine to purr at the adjacent rush of cars. The traffic lights are not in my favour today.

'Are faggots evil?' Jacob asks. 'Johnny told me that faggots go to hell. Does that make me evil?'

'No!' I yell. He pulls his hand away from mine and whimpers. 'I'm sorry, bubba. I didn't mean to yell. It's just... ' The loss of words is excruciating. _How do you explain the debate of morality to a child?_

'Honey, there are stupid people in this world—cruel and stupid people. There is nothing you can do that will remedy their narrow minds,' I say, as we pull up in the hospital car park. He doesn't respond.

I fling my seat belt aside and jump out of the car to help my little brother out of his seat. He screams in pain and doubles over; blood splatters on my shoes as I rush to catch him. He looks up at me, paler than usual; his vision is blurred and unfocused.

'Oh shit! Shit, shit, shit!' I bite my lip and lift him into my arms. I run awkwardly uphill, holding Jacob close to my chest. My jeans become drenched in seconds. I am thankful that Jacob weighs no more than seventy pounds.

The secretary jumps as I kick open the door. A large puddle forms at my feet as I scream 'I have a stab victim; get the doctor NOW!' She picks up the phone as a team of triage nurses lead me to the emergency room. They sweep Jacob away from me on a wheelchair.

'Can't I go with him?' I ask the nurse who blocks my way.

'I am afraid not. The doctor needs to clean out the boy's wound and check for internal damage. You may see him shortly.' He glances back at me in panic, but I assure him that it is going to be alright.

'I'll be there soon; I promise,' I run up to him and whisper. We embrace briefly before I feel his head droop in my arms; he is almost unconscious.

'I am going to need to record some details about the incident,' the nurse says, stepping in front of me. I ignore her and glance over her shoulder to watch the ER doors swing shut. _God, I hope he is okay._

'Excuse me, miss?' She clicks her fingers to get my attention. I frown at her rudeness as she continues to click her fingers in my face like she would to a dog.

'What do you want?' I growl.

'What is your name?'

'Samantha Edwards,' I say, watching her pen dance across the government-issued clipboard in a series of scratchy pirouettes.

'What is your relationship with the victim?' she enquires in a tedious tone.

'He is my brother.' She nods while scratching away at the page.

The nurse continues to fire questions about the incident and Jacob's medical history. Her words become a drone of reluctance that oozes from her tongue, leaving a repulsive mass of regurgitated sympathy lines at my feet. I am expected to consume these words with relief and gratitude. I am not a baby bird; second-hand scraps of faux concern will not ease my anxiety. My frustration builds higher with every second of not knowing whether Jacob is okay or not. He has never been in an operation alone, not even when he had his appendix out. I've always been with him for every needle and every doctor's appointment; _I hope he isn't afraid._ Still the nurse rambles on and returns to her oppressive clicking.

'Don't you care that a twelve year old boy has been stabbed?' I snap.

'It is simply protocol, Miss Edwards. All staff must remain apathetic to maintain focus,' she says indifferently. She dares to raise her eyebrows in a narrow-eyed glare, as if I were composed of the same murky debris that clings to the hem of my rain-soaked jeans.

'There is a difference between professional distance and being an imperialistic bitch,' I growl.

'That is verbal abuse, Miss Edwards, and I will not tolerate it in my workplace,' she says stiffly.

'Well, I will not tolerate you clicking in my face, like this.' I mimic her stiff tone as I click my fingers within an inch of her nose.

'I insist that you go to the waiting room until you are summoned,' the secretary interrupts. She is not hostile in her approach, nor apathetic. The buzzing of fluorescent lights is the only sound between us, as I take a step back from the nurse.

'While I understand your concern, quarrelling with staff members will not treat your brother any faster,' she continues. 'Please come with me.'

I follow the echoes of her stilettoes on the polished floor until we reach a room filled with padded steel chairs. I am ushered into one of the merciless seats. The icy metal clings to my body, feeding my fears rather than comforting them. An out-dated television set crackles and hisses from the shelf it is mounted on. A few people appear mesmerised by the flickering of soap operas and cooking shows, but I can tell that it is only an escape from the dreaded possibilities that claw and wail within their minds.

The room feels plagued with the lingering scent of stress and panic. The padding on the end of my armrests has been indented with a previous grasp. My fingers caress the compressions curiously. I visualise the white-knuckled grip of all the former occupants; I share their trepid anticipation. The stench of waiting-room memories is more potent than the chemical sterilisation. As the clock ticks away I find my thumbs are at war. Each hand is nervously fighting for conquest, as my feet pound away at the unseen pedal of a bass drum. A doctor walks in the room with a clipboard in his hand. Everyone in the room is alert; we are all hoping that it is our name that he calls out.

'Samantha Edwards?' he asks, looking around the room. I see a few people slump back into their chairs in disappointment as I jump up on my feet.

We walk into the emergency room where Jacob lay on the bed. The leotard has been cut away to expose his recently stitched up knife wound that runs diagonally, from the centre of his rib cage, to his hip.

'Hey, sissy,' he mumbles, holding out his arms. I walk over to him to give him a cuddle as gently as I can. I brush aside his auburn curls and kiss his forehead.

'Your brother shows no signs of organ damage, but he seems to have torn a few ligaments just below his rib cage. He has lost a substantial amount of blood and he will need to remain under observation overnight,' the doctor explains.

'How long do you think he will need to recover?' I ask.

'He will need appropriate rehabilitation to recover the muscle tissue. There will be a ten day period before his stitches can be removed, in which time he will need adequate rest and limited movement. After the stitches have been removed, Jacob will need four to six months of progressive movement and strength exercises. Until then, he is not to participate in any strenuous activities or do any heavy lifting.'

'Will I be able to keep going to ballet practice?' Jacob cuts in.

'Unfortunately, you can't dance until you have recovered,' the doctor replies.

'But that's six months away!' he protests.

'You need to listen to what the doctor says, bub,' I say as I rub his shoulders.

'I need to see another patient now. Just press the buzzer if you need assistance,' the doctor informs us before exiting the room.

Jacob is disappointed but his emerald eyes have solidified again; he is unwilling to show any weakness. His thick gypsy lashes batter away any pending tears.

'It's okay, you know,' I tell him.

'What is?'

'It's okay to cry.' I smile reassuringly. He sighs and shakes his head; we are both more stubborn than we care to admit. I nudge him gently and blow in his ear, causing him to giggle.

After a moment of hesitation, he asks, 'Do you ever wish you were somebody else?'

'Sometimes, but it wouldn't feel right to lose my sense of identity. Even though I'm not perfect, I am happy with the way I am,' I admit.

'But what if you weren't happy with yourself? What if you thought anything was better than what you have?'

'What do you mean, Jacob?' I ask. He looks deeply disturbed by a moral dilemma.

'I don't feel like I belong in the skin I am in. I feel like I wasn't born right, and that's not just because of what the other kids say.'

'I love you, Jacob; you are perfectly fine the way you are.'

'You don't understand! I'm _not_ fine and I am never going to be happy like this,' he cries.

'I am going to file a police report tonight. I am sick of those boys doing this to you.'

'No!' he yells. I blink at him, trying to suppress my rage; it hurts so much to see him in such strife. Jacob gulps and takes my hand.

'It wasn't the boys who did this to me,' he whispers 'They punched me in the face, but I stabbed myself once they had gone. I got scared of the blood so I ran home to find you; I need your help.'

My heart drops with a heavy thud to the pit of my stomach. I feel pale and ill. _Why would he mutilate himself like this?_ I grip the bedside table to prevent myself from falling.

'W-why would you do that?' I ask in shock. My throat feels dry and tight like a burning lump of coal is clogging my airway.

'I don't like my body; I never have. I want to be a girl.'

'But why go to the extreme of stabbing yourself?!' I choke. Everything still feels so surreal.

'I didn't know what else to do,' he admits shamefully. There is a tense moment of silence before I try to think of what I can do to help.

'There is an operation that can turn you into a girl,' I say slowly. _I can't believe I am talking to him about this._

'Are you serious?' he asks excitedly.

'Yes, but it is something that you have to be very certain about doing. It isn't something that you can change back very easily. If you ever had the operation, you would be stuck that way for life.'

'I wouldn't want to come back. How do I do it?' He is eager and I feel a twinge of regret for putting the idea into his head.

'You need to be 18 or have your parent's permission. It also costs a lot of money.'

'I didn't know you could do that—change to a girl, I mean.'

'If it is something you really want to do, then maybe you should think about it. As hard as it is for me to accept, you are not a baby anymore. I will help you no matter what you decide to do.'

He pauses for a minute with a miserable look on his face.

'What's wrong, bubba?'

'You'd still love me if I were a girl, right?' he asks fearfully. He withdraws his head from my shoulder and braces himself for rejection.

'Of course I would! Oh darling, don't think for a second that I wouldn't. We will talk about this more in the morning. You need to get some rest,' I say as I stroke his cheek.

'Don't worry; I'm not going anywhere.' He sighs and cuddles up closer as I lean over his bed. I feel his little heart beat against my arm; it has a strong and determined rhythm. I know that one day Jacob will rise above the chrysalis that restrains his true beauty. Until that day, he will always have my support and protection.

Amber Johnson

Townsend NSW

Amber Johnson is a 19 year old social work student. After leaving a violent, neglectful and socio-economically disadvantaged home, she moved 15 times while studying her HSC. Writing was her escape from the harsh reality she was faced with.

The Human Condition

Sam Morris

Downer ACT

His laugh is like a whisper, a quiet _kssssssht_ of tongue against teeth. His hands are sandpaper, all callouses, skin stretched too tight over broad knuckles. His hair is dark and soft, curly at the ends. I used to wonder how it must have felt beneath those rough, calloused hands—but then, I doubt he ever noticed. He never did pay himself much attention.

It was just him, I guess.

Marlboros and faded jeans, a big smile with a chipped front tooth. His gentle demeanour and the family he never talked about.

He was quiet, reactive; prone to long silences that made you wonder what you'd done, think that maybe he'd never want to speak to you again. It'd be a couple days later before he'd wander in and pour a glass of juice, make some God awful joke—( _'Hey, this orange juice sure is ap_ peel _ing!')_ like nothing had happened.

We didn't talk much about anything. Nothing important, anyway. Shit from TV, maybe.

But when he'd smoke cigarettes on the back porch in the dark, because the bulb over the door had blown, when I'd turn my nose up at the proffered pack and pretend like I didn't want one more than anything, when his lips would twitch like he knew it all—he'd tell me how he was scared to sleep, because it felt too much like dying.

I'd nod like I understood, but his laugh, sudden and sharp, would tell me he knew better.

He told me other things, too, over those months. It was as though he'd give over a tiny piece of himself, surrender it to me, with every night we spent on that back step. I only remember one or two of them now. Funny, how something so important to someone else is so easy to disregard, forget.

People are born to be selfish. We come into the world knowing only what we want, and nothing much changes. That's why it isn't surprising that things worked out the way they did.

Life goes on; I won't flatter him by saying things are that different now without him. Don't get me wrong. I miss him, sometimes. I thought I saw those soft curls ahead of me in the line for the train only a few days ago. But he never did like trains.

I do wonder if he still laughs like rushing water, if his hands are still so coarse and gentle. I wonder if he's got someone to notice those things about him.

Lately, especially, when I catch a whiff of cigarette in the night air, I wonder if pieces of someone are returnable—if I could even bring myself to give him back.

The Black Hawk

Tracey Smith

Sawtell NSW

As I look upon the mountains blue,

I see a large Black Hawk

Alone he's on a quest for food,

he has no time to talk

For with beauty and precision,

I see him soaring there

So natural in his gracefulness,

his eyes are everywhere

For 'tis he who's on a mission,

to him, his purpose clear

And as I watch him in

that bright blue sky

I feel that Heaven's near...

Court Thought

Gregory North

Linden, NSW

While driving through the city I was taken by the thought:

what kind of crimes and cases do they hear in _carpet_ court?

Are carpet layers prosecuted due to shoddy work?

Do over-charging salesmen give a bribe and wear a smirk?

Do carpet courts decide on stain resistance guarantees;

or work out who's responsible for plagues of mites and fleas?

Perhaps I simply read it wrong, 'cause that would surely thwart

investigations as to what goes on in carpet court.

'You've been found guilty, since you've no contrition or regrets,

of owning cars and treating them as if they were your pets.

As subject of the vehicle psychiatrist's report,

you're guilty of a litany of crimes in car-pet court.'

Perhaps there was a space I missed when making out the sign.

It could have been the viewing angle or its bad design.

But was the space located near the r or near the p?

It could refer to courts that hear of eaten fish, you see?

Could owners of a cat get sued for every plate and cup

when neighbours boasting garden ponds have had their carp et up?

Or maybe it's a family court with victims wall to wall,

where custody of rug rats then becomes a judge's call.

Adulterers are called onto the carpet where they sag,

and drag their feet admonishing that warm, inviting shag.

But one bloke can't abstain from his addiction and insists

on telling of his carpet burns from graphic, kinky twists.

The carpet court may cause a rich embezzler's face to blush

explaining why his manor house interior's so plush;

and when his magic carpet got pulled out and made him fall

just why his mate, the Persian, made a runner up the hall.

Then later he might reappear, but in a different group—

attempting unsuccessful, suicidal cut and loop.

Are carpet baggers carpet bombed with rugs of deeper piles?

Are toilets in the carpet court all lined with carpet tiles?

Are court rooms decked out differently depending on the case?

And do red carpets get rolled out for dignitaries to grace?

Are carpet beaters sentenced on account of what they dealt?

Are marriages annulled if down below is under-felt?

I have to find some answers. Something's missing—I've no doubt.

It's probably been overlooked and sucked right up the spout.

Or else it's been swept underneath the carpet—yes, that's it—

a nylon-wool conspiracy that lawyers won't admit.

All thoughts I've brought have come to nought. I'm fraught, caught short, distraught!

What kind of crimes and cases do they hear in _carpet_ court?

Throw the Meat Back on the Table

David Anderson

Woodford NSW

Throw the meat back on the table, put the milk back in the fridge

We don't live near Nimbin, we live near Lightning Ridge

Things have just got out of hand, since you went down there

Those hippy flavoured health foods, have led me to despair

My missus went down to the coast to see her brother Roy

He's fifty and a hippie and his favourite food is soy

When my wife came back to town, she'd changed her farm life ways

She's cooking all that health food, I ain't had a feed in days

She's brought back to our old town a recipe or two

The trouble with the food she cooks, it doesn't bloody 'moo'!

She says that milk clogs up my nose then looks at me so coy

Then pours a glass of awful stuff that tastes like mud called soy

Chorus

Throw the meat back on the table, put the milk back in the fridge

We don't live near Nimbin, we live near Lightning Ridge

Things have just got out of hand, since you went down there

Those hippy flavoured health foods, have led me to despair

Last night while I was drinking beer, she was making sprouts

She said they're full of vitamins, but I have me doubts

Give me a steak and onions, carrots and a spud

That's the stuff that builds a man, those health foods are a dud

I went to see the doctor he said 'Nothing's wrong with you

Your stomach's clogged with muesli, I'll tell you what to do

Go out and build a fire, throw on some snags and steak

Wash it down with full cream milk and a piece of chocolate cake'

I'd rather have a beer or two than a glass of wheat grass juice

And for those herbal potions, I've no further use

I'll take those soya sausages and throw them in the bin

And have a plate of cornflakes and live a life of sin

Chorus

When I got a backache, my wife needled me

She said that acupuncture would set my spasms free

I told her if she pricked me more I'd stick one in her bum

My usual antidote then worked—a nice big glass of rum

The future of our planet, to save it I'm sincere

That's why I eat those cows and sheep, to me there's one thing clear

They emit far too much methane, way up into the sky

If we don't eat a lot of them, the ozone layer will die

Chorus

Pollies

Kenneth Massingham

Chisholm ACT

Some red, some blue,

green is seen,

a few of a different hue,

a raucous caucus

of pollies preening themselves,

trying to catch the eye,

flying free, back and forth

among the treetops,

coming down to earth

only to use their sharp tongues

on a fallen nut or two.

Cackling, rattling on,

preening and posing,

drawing attention to themselves,

whilst muttering meaningless advice

to any audience they can find.

Now and then a weaker speaker

tries to keep order, his plaintive

pleas lost in the racket of restless

parrots.

Writer's Block 1

Jane Higgins

Molong NSW

Nothing ever happened in Dustbowl. Ross turned to his daughter Sarah. She seemed so young and vulnerable and yet the signs of her youth and beauty had not faded even though she had just given birth to a beautiful little baby boy. She unconcernedly made herself a coffee and asked him if he wanted one too. She was so thoughtful. Not like his other daughter.

'Where's your sister, Bron?' He asked more interested now she had actually placed the cups and the milk and sugar all within her reach. It seemed like she was going to make her dear old Dad a cuppa after all. Sarah flicked the long burnished hair away from her face. Brown eyes smiling. The child slept. She rummaged around in the back of the cupboard.

'What are you doing love?' He asked getting up.

'Where's the Chocolate Chip Cookies?' She demanded to know. Moving her hand along the bottom of the cupboard door expertly.

'You ate them,' he replied patiently. Turning on the kettle by habit and putting the coffee and sugar in the cups and waiting until it boiled to put the water and then the milk in it.

Sarah sat and waited for her father to hand her her cuppa as she took his chair and turned the page of the newspaper he had been reading. She lit a cigarette and started smoking it while he stood there wondering how she did it every time.

'Sarah?' He inquired.

'Yeah?' She replied not even looking up. 'What?' Flicking the page again.

'Where's your sister? She was supposed to see me before she left. You know I don't like her going out with her boyfriend.' He spoke to her as an equal. She was all he'd had for such a long time. Since ... he was lost in thought. He turned to her. So like her mother.

'She's gone to the footy at Rabbit Trap, with the boofhead,' she replied.

He leaned on the back of the chair with his hand and asked her father to daughter. 'What do you think she sees in him?' He asked. A concerned father talking to his more mature daughter. Even though there was more than a year between them Sarah had always been the mature one. I guess she had to be. The poor little kid. I mean, her mother taking off with the head of the football club when she was only four. The Bitch!

'It must be in his pants Dad because he's just a buttfuck.' She replied not looking up from the newspaper. 'Why do you buy this shit Dad? It's the same old same old. There is no news in Dustbowl. It's just a buttfuck.'

He took his coffee over to his typewriter and started writing again. 'Succinct, she's sure succinct.' He muttered to himself sipping on the contents of his cup wondering where he had gone wrong. He had done well at school. He had worked hard at uni and gotten himself a degree in accounting and then when he had the money he bought the farm, fulfilling a lifelong dream.

The courtship of the lovely Marlene. The wedding. He pulled back from the table briefly thinking back over the remembrance of the wedding night. Unusually in a man, or so his friend Gwen said, was that he had any recollection of the night at all. Gwen. My one stroke of sanity in this bloody place.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door.

'Can you get it love?' Ross asked. 'I'm trying to write.'

Complacently she went drifting towards the door at the front of the house, the outline of the visitor clearly visible in the long glass doors. The banging started again, more insistent. 'Hey! I saw you do that! I saw you pretend to come to the door and then walk away! I will not be taken in vain! You come here right now young miss!'

Sarah had reached the door and pulled it open and turned to the area in the kitchen where her father had his typewriter. She called out with the door open without acknowledging the visitor. 'Dad! It's the loony from next door! She wants to see you!' She left the neighbour at the door.

Ross groaned but only inwardly. He walked to the door and met his daughter in the hallway. 'What'd you tell her I'm here for?' He hissed.

Sarah didn't. 'Dad! She's a bloody old busybody and she should be shot! You know she looks through the glass and she listens in to our conversations and I bet you she has the place bugged.' She walked off unconcernedly.

'Alex! How good to see you. What an unexpected surprise. What brings you here?' He asked not unkindly as she pushed past him in his own hallway to the kitchen.

'You think that I don't hear you don't you, young lady? But, I know what you're like! Here you are just sixteen years old and you are already a mother of a small life. Totally dependent upon you and I suppose you think that I will be teaching this child of sin!' She raised her arms dramatically.

'Good God! Alex!' Ross expostulated.

Sarah was more blunt. 'You've got that right you old bag! There's no way my boy is going to put up with you like I had to!'

'How dare you talk to me like that!' She shrieked. 'I will not be spoken to like that in my own home!'

'First ...' Ross never got any further because he was cut off by the sound of a police siren and it sounded close. He pushed Alex unceremoniously out of the house making her walk through from the back yard which he hadn't mowed for some time. Since he heard that his little fifteen year old daughter was going to have a baby.

'I can't get through here you know that!' she rasped. He pushed her along ignoring her.

He said nothing. Every time he heard a siren there was usually trouble for him or his family. 'Oh why God?' He asked as he pushed Alex through the rough underbrush to the front which had been mowed recently.

Sarah was outside on the back steps calling her father now. 'Dad! The Cops! What do they want?'

By the time Ross had disposed of the busybody neighbour he'd had a chance to spy around the side of the house and to see the local copper get out of the car and shut the door. He walked purposefully towards the door. Ross gave Alex a final shove through the side gate that was there before when his neighbours were friends of his and the kids had played together.

'Ross! You old cock! How's thing's?' The copper asked him. 'Are you coming tonight? It's the Grand Final between Dustbowl and Rabbit Trap. They should be getting nicely tanked by now.'

'Yes, yes of course,' Ross mumbled. 'Hang on a minute while I get my esky.'

The copper leaned against the fence in a relaxed manner. After all it was Saturday and every Saturday they went to the footy together and then went to the pub for a few coldies. Sarah came out to have another cigarette and said, 'G'day,' to Pete. No-one knew what his real name was but he liked to be called Pistol Pete. He'd come from the big smoke and no-one knew quite what to make of him.

He was long and lean and they suspected that he wasn't as old as he had put on his form. He had chip blue eyes but when he was in a good mood no-one noticed. 'You going to the footy with Dad?' Sarah asked even though she knew the answer. After all what else was there to do out here? It wasn't a very big place. More of a speck on the map than a place.

The pub was the main attraction here now after all the mining was done with, and the wheat and sheep farmers weren't going so well now. They had been on the receiving end of some very large taxes and very short rainfall. Most people had moved out and now in their street, Mungally Street, it was said that there had once been a big festival and people came from miles around for the picnic races and the Whingeing competition.

Now before you laugh, remember that this street has the pub on one side of the road and three houses on this side and the cop shop is right behind the house just the other side of mine. This was a thriving district once and it was a proud place and the people were proud to live here. Some even had relatives in big places like Wheathalle. Still, even now we could field a footy team and that is what kept us all together.

'Ross! You coming?' The footy's gonna start in a few minutes and I want to get a good spot!' Pete called.

'No-one will go Pete and camp in your spot. Not since you put that forensic plastic around the spot where you park so the sun doesn't get in your eyes,' Sarah said. Pete suddenly turned to her. Where did the kid get that shrewd in a Godforsaken place like this, he wondered to himself.

'It's still a crime scene.' He said importantly. 'You know the rules. Not trespassing on a crime scene which is still being investigated by the Law.' He reminded her.

'Pete! You put it there at the beginning of every home game. No-one takes you seriously. Bart moves it every time the dog trials are on.' She responded unconcernedly. He father had gotten his Hawaiian shirt on and it didn't fit properly and so he had to leave a couple of the buttons near the bottom open. His shorts were more of a success and the thongs, well, who could fault the thongs? After all they were the consummate fashion statement out here in the scrub.

'You finally ready old man?' Pete went to move towards the vehicle.

Suddenly there was the sound of crying. 'Dad! The baby!' Sarah rasped at him.

He dropped his esky at the copper's feet and went back into the house and let his lift know that he'd be a few more minutes as he took the boy child and his kit to the footy too. 'To give Sarah a bit of a break,' he told everyone. But it was mainly to convince himself.

Pete waited and then it seemed that Ross and the grandson Brad were ready to go, but of course he would have to be changed first and they decided to do that while they were there because they might be able to fob him off on his aunty if they could find her. 'We'll find her, mate. She'll be right. C'mon! I want to get there before they run out of beer.'

Ross asked Sarah if she would be ok on her own. 'Of course, Dad! What happens in this Godforsaken place?'

So Pete pressed the doodad which opened his door and Ross and his esky were put in and then Pete handed the baby to him to place on his lap. Ross looked at him as it was against the law and Pete reassured him that it would be alright, it was just up the road. So they went and Sarah left to watch TV for the afternoon. Pete put the siren on as he never went anywhere without putting the siren on. Brad started screaming but that wasn't Sarah's problem anymore.

Rozzi from the paper would be there. After all she was the roving reporter and she had to tell everyone what was going on in town, even though everyone contributed to the paper and they were all at every meeting across the road for every committee in town. Sarah had tried to point out to Rozzi that the paper needed a new outlook. Anything practically, she told her. Something happened then that was actually newsworthy in Dustbowl, but of course everyone except Sarah and the loony from next door was at the footy. Even the publican. He had to be there because it was his biggest day of the week and they needed someone who had a licence to run the bar at the footy.

Sarah had just relaxed when she heard an unfamiliar sound. It was like a truck pulling up and talking to someone. She wasn't sure at first, even though they were on the highway, as there was no more town really. A few houses and the church and the town hall. They didn't even have a war memorial, so it was just as well that there was no-one to memorialise, except now her husband John, whom she had married with the whole town present for such an occasion even though the shotgun was clearly visible in the front row in her father's hands.

John was the very first soldier they had in town since some of the lads had headed off to the Second Boer War. He was a nice lad and he had promised to care for his daughter Sarah. So the wedding went off without a hitch or very nearly and if you pay the right amount of money I may just tell you what really happened.

The rig pulled up and the sound of talking was unmistakeable. Sarah had gone out to the front step for a cigarette and so she heard the whole exchange. 'Thanks mate.' She pondered the meaning of the words in her mind over and over. The rig took off. It was a big Road Boss with double stacks and a 44ft skel. It didn't have wheat on the back either like you would expect around here. She was intrigued.

It was a man. A very nice looking man and it made here heart quiver. After all, John had been away for some time. He went to the pub and even though she knew that there was no-one there she let him go to see what he would do. He wandered to the hotel and saw that it had been locked up. After all you couldn't be too careful about that sort of thing out here.

He wandered along the length of the veranda and she heard the distinct clatter of his boots on it. He tried to see through the windows which had the blinds closed too. There was no sign saying, 'Gone to the Footy'. Everyone knew that and there were no strangers here now that things had slowed up. She watched. He turned perplexed.

She stood up and he caught the movement out of the corner of his eyes. He came over and he introduced himself. 'Hello! I'm Andrew. How do I get a room at the hotel?' he asked her.

'Everyone's gone to the footy. No-one will be back for about three hours,' she candidly told him.

'Will I be able to get a room?' he asked concerned, 'or do I get the next bus back to civilisation?'

Sarah laughed. She'd never met anyone who was an optimist before. She had grown up here. 'A bus? We haven't had a school bus here for a generation before I was born!' She broke into fits of laughter.

He seemed discomforted. 'What do I do then?' He asked concernedly.

'You can go to the footy and watch the game and wait until the publican and his missus get back and then get a room ...' she replied.

'So, you think I'll be able to get a room at least?' he asked her.

'Shit yeah! I can't remember when the last visitor we had was but it was a long time ago.' She laughed. He held out his hand and she took it and shook it. He dropped his backpack and she asked him if he'd like a coffee while he waited and then she'd take him to the footy to introduce him to the publican or his missus who was the local reporter.

He waited on the front step and they had their coffees and talked for a while and of course the loony from next door came to her window and had a look.

Andrew noticed and he turned to Sarah and she realised that the neighbour was up to her old tricks again and she turned her back.

'Does she do that often?' Andrew asked.

'Oh, yes of course! She's a case. She'll be telling everyone all sorts of stories tomorrow. She's just wicked.' Sarah laughed. 'No-one takes her seriously.'

'Of course.' He replied. 'They're like that where I'm from too.'

'Where are you from?' Sarah asked him, more comfortable now.

'Kilkenny. County Cork,' he replied.

'Oh,' she said unsure of how to answer him.

'I'm backpacking around Australia before I go back to uni,' he proffered.

'What are you studying?' she asked shyly. After all he was very handsome and she didn't meet too many strangers and the last time she did she ended up marrying.

'I'm studying to become a doctor.' He grinned at this as if it was comical.

'Wow!' she replied. She'd never met a doctor. Not since she'd been pregnant, and then it was just a midwife at the base hospital in far flung Jericho.

'You mean to tell me that there's a town called Jericho out here in the country?' He was amazed. 'How do you get there?' He was curious now.

'Oh, it's out t'buggery!' she replied grinning. He didn't believe her so she showed him on the map. He laughed then.

They heard the siren from the footy oval and it sounded half time. He asked her, 'Would you like to see the second half of the game since we're stuck here for a while and we don't have anything better to do?'

'Shit yeah!' she replied. So she shut the front door and made sure it was locked and then pronounced that she was ready.

He was surprised that she took so much care about security out here. 'Do you have much trouble with break ins all the way out here?' he asked her while they were walking around the corner.

'Oh, no. It's just to stop the interfering old busybodies.' She laughed and took his proffered arm.

They strolled the four blocks to the footy field. The full length of the town. You could hear the shouting from the steps at home, she'd told him, so technically she hadn't missed a game in years.

They arrived and of course everyone stared. She saw her father and the copper so she avoided them and then her sister came up behind her with boofhead. Sarah introduced them and Bron eyed the talent off. 'Andrew, this is my sister and her boof... I mean boyfriend Mark. He's in IT.'

'Oh, what do you do?' he inquired politely.

'I am in Intel,' he said knowingly and touched his nose.

Sarah grabbed his shoulder and walked off. 'What does he mean by that?' he asked.

'Don't ask,' she replied just as knowingly. 'See ya later Bron! Boof!'

'Sarah! Sarah!' Ross called her frantically.

'Quick! Over here! He won't be able to see us from here.' Sarah guided the newcomer to the place she had always hidden as a child whenever her father had been looking for her.

'Who's that?' he asked.

'It's my Dad,' she responded.

'Don't you want to speak to him?' he asked.

She never got to reply because there was a message over the intercom for a Sarah to report to the police vehicle right away. 'You come here right now young lady!' Was heard throughout the entire arena.

'Shit! Shit! Shit!' Sarah spat.

It was okay then because the game started again and everyone forgot everything except for the next shout. After the game Sarah took the stranger to the front of the pub where everyone would be going too. Rozzi came to greet her and asked her what she thought of the game. She then introduced the stranger and left him with her to get a room and went home before anyone missed her.

The police siren was screaming and making so much noise that even the hurled abuse from the spectators who went back to the pub for the customary punch-up was drowned out.

Pistol Pete jumped out of the car, menacing in his uniform. He went everywhere in his uniform because people took him seriously. No-one asked him why he was wearing his uniform on Saturday afternoon when everyone knew it was his day off. He always came to get Ross and take him to and from the footy in full uniform complete with capsicum spray and cuffs and gat. He never went to the footy without his gat.

Every Saturday evening after the game he would repair to the pub with his best mate Ross and they would get into a shout and then he would drive him home again. Or if Ross had driven to the pub himself then he would let him get there and then book him. No-one knew why Ross still drank with him. Ross didn't fully understand it himself.

All the townspeople and the visitors came to the pub and turned it on even though they had given it a pretty serious nudge before the game, and of course at it, and that was just the players. The spectators were of course serious drinkers and they didn't like their Saturday evenings wasted at the cop shop. Being shopped and copping it when they got home, if they made it. Some were required to stay in the pub by law or they would risk getting drink driving or drunk and disorderly, so they stayed.

Paul, the publican, always gave free drinks to Pete on Saturday nights and if he wore his uniform then everyone would now there was law in town even if no-one took the order side of it that seriously. By the time he realised that he would have to buy his own drinks he was pretty drunk himself and so he had to put it all on the slate. Ross put his on the slate too then but he had an arrangement with Paul that they went on Pete's slate. Then he remembered why he drank with him.

They had Brad with them but he'd been given some port to calm him with all the noise and then they put him on the bar so they could find him later. One time they left him on the pool table and he'd been racked up. When sadly it was time to go Pete drove Ross home. He waved to him and said goodbye and Sarah was there to greet him and make sure that someone put Brad to bed.

'How was the game Dad?' Sarah asked unconcernedly.

'Good, Darl,' he replied and went to give her a peck on the cheek before he fell exhausted into his bed. 'How are you?'

'I'm fine Dad. How's Brad?' She asked him.

'He's fine.' He replied.

'Oh, so where is he?' she asked him.

'Oh my God!' He just sobered up. 'He's still on the pool table!' He rushed over to the pub to pick up the child who had been taken to missing persons at the cop shop. Or at least that's what the barman told him.

Ross jumped into this vehicle and went straight to the cop shop looking for his grandson. He walked into the cop shop and the boy had been processed and put on a charge of drunk and disorderly.

'Where is he now?' Ross demanded.

'He's in the cooler. I've processed him and he's in no fit state to go home. He can't even speak properly,' Pete said.

'Good God! He's only three weeks old! Of course he can't speak properly. I want to see him now!' Ross screamed, which wasn't much like him at all. He was such a quiet and unassuming bloke and his friend said that might have been the problem.

'I can't let him go unless he's bailed. Can you bail him?' Pete demanded because really he didn't want the kid overnight. He couldn't do nappies and what if the kid chucked? Besides what if those do-gooders heard of it?

'How much?' Ross asked suspiciously. He looked in his pockets and pulled out three dollars and twenty five cents. He put it on the counter. 'It's all I've got,' he said.

'That's no good. Even on his own volition he needs five hundred dollars,' he replied.

Ross was willing to negotiate and he hoped Pete was too. After all, if he kept the kid he wouldn't be able to let him go until after the court hearing on Monday morning and that wouldn't be until well after three o'clock in the afternoon until the paperwork cleared. He put his money on the fact that Pete just wanted to get back to the pub and not have any more grief.

'I haven't got five hundred bucks,' he said, surly almost. 'What about a slab of VB?'

'Is that a bribe?' he replied scowling. 'Because if it is it's pretty piss poor. Is that the best you can do?'

'I've got a bottle of eight year old malt you can have too but no money.' He said squaring off.

'I'll take your ute for a security.' Pete said. 'That's my last offer.'

'What? I can't let my ute go! What the hell am I supposed to do?' said Ross, getting furious now. After all how is a man supposed to go in the country without a ute? All his mates would laugh at him.

'Mate! I only want it for tonight and then you can have it back.' He said a little drunkenly.

'What do you want it for?' He asked suspiciously.

'I've been invited pig shootin' by the boys from Rabbit Trap,' he replied.

'That could be a mistake,' Ross tried to reason with him. 'Look. Just give me the kid and I'll get you a slab tomorrow ok?'

Pete was getting tired and needed to sleep. So he got the kid and told Ross, 'Make sure the kid is in court on Monday because if he's not I'll throw the book at you.'

Ross nodded and went into the cells to get the child who had managed his ordeal quite nicely passing the time by doing Sudoku. Pete commented and said, 'That kid's pretty smart you know. He'll go far someday.'

Ross walked off. On his way the copper passed him with the counter top open for him to walk through. 'And when you put him to bed make sure you come straight back here.'

'Why?' Ross demanded.

'I'm gonna book you for drink driving,' Pete calmly announced.

'And how much is that gonna cost?' asked Ross, who was getting just a little sick of this.

'How much you got?' Pete replied calmly. He wanted a drink and he was out of money.

'I'll get the malt,' he replied.

'Make sure you do,' Pete said letting him go.

Ross drove back with the baby and dropped him off tucking him into bed and singing a lullaby. He picked up the malt and two glasses and walked to the cop shop.

Knocking on the door ... 'In!' Pete called out.

'I've got the malt,' Ross said setting the glasses up on the counter.

'Pour yourself one too,' Pete said feeling magnanimous now he had something to drink. He did. They sat up talking about the footy and then there was a phone call at about three am.

Pete answered it.

A voice on the other end said, 'Dad! The baby needs changing!'

Pete handed it to Ross saying, 'Mate, it's for you.'

Jane Higgins

Molong NSW

Save Joey

Cassandra Primavera

Lawson NSW

I was inspired to write this poem when I became aware of the legal, cruel disposal of joeys by licensed commercial kangaroo shooters. Section 5 of the current Code of Practice* stipulates that joeys be decapitated or have their skull crushed to destroy their brain. Approximately 440,000 joeys are 'disposed' of every year. The annual quota* for roos to be commercially slaughtered has been 4 million since 2004.

*Australian Federal Government website:

 www.environment.gov.au/biodiversity/trade-use/wild-harvest/kangaroo/index.html

Thousands of roos are shot each night while we sleep.

The hunters kill them for the profits they reap.

If our national emblems you want to cherish and keep

Then surely knowing of this would make you just want to weep.

If you have heard that they are pests then please understand...

Kangas are native fauna, they don't damage our land.

When they slaughter a mother roo they take not one life but three.

Her terrified at-foot joey into the desert will flee.

With his caring mother no longer alive

Alone, on his own, he will never survive.

Her in-pouch joey has no better luck.

With an iron pipe his head will be struck.

Dying mum hung on the side of a truck.

What a sickening way to earn a buck!

So will you buy their fur or eat the flesh of roos?

The lives of two joeys may depend on what you choose.

Shame on the cafès with roo steaks on their menu.

Surely such a serving should really be taboo!

Macadamias or bush herbs can add Aussie flavour

To restaurant dishes for all our tourists to savour.

And our kangaroos should all be left running rife

For tourists to enjoy them as unique wildlife.

So that our kangaroos do not end up a mere legend

Upon consumers' choices I'm afraid they do depend.

With your purchasing power their slaughter you know you could end

Just think of those joeys when your dollars you spend.

Will hunters stop killing roos while their fur and steaks sell? Never!

If we don't stop this trade now we may lose our icon forever.

So if the persecution of our kangaroos tears at your heart,

In the purchase of their hides and meat you may wish not to take part.

The Commuter

Felicity Lynch

Katoomba NSW

Sitting in the Blue Mountains train

With a pounding migraine

A mobile user was a fright

As she shouted to a friend about a fight

That her husband had left her

And nobody loved her

Her kids had been taken by welfare

What busybodies they all were

I was taken aback by her youth

And her need to tell her truth

I wondered that such a pretty girl

Had found herself in such peril

She was well dressed

But she certainly was obsessed

The train moved along the tracks

Dropping off commuters in packs

Nothing interrupted this lady's wails

As the train clacked along the rails

People looked uncomfortably aware

But nobody did more than stare

As detail after detail

Of some abusive male

Who'd threatened her with a knife

Even though she was his wife

She was on the train

Hoping to meet up with the guy again

Otherwise she thought

That she ought

Slip under the train

To kill herself to stop the pain

Still none of us moved at all

Waiting for someone else to take the call

Reading the paper the very next day

There was a story about a lady

Who'd been killed when she fell

Alighting from a train at Central

Tight Ass

Sonia Ursus Satori

Medlow Bath NSW

You gormless sob! If you persist in this folly keeping past due date leftovers under wraps, serving re-defrosted titbits, rehashing sour milk in dessert recipes—granted, doesn't taste too bad—nonetheless it puts a mantle of shame over you. If you weren't such a tight ass you could keep a pig. For crying out loud, get rid of these Tupperware miniature containers; they are fucking up your mind.

No, it's not an environmental issue. It's your nasty small-mindedness and an absolute ignorance about healthy living. That explains your permanent nausea, the sneezes, the runny nose and your disgusting looking slimy eye balls. What you eat is what you are, man, and there ain't no smorgasbord in your closet.

And one more thing: that's not a butt, it's a clumsily fashioned filter made from the ALDI box. No wonder your fingers come in rich-glazed hues of shit-brown. And you smell bad. Working class origin's got nothing to do with it. You are a stinger, a nouveau riche prick.

No, one doesn't save the planet by not buying deodorants. You are a living dump stinking up the ozone. Don't give me that post modern cerebral crap about expediency! I'm outahere. Find another sucker who wants to live rent-free with you in your shit-hole. I'm off. There's a free lunch at the RSL. No, I won't bring back leftovers and ciggy stumps from the ash trays anymore. You are on your own, mate.

By the way, my off-shore dividends just came in. Picked up a couple of high-rise in Chinatown—dirt cheap.

Sting a Same Goes for a Name Debate

Citadel Lewis

Leura NSW

He sniffed all smell from the world. Didn't exhale.

Watered the One with the elocution of Two

And symbolised—with wise, old wisdom—words.

Refraining from poetry is for your pets and your teachers:

An act of apples for the dapper folk back home.

Delicate intricacies froth up and foam his hidden face from beard.

A bard, I ain't; nor quaint, nor painty little pictures.

I shy away from dandies,

turn against all titles,

engaging trifles only for the stifling of the stars technology.

Cos I was a cowboy, a cud-chewer;

No fewer than five we were, at our peak,

Riding through parched, deserted pastures ...

... This had better last ya's.

Only an informal, unchosen few have gained the necessary textures,

Lost all overtures and assumptions—that weak compunction _Meaning_

most of all.

Come seek our screaming luncheon!

And with mad saliva-crumbs careening through the air,

Dare establish true manners to the table.

Of Dogs

Ruth Withers

Uarbry NSW

Battered and bruised I come to you,

To bring to you a different view

Of DOGS.

They yammer and yowl and cry for attention,

So you release them from their detention.

You feed them up and have a game

And still they yowl for more of the same,

But you must get on; you've much to do.

You've washing to do and cleaning too.

They drag at you and trip you up,

Saying 'Play with me; I'm a cute little pup.'

Well, that's a statement I'd like to refute.

I'm here to tell you there's nothing cute

About being tripped up as you walk in the door

And falling quite heavily on the floor,

Cutting one hand as you drop the log

You're no longer carrying, thanks to a dog.

It's not cute at all to have your poor shin

Bashed by the screen door as you're falling in,

Nor to have the thumb of your other hand

Smashed by the said log as it lands.

I'm battered and bruised and feeling blue

And, for now, I'll leave kind thoughts to you—

Of DOGS.

***

The little black bitch—she did it.

'Guilt' was written across her rear,

As she fled from the scene of the crime

With her tail 'twixt her legs in fear.

I bellowed and swore and I almost cried,

As I lay in a heap on the floor.

I removed my thumb from under the log,

And I bellowed and swore some more.

Then I picked myself up and I aimed my voice

At her fast-disappearing bum,

And I bellowed and swore and swore some more,

'Til I swore myself quite dumb.

Firmino

Edward Cooper

Mona Vale NSW

I am yet to come across a better fruit for tales than overseas travelling. Those profound moments or misadventures of your big trip to Europe, South East Asia or America are worth 100 days at home in conversational value. However, among the glee and new discovery of self there will always be the spice of a horror story or two. Pick pockets, Gypsies gassing train air vents and the usual 'I got on the wrong train and ended up in Switzerland instead of Peru!' This is my entry into the bad book of travelling. The story that serves as a reminder to choose your hostel friends wisely and avoid porn-leaning Farmville advocates whose idea of privacy deeply compromises the comfort of shared living.

I had just arrived in Hamburg alone after spending a while in Berlin. Christmas was spent successfully with four Columbians I had met in a Berlin hostel in the previous week, so my immediate goal for Hamburg was clear in my head: make some more weird friends. The hostel room was bare on arrival, empty, but for one backpack and a small Brazilian flag hanging from a bottom bunk hostel bed with a glued-on face of a balding Brazilian man. Nice touch, I thought. A welcoming initiative of a seasoned hostel guest. However my prospective friend had clearly gone out for the day, so I did myself and trotted around the city determined to meet said bald Brazilian on my return.

On my return I was welcomed by the real life man I had earlier dreamed of meeting. He lay on his side under his blanket in the late afternoon, elbow at a 90-degree angle propping up his rather gigantic pumpkin head. The standard Lionel Ritchie or male porn star pose. I'm not ashamed to say I've studied both forms. It was instantly recognisable that I had encountered an odd bod, a fruitcake. My kind of man. He was not reading, on the computer or filing his nails, just staring blankly towards the dorm room door waiting for his fellow dorm room occupant. Introductions were made and somehow the discussion turned almost instantly to the exchange of Facebook information. I have since learned that such a quick request for exchange is a clear indicator that the requestor is usually burdened by some serious social problems, so as to lock you in as a Facebook friend before they reveal their fascination with (affection for) Axolotl genitals, for example (true story).

With the discussion turning to Facebook my new Brazilian friend jumped on the opportunity to detail his blossoming Farmville career. I'm no conversation engineer but, like any polite man, on first meeting a fellow man/woman I like to discuss something they are interested in early to build rapport. I learnt about growing and harvesting crops, trees and bushes, about raising livestock and plowing land. It became evident that his digital agriculture was more to him than an activity; rather it had become a deeply important part of his lifestyle and self-worth. What became more evident was how excited he was becoming telling me about it. The pace of his broken English rapidly increased from our earlier introductions. Conjoining words were no longer necessary; his formula on acquiring farm coins could be communicated in dot point form and would be done as such. I myself was excited, not by the prospect of ever being involved in this digital abomination of farm life, but that I was clearly engaging with another quirky South American I could add to my tally.

However my excitement, along with my comfort, with this early rapport was quickly rubbed out. About halfway down the Brazilian's blue blanket there appeared movement at the station. It appeared the word had been passed around from his brain to his colt .45 that there was no need for future regret to get in the way. He had decided that a brief hostel acquaintance (me) was going have to endure some open masturbation; the Farmville discussion was too much. At first I had played it off as some prolonged rearrangement of his fruit bowl, perhaps a sneaky mangina. But the intensity grew, and the precise, vertical nature of his strokes confirmed my fears. I'm also yet to encounter a stare with that intensity. This was no bug, stink or evil eye. He was looking deep into my eyes, not with anger but pure confidence and assurance that he was going to finish and it was OK to keep discussing Farmville. More elaborate plots of acquiring farm coins were detailed, all the while multitasking with his right hand. It became clear he was not going to excuse himself; he was very, very comfortable. So I did myself, stating that I had to 'unpack my bag'.

I exited the conversation and entered the little 'room within a hostel room' that I was sleeping in. It was sort of a three-walled little inlet within the hostel room, with one set of bunk beds, which gave a little extra privacy. Much needed privacy in this instance. I sat on the bottom bunk faintly staring at the wall to gather my thoughts. I decided I had two options. Fondle around with my bag pretending to be busy until he left the room, or immediately grab my stuff for the night and march out of the room. Being quite nervous at this point I became very indecisive, fumbling my clothes briefly before a change of mind, then standing bolt upright ready to walk out the door and finally returning to my hostel bed when I realised I didn't have the confidence. It was not until I was again sitting staring at the wall that I noticed the noises coming from the main section of the hostel room. The ruffling and panting of a small mouse it could have been, had I not early witnessed this South American sleaze sullying his surrounds with strokes of his snake. His confidence would be admirable if it wasn't so vulgar. So I sat and waited, like a son waiting outside a brothel for his deranged father to get his 50 bucks worth. I waited, he climaxed, and I put my head in my hands.

By now I had new resolve. I could not remain in this murky room a moment longer. I heard him changing, so I stood up and attempted to pace right past him. Out the door I would soon be to my freedom. But as I attempted to pace by him, head down with purpose, I was halted. 'What are you doing for dinner?' he asked. No! No Firmino! There was no acknowledgement of his prior deed. His brazen question completely threw my resolve, leaving me wobbling at the knees attempting to respond to this powerful statement of shamelessness. Being a solo traveller I evidently had no plans, or at least I was not quick enough to create an imaginary friend I was to meet at dinner. So with all the confidence of a school girl responding to inappropriate advances from a teacher I responded 'No plans'. He was, again, in charge. 'Ok well we can go to this Turkish place I saw when I was walking to the hostel.' So, after I had waited for his pants and shoes to be put on, we walked along the cold streets of Hamburg until we reached what actually seemed a friendly little Turkish place.

On entering the restaurant I was at pains to discover the only available two-person table was about the size of a kindergarten school desk. We sat down, knees touching, his weapon of defilement but centimetres from touching me. I wasn't sure how much longer I could sustain his close presence, so I ordered an entrée sized Mozzarella pizza. 'Are you not very hungry?' he asked. 'Not really,' I responded. Can't think where my appetite went. To my astonishment and disgust he ordered the hot and cold buffet. The nerve on this man. He was bathing in my suffering. I was no longer interested in his Farmville discussions, nor his past life or future. We sat in virtual silence as he licked hummus and tzatziki from his lips, thriving in the awkwardness. To this day I am certain the prolonged sight of him eating that Turkish food is what ensures I will always throw up after a kebab. It has little to do with the alcohol I may have consumed beforehand.

After 2 more helpings to the buffet he decided he was full. We paid and briskly walked back to the hostel. To my relief we were greeted by a group of new international hostel guests having a drink at the bar—Norwegians, Columbians, Brits and Australians. I quickly dissolved myself into the group, seated as far from Firmino as possible. Later that night I came to understand, for the first time, the phrase 'drink away the pain'. The group, Firmino and myself spent the night in the Reeperbahn. At some stage we split up as Firmino and another Australian left for a gay bar, while myself, the Columbian and another Australian chose the bar with 'free Tabasco shots'. I left the hostel early the next morning for Amsterdam and never did see Firmino again. Nonetheless, until deleting him as a Facebook 'friend' for the benefit of this blog post, for the past 18 months I have received regular updates from his Farmville account each time he has acquired new livestock or new land. Every time I logged onto Facebook I was reminded of his rearing pumpkin head as he pumped away downstairs to the sound of his own voice discussing the game he truly loved.

Edward Cooper

Mona Vale NSW

My Mother's New Friend

Judith La Porte

Monash ACT

When I was eleven years old, my mother met a fascinating and unusual man who would become her lifelong friend. This extraordinary friendship began at a resort in the French Alps.

At that time we lived in London, and for three weeks every winter my father took the family on holiday to Chamonix. We always stayed at the quaint and relatively modest Hotel Fournier, situated in the centre of the village.

My father, originally from the West Coast of Scotland, was a fervent and skilful skier. In Chamonix he always skied on the most challenging slopes, and usually stayed out until darkness fell. I would sit in the large claw-foot bath in our hotel room, anxiously looking through the bathroom window as the shadows fell on Mont Blanc, hoping that my father would return safely. He always did—clattering into the hotel, his wiry auburn hair damp and flattened down, his face rosy from the cold mountain air.

After my older brother Toby became a tall and exuberant teenager, he would accompany my father each day to the steeper ski slopes. Gradually he became a better, faster skier than my father ever was. My father's reaction to this metamorphosis was a mixture of indignant surprise and parental pride.

My mother was a less-enthusiastic skier, and in no way as robust as my father or Toby, so she often stayed away from the slopes. Instead, she would spend the mornings writing postcards to her friends, or reading one of the many novels she always brought with her on holiday.

Following lunch at the hotel, she liked to browse in the shops of the village. Sometimes she would buy small items as gifts for her friends back home: gaily painted ceramic egg cups, costume jewellery or dainty chocolates wrapped in cellophane and tied with ribbon. Once she bought me a plum-coloured woollen hat which had a long scarf attached to it. I wore it nearly every day that year, believing myself to look wonderfully chic in it.

If I was not enrolled in the children's ski classes organised by the Hotel Fournier, I would accompany my mother on her village shopping excursions. Afterwards we would stop at a little café, Chez Vivien, for hot chocolate and almond biscuits. I loved these times alone with my beautiful, serene mother. She would smile at me across the table as I chatted happily, sometimes reaching over to wipe chocolate from my top lip.

***

Dinner at the Hotel Fournier was a formal affair. The tablecloths and napkins were white linen, and the waiters, mostly young Italian men on working holidays, were obsequious and stiffly dressed in black.

I was often bored during the evening meal. The three courses were slow in coming. Usually I had no further appetite after I had finished my soup. But my father frugally insisted that I order all courses.

'It's already paid for,' he explained. 'No point wasting money.'

He and my brother, always ravenous from their vigorous day's skiing, would then share my main dish. My appetite rallied when it came to the dessert. I always had raspberry ice cream served in a small silver dish. I would blush with pleasure when this dark pink delight was placed before me with a flourish and a wink from the handsome young waiter.

***

The year that I was eleven, something exciting happened at the Hotel Fournier. On the second night of our holiday, just as we had sat down in the dining room, a tall, muscular woman came in and sat at a table near to ours. She was curiously dressed: black vinyl mini-skirt, pale lilac blouse and white high-heeled shoes. Most of the other female diners, including my mother, were dressed in après-ski clothing: slacks and soft woollen jumpers; some were wearing fur ankle boots.

I slid my eyes towards this woman and studied her shyly. She had handsome features, if a little coarse and weather-beaten. It was obvious that she was wearing a wig—stiff and shiny blonde. Gold earrings swung from her ears. She hunched forward at the table. Her hands, bunched on the table-cloth, were large and tanned.

So strikingly odd was her appearance that some of the other diners stared openly. One man swiveled in his seat to rudely gape, his eyebrows raised comically. The waiters were agog, smirking and giggling as they turned their backs to return to the kitchen with their empty trays.

My mother looked across at this newcomer and smiled warmly. The woman cheerfully smiled back at my mother and then stared straight ahead.

My father leaned towards my mother, his eyes wide, and whispered in awe, 'It's a man.'

***

Later that evening in our room, Toby announced in a pompous, scathing manner which I disliked: 'That weird woman, who is really a man, is a tranny.'

'What do you mean?' I asked, puzzled.

'He's a cross-dresser—a man who dresses as a woman.'

I absorbed this information for a moment. Then I put my hands on my hips and narrowed my eyes at Toby.

'Well, just because some people are different, that does not make them wrong,' I said, vaguely echoing a sentiment of my mother's.

***

The next evening we came down to dinner to find the double doors to the dining room closed. We were too early, so we went into the sitting room to wait. I was startled to see that the cross-dresser was there, alone, seated in a large floral-patterned armchair.

That night he was dressed in a green knee-length skirt made from some shiny material, and a yellow turtleneck jumper. His feet in the same white high heels were firmly planted on the floor; his knees were slightly apart.

Except for his choice of clothes and the blonde wig of shoulder-length curls, there was no attempt at femininity. However, in the dim light of the pink-shaded lamps, his face was striking, almost beautiful. His teeth were white against his tan. He seemed to be about my mother's age, maybe younger.

'Hello,' said my mother, smiling. 'I'm Margaret and this is my husband John, and my children Anne and Toby.'

'Yeah, hi,' he said. 'I'm Daisy.'

His voice was deep and polite. He stood and shook hands with all of us. I was surprised by the strength of his grip.

He gazed at my mother. He seemed to be fascinated by her earrings. They _were_ beautiful: gold circles with a bright green stone on each hoop. She had bought them that day in the village.

As I sat wide-eyed, Daisy chatted to my parents in a relaxed way. Toby had moved to a sofa at the other end of the sitting room and had picked up a magazine. Although he could not speak or understand the French language very well, he pretended to be engrossed. Occasionally he would look up and glower in our direction.

My father was happy to learn that Daisy was an experienced skier from New Zealand, who holidayed in the French Alps as often as possible. They discussed in detail the best local areas for downhill skiing.

Daisy told us that he had worked as a ski instructor in the Austrian resort, Obergurgl, when he was younger. I stared at him, longing to ask if he was dressed then as a man or a woman. His green eyes shifted across to mine as if he had read my thoughts. He grinned in a friendly manner and raised his eyebrows.

Eventually we heard the gong being struck, announcing that the dining room was open. Daisy walked in ahead of us, his wide shoulders swinging slightly from side to side.

'He's a freak,' Toby muttered.

My mother frowned at Toby, and put her finger to her lips. She hated it when he was bad-mannered and unkind.

My mother was always nice to people, even if they were strange or unlovable. She often invited my father's Uncle William to Sunday lunch, despite the fact that he mumbled a lot and always smelt of alcohol. She was friends with Miss Stengel, who lived in a gloomy two-storey house at the end of our street. Miss Stengel was very old and had four cats. Toby claimed that she was a witch.

'She's a dear, really,' my mother would say.

I wasn't so sure—when I accompanied my mother on her visits, Miss Stengel would peer at me in an unfriendly way, and hiss at me if I tried to stroke one of her cats.

***

On our way to breakfast at the Hotel Fournier, we often saw Daisy setting out to catch the early hotel shuttle-bus which took skiers to the various areas. He wore a pale-blue ski suit with a white fur-trimmed hood. His skis were enormous. If he noticed my mother he would grin broadly and wave a thickly-gloved hand at her.

Occasionally my father and Toby would catch sight of him on the steepest ski runs, weaving his way down the slope with speed and grace. Even Toby gushed with admiration when describing Daisy's style and daring.

'Do you think he just dresses like a girl as a joke?' Toby inquired of my father one evening.

'No Toby, he's not joking, that's just the way he is,' said my father.

The proprietor of the hotel, M. Bellard, was a garrulous man, not averse to a little harmless gossip. He liked to get to know his hotel guests. He often talked to my mother when she was passing by the reception desk. I think he may have been a little in love with her. My mother learned from M. Bellard that Daisy was a computer technician.

'He had been married at one time, but divorced now of course,' said M. Bellard, sadly shaking his balding head and rolling his eyes. He lifted his shoulders and pursed his lips, in classic Gallic style.

***

When my mother invited Daisy to sit at our table one evening, my father was pleased. Our waiter, Mario, if a little surprised by my mother's request to lay a place for Daisy, nevertheless set about the task quickly and efficiently. He pulled out the chair for Daisy with exaggerated servility.

It became a permanent arrangement, and dinner-time conversation from then on consisted mainly of exchanged tales of ski exploits, and the merits of various ski areas in the Alps. Toby, at first annoyed and embarrassed by Daisy's presence, was soon swept into the lively talk. Daisy was a witty and charming raconteur who had travelled extensively. He always included Toby and I in the conversations.

My mother would sit contentedly, passing bread rolls to Daisy and refilling his water glass. Sometimes she and Daisy discussed fashion and jewellery. Daisy often complimented my mother on her clothes. On the other hand, I think my mother was quite alarmed by Daisy's garish dress sense, but, of course, never let on. Neither my father nor Toby ever noticed that Daisy sometimes wore earrings of my mother's, or her slender silver bracelets.

'They look nice on you,' I heard my mother whisper to Daisy.

I was no longer bored during the long meal times. I looked forward each evening to Daisy's arrival at our table, wondering what he would be wearing, and joyfully anticipating the effect his presence would have on the other guests, particularly new ones. Some looked across at us with curiosity, others with disapproval. But neither of my parents noticed, or else they did not care.

***

Our last dinner at the Hotel Fournier was festive. Daisy and my mother had dressed lavishly—my mother wore a dark-blue velvet dress which accentuated her slim waist; Daisy shone in a loose silver and black tunic. Both wore bright red lipstick. My parents drank several glasses of wine, while Daisy sipped water from his glass.

My father had ordered a cheese fondue for our table. We laughed loudly whenever a piece of bread, dripping with cheese, fell onto the tablecloth.

At one point, my mother dropped her bread into the pot and, as tradition dictated, was required to kiss the man to her left. It was Daisy. She hesitated a moment and then quickly leant towards him and kissed him on the lips. Daisy responded enthusiastically. A blush suffused my mother's face and neck as she suddenly pulled away. Daisy smiled widely at her. My father looked a little astonished at my mother's uncharacteristic behaviour, but I clapped my hands with delight.

Afterwards in the hallway outside the dining room, my father shook hands with Daisy.

'Great to have met you,' my father said warmly.

My mother hugged Daisy tightly, unable to speak, and patted his cheek.

'I'll miss you, Daisy,' I cried, tears pricking my eyes.

I felt sad to be leaving, not just Chamonix, but Daisy as well. I liked him—he was my mother's new friend.

Daisy had kissed me on my cheek, and turned to Toby with his hand held out.

'Bye, mate,' he said.

Toby had grinned and squeezed Daisy's hand.

'See you on the slopes next year,' Toby and Daisy said in unison.

As it turned out, that was to be our last family holiday in Chamonix.

***

Over the ensuing years, my mother and Daisy kept up regular contact, although they never actually saw each other again. He always rang at Christmas from wherever in the world he was.

The occasional photograph would accompany Daisy's letters or, in later years, be attached to emails, including an astonishing one of him on a beach in Fiji—bare-chested, wigless and bald, towering over his companions.

***

A year after I had moved to Sydney with my Australian husband, I received a letter from my mother. It contained sad news: _Remember my friend Daisy,_ my mother wrote _. He was killed while skiing in Chamonix_.

After his death, Daisy's sister had found my mother's address amongst his things. She wrote to let her know. He had skied into a tree and broken his neck. It had been an instant death.

I thought of my father who had died ten years previously, after a fearful battle with bone cancer, and how he would have preferred such a death as Daisy's. I imagined Daisy in his last minutes before the impact: a powerful figure in powder-blue, joyfully speeding down a sparkling white slope, his doll-like blond curls flying back, his earrings whirring and flapping against his neck.

I felt sad for days afterwards—for Daisy, but mostly for my mother who had lost her friend.

Judith La Porte

Monash ACT

Ambitious Dream

Ariette Singer

Canberra ACT

When my fatigued and aching body cries out for rest,

I flop to watch TV, choosing discriminately, the best!

And of all the lamps, that caught my alert eye on screen,

The most successful of them all is certainly, the green!

This hardworking set prop will firmly remain at the top—

Its film and TV screen career is guaranteed not to flop!

Take note of all the close-ups of that shape and sheen—

It's the most confident lamp on screen I've ever seen!

It is eager to accept all jobs; soaps, ads, films or crime,

No wonder its popularity has grown in record time!

With admirable assertive shape, and truly glorious green—

Her well established presence will never leave the screen!

So elegant, usually unlit, in that unfading spring green hue—

Perish the thought of seeing other lamps in grey, pink or blue!

All Props Departments are smitten with _this_ green, it seems!

Hmm... does this smart lamp _bribe_ its way into all scenes?

With such a wide exposure, it has achieved the status of a star!

Could anyone ever predict that a green lamp could go so far?

Is it this lamp's ambitious dream to _dominate_ world screens,

Or... is it used to send the subliminal message to 'Go Green!'?

Ariette started writing poetry and composing music some ten years ago, while recuperating from a chronic illness. Her first book of poetry 'Emotionally Qualified' was published in 2008. Her first play 'The Conference' was performed at the Armidal Festival of Favourite Plays, in 2009. She has just finished her second play, based on her poetry book, for The Street Theatre, Canberra. Ariette loves to perform hew own poems and songs.

Science is Fiction

Eddie Blatt

Pottsville NSW

Einstein and Fermi and the great Max-Planck,

All got together for a bit of a wank.

They said space was different to what we presume,

A thousand foot ladder could fit in a room.

They said time would change according to speed,

That Newton was wrong, we just had to concede.

They said space was curved and time could go back,

And we could obtain what we once thought we lacked.

They said that all moments existed at once,

And we ate breakfast at the same time as lunch.

That muons and bosons and atoms and such,

Jiggled and wiggled, and waggled as much.

But I tell you now that science is fiction,

In whatever language, in whatever diction.

Those guys were all crazy, their minds were all muddled

With theories and proofs that only befuddled.

I know this is true because I have been,

To a place so wondrous, alive and serene.

Where physics and science are acknowledged to be,

Just fancy ideas, but not the real key.

Where joys of the heart are beyond one's reason,

Where love sustains each and every true season.

Where people know that within and without,

What reality is, is without a doubt.

For here and now is the place that's revealed,

Where love and joy are no longer concealed.

A pity that Einstein and the rest of the throng,

Got the science right; the meaning they got wrong.

I Should be so Lucky

Samuel Cooney

Haberfield NSW

THE ONLOOKER – independent and innovative web journalism that is only a little bit fabricated

So, it now looks as though the universal wheel of fortune is in fact anything but random – actually, it's rigged, and rigged good. We asked The Onlooker's resident intern to suss out the ramifications of the recent discovery of a human gene that bestows good fortune upon those who carry it.

Like, it's gotta be totally unfair, right?

posted on 31/02/2012 at 10:34am

What if the time you didn't get that job, or the time you just missed that train, or the time you inadvertently drank that urine in that juice bottle because it definitely did look like iced tea—what if none of these could be put down simply to bad luck? Or, like, what if it was bad luck, but not in the way you believe? What if the very definition of the term 'luck' was upended, in the space of one press conference? What if you were predestined, prewired, fated to be unlucky?

The discovery last month of a human unit of heriditary for 'luck' is making waves in our notion of the gene pool. Quite frankly, it's caused the whole world to go completely troppo. Stop it everyone! You're all acting batshit, mad as bananas, stark raving bonkers. It's like we're living in that _Lord of the Flies_ book, but on a worldwide scale. Crazy!

The gene—the official scientific nomenclature designates it as _FFTB128_ —has been quickly and popularly nicknamed the 'lucky' gene by pretty much every media outlet still with at least a single reader/viewer/listener. (Admittedly, this latest example of nicknaming actually bucks the irksome trend for cock-and-bull that has heretofore accompanied the nicknaming of genes—like the invented 'skinny' gene or the hoax 'frog-toed' gene—as _FFTB128_ is now undeniably and scarily bona fide, scientifically speaking. In short: it exists.) The discovery has been the catalyst for violent public riots, the centre of month-long arguments in parliaments, the logjamming focus of every judicial system, the crux of every humanities and science university course, and the talking point of every smoke break and dinner party.

For those of you who have been living under a boulder—and without a TV or a wireless device with wifi— _FFTB128_ is the latest human gene to be fully characterised. Revealed last month by the gung-ho geneticists at Chengdu Polytechnic, it is in many ways like any other gene: made up of a distinct sequence of nucleotides (building blocks that are the basic structural unit of nucleic acids such as DNA) which in turn constitutes part of a chromosome (the classic double helix; see Spielberg's _Jurassic Park_ ), the order of which determines the arrangement of monomers in a nucleic acid molecule which a cell may synthesise. Or in layman's terms, _FFTB128_ , like all genes, is a unit of genetic inheritance that is transferred from parent to offspring and contributes to the characteristics of the offspring. Ipso facto: you are your parents, and/or also their parents, and/or also their parents' parents, ad infinitum. (You are also a product of your environment; as scientists are wont to say, the genetic template you are born with doesn't function in a vacuum.) Your lineage is a great big slippery slide, with parts and pieces slewing straight from your ancestors to you. You have freckles? Because of your parents. You have big feet? Because of your parents. You love cheesy foods and watching unexpectedly-axed sitcoms, just to try and see if you can spot the reasons as to why the sitcom was cancelled, using your nonspecialist knowledge of sociodemographic considerations and cost-cutting budgets? Probably because of your parents, although also probably nothing to do with genetics. Still, the point is that although _FFTB128_ is a gene possessed by everyone, only a small percentage of people have the specific allele (the particular mutation) of the gene that means it will be active, and now that we know about it, now that it's no longer hiding quietly between genes _DEFB370_ and _SMAR884_ , it's wreaking havoc like no other gene before.

So, what makes _FFTB128_ so extraordinarily new, and also so repercussive? Well, primarily it's all because it is the first gene discovered in humans—in any living species of plant or animal actually—that acts upon its vessel in a constant, physical, manifest, and most importantly, instantaneous way. Like, all other genes shoot their wads early, say at conception, and slowly too, but _FFTB128_ keeps shooting its wad, over and over and over, rapidly, throughout the duration of the carrier's life, meaning that it is an active agent in the second-to-second existence of said carrier. And on top of this, although geneticists can now comprehensively outline what processes the _FFTB128_ genes trigger, and can watch at a microscopic level the genes as they trigger together, none can say what outside influence actually triggers them. For now, for all we know, _FFTB128_ seems to function either completely on its own, or—and take careful note of this—by receiving signals from somewhere that are at this time imperceptible to the most sensitive of scientific equipment. It's a mystery. The genes are not triggered by organic proteins, nor by electrical current, nor by chemicals, nor by naturally occurring radiations of the body. This is why _FFTB128_ is known by nicknames other than 'lucky', nicknames to do with religion, faith and spirituality. Some have started calling it the 'divine' gene, or the 'holy' gene, or even the 'god' gene. And what's even curiouser is that it's becoming increasingly difficult to argue with them. As the _New York Times_ reported recently:

From Christianity to Buddhism, Islam to Jedi, religions around the world have scrambled to claim _FFTB128_ as the much-awaited proof that backs up their long-held faith, proof that the sacred exists not on an astral plane or inside the mind, but physically within us (or at least the 'chosen few' amongst us). Yet for all the initial religious squabbling, disparate denominations do now seem to be in agreement that the discovery of _FFTB128_ heralds a new dawn for spirituality. And strangest still: thus far there haven't been any dissenting opinions from the mouthpieces that typically challenge religious championing. Whether non-believers are simply gob-smacked (or god-smacked) is not yet known, but so far the expected war-of-words over the 'lucky' gene has been a wholly (holy?) one-sided fight.

(12/12/2011, 'Jesus, Muhammad, Siddhartha & Skywalker: Carriers of the 'Lucky' Gene?')

_FFTB128_ works like this: when a person who has the active variant of the gene is faced with a choice, be it an everyday one (e.g. what to eat, when to sleep, will I cut my toenails now or later) or a momentous one (e.g. should I quit my job and become a yoga teacher, will I murder my boyfriend because his nose whistles when he sleeps, should I push this button to launch the nuclear missiles) the multitude of that person's _FFTB128_ genes all immediately 'switch on' in such a way as to influence the decision in a way that advantages the person. But how? Well, the term that seems to fit best at the moment is: by 'rattling'. The genes oscillate, or 'rattle' when the person closes in on the decision that is the most propitious or auspicious for them, and the genes will fall silent if the person moves away from that decision toward any other option. It sounds a tad absurd at first, almost like that game of 'Hot or Cold', where one person lets someone else know whether they are getting 'warmer' or 'cooler' in their attempt to locate something. Except this occurs at a microscopic degree. The rattling occurs all the way down at the level of the nucleotides; these nucleotides rattle in unison so as to gently vibrate the whole chromosome, and this vibrating shimmies up the nucleic acid chain so that a person on the crest of making the most personally advantageous decision is almost literally humming with subliminal and subcellular good advice. Just why we would unconsciously obey the chordal rattling of a coterie of genes is as yet undetermined, but the new reality that now seems as though it must prevail is that at least some of us will have to relinquish our belief in the autonomous process of decision-making and realize that we are actually under the sway of a Stasi-like molecular constabulary. To say that this is discomfiting is an understatement.

So, this is what we know: the active variant of _FFTB128_ persuades people, pushes them on a microscopic but incredibly forceful level, towards circumstances that will benefit them individually. Such circumstances can differ greatly: they could be tangible situations occurring in the 'real world' that you and I inhabit, or they could be completely cerebral, and simply involve thought patterns and decision-makings taking place inside a person's head. But the point is, the number of the infinitesimal biological scintillas that hitherto make you you purely in a physical sense now also make you you in a metaphysical sense. In the same way that one ancient Egyptian on his own couldn't possibly construct the Pyramids or carve the Sphinx, but hundreds of thousands or even millions could, and did, one nucleotide or molecule mightn't be able to cajole a person to do or say or think something, but millions of them working in harmony could—and now evidently—does.

Exactly how the genes 'know' which option will benefit the person the most is still a total mystery to scientists and intellectuals alike. As yet there are simply no clues to be had. Just how can one explain how a squadron of dispersed but allied genes are, in just a few microseconds, able to comprehend the almost-infinite possible futures of a person and recommend the best course of action? It's very possible that the realm of science is not the place to which to look for the answer to this and such related questions. What is known is that the genes have been correct 100% of the time they have been put to test. It's remarkable. Just think about how many times a day you make decisions, at home, at work, everywhere. Now think about the possibility that you have a vast molecular chorus that exists inside you, a silent chorus that sings out clues as to the best option to every decision you make. Note that you would never be conscious of the guidance your _FFTB128_ genes are giving you, but that you would always follow their lead. Always. If you have any thoughts about fate or destiny or free well, now would be a great time to, uh, revisit them.

Now: the hot potato topic. Early figures indicate that somewhere between four to six percent of the world's population possesses the mutant 'lucky' allele of the _FFTB128_ gene. At this stage this allele has been classed as non-threatening and it has not been listed as a genetic disorder. (Actually, if you think about it, of course it's non-threatening—it's threat-reducing, really. And it's the opposite of a genetic disorder, but I'm not sure what the opposite of that is, if there even is a term. Like, if a genetic disorder is an impediment, then is _FFTB128_ an empowerment? If a disorder is a disease, is _FFTB128_ a nourisher? An enabler? A godsend?)

Of course, pop culture is trying to get is foot in the door. Some celebrities and other people in positions of power (both alive and deceased) have thus far been tested (both voluntary or otherwise), and the results are astounding, although maybe not surprising. These VIPs and dignitaries have been shown to possess the _FFTB128_ allele in a much higher frequency than the average, at somewhere around seventy to seventy-five percent of their subset population (remember, compare this to the general population, in which carriers of _FFTB128_ make up four to six percent). So, what does this say about the essence of concepts such as fame, popularity and democracy? Some current über-popular celebrities, in a misguided attempt (but probably not _misguided_ , as far as their _FFTB128_ genes are concerned) to quell the tumult have made public their genetic test results. Those who have tested positive to having an active 'lucky' gene include (but are not limited to): Ashton Kutcher, David and Victoria Beckham, Oprah Winfrey, Paris Hilton, Jon Bon Jovi, Heidi Klum, Germaine Greer, Natalie Portman, Sarah Palin, Jonathan Franzen, Lady Gaga, Bill Clinton, Anna Wintour, Silvio Berlusconi, every member of the Osborne family (Ozzie, Sharon, Kelly, Jack), Julia Roberts, Harrison Ford, and Werner Herzog. Moreover, a joint raid by the hacktivist groups 4chan and Anonymous resulted in the mass infiltration of confidential US government files in which the health records—and more pertinently, the genetic coding—of every US president in history was stolen. The files suggest that almost ninety percent of all US presidents had the mutant _FFTB128_ gene, and generally particularly 'rattly' types of the gene at that. (I'll give points for guessing just which few presidents didn't possess an active form of the gene, although you'd be surprised, for it's not as obvious as you think.)

Like all genetic material, _FFTB128_ is hereditary, although it is not entirely consistent. Still, it is rare for 'lucky' parents to have offspring with dormant _FFTB128_ genes. (There is speculation that this is _because_ of the _FFTB128_ gene: from early analysis of 'lucky' parents, it has been propounded that the _FFTB128_ genes actually push people together who are highly likely to produce children who will also have active 'lucky' genes. Keeping it in the family, so to speak.) Still, it is technically possible for a person to have two 'lucky' parents and not be 'lucky' themselves. They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

Groups like white supremacists, ardent nationalists, perfervid misogynists and other racialist and sectarian blocs have claimed that the mutant version of _FFTB128_ is more likely to be found in their chosen race, sex or creed. This claim has not been substantiated with any scientific proof.

One intriguing stream of tangential research that is coming out of Deakin University in Melbourne, Australia has found that there is a particular category of people who have possessed active _FFTB128_ genes and yet have somehow had the ability to unintentionally ignore the guidance their genes are giving them. This means that they are unconsciously choosing the 'wrong' option for just about every decision they face, but each decision is 'wrong' in a way that is 'right' from a nefarious and immoral perspective. Each member of this tiny subset therefore benefits from being 'lucky', but simultaneously enjoys a self-determination that allows them a rare type of independence. Whereas the vast majority of people who make a 'wrong' choice are those without the 'lucky' gene and thus they quickly end up dead (most likely as potential contenders for the Darwin Awards), this category of person is disposed to making the most 'wrong' of choices whilst also being a carrier of a strong 'lucky' allele. Thus they survive what would ordinarily be fatal errant decision-making and go on to make choices that affect others in an extremely harmful way. We all know these human beings. We know their names, their faces, their deeds. They are infamous in our histories, for they are the tyrants and murderers and malefactors that we have tended throughout the ages to brand as 'evil'.

Another revelation, this time by the palaeontologists working at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, DC, is already causing—forgive the cliché—history books to be rewritten. Ancient human history, that is. You see, it looks as though a particular structural idiosyncrasy of the DNA of _Homo neanderthalensis_ meant that it never developed the _FFTB128_ gene. At this stage this piece of information may prove to be the key to the puzzle as to how and why _Homo sapiens_ became the dominant humanoid species on Earth. Unlucky bastards, those Neanderthals.

Unfortunately, not all _FFTB128_ -related revelations are resulting in such constructive reconsiderations. Many societal institutions are struggling to adjust to the discovery, including all legal systems, as well as corporate and government bodies. Cases of total breakdown are becoming common. Civil courts around the world are backlogged with cases whereby people without the 'lucky' gene are suing for discrimination. As such, here follows a random sample of examples: a former bank employee in Scotland successfully sued his employer for unfair dismissal by blaming his unluckiness (lack of the active _FFTB128_ allele)—not his poor mathematical ability—as the reason why he kept accidentally giving out too much money to bank customers. A shopper in Cape Town, South Africa successfully sued a department store after it was found that the claimant (who doesn't possess an active 'lucky' gene) purchased a pair of quite expensive pumps from a particular bouffanted salesperson, and found out a week later that a (former) friend (whose 'lucky' gene is active) had received a significant discount on an identical pair of pumps from the same salesperson without even having to ask. An ongoing industrial strike in Canada by the National Sewage Workers' Union sits mired in court after it was revealed that not one member of the 2000-strong union possessed active _FFTB128_ genes, the union thus positing that the only reason all 2000 sewage workers actually work in the human waste industry is because they are genetically 'unlucky'. A burgeoning posse of indignant Wellington, New Zealand citizens are suing their local supermarket for not delineating special 'unlucky' parking spots for those genetically unlucky people who have to drive around the car park seven times before finally finding a parking spot as far as possible from the front entrance of the supermarket. A Facebook group called 'Don't You Hate It When You Drop Your iPhone Once And The Screen Cracks But Your Friend Drops Theirs All The Time And Their Screen Never Cracks?', which had just over 4500 members before the news of the 'lucky' gene, has now launched a class-action lawsuit against Apple for not immediately moving to provide additional safety features (i.e. stronger screens, foam padding, a bouncier shell) for 'unlucky' customers (the group's online membership now numbers 3.8 million).

Note: these few examples are just the tip of a very large and angry iceberg.

The root of the problem seems to be that people are not quite sure who to be angry at, and are subsequently turning on each other. Everyone suspects everybody else of being more lucky than themselves, and thus a worldwide feeling of bitter sullenness prevails. In the past, genetic alleles were rare enough to not really impede societal workings. They were always either blamed on something (e.g. alcohol, drugs, the misbehaviour of nuclear energy companies) or were just put down to misfortune (e.g. instances like: people born with ugly feet, or three nipples, or ginger hair). Cases like this were not deemed harmful because they didn't really affect everyone. Like, in case you aren't aware, even without this 'lucky' gene there are some real doozies out there as far as mutant genes go, with clever-cruel nicknames to match. There is the 'tinman' gene (where an embryo is missing the gene from which eventually sprouts its heart); the 'cheap date' gene (this results in a hypersensitivity to alcohol); the 'Von Gogh' gene (this leads to a peculiar swirling hair pattern); the 'amontillado' gene (this affects poultry only, in that eggs are unable to hatch, as in Fortunado from 'The Cask of Amontillado', who was walled-in alive); the 'Maggie' gene (where a person's development is arrested, à la Maggie Simpson); the 'Methuselah' gene (where a person lives a lot longer than average); and the 'Lilliputian' gene (where a person will be very, very small). But they all occur rarely enough so as to never gain the limelight. Now, because of _FFTB128_ , there seems to be a worldwide and preordained two-tiered genetic hierarchy: the 'lucky' ones, and then the 'others', who are not so much 'unlucky' as 'just not as lucky'. We are seeing global segregation. It's Us versus Them. The Blessed versus The Ignored. The Rattlers versus The Quiet Ones.

A solution that has been proffered—although it might actually create an even larger problem, if one thinks about it—is that we go down the path of widespread gene modification. This solution proposes that anyone with non-rattling _FFTB128_ genes can choose to have the gene stimulated in some way as to activate it. Some medical groups are already lobbying to have the procedure—when it is developed, and that will be sooner rather than later, it would seem—to be classed as gene therapy, meaning that those without the 'lucky' gene would be classified as having a genetic disorder. But what happens when a much larger percentage of the population suddenly becomes 'lucky'? Is there a balance that would be upset? Is it even possible for that many people to be 'lucky' at the same time? What would society and the world look like?

In the course of researching and writing this piece, I, the author of this article, have in fact been genetically tested for the existence of an active 'lucky' allele. I won't keep you in suspense: I tested positive. I possess a beautifully rattly bunch of _FFTB128_ genes. Now, this might not come as a surprise to you, dear reader. You might have already assumed that I am 'lucky'. Maybe it's because I am only fourteen years old and yet somehow I've managed to procure this highly sought-after internship at the most respected news outlet published online. Maybe it's because you've heard of my recent massive success as an amateur broker for one of the largest hedge funds in this country. Maybe it's because you've seen me recently in tabloid rags and society pages on the arm of one very popular and good-looking star of the cinematic world. But before you commit judgment—whether you think of me as unfairly fortunate or as a member of a necessary elite—stop for a moment and consider how a 'lucky' person like me might feel. Like, there are questions no one wants to be forced to ask themselves. Has anything I've ever achieved been so because I earned it? Could I even fail, if I wanted to? Is this proof that God does really exist, and if so, why have I been favoured? Is that faint humming coming from me, or from my computer?

I choose—nay, I suppose my _FFTB128_ alleles choose—to write and publish this article in the hope of bringing some measure to a dialogue that has thus far been anarchic. Because right now, with all the madness, I'm not sure if a single one of us, 'lucky' or 'unlucky', is feeling fortunate. And that's just not a world I want to live in.

Please offer your thoughts in the comment box below. Thanks!!

Samuel Cooney

Haberfield NSW

Queuing

Sallie Ramsay

Torrens ACT

Someone to talk to, was what she needed. Someone she didn't know. She dialled the number.

'You have reached "Support Line". All our lines are busy so your call has been placed in a queue...'

She slammed the phone down.

'Bloody queues, I spend my life stuck in telephone queues. Telephone queues much worse than queues you can see, at least then you know how far you have to go. They all tell me how much they value my call, if they really value it why the hell don't they talk to me or at least play decent music while I wait?'

The cat, always a good listener, settled himself comfortably on her knee.

'Trusted him; wrong, wrong, wrong; messed it up again. Nothing is going to change, may as well accept it.' The cat yawned.

'My God it's hot, Cat.'

She pushed the cat off her knee, stood up and headed for the shower.

The cat glowered at her over its shoulder and stalked off up the passage.

She turned the shower on full strength gasping as the icy needles hit her skin. Fragments of conversations tumbled about in her aching head like clothes in a washing machine. Each time they started to make some sense, something shifted and what seemed so sensible moments before, made sense no longer.

She turned off the shower and, without bothering to dry herself, pulled on the caftan hanging behind the door. Sweat began to trickle down her face and body once more.

She opened the fridge, pulled out an avocado and prawn salad left over from a few nights ago. The avocado was brown and soft and the prawns dull and listless. She sloshed 'no-fat' dressing over it, opened a bottle of Rutherglen red, sat down at the kitchen table and began poking aimlessly at the salad with a fork.

'Prawns are probably lethal by now...!'

The first glass of red was followed by a second and a third until she found herself staring at two empty bottles.

'At least I've drowned those bloody voices, haven't heard a peep out of them for a while. Best get to bed Cat, before they sober up. Try Support Line again. '

'You have reached Support Line ... lines busy... blah blah.... placed in a queue.... blah blah ...' she intoned as she disconnected. 'Make a space for some other poor sod in the queue.'

She got to her feet unsteadily, filled a glass of water and put it on the bedside table.

'Gotta drink lotsa water when you drink red wine. Did you know that Cat?' she slurred flopping onto the bed.

'Shakespeare said something about sleep knitting up the ravelled something or other? Well, I'm so bloody ravelled, Cat, it would take more than a bit of knitting ... I was placed in a queue ... whoopee.'

She moved restlessly. The cat was purring in her ear; go away Cat, go away. She tried to think, but thoughts oozed slowly through the sludge that had replaced her brain. Wasn't the cat? What then? The phone, of course, it was the phone. She reached out, groping in the dark, the glass of water on the bedside table fell to the floor with a crash. She didn't remember saying anything but the voice on the line was clear enough.

'I'm going to kill myself.'

'Well, don't let me stop you.'

Some of the sludge cleared; she began to think as clearly as could realistically be expected at three o'clock in the morning after the two bottles of red.

'No! That is, I mean, don't do it, no one needs to kill themselves.'

'I do. I've made up my mind.'

'Don't be stupid, that's really stupid ...'

'I've never felt more intelligent in my life. Finish everything. End it right now. Nice and clean. No more upsetting people; no more upsetting me. It won't be messy, I'm not going to jump off a bridge or throw myself under a train. I've decided to use the exhaust from my car: it's quiet and painless with a minimum of mess. Definitely the way to go, preferably in some nice quiet spot in the bush.'

'The way for you to go, you mean. Have you thought of the poor sods who find you? 'specially if they don't find you for a few days in this weather.'

'I'll text the police or something so they can find me.'

'How considerate! I don't want to hear any more about your plans for topping yourself, I'd rather go back to sleep. Why don't you call Support Line or something? They are the experts, they can help you.'

'They placed me in a queue hours ago. Anyway, I don't need help or advice. I told you, I've made up my mind.'

'Then why are you talking to me?'

'You answered.'

'Why do you want to kill yourself?'

'I don't want to talk about it.'

'Then why are you on the phone at some ungodly hour keeping a perfect stranger awake?'

'I don't know. It's better than being kept in my place in a queue. It's... it's all so pathetic really, so damned pathetic.'

'Why don't you just start talking? You, what are you like?'

'Me? They say I am a success. I have a great job, enough money to do most of what I want to do and good friends.'

'All good reasons to top yourself! If you weren't going to kill yourself, what would you do next Sunday?'

'Next Sunday? It seems so far away; what would I do? Maybe sleep in, have brunch at the new café by the lake; they have the best croissants and coffee ... buy some Christmas presents. This is ridiculous; I won't be here next Sunday. I'll be dead.'

'And everyone who knows you and cares about you will be miserable. Asking over and over again what they should've done to stop you. Blaming themselves for your selfishness. Good one!'

'My selfishness! I'll be out of the way, no one will have to worry about me anymore and they can just get on with their lives.'

'A funeral is a really great way to start the festive season, but at least they'll have something to talk about.'

'It was a man.'

'Isn't it always? Go on.'

'A chat room on the internet. I said it was pathetic. I thought how good it would be to have someone, someone special to share things with. Anyway, one thing led to another. He was so nice; we arranged to meet.'

'Go on.'

'He was very up front, told me that he was separated from his wife and shared custody of his kids. We had some really great times, nothing particularly romantic, just fun, picnics, a bit of theatre, galleries that sort of stuff. We laughed a lot.'

'And?'

'We had lunch today and he told me that since he'd met me he had learned so much about himself and been able to share ideas and feelings in a way he never had before. He said our friendship had given him the courage to try and give his marriage another go. I feel such a fool, a gullible stupid fool.'

'Stop! Stop right there! What are you blaming yourself for? You didn't do anything wrong! You're a great person, a really good person who helped someone feel good about themselves. Did he laugh at you, humiliate you or lie to you?'

'No, he was wonderful, he thanked me... Damn him!'

'But it hurts, it really hurts doesn't it? And sometimes the pain takes over so it seems there's nothing else. It's not fair; you do something good and end up with the pain.'

'You understand. You really understand.'

'Your friends will too, if you give them the chance; maybe croissants by the lake with a friend this Sunday?'

'That sounds good. Thank you for being there.'

***

She woke early, her mouth dry and her eyelids gritty but feeling alive and ready to face the world.

'Shove over Cat. Water, that's what I need. Damn, I knocked the bloody glass off last night.'

Reluctantly cranking her eyes open, she turned stiffly towards the bedside table where, within easy reach, a full glass of water was catching the morning sun. The voices in her head were silent. Her phone lay on the floor giving the busy signal.

Sallie Ramsay

Torrens ACT

Sallie Ramsay is a grandmother who lives in Canberra with her husband and cat. She has many and varied interests and has always enjoyed writing but it is only since she retired she has found time to turn ideas into stories. She enjoys the process of writing itself; letting her imagination run free, watching characters come alive as a plot develops but still has much to learn about punctuation. When others enjoy something she has written she regards it as an added bonus.

Seeking the Truth

Big Amazonian

Kambah ACT

Introduction

Because technology changed the methods of art—artists changed society!

Body

Daguerre's (camera) and Talbot's first fixable image (the photograph) were invented and came together in the early 1800s. Because it was quick and easy to produce with super-real results—it became popular (Daguerrotypomania) and that made it affordable and widely used.

Painters did not have to paint super-real anymore, because photography did this instead. So painters wanted a different realism to photography. Artists became to experiment with different techniques seen in landscapes and portraiture.

Instead of studio-produced paintings, landscape Impressionist painters painted quickly 'open air' to keep up with the truth—with accurate lighting and colour. Compare Monet's two 'Haystack' paintings. The same scene is painted at two different times of day with different results.

Portrait painters went from super-real 'miniatures' to a resembling likeness with expressive character lines. View Van Gogh's self-portraits. These reveal his emotional torment with mental illness. For the first time, art became interesting for its introspective.

When painting came to have less commercial use it now had artistic worth because of its new style! Art now had a new subject matter too—dreams, thoughts and the future! Not just stories, religion and myths. First the rich and poor.

Joseph Durham 1857:

'Photography is an enormous stride forward in the region of art. The old world was well nigh exhausted with its wearisome mothers and children called Madonnas; its everlasting dead bodies called Entombments; its wearisome nudities called Nymphs and Venuses; its endless porters called Marses and Vulcans; its dead Christianity and its deader Paganism. Here was a world with the soil fainting and exhausted; worn by man in top bareness, overcrowded, over housed, over taxed, over known. Then all at once breaks a small light in the far West... and a new world slowly widens to our sight—new sky, new earth, new flowers, a very heaven compared with the old earth. Here is room for Man and beast for centuries to come, fresh pastures, virgin earth, and untouched forests; here is the land never trodden on by angels on the day of creation. This new land is Photography. Art's youngest are fairest child; no rival of the old family, no struggler for worn out birth rights, but heir to a new heaven and new earth, found by itself, and to be left to its own children. For Photography there are new secrets to conquer, new difficulties to overcome, new Madonnas to invent, new ideals to imagine. There will be perhaps photograph Raphaels, photograph Titans, founders of new empires, and not subverters of the old'.

Before photography, Baudelaire's 'Eyes of the Poor' was a French 18th Century poem that revealed the existence of slumbers among the rich who entertained themselves in the 'Boulevard Des Capuchins'—the central business district of Paris. He expresses the vast differences evident between the rich and the poor and the poor were not just poor—society is what made them poor! The French Royal Family fell by Napoleon's revolution because the public thought they were accountable for not helping the poor.

Painting did not convey this. Some artists were still painting the rich. Impressionist artists Monet and Caillebotte move away from Realism to portray high class society in their paintings of the Boulevard Des Capuchins in France 1873. Notice that their work does not show the slumbers there too. Because of the invention of the photograph— for the first time in history, the poor were being documented through images in portraiture and history. The photograph first revealed the reality of society worldwide—sad and happy. Photography created modern day Photo-Journalism to expose the new world.

Female photographer 'Carol' captured portraits of the homeless (Beggar Girl 1859). Portraits like these became recognised as art-portraiture for exposing among the first glimpses of humanity of France in the 19th century.

Mrs. Carlye:

'Bless the inventor of Photography. I set him above even the inventor of Chlorophyll! It has given more positive pleasure to poor suffering humanity than anything has cast up in my time, or is like to this art, by which even the poor can possess themselves of tolerable likeness of their absent dear ones'.

By the 1850s, no painting miniatures were shown at the Royal Academy exhibition (photographs only). This caused a rivalry between painters and photographers. Photography replaced painting in portraiture and painters would not accept photography as an art form.

By the 1880s photography had status in portraiture but not as art. Photography regressed in its attempts to be accepted as an art form. Photography was easy to produce so the popular assumption was that the artist had been able to exert some kind of control over the process. This is a reasonable view considering art is a product of the imagination and the skill to translate it. It was considered a 'bona fide art'—of mechanical agent.

Jaromir Funke 1920:

'A camera is to us as what a brush is to a painter or a pen to the poet... We do not compete, just as we are not painters, for our position is dramatically different from them, yet we stand on the same line. Our relation to painting is based on our desire for independence of both media'.

So photography developed new techniques to prove it was an art form with the early movements—Pictorialism and Naturalism.

The 'Pictorialism' movement was photography's desperate reaction to attempt to be accepted as an art form by using extensive hand rendering techniques in the developing process. View Oscar Gustave Rejlander's 'The 2 Ways of Life' which uses 32 overlapping negatives. This image has the same religious topic as 'Renaissance' painting but in a Modern technique. Then painters perceived photographers to be copying their art techniques.

Their attempts to make photography an art form were rarely successful. It was not necessary to prove its complexities. Photography was confused by not being allowed to develop in its own right. Imitation paintings obscured the judgment of many gifted photographers. It arose from the misdirected ambition to win recognition as artists.

The 'Naturalism' movement first established photography to be an art; where in the photographer's act of framing the subject in the way the eye composition and not interfering with the subject with natural light—justified it was an involved process. Emerson's demonstrate this with photographs of the landscape and the country folk of Norfolk and the working class (moving stones out of a growing field of potatoes).

But this purist point-of-view denied 'Pictorialism' as an art form. Emerson wrote 'Death of Naturalistic Photography' (not published) that renounced his views on Naturalism because it had no personal expression.

Unknown author (Gersheim):

'Light is the silent artist. Without the aid of man. Design on silver bright. Daguerre's immortal plan'.

It was considered God's work—not the artists!

Although photography's initial experimentation sent it backwards, Pictorialism became another commercial enterprise (before it was considered an art form in the 20th century) in Graphic Design (text with mixed media) evident in Paris event poster design (Toulouse).

The Modernism movement became Post-Modernism in the 1970s because of the thought and aesthetic oppression of the Second World War when books and art were destroyed or stolen. Now photographers and painters were not compromised as artists in their subject matter and technique (photography and Pictorialism). Artists became more courageous with Picasso's 'Guernica' depicting the Spanish Civil War and Otto Dix's protesting images of Hitler's regime in the 2nd World War.

Berman:

'The heroism of modern life that is due to modernisation (which accompanies many changes) the modern artist was faced with the challenge of being able to portray his heart and soul in an artwork which simultaneously adapting to new changes in society and technology. Social changes cause artists to feel less restricted in their artwork'.

Photography changed art because it revealed the true state of society to people, who together, began to change these circumstances—beginning with linking Post-Modernism with all world movements.

Conclusion

Images provide us a way of looking at ourselves and the world. Photography first revealed the poor. Then painting showed the mentally ill and the feelings of war. These images became art because it first revealed and shocked society into helping the less fortunate. The people like Hitler murdered.

Art is not what it is—it is what it does. Photography, the new technology, changed art. Modernism stopped aesthetics from evolving (through medium, technique and subject matter) so Post-Modernism replaced it to validate these from critics. Now Art does not necessarily document reality as we see it—but more importantly how we feel it. And despite this oppression—Painting and Photography have survived and have shown themselves to be many things.

History is now more accurate with acceptance of different forms of opinion. Artists since have the freedom of how they interpret, reflect, and document themselves in the world. Art became interesting because the truth is that everyone has their own interpretation and portrayals of what society is! Be an individual!

Big Amazonian

Kambah ACT

Circus Family

Brendan Doyle

Wentworth Falls NSW

Between heaven and hell

we walk a tight wire.

We leap into the air

hoping to land

on some safe and distant platform.

We poke chairs at tigers,

try getting bears to dance,

elephants to tiptoe,

dogs to stop barking,

monkeys to be wise.

We juggle weighty clubs,

breathe fire,

choking on kerosene,

balance on fragile pyramids of chairs

trusting their thin legs.

We spring, we vault, we soar at times,

rebounding off the frayed trampoline.

We gamely dive through hoops,

leap over a dozen barrels,

sometimes colliding with number twelve.

One day the animals escape their cages

leaving the ringmaster

and the clown

to slug it out.

Midnight Sun

Joanna Panagiotopoulos

Mittagong NSW

Through the winter within—

sombre with dolour,

counting on shapeless

Time till the spring—

I am moved, thrust

by the faceless, un-lived.

Tall tops whistle

and throng in trumpeting

winds, mounting, clashing

the walls. Weeds, loose and long

tangle the air, lingering in shades

between the paling Sun—

It is gone, it has deceived us.

I wait for the promise

behold the Sun at the midnight hour!

I hunt for the light without ending, lifting

the skies, as mothers (grey and mourning for God—

once held between, blading His light

within their breast)— wring themselves

of grief and trace their tears in stars

that launch themselves to earth.

Once fallen, the last flicker

dies into the dust. But what a wind

that stirs it! Wind, as a gentle hand

lifting the deed, polishing the unseen.

Whipped off earth, flung

in the hearts of us, Death

_I lay in its garden_ , lifts my gaze

to its loving hand, caressing

landing in green, leaf,

and twirling stem, luminescent

to my sight, pulsing with sound—

revealing the rose in the (now falling)

airstream — the silent chorus

of invisible feasts, of the free.

Aussie Outback

Rimeriter

Lansvale NSW

Rough and rugged winding coastline, between the oceans and the sea,

lost and lonely is the outback,

lacking sustenance to share.

Arid plains and ancient mountains, in a land remote and free,

our Australian island continent has an outback

sparse and bare.

Duned and stony in the centre, fine grained sands and stones so red,

stained with ochre, sifted softly through the

Dreamtime endlessly.

River channels, seldom water. Drying salt lake.

Wildlife's dread. onoliths and quartzite outcrops being sculpted, ceaselessly.

Spinifex. Pincushion patches. Tombstones worn from

sandy shale.

Giant wheel ruts of the ages. Meandering waterless

dry bed streams

Bleached dry bones in nature's grave site.

Moon at night provides

the pale.

Old and ancient. Myths and legends. Born in mist.

Retained in dreams.

The Red Centre. Australia's heartland. Forlorn face

in need of rest.

Enjoy her beauty with her splendour.

Our island continent...

The very best.

Ode to Rocky

Julitha De La Force

Katoomba NSW

Rocky, even though

You're a figment of my imagination

I had a dream about you last night

Which was such a sensation

You knew that at school

I always felt the fool

You came up to me one day

Extended your hand

And said g'day

You knew what it was like to not fit

You were gay and so could not sit

You were forever cast out a bit

Two outcasts together

We were definitely birds of a feather

I wasn't gay but was never

Destined to fit in at school ever

One day you had to be in court

Accused of assault

Seems you took a shovel out

Gave one of the school cleaners an almighty clout

Well I knew in my heart it couldn't be true

So I agreed to stand as witness for you

You were there for me in every way

Though my days at school were hell

In every way

Turns out the cleaner

Was at fault

So you were cleared of

Charges of assault

The cleaner had goes at you

Every single day

Thousands of potshots

For you being gay

You put a good face on it

Every single day

But one day

You just gave way

You slapped him across the face

Not because you were filled with hate

You just wanted desperately for him to

Stop having potshots at you every day

Anyway the truth came out

The cleaner was totally bawled out

Ended up being charged

For making false claims

As he was led away

He hung his head in shame

As I said, all this was only a dream

So Rocky, even though we never met

Because you never existed, yet...

We made a good team in my dream

And that I'll never forget

Thank you Rocky

Julitha De La Force

Katoomba NSW

The Secret

Dianne Bates

Woonona East NSW

The ceiling is off-white, a crack shaped like a question mark above where she lies, and a bruise of mould near the naked light bulb. It is stuffy in the room that holds nothing but the double bed and two wooden chairs with chipped paint, one on guard at either side. She continues to look up, tracing the outline of the crack, trying not to think about what is happening. She is transporting herself to another place, away from the sweaty smell of bodies and dusty mattress to the seaside, running across the sand, free as a gull. She can go anywhere—and often does. She has been to America and walked the streets of New York, has been feted by pop stars, appeared in tabloids—on a front page no less—has eaten at the ritziest restaurants and spent an entire evening lying in a bubble bath listening to soothing music. But the trip to the ocean was the best, spending happy hours bobbing about in the water, lying on the sand afterwards with not a worry, feeling the sun brown her body. There was no-one to whom she was responsible; there was only the company of kind people, nights sleeping undisturbed and waking to days that were welcomed and that she wished would never end, though of course they did.

'Go wash yourself,' he says later, and she does. She always does what he says. If she doesn't obey there are consequences, a smack with his open palm across her face, a punch in the stomach, a kick in the head when he has felled her. So now she crouches over the chipped enamel bowl on the bathroom floor and splashes water onto her private parts. He is standing in the doorway watching her, looking down at her budding breasts, the nipples small and puckered, her flat stomach, her pubis with its fine hair.

He has put on a pair of shorts and she can see the livid scar on his chest, a war injury, he once said. Perhaps someone fired a bullet and tried to kill him. Often she lies awake on her narrow bed in the room next to his and imagines herself tiptoeing in the darkness along the hallway, taking the rifle which is perched against the refrigerator there, and sneaking into his room where is sleeping and aiming at his head. Imagines herself squeezing the trigger and watching his body jerk, watching the life draining from him as his blood seeps on to the bedding.

'Hurry up,' he snaps, turning away.

When he is gone, she dries herself and dresses in shorts and T-shirt. Then she pads into the kitchen where he is standing at the sink, looking through the window at the paddocks beyond.

'Put the kettle on,' he says.

It is then that someone knocks on the front door. They are not expecting visitors. In fact, they rarely have visitors and then only on weekends, never during a weekday like today.

He turns and nods at her to see who it is. She is frightened, thinking perhaps it is the police. She wills it to be her parents, come to get her. She often dreams of her true mother and father and of them coming to release her from these people whom she knows abducted her when she was a baby. Her heart thumps wildly.

She pats down her uncombed hair and adjusts her face to greet the caller.

'Jan!' She is shocked to see the woman whom she knows lives a long way away and whom she never thought would visit. And she is fearful. Can Jan read her mind, know what she is doing here; know what transpired earlier?

Jan smiles. The girl does not know what to do, whether or not to invite her in. She senses him standing behind her and turns.

He is looking at Jan, his face blank. There is a long pause while the two adults survey one another.

'I'm Jan Christie,' the woman says, offering him a business card. He does not take it. 'From the children's holiday home.'

He knows who she is.

'I called into the school to check on Nancy. And when I found that she was absent, I thought I'd come by to see if she's okay.'

Jan sounds so professional, so full of confidence and charm that the girl relaxes.

Another pause. The woman is waiting for an invitation into the house but none is forthcoming.

'Would it be all right if I speak with Nancy?'

He nods acquiescence but his glance at the girl is a warning. Maintain the secret, it says. Shut the fuck up.

The girl is so happy to be allowed out. She follows Jan, admiring her sensible shiny shoes, her matching skirt and jacket, the leather handbag slung over her shoulder. She wants to hold Jan's hand, to let her know how delighted she is that she has travelled so far—100 kilometres perhaps—to visit her. But she is also filled with trepidation that Jan will ask questions, difficult questions that she will not know how to answer.

They sit in the car parked at the side of the road under eucalypts which are shedding long strips of bark. The car smell is familiar—leather, and Jan's scent. Lavender, perhaps.

'So now you know where I live,' the girl says.

They look across the road at the forlorn fibro house, no more than a shack, in a weed-filled yard.

'You weren't at school,' the woman says.

The girl can't think of what to say so says nothing.

'What were you doing when I arrived?'

This is easy.

'Putting on the kettle.'

'You're not sick?'

'No.'

The social worker is looking askance. The girl wishes she could read her mind. She cannot look at her face for fear the truth is written in bold, capital letters in her eyes, or across her forehead, nor fear that the truth will leap from her mouth. She wants to tell, but fear is a powerful deterrent. Besides, even though she feels something akin to love for this woman, she has no experience of trust, and so her lips remain tight. She fiddles with a loose thread from her shorts and wonders how to change the direction of the woman's inquisition.

'Why are you at home, if you're not sick?'

This is so much like school—difficult questions and inescapable corners.

'My dad wanted me to stay home.'

'Why?'

Oh, if only she could tell! But not knowing the consequences of truth is too huge, too unknown, to contemplate.

'He wanted me to help him.'

The thread is getting longer, pulling apart the stitching. She wants to break it off, but knows it will unravel even further if she does.

'Help to fix the car,' she adds when the length of silence becomes too long.

This answer is true: before that—before the bed—the girl had helped her father change tyres.

The woman is used to dealing with lies and secrets and subterfuge. She knows her relationship with the girl is tenuous. She remembers their first meeting at the home, when the girl challenged her authority, and having deflected a tense stand-off then with humour, she observed the girl warming to her. Since the girl left the home she has written to her from time to time. She likes her, appreciates her intelligence, her ambition. She senses the girl has no role model, no friends, and today, seeing her circumstances knows she is struggling against poverty and ignorance and even, perhaps, against hope. She wants to help the girl to realise her potential.

'Would you like some chocolate?' She opens her handbag and rummages within it.

The girl relaxes, and for the first time lifts her head.

'How come you went to my school?' she asks.

'I was out this way,' the woman lies. Truth is, she had no reason to visit the girl. Just instinct. And now she feels there is something going on which is wrong. She tries to make light conversation but she cannot recapture the camaraderie she and the girl shared when the girl was staying at the home.

She talks about another girl. 'Betty ... remember her?'

The girl nods.

'She's going to court. To testify against her father.'

The girl glances away, looks ahead through the windscreen at the lonely road. 'Why?' she asks.

'He was interfering with her.'

The girl gives no sign of having heard.

'Do you know what that means?'

'Yes. Of course.'

'Do you think she should?'

'What?'

'Testify against her father. For interfering with her.'

The girl shrugs. 'I don't know,' she mumbles.

Once again it is as though an invisible but powerful shield has been dropped between the two of them. There is no way the girl is going to talk. If there is anything to talk about, to reveal.

They chat for a while about school. And then it is time to part.

The girl yearns to go with the woman. The muscles of her heart ache, as though they are straining to breaking point. She feels betrayed, somehow. She wants to plead with the woman, to go with her. Instead, she farewells her politely, standing by the side of the car, talking through the open window.

'Tell your father I said "goodbye",' the woman says.

'Sure.'

And then the car bearing hope is ripping away into the distance until it becomes nothing but empty road.

In the house the father is pottering around the kitchen.

'She gone?' he asks.

'Yes.'

'What did she want?'

'She just asked about school.'

'Why you weren't there?' He has a mug of tea poised in front of his cruel lips.

She nods.

'And what did you say?'

'That I was helping you mend the car.'

The girl feels as though she will burst. She wants to be alone, to cry, to berate herself for not telling the truth, for letting her only hope drive away.

'She's a fucking lesbian,' her father says.

'No, she's not!'

The words are out of the girl's mouth before she knows it. A dreadful, cold fear clenches her insides. He is never to be challenged. Never.

But instead of reacting harshly, he's smiling. Sneering. 'She's a fucking lesbian, if ever I saw one.'

She cannot help herself, she must defend Jan. Her friend. The only person who cares about her.

'No!' She cries the word aloud, angrily. And he does what she knew he would. He swings and smacks her across the face.

She sees stars.

'Fucking lesbian!'

'She's not!' She cannot stop denying it, she needs to defend Jan. She needs to. But he is repeating it again and again. 'Fucking lesbian!' And she's yelling at him. And he's whacking her. She's on the floor, sobbing, hurting, saying 'no, no, no, no, she's not,' over and over again. And now he's kicking her. Kicking her stomach, her head. And she squirms and wriggles. Away from him. Away from his ramming foot. And now she's running. Running down the hall, around the corner, wrenching open the back door, flying across the landing, onto the ground, across the yard. Running. And screaming. And sobbing. And he's shouting, calling at her to come back. But she's not coming back. She's going and she's never coming back.

Across the paddock she flees. Her feet don't touch the ground. She doesn't feel the dirt underfoot, the rocks, the twigs, the thorns. All she knows is fear. She has answered him back, questioned his authority. She has welcomed death for he will kill her if he catches her. She is nothing but fear and movement, she is running fast, fast, fast!

Something whizzes past her. A bullet! She half-turns as she runs and sees him, lumbering after her with the rifle. He's going to shoot her, fell her, end her life. She keeps running, faster, faster, faster!

Under the fence she throws herself. Does not feel the wire rip into the flesh. Only feels the bullet ripping her open. Up and on, into the bush, past trees and shrubs, running, leaping, moving, getting away, fast, fast, fast!

How much later it is that she stops, she cannot tell. She is out of breath, bending over and panting, the blood pounding in her head, her chest hot and wheezy. At last she has outrun him.

She falls upon the ground, curls into a foetal shape and sobs. She wants her mother. Her true mother. The mother she seeks all of her days, the mother who will hold her close, promise her protection eternally. She sees her mother now, dreams her into existence as she has done at other times when the man has terrified her. This is a mother who is stronger than him. Stronger than any man, stronger than the world!

Time passes. The crying time has passed. She is alone now, deep in the bush and wondering what she should now do. She cannot go back, for he will, without doubt, murder her. As much as she hates her life, she does not want to be murdered. What she wants is Jan. Why didn't she tell Jan when she had the chance? She could have driven off in the car with Jan. Could have escaped the man who says he is her father, who is no father, who is the most terrible of all terrors.

Her mind calms. Her breathing is now controlled and she is no longer anxious. In fact a calmness has come over her. There is only one solution: she will find Jan and tell her and trust her to know what to do.

She stands and, her feet bleeding, she limps through the bush, heading in the direction in which she thinks the main road to town leads. She doesn't know how to get to where Jan lives, nor does she know how to get to the holiday home where Jan works. But now she has devised her plan, she is confident that the way will become clear.

It takes some time, but eventually she leaves the bush and walks across paddocks and finds the road. There is not much traffic at this time of the day, but surely someone will pick her up and drive her into town. From there she will catch a train to the city. And from there ... ? She's still not sure. But she can do it, she must.

A car is approaching. She hooks her thumb for a ride but the driver ignores her and speeds past. She plods along, still limping, exhausted. Another car passes her. And another. For a long while no-one else travels the road.

Then she turns at the sound of an approaching engine. It is her worst nightmare: it is him and he's speeding towards her. She wants to run again but all of a sudden her energy deserts her. She is tired, so tired, tireder than she has ever been in her life. And trapped, too, trapped by years of being his victim.

He pulls up alongside of her. The window is down.

'Get in,' he says.

She shakes her head, limps on.

He cruises alongside her. She glances into the car. She cannot see the gun.

'Get in,' he repeats, braking.

His voice is a magnet that says he must be obeyed. She opens the door and slides into the seat.

Her head is throbbing. She cannot look at him.

There is something she must say, something she has never said before, though she cannot think why not.

'If you ever touch me again, I will tell the police.' Her voice is soft but loud enough for him to know she is speaking the truth.

He does not answer, makes no signal that he has even heard. He turns the steering wheel and drives back in the direction from which he has come.

Dianne Bates

Woonona East NSW

Dianne (Di) Bates is a well-known Australian children's author who lives in Wollongong, NSW. Her website is www.enterprisingwords.com

Memories

Bob Edgar

Wentworth Falls NSW

Marco Graham was considered a good man, having devoted his time on earth to the pursuit of enriching the lives of those around him.

He would give of himself expecting nothing in return, yet often he would receive a smile or a ... 'Thank you Marco'. This was reward enough for a man who considered himself blessed that he was, at least, able to help his fellow human.

Our fellow humans however can be quite disagreeable, to the point of rejecting any show of kindness toward them.

When Marco encountered such disagreeable humans, he took refuge in his love of the animal kingdom, as he had done since childhood. His first pet was a tortoise, a tiny ugly creature that only a mother could love. A mother, and of course, Marco.

His beloved tortoise ... Theodore, had recently died at the age of eighty three, leaving Marco feeling quite lonely and reflective.

Having worked at the city zoo for fifty years and travelled extensively throughout Africa and India leading safari tours, his body was tired.

He thought that he had given enough of himself to humankind and animalkind. Yet he received not so much as a pat on the back, or a wet nosed kiss in return.

Epitomising his selflessness was the time he was separated from his very first safari tour. For two days his machete slashed a path through the jungle growth, with only the image of Theodore keeping him strong. Collapsing from exhaustion on the third day, he rolled down an embankment into a clearing. He opened his eyes to behold an elephant's paw hovering above his head. Marco slammed his eyes shut to hide the death about to befall him.

An eternity in seconds passed before his brain forced his eyes open, and still the gnarly paw was inches from his face.

Marco glanced to his side to see an adult elephant lay dead. This would be a baby elephant about to crush his head. Then this giant baby whimpered, and Marco saw the huge thorn protruding from the paw. Reaching up Marco whispered 'There there ... there there.' as he expertly withdrew the thorn before losing consciousness.

Forty years later Marco had retired, he had lost his Theodore, and he had lost faith in all living creatures. Could not his kindness be remembered by at least one of his menagerie?

Then, as if by design, a circus came to town and Marco felt compelled to attend the Saturday matinee. He wore his tattered safari suit and sat in the front row feeling as though he were the main attraction.

Shuffling through the sawdust were ten aging elephants connected trunk to tail. Suddenly one broke free, trumpeted loudly and charged the front row. People scattered in terror, but Marco sat calmly. The rogue elephant stopped inches from Marco, raised its paw and whimpered.

Marco, with a tear in his eye knelt down and whispered,

'There, there ... there, there.'

Whereupon the elephant crushed his skull like a melon.

Wrong bloody elephant.

Citrus Dawn

Jean Bundesen

Woodford NSW

In the orange light of early morning

There's a tangerine sky

Merging into a deep translucent vault.

Village people sleep.

Village lights sparkle

Like a Christmas tree.

Day dawns

Trees come to life

Lime green leaves appear.

Jacarandas still golden

New leaves are sprouting.

A Silver Birch shines.

Azaleas complement Prunus

Shades of rose, pink, red and white.

Wisteria clambers over

Fences and trees – a vision in lilac.

Orange Marigolds sprawl fancy free

Lemon yellow Wattles frolic.

A radio softly plays 'Tangerine Dream'

On a bright new day.

* 'Tangerine Dream'—a German electronic music group created in 1967 byBy Edgar Froest. 'This piece was playing on the Radio, when I was writingthis poem.

intact

Robyn Lance

Yarra via Goulburn NSW

sucked into the void

where absence of light

means black's back

crawling to a pinpoint of sanity

'til knees bleed

sanity

sanitation

sani-man

dunny can

in the shit

life's bits

hit it and revolve

centrifugally flung

it drips off white coats

and keys

bunches of keys

me in

them out and about

with clout and calm

balm for the balmy

flashpoint to a self reconstructed with bandaids

fragments fly to the fan

splat

slide

crawl back

a brave new man

clad in filo layers

brushed and baked

until flaky

and ready for another crack

at life

Robyn's achievements include having poems stencilled on metal plates for the 2012 Poetry - The Indelible Stencil project, NSW, a commissioned poem in 2011 for Canberra's ACTION buses, the 2010 David Campbell Poetry Prize and the 2009 Jennifer Lamb Veolia Creative Arts Scholarhsip. Robyn has also had poems published in Best Australian Poems 08/05, Quadrant, FourW, Five Bells, Poetrix, LiNQ and Australian Reader.com

Lunchtime at the Park

David Bowden

Medlow Bath NSW

Spellbound by delicious

Heat,

You unwrap those Gulliver strings

That tie you to

The world

And rush,

Lazily it must be said,

Into a beautiful, forgetful

Stupor

Like a religious

Convert

Smouldering beneath the

Rays

Our ancient sun

Casts

Generously, serenely out.

The mind empties

Through some invisible

Plughole

As if

An ocean

Robbed of

Sea

Salt

Fishes

Whales

Plankton

Mines

Sunken submarines etc

In the same way a TV screen

Will reduce to a single

Dot

its crescendo of stories

Squashed into

Silence.

You are a castaway

On October grass,

Lolling

Alongside the other

Strutting

Strolling

Running

Exercising

Sitting

Sunbathing

Geniuses

Who share in

This rich wisdom.

And pigeons swoop

Over,

So close

You could pluck them

From the sky

Like ripe, plump

Apples from the

Branches of the sun.

They have no fear,

Landing nearby

Lost

In their odyssey of

Forgotten crumbs

And fantasies of

Uneaten seeds

Before fluttering away

To elsewhere.

Now is not the

Moment for any of us

To concern ourselves

With

Business.

That will come soon

Enough.

Now we are children

Out of class,

Swallowing knowledge

Through our skin,

Adrift in a sea of

Games

No other world

Could conjure.

This afternoon

We are in paradise

With only clocks

To smear

The picture.

David Bowden

Medlow Bath NSW

The Weeping Cherry

Barry McGloin

Holder ACT

Once more she is a Spring princess

in her gown of bridal white

cascading delight from top to toe

and she astounds in her audacity

yet each year I am enthralled to see

such self-effacing dignity

and now the bees at ease come a-courting

with simple courtesy and each flower

will open

to each whispered suggestion

of consummate honey

the princess bride weeps not for sadness

but in pure sweet joy when each year

finds her beauty reborn.

Mother danced in the hive of love,

so she said

a bridal princess amongst the troops

gaiety, nylons and cigarettes

never the same one twice she laughs

then winks significantly,

those were the days hey

now look at me, I'm eighty three,

what happened? God almighty!

Once more she is a Spring princess

in her gown of bridal white

cascading delight from top to toe

in movement and symmetry

aligning the earth to planetary

purpose

to the heavenly tap tap tap

perhaps perhaps

And what music plays to this courtly season?

The skeletal tinkling of water on stone ...

or perhaps an eternal elemental drone?

The melancholic mystery of the duduk call

or Glen Millers' swing ... hey ...

the Wood-Choppers Ball?

Seeing is Believing

Beatrice Ross

Winmalee NSW

The new apartment was simple, perfect for Christian Mayfield's needs. It had been the most affordable option for him at the time. In fact, it had been suspiciously cheap. He, being a fond reader of horror and thrillers, had had the tenacity to ask the real estate agent whether someone had died in the house. He had stopped laughing when the agent didn't answer, a tight-lipped expression of distaste settling on the woman's face.

He sat in a leather chair placed in the centre of the room, eyeing the unpacked boxes. It would take a deal of time for him to adjust to the smaller living space. This was his first place. He had been living with his parents, working small, local jobs to earn pithy cash. His mother was relieved to see him go. She had been nagging him persistently, collecting newspaper cuttings of properties up for rent and slipping them under his nose. He had pushed them away, insisting that the right house would come to him. And it did; in a newspaper dated back to 2011, stating the sale of a well-known author's apartment. It was quite coincidental considering that he was a freelance writer himself. It was here, in the creatively charged atmosphere of the house, where he suspected his work would harbour the long-awaited success it deserved.

He wandered the rooms one by one, imagining how he would fill them. By far, the study, situated at the end of the hallway, held the most potential. He plotted out the room mentally, positioning two bookcases for his eclectic taste in books and his collection of magazines (in which he had been published), a writing desk beneath the window for his laptop and a spot on the floor for a peculiar antique his father had generously given to him as a house warming gift.

He stood in the doorway of the study. It was bare, the smell of fresh paint still lingering. The desk, relocated from his old room, had already been put in place underneath the window. He disappeared for a moment, heading for the lounge room. He reappeared, strafing forward foot to foot in an almost comical manner, his arms straddling a large, taxidermied mountain lion. He set it down on the floor, exhaling loudly. It was heavy, even for Christian's lightly built body, which had been accustomed to weight training. He stepped back to examine his gift. It was a beastly, four-foot animal, reaching just below his waist. It was covered head to foot with bristling tan fur, which darkened at the tip of its tail. It was permanently settled in a prowling, hunting mode; its head lowered, and its legs set in a saunter. It was snarling, displaying scythe-like teeth. Its retractable claws, sharp enough to slice through leather, were raised like the hackles on its shoulder blades. Its paws were the size of small dinner plates. The intelligent, greenish-amber eyes of the creature had been replaced by glass copies. His father, being a taxidermist, believed in giving the gift of nature.

Christian brushed himself down, dust breaking free from his hands and clothes where he had held the animal. He gave it one last admiring look and chuckled.

'You look nasty. Luckily for me, you're long dead.'

***

Sleep came well for Christian that night. He pulled himself back to consciousness at eight o'clock in the morning. He sat up in bed, peering around the room he now called his own.

He couldn't bring himself to believe that this was all his. Being twenty five, he had craved freedom. With the apartment, he had just that. He didn't have to wait for his mother to get out of the bathroom; here, there were no queues. He didn't have to follow any house rules other than his landlord's and his own.

He pulled the sheets over, placing his feet on the carpet. He ran his fingers through his mousy brown hair, pulling himself from the bed.

He could walk around the house wearing only his pyjama pants without his mother to tell him otherwise. He opened the door, concentrating on the idea of food. As he stepped forward, his attention was stolen by a blaring car horn outside. He was too busy peering behind his shoulder to notice the obstacle in his way. His foot caught on the bulky form of the mountain lion. He stumbled forward abruptly. The ground rushed up meet him. The lion went down beneath him.

Thump!

He recovered slowly, uttering a low moan. He placed his hands either side of his body and slowly lifted himself from the ground. The push-up like manoeuvre caused his head to spin.

At the old house, he didn't get to _trip over a mountain lion?_

He sat up, leaning back on his heels. He stared dumbly at the mountain lion, blinking the sleep from his eyes.

'I didn't leave you here,' he mumbled, reaching out to stroke the lion. It was cold and stiff. It smelt like moth-eaten leather. He peered down the hallway to the study. The door was ajar. He had closed it last night. Settling on his knees, he reached over to prop the animal upright. He patted its head, scratching it behind the ears.

'Hmm... You sleep walk?'

He looked to it as if he were expecting it to speak back to him.

After a long minute, he gave the cat one last bemused smile and got to his feet. He left the cat to stand in the hallway, padding to the kitchen. He stewed it over as he searched the fridge, grabbing the milk carton from shelf in the door and retrieving a glass, pouring himself some milk. He replaced it, walking to the lounge room. He stopped in his tracks, his cheeks bulging with a mouthful of milk. He swallowed hard, eyeing the spot where the lion once was half a minute ago. It was gone. The door to the study was closed. He shook his head, as if he were trying to wake himself up from a dream. He wandered to the spot, looking back to the study, eventually shaking his head.

'That didn't just happen,' he mumbled in blank disbelief.

He headed for the lounge, intent on watching the morning news before getting to work.

***

He stared at the computer screen with a flustered determination. He kept telling himself to write. But his attention wavered to other objects too frequently to type the first sentences of his new novel. It was the act of procrastination which brought him to hate the sight of a blank page.

His eyes scanned around the clutter which had settled around him. He had situated his notebooks of ideas, a bundle of unused line paper, pens and pencils around him to accommodate for the range of story ideas which hit him frequently and often unexpectedly. But now, as his brain buzzed and emitted a low humming inside his temple, he sensed the arrival of nothing. The flood had stopped; the river had run dry. The perfect idea was still searching for him. The air was stale, as if it were sucking him dry. The long dead author's vibes only heralded writer's block.

'What the hell am I doing?' he growled, leaning back in his chair. 'Who do I think I am? Stephen King?'

He tapped the keys lightly, typing before reclining back in his chair.

'All work, no play makes Jack a dull boy.'

Having nothing else to think on, he recalled this morning. Before settling in the study at ten o'clock, he had taken the time to reposition the mountain lion in his bedroom. The occurrence this morning had somewhat unsettled him; he swore the beast had been watching him. His disconcertion had taken him so far as to close the study door.

He sipped a mug of coffee, appreciating the warmth of the liquid as it trailed down his throat. He placed the mug down on the desk beside him. He locked his fingers together and placed his arms out before him, stretching his stiff fingers, and then repositioning his fingers to crack his knuckles.

He heard the sharp creak of a floorboard behind him. He ignored it, staring intently at the screen. The floor board creaked once more, this time complaining with greater volume. He casually peered behind his shoulder. He jolted, almost falling out of his chair. His heart lurched in his chest. He froze, his body going cold. The door was wide open. The mountain lion stood in the doorway, silently watching him. He uttered a profanity beneath his breath, watching the beast warily.

'H-how did you get there?' he stammered, still recovering from the scare.

The mountain lion stared at him with glassy eyes, still prowling, its face permanently set in a snarl.

He took a moment to collect himself before getting to his feet.

'I put you in the bedroom. I closed the door.'

He realised how stupid he must have appeared talking to a taxidermied animal.

It was dangerously still. There was a tangible tension within the air, as if a storm had left behind an electric static.

He took a breath. He knew this was no dream. It had moved from two rooms as if it were alive.

He approached the big cat, kneeling down beside it. Studying it, he noticed a piece of material snagged on one of its fangs. Inhaling deeply, his hand edged towards the dagger-like teeth of the animal. He plucked the material, backing away instantly.

He raised it to his eyes, examining the slip of blue cotton. He turned it from side to side. As he rubbed it between his fingers, he noted how familiar it felt. It resembled the cotton doona on his bed. The thought came quickly, and when it did, it clicked into place.

He peered past the lion and into the hallway. A steady trail of blue, torn cotton tufts and foam appeared to have been scattered down the corridor, issuing from the bedroom.

'No. This isn't possible,' he mumbled.

He threw the lion one last look before hugging the door to shuffle past it into the corridor. He followed the trail to the bedroom, stopping short in the doorway. His eyes scanned over the carnage of his bed. The doona, sheets, pillows and mattress had been torn to shreds. White foam and twisted coils split from the mattress like a gutted animal.

'Holy shit,' he breathed.

He picked up a relatively unscathed pillow from the ground, running four fingers down a set of deep claw marks. It was as though a vicious, enraged animal had been set loose in his room.

'I must be going insane,' he muttered. 'I need a drink.'

***

The escape from the apartment had eased his mind. It made him realise how irrational and crazy the events of the day had been. A stuffed animal couldn't move from room to room. It can't rip through a bed and tear it to pieces without a murmur of life pulsing through its body. Maybe an intruder was the cause of this madness. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. The intruder could've entered the house, placed the big cat in different rooms and also shredded the bed with a knife. He made a mental note to check over the house for any sign of forced entry.

Christian watched as Roy Halaway climbed the driveway to the apartment building. He and his friend Roy had visited the local pub to drink their worries away. However, he was far from being in the mood at the time, especially with the events of that day playing out in his head like a video tape on loop.

They were heading back to Christian's apartment, taking the elevator to the fifth floor. They walked down the corridor and stopped at the door. He fumbled through his pocket, searching for his keys. All the while, he tolerated his friend, a man in his early twenties with an outcrop of dusty-blond hair, a lanky build and brown eyes, as he leant casually against the wall drinking a bottle of Tsing Tao beer.

He unlocked the door, his hand poised on the knob. There was a loud bang from inside. He hesitated at the door, stiffening warily. Roy sidled beside him.

'What's wrong?' he grunted.

'I heard something.'

His earlier assumptions about the intruder made him cautious. His imagination planted a killer behind the door, holding a knife. The killer would be cloaked in darkness—a menacing silhouette. He would be hiding, waiting to pounce.

'I'm sure it's nothing Chris,' Roy sighed, lowering the bottle from his lips. He raised the green bottle to his face, squinting into it. It was empty. He emitted a rattled, rasping noise as he exhaled, pressing the bottle to his lips to scrounge the last drops. He was peculiar when he was tipsy; clumsy, mawkishly cheerful. Without alcohol to loosen him up, he was too serious.

Christian twisted the doorknob, opening the door slowly. The breath paused in his throat. The door swung open, revealing a darkened room. He scanned the room quickly, his eyes adjusting to the dark. His hand crawled against the wall, reaching in to flick the light switch. He found it. The room was flooded with the filmy glow of the fluorescent lights. He ventured one step, but stopped short as his foot pressed down into something warm and squishy. He recoiled, shifting the weight from his foot and stepping back. He peered down.

'What the hell?'

The body of a tabby cat was lying at his feet. It appeared dead; mauled beyond death. His stomach heaved at the sight of blood; areas of its fur were coated in congealing substance, droplets marking the carpet around it. Raising his foot up to glimpse at the sole of his shoe, he gagged, lowering his foot so it hovered just above the floor. He hopped over to the doormat where he scraped off the blood and fur. Whilst he was preoccupied with this, Roy, apparently unperturbed by the blood, plucked the cat up by its tail, raising it into the air to dangle pathetically.

Christian looked up from his feet, crinkling his nose in disgust.

'Geez Roy, put it down.'

Roy smiled, poking the corpse with the empty beer bottle. He laughed.

'Looks like my mum's boyfriend.'

Christian rolled his eyes, snatching the cat from Roy and dropping it. It landed with a wet slap. He shuddered. He had never been a fan of blood. He assumed it was the time when his guinea pig was run over by a car. His older brother, seeing how squeamish Christian was around the gore, had speared the corpse with a stick and chased him around the yard with it.

Christian shook the memory from his head, his eyes finding a trail of blood on the floor. It would tell him where it came from. He followed it, side stepping to avoid the trail as he gradually linked the course. It ended at an open window at the far end of the lounge room.

'It came through the window,' he grumbled, running his forefinger over the window sill. He drew back his finger, revealing traces of blood and dirt.

'It looks like a dog killed it.'

Roy had knelt down, continuing to prod it with the bottle.

'Will you quit touching that thing,' Christian growled in exasperation.

He met him at the body, examining it from afar. His stomach gulped, heaving.

It had been bitten, but by larger jaws, teeth and claws more pronounced. The tabby, he recognised as his neighbour's cat, hadn't been gnawed in a chewing action, rather, it must have died with one bite. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about what he was seeing. It was impossible.

'Please, take it outside before I vomit,' he muttered.

'Why me?' Roy exclaimed.

'I need to check something.'

Christian left for the hallway. He quickened his pace, heading for the study. He stopped at the door, finding it ajar. He took a deep breath, giving the door a gentle push. It swung open, revealing the room. The mountain lion stood in the centre of the room. He approached it cautiously. Something about its gaze sent a shiver tingling down his spine. It was crazy; he half expected it to spring to life. He knelt down before it, examining its jaws. His heart skipped a beat. This had to be a joke; a terribly convincing practical joke. The scythe-like fangs and teeth of the lion were stained with blood and fur. Its muzzle, curling over its teeth, was coloured with blood.

'Hell no.'

A taxidermied animal had killed his neighbour's cat. His voice narrowed down to a whisper.

'How am I going to explain this to Mrs Beven? '

***

The mountain lion was inanimate. It's cold, dead heart had been extracted, along with its other organs. Blood didn't course through its body. It couldn't shift from its prowl. It was dead, yet it had moved from room to room, shredded his bed and killed a cat. There had to be a better explanation, but it was the only answer that occurred to him as he locked eyes with the big cat.

'If it's a staring competition you're playing at, I don't think you're going to win.'

Christian's focus was stolen. He peered behind his shoulder. Roy leant casually against the doorframe, releasing a yawn. He had helped himself to a beer from the fridge. He sipped at it, the sleepiness wafting from his body.

'Watch out, it might spring to life and tear off your face,' Roy chuckled.

The breath caught in Christian's throat. He recoiled, steeping away from the fangs of the beast.

'You're right,' he blurted. If the inanimate mountain lion could kill a cat, it was perfectly capable of tearing out his throat. His hand immediately flew to his neck. He rubbed it, his eyes set on the raking claws and teeth of the cat.

Roy appeared puzzled. He emitted a weak half laugh, shaking his head.

'It was a joke man.'

He remembered that Roy knew nothing of the mysteriously active stuffed mountain lion. He met his borderline tipsy friend at the doorway, mumbling inaudibly to himself.

'I wish it were.'

They walked into the corridor.

'Man. I need sleep,' Roy grumbled. He headed straight for the bedroom door. A memory clicked in Christian's head. He sidled past his friend, stopping at the door and barring the way. Roy halted abruptly.

'The couch is that way,' Christian blurted. He wouldn't know how his friend would take the sight of the pile of coils, foam and torn cotton sheets that used to be his bed.

'Huh. The couch it is,' he grumbled in quick defeat. He was too filled up with grog to care.

As Christian left for bed (a small, blow up mattress on the floor), he locked the mountain lion in the study. However crazy his theory was, it was plausible. It was hard to argue with teeth and claws.

***

'Bad Kitty! No, NOOOO!'

The screaming was enough the make the house shudder. It was long and piercing. It infiltrated Christian's sleep like a persistent invader. He jumped from the mattress, racing out into the corridor. His foot lost grip instantly. He slipped, landing solidly on his rear. Ignoring the wet, sticky substance clinging to his feet, he pulled himself to all fours, launching himself into the lounge room. He stopped short at the entrance of kitchen, peering into the room. The screaming stopped.

'Holy shit,' a loud, ragged voice gasped. It was Roy.

Christian treaded the floor lightly, his gaze scanning the lounge room. He stood before the lounge where Roy had settled to sleep. He froze, temporarily paralysed. A pale, gasping Roy was frozen, pinned to the floor by the heavy mountain lion. The lounge pillows lay around him, torn to pieces. Roy looked to him with widened eyes.

'Is it dead?' Roy exclaimed, his gaze flickering from the cold, hard eyes of the beast to his friend. The lion had shifted positions completely, it's jaws lowered dangerously close to Roy's throat. Its paws were splayed, placed on both of his shoulders, holding him down. Its claws had retracted, pressing into his flesh.

The colour drained from Christian's face.

'It was never alive in the first place,' he breathed, creeping to Roy's side. He placed his hands on the beast, lifting it. He did so hesitantly, afraid the beast would spring to life and attack him too.

He dumped the lion across the room, attending to his friend. Roy sat up, pulling his shirt over his head and slipping it off. He placed the shirt in his lap, examining his chest. There were shallow puncture marks where the claws had penetrated his skin, drawing blood.

'And I thought the hangover would kill me,' he grumbled, prodding the cuts one by one.

'What the hell happened here?' Christian demanded.

He knew what it looked like; he just didn't want to believe it.

Roy, still breathless, looked up from his wounds, answering in dumbfounded astonishment.

'That bad ass cougar of yours tried to eat me,' he insisted.

'It's not a cougar, it's a mountain lion—'

'Same thing. It could have killed me.'

He got to his feet, brushing himself off. He watched the lion in the corner cautiously. The sleepy drunkenness had been sapped from his body. Christian rubbed his eyes, brushing his hands up his forehead to run through his hair and settle at the nape of his neck. He checked his watch; it was three o'clock in the morning. No more sleep would come to him this morning. He wished he could just shake this all away and pretend that it wasn't real.

'But that's impossible. It's stuffed. It's dead.'

'Well it seemed alive to me. It was about to rip out my throat before you came.'

Roy picked up one of the mutilated pillows and tossed it at him. He caught it, stepping back as it spewed crumbling foam all over his shirt. He had seen this damage before. Serrated claw marks had torn the material. Now it had not only destroyed his bed, but also his lounge. Insurance wouldn't cover damage inflicted by a taxidermied animal.

With the cushion in hand, he slumped down into the last undamaged chair, a red recliner.

'What happened?' he sighed.

His friend began to pace, occasionally locking eyes with the beast.

'I was sleeping and I heard noises coming from the kitchen. So I looked over towards the kitchen. I leant over too far and I fell off the lounge. Whatever was in the kitchen heard me. It approached me. It watched me for a moment, as if it were trying to work out what I was. Then the massive thing pounces on me like a hell hound, snarls and attacks me. I used the cushions to block its blows, but it pinned me down,' he explained gesticulating wildly. 'I thought it was all a dream. But I knew I was wrong when the pain was too real.'

Christian watched the mountain lion with a cautious expectancy. It was dangerously sporadic. The beast could turn on him within seconds. He couldn't guarantee his own safety anymore.

He shifted his toes, aware of an uncomfortable stickiness. He raised his leg to peer at his foot. It was covered in what appeared to be jam; the substance he must have slipped on this morning. It dawned on him. He looked up.

'The kitchen,' he breathed. 'Oh no.'

He followed a trail of jam paw prints to the kitchen. He groaned loudly. The fridge had been raided. A jar of jam had been shattered all over the floor, bottles of beer were strewn in glass pieces, vegetables lay half eaten and packets, once containing steaks, were torn and empty.

'Dammit!'

He remembered the study door. Down the hallway, the door was ajar. The deadlock had been shattered. Upon closer inspection, the inside of the door had been scratched viciously, metre long scratches now decorating the wood.

He could feel his hate for the beast rising. This wild cat was getting dangerous and expensive. There was only one answer: he had to dispose of it, and quick, before it killed him and destroyed his house in the process.

**

'I swear, that thing is moving back there.'

Christian tried his very best to ignore the heavy, violent bumping and growling in the boot of his sedan. He was driving to a small gully on the outskirts of town. Roy had chosen to join him on the premise that he could beat the beast if it decided to spring to life. Christian however, just wanted to see the creature sink and drown. He had been promptly reminded by his friend that stuffed animals couldn't drown, by which he answered: 'This one can.'

Down the desolate country road, Christian could see an opening in the wall of bushland trees. Through the dusky, early morning light, it was only just visible. He turned off onto a dirt road, stopping halfway down the road and parking in a small clearing. He had heard of this place. It was a umping ground by the name of 'Hyde's Gully'.

Christian and Roy hesitated at the boot. The noises had stopped completely, replaced by a pregnant silence. For pragmatic reasons, they decided one person would carry a baseball bat and the other would drag the animal by a chain set in a stranglehold loop. Roy readied the bat, poising it over his shoulder. Christian took a deep breath, opening the boot. There was silence. Nothing stirred. They peered into the boot space. Christian uttered a frustrated groan. The interior of his boot had been torn to shreds. The big cat was still again.

'I'm sick of this,' he growled, reaching into the boot. 'You've done enough damage. '

He slotted the chain around the mountain lion's neck and tugged it. He dragged the lion along the torn material of the interior.

'It's you who needs to be destroyed you worthless piece of—'

His sentence trailed off abruptly. The lion's eyes had begun to glow a vivid light green. It's glassy, plastic pupils constricted to a pinpoint. Its barrelling chest began to expand with breath. Its claws retracted. Hot exhalations spilt from its open jaws. A growl rumbled in its chest.

'Shit.'

It exploded from the boot, tackling him. The beast's heavy paws latched on to his shoulders, driving him into the ground. The sheer weight of the creature knocked the breath from his lungs. Opening its jaws, it snarled, its hot, rank breath pouring over his skin. His arms automatically flew to shield his face. He couldn't catch enough air to scream.

Roy was temporarily stunned. He stood back, the bat hovering over his shoulder.

'Don't just stand there,' Christian gasped. The beast batted his arms with one swipe of its paw. He emitted an injured cry. It lowered its jaws and bit into his arm. He screamed.

The scream woke Roy. He took a run up to the beast. He swung the bat. It slammed into the big cat's spine. It shrieked, turning on Roy in an instant. It snarled, prowling towards him. Christian crawled away to the base of a tree, cradling his bleeding arm.

Roy swung the bat. It missed. The beast lunged. It sunk its claws into his chest, closing its mouth around his shoulder. The bat dropped to the leaf litter. He screamed, his hands trailing to its head. He poked it in the eye. Its jaws loosened. He dropped to all fours, clutching the deep, bleeding wound on his shoulder. He scrambled for the baseball bat. It was gone.

Christian was standing over him, holding the bat over his shoulder, rotating it as if he were expecting a throw from a pitcher from afar. In a gruff voice he shouted at the cat.

'Let's play ball.'

The mountain lion, blinking through a bleeding eye, broke into a run. It lunged. Christian swung the bat. There was a loud smack as the metal slammed into the big cat's skull. Its heavy body crumpled to the ground with a loud _thud_. It uttered a strangled yowl before falling quiet and still.

Silence filled the clearing.

Christian prodded the mountain lion with his shoe. It was dead. It had to be. He looked over to Roy, who was sprawled on the ground, breathing raggedly. He was clutching a deep wound to his shoulder.

He attended to him, kneeling by his side.

It was over. As he hauled Roy to his feet, a grimace inched to his lips. What would he tell his landlord, Mrs Beven, his mother, his father? They would have to see the damage and the lion itself to believe him. For once, he was happier keeping this between Roy and himself.

***

Roy and Christian left for the hospital, leaving the mountain lion in its final resting place. Christian doubted it would come back after being tied to a chain and rock and being dumped in the gully. As Roy's wounds were cleaned and bandaged, Christian mentally pledged never to willingly receive any of his father's taxidermied gifts, let alone enter his father's establishment. As he imagined what kind of damage a bear or a wolf could do, he heard his phone go off in his pocket. He answered it. He was met with his father's voice.

'Your mother tells me you ran into a bit of trouble?'

Christian hesitated, deliberating briefly. He sighed in exasperation.

'You wouldn't believe me if I told you.'

Beatrice Ross

Winmalee NSW

To Read Aloud

Ashley Orr

Wanniassa ACT

'Ah, Thomas, what are we reading today?'

_'Great Expectations_ , if it pleases you.'

'Of course.'

They met beneath the cover of well-worn pages. Corners slick with finger-licking. Over the years the lives of characters became intertwined with their own. The act of reading opened the sealed envelopes of their minds. Years of memories, before they had met, like old photographs curled and yellowing at the edges. Henry, a widower; Thomas, ever-searching for a bird. They took comfort in each other's aloneness.

Light filters through stained-glass portholes as the Carillon sing-songs its way through morning. Henry remembered taking his missus there long ago. Desperate to see the white-grey monolith, she begged him to take the weekend off. Bloody long way to go to see some bells, he'd thought. Down the highway from Sydney in the '69 HT Holden; the engine roared alive. God he missed that car. Good, solid cars, those days. His daughter Georgie hit it twice, with not a scratch on the duco. Her Capella wasn't so lucky. Would she even remember the trip? Probably not.

Funny now, that he should spend so much time memory-gazing at those bells. Odd choice for a present, but that's the Poms for you. It's a damn sight better than an eagle-topped telegraph pole. Looking out across the lake, toward Russell, Henry wondered if it had been cleared—a blue-green algae outbreak had kept the rowers away for a week. Those dingy paddleboats, breaking though congealed gunk, were nowhere to be seen. Sometimes, when it was still and hot and dry, the lake would seethe, the smell of rotting reeds circling up through the air.

Henry sat down on the metal bench. The cold bars bit into his bum. Wind animated his broad-brimmed hat as he fought with one arthritic hand to grasp it. Thomas never was much of a timekeeper. After years of factory work, Henry had learnt to be punctual. Another chime in the distance, another quarter hour; there he was, strutting toward the bench, in a hue of brilliant blue.

'Morning!' Tom was chipper, not even aware of his lateness.

'Nearly arvo, Tom.'

'Oh? Henry, I'm ever so sorry,' he said with a flourish.

'Just get on with it.'

'Very well. _My father's family name being Pirrip_...'

Thomas read til early afternoon. The sun's reflection on the library ahead made their eyes squint, so that Tom's looked beadier than ever. Heat radiated off the walls and mingled with the smell of freshly cut lawns. Its white columns became almost translucent. A wedding cake someone forgot to put the top on. Grey-white and windowed, it matched the other national institutions—courts, galleries, Parliament House versions one and two. Even the buildings were bored. Unless you count the orange bendy-straw museum façade—and most don't. The poplars began to malt, showering Henry with fluffy snowflakes. Tom sneezed as the pollen tickled his nostrils.

'May I enquire as to your wife's favourite novel?' Tom asked.

'Elsie? She'd read anything, mate...'

Tom's face twisted into an expression of distaste, as though he'd eaten some rather stale bread. He was well-read in the classics and had a particular penchant for the Victorian era. With his Pommy airs and posh voice Henry often wondered if Tom had travelled in time from just such a place. No wonder he scoffed at penny paperbacks. He treated such tomes as though the popular were contagious. Using a quick, clawing motion, he'd touch the brittle, tea-stained pages—sandpaper-like on his skin—for as little time as possible.

'I've always found Dickens rather agreeable. Austen, however, is trying. All that "Mr Whats-it won't marry Miss Who's-it". Henry, how do you find our lady Jane?'

'Ah, well... I've never read her.'

'Now Henry, that just won't do! I'm not partial to the lady but she must be read. Why don't you start?'

***

Henry never did start. With a series of well-placed compliments, he managed to avoid reading altogether. Thomas heard 'Oh, but your voice so lends itself to reading', even though the actual phrase was more often 'You've a beaut voice for speaking'. One might suppose Henry did it out of kindness—Thomas did so enjoy the sound of his own voice. To be truthful, his English elocution read Dickens just as well as the man himself. Tom's unusual good looks served only to fuel his vanity. A good friend, he was nonetheless self-absorbed, and all-round not a very perceptive fellow. So it was with ease that Henry kept his secret safe. Elsie allowed for his shame and read for him without protest. Even his children learnt to talk of it in whispers. Her death threatened to undo the tightly-woven threads of deceit. Now, when he needed to read a sign on the bus, he pretended to be missing his glasses, despite his 20:20 vision. A whipper-snapper, taking pity, would usually give him a hand. He worked hard to memorise the library opening times. He felt such a fool standing by the library's automatic doors, peering at the text, which jumped and moved about whenever he tried to focus.

Thomas read years into existence while Henry listened; only occasionally nodding off. Upon rousing, his back would ache for hours, the imprint of the metal seat indented on his spine. Occasionally, Tom would arrive in a huff, having had yet another to-do with the library staff. Skittering across the gravelled path, he muttered near-obscenities—'Oh dithering' all the way to Henry's bench, with a copy of their current read. Henry often wondered where he got them all, when the sour-faced librarians consistently refused his membership application. ' _Discrimination! Prejudice!'_ Tom snapped. He followed such outbursts with a dissertation on the literary world's exclusion of so-called undesirables. The illiterate Henry could join any time he pleased, but for those of a different feather, like Thomas, it was decidedly difficult. He stood out—coloured chest, all green-blue and shimmering, a beak-ish nose and wearing tails of a thousand eyes. _He is not one of us._

Thomas would often attract curious glances from passers-by. Henry, as his companion, drew a few quizzical looks himself. On their stroll round the lake, some would near walk into it, forgetting to redirect their gaze on the path ahead. Revelling in any attention, Tom would parade around, fanning his tail this way and that. Some 'oohed' and 'ahhed', others offered scraps of food. Thomas hated that—said it made him feel like a circus animal. Or worse, a 'commoner'. He beseeched the good people to bring him novels. Instead, they sniggered and threw crumbs. Some muttered about Henry's sanity, chatting away to such a creature. Tom, peering down his long nose at them, ruffled his feathery waistcoat and read on.

Thomas brought as many people to the library as the books themselves. Though his chest puffed slightly with the gathering crowds, he paid them no more heed. Instead, he carried on nattering about General Tilney or Magwitch as though Henry were his only audience. The local paper even had a naming contest for him. Though pleased with the publicity—he spent hours perfecting his stance for the photo shoot—he preferred to keep his birth name. The political significance of the chosen 'Andrew' was lost on this Englishman. Tourists flocked to see him. He and Henry fought off their fair share of animal libbers too. _Poor habitat for a peacock, no mating prospects. He_ must _be moved._ And move him they did. Accompanied by a rent-a-mob and placards, they took him to the Botanic Gardens. The wattle weed and bottlebrush aggravated his hayfever and he became thoroughly unpleasant. Though there were more visitors to admire his plumage, Tom missed Henry dearly.

Henry sat by the library for days waiting for Tom. After several more he began to question his certainty that Tom would return—perhaps he preferred the gardens? Yet a week later, there he was, sitting beside his friend once more. It took so long, he said, because the damn libbers settled in to guard him. So he hatched a scheme—asked his mate Arnold to swap places with him. When the sentry nodded off, Tom scaled the high-vis barrier and left Arnold with his book, for good measure. Of course, once they realised he was gone, they arrived back on the steps of the library. They tried to take him again, but Tom bit half a dozen of them, just so they knew their efforts were not appreciated. So they went on to the next cause—a kangaroo at the courts, perhaps. Tom and Henry were allowed to resume their journey through the gloom of Northanger and Miss Havisham's mansion.

***

The pages of Austen and Dickens, and countless more in between, lemoned with the curse of age. Henry's greying hair became snow. His knees creaked as he lowered himself onto the bench and rested a knobbly walking stick against the metal. Thomas, too, was getting on, for a peacock. At nearly 20, he had spent 15 years of his life conversing with a stranger, who then became a friend. Their voices were company in quiet lives. The tourists died down—Tom was no longer a sensation. At first he was a little miffed—the loss of popularity is troubling even to the humble man. In time, he forgot he was ever famous and took to his reading with a renewed vigour that belied his years. To Henry's relief, this meant less requests for reading, until Tom's reading began to slow and head-bent, his beak grew ever-closer to the page.

'Henry, I'm afraid it's my eyesight. Will you go on?'

Everything—bird, man, secret—has its lifespan, thought Henry. He had hoped Tom's would run out first. You'd be forgiven for thinking he wished his dear friend dead. This is certainly how it sounds. Let us not forget his pride and worse than that, his fear—that upon finding his friend unable to read, Tom might leave him in favour of one who could. Would he be hurt? That his years of literary dissection had fallen on uneducated ears? Henry had played the conversation over and over in his mind all this time—imagining various reactions on Tom's part. When he was feeling hopeful, he imagined Tom giving him a good-natured flick of his tail and sending Henry to hire an audiobook. But the more he thought about it, the more he was sure his revelation would cost him the only friend he had in this city.

Tom narrowed his beady eyes and cocked his head. Realising he'd been silent for some time, Henry swallowed uncomfortably and said: 'Can't, mate. Never learned to read.'

Thomas had never considered it odd that his friend declined to read. In his wisdom he knew that many who enjoy the pleasures of novels have no wish to read aloud. And yet, now he considered it, he never had seen Henry read, much less so aloud. Henry carried the daily paper but it sat forever crisp and unopened on the bench. At first Tom was angered by such deceit but as he turned to face Henry and saw him rubbing the newspaper between arthritic fingers, smudging the text with the sweat of his palms, Tom softened. He understood now that it was all for him. Every day, for the past 15 years, Henry spent $1.10 on a broadsheet he could not hope to read, in the hope that his dearest friend would see him as the literary companion he so desired. Thomas considered this carefully planned manoeuvre and, finding himself quite impressed, gave Henry a wink and handed him a book.

***

Henry underestimated his friend. Loyalty was an important, if not frequent, aspect of Tom's disposition. He had all the shallowness of his species with a twinge of almost-human compassion. Each morning, Tom arrived with an old favourite, so battered that the plastic coating peeled from the edges of its cover. And so the bird spent the last years of his life teaching Henry to read. He began with the alphabet, moving on to syllables and sounding out, spelling and grammar. When he considered Henry sufficiently advanced, for he was a quick learner, he talked of character and theme. Thomas, blind now, taught Henry from the only text he knew by heart: _Great Expectations._ It was not until Thomas heard the old man read, fluently, and with a trace of his tutor's accent, the last line— _I took her hand in mine, and we went out of the ruined place; and, as the morning mists had risen long ago when I first left the forge, so, the evening mists were rising now, and in all the broad expanse of tranquil light they showed to me, I saw no shadow of another parting from her—_ that he parted, closing his eyes for the final time as Henry snapped the cover shut.

Ashley Orr is a uni student who wishes she wrote more stories than essays. Despite being a city girl for most of her life, she loves to write about country Australia. Lately she's been experimenting with the genre of dirty realism and hopes to begin a novel over summer.

Ashley Orr

Wanniassa ACT

Creatures of Habitual

Anthony J. Langford

Croydon NSW

You never quite know when and how much your life will change, no matter how much it's dominated by routine.

As she read the front page of the local mid-coast paper she had to smile. Her partying days were well and truly over and wasn't that a blessing. The article in question was about two paramedics that had been attacked whilst on the job. They were attending to an assault victim in the town centre late on Saturday night when they themselves were set upon. She shouldn't really smile. It might not have anything to do with her but it was a terrible situation and a sad reflection of where many of today's juveniles were at. Youth had never respected authority and the commentators were fooling themselves thinking that they had, but there did seem to be an increase in alcohol related violence. No one thought anything of a group setting upon one person or attacking someone with a glass or bottle. In her day, you would be a labelled a coward for such an act. A fight was one against one or a gang against another gang. The article reminded her of teenage days of trouble, tears, tantrums, confusion and heartbreak. Oh yes, plenty of heartache. An ocean of pain, the emotions as swirling and unpredictable as the currents. She was glad that it was all behind her. Today her life was the polar opposite. She was sixty three and had become the person she swore she'd never be, just like her mother. If anything, her life was even more structured than the other. Her days went like this:

She rose at 6:45 a.m. after one hit on the snooze button. She let the cat out, His Majesty Fernando, and made breakfast which she ate at precisely 7:30 a.m. She washed the dishes and had a shower. She put on her makeup and left the house at 8:40 a.m. and not a minute later. She walked to the corner store and bought the paper. She could have it delivered but she likes the walk and the nice man who runs the store, Mr Plumpton who, while not overly chatty, is polite and knows her name, which in itself, warrants the journey. She walks home, lets the cat in, makes a pot of tea, enough for two cups and reads the paper. At 9:45 a.m. she begins her housework regime which takes precisely one hour. She dusts, vacuums (those cat hairs), makes her bed and a quick once over of the bathroom (it's already spotless).

Monday the bins go out, Tuesday she returns the weekly DVDs and rents a new batch (always three), Wednesday is lottery day, Thursday is lunch with the girls at the quaint little café near the mall (the RSL is for drunks and gamblers) followed by a library visit and Friday is lawn bowls. If possible, depending on the weather, she will sweep the concrete paths around her house, if not, a little polishing of the items in her cabinet, the animal figurines, souvenirs and family photographs. Though she had never had children, there were many slightly faded shots of her nieces and nephews and now, some of their children.

Lunch is a simple ham and salad sandwich with a side plate of cut up fruit (apple and banana), though in winter she makes a tomato or pumpkin soup with bread.

Somehow or other, twenty three years before, she had stumbled upon one of the prominent early afternoon soaps and had become deliciously hooked. She doesn't feel as though she must watch it, it's more like visiting old friends. The characters gave her a sense of warmth, even if their behaviour was often questionable.

Following that, it was off to the local shopping district by car where she would buy groceries and pay bills and whatever else required her attention. She came home, fed Fernando (the first of two meals as he prefers to eat late), and had a cup of tea and a wee slice of cake, which she makes on a Sunday, a spot of reading, a good old fashioned mystery and then it was onto dinner preparation by five, dinner at six, washing up, ABC News, a change into her nightie, a variety of her favourite shows, spread throughout the week, though Friday and Saturday nights were DVD nights. There were many more things, such as reading in bed for twenty minutes before sleep and others so exacting that she no longer needed to rely on the eight clocks spread throughout the house even though she scanned them meticulously anyway. Such is habit.

The evening came about, a Friday, DVD night. She had stayed up later than usual, which was no accident, as her precise bedtime was determined by the movie's length. Live a little. Tonight's film was an Australian drama about ten years old with the usual Aussie characters and woes (why do they have to swear so much?). The stories may change, but it appears to her as though they were all made by the same people. Perhaps they were. A comforting thought. However it was over two hours long and she was very tired. Something felt out of place.

The cat. 'Oh no, Fernando! Poor love.' He would be waiting for her at the door and probably had been for some time. She slid open the glass door, expecting to see His little eyes staring up from the step so much so that it took her seconds to grasp that He wasn't actually there. She could make out half the yard with the light leaking from the kitchen, but the rest was in darkness. She called out His name but He didn't come. She figured He was probably sick of waiting for the silly woman and had wandered off somewhere. Should she leave the door open and hope that He would return? But how long would that be? She decided to fetch the torch from the bottom of the pantry behind her garden shoes. She discovered that the shoes were a tad grotty and in need of a good wipe. Mess was not best.

She slides the door closed behind her and flicks the torch on. She plays the beam over the backyard. The light brings momentary respite to the gloom but her glasses don't really help. They are her short distance glasses, but she is impatient. She calls out to Him, treading across the perfectly cut lawn, (she has a garden man come every three weeks), stopping in front of the small trees and bushes which line the back fence. She swings the light over them, the shadows thick and floating. There is life in there. A little frightening. Fernando with his dark fur could be in front of her but she wouldn't be able to see Him. Yet He always comes when she calls. So it is logical that He is not here. She turns and walks down the side of the house, where the path leads to the gate and out onto the street. The gate remains shut, which of course, means nothing. It wouldn't be the first time He has jumped the fence.

The street light beckons. It is brighter out there and she should get a clear view. She pulls her nightie tight around her and opens the gate. She surveys the front yard calling softly to Fernando. She doesn't want to scare Him away nor disturb the neighbours, lest they think her odd. This is not like her at all. The torch does not reveal any clues and the surrounding houses appear quiet, save for a barking dog further up the street. She hopes that it is not barking at Fernando. He could be backed up against a fence, frozen with fear. Perhaps she should take a look. The street is quiet, save for the muffled sounds of televisions and bluish flickers from beyond the curtains. She treads slowly up the pavement, her slippers soft on the concrete. She has to have her Fernando home. She will not be able to sleep without Him.

The street is different in the dark. It's like another world. She can't remember the last time she had been out at night. It's almost as though she's walking on the moon, an explorer. The Arctic Circle, without the ice. She finds it strangely invigorating, but has to focus on the cat. The dog barking increases in intensity and ups her anxiety, but as she gets closer, she realises it's merely one of those tiresome yappy mutts that would howl at a bird fluff. She walks on, reaching the end of the street. It's more illuminated at the next cross street, a busier road. Perhaps He was attracted by the noise and lights. It seems an awfully busy and dangerous place for a wee cat. As she walks, she remembers that it is Friday night, which would account for the traffic, but still, she has never seen it so busy. The streets have certainly changed over the years. She is tempted to go back home, but can't return without Him. She keeps calling for Fernando, but is disheartened by the young people going past in their cars ogling her. Some beep, some laugh and one cheeky young lady yells out; 'Hey grandma! Where's ya wand? Woo-hoo!' Such disrespect. And she is no one's grandma either. She isn't even that old. Perhaps she isn't young anymore, but is still middle-age thank you, with many years left. That's if she doesn't catch cold from being outside. What was she thinking being out at night in her nightie no less? And yet the breeze on her cheeks and the faint salt sprinkle of stars above make her feel lively. There is an energy in the air, a slight hint of adventure too, a feeling that she has not had since being young so long ago, when she was, literally, a different person.

She is so preoccupied looking in every shadow for Him, that she doesn't notice them until they are almost on her. It's a young group, four male and one female and nearly all of them drinking. She stops but they are curious. They quickly surround her, looking her up and down as though she belongs to another species.

'She's pretty hot hey!'

'Ha ha. You idiot.'

'Maybe she's lost.'

'Escaped from the old people's home.'

'Cool. On the run, hey.'

'She must be crazy.'

'She's bananas. In pyjamas!'

They laugh, encouraging one another.

One elbows another. 'See if she's up for a shag.'

They explode in a cauldron of splutters and fall over themselves in a tirade of teenage limbs, each aiming to impress the other.

'Please. Have you seen my Fernando?'

'You're what?' More giggling.

'Wait, she's trying to say something,' says a boy.

'My cat,' she says. 'He's lost. Have you seen Him?'

Another boy says, 'She wants to know if you've seen her pussy.'

They all laugh and one boy pushes another towards the sixty-three year old. Operating on instinct she swings the torch as the boy flies at her and there is a coarse crack and the boy drops. Some of them chuckle at first, but she immediately knows it's bad. She backs away as the girl and a boy go to the injured teen who has not moved. For a moment they think he's kidding as there is no blood. But it's no joke.

'What'dya do that for?'

'Hey you bitch!'

She takes a step back.

'Where do you think you're going?'

The girl on the pavement screams, 'Call an ambulance!'

Two boys walk towards her. Hate on their faces.

She holds out the torch to them. 'I didn't mean it. I'm really sorry.'

They call her names that she has not heard for decades, apart from in films, occasionally in the street and that unfortunate time inside the butcher when a customer argued over the price of Italian sausages. She drops the torch. One of them picks it up and holds it back like a cricket ball, ready to hurl at her like she's the stumps. 'Maybe I'll do it to you, old bitch!'

She pictures her house, her chair, her kitchen, her clocks, her bed; all she wants is her bed. And that stupid cat, Fernando. This is His fault. 'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.' And then she recalls the newspaper articles. The assaults, the vicious beatings, the lack of respect, society seemingly without rules and she knows she is doomed. She has no recourse, she has handed them an excuse on a platter. She will be the one in the next day's papers, and someone just like her will read and shake their head and wonder what the world was coming to and then put the paper down and have a cup of tea or watch TV, perhaps her favourite soapie and simply forget. That's all she'll be, a scant few lines in the local rag. She doesn't even have children. There'll be a funeral of course, some faint dabbing beneath the eyes with a handkerchief, a wake with tea and biscuits and a missing spot in the bowls team, but that will be filled quickly and that will be it. Gone. As though she was nothing. And all those years sticking rigidly to her schedule would count for naught. Did her routines ever do her any good?

The two lads circle her like a pair of hungry lions, wondering which piece of flesh to rip off first.

She is rigid. There is no point in crying. It's too late. It was a mistake. It had all been a silly mistake. Just one slip up in a vacuum sealed life. Why hadn't she stayed home?

She hears a siren, enlarging. An ambulance?

A third boy rapidly approaches the others. 'Come on guys. She's just an old woman. She didn't mean it. Did you lady?'

She shakes her head, unable to speak.

'Come on. I'll walk you home. Do you know where you live? Where's the hospital?' He lightly takes her by the arm. 'This way is it?'

The other two look to each other for guidance, but find none. They merely stand, waiting for someone to tell them what to do.

The ambulance pulls up. A young man and a woman get out, but they hesitate. They personally know the paramedic who was recently attacked. He remains in serious condition. For all they know, it's the same group of teenagers.

'Step away from the victim,' says the woman.

The girl cradles the injured boy's head and indicates with her own, that she will not obey.

The young woman points. 'We're not coming over there until you back away. The lot of you.'

The male paramedic becomes aware of the elderly woman in her flimsy nightie with another teen gripping her arm, about to or having already done, who knows what disgusting thing, all in the arena of pubescent entertainment. Sick little shits. The man charges at the boy, who barely has time to speak as he is tackled to the ground with full force, almost bowling over the sixty-three year old. The other two boys rush in to help, fists and feet in high rotation and the female paramedic is calling on her radio and the older woman in her pyjamas rights herself and runs, yes, she actually runs, which is the first time for many years and she isn't that fast but is a lot faster than she thinks possible and perhaps the bowls has been giving her some exercise after all and in no time is back in the darkened streets more familiar to her and is astounded that no one is pursuing, instead detecting another siren, one she recognises as from a police car and she slows as she is reunited with her street and her bosom heaves as she tries to catch up on oxygen and is soon at her side gate, spluttering, her throat dry and her temples clobbering and staggers into her backyard and the light on the steps by the back door paints Fernando like a celebrity, waiting but indifferent to her state. She squints as she gets closer. He licks his lips, anticipating food. That's all she is to Him, a source of food. A Living Dispenser. A Private Chef. A Walking Supermarket. A Portable Drive-Through. Her throat is raw from her toil, but still she screams, 'You fucking little bastard shit of a cat!' With adrenaline still surging she kicks Fernando and he scissors backwards into the glass door, bounces off, rotates in a blur and bounds screeching off into the night.

She opens the door and slides it shut behind her, locking it with a sense of finality. She stumbles panting to the cupboard and seeks out a bottle of whiskey which has been there for over a year thanks to her nephew who insisted it be left there, no doubt to tolerate the boredom of visiting her. Well fuck him too.

She stays awake until the sky is blue and gets drunk as a maggot in a beer vat.

She sleeps most of the next day, neglecting her breakfast, the dishes, her shower and forgoes buying the paper and therefore not discovering the outcome of her ordeal in a small paragraph on page four but is successful in eradicating her routines forever more.

Without Him.

Anthony J. Langford

Croydon NSW

Anthony grew up in country Victoria but after several years travelling now lives in Sydney with his baby daughter and three step children. He has had numerous stories published and his novella 'Bottomless River' will be published by Ginninderra Press in early 2012. He publishes a blog at www.anthonyjlangford.com

Dawn Kaleidoscope

Robyn Chaffey

Hazelbrook NSW

I stood mesmerised

in the entry

as the heavy cedar door

swung slowly open

to reveal breath-taking

dancing light-plays

dawn-kaleidoscopic

as the first warm rays

of the new rising sun

eagerly pierced

magnificently

textured and coloured

lead-light windows

It was as though

freshly dew-kissed angels

in their finest

autumnal robes

danced

in joyful celebration

upon every sacred surface

of this tiny God-blessed hall

transforming

without effort

the cold and lonely chapel

to a place of peace and joy

I had risen very early

just to mop the floor

'twas my duty

'twas a chore

there to dust the furnishings

but touched this morn

unexpectedly

perhaps miraculously

by this seldom seen

illusive

autumn dawn display

I was heart-transformed

would now face each morn

with joy

as I ran to catch a moment

of tiny

dancing

kaleidoscopic angels

few but me

were ever blessed to see

Sydney Summer Slow

Susan Adams

Dangar Island NSW

After lunch we slow

midday heat expansion

melts glue of joints and cells

leaves us formless

wobbling edges

of infinity pools,

packs reason into sandwiches

for later snacks. We surrender.

Cicada burst of swarm

jerks us to our smaller selves

as touch to anemone,

acid to wound, we contract to fear and alert

with jab of adrenaline

a jet plane revving up

to a stop

so sudden

its scalpel to air

hung as sky fences around us until

silence shuffles sounds

back to startled vacuum.

The moment moves forward,

hush heavied curtains

unfurl.

Interiors

Miranda L. Payne

North Coast NSW

The white door opens to reveal an interior that ever impresses itself upon me as not so much a room but a velvet cave. She is seated, as always, on the crimson divan facing the door as I enter. Often she wears silk or velour. My favourite is an iridescent turquoise shawl.

As always, on the coffee table, to my right, which runs along the wall between her divan and the chair opposite, where I sit, is the vase I have given her and in which, like any true devotee, I will place my offering of flowers; forget-me-nots, camellias or roses, depending on the season. Above the coffee table hangs the tapestry her guru has given her.

And, as always, the room is infused with the smell of incense. The cream lace curtain behind her billows lightly in the breeze.

To my left, along the wall, are the shelves which house books, which seem to me to contain the very answers to life's mysteries. Or at least the mystery of my life.

There are some cushions on the floor, I think, and a few stuffed animals. But it is the books that my eyes always linger on. Perhaps they can decode me.

On the bookshelves is a statue of Lakshmi, an Indian goddess of healing.

It is a room that invites and holds the telling of secrets or stories, which are sometimes the same thing, as well as offering silence and mystery and promise. And it seems to me that once I cross the threshold, I have entered sacred space; the world outside suspended. I am tabernacled here.

Her green-gold eyes also hold the same compelling invitation and promise, and some arcane knowing, and, to be honest, I don't remember which I noticed first; the room or her presence; and perhaps they came to be the same thing.

The first time I went there I was deliberately and nonchalantly late, to show that I was not going to let her be too important to me.

'You are late.' she said. And then, 'I thought you might not come.'

'I'm not sure I was going to come.' I replied.

And so began the first of visits I can no longer count. Into this room, on some strangely pilgrim and sacramental journey, I drag my cracked and desert heart to unburden itself of its griefs and emptiness and the shelter, acceptance and communion I find here become a soothing balm for its wounds. Grace for my soul and my soul's salvation. No longer parched, the inner realm comes to life, bringing the world back into colour. Life is once more coherent with meaning.

I often wonder how many others' souls are similarly held within this room.

In it I am launched on an epic voyage to navigate the cavernous chambers of my turbulent and secret heart, to plummet the aching chasms of the void within, in search of lost parts of myself, which I did not know were missing, in order to mend my brokenness and become whole, to find the centre from which I have become dislocated. Dislodged from self, I am fragmented, unloosed, unhinged, unmoored, washed up, dried up, stranded on arid and alien shores. A shipwreck of myself, I have foundered on life. Castaway, cast off, mere flotsam and jetsam.

It is a vessel upon the sea of my perilous subconscious, she at the helm as guide, with charts and compass. She is shaman, priestess, bridge to the gods and demons of the deep where I must go, as well as anchor to bring me back. She is launch and safe harbour.

She is womb wherein I am rocked and cradled, my barren spaces filled while I wait to be birthed into new life, waters breaking over desolate wasteland to make an inland sea. She is mother and midwife both. And I am withered no more.

Later on, when we became lovers, and this room our meeting place, in it I learned that there was no secret knowledge to be found in the unveiling of a mystery or the breaking of a taboo, only bitterness and recrimination, the inner sanctum hollow after all; that in the shattering of trust which came with desire made carnal, the sacred had been made profane and the shrine of my healing a place of betrayal, temple desecrated, safe harbour now treacherous water, Madonna turned temptress, wise woman witch, priestess falling from on high and drowning with me, sucking the world inside out and flinging it apart. I knew the quest to be ruined, my soul violated, heart again trampled and forsaken, fleeing for safe keeping to more securely sealed recess while ever yearning for release.

I learned of the tears shed for prayers answered instead of not, because I got what I thought I wanted instead of what I needed. And I learned that maybe there are some things not for sharing and some interiors best not entered.

Miranda L. Payne

North Coast NSW

Welcome to the second instalment of the world's first 'breadcrumb novel':

'Art and the Drug Addict's Dog' by Paris Portingale:

CHAPTER FIVE

I've never smoked cigarettes. I've always been too afraid of cancer of the lung, cancer of anything really, but cancer of the lung would be bad. You only have to hold your breath 'til you have to stop to get a feeling for how that one works, because that's what it's like, dying of cancer of the lung. Like you're holding your breath, but it just goes on and on, asleep or awake, until your lungs can't get enough oxygen processed, or the secondaries get you. I was in a chemist's once, buying something, and I saw a poster for nicotine patches stuck up behind the counter.

'Do people ever buy them just to get a buzz? Non smokers?' I asked her.

'I certainly hope not,' she said.

'I suppose it'd be hard to tell. It'd be a hard one to police.'

'They're a drug, they shouldn't be mistreated. They can cause all sorts of problems. People have died.'

'Really?' I asked. I got out my wallet. 'What's a good brand?'

'Why?'

'Nothing. Just thought I might buy some.'

'Do you smoke?' She looked at my fingers for signs of nicotine yellowing and I took my hands off the counter.

'Maybe,' I said.

'They're a drug. We don't just sell them to anybody.'

'What if I said I smoked a hundred a day?'

She ignored me. I said, 'I smoke a hundred cigarettes a day. Full strength. Have you got a cigarette? I'll show you.'

They can refuse you things, pharmacists, like if you ask for a hundred packets of cold tablets. If they think you're a drug addict or an idiot they have the power to refuse you what you want. They're a lot like doctors— they say they're all about the community and easing suffering but they lack a basic sense of humanity and any idea of adventure. I could have followed it up, gone to another chemist, but I lost interest. Anyway, Alex told me some time later how a friend had given him one at a party and he put it on and it made his head spin and he threw up on an electric hot plate which was on and the smell of the bubbling vomit made him throw up again on the floor. It's a terrible drug, nicotine, as addictive as heroin.

~~~

The next day I had to take my StopRite SG87 stun gun to Alex to have it serviced. At two o'clock Fletcher and I arrived at Alex's house. He had a workroom underneath with shelves and shelves of racked electronic equipment, mostly without cases so you could see the wires and boards and softly glowing red lights that intimated something was happening in there. There were screens, different monitors, old TV sets that had been converted to do something else, new flat panels, everything had extra wires, and nothing was standard. There were also tea and coffee making facilities. Everything was clean, in an unfussy way—there was no dust, the air conditioner was double filtered and, summer or winter, set to an uncomfortable cold, like an early Russian autumn, Alex said.

I gave him my StopRite. He said, 'NASA has confessed to suppressing the UFO sightings by the Apollo 11 team'. He had the slightest accent; you could only just catch it. 'Thirty years they sat on it. We had a right to know! What did they think we were going to do, panic and stampede? When I told my mother I'd seen a UFO she didn't run around the house screaming, waving her hands, smashing things, breaking the furniture. She told me to "Shut up and go to bed. You are talking crap".'

Fletcher was on his side, half under a bench, his eyes almost closed. Alex was finishing soldering something. There was a resiny smell to the air from the flux, and a little ozone too, and the tang of the thin oil you spray on things rusted shut. He put the soldering iron down and filled the electric kettle and turned it on. He didn't ask what I wanted. We had tea. He spoke at length of conspiracies, government, public and private sector plots, serious things being withheld, important facts buried, files destroyed, people murdered, the joke that the Freedom of Information Act had been from the very start.

He had the StopRite in pieces and he took a new part from a drawer, a battery, and soldered it in. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt. I asked him if he was cold. It was freezing in there as far as I was concerned.

'No,' he said. It was like a Russian autumn to him: brisk, a hint of the winter to come. 'Have you ever been to Russia in the winter, Art?' he asked.

'No, I never have,' I said.

'It can be a lot of fun. There is a big park in the centre of Moscow, Gorky Park, named after Maxim Gorky the famous writer. In the winter the stone paths flood and freeze over. Everywhere there are Russian vagrants in big overcoats, passing the time. The style is to have a bottle of vodka in each coat pocket. The vagrants wander about. Often one will slip on the frozen path and fall and then get up and stumble away leaking blood and vodka. The blood freezes. It happens frequently, trails of blood and vodka here, and more over there. It's dangerous walking on frozen water if you've been drinking vodka out of the bottle since six a.m.'

'I can imagine,' I said.

'I don't think so. It can get down to minus thirty degrees Celsius in a good Moscow winter. It takes more than a big Russian overcoat and two bottles of vodka to get you through sleeping rough. You should try it, then you could say "I know" instead of "I can imagine", which I know for a fact you can't.'

He had the stun gun reassembled now. 'Maybe one day,' I said.

'I think not, Art,' he replied and patted my back and I knew he was right. I'd never spend a night in a Russian winter, rough or in a hotel with gold cutlery; it wasn't in my charts.

I put the gun in my pocket and left some money for him in an envelope. He didn't open it, just threw it in the drawer he got the battery from. It contained a thousand dollars.

He saw us to the car. I buckled Fletcher in and as I put the Torqueflite into drive I waved and called out the window, 'Keep your stick on the ice!' It was an American saying, perhaps Canadian, and the only thing I could think of even peripherally associated with what we'd been talking about. He didn't understand it but it didn't matter because by then he was thinking of something else altogether.

~~~

Lyn Hoskins used to ride a horse. Recreationally. She'd ride it down the hill from the abattoir where she lived, round to the back of our hotel in Penolva, to the car park, usually to collect her father but once to try to get me to take something out of her shirt pocket. Her father owned the abattoir—it was all his, from the slippery-slide rides for the sledge-hammered cows to the huge circular saws they used to rip open the stomachs of the animals hung up on hooks. His name was Dave Hoskins and he was worth a lot of money and a lot of meat. Being the local hotel we used to get meat cheap from Dave, massive cardboard boxes of meat from the variety of different animals that Dave slaughtered up on the hill. There was so much meat, everyone was a walking coronary.

So, Lyn Hoskins had a horse, probably because her father worked a lot with animals. She'd be up on its back in the hotel car park chatting down to me and I'd be down at ground level, looking up at her, nervous and edgy, wondering what she was going to do. She took me on the back around the yard once, me behind her on the horse's rump with my arms around her waist, tight, because it was a long way back down. I was surprised how soft she was and it caused a solid erection which lasted until someone arrived in a car and parked in a cloud of dust and startled the horse so that I nearly came off. It was frightening and awkward and embarrassing because before I slipped sideways my erection was pushed into her back in a way that was alarmingly unambiguous. It went down almost immediately and I've never ridden any sort of animal since.

~~~

I was packing my kit, getting ready for my second visit to Mr Seager's. I had the telly on quietly in the background. Someone was interviewing Americans in the street. The country had been sliding ever since the end of the Cold War. Standards had been compromised by the sloth of creeping complacency. The country had put on weight, punched another hole further along its belt and started breakfasting on beer and cake. When the race is on to match Inter Continental Ballistic Missile with Inter Continental Ballistic Missile, nuclear this with nuclear that, you have to stay on your toes, keep more to your fighting weight. You've got to be in the ring there, practice-sparring pretty much every Saturday afternoon and at least one night mid-week. The interviewer was asking passers-by what they thought about Leonardo De Vinci and an attractive but heavy girl had just been saying how he was just so smashing in 'Titanic'. A short, round middle aged woman got the closest to a neatest correct entry by saying he should have his mouth washed out with soap and water for that statue he made of that boy with his privates uncovered and she was all for burning all the art books that had pictures of it because what if children got a hold of one. She was referring of course to Michelangelo's quite lovely statue of David but she got marks for being aware of anything that happened so long ago and in a totally different country altogether. I'm sure there is intellectual sinew aplenty in the United States of America but it formed no part of this show's duty statement.

So I was packing my kit. In a large leather holdall with a zip top I had the following items which I'd checked against a list:

· Folding shovel, of the type used by the soldiers to dig holes during a war

· StopRite SG87 stun gun

· A packet of six StopRite cartridges at forty dollars each unit (but you generally only need one)

· Roll of duct tape

· Some rope

· Balaclava

· A small case which stylishly displayed my set of lock-picks

· Gloves of the softest leather—kid, stripped from the body of a goat

· A torch that can float

· Spray can of black paint

· A digital camera

· A fresh pad and biro

· A magazine with an article about how once one major disease was knocked on the head another more frightening one took its place, so providing the world with balance and harmony

· A packet of Pork-O treats for Fletcher

Pork-Os have a cartoon drawing of a happy pig on the front wearing a sailor's cap, looking through a ship's porthole with the words 'Pork-Os Aweigh' tracing the bottom of the curve.

If you look at any pork product on the supermarket shelf that has the picture of a pig on it, they all look really excited about being part of the product, happy as happy can be, often wearing something crazy like a pork pie hat or a red and white polka dot neck scarf or bib and brace overalls, or in the case of a bacon flavoured bar purportedly eaten by astronauts, a space suit.

I also threw in:

· A spare battery for the camera

The way the StopRite works is this: you can fire it off either with or without a cartridge. If it's loaded with a cartridge when you pull the trigger two small electrodes with little barbed ends are fired using compressed nitrogen. There's probably some reason it's nitrogen but I don't know what it is. The barbs are attached to the weapon by thin wires which shoot down a burst of special electricity which has been adjusted in some way to stun, or disorganise, the brain's synapses to the point that the victim loses interest in whatever it was he was doing that annoyed whoever it was holding the weapon and he's down pretty much immediately, or becomes 'stunned' as it says in the pamphlet. If you don't have a cartridge in it when you fire, the thing produces a spark of the same synapse disorganising electricity at the end of the muzzle and if you happen to be holding it against someone's neck, say, or any other exposed flesh, you get a similar result. Mostly the thing stuns but if you get someone with a history of heart problems or who's over seventy, or just isn't cut out for that kind of activity, it can occasion death, as the police like to say. Alex said that in America, the land of the personal weapon, you can get them in zebra stripes or a range of stylish colours, and I believe him. The StopRite Corporation believes that, to make things fair and get some sort of level playing field going, everyone should have a StopRite, in the same way Henry Ford saw a world where everyone was driving around in one of his T-Models, and I can understand their reasoning and, more importantly, their sense of fair play.

~~~

Fletcher and I were in the Torqueflite, heading north for our evening meeting, Fletcher curled on the front seat, quiet, chewing Pork-Os. He's not a barker—he prefers to size a situation up. He's a thinker. He thinks about things. A teacher, a man more wise than a small public school in Penolva deserved, once said to me, 'Art, think...' and he paused for a second, '... then release'. It should be on the sides of buses all over the nation. It should be a national motto. Think... and release ... because so often we just release and no matter how much or how hard you think after that, it's often too late.

~~~

The last time I saw Minnie Fielding she asked me (and I don't remember how this came up) what I thought the world would be like in a thousand years. We might have been discussing the long term prospects of the human race, but it's possible it was something else entirely— you can't reverse engineer it from the question. Anyway, I thought about it for a bit and then told her I believed that in a thousand years dogs will have advanced to the point where they've learned how to open doors by themselves. And, I said, heaven help us when that happens because it's going to usher in a whole new age with a whole new set of problems that only people like Stephen Hawking and Bertrand Russell would have started thinking about yet, only not Russell, obviously, because he's been dead now for sixty years or so and I only used him as an example of the type of person who'd be thinking about it. She said I was being flip so I said okay, in a thousand years there'd be no human race and the dominant species would probably be one of the insects, maybe the cockroach as you couldn't kill them in a microwave and she said I was being flip again so I asked her what _she_ thought the world would be like in a thousand years. She said she could see it being similar to the way it is today, only with more people which would mean narrower supermarket aisles and longer queues for just about everything.

'Not a brave new world then?' I asked.

'Not exactly,' she said.

We were quiet for a bit after that until she looked up and said, 'Heaven help the universe if we take to the stars'.

'Aliens are looking into that already,' I told her.

~~~

We parked down from Mr Seager's at about four thirty that afternoon. I got the spray can out of the bag and put the lead on Fletcher and we did another lap of the block, coming down the last straight from behind the security camera so that as we passed I could give the lens a quick spray. Then we were back in the car ready to go, sitting quietly, waiting for Max to come home.

The StopRite was in my right trouser pocket and I had the gloves rolled up in the left. The rest of the kit was still in the bag, waiting for phase two. Fletcher was on his third Pork-O when Max pulled his high-end Ford up across the pavement. I saw him fiddle with something then throw it on the passenger's seat and the electric gates began to slowly swing open.

Fletcher and I got out then and crossed the road and walked up the grass verge in time to slip through as the gates began to close again. Mr Seager was getting out of his car and I waved and called hello. He stopped and turned towards us and I said, 'Hi there,' and gave another little wave. 'I'm Art,' I said, 'and this is Fletcher.' Fletcher was a pace ahead of me and I shook his lead to show Mr Seager I was referring to the dog. 'We're calling on you today on behalf of the Church of Jehovah, to share the good news of Christ's imminent return.' I moved Fletcher's lead to my left hand and pulled the StopRite from my pocket and, aiming roughly for his chest, pulled and held the trigger. There was a dull pop and the little electrodes darted out of the muzzle in a rush of gas and flew across the ten or so feet that separated us, the little barbed ends penetrating Mr Seager's shirt, going through into his flesh, one above and one below the left nipple. The special electric current buzzed down the wires then and Max expelled air and jerked and fell back into his Ford to lie across both front seats. He was unconscious I think, but I pulled the trigger again and held it down for the count of five to make sure and in the middle of the shaking he evacuated his bowels.

He must have been lying on the gate remote because the two gates started opening again. We got to the car and I put my gloves on and bent and reached in and felt under his shoulder for the little box. The smell from Mr Seager's bowel movement was unpleasant and even though I held my breath it was still getting in somewhere.

The gates were shutting again when I found it and I stood up and turned and pushed the green button and the mechanism made a grinding noise, then they started to open again.

I flipped the cartridge out of the StopRite and rolled the wires up and threw the coil onto Max's chest and then Fletcher and I got the Torqueflite and drove it in and parked it beside the Ford, with the boot right up next to Mr Seager. Fletcher stayed in the car while I got out and opened the boot and pulled and rolled and heaved Mr Seager until he was lying on his side in the back and then I used duct tape to bind his limbs and cover his mouth. I checked him again for a pulse then closed the boot and got in the car and backed out onto the street. I closed the gates with the remote then tossed it over the fence, into the shrubbery, and we set off on phase two.

~~~

We drove west for about four hours. Max's bowel release was finding its way into the front so I had the front windows down. I stopped once to fill up and let Fletcher out for a pee and to stretch his legs and we had a sausage roll each from a greasy bain-marie next to the cash register and Fletcher licked the sauce off his before he ate it.

We drove on and eventually I turned off the highway and drove for a while, then turned off onto a track and drove until after about fifteen minutes it just suddenly stopped.

It was flat and dry and scrubby and by the light of the three quarter moon I got Mr Seager out of the boot and dragged him five hundred metres off to the right, helped by Fletcher who had hold of a lapel of his coat. Max was still out. I got the Second World War folding shovel and unfolded it and Fletcher and I dug a hole.

We climbed out, and with something resembling a golf swing I struck Max as hard as I could on the top of the head with the flat of the shovel. Fletcher growled a little low growl, with his head lowered, looking at Max, and I checked again for a pulse. There was still something there so I hit him again and that seemed to stop it but I hit him once more because I can think of nothing more confusing or unsettling than one minute talking to a nice Jehovah's Witness and his dog and the next waking up in pitch black, buried alive somewhere. But probably about then God would have been setting up Mr Seager's infinite black void for him, smoothing it out, patting down any wrinkles so that it was perfectly flat and black and infinite.

So, we dropped Max in the hole and I straddled it and took a few shots with the camera. Fletcher kept jumping in and I'd have to haul him out and take a quick snap before he jumped back in again. Dogs have a different reaction to smells, and Mr Seager was giving off something pretty pungent.

We filled the hole in, Fletcher doing more digging than filling but he was working with me and it was good for both of us I think. I patted down the ground and flicked it with a branch of scrub and we packed everything up and got in the car and found our way back to the main highway. I doubt I could ever find Max Seager again. Maybe Fletcher could, at a pinch, but not me, even if for some unimaginable reason I should ever want to.
CHAPTER SIX

Minnie Fielding needed a joke for something she was writing once. She was having trouble and I tried to help. If you've ever tried to make up a joke you'll appreciate the difficulty involved and the talent of the people who do make them up. I've never met anyone who's made up a joke and no one I know has met anyone who has but there must be people out there doing it, unless Alex is right and they're aliens. Alex says aliens are using them to undermine the fabric of our society and it's an interesting theory providing you have no trouble believing there are aliens, or that a joke can actually undermine the fabric of a society. Anyway I've included my effort below. The pivotal point revolves around the elephant's supposed perfect long term memory, which I've tried humorously to cast into doubt. There are two elephants in the joke, one which you eventually discover is named Max and a second, whose name is never revealed. Ancillary characters are Peter Wilmont, a bartender and Trevor Parsons, a figure from Max's past. The joke is set initially in New York, and then towards the end it moves to Philadelphia. You'll see how it all fits together as you read on.

Two elephants walk into a bar in New York. The left elephant (if you're looking from the bartender's point of view) says, 'Two beers please, bartender'.

The bartender says, 'We don't serve elephants here,' and this really gets up the left elephant's nose and he starts stomping about the place, busting tables and picking up customers' drinks in his trunk and throwing them around the place. There's smashed glass and splintered wood all over everywhere. Meanwhile the right elephant has been talking quietly to the bartender. The left elephant pauses to get his breath and the right elephant beckons him over with his trunk and the left elephant comes over and there are two beers poured for them on the counter. The right elephant says to the left one, 'Hey Max, remember this guy?' and he puts his trunk around the bartender's shoulders.

Max looks at the bartender and after a second says, 'Oh my God, it's Peter Wilmont, the guy that pulled the thorn out of my foot all those years ago. It is you isn't it Pete?' and the bartender nods and says, 'Yup, I am that man'.

Well, they have a fine old reminisce and after that, to pay their old friend back, the two elephants would come into the bar every Friday night and do their old circus routine they used to perform when they were with Ringling Bros, back in the nineties when a dollar was a dollar and a circus was still a viable proposition. They were very popular for quite a while, but then the act got stale and they started missing a Friday here, and another one there, 'til they finally stopped coming in altogether and moved to Philadelphia where they started a peanut importing business.

(Now, here comes the tag. It's not a punchline as such but there is an inherent irony that makes it funny in the inward smiling kind of way.)

It seems that one day Max was on a bus going to an open day they were having at the Philadelphia Museum of Contemporary Art and this guy gets on at Ash and Fifth and sits across the way from Max. He's staring at Max and starting at him and eventually he can't help it and he reaches over and pokes Max in the trunk and says, 'Hey, you're Max aren't you? Remember me? Trevor Parsons—I used to shovel out your cage when you were with Butler Brothers, back there in '94 I think it was'. And Max just stares straight through him.

For some reason, Minnie never used it and eventually came up with something herself about a caterpillar and a sloth that I can't remember.

~~~

I'd seen Mr Seager on the Wednesday. On the following Friday I sent an email to Mr Dean. I put nothing in the subject or message areas, just attached one of the better photos I'd taken on the Wednesday night, somewhere out west there in the middle of pretty much nowhere. None of them were all that brilliant but if you knew him you'd see it was Max, particularly if you put your finger over the top of his head to obscure where it had been pounded. Later that day I checked my bank account and fifteen thousand dollars had been deposited listing Dean Enterprises as the contributor. Thanks Mr Dean.

~~~

Three weeks later, a little hard on the heels of the last, there was another envelope under the door. This time it was a plain A4 manila envelope, sealed with Mr Dean's spit and not string and at a guess I'd say you'd buy them in packs of twelve for three dollars or less. When I checked, there was an email in my inbox with another photo.

~~~

There's a night floater that Alex mentions from time to time, a Faustino Arroyo who fought in the Spanish Civil War. He was a pilot and flew a Gourdou-Leseurre, a natty little plane with a single wing and an open cockpit. Faustino Arroyo enjoyed flying his Gourdou-Leseurre around the Spanish countryside, shooting at people on the ground, trying to kill them. Sometimes he dropped bombs. He started throwing them over the side but it was hard to accurately hit anyone like that and a Spanish bicycle mechanic designed a thing to go between the landing wheels so the bombs could be released by pulling a lever in the cockpit. His technique was to fly the plane in a steep dive, aiming at the largest group of people he could see and at the last minute release the bombs and level out to strafe whoever was left. It was work for daylight hours only, which left his nights free to drink and excite the pants off attractive women with his tales of shooting and bombing. I mention Faustino Arroyo here because of the irony of his demise. A good irony can be quite an entertainment. The ground forces had yet to work out the trick of shooting at aeroplanes (you have to actually aim at a spot ahead of the plane which was somewhat counter-intuitive at the time) and he flew his Gourdou-Leseurre over a hostile Spain for four years without a bullet coming within pissing distance. Faustino Arroyo died in 1947 outside Lisbon, Portugal when, steering with palsied hands, his car collided with a moving train, just two weeks before he was due to die of syphilis.

~~~

It's a sadly overlooked and underrated war, the Spanish Civil War. People came from as far afield as Russia and Mexico to be in it, and you could see the attraction—it had aeroplanes _and_ Ernest Hemingway, two exciting forces lacking in many earlier conflicts. Over two hundred thousand lives were nipped in the bud and Alex's friend Faustino Arroyo had a finger in quite a number of those little popping buds.

~~~

_The Comfort of the List_.

Have you ever noticed what a comforting thing a list is? It could be a list of anything really—things from the supermarket, things to do, places you'd like to go, people you'd be more comfortable about if they were dead or in a prison or somewhere. A piece of paper with a series of individual items, each on its own line, probably starting with a capital letter.

The idea of the list goes thousands of years back into history. God knew about lists from day one. One of the earliest and possibly heaviest lists of any note was of course the Ten Commandments, which Moses jotted down on a couple of stone tablets he happened to find that time on the top of Mount Sinai. He must have known something was up when he climbed up there because he took a chisel with him and a lucky thing for history he did too as it turned out. Ten commandments, two stone tablets, five commandments a tablet.

People spoke of the Comfort of the Faith but God knew a second and possibly superior comfort, the Comfort of the List.

There are a couple of rules regarding a good list and the most important one is this: Keep your hottest item for last. If you can, always end your list with a zinger.

Take God's final zinger of a commandment—now there was a deity who knew how to make a list. 'Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's wife.' There was a lot of that going on around about that time and you can see the attraction. Everyone's living pretty much in the desert, there's not a lot to do and very little entertainment, so it was a pretty attractive proposition to while away the evening hours with a bit of a covet of your neighbour's wife, or the other one, four doors down with the big wobbly breasts. But it wasn't on as far as God was concerned and He stuck that one down the bottom for the big climax, the show-stopper: 'No coveting your neighbour's wife!'

I think the second last one, 'Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's house', was a bit of a non starter and should have been further towards the middle, maybe between 'Honour thy father and thy mother' (another kind of lame one) and 'Thou shalt not commit murder' (where we're starting to get into a more interesting area). If you look at the type of accommodation there was available in the desert at the time it was pretty basic stuff, dirt floor, no glass in the windows—I can't see a lot of house coveting going on, but there you are, who are we to question what was going on in God's mind?

But I'm getting off the point which is that the list has been an important concept for as far back as anyone can remember. It would be interesting, I think, to put together a collection of famous lists, make a little book, illustrated perhaps with shots of the lists' compilers. Alexander the Great's list must have been massive, seeing he was going off to conquer the whole known world (which even an optimist like himself would have seen taking a bit of time), particularly as around then you could never be sure of getting anything like a new pair of underpants your size in places like Babylon or Carthage.

And Hannibal's list for when he was going off over the Alps to invade Rome which, if he's anything like the list maker I think he was, would have had at the bottom, appearing almost as an afterthought, '38,000 infantry with elephants'. Boom, boom, big finish.

There'd be many, many others, equally as interesting. Napoleon's—when he was packing his trunk for the stay on the island of Elba, exiled for being a naughty emperor and such an idiot at Trafalgar. Neil Armstrong's—getting ready to leave the spaceship for the first time to have a look around the Sea Of Tranquillity.

I bet Albert Einstein knocked out a few corkers too. Being a mathematician and theoretical physicist his lists almost certainly would have been numbered.

· Glasses

· Copy of 'Time' with me on the front

· Spare handkerchief

· Change of underwear

· Theory of Relativity

(Big one last again.)

Man's existence is inextricably linked to the list. It always has been and always will be. We have a bond— we're the only species on the entire planet capable of making one. _m_

Paris Portingale

Mt Victoria NSW

Join us again in the next Narrator for part 3 of Art and the Drug Addict's Dog

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