

### narratorAUSTRALIA

### Volume Three

Various Contributors

May to October 2013

A showcase of Australian poets and authors

who were published on the narratorAUSTRALIA blog

from May to October 2013

Smashwords Edition

First published November 2013 by MoshPit Publishing

an imprint of Mosher's Business Support Pty Ltd

Shop 1, 197 Great Western Highway

Hazelbrook NSW 2779, Australia

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

This ebook © MoshPit Publishing on behalf of all authors listed in the Index.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the authors herein.

Cover image: Foggy sunrise – lonely tree and sun morning landscape, by konradlew, purchased from <http://iStockphoto.com/>

This book is also available in print. Please visit the narratorCENTRAL website for more details.

#  Contents

Foreword

Copyright Reminder

Index

Bios and contact details

MoshPit Publishing, narrator and more

#  Foreword

Here we are again with another volume of Australian creative writing, reflecting the diverse interests and thoughts of our community. What an honour it is to bring you this third edition of narratorAUSTRALIA.

It never ceases to amaze us how many new and original thoughts come in each week. One would think that, with all the billions of people on the planet and access to writing tools and the internet, that every facet of the human condition would have been explored in writing by now, but not so!

Over the last 18 months, the narratorAUSTRALIA community has grown and is reaching more people who understand the value of testing their work on the site. New and established authors alike are beginning to use the narrator program to garner an audience for their existing works by including in their biographies links to their websites and purchase links for their books.

As always, we've received some works which really made us sit up and take notice and so these have received an Editor's Pick. And as always, the usual disclaimer: you may not agree with us, and yes, there are other pieces which missed out by the slimmest of margins. But that's the beauty of art, isn't it? It's all in the eye of the beholder. So congratulations to all contributors for helping highlight the great standard of creative writing in Australia with this third volume.

This year we started activating our plans to broaden the narrator program. We will now accept entries to narratorAUSTRALIA from around the Oceanic region, so our friends in New Zealand, Fiji etc, can get competitive with their Aussie writing friends.

And as part of that expansion, we now have two more geography-based sites: narratorUK, which is accepting entries from Great Britain, Ireland and surrounding countries, and narratorUSA, which is accepting entries from the US, South America, and surrounding countries.

We are also pleased to introduce six genre-based sites accepting entries from all round the world, so our narratorAUSTRALIA entrants can now mix it up in a variety of ways:

– narratorEROTICA – stories and poems you wouldn't want your mother to read!

– narratorROMANCE – for those stories and poems about love that you would be happy for Mum to read!

– narratorFAITH – a place of respect for sharing your thoughts about whatever gets you through the night

– narratorFANTASY – for lovers of Middle-earth, magic, and other staples of fantasy literature

– narratorPRIDE – for positive stories with themes and/or characters along gay, lesbian, transgender, polyamorous, intersex and bisexual lines

– narratorSSS – for sci-fi, speculative fiction and steampunk works.

All nine sites are open now. Visit <http://www.narratorCENTRAL.com/> and remember to choose the competition you wish to enter when uploading your piece.

Just a timely reminder to help you maximise your chances of being published:

Please don't submit memoir or essay pieces – narrator publishes creative fiction only.

Please ensure you are happy with your work before submitting it – we don't have time to make requested changes to your entry.

Please ensure your work has been proofread and/or edited. Poorly written or presented works will be quickly declined.

Please ensure your work entertains, provokes thought or stirs emotion. We are looking for works which make us sit up and take notice via their rhythm, words, ideas, humour, sadness or thoughtfulness.

But enough from me. It's time for you start enjoying this new volume which contains more than 210 poems and short stories written and submitted by more than 90 emerging and established writers from across Australia and published at www.narratoraustralia.com during the six month period from 1 May 2013 to 31 October 2013. Most items were published at 8 am Sydney time, unless otherwise time stamped.

So please, turn the page and start reading... and if you feel like submitting to a narrator competition yourself one day, we would love to hear from you!

Thank you for your support of narrator and the writers herein.

Jennifer Mosher, AE

Editor-in-Chief

# Copyright reminder

Please remember that every item in this book is the copyright of the attributed author.

Please do not even think about plagiarising these works or using them without permission.

If you wish to gain permission to quote from these works, or to use them elsewhere, then please contact us via our MoshPit Publishing website at www.moshpitpublishing.com.au if you can't easily find contact details for the author in question.

The above also applies to any images supplied by the authors to illustrate their artworks.

Thank you.

#  Index

Abecca, Kylie

The Hermit

Wish For An End

Adamopoulos, Stephanie

Cockatoos, Rats And Venus Flytraps

Anderson, David

A Good Death

Intellectual Cowboy

Kirsten's Photo

Murder Me Before I Die

The Book Of Dreams

The Butterfly Tattoo

The Loneliness Of The Long Distance Commuter

Arvan, John

Love

Ashwin, Hettie

Boy

Assumpter, Irene

The World That Comes Third

Baker, Sarah

The Beginning Of An End

Bingham, Leonie

Just Another Day At The Office

One Night In Gibraltar

Black, Jordan

Call Me

Heat

Kiss Goodbye

Wind

Boko, Armin

All Clerks Now

Dirty Money

Nobody Is Perfect

When There Are Two Inside Of One

Branscombe, Rachel

Darkened Night

Frightened Night Child

One's Imagination

Swing Free

The Storm

Bruton, Judith

Five Easel Pieces

Game

Naked Options

The Art Of Nothingness

Bundesen, Jean

Capricious Weather

Garden Drama

Grey Horses Fly

Snapshots From A Railway Carriage

Burgess, Shirley

Mr Greedy

One Good Turn...

Wrong Address

Campion, Esther

Libraries

Chaffey, Robyn

Alan Murcott

Annie

Dreaming

Madge And Ruby

Sister's First Gift

The Ghost In Your Jeans

Clay, Sarah

Reality Check

Craib, James

At A Loose End

At Another Time

Australistan

Envy Of Aging Begonia

Majestic Drivel

The Charms Of Miss Cairns

The Puling

Cumming, Jennie

It's Time

David, Lauren

Therapeutic Relief

DavidVee

Kingfisher

Demelza

Praise For Penny (And Her Poise)

Dimitric, Irina

Cloud Gazing – A Tercetonine

Ode To My Canary

Edgar, Bob

A Chip Off The Old Block

Broken Promise

Catching Up

Child's Play

Gutted

The Punter

Fantail

Awe And Confusion

Fermanis-Winward, Michele

The Quiet Carriage

Fowler, Mark

Acceptance

Betrayal

Hero Comes Home

Me Mack's Back

Old People Luddites

The Bee

The Natives Are Restless, Sir

Gardiner, Alexander

Cricket

Imagination

Nature's Wonder

Sum Wee Wurds O' Praise, Marilyn

Tae A Cherry

The Music Of Nature So Serene

Gibbs, Thomas

That Girl In The Dream

The Piercing Cold

Goodwin, Peter

The Bend In The Road

The Embrace

Govier, Mark

Dreaming I Am Edgar Allan Poe, Again...

Gow, Virginia

A Jolly Saturday

Pumpkin Soup

Rose

The Tangled Wood

Tip Top Invitation

Window of Opportunity

Hall, Emma

Desk Space

Hameed, Mubarak

Humanity's Crime

Heks, Andris

Heaven On Earth

Homo Animal

Of Raspberry, Yoke And Yoga

Howell, Connie

Broken But Not Beyond Repair

Humphreys, Paul

A Day Of Reckoning

Another Character

I Wish They Had Not Done That

No Regrets

Surprise

Jenkins, David

A Spell For Ireland

The Battle Of Stirling Bridge

Jensen, Heather

A Sustainable Dream

Joemass

A New Sura

Johnston, Henry

A Porpoise Life

Pearl Fishers

The Snarler

Karamaroudis, Kerry

My Life On The Outside

Kathopoulis, Jenny

My Light

The Porcelain Doll

Kay, Susan

Smashing Garlic

Two For One

Keegan, David J

Jungle Land

Out Of This Wood

Khare, Ruchi

Picture Perfect

Krone, Mary

I Dreamt Of You

La Porte, Judith

Water, Water, Everywhere

Lee, Crystal

An Ode To Music (My Dearest Friend)

Linn, Marilyn

Birds Of A Feather

Let's Party

The Old Pooncarie Road

Words Fail Me

Lutta, Fayroze

Let Me Clear My Throat Before I Begin...

On The 5½ Floor

What We Speak Becomes The House We Live In

Lynch, Felicity

Do Not Dare

Loneliness

Shadows

The Dark Garden

The Widow

Mancy, JH

Absent Friend

End Game

Henry

Quest

The Sheet House

Martin, Julie

House On The Beach

McCaskill, Ben

Ocean

McIntosh, Whitney

Eastbrook

Red And Cream

MD, Evelyn

Idle

The Black Pool

The Nut

Monica, Vita

A Man Under A Tree

Faith

Thought Of Horror

Where Have They Gone?

Murphy, Robert

A Childhood Friendship

Newman, David

Stony Waters

Just Some Thoughts

Nickols, Lynn

It Takes Quite Some Time

Pant, Subroto

The Busker

The Tall Tail

Pigott, Ann

The Meeting

Plummer, Alexandra

White Wizard's Spell

Porter, Beau

Another Farce

Radcliffe, Douglas

The Resin Diaries

Rain, Joanna

Gritty

Liberate

Ramsay, Sallie

A Very Special Grandmother

Consequences

RL

Orchard

Robertas

The Flasher

Ross, John

The Challenge

The Dangers Of Dating Doris

The End?

The Old Man In A Boat

The Travel Bug

The View From Here

Russell, Jane

Mo Goes Missing – The Xing Saga part 6

Ogglebog Is Saved! – The Xing Saga part 4

SnoopyLoo Meets The Emperor – The Xing Saga part 5

The Abandoned Ballroom – The Xing Saga part 2

The Future Is Female – The Xing Saga part 3

The Xing Invasion – The Xing Saga part 1

Ryan-Jones, Alexander

Copper

Smoke-Stacks

Sammy

You And I

Scott, Emma-Lee

The Countdown

Untitled #7

Within

Singer, Ariette

My Friend, The Shower

Please Explain, Time!

Smith, Winsome

Justice

Roadhouse

The House On Napoleon Street

These Made Me

Smithers, Alexandra

She (Part II)

Smithers, Shane

Death And Taxes

Soul, Jessica

Always Have And Always Will

Forever And Always

This Is Goodbye

Sparks, Graham

Steppe Surfing

The Killing Floor

The Second Dispossession

Twenty-Seven Typists

Stanbridge, Deborah

Shedding Light On Life

The Performance

Stanton, Craig

Dry

Todd, Shannon

Coffee And Carbs

Tome, Gregory

One Life's Detritus

Refugee Camp

Vitols, Wendy

The Welt

Walker, Mitchell

Grey Dawn

Ward, Ken

Prime

Warren, JL

Lady Rachel – The Downfall Of A Moral Empire

Withers, Ruth

A Magic Purple Carpet

A Nonsense

Childhood Lost

For You, Daughter

It Never Goes Away

On Waking

Zaknic, Athena

A Certain Date

Wednesday 1 May 2013

### Libraries

Esther Campion

Port Sorell, TAS

We are libraries of each other's lives,

repositories of memories important only to us,

cross-referencing events for clarity and meaning,

divulging the serious and silly secrets of our past lives,

storing them in the bomb-proof basement archives of our minds

lines of files placed carefully in my case

more haphazardly in yours

to be opened on rare occasions

like breakfast in bed

or late night conversation after sex.
Wednesday 1 May 2013 4 pm

### Intellectual Cowboy

David Anderson

Woodford, NSW

I've hitched a ride with Kerouac drifting out on the road

Heard Charlie's sweet sax, playing bop overload

Drove to Memphis in the mornin', feeling groovy and fine

In a '49 Chevy drinking too much red wine

Slept in Big Sur at night with no shoes on my feet

Hung out in the '50s with those cool Village Beats

Rapped with Ginsberg and asked, 'Was that lion for real'?

Hit some grains with Bill Burroughs, he said, 'How do you feel?'

Am I a hipster, perhaps an intellectual cowboy?

Or just a big pain in the ass?

Am I a beatific dude – or a tad just too rude?

Or has my time faded and passed?

Learnt some licks from Coltrane, in the cold evening rain

While he sat drinking Daniels and Coke

Smelt napalm in the jungle, in that Vietnam bungle

My life's been a Seymour Krim joke

I've sold my gun in the Congo, and I play a mean bongo

Spent a night with Doc Hunter on the town

Gave a Senator's wife the best ride of her life

But next day she was putting me down

Did peyote with Capote, he admired my goatee

Rode a white horse in Chicago for a time

Heard Brubeck playing cool while I hustled at pool

In the Bronx gave Jimmy Dean my last dime

Now I'm alone in my room, contemplating my doom

With a handgun pressed tight to my head

Playing Chet on a CD, with my face looking seedy

Thinking who the f**k cares if I'm dead?

Then you knock on my door, my gun drops to the floor

The bullet screams right through my cat

You've got pills and some wine, and soon I'm feeling fine

And then we do it right there on the mat

Am I a hipster, perhaps an intellectual cowboy?

Or just a big pain in the ass?

Am I a beatific dude –or a tad just too rude?

Or has my time faded and passed?
Thursday 2 May 2013

### The Welt

Wendy Vitols

Foster, VIC

The welt formed across my cheek within seconds of her hand falling to her side. The sting burned. I refused to let tears enter my eyes as I glared into her hard, cold face. I burnt. The fire raged within me as I stood, still, swallowing my fear and anger.

Her eyes shifted, side to side. It was a weakening that only I recognised. Perhaps she didn't even know it was visible. Those ice-like eyes did not meet mine again. Her head turned slightly as she began to move away from me.

I held my gaze with every ounce of determination I thought I had. Every hair on my body prickled, every pore sweated, every breath tortured. With each slight weakness she showed, I felt empowered. Strong. More equipped to bury the shame of the slap deep within me.

She busied herself with the dishes. Her back and the clang and battery of the dishes a fortress against me. I stood. Still and alert, still piercing the back of her head with my eyes. Still fighting the tears that bulged against my soul. I would not speak. I would not move. I would not allow her to win. I realised my strength. I realised she thought she had won. I knew she hadn't.

I knew she was pretending. Her hand shook just a little as it thrust plate after plate on the sink. Suddenly, she whirled around to face me. Spit and bitterness twisting her features, a glass fell to the floor, shattering, ignored by us both. The only common ground, as it settled sharp and dangerous between us.

'What the hell are you still standing there for?' she spat, between closed teeth and clenched jaw. 'Aren't you meant to be doing homework or something?'

I saw the hatred. I saw the resentment. I saw the decades of sacrifice and martyrdom tattooed on her heart. I saw her mentally grab for me, pulling me in closer, living through me. I saw the life wasted. I saw her lack of desire and passion crumpled up and shoved inside her near empty pack of Winny Blues.

I was everything she was not. I was young, where she was ageing. Soft, where she was hard. Quiet, where she was the life and soul of every situation. I was creative, where she was practical. I was demonstrative, where she was closed.

I had a vision of what we looked like, under the nude fluorescent assault of the kitchen light:

My Aunt, a middle aged sagging woman, shaking. Ill-fitting op shop t-shirt stretched tightly across her chest. Shorts that were too short sitting sadly around her thighs. Thongs clinging for life to the soles of her feet. All I had in the world was this woman, all the hope I had ever felt was wrapped invisibly around her.

Me, a twelve year old, red welt starting to bruise and swell across her face, proclaiming to the world my lack of innocence. A fourth hand school uniform, remnants of the school before last, shielding my scrawny body, feigning adulthood. All she had in this world was taken by me, as a four year old, when there was nowhere else I had to go.

Each of us pressed into our own corner, in the tiny box like laminate and linoleum room, the shards of the past strewn at our feet.

I knew she wanted physical retaliation. She craved a strike back, or even an attempt. Any touch at all would be justification for her. I could hear her breathe, quick, methodical, and shallow.

'I asked what you were still standing there for,' she said, almost quietly.

'I don't know,' I answered, honestly, in a whisper.

The stench of the rubbish bin in the kitchen, the grime of last night's sausages on the bench top, the stains of nicotine smoke on the ceiling. I honestly didn't know why this was my home, why it was that this woman was meant to be my mother figure. As I looked at her I saw the path ahead of me. I saw the cost of my own servitude. Nausea welled inside of me, I swallowed.

'I don't know,' I repeated.

Half hoping, half even expecting, that she would give me a reason. That she would explain my place, my spot in her life. That she had no regrets, although she'd had no choice either, eight years prior. I wanted to hear of the joy I had brought her; I needed to know I was wanted. All she needed to do was tell me, reassure me, and love me.

'You need to take the rubbish out.'

She turned back to the sink, grabbing for the dustpan. The radio perched on the window sill, blocking the light between the sink and the roller blind, crackling a bizarrely cheerful tune.

Dutifully I pick up the rubbish bag. I stand, bag in hand watching my Aunt stooped and broken over the once whole glass. I reach my hand out to touch her but stop before it is too late. I turn and walk out of the rusty wire fly screen and toss the bag onto the bin top.

I don't turn back.

I don't think about it, I just do it.

The anxiety in my gut makes way for butterflies. Goosebumps of hope appear on my skin.

I walk briskly, nervously, through the one hinged gate. I tread over the cracks in the concrete pavers. It is not until I am way past the letterbox I start to smirk, then grin. By the time I am at the bus stop I am giggling to myself and jogging.

I don't turn back.
Friday 3 May 2013

### Gritty

Joanna Rain

Nelson Bay, NSW

Gritty dirt

Gritty sand

Lay to rest

In my bed!

Traipsing in the earth

Don't touch my feet!

I'm attached to the dirt!

I won't wash my feet

Until it rains on me!

Gritty dirt

I carry around

As I cross the ground

I bring it home in little piles

Gritty dirt lays to rest

In a pile of earth in my bed!

This item started as a bit of fun between Joanna and JH Mancy. Joanna is JH's daughter and we published JH's response that afternoon – you can read it on the next page.
Friday 3 May 2013 4 pm

### The Sheet House

JH Mancy

Tallebudgera, QLD

I don't buy white sheets anymore;

Motherhood was with disaster fraught

It started when the kids were little –

Kids can be oh, so very fickle!

Bed times were a mite unsettling:

'Wash your feet!' I'd yell,

My words upsetting

'But Mum!' they'd wail (to no avail)

Glaring looks aimed in my direction –

I'll come back as a camel

If there's a resurrection

It gives me the hump – I tell you true

Now would I ever lie to you?

We're all assuredly in the frame:

We should go back – do that again!

This is JH's response to the contribution her daughter, Joanna Rain, made to narratorAUSTRALIA and which was published on the previous page.
Saturday 4 May 2013

### The Tall Tail

Subroto Pant

Sinnamon Park, QLD

It was on one of those lazy Sunday mornings when Ray first noticed that he was growing a tail. He had walked groggily out of his room when he felt an odd twitch in back of his pyjamas.

Either my head has rotated 180 degrees, or that dodgy kebab from last night is making an early exit, thought Ray.

The pyjama moved a little more. With much trepidation he put his hand inside and touched a little stub that seemed to have sprouted from the base of his spine; only a few inches long, but felt solid and real. Ray groaned inwardly, he knew this was a result of the drinking games that he had indulged in with his buddies the previous night. Given the choice of being reckless or responsible, they chose the former. None of the games required a lot of thinking – just a lot of alcohol. Spurred on by friends and the presence of young women they drank the night away. And now all that alcohol seemed to have affected his brain. He glanced up at the wall clock with its antiqued ivory face and the edge with dark chestnut undertones.

It's a quarter to eleven in the morning and I am having hallucinations.

The tail was making its way out from his pyjamas. He jammed a hand down his pyjamas; it was already a couple of inches longer than it was earlier, and growing. It was not just growing, the way it pushed itself out, grasping the elastic band, it was clearly exhibiting prehensile behaviour.

This can't be happening, he thought. Clearly I am experiencing hallucinations. I need help. Or maybe I should just go back to sleep.

Then as he walked to the kitchen to have a drink of water he heard the unmistakable sound of glass breaking. The tail was out in the open now. It had gripped the glass tumbler on the table but it had slipped out of its grip. The floor was littered with shards of glass that were twinkling like the night sky.

A stream of profanities issued from his mouth. This shit was real! This was the end of his life as a normal person. As far as he was aware there was no one in the world with a tail like the one growing out of his rear. Surely he would have heard about it by now. Such a creature would be on YouTube by now, generating millions of hits on the page. There would be unprecedented media coverage if such a creature existed. A daily report on some TV channel or other. Was he going to be that person? The first glimpse his friends get of his tail and nanoseconds later there would be a Facebook post, 'chillin' out with Ray and his tail'. In an instant, millions of likes and comments would be posted, as eight hundred million people would take to the social media networks. The man whose tail caused an internet meltdown.

A drop of sweat trickled down his brow and onto his nose. He wiped it off with the back of his hand wondering what had happened. In the stillness of the room he heard a fly buzz. The buzzing got louder but before he could brush it off with his hand, there was a swishing motion as the tail swatted the fly off his nose. His mouth opened and issued a silent scream.

How the hell did this happen? Was this an act of some kind of reverse evolution? A genetic journey with a DNA strand sending a mutation back in time? His body travelling backward through the millennia, reaching that moment in evolutionary history in which the human tail was both common and quietly useful. There was a story he remembered reading once about the Persian king Ahasuerus and his wife Vashti. In his drunken revelry, Ahasuerus decided Vashti should be paraded in front of the men in her royal crown and nothing else. She refused and was subsequently dethroned. Legend says that Vashti was not known for her modesty. So why did she disobey the order of the king? In the fable, Vashti grew a tail and did not want anyone to see it. Myths are often stories of supernatural beings and of a timeless past so there is no objective proof, but how do we know that the stories aren't true?

This was no fictional event; the swishing tail was evidence of the change that his body had undergone overnight. Cold sweat stood out on Ray's brow, and he was frightened now in earnest.

A doctor! That's what he needed. A doctor who would take care of this problem and cut his tail off. Or would a vet be a better choice? Does Medicare even cover removal of a tail? Surely this would be a world's first. Probably have legal issues involved. He remembered the advertisement he had read for the personal injury lawyers. We have considerable experience in the pursuit and defence of personal injury claims. You'll receive an early assessment and advice in respect of your prospects and the value of your claim, and we shall be happy to provide a free initial explanation of your potential entitlements and your options. We offer vigorous and efficient pursuit of your claim or defence, with access to expert advice and assistance from medical, engineering and other professionals. Would they laugh if he told them about his condition? Or would they be ecstatic just thinking about the free publicity involved.

Publicity! Oh God how would he deal with the publicity? And the stream of media that would be stalking him from now on? What was that story some years back about that infamous 'party boy' with giant yellow sunglasses? The teen that was famous for a year? He had hired some celebrity agent to look after him. Did he need to call Max Markson now, before the story broke, or would that come after? I hate Big Brother; I am never going on that show. Or be on the cover of the New Idea – 'Ray's Tall Tail'. There was probably an option for making ads for beer companies. The one that would have him two-fisting beers and still working on the barbecue. Blokey ads, doing blokey stuff with a helping tail. Fixing a Holden with the tail handing him the monkey wrench.

Then he saw it. His latest acquisition, the barbecue knives ordered online in plans for the planned cookout with his friends. He had always said that there are three types of knives that every barbecue addict should have: a boning knife, a slicing knife and a chef knife. Add a meat cleaver to the mix and you are ready for your own autotomy setup. No other parties would be involved. He would try this out first but if, like a urodele amphibian, if the tail was to regenerate again, he would accept it as a part of his life. It was going to be a long day ahead.
Sunday 5 May 2013

### The Xing Invasion – The Xing Saga part 1

Jane Russell

Mount Barker, SA

I was alone in the lift when I heard a heavy, rhythmic pounding echoing outside. It sounded like an army of heavy-footed storm troopers stomping up the fire stairs in unison.

I wonder what's going on? No one mentioned any building works today.

The lift arrived at the top floor with a 'ping' and opened directly into my penthouse apartment.

The pounding continued in the stairwell, but my attention was diverted by signs of intrusion – the sliding door to the beach was open, sand and sea-water were scattered across the lounge room floor. More importantly, a large, bright red, metallic robot stood in the room, clashing horribly with the décor. It was wet, seemed frozen mid-stride, and was mournfully intoning 'Stuuuckk!'

'What the hell are you doing in my apartment?' I demanded, 'and what have you done with my wife?'

'Oh, hello,' said the robot. 'I'm part of a 200-strong advance guard of metalbots from the planet Xing. We've just dropped in to set up the invasion of Earth. I met your wife. Lovely woman. Pity about the screaming. In the end I tossed her to Gerald – at least he was appreciative.'

'Gerald?' I prompted, full of foreboding.

'Gerald – the kraken. Poor chap, always hungry.'

I looked down the beach. In fact I did notice some large tentacles waving about, near the shore. Wasn't that a woman's leg???

No, look away. I gulped. I had to take charge of this situation fast. The rhythmic clumping was getting nearer.

'What's wrong with you, then?' I asked, maintaining calm. 'How come you're stuck?'

'Oh well, that's because I got splashed you see. Our joints seize up if we get wet,' replied the robot.

I couldn't believe the naivety of his candour.

'You're a bunch of intergalactic morons!' I ranted. 'Didn't you notice how much water there is on this planet?'

'It was a pretty blue ...' mused the hapless creature.

'Water even falls randomly from the sky – you've got no chance!'

I almost pitied him as he saw me grab the hose, then I remembered what he'd done to poor Dora, so I turned the jet on him and washed him down to the sea. Gerald, the kraken, must have thought it was Christmas as he enthusiastically chomped down on his next victim, only to break his beak on the metal.

I ran back inside, but several more red robots had already come through the fire door. They hesitated when they saw my dripping hose.

'Oh scroobledinkaloo!' muttered the leader.

At that moment the lift pinged open and there was a mad rush to get in it. With each robot weighing 150 kg, this seriously compromised the lift's loading capacity. However, instead of making a rude sound and refusing to budge until someone got out, the lift gave up the ghost altogether, snapped its cable and plummeted 20 floors to a resounding, building-shaking crash, desperate cries of 'Scroobledinkaloo' all the way down.

I went out into the stairwell to see red robots everywhere in retreat, climbing over each other to get away. I sprayed them mercilessly. Nevertheless, some escaped, so I heard later, as many rusting red heaps were discovered over the next few days. Those who had tried to reach their spaceship to return to somewhere drier had been caught in a freak thunderstorm.

Back in my apartment, I swept away the mess, set up the remains of my luckless visitor as a sculpture on the beach, and fed Gerald some puréed fish, as he wouldn't be up for anything crunchy for a long while. I wasn't that put out to lose Dora, after all I was planning to apply for a new model soon anyway.

Daft robots! That'll teach them to mess with Earth!
Monday 6 May and Tuesday 7 May 2013

### Another Farce

Beau Porter

Reservoir, VIC

The moment Donald strutted into my living room I knew trouble had arrived. I was lounging in a comfortable beige armchair, reading an article on the strange breeding habits of hippopotami as he entered. Sensing his presence, I lifted my gaze from the paper. There stood Donald in the doorway, with a look of playful concern on his face. Evidently he judged my academic reading to be a waste of time. There is no doubt he expected to find me occupied thus, for his greeting felt pre-rehearsed.

'I've come to rescue you from the doldrums,' he announced.

I placed the hippopotami paper on a small coffee table before me, and crossed my arms expectantly. A wry smile was given as Donald slinked his way over to a long beige two-seater. He stretched out, resting his head against a frayed fabric arm, and removed a rolled up magazine from his pant pocket.

'Check this out. Page six.'

Donald lobbed the magazine in my direction. It was one of those tabloid numbers; the type of nonsense one finds in the toilets of lonely housewives in their forties. One celebrity is too fat, the other too skinny. One star has finally found happiness in the arms of another; a different star has found freedom away from their treacherous man. I flicked to page six and immediately got a sense of what lay before us. A tanned, blonde heartthrob stood in crystal blue waters, posing for the cameras. The title read Summer Bay's Brand New Hunk. The resemblance between he and Donald was uncanny. They shared the same medium length blonde hair, chiselled jaw and elegant blue eyes. Donald gazed at my cracked plaster roof lazily.

'Quite the development,' he added.

It was clear he was intent on dragging me into whatever this revelation entailed. I often wondered why he chose me as his partner in these adventures. It wasn't as if he needed a wingman. Donald overflowed with confidence and charisma. There was simply nothing I could add to the mix. At times it seemed he was trying to prove something to me, though I don't know what. Donald waited there patiently on the couch, knowing I would eventually make inquiries as to his intent.

'Well?' I asked, slightly agitated.

Donald scoffed.

'Surely you've figured this one out on your own? We're going to Prahran to bang star fuckers.'

There was no way I was getting out of this; however I had to at least feign resistance.

'I don't see how you need me for this. Plus, I was planning on eating risotto and watching Goldeneye.'

Donald tilted his head back and shot me a look intended to make me feel tiny and insignificant. I waved goodbye to my solitude with an audible sigh. Donald spoke with his common tone of self assurance.

'Of course I need you, baby. You're my talented up and coming director.' He gave a dark chuckle at the thought.

'What's the name of the guy again?' I glanced at the page.

'Edgar Symonds.'

Donald howled like a coyote. He had his heart set on this one, which meant I was in for a long night.

We went over the details that afternoon, before parting to prepare ourselves for the evening. That night Donald would assume the identity of Edgar Symonds, the Home and Away heartthrob. I was to become Rick Smits, a youthful director with nothing short of a glittering career paved ahead of him. We deliberated for some time on my name, eventually handing it over to the Gods. The first basketball card I pulled out of the ancient tin box was none other than Rick Smits, seven foot centre for the 93/94 Indiana Pacers. Not only did Donald and I agree with the name, we were also rather impressed by Smits' rebounding average. I took a long shower, deliberating over the Smits aesthetic. A large green dinner jacket hung idly in my wardrobe. It was reminiscent of the one professional golfers receive for winning a championship. I wore it over a black polo shirt, with a pair of matching trousers and sneakers. Semi-casual-artistic-professional. I observed my figure reflected from the shower door glass. My hair was blonde like Donald's, however it never seemed to hang with the same attractive whimsy. I too had blue eyes, yet they were dull and pointless. The whites of my eyes blended in seamlessly with my pasty alabaster skin. Where Donald was tall, I was lanky. Where he was well defined, I was a caricature. I attempted to prophesise Donald's outfit for the evening. For a shiest like this, I presumed he'd wear a grey two-piece suit. As to the undershirt, I guessed either bone white or peach. Edgar Symonds and Rick Smits were on holiday from the set in New South Wales. Being old high school friends and lovers of high culture, it was only fitting that they head down to Melbourne's chic inner suburbs for leisure time. I applied a fragrance manufactured for pimpled faced high school boys, snatched my wallet from the kitchen table and departed into the night, with more than a little anxiety escaping from my underarm pores.

I met Donald at 9 pm outside a typically luxurious Chapel Street establishment. He was leant against the wall smoking a menthol cigarette. Part of the character, I guessed. Donald's undershirt was white, his hair deliberately splayed across the forehead at different angles. I noticed a wooden necklace hanging down under his shirt. Rich-yet-rootsy. As I approached he offered me a peppermint cancer stick. I looked at him as a sister of the cloth would at a nun who'd just offered her a hit of a blunt, then took one anyway. So Rick Smits and Edgar Symonds were menthol smokers then. This sat fine with me. Donald handed me a lighter. We stood there looking disinterested, and went over the play once more.

'It is imperative we introduce ourselves to every staff member we see. They'll pretend to know us if we hold ourselves correctly. It's human nature, baby.'

He flicked his cigarette away nonchalantly.

'How much cash you got?' Donald inquired.

I shook my head, grinning bitterly. He knew I wouldn't have much, though it was probably more than he had.

'Thirty bucks.'

'No matter. Make sure the first drink you buy is top shelf. Remy Martin, Courvoisier. Something along these lines.' He spoke coldly and I began to see the irony of this particular shiest. For Donald to play the role of Edgar Symonds, he would likely put on a better dramatic performance than his heartthrob doppelganger ever could. He would become more Edgar Symonds than the man himself, essentially improving on the character. When we entered the bar the air felt artificially warm and heavy, as if there were hair dryers blowing from behind each and every ventilation shaft. Edgar greeted a bartender with uncanny familiarity, shaking the man's hand with both of his own. I followed suit, filled to the brim with fraudulent smiles for whomever we encountered. We were received cordially and, after a brief chit chat about our respective afternoons, ordered a couple of glasses of cognac, served clean.

It took less than a glass for Edgar to find his target. We joined a group of four girls in a semi enclosed booth at the far end of the narrow room. They made no complaint as we helped ourselves to a couple of unoccupied spots at the table; rather it seemed as if they'd been waiting for an approach of this sort, and were relieved now it had finally occurred. It was an admittedly attractive spot. A blue archway separated the booth from the rest of the bar. There was square metallic grating built into the wall, behind which shone amber light. This sent an aesthetically pleasing mandala of soft luminescence along the walls and down the bodies of those seated. The women were doused in fragrance and garbed in Southside frocks. They had carefully planned their outfits, so as to not steal one another's colours of the night. This applied also to hairstyles, makeup, trinkets and the like. Four individuals in four unique cocktail dresses from the same Chapel Street boutique. They took an immediate liking to Edgar, whispering amongst themselves after he'd introduced us. Evidently they read tabloid magazines. I sat quietly, sipping cognac and judging the six of us with brutality.

'I'm so glad that people such as yourself are starting to recognise this part of the country as an area of legitimate cultural significance,' said the faux redhead in the violet dress. I choked slightly on my cognac then grinned at the ground privately. She gazed dreamily at Edgar's locks.

'Well it's not just me,' noted Edgar with feigned modesty. 'My dear friend Mr Smits here has always been a lover of Chapel Street culture.' He made a sweeping hand gesture in my direction, almost as if he were allowing the four women to set eyes on me once more. Their stares followed his well manicured fingernails and landed on my face. I sensed from their collective silence that the girls waited for me to speak. I took a deliberate sip of cognac and gave it my best.

'Yes. I do love ... culture.'

'And what do you do, Mr Smits?' asked the blonde in the brown dress. Edgar – sensing that I already wanted out – cut in promptly.

'He's my director.'

'Oh really?'

'Well, not just mine. He's been directing the show for the past six months now.'

Smiles of surprised condescension met me from all angles. I felt like a special child who had just given the gift of a macaroni necklace to my superiors. A voice in my head told me to forget about it, and stay in character. Rick Smits was to remain quietly dignified. I nodded with an air of austerity, waiting for the table's attention to fall once more on Edgar. Thankfully it didn't take long.

'Edgar, I simply have to know: how old is Alf?'

'Oh my God, do you remember Sally?'

'She was such a bitch.'

'Are there any new on-set romances Edgar?'

As predicted, the girls paid for our next round of drinks. Atop this they ordered a bottle of champagne, to celebrate their chance encounter with the charming Edgar Symonds and his director. As the drinks flowed I loosened up, eventually finding myself in a conversation with one of the girls. To my surprise she was a pleasure to speak with. Though I had not been able to distinguish her from the others at first, it became almost immediately clear there was something more to this woman. Her name was Margaret. While the other three bombarded Edgar with compliments and Home and Away related queries, Margaret and I held our own private conversation. It turned out she wasn't as close to these three women as one would suspect. In fact, she hadn't seen them in years. The four of them were old high school chums, this evening being a reunion of sorts. Over the next couple of drinks Margaret disclosed to me her indifference to this part of town. When the blonde in the brown dress asked Edgar how he managed to stay in character, Margaret snickered and touched my knee lightly. Maybe this whole fiasco wasn't such a bad idea after all. Edgar could have all three of those south side girls for all I cared. Margaret had saved me from the doldrums, just as I'd been promised. She eyed me with curious intent.

'So Mr Smits, is it all you imagined it to be?'

'What's that?'

'The soap opera.'

I nodded with affected sourness, as I'm sure she expected.

'All that and more,' I said dryly.

Our dialogue was interrupted by an eruption of laughter from across the table. Apparently Edgar had concocted a particularly amusing anecdote. Margaret raised an eyebrow before resuming her attention on yours truly.

'Seriously though, I'm guessing your aspirations extend beyond Summer Bay's white sandy beaches?'

I provided her with a contemplative and scholarly glance, whilst racking my brain for an impressive answer. Edgar cut in once again. He seemed to have three sets of ears. One listened to the high pitched monotony surrounding him, the other took note of the conversation between myself and Margaret, and a third perhaps, tuned into the gossip behind the bar.

'Of course he does. Mr Smits is nothing short of an auteur.'

The three girls nodded understandingly. I wondered if they did.

'Just as I suspected,' said Margaret. From beneath her chocolate brown fringe came a look which made me feel guilty for my charade. Two hazel eyes revealed that which lived behind them for the briefest of moments. There was a distinct movement in my pants. I got to my feet and went outside to calm myself, under the guise of smoking a cigarette. Half way through the menthol Margaret came outside and joined me. She neither produced a cigarette of her own nor asked for one, a fact which bolstered my confidence. There was something about her presence that filled me with comfort. We leant against the wall and watched a continuous rabble of pseudo glitz and glamour pass by in both directions.

'This place is silly,' I said.

'Yes it is.'

'The north side of Melbourne feels so much... easier to be in.'

'Yes it does.'

My last remark escaped the mouth a little awkwardly. I felt as if I were – in some way – giving too much of myself. I decided to tone down Mr Smits' personality a touch. Margaret looked at me, and I felt something those of my disposition claim not to.

'If you're in town a few days maybe I can show you my neighbourhood,' said Margaret. 'I think you'd like it.'

I imagined what her bedroom looked like. For some reason it was impossible to shake the image of lanterns and origami. As we stood there silently, I dreamt of our leisurely chats some months in the future. Of us laughing together at the hilarious circumstances under which we met. She would forgive me for my lies; this much I was sure of. So too was I, that she didn't dress like this normally. In my mind Margaret was a lost intellect, a writer of comedy, someone who didn't want to parade her alleged dark side like so many others in this town. I pictured her in an oversized t-shirt and track pants on an overcast Melbourne morning, shuffling to get coffee from the cheapest place within reach.

'It just so happens that I am,' I replied.

We looked one another in the eye a little too long. Once this had occurred to us, both glances retreated bashfully. I decided to speak before things got too awkward.

'Let's go inside and see what develops.'

She flashed me a smile as we wandered back inside, revealing two rows of slightly crooked teeth. This set her even further apart from the others in my mind. I find people with perfect teeth untrustworthy. They are no different to me than those with breast implants, nose jobs, or fake tans. Inside, Margaret's old high school friends chatted feverishly amongst themselves, casting hungry glances in Edgar's direction. The object of their discussion was leant over the bar, shamelessly flirting with a male bartender. I took a seat next to him, incredulous yet amused. Margaret returned to the booth.

'Mr Smits, this is Enrique,' Edgar said, passing me a glass of cognac. I gathered from Enrique's body language it was on the house. We shook hands, during which I was given what can only be described as a look of homosexual interrogation. He turned his back on me abruptly, pretending to busy himself with rearranging bottles. Edgar put his arm around my shoulder.

'The blonde bitch has a room at Crown casino,' he whispered into my ear. 'Take your pick of the other three and we'll blow the rest off.'

We clinked glasses. Hippopotami no longer meant a thing to me. I had to hand it to him.

~~~

The blonde (whose name I hadn't bothered to learn,) swiped a golden card through her hotel room's electronic lock. The door produced a digital beep and clicked open. The space that met our eyes was as elaborate as it was immense. A hallway of rich mahogany opened out into a semi circular room twice the size of my apartment. The curved extremity of the room was made entirely of window, providing us with a panoramic view of the city. White pillars rose from the white carpet, supporting a white roof. To the left was a bar made of the same wood as the hallway. It was flanked by two doors, one leading to a deluxe bedroom and the other a bathroom of pearl-toned tiles. On the opposite end of the room was a dining table that looked impossible to lift. In the centre sat an overzealous coffee table and a pair of, curiously enough, beige couches populated with red and white cushions.

Edgar waltzed in like he'd been here before. For all I knew he had. Margaret and I made a few obvious remarks about the quality of the room, tip toeing around like intruders and not wanting to touch things. Despite the splendour of our surroundings my interest remained with Margaret. It was all I could do not to stare. Desire and etiquette made a compromise: I cast sporadic glances her way as the blonde showed us things of note around the room. By this stage Edgar had infiltrated the bar. He took obnoxious swigs of whiskey from the bottle, which I felt was inconsistent with his Edgar Symonds persona. The blonde eventually ran out of things to show us. She trotted excitedly in to the bedroom with music in mind, leaving Margaret and I alone near the window. Those hazel eyes were set on me once again. They seemed to express so much at that moment. I felt like a giddy teenager in her presence. What was happening to me? We had barely spoken since leaving the bar so it is hard to explain, suffice to say that there was something in my heart, in my gut even, which simply knew she was the one. No longer would I hold myself back. I wanted so badly to kiss her lips. My arm stretched out to touch Margaret's pale cheek, and was interrupted at the last second by Donald at the bar.

'Yo, Smits, come over here a second.'

I maintained my cool and strode across to the mini bar. Donald was clearly impressed with himself, for he spoke with more smugness than usual.

'I have something for you, Mr Smits.'

He removed a small bag of white powder from a pocket and placed it in my hand. Sensing my curiosity, he answered my question before I'd had a chance to ask it.

'Enrique,' he said.

I was about to pour some out on the bench before us, when I was halted. Donald placed his hand on my forearm, shaking his head. He gestured for me to use the bathroom. Apparently he was not in the mood for sharing. There was a kind of bloodshot mania in his eyes. This was common with Donald; the moment he feels he has conquered his prey all illusions simply evaporate. As I made to shut the bathroom door my eyes fell again upon Margaret. She had made her way out to the balcony, through a glass door that blended in seamlessly with the surrounding windows. I never thought I'd be the type to swoon over an elegantly dressed woman standing alone amidst the backdrop of neon lights and skyscrapers. Perhaps it was my assumption that she didn't really belong here which made the image so endearing to me. I shut the door and – whilst serving myself the largest line of coke I could possibly handle – wondered if perhaps we couldn't just duck out of here and into a north side dive. It would feel like home after this superfluous penthouse. Donald would get to fuck his blonde bimbo with a gang of monumental twentieth century spires as his audience. I opened my wallet and took a lone five dollar note from within. Ludicrous eighties music played from outside. I'm fairly sure it was from the Scarface montage with the tiger. I put the note to my nostril and breathed in a volume of wafery snow. It is strange how something as simple as powder can change one's direction at right angles. It was almost instantaneous, my new resolution. Once I had washed my face and given the coke a minute to settle in, I would go out to the balcony and explain to Margaret in the frankest of terms that it had all been a charade. I would ask politely that she say nothing of it to her high school chum, for I had no desire to ruin Donald's fun. Finally, I would suggest we exit the tower immediately and cross the river en route to a more comfortable place where we could get to know one another. It was that simple. I cleaned up, gave myself a predictably intent stare in the mirror and returned to the living area. This is what I saw ...

Donald had the blonde bent over a beige couch with her dress hitched up above the hips. He was pumping away at her steadily and methodically. This much I could have predicted. Laying face up on the back of the blonde however, was a stark naked Margaret. Donald held her by the knees, drowning himself in her pussy like a bearded wanderer in an oasis. The blonde's moans were stifled, as were Donald's. It was Margaret's that permeated the air. She squealed deliriously, as one might if their feet were tickled incessantly with a goose feather. I stood in the doorway, aghast, wanting desperately to flee yet completely incapable of moving. I had not even conceived of such an act; a fact which to this day I consider evidence of my inferior sexual nature. It was as if I had uncovered a bestiary of grotesque humanoids from distant galaxies. It was the perfect living machine, self sufficient in its limb shaking pleasure giving and taking. I'm not sure how long I spent with eyes plastered on this monstrosity, as it wriggled, writhed, moaned and groaned. It seemed Donald did not require air to survive. I felt unevolved. He would let out occasional growls from the realms of Margaret's clitoris. To this she produced sounds, which I am ashamed to admit made me semi-erect. At some point Donald remembered me. He lifted his head from Margaret's nether regions and regarded me quizzically, as if I were a member of the hotel staff there for room service. All the while he continued his absent minded thrusting of the blonde.

'Mr Smits,' he announced ponderously.

He wrapped his arms around Margaret and carried her gently to the opposite couch. The blonde turned her head and made a puzzled groan that seemed to say, 'What's wrong? Why'd we stop?' Donald returned to the blonde, with his rod facing west, and gave her a hearty slap on the ass. He wasn't wearing a condom.

'Let Mr Smits get some.'

The blonde complied unquestioningly. Without so much as a peep she repositioned herself on the couch and bent over with her rear end facing me. Donald strutted back over to Margaret, who was slumped in the couch with her legs wide open, awaiting his return. I still hadn't moved. It became apparent to me as I observed the multiple holes on offer – one pink and vertical, the other circular and surrounded by short bleached hair – that my throat had gone numb. In the background Donald had mounted Margaret and to my infinite horror was passionately kissing her. They had stopped fucking; now they were making honeymoon love. I could no longer bear watching. As the cocaine swirled through my bloodstream, as Donald and Margaret stared deeply into one another's eyes, I stared at the blonde's asshole. It was wrinkled in a way that made me shudder. I could swear it opened up and started breathing air, expanding and contracting like some kind of deadly rainforest plant that had been filmed over the course of a year and presented to the masses in fast forward, much to their delight. Inside was bleak darkness. It seemed endless; an inner city subway that continued forever before finally opening into daylight. Assuming that I was deliberating on whether or not to ram it, the host wriggled her hindquarters invitingly. Enough was enough. I floated to the balcony like an apparition.

When I first moved to Melbourne it appeared to my naive eyes a vast metropolis, packed with infinite potential. I measured the height of towers in comparison to those I'd been more acquainted with, thinking this a measure of the city's cultural relevance. Not once did I consider the fact that I do not belong in such towers, nor ever have. My fruitless search for meaning in those immense skyscrapers became apparent to me that evening on the twentieth floor of Crown Towers. I observed them from across the slimy waters of the Yarra River. They were made of steel, concrete and glass. Their proportions varied slightly, and that was all. I was reminded of a prominent tower in my home town which frequently passed from owner to owner. The fluorescent name atop what was then the largest building in the city would change accordingly. We were too smart for such tricks however. It was clearly the same combination of steel, concrete and glass. Only the name had changed.

### Wednesday 8 May 2013

Lady Rachel – the Downfall of a Moral Empire

JL Warren

Leura, NSW

Lady Rachel of one generation

idol of confident veneration,

not one in all those hosts

could prophesy murderous ghosts.

The scene of wars to come

a breaking of the little one:

his mind, his moral, his all

one lone ewe coveted sure

bled on altar priestly ruin.

Rich embellishment too soon

the riding hero in his affair.

Lady Rachel, oh virgin stare,

the face frozen deathly awe

made loud the rustle of your

gown. Each secret in the bosom

rent. Lady virgin fallen

to their mocking tones secrets

on display for them to reap it.

My lady a mystery vainly tries

their genius and insane cries

in the street echo to her bed –

Lady Rachel of the pure is dead.
Wednesday 8 May 2013 4 pm

### Homo Animal

Andris Heks

Megalong Valley, NSW

I am an animal! No, I am not insane,

I am a human being, but hardly humane!

I gorge on other animals' flesh, I like it rare,

Sizzling and oozing with hot red blood; what do I care?

All sorts of flesh is grown, fattened and butchered for my delight,

I eat the eggs of battery hens that never see daylight!

But out of sight is out of mind, after all, I am civilised!

Mesmerised, I buy my meat from supermarkets, well sterilised!

Half of the Earth's people starve, but that's not my problem,

As long as I am well off, why should I feel rotten?

Yes, I am an animal! Their loss is my gain!

I am a human being, but hardly humane!

I'm well domesticated; yes, I am pretty tame,

Though when I am frustrated, I could kick, spit and maim!

But, of course! I am part of humanity's brave history:

The holocaust and Iraq are both from the same story!

None of this puzzles me much; I know my terrain:

The world of human animals; that's my domain!

The newspaper headlines read: 'THE SEVENTH GRANNY BASHED, ROBBED AND RAPED!'

And: 'FIFTEEN YEAR OLD KILLS PARENTS, CLASSMATES!' – More murders, again: aped!

Well, I am not too shocked, shall I say it again?

The world of human animals; that's my domain!

Oh, I'd just love to become humane... But... not yet!

Meanwhile, I feed on the blood let; lest I forget!
Thursday 9 May 2013

### The World that Comes Third

Irene Assumpter

West Perth, WA

I am told you are going to the world that comes third; the road to nowhere.

Let me prepare you. You can trust that I know; I was born there.

Forget what you watched on TV: it is a mixture of exaggerated truths and lies, both real and imaginary.

Rest assured, the roads will be something else. Be prepared, my friend.

Without your consent, the power company will decide when you will have a candle-light dinner.

You will invest in a generator.

Do not worry, not everyone will be begging for coins or food on the street, or posing for photos that will end up on World Vision without their knowledge or consent. There will be people going to work, trying to make ends meet (and hug each other). Not all of them will be crying 'serikali, government, help me.' They have children to feed and take to school. Under a huge umbrella or in open air, raining or not, you will see them polishing muddy and dusty shoes, roasting corn and peeling watermelons. Truth be told, the government is no place to put your hopes in.

That, you should know.

I promise you, dust and traffic jams will be the order of the day, but neighbours will say hello every now and again, because it is rude not to murmur a greeting. Remember to show your dental stuff for a few seconds. Now, now, don't you ever overdo this. You will be asking for trouble.

You do not want trouble around here.

If your world stops, giving relatives may take your child to school if they can, but you will be reminded about it every single minute of your life, and it will be a recurring announcement at weddings, funerals and all other get-togethers. Beware, proof such as fee structures and receipts may be exhibited.

You will talk to more people than necessary. Prices of items will be fixed for the sake of labelling; someone will talk his or her way out of those labels. Unless you are strictly in a supermarket, a 'let's talk' price will call it a day.

On a hot summer day, people you do not know may call you a prostitute for a wearing a mini skirt or a pair of shorts, but on a rainy night, you will spot them almost naked on the streets, in shoes so high they limp like wounded creatures.

They will be trying to stop pot-bellied people's cars.

On a weekday, government workers will be 'out for lunch' somewhere between ten o'clock in the morning and three o'clock in the afternoon. They will come back at four o'clock to pack up and leave for the day. You will be asked to 'try tomorrow'. On that next day, you may be asked for 'tea', if you want to be attended to faster.

Grown men will be running behind a politician's car like hardworking tsetse flies trying to serve you a grand attack of sleeping sickness. You will need to remind yourself that the politician is a human being, and not some god.

A pregnant woman will die at a hospital entrance trying to have a baby, because she will not have admission fees. The baby will also die. And if the woman's relatives are not keen, the baby's body will disappear in mysterious circumstances. Things will always happen in mysterious circumstances in this particular world. You do know that morgue attendants have been caught selling human body parts to sorcerers and witches, don't you? Does juju ring a bell? See how you go with taking the matter to court. If you are a 'nobody', don't expect any justice. Over here, justice is bought, and files disappear in mysterious circumstances.

Cases are closed on that 'mysterious' basis.

I am told midwives will yell at you or your wife for having labour pains; they will tell you nobody told you to 'sleep around'. But there is hope for you. Day-care will not cost you top dollar; a female relative will be there for you to play nanny, because it is one big family. Because it takes a whole village to raise a child.

Thankfully, people will not tell you every single thing about them. You know, things you really do not want to know ... who they slept with last (and where) or what underwear their spouses wore, but you will somehow sense their other problems, and those problems will somehow be yours, because that is just the way it is.

Chances are, you will not solve them, but you do need to show you care. It matters.

Elections. Oh dear... that is a big one on this land. Election results will be edited overnight. Dead people do vote around here. People will kill each other in cold blood, with machetes. Others will bomb innocent civilians, but the next morning, they will yell loudest about religion and racism. They will preach about the heavens. And doing good. And making the world a better place. Women and children will be burnt alive in these very worship places. And you will be asked to keep calm.

If you have a safe home, please stay indoors, for people may be hired to get rid of you, or teach you a lesson. It will be solely based on ethnic backgrounds; this I promise you.

Speaking of ethnicity ... more often than not, decent jobs will be reserved for certain clans and families: buddy, it is a family affair. If you have no money to buy your way into one, you are well and truly stuck.

One way or another, you may need to start your own business.

Nobody will have time or strength to demonstrate about cats being euthanised or whales being killed, because there will be actual human beings dying of hunger in a house made of grass and mud; people who can in fact gobble those whales in a minute or two.

Because you may lose your hand or end up with bruises on your ear, you won't answer your fancy mobile phone on a busy street. The caller will have to wait. Enter a supermarket or an electronic shop and answer it.

Your Prada bag ... fake or not, you will need to carry it with care, like a little baby.

People will be embarrassed about people they don't know. It will be everyone's shame; because they are one and the same. Every older woman is 'auntie' here. Every man is 'uncle' ... you are everyone's child.

You will lose track of the 'cousin' count.

After a tragedy, people will surround the scene, whether or not danger signs scream in red. Remember, disability is not disability here; it is a curse. Something to do with the angry gods. Something that was done or wasn't done. The 'cursed' will be hidden and denied opportunities.

You will empathise and cry, but nothing much will change in the near future.

Understandably, lecturers, teachers, doctors, nurses ... everyone will be exchanging strike-turns. That, you can take to the World Bank. At no point in time will they be paid what they deserve. Meanwhile MPs will be banging tables about raising their tax-free salaries. Citizens will continue to die.

You won't be able to save all of them. I know you will try to.

People will bombard you with food, whether or not you clearly state you just ate. If you do not fancy being labelled 'rude and proud', you will need to taste it. They will take it upon themselves to marvel that you are mzungu thin. They will ask if there is no food in Australia or wherever it is you came from ... the 'white world' or majuu.

You will smile and let it slide.

Without a doubt, there will be lovely places and beautiful creatures to see. You will see green and brown; the fresh and the dying. You will see the blue waters. You can lay your tired head on white sand, listen to the tide and hear beach boys argue humorously about fishing . . . and you will forget your problems for a little while.

People do fall in love here too. They laugh. They make love and have sex. They eat and drink and play sports. They are good swimmers too. Boy! Don't they dance!

Life goes on here too.

The world that comes third.

Grab a chair; I have a lot more to tell you, if you promise to listen. I might be able to explain why it still comes first in my heart.

I was born here.

Here in this familiar world that comes third.

A road to somewhere.
Friday 10 May 2013

### Let's Party

Marilyn Linn

Darlington, SA

Tonight there was going to be a party for grown-ups at our house and next-doors were coming over. It was already dusk when I heard their gate squeak. We had had our tea and were in our pyjamas.

Mum pushed my bed right up to my brother's bed and told us four children to stay in the room and keep the door shut. She said we could have the light on as long as we didn't make too much noise.

We chatted and giggled for a while and then we decided to read. We soon tired of reading books because Danny and Enid couldn't read and they wanted Veronica and me to read to them. So we invented games. Making caves under the bed was fun for a while, but then we started jumping on the beds. Usually we got into trouble if we played trampolines, but we made a deal not to tell. We bounced from one bed to the other, from the head to the foot, two at a time and crossing over. The noise must have been terrible but no-one came to stop us.

We tired of the jumping game and decided to try for a drink. My brother was too young to vote so we decided the eldest should go. Veronica, from next-door, was the eldest.

Slowly, she opened the door and we held our collective breath. I couldn't see Veronica but I could hear the adults. I knew what it sounded like. I'd heard that noise before. The adults would all be bad tempered in the morning.

'Get back in your room, you kids!'

I wasn't out of the room, why include me? Veronica came back and for a while we were all quiet.

Perhaps if the youngest one went out we might get a drink – it was worth a try. Danny was the youngest. I had to push him out of the bedroom door because he didn't want to go. I told him he had to or we might die of thirst like cattle do sometimes. We'd seen them on TV. We all crowded around the doorway and waited silently.

'If you lot come out again – you'll ALL get a hiding. Shut up and go to sleep!'

The man's voice was the one I didn't recognise. We looked out the window into the vast black emptiness of the night. The stranger must have walked because we could see there were no cars outside.

I was feeling anxious now and I knew the others felt the same. I felt terrible because it was my fault my little brother got yelled at and the man's voice sounded like it meant what it said. I didn't like these parties.

I decided we should try to go to sleep. One child each end of the bed – that was the rule. Sometimes Danny wet his bed so I had to sleep with him. No-one wanted to wake up with their feet in a wet spot. The beds were wrecked from jumping on them. The blankets were all falling off and Veronica and I struggled to get things back together again.

'O o o o O O O O o o o,' went Enid.

We all giggled, so she did it again. I got out of bed and switched off the light. This could be fun!

'Let's tell ghost stories,' whispered Veronica.

We jumped of bed again and huddled under the bed nearest the door. I could never understand why we always crouched under the beds to tell ghost stories. Enid said it made them scarier.

I wasn't scared, but before long Danny was crying. I tried to comfort him but he howled, louder and louder. Enid and Veronica pretended to cry too, and next thing, I was really crying.

A head appeared round the doorway into the dark room and I knew it was Mum.

'If you lot don't go to sleep, you'll be in trouble,' she threatened, not very convincingly. She never hit us.

She closed the door quietly and I noticed she had left a plate of lollies just inside. There were Smarties and jelly babies and some pieces of mandarins. I liked them all but Enid didn't like the smell of the mandies. She started whingeing again.

The lollies worked well for a while, but then Veronica started to grizzle. She wanted to go home and I wanted her to go, too.

'Go and tell your Mum you can't go to sleep. She might take you home. Tell her you feel sick or something.'

I could hear her snivelling down the passageway and she sounded like she might even manage to be sick if she tried hard enough.

Then I heard the whack she collected.

'Can't you control your brat kids?' The stranger yelled into the passageway which looked long, dark and narrow in the shadow of the night. The light from the kitchen appeared to be far away.

I held the door open for Veronica as she ran back to the bedroom, howling. I felt desperately unhappy. Danny had not quite made the potty and now there was a mess. Everyone was tearful.

The bedroom door burst open and the light snapped on.

'I hate kids!' My father yelled so loud the veins in his neck stood out and his mad-dog eyes darted, unfocused, around the room. He grabbed me by my arm and dragged me towards the door, shaking me so violently I bit my tongue.

'Don't Daddy! Don't hit me! I didn't do anything wrong!' I cried hopelessly, terrified.

He lurched, throwing me aside, and grabbed the new skirt Mum had made for me. She had hung it on the door handle for me to look at. He mindlessly, madly, ripped the bodice off my best, new skirt. Seeming to forget me, he went out of the room, yelling at Mum. It made me cry even more when Mum saw my new skirt, torn, on the floor.

She was crying as she picked it up. 'Please, be quiet and go to sleep,' she pleaded through her tears.

Subdued and frightened, we eventually slept.

The next morning, I saw my father sleeping out in the old caravan. It was my play-house. I didn't want him to be in there.

Next-doors had left without their kids. Mum sent them home after breakfast.

I helped Mum clean up the empty bottles and full ash-trays from the night before. Mum said she needed my help because she had a headache. She didn't look very well.

She probably didn't enjoy the party either.

Saturday 11 May 2013 4 pm

### Nobody Is Perfect

Armin Boko

### Lake Heights, NSW

###

Only with eyes of his

Could eagle spot the miniscule

Ant foraging on the ground.

Fully fed and content

Eagle took pity on

The solitary little fellow.

'For goodness sake, alone,

So small, such short sighted creature,

How can you ever find your way to

A morsel hidden on the ground?'

Little ant scout got the message

Loud an' clear and promptly replied:

'With the entire world to see

My feathery noble friend

Lord Master of the sky,

See far and wide you can indeed,

Alas, you cannot see

What's under your nose.

'Cause if you did you'd also know

My cousin is hitching a free flight

To you unbeknown. In amongst

Your under-carriage feathers

There'd be a few more of my kind.

You see big bird nobody knows it all.'
Sunday 12 May 2013

### Dreaming

Robyn Chaffey

Hazelbrook, NSW

Mother's Day's a funny time!

Peculiar 'funny',

You know, that's what I mean.

In this age of stress and overload

I think perhaps

It's mums who often cop the flak.

Somehow it just seems easier!

Why take stock?

Just lay it all at her feet – she's there!

Then Mother's Day comes round again.

Duty calls!

Gifts... the year's communion to replace... with love!

This year I really was presented

case in point

With which my meaning to explain!

A shower gel by 'LUSH'

Fresh-made by hand they say...

With sex-appeal...

from honey!

It is... the label states

'Lascivious,

Licentious,

Vivacious

And insatiable

With finest aphrodisiac essential oils –

Masses of jasmine!'

But the very best thing of all

About the lovingly thoughtful gift

Presented to me this Mother's Day

In its neatly prepacked box,

Mid my daughter's busy, stressful life,

Is the promise at the bottom

Of the swish designer label.

It is of course just what I need

This shower gel,

As my sixties quickly do approach

This most potent magic potion,

Tells in brackets

It contains, 'the three best essential oils...

P – M – S to control'!!

In the busyness of living, finding love...

Claiming self,

I think my 'child' has failed to notice.

Yes, failed to note the greying of my hair,

Wrinkled face...

That gravity (of life!) has changed my shape.

Now today I'm left to ponder as I'm wand'ring

through my day...

Is it me, or is it she, through life is dreaming?
Sunday 12 May 2013 2 pm

### Desk Space

Emma Hall

Canterbury, VIC

There are hardly any white spaces

On the crowded desk, covered

In texts, bookmarked in certain places,

And with whole paragraphs smothered

In notes and underlines, in most cases

Signifying a notion, a concept, a theme

I need to know for study or work,

Or otherwise something for my writing –

Because I know that ideas, fast as lightning,

Will disappear from thought like a dream.

The bin is overflowing: an empty coffee cup,

Scraps of paper, pens long since dried up,

Used in filling with words many small notebooks

Which line my shelf, in fact it looks

As though I have a funny quirk

Of collecting these, as over the years

I have accumulated many, along

With trinkets, symbols of laughter and tears,

Some that I have kept for a long

Time now. On the radio, a slow love song

I don't know how it goes.

It's simply soothing background sound,

Songs of smiles and Christmas snows,

And cold clear nights that abound

In possibilities, waiting to be found

### .
Monday 13 May 2013

### Please Explain, Time!

Ariette Singer

Canberra, ACT

Dear Time! You're always on my anxious mind!

To my chagrin, consistently, you pass me by,

March on, and never wait! Relentless and unkind,

You don't stay good, but hugely fluctuate! Why?

So often, you are of the essence, dangerous or strange!

At times, too ready to be wasted, or are not quite right...

And, when you're difficult – you take too long to change!

Of course, we don't like to miss or lose, or you being tight.

Sometimes, we... kill you, or have none at all to spare,

And foolishly mismanage precious you, which is unfair...

We've learned to borrow you, do over or cleverly two-time!

Oh, by the way, if... 'Time is money' – where is mine???

I'm truly puzzled... why are you bent, always, to run... out?

I'd love to see how you could... happily run in! Or 'round'?

Hmmm... we always use a Tenor to define you, is it not true?

Would not a Soprano or a lovely Mezzo rather nicely do?

It's undeniable, that, irreversibly, we're stuck with you...

And you will never change your job ... but do be aware –

That some of us are stressing out, trying 'to move with' you!

Instead, you ought to 'move' with us – to show us you care!

Why do you never stop to chat with us to communicate;

To find out our needs, apologise and take suggestions?

We've realised, it's really time to re-adjust your ways –

So you, Time, can be of better service to the human race!

Apropos! Why do we call you... 'Old Father Time'?

Old ...? Don't sweat alone! Get help from Mother Time!

Bet, benefits will soon be felt from her gentler touch,

And... with her assistance – you might improve by much!

And lastly, if it is difficult to stop for me, and you must 'fly'...

Then please! Try to fly sloooooowly – when you pass me by!

Monday 13 May 2013 4 pm

### A Nonsense

Ruth Withers

Uarbry, NSW

Twiddle de dum, twiddle de dee,

I've nothing to say, and I'll say it for free.

Just give me a tweak and I'll start with my saying

And saying and saying until, you are praying

I'll hush up and shut up and go far away

And never more think of a thing I can say.

Twiddle de dee, twiddle de dum,

I've plenty to do, but it never gets done.

I dilly and dally and twiddle my thumbs

And think of the doing and make myself glum.

Perhaps if I deedled and dumbled de twid

The things I've not done would finally get did.

So here I sit, deedling and dumbling away;

I've been at it now for some forty-eight days.

I twillied and twallied and diddled my thumbs,

Until nothing was left but two little stumps,

And still everything I've not done is un-did;

So much for my deedling and dumbling de twid.

So I'll twiddle de dum and I'll twiddle de dee,

And although I say nothing, I'll say it for free.

I'll be so busy saying, and you with your praying,

That things left undone will not seem so dismaying.

I'll never more deedle nor dumble again,

And I'll twiddle my stumps to a cheerful refrain.
Tuesday 14 May 2013

### A Childhood Friendship

Robert Murphy

Newtown, NSW

When I was twelve I became aware of two girls called Susie and Claire. They knew each other, and lived near my new friend Colin, on the quiet, pleasant cul-de-sacs off Whitethorn Drive. I thought they were beautiful, and I became fascinated by their features. Light brown and blonde mingled in Susie's hair, which she kept from her clear, oval, pinkish face with a hairband. Claire was darker, and had long hair which she let fall to her shoulders. Her face was more angular than Susie's, and I now suspect that she was less pretty, but I preferred her, perhaps because she looked less like me. I did not know then that I would never speak to either of them.

I was proud of my new crushes, and believed that it was essential for boys of my age to have them, that they were signs of maturity and distinction, and that they would endure. Other boys spoke openly of the girls they fancied. I did not dare to, until Colin asked me in the schoolyard one day if I liked anyone. I said yes, almost in a whisper. He was about to ask for a name, but other boys approached us, and he said 'We'll talk about it later.' I was thrilled, and felt that a great event was imminent.

As we were walking home that afternoon, just after passing the girls' school and the church, and broaching a path of soft, compact mud that had been crushed into the grass of a nearby green by the feet of thousands of schoolchildren, Colin led me away from the group of boys of which we had been part. It included boys called Eoin, Joseph, Simon and Christopher, who were friends of Colin's. Although they were no more than a few months older than I was, they seemed adult and confident to me. One of them asked Colin where we were going, and he replied, 'I'm just going to have a chat with Tony', with a look that suggested he did not want us to be disturbed. The other boy seemed to understand, and asked no more questions.

Hesitantly, I told Colin that I liked Susie and Claire. He received the information thoughtfully, saying nothing for a moment. Then he told me that he liked Susie as well. Unlike me, he knew her, but he told me that he did not think he had much of a chance with her. Later I asked myself, 'A chance of what? Of kissing her? Of becoming her boyfriend?' My thoughts had not yet begun to venture beyond this point.

I felt that an important bond had been created between Colin and me by this confidence. My desire for his friendship was as powerful as my desire to know Susie and Claire. There was not yet much difference between the two; in fact, at this time, my longing for more friends of my own sex was still greater than any other. I knew that some boys rang each other in the evenings after school, to talk about homework, or sport, or to make plans for the weekend. I rang a few boys, but I considered them no higher in status than myself, and I did not value their friendship. Although Colin and I had begun to spend quite a lot of time together at school, we never saw each other or spoke at other times. I longed for his telephone number without daring to ask for it. I believed that, until I got it, I could not consider myself a true friend of his, nor could I be sure that he had as much respect or affection for me as he did for his other friends.

On another sunny afternoon, while walking home with the same group of boys, one of them, as a joke, drew a line on my cheek with a thick black marker. They found my irritation amusing. They stopped at the gate of one of their homes and continued talking. I remained with them, but I was still annoyed and tense, and deliberately stood with the marked side of my face away from the street. The other boys paid no attention to me, but after a few minutes I noticed Colin looking at me curiously, and then he said, with a lazy malice that was uncharacteristic of him, 'I think the reason Tony's so pissed off is he's worried that Claire or Susie will see him.' He was right, but I denied what he had said unconvincingly. I was furious and embarrassed. I blushed intensely. I had never spoken to the other boys about the two girls, but at times it occurred to me painfully that Colin might have repeated to them what I had told him, and I regretted not making him promise to keep it secret. They showed no interest in his remark. I was profoundly convinced that being seen by the girls in this condition, in the enchanted neighbourhood they inhabited, would be, in some vague way, disastrous. Still it was not clear in my mind what exactly I wanted to happen between me and them.

An awards ceremony for local sports teams was announced in June. It was to be held in the main hall of the school, and there would be speeches, music and food. On the long, sunny evening on which it took place, as I approached the school on my bicycle, I saw Susie and Claire sitting on the green gate at the front. A boy with thick blonde hair was leaning on a bicycle, facing them, his back to me. From that angle he looked like Colin, and instantly, with a burst of excitement, I became certain that I was finally about to be introduced to the two girls. I began to cycle more quickly, and when I reached the small group at the gate I had to brake suddenly. My bicycle, which had belonged to my older brother and had been repaired many times by my father, gave a shriek. I looked up in embarrassment, with my mouth open, ready to speak to the boy, and saw with horror that it was not Colin. I stared at him for a few seconds, and he said 'Wrong guy?' sympathetically. I mumbled 'Sorry' and began to cycle away hurriedly. Claire burst into piercing laughter. Just before I became unable to hear them, I heard Susie trying to silence her, with compassion in her voice.

I called to the house of a friend who lived across the road from another side of the school. His mother told me that he had already gone over with his friends. Indecisively I cycled along the street for a few moments, and then returned cautiously to the gate of the school, which was now deserted. I looked at the large, illuminated windows of the hall, and listened to the laughter and applause, which drifted out to me on the warm summer air. I could not force myself to enter alone, so I cycled along the silent, resting, twilit streets of the neighbourhood for some more time, and then returned home.

~~~

Colin and I were in our final year of primary school. We had begun to play for a team at the local soccer club. A teacher called Mr Cronin, whose love of soccer was well known, and who was a friend of a coach at the club, had come into our classroom one day and asked if anyone would like to play for its under-13 team. No-one responded at first. Most of the boys in the class preferred hurling. Looking around, he recognised Colin, and said, 'Why don't you give it a go, Colin? You'd do very well for them.' He was aware of Colin's liking for rugby, and his years of training sports teams had taught him that a boy who had an aptitude for one sport would be able to learn the essentials of another without much difficulty. Colin quietly agreed to attend the team's first training session, without seeming flattered by the individual attention Mr Cronin had paid to him. I no longer played hurling. I was not much better at soccer, but I was envious of Colin, and I still craved success, and the admiration of others, though I was not willing to work for them. To me Colin seemed incomprehensibly privileged, a member of an elite group of boys to which I yearned to belong. In reality, to a mature observer, the contrast between his humility and my anxious, amoral egoism was probably striking. I did not tell Mr Cronin that I wanted to play for the team, but later I asked Colin if I could accompany him to the training session, and he agreed.

As we were changing in the clubhouse I noticed a boy called William, whom I recognised from school, looking at me curiously. He asked me, 'How come none of the nerds have ever snogged anyone?' He spoke with a thick city accent and I could not understand what he was saying.

I said 'What?' and he repeated the question. When I said 'What?' for the second time he turned away from me scornfully and put the same question to Colin.

Colin replied, 'I don't know,' quietly and sadly. I do not know if he was tempted to lie, and say that he had, but I knew that I would have been if I had understood the question, that I would have been unable to resist the temptation, that my dishonesty would have been obvious, and I was relieved that my incomprehension had saved me.

Our trainer's name was Austin. He was short and bald and had a moustache, wore thick glasses and smoked in the changing room, during training sessions and matches. I heard one of the boys say that his older brother's friends had once found pornographic magazines in Austin's car.

Our first match was on a sunny day, against a team whose pitch was on the island in the centre of the city. This area had a bad reputation, and there was childish excitement in the cars on the way to the match. When we arrived we saw young men on horses, and broken glass near the edges of the pitch. Austin chose me to start and handed me a blue and white shirt with 8 on its back. During the match I felt lethargic and did not once break into a run. I hardly touched the ball and my few passes were weak and inaccurate. I remember the father of one of my team-mates shouting 'Wake up, number 8!' from the sideline. I was substituted shortly afterwards. With the other boys who were not playing, I wandered away from the pitch towards the river, still wearing the blue-and-white kit. A few yards further along the bank a man stood fishing. Idly we began to throw stones into the water, knowing that this would scare away the fish. The man shouted 'Fuck off!' at us.

When we returned to the pitch our team had lost 6–1. The referee was standing by his car, viciously cursing a group of local boys who had threatened to damage it. He seemed used to having to defend himself and his property. As I was changing at the edge of the pitch, one of the boys walked behind me. Instinctively I turned so that I could see my possessions on the ground. The boy, who was older and taller than I was, said, 'Don't worry, kid, I'm not a thief at all.'

I told my mother about the football team and she bought me a new pair of Hi-Tec boots. They were black with blue and white markings, and I was mesmerised by their cleanness and brightness. Among the noise in the changing room before our next training session, Colin admired them, and I felt pride. Austin entered the room just as a boy called David complained loudly, 'My hands are freezing!' Austin approached David, bent and whispered to him. David burst into scandalised laughter as Austin resumed walking and left the room by another door. The other boys demanded to know what he had said.

'He said, "Stick them down your pants and they won't be long warming up!"'

I was not chosen to start our next few matches, which we lost. On a Saturday afternoon in Spring a young man called Pa introduced himself to us, and told us that he was replacing Austin as our trainer. He had never seen us play. In the changing room before the match, I was being mocked noisily. Pa came in and announced the team by pointing to each player and telling him his position. He pointed to me and said, 'Left-back.' When he had finished he left the room, which remained silent. I said nothing but felt a great relief. My confidence had been boosted and I played better than I usually did. We drew the match. Later Colin told me that Pa had asked him before announcing the team if I was any good, and he had told him that I was.

Our performances improved but we continued to lose matches. Pa became frustrated by our inability to pass the ball to each other accurately. At the start of one training session he divided us into two lines facing each other. The boy at the front of one line passed the ball to the boy at the front of the other, and then moved to the back of the line so that the next boy could receive the return pass.

Pa sometimes picked me to start matches, and sometimes used me as a substitute. At half-time in one match he said to me 'You're giving your man a start on goal. You're catching him all right, but it'd be easier if you stayed goal-side of him.' I took this not as a criticism, but as an acknowledgment of my speed, and I was pleased by it. Colin became annoyed by the lack of aggression in my play, and told me that my goal for the season should be to get a yellow card.

Our last match took place on a beautiful day in June, near the end of the school year, on a new, smooth pitch near the university. I wanted to live in a neighbourhood like this one, the life of which I imagined to be different to the one I knew. The other team scored early in the match. As they celebrated I noticed my team-mates and trainer looking at me with exasperation. Colin told me that I had played the goal scorer onside. Shortly afterwards, as an opponent was about to sprint away from me with the ball, I tapped him on the heels with my boot, and he fell over. The referee gave a free-kick against me, but did not book me. I noticed a strange feeling of liberation in myself, and I began to sprint up the pitch whenever I received the ball. Every time I approached the other team's penalty box I became hesitant and passed to a team-mate. Colin equalised a few minutes from the end, and we celebrated wildly.

There were not enough cars so we had to get home by ourselves. As we left the pitch and wandered towards the bus-stop we talked about our plans for the summer, and the secondary schools we would begin to attend the following autumn. Colin and I were being sent to different schools. I did not know when I would see my team-mates again. It occurred to me that this group of boys would never again play together, nor ever live together, in this neighbourhood. If I had mentioned this fact to them they would probably have considered it obvious and uninteresting, and they would have been puzzled and scornful, but for a moment it caused me an extraordinary sadness, a sadness which was also an exquisite pleasure, and which I assumed would characterise the entire summer.
Wednesday 15 May 2013

### Hero Comes Home

Mark Fowler

Magill, ACT

Mikey called and insisted he march

But Mikey liked to remember the hero things of later life, not

The real Binh Ba.

The smoke and confusion,

the screams,

the fear and the loathing,

the innocent,

All bloodied and broken discarded dolls.

Mikey called and insisted he march

For the boys, in their memory, afterwards raise a glass at the RSL.

Not to Binh Ba.

The fetid smell

of three generations

who cried

leave us in peace;

And lost all in one morning of madness.

Mikey called and insisted he march

For the people, for the people to remember and be proud.

Not to remember Binh Ba.

But to feel

some vague notion of hero,

of fearless men

who saved us

From the threat of small men in black pyjamas

Mikey called and said he'd march

To spite the peaceniks and to teach the new generations

Not about Binh Ba.

But of

national pride,

gratitude for freedom,

and memories

of our contribution

To a war no one really wanted or needed to fight

But, when Mikey called to get him to march

Mikey forgot he'd finished it last year, thirty five years it ate him.

Binh Ba,

Still there it was,

those discarded dolls

pointing accusingly

at the shiny medals

Which jangled on his chest as the crowds waived gaily.
Wednesday 15 May 2013 4 pm

### Envy Of Aging Begonia (A Voyage Of Beginning)

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, NSW

I'm beginning a voyage of discovery of the labyrinth of my internal mind,

expecting to find, there's really nothing there but empty space.

Every night in the endless cosmos of my head, I'm trying to locate the thread

of where I came from: the spark beyond; the elusive trace.

Some might view this as a symptom of madness, sadness, of a deep psychosis,

perhaps it's another by-product of the scoliosis that entraps and inflicts me.

If what Eastern Religion tells us is true, then reincarnation is on the cards,

but ... haven't I already done the hard yards? Nirvana is strictly ...

For the Buddhists? Perhaps, a devotee could explain it better than me: a jester,

the arch agnostic, the eternal cynic trying desperately to mimic sages.

Down history's pages greater intellects than I have grappled with the enigma of being,

whether a whale, an insect, a python or plankton; begorrah, even a begonia ages ...

Withers, dies and fades away. But are they ever bedevilled of thoughts of the sublime?

They've no concept of crime or time only survival; would they call it instinct, intuition?

They have no need of institutions or the Bible; only the zoos and other facilities

where we process all fauna, flora to our needs. Even the seeds we take for nutrition!

I've just returned from an exercise session – a voyage of beginning each week

and each week I'm becoming weaker; is this just futility as well?

A bomb explodes in Boston and again I'm lost in contemplation of the fragility of life;

perhaps it would be for the best to escape with my wife to the coast, not be a ghost in hell!

In a few more days I shall be the same age as my father when he died; of course

he lied to himself, saying 'I'm fine, nothing wrong with my health; just pour me a beer!'

But cigars, grog and fatty food and salt clogged his arteries but latterly, I'm thinking,

'What does it matter?' Give yourself over to absolute pleasure – what use to shed further tears?

And what of my son who has 'run' away from his family; apparently, familiarity

breeds contempt, as the old saying goes, and so, we sail the calmer seas of ambiguity.

It's so easy to be wise with hindsight and I'm not blind to the mistakes I made,

and the passing parade makes me melancholic, though non alcoholic; I espouse continuity.

Autumn is here and winter draws near and begonias begin their time of hibernation;

(the tuberous variety that is). No qualms are found, their 'feet' in the ground: bliss!

I've not kissed the Blarney stone but we've been to the castle – is travel an option these

days of uncertainty? Eternity beckons in the depths of unconsciousness; safe in the abyss.
Thursday 16 May 2013

### The Punter

Bob Edgar

Wentworth Falls, NSW

'When my ship comes in,' is the gambler's pipe dream. 'I will pay all our debts ... when my ship comes in. I will set up the kid's education expenses ... when my ship comes in.' The elusive pot of gold at the end of the final stretch is always there, in the gambler's imagination.

Louie Brohman had chased rainbows for years craving that pot of gold. He was now out of breath, out of money, and almost out of hope.

Louie sat slumped on the floor of the only betting shop that would still take his bets. He cradled his head in his hands and made a silent promise. He promised himself he would never gamble again, if he could just have one big win. An illusionary prayer perhaps.

The door of the betting shop opened allowing a whiff of fresh air into the smoke filled den. Louie's eyes were drawn to the door frame to see a priest illuminated against the invasive sunlight. The priest's robes brushed Louie's face as he made his way to the betting window.

'I wish to place a wager,' the Father whispered.

The bookie's clerk politely stared at the priest for a full five seconds.

'Could you elaborate your holiness, as I am not cognitive to the thoughts of the celestial beings among us mere mortals.'

'I wish to place a sum of 10,000 pounds on the result that the Pope will die within the space of three days.'

The clerk was stunned, as was evidenced by his silence and his gaping mouth.

'I also wish to know the odds of such a wager.'

'Excuse me, I'll just get the boss,' the excited clerk said as he scurried to a back room.

Ten minutes passed before a serious looking man in a pin striped suit emerged from the business end of the betting shop.

'Father ...?'

'I am Father Hennessy and I wish to make a wager.'

'Yes Father, my colleague has informed me of your desire. You want to wager that the Pope will die of natural causes within the period of three days. We have run the usual checks on the Pope's health and immediate itinerary and find nothing untoward.'

'Then I may place the wager?'

'Yes of course, if you accept these generous odds then we will accept your 10,000 pounds.'

The transaction completed, Father Hennessy swept his robes around his body and made for the door.

Louie Brohman had not heard a word of the conversation between the priest and the bookie; however, he gripped the priest's robes and pleaded.

'Father forgive me for I am not worthy of your blessing. I have lost all my possessions to gambling, I am at the crossroads of my life. My children's education savings is all we have left. I will never gamble again if I can have just one life saving payout.'

Father Hennessy looked down on Louie, placed his hand on his forehead and said, 'Withdraw your savings my son, and wager the lot on the result of the Pope dying within three days' time. Insist on the odds of 30,000 to one.'

Two days passed and the bookie was still smiling. On the morning of the third day the newspapers of the world bellowed the headlines:

POPE DEAD

The ensuing story told of the Pope dying of a massive heart attack, brought on by the result of a football match. Upon hearing of his favourite team, Notre Dame, being beaten 136 to nil by the New York Devils, he dutifully dropped dead.

The following morning Father Hennessy entered the betting shop and collected his cheque from the mute bookie.

Making his way to the door the priest saw Louie sitting among the cigarette butts and sobbing into a half eaten pie.

'What on earth, my good man!? Didn't you place the wager on the Pope as I instructed?'

'Yes Father, I did, and I collected a fortune. Then placed the lot on the Archbishop of Canterbury in the daily double!'
Friday 17 May 2013

### Five Easel Pieces

Judith Bruton

Lennox Head, NSW

Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he (she) grows up.

~ Pablo Picasso

1

Between the silky lining and leather of her mother's discarded handbag, a child finds a stray sixpence and two pennies; enough to buy an ice-cream on her way home from kindergarten.

Earlier this morning the little girl had stood at a low wooden easel in a sunny playroom brushing poster paint onto thin butcher's paper. Daubs of yellow, blue and red mixed and melded into an array of purples, greens and earthy browns – a tree – a wonderful tree with a thick trunk and abundant foliage. She had captured a fragment of her visual world. Magic!

Art will be the magic in the rest of her life. She smiles.

2

A teenager reaches into her brown leather satchel for a stick of natural charcoal, her fingers just missing the exposed Stanley knife blade lurking at the bottom. The heady smell of oil paint mixed with turpentine drifts across the fine art studio as she stands behind her over-sized easel in anticipation. Today is her first life-drawing class at art school.

'Bettina, please keep your gown on until we're ready,' the elderly female lecturer suggests in a restrained voice. Bettina, the model, puts down her knitting, looks over her glasses and casually covers her plump middle-aged body, all mounds, curves and wild pubic hair. Her slow movements are reflected in the complexity of a sizeable three-piece folding mirror.

The class is silent, wide-eyed as Mrs Doreen Canta introduces figure drawing. 'Everyone. Imagine the tip of your charcoal is touching the outline of the model. Look then put.'

The students shuffle their paper and prepare to see, really see.

'Bettina, please remove your gown for a 20 minute reclining pose.'

The teenager concentrates.

3

A young women unrolls her coloured pastel papers, sets up her easel and laughs casually with her drawing group; local artists Philippa, Margaret, Alex, and retired art lecturer Dave. They meet weekly at each other's home to draw the nude while their families are away. The young woman confidently captures the essence of Marika's dark sensuous body as it turns through a series of five-minute poses. Her pastels flow smoothly on the grainy paper and define the young model's dusky shape. The artist feels in control of her media as she turns vision into line and colour, human form into representational marks, all to the sultry sound of Sade.

4

A dark haired female lecturer adjusts the spotlights to accentuate the tonal passages on the young man's naked body; she notices his tan is in sharp contrast to the fresh white sheet he is lying on. The lecturer enjoys teaching but would prefer to be alone, just artist and model. One day she plans to spend time in her own studio creating visual magic. One day, she dreams. She wanders between the students helping them with measurement, foreshortening and perspective. Some drawings make her despair while others show promise. She is slightly bemused by several renderings of exaggerated genitalia, particularly by female students.

Time to repeat her mantra. 'NO details at this stage... please try to see the body as an integrated form.'

5

A woman opens her worn leather purse, stretched and burdened by loyalty, credit and business cards. Years of lecturing have devoured some of her energy, swamped her magic; but she is now free to pursue her own artistic dreams. Some dreams need redefining.

She gives $15 to the male artist who has organised the model for today's three-hour session. Tentatively she sets up her new sketchbook on an easel in the gallery studio. She hasn't drawn for a while but trusts you never forget. She hopes.

The point of her black compressed charcoal traces the contour of the young female's lithe form in one continuous line from cheekbone, circling chin, down slender neck, along collar bone, around breasts to arched stomach, highlighting hip bone, suggesting pubic area, down and across slender thigh. If the line was lifted off the paper, it would be one long sinuous thread.

It feels good to draw again, to be in the moment connecting eye, hand and emotion. The woman feels she is capturing something special; is finding that little extra in her kitbag of experience. She enjoys defining the figure of the model. Maybe if she continues to draw regularly she will rediscover the serendipity, the magic, the wonderful defining moment she found as a child. She wonders.
Saturday 18 May 2013

#

### Eastbrook

Whitney McIntosh

Wheelers Hill, VIC

I received a new appointment today.

It fostered a startling chilling sensation down my spine. This chill soon climbed the nerves of my neck to my forehead, making me giddy with feeling. This does not happen often.

I had become 'sick and tired' of my work from all of my posts in this past decade. I had most recently been allotted to work at the train tracks, the female prison, and a 'bikie' gang hideout. The gang hideout had been, by far, the worst. I believe it was the ghastly tattoos that had affected my poor soul. I had much preferred counting the amount of times the trains had been late through West Hampshire station each day. I had not the courage to reconcile myself with the barbed wire, gruesome snakes wrapped around knives and the curly lettered names dripping down the stretched and toughened sun-tanned skins of the middle-aged bikie 'heroes'. But more than that, the entire way of life got to me. The general state of grimacing, the bristled chins, the worn out shins. It invited a morose temperament to life's proceedings, one which I impartially deemed unnecessary and cumbersome to everyday joys. Not that my days are filled with 'everyday' joys; I am not one to speak.

Today, however, I was given the pleasure of new sights and fresh voices at my new post. I was submerged in a plethora of varying tones and a harmony of rhythms, emerging with the redolence of times past. Here in the ceilings collect whispery quavering voices and deep experienced baritones, which intermingle and rearrange themselves into pleasant conversations. Here, there is singing.

My new location is at 151 Wintershire Avenue, Eastbrook, in a monumental faculty of such sweet charms, 'Eastbrook Old Folks Home'. There are 72 residents, aged 70 to 95, all of whom are searching for any care and love that this harsh and unforgiving world can spare. The lawns here are green and wide, bordered by broken brown gravel roads travelling in and out of the buildings, and a discreet river that wanders through the trees in silent contemplation of nature's unity and fortitude. The residents are parked with deliberation in deck chairs and wheelchairs and couches throughout the open airy rooms of the Home, armed with newspapers and crosswords to satiate the thirsts of many an hour of the day. I meander through the rows of old men and women, the trenches of washed up veterans battling on, sans reprieve. Their voices lift up together, attempting to make the day, today, a little more bearable and last just a little longer.

The inner rooms are starved of the residents who so fill these walls in the winter; it is summer now. Fatuous sunrays illuminate the residents' translucent skins, which are tracked with bluish streams of oxygenated vessels pumping towards their hearts. Yet it must be that the hulls of these floating capsules are cracked and worn, because the breath of these mortals seems too often raspy and broken to merit true breathing. Moreover, it is through their tissue paper like skins that I can see the infestation of germs and diseases that have spread like ants on a carcass, like melting butter on bread. They are all infected. From life, I guess? What can one do when one's fleshes are such transitory packages? They are not made to last.

I enjoy the residents' eccentricities, their mannerisms, the intricacies of each being. What I do not enjoy is the conformity; the rows of chairs that stretch from the entrances of the buildings around their sides like a desolate watch guard. I abhor the nature of the monotony here, it is harsh and arrhythmic. It is the elderly man walking to Room 201 each day to see that Jessie no longer sleeps in that bed, she is gone. It is the harsh coughing of Eric in Room 140 that makes me wince and plead for no more, no more. Yet what is worse is the way that each one of them greets the day with greeting cards and warm smiles on Sunday mornings, glancing out of their frosted or sun-stained windows with perplexed half smiles which wander off into the garden outdoors. There is such longing, such resignation and such courage coalesced into a great scam of tiredness.

It was only in Room 18 that I found someone I thought I could attempt to understand. Ed Yorrick was plain and in plaid and his smile was unlike the broken ones of all the other rooms. The divaricating manner of his conversation was pleasant and unexpected, while his excited manner of tapping the toes of his polished brown leather shoes on the linoleum floors made me smile and wonder. He was a beginner.

Ed had been here for five months. In that time he had proposed to a young single staffer who vehemently pronounced that he quite enjoyed Ed's company, but could not date residents; planted tulips in six separate locations on the lemon scented lawns; successfully petitioned for bananas to be sliced and served in the cafeteria; and had begun to 'go out' with a happily rotund and slightly unaware man, Bert.

Bert was the oblivious sort, one whose eyes were often glazed, yet remained bright with his eternally welcoming smile. This was contrasted by short episodes of absolute lucidity, which increased in frequency as Bert spent more time with Ed. Through his eyes, you could see his whole self awakening in his physical capsule, the wrinkled jumpsuit of his body. These moments were reminders; inside the dark crevices of his mind remained a fading wisdom and experience that would soon be lost.

Bert had begun to wear plaid too, just like Ed. The two of them often walked along the winding stream together, hand in hand, plaid with plaid, smiling with the summer breeze. Neither Ed nor Bert had ever considered what love another man could bring, until the deaths of their wives, and until they found each other. Ed had spent his entire life 'knowing' one truth to find another truth so much brighter, like the evening stars in the blackness. What had they been but wasted years, washed up times on a shore of empty love.

I spent the night in the vacant hallways, in a more vigorous fashion than I had spent the day. I snuck around in a conspiratorial manner, wishing for company, while loving the silence and calmness of such corridors. I searched around, found forgotten crevices and stairwells, looked at photos tacked to walls and studied the secret hiding places of diaries and mementos of each resident. The tap tap of shoes on the linoleum floor was such that it could give any mortal 'goose bumps' a hundred times over. Suddenly, I felt a whoosh of cool air, strangely out of place on the warm summer's night. For a moment I revered in a sort of wistful ignorance, playing at a naiveté I no longer owned. 'What might that be?' Yet soon, inevitably, I turned to face the wind, and I turned to face my duties, which I would never deny nor attempt to escape. It was inevitable. Another had fallen to the throes of incapacity, to irretrievable stillness, and I needed to take them home.

It was not Ed today, nor Bert. It was Marie. It was not a relief that it was not Ed, as I knew that it would be soon, like the deaths of all people. Marie was 84, with wispy white hair that floated in the breeze like it was alive and searching, like seaweed floating at the bottom of an ocean floor. She smelt like cinnamon and damp wool. Her translucent skin glowed, and I could see the infestation that had slowly worn down her capacity for life. She was not made for the trenches, not made for this mighty fortress of silence and audacious resilience. Her papery skin was soft to touch, and through it I could feel the weight of 84 years of memories, of friendship, of fighting, of past loves. She looked peaceful and tender, and beautiful.

And so I took Marie in the same manner that I do each and every time. It is a formal ceremony for me, it is sacred, and I enact my duty in the most upright way. I pronounced, as I wrapped my cool arms around her, 'It is I, Death, and it's time to come home.' She rested in my arms, peaceful, and silent, smiling with closed eyes; and I thus took her to her Maker, whoever that may be.

Ed: I had to read this twice as I had misunderstood it first time around, but the clues are all there when you know what to look for! I really enjoyed the clever way that death has been personified, but as something/someone with respect, care and love, rather than as a malicious, evil being delighting in their work. I also enjoyed the use of language, and the way this story did not go anywhere near the plot lines I was expecting – always a lovely surprise.

Sunday 19 May 2013

### A Sustainable Dream

Heather Jensen

Deloraine, TAS

Kayla took her coffee to the veranda and sat back in the old rocking chair, looking out as she did to survey the landscape. The scene before her was one she had imagined so often: lush gardens; trees laden with fruit; vines, canes and bushes overloaded with berries; a forest of colour as vegetables grew to abundance. Tiny blue wrens and robins with their bright red breast flew from tree to tree; wattle birds fed on the cyclamen and higher above a flock of black cockatoos screeched their way across the sky. Beyond towered the mountains, their colour ever changing with the seasons and the light.

The beauty of it all still caught Kayla, the realisation of a life's dream. She had worked so hard to have her own slice of heaven; juggling two jobs while James was raised by his teachers during the day and her parents most other times. She had thought she would never make it, until her father passed her the newspaper one morning, a bright red circle highlighting a rundown old farmhouse. She had fallen in love with the place on sight and the price was within her grasp. A small mortgage was all she needed to become the new owner of Tier View Farm. A mortgage – and the job to pay it.

Tier View Farm was three hours' drive from the city, a short ten minute drive to the nearest town. Kayla despaired finding work until she stumbled across the local school and learnt they had need of a librarian. Two days a week gave her the income to finance the loan and support her son. The school gave her the means to follow her dream. Her dream gave her so much more. She found a deep satisfaction from the knowledge she could finally be the mother her son needed and wanted, and not someone who simply kissed his forehead before rushing out to the next money earner.

She sipped her coffee, closing her eyes as she pushed off the ground to set the chair on its rhythmic sway, enjoying the sun's rays warming her face. Could life get any better? She smiled at the distant rumble of the bus, the shouts of the children. Moments later came the sound of James's feet crunching along the gravel path followed by the click of the front door.

'Home!' he called.

'Here!'

He emerged onto the veranda, his school bag most likely dumped by the door.

'Mr. Jones wanted me to give you this.' He passed her a letter. Turning to go back into the house he paused. 'There's rumours the school is closing.'

'Who said that?' Kayla frowned.

James shrugged. 'Some kids at school.'

Kayla opened the letter. It was brief, requiring her to come in earlier the following day. 'I doubt it, James.' She put the letter away, dismissing the moment of fear James' words had introduced.

'How was school?'

'Good.'

'What did you do?'

'Not much.'

'Any homework?'

'No.' At fourteen James' conversational skills were typical of many his age and Kayla had long since given up trying to coax more out of him.

'Don't forget to empty your school bag and change out of your uniform,' she called as he headed to his room, ready for another afternoon of video games. Kayla sat back and sighed. Despite her neglectful upbringing James had turned out to be a good kid. He helped her with scarcely a grumble, and he worked hard around the property. She'd been surprised when he said he loved it too. Growing up a city kid she expected he would hate living in the country but the lifestyle came naturally to him, and he'd grown strong and healthy in the year since their move.

~~~

The next morning Kayla arrived at the school to find the entire staff of eight crammed into the principal's tiny office. The groundsman was present alongside the teachers, aide, and administration assistant. Kayla had never seen them all gathered in one spot before.

The Principal, Mr. Jones, cut straight to the point. 'You've no doubt heard the rumours.' He cleared his throat before continuing. 'I'm sad to say they are true. Our funding has been cut; the government deems small schools to be a waste of money and resources. The school will close at the end of term and we will merge with the school at Narellan.'

The shocked silence was followed by a barrage of objections.

'That's an hour away! They can't expect the children to travel so far!'

'What about the community?'

'What about our jobs?'

Mr Jones shook his head, hands raised for quiet. 'The permanent teachers will have a job at Narellan, but there are no guarantees for anyone else, and I'm sad to say the opportunities for more jobs in the school are not promising.'

The questions continued but Kayla heard none of them. She saw only her home, owned by another; she and James thrust back into a dingy suburban rental. In this community a single shop covered the basics: food, petrol, post office, newsagent, general store – all rolled into one. The school provided her only chance of work. Without it, she could not afford her mortgage. Her dream was dashed.

At home, dinner was subdued. A whole school assembly had been held so James knew the worst had been confirmed. Kayla found she couldn't eat, pushing her vegetables around her plate instead.

'I don't know what to do,' she whispered. 'We'll have to sell up, move back to town.' She glanced at James. 'At least you'll be able to see a little more of your grandparents.' She forced a smile. 'They'll be pleased to have us nearby.'

James shook his head. 'You're looking at this the wrong way mum.' He looked at her with genuine surprise. 'I can't believe you're giving up so easily.'

Kayla returned her sons shocked look. 'What do you mean?'

'We have the farm. It's only small, but there's enough land here. We could make money from the garden.'

'Sorry?'

'We've got too much produce, you've said so yourself. Why not sell it? That should help pay the mortgage; buy us a few extras. Your cooking is awesome mum; and your preserves have improved. We could survive on what we've grown.'

'Oh James... that is a wonderful thought, but we'd need to hire help for that – it's too big a job just for me.'

'I'll help,' James said.

'When? You'll have to leave an hour earlier to get to your new school; you wouldn't be back till dinner time. You'll be too exhausted, and in winter it will be too dark.'

James rolled his eyes. 'So home school me. It's not like you can't teach. You're giving up too easily mum. Besides, I like it here.'

Kayla felt a weight lift from her shoulders as she imagined a new future: fresh produce in summer; jams, chutneys and preserves in winter. The farm house had an old cellar, already filling with produce. With James' help, it was possible. And that would be her dream truly fulfilled.
Monday 20 May 2013

### Just Some Thoughts

David Newman

Jacobs Well, QLD

There was once a time when men sought out beauty;

In the land, in the houses, and within a woman;

When gowns made from the finest silks adorned a lady;

Whilst speech, chivalry, and manners bespoke a gentleman...

Now those days have receded into the very dimness of our thoughts;

A new age of super bombs and acid rain begins to rule our minds;

So we race to live each day before the final hell is wrought;

We talk much, yet go nowhere, too scared to go ahead for fear of being left behind...

Politicians hold their conferences to delay a lighted fuse;

As they play an endless game of tug-a-war to force their points of view;

While we the people watch, a little frightened, much confused;

Beware when you are fighting your enemies that your friends aren't fighting you...

And beware of men and women who continually speak ill of others;

They allow their eyes and ears to take in only a twisted truth that makes truth bad;

Then through their speech, spread their illness to their sisters and brothers;

Not knowing that they follow instructions, therefore their thoughts are those of someone bad...

Now, when someone threatens that which is right, stand up and shout out 'NO!'

For we have no time for such folly, and surely we need not buy our sorrow:

It takes but little time to destroy, and so much more time to grow;

And we have no time to waste today, for we must make ready yet for the morrow.
Monday 20 May 2013 4 pm

### Dreaming I Am Edgar Allan Poe, Again...

Mark Govier

Warradale, SA

Did you know/ could you know/ whoever you are...

through the mists and the cataracts/ the delusions of grandeur/

through the hours spent/ before an infinity of mirrors/

each mirror saying dead, dead, dead...

did you wonder/ was there anyone there/ to wonder...

In boundless solitude something is

sitting, sitting, sitting...

before the steady flame of an ancient lamp,

sitting sitting sitting...

before the steady lamp of an ancient flame,

sitting sitting sitting...

it has no core, it could never have a core,

it is that which it writes, the pen made flesh no less...

and that which it writes? Torture, endless torture...

In the backrooms of the imagination,

a living corpse croaks out a lump of noise...

can you hear it, did you hear it?

The book I am reading dissipates...

A haze of space and time gone adrift...

The Maelstrom, the Red Death,

The Pit and the Pendulum,

A Tell Tale Heart,

Tales of a soul turned to ink...

Dreaming, I am Edgar Allan Poe, again...
Tuesday 21 May 2013

### Kingfisher

DavidVee

Glen Waverley, VIC

Come with me for a walk by the creek

in the cool early light of the day.

Search with me for the bird we seek,

let's talk about it on the way.

Look at that tree, festooned with bark,

see that big lump of mud on a bough?

That's the nest of the magpie lark,

she's sitting on eggs in it now.

The mess of twigs higher up in the tree

was built by herons who nest here.

Look carefully, you will see

chicks huddled together in fear.

That stub of wood with splintered end

is a frogmouth frozen and still

on that broken limb just near its bend.

Look, it just opened its bill.

Today we look for the rarest of all,

an indigo and azure sight.

One minute still, then, without call,

a diving flash of blue light.

Too long has it been, far too long,

since we last came across this bird.

It's years since its cackling song

and the splash of its dive were heard.

It formerly nested in holes in the sand

by this creek which now acts as a drain;

then Council, 'developing' nearby land,

'fed' the creek with a storm water main.

You might very well ask me why

this lovely bird is no longer seen.

I'll have to tell you, with a sigh,

that this water is far from clean.

But strangely that lack of foresight

left it open to sky, wind and rain.

Trees flourished in the light

of this 'designated flood plain'.

Now once again this piece of land,

with plans to re-route the drain,

is threatened by developer's hand.

Things will get worse again.

We live as if it's only our need

that matters in all the earth.

Pursue lives of excess and greed,

to us birds have little worth.

We don't seem able to live and share,

wanting to change all we see.

Despoil, destroy what was once fair

whether field or stream or tree.
Tuesday 21 May 2013 4 pm

### The Music of Nature So Serene

Alexander Gardiner

Bullaburra, NSW

The music of nature so serene,

Magic sights to be seen.

Wafting sweet scents to caress the mind,

Forest trees and flora, all kind.

Oh what joy and ecstasy in one's mind's eye,

When eyes closed from the sunny sky.

Opening slightly to mist the gleam,

Breathe in joy of this heavenly scene.

Open more to wide eyed joy,

Now your senses are in full employ.

Time now in slow motion pace,

Slowing down to nature's nourishing grace.

Grasses wafting their own sweet scent,

The sweet odour of blossoms heavenly sent.

Lost in an exotic calming feel,

Worries of life begin to peel.

Stripped away from your wearied mind,

Healing that stress, that worldly kind.

Drinking in nature's healing balm,

absorbing, relaxing in a gentle calm.

Wide open now to blossom's delicate bloom,

So grand a single joyous bloom would fill the largest room.

Pinks, whites, yellow, every explosive colour,

Makes all life's worries even duller.

Oh I wish I could stay in this nature's womb,

To live in this trance without worldly gloom.

Why then do we not always grasp this nature's dream?

To live life without nature's verdant scenes.

Touch the wonderful forest's bark,

See swifting by the gentle lark.

Listen to the rib-it rib on the forest floor,

As frogs go about their daily chores.

Oh my that gentle musical sound,

As the stream caresses the rocks in a gentle pound.

And the morning mist gently disappears,

As the sun's hot breath gets into a higher gear.

As I grow old in a bodily way,

In nature's love, I hope, I will always be au-fait.

This entranced feeling of nature's unselfish gift,

Always there to give one's heart a joyful lift.
Wednesday 22 May 2013

### Grey Dawn

Mitchell Walker

Pascoe Vale, VIC

As the grey morning rays of dawn penetrate the heavy red curtains,

I run my fingers ever so softly along her cheek.

The warmth of the fur sheets heats me externally,

Her smile in reaction to my touch sets off a nuclear reaction internally.

Safe, secure, calm.

For once, I need no distractions, merely, finally, just content to be.

I feel her skin stand on end, I pull her closer into myself.

That sought after state where nothing else but this moment matters.

Her natural scent wafts inside me, converting deserts into gardens.

Never have the words been truer: 'The tragic and exquisite are the same to some degree.'

In reflection, a single, solitary tear runs down my cheek, but not in sorrow, rather in an uncontrollable joy at the beauty of life.
Wednesday 22 May 2013 4 pm

### Ocean

Ben McCaskill

North Balgowlah, NSW

Translucent emerald and sapphire, dancing on energy

Pushing down on my craft, it rolls and rumbles over my back

There's a bond, a spiritual union

Ocean is creation, as is man

Innate attraction between the two

Gliding along the smooth surface, weightless

Euphoria envelops me, spirals up my spine

Dark craters of worry are replaced by rays of celestial light

A connection is made

The ocean cries its own song, the song of perpetuity

Full of life, yet it does not own one

Shelter and exposure

A mother and a murderer

Gentle and powerful, emotive yet apathetic

Random and unforseen

The metaphor for life

The Ocean
Thursday 23 May 2013

### Another Character

Paul Humphreys

Oxley, ACT

He was a round ball of a man. He looked as though some one had constructed a frame and then thrown a mass of play dough over the top and it had gradually settled over the frame, shaped by gravity and the weight of the dough. He had difficulty in walking fast so seemed to 'swim' with an abbreviated breaststroke action as he hurried from one appointment to another.

His haste was energised by the prospect of meeting someone, anyone really, where he could talk, converse, communicate, reply and enjoy.

He was fascinated with conversation and people. He could listen and converse with anybody that cared to spare him the time.

It really was more than a fascination: it was an essential ingredient in his life force. In fact he relished these snippets of social intercourse as though they were delicate and delicious pieces of gourmet food.

His face shone always with a smile; smile lines fractured all the contours of his face in a pleasant happy puppy sort of expression. As he indulged in the repast of repartee, the dialogue of dining on words, his deep brown eyes would sparkle and send a secret message to those that were receptive that he was really enjoying the degustation of discussion, the giblets of gibberish, the gleanings of gossip and the kneading of knowledge.

Each word, phrase, morsel of the interchange activated an energy in his body and mind that produced an immediate response. His stomach would quiver and his shoulders relax, a small tear of perspiration would appear on the tip of his nose and he would immediately respond to the repast of words with his own menu of phrases and conjunctions that would keep the pot boiling.

He was always searching for new ingredients and recipes to assure that the conversations he had were memorable, satisfying and wholesome.

The feast of nouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs, clichés, phrases, anecdotes and theories satiated him on a daily basis.

The smile would disappear if he had not had his usual intake of nutritional dialogues. The smile lines would become downcast, his lower lip would drop and there would appear a sliver of saliva as though he was hungry or thirsty and in need of sustenance.

It appeared unusual at the time but he lost some of his weight. No one could really provide an explanation, until one of his regular raconteurs noticed that he was going deaf, and so the smorgasbord of snappy phrases and the buffet of banter were slipping from his life menu.
Friday 24 May 2013

### The Old Man In A Boat

John Ross

Blackheath, NSW

He was sitting so still that for a moment I thought he was asleep. The surface of the river was like glass. The boat sat on its reflection in the water, motionless. The seagulls floated, quiet, without a ripple.

He was looking down at something in the bottom of the boat. A large, floppy, cloth hat hid his face from me. A long thin fishing rod was propped against his shoulder. I could see that his shirt was old and stained. It had once been blue and many of the buttons were missing and the sleeves had been torn off.

As I watched he stood up, still looking down into the boat, reached into the pocket on his shirt and took out a packet of tobacco. I could now see that he was wearing jeans that had been roughly cut off well above his knees. With a great deal of skill he rolled himself a cigarette using just one hand, retrieved matches from his jeans and lit up. Exhaling a thin stream of smoke he took off his hat, wiped his brow, and looked up directly toward me.

It was only then that I realised how old he was. His hair was startlingly white, long and curly. White stubble on his chin contrasted vividly with the deep mahogany brown of his face. Bushy white eyebrows jutted out over his eyes, which were almost as blue and as deep as the water beneath his boat.

His arms and legs were deeply tanned and surprisingly muscular for someone as old as he. As I watched he placed his hands on his hips, straightened up and stretched. It must have hurt him as his face contracted in pain and he massaged the small of his back.

Picking up his rod he expertly cast his line well out from the boat and settled down again on the seat. He held the rod in his left hand and with his right occasionally took the cigarette from between his lips to shake the ash over the side of the boat. His actions were slow and deliberate as if time meant nothing to him.

After many minutes I was just about to turn away when he put the rod down, reached behind him and picked up a small lunchbox with a thermos fastened to the top. He poured himself a drink in an old, battered, enamel mug and took a thick sandwich from the box.

I had my busy life to return to and had to go but as I walked away he was sitting, quietly gazing out at the horizon. It occurred to me that he was completely satisfied with what he had and where he was.

God I wished I was!
Saturday 25 May 2013

### Death and Taxes

Shane Smithers

Katoomba, NSW

He told me I was going to die, but everybody dies. What he didn't tell me was that he was going to kill me. I wish I knew what he meant, you know, before it happened. I would have avoided him. I would have gone away. I certainly wouldn't have leant him my gun. Not that it matters, everyone dies sooner or later. Some people would rather it happened sooner rather than later, especially when they're thinking of someone else, someone annoying, but most people try not to think about death. And because we don't like to dwell on death we don't seem to know much about it. Maybe that was my problem. I didn't want to think about my own death. I didn't want to consider the possibility of dying. I certainly didn't want to think he meant straight away, right after he told me that I was going to die. I didn't want to believe that he wanted me dead; or that his words were more of a threat than a comment on the nature of mortality. So I ignored it, he shot me and I died.

It's funny, you know, I remember the moment I first realised that I was going to die. I was about four, maybe five. It was before my grandfather died. He had cancer; maybe the family was talking about it. Maybe they were talking about someone else. I can't remember exactly, not that I would have known what they were talking about. Adults always talked about stuff I didn't understand. Anyway, my father said something about death and taxes and it dawned on me.

So I said, 'What do you mean? I'm not going to die.'

And my father replied, 'Yes you are, everybody dies. We get born and then we live for a while and then one day we die. Everybody dies.'

I got a little upset. 'Are you going to die? Is Mummy going to die?' I asked him.

'One day, a long time from now,' he said. I started to cry. He picked me up and sat me on his knee. 'It's all right, you'll be all grown up by then,' he said.

Dad got in trouble off my mother, he just couldn't lie to make me feel better and as my realisation grew, I realised that my brothers and sister were going to die, my dog, Bambi, and everyone else, Nanna and Par, everyone, even me. Everyone was going to die. I couldn't stop crying.

Then one day, my grandmother came to our house. She was upset and then my father went away with her. After lunch I asked my mother where Daddy was. She said he went to sit with Granddad. I thought that was strange. He never went to sit with Granddad before.

'When is he coming home?' I asked.

'Daddy's upset, because Granddad died today,' she said softly.

'Did Granddad die like the pups?' I asked.

'Kind of, he was very sick and he died.'

'Has Daddy gone to look at Granddad?' I asked.

'Daddy has gone to say goodbye.'

'Oh.' I thought a moment. 'Can you say goodbye to dead people?' I asked. What I really wanted to know was whether dead people could say goodbye back.

I remember that our Corgi, Bambi, had pups and some of them died. We went out to play with them, but some of them were cold and still. My brother ran to the house, and my mother came back running with him. She took the dead puppy off me. He was my favourite. He had a white patch on the back of his neck. I was upset when she told me that the puppy had died. His tongue was sticking out, I remember that. My pup was the first person I ever loved that died, at least the first one I can remember dying.

My mother used fly spray in the house. She had a green pump spray thing with a cylinder at the front that you filled from a bottle of poison and then pumped the handle, like a bike pump, and a fine mist of fly spray came out the front. I remember my sister, she was maybe a year old, picking up dead flies and eating them. I went to stop her, it didn't look right, eating dead flies off the floor, but she was insistent. Then she offered me one. I thought about it. She seemed to like them. Mother was not happy when she found her sitting on the linoleum, about to put another dead fly in her mouth.

I said, 'She likes eating them.'

Mother was mortified. I didn't say anything but my older brother used to get them for her. He liked watching her eat dead flies. Mother told me that he used to feed me garden worms before I realised that dirt didn't taste that good. Apparently he used to dig for them with a spoon and then scoop them up and feed them to me, dirt and all. I was a baby so I have no memory of the worms. There's no point asking me what they tasted like.

Anyway, I never thought of the dead flies as dead animals, or that my mother would have committed genocide on their entire race if she could have. They were just black buzzing things and then they fell to the floor, skated around in circles buzzing furiously, and then they stopped. I suspect babies don't have a good understanding of what is food and what is a dead insect. But who knows, it may be cultural. Some people eat insects. The Israelites ate locusts, apparently 'God' told them to. Locusts are insects. I remember seeing the Prime Minister on the telly and a fly crawled into his mouth. We were laughing so much that we didn't see if it came back out, but he never waved it away. I never understood why people on the telly let flies crawl all over their faces.

Over the years I saw some death, people who died in accidents, people who died from too much drink, cancer, heart attacks and that sort of thing. People look very different after they die. When I was 16 my other grandfather died. I had only seen him an hour before. I could hardly recognise him: his eyes looked different and his teeth looked too big for his mouth. It was awful. He was the first human person I ever saw after he had died.

I never knew anyone who was murdered, other than me of course, but you can't really know yourself, because you are yourself. You can only know other people, which is ironic really, because you never really know other people, only yourself. Anyway, all the people I knew who died, died of natural causes, smoking, or in road accidents or when things went wrong at work. None of them got shot. Then I got shot and died. So everyone I knew can say, they knew someone who was murdered. I don't think I'd like that, knowing someone who was murdered. What they didn't realise was that most of them also knew someone who had committed murder. They still don't know and no matter how hard I try I can't tell them.

You know how people say stuff about giving them a sign to prove the afterlife? Well, all of that's a bit of a waste of time. I gave a friend several signs, but he was an atheist so he didn't think anything of it. Another woman, a spiritualist, was always going about saying that I was speaking to her, or that she could see me, but she was always looking in the wrong direction. When I did speak to her she couldn't hear me.

The funny thing is, I know that I'm dead, I know that there is nothing I can do about being dead, but I still want to do something about it. I want justice. I wish I could come back, finish a few things off. Clean out the shed, shag the lady across the road, organise my finances, cut some people out of my will. I wish I could have had a funeral where only people I liked turned up. I wish I didn't have to hear their fake condolences. But what can you do? There's not much point in being dead. It's kind of like before you were born, kind of like nonexistence, you can't do anything.

Descartes said, 'I think therefore I am' or 'Cogito ergo sum', if you prefer the Latin. I used to think he was right, but now I'm not so sure. I can think, but I'm not, or should it be I'm dead, 'So I think but I aren't'. No, that doesn't sound like proper grammar, but I can't think of the opposite to 'I am'. Maybe there is life after death. Anyway, 'therefore I am', just doesn't sound very definite, if you know what I mean. Maybe another word would have helped. 'I think therefore I exist', almost works, except for the fact that thought is not a requirement of existence.

In The Philosopher's Song, the Monty Python boys interpreted Descartes' dictum as, 'I drink therefore I am', which makes just as much sense. A French bloke by the name of Destutt de Tracy said, 'I sense, therefore I exist as a sentient being', which makes much more sense. At least it has parameters. I always thought the problem was that Descartes didn't really understand the nature of existence, or life for that matter. You know... you're alive, you're alive, you're alive, then you're not alive. You're dead. If you're a tree, you're a living tree, you're alive, then you're a dead tree. A tree doesn't think, but it's alive, it exists.

If Descartes was a tree, he wouldn't have said anything, because trees don't talk or think, but if he was a tree and we applied his dictum it might have been 'I transpirate, therefore I am a tree'. It's not very catchy, but it would have been true. The trouble is that this stuff doesn't really help us understand life or death or existence for that matter. But it's a shame Descartes is dead, because you can't argue with dead people. They don't say goodbye back and they don't defend their philosophy either. But, it's more of a shame that I'm dead, because no-one will remember me. At least Descartes has his crappy dictum, even if the ordinary person doesn't really know what it means, or why it's wrong.

Being dead is not fun. Immediately after I was shot, I stumbled and fell, I clutched my chest, blood gushed out. I managed to say, 'You bastard', then everything faded away. I could feel the pain for a while. I heard distant voices calling me; my eyes flickered open, there were people gathering around, shock was setting in, all the sounds were high pitched and everyone was bathed in bright light. I felt cold. But I was still alive. I realised I was in shock.

Then my heart stopped, the light faded and I died. Nothingness. My brain would soon die and I would be dead for all eternity. There was no tunnel of light, no angels to accompany me to heaven or snarling shadows to drag me down a storm water grate like in Ghost. There was nothingness, peaceful nothingness. Then there were flashes of memory, the shooting, my contemplations of death, the pups and the dead flies and all sorts of theological crap that I easily dismissed. And there was an incessant beeping I couldn't get to the bottom of.

I opened my eyes two days ago. I had a tube stuck down my throat so I couldn't talk. Apparently paramedics were close by when I was shot. They arrived just in time, managed to stem the flow of blood, fill me up with fluid and got my heart started. The mind plays funny tricks on you. Not when you're dead, that was the nothingness part, but when you're in a coma your mind works overtime. All that stuff about talking to people and giving signs was my overactive imagination trying to deal with the shooting. For the record my childhood memories are an accurate telling of my first encounters with death.

So what now? Identify the killer – tick. Get better and shag the lady from across the road. If I'm lucky she'll succumb to my sophisticated seduction. (Just kidding, I'll be lucky if she will have me.) Then maybe I should clean out the shed and fix my finances. I think I should start on the bucket list as soon as possible, nothing too strenuous to start with. Getting shot, dying, and being brought back changed my perspective on life.

No matter how long life is, it's too short. Don't sacrifice living today for some imaginary prize in the afterlife, live today, live a full life, love, don't hate, that's what I am going to do. Too many times I hear people say they regret the things they did not do, not the mistakes they made. So live a life and don't be too afraid of taking chances or making mistakes. Remember, life is fleeting, death is permanent. So make the most of life. I will.

### Sunday 26 May 2013

The Piercing Cold

Thomas Gibbs

Refern, NSW

Lenka searched the hospital room for something intriguing. Her father was asleep. He was in the kind of sleep that is painful to watch. His face was very pale, so much so that it drew attention to a large, yellow stain on the thin bed sheet that was ever so gently tucked under his chin. The air in the room was akin to the stink of an old, used bandaid. On the other side of the room there was a window from which the tops of trees could be seen. This window was never open. It was left closed for the reason that the cold air might intrude and cause a cold. Lenka's father had late-stage emphysema.

During his first few weeks in hospital he had been able to talk. Now all he could manage was a long blink of the eyes to acknowledge Lenka's presence, after which Lenka would nod to her father and converse with him. Her words reached him, but she could see that each one was like a time bomb that caused utter confusion in his mind. Her visits became longer and more frequent as it became clear to her that her father had little time left.

It was of no surprise that the cause of her father's current condition was his smoking habit. Lenka's face now seemed to mirror her father's acceptance of death, as they looked at each other with caring eyes and relived the past through photography. She would bring to him family photo albums and deliver postcards from relatives. The bright colours seemed to weaken him as much as they gave him warmth. Her father looked at them with sad eyes that managed to somehow keep the sadness to themselves. A nurse was often called when the coughing could not be controlled with his daughter's touch, and when specks of blood appeared on the bed sheet from as much as a sneeze.

Lenka felt empty inside but tried extremely hard for her father to inject herself with life during his dying days. He had not yet passed, but the memory of him was already taking its place and Lenka was unsure how to react. She was the only family he had. It was not yet confirmed that Lenka would be alone, but as she waited by his bedside one night she wept for him. The tears shed were just one form of release. Lenka reached into her pocket and raised a cigarette to her mouth. She walked over to the window, opened it slightly and blew chains of smoke into the cold air. When she turned around her father had awoken. She immediately disposed of the cigarette out the window and slammed it shut. The look in her father's eyes was piercing, but it was the final rush of blood to his cheeks that caused her pain.
Monday 27 May 2013

### She (Part II)

Alexandra Smithers

Katoomba, NSW

When she left (... again), as a departing gift, she handed me an explanation – a shallow bowl of emptiness to catch my tears. I retched in it.

Bio: This story is the continuation of Alexandra's original story, 'She', published on 4 May 2012 and appearing in narratorAUSTRALIA Volume One.

Like Part I, it is written in only 140 characters (including spaces this time), keeping in line with the maximum allowed for Tweeting.
Monday 27 May 2013 2 pm

### Kiss Goodbye

Jordan Black

Cloncurry, QLD

'You're really sweet.

I like you.

We should be friends,'

she says.

With an icy movement

of skin in her face,

baring pearls within,

or serrated shark teeth,

'It's not you, it's me,'

she says with a lie.

I didn't even get a kiss goodbye!

Monday 27 May 2013 6 pm

### An Ode To Music (My Dearest Friend)

Crystal Lee

Adelaide, SA

I will embrace you

Pull on your heart strings

I won't speak of you unkindly

Or leave for better things

I'll sing while you listen

Some days I'll make you smile

But I'll still bathe you in sadness

Just once in a while

I'll sway you to sleep

And sing in your ear

I feel what you feel

Without unlocking the veneer

I'll never let you down

Right here I'll forever stay

And when no-one is around

I'll love you just the same

I'll play you a melody

Sing you a harmony

Soft and blissful

Slow and melancholy
Tuesday 28 May 2013

### One's Imagination

Rachel Branscombe

Quakers Hill, NSW

One's imagination

The best place in the world

Where anything can happen

And dreams come true

Where the darkness never comes

And the sun is always shining

Where one's heart is never broken

And childhood fantasies remain

One's imagination

The best place in the world

Tuesday 28 May 2013 2 pm

### Rose

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, NSW

In

soft

garden

gently grows

a fragrant yellow

climbing rose keeping company

with daffy dandelions and lusty little lizards

solid dry stone wall keeps safe this majestic flower perfect in her thorny bower

whispering perfumeries to autumn's brisk breezes

slowly discards each silk petal

to nestle softly

in the ground

decays

fades

gone

Memory of a fragile essence lingers still.
Tuesday 28 May 2013 6 pm

### Shedding Light On Life

Deborah Stanbridge

Douglas Park, NSW

Shedding light on life

Moments of time captured

In haiku for you

Stupid alarm goes

Beep beep hit it and snooze

Running late again

Solid round red rock

Standing proudly protective

Dad meets the new date

Hungry and needy

Comforted with chocolate

Full and satisfied

Sunlight shining bright

Hot and sweating turning red

Sunburnt out my head

Singing with arms up

United before the band

Tonight we are one

At shops choosing line

Person in front needs price check

Selected wrong one

Sip the warm chai tea

The light spiced drink goes

Feeling refreshed

Hope you enjoyed

Moments of time captured

In haiku for you
Wednesday 29 May 2013

### Water, Water, Everywhere

Judith La Porte

Monash, ACT

Owen Lockley shielded his eyes and gazed down at the reservoir, his muscular legs balancing on the rocky edge. His shoulder-length, beige-coloured hair was tied back into an untidy pony-tail. The still-intense late afternoon sun stung his bare arms.

So easy, he thought, grinning and slowly shaking his head.

He moved closer to the brink and leaned forward. Swaying slightly, he stared into the water's dark blue depths. Also so easy to put an end to his own pain.

The betrayal, rejection and humiliation that he had suffered overwhelmed him momentarily. His eyes pricked with sudden surprising tears. He brushed them away with the back of his hand.

He stood up straight. No way. He was an integral part of this plan. It had taken months to organise and he was already feeling the exhilaration of seeing it come to fruition.

The four of them had filled the two large rented trucks with the barrels containing the deadly cocktail. They had arranged to meet at this isolated spot late that night.

Owen mentally repeated the mantra he had been taught after his conversion: destroy your enemies from within.

Abruptly he turned and walked to his rusty and dented Toyota. With one last glance out of the rear window at the sparkling water, he revved the engine and drove away quickly. The tyres crackled on the dry rocky track.

~~~

Placing the glass tumbler of pale whiskey and water on the patio table, Kate sat down and faced her husband.

'There, darling. You look like you could use that.'

'Thanks, Katie. You're an angel,' said Geoff. His handsome freckled face looked weary.

He looked admiringly at his wife. She was lithe and still beautiful at fifty-six, with only a sprinkling of grey in her thick dark hair.

Geoff stretched out his long legs and sighed, sipping from his drink. 'Are you having one?'

Kate smiled and reached across for the glass jug of water. Ice bobbed as she poured herself a glassful. She flicked out a small mint leaf with her finger.

'Just water. It's been so hot today I'm parched. Besides, the yoga teacher told us we should have at least eight glasses a day.'

'Did you know that, on average, a person can go without food for weeks but cannot survive for more than three days without water?' Geoff said.

They sat in companionable silence for a while. The soft sound of water slapping against the sides of the pool was soothing. Kate relished these summer evenings, relaxing before dinner. It was a time to actually talk to Geoff, find out about his day and tell him about hers.

Geoff was a senior engineer at the water treatment plant. Things had been tough lately, particularly following the bushfires. There had been some staff shortages which put an extra workload on Geoff.

He tapped Kate's hand. 'Oh, I keep meaning to tell you, that old school friend of Tara's started work at the plant a few weeks ago − Owen. Maeve Lockley's son.'

'Really.' Kate shook her head ruefully. 'He was a sad case. Alan left them when Owen was only nine. Poor Maeve fell apart. Started drinking.'

'He's working in my area. He'd expressed an interest in the filtration process and equipment. I'm glad of the extra help. He's bright and keen to learn, asks a lot of questions. But at lunch he just sits by himself. No social skills.'

'Maeve was so proud when he got into ADFA,' said Kate. 'He did Engineering there until he got kicked out. Something to do with his personality not suited to the military.'

Kate got up to get dinner ready. She kissed Geoff on the top of his head. 'Salmon patties, sweet potato mash and salad tonight.'

He beamed at her.

'I'll tell Tara about Owen tomorrow,' said Kate over her shoulder. 'She's calling by on the way to the coast in the morning. Ben's there already − working on the house.'

'Shack more like it. Can't be fun not having water connected, especially now they have Luce,' Geoff said.

'Oh, they get by and there is a rainwater tank.'

Leaning back in his chair Geoff finished his drink. He bent over and gently stroked Moe. The small curly-haired dog was gulping noisily from his water bowl near the table. His plume-like tail swung back and forth in friendly response.

~~~

Luce sat on Kate's knee, fizzing and gurgling as Kate bounced her up and down.

'Who's my favourite little granddaughter,' Kate sang.

'Your only grandchild, full stop,' laughed Tara.

Kate hugged Luce, breathing in the baby smell of her soft hair.

She felt an overwhelming surge of protective love for the little girl. It was the same intense feeling she had experienced when Tara was small. That determination to make the world safe for them, to protect them from hurt and sickness and to wrap them in a cocoon of happiness and love.

Tara smiled fondly at her mother. It filled her with happiness to see Kate so besotted with Luce.

'I think I'll take a few plastic bottles of water with me to the coast house. The rainwater from the tank is fine for bathing and washing-up, but I worry a bit about giving it to Luce. I saw a possum on the top of the tank last weekend.' She wrinkled her nose.

'Use the filtered water from the jug in the fridge for Luce's bottle. I filled it this morning,' said Kate.

As Tara made up Luce's bottle with formula, she sniffed the water. Although filtered, it looked a little cloudy. Probably leftover residue from the bushfires. Dad had assured them it was perfectly safe to drink. If anyone could guarantee the quality of their drinking water it was her dad, she told herself.

Kate came up and stood beside her, Luce propped on her hip.

'Dad told me Owen Lockley is working at the plant.' She scrutinised Tara's face for her reaction to this news.

Tara looked thoughtful. Owen Lockley.

They were friends in high school. Tara had always been outgoing and confident, pretty, with long thick hair the colour of dark chocolate. Owen was shy and socially ill at ease.

It was an odd friendship: the popular girl and the nerdy boy. She had felt a little sorry for him because of his dysfunctional home life. But she had genuinely liked him. She knew that he was smart and sensitive, easily hurt.

In the last year of high school Owen had declared his love for Tara. She had to let him know as gently as possible that they could not be together, that the feelings were not reciprocated.

He had reacted with a dour acquiescence. Afterwards he distanced himself from Tara entirely.

She was happy for him when she heard that he had been accepted into the Defence Academy.

It had saddened her to later learn of his expulsion. There had been some trouble with other students, in particular a female cadet. The young woman officially complained that he had been stalking her after she had rejected his amorous attentions.

Owen's mother had died shortly after this, from lung cancer.

He had taken a labouring job for a while. He then went overseas, staying away for twelve months − the Middle East, someone had said.

Sighing, Tara gathered up Luce and quickly plugged the baby's mouth with the bottle before she could wail. She hated leaving her grandmother.

Kate hugged them both goodbye.

After Tara drove away, Kate went to her bedroom to lay down. A feeling of weakness and dizziness had suddenly overcome her. Her head ached.

~~~

Adam looked intently at Owen sitting next to him in the truck. His black eyes were unfathomable.

'Well, my friend, this task is finished. Their water is no longer fit to drink. You have done well.'

Owen grinned and lowered his head. He had only ever heard words of praise once before and these were from his mother, before disappointment had made her turn away.

'So what happens now?' asked Owen.

Inclining his head towards the two men sitting in the other truck, Adam said in a honeyed voice, 'We go and you lay low. We will contact you at a later time. There will be other plans. Maybe more sensational things − like explosions.'

He brought his hands together at his chest. 'As long as there is oppression the fight goes on, eh.'

For the first time in his life Owen felt that he really belonged; that he was a valuable member of a close-knit group; that he was appreciated, loved even.

Like the heroic soldier he knew he could have become if allowed, he had been recruited for a specific mission, had infiltrated enemy lines, gathered valuable intelligence. He and his comrades had carried out the planned attack with confidence and commitment.

If the hysteria coming from the radio in Adam's truck was anything to go by, the mission had been accomplished. Ever since the contamination warning had been issued, there were reported queues of sick and panicked people at the hospitals. Scuffles were breaking out at supermarkets as people jostled for bottled water.

A spokesperson from the Health Department had been advising the city's inhabitants to discard any water that had been taken from the tap. A doctor was describing symptoms of cyanide and arsenic poisoning.

A hot wind ruffled Owen's hair as he leapt down from the truck. He raised his hand in a salute to Adam and his companions as they drove away.

There was one more thing to do.

He reached into the boot of his car and lifted out a petrol can. He walked several steps away from the car. Pouring the contents of the can onto the dry grass, he threw on a lighted match and stood back.

Owen smirked as the hot orange flames rose. Again so easy. He had done this before

~~~

Kate raised her pounding head from the pillow and groaned. The ringing of the phone by her bed sounded like a series of high-pitched shrieks.

Turning awkwardly onto her side, she fumbled for the phone.

'Yes,' she croaked weakly.

Geoff's voice sounded hoarse.

'Katie, I've been trying to get you on your mobile. We have a bad situation here at the plant. The water has been deliberately contaminated. We've cut it off now, but listen, throw out that water in the fridge. It's poisoned. Tell Tara.'

She sat up painfully. 'What! What are you saying? Poisoned?'

'Katie, I have to go. Turn on the television quick – the PM's on.'

Shaking her befuddled head, Kate pressed the remote. The solemn face of the Prime Minister appeared on the screen.

'... a monstrous attack on a vital facility. Emergency measures have immediately been put into place. The water supply has been temporarily shut down. Engineers at the plant, together with scientists from the CSIRO, are treating and disinfecting the water. We are sourcing supplies of clean water to be shipped in and this water will be available to the community free of charge until the water supply is decontaminated and restored.'

This was followed by a barrage of frenzied questions from reporters.

'Prime Minister, what exactly has been found in the water?'

The Prime Minister turned and placed her hand on the arm of the man standing by her side. It was one of Geoff's senior colleagues from the plant. At a nod from the Prime Minister he spoke directly to the camera.

'We have detected quantities of an industrial pesticide and also of arsenic and cyanide which –'

The Prime Minister took over as a wave of shocked murmurings and loud exclamations erupted from the assembled journalists.

'All hospitals in the city have implemented their emergency response plans and −'

'Prime Minister, is this an attack by a terrorist organisation?'

'Has anyone claimed responsibility?'

'Have other cities been targeted?'

The enormity of it all suddenly descended on Kate. She let out a scream which hurt her throat.

'Luce!' Her hand trembled as she picked up the phone.

Then nausea overwhelmed her. She leant over the side of the bed and vomited. Gingerly she raised her hot and throbbing head.

It was then she noticed the rigid body of Moe stretched out near the ensuite door. His mouth was contorted into an uncharacteristic snarl. His paws seemed to reach out to Kate for comfort.

~~~

Breathing in the refreshing smell of recently rained-on bush, Tara stretched her neck. She felt her body gradually relaxing. The soothing sounds of cicadas and the occasional chime from a bell bird came through the open car window.

She was grateful for once that there was no working radio in the car to distract from nature's symphony.

It is amazing, she thought, as soon as you start to descend the mountain towards the coast, cares seem to dissolve. Thoughts turn to warm sunshine, azure sea, pristine sandy beaches and the enticing smell of battered fish and chips.

Truth to tell, it would probably be overcast and cool, and Tony's Fish Shop would be closed.

No matter, Tara was happily anticipating this weekend with Ben and Luce in their newly-acquired holiday cottage.

Tara glanced in the rear-view mirror at Luce and smiled tenderly. She was still sleeping soundly. Her little head had fallen to one side. Traces of white formula clung to her pink lips which were pursed into a scowl. Her hand, like a tiny clamshell, still clutched the baby bottle.

About 20 minutes into the journey Luce had started to grizzle quietly. But just as Tara was preparing to stop and check her nappy she had suddenly dropped off to sleep.

She really is a good baby, thought Tara. She was looking forward to taking Luce for a paddle in the surf. She had bought her a buttercup-yellow terry towelling swimsuit and matching hat.

Ben had found a bucket and spade left by the former occupants of the cottage and had cleaned them up for Luce.

Tara's phone chirped on the seat beside her. She quickly looked at it and saw that it was Kate calling.

Feeling in need of a break, she carefully pulled over onto the verge, anxious not to wake Luce. Light drops of sweet-smelling rain had begun to patter gently on the car roof.

'Hi Mum, we're nearly there,' she said quietly.

When Tara finally absorbed her mother's anguished words, she dropped the phone. Almost falling out of the car she rushed to the back door.

She lifted Luce's lifeless body from the baby seat. Holding her precious daughter to her chest, she sank to her knees on the gravel beside the car. She let out a loud shuddering cry. Tears of grief and rain mingled and ran down her face.

As if in condolence, the cicadas suddenly were silent.
Thursday 30 May 2013

### The Widow

Felicity Lynch

Katoomba, NSW

The woman moved slowly around the house, touching gently the photograph of herself and her husband, taken on their wedding, twenty years ago.

The house smelt of flowers. Maggie heard her family moving around, tidying up the kitchen and the rooms where family and friends had gathered to talk and reminisce. They shouted goodbye and slammed the front door as they left.

Maggie could still hear in her head the honking laugh of that dreadful Mrs Haypot – and see the glinting eyes full of spiteful glee, the hypocritical gushing tears and the inappropriate stories from many other guests.

Now they were all gone. The quiet embraced her. Now at last she could think. She got herself a glass of champagne someone had brought her, to toast the memory of her husband.

The house was so quiet – the silence broken only by the dripping tap that he had promised to fix, but of course never had.

She hummed to herself, 'I will survive, I will survive.' No more phone calls from his woman friends, no more lies about where he was going, no more having to cook for him or entertain his friends, who leered at her and smirked knowingly at her, companions in his cheating ways.

There was something about being widowed and quiet. She thought with satisfaction, 'I did it – months of planning and feeding him small amounts of rat bait.'

She gently patted the box holding his ashes. The death certificate was signed, sympathy given, family and friends all gushing nothings at her. She put on the TV. That program she'd seen months ago on TV that had shown her how to do it. Delicious how easy it was to do.

Maggie swallowed her champagne. She raised her glass to her image in the mirror and toasted herself. 'Well done,' she thought. This lovely feeling of freedom, to be herself, and able to do whatever she wanted to. No more shouted orders.

She turned the photograph of them on their wedding day over and thought she must go through the photos and throw or give away most of them.

What fun she would have doing all those things she'd always wanted to do. No more disapproving looks. She poured herself another glass of champagne and resolved to make lists of what to get rid of, the furniture and everything he'd liked and she had to live with.

The house settled around her. It was as if it approved of her plans. Such bliss to be alone and free. Mission accomplished! The future beckoned all rosy and new.
Friday 31 May 2013

### Therapeutic Relief

Lauren David

Macquarie Fields, NSW

I saw her. From across the busy street, through the crowds of people standing at the bus stop. I immediately felt a connection, unlike anything I had felt before. She had this kind of innocence and vulnerability that was endearing, but above anything else I noticed the pain in her eyes. A pain that I was determined to rid her of. I crossed the street making my way towards her; the closer I got to her, the stronger the pull was. This was the one, I thought. I wondered if she knew; knew I was coming for her.

Her hair shimmered in the evening sun, her waves fighting against the gentle wind. Staring at her my mind began to wonder. The bus' screeching tires jolted me out of my daydream; I followed her onto the bus and watched her. There was something troubling her. The sorrow I knew she was feeling made me all the more excited to change her fate. The evening faded into night. We were the last stop; she made her way off the bus. I trailed not too far behind her. The air had changed from the evening wind to a nightly chill.

The streets were alit with lamps. It was so quiet and so still with not a soul in sight. I quickened my steps behind her as she was starting to ascend the steps to her apartment. It was now or never. She started fumbling for her keys at the door as I reached the bottom of the stairs. My heart began to race. She managed to open the door and ran. I did not run after her, I knew where she lived. Apartment 3B, no roommate, no boyfriend, no one to interrupt us. I made my way to her apartment; she was at her door. I grabbed her and pushed her in. She fell to the floor with a thud. Clawing at the floor she began to crawl. This was my favourite part, the pleading and crying, the adrenaline kicking in, making them think that they were somehow in control. I laughed loudly as I saw the terror on her face. I withdrew the large hunting knife I had in my jacket. I grabbed her leg and pulled her towards me. That's when I saw it. The pain in her eyes had turned to fear. I smiled to myself.

I walked through the still night feeling satisfied, reminiscing on her screams. I loved it when they screamed. She begged me to stop as the knife sliced her skin. I could still smell the blood, see it dripping from the knife. As she drew her last breath, the room silent, she stared at me. Those green eyes asking me why? How could I do such a horrible thing? She should really thank me; they all should. I put them out of their misery. I help them stop the pain in their lives. I do what they are too scared to do. I end it all.

I reach my own home and start to remove my blood stained clothes. I jump in the shower feeling all too proud, another victory, another selfless act. I will admit I find joy in what I do, but it's my duty: I was put on this earth to help these women. Just like I helped my mother, just like I helped all those other women. I dry myself and head into my room. Above the bedside is a list, a list of women's names. Every woman I have ever helped has their name written. I write Sarah's name as number 32.

I sit down to watch the news as some airhead news reporter in tight clothing rolls over the everyday news. They start to describe a man who is wanted for 31 murders. I laugh. They haven't yet found Sarah, so little do they know. They say the police vow to catch the man who did this. I laugh again.

The next morning brought on a sunny day. I made my way down the street taking in the bustles of people too busy to notice anyone around them. I stop at a little café and order a latte. While waiting, I notice her. She is sitting at the corner table silently sobbing, talking on the phone to someone who has obviously let her down. The barista calls my name to collect my coffee. As I collect it I make my way down to the sobbing girl as she hangs up on the person who she was talking to. I gently put my hand on her shoulder asking if everything was alright. She looks up at me with eyes red from the crying, mascara running down her face.

'Everything's fine,' she quickly replies. I sit down and hand her a card that reads Dr. Angela Johnson, Psychologist. As I lean back in my seat my hair falls forward and I quickly brush it back. I smile to her saying that I can help if she wants me to. She tells me about her life and her mother and her boyfriend. As she is talking, spilling every intimate detail to a complete stranger, I think, I will help her. I will end her pain.
Saturday 1 June 2013 4 pm

### Grey Horses Fly

Jean Bundesen

Woodford, NSW

Winter gallops in

Grey horses flying

Silver tails and manes

Streaming behind

Trampling autumn

Trees left bare, branches sobbing

A filigree against the sky

Golden, red, plum, brown

Leaves scatter

Like a Persian carpet.

Laughing children running

Crunching the leaves

Beneath their feet

Building piles to roll in.

Temperature plummets

People rug up

Looking like snow bunnies.

Winds drops – frost appears

High in the mountains

Sleet and snow falls, highways blocked

Oberon and beyond carpeted white.

Eucalyptus trees are gleeful

Fully clad in grey green

Not a shiver seen,

Cold doesn't hurt them.

Soon the Wattles will be

Clothed in golden blossoms

Brightening winter's chill.

Sunday 2 June 2013

### The House on the Beach

Julie Martin

Box Hill South, VIC

The family who used to live here always said I had good foundations. In building terms, solid as a rock. Now, my joists ache and I'm weatherbeaten.

Ah, but I hold all the memories. You see those pictures on my wall? That one there is of the whole family. It was taken when the children were young. They've grown up now of course, except for Alice. Dear little Alice.

Who could forget that warm January morning when Charlie and his mate decided to head off to the beach together for a swim? Alice, she would have been about four years old. 'I want to see the little white horses,' she pleaded. 'Wait for me, wait for me.' She adored her big brother, followed him everywhere.

'No! Alice you can't come with us today,' explained Charlie, then he and his mate dashed off. Oh, but Alice had made up her mind. The boys were excited, they didn't look back. No one noticed she'd quietly wandered after them, but I did, she was so quick. Who could have imagined she'd use an upturned flower pot to scramble over the gate? It was dark in here for a while after that day.

That one was taken on Charlie's wedding day. The family held the ceremony down on the sand. There's Charlie afterwards, placing a floral wreath on the water – for Alice. It was such a picturesque day, the ocean was deep sapphire and the little white horses danced all the way to shore.

Peter was at college in this one, so handsome back then. He was a very busy man but weekends were our time. It's been a year or so now since he passed away. Peter was only seventy. It's not been the same since.

Now Iris has gone to a nursing home I just sit here, empty. I don't know what's to become of me.

Wait! What's that? There's someone at the front door.

'David, it's jammed.'

'Janie, you shouldn't. Here let me,' he said, twisting the handle and throwing himself against the door. 'There you go! After you.'

'Oh David!' She stepped over my threshold and walked straight through to the kitchen then peered out the sash window. 'Look! There's an ocean view.'

David traipsed along after his wife. 'Seems it's been vacant for while,' he said, running his hand over the dusty cabinetry.

'It has a lovely little back garden and there's a gate with access to the beach. It's got all the room we're going to need when the baby comes,' she said. 'We could open this up, work on it at the weekends. It could be so lovely.'

'Janie, sweetheart, it is really very old.'

She gazed around taking in every single detail, 'Yes, but think about its history. If only these walls could talk.'

'Well, the walls are solid enough,' he said, knocking on the door frame with his knuckles, 'but they need paint.'

Janie wrapped her arms around her husband.'David, I know we could do it.'

'... but it's going to take some work ...'

'David, I think we should make an offer.'

The midday sun shifted across the sky and its rays shone through the front doorway, heating my floorboards and spreading its sunlight. Once again, I feel warmth radiating into my rafters and the promise of new lives under my roof.

Monday 3 June 2013

### The Flasher

Robertas

Drummoyne, NSW

I'm avoiding peoples' eyes, skimming my gaze over them into the neutral space peculiar to crowded trains.

My eyes, busy in that space, sense a signal coming from somewhere – a strange compulsion to look my opposing passenger in the eye. Are those eyes directing mine downwards? They capture mine and flick down. Capture – flick – capture – flick. I have to look down.

A bolt shoots through me. Genitalia! Aimed at me! Not seen by anyone else – the flasher and I are almost knee to knee. I tell myself not to look. But I am weak, and I am aroused – not to actual stiffening, it's beyond that.

I look – and look away – look – and away – look – away – look.

It's surreal; I'm in a place I've never been before – electrified, and horrified. I'm floating three inches above the seat, teetering on the edge of a parallel universe. What should I do? The compulsion to look is overwhelming.

But I only have to bear it for a few minutes – my stop is coming up. I shift in my seat, signalling to the woman beside me that the next stop is mine. The flasher knows I'm getting off and gives me a special big flash. The woman beside me notices, and hmmphs her disgust.

The train arrives at the station. I get up. The flasher gets up too.

We're standing side by side as the doors slide open. The flasher gives me a 'follow me' look. I'm tempted, but resist, telling myself I'd probably get the clap or something. Then my devil's voice says, 'Go on!' and I succumb, following at a discrete distance. But ironically, another 'follow me' look breaks the spell. I stop, turn and walk away, feeling another look in the nape of my neck. I keep walking.

Shaken, and still stirred, I get to my meeting with my mates. We're planning to hitch-hike to Morocco. They are passing through London on their way back up North.

I tell them about the flasher.

'You dope,' they say, 'you should have gone for it.'

'Yeah, you're probably right. She was bloody good looking.'
Monday 3 June 2013 4 pm

### What We Speak Becomes The House We Live In

Fayroze Lutta

Randwick, NSW

Dear Andréa,

I have long wondered why I cannot write a poem of this landscape, of my homeland, and I realised it is because I am no country's flag bearer, a symbol of ownership, of conquered kingdom come. I am a stranger in this landscape, like many. There is an unanswered question of sovereignty that looms on each street corner, hanging on each street name.

The people of this land had no flags, no gun powder and no uniform or brass regalia. They had their language born of the landscape, the trees, the wood and the wind, attuned to this ancient land. They had their song, their dance, their dreaming. What restorative gesture can undo what is tantamount to cultural genocide? Once those who came from the shipyards and prisons of England struggled to survive in this hostile foreign savage landscape and now the tables have turned their songs silent.

Those who set anchor conquered with their words, laid claim to the untruth of an uninhabited landscape. Although generations later born and bred they are immigrants themselves like me, they are strangers set in this landscape. They have built a nation state on their acts formed on dispossession. There are a few growing swollen off the red dust. They have created this seemingly endless nadascape of autosuburban realities, a skyline forged on banalities. They have given foreign names to the ears of this dispossessed landscape.

The Persian mystic poet Hafiz wrote, 'What we speak becomes the house we live in'. Seemingly a young sunburnt country. Yet this land is old, it is ancient, but dressed in their clothes not of animal skin and painted ochre but of bitumen, concrete and red brick.

The language belongs to the land born of the people by the sea, the Gadigal. This land has not heard its elders speak the language of the Eora Nation for so long. The Gadigal people and their words born of the earth, the rocks and the water, the country and lands of the Boree, Garungal, Car-rang-gel, Cooroowal, Wulworrá-jeung, Turranburra, Woggan-ma-gule, Cookaroo, Yarrandabby Ku-bung hárrá, Kubungarra.

Let the voices of the poetry of this dispossessed people's land ring out over the tiled red rooftops. Let them reclaim this land's song, this land's poetry. Let it echo over the tree tops in harmony with the bird song, lost so long ago.

Yours faithfully

Fayroze
Tuesday 4 June 2013

### A Certain Date

Athena Zaknic

West Beach, SA

A mutual friend had told her that I was in town, so she phoned me. It must have been at least five years since we last saw each other. The last time was at a reunion dinner for the hospital pharmacy staff during the late 1960s. We had never been close. Nevertheless, I promptly accepted her invitation to lunch. In 1973 any date was exciting for a single woman, even if only with another woman. Where would one wear the new clothes we used to spend our salaries on? I carefully painted my face and stepped out in my new red trench coat.

Angelo's in South Yarra was quite the place to be seen in, at the time. She was waiting inside at a table by a window. She appeared a lot thinner and older than I expected. She eyed me from top to toe.

'You look terrific. Red was always your colour.'

'You haven't changed at all Linda.' I tried to sound sincere. We hugged gently for the benefit of the swish clientele. A vague scent of what seemed like moth balls floated up past my nostrils. Surely it was not her perfume? One is never quite sure these days. I thought I hope I don't smell like that. One can't smell their own scent, can they?

We perused the elegant menu which was handed to us with a flourish by a suave young Italian waiter, the soft tones of Matt Monro in the background. The well cushioned environment was designed to absorb any intrusive sounds. So unlike what we have now, where everyone speaks by gestures.

'Signorina?' A seductive smile aiming at our wallets. The food was on the expensive side, but when you are on the wrong side of thirty and single, your priorities are adjusted accordingly. I was out to enjoy myself.

We were not disappointed. Divine food plus a bonus view of bustling Toorak Road on a Friday. What more could one ask for?

Conversation was minimal as we didn't have that much in common. So we contentedly shuffled in our seats taking it all in.

'Have you seen Robin since you arrived?' she inquired as she poured herself a second glass of wine and topped mine up. As I was about to reply, she continued. 'I heard she had been quite ill recently.'

I felt her eyes pin mine. My head turned towards the window. I replied, 'Not recently. I will see her on Saturday.' I thought of the embarrassing episode of Linda and Robin dating the same man back then. Robin, the smarter operator of the two, was now happily married to him. Rumours had it their marriage had not been immune to fluctuations, but then which marriage was? I tried to change the subject.

'She is much better after her operation,' I told Linda. I did not wish to elaborate, 'And what have you been up to lately?'

How I regretted asking that question! It was just what she was waiting for. Linda proceeded to hammer me with her health bulletin of the last five years. I nodded and listened patiently, unable to utter one word.

Hives, reflux, shingles. She'd been through the lot, or at least she thought that she had. She even described her experiences while in hospital. How I wished for flippant light hearted chit chat! That is what is called for in situations like this one. Not ailments and hospitalisations. We came out to spend money and enjoy good food.

I kept staring at the second empty bottle of wine. It was swaying gently. Trying to keep my eyes open in front of her relentless mouth was torture. I had an extravagant lunch and now I was paying the price. Linda kept on and on while our waiter with a smirk on his face kept topping up our water glasses.

When eventually I felt safe to drive, I made my escape. When I got home I promptly and literally crossed Linda off my list. Whenever any of the girls suggested asking Linda to any of our outings I unconditionally vetoed the idea every time. I was not surprised when no one objected. It is now five years since our meeting. I hope her health has improved, however, I have my doubts.
Wednesday 5 June 2013

### Madge and Ruby

Robyn Chaffey

Hazelbrook, NSW

Theirs was a chance meeting.

Neither of them belonged there.

Fate brought them together. Curiosity, need and stubborn determination would draw them closer.

Ruby had been a petulant child from the beginning. Her mother had done her best by her daughter after her father walked away. She had to work, though, and constant juggling her time between Ruby's antics and her job left her exhausted. She had, to all intents and purposes, given up.

So Ruby rambled on through life without real direction. Simply she did what seemed good to her at the time. Her hair colour and style changed like the wind. Tattoos and piercings multiplied. Marijuana and other drugs were all tested well... and then Trae came on the scene!

It had been at Trae's insistence that she had gone to Goolmangar. He had persuaded her that they had 'sumfin t'gether', but that he had to go home for a few weeks so that 'th' ol' man don't cut me off'.

She had dared to think that he cared... persuaded herself that she could fit in. She dared to dream of starting a new life... with a new family.

From the moment they arrived it had been horrible! Trae's family had ignored her. It was not anger or resentment. These she would have understood and dealt with. It was not disdain either, but rather absolute indifference.

Worse yet, from the moment they had arrived at his family home, Trae had treated her the same way!

After two days Ruby threw her belongings into a bag and walked to the bus depot.

~~~

Madge was a character in a league of her own. A sassy woman in her eighties, she had a heart of gold. She had always worn her own very unique hairstyle, her mop of curls being messily piled high atop her head. Born a red-head (and with a temperament to match), she refused ever to be grey. Oddly perhaps to some, the red colour only deepened year by year till now it was a deep burgundy.

This lady wore her deep wrinkles like a badge of honour. She had earned them! She highlighted them using dark red lipstick, rouge and black eye-brow pencil. Then she carefully framed it all with an emerald green head-band of lace and sequins.

Her frock, too, was emerald green and lacy. It was adorned with an over-sized, brightly coloured enamelled broach.

Madge had been in Goolmangar to bury her 'little' brother. He was her last remaining relative. Neither of them had married or felt the need of family.

The funeral attended and her brother's house and belongings sorted, Madge was now heading back to the comfort of her own world.

~~~

The two women waited alone for the bus. They had sat silently for an hour past its scheduled arrival time, only occasionally shooting furtive glances each at the other, each one smiling only inwardly at the determined flamboyance of the other, while at the same time admitting just a little admiration.

The bus was very late and the depot getting awfully cold. Furthermore, the silence was becoming deafening!

Madge spoke first, much to Ruby's relief.

Ruby answered in her usual defiant way but immediately regretted it.

Madge seemed not to notice! There was a worldly acceptance in the older woman; a deep sense that each person had the right to choose for themselves how to navigate the world. She took out the biscuits she had bought earlier and offered them to 'the child'.

'Wodya call that colour?' Ruby asked flippantly, jerking her head toward the old woman's.

'Ruby wine,' Madge answered. 'Wish the bus would hurry up! My backside will be frozen to the seat soon! I'm Madge by the way. You going far?'

'Far as this bus will take me if it ever comes,' the younger answered. Then her face came alive with a cheeky grin as she said, 'I'm Ruby... like your hair.'

That was five years ago.

Now Ruby stands at a fresh graveside smiling at the memories of a conversation that took on a life of its own... and just seemed to continue from that chance meeting till the last few weeks. She cannot be sad! Her friend lived a full and happy life. She left no worldly goods. Yet she left a legacy of infinite value. She passed on to a new generation's woman her wonderful talent for living each day to the full, allowing no ongoing regrets, nor fears for tomorrow.
Thursday 6 June 2013

### The Abandoned Ballroom – The Xing Saga part 2

Jane Russell

Mount Barker, SA

Autumn leaves drifted across the ballroom floor, gently stirring in the breeze from the partly broken window. Heavy cobwebs hung in ropes from the ceiling. Rays of sunlight, dancing with dust particles, intruded into the huge, silent space, caressing the delicate crystal chandelier and making it sparkle like raindrops.

A field mouse scurried through the dust to gain refuge in a cracked skirting board, while pigeons cooed and warbled from their long-established nests in the room's corners. Where the window glass was missing, vines crept inwards, claiming the structure for their own.

The immense oak doors leading to the rest of the house were ajar, warped into immobility. Standing at the threshold was a young woman. She seemed as ephemeral and unreal as the ancient ballroom. She was small and slender, dressed in layers of flowing silk like fabric: green, orange, brown, a flash of red. Her auburn hair hung long and wild. Below wide green eyes, freckles dusted her pixie face, and her lips were red and sensuous. She seemed lost in thought.

'Ahem!'

She looked up towards the source of the noise. At first she didn't see him, then he moved and she jumped.

'Sorry to startle you,' he continued, reassuringly, 'I just wanted you to know that I'm here too. You're not alone.'

She just stared at him, eyes wide with surprise. Then she seemed to pluck up courage, asking, 'What are you?'

'Part of a 200-strong advance guard of metalbots from the planet Xing,' the being intoned, in a voice scratchy with disuse. 'We dropped in to set up the invasion of Earth. Unfortunately it all went horribly wrong!' If a robot could display emotions, he would have looked sheepish. 'I'm one of the few who survived our invasion debacle, and I've been hiding out here for a while.'

'How long's "a while"?' the girl asked, wondering why she had never heard of this 'invasion'.

'Well, when I first got here, there were hundreds of humans dancing in this room.'

'So, what happened?'

'Oh, the usual: they ran off screaming and I had the place to myself. For 10 years now.' His voice sounded rather forlorn.

'Can't you get home to Xing?' she asked.

'That would be nice,' he mused, as wistfully as a metal being was able, 'but I don't dare go outside – I've got aquaphobia!'

'Don't you mean agoraphobia?' she corrected.

'Also ombophobia,' added the robot.

'What's that?' she was feeling out of her depth.

'Fear of rain – I mustn't get wet you see.'

'Why not?'

'All my joints will seize up and I'll be stuck!' he confessed.

'What if you coat yourself in waterproof grease, like Vaseline?' she offered.

'Oh, I didn't think of that. Would that work, do you think?'

'If you want to get back to your spaceship, you'll have to take some risks.'

'I suppose.' He didn't seem convinced.

The robot moved creakily around the room, keeping his distance from the broken window. A startled pigeon shat on his head. He stopped and looked up at the fragile glass of the chandelier. 'Pretty,' he murmured. He looked over towards the girl, wondering if she had brought any 'Vaseline', then visibly started when she spoke into the silence.

'What's your name?' she asked, adding, 'mine's Faye.'

'Ogglebog.'

'Eh?'

'Oggle bog,' repeated the robot, more slowly.

Faye stiffled a giggle. 'I'll call you "Oggie",' she offered.

'Okay.'

'Are all of you pink with white spots?'

'We're supposed to be a glorious red, but I've faded a bit over the years. The white spots were donated by the pigeons.'

There was another long period of quiet. The pigeons resumed their cooing, and a couple landed on Oggie's shoulders.

'I wonder what you've been doing all these ten years, poor Oggie?' Faye asked, almost rhetorically.

'Oh, I keep myself fit, moving about, exploring where I can. I admit I was somewhat surprised that no one came to challenge me. In fact, I haven't seen any humans around these parts for many years, now.' He moved slowly down the middle of the ballroom once more, the pigeons hanging on, doggedly.

'When last I tapped in to the wi-fi internet there was all sorts of warlike talk. And they weren't talking about us!' he reminisced. 'Then, all of a sudden, the signal dropped out. One minute I was updating my status to "Bored now!" and the next, all my 742 Facebook friends disappeared. If the signal's been upgraded to something I can't sense, then the human race is more advanced than we'd been told!' He sounded peeved.

Faye had made up her mind. 'Oggie, I'm a fairy and I think I can help you get back to your spaceship.'

The robot paused, perusing all the data in his memory banks about 'fairies'. The consensus seemed to be that they were capricious, fond of playing tricks, and often malicious. 'Aah,' he began, 'should I be worried?'

'I'm a good fairy.'

'Well, in that case it's very kind of you,' he replied, then paused: 'But aren't you at all concerned about me being an invader and everything?'

She looked at him pensively, then said in a low voice, 'There's nothing to invade anymore. The human race became extinct five years ago. Most of the planet is now a radioactive wasteland.'

'Oh dear, I hope it wasn't anything we said?'

'No, they did it all themselves.'

'So,' he resumed, thoughtfully, 'a bit of a plus for fairykind?'

'It wasn't my fault!' she bristled. 'I thought they understood how double bluffs worked. They watch the same movies I do.'

'What did you do?'

'I disguised myself as a virus and released some highly sensitive information to the public domain, it was just a prank.'

'Oh yes, the US anti-Chinese attack plans, I remember seeing those. I thought it was odd at the time. Them being top secret and that. The Chinese were very cross about it.'

'They were even crosser when I released their plans as well. Some people have no sense of humour! After that things just escalated out of control. Somebody pressed a button and the world ended within a week.' She looked at him, sadly. 'I didn't mean anything by it.'

'Thanks for the offer of help, but I think I'll pass.'

From the way her bottom lip pouted in response, he knew he'd made the right decision.
Friday 7 June 2013

### The Resin Diaries

Douglas Radcliffe

Collingwood, VIC

I'm waiting for her by the front of our house. I suck the sweet nectar from the joint and as I exhale I feel sad because I can't just blow away my problems. My addiction is my problem. I don't know why I'm waiting for her as I don't enjoy her company these days. I have to tell her about the job falling through. She won't be happy, she never is. And I can feel my mind swirling ideas of how to pay Kobe the twenty I owe him. And how do I pay Cole the half ounce I got on tick? And my PlayStation keeps telling me to hock it off, to get real and feel the sting of some interest fees for a few months. Level out brother. Gets paid and oh yes you shall be laid. These days are a swirl of pirated movies and vacuuming and washing dishes. And when the dishes aren't completely done she photographs the remaining dishes and posts them on her page for her little network to see. She doesn't fathom the finality of the act, that such strange actions are set in stone now. Published with emoticons in the Multiverse. It is yet another silent nail in her dream relationship's coffin. She wanted me to house sit two suburbs away. In an analogue house with no food, tobacco or weed.

'Oh yes he's a handsome one. Or he used to be. He put on weight since he got married. He couldn't keep a job see. Ah, but they are separate points, ho yes.'

'That's the main artery right there. If we sever it we can kill it.'

'Oh look at him there whimpering and jonesing. As if he could ever keep up with the Joneses.'

After a while the Jones' became distant islands of solace. They were my only relations in law, my first such foray into the formalities of getting older. And I prayed they would be my only relations by marriage. But oh yes they were by far the best friends I could have in thanks to them keeping their distance. They forgot my name on numerous occasions. They would call me Robert, my wife's ex-boyfriend's name. It was all by some freak accident of course. The elders muscle for supremacy but are always defeated by their own cognition, their very intent grip being lost on the fabric of time, space and of course the many names they had to remember. And they only mourned what talents that were shown so long ago, back in the proverbial day. They saw a shining light in me once. The whole world did once. They would ask me about the band. And I would tell them I destroyed the band. I was sick of the same people not showing up or being too hung over to give total commitment. And they would frown sadly. Don't ever disrespect the sanctity of alcohol when in the company of a Catholic. It's not yeast's fault. It is the flesh that is weak.

Other friends in her network would tell me to audition for some talent show. Show off my singing and lyrics. What a fucking joke. Dreams are manufactured. They gulp it down hook line and sinker. They have had hard lives. They deserve to dream. I've been burnt too many times in the furnace of reality to buy into some rocket ship off shit island. I've eaten a lot of shit sandwiches. And as is customary with any paid work, I grinned and winked at the boss man with my pig rat kin. And we swirled around that nine to five nursery suckling at the bitter teat of regret and crotch rot. And we all fucked ourselves in our own little way between shifts. I would smoke the herb. Susie three seats down is on the shards. Mike two rows down on performance management, such a sweet boy, hopelessly hooked on the smack. We all fucked ourselves over because that's what we think we are worth. And we have the pay cheques to prove it. We are all dead so we may as well start internally. The new world order wants us to eat bugs so I am brushing up on my insect husbandry. What is evident now is that insects taste better then metaphoric shit.

It's cold on the streets today. White concrete foot paths dotted with detritus and evil paraphernalia. It's not a bad street to live on. At the end of the street are factories and artist studios. The graffiti is like a living mould expanding and contracting across everything. Shoes hang from the phone lines, Nike and Adidas hanging there like some odd couple share house. The street art is like a friend when I feel lonely. When I am very drunk sometimes I walk my street barefoot, running inches away from syringes glinting with flecks of red and the orange of tetanus inducing rust. We never see the junkies but they can see us. They only come out late at night, like worms. There is a needle exchange at the end of our street. I remember seeing a mid nineties station wagon with four ruffians in it all excited and chatty. They were parked illegally in someone's drive way. I stopped directly behind them and watched as they prepared their doses in unison. And almost like some elaborate choreographed dance they all cooked their blackened teaspoons to render the dose, and as one they drew the poison into the dropper's head. It was a clock-work symphony like rifles resting on the shoulders of young soldiers. I kicked the car's rear bumper and told them I had called the police.

'You're dead, cracker!' was what the driver yelled at me as he took off at four kilometres an hour down the street. His mind mashed into the feeling of his brain disconnected and placed in a plastic bag to be put on a commission house's roof to go rotten in the midday sun like some unwanted prawn.

Nobody ever threatened to call the cops when I smoked joints in public. They would just give a knowing smile and if they were a guy they would come over and get a toke themselves. Sometimes strangers would be flabbergasted by the quality of my herb and want my number so I could give them grams and fifties when they were down on their luck and couldn't reach their man.

I was not a dealer though, just a guy trying to make it on my own and meet new people with random wants and needs. I left the dealing to the DSP clans. Vast sections of society who couldn't keep a job but could shift pounds of marijuana and make thousands in weeks, not months. What strain were we smoking? Nobody knew and nobody cared. Weed either got you high or got you frustrated. There was no strain obsession like in America. There was no Canada around to prop us up. The Golden Triangle only shipped in ice and heroin. There was no hashish like in Morocco and Nepal. It was just medicine, a social sleeping medicine.

I remember once five years ago I was coming down off acid and not in my right mind. So I went to junkie central in need of some weed. The dealers would all peer into my eyes intently, trying to read my thoughts. They were trying to envision a monkey on my back.

'Are you chasing?'

'No my name is not Jason.'

'Can I hook you up?'

'What you got?'

'You dumb fuck, there's only one thing rolling this street, fuck off cunt!'

I asked a girl with pock marked face who she knew who could hook me up. She wanted twenty dollars for the favour. I declined. Then two guys came up to me and offered me a quarter for a reasonable price, a fat kid aged about seventeen and his friend who was in his late thirties, tall and dangerous looking. I was completely out of it. They took my money and said they were weighing up the weed in their ute. I heard the ute's engine start so I jumped into the tray and wedged myself beside a concrete mixer. The ute stopped ten metres down the road and the scum bag seventeen year old in the passenger side got out quickly and lunged at me with a dirty serrated steak knife. His face was twisted with rage. I calmly asked for my money back and he stabbed the air in front of my face again. I jumped off the ute and he got back in and they drove off.

There were many occasions where I had to survive and learn not to do stupid things.
Saturday 8 June 2013

### Cockatoos, Rats and Venus Flytraps

Stephanie Adamopoulos

Burwood East, VIC

Grandma was always a mystery to me. At eleven years old, my world was turned upside down when she had a fall at her home and was given the choice of either living with my adoptive parents and me or going to a nursing home. She opted for us, she said, because she couldn't stand the young nurses who chewed gum instead of talking and listened to their iPods for so long they forgot to bring their patients their meals while they were hot, or left them sitting on the toilet or in the shower whilst they gossiped about nonsense, although she disapproved of my parents. A lot.

Deja and Atlanta were a lesbian couple who adopted me when I was seven years old and I have never had a problem with not having a father. Grandma, however, could never understand how Atlanta could possibly love another woman and then impose this idea upon me, when I had come from a rickety background like her. She liked me for that. She liked puzzling over our past lives, noting any similarities and differences with relish, as if I was a young star shining just for her.

Along with Grandma and her prejudices, came her habits and her wonderful pets. Forty Venus flytraps kept our house at the top of the hill free of insects and spiders in every corner of the house and I'm pretty sure it deterred any would-be burglars who sneaked past our house at night time and rattled our metal bins in a search of left-over scraps. But we didn't ever have any. Grandma's pets took care of that. She didn't care for cats or dogs, in fact she preferred to hit them or even eat them once they had been cooked well (she had eaten both overseas once).

Socrates filled the house with his cockatoo chatter constantly, which surprisingly made Atlanta smile when she was reading her comedic short stories to us that she wrote for the local magazine. He was the perfect critique. He told her exactly what he thought of her writing and knew when to laugh. Grandma taught him; although some of what she taught him was so bad he learnt it in Norwegian so no one could understand him except Grandma and Atlanta. Common phrases and words in English he used included 'Rubbish!' and 'I'm about to be sick!' although he could sometimes compliment her with a few grumbles like Grandma.

Socrates however didn't like Templetomb, so called because of her uncanny ability to scare sparrows to death with a snarl and a mean face. She was a rat, after all. Whenever strangers approached the house, however, both pets would take off down the corridor, weaving past those foolish enough to stand in their way as they attacked the front door viciously. If the door was opened even a crack, Templetomb squeezed through at lightning speed, racing up the leg of the intruder before finding the best places to sink her teeth into. Of course Socrates couldn't be left out of all of this, swearing in Norwegian, batting his wings against the door and clawing into the wood: we had to replace it five times after Grandma arrived.

Being brought up in a hard-knock life with barely a dollar to rub together and enough to eat, I likened Grandma to old Mr Scrooge, such was her mentality that absolutely everything could be reused in some form or another. Deja would sometimes secretly sneak into Grandma's room when she was in the back yard, usually pinching pot plants from the neighbours' gardens over the fence as pay back for being so nosy about her private affairs, whilst I was look-out until Deja had removed anything musty, mouldy and moth-eaten that even the op-shops couldn't re-sell.

One time we found an old fire-fighting hose that surprisingly was still able to be hooked up to the fire hydrant outside our house. However, whenever Grandma found out, she usually climbed onto the kitchen table and waved her stick at us, threatening to walk out of the house and never return if we didn't respect her more. Atlanta usually scolded her for having such seemingly childish tantrums in front of me and how she was setting such a terrible example. I neither pleaded guilty nor not guilty. I just imagined what Grandma would do if she ever left us for a better life outside of our neighbourhood. She would probably join the circus, as she had always wanted to, however I was quite sure she would positively drive everyone mad through her array of weird and wonderful acrobatics that no eighty-something-year-old should be able to do; her constant critical analysis of even the temperature of her soup (it had to be 38.7 degrees Celsius exactly or she dumped it on the waiter in the restaurant) and of course, her pets and Venus flytraps. I have never seen a photograph of her when she was young, apparently cameras weren't around in her part of Norway when she was my age, although my history teachers disagree and say she probably doesn't want to be jealous of her young, vibrant self. I never want to grow old!

Grandma sure could hold a grudge. After three years of living with us she still complained about Miss Disaster next door, a young woman in her twenties who once accidentally dropped a cactus on Grandma's head. They were on either side of the fence pruning their roses and grape vine respectively, when a potted cactus toppled from a shelf onto Grandma's head. She looked like a porcupine! Poor Miss Disaster didn't even realise what had happened until Grandma began roaring like a pride of teenage male lion cubs competing for the loudest and scariest sound. By then Miss Disaster had fallen off her ladder into her vegetable garden, squashed her prize pumpkin whilst sending her watering can and clippers flying over the fence. The clippers whistled past Socrates but the watering can landed on his head! What a sight it was, Readers, with Miss Disaster squashing just about every other vegetable in her garden as she squelched to the safety of her back gate, whilst Grandma and Socrates retained their constant complaint. Their relationship has never been the same since. Grandma always grumbles whenever Miss Disaster waves and casts a cheery hello over the fence and will never let me forget how that 'walking disaster' nearly killed her.

By now I guess you would have a fairly good idea of just how strange and wonderful Grandma could be. With Deja and Atlanta as my parents, I thought I was on top of the world.

The door had been replaced for the first time after two years and starting high school and just fitting in was my biggest worry. To help out, Grandma insisted Socrates and Templetomb accompanied me. In a pick-up truck with the forty Venus flytraps in the back we clunked and rattled to outside my new school. Before I could thank Grandma, she leapt out of the truck and dragged me up the steps.

'Quickly, Theresa, hide! That dreadful man over there cannot possibly be your teacher!' I glanced back to see an older gentleman looking not unlike a typical farmer from the outback striding up the steps towards us. I couldn't detect anything wrong with him but Grandma whisked me away to my classroom. See, she went to this school too and so had Atlanta and Deja so they figured I should go too. It hadn't changed since it was first built, except for a few modern adaptations. This strangely included the allowance of pets as companions, particularly for boarders. Grandma gave me a quick hug and presented me with a Venus flytrap. 'If he speaks to you, don't tell him you're related to me.'

'Why Grandma?'

'Because he once took me on a date to the dumpiest restaurant you could imagine! He was filthy, unhygienic and had the worst sense of humour I've ever come across. Then he had the nerve to try and hold my hand at school! Let me tell you something Theresa, if you ever find yourself on a date, don't ever let them try to hold your hand unless they've washed it with eucalyptus.' Then she hurried away, peering into the classroom and pulling faces at the children.

I entered my room with Socrates on one shoulder, Templetomb on the other and a Venus flytrap in my hands. Reader, would you believe me if I told you as soon as I stepped in a kangaroo bowled me over? And I thought I had crazy pets! There was every kind of pet you could name, from your average dog to a Mexican walking fish, scorpion and of course the kangaroo. Thirty teenagers and a multitude of pets was probably the most amazing class I had ever come across. Grandma, I learnt later, had had a hand in it. She brought her pet cockatoo to school every day like I had, and had through learning and repeating phrases to her, had improved her work ethic so much the teachers begged the Principal to allow all pets into the classroom. Eventually they agreed, once Grandma had left super glue on the Principal's chair and gumballs in the hallway as well as a variety of other pranks until she got her way.

Another year later and we had gone through two more doors thanks to Socrates and Templetomb's even feistier daughter, Devil. Deja and I had done another clean-up of Grandma's assortment of trash and treasure. Unfortunately for us, she found out and there was a travelling circus in town. She packed her bags and just as she stepped outside, Miss Disaster struck again. Being a bit of an experimenter, she had filled a blow-up paddling pool full of jelly and placed it on large block of ice to see if she could make the biggest bowl of jelly for the record books. Unfortunately for both of them, Grandma hurled a stone at a potted rose on the fence which fell into Miss Disaster's yard. It punctured the paddling pool. Now Miss Disaster had used a large pump for her pool, so when it was punctured, it shot off into the air. Have you ever seen a flying paddling pool of jelly, Reader? Unbelievable as it was, it was true. It soared above our house, looking not unlike a flying saucer with Socrates in hot pursuit of it, determined to puncture it more. Did I forget to mention Devil was riding on his back? She pounced and bit the plastic securely. It dropped like an anvil in the cartoons. Onto Grandma. Covered in jelly she was, from head to toe with the pool hanging off her head like an enormous floppy hat.

'Miss Disaster! Will you keep your experiments away from respectable people like me?!' Before the poor woman could answer, Grandma had jumped onto her skateboard and raced away towards the circus.

We arrived in the pick-up truck just in time to buy tickets for the show. There was no time to look for Grandma, so we just forced our way through the crowd to our seats and hoped Grandma was alright. We needn't have worried too much. The first items were the usual, clowns, juggling and trapeze artists but we still couldn't see Grandma. Then, lo and behold, she appeared at the top of the tightrope with Socrates on one shoulder and Devil on the other. Atlanta just laughed at our horrified faces.

'Don't worry, your Grandma used to hop along fence posts for fun when she was your age. She'll be fine.' And she was. You should have seen it. Grandma wore a brightly coloured leotard and balanced perfectly. She somersaulted, jumped, hopped and pranced her way across. Sometimes she stopped and hopped on the spot a few times, lengthening her pauses between them. Deja smiled and squeezed my hand.

'Morse code. She says, "I love you".' I grinned back and waved as Grandma executed her final jump across before bowing and disappearing down the pole and backstage. I never doubted she could run away with the circus ever again.

By the time I was seventeen, our fourth door had been installed and Devil was on her last legs but still feisty. She still managed to scramble up strangers' legs and ensure they never returned. Miss Calamity had also taken on a boarder, a nineteen-year-old university student called Tristan. Instantly, he began following me around while Grandma did the opposite and avoided the mysterious farmer-like teacher and gave me odd advice on how to deal with boyfriends.

Unfortunately for Tristan, I already had a girlfriend, Rusalka. Often we'd sneak into my bedroom up the fire escape Grandma had insisted on being built once I started learning to cook because she was convinced I would burn the house down despite Deja's careful teaching. I'm sure Deja and Atlanta knew about what we did up there but they never let on to Grandma, who was convinced I was avoiding Tristan because I was shy. He was up to her standard though, unfortunately, so imagine my surprise when he turned up on my doorstep with tickets to the movies. I couldn't pluck up the courage to crush his hopes so I went. However, I did notice a note with the tickets in Grandma's hand writing.

It wasn't until after the film that it went wrong for our relationship as a couple. Tristan hugged me close outside the theatre and before I could stop him, kissed me. Seriously, Reader, it broke my heart to carefully push him away and admit squarely that there was no future in our relationship because I already had a girlfriend and Grandma had put him up to it. Surprisingly, he just laughed.

'I've seen you sneaking upstairs with a girl most afternoons but I just wanted to be sure. Can we still be friends?' I just hugged him, before he began telling me the latest about living with Miss Disaster. He told me about how Miss Disaster had accidentally poured honey all over the floor one afternoon and forgot to clean it up. Later she fell in it, got stuck and because the back door was open, a swarm of bees flew towards her sticky outline and ended up stinging her so much she promised she'd never have honey in the house again.

That night when Grandma interrogated me about the date I told her the truth. She nearly exploded on the spot. 'Are you serious Theresa? You're telling me you planted the idea that I sent those movie tickets? Why Theresa I am offended you could possibly think your dear Grandma would scheme like that.' As reprimand for accusing her, Grandma proceeded to set about stealing as many pot plants as she could from the neighbours until I withdrew my accusations, whereupon she began throwing them back to their original owners so they smashed and made an astounding mess. I learnt another lesson about Grandma: her word rules.

In hindsight I should have been sadder about replacing our front door for the fifth and final time. But I wasn't. Rusalka and I were playing badminton in the backyard while Socrates commentated for us. He sat perched in the middle of the net, making it sag as well as becoming a target for our shots.

'Rubbish!' he squawked at me as my shot narrowly missed knocking him off his perch. Rusalka just laughed and sent one over his head.

'Socrates, if everyone was as open with their opinions as you, we would all be at war with each other.'

Socrates replied, 'Get off the field!' just as my shot knocked him squarely in the chest, toppling him momentarily so he hung from the net upside down from his talons. Devil's son Dragon was busy chasing the other native birds and the neighbour's cats along the fences, hissing viciously and lunging at them to taste the creatures he was stalking.

By now Grandma, Deja and Atlanta had followed the fun outside, until Miss Disaster began to bulldoze her garden bed next door. She'd hired the machine just yesterday but she seemed to be having fun, whooping like someone on a bucking rodeo horse or bull. The Venus flytraps were enjoying the sun as well, all forty of them. Just as Rusalka beat me for the fifth time in a row; we heard an ominous crunching sound. We turned to see the back wooden fence cracking and splitting as something heavy leaned its weight on it. Suddenly the bulldozer with Miss Disaster riding in it appeared, bringing the entire fence down around her.

'Hello everyone!' she exclaimed just as she hit the side of the house where the forty Venus flytraps were residing. They all flew into the air, smashing into the windows and onto Miss Disaster. Grandma screamed and fell backwards, onto the concrete steps leading up to the back door, hitting her head like a hammer on an anvil. She was silent for the first time in her life. Atlanta quickly grabbed the phone and called an ambulance.

She died in hospital that night from excess blood in her brain. We all stood by her bedside, Socrates and Dragon included. Surprisingly, she seemed to be smiling as she passed away, as if she wanted to burn a happy thought in our minds. Every year Rusalka accompanies us to her grave on her anniversary, and we have never had to replace our front door ever again. Socrates, Dragon and his descendants just never tried to destroy the door to chase away strangers. I think they only did it to please Grandma once upon a time.
Sunday 9 June 2013

### The Butterfly Tattoo

David Anderson

Woodford, NSW

My fondest memories from my teenage years are of my three closest friends, Peter, Jamie, and Colin. They called themselves The Three Musketeers, Athos – Porthos and Aramis. I was accepted into their gang and became known as D'Artagnan. Everyone had difficulty telling Peter and Jamie apart, even their parents. Even Ellen, the boy's sister, said it was only Peter's silly laugh that gave him away. Good times were on the beach a stone's throw from our houses, or rainy days in the bedroom absorbing the latest music and the small talk of the local kids. Bad times I try to forget; like the vicious beatings I received from the Morgan brothers. Being the smallest of the 'Musketeers', Jamie and Peter both protected me when they could. And on more than one occasion Peter beat the living hell out of them.

We'd often discussed our future careers. Peter a lawyer, Jamie a naval officer, Colin an engineer, and myself a doctor, and our scholastic achievements suggested we might well succeed in our ambitions. It was because of my interest in medicine that one day Peter decided once and for all to settle the question of whether I had the nerve to perform any type of surgery.

'Go on. Do it, Steve.' Peter rolled back his sleeve and winked at Jamie. He was wearing me down but I was resisting, and I groped for an excuse.

'Your Mum will kick my arse from here to Palm Beach if she sees it.' Weak, but it worked.

'Okay, chicken head.' Peter stripped off his shirt and held up his arm. 'Put it here – in my armpit.' As usual D'Artagnan gave in to Athos, and I spent the next hour with my crude tools and inks tattooing a rough design of a butterfly into Peter's armpit. We'd been drinking vodka to boost our courage and I splashed it occasionally on my work, and this may be the only reason Peter never developed septicaemia. This incident caused me a sleepless night with worry, but it was only a prelude to the terrible event that took place the next day.

Peter always blamed himself for Jamie's accident. Perhaps he did push him too far, although nobody ever held him to blame.

'You want to join the bloody Navy but you can't swim past the breakers. If you want to pass the entrance test you'll have to be a strong swimmer.' Peter stood over Jamie who held his head between his knees, close to tears. He sprang up and, grabbing Peter's surf board, ran down the beach, half crying, half yelling out in anger at his brother.

'Peter the hero! You think you're so good. I'll show you, smart arse!' He ran into the water and plunged into the boiling surf. Peter stood with his hands on his hips, a grin on his face.

'This will test the little prick.' But he could see Jamie was never going to get far, just swinging his arms through the water and getting nowhere. He ran down to the sea and swam out to Jamie who motioned him to stay away, but Peter grabbed the back of the board, kicked his powerful legs, and together they swam out past the breakers. Peter gave Jamie some elementary surfing instruction and joined a friend on his board while Jamie attempted a solo run. I felt the apprehension in my chest as he caught a wave and rose to his feet. He stood shakily for a moment and seemed in control, but I knew the sea that day was only for experienced board riders. I cursed Peter for his lack of sense, and this was proven when Jamie tumbled head first off the board and into the boiling surf.

Peter had hitched a ride back on a surf ski and was running up the beach looking back for Jamie. But Jamie hadn't yet surfaced from his fall and the board was see sawing in the crashing waves.

'You silly bastard! You've killed him.' I lost control and didn't stop yelling at Peter until the surf rescue dragged a limp Jamie back to the shore. He'd been too long in the water and near death. He hadn't regained consciousness even when the ambulance drove him away, with Peter crying uncontrollably by his side. Jamie was in a coma for a week, but when he awoke, his damaged brain, suffering from cerebral hypoxia, leaving him intellectually disabled.

So, for a time the Three Musketeers were blown apart. Aramis, or rather, Colin, moved up to Cairns and died in a fishing accident. Peter didn't talk much to me anymore, or to anyone else for that matter. Jamie left high school for a special school for his disability, and my father was transferred and we moved to the country, so I lost touch with Peter and Jamie for the rest of our school years.

The next time I saw Peter, he was my roommate at university. He'd noticed my advertisement on the noticeboard for someone to share my digs. He moved in, and for a time everything appeared normal, unless I mentioned Jamie. Then Peter withdrew into himself and dropped the subject.

Peter's debut on the university review stage was stunning. He'd joined the review as a release from the pressure of his studies, but I had no idea of the impact he would have on an audience. He was a natural, and transformed himself into his characters so completely that I forgot it was Peter on the stage. I was now in second year medicine, the only one of the 'Musketeers' to fulfil his ambition, as Peter failed to pass his law grades owing to his commitment to acting. Within two years he had graduated from stage to screen without any formal training and was given the lead in a major Australian film.

I felt sure Peter had himself sorted out and was unaware of any problems until Ellen confided in me at a party to celebrate the twins' twenty first birthday. She asked me to walk with her to the beach and our conversation made me confused about Peter's wellbeing. We reminisced about the old days when I suddenly saw Ellen now as a grown woman, more than as the twins' kid sister. I found myself fantasising about making love to her when she turned to me, her eyes brimming with tears. She sat down on the sand and broke down.

'I'm so worried about Peter. He's not as happy as he makes out, and still feels bad about Jamie.'

I put my arm around her shoulder to comfort her. 'But that was five years ago. Surely he's over it now? He can't change things.'

'Jamie idolises him and this makes him feel guilty because his life is going so well and Jamie seems to be getting worse. Did you know he's thinking of dropping out of this movie and giving up acting?' This meant Peter was willing to sacrifice his career for his guilt.

'I had no idea he was feeling like this. He certainly doesn't show it.'

Ellen took my hand. 'Please talk to him Steve, and try to help him sort it out. He loves you like a brother.'

I told her I would, and wanted to make love to her there on the beach, and felt a pang of remorse that I felt for her in that way while she was so upset. I gave her a hug and we sat for a while saying nothing at all.

I talked to Peter about Jamie, but he was evasive, and said that the expectations of him to succeed were getting the better of him, as other formally trained experienced actors were jealous of his overnight success. He promised to take a well earned break when the movie was completed.

A week later I stood on the movie set. Peter had invited me to see him execute a fairly dangerous stunt that the producers had agreed they would let him perform. He would drive a stunt car along the highway for about a kilometre while a remote camera filmed him inside the car. Accelerating towards a pre-arranged smash involving a low loader truck, he would then stop, as a stunt car driven by a professional stunt driver would finish the sequence by running up the ramp of the low loader, along the cab and back onto the highway.

In the movie, Peter's attention would be diverted from the road to the CD player and he would apparently run up the back of the low loader and onto the road. Editing would see Peter perform the whole sequence, thus creating the illusion of reality. I still recall the excitement I felt that day, the slight envy at the attention Peter was receiving, and the admiring glances from the female members of the crew. I still remember his promise as he shook my hand.

'As soon as we wrap up the movie I'll take a week off and we'll pick up Jamie and head up the coast with the boards, just like the old days.'

He spun the car around, roared up the road and disappeared over the crest of the hill. The director gave orders to Peter over a two way radio. The crew began to light a fire on the back of the low loader.

'Peter? This is Arnold. Are you ready?'

Peter's quirky laugh crackled over the air. 'Yes Arnie baby. This is the big one. Get those cameras rolling. Remote camera on ... now.'

'Right Pete.' Arnold winked at me. 'Let's get the show on the road.'

'Stuff it!' Peter's voice crackled over the radio. Arnold frowned. Peter's camera switched off.

'What's up Pete?' Arnold was obviously trying to hide his displeasure as Peter replied.

'Sorry to hold up the show Arnie, but I'm afraid I'll have to get out and have a pee.'

Arnold lost his temper and gazed up at the setting sun. 'Well bloody hurry up! The sun's getting lower and we can't afford to shoot this scene more than one day.' He threw the microphone down and ran his hands through his sparse hair.

'Peter, signing off for a widdle minute.'

Arnold shrugged his shoulders and grinned. The crew walked around the low loader with CO2 cylinders and put the fire out.

'I suppose he's right. It's dangerous to drive with a full bladder. I'll be glad when we wrap. Pete needs a break, his workload is wearing him down.'

'We might head north for a holiday,' I said. 'A few weeks surfing will fix him.'

'I don't think he'll be in that.' Arnold lit a cigarette. 'He's got a phobia about water since Jamie's accident I reckon. He's lost a few good parts because of it.' I was confused about this after Peter's parting remarks.

'Pee pee completed and ready to roll.' Peter was all set for the take.

The shoot sequence elements proceeded and Arnold called for action. A trail of petrol which led to the low loader was lit and a large flash of flame erupted from the wreck as a thick column of smoke rose to the sky. Arnold rapped out orders like a general in a battle.

'Stunt car two. Are you ready?' The stunt driver acknowledged. 'Stunt car two. As soon as Peter pulls up, you accelerate and finish the stunt. And don't forget to switch on your remotes, both of you. We don't want any slip ups. Peter, are you there?'

Peter replied, 'Peter here. Switch to remote ... now.' Peter's head appeared on the screen in front of Arnold and I could hear the revving of the powerful V8 stunt cars in the distance.

'Everyone ready? This is a take.'

'Sound.' The boom operator was ready. Arnold glanced around the set, and nodded to the clapper.

'Okay. Mark it.' The clapper held up the clapboard slate. 'Scene fifteen, take one.' He snapped the clapper shut.

'Rolling.' The cinematographer was ready. Arnold picked up his microphone.

'When you're ready Pete ... action!' Arnold sat back in his chair biting his nails. The roar of Peter's V8 was drowned out by the squeal of his tyres over a kilometre away. Peter was heading in our direction. A smoke bomb's trail rose beside the road where the stunt driver would take off and Peter would brake and pull up. The stunt driver revved his engine. My stomach churned at the electric thrill of it all as Peter's car appeared over the crest of the hill, headlights blazing, the engine screaming on acceleration. Arnold threw down the mike and glared at the TV monitor. Peter was staring straight ahead, his eyes covered in dark sunglasses.

'What the hell? He's supposed to be fiddling with the CD player and he's still wearing his sunglasses the silly bastard! Can't anyone follow a script around here?' He turned away in disgust. But my attention was diverted from Arnold's outburst to Peter's fast approaching car. My stomach dropped. He wasn't going to stop, I was sure of it. His car roared past Stunt Car Two and the smoke bomb. Arnold turned and his face froze. Everyone held their breath as Peter's car headed at full speed towards the flaming wreck. The only words I heard before the impact were from Arnold.

'Jesus, no!' Peter's car collided with the low loader at 120 kph and exploded in a ball of flame. It hurtled up the ramp and disintegrated, its parts scattered around the road.

I broke the news to Peter's parents. Ellen was away on holidays but returned for the funeral. I found Jamie on the beach in tears, looking out to sea. He said he'd known something was wrong as he had a strange feeling that led him to the beach, a place he had avoided since his accident. He cried on my shoulder and we talked of the old days until the sun set and the beachgoers packed their belongings and headed home.

A coroner's inquest gave a verdict of death by misadventure, as a problem was found in the accelerator system. Peter's ashes were scattered from surfboards by his friends at the beach we'd loved since childhood. I saw a lot of Jamie, and even more of Ellen in the following two years, when we announced our engagement. Jamie's moods fluctuated from extreme elation to dark depression and we gave up hope of his full recovery. Now, two years after Peter's death, we were celebrating Jamie's birthday.

I can't recall the thoughts that raced through my mind that day, or in which order they came. Was it disbelief – revulsion – pity, or admiration? All I know is that my world collapsed completely, and it isn't until now, one year later, that I can put the facts into perspective and relate the full story.

We were relaxing, and were fairly inebriated after lunch in Jamie's backyard, when I decided to stretch myself by doing some chin ups on the pergola. I started to wilt when Jamie laughed, and jumped up on the beam.

I then realised how far Peter's tortured mind had driven him, and the evil he had dealt on his brother. He was a far better actor than any of us had ever imagined. I know now that he had lost his mind long before it was apparent to us. Riddled with guilt for Jamie's accident and of how Jamie still worshipped him, his mind had snapped and he had planned Jamie's murder.

He would take Jamie's place; poor retarded Jamie. A complete method actor, he would apply Stanislavsky's teachings, and not simply 'act' the part, but actually 'be' the part of his character. He became Jamie. And so I learned how he had driven earlier with Jamie to the starting point of his stunt, dropped him off and getting him to wait in the bush.

Later, while commencing the stunt, he used the excuse of relieving himself to trade places with Jamie and put him behind the wheel. Jamie was still an excellent driver, but in his simple state, Peter persuaded him to do the stunt himself, so he could be as famous as Peter. He told Jamie to drive straight towards the low loader at the crash site as fast as he could, that this was a special movie car with a computer that would perform the stunt by itself when it reached the truck. Poor Jamie had believed him.

Peter had spoken into the microphone, then told Jamie to press the remote switch. He made him wear dark glasses to disguise his simple look, and the rest was easy. The car had a full tank of petrol as it was not supposed to be involved in the final part of the stunt. A few adjustments to the carburettor linkages while he was waiting for the shoot meant that when Jamie put his foot down, it wouldn't release, so the car forged ahead to destruction.

Who related these events to me? Peter told me. Peter told me as he was playing the part of Jamie, a part he had been tragically playing to perfection for two years. A part that his tortured brain told him was his punishment for Jamie's condition and a way of ending his brother's broken life. He told me after he stripped off his shirt, did a few chins, and dropped to the ground, and I ran to him screaming.

'Murderer! How could you kill your own brother?' He broke down and told me the whole story. He knew that the alcohol had made him lose concentration and make a mistake. I had seen then that this was not Jamie. How? Because I was the only other living person who knew the secret that four young boys had shared many years ago. It had been me who had crudely etched the tattoo of a butterfly onto Peter's armpit.
Monday 10 June 2013

### Just Another Day At The Office

Leonie Bingham

Katoomba, NSW

Where does she go at lunchtime?

Where does she go at lunchtime

every working day?

I watch her taking notes, she

stashes them away;

she eats nuts and wholemeal bread

umpteen times a day,

though she never

joins us

in the meal room.

Perhaps she's worried we'll ask too many questions...

She has no photos on her desk, or makeup on her face,

no two inch patent heels or clutter in her space.

Where does she go at lunchtime?

She's only gone an hour.

I know she isn't working out because I've checked the gym:

at five to one her mobile rings, she answers looking grim.

She scurries to the kitchen, talks in whispers then she leaves,

and shields her pallid face behind her batwing sleeves.

Today her handbag spilled onto the floor,

I saw handcuffs, pill bottles and more,

Now you can't buy those at the corner store.

Where does she go at lunchtime?

I hear she lives at home though she's almost thirty

and her previous job involved something dirty:

classified, they say –

perhaps some secret government department.

Where on Earth is she going at lunchtime?

She's not one for conversation,

cursed with verbal constipation,

she bolts at one o'clock, across the shipping dock

and down a seedy, littered lane.

Past the brothel, tattoo shop, then she disappears – we stop:

she's gone and

outsmarted us again.

Who is it that calls her at five to one,

and where does she go at lunchtime?

It's time I invited her to dinner...
Tuesday 11 June 2013

### This Is Goodbye

Jessica Soul

Avondale Heights, VIC

Traces of your face

Outlined while you sleep

My fingertips glide over your creamy white cheek

And the touch of your plump red lips

My heart flutters and pursing my own lips apart

My tongue swirls gliding over them

And moistens the tension that appears like salt

My awe is on you while you sleep

In my own heaven

My thoughts of you

Make me rise up and into the blue

Where my heart is racing and sounding the alarm

To be the luckiest lady

Having you on my arm

And now you lay perfectly still

Simply beautiful in my bed

Last night meant forever

Those thoughts stuck in my head

But when you are beside me

Knowing this may not be so

My heart begins to bleed

And my eyes begin to see

And now having to let you go

So, this is goodbye.
Wednesday 12 June 2013

### I Dreamt Of You

Mary Krone

Glenbrook, NSW

I dreamt of you

An erotic dream

that woke me warm

I wear a glow

As I go about the office

We barely speak

An hello or hey

Should we pass

Most days I don't see you

Rarely a conversation

How was your weekend?

Nice weather

Will I blush when next I see you?

Will I absentmindedly trail my fingers over your bum?

I sit at my desk and think of you

My mind has been intimate with you

My body wants to follow

I have a secret about you

It is secret from you

Thursday 13 June 2013

### A Chip Off The Old Block

Bob Edgar

Wentworth Falls, NSW

Danny was sixteen years old and keen as mustard

Not averse to hard work, and never flustered

His Dad had lined up for him, an apprenticeship

Plumber just like the old man, akin to a fellowship.

'It'll toughen yer up son, you'll be nobody's fool,

not like Bert's boy, he's goin' to hairdressin' school.'

That night in the shower recess

Danny was resigned, more or less

To becoming a plumber just like Dad,

not to mention following in the footsteps, of his brother Brad.

As he contemplated a life among drains

His eyes settled on the meshed hole, covered in stains

His mind's eye followed the drain to the pipes outside

Soon he'll have shovel in hand, with nowhere to hide.

He thinks, 'What goes down the drain, this suction at my toes?

Body hair all black or grey, some may be blonde, who knows?

Mucus from the apertures, snot from the nose

That last pimple I burst, away it flows.

Was that a fart? I hope so, still ... no matter

What comes out, goes down ... pipes grow fatter.'

All clean and dry, Danny, now pyjama cladded

Says to his Father, whose dreams are soon to be shattered

'Dad, as your son and heir, I assume the role of confessor ...

to tell you I will be joining Bert's boy, to become a hairdresser.'

Friday 14 June 2013

### Praise For Penny (And Her Poise)

Demelza

Taroona, TAS

I read the ad on the side of a bus

About women one in three

Who are subject to experiences

That would disable you or me

The reasons they may vary

But the outcome seems the same

A puddle on the floor

And a face hung down in shame

But Penny's got the answer

(Names here have been changed

Places dates and photographs

Have all been rearranged)

Now Penny's got the answer

She always comes prepared

In case she has a coughing fit

Or chokes on garlic bread

She doesn't cross her legs

Or race out to the loo

Cause Penny's wearing Poise tonight

And that, she says, will do!

Other brands are common

But Penny says inferior

'You've got to get the Poise, dears

They really are superior.'

So if you're scared to sneeze

And you're the one in three

Think of Penny and her Poise, dear

Go buy a pack and see!
Saturday 15 June 2013 4 pm

### The Countdown

Emma-Lee Scott

Callaghan, NSW

Ghastly.

Shut up.

Unseemly.

Be quiet.

Broken.

I know.

One.

Two.

Three.

Seeping,

Swimming,

Weeping.

One,

Two.

Three.

Falling,

Forever,

Deeply.

Listen.

No.

Open.

Closed.

Masked.

I see.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Turning,

Hurting,

Burning.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Trying,

Stopping,

Crying.

Why?

Because.

Why?

Because.

Quiet.

Because.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Hiding,

Pretend,

Begin.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Break down,

Give up,

See the ground.

I wonder.

What is?

I wonder.

How come.

I choose.

Ten.
Sunday 16 June 2013

#

### Acceptance

Mark Fowler

Magill, SA

As grey goose down skies of winter passed,

And supple warmth of spring came nearer me.

The months of cold and darkness asked

Is this all there is? Is this my destiny?

And then he came within the sight of dawn,

Tiny grey bird, red splashes on the wing.

No plumage bright nor plain tail adorned,

But when he sang, 'twas though the world did sing.

New days of brilliant light and softly breeze,

My tiny bird appeared at morn each day;

Danced and hopped among the sunny trees,

Calling sweetly, 'Come now with me and play?'

Summer came, broad blues filled the open sky,

Birds of lighter song and brighter feather came.

Yet 'twas the plainest creature coming by

Who won my heart and always called my name.

The leaves shook cold and crispy in the air

And autumn colour washed away the green

Chill breeze upon my cheeks, and through my hair.

Bird flits in golden shadows, and is seen.

The greyish tones of winter bleak and strong,

Enter again my world of love and grief.

My friend who drew me with his trilling song

Left me empty; summer romance very brief.

Grim skies and wintry dreams move slowly by,

Once again I watch the trees stripped bare.

No bird of hope, grey and plain; just sky.

Empty place that draws my saddened stare.

Seasons pass – garden grows again with love.

The stirring sounds of magpies' morning song.

The warbling trills of flapping spotted doves,

The honeyeaters enjoy the blossom's throng.

Again, life reveals not its reason nor its rhyme.

Love's bloom, like sadness, will always pass in time.

Ed: This was another of those entries that swirled around for a few days, bouncing back and reminding us it was there. We thought it was a beautiful way of describing the heartache we all endure from time to time in our lives, and an inspiring way of reminding us that if we accept such losses as part of life's cycle, rather than trying to fight them, that the pain will ease more quickly.
Monday 17 June 2013

### Henry (In honour of Henry Lawson's 146th birthday)

JH Mancy

Tallebudgera, QLD

Life too quickly passes,

We too are growing old –

So let us raise our glasses

To friendships etched in gold

Your spirit lives in men of grit

And women share it too

The words you wrote ring chords in us

Today they still hold true

You died young, with work undone,

And yet you live on still!

We were honoured by your presence

On our old ten dollar bill

You are worth much more than that

If mateship be the gauge;

Touching countless lives,

Words speaking from the page

The faces in the street still rush

In auto-coloured hue;

No time to stop, no time to rest,

No time for pleasures new

So rest in peace dear Henry –

The world's become insane,

Weapons of mass destruction;

Leaders play a deadly game

Sleep my friend, your journeys end,

May your dreams be sweet refrain

Hope strength and courage will prevail,

Serenity our domain.
Monday 17 June 2013 4 pm

### The Puling

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, NSW

Puling: to whimper; to whine, as a complaining child.

I pulled one thin leg up and out of the covers, wondering what I would discover today.

Opened the shutters, with a touch of the shudders and found: 'Uh pelting down rain as always!'

Thankfully it was Sunday, no commitments to keep – maybe more sleep? I then plug in my blanket.

But in came the wife, said 'Get up Jesse – god you look messy; you have to play today for the banquet.'

Indeed I had forgotten it was Senior's week; the band was due to squeak during morning brunch.

So begrudgingly I showered and shaved, primmed and powdered. Then I gulp down some toast and munch ...

My way to the garage, load the car with drum kit, the sound system, my ego and other bits of gear.

So with a crocodile tear, off I went to spend a dreary hour or two and plunge hitafter hit into their ears.

We played a few tunes (one old fat bloke played the spoons), and for a moment I saw myself pull gut in: help!

As if things couldn't get any meaner, I got an award for being a senior! I s'pose I'll have to stick it on the shelf.

'Aw, lighten up!' said the cheese 'n kisses, 'It's not the end my cherub, listen, people love to hear you chirrup.'

'And be glad that the old tunes were sung,' and so with all the words hung I pelt upon the skins and usurp ...

Their indulgence, I presume as they shuffle 'round the room; I wonder what became of the young crooner I was.

Now with tinnitus, infinitus, day and night my hearing's at crisis: I'm not Beethoven, rock 'n roll's the cause!

Well I never made a million and never had the thrill of being on the telly belting it out with JO'K.

But I played the Capitol Theatre in a witch's outfit: 'Hubble bubble and Hoadley's Crumble bars all the way!

But at the Capitol in Washington they have squandered all their capital; Obama has a drama on his hands.

Just lighten up Barack, there's no turning back, your gun: the lip can't flip the obsequious rifleman's demands.

The gulp in my throat caused me to splutter on my coffee when I read softly about America's huge debt.

It's next to impossible to grasp or understand the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan that still continue as yet.

In the decades still to come six trillion dollars will be the outcome; that's a six followed by twelve noughts.

Just picture an international telephone number; longer than a Lebanese cucumber, so – care to join the dots?

And now the new Pope divine can now gulp thine wine amidst rejoicing in Argentina that continues still.

But I hear that old Frankie still frowns on hanky-panky and still won't compromise upon the pill.

But it's rather commensurate of this Pope Jesuit to settle his newspaper account from the Vatican palace.

And he still stays at the Vatican hotel thus far; maybe George will get him a room gratis at Domus Australis.

So lighten up you silly fools, there really are no rules; thine plug should be removed from your orifice.

Leave the angst to Tony and Julia and don't let their 'spinsters' fool ya, lighten up orletup nigh you come adrift!

Tuesday 18 June 2013

### Naked Options

Judith Bruton

Lennox Head, NSW

If I were to think of and dwell on disastrous possibilities, I could do nothing. I throw myself headlong into my work, and come up again with my studies; if the storm within gets too loud, I take a glass too much to stun myself.

~ Vincent van Gogh

Beth twisted her long dark hair into a loose plait and fastened it on top of her head with a Japanese-style clasp. She donned her paint-encrusted overalls and strode across the study into her studio.

For several days Beth had been feeling down, but today she was determined to capitalise on the unexpected rush of positive energy surging through her body. She was looking forward to preparing the background of a new canvas. An idea for a painting series had been percolating in her imagination, but recently her time had been eroded by depression and niggling financial fears. All week a cacophony of media had been whipping up a storm surrounding the latest global financial crisis.

This morning with radio, television, computer and phones switched off, Beth could finally retreat to her quiet studio to focus on painting, provided her new buoyant mood did not crash and end shredded in negative territory.

Up, up and away... Beth hummed as she selected a tube of Prussian blue and Mars black, a couple of large flat brushes and a large palette. She was about to fill a plastic jar with water when she heard a distinct crunch. The sound came from behind the large white primed canvas propped up against an easel.

Beth's heart sprinted. She walked over to the canvas and peered around it.

'Oh my god! she shrieked. 'Who in the hell are you?'

A naked stranger lay sprawled on a yoga mat, eating a green apple and casually reading her copy of Van Gogh: Masterpieces. Discarded clothing and a knapsack were carelessly draped over an old bicycle parked against her etching press.

'Hi, the door just pushed open...' The man leapt up and extended his hand. 'I'm Adam by the way. Gecko couldn't make it to the session today. I'm his flatmate.'

'Oh, I see.' Beth gave a quizzical look and a reluctant hand shake. 'Gecko's got a cheek. Anyway, I wasn't expecting him 'til tomorrow.' Beth eyeballed the stranger. 'Have you ever modelled before?'

'No, not exactly, but Gecko says it's a breeze.'

'Well, I hope Gecko has told you about the finer points?'

'Eh?'

Beth flung Adam a bright red sarong. 'Cover yourself with this when you're not posing.' Beth glanced at the lean body of the not-so-young man as he tied the sarong around his waist. He seemed about forty, probably a few years younger than herself, tanned, had a shaved head and was in reasonable shape.

'You seem ready to go. I might as well start with a few quick sketches. Just stand still with your weight on one hip,' Beth instructed.

Beth selected a piece of compressed charcoal, flicked her A3 sketchpad to a blank sheet and was about to make some warm up marks when a desperate scratching sound on the outside door attracted her attention. 'What now?'

The door edged open to reveal a large black panting Labrador sitting on the step.

'I suppose this is Eve?' Beth hoped never to see a black dog again after her recent downer; her inexplicable plunge into the dreaded abyss.

'This is "Faith", she's old and almost blind – we're kind of a team.' Adam smiled.

'Alright... bring her in. I'll get a bowl of water, and make us a pot of coffee.'

An hour later, with no painting and little drawing achieved, Beth had resigned herself to going with the flow of the day. She was instructing Adam in the subtle art of being an artist's model and he seemed a natural. His eagerness to learn motivated her and lifted her spirits even higher than they were earlier in the day. His nonchalance mystified her.

'But why model? Money worries? Art lover, perhaps?' she delved.

'Yes and no. Believe it or not, I'm a broke ex-stockbroker – can't make a go of it, particularly in the current financial bloodbath.'

'Ah. A stockbrocker, hey? Don't get me started. Thanks to your kind, I've lost half the worth of my investments, my inheritance and my main income. So it's back to the drawing board for me.'

'Remember, it's only a paper loss,' interjected Adam.

'Next you'll be telling me it's not timing the market but time in the...'

'Okay, I admit the market's a lot of bull,' snorted Adam.

'I wish.'

'Anyway, the art market's also a sham,' he retorted and nodded his head towards the book he had been reading. 'Poor ol' Vincent died a pauper and now his paintings sell for millions.'

Beth gestured to the stacks of unsold canvases and framed prints impinging on her workspace. 'Shoot me. These may then be worth something. I'll give you a sketch before you leave... may make you a fortune some day.'

'The money or the Monet, eh?'

'Nothing Toulouse,' Beth quipped as she picked up her charcoal and sketchpad. 'Enough about the stock market, let's begin the session, again. Down with the dax, up with the footsie and steady with the...'

Faith groaned and settled down on a stack of black conté drawings for the duration.

Several sketches later, Beth was in fine form and her painting ideas were beginning to gel. Linear marks leapt energetically across the white paper leaving trails of smudged tone in their wake. Bone and muscle were highlighted with white pastel.

Adam appeared exhausted but Beth reminded him of Gecko's mantra, 'Posing's "a breeze". Right?'

'Yeah! But swinging from the lights upside down... please, please Mistress Beth...' he moaned from his upturned position draped over a wooden chair.

'Don't cross the line!' Beth frowned at him. 'Just hold on another minute, I'm getting some great studies for my new "falling figure" series. Now twist your trapezius to the right and adapt a plunging pose, more plunge, more attitude... got it. Five minute break coming up.'

Adam unwound his body carefully. 'Whoa! Easy money this ain't... wait 'til I see Gecko, the snake. And if he thinks he's getting 20 percent of today's payment... "Greed is good"... I don't think so.'

A persistent scratching and scraping near the back door interrupted Adam's tirade.

'Don't tell me,' laughed Beth. 'The dreaded bear has arrived.'

Adam, partially collapsed on the yoga mat with the sarong as a pillow, wearily raised his aching head. 'I'm the only one bare around here,' followed by a feeble 'Grrr.'

It was now early evening and Beth's trusty Airedale terrier had joined the artist, her model and blind Faith in the studio. To avoid meltdown, Adam had finally halted Beth's drawing frenzy by pulling on his jeans and draping the red sarong over his shoulders like a defeated matador.

Beth poured a couple of generous glasses of whiskey and handed him one. 'Let's celebrate our triumphant day of art-making... on Fall Street.' She laughed at her own feeble pun.

They clinked their glasses and surveyed the drawings pinned in a row on a white wall lit by two overhead spotlights. Beth had turned some of the drawings upside down and interspersed them with the others. Together they formed an erratic chart of falling and soaring figures, ending with a positive image of ascension.

'Some of these will make good paintings. What do you think, Adam?'

Today's session with Adam had revitalised Beth's interest in her art and taken her mind off the turmoil of money matters and the woes of the last week. Her depression seemed light years away. Having a different model had definitely paid dividends and she was beaming.

'Same time next week, Adam? I'll begin an "ascending figure" series.'

'Maybe... if you teach me something about art. I reckon I'd be terrific as an artbroker.'

Beth downed her whiskey and let out a loud hiccup, while the hungry dogs growled into the descending night like a couple of ravenous bears.
Wednesday 19 June 2013 4 pm

### Broken But Not Beyond Repair

Connie Howell

Wentworth Falls, NSW

There once was a man who once was a boy lost in the wilderness. For thirty years he wandered from dark place to darker denser void. Dead to his family who could neither find nor reach him he stumbled through the bracken with no compass to help him find his way back home.

Often was the time that family called to him with no response, regrets and sorrow their companions until the time came when they no longer cried out in despair, hope abandoned for the most part with only a glimmer left from time to time. Prayers sent out for this lost and lonely boy, not knowing if they would ever be answered.

Cruel though life was both the boy and the family survived each in their own way. Thoughts of the boy put aside only surfacing around birthdays and Christmas. All efforts to search for him gone, while day to day life called them to be present without looking back. Dreams sometimes reminding them of what was lost and perhaps what could have been. Hearts covered over with stitches to keep the wound from gaping open.

In the wilderness the boy growing to a man had all but forgotten who he was, living under an illusion that he was someone else and that he belonged in the wilderness and yet something stirred within him every so often and made him want to reach out but he had forgotten the language of the normal world and couldn't make himself heard or understood and the family didn't know how to speak the sounds of the wilderness which to them was a wild and desolate place that they couldn't and did not want to enter. It frightened them and they knew that people that lived in the wilderness knew only darkness.

And yet one day someone came across the boy who was now a man and helped him gradually come out of his dark universe and showed him that there was light and with their help and a lot of time he once again re-entered the normal world and though it was hard to adjust he began to realise that he had a family who had been longing for his return.

Step by step they became acquainted and tentatively they walked towards each other and although the boy who was a man was broken he was still able to be repaired and with love and understanding his days of drug filled stupor were now behind him instead of in front and though fragile he had the will and the strength to leave the wilderness behind.
Wednesday 19 June 2013

### Where Have They Gone?

Vita Monica

Southbank, VIC

Where have they gone ... all the noble ladies

Spotless, pure, and virtuous maidens

O where have they gone?

The old love story

Has it faded away? Blown and tossed by the wind?

Is love hanging under its definition?

Love

Enfolded by the shadow of lust

It sweetness turns bitter and numb

In the age where commitment is death

Self with no discipline

Like an old warrior riding its horse, his back crooked

Will there be someone standing up?

Bearing the pain of the battle in the midst of dying warriors

A brave princess

A virtuous man

Someone who cherishes and embraces true love

When everyone turns their back and starves for desires

~ When beauty is perfection, love turns to image ~

Thursday 20 June 2013

### The Dangers of Dating Doris

John Ross

Blackheath, NSW

Bluey, Snowy and Mad Mick were sitting in the front bar of the Royal Hotel. There was nothing unusual about this as it was where they were every Saturday afternoon at this time. What was unusual was the subdued atmosphere that pervaded the whole bar. There was very little conversation; even the barman, Angus Applethwaite Bertwistle, known to his friends as 'Angry', was sitting quietly polishing glasses with a not very clean tea towel.

The reason for this sombre atmosphere was that most of the bar patrons had just come from watching their local footy team, the Royal Rabbits, sponsored by the hotel and otherwise known as 'The Randy Rabbits', get beaten in the Grand Final by the Sandy Flat Bull Frogs, 26 to 25. The bar was still festooned with banners that read, 'Rabbits for premiers in 1949'. Not one person mentioned that it had been 30 years since their last premiership win in 1919. Then they had only won because their opposition had forfeited.

Mad Mick looked up from his deep concentration on his half empty schooner and said to the bar in general, 'Bloody ref'. There was a murmur of consent from the other patrons. 'I'm going to send the bastard a white cane and black glasses.' Mick went back to the contemplation of his beer.

Silence hung heavy over the bar like a funeral on a rainy day.

Trying to change the mood the bar tender said to Bluey, 'You disappeared pretty quick after yer dinner here last night. Who was that good lookin sheila you was with?'

Looking rather sheepish Bluey replied, 'Yeah we were supposed to go to the pictures.'

This exchange immediately grabbed the attention of Snowy and Mad Mick. Snowy got in first and said, 'Two questions mate. Who was she and where did you go if you didn't get to the flicks?'

Looking even more flustered Bluey went a bright shade of pink and muttered, 'The bank manager's secretary, Doris.'

Mad Mick gasped and said, 'The blonde with the big ...'

Snowy, grinning from ear to ear cut in, 'Now, now, Mick a bit of decorum please. I'm sure you were going to say that she has big brown eyes. But I do seem to remember that she won "Miss Dairy Cow" in last year's festival. Isn't she a bit too posh for the likes of you? Her old man owns that big place out on the Sandy Creek road.'

Before Bluey could respond Angry chimed in, 'You blokes should have seen her performance at dinner last night. No beer or gin and tonic for her with the meal. She wanted to see "The Wine List". When I told her we only had Penfolds Claret or Sweet Sherry she wanted to know if we had any "Bubbly". When I told her I didn't know what she meant she told me it was some French stuff called Çhampspain. Anyway she polished off four glasses of sweet sherry and finished up drinking two beers after all.'

Bluey said angrily, 'You sure know how to charge Angry, you bloody robber. The bloody meal cost me over two bloody quid. I coulda bought the new tyres I need for me ute for less than that.'

Mad Mick, who had been busting to get into the conversation, said, 'Well I hope it was bloody worth it mate. You must have it bad to spend that much on a sheila; dinner and the pictures, next thing you will be buying her bloody flowers. Hang on; you didn't get to the pictures. Did you take her down to "Snogger's Park" you randy bastard?'

Bluey replied in a subdued voice, 'It was her bloody idea and all she wanted to do was talk. How bubbly wine is bliss, how she misses the culture in the big smoke, the last bloody opera she and her father went to. Yak, yak, yak. It fair put me to sleep but I soon woke up when she started to feel sick. On the bloody way home she threw up all over me. Last bloody time I take out a posh sheila like her.'
Friday 21 June 2013 4 pm

### I Wish They Had Not Done That

Paul Humphreys

Oxley, ACT

Matsui climbed down his makeshift bamboo ladder into the well behind his house. He had started early. He gently eased himself onto the constructed platform and reviewed his progress in the repair of the wall of his well. He was grateful for well water, as were his neighbours who were also allowed access to the water.

He had many friends as neighbours and he cherished the comfort of the village community. However, there were occasions when he missed his wife and son, usually at night.

Matsui's wife had died about two years earlier, one year after he had retired. Matsui was determined to carry on his life as usual keeping himself busy in his vegetable garden at the rear of his house.

Employment was difficult in Japan in 1943. Their only child had left home to seek better employment in another city not long after he had lost his mother.

It was early morning and the sun shone brightly as it rose above the cloudy horizon.

He was busy and happily hummed as he went about the repairs.

Above him hidden by high clouds a mechanism unlocked a cylinder to start its silent descent toward the earth. It would take approximately 45 seconds to reach its destination.

Matsui looked up in surprise as he heard a rush of air funnel across the well opening. Surprised, Matsui looked up to the opening just as a bright light and then a sudden shock of heat occurred. A terrifyingly loud explosion followed almost immediately. It seemed to come from the centre of the city about a kilometre away.

Matsui quickly climbed the ladder to see what had occurred.

As his head rose above the rim of the well he could not believe what he saw. He felt a nagging knot of nausea begin to develop in his stomach. His house and all the neighbours' houses had vanished. In their places were broken houses, windows and the occasional body.

He slowly pulled himself out of the well and stood up. He looked across a flattened landscape where fires had broken out as far as he could see. Many people were running in confusion around the debris searching for hope and understanding of what had happened.

Some people were screaming in agony from obvious injuries, while others were crying uncontrollably in shock from the suddenness of the calamity. Dust, smoke and a strong smell of burnt wood, plastic and flesh pervaded the whole scene. His senses were assailed on all fronts.

The knot in his stomach tightened further and he fell to the ground and was violently ill.

He lay prostrate for some time, paralysed with fear and foreboding. His breathing came in quick gulps. He remained still for a long time hugging his legs to his chest. Through his mind ran conflicting thoughts trying to understand what had occurred. It was not an earthquake, as the ground had not trembled.

He suddenly cried and screamed and beat his head against the ground as tears ran down his cheeks. He could not be sure which direction his emotions would take him. How to cope with this incredible tragedy and the loss of friends and his community?

After what appeared a long period he gradually sat up, rested his head on his knees and tried to gather his thoughts about what he might do. There was no reason to stay here amongst the rubble. Nothing was left.

After a number of hours he was rested and a little bit calmer. Grim faced people in a hypnotic daze continued to wander silently past, dust and tears lining their faces.

He needed a sanctuary and support. Someone close and familiar. He would try to reach his son.

He moved away from the well and headed in the direction of the railway station, which was away from the areas of major damage. Each step became more deliberate and determined. He was alive. That was important now.

At the main railway station, which had not been affected, he learned that it was an American bomb that had caused the conflagration and damage to his city and village. Damn them to hell! I wish they had not done that!

After a couple of hours wait he was at last on a train speeding toward a rendezvous with his son.

In Nagasaki.
Friday 21 June 2013

### White Wizard's Spell

Alexandra Plummer

Kallaroo, WA

you drop a line

blind with distraction

i couldn't define

the fish for reaction

i misunderstood

too hard to look

taking the bait

of a fisherman's hook

mirrored reflections

subtle rejections

a tearful heart

words projected

euphoric days gone

constantly wrong

day by day

a strategic play

i can't find my core

the world's getting small

these walls closing in

can't get off the floor

my hand's reaching out

you're knocking it down

such a powerful blow

from a silenced frown

a stained soul

bleeding rejection

a tainted love

yearning redemption

pounding heart

with a painful sting

glass eyes and lies

a coldhearted grin

a forceful impact

distressing destruction

your heart won't react

a struggle to function

the world all around

watching on as i drown

in a state of suspense

with effects so profound

holding confessions

predominate obsessions

a white wizard's spell of

instrumental aggression

can't stand on my feet

pinned down to the ground

a rollercoaster ride

no hope to be found

nothing makes sense

unfocused confusion

i'm stuck in your web

of chaotic delusion

you're afraid to show

who lurks deep inside

people will know

the coward that hides

behind a mask you wear

no feelings live there

a member of hell

an empty soul's shell

grandiose vanity

delusional reality

a false sense of self

moral insanity

all blame is reversed

a vampiring thirst

feeding emotions

loss of devotion

nothing half empty

nor is it half full

a power too tempting

this king wants to rule

needy and faded

distant and jaded

through contact lens

no blink from a friend

crashed from exhaustion

no strength to fight

can no longer pretend

we share the same sight

there's no-one there

no choice to decide

my body still thrives

but my mind just died

drained of all tears

my cries have dried

i'm flatlining numb

mental suicide

the push and the pull

emotionally shoved

is this how it feels

being special and loved?
Saturday 22 June 2013

### It's Time

Jennie Cumming

Blackwood, SA

Twenty-four hours after she'd left Heathrow, Laura pulled her wheeled suitcase along the uneven paving bricks of a quiet suburban street in Adelaide. The low grumble of wheels on pavement marked her progress towards her grandmother's home, and disturbed a succession of dogs that had been sleeping inside fences and houses along the way. Their warning barks had no visible effect on the young woman's measured pace, but eventually she slowed, and then stopped at a gate in a low wrought iron fence. Dusty pelargoniums and grevilleas growing through the railings brushed against her as she reached for the latch. When she pushed it, the gate jammed on the cracked cement path, forcing her to use both hands to lift as she shoved.

After she'd pulled her case through the gateway and managed to shut the gate again, Laura rubbed her hands together, grimacing and brushing away traces of rust and dirt. She re-settled her large backpack, shoved the handle of her case into its housing and picked it up. A gecko scuttled into a crack of the low wall around the verandah as she stepped up onto it from the uneven path. Dirt and leaves had banked up in the corners and patches of faded red paving paint were visible underfoot. An electric door buzzer hung askew on the front doorframe, and the end of a broken wire stuck out from behind it.

Laura winced at the screech from the hinges as she pulled open the dirty screen door. She knocked on the wooden door. Nothing stirred. She knocked again, and then pushed the screen door shut and gazed around the verandah. Spider webs drooped from the bare globe in the ceiling to the top of the window frame.

She picked up her case again, and walked across the front of the house, heading for the side driveway through dead weeds and grass. There were recent tyre tracks and footprints in the sunken gravel and dirt of the drive, and the double gates in the front fence had recently been swung open, tearing some of the entwined branches of the adjacent shrubs.

'Laura!'

'Oh, Mrs Clancy!' Laura's head jerked around. The neighbour was peering over the top of the side fence.

'I saw you go past the front. Wait a minute.' Mrs Clancy dropped from sight and a few seconds later stepped through a gap further along the fence. She came towards Laura smiling, opening her arms for a hug. Laura lowered her case and returned the hug awkwardly.

'I've been waiting for you because your Gran isn't home just now. Come over and have a cup of tea. Let me take your case.'

'Oh, no, that's all right, I'll take it. It's a bit heavy,' Laura said.

'Well, mind how you come through the fence. Don't get splinters.'

Mrs Clancy placed a plate of biscuits on the kitchen table. 'I know it's been a while but these used to be your favourites.'

'Five years,' Laura said, 'but I haven't forgotten your baking.' She picked up a biscuit and smiled. 'They smell wonderful.'

'I guess you're used to fancier food these days.'

'Not so much lately.'

'Because of this recession they keep talking about?'

Laura nodded. 'And problems at the company I worked for. At least I wasn't high enough up to get sued when they went broke.'

'Well, that's a relief! But at least you're home now. Your Gran has been so looking forward to having you here again. She is so proud of you and all the places you've seen. Speaking of which,' Mrs Clancy lifted two photo albums from the kitchen dresser and placed them on the table before settling on to her chair. 'I helped her organise these. We put all your cards in the back of this one.' She tapped the top album. 'Postcards, Birthday, Christmas, everything.'

'Oh!' Laura pulled the top album towards her and opened it. The cards she had sent were filed in clear plastic pockets. She flipped backwards through the album, pausing at a page of black and white photos near the front. A smiling young girl was wearing dungarees, holding the handlebars of a bicycle that was too big for her. In the adjacent photo, she was a little older, wearing a party dress, white ankle socks and black court shoes.

Mrs Clancy leaned forward and pointed. 'There's your Mum all dressed up for our Jamie's birthday. She helped ice the cake. She did that every year until... well, until she left home.'

Laura closed the album and pushed it away.

'Your Gran was worried you wouldn't get these, so she asked me to keep them here.'

Laura looked up.

'They took her to hospital yesterday, Laura.'

'Oh, no,' Laura exclaimed.

'She has pneumonia and the fever is making her quite silly, but she is worried your mother or uncle will throw these out.'

'I have to go—'

'No, just wait a while, pet. Jamie's coming over and he can give you a lift to the hospital. He won't be long. In the meantime,' Mrs Clancy opened the other album and spun it around on the table. 'Your Gran really wanted me to show you these. Look. There she is with Lenny before he went to the War. You can see how young they were. This is when he came back with battle fatigue. It's what made him drink, you know. It took a lot of them that way.' She slowly turned the pages. 'There's the house when they first moved in. That's the vegetable patch. You can see how small the trees were. That one was your favourite for climbing, wasn't it?'

Laura nodded. 'Mrs Clancy–'

'I know, dear, you want to go, but I promised I'd show you these and it's no trouble for Jamie to take you. I don't want your Gran fretting and I know she'll ask you about the albums as soon as she sees you. It's been a big project for her, sorting out these photos. We both went through them, and I've written on the back for you. See?' She slid a photo out of the album and turned it over, showing Laura the writing on the back. 'This is your Mum.'

Felicity practising her callisthenics before her school concert, 1960.

'It's all there.'

Laura was silent as Mrs Clancy replaced the photo in the album.

'Your Mum doesn't realise it, but your Gran really loves her. She knows Felicity blames her for not leaving Lenny when he got so bad with them, but things were different then. Women couldn't get decent work or even a decent reputation if they were by themselves. Nothing was the same after the War, but she married Lenny before he went away and after that it was all about honouring promises. Your Mum left home before she understood that and I doubt she ever will now. She's so bitter.' Mrs Clancy hesitated and then closed the album. 'I rang her earlier.'

Laura glanced up.

'She'll be at the hospital by the time you get there.'

Laura frowned, opened her mouth as though to speak, then nodded instead and sipped her tea.

Mrs Clancy opened the other album and turned the pages slowly. 'These photos are your Gran's way of making sense of her life. It's like she was making peace with herself.'

Laura looked at the album. It was open at an old photo of herself and her mother standing outside Gran's house. The brightly coloured skirt reminded her that it had been her thirteenth birthday. Her mother had made an effort to hold her temper, but it had still been a very awkward visit. The only good thing was that she was then old enough to catch the buses across town by herself. She could visit Gran on the weekend whenever she wanted to.

'You can see all sides of it,' Mrs Clancy said, cradling her teacup in both hands. 'Looking back you can see how they all did the best they could. It's a shame some people just keep running and never get a chance to stop and think.'

Laura flushed and looked through the kitchen window to the tops of the trees next door. 'Does she still say, "The best time to plant a tree is twenty years ago. The second best time is now"?'

'Yes. It's never too late.'

Sunday 23 June 2013 4 pm

### Pumpkin Soup

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, NSW

Sharp

Knife

Slices

Daintily

Cute pumpkin pieces

Onion slices and potato

Nifty nutmeg and tangy tumeric top this off

With a gentle splash and a wooden spoon stirring into the boiling salted water

The bubbles are bliss as they break through to the surface

Sending delicious aromas

Throughout the kitchen

Exciting

Hungry

Taste

Buds
Sunday 23 June 2013

### Tae a Cherry

Alexander Gardiner

Bullaburra, NSW

Wee, wee rid rid coated thing

tae ma hert sic joy yea bring.

Wae elegance an' tender charm,

ma racin' hert yea sae disarm.

Yea hang there among yer kind,

Bright an' braw but sae refined.

Ma wee rid rid coated friend,

sae Bonny, I'll nae pretend.

Each year fur us yea come along,

espousing nature's sweetest song.

A song not o' sound but o' exotic taste.

a taste fur oor lucky paletes tae be graced.

Here fur oanly a wee wee time,

yea mak ma taste buds gently chime.

Tastin' like nuthin' else oan this earthy place.

wae yer wee rid rid bonny smilin' face.

Frae yer parent tree yea duly burst ,

as a wee fluer yer gently nursed.

Caressed by bees yer scent doth bring,

eventually tae be a wee green pimply thing,

Bathed wae the Sun's life giving rays,

growing, maturing in such a wondrous way.

Changin', yellow, pink, noo tae yer rid rid style,

tae a Bonny Cherry tae please us fur a wee wee while.

Av jist picked yea up frae among yer like,

frae the box foo o' Cherries whay are jist alike.

But you ma wee wan are jist fur me,

hope yer taste is in the proper key.

Oh my, sic a burst o' pleasure,

ma wee wee rid rid bloomin' treasure.

Say juicy say sparklin' ma mooth foo o' joy,

wunnerful, exotic, aw ma senses yea do employ.

Thank yea, thank yea ma wee rid rid friend,

yer the greatest, aye I'll nae pretend.

Tull next year, tull wee meet again,

whin I'll listen tae yer song o' sweet refrain.

A song o' taste an' no o' sound,

o' tasting magic from aw Cherries abound.

Rest now yer gentle parent tree,

an' please bloom anither day fur me tae see.
Monday 24 June 2013

### The Storm

Rachel Branscombe

Quakers Hill, NSW

The storm is coming

The day when nothing will matter

When troubles will be gone and war will be history

The storm is coming

Make sure you are prepared

it will come with no warning.

No one will know the day of its destruction

The storm is coming

Feel its wrath

Everything you do now will be meaningless

Everything sticks and nothing is forgotten

The day of judgement is at hand

The storm is coming

Have you taken heed?

Have you changed your ways?

Have seen the errors you have made?

Have you heard the sound of pain you have caused?

The storm is coming and those who don't take heed will fall.

The storm is coming

It will be unavoidable

be prepared and be afraid

Tuesday 25 June 2013

### Loneliness

Felicity Lynch

Katoomba, NSW

For eight days there had been

Songs and laughter

Great food, comfort of

Family

Now there is only

My own heartbeat

Nothing looks so lonely

As the little blue table

On the lawn

With one chair drawn up to it
Wednesday 26 June 2013

### A Porpoise Life

Henry Johnston

Rozelle, NSW

I tolerated the canings, but the hunger near drove me mad. Endless cold watery rations could not nourish the colourless chrysalis emerging from my rickety child's frame. Hunger stalked my listless days and haunted my cold, dark nights. Proximity to the sea with the tang of brine at high tide and the reek of mud at its ebb, sharpened this famishment which scraped at the dry surface of my grizzled innards. This daily pang prodded recklessness that near drove me from the orphanage and forever out of the sight of the holy biddies.

It was simple enough to do a runner and a wolfish instinct told me to stay close to the shore where I knew I'd get a feed.

I spent my first days cadging bits of line from old men fishing at a local pier. I watched them bait their hooks with green weed and snag a half dozen fat, grunting black fish, setting one aside, and cutting into strips of bait for a bigger catch. By day's end a swag of 'grunters', leather jacket, bream, mullet and gar fish, had all been cleaned and gutted, sizzled and roasted over a small, hot driftwood fire. The searing white flesh burnt my tongue and the roof of my mouth, but I sucked every bone and swallowed every morsel then licked my hands and fingers clean.

I learnt how to tie a dropper loop, an eye crosser, an improved clinch, the nail knot and the offshore swivel. I rolled cadged tobacco into squares of old, bleached newspaper and vomited after my first and last drag on a fast burning 'durrie'. The fishermen laughed until tears ran down their cheeks, and cursed amiably as they recounted my inexperience. Yet I felt comfortable with these men who did not ask questions of me or of each other, and shared the bounty of the sea in a knowing silence honed by years of watching for the slightest twitch on a line.

The eldest of the group guided me toward a sailor's life. The best way to beat the coppers he said—who must come looking for me—is to hop a ship as a cabin boy.

He scrawled a note to a Bo'sun friend serving aboard the SS Koolama hauling freight and passengers to ports along the Western Australian coast, thus with five shillings in my pocket raised at a whip around, I set off for Fremantle and my first stint aboard ship.

I found the red-faced Bo'sun at a sailors' pub in a narrow lane amidst the dusty clapboard docks of Fremantle. He scanned the words of the note with blood-shot rheumy eyes and a blast of beery breath harrumphed a short-lived tolerance of my unwelcome interruption to his daylong bender.

'Can you speel puds?' he slurred.

'Is the pope a Catholic?' I shot back, my voice breaking somewhere between falsetto and bass.

'Watch out for the younger deck hands because they'll beat your smart arse right off your skinny backside.' Then with a haughty call to the barmaid for a square of writing paper, and with a near perfect copperplate hand, the Bo'sun inscribed a letter of introduction to the Koolama's purser, recommending me as a kitchen hand as far as Broome, commencing on the next high tide departure.

I found the Koolama swathed in a swirl of coal smoke and wheat dust moored at a wharf patrolled by Aboriginal stockmen sitting aside rangy brumbies and geeing-up wide-eyed terrified cattle that clattered down to the dockside and on to their final terrified moments at a local abattoir.

Boarding proved easier than I had imagined thanks to the letter of introduction. Years later I learnt the very same Bo'sun recruited hundreds of poor bastards like me as cheap labour to work the coastal run.

I fought my way up the gangplank, dodging scurrying porters, sailors and deckhands. I noticed a boy about my age, slouching near where the gangplank intersected the deck.

'I'm looking for the purser,' I said, shifting my stare downward to his white pumps.

'Follow me,' he said, before asking my name.

'Jimmy Coracle,' I replied, putting out my hand toward this freckle-faced redhead who stood at least an inch taller than I did.

'Sidney Calder. Glad to meet you. Let's get your kit.' Sid and I remained friends to the last day of Aratus, and from this first meeting I prized his shrewdness and judgement.

Sid pointed toward the pennants snapping and crackling on the sloops and steamers. Several from the Dutch East Indies sat bound bow and stern to Portuguese tramps from Timor and camouflaged painted Australian and American warships. Each ship, thus tethered, provided a causeway of convenience to bent-back stevedores who crossed from deck to deck, loading and unloading each vessel in their turn.

Fear of the advancing Japanese panicked the skippers of the Greek-owned pearling fleets moored abeam of the bigger, iron ships. Several displayed the Gorgon Head of Barrow Island on their mainsheets, others the snub-fin porpoise of Broome. Each insignia defined the rival clans of divers and the Hellenic families who named their pearl grounds after fabled heroes, Orthrus, Maenad, Eurytion, Urania, Chrysaor andDionysus.

The purser took my letter and stamped the crest of the Koolama's owners on it, then printed out the words 'full kit, kitchen hand, whites and apron, canvas shoes and hammock' and the date 12 January 1942. Thus with folded contract in hand, my childhood of 13 years lapsed and my life at sea began.
Thursday 27 June 2013

### When There Are Two Inside Of One

Armin Boko

Lake Heights, NSW

When bayonet up

the Hard one hollers:

'Chaaargeee in!, kill the Hun,'

while the Softy petrified

inside browned uniform

declares it's bedlam.

When the Hard one demands:

'Strangle the cheating bitch,

an eye for an eye, and

a tooth for a bloody tooth,' –

but Softy refuses, 'Love is blind,

turn the other cheek';

When the soft one overcome

with full tummy guilt remorse

donates to walking African corpse

while the hard nosed one claims:

'It's too late, can't you see St Joe Blow,

for them all hope is lost.'

Dichotomy, split personality,

psychoanalysis?, no, no and no,

does it not prove though

even the Almighty Father

in the Heavens above

can botch up a design job?
Friday 28 June 2013

### These Made Me

Winsome Smith

Lithgow, NSW

I am a dusty hometown, the heat, the drought,

The benediction that comes with rain.

I am the lover who turned his back

Leaving puzzled despair and pain.

I am the child I gave away

To protect from society's 'talk'.

I am the tang of gum leaves, the rock lily's strength,

The carpet of grass on which I walk.

I am a daughter's smile, a grandchild's kiss,

A friend's embrace, a brother's grin.

I am books and poetry, myth and fable,

Tradition, heritage, a yarn to spin.

I am those who gave me a world of dreams-

Bergman, Gable, Rogers, Astaire.

I am the man with a laugh on his lips

Who kissed me and whispered 'I care'.

I am music and laughter and I am wine,

An impulsive kiss, a longing sigh.

I am city lights and tender nights –

The enduring ache of a last goodbye.
Saturday 29 June 2013

#

### Prime

Ken Ward

Berowra Heights, NSW

Sirens wail in the distance drawing closer and closer to me. They're homing in on some signal I must be inadvertently emitting. If the opportunity arises, maybe someone will tell me I left signposts in the most obvious of places. I leave that thought aside. It's not part of this timeline right now.

While I could not predict their arrival at this exact moment, it was inevitable they would find me, and in finding me, find us. Do they know that both of us are here? If they do it might hamstring the natural anger and violence her absence would otherwise permit. There's no way they have the capacity to know enough about her to formulate a hypothesis. She is the x, the unknown. She is the variable that makes the outcome unpredictable.

I'm writing this down, by the way. I've written it before, as prologue, as pretext, but somehow I think now it will achieve an audience. Now it will take on a significance greater than itself. It will speak to something in life that's synonymous with fear. This is where my halfthought ideas and incomplete levels of understanding become a tangible thing. Everything I've never quite comprehended and misunderstood will soon take on an authority of its own.

People will approach me, what I've done, as they would a philosophy or religion. I have now elevated my words and actions into the same sphere as time, that place beyond reach where the momentum of things is firmly set and unchangeable.

I'm thinking of triggers. Moments that spark and ignite. Moments that tap into a well or unfocused anger or frustration that hasn't found voice or form. It's only now I understand them for what they really are. There's a power in them I've been ignorant of. And now it comes to me too late.

Tyres screech outside my building. Multiple vehicles. Sirens drawl as the cars come to a stop, the motion of the sound waves whipped around like a lash. I can hear doors open and the heavy footfall of boots on stairs charging up to my first floor apartment. I imagine the rest. Helmets on heads. Kevlar vests on chests. Hands on firearms. Fingers on the trigger.

In this moment I come to know where the fuse for this deviation in the pattern of a life was lit. I remember being on a train going nowhere in a westerly direction. My eyes and head are heavy, late afternoon sun warming the carriage and I'm sleepy. Two people across the carriage from me are talking. My mind absorbs their conversation and it soaks into me through filters distilling a purity from their words.

'Haven't seen you in a few weeks. You been away?'

'Yeah. Just back from three weeks in Europe.'

Three is a prime number.

'Wow. That's so cool. Did you have a good time?'

'It was amazing.'

The conversation seems to run out of steam as the train starts to slow. A computerised voice announces our arrival at the next station. One of the passengers stand to leave and they make their goodbyes.

It was amazing. Three weeks of experience reduced to three words. There is a brevity in the human condition that is rendering the act of living insignificant. Why do it at all if not to share the experience? Three weeks into three words. This is a coupling of a prime. The meaning I make out of this is clear and precise. This new understanding comes complete with an arc of what should follow.

As this revelation unveiled itself to me, I felt a cascading peace flow down over my shoulders through my body. I knew this was part of the process of realigning me with how things were in the beginning. This awareness became part of an updraft lifting me on my journey from this state to where I would join with the source.

There's knocking on the door. Shouts are in accompaniment but it's all muffled in my bloodcrusted ears.

This is it.

The ringing buzz in my head persists. It links me to the very beginning of things, this sound of cosmic microwave background radiation. Here, in this moment, I'm able to step outside myself. Having it happen like this seems right. That in the end something from the very beginning of things is present. It's a guiding beacon. It's the hum of validation.

The knocking on the door continues.

The how of their discovery interests me. Maybe in the final analysis it will reflect a level of negligence or oversight on my part. It's not a question I expect to be plagued with for long.

I start at the top of a new page with as steady a hand as I can muster. People will attach their own meaning to what I've done. Defining factors will include my skin colour, my religion, my place of birth, my parents and my upbringing. What my first grade teacher said in my end of year school report. 'Distant. Withdrawn. Lacks ability to concentrate for more than a few minutes at a time.'

It's boring to me because you've heard it before. But it will be added to the lexicon that bears an image of my face.

The knocking and shouting at the door is ceaseless. It has become a counterpoint harmony to the melody that's been playing since the beginning that's ringing now in my ears. The sound of now and the sound of then, joining, adding layers to the unfolding scenario.

I've followed the messages derived from my search for self meaning.

This is where I have ended up. Can you sense the subtleties and nuances? Can you detect my struggle? Are you rushing to condemn me?

I no longer need to search out meaning. I am the meaning. I've transcended the need to self analyse, self define.

I understand meaning is fluid. It's flexible, changeable. All of us are co-creators in the justifications of why things have played out they way they played out.

This is the gift I've given to everyone. And with this gift I've brought people together. This experience will galvanise. Strangers will embrace in long moments of shared knowingness. They will see the differences that separate them drift away with the smoke clouds. In its place the glowing success of how this event has united a community. This shared understanding. Like time, they will remain wrapped up inside it. It speaks to them, of them. No one will be outside of this. No one will be lonely and isolated in this alternate deviation.

A community has formed from the antipathy of communities past. The blood of others has breathed life renewed into those that remain. This is how it has always been. This is how it will forever continue.

There are gaps that need to be filled. I understand this. There is solace for me in these spaces, free of information. As my hearing deteriorates I allow myself to be swallowed into a version of events true only to me. I allow you to create and interpret as you wish. You are very welcome.

But I have learnt something you don't know. It's okay for me to tell you now even though it will become skewed and distorted through your prism of bias.

Truth like meaning has no fixed form.

I've referenced this before, but here it is now in all its might. Clean. Clear. Concise.

It feels heavy to me. What about you?

If I were to say 'I've got to hurry, time is running out' you might not bat an eyelid and think that an appropriate thing to say right now, given my current set of circumstances. But I don't let things go that easily. While I may not have much time, time itself remains ignorant of me. Now that I am in ascension I feel unconcerned with the idea of seconds passing into minutes and so on. I write this next part on a new page. Right hand side fresh. It makes more sense that way.

The beginning is the centre of all things. This is where we are all one. But we don't remain in this state. Factors intervene. The constancy of the universe unravels our oneness, our completeness of being when in unborn form. Delivered into existence we expand in parallel with the distance that grows between stars within a galaxy.

I spent many years wondering if I was the one, unable to detach from the idea that there might be more outside of myself. But as soon as I came to the understanding I am of finite form I knew I must be something else. If not the one, a prime number perhaps? I liked this immediately.

Of the one. Only divisible by itself and the one. Therefore, always in tune with the very centre, the source. But harmony is delicate and sensitive.

I felt the ever present pain of separation from the source of all life as I grew older and more distant from the point of origin. I used to worry about what I thought were big questions, important questions, where the gap between what was and what should be were poles apart. Now I realise I was debating with myself about the difference between off-white and mother of pearl.

The distance between the centre and myself is forever becoming greater at steady and constant intervals. This can be mapped in equations, proved by formulas and theory. Time is taking me further and further away from the heart of things. My actions bring me closer to the beginning, bring people closer to each other. This is win-win.

This year I am twenty-three years from the centre. Twenty-three is a prime. I am in a prime year. This is significant. The far away fuzz of white noise from the one, the centre, the beginning, speaks to me in a language that is dependent on proximity. Cicadas reappear every thirteen or seventeen years to reproduce. They are in prime harmony with the one.

I am twenty-three.

I am looking to re-sync my frequency with the one. Only I and the one are divisible with each other. I created a sonic disturbance, a fragment filled destructive moment to help realign my wavelength with the beginning of things.

It wasn't hard, even though I made mistakes. My mistakes can be observed in patterns of behaviour as far back as the origin of life. They are born of the one and are perfect in their amplitude.

Knocking. Pounding. Shouting.

When they enter, they'll rush me. As I'm being secured, the other rooms will be searched and cleared. That's when they'll find the unknown, the x. Her presence here is the variable factor they may not have prepared for. She remains the x in this equation. The number that replaces the variable is called the solution. The solution to x has become entwined and inextractable from my search for harmonic synchronicity with the one.

The significance of this, my prime year, colluded to bring us together. Our amplitudinal patterns oscillated ever closer in tune with each other. This refining of frequencies was outside of our awareness.

It was linked to the greater design of gravitational forces and the magnetic pull of opposing poles.

And this is how it was as I entered the parade crowd. Creating chaos, adding levels of imperfection to the natural flow of events wasn't hard. I zigzagged through the crowd dropping bangers and smoke pellets into garbage bins, into open handbags. Pockets were harder than I'd expected.

Moving at inconsistent velocities through a throng of unpredictable spectators is the conclusion I have drawn for the failure of this part of the plan.

I could see her through the crowd. It was cold. She wore fingerless gloves. She was exactly where I didn't want her to be.

The natural movement of the swelling mass carried me on a sloshing wave in her direction. I knew time was against us. The momentum of kinetic motion was bringing me to her. I'd spent so long testing theories trying to prove the number equal to x. I should have known this was part of the process for discovering the solution. My disregard of time felt hard to justify in these moments. What could I do but accept this was how the universe was conspiring to bring us together?

I felt the heaviness of pending destruction on my back. Whether my feet were taken out from under me or I knowingly allowed myself to fall, I'm not willing to confirm. It's enough to know that I was on the ground, shoes, boots, heels stomping over me. The crowd was one part frightened, two parts confused, equal parts nonplussed.

And yes, in this crush, the backpack and I became separated. It was a few moments before I reacted and tried to claim it back but by then it had found its final resting place yards from where she stood. She had no idea the bag was there. Through the stampede I could see her staring down at me.

Her face showed recognition which became confusion. And then, she smiled realising that she knew me, thinking, What's he doing on the ground?

For a moment the equation changed and I knew in this temporary state of flux she was no longer the unknown, the x. She had become in this event horizon a known entity and I felt the solution was on the tip on my tongue. It was my bag that had shifted and become the variable factor in this problem. The x had generated from me. And the problem to which I set in place a formula to divine a solution was seconds from revealing itself.

In an eclipsing flash of bright orange–yellow light the answer began to unravel. A deafening boom, debris flying in chaotic patterns, shooting out from the centre of the occurrence. My ears rang in a squealing high pitch frequency. My eyes burned, caked with dust and blood. There were some things I already knew as I wiped the crap off my face so I could see. The state of flux had ended with the destruction of the newly introduced variable. She was again, the x.

Flames, dust, screams, a strange mix of muffled silence, concussion and heaviness took hold. I was close to where the solution was unveiled.

She was closer.

I was bleeding.

She was blown apart.

I pulled myself together. I needed to get out of here.

My only decision at that point was what parts of her I would leave behind. A severed arm, fingers missing lay next to her unconscious body. Blood and dirt stained her face. Debris covered her legs so it was hard for me to tell right away if they were still attached to her or not. Her other arm lay across a writhing form to her left. I crawled over who knows what to reach out to grab it. I held on to her for some time, her fingerless gloved hand in mine.

As the cloud of dust thinned and I could see silhouettes of people move about in jerky directions; the thought returned to remind me that I needed to get out of here. I put her arm around my shoulders and lifted her to her feet. She was a dead weight which dragged behind me for three blocks before I got to my apartment.

Inside, I took her into my bedroom. Laying her down on the mattress on the floor, I wrapped a large beach towel around her upper body to cover the gaping wound where her right arm once was. I washed her face with a warm, wet cloth. The dirt and blood washed right off. Scratches and cuts remained. I pulled the duvet up, tucking it under her chin, leaving a glass of water on the floor next to where she lay in case she woke up and was thirsty.

I closed the door behind me, letting her rest.

I had no idea how much time had passed. I wasn't keeping tabs. It became unimportant. I'm sure I said something like this before.

They're using some kind of battering ram to break down my door. There's one final problem they are about to discover the solution to. I sit on the sofa opposite the front door and put down my pen, awaiting my return to the beginning, to the one, to the source of all things.

Ed: We enjoyed the use of the language in this story – the ebb and flow of the words and the way the internal dialogue evolved and revealed the story – as well as the fact that no 'language' itself was used. We also felt this was a very articulate approach to the issue of violence which may or may not be described as an act of terrorism, that such description depends on who carries it out and why, and the fact that even with all the evidence which can be gathered, the most important evidence still lies in the mind of the protagonist. Scary stuff well written.

Sunday 30 June 2013

### The Performance

Deborah Stanbridge

Douglas Park, NSW

A beautiful sunset paints a performance

Wisps of clouds are lit up from behind

As a bright burn of atmosphere fades into darkness

A rainbow of orange, lemon, strawberry and cherry

Ice cream melts before my eyes

The warmth of its colours warms my heart

This free show is repeated daily and yet it is new every time

And as it fades into a purple darkness

I feel no sorrow for its loss

Only joy and gratitude for being its witness

When she passed away

Her performance was over

No more dancing, no tears of laughter, nor tears of grief

They said: She lives on in our hearts

But she doesn't live on, she is just remembered

Though it is full of moments in time

I know my life is but a moment,

And a performance for the sustainer

And I pray it will be a good one filled with warmth,

Compassion, tears of laughter, giving and being a good witness.
Monday 1 July 2013

### One Night in Gibraltar

Leonie Bingham

Katoomba, NSW

On a ship berthed in Gibraltar were two thousand Navy men

who had been at sea for six long weeks and longed for land again.

Onboard the Aussie navy ship, the 'Melbourne' it was called,

were sailors set to find a girl – the Gibraltans were appalled!

They announced a week long curfew, sent their women all to Spain,

and yikes the women disappeared by car or bus or plane.

The men descended to the dock with pockets full of cash,

they went in search of womenfolk, their search was bold and brash.

But all the bars were full of men, no women were in sight,

so beers were poured and glasses drained – well into the night.

Six sailor men, that's all there were when the bars declared 'no more',

they stumbled to the street; they had to leave that foreign shore.

No taxicab would stop to give those drunken men a ride –

but they came upon an ambulance, found purpose in their stride.

The streets were quiet, only they were loud and full of beer,

they climbed into that ambulance, said, 'Let's get out of here!'

So off they drove towards their ship, lights flashing, siren sounding –

as they made their wild escape six anxious hearts were pounding.

For right behind them, on their tail, were the Gibraltan boys in blue,

the six drove on without a care, they would hide among their crew.

But at the ship to their dismay a crowd was gathered there,

they walked the dock and shuddered at the Captain's steely stare.

Before first light the Melbourne steamed off out into the blue –

and that night was never mentioned by the Captain or his crew!
Monday 1 July 2013 4 pm

### The Ghost In Your Jeans

Robyn Chaffey

Hazelbrook, NSW

Diary entry: Monday 7:11:11

I thought I had moved on; that the grief was dissipating or I was getting stronger.

A new wardrobe and trip to the hairdresser were to create the illusion of determination to get back into life. I knew you would want me to live on in the way we had planned together.

Still, I was a little uneasy about my choice. I felt a sense of guilt which I knew to be unnecessary. Yet at the same time I was quietly pleased with what I had done so far.

As I stepped out on to the pavement from the hairdressers' shop, I realised I was smiling... the kind of smile that announces to the world 'I am happy with my life'. The realisation shocked, yet pleased me.

Then I saw him. I saw you! It was the jeans!

You bought those jeans the day before you left. I remember that you thought they were really too tight. I thought them perfect! How I teased you that evening when you chose to put them on to go out with your friends.

A night out with your mates to celebrate the Panthers' big win!

I was happy for you to go and looked forward to a night in with my own friends. We parted on such a high. Life was wonderful!

The girls had all gone home and I had settled to read my book before heading off to bed... did not expect you early. My mind was dwelling on the fun of our parting and I could not help but smile. I could still see you in my mind's eye... the picture of your sleek figure as you walked away and your cheeky grin as you turned your face to wink me a last farewell.

My musings were abruptly interrupted by the firm knock at the door. The clock told me it was still a little early but I thought you had forgotten your key and grinned as I opened the door.

The grin quickly faded as I was confronted by two burly strangers. It took time for it to sink in... they were in uniform and very sober.

'Miss Perry?... Miss Christina Perry?... May we... so very sorry... no survivors... they were not over the limit... the other driver...'

It all seems such a blur even now. I felt that I could die as well.

It took time but I felt your spirit with me and I began to remember your joy in life.

Gradually I remembered that you wanted me to enjoy it too and you would want me to live... really live for both of us.

As I stood there on the pavement it was as though time was standing still. I blinked and struggled momentarily with the rush of memory and feelings. It was as though your presence dissipated, twisting upward to the ether.

I felt my eyes follow you taking my whole face with them toward the heavens, watching as the blue of your jeans dissolved into the crystal blue of the sky. Then I knew that you had visited me to let me know that you approved.

I love you as always and I will be just fine.

I will live our dream for both of us!
Tuesday 2 July 2013

### Heaven On Earth

Andris Heks

Megalong Valley, NSW

It's 6 am. I am tucked in under my doona. It's time for heaven.

I pull my laptop into bed, earphones on, snugly covering both ears for stereo effect, nightcap over the earphones for even better hearing and warmth. I quarter sit up in bed, heater switched on, scarf wrapped around my neck.

I am ready for bliss.

I click on the golden star at the top right corner of my laptop. My 'favourites' appear on the screen.

I click on 'Janine Jansen performs Tchaikovsky's violin concerto live in 2013', (Tchaikovsky, 1. Allegro moderato (Violin Concerto in D major op.35)).

The conductor and the violin soloist, Janine Jansen, stand a mere metre from each other, face to face, eye to eye, in silence. Only the conductor and the soloist are standing, everyone else in the huge orchestra is sitting. They line up behind the soloist, like the chorus does behind the protagonist in Greek drama. Their eyes are on the conductor opposite, awaiting his signals. He stands on a pedestal, with his baton in hand towering over the soloist and the orchestra, like a benevolent god. He wears a smart black silk suit with white shirt and white bow tie, like all male members of his orchestra.

Janine is a brunette with shiny, longer than shoulder length hair. She wears a long blood-red dress that leaves her broad shoulders uncovered. She looks a picture, standing there with a lowered violin in one hand and the bow in the other.

It's show time! The conductor signals the second violinist and he kicks off the ball as it were. The other twenty violinists of the orchestra promptly respond to the second violin in chorus. Briefly it is once more the second violinist's turn. Next, two clarinets and two flutes respond to him in unison. Now the speed and volume of the music increase: there is short accelerating drumming, followed by the violins, cellos, the clarinets and flutes having a turn. Then all, save the soloist, join together to belt out a crescendo. Through this thunderstorm of sounds Janine stands by, cool as a cucumber. With her violin only held by her chin, hands resting interlocked on her abdomen, she is patiently awaiting her turn. Now the orchestra puts on the brakes, ready to hand over the baton to her. Janine slides the bow on her violin's strings and makes her grand entry. The scene is reminiscent of Michelangelo's picture of 'The Creation of Adam': God extends his hand towards Adam – here the towering conductor's baton points towards the first violinist.

Adam (here, the soloist Janine) responds by in turn extending his fingers (here, her violin) back towards God. Their symbolic connection breathes divine life into Adam (here, into Janine's music).

She mesmerises the audience as she begins to softly play the achingly beautiful concerto theme tune.

I purse my lips to start to whistle along with her. All eyes and ears are on her; the rest of the orchestra is in temporary suspense. I whistle in tandem with her as tears of joy flow from my eyes.

I listen to her closely, keeping my whistling just a touch softer than the volume of her play so that I can stay right with her. I am melting at the beauty of the theme tune. Now I hear her and the orchestra together in stereo in both ears through the earphones. My whistle vibrates between my ears somewhere deep in my brain and chest, blending with the rest of the music. The pace begins to rapidly accelerate. It's take off time. We become airborne and continue climbing. All the engines roar to their utmost. The air is getting thinner. At last, high up, to the tune of gently exquisite music, the plane begins to cruise horizontally without the slightest effort. Then bang! There is the thunder of loud and fast sounds bursting through the calm, heralding the full blown climactic return of the concerto's theme tune. It skyrockets vertically. I have to hold on to my seat to stay in tandem with the immense tempo but I am hanging in there. We continue to spiral upwards with mindboggling speed.

I am starting to lose myself. The soloist and all the diverse instruments and sounds including my whistle are merging into one experience only: that of the single concerto in all its glorious wholeness.

It fills the cosmos, expanding into infinity!
Wednesday 3 July 2013

### Kirsten's Photo

David Anderson

Woodford, NSW

So it's happened again. Another failed relationship and all that goes with it. Hurt – grief – cold bed – black dog – I'll never get hurt again – all women are ... He really thought that this time it would work. She was so beautiful, so loving and had told him she wanted to get married soon. Why? What had he done to make her leave?

To hell with it. This time he wasn't going to go through all that hurtful crap again. He piled all of Kirsten's photos up in the fireplace and lit the match. It only took a moment for them to catch fire, and it only took a moment for him to singe the hairs on his hand as he grabbed his favourite photo out of the burning heap.

He opened the drawer and took out the photo frame he'd bought at Go Lo the day before and kissed Kirsten's photo. That's when it hit him. She really was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and he wondered how he could continue his life without her. He put the frame on his bedside table and lay down and gazed at her with loving eyes until he fell asleep.

It became a daily ritual of staring at the photo frame and feeling the painful tug in his heart as he knew there was probably no hope of them ever being together. The days ran into weeks and months and drifted into two years. He'd lost contact with his friends and had left his position at the Italian restaurant; the patrons complained the lasagne was never the same. He was living on what was left of his superannuation and that was fast running out. He kissed, cried and held the photo to his face every night before bed, and slept with it on his pillow.

Finally, it was time. Now was the time to make contact. If she knew how he felt and how it was possessing his every waking moment, and bringing him to near insanity she may, possibly would, indeed must, love him, and enjoy the rest of her life with him.

It took some internet surfing to find out where he could contact her, but finally his nights at the keyboard bore fruit, and at last he had found a possible contact phone number.

He picked up the phone and dialled. A woman's voice answered. It wasn't her, but he spilt out his tale of passion and devotion. Would this woman please see if she would talk to him – arrange a date – or just a meeting for coffee? He just had to meet her and it was a matter of life and death if he couldn't. Please talk to her ... please ... PLEASE ...

Her answer shattered him, and as his obsession had taken him to the bottomless depths of depression, the answer sent him over the edge of hopelessness into madness, and he threw down the phone and jumped from his seven storey window to the concrete below. His traumatised brain broke out of his splintered skull, as fragments swam in the rivulets of blood that danced down the driveway towards the gutter.

The woman on the end of the phone line wasn't sure if he'd heard her answer – so she repeated it.

'I'm sorry, Sir. But our company just makes the photo frames. A contract photographer chooses the model for the photo frame headshot. I think he's in Beijing. In any case, we couldn't possibly let you make contact with her ... Sir? ... Are you still there?'
Thursday 4 July 2013

### Ode To My Canary

Irina Dimitric

Mosman, NSW

Although you're still here

My little golden friend

I'm already grieving

Nine years you've been singing...

Cheerful tweets and trills

To my soul are clinging

How much time is there left?

Perhaps another year or two

Before eerie silence

Engulfs the empty space

Where once you reigned

Trilling your ancient lore

Then one day

Dead silence

For ever more

How lucky you are not to be aware

The end is coming

These days you're only tired

Very quiet

No energy to spare

But for old feathers to shed

And grow fresh ones

I must keep you well fed

Not a peep

Not even a faint 'Good morning'

While you're busy creating

Your new attire

I know when you're done

Once again you will sing

With regained fire

All day long

Your crystal clear song

A song of joy

A song of life

A song of hope

Each year reborn

Until the day

Uneasy peace rings forlorn

In my heart's core

Dead silence

For ever more
Friday 5 July 2013

### On the 5½ Floor

Fayroze Lutta

Randwick, NSW

Cara Andréa,

On the front of your postcard there is a very stern looking formally dressed policeman. The photo was taken in 1929, the year of the stock market crash. The policeman stands guard to a broken street lamp, I guess lights out! I saw the same thing in Morocco last year except with a post box. Paris these days seems to resemble Morocco more and more.

Here in Paris, on my street, Rue Marcadet, opposite the Préfecture de Police, I have seen the burnt out remains of cars. Further away on Rue Clignancourt, which is the very limit of Montmartre, opposite La Commiserate de Police I saw the brazened carcases of motorcycles. The people held responsible call themselves Les Révolutionnaires, quite a handsome title. They dream of anarchy and the destruction of this old Republique.

I recall what Sébastien from the Brasserie La Triomphe told me, after I had flown into a rage about the despicable and loathsome nature of policemen. He calmly stated that without the police there would be no law and order and without order there is chaos and with chaos there would be no Republique! 'Alors Vive La Republique' is the catch cry of the French politician to this day.

The apartment I am staying in is very comfortable except for the shower which has a large window that isn't frosted. I am high up here on the sixth floor and the first time I took a shower I found it shocking. However, I now have l'habitude that half of Paris will see my naked breasts each and every morning as I take my ablution.

There is a lift that starts on floor 0½ and I get off the lift on the 5½ floor that opens on the stairwell – like living life in a John Malkovich film. I watched a film of his, Thé au Sahara of course being here in Paris with the French doublage. The film, set in the French colonialist period in Morocco, was easily recreated as nothing much has changed there since that period.

Here in Paris things have changed and it is starting to feel more like Morocco. Some streets still look ravishing, like they are still dipped in gold, demonstrations of 'la gloire de l'empire' and they shout, 'Viva La République! Viva La France!' However now is the époque of austerity when cities, when societies, become too complex with the self perpetuating greed only offering extreme lifestyles of rich and poor. It is the end, the sounding out of the death knell of the middle class. I think of our hometown of Sydney; each city has its own problems and there is still the looming volcanic bubble with all its paper millionaires waiting dormant, ready to explode like Pompeii. I know you cannot wait for the day of reckoning to come – when there are rows of office buildings and shop fronts vacant, a ghost town. I recall you saying that it would be spectacular.

The cost of living here in Paris has increased. However, the minimum wage has not increased with it in a decade, so people spend less, so businesses close, so people lose their jobs, so it continues, so it turns, and so it goes round 'n round.

Il n'y a rien dans la caisse ici! The coffers are empty. La Misère is pulsating in the streets. I become quite nervous sometimes, especially carrying my old 1920s black leather vintage swing clutch which I cling to like an old lady, with both hands around the strap. There is a nervous energy, an ambiance dans la rue. I sense it is the dark days of Les Misérables once again.

I fear that people are getting desperate and may do something they themselves never thought they were capable of before. Everyone is hustling trying to make a dollar out of 50 centimes.

I see images that remind me of the Great Depression, the 'Hoovervilles' of New York and so I think of today and tomorrow. Paris' wedding cake façades crumbling with its sour rotting innards holds me for these few weeks I am here, maybe more.

In front of the Metro Barbes-Rochechoart men had laid down white sheets trying to sell piles of old clothes in the rain. I guess the rich just stay cocooned in the other life which is St Germaine. Or the assured escape hatch of the well-to-do. Europe and here in France they play out the end of empires. It does not feel like chaos, more like the halls of Château Rouge – Barbes are all around.

You told me once the leader, the once great Chairman Mao, once said, 'There is great chaos under heaven – the situation is excellent'. I wonder how to lead a life of freedom, not to just think of it or dream, but to live it all out, not just the limits this society imposes.

I want to lead a life of my choosing, not to have a mortgage and be imprisoned by debt, a slave to the office, chained to my desk for the next few decades. Cut down in the prime of my adult life, left to turn into the hunchback of town planning as my individual liberty is circumscribed by debt. I want to lead a more fulfilling life. I do not want to work to feed the bottomless pit of cravings attending to our society's circumscribed edict of counterfeit desires.

Has the time of la vie de bohème passed? I still search for it. I try to live it out here however it is the life of the bourgeoise bohémien (bobos) now. Oh how I detest those Parisien bobos! Has Paris just become a carnival of attractions of the past of la vie de bohème. I still hope it is not all truly over, hoping for the heyday to return, reminiscing about an époque I never lived through, now long gone.

Oh dear me,

Fayroze
Saturday 6 July 2013

### Red And Cream

Whitney McIntosh

Wheelers Hill, VIC

Placing the phone slowly down onto its receiver, the silence of the house hummed in her ears. The news had sent her spiralling into momentary paralysis, dazed inaction. It was only the delayed metallic click of the phone that set her into a panicked flurry. Scampering over piles of half-filled boxes in the hallway, she fled into her bedroom. She soon disappeared into an inferno of shirts and skirts and leggings as she rummaged for something clean to wear. The clothes billowed open in the air for an instant, before falling down into crumpled piles.

Her room was a musty mixture of pinks and greys, a lazy assortment of tacked up artwork and piles of old jumpers. The occasional tail or ear of a stuffed toy poked out from here or there, like tiny plush moles pushing their noses out to the sun. Drawers lay open and picture frames askew in a loose, yet not untidy way, as if every job had been contemplated but not taken to completion. Her alarm clock dazedly flashed 3:00 pm, reminiscent of the power shortage of the morning and repeatedly alerting her that the time was anything but that.

Finally, with a single leap she flew through the front sunflower wall-papered corridor, out the front door and over and off her front porch; while the screen door indolently clinked to a close. She ran through the soft wet grass to her car, which soon started with a rusty murmur.

The day was clear and cold, the sky an empty blue. Her ancient neighbour peered over the fence, curious about the commotion, but within seconds her yellow Cadillac was speeding out through the wide suburban roads of the neighbourhood.

The drive barely registered with her. All that she saw was the uneasy transition from the cool blues of the sky outside to the brick walls of the school. Within moments she was walking up the corridors of St Justin's Elementary School. Yellow school bags lined the corridors, which were further decorated with student artwork and posters of arbitrary phrases such as 'Work Together!' and 'Perseverance = Success!' As she finally reached the carpeted section leading to the reception area, the principal of the school sauntered out of her office, her hawklike shoulders hunched over a clipboard. She smiled waspishly, pronouncing procedural pleasantries which were bland and empty, yet keenly observed.

Allison gasped softly for breath, straightening her cream scarf against her chest with her fingertips. The principal turned abruptly, striding down the corridor, and Allison sprung forward to catch up with her.

'He's just down this corridor, if you'll follow me.' The principal's sharp voice rang through the hallway, bursting through Allison's blurred consciousness.

'Yes, thank you...'

'As I said on the phone, I think it would be best if he spent the rest of afternoon at home, to calm down. If he still needs time tomorrow to do so, it would be apt if he took another rest day,' the principal continued, walking ahead, without turning to see if Allison was within earshot.

'Yes, yes, of course...'

'And can you please talk to him about some correct classroom behaviour. It is a pity that he does not qualify for government aid for his autism, as the teachers do not have the time to manage his social behaviours themselves.' Her voice dripped with icy disdain. Allison gritted her teeth and gripped her scarf.

'Of course.'

As they reached the classroom the principal moved aside with a simpering smile, and then stalked back to her office. William was sitting by himself in a corner, moving a wooden train set slowly around haphazardly lain out tracks. Some were connected; others fitted like smashed together puzzle pieces, for which he bridged with his fingers as the train ran across them. His wispy brown hair fell about untidily, obscuring his dark green eyes which were already hidden behind thick black frames.

'Will?' He turned quickly and stood up, while she moved forward to hug him. Allison calmingly ran her fingers through his hair as he fidgeted with the drawstrings of her hooded jacket. She murmured into his ears soft reassurances, while following the train tracks on the ground with her eyes. They walked slowly out of a side exit of the building together, avoiding the imminent commotion of the school corridors.

The car ride home had a ghostly, eerie quiet that was cold and unsparing, and yet not wholly unfamiliar. Allison felt as if the quiet seeped into her very skin, producing the crinkles around her eyes and wrinkling her insides. Will looked blankly out of his window, his elbow resting on the car door.

'Will, what would you like to do when we get home?' His murmured reply, she did not hear, and neither again when she asked for him to repeat it.

'Will, any ideas for snacks? I could bake some cookies if that would cheer you up?'

'I've got some new movies from the video shop too, Will.'

'Will...?'

At home, William returned to his playroom while Allison hovered silently at his door, watching him race his toy cars and pull out his box of toy dinosaurs. She slowly moved backwards out of the doorway, slipping into the shadows of the hallway and past the jungle of cardboard boxes.

Outside on the front porch the air was biting, sliding its icy fingers down her back and over any of her exposed skin: her wrists, her midriff, her ankles. Raising her hands to her lips she bit down hard on her nails, her maroon nail polish slightly cracking at their tips as she ripped and pulled at them, sharpening them into jagged sandpaper teeth. She imagined that a more romantic version of herself would be casually smoking a cigarette, watching rain fall onto their untidy weed-strewn lawns. The smoke of her cigarette would rise, swirling into the cold air like ink in water; up, up and away.

Her ubiquitous neighbour was gone, most likely to rest her weary feet on a warm radiator after a morning of gardening. The street lay empty, bar a black and white cat who strolled languidly down the sidewalk.

Precipitously Allison heard a loud crash from inside. A hundred images flew through her mind. Broken vases, splayed books on floors, scratched pots and pans, her jewellery smashed and twisted. Lab coats, plastic doctor's waiting room chairs and the glaring eyes of hundreds of faceless strangers pointing their fingers towards her. Without another thought, she stepped off the porch, moved steadily over to her Cadillac, and started the engine. She moved mechanically, forcefully brazen against any pervasive lingering guilt or regret. Within seconds she was out on the road, heading for the highway. Her eyes glazed over in a silent frustration, a determined, dispassionate stare. Her knuckles turned white as they gripped the steering wheel at 10 and 2.

It took 15 minutes to get to the Fort Knox Dumpster. Stretching out into the distance was an elaborate and hazardous maze of cast-off coaches, cupboards, broken tables, broken chairs, desks, televisions, industrial containers, and large items that couldn't be disposed of in any normal fashion. The misfits of the standardised waste paper basket, the office sized desk bin. The Dumpster seemed to continue on forever, a land of once-loved furniture, a sweeping forest of deciduous table leg shaped trees, shrouded with mouldy faded couch fabrics and the jagged glass of shattered television screens.

Near the fence was a small guard hut with peeling brown paint, yet the guards only ever stayed until 6 o'clock. She smiled ironically. 'There were things you learnt with an autistic child.' The windows of the hut only seemed to look out onto the junkyard silently with sad, knowing eyes.

With a sense of deliberation and procedure, she turned off the ignition, and went around to the boot of her car. Underneath the carpeted interior, from the grey depths of the boot, she pulled out a long shiny and incredibly scratched baseball bat. She walked out of the vacant parking lot to the wire fence which surrounded the junkyard, pulling up its sharp metal roots without hesitation, stooping underneath its jagged ends.

She walked passively through the abounding junk for a few metres, baseball bat in hand, before coming to a halt. An indescribable mixture of sadness, frustration and pure pain flashed through her eyes. Lifting the bat up into the air, she brought it heavily down on the face of a television screen, which burst into the air in a cascade of falling diamonds. As she swung the bat around again, she hit a deteriorating wooden chair which flew until a thousand splinters as metal hit rusted wood. Again and again the rough and deteriorating junk of the Dumpster smashed into smaller pieces, beaten into sand and dust and thread with the full force of her frustration. All the broken things, broken no more. The whole time, not a sound burst from her lips, although beads of sweat formed on her hairline and her limbs began to ache with the action.

As she swung again, this time at a large television set, the baseball bat slipped from her grasp and spun into the air, landing metres away. With silent, urgent frustration, she drew a fist and punched through the glass with her hand. The glass screeched and shattered all around her fist, now enclosed in the black plastic outer shell of the TV. She slowly pulled her hand out to reveal jagged mountains of glass on her fingers and palm, surrounded by small streams of blood which trickled down her wrist. She further realised her left hand was gripping the serrated side of the television, and she slowly let go of the glass, which ripped at her soft skin as she removed it.

She let her hands drop, her arms hanging limply by her sides, looking out onto the cardboard and plastic sea. Finally, she felt small again. She fell back onto a threadbare couch turned on its side, dust puffing out of the seams. The moth eaten cushions gave comfort to all her bruises, while the cool air soothed her burning face and arms. After a few minutes, her mobile phone rang in her front pocket. She hesitated, staring at the caller ID, before inevitably pressing 'answer'.

'Hey Ally! Guess what?! I found those toddler locks that we've been looking for, for ages! I looked up the store Andy and Jessie recommended during my lunch break, and thought I would go by the store on the way home. We're so lucky; it was their last set before their next order comes in December. Phew. And next door was a candy shop called Michael's which was selling sugared almonds cheap, for a dollar a bag, which seemed a good deal! So I bought a few. Sugared almonds are your favourite, aren't they Al?'

Tears swum in her eyes, but she choked back a few sobs, muffling those that did treacherously escape by pressing her scarf to her mouth. She was teetering on the brink of hysteria that only Peter's soft excited tones were holding her back from.

'Ally? Are you there?... and hey, where are you right now?'

'I'll be home in 15, okay?' she gasped. Peter hesitated for a moment, before accepting her answer and carrying on. Here was something unconditional that they both knew and understood.

'Alright, I'll get the dinner going and crack open these toddler locks!' The phone died with its electronic call tone, and she absently pushed it into her front jeans pocket although it was marked with blood.

For a moment she looked out onto the anarchic configurations of the Dumpster, set against the orange sinking sun. She wove her cashmere scarf flat and tight around her palms, her left from one end and her right from the other, so that her hands were handcuffed. In this warm cashmere linkage red flowers blossomed in the thick cream blend.

It was a moderate form of acrobatics to make her way out past the wooden and metal monsters of the Dumpster, but within a few minutes she was safely on level ground once more. The gravel crunched under her boots as she walked sedately back to her car. She stopped for a moment at her car door to breathe in the cool air, closing her eyes. With a final golden gasp, the sun sunk below the horizon behind her, the last rays of sunlight dancing around her shoulders in a melancholy, yet tender embrace.
Sunday 7 July 2013

### The Future Is Female – The Xing Saga part 3

Jane Russell

Mount Barker, SA

SnoopyLoo was born on Xing in the second millennium of the imperial age of Po. Her progenitors were both male, so it came as a surprise to everyone when she came along, a female being a rare occurrence. She was, in fact, one of a mere handful of genetically engineered metalbots who were born female. And, as they all were produced in the same birth centre, a technical fault was suspected, but had yet to be identified.

One would expect that Snoopy could have her pick of the myriad hoard of male bots, but no. Strangely, they shunned her. To them, maleness was the norm and she was a freak. So, she spent her early life disguising her difference, trying to fit in, to be liked. She was not a happy bot. Then, one day she met another female and finally made a friend.

'Hi there, I'm Curly,' chirped the new robot, her oildrop-shaped eyes sparkling as she extended her forefinger in greeting.

'I'm Snoopy, pleased to meet you.' As they touched fingers a spark of static zapped between them, surprising and delighting them both.

'You and me, gal, we're special,' affirmed Curly with a smile, if not on her immobile metal face, at least in her voice.

'You think?'

'Hell yeah! Male bots are so last year! We're the future, baby. We girls gotta stick together!'

Snoopy and Curly did everything together. The males were puzzled at first, but then began to view them differently. Suddenly Snoopy was in demand. She was popular. It seemed like a dream come true. But, like all dreams, it could not last. A couple of new females moved into the area and the males pursued them instead. Snoopy was forgotten once more. She still had Curly, but she was never Curly's one and only friend. She didn't have Curly's gregarious nature, and she envied her ease at making friends.

Jealous and afraid of losing her, Snoopy initiated a huge and destructive argument, and thus lost her only friend after all.

When the call came for volunteers to form an advance guard for a proposed planetary invasion, Snoopy joined up. What else was there for her to do? Better to die for her people than to live her life in lonely misery. It came as quite a surprise to her that Curly joined up too. They approached each other warily.

'Look, I'm really sorry for what I said,' Snoopy began, but Curly cut her short.

'No, it was my fault, Snoop, I was jealous of you.'

Snoopy couldn't believe her sound receptors! Curly jealous of her, how could that be? 'But, but ...' she stammered, 'you were the one with all the friends. What were you jealous of?'

'Oh, sweetie! Haven't you ever looked in a reflective surface? You're drop dead gorgeous, Snoop! How could I ever compete with that?'

Snoopy's mouthpart hung open in amazement. 'Oh Curly, you were always my one and only friend. I never wanted anyone else!'

If robots could have cried (without the very real danger of seizing up their joints from the moisture) they would have. Instead, they hugged each other and it seemed that all was forgiven.

Sadly for them, though, they were now part of an attack force hurtling through space on a deadly mission from which few, if any, would return. As they approached the planet in question, they looked out and admired its pretty blue with white swirls.

'Ahhh!' came a group sigh.

The spaceship landed and was hidden before the group set off. The commandbot gruffly ordered them to separate into three groups. Alpha group headed towards a towering apartment block, with its own beach and sea floating impossibly on the 20th floor. Snoopy didn't envy them the climb. Beta group marched on a nearby town which had a lot of pointy spires and Gamma group, with Snoopy and Curly, were directed at a rural settlement. Their orders were clear: capture, interrogate, and intimidate the local life forms, in order to build a picture of their powers of resistance.

Snoopy and Curly weren't too sure how to go about the intimidation bit, but there were plenty of pushy male bots they could copy. They stood back and observed as a bot marched up to a four-legged life form and demanded its surrender.

'Moooo,' it replied. Other bots were getting similarly unhelpful responses from the other beings in the field, until one of these, larger than the others and with a sack dangling between its legs, bellowed defiance and charged. The nearest bot was knocked flying into a tree; the rest beat a hasty retreat. They noticed smaller, woolly beings in the next field and tried their luck with them.

'Baaaaa!'

Then a mighty bang sounded, and a two-legged being marched up to them holding a smoking metal stick.

'Oi! Watcha think you're doin' in my paddock!' he shouted.

At last! A being that made sense! They were so pleased to see him that they almost forgot their mission.

But, before the lead-bot could declare that they were an advance force from the planet Xing, etc., there was another bang and he flew backwards, several limbs falling off as he smashed into the ground. The bots looked from him to the being's metal stick. The group was now without a leader.

Without thinking, Snoopy stepped forward.

'Please, no violence. We mean you no harm!' realising as she spoke that this was now true. 'My name is SnoopyLoo, what are you called?' She was gambling on diffusing the situation by getting on first name terms.

'Well, bugger me dead!' exclaimed the being. 'A sexy robot! Whatever next?' Snoopy would have blushed, but as her normal colour was bright scarlet, there wouldn't have been much point. 'I'm Bruce. This is my farm. What are you doing here?'

Snoopy had to think quickly. 'We're lost! We're just a group of simple metalbots from the planet Xing, and we crash-landed on your planet. What's it called, by the way?' Luckily for her, the rest of the group was happy to follow her lead.

'You're from another planet? Get outta here! Really? This is planet Earth.'

The farmer invited the invading force into his home and offered refreshment, after he apologised for shooting their leader, and had helped retrieve the other, battered bot from the tree. He was obviously very chuffed to have robots from space in his living room. While he went to boil the kettle, Snoopy addressed the troops.

'Look bots, we daren't get on the wrong side of this Bruce. He's dangerous. Let's just try to learn as much as we can about him and his weapon, and leave it at that.' They hummed and harred but agreed to do as she advised.

Bruce came back in and banged a pot of tea down on the table. Hot drops splashed into Curly's face and she screamed. The farmer was very apologetic, but the damage was done. Curly's facial surface blistered, she couldn't move her head and she could barely speak. Thinking quickly, Snoopy asked for oil or grease, and Bruce brought out some WD-40. He sprayed it over Curly's face and it began to work almost at once. This was their first experience of the planet-wide dangers of water. They declined the tea, and enlisted Bruce's help to get them all back to their spaceship without getting wet on the way. He was delighted to help.

Later, he was to say on the local news: 'Lovely bunch of aliens, they were! So polite. Fancy choosing my farm, eh? I was on first name terms with the leader: lovely girl called SnoopyLoo. I expect they've buggered off home now. What a pity about their water intolerance – otherwise they could have stayed longer!'

He was encouraged to lead the authorities to where the spaceship had been, but it was long gone. Most of Alpha and Beta groups were destroyed due to thunderstorms and other watery events. Any stray survivors were abandoned and forgotten, as was the doomed invasion attempt of Earth.

Meanwhile, Snoopy and Curly and the remains of Gamma group were hurtling back home to Xing, carrying several cans of WD-40 and getting their story straight for their own leaders. They would report on how they and their fellow bots faced deadly danger and braved overwhelming odds, winning through by mind power over brute power. Only their group survived, because they had a female leader. They were Xing heroines! Which subsequently led to a huge increase in the demand for female bots by the army!

Back on Earth, Snoopy would be amazed to know a sketch of her, coloured in red crayon, was in pride of place on Bruce's living room wall: a talking piece for years to come. A being from another world that would never forget her.
Monday 8 July 2013

### Old People Luddites

Mark Fowler

Magill, ACT

I was on the bus

Nothing on my mind,

Watched girl in front

As she tried to find

A song on iTunes

On her mobile phone,

Her fingers dancing ...

Pink, no, yes ... the Stones.

Send friend message, click

'C U A D N' – wow !

Text most important.

'see you any day now'

Tapped out number,

Made call very quick.

'Know you're seein' her;

Ya think that I'm thick?'

Fingers swished madly

Back across the screen.

Him-her photos, click,

Memories wiped clean.

Took a few selfies

Smile, pout, tear in eye

Posted on Facebook

'I hope Jason dies!'

Used ten more functions,

Then her stop came up,

Turned, and she faced me

'Hey!' says I, 'wassup?'

'You've been pervin'

since gettin' on the bus.'

'Just interested

miss, no need to fuss?'

'Listen perve, get your

own technology.

Don't watch others

To get your jollies.

Old people Luddites

Pretend you're all thick,

Getting left behind

If you don't learn quick.'

Old people Luddites.

Maybe she was right.

Googled that one on

My iPad that night.

### Monday 8 July 2013 4 pm

Call Me

Jordan Black

Cloncurry, QLD

what is touch?

a sensory nerve or feeling

touch and connect to your phone

more often than any other

feel and be felt

what did you feel on touch?

a connection or no service?

our feelings toward each other are touching

although we haven't met in person

our phones have connected

and we felt touched.
Tuesday 9 July 2013

### The Meeting

Ann Pigott

Mt Wilson, NSW

What was it then

That meeting on the beach

When I fell into your eyes

I heard the lapping

Of the water on the sand

Heard a distant roar

But the roar was in

Me, overwhelming. It rose

Up and covered me

I was tongue tied as

You came to me, my addled

Brain bereft of words

Oh the feel of your

Hand as you bent over me

The feel of your skin

I prayed that a bird

An ancient bird could pluck us

Take us from this place

The land fell away

The sea sucked into a void

When I fell into your eyes

Tuesday 9 July 2013 4 pm

### Heat

Jordan Black

Cloncurry, QLD

Eyes locked together not touching yet

Warm look beautiful smile lips wet

Fingers running gently over each other

Caressing caring holding your lover

The bridge the connection touching

Hearts beat in unison minds rushing

Sleep now rest two hearts slow beat

Your love mine your body your heat.

Wednesday 10 July 2013

### Within

Emma-Lee Scott

Callaghan, NSW

Today it is wearing thin,

With shades of green and grey,

Not quite sure of what to say,

Not quite ready to begin.

Today it has begun to darken,

Black yet blacker still,

Drinking deep for its fill,

It starts to harden.

Today it is inside raging loud,

Outside, all so much quieter,

Just a blatant reminder,

That it will continue to resound.

Today it has cracked,

Itching the brittle shell,

Yet no one can tell,

The body has been attacked.

Today it remains the unseen,

Others yet to see the ugly head,

Of burnt truth unwed,

And face unclean.

Today it is wearing thin,

Bulging close to the edge of broken,

Not ready to be spoken,

Not quite ready to meet the skin.

Today it won't be shared,

With shades of fear and fade,

Words will be delayed,

And nothing will be bared.

Today it is the secret,

Blunt and heavy laden,

No words will be bidden,

Today is the retreat.
Thursday 11 July 2013

### Gutted

Bob Edgar

Wentworth Falls, NSW

'I sentence you to twenty five years hard labour, and may you live to forgive yourself for your crime against humanity.'

Shackled and shamed, I am forced from the court to the cells below.

My mother's tears cut deep.

I am alone, I deserve no more.

Life continues, I am no longer a part of it.

In the dead of night uniformed men feed me into the transport.

I arrive at my new cage, I deserve no more.

I endure the scorn, I absorb the hate.

Surely I am worthy of more.

I have turned all the stones, and I am beneath none of them.
Friday 12 July 2013

### Absent Friend

JH Mancy

Tallebudgera, QLD

For E.D.

As a cicada sheds its shell,

Yet in reverse it's true –

Your body still craves nurture,

But dear friend, where are you?

Somewhere in time, that happy past,

Those years before your husband died?

You exist on a different plane –

And for years your children have cried.

They grieve the living, not the dead.

It's a weight upon their hearts.

They look sadly to a time when

You may so peacefully depart.

Your son wept when asked of you,

In my heart I could feel his pain.

His face a mask of inner grief –

I was embarrassed, I feel shamed.

So now my friend, I'll tiptoe out,

Leave you your elusive dream.

Confusion written on your face –

It's as though you have not been.

Saturday 13 July 2013 4 pm

### My Friend, The Shower

Ariette Singer

Canberra, ACT

I greatly admire the ancient practical person,

Responsible for the most wonderful invention

Which evolved as a clever cleansing version,

With variable temperature of liquid dispersion!

And I sing daily high praises to my lovely shower –

Which pleasures me unfailingly at any hour!

In truth, I am not at all ashamed to openly say –

It is absolutely my 'main attraction' of the day!

In this, tiny tiled territory of steamy delight,

Most of my creative thoughts have taken flight!

For it is great for the stand-up, steamy meditation,

And often, its soothing flow induces inspiration!

So I'm hugely grateful to this warm aquatic pleasure –

For it is my endorphins and creative juices producer,

Mind and body relaxer, and most reliable sleep-inducer.

And if I were time-rich – I'd devote to it all of my leisure!

When embraced by steam, caressed by warm flow,

The steady soft sound de-stresses me about my woes.

In shower, strangely, I see myself more clearly ...

Mysteriously, it seems to bring out the best in me!

My lovely shower, next to myself, is my best friend!

My Good Mood Generator that keeps me content.

And if I were to choose whether to expire in my bed –

Here, in my sweet shower, I'd rather meet my life's end!
Sunday 14 July 2013

### Birds Of A Feather

Marilyn Linn

Darlington, SA

Beryl waved the remote control vaguely at her roller door. She stared as it lifted up to allow her black Mazda RX7 to enter before it closed. Sometimes she feared she would close it too soon and dent her beautiful car. She liked to imagine herself sleek and slender like her car. Her car and her cat. They were the things she loved.

She sat in a trance for several minutes after the door had clunked to a close, trying to let go of the events of the day. Her ginger cat jumped on the car bonnet to catch her attention, before sauntering over to the back door to wait for her as it did every day. She roused herself from her reverie.

'Okay Moggy. I'm coming inside now.'

She hauled her overweight body slowly out of the low-slung car, collected her thoughts, her handbag, and a large, shopping bag full of school work to be sorted after dinner.

She felt exhausted. It was only the second week of term. This year's group of Year Nine students was hard to motivate. They seemed disinterested in anything except trying to irritate her.

Tossing the bag of books and papers on the lounge, she closed the blinds to block out the world, and mixed herself a double scotch and soda. After gulping down a mouthful, the tension eased.

'Moggy. Moggy. Where are you, you useless thing? Do you want your dinner or have you been eating next-door's budgies again?'

Moggy was unpopular with Keith, the next-door neighbour. By his aviary was her favourite place. She sat for hours looking at the pretty little birds flitting around. A few weeks before, Keith had left the cage door slightly ajar while he went to get fresh water for his birds. Moggy had just enough time to catch a yellow and green budgie and streak home. Delighted with her catch, the cat took her prize home to Beryl. Beryl failed to appreciate the gift and disposed of it as quickly as possible. Now, as she began to prepare the cat's dinner, she heard Keith erupting through the side gate.

'If your damn ginger feline comes into my yard again, I'm going to shoot the blasted thing. Keep it inside. I won't tell you again. Six of my birds it's killed this summer. Six.' He thumped on her back door. 'Do you hear me? I know you're in there. Keep your cat home or else.'

Beryl ignored Keith's ranting. She peeled the lid from a tub of gourmet cat food, placing the food neatly in Moggy's little china dish. 'Right. You're fixed. Now, I'll just have one more little drink before I get my dinner.' She shoved the bag of school work off the chair and put her tired legs up for a rest. I should consider retirement, she mused.

Finished eating, Moggy demanded to be let out again.

Beryl grudgingly hauled herself off the lounge chair to let the cat out. 'Keep away from the birds or we'll be in trouble again Mog,' she warned her pet, chuckling under her breath. It wasn't that she disliked all birds, it was those birds she had grown to dislike. Beryl settled down with another drink, her third. 'I'll do the school stuff tomorrow morning,' she muttered. She relaxed and drifted into a dozy sleep.

Wafting ideas flitted through her semi-consciousness, Beryl thought she heard birds singing. The singing changed to wild screeching and Beryl forced herself to wake up.

'Where's that damn cat? I hope she isn't at Keith's birds again.' Beryl tried unsuccessfully to block the sounds from her ears.

Above the noise of the birds, she heard Keith yelling. 'I've got you now, you bastard.' The noises stopped. The sudden silence was worse than the birds' screeching. Frowning, she wondered why the din had ceased. She did not have long to wait for an answer.

Beryl cringed. The tone of Keith's voice conveyed he was angry, very angry.

'Beryl. Beryl. Get yourself here this minute, madam, if you want to see your cat alive again. I've had a gutful of this animal.'

Beryl dragged herself to her feet, unsteady after three drinks, and went to the window to see where Keith was. He was heading her way, arms flailing, strands of wispy grey hair standing on end. Beryl giggled at the sight.

'Get your big back-side here. NOW.'

Beryl made an effort to calmly meet the angry man on the garden path. 'Settle down, Keith. Tell me what the problem is. Stop yelling.' Breathing deeply, she approached Keith.

'You know what my problem is. It's your plurry cat. I've got it now. It's in a sugar bag. If you want it, come and get it.'

'What did you do to my cat? Have you killed her? I'll get a lawyer onto you, you rotten old toad.'

'It's not dead yet but you better come and get it before it is.'

Keith headed back to his house with an irate Beryl huffing along hot on his heels.

As they approached the aviary, Beryl noticed the door was open. The birds were gone. On the gritty floor lay a sugar bag closed at the top with a black plastic tie. It was not moving. She blinked rapidly to stop the flow of threatening tears, her heart beating frantically.

'I don't need this aggravation, you stupid old man.'

'And I don't need you or your flea-ridden cat.'

'Where are your birds?' she asked, almost afraid of the answer.

The smell of feathers and bird seed made her nauseous. She stooped to enter the cage, vaguely registering the presence of Keith close behind her. The door slammed shut with a frightening clang. Alarmed, she turned to look behind her. The hair on her neck prickled as she realised her predicament. Locked in.

'Hey! What the hell are you doing?'

'Have fun with your cat. I'll be back in a few days.'

Keith chuckled as he walked away.
Monday 15 July 2013

### Surprise

Paul Humphreys

Oxley, ACT

Bob pushed the pedal down and the car leaped forward pushing Mary and him into the wonderful leather seats of their new car. Their first brand new car; a white Bimmer. All previous cars had been second hand or pass me-ons.

'Won't the mob get a surprise when we turn up in this?' he beamed, looking ahead as the trees flipped past on either side.

'Yes dear,' Mary said quietly but wilfully indicating in her reply a position of indifference to his delight and the extravagant expense of their new car. He really is an indulgent slob she thought to herself. After forty years of marriage the differences in their tastes and temperaments were bordering on traumatic for Mary.

Mary pulled her blue cardy across her diminutive frame, adjusted her broad rim glasses and in those simple gestures grabbed some security in her little act of mental defiance and protest. Bob, all 110 kilos of him, was, as always, oblivious to her tone and disposition, the seat belt around his girth straining as they sped through the corners.

They were to meet up with the some friends at Bullen's Animal World for a barbecue lunch. Some of the group they had not seen for years.

As they glided into the entrance of the animal world, Bob steered the car carefully to avoid all the differently sized piles of animal crap.

'Can't have shit on the new baked enamel paint, can we?' His whole belly shook as he laughed at his own comment

'No, of course not dear'. I would not care if it was buried in crap she thought to herself.

It was a simple, no-nonsense barbecue.

Bob was delighted with the response of their friends to the new car and oblivious to the side comments of envy and ridicule.

Mary quickly tired of the gathering as they were mostly Bob's friends, and the women were just as disenchanted with the company as she was. She left the group and went and sat in the driver's seat of the new car. She amused herself pushing buttons on the control panel. She was particularly taken with the electric windows and, as it was hot, she put all the windows down.

She was surprised when an elephant's trunk came through the open window behind her in pursuit of some nibbles from the hamper on the back seat. Her response was immediate: she closed the window. The trunk was caught. The elephant got a big surprise. The elephant's response was spontaneous: a loud roar and a violent kick at the side of the Bimmer. She quickly put down the window but not before the elephant had another kick and then deposited a large load of crap on the boot of the car.

'Oh my God Bob will be beside himself!' Mary started to cry as she anticipated the rage and anger of Bob.

She was surprised that he remained calm and was understanding of the situation. He was upset, but philosophical, about the whole affair. Mary put this atypical response down to the number of beers he had had and also that all the 'friends' were around commiserating with him on the results of the elephant incident.

The gathering broke up with half hearted comments of 'It was good to see ya', 'We must do this more often', 'Jeez you've changed, didn't recognise you at first' and other meaningless clichés of departure.

Bob was quiet as they drove back along the road to the main highway. They came over a slight rise in the road and directly ahead a car accident had just happened. Bob drove off the road to the verge, eased himself out of the Bimmer and hurried across to see if he could give some assistance.

It was not long before the police, ambulance and fire brigade had arrived. Bob was busying himself around the crashed vehicle. No one was seriously hurt. Bob was explaining to the senior police officer how they had just come over the hill and that they were the first on the scene.

'Where is your car, sir?' grunted the officer.

'Over there. Brand new, would you believe?'

The officer walked over toward the BMW with Bob immediately behind.

The officer said to Bob in an inquisitive and suspicious tone, 'And how did this happen?' He indicated the large dent in the rear door of the BMW.

'Oh, an elephant did that!' The policeman did not see the humour, if it was intended, in Bob's response, so he decided to breathalyse Bob and, as he was over the limit, booked him.

Mary had a mental moment of mirth.
Tuesday 16 July 2013

### Forever And Always

Jessica Soul

Avondale Heights, VIC

Close to my heart

It's where you are

Right next to me

Is where my love is kept

In a box marked

Scribed with your name

To remind me

Of you each and every day

With the slightest peek

Inside I see

All the love I have for you

And all the love you have for me

That's all I need

To have me truly see

The love we share

It's as clear as day

So light me up

With our love

And I'll carry it with me

Forever and always.
Tuesday 16 July 2013 4 pm

### Nature's Wonder

Alexander Gardiner

Bullaburra, NSW

The maple is a wondrous tree,

Naked in winter for us to see.

Soft shades of green in early spring,

The promise of its colour soon to bring.

Summer colour in many shades,

With us till autumn until they fade.

Pinks, yellows, orange to burning red,

Until they fall before going to bed.

Winter is sleeping time for maple trees,

Leaves in winter you will never see.

Its many branches form beautiful shapes,

Weeping, spreading, arching, many forms it takes.

Snow lying gently on branches like a soft white quilt,

Sometimes heavy to make them tilt.

Thawing to create twinkling stars in a warming sun.

Then disappearing when the winter's done.

Yes surely a tree to warm our hearts when seen,

Whether it's autumn's red or spring's new green.

The next time you see this wondrous tree,

Take a picture please;... for all of us to see.

Wednesday 17 July 2013

### The Challenge

John Ross

Blackheath, NSW

It was a cool, windy afternoon but I decided to go for a walk anyway. I knew that the path across the headland and down to the beach would be deserted on an afternoon like this and, in my present mood, I would prefer to not meet anyone I knew. I just wanted to be alone.

I had just celebrated, and that is the wrong use of that word, my sixty-fifth birthday two weeks ago and one week later had to retire from my job where I had worked for the past thirty five years. I felt old, unwanted and useless.

Right out at the end of the headland, high above the ocean, there was a wooden bench next to the path. I had sat on this bench many times in the past, in all seasons and all weathers. It had become like an old friend to me; somewhere where I could internally discuss my problems, rejoice in my triumphs or just sit and enjoy the view. It always listened in silence, never complained or was critical.

As I approached today the bench was outlined against a leaden sky that was dressed in ragged white clouds and adorned by screeching white seagulls that soared and dipped in the wind. To my relief there was nobody there.

I sat down and gazed out over the ocean. White horses chased each other endlessly all the way to the horizon. Patches on the water were alternately rippled and flattened by gusts of wind. The air was full of the noise of the birds, the crash of the waves on the rocks below me, the sigh of the wind as it carried the salty spray over the land and the sense of the timeless battle of the ocean against the land.

I was so entranced by the view, whilst at the same time lost in the mire of my emotions, that I did not notice him until he was right in front of me. He smiled and said, 'Do you mind if I join you?' At first I was so distracted by his appearance that I did not reply. He was very old with a bushy white beard, long straggly white hair and dressed in an old fashioned crumpled woollen suit. He was bent over with both hands resting on a black cane with a large silver top. Stirring myself I motioned for him to sit.

We sat in silence for fully ten minutes before he suddenly said, 'You look like a man with a lot on his mind.' Afterwards I was never sure why these simple words opened the floodgates within me. I told this stranger things that I could not talk to my friends or even my wife about. I was terrified of the future and the creeping destruction that old age would bring to what I had been and still thought of myself as.

When I had finished he said, 'Each day think of tomorrow as a new country that you have never visited. Do not be afraid, be excited about the new things you will see and experience. It may not be familiar to you and you may not be able to do all the things you do today but do not turn your back on it because of that. Life is a series of adventures that are waiting to be explored. The day you stop and look only to the past is the day you really start to grow old. You cannot change the past but the story of tomorrow is yet to be written.'

As soon as he had finished he stood up and said he had to go. I stood next to him, shook his hand, thanked him and asked if he would give me his name. He gave me another of his shy smiles and said, 'Rupert Rudolph Rumpstead. My parents never did apologise.' With a smile that almost turned into a laugh he turned and walked off slowly down the path. I watched until he was out of sight.

I sat back down on the bench and it was few moments before I realised that now I was just enjoying the view. Ideas of what I might do during my retirement filled my head.

Just as I stood up to go my pullover caught on a rough patch on the back of the seat. As I disentangled it I realised that it was caught on the edge of an old plaque that had been painted over. I had never noticed it before. With some difficulty I read, 'This bench is dedicated to the memory of Rupert R Rumpstead. A man who lived life to the full.' It was then dated October 14, 1928.
Thursday 18 July 2013

### Picture Perfect

Ruchi Khare

Melbourne, VIC

A riot of colours, fusion of strokes

Hidden story, a subtle note

The sharp design, the merging lines

A melange of thoughts, vastness confined

It speaks out aloud, in a stillness that astounds

A million words, in a thousand ways

It's hard to express, yet it's all said

Bright, yet sombre – shades lightly dance

Its glory lies beyond a mere glance
Thursday 18 July 2013 4 pm

### Dirty Money

Armin Boko

Lake Heights, SA

Carol is a fine ol' girl

O fine ol' girl is Carol

Carol is a good ol' girl

So sing in chorus all of us

Money to burn

And more to come

Carol is a fine tipster

To cabbies and waiters

Like royalty

Carol is a fine ol' girl

We'll drink

Champaign to that

On her expense

Carol thinks

Money is sin

'cause the fortune

She inherited

Used to be

A house of ill repute

Whorehouse and

Gambling den

Both in one

Carol is a good ol' girl

If sins of the past

Can be redeemed

She is on her way

Good on Carol

When the last cent

Has been spent

I hope the Father

In Heavens

Looks after her.
Friday 19 July 2013

#

#

### Jungle Land

David J Keegan

Paddington, QLD

The lights in Jungle Land are being switched off. Not all the lights, just the white ones that illuminate the ticketing booths and the food stands, the menus, the prices. Little patches of black appearing here and there. The lights from the attractions and the rides remain. In pulsing patterns and dazzling colours they light up the atmosphere. A canopy of light that glows above the darkening underbrush. In the distance, night time is inking things darkly. The air is so still, so thin that I feel as though the lines of my body have become soft, are smudging. This is the time of day that you loved the most. I used to watch from the southern entry, the one behind the little pool we called your river, watch you tense your muscles, fluff up your fur and swish your tail. Your eyes were open wide against the fading light. This is the time of day when you would stalk your prey, the food that I tried so hard to find exciting new places to hide. We called it prey, but it was dead and safe and guaranteed. When I hid your food, sometimes I would have visions of you out beyond our fences and over the ocean. Out where you would prowl, silent despite your size, and your claws would prickle with excitement and your teeth would show and your eyes would burn through the darkness and you could hunt, really hunt.

I am sitting here on the little hill in your enclosure and the grass looks purple in this light. This is where I sat with you the day you arrived. You were a ragged thing and too thin. Your mother had died in a zoo near Adelaide and you made the trip all the way over to us by yourself in a cage. It was your ribs so clear through your pale fur that upset me the most. Your ribs reminded me of Joanne's cheek bones. The dips in your side were the gaunt falls in her face. The way you lay in my lap with no fire inside you was the way Joanne lay in the hospital bed.

My cheeks are sore from the tears and the tingling cool air—they burn and sting. So do my eyes as I rub them. Little waves of anger oscillate over me, coming at odd times, suddenly rising. I sniff my nose and shake my head, trying to clear the last image of you from my mind. Your eyes were only half closed. I could see the citrine and I am so scared that you were conscious, that your eyes were open because you were watching me.

My leg itches on the grass and I dig my finger into the rivulets of shiny skin that run down my leg. That is where you got me. I was so angry at you that morning. You weren't eating, weren't walking or moving or reacting. I looked around at the blank faces of the other keepers, like a fish had been found dead in one of the fountains. There is no other way to explain it, I saw through your body then, into your heart. I could feel its beat through the steel of the door and the glass of the windows. You were so furious inside. I threw the door open and the other keepers took a long time to react. I was in front of you, heaving the goat carcass and yelling before Sammy started into the enclosure after me. Stop, I told her. I remember someone yelling at me, telling me to get back behind the door, asking what was I doing. When I stopped in front of you, you barely acknowledged me at all. I remember the noise in your throat, it was desperate. It had only been a week since Joanne died and I saw it in your eyes like I had been seeing it in mine every morning. The questions—why bother getting up, why bother breathing? I slapped you, right in your face. I slapped you and you were on your feet in a heartbeat, baring your teeth at me, and I slapped you again. Come on, come on, I said it over and over again. Remember? I threw the carcass at you and then picked it up and threw it again. There was another keeper, Jim, I think, behind me, and he shouted something. He saw you tense. I didn't. I didn't see you moving because it was what I wanted. You sprung and knocked me flat and then there was pain in my leg and yelling. It's okay, it's okay, I shouted over and over as they dragged me out of your enclosure. God how I had to fight management after that just to keep you. I won't ever forget the blood on your cheeks and the way your tongue flicked and smoothed your whiskers and just how ferociously you tore that carcass apart.

The light has faded more now and the auras off the amusements are plunging into the sky. Stars are smiling far away from me, and with my neck craned all the way back I can see them watching. The Python Pillar is bright yellow and green over the tree line. Its top wobbles at its zenith—you notice it when you are on the ride, at the top where you pause before you get dropped and you feel like your insides are crawling into your throat. The colours of the rides blur and I can see the wet patches on the orange and cream of your neck as we sat in the early morning. I can see the shake in my hands as I tried to get you to play with your toys, to burn some energy and work up an appetite. I feel like I have stepped off the edge, like I'm at the top of the Python Pillar and I am about to free fall. I lie down, exhale, and try to feel the earth's rotation underneath me. I turn to my side and it doesn't surprise me that I can see you sitting next to me. I sit up and turn to you. You are watching the distance, the way you always did, like you could see into the space between things. I reach over and touch you.

I blink and I am in the hospital. My mouth tastes alkaline, like I haven't eaten in days and I haven't slept in days. My lips are stuck together. Joanne's mum and dad are holding her and crying over her body and there are sounds coming from their mouths. A doctor is standing in the corner of the room. He is a sketch, white coat like an angel's folded wings, long black legs like Death's. He is blurred, he only exists in halves. I can hear the metronome rhythm of the machines, the mechanical momentum, sterile, cold, in perfect time. There are more sounds but they come through water. My feet carry me as far as Joanne's bedside.

I blink again and I am back on the mound of grass. You are watching me. I can see you lying on the steel table. You have a green coat over your body. It was stained black in patches. There are clamps holding open a surgical incision in your side, there are sections of your organs on a steel tray. Kym is shaking her head and then she looks at me and I look down. In my hands are your drip and a syringe.

I am back in the hospital. The room seems faded, as though a fog has slithered through the windows. The steel railing of the bed is hard and cold and it hurts because I am pressing my knees and shins into it very hard. I am squeezing Joanne and saying things like, I'm sorry.

Now there is fur in my hand, a huge clump of your neck held tight in my fist. On the tray behind me is an empty syringe. The beeps have slowed and then they stop. No sound comes again and the room disappears.

Night is everywhere and the lights of the rides are brighter against the absolute dark. You are glowing now, no longer black and orange and brilliant cream, you are vaporous and blue. I want to tell you that it was me that did it, that I was the one that squeezed the poison into your drip and sent you away forever. I am talking out loud and you look at me like you understand, but I am wrong, you don't understand, you already know. You know that it was me, you watched me do it, watched my thumb press down and watched my eyes close. Through your transparent form I can see Joanne lying still. She looked like she was in a film, like someone had done her make-up, made her look much older, much paler and frailer and skinnier than she really was. Now it is like a movie for me. I have tried to remember being in my body but I can't, I wasn't there. I was hovering in the distance, watching my body lean over Joanne, watching it squeeze and squeeze her and beg the life to come back into her, watching my face press against hers and then watching my body do something I could never have done. I watched it turn to the ghost in the corner and nod. I watched the white shape with its slash of black move like a haunting and press a button or a switch, and then I am back inside of me and I feel something move underneath me, like the thing I was holding was suddenly lighter, like it weighed nothing at all. That is just how you felt, like you were suddenly gone, like you were lighter than I could believe.

I can barely see you at all. The lights from the park have made the tree line of your enclosure sharp and eternally black. The firmament is glowing on all sides from the lifeless roller coaster, the towering and still rides. There is a sound behind me and I listen as I hear steps slowly crunch through the grass. A voice asks how I am doing. Tells me that they are moving your body, they ask me if I want to come and say goodbye.

I watch myself stand up after how many hours lying across Joanne. Stiff and moving on strings, my body finds its way outside and into the hall.

I open my eyes and try to clear my vision as I watch the shimmering form of you dissolve. I watch it catch in the wind like a globe of dandelion seeds, watch the breeze snatch you and carry you swirling upwards. Your light mixes into the glow of Jungle Land and I watch it rise up and up and up, into the sky and towards the stars.

Ed: As I sat wiping away my silent but copious tears after reading this, my husband looked across at me, smiled, and said, 'The power of the written word, huh?' I think that says it all.

### Saturday 20 July 2013 4 pm

Dry

Craig Stanton

Wentworth Falls, NSW

So, my world has become a dull run of days

And I find as each passes I bear it and grin;

White-knuckling down through a beige-coloured haze,

My resolve black and grim as ever it's been.

My rote explanations, demurrals well-learned,

Are keeping me sober while giving folk pause;

It's hard not to feel that a good drink is earned

When I'm working so hard to be true to the Cause.

It's not the temptation that's pulled me off-track,

No 'snake-in-a-bottle' that's luring me in;

But grinding exhaustion is hauling me back

And caffeine's a bitter replacement for sin.

I'm thinking of all the resolve I could drown

Whilst sitting here dry in a damp, drunken town.

The billboards around me all loudly proclaim

That icy-cold beers are on hand to be had:

Those sun-kissed, gold beauties all seem to declaim

That beer's what they like, most of all, in a lad.

Their siren-song tears through the night from the bars

(The Agincourt's full and seems ready to burst):

The drinkers all stagger through puke and past cars

While I watch them and cradle an odious thirst.

This city is nursing a dry, dusty heart

Shriveled and sere as a dead paper flower;

A simple libation will cause it to start

And pump, double-time, all through Happy Hour.

A gurgling bottle's a terrible sound

When you're all alone dry in a damp, drunken town.

I'm certain a Meeting's the best place to be

When I'm feeling so flat, so hemmed-in and so thin;

But a Meeting feels too much like failure to me,

An admission that something's got under my skin:

I'd sit there avoiding eye-contact with those

Whose stories are worse than mine ever will be

And wait for an hour and the last prayer, to close

A teeth-grinding session of 'poor me, poor me!'

So I'll think of my shrink and my last rehab stay;

Run through my mantras and see which ones stick;

Go home and watch TV; I might even pray

And hope that a sheer force of will does the trick.

Or sheer desperation: It's wearing me down,

This abstinent life in a damp, drunken town.

Meanwhile, on Broadway, the lights are all bright:

The groups of young men who linger to watch

The girls on stilettos' wild sway through the night

As the DJs crank up the downbeat one more notch,

Are suckling from bottles and glasses and bags –

A feverish consumption with no time to waste –

Ignoring the spillage that wets their glad-rags;

An intake that strives for effect and not taste.

And oh! To be with them; to enter that crowd,

Belly-up to the bar and screw my resolve;

Grab a quiet drink while the music gets loud

And feel those God-damn' good intentions dissolve ...

But my bus comes; I get on; I quickly sit down;

Pull away from the heat of this damned, drunken town ...
Saturday 20 July 2013

### A Jolly Saturday

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, NSW

Wild

Rain

Lashes

City streets

Prancing umbrellas

Tap-dance on tessellated tiles.

Beat exciting rhythms in the creaking lacy lift.

Floor Three, QVB, just the place for a High Tea!

Jolly round table set with crisp white tablecloth, matching napkins placed on eager laps.

Cousins slip into easy conversation as they

Enjoy champagne and savouries,

Sip exotic teas

Munch on scones

Freshly

Baked

Then

Spread

Jam

Juicy

Raspberry

Sublime clotted cream

Dainty cakes on tri-leveled dish

Royal Albert Fine bone China Roses, elegant gold leaf handles on full-bodied cups,

Our Grandmother set her table with the very same!

Family history sharing

Propinquity

Amusing

Daylight's

Deft

Hours.
Sunday 21 July 2013

### Majestic Drivel

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, NSW

Damn it James C (and that indeed is me!), has your sword gone rusty in the scabbard?

Still got nothing terse to say; no weighty insights on the way; no skeletons left inside the cupboard?

The topic is majestic, in name only quite eclectic – how about the Hydro Majestic Hotel?

Or there's Her Majesty the Queen – I wonder ... does our Betty eat tinned sardines?

If she consumes too many then undoubtedly she will smell!

This is such majestic drivel and to be sure I could well shrivel into my shell; becoming dafter,

And not write down another word, but that would be absurd and so what comes hereafter ...

Is yet a further anagram, (I did warn you I'm a sham!) I am known as the mad civil jester.

What a tragedy to have been the bearer of prose bordering on obscene!

There's a canker in my plastic soul beginning to fester.

And yet there's something quite convivial to an evening spent on the trivial with the odd folk.

A night out at the rubbity; answering questions about the absurdity of life – that eternal joke.

Abandon all hope of sagacity or basic veracity, James' drivel tic is enough to make you sick.

Perhaps it's right and proper that The Phantom of the Opera has played on Broadway ...

For twenty five years, my peers, at the theatre Majestic.

HMS Majestic became HMAS Melbourne and struck HMAS Voyager upon the sea.

As a lad, when in the cubs, I toured the Voyager, long before it was scrubbed out ignominiously.

The Melbourne also struck USS Frank E. Evans; heavens: nothing majestic there at all.

Never fired a shot in anger did this stalwart carrier but clearly that was no barrier to service hectic.

The Chinese bought the old ship for scrap, but before she left the map; they studied her intensely ...

Bow to stern. There was much to learn; they said she arrived 'afloat, proud and majestic'.

So just what is electric about the term – majestic? It hints at something grandiose and splendid.

Such as The Majestic Plastic Bag that drags itself across the Pacific to a plastic heaven so fetid?

It's an area bigger than Texas where plastic forms a nexus; wildlife ingests pieces – it's tragic!

So now there's plastic in the food chain, or so this film insists, listing such a litany of woe ...

But a word before I go, plastic sardines are great you now know: verily they're majestic.

Monday 22 July 2013

### Pearl Fishers

Henry Johnston

Rozelle, NSW

A Greek diver told me the lustre of a pearl is born upon the sheen of evening clouds and dusted with tiny droplets of rain before scattering amidst high winds. When caught by the rays of the setting sun each drop, as if a gem, floats across the curve of the clouds, streaming points of colour in its wake in a coalescence of pale greens and blues.

In the days after the bombing of the Koolama the diver, one of Broome's Snub-Nose Porpoise clan, said a pearl is a droplet of Hera's breast milk fallen from the sky then hidden from the mortal Heracles among the stony shells of oysters.

Diving the depths in search of the pearl oyster, he said, is a task bestowed by Heracles upon his clan. Each pearl won from the sea must be polished and mounted as befits a jewel, and worn around the neck or breast of women as a love token of Heracles for his divine mother.

Hera, he said, is the wife of Zeus.

The diver Achilles rescued Sid and me from the mangrove swamps of Rulhieres Bay. We remained aboard his pearler in the weeks after the Koolama sank at its mooring in Wyndham harbour.

Achilles' ancestral village is Soli, which once nestled in Cilicia, due north of Cyprus from where his latter day clansmen sailed to Western Australia.

At night at sea, after the day is done, the divers of the clan scan the Milky Way seeking changes within the display of the constellations. The stars never rest, he said, and the dark bowl of night presages the fate of the following day.

Every sign speaks of fair wind or foul, a fine catch or famine, another day of life or the Siren's song before death on the rocks of Hades. A native of Soli named Aratus codified these signs, and every sailor of the Snub-Nose Porpoise clan knows them by heart.

'If we are to interpret the mind of a god we must first learn his alphabet,' Achilles said. Then he sang in the Rembetiko style and translated the words for me thus:

'For Zeus must never leave unspoken.

For every street, every market place is full of Zeus. Even the sea and the harbour are full of this god.

Everywhere, everyone is indebted to Zeus, for we are indeed his offspring.

For Zeus set the signs in heaven, and marked out the constellations, and for the year devised what stars should give to men the right signs of the seasons.'

'What good is a knot if the timbers they clasp are rotten? What use a sail if the wind is still?

'Know the signs,' Achilles said, 'and your ship shall hold fast and her sails be always full.'

After a Zero buzzed the pearler I asked Achilles if he feared the Japanese and if he would fight them. He said no for he had many Japanese friends in Broome.

'I dive in the hard hat and breathe air pumped down a line, but the Japanese are more nimble and seek the pearl in shallow water. The best among them are women who dive bare breasted and hold their breath for minutes beyond human endurance and yet never fall prey to Caisson disease.

'We Greeks and Japanese fished for pearls for years before my birth. I have drunk their Saki and them my Ouzo, and together we sing our native songs around great fires lit along the beaches of Broome. If a Japanese fell into the sea I would throw a rope and take him aboard, for to save a sailor is to be blessed in the afterlife'.

Achilles taught me the art of sail; how to tack port and starboard, to bear away, the difference between leeway and leeward and the hazards of pinching the eye of the wind.

As I stood beside Achilles at the tiller I watched heel and gybe, and with Sid's help trimmed the sails and set course to the mission at the mouth of the Drysdale River and eventual repatriation to Perth. But I would not go back, I would not return to Nazareth House.

My muscles took shape from the pounds of fish and potatoes, from milk by the quart, from loaves of bread and pats of butter. And all around me the skirl of war, as fearful as the clouds of mosquitoes, as sharp as the tang of salt on my face, as rapid as the run of the tide.

My first ship had sunk, and my contract as a kitchen hand void, but now I was a sailor. Thousands of boys of my age served in the Navy, so why not me?

Sid dreamt of learning navigation, of mastering the sexton and compass. He would read the maps and charts of Cook and Jacobsz, and the best way to learn he said is to join the Navy.

There are no roads south from the Drysdale River, and the priests at Kalumbaru Mission pressed Achilles to evacuate the Wunumbal women and children to Wyndham or even as far as Darwin.

One girl who came aboard was a year younger than me. An orphan Kanaka from the far Pacific, she is Leila Leilani and I have loved her since the first day I saw her. We have children now and are to marry, but in February 1942 Japanese patrol boats prowled close by us in the Timor Sea while their bombers sought out and destroyed the Allied war ships moored in Darwin Harbour.

Achilles loaded as many people as he could carry, sailing south by night, leery of the treacherous shoals, the tangled mangroves and the red eyed salt-water crocodiles. I took the night watch by his side and told him of my plans, and as I spoke, Achilles pointed to Canis Major and the fish which faces Cetus.

'See how Piscis Australis glows red. Now follow the path of Arcturus and watch sharp for the rise of Altar.'

Sure enough, each star as described by Achilles passed through the night as our bow rose and dipped again and again into the oncoming swell.

'This night, this ancient night now weeps the woe of men. For ships in trouble pain her heart and other signs in other quarters she kindles in sorrow for mariners, storm-buffeted at sea.'
Tuesday 23 July 2013

### Frightened Night Child

Rachel Branscombe

Quakers Hill, NSW

Even now I hear the weeping

The poor girl crying herself to sleep

She knows not why she cries

But tears come anyway

She's frightened but does not know

What scares away her sleep

Maybe it's the darkness that fills her fear that steals her slumber

A noise fills her ear and she shakes with fear

What could the noise be?

It is the tree outside her room

She hears as a howling monster

Wanting to eat her

She leaps from the bed

and runs down the hall

Her parents none too pleased to see her

Another night of unrest

For the child afraid of the night
Tuesday 23 July 2013 4 pm

### The Dark Garden

Felicity Lynch

Katoomba, NSW

One afternoon, gazing dreamily out of my window, not really thinking of anything, I heard a bird singing in the shadow of the trees, the notes pure and true.

He wasn't a very pretty bird, small in size but free and wild. In the purple shadows he stood and sang, a song from the heart that reached into my soul.

The song, in my quiet haven, spoke of the open sky, blue gum trees, windswept clouds, sadness, longing, happiness and laughter, memories and loss.

The bird reminded me that happiness is fleeting, like sunbeams glinting off drops of rain, small rainbows of hope and faith, beauty and harmony.

The bird sang of loneliness, to look inside oneself to know who you are, the music of intangibles, the seeking of eternity – all wrapped together in the bird's free born soul.

The sun was beginning to set as the bird flew away, flashing sun-tipped wings as still singing his wild bird song, he was swallowed in the immensity of the sky.

A sadness filled the space as silence once again descended onto this mountain retreat, the gathering dusk swallowing the purple shadows so that only the memory remained, of the wild bird song – a roving spirit. All now was darkness.
Wednesday 24 July 2013

### You And I

Sammy

Glen Waverley, VIC

There is white all around me, a colour as innocent as snow but as deadly as poison. It is a contrast to the black of my attire. But it isn't only me that shares this sight, there is also him. I crouch behind a thick wall of polished stone, listening out for sounds.

You move your feet ever so slightly. It can't see you but neither can you see it. It can't hear you but you can hear it. You need to be careful. The best and quickest way to attack is to distract the opponent. That is what you've gathered from your other fights. Pzzhhh. You shoot a laser beam to your left. It goes straight through a wall of polished stone. That is your distraction. Now you have to find it.

It's him. I'm sure of it. I see the laser beam. It is pointed several feet away. I'm lucky that his aim is poor. Now, I can track down the laser beam's origin. My eyes follow the path of the beam and squinting, I mark out a dark silhouette. Slowly, I lift my gun to the eyepiece. This might be my only chance.

Brmmm. A cold sensation spreads throughout your shoulder. It hurts but it awakens your brain. You carefully raise your hand to touch your shoulder. You can't let any rocks slip as they would echo and alert the enemy. Your fingers touch something warm and sticky. It is crimson red. Blood? Suddenly there are flashes of black in your field of vision. You can't afford to become unconscious. You would become an easy prey.

All of a sudden, my eyes start flittering like a struggling butterfly. My vision splits everything in two. I can only think of my beautiful baby, Marigold. Her little hands wrapped around my neck, begging me to give her a piggy back. Faith would laugh in the back. Oh, Faith, my lovely wife. I wish they could be here to give me the will power in this desperate time. Arhhh. I don't care if the person hears me. The pain is slicing through into my brain and I feel something trickling on my shoulder. Perhaps it's blood but I don't recall getting shot at. My eyes close with thoughts of Faith and Marigold in my mind.

You have to hurry up. You're hurt but you need to use the situation to your advantage. You move carefully. The pain is searing upwards. There is a gigantic rock wall behind you which you lean on. Deep breaths. Just take deep breaths. This is becoming another endless ritual of the hunter and the hunted. You look around for your laser gun. Where is it? You should be winning. Why isn't anything working for you? The pain is rocketing throughout your upper body. The enemy mustn't hear you, no matter the pain.

My eyes open. I am staring at the smooth surface of the white rock wall. It is so smooth. I take a big gasp of air even though I am not choking. I think of Marigold. Then I think of it. Using the arm that doesn't hurt I stretch my neck. All I can see is white rock walls and structures. The only defecting part is where I am laid. Where could it be? I look around for my gun but it is nowhere in sight. It doesn't matter. I am nearly dead. There is a heavy rock on my knees, my shoulder is bleeding heavily and I have to kill a person that is trying to kill me. Why am I here? I furrow my brows in concentration. I can remember faint memories. I was in a centre. There were doctors, scientists and researchers around me. They were telling me to kill an enemy. He was the most dangerous person the police had ever encountered. He was in the underground stone room. Then I went in to kill him. Who is the enemy? Why was I sent? They never told me anything. If he was so dangerous, how did they catch him for me to kill? I stare around the rocks. I notice the room looks a lot smaller staring at it from ground level. Above the stone there is a thin sheet of a plastic-like material. I raise my head up for a better look. Abruptly something moves in the corner of my eye. I retract my hand almost as quickly. A strange feeling encloses me. I slowly raise my hand. Again I see the movement but it is longer and slower. What is going on?

I lift the rock of my body. It requires a lot of strength. Now I can see the edge of the two stone walls right in front of me. I want to see the left side, where I saw movement. I grab the crevice in the rock structure next to me. I heave my body upwards but it is too painful. I will have to crawl.

There he is, standing right in front of me. He looks as astounded as me. I need to know why I am here and he is the only person I have contact with. Slowly I inch closer, never taking my eyes off him. No. No. This can't be right. He is doing the same thing I am. I move my right arm and his left arm moves up in the same position. It can't be. I stand up; my attention is only on this. Adrenaline is seeping through into my blood stream. This is the only way to find out. I reach out and his hand is at the opposite position as mine. Our eyes stare at each other with horrible truth. Moving my hand closer all I feel is cold plastic.

He is my reflection. I was destined to kill him. I was here, destined to kill myself.

My head feels 1000 tonnes. The world is spinning faster and faster. Nothing makes sense as my head hits the cold hard ground. So does his. At the same time I see the team running from behind my reflection.

A doctor is sitting with me in a lounge room. His eyes are deep set with circles around them. His hair is dishevelled and his coat is covered with coffee stains. He has explained to me that he was observing the fight between me and my reflection. He also told me an obscure story that apparently I was the CIA's best agent. During one of my field jobs, a spy attacked me with a special virus to make me reveal the CIA's well kept secrets. My body resisted the virus but it caused havoc in my memories. The spy tried another method to collect the information. She built a story in which I was a father and her husband. As the story developed, she linked topics of the secrets to what was happening. When it was the birth of my child, she lured information about the birth of the new war machine. How it worked, what powered it, its speed and technicalities. The problem was as she was developing this fake storyline, my brain was splitting itself into two personalities. On one hand, I was a jolly father with a lovely family and on the other, I was a CIA agent. The CIA agent personality was turned into an evil, hollow machine who, when it had a goal, did anything to achieve it. After getting the entire secret, the spy left satisfied and not sorry for what she had done to him.

It was a believable story but I knew deep down that lovely Faith and Marigold were real. I didn't care about the CIA agent story but I knew there was no denying the love for my family.

The doctor spoke again to continue his tale. 'You were found the day she left you. You were a troubled man and you still are,' stated the doctor. 'They couldn't reveal the truth then as you wouldn't know what your reality was and greater damage would've occurred to your brain. Instead they continued the story of the father. A doctor here was your fake wife, and your niece, Candice, was your fake daughter. The fake wife took notes and steadied your mind with mental therapy. It was good until a few weeks ago. You had run outside like a madman, trying to locate the spy, who took the secrets from you. You were terrorising the streets and it was scary for the public. It was also at this time that your fake wife resigned from her position. You needed to be kept so we, the CIA's private team of doctors, took you in our special home care. No therapy or action we took was working. It was like you were losing your battle between the father and the hungry evil agent. Your mental health was deteriorating and we couldn't let you roam the streets. You had to be terminated. And I think you know what happened next ...'

My mouth hung in shock and horror. I knew that the part about my wife and daughter weren't true but the rest ...What had happened with my life? I had no life. I should've been terminated earlier. Yet even with this attempt I managed to break free. Why didn't I just die already? My life was in ruins. How? What had I done? I stare at the lounge room in the centre. It all started because of that spy who ruined my life, family and my reality.

All around me there is white, white as innocent as snow but deadly as poison. Dark clouds loom in your head. A vicious plan is designing in my head of what you will do to her. You will have to kill her. That is your goal. You will have to track her down.
Thursday 25 July 2013

### The Quiet Carriage

Michele Fermanis-Winward

Leura, NSW

Our country train waits to depart,

the guard with flag in hand

and whistle to his mouth

is stamping feet

against a wintry night,

impatient for his cabin

and its coffee flavoured warmth.

Passengers rush through the gates

the guard knows they would chill

another hour if he can't wait.

The last to board,

a mother with a toddler

jangling from her hip

and baby in the pram

she's battling to push.

Her face is flushed,

her breath is short with strain,

the glare of carriage lights

expose her parlous state.

She unclasps a little girl

dark skin and curling hair

broad face, enchanting eyes.

I attempt to praise the child

above the rattling roar,

she cannot hear, her mother sighs

they wait to operate

upon the girl's blocked ears,

She tells her, please,

just go to sleep,

we have a long ride home.

Tight faced with rage

a man appears, stands over us

and shouts into her face.

Against the rules, she raised her voice,

the power his badge confers

will put her off at our next stop,

he moves away to rouse the guard,

so he can chide us all.

I mutter words of my regret

about abuse and NAIDOC week,

she tunes out, curls in upon herself,

has heard it all before,

from men like him, and worse,

those empty sorry words

like mine.

Thursday 25 July 2013 4 pm

### The Battle Of Stirling Bridge

David Jenkins

O'Connor, ACT

And near the Stirling bridge,

Scotland's brave and blessed few.

Stood fast; and unyielding,

In morning's frost and pitiless dew.

And when Longshank's army there amassed,

Our Wallace carried to them a shrill fight.

And beyond mere numbers reason;

Wallace sent the heavy English to flight.

And no traitor to Scotland was he;

Once all was said; and all was done;

That this the flower of Scotland was led,

By this; Scotland's most valiant son.
Friday 26 July 2013

### The Art Of Nothingness

Judith Bruton

Lennox Head, NSW

sky on water

water on sky merge

pure blue stillness

~ 'Nothingness' Narayanan Raghunathan

The arc of the bay curved gently into the distance. Jasmine always enjoyed the views from her home but today the coast seemed desolate, not offering its usual pleasures. The grey, indecisive sea was empty of fishing boats and the surrounding cliffs were starkly barren.

The black shadow of a raven brushed across the deck. From a tall, decimated cactus came the call of its mate – a slow, high ah-ah-ah-aaaah, with the last note drawn out.

Jasmine recalled how she once thrived on being alone: she could have been a lighthouse keeper if the position still existed. Now the idea of filling a week before her partner Luke's return seemed a challenge.

Sure, there are paintings to finish, poetry to write, window-shopping at Ikea and the dog to care for. Exciting stuff. She frowned.

'What do you think, Sartre?'

Sartre the Lhasa Apso seemed content – after all, he had her.

The hot wind chanted louder. Temperatures in the high thirties were expected for the next few days. Mid-Spring and the grass and native garden had already dried out.

How to fill my time? Perhaps meditate, eat Lean Cuisine, cut down on wine and finish my paintings. A whole week... just me, the dog and my ghosts.

~~~

Jasmine entered her studio in search of a distraction. It was so quiet. She turned on the radio in an attempt to fill the void. Riley Lee, master of the shakuhachi, was discussing how the instrument could be traced back to the Zen Buddhist komuso, the 'priests of nothingness'.

Now that's a state to aspire to, she mused.

The traditional sound of the bamboo flute flowed into the room, echoing the hollow sound of the north wind that was sucking the moisture out of her last living plants. The contemplative music began to relax her and she set out some paint on a palette.

Lee interspersed his playing with a discussion of the shakuhachi's connection to Japanese haiku poetry. Jasmine listened intensely. Recently she found herself craving the spirituality of the meditative arts of ancient Japan. Inspired by the succintness of haiku she was combining her own poetry with painting; the Japanese call this combination 'haiga'.

'Why am I always searching outside my own culture... whatever my own culture is? Hey Sartre?'

Sartre knowingly sniffed the air.

Jasmine lit a green tea scented candle before slumping into the old cane chair facing several upright canvases. She had previously divided each into three vertical panels and painted them shades of blue-black. Very subtle, almost Zen-like, she considered. The sections equated the Haiku rule of three lines of poetry. She planned to paint the centre panels with images of 'ah ha moments'; oranges in a Moroccan bowl to represent winter; thunderous clouds, and a sleeping dog to echo the moodiness of late spring; tiny fish in pools of water to reminisce the magic of summer. This week afforded her the seclusion to transform her poems into tangible objects, and the rules of haiku provided the structure to hang her artistic hat on.

Jasmine was recycling old canvases from an earlier series. She brushed on thicker layers of paint to erase the previous images, but some raised letter shapes appeared creating the effect of an ancient palimpsest that had long given up its content.

Obscurity is part of contemporary art, pondered Jasmine as she searched for a glimmer of significance amidst her brush marks.

As she painted she envisaged Luke presenting his research paper on Alzheimer at Kyoto University. His lecture is bound to make a valuable contribution to the mystery of memory... and he'll be experiencing authentic Japanese culture while I have to be satisfied with a mere whiff from secondary sources. Soy sauce? Hmm.

She pondered how living with Luke for the past six months had filled her life and stopped her dwelling on the past or future. Luke's absence made her aware of an emptiness she had been trying to fill most of her life. She found ephemeral happiness when painting but Luke offered her a sense of completeness.

Hey, I'm an independent woman. I don't need to be validated by anyone or anything.

The dog rested his shaggy head on her lap.

'Not even you, Sartre,' Jasmine protested as she replenished his drinking bowl.

Angrily, she brushed more paint onto the negative, bluish-black backgrounds. I may be a 'priestess of nothingness' one day... sooner than I think, most likely.

From the radio, Lee continued to intellectualise. '... traditionally it was taboo for women to play the shakuhachi because of the sexual connotations. The vibrations of the instrument––'

Jasmine switched off the radio. She didn't want to hear or think about sex today. The ringing phone compounded her thoughts. It must be Luke?

'Hi?'

No one answered.

'Hello, hello...?'

Nothing. Jasmine checked her laptop for emails. None. A walk up the driveway to the letterbox also proved fruitless. Nobody loves me today – she recalled her late mother's lament whenever there were no letters.

Jasmine returned to the studio, opened a cheap bottle of white wine and set up some still-life objects to paint: a yellow bowl, a white teapot and a blue oriental vase. Painting occupied her mind and eased the thought of the long week ahead.

The hot windy days passed slowly with an interplay of contemplative paintings representing empty vessels and a new CD of sachihachi music that she treated herself to. Lonely evenings were spent experimenting with her sudden passion for Japanese food. Udon, ramen and soba noodles, salmon, wakami, bean sprouts and spicy XO sauce replaced the mean Lean Cuisine.

Seven moonless nights passed along with her dreams of dead ancestors. There was never anything worthwhile on television, her friends were all preoccupied with their own meaningful lives and her bed seemed incredibly empty. No messages arrived from Luke.

'I'll just cook up my wasabi-tuna noodles and finish the bottle of sake. At least the noodles are sh... sho... shoba,' Jasmine slurred and joked to Sartre who was also developing a taste for raw fish.

Heavy rain finally arrived to quench the parched garden. The early morning electrical storm had caused a power blackout. Jasmine sat quietly in her dark studio surrounded by the week's effort, seven fine haiga paintings all nearly resolved to her satisfaction. Sartre rested at her feet, glancing up to admire her efforts.

From the window she saw the taxi arrive and Luke struggling towards the house with a bulging backpack. She pretended to be absorbed in her work when he appeared at the door with his broad, well-travelled smile.

'Oh! I didn't expect you home today... you could have rung, or texted me.'

Luke put down the pack and embraced her. She resisted his affections. Still beaming, he presented her with a long, thin gift wrapped exquisitely in silver and blue patterned silk.

'You'll never guess,' he grinned.

Jasmine had an inkling. She unwound the cloth slowly.

'It's a traditional 55 cm bamboo flute... very popular with women in Japan today, the shop owner told me,' explained Luke.

Jasmine offered a vacant smile.

'Now you'll have something to practise, whenever I'm away.'

How could he be so unaware of my paintings?

'Anyway Jasmine, tell me what you've been up to.'

'Oh, nothing. Nothing much at all.'

The sound of the shakahachi played softly in the background as it hollowed out the ancient sounds of the Priests of Nothingness.
Saturday 27 July 2013

### Roadhouse

Winsome Smith

Lithgow, NSW

A story told in exactly two hundred words.

Trucks of all sizes: twenty-two wheel, eighteen wheel, enormous semis, were all parked in front of the roadside fast food café.

The tourist coach disgorged its weary passengers at the entrance. Brenda queued up, ordered coffee and found a seat at a table. Truck drivers, tough, muscular, handsome, exuding good cheer and testosterone sat at other tables.

Brenda sugared her coffee and as she stirred it, looked up straight into the eyes of one such man. He was sitting at a small table opposite hers and he was staring intently in her direction. She noticed he had brown eyes.

She preened, flicking her hair. He gazed. She straightened up and turned slightly allowing the better side of her profile to be seen. It was flattering indeed to be attracting attention at the age of forty, and after a long, tiring journey.

She sipped her coffee slowly, making it last. Whenever she looked up the man was looking in her direction.

She finished her coffee and, wondering if a friendly 'Hullo' would be appropriate, picked up her bag. She slowly stood up.

As she left the table he continued to gaze – at the television set on the wall behind her chair.
Saturday 27 July 2013 4 pm

### The Killing Floor

Graham Sparks

Bathurst, NSW

Today go down upon the killing floor

amid the blood and gore,

slit a bovine throat and watch the light go out,

or moved by mercy finish off a wallaby

hit and left to die , a ruined temple bleeding in the dust.

Feel the anguish of these passings not unlike your own.

They say god lives within all things that live,

they also say god lives above,

and too they say that he's a god of love,

but doings in the world seem not to be the artefacts of love.

I myself was put upon this world to question,

a thing beyond control,

and looking to the sentiments above do spy a world of work ,

endless echelons of inquiry receding beyond seeing.

Does god live within the world or

does he live beyond and having done creation

moved on to watch his work unfold?

Is he real or not and if he is is he a system,

emergent from the substance of automata?

Is it within the power of a single little mind

to grasp and hold these vast and primal things?

But all this talk is meaningless to me

for I have yet to find a reason for the universe to be ,

and if the universe is not the end of inquiry,

what reason would there be to be?
Sunday 28 July 2013

### For You, Daughter

Ruth Withers

Uarbry, NSW

For each of you, daughter, this life,

This body, this soul and mind.

All that I am, ever was or will be –

For each and all of you.

For each of you, this old, grey head,

The lines and the scars that I wear;

The purpose of me ever was and will be –

For each and all of you.

But for you alone, daughter, these tears,

This desperate ache in my heart.

The darkness and cold embracing my soul –

These, daughter, only for you.
Sunday 28 July 2013 1 pm

### On Waking

Ruth Withers

Uarbry, NSW

You came and sat beside me;

You touched my face and warmed me;

You told me that you loved me;

You embraced me and you healed me.

Then I awoke.

I will never sit beside you;

I will never feel your touch;

I'll not hear a loving word from you;

And I will not be healed.

Why must I awake?

### Sunday 28 July 2013 6 pm

#

#

### It Never Goes Away

Ruth Withers

Uarbry, NSW

It never goes away. Never.

It dulls – yes. It becomes reminiscent of a large, deep bruise or a tender scar.

You're always aware of it. It's sore all the time, but it doesn't incapacitate you – not now. You learn to live with it – to work around it. Then, from time to time, you bump it and it brings the tears to your eyes. It throbs. It lives.

Sometimes you even poke it on purpose. I don't really know why.

Maybe you want to see if it still hurts as much. It always does. It always should. Because if that bruise – that scar – disappears, so does all you have left of those pieces of your heart, your soul, your being that were torn from you – however long ago.

Don't tell me I should have forgotten. I never will. I choose not to.

This is the third of Ruth's short pieces on the loss of a child which we published across the day. Ruth said that while it had no rhyme or rhythm, she couldn't bring herself to mess with it. It is what it is and she called it a poem simply because she couldn't call it a story.

Ed: The loss of a child does not fit with the natural order of things – we are supposed to go first, our children to outlive us. Sadly, this doesn't always happen, and the one thing that is a fact, is that you never 'get over it'. This piece expresses this concept in such a raw, honest understanding of the situation in a form which is, as Ruth says, not a poem, and yet it is poetic. The defiant ending beautifully reinforces the strength of this piece.

### Monday 29 July 2013

Of Raspberry, Yoke And Yoga

Andris Heks

Megalong Valley, NSW

The grass is up to my neck. Wherever I look, there is wild grass and a few old oak trees here and there.

It's June 1954, Cool Valley, Hungary.

The summer sun wraps the whole field in golden yellow light. It's warm. Not a cloud above, just the vast blue sky arching from horizon to horizon.

As I move forward some grasshoppers are disturbed and go airborne only to duck for cover again before the hungry swallows can swoop on them. The air is filled with the smell of grass.

The perennial bee flights ensure that the whole field resonates with the sound of humming. Lots of white cabbage butterflies hover over the grass; some even land beside me.

But I am not interested. The butterfly net in my hand is for another exclusive purpose: to bag the elusive swallow tailed butterfly. They are magnificent with their huge vermillion fake eyes decorating their double tails which stretch out like the ribbons of colourful kites. The fake eyes surrounded by decorative multicoloured fancyworks are reminiscent of peacock feathers.

The swallowtail is much bigger than the ordinary cabbage butterfly with huge gracious wings which can stretch to 10 centimetres across. Few children with a butterfly collection could resist the temptation of trying to catch at least one of them even though they are protected. So hunting them has that extra excitement of acting like a wicked poacher.

But it is not just a swallowtail that I am after. I would also love to lay my hands on a stag beetle, preferably with huge double stags. And if I could also find a shed snakeskin, well, that would really make my day. I know these are all here somewhere in this vast field, hidden out of sight in the tall grass.

I reach a clearing with a stream. I quench my thirst with crystal clear water and soak my feet in it. My hot red feet tingle and steam in the ice cold water. I look up at the branches of a tall oak tree towering over me. I feel the gentle breeze stroking my face.

I am thoroughly contented. In fact, I am so relaxed that I decline the temptation to climb the oak tree to steal the eggs from a bird nest that I just sighted not too high up in the tree. For a moment I couldn't even care if I did not catch a prized swallowtail or a staghorn beetle. I feel like a jungle boy protected and nurtured by the tall wild grass around.

I recall the famous lines of Petőfi's poem that I learnt in year two of my primary school in Budapest just before we broke for this summer holiday.

Oh, nature, oh glorious nature. What language could compete with you? How great you are and the more you keep quiet,

The more eloquently and the more volumes you speak!

I am starting to feel hungry, but I didn't bring lunch and I don't want to return home. I survey the scene.

Some 250 metres away not far up on a hill I spot strips of long red rows. My guess is that they are ripe raspberries. My mouth waters at the prospect of checking them out. So I head for the hill in a hurry. At its bottom, there is a winding dirt road leading up to the gardens. There is an ox, yoked to an old cart with an even older man driving it. He offers me a lift uphill. It turns out that he owns the raspberry farm. He invites me in for a taster. To make sure I seem polite, I tell him I haven't got money on me.

'Never mind,' he laughs kindly. 'Have as much as you like.'

Well, that's all I needed to hear! He probably has no clue as to how hungry I am.

When we get to the raspberry rows he lets me off and stops his ox. He leaves his cart and walks leisurely to his farmhouse.

Now it's just me, the ox, yoked to its cart, and the raspberry fields.

I invade the bushes like a hungry fox let loose in a chookpen. I eat so much raspberry that I can barely move. I stagger to the ox.

I never saw a yoked animal before. But the image of this yoked ox remains clearly etched in my mind to this day. The yoke ensured that the cart and he were inseparable. Wherever the driver directed the ox, the cart had to follow too.

Twenty-two years later when I started yoga, I learnt that yoga means 'yoke'. It would yoke my character to my soul so that I would go with it without deviation. The memory of the generous farmer, the ox and its yoked cart helped me to understand the magnificence of this concept.

The old man's raspberries eased my hunger. Like every delicious yoga session.
Tuesday 30 July 2013

### Faith

Vita Monica

Southbank, VIC

It begins with a plot

A plot to laugh

A plot to love

A plot to hate

What is behind a smile?

Or behind this self?

Friends

Family

Am I with the air inside me, or is this who I am?

Is the world really a good place?

I am between the trees

The most wicked one

People ...

People that I loved

How do you see 'a girl left by the most beloved one?'

Laugh, love, hate, jealousy, rushing emotion

Can you still decide?

'Cry' whispered of my heart.

In the world of darkness, I am searching for a light

Will there be a single light

That is strong enough to break this shadow?

The shadow of the one that does not exist

I am behind the shadow

Even death will not see me

To where I belong

I am a shadow

What if reality is not reality?

What if the things we can't see is the true reality.

Then we are living in the shadow

Faith

### Tuesday 30 July 2013 4 pm

Liberate

Joanna Rain

Nelson Bay, NSW

I feel I've woken up from death!

Come out the other side –

To see that I am still somewhat alive,

In no particular place and no particular time.

This new existence is not even close

To what I came to expect,

Every fathomable hurdle has been met –

I face two paths now,

One leads to freedom and one leads to regret.

Love becomes too painful to be contained –

And the vibrancy of life dies –

If in mind's cage, love remains.

The pain grows stronger, it does not relent –

There will come a time when love

Will not allow itself to be repressed.

From one small drop love expands, it infiltrates –

Everything it contacts, every connection it creates –

And if it perceives a barrier –

It will just apply more pressure –

And under its pressure it will cause debris,

As it creates a path and reigns supreme.

So in spite of love, I can no longer fight

And from it I can no longer run –

And by trying to deny it –

PAIN is what my existence has become.

Love would create a path to my last breath,

If it meant that love could be expressed.

### Wednesday 31 July 2013

Murder Me Before I Die

David Anderson

Woodford, NSW

15 March 2035, 09.00 hrs.

'Welcome back. So you proved you can do it.'

'That's right.'

'I didn't think you'd actually do it. You must have baulked for a second or two.'

'I didn't hesitate. I just aimed and pulled the trigger; right between the eyes.'

'Did you get the DNA – hair, fingernail clippings, and blood?'

'No problem, they're right here. Here's his wallet as well.'

'That might prove handy. Okay, I'll get them all tested and then we can publish. You're sure that your brain cancer is incurable? It will be hard to explain why we are publishing the fact that you have murdered him and that you're admitting guilt.'

'The doctor says I have maybe three months at best.'

'Good. The DNA tests may take around two weeks. I'll call you when I get the results. So you aren't having any problems after the trip?'

'No. I feel perfectly fine. If I didn't know this bitch is about to explode my brain open soon, I'd say I never felt better.'

'Well then, I think we'll leave it at that.'

'Very well. I'll wait on your call. Goodbye, and thank you once again.'

'No, I surely must thank you. Our work will be more involved now than I thought. But publishing will make it all worthwhile.'

**21 March 2035, 14.45 hrs**.

'I thought you said the results would take around two weeks.'

'Yes. That's right. I wanted the analysis to undergo every test available to obtain the maximum result.'

'But it's only been a week.'

'There's been a problem. I'm afraid you won't be able to take further part in the program.'

'Why? What's happened? After what I went through with all that training – not to mention the pain, and that it might be a one way trip?'

'It wasn't easy to find anyone who could carry out such a mission in the first place.'

'Right! And I did carry it out. He was a bastard. He raped and murdered at least five women. You know the newspapers printed how the police ran his fingerprints after he ... actually ... after I murdered him.'

'True. I'm not doubting for a minute that he was a monster. It's legally proven, and granted it was for the better.'

'Then why can't we publish. I've been there, done the deed, and came back for you. What's the problem?'

'The problem is in the fact that both your own DNA tests came back in a week, instead of two.'

'And ...?'

'The tests came back sooner because the man you killed was legally ... but ... this is very hard for me to ...'

'I can take it. I could even go back if you ...'

'No. That's not possible. It will take at least three years to arrange another trip and by then you'll .... you'll ...'

'Be dead. So what's new? We're both aware of that. Stop stuffing me around and explain to me why we can't we publish?'

'Because your grandfather's and your own DNA do not match.'

'What? How is that possible? What about my Dad? He must have my DNA.'

'In all probability he does.'

'Then I don't understand. It doesn't make sense ... unless ... surely she couldn't ...'

'Yes, I'm afraid so. You must face the fact that your grandmother was an adulteress. I'm sorry to have to say it; but this is the only answer.'

'So you can't publish, because I didn't kill my grandfather?'

'Well he was your grandfather as far as society saw it, and probably as you yourself knew him; but yes, he was not your blood relative.'

'It's going to be hard to get someone to kill their grandfather if he wasn't a prick like mine.'

'Yes, very hard indeed. Let me shake your hand, as you've been the pioneer for the next time traveller.'

'You can't mention me at all?'

'I'm afraid not. It wouldn't deem very important in our thesis. We were going to prove that it wouldn't be possible to kill your grandfather if you went back in time; as you wouldn't have ever existed to travel back and do the deed.'

'The grandfather paradox* you explained before I left?'

'Correct. I thought that something, anything, would most probably prevent you from killing him, and that you would come back disappointed. I did indeed have my doubts that both your DNA samples would really be a match after you gave them to me.'

'Well, at least we rid the world of a monster. But I suppose I did change something in the past, and that breaks one of the rules. Well, good luck with your work. I'm just sorry I'll never live to see the results.'

'I can live with the fact you changed things for the better. We'll certainly study that aspect. Well, I'm sorry we haven't perfected the future yet, or we could send you ahead and maybe cure your disease. Goodbye – and good luck.'

'Goodbye – and thanks for making the end of my life a bit more interesting.'

25 October 1968, 01.15 hrs.

'So, you were sitting in the laneway by the side of the hotel when the deceased walked past you?'

'That's right Mr Detective Sir. Then there was a bright blue hazy light ... and suddenly a bloke was standing just near me, and he yelled out to the poor prick under that sheet.'

'And what did he say.'

'He said "Hey! Grandpa!" And the other bloke turned around.'

'What happened then?'

'He shot him – right through the head. I didn't even hear much of a bang. And then ... Jesus help me ... he cut the poor bloke's bloody finger nails, cut off some of his hair, pulled out a needle and took his blood. Then, that bloody blue flash happened again ... and he was gone.'

'Thank you. I'll contact you if we need further information.'

'I'll always be here officer. My bed's just over ...'

'Yes, I've often seen it there.'

'So do you believe his story?'

'Some of it. He probably saw the murder happen; but the haze was in his head I'd say. That smelly bugger is always pissed. Blue light? I'd go for cheap plonk to create that I reckon. A murderer cutting fingernails and hair and taking blood off the victim? What for? Stay here constable, and keep everyone away. I want the crime scene examined fully before the ambos take him to the morgue. Fingerprints might give us a clue though.'

*The grandfather paradox is a paradox of time travel first described by the science fiction writer René Barjavel in his 1943 book Le Voyager Imprudent ( Future Times Three).

### Thursday 1 August 2013

Sister's First Gift

Robyn Chaffey

Hazelbrook, NSW

'Sing a song of sixpence

a pocket full of rye'

was the song she dearly loved

practised often till she knew

She was barely three years old

sweet and innocent as they are

full of wide eyed wonder

at the joy of all things new

'Sing a song of sixpence'

she'd ask for me to sing

til she could sing along with me

one day the whole way through

She'd been told exciting stories

listened much to adult chatter

about the changes it would bring

She'd been watching as it grew

'Sing a song of sixpence

a pocket full of rye'

with each anticipated visit

practice then would start anew

Words she used so very well

Great story teller of renown

Though wondrous things she wished to tell

she simply sat right down and drew

'Sing a song of sixpence'

of kings and queens and maids

of honey and of money

birds that took your nose and flew

Excitement now was growing

just like mummy's tummy

She'd heard some of us talking

saying mummy soon was due

'Sing a song of sixpence

a pocket full of rye'

mummy went to hospital

There were tears, but few

The waiting was the hardest

though she had lots to do

to make the song just perfect

so none should give a clue

'Sing a song of sixpence'

she tried so hard to sleep

then they said it had arrived

before the morning dew

She could barely eat her breakfast

was so anxious to be dressed

to see mummy and her baby

there'd be so much for them to do.

'Sing a song of sixpence

a pocket full of rye'

straddle-legged and awe-struck

she held her brother new

Grown ups talked excitedly

relief and joys expressing

paid not too much attention

to her wonder bubbling through

'Sing a song of sixpence'

sweet strains filled the air

We were jolted to attention

Such love in eyes of blue

'Sing a song of sixpence

a pocket full of rye'

was to be the first fine gift

your big sister gave to you

'Sing a song of sixpence'

has power to make me cry

only tears of purest pleasure

at how children's hearts are true.

### Thursday 1 August 2013 4 pm

Love

John Arvan

Underdale, SA

As years roll by

We struggle thru

But life ain't bad

For me and you

*

The days give sun

The night moonlight

And still we love

No cause to fight

*

So off you go

Another year

A birthday gift?

My love.

* Kiss here *

### Friday 2 August 2013

Ogglebog Is Saved! – The Xing Saga part 4

Jane Russell

Mount Barker, SA

In which we are taken back to the survivor, Oggie, in his abandoned ballroom...

One sunny cloudless morning, Ogglebog plucked up the courage to leave his abandoned ballroom and venture outside as far as the fence, a good 200 metres away. It was pleasant to feel the warmth of the sun on his metal cheeks. He looked up at the pale blue sky, entranced by the random flitting of summer butterflies, their flashes of red and yellow brightened by the sun's rays. He absentmindedly swatted at a cloud of gnats that buzzed around his head, but then realised that buzzing was also inside his head. He felt a thrill of excitement: could it be a faint internet signal? Dare he go further to find out? He looked around for puddles or other watery dangers. Finding none he walked towards the wood. Yes, the signal was getting stronger. Could it be radio? No, it was television: he'd intercepted a current affairs program talking to people who were for or against multi-culturalism in Britain.

He couldn't believe his receptors! He saw a very smart, red metalbot (unlike his own faded pink), talking candidly about bot life during the ten years since the failed invasion attempt.

'So, Mr. Puggle,' began John the presenter with false jollity.

'PiggleZit,' interrupted the bot.

'I beg your pardon?' John seemed taken aback, unsure whether to take offence or not.

'That's my name, PiggleZit, but you can call me "Piggie" or "Zit", if you prefer.'

'Aah, Mr. Piggie then, please tell the audience about your experiences setting up "Xing Town".' John had gone quite as red as the bot, and was clearly uncomfortable.

'Well, after the invasion – sorry about that, by the way – quite a number of us were marooned on your planet when our spaceship took off without us. We were in great danger from the wateryness of our surroundings, but thankfully, several humans offered shelter and then assistance. A large piece of land near the forest was made over for our use, and we built our town there.'

'What is the present population of Xing Town?'

'We now number around 70, with 32 of these being children, born on Earth.'

'How have you adapted to living among aliens?' John inquired.

'Much the same way as you have adapted to us, I expect. Some of us feel uncomfortable, others are welcoming and open-minded. Our kids go to your schools. Apart from reinforced school benches and gym equipment, they have no special treatment. They have many human friends.'

Oggie listened and watched, his mouth-part agape. Several gnats took this opportunity to swarm inside, but he didn't notice. He felt odd. Over the past ten years he had come to believe that he was the last bot on Earth. Yet here was a whole town of bots, with many adults he knew from his own Beta Group. He had to go there. His sudden need for companionship and sensible conversation almost overwhelmed him. With one last look at the still clear sky, he set his internal GPS, and marched off at ponderous speed into the depths of the wood, in the general direction of the bot village.

He ploughed through dense brambles, scratching his legs and lower body; he pushed through vines and received many a knock or a whack across the face from low branches. Insects buzzed in his sound receptors and birds added more runny white dots to his already very spotty arms and head. He came out of the wood at the highest point of a hill, where he could see for kilometres in every direction. His internal GPS was telling him:

'At the next intersection, turn left.'

He aimed vaguely left, thinking he could see chimney smoke in the valley.

'Turn around where possible!'

Oggie ignored it and forged ahead. He could hear sounds of industry, metal on metal, laughter: it must be them! However, at that moment, he neglected to watch where he was going and crashed through an old mine shaft, falling several metres into the pit. The ground shook with the force of his landing, registering about 2.1 on the Richter scale. He looked around sheepishly. Then he froze. Beneath his slightly broken body were rivulets of water. He could die here if nobody found him. He shouted. He whistled. He beeped. To no avail. He could feel the water immobilising his nether parts. He couldn't climb out unassisted. So, this is it, he thought miserably. He was going to die!

Then the light from the top of the shaft was blocked and he looked up. Several small red faces were looking down.

'Whatcha doing down there?' queried one little imp.

'Oh, nothing much,' Oggie replied. 'But, if you go and get some help to get me out, I can tell you some stories that would make your hair curl!' (This was a joke, as metalbots don't actually have any hair).

'Okay, yer'on!' A couple of heads disappeared. But the others stared down at him, fascinated.

'Why are you such a funny colour?' asked one, referring to Oggie's bleached pink body, spattered with white blotches from pigeons and other passing birds.

'Oh, just lucky, I guess.'

Oggie soon knew all their names, and was hearing about their exploits at school, when some adults finally arrived. They pulled him out in no time, and assured him they could unfreeze the water damage. He was carried upside down to the bot village.

The first thing he saw was a symmetrical drystone wall, then a large, decorative wrought iron gate proclaiming, 'Xing Town'. Under this were some hieroglyphs in their own language 'Alien Empire of Po'. Beyond the wall, woodsmoke was curling up from timber houses with tall chimneys, and several little bots were running towards him, shrieking with excitement.

'Who are you?' they chimed.

'I'm Ogglebog, I've come to join you!'

'You're a funny colour!' they giggled, running alongside. Oggie felt content. His GPS proclaimed, pompously:

'You have reached your destination!'

That day, the adult bots gathered to hear Oggie's story and they related theirs. There'd been no contact with Xing since the spaceship left. The humans, far from being extinct as the capricious fairy Faye had claimed, had instead become involved in a technological war that brought down the internet for two weeks. After it came back, it was different. It now had built-in anti-hacking programming, which was why Oggie couldn't tune in any more.

He explained about the current affairs program he had intercepted, starring PiggleZit. At the sound of his name, Piggie came forward.

'Oggie! I can't believe it! We thought you were a goner. Where have you been?'

'Fading away as you can see!' Oggie touched forefingers with his best friend, and they drew apart from the others to bond silently.

Later, at the evening assembly, Oggie could see and marvel at all the new bot children.

'Are any of these yours?' he asked Piggie, wistfully.

'No, I've been waiting for you.' And Piggie drew him away to his own little house. During the night they generated twins.

### Saturday 3 August 2013 4 pm

My Life On The Outside

Kerry Karamaroudis

Downer, ACT

As I emerged from the edifice that had been ruling my life for many previous years, I was struck by a fearsome force that threw me to the pavement – sunlight. It shook me to the core. What it feels to be alive! I began to see animated faces around me; faces that looked strange to me. Sort of, alive. Some were smiling. I learnt of smiling 40 years ago as a child – I saw someone smiling in a book in my kindergarten years. What a strange new world, I thought. I decided that I liked sunlight and smiling people more than petitions, carpet, whiteboard screens, and tables full of cupcakes.

It took some time to adjust on the outside. Every time I looked at a clock I froze. I just stared and stared. I guess old habits die hard. The biggest shake up was mastering this strange new task that I found myself being asked to do more and more – work. It was tough. I had to move my limbs continually for more than 10 seconds. My body was beginning to break down, and I had to go to physiotherapy a lot. I also had to stop something that was at the very core of my being while I was on the inside – talking. This was tough, too. My new boss nearly gave up. Had he not wrapped my whole head up in sticky tape he would have! One of the most embarrassing adjustments I had to make was learning how to go to the toilet. Boy, I thought I was going to shit my pants! I was expected to leave the toilet just 6o minutes after going in! Then there was time. I always thought I was pretty smart, because I knew what things like time meant. I remember nearly falling over when they told me that taking three hours to start work after coming in was bad!

I really thought sometimes that I wasn't going to make it. People thought that there was something wrong with me. I usually got sacked after five minutes, but once I lasted 10. I went to the doctor. He told me I had lots of diseases and there was no hope. What are the names of these diseases? I asked. He said the Department of Education, and the Department of Innovation.

I heard that doctors sometimes get it wrong. Determined not to let the Department of Innovation and Education disease overcome me, I went on a mission. I was going to learn to work and stop talking.

I started in town, staring through restaurant windows at people behind counters and kitchens. After a few hours I noticed something strange. People looked busy, and they weren't talking. I finally got the confidence to apply for another job, but I kept getting knocked back. I didn't know why, after all I was really qualified. I could stare at a computer for 7.5 hours straight and not have anything at all to show for it, and I could also turn a five minute meeting into a five hour meeting without any trouble at all. Interviews always seemed to end after revealing that I had a past on the inside, the public service.

I eventually got a break. At first it was easy. I just copied everyone else. I was working and not talking for hours on end, but then something happened. I had to work on my own. That's when the trouble started. The boss walked in and found me in the middle of heaps of cardboard made to look like petitions, my mouth stuffed with cupcakes, drawing thousands of white boards, and chanting a just audible 'meeting, meeting, meeting, meeting'. He started yelling but gave up after realising that I could not hear.

Kicked out into the street, cold, without my business shoes, smartphone, and security pass tag – everything that I ever knew on the inside, I was at my lowest point. Just when I thought I was going to slip away (was dreaming at the time of being at an office morning tea, drinking coffee and eating cupcakes – we were celebrating the new starter's birthday), a community outreach worker walked by. Apparently it was an all too familiar site. The word on the street was that a really bad batch of voluntary redundancies had hit government departments. Public servants looking for work were dropping everywhere, and community services were stretched to their limits.

Eventually I woke up at a rehab centre, surrounded by hundreds of recovering public servants. After recognising a few faces, my attention went to the front. There was what looked to be an instructor with a long pointer following a set of phrases written on a blackboard. We all had to say out loud : 'do-some-work', 'work-five-days-straight', 'stop-talking', 'don't-hide-in-the-toilet'... so on. I saw myself out there, in the community, working, contributing to society ... the economy ... etc. A sense of excitement came over me, and my voice grew ... 'DO-SOME-WORK' ... 'WORK-FIVE-DA ...'

### Sunday 4 August 2013

Let Me Clear My Throat Before I Begin...

Fayroze Lutta

Randwick, NSW

Let me clear my throat before I begin ... One of these days it will be with meth. I need my Benzedrine fix. I need some sort of medicated-codeine-high-octane-behind-the-counter-legit-smack-kind-a-shit. And so I found myself walking ... It was still light out, surprisingly, as the days fall away too fast; by 5 pm it's like midnight out. I happened upon Lisa. I think I could be her some days, sitting next to her begging on a street corner so we could buy a packet of cigarettes together and split the ends.

Lisa was anxious. She kept telling me she had to go change her coins into a note to make it something more manageable. I imagine it is less embarrassing at the tobacconist than to arrive splaying a mountain of dirty silver coins on to the countertop. Furthermore I imagine it would be to buy those cheap and nasty ones – the Chinese cigarettes that feel like you have smoked asbestos-filled fibreglass through a plastic straw.

That afternoon was different: an older gentleman was passing by and recognised Lisa. He came and sat in between us on the bench. Purposefully he didn't say his name and he wasn't letting me in on it either.

He was well dressed – a navy blue blazer-white shirt and leather boating shoes. I was confused with what sort of pants he was wearing, until Lisa posed the question, 'Why did he have blue ski pants on?' He replied that he 'slept outside these days'. It was winter so he came cut-corrected in his ski apparel and added that he had made in the passing days, maybe weeks, months or even years, 'the decision to live in his clothes'. I liked this guy.

He told us that he had to go into the bottle shop and would be back. Lisa then left to go make other people's small coined offerings into a note. The gentleman returned; I told him Lisa would be back shortly. He sat down next to me. I asked him what he had bought; he told me it was a bottle of 'Southern Comfort'. It only seemed apt, all so fitting, living in the city of the South under these southern skies and it was that other word as well that hovered and resonated in the air – comfort. It seemed to spell it all out for me – my mood.

I guess it is what we all look for, comfort. To fill that void inside us that we no longer fill with the love of god, and he had found his in his glass bottle filled up with amber liqueur-like spirits. The effect temporary, never permanent, always wearing off. Perhaps like returning to his mother's breast nuzzling into the warm and golden licks. I wish I could do that – give into something completely with disregard for all other things. I have behaved like this on occasion and believe that in addiction there is a relinquishing of living in prescribed modern terms, but it is a love affair or liaison with nihilism that ends in fatalism giving into oblivion, and I argue that we all must die someday.

I always imagined I would meet my end by being unceremoniously hit by a car. One night in a drunken state I found the location. I recall the lure of the flashing lights of the heavy traffic on the corner of Beauchamp and Oxford Streets. That night on that corner it seemed all so tempting to do such a simple act as to put one foot in front of the other and step into the heavy moving metal.

It was obvious the gentleman had a gambling problem and was on the drink as well. I imagine blackjack, not the misery of the poker machines with their flashing lights and buzz-cock-high-pitched- ringing-in-your-ears-giving-you-a-headache. He took the large hip flask sized glass bottle out of the paper bag wrapping and slowly unscrewed the lid. He then mentioned if he drank it all in one he would be paralytic. He snarled a laugh. He had enough social graces to say, 'Cheers,' to me and made a gesture with the bottle up towards the sky. I said, 'Santé'. He then usurped me, and one better, and said, 'Saluté'.

He placed the bottle to his mouth, his southern comfort, his comfort, his mother's glass nipple. He titled his head back slightly. He didn't gulp or swallow; the amber bourbonesque-syrup just flowed down, trickled down his throat. He had mastered this motion, this ritual. His throat didn't hesitate either – it was waiting for this moment. I felt I was a party to his misdeeds and impending paralysis. I couldn't stop myself. I had to say something. I said ' Woo-oh.' He stopped and looked at me. I looked at the bottle: he had drunk about one-eighth.

I felt relieved in that moment that Lisa had returned. They now both felt awkward around me and left together. Lisa hadn't made enough money for a $5 note. I couldn't follow them – they were trying to get away from me for fuck's sake. I knew all too well that I was not low brow enough to beg with them – too well dressed with my hair still wet from the shower.

At least they could see till the bottom of the bottle, or until they made enough coins to make that five dollar note in their hand and they would have company. Unlike me they both knew exactly where they were going. I knew as well: the corner of High Street and Belmore Road, just outside the Night Owl. It was obvious that I wasn't invited. Evidently too much like a tourist in their waking world.

### Monday 5 August 2013

No Regrets

Paul Humphreys

Oxley, ACT

'It is not as clear cut as you would hope, Guv,' Detective First Officer Riley pointed out with an exasperating sigh.

'How so?' He wished that Riley would not address him as though they were in a British TV detective series.

'Well he was strangled with a piece of electrical cord, that's easy. Frank Nelson is his name. But, and here is the bizarre part, he has carved into his chest with a sharp instrument the words "No Regrets".'

'Who found the body?'

'His sister, Isobel. It appears Frank and her share the house. She works a morning shift and his job was as a prison officer on an afternoon shift. They had an overlap of about one hour each working day. She found him when she came home.'

'Has she been able to give any information that might be helpful?' He was impatient. Senior Homicide Detective Angus Robertson was always desperate to get investigations moving.

'Not really, but she was extremely upset and strangely angry when we asked her about the "No Regrets" wounds.'

'That might be worth exploring further with her after she has settled a bit. I think that we should explore his work colleagues. Ask whether there were changes in behaviour, whether he had any enemies, that sort of thing.'

'Okay Guv.' Riley faked a one-finger salute. Angus winced at his response.

Angus sat opposite the prison officer Samuel, who worked in tandem with Frank and the other prison officer, Ahmed.

He briefly explained why they were there and as soon as he described the "No Regrets" emblem carved into Frank's chest, Samuel went white, stood up quickly, held his head against the wall opposite the interview table and shouted 'No! No!'

'Is there something you need to tell me Samuel?' Angus's voice was firm, unemotional, but the tone was of real authority and urgency.

'How could it come to this?' Samuel was now back in his seat but wringing his hands; a small number of beads of sweat sat on his brow.

'It's not my doing!' Samuel yelled across the table at Angus. Riley was a little taken aback at the outburst but tried to keep a poker face.

'Why don't you tell us Samuel what might have led to this rather brutal murder? I think you know what may have brought this about; isn't that right?' Angus yelled back at Samuel.

Samuel started to whimper and then said, 'Frank was known around the afternoon shift as "No Regrets Nelson".'

'Oh! Why?' Angus was now subdued, trying in subtle tones to coax out the information that almost certainly would be critical to their case.

'Frank would pick out prisoners that he thought needed additional punishment up and above of their sentence.' Samuel swallowed hard and then continued. 'He only selected weak individuals and he would beat them, not long or hard, but sufficient for many of them to hate him and at the same time fear him. He got the nickname "No Regrets Nelson" because after each session he would hold the prisoner under the chin stare him in the eyes and say "No regrets". He said his father did the same to him and his brother when they were young and he boasted that it did him no harm!'

'Who else, other than the prisoners, knew about this?' Angus was trying to control his temper and keep an even tone in his voice.

'Ahmed knew. '

'Didn't you report this to someone?' Angus was now angry. He loathed people who took advantage of their position and this was obviously a bad situation.

Samuel was now near tears. 'Ahmed and I are on 457 visas; we did not want to lose them so we did nothing.' The explanation seemed to take the wind out of his sails and he slumped in his chair.

'Is there any one prisoner who Frank gave special treatment to?' Angus was sure that this might be the trail that would lead to a suspect.

Samuel was quiet for a short time and then muttered, 'Roger! Roger Whistler. He was beaten often and long. Frank said he hated paedophiles and Roger was the worst.'

'See if we can get to talk with this Roger Whistler, can you Riley?'

'Yes sir.' This was now serious and Riley had assumed a formal approach to his boss. He left the interview room quickly, nervous in anticipation of a breakthrough.

Samuel and Angus sat opposite each other in silence, both lost in thoughts concerning their own next best step.

Riley rushed back into the room. 'He was released five weeks ago and went into a safe house.' Riley was elated at just how this investigation appeared to be falling into place.

'Right. Let's go see him.' Angus's voice reflected a strong determination and a little satisfaction that this might be a simple revenge killing and easily solved.

'As for you Samuel, and Ahmed, I think that your superiors and also other police officers will be asking you a whole lot of questions.' Angus stood up and left Samuel bent over in his chair, his head in his hands, rocking backwards and forwards and muttering in his native tongue.

Roger Whistler appeared to be expecting the arrival of the police officers. He was calm and spoke very softly as he explained what happened.

'I knew I was in for it. There were rumours around that Nelson was vindictive and relentless in his "punishments" as he called them. Fortunately I found out before the first session otherwise I do not know how I would have handled it.

'He seemed to get a special obscene pleasure by inflicting the pain. I am glad he is dead!' His voice became raised and shrill. 'He will rot in hell I am sure, if there is such a place! I am glad I put him there – he was a monster and I have no regrets'.

There was a brief silence. Angus straightened his shoulders and turned to Riley.

'Book him Riley!'

'Yes, Guv.'
Tuesday 6 August 2013

### The Bee

Mark Fowler

Magill, ACT

A busy man sits contemplating

his tiresome load.

The bee flits wilfully

from flower to flower.

The busy man gulps his coffee

as his schedule harasses his thinking.

The bee settles contemplatively on the daisy nearby,

and busy man swats it with half thought.

The bee accustomed to hassled people in the park

veers away and fills the moment

sucking nectar deeply.

Busy man, aware of his responsibility, but

unaware of the lesson passed,

crushes the Styrofoam,

spilling dregs upon his expensive suit

and hurries away to another wasted day.

### Tuesday 6 August 2013 4 pm

Broken Promise

Bob Edgar

Wentworth Falls, NSW

Elmer Fudd crept forward with exaggerated steps, shotgun at his hip and an amusing fur hat perched on his ample head. He suddenly stopped, turned to the camera and placed a finger over his lips.

'Be vewy, vewy quiet ... I'm hunting wabbits.'

Turning to continue the hunt he was confronted by Bugs Bunny, who planted a sloppy kiss on his mouth, cheerfully enquiring, 'What's up Doc?'

'Sshhh ... I'm hunting wabbits.'

'Do you know what a rabbit looks like Doc? Because I'm a duck, and I always ...

Leon Cole turned the volume to zero as he watched the animated characters cavort on the screen. His smile broadened as he closed his eyes, allowing him to play out his own imagery of insatiable lust and unrequited love.

Tonight he would again lay in wait, cloaked in darkness...eyeing his prey. Having successfully stalked his next beloved, it was time to fulfil her desires.

He dressed for her in his favourite shirt, trousers and jacket, in her preferred colour of blue ... light blue.

He sheathed the knife, closed the front door behind him, and whispered his oft repeated prayer as he walked.

'Oh merciful God, allow this one to understand the love. Have her shun me not, and I will spare your child.'

Leon lurked in the moonshadow of a myrtle bush as she stepped from the bus.

'Please don't scorn me Susan,' he pleaded quietly as he crept behind her with exaggerated steps. His merciless eyes enveloped her as she quickened her pace away from him.

Everything went quiet. Leon watched the knife float in a spiral, flicking blood from its blade, until it clattered on the sidewalk, spraying globules of blood and viscera through slivers of moonlight.

'Susan it's me, Leon ... say you are mine, you promised me! Say you love me!'

Susan couldn't speak: her throat was open, her abdominal cavity exposed ... her blood cascaded over Leon's hands as he tried in vain to close the wounds. Her light blue chiffon blouse merged with blood, and ceased to exist in mind.

Leon Cole closed his front door behind him, methodically removed and laundered his clothing, showered then prepared his favourite meal of baked beans on toast.

He sat naked on his lounge chair, switched on the television and turned the volume up. Leon smiled sweetly as Daffy and Bugs began another show ...

'... and know what heights we'll hit, on with the show, this is it!'

### Thursday 8 August 2013

Out Of This Wood

David J Keegan

Paddington, QLD

'Jim, do you know where Mum kept Great Grandma's lace kerchief?'

Liz's hand on my arm shocks me. I react slow, like treacle, I don't spill my scotch. I am caught in an atmosphere.

'Yes.'

I know where she kept it. I know where Mum kept everything. but she wasn't mine and I don't know what to say about that. I nod and rise out of the burnished leather chair.

'Please? Thanks Jim.' Liz pauses in front of me. There is concern mapped on her face. A cartography of trauma, worry in malformed continents, apprehension running like rivers through her brow. I brush past her.

When I was a child in this place it was emptier, engorged with space. Bigger and broader and more secretive than any place I knew. Now it seems tiny. Like an underwater cave and I'm running out of oxygen.

Too many people are in the living room, stiff and murmuring. I make my way out of the stifled room, through a corridor of closed doors hiding vacant rooms and onto the stairs.

Creeping up these stairs used to fill my stomach with giddy anxiety. I snuck about in the witching hours when everything was sleeping. Liz in her neat bedroom. Me across the hall in that tiny closet which housed my awkward bed.

There were other rooms in the house. Huge empty spaces which held only a cabinet displaying the pastel-flowered china or shelves with books which never moved. A museum, still and untouchable, haunted by things unsaid. I used to check to see the coast was clear then erratically launch into the darkness like a tiny bat.

At the top of the stairs I stop. Dusk is leaking through the wet windows, painting the upstairs in sepia. I feel the air up here. It is thinner, like the altitude of a mountain top. I catch my breath here just under the peak, at the top of the stair case which caused my first broken bones.

I look left down the tiny hall. There are shadows, wedges of ink in the corners of this thin strip of space. I step out—the final push to the summit. It is only a few steps but a muddy reluctance saturates my muscles. Fear stalls me. Churns my insides. Sweat behind my collar. My hand is wet. The glass is perspiring. I sip at the auburn spirit—it calms me.

I push the door open, as I used to—slowly, ensuring it doesn't make a peep. A dusty shade has inhabited this room; it is more still, more bleak and more enchanting than I remember it.

On the bed her quilt swaddled body would crest and fall gently with her nocturnal rhythm. A night thief, I peeked into her room then stole into that chamber of query, running my small hands along everything—gently absorbing the impression of her things. A quest to learn her, to investigate the woman who had taken me in, who had given me a name. I painstakingly pulled at drawers, opened the doors of cupboards and wardrobes, skinny arms under her bed with fingers outstretched, grasping through dust for hidden boxes or chests.

Now I stand like an owl. Perched under the lintel and warily eyeing the room. I'm unsure if things could have been different. What if I had been given a different name? Not the one of the man who had left her ages before I arrived, but whom we still mourned the death of at a wake grotesquely reflective of the one unravelling downstairs.

A drip of condensation lands on the floor by my foot. I look at the glass. I drain it quickly then stoop and place it on the floor outside of the door. Something creaks behind me. I turn half expecting to see Liz, half expecting to see a horror—a shimmering ghost vapid and terrifying. There is nothing there. I toy with the notion that the house itself is asking me not to go into the room, warning me of a quiet doom. But the challenge, perceived as it is, is enough to push me.

I step forward.

The moon was full and incandescent that night. I had been sent to bed without dinner again, no reason given and I never asked why. That time I was determined. I needed to find out why or how she hated me so much.

I don't remember her adopting me or the first season of our relationship. I remember the closet of my room and I remember the stairs. I remember our electric hostility towards one another. Never harsh words, barely words at all—our quiet disdain a constant, brutal burden.

The stair felt shorter that night. My desperate need for an answer to a question, to any question, filled me with vigorous determination. The door opened, the room washed in pallor. I crept into the space. She grunted in her sleep. I went straight for the wardrobe, monolithic and staunch in the corner. I had taken the key the day before from her handbag; it clicked in the lock as it turned. The door swung elegantly open. The hanging dresses smelled faintly of dried flowers and faintly of a smell I would come to recognise as alcohol. I ran my hand across them. Beside the hanging dresses were four drawers. Each one labelled with a shaky calligraphy in gold:

  * Stockings

  * Underclothes

  * Etc.

Then:

  * Sprites

This drawer was the only one with a keyhole. I pulled at it gently though I'd known it would be locked. Something rustled inside. My heart pounded in my bony chest. A light flickered inside the keyhole, something brilliant. I sucked a breath in and pressed my cheek against the cold brass lock plate. A light stung my eye and I smelt the fresh, sharp smell of forest and green places.

Then a hand clenched on my shoulder.

'How dare you!' Her voice was full of rough anger. She bellowed as she shook me. 'What are you ...? How dare you!' She grabbed me by the neck and with strength I didn't know she had, she dragged me from the wardrobe, from the room. She stopped at the top of the stairs. Her voice suddenly quiet. 'I don't know why I took you in.'

A realisation shocking to her. An honest and unspoken thought given sudden voice by circumstance, shaken loose by her outrage.

Then she pushed me.

I broke my arm and the shin bone of my right leg tumbling down the stairs. Splinters and a puncture wound from breaking through the balustrade at the bottom.

This memory enrages me. I stomp into the room. She kept the lace kerchief in her vanity with her jewellery. I rip open the drawer and pull the ancient lace from under a tumble of silver and gold. Slamming the drawer I step towards the door. But of course I stop. Of course I turn around. It is standing ominously in the corner. That wardrobe with the drawer marked 'Sprites'. The drawer had become the keystone to my torment. Was there an answer to her, to us, to this house and her life and the reasons behind everything? I am pulled towards it. I hope it is locked but it is not. She had died in her room. I tug at the doors and they swing silently and obligingly open. My breathing is haggard, the weight of my obsession like lead in my blood, heavy and noxious. The drawer labelled 'Sprites' is open and empty. It hadn't been shut and it hadn't been locked.

I am staring at the drawer when a cough from behind shakes me.

'Jim? What are you ...?' Liz stops.

### Thursday 8 August 2013

The Nut

Evelyn MD

Newbridge, NSW

I dig. The cool soil is in my hands and trapped under my fingernails. It smells moist and reminds me of mushrooms. This is where he said I'd find it, in the ground, under a rock, near the apple tree, in the garden. I keep digging. The dirt gives way freely and the hole seems to expand. I feel a freedom of emotion as I grasp something small and warm in the soil. For all appearances it is a walnut but it feels warm in the palm of my hand. I encase it with both my hands and feel its pulse. I tuck it safely in my coat pocket. He said I could keep it and that I should keep it safe. I head back inside our cottage. Wash my hands and take off my coat. It will be safe in the coat hanging behind my bedroom door. It won't be disturbed there.

The afternoon light is beginning to rust bringing an end to another day of similarity. The children and my husband are all engrossed in computer games. No one has shifted their pose all afternoon. I think to myself, this is not healthy, nor happy, nor is it a warm family. I think of the warm nut I have just brought inside and wonder if it can help me to turn this family around. Help us to move somewhere warm to live. Become outdoors people. Will the nut get me a job? Will it help the bond with my husband become secure again? Will it lesson my episodes of mental illness? How will it help? The sun is now rusting into grey. I go to my bedroom and get the nut and place it in my jeans pocket. It is cool now but still pulsing and it helps me to feel relaxed. I feel the nut tells me I must work on myself first before helping others. I go to the kitchen and make dinner.

The next morning when I check on the nut I notice it is no longer pulsing. I start to wonder if I had been imagining that the nut had special qualities. It is strange that I had gone down into the yard to dig up a nut because he said so. I can't remember who he was. Was I sick with delusions and voices? Perhaps I had imagined that someone like God had told me to find the nut. Perhaps I am getting sick. I decide to talk to my psychiatrist who tells me that some time in hospital would be a good idea.

Friday 9 August and Saturday 10 August 2013

### Wrong Address

Shirley Burgess

Rosebud, VIC

'What's that din? It's 2 am for God's sake.' Harry sat bolt upright in bed, turning on the light.

The fire alarm near their door of their flat had woken Harry and Kate, a middle-aged spry couple. There were three floors of flats, theirs being a corner unit on the first floor and they could hear obvious signs of movement outside, as people started the rush downstairs to safety.

'Kate, quickly, I'll grab a torch. We haven't a second to spare.' Both, now wide-awake, shoved on sturdy pants over their nightwear. 'Grab a coat or something too,' Harry flung at her as he disappeared down the hall to the front door.

Fleeing occupants were hurrying to the stairs from every direction. Harry paused, looked quickly up the staircase and could see that the fire was moving down from the floor above them.

Through the noise he asked someone rushing past where the fire had originated. 'The whole of the third floor is alight! Move man!' Harry heard the obvious alarm in the man's voice jolting him into action again.

'Well, we only have the one flight to go down, so we won't panic,' Harry called to Kate, trying to sound calm.

Just as they reached the top of the stairs, the lights went out.

'Wait on, Harry, shine your torch back over there to the left,' shouted Kate. 'I thought I saw something.' In the eerie smoky light they could just make out the outline of a small girl about three or four years old. She stood stiffly, waiting for someone to help her – obviously in shock.

Kate ran over, 'Where are your Mummy and Daddy?'

'I don't know. I went back for Bunny. Then they were gone. I don't know where they went.' The little girl was now whimpering with distress at all the noise, and clutched her toy.

'You're Debbie, aren't you?' Kate asked, as cheerfully as she could muster.

'Yes,' she whispered.

'We'll take you to them, dear,' said Kate as she swept her up on to her shoulder.

'Hang on tight, Debbie. Here we go.' Kate hoped it sounded as though they were going on an adventure.

Smoke, now everywhere, became thicker, and the heat was very uncomfortable through their thick coats. This time as they came to the top of the stairs they could only see a vague shape of the steps from the torchlight.

'You'd better hang on to my waist,' Harry shouted above all the alarming noise. 'We can't afford to lose each other.' He guided Kate carefully down each step hanging on to the banister with his other hand. Progress would be painfully slow with their extra burden.

As they progressed, two or three fire escapees pushed past them, in each case knocking Kate and her heavy burden aside, squeezing past the generous girths of Kate and Harry.

'Careful!' shouted Kate to the retreating figures. Probably normally polite, careful people, but just as panic-stricken as we are, I suppose.

Suddenly, they heard a couple of explosions above them, and as Harry looked back up the stairs he could see a reflective orange glow from the floor they had just left. In the very few minutes since they had been woken by the alarm, the fire had progressed down two flights. Now becoming even noisier, the smoke was beginning to sting their eyes.

'We must be careful,' Harry urged, as the smoke intensified and they could only feel each step as they came to it. With so many steps to go, Harry knew they couldn't afford to slip or fall.

No-one is pushing past us anymore, so we must be the last out, thought Harry, trying to think calmly. The smoke is thicker, and soon it will turn into a blaze. Frustratingly, they were trying to hurry, yet couldn't, just as though they were in a bad dream sequence.

The fire began a slow drip down the lift well beside them, and although they could see a little better and so go a bit faster, the fact that the fire was now beside them, feeding hungrily on the oily walls, scared them all. They could hear more small explosions from the floor above them.

Debbie started whimpering again. She was getting heavier to carry, and Kate prayed she would not lose her footing. Would they ever get to the bottom of these awful stairs? On they struggled feeling their way, step by step, the heat now becoming sickening.

She worried as Debbie coughed. 'Put your head into my shoulder, dear, and breathe through this hanky, that will help.' Their eyes were now really stinging, as the smoke coming from the stairwell became much thicker.

'At last,' Harry announced, 'we're at the bottom – over here to the front door.' He guided her through thick smoke, but instead of an open door, they found a knot of desperate people.

Apparently someone trying to get in had caused a jam. Everyone behind simply pushed more and more frantically as they could see a fireball was about to burst through the ceiling, and join up with the stairwell cauldron.

Black smoke swirled around them all, and the smell of burning oil and materials was terrible, the noise mounting by the second. Their throats were stinging from the smoke, and they were coughing non-stop now, fighting to breathe.

Harry had a hanky to his nose. 'We're not going to get out this way. We'll have to try and get to a ground floor window from one of the flats here,' he roared.

The torch had not been much use in the thick smoke, as it just gave back a blank reflection, but Harry knew the layout of the flats and had been relying on remembering where the walls were, and exactly where the doors to the flats must be.

'Here's the door to No. 2.' It was locked. 'Oh no!' he muttered under his breath. 'How is Debbie doing?'

'Okay so far.' Kate was still firmly attached to him, and was not going to let go under any circumstances, because visibility was now down to zero.

Harry followed the wall quickly. 'Ah, here's No. 1.' Directly under their own flat, the layout would be familiar. Thankfully the door opened and they tumbled inside. At that moment a big explosion of flame came from behind them. That means the fire has broken through to the ground floor now, Harry thought with alarm.

The flames seemed intent on catching them as they slammed the door shut. Little tongues of flame started to creep under the door, seeming to be searching for them, and the room started filling quickly with smoke.

At least here the torchlight became more useful. 'There's the window,' said Harry pointing with the torch. A glint of reflection from the big window helped them orientate themselves in the room.

At the window, they found a desk in the way.

'Damnation!' shouted Harry. Coughing all the time he pulled it aside. 'Be ready, Kate, because I'm going to smash the window with this chair, and glass'll go everywhere. So watch out. Ready?'

'Yes, ready.' She turned her back to the window, shielding Debbie as much as she could. Kate's air supply was just about out, and she knew that she would faint soon. She also knew she must stay alert to ensure the child would be delivered to someone, through that window at all cost.

Debbie was still coughing and crying, and finally went limp on Kate's shoulder.

With a break in her voice, Kate called to him: 'She's collapsed Harry.'

'Bang' went the chair into the window, and 'bang' went a new explosion just outside their door. Kate felt herself sagging, but the outline of some firemen appeared at the window frame, and she threw Debbie to the nearest of them shouting, 'Her name's Debbie Masters.'

Harry had become a limp pile on the floor, with the flames greedily hurrying to him, so she shouted and pointed to him, when she too, ran out of air at that point, and collapsed.

~~~

The three policemen were watching a young, dark-haired man in a grey hooded jacket. He had been noticed at the scene as soon as they arrived. As they watched, they saw that, strangely, he was uninterested in the fire, but hung around one particular area watching as each body arrived from the stricken building. He told them he was looking for a friend.

~~~

Kate woke up lying on the grass. A doctor adjusted the oxygen mask on her face. 'Where are you Harry?' she called in panic, although her voice sounded like a rasp.

'Try not to talk too much,' the doctor advised. 'You have swallowed a fair bit of smoke. You will have a sore throat for a while, but you will feel better soon. I'll leave you with Jenny here. She'll get you a drink of water if you'd like one.'

Gratefully she croaked: 'Yes, I'd love one please.' The oxygen mask felt cumbersome.

A pretty young girl with long blonde hair was sitting on a small stool beside her. As she put another cool cloth on Kate's forehead she said: 'I'm Jenny, and I'll go and get you that drink.' She was smiling at her with gentle, kind eyes that assured her that things were not too bad.

Catching at the girl's coat, Kate asked anxiously 'No, wait – would you know where my husband, Harry Roberts, is?' She was hard pressed not to sob aloud.

The girl held her hand as she told her, 'Yes. I know that Harry's been taken to hospital, in the last ambulance. He's okay. Some burning at the back, but the paramedics agreed he would be quite all right. You are both very lucky that the firemen got to you when they did, as bits of your clothes were on fire at the time. Did you know that? Your hair is even singed at the back.'

'There was a little girl – Debbie.'

'Her mother has her now. She fared the best. You saved her life and her parents hugged everyone in sight when they found her. To say they are grateful is an understatement. You know, while the firemen were rescuing you through the window, her mum and dad were frantically biffing all the people who were trying to get out of the front door, as they were trying to get in to rescue Debbie. It caused the most awful knot of people, and no-one could get in or out. Firemen cleared the door jam, and of course, the one carrying Debbie walked past. Debbie had already recovered. A short while ago a friend picked up the whole family and took them to their home.'

'That's wonderful,' whispered Kate, more relaxed now that she'd heard the news.

'Some of the people at the back of that group were badly burned I am afraid,' said Jenny. 'The doctors here worked on you and Harry for about 15 minutes when you first arrived, but thank goodness, you seem to be recovering well. I come from the other set of flats next door,' she continued. 'I only moved in three weeks ago. We heard the bells on the fire trucks first and when we looked across at your building we could see the whole of the top of it was well alight. Flames were shooting through the roof from the beginning.

'We were all evacuated, so came down as quickly as we could to see if we could help – and we have been quite busy.' She smiled. 'Now I really will go and get you that glass of water!'

Kate managed a grateful smile in return.

The grass felt cool on Kate's back, and the wonderful air that she was now breathing from the mask felt good, cooling her throat. She investigated the back of her head, and sure enough she realised part of her hair had been singed. As she felt it, a piece crumbled away, and she could smell that special aroma of burnt hair quite strongly. I hope it won't take too long to grow back, she thought anxiously.

Everywhere she looked was a scene of activity. Temporary lights had been arranged somehow. People were on stretchers, chairs, or being helped into vehicles, many wearing bandages. Kate marvelled at all the help that had been assembled so expertly, in the middle of the night, everyone just bent on helping those caught in this shocking dilemma.

She thought of the rough treatment of the panicking escapees who could have caused such damage to the three of them when fleeing down the stairs, and yet out here people were swarming with blankets, towels, anything that they thought might help. In fact, someone had put a blanket over her, she noticed. It's true, an emergency can raise the best and worst in us I suppose, she mused.

Jenny returned with the wonderful cool water.

'Thank you. It was all so frightening, but all I can think about is Harry,' she whispered. She was unable to stop an avalanche of tears.

Jenny patted her hand in sympathy. With a little smile she said: 'I think you're so brave. You've escaped a vicious fire, and saved a little girl's life. You've done a wonderful job!'

Kate tried to smile. She looked at Jenny – a lovely girl who could have just been watching all the activity from the sidelines, but instead, here she was, in the thick of it, helping out wonderfully making sure we all feel comfortable, she thought.

Without warning, the grip on Kate's hand tightened until it hurt. Kate looked up and saw that Jenny had stiffened, staring at a menacing, semi-crouched grey hooded figure. Jenny looked terrified.

'Saw you walking with the glass of water. So you're still alive, bitch,' he hissed.

Jenny cowered. 'Bart Mathews, you are not allowed to be nearer than 200 metres of me!' Jenny's voice was shrill. Kate could feel that Jenny was shaking badly.

The tension in Jenny's hand transferred itself through to Kate, and she became terrified too. The hooded young man took a step nearer to Jenny. Jenny shrank as close to Kate as she could.

'They told me no-one survived from the third floor!' He spoke in a quiet, but menacing voice. 'How did you escape?'

Jenny stood motionless. She felt as though she had been blasted by a shock of cold air. With a thud she thought: I used to live in that building. I lived on the top floor – where the fire started. There's no coincidence here. I'm looking at a man who is a stalker, on drugs, and obviously criminally pathological too.

The sinister figure took another two steps closer, and Kate held her breath. 'How come you don't even have a spot of the fire on you...' He stopped in mid sentence, sensing danger. He turned and went to run, but the police were too quick. All three policemen pounced on this kicking, struggling individual, quickly handcuffed him and bundled him into the waiting police car, followed smartly by two of his captors.

Jenny didn't release her grip on Kate's hand until after the car had disappeared, and she was visibly shaking. One policeman had stayed behind to question Jenny. He asked her several questions, and they spoke together quietly just out of earshot. Soon Jenny returned.

'Who was that awful man?' whispered Kate. 'Did he start the fire? Do all of this damage?'

'I'm sure he did. I went on a blind date with my friend and her fiancé. Bart was the blind part of the date. We went to a rock concert, and I paid for my own ticket so I wouldn't be beholden to anyone. From the start he was weird. He was like an octopus – all over me and started whispering in my ear what we were going to do after the concert. Straight away I let him know that I wasn't interested, but he didn't understand the word 'no' to sex – it just seemed to make him more possessive. When the two boys went for drinks I took off and escaped in a taxi. I thought that would be that, but he's been stalking me ever since – for months now.

'He turned up at my home, threatened my mother when she tried to warn him off, and we often saw someone in a car parked nearby, just sitting there for hours. We live on our own, and were both terrified. So we went to the police. You saw how big he is, and how scary – and probably mental. We told them that.' Jenny started to shake again.

'They said they were powerless to do anything because he hadn't harmed me – yet,' she gave a wry laugh. 'So I went through the courts to have an intervention order put on him, and changed my address – originally to your set of flats. You see, I met this very pleasant young man,' she said shyly, 'he lived over here, so I moved in with him. My old flat wasn't sold, so my name was still on my letterbox. Bart wouldn't know that. He had the old address, the wrong address.'

Kate was shocked, the tears long gone, replaced by disbelief. 'You poor dear, fancy having someone like that pester you: and he would start a fire that would kill people, just because he was angry?'

Although Jenny was still ashen-faced, she seemed a little more relaxed now. 'Yes, it would seem he would do that.' With bitterness she added: 'At least now the police might lock him up somewhere so that he can't harm anyone else. I'm sorry, Kate, to have caught you up in all this, on top of everything else.'

Kate gave Jenny's hand a reassuring squeeze.

They watched the firemen still trying to save what they could. Some stubborn flames were dancing at several spots, daring the hoses of the firemen to catch them.

Everything we own will have gone up in smoke, Kate thought sadly: mementos of happy trips, irreplaceable photos, their clothes, Harry's precious golf clubs, all his prizes, books and music collection – all gone. Even our IDs are gone.

Kate shook herself out of self-pity and remembered. Harry and I were lucky to get out of that mess alive. She had the biggest lump in her throat as she thought of him.

Several photographers' flash bulbs were going off.

'Looks as though the press has arrived,' said Jenny. Then more sombrely, to herself, 'And they'll be after all the details won't they? Look,' she said brightly, 'here's your ambulance. You'll be with Harry in a few minutes, and then you'll feel better.' She gave Kate a little hug. 'Good luck Kate!'

The ambulance drove up and two paramedics stepped out. In complete opposition to the drama of the fire and Bart's appearance, they arrived with that calm, quiet competence they always bring, going about their work with cheerful encouragement, finally sliding Kate safely into the ambulance. Kate relaxed for the first time.

'Thank you for looking after me, Jenny, but after all that drama, shouldn't you be coming along too?'

'No, I have something else to do,' she smiled. 'I'm going to the police area over there. I will be making a statement, and of course, I'll be "helping them with their enquiries".'

A young man had joined her and had his arm around her waist. Jenny waved and went on her way.

### Saturday 10 August 2013 4 pm

It Takes Quite Some Time

Lynn Nickols

Griffith, ACT

'What is it that you see out there? You're often standing peering out towards the banks of the billabong.'

'Well, I'm just curious as to what those enormous four-legged creatures are,' she said. 'They seem to wander around, munching on leaves and ferns and grass and making the most shattering noises. And haven't you noticed how they also come down to the edge of our billabong and slurp our water up? That's why I check occasionally. I'd hate to be too near the edge when they do that. We could get sucked up too.'

'I don't often feel inclined to stand up like that. It's so tiring.'

'Well, Lazybones, you'd better practise. Who knows when we might have no water left here and have to walk to the next billabong? You've developed your lobe fins now, so use them or lose them! And remember you have to breathe differently out of the water. I know it's a bit uncomfortable, but hey! – worth the effort to find another river.'

Time passed – a very long, long time – and sure enough the freshwater inland lake eventually did dry up. They had moved overland several times to find more water, but now knew that this was it. The rains were not due for another six months and there was no food left for them. They had never learned to eat the tough grasses like those other huge animals. In fact they had outlived most of them, because those animals needed water too. Skeletons ringed their billabong. It looked like hell on earth. Lazybones and his partner touched fins and curled up together to face the inevitable.

'Goodbye, my sweet,' she said. 'It's been fun until now. We'll just have to console ourselves with that dream I had and hope it comes true.'

'Which dream was that?'

'You know. The one where we become famous. You always wanted to be famous. Well, not in our lifetime. I dreamed that we became posthumously famous. We had to wait until some weird creatures with only two legs found our bones. Then they cleaned us very carefully and thousands of them came and admired us and gave us new names and said we're from the Devonian Period, whatever that means.'

Lazybones was feeling very weary and weak, but he rather liked her dream.

'What will our new names be, and how long will we have to wait?' he asked.

She rolled over with a last wistful sigh and closed her eyes.

'They will call this place Canowindra and they will call us Canowindra grossi, and you can now settle in for a good, long rest. We won't be disturbed for 360 million years!'

### Sunday 11 August 2013

End Game

JH Mancy

Tallebudgera, QLD

She stood at the window, gun in hand. She drank in the view, knowing she'd not see it again. The countryside was resplendent in all the colours of autumn. It was her favourite season. She'd loved to sit in the dappled shade provided by huge trees the council had planted many years ago in the 'family friendly' park near her house.

Too late for such yearnings now. One last check of the room revealed everything in place and in order. Note displayed on bench, where it could easily be seen. Small groundsheet to catch any splatters.

The time had come; but her body refused to move. Her wily enemy, procrastination, had her remembering past hurts. They chipped away at her confidence. Her self esteem had taken a nose dive, leaving her a broken shell. She resented the questioning of her every idea and the patronising innuendoes that she was somehow inadequate. Her opinions not worthy of response.

She was tired of the lack of any measure of support, when every fibre of her being cried out for it. To have been pushed aside, as of no consequence, after being physically attacked and falsely accused by an in-law. To have her name besmirched both in town and in court by her attacker.

Then to witness that evil man wooing and dining the very person who was meant to be her protector – and seeing that false protector show tacit approval to the aggressor by agreeing to the wooing and dining, whilst she, the innocent party, had to sneak about like the other woman just to spend a few hours with her daughter.

Turning from the window, she dragged her body the few metres to the bench and with sad heart read the note for the last time. She flicked the switch, empowering the gun and affixed his keys to the wall.
Monday 12 August 2013

### Snapshots From A Railway Carriage

Jean Bundesen

Woodford, NSW

Sky overcast

With light grey clouds.

Through a porthole

Blue sky is peeping.

Clouds around suffused

With soft golden light,

As the train hurries

Rattling, creaking

Soft fluffy clouds

Clothe the sky

Golden light snuffed out.

Speeding along

Golden light returns

Feathery clouds

Are shimmering

Home is waiting.

### Tuesday 13 August 2013

Window of Opportunity

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, NSW

Know,

When

Crossroads

Beckon us,

Decisions are made.

Keeping faith alive with caution,

Change from possibilities to probabilities.

Life mapping has only the boundaries, which, imposed by law and sensibility,

Allow, like pink heather spilling over a dry stonewall,

Enriched by sun and healing rain,

A bounty of hope.

With courage,

Begin

To

Move.

### Tuesday 13 August 2013 4 pm

Do Not Dare...

Felicity Lynch

Katoomba, NSW

Do not dare to become old

Do not dare to expect

Love, fun and laughter

Do not dare to give an opinion

Dress in a modern sense

Dare not to hide yourself

To feel helpless, getting frailer

No less independent

A little bit forgetful

Or even 'a lot of forgetful'

Do not expect people to see you

There is so much fear of the elderly

That one day they may be like us

With lined, tired faces and bodies

Our work histories

Our lives before we got old

Young and beautiful

With loving husbands

And beautiful young happy children

Is just ignored

We have no place, not useful

Feeling that if one was dead

The inheritance would be so useful

Shunted off to dreadful retirement homes

We see on our televisions

Frail old people being found

Bashed, dehydrated, drugged, malnourished

And fearful

Death is designed to fit

Pre-planned advanced care directives

Death is our companion stalker

Do not dare to become old

### Wednesday 14 August 2013

Darkened Night

Rachel Branscombe

Quakers Hill, NSW

In darkened night I see the stars

Shining against the sky

Golden buttons against a sea of black and blue

In darkened night I see the moon

Sitting boldly in the sky

Its white beams shining brightly

In darkened night I feel the wind

I feel its cold fingers

I feel its breath down my neck

And when I'm alone it sends shivers down my back

This darkened night that I call home

Where night time is my friend

Where hidden secrets rule

This darkened night with sunlight coming soon
Thursday 15 August 2013

### Reality Check

Sarah Clay

Athelstone, SA

I was basking in the sunshine when I glanced down at my legs.

I recalled a deep voice saying, 'That's a lovely pair of pegs'.

Then I looked again and noticed that my mohair socks had grown

and each hair, sunlight-illumined, had a fish-scale of its own.

I quickly yanked my cuffs full down, resolved right there and then

to lavish, smooth and pamper them when I got home again.

Rough toe nails, set in sandals, had polish in a band,

the cuticles were rigid, the heels like builders' sand.

These feet that get me through each day deserve to have it right.

I'd give myself some foot care while I watched TV tonight.

At home, life soon got busy, cooking dinner, cleaning up,

with telephone and emails and a lively kelpie pup.

TV was looking dreary so I took a book to bed,

Dozed off, still wearing glasses, woke at three o'clock instead.

As I pattered down the hallway on my journey to the loo

I recalled the resolution of my sunlit point of view.

I could do it, I would do it, they were such an awful sight.

I would give myself some nurture but perhaps tomorrow night.

### Friday 16 August 2013

#

#

### My Light

Jenny Kathopoulis

Wodonga, VIC

Please do not dim my light

with the cut of your sarcasm

and the slap of your indifference

or the whip of your anger;

It flickers weakly.

Please do not smother my light

with your clenched back

and your waspish tongue

or your distant hands;

It fades slowly.

Please do not suppress my light

with the stab of your mockery

and the bite of your contempt

or the pinch of your silence;

It fizzles softly.

Please do not quash my light

with your bored gaze

and your false words

or your cheating lips;

It splutters feebly.

You can't extinguish my light

with truth I spark the wick

and the flame smoulders soft

or if stoked it roars to life;

It shines too bright for you.

Ed: We liked the rhythm of this poem, the word play, the structure, but above all, the defiant, empowering, punchline. Inspirational!

### Saturday 17 August 2013 4 pm

The House On Napoleon Street

Winsome Smith

Lithgow, NSW

Ah, feel it.

Feel how the empty house shrinks in on itself

like lips on a toothless mouth.

Wonder, now that they've gone,

how three generations found room

for massive chairs with antimacassars,

for sideboards and cabinets with cabriole legs,

whole cumbersome suites and completed glory boxes.

Reflect, if you will,

that here lived a family of bellowing rage

whose uproar of voices and booming thunderbolts of anger

made the stranger stand back, astonished.

Then consider

that in this resounding cacophony of hatred

even the walls recoiled

to accommodate the noise.

Now feel, with a shudder, the diminishing house

And hear nothing

But the slow thud of the banging gate.
Sunday 18 August 2013

### Words Fail Me

Marilyn Linn

Darlington, SA

I would have, if I could have,

but I didn't – so you see,

I'm standing here frustrated,

feeling like a tree.

My feet are firmly planted,

but my head sways to and fro,

I really want to do it,

but the words refuse to flow.

My mother always knew it,

'You're a ditherer,' she'd say,

'Always put off 'til tomorrow,

what you should do today.'

I plan to write a story,

but the plot I cannot catch,

the hero and the heroine

do not seem to match.

My imagination tangles

in a hot and steamy scene,

and my face turns red with blushes

at where my mind has been!

Does she love him? Will she kill him?

Will they run away to Spain?

Can she have another romance

while travelling on the train?

I'm feeling quite exhausted

as I put my pen aside,

motivation comes and goes,

like the slowly ebbing tide.

I'll sort it out tomorrow,

I'll get organised by then.

I need a snack, I'll have a sleep,

and then begin again.

### Monday 19 August 2013

Wind

Jordan Black

Cloncurry, QLD

Around my face it moves hot or cold

We all feel it day to day young or old

Gentle breeze through ancient trees

Savage winds move savage seas

It howls, flows, whistles and wails

Puts kites in air and fills our sails

Wind comes towards us and away

Blows at night and through the day

Freedom bought freedom earned

The wind is my freedom when I leave the urn
Monday 19 August 2013 4 pm

### A Spell For Ireland

David Jenkins

O'Connor, ACT

As the Goddess Ériu lives and breathes,

Her rugged green land sighs and heaves.

And she weeps the rains for pity's sake,

Her tears the river, the lough and lake.

And the dotted lines from her to me,

That fly and flow her heart's deep sea.

Though I cannot see her, and she not I,

Love traces bright arcs and does not lie.

And when this good great land is finally one,

She'll weep some more; and her peace be done.

### Tuesday 20 August 2013

Sum Wee Wurds O'Praise, Marilyn

Alexander Gardiner

Bullaburra, NSW

Wance apone a time lang ago,

there wis this beauty that wis so very so.

A beauty wae lotes an' lotes o'class ,

bit that beauty noo his came tae pass.

Reekin' wae class ma Bonny Lass,

a remember aw yer spectacular past.

Yea wir beautiful and saft like a baby fawn,

an' fresh Lass; as fresh as a crispy dawn.

Oh Bonny Lassy stonnin' there,

oh tae hiv met yea wid hiv bin ma prayer.

Jings yea hid sic muckle beauty,

tae hiv looked efter yea wid hiv bin ma welcum duty.

Day an' nicht a wid hiv guarded yea ma Bonny Lass,

nae cravin' pervert ah wid hiv lit pass.

Cos' a kid see yea didnae wear muckle claes,

an yer chist reminds me o' Bonny Scoatish braes.

Jings a did luv yer Bonny roondid' bahookie,

ah wisnae leerin' Lass, jist had a wee lookie.

My passions came frae deep within.

ma Bonny Lass; ma thochts; ... Ding a ling ling.

Oany kidden' Bonny Lass,

a did admire yea; Yea wir a touch o'class.

An' ma few wurds Bonny Lass arrr' nae simply enuf,

bit whit a hiv jist said Lass, is jist oaf the cuff.

### Wednesday 21 August 2013

Two For One

Susan Kay

Bellevue Heights, SA

Shall I have a hip replacement, or a pair of rainbow coloured drawstring pants? Maybe I could have a knee replacement instead, then I'd need the pants wouldn't I? But my hips are more trouble. If I got them both replaced I wonder if there'd be a discount? Two for one. And if they throw in the knees it might be really cheap. I should go to the free orthopaedic seminar. It's just round the corner from the free seminar on buying land just outside Kakadu. On the same day, too. Just think, my own house up north. It's hot up there though. My brother got ulcers working up there. And dengue. The ulcers were on his legs. Yuck. Suppurating. What a great word. Maybe if he'd used more baby powder, kept his legs drier. Still, he only had to have one amputated. They saved the other, although it has a big hole now where the gangrene got away.

Oh, is it 10 o'clock already? I'm going to be late. These magazines make you forget the time. Now where're my keys? Oh I'm really late now. Ah... bathroom, I was putting on my earrings and, yep, they're here by the sink. Floor's wet, gotta get a new shower curtain. I'll just stick a towel on the floor.

~~~

It's cold in here. Must have fallen, silly cow. Something hurts. Got a bump on the head; hit the edge of the bath I guess. Can't get up. Oh, shit! Something's broken. Where's my mobile? Downstairs. Bugger, bugger, bugger!

~~~

Good thing Maggie came round for a cuppa. Only on the floor two days. She's waiting in Emergency with me, which is nice of her. Hip replacement you say? Really? Is it cheaper to get them both done? No need? What about the knees? I really like those drawstring pants. I think I'll get them anyway.
Thursday 22 August 2013

### Australistan

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, NSW

We walk in unmarked sand; some of us came from Afghanistan –

It was not considered underhand when we brought to this foreign land ...

our expertise to roam the desert.

Dromedary camels were on hand, imported in from Rajasthan –

and from what is now called Pakistan. We opened up the wide brown land;

following explorers such as Sturt.

Now in the dust of Afghanistan, blood is spilt on unmarked sand –

we flee from the Taliban but we are now known as contraband ...

For destiny comes too soon.

In the unmarked sand of Tranquillity, Neil Armstrong made history –

But he did not convert to Islam though he lived in Lebanon, Ohio ...

He just walked upon the Moon.

Across the endless dead centre waste, runs a train with leisurely pace –

It's known as the 'Ghan', and, luxurious within runs from Adelaide to Darwin

following the cameleers' tracks.

We glide over endless sand in cocooned ease aboard the 'Ghan' –

A chardonnay in either hand with barely a thought for camels or man ...

or the Aboriginals black.

Ten thousand camels brought to these shores have now become a million more

A feral legacy to be sure, another ruinous burden for ...

the 'lucky country's' hacks.

We walk in unmarked sand; the day of judgement is at hand –

We left our camels; that was not planned ...

For destiny comes too soon.
Friday 23 August 2013

#

#

### Game

Judith Bruton

Lennox Head, NSW

No human being is innocent, but there is a class of innocent human actions called Games.

~ W.H.Auden

Almost three decades ago the ubiquitous Rubik's Cube was a popular puzzle. For many players it was simply a game – simply a game, like dying is simplydeath. This memory was playing in Tanya's mind this morning as she lingered in bed. Last night she had dreamt of murder and awoke remembering another game they played in the 1980s, on Ben's thirtieth birthday. It too was simply a game.

Tanya lay back on her pillow recalling how during the week preceding Ben's birthday she had smuggled in tubs of pâté, mini toast, guacamole and French onion dip, Jatz biscuits, a dozen champagne, red wine and a generous Black Forest gateau. She even lashed out and bought bourbon for the whisky sours. Luckily Ben was quite unaware of the secrets of the refrigerator and did not question its unusually abundant contents. As a couple busy with careers, the fridge normally was relatively empty with skimmer milk, cheese, sausage and a few limp vegetables lurking in the crisper.

In the afternoon of Ben's special day they had driven to a local beach, splashed in the sea together, sunbaked on glaring sand and arrived back at their red brick home about five, feeling hotter than before they left. Ben stayed in his bather-shorts and had a cold beer on the deck; Tanya could still see the sand flecking his dark hair, taste the salt and sweat streaking his tanned body. She remembered showering and dressing in a black silk slip-of-a-dress. After carefully putting on makeup and arranging her long, dark hair into a French twist, she added a spray of L'air du Temps – all the time trying to remain nonchalant like we're-not-doing-anything-special-for-your-birthday-tonight-darling.

Tanya recollected how anxious she felt when she heard rustling at their front door about six-thirty on the birthday evening. She hoped the guests would arrive at seven and together as planned. She had called to Ben, still lounging on the deck, 'I'm just going to check the letterbox. Be back in a sec.' Once outside the front door, Tanya glimpsed Danny crouching behind an overgrown aspidistra trying to be invisible. 'Shhh! They're all waiting at the top of the drive,' he had whispered.

Tanya looked up to see the eclectic group of friends she and Ben had collected at art school a decade ago. They were dressed in motley after-five outfits, black ties and little sexy dresses. And that's just the men, she quipped to herself as she envisaged the hot summer's night set to change lives forever. She laughed to recall the indelible image of the crew doing the Rumba while pulsating stainless-steel shakers of Pina Coladas, Bloody Marys and Black Russians. By the looks on their faces they had enjoyed a few already. A dangerous idea, a cocktail party on a stinker of a Friday night, she considered in hindsight. But we were crazy then. Mortgages, babies and teaching careers had not yet quelled her friends' spirits, their desire to be bohemians – albeit within the confines of cheap, suburban housing on the outskirts of an ultra-conservative city. Tanya remembered how she and Ben had flouted convention by procuring a house before considering marriage, and children were definitely not part of the plan. We're never going to be tied down – ever! She reminded herself of their mantra. They were only teaching to save enough money to live and paint in Paris, or New York maybe, wherever the art scene was the most vibrant.

Tanya chuckled as she reminisced. Yes, she mused, Ben was surprised, if not horrified, when forty odd people doing versions of the Salsa descended on his privacy, squealing 'Happy Birthday' and presenting him with gifts and weird, colourful potions. He was caught in his swimming outfit and eventually pulled a black waistcoat over his bare top and donned a crimson art deco tie. He always looked so dashing, my Ben.

The party that started in the driveway gathered momentum very early in the evening with shrill laughter, vibrating music and champagne corks shooting into the sultry night and beyond the spiked merriment. Party time shuddered and juddered, shook and throbbed eventually collapsing into three o'clock the following morning. The night air had barely cooled and most people were in the lounge room seeking relief under the ceiling fans. Several couples left after midnight to be home for their young children, but at least a dozen revellers were very awake with the concentrated focus and clarity that too much alcohol can sometimes evoke. Rick, who managed to live the non-conformist life of a 'real' artist, was always on London time ever since studying for a master's degree there a few years earlier. He was at his best in the early morning and, with several drinks under his belt, was rearing to go. Ah, Rick, Tanya sighed. Unbridled, passionate, creative, worldly, sure-to-be-successful Rick.

'I know, let's play Murder in the Dark,' Rick dared with a wicked glint as he poured himself another bourbon chaser. Helen, his fey-blonde-leggy-textile-artist wife winced and took a sip from the same green cocktail she had been nursing for the last two hours. 'The babysitter was expecting us three hours ago,' she seethed.

'Murder who?' Tanya imagined Ben saying as he slumped onto the modular lounge between her and a couple entwined in what appeared to be a shared coma.

'Okay, listen. It's just an innocent mystery game,' Rick explained. 'We'll need a deck of cards.'

'Haven't any,' Ben said, probably trying to suggest nobody was into games at this hour, and hoping to placate Helen who was becoming paler and more irritable by the minute.

Determined to spice up the party, Rick glanced around until he spied the carved wooden chess-set Ben had collected while backpacking through India in the 1970s.

'We'll use chess pieces. Pick out one ace... eh, the black king will do... the black queen, and the black castle. Pass out other pieces, one per player, and tell them not to show anyone. The person with the king is the murderer, the person with the queen, the victim, and the one with the castle, the detective. All other players are innocent bystanders.'

'If they can still stand.' Tanya thought she might have said.

'After the detective leaves the room, and in the dark, the murderer "kills" one of the players, who screams and plays dead. The scream is the detective's cue to re-enter the room... everyone questioned tells the truth, only the murderer must lie.'

Tanya realised that over time she had forgotten the purpose of the game and guessed Ben, not one to concentrate on details at anytime, probably said, 'Hmm, sounds complicated.' And Helen no doubt added in her slow-emphatic-know-it-all-voice, before giggling to modify her cynical tone, 'This will make the party truly unfor-get-table.'

Tanya recalled somebody flicked off the light, possibly Danny who was barely able to speak coherently by then. Black-moonless-sultry-sticky-night. People shuffled and scurried, doors squeaked several times, more than one person left the room.

A female scream penetrated the expectant atmosphere.

Light switched on. People had rearranged themselves like chess pieces on speed and lay draped over lounges or spread on the shagpile carpet. It seemed like a surreal art performance the meaning of which was deliberately obscure. Bodies formed new patterns after every flick of the light switch. Insolvable puzzle. More screams. Parts of the riddle disappearing. People were bending the rules. Who needed rules after midnight? Mortgages, kids and tedious jobs seemed light years away. Thirty-something-year-olds became children, squealing, sloshing down drinks, throwing Black Forest cake onto Tanya's white Indian cotton curtains, giggling. She had forgotten if any 'murderers' were ever revealed; only the visual drama stayed in her mind.

Recalling these events this morning reminded Tanya in a strange way of when she was tea monitor in grade seven, a very trustworthy position. She would linger with the other two monitors in the teacher-deserted upstairs staffroom long after the second recess bell had sounded. After their chores, the girls would play hide-and-seek in tall, wooden cupboards amidst rolled charts and world maps, chalk and inkbottles; under tables covered with crisp cloths and behind heavy velvet curtains. Stolen time was delicious and breaking the teachers' trust addictive.

Lights off. Tanya remembered feeling a sweaty hand on her bare thigh reaching higher beneath her dress. She moved away but a warm bourbon breath surrounded her, whispering 'I want you... come with me to the back studio.' A hot body pressed against her, strong insistent arms encircled her slight frame. Rick was pleading, 'I want you now... Tanya, now.' Rick, the charismatic and mature Rick, was begging her. 'Tanya, nobody will know...'

Tanya quivered as she recalled the aphrodisiac of feeling desired, and how the Screaming Orgasm she had downed before the game was swimming upstream in her head with the Fluffy Ducks from earlier in the evening. 'Rick, no... not here.' She meant to say 'NO, never!' but she was melting as were the lines between play, flirtation, lust and –

Lights flicked on. She and Rick were illuminated on the lounge room floor in a groping kind of awkward hug, her slip-of-a-dress almost slipping off and the black queen rolling out of her hand. Tanya could never erase Helen's glare from her memory – Helen's frozen glare and long, thin white arm wielding a crisp, painful slap to Rick's face. Helen, her once good friend. And Rick's pathetic caught-in-the-headlights look. And Ben, gazing at the scene in a non-comprehendo-one-too-many-cocktails-manner as if saying 'This really is a night of surprises'. And the other couples smirking, applauding, perhaps pleased their tactics and desires weren't as obvious.

Tanya pushed her reminiscence away as she got out of bed, pulled on her flannelette robe and wandered down to the scene of the 'crime' all those years ago, the lounge-room, where Ben was busy trying to slay a Playstation monster.

It's simply a game, it's simply a game, she hummed as she wondered what to do for Ben's sixtieth birthday next week. 'Darling, what would you like for your birthday this year?'

'No bloody surprises, that's what I'd like,' Ben snapped as he continued to zap the writhing, animated beast. Tanya appreciated gaming was his way of unwinding after a difficult week of teaching.

Next to the widescreen television and on the cabinet between silver-framed photos of Tanya and Ben's three adult children sat the Indian chess set, its pieces arranged ready for new players. The set was never the same after Ben's thirtieth birthday party. The original black king, the white queen and several pawns were still missing. Ben's attempts to carve new pieces and stain them to suit, stood out in a clumsy but practical way, and were an honest attempt to apply his artistic abilities. One summer's night, decades ago, it was simply a game but there were a couple of small deaths, perhaps more than Tanya realised at the time.

Ed: It is hard to write a story using the minutiae of life without either blowing that detail up into something it doesn't deserve, or boring the reader to tears with it. This story manages to use minutiae effectively, cluing us in that drama is on the way which, when it eventually arrives, is handled quickly and quietly. There are no fights. No screaming. No violence. But thirty years later, in a different set of life's minutiae, we can see the bruises, the damage done...

### Saturday 24 August 2013

The Bend In The Road

Peter Goodwin

Warilla, NSW

We never came out of the bend in the road. The car was pressed into the steep bank, its windows smashed, its doors flung open and bent. I was on the floor beneath the passenger seat decorated in fragments of glass. You had been hurled from the car through the windscreen. I called your name, but no answer. I crawled out of the wreckage and saw you lying in a muddy ditch beneath the black trees stretching into the night sky. As I struggled towards you, you rose, staggered, and fell into my arms. The shattered glass had torn your face, your body damaged and bleeding from the fall. I sat on the ground with you draped across my arms, your head tilted backwards, your mouth slightly open, your eyes unfocused and lost. Your arms hung idly at your side, your hands open and useless. Are you all right? I whispered, my lips near your flesh. You just moaned. I did not know if I was hurt. It was hard to tell in the darkness and the rain, your body so close to mine. We could not have been far from home, but there was nothing to be done. I had no sense of time. I heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Out of the darkness, a figure draped in long, swaying garments came towards us, and then another figure trailing behind over the knotted roots of the trees came stumbling towards us. They shone a torch in our eyes searching for the dead only to find the two of us in each other's arms quivering in the little cone of light. They separated us, and laid out in the mud like worms squirming in the soil, they wrapped us in blankets and carried us away.

### Sunday 25 August 2013

The Travel Bug

John Ross

Blackheath, NSW

'Good morning listeners. This is radio station KLX24. Thank you for tuning in to our breakfast show. As you just heard on the weather report it is a beautiful clear morning right across our city so it is time to get up and face another day. Don't go away as straight after these important messages we have a surprise for you.

'If you need more zip in your day try the revolutionary health tablets that are making a great comeback after some, now discredited, assessments. Yes Mr Rudd's small, one a day, white tablets will get you zipping about in no time at all.

'For relief from constant constipation we recommend Big Brother tablets. Just one tablet a week will give you the desired results.

'Some good advice there.

'My surprise. Well this morning we have our much respected travel expert here in the studio with me. He is affectionately known as the "Travel Bug". Welcome home Jorn.'

'Thank you. It is very nice to be back again in familiar surroundings.'

'Well it is nice to have you back in our studio. We have all been following your very informative weekly reports with great interest. Last week you had just left the city of Madrid and were headed for London. You told us that you were expecting some quite cold weather there, even the possibility of snow. So how did it turn out?'

'It did not snow but I found the city rather depressing weather wise. For my first three days there it rained constantly; not heavy, just a fine misty rain that was most annoying. If anyone intends travelling there make sure you take a rain coat and umbrella.'

'What were some of the things you experienced there, apart from the rain?'

'There are too many so I will just list a few. Their national dish of soggy potato chips with vile tasting vinegar is memorable. If you enjoy pomp and ceremony mixed with spine tingling excitement a high tea is not to be missed. A ride on the overcrowded, non air-conditioned, underground train system on a hot steamy afternoon is a sensory delight. There are many museums and historical sites such as the Tower, where you can view endless corridors of shiny body armour, tens of square miles of tapestries and learn a lot about the fact that in the past it was very dangerous to be married to a king. For a more detailed description of what to see and do your listeners will just have to buy my book, which will be available on-line in a few days.'

'You have been away travelling now for over a year so you must have had some interesting experiences and seen some wonderful things. Can you give the listeners just a glimpse of what to expect in your book?'

'Yes it has been a fabulous time and you are right, I have seen some amazing things. Most of these I have spoken about in the book. I don't want to give too much away but ...'

'I am sure that our listeners would like to hear just a few of the highlights.'

'Ok. Just a few teasers.'

'The pyramids in Egypt; all that beautiful stone available to be recycled yet they build their houses out of mud bricks. Walking along the ancient Roman Forum where in the past they had a strange habit of loaning each other their ears. The massive water fall at Niagara; why they didn't harness it for hydro electricity is a mystery. The new parliament house in Canberra; they buried most of it under dirt to keep all the hot air inside. A Grand Prix car race in Monaco; I must admit a bit of a disappointment after witnessing the traffic in both Rome and Paris.

'So what is the next destination in your continuing travels?'

'I am booked to travel to the planet designated Epsilon 36 in the Sigma quadrant next week. Unlike our planet, and the planet Earth where I have just been, it is uninhabited by intelligent life, so it will be a very different experience.'

'Well a safe journey "Travel Bug". Wow, fifteen planets visited over the past 10 years. What a lucky man!'
Monday 26 August and Tuesday 27 August 2013

### Boy

Hettie Ashwin

Port Douglas, QLD

The winds that blow in North Queensland are sometimes called the Mango winds, and the heat that precedes the winds and the impending wet can set a man's mind to madness.

I was waiting for the last transport to head south before the monsoons came. It was while I waited in the Magee Hotel in Collinsville that Faraday, the hotel publican, told me the story of Boy.

Faraday settled back, and with a fresh rum and a cigarette, began...

'Murray Webb, some said was born in the saddle. His life, if you cared to inquire, consisted of horses and cattle, and not much else. Spider, as he was known, in the dusty parts of the Australian north, where no man goes by choice, was a stockman. A ringer with a reputation. Rumours followed him around like the relentless flies. Men who knew Spider knew enough to keep their distance. He may have been the best drover this side of the border. He might have killed every wild dog or dingo within a 50 mile radius of the station but all that anyone could really say with any certainty was that Spider didn't have a merciful bone in his body.

'What had happened to Murray in his youth had coloured his life, and the scars of suffering ran so deep, they touched his heart and left their mark.

'Spider came to Collinsville looking for work. The drought had been hard, and the wind had laid bare the backbone of the land. Men wandered from one town to the next in search of a wage to stem their hunger and keep their self esteem. Honest labour can make a man and the lack of it can break him. Spider was on the hunt for a job. The one station that still had a few head of cattle and some feed, needed a drover.

'Sizzling Rock Station stood out in the shire as an example of good land and better management. The Stenton family had steadily built the land around the cattle and because they held the water, not much happened that didn't have their stamp on it. The last leading hand died, some said of bad blood. No-one wanted to say more, but plenty had an idea where the bad blood came from and none wanted to say. Tanner had run the cattle for Sizzlin' Rock for about ten years and he knew just about every inch of that station. Ol' man Stenton used to say he was a chip off the ol' block and we all knew what he meant. Tanner had the ol' man in him al'right, but, well, he wasn't strong enough and when the bush calls 'em, the black in 'em can't resist. Tanner went bush for a bit and when he finally came back well... the mixed blood always has a way of testing a man's mind and strengths and Tanner wasn't up to the fight. The white in him fought the black and he just up and died. Laid down on his bed, closed his eyes and never woke up.

'There was pragmatism in Faraday's words. Here was a man who had run an outback pub and probably seen more than his fair share of life at the sharp end, and yet he spoke the words with no more consideration than reading a label on a bottle.

'He just never woke up,' Faraday reiterated and supped his rum.

'Lance Stenton the business man, was on the lookout for a hand. Lance Stenton, the father, kept his feelings to himself. But we all knew it would have to be someone with talent to take the place of Tanner at Sizzlin' Rock. So when Spider came into town Stenton sought him out. Some fellas, no matter what their ugly past, just seem to land on their feet. Spider was like that. He stood over six foot, and in the saddle he towered over most men. He had a crag of a face, like a weathered rock. His dark eyes squinted at everything and he carried a permanent sneer the way some men carry a cigarette on their lip.'

Faraday looked at me earnestly, 'I never saw him take off his hat, not ever. I don't think he'd look the same without that hat. It was just part of him, part of what he was, and what he had become.'

I took a long draught of my cold beer and watched the ceiling fan endlessly turn, giving little comfort, except to the flies that followed it. Faraday continued.

'Whatever drove Spider it was relentless. He'd no more feelings for his fellow man than the stray dogs he would shoot, and the only saving grace he possessed was his way with cattle. He just knew how to handle 'em. What they'd be thinkin' and what they wanted. It was, some said, a gift. So it was that Lance Stenton engaged Murray Webb for a muster, and possible further employment, at Sizzlin' Rock Station.

'Lance's second man was Boy. Boy had grown up at Sizzlin' Rock and when Tanner up and died Boy expected to get the job. No-one knew where Boy had come from; just walked right out of the bush and Tanner took him in. There was something about Boy, a kinda feeling that he could see right through you, that made you look away. It was as if he was too old for the skin he was in, and so he kinda became invisible to the folks around these parts, lest he look too deep into a man's heart. Whenever Tanner came to town, Boy wasn't far behind, but he never drank. Tanner would take a lemonade out to him, but Boy, even when he was well above the age, never set foot in the bar. It's like that sometimes. The black fellas are afraid if they start they'll never stop. Tanner preferred to drink outside with Boy rather than up at the bar. I guess the colour of your skin is a dictate of your friends, no matter what's on the inside.'

As a magistrate I knew the truth in these words, having witnessed prejudice many times on both sides of the fence.

'Sizzlin' Rock is a large station. The cattle are feral most of the year so it's a long haul when they bring them in. Tanner used to go bush living on what he could find and it was a natural thing for him and Boy. I heard he killed a roo with his bare hands once but what is the truth and what is drink talkin', sometimes it's hard to tell.

'There were a couple of other blacks in the saddle the day Spider left for the muster and you could have cut the air with a knife as they rode through town. If Boy had a fight in him he kept it close to his chest. If Spider had any hope of those blokes following him he needed to make a stand.'

Faraday drew heavily on his cigarette then flicked the stub out the window in a practised movement. I wondered how many butts lay on the other side from a lifetime behind the bar.

'So the new man chose his moment, and just as he passed the hotel, he pulled his whip from his saddle and cracked it over Boy. That leather just caught the shirt and no more, but it was enough. Boy never said a word, but they all knew who was boss that day.

'But that wasn't the first time they had met. When Spider first blew into town he walked right past Boy on the verandah, but he hadn't downed his first drink when he came over all queer.

'"Somebody walk over your grave?" I asked.

'"Nah, just the heat," he said, "and the damn wind."

'"Yeah – the wind," I said to him. It can make sane men crazy. I've seen it before, but I could tell it was something more than just the wind, and all the while Boy just sat there, not sayin' a word.

'It's a hard life on the land, but for those fellas that choose it, it's second nature. The team found their head of beef and started to bring them home, but there was trouble brewing. Spider began to goad Boy.

'Some men would snap. I've seen it at the bar. A word said that goes over the line and the first punch is thrown. Some men like a fight – it clears the air, and you can get on with living. But Boy wouldn't fight. He wouldn't take the bait. No matter what insult, what remark, Spider came away with nothing. Spider went from the antagonist to the victim. With every snub he felt slighted. It was a twisted logic that left him wanting revenge. It all came to a head at Sizzling Rock. It's a flat piece of rock stuck out in the middle of bloody nowhere. A black kind of rock that just shouldn't be there. A strange sort of place that can make you scratch the back of your neck, like something's just not right. It catches the sun by day and by God you could fry an egg on it.'

Faraday leaned in close and confided, 'I went there once. As a lad, just before the wet. It was one of those days when it's too hot even to breathe. Your shirt sticks to your back and you wonder if you are already dead and this is your private hell. I can tell you, it's a crazy business waiting for the rains. So I get to the rock and it's still. Not a breath of wind. Just the sun. The rock was so hot it was all shimmery and it made you wonder if it was really there or just one of those mirages. The doorway to Hades. The blacks keep away from it, and I don't blame them. I wanted to touch it and was just plucking up the courage when it started to rain. Just a few drops at first and as they hit the rock it was like they didn't want to be there. The water was steaming, and dancing to get off that rock. Sizzlin' and steaming. That rock just spat the water back and then it gave a moan. A low rumbling moan. I tell you I ran so fast I beat the rain back to town.'

Faraday lit a smoke and sat back. 'Like something's just not right, stuck out in the middle of nowhere,' he finished, and dragged on his cigarette.

'When Spider's droving party finally got back to town it only took two schooners at the bar for the news to hit.

'Boy was missing.

'The talk was, Boy had gone walkabout. Lance Stenton said it was bound to happen one day and left it at that, content with his profit. The other two men in the muster left town pretty quick and the story of what really happened went with them, or so we thought.'

The wind found its way inside the pub and worried the naked light bulbs hanging over the bar. Faraday looked up and their weak light flicked over his features as they swung. The air was oppressive, yet expectant with rain. The few customers in the bar sat silent and still, with nothing to do but sweat.

'I wish it would bloody rain.'

It was a sentiment we all agreed upon. Faraday wiped his brow with his shirt sleeve and poured a beer.

'With the wet just around the corner, the cattle in, and not much else to do, Spider took to drinking. He hadn't been in the top end before and it's not an easy thing. It can make a man crazy for some relief. The heat can sap your energy until you've nothing left but a bad temper or a mighty thirst. Spider had both. He drank, and when he drank, he talked. We all listened.

'He's the kinda man that has been all over and done things some of us could only imagine. He told us about mustering in the Kimberleys and having to fight off crocs that wanted the cattle. He'd tell us about hunting roos so big they could rip a horse to pieces and then on other days he'd describe the outback so vividly we all could feel the dust and the heat and the empty spaces that make your eyes hurt and your heart ache for the horizon. He took us to the gorges in the centre where pools of water lay still and deep, where the shadows are cool and the chasms echo your words and dreams. We rode with him to the Blue Mountains and the snow and listened as he described the bitter wind, the cold ground and the ache in your bones that long for the sun. But most days he talked about killing dogs, until, about a week into his binge, he let it slip he had killed a man.

'No one wanted to believe him. After all he had been on a bender for a good week. But people round here were quick to put two and two together and come up with Boy.

'Word got around to Sizzling Rock Station and Ol' man Stenton came to town to figure it out. It was a stinking hot day when Lance walked into the bar, took off his hat and wiped his brow with his shirt sleeve and called for Spider. Spider had been renting a room upstairs and he slowly made his way down and put his money on the bar. Lance just stood there and watched that craggy face. Spider never blinked.

'"Where the bloody hell is Boy?" Lance said. Sweat was dripping down his face and he looked just about ready to melt.

'"Dunno."'

'"Bullshit."'

'"He just fuckin' walked off the job," Spider said and took a swig of his beer.

'"That's not what I heard Mr. Webb."'

'"Well you heard wrong Mr. Stenton."'

'Ol' Stenton was just about to have a go at Spider, when I had to reach for the baton.

'"There'll be no fightin' in my bar gentlemen. Take it outside." Lance stormed off and Spider called for a refill, but we all had a creepy sort of feelin' then that something wasn't right – Spider wasn't even sweating.

'The rains eventually came and Spider moved on. Ol' man Stenton wouldn't have him on the block. He said he'd have him arrested if he came around these parts again, but as there was no body or anyone to talk, it all just became a good yarn on those days when there is nothing much to do except wait for the rains.'

I wondered if that was the end of the story when Faraday grabbed my arm and asked, 'Do you believe in ghosts Mr Weatherness?' I supped my drink and remained a fence sitter.

Faraday lit another cigarette and began again.

'It was a full year, and a lot can happen in a year up here, but about one year to the day Boy walked into town and sat down on the front verandah. Someone suggested we call Stenton, but I wasn't so sure. I felt that prickle on the back of my neck and it didn't seem right, so I said just leave it alone. If he wanted to go to the station, well, that would be his business. It was a mighty hot day that day and we watched as Boy sat not drinking his lemonade the missus took out to him. He sat there all day with his back to the wall until the sun dipped behind Wallunup Ridge, then he just got up and left. It was then we saw the scars on his back. Now I've seen plenty of roughed up men in my time, but these scars were vicious. Three strikes across his back.'

Faraday held up three fingers to emphasise the point.

'The sun casts long shadows and can blind a man if he's trying to look too hard into the future ... or past. Boy just walked towards the sunset and try as I might to follow him with a squint he was gone. For three days he came to the pub. On the third day we had quite a crowd in and Ol' man Stenton came to town. No-one could get Boy to talk and he just sat. It was creepy and there were plenty of stories going round about his visit, but none that came near to the truth. Nothing stays secret for long up here and Spider soon heard the stories. Someone had seen him in Alice Springs and news came back that he was drinking hard.'

Faraday flicked another dead butt out the window and looked at the flyblown calendar on the wall.

'It was a year of terrific rains. The ground just drank it up and the cattle grew fat. People said they had never seen it so good. Not for a long time, and Ol' man Stenton was rubbing his hands together. We were all feeling pretty good and then Boy arrived.'

The barman looked at me and expected some sort of reaction. I duly obliged with a question. 'And was he the same?'

Faraday nodded. 'Exactly the same. He came the next year and by then we were kinda expecting it.'

'And Spider?' I asked.

'He picked up a bit of work here and there, but something changed him. He was withering away.

'Spider had heard of Boy and it was a festering sore. It ate into his bones and sapped his strength leaving him a shambling wreck even though he was only in his fifties. The word was he worried himself to death.

'He died three years to the day.' Faraday swung his head over to the calendar. 'Three years to the day Boy disappeared. And then,' Faraday absently picked his teeth with a toothpick, 'and then Boy stopped coming. Just like that.'

The clock above the bar chimed the hour and I jumped, then felt a strange tingling sensation on the back of my neck. I rubbed it and wiped my brow.

'Hot eh?'

'Yes.'

'I wish it would bloody rain. Waiting for the rains can make a man crazy,' Faraday said, then lit another cigarette.

### Wednesday 28 August 2013

A Man Under A Tree

Vita Monica

Southbank, VIC

Under the shade of a cedar tree

A man with a bamboo hat dreams

When the gentle breezes come

He is carried away

The sun shines bright and the air keeps warm

Heavy breath and wrinkles tell a life

Upon the green he lays back

A simple sheepman of herds

From far people see

A deep sleep in time of rush

Wearing a piece of rag clothes, one pair of tongs

They look, what a peace he has found

Have we sought too far when life has shown itself?

### Thursday 29 August 2013

A Good Death

David Anderson

Woodford, NSW

The 1971 Holden Monaro GTS pulled up outside the Merivale Nursing Home. Light sleet drifted down, and Andrew Bailey shivered, turned up the collar of his long coat, and pulled his beanie down around his ears as he locked the car. He made his way inside to the nursing station and was given permission to visit his father in Room 75. Andrew tried to dismiss the odour of disinfectant and stale urine that overwhelmed his nose, and entered his father's room to see him sitting up in bed tapping on the keyboard of his lap top. He stopped typing, smiled and removed his glasses, then shut the lid.

'Hey Andy, what's the news?'

Andrew pulled up a chair. 'Heather got the job, so that should help with the bills. And the kids are doing well at the new school.'

Gordon Bailey pulled himself up in the bed and reached for a urinal bottle. 'That's great news, Son.' He began to pass urine and his face looked strained. 'They won't even let me out of bed to piss. I could still take on that smart arse male nurse that gave me cheek this morning. Takes me longer to pee than having a crap now days.' He laughed. 'I wouldn't worry too much about bills. Things will work out very soon I reckon.'

'Yeh – sure Dad, I don't think. By the way, when you phoned me, you said Colin was coming to see you yesterday?'

Gordon placed the bottle on his cupboard. 'He came in just after lunch.' He shook his head. 'Great pair of brothers you are, not seeing each other for six months. Maybe he's jealous because I gave you the car? But then, I always promised it to you. It's over forty years old now you know, and probably worth finishing the restoration.'

Andrew shook his head. 'I brought it tonight for a run to get the cobwebs out. But I don't think either of us would bother, Dad. Too old for my league and Colin loves Fords.'

His father laughed. 'So it's here eh? Some great nights in that old car when you were kids, and the nights I had it filled up with the old band gear.' He sighed and gave Andrew a solemn look. 'They've all gone you know – all my mates, your mother, and now this bastard eating out my prost ...'

'Dad, what can I say? I'd have you home with us in a minute, but the doctor says you're too ill and have to stay here.'

'Well they've got me going in for more treatment to hospital next week.' He laughed. 'Said it will give me a few more months. A few more months of bloody what? Last month I was doing three hour bushwalks and lifting weights. Went for my annual blood tests and ... Shitville.' He spat out the word with disgust, as Andrew reached over and held his father's hand

Gordon's eyes brightened and he leant over and gripped Andrew's hand tighter. 'You work for a pharmaceutical company Son, and you won't give your father something to finish it for me.'

Andrew pulled away angrily. 'Sure Dad. Haven't you ever heard of an autopsy? How would I support the family then?'

Gordon calmed down. 'You're right Son, it might look suspicious. So there goes Plan A.'

'Dad. I'm sorry, but I really have to go. There's a darts tournament tonight at the footy club and ...'

Gordon cut him off. 'Yeh, piss off then Son, just like your prodigal brother. See you in about a month as usual I suppose.' He opened his eyes wide in a mock smile. 'Oh no I won't. I'll probably be a stiff by then.' Gordon was sorry he said this and gestured to Andrew to move in for a hug. 'Sorry Andy. Goodbye Son. Love you.'

Both father and son felt their eyes moisten. Andrew instigated the hug.

'Bye Dad. Sorry I can't do what you want. But I do love you.'

Gordon held him closer. 'I love you too Son. But can you do something for me ...'

~~~

The night nurse knew it must have been a tense visit when she said goodnight to Andrew as he passed by the desk, but got no reply. She glanced at the clock and realised it was time for the patients to receive their medication.

It was freezing when he walked outside; the sleet drifting down accentuated the silence. The old Holden would be a handful on the road, as the tyres were up for renewal. He felt guilty that he wouldn't bother to finish the restoration. He had to admit the old girl really did have a beautiful tail on her. He brushed the slush from the windscreen and fumbled with the keys to open the door. Sliding into the seat and turning on the ignition, he pondered on the conversation of the last fifteen minutes as the engine warmed up. Putting the shift into first gear he drove out of the hospital towards the freeway and home.

Nurse Doherty entered Gordon's room to see him lying on his side facing the wall, fast asleep. She had to wake him for his antibiotic and sit him up for a while.

'Mr Bailey – Mr Bailey – Gordon. Wake up for your meds.' She moved around the bed and lifted the sheet, screamed, and dropped the tray.

On the freeway, the Holden GTS picked up speed. He was glad there was hardly anyone on the road in all this sleet. He realised what a beautiful car it was, and how powerful the motor propelled it into the night on the straight freeway. The speedometer moved from seventy to eighty kilometres an hour. The sleet was mesmerising him as he reached in his pocket and slid a cassette into the player. The sound of a song finishing and people clapping filled the interior and then Andy's father's younger voice could be heard.

'I'd like to thank you all for coming to the Federal Hotel tonight and supporting our band – The Gearshifters. Just before the last song I got the news from the barman that my wife Kerrie has just given birth to twin boys.' More sound of cheering and clapping filled the car. The speedometer climbed to one hundred and ten. Tears ran down his face as the young Gordon on the cassette continued.

'In honour of my wife and sons, the band would like to play our favourite Eagles song, Take It To The Limit.'

There was more sounds of cheering as the band began to play, as he gripped the steering wheel tighter, and at 120 kph, he wrenched the wheel, and the Holden GTS flipped over and rolled end over end down the highway and exploded in flames and sections of metal that scattered along the snowy freeway and onto the verge for a over a hundred metres.

Back at the hospital Nurse Doherty sped along the corridor for the night sister as Andrew sat up in bed groggily and wondered what had happened.

At the same moment Gordon was in the third of his rolls, and with his eyes shut and a smile on his face, a final thought ran through his mind .as the flames erupted around him.

'Amazing. Andy works for a drugs company, but Colin brings me the ether.'

### Friday 30 August 2013

Alan Murcott

Robyn Chaffey

Hazelbrook, NSW

There's that Alan Murcott!

Thinks I can not see him!

Thinks that he is clever!

I'll fix Alan Murcott!

He won't know what hit him!

Thought I'd get him never!

I've been taking lessons

While Mum watches wrestling,

From that big Joe Watson.

Mum says he has demons,

But he's always winning!

Hero is Joe Watson!

Throw him to the corner!

Put him in a headlock!

Wait! His back is turned,

Twist his index finger.

Pull his bright dyed forelock

Till all his spite's returned.

Here comes Alan Murcott!

He's a bully and he's mean!

Could beat him if I want;

Big mean Alan Murcott!

But Mum said 'Come home clean',

So that is more important!

### Saturday 31 August 2013

The Second Dispossession

Graham Sparks

Bathurst, NSW

That fateful day when oak and sheet

did bring ashore a man of lighter hue

to cast his eye across the land

and deem it to be his.

He'd raped the forests of his home

and here he did the same,

he cleared the land of native man

without a pang of shame.

And moving on a century or so

we find young Mister White

perceive his purloined land

as a nation in itself,

but he had not the guts to let go mummy's tit

hence Britain ran the show.

Here we see Australia as a notion!

Moving on again another century

we hear much talk about republics,

but talk is all it is

because the mother country asked us

if we'd like a country of our own,

whence we declined the offer,

preferring not to let go Marm's pink petticoats.

Here again we see Australia as a notion!

Let us now peruse a very nasty attribute

of the body governing this notion.

the selling off of land, that firm foundation underpinning nations,

and the selling off of things belonging to the people,

services, utilities and infrastructures,

all to foreign corporations,

and done without the courtesy of referendum.

Does anyone recall that there is such a thing as treason?

Why should I pay tax when all the things my taxes built have been sold off,

without my consultation?

This I call 'The Second Dispossession',

Australia is a notion, not a nation!
Sunday 1 September 2013

### Me Mack's Back

Mark Fowler

Magill, SA

'Truck, YOU!'

Tom, face red with surprise and mid afternoon intoxication, slumped into his wheelchair.

'Yeah, why not luv? I've grown up round trucks. We owe thousands on the rig and you aren't much use like that.'

'Come on Kath. Watching your Dad drive and doing the books for me isn't exactly driving the Mack on the interstate. It's men's work. Trucks, and all technology, for men only. Remember that.'

'Lots of girls do it. You know I can handle her,' said Kath hopefully.

'Like Fat Patsy and Joanie Mahoney. They're really men; got the wrong name at birth. No, Kath. Not another word ...'

Kath looked at him ... big sad loser. Too much piss, too little good luck! Story of his life. And now Tom had saddled them with big debt all because of his drunken fall.

He shouldn't have said it was men's work. Kath had an itch to scratch now. She'd do it; not only to prove him wrong, but also to stick one up men for all the overprotective, sexist bullshit women had had to deal with from lovin' husbands around the world.

Two days later, Tom was shaken from his snoozing by the rumble of the rig outside the house.

'Kath, whata ya doin' you crazy cow?' he yelled through the open window, but Kath was far too deep in conversation with her cousin Tony about time schedules and load limits to hear her husband's pathetic bleating.

A few minutes later, Kath popped her head through the kitchen door.

'Potatoes for Melbourne. Due in two days. Everything ya need is in the freezer. Justin'll be home after school. See ya hun!'

'Bloody 'ell, Kath. You can't ...!'

'You should never said it was men's work. Bye.'

And with that the Mack revved and pulled away leaving Tom in an expletive dotted rage.

He tried the mobile but she had turned it off. He tried calling his mates to block her way. But no one who knew Kath and Tom sympathised or thought it was any of their business.

Alone with his rage, Tom drank until the fridge was dry. His imagination was in overdrive with images of the Mack and tonnes of potatoes strewn over the highway interspersed with visions of Kath driving into headlights screaming and blubbering in confusion.

The news offered no salve to his beery imagination.

'Heavy rain and horizontal gale force winds in Victoria's western districts ...' offered the cheery weatherman.

'Multiple car pile-up, semi trailer smash, body strewn highway,' was all Tom's mind offered up.

The days passed and Kath was silent. Tom ranted, smashed the TV and his mobile, and poor Justin did his best to keep his father in fags and booze.

On Saturday, the distinctive down gearing of the slowing truck could be heard outside. Tom rolled to the window. The air horn blared in triumph.

His emotions were mixed by now and when Kath strolled hopefully into the kitchen he rolled past her to the Mack. His fingers caressed the chrome and he blubbered softly, 'Babe, I missed ya!'

### Monday 2 September 2013

The Tangled Wood

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, NSW

So

Slip

Slowly,

Silently,

Into wilderness.

Seek out some loquacious stream

To follow and, enjoying in its crisp babblings,

Unhesitatingly empty mind of familiar thought and futile finer feelings.

Dismiss from sight and sound civilization's burden.

Having no hope of redemption,

Fear not, for nature,

Recklessly,

Reclaims

Its

Own.

Tuesday 3 September 2013

### Capricious Weather

Jean Bundesen

Woodford, NSW

I'm a teenager

My families' farm is sold

Goods and chattels stored.

Our home an American army tent,

Set up at Noosa Heads

Our favourite beach;

Cosseted behind high sand hills

Beneath spreading trees.

In the ambience of a golden sunset,

Reflected in the bay we enjoy a long walk,

Ignore massing battleship grey clouds.

Later sitting around the camp fire,

The radio crackles a warning,

'Cyclone approaching.'

Dad reassures us, 'We'll be safe.'

We stay... other campers flee.

The cyclone hits... Earth's belly growls

Wind a howling demented spirit,

Rain drums on our tent, like a marching army.

Terrified, we huddle together.

Morning – our tent stands firm.

Chaos elsewhere trees, tents toppled.

Jim and I clamber up the sand hills.

Exhilarating yet terrifying.

Angry wind rips at our clothes, flying spray,

Sand stings our faces. Laguna Bay, normally

Calm as a frog pond, now a churning whirlpool,

With a grating roar waves lash the shore.

Once the cyclone passes, the sun beams,

Calm sea; blue and green, a jade necklace.

Gentle waves wash the shore, drift wood,

Seaweed reminders of the night of terror.

Tranquillity restored.

### Wednesday 4 September 2013

The Porcelain Doll

Jenny Kathopoulis

Wodonga, VIC

The porcelain doll lays broken

her face perfect no more.

Alabaster skin is now cracked

rosy cheeks smashed in

pink lips lie crooked,

her soft chin crumpled and split

blue eyes sunken in a hollow skull.

A tear rolls down her ruined beauty

Who will love her now?

Thursday 5 September 2013

### Mr Greedy

Shirley Burgess

Rosebud, VIC

'My dear, I thought you knew. I've gone back to my wife.'

The two parties were lined up opposite each other at the long polished mediation room table. Until that moment Beth had believed there might be a chance of reconciliation. She really hadn't accepted what her solicitor, Paul, had been telling her. Now the truth hit her with a thud and she was able to see cold calculation in Jed's cruel eyes.

It had been good to have her solicitor, Paul, at her side through this horrible business. There was always an aura of calmness about him, or was it just confidence? Always ready to help, and one step ahead of the opposition's legal counsel, Beth had to admit she could never have coped without him.

She also noticed that when he shook her hand these days, he held it a little longer than was usual and his smile was very soft. He had suggested a meal out together after the court decision to 'wind down', and she found she was looking forward to it.

'No hard feelings Beth?' asked Jed.

She did not answer. It seemed that, because of the three years he had been with her, and the type of relationship they had enjoyed, Jed could claim half of everything she possessed as his own, even her house. She had worked very hard for many years at her business of restoring wonderful old houses to their former glory and selling them for huge profits, but it hadn't ever been easy-going, with little time for holidays. She had reaped the rewards, only to see that the courts would award half of the result of all that effort handed over to Jed.

I know very well that my money will contribute to your future comfort with your wife, Beth was thinking. What a windfall for her. All that money must have been the lure for your wife to take you back, Beth thought shrewdly. It was just too unbearable to think about.

Jed was now absorbed in scanning the inventory list of Beth's belongings thoroughly again. 'No, I've been through this carefully and I don't think we have missed anything,' he said.

Beth squirmed in her seat.

A warm hand dropped over hers and Beth looked up into Paul's worried eyes. Then she managed a smile. She noticed the slight movement of his finger on the documents, remembered the painting and smiled inwardly.

She collected herself. 'I see you put my crystal golf trophy on that inventory list. Why did you do that?' she asked Jed.

'Well, it is Stuart Crystal!' he said in mock surprise.

'What about the cuff links, and that $10 painting I bought you? Surely you must want that too?' Beth asked.

'Ah, don't be sarcastic Beth, it doesn't suit you. No, you can give the painting back to the second-hand shop it came from and I can't be bothered with the cuff links – never wore them anyway. Never really liked them either. Or keep them Beth; another person might like them better than I did.'

'Oh Jed,' Beth said with a trembling voice, 'how can you say that?!'

Jed, apparently relenting, then produced his most charming manner and added softly, 'We had some good times together, Beth.'

Then he added, warily, 'I wanted to be sure that all the golf gear in the garage cupboard will be sent on to me. I'm sure you would be quite wonderful about this, Beth, wouldn't you – just for old times' sake? I would be so grateful. Here's a card with my new address. I would appreciate it so much, my dear.'

She smiled back beguilingly. Well that's what she hoped it looked like. 'I'll see what I can do,' she said.

'Good girl!' he enthused.

Beth had given him the golf clubs, and she knew he loved them. She couldn't stop that tight feeling in her throat as she thought about the many happy hours they had spent golfing together. Nevertheless, she was quite aware he had purposely omitted them from the inventory list, thus avoiding the inevitable sale, and sharing their value with her.

Yes, they had enjoyed some good times together. There was the European holiday tour. Jed had made a name for himself on the tour. He made a habit of flattering an irascible old woman who was giving her adult daughter a hard time.

He would jump to his feet when they arrived in the dining room, escort her to their table as though she were Queen Elizabeth, often making a compliment about her attire, even giving a little bow sometimes. The ruse worked, putting the woman in a good mood and this gave her daughter a much-needed break. Beth had laughed when later Jed admitted that he didn't do it for the daughter's rescue: 'The old bat was getting on my nerves. I was just trying to get enough peace to eat my meal in comfort. I thought I did pretty well!'

More soberly she thought of the cruise through the Greek Islands. On return he had commented, that he was 'Glad to get back home and eat food that wasn't drowned in grease.' She'd remembered the trip for the loving and attentive companion Jed had been. Perhaps she, too, was getting on his nerves at that time? The lump in her throat tightened, tears not far away.

'Well that's it. So it's goodbye everyone, and I can be on my way then.' Jed shook Paul's hand, saluted Beth, and left the room jauntily with his entourage, obviously feeling he had won handsomely.

Beth was now fully aware that this really was the end.

Even after those last few barbs, Beth could see why she had been so smitten with Jed. She knew that although her business acumen had made her tough, it had not prepared her for someone like him. Handsome, with a magic personality, she had been completely taken in. Her work had certainly made her a lot of money. In fact, it was just the money that you were looking at all the time, Jed, wasn't it? thought Beth. How could I have been so trusting, so stupid?

Remembering Jed's jaunty exit, her instinct was to sell those clubs anyway. Now that the Court proceedings were completed she could do that. It would be what he would do. They were no good to her – just a reminder of happier days. Perhaps bundling up the golf clubs and selling them would be good therapy in helping her get rid of those emotional memories too, she agreed with herself. And it would certainly nark Jed.

Paul was looking at her again, plainly concerned. He knew she was in some turmoil. 'Let's go and get a cup of coffee,' he suggested.

Over the steaming cups he chattered on, trying to get her mind off the sadder things of the day. She was happy just to sit there calming down gradually.

Now she was more relaxed. They talked over one or two special parts of the case as it had unfolded, and agreed it was a good outcome after all. She admitted she had been a fool. 'You know, I think I just wanted someone to spoil,' she said finally.

'Will you stay on in your big house?'

'No, I'll sell up and look for something smaller. Mind you, I'll miss those lovely sea views,' she smiled. 'I've been rattling around in that house on my own for too long and it's lonely nowadays. Besides, there are too many Jed memories around the place. It's time to move on – in more ways than one.'

After a while, she and Paul walked down the corridor to the preparation room used by the legal fraternity, to find her lawyer. 'Thank you for all your help,' she said sincerely to Mr. Williams, QC. 'It was good to have such solid support.'

He shook her hand. 'Yes, it could have been a great deal worse. We've kept more than 50%,' he said, 'and your home.' He winked. 'Then there's the Olsen.'

'Oh,' Beth grinned. 'I'd better make that call now.' The painting, a genuine Olsen, was worth buckets – $750,000 according to the dealer she had left it with, on Paul's advice. And Jed had just made it perfectly clear he wanted nothing to do with it.

They all waited for the call to be connected and she heard the familiar voice. 'I'll take your offer,' she said feeling much, much better.

Beth was looking forward to tonight too.

Yes, it could have been a great deal worse.

### Friday 6 September 2013

The Black Pool

Evelyn MD

Newbridge, NSW

The black pool

Pulls her from her feet

Into the shadow world.

There in the dark

Only disturbing thoughts.

Death would relieve

But kill.

The pool is hidden with a smile

And sits behind warm eyes

Trying not to be discovered

It lets her appear normal.

It won't be killed.

It takes bravery and skill

To catch the black pool.

There has yet to be a hero.

It slips like oil.

It bends and weaves away.

She swims to an edge

Climbs free

And treads carefully.

### Saturday 7 September 2013

Justice

Winsome Smith

Lithgow, NSW

Richard Robertson, distinguished looking even in crumpled jeans and leather jacket, strolled along the footpath outside the school. He was early for his appointment with the school principal so had time to make sketches and take photographs. This was one of his retirement projects, a book entitled Early School Buildings of New South Wales. Richard knew this to be one of the best examples, a handsome building indeed with its solid granite foundations, twin gables, slate roof and tall chimneys. The town abounded with Victorian architecture: the Post Office, several banks and the railway station, and this school building was one of the finest.

One front window caught Richard's attention. How well he remembered that window and the room behind it – the office of the dreaded Mr Nash, school headmaster. He had stood before that large polished desk many times as Old Nashie doled out punishments.

As he looked at that window memories came back. Like images on a touch screen, the pictures slid across his mind. He remembered the room as a commodious office, the only room in the building to have carpet. It was as tidy as could be, with its steel press in one corner and a marble shelf above the fireplace. Whatever papers that were on the desk were piled in two neat stacks. In the corner of the room three much-used canes leaned against each other.

Richard's memory moved to the classroom which accommodated forty students and he remembered Old Nashie parading around the room between the rows of desks brandishing the cane.

He saw again his eleven year old self, a student in Year Six with the redoubtable Mr Nash as his teacher. Young Richard was bright-eyed, energetic, fidgety, eager to learn and known to be exceptionally bright.

There was subdued excitement in the classroom on one particular day because that afternoon there was to be an important football match. Richard was working away at a grammar exercise when the boy sitting beside him, referring to the football match after school, said 'Think you'll win this arvo?'

'Of course,' murmured Richard, aware that Nashie was probably watching. 'We've trained so hard, we've gotta win.'

Nashie shouted his name. 'Robertson, you're talking. Thirty minutes detention this afternoon.'

Richard protested, something nobody had ever done. 'Sir, I can't stay in this afternoon. I'm playing in that football game.'

'I said, "detention", Robertson. You deaf?'

'It's an important game, Sir,' said Richard. 'We're playing St Joseph's.' The local Catholic school was famous for its tough and unbeatable football team.

'You won't be there, Robertson,' the school principal declared. 'I don't care if you're playing the Angel Gabriel. You won't be there.'

Young Richard rose to his feet. 'But Sir –'

'Get out here!' shouted Nashie. Richard slowly walked to the front of the classroom as his classmates watched in silent anticipation.

'Hold out your hand,' Mr Nash ordered. The cane swished across Richard's outstretched palm. 'That's for giving cheek. Now get on with your work. And forget about football.'

That night in his fantasy Richard arranged Nashie's death. It was easy: he simply pushed Old Nashie down the front steps so that he hit his head on the concrete, never to rise again. Killing Old Nashie became almost a nightly ritual and was a great comfort against injustice. These deaths were varied, suitably gory and were never told to anyone else.

Mr Nash was known for picking on some students and favouring others. Richard guessed that he suffered because his father had left the family and his mother worked at the bar at the local pub in order to support her three boys. Mr Nash, being a solid citizen, would have found this occupation distasteful.

Other students suffered too and the one who bore most of the brunt of Mr Nash's anger was Gwenda, a girl with long brown plaits who sat in one of the front seats. She had freckles and never wore the proper school uniform, something that seemed to arouse the teacher's ire.

There was the day when Gwenda was quietly sitting at her desk. She was re-arranging the pencils and ruler in the groove at the top of the desk and for some reason this irritated Nashie. He shouted, 'Stop fiddling!' and slammed the cane down on the desk with such force that the little ink well leapt from its hole and ink flooded across the desk.

'Clean that up!' Old Nashie shouted. 'Get a rag out of that press there and clean up that mess.' He swished the cane around as he shouted.

Gwenda did as she was told, her sweetly freckled face showing fierce resentment and anger as she rubbed at the ink.

Richard took a lot more notice of Gwenda after that, and he managed to save up his pocket money and take her to the pictures one Saturday afternoon.

Mr Nash vented his wrath on Gwenda another time. The lesson was something to do with the local district. It was a picturesque, hilly area with outcrops of lichen-covered granite. Mr Nash said to the class, 'Of course you've all seen buildings made with local granite and locally made bricks, haven't you?'

Gwenda was honest enough to say, 'No. Sir, I haven't.'

Instantly Nashie's face was within inches of hers. 'Ignorant child!' he yelled. 'Get yourself outside and look at your own school. Look at what it's built of!' Gwenda rushed from the room.

From the window beside his desk Richard could see Gwenda out in the playground. She was out of sight of Mr Nash and she was poking out her tongue in his direction and making every rude gesture she could think of. Richard could feel silent laughter bubbling round inside him. What a girl!

On Gwenda's behalf, that night Richard had Nashie suffer a particularly horrible death, torn limb from limb by wild horses.

Mr Nash often held up Gwenda's work for ridicule, no matter how hard she tried, because she was left-handed. He also ridiculed Richard but young Richard had a variety of deaths for him. He could have him stabbed, shot or hanged, and once forcibly drowned, ideas he got from the Saturday afternoon pictures.

When he was thirteen Richard moved to another town with his family. He never lost touch with Gwenda, however, and they were reunited when they went to the same university and both studied architecture. They were never apart after that. They had married and set up their own architecture business which thrived. They raised a family, travelled and wrote books, individually and together. There had only been fleeting visits to their hometown, with its tree-lined streets and surrounding hills, but Gwenda often mentioned it with nostalgia. Now research for the new book had brought them here for a short stay.

As Richard was sketching, he was approached by the school principal, Andrew Macintosh, with whom he had the appointment. Andrew was fortyish, navy-suited, obviously ambitious and seemingly anxious to show an ex-student the school. He led Richard to the back of the building and they entered the assembly hall.

They were greeted by a burst of colour. The walls, no longer school grey, were painted in bright pastels. In the classrooms there were samples of childhood busyness: coloured drawings, paper cut-outs, decorated boxes filled with children's books. The classrooms were furnished with child sized chairs and tables and there were cheerful vases of flowers on teachers' desks. Andrew explained that this building which had been the Primary School was now the Infants' Department. Richard looked about with an architect's eye, noticing room sizes, architraves, skirting and window sills. Andrew showed him proudly how the building's original features had been preserved; even the corner fire-places with their marble shelves remained, in true Victorian style.

As they approached rooms at the front of the building, Andrew said, 'This is the only room that has been changed. It had to be modernised out of necessity.'

Richard walked into the room and looked around. 'This was the principal's office!' he said and as he spoke he felt the old familiar silent laughter bubbling around inside him. The laughter escaped into triumphant guffaws as he walked about the room.

Through the window Richard saw Gwenda pulling up into the kerb, as arranged. She stepped out of the car and Andrew went to the front door to meet her. She walked in – slim, lovely and feisty with her hair bundled up on top of her head. She shook hands with Andrew then greeted Richard with a kiss.

'Lovely old building, well preserved,' she remarked.

'Yes, well preserved, with only one room altered,' Richard replied. He took Gwenda's hand and said, 'Come this way. I've got something to show you.'

He led her to the front office and opened the door. Andrew, ever the urbane school principal said, 'Yes, we're proud of this room. It's practical and it doesn't detract from the rest of the interior.'

Richard opened the door and Gwenda gave a gasp. 'This was Nashie's office. It's now an indoor toilet!' she exclaimed.

'Yes, indeed,' said Andrew. 'A new modern toilet block was built for children. This is the staff toilet, with three cubicles and hand-basins with hot water.'

Gwenda was not listening. She clasped Richard's hand and said. 'This is justice; absolute justice.'

'Yes, justice,' Richard agreed.

Gwenda clasped her husband's hand even tighter, as she almost shouted, 'Hooray! How appropriate. That old bastard's office is now a shit house!'

### Sunday 8 September 2013

Stony Waters

David Newman

Jacobs Well, QLD

I only tried – to cross a stream;

but then the stream became a sea;

of stony waters – of stony waters:

No! – I can't breathe – not anymore;

and I can't see – my way to shore;

in stony waters – in stony waters.

Dark Angel! – pass over me,

because I'm already down on my knees:

These stony waters – they make me bleed:

And I begged and I prayed for end of days;

but stony waters still make me pay;

rough stony waters – rough stony waters.

I tried to rise – to run and hide;

but then the night brought in the tide:

Damned stony waters – damned stony waters:

Now, I can't walk – not anymore;

and I can't hear – a guiding call;

on stony waters – on stony waters.

Love has no strength – with which to lift;

for it is lost and set adrift;

by stony waters – by stony waters:

If I can't feel – not anymore;

my heart can't beat – out to the shore;

off stony waters – off stony waters.

And if I float – I'll be face down;

to watch the stones, now as I drown;

in stony waters – in stony waters:

'Cause I can't fight – not anymore;

and I can't find – my way to shore;

from stony waters – from stony waters.
Monday 9 September 2013

### The Hermit

Kylie Abecca

Port Albany, WA

His face is lit by the fire's flame,

The darkened bush around him sings,

To him life is nothing but a game,

With all the surprises his earth brings,

Cold and hunger, often felt,

By only him alone,

Unlucky cards he has been dealt,

It chills him to the bone,

There is no living soul,

That knows of his existence,

He dug himself a hole,

The devil was persistent,

This hermit I once knew,

Had a love of life,

But the urgency just grew,

It was cutting like a knife,

He said he had to go,

I had to let him be,

One night he disappeared,

He's forever free to dream.

### Tuesday 10 September 2013

Quest

JH Mancy

Tallebudgera, QLD

Why are relationships difficult

And we learn our lessons too late

When will we find answers?

Is it all in the hands of fate?

How do we recognise wisdom?

That is the great debate

Where will we find solutions?

So oft' in inert state

These four things demand answers –

All these things I rate

Shine down, shine down,

Shine down on you and me

Shine down on you and me

Why do we search for answers

That are so seldom met

When will we accept contentment,

Remember, and not forget

How do we live with meaning

From birth to our sunset

Where is wisdom gathered –

It's such a mighty trek

The answers are within us –

Not left to fickle fate

Shine down, shine down,

Shine down on you and me

Shine down on you and me

When we find our answers

Let's share without delay

Why be slave to half life,

If we can find the way

Where happiness is boundless

And joy fills every day

The answers are within us

Let's not leave it too late

Shine down, shine down,

Shine down on you and me

Shine down on you and me

### Wednesday 11 September 2013

Consequences

Sallie Ramsay

Torrens, ACT

It was Paris in the spring; Paris in the rain. She had lost her tour group – one minute they were there, the next vanished into the crowd milling around the exit of the Metro. She felt a momentary surge of panic – alone in Paris, alone in Paris, alone to do exactly what she wanted. Free to stop and sketch whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted, without someone looking over her shoulder and making comments. Her sketch books had filled rapidly: a tiny flower growing defiantly from between the cobbles in front of Sacre Coeur, a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower across a tumble of roofs, a tiny figure almost hidden by ivy in Rodin's garden, gargoyle faces high up on Notre Dame and in the crowds. Time alone in Paris; a priceless gift.

The day before the tour was to leave London her travelling companion caught a gastric bug that no amount of Imodium could tame. Paris was to be the last hurray before they returned to Australia after twelve months in Europe. Her friend, pale and fierce, raised her head from her pillow just long enough to growl, 'For God's sake, pack your drawing gear, piss off and leave me in peace.' She did, but it was only now she knew she had made the right decision.

'Damn, I'll need another sketch book before we leave in the morning,' she thought, turning a page.

She was sitting under the Arc de Triomphe in a spot sheltered from the worst of the rain, when she first noticed him, weaving his way in and out of the chaotic traffic circling the world's most terrifying roundabout.

'Roundabout,' she thought. 'Maelstrom more like it. One day they'll just disappear down the gurgler, right here under the Arc.'

'I beg your pardon?' A voice speaking in a perfect 'Frenchman speaking English' accent cut across her thoughts.

'I'm sorry,' she muttered flushing. 'I was talking to myself; a bad habit of mine.'

'Moi aussi. What were you saying to yourself?'

She held out the cartoon she'd drawn of a whirlpool sucking cars down a giant plug hole under the Arc de Triomphe.

He looked at it solemnly, and then with a perfect Gallic shrug, handed it back to her. 'I agree it is most likely.'

She asked if he knew where she could buy another sketch book and moments later found herself on the back of a scooter clinging to the most drop dead gorgeous man she had ever seen. She closed her eyes as they zig zagged through the traffic, opening them only after they stopped in front of an art supply store in a narrow alley just off the Champs Elysee.

Later, much later, when she tried to remember that day, she found it difficult to separate one memory from another. Riding pillion through sodden streets, stopping here and there to sketch, conversations ranging far and wide as they talked over countless cups of coffee, his fluent English more than compensating for her rusty French. What she remembered most clearly was how at ease she was, how right it felt to be there.

Just as the rain cleared and the sun was setting they climbed the flights of stairs to his apartment carrying wine, bread and cheese from a street market. Accompanied by Piaf, Reinhardt and Grapelli, they picnicked on a rug on the floor.

She woke the next morning with the sun pouring in the window. He was still asleep. She reached for her sketch book and with firm fluent strokes drew him as he lay; the rumpled twisted bed clothes partially covering his naked body. She dressed quickly, gathered up her folio, dropped the maelstrom cartoon on the bed and with only a quick backward glance headed down the stairs and out on to the street. She reached the hotel just as her tour companions were beginning to straggle out to the bus. Her roommate greeted her with raised eyebrows. 'Thought you'd missed the bus. I brought your things down.'

She muttered her thanks, climbed into her seat and closed her eyes, Piaf filling her head. Everyone should have a day like that once in their lives, she thought. Perfect, complete and unrepeatable.

'Bloke over there said to give this to you.'

He was standing astride his scooter, scanning the bus from end to end, but, unable to see her through the darkened glass, shrugged, revved the scooter and was soon lost in the swirling traffic.

She unwrapped the small package, the Piaf CD with the Non, Je ne regrette rien track highlighted in yellow, his name and address followed by the words, 'A demain' (See you tomorrow).

She smiled. 'Who knows? Maybe? But whoever would have thought getting food from that dodgy take away down the road from our flat would have such consequences?'

### Thursday 12 September 2013

Catching Up

Bob Edgar

Wentworth Falls, NSW

As I bumped into a close friend, I searched my mind for her name ... Rosemary I think

Or was it Ruby ... or Denise, I can't recall; hope my memory's not on the blink

'How are you Declan?' she said. 'I'm altogether fine Ruby, and what about yourself?'

'I'm good Declan, though I'm Doris ... I'll give your best to Ruby, now how's your health?'

'Oh can't complain Doris, thanks for asking, and how's your Bert? ... Staying out of strife?'

'I expect he's well Declan, though you'd have to ask Mary ... his wife!'

'Please do excuse me Doris, I'm not the same since my "op", new knee you know?'

'So Declan, knee-bone connected to the brain-bone? You're such a witty fellow.'

'What I mean to say Doris is that the pain from my knee takes up all my thinking

My mind's as sharp as a tack, but since the "op", it's all I can do to stop from drinking

What with my cataracts, sciatica, arthritis, incontinence and loss of hearing

It's no wonder the Doc had me in this morning, to tell me what I'd been fearing

He tells me I have osteoporosis, high blood pressure, haemorrhoids and cirrhosis of the liver

Now you know me Mabel, I'm not one to complain, but I pride myself as a life-giver

So I tell the Doc, "When I'm gone they can have my brain, it's in perfect working order

My body is shot, this I concede ... but Doc, my mental capacity has no bounds ... no border."

The Doc looked at my file, locked eyes with me, and told me I have early onset dementia

"That'll be the day," I said to him, nothing wrong with my memory ... I'll venture.'

Doris said with obvious concern, 'Declan, is there anything I can do to ease your pain?'

'I'm altogether fine thanks, and what about yourself ... er, what was your name?

### Friday 13 September 2013

All Clerks Now

Armin Boko

Lake Heights, ACT

'Be in nothing as moderate as in love of men.'

Jefferson Roberts

In for a lesson grey haired emigrant visits

The native land left in early teens. There on the ground

Holding cherished forty years dated photographs.

Depicted century old giant oak trees grove

Hugging lush meadows cut by a crystal clear brook,

Where waters cascading over quartz pebbles merrily

Whisper ancient tunes to the brown trout.

Children skipping school

Muddied shoes after winter snow

Along the banks we used to

Pick crocus, snowbells and violets.

Or take sides in wild geese quarrel.

With no-one on watch we would,

Tickle and poach the foolish fish.

Timber mill before closure

Gulped down them oak trees.

Men squandered the loot.

Out of place thorny acacia planted

For something to hold the ground,

Droop home sick for Africa. You look for

Lush pastures find no hoof and no paw there.

Just overgrown scrubby mess crying for one.

Where a brook used to run, water we drank,

Dead cat floats. Death is in command.

Dirty foam bubbles on the canal,

The air is hydrogen sulphide.

Unlikely to set my foot here again, my dreams

Up in smoke, crushed in defeat I return,

To the village where unfamiliar faces

All clerks dressed in starched shirts bemoan,

Loudly again and again, they bemoan,

There is no work. No money to be had ...

A grieving outsider what do I see?

More squealing piglets than teats,

Penned sow running out of milk

Tired of living refusing to eat.

### Saturday 14 September 2013 4 pm

Smoke-Stacks

Alexander Ryan-Jones

Hawker, ACT

Reflections of smoke-stacks toppling down to the ground,

Red dust and mortar hangs like fog 'round the trees,

Typewritten letters with smudged ink in the spaces,

Tears stained the page that would make it all better.

Confessions to boards lined with suits and striped ties,

Black ink is dripping from the veins of the people,

From the hearts of silicon the circuits are calling,

Their blood is black oil and they're here to stay.

Depressions and good-times the circle is turning,

Once they were slaves but now the circuits give orders,

Eyes dart left and right across TV screens broken,

Our black blood is burning as a charred heart beats.

It runs the down the roads the gutters are foaming,

It collects on the windows like breath in the cold,

We turned off the machine and tore up the page,

We set a roaring fire and let the smoke rise free.

### Sunday 15 September 2013

SnoopyLoo Meets The Emperor – The Xing Saga part 5

Jane Russell

Mount Barker, SA

SnoopyLoo gasped in surprise and her eyes flashed as she downloaded the day's mail.

Curly, her partner, regarded her sympathetically: 'Is it the electricity bill, sweetie?'

'Oh Curly, you'll never guess! I've just received a personal invitation to the palace!' Snoopy was squeaking with excitement.

'Does it include a plus one?' asked Curly, hopefully.

'Sorry, just me. Oh great dang! I'm going to meet the emperor!!! What on Xing shall I wear?'

As Snoopy began to rummage maniacally through her wardrobe, flinging colourful items this way and that and buzzing to herself, Curly reflected on their eventful lives during the ten orbits since they had returned home triumphantly from the failed invasion attempt of Earth.

At first, the fickle public of Xing had hailed them as heroines. But it didn't take long to be forgotten once more. Curly preferred the privacy but Snoopy had relished being in the public eye. Her brief stint as company commander had awoken an ambition she didn't know she had. She stayed on in the military for a couple of years, training new recruits. Then she and Curly had a baby bot, and she turned her talents towards education instead. Curly had been a stay-at-home parent at the start, but then she too got a job. She set up an interior design consultancy run from home. Snoopy moved up from headbot of the local school to become the Minister for Education. No doubt she had received the imperial invitation in her official capacity. Curly was proud of her, and the kids would be gobsmacked.

'Move along, move along. Come on, quickly now!' commanded the bored bureaucrat at the palace gate. Snoopy had her invitation scanned and her identity checked. She was pleased to be wearing a stylish feather boa in fluorescent pink, and a new hat made of silver coins. She didn't want to appear showy or old-fashioned. She was bubbling with anticipation.

At last she was walking up the splendid approach to the imperial dais, her eyes glued to the distant figure of the Emperor Po, resplendent in his full-length cloak of bottle-tops? No, surely her eyes deceived her. As she got closer she realised that the 'bottle-tops' were in fact priceless ancient artefacts, rusty and worn. It was tradition for the ruler to dress this way, but it looked like crap, she thought to herself. In a smaller throne next to Po, was his youthful heir, Mo. At barely eleven orbits, he was a clone of his ancient father, and he looked thoroughly bored.

An outsider observing this scene might notice that Xing society was colour coded, starting with the Emperor (of which there was normally only one), who was a glossy black with silver detailing around his face and eyes and a broad stripe of purple across his chest, the only bot to have three colours. Next were the nobility, a mere ten percent of the population. They were silver with detailing in red. They had great power and spent their time hunting and ruling. They were the high court judges, the poet laureates, commanders-in-chief, game show hosts, and so on.

The largest class were the workers, the bots that did almost everything: psychologists, soldiers, politicians, artisans, bakers, teachers, musicians, vending machine repairmen, etc. They were bright scarlet and comprised about 75% of the population. The remaining bots were the grey, invisible servant class. Other bots thought they all looked alike, and tended not to notice them. All levels of Xing society were present in the imperial palace.

Snoopy had, of course, done her research on imperial protocol so she knew she must not touch the emperor or his heir. She approached the thrones and swivelled her head around three times in respect. Po gave an almost imperceptible puff in acknowledgement, and then he said:

'You are SnoopyLoo, commander of Gamma Group in the late great invasion of the alien planet Earth?'

'Uh-hah,' she agreed, nodding, then as an afterthought, 'Your Highness.'

'I promised Mo that I would get him a first-hand account of the glorious battles and final desperate retreat. You seem more than adequate for the purpose.'

She was flustered, and so replied: 'What, right now? Er, Your Highness.' She was certainly making a hash of creating a good impression, she thought, ruefully.

'No, you can start tonight, after dinner. With your experience in the field of education, you would be ideal as Mo's new history teacher.' It wasn't so much a question as a statement of fact.

Snoopy was nonplussed. Dinner? Adult bots had no need to eat, so this would be a totally new experience for her. She also realised that she had not been offered a job: she had been drafted with no possibility of refusal. What would Curly think? She bowed to the floor: 'It would be my honour, of course, Your Highness.'

That night, she was seated at a long table among various dignitaries and nobles. She was glad to see there were also a few red bodies among the silver. She had no idea what to do, so she waited to see what everyone else did and tried to emulate them. A grey figure appeared at her side speaking sotto voce: 'There are ten courses, Madame, so just taste a little of each one.'

'Thank you,' she replied, realising that it was also the first time in her life that she had ever spoken to a grey bot.

The first course was something pink, wet, floral and chewy. Interesting, she thought to herself. The second course was long and black and seemed to have multiple spiky legs, and was still moving. She jabbed her fork into one and it turned and bit her. She looked around, hoping no one had noticed. Not that she had felt anything but a tickle on her metal finger. Then she surreptitiously dropped the wriggly things under the table, which made the large metal dog waiting there very happy.

There were fine crystal goblets filled with a liquid that smelled suspiciously like WD40. The conversation was witty and sparkling, but this was only Snoopy's opinion. She sampled some more courses and finally felt the unfamiliar sensation of bulk sitting in her innards. This got her thinking. If stuff goes in, it has to come out again, surely? The possibilities for embarrassing situations were endless.

After the meal, she was shown into a room plush with purple velvet drapes, enormous framed paintings of past emperors and a plethora of gold tassels and tiny bells. The emperor's heir Mo and several of his closest companions, both nobility and commoners, were seated on enormous velvet cushions on the floor in a semi-circle, waiting for their story. She made herself comfortable on a purple beanbag opposite them and began.

'As your imperial progenitor commanded, 200 metalbots answered the call to form an invasion force to travel far from Xing to the pretty blue planet of Earth. Our mission was to assess the possibility of a full invasion: checking out the life forms, the dangers, their ability to resist, etc. It was a very perilous task.'

The children were wide eyed and she had their complete attention as she continued with the tale, making it as dramatic and exciting as she could. Afterwards, it was the kids' bedtime, and Snoopy was not looking forward to texting Curly about her new 'job'. Mo came up to her.

'Miss? I was wondering if I could speak to you about something?' he asked, tentatively.

'Of course, Your Highness, anything.'

'How can you tell the difference between male and female bots? They look the same to me. Is it just clothes?'

Snoopy was taken aback, and hummed to herself as she thought about the answer. 'Well, we females are much prettier of course.' She hadn't thought of anything more enlightening to say, when all thought fled as she gasped. 'Oh!'

In an instant, a grey bot was at her side, whispering: 'Do you need to relieve yourself, Madam?'

'Eh?' Snoopy didn't know what she meant.

'Do you need to discharge the waste products of tonight's dinner?'

'Er, yes.' Snoopy was very uncomfortable and embarrassed. But the grey bot led her quickly to a small room and showed her what to do. Once again, she considered the inanity of eating, and hoped she didn't have to do it again. Life was going to be very different, living at the palace, and only going home on weekends, but somebody had to do it.
Monday 16 September 2013

### Swing Free

Rachel Branscombe

Quakers Hill, NSW

The ground moving, the sky shaking.

The infinite thrill as I go higher and higher. Holding on for dear life, hoping that I don't let go. Laughing with excitement, never wanting this moment to end. Then someone calls that it's time to go and I realise that I must stop. The chains jingle, the ground crunches beneath my feet. 'Can I have just one more go mummy?' I ask in my cheeky little voice. 'No darling it's time to go,' comes the reply as she takes hold of my hand and takes me home.

These days I go alone, no longer the little child I used to be. I sit on the same swing set and dream of being a kid again. I push off with my feet but no matter how high I go it doesn't have the same feeling it did when I was small. The ground is matted down by all the years, the chains are rusted with time, and it's apparent that I'm definitely not a kid anymore.
Tuesday 17 September 2013

### Thought Of Horror

Vita Monica

Southbank, VIC

Drip by drip it bleeds

A red soring wound

Bruised and rotten stripes

Who feels as I do?

From heart it's bleeding

Like bullet shot, it's aching

Having the heartbeats echo

Louder in your mind it echoes

What would you do at the last minute?

Have you ever passed the thought of horror?

Sleepless night, like ... it haunts you

And terrible pain, it consumes you

When you fall asleep; you fear you'll never see again.
Wednesday 18 September 2013

### The Beginning Of An End

Sarah Baker

Tullamarine, VIC

Her luscious full lips were burning an aggressive red with the crisp winter air, or was it the burn of undisguisable torment that was her life?

She broke the cold dark stare between them and turned to face the wall. Her eyes were glazed with tears, but there was a glimmer of hope, her rayless grey eyes danced across the bricks, indulging in the dream that it might actually be possible to find solace somewhere in the crumbling ruins that was once their beloved sanctuary.

Visibly reliving each and every moment in those heavy grey eyes, she obliged like a good little girl to the prison of thoughts that consumed her mind. Her immortal wounds there for all to see were threatening to take her away and she waited openly for them to swallow her whole.

Carrying a fearful look of desperation, she had never looked so exposed. She was welcoming an aggressor with open arms. Did she think there she would find her solace, in the lifeless silence that would follow?

~~~

Her pain was ripping at the walls of his heart, tears of despair rippled down his flushed cheek and you could see him flinch with every sharp blow she was now bound to endure. Little did she know he was desperately longing for her suffering to finally come to an end, knowing this too would bring him his antidote.

The look upon her face was agony for him to bear witness to. You could see he would not dare to draw his guilt stricken eyes away from her face. So he stood there, ankles shaking as he tried desperately to keep his feet planted firmly on the floor, instead of giving in to temptation and jumping straight out that creaky bedroom window.

He had no idea how to save her; this woman he loved so very much was slipping away and there was absolutely nothing he could do to salvage the pieces that once formed the wine bottle they shared. All that remained was two empty glasses.

Where could they possibly go from here?

Once you reach the end is it possible to find your way back to the beginning?
Thursday 19 September 2013

### Imagination

Alexander Gardiner

Bullaburra, NSW

'Imagine'. Life's wurth without; 'imagination',

could we iver contemplate creation?

A gif' to have in oor ain mind's een,

without it, nuthin' wundrous wid be iver seen.

Rabbie. 'O wad some Power the giftie gie us to see oursels as ithers see us'!

Wid that no' be a wundrous plus?

Imagine if; oor een had that gif' tae see,

aw' whit in life, we wid luve tae be.

As a lad, tae see aw' lass's ways,

tae see their mind's een an' beau-fait.

Tae ken whit they imagine life tae be,

whit they wid want aw' lad's tae see.

An' as a lassy, tae ken aw' Lad's minds,

an' their wishes, fur their ain mind's, tae find.

An' dugs an' cats an' aw' wee creatures aw',

tae see their wundrous thoughts we've niver saw.

An' tae see through wee burdies eens,

beautiful fields below o' verdant green.

An' tae soar wae oor imagination free,

Tae see life's wunders, in aw degrees.

Tae feel , the sounds, and see the breeze,

an imagine the thoughts o' aw' the trees.

Fur oor minds tae feel like aw' the fluers,

tae be coloured aw' day an' at ivery 'our.

Banish Poverty wid a'ways be in oor minds,

nae wars tae poverish aw mankind.

Equal rights fur aw' creatures livin' oan this earth,

let oor imagination gei strife the widest berth.

Aye , Imagine if aw' that an' aw that could be,

Nae sleekit thoughts o' oany degree.

Jist the power tae see hoo ithers see life,

Imagination tae banish, aw life's strife.

Imagine tae rid oorsels o' aw life's disease,

nae mair tae pay aw thay awsum fees.

An if we could imagine ithers point o' view,

nae need fur lawyers or the need tae sue.

Oh a wush in sum wee way,

aw' the wurld's folks kid be au-fait.

Oh the power o' imaginative thoughts,

an' fur those thoughts niver tae be bought.

See aw' ithers points o' view, fur free,

Ithers views, as we wid like them tae see.

Jist hoo wunnerful the wurld wid be fur us,

a gigantic, brammer, humungus plus.

A'ways, afore a lay ma heid doon tae sleep,

Imagine guid things an' fur ma soul tae keep.

Oh whit a brammer wundrous gif'

Imagination... jist imagine... If.

Friday 20 September 2013

### Steppe Surfing

Graham Sparks

Bathurst, NSW

Each and every disparate discipline I may traverse obliquely,

driven by my passion in quest of project closure

contains a myriad of details, not unlike an army,

and I, the man for pictures large not wishing for distraction

by consideration of a single soldier,

must be a generalissimo and surf the crowd,

for if I choose to focus on a single soldiers attributes

the vision will be lost as I am trampled underfoot.

This army that I speak of must be compliant and reactive

for at my merest fancy as it does arise,

that sea of men should form itself into the shape of my desire.

As blades of grass upon the steppe,

the details of a discipline are moved by thunder wind and spirit.

As roughshod do I ride across those plains, driven on by spirit,

my horses hooves make thunder, the wind is of our passing.

### Saturday 21 September 2013

At A Loose End...

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, NSW

At the third stroke, it will be 9.54 and 10 seconds and my lady reckons it's time for tea.

At the end of the day who can say what the outcome of the next election will be.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning, fawning regret, will we remember them?

At the final bell in the afternoon shall we spoon with the crème de la crème?

At times hard to handle; I am out of control and quite impossible am I – pity me.

At the 1972 Irish sheep dog trials, with smiles, I asked, 'How many were found guilty?'

At the Star Hotel, all's not well; the patrons are not happy 'cause the beer's gone flat.

At the stroke of twelve fair Cinderella, lost her feller, at a long weekend in Ballarat.

At night the trees aren't sleeping 'though the birds aren't cheeping and so the hounds do bray.

At the crack of dawn when the dew on the lawn gives way to the promise of a fine winter's day.

At the traffic lights there's a momentary contemplation; alienation surrounds me on all sides.

At the final bell, it will be impracticable to know if what I've written is valid or contrived.

At the third stroke, it will be 11 am precisely and wisely we retreat to the terrace by the roses.

At the end of the rainbow you may find the Land of Oz, simply because, your partner proposes.

At the end of the street where the waters meet is a lake beside the hanging marsh

At the end of a love affair, recriminations come to bear upon an idyllic now turned harsh.

At the periphery, life is so slippery, fragile, transient; precarious yet serene.

At the movies, life is so groovy! Forget all your troubles by the silver screen.

'At the Codfish Ball' with Shirley Temple: a memorable song and dance with Buddy Ebsen.

At the end of the universe, although perverse, it's rumoured there's a restaurant to make mess in.

'At the Castle Gate', I must relate, was the theme for 'The Sky at Night' – a bright impression.

At the present time; at the moment; at this juncture: all will function as the same expression.

At a café in Casablanca; at the markets at Salamanca; at a pub in Parramatta – we say this 'n' that.

At a glance, you will look askance at this meaningless dance of sentences; starting with an 'at'.

At arm's length when you read what's before you; I would implore you not to break the spell.

At an educated guess, even though I won't confess ... oh, alright – it's a mess! It's clear I'll be exposed at the final bell!

### Sunday 22 September 2013

At Another Time...

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, NSW

At a fevered pitch, the world attempts still to enrich uranium up to 235.

At the eleventh hour on the eleventh day of the eleventh month ... will we still survive?

'At Last' is an impassioned song, delivered so strongly by the impeccable Etta James.

At another time, on another occasion, there will be persuasion to participate in games.

At a standstill, the whirling dervishes were curling their moustaches with great abandon.

'At My Desk' sat Charlie Chuckles who darkly coloured drawings that little children fashioned.

'At the Cross' is an English hymn, when devotees on a whim, sing exulted praises to their messiah.

At the meditation centre, I had a dream I was a centaur galloping and neighing to the music of a choir.

At the ashram, Andris sat cross-legged at Mangrove yoga as he strove to make some sense of it all.

At one with nature? No, we are at two and nothing we can now do will reverse the planet's fall.

At the bicentennial rally, briefly I got pally with cross-gendered protestors in Hyde Park in '88.

At the bottom of the garden, without a 'beg your pardon', came fairies, hobgoblins and dykes incarnate.

At the battle of the sexes, I was struck in the solar plexus by a person of an ambiguous disposition.

At the third stroke it was apparent I was a new bloke; no need to take heed of emotional ammunition.

At the beginning, perhaps we thought that we were winning the war on world poverty.

At best it was a token gesture; a cynical brokered device to defuse adverse publicity.

At the coal face there was always a race to have a face as black as balsamic vinegar.

At the trivia night, though we had less wrong than right; it was not enough for a voucher for dinner.

At the apex was the diva who recorded the best version of 'Fever'; of course ... she was Peggy Lee.

At twilight, you'll just hear her singing when lights are low; always a treat for you and me.

At the looking glass stood Alice, who leapt in with no malice, and stormed the red palace of the queen.

At the hospital I had an inhospitable encounter with a physical fitness trainer who ruled supreme.

At another time and place, I'll fall flat upon my face, heaving like a whale upon a beach.

'At my command, I'll have you stand and take it like a man – remember the whip's within my reach.'

At my wild erratic fancy, an image comes of Clancy – it's a deliberate misquote so's to use another 'at'.

At my knee I have an old banjo-ukulele, I like to strum from time to time and scare the cat.

At the conclusion of this verse, you could say I've written far worse – but after all, who really cares?

At least it mentions 'fever'; at worst it's like a blunt meat cleaver – chopping up ideas, my dears that I now have shared!

### Monday 23 September and Tuesday 24 September 2013

The Book Of Dreams

David Anderson

Hazelbrook, NSW

Melvyn de Beer thought it was strange that he hadn't noticed the little antiquated book shop before, hidden at the back of the arcade. The little bell tinkled above the door as he entered and a very elderly bald man smiled at him across the counter. Melvyn moved among the aisles to the children's section and began to scan the titles. He gave a start as the old man, now beside him, asked a question.

'Are you looking for anything in particular?' The old man moved slightly away as he became aware of the heady aroma of alcohol on Melvyn's breath. Melvyn answered with a touch of annoyance. One of the old man's eyes was blue and the other was green, and it made Melvyn feel uneasy.

'Give me a chance to have a look around will you?'

He saw the look of hurt on the old man's face at his retort, and regretfully gave a smile. It wasn't the old man's fault he had had a few drinks too many; plus a falling out with his friend who saw him drinking at work.

'I'm sorry. Yes – I'm looking for a book for a seven year old girl. She really loves the beach and the ocean.'

The old man stared into his eyes for a moment, then beckoned him to the counter.

'That is very remarkable. Such a book I've had delivered to me today. It's not yet on the shelf.'

He bent to retrieve the book from under the counter. He lay it on the bench and flicked through the pages and closed it, revealing the cover: Jenny's Day at the Beach. He smiled and sighed.

'Books are such magical things. The story we create from them in our minds is much more truthful to life than ones from another's mind that we see in movie theatres.'

For a moment Melvyn could swear the cover was very yellow and worn. He blinked his eyes and the cover of the book was as if it was printed this morning. The scene was of a girl on the beach building a sand castle. Her parents looked on lovingly as they sat on deck chairs. The sun was shining and waves fell gently onto the shore and melted into the sand close to the little girl. Seagulls flew across the sky and ... He was taken aback, as he realised the book was moving like a film. He blinked again, and the book was static. He blinked a few more times, then realised it was probably the whiskey chasers he had drunk after the beers at the hotel.

'I can gift wrap it for the little one if you like.'

Melvyn ignored the request and was lost in thought for a moment. 'I beg your pardon?'

The old man smiled and held up some gift wrapping paper covered in little teddy bears. 'I can gift wrap. Children love the little teddy bear paper.'

Melvyn reached for his wallet. 'Yes. I'll take it. Thank you.'

The old man wrapped the book and took the money. Giving Melvyn his change he smiled and Melvyn felt a slight chill come over him. He had to get away from the gaze of those strange eyes. The old man smiled and his eyes sparkled.

'This book is very special. I'm sure your daughter will love it. They say books can change your life.'

Melvyn snatched up the gift and gave the old man a look of disregard. 'Really? Well, no book ever changed mine. Thank you.' He walked out hurriedly without waiting for a reply.

~~~

Melvyn put the bottle back under the seat of his car and, taking his brief case and the present, walked, or rather lurched, to the front door. He opened it to find Sally dressed in her party clothes; her friends gathered around her, playing pass the parcel. She jumped up and gave him a kiss and he passed her the present. He then thought perhaps just a book was a little too cheap. Perhaps he should have bought a doll? Then he changed his mind as Sally ripped off the teddy bear paper and threw the pieces to the floor. The old man was mistaken about the bears, and this gave Melvyn a certain satisfaction. Sally held up the book.

'Daddy! A book about the beach. Thank you, thank you, thank you.' She was about to reach up and kiss him, but she could smell that horrible smell that he and Mummy always seemed to have when she got close, so she hugged him around the waist. She opened the book and felt sure for a moment that the little girl on the beach had waved at her; but that couldn't happen – could it?

Later that night her mother tucked her into bed and said that either Daddy or herself would come in later and read to her. She sat up in bed and tried to read the book, but there were so, so many big words. She looked at the clock and saw it was very close to her bedtime and lights out. So if Mummy or Daddy didn't come in soon, they would say it was too late to read to her.

She jumped out of bed and put on her slippers. Grabbing her toy rabbit and the book, she walked up the scary dark hallway to the lounge room. Her feet tingled and she was terrified something would leap out and snatch them. She thought it was strange that this room was cold, as the fire should have warmed it. She moved around the couch to find her parents asleep and the fireplace a bed of flickering ashes. Three empty wine bottles were on the table. Her father was snoring with a half empty glass in his hand, while her mother lay back with her mouth open; a still burning cigarette hung from her fingers. Sally took the cigarette and tossed it into the fireplace; as always. She tried to wake them, but got no reply. Little tears rolled from her eyes as she decided that, yet again, she would have to turn off her own light and go to sleep.

She made her way back to bed and lay the book beside her on the pillow. She wished she was the little girl in the book on the beach and that her parents were the happy, wide awake parents sitting in the deck chairs, with no bottles beside them; except for lemonade of course. As she drifted off she didn't notice the cover of the book move. The parents on the beach rose from their chairs and walked to the little girl and, each taking one of her hands, led her into the small breakers, as they all laughed and swung her tiny feet in the sparkling surf. Sea gulls flew over their heads and laughter and the soft fall of waves on the beach, accompanied by the shrill cry of the gulls, filled the room. Sally lay asleep smiling.

~~~

Melvyn swore as he dropped his favourite mug, and hot coffee spilt all over his new slippers. His wife had screamed out their daughter's name from the hallway. He rushed to her side and found her standing at Sally's bedroom door; a look of horror on her face. She once again called out, but this time it was more in grief, and tears fell from her eyes.

'My little Sally. Mel, what is going on? Where is she?'

Melvyn leaned into the room and a tremor ran through him as he saw all of Sally's furniture and Sally herself had vanished. In their place the room was full of sand; some of it wet with the smell of brine. A little sand castle was formed in the middle of the room with a tiny shovel and bucket. Two deck chairs stood nearby accompanied by some lemonade bottles.

Melvyn picked up Sally's birthday book and on the cover, the little girl on the beach turned around and waved. He went to speak but couldn't. The girl was Sally.

~~~

Meanwhile, the little old man had just opened his shop and was attending his first customer.

'Are you looking for anything in particular?' The woman seemed in such a rush.

'Yes please. I haven't got time to browse. I just want a book for a young boy who loves anything to do with the jungle.'

The old man stared into her eyes for a moment, then beckoned her to the counter.

'That is very remarkable. Such a book I've had delivered to me today. It's not yet on the shelf.'

He reached under the counter and placed a book on it entitled, Children's Jungle Stories. The woman didn't even notice that the monkeys on the cover were actually swinging through the trees. She just opened her purse and handed over the money.

'Do you want me to gift wrap it? Children just love teddy be—'

Before he could finish, she replied, in an agitated voice. 'No, I haven't time. Just give me the paper, I'll wrap it later. You can keep the change.'

The woman gathered up the book and the gift wrap and put it in her carry bag, checked her watch and dashed out the door. The old man shook his head wearily and went back to his chores.

Later that night she arrived home from work, her bag full of office documents to be finalised that evening. Her husband glanced up from his computer, smiled, then returned his gaze to the screen.

'Peter is in bed. I only had time to nuke some spag bol for our tea. I told him we'll take him somewhere on the weekend, but I have to play golf on Saturday, and Sunday I have to go into the office.' His wife slumped down into the sofa and let out a long breath.

'Well I have so much on this weekend. I have to finish the Darnegie Report for the boss or my job will be on the line. And I have an essay for uni due on Monday. Any of that spag bol left?'

Her husband nodded. She remembered Peter's birthday and hurriedly wrapped up the book in a scruffy manner, and went to his bedroom. Luckily he was still awake and reached for a hug.

'Happy Birthday, Petey.' She gave him a brief kiss and handed him the book. He held it up and examined the teddy bears on the wrapper.

'These teddies are cute, aren't they Mum?'

His mother shook her hands anxiously. 'Don't worry about the paper. Hurry up and open it up.'

Peter tore open the paper and his eyes opened wide. 'A jungle book. Thanks Mum. Can you read it to me?'

His mother shook her head. 'I'm sorry Peter, I've just got too much to do tonight.'

His eyes lit up. 'What about Dad?'

She shook her head again. 'Not tonight Petey. You know Daddy has so many emails to answer from work and he's so tired. Maybe tomorrow night.'

Peter sulked for a moment, then leant up from the bed in anticipation of a kiss but his mother, already moving to the door, only smiled, gave a little wave, and walked out the door.

Peter picked up the book and looked at the cover to see a band of chimpanzees swinging happily through the trees. He must be tired as he thought for a moment that they really were swinging. He tried to read a little, but soon his eyes grew heavy. He wished he was in the trees with the chimps so they could tell him their story as Mum and Dad were always too busy to read to him. Soon, he dropped off to sleep. The book fell shut and the book cover was soon alive with chimps, scampering up and down the tree limbs and swinging on the vines.

The next morning Peter's parents stood at his bedroom door in shock, just like Sally's parents, for all of Peter's furniture was gone. The room was filled with greenery and the sound of squawking parrots, and the buzzing of insects echoed off the walls. A lone chimpanzee sat on the earthy floor reading Peter's jungle book. He let out a scream and threw the book at the stunned couple. Peter's mother picked up the book and stared at the cover in disbelief. She let out a scream and fainted. Peter's father picked up the book and looked at the cover to see a little boy swinging merrily through the trees with the chimps. The little boy was Peter.

~~~

The old man smiled as he usually did when all the parents who had bought his 'special' book that week all arrived at the same time with their purchases waved before them, demanding to know what sorcery the old man was up to. There were Sally and Peter's parents, and also the parents of Jodie, the little girl who wanted a book about fairies.

Jodie's parents were always too busy fighting and yelling to ever read to her. So she read the book her father bought from the old man alone, wishing she was in the land of fairies on the cover, and that one of the fairies would grant her a wish of stopping her mother and father screaming at each other.

Of course the next morning her parents found her room all covered in fairy dust and toadstools – but Jodie was missing. Wisps of sparkles flew around the room and stopped for a moment, then a small 'ping' would sound out, and they would swoop around the room again. Then they found the cover of the book where all the fairies and gnomes were gathered around Jodie, who was dressed as a fairy with pink wings.

'Quiet, quiet please, ladies and gentlemen. I will give you the answer you seek.'

Jodie's very large father leant over the counter and threatened him.

'If you've taken them I'll ... we'll ...'

The old man held up his hands. 'Your children can be back tomorrow morning. Do you at least have any idea why they disappeared? I told you all that the book can change lives. You ... all of you ... have to change your lives for your children's sake ... for all your sake. All of your children were unhappy – and indeed so were all of you.'

'I don't understand. Explain it a little more clearly.' Sally's mother settled everyone down to hear the old man's explanation.

'You two – Sally's parents. The way you two waste your life in a haze of wine will one day, and not too soon, end your days. You do want to see Sally's children one day, don't you?'

'Of ... of course.' Sally's parents held each other. The old man smiled.

'Then seek help. Stop the drinking. It will be hard, I know. But promise me this now and when you wake in the morning, you will again be a happy family.' The couple smiled sheepishly and promised. The old man turned his attention to Peter's parents.

'And you two. Always busy, busy, too busy for Peter. One day when he grows up he will be too busy for you. Promise to give him more love and time and tomorrow morning you will all be happy.' Peter's parents nodded and kissed each other. Jodie's parents then knew what was coming.

'And how do you expect Jodie to grow up a happy confident girl if all she hears are you two snarling and fighting each other? Seek counselling and try to sort out why you fight so much. If need be and you part, but I indeed hope not, at least Jodie will have two happy parents.'

Jodie's parents gave each other a hug. The old man grinned as all of the parents mingled and hugged each other. Jodie's mother gave the old man a quizzical look.

'But why can't they be there when we get home? You understand we are frightened by the unreality of this magic. Who is behind it?'

The old man shook his head. 'They are safe and happy in the land of dreams while you have time to question your future commitment to what I have told you. Never question the children about where they have been. This is no magic or a sorcerer's game of charades. I warn you that if you abstain from your promise, the children will return to the book of dreams forever. Now please go as I have work to do.'

Regretfully, the parents left the shop, and as the little bell tinkled behind them, Sally's mother turned to return for a question. She let out a small cry of alarm.

'The shop's gone ... it ... it's just vanished.'

They all turned to see that indeed the little old man's book shop was no more and in its place was a little cake shop.

~~~

A man and a woman got up from their deck chairs on the beach and walked to their daughter making a sand castle. They each took a hand and led her to the surf where the waves fizzed and tickled her feet. Sally looked up to her parents and they all smiled and laughed together as screeching sea gulls swooped over their heads. They walked back to the chairs and Sally's mother lay out the luncheon. Sandwiches, cake and lemonade for everyone.

Chimpanzees swung through the trees and Peter laughed with them and his father took a photo of him with his mother as they stood outside the chimpanzee exhibit at the local zoo.

Elsewhere, Jodie smiled as she looked up at her father with his arm around her mother. He leant over and kissed her on the cheek and she laughed. Jodie's father had bought tickets to see Peter Pan at the local movie theatre.

The little old man smiled as he observed his work and set about leaving for a new town. There were indeed many parents who needed to become aware of the life changing possibilities in the old man's ever changing cover of The Book of Dreams.
Wednesday 25 September 2013

### Shadows

Felicity Lynch

Katoomba, NSW

Why is it that

The most beloved

Die before time

Haunted by loss

Fragmented like dandelions

Blown hither and thither

By unseen winds

Touch

Acceptance

Belonging

Comfort of a hug

A big smile

The feeling of being part

Of a family

Lost

The little cat died today

Companion for 15 years

Little black bundle of love

With golden eyes

Soft black fur

A swinging tail

Expressing her many feelings

Her chirrups, her happiness

A lost but found little waif

Belonging to no one

Now so loved

So important

So part of our family

So missed

### Wednesday 25 September 2013 4 pm

Childhood Lost

Ruth Withers

Uarbry, NSW

In the cool of early morning, in the quiet of my room,

With the children all still sleeping in their beds,

I'm reflecting on the years gone by and those still yet to come

And on folk I've known and others that I've met.

And on wasted years and bitter tears and sadly squandered love

And faded dreams of mountains never climbed;

On survival and the value of the efforts that we make

And how fleetly fly the trudging feet of time.

Where is the purple-footed child who played in the frosted dawn?

Who was mostly alone and seldom without a friend?

A friend who simply was; who shared adventures and shared pain;

Who walked and talked and laughed with her back then?

Where is the pudgy, plain-faced child with the pudding basin hair,

Who found the greatest joy in the simplest things?

Who flew, on a thought, with the birds through the clouds,

To faraway places, without need of wings?

Gone is the child. Usurped! Driven out! Never again to return.

Her hopes and her dreams, long derided, have fled.

Her friend disappeared with her songs and her laughter

And nothing of substance has come in their stead.

And I, the unwilling and graceless usurper, at times catch a glimpse

Of the child who once was in the children who are.

Forgiveness denied me, I watch from the edges and yearn for the time

And the child that is mocking me now from afar.

### Thursday 26 September 2013

The View From Here

John Ross

Blackheath, NSW

It was hot. Humid. The tall vegetation was dense. Almost impenetrable. Beneath the canopy of green the light was dim. Occasional brilliant shafts of sunlight broke through, which only accentuated the general gloom.

I had been sent out to forage for food. For a long time now it had been hard to find. Many generations ago there had been an abundance of food and we had thrived. Now empty bellies and futile hunting trips were the norm. Because of this I had ventured out much further than I had ever been before. I had travelled in a huge arc but was now headed back home.

Nearly at the limit of my strength, faint from hunger and almost ready to give up I had discovered an area where food was plentiful. I had eaten and rested for as long as I dared. Now loaded down with as much food as I could carry, it was becoming increasingly hard to push my way through the vegetation. I was beginning to feel very tired again and knew that I was also very vulnerable to attack by an enemy. The food that I had eaten had given me some new energy but I knew that I would not be able to defend myself for very long against an attack by a fit, well nourished, opponent.

Instinct told me that home lay straight ahead; I would have to cross an open rocky desert area to get there. This barren stretch of land littered with huge boulders was a forbidden area. I knew this, but was eager to get home to receive the praise for finding so much food. To circle back the way I had come would take much longer. Still in the back of my mind were the stories, passed from generation to generation, of the time when the gods ruled the world. This is where they had lived and dreadful things had happened to anyone who had violated their land. The gods had made the very ground tremble with their wrath and one's body shake at the sound of their voice.

I stopped for a rest, had a drink from water collected in the hollow of a low lying plant, readjusted my load and started out again.

I had only taken a few steps when I heard it; the nearby rustle of something very big moving through the vegetation. I froze and could do nothing other than wait. It passed very near but did not see me. Trying to make as little noise as possible I continued.

In due course I reached the edge of the stony desert. It stretched out in front of me, seeming to continue on forever. I knew that somewhere in the distance it must end just as abruptly as here where it started. On the other side were many markers that warned of danger if the taboo was broken. Here, where no one had ventured before, there were none.

For a moment I paused. Was it wise to break the age old taboo? My courage nearly deserted me. The knowledge of what this new source of food would mean strengthened my will. Adjusting my load into a more comfortable position I lowered my head so as to minimise the glare from the rocks and started out.

It was so different from the cool shade that I had just left. The sun was hot on my back and my feet hurt from the sharp rocks. Exhaustion was slowly creeping over me. The effort of climbing over the smaller boulders and constant detours around the larger ones was sapping my strength.

Surely by now I must be at least half way across.

Without warning it started.

A horrendous noise. So loud that I felt my body vibrate.

I dropped my load of food and fell to the ground.

It was unbearable.

Then just as suddenly as it had started it stopped.

I had angered the gods.

I was going to die.

Fear energised me; made me run for my life.

The ground started to tremble and I heard the thunderous noise of the approaching gods.

~~~

The bell, signalling the start of the new school year, had been rung. It was time to go to the classrooms. The excited children ran out from the playground, along the gravel path, past the bell tower and towards the main building. They did not see the small black ant.

Friday 27 September 2013

#

#

### Coffee and Carbs

Shannon Todd

Empire Bay, NSW

No carbs after 3pm, no carbs after 3pm...

I glance at my watch for the hundredth time and groan. I have precisely eleven minutes to reach the head of the queue, place my order and then devour it before the self-imposed deadline.

'I will not break another diet!' I mutter to myself, whilst jiggling on the spot like a toddler desperately waiting to use the loo.

Hurry up, hurry up, hurry...

'Welcome to –'

'Skim milk decaf latte and a blueberry muffin,' I gasp, slamming my coffee card on the counter.

That's when I catch sight of the Adonis in the 'Coffee King' t-shirt.

'Need a caffeine hit?' He grins.

'Err...'

He's waiting for a reply – say something!

'I... err...'

Complete sentences would be preferable!

'Um...'

Anytime now!

'Carbs!' I manage to squeeze out.

Adonis chuckles and relays my order to the barista. I scurry to the other end of the counter and take shelter behind an old man on a walking frame.

I lose three precious minutes waiting for Adonis to call out my name. When he does I bolt for the counter without even bothering to glance at the note I'm pulling from my wallet.

'Keep the change.'

Adonis frowns. 'This is a $20 note.'

Perfect!

'Keep it.'

'That's a $16 tip.'

I flap my hands as if it's nothing before retreating to the opposite side of the coffee shop. Then I collapse into a vacant chair and virtually inhale my muffin, all the while wondering if my inability to resist carbs is somehow genetically linked to my aptitude for embarrassing myself.

I survey Adonis over the rim of my coffee mug – he glances up from the customer he's serving and catches my eye.

Damn!

I casually take a sip of my coffee and gasp as the scalding liquid sears my throat.

Double damn!

By the time I've recovered, Adonis is serving another customer. I continue to study him surreptitiously.

Eventually Adonis catches my eye again and grins knowingly. In spite of my blazing cheeks I manage to smile back.

He hesitates and then sidles around the counter. I almost drop my polystyrene cup.

Oh my God! He's coming over...

Don't be stupid...

He's definitely walking this way...

Wishful thinking...

He's looking straight at me...

I flick my hair and manage to find my voice, 'Hi!'

Adonis doesn't reply but leans towards me. The musky scent of his aftershave envelops me as he rests his hand upon my forearm. My heart da-dums painfully in my chest as he moves his lips towards my ear.

My lungs scream for oxygen but I can't remember how to breathe. Instead, I close my eyes and wait.

And then I hear them – six little words that cause my entire body to tingle and my stomach to somersault into my chest.

'You've got blueberry in your teeth.'

I'm NEVER eating carbs again!

Ed: We are always on the lookout for items which surprise and entertain, and they don't have to be long, or particularly involved or intricate. This story is well told with a strong storyline, the reader can empathise with the protagonist, and we have a bit of a surprise ending which tempers the horror of the let down with a good chuckle.

### Saturday 28 September 2013

Annie

Robyn Chaffey

Hazelbrook, NSW

We had bought the house, sight unseen, because it was in such an out-of-the way place; and we knew we needed somewhere, a building of some sort, to put our belongings and to lay our heads at night.

It was imperative we move immediately and we knew the land alone was well worth the price. A new house could be built once we were there, and even if the house was rougher than imagined... we were both good campers!

It was a perfect opportunity for both of us to have the peace and space to do our own work. On the internet we had seen pictures of the surrounding landscape and knew it would provide inspiration in abundance both for his painting and my writing.

The property was almost fifty kilometres from the nearest township and fourteen from the nearest neighbour, so we knew we would not have many uninvited visitors.

We found the house was dilapidated, but not impossibly so. We had sufficient ingenuity between us and would manage to make it clean and useable till we could arrange the building of a new, eco-friendly one.

Most of the work we would be able to do ourselves. The rest might provide some employment for local tradies. We wanted involvement with the community as early as possible. For now, we would 'make do' with the help of our camping equipment and the things we had brought with us. There was plenty of food and so we would be able to focus on cleaning for a few days.

A few days became almost a fortnight!

We were very satisfied with what we had achieved.

There had been a few odd sounds in the house at all times of the day and night. They did seem to be more prevalent at night but we assumed it was because we were relaxed and our quieter moments made the sounds more audible.

What such aged and dilapidated house would not creak and bump?

There was a tremendous overgrowth of foliage on the property, especially in the house yard. Someone at some time had been a wonderful gardener here. Many of the plants were very interesting to me. Though I knew little about plants (I am the iconic accidental gardener) I could see that there were many flowering trees and a variety of sprawling vines with interesting leaf shapes and amazing colours. These vines had been screaming for attention by growing wildly and were covering, indeed smothering and choking, each other as well as the other plants.

Clearing some of this was the hardest work of all during that first fortnight. Yet it did seem to have fallen largely on my shoulders to clean this section.

I did enjoy working out there though. It gave me thinking time; and as I worked I was able to scribble down ideas for my writing. My trusty notebook is never far from me. Whatever I am doing, wherever I go, I have learned to keep it close.

At times while I was engrossed in my pursuits, there would be a rustle or a thump in the foliage surrounding me; or I'd hear a scratching sound in a tree or a shrub which would draw my attention to another job in need of doing. I thought nothing of this! The world bumps and scratches continuously.

After two weeks our supplies were running very low indeed. It was time to make the journey into town and introduce ourselves to some of the locals, replenish the larder and... face the incredulous reactions of the locals to our purchase of this dilapidated property.

We were prepared for ridicule and for being treated with suspicion by country folk unused to strangers. However, we were not prepared for the extent of their shock that anyone would buy that place; or for their stories of how and why our 'new' home had been vacated.

The house, they said, had been built almost a century ago by a lovely exuberant young couple, Peter and Annie. Both had been born and raised in the area and were popular amongst their peers. 'Country born and bred!' they delighted in saying.

Annie's father had helped them with the building of the house when they were first married. They had raised four children there, and hosted many holiday parties for the children's friends and their families.

All too soon though the children had grown up and moved away to make lives and families of their own. The couple continued to live in the house for many more years. They were thoroughly involved in the community and well liked and respected.

Then one dark dismal day the husband, Peter, was murdered. It was truly gruesome! He had been shot several times at very close range.

Because the house was so isolated, no-one had come near for several days. It was said that he had been dead at least five days when a neighbour came by to keep a pre-arranged appointment to help Peter with some heavy fencing work on the property. When he couldn't raise the couple by knocking and calling, he felt a dreadful foreboding and carefully tried the door.

The poor man almost retched when he came into the living room. He found Annie all covered in blood, sitting, rocking and babbling incoherently by Peter's decimated corpse. She'd had a total breakdown... simply come unglued!

After a thorough investigation the police had found no evidence of an intruder. They came to believe that Annie had shot Peter though none could attribute any motive.

Interrogation was impossible as Annie's mind had gone. The court case was mere formality really; it seemed simply to assume her guilt though none of her neighbours could comprehend the possibility. The final determination was for incarceration in a hospital for the criminally insane in the city.

It was rumoured that none of Annie's children ever visited her.

Five years later she died and it was said that she had simply given up the ghost.

It was only a few short weeks after her death that some young people who had, for some time, been using the property as a hang out away from the older folk, came galloping into the neighbour's yard looking quite ashen. They had, they said, 'seen the old lady in her hospital gown wandering through the garden as though she was trying to fix it up.' They were chided for their foolishness and told they ought to 'stay away from that place!'

Weeks went by and an amorous young couple who had thought the place would be ideal for privacy had their evening abruptly cut short. They had broken into the house and begun their canoodling when the old lady suddenly appeared from one of the bedrooms. She was, they insisted, waving what they thought might have been a gun. Panicked, they did not wait to make certain but got out of there as quickly as they could, leaving behind them their rug and picnic basket.

There were several more reported sightings over the next few years. It did seem to the community that Annie had come back to claim her house and wanted not to be disturbed there. The stories had grown and Annie had become a local legend. She was thought to have been badly done by, and few to this day ever entered her property. It was not fear that kept them away. Rather it was respect. 'Let her alone!' folk would say.

We were absolutely fascinated with the stories! Talk about grist for our respective work!

The locals were just amazed the property had been sold. They had heard nothing of the family in all those years. 'Of course,' they mused 'it must be the descendants who have sold it... would have had to be sold through a city agent and only city folk would buy it!'

We felt suitably put down! However, the stories did not dampen our enthusiasm for the property.

Months passed and we continued to work on the property while now also making time to paint and write. Still we heard the bumps, scratchings and other sounds from time to time. It was only to be expected!

At last the building began on our new home. Timbers were being delivered and tradies coming in to help from time to time.

I had grown quite fond of the old house though, and had decided to maintain the garden and keep the old house as a sort of studio. It seemed such an inspiring place to work.

Our new home was nearing completion just in time for Christmas and I was organising the furnishings in both houses. One morning after breakfast I walked into what had been the living room of the old house, and there quite visibly stood a woman!

She had seemed not to hear me come in and was gazing pensively through the window. Suddenly, she started. She turned from the window, the gun in her hand! The look upon her face was one of sheer terror, as though she had feared me as a serial tormentor... one indeed to whom she was determined to put a stop!

Annie lifted the gun with two shaky hands and pointed it right at my face. She hesitated, her eyes telling me she did not want to shoot. I saw a trickle of red on her chin and realised that she had been biting down hard on her lip.

A moment later recognition registered and Annie lowered the gun. The slightest smile curled her lips and her big eyes brightened. A frail hand extended to beckon my gaze from herself to the renovated garden. She'd been admiring it through the window. The old lady turned to catch my eye and she nodded her approval as only the very elderly can. Then, suddenly, she was gone!

I stood, glued to the floor for what seemed an eternity. Had I really witnessed this scene?

We have lived here now twenty years and have never regretted our purchase. Our home and studio have grown and changed with our needs; I have enjoyed learning to care for the garden and we both have taken much joy and inspiration from it. It remains quite serene.

The old house still stands strong but does not creak or thump.

I can only guess at what happened that fateful day between Annie and Peter, but I know that I learned to love Annie early in my stay. I would have been happy to go on sharing the garden with her. However, I think she was somehow glad to hand it over to me.

We have made a bold, bright sign to hang above her door. It reads simply, 'Annie's House'!

### Sunday 29 September 2013

The Old Pooncarie Road

Marilyn Linn

Darlington, SA

Uni was finished for the year and the long summer stretched ahead.

'What do you think, Sarah? I reckon we could drive up to Wentworth. We could have a play on the pokies while we were there, might even win a few bucks! Then we could go up to Broken Hill for a few days, then back to Adelaide.'

A smile spread across Sarah's face. 'You know what, Becky? I reckon we should.'

The twins laughed in their own conspiratorial way. The twenty-year old girls were good friends as well as sisters and three days later, with basic supplies, sleeping bags, tent, a few changes of clothes, maps, water and high excitement, they loaded their old Kingswood station wagon and headed off. Clear of the city's restrictions they relaxed, chattering and laughing as they sped along, slowing only for towns until they were over the border into New South Wales.

A visit to several clubs in Wentworth netted them a tidy reward – enough to fill the petrol tank and some left over to pay for a motel room for the night. As they cleaned the windows of the Kingswood and checked their tyres at the petrol station, the friendly attendant asked, 'Where you girls off to then? Looks like you plan on camping out?'

'We are going up to Broken Hill for a day or two,' Sarah replied.

'Which way are you going – on the Silver City Highway or the old Pooncarie Road?'

'What's the old Pooncarie Road? Don't know that one,' responded Sarah, her interest obvious.

'Well, most of it is dirt, but it's okay. Goes by the river. Nice scenery, lots of wildlife,' he answered. 'Got a map? It's on there. Here, let's show you.'

They made an early start next morning and soon found the turn-off. The road was rough, but had been recently graded. It followed the Darling River, crossing over and back several times. In patches it was dry and dusty, in other places it was wet and sticky. Sarah, the more experienced driver, took first turn at driving. Progress was slow.

After sandwiches for lunch, Becky took the wheel for her driving stint. At a branch in the road, their confidence wavered as they wondered which way they should go. No sign posts to help them. Becky decided that to the right would be the most likely, as that felt right to her. Rapidly the road deteriorated, becoming little more than a track.

'Turn around Beck. Let's go back to the turn-off,' pleaded Sarah.

'Nar, we'll be okay. I know this direction is okay. Must go somewhere,' Becky replied obstinately.

A patch of water covered the road ahead but Becky drove on, sure that it was only a puddle from recent rain. She drove into the puddle slowly, then, horror of horrors, the car refused to move.

'Back out Beck. You can't go forwards.' Sarah's voice was tinged with hysteria as the car refused to budge. 'Rev it up a bit more.'

The back wheels tossed sloppy clay out behind and sank further into the mud. 'We're stuck,' declared Becky, stating the obvious. 'How are we going to get out? How far back was that last house we saw? Do you think we could walk back and get help?'

'You know the rules. Dad told us a hundred times. "Stay with the car, no matter what", so I want to stay here,' said Sarah, her anxiety making her tone stern.

'So how often do you think anyone uses this goat track, wise guy? You can stay here if you like but I am going back. It wasn't very far.' Becky reached for a bottle of water and her backpack and got out of the bogged Kingswood. The clay slop grabbed her shoes, almost causing her to fall.

'Get back in the car, stupid,' yelled Sarah. 'You'll get covered in mud!'

'No. You get out. See if we have anything we can dig with. Maybe we could dig a trench behind us and back out,' suggested Becky, hopefully, not really wanting to walk anywhere.

'We've got that empty ice-cream container. Would that work?'

'I'm prepared to try anything, Sarah. I have another suggestion too. Remember when we went camping with Mum and Dad, every time we stopped for a "pit stop", a car would go past. I'm prepared to give that a try.' The girls laughed.

They took off their shoes and climbed out of the car, found the plastic container and, after the 'pit stop' drew no passers-by, began to dig. Sarah tried to reverse the car several times but all she succeeded in doing was spinning the wheels, mud flying out around the car.

Exhausted and frustrated, both girls were almost in tears. They continued to dig and try to reverse.

Conversation was limited to insults.

'It's your stupid fault,' snarled Sarah.

'It is not. You didn't have any better ideas,' snapped Becky.

'Shut up and dig, idiot.'

As evening was closing in, a flock of ducks landed in the water, just a few metres away from the car.

'Cheeky buggers, you might end up as dinner,' Sarah told them.

'Oh sure,' said Becky sarcastically, 'and who is going to catch them? Not you.'

'Let's try again to back it out. Go forward a bit first, then go back as fast as you can. I'll stuff the cardboard from the food box under the back of the wheels. It might work,' Sarah was desperately hoping.

'You drive. You know everything.'

'Suit yourself, moron,' Sarah answered.

'Come on car. Let's get out of here,' she muttered to herself. 'Right?' she yelled at Becky.

'Right as I'm gunna be,' came the answer.

'Okay. Here we go!'

Sarah revved the motor, dropped the car into first gear and prayed. 'Please go.' The car rocked, giving her hope. Then she stopped and changed quickly to reverse gear and revved hard. She ignored the uncontrollable slipping and sliding from the rear of the car, keeping her foot pressed firmly to the floor. The Kingswood responded, a backward jolt, then out of the bog, surprising the girls as it went.

Ten metres backwards Sarah stopped the car, well clear of the mud. Both girls burst into tears and sat in the dust beside the car. 'See? It just takes an expert,' Sarah said through her tears. They laughed, relief flowing over them.

They backtracked for three or four kilometres before they found the only homestead for miles around. The farmer listened to their story and offered them a shower and the dirt patch in the front of his house for a campsite overnight.

The next morning they returned the way they had come and continued their journey to Broken Hill via the Silver City Highway.

'Friends again?' asked Sarah.

'What do you think?' smiled Becky, as they drove on, enjoying the feeling of freedom and adventure.
Monday 30 September 2013

### One Life's Detritus

Gregory Tome

Burradoo, NSW

In Memory of Ann

Aged 47 years

Such simple words. A life reduced

to such words lined in stone.

All that love

reduced to this;

companionship over decades

reduced to this;

heartaches, sorrows, joys

reduced to these twenty one words

weathered in stone

by the arrogance of time.

Beloved Wife of George

Yet there is more.

Away from our eyes

contained in the best local timbers

bones and dust in that capsule

somewhere below the stone words

a distillation of so much.

Powder once flesh on arms grasped

by so many friends. Bones

once arms that encircled George –

her loving George.

Died March 23, 1883.

Flesh now dust: flesh once

stroked, caressed, held,

irrigated by blood quickening

at the sound of his footfall.

All these, so much has filtered down

to this, a small space in a small forgotten place.

Thy Will Be Done

### Tuesday 1 October and Wednesday 2 October 2013

The Snarler

Henry Johnston

Rozelle, NSW

Characters:

  * Walter Bugden - The snarler (young, violent, criminal enforcer)

  * Frank Bugden - Walter's father, and Starting Price (S.P.) bookmaker

  * Mick Vaughan - Sergeant NSW Police

  * The Bumper - Senior detective NSW Police

  * Murray Dwyer - Newsagent, gambler, criminal

  * The Fireman - Gambler, gunman

  * Guest appearances - Hollywood George Edser, Bea Myles, Arthur Stace, the Kingsgrove Slasher, Guido Culletti

Location: Sydney in the 1960s

Warning: Strong language. Violent imagery.

~~~

A churning sea batters the Sydney coast. Salt spray drifts inland toward the city.

A sleek 1956 Chevrolet stands in front of a squat brick house. A sharp featured young man fidgets at the steering wheel. Nothing has changed since his last visit. A low brick fence, blue hydrangeas, line a neat path to the door, a trimmed hedge beneath bedroom windows.

He recalls the fear, the feel of the cold lead, the glimmer of the brass casing on the .303 bullet.

'Too bloody big.'

He speaks aloud to no one, but the words calm jangled nerves.

'I needed this .38. I'll dump it when the job's done, and nick another one.'

The windscreen wipers arc in time with the music as sheet lightning crackles static from the car-radio speaker.

'Coppers are bastards. I hate 'em. Pay 'em off and they come back for more. Bugger them. I don't give a stuff. A bet is a bet. That's the way it goes. You play, you pay. Come on, come on. I can't sit here for eternity.'

The man reaches for the glove box, pops the lock, tightens his fist around a grey pistol then feels and unfastens the safety latch. Clicks open the tumbler, spins the chamber and snaps it shut. A thin coating of oil mingles with sweat on his palm.

The porch light blinks.

Flip. Radio silent.

Flip. The wiper stops.

Click. Hammer cocked, but the windscreen mists.

'Fuck.'

Flick. The wiper starts, but the motor screeches.

Mick Vaughan peers through the haze at the parked car then darts inside at the screech of the Chevy's wiper motor.

Click. Dark porch.

'Shit.'

Mick runs toward the car, pumping a shotgun.

The young man grabs the door handle.

Locked.

Grasps the car door lock, but oil and sweat makes his hand slip.

Wind the window handle. Bring the .38 to chest level.

The surf thunders.

Three shotgun slugs smash the window.

'You silly little prick,' Mick says, pulling at the car door latch, opening the smoking, blood-spattered vehicle.

The body falls onto the roadway.

Two men, guns drawn, run up behind Mick.

'Ring the divvies, and get a blanket,' Mick barks, 'and tell the local cops to seal off the street.'

The quiet Coogee roadway fills with detectives and ambulances. TV cameramen and reporters push against blue police tape. Rain washes blood along the gutter. The reek of burnt flesh and nitrate mingle with the salt-misted air.

A young constable drapes an old coverlet over the corpse. Neighbours stand in doorways. Sirens wail. Mick walks back to the house. A detective colleague shouts, 'Bumper's arrived.'

'Show him in.'

'What's this bloody mess Vaughan? It looks like Kings Cross on a Saturday night. Who's the fucking snarler?' The senior detective removes his pork-pie hat, and places it on the sideboard.

'Walter Bugden. Murray Dwyer's enforcer. Minor hood. His old man runs a Starting Price tote in Darlington. His dad is a good mate. We go back a while.'

The senior detective raises his eyebrows.

'Bugden. Ex-Newtown junior?'

'Yeah,' Mick says.

'Showed a lot of promise when he was kid. Did a bit of amateur boxing. Went a couple of rounds as a professional. I trained him. Had the makings of a tasty bantamweight, but dropped out of sight and eh,' Mick sighs, 'teamed up with our old mate.'

'So why did he come around with a lead calling card, Mick? Old times or something more important?' Mick grimaces at Bumper's humour.

'Misunderstanding over money.'

'Sure,' Bumper says.

'So Murray Dwyer's in this up to his neck right?'

'Got it in one, Bumper,' Mick says, pacing the room and peeping through the curtains at the mayhem.

'It took a while for Murray to learn the ropes, but he's got the gift now that's for sure. Remember the barney he got into a few years ago with the sharpie in the blue suit, what's his name?'

Bumper reaches for a pack of cigarettes. 'The Fireman. A twerp from Queensland.'

'The very same, Bumper. Frank Bugden and the Fireman skinned Murray on a mug's bet at 100 to one. I was working on the Slasher case at the time when Murray came whinging for a favour. Funny thing is the race wasn't fixed. Sheer bloody luck. Dwyer the idiot, staked the lot and the Fireman walked away laughing. Took him for every skerrick he owned. Dwyer's luck changed when he met Dasher Doug Morgan. Know him?'

'Yeah,' Bumper says. 'A slash artist. Ran with Guido Culetti in Woolloomooloo back in the thirties. Razor scar across his cheek.'

Mick nods.

'So Morgan and Dwyer set up a standover business in the Cross – you know the type of operation – tiny town hoons smacking working girls in the kidneys, but old lady luck smiles on Dwyer. Starts winning big on the gee gees then puts this young snarler Walter on the pay roll as his debt collector.

'Dwyer and Morgan did not tell Frank Bugden about Walter joining up with them. Frank got commission from the original sting. He has no idea Murray was my snout in Golden Grove. He hates Dwyer. Still does, but for the life of me I never figured out why.'

'Might be because Dwyer's in the brotherhood,' Bumper says, as he pours a double brandy.

'You are joking! Are you telling me Murray Dwyer is one of us?' Mick stares at Bumper.

'Bet your life Mick. The sash my father wore.'

'Well fuck me,' Mick says.

'Fuck you is right, Mick, because you just killed your best mate's son.'

'Him or me, Bumper.'

'Fair enough,' Bumper says, balancing his words with detached agreement before draining his glass.

'No worries mate. I'll have a word in Macquarie Street. Tell you what. Take a few weeks off down the South Coast. The bream will be on the bite once this bloody storm blows out. I'll call you when the heat is off, but you might be posted over to the North Shore. Two bodies turned up in the Lane Cove National Park this morning, and we'll need manpower.' Bumper winks at Mick and bangs his glass on the table.

'What happens to Frank Bugden?'

'He'll read it in the papers.'

'Tough call,' Mick says.

'You're not going to front him and tell him you shot his son. Stay away.' Bumper glares at Mick then asks, 'How much are you into Dwyer for?'

'Four thousand.'

'Can you cover it?' Bumper raises an eyebrow.

'Yeah, that's what me and the boys were talking over before the kid showed up,' Mick says.

'Dead for four thousand quid eh? Hardly worth it. Anyway, three monkeys, Mick me old son. You know the drill. Hear no evil, see no evil, and I'll talk with this evil lot.'

The senior detective retraces his steps along the hall, and walks out the door. A starburst of lights illuminates his face as a scrum of journalists fire hundreds of questions, each brushed aside by the Bumper.

'Come to headquarters tomorrow morning for a full statement,' he says, then walks toward a black Ford Fairlane. A blue illuminated crown with the word 'Police' atop the roof marks the Bumper as the crime scene's top cop.

Two Coroner's Office men dressed in rubber overalls roll Walter Bugden's body onto a black plastic sheet, lift the zippered bag onto a stretcher, and slot it into the rear of a black van.

Police photographers film the scene.

A detective slips the .38 pistol into a plastic evidence bag. Journalists in raincoats question ambulance drivers. A fireman hoses the gutter, another spreads a bucketful of sand across gobs of blood on the grass. A tow truck driver hauls the Chevy onto the back of a lorry, and drives away behind a police car.

The street empties of flashing red and blue lights. Neighbours shut their doors. Frogs croak in the wet; the surf pounds Wedding Cake Island.

Mick pours brandy and calls to his mates.

'What about Dwyer?' one of the men says.

'He'll keep,' says Mick, but his hands shake so hard the brandy spills onto the carpet.

'You know what that hoodlum's biggest problem is?' he asks no one in particular.

'Me.'

'I never miss. Never.'

'That bastard Dwyer sent a boy to do a man's job. Set him up. We knew there'd be heavies,' but Mick's voice quavers as his words trail into silence.

'How were you to know Murray would send the kid? We'll straighten him out later.'

'No we won't. Murray's got the best protection going,' Mick says, pouring another brandy, and peering out the window onto the dark street.

'It's going to be a long night,' Mick says, 'and for the first time in my life I'm going to get drunk.'

~~~

'Not an ounce of spare flesh mate, not a skerrick in 20 years. I don't drink or smoke.'

Michael Patrick Vaughan patted his waistline.

'Yeah but you are a bugger of a gambler.' Frank Bugden nodded to the barmaid for a whisky.

A sergeant in the New South Wales Police, Mick Vaughan gazed the length of the Golden Grove public bar, noting the faces of the wizened, spectacled men studying the turf guide, and circling their selections for the Saturday race meeting.

Mick first saw these characters in country pubs around the High Country in Victoria and in fly blown shit speck towns in the Western Districts.

Born in the flat brown wheat lands of the Hay Plain, Mick grew up in the endless cycle of rural drudgery.

He learnt the gambling code at two-up games held in shearing sheds along the length of the Darling River, and on his 18th birthday watched a travelling show set up the Big Top on the outskirts of town. Coloured electric lights decorated the tents of the Headless Lady, the Wall of Death, the Strong Man. Show spruikers enticed the country folk to 'have a go, try your luck, be in it to win it'. Air rifles thwacked tin targets. Leather thongs clattered against the nails of the ever-spinning wheel of fortune, but the 'lucky' tickets littered the red soil as the showmen skinned the country folk with disarming ease.

Mick followed the powwow of profit. Watched the gnarled country hands peel pound notes from filthy rolls, stared at their creased faces stained with fairy floss, and tomato sauce from Pluto Pups. Saw small fortunes slip into the bottomless pouches of the carnival spivs as the gawking Bogans handed over their money for a bag full of worthless prizes.

A bass drum pounded for hours before the show closed, and ringers and bush cooks and local toughs headed for Jimmy Sharman's boxing tent, to go toe to toe with broken nosed pugs.

Now and then, a local won a stoush, staggering away with a split upper eyelid and a sore head. Ten quid hard won, destined for the two-up school in a tent behind the animal cages.

A brown-eyed kid named Dave Sands knocked out two of Mick's teeth and put an end to his mindless enchantment with the land, and when his mouth healed, Mick packed his swag and followed the show to Sydney.

'You wouldn't believe what I saw last night.'

'What?' Frank sensed fear in his mate's voice.

'The ambulance brought a derelict to Sydney Hospital casualty. So much blood they couldn't find the wounds.'

'What in Christ's name do you mean Mick?'

'A bastard cut off his dick.'

Frank sprayed a mouthful of whisky across the bar.

A passer-by found the bloodied body beneath cardboard boxes near the Boy Charlton swimming pool and Mick, the acting duty sergeant at Central Street, answered a panicky call from the Resident at the hospital.

'Don't tell anybody Frank.'

'No I won't mate,' but Frank turned pale.

'Are you going to the Police Boys tomorrow morning? Walter wants to know. He said he's keen for the three rounds.'

'No,' said Mick, 'and I won't be there in the afternoon either. We've got to catch this bastard.'

The local newsagent Murray Dwyer walked into the bar, sat on his usual stool, flicked open the paper, adjusted his glasses, and took out a pencil from the top pocket of his shirt.

'Schooner of old, love,' Murray said, and nodded to Frank and Mick.

'Not a word Frank,' Mick hissed.

'She's apples mate. Just get him! Better still, why don't you collar this fucking mongrel?'

Frank signalled Murray with a nod, winked goodbye to Mick and pulled up a bench next to the newsagent.

'What do you fancy tomorrow?'

'Harrier.'

'What's the tote?' Frank asked, lighting a cigarette and blowing the smoke into Murray's face.

'Five to four on.'

'Sticking with the favourites eh?'

'Then there's Sea Hound, at 13 to two. One or the other's a cert, I might have a few bob,' Murray said, smoothing the newspaper and sipping his beer.

'You'll never be a millionaire with just a few bob Murray. Why don't you take a real punt? You've got the dough. George Edser put 500 to 800 on Chartwell in the Encourage last week. Went from 21 to one to nine to four, and George walked away with 50,000 quid.'

Murray's eyes popped. 'You are joking.'

'No I'm not. I thought you read the bloody papers. The stewards hauled him in for a "please explain".'

'He'll get away with it. Always does. Connections. It's what makes this game go around. You gotta be in the know,' Murray said, touching the side of his nose. 'And you know bloody everything, Bugden.' Murray turned the pages of his newspaper, and began to read.

'I tell you what. Seeing you're such a hot shot, why don't I organise a big time bet just for you. What do you say? A fair dinkum jumbo money side wager. Have you got the guts for it Mr Hollywood Murray Dwyer?' Frank laughed sarcastically and ordered another whisky.

'How big?' Murray moved closer to Frank.

'You reckon Harrier tomorrow, right? There's a bloke staying upstairs carrying a wad thicker than your fist. He's a punter from Queensland.'

'What's his moniker?' Murray asked.

'No names. No pack drill. He works for the Brisbane Fire Brigade. What say I organise a little gamble between you and this hick?'

'I'll think it over,' Murray said.

'You do that my old China, because word around the traps is this Fireman will bet on two flies crawling up a wall,' Frank said, downing his whisky in a gulp.

The bar filled with familiar faces.

'Gotta get tea. Give me a shout,' Frank said to Murray, and walked unsteadily to the bar door.

Low clouds scudded across the eastern sky. A fine mist dusted the pavement. Frank mumbled a litany of preferred foods, and as the cold air ignited the whisky, he heard his son's paperboy whistle away in the distance. Rain fell steadily. Tomorrow the track would be dead.

'Just like that poor mongrel with no prick.'

Frank vomited whiskey, and spat into the gutter.

~~~

'Mind if I join you?' Frank smiled at the Fireman.

'Suit yourself.' The Fireman glared at Frank with sharp blue eyes.

'Enjoying your stay?' Frank asked with a breezy air.

'No complaints. What can I do for you?'

'Fancy a heart starter? Whisky?' The barman responded to Frank's order and poured a double.

'Not for me.' The Fireman remained cool.

Frank lit a cigarette and said, 'Maybe I can do something for you.'

'Bookies do nothing for nobody.'

'As a rule, but seeing you're a betting man I thought you might be interested in a side wager.'

'What's in it for you?' the Fireman asked with a sneer.

'Leery bastard aren't you?'

'Yeah,' the Fireman replied, tapping a Senior Service cigarette on the table, lighting it and flicking the dead match onto the floor.

'Five per cent off the top.'

'What sort of money do you mean?' The Fireman's eyes followed the curling smoke.

'Good enough for a boy from the bush.'

'Who's the mark?'

'He'll be here in a while. Name's Murray Dwyer.'

'Which race?'

'The fifth.' Frank drained the glass and felt the whisky settle his nerves.

'Do you know what's he on?' The racing guide crackled beneath the Fireman's fingers, as he held a pencil and underlined the selection.

'Either Sea Hound or Harrier,' said Frank.

'I suppose I'll see you a little later this afternoon, Mister Bugden.'

'At five per cent you can count on it,' he said.

Frank stood up and walked to the Ladies' Parlour.

'Hard stuff eh pal?' The barman smiled at the red headed man in the blue suit who had ordered a lemonade, lime and bitters.

'Keep a clear head. Give us a nod when Murray Dwyer comes in,' said the Fireman flicking a ten pound note onto the bar. He motioned to the barman to keep the change, but as he picked up the tenner, the Fireman leaned in close and whispered, 'Next time, mind your own fucking business, right.'

Blood drained from the waiter's face and he walked unsteadily to the other end of the saloon.

Regular drinkers perched on their favourite stools, hunched over dirty ashtrays, and studied the racing form.

The radio played advertisements and listed dividends from race meetings across the country.

A weather-beaten cocky sat outside the bar, dozing in the sun.

Frank stood beside four phones in the Ladies' Parlour. Men drifted in and out, placed their bets then ambled back to the main bar to wait for the race call.

The Fireman stayed cool, feeling his wad of notes.

Murray walked into the bar, agitated.

'That bloody kid takes hours to finish the frigging paper run; I'll be damned if I know what he gets up to. Schooner of old and a nip of Dewars.'

Frank blanched. 'You little prick,' he said under his breath.

Totes broadcast for race four listed Sea Hound 13 to two and favourite, Harrier, at five to four, Noble Empire out on a limb at 100 to one. The Fireman leaned back in his chair, and felt the .25 pistol bite in to the small of his back.

Murray drained the whisky then gulped the beer.

Frank coughed as he came out of the Ladies' Parlour door into the main bar. The publican called to the barman. The cocky moved inside.

'Murray me old china! Come and meet a mate of mine.' Frank led Murray to the Fireman's table.

'Mr Blue, this is Murray Dwyer.'

'Mr Blue?' Murray's face twisted with anger.

'Blue suit, tie and red hair. They don't call you "Bluey" by any chance?'

'Only fools call me Bluey.'

'This must be a fucking joke,' said Murray, but the Fireman pulled the roll of notes from his pocket, placed it on the table, and motioned with his head.

'No joke Murray,' Frank said, and pointed towards the parlour door.

'Ladies' Lounge, now.'

The cocky sauntered outside, crossed the street and entered a red pillbox telephone booth.

Frank leant his face close into Murray.

'You say anything about my kid again, and I'll kick your fucking head into next week. Got it? Now. Business. Race four starts in ten minutes. Pick your mount, call your bet on the starting price nominated by my connection. Debt settled noon tomorrow, minimum bet five hundred quid, money up front. Proof of cover or else. My commission is five per cent.'

'Or else what?' Murray, nervous, glanced around the Ladies' Parlour.

'Don't look for Mick Vaughan mate. He won't be here for weeks. He's looking for a bloke that chops off cove's dicks. Nominate your cover, or show the dough. No cover, no bet.'

The Fireman picked up his wad of notes.

'Count it,' he said.

Frank tallied ten thousand pounds. Murray pulled out a neat billfold and peeled off five hundred.

'The deeds are in the safe in the shop. It's bona fide.' A line of perspiration broke across Murray's forehead.

The Fireman glanced at Frank's up-thrust thumb.

'Kosher,' Frank said.

'Better be,' said the Fireman.

'It is, it is,' Murray said with a panicked voice.

'Yeah?' The Fireman placed the pistol on the table.

'It better be.'

'Put that away for Christ's sake,' Frank hissed.

'What the fuck is this Bugden?' Beads of sweat rolled from Murray's top lip into his mouth.

The announcer read the totes.

'Five hundred quid Noble Empire.' The Fireman fixed Murray with a blue-eyed stare.

'Five hundred, Sea Hound,' replied Murray.

'No way Noble Empire can get up at a hundred to one, no bloody way in the world.'

'Is it a bet?' Frank looked at both men. The Fireman held Murray's twitching gaze.

'Well?' said Frank.

'There's no way it can win.' Murray handed his money to Frank. The Fireman did the same.

Frank picked up a phone, dialled and repeated the totes: 'Sea Hound, firm seven and a half to one, Noble Empire out to 110 to one.'

'Done?'

Frank looked at both men. Murray glanced at the dirty roll of pound notes lying next to the pistol and nodded.

'Done,' said the Fireman.

~~~

Murray breathed in the damp, smoky fog and watched his chilled, exhaled breath billow beneath a lamp light.

Bea Miles, slumped in a hidden doorway, muttered snatches of The Dark Lady.

A cat flattened herself in the gutter. A screeching tom mounted, and bit into her neck.

An old man in a raincoat, battered Homburg hat on the back of his head, squatted on his haunches, frozen except for a faint movement of his right arm.

The deep note of a ship's horn sounded the incoming tide. Seamen shouted to each other in voices from other worlds.

Far away in a dark street, the stiletto heels of a lone prostitute pinged against the cobblestones.

'I'll get those bastards,' Murray said. 'As long as it takes, I'll get them, one by one.'

The sound of the race call echoes in Murray's memory. He steps on the indelible yellow chalk mark on the pavement, and chafes at the script with his shoe, attempting to erase a letter from the word 'Eternity'.
Thursday 3 October 2013

### Wish For An End

Kylie Abecca

Port Albany, WA

A heart left broken, blackened and charred,

Left behind burned, cracked and scarred,

Time is my enemy, one I can never turn back,

My life is left hollow, empty and black,

For friends I have none, that I truly do trust,

To rely only on myself, is now a must,

I wish to break down the barriers, so my life can move forward,

A desire I don't know how to work toward,

Keep my chin up, fake a smile and pretend,

And hope that one day my turmoil will come to an end.
Friday 4 October 2013

#

#

### Humanity's Crime

Mubarak Hameed

Preston, VIC

I am trapped in between

time, in love with humanity,

Saddened by our crimes

Powerless and helpless

I cannot condemn the unkind

We stole oil,

We stole bread,

We stole peace,

We stole keys to chains and left anger unleashed,

We stole lives of

children, brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers,

grandmothers and grandfathers, friends and lovers

We stole humanity's gift

Bodies declared war on neighbours,

While parents breathe ashes of their children,

We made them homeless

While we live comfortably through their sufferings,

How can I be a pacifist,

when I remain idle to our crimes?

Ed: The last two lines of this poem caused discourse in the narrator office. Poetry like this challenges your thinking and makes you reflect on your beliefs and choices in life and the way you view yourself in the world. Art is at its noblest form when it inspires this sort of reflection, for without it, we will never aspire to be better human beings.

### Saturday 5 October 2013

The Busker

Subroto Pant

Sinnamon Park, QLD

Tucked inside yesterday's Courier Mail was a little news item about an old busker who was hit by a vehicle at the intersection of Adelaide and Edward Streets. The police are looking for the driver of a vehicle that fatally struck a 66 year old man in Brisbane early Sunday. The incident happened around 6 am and the responding officers found the man, identified as Frank Wallis, unconscious and unresponsive with trauma about the body, lying on the road.

On any given day as you wander down the Brisbane CBD you can find a smorgasbord of street performers sharing their talents with tourists, visitors and shoppers. The buskers thrive in this city, especially on the weekends, with roadside performances drawing a fair number of spectators. The city offers diverse fare from musicians, mime artists, balloon artists and street artists sharing their wares. Some are quite well known, like the blind saxophonist Graham Pampling, the Aboriginal didgeridoo player Adrian Burragubba and the guitarist Tim Brennan. There are others who perform in anonymity but you can sense that they enjoy themselves tremendously while busking.

The first time I heard Frank Wallis play was on the corner of Adelaide and Edward Streets, the place where Queens Plaza now stands. He was belting out an al fresco version of To Love Somebody. I smiled as he was taking a certain amount of artistic liberty with the lyrics that Robin and Barry Gibb wrote, interspersing little words of his own in the lyrics. Words that only a true fan would know, that were deviating from the original. I can still remember him belting them out.

You don't know Baby what it's like, you don't even know what it's like, To love somebody ... like the way I love you

There's ... a certain kind of spotlight that never shone on me bright ... You ain'tever got to be so blind, I'm a kinda man, can't you see what I am?, I live and breathe for youse, But what good does that do, If I ain't got you babe?

There was something about him in the way he performed, an infectious enthusiasm that sucked you in. In appearance he was a tall, tanned man, narrow framed and supple. At that time he had a frayed t-shirt on and you could glimpse his tattooed arms. He moved in perfect rhythm as he kept tapping, singing and dancing away. He knew how to work the guitar and the voice was something you could listen to. Well, at least I could, so I stayed listening. When he finished, as it happens with buskers, some people walk away, the others look awkwardly inside their wallets and purses and hesitantly bring out random coins with sheepish grins. I too took out some money and dropped it in his collection box. There were some CDs for sale and a few newspaper clippings that I barely glanced at then. I left soon after, catching the train from Central Station, humming To Love Somebody on the Ipswich line.

In the course of the following few months, I came across him performing at the same spot. I always stopped and listened to the sounds of the Bee Gees from this street musician. Somehow he always pulled it off, whether it was the distinctly R&B influenced Jive Talkin' or Nights on Broadway which used Barry Gibb's falsetto extensively and marked the group's movement in the direction of early disco. He knew me as a regular and I always put some money in his collection box, figuring out the peppy mood it put me into made it worthwhile.

It was one of those nights when I heard the familiar beats of Stayin' Alive pulsing in the city streets. I am a fan of the Gibb brothers. I have more than a passing familiarity with the lyrics of their songs as compared to other groups I don't know at all. I know that Stayin' Alive was among the first set of songs that the Bee Gees wrote for the hit movie Saturday Night Fever. The song's use in the opening sequence of the movie helped make the song a signature hit for the Bee Gees and forever identify it with the emergence of disco into the mainstream.

Whether you're a brother or whether you're a mother,

You're stayin' alive, stayin' alive.

Feel the city breakin' and everybody shakin',

And were stayin' alive, stayin' alive.

Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive.

Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive.

It was pretty cool watching an older busker belt it out without any inhibitions. I stuck around listening and later hung around to chat. All the spectators had moved away, only I was left behind. He had few copies of a CD up for sale, Frank Wallis Performs A Tribute to the Bee Gees. I noticed he always had a few old laminated newspaper clippings but this time I started to read them. And there it was. An old laminated clipping from The Redcliffe Dispatch from the scrapbook of his life.

A 13 year old Brisbane boy, his 10 year old twin brothers and their 12 year old friend are being applauded on all three TV channels in Brisbane in top-line talent shows. 'My boys and their friend Frank have really got the show business bug,' said their mother, Mrs. Hugh Gibb, in a soft Lancashire accent, as she poured a cup of tea in their Cribb Island home. 'The boys practise for an hour each night, after homework, in a make-believe television studio, which they've built under the house.'

I couldn't believe my eyes at what I was reading – a fourth Bee Gee?

Was this busker here a real Brisbane music pioneer? He was packing his equipment away as I looked at him.

'You knew them.' It was a statement and not a question.

'It was a while back,' he replied, 'we were neighbours. I was with them when they bought their first guitars at Nundah Music, you probably know it as Toombul Music now, yeah a fair while back.'

'I never knew that there was a fourth member of the band.'

'Inquisitive bugger aren't you? Give us a hand first,' he said, picking up his equipment as he started packing up. As I helped him put his portable amplifier system away I thought how we walk past buskers never realising how much work they do just to give a performance on a street corner.

'Let's walk down to the Victory to grab a beer first mate,' he said.

I would have gone anywhere with him then; I needed to know more about Frank Wallis, though the Victory in those days was the place to be for younger blokes like me. You waited just for Sunday so you could hit the Session at the Victory. That was the time when the LRB band played with Dave Marsden and Brendan Jagger. Gorging on steak and chips, the jugs of Powers beer and evenings that went on forever. When it was over it was mandatory to hit City Rowers. Weekdays could never compete.

I ordered beers for both of us, with Frank getting friendly waves from some of the patrons as we sat down. 'So when did you meet them?' I could hardly contain myself now. In response he took a long swig from his glass, put it down and then wiped his face with the back of his hand.

'I grew up on Cribby,' he said. 'My folks had a home next to the ice works there. 394 Oxley Avenue was the house next door. I was already going to the Scarborough State School so the Gibb brothers and their sister Lesley started walking with me to school. It just felt as if the new neighbours were growing up surrounded by love and music in a very ¬happy household. When Barry said that they were going to be musicians, I just asked if I could join them and they agreed to let me be a part of their group.'

He had a wistful smile on his face then, as if he was reliving those days of his childhood. Would he have ever imagined then that this band of boys from a tiny Moreton Bay island would go on to sell more than 220 million records?

'The first time we went busking on the back of a truck at the Brisbane Speedway. It was Barry's bright idea. You know Barry and his pal Griggsy used to be off every Saturday night selling soft drinks at Redcliffe Speedway Circus. Redcliffe Speedway, now that was a place. The stock cars roared in that dusty oval and the smell of motor oil permeated the place. Sometimes they roped us in to help them – we would grab a case, strap it around our shoulders and sell them. Barry's mind used to tick with all these ideas on what to do next. He was the one who noticed that there were gaps between races and ever the entrepreneur came up with a master plan. At the interval we would set up a quick little stall under the grandstand. The Gibb brothers and I would sing while Griggsy would carry on selling. The idea being to collect a crowd so that we could sell more soda.'

'Did that work?' I asked, even though I knew the answer.

'Even better than expected,' he grinned in reply, 'the organiser was Bill Goode. He loved us so much that he said we had to be on the radio. Bill Goode then introduced us to a Brisbane disk jockey, Bill Gates. Bill Gates wanted a name for our group. Here's some trivia for you. Barry had originally named us as The Rattlesnakes. Robin, Maurice and I used to joke afterwards that Gates almost christened us as The Little Bastards, but fortunately he chose to rename the band, which started out as the Bee Gees after his and Mr Goode's initials.'

'You were there at the start then. Why did you leave?'

'Oh I was there for a while. A week after Bill Gates met us we were up in the 4BH studio recording our songs. We did four then Bill wanted more so Barry wrote two more then and there, while the twins and I kicked around a wastepaper basket. Not only did Bill Gates play our songs he also sent music down to 2UE in Sydney. Mate, after that we even played at the Ekka where people just lined up to hear us perform. We were just little nippers, mate, so getting called up to play at the Geebung primary school fete was a major gig for us.'

He refilled his glass and seemed lost in contemplation. Was it sadness and regret of a life that might have been?

'My parents divorced in the Christmas of 1962. Mum got custody of the children and decided to move to Warwick where my grandparents had a farm. At the age of fifteen I had no choice but to go with her. Then the Gibb family moved from Brisbane to Sydney in January 1963. From then onwards the Bee Gees became a group that comprised three brothers of a family. I followed their careers. I knew that until April 1966, the Bee Gees issued 10 singles and one LP on the Leedon label. Not one song had been a hit. Even with managerial assistance from Australian rock star Col Joye, the Bee Gees' recording career was fading out. I was busy with the working of the farm, even though Barry had sent me a letter asking me to join them again, as he felt that they had really taken off when I was with them. But farming is a tough profession and it left me no time to play the rock star.

'Before I knew it, in late 1966 the brothers returned to England to further their careers. We hardly kept in touch, though there were occasional letters. Robin wrote to me in mid-1969 stating that he was leaving the group as did Maurice the next year.

'My mother died in July 1970 and I was sad, lonely and depressed. My father had rarely kept in touch since the divorce; he had remarried immediately and except for the obligatory Christmas card he had no time for us. So it was a strange feeling when I saw a car coming up the drive to my grandparents' house. It was the Gibb brothers, who had all come back for me. They stayed for a fortnight and we bounced ideas for a song that they wrote specially for me. To the world, How Can You Mend a Broken Heart was the song written in August 1970, when the Gibb brothers had reconvened following a period of break-up and alienation. But I knew it was a song that they wrote for their friend after his mother's death.

'I can think of younger days when living for my life

Was everything a man could want to do

I could never see tomorrow

But I was never told about the sorrow

And how can you mend a broken heart?

How can you stop the rain from falling down?

How can you stop the sun from shining?

What makes the world go round?

'The brothers went back but they left me a stronger man. After my grandparents died, I sold off the farm and moved to Brisbane. The sale had left enough money for me to live my life free of financial worries. I tried forming a musical group of my own but somehow it would never be the same with others. So I started performing my tribute to the songs of Bee Gees. I was the fourth Bee Gee. It was amazing. I loved every bit of it. And now I get to relive it each day when I perform on the streets of Brisbane.'

After that Frank Wallis got up, shook my hand and walked out of the bar. I never got to meet him again as I got a job in Sydney the next month. When I came back this year it took me a while to settle down to a routine. Having a family now meant I did not have the time to watch buskers so I never saw him again.
Sunday 6 October 2013

### Idle

Evelyn MD

Newbridge, NSW

Idle, doing nothing, being no-one,

nowhere, ageing, slipping, disappearing,

will not finish when all is said and done.

How can you say she is persevering?

Nowhere, ageing, slipping, disappearing,

existing in a space smaller than yours.

How can you say she is persevering?

Because she keeps on trying and endures.

Existing in a space smaller than yours.

Will not finish when all is said and done.

Because she keeps on trying and endures,

idle, doing nothing, being no-one.

### Monday 7 October 2013

The Embrace

Peter Goodwin

Warilla, NSW

For we are like two bodies recently drowned, not yet bloated, but submerged, already condemned, entangled in each other's arms by a hidden current that will never release us, even if there is still the desire to withdraw from such embrace, simply caught forever in the hold of something that has claimed us, patiently, silently drawn in an everlasting rhythm away from everything, until we are lost and there is no return from what we have done.

### Tuesday 8 October 2013

One Good Turn...

Shirley Burgess

Rosebud, VIC

'Ah, got him in my sights.' BANG! 'Missed him.' And another rabbit escaped Matt's gun. As he lowered the rifle he saw a bundle of fur nearby and thought: What did I do – shoot a fox instead?

He sauntered over to the dark golden bundle and stopped suddenly, exclaiming, 'Holy Almighty, it's not a fox, I've shot a dog.'

Patting the dog's head, he looked for the bullet wound but couldn't find anything, and, as he looked he talked to the dog, saying, 'I don't think I've shot you after all. We're nearly a kilometre from the road. How did you get this far into the bush, anyway?'

As he went to move the dog, it whimpered and opened its eyes. They seemed to implore him to take him away from there.

'Well you're alive old boy, but I think you're just very sick. You're so thin. I can't leave you here can I? You're all wet from last night's rain too, you poor thing.'

He took off his jacket and wrapped it carefully around the dog and, slinging his rifle and hunting bag over his shoulder, lifted him slowly and set off for his 4WD.

'It's just as well I didn't bag that rabbit,' he said out loud to the dog. 'Carrying you, my rifle, this bag with two rabbits in it already, would have been a bit tricky. Why couldn't this have happened nearer the car for God's sake? No rabbits around there – so I went further into the bush than I meant to. Anyway I've found you – so stay alive, hear me?'

Matt was talking to the dog all the time, half thinking that if he had the dog's attention, it would somehow be helping him stay alive.

It was a long walk and the dog became heavier. 'It's just as well I'm pretty strong,' he told the dog, 'otherwise neither of us would have made it back to the car, I reckon!' He gave a short laugh.

'Here we are.'

At the car, the dog was placed slowly on the seat.

Matt grabbed a bottle of water. 'I reckon you might like some of this.' He lifted the dog's head and tried to give him some, and immediately the dog roused a little. Water went everywhere but it was obvious the dog enjoyed what went down his throat.

'Well, off we go to the vet in Quinnstown, and see what he thinks he can do for you old man.' Some holiday this is turning out to be, he mused, but if this dog is to survive, he must have some attention immediately. He knew where the vet's rooms were. Then it would be over to him, he could get home to his tea, and that would be that.

The vet examined the dog. 'He's badly dehydrated... hasn't eaten for many days it seems, but there are no broken bones. Just the same, it will be touch and go whether or not he survives,' he warned. He asked where the dog was found.

Matt described the area. 'Do you know anyone from around here who has lost a dog?' he asked.

'No – and I wouldn't return him to them anyway. It's most likely, by the sound of where you found the dog, someone hunting rabbits or something, took him there. The dog has gone off following scent after scent getting further away from the car. He could have shown you where every rabbit around was hiding, by the way. Then, after calling him, the car has gone off without him. That's my guess.

'Golden retrievers like this one can't resist a scent to follow, especially if they are city dogs. They are suddenly in seventh heaven and nothing would stop them. Just the same, I don't think they could have looked too hard for him.'

Matt agreed. 'I can't imagine what sort of time he's had, being lonely and lost for such a long time. It must have been shocking for him. Well, I'm off home, good luck with the dog.'

'How long will you be here on holidays?' asked the vet, 'for this boy will be here for about a week. I think you should take him. I'll waive any fees, just to see the dog ends up with better owners than the last lot he had.'

'We're leaving today week,' said Matt, now becoming uneasy, nonplussed by what he was going to do with an injured dog he didn't want, while on holidays, miles from home.

It was all sorted out pretty soon when he told his story to the family.

'A dog?' Both his sons jumped in excitement. 'Say, we can keep him, please Dad? I've always wanted a dog,' nine year old Stephen begged.

'Me too,' joined in six year old Damon. 'Please Dad. Please.'

He looked helplessly to his wife, Chris, for support.

'Well, dogs and boys are made for each other; but this one has to survive first,' she said quite matter-of-factly. 'How about we go up to the vet tomorrow and look at him?' So Matt found himself out-voted unanimously.

'What'll we do with a dog?' he ventured. 'If he is not up to it by Friday, we are not taking him home,' he added defiantly. But the two boys didn't even hear him.

Next day they paid their first visit to see the dog. The boys tiptoed to the cage where they were surprised to see the dog lying alert on his bedding. He had been given a sedative and was on a drip while he was out to it.

The boys put their noses against the cage. So did the dog. It was love at first sight for all of them. He had been cleaned up and had a wonderful silky coat.

'Hello Rocky,' said Stephen.

'Is that his name?' asked Damon.

''tis now,' said Stephen.

Each day he and the boys called in to see how the dog was progressing. 'Rocky' was improving massively each day, Matt noted, now resigned to the fact that a dog was about to join the family.

Of course he went home with the family, and Rocky soon became a popular addition. He had recovered quickly and wherever the boys went, along went Rocky.

Matt found himself whacking up a big dog kennel, fixing the fences and side screens so he could not escape again, and soon realised, it would have seemed odd if Rocky had not been present, bounding about with the boys.

A few months later the whole family, including Rocky, went for a day picnic. It was a lovely spot, a favourite one, surrounded by bush and adjoining a small mountain river. The weather was great and they soon had a BBQ going, with the smell of cooking meat soon filling the area pleasantly.

Both boys were soon in their togs and had enjoyed a quick dip in the river – quick because it was a lot colder than they expected, so they donned clothes to warm up – then back to see how lunch was progressing. Chris was setting up the little table that would hold their feast, and Stephen was helping his Dad. With nothing to do, Damon wandered off with Rocky.

A short distance down the river from the BBQ area, Damon knew there was a rope tethered to a huge tree on the embankment, ready for use. The boys had used it before, and young Damon went to see if it was still in working order. It looked in great order, and on a whim Damon decided to have a swing out over the river meaning to land back on the embankment.

An older boy might have noticed that the river level was down, which meant less water near the edge, and a higher embankment.

He ran back as far as he could and set off. He barely managed to clear the embankment edge, when he lost his grip and pitched down into the river at great speed landing in two thirds of a metre of water, on top of small rocks, putting his arms out to ease his fall.

In shock, he lay on his back in the water but couldn't move his arms, and realised that he must have broken both of them.

In agony, lying back in the water half submerged, he found it hard to keep his head up, and, frightened, yelled to Rocky desperately as his head started to sink dangerously further into the water. 'Rocky, help me.'

The dog knew what to do. He ran down the muddy embankment into the water and half swimming, half leaping, reached Damon, just as his head sank below the waterline.

Rocky dipped his head under the water, grabbed a mouthful of Damon's shirt, tugging, then, with a mixture of tugging, leaping, swimming and sliding, gradually eased Damon to the water's edge.

This would not do, as the bank was steeper than usual, and Damon started to slip back into the river. With difficulty, Damon managed to work Rocky's leash round himself, and Rocky, with a better grip on Damon's clothes, and with help from the leash, tugged and tugged him up the slippery muddy bank.

Uncannily, he seemed able to find solid footholds, until he had Damon safely on the flat top of the embankment. He had instinctively known that Damon could not help him with his arms jammed against his body, in pain.

Damon lay gasping for breath. Rocky started barking non-stop to alert the family.

At first the family thought they were happily playing some sort of game, but soon they realised, Rocky was distressed.

Matt was the first to arrive.

Damon said, 'I can't move my arms, Dad. Rocky pulled me out of the water and dragged me up the bank. He saved my life, Dad. I would have drowned if he hadn't tugged me out of the water.'

Soon the ambulance arrived, and the paramedics quickly had a muddied Damon in arm splints, safely strapped on to the bed, with Mum accompanying him to the hospital.

It was left to Matt and Stephen to clean up and pack the car, patting Rocky whenever he came near them. Rocky suddenly had a heap of sausages and chops to choose from, and in the car Stephen cuddled him the whole way home.

It was a few days before Damon was allowed to come home in a wheelchair, looking incongruous with his two arms in plaster casts. Rocky rushed to Damon, fussing busily over him, with tail going flat out.

Damon's eyes filled with tears. 'I can't pat him, Dad, to say thank you.'

Matt said, 'Here Rocky. Here are Damon's fingers,' showing the wiggling fingers on Damon's left hand, and Rocky was pleased to find them.

Matt looked at this dog he had thought was such a nuisance. With a lump in his throat he thought: We owe our son's life to him. He has a home for as long as he lives. We'll simply be the best family a dog could have, and he stroked Rocky's silky coat over and over.

And Rocky probably thought, too, how lucky he was to be ending up with this terrific family who loved him so much.

### Wednesday 9 October 2013

Tip Top Invitation

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, NSW

Watch

Out!

Amid

Rubbish mounds

Placed neatly in rows,

Tonka Toy trucks wheel and prance like

Piebald ponies at a grand show. Whilst, hiding behind

Strong, black wire, I pinch my nose for, on the breeze,

Pungent odours dance with these machines.

Till, fleeing in a fluro vest,

I scamper into

Cabin space.

Study

Tip

Waste!

### Thursday 10 October 2013

A New Sura

Joemass

Chisholm, ACT

(As recited by Osama Bin Laden)

In the name of Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful

He who has trodden unbidden on the sands of the holy land,

it shall be as if he had trod on a scorpion and his heel shall be bruised.

He who rides unbidden over the paths of the Prophet,

his steed shall stumble and he shall be utterly cast down.

He who takes the inheritance of the people of the Prophet,

he shall be repaid with sorrow. When We repay,

We repay not one harm but a multitude, visited on Us and Our people.

They that set the children of Abraham one against another,

they shall be called to account by Us, who is one and indivisible,

as Abraham's seed should be.

This sword, crafted in Damascus, shall cut down Our enemies,

as did Saladin's,

and Our people shall reclaim their birthright.

As the burrs drive the ass to madness, so shall they be to Our enemies.

As the shadows of the birds of the air darken the ground for an instant,

so, too, the shadows of Our enemies are in Our heart but fleetingly.

The true servants of God are the shadows;

they cover the ground but cannot be touched;

they fall upon you and, though you feel them not,

they take away your light.

The sun rises over the mountains,

the sun sets on the mountains,

the mountains remain.

Foxes have holes and birds have their nests,

but the servants of God have the mountains.

The caves are comfortable to them.

Did not the angel Gabriel come to the Prophet in the caves?

And are not the secret symbols of Allah carved

into the walls of the caves by wind and water?

The caves keep the secrets of God.

Our women take the golden threads of the those secrets

and weave them into a new world, as once they wove

cloths of damask or cashmere or cotton.

Remember, in Our cloths your saints were wrapped.

Though Our men may be wrapped in shrouds,

there shall be a bright light in their dark eyes,

for they shall see Our face and receive their reward.

They shall be the jewels of Our faith.

And even though their cities are pounded to dust,

they shall be as Cordoba, an ornament to the world.

In which city, once, Our servants gave knowledge to your forefathers.

Even now, in the ruins of their homes, they shall teach you a lesson.

In the name of Allah, peace be unto Him.

### Friday 11 October 2013

The Natives Are Restless, Sir

Mark Fowler

Magill, SA

'The natives are restless,'

he said to the man in charge.

'Keep me posted then

about details small or large.'

'Remember sir the

last time we waited too long.

They broke through sir, and

were singing their battle song.

They built up sympathy

and stirred the resistance up.

Must act soon sir, or

they'll be impossible to stop.'

'Sorry to tell you sir,

but we've left our run too late.

Broken through the front

lines, they're at the very gate.

Will it be the white

flag? Or a strategic retreat?

We must act now sir

or we face certain defeat.'

'Make contact with their

leaders, we'll negotiate.

We might salvage our

position, if it's not too late.'

'We've met the leaders, sir.

They'll accept a compromise.

They'll return to work, sir,

for a longer smoko and a rise.'
Saturday 12 October 2013

### Awe And Confusion

Fantail

Mount Barker, SA

One summer afternoon I was lying on a rug on the back lawn, reading. Huge billows of cloud massed in the north-west and, feeling drowsy in the warmth, I'd just put my book down and my head on a pillow when a loud 'Ahem!' made me look skywards. Immediately I buried my face in the pillow, eyes squeezed tight against a blinding light.

'Oh, hang on, I'll dampen the special effects.'

The voice was deep and resonant. My eyes popped open. I lifted my head and, to my amazement, an angel hung about three metres above me. While I slowly took in the bright vestments, great feathered wings and awe-inspiring masculine countenance, he extracted a thin, translucent cylinder from his robes, unrolled it, and solemnly began to read:

'Behold, thou shalt conceive, and bring forth a son, and shalt call his name...'

'Hang-on,' I interrupted as he drifted slowly down, 'I'm not Mary, and we've already had JC.' My heart thudded; I'm a sixty-year-old grandmother. I quailed as those terrible eyes held mine for what seemed an eternity.

He looked back at his reader, then at me and promptly sat down.

'That wicked Lucifer! Always mucking around with my wormholes! I apologise. This message is for a female in sector three, and obviously this is not sector three.'

For a while, he quietly studied the reader. Then he turned to me and asked, 'What do you mean "JC"? Are you speaking of the son of God – the one who'll be crucified? He couldn't have been here. Wrong time, wrong sector.'

'Well, it was about two thousand years ago,' I replied. The angel's eyebrows lifted so high that I said, 'I'll get my Bible – our holy book.' I gave it to him – with the Q'ran.

He leafed through both, making occasional derisory noises. Slowly, understanding gleamed in his eyes. 'Lucifer has been here, hasn't he?'

'Maybe ... I mean ... possibly.' I flushed. The Devil – here? To my house? To me?

'And now he's having fun in hell and left you lot unguided and unguarded, with a plethora of confusing religions, and up to mischief. Just look at the state of this planet! Rubbish everywhere; life systems failing; on the verge of a run-away greenhouse effect. You realise I'm going to have to interrupt my journey and find people to appoint as ecological prophets, otherwise there'll be no human race for a first coming, let alone a second!'

The angel turned his penetrating gaze on me, and stood up.

Alarmed, I said, 'I hope you're not thinking to appoint me!'

'You?' he asked with sudden scorn in his voice. 'You've got to be dreaming!' And with a loud bang and bright flash he was gone, and the first fat raindrops hit my face.

### Sunday 13 October 2013

Smashing Garlic

Susan Kay

Bellevue Heights, ACT

Well, she says contemplating the head of garlic still cold from the vegetable bin. Well. She wants to grab the sharp knife and peel the skin off and chop it up as usual. All her cooking life she's done that. But on the cooking shows...

Bash it! say all those chefs. Hearing it for years – never tried. She takes a chef's knife, lays its broad blade on top of the garlic clove, smashes it with her fist. Pain scoots up her arm all the way to her shoulder. She does a quick dance around the island bench to the tune of a few expletives. The garlic lies on the floor where it landed, completely unimpressed by her attempt to flatten it and by the performance following.

God! She gazes longingly at the sharp paring knife, her life-long kitchen friend, but no, she recalls the voice of her newest chef friend from the television last night, reminding her how straightforward this is, how learning to do this properly will change her life. And echoes of all the other cooks and master chefs – actual and aspiring – encourage her to a second try. She throws the chef's knife, with its infinitesimal smear of garlic juice near the handle, in the sink.

She seeks inspiration from the kitchen drawer and reaches for heavy artillery – the rolling pin. A large, heavy, marble object rescued from a garage sale for a dollar. She picks up the garlic, replaces it on the cutting board. Three second rule says she should wash it, but surely the germs will curl up and die in the cooking oil? Isn't garlic antiseptic or something?

Shut up and bash it girl. She strikes one, two, three times and the garlic head is pulp! She is sure she has broken her wrist in the process but she shakes her hand and contemplates step 2. Just remove the skins – easy! Half an hour later she is still fishing with the tweezers.

### Monday 14 October 2013

Betrayal

Mark Fowler

Magill, SA

She entered into my life by stealth

'Love me' written on her face

No possessions, winsome name or wealth

Her movement all style and grace

I accepted her in my life – no reason or favour asked

My mind beguiled – I cared only for the present, not past

She loved me in return, so I thought

Her touch full of tenderness

But no matter what I gave or bought

I loved her more – she loved me less

In daylight hours she was mine – but at night she wandered far away

From fear I locked her in – but in truth, my love was but a stray

Signs of betrayal were all around

A bed still made, not slept in

And when we spoke she uttered not a sound

Rueful smile, on lips so thin

Pain of infidelity too much, I ushered her from my life

I was devastated then – I should have listened to my wife

Stray cats will always let you down

No matter how tame they are.

Just choose a dog from the city pound

He'll love you close – not from afar

Sometimes I think if of her – wandering lanes and alleys dark

But soon that passes by, as I take Rover to the park

### Tuesday 15 October 2013

Twenty-Seven Typists

Graham Sparks

Bathurst, NSW

In this modern world of hyper speciality,

The micro-tomes of simple fields

are divvied up among the functionaries,

and each and every one of them

begets a micro-manager.

So say a firm desires a typist,

to with letters grace the face of papers

creating thus, epistles,

no less than twenty seven ads require the placing.

For you see the number twenty seven is the count

of functionaries required to span the gamut of the alphabet.

Number one, the letter 'A', a specialist in typing 'A'.

Number two, the letter 'B', a specialist in 'B'.

Number three, the letter 'C',

and so on then until we reach the letter 'Zee',

counting in at number twenty six.

And now I hear you ask about the number twenty seven,

surely twenty six encompasses the alphabet.

Here we see a fatal flaw for man has tunnel vision now,

and something whole and simple like the alphabet

is deconstructed most post modernly,

and such a thing as inference,

and such a thing as general knowledge ,

and such a thing as inquiry,

alas they've all been lost.

So number twenty seven is a luncheon functionary,

a 'Tiffineer' if I may take some licence,

A person who's employed to put the morsels into mouths of twenty six,

then oscillate the jawbones,

then massage throats to ease the khime on down,

for twenty six enscribing specialists, each bereft of common sense,

cannot themselves do lunch.

### Wednesday 16 October 2013

The Charms of Miss Cairns

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, NSW

So you won the beauty contest in north Queensland,

Now you're known as 'Miss Cairns'.

But I know that you have doubts, misgivings and concerns –

But have no fear; you see I know you best and well understand ...

Miss Cairns:

You're fabulous, extraordinary, magnificent and great.

You're marvellous, remarkable, and wonderful; just wait ...

You're amazing, awe-inspiring, spectacular and dramatic,

You're splendid, significant and startling; I'm emphatic, that ...

You're stunning, astonishing, astounding and incredible.

You're delightful, insightful, delicious – almost edible!

You're pleasant and charming, disarming them all,

You're amusing, confusing, a good time, a ball!

Did I mention that you're humorous and witty – a hoot?

Did you also know that you're deadpan, droll and so cute?

You should know you're drop-dead gorgeous in your birthday suit!

You're sexy and slinky, even kinky; for all time a great route ...

To travel with 'cause you are fabulous, forthright and fun,

You're brilliant, fantastic and sensational – second to none!

You enthral me when you call out in the middle of the night.

You're beguiling, always smiling; you're sweetness and light.

Not forgetting that you're noteworthy, naughty and so nice,

You're perfection, a confection; you are Paris and paradise.

Endlessly entertaining, illuminating though occasionally obscure ...

You're mysterious and I'm delirious; this is serious – should I demur?

No! 'cause you're agreeable, amenable, appealing and outstanding.

You're enchanting, entrancing; momentous like the moon landing.

You're super, superb and sparkling like the stars in the sky,

You are bold and beautiful; you are Manly (?) and Bondi.

But Miss Cairns:

Fabulous you may be – you can be fatuous and in addition,

Often you are florid and quite horrid, say things torrid; arouse sedition.

Some say you're exotic and quixotic – it makes me shiver ...

Perhaps it's for the best I should just get dressed, stop staring at the mirror!

A Reflection:

Who is 'Miss Cairns'? What is this poem about?

The answer is one and the same.

### Wednesday 16 October 2013 4 pm

Cricket

Alexander Gardiner

Bullaburra, NSW

A luv cricket, oh ah really dae,

A luv tae watch cricket whin at play.

A luv Tests, wan day games an' twenty twenty,

Whare dramas arrrrr' oaftin plenty plenty.

Noo cricket is no awbidy's game,

basketball an' fitba arrrr' nae the same.

Sum folks like tennis an' hockey tae,

An' they arrr' aw played at aw times o' day.

The twa teams play wae bat an' baw,

The greatest spectakal yea kin iver saw.

The twa batsmen at each end o' the wickit,

Face slow baws, fast baws an' sum impossible tae hit.

Noo it kin be a very painful game,

An sumtimes wan kin be in aufie pain.

Cos' the batsmen face fast bowlin' men,

An' sum fast baws arrrr' blidy gems.

Sumtimes fast bowled baws yea canny see,

An' shid a'ways, be lit be.

Cos' sumtimes thay very fast baws,

Kin hit yea oan yer ain wee, poor he-haws,

He-haws whit arrrr' they yea say?

Jings, a ken he-haws yer no quite au-fait.

Weel it's sae delicat tae explain tae sae the least,

Cos' thare painful whin even jist a wee bit creased.

Weel, let's say wummin hivnae gote he-haws,

So it's nae the same if hit wae very fast baws,

Blidy nora, it's aufie hard fur me tae explain,

It's tae dae wae sex that's nae quite the same.

Aw, a think yea hiv guessed it by noo,

If no, ma explanashun wull hiv' tae do.

Am sure yea ken co's yer no aw fools,

Yer richt, it's man's family jewels.

Sair wee he-haws whin hit wae aufie fast baws,

Dinny matter cos' it's fur a great cause.

Tho' resultin' in excrushiatin' pain,

CRICKET IS STULL A BLIDY FANTASTICK GAME.

### Thursday 17 October 2013

That Girl In The Dream

Thomas Gibbs

Redfern, NSW

That girl in the dream. She moves with me, and at the same time not at all. It is with great care that she manages to seem preoccupied constantly. The disappearing buildings behind her are like evaporating memories. She is so beautiful, and so full of life, if only for the briefest of moments.

That girl in the dream. Slipping underneath the bypass like a ghost. She turns to me. Here, I sink into the depth of concrete beneath my legs and try desperately to speak to her through the circulating light. I can tell she is trying to listen, because her gaze catches mine and there is no one else around.

That girl in the dream. Now out of the grey, and on top of a green plateau. We are within arm's reach of each other and only gravity keeps us from melting away into the sunrise. When I have dreams where I am falling, I must be falling from this place. I believe that the only reason we exist is to dream, and that the only reason we dream is to exist. She said that to me once, not in words, but I could see it in her blue eyes; they have yellow patterns within them.

When reality isn't enough, or when reality is just too much, she appears. She is no angel, because she has no wings. She lives on mountains where the wind is like ice, in between heaven and the earth.

I love her. I hate her. So much; because she is only a reminder of what it would be like to die without a care in the world, and I don't care much for dying, or the world.

### Friday 18 October 2013

The Loneliness Of The Long Distance Commuter

David Anderson

Woodford, NSW

Missed it! The stupid bastard saw me running and he still let it go ... thanks prick ... half an hour to wait ... I should wipe that smile off his face. Fuck it ... I could drive. Yeah, I could drive if I still had the car. You bitch, Pattie. You took it and you're only ten minutes from work. 'You'll be on your own and I have the kids – I'll need the car. You can keep all the workshop stuff.' Great swap. Thirty grand Cherokee for five grand's worth of tools. Stuff it. Gordon's going to have my arse if this proposal isn't introduced at today's meeting. 'CityRail Sux.' Nice one kid – beautiful art work. I wish I'd carved that on the seat.

'If you leave me now, you'll take away the biggest part of me.'

Stop it. It's true ... all the love songs you listened to as lovers turn into crap when your woman leaves ... that psychologist is right ... I shouldn't be going to work. Stay home? And do what? Eat all the sweet crap and booze in the house and sleep? Better take a tablet ... Doc Baker says they might help.

'Doesn't the bastard at this station ever clean the bubbler?'

Christ ... I shouldn't have taken it. I've taken four already and it's only just after lunch.

'One tablet twice a day.'

Shit, I've got to bring it up ... it's no use ... it's gone. Pattie's gone. For good? 'I can't live with you anymore. You say you've changed, but I don't love you anymore. I haven't for a long time. Don't come around, I don't want to see you. You can pick the kids up at the gate. All the best with your future life Regards – Pattie.' Tear it up. Why do I still keep it? God, let me wake up. How can I pick up the kids and have a good time when I know you're fucking Colin.?

'What? Twenty minutes late? That's another forty minutes. Stuff it. What? Locking up? So I've got to sit out here and freeze my arse off ... Yeah, I know ... it's never your fault. I've got a board meeting in Sydney in two hours ... Oh by the way, I forgot to thank you for letting that bastard go without me ... Yeah ... stuff you too mate.'

Shit, those tablets ... heart's beating like a drum. Don't panic ... kids take handfuls of them and wash them down with grog. Hey ... why not? The day's stuffed anyway. Just a small swig. How much is in these whiskey flasks? Five or seven nips? Christ, I've drunk about three nips ... who gives a shit? Drink five and feel alive. God it's freezing out here. Whoa ... the drugs are working. The old face is feeling a bit numb. How long do my guts have to hurt like this? Feels like I've got stomach cancer. Grief pain, the old psycho called it. Pattie might come back. I can still hear her. 'Let's try counselling; we need to talk to someone about our relationship.' Big joke. Why couldn't Pattie see that psycho bitch was making me look like horseshit? Whew, shouldn't have drunk that whiskey. Got to concentrate. I'm going to miss that meeting. Should ring Gordon. If I get the sack on top of all this I'm really stuffed. Can't get a signal. Shit. Walk around and keep trying. Pattie again. 'Take the redundancy. We'll head up the coast and buy a new house and get a business.' I don't want to retire yet. I can handle the new position. Why didn't she listen? It was just a sham anyway. When we sell the house she'll move in with Colin; that bloke she's spreading her thighs for. Slut! No, I love you Pattie ... I love ...

'Jenny? It's Peter. Tell Gordon I'll be late, the train's being delayed ... I know ... yes ... I'll be there ... I'm still on the station ... Get Gordon to delay the meeting – tell them they have to wait for me ... I know the big boss will be there ... Look! ... I stayed up all night finishing this fucking report ... Sorry Jenny ... No, I'm not pissed ... I'll swear to anyone I like, bitch ... You women think you ... Jenny? ... Jenny?'

She's hung up. God, what did I just do? Especially to Jenny ... she was the only one giving me support. Now she'll think I'm a prick. You think I'm a prick don't you Pattie? 'All I ever wanted was for you to tell me you love me Peter.' Well I was always there wasn't I? I worked my guts out to keep the family together. I left Heather and the kids to move in with you. We always had great sex didn't we? We must have. We had two kids.

What did she say? 'I want sex once a month but I want to make love three times a week.' What a crazy statement. What's the difference? You're still doing it? At least I wasn't doing it with anyone else bitch. I nearly did with Jenny that time though. Jenny. Jenny thinks I'm a prick. 'At least Colin cuddles me without wanting sex.' He must be a wimp I reckon. I need a leak. Jesus I'm stoned. I can hardly walk straight. Shouldn't have taken those pills. Grog didn't help either. Who gives a stuff? Just off the end of the platform. Nobody around. Shit! Nearly broke my bloody arm. No! Bitch of a briefcase ... stupid lock ... always busting open ... no!

'A thousand fucks!'

The report ... bloody wind ... got to get them ... late for the meeting ... papers all over the line. Done this before ... walking down the railway line ... four years old ... looking for the cowboys and Indians ... Dad pointing to that big building on the hill and telling me it's the California ... went to find the wagon trains ... climbed up through the bush ... had to cross the railway line ... that fucking train horn scared the crap out of me ... 'You stupid little bastard. That's only the name of the guest house.' Dad beating the shit out of me. 'Don't cry ... you sound like your little sister ... grow up ... you've got to be tough.' I tried to cry when you died Dad, but I couldn't. Bloody grease all over the pages ... I'll never get all of them back ... wind's too strong ...

'Stuffing bitch of a wind.'

Gordon's going to kill me ... sorry I swore Jenny. Christ, this gravel is hard to walk on. 'If you leave me now you'll take away ...' Shut up ... Pattie's gone ... maybe she'll come back? Feel really cold ... face is so numb ... bloody pills ... what am I doing? I can't walk on the railway line all the way to Sydney. Get off the line you silly prick ... you'll get killed. Can't get all the papers anyway ... got to lay down ... feeling faint ... shit ...

Head ... can't seem to lift it ... can't ... stop spinning ... it's cold ... What are these rocks? ... Looks like big gravel ... there's blood on them ... feels like my head's laying on cement ... so cold ... hard ... broken tooth ... Pattie won't like that ... Pattie's gone ... She might come back ... going to be sick ... where am I? ... What's that noise? It's making my whole body shake ... sounds like a big bowling ball rolling ... like an axe being sharpened ... the meeting ... shouldn't have sworn at Jenny ... nice kid ... missed the train ... prick didn't hold it for me! Face feels numb ... bloody pills ... that noise is getting louder. Horn! Train's coming at last ... got to get up ... late for the meeting ... 'I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date.' Can't move ... here's the train ... God it's huge ... I love you Pattie. I tried to love you too, Dad ... I tried so hard but ... ...

© If You Leave Me Now, Chicago, 1977.

### Saturday 19 October 2013 4 pm

Refugee Camp

Gregory Tome

Burradoo, NSW

They rot in camps like this.

By the millions they rot.

Life is a tent, relief

an open, fetid drain.

Dignity fled long ago.

Food slopped grudgingly,

water measured, rationed

as if heavenly nectar.

Despair lives on here,

thriving in the shallow stare;

eyes bleached of joy

by the aimless monotony of time,

time flattened of any sense of rhythm.

Still more reach here,

scorn their only greeting.

Officials come, ask questions,

avoid the stinking trenches,

write words in official books.

They go, vehicles leaving great clouds

of dust. Hope newly risen

from the grave chokes in the dust.

Trust, faith in others

choke in the dust.

Memories of home: comfort

leavened with terror and madness.

Some trick of fate lured them

from there to this;

terror with madness

exchanged for this.

Every day a taste

of death in life.

Abandoned by any god

they can conjure,

their only prayer

surely someone somewhere must care.

### Sunday 20 October 2013

Child's Play

Bob Edgar

Wentworth Falls, NSW

Peter and Sarah Kingsley had purchased their first home over the internet. Risky business their friends had warned them. Had their friends known that it was the couple's two year old daughter who had chosen the property, risky would have become foolhardy.

Just two weeks earlier Peter and Sarah had nine homes displayed on the computer screen to choose from; two year old Melanie Kingsley reached out and touched the image of 23 Coral Avenue, Rosetta.

'That's it then,' said Peter, '23 Coral Avenue, Rosetta.'

'Peter, we can't buy our first house based on the whim of a two year old. The price is right, yes, but the place is so dated. For heaven's sake it hasn't been lived in for over eighty years!' Sarah had protested.

'Remember, Sarah, the agent said that 23 Coral Avenue had been recently renovated, and you must admit the interior photos look great.'

For seven days Peter and Sarah were undecided. Whether or not it was that Melanie became ill, feverishly repeating, 'twenny fwee ... twenny fwee' in her delirium, or that the property's price dropped to a ridiculous low, they decided on 23 Coral Avenue, Rosetta, and closed the deal.

They had purchased a one hundred year old two bedroom cottage on the outskirts of Hobart, for a bargain price. The move from their inner Sydney flat would be relatively stress free, as Sarah's company had organised and paid for the entire move.

Peter and Sarah had taken leave from work to enable them to settle into their new home. The cottage had been renovated in a style that delighted Sarah. High ceilings, intricately carved cornices and modernisation of bathrooms and living areas; a perfect blend of old and new.

From the first day of moving in, Melanie had adopted the habit of facing the kitchen wall and muttering to herself. After a week of allowing this odd behaviour, Sarah decided she needed to entice her away from the wall.

'Melanie come with me; come with Mummy and we'll play outside.'

Melanie flatly said, 'No! Biss my fwen,' then moved closer to the wall, resuming her quiet babbling.

Sarah picked Melanie up and held her tight; the toddler squirmed to free herself. Hearing an unusual crackling sound Sarah looked down at the wall. About three feet from the floor the wallpaper was bubbling and blistering.

'Peter, come in the kitchen,' Sarah called. 'Peter, you'll have to get the renovators back in, heat or something has gotten into the wallpaper.'

Melanie by now was crying and repeating over and over, 'Biss my fwen ... Biss my fwen.'

'Hush now Melanie. Peter, we have to stop her from staring at that wall for hours on end. I'm taking her down to the shop for ice cream.'

Peter examined the wallpaper, wondering what Sarah was on about, as it was in perfect condition.

Melanie had gone to sleep without a fuss that night. Peter and Sarah drifted off about midnight, having convinced themselves that the flower patterned wallpaper had somehow mesmerised Melanie. They were agreed that stripping the wallpaper and painting the kitchen would solve the problem.

A constant sobbing roused Peter at 2 am. He slipped from the bed and crept toward the sound of whimpering. Entering the kitchen he saw his daughter facing the wall and crying with rapid inhalations of breath. With each exhalation she would say, 'Biss ... no, Biss ... no.' Peter scooped Melanie up and hugged her to his chest. He turned to leave, but was accosted by a sound akin to the crushing of dead leaves underfoot. He swung to face the wall. The wallpaper was bubbling, and as each bubble burst, blood flowed down the wall. Turning to flee the kitchen he saw Sarah and the look of terror on her face. 'Take Melanie, start the car ... I'll be out in a few minutes.'

Peter took three steps toward the wall and swiped his fingers through the blood. It was thick, and very warm. He tasted the fluid, already clotting. Yes ... it was blood.

The Kingsley family never returned to 23 Coral Avenue, Rosetta. That morning Peter had gone to Hobart town to scour historic records and newspaper articles. He discovered the names of the previous occupants of the house ... Mary and James O'Hanlon. In 1908 they were tried and convicted for the murder of their three year old daughter, Blissfleur O'Hanlon. There was controversy surrounding the case as the body had never been found.

Though Tasmanian police at first regarded the Kingsley's tale absurd, they diddemolish the wall in question, discovering the skeletal remains of a small child in the wall cavity.

As the Kingsleys boarded the aircraft bound for Sydney, Melanie giggled and said, 'Biss happy now.'

### Monday 21 October 2013

Always Have And Always Will

Jessica Soul

East Keilor, VIC

You are the comfort in my heart

When you're always there

Opening up your arms

Knowing you'll always care

In your heart

With the love you carry around

Each beat summons the sounds

Echoes of your soul

You're there when I've felt empty

And have continued to hold my hand

You've been the light to my candle

And the breath of life as we walk along together, our footprints in the sand

Terms of endearment and your abundance of love

It's all that you give me

And all that I've learnt

So I thank you for everything you've done

And all that you still do

You're always on my mind

And etched in my heart

Mum, I love you

Always have and always will.

### Tuesday 22 October 2013

Garden Drama

Jean Bundesen

Woodford, NSW

From my desk I witness

Night storming in

Trees coal-black

Against a translucent sky.

Cold rising as

Temperature drops.

Birds who feast,

Sing sweet songs,

Have flown from my garden

Now shrouded in darkness

All is quiet... Still.

### Wednesday 23 October 2013

A Very Special Grandmother

Sallie Ramsay

Torrens, ACT

A Kid's Tale for Everyone

Sam finished the last mouthful of his cereal. 'Mum, may I go to school now?' he asked.

'As soon as you've brushed your teeth,' answered his mother as she put his lunch into his back-pack.

Sam slid off his chair and hurried to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

'What's the hurry Sam?' said his dad, looking up over his newspaper.

'This morning we are going to start our family project,' Sam replied. 'And I want to make sure I'm there on time.'

'Oh yes, I remember now,' said his father. 'Are you going to make a Family Tree?'

'We can do whatever we like,' answered Sam. 'Some of us want to make a Family Tree, some are going to make a book and others want to tell the story about a special person in their family.'

'Have you decided what you want to do yet?' asked Mum.

'No,' said Sam. 'This morning we are going to talk about it. I'll decide after that.' He had almost made up his mind what he was going to do but wanted to keep it a surprise.

He hugged his Mum and Dad, picked up his backpack and went out the door and down the road to his school.

The children in his class were looking forward to starting work on their Family Projects.

Sam waited impatiently for his turn. One by one the others told the class what they had decided to do.

'I'm going to make a Family Tree,' said Rob. 'I have a very big family so I'll need a very big piece of paper!'

'I'm going to write the story about my great grandfather. He had to leave his home because of a war. He came here in a sailing ship with his mother and father when he was just a baby,' said Maria.

'Sam,' said his teacher. 'What have you decided to do?'

'I'm going to write a story about my grandmother,' said Sam. 'She's very special and the best grandmother in the world.'

'Tell us what makes her so special Sam,' said his teacher.

'She makes the best chocolate chip cookies ...' Sam began.

'My grandmother won the prize for the best chocolate chip cookies at the Fair,' called out Susan.

'She knows everything about cricket,' Sam went on.

'My grandfather coaches my cricket team and my soccer team,' Johnnie said with a grin.

Sam began to feel very hot and nervous as he tried to think of other things that made his grandmother special. She was a really good story reader but he was sure other grandmothers could read stories too. She always listened carefully to what he had to say and never interrupted or said 'I think you should'. Then he remembered something he had almost forgotten.

'My grandmother used to be my grandfather!' he said.

At first nobody said anything, then someone began to laugh and soon the whole class room was laughing.

'Everyone, that's enough, please settle down,' said their teacher. 'You don't need to make things up, Sam.'

'But it is true, it is true,' said Sam. 'She used to be Jack but now she's Jacqui and she's my mum's father and, and ...'

'Sam,' interrupted his teacher. 'Please come and see me at lunchtime. Now, Susan, would you tell us about your project please?'

After Sam and his teacher had a long talk at lunch time Sam felt much better. His teacher called his parents to ask if she could walk home with Sam after school. When Sam's mum opened the front door for them, the smell of baking chocolate chip cookies filled the air.

They went into in the family room and had just sat down, when Sam's grandmother came out of the kitchen.

'Sam, your Mum says you would like me to tell your teacher my story,' she said. 'Is that right? '

'Yes please, Gran.'

Sam's grandmother settled herself down on the couch next to Sam.

'Should I start off "Once Upon a Time"? All the best stories start off like that.'

Sam giggled.

'Anyway, "Once Upon a Time", as far back as I can remember, I knew something wasn't right. My name was Jack and I did all the things boys do. I was good at sport and really liked playing cricket and football. But although on the outside I looked like Jack, on the inside I knew I was meant to be a girl. The worst thing was that I thought there was something wrong with me. I believed it must be my fault. I thought that when I was older things would change, but they didn't. I had girlfriends and even got married and became a dad,' she said smiling at Sam's mother.

'Did that make you feel better?' asked Sam.

'I loved my wife and baby very much but I knew Jack wasn't really me.'

'Gran, why didn't you just ask someone, tell someone how you felt?' asked Sam.

'I had never heard of anyone like me, Sam. I just didn't know who to ask or how to ask,' answered his grandmother. Such a sad look crossed her face Sam reached across to hold her hand. He was sure he saw tears in her eyes.

'When your mum was about ten, her mother, my wife died, it was very sad. Your mum went to live with her aunt and uncle. It was a really awful time for me, for Jack; it was like living under a big black cloud.'

'But everything came out right in the end didn't it Gran?' said Sam.

His grandmother smiled, 'Yes, Sam it did. One day I read a story in a magazine about someone just like me; I couldn't believe it. I wasn't the only one. There was a telephone number, I called it and that was the beginning of Jack becoming Jacquie.'

'Did you just start wearing dresses?'

'Oh no Sam, it wasn't quite as easy as that,' his grandmother said with a smile. 'Jacquie had always been there, out of sight, but with help from my family and lots of other people, poor sad Jack gradually disappeared letting Jacquie take his place.'

'Mum, what was it like having Jacqui instead of Jack in the family?' asked Sam.

His mother thought for a moment, 'Jacqui looked different of course and she laughed and smiled a lot more than Jack but really Sam, there wasn't much difference. The things that made Jack a special dad were still there. Jacqui still played cricket with me and we went fishing and of course, still made the best ...'

'... chocolate chip cookies in the world!' chimed in Sam.

'Talking about chocolate chip cookies, I think it is about time we tried Gran's latest batch!' said Mom.

Sam wrote his story about his very special grandmother but, not only that, he took her to school with him to meet his class. Some of the children still weren't sure whether she was his grandfather or grandmother but decided it didn't really matter. But one thing they all agreed on was that she made the best chocolate chip cookies in the world!

### Thursday 24 October 2013

A Magic Purple Carpet

Ruth Withers

Uarbry, NSW

Alone I came, as I sometimes do,

To visit you today, you know.

It's a little less desolate there right now.

In every corner wildflowers grow.

Yellow and paler yellow,

Purple and pale, pale blue,

And the purple, it seems, are there

Almost exclusively for you.

They stroll amongst the yellow crowd

And chit-chat with the fragile blue.

Small groups gather to spend some time

With some other, selected few.

But there with you, they've gathered en masse.

Their form is almost perfect.

They've made you a magic, purple carpet,

With a few yellow friends for effect.

The flowers I brought you seemed out of place

And the gesture seemed foolish and weak,

But I left them still, incongruous symbols

Of everything wasted and bleak.

And I wept, do you know? And I couldn't stop.

Damn it, I'm weeping still,

When I thought that I was passed all that;

When I know it avails me nil.

Would you fly your carpet to my troubled dreams?

Would you spend some time with me?

Would you help me to understand the reasons

These things had to be?

Sometimes I'm so weary and worn with it all

That if you were to ask me to,

I think I might like to come join you and fly

Away to oblivion too.

### Friday 25 October 2013

Untitled #7

Emma-Lee Scott

Callaghan, NSW

Pieces lay shattered,

Broken and battered,

Surrounding and spread,

Around the space,

Where I sit on the floor.

The glue sits by me,

To stick them back together,

But the tangle of the mess,

Makes it hard to guess,

Where they come from.

I stand up,

From the spot on my carpet,

Brushing the remnants,

Of my life from my hands,

Not caring where it lands.

I grab the rope,

From the pieces of useless hope,

Walk out the door,

Towards my chosen spot,

And tie a frayed end to the branch.

I'm ready for what comes next,

As I stand on the lower branch,

Around my neck I place the noose,

Step off, and the rope is no longer loose,

It is finally the end.

### Saturday 26 October 2013

Mo Goes Missing – The Xing Saga part 6

Jane Russell

Mount Barker, SA

In which we take up the story of the Emperor's heir, Mo, and his adventures...

The alarm siren jangled through the imperial palace. People ran nervously hither and thither with the frantic confusion of headless chooks. The Emperor Po strode purposefully down the gilded corridors towards the guest wing and flung open the doors to SnoopyLoo's suite.

'Where is my son!' he boomed, as Snoopy blinked at him like a startled rabbit. 'Mo is nowhere to be found! I demand an explanation!' He had the courtesy to look aside.

Snoopy gathered her wits and tried to diffuse the awkward situation; she had been using the royal privvy at the time.

'I'm sure I don't know, your highness, but I will see if I can find out for you.' However, she really had a pretty good idea as only the night before, Mo had confided in her his bold but dangerous plan.

'I'm sure you can understand, Miss? One day I will be the ruler of the whole planet. How can I possibly take on such a task if I know nothing of the people and even less of the planet?'

'But your highness, what you propose is really dangerous. Especially as you haven't told your Dad, I mean, the Emperor!'

'He'd just say No.'

'That's nothing to what he's going to say when he finds out!' Snoopy reasoned. 'How can you be sure that Nanny Grey's solution will work? It's not as if she's tested it, or has she?' That was a scary thought.

Mo went off to his bed, Nanny Grey (i.e. a grey bot who once was his nanny) close behind.

Snoopy wasn't convinced he would take any notice of her advice, and as it transpired he didn't.

Snoopy sighed deeply and headed for Mo's chamber, where she was disappointed to find that Nanny had gone missing as well. What on Xing was she going to do now? She reviewed the conversation of the evening before. The imperial heir was keen to try out a new invention created originally for the party scene, a complete body skin made to measure. Party bots had the choice of many outrageous colours and the skin was reusable. Mo, however, was interested in using an adaptation of the body skin in the colours of the other three bot classes. He could then go and stay with each group without being recognised as himself.

A worthy idea, but so many things could go wrong. Obviously one thing forgotten was how to explain his absence. He should have waited. Snoopy could have organised his isolation at an ashram, or quarantine for some deadly virus, or some other equally unlikely bluff. She was worried about him, and looked all through the imperial palace for someone Mo's size who looked shifty. She was concentrating on the grey bots, who unfortunately all looked shifty. Then she recognised Nanny Grey and realised the bot was trying to attract her attention, subtly.

'Where the dang is Mo?' Snoopy hissed, once they were out of audio range of other bots.

'I don't know, Ma'am,' whispered Nanny, obviously afraid. 'He put on the skin and was on his way to join some relatives of mine who were going to look after him, when he was caught by palace guards who thought he was a vagrant and they kicked him outside. I went to look for him, but he'd gone.' She was shaking.

'Why doesn't he just take the skin off and show he's the imperial heir?' Snoopy puzzled. 'Unless he can't. Has that skin been tested at all? Ever?'

'It was specially made for him. We didn't check, Ma'am, I'm sorry!' Nanny was obviously worried about what might happen to her now.

'Come on, Nanny. You and me, we're his only chance! Let's go!' Snoopy and Nanny snuck out of the palace and headed for the town. Nanny asked other grey bots if they'd seen a bot of eleven who looked lost, and finally got some directions.

'He headed for the docks? Oh no! That's bad!' she moaned. If metal hands could be wrung together, that's what she would be doing at this point.

Snoopy hurried them both along, looking from side to side for the missing Mo. There was no sign of him. Even Nanny's questions were meeting suspicious looks, now.

The docks seemed deserted. This part of the city was dark and dirty with a pong of rotting fish and garbage. Scruffy metal boats rocked on the gentle waves of oil in the harbour. Metal birds squawked tinnily as they preened their ugly wings. There were spooky dark alleyways and mounds of discarded waste products. There was even a fire in a bin, but no one around that they could see. Then Snoopy heard something, a faint crying. She tracked it to an abandoned warehouse. To Nanny she indicated a dilapidated door; they pushed through and went inside. At first they could see nothing but blackness, then their eyes adapted to night mode and everything went green. They followed a corridor around to where they could hear the unmistakable sound of bots, whimpering.

They came to a room full of grey children, dirty and miserable, who looked up at the intruders with pathetic hopefulness that faded, just as both Nanny and Snoopy were grabbed from behind and dragged away. Snoopy wasn't sure, but she thought she recognised Mo among the ragged hoard they'd discovered. She activated her personal silent alarm. The bots holding her jumped back as if shot, for indeed they had just been subjected to several volts of electricity, and now could not touch her. She reached over to shock Nanny's captors and the two ran towards the street.

'Wait, wait! I'm sure I saw Mo in that room. We've got to go back!' cried Snoopy.

'Later, when we've got a plan!' called Nanny, drawing ahead in her haste to escape.

Snoopy let her go, then hid as their pursuers thundered past. Snoopy doubled back to the room, softly calling 'Mo?'

'Oh Miss, I'm so glad to see you!' blurted a small grey form as it flung itself into her arms.

'Quickly, we have to go. Nanny's outside, creating a diversion.' At least she hoped she was.

'No, we can't leave them. I can't leave them.' Mo indicated the other grey children, and Snoopy's heart sank. How was she going to manage to get all of them away from this place?

Then she heard the whooping siren of approaching police vehicles. Yes!

'Come on kids, quickly now. The police are here, but we have to go now!'

The ragged group straggled out the door, gasping in the relatively fresh (if you don't count the pong of rotting metal fish) smell of Xing's atmosphere (which cannot actually be described as air).

The men had legged it and the place seemed deserted once more.

'Nanny?' Snoopy called, and was relieved to see the grey bot emerge from the shadows. Surprisingly she looked very smug. There were no police cars. Snoopy understood at once:

'Those sirens, that was you, wasn't it?'

'Yep!'

'Good work! Now, let's get going quickly before they realise the same thing and come back.'

Amazingly, Snoopy and Nanny and the children all shuffled back to the palace without incident. Mo explained that the bad men had kidnapped him when he got lost, and put him with the other children. They were destined for the slave market. He couldn't convince anyone of his real identity, especially as his 'skin' wouldn't come off. This was remedied after much pulling and tweaking and swearing, after they were all safely back in the palace.

The extra children were happily absorbed into palace servant families, while Snoopy and Nanny tried to come up with a plausible reason for Mo's absence. Finally, he was taken to his father, who was very relieved to see him.

'So, young bot, where on Xing have you been?' he boomed.

'Sorry Dad, I ate something bad and got locked in the privvy all day. Snoopy got me out.'

He gave a brief smile of complicity at Snoopy. That was the best they could come up with at short notice.

### Sunday 27 October 2013

Cloud Gazing – A Tercetonine

Irina Dimitric

Mosman, NSW

On a sunny, winter afternoon

I strolled out of my cocoon

Then pranced outside and upward glanced:

There across the pale blue sky

Woolly clouds are passing by

And I watch their tale, as above they sail

Hey, a kind of kangaroo I see

Not just one, but two or even three

They're not stopping. No! Off they're hopping!

From cloud to cloud I search

Ah! There's a parrot on a perch

That's exactly what I spy with my little eye

You might be spying something else

From your side of the fence

Well, whatever you can see is fine with me

Why, a monster! Of course he'd appear

A tale without him would be so queer

He's bad, you shout. Well, we'll soon find out.

Quite a topic for a lively conversation

Letting loose our wild imagination

So let's together race into outer space

There to spin some curly, breezy tales

For the snazzy, snow-white woolly bales

Riding high in the pale blue sky.

### Monday 28 October 2013

Copper

Alexander Ryan-Jones

Hawker, ACT

I wandered down the dusty road,

With resolve,

A puzzle in my mind.

On the other that I might be wrong.

And one coin to hear her song.

'She is the spirit of copper wire,

She spins your brain,

And leaves copper in your head.

When the winter spirit cries.

Her truths you wish were lies.'

And still she sat and with tired eyes,

With finger fast,

And dropped the coin in haste.

I placed the golden shape

On fortune's throne.

'You're the stone walls and the bars.

The long slow death,

The silent grave of bitten tongues,

Your duty calls,

Would fall if you would but try.'

'And what are you?' I called to her,

Such words are true,

Have knelt upon their knees.

Some like me have turned to you.

You don't read me,

But paused to stop and say;

'No crystal ball,

It's not your palms (though your hands are curled)

It's just your eyes,

And the shackles on your wrists.'

### Tuesday 29 October 2013

A Day Of Reckoning

Paul Humphreys

Oxley, ACT

'You've gotta do something, it's out of control and besides, the front of the house looks terrible! It's half way up to me knees Bill!'

'Alright, alright I said I would get to it; just wait till the footy is finished will ya? Anyway Wal's comin' around later; said he might have an idea how to knock it over. That bloody kikuyu grass grows as ya watch it.'

'Wal! He's as crazy as a headless chook an' any scheme he has will be crackpot or dangerous or both.'

'Ah Sue, ya too hard on him luv! He's a nice enough bloke, a little strange in his dress sense I'll admit, but up top he's smart – not dumb. He told me once that, how did it go? Oh yeah "he's a bright star in a galaxy of imagination and inventiveness"; not sure what it means exactly but it sorta sounds impressive.'

'Sounds to me that he is spaced out!'

'Can I come in?' Wal stood outside of the back door sucking on a can of Coke.

'Good to see ya, Wal. Come in. We was just talkin' about you. Sue is anxious to know if you had any ideas on how ta get rid of the kikuyu grass out the front.'

Wal had really outdone himself on this day. The bright yellow fluoro workers' jacket was held in check by red braces that supported his over large safari shorts. His ensemble included dark grey knee high woollen socks and open toe sandals.

He was a large person with a large head. His blond hair was matted in random places and a slight smile of residual breakfast Vegemite hung around the side of his mouth. His face was a moonscape of acne holes and mountains although some were hidden by the obligatory three-day growth. His white-framed sunglasses provided an added fashion note.

'Wouldn't lose you in a crowd, hey?'

Wal ignored or did not understand the reason for my comment. 'I think that you could get rid of the grass with me flame thrower.'

'Have ya really got a flame thrower Wal?'

'Yeah I built it myself. Works on the same principle as a primus stove. Fill it with kero and pump it up and away you go. I could drop it around later if ya like.'

'Yeah, the day of reckoning for the kikuyu! I'll be glad to get rid of it – and Sue outta me hair.'

Next day was predicted to be a hot one, so I started early in the morning.

I ran through in my mind Wal's instructions. 'Wal said all I had to do was pump the kero tank up to pressurise it, then light the taper at the end of the firing nozzle, aim and pull the trigger and presto! – a large flame would be ejected. Sounds simple enough.'

I thought that I would start the fire action away from the house, near the letterbox. I gave the kero tank some really good pumps, lit the taper, aimed underneath the canopy of the noxious foreign grass and pulled the trigger. At the same time the taper went out. A great whoosh of kerosene left the nozzle and permeated the understorey of the grass. I tried again after giving a few more pumps on the tank. The taper went out again before igniting the stream of kero. Another burst of kerosene vapourised under the kikuyu canopy.

The next time it worked – and how! The flame of kero pushed into the grass canopy and met up with the vapours of the previous two dud efforts. There was an almighty burst of flames that engulfed the whole area of the front yard. I was knocked from my squatting position back on me bum with the force of the explosion. I sat in shock and amazement at the front yard that was now a lake of fire.

I rushed to find the hose. And by the time I had it connected to the tap and operating the fire brigade with sirens blaring stopped outside our house.

After they had extinguished the flames and all the neighbours had gone back inside their houses, the senior fire officer started to quiz me on how I had managed to set the whole front grass area on fire at the same time. I confessed that I did not know exactly and it was some unforseen consequence of the malfunction of the flame thrower or words to that effect.

'A flame thrower? You're joking with me aren't you? You know that they are classified as a WMD – weapon of mass destruction – in certain countries!' The Chief Fire Officer was not a happy chappy.

'No I didn't, officer... well, it looks like I have got the grass cleaned up; Sue will be happy.'

'Get rid of the flame thrower! And don't even think of using it again.'

'Yes Officer, I promise.'

### Wednesday 30 October 2013

Orchard

RL

Bathurst, NSW

Skeletal fruit trees in uniform lines

Abandoned by the farmer who once tended them

With wooden fingers straining for life

Once burdened with the weight of prized fruit.

Like ornaments, the fruit would hang

Begging to be devoured by ravenous pickers

Now carcasses of their former beauty

They quiver in the chilly winter mornings

Yearning to be nurtured

By their languid farmer

A tiny bud forms and grows

Hangs preciously on the delicate frame

In time, it matures

Until it blends in with the light of the dusk

Plump and fleshy and pleading to be taken

It waits... for someone to grasp it, admire it

No one comes

Except the whisper of the wind through the pasture

Leaving behind the harsh quiet

Of the forgotten orchard

Now as withered as a prune it hangs

Its lifeless body suspended in the air

Swaying motionlessly like a hung man

Not even cockatoos want it now

The leaves have fallen, grass overgrown

The once uniform lines blurred

He sits on his perch, hat upon his head

Decked in flannel he dozes in the stillness

Reflecting on a lifetime of work that got too hard

And wasn't worth it anymore

### Thursday 31 October 2013

The End?

John Ross

Blackheath, NSW

I am the last.

The culmination of mankind's genius.

The perfect human being.

I see all. I know all. I never grow old.

Millenniums, ages, eons stretch out behind me.

I look down on the city from my lofty tower.

I see order, beauty, industry.

Created, maintained, by cold lifeless machines.

I am the last.

We came from star dust.

We fought, learned, loved, hated.

We grew, prospered, imagined great things.

We dared to believe we would live forever.

For a brief second we thought perfection was achieved.

I am the last.

We cast aside so much.

The joy of new life, youth, discovery.

The challenges of failure, hardship, striving to achieve.

No need for compassion, forgiveness, repentance.

We knew all but had nothing.

I am the last.

I have seen the stars slowly dim and die.

Burnt out, exhausted.

We reached for them; they eluded us.

Now they and us, me, I, will end.

The universe is ready to die.

I am the last.

Loneliness is a constant cloak.

They are all gone, we may not age but we still die.

Love, friendship, a look, a touch. No more. Never.

I feel the weight of untold billions of people.

Their lives, their very being instilled in me.

I am the last.

Millenniums drift by.

The sun. The giver of life dims.

Time now to wonder. Why? Who? What? Meaning?

Soon it will end. This journey of Mankind.

Will there ever be another story?

Perhaps another beginning.

I am the last.

### Bios and contact details

Anderson, David

David Anderson was born in the Blue Mountains and worked on the railways of NSW. He is a musician, singer, film and stage actor. The last six years he has worked on films, in both professional and Sydney film school student films, and commercials.

David has been writing for thirty years, but never offered anything for publication. The publishing of a short story in narrator induced him to rework his earlier short stories and poems and begin writing new works.

You may view David's work on narrator sites, and also some of his film and musical work at <http://www.starnow.com.au/haz1902/>.

Assumpter, Irene

Irene Assumpter is a budding writer. She has previously written for narratorAUSTRALIA and was nominated for the 2013 Caine Prize for African Writing for her short story Odd Footy Boy. Irene's first novel 'No Bigger Mistake' was published in 2013.

Bruton, Judith

Judith Bruton PhD, artist/writer, relocated from South Australia in 2012 to the Summerland Coast, New South Wales where she continues to photograph and paint 'poetic-scapes'.

Judith's short fiction often highlights aspects of the contemporary art world. Most stories relish a few surprise twists as many a flawed character searches for love, meaning and authenticity. The taste of sea air and the nudge of a faithful dog are never far away.

Judith's stories and poems are published in several Australian and international anthologies including Short and Twisted 2013, 2012, 2011, Celapene Press, and Alfie Dog Fiction. Please visit: <http://www.judithbruton.com/>.

Bundesen, Jean

Jean Bundesen moved to the Blue Mountains in 2003 from Sydney, where she had worked for many years. Her interests include photography, watercolour painting, reading, gardening and writing. While her first piece of prose, 'A Rock Pool', set in Caloundra, Queensland, was published when she was 15, it was not until she attended a number of creative writing courses in 1999–2001 that she wrote her first piece of poetry, 'Give me a Dollar', in 2000. Jean continues to write prose and poetry, has had a number of poems published in different publications and has won some prizes.

Burgess, Shirley

Shirley Burgess comes from Rosebud, Victoria, and is a new creative writer. She won a competition entitled When I Was Ten Years Old in February 2013's Positive Words Magazine, and her most recent story, 'A Fortunate Push', was published in September's Positive Words Magazine. Shirley can be contacted on <http://www.facebook.com/ShirleyYBurgess>.

Chaffey, Robyn

Robyn Chaffey is from a very large family and shares a love of writing with several of her siblings and their children. Writing is for her a hobby, a love, a daily topic of conversation. She finds that inspiration abounds in the humdrum of life and living; in the beautiful scenery and the rough places of earth; in the faces, characters and differences found in humanity.

Clay, Sarah

Sarah Clay declared her retirement the 'Age of Smorgasbord'. After a lifetime of necessary discipline she finds the freedom of smorgasbord exhilarating. Post-career choices include swimming instructor training, reading newspapers on air for print-impaired people, joining a writers' group, bookclub, telephone counselling, learning to play tennis and golf, renovating a needy house, establishing a weedy garden, leading a meditation group, and becoming a student of Buddhism. She recently began to learn oil painting and is currently a volunteer in palliative care. Sarah's greatest joy is playing with her four year old grandson. She writes poems and stories in her spare time.

Craib, James

James Craib has been contributing poems and short stories to narrator almost since its inception. He describes himself as a part-time musician, actor, writer, wine drinker and full-time dilettante. James is, in addition, an unrepentant puntificate and purveyor of dreadful jokes. He delights in using acrostic and anagram to confound the punters and often himself! James is also the present convener of the Blackheath Writer's Group. Check out other examples of James' work at: <http://biarcsemaj.blogspot.com.au/>.

Cumming, Jennie

Jennie Cumming is president of Marion Writers Inc., and you can see more about Marion Writers at <https://sites.google.com/site/marionwritersinc/> and on facebook <https://www.facebook.com/MarionWritersIncorporated>.

Jennie has had work published in printed magazines and anthologies, as well as being published online. Jennie is a volunteer at the SA Writers Centre, where she produces their fortnightly e-bulletins and assists in the production of the quarterly magazine Southern Write.

Dimitric, Irina

Irina Dimitric enjoys writing poetry and short stories. Her writing has flourished since she joined gather.com in 2011. Her recent passion is photography and many of her poems have been inspired by her photographs. She likes both free verse and form poetry. Her writings have been published online and in print. Irina is the creator of the 'tercetonine', a new form of tercet which can be seen at www.bregana.gather.com or on her blog at http://www.irinadim.com.

Edgar, Bob

Bob Edgar is the author of the young adult adventure novel, 'SOS from Rhodon Valley', as well as the newly released 'Tom Tuff to the Rescue' for the younger child. Tom Tuff to the Rescue tells the story of a little tug boat with a big heart. It has been beautifully illustrated by Todd Sharp (www.toddsharpartworks.com.au/) and is available in print through Amazon at  http://www.amazon.com/Tom-Tuff-Rescue-Robert-Edgar/dp/098748320X/.

For more about Bob, visit <http://www.robertedgarauthor.com/>.

Fowler, Mark

Mark Fowler is a writer/poet who has only recently discovered a passion for the written word. Writing occupies most of his free time and varies in content from purely fictional works to humour and faith poetry. He is an experienced teacher who generally works with upper primary aged children. He is married with two sons and three grandchildren. Mark loves long walks, long coffee chats, movies and of course writing. He belongs to two writing groups and an online writing group so that he receives broad feedback for his work. He keeps a blog of spiritual poetry. <http://spiritspace3.blogspot.com.au/>.

Gibbs, Thomas A

Tom A Gibbs is an author based in East Maitland, NSW. Please email tomgibbs96@gmail.com if interested in purchasing his books or visit <http://www.thomasagibbs.com/>.

Gow, Virginia

Virginia Gow lives at Blackheath. It is here that she creates her works of art.

After teaching for 40 years, she has come here to devote her time to writing short stories, poetry, painting, and musical installations. Living and working in her garden home, she is very proud to be part of the Blackheath community. A member of Blackheath Creative Writers Group and of Blackheath Art Society, she also belongs to the Manly Poetry Society and the Gurringai Aboriginal Education Consultative Group.

Virginia's book of Fibonacci poetry, 'Escarpment', is available from your favourite ebook retailers and in print from Amazon.com. For more about Virginia, visit <http://vgow.blogspot.com.au/>.

Heks, Andris

At 17 in 1964, Andris Heks came to Australia from Hungary. He learned English through Shakespeare's Julius Caesar, and following his HSC completed an Honours degree in politics at the University of NSW. He became a trainee reporter for three years with TDT (This Day Tonight), ABC TV's legendary current affairs program and subsequently became a social worker, psychodramatist, yogi, singer and comedian. He won the Best Actor award for his parody of Howard in his comedy at the Blue Mountains Theatre Festival in 2007. He has had numerous poems and short stories published and is currently working on his autobiography.

Howell, Connie

Connie Howell is a western trained shaman and healer; she has been in the alternative healing field for twenty years. In her spare time she loves to write short stories and poetry. Since her teenage years she found that she had a natural ability to write poetry but has had no formal training.

Connie loves nothing better than to see people become self-empowered either through the healings they receive or through information that she is able to impart. Happily married and living in the Blue Mountains, she enjoys the community spirit and scenery.

You can find out more about her at <http://www.bmholistictherapies.com.au/>.

Humphreys, Paul

Paul Humphreys has written and told stories for his own and others' pleasure and enjoyment almost all of his life. He gets great delight from reading and writing fiction and faction stories. He is currently the convenor of a short story writing and reading group called The Write Stuff based in the ACT. He gets a considerable thrill from language where there is a generous, but, as required, frugal use of words allowing a weaving of nuances and atmosphere around memorable characters and a credible storyline. He has had stories published in all narratorAUSTRALIA volumes to date.

Jensen, Heather

When she's not lost in the Otherworld of her stories and imagination, Heather Jensen lives in Tasmania with her partner and children, where she fills in her time mothering and reading: often simultaneously!

Heather's story, 'A Sustainable Dream', was written for a challenge, to craft a story following Todorov's Theory: equilibrium, disruption, and solution leading to a new equilibrium. It also had to be under 500 words. The story has evolved since then, to become one of her favourites of her own writing. Heather's other work has been published both in Australia and internationally. Links can be found at http://www.heatherjensenauthor.com.

Johnston, Henry

Henry Johnston is a full time writer specialising in the short story format. Henry divides his time between inner city Rozelle in Sydney and a 1950s style beach house at Cudmirrah in the Shoalhaven. He is presently finishing the 'Last Voyage of Aratus', a Pacific telling of the Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Henry is inspired by proximity to the sea and is planning a compilation of sea stories for submission to narratorAUSTRALIA in 2014. Contact Henry on Google+ or on Facebook and look for his stories on the narratorAUSTRALIA website.

La Porte, Judith

Judith La Porte is a former librarian who began writing short stories a couple of years ago. She is a member of the ACT Writers Centre and also belongs to a local writers' group.

Linn, Marilyn

Marilyn Linn writes short stories and poems and has some of each of these published this year on narrator. She has had poetry published internationally and stories and poetry published in several anthologies. She is a member of Seaside Writers and Bindii Haiku Writers. She is also a member of Marion Writers Inc where you can read some of her work in Marion Writers' anthology, 'Relay', which is on sale now.

Go to <https://www.facebook.com/MarionWritersIncorporated> or Google Marion Writers Inc.

Lutta, Fayroze

Fayroze Lutta is a work-a-day-kind-of-girl in the planning office. However, by night it is just her and her 1937 French Triumph Number 6 typeset typewriter that comes out from its black box, the jazz radio on. As Hemingway put it, she is a writer, she sits in front of it and bleeds, her life re-imagined on paper before the night is over running after the moonlight.

Find writing notices on her Facebook groups page <https://www.facebook.com/groups/bibliograhyvandalszines/>.

Buy Fayroze's handmade handbound books at the Etsy shop <https://www.etsy.com/au/your/shops/PostcardsdeParis/>.

Martin, Julie

Julie Martin was raised on her family's sheep and rice property in the Riverina district of southern New South Wales. As a young girl, she attended a single-teacher primary school in the bush, and later a boarding school in Geelong. She now lives in Melbourne where the memory of her years growing up on the land continue to be a rich source of inspiration for her writing. These days she juggles her work with family life and a passion for writing. She also enjoys reading, photography and gardening, when time permits. You can follow her on Twitter at @Juli3Martin.

MD, Evelyn

Evelyn MD is an artist and occasional writer. Evelyn faces the disruption of bipolar disorder on an all-too-regular basis. She says in her poem 'Idle' that she 'keeps on trying and endures'. Her work is made of her inner rumblings and thoughts that she shares in our physical world. Further still, a place for Evelyn to exist and be happy, sad, true and meaningful.

Murphy, Robert

Robert Murphy is an Irish-born short story writer who moved to London in May 2013 after spending four years in Sydney.

Nickols, Lynn

Lynn Nickols is a freelance writer based in Canberra, ACT. She has had travel articles and short stories published, won an award from the Fellowship of Australian Writers and has also ghost-written an autobiography for a migrant who was not confident in written English.

Ross, John

John Ross is a retired airline manager who lives in the beautiful Blue Mountains. In 2010 John was diagnosed with Acute Myeloid Leukaemia but after a bone marrow transplant is now in remission. His passions are writing and gardening. John has had two e-books published: 'My Patch', a collection of short stories about a policeman in the UK in the early 20th century, and 'The First Man', a full length sci-fi novel. These are available on online at your favourite ebook retailers.

Russell, Jane

Jane Russell has been scribbling stories since childhood, but only joined a creative writing group in 2012. She has lived and worked in the UK, Australia, Italy and Fiji and has travelled to many other places. Apart from writing, she paints portraits, teaches Italian and has a dog. Submitting stories to narrator inspired the expansion of the Xing saga, from one dream-induced tale to a whole planetful of characters. Jane writes for enjoyment – her own, and hopefully that of her readers!

Smith, Winsome

Winsome Smith, a retired teacher, grew up in New South Wales country towns. She is passionate about reading and writing. She has won prizes and has been highly commended for stories, articles and poems.

Winsome's twelfth book, 'Tales the Laundress Told', is now published and available online. It is also on sale at a Lithgow bookshop and your local bookseller can obtain it from Balboa Press.

Stanton, Craig

Craig Stanton lives in the Blue Mountains, west of Sydney, and writes weird fiction and various other things when the spirit moves. His poetry has been previously published in the University of Newcastle's SWAMP Anthology in 2011. He works with books, particularly antique and second-hand ones, and his collecting activities in this field are recorded at his blog, Moon Of My Delight (www.pehlehvi.blogspot.com).

Craig's collection of short stories – 'Love Songs and Other Weirdness' – is available for download from your favourite ebook retailers.

Despite any evidence to the contrary presented here, he runs mainly on coffee.

Tome, Gregory

Gregory Tome is a retired history teacher, with a Master's degree in Egyptology.

A first novel, 'Jimbo Finds His Way', has been released as an ebook and Gregory has written a short play which was performed at the Bundanoon Crash Test competition; the competition judge commended the play. Having also written a number of short stories, Gregory is at present writing a novel set in Ancient Egypt.

Gregory has been writing poetry regularly for the past four years. Much of it can be found on his blog at <http://www.sandaymel.wordpress.com/>

Warren, JL

JL Warren is a poet extending her writing abilities into the field of short stories and micro fiction, which she is studying. She is working towards a volume of short stories. Current writing successes can be followed on her website. Visit mountaincorner.weebly.com and click on 'Writer's Corner'. She derives her inspiration from faith, social issues and the beautiful Blue Mountains. Two poems: 'Mist in Blue Mountains' and 'Flooding Vistures' were published as 'Weekly Poem' on ozpoeticsociety.com.

Withers, Ruth

Ruth Withers is a housewife and mother, whose major accomplishment has been to raise a family of which she is very proud. Like most people, she has known both great joy and great sorrow. Writing allows her to express emotions that she finds difficult to verbalise. It also allows her to play with words in a more light-hearted fashion. Ruth mainly writes verse, but has been known to make an occasional foray into prose.

Zaknic, Athena

Athena Zaknic started writing in 2008 after she retired as a pharmacist. She writes short stories memoir and poetry including Japanese genres which have been published all over the world. Her short stories and poetry have been published in several anthologies.

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### MoshPit Publishing, narrator and more

# Why enter a narrator competition?

The narrator concept has been developed by MoshPit Publishing (www.moshpitpublishing.com.au) to help you as an emerging or established writer reach a worldwide audience quickly and easily, and to then turn that audience into fans who might go on to purchase your longer works.

The narrator competitions have two main purposes:

  * to help you develop an audience for your writing

  * to help you market yourself and your published works by giving you the opportunity to include a short bio with links to published works and/or your website or blog.

Regular reading of narrator entries helps broaden your awareness of 'what's out there', regular entry to the various narrator competitions helps encourage you to polish your writing, while regular publication will help increase your author profile.

Visit <http://www.narratorcentral.com/> for more information.

# IndieMosh self publishing (for longer works!)

For Australian writers who are thinking about self publishing a longer work, MoshPit Publishing can assist you via our IndieMosh self publishing facilitation service.

If you're unable to get a traditional publisher to take your book on, we offer a range of affordable ebook and print on demand packages to help you get into the market place quickly. All publications go out as 'An IndieMosh book brought to you by MoshPit Publishing' so they don't stand out as being self published. And because you take most of the financial risk of publishing your book, we pay a much higher than average royalty.

Visit <http://www.indiemosh.com.au/> for more information.

# One Thousand Words Plus

And for those writers across the world who have published works under their belt, we offer the book marketing and preview site, One Thousand Words Plus. Market your book for life by listing it once on OTW+. Sign in and update your listings any time you like, or set and forget and let SEO do the work for you.

Visit <http://www.onethousandwordsplus.com/> for more information.

