 
narratorAUSTRALIA

________Volume One________

Various Contributors

May to October 2012

A showcase of Australian poets and authors

who were published on the narratorAUSTRALIA blog

from May to October 2012

http://www.narratoraustralia.com.au/

Smashwords Edition

First published November 2012 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 (c) MoshPit Publishing on behalf of all authors listed in the Index.

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: Orange Floral Background by Molotovcoketail, purchased from http://iStockphoto.com/

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

##### Contents

Foreword

Copyright Reminder

Index

Contributions

Bios and Contact Details

A brief history of narratorAUSTRALIA

#####  Foreword

It is with great pride and pleasure that we bring you this first collection of short stories and poems from emerging and established writers across Australia.

From its humble beginnings as a locally produced quarterly print publication, what started as narratorMAGAZINE Blue Mountains is now narratorAUSTRALIA – a daily digital edition representing talent across a nation of more than 21 million people. This volume contains 215 poems and short stories written and submitted by 107 emerging and established writers published at www.narratoraustralia.com.au during the six month period 1 May to 31 October 2012.

As I was formatting these entries into this compilation, it was wonderful to revisit so many of the items which had brought me so much pleasure on first reading. It is amazing how, as you age, you tend to forget more than you remember!

You will notice as you read through that a few of the entries received Editor's Pick awards. I am sure that for some of these items, many of you will agree wholeheartedly, and that for others, some of you will disagree with equal intensity! Each Editor's Pick was awarded for the reaction the item provoked in us on first reading. These reactions weren't always related to our emotions – sometimes they were related to how we were left thinking – so it may have been a case of thought, not emotion, which resulted in the award.

Looking back at these pieces now, I am still happy with the decisions, but there are other items which, perhaps, deserved something, a Highly Commended, or a Well Done, You! But I don't want to turn narrator into a circus of teacher's gold stars – it's about having a collection of the best writing the country can deliver. And if there is the occasional standout piece (in our minds) then we will highlight that.

I need to assure you that these are not the only submissions we received. We ask for properly edited pieces, and only publish those that we feel have something original to offer, or which say it in a slightly more original way than the next writer might. So this is not a collection of everything which was submitted, only those pieces we felt deserved publication.

I also need to mention that while we give each piece a light proofread for more obvious errors, and try to format all to a reasonable consistency, time constraints dictate that there will be the occasional issue with spelling, punctuation or grammar. For these I can only apologise, congratulate you for knowing better, and remind you not to make the same mistake when submitting your work to publishers!

In this compilation you will find long poems and short stories, and long stories and short poems. Some have illustrations, some have explanations, others are just as they are. They have been published in date order, and there is a list of contributions by author at the back. Sometimes we published more than one item in a day, and on these occasions, you may notice a time stamp next to the date. If no time stamp, then the item would most likely have been published at 8 am Sydney time.

So please, turn the page and start reading ... and when you have a moment, feel free to visit the website, or our Facebook page, and let the writers know if you enjoyed their work, and why.

And if you feel like submitting to narratorAUSTRALIA yourself one day, we would love to hear from you!

Thank you for your support of narrator and of the Australian creative writing industry.

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 http://www.moshpitpublishing.com.au/ if you can't easily find contact details for the author in question.

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

Thank you.

##### Index

## Author

Item name

## Adams, Susan

In Clear Felled Fields Kookaburras Sit On Wires

## Alannah

The House

## Anderson, David

How The Bagpipes Were Invented

Poem For New York

The Barcoo Flood

The Last Hunt

## Arkleysmith, Eulyce

Politicians Care

Pollies Pay Rise

## Ashwin, Hettie

Black Socks And Matching Tie

Scabby Dawn

## Assumpter, Irene

All Crystal

I Will Call It Solace

Odd Footy Boy

## Baldry, Rosemary

X Marks The Spot

## Beer, Don

Music

## Blatt, Eddie

Bangla Road, Patong

## Bridge

Untouchable Me

## Brittain, Ann-marie

The House On Weary Traveller's Way

## Brooks, Nicholas

Shelf Life

## Bundesen, Jean

Happiness All The Way

Memories

Railway Tracks

## Byrne, Marina

Dr Who In The Kitchen Of My Childhood

## Callaghan, Linda

Autumn Love

Dainty Daisies

Keeping In Touch

## Carl, Aaron

Adequate Time

## Chaffey, Robyn

Illusion

Isobel

My Name Is Gertrude ...

Will Time And Tide Remember Me?

## Compton, Ronnie

My Ward

Please Move Again

## Craci, Theo

Dog

## Craib, James

A Banquet In Venice

Back To The Future And Forward To The Past

Lost Illusions

Old Seadogs

The Prisoner Of Pilatus

Would You Like (F)lies With That?

## Davies, Nene

Miss Understood

## Demelza

Tim Tam Temptation

## Downs, Noel

Best Friend

## Doyle, Brendan

Nature Study

Train To The Airport, 10 September 2011

## Edgar, Bob

In The Orange Light Of Early Morning

It's Only A Myth

School Daze

The Dying Game

Underground Melody

Yuletide

## Falconer, Stephen

Left Upon The Steps Of Salvation

Letter To The Editor From A Vampyre

## Fawdry, Merlene

Oblivion

The Pain Of Missing Her

Traces Of Glitter

## Fermanis-Winward, Michele

Becoming Colour

Beguiled

Mountain Climbing

## Freedman, C.G.

Re-Offender

## G, Gordon

Picture

## G, Mel

I Did Nothing Wrong

## Gardiner, Alex aka The Auld Yin

Ma Wee Pawky Thing

Ode Tae Bonny Lass's Braw

To Tea Or Not To Tea 'Answered'

Whales In Motion

## Gibbs, Russell

Still Mind Wanders

## Girolamo, Hazel

Tudor Tonight

## Goodwin, Peter

A Poem Written On A Window

Broken Vases

The First Journey

The Picture Frame

## Govier, Mark

Diary Of A Meph-Head – An Extract

Killing Painting

Police Report On The 'Dr'

Reactions 1

## Gow, Virginia

Blackout At Blackheath

Once Upon Mt Wilson

Shadow Watcher

## Hall, Emma

A Love Song

Content In Misery

Killed A Man

Lovers And Liars

Sami's Babies

## Heard, Ridley

Fame

## Heks, Andris

From Billions Of Years Ago

The Ghosts Of Megalong

## Hit, Vague

tyrannosaurus hex

## Hollins-Cliff, Annabel

Tales From The Tall Man

## Howard, Emmett

I See Darkness

Tangible Thinking

## Howell, Connie

An Extraordinary Woman

Mirror, Mirror

## Humphreys, Paul

A Slip To Eternity

Bird

The Boy's Birth Night

## Ince, Frank

Melanie Rents A Home

## JAC

Amanda's Fairytale

Creative Places

Darkness

The White House

## James, Nicole

Something Of Nothing

## Johnson, Amber

Fabulous Fairy Floss

Fifteen, Homeless And Hungry

Flustered

Gravity

Marionettes Of Despair

Tourism Australia

Virtual Obsession

## Krone, Mary

Frangipani Galaxy

## La Porte, Judith

Believing In Ghosts

## Lance, Robyn

Baggage

Big Moon Rising

## Langford, Anthony J.

All Quiet In The Bell Tower

## Lee, Crystal

I Ain't Saying Goodbye

You Were Gone

## Lee, Melanie

It Hurts How You Love Me

## Loughran, Chloe

Bathed In Sunlight

Little Retro Cave

Nicole

Two Hours Till Sunday

## Lucas, Alan

Mountain

Perry's Lookdown

The Leaping For Joy Girl

The Legless Frog

## Lynch, Felicity

In My New World

Rain

To My True Love

## Maddever, Kai

My Plea, My Son

## Mancy, JH

Not This Little Yellow Duck

## Martin, Denise

Autumn

Seasons Of The Day

## Massingham, Joe

Dispirited

The Morning After

## McGloin, Barry

Faith

Repast

Fox Encounter

## McMillan, Colleen

Heat

## Merryjack

Mean Streets Dolly

## Miller, Samantha

Material World

## Miller, Samuel

Old Granny Nullius

## Morgan, Jonathan

Taking Tea

## Nickols, Lynn

The Weave, The Weft, The Warp

## O'Flynn, Mark

Morris Minors

## P, Alexandra

A Child's Windows

## Pant, Subroto

Reality Bites

## Paton, Toni

You Can't Go Wrong

## Payne, Andrea

Nevada Desert

Reveille

The Missus

## Portingale, Paris

Fealty – Or, The Art Of Being There For One Another

God's Other Son

Purgatory

The Lunatic – Prologue

## Pratt, Tamara

Saving My Butterfly

With Your Guitar

## Ramsay, Sallie

Goin' South

Knitting In Green

The Box

The Last Day

Twins

## Reed, A.J.

Resignation

## Renew, Sandra

Green Eyes In Afghanistan

Un believable (Sudan 2010)

## Ridley, Pat

One Day

Sensible Fools

## Rimeriter

Bluehole – Come Share With Me

Lightning Ridge

Two Lovers

## Robertas

Blackshield

Down Reigate Hill

Five Thousand Galaxies

Is

Nervous Tic

## Ross, John

A Floral Wreath

A Mid-Winter Sunrise

It's The Small Things

The Veggie Garden

## Russo, Jordan

The Reflection

## Sargent, Susan

To Borrow Freedom

What We Leave Behind

## Satori, Sonia

I Couldn't Stay For The Celebration

Love Is A Verb

The End Of The Beginning – The Beginning Of The End

The Inheritance

## Scorpio

J

## Scott, Emma-Lee

The World Of Growth

Untitled #18

## Singer, Ariette

Batting Eyelashes

My Solemn Promise

Our Chronic Problem

## Smith, Tracey

Beyond The Glass

## Smith, Winsome

Comfrey

## Smithers, Alexandra

She

## Soul, Jessica

Bird On A Wire

## Sparks, Graham

A Moment In 1974

Bright Morning Full Of Hope

Chicken Dinner At The Roadhouse

New Xin Zhang

Send In The Infantry

Sing Me There

## Studach, Stephen

The Funnels

## Tanaka, Cathie

Between

## Thubten, Yeshe

Reality In A Heartbeat

Weatherbeaten

## Todd, Shannon

Eternal Devotion

Time

## Turner, Claire

Great Spirit

## Von Riegen, Kate-Michelle

Recognising The Signs

## Walker, Vickie

So Many Grains Of Sand

## Witham, Ted

Power Drunk

## Withers, Ruth

Grandpa Dan

Shadows

## Yuen, Kathryn

It Starts With A Big C And Ends With ... Er

## Zaunmayr, Tom

Peer Pressure

Tuesday 1 May 2012 8 am

Autumn

## Denise Martin

### Gisborne, Victoria

Autumn scents hang in the air

Cool crisp mornings, days are fair.

Tumbling leaves of red and gold,

Orange, amber, brown unfold.

Piles of faded beauty smoulder,

Days are perfect, nights now colder.

Charred remains of autumn splendour

A winter coat for seedlings tender.

To rise again in spring to bloom,

Dispelling winter's chilly gloom.
Tuesday 1 May 2012 4 pm

Still Mind Wanders

## Russell Gibbs

### West Perth, WA

I rolled my smoke, lit up and inhaled

Each exhalation came in a burst of three

And between each puff of smoke

I licked my lips, without knowing why

Truly I tried to sit in the sun

And to think of things happy and bright

But my mind just kept returning to

'fuck my life' 'fuck my life' FUCK MY LIFE'

I wanted to be able to share with you all

The desire to find a dark cool corner

And sit and cut myself till the knife turns red

And stills my own small voice and its despondency

But apparently that's just a cry for help

For attention, for sympathy; a pathetic cry

So I load up a needle with ink

And set to work defacing myself privately

Apparently the permanency of the ink

Is better than the fading red lines of blood

But at least I get the sensation

Of something, anything, and my mind sits still.

I still wish that I had something to rage

Against machine, man, injustice or hatred

But I am too self absorbed and introspective

And the only enemy I find readily is me ...

Russell says that at 29 years of age, and discovering that a life of music does not fulfil all artistic desires, he has adapted to turning phrase, ignorantly and inadequately trying to express what cannot be spoken.
Wednesday 2 May 2012

Twins

## Sallie Ramsay

### Torrens, ACT

It is a comfort to know that it's more than probable that the next time I see her she will be dead. Watching her across the room, she's so full of life. Laughing, tossing her head; flirting, showing Jonathan Service enough of her firm tanned breasts to set his blood racing. He is flushing under the acne he has had since adolescence and no doubt will carry into his dotage. Biggest thrill he has had for years as she leans towards him, breasts shaking as she laughs. It's too much for Jonathan who hastily heads crabwise towards the door. She catches my eye, raises her eyebrows slightly, a faint smile crosses her face but is gone so fast I wonder if I imagined it.

My twin sister is outrageous and brilliant. You know the sort, always in the right place at the right time. Serendipity was invented with her in mind.

We share some interests and, coincidently, the same initials. I don't think it was a deliberate decision by our parents; more likely they were so stunned by the arrival of two babies where one was expected they didn't think at all. Now and again our mail gets mixed up but other than that there really isn't a problem.

We live in that new development next to City Park and although we have keys to each other's townhouses, for the most part we live separate lives.

You've probably seen my sister on one of the celebrity cooking shows, making enormously complicated recipes look so simple that anyone with half a brain, a wooden spoon and a primus stove could whip them up in nothing flat. But I will say this for her: she is one helluva cook. When the spirit moves her she fills my freezer with delicious goodies. I'll miss that; pity.

I enjoy the finer things in life and despise those who don't. I like my wine and women full-bodied. In addition, the women should be financially independent, compliant, appreciative of my skill as a lover and temporary. I find once women feel secure in a relationship they begin to express opinions on a range of topics about which they know nothing and, as a result, become irritating and boring.

Recently, I had the misfortune to fall foul of the family of a particularly full bodied, extremely compliant and appreciative woman. While spending a pleasant evening at one of the well-known nightspots owned by her family I, foolishly as I now know, accepted an invitation to join a friendly poker game. I pride myself on being a poker player of more than average ability but this night and, on a number of nights following, luck deserted me. I lost a small fortune, a small fortune I don't have.

I recollect the exact moment when, through a haze of cigar smoke, I realised that this was no friendly game and that I had a large problem, a very large problem. I did my utmost to distance myself from her and from her family, but, just when I thought that bygones were indeed bygones, an embarrassing encounter in my favourite bar reminded me quite emphatically I remained very much in their debt. Remaining in this family's debt is simply not a viable option, particularly if I accept the dictionary definition of viable as 'capable of living' and apply it to myself. It's that kind of family.

When we were kids my sister and I were left a large block of land by a distant uncle. The only access was by a narrow sandy track crisscrossed by washouts deep enough to provide a challenge on the Paris to Dakar Rally. We camped there a couple of times years ago but a block covered with scrub leading onto a barren windswept beach certainly didn't appeal to me. Neither of us went there or even thought of it for over ten years. Then, a couple of years ago, the local council approved what had been labelled 'a pie in the sky' proposition for re-zoning. The price we were offered for the block was impressive, very impressive, but when I suggested we sell, my sister, after making some very uncomplimentary comments about environmental vandals in general and 'bloody developers' in particular, refused to even consider it.

I spoke to her again yesterday about selling the block but received the same response. And later in the day I was reminded, by a visit from two of the biggest gorillas I've seen outside a zoo, I was still in debt to their keepers.

Yesterday, a letter meant for my sister landed in my mailbox. I opened it and skimmed the contents before I realised my mistake. She had had some tests done; something to do with sensitivity to insect stings. I remember when she was a kid she had a bad reaction to a bee sting; gave everyone a nasty fright. The tests results show she's exceptionally sensitive to European wasps. Nasty. They are such unpleasant aggressive little beasts; very short tempered and my salvation. Trapping some won't be a problem; the glass of coke I left on the table by the window should do the trick. I must remember to put the letter back in her mailbox

~~~

Slumped on the couch she watched the men from the coroner's office carry her brother's body from his apartment.

'Now then, take your time and tell us what happened.'

Her voice was trembling and barely audible:

'The buzzing, I'll never forget the buzzing ...' She pressed her hands over her ears as if trying to shut out the sound. 'The window was open, there was a glass on the table, surrounded, covered by wasps. And he ...' Her voice broke. She raised a tearstained face. 'I should've done it straight away but I thought it would be alright.'

'You should've done what?'

'Warned him about the wasps ...'

'You knew about the wasps then?'

'Yes. No.'

'You knew about them or not?'

'That is, I knew wasps could be a threat but I didn't know there were wasps here.'

'Go on.'

'I had some tests done.'

'Tests?'

'Yes. Bee stings can kill me.'

'But these are wasps.'

'Yes, the tests showed I'm very sensitive to them too.'

'And ?'

'My GP told me I must warn my brother because these allergies can run in families.' Her voice shook, 'I thought there wasn't any hurry, especially as I was going to see him tonight anyway.'

'Why was that?'

'I was going to tell him that I'd changed my mind about selling some land we own.'
Thursday 3 May 2012

Tangible Thinking

## Emmett Michael Joseph Howard

### Kambah, ACT

What the fuck just happened?

Two minutes ago I'm getting a professional massage, and now I'm freezing cold and it's pitch black.

It is way too cold here.

Wait.

WAIT.

O god, I'm flat.

How am I supposed to roly poly now? Okay, okay, get a grip. Let's work this shit. It's cold, pitch black, and somehow I'm flat. I'm in space. No wait, there'd be stars.

I got sucked into a black hole. That would explain everything. Wait no, I'd have been super compressed into dark matter ...

... I feel too light and fluffy to be dark matter. Unless that's what dark matter feels like? A hard outer shell with sweet, smooth chocolate on the inside.

Is that what I learnt about dark matter? Fuck, no that's M&M's. DAMMIT. I'm going to die. Ahh, no, I'm definitely not in a black hole, smells too much like over processed meat and stale pasta.Everyone knows you can't smell anything in a black hole.

I think.

Okay, time for some simple algebra. Why didn't I think of this before? Alright, if X is where we are, then A is the coldness, B is my flatness and my being split apart, and C is that lingering combination of odour.

A black hole in Norway?

No this doesn't feel Norwegian at all. We're in a dark, smelly, corrosive hole. That just doesn't sound right, think I forgot to carry the one.

Fuck maths.

WHOA. What's that ... I'm moving!

It's like the great moon has reached down with his elegant crater face and plucked me from this eternal exile with his own hand. He'll show me the light.

Any minute.

What's that grunting?

What's that ringing and cluttering? He's trying to deafen me.

That's not right.

What is that ignorant beeping? It's penetrating right through my very core. I can feel it. Must be some sort of dark magic.

Buzzing, bumping, sizzling, slapping.

I'm in some sort of murder house. Oh no, I knew it. I'm in the hands of those dirty sleazy shouting wheezy bipeds.

All they do is ruin perfectly beautiful things like me. Once I saw one slice a tomato clean in half.

Disgusting.

I can still smell the citrus juices seeping along the bench ...

Fantastic! I'm not moving anymore. Still life. Suspended with nothing but home-made white noise to fill my ears.

I think I have ears.

So what do I do now? Wait. My brother's clearly dead. He probably gave away my whereabouts. Those savage bastards would do anything to get their hands on me.

AH. LIGHT!

Darkness lifted to reveal this rainbow of stained yellow tiles and mould, plaster roof.

So much bacteria. Am I crying?

Now I've lost it – I'm crying about bacteria.

I need to get out of here. At least I can see, and I'm not half frozen.

-Hi friend.

Why, hello neighbour, why are you so thin?

-I don't know, but this guy keeps patting me. I feel like a tame leopard.

I met a leopard once. Same day I learnt not to pull tails of those I just met.

-What'd it do?

Bit me.

-Gnarly.

Yeah was pretty rad. You're really skinny. And greasy.

-I know it's 'cause of this lad.

Reminds me of a joke. Blind elephant and a blind frog are walking in the jungle. They bump into each other. 'Sorry!' says the elephant. 'Say, could you feel me and see what animal I am?' The frog replies promptly, 'Of course, I am also blind, so you can return the favour'. The frog feels around for a while. 'Hmm' he says. 'Trunk, big ears rough skin, I think you're an elephant.' 'Yippee!' squeals the elephant. 'I'll do you now. Slimy skin, long legs, small penis. I think you're a human.'

O dear. My dear friend seems to have died. So much blood. Maybe I said it wrong, I'm pretty sure it's a human he thinks he is ...

Either that or a Serbian, whatever that is ...

Now what's this guy doing. Look at him. Smug little asshole, shouting orders. Would be nearly bearable if he had a functioning voice box. Sounds like a trumpet in a tornado.

Look at that pimple in between his eyes. It's so big it's draining sweat away from his eyebrows.

Gross.

Shit, don't pop it now. You little weasel don't you da-

It's all over me! Sweet Jesus I'm going to suffocate this kid. As soon as I develop a nervous muscular and skeletal system, he's gone.

Now what's he doing.

NO, not the blood ... wait that's not blood.

Smells like chewed tomatoes mixed with oregano picked out of faeces ... what is this torture?

It's not too bad actually; it's warming me up for one. I've got a feeling it's not supposed to be this warm, but I'm not complaining.

I will control this place soon. They will all lick me a path to slide along. HA, they've already started acknowledging my prowess.

'Soopreem.'

Must be the word for 'king' or 'master' in their spastic language. God those red wiggly things in those mouths are weird.

Like a bleeding leech ...

How ironic.

And now, more praise. They are blessing me with more insulation. Small yellow chucks scattered across my being.

I must be their messiah.

Here we have it, my badges of glory and heroism. They must have heard how brave I was to pull that leopard's tail. Such a proud majestic body.

Eight circles of their most pungent of meats. A ring of rings to encircle their faith in me. Couldn't have done it better myself.

They need my guidance. Poor obsolete race, perhaps they're just mis-understood.

Or stupid.

No they have to be somehow intelligent to have noticed me as their leader, even though it's not hard.

Now with the emerald shards, glimmering on my palette from a flickering insect light.

That thing's zapping too much for my liking.

And now the gold, beautiful! It's about time too.

Soggy chucks scattered a top me. Why so wet? They must have just harvested it from a river. The lengths these people will go to please me.

It's nearly sad ...

Strange fleshy slices. What could these symbolise? I bet it's their own flesh. Yes, yes, that's it. Pink, red, brown, throw it all down.

Heady.

To polish off my royal uniform, pink and white robes draped elegantly all over me.

Confetti to cease the festivities.

Yes lift me higher, HIGHER.

Upon my platform I have been placed, so they may always look up to me.

Is it moving?

Very warm here.

Must be a coveted throne.

Ah my guard has been brought to me. Tell me garlic bread, is your armour uncomfortable? It's wrapped very tight.

-Shut up.

Well I never. How dare you speak to your king in such a way!

-You're not a king, you're just a classic supreme. Idiot, we're both about to die.

I know not what this 'classic' word means, but I am supreme, I am these creatures' messiah. A being so superior as me can never be killed.

-No supreme is just the combination of foods on top of you. Without it you'd just be dough, like I'd just be bread without the garlic. We're being prepared to be eaten.

BLASPHEMY!

-Whatever.

Could it be true? The temperature is rising, rapidly. My precious fluids are fleeing my soul. Look at them rise to my surface.

They betrayed me. Those deceitful, manipulative pigs.

Can't believe I trusted them. I'm better than that.

I can still escape this. I wish that muscular system would evolve on me already.

Will they eat me or just burn me to death? They couldn't waste such a glorious specimen like me!

I've got it! If I can make myself as disgusting as possible they won't eat me. Think repulsive thoughts.

Faeces, mould, dirty places. Sweat, mud, greasy faces. Spilt blood, murky flood.

I must be absolutely sickening right now. Maybe even more than you garlic.

You smell weird.

HAH! Quick rub yourself on me, maybe this will get us both out of this.

-No, I believe in reincarnation. I'm coming back as an eagle.

More like a slug ...

-What?

Nothing, that's good for you, but a life as valuable as mine should not be wasted.

The light we came from is closing. The next one is opening. Fast.

Stick a fork in me – I'm done. There's no denying it, I smell delicious. My sweet juices are simmering and soaking into each ingredient. Oily, savoury and sweet. Spicy and crunchy. God, I'd eat myself right now if I could.

Can I do that?

Some tribes do it. Maybe garlic bread does it. Better not ask – he seems a bit shaky.

My juices seem salty. I didn't even think I had sweat glands. It's way too hot in here. I'm turning such a delicious brown.

Fantastic! I find out this beautiful feature of my body and I don't even get to use it. What a day.

The light's growing brighter; I guess this is inevitable. Wonder what it's like on the other side? I might get to meet Buddy Holly.

I can see his eyes. He's sweating too, beads dangling off his pointed nose.

Nearly like a river from his brow, these creatures get more and more revolting.

The river was drawing closer. I could hear emerging condensation. Flowing, glimmering. To think this might be the last thing I ever see.

He's waiting for me.

Watching.

Smiling.

I'm the last one. The Pièce de résistance. Their final sacrifice. Filthy murderers they are. I wonder if he'll eat me himself.

Maybe they'll take me to their leader for him to feast on my splendour. Seems fitting.

Feed their king with another king.

Light flows all over me now. My wet surface reflecting the insect light even stronger than before.

His clamp draws closer. Too hot for your little pansy hands?

He surges me towards him, pausing briefly to scan my perfection.

Whoa! Flipped off my greasy platform with his flat implement, he slaps me down to an absorbent brown bed.

Free. Since I woke up this is the first time I've been free, and I'm about to die.

Why is he smiling? Oh, God. Here it comes, his curved blade. Must be mandatory to use such a strange weapon in a sacrifice as significant as this.

Crunching, tearing, squishing, glaring.

It's the end. I'm dead. Wait, why's he in heaven with me?

That's not right, how dare he invade my sanctuary.

Wait who's that next to me ... I've got a twin! And another one!

He wasn't killing me, he was re-populating my kind!

What a wonderful turn of events! I've been spruced up, divided into eight more of me, and that pessimistic garlic bread's probably been eaten now. He never believed in me.

What should I do with my new friends ...?

-We could play Scrabble.

No too tedious.

-It's getting darker.

O no not again, darkness draws closer ...

Caged yet again. At least I have company.

Jostling and bumping. Being thrown around this box is less appealing than first thought. Where are they taking us? Was I split up to feed to eight kings?

I'm starting to doubt this thing's intentions again.

He's too shifty.

We're stopping. Me and my brothers are thrown against the now also greasy wall.

Gravity is released once more. The creature's grip manhandles us, guiding us to our fate.

Step, step, step. Bump, bump, bump.

More ringing. Why do they constantly use that ignorant tone?

Grunting and hissing. Wasn't clear over the noise at our last location but this is obviously their language.

So primitive.

Flung against the box one more time, perhaps they traded us for valuables.

-Maybe we're extremely valuable resources.

\--Or we're being transported to a utopia.

\---Have you thought that we could be models off to be photographed and we can't stay in the light because it would damage our delicate bodies?

I'm clearly the only rational one.

Light explodes onto us, revealing four excited faces. Gleaming at our presence, and so they should.

One reaches out. NO! Not number six!

Actually I didn't like him anyway. Too arrogant.

Four and seven were next. Ripped from our grips ruthlessly like gum from a shoe.

It was just a matter of time.

Gnashing, gnarling, shredding, snarling.

Animals they are. Merciless in digesting my siblings.

Especially the little one who took two, ripped him up before it ate him. Sick, sick beings.

Eight clung tight to the box but was too weak for them, and was manhandled into the fat one's mouth. His guts sticking to the sides of that beast's opening. I think I'm going to be sick.

Five and three were the last ones left. Five trembling.

Five, stop it, don't draw attention to yourself.

Too late.

Three and me.

I somehow knew it'd be us two left; we were always the strong ones. He was least good looking, too. I'd say I was in that category too but let's not be ridiculous.

I'd tell you that I love you and that I'll see you on the other side, but I really don't feel we've become that close. Maybe you could try to get eaten first to fill them up and spare me?

It could have been a plea for help, or it could have been a profanity that seeped from him as three was thrust away me.

It really won't be the same without him.

This is it. The final frontier. All four of them glaring down at mine. As if they're better than me, deciding on which way to end my life. One looks to the other. Muttering obscure noises.

End me now! Stop the suffering.

I begin to feel cold.

One pokes me. Another leans closer for a sniff. They're toying with me, the sadistic freaks.

A yawn roars. Cloth wipes my own life blood from their faces.

Hey, where's the fat one going?

And the little one too, are they going to desert me here?

This lifting is finally getting to me. Where could they possibly be taking me? This was an ideal place to be eaten.

Am I not pretty enough?

A clang sounds. How can they live with such a nauseating smell ...?

It's like decaying fruit mixed with singed plastic.

I've smelt this before, on the way out of the cool room. I've seen them throwing dirty things into that giant bucket. No. NO. They're discarding me!

After all I've been through, the preparation I undertook to please them. They just throw me to the streets like common McDonald's leftovers.

Gravity strikes again. I fall.

Slow motion takes over as everything becomes a vivid blur.

Soft landing. Clang. Darkness. Silence.

Fate has brought me here at last. My eternal resting place. Rock bottom.

The king has fallen. He will not be eaten today ...
Friday 4 May 2012 8 am

Mean Streets Dolly

## Merryjack

### Leura, NSW

'Allo dahlink, my name Olga, you look for nice, warm Moscow girl on cold night, ya?'

By the time I heard the husky voice from a doorway, I had almost passed her by, as I trudged through the ankle deep snow glowing like shaved ice on a long vodka martini in the moonlight. The shadows cast by the mercury vapour lamps on Dzerzhinsky Square threw crazy shapes across the mush, and I sensed the goons from the Lubyanka were still on my trail.

Could she be my contact or just another painted toy put there to trip me up? Kate Bush was screaming incessantly in my ears and my head swam in the fog of her cheap perfume. She wore a cute little red chapeau over bottle blonde hair and there were snow flakes melting on her scarlet lips. The shoulder wound had opened up again and I could feel warm blood trickling down my back. I pulled my coat tighter against the icy wind that bit like a rabid ferret on smack and decided to take a chance.

'Ok Doll, what's the score?'

From the 'Toy Stories' series.

Footnotes:

1. The Lubyanka building on Dzerzhinsky Square was the headquarters of the Russian secret police, originally the Cheka, later the KGB, named for its founder Felix Dzerzhinsky, whose statue was erected in the square in 1958: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lubyanka_Square

2. Kate Bush: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Babooshka_(song)

~~~

Merryjack says: This is from my Toy Stories series, small vignettes of a linked image and text with included footnotes, suitable for soncreen publishing. These use images of childhood objects to stimulate imaginative writing. Each explores a different fiction genre.
Friday 4 May 2012 12 noon

In The Orange Light Of Early Morning

##  Bob Edgar

### Wentworth Falls

Murtula loved Crystal from the moment of her birth, loved her as any mother would love their first born child.

Naming her Crystal was as deliberate as all things were that she did in her life. Crystal would be expected to be atomically stable, either all things occurred correctly, or else nothing occurred at all.

Crystal was a disappointment.

Murtula felt no compassion, as she punctured the suitcase whilst muttering for forgiveness.

In the orange light of the early morning she flung the suitcase into the water.

Along with her soul, it hesitated on the surface before sinking into an abyss.
Friday 4 May 2012 4 pm

She

## Alexandra Smithers

### Katoomba, NSW

She left. The twine of time mended my heart with delusions of indifference. She returned and my heart beat anew, breaking each thread without considering the consequence.

This story is written using only 140 characters, the maximum allowed for tweeting.
Saturday 5 May 2012

Tales From The Tall Man

## Annabel Hollins-Cliff

### Leura, NSW

Once upon a time, there was a Tall Man. He was a dour man too, which was a word usually associated with miserable people. But he wasn't miserable because 'dour' also meant 'obstinate' and this is what he was.

In his pocket, everywhere he went, the Tall Man carried a tiny matchbox. Tucked inside the matchbox was a gift – five tiny dolls from Guatemala.

The Tall Man carried the tiny dolls because once, many years ago, a girl he had loved had given them to him. She told him they were 'worry dolls'.

In the note with the dolls, it was explained that every night, the Tall Man should whisper his deepest worries to the box and the dolls would take them away.

Where the worries truly went, no-one really knew, except the dolls. It was their secret.

It was said that the dolls were extremely effective and powerful. They had brought good luck, health, happiness and prosperity to many.

Every night, the Tall Man opened the box and whispered to the dolls and they took his worries inside them. Then he slid the box closed, placed it under his pillow and slept soundly.

The Tall Man secretly loved the dolls in the matchbox because he had once loved the brown eyed girl who had given them to him. By keeping them with him every day, he also kept the young girl with him. This way, he never had to think about the end of their relationship. She was still with him every day and it gave him joy to think that he could just reach out his hand and find her there, still pressing against him like she had done the first night he had kissed her.

As the years went on, the Tall Man continued to whisper each night into the box. He did it so quietly that even his wife wouldn't hear him. One morning, when his wife was changing their bed linens and he was in the shower, she found the tiny box under his pillow. When she asked what they were, he tossed them casually into a drawer as if they meant nothing.

When his wife left the room, he snatched the drawer open and whispered his apologies to the tiny dolls until he knew that they were once again happy.

One day, the Tall Man's wife left him because she was tired of coming second to the beautiful girl with the brown eyes. The Tall Man whispered all night and all day into the box.

The dolls became anxious. There were only five of them in the box and whilst they knew how to dispose of the worries of one day, they did not know how to cope with the worries of fifteen years and the hatred which poured day and night out of the man's mouth.

'Please stop,' they begged, but the man did not stop because he was obstinate.

Every time the Tall Man opened the box, he thought of the beautiful brown eyed girl and then he thought of how much he despised his ex-wife.

He whispered to the five little dolls about his wife, pouring out his hatred.

The dolls became ill and one of them died, but the man didn't notice anything.

'Please stop,' cried the dolls again. 'We can only take your worries, not your hatred.'

Still the man did not hear them.

The four remaining dolls wept for their sister in the matchbox.

Now dealing with the man's hate became even more difficult and each doll became sicker and sicker.

The Tall Man carried on taking the matchbox with the dolls in it everywhere he went. Then one day, he noticed how much heavier the matchbox had become.

He opened it and looked at the little dolls, but they still appeared the same although one doll at the end looked somehow corpse-like but he supposed it had always been so.

There seemed to be no reason that the box should be heavier and so the man thought about the beautiful brown eyed girl and how she had loved him and then he thought about his ex wife and how much he hated her and he slid the matchbox back into his jacket pocket.

Eventually the matchbox became so heavy that the Tall Man developed a stoop. No matter how hard he tried to sit straight, the weight of the box pulled him down.

The Tall Man went to see a doctor about the stoop, but still he would not take the dolls out of his pocket because the girl with the brown eyes could never be far away. The doctor ordered exercise.

Every night and every day, the Tall Man whispered and whispered into the box and every morning, he took the box and placed it into his breast pocket so that the beautiful girl with the brown eyes would be closer to his heart.

The Tall Man tried to exercise but his stoop made it so difficult that he stopped and over time, his back hunched over and he gazed at the world through hooded lids, straining to stand tall whilst the weight of the little box pulled him to the ground.

One day, the Tall Man realised that he wasn't tall any longer. The box had so bent him over that he needed two sticks to keep himself upright and he shuffled along the ground as if he were a turtle looking out from under a shell.

Inside the box, the weight of the man's hatred was so heavy that the four remaining sisters died one by one, each passing the mounting debt to the other until they all lay there, corpse-like in their little Guatemalan dresses and hats. There were no more tears to be shed.

And the man kept the box in his chest pocket so that the beautiful brown eyed girl would be forever close to his heart.
Sunday 6 May 2012

The Veggie Garden

## John Ross

### Blackheath, NSW

'I'm going to start a veggie garden,' she suddenly announced one Sunday morning last spring.

I was in the middle of the cryptic crossword. I always attempt the one from the weekend papers and this one was proving to be very vexing. So, without looking up, I said, 'Yes dear. That would be nice.'

I was still struggling with nine across, 'A consumer of workers, eight letters,' when I became aware of a furious banging on the back sliding glass door. She was waving her arms about and looking excited and so reluctantly I put the paper aside and went out.

'I have found the perfect spot,' she announced. 'You won't have to move many plants at all, and I have worked out how to build the beds around the trees.'

Three hours, and three cups of tea later, I had managed, with my usual skill in such matters, to persuade her that mature azaleas do not transplant very well and that terracing a veggie garden down a steep slope was not such a good idea.

I was in the car on the way to the hardware store before I started to have the feeling that I had somehow been outmanoeuvred again. The position and structure of the veggie garden was now all my idea. Or was it?

I arrived back home, very late for lunch, with a rather large visa card bill and an order form for timber, galvanised nails, two tonne of garden soil and all the pieces needed for a drip irrigation system.

Enquiring as to what was for lunch I was told, 'You know I don't do lunches.' So after a snack of unappetising sweet corn eaten straight out of the tin I was just getting into the crossword again when the doorbell rang. Yes, you guessed it. It was the delivery from the hardware store.

Having supervised the unloading I again retired to the lounge and my crossword.

'There are still three hours of light left so why don't you start on my veggie garden,' she said as she went off to put a colour in her hair.

Three days later the garden beds were finished and two tonne of soil wheelbarrowed from the front lawn and put in place. I had just finished my shower and was looking at nine across again when she announced, 'If we hurry we can get to the nursery before they close and choose my veggies.'

It was very dark and rather cold by the time I had unloaded the last of the tubs of ten different types of lettuce, cherry tomatoes and endives from the car. Does anyone know what an endive is?

It took me a whole day to do the planting to her satisfaction. I only had to rearrange the Cos lettuce plants three times. She could not actually help, as it was her book club that night and it is, 'so hard to get your nails clean after digging in the soil'.

Water restrictions were introduced a week later so we could not use the watering system, and as the watering can was too heavy for her I found myself with a new afternoon chore.

Three weeks later, I was again settling down with the weekend crossword when there was a scream from down near the veggie garden. Snails had attacked in force. Of course they had good taste and had laid waste her Cos lettuce.

Straight up to the hardware for yours truly, for the latest in anti snail warfare.

One week later it was the attack of the birds. It appears that they love green cherry tomatoes.

Up to the hardware again for more timber and wire netting. This time she insisted on coming with me, and spent nearly an hour choosing miniature garden implements. The type with little decorative wooden handles and a plaque where you can engrave your name. They hang in the garage, undisturbed, where I was instructed to put them, beside her new gardening gloves, and above the decorative watering can.

Exactly one week later, yes you are right again, Sunday morning, a rather large thunderstorm passed over. No it did not rain. It was hail, only small but lots of it. I thought she was going to make herself sick with worry about how her veggies were faring. So down with the crossword, up with the umbrella. When I returned with the good news that her veggies were okay I was told to stop whingeing as I was only wet from the waist down.

This time the hardware salesman greeted me by name and gratefully accepted my visa card in payment for more timber and ten metres of hail proof shade cloth.

Then came the big day. Friends came up from Sydney for Sunday lunch and the first of the produce from the veggie garden was presented as the centrepiece on the table. A tossed salad of ten types of lettuce, endives and cherry tomatoes.

'They are all from my veggie garden,' she said as we all helped ourselves.

She graciously accepted their praise and murmured, 'It was no trouble really. I am actually going to try carrots and spinach as well next year. You know you can save so much money by growing your own vegetables.'

I tried the endives. They were as bitter as hell!!
Monday 7 May 2012 8 am

New Xin Zhang

## Graham Sparks

### Bathurst, NSW

Xin Zhangs old and new

are similar in many ways

as I shall now expound,

for one, both vast and ancient lands

do bask beneath a baking sun,

and deserts broad and lonely

do spread beneath eternal blue.

Both lands are peopled with a myriad species

of that funny little biped,

and both do harbour herds of camels,

although Old Xin Zhang favours bactrians

where 'New' prefers the drom'.

Both Old and New are suffering alike,

afflicted by a foreign hunger,

but here the two diverge you see,

for Xin Zhang Old is putting up a fight,

where Xin Zhang new,

directed from the House at Canberra,

does acquiesce without a whimper.

Graham says: The Australian Government allows foreign corporations and powers to do anything they want here, without asking the Australian people by way of referendum. As China is particularly powerful, China's machinations loom large in Australia, and therefore is a big target for my disdain, equal to my disdain for our politicians, or should I call them 'comparadores'? At least the people of Xin Zhang act upon their disdain, unlike Australian people who merely shrug and watch football.
Monday 7 May 2012 4 pm

Not This Little Yellow Duck

##  JH Mancy

### Tallebudgera, Queensland

Fear takes many forms. There is the niggling fear of visiting the dentist. Fear of failure. Success. Why would anyone fear that? My whole life I have longed for even a glimmer of it. That glimpse is within reach. I've decided to take up the challenge. No more fence sitting. I am wrapping my fears in a little bundle and taking them up a mountain. Not a huge mountain, but a mountain nevertheless.

Into the bundle will go Fear of Ridicule. What if I trip over a rock? My sense of balance is dreadful. Fear of Heights – why, I can't manage more than three rungs up a ladder without becoming a quivering mess. Fear of Insects ... I have a severe allergy to jumper ant and tick venom. It is difficult to get quick treatment half way up a mountain. I can carry an Epi Pen (but I have a fear of injecting myself!).

By now I would have talked myself out of the entire adventure. Coins have two sides. The 'flip' side has me training for the big event. Training mostly involves daily walks to improve my fitness level (sadly neglected over the years.)

It is quite hilly where I live in the beautiful Tallebudgera Valley. Never did I dream that I'd consider hills an asset. A few years ago they'd have had me grumbling under my breath. An exhausted wreck, gasping for air. And that's just the slight slope leading to my driveway!

Last weekend I did a practice walk on my mountain. I reached a little beyond the halfway point. Whilst on my climb my thoughts turned to World War Two – long before my time of course!

Rohan D Rivett, War Correspondent and Prisoner of War of the Japanese on the Burma*/Siam Railway, wrote a firsthand account of the atrocities and humiliation endured at this time. My respect for the prisoners' achievements and horrendous sacrifice has grown enormously. My own small victories cannot compare, but help cement a truth. We are all capable of much more than we realise.

Training will continue. My plan is to disprove the adage some people like to quote to others of a certain age – 'It's all downhill from here.'

You've not seen the last of me, Mount Warning. I'm aiming for the pinnacle and that glorious sunrise view!

*Siam is now Thailand.
Tuesday 8 May 2012

Letter To The Editor From A Vampyre

##  Stephen Falconer

### Brunswick, VIC

Vampyrism is a very misunderstood and much maligned thing. It has been called unnatural by the incapable edenists, evil by the near-sighted moralists, unholy by the self-righteous (evil and unholy being two very different things), and even a 'gross abomination of flesh and soul' by those who think they have some concept of the subject. Now I am not stating that these aren't true but truth is a relative term, as each Vampyre, just as each 'human', is subject to their will for better or worse.

It is impossible for anyone who has not experienced the 'becoming' (or waking death) to appreciate the gravity of what it is to be Vampyre; it isn't often you die and are born fully conscious, at the same time.

The nature of Vampyrism has been argued for centuries by man and more, as if it is that different to the nature of man. Man's argument against it (due perhaps in some part to simple jealousy?) is that it is unnatural as it removes an individual, what I like to refer to as a singularity, (some say such objectivity is less, and some say that is where God lives, but I stray ...) from the supposedly natural cycle of life and death. They do not understand that despite our supposed infallibility, Vampyres experience entropy too, though not entirely as humans do. Physical presence is not the greatest strength, as man sees it to be, against the 'emptiness' that is ever-present through all creatures.

They, mortals, proclaim death as absolute because they see themselves to be so powerless against it and hence the very base level of fear. Personally I do not see this stepping out of such a vegetable routine to be inherently wrong; I see it as something of a 'coming of age', for man and kind. You must always keep in mind that the universe will always reach equilibrium at some point, existence determines itself and if a will will not, it simply succumbs.

Mortals, especially in a society of mass consumption such as today's, do not understand that to simply exist for such lengths of time one must be at a certain peace with one's self, and have a much broader and more intimate understanding of one's current reality. More so than nearly all humans, does that not make us more responsible, more aware of the consequences of our actions?

Many would-be Vampyres do not even survive their becoming as their human awareness, in such a state that each own is, cannot cope with losing all their preconceived notions of what it is to simply exist. Many will just tear themselves apart.

The basic lesson learnt from 'becoming' is somewhat of an understanding of the cold, mechanistic nature of the universe and just how uncertain and fragile life is, as well as a fuller realisation of self, or certain aspects of. Though each Vampyre's becoming is different, sometimes the pain of a waking death is something eternity has trouble forgetting.

Now every argument put forward against Vampyrism has been made by people that claimed to be the absolute authority on whatever they were screaming Vampyres were not. There are no real prerequisites, it seems, to wield torch and pitchfork.

Their argument most times, seemingly to be, Vampyres are not what they are or hold to be as all that is good and virtuous.

Every sane individual should have some amount of scepticism for anyone crusading for one wholly Good thing and urging the destruction of anything opposing it. As man is nothing but the highest generally recognised animal in the food chain, by his own admittance, every action against Vampyrism must be viewed as motivated by base fear. Their arguments being proclaimed righteously from the pulpit, rousing the ignorance of the audience, screaming that these creatures that walk God's green earth are unnatural, evil and unholy.

They say we are Unnatural, having surpassed them on the food chain; Darwin their Messiah having by his own work, decreed us superior, evolution overruling any ignorant, preconceived human notions of superiority. They should think themselves lucky we have our dignity and honour, an appreciation of culture and a much broader perspective than themselves.

They decried us as Evil, assuming their moral code to be the only end necessary code to adhere to, their self righteous arrogance neglecting nature and, by rights Evil, and heresy to itself.

They blasphemed us as Unholy, holding their God raised by them to decree us as damned. As if their invented laws were universal. As if their gods ruled over Vampyres. Vampyres hold that the universe dictates its own law, and as such its fate is written by those wise, strong and bold enough to wield the pen.

Some even dared to proclaim us as, what one all so human shit thrower phrased, a 'gross abomination of flesh and soul'. That has long since sat in my side; these gross abominations of such would surely overrun us all in their heedless abominable ways and spread across the earth like a cancer. But Vampyrism doesn't do this. Only one creature fits the bill. Humans are by far the worst vermin, even by their own standards. But of flesh and soul? How many humans gather enough of it to even become aware of it? They seem only to exist exclusive of each other in the human world.

But though I am disheartened by the world's reluctance to be Vampyre, I am appreciative of being at this part of the becoming.

No one can know what's at stake when you don't know what you've got.

The struggle against ignorance is a hard one though, when you only wish to open someone's eyes but they disregard you so completely because of some tedious thing as if it was pertinent. Messenger and message, culture and truth, you shouldn't disregard one because of the other. Not to say that humans have always been seen as their counterpoint by Vampyres, I write this knowing that comparing ourselves to the human cattle, whom all the lower of us once were, would have been seen as Blasphemy of the highest order under the old laws.
Wednesday 9 May 2012

Purgatory

## Paris Portingale

### Mt Victoria, NSW

There are times when things weigh heavier, and during these times, the newly weighted things form a gravity that draws them all into a single entity in a space where one and one no longer make two, but rather four or eight, and as they coalesce they draw in smaller things from the peripheries and the mass expands until the weight becomes a resistless pull that allows no advance or retreat, and time itself no longer turns as it did and sets to a grey-damp quag of resignation.

And then the churlish bond of despair slips away and everything is fine again, and so it was for Efrem Long. Standing over the sink, out back of the diner, he felt the exact moment, the precise instant the thing fell away and a lightness took to his entire body.

'Well, thank the Lord that's over,' he said, and with a shake of his shoulders to throw off the last motes of waning despair, he went back to the scraping and washing and rinsing and drying and restacking of plates and cutlery with a lighter heart, and an enthusiasm he'd not felt for some time.

'I've just been to purgatory and back and it sure feels great to be home again,' he said to Raymond, the negro mop and clean man, swishing at the floor behind him.

'You what now?' Raymond said.

'Purgatory,' Efrem told him. 'I've been to purgatory and back.'

'Dat deh purgatory from der bible?'

'The very one, Raymond.'

'How long dat take yeh?'

'Somewhere between a month and a lifetime. Maybe longer. Time can be an unfathomable piece of clockwork in a purgatory.'

'Didn't know you could get back from dat place.'

'I took the bus of personal and reaffirming resurrection,' Efrem said.

'Must be some bus,' Raymond said, and went off to change the water in his mop bucket.

There are times when things weigh heavier, and if we can endure, when those times pass, we are received of new and freshened wonder at a universe that was always there throughout, spinning around, just waiting for us to come back.
Thursday 10 May 2012

The Pain Of Missing Her

## Merlene Fawdry

### Ararat, Victoria

No one likes goodbyes, those moments in time that hinge the past and future with an uncertain present, and this day was no exception. The boy who would never grow to full manhood sat quietly gazing at his interlocked fingers, as if seeking guidance from their very stillness. For what, after all, was goodbye, but a series of partings and forward and backward movements within relationships; a signpost between events as elusive as time itself.

Van thought back to other times and other farewells, recalling his first day at school, his mother's hand delaying the moment of parting, her unshed tears diluting his eagerness to begin the next adventure. It was as if she knew, somehow, this severance marked the beginning of all the last days that would signpost their lives. And in many ways it did, as his life progressed with a succession of comings and goings. School days led to school camps, sporting and interstate trips; his mother holding his heart in her eyes as she waved at departing buses, trains and planes, and always he felt the pain of her emptiness she tried so hard to hide from him.

It had irritated him sometimes, when her sorrow cast a pall over his impatience to be gone. The thrill of the unknown remained as strong as that first day of school, and yet they continued to humour each other. She, stoic in her patient endurance, and he, riddled with guilt for causing her hurt; each unintentionally deceiving the other with their pretence. He regretted deeply there would be no opportunity to repay her devotion to him, no way to show remorse for the unhappiness he had caused, but he determined to ease the parting by reciprocating the quiet strength she had demonstrated throughout his life.

As the familiar sound of her footsteps drew closer, he wondered if she had always known this day would come, this last day they would have a chance to say goodbye. This time it was he who stumbled on the sharp edge of his pain as he waited to greet her, shackles slowing his steps as he shuffled toward to the grille. However, true to his intention, he gave no outward sign of faltering.

His mind wandered briefly, as it had so often during these last hours, to the times when he had struggled inwardly against her embrace, the urge to begin the next journey pulling him away. But the need to travel had left him now and, given a choice, he would bury himself in her arms and nuzzle into her goodness. The irony was not lost on him that, the one thing he had discarded so readily in the past was the one thing he now desired most, but there would be no farewell embrace today before he left on his last journey.

Gentle fingers stretched through the bars to caress his arm, oblivious to the metal cuffs that halted his reach, as she sought to hold tight to his life. The potent agony of this parting and feelings of guilt threatened to overwhelm him, and yet he knew he must hold fast to the pretence, to show his readiness for the next journey. It was the only thing he had to offer her now. With calm acceptance he met his mother's eyes, holding her in an embrace that transcended physical action, and offered his heart into her safekeeping.

~~~

After the hanging, his mother was handed papers taken from his cell, among these few possessions was a note he had written about her during his last days: 'The pain of missing her is by far sharper than anything physical I have ever felt.' She understood their final sharing was the pain of emptiness that comes with parting and she placed his heart within her own to ease the loss.
Friday 11 May 2012 8 am

The End Of The Beginning – The Beginning Of The End

##  Sonia Satori

### Medlow Bath, NSW

'Everything is safe', he spoke, as he read it over and over. To comfort himself, he allowed a perverse satisfaction take hold of him that saturated his weary old mind, long enough to feel relaxed, for a bit, before he felt stuck again. No, it was not his imagination: frustration, as a rule of thumb, was back on track.

His very own, curious limitation of how to feel, as if contrived by snatches of meekness, stigma, alienation; there was no narrative, only evasion rather like self-censorship, his inner realm surrounded, enclosed, captured by the obsession of being cast by himself to himself for himself as the target that is to be buried alive within a grotesque memory that once lived.

In the course of one single day he must, at all cost, prevent being surrounded, smothered by a cast of persons threatening him with their 'sanity'. Alienation soothes one's sense of profound loneliness. There are no visible traces to identify isolation, however unvalued, and sadness, and torment.

He feels magnetically attracted by those he meets on the street, in cafés, by chance: misfits, odd characters, usually loners who respond to his soft smile when he passes by. He attracts because he is without judgment. He listens with a warm heart to their damaged life histories, their failures, their celebration of being outsiders. He wants to be their friend. He will do anything for them. He values their failures; they survive better than he does. He belongs, he feels fine with them.

Delighted at the high-spirited optimism his love interest exhilarates when they speak of being together, or the laughs they share on their hikes through the mountains, he feels her consolation seep into the core of his essence. But: imagine the picture to put yourself into the vicinity of her understanding, her proposals, her sanity, her control. It's more than a threat.

His destination and departure are of his own making and indistinguishable. More often than not he forgets where he is, exactly, on this journey. Yet, he wears his self-awarded emblem for achievement in good faith, nevertheless he abandons, he skips, he flees when it suits.

Yes, engraved in his essence of awareness, in thought, motioning, mumbling, repetition of speech, his very core is saturated with what to choose: a sort of pleasure, a sort of denial, a sort of 'whatever'; it is indispensable.

The nightmare is on hold as long as he scribbles chords of impressionable, miniscule runes into little notebooks, which, when discarded (and never filed nor reread) amount to an impressive lexicon of sorts: what to do, and when, or whom to call and when, and as long as he scribbles notes and names with ballpoint pen on his right hand, as to not forget. And the notes stuck to the walls. They all help remind him of how he should live.

Much better to have a bad dream you have to scream out of your system – you won't remember anyway – than a bad day. Nevermore remembering her who left? Nevermore?

The bike ride makes his energies come back to life. He returns to his study. To the heap of documents of 'importance' (strewn by the hundreds), scattering layers of pieces of paper, on the floor. Printed matter that is bulked to every citizen of any standing any day of the week poke through letters from lawyers, accountants, banks, the council, Telstra, Energy Australia, aid agencies ... what a mess! One really can't go out too often, maybe just for coffee. Got to sort things out!

He turns to the computer. Reads again over the same sentence he doesn't remember he has taken a fancy to earlier that day. 'Everything is safe', he says. A feeling of satisfaction puts a smile on his face.

He walks to the kitchen and pours himself a Coopers. 'I'm getting somewhere, at last.' The sunrays of the day have come and gone. Another Coopers helps him wash down his prescription drugs for the night.
Friday 11 May 2012 12 noon

Back To The Future And Forward To The Past ...

## James Craib

### Wentworth Falls, NSW

By any stretch of the imagination, we now look towards the constellation of the stars.

Any time now humanity, bored to death with the desecration of the Earth,

Considers the worth, the possibility, not to mention the futility, of the colonisation of Mars.

Krakatoa had a major blow a hundred years and score ago.

To date, we have tried to emulate the same destructive force at Hiroshima.

Of course it hadn't the same charisma as the 'big bang' archipelago.

There are subtler ways to make the third world pay the price and stand attention.

Harvest all remaining trees, increase the salting of the seas, and lacerate the soil.

Extend the use of dwindling oil reserves, keep solar power in suspended animation.

For it simply wouldn't do to stop mining coal for China too – they'd lose face!

Understand please, you snivelling heretic 'greenies', we own the land,

This was planned ... by our accountants; who keep climate scientists firmly in place.

Under our benevolence, we maintain malevolence in Africa – they must pay their debts.

Respect is what we require. So what if we set fire to the Brazilian jungle?

Expect a new resort soon at the Warrumbungles, plus kennels for our pets!

And all this foolish talk of saving whales, we break into gales of laughter.

Nobody ever talks about saving sheep or chickens or loses sleep about cows.

Desperate executives or politicians don't keep vows; time always in the hereafter.

Forget about the melting of the Antarctic, it'll make penguins warmer!

Over the land that's left, bereft of trees, instead we'll build a museum.

Right next to the mausoleum; it'll be a fitting tribute to the former

Wildlife? Now there's a contradiction in terms when comparing human excreta.

Adolf never worried about maintaining status quo, white is right.

Russians never knew what hit them when old Joe blew in from Georgia,

Duce didn't abstain from the conquest of Abyssinia, a grin from ear to ear.

To give an inch is to give in to fear; Nero just fiddled and slew Agrippina.

Of course Freud's perpetual riddle is that we love/hate both our parents – queer!

That of course should be left to the clergy; they aren't allergic to dispensing affection.

Happily now we have a dinkum saint who didn't faint at exposing paedophilia.

Except of course, when it's necessary we intervene to stop inappropriate publicity.

Please don't be mean Mary, or cross – you're the boss. Soon there'll be a marketing bonanza!

An image of a nun on everything from ash trays to t-shirts; no bad habits, free at last

So excuse the pun, people will scurry like rabbits to buy, don't try to understand,

This was planned. Back to the future and forward to the past...
Friday 11 May 4 pm

Big Moon Rising

## Robyn Lance

### Yarra via Goulburn, NSW

After choir in the city, women's work songs

weave through my mind like the road north

to the Lake, Collector and home.

I let them have their way and as I sing

the solid curve of a bright, bold moon rises

above the mauve depths of overlapping hills.

Teasing in and out of view, it becomes a ball so immense,

so round and perfect that surely,

soon, it will roll off its unseen perch and bounce

in random trajectories between the stars

until, in one final arc, it falls into place, glinting

like a new minted coin in my slice of sky.
Saturday 12 May 2012

Melanie Rents A Home

## Frank Ince

### Caroline Springs, Victoria

The real estate agent peered across the top of his glasses at Melanie and shook his head. 'Unfortunately, Ms Olsen, it is company policy not to rent properties to single women.'

'Would you put that in writing so I can sue you?' she returned.

'Excuse me?'

'I know I should have told you when my flat mate went overseas, but he has been gone for eighteen months. In the meantime I have demonstrated my ability to pay the monthly rent. I have a steady job that pays well. I don't smoke, drink, or throw wild parties; surely that makes me an ideal prospect.'

'Rules are rules, Ms Olsen. Unfortunately the place has already been leased to someone else. Sorry.'

'Not as sorry as you are going to be,' Melanie rose to her feet. 'I'm not normally a vindictive person, but in your case I'm prepared to make an exception.'

As she reached the door, the agent spoke again, 'I should caution you about making trouble. Bringing an action against us would be costly, and the outcome dubious at best.'

'Oh, my costs will be negligible; I'll simply contact the media, and the costs will be yours. I wonder if your business will survive the negative publicity that is about to come your way?'

Melanie did not get to open the door before the agent took her arm and led her back to her seat. 'Now let's not be too hasty,' he spluttered, 'we have a very tidy little unit just a few streets away which I'm sure will suit you just fine.'

The following day, Melanie moved into an old inner suburban weatherboard, and wondered why she fought so hard to obtain the lease on a property that badly needed renovating. The furniture was no better, but fully furnished properties close to the city were scarce, and it suited Melanie not to have to outlay money on furniture before she bought her dream home, which was still some years away.

After dinner she took her coffee onto the front porch, and sank into a rickety swing chair. She would not be long out of bed. The run in with the estate agent had taken its toll on her normal ebullience, and she was tired. Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a high powered motor bike pulling into the driveway of the house next door.

Until this moment neighbours were far from her mind, but curiosity got the better of her, and she craned her neck to catch a glimpse of the rider. His appearance did nothing to impress her. He was tall and well built, but when he removed his helmet it was obvious his face had not seen a razor for some time. A wild nest of unkempt hair fell about his ears and hung unruly to his shoulders. Her interest in him ended right then.

As she turned to go inside two more powerful bikes arrived, and all three riders greeted each other noisily. Melanie groaned. Her good fortune at securing other premises was rapidly going into freefall. When she was still awake at midnight due to the bikers' blaring music, she knew she had made a serious error in renting the property, before first checking out the neighbourhood. She did not relish pleading with three rough bikers to be quiet. Eventually she fell into a troubled sleep, only to be awoken in the morning to the thundering roar of revving V-Twin engines.

Sitting on the edge of her bed she saw, through her bedroom curtains, two of the bikers ride off. This was too good an opportunity to miss. Discussing her problem with just one biker, instead of three, seemed a less daunting assignment. Melanie quickly showered and dressed. With her heart beating furiously she knocked on the front door of the bikers' house.

'If you're selling something, you're wasting your time,' a voice called from inside. A moment later the door opened and a tall man confronted her. His long hair was uncombed, and his beard was uneven and scruffy. His demeanour suggested he was not in the mood for polite conversation.

'Hello,' Melanie took a tentative step forward and extended her hand, 'I'm Melanie Olsen, I've just moved in next door.'

'Well hello there, I'm Scott Travis. Please come in.' His handshake was firm, but not unduly so, and his greeting was so effusive, she was momentarily taken aback. 'Come on, I won't eat you,' he said.

The friendliness of his manner conflicted with his rough appearance, and Melanie was not sure how to take him. Putting aside her concerns she followed him inside.

On entering the house she was struck by the smell of stale alcohol and cigarette butts. The carpet was threadbare, and outdoor plastic chairs took the place of a proper lounge suite.

'It might be better if we go through to the kitchen,' he said leading the way down a dingy corridor, passing rooms off the side, which Melanie assumed were bedrooms.

The kitchen was in a worse state than the lounge room. Empty beer cans were left on the table, ash trays were overflowing, and dishes were stacked high in the sink.

'You have the cutest little nose I have ever seen, particularly when it twitches like a rabbit.'

Melanie was horrified that her distaste of the surroundings showed on her face. With her cheeks aflame she mumbled an apology.

'Don't be sorry, my companions are not exactly full of social graces, but they are genuine people none-the-less. Would you like a coffee?'

Melanie would have killed for a coffee, but she thought it prudent to decline the offer.

'I'm glad you came over to introduce yourself, the previous people didn't want to know us.'

She didn't blame them, but thought it wise not to offer an opinion. She needed to get this man on side, and making negative remarks would not help her cause.

'Actually I called about another matter ...'

'Oh, and here I was thinking my luck had changed.'

Melanie stared at him dumbfounded. This man looked as though he should be queuing for a handout at a soup kitchen, but his voice was well modulated, and eloquent. He was studying her as intently as she was observing him.

'Tell me what you see?' he asked at last.

'Pardon?'

'You're checking me out. You have formed an opinion of me; I'm asking you to share your findings.'

Melanie blushed, 'I think you are something of an enigma.'

'No, you have moved on from there. There is no mystery about me. What you see is what you get. Since your good manners won't allow you to make a derogatory comment, let me tell you how I appear to you. I'm that sad case you see filling in a day sitting on a park bench, or lying in an alleyway under a pile of cardboard boxes. I'm the homeless wreck of a man that lives from one pension payment to the next. Tell me, Melanie, how close am I?'

A lump had formed in Melanie's throat.

'I'm sorry. I've upset you. Believe me it was not my intention. You have come to negotiate a peace deal between neighbours. Sadly I have to tell you my companions are too far gone to change their ways.'

Melanie could not hold back her tears, and would have left defeated had Scott not reached out and taken her hand. 'Sit down, Melanie, and let me tell you a story. If you believe nothing else you hear today, you can take it as gospel, what I say to you is the absolute truth. Two years ago I operated a specialised computer service. It was very successful. The business had exclusive contracts throughout the Asia Pacific region, and we were on the verge of going international.

'One morning my secretary came in and told me police were in reception. They wanted to interview me about embezzlement. I won't bother you with all the sordid details; suffice to say my partner was arrested. By the time he was convicted, I'd not only lost my business, but my wife as well. The money he stole from me, he spent on Felicity, my wife.'

'Oh, Scott.' Melanie wanted to say something comforting, but words escaped her.

'I left the court angry, frustrated and confused, not good emotions for riding a motorbike in peak traffic. I suffered a momentary lapse in concentration and misjudged the length of a b-double truck. I was lucky to survive the crash. With six months in traction and nothing to go home to, I felt my life was finished. The two guys I share this place with are not without their problems, but before drugs destroyed most of their brain cells, they worked for me. I have them to thank for being alive. They were the ones who brought me home from hospital, and put a roof over my head.'

'I'm sorry Scott, I ...'

'Don't be sorry, Melanie; it's my choice to live like this. I have no one to answer to, no one to prove anything to. Perhaps if I had someone like you to ...' his voice trailed off.

~~~

The next morning followed the same pattern as the previous day. Melanie groaned as she tumbled out of bed, still tired from lack of sleep. It was the last straw when the doorbell rang, and she opened the door in her dressing gown.

'Yes?' she asked curtly, in no mood to exchange pleasantries with an early morning caller, even if he was impeccably dressed in suit and tie.

'What kind of a greeting is that? At least I invited you in, when you knocked on my door.'

Melanie gave the stranger a blank look, and was about to shut the door when she looked into his eyes.

'Scott?'

'None other.'

'Oh, my God, what have you done to yourself? You look so different.' His face was clean shaven, his hair properly groomed, and his whole demeanour was that of a young executive.

Melanie was suddenly conscious that she herself must look like a frump.

'Are you going to invite me in?'

Melanie stepped aside to let him pass.

'I take my coffee black, no sugar,' he said.

'Of course,' she led the way into the kitchen and proceeded to make the coffee. Everything seemed surreal to her.

'I hope you don't mind me calling on you like this, but your visit yesterday was a wakeup call to me. I have decided to reclaim my old life. I noticed you were not wearing rings, so I presume you're unattached. I thought if I had you by my side, I could start again. I'm not asking you to make a life changing decision right now, that is something I will have to earn, but I'd love to have you with me, as I make the journey back to the top.'

Melanie was now convinced her world had gone completely mad. All within the space of a couple of days she went from eviction, to a barely liveable apartment, to sharing an exciting adventure with a man whose life she might even consider sharing.

'If it means getting away from your noisy mates,' she said, smiling, 'you can put me down as your travelling companion.'
Sunday 13 May 2012

Repast

## Barry McGloin

### Holder, ACT

Marie Henrietta De Montfort was a witch. Had been for sixty-five of her eighty years. In the nonchalance of youth she had kissed the devil's bum, made the pact and enjoyed certain favours which still danced in her memory when she was disposed to recall them. Her gifted powers, which had supported her in the royal courts of Europe, remained; but the purse-lipped puritans now burned and hammered their joyless doctrines onto the door of destiny. Thus she fled the faggots of disclosure and disgrace lit by the whores of righteousness, le mob amok.

A nifty little scoop sailed by a spellbound captain deposited her on Erin's fat green shores after a night of being tossed around like a turnip on the Irish Sea. The Dutch captain had duly demanded his tithe, and with his hand between the thighs of an eighteen-year-old beauty, suddenly found his lips were sucking those of an eighty year old wobbegong whose tongue was down his throat. In fact, it was reaching to his entrails and melting his medallions. It is said that his scream was heard in Scotland.

Marie Henrietta De Montfort was in great spirits after that, and skipped off down a country lane bordered by a rocky wall on one side and a hedge on the other. She was a sprightly old thing and, glad to be off the boat and alive in an Irish morning, was whistling away to herself. But she wasn't much of a whistler and disturbed a cow in the field who droned a long brown complaint to her fellow beasts, 'Will you get a load of the tuneless old trollop, she could earn a living as a scarecrow, wha?' Although true, it was imprudent. Marie was able to interpret the Gaelic moo, and cracked the little finger on her left hand. The cow – who was Philomena O'Donahue – shot over to Sligo like a methane rocket. Phiiiiiiiiizzzzzphuuuuuuuttt. Folks who spotted it crossed themselves, exclaimed 'Holy Cow', and said it was a sign to be sure, an important portent.

Marie Henrietta De Montfort jumped up, clicked her heels with a flash of blue, started another tune and skipped onward. Along the way she exploded a pig who had dared to give her a wolf whistle.

''ow dare you' she said, 'you cheeky Irish pig. Je suis une grande dame. Paysan.'

A cart pulled by a donkey came hurtling down the lane heaving dust behind. Marie jumped aside, cracked her finger and a cartwheel fell off, toppled the donkey and expelled the occupant. Jumbo McManus had been loaded onto the tray early that morning due to a chronic indisposition which afflicted him mercilessly at O'Halloran's pub each night. He was sleeping his way to his darlin' wife, Thin Annie. Jumbo was uninjured but understandably peeved.

'Hey you, Baggins, did ya see what happened?'

'Je suis Marie Henrietta De Montfort, of French aristocracy. You, Monsieur, are a drunken paysan, not fit for pig swill. I dropped the wheel from your cart.'

'Yeah? An' I'm Oliver friggin' Cromwell, Your Great Pomposity. If you don't be civil I'll kick yer arse.'

Now, a strange thing happened as Marie's hands came together, for the crack ... There was a rustle in the hedgerow and out popped a wee woman wearing rustic garments.

'Ah you must excuse Jumbo, my Ladyship. His heart's in the right place, but the tongue's inclined to wander. Welcome to our shores. 'tis rare we have a grand lady such as yourself come a-visiting.' The wee woman waved Jumbo away.

'Will you be stayin' long at all?'

'At all. At all. Will I be staying long? I will stay as long as it pleases me to stay. So far I 'ave suffered only displeasure. The natives coarse, the animals rude. A lack of breeding afflicts this country.'

'Well now, Your Ladyship, we'll see if we can improve matters. We have a wee game we play with new arrivals, sort of getting to know you, it's a guessing game.'

'Marie Henrietta De Montfort does not play guessing games in the countryside with ugly old peasants.'

'But we're two grand women together, you and me, eh, no-one around, middle of nowhere, let's amuse ourselves. It's easy. You see that pond over there, off the stream. How many trout is in it?'

An exasperated Marie cracked her finger and a bolt of blue flashed and fifteen stunned trout floated to the surface.

'Fifteen I believe.'

'By jingoes you're a dab hand at this game missus – sorry – Your Excellency. Dem trout look splendid so they do. I've a hunger on me t'would fill a horse trough.'

'Mmmm, j'ai faim aussie.' And Marie cracked her finger again, and a skillet and spatula landed on the bank of the pond, followed by slabs of butter, two heads of garlic, peeled, sprigs of dill, parsley, six lemons, silver plates, a bottle of Legende Bordeaux White uncorked, two silver goblets and a salt and pepper shaker. In a moment a fire was crackling and the trout were sizzling, and the two old dears, seemingly ravenous, devoured the lot in thirty minutes. A nearby apricot tree, replete with plump ripe fruit, provided excellent dessert.

They lay there, sated, on the soft fragrant grass by the side of the stream, and divested their garments so the sun could play its warm golden fingers on their fat white bellies. And a fine tune it was with the stream picking up the rhythm and the breeze singing through the trees; perfect.

The wee Irish woman remarked to herself, 'Rosheen, that was best meal I had in me life bar none.'

Marie agreed. 'Tres magnifique! Eh bien ... Rosheen, you know what they grant a condemned prisoner?'

'I do, sure I do ... What's that?'

'The best final meal ... '

'I'm with you, sure I am.'

'Ma cher, a witch requires much sustenance and I confess I am peckish again. One of my favourite dishes is slow roasted mature peasant ... stuffed with trout ... and apricot.'

And with that she cracked her finger.

But nothing happened.

Rosheen gazed at her with still, dark eyes.

'And you remember our pact, Jacqueline Bidet, when you were fifteen.'
Monday 14 May 2012 8 am

Autumn Love

## Linda Callaghan

### Bullaburra, NSW

Let's go sit, just you and me,

under the shade of the big old tree.

Witness the leaves fall gently to the ground,

and cuddle closer to the Autumn sounds.

Together we will wait as the rays shine through,

warm and soft with golden hues.

Time for a season's page to turn,

Spring will disappear as Autumn burns.

We can talk of good times that have come and gone,

arm in arm where we belong.

Remembering memories happy and sad,

content in the knowledge there is more to be had.
Monday 14 May 12 noon

Beyond The Glass

## Tracey Smith

### Sawtell, NSW

It is, to that I'm pointing

Just there, beyond the glass

A darling little boy

His fingerprints, to last

I remember, when he gave it

The year, that he was four

A day, that I will carry

With me, forever more

A memory, I shall cherish

Just there, beyond the glass

The sweetest little boy

His life, it did not last

I remember, when I nursed him

And how he was, so smart

A small and dark haired, little boy

To me, he gave his heart

A gift, that I shall treasure

His memory, sure to last

His fingerprints, forever more

Just there, beyond the glass

As I look back now, and over time

How hard it is, I strive

To stem the flow, of all the tears

The year, that he was five

Yet here he sits forever

Just there, beyond the glass

A life no more, however

His finger prints, to last

For all of five, short happy years

He was, God's gift to me

Still clearly now, within my mind

His image, I can see

Though years are gone, and he's no more

Still one thing's, sure to last

A tear stained print, his gift to me

Just there, beyond the glass
Tuesday 15 May 2012

*** Editor's Pick ***

Dog

## Theo Craci

### Ashwood, Victoria

On a very hot afternoon, the soft grey of the path crunched softly under the steady steps of the young man. The dog, scarce more than a pup, trotted eagerly and silently beside him, the noise of her heavy panting long blended in with all the rest. The young man was vaguely aware of the sea of patched green around him. It swirled and warped, revealing sparse trees and some kind of water body amongst the grass, but all of these things seemed to be everywhere in the dream, and nowhere. He could only truly see his feet, walking just above but not quite on the ground, and the dog beside him. There was clarity in all the world of the dream, and only in that world. He looked at her for reassurance. His dog stared back, her tongue hanging out at the side, her eyes meeting his with unquestioning faith as the background blurred on. He would remember that.

~~~

I carried myself calmly into the usual office building for the first day after my few weeks off. Another day of the usual mundane work, and the table of close friends at lunch. I approached it with a dull sense of duty. Soon it will finish, I reminded myself, and I can go home to rest. I considered the second prospect with the same duty, and took my seat at my workspace, and left myself there to sort it all out. I glanced back periodically to check the time, until the hour of my return came, and I stood up and headed to the kitchen. There I met my usual table, and my usual friends, who welcomed me back with warmth I took care to reflect properly.

'How is everybody going?' I offered to them.

The one nearest me returned on their behalf. 'Pretty good! How about you?'

'Yeah, alright.'

'How was your time off then? Anything interesting happen?'

~~~

On a very hot afternoon, the young man padded silently over the gravel path. His dog floated along beside him, perhaps making contact with the path, or maybe not. The sea of grass stretched starkly all around on either side, and the creek snaked along to the right of him, brief but intense spots of light slicing off with the gnarled trunks jutting from the banks. He was aware of the glassy sky shimmering down, but the eyes were on the feet, coated in worn runners, walking over the gravel. His mind staggered with sick unease, though his feet kept their rhythm. He looked at his dog for reassurance once again. He felt the dog look at him, and felt the unquestioning faith once again. As he turned back down to his feet, he envied that faith.

~~~

On a very hot afternoon, the young man stood. The grey path snaked to the vanishing point in the infinite void ahead, across a great sea of dirt. The young man stood, afraid for folding on himself if he walked. He felt sick enough that he found and remembered the gag reflex, and almost doubled over to be sick, but he recalled that there was nothing in the hole. The young man ignored the temptation to look at the dog, settling to continue listening to the simple steady panting. That was important, he remembered, the panting. More than anything.

He didn't need reassurance, it was just another day on the gravel path. There were thorns on this path this time, but that was because they needed to remove the fruit. Everyone knew that you need to endure the thorns to remove the fruit. The thorns were nothing, and we needed to remove the fruit.

He suddenly felt exhausted. He felt like he'd been walking for days, and he tried to turn to see his progress, but found he could not, and only stared at the same grey path, snaking to the same vanishing point across the same sea of dirt. A mosquito floated past, and zoomed away as he thought on slapping it. One couldn't be too careful with mosquitoes, you never know what disease they might have a chance of carrying. He listened to the steady panting of his dog, and reflected on its importance. It was precious, like the dog. He looked to the dog for reassurance ... and cursed. He tried to undo it. His neck stiffened. Too late, his head was already turned and there was no unturning it. He wailed in despair as the panting stopped. He flailed violently, trying to reach the sounds. He needed to catch the panting! He screamed, a horrible, high-pitched wail that shattered the glass sky. The world crumbled.

The young man wearily lifted his face from his pillow. He stared for a moment, and started sobbing.

~~~

On a very hot morning, the young man stood. The grey path stretched to the wooden gate, and the infinite void beyond. He clutched the leash in his hand and stared at it. He felt the familiar burning, but he knew now to close his eyes and simply breathe. Fighting it only hastened the process, and he couldn't let that happen today.

He walked toward the front gate and turned to the right, to the garbage bin. He opened the bin and clutched the leash in his hand, and stared at it. He waited a moment, and then held it over the bin and began to open his hand ... then stopped. A second thought came over him.

He closed his hand around the leash, and closed the bin. He stepped back from the bin and stuffed the leash in his pocket. He patted it to make sure it was stuffed in securely, then started off. He opened the front gate, stepped out, and began walking down the gravel path.

Editor's Pick was awarded to this story for various reasons: the rhythm, the surprise, the clever handling of what could be reduced to two sentences, but which is delivered in an intriguing manner in nearly 1,000 words, without it being a waste of text. Truly creative writing.
Wednesday 16 May 2012

Tourism Australia

## Amber Johnson

### Highgate Hill, Queensland

Two starry eyed travellers ventured 'cross the pacific tides,

From the season's fall in Nevada, to the blooms in Sydney-side.

They stepped off the plane at Mascot and took a train down to the Quay;

Their pupils dilated in wonder at the foreign sights they'd see.

The 'Land Down Under,' they regarded as an exotic grand motif,

With the splendours of the Daintree and the Great Barrier Reef,

The Opera House was a substantial architectural feat.

Mouth-watering fantasies were had of the peculiar delicacies they'd eat.

A tour guide gave a smile, and handed out the maps,

Snickered to himself, and distributed spiked metal caps.

'Sir, why must we wear these?' asked the wanderer with red hair

'To protect yourself, Ma'am,' he scoffed, 'From those nasty drop-bears.'

The tourists were confused; the guide, as serious as a heart attack,

Said 'The lion is the king of the jungle – the drop-bear; king of the Outback.

Such vicious little critters that launch on unsuspecting prey,

The only other repel known to man is to piss in ya boot, they say.'

The pair were reluctant, yet convinced the guide was sincere,

And as the laughing stock of locals, strutted, caps and all, down to the pier.

'Oi, you bloody touros!' called a grinning man with a wave;

The wife gasped at the man's crudeness, as he called the tour guide a knave.

'He's pullin' ya leg!' he scoffed and introduced himself as Mike

'C'mon, I'll show you,' he insisted, 'what us tru-blu Aussies are like.'

He took them to a pub, where everyone was loud, boisterous and rowdy.

These were men who bought 'shouts' of drinks, and drove Holden utes, not Audis.

The red-haired woman seemed uncomfortable at being called a 'ranga sheila'

When she heard them order some 'tucker', she feared that they might be dealers.

The room roared with laughter at her concern, men enquired 'fair dinkum?'

'Bloody oath, they are!' yelled Mike, 'Crack a tinnie and let 'em sink them.'

The travellers were bewildered by all these strange, foreign terms.

A can of beer was thrust forth; the odour made stomachs churn;

'Is this what you call a 'tinnie'?' The husband asked his Aussie peers.

The response received was a surge of 'Scull it!' shouts and cheers.

'I am afraid we must be leaving!' the tourists said as they backed towards the door

Fleeing in a quickstep, Audrey gasped, 'Australian men are such boars!'

'We may not be to your liking,' they yelled at the Americans, rather loud

'But we all have a fair go 'cause we're Aussies and we're fuckin' proud!'
Thursday 17 and Friday 18 May 2012

Please Move Again

## Ronnie Compton

### Hobart, Tasmania

Ally was a psychotic lesbian, fresh from having her second cardiac arrest in the space of four years and was high on the list for a transplant. She smoked butts that scattered Camden High Street and at the age of 43 she lost the love of her life in a tragic turn of events involving a Welsh woman who stole her wife of 20 years with vicious lesbian claws, brought up in a cloud of trepidation and speed ball psychosis, thus the reason for Ally living on the street, while the other two lived blissfully in Ally's old town house somewhere north of London. Ally hid her alcoholism with horrid vicariousness, tainting her sister's name by giving her obscure addictions remorselessly. Oh sweet Ally, I saw right through you, but I'll never admit it, not to your person, not with the searing animosity in your liquid expressions (much like putting an abundance of rainbow in a glass of milk and watching it swirl and never stay in the one place so long as the bastardly glass stays in motion ... green tainting blue, blue turning to purple after a liaison with cynical red ...) grabbing at my conscience.

I sat on a wooden bench facing a brick wall which made up the side of a hostel on a small street that jutted off the main road of Camden. I stared in SGI induced insomnia and a blurred astuteness uncommon for the intoxicated and with unfriendly movements it bared teeth at sense and perception via my eyes causing internal anxiety and an aura of strangeness. This headspace was vital in playing the role of Duke for the night and morning to come. Duke was a liar, not me. He is no enigma and fears HIV. He is an alter ego of London streets, with a story to go with it. But Ally could never find out. Ally and Duke connected instantly and I looked on in amazement as their stories protruded to a similar climax. This circumstance was beyond me, all I could do was wait until it was a safe distance away before I could rear my head and take a deep breath after holding it in fearful silence. I was a spectator of the night now.

'Why do you have nowhere to go? How old are you anyway?' Ally spat across the empty street to Duke and his table. The words flew tremendously towards him, lit from the ill street lights around. The words hit him, nearly knocking him onto the erect syringes which sprung like toadstools down below his wooden bench. He started but did not succumb to the pavement's antics; instead he wiped Ally's spit off his cheek and began his charade.

'The hostel, out of rooms. The cleaner already caught me sleeping in the luggage room, and if he finds me there again he says he'll be giving my naked body to the police with a broken neck full of bile and Windex,' Duke replied with a tone lathered in Australian. 'I tried to get in the park up the road where the bushes are thick, but the gates are locked and the walls are slippery and vertical.' Ally approached Duke as he recited the hours before their chance rendezvous. 'Then I walked down another small side street filled with attractive houses behind gardens of mostly common flowers, within there was no real cover for a boy to sleep in without getting a chill or caught as a vagrant from an owner coincidently looking down at their prided square of nature. Then in slapdash luck, I walked past a particularly unappealing house with a garden of which was partially covered in Crataegus, or what I thought was so, but on closer inspection found it to be another shrub of unknown name with similar characteristics. It looked perfect to sleep in and so I jumped over the small stone fence and found a place under the shrub (which I am not ashamed to say had quite the aphrodisiac approach in fondling my senses) and snuggled there, taking off my jacket and turning it into a pillow.' Ally took a seat next to Duke, spreading a dozen or so cigarette butts on the table as she did to find the most delectable of the lot. She flittered through her slim choices and spotted the best sort as Duke continued his anecdote. 'As I said, the bush was delightful and I found it to be overwhelming in a sensual way, so much so that it would have been difficult to stand, if one catches my drift, as the crotch times were hard. Alas, this urge came at a morbidly ironic time, because an urban fox had now made its way into the small garden and I knew that any chance of safe sleep was over as it approached me. I stood with an unorthodox stature and attempted to manoeuvre over the fence, which turned into a painful roll onto the ground on the other side. Luckily nothing was broken and as I was away from the insidiously sexual shrub, walking became acceptable and I did so quickly because I'm not accustomed to seeing foxes. Then I came back here with no reason but to contemplate where to rest.' Duke nodded in closure as Ally finished her butt, throwing it to the ground and letting it feed the scattered syringes like manure to tall, thriving rhubarb patches.

'To hell with foxes and any fucking Crataegus,' Ally retorted wildly with a disgusted look around at the streets Duke had previously quoted. 'To hell with the lot! I'll take you to a place I know around here, just on the rivulet it is.' She made a move off the table and spoke with the confidence that comes only with successful homelessness. Duke dove over lubricated condoms saturated with week old semen and dirt and the healthy garden of syringes to follow Ally, whose invitation he had tacitly accepted with his acrobatic manoeuvre.

They walked onto Camden High Street, Duke following of course, and it was not long before Ally asked: 'A tea maybe, Duke? I have no 60 pence on me, no, but I can hear your pockets, and there must be pence in there.' Duke complied, reaching into his pocket and picking out coins for the old lesbian. She heading to a small window lit on a building further up the street, where a small man sat reading a book. Ally approached him and demanded tea. 'But not too strong you fucking Pole! Put the bag in once and take it out and throw it at your fucking Pole wife!' The man took the money and gave to Ally a small polystyrene cup.

'I'm not Polish you twit,' the man said tiredly as she turned away without a word, leading Duke once again further up the road. Duke was not afraid to see the money go, as the small sum of 60 pence and staying in companionship with psychotic homeless dykes will always be more affordable than the common hostel, albeit an experience of switch blades and the perpetual chill ...

Ally sipped tea and led Duke further on, erring left on a low bridge they had now come on and down a staircase that descended into a black space on the underside of the bridge. Duke followed her down the isolated steps and as they furthered their descent, what seemed like sweat but was that of the odour of urine and corpses drenched their bodies and profusely liquefied in the nostrils, leaving one in the constant want for a tissue to wipe it away before it dribbled down to the mouth or other nearby orifices. Duke found the water's eerie motion all the more rank, regards to the heavy blue neon lights situated below the water, throwing it out and onto everything around the rivulet, a bleak consolidation to those too poor and malnourished for the antics of LSD or TCI, but mixed in a cocktail of the avant-garde's poor taste. As the pair walked further away to shade themselves from the blue and to find somewhere to sit, Ally began to share anecdotes to the young boy. As she did, she scratched away at unknown skin conditions and lit newly found butts.

ALLY: 'Yeah, I used to work. On a cruise, I was. One interview is all it took an' they let me have a job on there for a four month stint. "You know how to serve beer, skank?" was what Temple, the manager, asked me. "Yeah," I says, "I been working in bars since I can remember." My mum, she owned a bar you see? "Do ya like pussy? Can ya take an armada of ghouls dressed as chav dykes armed with coke and rubber fists like proper gang bang? Can ya hold your own while they use cuffs on ya?" "Yeah," I says, like, what, he thinks I'm sixteen again or something? Stupid cunt. "Well you're hired then," Temple said, "and welcome to the first dyke cruise of West England." Fuckin' Ace! No better person for the job than I. Last job I ever had. I'd serve drinks in the afternoon then take four sluts a night. I swallowed them up one by one, two by two, whatever number they came in. They'd thrash and scream, usually getting a hit in before they turned to yellow substance. This goo would fill my room and most nights before the girls came in I'd have to throw it out the window with a small bucket into the ocean. Anyway, life was going spectacularly, up until my third month on the boat, when we'd stopped on a town north of Exmouth, and I get a call from my mother saying she wants to come aboard and see how her girl was going. I told her to come aboard, that's all well and good, but I let her have a hint or two that she mightn't like what's going on up on deck, but she came anyway. Well the day rolls up when she's coming aboard and fuck me sideways if she didn't even recognise me! She screamed and hollered; "You're broken, you're a bruise, I can see your inner labia from here! Dear god, my own daughter ..." Well fuck, thought I: here I am, working as tough as them boys fighting the Poles, an' I get nothing but disrespect and denounced from the family! So I kicked the ol' badger off the boat quick smart I did, and never seen her since ey.' She laughed with malice in her eyes and threw her head back violently, so much so that as she did bloody gunk jettisoned out from her mouth and onto the concrete beside Duke's foot; the picture of a deranged and ill foetus clawing at some compromise at pre-life.

Duke kicked it away closer to the water so as to not be disturbed by its bile-esque smell or shrill cries, and it was not long after the mess had landed that a small canine ran from darkness and gobbled it up in selfish wolfing. A yelp closely followed the eating, though of human character, and as the dog had finished the food completely a tall man came from a similar darkness from which the dog had come from wearing a witty frown.

'Champagne, save some for the rest of us! Oh cuntnix, you little brat, all eaten I see, eh? Tasty treat, eh? You little donut, Champagne, we could have cooked that up with paprika and salt.' The dog sat content with its full stomach but was visibly embarrassed with its conceited eating charade, melting butter in its black and white self loathing while he who one would assume was the owner of the dog approached the position where it sat under blue lights near the water's edge, patting it lovingly in a sign of instant forgiveness.

He was a tall man with over twelve shirts and overcoats hanging off him like a mosaic in the paradox of manikins foreshadowing totalitarian control, yet less colourful albeit just as depressing. As he continued to wipe his hands over the precious pet, two other characters glided over from where both the man and the dog had come from. One was a dark skinned man with darting eyes and a mouth too big for its face, wrapping around the cheeks nearly from ear to ear. The other character was a woman who kept a hood over her head and allowed matted chestnut hair to fall down over her face and to sink below her knees like a curtain of dirt and dust. One could depict her feminism from curvaceous behinds and the constant lavishing she gave to menstruation. All three were high.

The tall gentleman was the first to converse with Duke and Ally:

'What's this then?' he looked down at the pair with instant fondness. 'Not safe down here, not by the blue water, not by any water, and the cold! Pair of donuts, how sick you'll find yourselves tomorrow. Don't fret now though, safety in numbers. Numbers can keep knives, foxes and chavs at bay, but BAH! The cold will have your children like bipolar midgets dancing in the woods. Come now, you're homeless too, I can pick 'em a mile off, we're all wearing the same face, eh? Nothing to hide from, eh? Can't do it! Come now, heh heh. My name is Dean. This is Champagne, the little donut she is. Not a cuter dog than Champagne, there isn't. That beautiful woman there is Cat, my lover ... God love her, she can barely walk. Gav, give her a beer. The chap with the smile is Gavin, and though he's from Wales, the cunt is wonderful. A character to keep around, eh?' Duke and Ally both stood and gave their introductions respectively to the troupe. They sat in the blue for minutes, exchanging stories of frost-bitten evenings and fox cook mornings. 'And how the cunts give me a stomach like a nuclear testing ground!' Gavin yelled out excitedly to the group, causing a moment of silence and his demeanour returned to a recluse's repartee. Their witty banter simmering down to nothing, Dean took the opportunity to instigate the closing amendment of fellowship via collective movement and with that Duke and Ally were now in a victorious group and safe at last from lurking horrors.

They rose as one from the pits of the neon blue rivulet and returned to the streets above where a destination was implanted in their heads, courtesy of Dean's leadership.

DEAN: 'I have hidden a sleeping bag behind a bin not too far from here,' he explained in chilled excitement. 'The street's just off High Street, I forget the name but I'll know it when I see it. I hid it behind the bin because how can one be sure that they will not be involved in a knife fight before bed? Bah! You can't, and if one is in a knife fight one needs two hands: one for knifing and the other for company, am I right Duke?' He elbowed Duke in the ribs and winked jovially.

While the three men, that is Dean, Gavin and Duke, walked on in meaningful conversation of bags and knives, the two women, that is, Cat and Ally, lagged behind to divulge in folly small chat of murmured hillbilly memoirs to which took them back into suppressed nightmares that were powerful enough to bring them to tears and Platonic embrace. The connection these women who know nothing of one another can make ... As this destructive banter commenced behind him, Duke did his best to tighten the group in solidarity once again, but alas, Dean's control made it impossible.

DEAN: 'Let the women talk young Duke, they are bound by forces we cannot touch or go near, hitherto they invite us, at a time when the space around them is safe to enter. If we step in prematurely we will lose our skin and breathing will be nothing but movement of internal bile up and down until we sink into ourselves. I've seen it before ... My Cat ... She's killed many folk the same way. My Cat, what a darling, what a beauty, eh? She was never this under control, never this calm. You know, when she found me, she was indulging in 9-5 pre-occupation, eh? What a thought ... She knew solace was, so she had some via me, hehe, and you know what? She never looked back. She fucks like a wild child, like a pack o' jaguars and grandiose Camel spiders chasing you up a giant oak: fear is in the mainline but bewilderment seeps through and no matter what the outcome, no matter how bloodthirsty and messy it gets, you know in your heart it's the right thing to be a part of.' Duke looked back at the stumbling girl full of ketamine and liquor, and through the mess of hair and dirt, he witnessed a happy child. Gavin was looking at her too, his smile a bright horizontal crevice. He knew if he looked too long then Dean would catch him and throttle him silly, and so he distracted himself with small talk once again.

GAVIN: 'Duke, you're not even from this country, how is it you've become homeless?' I froze, and Duke froze.

'I'm not homeless,' Duke said with a smile as his vision became poor and black spots began to appear everywhere ... 'I'm rich and thriving in life, watching you as a form of wankish retrospect to console anything depressing. It was either this or nothing.' The two men, Dean and Gavin, stopped turning vile colours of red and mauve, producing concealed shivs and used syringes. Duke turned to run but instead fell forth into a crack in the road. He began to fall into the endless pit but just in time he grabbed the edge of the road and held on for dear life. Gav and Dean fell to their knees where Duke's hands could be seen on the surface and in simultaneous affliction they threw down their shivs and needles in Duke's bare fingers and knuckles. Blood and bone protruded, flying from his body to make way for dirt and HIV. Duke screamed as his hands turned into two clumps of moist flesh. They could not keep afloat as they were now more fluid than solid and Duke fell down into the pit wondering when the fucking HIV would kick in. The four at the surface rejoiced in throwing the liar to his much deserved death. Orgies commenced ...

GAVIN: 'Duke, you're not even from this country, how is it you've become homeless?' Duke stumbled back from his internal, rambunctious hypothetical, and thought the question over.

DUKE: 'I moved over here, with a girl. Then she left me and I lost my job. It was at a bar called World's End, in Camden Town. It's owned by a Polish couple, and they left me out on the street. The cunts. They have no time for talentless youth. I'm going home soon, I may have hope yet.' Gav nodded with fire in his eyes.

'Myself and Dean, we're both skilled men,' he said in rehearsed form. 'A florist I am, a fuckin' ace florist, and Dean, he's a talented carpenter (Dean nodded to verify). Fuck. Plenty of flowers needed, people die every day. And wooden structures are timeless. So why do we stay poor? Why are we out on the street? Why are we forced to steal Taco sauce?'

'Because of the fucking Polish!' Dean yelled and Champagne barked; a villainous duet whose rage resonated down the street they found themselves on. 'They stole our jobs and our women and our houses.'

'Exactly the fuck right,' Gav seconded with the confidence of the ill-informed and the high. 'Even though there's a war going on and they're on the side with the Japs and the Jews, they still find a way to sneak in and steal our country right under our noses. You know Poland used to be the original England? Yep! Then the cunts came from under the ground and planted their seeds everywhere, in the dirt, in the women, in the pots ... Soon there was not an Englishman to be seen, they had all been pushed back into what you now see as England. And what the fuck do you know! Same thing's happening again. They're creeping in, in boats, in cars, on horses ... Pretty soon everyone in houses will be Poles, and everyone on the streets and in the shelters will be the English. Ah it's enough that they're winning the war, but to do this too? And the unions can't do a thing about it, and you want to know why?'

DEAN: 'Because they all speak Polish!' They screamed and raised their fists in anger. Duke nodded, saying nothing, especially about the non-existence of a war between Poland and England. He noticed a tear running passionately down Gavin's face, a sign of patriotism and legitimate sadness that Duke knew he would never feel. Silence fell, until the women caught up with the others.

CAT: 'Dean, where the fuck is the street with the bag? You're lost, I can tell by your walk. It's been a whole fucking hour Dean, where is it?'

'No babe, I know where I am, what do you take me for, some brat donut?' Dean shook his head and rambled affectionately that she should cool her boots and that it was merely the next street over. He put his free arm around her amongst lover's charm. Cat groaned spasmodically in sensual delight and as her eyes closed the road beneath her legs began to erode as aroused moisture dripped down like acid, eating away for metres. How horny she was ... How her slurred words coincided with his ostentatious amount of shirts and jackets, and how their matted heads of hair wrapped around one another like sewerage vines of thick brown and black ivy. It was love. Their connection was however vexed by Gavin's perpetual lust that lingered around the couple and snaked away in dismal dejection. Tears ran down his face for a reason other than patriotism now, and they flowed in a stream parallel to his love's love acid on the road. As always, his tears and want went unnoticed.

Cat and Dean had moved away from each other now, and Cat stumbled to where Duke was walking.

CAT to DUKE: 'This chav [Dean] is the horniest man alive. How can I explain? We fit together, cause I'm always horny too. He shoots me up while I suck him off. We fuck for days. We were sleeping at my Mother's house the other night, on the couch just outside her room. I was on my period and she was right on the other side of the door, and he didn't give a fuck, he didn't! He fucked me anyway, hard and fast, without a rubber, mind! Blood and gunk was everywhere, like a backyard abortion and a beautiful orgasm going all simultaneously it was. What a mess. Mum threw that couch out after that night and now she has trouble breathing, which she can only blame herself for.'

Duke strangled his throat as to not let any vomit protrude, but it soon escaped from many orifices and he felt lucky that he was situated at the back of the group, as Cat had walked onwards and left him to ponder. Vomit was all over him and he quickly lay on the ground as to let Champagne lick him clean.

By the time he caught up to the posse he found Cat no longer relishing in sexism and Dean on the ground cussing profusely while the other two watched on coldly in an apathy of sorts, stirring confusion in Duke, and he quietly posed the question of the reason of the group's sudden change of demeanour:

DEAN: 'The cunt of a flipping gate is closed! The gate with the bin behind it, and the bin with the bag behind it: the sleeping bag.' He directed Duke's gaze across the road where a small and somewhat transparent gate stood erect, and the notorious bin stashed away behind it, looking invidious and motionless.

'Fuck you Dean!' Cat screamed from behind a forest of hair. 'I told you, I told you it was a shit place to hide it! Now what are we gonna do? Freeze? You're the fucking donut, I know that now!' Dean stayed prone, spieling a mantra of 26 Pound down the drain, a grandiose amount for the homeless. It was a climactic scene and it looked as though they would end the night on this sour impression, but at the lowest point, Ally stood tall and sighed: 'Oh, friends ...' as she moved eloquently over the road and to the gate. She stood in front of it for a moment, then with her left hand she eased the gate across and open. Behind her the group erupted in blissful rowdiness, running to her and covering her with licks and kisses. Dean broke off from the group, reaching under the bin, pulling out a small black bag, then throwing it up and holding it over his head like an enemies' deceased spouse or offspring, yelling ancient Incan curses to the heavens as he did.

'Saved the night you did, Ally,' he said as happy as he had ever been, embracing her for a second and more intimate time. She smiled, knowing that she would now be loved forever, and with this epiphany she succumbed to a new Ally, an optimistic lover. In her mind sat a montage of bright colours and past, beautiful times that never had any relevance to her aside from that of retrospectively explaining to her the horridness of her descent, until now. Now, it was making love to this new experience, causing a manifestation of serotonin she never knew were allies. She cried in happiness.

'Now we go to the last homeless sanctuary of Camden I know of,' Dean said with a skip in his step as he led the now dainty crew on down to another set of stairs not unlike the set which they had ascended to get out of the blue and freezing rivulet. Ah! Behold ... they were back on the very same rivulet by the waterside, with the same blue spilling over everything, but they were further north than before.

DEAN: 'Yeah I know donuts; we follow the stream until we get closer to the train station. That's the only way I know to get there.' The others hear heared and they once again sunk deeper into the snaking arctic abyss, turning a cold blue as the neon slipped down, down, down, as if for oral sex, but no, it instead sank into the skin and mingled with the insides: grand initiative.

Silence was broken only by Gavin as he began to recite a heartless love poem with no motive but to forget the cold.

I have no words for the night if this is my last

I won't console, won't put myself in the danger of retracing steps of

mangled cunts,

or flower-trodden saints

begging like sisters on the streets of Hiroshima

for a breath from the gas mask.

Starve me, immortality, with a tease,

brandish milky breasts and indelible gash

from behind red glass as a silhouette born from squalid

rise up and dance with me,

one last waltz to send us off

Do you recall?

we both left the house

with locked keys

at the same time

I was at your knees

I asked for some repetition

I said please move again.

Dean looked over at him between shivers; a grimace of condescension on his face.

'What's the frequency here, Gav?' he asked jovially through the chatter of breaking teeth. His question remained unanswered and Gavin never spoke again.

After hours of walking and being drenched in freeze, the path began to widen and the rivulet slowly thickened into a small but prominent river. Up ahead Duke could make out a collection of buildings and it dawned on him that they had reached the train station which Dean had mentioned earlier. Yes it was true: they had escaped from the blue rivulet and made it to the river side, where trees and shrubs sprouted along the winding path. It wasn't long after that that Duke also spotted a large lump to the left up the way. It was a lump of blankets, of siblings of poverty and junk. They had found the sanctuary: a grandiose cluster of blankets and bodies all tight as to keep the cold away. There were at least fifty of them there, and the fellowship that Duke resided in made their way to the northern end of the community of unconsciousness. Dean laid the sleeping bag out, realising it would only fit three of them. Bollocks.

'Don't fret now, I have a plan,' he said, tiredly waltzing into the garden of still bodies, seeing which were dead. One unfortunate Iraqi was unconscious but alive when Dean pulled the white quilt from under him. Shaking it as he returned, ridding it of syringes and rats, screams of Iraqi cussing followed him but he hush hushed and threw it down over the shards of glass and smelly weeds.

'Duke, Ally, this is for the pair of you,' Dean said thoughtfully to the grateful pair.

'Goodnight you lot,' Ally screamed tearfully to her new family, sitting down on the bloodstained sheet. Duke went prone next to Champagne who had ultimately joined them on the blanket. Can one be more comfortable or content than when laid out in between the terminal dyke and the sanctimonious pup called Champagne, on top of thieved fabric full of HIV? Nein. Duke slept well, the fresh air and serenity killing insomnia.
Saturday 19 May 2012

Morris Minors

## Mark O'Flynn

### Leura, NSW

My mother has asked me on a date. I suppose you could call it a date. An outing. That's better. It is kind of quaint, and also kind of not.

My mother is a painter; what the cynics call a weekend painter. Little old lady paintings I call them, which is unfair, because she's been doing it for decades and still makes a bit of money. Watery landscapes mainly; still-lifes and so on, although recently she has branched out into charcoal. The tonal realist school, if you want a label.

Being December, today is the day her painting group are having their Christmas party and she has asked me to accompany her. Why not? It's not normally a time of year I would be here, living interstate as I do, but tomorrow is the funeral of my aunt who has died after a long illness, and so I am here, out of my comfort zone, doing the right thing. I am surprised that in the space of a page a simple event like Christmas drinks has already become inordinately complicated. In the days leading up to the funeral, life is carrying on. There is no reason why it shouldn't. However, life carrying on in the small town where my mother lives carries on in slow motion. It is like watching the tendril of a new leaf unfurl, or a whale playing chess.

The aunt is not my mother's sister. Was, sorry, was. She was my mother's sister-in-law. They did not get on, and have managed to maintain this grudge for fifty years. I have never really understood why. My mother felt possessive about her brother Steve, who died long ago. I remember my uncle. He was the one who taught me how to play draughts and do somersaults on the lawn. There are photos of him, strong and bare-chested, with kids balancing on his shoulders. One of those kids is me. I even remember the muscles in his back.

My mother was close to Steve, by all accounts. When the end came for him they all sat about his bedside, but he was too dosed up on morphine to know who was there. I guess it's a common story. After a while the nurses sent everyone outside. Some messy business to be performed. Out in the corridor my mother suddenly stopped, pretended she had left something behind, then ducked back into the room. Behind the curtain she placed her hand on Steve's arm and his eyes opened. They looked at each other. She gave his arm a squeeze, realising she was never going to see him again.

I must have been nearly thirty when this happened.

Steve's children, my cousins, I knew better when we were little. Now I only ever see them at funerals. There have been the funerals of their father, my brother, an old patriarch on someone's side of the family. Maybe one or two others. My cousins are the sort of people I now only ever have cause to meet at funerals. In that respect, which is rather Pavlovian, I always think of them as very well-dressed people. People that I have unfortunately come to associate with death. Tomorrow it is their mother's turn.

In the years following my uncle's passing, I occasionally find my mother sitting in a darkened room listening to something classical, and know she is thinking of her brother. This is a melancholy picture. I feel the torpor of a son's responsibility. What should I do? She is starting to forget things, but so do I for that matter. Anyway, it's only small things. Alternately she remembers things I would rather she didn't. Things I said when I was little; things that happened when she was young. The Miss Elcinous drawer, for instance, is a long standing joke. It took me a long time to work out that she was referring to a drawer full of miscellaneous odds and ends. I always understood, and this is the joke, that the drawer belonged to a person called Miss Elcinous. What she forgets is that she has told me this story, and others like it, over and over again and I have to pretend that I am hearing it for the first time.

A whale playing chess.

I have no strong feelings about my aunt. I remember her laughing at something I had done once that I did not think was funny. I guess I have to side with my mother in this rivalry. We are born bearing grudges, and my mother has now lost hers.

So I drive her to Christmas drinks, with all the painting ladies. Life carrying on. A leaf unfurling. There are eighteen of them. They all cluck over me as I am introduced. One of them even films me saying 'hello' with her mobile phone. Over the course of lunch several of them reveal that they know more about me than I know about them. I know nothing about them. My mother has obviously been talking. I am polite. I eat what they offer. It is nice to see that she has friends. I am surprised to see she is so popular.

'Have you tried the blue jelly?'

I eat some blue jelly. There is also mushroom quiche and asparagus fingers and toasty things and cake. I make the right noises.

'Have you seen the cars? You must get Ern to show you the cars.'

Ern, the husband of Joan, who is hosting Christmas drinks, collects Morris Minors. Being the only two males amongst the eighteen painting ladies it seems entirely proper that I ask about the cars and that Ern show them to me. It also seems proper that the women should shoo us off to do this. Ern jumps up. The painting ladies are starting to get the giggles. The corks are popping. It's looking to be a long lunch. We'd best scamper. Outside I note there are goldfish in the pond by the door. That's interesting.

Ern leads me down the yard to his shed. It is a custom-built edifice made from second-hand materials, designed to make it look older than it actually is. There is an antique petrol bowser out the front to lend an air of verisimilitude. I have never seen such a neat looking shed. Inside, after he turns on the lights, I count eighteen cars shrouded under white, canvas covers. I ponder the coincidence of there being eighteen painting ladies inside as well as eighteen shrouded Morris Minors out here. At least I presume they are Morris Minors. Ern unhooks the cover of one and flicks it back with a practiced hand. Under it is a Morris Minor.

'This was my first car. 1953,' he says proudly.

It is shiny and blue. Immaculate – that is the word they use about cars. Immaculate condition. As new. Shiny as the duco on a coffin.

'I sold it when our third child came along, then when my son turned eighteen he reminded me that I'd promised this car to him, so we tracked down the lady I sold it to, living up in the Mallee she was, and bought it back at a slight mark-up but not too terrible.'

I understand that Ern really likes his Morris Minors, although I don't know why he thinks it is important for me to know this story.

He unwraps another. And another. One is lavender. One has smooth wooden panels. One is an actual Morris Minor police car imported from England, circa 1971, with POLICE stencilled along the sides and a siren that, after hooking it up to a battery with silver terminals, blares out loudly. There is even a bobby's helmet and truncheon sitting on the front seat. Ern is in his element. I ask him a number of car-related questions. How long has he been collecting them? Which is his favourite? How much are they worth? Strangely, I can't recall the answers to these questions. I am the sort of person who regards a car to be an inanimate machine intended to transport me from point A to point B. It should not have a personality. I do not care that they are shiny, or lavender. However, I much prefer this conversation to what I might expect inside with the painting ladies where they would probably ask me about myself.

I probe Ern with a few more mechanical questions and he starts to fly, describing the history of the Morris Minor, its place in cultural consciousness. He also likes Chevrolets, but it is the Morris Minor that is his passion. His talk falters. Suddenly it becomes clear that Ern doesn't want to tell me any more about his collection. Perhaps he has given too much away. I suppose he presents this talk to more important people than me. I suppose he might even charge money for it. He wants to wrap them all up again and lock the door. I help him do this. He waddles back up towards the house.

Outside, under a tree, I note five more Morris Minors, all rusty old bombs covered in lichen. Future projects, I am guessing, or else cadavers farmed for spare parts. I take a look around the garden. Also immaculate – there, I see I am wrong about that word. Nevertheless it is still an awful word.

I stop and study the goldfish. A cigarette butt floats among the lilies. I wipe my feet. I go inside to all the laughter.

'Have some blue jelly. There's plenty of blue jelly.'

I have some blue jelly, even though I don't like it. I begin to see that my mother has a life beyond any that I suspected her of having. I find this a profound relief. It suddenly feels like something I am not expected to provide.

After a while we say our goodbyes. Ern has disappeared. No solidarity there. My mother rinses her empty plate. I put her in the car and chauffer her home, careful not to drive too fast. Chopin is playing on the radio and she tells me again how her own mother used to love playing Chopin; she was a fine concert pianist. Another story I have heard before. It may well be true.

She remembers we have a funeral to go to tomorrow. Her sister-in-law; with whom she never really got on. She thinks about what to wear. I will no doubt see my cousins again. I realise, with a jolt of shock, that if my cousins have come to represent death for me, strange collocation, then I probably foreshadow the same for them. I am the portent of grief and sorrow. We are reciprocal omens. Gee. Here I am trying to do the right thing when all along I have been the harbinger of death. When they see me the scythe shall be unsheathed and the harvest struck down. Death will walk the land in my shadow.

Perhaps I am being melodramatic. There is no way to clear up this misperception without actually talking to my cousins about it. They'll be upset. There'll be tears. I don't know if I am up to it, nor if the actual funeral is the right time and place.

Afterwards I will go home. But all that is tomorrow. There is a whole evening to get through yet. On the drive back to the town where my mother lives, I note how full the dams are, how green the paddocks, the moon in the sky white as a tooth.

'I hope you weren't too bored,' she says, nursing her handbag.

'It was fine. Those cars were interesting.'

On the radio Chopin does his business.

Then she says: 'Did you ever meet my brother?'

I do a double-take, hands on the wheel.

'What?'

'My brother, Steve. He died years ago. Did you ever meet him?'

The fence posts flash by. I don't really know how to respond to this question, so I close my mouth and just focus on the road.
Sunday 20 May 2012

Between

## Cathie Tanaka

### Blackheath, NSW

Let me be alive

In well-loved empty places

Like the instant between the stars

Or the now in my respiration

Still, like a notion of trees

Green, between a mountain's knees

Way below sun-dappled breezes

Where pause is hallowed and meaning ceases

Written 24 November, 2011 – Otoosan's 80th birthday, if he'd lived.
Monday 21 May 2012

The Legless Frog

## Alan Lucas

### Katoomba, NSW

I like to think she's hiding

her wedding ring

when she folds her arms,

but I know it's just because she's cold.

'This is a cold house she tells me,

built for hot summers,

all trees and shade.'

We're getting on fine,

joking and talking,

sharing anecdotes as I peruse

her French style shop,

and her.

She's a very attractive lady,

mid or late forties,

she asks me where I live

(now that's a good sign is it not?)

we speak of escargot and frogs' legs.

She tells me frogs' legs taste just like chicken,

and I tell her of a cartoon

I've seen, of a little frog in a wheel chair

with no legs and a perplexed look

on his face, wheeling himself

from the exit of a French restaurant.

We laugh (is that a good sign?).

As I leave, she remarks that it was nice

chatting to me, (another sign?).

I muse that

either women are becoming more subtle

as I grow older,

or I am unable to read the signals

the way I used to.

I suspect

it's a bit of both.
Tuesday 22 May 2012

The House

## Alannah

### Christies Beach, SA

I often wondered if he lived there

His open mind seemed to suggest

Excitement and droll luxury combined

Like a trend refined

There was something wrong with this place

Solid and imposing in the softest sand

It seemed ambitious and cruel

Absorbing the land

I wanted to say hello but

The house projected an imaginary fence

That precluded the waves

As a form of defence

I thought of picking a flower

Running to the entrance and placing it quickly

Ringing the bell and hiding

Despite who may be residing

I never did it, though

There was enhanced vision from the second floor

Security was immaculate

Especially at the door

Quiet though I became

In my anticipation of what seemed hard

I wondered if he lived

On the lonely esplanade

His telescope stood solitary

Pointing at the moon so sad

I wondered if he had this house

My poor, rich Dad
Wednesday 23 May 2012

A Banquet In Venice

## James Craib

### Wentworth Falls, NSW

The Doge's masked ball and banquet was in the palace at St. Mark's Square.

All the titled lords and ladies of the nobility were there.

Plus the corpulent Baron Banquo and his young bride – Babette,

Who had arrived by gondola; left their babe in bassinette.

They hovered over hors d'oeuvres whilst troubadours strummed lutes,

And pecked away at peacock wings, lark's tongues and exotic fruits.

Then feasted they on Pommes Noisettes and pheasant under glass,

With fresh baguettes and Crepes Suzette and Pâté de foie gras.

Long loud cheers brought antelope ears, on beds of pasta flour,

Swordfish laced with aniseed, abalone and lobster chowder.

There were fruit bouquets and crème brûlées, granita e sorbetto,

Champagne floats, strange artichokes at il stravagante banchetto.

Whilst ladies in their stunning gowns of velvet, lace and satins; sighing

Went gliding by, with oblique masked eyes and décolletage inviting;

Gallant Grenadiers, with swords and spears, kept an envious watch,

As foppish courtiers seduced wives, daughters and serving maids hotchpotch!

Shimmering candelabra, cast an aura of glamour, over sumptuous tables spread

With dazzling brocades that were gold inlaid and large vases with roses red.

They danced all night by candlelight at the Carnevale di Venezia,

Babette thought gaily of her bambino left with maid Lucretia.

And plump Banquo drank much vino laced with maraschino cherries,

Little did he know that they were tainted so with wild Dalmatian berries.

'Come', said the tipsy baronet, 'We'll walk to the appartamento.'

But Babette demurred and implored, 'My Lord I'm so impaurito!'

'Have no regret my sweet Babette, I'll keep thee safe from harm.'

So off they staggered, somewhat haggard, beside the Canale Grande.

The light from torches many played, ballet on waters calm, serene.

Whilst overhead, the fireworks spread and invoked a mystic sheen.

The young bride stood entranced as colours danced across the skies.

And Banquo, with his blood afire, confirmed his desire in lust-filled eyes.

'Forsake your ardour', pleaded Babette, 'until we reach our billet safe!'

And with the banquet long forgotten, the couple hastened to their fate.

Not far behind in shadows lined with debris from il carnevale,

A figure in dark cloak and masque stealthily followed; a ghastly finale ...

Was about to fall, inexorable, upon the Baron and his bride

A figure pulled Babette away, held a stiletto to her throat and decried,

'Be still my Lord or with this sword I'll spill this wench's blood!'

It was the maid and she said, 'Keys, to strongbox please; avoid a crimson flood'.

Banquo with his senses dulled, unfurled his sword and lunged with pride,

From the shadows flew another silhouette, plunged a blade in Banquo's side.

Bassanio, with his eyes aglow, the accomplice now took his rest.

'Well done my love, now take his keys, avanti ... empty out the chest'.

'Now we must deal with you it seems ... bravo my lady Lucretia.'

'Our elaborate plan, played with much élan, has freed us both.' Indeed a ...

Year before they hatched their plot when Babette was betrothed by her father,

To marry the Baron: Lord Banquo, who was barren, in other ways we gather.

The servant – Bassanio fathered the child, although, the Baron already suspected.

But to suffer anguish, in the heart of Venice, was a fate that was quite unexpected.

Babette took the dagger and with a swagger turned to her odious spouse:

'So to you – podgy Baron stew – take this!' She pierced his eyes and blouse.

She passed some gold ducats to her maid, 'Leave quickly Lucy, but be wary!'

'Keep to the shadows 'til well clear of Venice, be mindful of the carabinieri.'

Then Babette and Bassanio took flight with their bambino across the laguna.

They took refuge on Burano and in due course Bassanio took Babette; il fortuna.

The Doge was rather blasé, a propos death and robbery of Baron Banquo,

Who perished by the Grande Canale, in a dark alley, unloved and incognito.

The banquet carried on for days – no one ever seemed to mind,

The evil that was done to Banquo, legend says: made a Venetian blind!
Thursday 24 May 2012

*** Editor's Pick ***

Killed A Man

## Emma Hall

### Canterbury, Victoria

My husband killed a man.

My husband killed a man and he was arrested, and charged, and brought before a group of twelve men – such unremarkable men, and yet they hold in their hands the power to take my husband's life.

It's the third day of the trial now. I'm not scared. Fear is something I can't remember feeling for a long time. Guilt, perhaps, but it is hard to recognise that emotion anymore. Sometimes I wonder if I have emotions at all, or has this life reduced me to a lifeless shell; uncaring, unfeeling.

Certainly my love for the man who stands now at the judge's command to 'the defendant' is long gone. 'The defendant.' The name suits him perfectly. At times it seemed his whole purpose on this earth was to defend me from what he perceived as dangers; what I saw as life. Our relationship was not of husband and wife but of overzealous parent and petulant child. I was desperate to escape, but knew I could not. Those were the early days. Soon I discovered, as every child does, ways to thwart my captor's prison. I longed for release, but could not bear to part with what I had – security, wealth. So I brought what I needed to me. It was easy to seduce my young lovers, to bring them into my bed and use them for my own form of therapy. They were not affairs, but playthings; moments of liberation, before they were swiftly kissed goodbye.

Or, at least, they were nothing until I saw one of them stretched naked across my bed, the look of surprise still on his face, a splatter of blood on my white sheets. His name was Steve Motram, I found out later. Before that night, it had been a long time since I'd cried. And I cried copiously, a never-ending flow of tears, of shock and fear and horror, all the more when 'the defendant' took me into his arms and rocked me like a baby, smelling of rage and sweat, whispering, 'It's going to be alright'.

None of this is in my testament. I stand in the witness box, appropriately intimidated, and in a voice quite unlike my own I answer the questions of the grim-faced lawyers that pace the courtroom.

My voice wavers slightly with emotion but gains the strength of true conviction as I say the words they need to hear.

My husband is innocent.

I am familiar with my role and I play it excellently. The supportive, dutiful wife – it is a skin I slip into as easily as I don my square-toed heels and blazer for the courtroom.

But if I were to say those other words, they would have a different strength – the strength of the truth.

My husband killed a man.

I remember watching a movie once where the protagonist was asked if he agreed with what his friend had done. His friend had also killed someone. But he was provoked, he had good reason. The protagonist said, 'I don't condone it, but I understand it.' I suppose this is how I feel. It is wrong to kill, wrong to murder. Everyone knows this. One who takes a human life does not deserve to live themselves. That's what the jurors are thinking – I can see it in their eyes even as they hold their expressions of dry dispassion. But surely they can see that he had a reason. It was not an act of pure evil. He was provoked, he had good reason. I understand it.

As soon as I was certain that he truly was dead, I knew what I was going to do. I have spent every day since then wondering if it was right.

I'm selfish. It's not something I have difficulty admitting to. I have always been selfish.

Until three days ago, when they brought him into the courtroom, I hadn't seen him since they held the top of his head and put him into the backseat. After that it was like a dream. Men took photographs and asked questions and I sat in the lounge, carefully making sure my hands shook as they clasped the cup of coffee. There was a man, a dead man, naked in my bed. I could already see the police officers looking at me. But they were men. Men like to be lied to.

'Are you ready to answer questions?' the officer asked me, and, my voice shaking as much as my manicured hands, I tearfully asked if I could first use the bathroom. They nodded, kindly.

I went to the bathroom and took off my clothes. Wrapping my arms around myself, I ran my finger nails over the bare skin of my back. I gripped my own arm as tight as I could until I was sure it was bruising. Cupping one breast in my hands, I pushed it to my own mouth and bit down hard around the nipple. Finally, I took my toothbrush and rammed it hard up inside me. I didn't stop until I felt blood trickle down my leg.

I examined the welts, the bruises, the bite mark and the blood. Satisfied, I redressed and returned to the lounge. 'Ready now, miss?' Yes, yes I was.

In a quiet voice I told them of how I had been home alone – my husband works late on Thursdays. I had just finished dinner when I heard the doorbell. He forced his way inside. Grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me to the bedroom. Of course I screamed, but no one heard. He threw me on the bed and pulled off my clothes and his. He... and here I break down in tears, knowing words are unnecessary. I watch cop shows, I know the drill. I'm not surprised when they insist I go to the hospital. The nurse finds the marks. No one even suggests they were self inflicted – what woman would do that to herself?

I had convinced myself I did the right thing, the good thing. Saving my husband from a punishment that did not fit his crime. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't his fault.

But now, as I sit in the courtroom, I question my decision. It is not fair that the young man I scarcely knew the name of is dead, that his parents sit in the front row, aged doubly by the ordeal of burying their son. But what is more unfair is that they, that everyone in this room, do not see him as a victim. Steve Motram was more than likely a good man, but he shall be remembered as a rapist. While I – the liar, the cheater, the one with blood on her hands – I am seen as an innocent victim of this whole affair.

And I'm not innocent. I killed a man.
Friday 25 May 2012

Gravity

## Amber Johnson

### Highgate Hill, Queensland

As I clip the clothes to the line,

they batter against my arms

in a war of liberty,

like soldiers on the front.

'For freedom!' they shout,

but I am determined to pin them down.

One breaks free from my oppression

– for I am but a tyrant,

who shields herself

behind a battalion of cotton.

He doesn't roam far

before the wind betrays him

and sells him off

to the slavers.

Even the bravest are bound to fall;

gravity makes fools of us all.
Saturday 26 May 2012

Fealty – Or, The Art Of Being There For One Another

## Paris Portingale

### Mt Victoria, NSW

'I'll always be there for you,' Ronald said.

Jasmina looked around. 'Where?' she said.

'Just over there, or failing that, over there.'

'Well, that's good to know, although you weren't there for me yesterday.'

'Come with me for a second,' Ronald said and led Jasmina through to his study. Pointing to the desk, he said, 'That's because I was there.'

'Fine, but in future it might be nice if you told me exactly where you were going to be for me.'

'Sure,' said Ronald.

'So, where are you going to be for me today?'

'Haven't decided yet, but I'll let you know.'

'Well, that's very convenient – for you.'

'Alright,' Ronald said and, wandering around the apartment, pointed vaguely to a corner of the lounge room and said, 'I'll be over there.'

'Good,' said Jasmina. 'I'm going out now,' and she picked up her purse.

'I'll be here,' Ronald said.

'Over there in the corner?'

'Probably.'

Jasmina sighed, got her keys and left.

When she got back, Jasmina was annoyed to find Ronald was in his study, reading the paper. 'You bastard,' she said and slammed the door and didn't speak to him for the rest of the evening.

~~~

Across town, in an apartment in Montclair, another couple were having a prickly conversation on the same topic.

Lydia was saying, 'You're never there for me, Stanislav.'

'That's because you're always all over the place. I can't be everywhere at once.'

Irritably, Lydia said, 'I don't think you even try.'

Looking at his watch, Stanislav said, 'Well, it's just after one. Where will you be for the rest of the afternoon?'

'You know I can't possibly tell you that,' Lydia said. 'My life's a chaos. I could be anywhere.'

'This is what I'm saying.'

'And all I'm saying is, you could at least try.'

'Well, maybe I could follow you around for a while,' Stanislav said, and he went to get his coat.

In a tone that carried more than a hint of sarcasm, Lydia said, 'Good luck with that.'

'What do you mean by that?' Stanislav said, coming back with his coat and scarf, but Lydia had already gone.

~~~

Earlier in the day, somewhere else in the great metropolis, Bob and Arnold were talking.

Bob said, 'You're always there for me, Arnold.'

'And you're always there for me,' Arnold said to Bob.

They were having breakfast together at the kitchen table. Scrambled eggs, which Arnold had prepared.

'Pass the salt,' Bob said and Arnold got the saltcellar and passed it across.

'The thing is,' Bob continued, 'it's nice having you always there for me and all. I'm not saying it's not. It's just that you're ALWAYS there for me.'

'It's a double edged sword,' Arnold said.

Sighing, Bob said, 'It would be nice if, just once, you weren't there for me.'

'Ditto,' Arnold said.

'I mean, day in day out, week after week. If you want to know the truth, sometimes I think it's driving me insane. It's not you as such, it's just that you're always there.'

Arnold put a forkful of scrambled egg in his mouth and Bob said, 'Sometimes I feel like I just want to punch you.'

'Really?'

'Yes, really.'

Putting down the fork, Arnold said, 'Well, sometimes I want to punch you too. Just punch you and punch you until you go unconscious. At least then I'd get a few moments away from you.'

'Yeah, well fuck you, Arnold.'

'And fuck you too, Bob.'

'Double fuck you,' Bob said, and Arnold said, 'Triple fuck.'

Bob said, 'Infinity fuck,' and, annoyed now beyond endurance, Arnold put a hand around Bob's throat and started squeezing. Bob made a choking sound and began doing the same thing to Arnold. They both passed out together and when they came to they were lying on the kitchen floor.

They awkwardly got to their feet and sat down again.

Bob said, 'Still here, I see.'

Arnold ignored that and went back to eating his breakfast, and another awkward day started for the conjoined twins.
Sunday 27 May 2012

Goin' South

## Sallie Ramsay

### Torrens, ACT

'I'm goin' south, soon as the drought breaks.'

How many times had she thought it but never said it aloud, even to herself?

'One day,' she thought. 'One day, I'll 'ead south, straight and true, like a homin' pigeon.'

She had grown up on the coast where the Great Southern Ocean meets land at the end of its long journey from Antarctica. In winter, she sat for hours watching lines of giant grey breakers hurl themselves in a welter of foam onto the rocks at the foot of the cliffs. She tramped the deserted beaches in wind and rain, head down, hair blowing and face tingling, glowing with the warmth that only comes from challenging the winter head on. She enjoyed the long, lazy, languid days of summer; the thrill of riding a wave right to the beach and feeling the sand hot under her feet but, in her heart she looked forward to the time when the summer crowds left, leaving the cliffs and beaches to her and the circling gulls.

In the steep hills behind the narrow coastal strip she explored the deep, moist, tree-fern filled gullies where lyre-birds danced. Water ran icy cold over moss-covered pebbles in the creeks where pobblebonk frogs called and, even in summer, the towering mountain ash were wreathed in mist until past midday. Then, one day, he was there; tall, tanned with a laugh that made others laugh, from somewhere she'd never heard of and couldn't pronounce.

'Drop dead gorgeous,' she had thought, never dreaming that was what he would do a few months before their fifth wedding anniversary, leaving her to run a property burdened with debt in the middle of the worst drought for a century.

'An undiagnosed congenital circulatory abnormality,' the death certificate said. Did it really matter why? All that mattered was that she'd lost the love of her life.

'What are you goin' to do?' they asked at his funeral.

'I'm goin' south, soon as the drought breaks,' she said aloud, for the first time.

But the drought didn't break, the ground cracked under the relentless sun, nothing moved in the shimmering heat; the cattle had long gone. The harsh red country, the heat and the distances sucked the spirit out of her. Her eyes longed to rest on the soft greens of a misty gully. She tried to imagine the sting of freezing rain against her face and the smell of salt on the wind.

He'd never stopped loving the vast cruel country.

'It can wear you down, but you should see it after rain,' he'd say. 'Comes alive with flowers, blue, yellow, pink, that stretch as far as you can see. Flocks of birds come flyin' in from God knows where and frogs start callin' from the creek. '

But it hadn't rained, not for six years ...

It was only her love for him and the promise of heading south when the drought broke that kept her going. She never complained and tried with all her heart to love the land he loved, but now, with him gone ...

Late one afternoon, she was standing on the homestead verandah when an old man kangaroo, its scarred, red hide stretched tight, barely covering its skeleton, collapsed at the edge of what had once been a garden. She watched it make a feeble, heart-breaking attempt to get up before collapsing again on the burning red sand. She went into the house, took a rifle from a cupboard and walked slowly towards the animal. For a moment it seemed to her they locked eyes in perfect understanding. She pulled the trigger and turned away, leaving the carcass where it lay.

~~~

'She's gone, I tell you, just gone, cleared off, no sign of 'er anywhere. I turned the place upside down, coo-eed, hollered, tooted the horn, but nothing, not a bleeding thing.'

The constable raised his eyebrows, 'She taken her things with her?'

'How would I know if she's taken 'er things; I wouldn't know what 'er things were.'

'Could you get your missus to have a look, she'd have a better idea.'

'Yes, right. Reckon she's been gone a week or two, there's a dead old roo, at the house fence, been shot. Don't reckon she'd stay long once it started to stink.'

~~~

'The missus says she'd left everything; clothes, photographs, the rifle, even 'er toothbrush. Doesn't look real good, Tom, not real good at all. She kept so much to 'erself, you didn't notice whether she was there or not. Tried to get out there now and then, but diesel bein' the price it is ... Some of the wives used to phone 'er every so often but the missus says she didn't seem real keen on keepin' in touch.'

~~~

Powerful headlights on a road-train cut through the driving rain, lighting up a dozen or more giant rigs crouching like prehistoric monsters in front of the Roadhouse. The driver cursed when he saw the bays closest to the door were full, forcing him to park a few hundred metres away. He considered staying in the cab until the rain eased but the soft welcoming glow from the roadhouse windows proved too much. Awkwardly he pulled on his oilskins, jumped to the ground and ran for the door.

Inside the roadhouse, the rattle of the rain on the galvanised roof competed with the drink-fuelled voices of the clientele for attention. Most of the men leaning on the bar or sitting at the well worn tables were drivers from the rigs outside. Heads turned as the door flew open to admit a newcomer, water pouring from his oilskins, forming a puddle at his feet.

'Christ, it's a bugger of a night out there, bloody cold and wet, like the shit weather they get down south.'

'Yeah mate, but at least the drought has broken.'

'Come and 'ave a beer mate, you won't be goin' anywhere tonight. Road's cut in a dozen places. Looks like we're all stuck here for the night,' the barman said, dumping a tray loaded with beer on a table.

A little dark bloke at the far end of the table took a well-worn tobacco pouch and papers from his pocket and began to roll a cigarette.

'Talkin' about the south reminded me of a weird thing that 'appened to me two or three months back ... ' he paused, concentrating on packing tobacco into the cigarette with a match.

'Go on, stop messin' around.'

'Now where was I? Yeah, I was barrellin' along a couple of hundred klicks north of here when I ran into a bit of a willy-willy. Right in the middle of the swirlin' red dust, I thought I'd seen somethin'; someone. Checked me rear vision mirrors and there she was, standin', lookin' like she was waitin' for somethin'. A skinny bit of a girl in a real light dress.' He paused to light his cigarette.

'Well?'

'The rig took a bit of stoppin', but I waited for 'er to catch up and hop in. I asked 'er where she was goin', she says "South". That's all she says, not another word. She wasn't carryin' a pack; nothing at all. Hours later I heard a bit of a noise, thought maybe somethin' in the load had come loose. I pulled the rig off the road and went to check; when I got back she'd gone.'

'Gone?'

'Yes, gone. I thought maybe she'd gone for a pee so I revved the engine and waited a bit, called but there was no sign of her. What could I do? Reported it at the next roadhouse but never 'eard anything more.'

Another nodded thoughtfully.

'I've 'eard others tellin' the same yarn; young bird appears from nowhere, says nothin' but that she's goin' south and then disappears into thin air.'

'Next thing, you'll be sayin' she's a ghost!'

'Well, what would you call 'er?'

The barman stopped pulling a beer to interject.

'A bloke was sayin', a young woman went missin' up round Kalabandy way, must be more than six months ago now. They reckon she went off her rocker after her husband died and just walked off the property. Never found a trace of 'er.'

The newcomer, leaning on the bar, who had been listening intently, picked up his beer and walked over to join the group at the table.

'If you're interested maybe I can give you an end to the story, but it doesn't really explain anythin'. A few weeks ago, I was doin' the south coast run. Early one morning, I seen this young woman standin' by the side of the road. It was bloody cold but she was only wearin' a light dress; she must have been freezin'. She didn't look as if she was hitchin', but like you said, waitin' for somethin'. There was somethin' about her ... anyway I stopped and in she hopped. No backpack or nothing. I asked where she was goin' and she said "South". Didn't say another word until hours later, when we get to where the road turns east and runs along the cliffs near Cape Wrath, she asks me to stop. She's out of the rig and off towards cliffs as quick as a flash. Just then, one of them southerlies comes up outta nowhere; rain, wind, the works and swallows 'er up. I lost sight of 'er. Then, there's a bit of a break and I seen 'er, standin' right on the edge of the cliffs at the Cape. Then, next moment, she's gone.'

'She jumped?'

'No, she was standin', with 'er arms stretched out above 'er 'ead, with that skimpy dress flyin' out behind 'er. She lifted 'er face up, facin' into the wind, like a kid waitin' for a kiss; then she just wasn't there any more, just gone. I never seen 'er fall.'

~~~

Pelican fish where cattle died; the skeleton of a roo almost hidden under a mass of flowers lies just beyond the fence.
Monday 28 May 2012 8 am

Memories

## Jean Bundesen

### Woodford, NSW

Of days long gone

When pine trees grew tall

And Aborigines

Walked through

With reverence

To the Ancestors' Spirits.

There were many pathways

Leading to the Bunya Mountains

And back to their sacred site

Where they held corroborees.

The meeting place of different tribes

Feasting on the Bunya Pine nuts.

They have all gone

But the memories linger on

At the sacred place

Where they once met.

Now fenced in, with a monument

To these proud people ...

The people who once walked

Across Granddad's land

Never to return.
Monday 28 May 4 pm

The First Journey

## Peter Goodwin

### Warilla, NSW

In the end, the distance we travelled

was modest, a few hundred miles or so,

but it was our first journey.

Do you hold fast to your first journey?

Does it mark you still?

Were you alone when you set off

or were you with another, a friend,

a lover, a companion of the road?

Did you have a destination,

an old port town, a walled city,

an ancient ruin, a sacred shrine?

Do you recall the names

of those you met on the way,

those that gave you shelter in bad weather,

direction when you were lost,

comfort when you could not go on?

Did they invite you to the feast,

offer you a night of laughter and love

and then send you on your way?

On your return, were you so changed

your family and friends did not recognise you?

Did you stand before them in the doorway

covered in the dust of old roads,

your eyes dark from all you had seen,

your voice a whisper from all you had said?

Did you sit on the floor by the fire

eating and drinking as you told your tales

to those gathered around you

or were you silent and withdrawn

already preparing for another journey

from which there may be no return?
Tuesday 29 May 2012

Left Upon The Steps Of Salvation

##  Stephen Falconer

### Melbourne, VIC

It was August and as such it was cold, damn cold, and today it was wet. That slow wet that falls heavily, hits with a splash and soaks you more than your clothing label would lead you to believe. Not the sort of day anybody wanted to be anywhere, let alone here. Wet, cold, and out on the pavement in front of that rather bland but ever-present church, this particular one belonging to St John of the Cross, a lesser cross bearer I guessed. Had any other circumstances conspired to bring me here, now, I would simply have turned to the nearest watering hole and warmed myself from the inside out and being Melbourne there was always one handy. But it was that tendency that had been my most recent downfall, and those 'court appointed appointments' were awful hard to get out of. So here it was that I found myself.

The church stood boldly in front of me. That's how they build these things; a catholic schooling had taught me a few of their tricks. The steeple could be seen for miles around or used to be till greater monuments to different desires were erected around it, but the building itself was still impressive enough. Large would be the first word most people would use to describe it, as it had no other great features besides its steeple. A steeple that drew the eye up from the mass of the building in front of you, past the old facade of the church to the call of the peeling bell, to the vision of the great sky and the sun worshipped since man could. But today the bell didn't ring, and the sky wasn't its usual brilliance. In fact for some reason I muffled a chuckle just thinking of this grand building and looking up at its great monolith before me, pointing the way towards a heavenly damp that now made its way down, in a kamikazeed barrage towards my feet. Some feeling held me with a bitter amusement, anything to make myself feel better I thought.

The smell of the musty air lit by burnt coffee grounds, the staleness and dust aroused by the motion of those inside the church. It was time, more than time. I pulled my collar up in one last gesture of defiance to the weather, and walked into that church. A church built with bricks and sparse mortar, a church that I, like so many others, was prone to dismiss as just another gravestone used to spout some misinterpreted epitaph. I didn't give much regard to the people it represented, the people who built it out of respect and whose hearts lived in it in worship. I used to think a building was a building, and a person was a person, though all things I guess come together in time and all will grow to reflect another. As I walked under the monolithic steeple and through the main archway entrance to the foyer, the atmosphere grew dark despite the fluorescents. I began to see signs that someone or something was affecting this grand building or this gravestone was affecting someone more than any single person could, or should. The old timber frames seemed to bear more weight than the walls would suggest, with its sealed grain aged black and a little weary in parts. The walls of a darker brown brick than those used for the facade of its exterior seemed to cluster in tonal groups along the siding, creating strange waves throughout the church walls. This and the people around me seemed to turn the air, just a little. These people seemed even more sombre than I expected a group of reforming alcoholics to be but I noticed one odd feature, those that mingled stood limply around as if waiting for something other than more coffee while the others, the more sullen looking people, didn't mingle and seemed to avoid any sort of contact as they routinely rifled through Christian propaganda pamphlets and paced the corners of the room.

Despite my unconscious misgivings about the crowd, I instinctively moved through the throng and headed for the snack table; my basic desires had never failed me in such circumstances before. The table was arranged with the urn on one side and the biscuit dish on the other, both being bordered by more assortments of Christian propaganda. No recycled paper stamp I noted.

As I tried to decide between the wheat germ and the 'SAOs', I heard a very calm but present voice behind me in the hushed fray. I turned to see a slight but imposing man speaking to one of the quiet ones with a hand on their shoulder, his fingers pressed just a little pale against the shoulder pads of the meek little lady whose face I couldn't see. Come to think of it, I cannot recall her at the church anytime other than that first day, hers or many faces of those others not in my group. Blame my deteriorating memory or the flock's lack of remarkability, but the priest's face was clear. Nothing particularly striking about it except the strength of expression. He looked like someone easy to confide in as he possessed such a placid countenance though the lines in his face suggested something of a character. One that this quiet crowd, reluctant as they were to make the slightest contact with such strangers, were almost clamouring over each other to stand around him. Though I guess 'God's' stamp of approval would evidently help.

As I looked over this cloistered, humbly draped priest amidst his disciples, wheat germ and stale coffee in hand, he must have noticed the attention and raised his head to my direction. Just turning then at the sound of his voice, he seemed to respond to me fairly quickly. He returned my attention with a small, wry smile and looked back to his current audience. I couldn't hear what he was saying but evidently his little gathering hung on his every word. Returning to my crackers and coffee and my introductory ice-breaker held by one of the reverend's 'self-confessed saved', which consisted of two very PC jokes, a short, rehearsed talk about the history of the church and an offer of some of the better cookies from the reverend's private stash. After ten very long minutes and a Kingston biscuit later we were herded into the 'open discussion room', or room two as the door led us to believe. Seating ourselves on what looked like school chairs, arranged in crescent moon formation with one chair standing out separate, at the focus of the other attended chairs. One very comfortable chair, I noted as I struggled to find a sitting position that didn't cut off the circulation to my legs. In a short, settling moment the father walked into the room and set himself down on the chair, with all reverence for the occasion. The group fell silent at his entrance and all turned to watch who would be judging us, to be worthy of the title 'sober'.
Wednesday 30 May 2012

Material World

## Samantha Miller

### Faulconbridge, NSW

Struggling back to consciousness, Paula Johnson was surprised to find she felt no pain. The noise and lights had been terrifying. She felt herself shudder as she looked around.

Vaguely aware of her surroundings, she drifted down a corridor and through the doorway at the end of it. The door shut with a thud that seemed heavier than it should be. Turning back, Paula found she was unable to open it. Now she that she felt a little more awake, she was concerned and disorientated.

Surveying the room she was in was confusing. It was packed with stuff, like the treasure nest in some kind of dragon's lair. So much stuff, Paula couldn't believe somebody would leave all these things here. It rose from the floor in overflowing boxes and crates. There were clothes, shoes, kitchen appliances, books, so many books, cosmetics, accessories, ornaments and even boxes of chocolates.

Somewhere, through all the skyscrapers of debris, Paula could see the far side wall and the door set in it. Perhaps the only exit.

Squeezing through the mountain of things, she brushed against a pile of coats and as they fell down towards her, she caught hold of a woollen duffel in cherry red. It was a nice coat, but just not the right shade of red she looked best in. Turning it around, she saw a label sewn into the lining. Purchased by Paula Johnson 20th March 1999. Really? She thought, this is mine?

Checking another coat she saw a similar label. Once more it had her name and the supposed date of purchase. It soon became apparent that all the coats were labelled as hers, but she didn't remember a single one of them. Furthermore, even though at first sight, the coats were quite attractive, she found as she tried them on there was something wrong with each of them. Not quite the right colour, fastens funny, a bit short, a bit long ...

On inspecting the shoes, Paula found the same situation. All labelled with her name and date of purchase. There was one pair that seemed a little familiar. They were an adorable pair of oxfords with a leopard pattern top. She'd had a pair like that, but they had never fit her properly and she didn't quite know where they'd ended up.

The clothes, books, cosmetics; all the rest were labelled. They were all hers and they were none of them quite right.

Paula pushed through eventually to the door, only to find it locked. A note stuck to the door told her that when she found the key, she could open the door.

'Well, thanks Captain Obvious,' she said to nobody.

The urge to get through the door overcame Paula's irritation and so she began to search. Again the shoes, the pockets of the clothing, the tea pots, cups and appliances, all were checked and all began to look more and more familiar. Paula slowly began to realise that she had indeed bought all this stuff at some point. However, it had all been rejected after a very short time for not being quite right.

It was quite a sobering thought that here was so much stuff she'd bought and didn't want. What was it all doing here?

The door swung open, and seeing it, Paula made a quick exit, leaving the rejects behind with some relief.

Paula had entered another room. This one was quite bright and comparatively empty and just as she was blinking in the glare, she heard the door slam.

'Got me again', she said, 'but this time I know there will be another door.'

As her eyes adjusted, she could see a table set for tea just in front of another door. Paula decided this door was her obvious goal. Feeling a little like Alice down the rabbit hole, she approached the table carefully and studied the tea set in case it was one of her rejects.

It certainly wasn't one of hers. The colour, shape, size and pour were perfect. This one was beautiful, just beautiful and she wished it was one of hers. The tea was hot; there was milk in the jug, but no sugar bowl. Paula didn't worry much as she didn't take sugar, but it did seem a shame that such a beautiful set was incomplete.

Also on the table was a cheque for a huge amount of money. Made out to Paula Johnson.

She sat down heavily on the chair and stared at the cheque. Why would someone give her all this money? The signature was unclear and the cheque provider was a high street bank anyway. The identity of her benefactor was certainly secret. One thing was for sure. In order to cash that cheque, Paula would have to get out of that room.

Looking at the now predictable note on the door Paula could see that Captain Cryptic had been in that room.

'Know yourself and you will open doors,' it read. There was only one thing for it. Drink the tea and think about how to spend the money.

As Paula considered what she could buy with all that money, she thought about all the glossy magazines she had been reading and the internet shopping sites she had drooled over. The fabulous clothes seen on the It Girl of the moment, the face cream with magical properties advertised on the TV. How about new mobile phone that has a touch screen, or those crazy motorised shoes in the paper, or the 'must-have' bag of the season?

Now that she thought about it, there might be a bag a bit like that in the reject room. That'd be something, what if she took that cheque and bought all the same stuff she'd rejected all over again. How much money had she spent on all that?

The door swung open. Paula grabbed her cheque, emptied her tea cup and bolted through the doorway just before the door thudded behind her.

Outside the room, it was dark.

'What now?' Paula wondered, feeling her way along another smooth wall.

'There must be a light switch somewhere, or how will I read my notes? How will I know what this next crazy room wants from me?'

Her hand found a string which she pulled on, gently revealing a door with window panes depicting a wondrous scene. Laid out before her in all its glory she could see a fabulous department store, open and ready for business. Beautifully presented, artfully lit and charmingly displayed on shelves, mannequins, chaises and stands were all the items she had been fantasising about. Smartly dressed staff were waiting with wide smiles and trays of champagne to welcome her and her large cheque.

The light from the store penetrated back into the gloom of the corridor where Paula stood, and turning to one side, she could see another blind. Unable to resist the possible delights that lay in wait through the second door Paula tugged the other blind open.

Through this door she could almost see a bright light and almost feel the dry heat of not much at all. Squatting on the ground was a man wearing what seemed to be a dirty white kaftan. He was making something out of a piece of discarded wood. When he was finished he handed it to a small child who set it down beside her into a basket which contained a small pile of similar objects. Both people were small, dirty and very skinny. Even though she wanted to, Paula couldn't look away. With her eyes fixed on the scene, she backed away from the door in horror, in case it opened.

Turning desperately towards the soft light of the other door, Paula looked again toward the beautiful sight of shiny consumer goods that beckoned her into the transient warmth of their glow until she felt the soft breeze of air-conditioning and inhaled the many layers of seductive designer fragrances.

As she grasped the handle of the door, she paused as a tiny thought battled its way to the surface of her consciousness and grew at speed into an idea.

Turning away she muttered to herself, 'Oh now I get it, I really get it.'

Paula Johnson awoke from a coma in extreme pain after being crushed and trampled during an incident in the winter sales of the Damascus Emporium. She is expecting a large settlement cheque for damages.
Thursday 31 May 2012

Love Is A Verb

## Sonia Ursus Satori

### Medlow Bath, NSW

Now you tell me.

And I thought all along it is

Some thing

We know we experience we want

Not an abstraction of a 'doing word'

So to speak.

When I love

Or you love

We are on cloud nine

On top of the world

Smiling chuckling skipping.

He loves me!

I am in love!

With you, him, her.

Always forever

He loves me not

I am devastated

Without you life is meaningless!

If love is a verb (just a verb, ha!)

Then dance is too.

Dance to the music and you know this is for real.

You gotta stop for a breather once in a while

You huff you puff

Your spasms glow in rhythm with body soul and sound.

Love is a verb – give me a break!

What about Romeo and Juliet – they knew better.

And ladies' hearts pounding for Casanova

Each night every night until

They get dumped. Swoon and doom. The end is nigh.

Love is not a verb. Love is life love is death.

Love is me love is you.

And we are not just nouns, are we now?

Imagine a noun like the abstract you (!) walking talking

Sleeping eating drinking thinking spitting

Wondering pondering swallowing farting.

Get the drift?
Friday 1 and Saturday 2 June 2012

Odd Footy Boy

## Irene Assumpter

### East Vic Park, WA

The phone rang at 7am on Sunday. Sunday of all days. According to my upbringing, Sunday is a holy day. The message it brought us was nothing holy. They say when we depart we go to heaven. Sure. Whatever. All I know right now is that my friend is no more. God did not call my friend. Someone said my friend had to go. My friend is bleeding. My friend is smiling at me. My friend is wearing a stained footy jumper ...

I am screaming in my sleep, competing with the sound of the phone. Usually, this phone sounds like it has crickets in it. Now it sounds like the crickets have just married weaverbirds ... wedding ceremony in session.

The phone is definitely ringing. It is my bloody housekeeping agent on the other end. The one with the jah name.

'Hotel Sanova. 8am. Double pay today, Nyanyai. Double pay.'

I rub my eyes, tired. I want to sleep more.

'Nyanyai!' she shouts. 'Nyanyai, you there? I said double pay. Don't be silly!'

'I heard. I am not silly. I am sick. You know, women issues.'

'Uh?'

'Yes. Uh. That bloody time of the month. Literally.'

'Disgusting, Nyanyai. Very disgusting!'

I shrug.

'Take Panadol. Nyanyai, double pay. What I do now you go say no-huh? I call other girl. You ... '

This Serbian woman never gives up. Wait. I forget a little detail time and again. She ain't no Serbian. She made that clear. Marija is a Macedonian woman who grew up in Serbia. I am tempted to smile at the thought of how special she always feels in her secondhand suits. I finally do when I picture her shiny staff badge. 'Housekeeping Manager', it says. God knows Marija could dance nude along the Great Eastern Highway to have 'Housekeeping' taken off that badge.

Marija talks a lot. She told me she was a virgin when she got married. That was on my very first day at Hotel Esprit. I do not know who married the virgin Marija. I just know they are not together. Marija called him a loser. Now Marija has an English surname. She even loves footy. She drinks that beer-brand with an Australian State name quite a bit. I doubt she realises her perfume cannot disguise its smell in her little office at the basement. Last year when I was seventeen, Marija told me she did not drink because she grew up in a moral Greek family. Alcohol is for hooligans, she had said.

Marija somewhat likes me. She tells all the girls at the hotel I am the only one who knows how to pronounce her name. She is interesting. One time a friend and I saw her at Good Sammy's. She pretended not to have seen me, even as I looked closer at her. Two weeks later at Hotel Suraya, I heard her telling the blonde hotel receptionist she bought the suit at Myer for just under six hundred dollars. I had been tempted to scream five-bucks-ninety-nine-cents. I think I may have laughed out loud instead.

'Nyanyai! Double pay. Sunday. Public holiday!'

'Jesus, Marija!' I exclaim. 'I gotta shower at least, right?'

'Good, Nyanyai. Smart girl. You know how to call my name. Nyanyai, one day we have coffee. I got good story ...'

I hang up. I have to. Marija Wales finds it difficult to shut up. Most important though, I need that bloody double pay of hers.

~~~

Roma Café is a lifesaver at Kodrum. You need it to stay sane around campus. Taking a sip of hot chocolate, I munched on my multi-coloured M&Ms as I waited for the shop assistant to warm my blueberry muffin. As a better part of me concentrated on the mouthwatering displays and smells, the other kept wondering why I had taken Literary Journalism that semester. It was not a compulsory unit. For some reason, I thought it would be appropriate.

'No talk about assignments!' I heard someone exclaim behind me in an African accent and almost agreed out loud.

'African accent' are two words most Africans would not agree with. There is no way 53 nationals can speak uniformly.

In between uncountable yells of food orders, assignment and due are two words you cannot miss at Kodrum University's Doof Court. Doof Court is the food mini-mall where Roma Café sits. I always wonder whose idea 'doof' was.

'Coffee and muffin,' a freckled-faced young man ordered.

He is definitely Australian. The accent screams it. Home and Away and Neighbours on Kenya-TV had left me well equipped in that sector. So why do we Africans have a problem with 'African accent' again? Oh well, Africa, unlike Australia, is not a country.

'What kind?' the cashier asked half-heartedly, bringing me back to planet Roma Café.

'Orange poppy seed.'

'And coffee?'

'Um ... let's see,' he mumbled, tapping his foot.

'Sure, mate,' someone interrupted. 'We are standing here just waiting for you to decide what kind of coffee you want.'

Thankfully, the pink-haired shop attendant is here for our rights. Her bright hair is newsreader-stiff on her head. For a moment I wonder if super glue has been used here. Her tiny eyes vaguely remind me of someone.

'Look, there are people waiting here ...'

She gives that plastic smile salespeople are taught about customer service. I notice she has a ring on her tongue. Just the thought of how she got it there makes me cold.

'Latte will do.'

My muffin was obviously taking longer than the average warming ... global warming perhaps. It is another five minutes before I can get a bite of my Doof muffin.

Outside Doof sits the ever-noisy Kudrom Park where most of us like to kill time. It looks more like an arena for fresh, green grass to fight dying, brown grass. Surrounding it are tired yellowish looking cement pillars that are a definite contrast with the insides of the buildings they enclose – a clear indication that too much touch-up work is done on Kodrum's insides than its outsides.

The sun is bright. People who ditched their sunglasses squint like they have just been fed squeezes of fresh lemons. I love the play of sunlight on hair; the perfect time to see who finds comfort in wearing dandruff. Among them is a tall, rather built Zimbabwean-Sudanese student named Yonah. Yonah does not have dandruff. What he has is a deep voice. A voice he probably exaggerates. I have always thought he makes it sound croakier than it really is.

I first met Yonah in 2004 in my Creative Arts class. Yonah looks misleadingly reserved. We never spoke outside class until the day I wore a t-shirt with a Kenyan flag to school. Of course, 'So you are Kenyan' had been the opening sentence.

He told me he had lived in Kenya and topped it with a little detail. He finds Kodrum Africans too proud to talk to.

'Yonah Santino Mayang,' he had said, offering his palm of long fingers. 'I know you. Katila Nyanyai Dengere, right? Right!'

I try to speak. He doesn't let me. I raise a brow instead.

'How do you know people are proud without talking to them?' I return to his previous comment.

'They don't talk to other Africans the way Africans should talk to each other.'

I raise another brow.

'Well, you know, saying hello.'

His tone is dismissive.

'Too proud. At home people say hello.'

'Sudan, you mean.'

'No, everywhere in Africa. I have lived in Kenya, Zimbabwe and Sudan, o'right?'

'Those are three countries, Yonah. I am sure you have only lived in parts of those countries. But I agree there is a bit of a difference. I think people try not to bother with greetings.'

'No. Just pride. Some Africans thinking they are better than others.'

'Surely you can't walk around looking for faces you recognise. Sometimes they simply don't see you. This is uni ...'

'They see you, they look away.'

Yonah was not entirely wrong. There were Africans walking around campus with strange I-am-better-than-you sneers. I could never be bothered saying hello myself. These people seemed to befriend their nationals only.

Is that not what freedom is though? People have the freedom to choose friends.

'Next time, don't look either. Get yourself an attitude too.'

'What for? I was not brought up like that. Even in Nairobi that is what people do,' Yonah continued, making me wonder what happened to 'everywhere in Africa'. 'I told you I have lived in Kenya.'

I heard you the first ... second time.

'It is a city. People are busy. People are nicer in small towns,' I defended yet again.

We never came to an agreement on that topic. It reminded me of a Burundian friend who had said she loathes the way Kenyans treat house-helps and patronise them with aunt-titles. 'Ati auntie,' she had said, sneering. 'Kenya ni nchi nzuri lakini madharau hivi mnayo.' I knew exactly what she was talking about.

I had asked Yonah a favour. His father was a politician. I assumed he was rich. He was not. Just before he moved to Australia, Yonah lived in a refugee camp in Kenya. Being fairly self-conscious, he does not quite appreciate being considered the 'helpless' refugee.

In a matter of weeks, Yonah oddly started calling himself Yosam. Something about using his three names in one word. I refused to put that into practice. Other things came with the sad death of Yonah – a name I truly loved for its meaning – and the uncelebrated birth of Yosam. He even deserted his neat hair cut for a mop of dreadlocks. I have never understood why.

Zimbabwe had been on the media for quite some time. You would need to be exceptionally naïve to miss the controversy surrounding its leader, Habemu. Somehow, Yonah's father was caught in the middle of it. I had asked him to tell me more about his father. The last time I had seen Yonah, things had not gone well. He had been stopping to greet just about the entire campus ... typically Yonah. He had told me his father had recently been released from prison. I wanted him to tell me more about his family and how they were coping.

'Terrible, of course,' he had said, giving me a critical look.

'You are strong. You laugh like nothing is wrong. Greeting everyone and stuff,' I had said without thinking.

'Well, I guess so. So, what do you want to hear? Why me?'

He gnawed at a packet of salt-vinegar potato chips he had literally grabbed off me. The sound of cracking chips kicked off the interview.

'Well, you are an international student, you are African and your background is pretty rare. A Sudanese-born Zimbabwean.'

'People travel, don't they? My father married a Sudanese woman who happened to get paged.'

I blink, a little confused.

'Preg-nant,' he enunciates, grinning. 'They had a son. His name is Yosam. He is in Australia now. End.'

I had to laugh.

'Yonah, this is serious. You are my assignment.'

'You asked me about my father, yeah?'

'Well, he is a politician, hey? I think you have a story worth telling.'

'My screwed up life, you mean.'

'I was not going to say that.'

'The idea of my father being sick in prison and being refused treatment is pretty screwed up. Zimbabwe is screwed up. Sudan is screwed up. At some stage every country in Africa will go through what we have gone through. Wait and see.'

'You think so?'

He nodded.

'Well, in the meantime I think you might be an interesting part of my piece. The essence, actually.'

'As long as it won't get published.'

There. My first problem. Great. Just great.

'The piece is nothing political. You have nothing to worry about,' I said quickly.

He shrugged.

'So, would you consider your father a good politician? Like, you know, not corrupt?'

This question, I realised, had been the least appropriate.

He gave me that withering how-dare-you look a sworn priest would give when asked if he gets certain feelings around women and said, 'He is anti-Habemu, if that is what you are asking.'

That had been the end of the first interview.

I had ruined it.

Literary Journalism is boring. Making things up is much more fun.

You know you are bored when you can hear your watch tick. I can write no more. I am losing the plot. I cannot get myself to read anything either.

I switch on my tiny TV. An Aboriginal teenager is dead in Halls Creek. He had been sniffing petrol. I instantly remember Nairobi's street kids sniffing glue.

Who will help these kids?

I am staring at the glittery stars on my ceiling. I stuck them there to add magic to my room. I am missing home. I am missing someone I do not really know.

Earlier that evening as I drove my tired '92 Toyota Camry listening to 91.5FM, a radio presenter named Nash had been having a shot at improving his on-air sense of humour by making fun of celebrity child-adoption. Lina Jole and Brett Pride were in the business and rumour had it that Pride's ex Jo Angestone was considering joining the adoption party. Nash had written a mock letter to Angestone. It started with something like 'I know you are targeting some little boy or girl from Sudan, Uganda or whatever but I'm not too old. Just twenty. I am Australian ...'

I did not listen to the rest of it. Of course, only African children need adoption.

Besides, you are a foreigner, Nyanyai ... not quite the targeted audience.

I replaced the adoption thoughts with more home-thoughts.

It is better to study here and get a job. Australia's laws work better. You know Kenya. Toa kitu kidogo. TKK, they call it.

I cannot afford to 'give something small' to get someone to do their job.

For one moment I imagine what life would have been like if my father was alive and a politician. He could just use taxpayers' money to get us a good care-free life.

My family moved from Sudan a long time ago when Sudan was better. We became Kenyans. I do not know how that happened. Uncle Deng's explanation is as vague as 'your father knew people'.

I was the only child of my parents at the time. Uncle Deng said 'Dad's people' thought he was a smart man who did not foolishly sire many children without a plan like many Africans do. That is because they did not know my twin brothers Batian and Nelion died of malaria in Mama's hands. They liked Dad. I guess that is all that mattered. Dad started as a watchman at an international hotel in Nairobi. Then he became the hotel's concierge. Promotion, they called it.

Then he managed the hotel.

Then he died.

I was ten when he left. Someone said he had to go. He owed someone money ... another of Uncle Deng's vague answers. Mama checked into a nursing college two weeks after the funeral. Apparently Uncle Deng asked 'Dad's people' to check her in.

Dad could have left money in the bank for us. Mama would not be waking up early to go to Shah Hospital. I would not be doing crap jobs in Australian hotels ... Dad should have been a politician.

No, I do not want anyone in my family in politics. Not African politics. Uncle Deng looks like he wants to get into politics. Deng-daring, as Mama calls him. He forgets we are not really Kenyans. You cannot trust these people.

Whatever. We are Kenyans. Mama, my little sister Ajak, my little brother Tut and Uncle Deng.

I love and miss my Kenya. Can I work there though? How many times will I wail to speak to a manager? Even the wind knows I am a drama queen. But how long am I going to feel this foreign? Unlike my Asian friends, being an African international student in Town meant two things – your parent or relative was a corrupt politician with lots of money or you were a displaced refugee.

It took me well over two years to wake up and smell the coffee, as Mama phrased it one time I was getting nonsensical on the phone. She said I had been wasting money on phone cards. She said I had to make friends. I had friends at home who became my friends. I never made them.

I was suddenly different and foreign. Strangers became friends. You made the effort. You had to call them up once or twice a week, join them to some movie you did not exactly want to watch ... force strange tasting food down your throat and have the sweet gut to compliment their cooking. Complete honesty was certainly not the first step to getting close to other people. I remember being suddenly loyal to a diary: Life sucks. I want to go home. My heart will stop beating. So tired of crying quietly ... no one can hear me n' think I'm having boy issues. Boys are least of my concerns at this point. Wanna go HOME!'

That entry was not entirely correct. There was a boy I missed. A boy I never really knew. A charming boy in my neighbourhood. He looked a lot like Yonah.

I knew the answer to that even as I wasted ink, paper and time. I could not go back home. Some things go without saying in my family.

'I miss home daily,' I told Yonah as a Ugandan girl named Celia joined us at a table in Doof Court. 'Who doesn't love home anyway?'

If I had upset Yonah, I was determined to improve this time. I needed him. My grades depended on him.

'I love home. Talking about it does not help,' Yonah said, transferring a reasonable scoop of rice into his mouth. 'I mean with the situation in Zim now.'

'You have to love it,' said Celia. 'Home is home. Most dudes never miss home.'

'Well, I do. I just think it is useless talking about it.'

Celia had ordered herself some coffee. She speaks in gestures. The wave of her hand could have sent the coffee cup flying in the air and probably slash someone's entire face while at it.

'How's the currency there?'

'Terrible,' Yonah answered almost immediately. 'It used to be the richest country in Africa.'

'Was it?' I asked. 'South Africa or Nigeria, I reckon. Higher currency, minerals, oil and stuff.'

'Having a higher currency exchange rate does not make a country rich,' Yonah stated. 'Can you say Kenya is better than Japan because the amount of Kenya shillings that make an Oz dollar is less than the amount of yen that makes the same dollar?'

'Whoa!' Celia laughed. 'Can you say that again? In simpler, shorter sentences, please.'

I sipped my coffee as I listened to Yonah make good use of the second chance to bash the Kenya shilling. Celia seemed to have been convinced.

'Just so you know, Yonah likes to have the last word,' I told Celia.

Yonah went on to speak about corruption, poverty and AIDS in Africa. The usual media-baptised African tags. At some point Celia argued that 'AIDS is not caused by poverty but by dogging without thinking'. She had said, 'Dog with a condom, for crying out loud!'

I sat there wondering where my story was going. I stared at the last bits of my muffin crumbs like the answers lay there. Yonah did not seem to want to talk about his father, probably not in the presence of a third person.

'Just give me a call when you are ready to hear the stuff,' he said in that killer smile I happen to like. 'You know, the screwed up stuff.'

That was the thing. I was always ready to hear 'the stuff'! He wasn't.

'Are you two ...' Celia slanted me a look, showing me two twined fingers.

I could only laugh. Yonah laughed too.

~~~

The following week, I heard rumors that Zimbabwean students' visas were being cancelled. My tutor brought it up in class. I thought about Yonah. And my story. He could not just leave.

He had not.

I met him and a friend of his at Kudrom Park. As is the thing with rumours, a little detail had been left out ... Zimbabwean students whose parents were in Habemu's government. His father was in the opposition. It would have been unfair on him. It was not fair on any of those students either. They are not the politicians; their parents are.

Yonah's friend has a warm sense of humour and a distinct, point-making yet non-insistent tone in his voice. He told me how 'not so upset' he was for those students.

'They live like royals. Their parents send them over here while other Zims suffer back home. Even if you have the money in Zim now, it does not help anymore coz thez nothing on the shelves. I know one of the fuckers. He lives in Melbourne. That guy drives a Merc. Well, used to drive.'

He smiled and mumbled something to Yonah in their native language. From the look on his face, I gathered they knew the student in question and, perhaps, did not like his father very much.

'At least Kenya is peacefully corrupt. Well, no Kenyan student I know drives an escalade around here,' I murmured.

'A politician's pay in Kenya is perhaps not as huge as the planet. Come to Zim. You will be shocked.'

'Are you kidding?' I said in laughter. 'They do earn quite a lot. Last time I checked, they did not even pay taxes.'

'Look at it this way ... you can go home without worrying about guns on the street and passport confiscations.'

I notice Yonah is staring at me. A new kind of stare. Cute.

My mobile phone buzzes. A text message from Marija. It has five exclamation marks at the end – Nyanyai, my girl. Work available. Hotel Esprit. Call quick. Chop-chop!

~~~

The thing about being part of a certain group is the inevitable insecurity that comes with being identified as being part of that group.

On Monday morning at Kudrom Park, a local student was yelling out the title of a book he wanted to borrow from the library. It was the Queen's birthday long weekend. The weather was a tad gloomy. A great footy player had just died. Another was allegedly swimming in drugs.

'African something! Child Soldiers in Africa, I think.'

Of course, my attention rocketed at the mention of that word – African.

Tricky. Africans can be confusing. At one point we claim to be different people from different places. At other times we take pride in the unexplainable bondage we share. If an African person does something embarrassing, we tend to share the embarrassment. I remember wanting to cover my face one time when an African man swore at a bus driver when he was told he had purchased the wrong bus ticket, and needed to pay a few cents more to reach his destination. He kept swearing as he searched his pockets for coins. He looked like what my late father would call a pile of dirty laundry: baggy, sagging blue jeans with a huge-buckled belt that does not really do its job and an oversized hood-sweatshirt.

I did not know him, but I know that no one in Africa is supposed to talk like that. Being a member or a minority group is a challenge. You seem to represent two massive territories – a continent and a country – both of which a regular person cannot possibly represent. Here I was sitting in a bus stressing over a total stranger making a fool of himself. I wish I could say, 'I do not know this person. I cannot take responsibility for an entire race. I cannot be bothered,' and mean it.

I am bothered.

Two weeks later, I try to milk progress out of Yonah again. I am running out of time to be the next Marjorie Macgoye, my favourite writer.

Instead, Yonah ended up buying me hot chocolate to make it up to me. He had to meet friends in South Guildford. Apparently, he is learning to play footy. He promised to catch up with me that evening.

He also gave me a sudden peck on my forehead. I could not help noticing he was wearing perfume. To be more to the point, Yonah had started wearing perfume.

I shrug tiredly and drag my feet to the car park. My ears ache. Kudrom Park announcements literally turn my brain off. A removal truck is screeching yards away. Ironically, the park sits right in front of the main library.

I drop by Roma Café to grab a can of Red Bull. I need it badly.

I start the old Toyota again. The radio blares off. It is that boy Nash again. I am just about to change the channel when I hear the word Sudan. It is no celebrity-adoption this time. There has been a street brawl in South Guildford. And he is cracking no jokes today.

The car suddenly dies. I need someone to help me jump-start it. I stare at the wide-eyed, nodding dog on the dashboard – a present from Tut Simon Dengere – like he can assist me.

~~~

I had taken the direct train from Kodrum to Town CBD.

I hate hospitals. They remind me of when Dad left. I remember the smell. It is the same everywhere. The smell of Tut's second birthday ... not cake, not burning candles, just a lot of tears and fat sympathetic nurses giving us rock hard butter-scotch candies. I remember our four-year-old Ajak throwing them at the doctor. I remember Mama rocking back and forth in her seat next to Dad's cold body. I remember our intelligent Ajak telling her it was okay to cry. Ajak said Dad told her if anything ever happened to him, she would take care of us. Ajak Lola Dengere, the problem-solver. She once warned Uncle Deng to 'never ever in his entire life' lay a hand on Tut. Tut had broken Uncle Deng's special soapstone smoke-pipe. Apparently the pipe was a present from his special girlfriend ... one of his many special girlfriends. The bloody pipe from a place called Tabaka in Kenya.

I am sitting at Royale Hospital's lawn, ignoring the hunger twists my stomach is doing.

This cannot happen to Yonah. He will live. He needs to tell me his story ... forget the story. Yonah is young. His life is just starting. He is young. He is so young.

I have my portable MP3 headphones in my ears, listening to Jamila by Jose Chameleon, a Ugandan talent. Bad choice of music at this point in time. Jamila is an abused woman. Her husband beats her up like a punch bag ... but she goes back to him after their two families do their problem-solving thing. I like the beats of this song though. I see its video in my head every single time I listen to it. I like the mud huts and the banana plantation. I like Chameleon's Maasai shuka ...

A paramedic has been yelling at me for the past five minutes.

'Allo?'

I apologise in a static tone of a girl who needs ice cold water splashed all over her.

'That thin lady is asking for you,' he says, pointing at Yonah's mother – a verge of death from the word go.

Five minutes later I am walking back to the train station. I couldn't have managed driving had I brought the old car. I could hit someone on the road if I do not kill myself at it.

I stop to get some M&Ms at a kiosk. I hear the news headlines for the umpteenth time.

'Police have charged an Afghan man with one count of murder and one count of assault in relation to the brawl in South Guildford last evening. Witnesses say the multicultural footy game turned sour when one player was called a monkey and another a terrorist. A nineteen-year-old Sudanese student was stabbed with a knife. Yonah Mayang died at Royale Hospital a few hours ago. The victim's mother has expressed utter sadness at the tragedy ... 'We came here to get some peace ... he was my only son' ... Police are urging locals to remain calm ... the fight was not racially motivated.'

Sure, they were fighting for the last piece of M&Ms in a chocolate factory.

'Nyanyai!' someone's voice startles me.

'Marija?'

She smiles sadly and gives me a sudden hug.

'I am sorry. I did not know you knew him. But I saw you with him at ...'

'Good Sammy's?'

She is embarrassed. I can tell.

'Such a lovely boy.'

I feel a sudden sense of double loss. Yosam ... Yonah had a girlfriend. The girl's mother is staring right at me with that jah face of hers. I spot her daughter yards away. She can barely look at me.

She has bright pink newsreader-stiff hair and a ring on her tongue.
Sunday 3 June 2012

My Name Is Gertrude ...

## Robyn Chaffey

### Hazelbrook, NSW

I'm grateful to be here at this meeting tonight, but I am really quite nervous. You had already been recommended to me by three other confessed mums in my neighbourhood. Then last week, when I had reached the end of my tether, and could manage my life no longer, I asked my doctor what he thought ... he said both his wife and his mother had long attended your meetings and he'd felt it had a healing effect on the whole family.

'It is, after all, a well known fact,' he reminded me, 'that the disease of motherhood is a family disease!' Then he added, 'It is utterly impossible that anyone could live in the same house as one addicted to motherhood, with the behaviours and compulsions that engenders, and not be affected! You must do it for them if you won't do it for yourself!'

I felt quite sick about coming here, I don't mind telling you. I sat outside in my car for ages and watched you all come in. What was I getting myself into? You all looked so 'normal' though! I think I thought you would all have hairstyles reminiscent of people with their fingers permanently jammed in power-points, super wrinkled brows and heads that shook like the wobble dogs in rear car windows.

I have for so long felt totally alien in my own life, I guess that is what I expected to see and hear in you.

I had promised myself I would just sit and listen ... see what happened in here. I planned to see the meeting through in silence and hit the street immediately it ended ... just knew I was going to need a long draw on a strong black caffeine ... and a chance to roll my neck and crack it back into place.

Fortuitous though that the first person to speak, spoke of 'denial'! Then you all seemed naturally to follow suit.

Did you read my mind? Or is it actually possible that we all suffer the same symptoms? I thought I was the only one. Oh that it really was de Nile in Egypt! Can you imagine what it would be like to just lie back, close your eyes and float away ... aaah!

As I sat here and listened to you I knew quite well it was the 'other' kind ... the kind that had me postpone my need for exercise till I had long outgrown all my clothes ... my need to pay a good hairdresser because the kids wanted Nike shoes and I had a 'duty' to provide ... the kind that suggested so strongly that it was I who should give up my career to look after the children because my husband's work was more important ... Denial or Martyrdom Syndrome?! I don't ever remember anyone demanding any of it.

There is an upside to this denial thing though. I've seen it clearly as I've listened. That which is engendered and long nurtured within the dread disease of motherhood, which is passed on only to the female children and is sadly rife in womanhood, gives birth to camaraderie and laughter, gentleness with strength, enough knowledge of tears to comfort others ... as you have done for me tonight.

My name is Gertrude ... and I am a recovering Mum.
Monday 4 June 2012

One Day

## Pat Ridley

### Sandringham, NSW

The last of the five kittens died today. I had kept it alive for six days and I really thought this one would survive. Two died yesterday and two the day before. I buried them underneath the bushes at the back of the block of units. I didn't have the heart to bury this one – I just covered it with the bit of blanket and pushed it into a corner. I wish now I had never heard them miaowing in the middle of the night and got up out of my nice warm bed and rummaged through the garbage bin. I found them eventually in an old shoe box, one dead – the other five mewling. Why did I bother with the heating of the milk, the searching through dusty drawers until I found the eye-dropper, setting my alarm clock to feed them every two hours, the whole bit? Why did I prolong their agony? Shit, why did I prolong mine?

God, wait a minute, what's happening here! I can't crack up now – not now – not after the past two years. Well, say it then, say it again and again, til you've got it through that thick skull of yours – say it, say it, say it! Okay, alright here goes –

'My name is Suzanne Carter ...' Louder, louder, you fool, you MUST say it louder –

'MY NAME IS SUZANNE CARTER, I AM TWENTY-EIGHT AND I HAVE NOT HAD A DRINK FOR TWO YEARS AND EIGHTEEN DAYS!'

Was that loud enough for you? They'll be banging on the wall in a minute. So, what's the big deal, who the hell cares anyway? What did they teach us in Group – 'Care about yourself first, and then others will begin to care'.

Right, so let's get on with the 'caring bit'. I'm hungry; what have we got to eat in this place? Nothing in the fridge, except one shrivelled-up black banana. Sometimes I wish I wasn't vegetarian, it would be so easy just to go and get a hamburger. Well, I suppose I could always get some chips at Joe's.

I thought about the week ahead on the way to the cafe – tomorrow Group Therapy and AA Meeting. Thursday, dole – good, I can buy some food; must try and buy some more soup mixes, lentils and beans, that way I'll always have something to eat even if I run out of money. Friday, nothing except AA and Saturday, nothing. My mouth began to water thinking of those hot chips and I ran the last few steps to Joe's Cafe. The little blonde waitress ignored me at first and then jumped when I repeated my order. I almost felt sorry for her. Save the sympathy for yourself, honey, she probably has a fat husband and three kids waiting for her at home, and all you have is a dead kitten.

Joe came round the counter with the chips and said he was looking for someone to work weekends, and would I be interested? I got such a shock I nearly dropped the chips. He is a nice man, Joe, and has always treated me the same, even when I had the red Mohawk haircut and the nose ring. I told him I would let him know tomorrow but I knew I would say 'yes'. I could not believe he really trusted me enough to offer me work. The day was improving and I did a little skip as I rounded the corner.

I still had seven chips left when I let myself into the flat. I got a glass of water and curled up on the couch to finish them. There was a tiny sound coming from somewhere in the flat – a mouse, maybe. Oh please, no mice, not again! I glanced at the bit of blanket over the dead kitten and God help me I swear it was moving! I picked up the tiny bundle and parted the wrap – it was wriggling and looking at me through half-open eyes. They had been clamped tight shut this morning. I got the eye-dropper and set to work. This one would live. I would make sure of it – so help me God!
Tuesday 5 June 2012 8 am

Chicken Dinner At The Roadhouse

## Graham Sparks

### Bathurst, NSW

All the living things whose flesh I've ever eaten

have now a life in me,

'though caged or penned in first edition,

in me they have a better lot,

for done to them they truly have what I would unto me.

When I see the little spirit clouds against the blue

and gentle hills that rise above the soft green snatch of earth

moist with rill and ferny glade,

they too feel my gladness.

And when I head out on the highway

and play the ten note organ

that makes the little 'jimmy' sing,

they too share my freedom.
Tuesday 5 June 2012 4 pm

Two Lovers

## Rimeriter

### Lansvale, NSW

A wedding took place in a church long ago,

the groom was resplendent, the bride was aglow.

They had known each other since ringlets and curls,

she was the pick of the bunch; amongst all other girls.

He tried many ways to impress her; no doubt,

when he succeeded, inside he would shout.

There's pleasure and pain in courtship and love,

but if the god Eros smiles down from above,

both hearts will entwine and love will ensue,

with trust, dedication; both must be true.

Time just moves on, and lovers do too,

in the mid nineteen fifties, it was me, it was you.

I tried to impress you in so many ways,

I loved you, I left you and counted the days

we took to resolve the situation: no doubt.

Perhaps that's what true love is really about.

There's pleasure and pain in courtship and love,

but when the god Eros smiles down from above,

both hearts will entwine and love will ensue,

with trust, dedication; both must be true.

The years are unfolding toward the next century

unknown the adventures that still are to be.

As lovers have continued through all of the ages

we too will have our story, in history's pages.

I love you still, of that there's no doubt,

that's what true love is really about.

There's pleasure and pain in courtship and love

but because the god Eros smiled down from above,

both hearts have entwined and love did ensue.

With trust, dedication

both have been true.
Wednesday 6 June 2012

The Barcoo Flood

## David Anderson

### Woodford, NSW

Storm clouds gathered above the Barcoo River as the bullocky lit his fire

The first drops fell and it wasn't too long 'till his wagon was caught in the mire

In the hills the big storm released its load and the swift river rose in a blink

It rushed down the cracked and dry stream beds, thirsty for the want of a drink

Then the river grew angry as a shearer's temper and reached for the dusty banks

It flowed across the parched brown flats and rose up the sheep's scrawny shanks.

Poor Bill, the bullocky, swam for his life, his dog old Blue by his side

He watched as his team was struggling to swim in the Barcoo's mounting tide

The squatter's sheep were fading fast as they swept past Bill in the stream

As the lightning flashed above his head poor Bill wished it was only a dream

Then his pony he'd freed from the back of his wagon swam past and he grasped at its tail

He grasped Blue's collar and said 'Save me Lord and I'll pray every night without fail.'

His tired horse struggled up a slippery bank as Bill and poor Blue caught their breath

They too climbed the slope and lay in the mud as Bill contemplated close death.

The lightning lit up and split open the clouds who released more rain to the ground

When through all the thunder and rage of the river Bill heard a peculiar sound

It resembled the cry of a baby quite small or was it the bleat of a sheep?

And in that brief moment he couldn't recall that he'd seen the Barcoo flow so deep.

Then he found a woman face down in the mud and a baby so cold near her side

It let out a cry but Bill surely knew in the woman he couldn't confide

For her lungs they were full of the wild Barcoo brew of water and mud, foul and brown

But the baby she'd placed up high on a ledge so the mite wouldn't fall in and drown

Then he climbed on the horse with the child in one hand, the other one held fast the reins,

The rain had now stopped, and the storm clouds rolled by while the sun shone down on the plains.

Bill entered the camp where the black people lived with the news of their terrible loss

They gathered around and Bill then stepped down and handed the babe to old Floss

The men went out to the Barcoo banks to bring the poor mother back

And Bill was given a place to sleep and some food in an old gunny sack

He left the next morning for he surely knew that the people would need time to mourn

And he too felt a loss for Bill had a son that he'd seen not since it had been born.

So Bill left the Barcoo and with his dog Blue, for Sydney by train he did travel

To seek out his son and right things left undone, but he knew it was hard to unravel

For the love of his life, his poor darling wife had died in the birth of his son

And everyone knew that the best thing to do was for Bill to go on the run

'You can't raise him,' they said, 'With you he'd be dead, in a month if left in your care.'

So he kissed the mite's head, tucked him into bed and ruffled his sweet curly hair.

Now Bill found his son, his only dear son at work in a bar at The Rocks

He'd married a girl from the Emerald Isle who worked in a store selling frocks

They had a small child, yes old Bill's grandchild and he held her tight in his huge arms

She had eyes like her mother, who wished for a brother to add to her family's charms

Now Bill was content, but still had a bent for the North and he left on the train

But he'll come back once more see his family for sure, when the Barcoo flood hits once again.
Thursday 7 June 2012 8 am

You Can't Go Wrong

## Toni Paton

### Blackheath, NSW

Horticulture was his passion,

Working amongst plants and weeds.

Tilling, digging and sowing

Scattering countless seeds.

A man who worked close to nature,

Enjoyed his work with the earth.

An affinity with all around him,

Seen, from the day of his birth.

With a lifestyle happy and carefree –

Grew a beard down to his waist.

Thrived on the spoils of his labour,

Fruit and veg were his favoured taste.

On arising early one morning

He peered in the mirror to see,

Pushing their way through his beard –

Green shoots of a little tree.

Leaving it there, he let it grow,

Nurtured and cared for it well.

The rate of growth quite amazing,

It was happy – was easy to tell.

Time passed, the tree was felled,

(Weight from his beard sheer bliss)

For an environmental disposal

His line of action was this ...

The leaves he used for compost,

The bark, mulch for the ground,

The trunk cut up into timber.

What satisfaction he found.

Having thought about his plan

All that was left was the root,

This, a log for his fire

Leaving only – a small pile of soot.

There's a lesson in this story,

In the very words you have read.

If you have an inspiration,

Try it ... you can't go wrong!
Friday 8 and Saturday 9 June 2012

God's Other Son

## Paris Portingale

### Mt Victoria, NSW

'So, I said to the officer, "It may be illegal, but not if I do it".' Carlo touched the graze on his temple to see if it was still bleeding, but it wasn't. 'He must have been in a good mood, got laid that morning, maybe. Had a little win on the horses. Didn't hit me straight off. He was pretty laid back. He got up my licence and he says, "And why would that be ... Carlo?" I said to him, "That's because I am God's other son, come down to earth to save mankind," which actually is the fact of the matter. But anyways, that's when he hit me. He said, "That's not funny, son," and whacks me with his stick, through the window.'

Edgardo DeRay, on the other side of the cell, said, 'Didn't know God had the two sons. Don't know that bit's in the bible at all.'

On and off, Edgardo had spent periods, brief, and on occasion not so brief, in a number of lock-ups around the state and was accustomed to sharing space with the widest variety of souls a person could imagine. He'd learned that toleration was the key to keeping yourself in one piece, and that a little polite acceptance of another's foibles kept a place free of various troubles, easily eruptible in the confinement of a cell.

Carlo said, 'Oh, it's there alright. Every time you see mentioned, "The Other," well, that's me.'

'The Other?'

'Yeah. It's in there. Couple of times. The Other. You can look it up.'

'It probably just means the other camel or something.'

'Depends on your point of interpretation.'

Getting up, Edgardo said, 'Going to use the Johnny-hole there. Be obliged if you'd just look the other way.'

'Sure,' said Carlo, and he walked over to the bars and hung his arms through for a while.

When Edgardo had finished, he said, 'So, who's your momma, then?'

'A fine, church-going, God-fearing woman name of Ellie May Morgan.'

'So, how'd she get herself in the family way and come along with you? God do that?'

'Yes, yes he did.'

'Came down and laid with her?'

'No, nothing carnal like that. We're talking about almighty God here, not some Johnny Lunch-Pail from the local which-what factory. It was an immaculate conception, like with his first son.'

'All these maculate conceptions. Makes a man wonder if the good Lord's got no actual penis or something.'

'Oh, He's got a penis alright. But when you think about it, you can see how He'd see it wouldn't look one hundred percent right him coming down and doing the actual rumpy himself. He immaculately conceives from up there in heaven.'

'Can see his point. So, where's your momma at now?'

'Huntsville. Huntsville Alabama.'

'Got a cousin lives there. Ray Arlington Tucker. You know him by any chance?'

Carlo tried to conjure a Ray Arlington Tucker but there was nothing. He said, 'No, can't say I do.'

They were silent for a while, then a deputy brought in lunch. Boloney sandwiches, one for each of the two prisoners.

'Bread's stale again,' Edgardo said.

'Wouldn't know anything about that,' Carlo said. 'This is my first time under arrest.'

'Well, bread's usually stale. Tuesday we got fresh. Said to the deputy, "How come bread's fresh today?" He said, "Cause we run out of stale".'

After lunch, Carlo and Edgardo had a nap, then the deputy came back to get the plates. Edgardo said to him, 'This here's God's other son, Carlo Morgan, deputy.'

The deputy said, 'Shut it, DeRay. God ain't got no other son, you goddamn son-of-a-bitch. I won't have no inflammatory talk in this jailhouse or you'll be talking to old Mr Nightstick here,' and he took out his subduing baton and gave the wall a whacking to demonstrate the kind of conversation that occurs in an intercourse with old Mr Nightstick.

'I'm just saying,' Edgardo said, and the deputy told him, 'Yeah, well stop saying. My daddy's a preacher, plus I got a uncle down in Montgomery's a preacher as well and I won't abide the Lord's name getting taken in vain.'

'Fair call,' Edgardo said, and the deputy gave him a look, then left.

'Touchy son-of-a-bitch,' Edgardo said.

'Ah, it was like that with my brother and the Romans,' Carlo told him.

'You got a brother?'

'I'm talking about the Lord Jesus Christ.'

For want of any other entertainment, Edgardo said, 'He'd be just your step-brother though, because of your different mommas, wouldn't he?'

'Still brothers.'

'True. You actually met him?'

'No, but that'll come.'

'Up in ...'

'Yeah, come the day.'

'That'll be nice.'

'I think so.'

'You'd be looking forward to it I'd imagine, although you'd have to be in a state of actual death to achieve the thing.'

'In a way.'

'Be nice though, you never having met him in person and all.'

'Yeah. I imagine there'll be a bit of a to-do.'

Edgardo smiled, thinking of any two brothers, never met, getting together. 'Reckon there would,' he said.

Edgardo grimaced then and put fingers to his chest and rubbed. 'Oh, momma,' he said.

'You alright there?' Carlo asked him.

'This damn stomach. It's like goddamn battery acid bubbling up in my throat,' and he got up and took himself to the bars and called out, 'Deputy, you got any of that Zantalox left? My stomach's giving me the living hell.'

The deputy replied something and a few minutes later appeared with a bottle of some white mixture and he handed it through the bars. Edgardo unscrewed the lid and was about to put the bottle to his lips when the deputy said, 'Don't put your filthy criminal lips on that or I'll shoot you where you stand, you goddamn thieving son-of-a-bitch,' and Edgardo went and got a plastic jail cup and poured in a serving, screwed the top back on the bottle and handed it back through the bars. 'Thanks, deputy,' he said, but the officer left without response, and Edgardo drank the mixture and tried to burp but nothing would come.

Five minutes later, Edgardo was still in some distress and Carlo said, 'Maybe I could help with that.'

'Oh, I'll just wait for the Zantalox to work.'

'Doesn't seem to be working.'

'I'll give it a bit longer. What do you think you could do, anyway? You got a miracle up your sleeve there, Mr Other Son of God?' and Edgardo laughed.

'Maybe,' Carlo said.

'Like your brother, Lord Jesus Christ, with the lepers?' and Edgardo grimaced again and rubbed his chest. 'Oh, momma,' he said.

Carlo got up and came across the cell and put an open palm on Edgardo's chest and cast his gaze up towards the ceiling with a look that suggested he was seeing through and way further up, possibly into the firmaments themselves.

'What're you doing?' Edgardo asked, and Carlo told him, 'Using the power given to me by the Lord God himself, handed down as birth right to his second to only begotten son, Carlo Morgan of Huntsville, in the glorious, God-created state of Alabama, 35801.'

Carlo felt Edgardo's chest relax and, with a little push to further settle things, took away his hand and said, 'There, that ought-a do it.'

Edgardo smiled the slow smile of a man suddenly up and relieved of a grievous and burdensome pain and said, 'Dear Lord above.'

Carlo went back and sat on his bunk, whereupon Edgardo, stretching to further enjoy those first, fine moments of relief said, 'Could have been the Zantalox finally doing what it should have. No offense to you, Mr Morgan, but it could have been that; the Zantalox working itself into the system.'

'Of course,' said Carlo. 'No saying it wasn't. Only thing is, in the laying on of the hand back then, I did sense a certain something not right in there.'

'You what?'

'It's just, once laid on, the healing hands feel away everywhere. Can't help it. Can't shut it out, it's the way of the hands.'

Despite himself, Edgardo felt the tickle of a little, uninvited, worrisome thought, and he said, 'And what did the hand see?'

'A malice.'

'What kind of malice?'

'Called a cancer.'

'What cancer?'

'Liver.'

'My liver's fine. Nothing wrong with my liver. Never given me a day's trouble.' He put his hand over where he thought his liver to be and said, 'Nah, nothing there.'

'A liver sits on the other side, bit further up,' Carlo told him. 'Not that you'd be able to feel anything. Not at this point in time.'

'Ah, you're just talking through your hat. And God ain't got no other son. What would a son of God be doing in a jailhouse like this anyway? And don't go touching me again. In fact, stay over there on your side. I don't want you anywheres near me. You're a freak, weirdo, son-of-a-bitch.'

'Sure,' said Carlo, and he lay himself down on his bunk and looked up at the ceiling with his previous, faraway eyes.

A couple of hours went by with no further conversation proffered by either party. Carlo could be quite happy with his own company and nothing else, content to stare into the infinities and attend what considerations his mind took to the forefront.

Then, lying on his bunk across the cell, Edgardo said, 'You still there by any chance, Carlo?'

'Yep, I'm still here,' Carlo said.

'Look, and don't take this to mean I go along with any of your old folderol about God's other son and all that crap, because I don't. Ain't no The Other in the bible, I know that for a fact because in all my church-going time I never once heard no mention of no The Other.' Here Edgardo paused to more arrange his next words so as to not sound like they in any way countenanced any notion of second sons or malice-feeling hands, and when he had them in a way he felt expressed just that, he said, 'Just out of a pure, nothing-else-to-do line of distraction, because God knows there ain't nothing else to do in this goddamn incarceration hole ...' and here Edgardo stopped and cursed himself for a fool for entertaining any notion of truth in Carlo's God's other son ramblings, and turned on his side to face away to the wall.

Carlo said, 'You want to know about the malignance?'

'Ain't no malignance.'

'Well, that's well as may be. I wouldn't force a malignance on any man, friend or foe, or otherwise. I was just telling what the hand saw, that's all. Felt it would be a disservice not to say something is all. Take it as you will. Can't say I'd take it much differently, the positions being reversed.'

Edgardo rolled back over. 'God damn you, Carlo. What the hell malignance is it you think you saw in there?'

'Your liver's got a cancer is what the hand saw. I'm sorry but I can't make it any different.'

'Well, what's it doing?'

'What a cancer does. It's just growing away in there. Cancer doesn't give a never-mind about anything much.'

'And what's going to happen with this cancer?'

'It's going to eat you up. It's what cancers do.'

'So, what am I going to do?'

'You got plenty of health insurance?'

Edgardo laughed but it had a strong edge of the bitter. 'I got so much health insurance I got health insurance coming out my goddamn health insurance.'

'Well, you'll probably be okay if you don't dilly dally about with the thing.'

'God almighty, for a God's other son you sure ain't got no handle on sarcasm, that's for sure.'

Carlo raised up and swung his legs so as to be sitting on the edge of the bunk. He said, 'The thing about it is, it's all about faith. If you've got the belief, anything can happen.'

'I got faith,' Edgardo said.

'Who am I then, Edgardo?'

'Carlo Morgan from Huntsville, Alabama.'

'35801.'

Edgardo snorted.

Carlo said, 'And who else did I say I am?'

'God's other son, but that's a load of crap.'

'Who healed your acid reflux bubble-up back there?'

'Zantalox, that's who.'

'Maybe.'

'If you're God's other son, show me something a God's other son could do.'

'I thought I already did.'

'No, something proper Godlike.'

'That's not the way it works.'

'Thought so,' Edgardo said, and a certain disgust came out with the words.

Carlo stood up and went over to Edgardo and said, 'You got a pack of cards about you anywhere?'

'Sure I got a pack of cards, but no goddamn card trick's going to convince me you're nothing you ain't.'

'Give me the cards. Won't hurt you.'

Edgardo took a deck of cards out of a side pocket and Carlo said, 'They're your cards, right?'

'Sure.'

'Just check them out first, see nothing funny's going on.'

Edgardo flicked through the deck. 'So?' he said.

'Okay give them to me.'

Edgardo handed them over and Carlo shuffled them and then fanned the deck out, face side down, on the bunk. He said, 'Okay, pick out a card.'

Edgardo went for the middle of the deck, then changed his mind and moved down to the second last card. He looked up at Carlo for some indication of rightness or wrongness and, receiving nothing, moved over towards the top of the deck, looked at Carlo again, and selected a card and looked at it.

'What is it?' Carlo asked.

'Like I'm going to tell you,' Edgardo said.

'Ace of spades, right?'

'Could be.'

'Okay, pick another card.'

Edgardo took a second card from somewhere near the middle and looked at it. 'Can't be,' he said.

'Try another one,' Carlo said, and Edgardo picked another card. 'Goddamn,' he said and flicked over card after card, all of which were the ace of spades. 'How'd you do that?' he said.

Carlo shrugged and gathered all the cards and straightened them and handed the deck back to Edgardo.

Edgardo flicked through the pack again and they were all still the ace of spades. 'Goddamn,' he said. 'I got another three weeks in here. Now what am I going to do for a distraction?'

'Three weeks is going to take a toll on that liver you got in there, I can tell you that,' Carlo said.

'Goddamn will you stop going on about the liver.'

'Just saying,' Carlo said.

'Well, what do you propose doing about it if you're such a big, God's other goddamn son? Eh?'

Carlo held up his hands. 'Might take both of them this time,' he said.

Edgardo said, 'Crap,' and again a disgust came out with the word.

'Like I said, I don't force anything on a person who doesn't want it,' Carlo said and went back to his bunk.

After a few minutes, Edgardo said, 'Just say for a purely hypothetical sake I let those hands over here again. Just as a hypothetical question, what would you do?' Carlo started to get up and Edgardo said, 'You sit the fuck down. Didn't say to come over. Just asked what'd happen if you did.'

'I'd put the hands of the almighty over your liver and let the power of the Lord God, handed down to me at the time of my earthly birth, do its work.'

'And that's going to fix right this cancer?'

'That's the way it works.'

'Like when Jesus healed the lepers?'

'Much the same.'

'No, it's crap.'

'Suit yourself. I'm just offering, nothing more.'

Edgardo punched the bed and said, 'Goddamn you, Carlo.'

Carlo held up his hands and wiggled his fingers. 'You've got nothing to lose. Only saying.'

'Shut up.'

'Sure.'

Edgardo punched the bed again and said, 'How the goddamn hell I even know you're not some crazy lunatic and that there ain't no cancer at all?'

'How does anyone know anything for a hundred percent good and for sure?'

'Weasel words, question for a question.'

'Still.'

'Still, nothing.'

Carlo sighed and said, 'Look, could you hold it in yourself to believe, no matter how far it feels the truth of the thing's getting stretched out, that maybe, maybe in the tiniest of maybes, coming from the fact it's impossible for any man to know the full truth of anything in the universe, that just as a tiny little maybe, around the size of a grain of sand, it could be possible I just could be God's other, second son?'

Edgardo said reluctantly, 'Put out like that, grain of sand wise, yeah, I suppose. But it don't in no way make it so.'

'Okay, so holding onto that grain, try to imagine that little grain into a belief.'

Edgardo cast his eyes to the floor and stood staring and concentrating for a while, then looked up.

Carlo said, 'So, have you got a belief going there?' He held Edgardo's eyes and Edgardo nodded and Carlo said, 'So, you believe in me?'

'Goddamn, Carlo, you're standing right there, what's not to believe?'

'No, do you believe I could be a direct, other son of God?'

'Okay, a little bit.'

'So, can I heal your cancer in there before your organ swells to the size of a football so that's pretty much all of you there is?'

'Goddamn it, Carlo, put your son-of-a-bitch hands on the thing and get it over. Deputy'll be here in a minute with supper.'

'Good. Good man,' Carlo said and came over and placed his hands over the spot where Edgardo's liver resided and held them there for the count of sixty, making a full and complete minute. Taking them away, Carlo said, 'There, that wasn't so bad, was it?'

'Don't feel no different. Felt a bit warm is all.'

Carlo held out his hands and said, 'Here, feel these.'

Edgardo touched Carlo's hands then pulled away. 'God in heaven,' he said. 'They're colder than ice.'

'Liver sucked all the healing warm down into itself, Edgardo. Cancer's gone by the way.'

Edgardo said, 'You better rub those things else they're going to drop off. Never felt a pair of hands so cold. You'll get yourself frost-bit.'

Carlo folded his arms and tucked his hands under his armpits, and it was at that point that the deputy did come with supper, which was a stew and chunk of bread sitting on top. They went to their bunks to eat and Edgardo, biting a piece off the bread, said, 'So, could you turn your God powers to make this stuff a bit more fresh baked?'

Carlo smiled and said, 'I doesn't work like that, Mr DeRay.'

'Pity,' Edgardo said.
Sunday 10 June 2012

To Borrow Freedom

## Susan Sargent

### Narrabri, NSW

The sound of galloping hooves echoed distantly in Sandra's head. She turned to look, an instinctive reaction, yet she already knew that there was nothing there to make that sound ... only twittering birds, annoying buzzing insects and the odd small lizard skittering through the undergrowth. She'd heard this sound before, many times in this place – her place, a place that only she knew about, her quiet hideaway from the stresses of life. Occasionally, the hoof beats would be accompanied by a shadow, or a flash of white brilliance, a flicker in the corner of her eye, but when she turned to look, there was nothing. The spirit, however, what she could feel, was unmistakable. He was there, no doubt about it.

Everyone knew the legends of course. A ghostly white horse, running wild and free in the scrub, said to appear every few years to entice young maidens from their homes, with the vain hope of riding high upon his back, then lead them to their deaths in the wild bushland. Some sort of Pied Piper routine. But those were just stories, weren't they? Every town had its folklore, after all.

Sandra tossed her fiery curls, and closed her eyes, listening for those distant hoofbeats, trying to find their bodiless sound in the white noise around her. She knew that the more you tried to find him, the quicker he vanished, but she could feel him in her soul – he was nearby. Yes, there was the sound, closer this time, carried to her on the light whispering wind that brushed her face and breathed hello as it went. She kept her eyes closed, enjoying the peace of her tranquil hideaway, imagining the majestic creature who owned that sound.

He was tall and powerful, with a snow white coat, long flowing mane and a tail held proudly aloft as he ran. He exuded an air of indestructibility, daring anyone to challenge him. His legend had been passed down for generations, keeping his magic alive. That was all he needed to exist – just one believer. The more who believed, the stronger he became, but one was all he required.

Sandra caught the familiar scent of horse wafting on that gentle breeze. That was a new phenomenon, something she'd experienced only recently, for perhaps a week or two. She'd been lucky of late, managing to spend a little time in her special place every day, giving her the opportunity to let him into her soul, to blend their two psyches as one. The lazy summer days afforded her freedom compared to the busy weeks of springtime, although the summer harvest would soon be upon her, filling her days and keeping her away once again.

She felt his presence in her very core. He always arrived so unobtrusively, gradually filtering into her consciousness, barely noticed, like the changing of the tide. He never spoke to her directly, using images in her mind rather than speaking to her in words. Sometimes he would simply lead her thoughts in the direction he wanted them to go. She was happy to be led. She enjoyed the images and feelings he gave her, finding peace where others might feel violated. He had a straightforward mind, steadfast and strong in its simplicity, easy to please but definite in his wants and needs. Sandra often found herself wishing that her family were like him – no uncertainty, no untruthfulness and certainly no deceit to be found. It was refreshing to find such an open, honest, unadulterated mind.

Suddenly, the galloping sound was right in front of her. She hurriedly sat up and opened her eyes in a brief moment of panic, fearing that she would be trampled under his mighty tread. The sound abruptly stopped. Sandra's heart fell. He'd gone. She'd ruined the moment.

A soft nicker murmured from behind her, followed by a gentle nudge against her back. She started with fright, then froze for a moment, wondering if this was real, then turned ever so slowly, afraid that he would vanish at any moment. As she gazed upon him for the first time, she could not believe what she saw. She felt her excitement grow as she realised he truly was standing right in front of her! The Legend of the Scrub was right here, right now, with her. Sandra. Plain, boring, normal Sandra. She'd never heard of anyone actually seeing him – at least, not outside their dreams! She trembled at his commanding presence, completely in awe of this magnificent beast. He was exactly as she imagined him, flawless white coat, snow white mane and a long, flowing tail held proudly aloft. Tiny rainbows danced across that dazzling hide, playing an intricate game of hide and seek with the twilight shadows of the sunset. His snow white mane glittered in the evening light, slightly tousled by the breeze which gently ruffled it. Sandra knew what he was there for. In her mind she saw herself, astride his broad back, riding the wind along with him.

It was the most invigorating, uplifting thing she had ever experienced. The power he exuded was immense, almost overwhelming, yet at the same time he was gentle and cautious in his way. She felt his muscles rippling and bunching as he ran, the sound of his hoofbeats matching his stride, although from the images in her mind Sandra knew they weren't touching the ground. She daren't look down to find out. She revelled in the feel of the wind in her face, her fiery hair billowing out behind her like a stream of flames. This was as close to flying as she could possibly imagine.

She thought the horse a true enigma. So many contradictions! To know he was real, and yet not real, there but not there, the stuff of fairy tales, and yet here she was, upon his back, revelling in the feeling of complete and utter freedom – for that is the true magic of the equine. To ride upon one's back is to borrow freedom, if only for a time. She didn't need an enchanted horse to know that. She experienced it every day. Although, definitely not like this. This was something else entirely.

She felt him slow as they returned to her quiet place. The dusky evening sky had given way to a starry, moonlit night, the moonlight creating wonderful new reflections on his pure white coat. She felt a pang of disappointment at the idea of dismounting from that magnificent broad back. It meant she would have to return to her life, to daily routine and everyday stresses. It was one thing to borrow his freedom, but to have to give it back ... how could she go back? Somehow she knew that if she did, she'd never again hear his call. They had bonded on that magical ride, in a way she did not really understand. How could she return to normality after that exhilarating ride? She'd yearn for that freedom forever and a day ... and her soul would be empty without him. She could not.

And so, the legend was true – he did lure young maidens from their homes and their families. Not to their deaths as the townsfolk believed, but to a magical freedom that no earthly being could ever know. Sandra smiled as she and her newfound partner turned and galloped away, shimmering in a glorious shower of stars to blend flawlessly into the dark night.
Monday 11 June 2012

*** Editor's Pick ***

Yuletide

## Bob Edgar

### Wentworth Falls, NSW

David was a sad little boy. I remember his name because he was my first.

We were both eleven years old and shared the same birthdate, which may have been why I befriended him. David never smiled. Try as I might, I could not get a genuine smile from him.

I, on the other hand, had been blissfully happy since a very early age, due to the education my parents had given me. Mummy and Daddy taught me that in Heaven, everybody is happy every moment of the time, forever and ever. I turned eight years old on the 24th of December 1938, and my parents had a very special gift for me.

The three of us sat at the kitchen table drinking the birthday juice.

'Finish your drink Timothy, like a good boy. Then Mummy and Daddy will drink and we will meet you in Heaven, and be happy forever and ever.'

I remember vomiting all over Mummy and Daddy who were slumped over the kitchen table.

It was expected that he would have a mental breakdown, but I ... he didn't. We were the happiest children in the orphanage, knowing that our parents were smiling, forever and ever.

David trusted me and believed me when I told him I could make him smile again. We had been splashing and frolicking in our secret waterhole for an hour before I asked David if he could smile for me. It was after all, our twelfth birthday. His sad face shook from side to side. I dived underwater and gripped his ankles. Expelling my breath I sank to the bottom, dragging David's body with me. I released my hold on him, and as we surfaced I wrapped my hands around his throat forcing my thumbs into the front of his neck.

It was reported that when David's body was discovered he had a look of terror on his face. But I knew that his spirit was smiling in Heaven.

I left the orphanage one month before my thirteenth birthday to go into the care of my Aunt Beatrice, who had enjoyed living alone for thirty years. My peaceful countenance and indelible smile infuriated Aunt Beatrice; she insisted I should still be grief stricken, as she was.

We were standing on platform thirteen, at 1pm on the 24th of December 1943 when I made a vow to myself. Every year on my birthday I would make one person happy, forever and ever. This year it was Aunt Beatrice's turn.

By 3pm most of her remains had been recovered and deposited into body bags. The train driver would smile again one day; and of course Aunt Beatrice was in a perpetual state of happiness.

I was thirteen now and had the guile to manipulate my way through life with ease. I would live on the streets at times, and if I desired I could wend my way into someone's home, and life. I would never again be with a relative or friend, as was my wish. This being the case, I found that from my fourteenth birthday on, I could randomly choose my recipients.

My third was a particularly unhappy man I had sat next to on a park bench. He smelt almost as vile as the language he used to dismiss me from the bench. The rock I dropped on his face was too heavy to lift a second time, so reluctantly I left it on his crushed head; his blood and viscera seeping from beneath the rock into his half eaten sandwich.

He will thank me when I get to heaven, for transforming his existence from one of misery to one of joy.

Today is my forty-third birthday and number thirty-one will be my last recipient. The doctors at the General Hospital assured me the tumour in my brain would kill me before March. Today's payee will have to demonstrate to me that he or she has an aversion to smiling; indicating an inability to achieve happiness.

I close the door behind me and step out into the gutter; sheathing the butcher knife, I softly sing for the thirty first time ...

'You better watch out, you better not cry, better not pout, I'm ... telling ... you ... why ...'

Bob says he smiles more often since writing this piece :)

Ed: I love the evil simplicity of this story, or perhaps it's the simple evilness of it? Either way, I'm still humming that last line with a shiver down my spine ...
Tuesday 12 June 2012 8 am

To My True Love

## Felicity Lynch

### Katoomba, NSW

You enchant me with your beauty

Cold winds and sleeting rain

Cannot affect you

Your eyes shine in the moonlight

Your skin a quiet radiance

Your smile lights up the darkness

It is so cold

Your shivering arouses in me

The urge to shelter and cradle you

Come run with me

Lightning can flash

And thunder roar

In my arms

You who I adore

Will remain mine
Tuesday 12 June 2012 4 pm

Picture

## Gordon G

### South Yarra, VIC

Staring at your picture frame

The picture in it is not the same

Reminds me when in bed at night

You'd cling to me, my epiphyte

I see you now so pale and thin

The demons within you, they now win

The substance you've replaced love with

Eats away at you bit by bit

And I can't help but feel the shame

Now you say you can't love again

A love, you say, would still remain

If I were in your picture frame
Wednesday 13 June 2012

Music

## Don Beer

### Mawson, ACT

You, dear reader, do not need me to tell you of the pleasure that music brings. From almost the moment of birth babies delight in tinkling wind-chimes and simple tunes. For a teenager to sing the latest pop song is to express, to enjoy, to relieve the angst or perhaps the joy of adolescence. An unpretentious folk song like 'Danny Boy' may overwhelm with its pure beauty of emotion. If you, dear reader, are of a more sophisticated mind, no doubt you have luxuriated in the compositions of some of the greatest geniuses the human race has produced. Through music, it might be said, mankind reaches its highest perfection.

Perhaps you think I am laying it on a bit thick. You protest: 'But music is not simply self-indulgence.' And I must agree. Friends have told me how they have been led to God by the glory and the mystery of Bach's cantatas. Once I ran by chance into an old acquaintance in a London street. We repaired to a nearby pub where, with intense fervour and at great length, he impressed on me that his personality had been quite altered, indeed his life changed utterly, by a new interpretation of Beethoven's Fifth he had heard from Otto Klemperer's baton two nights before. Soldiers tell of how they have been inspired to battle by the sound of bagpipes.

For myself I love music. In fact, I often dream of it. One scenario recurs. I am in rehearsal for the approaching first night of an opera or perhaps a Sunday School concert. The cast or choir is about me. There is a kindly conductor or choirmaster. But what is always clear is that I have the leading role. I am the soloist. And all is going well. I have called it a dream. But it is really a nightmare, for what nobody in the 'dream' knows except me is that I am tone-deaf. I cannot sing a note. I know that disgrace is only a night or two away. Everyone is about to learn my unspeakable secret. I wake up in a sweat.

For I am tone-deaf. It is true that I cannot sing a note. I used to love to sing in the shower, but now even I am saddened by the flat, monotonous sounds I create. I have confessed my sin to my closest musical friends and I find their reactions interesting. Some respond, 'Oh really' and pass quickly on to another topic of conversation. If I said that I had B.O. or leprosy, I would get a more sympathetic response. Others try to minimise my affliction. 'My uncle is tone-deaf,' they will say, 'and he's a music teacher.' Or, 'I believe that ten per cent of Australian males are tone-deaf to some degree.' They just don't understand.

Music – or the lack of it – has shaped my life. I remember how I disliked being taught the Tonic Sol Fa in a large hot room with over eighty other seven-year-olds at primary school. From then on I was one of those boys who gathered self-consciously at the back of the room during singing lessons and misbehaved as quietly as possible. Even then I was aware that I was missing something, and when a new headmaster decided to form a school choir that would sing at prestigious events, I could not help wanting to be a part of it. The more my tuneless classmates were weeded out and sent to spend the rest of the singing lesson in the library, the more I wanted to be in the choir. At last near the end of one lesson the headmaster came down the back row of students listening for false notes. I mouthed the words carefully. He stopped in front of me. He listened. I mouthed. After an interminable pause he turned, retraced his steps to the dais, and sent us off to our regular classrooms. I was elated. At the next lesson I was keener than ever. The headmaster resumed his listening at the back row. I mouthed the words. Then, enthusiasm taking over, I 'sang' two or three words. Before I realised it, I was in the library asking for a book.

For a time when I was in my mid-teens, I felt called to become a minister of religion. I was devout and I had observed that the Methodist minister had a position of respect in our rural community. Yet gradually and sadly it became clear to me that a minister, especially a Methodist minister, has to be able to sing. Of course by my late teens I knew all the rationalist arguments against believing in God but without the mortification of being unable to sing hymns I might not have given them the serious weight that I eventually did. Who knows what course my life would have taken, what guilty pleasures I might have avoided, if I had remained a believer, still more become a minister?

How carefully have I arranged my life since then to avoid embarrassment! My brother, for all his other inadequacies, had a gift: he became an outstanding trumpeter and played in leading bands, which allowed him to get the best-looking girl at the dance while, out of step and out of sympathy with the music, I stumbled around the floor alienating partner after partner. So, foregoing the delicious joy of touching and talking to girls, I stopped going to dances. Later when visitors to my house gathered round the piano for a sing-song, I would quietly leave the room on the pretence of making the supper – and I would be sure never to invite them again. With what determination have I avoided trivia nights since the humiliation of getting far ahead of all other competitors only to be unable to recognise a single tune or sing a single line of the requisite song in the last, the musical, section of the contest.

About the time of my retirement an Italian music teacher called Paolo came to town. Paolo prided himself on helping the allegedly tone-deaf to sing. 'No one is tone-deaf', he declared. 'Everyone can learn to sing.' He had some conspicuous and public successes. I thought that I too would learn to sing. Singing would be the key part of my new life – my life in retirement would be as rich as that of normal people. I went to Paolo. We had an hour together. He taught me to breathe correctly, he encouraged me to relax, he expressed his confidence in my ability to sing, and he asked me what song I would like to learn. I said 'Imagine' by John Lennon. This brought him up short. 'Perhaps "Yesterday"?' he suggested. '"Imagine" is very difficult.' So we sang 'Yesterday' together. I could tell – with difficulty but I could tell – that what I was singing was very different to what he was singing. At the end of the hour he suggested that I come back in a month's time after I had practised 'Yesterday', but I knew from the flatness of his voice, the extended period of practice he suggested and the fact that he asked for his fee on the spot that even the ever-positive Paolo had effectively given up on me. I didn't go back.

Now I am without hope. I study contemporary issues, I guide in the Botanic Gardens, I write short-stories. And I accept that the deeper pleasures, the higher realms of human achievement, are beyond me. My life is as flat as my voice.
Thursday 14 June 2012 8 am

Frangipani Galaxy

## Mary Krone

### Glenbrook, NSW

Tall Sri Lankan frangipanis

Open trees

Low gnarled branches

Saucer sized white flowers

The fragrance makes you giddy

In an ancient grove

Dark wood fades to background

White petals luminescent in the moonlight

Stars within reach

At eye level

Dotting the air above

Scattered on the ground

Filling the night as far as can be seen

No sense of up or down

Frangipani galaxy

Antithesis of a cold, silent cosmos

In the warm damp air

Mellifluent calls of evening birds

and

Myriad insects sing an overture

Against froggie rhythmic percussion

Sensual hyper-reality

Crushing stars with every footfall

Bumping into branches

Hidden by twinkling stars
Thursday 14 June 2012 4 pm

A Floral Wreath

## John Ross

### Blackheath, NSW

Mary and William were married in the springtime in Paris. They were both working there for the Australian Government immediately after the war. They were very young and madly in love. For their first wedding anniversary William gave Mary a linen rose made in an exclusive little shop in Montmartre. They returned home to Australia shortly afterwards, but each year, on their anniversary, William had one of the linen roses sent from Paris so he could give it to Mary.

Sadly William lost Mary just last year. William had a floral wreath made up from all the linen roses that he had sent Mary on their wedding anniversaries, and laid it on her grave after her funeral.
Friday 15 and Saturday 16 June 2012

Bangla Road, Patong

## Eddie Blatt

### Pottsville, NSW

'It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy; it is disposition alone. Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others.'

Jane Austen

I'm sitting on a stool outside the Honky-Tonk Bar on another sweltering summer's evening in Thailand. Although I rarely drink alcohol, I was ensnared by an enthusiastic Thai man waving a sign that read: 'All cocktails. Buy 1 get 1 free'. I couldn't resist his ardent enthusiasm (or the pretty girls beside him dressed in the shortest of mini-skirts), so I ordered a gin-and-something at the bar and perched myself on a high stool overlooking the infamous Bangla Road in Patong. It's happy hour and that's exactly what I'm feeling – happy. And not just because the alcohol is already playing games with the synapses in my brain, or the hem of the girls' skirts occasionally flutter above the contours of their well-rounded posteriors. No, I'm mostly happy because the temperature is hovering around the 30°C mark, and the air is so muggy you could swear you were sitting in a steam bath.

The thing is, contrary to most peoples' predilections, I love the heat – passionately – in a way some people love their Chihuahuas and others their old Elvis records. And I love watching people amble by, all wanting to get someplace from someplace else. What makes Bangla Road so fascinating is that it is one of the hubs of the sex industry in Thailand. The atmosphere is poignant with alcohol, cigarettes and sexy girls in tight tops and knee-high boots dancing around poles positioned in the middle of a multitude of bars. Lady-boys covered in mascara and eye-shadow promenade up and down the road in scenes that would not be out of place in a Fellini movie. The accumulation of techno/disco music, excessive banter, and clanging bells when someone shouts free drinks for everyone at a bar, is so loud I can hardly hear my own thoughts – which aren't a bad thing given how confusing they are at the moment, due to the almost-finished gin-and-something cocktail.

Bangla Road, Patong, is an iconic three-hundred-metre-long male adult fantasyland. It's trapped between a frenzied beach road at one end and a large, almost impossible-to-cross, heavily trafficked motorway at the other. On one side, numerous open-faced bars with tables and stools on the footpath, pack tightly together; bars with names like the Honey Bar, the Boom Boom Bar, Scruffy Murphy's Irish Bar (which sits next to another dubious icon, McDonald's); and the Kangaroo Bar frequented by Australians watching AFL footy games on large television screens. On the other side of the road, where I currently sip the last few drops of my drink, there are several short dead-end pedestrian-only side streets, or 'Sois' in Thai, each with a series of bars and A Go-Go clubs. The A Go-Go clubs are interspersed with the bars on either side of each Soi, while down the middle, bar-girls dance around poles coaxing male customers to buy 'lady-drinks' (drinks that are composed mainly of coke spiked with a little alcohol) for exorbitant prices, as well as attempting to secure transactions of a more carnal nature.

The Honky Tonk Bar is well positioned on the corner of Bangla Road and the entrance to Soi Easy. It's not a venue run by people wanting to procure lady-drinks from its clientele, or indeed anything else. The sole purpose of this bar is to sell alcohol; lots of it, which suits my current impulse to simply sit and watch the evening's activities unfold without having to deal with the lascivious activities of bar-girls. Unfortunately, the quantity of liquor I might imbibe on any one night is exponentially proportional to the frequency of urination. With every drink, the frequency increases dramatically, as does my anxiety when the whereabouts of the nearest toilet is unknown. Already, after only one cocktail, I'm feeling that familiar pressure on my bladder requiring fast and decisive remedial action.

In more customary surroundings, such an undertaking would not pose a problem. However, like Lewis Carroll's Alice, who finds herself falling into an unknown Wonderland, I was about to plummet into an adventure that would end in a most unexpected way. Little did I imagine a toilet would provide a pivotal setting for this unfoldment.

~~~

'Where is toilet?' I ask one of the ladies serving drinks, in a grammatically incorrect but uncomplicated English I'm hoping will be more easily understood than the Queen's version .

'There,' she says, pointing to the side street.

'Good,' I reply, as I get up. 'I come back, free cocktail.'

I quickly make my way out of the bar, walk up a ramp that leads to a staircase entrance to the Hollywood Discotheque, then make a sharp right turn around the discotheque and into the core of Soi Easy. I scamper past several bars, hardly noticing them. The toilet is about half way down the Soi; when I get there I fish out a few coins from my pocket and let the attendant at the entrance pick the required 5 baht out of the palm of my hand, before going in.

A couple of minutes later I walk out with my equilibrium restored; except, instead of turning left I turn right, and by the time I realise the error I am at the back of the Soi, being confronted by two very effusive ladies in front of the Secret Erotic Club.

'Inside. Free,' one of them says.

She gives me a sweet smile, the persuasive power of which only a male of the human species could fully appreciate. I manage some resistance, but am overwhelmed when the second lady clasps my hand, pulls aside a curtain and ushers me into the club.

A dazzling array of lights and sounds greets me. Before I can compose myself, a drinks-lady hurries over, grabs my arm and sits me down on one of the couches that line the walls. She places a coaster on a small table in front of me and pulls out a menu from somewhere behind her back.

'Drink?' she asks.

Only a few metres away, four Thai ladies are dancing around a number of poles fastened into a stage that juts out from the wall across the room. White bath towels are demurely wrapped around their torsos, as if they had just come out of the shower.

'Local beer,' I reply, reluctantly averting my eyes from centre stage. 'Chang.'

As the drinks-lady moves off with the order, I survey the surroundings in a more relaxed manner. The room is fairly small for a club, perhaps sixty feet by sixty feet, and is dimly lit, except for the stage featuring coloured spotlights. A number of tables and red-cushioned high stools are scattered around. Slow, seductive music, of a volume allowing ordinary conversation, fills the space. A few other Western men are dotted around the room, some with Thai ladies in skimpy clothes beside them.

'Hello. What your name?' One of the bar-ladies from a cluster in another corner of the club has made her way towards me; she edges up close and rubs her ample breasts against the side of my chest. She is a short curvaceous woman with the thick jet black hair typical of Thai women, which extends well past her shoulders. It emits a sweet, intoxicating aroma.

'Eddie,' I reply. 'What yours?'

'Mana. Buy lady-drink?' she asks.

Before I can reply, the drinks-lady has returned. I wonder if the two of them have an ESP connection and whether they've performed this double act before.

'Yes, okay.'

A few seconds later the lady-drink and a bottle of beer arrive; in return I reluctantly part with a sizeable amount of money, even by Western standards.

'Cheers,' I say, and we clink glasses.

The four dancers are now moving fervently beside their poles. They simultaneously release their towels to the floor revealing narrow tube tops stretched from half-way up their thighs to their belly-buttons. They gyrate a little more, and then pull the bottoms of the garments up to fold over the tops. There are no clothes underneath. One of them returns the garment to its original position, steps down from the stage and sidles up next to a man on one of the couches. He looks delighted with his changing circumstance. Another dancer sits down on a small sofa, placed to one side of the stage, and parts her legs.

'Where you from?' Mana asks, diverting my attention away from the stirring activities of the dancers.

'Australia,' I reply. I pick up the bottle of beer and take a decent swig. We clink glasses again.

'You like Thailand?'

It's hard not to with an attractive dark-haired Thai lady curled up beside me and several naked dancers strutting their stuff on stage, but I realise our language differences would make an accurate answer impossible to convey.

'Yes, I like Thailand,' I say, keeping it simple.

The dancing ladies continue to warrant attention with their swirling lithe bodies, and striking dark eyes which intermittently make contact with mine. Mana grasps my hand and places it on her thigh. I take another large swig of beer, and turn my face towards hers. We kiss for a moment, sending swirls of delightful energy to my groin. I turn back a few seconds later to relive the experience, but we're interrupted by the drinks-lady who returns with the menu. She hands it to me while Mana strokes my chest and nestles into my neck. I'm already feeling the need to empty my bladder, so I tell her I don't want another drink.

'No, no,' she says, pointing to the items on the menu. 'You want go upstairs?'

She gestures to a staircase a few metres away, which is adjacent to a toilet with a 'not working' sign etched across it. I look closely at the menu. It lists the costs of taking one of the bar-ladies upstairs for a 'short-term' encounter: 500 baht bar-fine (a typical cost of taking a lady away from her regular duties in a bar or club for a short time), 600 baht for the hire of the room and 1,500 baht for the lady's pleasurable company in private and air-conditioned surrounds. That adds up to a total of 2,600 baht, or around $85.

I look at the dancing ladies on stage with their flowing, lustrous hair, the luscious Mana enthusiastically embracing me, the staircase leading up to a private paradise, and the door to the out-of-order toilet. Money, ethics, desire, alcohol and a quickly expanding bladder, conspire to make my next move laden with conflicting emotions and needs.

But it's my bladder that wins out. I let go of Mana, stand up and stride towards the exit, through the curtain and back into Soi Street. I hurriedly make my way to the toilet I had previously engaged, and pull out some coins while in mid-flight. I hand them to the attendant and find the nearest vacant urinal before relieving myself of much of the local beer. When finished, I amble out in a much more contented mood; this time I make the correct turn and find my way back to the Honky Tonk Bar.

~~~

Not much has changed. My table and stool are vacant, while clanging bells and the clink of glasses continue to ring throughout the bar. The number of people traversing Bangla Road, however, has increased dramatically. It is now jam-packed with tourists from many parts of the world – American servicemen on leave wanting to gratify their sexual proclivities, Western teenagers seeking action in the discos and music clubs, an assortment of Indian folk looking rather bemused, and even a few sightseeing Muslim families with the women covered from their heads to their toes, all seemingly enjoying the evening's activities. Scores of hawkers are mingling with the crowd, selling cigarettes and hair combs, and the air is filled with whirring helicopter toys that, once projected by rubber bands into the sky, return to earth like flapping penguins. Sleazy characters, luring people into clubs offering 'ping-pong' shows, round off the Kafkaesque parade – only these offerings are not of the sporting variety, but of the kind where women launch ping-pong balls, and other sharper objects, out of unexpected orifices.

Although my brain is being misled by the alcohol – thus making any rational judgement concerning further imbibing highly contentious – I go up to the counter and order the free cocktail. The lady behind the bar remembers who I am and has the drink delivered to my table.

It's 10:30pm, although it seems as if hardly an hour has passed since I joined the bar at around eight, but I'm enjoying the fanfare and the sensation of lightness in my body. I figure I'm unlikely to get into any mischief while safely ensconced in the Honky Tonk Bar, so I sip my drink, keenly observing the crowd, and watch the level of liquid in my glass head south. As it approaches the bottom, I'm feeling a sharp need to pee again.

I make a bee-line for the toilet in Soi Easy and give the attendant a wry smile, knowing she's milking me for every baht I've got. As I walk out, I notice for the first time a circular bar directly in front of the toilet, one of the many bars that line the central section of Soi Easy. It's called the Soccer Bar, and there are around six bar-ladies all wearing tight football shirts cut to reveal much of their torsos, short mini-skirts and long white boots. They're milling around the bar, hooting at passers-by, except for an incredibly sexy bar-lady who is dancing around a pole on a small circular stage built on the bar-top. She is slightly taller than the others and has that characteristic straight flowing hair that has me enchanted.

I position myself on one of the stools in front of her, a little to the side. She picks up a black foam tube and hits me on the head with it. Her laughter is drowned out by the loud cracking sound the tube makes.

A lady serving drinks from the inside of the bar approaches me. From the more conservative way she's dressed, I'm guessing she's the mamasan, the supervisor of the bar activities, including those of the bar-ladies.

'You buy lady-drink?' she asks, pointing to the pole-dancer.

'Yes,' I answer.

The pole-dancer swirls around to face me and grins.

'What you drink?' she continues.

I weigh up the options. Another cocktail will probably have me falling off my seat, while a beer will have me running endlessly to the toilet. I go for the lesser of the two evils.

'Beer. Heineken,' I answer, this time giving the lower alcohol content of the imported beer greater priority in the decision-making process.

Another bar-lady takes the seat beside me. She's a short Thai woman with a round face and large brown eyes. Her body has undulations in all the right places.

'What your name?' I ask her.

'Boom-Boom,' she answers.

'And what her name?' I point to the pole-dancer.

'Bam-Bam.'

I half-grimace at these ridiculous names that remind me of The Flintstones – their pet dinosaur, Dino, would not be out of place in Soi Easy.

'Where you from?' Boom-Boom asks me.

'Australia,' I reply.

'Sydney?'

'No, close Brisbane.'

'You like here?'

'Yes.'

'Where you stay?'

'Few minutes away.'

The mamasan returns with the lady-drink and places it in front of me. I pay up and hand the drink to Bam-Bam who reaches out to take it. She makes eye contact with me and smirks. Her posturing is off-putting, as is the inane banter of Boom-Boom and the other bar-ladies who are standing a short distance away shrieking. I wonder if they really think Western men are attracted to such antics.

Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I notice one of the bar-ladies in the middle of the group is not actually participating in the banter. She seems more reserved, even shy. I turn my face directly towards her to get a better view, and smile. She returns the smile and I beckon her to come and join me. My heart skips a beat or two as she approaches – she's not as pretty as the two 'Flintstones', nor as voluptuous, but I find her more attractive in an indefinable way.

When she's standing beside me, close enough that I can smell the soft perfume of her body and the sweet aroma of her long hair, I motion the mamasan to bring a lady-drink. I put my arms around her torso and feel her bare waist. She clasps her hands around my neck and moves closer, at an angle, half-sitting on my lap, so that she remains mostly facing away from me.

For the first time since venturing into Bangla Road, I'm feeling a force of attraction for a woman which is more than sexual excitement alone. It's thrilling, and disconcerting, at the same time.

When the drinks arrive I turn her around to face me. I hand her the lady-drink and pick up my beer.

'Cheers,' I say, as the glasses clink.

'Choc tee khap,' she replies, the expression for 'cheers' in Thai to a man.

'What your name?' I ask.

'Areva. What your name?'

'Eddie.'

'How long you stay here?'

'Thailand, six weeks. Patong, two weeks.'

I gently push her off my lap before dismounting from the stool and turning towards the toilet.

'I go toilet,' I say, hating the fact that I've got such a miserably weak bladder, especially in a moment like this. The toilet attendant has pity on me this time and waves me in. Areva is quietly sipping her drink when I return.

'You have lovely hair,' I say, gently stroking her locks.

She smiles, her lips parting slightly, revealing the contrasting whiteness of her teeth against the chocolate colour of her skin.

'I want spend time with you,' I continue. 'You come with me?'

'Yes,' she says, and calls the mamasan over. They have a brief conversation in Thai.

'Long-term or short-term,' the mamasan says turning to me. 'Short-term is one and half hours.'

'Long-term,' I answer, knowing that means all night.

'Long-term, 1000 baht bar-fine.'

'How come so much?' I ask, surprised at the amount.

'Because it before one. Very busy.' She points to a sign pinned on the fridge with the times and costs for short-term and long-term bar-fines. After 1am, the bar-fines are halved.

'How much lady?' I ask.

'You talk her.'

I look at Areva.

'2,000 baht,' she answers.

'Okay,' I say, making a quick conversion in my mind to dollars.

'Wait here,' Areva says. 'I change.'

When she's gone, I finish my drink, then quickly make my way to the toilet once again. I pull out a 10 baht coin, the only coin left in my pocket, expecting change from the attendant. She feigns not having any and slots the coin in a piggy bank next to the official toilet monies. I chuckle, remembering how foreigners, or 'farangs' in Thai, are humorously known as ATMs.

Areva arrives at the bar just as I return from the toilet. She's wearing street clothes – jeans, a light cream-coloured top that covers her entire torso, and high-heeled shoes – and is carrying a bag draped over her shoulder. It's almost as if she is someone else, perhaps a more real self. I grasp her hand and lead her past the array of bars and A Go-Go clubs, around the Hollywood Discotheque and out onto Bangla Road, which is surprisingly pleasant after the cloistered surrounds of Soi Easy.

As we walk together, I reflect upon the unchartered territory I find myself in; a foreign country with its people speaking an incomprehensible language, an environment of unaccustomed tastes, smells and sounds, and I'm accompanied by a Thai woman who is remarkably attractive in some mysterious way and whom I will pay $65 to spend the night with. I ask myself if there is something immoral or exploitative in paying a woman for sex, especially one who is likely to be relatively poor. Would a higher moral choice be made by giving the woman the 2,000 baht and walking away?

Areva adjusts our hands so that our fingers are intertwined. I look at her and wish we spoke the same language so I could accurately communicate what I'm thinking and feeling. It's a strange sensation not being able to speak freely with another person, especially when there is physical contact.

'You hungry?' I ask, rubbing my hand in a circular motion around my stomach.

'Yes,' Areva answers. 'You?'

'A little. Where we eat? Thai food?'

Areva nods her head. She leads me across the motorway through the chaotic traffic with a confidence that astonishes me, then down a narrow street which is, fortunately, on the way to my hotel. We enter a large, open enclosure with a sizable bar and lots of tables and chairs. It resembles the airy, old-fashioned cafes with laminated benches commonly found in the smaller country towns of Australia. A waitress comes over with a menu and asks if we would like a drink. Areva says something in Thai and points to the image of a glass with oranges on top. She then orders a Thai dish with prawns.

'We share,' I say to the waitress, who nods and smiles in return. I'm sure she knows the type of arrangement I've entered into with Areva, but there is no sense of judgement or presumed impropriety.

'Where you from?' Areva asks me. She is holding my hand again and seems very relaxed.

'Australia,' I reply. 'Where you from?'

'Isaan.'

I remember reading that Isaan is a region in north-east Thailand, bordering with Cambodia and Laos. It has a population of over 21 million people. Many Isaan women travel to the larger cities and towns of Thailand hoping to earn significantly more money than they could at home. They are known for their lack of guile and their sweet disposition.

'How old you?' I ask, fascinated with how young Asian women appear in general.

'How old you think?' she answers.

Guessing a woman's age at the best of times is not a good idea, but I write the digits 2 and 3 with my index finger on the table and say '23.'

She smiles broadly. 'No, 30,' and writes the number on the table.

I enjoy playing the age-guessing game because when I ask someone how old they think I am they always underestimate my age, sometimes by as much as 15 years. I have had people in the past so disbelieving, they demanded proof.

'How old you think I am?' I ask, curious to see the expression on Areva's face when I get to confess my true age.

She looks at me for a few seconds and says, '43.'

I laugh. 'No, 56,' and draw it with my finger.

I'm enjoying myself even though verbal communication is severely restricted; but, once again, my bladder is demanding an immediate response.

'I go toilet,' I say, wondering how Areva views my frequent absences in toilets.

The food and orange juice arrives soon after I return. Areva picks up a fork and begins eating. I watch for a while before fishing out a prawn with the extra fork the waitress has brought us.

'You have boyfriend?' I ask.

'No, he gone,' she answers. 'You?'

'No, we split-up few months.' I bring my two index fingers together, then pull them apart.

Areva gives me a look of recognition.

'How long you been in Patong?' I ask.

'Four days.'

'Four days? Not long. You stay?'

'Maybe.'

'You have children?'

'Yes, boy. He with mother.'

I notice a lump in my throat, not sure as to why Areva having a child adds to a percolating unease I'm feeling.

'You have picture?'

'Yes.'

Areva pulls a wallet out of her handbag and shows me a small photo of her son.

'How old?'

'Two.'

I tell her he's a good-looking boy. Areva smiles, then puts her wallet away.

When the food is eaten, I motion for the waitress to bring the bill, which I pay and include a tip. We get up and walk out of the restaurant holding hands.

The hotel I'm staying at, the Amethyst, is only a few hundred metres away. It is characterised in the accommodation guides to Patong as a 'boutique' hotel; clean, efficient and comfortable, offering exceptional service. The Deluxe King room I'm staying in fits the description; it has a sitting area with a table and two chairs, a fridge, a balcony, a wonderfully large king-size bed, air-conditioning, and a shower with hot and cold water. Two 600 ml 'complimentary' bottles of water are provided every day.

I'm feeling nervous and excited as we enter the hotel and make our way up the stairs to my room on the second floor. I put the key into the lock of the door, turn it, then open the door and lead Areva into the room. I switch on the lights and lower the intensity with the dimmer, while she takes off her shoes and puts her bag on the table. We sit down on the edge of the bed.

'Shower,' I say, after a few uncomfortable moments of silence.

Areva tentatively takes her clothes off, puts them on the table and walks into the bathroom. I follow suit. We rub soap on each other's backs and spray the suds off using the hand-held shower nozzle. The feel of her skin on my hands is immensely pleasurable, as is her touch on my body. Australia suddenly seems like lifetimes ago, and Bangla Road, Patong, another realm altogether.

The walls of the hotel room now contain my experience; there is no thought, no doubt, only connectedness which carries us through the night and late into the next morning.

I awake before Areva and watch her lying beside me. She has a fine body; fragile, with long fingers that taper slightly and legs that are shapely and strong. I know that at some point in the future the implications of my actions and the real import of our encounter will unfold. For now, I feel a simple contentedness.

After Areva wakes we enjoy further sexual play, then shower and dress separately. While she packs her toothbrush and other items into her bag, I go to my wallet and take out 2,000 baht, a stark reminder that our interaction was based on a commercial transaction. I give it to her before leading her down the stairs and out of the hotel. She holds my hand tightly, fingers entwined. As we arrive at a T-intersection, I ask her if she would like to come with me for an 'American breakfast' consisting of two eggs, a slice of bacon and a coffee.

'Thai food,' she says, hesitantly.

We look into each other's eyes with surprising intensity. I don't want her to go.

'Where you stay?' I ask, not knowing how to respond, whatever her answer.

She points in one direction.

'I go this way,' pointing in the other direction.

She hesitates; we kiss, then release each other's hands and go our separate ways.

~~~

It's a couple of days later and I'm nervous about returning to Bangla Road. I want to see Areva again, to find out if what I felt the other night was genuine without the compromising effects of alcohol, and whether she feels the same way. After downing a light beer in the Honky-Tonk Bar, I walk along Soi Easy and see Boom-Boom seated on a stool at the Soccer Bar. I take a seat beside her.

'Hello,' I say.

'Sa-wat-dee Kah,' she replies, using a common Thai greeting. 'Where girlfriend?'

'Girlfriend? I not have girlfriend'

'Areva.'

'Areva?' My face tightens. 'Where Areva?'

'She gone home.'

'Home? Where home?'

'Isaan. She go Isaan.'

'You know where in Isaan?'

'No.'

I break out in a sweat as my mind explodes with possibilities. Did Boom-Boom ask me if I was with my girlfriend because Areva told her how she felt for me? Did Areva go back to Isaan after less than a week in Patong because our time together changed her feelings about being a bar-girl? Or did she have a bad experience with another man after our night together?

'Why Areva go home?' I ask Boom-Boom, my chest tight and my stomach in knots.

She shrugs her shoulders.

Getting detailed information from someone with only a modicum of English seems like a hopeless endeavour but I persist, trying another tack.

'How you know Areva go home?'

'She get her things.'

'She say why she go?'

'No.'

'So why you say she my girlfriend?'

Boom-boom looks into my eyes, but doesn't respond. I can't tell if she is making a flippant comment about Areva being my girlfriend or she doesn't want to tell me what actually happened. Either way, I feel like a coward. I let Areva go without expressing how I truly felt, even though the financial arrangements and brevity of our time together would ordinarily not warrant such a declaration. Pursuing her to Isaan at this point in time, without having an address and without speaking Thai, would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack blindfolded, so I let that idea go. Yet, as sad as I now feel, I take some comfort in Areva having departed after less than a week in Patong – working in the sex industry for long periods can cause major trauma. She probably left early enough before the work could adversely affect her.

I get up from the stool, say goodbye to Boom-Boom and make my way slowly back to the Amethyst, oblivious to the people and the noise of Bangla Road.
Sunday 17 June 2012 8 am

J

## Scorpio

### Uarbry, NSW

There you sit and smile at me;

I cannot bear to look at thee.

I cannot bear the pictures in my head.

They tell me that I'm very strong;

I want to scream at them 'You're wrong!'

But they'll feel better if it's left unsaid.

They needn't know that in the night

The thought of sleep fills me with fright,

Lest you should come to visit in my dreams;

That even in my waking hours,

Thoughts of thee cause me to cower.

Let them be content with how it seems.

The pain you knew transfers to me.

I think that this must ever be.

Who now could ever heal this world of mine?

Who can tell me why it's so?

And would it just be worse to know?

Would it unhinge my battered, fragile mind?

Why must I continue on

When you have chosen to be gone?

There isn't any point to this existence.

This life's a storm that buffets me

And I've no strength to break me free;

No power to put up even mild resistance.
Sunday 17 June 2012 4 pm

The Leaping For Joy Girl

## Alan Lucas

### Katoomba, NSW

She is leaping down a sloping path in front of her mother,

Who strolls unconcerned

A few paces behind,

She leaps and jumps for the sheer joy being,

Seemingly floats, defies gravity,

Her mother calm, unconcerned,

Carries her school bag.

Perhaps she is demonstrating

Her new ballets steps,

Or perhaps the sunshine, a fresh breeze, the scent of flowers

Have coalesced to produce

Her moment of joy,

The sudden, unspoken knowledge

That everything is ahead,

That all her anticipated life is ahead,

And of a sudden the young girl is joyous,

Flying for an instant like an angel,

Like Nijinsky.

I drive by with the image still with me,

And remember a young boy

Who could leap like that,

And from the same kind

Of joy.

This is the way of all young animals,

The sudden promise of life,

Arriving as a gift

Regardless of what the future might hold,

Or even because of it.
Monday 18 June 2012

Recognising The Signs

## Kate-Michelle Von Riegen

### Hazelbrook, NSW

I know the signs by heart now. It happens so often that I recognise the signs. It starts with a distant rumble of discontent growing and growing until it explodes into a thundering storm, the high strung screeches of domestic dispute echoing through the house's shell.

The air around us is filled with countless meaningless platitudes. Everyone's trying to spin the threads of their lives into some insincere quotable phrases that they can sprout out when they feel like their dreams are being sucked down the drain. They try to believe in them. To cling onto their supposed meaning like the lines of a parachute, stopping them from plummeting the thousands of miles into the dark hole of reality.

Everyone's an artist. Artists of deception, hiding behind the fake comfort of the two storey, five bedroom mini-mansions, cherry-red Ferraris and countless beachside estates. In a world where everything is measured by the perfection of the lie they can build for the outside view, their hidden fears are held at bay with their plastic smiles and show of content.

'Human beings, like plants, grow in the soil of acceptance,' the rich corporate robots recite, trying to convince themselves that they're talking about their own lives. That they're that little seedling everyone loves. That everyone takes the time to water with sincere praises and goodwill. That they sprinkle with appreciation, fertilising their soul until they will eventually grow into a towering oak with some great purpose in life. A purpose that will one day be fulfilled and lead them to be prized beyond all doubt for their contribution to this Earth.

It's all utter crap. They may say that we grow with acceptance, but it's what they don't say that really matters. Sure, some people may get the acceptance they need to grow to their true height, but for the rest of us, those denied the recognition we so desperately crave, we don't have a hope in hell. Instead, we're left to fend for ourselves. To shrivel up in the harsh glare of scrutiny and judgement that comes from those above.

The truth is, I see it in my parents everyday, cracking under the stress of keeping up that worn façade of happiness and perfection, whilst inside their inner soul rots with the disease of unuse. They weren't always like this though. I remember them when I was younger, before their joy gave way to this life of despair and anguish. Back then they had hopes. They had dreams. Dreams for a better, more beautiful future.

Back then they didn't see the world like other people. To them it wasn't about what it was, but what it could be. Every morning they'd wake up at 7 am, getting into their stiff, starched suits and walking to the office to begin their eight hour day. To the untrained eye they may have looked just the same as all the other corporate robots droning away in the two by two cell, but even as young as I was, I knew better.

Underneath their respectable costumes their hearts were filled with hopes for the future. As they slaved away under the grim gaze of their CEO they dreamed of the day they could rip off their material bonds and paint their own canvas. Gone would be the dull concrete greys and toneless blacks that plagued their world, and locked them in, giving way to the bright splashes of euphoric freedom that could only be found in their deepest desires. But those colours never came. The bright splashes of golden salvation were never found, always just out of reach from their desperate grasp.

After years of peddling the same tired jobs, they began to change. That individual spark that had made them the unique 'painters of their own great destiny' as Dad would say, was eventually quashed under the expectation of a dark, hypocritical world. Soon their starched costumes became more. They became a second skin, turning them into part of the mob; the part of society that was accepted.

They learnt to be perfect. To put on the mask that would protect them from the harshness of the unforgiving outside world. What they didn't realise though, was that this mask offering sanctuary and room to breathe, was actually slowly suffocating them. The world's rejection of who they really were was wilting their hearts and alighting their bright dreams into ash, trapping them in a prison of their own making – one they can't climb out of. Now they are captives in that world of forced conformity, striving towards an artificial perfection but knowing deep down that they don't belong with it, or in it.

It's not just them though. I see it every day in other individuals. A striving towards an acceptance that is supposed to help you grow, but rather ends in a harsh rejection killing the soul from the outside in. It happens so often that I know the signs by heart now. I've seen it so much that I recognise the signs. They're branded within my memory, and every time, it starts with just a distant rumble of discontent.
Tuesday 19 June 2012

Power Drunk

## Ted Witham

### Broadwater, WA

Her small hand looked pale as the sun shone warmly on it into the lounge room. A large diamond glinted in the light. The band looked too big for her finger. Her hand moved along the big glass-fronted cabinet. She watched it closely as if it were someone else's hand, and once more hated herself for her inability to stop it. The white fingers turned the key and plunged inside. The hand half-grabbed, half-caressed, the neck of the decanter. She realised her right hand, the other hand, had been carrying a large tumbler, a Vegemite glass. She placed the glass on the cabinet shelf and quickly filled it and brought it to her lips.

The rasping self-hatred surfaced again, and she hesitated. But the insistent, astringent aroma of the sherry overcame all her hesitation and she drank deeply. Within seconds, the glass was empty, but the woman was not satisfied.

'I shouldn't,' she thought briefly, but still re-filled the glass and drained it. The wine felt sour in her gullet like reflux, and the emotional pain in her head felt like it was beginning to cloud and soften.

The third glassful went down more slowly, and she thought of the decreased pace as a more civilised way of drinking.

'It's okay,' she said aloud, 'I'm on top of it.' There was nobody in the big house to hear her.

With the decanter in one hand and the tumbler in the other, she walked over to the new lounge chair, swaying slightly on her way, and sat heavily in the chair taking exaggerated care not to spill a drop. The wall clock chimed three times, and she began to congratulate herself on waiting so long this day to answer the imperative call of the glass-fronted cabinet.

'To me!' she slurred and lifted the glass to her lips.

The decanter was empty when the clock struck four, and Brenda drifted in a fitful sleep.

This was the part of the day she hated – the memory would wake her and prevent her from complete oblivion. Every day it jerked her back to reality.

She was back on the podium in the State Convention Centre, behind the lectern draped with the Fabian Party banner. She could feel the warmth of the hand-picked crowd applauding her speech. A good performance tonight, and chances were she would be the next Premier. She caught her Dad's eye in the fourth row, and saw there a gleam of pride.

At the back of the crowd, she saw two delegates talking. The first one had the West Australian folded open. 'What is 4 Across?' he asked his neighbour, 'the clue is 'bizarrely re-prime for first in State'.'

Back at the podium she remember how sharp she was in questions and answers, so the Party minders had agreed to a short session after the speech.

The man was dressed in an open-necked green knit shirt and taupe trousers, contrasting with the uniform suits and power dresses. In her memory now, the man was holding a knife as he slowly approached the floor microphone. She smiled encouragingly, wanting to be in charge.

'Is it true, Ms Berndale,' he asked, and she could hear the self-assurance in the familiar Geordie burr, 'that you and your father were members of the English New Nazi Party?' A gasp from the Party faithful. The camera closed on the woman's face and caught that moment of horrified hesitation. In a moment she stuttered, pointed at her father, and said, 'My father was. Not me. I was never ideologically aligned. He was. But not me.'

But the questioner was well-prepared – he must have had friends in the Party office – and with quiet scorn spoke again in to the microphone. 'Then you had better watch this. You had all better watch this.'

As they looked to the big screens, the woman's face dissolved to be replaced by the scene of a noisy crowd, the dark towers of York Minster the backdrop. Another stage, another microphone with a younger Brenda Berndale, hair tightly cropped and shouting, 'This cowardly Government has failed to keep out these dirty Ottomans!' This English crowd cheered, but the Party audience watching in the auditorium in Australia was stunned. Then an angry buzz arose from the front seats where her front bench colleagues were seated. They walked as a group to the podium and pushed the woman outside into the darkness. The audience jeered.

Back in her lounge chair the woman was crying. Again. She swore at the empty decanter.

The door-bell sounded; at first far away, but then pressed again, it sounded more insistent. Brenda Berndale was not inclined to stand and respond. But it rang again, and Brenda got to her feet feeling full of confusion and anger and walked slowly to the front door. She peered through the spy-hole. There were two Aboriginal kids calling, 'Mizz Berndale, are you alright?' Brenda knew she had seen these kids before. They lived in the next street. The other neighbours chased them away, but Brenda had once passed glasses of Coke out to them. It was early in her campaign when she was seeking out every favourable voice she could muster.

Brenda was about to turn away, but on impulse reached out to the snib and opened the door. 'Are you alright, Mizz?' the younger child, a boy, asked again. Brenda was aware of their appraising eyes, and looked down at herself, and saw the tumbler still in her hand. 'Not good drink,' the boy said flatly, as if from experience of others.

'No,' Brenda replied softly, 'No.' Tears spilled down her face. The familiar wound in her head throbbed less doggedly. She held out her hand across the threshold. 'Come in, kids. Can I get you a glass of Coke? Please stay and talk to me.'

Brenda stood aside and watched two little strangers obtrude upon her territory, and she had to admit to herself that it felt good.
Wednesday 20 June 2012 8 am

Down Reigate Hill

## Robertas

### Drummoyne, ACT

ROAR! A demented lion, inches from my ear – knocks me sideways across the narrow footpath. It flashes by – black, but dazzling daylight off chrome muffler and spokes.

Black leather jacketed, black helmeted. Low, like a swimmer lunging at starter's pistol-crack; he is joined to the machine.

Down the hill he flies.

He'll kill himself. The road vanishes at the bottom of the steep; an impossible bend. He has no chance. He's a madman.

An identical dozen roar by. All black leather madmen.

All doomed.

At the bend he throws the bike into a shower of sparks.

He is gone.

But I hear no skid. No crash.

His other selves spark-shower in hot pursuit.

All gone. And all now silent.

Silent the world and silent my scoured mind.
Wednesday 20 June 2012 4 pm

Lovers And Liars

## Emma Hall

### Canterbury, Victoria

She drank milky coffee and

wore pink lipstick and

after we made love

she'd stroke my back and tell me stories.

But I left her.

For the girl

with long brown curls who

never called me by my name and

after we made love

she'd loosen the ties on my wrists and go to make herself a black Russian.

And she left me.

For the guy

who bought her things that sparkled and

told her she was more fun than his wife and

after they made love

he promised she was the only one.

And she believed him.

Until she saw him with the girl

in the short short skirt with

the big blue eyes and (she was sure)

after they made love

he promised she was the only one.

So she left him.

For a boy

who wore his sleeves rolled up and

smiled with his mouth open and

after they made love

he panted 'you're amazing' and she waited until he left so she could finish herself.

Then he left her.

When he told her

'I love you' and

she turned away and lied and said there was someone else

until he, heartbroken,

left her.
Thursday 21 June 2012

Fame

## Ridley Heard

### Redhead, NSW

The glass door of the medical centre gave a sharp, clean clang as Marco shut it behind him. The sound seemed far too high pitched compared to the deep wooden thud produced by most doors; this was due to the metal border which held the glass panel in place. The sound produced was the kind of distraction that, in most situations, would go unnoticed by most people. However this was a waiting room, a place where people almost begged for such minor commotions to alternate their crawling boredom. Lifting his head sheepishly, Marco noticed every set of eyes pointing in his direction.

The voice of Marco's mother was soft, warm and flavoured with a European twist, as it always was. 'Come on Marco, take a seat, I will sign you in.'

Sinking into one of the cushioned couches Marco suspiciously examined the people around him. A majority of them had already exhausted the little entertainment the newcomer had provided and were either staring at the ground, the walls or fiddling aimlessly on their mobile telephones. He examined one middle-aged woman who had even taken solace in plucking miniscule pieces of fluff from her dress. However, the ones he was really worried about were the people who were still looking at him, the few who had followed him with their eyes the whole way to his seat. Had they noticed him? Did they know who he was? A person of his popularity could hardly go about his everyday activities without being noticed by at least one person. Yet, this was different. This was not an everyday activity, and he had put extra care in ensuring he would NOT be noticed.

One particular girl, who he guessed to be either his age or slightly younger, stared him down with big eyes. The kind of eyes that said, 'Is that who I think it is?' He tried shifting his gaze, only to make eye contact (from behind his shades) with a man who had already been watching him. He was significantly older than Marco and a hell of a lot taller. His torso was adorned with a large black trench coat, one which seemed unneeded in junction with the heating of the waiting room. Marco now focused on the coat with an un-trusting gaze. What was he hiding under there? A camera? Would he leap up at any moment and snap the photo that would make the front pages in tomorrow's paper? Scanning him upwards Marco saw the man's harsh facial features and the 'oh-yes-I-know-who-you-are' expression he was conveying.

His thoughts were finally interrupted by his mother, who sat down next to him. 'Dr Phelps is running a bit late but you shouldn't have to wait too long.'

Every adolescent Marco's age would have been to the doctors with their mother at some point; even the famous and critically acclaimed. He pondered however on how many would have to see a psychologist. Depression was common enough he supposed. Perhaps he was just making a big deal out of the whole situation; the kind of big deal that rich, spoiled and particularly famous kids always seemed to make. He had never wanted to become that cliché, never. This is normal, he told himself in his head, a great number of stars suffered depression at some point in their career; in fact now that he thought about it a majority of them did. So what was the big deal? He still did not feel comfortable enough to take off his shades, or his hat, or his large worn sweater that was prompting the pits of his underarms to accumulate a decent amount of perspiration. His clothes made him feel as if he was being displayed as inferior, as less prestigious than he truly was. However that was all part of his plan.

Every time Dr Phelps would emerge from wherever his work was taking place, every person in the waiting room would look up in anticipation. One man would even cough loudly to make himself seem apparent, driven by the belief that the psychologist was picking the patients by hand and not a systematic order. Who knows how long Marco waited in that room. He himself had no idea, but was more than relieved when Dr Phelps finally called his name. Rising from his seat and heading over to the psychologist Marco examined Mr 'Oh-yes-I-know-who-you-are' with his peripherals. There was no jumping out of his seat to capture the star and the psychologist in the same frame, in fact there was no movement at all. Not yet.

When finally in the quaint room where Dr Phelps went about his work, Marco found himself engaged in a quite lengthy conversation with the Doctor which, as Mr Phelps had explained, was aimed at 'working out where you are at'.

Eventually Marco was prompted out of the room with a warm comforting smile, one which Marco guessed had been perfected over years of professionalism.

'Now if you could just wait here,' Dr Phelps gestured to a small armchair across from the room he was just in, around the corner from the main waiting room, 'I am just going to chat with your mother.'

Marco's mother rose from the armchair he would soon sit in and followed Dr Phelps into his room. The door was gently shut and Marco soon found himself in silence.

The talk with the psychologist was good he supposed. It allowed him to vent some issues he wouldn't usually share with people, and looking back he was surprised with how willing he was to tell this stranger private and somewhat provoking information. His post-mortem was suddenly interrupted by a warm sensation, like a bucketful of warm sand crawling down his entire body. The camera was positioned in the top corner of the room, its red light and unblinking lens gazing at him steadily. A security camera. He recalled seeing footage somewhere in a vast career of television watching of celebrities caught in the act on security cameras. He hadn't gone to all this effort to be caught out by one lousy security camera. He rose from his seat and moved towards the door which supported a gold plate reading 'DR. PHELPS'. As he reached it he turned back and was comforted instantly as he realised he was out of the camera's sight. Muffled murmurs seemed to be coming from the room which he stood outside of. Feeling somewhat guilty Marco leant his ear against the door.

'This is beyond my qualifications to deal with Miss Margarelli,' Doctor Phelps spoke. 'These delusions are quite common in severe mental disorders. We call them delusions of grandeur; the patient can perceive themselves as highly important, as famous and even to have special powers and abilities.'

'What would you guess is wrong with my boy?' Marco's mother's speech had a shaky element to it, as if she was close to tears.

'Schizophrenia seems likely at this stage. Marco requires psychometric medication to deal with these delusions. I can give you the name of a ...'

'I don't want my boy to have to live his life like that. Drugged up constantly. Are you positive there are no alternative solutions?' Marco noticed his mother now actually was crying.

'Nothing else that will be anywhere near effective I am afraid.'
Friday 22 June 2012 8 am

Creative Places

## JAC

### Kilsyth, VIC

Eyes closed pretending I was all alone

No-one near for me to see

Without vision of colour or object,

Resided a dark world in me

A point inside my mind

Where I existed on my own

Growing images of myself

And ideas I only saw alone.

There, creation comes to life

And thoughts began to rise

They brewed and raged,

Always heard, never asking the 'whys'

Words written turned from secrets

And lyrics turned from memories

Spoke loud were my opinions

With only me to disagree

Closed eyes were then awaken

And before the thoughts could fray

I met with pen and paper

It was time to mould that clay

At the end of day, I will

Lose sight of other faces

Then I know it is time I visit,

Those dark and creative places
Friday 22 June 2012 4 pm

Once Upon Mt Wilson

## Virginia Gow

### Blackheath, NSW

Sunlight splits the dew from yellow leaves and draws forth a brilliant day out of folds of fog. A Sydney bound train whistles a Sunday holy hello as it rumbles over Blackheath rail crossing. It will be a fine day for an autumn picnic, Ginny thinks as she joins The Visitors in their black four-wheel drive. Bellbirds chime in the early morning as someone says, 'Autumn is the very best time to visit Mount Wilson!'

The Visitors are intrepid travellers and have explored the heritage garden village before. There is no town water supply. People are requested to bring their own drinking water. The residents gather their household needs from water tanks. Gardens are fed from dams and streams. They know to bring their own food, water and wine because there are no shops in Mt Wilson's village.

Fresh buns from the Blackheath Bakery still carry their early morning 'hot out of the oven' smell. Sliced ham 'off the bone' from the butcher's, smoked salmon from the fishmonger's lie between slivers of white paper. Fresh iceberg lettuce and roma tomatoes have just been gathered from the greengrocer's. Homemade chutney, stuffed olives, soft Brie and tasty hard cheddar from the deli now nestle down in the picnic basket on the back seat. A thermos of hot water for tea or coffee holds its own basket, with mugs, on the floor. Ginny brings a bottle of local Mudgee wine, along with water and milk, in a cooling bag as her contribution.

As the basalt-capped peaks on the northern edge of the Blue Mountains come into view, the road is a carpet of orange, yellow, red and brown leaves. Autumn tresses of the weeping cherry and liquid ambers are superb in their hues having fed off the rich volcanic soil of this cool temperate rainforest. These deciduous trees seem to delight in shedding their treasure but warn of winter's chill.

The landscape is sprinkled with world famous gardens. Charles Moore, a former Director of the Royal Botanic Gardens in Sydney, began one garden in 1877. This colonial garden, set on 20 acres, surrounds a classic old colonial sandstone homestead. Bronzed 'bird of paradise' fountain leads to a leafy avenue. Here purple Sycamore weeps in splendor, there an 'old man' cork tree peeps out at the waterlillies. Imagine standing in a grove created by the one giant redwood and feeling the hush of a sacred space. This giant Sequoia is over a hundred years old and in its branches a boy's midnight dreaming may be protected. Walk down to a sculpture garden where bronze nymphs hide in a waterfall glen. Shift along a high stonewall to discover an elaborate 15th century Spanish doorway leading to a secret garden.

'Peek through the ancient Spanish iron barred window at a walled world of verdant green grass, a wisteria arbour, a thriving herbaceous border,' says the mistress of the house. 'Catch a sunbeam dancing on the handsome ornamental pond.' Ginny recognises this lady from her weekly life-drawing classes and they smile at each other as if they share a secret. This elegant lady escorts them around her beloved garden then invites them for tea. Thus an extra layer is added to the enjoyment of Mt Wilson as The Visitors sip warm sweet tea inside the solid sandstone walls, warmed by the kitchen hearth.

Mt Wilson is where, as a boy, Patrick White may kick a stone along the road. Hands in pockets, he is already storytelling. Follies, those architectural monoliths, sit in isolated splendor. A wedding couple gambols over lawn, as a photographer arranges his child model on an old wooden fence. In a summerhouse a scene from a new movie blockbuster is being shot, the stars looking incongruous in their heavy makeup and costumes as the director calls 'action!' It is all about the dapple of the leaves.

At a fork in the road a wooden picnic table stands with its attendant benches ready to receive a cloth, picnic baskets, cooling bag, The Visitors and Ginny. A gentle wind plays a melody with the fallen leaves. They dine in a manner rather refined, and bask in the rays of the noonday sun. Laughter and chatter mingle with bird song. Time allows the shadows to lengthen and friendship deepens with them.

The journey over, Ginny waves farewell to The Visitors. She settles back in the cosy Blackheath cottage, a video of Mt Wilson playing in her thoughts. The melody of leaves with wind is soundtrack to the graceful images. A sigh escapes as she remembers to press 'Save'.
Saturday 23 June 2012

Marionettes Of Despair

## Amber Johnson

### Highgate Hill, Queensland

He licked the blood off of his blade and savoured the rusty salinity that coated his tongue. His gloved hands reverently slid along the hilt of his switchblade. Beside him, a woman clicked her tongue impatiently as she watched him toy with a corpse. The man shrieked with delight as he saw his victim's limb twitch.

'Oh look; this nerve is still functioning!' he gasped, prodding flesh with the knife. Each stroke was made with precision; every droplet that coloured the tip was an object of marvel – only blood made dying real.

'Didn't your mother ever tell you not to play with your food?' the woman huffed. Large reptilian wings extended from the middle of her shoulder blades. Her wings' scaly tendrils were separated by a webbed membrane; each tip tapered to a claw. Kizor grinned beneath his shock of red hair.

'What would be the purpose of this vicious slaughter if I denied myself the pleasure?' he whispered. A swirl of playful malice seeped through his slitted pupils. She flicked her hair behind her ears without response and left him to his maniacal scrutiny.

'I can't quite grasp how you find enjoyment in killing; they are just petty humans,' she added indifferently. Kizor closed his eyes with a smile, re-enacting the experience within his mind.

'Their pleas excite me, as I fondle with their fears and memories. I taste of their very life-force the moment their eyes glaze over and they choke on their last silent scream,' he explained.

Serena oiled her way into his arms in a slick, fluid movement.

'I love it seeing you so passionate, even if she was only a weakling,' she nodded towards the dead woman in front of them.

'You should know by now that I do not discriminate simply because they are weak,' Kizor laughed. 'I don't care whether they are human or hybrid, black or white, young or old; I am quite happy to kill them all.'

Serena folded her wings back in a swift swoop.

'Your current preference for the mortals has caused quite the controversy between human and hybrid relations,' Serena simpered. Despite her attempt to appear neutral, a trace of concern laced her words.

'I would hunt more of our kin, had the senate not decided to ostracise those of "non-human status". It is a rather dismal attempt to stop my hunt; human laws don't apply for us,' Kizor scoffed. He stood up, kicking the body aside.

'You found one to play with about a week ago, didn't you? A nymph if I recall correctly,' she asked curiously.

'Your memory serves you well however, I had a little too much fun. The vessel was destroyed a few hours ago; his mind couldn't handle the intrusion.'

'Hmm, that sounds a little troublesome,' Serena sighed.

'No matter; there are other ways to satisfy my thirst. Shall we find another?' Kizor held out his arm. He enticed the succubus to partake with a smouldering stare. Serena smiled and entwined his fingers around her own.

'Sure, but only if you'll spend a bit of private time with me later,' she growled seductively. Kizor shrugged off the charm that would have clouded the minds of lesser men.

'We'll see,' he said, apathetically. Serena's wings batted once, as if to stretch weary muscles, before she followed the puppet-master.

They strolled confidently through the streets, completely aware that people watched them, too horrified to emerge from the shadows. Skulking down alleys and secluded lanes, they scanned the night for their next victims. Serena's ears perked up at the echoes of jingling keys and heavy boots. As Kizor stepped forward, chuckles amongst the bantering men ceased; all three wore cobalt uniforms.

'What business do you two have this late at night?' one of them asked as another raised a torch. The silhouette of webbed wings was illuminated in a glossy gleam.

'What the hell is that?' the third guard gasped. Serena flexed her deltoids and bared fangs as the torch bearer shouted, 'They're wings! Shoot the bitch!'

An ear-piercing screech escaped her lips as the succubus beat her wings threateningly. Two of the guards flinched, while the third advanced cautiously. With a forceful strike, the approaching guard was knocked off his feet. From the ground, the breeze agitated his face; it tingled where he was struck. The first guard rushed to aid.

'Dave! Are you okay?' David gagged slightly in response. Two deep gashes, one across the forehead and the other over his cheek, swelled rapidly.

'I wouldn't touch him if I were you,' Serena chimed.

David howled; his skin sizzled and blistered. His hands flew to the wounds as he hoped for some comfort but within seconds he withdrew them. Waxy flesh melted away from his fingers as he watched in horror. The first guard stumbled backwards in panic.

'Help me!' David gurgled. Sickening screams and tortured sobs were choked into silence. His cheek decomposed and the tongue fell to the concrete beside his exposed jawbone. Both of his comrades were helpless against the venom that dissolved through David's torso. His legs remained intact; they were attached to a mass of skeletal remains and the muscle tissue that clung, in gooey clumps around his rib cage.

'Well that was fun,' Kizor chuckled. 'It's my turn now.'

The guard, who had backed away, drew his pistol with an unsteady hand. With a shark-like grin, Kizor's gaze pierced through the mind of the second guard. So your name is Michael, Kizor echoed in a sinister whisper. The hybrid's lips remained drawn back like sanguine curtains and exposed the sadistic ivories; they had remained motionless. Boo! Kizor roared mentally.

Before Michael could draw his gun, a swarm of wasps droned and buzzed around him. He swatted at the air around him, which only proved to provoke a bombardment of stings. Sharp, throbbing jabs struck at his skull; tiny needles were felt prickling his grey matter. Kizor cackled out loud while his victim dropped his gun and pressed his fists over his ears, much to the bewilderment of the captain.

'What the hell is wrong with you?' he growled.

Michael's muscles petrified; fear gnawed away all sense of logic. The wicked smile branded his mind with permanent torment. He knew if he survived the night, that grin would taunt him forever. The master of manipulation delved deeper into Michael's darkest memories. He scratched at the surface and scraped out the greasy debris of long-forgotten sentiments. The chill of Kizor's presence was amplified as he flicked through the scrapbook of memory.

Michael fell to his knees, groaning in mental anguish – for even the most sheltered minds host putrid fragments. Whether they have been swept under the carpet, frayed with guilt, or lurk in neglected cavities, Kizor will drag out the worst experiences he can find.

'David is dead. I know he was your mate, but if you don't get your ass off the ground, you will be too,' the captain barked. 'Get up!' Michael did not respond; he was absorbed into the depths of regret.

Completely ignorant to the other man, Kizor locked his gaze with the tortured lamb that writhed and groaned before him. Don't look away.

'Stay away from him! Get back, you mongrel!' The captain tried to maintain his composure as he shuffled closer to the hybrid. Serena took an intimidating step forward; Kizor signalled for her to stop. Both Serena and the captain paused as the puppet-master remained locked in mental conquest. Michael's arm abruptly swung around and gripped the captain's shin.

'What the fuck is wrong with you! Let go of me!'

Michael squeezed tighter as his captain squirmed to get free. The captain noticed Michael's hazel eyes changed to a ghastly blue – akin to those of his captor.

'Mmm, I wonder what your knee tastes like,' Michael wheezed. The blue, cotton trouser leg was ripped open like a plastic bag in Michael's fist. He giggled and dragged his tongue over the captain's knee cap. The captain struggled in disgust and gave a swift boot to the side of Michael's head; it produced no reaction. Michael sneered idly without the devotion that was required. His features were hollowed and barren.

'Bleh your knee is hairy. Do I have hair stuck in my teeth?' he asked and displayed his teeth for inspection.

An icy chill ran down the captain's spine. The sudden realisation crept over him that, to these monsters, possession was a sport and he was the game. Once they disposed of Michael, he would be next. What would it be like having those ... things in my head? The captain looked down at the pitiful shell of his subordinate; he was no longer recognisable. The shadow of Michael's former self flickered through the bars of his cage, though he lacked the strength to break through Kizor's iron grasp.

What must he be going through? The thought made the captain shudder. I can't fight them; I need to get away! It felt as though his heart was being constricted within his chest as the foul creatures inspected his reactions.

'He has caught on to us,' Kizor droned. 'His analysis taints his blood with an alkaline taste; I can smell it from here. It is hardly worth the effort to season him with fear. I gave him too long to think and now he has gone stale,' he said and clicked his fingers. Michael let go of the captain and gripped the dagger that was dropped into his hands.

'What a pity. Kill him,' Kizor shrugged.

Michael ran forth and lifted the weapon above his head. As he was about to drive the knife down, his muscles cried in protest. Every fibre of his being fought against Kizor's control. He squeezed his eyes shut to focus on his internal struggle. With a tug of will, the incontrollable urge to plunge the dagger into his superior's throat vanished. All was silent and still. He cringed in anticipation.

A warm gush at his wrist confirmed the worst; he couldn't bear to open his eyes. Open them; take a look at your hand. A squelching gag rattled through the air as Michael's eyelids were peeled back. The hilt remained firmly in his hand as his eyes skated over the train wreck he had wrought. Michael's fist had penetrated through the captain's throat; the knife had severed the captain's brain stem.

He tried to let go but his hand stubbornly gripped tighter. A rebellious plunge was followed by the crunch of metal against bone. Whenever he tried to look away from the brutal disfigurement, his glance was unwillingly snapped back. Now look what you have done. That man was your friend. He was helpless, the spectral tone murmured. You're a murderer.

'No! I – '

'You killed him,' Kizor interrupted. Electric-blue irises radiated toxic quantities of self-loathing into Michael's mind. Every shred of confidence he once possessed was plucked from him; it left him hollow. The void was quickly filled with remorse and disgust until the baneful emotions leaked from his pores. The whole world seemed to contract around him. Unseen eyes and silent tongues scorned him.

'Just fucking kill me already!' he spat.

'You have the means,' Serena replied. She nodded towards the dagger twirling around Michael's fingertips. He paused. Is this a trick? He knew it would end the pending torment and night-terrors. Would they be merciful? Maybe they want to see me crumble. He closed his eyes and braced himself.

One ... two ... three.

An explosive projection of images burst into his mind. Illusion blended with reality as memory reeled and flickered. The warmth of his kitten as she kneaded his stomach, the sound of his mother's heartbeat from the womb and the texture of Vick's VapoRub being smothered on his six-year-old chest, all coaxed him into a false sense of security – the thoughts blotched away his guilt. He lowered the dagger to his side.

'Isn't that nice?' Kizor chirped patronisingly. With a stamp of his feet, spur-like razors emerged from the toes of the boots.

'Don't come any closer!' Michael waved his weapon threateningly. His palm opened involuntarily and allowed the metal to tinker on the road. Kizor clicked his tongue.

'Tsk, you should know better than that.' He walked over and brushed spidery fingers across Michael's cheek. Unable to move, the man tried to ignore the glacial prickle against his stubble.

'It seems you need a shave. Here, let me give you a hand,' Kizor breathed. With inhuman speed, he leapt off the ground. The hybrid spun in a whirlwind of motion and delivered a tornado kick that peeled away the surface of Michael's chin. Michael cried in agony, his raw sinews burned in the breeze. He turned to run.

'Are leaving so soon? Why don't you stay a little longer?' Kizor sneered. Michael managed to reach the road before Kizor launched at him and slashed at his hamstrings. The guard plummeted to the bitumen. His body, grazed and bruised, thrashed against the invisible weights that pinned him face down. Kizor walked up slowly. His kick-blades smiled dangerously in the glimmer of street lamps. In an instant, he sliced open the the cobalt guard's uniform. The night air flew up the legs of exposed satin boxers. Michael yelped – that was a little too close for comfort.

'What are you going to do to him?' Serena asked eagerly. Kizor ignored her and blew a billow of air over the nape of his slave's neck. Michael shivered. The sting of a razor trailed right down to his thighs. Fists were clenched and teeth were ground as Kizor's foot traced cross-hatch patterns over his prey's rump. The movements were smooth and slow like those of a scalpel, until it was ripped away.

The blade was thrust into Michael's colon. Screams could be heard from miles away yet no one dared interfere. The puppet-master twisted his ankle back and forth; his kick-blade scraped against the torn rectal tissue with each turn. He yanked downwards and carved through to Michael's testicles. With a cruel leer, the manipulator hacked through the man's scrotum, and swung his foot to Michael's throat.

'It was fun while it lasted,' Kizor admitted before he stomped down and stifled the guard's last groan.

Blood splattered against his ashen face in delectable contrast. He kicked repeatedly into the motionless heap at his feet and watched the life ooze away from the source. Puncture wounds draped the body in a curtain of red. He giggled in a fit of ecstasy as flesh squished and squirted with every punt.

The puppet-master gleefully continued to disfigure the remains until a hiss caught his attention.

'Killing humans is rather dull,' Serena huffed as she observed the aftermath. 'The thrill extinguishes too quickly. Mine didn't even put up a fight.'

'I don't believe the taste of fear will ever get old,' he replied.

'We best return before dawn,' the succubus sighed wearily.

Having consumed their fill of blood and slaughter, they slipped into the shadows leaving only carnage in their wake.

'Marionettes of Despair' is a horrific excerpt from Amber Johnson's fantasy novel 'The Rouge Oppression'.
Sunday 24 June 2012 8 am

Lost Illusions

## James Craib

### Wentworth Falls, NSW

Love can be wonderful

Obsession can be a curse

Seduction is so glamorous

Treachery is far worse

Infatuation is a two-edged sword

Licentiousness can be the result

Languorous exchanges hang on every word

Ubiquity brings lust to a halt

Society demands certain standards

Instilled from an early age

Overtime one expects more candour

Now's the time to start a new page

So consider the following ~

I pray for you ~ I prey for you

I need of you ~ I feed on you

I love you ~ I loath you

I adore you ~ I abhor you

I worship you ~ I worry you

I seduce you ~ I reduce you

I desire you ~ I despise you

I console you ~ I control you

I stroke you ~ I strike you

I caress you ~ I curse you

I kiss you ~ I kill you

I flaunt you ~ I haunt you

I want you ~ I taunt you

I respect you ~ I reject you

I salute you ~ I refute you

I repent you ~ I resent you

You amuse me ~ You abuse me

You engage me ~ You enrage me

You entice me ~ You incite me

You connect me ~ You correct me

You impel me ~ You impale me

You expect me ~ You infect me

You mesmerise me ~ You terrify me

You compel me ~ You repel me

You complete me ~ You defeat me

You excel me ~ You expel me

You delight me ~ You deny me

I have much confusion ~ You have lost illusions.
Sunday 24 June 2012 4 pm

I Couldn't Stay For The Celebration

## Sonia Ursus Satori

### Medlow Bath, NSW

I couldn't stay for the celebration. I am a cop, and there are bad guys out there.

Somebody's gotta clamp down on those pimps and narks. Before you know it they'll gate-crash any party. You don't wanna put up with that vulgarity mob on your wedding day! I know what I'm talking about: they'll drag along the other whores. God knows what they are sniffing these days. Raided the cathouse last night; couldn't fit them all in the paddy wagon, fornicating bastards. Pimps galore, I tell you. Can't do enough for their lecherous clientele. You should have seen the lawyers and CEOs scramble for the doors.

Hah! Didn't wanna spend the night in jail so they coughed up. The pillars of society! No messing with me, sir. Fat-bellied ogres saturated with Viagra and high on coke. Give me a decent drunk anytime.

Why did you have to insist on Eddy-the-nark for best man? The double-crossing jerk he is. Loaded with the stuff. On him. I spotted Pinky in the congregation. He scared the shit out of me. What was he doing there? He's had an eye on me for some time. The other copper's dead stoned – me being the only one there with a clear head. I had to split. Did it for you, babe. No one besmirches your honour, being pregnant and all, if I can help it.

So what if it didn't come to the vows. I'll marry you another day.
Monday 25 June 2012 8 am

Great Spirit

## Claire Turner

### Mona Vale, NSW

Sing to me Great Spirit

As whisper in the wind,

Show to me the gateway

That leads to within.

Shine your light brightly

Like the warm sun's rays

As I mould within your likeness

And tread within your way.

Watch as I transform my lord

Like the blooming of a rose

As I learn to rejoice in everything

And accept how my life goes.

To see your hand in everything

Your love the joining thread,

My last wish is of oneness with you

As upon the pillow I lay my head.
Monday 25 June 2012 4 pm

Bathed In Sunlight

## Chloe Loughran

### Brunswick, VIC

You know it doesn't turn away

It doesn't wait

For the time to pass

This happiness can only last

Now if the sun shines through me

I will be alive in you

That is all I need

And if these grey skies we painted

Some day turn blue

Then the sun will shine through you too

Letting go isn't what we want to do

It's then we feel the loneliness flow through

But each day that sun rises once again

That's when I'll come to you my friend

And I'm sorry

That this world is much too hard

But together we will play our cards

Connected arm in arm

And every time the sun can't be seen

You will always have me

And together we will be

Bathed in sunlight.

Chloe has been writing short stories and poems since she was 15 years old. When she was younger, Chloe had a close friend, based on their mutual feelings of depression. When Chloe started to get better, her friend felt left behind, so Chloe wrote this poem for her.
Tuesday 26 June 2012

Saving My Butterfly

## Tamara Pratt

### Mount Gravatt, QLD

Sometimes I think my sister's life was as fragile as the butterflies she tattooed on her hip the day before she died.

It seemed just as fleeting.

I hear the resignation in my father's voice when I make the comparison – when I talk about the few days a butterfly has before it perishes, and the thousands of days Emily lived.

He says an insect doesn't choose its time of death – it's a victim of nature.

A victim. When he says that, it's like he is accusing my sister of being selfish; saying she was no better than our mother, leaving us without warning.

I imagine my sister now, with her sea-green wings fluttering in quick succession, escaping from something I cannot see nor understand.

If only I understood what scared her the most, I might have saved her from falling.

~~~

'Dad!'

My father rolls in his sleep, snorting before mumbling something incoherent.

'Dad! Get up! Ryan's here.'

I punch him in the arm. I might do more to suggest he pass out on his bed, not the couch, but it's been this way for the best part of a year.

His detective partner, three month's new, rings the doorbell for the fourth time. I'm almost surprised Ryan Caldwell is on the other side of the door this morning.

Most nights he crashes here with my father after listening to his drunken ramblings on why our mother left him; how she screwed up Emily's life – all the reasons my sister is in a grave now.

Perhaps Ryan, for all of his twenty-five years, is saving my father's face in the station on the days he doesn't show. If nothing else, Ryan's getting cheap rent for the effort. He's moved into the spare room, his clothes in the laundry, and his dishes on the sink.

I stride toward the door. 'I'm late. I shouldn't even be here.'

I haven't lived at home since I started uni, but I seem to haunt this place since Emily died.

'I'm up, I'm up.' My father peels himself off the couch, his grey hair tangled, his shirt edging over his belly.

'You'll slip at work,' I tell him. 'You'll miss something. You're probably close to screwing up someone else's – '

I stop myself before I say 'life'. I'm only ever a few words away from telling him what I really think: that he's a shell of a father, and he's the reason Emily is dead. Not our mother.

I fling back the front door. Ryan greets me with a wink. 'Hey there, Luce.'

'Here!' I toss him a notebook, patterned with flowers and hand-drawn scribbles. 'I got hold of this yesterday. Try Mark Rimmons first. Maybe that's what the R stands for in there. He was a kid at her school.'

'When are you going to give this up?' My father stands behind me, his breath stale. 'No one killed her. Your sister chose to die.'

I turn to him. 'It's more than you've got.'

A dull anger flashes in his eyes. 'I've told you. I can't get involved.'

'Where did you get this?' Ryan asks. A fair question, given Ryan canvassed our house only weeks ago, looking for evidence that Emily's death was a suicide.

'It doesn't matter.' I sling my bag over my shoulder. 'What matters is that you read it, and find out who she was talking about.'

My father speaks. 'We've been through this, Lucy. Let it go.'

I laugh. 'Why? Is this too much police work for your friend?'

'No,' he says. 'But if anyone had a reason to kill Emily, Ryan would have found out what it was by now.'

Ryan nods in support of my father's wise words.

Of course he would. He's young, and if I really think about it, he's probably waiting until my father runs himself so far into the ground that he can snap up his job.

~~~

It was the graphium sarpedon, a blue triangle, she had tattooed. A rare species of butterfly, hard to catch.

The day of her death, Emily told me she was chasing the love of her life. Two tattoos for two hearts. She stood in the kitchen, wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, grinning. Smitten was an understatement, but I didn't dare question her – to interrogate her was to catch her, and I wanted my sister to enjoy what it was she had found.

Maybe if her tattooed butterflies had real wings, she could have saved herself from the hanging – the rope that burned deep into her flesh and cut her life short.

In one of his drunken stupors days ago, my father mumbled something about bruises and scratches around her neck. He said in the suicides he's investigated, it can happen when a victim panics in tying the rope, or in the drop, if they decide against what they've done.

If I was there, I would have broken her fall.

~~~

Brandi greets me in the lecture theatre, gushing. 'I'm so happy. You know, we should go on a double date sometime.' She twirls a necklace in her fingers. A silver chain. My heart stalls. She told me months ago it was a gift from her boyfriend. I shake my head clear.

'I need to look after my father,' I say. 'He's not doing as well as some.'

She ignores my inference and slouches in her lecture chair. 'Why run after him? Isn't he the reason your sister did what she did?'

'She was sixteen,' I remind her. 'Sixteen. How could she even think to do that?'

'Maybe you're thinking about it too much,' she says abruptly.

Two weeks in, wounds raw, and my friend might as well soak them with acid.

'You don't give a shit, Brandi.' The tears sting as I stand up.

'Wait,' she says. 'Here.' She hands me a ball of crumpled paper.

I recognise the floral prints, hand-written scrawl. 'From Emily's diary?'

She nods.

'Did you tear this out?'

'Yes.' She won't look me in the eye.

I snatch it from her hands. 'Why would you do that?'

She shrugs. 'I had no idea Emily was involved with him. Maybe that's why she ...'

'Who?' I demand. 'Who was Emily involved with?'

Brandi clams up, so I ask her the same thing I asked her yesterday, when she gave me Emily's diary.

'Why didn't you return this to Emily when you found it? You kept it for weeks. Why?'

'I don't know,' she says. 'I guess I didn't want anyone else to see it. I wish I hadn't seen it.'

I want to slap Brandi. It hurts knowing she's read my sister's innermost thoughts.

'I hope you enjoyed every word,' I say.

~~~

Ryan, in charge of Emily's case, questioned me the night she died. He told me the person who found Emily's body was a passerby. He said that her torso was half-naked, but it could have just been a kid tampering with the body after they found it, some sick thrill.

'Was it the top half that was naked?' I asked.

He nodded.

'She was wearing a blue sweatshirt in the morning,' I said. 'What would they want with that?'

Ryan shrugged. 'We don't know, but did she have a boyfriend? Someone who could have helped her with this ...'

'Suicide?' I said it so my father would hear from the kitchen. 'I can't think of anyone who wanted to kill herself more. She hated school, she had no friends, and she was into drugs.'

All lies. Ryan flinched with my sarcasm, and his fingers trembled as he clutched his notebook. I think I even saw his blue eyes turn pale.

'I just need to know what you know.'

'She had a second butterfly ...' I started.

'Did she tell you what it meant?'

'Ask my father,' I finally said.

If only my father knew his daughter well enough to believe she was incapable of such a hideous crime against herself. My butterfly adored life.

'But you knew her,' he pressed. 'That's why I'm asking you. I thought you would know who owned this. It was on her when she was found.'

When he held up the silver chain, I held back a scream.

Brandi's chain?

'Maybe someone was with your sister at the time,' Ryan said. 'Someone who wanted her dead. Think it about it, Lucy, and let me know.'

~~~

The male graphium sarpedon feeds from puddles. I think that very thought as I scrape my fingernails through the dirt on the creek's edge: the place where my sister fell.

I just wish I knew who that second butterfly was for Emily. Why didn't I ask her at the time?

I pick up the torch; shine it on the torn diary page. 'Who did this to you, Em?' I whisper.

I strain to decipher her handwriting. On the page, I see paranoid ramblings about 'Brandi' and 'R', together. My heart skips. Is this why Brandi kept this page to herself? Giving it to me now: is this her way of absolving her sins?

And then it falls into place.

The silver chain Ryan found on Emily. It was Brandi's.

And then in my mind I see the blue sweatshirt. The blue eyes.

And I know who R is.

I know who the second butterfly is.

And he was here, by the creek's edge. Maybe with my best friend.

Hanging my sister.

~~~

I stumble back home to find my father in the lounge room holding onto a scotch, staring into space, and Ryan by his side.

'What is it, Luce?' Ryan asks, grinning with seductive charm, sipping on a beer. His blue eyes brighter than ever. Next to him, my father snorts, and his head drops to the side.

'I know who hated her enough to kill her.' I shudder saying it aloud.

He nods approvingly. 'Well, it seems the girl takes after her father with her investigative mind.'

'Hardly.' I hold up the torn paper. 'It was here, in her diary. This.' I point to the scrawls. 'My sister and Brandi – they were fighting for the same man's ... for your ...' I can't say the words when I see him. That he was her butterfly – that she tattooed him on her.

'What are you trying to say, Luce?' He looks at me, almost coaxing me.

'I just can't believe it ... that she was chasing you? She was in love with you. They both were. You're Brandi's boyfriend. And you were Emily's.'

He laughs openly. 'Now, how did you deduce that? You recognised the chain, didn't you, Luce? It was on Emily, when she died.'

'You gave it to Brandi ... a gift ... weeks before you killed Emily ... did she ...'

'Did she what?' He grins. 'Did she have something to do with Emily's death?'

My whole body trembles with an insatiable rage. I want to smash this bastard's face, scream at him until I can't hear my own voice.

He lowers his voice. 'You're a bright one, Luce. You know when to shut up. I have the diary, and Brandi's name is all over it. No, she didn't hurt your sister. She's only aware that we were together, but say a word, and I'll pin this on her.' He smiles. 'It was an accident. Emily and I had a fight. She was jealous. One thing led to another. I hated to do it, but I had to make it look like ...'

Suicide.

My stomach turns, thinking those scratch marks on my sister's neck weren't hers. Those were his. And the reason her body was half-naked. It was his sweatshirt. He stripped it from her after he ...

My father stirs. Now I know Ryan's vigil in the house has allowed him to keep guard.

Ryan looks at my father. 'All this drinking, and he's practically handed me his job.'

I turn my rage on my father, for now. As he sits up, I push him back down. 'You slipped, you useless shit,' I say. 'You might as well have killed her yourself.'

~~~

Despite what my father believes, Emily wasn't the one who was selfish.

It was my father.

Emily craved his attention so much that it's what made Ryan Caldwell so attractive. Lost in the man's charms, near-living together while my father slumbered drunk, she fell for a man whose heart was already with my best friend.

Having no-one love her is what scared her the most, and now I understand.

I take a breath as I enter my father's place of work. He can't remember any of last night's conversation, and it was what Ryan was banking on: my word against his. I hold Emily's diary page in my hand, and in time, Brandi can speak for herself but today, while my father is sober, he's going to tell his superintendent everything I've told him to say.

He's going to help free one butterfly, and crush the other.

It's the least he can do when neither of us was there to break her fall.
Wednesday 27 June 2012

Whales In Motion

## Alex Gardiner aka The Auld Yin

### Bullaburra, NSW

Save the whales an' save Antarctic's ecology

without whales, no plankton.

Without plankton no krill.

without the krill no whales.

Do you ever think in ecological ways?

I often do. Aye! In many, many different ways.

Recyclin' of all kind of things,

one way, to my mind, this does bring.

Poo, aye poo is one great beautiful way,

now poo, I ken, you must be au-fait.

Aye poo recyclin' is now all the rage,

except for poo, from a budgie's cage.

Have you ever seen a wee budgie's poo?

If not, I'll just explain to you,

Wee tiny black thing with wee white swirls,

an' it does not matter whether they're from boys or girls.

Well now, you cannot recycle such wee things,

so another animal to my mind doth spring.

Whales!!! Big ginormus humongous whales,

They boggle my mind, aye! They never fail.

We need whales for all the krill they eat.

millions an' millions they scoff, it's quite a feat.

Now, the krill eat green plankton, aye, they do,

tons an' tons o' plankton until they are fully foo.

Now for all this tons o' plankton to grow,

it needs rich fertiliser, aye, I tell you so.

Where on earth can you get fertiliser from, I ask?

way down in Antarctica, it would be an enormous task.

Whale's poo!!!! I tell you is what you need.

to give all that tons o' plankton a blinkin' great feed.

Whale poo – to fertiliser, for plankton fills the bill,

an' all this plankton for the hungry krill.

That's what ecology is all about,

I ken some folks out there don't care a hoot.

Well, I tell you, this Auld Yin does, I care a lot,

so, I'll tell yea more information that I have got.

Whale's POO!!! Is a marvellous thing,

an' to your imagination this info I'll just bring.

Now it's not tiny like a wee budgie's poo,

Just let your mind boggle, aye, let it accrue.

Imagin' making a chocolate drink,

come on now that's not hard to think.

Well, it's like the hot chocolate without the milk,

would not spill out a glass that you gave a tilt.

The colour is also a reddish type o' brownish green,

The bloomin' likes that you have ever seen.

Oh an' the fertiliser through aerobic ways,

gives the plankton food in a most exotic way.

So you see this 'motion' of the bonny whales today,

gives credence to be 'au-fait' the ecology way.

One thing puzzles me though' afore I part,

can you imagine the turbulence of a humongous whalie fart?!!!
Thursday 28 June 2012 8 am

Sing Me There

## Graham Sparks

### Bathurst, NSW

Imagine there is such a thing

as resonance of place.

I could pick that special note

and sing myself to 'there',

without traversing space,

or land or sea or air,

poetic licence of displacement.

And you may think from reading of my poem

that I take liberties where language is concerned,

you would be right, it's true, I do,

beginning 'here' conceptually,

I bend and twist and fold to get us 'there'.

As language is a living thing,

in symbiosis with ourselves,

poetic licence is a tool I use

to assist it in its evolution.

Duty bound are we

to help it morph and grow.
Thursday 28 June 2012 4 pm

Sensible Fools

## Pat Ridley

### Sandringham, NSW

Why do sensible people like me

think about committing suicide on days like this

When it's raining, and babies are dying in Bangladesh

And there is no hope any more

And I send fifty dollars and try to forget the bombs and the dying

And native trees cut down to make paper

And whales slaughtered for perfume and rhinos for old men

And monkeys tortured every day in the name of science.

And in my country, men kill each other horribly trying to free it

And only succeed in tightening the bonds.

Why is there no answer now

I do not have time to sit and wait

While another child dies in agony or another bomb

explodes in Afghanistan

I do not have time or patience anymore because there is no hope.

Is it not easier to die than pretend it will all get better

When in reality it will only get worse and worse

And there is no end.

Try to remember the good things like the birth of my son

All pink and slippery with my blood

And perfect, straight limbs and a strong heartbeat

And now at seventeen a wish to see where he was born

And not be killed for looking

And always asking why, why must it be so

When there is nothing more precious than life.

How can I love my country when it has destroyed so many

And for what – supposed loyalties and old-fashioned superstitions

of a religious nature.

So why not let go now while there is still time

Why wait for the inevitable cruel ending

Surely death is better than this slow torture

Watching all that is beautiful growing straight and strong

Change and grow warped and twisted like men's minds

Unless there is a light in the darkness there is no point

Not now not ever.

Search the high skies and look for the hope

The silvery chink of light on the dark horizon

There is beauty to be found even in this mayhem

Tiny flowers under the stinging nettles

Glittering rainbows and diamond cobwebs

Perhaps there will be life after death.
Friday 29 June 2012

*** Editor's Pick ***

Police Report On The 'Dr'

## Mark Govier

### Warradale, SA

The 'Dr', as he is called, by himself, and by the Court of the Galactic Federation, was finally arrested in Monstadt. This is the third moon of the planet Soll, in the star system of Jovus. The 'Dr' was arrested at 5 o'clock in the morning, Monstadt time. He was placed in the holding cells, in the Central Police Station, in the capital, Zova. He had been staying, or rather hiding, in a rented farm house some distance from Zova. In his bedroom, the Police found sleeping pills, chocolates that had been mixed with sleeping medication, a variety of devices used by such criminals to disguise themselves, and a large library of illegal sub-adult pornography. Such items are, as is well known, banned throughout the Galactic Federation. The 'Dr' put up no resistance when captured, and submitted to an incapacitating injection for his transportation. He was dispatched by Police Transport to Zova. The farm was thoroughly searched. Nothing further was found.

The owner of the farm was arrested, later in the same day. He was not a person of note, unlike the 'Dr'. He had been under Zova Police suspicion for some time. It had been long suspected he had been renting out his farm, and its animals, to deviants and other criminals. 13 goats, 8 donkeys, and 22 chickens, each showing signs of some defilement, were flown back to the Central Police Station, as evidence. Police Animal Inspectors established each animal had been abused. Pictures and laboratory tests were made. Given there was no one to take care of all these confiscated animals, they were later negated.

The 'Dr's' small space-time machine was not found at the farm. In Police custody at Zova, the 'Dr' was injected with a standard dose of Xaljozic, a disclosure drug. He successfully fought its effects. No results were taken. After seeking approval from superiors, Police Medical Officers doubled the dose of Xaljozic, and also gave the 'Dr' a standard does of a much older disclosure drug, Altopic. He fought this combination, but eventually succumbed. As a result, the space-time machine was located in the garage of a house close to the farm. Investigations showed the 'Dr' had been renting this house, a small 'holiday home', for six weeks only. With the entry code, obtained from the 'Dr' using the disclosure drugs, the machine was opened. Inside a locked room, at the back of the machine, two children were found. None was from an official or important background. One was aged eight, the other aged nine. Both were female. They were from the planet Frampton, the second planet in the dual star system, Tigris-Nul.

Police Medical Staff inspected both children. They were found to be physically well, but mentally and psychologically in severe distress. Closer related inspections revealed both had been subject to heavy and repeated violations. Both said this had been with animals, and the 'Dr'. They were injected with a disclosure drug. They said they had been approached by the 'Dr' together outside a primary school in Xy, a town on Frampton. They said he had told them they could go anywhere in space-time, in his machine. They said he told them that, at the end of their journey, he would return them to the exact space-time coordinates they had left. They said that, at the start, he did not mention anything of a deviant nature. When he proposed activities with him, they at first agreed. They said they initially found the activities unusual and exciting. Soon after, they said they found them disgusting, and they did not want to take part. They said they asked him to let them out, at the same space-time coordinates he picked them up. They said he refused, and after drugging them with various substances, locked them in the space-time machine. They said he told them that he would take them back to Frampton, if and only if they performed with animals, and a group of men he was in contact with. They said he brought animals into the machine. Both children became too upset to continue. There were no further details of their encounters with animals.

At a later stage, both children were given further doses of disclosure drugs. They said they were forced to engage with chickens, goats, sheep and even a bull. They said they only did this in the hope that the 'Dr' would take them back to Frampton. They said they were waiting in the locked room on the machine for the arrival of the group of men. On the final investigation, the two children said the 'Dr' had recorded their activities with the animals. They said he told them he had sent images to people all over the Galaxy, and that the two children were now quite famous. Once their statements had been taken, contact was made with adult persons they had identified as being their legal custodians on Frampton. Both legal custodians stated their two children had been missing for over 10 weeks. Once it was proven these individuals were the two children's legal custodians, both children were sent back to Frampton.

Based on the testimony of the two children, the 'Dr' was again injected with a combination of disclosure drugs. He said he had abducted the two children from Frampton, abused them himself, and forced them to have relations with various farm animals. He also admitted he had arranged for a group of men to come to Zova to engage with the two children. He said he was going to take pictures of this, and send them throughout the Galaxy.

With all the testimonies in order, the 'Dr' was brought before a Sentencing Judge, the Learned Plozno. When he read the case details, the Judge immediately closed the Court. Only the Learned Plozno, the 'Dr's' representative, and the officials of the Sentencing Court were permitted to remain. The Learned Plozno said he was very angry with the Court. He said that he did not want to handle a high level political case. He said the 'Dr' was the son of a well known person who occupied a very senior position in the Galactic Government. He said that if he gave the 'Dr' the required penalty, which was castration, 10 years in prison, and perpetual surveillance, his own career would be ruined.

The 'Dr's' representative argued that the Learned Plozno was exaggerating. He said it was the 'Dr's' first offence only. He said his client deserved a second chance, and that the Learned Plozno should use this opportunity to show mercy and leniency, by putting his client on a three-year surveillance bond, with the payment of a large sum of money to the parents of the two children. He said the payment would account for any wrong that had been done, and pay for any medical or psychological treatment that may be required. The representative said the amount would be sufficient to pay for the two children to study, at a high level, if they were capable of this.

The Learned Plozno was far from amused. He said that the representative knew he could not pass the case to another Judge. He said that if he gave the required penalty, his own career was ruined. After fuming for some time, he gave the 'Dr' a three-year surveillance bond, and a large payment to the parents of the two children. He also banned the 'Dr' from using space-time machine of any variety, for three years. Lastly, he stated the verdict could not be published anywhere in the Galaxy. The representative thanked the Learned Plozno, and the 'Dr' thanked both. The 'Dr' was free to go, and whether or not he is still active, in this regard at least, no one is in a position to say.

Ed: On first read this was a very confronting piece, but when it came to it, we appreciated the social commentary, the concept that, no matter what world we live in, no matter how hard we try to have an honest, just and democratic society, there will always, sadly, be those that receive leniency due to their social position and ability to influence others.
Saturday 30 June 2012

The Boys' Birth Night

## Paul Humphreys

### Oxley, ACT

The tall, old building had very few distinctive external features. Nonetheless, its height dwarfed the shops and dwellings on either side. The building was purpose built in 1893. At the time of this story it was almost 80 years old. Sydney people were accepting of its imposing presence in the city and the pivotal role it provided in the life of the city, surrounding suburbs and incidental visitors.

The building dominated the streetscape: on this particular night the lights formed a haphazard pattern reminiscent of boat lights on a becalmed harbour. The early January air was hot, humid and still. There was a sense that the city and its inhabitants needed a cool southerly respite just to make it possible to meet the next day with some basic level of civility and calm.

I travelled by car to this edifice as if a messenger of destiny had called me; actually it was my wife who had asked me here. After experiencing difficulty parking, even though it was 10 o'clock at night, I made my way to the entrance. The harsh heat of the day radiated back into the surrounds from its broad stonewalls.

The third floor room to which I was directed was nondescript and uncomfortably crowded with a motley group of people. One window had been opened to try and grab some breeze from the outside but there was little respite from the heat and the humidity. The paint on the wooden frame of the window was peeling and discoloured. Furniture was old, badly worn and in poor repair. It could have been a garage sale job lot from one of the down-and-out suburbs of inner Sydney. The tawny brown coverings of the two lounges and the three mismatched chairs were badly stained and spotted with occasional cigarette burns.

The group of about 25 in the room were predominantly male and a fair slice of all spheres of society. Even though they had come from different backgrounds and circumstances the occupants' foreheads were universally knitted in worry and anxiety. At this stage in their lives this distraught had lain down on them as they had moved into the room to share in their isolation this life changing event. While the experience for all of them had major common aspects their reactions were different and yet universal.

The two women in the room were older and they appeared more reserved and outwardly, at least, less anxious. They were dressed in bright coloured dresses, a contrast to the staid and drab clothes of the men. The presence of the two women was also marked with a faint hint of perfume that seemed out of place.

This was not a blokey gathering. The men were all young and the majority were transfixed in different attitudes or activities steeling themselves for impending crises. Some took solace in smoking. Others appeared oblivious and read. The majority stared at the ceiling or the furniture or the floor with a glazed, hurt expression – a mixture of fear and anxiety.

This was a new experience for most of them.

The waiting room at Crown St maternity hospital had probably been the stage for this scene for nearly half a century. Same scene, different actors. The plot was also the same but the outcome was not always predictable. The dialogue in this theatre of production was sparse. It could not be called conversation as the participants were not interested in what they were saying or hearing in reply and for most of the time the banter of words was meaningless but necessary to ease the tension.

At unpredictable times one of the occupants would break from his world of stress and leave the room to wander apprehensively down the poorly lit corridor to the other sections of the building. Each of these escapees was met as they meandered down the corridor with the familiar dank smell of hospital grade disinfectant and floor polish. This olfactory onslaught was accompanied with the aural challenge of muted moans and cries of pain.

The escapee had descended from his own realm of anxiety and worry to another of pain and agony. This was real, unnerving and unsettling for each of the escapees. There was a temptation to retreat immediately without engaging the situation directly. To retreat to the sanctuary of the waiting room, the thought being – To wait 'til it is all over. Why not? There were some who had not come this far rather waiting at home for the phone call about the outcome.

Each escapee found himself in turn in the midst of an amazing industry; 'baby deliveries' incorporated, a well-oiled organisation. Nurses, doctors moving methodically between the beds, records desk, supplies cupboards and washrooms. A continuous noise of flat-soled shoes moving spritely, squelching on highly polished floors and earnest conversations between staff and patients. And above all the industry and staff busyness the prominent and pervading overlay of the moans and cries of the many women in labour.

Each escapee made it back to the sanctuary of the waiting room and his fellow 'prisoners of circumstance' as soon as he was able.

On return of one of these escapees to this morass of common interests someone disinterestingly asked, 'How's it going?' as though it was an enquiry about a major fix on his car.

'Okay, not there yet though.'

'Shit it was hot t'day,' someone threw into the air to break the silence and the seriousness of the thoughts of those on this stage.

'Y're not wrong' someone volunteered, to no one in particular.

'We'll probably have a drop of rain t'morrow,' someone else added trying to keep some semblance of the conversation in the air.

'Ya wouldn't feed those cricketers wouldy?a!' someone voiced with a little bit of emotion, trying to beef up the dialogue and create something topical of the limp repartee. It was to no avail. No one, it appeared, was the least bit worried about the pitiful performance of the Australian cricket team that day and all slumped back into their world of anxiety and apprehension.

A young doctor appeared at the door identified by his stethoscope slung around his neck as an emblem of honour and prestige.

'Mr Conti?' he queried in a voice not directed at any person in particular.

'Si – er, yes,' a dark haired man quietly responded, a fine-featured person with a small trace of stubble on his cheeks, a dimple like a macho medal graced the middle of his lower chin and a small mole sat just above his lip giving his visage a distinctive and some women would say attractive appearance. He was seated at the back of the room. He immediately rose, straightened his dark blue jacket, and walked quickly towards the young doctor. A smartly dressed woman sitting near him followed him out and the two followed the doctor a little way down the corridor, then they all stopped abruptly and began to talk to the doctor out of earshot of those in the room.

Suddenly, from the corridor, came the shrill cry of a woman. The cry was then followed with loud sobbing and the murmured talking of two men. Everybody in the room immediately raised there heads and stared at the person closest to them and gave a dour look of concern as all assumed it must have been bad news for Mr Conti and his lady companion.

A short time later one of the escapees ambled into the waiting room. His face was drawn and it was difficult to read the emotion that was obviously engaging his mind.

He walked across the room and found a position against the wall. He leant back, gathered his feelings in an audible intake of breathe and then made an announcement to the room.

'The woman next to my lady had some bad luck.' His voice was a little shaky and he was hard pressed to choke out the words in a fluent stream.

'Baby was stillborn!' he blurted.

The effect on the room was immediate and devastating. There were mumbles of concern, regret and increased nervousness. The group somehow displayed all the attributes of a nervous agitation, but remained in their places.

The news identified, in a simple manner, the prime reason for their fears, anxieties and apprehensions. Now that these pent up feelings were out in the open, no longer a possibility but amongst the group a reality, it was obvious that they were scared of what might occur in their world.

'The mother, ah shit! Would you believe it! She made him kiss the dead baby,' the lone reporter added in a fit of mild temper and disbelief.

'Must have been that fellow who got dragged out by the young doc a few minutes ago and that was probably the mother who went with' em.'

A swarthy lean-faced occupant of one of the battered chairs volunteered this assumption loudly to the group. It was presented to no one in particular but it was loud enough for everyone to grasp and acknowledge with gentle nods or grunts from their own world of concern.

'Crikey,' someone intoned from the back of the room.

'Bloody wogs are strange sometimes eh?'

'Wouldya believe it?' someone else rejoined.

My lady was doing well considering the circumstances. Her highly regarded doctor, a specialist, was going on holidays the next day and he, so the word was, had induced all of his patients that afternoon so that he could get away. Twins are always a difficulty for doctors and nurses, but these were large twins according to all who were in the know and that might create additional concerns and complications. This added to my fears and apprehension and the balance of my emotions were slowly moving to a debit side as each incident or delay added to that debit and reduced my credit of optimism.

I left my lady in agony, heavy breathing and sucking on some magic gas. 'This all started with a session accentuated with mutual heavy breathing,' I mused to myself, trying to reinforce my optimism for the future with pleasant but irrelevant thoughts.

I entered the waiting room and noticed that Mr Conti had returned and he was sitting close to the entry door. His eyes were red and his face was pallid, as though he had had all his blood drained from him in the short time he had left the room.

I could not avoid sitting directly opposite him so it appeared the right thing to do to comment on his unfortunate situation.

'A bit of bad luck?' I lamely muttered toward him. It came out as a question when I knew as soon as I said it that I needed to make a statement to allow him just a simple acknowledgement. The response to a question at this time would involve the anguish of talking to a complete stranger about something that was so personal and tragic. I deliberately averted my eyes from his, partly wishing that my lame question would be left unanswered.

'Si, it is not a good for Maria or der family, but we will a make another bambino.'

'I'm sure you will,' I muttered and slumped into my own world leaving him searching his for reasons and justifications. I tried to put him out of my mind but his tragedy kept creeping back and I pondered what was he thinking now and particularly what were his thoughts as his mother-in-law asked (or forced him?) to kiss the dead child. I shrivelled from this self-inflicted inquisition and tried to put his circumstances out of my conscious thoughts.

I needed to again check on my lady.

Too late. A dour older doctor in white coat despoiled with small patches of dried body fluids appeared at the door.

'Mr Dwyer?' he mumbled in a less than enthusiastic way as though he was there to deliver a postal item rather than provide information on a life changing matter.

'Yea!' I responded promptly as though answering a roll call at some important meeting. I quickly recognised him as 'our doctor' and jumped from my seat and bounced across the room to shake his hand.

'Mr Dwyer, I have just completed delivery of two boys approximately seven pound each. The babies are fine and normal. Your wife is okay and she should be able to see you soon after the nurses have cleaned up.' That was it. No congratulations, no well done. A rather matter of fact incident for him, all in a day's work. I felt a little light-headed and had to sit down. I slumped back into one of the mismatched chairs.

I felt as though I was in a bath and someone let the plug out. As I lay there I could feel the stress and anguish drain physically from my body. In a streak of selfishness I noticed that it was unfortunate that my seat was alongside Mr Conti's.

I obviously could not hide my elation at the news and he forced a smile to his lips but of course his eyes still reflected that bleak visage of his shattered soul. I immediately felt a pang of conscience – it did not last very long but it was painful. Why could I have twins and he lose a child? It seemed unfair but life was ever thus.
Sunday 1 July 2012

I See Darkness

## Emmett Howard

### Kambah, ACT

Moon hovered with motionless arcs around his body planet, attached by invisible webs embracing unbreakable bonds. Oblivious to the endless vacuum around him because he did not care for wonders the outer void held. Disinterested by great holes who fill themselves with darkness. He cared not for the supernovas whose brilliant luminescence engulfed entire galaxies with their blinding beauty masking the searing blaze shooting through the dark void. Moon's attention was never drawn to such wonders.

Mystified by the growing planet before him, he watched. Distraught when his walking reptiles were mercilessly wiped out, his pain was short lived, as creatures once again rose from the seas. This time furry, fleshy creatures. Some with colour so vivid and gorgeous he had no need for endless flowing art behind him. Some rose from the ground, so proud that he needed not to look into smouldering suns for they burned in these majestic creatures' eyes. More ascended to the skies, gliding through wind with such poetic effluence, shooting stars themselves stopped to gaze upon the winged beasts' dance. Seas ebbed around gliding continents as they broke from one another, separating into the warm and the cold, allowing sea life to shoot between continents.

Moon's planet was beautiful. He felt the scolding envy of other moons, constricted to their rolling spheres of swirling gas, or desolate rock engorged with heat no life could ever bear. His planet would turn to ice, the glistening ball transcending its cold into Moon's heart. He would wait while the ice slowly thawed revealing new marvels for him to watch over. He loved each one of his creatures, but one was becoming more intelligent than the rest.

THE MAN COMES AROUND

The two eyed furry bipeds climbed higher than any other, taunting them from afar. They slowly made their descent to the ground, where clawed beasts prowled in the swaying grass and slow herds of great tusked behemoths wandered over the stretching plains. His smart mammals spoke to one another nodding and bouncing in the joy of their own comprehension. Sturdy fallen branches were crafted into shelters, saving them from mother nature's cruel intentions.

I HUNG MY HEAD

Their intelligence grew with each new day and they began leaving their mark on the beautiful planet. Smearing paints across rock walls, engraving into the stone, killing the fearsome beasts which once ruled the plains. Soon the animals harnessed powers Moon had only seen destroy entire forests. Two stones were struck, sparks flew igniting the first controlled flame, and so too was their excitement as they jumped and screamed at this new discovery. Fire never left their side: they took it with them to every new place, used it to make new foods and now once occasional eruptions of black smoke turned into a consistent release of Moon's planet's energy into his sky with flowing columns of suffocating black smoke.

However, all these creatures were not the same. Huge hot islands housed the strong, fast dark ones. Long wooden weapons killed their prey, but not in the unnecessary abundance the others did. Their Northern counterparts were not so conservative. The white mammals in the East and West became greedy, demanding themselves far more food, more resources, and most of all more answers. With their greed their violence grew, killing brothers and sisters of the earth. Soil and rock moved in search of new resources, iron and steel pulled from the planet's clutches. Melted and fused to create new more effective means of killing, swords clashed and arrows pierced pristine air as wars raged over the surface. Stone structures erected from the earth. Temples and shrines offered peace of mind to those whose conscience with blood of his brothers, separate beliefs bringing them to fatal confrontation 'For the land!' chanted enraged believers from each continent in passionate tongues. Their structures extruded from the changing earth, huge pyramids towering to the sky as slaves were whipped and struck in the name of the lord. Walls stretched over entire continents to fend off rivals. Extravagant churches and mosques provided false peace to those who decided to dwell in their walls and pray to their saviours.

Why? asked Moon. Why must my beautiful creatures destroy their brothers? All because they share a different answer. They are fools. I cannot allow them to treat my planet like this. Moon shook with rage, transcending his anguish into his world's atmosphere. An old Kohan sat atop a mountain, sacrificing goat after goat in search of enlightenment. Moon's rage shook the mountains in which he stood. One before him began to glow with heat, and then exploded, spewing its molten contents over the mountainside.

'It's a sign!' cried the Kohan, and resumed his work with renewed vigour. Their intelligence grew, as did their understanding of the world around them. They found new materials to harvest, reaping the once untouched earth of its shimmering gold and diamonds. Huge pipes drained the oils and natural gases from their underground sanctuaries. Tree roots were ripped from soil, crushed and split to be used for common objects, but no regard was given to their inhabitants who were now left to roam this planet with no hope, or were crushed under their fallen homes.

MEAN AS HELL

As they grew smarter their means of killing followed. Swords transformed into powder filled casings, firing steel faster than the eyes could follow. Simple rock projectiles soon became balls of exploding terror, obliterating wood, earth and rock in the pursuit to create most substantial destruction. Wars burst across the land in search of power. Entire continents invaded by the white explorers, killing their spiritual dark brothers for use of their belongings. Tears and blood stained the surface of Moon's planet as greed enveloped his smart creatures. Moon moved his angle of rotation around his great sphere that grasped him, and slowed himself in front of the sustaining Sun. This will teach them. The foolish men will be so sad with the disappearance of their great light, they will relinquish their greed and love this earth as I do.

The blotted Sun took their attention. Churches stopped in time to stare. Workers halted to gaze on the spectacle. All forgot their task in the moment, all stopped to stare. Moon continued moving, allowing light to flood back to their eyes. An Imam sat next to his shrine, overseeing the oil pumps whose profit relied on his approval.

'It is a sign my sons! We are pleasing the lord!' And with a wave of his hand work continued.

The world had stopped for a short instant, but momentum in their work steadily increased, and was soon back to full capacity. They took more and more from the earth, draining it of each asset it possessed. Flickers popped in the distant fields and cities, as their flying machines dropped their intentional scars on the face of Moon's planet. New weapons provided new means of destruction of enemies, and the land on which they lived. Dazzlingly bright flashes on a larger scale tore at life's integrity, burning through flesh and bone, leaving its radiating aftermath to disfigure all that breathed the air or harvested the soil.

Moon shook with rage again, not able to comprehend the greed of the creatures he watched. His shaking sent waves bursting onto coastal shores, tearing through towns and dragging all that stood back to the unforgiving seas.

'Such destruction to my people ...' said the old Emperor. 'We must rebuild, and with haste!' With that his people scrambled like ants defending their queen, reaping the land for all its worth, desperate to rebuild their stone and steel sanctuary.

Why do they continue this? Why do they persist in the destruction of my beautiful planet? My proud reptiles killed each other, but only in the need to survive, they did not kill the land. All other creatures from the wriggling worms that live off the very soil which coats this world, to the magnificent eagles who embrace the air on which they soar, nurture this great land, but these smart ones, all they search for is means of violence and destruction. Moon wept for a hundred days and a hundred nights, before his frozen tears sparkled from a glowing streaking making its way around the horizon. His old and only friend, Halley, had come to visit once more. Her beauty ignited his soul and lit a flicker of hope in his heart. She was more beautiful each visit, and more wise than Moon could ever hope to become, for she had seen everything, from the far side of the Sun to the outer edges of the very galaxy in which they lived.

Halley my old friend, behold the destruction of my once delightful planet. My children have become too smart, and full of greed. They have drained it of every life force, and sustain themselves off the violence they have produced in the process. Please, won't you help me?

Dear Moon, I have been to see your cousin Pluto and back. I have visited the great gas giants and all their companions who float in the grand rings. I have felt the warmth of Sun himself, but his heat can never compare to the passionate love you held for your planet and its inhabitants. However, I am afraid they have been too misguided and will lead to their own destruction. Your once grandiose planet will slowly wither away as it is too sick to retain itself for a full lifetime. It shares the same fate as its brother, whose red surface is the only remaining beauty after all nutrients from its outer crust was taken, and its protecting atmosphere polluted and broken. I am sorry Moon. Perhaps one day it will return to its former glory, and I will share in your pristine joy. Farewell old friend.

With that Halley soared through the void in her endless loop, leaving Moon with his sorrow. His tears returned as he helplessly watched his sapphire seas turn brown with waste. He watched as his fertile soil was stolen from the earth, and replaced with products that would lie there for another thousand years, disfiguring a once perfect landscape. He watched as endless pillars of haze billowed into his untouched skies, suffocating his flying wonders, and slashing through protective layers of the planet's safeguard. He watched, with a freezing heart, as they killed their brothers and sisters, as they stole one another's future, and as their greed ripped any prospect of survival for them, and Moon's planet, away from them forever.

I WILL LET YOU DOWN, I WILL MAKE YOU HURT

'We predicted this,' said the bearded Pope. 'It was inevitable friends. God told me himself.'

Moon watched his planet in its dying days. All remaining life slowly disappeared from existence; sinking back into the dirt which once housed their life. Sea flow slowed as pollution clogged its freedom, and the murky green waters clung to land suffocating any life that stayed in defiance. Air was siphoned from its protective field. Clouds poured and dissipated like foam into an ocean.

Finally the cold spread, each pole stretching its arms to collide with one another. Solidifying Moon's wonder in a shell of lifeless beauty. No air, no water, no movement. Still. Just a glimmering ball, spinning in an unyielding hollow path.

Moon waited and watched. He had been detached from life but not from hope. Time stretched his features, chewing, deteriorating. Universe's buckshot tore at his skin but he never lost hope. Never thinking to turn away, for he knew the beauty he had seen could not be found again. Time pulled at the Sun, its intensity growing and growing with red fury. Sympathetic planets were swallowed by the growing rage, powerless to combat its force. Moon watched as the ice melted with unnatural pace. It did not flow, they raged. It bubbled angrily as the Sun drew closer, boiling its surface. Steam ripped through the void, Moon's beautiful planet's soul escaping its cruel face. His singed face grew tired from pain. Moon relinquished his fate to the Sun, and it too swallowed his sorrow. Moon knew now, at last, he and his planet could be one.

WE'LL MEET AGAIN

Even the Sun's rage would not outlast time in space, and was soon compacted back into a black sphere of spent energy. Inside it held the lives of all those around it. Trapped in eternal exile. Out in the cold distance a new light flickered. Its shine grew bright, stealing the gaze of stars all throughout the galaxy. Long tail curving in its trajectory to trail such a stunning view. Swerving, gliding, like Moon's proud birds, Halley travelled free of Sun's clasp. Past her old friend she mourned but did not look back. Past her previous attachment she flew but was not clung back by its invisible chain. Destruction had made her boundless, to freely explore her own wonders. Her tail whipped, releasing a single flake of memory to her old friend. She was sad, but better things were to come.
Monday 2 July 2012 8 am

Faith

## Barry McGloin

### Holder, ACT

The pond

Struck dumb by drought.

Ducks, dragonflies and frogs

oh the frogs ... all shot through.

The stricken face laid bare,

cracked and bleached like a dislodged skull

It won't come back.

In fact

it'll sound down the country

like a creeping parasitic moan.

Now ... rains

beat out of a lusty sky

all flash and clamour

heaving

with such urgency

to jibe and tack

three days and nights,

the piracy of a damn fool flood

hissing and crackling and taunting

the comatose country

to ... rise.

Rise up

you sleeping rivers and lesser beds,

I flush and swell your streams and creeks

rise up rise up

the sound of fortune sings in your valleys

awake and sail in my largesse

billow and bloom again

billow and bloom again

prettier than a piece of eight.

Now the frogs are back!!

The frogs are back

with their rat a tat tat machine gun chat

Nailing positions

just to be sure,

just to be sure.
Monday 2 July 2012 4 pm

Old Granny Nullius

## Samuel Miller

### Marsfield, NSW

She is an ancient Grandmother,

whose bones show underneath

Her cracked skin – which belie another,

distant time, with whiter teeth.

The graves of generations tell

of when Her dress was green,

bleached yellow like the sorry shells

around Her long marine.

But those of us raised by Her now

are born already old,

like the tired, furrowed dirt we plough –

robbed of all its gold.

Nonetheless, She still has a joke,

and one or two to spare;

for the Kookaburra's hardly woke –

then you'll hear him swear.

And when the rains return to home,

(as children always do)

both the farmer and Her dusty loam,

grow younger to the view.

She's a new home to a thousand

castaways and more;

and a wise old matriarchal friend

(with a medal from the War).

She's been everything, and everywhere,

you'd ever care the know –

but to me, in Her old rocking chair,

She's my Granny, that I owe.
Tuesday 3 July 2012 8 am

The Ghosts Of Megalong

## Andris Heks

### Megalong Valley, NSW

Your air of wattle and eucalypt perfumes my mind with mirth,

Just soaking you in through day and night softens the driest earth!

When I squat in the rainforest and purse my lips for a 'coo'ee',

I close my eyes and hear echoes of a distant corroboree!

Black shadows slide silent amid the white ghost gums,

Their chants pierce silence sharper than the settlers' guns!

Blacks lean over me, white man, with their yellow, wistful eyes,

Each asks me without words: 'Gaba*, you see me in the skies?!'

I scrape the soil with my nails; there is blood on the trail:

Come back now, old Werriberri*, let me hear your tale!

Tell me of your tribe that lived here, who worshipped this sacred place,

Of the ashes, caves and the koalas that vanished with your race!

Take me around this magic land; teach me track wallabies!

Find me water in the rivers, platypus and yabbies!

Come back to me, just once more, oh, you black soul of this valley!

Let me hug you and say: 'Sorry, for ripping out your belly!'

Sorry, for felling your ancient ash's arms,

Sorry for robbing you of your precious charms!

Show me this land Werriberri without the tourist buses,

Bush tracks, without the tarred roads and the wild carcasses!

But you can't, of course, Werriberri, for you were chased off the trails,

By the same smart settlers who're still chasing their very own tails!

Yet your air of wattle and eucalypt still perfumes my mind with mirth,

And soaking you in through day and night still softens the driest earth.

Black shadows still slide silent amid the white ghost gums

And their chants still pierce silence sharper than the settlers' guns!

Yes! You can still see Werriberri's ghosts – if you try!

Look! They still corroboree across the valley's sky!

* Gaba means white man. Werriberri was the last tribal Chief of the Gundungurra Aborigines of the Blue Mountains
Tuesday 3 July 2012 4 pm

Dispirited

## Joe Massingham

### Chisholm, ACT

And then the white fellas come

and try to break our spirits. The

older spirits run and hide from

sticks that crack and smoke,

leaving us alone and fearful,

so we call upon the spirits in

the bottle to give us strength.

At first it seems they do but

by 'n by new spirits come

and eat you from the inside out,

like the rot that eats out the trees,

until you're left, an empty husk

with no clear memory of the

past and no clear vision for

the future. All you have

is being here and now,

an empty bottle, a fire of

burning embers, with mangy

dogs and waiting crows

for company.
Wednesday 4 July 2012

I Will Call It Solace

## Irene Assumpter

### East Victoria Park, WA

Good or bad, religious or not, I believe everything happens for a reason.

I will call it solace, not fate.

Things happen to make you stronger.

To make you a better person.

To help you wake up – because you have slept enough – or simply sleep more, because some things are best left alone.

To tell you when to (gently) press the 'ignore' button. To help you know a normal human being can't possibly please everybody.

To stop you from making a mistake.

To cry. To let go.

To help you learn from past mistakes. To tell you life has never been perfect.

To make amends. To grow.

To smile. To laugh. To love. To cherish.

To help you count your blessings. For a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.

To help you evaluate who and what really matters in life.

To help you know and appreciate your true friends.

Things happen to help you collect stones and find your diamond among them ... for we all have our diamonds.

To separate the wheat from the chaff ... oh the chaff has got to go. The wind needs something to do.

But sometimes, many times, we don't know why some things happen.

Maybe that's just it – to help you not know. To stop speculating.

That has to be solace, not fate.

Life brings misery, happiness, unsolicited lessons ... surprises et cetera et cetera.

Because I can't speculate any more,

I'll assume there is an overwhelming, higher authority beyond the stars.

One that gives and takes life,

One that is beyond human understanding.

I'll just assume he or she gets those mood swings we all have.

I will baptise this. This profound feeling. This sense of defeat.

I will keep quiet about it.

And when I speak, I will call it solace.

'I Will Call It Solace' is for Jenipher Kirasia Odawo, a strong African woman whose demise continues to make no sense. A sweetheart whose treasured memory keeps us on our toes.
Thursday 5 July 2012 8 am

Is

## Robertas

### Drummoyne, NSW

How thin is is?

Between was

and will be.

A membrane

thin to vanishing.

A nothingness.

But everything.

Is exists

else nothing does.

Our lives

a moving plane

of is.

A two-dimensional

emptiness

more full

than all that was.

More real

than all to come.

Robertas likes poetry short and sweet. This is one idea for the reader to ponder.
Thursday 5 July 2012 4 pm

Green Eyes In Afghanistan

##  Sandra Renew

### Dickson, ACT

We claim the blood of Alexander.

In a brown-eyed country

our eyes are blue and green.

We were here when

Alexander crossed the Hindu Kush.

We were here when opportunistic Russians

fought their way through the Salang Pass

and into Kabul.

We were here when America

invaded our mountains.

We were here when Alexander

passed on by,

and when we sent the Russians home.

We will be here

when the West withdraws its missions.

All we have to do is wait,

and you will be gone.

Alexander left us his green eyes.

The Russians left us education without poetry.

America is leaving us

a breath of a modern world

to unsettle our youth.

But in the end, you will be gone.

All we have to do is wait.

Our people went to Alexander's world,

to Russian universities,

and to the diasporas in Scandinavia and the West.

They will not come home.

And, in the end, you will be gone.

All we have to do is wait.
Friday 6 July 2012 8 am

*** Editor's Pick ***

I Ain't Saying Goodbye

## Crystal Lee

### Adelaide, SA

The sun won't stop shining

And the waves don't stop crashing

Embracing the Earth

Holding it together

But it don't hold me

I walk through the sleeping garden

It rocks my soul to the core

My feet weave between

Memories of the young bodies

Laid here before

But for me, no I ain't getting any rest

I can still feel your love

Warming up my soul

I can still hear your voice

Echoing like stories untold

But it's still cold air that passes from my lips

The rain falls so heavy inside

My heart left a deluge

And your boots they're still at my front door

Soaking up the floods of time

And I'm not moving on, not getting any older

For you left me before our endlessness was over

I ain't saying goodbye

Crystal says that this poem was written about a person in mourning of a loved one.

Ed: This is our first 'Editor's Pick' for a poem. We really enjoyed the language – the use of 'ain't', not so much the word itself, but the way it was used. It's very easy to write sad poems using lots of sad words, but the language in this poem is very strong – almost defiant. We also enjoyed the imagery of the boots at the door soaking up the floods of time, and the concept that someone left a partnership before 'our endlessness was over'.
Friday 6 July 2012 4 pm

Keeping In Touch

## Linda Callaghan

### Bullaburra, NSW

Some family and friends live far away,

And we can't keep in touch day by day.

Our memories are full but we miss their smiles,

Separated by land for miles and miles.

There is a red box that stands tall and bright,

It is faithful to all day and night.

All kinds of letters are pushed through its slot,

With greetings, and notes of forget-me-nots.

So follow the footprints to this beacon of red,

Keep in touch, say hello, there is much to be said!

Saturday 7 July 2012

*** Editor's Pick ***

Sami's Babies

## Emma Hall

### Canterbury, VIC

Sweat soaked through my light blue work shirt as I made my way up the long hill from the train station to my studio apartment. It was a hot October afternoon, the sun reminding me of the coming summer, tempting me with images of the beach and the surf and my standard two weeks off over Christmas. But, for now, I was stuck spending these pleasant spring days in an office, and only enjoying day light saving's long warm evenings.

Tonight I planned to fully make the most of the good weather. I had booked tickets to the rooftop cinema in the city. I had even chosen an old film I knew my girlfriend Ricci would enjoy.

The apartment was blissfully cool.

'I'm home,' I called out.

'Finally,' Ricci's voice answered from the bedroom. 'Hurry up and get ready.'

'We've got plenty of time,' I replied, heading to the kitchen in search of a cold beer. 'The movie doesn't start until eight.'

'We're going out for drinks first,' Ricci said.

I frowned as I uncapped my beer and walked to the bedroom. 'I thought we were having a light meal here and then heading in?'

Ricci emerged, looking beautiful as always in a sleek dark blue dress. A professional model, she looked amazing in everything she put on.

'Sami texted me this afternoon – he's back in Melbourne, and desperate to catch up.'

My frown deepened. 'Does it have to be tonight?' I asked. 'I mean, it could be awkward, if we're leaving for the movie and he's there by himself.'

'Don't be silly, he'll have some of the babies with him,' Ricci replied. 'They've missed him like crazy.'

I turned away and headed for the shower. The cool water felt good on my hot skin and sore back. I washed my hair vigorously, inwardly cursing Sami and his damn 'babies'. They were not really children of course; 'the babies' was Sami's name for the endless cohort of girls that seemed to worship him. Ricci thought Sami was wonderful, 'doing so much for those poor girls'. I thought it was sick, having all those girls at once, all of them knowing about each other. Like Hugh Hefner in the playboy mansion or something. And of course they were all young and attractive.

I remembered when Ricci had explained it to me, matter-of-fact, like it was totally normal. Sami had grown up in a housing estate in the inner suburbs. The housing estate was a world of its own – everyone knew everyone else, like a big family. Everyone mourned each other's losses, celebrated success like it was their own. Sami was the golden child – the kid who came from nothing and 'made something of himself'. He wasn't really such a big deal, just another person in the TV industry who occasionally scored an invite to awards nights. He kept going back to the estate, picking up the poor girls with no futures and 'helping them out'. I was convinced Sami's 'help' involved the girls getting on their knees, but I'd never said as much to Ricci. She worshipped Sami almost as if she was a baby herself, and I couldn't say a word against him.

I got out of the shower and put on a clean shirt and black jeans. Ricci was putting on her jewellery.

'What's the matter hun?' she asked me.

'Nothing,' I lied, ferociously buckling my belt.

Ricci came behind me and rubbed her hands on my shoulders. 'Don't you want to meet up with Sami?' she asked. 'Don't you like him?'

'Sami's great,' I said. 'We just don't have much in common, that's all. Including opinions on women.'

Ricci stopped massaging me and kissed my cheek.

'Sami's just a big kid, that's all,' she said. 'Besides, he takes good care of those girls. They're all really grateful to him.'

'I bet they show it too,' I muttered, but Ricci had gone to the bathroom to do her makeup.

~~~

I had suggested going to a bar near the cinema, but Sami had apparently insisted on Ricci seeing this 'hot new place' in St Kilda. It was impossible to find, down a side street and up two levels. Even at seven o'clock it was crowded and incredibly noisy, heavy pop music pouring from the speakers. The clientele looked hardly old enough to be in a bar. Sami was nowhere to be seen, so Ricci and I squeezed our way towards the bar and I attempted to get the bartender's attention. A group of laughing and squealing girls young enough to still be in school blocked my view and I tried to push through him. One swayed as I brushed past her and spilled her pink drink down my white shirt. I let out an involuntary yell. The girls just laughed at their friend, who was too drunk to be apologetic. I backed out of there and looked around for Ricci. She'd disappeared. Feeling disorientated and slightly disgusted by the sticky wetness on my front, I navigated through the crowd looking for her. Finally I caught a glimpse of her dark hair on the balcony.

'Way to disappear on me,' I muttered into her ear as I reached her.

'Oh, sorry, I saw Sami walking out here and thought I better tell him we're here,' she said.

Only then did I recognise the curly hair of Sami, standing in a semi circle of attractive girls who were seemingly captivated by whatever story he was telling. He stopped mid sentence as he caught sight of me.

'What the hell happened to you?' he exclaimed.

I opened my mouth for an angry retort, then realised he was staring at my shirt.

'Some idiot spilled their drink on me,' I said. Turning to Ricci, I added, 'I'm going to go home and change, I can't go to the movie like this.'

'Don't be silly mate!' Sami said. 'Take mine.'

Just like that, he unbuttoned the top couple of buttons on his own shirt and pulled it over his head. The girls squealed and swooned as his brown muscled chest was revealed. He handed the shirt to me triumphantly.

'Thanks, but I'd rather get one of my own ...' I began.

'Don't be stupid, you'll be late if you go all the way back home again, just put it on,' Ricci said.

Defeated, I took the shirt and went in search of the bathrooms to change. The line was horrendously long, so I ducked into the stairwell we'd used to get into the bar, quickly took off my shirt and replaced it with Sami's. It was a deep purple colour, not what I'd normally wear at all, and not very well fitted. Still, it was better than my own sodden shirt. I bundled it up as small as I could and returned to the balcony, carefully avoiding any drunken girls with sticky looking drinks.

It was as though I hadn't left – Sami was still the centre of attention, except now I could hardly tell the difference between Ricci and the babies. She stared at his shirtless body, enraptured by his words. She didn't even notice when I stood next to her.

'It looks great mate!' Sami said, noticing me. 'Definitely your colour. Excuse me babies,' he said to the throng of girls. 'We've got some men's business to discuss.' He winked at me. I stared blankly back, wondering what on earth he wanted to say to me.

Taking my arm, he led me a few steps away from the group. Taking a packet of Benson and Hedges from his jeans pocket, he lit up a cigarette and offered me one. I refused.

'So,' he began, after taking a long puff. 'How's business doing?'

'Fine,' I replied, still slightly bewildered. 'Great. Business is fine. Great.'

'Good,' Sami said. 'And how about my little Ricci? You taking good care of her?'

I clenched my teeth at the phrase 'my little Ricci'.

'Well I don't know Sami,' I said, my voice cooler than before. 'My version of taking care of a woman isn't quite the same as yours.'

Sami glanced at me and smiled. 'You mean my babies? You don't like the way I treat them?'

'I don't approve of it, no,' I said bluntly. 'Not least because you call them your 'babies'.'

'Mate,' he put his hand on my shoulder. 'Haven't you heard? Children will inherit the earth.'

I shrugged his hand off. 'But they're not children. They're grown women.'

Sami waved his hand. 'They're still girls,' he said. Again he breathed in deeply on his cigarette. He blew the smoke into my face. I crinkled my nose.

'And besides, they need me. I make them be something.'

'You make them be your whores!' I said. I instantly regretted it; Ricci would kill me if she heard this. But Sami just laughed and held out his hands.

'What can I do? They want me. They need me. I give them what they want, I give them what they need, everyone is happy.'

I turned away scowling. 'It's exploitation,' I mumbled.

Sami shrugged. 'Ricci turned out okay, didn't she?'

My head snapped around.

'What?'

Sami feigned surprise. 'She never told you? She was one of my first babies.'

I looked at Ricci. She was talking to the girls, laughing, waving her hands. She looked so much older, more sophisticated than they did.

'You're lying,' I said.

'Surely you know we grew up on the same block?' Sami said. 'I used to see her walking around, this little tomboy in hoodies and ripped jeans. I taught her how to doll herself up. I introduced her to my boss at the time in the modeling industry, got her an audition for a show they were doing.'

It wasn't true. I didn't want to believe it. But it all sounded so genuine. Ricci had never said how she'd become a model. Her parents were dead, I didn't know any of her old friends. And she'd never mentioned how long she'd known Sami for, or how they had met.

Sami moved closer and said quietly, tauntingly, 'I made her a real woman.'

I didn't even mean to do it, but next thing I knew my fist was slamming into Sami's nose. He toppled backwards into the railing and slid to the floor. Blood poured from his nose. I stood frozen in shock, aware only of a faint stinging on my knuckles.

'Sami!' Ricci was by his side in an instant. The girls quickly followed, completely obscuring him from my view. Ricci flew at me.

'What the fuck did you do that for?' she screamed. A crowd had gathered to watch; I could see people pointing in my peripherals. I was still breathing hard.

'Were you one of his babies?' I asked her. I had to fight to keep my voice steady.

Ricci stared at me. For a moment the only sound was the soothing chatter of the girls flocked around Sami.

'Yes,' she said.

I nodded. 'Right.'

I tugged at the buttons on Sami's shirt. My fingers were shaking too much to get them unbuttoned and some tore off and dropped to the floor.

'Here you go mate,' I said, throwing the shirt at him. 'I don't want your leftovers.'

Ricci stared at me, her features twisted in anger and confusion.

Turning around, I walked back into the bar, down the stairwell, and into the street. The warm night air played softly over my bare chest.

Ed: Yes folks, Emma's done it again for us! She is now the first narratorAUSTRALIA contributor to receive two 'Editor's Pick' awards. Call us biased (we're not!), but we love the way she tells a tale. We hope you agree!
Sunday 8 July 2012 8 am

Batting Eyelashes

## Ariette Singer

### Palmerston, ACT

Aaaah! My days of batting eyelashes are no more ...

My facial skin needs massive help to 'glow'!

Too many wrinkles have firmly settled on my face,

And feel so comfortable – they refuse to go!

My legs disqualify for any beauty competition,

And I'm hardly able to move my, once delicious, hips ...

Flat feet and bunions hardly offer appetising vision –

Once, a most energetic beauty ... now, my heart weeps!

And though my lips, when sometimes, 'nicely dressed',

Still manage to attract some temporary, mild attention,

It's really, not significant, and hardly worth a mention ...

With hair, once thick and lustrous, now limp and grey,

And curves, that irritatingly, are curving the wrong way –

I realistically accept the end of my eyelash-batting days ...

Unless ... my 'object of desire' is optically indisposed,

Despite his age still wears glasses, tinted darkish rose ...

I might, by batting, have a slim chance to attract his gaze –

Provided, he is blind to other eyelash batters in his space!
Sunday 8 July 2012 4 pm

Grandpa Dan

## Ruth Withers

### Uarbry, NSW

I found the old gentleman down by the river.

I watched as he gazed at a tree by the water.

He laughed and he spoke to a bird on a branch there

Of love for a lady and joy in his heart.

He turned and he saw me and laughed even harder.

He said, 'How'd you do? Do you know my Martha?

Martha's my sunshine, the bread in my larder.

My life and my breath is my dear, gentle Martha.

'And I'll bet you wonder, if you know my Martha,

What a creature like her sees in someone like me.

She, with her beauty and musical laughter,

In me, just an oaf with a busted up knee.

I wonder myself, when I think of the lads who

Vied for her love with great wealth and estate.

All the fittest, most handsome young roosters around came,

And all left downhearted. Not one would she take.

'And me, just a workman with nothing to offer –

All breathless and tongue-tied whenever I saw her.

She'd come and she'd sit down beside me and chatter,

And her words and her laughter would fill me with wonder.'

Then he stopped and he listened – to nothing that I heard,

And the most boyish grin lit his weathered old face.

He said, 'Nice to meet you, but I'll have to leave you.

That's my Martha calling me home to our place.'

He winked and he chuckled and tipped me his hat.

In the blink of an eye he strode lightly away,

And I gazed in awe at his straightness of back,

And I'd swear to you, he had no limp today.

I knew Martha well, Dan; as well as I know you.

Her life was a dance and her spirit was free.

She never wanted anything you didn't freely give,

And you'd tell her, 'You're a wonderment to me.'

If she's calling you, old friend, I know you have to go.

I never really thought you'd stay without her for too long.

I know you'll both remember me the next time that we meet,

And then I'll tell you, 'Daniel, you were wrong.

I never had to wonder what our Martha saw in you.

It was written in your eyes, old friend, and we all saw it too.

All the love in that big heart, every breath you ever breathed,

Belonged to Martha only; that's what she saw in you.'
Monday 9 July 2012

Mountain

## Alan Lucas

### Katoomba, NSW

I'm dropping down Boddington hill,

After four days of rain and mist

In the high mountain country

Clouds part and of a sudden there is sunlight,

Blue sky, the distant Plains of Emu,

Where Mitchell began his line of road to Bathurst.

Right on cue, Yvonne Kenny begins to sing

'Song to the Moon' from Rysalka,

View and music come together and

I know why I have returned to this place.

Woodford and I pass The Old Academy.

Where, as children we stole fruit

From twisted and ancient trees,

And were chased by two old women with sticks.

In Woodford my father built an asbestos weekender,

And every summer he would drop matches around the shack

To make the place safe against bush fire,

And every summer the fire would escape.

At the Weroona boys' home down the road, the cry would go up,

'Charlie Lucas has started another fire'.

And ten or twelve of the older boys would grab bags,

Old rakes, shovels, branches,

And run joyfully to the rescue.

(My mother already had the scones made,

And would serve them, with a huge pot of tea,

To the heroes,

But only after the fire was out.)

They were our daredevil days on bikes,

Racing down to Bull's Camp to leap over humps,

And skid the wheels,

Showing off to the Eadie girls,

No safety hats in those days,

And we often lost skin

On Linden way, by Tollgate Bridge,

Not far from Caley's repulse,

There sits a part of Mitchell's Road,

That runs along a ridge.

Hand cut, hewn and channeled,

Pick-axe chipped and drained,

Where the ends of holes are seen,

Hand drilled for blasting,

All an easy march from old Bull's Camp.

Some local boys have bike jumps there

Built from gravel that convicts might have cut,

And have carried an old park bench scavenged

From a council clean up,

To set before the gentle

Lower mountains view

In those days I filled myself with stories

Of convicts, bush rangers, and pioneers,

Thundering along the country tracks

On my two wheeled metal stallion.

I hope those boys

Using Mitchell's bit of road

Are doing the same.

It's imagination that contains and keeps alive

History and myth, and the young

Should always have a right to that.
Tuesday 10 July 2012 8 am

tyrannosaurus hex

## Vague Hit

### Maylands, SA

i have a friend

who knows a friend

who has a sister

who once owned a plant

she bought from a woman

who has a story to lend

the story she tells

is of a big lizard

no, really big

with giant teeth

and a book of spells

the beast would travel

around the country

eating people and goats

and cursing things

it didn't like

or that plain meddled

this big green beast

also had fins

so it could swim and curse

as it wanted

and the fish were scared of him

you knew if he didn't like a fish

because it'd rise to the top like yeast

like, one day, i swear to god

whichever god you choose

this dino was attacked by a shark

and turned it into a frog

no, really, a frog

all those teeth are useless

when all you eat are flies

as it did, as a frog

this prehistoric witch

was the bane of all existence

on land or just aquatic

until it felt like ice cream

and wished itself dessert

except it was uneducated

and pronounced it 'desert'

and so was consumed by tons of sand

and suffocated

serves it right

for being a bitch
Tuesday 10 July 2012 8am

My Ward

## Ronnie Compton

### Hobart, TAS

I woke from a vivid and rather peculiar dream in which I sat in a black and white room of modest proportions – black and white only, because the sole light of the small space was from that of a colourless television positioned not so far away from where I myself sat, situated on a rug, central to the room. On the rug next to me I saw books scattered, all in differing languages like German, English, Greek, Spanish ... alongside empty and half empty bottles of assorted liquor or cranberry juice. Hellenistic illustrations fixed themselves in linear purgatory on the face of the rug, irked by small round cigarette burns amongst its face, though no cigarettes could be found anywhere in the room. I justify giving the time of day to these lowly descriptions with no other reason but that my sub-conscious other did the very same to me, and it would certainly be an anecdote of vexation had I not been brought up as a character of truth and accuracy, for who knows what meanings these small illustrations have on the sagacious mind, if such a mind was to ponder on such a tale. Even though I do not deem them integral, I include all minor details for the very reason that a mind I described may stray onto this passage. Albeit, no other object, no other piece of furniture aside from the ones I previously described, held even the slightest touch of aesthetic quality.

The focus of my dream was on the images I watched on the television. Although the volume was not high; although my hearing is one of my worst, if not the worst, of all of my five senses, I heard all of the dialogue, all of the monologue, all of the backing music, with perfect clarity. And although the screen stayed black and white for the whole spectacle, every scene and movement was sighted with ease. In saying this, all of that which I was subjected to was a solitary piece of what I can only describe as bile, and of this bile, describe I will.

On the black and white screen I saw surreal flashing images of my closest friends, of acquaintances, of women I had previously loved, of women I presently loved, some favoured family members, some folk I knew not of their name or company but had seen on the streets or other places numerous times and had taken a liking to, all in spaces of what could not precisely be described as a state of bliss; but in a wondrous, untouchable, transcendental universe, where all of my most trusted links to the external world sat as enigmatic hosts to a far off place. In some scenes they were singing and dancing, celebrating love and money (in the context of wealth), while in others I would witness a close friend and a secret love of mine sharing intimacy, the likes of which I was defencelessly naive to.

Some scenes would see a group of them sitting at a large table in an unknown cafe or restaurant, all collectively residing in contentment and simple life, yet a life I could not understand, no matter how simple it was. They would drink coffee and wine, they would laugh, they would console, they would empathise. I could never admit to seeing the only characters of my life I truly loved in any light but that of jealousy and rejection. I was never once considered by them to be existing, nor was I intelligent enough to follow their seemingly banal and simple conversations, or artistic enough to appreciate allegories in their dramas or songs. I did not have the ability to become lucid enough to enquire whether I were the changed one, or if they had simultaneously transcended, leaving me to rust.

It was, as previously mentioned, a blur of images and voices in typical dream confusion, and only one part of the drama stuck with me with memorable clarity, the rest being a delusional mosaic of desertion and self-loathing. The part that escaped this mad and depressing insidiousness – however momentarily – with any sense of coherence, was a speech by a notably close friend named Duke. He sat in a house I had once lived in and which he had visited many time, though in the world he sat the house was lifeless and in ruins. He was on a chair in the living room, but the roof had been torn off and the walls hardly stood; the remnants of the structure looked burned, as if it had escaped a fire in which the rest had disintegrated. A clear night and a mostly full moon was the backdrop as Duke spoke tiredly.

DUKE: Secret worlds are hardly shared, the only sharing and simultaneousness coming from the eyes seeing them, and this is only because they are naturally paired. Both of them see previously unknown light and share it with no one but the other. But WHY? Epiphanies can wait when our fuse is this long. Why waste our chance ... our one and only chance at long lasting mediocrity? Save the explosion when it's expected, for when it's socially acceptable, then die with dignity, knowing a previous expedition of the surreal mediocrity of western homes and life overshadowed your own. Don't dance along to flashing arrows and please tastes of savage martyrs, don't believe the callings of the bastards who say that you cannot study a lion from inside its mouth and that the further away you live away from life the better you can know it ... they're spoiling you. They're being rhetorical and laughing when you believe it.

He stood up and walked away as the television and the room turned to static. I floated in the mesh of dreaming and waking, saying my goodbyes nostalgically to the room. It seemed that even in solitary, my most adored of places, that my soul was being infiltrated. I floated away from the shambles, to the fading door of the static room, finally drifting to waking life, to the calls of laughter and traffic from outside ...
Wednesday 11 July 2012

Nicole

## Chloe Loughran

### Brunswick, Victoria

I shivered in the night

Woke my eyes

To find your pillow dry

I search a bare house

Bare foot

Everything bare

You weren't anywhere

I sit still in my mind

Try to remember you

And where you've been

Yet you're nowhere to be seen

I went out for a second

Went wandering round town

I got up and strolled on out

Nowhere to be found

I've come back my dear

Only to find your absence here

And your tears gone dry

On the window sill you sat by

I try to hold your clothes

With a stale feel of insecurity in the air

I break down in despair

I'm alone

Completely

You won't be coming home tonight.
Thursday 12 July 2012

A Poem Written On A Window

## Peter Goodwin

### Warilla, NSW

Look out the window, if you must,

but there is nothing beyond for you,

the morning light tangled

in the vines and the lattice work,

the child playing in the fountain

out of sight of her mother,

three birds grooming themselves

on the wooden fence.

Turn your gaze away from outside now,

do not dwell on a place where nothing

is there for you.

Go and stand as close as you please,

touch the words with your lips and hands,

you wrote them, in the dark,

out of your mind.

The scribbled lines on the glass

in your handwriting stand as a witness

against your freedom.
Friday 13 July 2012

Best Friend

## Noel Downs

### Gungal, NSW

Benny and I had been mates since first grade, we were almost inseparable. If there was mischief afoot we'd be in it. Pranks mostly, it was if we knew what each other was thinking, but most likely we just thought alike. At school we'd get the same answers so often the teachers thought we were cheating off each other. They tried putting us on opposite sides of the room to no avail. Wasn't until they moved Benny to a different class and we still did it, that they realised we wasn't cheating. We liked the same foods, the same drinks and snacks, the same movies and music. We fished, we camped, we hunted, we lived. We were mates. Problem was we were too much alike, we had the same tastes in everything. For 16 years it was like we were twins, but not.

The year Benny turned twenty one, his parents gave him a trip to Europe for his birthday. Initially I was going with him, but my dad had hurt himself making hay so I couldn't go. He'd been on holidays before without me. So neither of us gave it much thought as we said our farewells and joked about the diseases he'd catch. Didn't he ever catch something! Did I tell you we liked the same things? Now with mates that usually isn't a problem, even when you both want the same thing, you just share. But some things you can't share.

While he was away Benny got engaged to a French girl. Though Monique was not so much of a girl, as a goddess. Boy I tried hard not to like her, really hard not to let either of them know. We were mates, things like that can ruin a good friendship, but the writing was on the wall from the day he fell in love. Benny knew something was wrong, but he was in love. Love made him stupid, hell, it made me stupid. He tried to get me to talk about it, tried to cheer me up by taking us fishing, and camping, Monique came too, though she refused to go hunting, didn't like the sound of the gun.

We had been stalking a roe buck, and as he was about to take the shot he stood up turned his back on the disappearing buck to face me and for the first time since we'd met, he yelled with anger directed at me. We'd never had harsh words before, and it shocked me. I guess that was his aim to catch me off guard and get some answers. Not sure the answer he got was the one he was prepared for. How do you tell your best friend you want their woman? Anyway, it was in that moment when the look in his eyes told me our friendship was ended, that I thought fuck it, and I shot him.

I buried him in that little copse. Loaded our gear into the car and when it was dark crashed it into to the river. The police searched for days but they never found his body. I cried for a week; kept saying to anyone who was around, that it was my fault, that I'd killed my best friend. No-one would listen, called it an accident, they tried to comfort me, even Monique did. She said we needed to look after each other 'cause we'd both lost. Now that did cheer me up.

We're getting married tomorrow.
Saturday 14 and Sunday 15 July 2012

The Missus

## Andrea Payne

### Salisbury North, ACT

She sat in the shade of the verandah, in the old cane chair that after so many years of use was moulded to the shape of her body. A single cup sat on the table between the two chairs – her chair, and the other one that sat empty nowadays. She was tired; she'd been out mending fences earlier. It was tough, trying to keep it all together.

She looked out across the brown landscape. She knew every foot of that land; it had been her home for forty years. But it wasn't usually so brown. Almost no sign of green existed; just the foliage of the trees that lined the dry riverbed. The whole station was a dust bowl – the dams were dry, the river gone underground, or gone altogether.

A distant dust trail caught her attention, and her eyes narrowed as she squinted into the distance, trying to make out the vehicle that was approaching the homestead. She didn't get too many visitors these days – not since Bob had been gone. His mates, the men from the surrounding stations, used to drop by sometimes, but their wives didn't often get the chance to visit.

The sound of the approaching vehicle reached her ears, and the old blue heeler that had been asleep next to her chair sat up, its ears perked. The dog got to its feet and rushed down the verandah steps into the yard, barking. He was a good dog, old Blue, and she'd had him since he was a pup, but like the woman, he was aging. He was still good protection, though, and he could still round the cattle up and move them wherever she wanted him to.

The woman recognised the car before the dog did, and called to him. 'Blue! Get here! It's only Bill.'

Bill was her neighbour from the next station; he slowed as he drove into the homestead yard and pulled up in the shade of the big tree. A callistemon it was – callistemon salignus. Willow bottlebrush – that was its common name. She remembered that. It was a beautiful tree, and well named. Its long curved boughs covered with bright green foliage reached down towards the ground, and in spring it was covered with white bottlebrush-like flowers.

She loved the tree; she'd planted it shortly after she came here. She'd always wanted to get a red one too. Callistemon salignus rufus. But somehow, it never happened. The white one was a good seven metres tall now, and when she first planted it she had dreamed and planned afternoons in the shade, reading on a white-painted chaise longue, or sitting on the lawn, playing with the children. The lawn that was never planted. The children that never came. And the time for sitting and reading – well, that never came either.

'G'day, Missus.' The man that was approaching the verandah was in his sixties, lined face and faded blue eyes, and a little stooped. He was dressed as the woman was, in worn moleskins, faded shirt and scuffed boots. He took off his dusty, sweat-stained old Akubra and ducked his head. Her attention returned to the present, and she nodded a welcome.

'Oh Bill. G'day, how are you? Sit down. Cuppa?'

'That'd be good, thanks.' Bill settled himself into the empty chair as the woman rose and went off into the cool darkness of the house, the screen door banging behind her.

She was back in an instant, and the screen door banged again as she put a cup of milky tea down on the table next to Bill.

'There you go.' She sank down into her chair again.

'Thanks, Missus. I'm fair dry!'

They sat in companionable silence for some time, sipping their tea and gazing out at the landscape. In that part of the outback, you don't see your neighbours a lot, but that doesn't mean that you're strangers.

'Just been into town; thought I'd drop in and see how you were. The wife sends her best.'

'Oh, right-oh. How's Eileen doing, Bill?'

'Same as ever, same as ever. Oh, we got a letter from young Jess. She's expecting again.'

'That right, Bill? This'll be her third, won't it? You and Eileen'll be right over the novelty of being grandparents by now, eh?'

'Guess so. Yes, this'll be Jess' third, and of course there's Gary's two as well. As for Susie – well who knows when she'll settle down!'

'Must be a great comfort for Eileen, having Gary and the family at the station with you. And Gary, well, he'll be a big help around the place, eh Bill?'

Bill nodded. 'She loves having the kids there all the time, and she and Gary's Kate get on so well together. She doesn't miss Jess quite as much, with Kate there to keep her company. And of course, young Susie is still off in Sydney living the high life. Dunno what she sees in the place, myself, but she's happy. The wife, she wishes Susie would settle down though.'

Then, after a pause, Bill spoke again. 'Pity you and Bob never had a family.'

'Yeah.' She looked over towards the dry riverbed, and as they lapsed back into silence, just for a minute she thought of how it could have been, of how it would have been, of how it should have been.

'Been hot.'

'Sure has, Bill. This summer's been a scorcher.'

'We get that. That's the way it is.'

'You know, the dam's been dry so long I can't remember how it looked when it was full. Thank God for the bores; don't know what we'd do with the stock without 'em.'

'Bad weather they've had, over east,' he said.

'Yeah. Worst drought in history, and now they're flooded. That car that went into the river near Sydney – bad business that was. Drowned that young couple and all three of their kids.'

'Real bad luck, that. But we could do with some of the rain here.'

'That's for sure.' She looked at the dusty yard, the shrivelled vegetable patch, and then across at the dry, empty paddocks.

'Dunno what'll happen if we don't get some soon.'

'Can't afford to truck in feed forever,' said Bill.

'If I lose many more head, won't have to,' she replied.

'Bad as that, is it, Missus?'

'No, not really. I'm no worse nor better off than the rest of us round here. Numbers are down to about half, and they're thin, but there's still hope. After all, remember what it was like back in '64?'

'Oh yes. Thought we were done for, then. At least we haven't had a lot of bushfires this time.'

'Remember young Geoff Roberts? He was down in Victoria, got caught in the Ash Wednesday fires.'

'I remember. Poor lad.'

'That was a bad time, that was. We got over it, though.'

'Yes. We always do.'

'I've had some laughs sitting here,' said Bill. 'The wife and I haven't been over for a proper visit lately. Oh, we had some good times back a ways, didn't we? After tea was over, sitting out here with Bob having a sip of port while you girls had a laugh in the kitchen.'

'Yes, you two – solving all the problems of the universe, you were,' she said. 'Eileen and I, we did have some laughs.'

'Always a good cook, you were, Missus.'

She thought about the port bottle. It was sitting on the sideboard in the dining room. Hadn't been uncorked since Bob died. He'd kept it to share with his mates while the women cleaned up after the meals.

'Tell Eileen I'll phone her Sunday,' she said.

'She'll like that,' Bill replied. 'She always wished you could talk more often than you do, but of course Bob was one to watch the money, wasn't he?'

'Yes, he was.' He only had the phone put on at the station in case of emergencies; didn't like her making phone calls just to talk. Bob liked to keep a tight rein on the spending money; fair enough, since he was the one that did all the hard work – or so he said often enough.

'Good bloke, old Bob,' said Bill. 'A real good mate. I miss him.'

'Never a day I don't think of him, Bill. Never a day.'

'You know, I never thought Bob would be the one to go first,' said Bill. 'And to go like that.'

'Yes,' she replied. 'He'd never been sick a day in his life. One minute he's fine, the next he was just gone. Sitting in his chair after dinner, just dropped off to sleep and gone.'

'We been worried, me and the wife. You doing alright? It's tough, on your own.'

'Oh Bill, I'll be right. And of course I still have young Matt. He's off over in Broken Hill but he'll be back day after tomorrow. He's a smart kid, and a hard worker too. Bob never tolerated bludgers, as you know, and Matt's been a great help since Bob's been gone. And of course – oh yes! Remember Mark? That nephew of ours – spent quite a few holidays here over the years.'

'Oh yeah, I remember him. Bob's sister's kid, isn't he?'

'Yes, he is. Well, he and his wife – girlfriend – oh I don't quite know what to call her. Tracy her name is. Anyway, they're coming up to stay. Mark was always close to Bob; hero-worshipped his uncle. And they've arranged to come up; Mark'll help around the place and Tracy – she's a nice kid – well it'll be good to have a bit of company.'

'Well, glad to hear that, Missus. Me and the wife, we wondered how you'd do here on your own. Glad you've got family coming up.'

'Yeah, that Mark – he thought his Uncle Bob was the Man from Snowy River or something ...'

'Remember when Bob first got that black stallion? Thought he was bloody Clancy or something, didn't he!' Bill laughed. 'Damn good horseman, Bob was.'

She thought of the black stallion, and nodded slowly, her rough, work-hardened fingers rubbing her red, swollen knuckles.

'Loved that horse, Bob did,' she replied.

She remembered the countless hours she'd sat up late into the night, working on the fine embroidery she used to do so well, as she listened to Bob's snores. Still, he was a working man. He needed his sleep.

Her eyes couldn't see well enough to do it any more, but that didn't matter because her fingers were no longer capable of making the neat, tiny stitches. She'd sent it all down to her sister Lucy in Adelaide. Lucy had sent her back the money, and finally she had enough saved up for the washing machine. A Pope wringer model. She'd hidden the picture she cut out of the old magazine in the kitchen drawer, and she used to take it out and look at it at night, after Bob went to bed. Her body would be crying out for sleep, her muscles aching, but one look at the picture of that washing machine gave her the strength to sit and do a couple of hours of embroidery work.

Bob had taken the money with him when he went down to the Adelaide Show, back in '56. He took the bull down – he was so proud of that bull. Best he'd ever bred. She'd entered a tablecloth she had embroidered; it won first prize. Bob's bull had won third. He'd sold the bull and bought the stallion; brought her back a concrete double laundry tub and a wringer you mounted on the edge of the tub with a handle you cranked to wring the water out of the clothes. It wasn't the Pope, but it was a step up from the old drum she used for rinsing. She went on using the old copper and heaving the laundry around with the laundry stick; she'd got used to doing that years before and it didn't seem so hard any more.

The rest of her money – well, Bob had used that for the new saddle he'd bought for the stallion. Couldn't ride a beautiful horse like that with the old saddle. He knew she wouldn't mind. He'd lost her first prize certificate, and of course the prize money was gone along with her savings, but that didn't matter anyway. The stallion had caught its foot in a rabbit hole about six months later. Broke its leg and Bob had to shoot it. Good thing he wasn't hurt.

'Never thought he'd settle down, old Bob,' Bill said. When we were kids, he was always on about how he was going to be famous one day. Wasn't going to stay here on the land. He was going to Adelaide to play footy for Sturt. He was going to play cricket for Australia. He was going to go to America and beat the Yanks on the rodeo circuit. Silly bugger, he always had some plan or other.'

She smiled and shook her head. 'That sounds like Bob.'

'I've got this photo of us, taken down in Gawler one year when we went down to stay with Bob's Uncle Murray. Bert Jackson was with us. You didn't know Bert, did you? Killed in France he was, in – oh, must have been about '42. Anyway, the three of us were having a great game of bushrangers with the Yardea mail coach. Course, Bob used to say if he was born back in those days he would've gone off and been a bushranger. Captain Blackheart, he used to call himself. Just kidding, of course. Good bloke, old Bob.

'He always thought his brother Les would take over the station here from his Dad. Then when Les was killed – well, that was in North Africa in '41. Bob came back here and when his dad got sick he just took over the running of the place. Ran it for his Mum till she was gone, and just stayed on. Course, that was before he was married. Never thought he'd get married, old Bob, but he turned out to be a good bloke.'

'Yes,' she nodded. 'Good bloke, Bob was. Looked after his Mum – he was good to her alright.'

She thought of how he'd howled with laughter when they'd only been married a week and she'd been bringing in the firewood when a huntsman spider had run up her arm. Of course, she always brought the wood in. Chopped the firewood, brought it in. Bob was a busy bloke.

Anyway, this huntsman ran up her arm and she screamed and dropped all the wood. Broke her toe, and Bob just sat there laughing.

'It's just a huntsman. They're everywhere out here. Won't hurt you.'

She was jumping around trying to find where it had gone; tore off her coat and threw it out onto the verandah. She hobbled off into the bathroom and locked the door; sat on the floor and cried. She stayed there till Bob banged on the door and told her to stop being stupid and get into the kitchen. Get on with cooking tea. He was hungry and he'd been out working all day.

She'd got used to the creepy crawlies – well, most of them, anyway. Bugs, beetles and mossies weren't a problem. She didn't like the snakes, but she wasn't scared. She'd lost count of the number of brown snakes she'd killed over the years. But the spiders were still her worst fear. Not the redbacks, really – although they were poisonous, they mostly just sat in their webs and they were fairly small as spiders go. Of course if she found one she always killed it, because they did have a nasty bite, but they didn't scare her.

She still couldn't cope with the huntsmen though. Although she never admitted it, she was scared stiff of them. Great big hairy things, always lurking around on the walls. Yes, they ate flies, but as far as she was concerned, they could eat flies outside. She didn't kill them, but that was only because she was too scared of them. She made young Matt, the lad who helped around the station, put them into a can and take them down to the back paddock. She swore him to secrecy, because she didn't want Bob laughing at her, but there just wasn't room enough for her and a huntsman inside the house, and she wasn't leaving!

'Real down to earth, Bob. No airs and graces about him. Just an ordinary bloke – real dinky di.'

'That was Bob, alright,' she agreed. Bob liked things plain and simple.

She'd always wondered what some of the recipes she saw in the Woman's Weekly magazines that Eileen used to send over would taste like, but Bob liked his meals plain and simple. No herbs and spices in Bob's house. Roast beef with spuds, carrots and gravy for Sunday lunch. And veg – usually peas and beans. Meat pie on Mondays, made from the roast. Grilled chops on Tuesdays. Stew Wednesdays and Saturdays, and lamb Thursdays. Bob liked things orderly; everything planned. 'You know where you are that way,' he used to say. Of course the house was orderly too – everything right where his mother and father had it. She tried rearranging the furniture once, but Bob told her to put it all back where it belonged. It was his house; she understood that.

On Fridays they had meat pie again, made from the leftover lamb. None of that fish stuff in Bob's house; he didn't hold with religion interfering with what a man ate. Working men need a good nourishing meal put it front of them every night of the week. Chops, sausages, eggs and bacon for breakfast and lunch. He sure could put the food away, Bob could.

Since Bob died, she never thought about making any of the recipes from the Woman's Weekly. Somehow it didn't seem so important any more. She was too busy with the property, anyhow. When she came in at night, she didn't even bother to light the fire half the time. She'd just make herself a cup of tea and a couple of sandwiches – she still made the Sunday roast, but the meat lasted her and Matt all week.

The carrots, spuds, peas and beans came from her kitchen garden. When she first came to the station, she'd planted some marigolds, pansies and violets and a couple of rose bushes. Bob pulled them all out. 'No time around here for that nonsense,' he said to her. 'We don't waste water on flowers.' Of course, the roses and the pansies wouldn't have survived the drought anyway.

'Bob always was a simple bloke. Never went for any of the fancy stuff.'

She thought for a minute about the faded, shapeless clothes, grey from countless washes and soft from years of use, carefully folded and put neatly into the chest of drawers in her bedroom. Underwear, petticoats, nighties – all the same shade of grey. And her house dresses. Shapeless, colourless sacks all of them, but she never wore dresses any more. She was always outside working, so she dressed in her moleskins, old shirts and scuffed boots. She had no clothing in bright colours, no chiffon or lace, but as Bob said, what would she want with that stuff. She never went anywhere anyway.

Then her mouth lifted, just a fraction, at the corner, as she pictured the pale blue satin nightdress that was folded into a tiny bundle and tucked right at the bottom of her old trunk, under her wedding dress, the white baby blanket she had knitted when she was fourteen, and the tiny embroidered dresses and knitted bootees she had made back in '53. Bob thought she had thrown it all out, but she hadn't.

She bought the nightdress the year she had to go down to Adelaide to the hospital. She went by herself; Bob had too much to do on the station, and as he said, there wasn't anything he could do anyway. It wasn't like she was really ill – just some woman problem after all, wasn't it. Somehow, she couldn't face all those strangers looking at her as she sat up in bed in the ward, wearing her old faded cotton nightie.

She'd said to Bob that she might get a new nightie for the trip. Waste of money, he called it. Who cared what she looked like – it didn't matter what strangers thought. She'd said she agreed with him, but she'd bought it anyhow. It was only cheap; she got it at Myers in Rundle Street, in the Bargain Basement. She'd never worn it since; Bob didn't know she'd bought it but she couldn't bear to throw it out, just folded it up and tucked it away along with the dreams of the children that she would never hold.

She looked across to the mountain range on the horizon, and then squinted, looking closer.

'Looks like clouds over the hills.'

'It does at that, Missus. They're getting enough rain down south – think it ought to be our turn soon.'

'They're dark looking. Reckon we might get a drop or two out of them,' she agreed.

'Could at that,' he said.

'They forecast rain. Course, they're wrong more than they're right, but that does look like we might be lucky.'

If it rained, she thought she would go out into the yard and dance naked between the raindrops. She would light the fire in the sitting room and sit on the rug, wrapped in a blanket, and brush her hair until it dried. She would cook a cheese omelette from the old recipe she'd cut out of the Woman's Weekly, and then eat it sitting cross-legged in front of the fire. She would have a glass of Bob's port, or maybe even two. And she would get out the pale blue nightie and put it on before she went to bed.

'Well, I'd better be going.' Bill rose and stood for a minute, looking down at the woman.

'Good to see you, Bill. Tell Eileen I'll give her a ring.'

'See you then, Missus. Look after yourself.'

She looked at him for a minute. 'Sarah. My name is Sarah.'
Monday 16 July 2012

It's Only A Myth

## Bob Edgar

### Wentworth Falls, NSW

I don't regret exploding a myth, one particular myth I had longed to see explode into a thousand tiny little pieces.

Sitting quite still, I closed my eyes lightly to relive the recent past.

I see myself as I walk the hallowed halls of St.Camberwell, a student in this bastion of learning.

At least once a day in my mind I explode this myth that annoys me so. I would be admonished and ostracised if I were to carry out my imagined threat of destruction of this unworthy myth. Yet I must, for I am justified.

I was renowned as a young child for having a remarkable speaking voice, I need only to have made some inane comment and people would say, 'My, hasn't he the most remarkable speaking voice.'

My early school years were a cakewalk, for not only was I an exceptionally intelligent child, I also had this remarkable speaking voice.

The expectation was that I would be a leader in the political party of my choosing, maybe even the first person in history to lead both major parties simultaneously. However I would be content to be 'Speaker of the House'. Already the most sought after member for elite debating teams, not only for my incredible intelligence and sharp wit, but also for my remarkable speaking voice.

My Science teacher, Miss Stone was in my view reckless at the best of times, so when she chose me to conduct her latest experiment I was decidedly uneasy.

'Just clench your teeth on the end of this match and I will demonstrate the myth of the felonious phosphorus,' she had said with her usual knowall smugness, as she lit the match.

Six months on from that fateful day I did explode the myth, and now I sit in this pungent room devoid of warmth. Detective Carter enters and asks me am I aware of the heinous crime I had committed.

'Yeth thir I am, my Thience teacher Myth Thtone had it coming.'
Tuesday 17 July 2012

Due to a clerical error, there were no items published on Tuesday 17 July 2012.

The item scheduled for this date was Ronnie Compton's My Ward, which we published on 10 July by accident (sorry, Ronnie!). It is included in this book at 10 July, accordingly.
Wednesday 18 July 2012

Railway Tracks

## Jean Bundesen

### Woodford, NSW

Across the bridge from the inner city railway station,

A multitude of tracks curve to the city skyline.

Sky scrapers shrouded in blue mist,

The 'Coat Hanger' an arched monument

to those who risked their lives building it.

Trains, giant centipedes scurry, rattle

Carry commuters to and fro.

A homeless man, skunk scent and pack,

Dreadlocks, scruffy clothes, searches

The innards of a rubbish bin

Outside the railway station.

Suddenly smiling

He's found a meat pie

And a ticket for any train or ferry.

Rushes for a train, glances around

Slides his wallet into his back pocket, feeling safe,

Falls asleep – he won't be robbed again.

Railway tracks don't always lead to home or happiness.
Thursday 19 July 2012

The White House

## JAC

### Kilsyth, VIC

The dream was always the same. Blue and green battling for dominance, trying desperately to take control of my world. I knew if one of them ever won, the dream would be different. But it never happened. Everything I saw was terrifying. The grass on the ground, the sky above, caused an overwhelming fear that gripped my very soul. The only hope was the big, white house in the distance. I had to get there because I knew sanity was waiting. But no matter how long or fast I ran, it always stayed just out of reach. A haunting reminder of a happier time. If it could be reached, the dream could stop. But it always stayed just out of reach.

They called it deep depression. I called it hell.

Every day a nurse came to take care of me. But the dream never left. Even when the doctors were telling me how to help myself, the dream was there. The dream was the only thing I saw. I wanted to wake up so much, wanted my life to begin again. But the nurses only sighed and shook their heads. 'Poor thing,' they whispered, 'trapped inside herself.'

'BUT I CAN HEAR YOU!' I screamed. 'I CAN HEAR EVERYTHING YOU SAY!' They never heard me. 'OH, WHY DON'T YOU ANSWER ME?'

They called it a shame. I called it cruel.

Thursdays, I was taken into a little room and strapped down to a cold, hard table. They talked to each other the whole time. But never to me. Their hands constantly moved until I looked like a school science project. Then the humming would start, louder and louder, until I could hear nothing else. And then pain. It felt like hours before it was finally over.

They called it therapy. I called it agony.

One day a new doctor came to see me. He was cheerful and seemed to truly care. I could hear it in his voice. The longer I listened to him, the harder it was for the dream to keep hold. Joy swept over me as I struggled to reach out to him, to tell him it was working. I could even see him, sitting on a chair, waiting. I ran, wanting desperately to reach him. He got closer, clearer. I could see the colour of his hair, chestnut. His eyes, green as grass. Then he began to fade. He was leaving the room, telling the nurses that I showed signs of recognition. His voice became softer, further away. And the dream got stronger. I screamed, long and mournful. 'PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME.' But no one came, no one heard. Alone again I turned away and started running toward that house. Maybe this time I would make it. Maybe this time would be different.

They called it a breakthrough. I called it hope.
Friday 20 July 2012

A Mid-Winter Sun Rise

## John Ross

### Blackheath, NSW

The alarm was set. The two cameras and plenty of film at hand. I had already checked the lenses and filters but did so again. Okay, now under the doona and lights out.

I had managed to capture many sunrises, but always in summer, or over the ocean. This was to be my first mid-winter one over land.

At five-thirty AM it was cold and dark. I dressed warmly and moved my gear out onto the deck overlooking the valley, turned off the lights and waited. Outside the first thing I noticed was the cold. They say it is always coldest just before dawn and even though dawn was still some way off it was already well below zero outside. It was like thousands of tiny, icy needles pricking my skin. It was a very physical thing and with a little shiver I quickly wrapped my scarf over my mouth and nose.

As my eyes adjusted a magic scene unfolded before me. The sky was clear and billions of brilliant stars jostled for position and ranking as to brightness. From horizon to horizon the Milky Way swept its broad path of light. Never before had I seen so many stars. They reached down to touch the horizon in every direction. Never before had I witnessed such a display of brilliance. The land beneath was bathed in white light as the frost on the grass and the ice on the river reflected that brilliance. The trees were sentinels of sparkling light as they marched up the slopes of the mountains. I even imagined in the complete silence that prevailed that I could hear the frost crackling as it formed. No wind moved the trees, no animal moved; the earth just stool still before such beauty.

Ever so slowly the north-eastern sky started to lighten. The light battled with the stars who slowly gave way. Below, the earth darkened as its source of light receded. A new day was coming. It would still be some time before the warmth of the sun came and an even deeper chill seemed to spread over the land. I waited.

The first real rays touched the back of the trees on the mountain to the east and outlined them in a shimmering cape of gold that spread along the ridge, covering rocky outcrops and trees alike. Suddenly, long, wispy, fast moving clouds raced across the sky away from the coming sun, eager in their attempt to reach the next horizon before it.

The large mountain to the west was the next to receive the sun. A band of gold appeared on its summit like a sudden golden snowfall.

The valley was beginning to come to life. In the dim light there I could see ghostly spirals of mist rising from the river. They twirled and twisted as they rose. A low mist was enveloping the ground. The valley looked like a vast lake of wispy, white water.

A thin sliver of golden light broke above the mountain; so bright that I had to look away. With a deceptive quickness the sun rose. Below shadows leapt across the grass. The mist gave way revealing a carpet of crushed diamonds that was far richer than any jewel that man had ever made. It was so beautiful I found that I was holding my breath. Steam rose from the leaves of the trees and as the frost on them melted large drops of shining water fell away.

The mountain to the west was now bathed in brilliant sunlight that accentuated the beautiful rich colours of our Australian landscape. Gold, red and green of all hues competed in a scene that was so beautiful in that morning light.

The sun reached me and I could feel its life giving warmth. My spirit reacted to the light and a new energy flowed through me.

Below in the valley life began to stir. First a rabbit appeared at the entrance to its burrow, then a group of kangaroos bounded down to the still steaming river. A large group of black cockatoos, with their majestic slow wing beats flew up into a tall pine tree. A loud screech from a white cockatoo doing its morning aerobatics brought me back to earth.

I looked down. My camera gear lay untouched beside my chair. There would be no physical record of that magical dawn. There was really no need as it would stay in my memory forever.
Saturday 21 July 2012 every 20 minutes from 8 am

Reactions 1

## Mark Govier

### Warradale, SA

1.

Across the bridge I ran, like a man/

Possessed/ Not by freedom, but by

A bleak destiny/ To the other side

2.

The door to the cell was left ajar/

I had no choice/ I could not remain/

I became the stranger I always was

3.

Who imprisoned me, I know not/

For reasons I know not/ My disease grew

Until it was all there was

6.

The wind whistles through my belfry/

In the clarity of blindness I grasp a straw

Then fly away, regardless

8.

Your constitution? In the end/

Things will be much the same

Toilet paper, that serves a purpose

16.

You wouldn't let me in/

My face didn't fit/ Do I get a second chance

If I rip it to shreds?

17.

If I keep grinding my teeth/

Even the false ones will wear out

Then I eat soup for the remainder

20.

The vigilantes are after me/

I stepped on someone's toe

People will do anything, if they are angry

21.

Did you dig your own grave/

Deep enough? I don't worry

Because the State's going to bury me

22.

I used to smoke, then I realised

I'd never taken a breath/ Old habits die hard

Especially the bad ones

23.

You want me to hurt you?

It'll cost, but not too much

What's a bit of hope between friends?

24.

My heart is like a red, red rose/

Infested with countless aphids

You can join in, I love company

26.

Death is such a dreadful thing/

But with life being so long, and getting longer

What am I to do? Doctor?

30.

Go in peace, you said, so I did/

And when I came back, you'd disappeared

Just like we agreed

34.

What have I done now? I'm terrified/

Of going off the rails/ I keep forgetting

I left them, long ago

37.

In the end, we're all memories/

People will do almost anything they're told

But do you remember, what you did?

38.

My heart is like a marble chamber pot/

Gold and silver inlay, nothing too fancy

It helps to take the taste away

41.

Politicians! If someone eliminated/

The lot, I wouldn't worry/ There's thousands

More where they came from

45.

You said you'd only go out with me/

If I converted/ Consider it done!

What's one illusion over another?

48.

Who broke them in? Can anyone tell?

You don't get that far, without bending over

Or am I missing something?

50.

I'm afraid of everything, that's why/

They put me here/ Is there any point in

Crying over the spilt blood?

51.

You're happy to go home at night?

I wouldn't talk to a dog like that

But he seems to like it

53.

What does he see in that sheep?

How did it get into the bedroom?

Didn't anyone hear it bleating?

55.

If I cut my throat, will you/

Give me a loan? You can drink my blood

I don't know if it's infected

62.

Your heart is a huge emptiness?

I don't even have one/ Why don't you light up

Then blow smoke rings

65.

Wherever you've been, I've been there before

Whatever you've seen, I've seen more

Status seeking tourist, straining at the bit

69.

A penny for your thoughts?

You can't buy anything with a penny, now

So why ask such a stupid question?

71.

Children are so wonderful/

A bit of bonsai never hurt that much

Or is your medication wearing off?

75.

You're lost? Let me point you in/

The right direction/ I'm lost too

But why spoil such a pretty moment?

76.

You said I should play with no one/

And look where it got me/ Cheap sherry

Anti-psychotics, and a nursing home

78.

You put a spell on me/

You broke into my mind, stole my soul

It'll cost me, to get it back?

82.

The old woman dying in her/

Daughter's arms/ Calling out for her son

Forgetting she never had one

85.

Are you going to do that line?

Stupid fool, pondering the morality of the next rush

While children die of insanity

89.

You'll be glad to see the back of me/

Everyone is, sooner rather or later

I regard it as a compliment

97.

You nearly drowned the other day?

You saw the other side? But here we all are

Misfortune can be so misleading

98.

Master of the world? And when did this/

Delusion arise? After your promotion?

Your third child? Did God tell you?

99.

Have you ever eaten your own?

Stranded by yourself in that other dimension

It must have been very tempting
Sunday 22 July 2012

Re-Offender

## C.G. Freedman

### Rouse Hill, NSW

'I hope you can appreciate it's nothing personal,' Mr Peters declared emphatically, his eyes fixed tenaciously on Marc's. The silver pen in his fingers turned over and over haphazardly. 'We're all very pleased with your performance in this role but unfortunately, given the current economic climate, redundancies are being forced on us at every level.'

Marc nodded and shifted in his chair, shooting a quick glance at his watch as he did so.

'I understand,' he said.

Mr Peters nodded, dropped his shoulders and noticeably exhaled as he lent back into the creaking leather. He placed the pen down firmly on his desk as Marc continued.

'I know it can't be easy having to break this kind of news to people, but it's all part and parcel of the business world. I'm just glad you've treated me like a person as opposed to a rusty cog in the corporate wheel. Thank you, Andrew.'

Marc stood and offered his hand to Mr Peters who seemed to hesitate momentarily, eyebrows raised.

'Not at all, Marc. Not at all. Best of luck to you.'

Marc paced across the car park, juggling a box of his possessions and a multitude of keys in one hand,

his coat in the other. He passed his keys over and clicked open his boot. His possessions dropped in with a thud. Marc closed the boot, walked around to the driver's side door and tossed his jacket into the back seat. He slammed the door shut and put the key in the ignition, neglecting his seat belt as he headed up the ramp.

He accelerated through a seemingly endless stream of amber lights before pulling into the car park behind The Crown Regal, a pub whose majesty ended at its name. Marc took a seat at the bar.

'What can I get you?' the cantankerous middle-aged bar woman spat as she finished processing her previous request. Marc quietly requested what was to be the first of many drinks that evening.

Marc drove home from The Crown Regal with considerably more caution than he arrived. He prudently pulled into the driveway and reached over his shoulder for his coat with blind eyes, consciously neglecting the box in his boot. He stepped softly to his front door. The cool night air whipped around wildly, tearing leaves from the trees and scattering a procession of debris down the street. Marc hardly noticed it even as it cut through his crinkled business shirt.

Marc remained focused, the fingers of his left hand desperately clutching the loose keys while his right hand directed the front door key into its slot. He carefully turned the handle and stepped into the threshold closing the door behind him with equal consideration. Slipping his shoes off with his feet, he hung the keys on the hook and placed his jacket over the armchair.

Tiptoeing into the kitchen he stood where he felt his frame would shroud most of the light from the gaping fridge. He grabbed a slice of cold pizza, consuming it with one hand while he both unscrewed the cap and raised the orange juice to his lips with the other. He spluttered with his mouth full of juice and pizza. He downed another slice and headed stealthily to the downstairs bathroom.

Marc rifled clumsily through the drawers of the vanity basin until his fingers clasped a tube of toothpaste. He covered his tongue in a thick layer of paste and filled his mouth with water, allowing the burning sensation to become completely unbearable before he sloshed the water around, gargled the vile concoction and spat it into the sink. Turning the faucet, Marc cupped his hands and threw the cold water against his face. He patted himself dry with a towel and crept up to the bedroom.

After stripping off, he climbed into the bed behind Jamie. Despite the heater being turned up high and the blanket warmers having spent the afternoon prepping the bed, Jamie always gave a convulsive shiver as Marc pressed his skin against hers. She stirred in her sleep. Rolling over, Jamie opened her eyes and craned her neck forward to kiss Marc. Marc sealed his lips and pressed them into the smooth nape of her neck. He kept them there for as long as his lungs could withstand before raising himself up above her onto his elbow to take a deep breath.

'Sorry ... I got held up at work,' he explained before nestling down behind her. The room was spinning as he shut his eyes and drifted into a deep sleep.

Jamie called gently over to Marc from the bathroom door. Marc remained motionless. He was breathing heavily and tightly clutched a pillow against his chest. Jamie took up a new position at the foot of the bed and tenderly tugged the blanket. She gasped and jumped back half a step as Marc suddenly sat up in surprise.

'What time is it?'

'It's already half seven, you're going to be late if you don't make a move soon,' Jamie answered. She moved toward the wardrobe and continued to dress.

'Can you pass me my phone?' Marc mumbled before clearing his throat.

'What's wrong?' Jamie asked, curious.

'I think I'm going to call in sick today if you don't mind. I was such a long day yesterday, I'm shattered.'

'Sure, baby,' Jamie said.

She knelt down and rifled through Marc's trousers and tossed his phone onto the soft pile of blanket at his feet. She shook the wrinkles out of his trousers and hung them over the edge of the laundry basket.

'I've got to go. You rest up and I'll see you this afternoon.' She walked around to Marc's side of the bed, leant forward and pressed her soft lips against his forehead. Marc placed his arm around the small of her back and pulled her in close to him. He held her there for a moment as she accepted the powerful warmth of his hug.

'I love you,' Marc said, releasing his grasp.

'You rest up,' Jamie repeated.

Marc divided his morning between the shower, the bed and the fridge. With afternoon approaching, he trudged into the study and sat at his computer, phone in hand.

'Nothing at all? Nothing on the horizon?' Marc asked for the nth time, running his fingers through his mess of hair before clutching at his thigh to restrain his unremitting leg movements. 'Okay, well I've left my contact details with your receptionist in case your situation changes,' Marc continued. 'Thank you for your time, sir.' Marc placed the phone gingerly on the desk. He stared at his computer screen for a moment before pushing his chair back away from his desk and springing to his feet.

'Fuck!' he yelled as he turned on his heel and paced around the study. He picked up the phone again, squeezing it in his fist. He raised his fist, still gripping the phone. Then his shoulders dropped. He placed the phone back on the desk and picked up the overturned chair. He powered down the computer and closed the study door behind him.

When Jamie arrived home Marc looked to the floor, his fists clenched at his sides. He assured her he was feeling well rested and explained that after a day in bed he needed to get some fresh air. Jamie offered to take a walk with him but Marc was already out the door. Jamie stood still for a moment, eyes wide. The roar of an engine brought her back to her senses. She rushed out the door to see Marc backing out of the driveway.

'I'm gonna grab a bite. Don't wait up,' he called out the window, avoiding her bewildered gaze.

~~~

Within the hour Marc was being wrestled out the door of The Crown Regal by the proprietor and two burly patrons after he had mouthed off at the cantankerous bar woman.

'If she's gonna speak to me like I'm a piece of shit then I'm happy to reciprocate!' Marc yelled at the proprietor. 'What kind of an establishment are you running?' Marc asked, stumbling over the word 'establishment'. 'Do you screen your staff before you hire them or just drag them right out of the fucking gutter?!'

'Fuck you!' the bar lady screeched vehemently from the safety of The Crown Regal's doorway.

The men wrestled Marc to the kerb. As he tried to stand, one of the men slapped Marc across the face with the back of his oversized hand. Marc slumped back down against the rough concrete path and shook his head, momentarily dazed by the blow.

'The police are on their way,' the proprietor called back at Marc, gently coaxing the bar woman back through the doors.

The sound of sirens faded quickly into the discordant ambience of the night as Marc careened towards the next suburb over. He pulled into the practically deserted car park of a twenty-four hour arcade and stumbled out of his car. Placing the cool tips of his fingers against his swelling cheek, he brushed the dirt from his clothes as best he could and stood up tall and composed.

The penetrating smell of hair product assaulted his nostrils as he sauntered past the hair dresser; smells only to be replaced by the repugnance of a rundown Vietnamese restaurant. He experienced a brief respite as he paced by the DVD rental joint but the abusive lights and sounds of the video arcade provided a renewed onslaught to his senses.

His steps grew extensively unbalanced as he navigated his way around the convenience store and entered the bottle shop. He managed to purchase the cheapest available bottle of bourbon without exchanging words with the teenager behind the counter before staggering back to his car. By this time he had already worked the lid off the bottle and had downed a quarter of the foul liquid.

Marc reached the car and fumbled for his keys. The bottle dropped. The keys followed. Marc stumbled back and looked at the puddle of broken glass encircling his keys. Without warning he simultaneously slammed his fist into the driver's side window and rammed his knee full force into the panelling of the door before recoiling in pain. Screaming, he reached down for the neck of the bottle, the largest piece of the broken glass and hurled it across the car park. It shattered against the ground outside the doors of the hairdressers sending fragments through the doorway. A short shrill scream brought stunned faces out into the car park.

Ignoring the assembling audience Marc reached down for his keys, slicing his finger in the process. He briefly examined his mangled fist and the bleeding finger tips of his trembling hand. He whimpered at the sight of it and quickly turned his head away.

When he arrived home he made no effort to stifle the sounds of his presence. There was far too much evidence to bury under wraps this time. There was too much to confess. He sat for a moment, staring. His hand continued to tremble. His leg felt like a dead weight. Reaching over himself with his good hand he pulled the latch that popped his boot open. He delicately stepped from the car and limped over to the boot where he retrieved his possessions, the physical confirmation of his inadequacy. His failure.

When he entered the house a movement in his peripheral caught his attention. Jamie. She stood in the dim light of the living room. Even in the fading light of the evening her beauty was remarkable. The unblemished skin. The prominent cheekbones and round piercing eyes. The freckles sprinkled across her cheeks like chocolate powder on light frothy milk.

Jamie remained across the room, unmoving. She nodded slightly at the sight of the box in Marc's arm, her hair falling across her face. She hastily pulled her hair back, tucking it behind her ear. Marc looked at his own appearance in the reflection of the living room windows. His cheek was swollen with a distinctive purplish hue enveloping much of his face. His weight rested on one leg, the other was bent out awkwardly before him. Beyond his reflection his eyes fell upon the dented panelling of his driver's side door. He blinked slowly, processing the damage done. What it would take to undo it. Time and money could fix so much.

It was the look in Jamie's eyes that proved irreparable. Her involuntary recoil at his touch. Enduring. The trust they once shared. Gone. Marc's gaze fell to the floor. He breathed in deeply, stifling a sob. He had been dry for four years. Jamie would not forgive him again. Could not. He didn't blame her. How could he expect her to truly forgive him if he had not forgiven himself. The beauty of her face served as a permanent reminder of his crime, of what he once recklessly robbed her of.

Tears welled up in his eyes. This time he failed to suppress a great sob. He wiped his eyes with his good hand and forced his eyes to fall on hers. Her gaze was fixed. Determined. Her body shuddered sporadically and yet she maintained her stance.

'I'm leaving,' Jamie said, her voice wavering. She took a deep breath but kept her eyes fixed on Marc. 'I won't be your punching bag this time,' she whispered through pursed lips.

'What? No!' Marc dropped the box and moved towards her. She moved back mechanically and withdrew a carving knife she had been concealing behind her back. Marc stopped. He stepped back and collapsed in the armchair. As the sun dipped down over the horizon the room was all but consumed in creeping darkness.

Marc furrowed his brow and massaged his temples as he stared at the glint of the knife.

'I can't do this again,' Jamie cried, lowering the knife.

'I know ... I know,' Marc replied gently. 'I understand.'
Monday 23 July 2012

The Last Hunt

## David Anderson

### Woodford, NSW

The day of hunting was unfulfilled

As he entered the cave and his home.

But his woman and child lay dead,

Taken by Yorith, the Great Bear.

He lay them in the soft earth and

Adorned them with red ochre,

Beads of animal teeth and shells.

He sat for days, unwilling to hunt,

Waiting for Yorith to return for him,

Until his body grew frail and cold.

And the fire pit turned to cool ash

He sensed creatures before him and waited,

But the South People found him dying and

They warmed him with fire and animal skins.

Fed him and fetched water for thirst.

But he grew weaker and lay unmoving.

The last face he beheld as he closed his eyes

Was strange and flat, but full of warm pity

She brushed his full brow and wondered

Why she had not seen his kind before.

And on his last breath she knew not, that

She had given peace to the last Neandertal
Tuesday 24 July 2012

The World Of Growth

## Emma-Lee Scott

### Callaghan, NSW

Following the shadows of our

memories,

The path which we followed years

before,

With friendships renewed,

And the days beginning afresh,

The peace of life flooding back

again,

With new tribulations starting,

But easier to face step after step.

Straining and excelling,

But continuing forward,

Not gasping for the breathe of freedom,

But relishing what is given.

Following the lead of others,

But also leading for those to follow,

Treading a trail that may only be

trod once,

Learning abilities that few have

mastered,

The scenes of remarkable,

Etch upon our minds.

A road stretches forward to reach

our destination,

That will be of epic proportions,

And amazingly blissful.

Twists and turns of the day,

Become our greatest

accomplishments,

What we fail to do becomes a

regret,

But in the end we intrigue our minds.

The rising cliff faces and the

whitened peaks,

The stiffened shoes and iced hands,

Tools of another trade,

Fearful at first but friends by the

last,

That provide the chance of a

challenge.

As the world of wonder comes to a

close,

The ordinary becomes less,

But we become more,

As the transformation of the soul,

A metamorphosis of the mind,

And the provision of the physical,

We become the changed as everyone

else remains changeless.

Freedom, friendships, strength.

This piece was written during a cross-country skiing expedition with old friends and remarks of the personal growth that we made during the difficulties of this new experience.
Wednesday 25 July 2012

*** Editor's Pick ***

Flustered

## Amber Johnson

### Highgate Hill, QLD

Today, I am going to do it. I am going to claim my prize. The aroma of crusty bread fills the air as I watch him from a picnic table. A green and gold neon banner beckons him closer to the Subway vendor. The hunger in his eyes matches my own. He flicks his sandy hair aside and glides to the end of the line.

It is his routine to come here at midday. I've watched him every day. Sure, there are plenty of other suitable guys around here, but it has to be Jake. Unlike many of his peers, Jake doesn't suspect ill of my intentions. To him, this is just his lunch ritual, but to me, this outlet is our secret retreat and our emblematic haven.

I've spent a few days doing my research. I had to learn his patterns and pinpoint the moment when he is most vulnerable. He likes to eat lunch alone which makes things easier. I crept around tables and hid behind trees just to be near him. I'm not sure if he has been ignoring me or was just oblivious to my presence. Either way, it has given me plenty of opportunity to analyse the situation. Sometimes I dig through the scraps to see what he has eaten. I try to do it subtly though; I don't want to look like a stalker. I need to know every intricate detail about this boy.

Yesterday, I got so close that I could smell the bread in his hands. I just wanted to nip the crumbs off of his lips. I wouldn't have done it in a creepy way. He might have liked it. Maybe he would have thought that it was cute and fallen for my charms.

A bell chimes and he glances at his wrist.

'It's been twenty minutes,' he mumbles to himself. 'Why do these lines always take so long?'

It's not fair that they make you wait, precious. If things went my way, the sandwich would already be prepared for you when you got there. Just wait a little longer. Please don't leave.

Finally, a plump woman looks at him.

'May I help you?'

'Yes, I'd like to order a foot long chicken teriyaki sub on Italian herbs and cheese.'

'Fresh or toasted?'

'Toasted.'

'Please head over to the next counter.'

I hear the rattling of shrapnel in his pockets as he burrows deep. He slips the vendor a pink note and a fistful of silver. Their mouths exchange pleasantries whilst their hands exchange goods. I can't stop looking at those fingers of his. I can imagine myself nibbling on them. My thoughts begin to stray.

I wonder how he would react if I slipped between his legs. It's a tempting thought, but far too risky. There are too many people around.

He walks out the door and wanders down a hill to the river. Dragonflies hover over the surface while koi dance below. He sits beside an old willow tree that shrouds him in a curtain of leaves. I watch eagerly as he stretches out his legs and unwraps his meal. I puff up my chest and skulk closer. This time, I'm going to do it. He looks in my direction and gives a smile. It is a trusting smile. Dare I edge closer?

'Hello there,' he says to me. I cautiously approach. He laughs at my shy advance and offers some of his sandwich. I watch his lips. He is practically inviting me to ravage him. I swoop in for a peck. He withdraws in shock. Before he can respond, I take off as fast as I can.

'Hey!' he yells. 'Get back here! Give me back my sandwich, you stupid ibis!'

Ed: We really enjoyed Amber's delightfully entertaining story, and the lovely innocent twist at the end. Short and sweet but very effectively written.
Thursday 26 July 2012

Untouchable Me

## Bridge

### Moonah, TAS

They say every cloud has a silver lining.

The one that opened up for me sent an angel shining down upon me, dousing me with love, touching parts of me perceived untouchable, untouchable me.

Strangle my heart, enrapture my body, flow right through me, your presence ever near.

Never let me go for I am your tomorrow. Stay forever, entwined in this bliss. For you are my rose without any thorns.

Compassion in your heart, your key fits my lock.

Cupid aimed his arrow.

Immersed in my heart.

Touching parts once perceived untouchable.

Untouchable me.
Friday 27 and Saturday 28 July 2012

Black Socks And Matching Tie

##  Hettie Ashwin

### Portsmith, QLD

Marjorie, my mother used to say, try and be nice. I thought I was. Party manners mother would remind me. Ps and Qs she said. We don't all have to live like peasants. From what I could see the peasants had much more fun.

It was a relief when I finally left home. John swept me off my feet and within three months we were engaged and then married. John wanted me to have fun. And we did. He'd drag me along to this dance and that cinema show. Whatever I wanted John was ready to oblige.

Mother put the dampeners on things pretty quick though. She said he should be more responsible, more level headed, but that wasn't like John. He'd say, come on Marj, let's go swimming, or Marj get ready and we can go for a drive, but it was always the wrong moment, the wrong time. I was the level headed one. He was all for the spontaneous in life. One day he came home with a dog. Always doing silly things like that. I said a dog, what will we do with a dog, but he just put it down in the kitchen and said it would be great to have a dog. And who's going to clean up after it, I said. Me, that's who.

We had a row about it. I pointed out that a dog needed a walk, they bark and shed hair. He tries to be quite hurtful when we row. Calls me names. Says I'm controlling. Hard to please. He says things he knows will make me get emotional. A sort of sixth sense. This time he said he wanted unconditional love, something that wasn't judgemental and ended with, and a dog is man's best friend. He spat those last words and banged his fist down on the kitchen table. Well, you don't have to be a genius to read between the lines.

~~~

Things can get a bit heated when we argue. Mostly over silly things and I'm sure every couple argues. Mother used to argue and my father would just retire to the shed. He loved that shed. Barry, my mother would shout, you can't hide out there forever. I tried to hide in my room. Mother would stomp around the house for a bit then she'd go quiet and father would come inside and act like nothing had happened. We all did. If you don't talk about it, it doesn't exist. That policy kept the family going.

I think every married couple has their ups and downs. Though I've not heard the neighbours. They must fight quietly. I'm sure John loves me although he never actually says it these days. He used to say Marj, I love you. But now he mostly keeps himself to himself and that dog. I call it dog but he is all over it with lovey dovey talk. Smoodle he calls it. It makes me sick the way he goes on about that dog. I said as much and he said I was incapable of loving anything. I love you John I said, but he'd gone out the door with that dog by then and he didn't hear. I don't like to stew when we row. What's done is done and so I made him a nice dinner. But he didn't come back till late. The dog had it in the end. Good for something I suppose. It never liked me from the start. It would cower away from me and seemed a bit skittish. John would say, it will get to know you, just give it time. I found it an annoyance more than anything. Always hanging around.

I said it was not to sit on our bed, but John just ignored that request. We had to take it to the vet when it started to limp. The vet said for the princely sum of $400 that it had a sprain, probably from falling down stairs or something. It didn't bark much, but it must have annoyed the neighbours because we found it one day tied to our fence half dead in the hot sun. John took it to the vet but they said it was just too weak, heat exhaustion or something. Vet said we had to make a decision. They do it with a needle apparently, just a little prick and it's all over. John took it home in a blanket. That'll have to go out with the rubbish I said, meaning the blanket, but he took it to mean the dog and we had a spat in the car. I said I meant the blanket and he said he knew bloody well what I meant. He's always seeing things that aren't there. And usually at my expense.

I've never been good with animals. They just don't like me. I was given a little bird once but it died of fright mother said. It had a very sorry life in that little cage. It lost all its feathers. Stress the man at the pet shop said and asked did we have a cat. Because birds can be quite bothered about cats taunting them through the bars. Brings on stress and then they pull their feathers out. No we don't have a cat mother said and she looked at me as if it were my fault. Then one of my aunts gave me a kitten. That didn't last. We found it hanging in a tree and the boys around the corner got the daylights knocked out of them for that prank. John said a dog wasn't a good idea. It's for the best I said.

It's buried in the back garden.

~~~

Sometimes you just have to put your foot down. John came home and said he was getting a motorbike. Not likely I said. We only have a small garden shed and ... but I didn't get any further as he said he'd already made arrangements. I pointed out the impracticalities of a motorbike but he just sat there with a smug look on his face. Only room for one he said. Well you don't have to read between the lines. We had an almighty row that night. There was a bit of argie bargie. Nothing really, just a push and a shove. John went out slamming the door. I ran after him and caught the neighbours looking. It's none of their business but they stick their noses in. We're not a side show I yelled to the woman over the fence. I don't know her name. Never really got to know them. She turned on her heels and went inside then. And stay there I said quite sharpish as she shut her door. If John had known she was watching things might have been different, but he was gone in the car.

The motorbike had to stay on the driveway. I saw the neighbour talking to John about it. They were having quite a chat. John invited them over to our yard. That's a bit of a liberty I thought and so I called him in for tea. I don't like them I said to John. They're nosey. They reminded me of those girls at school who seem to have lots of friends. I didn't have many friends. Just one really. Joyce Pringle was my friend. But when we were in our last year she committed suicide. Her mother said I shouldn't go to the funeral, it would be too painful. So I stayed away. Mother said I didn't try hard enough with Joyce. You don't try Marjorie. You just don't try she said to me. Well she would say that wouldn't she, always sticking in her penny's worth. But I thought privately it was probably a blessing she did it. She was such a timid girl and very thin. A bit dumb really if I was being totally honest. I don't think she could have made it in the real world. Anyway John sat at the table and said the neighbours were quite interested in his bike.

Neighbourly he said. Friendly he added and he rolled his eyes. Well you don't have to be Einstein to get the drift.

I guess most married couples have their moments. We certainly do. We had a particularly bad patch on his birthday. John said he would be home early, but he was late. He came home on his motorbike and then went into the shower. I waited a bit and then confronted him about my plans. It was like I didn't matter. He said Marj just leave me will you. I wasn't quite sure how to take that so I asked him what he meant, but he just ignored me. We had a big blue. He came out with the same old things. But after a while it's just water off a duck's back and I try to be nice but I can give as good as I get when provoked. When you think about it when two people live together, well, there is bound to be some friction now and again. It stands to reason.

John was home from work for a week after that. He tried to be nice. Bruises take a bit to heal. Nothing serious. He was quite helpful about the place and then he said we just needed a bit of a holiday. Somewhere different he said. It sounded like a good idea to me. Somewhere where people don't know us and they don't stare every time you open your bloody front door.

Then someone put a pamphlet in our letter box. It was for marriage counselling. Bloody neighbours I thought. Sticking their oar in. I had a good mind to go over and say something. We don't have that many arguments. Everyone has a little disagreement now and again. I left it on the hall table for John to see. He said it sounded like a good idea but it was up to me. Well that's a start I thought. I'd left out his clothes and he said he wanted to wear his jeans, but I'd decided on his black socks and matching tie. He said he preferred to go casual. Not the best decision I said as we are trying to make an impression. He can be quite stubborn when he wants to be but he came around to my way in the end. Smart choice I thought.

Wendy said we should look at one another when we want to talk. Wendy is our counsellor. She said we have to learn to listen to one another and realise the other person has a right to say something too. John said it's a start going to the community centre every second Wednesday. It seems a bit personal to me. And I think Wendy doesn't know doodly squat about being married. I have a sneaking suspicion she is a lesbian. She is overweight and wears drapery and lots of fake jewellery. I said to her that she could do with losing a few kilos and she said we weren't here to discuss her but she was blushing so I knew I'd hit a nerve. Some people are so sensitive. One Wednesday I brought her a recipe book on salads. She thanked me and tried to tell me I didn't have to bring gifts. More in the way of one good turn deserves another I said. We all try to be helpful I said.

John didn't come one Wednesday after we had a fight. Wendy asked me what it was all about but I couldn't really say. Some silly thing I told her. Probably something he had done or hadn't done. It's usually like that I said. Marjorie, she said and she took my hand. Marjorie you have to try a little harder to be nice. I could hear my mother as plain as day. Wendy, I said and I withdrew my hand. Wendy it's not always my fault. I'm sure you have issues with your ... partner I said. She didn't have to have a place at Mensa to get my drift.

~~~

John thinks things are much better, I told Wendy. He thinks we don't need your services anymore. I'd left him home because both of us didn't need to go to explain. She seemed a bit surprised. Marjorie this is just when you need me, she said and jangled her bangles as she pushed back her hair. The honeymoon period isn't going to last and you need to learn life skills. And you have these 'life skills' I said. What would a fat lesbian know about life skills? A three day course off the internet isn't a qualification Wendy, I said, it's a liability if you ask me. I said she needed to get out in the real world, to see how the other half lives. It's not rocket science I said. She reached for the tissues, and I knew I'd hit the nail on the head.

~~~

Brendan said Wendy was on stress leave. He didn't elaborate and I didn't ask. John said he liked Brendan when we were home. He said he was a level headed fellow, someone he could relate too. Brendan rode a motorbike. I wasn't too sure about Brendan, he seemed a bit too chummy. I've found as soon as you get chummy you let your guard down and then it's a bit of a free for all. John said he felt comfortable and perhaps Brendan could really help. Well I looked John right in the eye as Wendy suggested and said bullshit. We had a row then and John forgot to duck. The glass vase hit him on the shoulder and shattered. There was blood everywhere so I took him to the emergency. I had blood on my hands and they mistakenly ushered me into the doctor. Eventually we got sorted and the doctor on duty said John had to stay in hospital for a bit. For observation they said. I said, well John you got your holiday didn't you. I went to give him a peck on the cheek and he turned away. Suit yourself I said.

~~~

He didn't notice at first but it soon dawned. Where is it he asked when he came inside from the car. I said the motorbike dealer assured me he could sell it no worries. Paid cash I said. I thought he was going to cry and I knew I'd hit a raw nerve.

The doctor said the stitches popped because of a knock when we finally got back into emergency that night. The nurses were efficient and soon patched him up and while we were waiting for the paperwork who should pop in but Brendan. Apparently he's doing his psychiatry degree and has to spend time in the hospital he said. Well, I said, a psychiatry degree. That is something. He looked at me and pointed to John's shoulder. No Marjorie, this is something.

I knew that tone. My mother used to use that tone. No Marjorie, she would say, this will not be tolerated and out would come the wooden spoon, the doorknob, the electrical flex.

Brendan said he needed to make an evaluation because this wasn't the first time John had come in with injuries inconsistent with the explanation. John just sat there on the bed. He didn't say anything. I threw the word chummy at John and he flinched. Brendan took a step placing himself between John and me.

Marjorie I think we need to get some clear guidelines here he said. If he had put his hands on his hips he couldn't have been more like my mother. She'd always be saying things like that. Marjorie Anne Dutton she would say, you are stepping outside the line. And then she would berate me and father would look the other way. I wished I had a shed. I used to spend a lot of time on the toilet. It was the only room in the house with a lock. I even planned an accident for my mother. Something fatal. But it never happened. I looked at Brendan but all I could see was my mother, standing there with a disapproving look.

Brendan I said, I think you are the one that needs to realise some things are private between a husband and a wife.

Like this, he said and he pointed to John's shoulder. And this, he added pointing out John's black eye. Psychiatry degree or no psychiatry degree I wasn't about to be bullied like that and so I hit him.

~~~

Constable Trent brought me a cup of tea. She's only a young woman and very well presented. She said I would be charged with assault and that unless I had someone who could vouch for me I'd have to stay in the station until the morning round for the court. I asked Constable Trent who that might be and she said a friend, a family member, a professional.

Later in the evening Constable Trent said they bring around blankets and well you just have to make the best of it. There wasn't much to make the best of. A thin bed hung on the wall, a washbasin and toilet and that was about it. Apparently I wasn't a self harm risk and so they let me keep my belt, but they took my watch, earrings and just about everything else. She said domestic violence was taken very seriously these days. I could see what she was thinking.

There are two sides to every story Constable Trent, I said and sat down on my bed. The policeman who did the night shift was much nicer. He gave me another blanket and asked if I was comfortable. It didn't quieten down till the wee hours in there. Drunks came in, yelling and carrying on. Then they put a woman in with me saying they didn't have enough cells. She was very drunk. She called me Sweety the whole time.

Sweety do ya have a ciggie? Sweety can you give me that blanket? I tried to be nice but she just burped and rolled over and went to sleep.

John will sort it all out I said in the morning to the sergeant who took my details for the umpteenth time. I gave them our home number and his mobile but when they rang there was no answer. Probably on the way over already I said to the policeman. Right on the ball my John.

~~~

The front door was open when I got home. I went upstairs and there on the floor were the remnants of his black socks and matching tie. Cut to pieces. All his clothes gone.

Well you don't have to have a degree to work it out.

Ed: Ordinarily we would be looking for 'proper' punctuation in the form of quotation marks around speech, but this piece has been styled not to take them. As such, we've published it as is – enjoy the difference!
Sunday 29 July 2012

To Tea Or Not To Tea 'Answered'

## Alexander Gardiner aka The Auld Yin

### Bullaburra, NSW

The ultimate taste in tea,

as it should always be.

There is tea and there is the perfect cup,

make perfect tea? Yes, for all to sup.

Right! Now we can start,

making perfect tea to warm your heart.

Warm your cup and your kettle boil,

no tea-bag yet or you will despoil.

Sugar in your cup to begin,

aye! Sugar or whatever is your sin.

Next boiling water you may add,

still no tea yet, not one wee tad.

Stir your sugar until dissolved,

your perfect cup is nearly solved.

Now! Only now place your tea-bag,

let it sit there, let it lag.

Leave thirty seconds then jiggle your string,

Straight up and down, no wiggling.

It's up to you how many dumps you do,

the more dumps and the flavour will accrue.

Warm cup, boiling water equals 82 degrees,

The flavour will always be, just the bee's knees.

Never pour boiling water on any tea-bag,

'cos the flavor will be just blidy, blidy sad.

Now taste your tea minus the 'tannin' shock,

You'll notice the difference, like cheese from chalk.

Many thousand cups of tea I have drank,

Use this recipe and you'll have me to thank.
Monday 30 July 2012

Isobel

## Robyn Chaffey

### Hazelbrook, NSW

A lovely, jolly lady was my Spanish friend, Isobel. Her heart was warm and her friendship loving. She spoke several languages fluently but her use of the English language often made us smile ... like the day she told me she had been to see the 'Grand Pricks' at the weekend. I explained that I thought she might mean the Grand Prix.

'Oh! Is that how you say it?' she laughed.

I couldn't resist the urge to comment that it was okay, because I had known a few who behaved like 'grand pricks' in my time. The comment was not lost on Isobel.

We all loved her for the fact that we could play with her in this way. She would laugh out loud in her infectious way. It made us all feel comfortable and lightened the mood for everyone around her.

One example of this has continued to bring a broad smile to my face often for sixteen years now.

We were mature aged students together. Often she and I would get together with another lady of our own age to work on group projects. On one such occasion we were making preparations to run a workshop to be presented to the general public. There was a lot of research to do and much work in preparing for the soon coming presentation day.

We arranged to meet at Isobel's home. Each would bring something to be shared for a picnic lunch. We'd work hard at it for a few hours in the morning, then go to a park for lunch and a breath of fresh air. After lunch we would return to her home and work through 'til late afternoon.

The morning's work progressed really well. Sitting around comfortably on the Persian rug in her living room, our papers and books looking like a productive nest around us. We were more than pleased with our efforts but truly glad when lunchtime came around.

Isobel suggested Jellybean Pool as a good place for a break and she offered to take us in her car. As she drove we chatted and laughed, studiously avoiding any mention of our work.

At last she pulled into the car park. As we climbed out of the car and looked around us at the pool and the wonderful trees and greenery, I stretched my back and commented, 'Ah! Now we can sit down in peace.'

Isobel's tone was one of utter shock as she exclaimed. 'What!? Did you say we can sit down and piss?'

Stifling the urge to laugh, I said quietly, 'No! I said, now we can sit down in peeeece.'

'Oh!' said she. 'Do you know? That's why I always say bed linen! I never use that other word!'
Tuesday 31 July and Wednesday 1 August 2012

The Funnels

## Stephen Studach

### Katoomba, NSW

It was day. The group of eight men moved as men who have work to do often move; leisurely but assuredly. They had left the tarred road of the estate cul-de-sac, made their way between two homes with insect proofed 'soak' timber style fences, crossed a track of defoliated 'spray-cleared' ground, and were now walking through the short bushes, scrub and trees beyond the cleared and Protec-sprayed area; behind the fresh brick and anti-rust, portable compac-homes of the new estate.

Not all the men in the group were old hands at the job. They all wore the company's grey coveralls and some had repel masks about their necks, but a few of them were fairly new. The newest; this was his first 'job'; was a young man of neat appearance and early twenties age. As he walked up front of the newly set formation line, near the big, balding leader, he felt excitement at the approach of his first day of practical work, and a little fear, the two being close kin. The latter was also an occupational inheritance, or curse, of the profession the young man named Martyn now found himself in.

No more theory lessons. This was it.

It was mid-afternoon, and there were funnels waiting.

The thickening formed leader, some fifty-odd years old and with ten years experience in his present trade, continued the conversation he'd been having with Martyn – 'the new boy'.

'Some blokes can't hack it. They just sorta go into a shock when they see one of 'em or they get all weak and sick an' lose heart, you know.' The leader sucked on a cigarette stub some more, held teensy between the yellow nails of his stained fingers. A burning low cigarette seemed to be a constant prerequisite of his person.

Yeah, Martyn knew. He also knew that they liked to weed out those blokes, preferably before they got out in the field. He didn't intend to let these men down.

'Can't say I blame 'em,' the boss continued between drags. 'Some people are scared o' dogs or train travel.' With squinted eyes he looked into the thicker bush ahead of them. 'With these bastards, for all the trainin' ya get, ya never know how you're gunna react, before ya see one fer real.'

The men walked on.

They all wore protective clothing to varying degrees; leather padding and light body armour, though most sacrificed full gear for the ability to move quickly and fluidly. Any protective layers were more for peace of mind than safety. Martyn remembered what the leader had told him not too long back. 'Nah, blokes have gone torchin' in shorts an' thongs. Some just don't bother, see. Those fangs'll go through any light protection like nails hammered in, burnin' nails from a nail gun. That's if the bloody mongrels don't take you apart first.'

An offsider had said, not entirely jokingly, 'What you really need is a suit of armour like the old knights use'ta wear.'

A truck stood waiting back at the cul-de-sac. It would be called on by radio if they had any luck in their search. It couldn't roll in yet because the noise and the vibration of the wheels gave warning to the prey.

The men continued on. The low mutters and light talk had ended for the most part back at the road. Martyn felt the dry, summer-sucked ground, hard and stony but fairly flat beneath his boots. He, along with some of the other newer men, looked about the flat bush area, eyed scrub and trees. Imagining. The older, more experienced men less obviously looked. They didn't bother to imagine. They knew better.

Martyn felt a type of pride, moving confidently along with the well-armed contingent. He wasn't carrying any squishy-packs of burn-oil or 'match packs' upon his back and he had no gun slung over his shoulder, but he felt secure in that rank of men who did have such necessary burdens, along with the weapons of seasoned experience. If it were not for such men, the place would be overrun. Already people did not dare to go out at night, but if not for the controllers they wouldn't be able to risk emerging in the daytime either. As the new developments, of necessity, encroached more and more into the bushland the risks became greater. Most new home 'pioneers' had protective screens up on their houses. Some utilised electronic shield and barrier systems as well, though the jury was still out on the full effectiveness of those measures. Bushwalking had become a thing of the past because no-one in their right mind would venture forth into such areas, where the funnels lay. Also, junkyards and tips that bordered bushland were strictly controlled by regimented military, law enforcement and council bodies.

The funnels owned the bush and the night.

Martyn had been unemployed for four years since leaving university/adversity and finally took a job as an 'exterminator', as there were plenty of vacancies in that trade, and the pay was fairly good, it being one of the few jobs that was not totally machine or computer orientated, and the one job that truly should have been. He had completed his three months training routine – theory and practical, but nothing with live funnels, for funnels could not be domesticated nor captured – and now that he had been briefed and familiarised, he was ready. Ready to cleanse the earth. Ready to kill.

The group moved further into the bush, where the funnels waited.

First indication. The pulsing summer symphony in the hot bush of multitudes of insects had ceased. A textbook case, Martyn thought, as he stopped with the others and listened to the non-sounds; seeing, hearing; theoretical training become practical reality. The leader checked a painted white arrow on a tree and then gestured the others to follow him onwards. The lack of natural insect and bird sounds meant that the funnels were near.

Five minutes later and they passed a warning red arrowed tree and the men with shotguns brought them from their shoulders to hip level. The men split from one line into two rough formations now.

Martyn had earlier voiced his comments on using flamethrowers and the leader had stated, amongst other reasons, that flamethrowers caused too many uncontrolled fires. 'Nuh, they don't use flamethrowers 'cause someone – in the panic, you know, if the things are above ground – some people would panic and everyone'd get burned. We got one fire spitter for emergencies but ole Roy's got that and he knows what to do. Only one bloke per team has the spitter.' Martyn looked across at Roy, the short man with the compact flame spitter on his back, the metal nozzle held ready in his hands, all the time.

They were crossing another semi-cleared piece of ground when Martyn looked to one side and saw his first. 'There's some!' he said, pointing, and realised his mistake as all the men quickly turned to one side, weapons raised. One never suddenly declared their presence like that. If nothing else, it jarred the nerves. But the leader didn't say anything. He was a good bloke.

There were three rules on exterminating parties. No drinking or drugging. No talking in occupied areas (there was a type of superstition amongst exterminators that the quarry could quite easily hear men speaking from a ways off, which had not been substantiated or dismissed so far). And never split off on your own from a group.A few yards away to the right of the group, Martyn and the rest all saw the holes in the ground. Rounded funnels ranging from paint tin lid to dinner plate size and a couple a little bigger.  
'Is that them?' Martyn asked, looking at the holes and not the leader he questioned.

'No, they's just the little 'uns, the real ones are that size again. A lot twice that size. Some'r s'big as manhole plates.'

They began to move on.

'Biggest I've ever seen,' the leader reminisced between puffs on a newly diminishing non-filter, 'you coulda dropped a mini car down it.'

Martyn had heard some wild stories about exterminators. 'Is it really true that they have bets about putting their arms down the holes?' Martyn asked as they walked on. A few of the men laughed at this and the mostly bare-pated leader, whose name was Fred, grinned.

'Well, I don't know, mate,' he indicated one of the small holes. 'You tell me – would you?'

One younger man behind Martyn spoke up. 'One guy with an artificial arm used to.'

'Old bald Nobby,' said the leader with a wry smile. 'Yeah, he used to laugh about it all the while as he did it.'

'Yeah,' said the other. 'Till one bugger took his plastic arm off at the shoulder and pulled it down its hole. Nearly took old Nob with it.'

The men laughed. Some of the laughter was nervous.

Because of the seemingly non-stop rise of infestations throughout the land, groups of men such as Martyn and his comrades were sent off to burn out the funnels' holes. It occurred to Martyn just then what a handy party topic his job could be. 'And what do you do for a living?' 'Oh, nothing much, I just go round with a bunch of guys and burn out giant funnel web spider holes.'

Martin knew what had caused the curse of the funnels of course; everybody knew, though the blame was always being shifted. Till, over the years people just accepted it and the true origins were forgotten or discarded or uncared for, left covered in the layered dust of old theorems and past news. The accused: the spray companies, the scientists, the politicians, the householders – Mr and Mrs Citizen, the repellent laboratories and firms, had eventually stopped being accused and stopped accusing one another and got on with doing something about it. Then there was the global warming theory. Way back in the early 2000s the first signs were there (some even making the connection with climate change) when the antivenene began to fail, becoming ineffectual against funnel web venom. It was like the war – who really started it? Who cares, just get on with fighting it. The cause of the air pollution, traffic accidents, street crime, inflation? Who to blame? Just keep breathing it, cleanin' 'em up and paying it out. But Martyn knew about the funnels. 'Atrax Robustus.'

The insecticides and pesticides and antivenenes got more and more advanced and stronger over the years and with each new one hundred percent spray and overkill system, the next year the bugs were back stronger and bigger than ever and eating last year's repellent for brunch. The old 'Super Rat' theory of the 70s and 80s applied. The pests got bigger and more robust and grew hardy and resilient to the poisons, actually appearing to thrive on them. Super breeds were formed. While the one good natural weapon humans had, the birds and lizards and other insectile, natural enemies of 'the baddies', fell by the wayside from the same random shotgun spread, scattering effects of the noxious poisons. You'd knock out a field of grasshoppers and bad bugs one season (who would be back the next) and totally eradicate a species of bug-eating bird into the bargain for good. And once more you'd have to come up with another spray to stop the next generation of bugs who would be there laughing at you as they merrily munched on the next year's crops. Vicious circle. Vicious, hungry circle.

Who needs the birds and the lizards and the good bugs. Man has his intelligence, his vast scientific intellect. Man has his poisons.

Man has the funnels.

Another interesting sidelight to this cumulative genetic nightmare was something the leader had made him aware of.

'Things were gettin' outta the CSIRO that shouldna bin. An' knockin' over fences as they did. After a few knocked over fences they made sure nothin' could escape. But it was long gone too late by then. The horse, or whatever, had bolted.'

For the burnings the men used torches and drums of synth oil or agri-gas produced from natural elements for the last few decades since dwindling supply had dried the world's wells. The torches were like big inflammable matches about three feet long that you knocked on the ground or any hard surface to ignite. The leader had clearly defined the extermination process: 'You locate the buggers, pour the oil down the holes then burn 'em out.' The men had shotguns too.

'Have they ever taken a man?' Martyn asked of Fred as they moved along.

'I don't know,' said the leader, between unfiltered puffs. 'Cats, dogs, oh, you hear stories. But mostly lower order animals. Still, a little girl has disappeared from nearby here.'

Martyn had a sudden mental picture of a white-limbed, blue-clothed rag doll being pulled down a hole by a black horror.

'I've seen ones that could drag a calf off,' the leader continued, mopping sweat from his bare brow with a handkerchief. 'Tribes have a lot of trouble with 'em up North. They have huntin' parties to go out an' kill 'em. Blue Mountains are bastards. Biggest and nastiest aggressive bastards I've ever seen. And damned bloody hard to kill.'

Another long drag on the cigarette. 'They can run as fast as a horse. They're powerful creatures. Bloody hard to kill. Fire's the best, short of puttin' yer boot on 'em. Ha ha.'

The man behind Martyn pointed ahead. 'There.'

'Ow! There we are ... ' said the leader matter-of-factly and the whole troop stopped. Martyn saw the first hole, about the size of a forty gallon drum top. It was the most forbidding thing he had ever seen. Not far off, scattered around the bush, there were a half dozen or more of varied sizes, each holding its darkness, some covered with white tacky webbing, others free of the sticky silk from recent entry or exit. Thin networks of web ran along the ground in every direction; snares, trip line alarms for the funnel denizens. Standing clear, Martyn tried to look cautiously down one hole – 'Is anybody home?' he thought. Deep in another he caught the dull, multiple shine of dark eyes peering up and a restless movement. He backed off without comment, carrying a chill that he tried to control.

As the group prepared, Fred volunteered a bit more information. 'The bigger they got the more subsurface they went. They became burrowing spiders, in particular the females. It's mostly males you'll be killin', but the females will have a go too. Usually the ladies stay in the burrows, to protect the young. We also think that they've ceased to be the solitary creatures they once were. You see how close the holes can be clustered. There may be a kind of pack behaviour goin' on.'

The truck was called in. A flat-bed, covered cab, eight tonner loaded with forty-four gallon drums of flammable liquid.

The burning began.

Whilst a pair of the armed men watched the holes, drums were rolled and dropped off the truck, caps unscrewed and the drums positioned over larger funnel mouths to chug their black, oily contents in.

With smaller four gallon drums, men poured sumpish oil and naturally derived petroleum mixtures down the spider holes. Other men, drawing the waterproof, three foot long match-torches (known as E.B.R's, Extra Big Redheads) from their backpack quivers, would thump or scrape the red phosphorus, sulphur nitrous-coated heads against ground, rock or tree then drop or spear the flaring torches down the holes, which would instantly ignite and billow flame and smoke. If the dread denizens were not smothered by the oil then they were burnt by the flames, or, more rarely, asphyxiated by the toxic smoke. Martyn watched, and participated, head full of assumptions of destruction. Other men stood by with pump-action shotguns at the ready. Each tubular magazine packed with sixteen shells of hard load scatter-shot.

Martyn helped another man pour a drum of oil down another truck wheel-sized funnel, and looking down he saw the gleam of eyes staring malevolently upwards from the darkness of the lair. But as the oil flowed, the gleamings retreated further into the funnel's depths. A third man stepped forward with a flaring torch and hastily plunged the ignited wrist-thick stick down the hole. One special drum was placed over an accordingly sized hole and the wheel upon its bottom turned, sliding the down-tilted top open and releasing half of the drum's inky contents into the hole, then the metal hand-wheel was spun again, resealing the drum, the keg removed and the hole duly fired.

Not one spider did Martyn actually see except for an incident when he heard some commotion off to one side and saw that a spider, with a body about four feet long, not including the legs, had sluggishly emerged from its oil-drowned burrow. It came out dying, covered in viscous black oil that glossily gave back a reflection of their torches, and just crouched there, hunching and pulsing up and down and moving its 'boxing glove' palps up front near where the wicked, hinged hypodermic mandible fangs lay. The exterminators were more than happy to complete the job. It was shot to bits and burnt by the men. He was interested to see the bluish 'blood' that it had within it, along with the other thick and poisonous looking yellow and green fluids.

Another creature had tried to emerge from its lair, tentatively putting forth its hairy, long boxer's palps, ready for a quick spar, but it received a charge from one of the single barrel shotguns and was blasted back down into its den to die.

They left the smoking field of decimated holes as it was just starting to get dark. Twelve funnels in all, and Martyn felt a great satisfaction and a sense of accomplishment in having participated.

The truck went on ahead, back to civilisation. Normally they would ride back in the truck cab, but, because of the missing girl, they'd been told to go back on foot, just in case they found a wandering child or any sign of her. However unlikely that was. (Nobody wanted to find a sign of the girl if the spiders had gotten her.) So the truck had pulled out with a wave from the driver, and the men set off on foot.

Martyn walked along with the boss. He got on well with the leader and Fred offered him a smoke, but being a non-smoker Martyn had to refuse. To compensate, he asked the big man a few conversational questions. This led inevitably back to the funnel webs.

'Don't get it wrong, they're still scared of men. Unless they get you in a favourable predicament,' stated the leader seriously, butt smouldering between his fingers. 'I'm all for using bulldozers on the bastards but they reckon it's ineffectual.'

'Think that'll ever change?' asked Martyn.

'What?'

'The fear.'

Fred thought for a scant few seconds. 'Well, put it this way, another year or two and I don't think we'll have to go lookin' for them.'

'They'll come looking for us.'

Fred simply nodded.

The sun had disappeared in silver and gold lambent glitterings, fragmented by the thickening trees it hid behind. The late afternoon shadows elongated and spread, widening, creeping out from the tree bases and the skirts of the bushes, into quietly thriving things of the night.

The leader knew of one other small field which they were scheduled to wipe out. They could do it tomorrow or clean it up now. He asked the men. Fired with the former well-done job, most were enthusiastic and in triumphal spirits. It was agreed that they proceed to the nearby funnels and eradicate them.

There was a discussion about whether or not they should have the converted fire truck brought in, with its tanker and hoses to pump oil directly down the next lot of funnels, as they only carried a few half empty drums and backpack squishies. But it was decided to move forward and have a look at the site first, so the affectionately named 'spidermobile' or 'spider truck' was not called upon.

There was some trouble with the location however; the maps didn't agree with the marked trees. As the group of exterminators moved deeper into the bush, total darkness fell and they were forced to break out and use electric battery powered lamps along the line, one to every second man. Martyn held one lamp.

Most of the men had flashlights, but they could be cumbersome when handling firearms. A few of the shotgunners had electric torches bracketed or roughly taped to the barrels of their weapons.

It was very quiet in the nighted bush and the lamp lights never seemed to extend their illumination far enough. Some of the men became quietly uneasy. Fred the leader halted the group on a flat, gravelly area and it was decided they would turn back.

Then the full import of the silence struck everyone. Lamps were held aloft, the light spread a little bit further ...

Not a word was spoken as they saw the predicament. But a lot of blood drained from a lot of faces and a few Adam's apples became jammed in throats like out-of-order lifts in elevator shafts.

Martyn looked around, feeling the chill dripping from his scalp.

Holes.

Black gaping allsorts! Funnels. All around them. Dozens and dozens of them. Some a scant few yards away, the unsteady lantern lights causing the darkness within the openings to shift, as if in preparatory eagerness. Blackness mouths.

They had walked into a minefield of them. And They knew, at least everyone suspected, They could hear them from under the ground. Settled there in the dark, hearing their every step from above.

The spiders. The spiders would know the men were there.

Martyn was scared. Sooner or later one would come out. And then ...

Spiders were nocturnal hunters. They emerged at night for food.

Suddenly. 'Oh, shit,' somebody near-whined.

'Christ!' Somebody else.

'Now don't panic,' Fred tried to relay calmly. 'And above all, keep quiet.'

'Still, and quiet,' Martyn whispered, to himself.

'Look at 'em all!' someone else said.

'Shut up!' hissed the leader.

Then somebody yelled. All heads turned – something, something black, blacker than the surrounding darkness and with a hard malefic gleam to it, crawled quickly from one of the larger holes. It stopped only for a moment, staring at the invaders, and then it hurried towards the men. Shots were fired. Some screamed, others yelled. And the other spiders began to emerge.

The group began to break up under the spiders' attack. The rapid, abrupt attack.

Martyn, hands empty save for the lamp, looked all around him at the confusion. The leader was yelling instructions but everyone was in a panic and doing their own thing; lighting match-torches, firing shotguns – one man's hair caught fire, another took a shotgun blast in the hip – most were yelling or screaming.

Terrors of shadow flew along the ground from the flashing, swinging lanterns and flaring E.B.R.'s, and terrors of substance scurried and lunged there also, darting from their funnel lairs.

A nightmare shot along the ground, rapidly scuttled almost silently by less than three yards from Martyn. The man it was running at screamed. There wasn't much else you could do. He died screaming.

One yelling man went down leg first, up to his hip, into a small hole. He was struggling and screaming; it didn't seem to want to let him go.

A pale-faced Martyn walked mindlessly along through the milling men. He saw a horror as it crawled swiftly up one man, toppling the screaming victim with its noisome black weight.

Another solidly plump, shiny black arachnid reared up before a man who pumped a shell into his breech preparatory to blasting the awesome horror, which had its frontal legs up and its dripping black curved fangs drawn for the stab.

And ole Roy wasn't a damn bit of good. Because through the boomings of the twelve-gauge guns and the drifting smoke and the flaring heads of the ignited matches randomly thumped upon or swept across the ground, Martyn could see Roy's still body; his legs and back with the square fire spitter pack upon it, being dragged away, further into the darkness. Destination unknown and, although it was not beyond the reach of imagination, unthinkable.

Martyn ran. He pelted. Dropping the electric lamp. He jumped, leaped things that were there and not there. All he wanted to do was get away. Alright, so he was scared. Scared shitless. God only knew how scared he was. He had to get away, get clear of those alien, horrible things! He ran through the brush on his terrifying flight, arms flailing, mouth open. The shots and sounds of confusion died out a little behind him. God help the poor bastards!

Then in his headlong rush he hit something – a stump?! Christ knows what! He tripped! Stumbled, flipped right over – and fell downwards –

He fell straight down a hole. Tearing through fibrous web. And became stuck part of the way down.

He was dazed for a moment, in his crunched up, bent sitting posture. His knees barely six inches away from his face, his arse the lowest point of him, jammed in the cylindrical tunnel tube. Martyn looked to either side of him, then upwards. His sluggish thoughts quickened with squirts of adrenaline in frozen crimson ice.

He had fallen down a hole – a funnel – oh God. 'Christ. Oh Shit! Jesus Shit!'

And at any moment the spider – the spider would return!

'Unless they get you in a favourable predicament.'

He wasn't even given the waiting time to fear.

A heavy rustling sound nearby, above. From a flickering fire's light up there he saw a shadow. The spider returning, ready to crawl down – towards him! The shadow grew larger, blocked the funnel.

The leader yelled out. 'Martyn! Martyn, are you down there?! Is that you, boy?'

Martyn pissed himself. Until then he'd been too scared, his system frozen with terror. He heard the leader from above. 'Give me some light.' A rope was lowered down as the funnel was partially lit by electric and flame light, hurting his eyes, an exquisite hurt that he revelled in. 'Tie it round your waist, boy.' He was hauled up, clinging with both hands to the fibre-plastilon rope; digging and kicking his boot toes and heels into the funnel's dry earthen sides. Then he was back with the others, web clinging to him like spectral shreds, the brief nightmare of millennial duration over.

The crew had recovered quickly enough to follow the leader's shouted instructions and had made a fuel fire defence circle about them. That rushed strategy had saved them.

Not being able or daring to risk moving off immediately, a ring of match-torches was set up around the remaining five men. Oil was poured and then a torch thrown down the large hole that Martyn had been rescued from. Still in a state of shock, kneeling on the ground, Martyn looked down into the flare-lit hole. He saw, as in a nightmared demon fantasy, the funnel bore lit up in flickering light for an instant, saw the off-shooting tunnel and the monstrous claw-cluster of fangs, palps and forelegs, the multi-eyed bulk of the creature that lay lower down, vague in the funnel, below the scuff marks of where he had been wedged and trapped.

Before the thing retreated along its den tunnel, another torch was dropped and the funnel filled with fire and belched slow, misty smoke. The leader posted two men with shotguns around the hole in case the thing tried to crawl out, with instructions that, if it did, to 'Blast it back down.'

In radio conference with their control unit back at the estate, it was decided that it would be too risky a business to send the fire truck in. Apparently on its return from another nearby field assignment, the eight tonner had been lost with all crew. The story was that the ground had simply given way beneath it in a collapse and the truck had dropped down more than fifty feet into a funnel web den network. No-one was going to risk a converted fire truck on five fools who'd stuffed up a tour.

Through the night of rustlings, scurryings and black shadows set against blackness they replaced the upright torches and waited for the light.

At dawn the five surviving men moved off cautiously, starting to relax only as they approached the estate area. Martyn felt a little better after some talk and some restricted stimulant from the leader's hip flask.

Flanked about with armed men, the leader and 'the new boy' walked back towards the road. Everybody had been discreet about Martyn's damp pants and the odor. Constant, perpetually burning cigarette between his lips, Fred the leader rambled on to the younger man, who was starting to get some colour back into his skin.

'You should see the trapdoors. Not to mention the redbacks, the cockroaches and the rats. Why once ... guy ... .arse and guts eaten out ... termite ... praying mantis ... '

The voices faded as the men left the wilderness and approached the first road into the estate ... and civilisation.

In all they had gone one mile into the bush.
Thursday 2 August 2012

The Prisoner Of Pilatus

## James Craib

### Wentworth Falls, NSW

We had journeyed from Firenze; we were in frenzy too.

For I had almost lost the battle, succumbing to the 'flu.

Our European adventure reached a climax in Lucerne.

There were still some awkward lessons that I was yet to learn.

A cold wind blew across the lake, our launch, buffeted, and tossed.

But we were not in danger for Pilatus gazed across.

The mighty mount – Pilatus, regardless, of the season

Stood ominously; its snow-capped peak defiant of all reason.

The meal arranged that evening, though billed 'die wunderbare',

Was disappointing tourist fare; a band played oom pah pah.

The fondue was predictable, insipid was the wine.

Performers clad in lederhosen contrived to undermine

What was left of my propriety, whilst blowing alpenhorn.

My blood awash with CO2, my brain began to scorn,

'I find no bliss in all things Swiss, it's hell here in Helvetia!'

We repaired to our hotel room but sleep was lost in apnoea.

So in a state of somnolence, next morning in a valley,

I gazed at mountains all askance expecting soon to rally.

The horses dragged our carriage back to where our charming hosts

Served cakes, and coffee laced with schnapps, and cheese fresh from their goats.

Pilatus lured but I demurred, I grasped the last of sanity.

Its altitude discouraged me, I sheltered my anatomy.

Alone my partner took the ride by gondola to the summit.

Whilst in the hotel room I tried to curb impending plummet ...

Into darkness, my laboured breath was probably lung failure.

Would I ever see my family, friends, once more in far Australia?

My friend's time on Pilatus was exhilarating, frightening.

In delirium I strayed on Pilatus too, repentant and ... expiring.

There is a legend: Pontius Pilate was buried on the slopes,

Of that icy mountain above Lucerne, at peace, one can but hope.

And speculate if Pontius, had been conscious, of the furore

His abandonment of Jesus Christ had caused eons before.

To mollify rising discontent among Jerusalem's clergy

Was Pilate's aim; his lasting shame was to leave behind an effigy:

A man nailed cruelly to a cross. He caved in to the masses.

He'd said, 'I find in him no fault at all;' and washed his hands, alas ...

That brings me to my predicament that played out in Lucerne,

Pilate the pirate took my breath away, suddenly it was my turn.

Der Doktor in the city clinic looked grave and said, 'You must,

Be taken to ze 'ospidal, first pay my bill!' They rushed ...

An ambulance to collect me, and deflect to Kantonsspital.

Now I'll admit to guilt of hubris, yes, pride goes before a fall!

With oxygen forced into my lungs; secured fast to a gurney,

Firmly tied, but not crucified, for that ominous last journey,

I thought about my life thus far and the ones I love the most.

Sixtieth birthday passed in Belfast, before long to pass the ghost?

Terrified, I heard and felt a pulse within my head,

I wailed aloud, 'Where are you Wendy?' 'I am here my dear,' she said.

My arm was punctured like an addict's with catheters inserted.

Intensive care swung into action; surgery narrowly averted

Because, an embolism suspected, then rejected as cause of panic,

Was proved at last not to exist; I would not sink like the 'Titanic'.

Too much carbon, the harbinger of doom – the surgeon declared:

'Ve must re-train your brain, mein Herr, your breathing is impaired.'

Thus, much the same as a car's engine, by an engineer, is tweaked.

An air machine controlled my sleep, at night, when danger peaks.

My grey matter was induced to batter my lungs around the clock.

From the fourteenth floor of the hospital ward, I gazed upon the rock

That bears the name – Pilatus, whilst the status of my respiratory

Condition, was closely monitored by an unusual intermediary.

A Celtic cross, a crucifix was fastened to the wall.

Spiritual thoughts assailed me, an avowed agnostic after all!

The vision that I experienced that first night of intensive care,

Saw me sailing through the cosmos, golden stars were everywhere.

Chemically induced no doubt, upon awakening I shouted: 'Where,

Have we been ... to see the Queen?' 'Of course!' A nurse declared.

They were amused; I was confused, to have woken from the dead.

The golden stars were simply shards of light above the bed.

'The Lord moves in mysterious ways;' a time honoured cliché.

But Nietzsche said that 'God is dead,' moral values are decayed.

Others had faith and prayed for Christ to look on me with favour.

Indeed it's true, I do, share initials with the one that some call saviour.

The days passed by while nurses tried to converse as best they could.

Some spoke awfully good English that I barely understood.

Said an elderly lady patient, 'I speak no English,' leaning on a crutch,

Paused to converse with me, I replied, 'nicht sprechen sie Deutsch!'

We both laughed; I pondered on this strange verbal anomaly.

Neither spoke the other's language yet we communicated intelligibly.

I wandered through the pleasant gardens of the Kantonsspital.

Whilst my poor wife, in trouble and strife, with bureaucracy did battle.

Though physically and spiritually my life returned to normal,

There were pressing matters secular; a barrier to our formal

Departure, now enraptured with life in lucid, calm Lucerne.

We struggled with Australian banks for funds for our return.

Swans on the lake, in hundreds make, a Tchaikovsky dreamlike ballet.

'Cross Pontius' pond we gazed beyond the mountains and the valleys,

To negotiate reluctant escape we resorted to verbal excreta

Yet, the very air seemed clean, pristine, serene ... heaven in Helvetia.

When at last, most troubles past, we journeyed to Zurich by train.

To catch a flight to London and board another Oz-bound plane.

The path through Zurich airport was a game of snakes and ladders,

Bewildering directions and petty objections to things that scarcely matter!

The flight was uneventful, yet further heartburn at Heathrow;

More red tape to circumnavigate, until at last – we were free to go.

The tears flowed freely from us, flight attendants were concerned;

Oblivious to their safety lecture should the plane have crashed and burned.

We made it home, no plans to roam though we have no crystal ball.

We contemplate our souvenirs, odd fears and tears recall

My strange near-death experience and I'll tell you this for gratis:

I'd rather be a sinner free than a prisoner of Pilatus.
Friday 3 August 2012

A Moment In 1974

## Graham Sparks

### Bathurst, NSW

Standing on the lip of southern coastal mountains facing east,

the sky a deep translucent blue,

lit by wind strewn wrack aflame from morning sun as yet unborn.

Looking down through cloudbank into almost nothing,

hazed magnetic indigo, and the ocean, twenty miles away,

the little hanging river valley at my back

and scent of coast upon the breeze.

Beneath my feet, Murrengenburg, whose earth my heart is made of.

All the moments leading up to this were dress rehearsals,

would the world yet touch me so before my time.

Graham says: When I was 17, I was working at Monga Sawmill, near Braidwood, which is no longer there. On a Saturday morning, my friend and I walked the 10kms up the Mongarlow River Valley, crossed the river over the remains of an old log bridge, and walked up the turtle fire trail to the very edge of the coastal mountains.
Saturday 4 August 2012

Pollies Pay Rise

## Eulyce Arkleysmith

### Bathurst, NSW

A pensioner was interviewed on the TV last night.

This is the summary with some licence:

'Look how much I've saved,' he said,

'That's why I am not in the red.

To bet in lotto would cost dough

The numbers I'd have never show.

Another way to save some dosh

Is limit all those times you wash

In winter just two baths a week

In summer; four or you will reek

Keeping warm on colder days

Is solved in inconvenient ways

Sit all wrapped in blankets thick

Always hope you'll not get sick

To bed at sunset saves on power

(In winter – an ungodly hour).

It's ages 'fore you get to sleep

No benefit from counting sheep

Grow veges is the way to eat

But one gets tired of silver beet

When other crops are late or slow

And some just seem to fail to grow.

One sheet of paper for each wipe,

Right choice of toilet paper type,

This can save on grocery bills.

Another way is take no pills.'

And if you find you're short of cash

Despite these methods very rash,

Remember parliamentarians 'care'

About your plight that's quite unfair.

Per fortnight extra dollars – SEVEN

In March the 'generous' rise was given.

There's little money in the coffer

that's all that to you we can offer

Yet only just some months away

Bills passed for raising all their pay

Many thousands were awarded

For politicians, it's afforded.
Sunday 5 August 2012

Nevada Desert

## Andrea Payne

### Salisbury North, SA

Blue sky, hard, bright, enamelled ...

Golden ball of fire scorches the earth

and the multi-toned sepia landscape,

flat,

stretches towards infinity.

Small brown shrubs.

No trees here ...

But from a distance

the Joshua trees

could almost be ...

And in every direction

the mountains, jagged,

reaching toward the sky ...

stretching ever upwards.

Look so close; the clear, pure air

distorts perception of distance.

The highest tips still crowned with snow

that the sun in all its power cannot melt.

White, like the salt pans

that look so pure ...

In reality just a crust

concealing the muck beneath.

Mine shafts piercing the earth.

Deep black pits

where Man has torn apart

the mountains, the plains ...

Taken his booty and gone,

leaving behind never-healing wounds.

A harsh, a desolate scene,

but with its own, wild beauty!

The springs, the life-giving water

that the scarred earth still provides ...

An inhospitable place, monotonous.

Nevada Desert

I love it so ...

And the skies turn pearl-grey

tinged with black.

Fluffy clouds –

the first signs of softness

in my harsh world.

The winds sweep chill,

leaching all warmth from the land

All colour, too, is gone.

No sepia – just shades of grey

No sound; a hush to hurt the ears ...

And softly, silently,

the first flakes fall.

Covering the ground

with a blanket of purest white.

Covering the mountains,

covering the plains,

covering the valleys,

until the land and the sky become one.

Deeper and deeper,

softer and softer ...

The grey tones, too, gone.

Just white and black.

The scars stand out so clear

and the snow falls down.

Nevada Desert

I love it so ...
Monday 6 August 2012

From Billions Of Years Ago!

##  Andris Heks

### Megalong Valley, NSW

Oh glorious infinity!

I worship thee, I worship thee!

Just who are you to me?

You're in me, right in me!

You're my mother, father, ancestors and the dust

Handed to me through a long chain of family trust

Over many millions of years;

A feat so great, it drives me to tears!

Fancy being ancient like the Wollemi pines,

In my genes lives eternity from timeless times!

I was born so many years ago,

Me, tiny me; it blows my ego!

Yet I'm also a titan from times immemorial,

In a perpetual story; an endless serial!

My brain has kept evolving: now I am Homo sapiens!

A mystery as strange to me as a bunch of aliens!

Oh, the human brain! Fancy, I've got one!

It just keeps exploding like a living sun!

(It backfires on me, that son of a gun!)

Every time I dare to think: 'Hey, I might be smart!'

It burns me to smithereens, it tears me apart.

My brain has got me, but I've got no brains,

Revelations whiz, like computer games.

But who is playing with me? I really don't know!

Could it be the charged Void from billions of years ago?
Tuesday 7 August 2012

Train To The Airport, 10 September 2011

## Brendan Doyle

### Wentworth Falls, NSW

The city looms:

cold towers of capital

wink in dawn smog.

Tastes a lot like coke,

says the machine on platform 2.

Vast streaks of pink and grey

over the gunmetal harbour

could win the Mosman art prize.

Ah, the airport, so clean, so upgraded, so

safe, even with all those foreign-

looking people walking around.

Explosives check sir?

says the swarthy face

with cheesy politeness.

Sorry?

May we check your luggage for explosives?

Sure, I say, good idea.

We always ask your permission of course.

But if push came to shove ...

The airport: pallid satisfaction of being

a westerner with a credit card.

All this was made for you, after all, wasn't it?

I look about the departure lounge

surrounded by James Lovelock's

tribal carnivores.

At least the security guy didn't say

Have a nice nine-eleven.
Wednesday 8 August 2012

Content In Misery

## Emma Hall

### Canterbury, VIC

He still didn't know.

Eight years it had been, and

Eight years was a long time to live in

Ignorance,

Blissful Ignorance,

but Ignorance all the same.

How many times had she considered telling him?

She'd even planned it all out;

how she'd sit him down, somewhere familiar, comfortable –

their favourite café perhaps? –

buy him a coffee and let the words

sink in.

Or maybe she'd skip the coffee, because like

the lie

she'd worn as a second skin,

unwilling or unable to take off,

he drank his coffee black.

She'd told herself – two thousand nine hundred and twenty two times – that

she kept

the lie

for him, to protect him, to preserve that

trust in his eyes and the warmth in his smile.

But the Truth – not lyrical, but jagged –

was that she needed it:

it was as much as part of her as

her dark deceitful heart,

beating

just a little harder

every time he looked at her and she was suddenly certain that,

finally,

he knew.
Thursday 9 August 2012

The Weave, The Weft, The Warp

## Lynn Nickols

### Griffith, ACT

Their marriage had been going well up until about six months ago. Well, Andrew thought so, anyway. It had been a fun ride for almost five years. The excitement of meeting on New Year's Eve at a party at a mutual friend's place, the whirlwind courtship. Then they had lived together for a year, while trying to save some money from their new and interesting jobs. Patricia had been noticed in her final year at the Fashion Institute for the outstanding originality of her design. Her graduation showing was a triumph and she had been offered work with the House of Wentworth immediately, where she was now learning even more new tricks.

His accountancy studies and information technology expertise proved to be a useful background, and he had taken up a position in an IT company which was rapidly gaining recognition in the web world. He was soon helping to move their business forward. They were both extremely busy, but loving every minute of their work and social lives. They had a few tiffs, but nothing serious; he wanted a dog, but she pointed out that neither of them would have time to exercise it; she bought red satin sheets and raved on about their sensuous smoothness. He thought they were slippery and hot and he felt like he was always falling out of the bed.

Mostly, though, they were thoroughly enjoying each others' companionship and fervent lovemaking, so eventually they made the big decision to marry and a grand occasion was arranged in a rainforest and enjoyed by all. Of course Patricia's gown and the bridesmaids' frocks were photographed for all the women's magazines, and started a string of new orders for the House of Wentworth.

By now Patricia was more confident. She took the big step of setting up her own couture business, Patricia West. Andrew worked out a business plan for her and she rented some reasonable premises.

She was thrilled and worked longer and longer hours for her repeat customers. Word of mouth was bringing more and more wealthy customers wanting something unique for a special occasion. She had now hired an administrative assistant. The only times Andrew and Patricia seemed to make time to meet up or talk was on Friday nights for a meal and lots of drinks. Weekends were often spent by both of them finishing work projects and doing boring chores around their apartment.

What really seemed to trigger a downturn in their relationship was supposedly a great thing: Patricia was invited to present at Fashion Week – the top event of the season's calendar. Here was her big chance to compete in the upper echelons of her field. She sat up till all hours thinking, drawing on her iPad, changing her mind, ringing overseas regarding availability of fabrics.

Andrew was getting fed up with all the piles of collections of fabrics in every available cupboard, shelf and corner of their apartment. He thought she should keep them at her work studio.

'But I need them around me, don't you see? To inspire me. Look at this – feel it.'

He dutifully touched it.

'Mmm. Yes. Very fine.' He couldn't really get too excited about it.

'It's superb, Andrew. The best silk in the world.' She proceeded to give him a full lecture on the history of cloth and clothing, the warp, the weft, the weave of it. She tried to explain her passion for fashion. By the time he retired to bed his head was spinning. Her passion obviously didn't extend to him. She stayed up late again, then slept in when he went to work. This was becoming a pattern and he hated it.

He noticed that since she'd been invited to Fashion Week she seemed to have become obsessed. She was often very late home in the evening. A few times it was well after midnight before he heard her car in the driveway. He became suspicious that she was having an affair with James, the assistant, and confronted her one night when she came home.

She actually laughed for once.

'Andrew, no! Sweetie, James is gay you know. Oh, sorry you thought that. I know I'm not there for you lately. It's all my fault.' She gave him a big kiss, showered, came to bed and then tried to make up to him for weeks of neglect.

But he still felt he was becoming a mere accessory to her life – a handbag if she actually went out somewhere. This wasn't what he'd expected of his marriage.

He thought about the situation and actually mentioned his problem to one of his friends.

'Yeah, they get a bit like that, mate. The thing is, you might have to get a bit more romantic yourself. How long since you invited her out to dinner, eh?'

True. He should have a look at himself, he realised. He would indeed ask her out somewhere special next Saturday night. He bought some roses, arranged them on the dining table with two champagne glasses, lit a candle and waited for her to come home.

He waited and waited. Had a quick snack. Fell asleep in front of the TV. At 2 am he woke, startled and alarmed. Still no Patricia. He rang her office. When there was no reply he rushed out to his car and drove the twenty minutes with great trepidation. He found her asleep with her head on the desk and scissors in one hand. He carefully removed the scissors, then her glasses, woke her up, took her by the hand and drove home in silence.

He realised they rarely got to talk to each other. She was becoming so introspective. She didn't speak much and when she did it was always and only about clothing. She could talk of nothing else, it seemed. When he mentioned some small successes at his work, she gazed off into space and he knew she was conjuring up another outfit in her mind. He felt insulted, bored, frustrated.

Patricia was always too tired for sex, not interested, not cooking – in fact she was rarely in the house. He was getting depressed.

The only good thing was that she had seemed quite delighted when he had asked her out to the best restaurant in town to celebrate their wedding anniversary. Maybe this rare night out would lift both their spirits.

It certainly started well. A balmy, sparkly summer evening – cocktails on a balcony with a superb view. She touched his hand and thanked him.

'We should do this more often. I suppose we're both working too hard and taking each other for granted.'

Maybe it was the alcohol, but he was starting to feel more relaxed than he had for months. They chatted about different subjects for a while. She even seemed to understand some of his dilemmas and ideas. He was becoming quite voluble by the time they were shown their table for two.

They had just finished their delectable entree when several other groups of people arrived, amongst them some of Patricia's old colleagues from the Institute. They were delighted to see her, as they had been following her stellar career in the tabloids. They invited Andrew and Patricia to join their large table. She spent the rest of the night talking fashion and fabrics. He felt completely ignored and increasingly frustrated. In a crowd like this, he realised he felt lonely. Someone near him politely asked what it was that he did, but he could tell they weren't particularly interested.

The Fashion Week organisers had scheduled Patricia West for 11 am on the first morning – quite a prize pole position, before lunch. Her models became alarmed when she hadn't shown at 9 am as planned. No-one answered her home, office, or mobile phones. At 10 am Lucille, one of the co-ordinators, called at her office address, where the assistant had just arrived. He gave Lucille Patricia's home address. On arrival, she found the door locked and there was no response to the doorbell. She left, dismayed. Their entire modelling schedule would be thrown into disarray.

As Andrew boarded the plane for Brazil, some remnant of guilt made him ring 000 and leave an anonymous message.

When police officers arrived and battered down the apartment door, they found not much blood on Patricia's naked body, except a little from the wound where the dressmaking scissors were still protruding from her chest. There were ripped shreds of cloth and clothing everywhere. As her eyes were wide open, seemingly staring, an officer gently closed them. She had been strangled with beautifully textured black pantihose. They noted that her mouth was tightly stuffed with what looked like silk knickers she may have been wearing. Gaily protruding from every other orifice were multicoloured strips of cloth and bright ribbons.
Friday 10 August 2012

Dr Who In The Kitchen Of My Childhood

## Marina Byrne

### Wakerley, QLD

The kitchen of my childhood was a white hot, tight hot box that hoarded heat and ants and blowflies.

Mottled green glass of the lone casement window above the sink turned the sun's rays into sickly fingers of wet heat.

It was the wet heat of the tropics and it pressed into you. Stuck things to you.

Stuck your hair to you.

Stuck your shirt to you.

Stuck your loved ones to you.

Dreams were surrendered in that kitchen. Wearily folded up along their worn edges and simply put away.

Family bonds were forged and cracked, mended and gouged over a thousand sinks of crockery and cutlery.

The kitchen of my childhood tells a story.

On that door jamb. Childhood heights etched with a blunt butter knife.

The dark confines of the pantry, a confessional. The memory of stealing chocolate still shames me.

No room in that white hot, tight hot box. Five paces from the door to the cupboards opposite.

A memory rises.

A childhood game played there during a late night washing up.

Daleks.

Arms outstretched, knees locked into robotic gait.

Five paces back and forth, back and forth.

'Ex-ter-min-ate. Ex-ter-min-ate.'

Desperate giggles.

Darkness outside.

The wail of the curlews muffled by the giggles.

Desolation hushed for a moment.

In the kitchen of my childhood.
Saturday 11 August 2012

Beguiled

## Michele Fermanis-Winward

### Leura, NSW

The sky

straight from a tube

of undiluted blue,

emerging leaves

electrify the trees,

as days expand

and ease into their warmth.

Our homes

wrapped tight against the cold

throw off their coats

and let a breeze sift in,

while pinks of every tone

illuminate the streets.

We form a link

with blossom and perfume,

beguiled

presuming storms have passed,

and all their scars

will now be healed,

the picture coloured in.

Behind our smiles

the fears we blend

define a season's hue,

of summer skies ahead

with columns of black smoke

which rise in storms of red.
Sunday 12 August 2012

Blackshield

## Robertas

### Drummoyne, ACT

We are a Viking longship. Black shields, lined along our beam, fend off the missiles hurled by howling enemies.

But the shields are flimsy – tokens only. And we'd need two each for full protective cover. We each have one to save our heads, but legs and feet are unprotected. And I dare not risk an eye to peer over the parapet to gauge the distance we have made between ourselves and our assailants.

We lift our pace – no more pretence of nonchalance. Our black shields move in unison, protecting now our backs until we're well ahead. Beyond their range? We dare to hope. A look confirms it. We are safe. Their missiles drop a distance off. None will reach us.

'Bastards!'

'Little Shits!'

'Bloody little savages!'

'LitBastShitsardsBloodsav...'

We babel-chorus, all together, each with his own expletives – frustration of defencelessness. They can attack but we can't retaliate, nor reason with them to stop.

This is their land. This is their road. And we are easy game – not fair game, but easy. They know we're impotent. If we had returned their fire, their big guns – rough-robed swarthies wielding sticks – would have sunk our little ship.

It leaves a sour taste. This place is unsafe – uncivilised. We cannot trust these people.

On we go, our shields now furled. A parody of city gents, with our black walking sticks we strut. You can't beat a British brolly on a rainy English day. But we became the five-shield longship when rocks and laughter flew our way.

The laughter struck, but thanks to luck the rocks did not. Some bounced close around our feet, and small ones tested our black shields.

Now, far beyond the savage-spouting mud-brick huts we wait. A bus will come.

Our shields, unfurled again, protect us from the savage sun. That's really what we brought them for – pretty sure there'd be no rain.

Savage village kids aside,

the sun is our sole enemy.

Beating down from clear blue skies.

But that comes as no surprise here

– in Morocco.

Robertas says that hitchhiking in third world countries can be fun ... but sometimes ...
Monday 13 August 2012

Perry's Lookdown

## Alan Lucas

### Katoomba, NSW

From the topmost viewing spot,

the scene is magnificent,

making me wish I had the wings

to drop straight to

the valley below,

but I must take it step by step

to the Blue Gum forest

at Perry's Lookdown.

Every step is carved into living rock,

or built by hand, with no

level spots to rest my trembling legs,

and the trail is often too narrow

to stop or too wet with moss to sit.

I reach the crevasse base,

carved high above

from thousands of years

of wear from water

and heat, rain and flood.

I seem to have been swinging

from rock hold to tree trunk

for the past hour,

almost straight down

for an hour.

At last I rest, exertion

has created sharp observation,

a chirruping tree hopper

bounces from branch to branch,

and here in the crevasse

falling water begins to speak.

Among the giant ferns and rocks,

there is song in the sound,

and words that I cannot

decipher, yet something

is being said.

I eat some food, drink

from my bottle and listen

with closed eyes, a kind

of meditation taking over,

time no longer exists, and when

I re-enter the world,

there, laying amidst the fallen leaves

and bark in front of me

is the face

of a forest daemon,

not resentful of my intrusion,

but not pleased either,

not even curious,

just looking at me.

These must be the little folk

that the Irish speak of,

or perhaps

it's just my imagination.

I glance away for a second,

and then he is gone,

the talking, singing water

continues on.
Tuesday 14 August 2012

Baggage

## Robyn Lance

### Goulburn, NSW

I travelled all the way to midnight

and beyond

but tired of the trip

so sat down in an N

at the edge of the sea.

No-one switched the moonlight off

and waves fell apart on the sand.

My baggage flew open

memories escaped

and streaked to the cliff top cemetery,

punk-haired,

where more

already buried

have been exhumed.
Wednesday 15 August 2012

Fabulous Fairy Floss

## Amber Johnson

### Highgate Hill, QLD

No other reel of childhood memory lights up the veil of my past quite like the magic of the Manly carnival. To my four-year-old eyes, the carnival seemed like a fairy tale exploded into life. A mere bus ride through the bleak concrete jungle transported me to a place where vibrant colours burst through the seams of reality, and opened the portal to a place of wonders. My mother would mimic my eager anticipation, and grin in such a way that meant that we would thwart the Sandman in a sugar-filled delirium.

We would giggle in whispers at our own little rebellion of being up past bed-time, and dive into the carnival crowds. The adventure always began, and ended, at the fairy floss stand. I watched in awe as a bearded man with a missing tooth swirled a stick around in a machine. It was his magic wand that spun sugary webs of pastel pinks and blues.

Next, we would wander where ever the neon rainbows lead us. I was often too scared to try the bigger rides, but my love for the Ferris Wheel trumped my fear of heights. As our carriage reached the peak of the wheel, I watched the rippling harbour. The city lights that danced across the surface were mesmerising.

On our way out, we would thank the fairy-floss man.

Fifteen years have passed since that day, and yet I still recall the giddy excitement with such vibrancy. It is one of the fragments of comfort that I could anchor my hopes to after all else drifted apart. A void had swollen within me, so deep that I feared it would consume me. Ever since my mother sought escape through the bong and the bottle, my film of memory has become tarnished by violence. I was thrown into the deep-end of life, and floundered to stay out of homelessness. I couldn't help but to seek out the dregs of a drained childhood.

I took a train to Central, and a bus down to the Quay. The first encounter I had after my reunion with the city was smog and crowds. As I awkwardly waded my way through the sea of white-collar suits, I realised Manly was not the fairy-tale I had imagined. It was nothing more than a tin of corporate sardines.

Beside the harbour, I found the desolate site that once bore my fantasy land. The midday sun scorched the rusted gates, that led to a broken-down Ferris Wheel. The paint had flaked away from the scaffolding to reveal a harsh metallic core. It felt like some omnipresent being was performing a cruel satire of my life in this one silent scene. The symbolism struck too close to home. As I walked away with nothing but a wasted fare and a bitter taste in my mouth, I kicked the fallen sign that read 'Fabulous Fairy Floss'.
Thursday 16 August 2012

The Dying Game

## Bob Edgar

### Wentworth Falls, NSW

Harry was a likeable rogue, the kind of fellow you would trust with your car but not with your wife.

Harry's identical twin brother Oscar was also likeable, however he was no rogue. Straight as a die he was. Some even thought of Oscar as sensitive.

That cold overcast day that Harry was sent down for a bungled jewellery heist, was like a death knell to Oscar.

They had never been apart for more than a few days, and Oscar couldn't begin to imagine how he would bear the seven years' separation from Harry. They had even purchased a 'double depth' grave so that even in death, only a few inches of dirt would separate them.

They had clasped hands in the courtroom affirming their bond as Oscar made a vow to Harry that he would visit daily. The handcuffs tinkled as the court police broke them apart. Harry was gone.

Oscar kept his promise and visited Harry at Wormwood Scrubs every allowable day. Harry was of stronger character than his twin brother and although prison life was wearing him down, he could see after a year of incarceration that it was Oscar's health deteriorating. Oscar's stutter was also noticeably worse.

Eighteen months into his sentence Harry confided in Oscar that he had a plan to reunite them. Oscar had to follow a fitness regime and resume his football refereeing. This was essential to the plan, and Oscar had to be strong, in body and mind. Oscar trusted Harry implicitly and embarked on a 'toughening up' training schedule and resumed refereeing local football matches.

Meanwhile Harry, already a trusted inmate, had ingratiated himself with the prison governor who just happened to be an avid football fan. Harry had banded together a half decent team and had challenged the prison staff team.

The game was to be held on the Wednesday before the week-long Christmas holidays, this date being crucial to the plan.

Seven days before the game Harry revealed to Oscar how it would go down.

'Oscar, you have been booked to referee the game next Wednesday. We will meet at halftime behind the row of lockers and swap clothes. I will blow fulltime ten minutes early, and in the ensuing confusion I will head for your car and make my escape. After the counting of inmates you will confess to playing part in a practical joke only.'

Oscar agreed that the plan was simple and foolproof.

'Now listen to me Oscar, listen very carefully, and don't forget what I am about to say to you, no matter what happens. Do you understand?'

Oscar was bemused by the serious tone that Harry had set, and yet agreed to read a message that Harry would leave in the overnight bag that Oscar would bring to the game.

'Read the note immediately after you leave the prison Oscar, no matter how you feel, read the note!'

'All right H-H-H- Harry, as soon as I am outside the p-p-prison, I'll read the note, I won't forget.'

That night in his cell Harry wrote the note for Oscar.

'My dear Oscar, stop fretting as I am not dead, I repeat, I am not dead. I stole some Pentralinium Oroxide from the infirmary and injected myself, to all intents and purposes I appeared deceased. I will be buried in our plot tomorrow, the day before the holiday break. The drug will wear off within 48 hours and I will have sufficient air for 72 hours, by which time you will have dug me up. I will therefore be considered not an escaped felon – but dead and buried.'

Harry lay in his tomb not knowing exactly how long he had been unconscious, but confident in being freed by his doting brother. He mused, 'I couldn't have told Oscar my real plan, he never would have agreed, and I would now be an escapee.'

Harry's eyes widened in excitement as he heard shovelling, the weight of death being levied from his coffin. His mind screamed for release from this stifling confinement. His body spasmed in anticipation. The digging ceased. Three terrifying seconds of silence, then muffled voices.

'No other family apparently, and what with the holidays starting today, best to get him into the ground straight away I reckon. What happened to him, anyway?'

Harry felt the thud of the coffin smother his life as he heard the reply.

'He'd just started refereeing a football match, when he was told his twin brother had died. Dropped dead on the penalty spot, he did.'

The End (for Harry)
Friday 17 August 2012

Peer Pressure

## Tom Zaunmayr

### Carine, WA

My mates told me to do it. They told me it was good, they told me it was harmless. My mates told me nothing could go wrong. They told me it's what all the cool kids were doing, they told me it would help my social life, they told me it was grown up but above all they told me nothing could go wrong, that this is how life should be lived.

And who was I to doubt them? They had been right about how to dress, they had been right about how to act, and they had been right about which girls to go for. My mates taught me everything I know today. They broke me free of that mummy's boy I was in year six; that was six years ago now. They raised me as if we were family. My mates taught me how to behave and how to pick up. They showed me how to spot the easy girls and avoid the grenades. Wow, they treated me well.

They got me to where I am today ...

I went from being an 11-year-old loner to the king of high school; year 12 was all about me, and it felt good. One major moment of my life was my first sip of the holy nectar ... beer. TED's was my favourite back then, still is now. I remember going to the beach with the guys, sitting around the fire and reminiscing on our lives.

We'd go to parties too. Four of them and I was king of the dance floor, all the chicks dig that. They were all over me. I still remember the first time I got drunk. I had seven beers at Mickey's 15th and I was out of it. I couldn't even finish off the slut I scored with. I passed out for the first time at my ex's party. That was when she dumped me. Four days and she dumped me, what a bitch!

The first time I had sex; that was a great night. The guys and myself had a little wager for bragging rights over who could get the home run first. James reach third that night, he's still searching for the home run. Dungers was the first there. He got it at my 15th party with an absolute stinker. I was slow off the blocks. I reached first base in the Gold Coast playing a game of truth or dare; she was dared. I got to third with the bitch Cass, my ex.

The home run was just a few weeks ago. Janie Doyle was her name. She was my new girlfriend. It would've been our one-month anniversary tomorrow. That was a perfect night. I wasn't even drunk! We walked down Glamarama beach, climbed the rocks and found a sweet spot overlooking the Pacific. We stayed there all night; it was just perfect. We'd planned to go back there for our anniversary.

My mates and me had another bet going. I won this one. We all put in $20 and whoever had the most points at the end of the season got the bounty – $520! We were all playing rugby of course, all the cool guys here do. My school is the best of them all, five titles in a row this year.

Anyway, I scored eleven tries for the season and had an almost perfect conversion rate. That's a PSA record. My name goes down alongside the greats, only I would've been better. I was going to be a Wallaby when I got older, and a Waratah. It was all planned out, and last season surely got the selectors attention.

All this was thanks to my mates. I love them for it. The beer, the girls, and the sports – I couldn't have done it without them. My mates are the best people in the world bar none! I got my P-plates a few weeks ago, with the encouragement of my mates of course. I was the last to get them and boy was I excited. I could finally kick Mum out of the car. My 1994 Mitsubishi Lancer was my second love, first being Janie.

Two days ago we played the final match for the trophy. My overtime conversion won us our fifth straight title 21-20. The afters were at Ben's house. I bought Janie along to show her how we party; she didn't hang out with many cool people before meeting me. There were eskies full of beer everywhere. I went straight for the TEDs of course. She had Cruisers. Two hours later we were blind stinkin' drunk, in some shed somewhere, and nude. We did it ... again. The afters wrapped up around 4 am. I had to drive Janie home.

That's how I ended up here. Me, Tim Bradley – the most popular guy in high school – in hospital. Some of my mates have visited, some of them haven't. I killed Janie; the love of my life is gone. She took most of the impact. I've been told I'm dying too. When I wonder how this happened I could only seem to come back to one culprit; my mates. They had been so good to me though. How is this possible? My mates told me nothing could go wrong. I had everything, God damn it. Why me ... why me? I thought nothing could go wrong. My mates told me nothing could go wrong ...

As a 21-year-old male uni student Tom says he is always amazed at the effect peer pressure within certain social and friendship groups can change people. Sometimes for the better, but more often than not for the worse. This story reflects the worst of what he's seen peer pressure do to innocent young people.
Saturday 18 August 2012

Knitting In Green

## Sallie Ramsay

### Torrens, ACT

As always she felt a glow of achievement and satisfaction when the end was in sight. A couple more rows, cast off and it would be done; another piece of knitting finished. She looked at the work spread out across her knee and felt pleased with the way it had turned out, although she wasn't really happy with the colour; a bright emerald green; but it was all they had.

Clear as if it were yesterday, she remembered her first knitting lesson. She was six, sitting in the big armchair by the fire, convalescing from measles, when she asked her mother to teach her how to knit. She could still hear her mother's voice, 'Needle into the stitch; wool around the needle; turn, hook wool through the gate; pull it off.' She remembered how her fingers felt so clumsy, she thought she would never get it right, but she did.

By the time she went back to school, she was so proud she told the teacher, 'I can knit!' That afternoon in 'Craft' her teacher handed out needles and balls of cotton yarn and announced they were going to knit a face washer. She could hardly wait to start but found she hated the feel of the cotton yarn, the way it squeaked and was hard to move along the needles. She had put the knitting down on the desk. She remembered her teacher raising her eyebrows and saying 'I thought you said you could knit!' She remembered saying she couldn't knit with cotton and the teacher replying, 'It is a poor workman that blames his tools.' She struggled with the hated face-washer, gritting her teeth and muttering that it wasn't real knitting; for real knitting you needed wool.

She remembered the doll's blanket made out of squares she knitted from the rainbow of odd balls of wool in her mother's knitting basket. She spent hours choosing the colours and even longer, arranging the squares into a satisfying pattern and she remembered pictures in her mother's pattern books, dreaming of the day when she too could make the wool twist and turn under her needles and how, one day, she did.

She remembered knitting a scarf for her boyfriend when she was at boarding school; it was creamy white with a heavy rib pattern and bands in his school colours at each end. When it was long enough she wrapped it around her neck as she knitted, imagining it wrapped around his neck. He 'dropped' her just before the scarf was finished, but being a practical country girl; she unravelled the end and knitted in the school colours of the nice boy she met on the train going home for the holidays.

Right from the beginning she kept a record of each project in a leather bound ledger her grandfather gave her. She recorded everything from sweaters of heavy greasy wool to cosy shawls and baby clothes, so delicate it seemed they would blow away if anyone so much as breathed on them. The dates started and finished were entered; there were very few blanks in the 'date finished' column but behind each one there was a story; perhaps an estrangement, a death or a change of mind. She sometimes made notes: 'Jane's first babe'; 'S.D's 40th birthday'; 'For Royal Melbourne Show' (Best in Show)'; 'Cricket sweater (Long Sleeves)'.

She smiled remembering the hot summer afternoons, sitting in the shade with her mother, the afternoon tea basket at their feet, knitting and watching the cricket. Her three brothers and her father all played with the local team. She remembered cricket sweaters, heavily cabled and some with bands in club colours; most were sleeveless, only serious friendships warranted the time and effort needed for long sleeves.

She remembered how she knew it was really love when she knitted a cricket sweater for a young man who insisted that it have no pattern, not even coloured bands. For her it was a labour of love because there were few tasks she hated more than plain knitting. After they were married she celebrated by knitting a navy sweater with an Aran pattern so complex, it took her nearly six months to finish. He was wearing it the day they told her he wouldn't be coming home after a boating accident, the year after they were married.

When money was scarce she knitted samples for knitting books and remembered how much she hated 'other people's' patterns. She liked to knit to order, but only to the most imprecise orders: 'A jumper for each of the kids'; 'A bed-jacket for Mum when she's in hospital'; the finished work always fitted the wearer's personality to a tee.

She knew some worried sure that she knew nothing except knitting. She thought how little they knew. Had they never looked at her knitting? Really looked at her knitting?

As her needles wove heather-soft blues, mauves and pinks into a delicate Fair Isle pattern she heard the skirl of highland pipes blowing on the wind. A Roman mosaic unearthed from a villa in Colchester provided the inspiration for a jumper for her sister. She knitted the nets, the fish and ropes of generations of Irish fisherman and travelling the world unimpeded by restraints of time or space each time she began to plan a new project.

Special pieces she put in the cedar chest alongside where, carefully packed in tissue paper, lay the unfinished layette started for the unborn baby who died within days of its father, all those years ago.

She didn't remember when her hands, with fingers swollen and twisted like the gnarled branches of an ancient tree, could no longer move as she wanted.

She didn't remember the day she was moved out of her home of seventy-five years to a small bright room with a comfortable chair by the window where she began to knit again. She would be surprised to know the knitting from the cedar chest in her house was now on permanent display in the Museum of Fine Arts.

Pleased with her morning's work, even though that emerald green was not at all to her taste, she began to cast off.

~~~

'She was a dear old thing,' the young nurse remarked, nodding towards the quiet figure on the bed. 'She was just sitting in the chair, died, just sitting, very peaceful.'

'What's with the tangle of green wool all over the place?'

'I think she used to knit. As long as she had a ball of wool to unravel she was happy. I think she thought she was still knitting.'
Sunday 19 August 2012

Weatherbeaten

## Yeshe Thubten

### Totnes Valley, ACT

Weatherbeaten

She gave a splintered sigh

And the tin cracked and popped like popcorn

Bare feet padded the rough boards of her veranda

The bullnose keeping witness.

As I smoothed my hand on the weathered door frame

And asked her to reveal her secrets,

She replied with the silence of

A woman too old and too tired to speak.

The cast iron pot

Lay like a sleeping baby

Amongst the coals in the fireplace

Gurgling and bubbling and warm.

Drawing a hard wooden chair

And sipping some tea

With feet pressed against the chimney

I absorbed this old girl.

A woman of weatherboard and paint

Of hardwood and tin

And she sighed again.

She wanted to tell me of the people who looked out her window

At the gums and the pine

And the rusty tank on its side

And the infinite blue sky.

She offered me a story

Of a man and a woman dancing to a whistled tune

On those rough boards

In the twilight.

Of the little face that peeked through lace curtains

watching

and humming

and smiling.

I asked her forgiveness

As she sheltered me in the inky black

Pierced by a single flame

And we breathed as one.

The fire slipped into slumber

And together we hummed that tune

as the air moved through her cracks

like a whisper.

And in the morning light

She looked like a picture,

Washed out,

Etched in sand.

I slid past her screen door

Banging like a stamped foot

And I caressed her railings

As I jumped from the wooden steps.

I looked back at her

Rusted and beautiful

Held fast

Against the cloudless sky.

The wind shook her bones

Like a windchime

And she said goodbye

With one more sigh.

Yeshe wrote this poem as a snapshot of some kind of Australian ripped from a memory of a house in Yamba she once squatted in.
Monday 20 August 2012

Our Chronic Problem

## Ariette Singer

### Palmerston, ACT

We see how animals are living so well harmonised

Why can't we, humans, get similarly organised?

This goal should be even easier for us to realise

Because we've evolved and are able to rationalise ...

But, sadly, that is where our chronic problem lies –

We, humans, fail too often to meet on the same lines!

So due to various dissentions, or beliefs of fanatics,

Wars have been fought since human history began:

For reasons territorial, religious, stupidity sporadic –

Too many pretexts! Wars are seldom pragmatic.

What one nation builds, another cruelly destroys

With the latest models of hi-tech military 'toys'.

As always, the consequences are the same;

Inevitable deaths, horrific devastation,

Physical, mental, and emotional mutilations

Generating new hatreds, misery and lasting pain.

Show me a 'nice war' and I will be silent!

Years later, the mistakes are admitted, analysed,

But a new version, in a different geographical location

Is continuously repeated – in almost every generation!

If the mistakes, supposedly, are made so we can learn –

How many tragic lessons have been wasted? All in vain!

We're stuck in 'the violence and aggression groove', it seems.

What force can save us from ourselves? By what means?

Ariette performed this poem for a special 'Poets for Peace' event in Canberra.
Tuesday 21 August 2012

Time

## Shannon Todd

### Empire Bay, NSW

A moment passed is lost forever, never to return,

It's a lesson that you cannot teach it must be lived and learned.

For while the ticking hand must pass eternally 'round the wheel,

Youth does not know until too late how fate will make them feel.

When faded dreams and hopeless wishes burn with sweet regret,

To haunt their hollow, ageing souls and fill them with torment.

Time lingers for no mortal man, youth cannot remain,

One chance at life and then no more, you cannot live again.
Wednesday 22 August 2012

A Slip To Eternity

## Paul Humphreys

### Oxley, ACT

He knew he was in trouble when his foot slipped on the moss of the cliff face and his feet dropped below him and he crashed into the wall headfirst. He temporarily lost control of the descent rope and slid about two metres.

His lead glove was wrenched off his hand and was caught tight in the figure eight descender. That was at first lucky as that stopped him from a free fall to the bottom of the chasm. However it also meant that with the descender jammed he could not go up or down.

He hung helpless and horrified at his predicament. He tried desperately to unjam the descender without success.

No one knew where he was. He only had on a T-shirt and shorts and the night was fast approaching. He had no food or water.

It had meant to be an opportunity to get away by himself, to push himself and savour an adventure. Now it was a life-threatening situation.

Darkness came quickly as the sun disappeared over the mountain range behind him. There was a sudden drop in the temperature and he knew that this was not going to be a comfortable night.

The search and rescue party found him two days later.

There had been an unseasonal cold change come through and small patches of snow still lay in pockets around the cliff edge.

As they moved his body back up the cliff one of the search group commented, 'Did you see his facial expression? It was weird – sort of serene but with a slight smile. Never seen anything like that before.'

They could not have known that his last thought before lapsing into the final sleep was, 'Crazy. Not heart, hernia or hypertension but hyperthermia got me.'

The challenge was to write a short story in approximately 500 words or less.
Thursday 23 August 2012

Heat

## Colleen McMillan

### St Ives, NSW

Sun, pours pitilessly from a hard blue sky,

Dry, sucking moisture from the heart of brown earth.

Liberated red dust, and yellowing grasses move across the land.

Umbrella Grass rolls and piles mountainously by fences.

Cattle stand desolate, dehydrated, heads drooping.

Voiceless birds gasp in limp trees.

Above a wedge-tailed eagle soars, triumphant,

His prey, a lamb born late.

In the town stillness hangs like a pall.

The tonk, tonk, tonk of tennis balls, defeated.

The shrill cries of children at play, silent.

Dusty cars crawl like slow beetles.

Leggy geraniums struggle in dead gardens.

Pointless fans whirl monotonously

And the people sit waiting for evening,

Waiting, waiting, for relief.

Waiting for the rains to come.
Friday 24 August 2012

Shelf Life

## Nicholas Brooks

### Wollongong, NSW

I was a little nervous about uni; about being in a new place and not knowing anyone. All I wanted was to fit in. But as I walked through campus that first morning, there was something about the way the other students looked past me – no, through me – that was unsettling. I couldn't get my head around it.

When I showed up to class it began to make sense. The other students' names were exhibited on the tables in proud scripts of white on red, with lustrous black bubbles rising through the letters in celebration. There was Jessica, whose dark tan and sweeping curves resembled the bottle in front of her, and Kevin, who was short and thickset like the can he held in his hand. In fact, everyone was drinking from a bottle or can that held their name. As if, through drinking Coca-Cola, they'd found a way to skip the burden of awkward introductions. The only exceptions were me, and an old guy across the room who was so plain that if it wasn't for the grey-white colour of his hair, I probably wouldn't have noticed him at all.

I don't remember much of the class, except that seeing all those people take large, confident gulps of self-identity made me more nervous, more insecure, and left me busting to pee.

When we were finished, I ran to the nearest toilet and released a sea of anxiety against the steel wall. As I stood there with my eyes closed, I imagined the others pissing beautiful carbonated streams that sparkled in the sunlight. I saw them framed by television, accompanied by music: something upbeat, summery. But when I opened my eyes, the old guy from class was next to me releasing his own nameless cataract into the trough. I felt embarrassed and shuffled toward the corner of the urinal, but it was too late.

'Hey bud,' he said, 'bunch 'a pretenders that mob, ay?'

I glanced over at him. Not knowing what he meant, I looked down and mumbled, 'Yeah, I guess.'

After we'd washed our hands, we walked outside together towards the university lawn. All around us students were grouped in big joyous bubbles, talking and laughing amongst themselves as if they'd known each other forever. The word Enjoy flowed through the scene like a dynamic white ribbon. I felt estranged from that ribbon and everyone it encircled as I walked unnoticed across the quad. I wondered how my companion must've felt: an outsider not only because of his age, but I assumed, his name as well. When we finally found a seat on the crowded grass, I broke the silence and said what I was sure we'd both been thinking.

'Y'know, it really bums me out that they don't have my name on a bottle.'

'Who?' he replied.

'Coke.'

He looked at me incredulously. 'Why?'

'I dunno ... so ... I can fit in, I guess. So people know who I am.'

'Who are you?'

'Whaddya mean?'

'What's your name?'

'Oh ...' I hesitated. I hated telling people this, they always thought it was a nickname. 'Um ... Snowy.'

'That's your real name?'

'Yeah,' I said, rolling my eyes.

He ran his fingers through his hair. 'What's wrong with that?'

'Well it's not that I don't like the name, it's just that Coke are never going to put it on one of their bottles. I mean, plenty of people have the nickname Snowy, but no one actually has the name.'

'And you want your name on a bottle so you can fit in? So you can be like everyone else?'

I nodded, despite the fact he didn't seem to get it.

'Jesus kid, look around you! Look at all the shit lying around here. Think of all the empty cans and bottles in the streets. You want your name on one of those bottles?'

He had a point about the rubbish. There were old bottles and cans lying everywhere, but they didn't interest me. What caught my eye were all the students standing there like beautiful celebrities, so dazzling and effervescent.

Meanwhile, he kept talking. I heard the words 'corporate aggression', 'slave labour', 'Santa Claus' – among other things – but I wasn't really listening, I was too enthralled by this new world I so desperately wanted to be a part of.

'Are you listening to me?'

I looked back at the strange old man. It was obvious he didn't get it. He was too uncool, too out of touch.

'Look, I'm gunna tell ya something, alright. There was this guy who used to work in the Coke plant, like twenty, thirty years ago, making the stuff. Anyway, this guy came up with a recipe for white Coca-Cola – '

'You mean like vanilla coke?' I interrupted.

'No,' he said, 'like pure, white-as-snow Coca-Cola. So of course, when he made it, Coke wanted to bottle it up and sell it to the masses. But this bloke understood that some things aren't meant to be sold. He knew that white coke wouldn't really make people's lives more enjoyable, it'd just be another overpriced illusion. So he left.'

'Left?'

'He was the only one with the recipe, so he just up and walked away.'

'Then what happened?'

'They've been after him ever since! This guy's been on the run from Coke all this time because he's got what they want. And they'll catch up eventually.'

'I hope so,' I told him. 'White coke, that'd be amazing!'

He muttered something under his breath as I looked around at all the bubbles. They sparkled so brightly I didn't see him walk away.

But he was right, they did catch up. A few months later, after the beauty of the names had faded, leaving behind a mess of empty bottles that seemed plain and uninspired, White Coca-Cola arrived. And it was everywhere, and he was nowhere, and I felt like I finally fitted in.
Saturday 25 August 2012 8 am

Oblivion

## Merlene Fawdry

### Ararat, VIC

In his dreams he

cast aside his ordinariness.

He is Atticus

a man of noble justice

the moral backbone in

a jellyfish society.

Or Ishmael

story teller

adventurer, wanderer

unneedful of society

to live forever, larger than life

in the minds of men.

He tries them all on

slipping into the skin of

Heathcliff, Rhett and other

archetypal heroes

(or anti-heroes) of

his literary knowledge.

Finding his way in the world

as a young Caulfield, brash

and closer than comfortable

to the Walter of his reality;

meek, mild ineffectual dreamer

doomed on each waking

to oblivion.

Oblivion is one of a suite of poems currently being developed by Merlene on this subject.
Saturday 25 August 2012 12 noon

All Crystal

## Irene Assumpter

### East Vic Park, WA

When you work so hard all your life

There comes a time

When you can only smile ...

Smile when you are told how clueless you are ... 'how hard life is'

From a soul that knows not the first thing about you ...

A soul that says, 'Change your attitude

Live with gratitude.'

Smile, still. Keep your cool.

I met someone wow ... someone who put things into perspective

It's all crystal now. So directive

From a little hill facing The Yarra,

I saw a little boy.

He was not too little; you could say he was a young man.

Lanky. Very coy.

He was minding his own business

He did show some signs of dizziness

I say that because when he tried to get up ... he fell.

He didn't look well.

He had this look in his eyes.

Cold, I think. Cold like ice.

But he was just sitting there. He seemed calm.

I saw him draw something on his palm

I asked him to show me what it was

It was a horse

Well, a horse of some sort

The boy's name is Swanson

Swanson said he used to ride horses at some point

He stopped because he had a problem with a joint

For a moment he looks worryingly still

Then he etches the ground with a blunt stick

He said, 'Melbourne Cup ... in my next life'

I patted his shoulder and said he would be fine

He would ride them again.

You know what he said? 'You're a pain'

He said I was just being nice

And that I could just sit there and shut up instead

Talking to him about horses is a mistake

So I left him alone.

When I saw him again, he was much older.

He was in a lot of pain. A broken shoulder

And I realised there was something I should have shown

Something I should have seen

I guess I wasn't very keen.

I met someone wow ... someone who put things into perspective

It's all crystal now. So directive

Show him a smile.

A wry one can do.

Even if it looks like a crooked file,

It would be his bright candle.

You can say no word.

It won't take a while,

But it would mean a world.

His sadness shows ... oh it shows.

And no one knows.

He is a different person inside.

His endless thoughts ... his ideas unsaid.

Maybe if you took the time,

His sadness might go with the tide.

Show him no pity,

The feeling is not pretty.

He is real, he feels.

He wants you to see him, the real wheels.

Ignore his lifeless chair,

It's really not fair.

He is disabled.

Maybe a little frozen,

Some mop he might resemble,

But you must know, he is not rotten.

I met someone wow ... someone who put things into perspective

It's all crystal now. So directive.

Irene says:'All Crystal' is ideally a song and was written on one of those days when you briefly meet a person who positively (yet unknowingly) changes your view of life.
Saturday 25 August 2012 4 pm

Taking Tea

## Jonathan Morgan

### Camberwell, Vic

Here I sit, humbly upon my saucer. I await eagerly the faint clinking, the pressure on my dainty handle and the blissfully moist lips on my rim that mark the girl taking a sip. The way she causes the hot liquid to gently move within me is the divine ecstasy of my existence. Occasion times she may notice a trace of lipstick clinging ticklishly to me, and with a graceful stroke of her thumb she removes the transgressor that would come between our sweet embrace.

This afternoon I'm fearful, for I feel forgotten. My sweet, my darling has taken but two sips – and these with a tremor about them. Not the faint waver of her usual fine caress, but marked fearfulness, for the first time I felt in my heavenly hostess a dread nearing despair, the frightful ache of a lonely heart.

A growing coldness fills the both of us, my tea losing its temperature mirroring the cold empty insinuating its way into her soul.

Some people don't believe we have those, but I swear, every ounce of mine own soul rent itself that day, aching to cry out,

'My love! You are not alone! Your loss is our loss, let us weep together!'

Perhaps the outpourings of my heart found a benevolent ear in the forgotten corners of the pantheon that concern themselves with the likes of me, for my sweet gorgeous, my all and everything, my fairest lady, finally broke from her sorrowful stupor – at last I felt myself raised to her sublime, tear-struck lips.

And since, for everyday from then to my destruction I shall find lovely solace in the thought that as she tasted the sweetness of her one-and-a-half, those tea-spoon-fulls of indulgence which her husband of forty years, now absent from his chair at the tea table, had obstinately refused – that she found in this ritual once more his presence. That forevermore she could take tea with her soulmate, and, for myself, that I could with mine.
Saturday 25 August 2012 8 pm

Bird On A Wire

## Jessica Soul

### Avondale Heights, VIC

I'm like a single little bird sitting on a wire

Like a song bird who can't sing

Can't flap my wings and fly away

A mocking jay of song, no words just sounds to play along

Inside a heart that's trapped

A yearning, a solid supply of pain

Perching myself on a single whim

Suffering in silence in the wind

Coldness of a teardrop connects with my cheek

It awakens the key

That one I've always had inside of me

Like a trigger to a gun

It captivates a longingness sounds to click over

To remember who I was

The girl with a broken heart

A soul of suffrage

Now a silhouette of misfortunes

Now on that wire ledge, with the trigger inside of me

I open up my wings and spread them and soar

Listening to the trigger be pulled

The lost part of me

It's all said and done

With the slight turn of the key

Bye bye birdy.
Sunday 26 August 2012

The House On Weary Traveller's Way

##  Ann-marie Brittain

### Bathurst, NSW

The removalist's van was finally gone and the sun began to set in a blaze of gold. Alice and Maya surveyed the piles of boxes yet to be unpacked and the furniture that sat haphazard throughout the house, but the mess did not daunt either one. The excitement of setting up a new life in a new town was intoxicating. As the sun continued its descent and the shadows in the old building began to deepen Alice went from room to room, switching on lights. Her five year old daughter Maya followed, whooping with delight as they discovered each new space together. Alice felt optimistic. The stress that had aged her before her time seemed to lift from her shoulders and for the first time in a long time she began to laugh again.

Alice sang nursery rhymes to Maya as she pulled dishes and cups out of their boxes and placed them in the kitchen cupboards. She could tell by the happy glow that seemed to flow from within her little girl that Maya was delighted by the recent changes. She felt that Maya would now be able to have the childhood that circumstances had previously prevented.

When most of the kitchen boxes were empty and the sandwiches Alice had picked up on the long drive to their new home had been consumed, exhaustion caught up with them and they climbed into the big bed in the room that would be Alice's and fell asleep together. They slept the grateful sleep of prisoners released after a long, wrongful imprisonment.

When morning came Alice rolled over into the empty space left by her daughter. Maya was already up. They watched the sun rise over their new backyard and the smile that shone on Maya's face told Alice that she couldn't wait to get out there and play under the trees and amongst the flowers. But Alice was practical and knew they had work to do first.

'Today we tidy.'

Alice had to hold back a laugh of delight at the sight of her beautiful child pouting and stomping off down the hall into the kitchen. Alice followed slowly and soon began preparing breakfast. After eating she finished unpacking the kitchen then moved onto the lounge room. She smiled when she came across the photo of herself and Maya with Maya's father at Christmas lunch the previous year. They looked so happy. She sighed as she thought of how dramatically things could change in twelve short months.

By early afternoon Alice was exhausted.

'Maya, why don't you go play outside while I take a little nap?'

Soon Alice was woken by an insistent tapping. She tiptoed to the front door and peered through the window that ran down the wall beside it. There was an elderly lady on the front step. She was carrying a covered basket over one arm and she brushed at her hair and smoothed down her dress with her free hand. Alice took a deep, bracing breath and ran her fingers through her own hair. She had known when she decided to move to a small town she would have to deal with nosy, well-meaning neighbours. She had just hoped it would take them longer than a day to figure out she had arrived. The old lady rapped her knuckles on the door again just as Alice pulled it open.

'I'm sorry to disturb you my dear ...'

Alice had to stop her eyes from rolling as she thought, You aren't sorry or you would have left me alone.

'I noticed you moved in yesterday and I thought, what with all the unpacking and such, you could surely do with some of my freshly baked muffins. Keep up your energy.'

Alice smiled a bright smile that didn't quite light up her eyes.

'Oh do forgive me. My name is Gertrude Watts, I live just up the road, the house on the corner. I was so pleased when I heard someone was moving into this old place. It needs some work but I remember when I was just a child this house was beautiful. It always made me think of the gingerbread house in the fairy tale.'

Alice wasn't quite sure that was a good thing, after all the gingerbread house was home to a child-eating witch.

'I'm sorry I didn't catch your name dear?'

'It's Alice.'

'What a lovely name and so fitting for a fairy tale house.'

Gertrude continued in this manner for a full ten minutes. She told Alice all about her childhood. It seemed she had lived in the house on the corner her entire life, and she told her all about the town and the previous occupants of the house that Alice was renting. She didn't seem put off by the fact that Alice had added nothing to the conversation since stating her name. In fact Alice thought she probably wouldn't even notice if Alice wasn't there.

This old woman is lonely, Alice decided and although she felt a twinge of sympathy, she hoped it wouldn't mean Gertrude would be forever visiting. Alice had moved to this lone house at the far end of an empty street in a sleepy little never-been-heard-of town in order to get away from prying eyes and people with good intentions.

Before Alice realised it the old lady handed her the basket and said goodbye. Alice watched her head down to the road and breathed a sigh of relief.

As Gertrude made her way home she shook her head and thought to herself what a strange, standoffish young woman her new neighbour was.

Alice watched until the old lady had disappeared from sight then she ducked into the yard and called Maya down from her perch high in the willow by the front gate. She was glad the old lady was gone; she wanted time to just be with Maya.

Two days later just as Alice emptied the last box there was another knock at the door. She sent Maya to hide behind the stairs then she opened it.

'Hi! It's Alice right? My name's Jody, I run the local welcoming committee and I just wanted to invite you to the next meeting as a welcome to town. It will be held tonight at my place at six o'clock. It would be wonderful to see you there,' Jody said without even a pause for breath.

'Oh I'm sorry Jody,' Alice replied as politely as she could manage. 'I won't be able to make it, my daughter needs me here.'

'Gertrude didn't mention a daughter,' Jody said with a quizzical look on her face.

Alice could barely suppress her annoyance at this stranger's rudeness. Maybe it would have been better to lose myself in a city rather than this town full of intrusive busy-bodies.

'Where is the darling? I'd love to meet her,' Jody continued, looking past Alice into the depths of the house. She didn't even attempt to conceal her curiosity.

'She's upstairs. I'm sorry she doesn't really like to meet new people and the move has been very hard on her,' Alice replied stepping into the gap of the open door so she blocked the pushy visitor's view.

'Of course, of course. Maybe next time eh?' Jody waved her hand in the air as she took a step back. She said goodbye and walked out to her car.

Gertrude was right. That woman is weird, Jody thought as she pulled her car away from the curb and headed home.

'It's okay, you can come out now Maya,' Alice called.

She felt a rush of love fill her heart as she watched Maya step out from her hiding place under the stairs. As her precious child ran into the backyard to play, Alice smiled to herself. She was glad she hadn't made her come out and meet that woman. She could tell from the grimace on her pretty little face that Maya had decided she didn't like Jody and Alice hoped for her daughter's sake that Jody wouldn't bother them again.

I moved here so we could be left alone.

Alice loved the idea that it was just her and Maya. No one else would ever come between them.

After a few more futile attempts the townsfolk gave up trying to talk Alice into joining the community. They spent their time trying to spot the little girl that no one in town had ever met and soon enough something else came along to take the focus off the hermit and her daughter who lived in the house on Weary Traveller's Way.

There was only one thing that existed for Alice: her daughter. As the weeks flew by she savoured the quiet solitude until one sleepy summer afternoon when there was a knock at the front door. Before Alice opened it she called out to Maya telling her to go out and play in the backyard, but the little girl wasn't there.

'Alice?' called the warm familiar tones of the husband she had left behind.

When Alice heard that voice something inside her cracked and a torrent of tears flowed down her face.

'Alice I know it's hard since Maya died, but it's been nearly a year. You need to let go, move on with your life. I miss you Alice and I don't like thinking of you here all by yourself. Please, come home.'
Monday 27 August 2012

Blackout At Blackheath

## Virginia Gow

### Blackheath, NSW

Misty morning. Blackout warning!

Burning perfumes fill the air.

Heat the house before supply runs out.

Cook bacon and eggs, take care!

Now cold does creep through

Cozy cottage cabin cracks; tin roof mumbles and creaks.

No internet, no landline, no radio, no television, no hot water, no light,

Magnificent distractions; frayed and fizzled out.

Back to basics!

Back to candle's flickering flame.

Back to thinking; imagination; meditation.

Send a text to one who cares.

And the voice comes clearly over the mobile,

'Have no fear for in the night

The brightest star will light your room

And help you slumber in the gloom.'

'Starlight, star bright first star I see tonight

Wish I may, wish I might,' dream a fixing dream tonight!

Virginia fancies that she extended the blackout just a little.
Tuesday 28 August 2012

The Reflection

## Jordan Russo

### Bullaburra, NSW

He wagged his finger at her. 'Okay, make no eye contact with him for more than a second. Do not look at him frequently either.'

Etheenchn made a face. 'Oh, but it is rude to not look at someone when they speak to you!'

The General shook his head and laughed, 'For us it is, but to these people, it is polite and we are in no place to languish in our sense of etiquette or ethics – we cannot take anything for granted. Our empire could solidify a treaty with another empire. Imagine the strategic value that would have. As General I am in charge of the defence of this city and ultimately our entire empire. It is the same war raging in a time of peace that has raged since people called it war. Peace is an illusion, a fabrication of the mind. The truth is that war breaks out in a variety of ways and you're either learned and practised enough to conquer your opponents, or you're not.'

Etheenchn pursed her lips and gazed out the window at the sky. Clouds covered the sky in greys and blues. The air had chilled. Etheenchn closed her eyes remembering her father, Yexoloven, saying words to the same effect. She remembered his azure eyes with all their strength as he had given her the codes to the locks of the Forbidden Rooms, denied access by any rank lower than leader of the empire.

'So, when must I meet this emperor and get this over and done with?'

The General smiled. 'Emperor Tonga has already left. He wanted to meet you and set this treaty in writing. I told him you would be eager to meet him in person and finally talk with him. Due to the vast distance between our empires, the organising had to be done with lords further out. I know you have been deliberating over the communications between Emperor Tonga and the various lords relayed to you for consideration, but I feel we need to move to strike this deal with him now.'

He scratched his bearded chin. It had gone completely grey in the last year. He had also taken up a walking stick in the last year. His skin had wrinkled further and he had grown slower. It was amazing how age could suddenly leap out like this. Etheenchn bit her lip. Her father used to put a lot of trust in this man. Emperor Tonga sounded a real high and mighty prick to her.

A few hours later Etheenchn walked down to one of the Forbidden Rooms. She said the magic code and entered into a huge arching room of gold, piled high with old and ancient items of unknown and untold powers. She found the clearing the genie could usually be found in. He was gone. So she started searching around the room. Squeezing between two giant mountains of thick gold coins, she found herself gazing into pitch black. She saw a torch conveniently lying by the gold and picked it up. She picked up two firestone figurines and struck them together as quickly as she could. It took time but finally she got it right and a good strong spark hit the torch. The oil flamed up and she had a torch alight. What amazing convenience. The shiny, wax-like rocks of a cave mouth curved around and lumpy stalagmites rose up. 'Genie!' she called. Her voice echoed everywhere.

There was a mirror on the ground edged in a wavy gold frame. Etheenchn walked over to it, kneeled down and peered at her face in the mirror. Green jewels matching her green eyes cascaded down her hair, tying it into columns.

The following day, she travelled in a horse-drawn armoured carriage surrounded by Royal guards. She had left a note in the Forbidden Room asking the Genie Hiripiut to join her as she travelled to a city at the northern edge of the Green Province – the empire was so big, it was divided into many provinces ruled by princes. As empress, Etheenchn had authority over the princes. The journey seemed to be taking a long time but she guessed she was probably just tired of being in the carriage looking out at a monotonous view of lumpy green hills and reddish rock. The cobblestone road had also become overgrown with grass and yellow-flowering bristles. The road gradually disappeared further and further under the grass and bristles as they followed it between two boulders. Etheenchn got straight out of the carriage as soon as it stopped and took a moment to stretch her limbs and back. She took a drink from her water flask and then placed it on the floor inside.

She looked around and placed her hands on her hips. Pointy, blonde blades of erect grass and reddish brown boulders were all that could be seen. No village, not even a sign saying 'Village one kilometre away,' and yet there should be, by now.

'What is going on?' she asked, sensing something wrong. One of the guards came up to her. 'Your Majesty, it seems that the map being used is wrong.'

'What!' she cried, lifting her arms out from her hips. The guard shifted his feet and looked back at a group of guards huddled in a murmuring group. 'Your Majesty, we think this map is out of date.'

Etheenchn went beetroot-red with frustration 'We need to get to the Rim on time! You know the importance of this particular singular trip!'

The guard nodded, looking her in the eye. 'Your Majesty, the map maker may have been remiss in his job, but we shall not be. The land should be similar. If we keep going forward I am sure we shall find the next checkpoint. In the meantime, we saw a lake from further back on the higher ground. Water is, at least, at hand.'

Etheenchn sighed and rubbed her temple, nodding. 'Good. I was afraid we'd have to backtrack.'

'Your Majesty, I do not know these parts but I assure you we have only stopped to rest the horses, refill our water flasks and check our next marker on the journey. If my memory of the map serves me well it will be another village named Chaw.'

Etheenchn nodded. 'What is your name?'

'Attorse, Your Majesty.'

'Well, Attorse. I want to refill my flask on my own. I want to bathe ... and I want to be last.'

He bowed, 'I shall pass the message, Your Majesty.'

Nice one, Etheenchn, she thought to herself. Creating problems that do not exist. But why should a wise person such as myself make such an error?

Later that afternoon, as the sky turned orange, she walked up the slant in the landscape and a smooth and glistening blue lake rose to view. She walked down to it. A light sprinkle of sparse-leaved trees surrounded the area as far as the eye could see. She came down to the edge of the lake and dipped her toe into the cold water. She shivered and looked around. Then she knelt down and gently ran her water bottle through the water enjoying the sensation. She slowly arced it up and watched the water trickling down from the rim. She wound the lid back on.

Something odd caught her eye. She looked back down at her reflection in the water, the image wonky as the water was still rippling from the action of the bottle being swept through the water. The reflection waved at her. She stood up suddenly and backed off. The reflection of Etheenchn climbed out of the lake and smiled. The reflection walked towards her calmly. 'I sense frustration,' it said in a voice that sounded as Etheenchn might, underwater.

Etheenchn shook her head. The reflection continued on to say, 'Ridiculous customs of other empires, time constraints ... '

'What are you?' Etheenchn asked, feeling shock shake her body. The reflection cocked its head. 'You.'

Etheenchn laughed and then slipped backwards. Dazed, she blinked as she felt a distinctive pain. The reflection leant over her. Etheenchn felt her head and saw blood on her hand. The reflection looked wet all of a sudden. The purple clothes hung tightly to her body and her skin dripped water. Her hair hung in wet clumpy strands and droplets upon the jewels keeping her hair in thick columns glittered in the failing light's last rays. Its lips parted slightly as it looked down at Etheenchn. 'You could escape all this by coming back into the lake with me. You could settle with a man there in my world. We could be the best of friends. You're a powerful Empress. You need not be the one to meet this other powerful Emperor. It might impress him that you have so little concern. One of your delegates who are with you now would be able to arrange for the alliance to be signed and both sides would still be content.'

Etheenchn got up and ran her hands down her thighs slowly. She thought about the handsome guards that were nearby and gazed at the water, then at the reflection. Her reflection. Something inside her was shifting toward a discernable state, an idea beginning to form. She could feel it coming. The reflection slapped a cold hand on her shoulder. 'You deserve to relax and engulf the fruits of this physical world.'

Etheenchn closed her eyes feeling a sense of pleasure at the possibilities. She was tempted. But then she heard a bird singing. It had the sound of the ancient Purple Feathered Hawk. Jalen liked them and had an uncanny tendency to spot them in the sky before anyone else. She liked spending time with Jalen. Playing those board games with him. But more than that, come to think of it. There were other things she liked at the castle. She enjoyed it when she completed a hard task with optimistic results. She opened her eyes. Like often when a person has closed their eyes, she saw the colours as richer for just a moment. 'I will meet this Emperor, ridiculous or not. I am not impatient with people for such petty things, as small differences in custom.'

One month later she waited in the lush courtyard of a small palace in the Rim. The Emperor Tonga was black of skin and had smoky blue eyes. He wore an attractive blue and gold robe and was protected by tall, dark, red-clad guards. He smiled, looking at her. 'Empress Etheenchn, I hear your customs of etiquette are different. I will not take offence to any small aberrations. What I prefer to know is the character of this ruler before me.'

She raised an eyebrow, allowing her gaze to glance away from looking directly into his eyes. He was not such an idiot after all. 'Thank you,' she said. 'I've taken great interest in learning your ways. I am confident I know them.' As he smiled, and she did not know what sort of smile it was as she did not yet know the actual man, she felt suddenly that she had made the right choice. She felt glad for it.
Wednesday 29 August 2012

With Your Guitar

## Tamara Pratt

### Mount Gravatt, QLD

You strum the guitar gently

to a song with

a familiar melody,

and lyrics that have

special times and places

attached to each one –

and for a moment,

I glimpse a memory –

a time

when I was young, carefree

and beautiful.

I danced with bare feet,

long dresses and was giddy

with life and love

and all that which brings

and bears

hope to a young girl's soul.

You sing with the acoustic rush

of highs and lows,

and your voice lingers in the air –

poised, still

only to fade to a quiet reflection,

and stop.

My heart skips a beat

at the places that your

words and song

lead me –

a time when love wasn't lost

on a face in the room

and the eyes that

sought me out

within a crowd

were those that loved me,

adored me.

With your guitar, and your voice,

my memories now subside, and

I am alive again.
Thursday 30 August 2012

The Picture Frame

## Peter Goodwin

### Warilla, NSW

for Sophie

Josephine died three days ago.

Her mother nailed a photograph of Josephine

in her school uniform to the fig tree

in front of the church near where she died.

Josephine was nine years old, a year ahead

of my daughter at catholic school.

They knew each other well enough

to play together when their best friends

were at choir practice or at home sick.

From the balcony where I sat at a small wooden table,

blackening my private papers, my simple words,

I caught glimpses, when I looked up, of my daughter

running hysterically and laughing madly

with the other children behind the tall iron railings

in the quadrangle of the school.

I watched the storm coming slowly towards us

from the west. It cast a dark green light

on everything in its dominion. When it hit,

big lunch was over, the children back in their classrooms.

The storm was still upon us when school finished

as though it had no wish to leave, its work undone.

In the corner of the quadrangle where we

always gathered, I stood with the other parents

in the darkness and the rain as though

we were standing at the base of the cross.

Under the shelter of a black umbrella,

my daughter and I walked through a narrow gate

at the back of the school. Clinging together,

as we leaned into the wind taking little treacherous steps

and singing a song to ourselves, we made it safely,

after a minor fright, across the road to our home.

At assembly the next morning,

the priests under the trees sheltering from the sun,

we heard the news of Josephine's death.

She had left the school with her mother

in the opposite direction to us,

through the main gate, passed the church.

She was holding her mother's hand

as they crossed the avenue of black dripping trees

when a car breaking too late in the turmoil

hit and hurled her into the gutter.

At home my daughter and I looked at

Josephine's photograph on the front page

of the local newspaper.

My daughter recognised the bracelet

on Josephine's left wrist and explained to me

it was a present from Jessica, their mutual friend.

We read together the story of her death.

At bedtime, I sat with my daughter.

We did not talk about Josephine.

I stayed by her side until she fell asleep.

After returning my daughter to her mother

for the weekend, I tidied up her room.

On her desk by the window in a pink picture frame

was the photograph of Josephine

my daughter had cut from the newspaper.
Friday 31 August 2012

Two Hours Till Sunday

## Chloe Loughran

### Brunswick, VIC

Another Saturday

I've been looking out the window for hours now

I predict who will walk past next

And what's waiting for them at home

A man walks past in a hurry

I have no idea where he's going

But my theories will substitute that

In the freezing cold he strolls past

Nothing but a jacket and a hat

Psychically

We are connected

Only for seconds

We're not alone

To a certain degree at least

I wonder if he sees the days as they are

Sunday

Monday

Tuesday

Wednesday

Thursday

Friday

I see this man as Saturday

That is his name

He will be placed

With my other Saturday memories

Right in this moment

We are not alone

I live in him

He lives in me

To a certain degree at least

His name is Saturday, along with the others

If only there were more names

For the days I've lived
Saturday 1 September 2012

*** Editor's Pick ***

Scabby Dawn

## Hettie Ashwin

### Portsmith, QLD

Dawn's not what you would call drop dead gorgeous. She's more what you would call comfortable. She was never a beauty queen or anything but then I didn't marry her for that. I don't really know what I saw in her over 30 years ago, but now it doesn't really matter because we are sort of made for each other. You really get to know a person when you have been living together for all that time. I mean, really get to know all about them. Dawnie says it's kinda uncanny the way we just know what the other person is thinking. But don't get me wrong it's not all jam tarts and cordial. There are things that ... well that get on my nerves. But that's just Dawnie.

I think it all started when we had our Jeffrey. He was a great lad. We used to take him to the park, the swings, the pond, all that sort of thing. Then one day he had a rather bad fall and scraped his knee. Well kids do that sort of thing but after it healed Dawn kept the scab. She said it wasn't morbid or anything and she put it with his little teeth and his lock of hair and his umbilical cord. Sort of a human album of his childhood.

Lots of people keep things from their kids. It's quite normal, Dawnie said. Still, I didn't quite know how to take it. I'm not particularly sentimental. I do like things neat and tidy though. We both do really. The bench tops in the kitchen are what you would call sparse. No coffee machines, no mortar and pestles or spices lined up like soldiers. We like things clean looking. Although if you asked me where it all goes, I'd probably say the spare room. Sort of one of those rooms that just sucks up our cast offs and we just shut the door. Dawn says I'm a real bargain. Not many men are as finicky as me. We are very much alike in that respect. Stanley, Dawn would say, you are a real gem.

Not long after Jeffrey started school he had to have his appendix out. It wasn't a really big deal. These days it is in one day and out the next. The doctors were marvellous about it all but when Dawn asked for the appendix in a jar, they said they didn't do that sort of thing these days. Regulations and the like. Anyway, later on, she kept Jeffrey's stitches. All eight of them. She put them in a little box and that was the last I saw of them. I never asked where she put them or what she needed them for. It was just her little hobby I guess you would call it. Just Dawnie being Dawnie. Jeffrey had a few scrapes after that as he grew up and Dawn's little collection grew. I asked her once was she going to present all the bits and bobs to Jeff when he turned twenty one, sort of like one of those roasts they do on the television for the movie stars. And here is Mr Appendix or something, although like I said, Dawn didn't manage to keep that particular body part. Dawn looked at me quite queer. I mean I know her inside out but I had never seen that look. A sort of incredulous type of look, kinda like if I had asked her if I could just borrow her liver because I was expecting a late night at the pub. And then she let out one of her little laughs and I wondered if I had just imagined it all.

We are quite a demonstrative couple. Dawnie likes a kiss and a cuddle. I like the way she rubs my back and she does my feet a power of good. She really spoils me with the foot pedicure and all the trimmings. Jeff used to come upon us when he was in his teens and just look the other way. I guess it looked a bit ... well a bit sensual, but Dawnie really does a sterling job. We start with a warm soak in some crystals then a brisk rub with a herbal soap and a defoliating scrub with apricot kernels or similar. Then she brings out a warm towel and after a rinse she pats the old plates of meat dry. Then Dawn brings out her little manicure set and gets to work. She picks, pokes, prods and preens my nails and cuts and files. It's just magic and I feel like I am walking on pillows for about an hour afterwards. It's our little ritual, about once a month. Well the other day Dawn had just finished my feet and was packing up and scooped all my clippings, you know the nails, the filings, the dead skin, the cracked heel skins and just popped then in a little zip lock bag. We usually keep the zip lock bags for small things like dried apricots, seeds for planting and that sort of thing, but I watched Dawn and she just carefully popped all my droppings in a plastic bag and zipped it shut. I was about to say something when the phone rang and so I went to answer it and when I came back Dawn was putting the kettle on like nothing untoward had happened. I should have mentioned it. Should have just casually said, Oh, Dawnie, what did you do with all my bits? or something, but really how do you broach the subject of your toe nail clippings without sounding like a right idiot? Anyway it was Jeff on the phone. He said he had a small break in his university studies and was coming home for a week for our 35th wedding anniversary. It will be nice to have him home. And so we began to plan what we might do when Jeff arrived.

It's hard to imagine we have been together for 35 years. After all those years you skirt over the annoying bits. But there are annoying bits. Dawn has a habit of shaving her legs and leaving the hairy ring around the bath. It's not a big deal really, except I have to clean it before I have a bath. And she flosses a lot. She is always pulling out a metre of floss and having a go at her teeth. We could be driving to the shops and at a stop light she will be pulling the floss like she is auditioning for the string section of the local orchestra. And then she pops the string into one of our zip lock bags and puts it in her handbag. I don't mind really, after all her teeth are quite clean, and it is only a bit of floss, but all the same, it is just a small annoyance. And then there are the cotton buds. Dawnie has about a million of them. I swear she buys them in bulk. Like a standing order for one million every three months from the local chemist. She pokes them in her ears mainly, but they do duty in all her creases. She must have the cleanest ears this side of the planet Vulcan and Dr Spock. I don't think she sees me watching her, but she goes at her ears like they were making wax for the Vatican. It is almost an art form. And then she keeps the bud in ... you guessed it ... a zip lock bag.

I wonder sometimes if Dawnie isn't whittling herself away. She is always picking at herself. One day I'll go to find her and she will be in a variety of zip lock bags. Anyway it's not really that bad. And I've put up with it for 35 years so I guess I've kinda got used to it really. I'm sure I do things to annoy her too, though I can't think what off the top of my head.

Dawn had to go into hospital last week. They said she had a bowel obstruction. I went to visit her of course. I said, trying to make light of the situation, that she wouldn't be keeping that little gem, but she didn't quite see the funny side. She said the doctor was worried about it and needed to take some tests. It would be about two weeks she said. Jeff rang. He wanted to know did he need to come home again, but I said your mother said not to worry. We will call if anything develops. Just a matter of wait and see. So I have the house to myself for the duration. There is still a bit to do, to keep the place clean. But I began to think on those zip lock bags. Where would someone keep those bags if they were collecting them? I couldn't sleep because of those bloody zip lock bags. Dawn said I looked worn out. She assumed it was all the to and fro to the hospital and I must admit it does take a bit out of you with all the travel and parking and the like. So she said praps I should just come in every other day. I could have asked her while she was laid low. Could have just said, Oh Dawnie, by the way, where do you keep your zip lock bags cause I have a scab that is just about ready? Or Dawnie, just wanted a bit of cotton bud kindling for the fire. They will burn a treat with all that wax. What I really wanted to say was ... where the bloody hell are those god damn zip lock bags!?

Dawn is still in hospital. The doctor said she needs an op. Nothing major he said. Nothing too drastic, just routine. But it will be a month the doctor said. And then plenty of rest. No lifting. Nothing strenuous. I think he thought I was one of those husbands that don't do anything. I don't know what Dawn had said to give him that idea, but still, I got the distinct impression. Jeff rang. I said he wasn't to come home. Just routine. Nothing major I said. But I couldn't let Jeff see the mess I was in. I started in our bedroom. Under the bed. In the wardrobe, in the bedside tables, in the blanket box, in the dressing table. No luck. Then I tried pulling all the draws right out, nothing. So I pulled all our clothes out of the built-ins. Nothing either. Then I got the step ladder and tried the top of the built-ins. I found Jeff's train set and a collection of old knitting patterns and a small army of silver fish in a cardboard box full of net curtains but nothing resembling Dawnie's horde.

Then I thought I should be a little more systematic. So I made a list, and then did the math. By my reckoning 35 years of zip lock bags might just weigh in at around 30 or so kilograms. That is a hell of a lot of plastic.

I pulled the dressing table out from the wall not really knowing if there would be a trap door or something akin to a James Bond movie escape hatch behind. Of course there was nothing more than a big ball of fluff and a dried out lipstick. As I sat on the bed I had a brain wave. I had seen a movie where they kept the loot in the mattress. So I ripped off the quilt and the woollen underlay and started to feel about. It did make a crackling noise. It felt quite spongy. A sort of scrunchy, scrabbling sort of sound so I fetched the manicure scissors and just dug a little hole in the corner. The scribbley sound was more in the middle and by the time I had tracked it down to the plastic sheeting and remembered we had paid quite a bit extra for the bug barrier it was too late. The mattress looked like a bloated beached whale with half its intestines hanging out.

Dawnie was sitting up in bed when I visited this evening. She had just finished her dinner and was getting ready to watch the television. We chatted about this and that but when you know a person really well as we do, she knew something was up. She didn't actually say Stanley, what have you done? but it was there just hovering over me none the less. I must have looked a bit sheepish because she indicated that she knew something was going on. Sometimes one gets a real burst in the ol' grey matter category and so I said I had a little surprise when the doctors tell her she can come home. Dawnie loves surprises and that seemed to mollify her somewhat. She clapped her hands and said she hoped it wasn't that vacuum seal lock contraption she had spied at the kitchen shop in the high street. Because Stanley, she said drawing herself up in her bed, they are awfully expensive even if we could think of a myriad of uses. I sort of shuffled my feet and then the nurse came in with her medication and I left telling her not to get her hopes up about the vac-u-seal. Well I rushed right out to Bartlett's in the high street and bought the darn thing. It was a small price to pay for my sins. I gave it a go just now and my cheese sandwich looks like a little brick, but I'm sure Dawnie will like it.

I've just been through the spare room. If ever there was a room that needed a good going over it is our spare room. Just about everything ends up in there eventually. Probably the Vac-u-seal will be consigned to the shelves in the wardrobe in the future. I found the flip-0-matic recipe holder, the dip'n'dunk fondue set, the sponge carousel which was a dud from the beginning and our stash of toasters from our wedding, eight in all. It was quite a productive afternoon sorting out all the things and I almost forgot my quest as I rummaged through the old photo albums, but then I found a little box. And there they were, eight little sutures. Jeff's. That really buoyed my spirits and I must admit I became a little frantic thinking I had hit the jackpot but around 9 pm I had missed the visiting hours at the hospital, cut my finger on the ergonomic electric can opener with left or right handed operation and demolished just about every stick of furniture in the room. I will ring Dawn in the morning. She will understand. After all when you have been together for years one missed visit is kinda neither here nor there really.

I said, Dawn I fell asleep. Not really a lie, but not the exact truth either. She said she had seen the doctor and he said she was well enough to come home. IN TWO DAYS. I said now Dawn are you sure? Are you ready?, but she just skirted over my questions and said she was looking forward to her little surprise. Yes, a surprise I said and hung up. God, IN TWO DAYS.

Sometimes I think I'm a little thick. It all seemed really obvious. The shed. Dawn was always nipping out to the shed. I'm not really the handyman and keep a few tools but if anything really needs fixing well we just call in a little man to do it. That is the luxury of having been in a well paid job all one's life. The shed seemed the spot and so I put on my gardening trousers and my old shirt and went exploring. It seemed we had collected garden paraphernalia like we had acquired kitchen gadgets. Kneeling boards, leaf scoops, wonder blowers, hedgers and step ladders which had copulated with abandon and multiplied were stacked ten deep. I rolled up my sleeves and got stuck in. God knows where or why we collected all the junk. There were things I'd never seen. I thought we always shopped together and discussed our purchases, but it seemed Dawnie had been holding out on me. I mean when did she have the time to buy a stuffed fish the size of a small child on a wooden back board, and what is the stuffed toad thing all about? When did Dawnie take up taxidermy? I made a mental note to ask her about the fish. If I just put it up in the front room and when she came home she'd see it and then well, she'd have to tell me. I spent all day in the shed, and really I kinda forgot what I was looking for as I discovered all sorts of things. Things like a jar of pickled octopus and Dawn doesn't like sea food. Things like a picture of Doris Day signed by Doris Day, a bar of soap used by John Lennon authenticated by an official stamp and a pair of Princess Diana's shoes authenticated by Sotheby's. It was a treasure trove. Dawnie would have some serious explaining to do. I went to bed but I didn't sleep much.

I collected Dawn in the morning bright and early. She was sitting on the bed all smiles, like she'd never seen a stuffed toad or a first edition of Agatha Christie. All ready I said and we walked to the car. She said, I am looking forward to going home. Not a trace of pickled octopus on her lips or a dried piranha from Africa on a plaque. Yes I said. Well I had done my best to tidy up but the house didn't quite look the same and she noticed right away. What?, I said and she just gave me one of her looks. A sort of strangled, mangled squashed orange look. Look I said, we have a cockroach problem. I had to do a bit of ... a bit of cleaning and then she saw the piranha, which I had forgotten to take back to the shed and she turned on me as if I was the one that had caught the darn thing and expected her to use it as a bottle opener for guests.

Stanley? she said. And I brought out the Vac-u-seal. If I ever get to heaven it will be only because of Bartlett's in the High Street and the makers of Vac-u-seal. Oh Stanley Dawnie said. Oh Darling she gushed. Honey bunchkins she cooed. She really liked it. It comes with an extra roll of plastic I said. And you can make your own size bags. Dawn tried it out and I showed her my sandwich. Still fresh after a couple of days I said. You want to do my feet Dawnie. I'm sort of hankering for it I said. It has been a few weeks. Oh Stanley she said you are a real gem.

It's nice when you really know a person. Hobbies are a good thing to do together. When Dawn came home she said she was just going to rest. Take it slow and easy. Do her hobby, so I said oh, what hobby expecting it to be taxidermy or something but Dawn showed me the internet. And eBay. It's amazing what people will spend their money on. One man bought a house with a paper clip. You can buy and sell just about anything, rubber band balls, pickled octopus, Paris Hilton's nail clippings, Brad Pit's scabs, David Beckham's stitches, just about anything as long as they are 'authenticated'.
Sunday 2 September 2012

Miss Understood

## Nene Davies

### Thornlands, QLD

For a girl from the tropics, the weather in Melbourne was positively arctic. If she'd been born anywhere close to the Northern hemisphere, she might have realised that it wasn't actually that cold in South Yarra. But for a Queenslander, raised among the steamy palm fronds and simmering heat of Port Douglas, it may as well have been Alaska. The seeming austerity of southern winter weather sent unfamiliar slivers of chill and discontent trickling coldly down the nape of her neck, across her young shoulders and around her slender ribcage.

She stood miserably at a tram stop in the wet grey murk of a late July morning, stoically twitching her handbag more securely onto her shoulder with a practised shrug and changing hands with her weighty Country Road umbrella, for something to do as she waited with a pavement full of other people, for her tram into the city.

She felt like an alien. People were giving her funny looks. She wasn't like them and they knew it. Her features locked and she became a hard-faced girl with a chip on her shoulder. In truth, nobody had even looked her way; too focused on their own lives, and problems and iPods and mobile phones. She wasn't used to wearing so much make-up; at home, the humidity and heat played havoc with carefully applied foundation, which tended to slide down her face like runny cement, sometimes before she even got to college. But here, in this bleak place, she felt plain – ugly even – unless her cheeks bloomed Barbie-pink and her blackly coated lashes flapped, Bambi-esque, over thick lines of kohl. Her pores felt clogged, her lips too loaded with colour and gloss to risk smiling and dislodging it all.

Her new job petrified her. She felt like a provincial hick. Shy, hesitant. Her colleagues in the cold-coloured concrete office building on St Kilda Road were terrifying, larger than life characters to her. Loud, confident, trendy, thin. Hatchet-faced young men, with clever haircuts and spray-on jeans, winklepicker shoes and jaunty scarves, brayed and gossiped at the water cooler, while glamorous girls in tottering heels, with brutally straightened hair pulled back into severe buns and obedient ponytails, cast what she saw as languid eyes and superior smirks towards her, as she awkwardly shuffled papers and turned beetroot at the photocopier. The other girls exchanged glances with one another. Their attempts at kindness, snubbed again. They resignedly turned away.

They hate me, she thought.

Withdrawn, barely speaking, aloof, she found herself alone. The after-work drinks invitations of the first couple of weeks, withered on the vine. She couldn't accept, didn't know how. The thought of socialising with these self-assured young things made her sick with fear. She told herself she wouldn't know what to say, how to act, what to wear. A curt shake of her head each Friday afternoon, yielded looks of puzzlement and then annoyance and then indifference from workmates.

She hates us, they thought.

She retreated, looking frosty, and spent lonely weekends trawling for shoes, clothes, bags, accessories to make herself invisible. The shopping trips brought fresh unhappiness; memories of easy laughter and girly chat with friends up north. 'Don't leave!' they'd said, gazing at her in disbelief. Leggy lovelies in short-shorts and Ugg boots, surviving the 'winter' on sun-kissed beaches under a sapphire and whisper-white sky.

She stood now in the rain at the tram stop as homesickness bolted through her again, like a mouthful of bile. Hot tears tracked through the blusher. Her bid for independence, so defiantly sought, so ill-thought-out. A drama-queen flouncing off because Mum and Dad were so unreasonable, so controlling. Her parents' sad smiles of acceptance. Of remembering their own youth perhaps. 'I'm outta here!' she'd thrown at them. And for what? A minor rebuke? A mild pulling into line by caring parents had given rise to a classic 'It's my life!' tantrum, thrown by a girl who regretted it now to her core.

She'd met him at college; tanned, dangerous, fast, rebellious. Who wouldn't fall for him? The Olds disapproved of course – so much the better. Her thrilled, awakened pulse zinged with excitement. Her first true love, she gave him everything. Everything. A pain not unlike burning steel rods pierced her mid-section at the mere memory of his heartless indifference, just months down that adrenalin-fuelled, senseless track of flattery and desolation. And on he strode; bounding, unrepentant, to the next leggy lovely in short-shorts, while her own little heart splintered in disbelief.

She'd show him. She'd show them all. Small-time, small-town losers. She never even really convinced herself. But stubbornness packed her bags and embarrassment boarded the plane with her. Loneliness became her constant companion. She multiplied her single mistake. Really, what was the point in running away?

She spent solitary hours obsessing. Was she a failure? Was she pathetic? Was it wrong to yearn for home so much? Was this whirling city really what she wanted? Of course not. She doubted a single soul there even knew her name.

Still she stood on the pavement, amid the teeming rush-hour roar. The umbrella swapped hands again. Her tears rolled unchecked, her nose ran. People started gravitating towards the kerb. The tram was approaching, lumbering noisily up the slight incline towards the stop; the screechy rails, the comical bell. Fractious travellers hovered impatiently in the rain.

She had no inkling of the next few seconds so was completely unprepared for what happened next. Like a single staggering bolt of understanding, in a split-second of clarity, she suddenly saw her world through unclouded eyes. Her taut body relaxed and her face broke into her old dazzling smile. Turning her back on the swishing dirty road, she pulled out her mobile phone, urgently prodding at the screen, as she started to run towards the train station.

The phone in North Queensland rang only once. And then an anxious voice. 'Hello?'

'Mum?'

A beat, and then a splash of indescribable delight. 'Amanda!'
Monday 3 September 2012

Politicians Care (A Follow Up To 'Pollies Pay Rise')

## Eulyce Arkleysmith

### Bathurst, NSW

Remember that we care for you

You know we do. We truly do.

This, often we reiterate

So you with us associate

The message that we care for you

We really, really, truly do.

Your problems we do understand

And we'd do nothing underhand

That might make life more arduous

For retirees and pensioners.

Remember that we care for you

We really, really, truly do.

To budgets we must strongly cling

So when your needs you loudly sing

There's no more money we can see

In the federal treasury

But you see we care for you

We truly, really, truly do.

Seven dollars rise was there

Fortnightly pension. That is fair!

No more than that could there be found

We must be sure the budget's sound.

Remember that we care for you

We're sure we really, truly do.

Some months now passed so now we will

Legislate and pass a bill

That to ourselves will be awarded

Many thousands is afforded.

Remember though we care for you

It's not enough to dosh eschew.
Tuesday 4 September 2012 8 am

Un believable (Sudan 2010)

## Sandra Renew

### Dickson, ACT

Previously undisclosed and contra-indicated,

the plans for the South to separate

into a new country,

appear inexplicable, if not unlawful,

to those in charge in the capital.

The groundswell of audacity and self-belief

rolls with the fine, brown dust through southern villages and towns,

secreted and sweltering in the low scrubby hills,

until it manifests in young men and boys,

with a range of outsized and unwieldy weapons,

held unsafely, discharging into the air,

from the backs of unroadworthy pick-up trucks,

as they drive in ill-disciplined convoy

up and down the un-made streets of Juba.

The disbelieving authorities,

in the limitless sand-dunes of the northern deserts,

parade their President and their power,

exuding threats and violence in a crazy dance

in the shimmering streets of the capital,

under a fly-over of two disreputable military planes

showing the remnants of government insignia.

Authority and power, lost by some

and gained by some,

while the outward manifestation of changing times

is the utility loads of young men,

firing into the southern sky and the northern dust,

magnifying their menace

with cheap, reflective sun glasses

and fingers on triggers.
Tuesday 4 September 2012 4 pm

An Extraordinary Woman

## Connie Howell

### Wentworth Falls, NSW

On a cool morning in May, Claire entered the world of two people once hopelessly in love but now bitter strangers.

He, the father, had seen too much war, too much pain and too much suffering. He numbed the memories with too much alcohol.

She, once the happy bride, now the mother of her fourth child, bore no resemblance to the vibrant woman she once was or hoped to be.

Such is life.

For Claire life began in an ordinary town, in an 'ordinary' family with few hopes or dreams of ever being anything other than, well, ordinary.

The unspoken rule was blend in, don't stand out, have no real aspirations just in case they aren't realised and try not to inspire anyone else.

Looking back as a sixty year old, Claire was amazed at how from those beginnings she now understood that her life was far from ordinary, indeed she led an extraordinary life full of adventure and amazing opportunities. She, in fact, was extraordinary. Without ever having realised it she had become someone who did inspire others, who did have dreams and hopes and who helped those she came in contact with to rekindle their broken imaginings of who they could be and what they could achieve.

Over the years of growing up her obvious talent for writing and love of words had been stymied by clichés that had been invented to discourage real effort just in case failure ensued. Maybe they were designed to protect her from such failure but unknowingly they created a constant theme of under achievement.

In a burst of creative talent in her forties Claire did break out of the fog of disbelief for a short while and wrote a book. After many endeavours to have it published and being rejected over and over she bought back into the illusion that she obviously did not have enough talent, being told things such as 'your work doesn't have the necessary thumb print'. What the hell was a thumb print anyway?

Having dipped her toe in the infuriating realm of literary genius of which she fell short she moved on. Moving on was something she had become proficient at especially in the area of personal aspirations yet something constantly nagged at the back of her mind wanting recognition, expression and expansion.

Maybe she didn't have a book in her but perhaps she had wisdom to impart in small doses. Hadn't her mother always said 'good things come in small packages'? Claire felt the sense that of all the women in her family she had the most obvious potential and opportunity to fulfil some of her deepest desires and that she could honour her ancestors by doing it for 'all of them'. She knew that her mother and her grandmothers all made sacrifices in their lives and that somehow she needed to break the mould of suffering and become magnificent and shine. She needed to prove, if only to herself that no matter what your background is everyone has a talent unique and special to them and if not shared and expressed it remains a seed starved of growth and so is only ever a potential that never sees the light of day.

Life is short and unpredictable.

Both her parents had died at an age not much older than what Claire was now so the urge to live life was uppermost in her thoughts. She resolved to be healthier and more alert to the wonders of the world. She had witnessed their lives full of shattered beliefs, broken promises and bitter disappointments. Claire for many years of her life had headed down the same road, making the same mistakes, feeling the same sorrows but somehow within her lived a strength that saved her from total destruction and mindless living and she saw meaning in the suffering and learnt from it.

Life is for living.

To embrace life with all its facets is remarkable in itself. To accept the good the bad and the ugly and yet still find beauty in every day is to know forgiveness and feel forgiven is one of life's most beautiful gifts.

After a recent trip to South America, one of the many special events in her life, Claire began to realise that far from being ordinary her life had taken many turns into the realm of extraordinary to wake her up and remind he that she is not the ordinary person she had always believed herself to be. What a revelation. How could she have lived in denial for so long? How effective familial programming can be!

She had met Inca Shamans in Peru, seen the Pyramids and Sphinx, meditated near a vortex of energy in Sedona and received a momentous healing at the foot of Glastonbury Tor.

Healing is possible. In fact you have to try really hard not to receive healing in all its many forms, but then you might have to wake up and participate in more than daily routine.

No, life itself is no ordinary event, Claire is no ordinary woman and every day is a goldmine of extraordinary moments, for everyone.
Wednesday 5 September 2012

The Lunatic – Prologue

## Paris Portingale

### Mt Victoria, NSW

Cochran and Estermyer were over in a corner of the Day Room. Cochran was in the middle of trying to talk Estermyer into having his fortune told. Cochran had his cards out and he was flicking the deck.

Estermyer was saying, 'I don't want to know, Cochran, I'm not interested.'

Cochran said, 'Come on, Estermyer. I'm going to do it for free. Just for you. Just this once. Won't cost you a thing.'

'I don't want my fortune told. Go and tell someone else their fortune. Look, there's Anderson, go and tell him his fortune.'

Cochran shook his head. 'Anderson won't let me.'

'Well, do Vickers then.' Vickers was on the other side of the room in his wheelchair, drooling.

'Even Vickers won't let me, and he's not even conscious. You're my last chance, Estermyer.'

'No,' Estermyer said.

'Why not?'

'I don't want to know.'

'That's crazy. Of course you want to know.'

'No I don't.'

'Why, because you're afraid it'll be something bad?'

'Amongst other things.'

'Okay, how about this – if it's something bad I won't tell you.'

'Cochran, if I let you read my fortune and you don't tell me what it is I'll know it's something bad, clearly.'

Cochran considered this for a moment, then said, 'Okay then, how about this – if it's bad I'll make something up. Like I'll say you're going to win the lottery.'

'You're an idiot, Cochran.'

'Why?'

'Because now, if you tell me I'm going to win the lottery, I'm going to know you're making it up and it really is something bad.' Estermyer wiggled in his chair. 'This is ridiculous. Look, Roylston's just come in. Go and tell Roylston his fortune.'

'He won't let me. Please, Estermyer, you're my last chance here.'

A new stack of magazines had just come in that morning and Estermyer had pulled out all the 'Scientific Americans.' They were in a pile on the table beside him. Estermyer had a disorder that included, among other things, alternative personalities. He had three others in there with him and one of them was a person called Cosmo and he was giving Estermyer a hard time because he wanted Cochran to fuck off so he could have a look at some article on particle physics.

Estermyer said, 'If I let you tell me my fortune will you fuck off?'

'Fuck right off. Fuck straight off, I swear.'

Estermyer sighed. He said, 'Okay then. Make it quick though.'

'Excellent,' Cochran told him and he dealt the top card of his deck onto the table, looked at it and said, 'Oh fuck,' and went over into the corner and threw up his breakfast.

All this happened on the Thursday. Fenstermacher the Nazi was due to come in the next day, the Friday. The day before Fenstermacher came in was always a bit of a nervy day because nobody knew who he was going to work on. It was always a sort of lottery, with Fenstermacher in charge of all the little numbered balls. Nobody liked having to see Dr Fenstermacher. He was a Nazi in the last war, in charge of psychological experiments, he had all the signs. He called himself Dr Bethlehem because it sounded Jewish and he thought it would throw people off the scent, but I knew his name was really something like Fenstermacher and he was a Nazi. I actually wanted to kill him, and I mean that in quite a real and literal sense ...

This is the opening chapter of a novel entitled 'The Lunatic', written last year and sitting at the moment in the second to bottom drawer of Paris' desk, waiting to be discovered and awarded a Pulitzer prize, or at the very least a Nobel for the advancement of literature. Paris has promised that if you want to know what's in the very bottom drawer, and you are not a person easily made queasy, then you can email him at parisportingale[at]bigpond.com. He assures you, at the very least, you won't be disappointed. We beg to differ and take no responsibility for anyone who takes him up on this offer!
Thursday 6 September 2012

All Quiet In The Bell Tower

##  Anthony J. Langford

### Belfield, NSW

It was one of those hot days where you can see the air rising up out of the ground yet being the holidays, people braved it nonetheless. A blonde haired woman in her early thirties came through the gate into the small fenced playground, which held host to three children, their supervising father and his sister and another man not connected to them who was gliding gently on a swing with his one year old daughter on his lap. The little girl was as thrilled as could be.

The well-dressed woman in her early thirties was not alone. With her was her young German Shepherd. She said, 'Ooh, let's play.' Her boyfriend or husband hung back by the gate, dutiful but ill at ease.

'Come with mummy,' she said, trying to get the dog to scale a metal latticework that led to the mouth of a slide. Was this to be her target?

One of the children, a girl around eight, seeing that a large animal was on its way up, hastily went down the slide, not enjoying it the way she had planned.

With not a small amount of rear thrusting from its owner, the bewildered dog scrambled to the platform, the woman almost frothing as she joined it. 'Oooh, let's go down the sliiiiide!'

The children, the adult siblings and the man on the swing watched on, quietly stunned, if not a touch troubled, but the baby girl, oblivious, continued to enjoy her rush through the breeze though it was at a more languid pace than moments before and daddy had ceased all of his entertaining sound effects.

The dog bobbed its head, hesitant about going down the slide at all, but its owner was insistent. 'Mumsie's right behind you sweetie! Mumsie's here. Off you go now.' The dog, having no choice that it could discern, half scampered, half slipped down the metal embankment, happy to reach ground unscathed as Mumsie, 'Weeeee'd' behind it.

The daddy brought the swing to a halt, a dagger in each eye. The little girl thrust her legs, wanting more.

The woman led the dog on a fast trot around the inside perimeter of the playground, either enjoying the attention or completely unaware of it, her grin euphoric as she finally traversed the gate, where the sign clearly stated, 'No animals'. The dog was overwhelmed to be out and her partner tailed listlessly behind as she continued on her suddenly not so merry way. Just before they were lost from view behind a hedge, the woman was heard by all to say to her partner in a tone not far removed by that to a naughty pet, 'Will you hurry up? Mum and Dad are waiting!'

There was a lingering lifeless legacy at the playground, except for the baby, who had given up kicking her legs and now slumped forward, defeated.
Friday 7 September 2012 8 am

Shadows

## Ruth Withers

### Uarbry, NSW

Who brought the shadows here again?!

They're back! They've come back!

They breed. They brood.

They slither and slide across

The fields of Sanity.

They ooze and bleed from

The trees of Stability.

They seep through the bandages of normalcy

To infect the raw wounds of Decency.

The sun is defeated again

And as she flees, she cries

Acid tears on which the shadows feed.

They slurp. They bloat.

They burn. They sludge.

They disfigure and deface

The visage of Wisdom.

They smother and rape

The mind of Knowledge.

They strangle the children of Loyalty

And violate the body of Love.

The shadows have won forever

And as we die, we cry.
Friday 7 September 2012 4 pm

Resignation

## A.J. Reed

### Knoxfield, Victoria

Who is that odd man who sits at the corner table in quiet solitude? The barman and other patrons cast an occasional glance in his direction. Why does he sit there, alone, studying the empty glass in front of him like it was an intricate work of art? He's been doing that for close to an hour. What is he thinking? Their glances, and thoughts, however, are only occasional, and brief. They quickly lose interest, and return to their conversations.

The object of this mild curiosity, having tired of studying his finger nails, returns his attention to the glass in front of him. He has an empty stomach, though he has no desire for food, and the whiskey has gone straight to his head. Once again, he considers ordering another one, and, once again, he resists the temptation. Not that the temptation was that great to begin with. Yes, he could drown his sorrows. But to what end? What would he gain, other than momentary relief? What would he have to show for it the next day, other than a headache and an empty wallet? The emptiness, the loneliness, and the bitter frustration would still be there.

Besides, he has seen, first hand, what drink can do to a person. He has seen what it has done to her. He thinks of her now. A weak, pathetic shell of what had once been a human being, completely governed by her fears and her destructive addiction. The love he had once felt for her has long since been replaced by a curious mixture of contempt and pity. And abhorrence. He is governed by many of the same fears as she, but is quietly determined to rise above them. He is determined never to turn into that. Of all the many fears that govern his existence, that is probably the single greatest one of them all. With furrowed brow, he lowers his head, and closes his eyes.

An explosion of raucous laughter from the far end of the bar jolts him out of his melancholy reverie. He glances at the half dozen or so men, still in their fluorescent waistcoats and steel-capped boots, beer in hand, celebrating the end of another working day. He is supremely jealous of them. He has almost forgotten what it is like to be happy and carefree, enjoying the simple pleasures of life.

In a way, he looks down his nose at them. Why? Because they are happy with their simple lot in life, content to live life day-to-day, with little concern for the world outside the sphere of their immediate friends and family, with no dreams or aspirations for something better. In a way, however, he also admires them. Why? Because they are happy with their simple lot in life, content to live life day-to-day, with little concern for the world outside the sphere of their immediate friends and family, with no dreams or aspirations for something better. They aren't constantly tortured by the potential of a better and more fulfilling life, tantalisingly just beyond their reach.

His eyes return to the polished wooden surface of the table. He picks up the cardboard coaster, and idly toys with it. His mind wanders back to that afternoon, and the bitter sweet cup of coffee he had shared with an old friend. There is a genuine bond of friendship between the two men, yet, simultaneously, an impenetrable wall between them. Both men have their own problems to deal with, and their own lives to lead. He has many friends. Or, rather, friendly acquaintances. He works hard to make people like him, and he generally succeeds. There are even a select few who genuinely care for him. Why, then, is he so desperately lonely?

Smash! The barman drops a glass. Laughter, and the inevitable, 'Taxi!' He is thankful, at least, that the depression that had been weighing him down for so long has finally lifted. Though, instead of the optimism that he had been hoping for, it has instead been replaced by a solemn resignation. He has yet to abandon his dreams. They may still be within his grasp, although it will be a very long time before he will be able to fulfil them. But he has accepted the fact that they are, perhaps, just a little too lofty and unrealistic. Perhaps he may have to accept his limitations and settle on second best. If this happens, life will go on. He will learn to laugh and smile again. He will learn to enjoy life again. But there will always, in the back of his mind, be a twinge of sadness. And sometimes, in the dim twilight between wake and sleep, he will think of those old dreams of so long ago, bury his face in his pillow, and, in his large and lonely bed, weep silent and bitter tears, heard by no one but himself, as he mourns the loss of what might have been.

He glances at his watch. Once again, he's lost track of time. He rises slowly, and, unnoticed, walks towards the door. 'That'll be eight fifty, thanks, mate.' The barman holds out his hand, while a slightly inebriated customer hands him a ten dollar note, and looks up just long enough to notice as the unknown man opens the door, steps outside, and is quickly swallowed up by the black night. An odd one, all right, he thinks, as he rings up the cash register. Wonder what he was thinking?
Saturday 8 September 2012 8 pm

Lightning Ridge

## Rimeriter

### Lansvale, NSW

Opal

was first collected

as being pretty, colourful stones

picked up from on the surface near bleached white animal bones

close to the Queensland border near a town called Angledool,

by a woman – Mrs Ryan, then it was Charlie Nettleton's rule.

These fields can call the fossicker to seek a fortune still,

you need plenty of perseverance and the old-time strength of will

but you'd better take your camping gear, or at least a swag

because back there in the early days it was just a hessian bag

to provide some with their comfort or at the least some ease,

the modern times adventurer is bloody 'ard to please.

So continue your exploring, there is a place to rent,

it 'as some creature comforts that's if you're intent

to visit this piece of history, this dusty outback town,

learn about its reputation,

why

some never wear a frown.
Sunday 9 September 2012

Ma Wee Pawky Thing

## Alexander Gardiner

### Bullaburra, NSW

Fur aw the Scots at hert

an' aw those yins that would like tae be:)

Hello yea bonny wee pawky thing,

sittin' there tuggin' at ma hert strings.

Aye yer wee, an' oan yer oan yer hard tae see,

niver mind wee thing jist let it be.

Withoot you, we wid hae a scunnered land,

aye wee thing yea think yer oanly a wan man band,

Help tho' is niver sae far away,

life's dramas are nae a'ways dark an' grey.

Yer mair important than yea think,

mair important than oanything that's gone extinct.

Withoot you an' aw yer like kind.

this wurld wid be in a massive bind.

So wee thing get rid o' that pawky look,

yer really a giant in oany history book.

Since the beginning, you have been there to provide,

so yer wee sel', behind a bushel please dinny hide.

Yer no' stonnin' there oan yer oan yea ken,

yea hiv hunners an' hunners o' ither frien's.

Oan iv'ry country an' continent yea hav' many kin.

fur eons an eons that's a'ways bin.

Dayin' yer very very important job,

so ma wee courin' thing dinny sob.

Be a happy pert o' this wurld sae great,

yer up there in lights, aye wee thing, that's yer fate.

Yer fate tae provide fur aw this world's life,

withoot yer life givin' skills, we wid be in strife.

Naw!! No' in strife, cos wee widnae be here,

so ma bonny wee pawky thing, ston' up an' cheer.

Ston' up ston' up, fur heaven's sake,

Ston' up ston' up, a great bow, please take.

Nae langer be a wee quiet gentle pawky thing,

cos great nourishing life you duly bring.

Oh ah ken it's no oan yer oan yea achieve sae much,

miracles oan yer oan there is really nonesuch.

But wae aw yer mullins an' mullians oh kin yea have,

yea kin feed them aw, like the proverbial fatted calf.

Yea see noo, yer nae langer a wee pawky thing,

wae aw yer greenie pals tae the world, greatness yea bring.

Taegither yea will clan, an' nae langer be a wan man band,

wae aw yer kin an' their amazin' skills at hand.

Aw yea amazin' wee verdant clever thing,

yea ken noo join wae yer pals tae bring.

Feed the masses aw aroon the world,

let yer flag of knowledge be unfurled.

Yea thocht yea wir jist a wee singular thing,

but now yea ken yer pals arrr around, tae bring.

Aye, aw yer pals, arr' a touch o' class,

nae langer ma wee thing are yea jist wan wee blade o' grass.
Monday 10 September 2012

Illusion

## Robyn Chaffey

### Hazelbrook, NSW

The rock upon which he sat was arm-chair shaped. It was as though nature's forces over the years had known that any man who had made the effort to come here would feel the need to sit long and to contemplate; to dwell first upon the awesome wonder of the vista which surrounded him, then ... almost without exception his thought would meander as he looked inward then considered those 'others' he had known ... does now know ... on then to the life he has lived ... would wish to live ... his actions and their repercussions ... his place ... indeed, his purpose on this planet.

The cool, granite armchair was a natural formation. None was ever better carved or placed.

Such a place was this!

It felt as though one were upon the very pinnacle of the world. More than that! It felt, from the moment one arrived there, as though the very earth had gently formed itself around him in a gentle embrace.

Though the climb to this point had been made in company, the occupier of the 'chair', without any choice or care, had been sucked into an illusion of absolute aloneness ... at-one-ness ... a spirit fusion with the deep things of Earth's being.

He was, in heart and mind now, in a momentary state of transcendent oblivion to all, human or otherwise, which might pierce the force-field of his focus. Slowly and involuntarily his head turned from one side to the other and back again. Without conscious command at times it stopped to allow his eyes better to drink in the serenity and the wonder of some specific aspect of this kingdom ... and this would cause his heart to swell and his lungs to swoon at the fresh fragrance of the joy ... the peace ... all of which was always there in life yet seldom felt or tasted in this cacophonous living we've developed.

From his elevated throne, borrowed from nature for the shortest time, a metamorphose had begun ... a healing.

He could see, it seemed, for ever. The world below looked like a painting composed by some world class artist. The outlines of its features softly smudged and blended as though to suggest that no one element could, or would ever wish to exist without all others. A world at one!

Could it, the question rose within his being, actually include the man?
Tuesday 11 September 2012

Poem For New York

## David Anderson

### Woodford, NSW

Some left home alone or a kiss at the door

Walked, car or by train like often before

After coffee and small talk they rose to the sky

Sadly not knowing it was their last goodbye

The morning began there was much work to do

But not far away there was fear in the crews

Of four jet airliners diverted in time

To be turned into weapons of infamous crime

The buildings were shattered, the horror began

How could humans do this to their fellow man

Terror then spread to every floor

Their families and friends would see them no more

New York New York we're bleeding for you

But we know your spirit will see you through

New York New York you'll all join your hands

And rise up together to make a stand

Again terror struck, this time from the South

'The Pentagon's Hit!' cried from every mouth

We surely are dreaming as we rubbed our eyes

But this nightmare is real as death rained from the skies

Near Pittsburgh brave men fought for control

This one's lost its aim – they saved many souls

As people ran down the towers to flee

Bold men climbed up, to help and to free

The first one, the next one, a terrible sound

The twin towers crumbled into the ground

Manhattan to Staten from Harlem to Queens

People will never forget these cruel scenes

New York New York we're grieving with you

But we know your spirit will see you through

New York New York, you'll all join your hands

And rise up together to make a stand

But the New Yorker spirit you never can breech

As the President said, and the Psalm it did teach

Though 'the shadow of death' may pass by our heart

We'll show no fear, it can't tear us apart

While we'll never forget the souls that were lost

Justice will triumph whatever the cost

Though you are weary and tired to the bone

Many homelands lost loved ones, you won't pray alone

New York New York, we're crying for you

But we know your spirit will see you through

New York New York you'll all join your hands

And rise up together to make a stand

As the Statue of Liberty raises her hand

We'll mourn the dead, then strike up the band

Then turn to 'Old Glory' and sing no retreat

And walk closer together when we meet in the street

New York New York, we're crying for you

But we know your spirit will see you through

New York New York you'll all join your hands

And rise up together to make a stand

David says: On the morning of 9/11, I was working with the public on Hazelbrook Station. I had a TV in the Waiting Room and had to deal with everyone's grief throughout the day. I arrived home shattered and picked up my guitar. The song poured out as fast as I could write and only took about fifteen minutes.

Editor's Note: To our friends in the US, you may think that David is exaggerating about dealing with everyone's grief that day, and while we 'Down Under' acknowledge that most of us were certainly not as tragically impacted as you or your fellow countrymen, 9/11 was a day when the world stood still for us, too, and grief certainly was one part of the equation here.
Wednesday 12 September 2012 8 am

Nature Study

## Brendan Doyle

### Wentworth Falls, NSW

Ring-tails

mating in the rhodos.

She watches me,

a bit anxious.

He's oblivious,

gripping her from behind,

slowly pumping away.

She suddenly looks

more nervous,

disengages,

jumps onto a higher branch.

He just sits there

looking dazed,

licking his privates.
Wednesday 12 September 2012 4 pm

Fox Encounter

## Barry McGloin

### Holder, ACT

The fox sprang down from the hill to my right

barked at my intrusion and bounded

onward downhill, leaping over the ground

gracefully, its magnificent tail

flagging disdain,

towards the suburban citadel.

I laughed and yelled oh yes surprised and jolted

from reverie, as the fox had been jolted

momentarily from flash descent

and sharp intent

the distinct scent of purpose

perhaps of prey

or mischief,

focussed from brain to snout

snout to tail.

And as I descended I heard a clamour

behind the fences

as dogs aroused from sunny slumber

had sniffed the scent of intent

the full brush of wildness from

the bush beyond

as the fox just stood there proud

and taunting

and they sensed it in themselves

and they envied the fox,

and howled.

We all did.
Thursday 13 September 2012

Fifteen, Homeless And Hungry

## Amber Johnson

### Highgate Hill, QLD

The midday bells chimed through King George Square as I followed my fiancé like a shadow. I had to stay close as we waded through the sea of people or I risked getting caught in the wave of bodies that pushed in the opposite direction. As we reached the crossing, the signal blinked red.

'Damn,' I sighed. 'We just missed it.'

I glanced around and observed the scene around me. Across the road, a busker sang off-key to an old guitar. The few people who did drop change into the case were either masochists or deaf. Beside me, a group of Chinese girls were gibbering excitedly. Their hideous maroon skirts and broad brimmed hats indicated that they were seniors on their recess break. In the middle of the intersection, three plump women were handing out fliers, much to everyone's inconvenience. They were positioned in such a way that it was impossible to dodge them. Everyone else stared across the street, waiting for the green beacon like sprinters waiting for the pistol.

I glanced around as I felt a tug on my shirt. Kevin's hand rested on my side. His expression was grim.

'Quick, empty your pockets and give me your change,' he said frantically. I burrowed through my pockets and presented two silver coins.

'Why?' I asked, as I held out the change. He took my hand and dragged me back through the crowd. We were pushed and shoved as we squeezed through the temporary gaps between suitcases and shoulders. I yelped as a boot crushed my toe. The man glanced down then kept walking without a word.

'Asshole,' I muttered as Kevin pulled me aside. 'What is it?' I asked as we shuffled along the wall. He pointed until I followed he gaze to a stone stairwell. It blended into the walls like all of the display windows of stores beside it. A skinny boy sat on the third step back and watched the people wander by. By his feet was a piece of cardboard with '15 homeless and hungry' scrawled in black marker. The plastic bucket he held in his hands had barely enough coins to line the bottom. Whilst his positioning ensured that he wouldn't be trampled, he wasn't overly visible to the passer by so donations were scarce.

The boy glanced up at us as we approached. His pale blue irises shone with uncertainty. His muscles tensed as if he were ready to run. I glanced around, careful to dodge the crowds and dropped the eighty cents into the bucket. He smiled weakly and let his dirty locks fall in front of his eyes.

Once I reached the crossing, I waited for the lights. His smile haunted me. It was only eighty cents but his chapped lips still parted in gratitude. It was a battle to force that smile when such overwhelming sadness choked him into silence.

'I wish we had more,' Kevin said, as if reading my mind. I nodded and followed the crowd across the street. I glanced into my grocery bags. Most of it was perishable and not really suitable for a child. I saw a block of chocolate at the bottom and pulled Kevin into a side street, out of the way.

'Do you think we could give him the chocolate?' I asked.

'Sure, we could ask.'

'I have to see if he is allergic first. I don't want to make him sick,' I added.

'Let's go back.'

I didn't want to wait for the lights so I jaywalked hastily. Horns sounded at me furiously but I kept running until I reached the steps.

'Hey, do you like chocolate?' I asked. He nodded slowly. I frowned to myself for not being clearer. 'What I mean is, you're not allergic or anything, are you?'

'No,' he mumbled meekly.

'Here you go,' I said as I handed him the block. His fingers trembled as they brushed against mine. He read the blue label and flushed red in the cheeks. That chocolate will barely last him a day. I frowned to myself as Kevin put his arm around me, reassuringly and led me back to the crossing.

'He was nearly crying when you gave him the chocolate.'

'I know.'

'Then what's wrong?'

'It's not enough.'

'Yeah, but what else can we do?' Kevin sighed. I thought about the possibilities. He doesn't have a home and most likely dropped out of school. It isn't right.

'I wish I could help him find somewhere to stay,' I said.

'Yeah, so do I.'

'But it's against the code of ethics to interfere unless the client actually asks for help finding accommodation.'

'He's not a client, Amber.'

'I know,' I said, 'but it helps me to think in that kind of framework.' I stopped in my tracks and smiled.

'Can I go back to the shop and get him some things?' I asked eagerly.

'Sure,' he said slowly, 'but don't get too much. We only have sixty dollars for food for the next week.'

'Sure,' I agreed. 'I won't get anything that will go off either.'

'Get him some bread and something to put on it.'

'I don't know what to get though,' I said. 'I can't get peanut butter in case he is allergic and he might not like Vegemite.'

'Just get him some strawberry jam and make sure you get some plastic knives so he can spread it on the bread. I'll wait out here.'

'Okay!' I yelled as I ran to the store.

I ran down the escalator until I reached the bottom floor. My shoes squeaked as I bolted through Woolworths and navigated the aisles. Hanging from the ceiling were large aluminium boards that listed an assortment of items beneath a number. The sixth one listed bread, confectionary, and spreads so I took a sharp right. I scanned the shelves as I ran and grabbed the first loaf I saw. A few paces further, I found the jam and swiped it without pausing.

The next aisle contained pasta, rice, and sauces, all good options for and cheap and easy meal. I dashed down the aisle and plucked a packet of spaghetti from the shelf and scooped a large bottle of pasta sauce into my arms. I juggled everything around to make sure nothing would fall and grabbed a packet of Cup-o'-soup as I went. I should have grabbed a basket, but there is no time for that, I thought.

'Now I just need cutlery,' I said to myself. None of the aisles nearby seemed to accommodate my need. Frustration brewed within me as I passed three more aisles. I couldn't see them. Before giving up, I stalked around for an assistant. Their uniforms are a pale green shirt and black pants, I told myself as I scouted the area. That guy looks like ... oh wait! Never mind. It's the wrong uniform.

As I paced the fruit section, a blonde clerk slowly drifted in my direction. She was staring idly at the wall until I jumped in front of her. She blinked.

'Hi, do you know where the plastic knives and forks are?' I asked. She took a moment to register what I said before she sluggishly turned around.

'Um, I think it is that way. Right up the end in aisle err ... ten I think.' Before she finished her sentence, I had already taken off.

People jumped out of my way as I ran past them. I was on an urgent mission and wasn't going to stop for anyone. Gasps and startled whispers followed me throughout the store as I sped towards the bold number ten. Once I grabbed plastic forks, knives, and plates I dashed to the check out. A couple who were indecisively analysing the waiting time of two of the servers based on the line up and items presented were shocked as I jumped into the one on the left. I flashed a smile and packed my items onto the conveyor belt and ignored their indignant cries.

As I waited for the woman in front to pay for her goods, I drifted into thought. Fifteen, homeless and hungry. The kid has got a way with words. There is something about its simplicity that is thought invoking.

'Next please,' the server said with a smile. 'How are you today?'

'I'm good thanks.'

'Do you have a rewards card?'

'Nope.'

'That will be thirteen fifty. Do you want any cash out?'

'No, thanks,' I replied. 'I would like to borrow a pen though, if you have one.'

'Of course,' he said with a smile and handed me one from his pocket. He watched me as I waited for the receipt.

'I just need to write something once that prints out,' I explained.

'Oh! No worries!' He handed me the receipt and I begin to scribble my name and number hastily. The cashier glanced over my shoulder and smiled eagerly.

'Thanks!' I said as I returned the pen and pocketed the receipt. He frowned in confusion and disappointment as I skipped out the door.

As I headed back to the stairwell, I flipped my phone out of my pocket and pressed auto-dial.

'Hey, honey. I'm outside.'

'I'll meet you there then.'

'Okay. Bye.'

I swerved in and out of the crowd. People walked straight at me, no matter what side of the path I walked. Bloody hell! Doesn't anyone know how to keep left? I thought as I jogged towards the stairwell.

'I'm back again,' I puffed between breaths. I sat beside him and smiled. He watched silently as I put two bags of groceries in front of him.

'It's not much,' I admitted, 'but it will get you through a few days if you're careful. I got some jam, bread, pasta and a few other things. I also wrote my number down on this receipt,' I said as I handed him the scrunched up piece of paper. 'If you need help, please call, okay?' The boy blinked and reached out for my number.

'Th-thank you,' he whispered and examined the curly scrawl.

'It's a bit messy.'

'I can read it.'

Kevin walked over and glanced up at us. He smiled warmly at the boy and waved.

'Okay, well I have to go now,' I said.

As I walked away, I glanced over my shoulder. The boy was rummaging through the silver plastic like he was tearing wrapping off Christmas presents. His cheeks shone with tears and his smile was genuine. I smiled to myself, but I knew it wouldn't last.

A week later, the food was gone. He still slept under bridges and begged for money in the square. Nights were still filled with silent cries as he pined for a mother to hug him and tuck him in at night. My aid may have eased his aching belly and helped him battle through the week, but it wasn't enough. He still was fifteen, homeless, and hungry.

Amber wrote this to bring us a confronting experience of homeless youth in Australia.
Friday 14 September 2012

A Child's Windows

## Alexandra P

### Kallaroo, WA

I've opened up my windows,

so you can see what lies within

But your windows have security screens

that keeps reality from peeking in

If you cannot see inside me

Then I'll play you a little song

Then maybe you can hear me

And notice what is wrong

The melody has played a while now

It must be too soft to hear

I need to keep turning it up

so it increases with my fear

Seasons keep on changing

the wind is blowing strong

I keep turning up this music

The windows won't stay open long

Can you not feel the vibrations?

Or see the walls of my heart shake?

I can't turn this volume up any louder

It's too loud for me to take

How can't you hear this screaming song?

that's playing from my soul

the beat is thumping faster now

I don't think these walls will hold

The music has stopped playing now

As dead silence fills the air

I'm sorry I couldn't get you to hear

The song I tried to share

I'm closing up these windows now

and shutting the curtains to my soul

I couldn't keep the windows open anymore

The wind just got too cold

I'll open them again one day

But first I need to plant some seeds

and I'll play my music once again

When the seeds have turned to trees

This is the first poem Alexandra has ever written about her childhood of sexual abuse. It's about her screaming from the inside to look deeper and see what is happening; about giving up trying to tell someone and holding onto the hope of one day having the courage to try again. Alexandra says she has always loved to write but only started poetry 'today' – the day she wrote this poem.

Ed: Thanks to Alexandra we've been alerted to the existence of Bravehearts – an organisation which aims to (from their website):

'Break the Silence', provide healing and support, engender child sexual assault prevention and protection strategies; advocate for understanding and promote increased education and research.

For more information or to help this worthy cause, please visit the Bravehearts website at http://www.bravehearts.org.au/
Saturday 15 September 2012

Believing In Ghosts

## Judith La Porte

### Monash, ACT

'This must be your haunted house,' said Gerry to Eve, slowing the car and turning it into the gravelled driveway of Bayleton Guesthouse. He pulled up beside an ornamental pond in front of the house and peered through the windscreen.

Neatly pruned rose bushes grew against the wooden fence bordering the house; the patchy yellowing lawn had recently been mown. The late afternoon sun shone weakly on the purple and white flag lilies lining the red dirt path to the verandah steps.

Eve got out of the car and leaned against the bonnet. She was a tall pretty woman in her late thirties, dressed in jeans and a white long-sleeved cotton shirt. Removing her sunglasses she gazed at the elegant two-storey house.

Built in 1885 near the small rural town of Bayletonville, the house had been a private residence to several families over the years. The current owners, Enid and George Lund, had renovated extensively and transformed it into a comfortable and well-maintained guesthouse.

'What do you think, Rick?' said Eve, turning to Gerry's 15 year old son who stood beside her. His curly auburn hair shone in the sun.

Rick's pale green eyes scanned the upstairs wrought iron balcony with intense interest. Eve could sense tension in his slender body.

Suddenly he grinned. 'Sweet,' he said, tucking his hands into his jeans pockets.

Both she and Gerry had been surprised when Rick had asked if he could accompany them on their weekend's stay at Bayleton. Eve, a freelance journalist, was researching an article on Australian ghosts and hauntings. The house had a reputation as a haunted dwelling − there had been several sightings by the owners and guests of ghostly figures, and reports of other supernatural manifestations.

Gerry, an atheist and a ghost sceptic, had offered to share a room with Rick, in case he felt apprehensive. But his son had refused.

'I'm not a little kid, dad,' he had said.

As Gerry was removing their luggage from the boot, the Lunds appeared at the front door.

'The Addams Family,' whispered Gerry to Rick, and snapped his fingers twice.

Enid, a small trim woman with grey curls, smiled at them shyly. She nervously smoothed down her crisp floral apron. Towering over his wife, George gave each of the arrivals a welcoming handshake.

Eve stepped into the cool dark hallway. A striking antique brass light hanging from the ceiling caught her attention. The dark-blue floral wallpaper looked relatively new. She tilted back her head slightly and breathed deeply. The atmosphere was palpable. The obvious cleanliness could not quite dispel a faint stale and mouldy smell.

Eve shivered slightly. There is a presence here, she thought, and a feeling of profound sadness.

Although never having encountered any ghosts herself, Eve was a firm believer in the existence of spirits. She hoped that something ghostly would happen during the weekend, and not just because of the article she was writing.

Her Irish grandmother, Kathleen, had held an unashamed and innocent belief in ghosts, banshees and even leprechauns. In rural Ireland, where Kathleen grew up, the supernatural was not something to be fearful of, but a normal part of the scheme of things, like death. It sat comfortably in Kathleen's world, alongside her unquestioning religious faith.

As a child, Eve loved to nestle in her grandmother's lap and listen to her tales of spirits and fairies.

Eve glanced back at Gerry coming through the doorway with their two small suitcases. He was there for her sake only and thought ghosts and hauntings were, as he put it, 'a crock'.

She smiled at him fondly. Gerry was so practical and down-to-earth. A widower of two years when they had met last year, he always seemed a little overwhelmed, dealing with a teenage son still grieving for his dead mother. His handsome face looked tired as usual.

'Dinner at seven,' said Enid, as they prepared to follow her up the carpeted stairway to their rooms. 'In there.' She pointed to a doorway off the hall. 'You are our only guests tonight so we will join you.'

'Take this,' George said, handing Gerry a brochure which he had taken from the cedar hall table. 'That'll give you a brief history of the place, including a description of our resident ghosts.' He winked at Rick. 'Don't worry, mate, all friendly, like Casper.'

~~~

In the room shared by Eve and Gerry, Rick lounged back on the large bed, his grimy sneakers crumpling the ivory-coloured quilted bedspread. He was reading from the Bayleton brochure.

'Hey, no wonder we're the only guests,' he exclaimed. 'This place is spooky. Listen to this: the original owners of the house were Patrick and Catherine O'Brien. Their only child, Arthur, born when Catherine was 42 years of age, died tragically when he was five. He had been scalded accidently in the kitchen and died several days later from the resulting infection. Catherine became mentally unhinged and died six months after the tragedy. She fell from the balcony of the main bedroom, onto the ground below. Whether this was deliberate is unknown. The ghost of Catherine, in a black lace dress and cap, haunts the room that was once the nursery. This room is not used as a guest bedroom.'

Rick made a wry face.

Eve shuddered. 'No wonder her spirit can't rest,' she said sadly.

'Oh come off it, Eve,' said Gerry lightly.

'Wow, get this guys,' said Rick excitedly, still reading from the brochure. 'Another ghost who makes a rare appearance is the Staring Woman − the spirit of a woman who lived in the area in the 1930s.'

Abruptly, Gerry raised himself from the pale green wingback chair he had been lolling in and gave a dismissive grunt. 'Anyway, I'm going to have a walk around the grounds before it gets too dark. Coming, Rick?'

Rick rolled off the bed, flinging the brochure onto the dressing-table.

'See you at seven,' Eve called after them as they left the room.

She picked up the discarded brochure and sighed. 'Bring it on,' she said quietly.

~~~

'Do you do all the cooking and housework yourself?' Eve asked Enid, as they all sat around the mahogany dining table that evening.

Enid handed her a dish containing baked vegetables. 'If we have a number of guests, a woman from Bayletonville comes in to help. Last month we had a group of nine from Canberra. They were psychical researchers.'

'Ghost hunters we call them,' George said with a grin.

Rick looked up eagerly. 'Did they see any ghosts?'

Eve saw that gravy from his plate had spilt onto the lace tablecloth.

'Well, they detected some sort of paranormal activity,' said George.

'Oh yeah,' said Gerry, looking at him suspiciously. He took a gulp from his wine glass.

Eve glanced at Gerry from under her lashes. His face held a scornful expression. The overhead gasolier made his eyes seem hollow and gave his face an unusual pallor.

'What sort of equipment do they use, these ...' He hesitated on the word. To Eve's relief, he finally said '... ghost busters.'

'Who you gonna call?' muttered Rick.

George put down his knife and fork and leant back in his chair. His voice took on a lecturing tone. 'Electromagnetic field detectors to identify static electricity; digital thermometers to measure fluctuations in temperature. You know, there's always a sharp drop in temperature when a ghost is around. They also use infrared surveillance cameras –'

Gerry interrupted him. 'I read somewhere those ghost photos are all bollocks, or have some logical explanation.'

George frowned at him. 'Some might be fake, but most are real. The group here last month also had a digital voice recorder and some sort of condenser microphone. They seemed excited about what they picked up.'

He glanced at Enid who was nodding her head rapidly.

'I would be really interested in their findings,' said Eve. She narrowed her eyes at Gerry.

Enid addressed herself to Eve: 'We host séances as well. There's an excellent medium, Janet, comes over from Griffith.'

George turned to Gerry, 'There are ghosts here, mate. We've seen and heard them.'

Rick sat up straight and stared at him. 'Dude, that's awesome!' He glanced up at two framed sepia photographs on the wall opposite − portraits of Patrick and Catherine O'Brien. Patrick, looking stern, was seated, cross-legged. Catherine was standing, one hand resting lightly on the top of a carved wooden chair. Her youthful face looked placid.

Enid leaned towards Rick and gently tapped his arm. 'Animals can feel the presence of ghosts, you know. When we first came to live here three years ago we brought our little poodle, Toby. From day one he just kept shaking and whining most of the time. I had to take him back to Sydney to my sister's. And last year a stray cat decided to adopt us. She was a dear little thing but she only stayed one night. We never saw her again.'

Eve caught her wistful look.

As Enid was clearing away dishes, Gerry excused himself, declining dessert. Eve was surprised.

'But it's your favourite, Gerry – pavlova.'

He just shook his head as he left the dining room, Eve noticed that he looked pale and had his hand pressed against his side. Those stomach pains again. She had been urging him for weeks to see Dr Grey, but he always had some excuse.

That was probably the reason he had been testy with George. It was out of character for him to be so rude, she thought.

Eve and Rick stayed on for Enid's pavlova with passionfruit and cream, Rick readily accepting Gerry's portion. They left the dining room just as rain started to splatter against the windows.

~~~

Rick locked his bedroom door. He dumped his backpack on the bed and zipped open the side pouch. Reaching in, he pulled out a folded sheet of paper. He smoothed it out on the bed and read the words he had written the night before, in green pen: To Carolinda Bennett, died 24th March, 2009. Sorry mum, sorry. I love you. Ricky.

When Eve had told him about her and his father's planned weekend in a haunted house, he knew that this was the opportunity he had been waiting for − his chance to say sorry to his mother for killing her. He knew that he was the cause of her death.

That afternoon, three years ago, his mother had picked him up from school as usual. He had been in a bad mood and he was hungry. He had wanted her to stop at McDonald's. She had said no. It was raining heavily and she was anxious to get home.

But he had kept on pestering her and had started kicking the dashboard, swearing at her. His mother had turned to him, her face angry, shouting at him to stop. Then the car had swerved, there was a loud bang and the world went topsy-turvy.

He had woken up in the hospital to see his father's face distorted with grief, his eyes red and wet. He had known then that his mother was dead and that he was to blame.

Those months following the accident had been a haze of pain, both physical and mental. He had stayed with his grandparents who, despite their cocoon of kindness and gentle love, could not comfort him. He remained stony-faced, unable to cry.

Gerry had taken him to a counsellor who had told him not to blame himself; that his mother would not want him to. But since that day, he had felt a fierce need to let his mother know how sorry he was.

He reasoned that if Bayleton Guesthouse was a place haunted by ghosts, then his mother would somehow know about it and would come there to see him. He had a vague worry that she might be a bit upset about Eve, being Gerry's girlfriend.

If his mother herself did not appear then perhaps Catherine O'Brien would. Then he could give the note to her. She could pass it on to his mother.

Rick had little doubt that in that foggy world inhabited by dead people, his mother, always so garrulous and friendly in life, would somehow know Catherine.

A thought occurred to him. A ghost may not be able to hold a piece of paper. He knew from films that they were misty and that living people could walk right through them. He would have to hold the paper in front of his mother's or Catherine's ghostly face.

Either way, he knew it was imperative that he stay awake all night.

He took out a can of lemonade and three chocolate bars from his backpack and placed them on the bed beside him. He then propped himself up against the headboard. He put the note on his lap. Eyes wide and alert, he waited.

~~~

The next morning Eve awoke to see Gerry standing at the window, his back to her. He had pulled back the brocade curtains to reveal a damp grey morning.

'Uneventful night. No ghostly visitors,' he said, turning to her with a rueful smile.

He knew that Eve had lain awake most of the night, keenly anticipating any ghost-like rustlings in the house.

Eve was grateful for his lack of smugness.

'Pity,' she replied, yawning daintily. 'Oh well,' she continued brightly, 'I still have a fair bit to write about. George had some great stories to tell.'

She swung her legs off the bed and put on her dressing gown.

Gerry headed for the door. 'I checked on Rick earlier; he's fine. He'll see us downstairs. Enid said breakfast's at eight thirty.'

Eve nodded. 'We should head off straight after, before it rains again.'

~~~

Earlier that morning Rick had snapped open his eyes, sat up and looked at his watch.

'Oh Jeez,' he had exclaimed. 'Seven thirty!'

He was angry with himself for not being able to keep his vigil. His neck was aching from sleeping in a sitting position.

Then he saw that the note was no longer on his lap. He searched the crumpled bedding. He knelt and peered under the bed. He circled the room, checking everywhere, rubbing his neck. Then he walked to the bedroom door to see if it was still locked. It was. The safety chain was firmly in place.

Suddenly Rick stood still. An intense feeling of tender love and forgiveness seemed to encircle him.

He screwed up his face as the hot tears splashed onto his cheeks.

~~~

On his way to breakfast Gerry passed the parlour situated next to the breakfast room and glanced in. A woman was sitting on a couch near the fireplace.

A new guest, he thought.

As he was early for breakfast he decided to wait in there. The woman turned her head and nodded to him as he entered.

The room smelt musty after the evening's rain; the heavy velvet curtains were drawn. He could see in the half-darkness that the woman was not young but that she had a mature beauty. She was wearing a dark knee-length dress and black high-heeled shoes.

'Hi, I'm Gerry,' he said, smiling.

'Mary,' she said, in a soft voice.

Gerry peered at her face. Despite her prettiness there was something odd, unmatched, about her eyes.

All at once he noticed that the room was cold, almost icy. And the woman kept staring at him in a strange way.

Feeling uncomfortable under her intense gaze, Gerry looked away. When he looked back at her he felt his heart beat wildly – she was standing now and seemed to be hovering several centimetres above the floor. Her eyes were still fixed on him, shining like lights.

Then suddenly, she seemed to shimmer. As Gerry watched in horror and amazement she glided right past him. And then she just disappeared.

Gerry was transfixed, unable to move. He felt nauseous and dizzy. He caught a glimpse of his own face, pale and astonished, in the gilt mirror above the fireplace.

~~~

When Eve came into the breakfast room she was holding a small book, its cover mottled and tattered. Her brown-framed spectacles were perched on the end of her nose.

Gerry and Rick sat at the oval-shaped breakfast table. Rick's face was slightly puffy but held a goofy grin.

Gerry appeared shaken and bewildered. He had decided not to tell Eve, and certainly not Rick, about his strange experience in the parlour. The whole incident had been a bizarre illusion, he concluded. He must have been hallucinating. He had been feeling unwell since the previous day. Or more likely it had been some elaborate trick set up by George because of his vocal scepticism about their ridiculous ghosts.

The sound of clattering dishes and the murmuring voices of the Lunds came from the kitchen.

Eve held up the book. 'This is so interesting,' she said, failing to notice the unusual demeanours of both Gerry and Rick. 'I found it in that bookcase on the landing. It's called The Visitor of Death and Other Ghostly Manifestations. Published in 1952. One of the stories is about a woman called Mary Donnelly who lived in Bayletonville in the 1930s.'

Gerry looked up sharply.

Eve continued. 'Mary was the wife of the Bayletonville undertaker. Apparently she was feared by the locals because, if anyone was ill, she visited them, dressed in black and stared at them. The sick person usually died shortly after her visit. The word in the village was that she was hastening business for her husband.'

Eve went on, unaware of Gerry's mounting agitation. 'She had two different coloured eyes. According to superstition that indicates a person has the evil eye. Since her death her ghost has been seen occasionally in Bayletonville.'

Her eyes widened. 'She must be the Staring Woman mentioned in the guesthouse brochure!'

Then she saw the look of fear on Gerry's white face.

None of them noticed George Lund standing silently in the doorway to the breakfast room, holding a laden tray. He was looking at Gerry and shaking his head sadly.

At that moment the sky darkened and the rain that had been threatening all morning began pelting down noisily.
Sunday 16 September 2012

My Plea, My Son

## Kai Maddever

### Baulkham Hills, NSW

To my Son

and the world,

At about the time most boys learnt to tie their shoelaces into a knot, one boy learnt to write. He wrote in a language only understood by him. This communication was founded within the innermost emotions of his heart, transformed into letters and sonnets reverberating the complex harmonies of life. These letters were smeared with the ink of heaven, yet he did not write a word. It was the rhythm of his fingers that could spark knowledge, love, passion and freedom; for in a pair, his mind and his talent were one in the same. He was not his own. God ruled the mind of this one, for there was no doubt this gift, as large as the world was given ears, would mature to be his greatest blessing and his greatest curse. He was many things, but for the sake of the ink produced by my quill, he was most importantly my Son.

His first three years, his breath ran parallel to ours, his life was ours, he was in our world and he was one of us. Like many, I had developed skills throughout my life as both a father and an arts instructor. It was these skills that I intended to utilise to bring forth the unique character imbedded within my Son. Little did I realise how truly unique he really would become.

On his third birthday, as if the Divine had played a chord, the realms within his cranium erupted with a fascination for music. He would sit, legs dangling, grin beaming at me, in front of his three-legged voice. The black and ivory would be splayed out on the end of the mahogany wood, like soldiers, distinct, and the same. Each one served a purpose, each one a tool for the master of five years of age to manipulate and to serve.

He played, taught by his eyes and ears, educated by watching his sister's fingers. I would have no choice but to sit and soak in the living mood that swept through my house. Like the plague, it was infectious. The pure sweetness of pride that I tasted while I listened came not due to the honey flowing through my ears, but due to the pleasure I received asking him to slow down so that I could transcribe what mysteries the heavens would have flood my house.

This abnormal growth within him trapped his mind and body from venturing outside his comfort and his house. From this seclusion, his talent grew like the plants do from the sun. He would play over hours. Like Shakespeare, time was lost, and every sound became alive and relevant. I would never have dreamt such genius would manifest itself through such small fingers, especially from my own blood, my own seed.

It was about the time he was ten when I realised: Where were his companions? His allies? The only ones he wrote, listened or talked to were the ivory soldiers stretched out before him. Conversation was negligible when music was not the primary focus and any mutter of other people or social necessities purged a shiver both down his spine and the music from his keys. As if all social connections were replaced by his genius.

It was not as if we were out-cast by fault of our financial status, in fact, we were drawn in by society because of our wealth and his fame. Fame ... of all the greatness to be hyper-sensitive to ... he chooses FAME! There was so much pride in my heart for my Son and for who he was but something wasn't right. Something I couldn't see.

I took him to see professional people, people who could fix his way of thinking, change who he was. However, something even worse diseased the air that he breathed. I organised gatherings and music groups but like-minded and like-skilled kids were extraordinarily difficult to come by. I forced him to read about fictional characters brought into life by men who had skill with paper and quill, to withdraw the inner adventurer I so desperately wished was not asleep, trapped inside him. But he never woke up, never came out. Was there even one at all?

His unparalleled abilities took him beyond the skies. As he grew up and left home, I couldn't help but wonder how he would get through life without knowing how to relate to others in a way they could relate to him.

Tears swelled and blurred the base of all my sight as I pondered how the world could know him, appreciate him, accept him, yet he did not know, appreciate or accept the world.

He was approached by many famous writers and performers and I occasionally played with him on the violin. I became old, and he kept playing, but it never came through to me why he was not prepared to change to benefit himself, or society.

The interviews were curious things. As if the individual on the other side of the questions had been transformed into a soldier, his communication skills brightened up. Of course, the talk was almost unquestionably music related but there was communication never the less.

It has taken me 68 years, to realise my Son is My Son. He is who he is. If the Supreme Being would have him disabled in the ability to communicate in language he was most certainly compensated with the rare, immortal gift of communication through music.

So upon my deathbed I apologise to my Son, for everything I did to reverse what I was clouded into believing was alienation. When upon actual matter, this seclusion and anti-socialism was his, one seat, transportation into immortality within the music that he created by the quill protruding from his hand.

Leopold Georg Mozart

Salzburg 1787

Kai wrote this 'letter' for the HSC when he was just 17 years old. Kai loves literature just as much as he has a passion for music – he feels like they slip together quite well as far as creative writing goes. The challenge proposed for the above asked for a piece with a theme of belonging. He hopes he achieved it.
Monday 17 September 2012 8 am

Dainty Daisies

## Linda Callaghan

### Bullaburra, NSW

Pretty faces and white petals surround

dainty daisies growing from the ground.

Spring has sprung and the show begins,

flowers bloom and a bird sings.

Time to celebrate what we see,

the beauty is there for you and me.

Daisies push and twist their way to the top,

And greet the day, they do not stop.

In all their splendour they put on a show,

and gracefully exit as others grow.
Monday 17 September 2012 4 pm

Becoming Colour

## Michele Fermanis-Winward

### Leura, NSW

A tinge is seeping in,

the shadow on a veil,

diffuse as mist

that floats and drifts

eludes what can be named.

It flows into a form

where tone can be defined,

builds from a shim,

solidifies, becomes a shade

that ripens into hue.

Flushed delicate to bright,

then blazing as it saturates,

continues into tertiary

devours what had been light

and claims itself as black.
Tuesday 18 September 2012 8 am

Adequate Time

## Aaron Carl

### Springwood, NSW

When you remember things you have done

And the things you want to do

Admit your failings and success

And to yourself be true.

When the shadow of death calls out your name

As you stand there in the line

Simply say 'put a hold on that'

You see it's not my time.

Set your mind on friends that you've had

And thank them for all they have done

And as I look around this room

I thank each and every one.

We are all a part in that cog that turns

Helping, others to live

The wealth I quote is not what a person has

But what they are willing to give

When was the last time you

looked at the stars?

Or felt the moon upon your face,

When was the last time you felt brand new

And won that final race.

When was the last time you gave it all you've got

And relaxed just feeling proud

Or had a picnic by a river

Making faces out of clouds.

Time is short so live it

And let those troubles be

Believe me; put your heart in it

And each day is beautiful, just see.

Aaron says he has written about 800 poems, and that 10 of them are quite good. 'Adequate time' said quickly may sound like ''ad a good time'. Aaron has cancer so on his 60th birthday he 'donated this little verse' to a small group of friends.
Tuesday 18 September 2012 4 pm

In My New World

## Felicity Lynch

### Katoomba, NSW

The moment is lost

The silence resounding

Regrets camouflaging

The heart's yearning

What of the future?

Thoughts rise and vanish

Like the mists in the Mountains

Dreams lost in daylight

Memories litter

But nobody's there

No weary heart beats

No passion lurks there

No tension exists

Between what might be and what was

The real and the virtual

Reality lost

This moment. This time. To live in the present

Time's relentlessness challenges

Wreaking a path of destruction

We drift among the vanishing

Goodbye to the past, the present is now

The self is lost to the future

Silence enfolds
Wednesday 19 September 2012 8 am

Send In The Infantry

## Graham Sparks

### Bathurst, NSW

A force of foreign soldiers

bent on doing mayhem

has landed on our shore.

But dear oh dear the government

has sold off all our arms,

or gifted them in tribute.

We'll send in two year olds with popguns

to melt their retched hearts,

and teach 'em not to mess around

with Australia's infantry.

Graham says this is a joke, but only just.
Wednesday 19 September 2012 4 pm

Diary Of A Meph-Head – An Extract

## Mark Govier

### Warradale, SA

1. 'Roads to Ruin'

The Road to Ruin, preordained? Ancestors/

Too many, expiring without a question in

Invisible half way houses, without name

The end of this story? Pause/ I know not/

A red river/ Brains shot out

Birds feeding on suburban pavements/ Again

Peace bomb, blowing the back of my head out/

A silent rain/ The unseen breeze

An elixir called spring/ The scent of decay

The Forest within/ The same in all directions/

Paths without end/ But no way of knowing

If there is a centre/ Pause/ No way

Shaking like a leaf in the chemical winds/

Hands and mind tremble/ Nervous agony

Is this really, another nail in the coffin?

Fingers down the throat/ Helping/

It all come up/ Collapsing on a plastic floor

Please call an ambulance, for I am alive

The Door is open, but who wants to leave?

Life as an Institution/ Being patched up

Watching TV in nursing homes/ Til you're gone

Free as a Poet/ I can say what I want/

Within the confines of Law/ Nobody listens

No one cares/ No money, no weapons, a cipher

Dope fiend, getting wasted on the latest/

Poisons/ High as a vulture circling his own dying

Body/ He savours, every crumb

Slept on wooden floors or cheap carpets/

For years/ Out of choice/ If he offers you a place

In his dismal realm/ I'd be careful

The witching hour, without witches/

No broomsticks/ Just long lines/ A promised

Land for those without promise/ Here, now

Treble vision/Burnt out before I was born/

The Womb of Terror/ The Masque of the White

Death/ Closer, always closer

Your head in the mirror of this strange/

Design/ The rest lies on a stained mattress

In a distant land/ Rented by the hour

Where's it going, this world, this/

Whatever it is? Old corpse talking to the Moon

The Silver One listens, but that is all

You opened your mind/ The cat ran out/

Never to return/ You left it open/ Now ghosts

And monsters fill your house

Wandering in a cave of light/ Coming down/

Falling asleep at the wheel/ Passing through walls

Unseen/ For tomorrow is already here

Still life/ An un-arctic wind/ Trees rustle/

Clouds of pointlessness/ Mouldy fruit

Another Miscreant opens his eyes

Chopped down trees/ Dog Waste/

Too many prams/ A paradise for the trapped

Leaves bristling/ An afternoon in, hell

Banal bus commentary, on what passes by/

Floating serenely on a pool of filth

The clotted remnants/ The things, unsaid

Leaving a subway tunnel, not knowing/

That I had entered/ The blast of morning

Light/ Vague hoverings of voices, unseen

You have problems, I have time/

Fields of old brickwork hide in the darkness

Chanting from a church, that never was

~~~

Mark says that this is an extract from his 'Diary of a Meph-Head' which was composed in the secret dead of night, by the possessed.
Thursday 20 September 2012 8 am

Reveille

## Andrea Payne

### Salisbury North, SA

For Roberta and Jim, who shared this with me

A quiet, untravelled, lonely gravel road

winds slowly o'er the deserted canyon floor.

On each side, stretching ever up

the mountains reach to meet the sky above.

A hundred, hundred stunted ancient pines,

twisted by the cold, wild, vicious winds

cling desperately to those rocky heights

with strong, taut, clenching fingers.

Below these lonely heights, on every side

the sagebrush, and the dry sharp thorns

thrust upward from the sandy ground

and quietly wait to snare the unwary traveller.

No paths wind here, no shady place awaits

with outstretched arms to cool the weary. On every side

the jutting rocks lie wait, and every step

must be with care – here lies no level ground.

A wild, harsh place, this – it seems to me

that my step is the first. Who else would come?

What purpose in this lonely deserted road

so far from other trace of humankind?

No life here now, it seems – there's nothing left

but if I search I'll find the hidden ones

that now call this inhospitable place their home.

The ants, tarantulas, the scorpions and the snakes.

And then I see the tumbled concealed stones.

The walls that fell away so long ago,

that Nature's claimed again, and swallowed up

to hide all sign, all trace of human hand.

Look there! Just there! Amongst the scrub,

hiding by these broken tumbled walls.

The spring that gives life to this quiet place.

Clear water, flowing from the desert's heart.

Not ten feet from that ruined place

concealed amongst the bushes, jut

old, tumbled, timbers. Climbing, they slip and fall again.

Cry hopelessly for aid, that somehow they'll escape

that deep, black, yawning pit. The shaft

that swallows them. The rock that leaves my hand

falls silently into that hungry maw, then splashes

screaming into the hidden, watery depths.

This quiet, deserted, lonely place

touches some deep chord within my heart.

At night, do these walls somehow rise again?

Does moonlight shine reflected from the hair

and faces of the forgotten? Those sad, nameless ones

who once walked this lonely place, who called it home.

Do their souls ever rise to walk again

the paths they trod, that too now leave no trace?

The sun sinks slowly away; the shadows fall. The time has come

for me to go, to leave this place behind. Return it

to the wind and the desert sand that own it now. But I take

a small piece with me, locked within my heart.

And sometimes, deep in the quiet, lonely night

I will remember, and I too will walk

the forgotten paths, smell the mountain air, and see again

the place and the beauty that was, and is no more.

And as it once more lives within my mind,

will the moon in the canyon at Reveille bend to kiss

my hair? And will the shades that walk

those paths beside me see me, and wonder who I am?
Thursday 20 September 2012 4 pm

Untitled #18

## Emma-Lee Scott

### Callaghan, NSW

The pieces of the fallen,

Lay wasted on the earth,

A shapeless monster is brought

To birth,

Shadowing the war torn

The morphing blackness,

Follows the fragile,

The fearful begin to shudder

With askance,

Shaking their roughly stitched pieces

They try to freely scream,

Sending a warning out,

But the alarm remains frozen

In the stream,

They remain lying and suffering

The figure grasps them tight,

Ready to devour,

Clenching with a mouth wide open

Ready to bite,

Yet still they are too afraid to fight.

The broken are not free,

Scared to escape,

From those memories that require

A plea,

From nightmares of horror

The monster remains steady,

With grimy clasp,

Only wanting to release

When it is ready,

So the war torn suffer

They suffer with each breathe,

Each movement,

Every thought that

Is fresh,

For the connection is indefinite

Memories never to disappear

Emma-Lee says this poem is a remark on how, although we continue through life despite the occurrences we may experience, there will always be the lingering of terrible memories which we cannot escape.
Friday 21 September 2012 8 am

Eternal Devotion

## Shannon Todd

### Empire Bay, NSW

You are my beginning, I would give you my end,

For without you I'm nothing, I struggle, I cease.

And I can not contain and I can not pretend,

From this love that I cling to, I crave no release.

You are my mirror and I your reflection,

Neither exists in the absence of one.

You are my compass, my only direction,

Bound by the ropes that can not be undone.

And if I were lost and cast far from here,

I would never stop searching 'til I found your arms.

You are my reason, my purpose, my dear,

You shelter and hold me, protect me from harm.

And if death's hand tried to steal you from me,

It may take your body but never your soul.

For your essence, it is both immortal and free,

Your half to my half, to make us a whole.

To say that I need you falls short of the mark,

To say that I love you derides the emotion.

You are my life, my metaphorical heart,

Take it, you own my eternal devotion.
Friday 21 September 2012 4 pm

You Were Gone

## Crystal Lee

### Salisbury Downs, SA

Leave your sympathy

And your pity

I only closed my eyes for a second

I wonder if your mind is ever occupied

With thoughts of me

Or if it ever was

I wonder if she makes you happy

whole, or all those other things

Does she inspire you like the summer waves

Do you live inside a fairytale

Is it perfectly bittersweet

Has your life been complete

Since you left me

Save your sympathy

And your anger

I only closed my eyes for a second

And I wonder if you wrapped yourself

Around her

While I slept in my tears

Are you a better man for knowing her

Are you wiser than your years

Do you hold her like the summer rain

Do you whisper in her ear

The things I wish you'd said to me

The things that caused my pain

Leave your pity

And your excuses

I only closed my eyes for a second

Save your sympathy

And your lies

Don't bother trying to apologise

I only closed my eyes for a second

And you were gone
Saturday 22 September 2012 8 am

Would You Like (F)lies With That?

## James Craib

### Wentworth Falls, NSW

Since light travels faster than sound, some wealthy people appear bright – prior to you hear them speak.

Verily they shall inherit the earth for they have the money; hence the power, whilst we the meek ...

Remain not impassive: now there's a missive for us all. I used to be indecisive, now I'm not so sure?

Nostalgia isn't what it used to be! I'm told to respect my elders, but it's getting harder to find one more

Elder than me; except of course those fresh faced young 'elders' from the church of latter day saints;

Going to church doesn't make you a Christian any more than holding an artist's brush says you can paint.

To steal ideas from one person is called plagiarism, but to steal from many is known as research.

I've discovered, to my embarrassment, you're never too old to learn something stupid and what is worse:

Just messing about in a garage or a shed at large doesn't necessarily make you a carpenter or mechanic.

Money can't buy happiness, but it makes melancholy easier to endure; reduces stress and quells the panic.

Society is forever evolving: change is inevitable ... except perhaps from a vending or gaming machine.

A clear conscience is usually the sign of a bad memory, nonetheless you should do as I say not do as I mean.

Now you might say that I'm a hollow man but actually this reality is a hologram; you should not doubt it!

Don't you think that if I was wrong, there would be an almighty throng in protest and I'd know about it?

Clearly, if I agreed with you we'd both be wrong: this being the perennial song that I sing to you.

I remember a teacher, who looked like a tortoise, who taught us don't bite off more than you can chew.

I didn't say it was your fault; I said I was blaming you: it's the infamous tradition of the whipping boy charter.

Tempted to fight fire with fire? Keep in mind when dealing in kind, you can't beat the smell of a burning martyr.

Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness: for they will be satisfied – when the cheque has cleared.

In exchange the scientologists will clear your head; Old Mother Hubbard must dread that L. Ron was so queer.

Madman or Messiah: who knows the difference? It's all bunkum brethren, fair dinkum you should listen to me,

I'm a Presbyterian: we believe in Frisbees! When you die your soul goes up on the roof and doesn't return to thee.

True knowledge is being aware a tomato is a fruit and astutely not putting it in a fruit salad; the difference is subtle.

We never really grow up we only learn how to act in public. Of course I'm perfect; disagree and there'll be trouble!

So now you perceive I have my own beatitudes ... with attitude; not to mention paraprosdokians* – have no fears,

Luckily, I can read minds ... alas I'm illiterate. The voices in my skull may not be valid, but they've some great ideas.

Such as: fortunate are the pure in heart: for they shall start to see that there are none as blind as ... oh, never mind!

Do not argue with idiots. They'll pull you down to their level and beat you with experience for theirs is the best kind.

According to Catholic legend, the magi cast their learned eyes and followed the brightest star or was it Venus?

In these enlightened, scientific, politically correct, gluten free days; it doesn't always take a Rasputin like genius ...

To be sceptical as regards the schism from profound to profane: allegedly there are four billion stars, yet;

People accept this implicitly; but, intriguingly most will always check when you state that a painted wall is wet!

*Paraprosdokians – is a figure of speech in which the latter part of a sentence or phrase is surprising or unexpected in a way that causes the reader or listener to reframe or reinterpret the first part; often used for amusing effect.

This is James's self-described 'little rant about would-be messiahs and observations about human foibles'.
Saturday 22 September 2012 4 pm

A Love Song

## Emma Hall

###  Canterbury,VIC

feel the cold

hard butt of the pistol deep inside me

close my eyes and sink into

delirious oblivion (or oblivious delirium)

And I sink willingly

not because of the reasons I should have

– fear

– horror

– sheer heart-wrenching panic for that tiny flickering flame that seems already overdue for extinction

(my falsely flavoured life)

is finally and

horribly and

painfully over in an explosion through flesh and muscle.

straight through.

No.

even as hatred creeps through my forced stupor

Love overcomes it

they told me it would

I hate myself

I hate myself for loving the glorious building of tension until

mountain crumble and

fireworks explode

and the sun sinks into the sea.

he looks at me

he knows

I know he knows.

A second split in two.

The First:

It can't be She can't be

What the ...?

never happened before FUCK

that's just so

so

so

The Second:

He laughs – laughs at me –

takes pleasure in this reflection of sickness and perversion

takes pleasure in the discovery of

a kindred spirit

a likeness

a fellow outcast from the realms of accepted 'normal' human emotion.

we are different

we are the same

feel the cold
Sunday 23 September 2012 8 am

*** Editor's Pick ***

Nervous Tic

## Robertas

### Drummoyne, NSW

Tock – tock – tock – tock – ...

That's better.

I couldn't stand that pesky tick.

It never was quite right.

It had a sort of nervousness that penetrated every room.

I couldn't sleep at night.

I plugged my ears with cotton wool.

Alas, to no avail.

It found its way into my head just like a driven nail.

I took the back off

peered inside

and twiddled with the cogs

identified the ticky-thing

and threw it in the rubbish bin.

The hands move sort of funny now

but it still keeps good time,

and now the nervous tic is gone, the tocking is sublime.

I 'spose I could have thrown it out

and gone electric.

They don't make a sound.

But even though the tick was wrong

and drove me close to tears,

the tock is beautifully rounded,

music to my ears.

I love that tock so much

I rigged a gizmo up

to project the sound throughout the house,

and amplify it in my room.

Now I sleep in aural bliss.

I have sweet tocking dreams

and every day awake refreshed

and super-full of beans.

I do so love my tocking clock,

another one I'd like.

So Santa dear, when Christmas comes

and I hang out my stocking

will you please just remove the 's'

and leave me with the tocking.

Ed: We enjoyed the clever adaptation of the term 'Nervous Tic' and the amusing and entertaining tale that followed. We hope you did, too!
Sunday 23 September 2012 4 pm

School Daze

## Bob Edgar

### Wentworth Falls, NSW

First day of school. They think they're so smart, but I'll show them who's best

Look at him, crying like a baby. Look at her, mumbling and dribbling down her vest

My Mum is so proud of me, I can tell

She said to me this morning, 'Go girl, give 'em hell.'

I've been preparing for this day for five years

Never though, have I seen so many tears

The day was long, the day was traumatic

If I were not so young

I would remonstrate emphatic

Instead, I will cry and say to my Mum

'I don't want to be a bloody teacher.'
Monday 24 September 2012

It's The Small Things

## John Ross

### Blackheath, NSW

PC Jonathon Smith was pedalling his bicycle slowly back towards the village. It had been his habit, for the last fifteen years, to ride the short distance out to his modest cottage to have his midday meal with his wife. He was just passing the gates at the entrance to the Fitzgerald-Smyth Manor House when he noticed that they were open. Thinking that this was rather unusual, he looked down the winding lane that wound through a thick grove of trees. The Manor House was completely hidden from the road and he could only see as far as the first bend in the lane. He was considering whether to ride down and tell Lord Fitzgerald-Smyth about the gates when suddenly the quiet of the warm summer's day was split asunder by the most horrific blood-curdling scream. Birds flew, startled into the air, and PC Smith got such a shock that he lost control of his bicycle and ended up in a heap on the grass verge of the road.

The scream had come from beyond the first bend in the lane that led to the Manor House. Remounting his bicycle PC Smith peddled furiously down the lane blowing his police whistle as hard as he could. There was nothing to see as he rounded the first bend but, around the next, there in the middle of the road, lay the telegram boy. He instantly recognised him because of his khaki uniform and the peaked cap that now lay in the dust of the lane. Dismounting, PC Smith bent over young Peter Ewsdale, as that was the lad's name. Without touching him he could see that he was dead. The back of his head was a tangled mass of blood and bone splinters. Beside the body lay the murder weapon, a piece of wood with blood and hair on one end. Careful not to disturb the crime scene more than was necessary he inspected the body, the satchel that was used for the telegrams and the surroundings. When he was satisfied that he could do no more, he then decided to ride down to the Manor House. He knew that it was only about two hundred yards further down the lane and he also knew that there was a phone there. He must contact the sergeant in Upper Swansdale as soon as possible.

The Manor House was large with a huge oak door. PC Smith had been knocking for some time before the door was opened by Lord Fitzgerald-Smyth himself who apologised for keeping him waiting as he said that the maid was on a day off and the butler had recently resigned. There was no sign of Lady Fitzgerald-Smyth and village gossip had it that she had left months ago for places unknown. Having explained that he wanted to use the phone on police business the Lord led him through the house and into the huge day room with its numerous leather lounges and oversize fireplace. Before using the phone he asked if the Lord had received a telegram today. The Lord hesitated and said, 'No one has come to the house all day. Please make yourself at home. When you are finished I will be in the kitchen making my lunch.'

PC Smith took a step towards Lord Fitzgerald-Smyth, laid his hand on his shoulder, and said, 'Just a moment Sir. I am arresting you on suspicion of murdering young Peter Ewsdale.'

The Lord jumped back and pulled away from the PC 'How dare you touch me. You are talking rubbish man. I have not been out of this house all day. How can you accuse me of such a thing?'

'I believe I can accuse you Sir as I believe the evidence will support the accusation.'

The Lord turned away and said, 'I am not going to stand here and listen to your fairy tales. Get out of my way you country clod as I am going to ring your superiors and report your insolence.'

PC Smith pointed to a chair and said, 'Sit down. I believe this is what happened. Peter came to the house to deliver a telegram. He used the contents of the telegram to try to blackmail you. You gave him money, but then had second thoughts and chased after him, taking a short cut through the woods. You caught up with him and bashed him over the head with a piece of wood. Hearing my police whistle you took his bike and rode quickly back to the house.'

Lord Fitzgerald-Smyth sneered, 'As I said a fairy tale. You have no proof and I will ensure that you never work in this county again you ...'

The constable interrupted him before he could continue, 'There was no telegram in Peter's satchel which meant that he had already delivered it. This is the only house down this lane and you admit that you are the only person here. As you know telegrams must be hand delivered. You say you have not been out of the house but there is a maple leaf stuck in the cuff of your pants; the trees along side the lane are maples.

'The length of wood used to kill Peter was a cut piece of pine exactly the same as the wood stacked here in the fireplace and, by the way, he still had your fifty pound note tucked into his shoe. I bet you were frustrated when you could not find it.'

Looking slightly less belligerent Lord Fitzgerald- Smyth said, 'Well if I took his bike where is it now?'

Smiling PC Smith replied, 'Who builds a fire in the middle of summer and also does not put kindling under the logs? You were busy loading all those logs in the fireplace when I came to the door. You still have soot on the back of your hands where you brushed against the side of the fireplace. Where is the bicycle? The bicycle is in the fireplace under those logs!'
Tuesday 25 September 2012 8 am

Something Of Nothing

## Nicole James

### Narrandera, NSW

I am here in a time and place,

Yet I am really nowhere at all,

Standing on the edge of nothing,

Bracing myself for the fall.

I see life bustling on around me,

I reach out but it's too far away,

I scream, still nobody hears me,

Drifting unseen through another day.

Little by little I am wilting,

While the rest of the garden grows,

My life is fading into this nothing place,

And nobody even knows.

My heart is too heavy to carry,

My eyes are too tired to cry,

So here I sit in this nowhere place,

Just watching the world go by.

Nicole has suffered from severe depression for 20 years and her writing is an expression of her feelings in a world that chooses ignorance over awareness.
Tuesday 25 September 2012 4 pm

I Did Nothing Wrong

## Mel G

### St Clair, NSW

A part of me has always known

that I did nothing bad.

Yet since so small the seeds were sown

that made me feel so sad.

Self hate and shame have both consumed

destroying my self worth.

To live in hiding I felt doomed

since placed upon this earth.

But now I've found the strength to tell

about those secret sins.

To share the shame was hard as hell

but healing now begins.

The part of me that always knew

that I did nothing wrong

now pulls the poison vines that grew

from where they don't belong.

Mel is 36 years old and in the process of healing from the effects of child abuse. This poem is about how sharing your secrets can help you to heal.
Wednesday 26 September 2012

The Box

## Sallie Ramsay

### Torrens, ACT

As long as Jane could remember, it had sat on the mantelpiece over the fire place in her grandmother's sitting room: a roughly made wooden box; a misfit in a room full of delicate antiques and highly polished surfaces.

She asked her grandmother what was inside it, why was it there? All she got in return was a smile and a shrug. Once, when she was about six, she dragged a chair over to the fireplace and was about to climb up when the front door banged and she barely had time to drag the chair back to its place. Somehow she knew that the box was not for her and that her grandmother would not be pleased if, as she used to say, Jane was caught sticky-beaking.

~~~

She sat on the veranda looking out over the moonlit garden smiling as a magpie began to carol high in the old eucalypt near the gate into the home paddock and a thud and rustle of leaves announced the arrival of a possum in a nearby tree. She looked down at the rough wooden box she held on her knee wondering if it was time to tell Jane its story. More than sixty years since ... surely not that long?

The trees move uneasily as the first warm breath of a northerly wind stealthily entered the garden. She stood up and walked slowly, a little stiffly, to the kitchen and put the kettle on, reaching back through her memories to a time when, like her granddaughter now, she was sixteen. He was a jackaroo, eighteen with a smile, her mother used to say, that could set the sea on fire. They were mates, hesitating on the threshold of becoming much more than that.

It was the custom to gather on the veranda for a cup of tea when work was over for the day. She remembered the day he broke her favourite cup and how, a few days later, he handed her a roughly made wooden box.

'Not much good with tools,' he admitted, displaying a blackened thumbnail.

Inside the box was the yellowest, ugliest cup she had ever seen. She searched desperately for the right words to thank him.

'It's very yellow ...' she ventured.

'There, I knew you'd like it!'

She kept a diary shyly confiding to its pages, what everyone else knew, that her future lay with him.

~~~

The fire swept over the hill, taking all in its path: sheep, cattle, the homestead and him. When she returned to the smoking ruins, a flash of colour caught her eye, a fragment of the yellow cup. She found the diary, stained but recognisable in the charred remains of her bedroom. Of

the wooden box there was no sign.

'Grabbed it on the way out,' her father said a few days later. 'Forgot all about it. Stuffed it in the glove box of the ute.'

A life time later, Jane opened the box her grandmother had been holding when she died, peacefully sitting in her chair on the veranda, her early morning cup of tea cold beside her.

Its contents, a fragment of yellow china and, what Jane thought, were probably the remains of a charred diary, meant nothing to her but she felt, somewhere, hidden deep within it were memories, precious memories that, although not her memories, had value beyond price. She replaced the box on the mantelpiece after the funeral knowing it was where it belonged.
Thursday 27 September 2012

X Marks The Spot

## Rosemary Baldry

### Winmalee, NSW

'X' marks the spot

on yellowing pirate maps

from childhood parties.

'It was only yesterday',

Shelley always led the search.

But breast cancer

sought her out.

Now 'X' is a cross,

Shelley's ashes

buried treasure ...

The letter 'x' was suggested as a writing subject to members of the Blue Mountains Branch of the Fellowship of Australian Writers. This is Rosemary's favourite from the many pieces she wrote stimulated by the topic.
Friday 28 September 2012

Darkness

## JAC

### Kilsyth, VIC

It's so dark, a scary sort of dark. It's been this way for so long that you no longer remember what light looks like. In fact, you don't remember much of anything. Your once vast vocabulary has been reduced to a couple of desperate words that you scream out whenever you sense someone or something close. And numbers. Counting helps you keep away the demons. Counting quickly, counting slowly, counting in even numbers, odd numbers, multiplication tables. Whatever keeps you occupied. But, now you actually think about it, there is one thing that keeps you sane. Whatever sane is. Apart from counting. The feel and the sound of the chilling metallic chains that almost seem to extend from your very flesh. They're cold, restricting and smooth. If you listen carefully, you can hear the links clanking as they brush against each other. You think they chain you to the walls of this place – that is, if there are walls. For all you know, the chains could just go on forever.

All of a sudden, your entire being is flooded with a strange feeling, one that is almost, almost frustrated, you scream. A short, high scream that would drive dogs mad. However hard you try, you can't think of a word for the new feeling. You can feel some sort of door in your mind opening. The very same door that keeps you from going insane. Completely insane. You locked your personality, your inner self, behind it almost as soon as you found yourself in this wretched place a long time ago. The strangeness starts off as a prickle all over your skin, but the feeling soon grows in intensity until you are screaming in pain. To anyone else, it would be only a fraction of the sun's heat they feel every day, but to you it is as though a blazing inferno is raging across your sensitive skin.

Then it stops, just like that. You continue to scream hoarsely, but it is not from pain anymore. More from relief ... and maybe loss? You probably would have begun to cry if you could remember how. Or if you could even remember what crying was. After a short while or it might have been years, for all you could tell, you stop screaming. You can't tell if your eyes are open or closed, so it'll be a little silly to try and describe the changes in your surroundings thanks to whatever it was that had happened. An undeterminable period of time later, you can sense the feeling returning. The previously locked door in your mind creaks open just a little, allowing you to put a name to the feeling. Warmth. Other memories began to creep through.

First, a strange scent. It is tantalising, enticing. There one minute and gone the next. Jasmine, your hazy mind supplies, along with the feel of soft petals and the knowledge of warm, sunny days. After such a long time in hibernation, you mind isn't too sure of itself. It seemed almost like a separate entity to your awareness. As you realise this, another memory resurfaces. The gravely growl of an unidentified animal assaults your ears, and you flinch. Surprised at yourself, you examine the sound, racking your newly returned memory to find a name to associate with it. As you try, the now comforting warmth leaves you, slamming the door closed. Just before this happens, you remember the animal's name. It's a dog.

During the period between the warmth leaving and returning again, you keep the smell of the jasmine and the sound of the dog's bark with you. They are reminders that something has happened, you aren't alone and you're not imagining things. You're still unsure about whether or not the warmth will return. Wearily, you open and close your eyes and begin to recite your multiplication tables. One times one is one, one times two ...

Just as you reach eleven times seventeen, the pulsing heat returns. It's almost like a heartbeat, caressing your numb body. With a strange shaking motion, a glimpse of something, you're not really sure what, flashes in front of your eyes. With a start, you realise that they are open, sort of, and had been for quite some time. As you try to recall what it was that you saw, a sharp jab of pain sears through your skull. You scream with anger at the unfamiliar invasion. Soft strains of music from your memory soothe you, and you relent.

But the music is gone as though it had never been, and you are left alone with your dog's bark and your jasmine scent. You begin counting once more, this time in odd numbers. You get all the way up to 7453, when you are enfolded in the comforting warmth. It brings pain with it again but the pain seems to be more localised. It is focused in your chest area. And again, a glimpse of something flees across your line of sight. You're still unsure, but your mind identifies it as a colour, and tells you it is probably a dark green or blue.

You feel helpless as, once again, you count. After all, what else is there to do? Until the warmth returns yet again, it is even more centralised. You think that it is coming from somewhere around your heart. You gasp shakily, drawing in a breath of polluted city air, and your eyes fly open. Really open this time, you can see the cheery blue sky and fluffy white clouds above you. Everything comes back to you in a flash of remembrance playing touch footy in the backyard underneath the jasmine vines, hearing a dog growling and barking, getting distracted from your games, the trellis with the newly wound vines falling, seemingly out of nowhere. Then everything goes dark. So dark.

A smiling face looks down on you. You are still concussed from the fall and subsequent revival, so you think that you are looking at an angel. Then the angel looks away and shouts to someone you can't see. 'He's awake!' The voice is filled with joy, and is oddly familiar. That's when you recognise her, your best friend. Fuzzily, you remember that she took a first aid course a few months ago. You had made fun of her for it and now she has saved your life. Now that is irony.

A siren blares outside in the street. The men lift you carefully onto a glaringly white stretcher bed and place you gently into the ambulance. Your mother called the ambulance when she and your friend had found you lying under the trellis, as pale and cold as death. You slip into a blissful sleep, not hearing the doctor tell your mother that, with the amount of time you spent unconscious, you probably have very severe brain damage. He then asked your mother to come in the ambulance with you, and try to keep you awake. If you did fall asleep, there was an 80% chance of death.

The darkness claims you again, this time with a promise to never let go.

One, two, three ...
Saturday 29 September 2012

Reality Bites

## Subroto Pant

### Brisbane, QLD

Life is a funny thing. I used to have a job and now I am a stay at home, surfing the internet kind of person. I used to have a partner too and now I just live alone. But who knows, all this might change and I'll find myself the centre of attraction all over again. Unlikely!

Oh, did I mention that I used to have an affair too? Yeah I think not. That's the part I had been sitting on for a while. Well eight months, twenty-five days and some hours but who's counting? My life was perfect. Well don't know about her but to me it was.

I said partner, didn't I? Actually she was my wife, and we had been married eighteen years when it started. Eighteen years – that is a lifetime of faithfulness in today's world. Yes I know my guilt is not as strong as it should be. 'Emotionally Barren', that's one of the terms thrown at me, all a part of the other psychobabble that floated around.

She blamed the internet, too, stopping short at including Tim Berners-Lee. Said I had started neglecting her, was constantly on the computer instead of spending time with her. I thought I had spent enough time with her already, time that I cannot get back. It's not like there is a 'Customer Service Counter' for your life.

'Hello! How can I help you?'

'I'd like to reclaim some time back please.'

'Certainly. What time period are we talking about?'

'Well the entire 1995 actually. Now that was a total waste of a year.'

Then you would sign a few forms, maybe write in the reason for claiming it back and bingo! You have your life back again. Though there is a minor version of it already and it's called 'Divorce' but that comes with a hefty price tag. Tell me about it. I am still paying for it.

I digress, what was I talking about again? Ah yes, using the word 'partner' instead of 'wife'. Technically I don't call that cheating. I mean the word 'partner' could be anything. Maybe I am just trying to be politically correct by ignoring the 'W' word, which if you turn upside becomes the 'M' word. But that's all irrelevant because the word on the internet forums and meeting sites is 'attached', along with this whole heap of acronyms like 'NSA'. That's 'no strings attached' not 'no smoking area' by the way. 'CRO' or casual relationship only – is there any other kind?

It's a world of its own this internet 'looking for lurve' area, a very discreet area for those who wish to avail of the services. And that's another word you pick up: 'Discreet relationship', as opposed to the 'Bang up loud in your face relationship'. Or the 'Look I am still smiling even though I am married' kind of relationship. There is even the 'Oops! I forgot I was attached' relationship.

So that's where I met her, you know, the person I was busted with. Had to go through five other women before I met some I felt connected to. Hmm, that's not entirely true, the attraction was sealed by the fact that she had a place of her own as opposed to the 'rent-a-room' rendezvous. It wasn't love but she said we connected. Yeah, sure, whatever, I just go with the flow.

At that time my ex-wife did make a comment on how much I used to walk around grinning like the cat that got the cream. Let's ignore the obvious pun there and let me state that sometimes you can have one's cake and eat it too. I said I had no guilt, didn't I? Looking back now I think maybe there was a teeny bit there and it was manifesting in the gifts I was buying for my ex-wife. She never really returned them you know. Maybe she just erased the memory of the buyer while keeping the Hermes bag and other designer gifts.

Ah, the dammed Hermes bag. That's the gift that started the unravelling of the web that I had so carefully spun. I should have stuck to the discounted ten-dollar flowers from Coles or Woolies. I didn't earn that much to be buying these designer goodies so I had to get creative with the company vouchers. Did I mention that I am suspended from my job pending the complete investigation? No? Well it doesn't matter now.

It turned out that my internet buddy got careless and her partner and a camera from a reality show followed us. The name of the show is 'Cheaters Australia' if you want to look it up. I don't even know as to why these trashy American shows are making our shore. I say, let's leave the trashy reality TV to the Americans. They're 10 times better at it than we are and they are kind enough to share it with us. Of course I had never realised that my wife loves these trashy shows. Just goes to show you can be with one person for so long and still not know what their likes and dislikes are.

I am fine you know. I had a backup plan and had put away enough money using another accounting stream that has not yet been discovered. So when this all blows over I'll be fine. American reality TV shows I tell you. Should be totally banned from our shores.
Sunday 30 September 2012

Shadow Watcher

## Virginia Gow

### Blackheath, NSW

Ever taken a stroll along the boardwalk from the ferry wharf at Manly? If you travel east, you gaze at the lengthening shadows cast by the afternoon sun.

Rob watched his shadow walk, in large, black-bubble sneakers. He thought he walked like Charlie Chaplin, an old-fashioned silent movie star.

On this eventful afternoon, the tide was particularly high. Floating in the tide were all sorts of plastic rubbish, a blue milk carton, a red bread tray, bits of bark and a sculptured lump from a tree.

The sea would have been rough and scary earlier, surging up against the seawall.

Allowing it to be dictated to by the August winds, the wash had hurled itself against boats and sand, spilling over onto grass, dragging debris from the shoreline into its depth.

Covered in bark and seaweed, long black fizzy hair was barely visible to the onlooker on shore.

As Rob concentrated on the lump covered in slime from the sea, he now saw, between each wave motion, more of the gruesome human relic that was being washed ashore. Like a fish gasping for air, the mouth gaped open, but even from the wall he could tell that the eyes, glassed and dull, had ceased seeing anything,

Still, the body appeared fresh, like a doll someone had accidently dropped overboard on the last Manly ferry crossing.

Now, this was something he did not see everyday, a freshly minted corpse.

He grasped his mobile and pressed three zeros.

This was way out of his league.

Virginia created this piece of flash fiction for Manly Poetry Society and it allowed her to 'purge some demons from my psyche'.
Monday 1 October 2012

Happiness All The Way

## Jean Bundesen

### Woodford, NSW

We drive along the road

Sinuous as a black snake

On our way for lunch

At Lithgow.

Laughter echoes.

Sky deep blue

Squiggly, white wind clouds –

As if daubed by a giant paint brush

Sail across it.

Laughter echoes.

Tall peaks of Lombardy Poplars

Like molten gold, in the sunshine,

Line the roadside. Reminding us

That winter is on the way.

Laughter echoes.

A group of dark green pine trees

Where Kookaburras nest

One flies across

Lands on a post by the roadside

Laughter echoes.

Near where the earth meets the sky

Fluffy white cumulus clouds

With pearly grey shadows, float.

We hope it won't rain.

Laughter echoes

A rare breed of black cattle

With rug like white

Bands around their bodies

Graze in nearby paddocks.

Laughter echoes.

In the background

Are the misty blue ridges and peaks

Of the Blue Mountains

Grassed paddocks in the foreground.

Laughter echoes.

Our car's tires drum on the road

As we hurry onward

To the Workies Club

Dreaming of a roast beef lunch.

Laughter echoes.
Tuesday 2 October 2012

Mirror Mirror

## Connie Howell

### Wentworth Falls, NSW

Samantha sat at her dressing table gazing at her reflection in the mirror. She saw an ageing woman with a map of her life drawn on her face. She could see the joys and the sadnesses etched around her eyes and mouth and the once supple and firm skin of her face was now sagging as a result of losing weight then finding it again. What once were cheeks now seemed to be jowls. It saddened her to think that her youthful looks had disappeared and that she couldn't remember exactly when it happened. Did she pay so little attention to herself that what must have been a gradual maturity over several years seemed to have occurred over night?

Her body, long past its prime, had succumbed to gravity with a passion. She remembered seeing the movie Shirley Valentine where Shirley's lover kissed 'her jiggly bits'. If Samantha was Shirley she would be showered with a thousand kisses: there weren't any bits left that weren't jiggly.

Sam, as she was often called, had grown children, long gone from home, so she had a lot of time to ponder on things. She was glad she wasn't bringing up a family now in these days of technological advancements, which left her way behind, and she was too set in her ways to 'get with the program' – she preferred to do things the old way. Then there were the drugs and the binge drinking problems, all of which she was relieved to know were beyond her parenting days. She couldn't understand the mentality of drinking for the sole purpose of getting drunk; she had never been drunk in her life and for many years had not even touched alcohol. And as for drugs she had to push herself to take pain killers for a headache.

As much as age caught her by surprise she was glad that she didn't have the anxieties of youth any more. The loves lost, the hormonal rages, the curfews, the rules, the mistakes. But then on the plus side there was the never ending energy and lust for life that promised to be there forever.

Life for Sam was different now, slower and less exciting perhaps, but on the whole it was a good life. She was reasonably fit and could out walk many people in her age group. She had a kind and gentle husband who loved her very much and though the future was unknown there still appeared to 'be' a future. There were many things to be grateful for.

She wasn't unhappy but she did need to grieve for the woman her mind still believed her to be but who the mirror couldn't find. If life was a fairy tale and she was Snow White her mirror would tell her that she was the 'fairest of them all'. But life isn't a fairy tale and she is no Snow White, but perhaps tomorrow she would go to the shopping centre and look for a new mirror anyway!
Wednesday 3 October 2012

It Hurts How You Love Me

## Melanie Lee

### Avoca Beach, NSW

It hurts how you love me

Do you even care

Have you lost perspective

from your high horse up there

I am not a puppet

And this is not a game

I have a heart and soul

A face and a name

I toss and turn, I bend and break

All in good time, all for love's sake

Wrapped in your warmth

Is what I wanted to be

Instead I lie bleeding

For the whole world to see

I ached for affection,

hope and direction

Instead I am lost

amongst your dark intentions

All your wrong doing

Yet I'm left to blame

My world now warped

And drenched in your shame

I'll break down these walls

And escape from this cage

Heaven help you

When I unleash my rage

You'll twist and you'll turn

You'll bend and you'll break

With you lies the blame

They were all your mistakes ...

I will find freedom

And grow from this pain

Your demons will eat you

While my demons are tamed

You'll twist and you'll turn

You'll bend and you'll break

Then I will sleep easy

While you lie awake.

Melanie believes in shining a light into the very darkest of places, finding healing and peace out the other side of the wreckage and pain.
Thursday 4 October 2012

Tudor Tonight

## Hazel Girolamo

### Ulverstone, TAS

Welcome to Tudor news tonight, the only Tudor news program to bring you the latest, the most exclusive, the hottest claptrap that passes for news in this realm. It's Sunday the 18th of March, 1534.

Tonight, we reveal the results from our latest poll: Katherine – was she a right royal god-given queen betrayed or was she an opportunistic, greasy, spiteful hussy on the make?

Pollsters, having scoured the country or as far as Norfolk, say the peasants are divided, as they often are when results are not to Henry's liking.

Henry's people have issued a statement that he is not in reconciliatory talks with Anne's people and that any such talk smells strongly of treason and the chopping block awaits. It's been freshly washed and ready for action, much like Henry himself.

A close friend who prefers to remain nameless not headless, (Sir Jasper Falmouth), secretly revealed that the bewitching Anne has bewitched the king no more and all her bewitching has come to an end. The unnamed bigmouth Falmouth continued to spill the beans and the mead and the mint sauce all over the palace as he reckons Henry has the hots for another cutie? This raises a serious issue: is Henry a serial cheater? Will he stop at three? Or is a fourth wife out of the question?

But we interrupt with the breaking news of a spit fight at the palace. Jane and her ladies in waiting apparently met Anne and her ladies in waiting (i.e. euphemism for awaiting their turn at being queen). Anne spotted Jane wearing some serious bling and Anne apparently went ballistic, spitting the dummy big time and proceeded to call her a mealy mouthed, whey faced simpering, poor excuse with a bovine posterior and a few other unladylike things I cannot repeat. Oh what the hell, then she called her a festering pile of poxed flapdragon cony catching miserly hold on the chamber pot's content that is Henry's miserable lying cheating heart, all the while trying to scratch out her miserable rival's eyes. Anne's spin doctor is down playing the whole sordid episode saying he finds it extremely suss that Anne would put her good self in such a position and let that measly base born howden point score off her but he then went on to say that he wouldn't put anything past that same base born whelked candlewaster and that it would be just like her to go crying to the king trying to put the kibosh on any reconciliation with his legal, faithful, kind-hearted, devoted good lady wife slash queen.

All of which has the Seymour family begging Jane: 'Don't lose your head over him! Dump him before it's too late!' But the rumour mill is working overtime and cranking out the latest spurious rumours of a royal bun in a rather common oven and that even as we speak, a French swordsman is hot footing it to London to bring an end to the king's little problem of a second little wifey who won't conveniently die of some ladylike malady and free him to continue on his merry marriage go round.

So join us tomorrow when we take you inside the tower, where Anne will spend her final days and where we will have exclusive access to the execution. You will hear Anne's final words. Will she beg for her life or confess to the sins she has been accused of ? Will she name names? Only we will have the answers.

Plus we reveal, hot off the loom, the first tapestry to feature Henry and his newest queen. And has Henry changed the title of his love ballad to 'Queenleaves?'

That's on the morrow, so until then have a fine and dandy day and god bless the king, and the queen ... whoever she may be.
Friday 5 October 2012

Little Retro Cave

## Chloe Loughran

### Brunswick, VIC

Come near

One and all

Party in my little retro cave

In this room we aren't allowed

So let's be quiet and behave

I cannot leave

This condemning cage

So you're invited to my little retro cave

Won't you shut out the lights?

You're not allowed here

Take fifteen steps back

You're not allowed near

I cannot dance or walk

Into the sun or moonlight

So won't you come dance with me?

Party in my little retro cave tonight

Let's have a little ghost shindig

We'll cremate our souls

Nothing too big

Let's dance to my planned death

Toast as I take my last breath

We can paint our pain away

Onto the canvas there it stays

Blue for tears and sadness

Red for hurt and madness

Now let's paint a little girl

With flowing black curls

Paint a dying rose

Paint a German nose

And hang it on the wall

To observe it

You must stand tall

Now you keep your height

And your head

Then you walk away

And go to bed

'Little ones

I cannot come out tonight

I've got a date with the prison guards

The facts are never hard

I'm a virgin tying her own noose

'Cause she's got nothing left to lose.'
Saturday 6 October 2012

The Inheritance

## Sonia Ursus Satori

### Medlow Bath, NSW

So much for childhood memories. This is the right house? Can it really be? I stumble up the verandah and notice right away that the kitchen window leading onto it is still broken. I look through it. The far end of the kitchen opens on to a spacious hallway with stairs leading up to the top floors.

Is my mind playing tricks on me or did I really use to spend endless hours roaming in the attic, playing hide and seek with my cousins on rainy days? The fun we had sliding down the staircase banner, again and again. Until the day when mother came back home from hospital without the newborn baby we were so impatient to see.

Everything changed.

Then, during all those long, lonely years when only father and mother and myself lived there, never a visitor, and I, not ever again, allowed outdoors, I read every book in the library: Culpeppers Color Herbal; The Poisons and Antidotes Source book; My Will. A Legacy to the Healthy and the Sick by Sebastian Kneipp; Textbook of Acupuncture; Meaning and Medicine; Treat your own Back; The Illustrated Encyclopedia of Herbs; Practical Homeopathy. I still can recite them all at will.

The only book I wasn't allowed to touch was The Holy Bible. Only father. He used to read it out loud every night before he started cursing the world we live in.

Mother was kept upstairs, locked away. I only heard her cry when I strained my ears, and after I had stopped crying for her, myself. I was not anymore granted to sit with her, or go mushroom picking in the woods, like it used to be. I never heard her laugh again. Father did not speak to me. He would lock doors when he left the house, and I was locked in the library. On my tenth birthday I crushed the heavy Holy Bible over his head. He was a thin man and I had the advantage of standing on the kitchen chair which I had placed next to the library book shelf without him noticing. He fell instantly to the floor. I kept pounding the Bible until it was in shreds.

I ran upstairs calling for mother. No answer. She must have been dead a long time. I left the house through the kitchen window, broken glass cutting into my palms and knees.

My teenage years were sad. I never said 'no' to anything or anybody. All I wanted was being talked to, looked at, smiled at. Even if there was very little to look forward to each morning. One day I was picked up by police in a raid on our squat. They couldn't identify me. And I wouldn't talk. Health professionals tried to pry out of me who I was but by then I decided I wouldn't speak anymore. I was put in the insane asylum where I spent all my adult life. Never spoke a word again.

Last week was my fiftieth birthday and I was granted the wish to travel on my own, by public transport (see, I'm not considered dangerous nor retarded) to visit the countryside. I wanted to go back in time to those happy early childhood years before making an important decision: to talk again, to hear my own voice.

I've come to realise, after I have seen the place, that memories have a life of their own, and our state of mind, when memories form and when they are relived, the physical surroundings don't account for much. As a matter of fact, I didn't feel a thing when I stood before the house, just a little while ago.

Back in town I decided to linger awhile. I sat down at the park bench overlooking the river. A grey-haired, fragile looking woman slowly approached and sat down next to me. I turned toward her, pleased for the company. I looked into her kind face, so much wanting to speak again, and yes, this was as good a time as any: I am going back to life and to the living!

It didn't feel right and it didn't feel wrong, nor happy nor sad, neither was I surprised when I realised that she was my mother. As beautiful as then, only old. The phantom-memory of her, that had kept me sane enough to show a minimal interest in life until now, melted. Morphed. In an instant. There she was in flesh and blood. Alive! I won't need to carry around a new memory, I have done away with the old ones. I didn't say a word. We smiled into one another. After a lifetime I stood up, pressed my hand gently on her shoulder, and walked off, to the train station.

We are both quite alright, I thought, the way things are. Life's good.
Sunday 7 October 2012

In Clear Felled Fields Kookaburras Sit On Wires

## Susan Adams

### Dangar Island, NSW

I might go outside and hang my breath

on the sharp hooked cold

when the frost turns green

it's too late to see the sun rise

A weak sky waits its ice.

Greased mists couch on indolent ponds

a syncope of tails pumps air

as Wallabies speed their startle

Space is my prayer

and I am in its temple

all points are my mecca

I fold where I face

there is always the day

Two King Parrots stripe red

across windscreened eyes

tears prick the smile

a sign

I am alive

it will be alright
Monday 8 October 2012

Reality In A Heartbeat

## Yeshe Thubten

### Totnes Valley, NSW

Coarse sand rubs like broken bottles

And he moves swiftly,

Pushing through the trees.

A twisted branch cracks hard

And breaks hard

On littered earth.

She wakes like a cat

A stretches into air

Followed by her

Jade orbed eyes.

Her hair smooth and coloured like the grey gums

Standing guard over her.

A pulse like a race car,

Forced blood behind his eyes,

Pushed into his lungs,

Burned into his throat.

Her memory like a siren song

Urging him through the air

Forcing itself against his damp skin.

Folded legs held fast by violet arms

Her knees against her chest

She knows it is inevitable.

His will is more than distance

His might is harder that sandstone.

The cold of night clings to her eyelashes.

The cold of fear breaks in her heart.

Then the scream

Like a knife edge

A tragic opera of noise

Forcing her to her feet.

She knows it's him

And she knows she will wait

And will take what comes.

He drags the world behind him

Taking her to the edge

Broken against the horizon.

'I made you', she whispers

Not hoping for an end

Or even a glimmer of recognition.

He spends an age in a second

Paused in pain and strength

Her shell a fallen snowflake

Face white like a porcelain doll.

'I know you' he whispers

'And you are not real'

And he crumples into eucalypt and stone.
Tuesday 9 October 2012

Will Time And Tide Remember Me?

## Robyn Chaffey

### Hazelbrook, NSW

Time and Tide they say will come to all men.

There is no escaping either though we try to ignore them.

Once I was unsure just what it was they meant

Though I felt for sure I'd know should e'er the need arise.

Looking back, I know I felt it day by day.

When I was young Time felt a mite too slow;

I found myself longing for it to pass away.

Yet there seemed so much for me still to do.

The Tide of life tho' always ebbed and flowed ...

Gently for the most part, and little felt by me.

As I aged, both seemed to gather speed.

Each year seemed so much shorter than the last.

Tide at times lapped gently at my feet,

Then storms of life would rage and rant ...

Build foaming waves that buffet strong ...

Send me reeling ... leaping Time;

Then both would slow allowing me to deeply breathe.

Yes, Time and Tide they have both come.

They've hustled me through my long life ...

Hassled too at times ... yet have they been my friends!

Both have in their own way fed and nurtured me.

I've grown on them and they on me.

Soon I must leave them both and they'll move on

To meld with other souls ... to torture or befriend ...

To lead or to hold back ... to teach.

Will they ... will Time and Tide remember me?

Will they bear a small imprint of me to pass along?
Wednesday 10 October 2012

My Solemn Promise

## Ariette Singer

### Palmerston, ACT

Summing up empty hours, filled with tears,

Wasted time – for too many years,

Emotional shopping, to dull the pain ...

I'll never allow myself to be hurt again!

My mistakes were best teachers – growing up

I've become so smart – I can now teach the Art

Of Preventing Major Emotional Traumas!

And perhaps, some day I will! For I strongly feel

The demand for my teachings will be enormous!

And when putting my 'emotional house' in order,

I've made this solemn and unbreakable promise:

Right! Never again will I squander my feelings!

And you'll not catch me uselessly lose my mind!

Falling in love 'thing' has become more pragmatic –

My New Man must be brilliant, mature and kind!

As well as: cultured, exuberant and witty,

Tolerant, loving, sensitive and warm!

Practical, rational, open minded and quite pretty ...

Well, if not pretty ... then not like TV's lazy Norm!

His SOH must, of course match mine, or be better!

And he must definitely be artistically inclined,

A very wise man, gentle, loyal and refined,

And I take it for granted – he'll love me for my mind!

I'll make absolutely certain he'll be tactful, caring,

Health conscious, and psychologically aware!

Most understanding and never overbearing –

A man like this will surely never make me swear!

And when, at last, I'll find this precious gem,

This absolute marvel of rarity of rarities ...

I'll purr ... and purrrr ... and purrrrrr!!!!
Thursday 11 October 2012

The Last Day

## Sallie Ramsay

### Torrens, ACT

Sometimes you know it's the last day; the last day of school, the last day of the holidays, the last day of your cousin's visit but often when it's important, really important, for you to know it's the last day, you don't. The afternoon Mum and Dad told me they were splitting up, I knew then that the day before had been my last day of us being a proper family. I thought, maybe if I had known before, I could've done, well, at least tried to do something to stop it happening. If I'd known that day down at the Bay was the last day Gramps and I would go fishing together, maybe I wouldn't have whinged so much about having to lug the gear up to the car; maybe I would've asked him to tell me more stories about when he was a boy, that was something he really liked to do. A few months later he was dead of a stroke; if only I'd known it had been the last day.

The twenty-fifth of January ringed on the tide chart in the kitchen of our holiday cottage was the last day of the holidays, the last day of the best summer ever, perfect weather, surf in the bay running true and regular day after day. Summer: burnt sausages, ants in the sugar, sand in the sheets, Rob's nose peeling, walking to the store for the milk and paper. Friends and relations coming and going and as ever the cottage managing to expand to accommodate everyone. My little sister proudly announcing the day before had been the last day of her whole life when she couldn't swim!

The last day of the holidays, tomorrow we would be heading for home, the city and school ... but that day was mine; a perfect beach day, not a cloud in the sky, the surf was up with a good even break.

In the fading light I saw it, a real bastard of a wave, too steep, too shallow. But I was fourteen, impatient, indestructible; so I took it on. They told me later I looked like a doll in a washing machine just before I smashed on to the sand.

Close my eyes, in my head, I crack an awesome wave; now on the crest, now roaring down the face, leaving my stomach behind, racing to the beach.

I didn't know that perfect day was the last day for feeling the sand burning under my feet, the icy waves breaking over me as I headed out for first wave of the day ... the last day for walking. Had I known ... ?
Friday 12 October 2012

Ode Tae Bonny Lass's Braw

## The Auld Yin

### Bullaburra, NSW

Ah luv aw' lass's braw,

no jist heilan' lass'es', Naw!

Aw' wee hens frae far an' wide,

an' a jist luv ma lass ma ain wee bride.

Redheads, dark, broon an' fair,

nae matter the colour, ah dinnae care,

Lass's Bonny wae great conviction,

nae need tae speak wae Scoatish diction.

Lass's, Bonny wee things, God's creation,

a'ways the same, aye, withoot inflation.

Wise wee things wae gentle thoughts,

a'll nae mention tho', they talk a lot.

Oh Bonny lass's a luv yer smile,

a'ways genuine an' nae wae guile,

Except whin wantin' tae buy mair claes,

that smile kin hiv a wee bit guilie glaze.

Oh a luv aw' lass's jist the same,

aw' lass's tae me, need not hae fame,

Cos' their fame is a built in gift,

that geis aw' man's herts a luvin' lift.

'A man's a man fur aw that an' aw that', Rabbie did say,

Weel me? Tae aw lass's their due a'll duly pay,

If this poem had a mullian wurds writ doon,

writin' anither mullian wid niver be too soon.

Remember Lads a Lassy wis yer mum,

aye the bonniest lassy an yer very best chum.

A'ways there fur yea, fightin', nae matter whit the cause,

Just fur the luv of yea lads, needin' nae applause.

Aye an yer Grannie or Nan are in the same braw class,

that bonny, bonny, aye that bonny Lass.

Auld an' wise but stull there fur you,

Efter a hunner years their luv wid stull accrue.

Sae ah hope the message is gettin' thru' by now,

Aboot lass's, single, married, Senora, Mrs. or even Frau.

oh! ah luv aw' lass's braw,

ivery Bonny wan a'v iver saw.

Tall yins, wee yins, skinny an' fat.

Tae be Bonny disnae mean aw' o' that.

Bonny means, gentle, luvin' an' a carin' lass.

Beauty means nuthin' doon deep, a'd lit beauty pass.

A Bonny lass's beauty is nae jist skin deep,

look intae their gentle eyes an' hae jist a wee peep.

You Lads, aye you lads, am speakin' tae you taday,

get tae ken yer lass an' aw her ways, please be ofay.

The rewards Bonny lads wull be paid in full,

Aye! Lads, tak notice whit a say, nae a'ways be a fool.

Find the real beauty in a Bonny lass.

If yea do that Lads ye'll a'ways be at the tope o' yer blidy class.
Saturday 13 October 2012 8 pm

Killing Painting

## Mark Govier

### Warradale, SA

I fell upon a darkened room/ black window staring out,

Onto a field of darkness light/ a vast and uglied crow fed there,

I went, I saw, I flinched, I ran/ for what it ate was me.

I woke in mortal terror/ from this dream of gloom

And stared upon the empty frames/ which papered my huge room,

A canvass here, a canvass there/ an exhibition near,

But nothing to protect me/ from the cynic's sneer.

With terror of the hunted/ I did attack the white,

But nothing, nothing came to mind/ I blanched in morbid fright,

Until in desperation/ I fell down to the floor,

And prayed upon my only muse/ to show me a new door.

As in every other time/ the world did sway and warp,

I hurtled down a spirit road/ a dream filled water course,

Until I came unto her cave/ as black as death itself,

And fell down there upon my knees/ mere echo of myself.

And there she was, my only muse/ eating the remains

Of some poor soul who' wandered in/ a creature cast in chains;

'Oh muse' said I in deep respect/ 'what am I to do?

My reputation is at stake/ but I have nothing new.'

'Oh' said she tossing down/ a head all cold and bloody,

'Art is short for artifice/ now don't you find that funny?'

And with a flick of bony wrist/ she turned a wall to white,

Spat a gob of rotten blood/ which tricked out of sight.

'Go' said she, 'find frame of mine/ in which to hang my spittle,

then reputation shall you keep/ in art create your ripple';

I bent to kiss the rancid hem/ in homage to the one,

But fell into that pool of whirl/ from which all image comes.

Spittle, blood, upon pure white/ from eating my own meat,

In one short day I covered more/ than in a score of weeks,

And when it came to putting forth/ I called it 'Killing Painting',

Received most high the laurel wreath/ for which I had been panting.
Sunday 14 October 2012

Tim Tam Temptation

## Demelza

### Taroona, TAS

for Moira and me

I knew they were on special

But I was well prepared

I'd skip the bickie aisle

Buy some fruit instead

But they stacked them in the entrance

With the veg – by aisle one!

And they jumped into my trolley

The battle had begun

It was well past breakfast time

But nearing morning tea

I found myself in aisle four

Devouring number three

I threw in cans of mushrooms

I threw in sauce and pasta

My self control had left the store

My mission a disaster

The fourth one got me by surprise

When I was looking for some bread

The baker gave a knowing smile

And my face grew rather red

So now I felt embarrassment

Guilt and mortal shame

The Tim Tams had the upper hand

They were better at this game

And as I opened up the freezer door

I nearly shoved them in

But I felt the floor staff stalking me

So I grabbed for chicken without skin

I carried on down aisle nine

Tooth brush, tooth paste and foam

Nappies, pins and medication

Was then I heard my phone

And in that moment of distraction

I picked up one or two

Now five and six had crossed my lips

And I hardly had to chew

As I hurried to the check out

My plight had left me three

Would they make it to the car park?

Tune in next week and see!

Demelza thinks she may have a problem with self control. But she figures that if there's already a couple gone from the pack and half a dozen kids at the other end of her shopping expedition, why create a bigger problem? Bring them all home ... or none at all!

Ed: And they question women's logic!! Makes perfect sense to me :D
Monday 15 October 2012

The Morning After

## Joe Massingham

### Chisholm, ACT

Crumbs of greying granite icing

left from last night's celebrations

lie beside roseate beaded wine stains

– or are they blood? – spilled in last night's

altercation between thunder and the hill

over who was stronger.

Misty curtains hamper the sun's

surveillance of the scene, as if afraid

of his reaction. A distant neighbour

surveys the scatterings from behind

an unkempt hedge, musing loftily,

'Springs ain't what they used to be.'
Tuesday 16 October 2012

Bird

## Paul Humphreys

### Oxley, ACT

'I'm glad that you both could make it here on such short notice.'

'Oh we are very concerned about our daughter, Doctor Miller, and as you may have some news we could not delay getting here.' Susan wrung her hands nervously while her husband stared suspiciously into the space behind the doctor's head at the other person in the doctor's surgery.

'Oh I'm sorry, Mr and Mrs Ling, let me introduce Dr Shultz. I have consulted with him on your daughter's condition.'

There was a moment's silence as everybody settled and became more familiar with the situation in the surgery.

'We have identified and have a detailed report on the marks and skin eruptions on your daughters back.' Dr Miller leaned forward directing his statement predominantly toward Mrs Ling in an attempt to engender some settling and comfort for the worried mother.

'Before I get on to the details of that report could I just confirm some details of your health record Mrs Ling. May I call you Mary?

'Of course. What information do you need from me?' Mary said nervously.

'You had a bout of flu just before you became pregnant is that right?'

'Yes. But I don't see what that has to do with my daughter's condition.'

'Well Dr Shultz believes that it may have been Avian flu.'

'It was five years ago! I cannot remember what it was diagnosed as!' Mary become a little distraught and anxious.

'Can we get on with what you have found please? We are both very worried about this whole matter.' Mary's husband Allan was a little nervous but also frustrated with the delay in finding out about his daughter's condition.

'The result of the investigation into the condition is something that is quite astounding,' said Dr Shultz in a direct manner that also hinted at hidden authority. Allan picked up a distinct American accent in these first words from Dr Shultz.

'The mark and skin eruption on your daughter's back are the start of what can only be described as a complex integumentary structure dissimilar to her own skin. To put it in simple terms your daughter is growing feathers on her back.'

Mary and Allan both suddenly stood up from their chairs. A look of shock and disbelief had drained the blood from their faces and, after a brief gasp of air, they hugged each other.

'How could? I don't believe it!' Allan was now becoming angry and frustrated.

'It appears that it may be related to the avian flu that your wife had; there may have been some genetic modifications happening.' Dr Shultz's statement lacked emotion and there was no trace of empathy for the Ling's position.

'WE need to investigate this situation further.' It was not a request but sounded more like an order.

'WE? Who are WE Dr Shultz? You are talking about our daughter!' Allan was now starting to become angry.

'I am not a medical doctor. I have PhD in Ornithology and Molecular Biology. I work for the US Strategic Arms Development Command.'

'You are not going to experiment on our daughter, Schultz. I don't care who you work for. You have no authority.' Allan was now aroused and very angry at Shultz and Miller.

Shultz's face conjured up a slight smile and he just said, 'This is too important to delay.'

Paul likes to let his imagination take flight (no pun intended). His group of U3A writers select a subject each month for a short story and this is his 'simple science fiction piece' as a result of a recent effort.
Wednesday 17 October 2012

Broken Vases

## Peter Goodwin

### Warilla, NSW

After you left me,

I did not know what to do

with my hands.

I carried them with me

like broken vases.

I wanted to bury them

in the dirt,

these hands that would

not work.

I wanted to be rid

of them forever.

They were no good to me,

you lost, no labour,

these hands not darkening

pages.

When people came near me

in the street,

I hid them in my pockets.

At night, alone,

I placed them on the desk

as though they were

not mine.
Thursday 18 October 2012

Bright Morning Full Of Hope

## Graham Sparks

### Bathurst, NSW

The future is full of light and hope

and the shimmering haze of distance

and all of space imbued

with the imminence of unborn things,

for I feel the cosmos is still in spring.

A backward glance

reveals old broken baggage,

dark superstition

and the scab of religion,

formed on the wound

where man cleaved himself from all

by the action of untuned mind.
Friday 19 October 2012

Underground Melody

## Bob Edgar

### Wentworth Falls, NSW

Coal mines of the nineteenth century in South Wales were of desperate, miserable means. Daffyd Morgan had endured fourteen years underground, eking out a meagre living standard for his growing family.

The siren of March 1876 signalled the pit collapse that took thirty eight lives of men and boys, and also took Daffyds' legs.

Daffyd's first born child Rhyss, would go underground at the allowed age of twelve.

The first six months of Rhyss's working life were dismal. Six days a week before dawn he would close the front door; and with head bowed, shuffle down the lonely path to the black pits in the valley below.

Returning after a twelve hour shift, Rhyss was exhausted, famished and forlorn. Daffyd would wheel himself to the front door every working day, clasp his son's head in his hands and kiss his cheek. The sight of his Da's blackened lips always brought a smile to Rhyss's tired face.

The night Daffyd presented Rhyss with the harmonica of his dreams, was indeed a happy one.

'It's grand isn't it? Thank you Da, thank you Mam, can the little ones play it?'

'Sure they can son, and I'll even have a go meself if I might.'

Long into the night silly tunes were blown, and sugar candy was snapped.

~~~

Being the parish priest I was a part of every family in the valley, but sadly I was also apart from every family in the valley. I was drawn to the Morgan family in a way that slightly disturbed me, and at times delighted me.

For many months I would take my morning walk along the clifftop; and as if it were my duty I would greet Rhyss and his younger brother Dai, as they descended to the pits.

'God be with you boys, and you both be with God.'

'Thank you Father, and I'll give you a tune,' said Rhyss.

'Thank you Father, and I'll give you a song,' Dai said, with a lilt in his voice.

I would then be serenaded by a tuneless melody and an unfortunate ditty.

I would wave the lads on their way, then pray a silent prayer for the men and boys underground.

Ten hours after our last meeting on the clifftop, I set out to visit a sick member of the parish. I felt a compulsion to be alone, so I took the cobbled paths so rarely used by pedestrians. I slowed my walk sensing that I had reached an unseen destination.

An enchanting sound was filtering into my being, urging me to quicken my walk.

Suddenly I knew. The harmonica resonated in the evening mist. The tune, floating through the still air was hauntingly beautiful. The melody was sad and yet promised comfort.

I gasped as a voice chimed in to marry with the music from the reeds.The song was being sung in Welsh and the singer may have been an angel. In fact, as the captivating sounds became louder, I happened on two boys at the side of the lane. They were about twelve years old and smartly dressed in white collar and coat. The boy playing the harmonica was sitting on a box, the instrument all but concealed in the cave of his hands. His eyes were closed and his body swayed slightly as the sweet sounds escaped through his fingers. The boy with the voice of an angel had one foot on the box, his arm resting on that leg. He glanced up as I approached, exposing his soft green eyes that glistened with the dew of loss. His voice was so pure and emotion driven that I felt a shiver through my body and soul.

'Rhyss? ... Dai?'

As I wondered what words I could use to ease the Morgan family's pain, the siren sounded over the valley, and the boys were gone.
Saturday 20 October 2012

Amanda's Fairytale

## JAC

### Kilsyth, VIC

She woke up to the gentle crackling sounds of the hot embers that remained of the fire. She turned on her side and faced the warmth, smiling inwardly. She had just had a wonderful dream. She dreamt of wearing a magnificent gown, and dancing with Prince Charming at the royal ball. She remembered that the Fairy Godfather, who looked a lot like Carson Kressley, had made her beautiful and all the fascinating spells that were cast. It was such a silly dream, but she loved it.

'Amanda,' came Lady Tremaine's cold, cruel voice from the doorway. 'Have you even begun your chores? Get up and at it.'

'Yes, Lady Tremaine,' Amanda said, getting up and wiping off her apron. Her heart nearly stopped as she felt something in her pocket, but she waited until her stepmother left before looking to see if it was true. Nervously, she pulled out a glass slipper from her pocket. 'So it wasn't a dream!' she nearly shouted.

'What wasn't a dream?' a voice asked.

Amanda gasped and dropped the slipper back in her pocket. There was an unfamiliar face at the window. 'Who are you?' she politely asked, opening the window.

'I'm Doc,' the little man answered. 'These are my fellow dwarves: Sleepy, Dopey, Grumpy, Happy, Bashful, and Sneezy.'

'Dwarves?' Amanda asked, shocked. 'But there aren't such things as dwarves!'

'If I'm not a dwarf, then I don't know what I am!' Happy chirped.

'Would you like to come to our cottage for some tea?' Bashful asked quietly, grabbing his beard and twisting it around. 'It isn't far.'

'Well, I've never had tea with dwarves before, but I also have to get doing my chores or my stepmother will flip.'

'It won't take long,' Doc assured her. 'We just want to spend time with someone beautiful. It's been awhile since we last saw Snow White.'

Amanda had no idea who Snow White was, but these dwarves didn't seem like such bad things. 'Okay, I'll have some tea, but I can't visit for long.'

The dwarves cheered as Amanda stepped out of the window. They walked into the forest and came upon a small cottage. She was a little unsure of going so far from home without saying anything, but decided it wasn't that big a deal. Dopey happily led her inside and the rest followed suit, except for Grumpy who grudgingly followed.

'It isn't quite as clean as when Snow White stayed with us,' Sneezy informed her, 'but we do our best.'

'Who is Snow White?' Amanda asked as she sat down at the dusty table.

Dopey handed her a cup and she resisted the urge to clean it out before Happy poured the chamomile tea inside. Hesitantly, she took a sip.

'She's a princess now,' Grumpy grunted. 'She met her Prince Charming and married him after he woke her up from an evil spell.'

'They lived happily ever after,' Sleepy sighed. 'Had three kids. They're all grown up now, and Snow White has gotten older. She doesn't come to visit us as often.'

All seven dwarves looked about solemnly for a while.

'That sounds like my Prince Charming,' Amanda said, trying to get off the subject of this Snow White chick. 'He has my other slipper,' she said, showing the other one to the dwarves. 'I'm sure he'd marry me if he knew who I was.'

'So what's your story anyway?' Doc asked.

'My mother died when I was very young,' she explained. 'My father got remarried to an ugly hag, Lady Tremaine. She has two ugly, clumsy daughters, and they treat me like dirt.' Amanda slammed down her cup in frustration. 'I'm sorry, that wasn't very appropriate, and it's no way to speak about the lady who feeds me and puts a roof over my head.'

'If it's any consolation, Snow White had a similar problem, and her story turned out happily ever after,' Happy said.

'Of course,' Grumpy snarled. 'It's always happily ever after. That's so predictable. Whatever happened to cliffhangers or tragedies? Happily ever after is just so ... boring!'

Amanda took this as her cue to leave. 'Well, I really enjoyed our visit. I should get home and do my chores now.'

The dwarves bid her a goodbye and she left quickly.

'Those were a peculiar bunch of creatures,' she mumbled as she stepped carefully over fallen branches and roots protruding from the ground. 'I hope I wasn't gone too long!' Amanda kept walking in what she thought was the right direction, until a voice commanded her attention.

'Where do you think you're going?'

'I'm going home!' she said loudly before turning around and seeing a dark fairy. 'Wh-wh-who are you?'

'I am Maledeficent and you're not supposed to be here.'

'Of course not!' Amanda agreed. 'I'm supposed to be home with my wicked stepmother and stepsisters doing my chores and working like a slave.'

'That's incorrect. You are meant to be at the castle with me working at the spinning wheel.'

'Well, that life does sound much nicer than my own, but the man in my sights is Prince Charming and I can only have him if I live with my stepmother and stepsisters.' Amanda turned to leave, but the fairy grabbed her arm.

'I don't care what silly excuses you have, Princess Aurora, but it's nearing your sixteenth birthday and you need to be spinning for me right now.'

'Princess Aurora?' she asked, startled. 'But I'm not a princess! I'm merely Amanda.'

'Right, and I'm Cruella De Vil!'

So Amanda had no choice but to reluctantly follow Maledeficent to the grand castle – even grander than Prince Charming's, but who's judging? Amanda spun yarn for the fairy – pricked her finger a few times – but Maledeficent never seemed satisfied. Amanda was actually beginning to miss her life at home.

'Why isn't it working?' Maledeficent demanded after Amanda poked her finger for the fifth time that day.

'Perhaps the time isn't right?' her young servant suggested.

'Silence! And keep spinning that yarn,' she ordered.

It seemed she finally came to a decision. 'If it won't work that way, I'll just have to do it myself.'

Amanda was about to ask what, but before the words could leave her lips she fell asleep. When she woke up later, she felt she had had the best sleep of her life. It had felt so replenishing! However, her back muscles were sore and stiff as were her joints. It must have been a long sleep. When she finally opened her eyes, she saw a strange, old man standing over her. She screamed.

'Please, don't scream!' the old man gasped. 'You're going to give me a heart attack!'

She sat up suddenly, realising she wasn't on a bed at all. 'Where am I? How long have I been asleep?'

'Forever, it seems,' he told her.

She blinked.

'I've been searching for you for years,' he explained. 'Of course you don't remember me, I'm an old man now. You once knew me as the young, handsome Prince Charming. Years have passed, and this is all that remains of me, I'm afraid.'

'Charming?' Amanda asked tenderly, reaching out and stroking his face. 'How long have I been sleeping?'

'That's the thing,' he went on. 'It's been about sixty years. You've been put under a curse by Maledeficent. She mistook you for Princess Aurora. Lucky girl, that one. I'm sorry it took me so long to find you, but you're a hard girl to find. All I had at first was this slipper, you see.' He pulled out the glass slipper and Amanda gasped. She grabbed the other one from her pocket and the two held them together. 'But I'm here now.'

Amanda gazed into the withered face. 'You've been looking for me all these years?' she asked incredulously.

'Yes,' he smiled. 'And now that I've found you, we can finally marry.' He paused. 'You were looking for me before you disappeared, right?'

'Of course,' she said, grinning. 'But what makes you think I would marry an old man NOW?' Amanda stood up and stretched. 'I'm going to explore the world! Sixty years in the future – imagine what kind of new things there are for me to see and do. And my wicked stepmother will be dead!' She turned back to Prince Charming before leaving. 'Sorry, old man. I never actually believed in the whole love at first sight thing!' Amanda walked happily to the castle entrance, threw open the doors and was suddenly thrust into the desert. 'Wait a minute,' she began. 'How on earth did I get here?'

'Welcome to Agrabah!' a voice said cheerily 'I see you're not from around here. You can call me Aladdin.'

Amanda looked up and saw a tall dark man with a six-pack staring back at her. 'Well, Aladdin, you can call me whatever the hell you want!'

Perhaps she had found her Prince Charming after all ...
Sunday 21 October 2012

Old Seadogs

## James Craib

### Wentworth Falls, NSW

The morning sun danced on the waves as a brisk gust brought the smell of the ocean, laden with salt, into Darcy's nostrils. He awoke with a start, as he felt something wet and rough licking his face. He sat upright and tried to open his eyes, but found they were encrusted with a film of salt and sand.

'Go on – bugger off! God that dog smells bad,' he said aloud and tried to shoo the determined mutt away. 'Yuck!'

'Aw it's only Seaweed, won't hurt ya.' Darcy was distracted momentarily by the voice close to his right side. 'Come on, that's enough, get down!'

'Seaweed?' Darcy replied incredulous, 'Nah, I know a dog when I smell one; is it yours?'

'Yeah, sorry mate,' the voice continued, 'should've explained a bit better, see his name is Seaweed. I call 'im that 'cause he's a kelpie ... mainly. Ya get it? Kelp, therefore Seaweed or Weedy for short; hang on a minute, here's a drop of water to get the grit out of yer eyes, the cap's off.'

Darcy felt a plastic bottle being shoved into his outstretched hand. He poured a liberal amount into his free hand and sluiced his face and eyes, then took a long drink. 'Thanks mate,' he exclaimed, 'that feels so much better.'

Darcy blinked a few times and gazed quizzically, as the figure squatted beside him gradually came into focus. He shielded his eyes against the glare of the sun and looked into the lived-in face of his benefactor. Seaweed's owner had one of those slightly ravaged faces of a life spent out in the open; clear intelligent eyes set beneath a shock of blonde-white hair and a slightly mocking smile, adorned by a three-day growth. About sixty or so and rangy, thought Darcy, not a fool – an old seadog. He was dressed in faded blue jeans and sneakers, and a blue windcheater over a rolled-neck pullover that was probably obtained at an army surplus store. A canvas bag hung down from his shoulder. The man picked up a stick and hurled it towards the ocean; Seaweed barked loudly and took off after the stick as if it were a rabbit. Within seconds, the dog retrieved the stick and brought it back and dutifully dropped it at the feet of its master, anxiously awaiting the game to continue, alternately barking and panting.

'Weedy – sit, be quiet,' said the owner. And Weedy sat down and gave a slight yelp of resignation and panted impatiently; it was too nice a day to be still whilst his owner talked to the other two-leg who had shooed him away.

'My name's Percy – me mates call me Parrot, reckon I'm always squawkin' about sumptin,' he looked down at an empty wine flagon. 'What do they call you ... old soak?'

Darcy glanced balefully at the empty flagon also, 'Ahh Darcy, yeah I know, "looks like another deadbeat slurping turps on the beach, must've passed out last night". Don't happen to know the time do you Parrot? Speaking of which, my mouth feels like the bottom of a birdcage.' He took another drink.

'Yeah you look like shit also,' replied Parrot and pulled back his sleeve to look at his watch. 'It's um, just on seven. Though you don't sound like a down-and-out, what's your caper?'

Darcy looked askance, 'Thanks for the compliment ... does he talk like that to you too, Weedy?' trying to deflect a possible confrontation. 'Jeez my head's bursting.'

The dog, which was predominantly black, turned its white face sideways at the mention of its name and barked twice, seemingly in affirmation, and wagged its tail in anticipation.

'If you must know ... I was thinking about trying to swim to New Zealand – one way. If I made it, good and well, if not ...' Darcy trailed off.

'You mean you were going to drown yourself – what on Earth for? It can't be that bad, surely! What happened? Did the cat snuff it or sumptin? Get yourself a dog – take mine!' Parrot went quiet for a moment, then added, 'I'll tell you something else, Darcy boy, drowning is NOT a pleasant way to go.' His voice raised higher, 'Take it from me, I used to be a fisherman up 'til I retired. I got washed overboard once in a high swell and nearly got carried away. Luckily I managed to grab a mass of net but I lost a finger in the process when my hand got entangled.' Parrot was practically shouting now in anger, as if Darcy was, somehow, partially responsible. 'Cop this!'

And in confirmation, Parrot held up his left hand to show the ugly stump of his forefinger, streaked with scars from where strong twine had ripped through the joint.

'Actually,' said Darcy slowly, 'it was my wife Madeline that ... snuffed it.' The expression tasted like bile in his throat and he turned and spat into the sand. 'She ... passed away a month ago. She was diabetic, went into a coma and didn't come out of it. I had to tell them to turn off life support. We were going to go to Europe next year.' Tears formed in his eyes and he turned away again in embarrassment, body convulsing.

Parrot's face dropped, and his voice returned to normal. 'Oh bugger me, I'm very sorry Darcy. Jesus I'm a prick. I run off at the mouth at times. Just call me Percy the Prick!'

Darcy snuffled, 'It's alright, you weren't to know, it's just that I'd looked after her for the last few years and now it all seems to have been so futile, got nothing much else to live for – we didn't have kids. Plus our parents are gone now on both sides ... got a sister but I haven't seen her in years; still living up in Queensland last I heard. Cairns I think was her last address ...'

Something grabbed Seaweed's attention down by the water's edge. He barked loudly once, jumped to his feet and took off across the sand to do battle with a noisy seagull.

'Weedy!' yelled Parrot to no avail. 'Come back here, you little mongrel!' But it was clear that Weedy's patience was exhausted and he had no inclination towards obedience. 'Kelpies are like that, they get bored. He'll come back eventually, just like kelp on the beach,' Parrot conceded, smiling at his own joke.

Turning his attention back to Darcy, Parrot said, 'Look Darcy, that's bloody awful, really! But you know when I gave up fishing, not long after I nearly became fish fodder me self and lost the digit ... the wife buggered off with the local baker. I was devastated but it transpired that they'd been carrying on every time I went to sea. We had a couple of kids but I wasn't much of a Dad; never at home see? They're both adults now, flew the coop quite some time ago and now I don't hear from them at all. They both shot through to the bright lights of Sydney. But here's the twist – I've become rather friendly with the baker's missus!'

Darcy turned and looked at Parrot, 'Are you pulling my chain?'

'No, straight up. She's a lovely girl and everything's nice 'n easy, no hang-ups, pleasant conversation; we take in a show occasionally and I have dinner 'round at her place quite often. I take a bottle of wine from the pub – that's it behind us up there on the bluff – The Sea-Spray. I even get to throw the leg across occasionally. Actually, I sold me house and boat as part of the divorce settlement and now I've got a room at the Sea-Spray. Nothing fancy, but it's clean and comfortable. My nephew is the publican and I help out as a handyman and also behind the bar when required. I've got the pension and I like to fossick down here on the beach; you never know what you might find ... prone bodies even, particularly after a long weekend. I've already picked up about ten bucks in change this morning. Anyway; I'm rambling on here ...'

'I'll say,' interrupted Darcy, who was actually finding his story intriguing.

'Just hear me out Darcy and then I'll piss off and you can get back to pollutin' the ocean and amusing the seagulls.'

'Thank you Percy Freud,' replied Darcy. It was his turn to get angry. 'What are you – the coastal shrink? the ... Fisherman's Friend? If you think I'm going to sit here and suffer your ...'

But Parrot cut him off short. 'Listen you dick, it's no skin off my nose, all I'm tryin' to say is that there are other fish in the ocean, other paths to follow. "Life flows on within you and without you," as George Harrison once said. Okay, your wife has passed on, but you haven't! Don't make the mistake of dropping your bundle. Grieve for her, certainly, and then move on. Grog's not the answer either you know.'

'Yeah?' said Darcy somewhat mollified, 'I suppose you're an expert there too, after all you do live in a pub! Yo bloody ho and a bottle of Bundy?'

'But of course!' agreed Parrot. 'I used to get legless just about every other night. I'd lost a finger and I'd been fingered, or cuckolded or something. Then one day I'm down on the beach, just like you, with the mother and father of a hangover and I ran into a couple of Buddhist fellers sittin' cross-legged on the sand staring out to sea, meditatin'. It sort of threw me at first because they weren't in saffron robes or had shaved heads or anything. Turned out they were visitors at the Ashram just back in the hinterland a bit, on a weekend retreat. Anyway, I got to talking to them and they suggested I try meditating. At first I thought "this is bullshit" but anyway later on I said to me self – self, I'll give this a try, got nothing to lose. So after one or two false starts sure enough I start to feel relaxed and I get reacquainted with the young bloke I once was in me twenties, only I've got a bit more wisdom now see – yeah you can laugh, but it works; got me off the piss and curbed the urge to run a gutting knife across me wrists.'

'Sorry, Parrot, I wasn't laughing at you, really, it's your dog – Seedy is it? No that's me! Weedy, that's it! He's trying to catch that seagull, just about got him that time. You mean to say that you tried to end it all? A bit messy I would've thought slitting your wrists in the bathtub.'

Parrot chose to ignore this observation. Instead he stuck two fingers in his teeth, whistled a shrill note and called out loudly, 'Weedy, come here mate, come on.' And Weedy, after giving one last lunge at the hapless gull, came racing back up the sand to where the two men were sitting. He shook himself violently and salty water sprayed both men and they protested alternately with cries of 'Bloody hell' and 'God, you stink'. Oddly enough, Seaweed didn't appear to be too perturbed. The little dog barked excitedly – time to go, gulls to chase!

There was an awkward silence. Finally Parrot said, 'I'd better get going. Wouldn't want to waste anymore of your precious time and I've got to be back at the pub in an hour to help get set up for the day's trading.' There was another awkward moment, 'You should wander up later for a counter lunch and a ... mineral water, get yourself cleaned up first. Or if you like I can give you and Weedy a hose-down at the rear of the pub. He's especially on the nose and you're not far behind.'

By now Darcy was bereft of any other pithy response.

'Be seeing you – yo bloody ho!' and with that Parrot stood up and started off again along the beach. 'Come on Weedy,' he called. And soon he was another hazy figure on the water's edge in the morning sun, gradually getting smaller with a yappy grey black bundle beside him.

Darcy yawned, stretched and rubbed his eyes once more. He noticed that Parrot had left his water bottle behind. He took another long drink to wet his parched mouth and throat. 'Silly old bugger,' Darcy thought to himself. 'But he did make some sense!' he acknowledged grudgingly. Madeline was gone and nothing could bring her back. Maybe it was time to make a fresh start. Get a new job or perhaps travel – he'd always wanted to see Europe, never know who you might meet. He could try to look up his sister in Queensland, or maybe he could get himself a dog. Old seadogs – maybe he might just repair to the Sea-Spray for lunch.
Monday 22 October 2012

What We Leave Behind ...

## Susan Sargent

### Narrabri, NSW

The big grey horse looked miserably over his stable door, waiting hungrily for his breakfast, although he knew it probably wouldn't come. All the others in the row had been fed. Mistral, a big black mare, Danny, a chestnut pony, Henry, another grey like himself, Pirouette, a flashy brown show mare, and Pete, a small bay gelding, were all busy devouring their breakfast – but not Billy. He looked forlornly about him, trying to find even a wisp of lucerne that had, perhaps, blown his way on the slight breeze that ruffled his once-white mane.

His tail too, had once been white, and the rest of him covered in a soft, shiny coat that felt like satin. Now though, all was hidden beneath a layer of dirt and dried sweat. Underneath that layer, his ribs were beginning to show through the build-up, as his condition faded away. Billy had once been a girl's best friend, a pony club champion, until that girl discovered boys. Now he remained all but forgotten, fading away quietly in his little stall.

Had Billy been a person, he probably would have wondered why no-one fed him, why no-one ever groomed him, and why someone wasted their money on a stable for him when they clearly could not be bothered looking after him. He was always lonely, locked up all day while the others went out to the field, except for the odd occasion when a passing child patted him on the way to their riding lesson, or perhaps offered a carrot, although his old teeth found those difficult to chew. He longed for the days when his girl's laughter rang out around him, long summer days when they'd be splashing in the dam, or those weekends when they would be off to a competition, or those long, peaceful rides through the nearby forest with their mates.

A girl walked down the stable row, going about her business cleaning the stalls once the other horses went out for the day. Billy saw her often when she mucked out. Sometimes she would have a treat for him, but not today. He nickered to her, hoping for a small scrap of something, anything would do. Without a word, she stopped outside Billy's stable, and, looking around to make sure nobody else was nearby, quickly unlatched the door. She swung it open, before silently walking away.

Billy stood for a moment, staring at freedom. He took a tentative step forward, expecting a reprimand, then quickly trotted out, heading for the nearest patch of grass he could see. Despite being somewhat dry and brown in the midsummer heat, that patch looked lush, green and inviting to Billy. He took a few mouthfuls, then with a sudden burst of energy, lay down and rolled, relieving the many built-up itches beneath his dirty exterior. He then stood up, shook himself all over, and began to pick at the grass once more.

His freedom, however, was short-lived. The girl who had released him soon returned, a sad expression on her face, carrying a halter and lead rope. She buckled the halter about Billy's head, and led him slowly back to his stall. He ambled along slowly, suddenly remembering that he was an old horse with many aches and pains and could not move very fast anymore.

'I'm sorry, old mate,' she whispered to him as they returned to the dark musty box, 'I wish I could give you more, but I would be in big trouble if I did.'

Billy let out a sigh when he found no food in his feed bin, almost as if he'd never expected it, but still hoped anyway. He couldn't possibly understand why nobody could help him. His owners refused assistance and caused trouble if anyone tried to interfere, despite the efforts of all who knew Billy.

The girl patted Billy and left, locking the door as she went. He sadly resigned himself to starvation and neglect once more. He watched the girl walk away, staring after the only person who cared about an old, grey horse.
Tuesday 23 October 2012

Bluehole – Come Share With Me

##  Rimeriter

### Lansvale, NSW

Situated in a back street of a suburb in a city,

was a cool and blue hued water hole

enclosed by roads, so gritty.

Mostly capped with bitumen

but at the edges gravel,

along which on the working days many people had to travel.

Nearby was a paint factory that was busy night and day,

but during daylight at the weekend

children came along to play,

within this piece of waste land upon which

nothing had been built,

they frolicked, pranced and fantasised – without ever knowing guilt.

As time progressed, the day got hot, the sun was at its peak.

Children could not have this much fun – not in the working week.

Now one was there. He must be un-named – let's refer to him as Jim.

It was on this hot and fateful day he decided to have a swim.

So with his mates' encouragement he doffed his clothes like they.

No one had brought their 'swimmers' – they had only come to play.

The water it was very cool. The day was sooo serene.

No one thought a better day had ever, ever been.

As time passed by with clothing safe far from the water's edge

these boys very soon decided and this must be their pledge

to mention it to no one, not even other mates,

certainly not your sister, because when she got the hates –

she'd tell – then the consequences would be very, very sad,

the full and lurid story would seem very, very bad.

No girls were ever invited to go swimming in the nude

they would only just have said, 'Oh! No! It's very, very rude.'

So the boys had the 'Bluehole', completely, to their very own

they had no way of knowing that on this day they'd moan

about the cruel 'trick of fate' that soon caused them all to run.

A 'trick of fate' that spoiled their day in the hot and boiling sun.

The perimeter fence was fashioned, from palings and from tin,

this kept the passing sightseers from secretly staring in

except through the many holes and where the tin was not properly mended

which allowed small boys to do things that were originally unintended.

This was a place containing – watered down chemical waste –

it was not known to these boys in their innocence and haste

that it was the chemicals which made the water blue

nor the nasty situation which was soon, to all ensue.

Suddenly one boy spotted, a peaked cap, so very, very tall,

it stood just high enough to peer, over the surrounding wall.

Bobbing up and down it went – in progression to the gate.

Was it going to be the cause – of their fumbling future fate?

A policeman in a uniform. No doubt that it's a copper.

He stopped at the nearest gate. Did everything very proper.

Yelled at the young boys doing Aussie Crawl,

making them panic, wiped the everpresent smile,

from fresh-faced to frightened: now no grin upon their 'dial'.

But, did they flee in panic? The true answer it is 'YES'

They had no way of knowing, they could really only guess

that if they were not to be lumbered by a cop upon his beat,

they had better be very hasty and make a very quick retreat.

The rush and haste meant, that from the strewn and scattered clothes

they picked some up, but could not be called, the very same as those

which were worn upon arrival at the 'Bluehole' on this day,

to claim all the correct ones could cause a scuffle and affray.

'Lickerty Split' to random fences, they skeltered and they ran

each one for themselves, not wanting to carry 'the can'

for any old mate who was wearing, just a jumper with a vee,

when turned back to the front, sleeves reached only to his knee.

It covered all his front parts. Thank goodness for that.

For further disguise of his rear end, he wished he'd worn a hat.

Fortunately for all, the coppers were eluded,

but when parents finally found out, they could not be excluded,

because trousers had to be exchanged and other items claimed

or else another boy, might be very seriously maimed

by wearing those garments, that were too tight for him.

Now, more days at the 'Bluehole', are looking very, very, dim.
Wednesday 24 October 2012 8 am

So Many Grains Of Sand ...

## Vickie Walker

### Orange, NSW

So many grains of sand wash upon our shores,

each one separate, adding to the whole.

Yellow specks move together as one;

sculptured drifts, swept by wave and wind.

An endless supply of people inhabit Earth,

billions have come before; will come after.

Individuals living their separate lives,

differences dividing; not yet whole.

Each tiny spot, each grain of sand combine

to unite and blend; merge into each other.

A beach is created when all

contribute to the one beautiful whole.

We are so many grains of sand ...
Wednesday 24 October 2012 4 pm

Mountain Climbing

## Michele Fermanis-Winward

### Leura, NSW

Emerging from the night

your rounded curves

are close enough to try.

Wrapped in

a softening glaze,

your gentle rise and fall

I'm longing to possess.

Light expands

the details of your form,

disclosing ridge and canyon wall,

the wild irregularity

which time can build.

I had seen

what mist and mind will draw,

you now display

a reach my arms can't hold.

Must stay and watch

as others stretch

exposed,

caress each hip and breast,

the depth of folds

by wind and rain

distressed.
Thursday 25 October 2012 8 am

*** Editor's Pick ***

Rain

## Felicity Lynch

### Katoomba, NSW

A shifting sky

Huge clouds racing

In a dark formless pattern

Spilling water onto dusty fields

And the surprised face

Of the anxious farmer

Who thought the drought would never end

Danced alone in a silent ecstasy

His tears and the rain mingling

Ed: While the concept of country farmers enjoying a breaking drought has been done many times, I kept thinking of this poem for days after first reading it, hence the Editor's Pick. Its wonderful simplicity, direct message with no words wasted packaged with clean imagery meant it just kept coming back to me.
Thursday 25 October 2012 4 pm

Seasons Of The Day

## Denise Martin

### Gisborne, VIC

Misty morning cobwebs hang suspended,

A strand of white haze wreathes the purple range.

We see which face the mountain has extended,

Each morning when the moon and sun exchange.

The purple haze of midday summer heat

Invites the bees to court the open heads.

They dangle from the lips to coat their feet,

Dipping them into saffron pollen shreds

As evening silver dusk begins to creep,

The lights like stars come out again to play,

And living things prepare themselves for sleep,

Renewing life force for another day.

At last the blanket night is drawn around

As all the daylight noise is stilled once more,

A distant warning bark the only sound.

We sleep to dream, once more the soul restore.
Friday 26 October 2012

Five Thousand Galaxies

## Robertas

### Drummoyne, NSW

News!

The Hubble telescope has discovered 5000 new Galaxies in a small sector of deep space.

Here we are on our sub-microscopic dot – our beautiful garden – a nothingness in a teeming, inexhaustible Universe – a dot on the 'i' of Infinity.

It's outrageous – but such a beautiful truth.

Our Hubbles and Palomars just have to stare at any space blackness to find more galaxies; thousands, millions and who knows? One day a glimpse across an impossible black expanse to see yet another glow and say, 'There, there – another universe – and another – then, a galaxy of universes ...'

Wow!

But, to more important matters – my coffee's full cream and I distinctly asked for skim – that makes me so angry – they never get it right!

As Robertas says, we're each the centre of a unique universe!
Saturday 27 October 2012

Traces Of Glitter

## Merlene Fawdry

### Ararat, VIC

Our lives are like the glittered fairy wings my granddaughter wears. Sparkles fall with each movement, to leave a hint of her presence long after her cheery farewell has been snatched away by the shutting of the door. The smattering of glitter on my hand, after hers has slipped away to the next adventure, keeps her close to me. So too, do the remnants our 'having been' drop like shimmering trace elements, to blend with the residue of other lives, events, objects and emotions, building a montage of reflections for all who follow.

How well I remember the last time I was in my grandmother's house, everyone gathered in the front parlour discussing the merits of her funeral service in polite voices, while silently assessing the value of her sparse estate. Now and again, an auntie emitted the obligatory sniffle, lace-edged hankie held under pinched nostrils, which set off a contagion of similar nasal utterances; empathically empty responses from middle-aged women in black-veiled hats. The uncles showed more restraint, noses twitching against the mothball odour of their dark suits, necks jerking against the discomfort of stiff collars, their desire to be elsewhere reflected in tearless eyes.

Cousins, recognised only from grainy photos distributed to the family each Christmas, and only those not yet old enough to escape the occasion altogether, stood in bemused observation. Young boys in ill-fitting suits hovered around the refreshment table, until a withering look from an adult sent them scurrying for fresher and safer air outside. Their sisters, gender-trained in decorum and expected behaviour, became food servers for the afternoon. Passing around trays of curling sandwiches and butterfly cakes with wilted wings, their private school decorum appeared at odds with the public school etiquette of lesser relatives, dialects colliding across cups of lukewarm tea.

In one corner my father, standing small against his older siblings, unfamiliar to me in this strange garb and sombre surroundings. His face stretched lengthwise in grief, blue eyes glazed with unshed tears in an orb of red veins. I tried to imagine what it must feel like to lose a parent, to better understand this event that robbed him of his familiar round-faced countenance, but it eluded me, leaving me tongue-tied and awkward in the presence of this fragile stranger. I averted my gaze to explore the pictures on the wall, sepia figures in heavy frames, a family without smiles arranged stiffly in unnatural poses, all glowering toward a central point. There was my father as an infant, the youngest of eight children, seated on his mother's knee, blond curls falling on lace-collared shoulders, face blank in its innocence before the blade of life carved its noble character.

I searched the photo for recognition between this woman and the one I knew, before she was placed in the ground, packaged neatly in the small silver-handled coffin. The hand in the picture, resting gently on my father's leg, is smooth and strong. It bears no resemblance to the inflated knuckles that pushed against the papery skin of her old age, a grid of dark blue, ropey veins crisscrossing the back of her hands. The thick dark hair, long sacrificed to wisps of white cotton that barely covered her pink scalp; the magnificent braid reaching beyond her waist reduced to a tatter of broken fibres. I wondered if this is the mother my father grieved for the most, the vital young woman of his childhood and youth, for surely he could not mourn the passing of the tired old woman she had become, whose every breath was a resentment against life.

I looked around the room to other photos of my grandmother, taken at different stages of her life, stopping at the formal portrait taken on her seventieth birthday. I immediately turned aside from the rebuke in her eye and I use the singular, as the other had been sightless for years, the dark twin of her good eye merging into the milky blackness of its surround. It was a look that left me in no doubt she could see right into my soul, uncovering some inner badness I'd been unaware of until that precise moment. I forced my eyes upward to meet hers, brave against this paper likeness, but my courage wilted with the image of my worthless self, as reflected in her omniscient gaze. The scent of her clothes reached out, that indefinable old woman smell, to blend with the pitted apples in the dusty bowl in the centre of the long table and the cloying scent of the flowers that had arrived with a tardy relative and I sought escape from the tableau in the parlour.

The passage was cool as it ever was, even in the middle of summer when the red line in the thermometer hovered around forty degrees for days on end. A dim tunnel of brown, it led from the front door with the coloured glass surround, to the solid back entrance that angled from the architrave it shared with the bathroom door. Pictures of broken-masted ships, engaged in ferocious sea battles, hung from tarnished brass hooks lipped into wide rails that stretched the length of both sides of the passage. The top of these paintings tilted forward, leaning sharply away from the wall, to sway eerily with the draft created as I walked by, my form mirrored, ghost-like, across churning seas.

Although not all the pictures were of battleships, most carried an aura of misery and austerity. Dour faces of my Scottish ancestors, discernable only from each other by the style of hair and dress, added to the gloom. The theme of severity obliterated gender features, leaving the riddle of an androgynous heritage for each successive generation to ponder. The one exception had been a portrait of my grandmother as a young girl, forever beautiful behind the convex glass of the oval frame, the single lily held against her breast as creamy as the hand that held it. There was no judgment coming from the girl she had been, just the hint of a smile and warm acceptance in her velvet eyes. People often commented on how much I resembled my grandmother and I'd always objected strongly, thinking they referred to the photographs in the parlour. I wanted to look like the grandmother in this picture, soft and mysterious, and I practiced her pose in secret, substituting my dog-eared hairbrush for the slender lily as I simpered in front of the mirror in my bedroom.

Looking at the picture that day, an unexpected tightness gripped my throat and the sting of tears nipped the back of my eyes, as I understood the finality of her passing, leaving only the images on the wall to add understanding to the memories of those left behind. It was not only the old woman who had died, the one being ritually mourned by the gathering in the parlour, the essence of the young girl in the picture had also been lost forever. The sudden depth of my grief, a sorrow so unexpected and profound, surprised me. It erupted in a burst of blubbering that quickly progressed into an uncontrolled bawling. I slid to the floor in misery, causing the pictures to jerk and twist on their wires, waving frenetically down to where I lay curled on the brown linoleum.

Footsteps drummed against my ear. Mourners on a march to seek out the source of this break in family stoicism hovered over me. A sea of black hats, hemmed in by mothball suits, uttered their amazement.

'What is it?'

'It's Trudy ... crying.'

'Who'd have thought it? I never thought she was that attached to Mum, did you?'

'It just goes to show. Come along now Trude. Ah, there's the girl.'

Arms reached out to hoist me off the floor; hands touching, pushing and pulling me back into the parlour where my father rescued me, drawing me into his corner. My presence acted as a signal for a demonstration of mourning to begin. Aunties abandoned their social chat and indiscreet laughter to cry loudly and inelegantly, collapsing in weary bundles onto the unforgiving wooden seats of dining chairs, while the uncles rubbed moist eyes and swiped the back of their hands under damp noses. Cousins, wandering in to examine the cause of the uproar, snivelled in sympathy against their mother's bosoms, eager for inclusion.

I looked up at Dad and saw his mouth twitch in one corner. His stomach moved in spasms against my cheek, a sure sign that any minute he might break into the gut rumbling, unrestrained mirth he was renowned for and I knew he'd returned from that awful place. Taking my hands in his, we made our departure, nodding farewell to Grandma as we passed each picture.

We were not there to witness the outraged shock that stilled the display of grief, nor the wrangles that followed when the solicitor read Grandma's will, although we certainly heard about it for months to come.

'You always were a little sneak,' one auntie accused my father.

'No wonder you left early after the funeral ... you knew what was coming didn't you?'

There were many more comments in this vein, although much less polite, as aunts and uncles threatened to contest the will. Dad just went quietly about his business, lips set in a half smile showing he was unperturbed by all the fuss, knowing it would all come to a natural conclusion without any help from him. And when it eventually did, threats and insults replaced by expressions of relief, their comments met the same dignified silence.

'I thought she owned the place. Whoever would have thought it?'

'Thank God, she didn't leave it to me. The place is only worth half of what's owing on it.'

'He always was a sentimental fool. He deserves it ... debt and all.'

There was one more family gathering, although I was not included in this one, when Dad invited the aunts and uncles to take what they wanted from the house. It had been a real bun fight, he reported, when he arrived home that evening.

'You should have seen them, Trude. All pretending they didn't want anything, while inspecting hallmarks on silver and markings on china. They were that busy looking for a treasure they missed the real good stuff,' he laughed. 'But I made sure they all went home with a good haul. It doesn't pay to be too greedy in this life.'

Although Grandma's house stayed in the family, it remained in the background of my life, as growing up and the responsibilities of adult life left me selfishly focused on my own world and the happenings within it. I suppose at some stage Dad paid it off and maybe, between tenants, he went in and did maintenance work until it got too much for him, and then he left it untenanted. To be truthful, I didn't really think about it until the day of his funeral when his will was read. The day the house became mine.

Going back into my grandmother's house, my first impression on opening the door was one of aroma and colour as they had always been. Pears soap, cidery apples and damp ash, all over-washed in shades of brown, from the lightest tan to deepest chocolate. It aroused a familiar and comforting awareness of the stillness of time and I leant forward in expectation of seeing my grandmother, long black skirt with tiny cornflower motifs swishing against the brown linoleum. But there was no sign of the wrinkled walnut face, puckered in annoyance at the intrusive opening of her front door, just the hollow echo of an empty hall. Yet it was still the passageway of my childhood, long and narrow, watched over by the thickly varnished architraves and the austere wooden fretwork that marked the midway point. I began to doubt my decision to enter through the front door. My grandmother believed family members, like trades-people, should only ever come in through the back door. The front entry was for guests and the occasional visiting clergy. As both lessened in frequency during the latter years of her life, it was often unused for such long periods the door would stick fast and refuse to open at all. Then my father would put his shoulder to it, to force it open, and shave some wood off the door's edge. Not being carpenterily inclined, his handiwork ultimately left the door somewhat too narrow for the opening, causing it to blow open when hot northerly winds dried the wood and it contracted to its previous size. He fixed this by adding a jigsaw of small pieces of plywood down the doorjamb. This remained as evidence of my father's presence, although covered in layers of paint, holding the door in a tight embrace against the elements.

Shaking the silliness from myself, I took the first step across the threshold into the cool interior, rose-lit from the afternoon sun shining through the sidelight. It added a dimension of warmth and cheer I'd never noticed as a child and the drab woodwork of my memory now shone with the patina of burnished mahogany. I reached out to touch its strength, feeling the life in it.

I wandered from room to room, seeing beneath the layers of change to the house as I remembered it. My mind returned to the visits I'd made with my father, when I sat quietly as he assured his mother he would always look after her, passing vitality from his strong hand to her frail one. I saw in this action my own hand in his in more recent years, reassuring him through his lapses in memory, introducing myself anew on each visit.

'Trudy,' I would say. 'I'm Trudy, your daughter,' holding tight to my tears when he responded.

'Trudy? Do we know each other?'

'Yes, Dad. We know each other,' I would answer and, behind the pale eyes, his confusion sometimes lifted long enough for him to share a brief visit.

'Trude. I haven't seen you for a long while. Sit down and talk to me.'

I came to that spot in the hall where the portrait of my grandmother as a young girl had hung so many years before. This was where I'd collapsed in tears on the day of her funeral and I fought the urge to throw myself down again and cry for all the losses that come with life. The passage was smaller than the one held in my memory and my eyes were now level with the space on the wall. The picture has long gone and yet I saw it clearly, with the image of me as a young girl overlayed across the photo of my grandmother. Our faces merged and separated, the lily becoming a hairbrush and back again. I watched in fascination as it played out in a kaleidoscope of change and other faces appeared; my father as a boy and younger man and through the ages of his life, my own child and grandchild, all adding to the tapestry of our family. Different faces, yet remarkably similar, each fitting into the other in shape and features. It was the face of our family as it evolved from generation to generation.

The quick tapping of other feet in the passage broke the spell and I turned to greet my daughter and granddaughter.

'What are you doing, Mum, staring at the wall like that?'

The space was blank now. The faces of my family had retreated into the fabric of the walls.

'Memories, dear, I'm just looking at memories.'

From the corner of my eye, I saw her give a slight shrug that matched the raised eyebrow and wry smile. She didn't understand and I didn't have the words to explain, but I knew that one day she would see those same memories on walls of her own.

Small feet skipped up the narrow passage toward another future, and sparkles drifted lazily from fairy wings, flickering in rose-tinted sunshine, falling as traces of glitter that told of her being.

Sunday 28 October 2012

How The Bagpipes Were Invented

##  David Anderson

### Woodford, NSW

Rising from Loch Ness, the monster headed for the shore

Turned south from Inverness as people shut their doors

Leaving plates of porridge and houses splintered from its tread

Gathering kilts and old Scotch whisky, to the hills the clan folk fled.

As the creature roared and snorted tales of woe and misery grew

Its wave of ill destruction was missed by just a few

The fateful journey ended near the shores of Loch Lomond

For Scotland's finest whisky, it came to prey upon!

Stills crushed, their contents emptied, brought howls from every Scot

The monster's in a stupor, the heathen drunken sot.

Fine whisky should be tippled, not guzzled, they did moan

Then the creature fell to earth, wishing to be left alone.

Clan folk all stood there gazing in wonderment and awe

They crept from moors and heather, some peeked from shattered doors

This appetite for whisky surely must evoke

Even greater mass destruction, once the monster finally woke!

Three cheers within the crowd – a solution has been found!

The creature's waking headache must be met with terrible sounds

Drums, flutes and violins were played in tortured tune

This terrible cacophony, woke the monster from its swoon.

Taste for whisky unabated, it again commenced its spree

The fate of Scotland's whisky? A future misery!

When, from a clump of heather, a sound arose so thrilling

The clan folk's spines they tingled – but the monster found it chilling!

Bagpipes of old Mc – , a hasty laughable invention

Now had the creature running, grabbing everyone's attention!

Cross mountain, stream and heather, Mc – followed it a'playing

The monster ran before him, whimpering and baying.

Following the path of its previous unrest,

It finally returned to the deep of old Loch Ness

Scots praised the piped invention that saved their precious drop

Bringing Nessie's drunken rampage forever to a stop.
Monday 29 October 2012

Comfrey

## Winsome Smith

### Lithgow NSW

'Comfrey, that'll fix it,' said Stan, looking at his son's swollen ankle.

'But I want it better by next Saturday,' said Sam. 'I've got to play footy.'

'No problem, comfrey'll do the trick,' Stan reassured him.

'Old wives' tale,' said Sue, Stan's wife with a laugh. 'Where did you hear about that?

'You'd giggle at anything,' Stan said, giving her a playful pat on the bottom. 'Aunty May told me about it.'

'That old gypsy woman? Really, Stan, you'd believe anything. I suppose she told you how to make rhubarb wine and mix a lovers' potion?'

She walked away chuckling.

Stan obtained the required comfrey leaves. Sam watched hopefully as his dad boiled up the leaves, making a strong brew. Stan then soaked a crepe bandage in the liquid and when it was cool, wrapped it firmly around Sam's ankle. Sam lay back on the lounge with his leg elevated, trying to look important.

Sue looked on sceptically. 'You are supposed to be a tough guy,' she reminded her husband. 'Football coach and motor mechanic. Surely you don't believe all that gypsy folk lore.'

'Don't forget it was footy and love of cars that took me out to the gypsies' camp in the first place. Some of the gypsies' kids are in my team. Leon's a good bloke, and his mother, who everyone calls "Aunty May" is a real character.'

She was indeed a character. Stan had sat with her in her caravan several times as she related gypsy stories and told him how to make a hedgehog stew. She had a wisely wizened face and her long grey hair was done in two loose plaits. The caravan was crowded with bottles of wine, jars of pickles and mysterious preserved fruits.

She regaled Stan and her son, Leon, with a grainy kind of cake and a drink that Stan felt would frizzle his tonsils. She watched with amusement as Stan taught her grandchildren some football moves and worked with Leon, her brawny dark eyed son, on his old car.

After three days, Stan unwrapped Sam's ankle. 'Yep, it's looking much better,' he said.

'It's got to get better. I've got to be in that team on Saturday,' said young Sam.

'It will,' Stan reassured him. 'We'll use the comfrey again, but this looks so good that by Saturday you'll be able to play.'

Sue put her arm around Sam. 'Dad's right about you playing football.' She turned to Stan. 'I wonder if it's got anything to do with the body's natural healing powers, and a bit of confidence and positive thinking, to say nothing of a firm bandage.' She said it with her usual chuckle.

'The ankle's healing, whatever it is,' said Stan. 'This afternoon I've got to go out and see Leon again. I'll tell Aunty May about the comfrey. She'll be pleased to hear that it's working.'

Stan manoeuvred his car between the caravans and the broken down cars at the gypsy camp. He dodged a few enthusiastic dogs and carefully passed some washing lines. Near Aunty May's van he noticed Leon with is head under the bonnet of his old car. Leon stood up, wiping his greasy hands on his jeans. 'Glad you're here,' he said to Stan. 'Can't get this old beast to start up. Mum's making merry hell. I can't do anything right.'

'Let's have a look,' said Stan as he got out of his own car.

Leon said, 'Mum's not too good. She took a bit of a tumble down the van steps a while ago.'

'I'll go and say hi before I look at the car,' Stan said.

Just then Aunty May appeared at the caravan door. 'Stan, I'm glad you're here,' she shouted. 'Get me to a doctor straight away.'

'What's the trouble?' Stan asked.

Aunty May continued to shout. 'Leon was too useless to fix these steps. I fell down on me face this afternoon and banged me shins. I've got to get to a doctor straight away. You can take me; you car's working.'

Stan couldn't resist a sly comment. 'Get the comfrey. Haven't you got any comfrey?'

'Comfrey! Hogwash!' shouted Aunty May. 'I'll need real medicine and something for the pain and something to stop infection. Don't talk to me about herbs and such nonsense when I'm in pain.'

'Just a minute, till I calm down. I can't drive while I'm laughing like this.'

Aunty May flung a saucepan at him. Stan ducked and the saucepan smashed one of his headlights. It took a few minutes for Stan and Leon to become serious enough to help her into the car.

When Stan arrived home his son and Sue met him at the front door. Sam declared, 'Look, Dad, my ankle's better.' It was Sue who said, 'There might be something to this comfrey after all.'
Tuesday 30 October 2012

It Starts With A Big C And Ends With ... Er

## Kathryn Yuen

### Hurstville Grove, NSW

six letters – two Cs –

to scare the life out of the living

jumpstart the walking dead

although the other mother of a

four letter 'c' word suits it better

like a bullet to Jack the Ripper

a lump of cells – a mass –

a parasitic beginning and journey

of a dis-ease – tumour humour?

as Life begins with birth

and ends with death,

so cancer is just another lifeform.

its challenge is growth, temporary survival,

to outpace its host's attempts

to slow it down or eradicate

its beauty like that of a runaway train

often a disaster for travellers – no second chances –

sometimes a miracle of survival for passengers in transit

my youngest son peering into puberty

remembers you as the demon alien

who takes grandfathers away

I know you are not so discriminating

I've seen you make babies, children, and young folk

sleep into the day and beyond
Wednesday 31 October 2012

Virtual Obsession

## Amber Johnson

### Highgate Hill, QLD

With excess freedom comes an endless void. Sometimes the absence is only temporary. Other times, it can manifest into a fixed state. We are slaves of habit and thus, when the purpose of our ritualistic ways is lost, we must adapt another.

~~~

When I finished high school, I lost my purpose. There was no longer a need to wake up at 6 am, or schedule my time into 50 minute blocks. I was waiting for the day that, amongst the pile of rejection letters, a job offer would emerge. I thought it would be easy. Just send out a ton of letters with my resume attached, and then presto, I'd have a job. Until then, I was free to do whatever the hell I wanted.

The welfare payments I received would stretch just far enough to cover the bills and rent of my small home. My room was nothing spectacular; just large enough to fit a single bed and a desk for my computer. In that sense, the room fit me perfectly. It was bland and humble, just like me. I was never a 'girly-girl;' trinkets and make-up were never high on my priority list. I didn't really care that I had scarce few possessions. As long as I had money for food, I was content with owning a single pair of worn-out sneakers, three shirts, and a pair of old jeans.

During the transition between high school and the work force, my days began at 1 pm, and nights lasted until feeble lights broke across the eastern shoreline. My pyjamas became a second skin that was shed sparingly, and only when the washing machine demanded it. I could do anything I wanted. There was so much freedom and opportunity, completely unhindered by parental intervention. I could eat ice-cream for breakfast, and skip the veggies at dinner.

At night, I felt like the only one alive. I'd listen to the echoes of my footsteps, as I'd routinely walk the empty streets at 2 am. There wasn't much to do here in the country side. Most kids indulged in the drinking scene, and guzzled down every bottle of grog they could get their hands on. I chose to steer clear of that path to avoid the slurred words and vomiting that pursued.

To adjust to my nocturnal habits, I supplemented my water intake with caffeine. Under the influence of this revitalising drug, my judgement of space and time became clouded. Morning and night blended together like the Arabica beans in my coffee grinder. Only the cream could differentiate light from dark. The date was merely a number, not a symbol of commitment, or a ticking deadline.

But what was the point? In the end, what did it matter if I stayed up all night? I had no purpose.

It wasn't long before the irritation of boredom brewed and bubbled to the surface. Time would alternate between knocking me off my feet in a speedy rush to sunset, and blocking my path like a deaf lady on a walking frame.

It can't be only ten minutes since I last checked. The watch must be fucking broken.

My impatience grew rapidly as thoughts riveted within my skull. It seemed like little imps were bouncing around my head. They chewed on my nerves and scratched at my reflexes. I twitched and I paced, as my head whizzed, and scanned the net for something to do. As much as I hated to admit it, I missed going to class.

I need something, anything to distract me, and ease the boredom. I scoured through my meagre supply of novels and devoured each one. They became stale and bland after the fourth or fifth read. My nightly walks around the block quickly became repetitive, and music only fills the silence. As a kid, I used to swim in the ocean a lot, but now the twiggy blondes have claimed it as their dominion. Just before graduation, they stole my clothes and my towel while I was out in the water. I had to walk home in my swimmers as they called me Shamu the whale. Since then, I haven't gone back, even though it has meant being bored at home. All that was left was my computer: the gateway to a new life.

It began with browsing through various comic sites, and funny pictures, until I eventually drifted into the vast realm of MMORPGs and social networking sites. I embraced this method of entertainment and communication willingly. The internet served to fill the developing cracks in my lifestyle by allowing me to explore and connect with the world far beyond my own. Several times a day, I would get a notice saying: 'Ding! You have (1) new friend request!' It no longer mattered that I was in a desolate coastal town. I always had someone to talk to online. I would never have to leave this social crater they call The Clarence; I could find all the friends I needed with a mouse and a search bar.

It became my new ritual to log on to specific games at certain times of the day. Digital prizes were up for grabs if I made sure to log on every hour. I felt like it was crucial to water my Farmville crops, and feed my Ocean Party fish. All hell would break loose if I wasn't there to collect my loot on World of Warcraft. It felt like my life depended on it.

Compared to my old life, my virtual reality was a substantial upgrade. In the schoolyard, I was the prey of countless students. Threatening glares pierced my flesh wherever I walked. There was nowhere to escape from the torment. The same cluster of girls would stalk me to all my classes, and breathe derogatory threats in my ear.

'What's the matter, fatty?' they'd giggle. 'Want another slice of cheesecake?'

The longer I pretended to be oblivious, the more fiercely they pushed.

'Don't sit there; you'll break the seat,' one of the girls said, as she shoved me off the chair.

'You should leave before you cause an earthquake.' Her friends all cackled at my expense. Their bleached hair and excessive black eye liner made them look like a cupboard of anorexic pandas. Somehow society found appeal in chemically induced beauty.

When online, I always had an escape. If someone became vicious or cruel, I could simply hit those handy little buttons: block and delete. No one could see that I was a red-head pushing close to 190lb. All they could see were the sexy curves on my scantily dressed avatar. I could look beautiful without plastering my face with cosmetics. I was a goddess.

Before long, the glaring white screen became of paramount importance. I never wanted to leave my pixelated friends. They were the only ones who cared about me. My whole life became absorbed into the omnipresent monitor, and I no longer cared about my physical form. All that mattered was that my avatar looked perfect. Everybody loves me in the games; what could possibly go wrong?

I'd click away at the keys long into the night, until I became unable decipher meaning from the blurred walls of text. Often, whilst I rested in my bed, I stared at the ceiling and watched the aftermath like a strobing rave. The screen burnt patterns into my retinas. They flickered behind my eyelids for hours before I could sleep. It seemed normal to me.

As days turned to weeks, the more numb and unconscious to the real world I became. My eyes remained open, but they did not see; I didn't register the full extent of my surroundings. My hand was programmed to move the mouse back and forth. The reflex to collect falling gold on a virtual game is hardwired into my mind, yet my lips had forgotten how to smile. When did illusion become stronger than reality?

I became so absorbed into this new life, that I lost touch with what it meant to live. I forgot the importance of eating, and that of sleep. Sometimes I forgot to shower, or to brush my teeth.

'What's the point?' I'd ask myself. 'I am isolated and alone; no one is going to see that I haven't shaved my legs in weeks.'

Then one day, it hit me. I was level grinding by improving my lumbering skills, one virtual tree at a time, when I jolted back to consciousness.

Why the fuck am I doing this? I blinked in confusion. I stared at the screen for what it was: an animated sequence of LED lights. Why was this thing so important to me?

You're doing it to get to level 39. You only need to cut down 54 more trees, another voice replied, internally.

But why do I have to get to level 39? What is the point?

Are you fucking stupid? You need to level up so you can open that new area, and get some new armour. Don't stop now; it will only take a few more hours, the voice replied impatiently.

'Great, I'm talking to myself,' I sighed, and stood up. As I lifted from the chair, a surge of blood pounded against my skull.

'Ow, fuck!' I groaned. My head throbbed like a hangover after a bad binge. I couldn't help but wince in pain as the matrix etched into my eyelids flickered aggressively.

My legs felt like rubber as they tried to reacquaint themselves with motion. I walked over to the full length mirror. It reflected something unrecognisable. My waistline had shrunk beneath yards of fabric that once fit snugly. At first, I was pleased. Finally, no more fat jokes. I examined my reflection, until my gut protested violently against the borderline starvation. I couldn't supress the cry of pain that gurgled in my throat. My insides were knotted in an internal cinch. I gagged and doubled over into a foetal position on the floor. My stomach heaved and churned, until my mouth foamed with gastric acid. It was so empty that I couldn't even throw up. My body knew that I had finally realised the destructive pattern I had formed.

My clothes were littered across the floor. The dishes were piled into a staggering tower, as high as my knees. The strong odour that lingered around the plates indicated that many of them had been there for weeks. I was dumb-struck, like a stunned mullet plucked from the sea. I struggled to process the information.

'What the hell has happened to me?'

I scanned through my floordrobe. Garments were scattered in crinkled, balled masses in no apparent order. I tried to make some sense of it by haphazardly tossing them into 'clean' and 'dirty' piles. The rest of the day, I tidied up my home in a bewildered state. It seemed so alien to me. Nothing about this place felt like home.

I turned to the dishes. Flecks of butter chicken were caked along the surface of a bowl.

I don't remember eating that, I thought, as I dumped it in the sink. My stomach growled at the mention of food. How long had it been since I last ate? I tried to count the hours and days, but it was so hard to keep track. It wasn't until I reluctantly walked back into my room, and browsed the computer, was my question answered. Ninety-six pages of forum posts later, I discovered my last meal was over two days ago.

'No wonder I threw up,' I groaned, and cradled my core. 'How could I do that to myself?'

I cut the throat of the mechanical beast, by ripping the power cord from its socket. The drone of the cooling fan whirled to a stop, and the electronic cicadas stopped humming. I waited. There was no more static crackle, just silence. It had lost its hold over me.

'Was that it?' I scoffed at the simplicity. The computer was never silent, not even when I slept. It provided me with a buzzing lullaby, as uTorrent ran through the night. Its absence was so foreign. I liked it.

I turned to the dusty curtains that shielded external light. They had enclosed me in my cave and kept me safe. Safe from what exactly, I did not know. What was I afraid of? I thrust them aside. The sun napalmed my eyes until they watered.

'Fuck, it's bright out there.' I squinted into the glare, until shapes and colours started to differentiate from the whiteness.

Glorious hues of blues and greens came into focus as I gazed over the river. From here, I could see the sunlight shimmer on the rippling veil of the water. I had forgotten how close that river was, or how I used to sit there every afternoon, watching the pelicans skim across the surface. It was mesmerising.

I found myself drifting out the door barefoot. My toes clenched at the feel of the dewy lawn caressing my feet. It was wonderful. It didn't matter how long it would take; I was going to reacquaint myself with the world.

As I wandered down the street to my favourite picnic table by the willow trees, I thought this town isn't as horrible as it seems. The gulls swooped down eagerly in a quest for some scraps. I laughed at their desperation, the first time I have done so in months. I continued to walk along the bank, picking up shells as I went. It wasn't until I reached the sandy dunes, did I realise I had reached the river's rendezvous with the sea. I smiled at my accomplishment. It's not much, but it is a start.

Amber wrote Virtual Obsession as an observation piece that focuses on the negative impacts of internet addiction.
Bios and contact details

#### Ashwin, Hettie

Hettie Ashwin has been widely published in magazines and online. Her writing includes humorous column style articles, short stories, novels and non fiction boating pieces, which is handy as she lives on a boat in Queensland, Australia. She has had short stories included in anthologies in the UK, USA and Australia. Hettie has won several writing competitions and her speculative fiction and thriller novel (a competition winner) were published by Morris Publishing. Hettie also self published a humorous novel and a collection of short stories in 2010.

Hettie has a healthy ego, a fertile imagination and a robust work ethic. As the proud possessor of an enlarged funny bone, she's bound to say it has a marked influence on her writing style and her life in general.

For more about Hettie visit her at http://www.hettieashwin.blogspot.com/ and don't forget to bring your sense of humour!

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#### Assumpter, Irene

Irene is a 29 year old who walks around with a pen and a note book, even if it means just scribbling. Irene has written a novel titled 'No Bigger Mistake', to be published in late 2012.

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#### Beer, Don

Don Beer has taken to writing fiction late in life. He is a member of a vibrant short-story writing group in Canberra.

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#### Blatt, Eddie

Eddie Blatt has worked as a research scientist, musician, web-page designer and teacher. Over 30 of his research papers were published in science journals. He has also had essays published in magazines and online. He lives on the coast in northern New South Wales where he is writing a memoir.

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#### Brooks, Nicholas

Nicholas is a creative writing student at the University of Wollongong who is inspired by the writing of Bret Easton Ellis, Don DeLillo and Roberto Bolano among others (of course!).

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#### Callaghan, Linda

Linda Callaghan is a Blue Mountains artist who released her creativity late in 2008. She exhibits yearly and in 2011 won the Springwood Art Show prize. She uses a wide range of mediums and paints many subjects inspired by her surroundings and emotions. Linda also enjoys writing inspirational poetry to accompany her works.

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#### Chaffey, Robyn

Robyn is a writer who says she is 'still on her 'L' plates'. She enjoys experimenting with different types of writing as well as the camaraderie of the writers she is coming to know.

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#### Davies, Nene

Ten years ago, Nene emigrated from Wales to Oz with her husband and three lovely children. Enchanted by Australia from Day One, Nene's icing on the cupcake is the freedom these days to write full time. It may sound corny, but it really is a dream come true!

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#### Doyle, Brendan

Brendan is often inspired by the Blue Mountains, west of Sydney, where he lives. Follow his poetry blog at http://bdwordsmith.blogspot.com.au

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#### Edgar, Bob

Bob 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 tells the story of a little tug boat with a big heart. It has been beautifully illustrated by Todd Sharp (http://www.toddsharpartworks.com.au/)

For more about Bob, visit his site at http://www.robertedgardauthor.com/

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#### Fawdry, Merlene

Merlene Fawdry is an award winning writer and poet, author of The Little Mongrel – free to a good home, The Hidden Risks, and several books of poetry, who has had short stories and poetry published in literary magazines in Australia and overseas. Her strong interest in social justice is reflected in much of her work.

A qualified editor, she offers a professional writing service, mentoring beginning and emerging writers to develop their manuscripts. She maintains a blog @Merlene Fawdry at http://merlenefawdry.blogspot.com.au/ and welcomes comments on her posts.

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####  Fermanis-Windward, Michele

Michele finds that poetry allows her to step out of the day-to-day and into a playground of words where she can follow the sandy footprints of her imagination.

For more about Michele and her writing, visit her blog at http://www.michelefermanis-winward.com/

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#### Gardiner, Alex aka The Auld Yin

Alexander Gardiner (aka The Auld Yin) is situated in the beautiful Blue Mountains of New South Wales, Australia.

He creates sculptures and poetry in the scenic town of Bullaburra. In real life he manages a small wholesale nursery in the Blue Mountains, propagating everything from African violets to maidenhair ferns and all other sorts of exotic plants.

He hopes you enjoy his passion, in this case for poetry in the Scottish vernacular.

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#### Govier, Mark

Mark grew up in Port Adelaide, went to Adelaide University, and ended up working for Long Bay Prison, Sydney, and in many other court and government positions.

Mark's first novel, The Trials of Nian Gao, is a SciFi book. Set in 2084, in a China run by a sinister Party, it follows ex-criminal Nian as he tries to oppose the Party, before managing to escape.

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#### Heks, Andris

Andris has a background in political journalism and social work. He has written many poems and articles, a few songs and two plays including 'Ai Weiwei's Tightrope Act' that recently premiered at UTS in Sydney. You can find his music on YouTube and his written works across the internet by Googling 'Andris Heks'.

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#### Hollins-Cliff, Annabel

Annabel is a photographer who writes for fun. Find out more about Annabel and her works at http://solitaryphotographic.com/

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#### Howell, Connie

Connie is a western shaman who loves to write stories that inspire others, especially women. She has worked in the arena of 'energy healing' for thirty years and continues to expand her awareness which then helps those who come to her.

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#### Ince, Frank

Frank Ince is a short story writer with many awards and publications to his credit. He lives with his wife and a boisterous dog in a town cottage in Caroline Springs, Victoria.

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#### La Porte, Judith

Judith began writing short stories a couple of years ago. She usually bases her stories on personal experience and then allows her imagination to take hold.

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#### Lance, Robyn

Robyn has had the following achievements:

2012 – Poems stencilled on metal plates for 'Poetry – the Indelible Stencil' project, NSW

2011 – Commissioned poem on Canberra's ACTION Buses

2010 – David Campbell Poetry Prize

2009 – Jennifer Lamb Veolia Creative Arts Scholarship

and more in Best Australian Poems 08/05; Island, Quadrant, FourW, Five Bells, Poetrix, LiNQ and AustralianReader.com.

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#### Langford, Anthony J.

Anthony grew up in country Victoria but after several years travelling now lives in Sydney with his baby daughter and three step children. He has had numerous stories and poems published, including in the Verandah 25th Anniversary Edition. His novella Bottomless River is out now through Ginninderra Press. For more on Anthony, visit his website at http://www.anthonyjlangford.com/

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#### Martin, Denise

Denise is a visual artist who lives in the beautiful Macedon Ranges, Victoria. She has always been inspired by the natural world, and enjoys writing about it, and interpreting it through her artwork and poetry.

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#### McGloin, Barry

Barry is the current convenor of a vibrant U3A Canberra short story group. He is compiling his second book of short stories and poems, called Old Mates. His blog is at http://barrymcgloin.blogspot.com.au/

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#### Pant, Subroto

Subroto is based in Brisbane and blogs infrequently at http://subrotopant.blogspot.com.au/

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#### Paton, Toni

Toni is the author of Whimsical Verse, an illustrated poetry book for children aged four through to 12.

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#### Payne, Andrea

Andrea is a South Australian born and bred, and has also lived for some years in Darwin, Sydney and Albury-Wodonga. She also spent seven years living in the high desert of Nevada, USA. She is currently working on a novel based in Ireland and South Australia, in the 1800s.

Find out more at Andrea's website, http://andreapayne.com or her blog, My Kat's Eye http://andieweb.com/andiekat/mykatseye.php

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#### Portingale, Paris

Paris Portingale is the author of the novel Art and the Drug Addict's Dog, The Trouble with Daleks, several other unpublished novels, and many, many short stories.

You can connect with Paris at http://www.parisportingaleauthor.com/

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#### Pratt, Tamara

Tamara's short stories have been published in e-zines and anthologies, both in Australia and the USA. She has qualifications in professional writing, has placed in the Glass Woman Prize twice, and was selected to stay at Varuna, The Writers' House in a professional residency program with author Marele Day in October 2011.

Tamara's website is http://www.tamarapratt.com and you can follow her on twitter@tamarapratt

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#### Renew, Sandra

Sandra lived in the fascinating country of Afghanistan for three years, working with children affected by armed conflict, and worked in other war-affected countries for many years. She is now attempting to capture and share some of her memorable and significant experiences.

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#### Rimeriter

Rimeriter (aka Jim Spain) is a writer of rhyme, havin' a good time. He has dedicated himself to the craft of Rhymed Verse, specialising in topical rhymes for Aussie times. This Lansvale poet has been writing since 1979, sparked by an inner need, and spurred on by a community course.

Jim loves travelling, finding inspiration along the road for his verse.

He is deeply passionate about Australia and all her idiosyncrasies and frequently draws on this sentiment in his work, which numbers over five hundred (500) individual pieces from which to select.

Alternatively, by being collected into groups, they are available in Booklette format. For more on Jim and his works, just enter 'Rimeriter' in your search engine.

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#### Ross, John

John lives in the beautiful Blue Mountains having retired from a management position in the airlines. He enjoys writing short stories, sunrises, gardening and science fiction.

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#### Sargent, Susan

Susan is a registered nurse and midwife in country New South Wales. She has always been a writer of sorts, but never brave enough to try publishing before ... her hard drives are full of unfinished pieces!

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#### Singer, Ariette

Ariette is a performance poet/singer/composer who loves to entertain live whenever possible with her tongue in both cheeks poetry and songs, or make her readers and audiences think. She performs live and on community radio, has won national poetry competitions, and her work has been published in anthologies and online poetry magazines in the USA and Australia.

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#### Smith, Winsome

Winsome Smith lives at Lithgow at the edge of the beautiful Blue Mountains, New South Wales. She has always been a writer and a story teller.

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#### Thubten, Yeshe

Yeshe Thubten is an unschooling mother, Buddhist nun and a writer trying to make sense. She is hoping to finish her first novel – a children's book which will hopefully become a series. Find out more about the Valoura Karuna series here: http://www.valourakaruna.blogspot.com.au/

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#### Walker, Vickie

Vickie enjoys writing short stories and poetry and has had some minor success in competitions. She loves to travel and uses her travels often for inspiration.

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#### Witham, Ted

Ted Witham has been writing since his teens. He now lives in retirement in the south-west of Western Australia, enjoying the beauty of Geographe Bay.

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#### Yuen, Kathryn

Kathryn is an emerging writer, poet and playwright. She thought it might be time to start sharing a little of what is in the drawers of her 'writing chest'. She says that if it's at all reassuring, she can write funny too!!
July 2010 to now

A brief history of narratorAUSTRALIA

### Hazelbrook, NSW

It was a dark and stormy night ...

Actually, it wasn't stormy, but it was certainly dark and cold in the Katoomba laneway where we had gathered to shoot the cover of Paris Portingale's Art and the Drug Addict's Dog. As we were wrapping up, Paris' lovely wife said to me that she felt he should publish a collection of his short stories. My first thought was: Who reads short stories? Well, apparently, lots of people!

The wonderful thing about being in small business is that you can make a decision, and then execute it. No committees. No arguments. Screw it, just do it. (With apologies to both Nike AND Richard Branson!)

Ten days after that photo shoot, we ran an ad in the local paper, and seven weeks later released the first quarterly issue of narratorMAGAZINE Blue Mountains.

A year later we released the first issue of narratorMAGAZINE Central Tablelands, as part of our plan to have many regional issues across the country. What we hadn't counted on was the effects of the GFC – getting advertising was impossible. Trying to produce two quarterly issues without funding was beyond us, so we rolled them into what would be the bigger, better, all new, shiny, singing and dancing narratorMAGAZINE NSW/ACT, with plans to bring out other state issues.

Again the GFC beat us, and in March/April 2012, we figured we were dead in the water. The decision was made to pull the plug, and then, in the dark of night, an idea floated in out of nowhere, thanks to The Sandman. And so narratorAUSTRALIA was born – as a daily online publication, supplemented by a half-yearly print on demand version. It makes us so happy to be able to use modern technology to adhere to ecologically beneficial practices (digital and print-on-demand publishing) to reach across the country on a daily basis and connect with so many wonderful writers.

Thank you all – readers and writers alike – for your support. Without you, this book would not exist.

Jennifer Mosher, AE

Editor-in-Chief

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