 
### Narrator Magazine

### Blue Mountains

### Autumn 2011

### Smashwords Edition

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**Cover** : 'The Board Meeting, Circular Quay'—Donald Martin McLean, watercolour on paper.

'The characters of the City of Sydney are favourite subjects of mine; not just those who perform to catch the eye, but the quiet, out-of-the-way folk as well, like these three old gentlemen sitting in the winter sun at the Quay, solving the world's problems'.

To contact Donald, call 02 4758 8191.

### A few words from the publisher ...

Happy New Year everybody—we do hope you're over the summer heat (we certainly are!) and ready for the turning of the leaves.

Congratulations to all our 'judged' winners of the summer issue—as per the inside cover, opposite. And congratulations also to our People's Choice winner, Rebecca Langham for her short story Three Dollars and Thirty Cents.

It was very exciting for us to have Greg Bastian as our first judge—and all very top-secret in an undercover sort of way! All contributions were delivered to Greg in plain text format, with headings but no author names, and no graphics—he was working merely on content. He made his choices, and then we wrote them down on paper and locked them away for the summer. Only once Greg had made his choices did we start distributing the summer issues across the Mountains—we certainly weren't going to let him have any clues as to who had written what!

As publishers, it always fascinates us to see what sort of items are going to land in our virtual 'collection box'. This issue attracted a high proportion of very brave and honest items dealing with loss in more ways than one, as well as several fantasy-type items. The mix is always interesting—and always challenging for us to lay out. Do you put two sad poems together, or do you pair each one with something serious, happy or whimsical instead? Are you watering down the mood of two disparate items when you pair them together, or is it too much to have two of the same type together? And is there a correct answer? Who knows?!

As always, deepest thanks go to our page sponsors, because without them none of us would have this magazine. If you know anyone with a business which services the Mountains, please feel free to show them the latest copy of Narrator and ask if they would be interested in sponsoring a page. Rates are $55 per quarterly issue, full-colour, or $176 for four issues (a full year) which is a discount of 20% per issue.

And now, it's time for you to start turning the leaves of this, the first autumn issue of Narrator Magazine Blue Mountains. We hope you enjoy it!

### Jenny Mosher

March 2011

### Winning Entries for Summer 2010

Our second issue, Summer 2010, was judged by published author, manuscript assessor, editor and creative writing teacher Greg Bastian. Greg's final decision was:

First prize—$200 to Samantha Miller, Faulconbridge, for her poignant story, Paris Match

Second prize—$100 to Joan Vaughan-Taylor, Faulconbridge, for her moving poem, Fly A Kite

Third prize—$50 to Linda Yates, Katoomba, for her insightful story, The Loaf of Bread

In fact, Greg couldn't stop there, offering two Highly Commended mentions to:

Sue Artup, Lapstone, for her story, Daniel and

David Bowden, Medlow Bath, for his poem, Opinions Vary

### A few words from our Guest Judge ...

So many fabulous pieces of writing in the Summer issue – choosing the best and brightest was like choosing a new hairstyle – not everyone is going to like the result! Of course, as guest judge, you hope that the winning entries will be so far ahead of the pack as to be obvious to everyone. Not so in this case. Of the thirty-six pieces submitted, all were impressive. Another judge could easily justify a different order of merit.

All the stories were sent to me before publication and all were anonymous. I narrowed down the choices to what I considered the best ten. In the end it was the perfect pitch and delicate tone of Samantha Miller's story, Paris Match, that got her across the line first. A close second was Joan Vaughan-Taylor's resonant poem about a boy learning to construct and fly a kite, which captures so effectively that marvellous sense of achievement through perseverance. And finally, in third spot, Linda Yates's beautifully constructed character portrayal of a woman embittered by the prejudice of those close to her. The two highly commended authors, Sue Artup and David Bowden, came very close, both pieces having a raw, heartfelt appeal.

Congratulations to all the authors in the Summer Edition.

Greg Bastian

Blue Mountains

Writing Services

visit <http://www.gregbastian.com.au/>

manuscript assessment ~ book reviews ~ general editing line editing ~ proof-reading ~ literary project planning ~ technical writing ~ composition ~ advertising copy for brochures and flyers

Greg Bastian's latest novel is The Goldseekers, published by Harper Collins and short-listed for the PFP Children's Literature Peace Prize. Greg is a popular mentor at the NSW Writers' Centre and teaches at UTS and writers' centres around the country.

### Poetry

A Minute's Silence – Jean Bundensen

A Personal Poem About Procrastination – James Craib

And the Crowd Went – James Craib

Comfort Zone – Albany Dighton

For My Father – Joan Vaughan Taylor

I've Always Wondered – Sonia Ursus Satori

Lorraine – Felicity Lynch

Moloch – Alan Lucas

Mourning (Cancer's Aftermath) – Denise Newton

Scarred – Mary Krone

Sensational – M Grace

Somewhere to Play Cricket – Rosemary Baldry

Sophie Rose Yates – Linda Yates

Soulful Longings – Jean Bundensen

Stick it! – Greg North

The Bottom Line – Sonia Ursus Satori

The Music Room – Josephine Adam

The Wind at My Door – Robyn Chaffey

Two Tight Tales in a Sonnet – Joan Vaughan Taylor

### Short Stories

A Comic in Therapy – Paris Portingale

All the Worst Jobs – Michael Burge

Empress and Vanity – Jordan Russo

Fertility Goddess – Samantha Miller

Knock n' Roll – Christina Frost Clayton

Once a Pretty Maiden – John Egan

Quick Brown Fox and Lazy Dog – Paris Portingale

Tahnee's Tales: The Mouse and the Showbag – Nana J

The Art of Love – Kate Santleben

The Clique – Dinah Turner

The Hairdresser – Sue Artup

The Memory of Old Blackfish – Rebecca Langham

Ticket – Aristidis Metaxas

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And the Crowd Went – James Craib

I blundered lonely, as a crowd went cheerlessly to their appointed tasks.

I wondered forlornly, 'Why do they bother'? They wear no smiles, just their corporate masks.

They speak on mobile phones and devices, eyes devoid of signs of life.

An unruly high school brat entices all others about to cower in strife.

I once was of that generation; we haunted trains and caused dismay.

Foul language bounces off the windows; in vain, you wish they'd just go away.

I conjured up phoney images of loud shirts and neckties wider than tablecloths.

They've plundered, knowingly, market stalls and op-shops – old clothing I see now worn by Goths.

Others flaunt ghastly tattoos and piercings – metal in eyebrows, noses, ears and lips.

Inked designs on arms, legs and faces: daggers, skulls, roses, butterflies and sailing ships.

Now there is no veneration; feet are on seats and vandalism prevails.

Graffiti assails you in every direction; succumbing to the clatter of the rails ...

I pondered coldly as a cloud went greyly over the valley outside.

I've squandered boldly on all things frivolous; no time to waste on foolish pride.

Perusing now old photographs and images, I barely recognise the person I was.

Remembering too old lovers and scrimmages, I'd descend the mountains because ...

I was in need of vindication, though friends were daunted by the things I'd try.

Fatuous remarks are all I have left, to make amends; it makes me cry.

He saunters, mouldy as a shroud, the ghost that was my former self.

I laundered adroitly all things embarrassing, including, loss of better health.

My breath is diminished but I'm not finished, it just takes longer to get around.

World events have lost their meaning; little things have gained in ground.

I don't need further interpretation; it now just passes over my head.

Leave politics to poltergeists, let's try magic tricks instead!

So yonder slowly went the crowd to find their way back home again.

Not under wholly the blackness of despair, we managed to escape the train.

The rain lashed at the platform station, we climbed the stairs at Wentworth Falls.

'How are ya'? Rasped some crass antagonist, and remember as Wordsworth recalls ...

(If in need of verification), 'The child is father of the man'.

This is the last gasp of humanity into the fire from the frying pan

Comfort Zone – Albany Dighton

Saddled in a comfort zone

Of money laundering, billowing leather

Slack seconds, loose minutes,

Intoxicating Jack Daniel hours

Assuage the non

La vie est bonne

Sensational – M Grace

Claw of hands surrounding the item with enthusiasm, entice to surprise. To relish into relinquish seem natural. Sublime state to find origins to one's feelings over an item. It may sound dramatic, inner sensation equal to height of an orgasm.

Following strange feelings is ludicrous. It has sense of adventure more poignant. Joy of such journey and it's endless wonders continue to amaze one's senses; crossing the line to be incisive. It is an indication a valuable lesson to give yourself permission to maintain the sensation.

Endure success; don't astray and be absolutely sure to enjoy the item. Efforts to obtain the sensation not to escape it. Talking about it don't do justice. It requires strict instructions to oneself to always delight your senses to consume this item. Claw of hands reaching for another to consume and in amazement as equal to the first attempt.

The original sensation is bit as good as the first round and flat out to sustain the sensation. Conscience of this delight capture in a room of your brain is fitting. Be kind enough to admit consuming with height of excitement relevant to familiarity of good taste. Don't resist for a moment to have other one.

Self indulgence is acceptable in consuming not with anything else. Be liberal with food, not just with drink.

Guest to test to consume the third time around; three is a loose number. By this time settlement of the senses demands to click on board and photograph in your brain of the sensational taste for further references.

After all it's only chocolate truffles.

The Art of Love – Kate Santleben

Rowena stood before her National Trust calendar counting the days until her birthday. Only ten days to go. What would Robert give her? Last year it was box seat tickets to the Sydney Symphony; the year before an excellent lunch at Berowra Waters Inn. Always thoughtful, always caring for her: that was her Robert.

'You've trained your husband well,' her late mother would often say, often in his hearing.

Robert had a calendar in his study. It was one of those gung-ho Defence Forces ones, all action boys and girls. Exactly a week before her birthday his neat handwriting noted 'Organise Rowena's birthday'. Every year, exactly the same. Touching really.

Rowena made sure she didn't disturb anything in his study. One day she'd put a vase of freshly picked David Austin roses on his desk. He'd been quite cranky. But he was pushing retirement age. Then again, that recent promotion to Brigadier had perked him up.

'Rowena, it's not the roses, I love them. And I love you but this room is mine. Understood?'

'Yes Robert.'

You'd think I was one of his soldiers. But there was one thing her dear and darling husband didn't know. She'd hugged the knowledge to herself for years. He knew nothing about the key she had to his safe. The key she only used once a year to peak at whatever he'd brought home a week before her birthday. She would quickly glance across all the boring sealed envelopes labeled 'In the event of my death'. How melodramatic. Her eyes were seeking gift bags.

Only three more days now, she thought as she left the study.

Those three days' passage were marked by Robert's comings and goings ably assisted by his new driver. Pretty little thing she was, in a vapid sort of way. What was her name? Ah, Cherie. Mmm, circa 1989. Cherie kept calling Rowena 'Marm'. Made her feel like the Queen.

Robert always took his briefcase straight to his study when he arrived home. No tell-tale rustle of gift bags could she detect tonight but that was usual. He always managed to spirit her birthday 'surprise' into his safe.

Rowena waited for Robert to emerge before suggesting they have dinner in the conservatory.

'How lovely my dear. May I say, Rowena, you're looking positively chipper tonight. Anything special happening?'

She almost giggled. He was such a tease. Said this every year exactly a week before her special day.

'Oh no, nothing special. Like a glass of wine?'

***

Early morning came with an apricot streaked sky. Genghis Khan, Robert's Burmese cat, lay hidden in the undergrowth waiting for prey and Cherie had already picked Robert up for an early start. He was off to inspect troops somewhere.

Robert's study, bathed in early morning light, was still. The old iron safe squatted in the corner. It'd taken two burly men to shift it when the house extensions had been done.

Swinging the handle down, Rowena tugged the door open. Sitting pertly right on top was a gift bag with 'Ooh La La' on it.

'Ooh La La'. What/where was that? Pulling the bag out she spotted the word 'Lingerie'. Well, well.

She opened the bag. Red items lay within. Very red. A bold red. Slowly she eased them out. A matching bra and knickers in beautiful, luxurious, red satin. Size 10. Rowena rocked back on her heels. She hadn't been a size 10 for forty years.

Who were they for? Who was size 10? Cherie. Who else? Oh Robert, I am appalled. What to do? Coffee first and think.

She carefully returned the items to the bag and into the safe. Swinging the door shut, she locked it and slowly backed away before fleeing to the comfort of the kitchen. Normality. Her domain.

Sipping slowly, Rowena pondered her options. What was the name of Robert's favourite book? The Art of War, that was it. She'd never read it but could relate to it. This was war and she'd had over forty years of mastering the art of winning over her husband's affection. She wasn't going to lose her house or see her children's inheritance divided over some size 10 Cherie. Besides, she loved Robert. Always had, always would.

Rowena bided the week until her birthday. The house shone and ran with effortless precision. She filled their social calendar with like-minded, useful people and she continued to smile graciously to all before her. Inside she could feel her stomach dripping acid.

Red lingerie indeed.

The day of her birthday dawned and the doorbell rang. She heard 'Special delivery for Mrs. Langdon,' and listened to Robert saying thank you.

He came to her bedroom door bearing an armful of long-stem roses. Deep-red roses.

'Robert, they're beautiful, thank you. They're so... red.'

'I chose them just for you.'

Red roses for her; red lingerie for whom? She thought.

Did he know she knew? How could he?

She glanced away... thoughts of the art of war swirling.

'Rowena, I have to run; dinner tonight at seven? Would you choose somewhere? I can meet you there.'

He kissed her quickly on the cheek.

Leaning against her pillows, Rowena pulled the cream coverlet protectively to her chin.

Flowers from Robert – unusual. Asking her to choose the restaurant – unheard of.

She eyed the roses. They were blood red and enclosed in sheets of red cellophane with cascading fat, golden ribbons. An image of her bleeding severed head on a golden platter flashed before her. Were the roses some sort of imaginative warning from Robert?

No, he wasn't capable of such subtlety. Or was he? Did she really know him any more?

The phone rang.

'Happy birthday, Mum – not ringing too early?'

'Thank you, Hugh darling, and no, it's not too early. How's work? How are you and Sophie?'

'The usual, too long hours, too little time spent with Sophie – the hoops I jump to be a partner one day. But I've bought something nice for Sophie.'

'Good, but you love your work. Even when you were little you'd be judge and jury to everyone's misdeeds.'

Laughing, he asked, 'So what's the old man organised for you today?'

'I have some lovely roses.'

'Dad bought you roses? That's... different.'

'He asked me to choose somewhere for dinner and he'd meet me there.'

'Oh. Is Dad alright?'

'Hugh, I think he is but... How long is it since you and your Dad have had a really good talk?'

'I saw him briefly only last week; he'd wanted to talk with me about something but I had to run. Dad said it could wait. Before that would've been the BBQ at my place. He chatted about fishing.'

'Fishing!?'

'Yeah, surprised me too but he said he'd always wanted to go trout fishing in New Zealand. He even had a picture of that megabucks fishing lodge you see advertised. He talked about fishing flies and the different types. Seemed to know a lot about it. Anyhow, I'm due in court so have a great day. Love you.'

Trout fishing.

Rowena Googled 'Trout fishing New Zealand' and clicked on the first hit. She studied the beautiful house, the gracious gardens, scrolled through the glowing reviews.

Sydney to Christchurch was less than a three hour flight. If they flew out tomorrow, they could stay three nights and fly back Tuesday.

Checklist:

Robert's work diary possible to clear?

Flights and accommodation available?

Airport accommodation and dinner reservation?

Passports and packing?

Cat looked after?

Send SMS to Robert 'Dinner at 7 @ Airport Hilton. C U XOX'?

Paula, Robert's long-term PA had been such a sweetie.

'Rowena, happy birthday', she'd said and when the New Zealand plan had been shared, had assured Rowena that she would 'get the diary sorted'.

Rowena had been so tempted to ask Paula about Cherie but had stopped herself. Knowledge is power but Rowena had her pride.

The art of war; the art of love. Bring it on Rowena thought whilst walking into the restaurant that night. She carried one of the red roses and strode over to her husband who stood up when he saw her.

'Robert, the roses were so beautiful I brought one along,' she explained in response to his look of surprise.

As they settled, a gentler look came over his face and he took her hand in his.

'I'm glad you did. David Austin's The Knight roses are not easy to find. I wanted to get something you'd really enjoy. I liked the name too. It gives me hope for the future to think chivalry is not extinct.'

'That's important to you Robert?'

'Yes, of course. It can be hard at times to view oneself as... Oh, I don't know the words. I'll think on it. Anyhow, tell me Rowena. Why the Airport Hilton?'

'Ah. I'm glad you've asked,' Rowena almost purred. 'I wanted to surprise you by organising something special; something I think you'll really enjoy.'

'But it's your birthday – not mine.'

'Of course but I felt... I felt we've drifted apart. Just a little,' she quickly added in response to his look of wariness. 'So, I've organised a trip to a fishing lodge in New Zealand. Here's a printout of what we're doing and you're not to worry about work. According to Paula, it's all sorted.'

'Rowena, I don't know what to say. This is so unexpected and so very thoughtful of you.'

Robert looked at his hand still holding hers.

'Rowena, I...'

'Robert, this will be a chance for us to spend time together doing something you'll enjoy. How do you feel about that?'

He looked up into her eyes.

After so many years together she could recognise the look of love he had for her. Rowena could also see the guilt. But the look of love was stronger.

'I am so very much looking forward to this trip with you Rowena. Thank you.'

'Just like this rose Robert, you're my knight.'

Kate Santleben

Somewhere to Play Cricket – Rosemary Baldry

Jonno's on a hat-trick

as Amy comes to bat.

Always a nervous starter, she waits

in the simmering heat.

It's a sizzler!

She strikes and

it's over the fence for six.

Shattering glass.

One of the neighbour's windows

Again!

The back-yard cricket kids shuffle in with apologies

and listen once more

to the old Digger's stories

of cricket in the trenches.

Now, backyards are too small.

Amy's kids

play cricket in the street.

It's a good way

to get to know the neighbours.

Kev in the ute tells the torturous tale

of the ball bowled underarm.

Armchair champ, Charlie,

coaches from the shade of his verandah.

'Keep your eye on the ball!'

'Classic catch!'

City streets are too dangerous

to play cricket.

Too many cars. Too many people.

Developers provide token greenspace

Allowing: no balls, no bikes, no fun.

But Jonno's kids

play rooftop cricket

with a bird's eye view of the world.

Mourning (Cancer's Aftermath) – Denise Newton

I am indisputably alive

The sun shines clear in the bright sky

An autumn wind tosses leaves like dice

My son's guitar sings from his room

And I am bruised inside

My hand trembles when I think of

What has happened to me

I have a new creature in my life

It crouches on my shoulder

And whispers, whispers

Everything has changed

Nothing like it was

My view once reached comfortably

To the horizon

Now I see dust

I am mourning, mourning:

What is lost

Will never be restored

So many questions

Must remain unanswered

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The Hairdresser – Sue Artup

When I was a little girl I used to curl up in my mother's arms and smell her hair.

I loved her hair. Everyone admired her hair. But the smell of her hair was not to be shared. It was my special thing! The olfactory surety that she was mine. It connected us, mother and first-born - it lingered on her combs and about her dressing table. It comforted me when she was away. It was she.

In her dotage her hair is a perfectly shaped cloche of silver-grey.

One day she makes the ill-advised step of allowing a barber to cut her hair. Hacked! Mauled into a non-descript colourlessness. I will not go out with her until it grows long enough to be fixed by a proper hairdresser!

I tell her to dig out a photograph of her lovely head so there can be no mistaking the look we must re-capture.

'I can just look in the mirror darling!!!', she quips, deliberately missing the purpose.

She leans over the contents of her handbag, strewn over her bed. ' I must go to the bank afterwards and cash a cheque.' A dog-eared piece of signed paper worth $1,000. ' I'll stick it just here.' Nice and secure, attached with a rubber band to the outside of her wallet.

'Won't it flutter off when you go looking for your Visa card ?' Good point – damn elusive Visa card. She settles on her change purse – both cheque and card – can't go wrong there!

In the hairdresser's she reflects: no, that cheque is better off in the inside pocket of her handbag. I point out that she has shifted the cheque around three times now. She swings at me: ' I have not!!! Don't you make things up! Don't you try to put one over! And in public!'

Never argue with your mother.

Summoned to the washbasin, I try to fill the hairdresser in on the debacle of the last haircut. Mum takes her arm, pulling her away from me and muttering in her ear. The girl turns to me and says: 'Oh, are you a teacher?'

'That was supposed to be our secret!!' exclaims Mum to her new ally, who has already betrayed her by almost exposing the secret I can only guess at.

The haircut is beautiful. A bit coiffed, a bit floosy - but, we have style!!

Lunch in the shopping centre is a celebration. We flutter and chatter and order our chai lattes – so warming that she is far too hot in her woollen singlet, banlon spencer, silk blouse, short-sleeved jumper, long-sleeved jumper.....' If I just undo the buttons of my blouse...'

Hands dive and writhe under two layers of jumpers.

Still hot.

'I'll just wriggle out of this little jumper...' Oh my God, the short-sleeved one under the long-sleeved one. She manoeuvres her arms like Houdini and sits momentarily still to catch her breath from the effort. With a last hunching of the shoulders my straight-jacketed mother attempts to yank the under layer down around her waist.

Not happening.

The under-jumper and the outer-jumper meet at elbow level. I look up from my chicken and avocado toasted Turkish to see a Vital Call button staring me in the face. A Vital Call button sitting atop a woollen singlet, banlon spencer, and curtained by an unbuttoned silk blouse.

Mum looks down at her exposure and back at me. We shriek with laughter, drawing even more attention to the contortions she is still, red from mirth rather than embarrassment, trying to master.

'Just pull your jumper over your head, quick! Do the buttons up!'

With one swift movement the outer-jumper is off. Then the under-jumper – but not before she realises with a moan of horror : ' My HAIR!! Oh no, my HAIR!!' clasping her head with both hands, trying to salvage the remains of her coiffe.

At home we settle down with our wine and the quotidian word puzzle, trying to save brain cells even as we kill them. Since my last visit she has tidied the place up. Nothing is in reach anymore, least of all her pens. 'Someone keeps taking my pens. They are never where I leave them.' I take out my ubiquitous pencil case, and gently goad her : 'These are mine.'

'Well mine look just like that.'

'You didn't have yellow pens on Sunday.'

'I know what colour pens I have! I don't know who has been shifting things around!'

Mr Nobody.

Later when scavenging for an emery board I find her pens tucked away amongst the letters and cut-out recipes and handy hints and scribbled notes on everything from the names of opera singers to the treatment of Alzheimer's.

We restrain ourselves and leave enough wine in the bottle for her dinner tomorrow.

'Leave it on the floor in the pantry, darling. That way if I have to crawl I can still get it.'

Heading off to bed we scream with laughter again.

'I love you so much, my daughter.'

I push my face into her hair. And she is there.

Sue Artup

Quick Brown Fox and Lazy Dog – Paris Portingale

Once upon a time, in a glade in a forest somewhere in the Cotswolds, which is in England, just to the left of the middle and down a bit, the quick brown fox came across the lazy dog. The dog was taking a brief nap, lying on his side with his legs sticking out in the way dogs do when they're totally at ease with everything about, but he had an ear to the ground and when the fox approached, he opened an eye and stiffened slightly.

Each had taken the other quite by surprise and there was a moment of uneasy tension until recognition and the facts of the matter settled themselves more easily in each animals awareness and they both breathed out and relaxed.

Lazy dog's tail stirred and he said, 'Ah, quick brown fox.'

Quick brown fox said, 'Lazy dog, as I live and breathe.'

'Pleased-to-meet-chah,' dog said and the fox replied, 'Likewise. How fine it is to come upon you at last. I've heard so much about you.'

'All good I hope,' the dog said, and they both laughed as, in the case of lazy dog, it would be quite impossible to talk more than half a sentence about him without saying something rather good. And a similar position could be taken for quick brown fox, for that matter.

Dog squirmed himself into his sphinx position, flat, with his back legs tucked and forelegs stretching out front, and the fox sat on his hind quarters and scratched a single scratch down his jaw and over his whiskers and gave a little snort to clear his breathing passages and so get a better sense of lazy dog's current disposition and attitude and all the other myriad aspects relating to his condition and present frame of mind and feeling towards all things in general.

Lazy dog said, 'So, quick brown, what brings you to this neck of the woods?' and fox said, 'Ah, just on the trot, old boy. Just on the trot.'

Dog said, 'Hmm,' and fox, sensing some kind of propriety could possibly have been overlooked said, 'I'm sorry, you can smell my bottom if you want,' and started to rise, but dog said, 'No, no, not necessary, don't get up. Please dear chap, remain seated there,' so fox settled himself down again, saying, 'I thought that sort of thing was, ah... de rigueur with... ah...'

Dog said, 'No, no. Superficial stereotyping, old chap. Silly generality. Bumbling pigeonholing of an entire species. Not true at all.'

'Ah, quite so, quite so,' fox said and wrapped his tail more firmly around himself.

'So,' lazy dog said, taking the conversational tiller and steering the topic upon a different tack altogether, something a little more nor-nor east and closer towards common for both parties. 'What direction and destination is your trot taking you this fine afternoon, quick brown? Something jolly and japish no doubt. Out and about, foxing things up. On the trot, looking to this and that. Eh, I shouldn't imagine?'

'Oh, I'm just on the trot,' fox told him.

'You're welcome to join me for a mile or two if you have a mind. We could talk about the weather. Or the price of jam, if that's more your cup of tea.'

Stretching, dog got to his feet and shook himself in the manner he used to shake off water after a swim, and it cleared the last of the cobwebs, formed during his afternoon snooze. 'I'd be more than happy to join you,' he said. 'You take the lead, old chap. I'll follow. Which way are we heading?'

'That way, there,' fox said, indicating the direction with a turn of his nose, and he got to his feet himself.

'Right you are,' dog said. 'What do you know about cucumbers?'

'Nothing at all,' fox told him, happily, to which dog replied, 'Myself neither,' and they both laughed and fox took to the trot with dog following a respectful six paws behind.

They talked of the weather, naturally, and dog spoke of how he'd once been out on a boat, on the river, and had put his head over the side to drink the river water as it ran past, and fox explained why horses are always found at the front of carts and never at the back. Dog said, 'Oh, really, is that why?' and fox asked him if the motion of the boat had made water go up dog's snout at all, which it had. And they trotted at a briskish pace, side by side now, as the six paws protocol was rarely ever extended beyond a hundred yards or so.

And before a half mile had passed they found themselves beside a fallen trunk, come down in a wind some time previously, and now a little mossy on the leeward side, away from the sun. There was a patch of reddened grass beside it and a furry thing they smelt some time before they saw it. On closer approach it turned out to be a dead rabbit, its entrails having been torn from its body and laying black and rubbery on the ground beside it. They sniffed it with a cautious curiosity and noted the blood crusted around its half open mouth and its eyes, glassy and staring at nothing, certainly nothing in this world, and they both gave a little shudder, as to each, it was like a small window on their own possible future and ultimate demise.

Dog said, 'But for the grace of God.' and fox said, 'Amen,' and they left the body without further comment or consideration and jumped the log together and continued on their trot.

While no longer holding any conscious thought of the rabbit, a lingering sense of the mist of death was still in the air and dog said thoughtfully to the quick brown fox, 'What do you think happens after death, quick brown? Is there something else, do you think? Because surely, when you look at the size of the sky and all, and what must surely lay beyond it, I find it hard to imagine there not being a little corner somewhere for us, where we could consider all that we've seen and all that has been.'

'I don't know,' said quick brown. 'It's a tempting consideration and something I'm sure would be a comfort in those final moments, but...' He trailed off as his mind began wandering through the forest of possible ways a fox could meet his end and none of them were pretty in the least and he took a moment to shake himself in the way dogs and foxes do when their fur is tickely, or their minds are laboured under unpleasant considerations.

'Well, I prefer to think there is, quick brown. If there were nothing else, do you not feel that all this here now would be rather pointless?'

'I've never been one for philosophical thinking,' fox told him. 'It does tend to take one into dark and uncomfortable places, and there is enough dark and discomfort in our real world here to go around twice I'm afraid. Yes, my dear dog, all the way around twice and with still a string of tail to hang loose besides.'

'That's true, quick brown,' dog conceded, as he himself had known his share of the dark and discomfort the world seemed intent on throwing up, and no species spared. 'Perhaps we should talk about cucumbers instead, then, for as neither knows a thing to do with the subject, we are bound to agree on practically each and every aspect.'

'They're green, I believe,' fox said, and dog told him, 'So, you do know something about the cucumber then, you sly old devil. Hiding your light under a bushel,' and, inasmuch as a fox can blush in humbled pride, fox did just that.

Paris Portingale

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Two Tight Tales in a Sonnet – Joan Vaughan-Taylor

I'm portrayed as the villain of the piece

In fairy tales recounted then and now.

If frenzied lies and rumours are to cease

My version of the stories, you'll allow.

That not so little girl walked in the wood

All dressed in red, the colour that inflames.

She skipped among the trees. I really should

Have known that she was only playing games.

Three porcine kids got in a building mood

Without a local licence from the town.

Their houses looked unsightly, cheap and crude.

I had to help the council take them down.

You'll see from this that I am much maligned,

This wolf will never understand mankind.

Sophie Rose Yates – Linda Yates

Nineteen years ago, today, you died,

and were born, small daughter of mine.

The nurse tried to warn me, as she

placed you in my arms; the shock

of your red hair in stark contrast

with the blue of your skin.

Funny little piccaninny.

Searing pain and merciful morphine.

Six days into the New Year,

when the trees and decorations come down,

the festivities officially over,

as mine now certainly were,

and traditionally the day of the epiphany,

the three wise men bringing their gifts

to the infant Christ.

What gifts, wisdoms or epiphanies

from your small death, I wonder?

Unless it was this melting

of the heart that joined me in tender

communion with all who suffer loss and grief.

A softening of my hard edges.

A knowing that every life is precious

and one can never be replaced by another;

that every life might carry it's own crucifixion.

Hubris curtailed, an almost belief in providence,

the script already written,

acquiescence, with or without grace,

our only choice.

I certainly learned never to count chickens before hatching.

But these were for me.

I can't think what was in it for you.

Your father named you,

having earned that right by being the

first to see your face and your

last heartbeat on the monitor, while I

in ignorant slumber lay;

the name spoken of such a short time before

as we sauntered up to the hospital that hot summer night,

thinking only, or trying to, that you might be early

and the flat a mess in the middle of painting

for your intended appearance.

I had wanted to call you Lily Rose

and then stood laughing in the middle of the street

when I thought of the surname, with it's

Yates ' has everything a garden needs'

and I wondered if people might laugh.

Afterwards, I wanted a garden of babies,

Daisy, Poppy, Marigold (Goldie for short) and sweet William

for a boy.

So you became Sophie Rose,and a fine name that is too.

My lily swapped for a little wisdom.

Our arrival at the hospital produced a flurry of activity.

Bright lights, monitors beeping, cords attached.

Still protected by denial, I couldn't work out what all the fuss was for

and felt a bit guilty at putting everyone to so much trouble.

I was being rushed down the corridors to surgery.

I laughed and made a joke about it being like Ben Casey.

I did not know they had seen your heart stop beating.

Ever one for a bit of drama

I found it exciting.

This'll be one hell of a story to tell'.

Bang, crash into theatre.

The nurse complaining 'she hasn't been shaved'.

'No time', said the doctor.

'She still has her rings on'. The nurse, in horror.

'No time', said the doctor.

No time to tell me either that I could not

be given the full anaesthetic

until they had you almost out.

Felt the unbelievable pain

of the knife

slide in

but could not move to tell them.

Made immobile, I lay there and thought of vivisectionists.

Or did that come later?

Knew I would soon be asleep or dead, it did not matter which.

It might have been around now, I guess,

that I stopped thinking it was funny.

They made your father tell me

you were dead.

I did not tell them that I wanted to

fling you across the room in

rage at your leaving of me and

scream at them for the uselessness of

giving me

a dead baby.

Wisely, they left you with me anyway.

Sometime in the night after watching

your oh so still profile in the bassinet

I relented,

climbed out of bed,

took you in my arms,

looked you over,

held your tiny hands and feet,

now gone cold,

and marvelled at the impossibility of you,

of your being here, or your death,

I cannot say.

Wished I had picked you up earlier

and held your warmth for longer.

'You will have another', the nurses said,

trying to be kind.

But I did not know that then and besides

I would never have you.

Long night's vigil

I saw before me all the

birthdays you would never have, all

the schoolbooks,

lunch boxes

and bags that would never

bear your name which adorns only

your gravestone,

this now poem and

the small box

where I placed the keepsakes I had gathered:

a lock of your hair,

your hand and footprints,

the sympathy cards,

the funeral flowers that I pressed,

all the labels I cut from my maternity clothes,

the ovulation chart with bingo circled in red,

marking the day of your conception.

(Never one to leave anything to chance

I had been recording those charts for months,

as a kind of talisman or charm

with which I might conjure you up

by the strength of my will and desire and magic.)

In fact I felt you arrive

before the pregnancy test told me.

I dreamt of buns in ovens.

I kept too, the ultrasound picture

with the clear image of your hand

waving to me as though from afar.

I remember how when I first saw it

I had the odd thought that

no matter what happened

I would always have that greeting from you,

now frozen in time.

The nurse had made me look at the screen

because you were turning somersaults

and we laughed at your joy

in being alive.

Week by week

I had looked at the baby book, now my bible,

for the pictures that showed what you looked like

and I imagined your growth unfolding inside me.

Then the surprise I felt at the first fluttering of you

moving within.

Buoyed up with optimism because I was bringing

new life into the world,

I danced you round the flat to the strains of South Pacific.

You were 'younger than Springtime',

while I was 'no longer a smart little girl with no heart'

Instead I was a 'cock-eyed optimist'.

I was 'corny as Kansas in August,

high as a flag on the fourth of July'.

I was 'stuck like a dope

with a thing called hope'

'in love with a wonderful guy'.

Small white coffin, satin lined cradle

I relinquish you unwillingly into the earth's embrace,

too short a time in mine,

your bluebird of happiness pinned to the dress

I had just finished making for you

before that fatal walk.

I had begun making that dress before you were even conceived,

as though I could weave you into being,

stitch by loving stitch,

each holding my dreams and blessings for you.

So, when they asked if I had anything to bury you in,

I knew it had been waiting for you all along,

your destiny different from the one I had intended .

It had been a slow dawning, this call to motherhood,

which had then arrived with a clunk one day as I heard

my biological clock chime loudly

that the end was nigh.

I dreamt that I had lost twenty years and was sixty

and without children.

I took this for an omen.

I found myself in the baby section of department stores

buying things which I put away, as gifts to give,

but which I could never part with,

until one day standing there

amidst all the pinks and blues of baby hues

it came to me that I wanted them

for my baby.

And once this knowledge had escaped

there was no moderation as I set about

with diligence,

ferocity

and desperation

the reckless, some might say, making of you.

And when you did come you brought with you

serenity and purpose and peace with the world.

Then soon, ancient superstitions and primeval fears

stir within. Signs and wonders everywhere.

Portentous misgivings prevail.

I felt stalked by deep forebodings

that I would lose something precious,

there would be debits demanded of me,

a price to be paid,

forfeits to be made,

untendered tithes called in,

a toll exacted,

ransoms to be delivered up.

A sacrifice required for the gifts given.

I never thought it would be you.

I consulted the book which said irrational fears were common.

I dreamt that you were floating away from me into space,

umbilical cord stretching into the distance. And I thought

that if anything were to happen to this baby,

I would run screaming through the streets

and never be able to stop.

But, of course, when it came down to it,

I didn't.

I couldn't even cry.

I dreamt that you were being

dragged down by dark beings

into a black pit,

in a tug of war with me above,

and you slipped from my grasp.

I remembered that irrational fears were common.

I started to baulk at the thirteenth row on the knitting counter.

In slips of the tongue,

I called my wedding garland

a wreath.

Towards the end, I stood in the shower,

despair like molten lead

washing over me.

I could not feel you move.

The book said this can happen as the growing baby

runs out of room.

But then we walked to the hospital and you were gone.

Later, the obstetrician told me,

reading the autopsy report,

that he could not work out

how you had lived as long as you did.

But I knew why;

we did not want to be parted.

He wanted to know why I wanted the report.

Because, there being so little of you to keep,

I wanted to have all of you,

even your suffering,

though that was before I read of it, of course.

For you did not 'go gentle into that goodnight'.

Here I read of your long slow suffocation

as your heart gave out,

and of your tenacity as you struggled for your life.

All recorded, word for painful word.

Medical words, clinical terms,

but enough to paint the picture

of your own personal holocaust.

Perhaps it was just as well

and you had not the heart,

for worse holocausts that

might lay in wait for you,

for I read here too that you were trisomy 21,

(that's Down's Syndrome to me and you),

and I'd had a taste of things to come

when I refused the test saying that

I did not care if I gave birth to a two headed goat

as long as I became a mother,

alarming the midwife, who packed me off

to see the social worker, but not before

I heard her utter the words

burden on the state.

Better too perhaps to go before

I might prove unworthy of your love,

though I like to think not,

seeing in you the embodiment

of my body's betrayal and failure.

No one can know.

Such a small flaw.

An extra chromosome on the twenty first set,

like an extra stitch in the knitting,

the fault magnifying row upon row,

as layer upon layer of you was created.

The weaving all awry and out of kilter after all.

I asked a friend to do an astrology chart for you.

Not meaning to be cruel, she said she could not,

because you had not been born.

Stillborn.

The word does not do justice to your life,

because for 207 days,

you were alive in me.

I counted those days on the calendar.

Would have counted the hours too

if I could.

I just wanted the moon and stars

to bear witness to your brief but momentous being,

the heavens to take note of you,

to give a sign you say you had been here,

the universe, itself, to shift and shudder and shake

in resonance with the enormity of your death,

your life writ large as it was for me,

that there be a rent in the fabric of the cosmos

to mirror the one in my soul.

Another friend obliged.

'It's a funny thing', he said,

'but when I looked at the chart,

all the planets fell below the horizon'.

And so they did.

Just as all that came after was eclipsed

by the shadow of your passing.

Linda Yates

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Ticket – Aristidis Metaxas

When I was young my father would, sometimes on a weekend for a few hours, take me to his place of work, and while he was busy doing what adults would do in their office I would be left to wander freely in the big International Terminal. Life was so much more simpler then and the ever present eye of fear was something yet to come in a future time. All the busyness, the comings and goings of travelers to destinations yet unknown to me instilled a sense of longing for far off places in my mind.

Over time I would get to know most of the people working there, and I remember one man in particular, who was almost like a fixture at this Airport. There was something about him, some might say 'other worldly' which drew me to him and somehow he became, second only to my father, the most important influence in my life. Sometimes we would sit and talk, and sometimes we would just sit. His name was Mr. Jones, and this is his story:

Mr. Jones was a well known figure at this gateway of departures and arrivals; he had been around the place for, some say, nearly 20 years or more. Nobody really knew who he was, where he came from or much about his life, he was just known as Mr. J, and as far as everyone was concerned, part of the place. It seemed that he had nowhere else to go to, and had been living at the Airport as if it were his home. All the people working there got to know him really well, nobody had the heart to throw him out, kindhearted people gave him free coffee and often a hot meal, there was no one who was unkind to Mr. J as he ambled daily around the terminal. He became like a good luck charm to the place.

Often what he liked to do mostly was to pretend that he was about to depart on a overseas trip, or had just arrived, carrying a battered old brown suitcase held together with a leather strap, a suitcase not seen these days what with all the shiny new fangled fancy trolleys and slick looking cases Mr. J and his suitcase looked like a real curiosity from times past. But it suited him, like himself it was old, worn, nearly falling apart, had seen better days, had seen much and carried many things. Now, it just contained a comb, a toothbrush, and old photograph of his wife long gone and picture of his children, as well as an old faded Bible.

Somehow for reasons still unknown to this day Mr. J was able to walk freely around the terminal, walking past the police, immigration, customs and security checks, but nobody ever tried to stop him or seemed to mind. Sometimes, when the place wasn't too busy with passengers he would even hand in his suitcase at the check counter, and then whoever was on duty would always with a smile put it on the conveyer belt, where it would disappear and somehow, minutes later would reappear at the arrival carousel. Mr. J would then walk through the gates and on the way tell other travellers nearby that he was going to all kinds of exotic places, Tahiti, the Caribbean, America, Hawaii or Europe. Or he would get his case from the carousel and tell how he just arrived from overseas and chat about the wonderful places he had been to and all the sights he had seen. It was even said that Mr. J at one time long ago was a professor of Art and History and so he really knew, as they say 'a lot' about the places. Occasionally it would happen that a new security guard or official would, not knowing Mr. J that well, become overeager and try to move him from the terminal, seeing him more of a nuisance than anything else and a bother to the many passengers, but other staff would soon reassure them that Mr. J was just who he was and harmless. And so days and years passed.

It was one of those warm late autumn afternoons, when the light was really golden and shining fully into the terminal, giving the place a warm glow and softening the harshness of chrome and glass efficiency. The old man was resting on one of the seats in the departure area, feeling a little tired that day and not quite himself. He sat there wondering what his life had been all about, and he was sunk deeply in his memories and thoughts when suddenly a voice on the Address system made an unexpected announcement: 'Attention please, Mr. Jones, Mr. Jones, would you kindly come to the Customer Courtesy Desk.' He heard the voice and the name but was sure that it wasn't for him, after all who would want to see or talk to him, he wasn't important.

But again, this time with more urgency the voice announced: 'Your Attention please, Mr. Jones, calling Mr. Jones, please come to the Customer Courtesy Desk urgently.' He thought who could that be, funny that someone here would have the same name as him, but then again Jones was a common name so it wasn't that unusual. Then he heard someone else call his name and as he looked up he could see Mr. Dekker walking towards him, he was one of the long time airport administrators who had known him for many years, he was a good man who never spoke a harsh word to anyone. He was a strikingly tall, over 6ft 5, it was said that his ancestors in a different place and time had been Tribal Chiefs in Africa. Mr. Dekker smiled and said: 'Hey there Mr. Jones, I think that important announcement may just be for you, why not go and see what it's all about. Can't do any harm'. He helped him on his feet and watched him as he walked towards the service desk in the distance.

Mr. Jones arrived at the desk and the woman behind the counter, although she was unfamiliar to him and had never ever seen her at the Airport in all the years he had been there, smiled as she saw him as if she were greeting an old familiar friend and said: 'Mr. Jones, how good to see you, look what I have for you, someone handed this to me just a moment ago, it is a Ticket and Boarding Pass for you.'

'For me?', he asked in surprise, 'But how, who, who on earth would...' He took the ticket, it was an extraordinary colour, golden like with a shimmer that made it hard to focus on the writing, nevertheless he tried to read the ticket, Departure Gate: 44, Flight no: 44. Passenger: Mr. Jones. Seat: First Class. But there was no destination. 'Surely this must be a mistake' said Mr. J, 'This can't be for me'. The woman smiled again and said: 'A lady came and handed it to me insisting that it must be given to you and no one else. Please hurry or you may miss your flight. 'Bon Voyage, Mr. Jones!'

Something odd happened to the air as Mr. Jones looked at the ticket again, it was like the air was bending, shifting, like on those hot lazy summer days when you get a heat haze and things go out of focus. He looked around at the people milling about him in the airport, they all had faces all right but he couldn't make out any of them clearly. 'My eyesight must be going' he thought as he looked at the departure board which was usually full of all kind of announcements of departing flights but to his surprise the only departure on the Board was Flight 44, boarding now at Gate 44. He held on tightly to his old battered suitcase and walked as quickly as he could through the Departure gates, handing his ticket to the attendant who put it though the Check in and wished him a pleasant trip. Nobody asked for his passport or identity, nobody checked his suitcase, it was all happening so quickly and in slow motion. Mr. J now walked even faster, in the distance he saw Gate 44 and he hurried towards it afraid that e may miss his flight or that perchance he would after all wake up and find that this was just a dream..

Mr. Dekker was watching his old friend from a distance feeling that something was not right, he couldn't put his finger on it exactly but he sensed that Mr. J was acting rather peculiar today, this was not his usual imaginary journey, and when he even passed an offer of a coffee from a nearby worker, Dekker felt that this was extremely odd, the old man never ever refused a tempting offer like this. A momentary shiver ran up his spine and as he turned away he thought: 'something out of the ordinary is about to happen' but immediately brushed it aside, Airports were no place for superstition.

Mr. J had finally reached Gate 44, running along the gangway and entering the plane. Stepping through the doorway he heard a sound like electric static in the air, a hissing sound and something closing behind him but he was too astounded at what he saw before his eyes. Something took him right back to his childhood, he had never ever been on a plane in his life before, all the soft lights, the beautiful shining interior, there was a softness warmth and gentleness in that space that made him feel so filled with happiness and joy that he almost cried out loud. He sank back into the comfortable seat and closed his eyes.

Someone brought him a cushion and gently covered his body with a blanket. Kindness thought Mr. Jones, what would our lives be without loving kindness. He still had no idea as to where he was going but somehow it no longer mattered. All he could feel was a tremendous sense of love enveloping him and he felt that he had, after all these years, come home. Soon after he was seated the door closed, and as he opened his eyes again to his astonishment he saw that he was the only passenger on the big jetliner. He could hear the voice of the captain through the speakers saying quietly: 'Flight 44 requesting clearance for takeoff'.

Ben, the control tower operator was an old hand at traffic control, he could almost do his job in his sleep, not that he did, but this afternoon on his shift he was startled out of his routine when, after turning away from his screens for a second to grab a pen and turning his attention back to his computers he noticed that all traffic had suddenly cleared the sky, not a single plane was requesting to land and the only departing flight was a Flight 44. Checking and double checking the systems and instruments and drawing the attention of his colleagues and shift supervisor to the strange occurrence didn't make things any clearer, they too had the same result as Ben's. Although he found the situation unusual to say the least, and after his Supervisor gave the OK to proceed, he found not further reason to delay the flights departure so he said: 'Flight 44 all clear for takeoff' and entered the coordinates into the system.

In his time as a traffic controller he had seen many planes but what he saw taxiing down the runway took his breath away. A huge aircraft, bigger than he had ever seen, golden and shimmering in the afternoon sun, with no other marking or identifications except a big 44 beneath golden wings painted on its fuselage, but oddly enough with no sound coming from the planes seven engines as it steadily lifted its mighty bulk and disappeared into the autumn sky. To Ben's amazement, the blip on the screen indicating the position of flight 44 also faded without a trace. He tried re-tracking it over a longer area but could not find the plane anywhere. He reported the incident in his log, and when next he looked at his screen it was once again filled with planes requesting takeoff and landing.

It was one of the cleaners who found Mr. Jones early next morning; he thought he was just sleeping on the bench in the departure lounge at Gate 43. His old suitcase was there right next to him and his body was covered with a beautiful dark blue blanket, with a fine golden border and a 44 beneath wings embroidered in the center, his head was resting on a small pillow of the same color and monogram. After shaking him for a while he realized that Mr. J had passed away. Someone called a doctor, and Mr. J was declared dead, died sometime during the night around midnight. The undertaker came, they put the frail frame into a body bag, zipped it up and to the people who didn't know him he was just some old homeless man without relatives or next of kin who had died of old age.

Mr. Dekker had been one of the first people to arrive after Mr. J's body was discovered, and even as he hurried there he sensed that his friend had gone As he put the old mans hands together as if in final prayer he saw a ticket in his right hand. It took some doing to free the piece of paper from his tight grip; the old man had really grabbed it so hard even in his final moments as if he had been afraid to let it go. He looked at the piece of paper again for a long time. It was a Boarding Pass alright, no doubt about it, although the paper had a strange feel to it. Yes, it was all there, it all checked out, it was a valid ticket - Flight: 44, Departure Gate: 44, Passenger: Mr. Jones.

Picking up the blue blanket and pillow with the golden wings he slowly walked back to his office, ran the Boarding Pass through the Computer, already knowing what the answer would be - sure enough, it all cleared, Mr. Jones had checked in for the flight that afternoon departing at the correct time at that Gate. Dekker went through the air traffic control logs and there was no doubt that the flight had departed at precisely the time specified, although nobody seemed to be able to come up with an answer as to where the flight came from, just who owned the airline or where its destiny was, nor was there any record of the ticket's origin. Even though he scanned through the CCTV footages a dozen times hoping to find some concrete evidence, he could not even see anyone behind the Customer Courtesy Desk at the very moment when Mr. Jones was standing there receiving his ticket, just an unearthly blue haze for a second or two. To make things even worse Departure gate 44 didn't exist either, the last gate at the Airport was 43, the place where they had found the body of Mr. J.

He sat behind his desk all day and half the night as if in a trance with his mind spinning as he was trying to make sense of it all, occasionally touching the blue pillow on his desk as if to reassure himself that what he was seeing was actually real, looking at the ticket and the evidence, the computer and Control Tower logs presented. He talked with Ben and his colleagues for hours, and all were as perplexed as he was. For sure 'something' had happened that afternoon but what was it exactly, all the numbers and records were there but what did they represent? How was he going to explain any of this to anybody, he couldn't even explain this to himself.

When night fell and the stars were coming out he tried to picture in his mind what his ancestors would have had to say, most likely nothing at all, in fact they would have merely smiled and knowingly nodded their heads. For them it would have been nothing out of the ordinary, a rite of passage to the other side, you don't ask questions about things like that; it would be considered, well, rude.

It was nearly midnight when he got up from his chair and began to make his way to the car park to drive home, on the way out he passed a waste bin and was about to throw the ticket away. But something stopped him from doing so, and he felt as if he were taken back in time, a time he remembered so well, a time when we were children.

Aristidis Metaxas

Fertility Goddess – Samantha Miller

My mother was a fertility goddess. Family legend has it that she had only to look at my father and another boy would be on the way. I was the girl. The second born who tried for a little symmetry before the testosterone took over.

During my teens my willingness to have sex made me popular with the local boys. Either that or the comic collections and motorbikes my brothers kept around the place. At this time I was much warned of my genetic inheritance. I fully expected and greatly feared becoming a teenage pregnancy statistic. This was possibly the worst fate that could befall me in sleepy Cambridgeshire.

When I was seventeen, our family emigrated – refugees from 'Thatcher's Britain' . Life was good in Australia. University, jobs, friends, boys, and marriage followed.

One of my friends had a beautiful baby girl. I was in love. She was so little, so strong, so clever, so beautiful. Something huge kicked me in the guts and I knew motherhood was for me.

The first time G and I had accidentally-on-purpose unprotected sex; it was the biggest thrill. I was convinced this was it. We weren't ready in the way G's paternalistic cultural upbringing would want us to be, but hey, people manage. Nothing happened.

A few years later, still nothing happened. We climbed the hill of infertility to the peak, IVF – a place I had vowed never to go. However, when you start the journey you get there before you know it, fueled by hormones pumped in at every station along the way. People say it's all worth it, but they are the ones who get results.

One day, I fainted into G's arms while leaving the hospital. He carried me out of the lift to the hospital lobby and put me on the floor. 'Is there a doctor in the house? ' he quipped.

I remember lying on the swirly carpet, while people asked me repeatedly if I knew what my name was. My only coherent thought was that of course I knew my own bloody name and that they should all fuck off and let me sleep on the carpet. G told me later that all the Doctors stood around humming and hawing while the nurses leapt into action. G was the only one prepared to lift me onto a trolley and finally I was wheeled down corridors, as fluorescent lights flashed over my head like in ER. They put an IV in my arm and I had to lie there for the rest of the day. G entertained me with tales of my 'procedure'. The doctors gave me a heavy sedative while they did their thing, but it didn't stop me from talking, or asking question about where exactly the tubes were going. I can't believe I said 'Pussy ' in a public hospital!

When acquaintances regale me with birthing anecdotes, I tell them this story and they regard me with horror. Natal narratives are apparently quite acceptable in polite company, whereas my tales of non-functioning ovaries more often than not result in a frosty silence, entirely in keeping with their refusal to perform.

Over the years friends and family have continued to give birth. Some easily – 'I couldn't get up the street to the hospital before she came out '; and some dramatically – 'my husband fainted and the nurses all rushed over to him, concerned with his food intake'.

I have had my time of bitterness and misery, cursing a friend's overly fertile Eastern European peasant gene. Looking at young girls with babies, my evil side judges that they can't cope and don't deserve them. The anger that rushed through me regularly was like the teen lust I got from watching Adam Ant on Top of the Pops back in the early 1980s, without the accompanying optimism. The intense emotion was confusing and had no practical outlet other than tears. My femininity was threatened, my body and soul undesirable. I was not fit for motherhood; nature had decreed it so.

G supported me in everything. He quieted the Greek Chorus of Aunties. He never got tired of sitting up with me through the night. He suffered the insomnia and tea making until I got professional help.

People have advised us not to think about it, it will happen when you are least prepared. We have been on holiday, moved house. We have four dogs – obvious child substitutes – on which we dote, and we are building a house of our own. Now we are the baby sitters and the helpers. Our friends' beautiful baby girl is now old enough to dog-sit, and to illustrate. Kids love to come to our place because we have dogs.

Some time ago, our Eastern European friend asked me more about my IVF experiences. She confided in me that as she has one daughter and three sons, she sees my mother as a warning against persisting in the attempts for another girl. However, on witnessing my youngest brother cooing over his own third baby, she thinks it would be okay if the she had another son after all. From super-fertility woman, she has turned into a generous heroine. In Australia where there is no payment for human organs or products, this woman has donated her eggs. From the two procedures she has succeeded in making two desperate women pregnant. Not many women can say that.

Samantha Miller

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The Music Room – Josephine Adam

I creep

across the verandah

into the cool.

I feel the hush

the air heavy with perfume

woodpolish and omnipotent presence.

This room, this convent

cloistered and still

more holy to me then

than the sombre brown brick church

on the hill.

I sit at the piano

look up

Mother Mary MacKillop

stares down at me

Her gaze instructs

'begin'.

Scales and arpeggios

I rattle through.

Take up my music

set the metronone

concentrate

practise my latest piece

A rustle of beads

murmur of voices

stifled laughter

nuns at play?

Mother Mary MacKillop

on the wall,

unseen others, listening

out there in the hall.

I care, I obey

earn exam honours

another day.

Hooray!

The hall door opens

Sister Una appears

wearing her tired

end-of-day face

'you can go now'

'Yes sister'

I flee

Down the hill

to the hustle and bustle

the laughter and loss

to the place where I'm never alone,

to the hearth of my childhood

my piano-less home.

Josephine Adam

Once A Pretty Maiden – John Egan

I crave your attention as I tell you a story; a story about a maiden; a pretty maiden. Most ancient races possess innumerable legends handed down from generation to generation since the beginning of history. Some are tales of early kings and heroes of their lands. Some are imaginary folk lore tales told for amusement. My story is a love story told for amusement. A mythical tale it tells why a pretty maiden appealed to Venus goddess of love. Proudly I present it under the title 'Once A Pretty Maiden '.

There was once a Pretty Maiden, who had nothing to do, so she slept all day. She lived on the side of a mountain prone to heavy mist. Tired of her lifestyle she appealed to Venus goddess of love for help to get her away from where she lived. She was aware of the danger of going through the mist alone. 'O that I could get away from this dreary place. There is nothing to do all day but sleep. Please help me, ' was the Pretty Maiden's plea to the goddess of love.

The goddess of love called upon Thor, god of thunder. When told of the Pretty Maiden's plight he was very understanding. He promised to do what he could. Later he spoke to a handsome youth. The handsome youth was filled with compassion. He told Thor that he would converse with Anthemia goddess of wisdom. Anthemia was both pleasant and helpful. She told the handsome youth where to find the Pretty Maiden.

With confidence, the handsome youth set out to find the Pretty Maiden. On foot he travelled along a narrow winding road lined on both sides with deciduous trees. He had not walked very far when a dark cloud, first seen in the distance, appeared directly above him. Then a high-pitched voice was heard loud and clear, 'I command you, listen, for I know who you are and whither thou goest. You will find the Fair Maiden to be asleep. Look into her face before you speak. Say to her in a soft low voice, 'Awake dearest one, Awake. Awake to the fresh morning dew. Arise dear one, Arise. Arise to the break of day. Arise I say, Arise I say from where thou dost lay.' ' As such the dark cloud disappeared.

Aware that he was the one being spoken to, also recognising the high-pitched voice to be that of Anthemia, the handsome youth was not alarmed. However the appearance of the dark cloud caused him to remain vigilant. True to word he came upon the Pretty Maiden. Finding her to be asleep he was obedient to the command. Opening her eyes the Pretty Maiden looked up and smiled; but she knew not who she saw. Again the high-pitched voice was heard, 'Fear not Fair Maiden, this handsome youth is known to me '. The Pretty Maiden sat up and rubbed her eyes. Looking at the handsome youth she said, 'Who are you and from where do you come? ' The handsome youth knelt down before he spoke. Softly he said, 'I who kneel beside you am Thrakus. A mortal I am the elder son of Sybus the wine merchant. I will guide you through the mist to a place called Thrase. That is where I come from '. Having revealed his identity Thrakus went on to say, 'The sun is not yet high. Already a mist doth herald a bright blue sky so come dearest one, come, come to a place far away where you and I together may share many a day '. The Pretty Maiden kept her eyes on Thrakus as he spoke, but she showed no immediate response to the spoken word. Her thoughts were with Venus, how she appealed to her for help. She recalled the ongoing boredom, how she had little or nothing to do all day but sleep, also how dreary it could be. She reasoned to herself that she had to make a decision, a quick decision – Did she wish to continue with the lifestyle that she had endured for so long or accept the offer 'Come dearest one '. What seemed to be an 'Eternity ' was in reality seconds. Without so much as one word the Pretty Maiden offered a hand to Thrakus. He helped her to her feet. Together they stood – face to face. She looked into his eyes. She saw what she liked, a future.

Shortly after arriving in Thrase the Pretty Maiden was married. Once a pretty maiden, now a pretty wife. Thrakus worked as a cobbler. In his leisure time he built a house for his pretty wife. Soon there were three to share the happy home. A son was borne to them whom they named Zakus. There was great jubilation when Kordi and Leálold came to admire the newborn babe. They were sisters to Thrakus. Thrakus dearly loved his wife and child. He built a wall within the boundaries of the house. Of ornate stone all but six feet in height, entry was through the area allowed for two heavy iron gates, which when open allowed a view of the beautiful garden.

Over the years, Zakus grew to be a much loved child. He was taught to play the Pan Flute. He was frequently seen sitting on top of the ornate wall feet dangling over, and many times heard to say, 'I Zakus, Son of Thrakus, am now twelve years old. I have two aunts, Kordi and Leálold. From ornate wall each morn, and before the sun is high, I fill the air with music, so please those passing by. But when clouds are white, of wind – 'tis true, I choose not to play, 'til comes the evening dew. Nigh, I hear it said, 'Zakus sits high in the breeze, from his flute comes music to please' '.

And so it became known. Venus went again to Thor saying, 'Rejoice, I bring great tidings. The Pretty Maiden no longer sleeps all day. '

Albeit this tale is incompatible to truth, for it is indeed a mythical tale. Just the same there are many who would believe that Thrakus and his family were swept up by the winds of the 'sands of time '. However, it is true, Thunder continues to rumble throughout the universe, the sun still shines, and love will always find a way.

John Egan

The Secret Room – Arthur Gray

Patricia Cameron first became aware of her psychic abilities at the age of three when her parents frequently caught her talking to her 'friends'. As time went on she found that she had several guides who worked through her. Some she knew the names of. Others preferred to remain anonymous.

When I interviewed her she told me about some of her experiences. One was particularly intriguing. She told me that in the summer of 1970 with her husband, Doug, she accepted an invitation to join a young couple, Bob and Robyn, for a late dinner at a restaurant in a beachside suburb of Sydney.

'We were enjoying pre-dinner drinks and happily chatting,' she said 'when I began to detect the musty scent of ancient parchment. I mentioned it to Robyn. She wrinkled her nose and said she could also detect it. I thought the odour must have upset her for her face changed completely. Her eyes took on a different shape. Her face was like a mask and her voice altered as she went into a psychic trance.'

Pat said that having been a medium for many years she realised what was happening but could not believe it was taking place in such pleasant and harmonious surroundings: an orchestra playing and couples dancing close to their table in the middle of the room.

She said: 'Robyn began to describe what she could see around her. It was in earlier times and in a place far away. She told me about the many rings she could see on my hands, in particular one valuable one on the little finger of my right hand. I have never worn such a ring – at least not in this life.

'She went on to describe a magnificent necklace with large sapphires, which was also unknown to me. She described my dress – deep red velvet with long flowing sleeves and cut low in the front. My headdress was a long chiffon piece flowing from the wimple and my hair, long and blond, was caught up in a swathe.'

Pat said that by now the smell of parchment was so strong it put her into a trance as well. She felt powerless to prevent it. 'It was like a blanket. All I could see was Robyn's face,' she said. 'Then gradually I could make out her dress. It was similar to mine but russet coloured. She also wore a wimple but had chestnut-brown hair, thick and curly.

'At this point Robyn's husband, who was impatient and devoid of psychic powers, became upset and said something like: What the hell are you two on about? For god's sake let's have dinner and stop this nonsense.'

'On the other hand, Doug understood what was going on and added his own impressions. He told me that the man who gave me the ring was away at the Crusades and would return to reclaim it. Then Robyn began talking about a castle close to England's south coast and to describe their immediate surroundings.

'They were in a room in a round turret with small windows and deep sills. The room was bare apart from a desk and two chairs. Robyn kept asking why it was so quiet and where the servants were. I reminded her that we were hiding in secret because enemies from across the sea had come ashore and the servants had fled into the forest.

'Then she recalled that all the men were on a pilgrimage. She said: 'He gave you that ring before he left and told you to take care of it.' 'She turned her whole body around in the chair and faced the wall. With a motion of her hand around the desk she slid back a secret panel and produced scrolls of parchment. (Now the smell of parchment became stronger and even Doug could detect it).

'Together we examined the scrolls and realised that their contents were valuable and must not fall into the wrong hands. We put them back until we could find someone we could trust.'

Pat said it was hard to believe that while the band played in the restaurant and the dancers shuffled around them they were reliving scenes from the past. 'At this stage Bob, your average sceptic, became cross and demanded that Robyn take hold of herself. It was some time before she regained her composure though she still had a dreamy, faraway look in her eyes and kept repeating that nothing like this had ever happened to her before.'

'The rest of the evening passed pleasantly enough. Later Robyn insisted that we go back to her place for coffee and a nightcap. No sooner had we made ourselves comfortable in the sitting room than the full force of what had transpired struck her.

'Robyn slid to the floor. Almost immediately the mask slipped over her face and she began whispering "Grail, the Holy Grail". Then she sat upright and in her normal voice said: "Those scrolls showed us where to find it". She insisted she knew exactly where the castle was and kept repeating 'I have to go back and find it again. But who can I trust? Certainly not the king".'

Legend has it that King Arthur killed Mordred in battle and was himself mortally wounded. His body was taken to Avalon.

Pat admitted later that the whole series of events was something of a mystery until I reminded her that they had been dining at a restaurant in Avalon, on Sydney's northern beaches.

Arthur Gray

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A Minute's Silence – Jean Bundesen

Morning mist drapes the scene

Like flimsy pale grey curtains wafting around.

A gentle cool breeze ruffles my hair

Soft delicious raindrops

Refresh my face.

Grand houses stand beside

Small country cottage,. Nestling,

Often hidden by lush growth

Of many varieties of trees and shrubs.

Cheerful flowers add splashes of colour.

Cleo, a St Bernard dog

With long black silky coat walks

Besides hyacinth -blue and white

Mop-headed agapanthus.

Dressed in their graceful green skirts

Poised like ballerinas \- ready to swing into dance.

Music is the morning songs of birds

Cheeky Willy Wagtail

Warbling 'sweet pretty creature.'

Now silent in the city.

A pair of King Parrots screech

A flash of green and red across the sky.

Kookaburras gurgle happily amid the greenery.

Approaching Lone Pine Drive

Momentarily

The birds' morning chorus is hushed.

An all-pervading peace

A silence that can be felt.

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The Clique – Dinah Turner

I was feeling mildly anxious about starting that new full-time job in an environment that was neither too corporate, nor academic, nor creatively arty-farty. It certainly was a move towards better pay and higher stability—or so I thought. The interview with Grant, the Production Manager, had been very successful and the job was offered to me on the spot. The company needed a creative graphic designer with experience in the field, and I ticked all the boxes. The second big test would be trying to work in a technologically backward environment—a return to the nineteen nineties on steroids.

(Oh well, you can't have everything... At least there were computers ...)

Little would I imagine that the following months after that initial Monday morning I would also be regarded first with genuine curiosity, then with suspicion and later in the piece I would end up being left aside, shunned and surreptitiously mobbed by the poster girls of backstabbing: it's time to introduce you to The Clique.

It is still a mystery to me why these cliques come in packs of three or more, even though their own inner dealings can be compared with life in a minefield. I was only mildly surprised by their hail-fellow-well-met chirpy nature, but I should have been really cautious when I saw how chilled their relationship with Lauren, the other in-house designer, appeared to be. She was five months pregnant, a fact that Grant had kept mum about during the interview. That very omission in itself should have spoken volumes about him, but more to the point about the company. In any case, Grant was a law unto himself, and so was Dazza, the company director.

The "Clique Chix" were Shorty, Hughie and Emmie. Their type is easily recognisable and bad for your health and happiness. Shorty had long, curly hair; flip-flopped around in thongs even in the midst of winter, and wore miniskirts that showed her short, plump legs. Hughie was the oldest of them (she fessed she was thirty-nine, but I had my doubts ... emotionally she was not a day older than fifteen). Muffin-topped and endowed with a shrill voice, she behaved as though she was the Schoolyard Queen. Emmie was a younger Hughie, but while Hughie had flaxen locks and marble blue eyes, Emmie had chestnut-coloured hair and eyes, and a somewhat better toned muffin top. In her case, acting like a schoolgirl made a lot more sense ... because she was a schoolgirl.

The first days were good enough; perhaps they just thought I was another "cliqueable chick". I could sense how Lauren endured their antics, their gossiping and their superficial blabbering. Later, The Clique told me that Lauren was not to be trusted. Looking back, they never gave me any valid reasons; again and again they would harp on the fact that Lauren was good friends with a former supervisor who had been fired on account of her 'bitchiness' (read different personality, or some kind of personality disorder; probably someone who didn't quite abide by Grant's lack of people skills or The Clique's Rules of Engagement).

Grant was never in, except when he needed to enforce some deadline or other. Nevertheless, Shorty never stuck to them. Part of Grant's duties included IT management, as well as giving training sessions in which the sales reps went to sleep without much effort, as if they were part of a collective hypnosis experiment. His daily routine also included dealing with Dazza's stinginess when it came to investing in new tech stuff, and doing his Farmville on Facebook. It was Lauren who was left in charge of explaining to me what my duties were, in order to do the job I knew backwards standing on my head with my hands tied to my back ... but not using antediluvian technology. Poor Lauren, I felt for her: pregnant and surrounded by hell's hounds. I suspected she was quite embarrassed by the technological time warp that the company lived in, but more particularly our area.

In the meantime, what did The Clique do? They spent most of the day gossiping endlessly about/against others. Without a doubt, they were gossiping about me behind my back and distorting facts ad nauseam. They also had "smoko breaks" at the rate of five a day at least, went to the supermarket for a good half hour at least three times a week; grazed on dips and cheese crackers all the time, played network games, and went on dates in the middle of the day when they should have been doing their work. A favourite hobby was 'cyber-snooping', that is, looking at friends of friends on social networks in order to criticise their clothes, their fiancés and their haircuts, among other banalities of life. I made the very early mistake of befriending The Clique Chix on Facebook, and even though my 'if-you-can't-beat-them-join-them' strategy ended up being a gross mistake, it eventually bought me time.

Work procedures were unnecessarily convoluted as well because of Sheena, the Sales Manager from hell. A true blue office psychopath, she ended up 'resigning' to everybody's relief. Rumour had it that she was given time for a handover and Dazza started cracking the whip over the sales force's heads (or lack thereof). I collapsed under the strain of operating in a chaotic environment and experienced major depression, a sad fact that meant that I had to discuss my mental health reality with Grant and The Clique. They appeared to be compassionate and understanding, but up to what point they used this piece of confidential information against me is anyone's guess. You may say I'm a dreamer, but I want to think of myself as an agent of change. Being bipolar is nothing to be ashamed of. I have learned to manage it, and it's only a chaotic, unpredictable environment full of hidden agendas that can tip me over the edge. After disclosing my condition, I felt at ease with myself and thought that a breakthrough had been reached in my work environment. Of course sometimes I should be more suspicious about other people's motives ... an awful lot more suspicious ... but I was desperately trying to keep the peace (as well as my income).

When Lauren went on maternity leave, Grant decided to recruit Lucy, a.k.a. Tempzilla, to help out in the madhouse ... sorry, I mean the Production Vipers' Nest. Morbidly obese, racist and prone to snappy answers, she certainly reached peak unpopularity for her opinionated comments and her reluctant participation in productive activities. Tempzilla even had the nerve of telling Shorty that she was a 'bottomless pit' for her continuous cheese cracker munching, and took to sleeping legendary siestas at midday. As a consequence of her racist comments, I spoke to Grant, who took the matter into his own hands so wonderfully, with such communicative skill, that Tempzilla immediately gathered that I had 'dobbed her in'.

By then I would have preferred to be mugged in the street every week rather than to go to work. However, I performed my duties as well as I could and received praise from other departments and even from ruthless Dazza. Around my tenth month at that House of Horrors, I noticed that the fall of Lehman Brothers and the downward financial spin called Global Financial Crisis had taken its toll on the sale of advertising space. Dazza did what many tried to avoid at all costs: he took to the age-old practice of culling personnel in the most unrelenting way, without any ethical or legal considerations. We all feared and hoped, but mostly feared. Week in, week out, there would be upfront speculation on who'd be next.

Life at work had become far worse than having a holiday in jail. In a very subtle and yet perceptible way, The Clique started piling up new duties upon me. Hughie was in poor health, a fact I never questioned, but still she managed to upset my already frayed nerves by cherry-picking jobs and shoving all the stressful stuff in my direction. Emmie had the fantastic idea of telling my boss that I had taken a longer lunch break when she needed ads fixed, and pumped up the facts out of all proportion. Nevertheless, the greatest and mightiest stress mess came from Shorty and Grant: in a Machiavellian fashion, they started fixing up my work and then resaved my files in different folders, so when I was asked to make further changes, I would open my original files, thinking that all the changes would have been saved onto them, and to my dismay I would find that they were exactly as I had left them. Where were the changes?!?!

Needless to say, I spoke to Grant and to Shorty about this anomaly. He looked the other way, whereas she wrote the following masterpiece:

Dina,

Im unsure as to why ur so upset with me thismorning over (such and such a job). I kno you are in charge of the adds, which is you're position. As supervisor I look after (blah blah blah) from beginning to end, & as u kno Dinah that may meen making many changes many times 2 many things (...)

I understand the talk u had yesterday between Grant and hughie However dont confuse me for being a part of that conversation. I am the Supervisor& it is necessary for me too make changes, every kind of change infact & I donot need your permmision. Infact, I feel you have a problem with me thismorning regarding this issue. I amnot sure if this builtup stress - personal work or both. But i'm happy to have a meeting with grant if this is the case.

Above all Dinar, i'm you're friend.

I felt as if I were in no man's land, and thought that spending a night in a torture chamber, having my nails pulled out, would have been highly relaxing. In any case, the worst was yet to come. I don't want to leave out some of The Clique's inside cloak-and-dagger dealings: Hughie fell out of favour for her continuous absences due to a nasty stomach ulcer, her short separation from her ockerish partner and her romantic dates in the middle of the day. Shorty had given Hughie 'political asylum ' at her place, where apparently things were not to Hughie's liking, to such an extent that she decided to go back to her abusive better half. Better the Devil you know ... or perhaps Shorty insisted on bossing her around. All of a sudden I found myself acting as their confidant at different times.

Emmie was also sore and vented against Hughie to Shorty, Tempzilla and me. Shorty whispered to all of us that Tempzilla's days in the company were numbered. In the meantime, she met someone on Facebook and decided to have a hot date with him in the middle of a weekday. Her excuse to Grant was that she had to discuss a family matter ... and he swallowed it! Shorty was wearing her very best: for once she didn't have her thongs on, but all the same she was wearing a miniskirt so minimal that not even the dumbest of the dumb would have believed she was going to catch up with her family ... I went on working hard and meeting my deadlines. All the same, I found myself more and more isolated and left out.

Employee terminations started in earnest and it was Tempzilla's turn on a Friday afternoon. The following Monday I received an email from her which surprised me. She said that she would have expected a longer notice period, not just 'five minutes'. I didn't know what to say; I felt a twinge of regret and some embarrassment because I had known all the time that her days were numbered, but what was there for me to do? I couldn't possibly fess up that I knew her head would roll, figuratively speaking. One of the web designers was given the boot for bogus 'legal reasons' and later that week it was my turn to get the sack. The Clique was 'awfully sorry' and sent me messages on Facebook.

Hi dina,

I couldnt believe it when i heard it. We'll miss ya. You taught me so much. I love you!!

Emmie

Deena,

I'm SO sorry, and I fear I'll be next. Shorty won't defend me if there's trouble. I never got slips for my overtime. Emmie never does anything; the only one who really helped me was you ...

Hughie

Before I blocked the whole lot of them, Grant's status on Facebook read like this:

Grant Cattle is sad and depressed for circumstances beyond his control.

One of his friends commented: _You... broke a nail again?_

To which Grant replied: _Not really ... Work issues_.

Another friend added: _Sounds like your typical day-by-day work atmosphere._

When I sent an email to let Tempzilla know about my dismissal, her reply was unsympathetic and full of revelations:

Sorry to hear about your dismissal but I thought you have gone before me because of what Shorty used to say one day I bumped into her at the ladies that she had met Grant for coffee and he asked her how to get rid of you and she told me that she replied you hired her its your problem ... Shorty said on a number of times that you'd be kicked out. She is suppose to be supervisor and not discuss anything with other staff ... Hahaha ... She was always talking about what was going on with Emmie and Hughie they knew everything that was going on even though they played dum.

I could write a novel about what happened after I was dismissed from that company. Who knows, perhaps one day I will. In any case, I have learned plenty from that experience, and reached higher levels of self-awareness. The legal case against Dazza didn't go as expected financially, but the judge gave Dazza a good serve. Morally at least, I made my point.

In ten years' time, you can bet your bottom dollar that you'll still see Shorty, Hughie and Emmie pacing up and down the street during their smoko breaks. They will still squeal with delight when they see a good-looking tradie and will continue to rip the company off with their sickies, their romantic dates in the middle of the day and their half hour shopping trips to the supermarket. Dazza will have probably 'abdicated' in favour of his spoilt son, and more than likely Grant will continue to play dumb while he fixes the still prehistoric, still inefficient computer system. Hopefully, Lauren will have left that vipers' nest and so will many of the good ones.

Human beings will still be subjected to psychological injury in the workplace, even though there is greater awareness and legal safeguards. Many, perhaps too many nice people like you will fear losing their jobs if they speak up, and some will dig their heels and stand for their rights the way I did it at the very end. As far as I am concerned, in ten years' time I will have moved well and truly on. Needless to say, my sense of ethics is far more unshakeable than that of many whip-cracking bosses ... as well as that of The Clique.

Dinah Turner

Empress and Vanity – Jordan Russo

He arched his back as another terrifying spasm erupted through him. In a pale nightgown with orange and blue trim he finally lay still, gasping sharply in his golden bed. His beautiful crystal blue eyes shone with his agony as he wheezed with uneven breaths. He seemed to have aged years just in the last three months. Once a towering broad Emperor he had fought at the head of massive armies and held a single finger up deciding the fate of many men and women. He was bony now and lay wretched in his bed, like some ghoul, his skin sallow. His eyes, a beautiful strike of crystal blue, were the last vestige of beauty with which to recognise this man as the great Emperor Yexoleven. This man had once pushed Kings onto their knees in defeat and submission to his law.

She held her pale, powdered nose higher from the dark green hooded cloak of Erthwengia (the goddess responsible for all of life). Her daddy had been like this for the last three months, rapidly deteriorating. She was not sure what to think or feel. At first she had been struck with worry for him. Over time she began to feel more placid. The doctors that came, all ultimately arrived at the same conclusion. Erthwengia had made up her mind. Emperor Yexoleven was going to the afterlife set aside for him and that was that. Erthwengia's hourglass for his life was nearly empty. Etheenchn had somehow never believed the doctors. The full moon shone its silvery light on the high mountains visible through the grand arching open terrace doors. The gleaming grand candelabras high above, barred the cool grey moonlight from the room with their cheery yellow glow. Several knights, Majors and a long serving General and best friend of Yexoleven (perhaps only true friend) together with diplomatic advisors stood solemnly around his bed as a priest-doctor chanted quietly. A bitter pall hung in the room like a dreary unwanted guest. The worst thing was that stupid General kept glancing at her.

Yexoleven opened his eyes and rolled his head to gaze at her. He brought his clammy hand up grabbing the bedpost making loud heaving sounds. With the strain ripped across his grimacing worn bony face, she saw in his fiery gaze, the will of whom he was within. Weakly, spoke the word, 'Forcentrapede!' Then his eyes lost all focus and Emperor Yexoleven fell back on his big golden bed. The raspy inconsistent breathing of the old Emperor had stopped, leaving the room in a deathly silence. Princess Etheenchn was now officially Empress. She sat there fighting back a moment of great sadness. She had not realised just how much air space her father's mottled breathing patterns had filled. She slowly stood up. She spread her delicate fingers over her father's forehead and gently closed his eyelids. She felt that she should be more shocked that, finally, she was no longer her father's special little girl. Father was dead of a blood poisoning no-one could have predicted or treated. No more standing behind his muscular armoured chest for protection while he gave her all that she wanted. She was suddenly faced with the tasks her seemingly immortal father once had. It was surreal. She could enter that forbidden room -the room that only the Emperor and Empress had authority to enter. Father had once told her that it was such a valuable room that only on a sure deathbed would he give her the way to enter. The room was one of the few things she had been denied in life. Etheenchn slowly licked her vermilion lips with excitement.

The bitterness in the room instantly melted away for Etheenchn as she stood over her father thinking about being Empress. As Empress, this night she would go down to the room she had nagged her father to let her enter. She looked up from under her hood at all the men in the room standing like statues draped in their green Erthwengia cloaks. She stepped back from the bed and ran and out of the room. Down tall marble staircases she hurried, holding the delicate fabric of her dress up off the floor to reveal her little red shoes. She hurried past great paintings of people in regal uniform, majestic landscapes and waterfalls. She passed through ornately decorated halls and raised her chin straightening whenever she crossed any guards.

The great castle ran underground and it was here that she found the great big heavy circular door that she had never seen beyond. It was gold with a Minotaur emblazoned in the middle amidst a field of flowers. The key word rolled off her lips without thought, 'Forcentrapede.' Immediately, the grand door creaked open. Etheenchn looked either side down the dark seldom-used corridor as she stepped in. The door shut behind her. Yellow light shone ahead. She felt a little nervous as she walked down, but that dissolved when she entered a vast chamber, an impish grin seeping into her face as she saw the gleaming golden room piled high with treasure. She could see tridents exactly as described in myth, rare golden chests with 'Bottomless Chest' labelled on them in bold italics. She saw a dark red chest covered in rubies with a sign saying, 'Caution, highly flammable (demon inside)'. She took her hood off letting her long red locks fall to her waist, unveiling her father's striking blue eyes.

She gazed up at the high marble ceiling, its grain swirling hypnotically and indeed she walked looking unblinking around the place mesmerized with wonder at the mountains of sparkling treasure and artefacts around her. Then, opposite her where the mountains of artefacts flowed across the worn path in her way she saw a marble stand with a small rectangular basket, its lid tied on by three different coloured strings, one red, one blue and one green. She raised a thin red eyebrow at this little straw basket. She walked up to the little basket and picked up a small piece of metal poking out from underneath it, inscribed on it was, 'pick the green string then the blue, then the red'. With her thin index finger and thumb she undid the loose knots in prescribed order. She opened the lid and peered in, her brow creased with a frown as she stared into the shadow-covered interior - it was pitch black, like a hole. Then the stand suddenly wobbled. Etheenchn yelped jumping back and stepped back even further when it wobbled again. Its shape was now contorted into what vaguely looked to be two muscular arms and a head forming out of the column. Then a humanoid shape formed and the basket expanded into a wide brimmed rectangular hat. The marble itself darkened and the little black wispy swirls slithered away.

She was now looking into the large yellow eyes of a herculean dark skinned man. He grinned at her and wore nothing but a long green loincloth and thick red armbands. The lid swung closed on the hat and the man bowed.

His voice deep as he spoke, 'I am Hiripiut. Genie of Yexoleven for thirty years.'

Etheenchn gazed at the Genie in a hunched gaping disbelief. She remembered the stories of Genies from childhood. She straightened up and raised her head a little higher before clearing her throat. 'Genie. Well, then since my father is dead that makes you mine and I will make my first wish. I want you to make me more beautiful than I already am and much fitter but still beautiful.' She spotted a mirror lying on some coins and picked it up, holding it to her face. Big capital letters across her reflected forehead in the mirror spelt out 'VAIN'. She yelped again dropping the mirror back on its coins and felt her forehead.

Hiripiut grinned again showing his perfect white teeth, 'Empress your wish is my command and the mirror just comments on your personality when a trait arises - nothing to do with how you look.' Hiripiut closed his eyes. His eyelids melted into his head out of sight and then Etheenchn felt a sudden change in the atmosphere, a powerful vibration in all of her body and the very air and floor hummed. A larger golden eye opened up on his forehead, looked around and then closed. The two eyelids resurfaced and the Genie opened them. Etheenchn wrinkled her nose and looked around nervously for a moment. Then Hiripiut pulled out a feather and paper from nowhere and began scribbling while he spoke, 'In The Tangles of Erthwengia (a certain forest) you shall find a flower. It has big yellow petals that are serrated on the edge and a thick purple stem. Its leaves fan out with lobes often with a red hue that looks like an ink stain.- very rare, hard to miss. I have a map and grid reference of where it is located'

He handed the paper that had a very graceful drawing of the flower included and whipped out a map from behind his back and gave it to a perplexed Etheenchn. She looked down at it, a colour picture of a strange flower, a grid reference and map labelled, The Tangles of Erthwengia (a certain forest). Her face began to redden. She clenched her fists as she spoke, 'What do you mean by giving me this scrap! I want you to grant me my wish as is your due duty!'

Hiripiut scratched his chin looking at her, his head tilted. 'Why Empress' he said calmly. 'Even a Genie has his limits. Let me be he who seems to be the first to explain to you. The bigger the wish, the less ability the Genie has to keep granting. This is big and I can only do so many of these before my magic must recharge over a period of time. I can grant you any wish. But I cannot grant it simply by snapping my fingers. This is real life.'

Etheenchn stood fuming before him looking red as a chilli (her red locks only adding). Then slowly she unclenched her hands and sighed. 'Alright' She glanced at the mirror on the coins. She began pacing from side to side. 'Then I now want, er, wish you to stick declarations everywhere in the land and say this, the first nobleman, knight, Prince er yes, to retrieve this special flower from The Tangles of Erthwengia, shall have my hand and I may just decide to marry him, otherwise I would just spend some, er, intimate time for a night. No, actually just say I will find some sort of reward, otherwise'

Hiripiut smiled, 'Your wish is my command. This may take a while, after that last big wish.' Hiripiut clicked his fingers and he was vanished. The Empress Etheenchn looked around once more and then yawned. She stretched her arms and walked out. The door opened as she walked towards it. Then closed behind her.

***

Empress Etheenchn opened her eyes. She gazed up at the dragon God of the Sun carved into the wooden canopy of her bed. She yawned stretching her limbs. It took several groggy minutes lying in bed still wearing last night's clothes and her hair sprawled out, to realise last night was real. Her eyes widened as memories of the Genie solidified. She sat up and gazed across the round room to her drawers with a broad smile. A big mirror sat on top - the chaotic surface was an extravagant collection of glass vials, of delicate plant extracted sweet drinks, metal containers of ointments, make up and combs. Twirling metal lids and golden ball lids poked out at her, shining. She walked over to her big lace-trimmed white cupboard and flung it open revealing a garish strip of colours. She stood, tapping her chin and scanning from side to side across her assortment of clothes.

She finally chose a deep red robe with gold trim after wrinkling her nose at several. Then she took her attention to the big cheery yellow arching door leading out of her room. The Governor General was due to place the crown on her head as a celebration but mostly to make the empire's federal government and any visiting royalty feel confident about their new High Ruler. She gulped and went to the mirror and picked up a brush. She grimaced as she pushed the comb through her thick silky entanglement of hair. She tried to calm herself by thinking about the good-looking men straining to get the flower. She picked out her eyelash curler. She powdered her face and drew a red ochre stripe down the middle of her forehead and down to her chin. Then another diagonally across straight over her closed left eye and another diagonally across that again from the other eye and both cut a sudden sharp turn down next to her chin. She gazed in the mirror at her smooth skin and nearly symmetrical features, her voluptuous pink lips.

A soft knock sounded on her door. She put the eyelash curler down and turned around, 'Yes?' she asked. A soft female voice spoke, 'Your majesty, it is nearly time for your speech as Empress. Today is the end time of the three month mourning. People will expect more from you now' Etheenchn scowled and marched to the door. Her father was dead, there were no family to contend for the throne. Why this ridiculous public donning and speech? She took a moment with her nose on the door to calm herself so that her face would look serene. Supposedly the facial pattern was to make her known to friendly spirits, that she needed their support. Whenever big change came supposedly it gave dark spirits an opening to form dark spells. She had kept that jar of red ochre for eight years and quite frankly did not intend to keep this custom for her future daughter.

She finished and flung her door open seeing the small maid jump with shock. Etheenchn stepped out and left for the castle courtyard. Etheenchn gazed down the wide sweeping staircase at all the dignitaries in the plush courtyard. Men in tall square hats and long green robes. Women adorned vertically from head to toe in strips of gold metal and underneath that gold ,wearing brown robes. Ambassadors, Kings and Generals from other parts of the land stood in the ancient castle grounds from which had sprouted the seed of the Kingdom's growth into an Empire. The General that had looked at her when she was at her father's deathbed was standing beside the door. She felt his strong expectant gaze on her as she stood before the colourful crowd. Never had she seen such a heterogenous gathering. There was another man beside her-the High Priest, wearing white robes. His brown hooked-nosed face was sunken with bags under the eyes and deep wrinkles breaking his face up.

The High Priest held tightly a black wooden staff. He stepped forward, 'Our beloved Emperor Yexoleven is now in Erthwengia's direct care. Today we celebrate and anoint our new ruler, the Empress Etheenchn!' Etheenchn's attention rippled and drowned out his words and the cheering crowd. She had the greatest urge to look behind her. She had never seen it before, but when a leader died a new flag was raised on the tallest tower. The castle she had lived in all her life was the biggest in the land. It had been built on for centuries and some of it pierced the clouds; it spanned a great distance across the land too. There had to be windows all over it and until you reached the chunky feet of the Purpose Towers (some reserved for stargazing, some for prayer), the walls were broken up so there were always at least one-centre meter thick slits for air to pass into the various rooms. It took days to walk one entire length of the castle. The flag, usually gold, was silver for the new donning of a leader. Once the silver flag was up, letters were sent to all adjacent Kingdoms of the land and then those Kingdoms passed the letters on to the Kingdoms beyond. She dragged herself out of her thoughts and back to the High Priest's speech. Etheenchn watched him as he concluded and returned to her side, coughing. After a short moment he gave her a nod and flicked his eyes to the crowd and back. It took Etheenchn a moment to realise she was staring at him and was supposed to be walking to the edge of the stairs to deliver her speech. She walked forward looking darkly across the audience. Her stomach was a prison of butterflies. Then she raised her chin and smiled. She was forced to do something she had to do or else her people could lose trust and respect, for their Empress. She had heard of people becoming fed up with their leaders and over-throwing them.

She glanced to the side and saw a glittering jewel encrusted, wide-banded crown. It was the crown of power held in both hands of a stocky blonde man in a white robe. Then she gulped and began, 'I am honoured that today I accept the crown my father had worn for one hundred and forty years. He so loved this land and her people that he gave his whole heart and soul, always. I will strive to match him.' She darted her eyes across the silent crowd, so big. She began to think she should have asked her Genie for a wish not to need to make such a speech. She felt sick in the gut. Then she smiled again and spoke as clearly as she could.

'I am not a woman of words. I am of action like my father and I think the next few months will speak a far better speech.' She looked across the crowd and then stepped back. Then the waiters came out with trays of wine, little light cheese biscuits and breads with exquisite toppings. The General and the High Priest walked down the stairs to join the crowd. Etheenchn supposed she had to follow and talk with all these people. Etheenchn sighed heavily as she stepped into the crowd. Straight away a woman with the gold strips of armour stepped in front her with a littler version of herself at her side. 'Hello Empress Etheenchn. I am Queen Hoyexken and this is my daughter Adjeviran.' Etheenchn looked down. Adjeviran looked into Etheenchn's eyes fearlessly and said, 'Hello.' Etheenchn smiled, the little girl smiled back. 'I thought to show this little one something very similar to what she will be doing when she comes of age,' Hoyexken said. Etheenchn smiled at Hoyexken. 'I like your daughter's stout-heartedness.' Someone beside her asked, 'Would you like a drink?' Etheenchn held her hand up and gave her head one shake, 'No.' Hoyexken held her hand up, 'Ah, I will take one.' The neat waiter stepped forward and gave her a glass of white wine. Etheenchn glanced at him, he blinked and his eyes were yellow, blinked again and they were blue. He gave her a wink. Etheenchn stared at him one eyebrow raised. Then as he turned to leave she leapt forward and whispered in his ear, 'What Genie?!'

'You did not say I could not wait on people while I watch something like this.' Hiripiut lowered his face but not his gaze. Etheenchn followed his gaze and saw a young blonde man looking at her. Etheenchn smiled and swatted her hand limply at him. 'That is just Jalen. He has the great fortune of being my friend and naturally now he is contemplating being a friend to an Empress of great power.' Hiripiut nodded, 'Ah, that is why he is looking at you.'

'You know this waiter?', Hoyexken asked. Etheenchn spun around. Suddenly the great metal courtyard gate reeled open and a man in shining armour and flowing green cape marched in with a bunch of the flowers from The Tangles of Erthwengia. He also had several burley men carrying a large cart of them.

'I am here with the flower for the Empress!' he announced, his bronze armour gleaming. Etheenchn's jaw dropped, 'Took long enough' she said, checking herself all over and cursing having not brought a mirror. 'Over here!' Hiripiut called, waving his hand up in the air. The man caressed back his orange hair, checked his sword in its emerald scabbard and strutted through the crowd. Etheenchn started in his direction. When she finally met his finely shaped face and handsome green eyes she asked his name. His stride was as strong an arc as a man practiced in perfecting his appearance - appearances did count for something.

A smile drew across his face, 'Why, I am Prince Calton Herinveat from the southern region, Herinveat (not a surprise, the south was full of red heads and big lakes, a very flat part of the country and his demeanour was proud enough). When I saw the notice you had placed on my city walls, I was enraptured by the thrill of the impending adventure beckoning me with your word.'

'I was born there!' Hiripiut quietly remarked. Etheenchn raised an eyebrow, 'Right. Well, come with me for a walk out of this calamity.' Prince Calton held his arm out. She took it and she led him down a narrow corridor and into the neatly made symmetrical garden that framed the castle. The vines throughout the brickwork were the only curves in the garden and were supposed to increase the life of the brickwork before maintenance was required to patch wounds of age up. Prince Calton placed his foot on the yellowy brown and orange brick garden wall. 'I had never been to The Tangles and I can now confidently say...' he pointed his thumb down, a strand of hair falling over his forehead, his gaze intense. '...'Not a nice place!' All the trees are so close together you cannot get a horse through - vines everywhere and then some giant monster bounds out of the brush and knocks you over and suddenly you're fighting for your life. The place takes dignity out of your list of traits.'

'Lovely' Etheenchn said. What a vain man, she thought. The mirror that had named her as vain, flashed into her mind and she quickly snuffed it out.

'I waded through this swamp and next thing I was slicing the heads off these strange female creatures' Etheenchn drifted off. A man who could not talk about her was probably going to expect too much for himself, she decided. 'What do you think?', he asked. She looked up and saw him posing. The late sun shone off his bronze armour. He looked as though Erthwengia herself had created him from the sparkling sunlight found over the ocean (not to say that sunlight has breeds). The armour was attractive. He certainly seemed to look after his body and had fine armour, white teeth. She made a guess, 'I would say, 'Just fine'.' He smiled at her and looked down at his leg. 'I love the thrill of hunting' he remarked, 'Have you ever been hunting? ...with a retinue or something?'

She decided she was conveniently thirsty. Her father once said that two people too much alike tend to clash in an inability to cope due to so closely sharing the same traits rather than complementing each other with other traits that could expand abilities when together, creatively helping each other in all envisageable ways. She was not going to share adoration time with this prince, and she did like hunting so long as she had several admiring men around. 'I think we should get a drink and join the celebration...very important to mix with the guests, it is like a lobola to me. People expect things of me, payment! At the end of the day I shall decide on your prize Prince Calton.' Prince Calton lost half his gleam and stepped off the garden wall. They flowed back into the crowd. Etheenchn kept getting all sorts of strange people shaking her hand and saying things. She couldn't help feeling disappointed about her prince charming. She hated big crowds too.

'Etheenchn?'

She turned around to see Hiripiut again. 'This is a big extravagant thing.' She looked up at what Hiripiut was gazing up at - all the bronze plating and imposing dragon statues roaring from the higher towers, the mess of orphean ledges curving over one another. The complex pattern that made the castle look simply grainy from a distance. 'The things you do not want to do or plan to do are often the things that teach you what you might have otherwise never realised. You get into a moment outside of your constructed world of interests. Who are you to say you know the future so you may as well save strife a strut and see the best in your future. Come with me.' Hesitating, Etheenchn followed Hiripiut back into the castle with a frown of curiosity at Hiripiut's odd mood. He led her up familiar winding stairs, across the glorious halls wrapped in splendour. He took her higher and higher still. He took her through a door into a round tower room. There was a telescope placed at a window, tiled in browns and blues. She was reminded of the oceans that she had read about – though she had ever been so far outland. He climbed out the window onto one of the wavy ledges that ringed the towers. She hurried to the window and stuck her head out. Hiripiut was against the wall sliding himself across the ledge. When he saw her simply watching, he laughed. 'Come on you scaredy cat' he said. 'I am Genie Hiripiut. If you fall I promise you will not need to wish me to put you back in the tower.'
Etheenchn hesitated for a moment. 'You're crazy, too many hours pretending to be a marble column with a basket on top.' Then she climbed out and followed him. She did her best not to look down. There was a hunching statue of some mystical creature with six muscular arms and four eyes. Hiripiut climbed on top of this and then hauled himself up onto a flat roof that had a golden sphere in the middle. Etheenchn followed and Hiripiut held his hand out and helped her up. She stayed on her knees for a moment and rolled over so she was sitting with her arms supporting her back. The sky had melted into a brilliance of orange and pink layers thinning in thickness down to the sun sinking on the horizon -a magnificent expanse, eternally full of wonder.

'Many people strive to achieve so much, to be so much in their own eyes. They do not see the forest for the trees if I may exhaust an old saying further. People just are valuable.' Etheenchn could see the entire city. All the fancy buildings and structures crammed together and then the blue and white mountains beyond that. The freedom and spaciousness that changed slowly and calmly beyond the city and the busy lives that had created the city with ideas and ideals and great goals in mind.

'Etheenchn! Etheenchn! Do not jump, I am coming!'

Etheenchn sat up and looked directly down to see all the people down below, like ants she could not even tell if they were looking at her or not. Etheenchn groaned, 'I think that sounded like Jalen. The fool!' Hiripiut chuckled in a husky way reminding Etheenchn of a toad croaking. She looked back out at the sun setting between the two great mountains, which were now in black silhouette rimmed in bronze against an orange sky. 'Today has been full of stupidity. I am going to go straight to bed tonight so it might get to be tomorrow!' she groaned. Hiripiut shot his gaze straight to her with a smile that spread slowly lighting his face, 'You know Empress Etheenchn, I think that you if you knew you would really love that prince charming is not here yet. If you cannot enjoy life, then are you not greedy needing things to be a certain way. I think anyone can be creative and enjoy the challenges life gives you. Out of a thought comes a feeling and out of a feeling comes a thought.'

A white knuckled hand grasped the ledge. The blonde headed ,perspiring Jalen rose up beside Etheenchn and then saw Hiripiut, who smiled at him. 'Hello' Jalen said, breathing heavily with a frown. He then looked at Etheenchn. 'Do not jump?' Etheenchn queried, 'Jalen, you fool! I think you must be the city idiot which is worse than a village idiot'

Jalen shook his head and sighed as he gazed out at the sunset and the great mountains. He tilted his head and smiled at her, 'Yeah, well I see no need to pick a flower for you just because you want to be more beautiful. We will both be fools forever and friends too, I hope.' Jalen lay his head on her shoulder. Etheenchn placed her hand delicately on Jalen's head. Hiripiut presented Etheenchn with a hand mirror. The Empress Etheenchn gazed at her own and her father's reflected eyes It took a moment for her to notice the words, 'TRUE FRIEND', across her forehead.

Jordan Russo

Scarred – Mary Krone

You carry scars of absence

From when you were small

A brow unkissed

Gentle jokes not shared

A little hand not held

A consoling arm not lain

I'll heal the wounds

On your big man's body

At every chance

I'll gently infuse you

I'll hold your hand and speak softly

My words and touch filling the years of want

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Moloch – Alan Lucas

You who are narrowed

By Moloch and hopeless greed,

You burn us by the acid

Of your self focused drivel,

Your sense of entitlement.

Questions sit like the sphinx

Confronted by Oedipus,

Demanding answers, recompense.

Yet when answer springs truth,

And all opposition is dispersed,

Your paupers and kings will go,

And creation will be moved,

A notch higher.

It is not the moving

That should concern,

Rather

The second coming.

Field on field is burnt,

And the process will contain

All endeavour,

Ending in a kind of Deuteronomy,

A possible passage

Into the promised land.

We remain nonetheless

The keepers of Earth,

Regardless of escaping time.

The Memory of Old Blackfish – Rebecca Langham

Morgan's fingers ran along the ash-coloured stucco wall of the historical centre. A knife had been taken to it some time before, leaving behind the faded etching of a name. She traced the lines with her index finger. She guessed, having made out only some of the letters, that it was a name: Cheyenne. Perhaps the daughter of another family of tourist's, like hers. Perhaps this Cheyenne had been less than inspired by the mythological wing of the Republic of Australia historic homestead of oceanography. Or perhaps inspiration is exactly what led her to take a blade to the wall – leaving her mark where it would be seen by hundreds of people a week. Some of them would notice, as Morgan had, and think of its origins pensively. Others would pass by the scarred wall, no doubt transfixed by the life size mural on the adjoining wall, the injury unnoticed. Morgan had to resign herself to the fact that the vandalism would remain a mystery. It was in her nature to try and imagine moments and lives from the past but the consideration of it could potentially consume her entire day.

Wrenching herself away from the rather lifeless wall she approached the epic mural that covered the entire length of the main wall in the mythological wing. Her father had told her about this place but his nightly tales and fancies didn't stop the air from catching in her throat all the same. Beautiful wasn't enough. Resplendent? Magnificent? Exquisite – yes, that would do nicely. The colour scheme consisted of melting greys, blues and greens that left Morgan awash. The tones affected her as though she were floating in the ocean, enveloped and protected by endless water, completely unafraid of the endlessness of it.

Oceanus, the great titan from time lost, rose out of the water like fire from a volcano – powerful, strong and untameable. His great beard disappeared into the frothy clouds of the water to show that he was both the ruler of the sea and part of it simultaneously. This was his dominion and he lorded over it with elegance and respectful symbiosis. His eyes were empty blue stars that shone out from an aged face, somewhat leathered by the sun but shimmering all the same. He had no emotion that Morgan could see, but she felt as though he would do anything to protect his world. He would send tsunamis. He would call upon hurricanes and send tremors through the earth to keep it safe.

Morgan's eyes moved slowly along the wall. She did not want to miss any of the finer details. The famous mural recorded would-be history, that is, ideas and creatures that people had spoken about for generations but for which there was no physical proof to warrant a change in their title from myth to evolution. Sea nymphs, the daughters of Oceanus, floated blissfully through the water, none of them fighting the direction the water wanted to take each one. It was as though they were but birds caught on a breeze, their sense of direction being little more than an instinctive feeling to go where the path is easiest. There were many names for them: Oceanids, nubile maidens, mermaids, the veiled ones. Morgan thought of only one word for them...lovely.

These finned women swam in the deeps alongside the one creature Morgan found most fascinating. Her father had told her stories of this animal, a monster of the depths that was both fish and mammal. It could speak to people, move them and see into their hearts. It was the one image on the mural that was not considered mythological, but it belonged there all the same, for Oceanus had failed to protect it and now it lived only in stories told both parents to their fledgling children before they sent them off into a guiltless sleep. At a time there had been many different species of whale. Morgan—like most people—had always been drawn to the Orca in particular. Its black and white rubbery skin, in her mind, represented the balance that existed between all things. When that balance was disrupted they started to die. It happened too fast to be stopped, they say. It happened before they realised that they were responsible, they say. They say a lot of things.

'I see you're interested in the blackfish young lady.' The voice came from behind her. It was somewhat gruff, yet sincere. An older man, perhaps in his sixties, wearing a green vest that had seen better days (as, perhaps, had the burly man wearing it), stepped up beside her. His name tag: Cheyenne. Traditionally a girl's name, perhaps, but at least Morgan could lay the mystery of the scribbling on the wall to rest. Morgan nodded at him. 'Most people prefer it, for some reason, to the hump back or the sperm whale. Perhaps because it has always been such a key part of the legends of many cultures and we have carried those legends down through the generations.'

'What happened to them?' asked the twelve year old girl.

'What didn't happen to them? They were a lot like us you know. They worked together for food, for territory, to forge a place for themselves in the world. But when humans overfished the seas, and yes, we stopped international whaling in 2058, but when we took everything they had to eat for ourselves they died anyway. Pollution, oil, chemicals... they had little hope. I think though, maybe they hide from us now, down in the coldest parts of the world where we can't hurt them. They're smart enough to hide, to wait.'

'I hope you're right, sir.' Morgan blinked and turned away from the wall. She looked at Cheyenne mournfully. 'Do you think someday we'll see them again?'

'Maybe. Perhaps if we can give old Poseidon a chance to set his world right again then, maybe.'

Rebecca Langham

Lorraine – Felicity Lynch

Lorraine was here an hour or so ago

In this place where the trees hang low

Hiding her lover so tall and lean

A married man who can't be seen

As gossipers in this country town

Would love a good scandal to bring them down

With gnashing teeth and gloating words

Like a flock of attacking birds

They would end the dream forever

Of Lorraine and her lover being always together

The Wind at my Door – Robyn Chaffey

I am sitting in my lounge

Enjoying the peace of the day

For perhaps the first time in a week or two

I breathe deeply

I luxuriate in the stillness of my mind

My music is playing

It's almost inaudible

Just enough to encourage the mood

I sit, so relaxed, almost entranced

I don't know when I last felt so at ease

My mind wanders

I hear again inside my head

Words of comfort

Words of friendship

Encouragements from those

Without expectation

With no demand for unattainable perfection

I am at peace

My thoughts reluctantly are disturbed

The wind at my door sounding the chimes

As I open the door to my home

The breeze wafting in

Carries perfumes

Of earth, and of cooking

It carries the sounds of a world at peace

It reminds me again of friendships

The door to my heart now springs open

But my mind holds its train

I think of each friend in turn

And compare to the wind in all its disguises

There is she who attends

Like a Zephyr

Bringing freshness and warmth

And the softest caress

Then the Tornado

Who bowls right in

With momentary havoc attending

She leaves in her wake

Shock and disarray

But I'd not have her any other way

A favourite to me is my friend Gust

Strong, intermittent visits

Often knows just when to come

Takes one look, knows precisely where I'm at

His departure leaves me

Stronger than his arrival found

Then, there's little Flurry

Who comes and scurries round

She can never do enough

One day perhaps she'd let me do for her

I think perhaps my friends would say

That I'm the Whirlwind

Always spinning

Rarely holding my direction

Creating turmoil and disorder

As I rip and roar along the way

The many, varied, perfumed breezes

Who have touched my life and stayed

Are my backbone! They're my strength!

The ever welcome wind at my door!

Robyn Chaffey

I've Always Wondered – Sonia Ursus Satori

I've Always Wondered

Is character moral, mental, chosen,

Predetermined, or

Force-fed in infancy, inherited, copycatted,

Encoded in DNA?

When we become conscious of

Our struggle against the forbidden

Does emphasis on ethos shift?

Away from deep-seated convictions,

Common sense, cultural norms?

What is the common denominator for

Sceptical inflexibility,

Religious dogma,

Rigid gullibility

What's the equation?

I've known quite a few strange characters

What fun they've been!

And I've been acting out of character

More than once. no regrets!

And loved a man whose character was

Par excellence!

But the characters who rank highest on my list

Are not for real, not made of flesh and blood.

They live forever, dormant, omnicredulous!

Especially the mean, the bizarre, the vile, the obscene

Spare me insipidity!

My mind, my emotions, my fears, my troubles

Are sustained, rescued, indulged by

The greatest lovers, adventurers, philosophers

And poets, scientists, revolutionaries, atheists

To name but a few...

Because these characters are genuine.

Free of constraint of any sort

And that is fiction!

I've always wondered

Is character moral, mental, chosen

Though: what's the point?

We'll never know, or do we?

The carousel of life goes round once more

Hop on, enjoy, find out.

Sonia Ursus Satori

Soulful Longings – Jean Bundesen

Whispers from past

generations

Misty shadows

lengthen.

Pale sunlight

filters

Through glittering

leaves

Lemon - yellow on mown

grass.

Baobab tree swollen

pregnant?

Sobbing of the breeze

mother

Grieving her lost

baby

Her heart is full of

sadness

Many tears fall like drops of

rain.

On the sandy flats Curlews

call

An eerie, 'Koo-loo, koo-loo'

a kin to sobs.

Jean Bundesen

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A Personal Poem About Procrastination (Not Really) – James Craib

**A** lways, in the depths of my imagination,

**P** ercolates a thought that sometimes achieves realisation.

**E** ven politicians must resort to clarification,

**R** eliant as I am upon your close examination;

**S** ociety often infuriates me with their benign abomination.

**O** f course... I wouldn't canvas for outright exploitation,

**N** either is I falling prey to abject desperation.

**A** lright, now that I have your rapt adjudication,

**L** et me now wax lyrical in grateful appreciation.

**P** erhaps, I should be clearer in the specification,

**O** ften it's something trivial needing a little amplification.

**E** xcuse me if I delay arrival at the destination,

**M** y dithering about can create some consternation.

**A** prime example is: the long period of time that it took to complete my dissertation!

**B** y any standard, I could have lost accreditation.

**O** h dear! Am I taxing your powers of concentration?

**U** nder sufferance I suspect is your continuation.

**T** rust me; I eschew obfuscation and espouse elucidation.

**P** ersonal development is the objective of this rumination.

**R** ehashing old ideas should be subject to conflagration,

**O** verworked sentences are passé by implication.

**C** ome now, I'm not resorting to crude intimidation!

**R** elax and maybe, you'll enjoy this mental masturbation.

**A** nother time, this silly rhyme, would cause you constipation.

**S** tifle that yawn and let's keep on with this regurgitation.

**T** here are only eight more lines to go to grasp illumination.

**I** n truth, aloof, I must confess to being full of exhilaration.

**N** ever before did I explore such crass interpretation.

**A** nd I do hope that you can cope with elite, alliteration.

**T** rembling now (I hope you are) with mounting anticipation.

**I** mpressed, I guess are all of you with this proliferation?

**O** bviously, you now comprende my fixation and pre-occupation.

**N** aturally, this is a personal poem about procrastination.

**N** ot really procrastination, just mere prevarication.

**O** k I lied; I just tried some prosaic prestidigitation.

**T** is mere wordplay; it's my forte, my form of relaxation.

**R** ussian Roulette is a safer bet if you have any expectation.

**E** specially, with a rogue like me, so no interrogation!

**A** re you now confused, amused, or in exasperation?

**L** iterally speaking, I'm now weakening my communication.

**L** et's leave it there, now that I've bared the gap in my vocation.

**Y** ou see, I've merely procrastinated with: procrastination.

James Craib

Stick It! – Greg North

Although there's lots that I don't know,

I wouldn't say I'm dumb, or slow,

but one thing makes my anger grow,

around the silly season.

It's not the debts on credit cards,

not even flashing lights in yards,

or sending dimwits 'kind regards ',

or eating without reason.

There's one thing gets me going ape –

that's trying to use sticky tape!

Now as a concept, it's unreal –

you find the end and gently peel,

then cut it off and it will seal

your parcel like a beauty.

But can I ever find the end?

It makes me mad, I won't pretend –

It nearly drives me round the bend;

my language gets quite fruity.

It sets young hearer's mouths agape,

'That stinkin', bloody sticky tape! '

I find the end, hip-hip-hooray!

I stretch it out, to my dismay,

it splits and flies in disarray,

a piece wrapped round my finger.

I draw in breath, my nostrils flare,

I'm stressed and very near despair,

the tape rolls 'neath the fridge... I glare.

I'll leave it there to linger.

My finger's weird out of shape

because it's wrapped in sticky tape.

Another roll is standing by.

The gleaming packet caught my eye.

I'll wrap this gift before I die –

won't let it win that easy.

This brand is number one, you see.

It's quality – now that's the key.

Just one thing that does not agree –

the smell. It makes me queasy.

And now the tape's stuck to itself!

I pry it round and whack a shelf.

As blood pours from my de-barked hand,

I swear at this expensive brand.

I simply do not understand,

why must it be that sticky?

And now I have to cut the stuff,

but will it tear? No. It's too tough!

I'll try my teeth, I'm in a huff,

and now it gets quite tricky.

I think I'm gonna bloody flip,

'cause now it's stuck down on my lip!

And now I can't cut with my teeth

'cause there's no edge to get beneath!

I rip the stay-sharp from its sheath...

I'm not sure what I'm thinking.

The knife held in my cacky paw,

I place it by my quivering jaw,

then flick it upwards and, in awe,

a pink flash through my blinking.

Attempts to cut the tape-roll clear

have seen me slice off half my ear!

I scream in anger, then in pain.

This will be tricky to explain,

but worst of all, it's been in vain –

the roll of tape's still dangling!

I drop the knife, and where's it go?

No need to say, 'cause you all know –

the damn thing stabs me through the toe!

My body's copped a mangling.

I scream and swear and, what is that?

My ear lobe's picked up by the cat!

I try to hop and close the door.

I hear a rip and then, I roar.

The knife has nailed me to the floor!

Can no one hear me screaming?

The cat escapes with fresh red meat,

my ear drips with a constant beat

to swell the blood pool round my feet.

Oh, tell me that I'm dreaming!

'Cause now I'm stuck with no escape –

and all because of sticky tape!

Now spurred on by the pool of red,

attempting not to wind up dead,

I wrap the tape around my head

to stop my ear from bleeding.

From ear to hand, to stop the flows

the tape must go below my nose –

it smells as bad as siphon hose,

but seems to be succeeding.

So now I'm stuck from ear to nape,

to hand, to lip with sticky tape.

I take a breath and blink my eyes

and slowly bending on my thighs

I pull and wince and gently prize

the knife from toe and floorboard.

I carefully remove my shoe

and sock to see the gruesome goo,

all soaked with blood and spurting too –

a bonus for the scoreboard.

I'll have to get it closed up quick...

a bit more tape will do the trick!

Unwinding tape down to my toe,

I wrap it round to stem the flow.

I go to stand and then, oh, no!

I should have stretched it longer.

Now there's no way that I can stand,

because this super-sticky brand

of tape won't tear and won't expand,

the pack says, 'Nothing's stronger'.

Now, where's that knife I had before?

No! Get some scissors from the drawer.

The tape that goes from toe to face,

it pulls my lip with every pace –

a modern Quasimodo case –

a look that can't be pleasant.

And now, I have one more complaint –

this tape that's causing my constraint –

its sickly smell might make me faint

and crush my unwrapped present!

And as I fall, I think one thing –

Mmm, next time I'll be using string!

Greg North

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All The Worst Jobs – Michael Burge

Jessie nearly let the call go to the answering machine. She wanted to paint, but she was going to start another load of laundry first. The day was a great one for line-drying, and as she soaked in the sun belting through the kitchen window, the phone rang. She watched it ring, counted the fourth and the fifth ring. Another one and it would go onto the answering machine. She'd hear Helen's voice saying they 'couldn't come to the phone right now,' and she could put on the last load of washing and get her paintbrushes out.

But she picked up the phone. 'Hello' the voice said 'is Jessica there?'

'Yes, it's Jessie speaking.' It was Brian, damn it.

'Can you do a shift for me today ...' Jessie let him speak, picturing the calendar on their kitchen wall, clear of any handwritten scrawl to tell her there was something she had do to than take another shift.

' ... have you been to Mrs. Brooks before?'

'No, I don't think so' Jessie said.

'You'd remember her if you had,' he laughed 'she's fairly memorable. Needs help with a shower, and lunch. Can you do it? I've had three carers call in sick today. People are waiting for their showers all over town!'

Jessie could hear the washing machine on spin cycle in the distance. It always shook the house.

'Alright' she said.

'Great, I'll text you the address. Get there as soon as you can, okay? I'll put it on your timesheet.'

'Is there anything I need—' Jessie added, but he was gone. Just before the line went dead she heard him say something to someone else at the office. It sounded like Brian said 'no-one would-' but that was all.

Jessie put another load of clothes on, slipped a dirty green polo shirt over her head, hung out the washing and was driving up the hill ten minutes later.

The address was slightly wrong. She ended-up at the neighbour's where a middle-aged woman pointed her across her front yard, between two magnolia trees, to Mrs. Brooks' side door.

'She won't mind you going in that way' the neighbour said, a little white dog at her feet. 'I often pop in there in the afternoon, just in case she needs something. Say hello to her and tell her I'll be over later.'

The magnolias were magnificently in flower, great candles of fleshy petals reaching up to glimpses of sun through other bare trees. The neighbour watched her, and gave her a little wave of encouragement towards the side door in the shadows of the house. Jessie scraped open the screen door and knocked on the wooden frame.

The door was ajar. Inside was dark and the silence gave way to a fluttering sound, like the spluttering of toy car engine. As her eyes adjusted, Jessie saw she was in a dining room, leading on to a bar. One of those 1970s home fantasies, a sunken lounge showing from between brick pillars.

As she pushed into the half light the fluttering noise increased. On the bar she saw the plastic medication cases and the little generator on the floor, a green hose leading up the hallway and into a room where light spilled onto the brown shag-pile carpet.

She took two steps and someone said 'Mind the hose, darlink. Don't tread on it, will you?'

'Mrs. Brooks?'

'Yes darlink, come in, but mind the hose, won't you?'

Jessie trod either side of the snaking line, all the way into the light. Pillows piled up behind her in a great pyramid, a small woman sat with the hose leading up the bed to her face. Mrs. Brooks looked at her for a moment, tried to adjust her eyesight.

'Francis is ill today? What's wrong with her?' the old woman asked, craning her neck.

'Oh, I don't know Mrs. Brooks. They don't tell us.'

'She's probably taken her daughter to see that specialist. I told her not to do it, but she doesn't listen to what I have to say. The girl has pimples. All girls have pimples, am I right? We don't all have to see specialists about it, do we? We just need to watch how many sweeties we have, am I right?'

'Yes, Mrs. Brooks.'

'Call me Baba, please. What is your name darlink?'

'Jessie.'

That made Baba frown. She reached for a scrap of paper by her phone, on the floral bedspread, and a pair of spectacles.

'They told me your name is Jessica. Jessie is a boy's name, am I wrong?'

'I've been Jessie since I was a kid.'

The old woman tutted. 'Let me see you, come into the light. Take my hand.' Jessie was compliant. She could see the green folder sticking out of some magazines on the bedside table. Baba took her hands, one frail and one with a strong grip, and through her glasses looked deep into Jessie's eyes.

The woman's skin was paper-thin. Her eyes shot forward with magnification, pupils darting left and right.

'You're only a girl' Baba said. 'Want to see what I look like?' she added, frail hand dropping away and pointing to a large framed photograph on the wall by the door. In it, a vibrant woman smiled. She'd been caught in the middle of laughing, eyes glinting and great sweeps of hair falling about her shoulders. In the background, out of focus, Jessie could make out the bar in the other room, glasses and bottles creating a miasma of life behind the woman.

'Hard to believe, no?' Baba said, letting go and sinking back into the cushions. Jessie didn't answer. She went for the green folder.

'Leave that' Baba spat. 'Always it's the folder, the folder!'

'I need to check your care plan.'

'Care plan? Forget it! Francis hasn't looked at that for six months. That man. That Brian, he always gets it out and talks, talks, talks about the care plan. I need you to call for some lunch, and go collect it. There's a menu down here. Get me that and forget about the damned care plan!'

'Yes Mrs. Brooks' Jessie responded, in the manner she'd been trained to.

'Do I offend you?'

'No Mrs. Brooks.'

'Then why do you call me that, when I have already asked you to call me Baba?'

'Sorry, Baba.'

'The name my grandchildren call me. I allow you to call me that, and straight away it's "Mrs. Brooks" again.'

'Sorry Baba. Where is the menu?'

'Oh here, down here somewhere. Throw that away,' she was pointing to the green folder.

Jessie placed the folder by the bed. A pile of laminated take-away menus spilled out of the jumble. She caught them all.

'Chinese today,' Baba said 'choose something for yourself.'

'Oh, I can have my lunch at home.'

'You don't like to eat with me, even when I am paying?'

'Well, we are not supposed—'

'Brian won't find out. What do you want?'

The old woman passed Jessie the menu, slowly turning her shrivelled wrist over as she passed the cracked plastic across the gap between them. Jessie saw the red and gold dragons, coiled on either side.

Baba's upturned wrist slid into view, where six numbers were tattooed in an efficient row, slightly raised off the milky whiteness of the tight underarm skin.

As Jessie looked from the numbers into the old woman's face, Baba was nodding. Nodding for her to choose a meal, or nodding to say 'Yes, you've seen it'? Baba recoiled her arm, bringing its strength back to the protection of the other hand, faded thumb brushing the concealed numbers, as she said 'I want the black bean sauce.'

'She's punishing Francis, for having a day off,' Brian said on the phone the next morning 'and she's asked for you again ...'

Jessie let out a sigh, was about to speak, then sighed again. 'Frannie's going to hate me', she said after a moment.

'She'll be relieved, more than anything, to have another day off, I should think ... (put that file on top and get the rest of them out) ... sorry Jessica, we're having some problems here. Can you go again today?'

Jessie scrunched up her mouth, chewed her lip, and said yes.

'There's not many of them left' Helen said the night before, as they were wrapped around one another in front of the news. 'She must have been very young, in the concentration camp. Maybe she went there as a child?'

'Maybe' Jess said.

'So, do you get that shift every week now?' Helen pushed. Jess stiffened, smiled, and turned to her girlfriend. 'I don't know. It's up to Brian. It's always up to Brian.'

'Have you asked him?' Helen pushed again.

'Not yet', Jessie answered, pushing up and going to make the tea. Helen took the rest of the space on the sofa, and as Jessie disappeared into their tiny kitchen, Helen yelled 'two sugars darl', but Jessie was still in the door frame, watching Helen flick the channel over to one of those current affair shows.

***

'Today, I need to shower', Baba said, and Jessie nodded. At last, something she knew how to do.

'Don't tangle the hose, will you?' Baba demanded, as Jessie helped her stand by the bed. Jessie could smell the fear on the other woman, guarding her lifeline with her one strong arm.

'Now Baba,' Jessie asked 'how much help do you need in there?'

'Stay in with me dear', Baba breathed heavily as they negotiated their way into the ensuite.

By the time Jessie had her in the plastic chair, Baba clutched at Jessie's arms throughout the whole process, only letting go as the warm water coursed over her frame, exhaling with pleasure and tilting her head back.

'Wonderful', Baba kept saying, swaying her head under the stream, using all her strength to keep her body upright.

Jessie started on her feet and legs, and Baba allowed her to gently clean down there. At the thighs, the one strong hand wrenched the soap from Jessie's and she growled 'Look away.'

Jessie waited, getting her knees wet, until Baba said 'Please do the back of my neck and finish with my hair.'

The scents of soap, shampoo and moisturiser revived them from the watery struggle. Jessie held a mirror so that Baba could do her own hair, and the steam and toiletries softened her eyes enough for Jessie to see the real woman for the first time, within the glow of cleanliness and comfort.

After a slower struggle back to the bed, after which Jessie ran a hand along the hose line, Baba smiled and said 'Good girl, my thanks to you' and rested back into the pillows. 'Francis has gotten into bad habits with the showers. That was wonderful.'

'Good, Baba'

'It's ugly to be old, no?'

'Oh ...' Jessie left it hanging.

'Now you're to tell me about yourself. We've showered together, so we must know more about the other one, to catch up with the intimacy, no?'

'Yes, Baba.'

'You have a ring. What is your husband's name?'

Jess was prepared for it, and so had looked away, but straight into Baba's eyes in the photo, which were even more searching. The moistness of the air left her, and she swallowed.

'Helen'.

Baba inhaled, was about to speak, but swallowed it.

'I would like a cup of tea and an egg.' Jessie nodded, and followed the hose to the kitchen.

By the time the egg was done there was music coming from Baba's room. Jessie put the tea and toast onto a tray, selected from a stack of colourful trays on a beautiful chiffonier. Here were more photographs. Children. Grandchildren. Husband. Family get-togethers. Baba was the centre of the energy in all of them, drawing everyone to her side and exhaling in laughter.

The classical music beckoned her back. Baba was upright in bed, leafing through a magazine, and sniffed at the breakfast.

'Perfect, thank you darlink' she said, indicating that Jess should also sit.

'I have gotten rid of my husband,' Baba announced, between mouthfuls of toast 'Are you shocked?'

Jessie smiled. She'd been thinking about painting when she got home.

'They've taken him away, and now I have this house to myself for the first time ever, but, as luck would have it, I cannot use it as I wish', and she flicked the green hose.

'My neighbour thinks I am off to the nursing home too,' Baba added, indicating the woman next door with a dismissive wave 'but I am going to stay as long as I can. I've heard her, talking to my son. She thinks he likes her. Women like him. He's very good looking. Did you see the photographs? Do you think he is good looking?'

'Yes, Baba'.

'But you are camp, no?'

'Ye-es ...'

'He must be very good looking, if a camp woman thinks he is good looking, no?'

'I suppose so, Baba'

'Camp is not really the right word, is it? But I cannot think of the right word. The word for a camp woman?'

Baba chewed as Jessie spanned her thumbs around each other.

'You might have told me, before we showered together. But I've decided to like you. Tell me what it is you do. None of you girls are really nurses, so what do you do when you're not showering old women?'

'I am an artist', Jessie said, in the usual tone, positive but not sure.

'I am an artist also,' Baba said, with real delight 'you see that one behind you? That is one of mine.'

Jessie turned to look at it. A young woman, head to one side in a pale yellow dress. Not looking at the viewer, but over your shoulder. Over hers, a window and a forest.

'My sister' Baba said, slurping tea.

'It's beautiful', Jessie said, losing herself within the brave tracts of paint which told the story of that face.

'Killed at eighteen. I did it from memory. Ilse was weak when the train arrived, and the Germans ... their eyes went through you, and then their bullets. I was strong. I carried her body as far as I could. Someone took her from me, before we went into the showers ...'

When Jessie turned back, Baba was playing with the crusts of her toast, moving them around the plate. She was lit from the side, like the girl in the picture, eyes glistening.

'You can have the picture, when I go', she said, pushing the tray for Jessie to take.

***

'Butch,' Helen blurted from the bathroom 'didn't you think of saying that?'

'Of course' Jessie thought.

'And she's what? German Jew or Austrian?'

'I didn't ask.'

'So did Brian say if you'd get that shift from now on?' Helen's tone was wheedling. Jess watched her through the frosted glass of the bathroom door, shirt above her nice round thighs.

'Darl? Did Brian say—'

'No, but I'm getting more shifts next month.'

'Fucking straight boy. Can't he just sort it out so that you get the shifts they said you were supposed to get when you started? We're trying to pay a mortgage here ...'

'I know', Jessie thought, drifting into the living room.

When Helen caught up with her, she slipped her arms around Jessie's sides and hugged her. 'Jess, my girl' she whispered, kissing the back of Jessie's neck and swaying her from side to side.

Jessie put her arms over her head and reached for the short hairs on Helen's neck, running her fingers along one of her favourite places.

'All we gotta do is get you regular shifts, and I can take you away for a dirty weekend, can't I?' Helen whispered.

'Yeah' Jessie said, in the vague hope that it was true.

***

'She's asked for you again' Brian mumbled, distracted.

'What about Frannie?'

'Frannie's permanent. I can reassign. Mrs. Brooks is going into a nursing home as soon as a place can be found. It would just be temporary. Okay with that?'

'Okay,' Jessie said 'and—'

But he was gone.

Baba was twisted in her sheets with the blind down, when Jessie arrived.

'Did you see the television in the garage?' Baba croaked, voice hoarse, wiping her eyes as Jessie filled the room with light.

'No, what's happened?'

'The police left at five and I have not slept. Thought he could steal my television! Hah! Crept in here, after two. I woke. I can hear a bird land in my sleep. I knew there was someone in the house. He trod on the hose, all the way up the hallway, and I pulled this,' she brandished her metal walking stick, still lying across the bed 'and turned the light on when I could hear him breathing in the doorway, and I screamed at him that I would kill him if he didn't go straight away.'

She was shaking the stick, just like she'd done for the police, time and time again.

'Dropped the television in the garage. I know who it is. It's one of Francis' nephews, I am sure of it. He knew exactly where to come and which door to use, and what to look for. She doesn't have much money, none of them do. Poor people always covet what others have, and I don't have much. If they'd only asked me I would have given it to them. They didn't have to come creeping around a poor old woman's house in the dark. I might have killed him.'

'I should call Brian.'

'Don't bother him, he's a busy man. The police have been. She called them,' Baba said, pointing to the neighbours' 'I didn't want to make a fuss. Worse things have happened in this world. Much worse.'

'A report will need to be made, Baba, that's all.'

'No' and it was final. 'Now dear, I need some real food. She's been bringing me the most dreadful cups of tea from her kitchen. Make me a cup of mine, please. I've spent the night shouting and my voice is gone.' She drew on the oxygen like a suckling child, eyes wide.

With tea inside her, Baba went for the menus. She ordered three kinds of rice, and butter chicken. They ate in silence, Baba coating the insides of her mouth with every mouthful, the excitement of ordering draining from her face.

'Every day, I can taste less and less,' she said, dejected. 'I used to make Indian food. Better than this ... nonsense'. She threw the fork away with a clunk.

'Now, tell me what you paint Jessica.'

Jessie's face warmed with the attention. 'Just about everything,' she said 'but not much lately. More when I was young.'

'You are still a child' Baba said, patting the bedspread. 'What do you like to paint?'

'Well, it sounds weird, but I paint people on the train, when I go to the city. I like to paint them when they don't realise I am looking at them.'

Baba leant back with a long 'Ahhhh .... yes. Candid. mysterious. The real person, no?'

'Yes, Baba'.

'And you have not done this for many years. You have given it up because you have lost your faith. You have become a woman and you have no confidence in yourself. You have married ... or at least given yourself to someone. To this ... Helen, and she does not understand that an artist needs to find herself ...'

'Yes ...' Jessie whispered into the strong air of the room.

'That was how it went with me and my first husband. Hermann thought he knew everything there was to know about me, until I gave him the slip in Paris. The look on his face, when I came back to get my Mother's photograph! Like a rabbit who thinks it's a fox. He avoided the camps. Never understood them. He found another woman', she shrugged, dismissing the vision of the man forming in Jessie's mind.

'Tell me, do you ever think of taking a man? Don't you ever have any normal feelings?'

Jessie stiffened. She realised her mouth was open, drinking in what Baba had been saying. Now everything was washing out of her again.

'I'll clean up' she said. She left without saying goodbye. There was nothing in the care plan that said she had to.

***

'How many shifts am I going to get Brian? I want you to tell me now and I am going to write them into my diary.'

'Ummm ... let me look Jessica. You've been a casual for how long?'

'Six months. I trained with Francis, and she got regular shifts after three.'

'Right ...' he trailed off, flicking a pen on the edge of the desk between them. 'Let me have a quick chat to Barb. Help yourself to a coffee and a bikkie', he said, disappearing.

The office sported yellow walls with bright blue trims around the doors, desperate little attempts at nicety in a building squeezed in between a funeral home and a brothel by the railway station.

Jessie walked between the tiny offices. One woman on the phone gave her a wave with her little finger, and a younger woman on the computer in the room near the kitchenette gave Jessie a guilty, then a haughty look, before getting back to the pretence of being busy.

The coffee was instant, a tin of it as large as the urn, which had been steaming away un-noticed since lunch. The mugs were yellow with blue flowers. Blue and yellow was the theme of the whole place, denied by the brown brick of the main wall. Jessie made a tea, bags so weak that the milk turned the whole thing hot and pale.

Outside there was a smoking spot in the stairwell. Pigeons flapped while one of the prostitutes was emptying the bins into a skip. She was a beautiful Asian girl, and she waved after she swore at herself for missing the bin with a big white plastic bag. Jessie waved back.

'Thought you might be out here', Brian announced, bringing a file under one arm. Jessie offered him a cigarette. He held his hand up like a stop sign, but his eyes went into the pack and had them counted in an instant. He licked his lips and looked at her.

'I'll get straight to the point,' he said 'it's good in a sense that we're out here, because I can be candid with you. I took your case up with Barb,' he flicked his hand over his balding head, sweeping the strands of hair back in place 'and we talked about you, at length.'

Jessie dragged on her fag, looking away. She knew the tone. She'd heard it ever since high school, from teachers, from Dad, from Mum, from her older brother, from the matron of the training hospital she left after only a month, from the woman at the dole office, from the TAFE college counsellor, from the boss at the gas company she spent eight months with, from the crew leader on the roadwork stint she worked at for over a year, and now from Brian.

'You know we've been planning to move into more basic client care, transport to and from the shops, or a doctor's appointment, or just meal preparation and socialisation etcetera?' She nodded, watching the brothel windows. The Asian girl was cleaning the inside with a tin of spray and a pink cloth.

'Well, we feel that you'd be more suited to that kind of work than anything else. Barb looked up your training records, and she saw that you scored the highest in those learning modules. You're obviously good at it, so if you were willing to wait until we've landed some clients in that area, then you'd be the first one we'd be calling up to work.'

He almost convinced himself, and she gave him the moment, gave him hope that she'd say yes, while she stubbed out her cigarette on the brown tiles at their feet.

Then she looked at him, the same look that had labeled her as 'vacant' by most people in a similar position to Brian, but in actual fact was just how she looked when weighed with a load of incomprehension and emotional fatigue.

Thinking she didn't understand, he continued.

'There is some concern about your suitability for personal care with our clients. The showering. The dressing. You know what I mean ... most of our clients are women. Elderly women of a certain generation. For them, to be helped to shower, is an act of great intimacy, you learnt that in your training, as you'd recall?'

Jessie nodded.

'There were a couple of question marks in your file about your suitability for tasks like that with our female clients.'

'What about your male clients?' Jessie said, without the slightest malice.

'Well,' he puffed, taking it with malice 'we hope to be getting more later in the year, but right now, in your area, there are only female clients available for our casuals.'

'Okay Brian,' Jessie surrendered 'catch you ...'

He watched her go, then caught sight of the Asian woman, now trying to clean the outside of the windows, and just making them worse, in his opinion.

***

'She's asked for you again,' Brian said on the phone the next morning 'but on Monday Frannie will be back, and if Mrs. Brooks is still in the house, then the shifts will go to her, according to her contract.'

'Okay Brian', Jess said, leaving the receiver off the hook. She'd been unconsciously fingering the corners of the new pad of paper she'd bought at the art shop on the way from the office to the train station. Inside the first leaf there was her sketch of three women sitting at the other end of the carriage on the journey home. Jessie still had the marks of the ochre pastels on her fingertips, and on the edges of her pants pocket.

When Helen got home last night, dinner wasn't on and Jess was clearing the studio. All the boxes of stuff were under the house, and she'd retrieved one bright curtain from a box she'd packed when she still lived by herself last year.

She knew Helen would be cross but not able to show it. She knew if she rustled up some cheese on toast, Helen would be happy enough and relax with a beer in front of the news, and ask no questions, and she was right.

The morning sun was plentiful, and filled the studio with warm potential. The washing machine was on spin, and would be finished in a few minutes, then Jessie would hang the clothes out and get to Baba's by five to ten at the latest.

For now, she breathed evenly in the dusty light, rubbing her hand down the door frame. Helen had showered and gone long before. They'd smiled and kissed on the threshold. Helen forgot to check if the neighbours were watching.

***

'My son is coming today', Baba announced. 'I want to shower, because he hates smells in the house', she added, leaping into Jessie's arms and launching them to the bathroom.

They started the silent water dance. Jessie said only one thing, just to be sure—'Frannie will be back on Monday' she said as Baba covered herself from neck to knee with towels. Three days ago she'd only covered her waist.

'I'll be long gone', Baba said, lifting her shoulders impishly as the water started to course over her.

Jessie watched her, firstly in the reflection of the mirror, but as the steam rose it made Baba disappear. It was not an unfitting transition, but Jessie needed more. She helped with Baba's feet, noting the shapes of the toes, the kinks that gravity had worn on the old woman, and the way her bones still allowed a waist and bust of sorts, but only the barest of both.

As she helped Baba dry her face and hair Jessie was drinking in composition and form, the Teutonic facial structure, the signs of deep betrayal in the jaw line, the pain around the eyes, the pride still visible in the nose, and the coquettish locks of hair, some still black as night, others faded like the last of a summer's day, soft as haze.

She held the mirror, but knelt on the floor so that she could catch the head from another angle, a technique she'd teach one day, but didn't realise in that moment.

'Do my hands, child', Baba serenely requested, waggling one flexible limb towards a large bottle of moisturiser.

Jessie clasped the old woman's hands between hers, the balm soothing them both. It was cold, and Baba giggled at the feeling, which gave way to warmth. Jessie worked their fingers together, dragging them back and forward, the whiteness of the balm disappearing until there was nothing between them.

Baba's head rested on the back of the chair, a white towel supporting her neck, her jaw dropped in deep relaxation. Jessie turned their hands over to rest palms up in the light. Without thinking, she wiped a dollop of moisturiser which had escaped on Baba's upper arm, and slid it across the tattooed numbers.

Baba didn't flinch.

'Helen told me there were lesbians taken to Auschwitz too', Jessie whispered.

'I know darlink,' Baba said softly 'but we didn't talk to them. They did all the worst jobs.'

Michael Burge

The Mouse and the Showbag – Nana J

Once upon an Easter time, a little boy named John went to the Easter show. John had a wonderful time on all the rides and playing with the farm animals, but best of all John got to take home THREE show bags, (they're not cheap you know.) The show bags were filled with candy and lots of chocolate.

When John got home he hung his show bags on a hook on his bedroom door and went to bed. John was very excited that it was Easter the next day, and he tried to stay awake for the Easter Bunny, but he soon fell asleep.

At ten o'clock that night, the Easter Bunny crept soundlessly into Johns' bedroom and left him THREE large chocolate Easter eggs (three must be John's lucky number!) One of the eggs was filled with marshmallow, yum, one was filled with chocolates, double yum, and one was filled with candy, not so exciting but still good.

After the Easter Bunny left, a small grey mouse walked out from her mouse-hole, which was in the hallway just outside of Johns' bedroom. The mouse (of the house) crawled under Johns' door, and she smelt the chocolate. Uh oh! Very quickly the mouse ran up Johns' door, dived into one of the show bags and tasted some chocolate. She was in mouse heaven! The mouse, whose name by the way was Tahnee, hurried out of the bag, down the door and back to her home in the hall and told her family about the chocolate.

Very soon a family of mice were having the time of their lives feasting on candy and chocolate. By the time the mice were halfway through the second bag, they were too full to eat any more and they were too full to move, so they stayed where they were. The next morning the mice could hear John waking up, so they scrambled as fast as (very full) mice could out of the bag, down the door and back to their home in the hall.

When John saw all his Easter goodies he laughed with joy. John gathered all his Easter eggs and show bags and rushed downstairs to the kitchen where he showed his Father everything he had been given. When John opened the show bags for his Father to see, he found that he was missing one and a half bags of chocolate and candy. John cried.

'Don't cry John,' his father ordered, 'You are a very spoilt little boy, look at all the Easter gifts you have left.' But seeing how sad John was, he decided to spoil him some more and to buy him another two show bags.

Upstairs in their home in the hallway a family of mice were rolling around the floor laughing and laughing, and wondering what goodies Christmas would bring.

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Knock N' Roll – Christina Frost Clayton

Today I drove my new car! My husband John sat beside me offering words of encouragement and affirmation. I did it! I drove from Woodford to Hazelbrook and back again along Railway Parade. Indeed not a long distance but a milestone for me. It's been four years since I held a steering wheel and actually drove a car ...

I recall the last time I drove a car; it was one of those warm Friday afternoons ... the end of the working week and the excitement of heading up to the north coast for a relaxing weekend.

I lifted the boot of my car and placed my overnight bag inside, along with some DVD's, art paper and watercolours, anticipating a relaxing time painting the idyllic waterscape from the family cottage overlooking the bay. Yes, it will be a lovely weekend away from the busyness of home and work.

As I walked from home to car, my two beautiful old girls, Lady and Nala, my beloved thirteen year old dogs, shadowed me, ensuring that I wasn't going to get away without them! They knew from experience that when the travel bag was wheeled to the car, it meant that I was going away and sometimes they stayed home and were minded by family or friends; although they preferred to be with me. This time they were almost pushing their noses onto me reminding me that they were ready to go when I was! No way was I going to escape!!!

When I opened the door to place my handbag on the front passenger seat, Nala, with the beautiful soft brown hair and large brown eyes, leapt into the car before I had a chance to toss in my bag and jumped through to the rear seat and there she sat! You're not going without me! She was my 'special girl' who I had rescued as a ten week old pup and in the thirteen years that she had been my friend, rarely left my side, except when I went to work. Lady, my shaggy haired big girl with one blue and one brown eye, sat bewildered, gazing at us waiting for instructions to get in as well. My car, a two door Lancer, did not lend itself well to a Collie and an Old English Sheepdog climbing through and resting on the rear seat, but we managed.

Nala was in and not budging, so I helped Lady in by lifting her hind legs and backside up and she pulled herself the rest of the way onto the back seat. Lady wasn't as flexible as she used to be. Age was creeping up on her and her large sheepdog hips were prone to aches and pains. So, there they were, sitting up looking at me as if to say, 'Well hurry up, what are you waiting for? Come on, we're ready to go.'

I ambled to the house feeling very relaxed, locked up and began my weekend adventure. John was already en route to the cottage as he worked in the city that day and was leaving from there. I phoned him before I left to let him know that I wasn't far behind him.

Stunning spring! The first of September and the first day of spring, the weather was warm and fine, just what was needed to lift the spirits after a cool and wet winter! It was going to be a fun weekend! Ah, springtime: a time for renewal and new beginnings. Wonderful!

Traffic! Lots of traffic! Damn! The M4 was at a standstill, a glass truck had lost its load! Hot, humid, intense waiting as the road was cleared. My poor old girls sat in the back, panting, thirsty and agitated. I opened the door and windows to let some air in. I filled their water bowl and they drank, just a little. I phoned John to let him know I would be late and noticed the traffic was moving again. Relief! I was worried that my girls would become too distressed if we were stuck there for too long.

It was early afternoon as I approached the F3, the traffic wasn't too heavy so the drive was pleasant and the breeze, lovely. I was enjoying listening to my music and the girls were asleep.

Crash! Bang! Bricks flying everywhere!

Truck in front of me was losing its load! Unbelievable! I veered towards the side of the freeway to avoid the shattering bricks. The truck veered there also. I quickly redirected my Lancer and passed the truck. No broken glass, no dents, no-one hurt. What a blessing!

Further along I pulled over again and phoned John as I needed to talk as I was upset by this second delay. As usual, he consoled me and I regrouped and continued on my way. He was almost at the cottage and I wished I was too!

The drive was so pleasant. The weather was warm and my old girls slept as I played my music and ate a few too many chocolates!

Thump! Hard thump! Really hard thump! What the!!!

What the ...! I'm rolling! My body was held firm in the grip of my seat. Searing pain in my right shoulder as I was thrust against the driver's door and my head exploded with pain as it hit the interior of the car again and again and again!

Black. No memory. Smoke? Burning? Petrol? What was that smell? My fingers struggled to locate the seatbelt clasp. Got it! It unlocked. Somehow I climbed through the driver's shattered window and felt the dry scratchy grass cutting my knees as I moved away from the burning smell.

Surreal. So surreal. Is this my bleeding body? Is this me sobbing? Helpless and hopeless! No! This couldn't be my story. My story is one of a relaxing weekend in the warm sunshine painting the water view from the cottage while John sails his sailboat. This can't be my story!

Who are those people crowding around me? What are they saying? Off duty ambulance officer? Medical student? People? Are those my legs? Yes I have two legs still, bloodied and cut, but two legs indeed. I place my hand on my face. What! Is that my blood? What is that hole in my face? I want my John! Where are my dogs? I want my dogs! I want my dogs! I want my dogs! My head aches. It screams! Voices and faces everywhere around me. Where are my dogs?????!!!!

She gets out of her car and walks towards me. 'I'm sorry', she says ...

'My dogs! I want my dogs! Where are my dogs?' I spoke! I speak! I'm alive! But where are my girls? I hear voices saying that the dogs have run off into the bush. They're afraid and are hiding. I managed to turn my head and then I saw it.

My car, my Lancer is upside down! It's balancing on its squashed, buckled and broken roof. My car! Is that really my car?

Did I just undo my seatbelt while dangling upside down in my shattered and broken car? Did I climb through a smashed window from an upside down position? Not me! Are they my belongings strewn across the bush? Did my car knock down all those trees? Am I really alive? Where are my dogs? I want my dogs! I want my husband! I want my daughter!

I try to stand up and several blurred forms surround me coaxing me back to the ground and steadying me.

'Stay there, don't try to move.'

'The ambulance is on its way.'

'Here's something to put on your face. Hold it to your face to stop the blood from gushing.'

'Don't worry; they can do wonderful things with plastic surgery these days, dear.'

'You're alive! It's okay, you're alive!'

'I will call your husband, what's the number?'

I say the number. I'm running on auto pilot. I hear the man's voice, 'There's no answer. I left my name for him to call me.' Kind, off duty ambulance driver; how fortunate for me. He gave me another surgical pad to press onto my face. Still gushing blood, still spurting all over me! I look at my hands and they are covered with dry and wet blood. Sticky.

'Where are my dogs? Lady! Nala! Come to mummy!' I call them, but they are nowhere. They are dead. I believe they are dead! People tell me they have run into the bush. Everyone is telling me lies! They know I won't survive without my girls. They are protecting me from the truth. They are dead!

Three ambulances arrive. I see them but cannot hear them nor can I hear the voices of those speaking to me. I am aching with sorrow for my old girls. They were so excited to go on our trip. They trusted me! I let them down. I feel so helpless. I cannot search for my girls. Agony.

I can hear again. A man is speaking about a semi trailer driver who called the police and ambulance and of the police who closed the F3 northbound lanes because of my accident. My accident! I didn't cause my accident! Where is she! Who is she? Why did she hit me from behind! A king hit! I had no control after a king hit! You tell me she was drunk! 0.28! Bull! No-one can drive with an alcohol reading of 0.28, that's almost six times the legal limit!!! How did she get into the car? How did she find the steering wheel? You say she was doing 140km/hr? And she said she was sorry!!!

'Just putting this injection into your hand, love. It will ease the pain.'

Am I in pain? Where are my girls? What are you doing to me? I need to look for Lady and Nala. No words escape from my mouth. My mouth has two openings now. Three lips! Why won't my face stop bleeding!

'Sorry love. I can't find the vein. I'll try your other hand. There we go. It's in now. Take it easy. We will have you at the hospital in no time at all.' He speaks to the off duty ambo who helped me, 'Why isn't she lying down? Why is she sitting?' I fade in and out of consciousness as I am placed on a stretcher, lifted then carried into the ambulance. The vehicle is spinning around me.

'Hey love; it's your hubby on the phone. Just told him you are leaving for John Hunter Hospital. Just talk to him so he can hear your voice.'

'Hello,' my voice shakes. 'I'm okay. Love you.'

John is speaking softly and tells me he will meet me at the hospital.

I am in the ambulance and my husband is going to the hospital to be with me and I have no idea where my beautiful old girls are. I cry. I cry. I cry.

I drift in and out of sleep as the ambulance is driven under siren to John Hunter Hospital. I hear conversations about a black BMW tailgating the ambulance and 'getting a free ride at 160 km/hr!' The ambo driver is calling the police. She misses the turn off and I hear someone tell me that we aren't far away and they are waiting for me in the emergency. There are two dreadful accidents en route to emergency and I am one of them.

I find myself in a white room with a very bright light above my head. The doctor is asking me to move my arms, legs and to blink and to speak if I am able. He is amazed! My injuries are not as serious as expected given the horrific state of my car as a result of the high speed crash. I am blessed to be alive. Not a broken bone. But my face ... and why am I so dizzy?

I fade into sleep. I hear voices and screaming and sobbing. A woman is hysterical. Another woman is angry. Another is snoring. I open my eyes and there is John leaning over me, touching my bloodied hair and he has tears trickling down his face.

He speaks, 'Why won't they leave us alone.' I fade again.

I wake. 'Lady and Nala! Our girls are lost on the F3,' I cry.

'Please John, find them,' I plead. He will not leave me. His wife is bloodied and cut open. Her face is slit and she has a punctured cheek with blood still spurting profusely. She cannot sit up and she is vomiting. He will not go. It is now about 7pm. The accident happened at 4:30pm. Two old dogs are somewhere along the very busy F3. Terrified. Or are they dead?

Time passes as we wait and many nurses, doctors and technicians hover near me discussing options for my treatment. I drift in and out of sleep as the morphine continues to smother my pain. John holds my hand and strokes my forehead. Another patient is brought into the emergency rooms and the ambulance driver is the same lady who drove me to this place. She notices me and speaks.

'We saw your dogs! They were on the side of the F3 near where you had your accident.'

'Are they alive?' I question.

'Yes, they are sitting and when we called to them they went into the bush, they are afraid.' She responded. 'There are people trying to get them for you.'

They are really alive! Then I feel numb with fear. They are absolutely terrified beside a major, busy highway. Who knows what injuries they have! 'Please God, don't let them run onto the road. They have survived this major crash and rollover; surely You won't let them die now! Please God, keep them safe. Please!' I beg.

John sits very still and quietly holds my hand. I can see in his eyes: he is filled with sorrow. He has experienced extreme loss in an accident before. I can feel his pain. Intense and excruciating, his tears trickle. So do mine, but I sob, loudly and deeply.

Two policemen walk up to my bed. One speaks to me.

'You're alive!' he exclaims with surprise. 'We have just come from the crash site. We are from the Crash Investigation Unit. You're alive!' He repeats incredulously. 'Your Lancer has been towed to our holding depot and your belongings are stored there too. We picked everything up. Everything is safe but I don't think you will be driving that car again ...'

'I got out myself. I didn't know it was upside down. I crawled out myself. Where are my dogs?'

I break into tears and sob again.

'I am amazed that your wife is alive,' he tells John. Then he pulls out his camera and shows John a picture. This is the car. John's face turns ashen grey.

'I got out all by myself ...'

I drift into sleep again, thinking about my girls and all that had happened. How would I tell Alyce? How will I tell my daughter about our girls? I wake and John tells me that he has phoned Alyce and told her about the accident and told her not to worry as I am safe. How will we tell her about the girls? I sob again. What about work? My class at school! I won't be able to teach until they sew my face up. John phones a teacher colleague with the news. We wait and wait for hospital decisions regarding my treatment. It's a busy night at John Hunter Hospital. Fridays in casualty are always busy nights ...

'Please John, look for the girls. You can't help me here. The doctors will look after me, but there's no-one to look out for the girls. Please find them.' I beg. I sob. I plead.

Reluctantly he leaves to search for our old girls.

I drift in and out of sleep. I am moved to a tunnel for a CT scan. Next, I am taken for an x-ray and vomit on the nurse. She is cross with me! I didn't mean it. I'm very sorry but I'm sick. Morphine does that to me. They manage to x-ray me while I lay down as I cannot sit up. Spinning deliriously! I hate this!!! Where is that drunken woman! The high range drink driver with 0.28 blood alcohol reading! A doctor takes my blood to test my blood alcohol level. Nil.

It hurts!!! Stop that! 'Ouch! It stings!' The doctor has cleaned my face. He has wiped away the dried blood and is sewing the deep puncture wound in my cheek and then must sew my lip as it is slashed all the way across. There goes my kissability! Disability. I am fortunate that the puncture has missed the facial nerve and I can move my face. It hurts so much! Sewing my lip is stinging so much!

All done. I sleep. I think. I remember. I'm dizzy. I cry. I wake. I vomit. It is morning. I'm alone in a room. I panic! I cry out. A nurse is here.

'It's all right. You had a car accident. It was dreadful but you are safe now in hospital.'

'Where is John? Where are my dogs?'

She speaks, 'Go to sleep now and rest.'

I sleep.

I don't know how long I slept, but I wake to learn that it is midmorning. A nurse is speaking to me with a soft voice.

'Your husband just phoned. He has found one of your dogs.'

'Is the dog ... alive ...?' I ask...

'Yes it is,' she replies with a smile.

Which dog is it?' I ask. I am so frightened to find out the answer to my question. I am confused. I'm a mess!

'It is Nala. Your husband said to tell you he has found Nala.'

I burst into tears. Uncontrollable sobs. Tears of joy, tears of confusion, sorrow and regret. I have betrayed my old girls' trust. I do not know how to feel or what to think... If John has found Nala alive, where is Lady and is she alive? I am numb and roll over. My head spins again and I drift off. The morphine is doing its work.

Sometime later I hear a voice and feel a gentle touch on my arm ...

'Tina, Tina, your husband has phoned; he has found your other dog!

I wake to the news. Unbelievable! Is that true? Really true? Are you pretending so I will feel better? I think, but no words come.

'It's true. He has both your pets alive and will be here to see you soon.'

I sob again, uncontrollable sobs of joy and relief. Thankyou God! All was taken from me ... I sat there on the side of the road with nothing but a bloodied mess, helpless and hopeless. All has been returned to me.

God, thankyou for my life. Thankyou for my good and kind husband. Thankyou for my beautiful daughter. Thankyou for my dear old girls. All has been returned to me. I drift back to sleep.

'Mummy,mummy!' I hear sobs and Alyce's voice. She hugs me and wipes her tears. She places a soft, brown teddy bear in my arms. John walks in with a smile and sits beside me. I gaze in wonder that they are with me and I am alive and cared for in a hospital.

'Here you both are.'

I am content. Sick, sorry and sore, but content.

'John, where were the girls? How did you find them?' I ask.

He speaks softly yet clearly. 'Here's an amazing story for you! Last night I drove the van and worked out from the police description where you had the accident. I parked on the side of the F3. It was so busy and the van was shaking as cars and trucks sped past. I got out of the van and walked into the bush and gathered a few of your bits and pieces which had been flung into the bush when the car rolled. It was 11pm so it was very dark. I had my torch but couldn't see any sign of them. No Nala and no Lady anywhere. I tried to sleep in the van hoping they would come back, but at 2am it was hopeless. The traffic was relentless and noisy and the van shook every time a semi-trailer sped by. I needed to relieve myself so did a wee and decided to leave some work rags right there, just in case the girls would smell my scent and come back to the scene of the accident and wait. They didn't come. So I drove to the cottage as I was so confused and tired and managed to sleep for a couple of hours. I didn't want to return to you without some news of Nala and Lady.

'Early this morning I drove back to the scene of the accident and our beautiful, brown Nala was sitting right where I went to the toilet, beside my work rags! She talked to me loudly as she does... rrr rrr rrr, you know how she does that! I cuddled her ears the way she likes and patted her softly, as she was moving ever so slowly. Poor, sore old girl. I couldn't see Lady anywhere. Then I phoned the hospital with the news I had found Nala. I decided to look for Lady but had no idea where to start. So... I said to Nala, 'Where's Lady?' and she looked up at me then put her head down and ears back and headed off into the bush. So I followed her. She didn't miss a step! She walked down into the valley, between bushes and scrub and trees, along a stream and through more bush, up the hill and towards the power lines in the distance. I followed, not sure if it would be for nothing but she kept going, so I continued to follow her. After about a couple of kilometres, she stopped and sat down. I thought she was exhausted and lost but when I looked up, there was poor old Lady sitting on the side of a hill, beyond the creek in the bush, just gazing ahead. We walked over to her and she was shaking with excitement to see us. After a while, we all returned very slowly to the van and I took them to the cottage. They're there now, sleeping and safe. Nala is an amazing and very clever girl!'

Days passed as I recovered in hospital. I ached to leave the hospital and to see my girls but was petrified at the thought of being in a car again. I thought about how I could live in the hospital forever but I knew that I had to get into a car and go to the cottage as my girls were there waiting for me. I knew I had to be a passenger, I knew I would never drive a car again! I was never going on that F3 again! I was never going home to Woodford! Never!!! So we went to the cottage. It was closer than Woodford.

The dogs saw me. Lady shook and fell over as she approached me. Poor old girl has vertigo ... like me! Rollover will do that, every time! But we are alive! My poor, dear old Lady. Nala made her joyful noises but was unusually quiet. I patted her soft, brown fur and stroked her ears and found lumps. Two lumps! Ticks! Two ticks! Oh no! She isn't going to die from ticks after all she has been through! Not my beautiful Nala! She rescued Lady, she can't die now. I sob again. Bitter tears of anger and frustration, terrified for her life!

John lifted the girls into his van and again I climbed into the passenger seat, terrified. We took them both to the vet who shaved their long hair and thoroughly checked them over, removing ticks and ensuring their recovery. Thankyou yet again God ...

After six weeks I was reluctantly brave enough to be a passenger in a car again. I had to return to the mountains as I had a facial skin cancer operation at Nepean Hospital to return to! The surgeon had delayed it long enough. Up until now he had not been able to operate on my post accident face ... 'Too messy,' he said! 'Your face needs time to heal before we can remove the cancer and place a skin graft there.

We returned to our Blue Mountains' home. The girls rode in the back of the van and slept most of the way. I, on the other hand spent the entire three hour journey, crying all the way home. Terrified.

It's been four years since that accident. I had the skin cancer removed and replaced with a skin graft from my ear. My slashed, accident face has healed, it's scarred but together! I still have vestibular disorder or vertigo. I still have headaches and poor concentration at times. I have since recovered from breast cancer and am one year cancer free!

Nala passed away eleven months after the accident. She was never the same energetic dog and finally succumbed to a form of pneumonia. It broke my heart to have her put to sleep. It broke my heart.

Lady missed her dreadfully. They had been together for fourteen years. Always together. Lady followed Nala everywhere. Now Lady followed me. Lady passed away two years after the accident. She was almost fifteen years old. She died at home, I was nearby. My dear old Lady was so tired.

I miss my old girls. They were so brave and loyal. My best friends. I do not have another dog. I couldn't bear the grief again. Not now anyway, maybe in the future, who knows.

It's been four years since the accident and I drove my new car today ...

Christina Frost Clayton

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For My Father – Joan Vaughan-Taylor

He's never coming home again, we know

This sad prognosis is a bitter blow.

The aged care home where he has to be

Now offers prolonged dying for a fee.

He's quite dependent on the nursing staff,

Unable now to speak or cry or laugh,

Or manage in the toilet by himself

Or reach out for a bottle on the shelf.

He'll never play his violin again

Nor even tap his foot to a refrain.

Within this place he has no privacy

Nor any self control or dignity.

Only his eyes, a daughter comprehends

Are pleading for the sleep that never ends.

I could assist him through that final door

Oh, no! I'd be in conflict with the law.

Still, I feel compelled to help him out

Ah yes! I'll wait till guards are not about.

'Our little lives are rounded with a sleep'

The poet said. I'm coming home to weep.

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The Bottom Line – Sonia Ursus Satori

The onion insisted:

You are the one who's got no capacity for empathy!

I make them cry a thousand tears

The minute they lay their filthy hands on me.

You should see them weep and sniffle

While they peel me

Mercilessly

Out of existence.

You'd never do anything like it!

Your hypocrisy, your imaginary fears of

Not getting peeled properly before they gulp you up

Immerse you in unspeakable disdain.

Selfish, at best!

Have compassion!

If you deny yourself bonds of harmony

With your abusers

You shall miss out on eternal enlightenment.

What?

You're talking through your burkha, man!

Get this:

When you stand - the one and only time -

Face to face with your peeler

Be sweet, be soft, be yummy.

That's good karma.

Let them munch away, happily smiling

Or, as with me, sniffing, coughing, crying.

Here's the bottom line, banana:

In our contemplation of death

The doors to perception and altered states of existence

Yes, divine alchemy,

Can only be experienced

By breaking out of your imprisoned state of numbness

In which you dwell believing

You are no more than

An isolated, insignificant speck of consciousness.

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Art and the Drug Addict's Dog

A novel by Paris Portingale

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A Comic in Therapy – Paris Portingale

The waiting room has a couch and an armchair and a sideboard carrying a tank with tropical fish. It has a diver in an old fashioned diving suit and bubbles come from its helmet. There is a table in the middle of the room with magazines. The top one is a National Geographic that has lost its cover. Max would like to pick it up but doesn't because it looks tatty and would reflect on him if someone came in. Instead, he straightens his tie and picks up a copy of 'Diagnosis Today' and absently flicks to an article on how quickly a stomach ulcer can turn to cancer and, once it has, how it more than likely will kill you within six months, chemo or no chemo. When he finishes the article, Max puts the magazine down, makes a minor adjustment to his tie, and decides if he ever develops an ulcer that turns into a cancer he will take his own life rather than let something like that kill him. It will be a point of honour and self determination. The tablets in the foil strips of his hypertension medication are marked with the days of the week, with one labelled, 'Take this first.' Max always makes sure he takes that one last because no strip of medication is going to dictate to him.

This is Max's first visit to a psychiatrist. He's been referred by his general practitioner Dr Bailey, because there's nothing Dr Bailey can do for Max, Max's problems in this instance being inside his head, a part of the body alien and somewhat frightening to Dr Bailey. So he's referred Max to Dr Bachmeier PhD Psy., and this is his first visit.

After putting down the magazine, Max gets up and wanders around the room, touching this and that, and he has a finger in the fish tank when the door of the consultation room opens and a woman comes out, red-eyed and blowing her nose. Clearly she has been crying. Dr Bachmeier, who follows her out, is smiling. He watches her leave, then, still smiling, says to Max, 'Mr Wilson, please come through.'

Max stands and straightens his tie and says, 'She didn't look very happy,' but Dr Bachmeier doesn't respond except to stop smiling, perhaps as an indication of forbidden territory being crossed, and Max mentally shrugs and walks through into the consulting room.

Dr Bachmeier makes a gesture that indicates Max should sit on the couch, which he does, and the doctor sits opposite in a padded leather armchair and adjusts his glasses. They settle themselves and Dr Bachmeier takes out a pen, picks up his notepad and flips through to a fresh page and write 'Max Wilson—Session #1,' across the top. Then he looks up, smiles at Max and says, 'So, Mr Wilson...'

Mr Wilson smiles back and the interchange stalls there for a moment until Max, uncomfortable with the silence, says, 'This is my first time with one of these. How do we work it exactly?' and the doctor says, 'Basically we talk,' and Max says, 'Right,' and the doctor continues smiling and Max finally says, 'About what?' and the doctor makes a broad gesture and tells him, 'Anything you like.'

Now there's another pause through which Dr Bachmeier continues to smile, occasionally adjusting his glasses, until Max says, 'Right, I think I get it,' and he straightens his tie and says, 'So, I guess you're wondering why I've called in here today,' to which the doctor replies, 'That would be a good start,' and Max says, 'Well, I know who the murderer is.'

Dr Bachmeier stops smiling and frowns instead, until he remembers his patient's occupation and he says, 'Ah.' Although he continues frowning.

Max says, 'It works best in a lift full of strangers. You say—I suppose you're all wondering why I called you here today.'

'Do you actually do that?' the doctor asks, and it's a genuine question as the doctor finds it impossible to imagine taking such a frivolous risk in front of a group of total strangers, particularly in such a confined space and the consideration causes him to vigorously manipulate his glasses, moving them to different positions on his nose.

Max replies, 'Of course,' and the doctor asks, 'Why?' and Max tells him, 'For the laugh I guess.'

'But what if they don't laugh?' Dr Bachmeier asks, the whole concept being so treacherously open to all sorts of disasters the doctor is aghast.

'They always do.'

'But what if they don't?' The thought is a blood chilling embarrassment to the doctor.

'But they always do,' Max says and attends to his tie which has acquired a mind and life of its own as far as Max is concerned and is quite out of control.

'But how can you be sure?'

'Because I'm funny. Or I think I used to be. I don't know now.'

'I see,' the doctor says, but Max feels his tone is uncertain and he says, 'Try it for yourself. Do the lift joke.'

'What do you mean?' Dr Bachmeier asks and Max says, 'Do the lift joke for me,' and the doctor says, 'I don't see the point,' and Max says, 'Just do it, you'll see. I'll laugh.'

'No,' the doctor says and shakes his head. Then, 'What do I say exactly?'

Max says, 'I suppose you're wondering why I've called you here today?' and the doctor straightens in his chair and says stiffly, 'I suppose you're wondering why I've called you here today?' and Max says, in flat tones as though he's working on some sort of auto-pilot, 'Don't tell me...you know who the murderer is.'

The doctor looks confused and Max says, 'Sorry, force of habit. Sorry, try it again,' and the doctor clears his throat and says, 'I suppose you're wondering why you've been called here today,' and Max says, 'Yes, I am wondering that,' and Dr Bachmeier says, 'Well it's because I know who did it. The murder,' and Max because he's promised, makes a noise that he feels is pretty close to a laugh.

'Extraordinary,' says Dr Bachmeier. It's his first joke.

Max says flatly, 'You're a natural,' and Dr Bachmeier determines he will get himself into a crowded elevator at the first opportunity.

The talk then turns to the actual reason Max has called in today. He tells Dr Bachmeier, 'I don't feel right.'

'In what way don't you feel right?'

'I think I may be depressed.'

'You think you may be depressed. Why?'

'I don't feel funny.'

'In what way don't you feel funny?' Dr Bachmeier, who has pretty much never felt funny in his life, is a little confused by this declaration.

'Well, if you can imagine going through life feeling pretty funny, and then suddenly, one day you don't feel funny any more, well, kind of like that.'

'But you're still making jokes.'

'Sure,' Max says, and he checks his tie knot as he explains, 'I know the stuff's inherently funny, because people laugh, but to me now, I just don't see it.'

'Could you give me an example? Can you tell me something funny that you don't think is funny?' the doctor asks and Max says, 'Sure. Here's one that should be right up your alley, as the bishop said to the actress,' and Dr Bachmeier nods. He has a look of serious concentration.

Mr Wilson continues, 'Freud and Jung are at a psychiatrists' convention in Vienna in 1903 and they're talking in the foyer when suddenly Freud turns to Jung and says, "Dear God Jung, did you just fart?" to which Jung replies, "Of course I did. Do you think I smell like this all the time?" '

'Ah, Freud,' Dr Bachmeier says in a slightly dreamy tone. 'One of the greatest minds the twentieth century ever threw up. And dear Jung of course.'

'But was it funny?' Max asks, to which the doctor replies, still in a slightly dreamy state, 'Freud and Jung? Funny? I don't think so Mr Wilson. Such great men. Such great minds.'

Mr Wilson tries once more with a joke in which Freud and Jung are talking with Mrs Schmidt. He says, 'Freud and Jung are talking to Mrs Schmidt when Freud says to Jung, "Gott Himmel, Jung, did you just fart in front of Mrs Schmidt?" whereupon Jung replies, "I'm terribly sorry, I did not realise it was her turn."'

The doctor looks confused and asks, 'Where did Mrs Schmidt come from?' and Mr Wilson, beginning to see the futility of the exercise, flops back into his seat and says dispiritedly, 'I don't know doctor. Where do you think she came from?' He feels his tie may have slipped but he doesn't touch it as, in this situation, he's beginning not to care.

In answer to Max's question about Mrs Schmidt, Dr Bachmeier says, 'I don't know. Was she the wife of one of the other psychiatrists? I'm assuming it's still 1903 and they're still at the Vienna Psychiatric convention.'

Here Mr Wilson abandons Freud and Jung altogether and says, 'It's not the point. The point is, I don't find the joke funny.'

'Neither do I,' confesses Dr Bachmeier. 'And I don't understand why you've brought Mrs Schmidt into it.'

Mr Wilson is back to adjusting his tie now and he tightens the knot, then, finding it uncomfortable, loosens it again. He says, 'The reason I've come here is because I think I'm depressed and Dr Bailey says he can't help me.'

'What did Dr Bailey say, exactly?'

'He said he couldn't help me.' Mr Wilson looks at his watch. He has forty-five more minutes of this and he readjusts his tie in preparation and continues, 'I said to him, "Isn't there some kind of medication?" and he said, "Yes."'

Max leans forward slightly and says, 'Do you know Dr Bailey at all?' and Dr Bachmeier says, 'Yes, I do actually,' and he fiddles with his glasses.

Max continues, 'It's like pulling teeth. I said, "Yes, but..." and he said, "Yes, but I'm not giving it to you." I said, "Why?" and he said, "Because I'm sending you to Dr Bachmeier instead." I said, "Wouldn't it be easier to just give me the pills?" and he said, "Definitely." He's a funny man, Dr Bailey. I asked him, "Why don't you just give them to me?" It seemed to set of his twitch. He's got this nervous facial twitch. He looks like a demented winker. He said, "Because you have to see Dr Bachmeier," and he left the room and didn't come back. I waited, but he didn't come back. I took three of his pens and a prescription pad.'

Max pulls at his tie and Dr Bachmeier pushes his glasses higher on his nose and says, 'Did Dr Bailey say anything else?'

'Probably, I can't remember. He didn't say goodbye. I asked his receptionist if he often disappeared like that. She said not often. Then she asked for the prescription pad back. How do they know that stuff, receptionists? Anyway, even not often is still a little odd though, don't you think?'

Dr Bachmeier jots a note on his pad and Max says, 'So, are you going to give me the pills?'

Dr Bachmeier says, 'He didn't say anything about me? Anything at all?' and Max tells him, 'He wrote out the referral and said, "Give this to Dr Bachmeier." Then he got up and walked out. That's about it.'

Dr Bachmeier makes another note and Max asks again, 'So, are you going to give me the pills?' and Dr Bachmeier tells him, 'Possibly,' and Max asks, 'Out of a hundred, how possibly?'

Dr Bachmeier ignores this and asks him, 'During the times when you think you might be depressed, what does it feel like?'

Max thinks, then says, 'It's like... do you know the joke about the two psychiatrists trying to start some sort of a machine?' Dr Bachmeier doesn't know the joke and Max tells him, 'They're trying to start this machine and one psychiatrist reads, "To start machine, depress the red button," and the second psychiatrist tells the red button it's worthless and stupid and will never amount to anything.'

Dr Bachmeier stiffens and says, 'A psychiatrist would never say that.'

'He's talking to a red button,' Max tells him.

'Still...' Dr Bachmeier says and Max abandons the joke, saying, 'Okay, it's like I'm in the middle of a heavy black fog and there's no point to anything and nothing's funny. And the thing is, and this is how bad it's getting, now, even when the black fog's not there, it's still like nothing's funny.'

Dr Bachmeier tries to think whether things not being funny would ever affect him at all but, in the way that saying the same word over and over again can make it become meaningless, the idea of things being or not being funny has become spongy and elusive for the doctor. He covers this by pushing at his glasses and asking, 'How important is it to you that some things are funny?'

Max pulls at his tie and says, 'I'm a comic, I write my own material. I do a lot of TV, late show spots. TV rips through material like a diesel thresher. I can't write any more. I write something, I don't know if it's funny, I chuck it out. I could be throwing away solid gold, but you see, I don't know any more. I can't tell. I haven't written anything funny for months. Or maybe I have and I've thrown it away. I'm just doing old material now. I don't know how long I can get away with it.'

Dr Bachmeier says, 'Hmmm...' and taps his pad with his pen.

Max says, 'So, about the pills...'

The doctor says, 'There's a lot of ground to cover before we begin looking at medication. Analysis, therapy, it all takes time. Medication is a long way off yet Mr Wilson.'

'How long away?' Mr Wilson wants to know. 'My career's being held for ransom here doctor. Couldn't you give me the pills and then we do the analysis later.'

'No,' the doctor tells him and Max asks, 'Why?' and the doctor says, 'Because, basically, that's not the way it works.'

Max sighs and thinks about re-setting his tie, and Dr Bachmeier takes off his glasses, which have become smudged with all the touching and fiddling, and cleans them. Squinting at Mr Wilson he asks, 'So, do you feel depressed now? At this very moment?'

Mr Wilson says, 'I'm starting to,' then, realising what he just said he asks, 'Was that funny?'

Dr Bachmeier says, 'Depression is never funny. That's why it's called depression,' and Max adds, 'Instead of being called "laughing all the time."'

Dr Bachmeier puts his glasses back on and adjusts their position, saying, 'So, what does it feel like, now that you're slipping down into depression? Can you describe it for me?'

Max says, 'It's like my brain's let itself go and it's stopped shaving and washing and eating properly and it's been living on pork rinds and ice cream for the last six months. Or if you can imagine one of those homeless people and they've been sleeping in the street, probably since the mid nineties, and they stink and they're drunk on methylated spirits and a group of skinheads has been systematically kicking the crap out of them, pretty much on a daily basis, probably out of boredom. Well, like that homeless guy. Possibly worse. Maybe the guy's got hepatitis as well. Or cancer. Maybe both. And crabs. Pubic lice, and we may as well throw in gonorrhoea as well.' He's about to go on but Dr Bachmeier holds up his hand as he's trying to get down every detail. He adjusts his glasses then goes back to writing. When he's caught up he looks up and says, 'Yes, go on.'

Max pushes up his tie knot and wiggles it and says, 'That's about it really. Homeless person, no washing, metho, skinheads and kicking, VD, cancer, pubic lice.'

'Right,' says Dr Bachmeier and he waits in case there's something else Max may want to add, which, from the silence, it appears there isn't, but he asks anyway. 'There's nothing else you'd like to add?' at which Max looks at the ceiling, counting off points on his fingers, 'Homeless, no washing, methylated spirits, skinheads, kicking, VD, cancer, pubic lice. Nope, that's about it.'

'Right,' says Dr Bachmeier and he flips to a fresh page and writes, occasionally adjusting his glasses, while Max sits back in his chair and fills the time adjusting his tie.

When he's finished his notes, the doctor puts down his pad and pen and, clearing his throat and attempting a look of nonchalant disinterest says, 'And Dr Bailey didn't say anything about me?'

Max says, 'No,' and the doctor checks him for evidence of lying but Max is looking down, his chin tucked into his chest, fiddling with his tie knot which constant adjusting has gotten into a mess so it's a lengthy operation this time and Dr Bachmeier is forced to say his name to get his attention. He says, 'Mr Wilson,' and Max looks up and the doctor asks again, 'So, Dr Bailey didn't say anything about me?' and Max tells him, 'No,' and Dr Bachmeier narrows his eyes and looks hard but there's nothing in Max's face so he's reluctantly forced to take him at his word.

The doctor checks his watch and, standing, says, 'Well, that brings us to the end of our session for today, Mr Wilson. Shall I pencil you in for the same time next week?'

Standing, Max says, 'I don't know. I had hoped you were going to give me tablets. That's what Dr Bailey led me to believe.'

'Did he tell you that?'

'He hinted at it.'

'Hinted at it...' The doctor has adopted an airy tone which is intended to put Mr Wilson off his guard. It is an interrogation technique, derived from the good-cop-bad-cop routine, but where the one person plays both roles. It's called good-psychiatrist, bad-psychiatrist. 'Hinted at it...' he says again dreamily, leading Mr Wilson to the door. 'Hinted at it...' but at the last minute he suddenly switches from good-psychiatrist to bad-psychiatrist and he says in his most forceful, formidable tone, 'And what did Dr Bailey say about my unusual habit?'

Max looks at him for a moment. Dr Bailey has said nothing to him about any unusual habits Dr Bachmeier may have. As he tries to form a response, something suddenly seems to turn over and he feels an area of his brain twitch and begin to open up. Words begin forming and he feels a warm tingle rush over him as he says, 'He told me you're a bit unusual around sheep. Sometimes around pigs as well, but mainly, if you're going to be unusual, you'll be unusual around sheep.' Max finds this funny but he stifles the laugh, obeying the first rule of the dry comic—never laugh at your own jokes. He wonders if somehow Dr Bachmeier has managed to cure him.

'Right,' says Dr Bachmeier. He's relieved as clearly Dr Bailey has thrown Max a decoy to put him off the scent, but he decides to fish a little deeper, just in case and asks, 'That was all?'

Max is experimenting now, slowly flexing flabby comedic muscles. He says, 'That's not enough, with the sheep and the pigs?'

'I was just curious,' says Dr Bachmeier. 'Dr Bailey and I have...ah...what shall we say...a connection.'

Max isn't really listening now. His focus at this moment is more internal. As an experiment he's trying to make up a joke about psychiatrists. After a moment he says, 'A man walks into a psychiatrist's office and all he's got on is some cling-film wrapped around him.' Max makes motions to indicate he has cling-film wrapped around his genital area. 'The psychiatrist says to him, "Sir, I can clearly see you're nuts."' Max finds this incredibly amusing and he looks around the office for inspiration for something else funny.

For the moment irritation overcomes fears of any disclosures Dr Bailey may have let slip and Dr Bachmeier says irritably, 'We never tell patients they're nuts, even though in the main they are, clearly, or they wouldn't be seeking psychiatric help. Telling them the truth would only reinforce the thing and make them even more...' but here, overcome by the absurd and infuriating level of ignorance shown by the general public towards mental illness, the doctor flounders and is reduced to ending the sentence with, '... nuts.' Shaking his head, Dr Bachmeier says bitterly, 'You should be careful with remarks like that Mr Wilson, particularly seeing you're...' and here the doctor puts his head on its side, narrows his eyes and hisses, 'nuts yourself.' He opens the door and leads Max through.

'Good afternoon, Mr Wilson,' he says sternly.

Max, however, is seeing jokes everywhere now and finding them all quite hilarious. He says, 'Doctor, if you're treating someone with a split personality, does Medicare cover both of them?'

'Of course,' Dr Bachmeier tells him irritably.

Max laughs, claps the doctor on the shoulder and turns towards the front door. Clasping the handle, he looks around and says, 'You've been extraordinarily helpful, Dr Bachmeier. Seriously. Perhaps you could look at my brother if I can get a referral from Dr Bailey.'

'Of course,' says Dr Bachmeier. 'Depression as well is it?'

'No, he thinks he's a dog.'

'Seriously?' Dr Bachmeier's interest is starting to become tickled. 'How old is your brother?' he asks.

Max says, 'In human years or dog years?'

'Human years,' the doctor says and Max tells him, forty-nine, adding, 'That's seven in dog years.'

'And how long has he been suffering this delusion?' the doctor asks.

'Since he was a pup,' Max tells him and the doctor says, 'Hmmm... interesting...' and vigorously adjusts his glasses in anticipation.

Paris Portingale

***

Narrator Magazine began in the Blue Mountains in 2010 as an opportunity for local writers - amateurs and professionals alike - to exhibit their works. It's free to submit to, affordable to advertise in, and encourages friendly competition with a secret judge and a People's Choice prize.

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