 
Narrator Magazine

NSW/ACT

Summer 2011

Smashwords Edition

narrator MAGAZINE is published by MoshPit Publishing

Shop 1, 197 Great Western Highway, Hazelbrook NSW 2779

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

P: 1300 644 680 ABN 48 126 885 309

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

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

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

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Short Stories

A Crime by Any Other Name

A Portrait of the Artist as a Real Estate Agent

Brushed

Just Wait Until I Tell My Mother

Miss Bunny

Molly's Gift

Ned Kelly's Feast

Plaster Angel

Rikki, Nikki and Connor Transmedia

The Deadly Game

The Happy Moon

The Tribunal

Breadcrumb Novel

Art and the Drug Addict's Dog

Poetry

Alice

Australian Stage

Bushfire Battlefield

Cancer Loss

Caterpillar's Crusade

Childhood Dream

Come to Me

Nature's Tears

Nightshift

On Waking

Pirates

She

The Black Wind

The Book

The Game

The Happy Moon

Scatter

Wine and Rose Petals

Corporate

From the Editor

Cover

Last issue's winners: Blue Mountains

Last issue's winners: Central Tablelands

Correspondence

Judging and voting

People's Choice

Advertising and page sponsorship

Image credits

From the Editor...

Thank you for your interest in Narrator Magazine, whoever you may be. You've opened the cover and that's what counts. We hope that over the coming quarters, word will spread and we will be able to bring you an even greater variety of the creative works of people from New South Wales and the Australian Capital Territory—or 'nuswhacked' as we've affectionately come to think of it in this office!

The purpose behind Narrator Magazine is to provide a showcase for people's creative short works. When you're an emerging writer, it's hard to get your works out there to see what response you get. With Narrator, you can develop your writing skills, get published and perhaps begin to build up a following. Then when you've worked out what readers do and don't like, you can look at publishing an anthology or a longer work, either through MoshPit Publishing or another publisher.

And by doing it online, you can send a link to anyone, refer to it when entering other competitions, or submitting to other journals etc.

Here at MoshPit Publishing we are always on the lookout for original and interesting new writing to help us develop our Australian ebook and print-on-demand collection, so we can't wait to see what you've got going on in your heads!

Enjoy these contributions, which have been secretly 'guest judged' by SMH Good Weekend columnist and writer Mark Dapin, and we hope that if your work is not in this issue, it will be in an issue soon!

Jenny Mosher

December 2011

Caricature:

Jenny Mosher's caricature (above) by artist Todd Sharp. For more info, visit <http://www.toddasharp.com/>.

Cover: 'Tram Graveyard, Sydney' by Steve McLaren

Steve McLaren is a multi skilled artist, curator and mentor. He is currently Vice President at Tap Gallery, Darlinghurst, the oldest artist run initiative in Sydney (23 years).

Steve was a short listed finalist in the 2007 National Aust indigenous Reconciliation Art Award, 2007 and 2008 runner-up in the Australian Environmental Art Award and the Australian Ethical Art Award, and a finalist in both in 2009, as well as being the 2010 Winner of the Australian Ethical Art Award for Environmental Art with his work 'The Murray River Gums'. Steve's works are held in numerous collections in Australia as well as New York and Singapore.

He has been selected to co-curate a show with Cherry Hood for the 2012 Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras, and to expand the Mardi Gras to the country and the nation's capital with a show called 'Wylde in the Country' featuring works from selected gay and lesbian artists and which is due to open at Goulburn's South Hill Gallery on 11 February 2012.

Steve's passion is changing to encompass photography and the cover photo represents one of the last images which will ever be taken of Sydney's Tram Graveyard, soon to be demolished to make way for luxury apartments. For more about Steve, friend him on Facebook at <http://www.facebook.com/stevethebodymechanic/>

A Portrait of the Artist as a Real Estate Agent

Peter Tonkin

Lakemba NSW

The porch of the weatherboard house creaked beneath Norbert's weight. His practised eye scrutinised the faded, peeling aqua paint, the gaps between the grubby window panes and the warped frames, and the spider webs festooning the wrought-iron work under the roof. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and summoned words of praise:

'Rustic charm, ideal vehicle for market entry, opportunity for first-time investor, realise your dream of home ownership ...'

'Sorry, what did you say?' asked the old woman in the floral print dress, fiddling with her hearing aid.

'Nothing, I was just trying to think of the best way to describe your lovely house, so as to make it most attractive to potential buyers.'

'So what do you think it's worth?'

'In today's market, about 450.'

'450 what?'

'Thousand.'

'Really? This old place? Fancy that!'

Norbert drove back to the office, rearranging the words in his head.

After mounting the kerb and running a red light, he decided that he'd better stop and write it down.

'All the charm of a bygone era combined with the convenience of inner-city boutique living,' he scribbled on his note pad. Then he gave the road his undivided attention. He made it back to the office without further incident and sat down at his computer to do the listing for the property.

'Did you say something?' said Megan.

'Who—me?'

'I thought you said something about a boutique.'

'Oh yes, I was just thinking: ―boutique living‖. What does that evoke for you?'

'You don't live in a boutique. You shop there, then you go home, to your house, unit, caravan, whatever.'

Norbert sighed. Why did Megan have to take everything so literally? But he soon forgot her quibbling as his fingers scrambled across the keyboard, struggling to keep up with the torrent of words welling up from the fount of his imagination.

Megan stomped into the manager's office on high heels and in high dudgeon.

'It's sexual harassment and I won't put up with it!'

Steve craned his head up over his computer screen and his gaze followed Megan's outstretched arm to where Norbert sat, his lips twitching.

'No, of course not, why should you? As I've made clear to everyone, this company has a zero-tolerance attitude to sexual harassment and, umm ... do you mind telling me exactly what it was he said? Or did?'

'He called me ―a renovator's dream‖.'

'I see. Well of course that's totally unacceptable, and I'll deal with it in accordance with our harassment and bullying policy. So, if I could just get you to fill in the form and give your account of what happened, and then, while I sort it out, why don't you take the rest of the day off?'

'OK. Thanks, Steve.'

When Megan had left, Steve called Norbert into his office.

'Look Norbert, I think you've been working too hard, and it's starting to impact on your interaction with other team members. Why don't you take some time off? You've accrued almost four weeks—why don't you use it and, like, chillax?!'

'I'll think about it,' was all Norbert said.

Norbert didn't want a holiday. He loved his work. It was varied and stimulating. He got out and met all kinds of people and saw all kinds of properties, each one presenting a unique challenge to his powers of description and persuasion.

He knocked off at half past five and went home. His mother had baked a steak and kidney pie for dinner. Norbert sniffed the meaty aroma and looked up at the cornice, the picture rail and the teardrop light fitting. They lent the dining room an air of classical elegance that made it eminently liveable and desirable. He beamed cherubically as he took it all in.

'Over my dead body!' snarled his mother.

'What was that Mum?'

'You'll have to wait until I'm laid out cold in my grave before you try to sell this place! Now will you pass me the dead horse—if you've finished playing with it?'

Norbert squirted some tomato sauce onto his pie and handed the plastic bottle over. Classical elegance. It would be good to see more of that. Maybe Steve was right. Maybe he should take a holiday and get away for a bit. He'd saved enough money for a decent trip. He could go to Europe and see all those beautiful old buildings. It would be inspirational and uplifting. London, Paris, Rome: unreal estate. Yes, he would go.

The next morning he confirmed the dates of his leave with Steve. He visited a travel agency during his lunch break and booked flights and hotels. He broke the news to his mother over a post-prandial glass of sherry. She took it more stoically than he could have hoped.

A week later he was standing before Buckingham Palace with his notebook and camera. After the Changing of the Guard, he went back to his hotel room, fired up his laptop and wrote:

PRISTINE, PRIVATE AND WHISPER QUIET

You will love the wonderfully relaxing ambience of this quiet and spacious property! Instantly liveable with opportunities to enhance and create your own personal style, there is nothing to spend and everything to enjoy. With plenty of character and light-filled rooms, you can easily lose yourself in poetic rhapsody as this is not just your typical urban home—this is 'Buckingham Palace'!

In Paris, he watched the shadow of the Eiffel Tower creep like a giant sundial along the Quai Branly. Then he wrote:

LIVE THE DREAM!

Picture yourself waking up to spectacular views of the City of Light every morning! Located right in the pulsating heart of Paris, this unique all-steel structure features an innovative multi-level open-plan design that adds to the light airy feeling of this home. With 100+ years of charm and everything you expect from a vibrant city life!

In Athens, he climbed the Acropolis and heard the Muses sing:

RENOVATOR'S DELIGHT!

A unique challenge for a renovator with the drive and vision to restore this classic building to its former glory! Featuring an innovative design with timeless appeal, this distinctive property represents an exciting opportunity to live/invest in a most desirable location and offers breathtaking views of the Greek capital with myriad possibilities for gourmet open plan indoor/outdoor entertaining.

The last stop on his European tour was Moscow. He gazed at the Kremlin till its onion domes seemed to float in the sky, while the words circled them like hawks, buoyed aloft on the feverish thermals of his imagination:

FORGET THE COMMUTE!

Only a few properties enjoy such a privileged position and now this could be yours! Strategically located on Moscow's trendy Red Square, this soulful, charm-filled home effortlessly blends traditional style with modern comfort. Offering supreme convenience, it is located just moments from the metro, station and shops. Best of both worlds: old time character without the maintenance!

Norbert was pleased with his work and wanted to share it with the world. He uploaded the texts and images to his Facebook page. A stimulating conversation with other netizens ensued. Momoko sent a photograph of a replica of the Parthenon covered in neon, and attached a haiku. Floyd referred him to the Featurist Manifesto and asked for his comments. Meanwhile Barbarella wanted to know the asking price for the Kremlin. Norbert groaned. Hadn't she heard of poetic licence? He couldn't be bothered explaining the concept to some philistine. Instead, he just typed '100,000,000 roubles', thinking that would discourage her. Then he closed his laptop, put on his Spiderman pyjamas and went to bed.

In the middle of the night, three men burst into his hotel room. Norbert woke up just in time to smell the chloroform on the rag shoved into his face. When he came to, he was sitting up, blindfolded and gagged, with his hands tied in front of him. He was in a car, travelling fast. He could hear the roar of the engine and the occasional squeal of tyres. The car slowed down, turned right and stopped. He was dragged out into the cold night air and marched across cobblestones, his bare feet slipping on the damp stones. He stubbed his toe when they went up some steps. A door creaked and slammed behind them. Then they went down a flight of wooden stairs and through another door. The blindfold was ripped off. A spotlight dazzled him. He felt like a rabbit, frozen in the hunter's sights.

A man's voice roared out of the darkness, just to the right of the light. 'So you want to own some valuable Russian real estate? Well, we would like to help you to do that! Unfortunately Kremlin is not available, but you can have your own private corner of Lubyanka.'

Harsh cruel laughter echoed around the room. Another voice croaked, 'Do you know why they say Lubyanka is tallest building in Moscow?'

'Because from cellar you can see Siberia!' snarled another, and more demoniac mirth erupted. Norbert didn't get the joke. He had heard of the Lubyanka, but he couldn't remember what it was famous for. If he could only explain to these men that it was all an innocent misunderstanding and that he had a flight to catch the next day, surely they would let him go.

The first man barked, 'Who are you working for?'

'I work for Real Deal Real Estate, but I'm on holiday at the moment.'

That answer did not satisfy them. They grilled him for hours, then threw him into an unfurnished room with white walls and no windows. There was no sound except a constant loud electric hum. It seemed to come from the bare light bulb that never went off. It was impossible to sleep. From time to time some disgusting swill was shoved through a flap in the door. Hours passed, maybe days. One thought connected him to the outside world, painful though it was: what would they be saying about him at the office?

***

Megan was saying, 'Look Steve, I didn't want Norbert to get the sack. I've got nothing against him; I just wanted him to stop bugging me with all that kinky innuendo.'

'Honestly Megan, I didn't sack him, I just told him to go and get some counselling. And to take a break if he thought that would help, which in the end he agreed to do. He was supposed to be back at work today. I've rung his mother, but she hasn't heard from him since the middle of last week.'

'Gee, maybe you should call the police.'

'Actually, they rang about half an hour ago and asked if he worked here. When I said he did, they said not to worry, they were looking into it.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'Yeah, I thought it was a bit odd.'

Meanwhile Norbert's writing had provoked lively discussion in literary circles. He had been hailed as the pioneer of a new style called 'estate realism'. Rumours of his detention had gained traction after being officially denied. PEN and Amnesty had taken up his case, and three Nobel Prize winners had signed a letter to the President of Russia, calling for his release.

Meanwhile the FSB continued to interrogate him using sleep deprivation and truth serum, but finally concluded that he wasn't a threat to national security and transferred him to a prison for common criminals. It too was cold and spartan, what little food he received was inedible, and the guards were brutal. But at least they let him sleep at night and go out into the courtyard for a couple of hours each day.

One day a guard growled something at him. Vassiley, his cellmate, translated for him.

'Visitor. You have visitor.' Norbert followed the guard to the visitors' room, but saw nobody he recognised. A tall blonde woman with a bulky shoulder bag smiled at him and sat down at a long table. He sat down on a rickety wooden chair opposite her.

'Mister Norbert?'

'Yes, that's me.'

'My name is Svetlana. I am also a writer, of sorts. I have brought you food and books.'

'For me? Why?'

'I admire your work, as do others. With your permission, I would like to translate some of your poems into Russian.'

'Really? Sure, I mean, that's great! But what's going to happen to me?'

'Have courage! We are working for your release. We will find a good lawyer for you.'

The visit was soon over, but Norbert felt more optimistic and eagerly devoured the cheese, sausage and rye bread that Svetlana had brought him. Three days later a lawyer did come and discuss the charges against Norbert. The prosecution's case against Norbert was flawed and the evidence largely circumstantial. However, contesting it would prolong the proceedings, during which time Norbert would have to remain in prison. Sergei recommended that he plead guilty but with extenuating circumstances, in which case there were good prospects for a non-custodial sentence and the soonest possible release from the somewhat less than salubrious conditions in which Norbert found himself. Norbert agreed to this stratagem. In the meantime he tried to keep busy. He learnt a little Russian and began to take an interest in the real estate pages of the local newspapers that he came across.

Three months later he faced the court. The judge found him guilty but took into consideration the fact that no money had changed hands and gave him a suspended sentence. Pale and gaunt, Norbert stepped out into the feeble spring sunshine and a barrage of questions from the journalists assembled in front of the courthouse. He stood there, speechless with bewilderment, until Svetlana grabbed his arm and guided him to a waiting taxi.

The next day he was at a cocktail party in London, being lionised by the literati. But amid the rapier wit and the ambient groove, the shouts of the guards still echoed in his ears and blinding lights glared from his martini. He excused himself and retreated to the rest room to wrestle with his demons. From that titanic struggle emerged the first draft of what most critics now consider his finest work: Lubyanka.

OWN A PIECE OF HISTORY!

This prestige property has been meticulously maintained and is ideal for the security-conscious owner-occupier or the prudent investor looking for a low-maintenance asset. Extremely private, it blends cleverly configured layouts and storage solutions with quality finishes and a heritage facade. Steeped in history and oozing character, this property will not stay on the market long, so act fast!

Peter Tonkin

Lakemba, NSW

The Deadly Game

John Ross

Blackheath, NSW

He was still in the house. I could not see him. I could not hear him, but I just knew he was still there. It was like some sixth sense. Call it a feeling in my gut or call it whatever you like but it had saved me a number of times before.

I stood just behind my bedroom door, straining all my senses, trying to pick up the slightest noise or vibration. Was he just outside the door in the hallway, or had he retreated further into the house?

The pistol was cold and heavy in my right hand. I adjusted my grip and took up more pressure on the trigger.

I glanced back at the bed where I had been asleep just moments before. The evidence of his two shots was plainly visible as dark marks on the whiteness of my pillow. I had been very lucky. They had missed my head by mere millimetres as I had thrown myself sideways at the last moment. Being a light sleeper had saved me once before. He was good though, and so he should be, as I had trained him myself. I had not heard his approach until it was almost too late. In my younger days I would have been aware of his presence before he had even entered the room.

I stood as still as possible for what seemed like an eternity. No sound except for the creaking of the house as the sun rose further and warmed the tiles on the roof.

There was no choice; I had to go out through the door. I could not wait any longer. So taking a deep breath, and keeping as low as possible I jumped out into the hallway. There were only two ways that I could face first, either left or right. I chose right as that way the hallway led deeper into the house.

Nothing. The hallway was empty. I swung around as fast as I could but the other way was also empty. So far, so good.

I again waited to see if I could hear anything. The crash of a garbage tin lid in the laneway beside the house made me jump and half turn towards it before I realised what it was.

Nothing! So I began to slowly make my way down the hall towards the kitchen. Trying to remember my training from all those years ago I moved my weapon from side to side and kept it extended, gripped in both hands, in front of me. I knew that ten years of retirement and soft living had slowed me down but I still felt the adrenalin pumping and the same old excitement coursing through me.

Pausing just outside the open entrance into the kitchen, I again tried to listen to see if I could detect any movement inside or even the sound of his breathing.

Hearing nothing I stepped inside. It was only a small kitchen with a breakfast bar that opened onto a family living area. There was no one there.

Then I heard it. Just a slight scratching sound that came from behind the breakfast bar. I strained my ears but the sound was gone. Had I really heard it, or were my nerves getting the better of me? Then it came again, slightly louder this time. He must be crouched down behind the bar. It was only about waist high and extended halfway across, dividing the two areas.

Had he heard me enter the room? Was he waiting for me to make a move or was he going to suddenly leap up and fire hoping to catch me off guard?

I could not remain where I was. I had to make a move. I really only had two options, retreat or attack. What to do?

Before I realised that I had made a decision I was in motion. Three quick steps and I was around the end of the breakfast bar. There was a blur of movement and I fired. It was the cat. I had shot my Persian cat.

Cursing myself for having given away my position I was about to turn around when I heard the door of the pantry behind me crash open.

I knew I would be too slow and that it was hopeless but began to turn anyway. I was not more than half way around when the shot hit me full in the back.

He laughed and said, 'I got you good that time, Grandad.' Then he fired his water pistol at me again.

Alice

Janet Ryan

Petersham, NSW

When last I saw her

She was garbed in arid brown

Parched clay below the fissured skin

Dark veins describing where the lifeblood ran

Across her dried up body long ago

No plants to decorate or soften

She was dying

Drought can do this

And now today

She wears a gown of shimmering green

Displays sly glimpses of red flesh beneath

Bright silver streams cascade along

Slaking the thirsty earth on either side

Wild flowers flaunt as sequins to her dress

She is arisen

Flood can do this

The Game

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, NSW

Now look, I don't want to monopolise your time,

And it's true that my words are often in a scrabble.

Ok ... I got a bit tiddly; winking at all the girls,

Sometimes, I haven't got a clue; do not believe all the babble—

I come out with, and really there's no need to check, mate.

This is not just a trivial pursuit; I'm deadly serious about junk too,

I'm prone to the domino effect, a house of cards and fate ...

Decrees I slip down ladders and climb up snakes, try kung fu

That I learnt from the Chinese; chequered career though it may be,

Perhaps I don't need to pass—go on, tell me what you reckon.

Don't be cryptic, a cross word won't upset this baby,

My ace of spades has been trumped, a new deck on ...

The table, but I'm snookered; the balls won't drop.

I'd jump through hoops my sweet croquet... or is it coquette?

When you get to the bottom of the helter skelter—climb to the top.

Life is a slippery dip ride, a see-saw—what's the etiquette?

Fifteen love and it's your serve; I'll just putt for par,

My last bowl was a toucher, it's so good to kiss the jack.

Nothing like a bullseye and a fresh drink from the bar,

And I haven't lost my marbles, they're rolling 'round in back.

What's the game we're playing—Pokémon or yahtzee?

It's a bit like playing twister, with your sister, on the carpet.

Spin the bottle or tic tac toe, Truth or Dare? And lastly ...

Backgammon or Baccarat, I'll try to bridge—or I'll forfeit.

On Waking

Ruth Withers

Uarbry, NSW

You came and sat beside me;

You touched my face and warmed me;

You told me that you loved me;

You embraced me and you healed me.

Then I awoke.

I will never sit beside you;

I will never feel your touch;

I'll not hear a loving word from you;

And I will not be healed.

Why must I awake?

Pirates

Niki Read

Lawson, NSW

He'd been popping pirates off the horizon for twenty-four hours

from the 12th floor flat of a beach fronted friend

waiting for the rain to stop

his mum in a sleep deprived stupor

tossing words in the sheets, astir

the sun came out

as if to mock them kindly of all their fears

and they walked right across the sand to the sea

a small boy with his pop-gun tucked into the elastic of his pants

an answer to a never-ending question 'should I be afraid?'

she stuffs him into his wetsuit

and he runs down to greet the waves, apprehensive and eager

he runs at the water's edge, along the wings of the waves

pendulum running

punching at the waves, hands clenched, toes flicking up sand in arcs of light

she stands still arms folded, thawing

it's all there, the beauty of it

she speaks aloud 'it's a beautiful day'

the words sound empty and she knows they're not

they ask her;

do you ever run just for the sake of running

try it, down on the beach with a small boy

take your hands out of your pocket

and your eyes off the surface of the waves made more liquid by the silvery sun

and run

all the while

a three masted ship full sail moving slowly north over the horizon.

Molly's Gift

Sam Miller,

Faulconbridge, NSW

My name is Molly Davies and when I was a young child, I was taken by dogs—scared the bejesus out of my mother.

This is how she tells it.

I was a happy little baby who would just sit on the floor and play with blocks and teddies and things. 'No trouble,' she says with a dopey look. My dad rolls his eyes at this point.

So there I was sitting on my rug gurgling to myself, when Mum went out the back to hang out some washing.

We have a pretty normal type suburban Aussie house. It's the same shape as many others I have seen, as if somebody, somewhere decided that is how a house should look this decade. It has a front door opening onto a living area, open plan around the corner to the teeny tiny kitchen. There is a sliding door nearly opposite the large front window, so if the curtains are open, or in the wash, you can see right through. You can take a circuit through the kitchen, the laundry and back to the living area again. Then if you turn around you go down a corridor to find your three bedrooms and bathroom. I have been in so many houses like this all over the country. If you woke up in the night, you could always find the bathroom in the dark.

So, I'm in the little area off the kitchen, Mum's out the back and Dad's ... well, who knows where he is... when the doorbell rings.

Max starts barking at the door. Max was our lovely hound dog. He was really very pretty for a boy with plenty of eyeliner around his big brown eyes. Mum named him after Max Factor, but Dad always said he was named after Max Gillies.

It's late summer and the front door is open with the screen door closed for flies, but nobody ever could decide if the screen door was locked that day. Mum comes tearing through from the back yard to get the door. I don't know who she thought was going to be so exciting. If it was anybody we really knew she'd have known they were coming and just called out to them to go around the back.

As soon as she opens the door she sees there is nobody there. She swears she saw them through the fly screen. Then, when she turns around to talk to me—I'm gone!

Well, all hell breaks loose at this point. This is where Dad starts to look a bit sheepish as he missed most of the action. Mum is calling out looking under the furniture, checking all the rooms and even looking in places I couldn't possibly have got into. Mum loves telling me this, but she always maintains it's the scariest thing ever, to not know where your child has gone.

Next she calls around to the neighbours' and gets Mrs Johnson involved. They are looking in the all the same places they have already looked when Mrs J goes into the garden and calls Max. When he comes trotting over to greet her, she asks him 'Where's Molly?‖ Max just goes and lies down at the front of his kennel. Mum says he's a useless hound, but Mrs J, she comes up to Max and crouches down and when she looks past him, she can see me in the kennel holding a piece of fabric.

After mum and Mrs J have settled down and enjoyed a restorative cup of tea they begin to wonder how I got there and where the piece of fabric came from. The fabric was like a silk handkerchief in the most amazing colour of green. The weirdest thing was that it was embroidered MD for my name. To this day Mum is still speculating. It's not as if I could remember at all.

The time line is all wrong, she insists. There wasn't time for me to crawl there. Nobody came past her at the washing line. She certainly doesn't think Max was strong enough to carry me. So there I am—a child of mystery.

So we come to my fifteenth birthday when I discovered my gift.

I had some girlfriends around. We ate cake, sang along to CDs and talked about boys at school and boys in bands. When it was time to go, Sui Lin was really upset as she couldn't find her new iPod and her parents would be so mad at her if she lost it.

We all looked through the house, especially my room and the garden where we had done most of our socialising.

Just before Sui Lin's parents were due to arrive, I heard someone suggest that we look down the back of my sunlounge in the sunroom. So I rushed off to check and sure enough, it was there.

Sui Lin was so happy and wanted to know how I thought to look there. She had only sat there for a second to drink some squash while we were mucking around outside. I told her someone had suggested it, but we couldn't work out who it was.

Later that night, as I snuggled up on my bed with my whippet Rudi, I heard her say, 'That was a fun party; can we do it every year?'

So, that is my gift. I hear dogs. Nobody else in my family does this and they all think I'm bonkers, but not in a bad way. I don't have the kind of parents who will rush me off to the psych office or the counsellor for hearing dogs. After all, they reckon in every other regard I'm quite normal, even rather useful.

I only wish I had known about the gift a little earlier. I would have loved to have asked Max about the day we had a visit from my Fairy Dogmother.

Bushfire Battlefield

Joe Massingham

Chisolm, ACT

At first just a haze on the horizon

as if some stockman

was driving a mob of cattle home.

Then the rumbling thunder of the guns,

the army in the sky,

the sappers tunnelling through clouds

in their sun coloured disguise.

The echoing hooves of

Hell's cavalry, with

molten gold breastplates shining,

starting up scarlet clouds of dust.

Leaping and slashing,

flickering swords

routing all in their path

leaving behind

only scorched earth and

rivers full of heaven's blood.

Distorted shapes and despairing residents,

ill-prepared, ill-equipped defenders

of blackened skeletons

crucified along the skyline,

Acrid smoke in one's nostrils,

emptiness in what's left of life.

She

Allison Morris

Downer, ACT

I know that when the years are draped around her

she will shear off her ocean of hair, dark and sweet as

molasses, or her perfume.

A vision of seduction preserved,

she will sip scotch

(neat, she'll say with a wink, a touch of the hand)

and slyly, sidelong, whisper

odd snippets, non-sequiturs and unsettling propositions

to uncertain young men.

She will suck on her dark chocolate laughter and watch

as they sidle away politely, the punch-lines of her little joke.

I will laugh with her later,

impressed by her bravado, the carelessness

of children, or nudists,

because I will always fear

the laughter of strangers.

Caterpillar's Crusade

Cathy Tanaka

Blackheath, NSW

I've come to understand of late

How caterpillars navigate:

With down right course and sense of candor,

And just a touch of mere meander,

They plot their course from shrub to bush

From end to end they seem to push,

Each prods the comrade next in line

While pushed as hard by one behind,

In single file, from first to latter,

A fuzzy, rippling piece of tatter.

Now, a caterpillar's walk perceived

Is more than odd, I must concede;

Hindmost parts with speed propel

But front and middle do not well

Keep pace, and so with consequence

(It seems such blatant common sense),

To arch the back and then lie straight,

And continue this ungainly gait,

Until the journey's reached its end;

Its wrinkled body's bound to bend.

Now one fine day I did behold

This caterpillars' legend told,

Full garden-wide to old and young

In colloquial larvae mother tongue;

Of derring-do so fraught with danger

Between the hawthorn and hydrangea -

The darkest tale of feared expanse

(It's beyond pre-pupae cognisance

To understand a thoroughfare);

Just who would risk the perils there?

That fateful day the vanguards came

To firm the line and fix the aim,

And in their wake, the surging cluster,

The eager throng; it pressed to muster.

Indeed it was a grand event

When from the shadows forth they went,

And each took hold of the behind

Of the fellow next in line,

With rumba rhythm at half pace

They ventured out across the waste.

In Indian file their ranks extended,

From curb to curb as first intended,

With tandem form so well deployed,

They could do nothing to avoid

The car with growl malevolent

Announcing timely mal-intent -

There was no time to run for cover

Or offer aid to one another -

And on the brave, besplattered dead

Were epitaphs of Dunlop tread.

The cry went up, a silent shout,

Felt more within than heard without:

'Hey, Joe's been hit! And Marty too!

And over there—can that be Hugh?!

So many mates that devil slew—

Come, there's nothing now that we can do!!'

And with no mind for devastation

Or indeed, resuscitation,

They rearranged and consummated

That at outset contemplated.

So when the legend's now retold,

In glory-glow of deeds so bold,

Wide-eyed larvae thrill to hear

Of how that monster hovered near,

And when by evil overtaken

All forged ahead, resolve unshaken;

Then voices praise the glorious dead,

And none will weep or hang a head,

For all hold dear with admiration,

That light of lights: determination.

Cathy Tanaka

Blackheath, NSW

Cathy wrote this poem after watching caterpillars on a mid-summer's day

Plaster Angel

David Stein

Dubbo, NSW

I never believed in angels. Not until I met Carissa. She was standing on the footbridge that led over the freeway into town. She seemed to watch me from the moment I set foot on the bridge. As I drew nearer I saw how expressionless she was. How lifeless. Like an amazing toy whose batteries had become flattened. When I was within speaking distance, she gave a half smile from beneath the curly fringe that dangled impracticably before her eyes, and she seemed to spark back to life again.

'Are you smart?' she said. 'You look smart. I need help with maths.'

I'd seen her at school before. She was a year or so below me and we had never spoken. I never saw her speaking to anyone much. I hated maths, but I said, 'Sure. I'll help you out.'

We arranged to meet the next day at her house on the outskirts of town. It was big. One of those old homesteads with the verandas that surround three sides of the building, but internally, it had been brutally divided into two. Carissa told me that another family lived in the other half of the house, but they never came outside. She thought they were serial killers.

'The house is quiet,' I said.

'The olds are at church. They're looking for something to fill the void inside them.' She picked up a plaster statue of Mary from the mantel above the fireplace. 'Look how lifeless she is. God, I hate church. It'd take more than sermons and wishful thinking to fill the void in me.'

She never got around to pulling her maths books out. Instead, she showed me her music collection—thirty or so CDs of light rock. A couple of Christian bands. I'm not sure why I expected something heavier. The denim jacket with the obscure patches, perhaps. Beneath it she wore a grey singlet and black leggings that hugged her contours. It was her eyes that drew me in, though, hiding behind those too-long locks. Especially when we sat by the river, with the bright autumn sunlight illuminating every colour in her irises. Blue. Green. Brown. Yellow. The only thing that threatened to spoil the image was the sight of my reflection, with its nose fish-lensed into a bulbous eyesore. To stop her from looking at me, I leaned in to kiss her.

When our lips finally parted she said, 'Some people are afraid of dying.'

'Most people, probably.'

'I'm bulimic. My mum thinks it's my way of committing suicide. Really slowly. She doesn't understand anything about it. Or about me. I'm not afraid of dying, but when I go, I'll probably want to go quickly.'

Carissa told me that she was all that remained of her mother's brief, horrible first marriage. Her father lived in a flat in the centre of town, but never ventured any further than the small supermarket a block away. And the pub on the adjacent corner.

'Do you visit him?'

'Sometimes. I knock quietly. If he hears me, he's probably not drunk. Otherwise I just leave him alone.'

Late one night I was awakened by a tap at my window. I raised the curtain to see her huddled in her denim jacket, peering through her hair. I quietly opened the window for her to slide in, but she asked me to go for a walk with her instead.

'I can't sleep. Hope you don't mind.'

It was so cold that I wore my ugg boots and footy scarf. It was the first time I had taken them out of the house since I got them. I didn't know where we were going, but she hardly spoke, and something told me not to complain about the cold or my tiredness.

Half an hour later, we were on the footbridge over the freeway. A few, sparse head lights flashed beneath us. The wind bit through my jacket, and even my

toes stung from the cold. Carissa faced the wind with squinting eyes, her locks swept back from her forehead. It was more prominent than I had realised.

'Remember when we first met?' she said. She had to say it twice for me to hear her over the wind.

'Of course I do. It was only a couple of months ago. On this bridge. I never expected to meet someone like you.'

'Like me? Who do you think I am?' I could barely distinguish the words that escaped her mouth, it was trembling so much from the cold.

I took my scarf and tried to wrap it around her neck, but she fought it from me and threw it. The wind carried it away and it caught on a post a few metres downwind. I raced to collect it before it vanished in the darkness and when I turned back to Carissa, she was standing on the hand railing, legs trembling like those of a new born foal. She looked over her shoulder at me and almost lost her balance. For a moment her legs stabilised, and she stood as motionless as that statue of Mary. She looked at me and her plaster eyes seemed to say goodbye. Then she fell.

I saw a pair of elegant dove like wings magically unfold from her back, lifting her into the air. She smiled down at me, with a look of satisfaction as though her mission on this earth had been completed. I searched inside me to find the lesson she had imparted. I knew it was there, somewhere in that void inside me. A void that I had never even noticed before. It had to be there. It had to.

Tyres squealed below.

David Stein

Dubbo, NSW

Childhood Dream

Cheryl Ianoco

Blackheath, NSW

Cootamundra, my home town,

My childhood memories still abound ...

Precious times, with childhood dreams,

Of rolling hills and flowing streams ...

Riding bikes, and climbing hills,

Enjoying life, with all its thrills ...

Dancing, music, being free,

Laughing, crying, finding me ...

Mother, Father, family and friends,

Hoping life will never end ...

Memories full of colour too,

Blossoms pink, and sky so blue ...

Summers hot and winters cold,

The wattle's yellow, bright and bold ...

Alas, my childhood now has gone,

But memories always linger on ...

My family life was full of love,

Hand down from God above ...

Now that life seems far away,

But the memories still stay ...

Now and then I wander back,

Still looking for those things I lack ...

Looking for my childhood dreams,

For nothing now is what it seems ...

My children now are growing tall,

They turn to me, and ask me all ...

I hope their childhood dreams come true,

For them there's still so much to do ...

Hang onto your childhood dreams,

Your memories of flowing streams ...

Memories of life, love and more,

Go live your dreams, open life's door ...

The Tribunal

Chris Broadribb

Blaxcell, NSW

Part 1: The Portal

Zyrin stared at the teleportation portal. It didn't look very impressive: it was a large, grey, rectangular box with indicator lights and an LED screen. He slid the door open. There were circuit boards and wiring covering every wall, hinting at the complex science behind it.

A sign nearby read: 'This teleportation device has been used by the Australian Space Exploration Program for the last ten years. It is routinely used to send scientists to the Microbial Research Centre on Mars.' A 3D video showed a space-suited scientist stepping inside and closing the door. The lights flashed briefly and the door re-opened to show that the scientist was gone. That was it. No footage of the research centre or the scientist returning.

Zryin went over to the information booth, which was staffed by a gangly, pimply-faced boy who looked about 15 years old.

'How does it work?' Zyrin said.

'A return ticket is 5000 credits. You can go to the International Space Station and stay half an hour. You can't go to Mars. It's closed to the public,' the kid recited in a bored tone.

'But how does it work from a technical point of view?' As a journalist, Zyrin needed to know the facts.

The kid shrugged. 'I just sell tickets.'

'Ever tried it yourself?'

'Nah, you have to be over 18.'

A middle-aged couple approached, holding hands.

'Two tickets, please,' the woman said. Judging from her expensive clothes, jewellery and watch, the price wouldn't be of concern to her. The attendant stamped her and her husband's hands with a holographic ASEP logo. They entered the portal and stood inside a white circle painted on the floor. The woman looked nervous, but excited.

'Can't believe we're doing this,' her husband muttered.

The door slid closed and the screen showed 'IN USE'. Indicator lights flashed on and off three times. There was no sound. After a few minutes, the screen displayed 'READY'.

Zyrin sat down on a bench nearby and waited. Many people walked past. Some paused to look at the portal or read the sign, but nobody bought tickets. Finally, the device beeped and the screen changed to 'IN USE' again. Then the door slid open and the middle-aged couple emerged, beaming.

Zyrin went over to them. 'Zyrin, blogger for Wired In. What was it like?'

'Amazing!' the woman said. 'The station's so big—I couldn't believe it. And the view! The Earth looks like a giant globe.'

'Quite remarkable,' her husband mumbled. 'Never seen anything like it.'

'What did the teleportation feel like?' Zyrin said.

'Do you know, I don't even remember it,' the woman said. 'One moment we were here and the next, we were there.'

'Didn't feel a thing,' the man said.

Zyrin had been studying them, trying to find some clue as to what had happened to them, but they looked and sounded exactly the same as they had before. The woman smiled at him and they walked away, hand in hand.

There was only one way to find out what it was like. Zyrin went over to the booth and bought a ticket using his corporate credit card. His editor might cringe at the expense, but a story like that would attract new readers. Many reporters had written about the device, but as far as he knew, none had actually tried it. The attendant stamped his hand. He stepped inside the portal and the door automatically slid shut.

'Stand still in the middle of the circle,' a recorded voice said. 'Scanning is about to commence.'

A screen on the wall lit up, showing another box-like portal in a large, bare white room, presumably on the International Space Station. There was no other visual clue that anything was happening. However, a faint humming noise emanated from the circuits on the walls.

A glint of silver caught Zyrin's eye. It was a watch lying outside of the circle. It looked expensive. Hadn't the woman had one just like it? Yet she'd still been wearing it when she left. He reached down and picked it up.

'Synchronisation error,' the voice said. 'Please stand still in the middle of the circle. Restarting scan.'

'Stop! I've changed my mind. Let me out.' Zyrin tugged at the door. It didn't budge. He pounded on it and shouted, 'Help!'

'Scanning complete. Deconstruction commencing,' the voice said.

Zryin grabbed the nearest bundle of wires and pulled. They came loose with a shower of sparks.

'Hardware error X2198B,' the voice said. 'Unable to process command. Aborting.'

The humming died away and everything was silent. Zyrin was reaching for the door again when movement on the wall screen caught his eye. The door to the

space station portal had slid open. Someone stepped out—himself! An identical clone, wearing similar clothes and dangling a silver watch from its hand. Zyrin watched in horror as it walked across the room.

The door to Zryin's portal slid open and he found himself face to face with two serious-looking men in dark suits. The ASEP logo was embroidered on their jackets.

'What's going on here?' one of them said.

'Look,' Zyrin gabbled, pointing at the wall screen. The clone had stepped out of sight. 'It was me—it created me—but it's not me—'

'Did you vandalise this device?' The ASEP agent looked at the dangling wires.

'It wouldn't stop—it wouldn't let me out—'

'Damaging government property is a serious offence. Come with us.'

The two agents grabbed Zyrin's arms and dragged him out, ignoring his protests. They hustled him towards a car waiting at the kerb. He struggled futilely, still trying to understand what had happened.
Part 2: The Right to Life Tribunal

'The tribunal is now in session,' a robed attendant said.

Zyrin stood on one of a number of white pillars rising from the floor of an enormous, domed chamber. His lawyer (actually, Wired In's) stood on a pillar near him fiddling with her portable computer. An ASEP lawyer glared at him from across the chamber. Three judges sat in chairs on the tallest pillars in the middle, rotating slowly as a group. Only the head judge looked old enough to be respectable. The other two looked like they were barely out of high school. They all wore dull grey robes.

The public gallery was empty apart from a cluster of ASEP executives in expensive-looking suits. Nobody from Wired In had turned up.

The head judge said, 'Counsel for the Australian Space Exploration Program, please state your case.' Her shrill voice echoed around the chamber. Her tanned, lined face bore an inscrutable expression.

The ASEP lawyer's pillar slowly rose to the same level as the judges'. 'Kolmogorov, representing ASEP, your honours. The facts are as follows: on day 154 of this year, the person of interest, Zyrin, while in Sydney, Australia, purchased a ticket for the device known as the 'portal', currently being used to access the International Space Station...'

Zyrin glanced at Tereda. She was studying her computer screen intently and didn't appear to be paying attention.

Kolmogorov continued. 'Due to Zyrin's wilful vandalism of the device—'

'I object,' Tereda said, her pillar rising suddenly. Evidently, she had been listening after all. 'The alleged vandalism is a matter for a criminal court to decide. y client has not been charged with, or convicted of, this offence.' Her pillar sank again.

'Upheld,' the head judge said.

'Due to a technical malfunction—' Kolmogorov said, glaring at Tereda, '—the process was not completed and extraneous genetic and other material remained in the device. Two ASEP security guards later discovered it.'

Zyrin realised, with a shock, what he meant by 'extraneous genetic material'. 'You can't call me that! I'm a person!'

'Please refrain from addressing the tribunal directly,' the head judge said. 'All comments must be directed through your lawyer.'

Tereda's pillar slowly rose again. 'Could you explain the teleportation process to the tribunal?'

Kolmogorov pressed a button on his computer. The circular wall around the chamber lit up with a diagram: numerous boxes and lines annotated with mathematical formulae and acronyms. Zyrin stared at it in bewilderment.

'This box represents the device on Earth,' Kolmogorov said, as a red dot appeared on the screen. 'And this is the device on the International Space Station. The transmitting device uses proprietary technology to scan a user's DNA and encode it in digital form.'

Zryin glanced around the chamber. The ASEP executives were studying the diagram intently, as if somehow they could understand it all.

'The data is transmitted through space using Speed of Light Transfer Protocol—SOLTP. It's not literally at the speed of light but it's close—'

'We've all heard of it. Move along,' the youngest judge said impatiently. He didn't look much like a judge. He had green and blue tufted hair and a seahorse tattoo on his cheek.

'The receiving device reconstructs the user and their clothing and belongings using atomic matter stored in a tank under the floor. The process is commercially classified, so I can't provide any further details.'

Tereda said, 'And what happens to the user in the transmitting device?'

'The cellular material is no longer needed, so it's deconstructed and stored in the tank there for future use.'

'That's murder!' Zyrin shouted. 'You're not teleporting people, you're killing them!'

'You must not address the tribunal except through your lawyer,' the head judge said impassively. 'This is your second warning.'

Tereda spoke again. 'From the information you've given us, counsel, it appears this is a replication device rather than a teleportation device. Is that correct?'

'You could say that,' Kolmogorov admitted. 'It is scientifically impossible, at this time, to transmit physical matter through space and recreate it. Therefore, the device transmits only data.'

'Yet ASEP calls it 'teleportation' in its publicity material. A sign near the device on Earth reads: ―This teleportation device has been used by the Australian Space Exploration Program for the last ten years...'

'I object, your honours,' Kolmogorov said. 'It's not the tribunal's responsibility to consider matters of misleading advertising. Counsel should take up that complaint in the relevant court.'

'Upheld,' the head judge said.

Tereda studied the notes on her computer, looking flustered. 'My client informs me that he became suspicious when he discovered an object inside the device that had belonged to the last user. It appears to have been replicated but not deconstructed. Could you explain how that occurred?'

'I believe that was due to an unrelated technical problem. That will be subject to a separate investigation.'

An ASEP executive slowly rose on his pillar in the public gallery. 'Your honours, we developed the portal fifteen years ago, and it has saved us significant time and money. We can send a scientist to the research centre on Mars in a matter of minutes whereas it would take months by spaceship.'

'But you're not sending them. That's the point,' Zryin muttered.

The head judge frowned at him.

The third judge looked at the ASEP executive thoughtfully while rotating past. He was tall and thin and his red hair was stylishly gelled into a wave. 'You have only been using the device in your space program for ten years. Were there problems with it?'

The ASEP executive looked uncomfortable. 'I believe there were a few issues in the early stages of development.'

'Were there any situations like the current one? The user being left behind in the transmitting device instead of being 'deconstructed'?'

'Not that I know of. The problems were to do with data being mutated or lost.'

'So those users died?'

'Your honours,' Kolmogorov said. 'The people who participated in the early experiments knew the risks and gave their informed consent. We have video footage and signed documents to prove it.'

Tereda spoke up again. 'But what about members of the public, like my client? Do they understand how the device works? Do they give their informed consent?'

'The information is available on the ASEP website.' Kolmogorov touched a button on his computer and the website appeared on the wall screen, with its spaceship logo and 'Reaching for the Stars' slogan. He navigated his way through various icons and links until he reached a page labelled 'Technical Documentation' then selected 'Portal Device B783X5c version 522' from a list. A page appeared with links to 128 documents with titles like 'Extra-cellular matter analysis by degenerative hydrocarbon spectrography'.

Tereda said, 'Your honours, I submit that the average member of the public would not find, read or understand these complex technical documents.'

'The information is available,' Kolmogorov said stonily. 'I also submit that it's common sense that any type of 'teleportation' would involve cellular deconstruction and reconstruction. How else could it be done?'

The red-haired judge said, 'The issue here, as I see it, is that the devices are not reconstructing the same physical material that they deconstructed.'

'With respect, your honours, it doesn't matter. The clone is genetically identical to the original.'

Tereda said, 'Your honours, I would like to show you the clone. He is still at the International Space Station.' She touched a button on her computer and the image on the wall changed to a small room, painted white, containing a bunk bed and hygiene unit. The Zyrin clone sat on the bed leaning against the wall, looking bored.

Zyrin stared at it, both horrified and fascinated. It was as if his reflection in a mirror had come to life and stepped out to confront him. Who was that person? How could it claim to be him?

Tereda said, 'He has been kept in a holding cell at the station since the, er, technical malfunction was discovered. He has no knowledge of what occurred. I have not been permitted to contact him.'

The head judge said, 'Why is he not present at the tribunal?'

The ASEP executive who had spoken before rose on his pillar again. 'Your honours, ASEP does not dispute his right to life. Our dispute is only with the person of interest here.'

Kolmogorov said, 'Your honours, I submit that Zyrin has no cause for complaint. By purchasing a ticket, he agreed to be transferred to the International Space Station, and there he is.'

'No I'm not!' Zyrin said.

'He agreed to the terms and conditions of the device. They are written in microprint on the ASEP stamp on his hand.'

Zyrin stared at his hand in horror. He had been signing his own death warrant by allowing the attendant to stamp him.

Tereda said, 'How could he know that the microprint exists, let alone read it?'

'The attendant at the ticket booth could have provided more information, and a reader, upon request. ASEP is not responsible for his ignorance or unwillingness to obtain further information.'

Zyrin glared at him. If he could get his hands on Kolmogorov...

The red-haired judge spoke up again. 'Regardless of whether Zyrin should have been better informed before using the device, the fact is that now both he and his clone exist. Are they the same person? If not, does that mean that the clone created during a normal process is not the same as the original? These are serious issues we have to consider.'

Kolmogorov said, 'Your honours, no scientist has ever proven that a person has a soul. ASEP submits that people are only the sum of their genetic makeups. Zyrin and the clone have identical genes, so neither has any greater claim to be the 'real' person. However, Zyrin here should be deconstructed as per protocol.'

'No!' Zyrin shouted. 'No, no, no!'

He suddenly realised that he was shouting to himself, as a wall of translucent material had risen up from the edges of his pillar to the ceiling, cutting him off from the chamber.

The head judge fiddled with controls on the arm of her chair. Her voice came through a grill in the ceiling, slightly distorted. 'You will remain in the isolation tube until further notice due to your inability to obey tribunal rules.'

'Help me,' Zyrin mouthed at Tereda.

Tereda said, 'Is ASEP more concerned about following protocol or protecting its reputation? The clone believes that the teleportation was successful and that he was transported. My client here knows the truth. Obviously, it's in ASEP's best interests to silence him.'

'ASEP's reputation is irrelevant,' Kolmogorov said stiffly. 'We are only concerned with legal issues.'

Tereda said, 'Your honours, I submit that the clone is not the same person as my client. Identical twins have the same genetic makeup, but are different people. They become separated in the womb while Zyrin and his clone became separated much later in life. Yet, like twins, they obtained different consciousnesses and therefore different identifies at the moment of separation. Both should be allowed to live.'

The ASEP executives started muttering amongst themselves in the public gallery. The one who had spoken before rose up on his pillar again.

'Your honours, that would cause innumerable social and legal problems. Both would compete for the same home, job, friends. Each would be convinced that he is Zyrin and nobody could tell them apart... it's completely impractical.'

Kolmogorov said, 'Your honours, the argument is irrelevant. ASEP did not create identical twins. Zyrin voluntarily underwent a scientific process that was interrupted. He should not exist now. The tribunal must deconstruct him to correct this error, and to fulfil the legal conditions that he implicitly agreed to.'

The red-haired judge spoke up. 'Could you explain the timing during a normal 'teleportation' process? Is there any point at which the user and the clone exist simultaneously?'

'The user in the transmitting device is normally deconstructed immediately after scanning, while the data is being transmitted. There is a very brief delay before the receiving device completes its construction of the clone due to the complex science involved.'

'So there is a point at which neither copy exists. Interesting.'

Tereda consulted the notes on her computer. 'My client told me that he heard the message 'Scanning complete. Deconstruction commencing' just before the malfunction. The clone at the space station wouldn't remember hearing that, would he? It wasn't part of Zyrin's memory at the time that his brain cells were scanned.'

'Your point being?' Kolmogorov said.

'I submit that during every 'teleportation' process there is a moment—even if it's only a second or two—when the user in the transmitting portal has a different memory, and therefore a different consciousness, to the one the clone will have. Even if ASEP turned off that message, there would still be a slight delay during which the user would observe and think, thus creating a discrepancy. By deconstructing a user, you are violating their right to life. You aren't replicating them, you're replacing them—with an imperfect copy.'

There was silence in the chamber. The three judges looked thoughtful as they rotated past.

'Both sides pose strong arguments,' the head judge finally said. 'We will now retire to consider our verdicts.'

The light dimmed in the centre of the chamber. The three judges swivelled their chairs around and leaned forward, whispering to each other. The conversation continued for some time, while Zyrin watched, becoming increasingly agitated. Finally, the lights brightened again, the judges swivelled to face the chamber and their pillars rose to their full height, towering above everyone else.

'The tribunal has reached its verdict,' the head judge said impassively.

There was silence as her robe slowly changed colour, darkening until it was black.

'What does that mean?' Zyrin said. Nobody heard him. 'Hey! What does it mean?'

The red-haired judge's robe darkened too, until it was also completely black.

Tereda fidgeted uncomfortably, avoiding eye contact with Zyrin.

The seahorse-tattooed judge, who had hardly spoken during the hearing, had rotated to face Zyrin again. 'I find that Zyrin and the clone are distinct individuals with the same legal rights. There is no need for the tribunal to determine which has the right to life. Both do.' His robe brightened until it was pure white.

The head judge said, 'As there is no unanimous verdict, Zyrin's right to life is asserted.'

The ASEP executives by the wall started talking amongst themselves. Kolmogorov frowned. Zyrin leant against the wall of the tube, feeling suddenly weak.

The tattooed judge said, 'As a right to life issue, I order ASEP to suspend use of the portal until a government review can be carried out to determine issues of ethics and consent.'

'I object, your honours,' Kolmogorov said, beads of sweat appearing on his forehead. 'The cost to the government—'

The judge ignored him. 'I also order ASEP to transport the clone to Earth by spaceship. That will take some time. Meanwhile, all interested parties can work out a plan for Zyrin and the clone to co-exist. Good luck.' He smiled slightly.

The lights in the chamber dimmed again.

'The tribunal hearing is over,' the robed attendant said.

Chris Broadribb

Blaxcell, NSW

Nightshift

Aristidis Metaxas

Katoomba, NSW

Just my luck to draw the short straw... it's early morning, 3am, and I'm pulling a nightshift. I'd rather be home with my family. It's my 'lunch break' and I'm alone on the top floor terrace of the office tower, overlooking the sleeping city. Five stories below the streets are empty save for the occasional car. A drunk stumbles along, shouting 'Merry Christmas!!' A smoke, coffee and chocolate... anything to get me through the night... this night. The boss left a few cans of beer in the fridge for the nightshift – to celebrate Christmas. I crack a can open, the cool liquid clashes nicely with my hot black coffee. Soul food when you're on the night moves... the red glow of my cigarette matches the red of the traffic lights. I fumble for some coins in my pocket, nothing, just paper money, can't buy snacks from the vending machine or play the video game. The cafeteria is now shut; Helen the cook has gone home for the night. What a night! Silent night, Holy night.

Who is this hurrying somewhere laden with presents so early down below in the street? Another car disappears in the distance towards the suburbs. Some houses have lights on, shining through the windows, so many homes filled with the excited rustle of toys being wrapped carefully while the children sleep. Other windows are dark, like the vacant eyes of people who have seen too much and don't want to look any more. A song comes on strong to me from the radio 'NIGHTSHIFT'... and in my mind a word begins to spin, like a Mantra, round and round, it takes off on its own like a slow train-ride-to-nowhere-and-yet-a-somewhere ...

Somewhere

Somewhere

Somewhere

And somewhere a mother has skimped and saved and gone without,

just to be able to put at least one small present under a tiny tree for her sleeping child.

And somewhere a daughter is given the keys to a brand new red sports car.

'Wow – for me?! Awesome!'

'Merry Christmas Darling!'

And somewhere a man is told with anger 'It's always yours!'

And someone says 'I never belonged to you, ever.'

And somewhere last evening a father finally

arrived late from the bar to 'take Mum Christmas shopping', something

he promised weeks ago but 'never got around to it'.

'Sorry Darl.'

And somewhere a father, now divorced, denied to see

his children on Christmas Day—weeps.

And somewhere an old man living under a bridge remembers his childhood,

remembers Christmas Eve

in the old country, when the snow fell silently in thick flakes to the ground

outside his window, and the room was filled with the sound of 'Silent Night'

from the old valve radio, the sound of sparklers crackling, the smell

of pine needles from the Christmas tree, the flickering candles, and then it was time to enter the living room to see if St Nicholas had come.

And he had, as always, and there were trains, and cars, and windup toys, and the room's darkness was lit up brightly by the small candles on the tree, the aroma of fresh pine needles wafting through the home. And there were chocolates and nuts and sweets and glittering lights.

And outside the snow kept falling, falling, and the child would wish that

the night would never end,

would never end, in his memory.

And silently the man thanks all those dear loved faces who made Christmas so special and a little boy so happy,

so happy, even just for one

night.

And somewhere a wife opens the door on Christmas day to her husband,

finally come home after staying out all night with a woman he had just met at a Christmas party, and she says nothing because of the children, just wants to get the day over with, because it is Christmas.

And the man, embarrassed, guilty, trying to make up, trying to escape the pain of the morning after, does not know what to say, it all seems so long ago.

What did happen last night, what did happen early this morning?

Did anything really happen?

And somewhere a preacher, on Christmas Eve,

so many years ago,

because his old church harmonium had broken,

sat down and wrote a simple song,

a Christmas carol

for his little parish, never dreaming, that one day, one day,

his little carol would be sung all around the world, by so many tongues

and many voices

but with one beating heart.

And somewhere someone dies.

Someone old, someone young, not on Christmas day, dear God, surely not on Christmas day!

Is there no God? Are our prayers not to be answered?

And somewhere a child is born, and somewhere a child watches

as his mother walks away forever.

And somewhere someone is shot down in the street, and someone has killed a man.

And somewhere someone steals, and somewhere someone is hungry,

and somewhere a child still believes the lies.

And somewhere someone is told 'Our friends won't be coming after all today.'

And somewhere someone says 'We're going to drop in at Mum and Dad's later on the way.'

And somewhere there is loneliness

and somewhere there is companionship

and somewhere there is happiness.

And somewhere there is grief at the loss of a partner so close to Christmas.

And somewhere there is a death remembered,

and somewhere tales are retold again of people remembered and are no more.

And somewhere there is forgiveness.

And somewhere a door opens and there stands a brother given up for lost.

And somewhere someone says 'Come in...'

And somewhere someone says 'Get out!'

And somewhere a son won't talk to his father on the phone.

And somewhere someone says 'Don't ever call me here again.'

And somewhere someone is without a job or money on Christmas Day,

and somewhere someone can't even buy food, let alone a card or a stamp.

And somewhere someone's mailbox is empty.

And somewhere someone's mailbox is overflowing

with cards all saying 'Merry Christmas!'

But the occupant of the house

lies dead on the floor,

while the phone rings, with someone somewhere trying to call and say

'We're coming over for Christmas Day, surprise! It's been such a long time,

but you know how busy we are with

the kids,

it's been such a long time.'

And somewhere a voice whispers 'Grandma's is not answering her phone ...

I'm worried.'

And somewhere someone remembers a dead wife

and somewhere a Swaggie catches a fish

and shares it with his cat on Christmas Day.

And somewhere someone says 'Just tell her I am not home.'

And somewhere a dog dies in the snow

a lost pet, far from home.

And somewhere someone would rather be with their lover

than with his wife.

And somewhere someone says 'This is the happiest day of my life.'

And somewhere someone thinks this is always the saddest day of the year.

And somewhere the Salvation Army is out there rain, shine or snow—on the nightshift.

And somewhere someone says 'Here, brother, take my hand.'

And somewhere someone is looking at old photographs and holding back the tears

but it's no use, they come, they come. It's ok, cry silly old bastard,

no-one can see you anyways.

And somewhere someone looks at a photograph on the wall and says 'She's coming today.'

And somewhere a mother prays in the church for her son on death row

and somewhere someone visits a grave with an armful of flowers and a heart full of shame.

And somewhere someone sits by the phone and waits for the call

that never comes

and somewhere someone hopes that the call she dreads will not come.

And somewhere someone is told that 'Father died last night,

it was so sudden.'

And somewhere the doctor says 'It's a girl!'

And somewhere there is a loud knock on the door

and someone drops their empty cup in fear.

And somewhere a young girl lies dead in an alley

with a smile on her face and a needle in her arm

happy at last and free from pain and awful loneliness.

She got a special deal.

Because it's Christmas—

'This one's on me—Merry Christmas, love ya, Babe!'

And somewhere a homeless man tries to keep walking all night

through the freezing streets of the city to keep warm and to stay alive for another day.

No room at the shelter—on the nightshift.

And somewhere someone calls out 'He's still breathing!'

And somewhere someone says 'We tried all we could, sorry.'

And somewhere a young man steps out the front door

leaving everything he has ever known behind him

with a heart full of hope, faith and love and a dollar in his pocket.

And somewhere someone returns back to the place they left years go.

And somewhere a mother thinks of her firstborn she gave up

to give the child a better life.

And somewhere a father is trying to find a runaway daughter

and somewhere a son is told 'She died many years ago.'

And somewhere someone says 'I am sorry.'

And somewhere someone shrugs and says 'It's only words.'

And somewhere someone says 'I hate you'

and somewhere someone says 'You lied to me.'

And somewhere someone sits in a cheap hotel room and writes a letter

over and over and over again and never sends it.

And somewhere someone sits in a park and feeds the birds

and somewhere someone's grandfather dies in the snow.

'He went quickly. It's better that way. At least he didn't suffer.'

Didn't suffer.

And somewhere on a radio the band plays Waltzing Matilda,

as the old soldier takes the shovel from the shed and buries

his fistful of medals in the backyard,

but he can't bury the memories, no hole would ever be deep enough

for the memories of that dreadful bone chilling cold

Christmas Day in Europe when he was kneeling in the snow

holding the dying body of the enemy he had shot.

Sweet Jesus!

The 'enemy'.... was just a child, barely 16 in a uniform far too big

and clutching a useless old rifle. And there was nothing he could do except hold him tight to give the boy a little warmth and watch him die

as his tears flowed and the snow slowly turned red

and the child called out for Mother.

And he goes and lights a candle in the church, like he's done for so many years on Christmas Day, and wishes that it had been him

dying there in the snow, and not the boy, because something inside him had died there too on that day

the day the light in the boy's eyes went out for ever. And he can't forget

he won't forget

no Sir.

He will never forget...

And somewhere a little girl is building a snowman with a funny nose and laughs:

'Look Daddy, it's you!'

And somewhere and somewhere

and somewhere

the words repeat over and over...

it's you... it's you... it's you ...

And someone calls me by my name, the music fades away... the train in my head slowly comes to a halt and stops...

I smile, I am not alone, my friends have come, as they always do,

on the

NIGHTSHIFT.

Dedicated to YOU

Aristidis Metaxas

Katoomba, NSW

Australian Stage

Albany Dighton

Faulconbridge, NSW

The Loch Ard Gorge ne'er loses its charm;

It grasps the earth with an iron ore strength.

Apostles gathered like sheep on a farm,

And posed ornate, albeit at arm's length.

Their kin, the Olgas, are sacred and bold,

Which the Kooris revere in their Dreamtime.

As too they protect Uluru like gold;

Too precious, priceless, majestic, divine.

The Three Sisters will stand proud on their own;

A beauty, a wonder, in this harsh land.

Surrounded by creatures, they are not lone;

Flora and fauna do play and hold hands.

The deserts connect them, rivers run rage;

United, binded, Australian stage.

Cancer Loss

Mary Krone

Glenbrook, NSW

I lost the body that had been so kind to me

So sorry for it

A poor reward

For exemplary service

Inter-galactic scale pleasures

Beautiful babies

Boundless energy

Pain racked and mutilated

Barely recognisable

Lost a third of itself

Much less to rot

if it came to that

Just Wait Until I Tell My Mother

Bob Edgar

Wentworth Falls, NSW

I was just minding my own business. After all, it wasn't my choice to be there.

However, once I had experienced the tranquil fluidity, I felt that I could never leave.

I floated as if on gossamer, hoping for no sound to be heard other than the beating of my own heart. Other sounds though did invade.

I would feel the sounds of love soothing my soul. I would hear the sounds of melodious life. I tasted the nectar of creation.

I was all that existed, for nothing else in my realm mattered.

I was innately aware that I had a greater purpose for being there, in my cocoon of never-ending peace.

Nevertheless, I was content to envelope and possess the love that abounded and surrounded my self.

I reiterate, I was just minding my own business, when the bubble burst.

I was thrust into an environment of cacophony, attacked with scissors, held upside down by the ankles and smacked on my bare bottom.

All this amid squeals of delight from the perpetrators.

I am now one day old as I begin my search for the people responsible, and heaven help those who survive.

Bob has lived in the Blue Mountains for over thirty years, and has been a seafarer for over forty years. Between the bush and the deep blue sea, he finds an abundance of inspiration.

Nature's Tears

Linda Callaghan

Bullaburra, NSW

Cool tears flow from up above,

And glide over rocks like the wings of a dove.

They caress the face of the stone so smooth,

Burning hot with emotion they try and soothe.

The trees are dying and losing their leaves,

The air is thick, it is hard to breathe.

Seas choking with oil and fish barely there,

Mother Nature pleads, does anyone care?

She cries out loud for all to hear,

Can't you see the devastation, can't you feel the fear?

Will it ever end; will it ever recover,

Disasters abound one after the other.

It is time for change the earth is calling,

We need to stop the sky from falling.

We can make a difference you and I

Save the earth, we can but try. m

Linda is a Blue Mountains artist who this year won the prestigious Rose Lindsay prize at the Springwood Art Show. More of Linda's artwork can be viewed on her Red Bubble page at http://lindart1.redbubble.com/

The Book

Bonni Arabi

Woodford, NSW

My legs are crossed,

Carefully place atop;

A book

My hands caress

And very much love

The book

My fingers outline each

Beautiful page of

My book

Puppy-dog ears and

Crinkled pages define

This book

It's old and unique

and loved, perfect for

A book

A Crime by Any Other Name

Mick Langford

Goulburn, NSW

The horizon was just showing the first faint blushes of apricot and salmon, heralds of a new day, when the peaceful pre-dawn quiet was shattered as the tanks, planes and storm troops of the invader charged across the border into the territory of their small and virtually defenseless neighbour in a well-coordinated blitzkrieg.

'They fired at us,' proclaimed the invader's leader indignantly, 'and from five o'clock this morning we have been firing back.' What the leader did not mention was the real reason for the attack: more land to be occupied by his people—the chosen people who believe themselves to be a race apart. Lebensraum!

The father and his eldest son were making their way to work from the humble one bedroom flat that was home for their family of seven when they were spotted by a squad of the invader's troops, who immediately opened fire.

With a grip, tightened by terror, on the arm of his twelve-year-old son the father started to run and dodge as fast as he could in a frantic search for cover. He could hear the bullets snapping and buzzing past them, like an angry swarm of supersonic wasps, coming ever closer.

The young boy, who had soiled himself in fright, tripped on some rubble that was all that was left of the surrounding houses from a previous attack by the invaders the year before, and fell heavily. As he was helping his son to his feet, the father felt several bullets tug at his clothing like small children wanting his attention. Having dragged the boy to his feet, he had taken no more than half a dozen steps when there was a loud meaty thud and he found himself on the ground, unable to move.

As the first tendrils of what would become a savage agony were starting to radiate from the bullet that had destroyed his spine, the father was trying to tell the stunned youngster to get down. The invaders fired again, chopping the boy's face apart as he fell. And the attacks went on.

A scant kilometre to the rear of the attack, the invader's heavy artillery pounded the houses and small shops, schools and meagre hospitals of their defenseless neighbour, while the gunners went through, what was to them, no more than another exercise in ballistics. Several joked that dawn was the best time to rain destruction on someone; at least it was nice and cool while they were humping all these heavy shells to feed their guns.

The smaller nation had already been turned into an overcrowded, poverty-stricken ghetto by years of blockades, embargos and destructive incursions by their powerful and aggressive neighbour. At each incursion, another piece of infrastructure vital for any form of civilised living was attacked and destroyed: power stations, water and sewerage systems, roads, bridges and even hospitals. Nothing was safe.

Cowering with her four children in the tiny bathroom of their fifth floor apartment, the young widow had been trying to pray, but the argument she had just had with her younger brother had reduced her to gibbering terror; she well knew the deadly consequences of any show of resistance.

Her brother had been forced into adulthood very early in life. He became the man of the family during a previous attack by the invaders five years before. He was thirteen when their parents and his brother-in-law were killed, along with seven others, when a plane, returning from bombing a partially reconstructed water purification plant, had strafed them with cannon-fire as they were taking wounded neighbours to seek medical help. The invaders, as was their way, had even prevented the few working ambulances from travelling out to collect the many dead and wounded that they were creating.

When he reached the flat roof, two floors above the apartment, the angry youth raised his grandfather's rusty old hunting rifle and started looking for any sign of the invaders when he heard the unmistakable sound of approaching helicopters. They would pass no more than 500m to his south.

He only had three 40 year old cartridges for the old rifle, so it was more of an outlet for his life of frustration, humiliation and despair than a serious attempt to bring down an enemy aircraft. Sadly, as luck would have it, the pilot of the lead gunship happened to look in the brother's direction as he fired and the round ricocheted harmlessly off the thick armored glass of the cockpit.

With the precision born of thorough training and repetition, the three gunships turned as one and opened fire. The lead aircraft fired a long volley of rockets into the front of the building, collapsing large areas of wall and exposing the people trying to take refuge in their homes. His wingmen then followed through with a volley of white-phosphorus incendiary rockets, turning the building into a seven-storey funeral pyre. The roar of the flames was not quite loud enough to drown out the tortured shrieks of the trapped and dying. The gunships returned to formation and flew back to their base for breakfast. And the attacks went on.

Two days later and several kilometres to the west, a squad of police, backed up by a lightly armed group of civilians, gathered in the enclosed yard of a local police station trying to decide how best to defend their women and children from their relentless tormentors. Their tiny country had no army; they had no tanks, artillery or planes with which to defend what little they had left from previous occupations. A militant political group had managed to smuggle a few assault rifles, light machine guns and grenade launchers through the invader's blockades, and this meagre harvest would have to form their defence. After a lifetime of persecution and humiliation these few young defenders were more than willing to die if it meant taking some of their tormentors with them.

These unfortunate people were on their own. World leaders made their usual hollow noises of fake condemnation about the invaders, but as usual, nothing else is ever done. There is no oil here. There are no mineral deposits or wealth of any kind for the other nations of the world to covet. They just look the other way, and in a few days, the world has forgotten, and the attacks go on.

By noon on the tenth day of the invasion, the surviving medical facilities were in critical overload with dead and wounded pouring in from the lunar landscape that had been their city. Because of the invader's long-standing blockade, the medics and doctors looked at their bare supply rooms with helpless dread.

They were already forced to wash bandages taken from the dead so that they could be used again. They had run out of antibiotics and painkillers and were almost out of anesthetic, and they would soon have to dig out shrapnel and amputate the limbs of wounded children while they were awake. Luckily, one of the doctors had some fishing line at home and an orderly had risked his life to fetch it, so they at least were able to stitch up the wounds.

Sitting quietly in a corner of the crowded waiting room in blood stained and dusty clothes, is a five year old girl, her dark, sunken eyes grown large and round with the horror of being trapped, unhurt, for three days in the collapsed wreckage of her bombed out house, surrounded by the dismembered remains of her family. She would neither eat nor drink, and gave no response to any stimuli; she just stared into the middle distance at a hell only she could see, a hell that she has scant likelihood of ever leaving.

Despite the constant threat of mutilation or death, families come out of their makeshift shelter during the daylight hours to bury their dead and to pick through the broken remains of their homes, looking for anything that had survived the bombing and artillery. A dented pan that could still be used for cooking or to boil some of the now unsafe drinking water; a small and cherished teddy bear, dusty and with one eye hanging off, but still ready for a cuddle; faded photos in broken frames of parents and grandparents, and other loved ones murdered by the invaders; some warm clothes or blankets to ward off the bone-deep chill that is part and parcel of being forced to sleep on concrete or the cold, stony ground.

The hundreds of people made homeless by this most recent attack had no choice but to join the thousands of others, victims of repeated past attacks, in the overcrowded tent cities of the refugee camps. Refugees in what is left of their own country; marginalised, poverty stricken and humiliated. Helpless, hopeless, and seemingly friendless, they see no light at the end of the tunnel, for of course, there is none. And the attacks went on.

The consuming, deep-seated hatred that these atrocities, quite naturally, engender in the hearts of these refugees is the mirror of the invader's obvious hatred of them, and the invaders must hate them indeed to cause the amount of suffering they bring about with their constant, merciless and barbarous aggression.

These events form the catalyst for a self-perpetuating cycle; out of humiliation and grief, the victims, with a tragic inevitability, strike out in the only way they can, at their tormentors who respond with overwhelming force, killing yet more women and children, destroying more homes and making more refugees. It is a commonly held, and probably inevitable, belief among these embattled and persecuted people that this is, in fact, the invaders' true goal: to keep the cycle going until there is no-one left to resist. They could then add the rest of the country to the large percentage that they had already stolen.

After weeks of relentless attacks, the invaders decided that they had done enough damage for the time being, and started to withdraw their forces, unit by unit. It was almost dark as the last troop of tanks reached the border. In the middle of the column of armoured vehicles, the command tank proudly flew the invader's national flag from a large radio aerial, and as they ground their way home the last rays of the setting sun struck the flag, turning the white field behind the six-pointed blue star a much more appropriate blood-red.

Mick Langford

Goulburn, NSW

Ned Kelly's Feast

Barry McGloin

Holder, ACT

'Yin's Heavenly Salad for Ned Kelly, Tom Lloyd and Joe Byrne 18 August 1878'

Ned Kelly sat in his cell singing softly, a condemned man, beaten by pride and circumstance, in body and spirit. He could have escaped the Glenrowan siege; indeed he had been tempted in the night while resting on the mountain, his Gethsemane. But Ned Kelly was an invincible, a man of honour and reputation, and Joe Byrne and the two boys were trapped in the pub.

At the end though, he staggered shooting through the rising mist and Joe's mare, Music, had skittered past rearing her head, pleading 'climb up, climb up'. When the return fire was a cacophony of hail in his headpiece, then he might have bolted, mounted and away like the phantom Bunyip. But his limbs were buggered by shot; besides, he'd had enough.

Well he was cooked now. The boys in peace, God rest them. Just him alive. The trial had not gone his way. He'd thought justice would prevail, but the traps had cooked the books, larded the witnesses and the judge had no bone of mercy, understanding or justice in his body. Fry him forever with those puffed up adders who ponced and preened in high places wanting him and his kind eradicated from this English colony. He represented rebellion, uprising, disrespect. An outlaw. His own plan for an Irish Republic had gone awry, skewed and skewered by treachery. That bastard school teacher warning the train. I trusted him. Snakes in the skullery. When all seems well and the glow of trust is upon you be wary. Too much grog. The train late. Too many jigs. The innkeeper Ann was a possum in the pantry—very generous. I won't see her again. What could have been.

We had a grand life, me and the lads. The freedom to roam our land—our land, our beautiful land, in all its seasons, its glorious colours, aromas of earth and rain on grass and eucalypt. Such majestic moods and holy power to cleanse and heal. We was kings, bold fearless and free. What did Joe say? Lords of our Dominion. I liked that. Poor Byrne, trusted friend. Many's the sprightly conversation we had around the camp fire night, belly full of roo or possum stew, pass the pipe of Chinese midnight wisdom and he yabbering the pigtail tongue. Kings in our warmth and certainty. Remember the time we ran the horses to Melbourne Joe? For old times' sake, with Tom, then with a bag of booty out to the Palace of Plenty? And the twins from Siam Yin and Yang with their treats and tricks and monkey nuts—such soft welcome splendour and comfort and full feathered dreams of far off Siam. Kings. And the food from the heavenly orient to conclude. Sure my eyes and palate never dreamed such wonders.

This place, now the cold blue sour stones of English justice, I could walk through if I tries hard, inviolate to their repression but for the figure crouched there. I don't know his demeanour, whether friend or foe. The priest gave small comfort, my absolution withheld subject to my contrite heart which can never be when I would do the same now. My mother locked in the same gaol, my precious guiltless mother, on stewed up testimony from a crooked loafing scoundrel of a traps arse which the judge never questioned. 'My God,' says I, and the priest wanting me to be contrite. 'Never,' I replied. 'You'd better leave, Father, before I say more than I should, before the fire in my breast bursts upon your eyes.' He went out praying for my soul—he could be praying for some time yet. But I pray that Our Lady will intercede. She has helped in the past though I could not find comfort anywhere after shooting Kennedy, but what choice had I? I wonder if St Peter at Heaven's gate will look at my sins of murder, theft and pride and see my circumstance. I wonder, will he quote the commandments, my second judge, don the black cap and send me down again, or say, 'Ned my son, you was pushed beyond your limits. Step inside and rest now.'

I could have let Kennedy go as he run but I thought he was aiming, didn't I, not surrendering. I'm sure that was it. I think that was it. I swore that was it. I may have been mistaken and my impulse, my command of aim, my mantle of retribution before my men, may have interceded. 'God forgive you,' said he. Dying words. No, I'm sure I gave him justice. Took his watch, yes, old habits, just business. And shot him. So the creatures of the bush wouldn't eat him alive. Merciful. More than the fat sow faced beak who was Irish, like traps Scanlon Kennedy and bastard Lonigan, who I beat to the draw with a hole smack through his skull for the time he grabbed my privates in Benalla. Your own kind, the scimitar of English justice. What hope is there? He is me and I him. Like the figure in my cell. Let's hope to Christ St Peter is Christian, says I.

History

This recipe was handed down somehow through the years on yellowed paper to family on my wife's side. It was entitled 'Yin's Heavenly Salad for Ned Kelly, Tom Lloyd and Joe Byrne 18 August 1878'. Some venerable great aunts way back in Wangaratta may have been friendly with Ned or his family or henchmen and a Byrne was also on my wife's side and so through my interest in Kelly it somehow materialised, to my great delight, here in Canberra. The paper went up with our house and belongings and 500 others in the bushfire of 2003. The Siamese recipe surprisingly, or perhaps not, matches pretty well some modern Thai salad dressings and the cooking of the seafood would not have changed, apart from the medium. The ancient straight from the sea to the wooden fire method would undoubtedly add flavour.

So here it is and when you eat it give a nod to Ned, perhaps shoot him a prayer, and imagine if you will the Palace of Plenty, and the bounty of Yin and Yang, tricks treats and monkey nuts, the scimitar of justice, the meaning of truth and the absolution of inhumanity, and humanity as a whole, and the redemption of souls. On the other hand just enjoy it.

Ingredients

4 baby calamari

4 large prawns

2 Tasmanian scallops

baby spinach/rocket mix

6 thin slices tomato

1 small cucumber sliced thinly lengthwise

herbs—any combination coriander, dill, mint, Vietnamese mint, tarragon, parsley

pea sprouts, a few

red capsicum, a few thin slices

Dressing

2 coriander roots scraped

2 pinches sea salt

5 garlic cloves peeled

5 scud chillies

3 tablespoons white sugar

6 tablespoons lime juice

3 tablespoons lemon juice

4 tablespoons Thai fish sauce (Nam Pla)

Calamari.

Slice through the outer skin vertically/lengthwise and peel off.

Extract the quill/backbone. Extract the innards by gently pulling the head. Slice the tentacles below the eyes. Slice the tube in rings. Place in bowl with 2 tablespoons of coconut milk and 2 tablespoons fish sauce (nam pla) for 30 minutes.

Prawns.

Peel if you wish or leave the shell on for the colour. You can eat the shell.

Some points

Yin notes that the fish and shellfish (I suggest prawns and calamari, maybe mussels and/or scallops) can be substituted with freshwater yabbies or thin sliced roo. Seafood may not have been so readily available in North East Victorian bush, particularly on some wallaby trail in the Strathbogies where the gang sought to avoid the traps. She writes, or someone for her, 'chinaman garden for heb' [herbs]. Of Chinamen and Chinese gardens there were plenty; in fact Beechworth had a huge Chinese population which has its own cemetery.

Barry McGloin

Holder, ACT

Barry is an ex public servant, happily married and the proud father of three and grandfather of four (so far). His interests are in writing stories and poetry, music—playing and listening—bush walking, photography, travelling, cheffing, good restaurants and gawking at humanity in its many guises.

Miss Bunny

Harold Mally

Allambie Heights, NSW

Rapid fire Chinese speech echoes all around me. The speaker's microphone technique is poor. When she picks it up she taps the mic hard with her hand to test that it is on. Then she holds it too close to her mouth as she speaks, so that it is distorted and echoes all around the coach.

I don't normally take tours but the only way that I know to get from Shanghai to Chou Chong is to take a tour. It's only a short day trip, but part of the price you have to pay on any tour in China, even a short one like this, is to listen to the tour guide speaking in a language you don't understand, going on and on endlessly about whatever it is they choose to go on about. At least I don't understand the language, so I can tune out, although the way this woman speaks, never stopping to take a breath, combined with the distortion and echo must make it annoying even for the Chinese; but they listen politely and don't seem to mind.

Before the coach left I'd had a brief conversation with the tour guide. The bus is only half full, but I sit near the back. I watch her going to all the passengers individually and having an animated conversation with each. I am not sure what they are doing, but as she proceeds towards the back of the bus I realise that she is exchanging phone numbers with each of them. It makes a kind of sense. If anyone gets lost, they don't have to send out a search party. Just use the technology. Luckily I have bought a cheap phone for my travels with a prepaid sim. But I don't know my number.

When she comes to me she asks in English for my phone number. I notice that she is wearing a 'Hello Kitty' t-shirt and a pair of tight fitting very short denim shorts. I hold out the phone and tell her I don't know the number. She takes the phone from me and punches in some numbers. From inside a pocket in Hello Kitty's ear, a ring tone that sounds like a Japanese cartoon theme emanates. She pulls an iPhone from the feline pocket. I have never seen a phone with rabbit ears before. At first I think the protrusions are some kind of antennae, but I soon realise that they are not. She has a yellow cover with rabbit ears on her iPhone. What kind of person would carry a phone with rabbit ears? I wonder. The same kind who would wear a Japanese cartoon character on their shirt and have a cute cartoon theme ringtone, I suppose.

She punches a few Chinese symbols into her rabbit eared phone, which presumably represent my name, then hands me back my phone. She points to the display on my rudimentary communications device and says 'My number.' I don't know the tour guide's name, so I save the number to my contacts and, in deference to her phone cover, punch in the name 'Miss Bunny'.

Miss Bunny must have done some kind of breathing exercises in her downtime from leading tours, because she is able to talk and talk without taking a breath. She's like an Energiser bunny. Once she starts she just keeps going. I don't know what information she could be imparting to us, but there is plenty of it. Presumably it has something to do with Chou Chong, our destination.

Chou Chong is a water village, like a Chinese version of Venice. There are a few such water towns in China. They have canals and use gondola-type boats as transportation. I've been to one before, a place called Wu Zhang. That was a small village clustered around a few canals. There was no running water in their houses and the villagers used the canal not just for transportation but also for washing and presumably in years gone by for drinking as well. The local gondola drivers would take you around the village for a small fee. It was a quiet, rustic, untouched place, like a throwback to a lost era.

Whenever I met any English speaking locals in Shanghai they would always suggest places to see. Invariably I would answer 'been there,' 'seen it,' 'done it.' Then they would say Chou Chong. I'd say 'No, I haven't been there.' 'You must see it,' they'd say. 'It's a water village.' Then I'd explain that I'd been to another water village, Wu Zhang, at which they would scoff and say 'No comparison. Chou Chong is the one you must see.'

Without warning Miss Bunny stops talking and sits down. I was expecting that she would have to stop sometime, but I am surprised at the abruptness of the cessation. One moment her voice is echoing all around the coach, the next all is silent. There is no build up to a big finish neither is there a winding down, just a brusque finish in what, for all I can tell, may well have been mid-sentence.

We are well out of Shanghai now and travelling through a more rural setting. Looking out at the green fields I regret the fact that I did not bring a book along. My eyes start to close, lulled by the soporific monotony of the bus engine.

A jarring tap tap tap convulses through the bus PA system indicating that Miss Bunny is about to start up again. I look to the front and sure enough there she is, abusing the microphone, holding it too close as she starts apparently where she had left off before, with the same rapid, distorted delivery lacking any discernible intake of breath.

She continues talking until the bus stops. I can see no indication of a water village: no old houses cobbled together, no gondolas, no waterways. Everyone moves out of the bus, no doubt as they had been instructed by Miss Bunny's rapid fire exposition. I follow and blink in what is now harsh mid-morning sun.

Miss Bunny holds a blue flag on a stick. This is our point of reference. We are to follow the blue flag, which she hands over to another guide, this one apparently being a site specific expert. Everyone obediently follows the new flag-bearer.

I feel a little traitorous abandoning our guide to follow this interloper, so I hang back a little and ask Miss Bunny where the canals are.

She laughs and tells me that this is not Chou Chong. This is our first stop, a temple. As we speak more tour buses are pulling up behind us. I ask how many more stops there will be. She tells me that the water village will be next, then urges me to hurry and join the group otherwise I might miss something. There must be a million such temples in this country and I don't understand a word of the language, so I don't think that this would be a complete catastrophe, but I catch up to the group, which is politely listening to the interloper guide's exposition about a small statue of some kind of mythical animal. Before he finishes another tour group arrives and a loud mouthed tour guide carrying a yellow flag starts talking to her group. Our interloper guide leads us to the next attraction, a pavilion containing a couple of statues.

After explaining the finer points of the statues for an interminably long time, the motor-mouthed guide arrives with her group and starts loudly declaiming. So now both tour guides are in the pavilion trying to shout over the top of each other in Chinese, while their voices echo through the pavilion. I move ahead of the duelling tour guides and wait for the group to catch up.

Eventually our tour guide must have finished his prepared spiel and he and the rest of the party start to move on to the next attraction, which is some kind of plaque. The same thing happens. After talking knowledgeably about the plaque for a while, motor mouth with the yellow flag turns up and starts shouting the same speech at her group. This becomes the pattern. The blue flag group moves on, the guide starts talking, the yellow flag group turns up a few minutes later and motor mouth tries to shout the same spiel over the top of our guide. Why they don't just combine the two groups I'll never know.

Back in the bus Miss Bunny resumes her role as our tour guide by tapping ferociously on the microphone to make sure it works, then settling into her unintelligible (to me) non-stop echoing commentary. For someone who obviously loves to talk, it is surprising that her microphone technique is so poor. In spite of this though, I am glad to have her as our guide rather than motor mouth from the temple.

Without any indication from Miss Bunny's tone of voice that we have arrived, I see a sign in Chinese and English welcoming us to 'China's Number One Water Town,' but I don't actually see any water. The first thing I see is a car park full of tourist coaches. We drive past this and there is a new looking housing development and a similarly sparkling shopping mall. This does not give me a good feeling about China's number one water town. I contrast it with the rustic little village that I had been to before and think I would prefer to be back in the water town which is obviously a number greater than one.

The bus stops at a sort of checkpoint beyond which it cannot travel. We all file out and huddle in a little group as the bus goes off no doubt to join the others in the bus compound. I can still see no canals, but Miss Bunny is now totally in control. There is nobody to hand over to; she must be the water town subject matter expert. Apart from the flag, she is equipped with a portable microphone that hooks around her neck and a small speaker attached to her belt, which gives the unnerving effect of her incessant speech coming from the vicinity of her vagina.

She raises her flag and marches up the hill towards the water town, her tour group following loyally behind. I can't help wondering if the way she proudly marches holding the flag is inspired by some kind of revolutionary fantasy. Possibly her grandparents were involved in the revolution and now that the revolution has descended into centralised capitalism, carrying a tour guide flag is the closest she can get to her fantasy of leading a revolution.

Even though she holds her flag high, I am taller than the average Chinese, so walking behind her I am able to reach up and pull on the elevated flag. Miss Bunny turns around quickly to see what has disturbed her flag bearing, but sees it is only me. She smiles an indulgent tourist guide smile and continues, turning to walk backwards occasionally to impart some wisdom to us via her vagina speaker.

My worst fears about this place are exceeded. The water town is overrun by tour groups. Criss-crossing the cobbled streets are multiple flags, all held aloft by proud tour guides, followed by politely interested tour groups. It is evident that nobody actually lives in this village anymore. All of the rustic houses along the edge of the canal have been turned into shops which sell the usual kind of junk that can be found in street stalls across the country: t-shirts, jewellery, jade, silk, junky souvenirs, musical instruments, out of date Shanghai Expo trinkets plus a multitude of food outlets. It is true that there is a woman washing clothes in the canal, but I am sure that she is only there to add a bit of colour. It's a case of 'here comes another tour group, start washing'. This is not a water village. It was once, but now it is a water village theme park, where tourists wander around eating ice creams and taking thousands of photos.

Miss Bunny continues her job with ruthless efficiency. She navigates us through the narrow cobbled pathways, managing to avoid conflict with other tour parties and keeps up a non-stop commentary through her vagina speaker, as she leads us to yet another old house so we can gawk at the way that the ancients prepared food or sat in their living rooms. I spend my time wondering whether our tour guide gets a sexual thrill from the vibrations of the vagina speaker. Maybe that's why she talks so much. Maybe she's enjoying this more than anyone else in the tour group.

All I really want is to go on a gondola ride, but there has been no sign of that happening. In this tightly stage managed tour group, I am sure we will get the chance, but only when Miss Bunny's vagina says so.

We stop at a place and Miss Bunny directs us inside. It is a restaurant. We are obviously now to eat lunch. Everyone else in the tour party is in groups of two or more, so they all take tables together. I sit at a table alone. As everyone is organising themselves, Miss Bunny is on the job ensuring that all are present and accounted for. When she is satisfied that nobody has escaped the restaurant part of the day's entertainment she comes and speaks to me in English. She explains that we are to have lunch here, which I had managed to work out for myself, and that the tour price does not include the meal. I take in this information and ask her if she will join me. She looks at me like she doesn't understand the question, so I gesture grandly, for her to sit with me at my table.

'Oh no,' she says hastily.

'You have an engagement somewhere else?'

'No,' she replies, smiling sweetly. 'It is against the rules. I have to eat in the back.' At least she has turned off the microphone so she is speaking through her mouth.

So while there is less distraction I take the opportunity to ask her when I will have the opportunity to take a gondola ride.

'After lunch,' she replies. 'Free time.'

I order too much food. I get the local specialty which is a joint of pork cooked in some kind of sauce. I also order a won ton soup and some rice.

Most people order the pork, but it is huge; they have two or four people to eat it. I also get the same quantity of rice as the multiple tables. Miss Bunny should have joined me; there is plenty for two, even four. The food is okay, nothing spectacular. The pork is tender and falls off the bones. I do my best to eat everything, but it is a struggle. I am the last to leave the restaurant, because I eat at least twice as much as everyone else.

I leave just as another tour party files into the restaurant behind a yellow flag. The whole tourist operation is coordinated with military precision.

Our tour guide is sitting on a ledge just a small way down from the restaurant.

'Free time,' she says as I approach. 'Be back at meeting point two thirty.'

'Meeting point?'

'Where bus let us off.'

I have seen a few gondolas floating past, but I do not see any place where you can get on. We have passed no pier or anything similar. I ask Miss Bunny how I go about getting a ride on a gondola. She looks at me uncomprehendingly.

'A boat,' I say, making rowing actions. 'Where do I get on a boat?'

'Ah!' Comprehension lights up her face. She points me in the right direction, then apologises because her English is not so good.

'It's a lot better than my Mandarin,' I say. She smiles amiably. 'Your English seems pretty good to me,' I add.

'I find it hard to understand your accent,' she says.

'But I'm Australian,' I say indignantly. 'I don't have an accent.'

She doesn't seem to comprehend that this is a joke. 'You from Australia? I'd like to go to Australia.' I expect the usual comments about the Opera House, the Gold Coast or kangaroos, but she surprises me. 'They are doing a lot of good work on eco-tourism there. I'd like to see what they do.'

'Oh, so you are really into this tourism thing, then. It's not just a temporary type job.'

'Oh no. I studied hard at university to get into tourism.'

'You have tourist guide courses at university?' I ask.

'Of course. Don't you?'

I don't think we do, but I have to admit that I don't really know. 'Hey,' I say. 'Why don't you come for a boat ride on the canal with me? There's plenty of room on those boats.'

'No can do,' she says, shaking her head.

'Against the rules?' She nods. I think she seems a little regretful, but I could be imagining it.

Her directions were good so I find the place where I could catch a gondola. Unlike the previous water village that I had visited, where you jumped onto the gondola from a set of roughly carved steps in the side of the canal, here they have built a wharf. It's the kind of wharf that you would expect to catch a cross ocean ferry. There is a ticket office and a large waiting area. I pay a hundred yuan for a ticket and am escorted to a jumping on area where I catch the next gondola.

For some reason all of the gondola drivers are women. They also wear a kind of corporate uniform, grey pants and a blue blouse with Chinese motifs, plus a generic Asian cone shaped thatched hat. My suspicion that this is a theme park is confirmed.

The ride around the canals is pleasant. At least the waterways are relatively unspoiled. Then the gondolier gives me a surprise: she starts singing and she does it gloriously. Obviously it is some kind of local boating song and the sound carries majestically over the water. I can almost feel like I am back in a previous era. I'm glad that I don't speak the language, as I would ask her if the song was passed down to her by her mother and she would probably answer that she learned it from the CD. I am so impressed with her singing that I give the gondolier a tip at the journey's end, even though the ticket price probably included the singing.

As we wait for the bus to pick us up, Miss Bunny takes time out from counting tourists to ask me how the boat ride was. I tell her it was very enjoyable. She says, 'I think you were the only one.' I don't understand what she means at first but after a little digging I comprehend her meaning. Nobody else in the tourist group took a gondola ride. Why would anyone go for a day trip to the water village if you didn't go for a ride on the gondola? I don't understand other people.

I'm prepared for a bus ride home, but the Chinese tourist authority or whoever it is who plans these things has other ideas. The coach stops at a government run shop selling silk products. They hand out exclusive cards which, as members of the tour group, entitle us to discounts. Miss Bunny hands over her flag to an employee of the silk shop who takes the group on a tour in which she explains the intricacies of silkworms and the production of a variety of silk products.

At one point, while extolling the virtues of silk bedspreads, the silk factory employee puts the flag on the counter. I sneak around and pick up the flag and take it to Miss Bunny.

'I've liberated the flag,' I tell her. 'You can take back control of the tour party now.'

She just takes back the flag and hands it to the silk lady. She has a long way to go before she understands the Australian sense of humour.

I don't think anybody buys any of the silk products. As we finally exit the building into the afternoon heat I see hundreds of exclusive cards littering the street where other tour groups have obviously been before us. At least they could have provided a bin.

On the drive back Miss Bunny is back in charge talking non-stop with her poor microphone technique. She just starts and keeps going. I find myself thinking about a university for tour guides. I wonder what they teach there. Talking without breathing? Flag bearing? I couldn't imagine what you could possibly study for three years. At least they could have mentioned not tapping the microphone, not holding it too close. Just as I am wondering if there is a unit concerning sexual stimulation by vibrations from portable speakers, I fall asleep.

The shuddering halt of the bus awakens me. I look around. It looks like we are back in Shanghai but I don't recognise the area. We are parked in front of a building called 'Museum of Chinese Art and Culture'. Looks like another attempt by the Chinese to broaden our minds. I am half groggy from having slept on the bus, but as I step out someone hands us each a lanyard with a 'VIP Pass' attached, a clear indication that it was not our minds in which they were interested, only our pockets.

The tour group is shuffled into a room with chairs all around and no visible examples of art or culture. Miss Bunny is not in attendance. A man comes in and addresses us with an unremittingly passionate speech, the content of which I can only guess. Many of the group seem interested, even excited by the speech. They even applaud the speaker when he finishes.

We are then ushered into an adjoining room in which there are a number of over-priced items of jewellery. These are obviously the examples of objects of 'Art and Culture' housed by the building. An army of sales people descends on the group and starts displaying these items of jewellery. To my surprise, unlike the silk place where nobody was interested, it seems that everybody is captivated by the jewellery. They all negotiate, haggle and bargain with gay abandon. I see many wads of cash handed over in exchange for articles of jade, gold and other jewellery; both buyers and sellers appearing to be ecstatic about the transactions.

I wander around the glass display cabinets a couple of times and stop, just watching the fervent trading, when one of the sales force says to me 'Ah, you show good taste.' Clearly, they have sent in the sales guy who speaks some English. He pulls out from the cabinet a gold ring with a large red stone which is probably a ruby. It has a price tag of Y19,888, which translates roughly to two and a half thousand Aussie dollars. I shake my head and wave my hand dismissively.

'Too expensive? Ah, don't worry about the price tag. We can do you very good deal. Today only. Make an offer.'

I don't want to make an offer. I keep saying no, I'm not interested, while he presses me to make an offer. Meanwhile a couple of other sales people come and join us. I can see from their collective urging that I am not going to get out of here without making some kind of offer. But I had signed up for the water village tour, not the blow the budget on jewellery you don't want tour. So I am not prepared to play their game, so I play my own.

'Five hundred,' I say.

He tells me that this is a very fine piece of jewellery that will make my wife or girlfriend very happy. How about if he comes down to ten thousand?

'Five hundred,' I say.

More sales people start to crowd around. The guy who speaks some English keeps dropping his price, but I won't play the game. I just keep repeating 'five hundred,' expecting him to replace the ring in the cabinet, throw me out and slam the door behind me. But he keeps talking incessantly, like an honours graduate from Tour Guide University.

I am now surrounded by a sales force entourage, who seem to be barracking for a sale. There are oohs, aahs and sighs at each parry and thrust of offer and lack of counter offer.

Finally, frustrated, the guy who speaks some English says, 'I will talk to the boss.'

He goes over and speaks to the passionate speechmaker, whispers to him, shows him the piece of jewellery and confers some more. While this is happening I notice that I am surrounded by the entire sales force, that everyone else has made their purchases and left. I am now starting to feel a little uncomfortable. The passionate speechmaker writes something on a piece of paper and hands it to the guy who speaks some English, who returns to me in a dignified manner.

'The boss says his first son has just been born. To make sure wife and son are both

healthy he wants to keep everyone happy. Today only. He has agreed to this price.' He hands me the paper. Written on it is a figure: Y600.

I am stunned. I had no intention of buying a two and a half thousand dollar piece of jewellery. I was just being difficult. But he's offering it to me for like seventy-five bucks. I would appear very churlish to reject the offer now. I nod my head and pull out my wallet.

The entire Museum of Chinese Art and Culture sales force erupts in a collective cheer. They pat me on the back and shake my hand. They are happy. They are happy for me and for the boss and for his new born son. The guy who speaks some English hands me the ring in a small jewel box as I hand him over six crisp hundred-yuan notes.

Outside it is now dark. I think that I must be the last person out, but when I find the tour bus I am surprised that the lights are off and it is empty. I turn around and Miss Bunny is standing there. She tells me that everyone else has already gone and asks me where the hotel is that I am staying in. I tell her. She says she will call me a taxi. I tell her not to bother.

She notices the ring box I am carrying and asks me what I bought. I flip open the box and display the ring to her.

'Your wife or girlfriend will be very happy,' she says, impressed.

'I don't have a wife or girlfriend,' I reply. Then, on an impulse I hold it in front of her with both hands and say, 'It's for you.'

For the first time since she graduated from the University of Tourist Guides she is lost for words. She gasps, and then says 'I can't.'

I take it out of the box and slip it onto her right hand ring finger.

'Of course you can,' I say. 'It fits perfectly.'

Suddenly we are interrupted by an aggressive sounding Chinese voice. She hides the hand behind her back and responds in a similar tone. I realise it is the coach driver. I also understand that the Chinese language can sound like argument when people are just discussing something. After a brief apparent argument, Miss Bunny grabs my arm and says 'I will get you a taxi.'

I try to protest but she cuts me short.

'It is my responsibility to make sure you get home safely. I will find you taxi.'

She drags me to the main road.

There are easier things in the world than catching a cab in Shanghai on a Friday night. There are plenty of them around, but they are all taken. One stops a little way up the street, we run for it, but someone gets out and someone else gazumps us immediately.

This happens four times. On the fifth attempt, I manage to get there first.

'Come with me,' I say opening the door of the taxi.

She gulps, glances at her right hand and says meekly, 'I can't. I'd lose my job.' She pushes me into the back seat, shuts the door and barks some instructions to the driver.

As we drive into the Shanghai night I realise that I have just given a ring which sells for twenty thousand Chinese yuan to a girl whose name I don't even know.

Back at the hotel I can't help wondering if she is now sitting around a bar with her fellow graduates of the Shanghai Tour Guide University laughing about the sucker who just gave her the best tip she'd ever received. My reverie is interrupted by the jarring sound of my cheap travelling phone.

I wonder who could be ringing me. It takes a moment for me to register the name that flashes on the display: 'Miss Bunny.'

Harold Mally

Allambie Heights, NSW

Come to Me

Toni Paton

Blackheath, NSW

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

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

I locate in a corner—ready to please;

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

For aching bodies, for moans and groans

Relief is with me—pleasures unknown.

I hear many stories, of highs and lows,

Observing in silence- where nobody goes.

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

Remaining the same, whilst others have gone.

My purpose in life is just to be there,

A comfort to all—a beloved rocking chair.

Scatter

Susan Adams

Dangar Island, NSW

Night is a betrayal,

a splintering of corpses

as ribs catch hail.

Tin roofs are timpanis

with branch fall and rainburst clatter.

Dreams fray.

Storm-water drains suck sand to the ends of the shore,

bundled into crazed waves snatching more.

Dorys are frail to the onslaught,

and moon is full and stares

its lighting in disarray.

Mind wakes dazed.

Words are dice, climb ladders

sentences wait in line

unwind

there is no purchase into the day

succumb

energy wet with weeks of rain

surrender.

Birds' feathers are chains

slow prey for dogs irritated with inert

boats broad with water, swell

edges lisp their fail.

Fast river flows its flotsam

heavy current races through

small ferry misses jetty

confused by the powerful eddy.

Trapped in skewed silence

umbrella hoods, cold coats, late.

Day is a raw

ripped and thrown

we walk on it upside down

so much of the sky is on the ground.

Susan Adams is an Australian poet who has been published extensively in anthologies, online and print literary journals, both in Australia and internationally. She has been read numerously on ABC Radio National. Recent publications have included Eureka Street, Eclecticism, Sugarmule (USA), Bacopa (USA), Hecate, Social Alternatives, Ascent Aspirations (ca), Cordite and The Chaffey Review (USA).

The Happy Moon

Toni Paton

Blackheath, NSW

I was aroused one morning from my precious sleep by the shrill call of the telephone.

Lazily answering I was greeted with 'Good morning mum, I am feeling rather ill and wondered if you could look after Jilly today?'

'Of cause darling' I answered (as mothers do). 'I will be there very soon.' I donned my clothes, grabbed some breakfast and set off to pick up my treasure. The sun was streaming through the car windows, a glorious day, but how would we fill our time together?

I was greeted by a poorly looking daughter and a very cheerful little girl. 'Hi Nan, can we have a picnic?' What a good idea I thought. On arriving home, with Jilly's help we packed our hampers and set off to a delightful bayside park. Several hours passed with rides on the swing, climbing ladders and walking. Intermingled with these were countless questions. 'Why is the water so blue?, where do Skinks sleep?, how high is the sky?' With my almost pathetic knowledge of these things I endeavoured to give reasonable answers.

When the time came to return home with a very weary little girl, we gathered our goods and left. I rang her mum, who still sounded ill and said I would keep Jilly with me for the night. The response was of grateful relief.

Jilly had a doze in the car on the way home so had restored energy on our return. We sat and read stories and had our dinner. To complete such a lovely time we went and sat on the balcony as evening closed in. There were exclamations of delight as the Kookaburras sang and the light faded, putting a different perspective on the things Jilly was so familiar with in my back yard. After sitting quietly for some time I was surprised when she asked 'What is that big smile in the sky?' I looked up and there was the perfect crescent of the moon, resembling a big smile. I explained to her what the moon was and how its shapes change. After some consideration she very determinably stated 'But I know why the moon is smiling tonight. It's because mummy is getting better and because we have had such a happy day. It's a happy moon.'

Brushed

Stephen Studach

Katoomba, NSW

Colour has been my life.

I have always loved to paint. Mark says. ... said. ... that I have a palette for a mind, frames for eyes, paint brushes, sticks of charcoal and crayon, for fingers.

He would scrutinise my face. 'Yes—I do believe they look like little number two squirrelons your brows ... and ... double zero sable those lashes, let me see ... Or are they horsehair or camel?' Leaning closer he would run his lips, his tongue tip, gently along my eyebrows, making my dark bristles slicker. Then we'd tangle, gently tangle our # 2s and double zero sables; paintbrush kisses—enraptured, tangled butterflies.

Outside, night. Painted jewel box, background of black velvet—spackled with glimmers, vibrant in lights, neon, argon, wet gems, flickers, glows, several coloured melting road stain demands; Stop, Prepare to – Go. Spectral rainbows born of oil plus light, trapped in tarmac, lancings of long headlight brush strokes, mixed perspectives, blended in shadows. The city is a sooty rubbing, running in the wet.

Closer, there is a ghost aura of rain upon the lit roofs of the houses. An anorexic corona, a slim halo of brightness, alive with millions of instants of spiked impact. The moon a crescent, like a gondolier's bright shining craft—or an Egyptian funeral barge. Sailing from clear break to clear break in the clouds. The sky one big, grubby, forbidding Nile of mystery.

I have painted since school and before then of course, if you can count pre-school messes and muddles. One session of finger-painting (teacher absent) turning into literal finger paintings of other little pupils' little fingers, digital art courtesy of yours truly. My paintbox and I, nigh inseparable, they lined up at four years of age to get my unique touch, all pleased with the result. Save for Barry Michael, grimy little boy and most perverse for his age, who appeared at the head of the line with his pale willy peering out of the open fly of his shorts. The infant art maestro had frowned, shrugged, and proceeded to paint that eleventh digit. Just then the teacher had returned, thus bringing an end to my budding public success. Earlier in my career, and more than once or twice, Mum would enter from some gossiping, gardening or a backyard clothes hanging to witness my gallery exhibits: earthy daubs, swipes and smudgings in excremental ochres all displayed at child-on-couch height across the wall and window. The totally nude artist pleased and beaming, or in an ecstasy of chimpish giggles and couch bouncing, bare bottom revealing that her palette still runneth over.

My head is still full of childhood colours—wooden garden sun seats and table setting with their display of different coloured slats. Iceblocks. Favourite toys. Comics. Kaleidoscopic fireworks nights. All beloved colours, thus I kept them, in my head and heart. They still creep, flow, sift, merge, mix into my paintings, those primary colours and shades of a child living on a super chameleon that ate rainbows and blushed endless colours and variants of colours and was called the world.

I even went through a synaesthesia stage, where I could taste, and smell, colours through my eyes, in my head.

Hmm, colour and taste, taste and colour. I ate colour. With my eyes. Yum.

I remember, in the early eighties, how old was I? I don't know but it wasn't Auntie-Jan's-kitchen-table-height age, because I remember that I had to get up on a chair to see—the horses race!

Auntie Jan had a racehorse biscuit tin. The steeds and jockeys, in an array of wonderful colours, went right around in a full circumference on the side of the big, round bickie tin. Once I was in position, kneeling on a chair herself, tin set on the flat table's cleared surface, Auntie Jan would give the tin a spin and—they were off! Round and round, whirling colours, straining horses, flashing silks and backgrounds, round and round and—me fixedly watching mesmerised. My horse always winning. My prize, a biscuit from the always-lucky-dip of that sacred tin. Satisfying ending to a ritual.

I don't think I ever actually looked down into that tin of treats, the highly sensitive, unmarked naked animal that was my hand reaching in, pawing about delicately, for biscuits could be delicate prey, arm at near full-stretch. Anyway, the outside of the tin was what really interested me.

Always painting, always colouring, paper and coloured pencils and paint sets for presents. A wordless self education of countless colouring books; how I loved to fill the spaces, the inherent choice of such a duty, my tilt-headed concentration, and the cramp of my colouring muscles. Physical education for the young artist. Pumping lead.

Ah, I'm not doing too good a job at this domestic, no—industri(al)ous painting now though. How long have I been at it? Ten minutes, twenty, half hour—more ... My watch is over there on the bathroom floor. Can't read it from here, the face is blurry to me. They say the paint fumes can get to you when you work indoors. And I do have the windows and the door closed, and locked. But the scents of paints have never bothered me. This mix I'm using now has a not unpleasant tang. Rich, a little sad. Hmmm—sound like a wine taster who's savouring the bouquet. Opening a red. Passing judgement. All in all I can't say that I regret uncorking this one.

In the bath, I can see the little metal instrument that I used to open the containers, more than half painted itself now. Also, one small empty can, streaked sides, passion's drooling.

Always messy—messy, messy, messy. With paint, as a kid, as other kids were with mud.

I suppose I could paint some one colour works on this whitest of white surfaces. They'd be painted over later anyway. P'raps I'll even write a poem.

Here I am, cleaned and set

Painting in a medium of wet regret

Dipping in the palette of what is shed and what has died

Armed with brushes fisted, rowing in colour, I thought I fled

I tried ...

I lied, easier to sculpt in mud under torrential falls of rain

Than stem such tide,

Drifting on such vivid flood, riding down in

Whatever? OK, poet she ain't.

I'm probably using too small a brush. Dad always said that I had no idea about 'real' painting. Dear old Dad, he seems to have been on hand at so many of my 'artworks'; like some biased, but mostly silent, judge. It seemed that he was standing by each time I painted anything. Or at least any of the important ones. I painted a chair once. He was there. Pride and pleasure evident in all of those little gestures and demonstrations, if not so much in his sparse words. It was there in the easel he made me, constructing it over several weekends in the garden shed. Wanting to buy my first 'real' painting, not taking no or even maybe for an answer. Beaming at it in its cheap, ill matched frame and explaining where he would hang it as he held it in his rough, tradesman's hands. And hang it he did, in the living room where it was exhibited for fourteen years. If I'd had a dollar for every visitor who got the 'my daughter painted that' I wouldn't have had to become the wealthy commercial artist my Dad kept hinting I would be. Dad took it with him to the coast when he and Mum split up.

But that pride, that pure and honest parental pleasure changed a little as I got older and looked like being serious about art as a career. Not a 'real' career. But 'Art' with a capital 'A'. Something that I was quite serious about and committed to. You could see it, according to my folks, in my dark blue eyes from a very early age. Yes sir. Yes indeedy.

To me 'art career' is an oxymoron. Art is more a demonic possession. Or, in my case, an obsessive possession.

So bloody cold in here.

Poor Daddy. He is so far away now. But Mum and Sammy dog and Wills the cat keep me company. Wills is at the window now. Looking through, watching me with those calm, curious, knowing half-Siamese eyes. He's probably right though, Dad, this brush is small (but what a big, big mess I've made with it) and it's clumping very badly.

Cold.

Also, I painted the family dog once. Tolerant black Labrador-cross-kelpie bitch, standing, sitting, then laying there before me, trying, half-heartedly, to get away at each stage, tethered by my piping girl-child-artist pleas. Difficult, hairy, warm, wagging canvas; that creeps, swims on grass, blends painted hair with painter's hair, tastes the artiste's efforts and finds watercolours not to her lolly-tongued liking/licking (even though it is water based and she is a 'kelpie' as I pipe up later to my, briefly, horrified Mum who discovers us), her smiling eyes and mouth; I don't care what anybody says, dogs do smile. Sammy does anyway.

And Sammy's Mum Shadecloth's (long story) head turning to me, her smile her wagging droopy-damp tail, buoyant, even under the hose she was condemned to for my artistic crime. Eager to pelt and grass roll and pelt some more!

Shadecloth's dear face. They only hurt you once, dogs. And that's when they leave you. But not yet Sam, descendant of Shadecloth and Chaz, you're still the noble black bitch family Lab-kelpie-cross. All white muzzled, peppered by the years, and true. Solid in more than weight, firm though tolerant with cats. Occasional idler with Wills who is, after all, a special feline.

In uni art class my rep as the 'crazy painter' loner kept me at the margins, but I took pride in it and was happy enough there. I took some quiet, smug satisfaction from the confusion and curiosity that my exhibits of painted bone installations, my own less than subtle facial shades of paint, my severely bobbed black hair, like glossy starling's plumage, mix and match St. Vinnies and rumour of dyed pubis and lesbian persuasion engendered.

The 'crazy painter'.

Maybe I was crazier than even I knew.

But if that's so then I like insanity. At least it is sincere.

People get caught, clogged in your mind. Some like hairs from brushes. Others, like a log jam.

Finger-painting across his broad chest and flat belly, playing, experimenting with the vegetable based and watercolour paints on the canvas of his studio's sheets. That ecstatic, messy, wonderful time. Time of the brand new brush. Saying it needs more white, and squeezing him, in slow pump, squeezing the glistening pearl drops out. The saturated tangled rainbow of his pubic area ...

Mark, so brooding and extrovert, narcissistic, obsessive, lazy. Me, so brooding and introvert. He always wanted to go out and mingle with other artists, observe the masses. I wanted to stay in and mingle with and observe each other.

That's what we were: Romeo and Oubliette.

Him with his angry young man mask.

My discovery, by degrees, of the hidden manifesto which he, like so many males, carried. A dumb, selfish, greedy, dumb, dumb, stupid dumb agenda, which could effortlessly turn to verbal polemic.

Man is a sexual creature, a carnivore, he said.

Yeah, well, he sure ate me up.

Chewed.

Spat.

It was the spitting out that I really didn't appreciate.

I've seen his new meal. A blonde girl, as soft and smooth as a scoop of vanilla icecream. Dessert? I don't think she'll last long. His heat will melt her. Though it's the chill that really kills. He'll be on to his next entrée before her taste has left his lovely, smirking mouth.

As an artist it should have appealed to me—the simplicity of suffering. A few easy brush strokes of a concept, like Japanese calligraphy, the ease masking the complexity. But with it always is the warm pig wallow of self pity.

He was mixing oils with another, finger-painting in my head, smudging our work in progress beyond retouching, turning it into something trite and ugly and not worth the canvas it was set upon.

My heart was framed, boxed, buried. But not dead, not quite, it still twitched, writhed in pain, deep in the sterile, barren earth I had sealed it in.

Yet did it want to live, still did it want to splash colour, but only with the strongest of passions as its medium and collaborator. Love, respect, truth. No shadings there just basic, prime colour.

Ah, my current attempts at art! Never so hard a work, nor so easy a one.

Earlier, outside, people moved and talked down on the sidewalk, not twenty metres away. Close enough to help, to advise, to suggest, close enough to pretend not to notice? Close enough for all this in here to be a secret. For now. Maybe I'll paint the windows as well.

A while ago I heard Sam out there, sniffing and snuffling her insistent nostrils along the sides and the bottom of the locked door. Then she started pawing. Barked. I barked back. I roused on her and she went away. Whined for a while from the laundry, then went quiet. Poor Sammy.

This bathroom, first floor rear of the house I was raised in as a middle-class Oz girl-child-tomboy, is so white and cold, Mum. 'Bout time I finally got down to that redecorating I'd always been warning you about. Sure—white tile and porcelain is OK but just a little bit of colour—plleeeez!

Well, now you're living in the weekender permanently what better time to start?

I remember your last visit, your hurried kiss upon my cheek—the lighter, brief caress of one of your strands of brown-grey hair, come loose from your 'do'. Another brush stroking my face. But I know your tones are true, Mum, always have been. Your words to me that day—'Never mind, luv, it'll be alright.' No doubt already hoping for a new 'boyfriend' for me, maybe even a husband, thus a grandchild by insinuation, guaranteed, before too long; a few weeks, few months, a year? Knowing of my sleeplessness and weight loss over the past three months, your all but silent fears of anorexia. Then, your back to me—on your way out—date at Auntie Jo's.

For hours after I lay on my bed, lightly painting my face with virgin brush where you'd hair-stroked me. Using the pigment of pondering misery to coat over all touches there. Bitter gouache mix stored in its tube till it became potent, then stored some more till it was impotent and composed no longer of tears, pus, venom and regret but only the pure, transparent crystal liquid of 'don't care', the sweat of the pearl of apathy. Care less.

Paint it over, coat it over, all, hard touches and soft, even yours Mum. Yes even yours and Dad's. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

How could I tell you that you'd already had a grandson, though you'd never met, nor would you. Unknown, in name and nature. They'd taken him from me, with cold instruments, at my request. Laid him in a cold steel pan. Where he is now I cannot say. Nor what colour his eyes were, nor tone of skin, nor what his laugh would sound like, nor even his cries. He came silent and closed eyed and still from me. Sleep brutally disturbed—then to sleep once more. I'd been drugged out on painkillers, my vision further blurred by merciful ducts in action, running fit to empty, dry up, for all time. Do your stuff ducts. Dead ducts. I cannot say where he is now. Only, for certain, where he is not. Your grandson of one hundred and fifty days. But it cannot be a good place. For there is no such place.

Wherever he goes will he go in pieces, as he left? In my naivety I'd thought it would be like a tooth extraction under anaesthetic. But the steel pan returned to me twice. I remember that much. Will he rest in pieces?

Oh I had wanted him so much. But I traded him for the wants of his larger looming lookalike. I assume that they would only 'look' the same.

I always commemorate his deathday by completing a painting. Sometimes I try to do the whole thing, from start to finish, in one day. Working myself into a stupor. The finished works, even the 'sunny' ones, are never easy in my eye. They crawl there, like bugs. But this one, this bathroom (apt) work, is the last of that ritual.

He, the full-grown child, had bought me a fine set of paints and brushes, as reward? There to greet me with them as I came out of my fog. Well, I suppose it beat flowers outside the clinic.

With gifts, it's the thoughtlessness that counts.

Worse still, I slept soundly. The flesh of my (our) flesh (broken and abused doll), easier on me than anyone ever had been. I heard no crying babies in the darkness of my sleep. My vented child had nothing to say to me. Why bother. Back turned, gone ...

I've never used anything from the artist's set he got me. Until now.

This one is virginal no longer. Seal broken. Given up the essence of its perfect cleanliness. As I did, oh so long ago, on those studio drop sheets, a small, unique, Rorschach of vibrancy that every girl should frame (car accident for a museum) at least in her heart's gallery. Mine is nailed there.

The tiny can of paint, used up long ago. I had to move on to my other supply. It didn't last long. Like everything to do with Mark.

Well, almost everything. I still carry one budding bouquet of his that breaks out in bloom at fairly irregular intervals. He tainted my colours. A mix of misery to paint with. Each time I see or smell its bloom, paint its angry buds with treatment, each time I mentally squeeze out its stinking purulence I see him with his smiling face, now a manikin's grin in my memory. A perfect, beautiful curve of deceit hiding ... something hot and vivid and yearning 'neath its uncracked scab, surface of perfect brush stroke that I could not see was one smooth blemish, masterfully hued crust only. Over the abstract of his truer tones.

How about some more wall poetry?

wet pain

There, I print it with my brush, letter dropped, missing, as if clogged in the hairs (squirrelon, sable, horse, camel, goat?), or lost by the painter's aphasia (aphasic stroke), on a section of wall that I intend to obliterate with the same colour.

we pain

Maybe I won't paint it out.

I wrist-wave on my colour. Taking it out in paint.

The artist as a palette. Self portrait in angry hue.

But some of this colour is calm, cool, sleepy.. .

It would appear that I have painted myself into a corner.

It has always been a satisfying feeling for me—to see the unpainted surface disappearing under the colour glide.

More constructive, or destructive, I know to get into his rooms, his studio and do a paint job. Let them stand and contemplate and ponder on our collaborative effort. Don't have a key anymore though. He sent one of his friends around to pick it up. I threw it at her. Said 'Have you fucked him too?' She slunk off. I took that as a 'yes'. I didn't miss her smile in retreat. But I couldn't destroy any art, save my own. And he is a fine artist. Damn him double. I wouldn't do a job on the studio anyway. For fear that he wouldn't sign it.

Oooh ... So tired. Maybe it's the cold. Sleepy, ready for bed. Nice warm bed, Sammy on the covers, snuggled dog blanket. I've been in this position, leaning against the bath and the wall, too long.

... Won't be able to finish my poem now. Maybe I can reach it—no, too long down in the one spot. Knees, legs all apathetic, crash-tackled by lassitude. But my, it is so cold in here now. Something to rhyme with fled, tide, flood. Oh well. Someone else can do it. Me, I'm all out.

The tin horse biscuit barrel race is a swirl of blurred and whirling colours now —

My horse, still winning —

A horse, a dog, a cat, of another colour ...

Oh — take me away moon, I can see the shadowy figure at your stern, I want to cross the sky to elsewhere.

But I really am running out ...

Just know ... Here, I'll write it ... on the wall — my last marks before I

Sleep ... That my spirit ran out, before my paint pot wrists did ...

***

I see, through swimming vision, the silly stick figure of my child that I had painted earlier upon the wall on the opposite side of the room from me; painted him about the size he would have been if he had made it to age four or five. I see it redly ripple, wave like an image set upon water, through my lassitude I see it move. It comes around along the bathroom wall to me, playful hop-skipping type movements, but weird, weird. It stops on the wall just above the bath beside me. For just one second I am scared of it, as it looks at me with its runny empty head. But then, I feel a warm, almost hurtful affection for this skinny thing that has come to usher me on. I turn to it just a little with a lazy roll of one shoulder. And we stare at each other.

I start to mumble something, but it puts out a finger (one of the ten slim sticks that I had given it), touches my lips.

I feel it.

I feel, nothing.

With that ... I sleep ...

***

What is this?

Coming round, coming round? To be dead?

No. No ... coming round to lights, to being wheeled, out of the bathroom – Ooh! They bumped the doorjamb. I am under a sheet but I am not dead. I am under a sheet, and restraints, not dead, not dead, bandaged, bandaged — both my wrists. Tired, so tired still. Wheeled by two men, in uniform—ambulance people, and another, woman, holding a plastic pack with tubes dangling over me. She sees me looking, smiles, says something to one of the others. 'No, no, no, no, no,' I moan weakly through my unwashed paintbrush throat. Oh, and there's Mum, poor Mum, red eyed, worried. I see two more uniforms—police? Hear Sammy bark, somewhere close? Nothing in sharp detail. Save the prime colour, the prime colour ...

Into the hall, my eyes tracking the colour ... Mum touches my arm. 'Oh thank God, thank God you called the emergency line, dove, thank God, thank God ...'

But I didn't, Mum, I try to answer, but my throat is dry, clogged, voiceless. I'm not looking at her though, I'm looking at the colour. The lurid, rich bright that I let out of myself and that they are now trying to put back in. Looking at the colour, the colour ...

A series of childlike stick figures, close-close together, a mono-coloured army in wavering file along one wall and out from the bathroom into the hall, up to the phone table.

'I didn't paint those ...' I croak sleepily.

Some of the details are very distinct, very ... vivid to me. Vivid as the still moist marks on the emergency zero of the keypad phone—still off the hook.

That would have helped ... to trace ...

Had the caller's voice sounded like me, like a small child, a child or a sleepy woman?

As we near the front door Mum is fussing about me, wiping at my lips with a spit-moistened hanky. I do not take in anything that she is saying, her muttering, soft, warm words. But I am calm and at peace, for I know what happened. I know that they found me in the bathroom, I know that I did not, could not, crawl out, make a call, then crawl back to the bathroom. Nor do I think that I would have enough food for my brush to have painted all those images. I wonder what sort of message they have recorded at the emergency centre ... I consider this uncaringly as I am taken out, still tasting—despite my mother's ministrations—my own unleashed colour, laid there in one slim print, upon my lips.

Into the front yard, up into the back of the ambulance. I will live. My decision. I will live. Because I know. Because I have seen ...

As they pack me up and into the ambulance, as I look down to one side I see Sammy wagging her tail, and the small child's handprint in red upon my happy dog's back.

Stephen Studach

Katoomba, NSW

Rikki, Nikki and Connor Transmedia

Barry Walsh

Griffith, NSW

HEAD: codeX2 Mystery Theatre #33 storytelling's incomplete. Robot from Czech robota=compulsory labour deconstruction transmedia is mythvertising ANZ landscape escapades if 'Rosen Grail' keyword hidden in plain sight.

My story's 'oneninety' Mystery Theatre of the adverb, for coming to terms with 'how'; when, where and why contest comprehension, as do variables. Number abstracts and when written acquire a new dimension i.e. 190=A.I. zero to my Artificial Intelligence Contact-Zero dilemma of meeting Rikki, Nikki and Connor at the pub for 2011 Rugby World Cup quarter-finals telecast. A double-header on both Saturday and Sunday, during Wales verses Ireland first quarter I introduced the day's news of a 14 year old's arrest in Bali for buying cannabis. Saturday October 8 is seventh anniversary of Schapelle Corby's arrest at Bali's Denpasar International Airport for importing 4.1kg of cannabis in her body-board bag. But saying the schoolboy's name influenced the situation caused conspiracy jests Saturday 22 October Final foreplays 22-10 Wales win. Then France's 19-12 upset over England prompts Rikki to tell a tale embodying both scores. 2010-1912=98 or 99 installation is #17 battle of sacred calendar's first month. January was eleventh month until Gregorian 1622 in Catholic nations, 1752 Protestant England.

'What #17 battleground?' I demand, aware by the 15th Century the Julian 365.25-day solar year's erroneous, as Easter festivities misaligned seasons. To sustain 10 days deleted, January 1 New Year is only centurion years 400 dividable are leap years, making 97 per 400 instead of Julian's 100.

'Julian New Year was March 25, so 17th day of year's 10 April, being the Gregorian's 100th day of year with 256 days remaining.'

'So?' I challenged, uncertain of my 'Right-Angle' premonition.

'January 17's Saint Anthony and Sulpitius the Pious feast days. Saint-Sulpice, Paris' second largest church to Notre Dame de Paris is sacred France headquarters and secretly ―The New Temple of Solomon‖. Members of its sacred Angelic Society communicate with angels and proclaim ―Christian Apocalyptic Warriors‖ to ―bring about the end of war with the arrival of the king of the world‖. Association Angelica is a right-wing group of influential people identifying Pharaoh=God concept as King=Son.'

'And you accuse me of conspiracy paranoia,' I rebuke, distracted by #17 squaring-corner to the adverb's #26 awakening. Awareness is like learning to swim or ride a bike. Slow progress is 'oneninety' Mystery Theatre to script-writers other than God. Shakespeare's a great playwright observing:

JACQUES [II.7.140-144] All the world's a stage.

And all men and women merely players;

They have their exits and entrances,

And one man in his time plays many parts,

His Acts being seven ages.

As You Like It eighth to tenth letter As You Lie Kit impact, Rikki's reply hits.

'You're at 17th Union of International Architects Congress Montreal 1990. 2011's your first year in the invisible, having dared visibility 2000-2010.'

Reeling, I refrain from countering with 3@666=1998 notification of E.S.P. Bridge to the 5 Senses gives TOA*TAO visibility. 'Being #17 initiated is no guarantee of knowing the full story.'

Rikki nods at the pub's big screen, as if receiving approval. 'Montreal was settled in 1641 as New France by Compagnie of One Hundred Saint-Sulpice association. 1990-1641=349 is Magic 3 Square's top-left-corner.'

I'm confused. Rikki's glyph is 2011-1626=385=CHE to Vox Piscis, or Book-fish containing 3-Treatises found in belly of cod-fish in Cambridge market on Midsummer Eve's by Protestant Reformist priest-writer John Frith. Dr Joseph Mede of Christ's College Cambridge saw a fishmonger find a tiny sextodecimo-book gutting a cod-fish 23 June 1626. Scholarship credits it to Frith's Tower of London imprisonment for anti-Catholic stance on purgatory and Eucharist. Refusing to recant, he's heretic sentenced 23 June 1533 and burnt at the stake 4 July with fellow disbeliever, tailor Andrew Hewet.

Ghost-character Chloe Speedie's first documentation's a 21st birthday classified in The Canberra Times 23 April 2007. 349's in Magic 3 Square and Purifying Fire, but 385 lower-left's only the latter so 381 is 1626+381=2007 context. April 23 is St Georges Day and Bard of Avon's death on 52nd birthday. Elizabethan Christenings and burials records William Shakespeare's baptised 26 April 1564, buried 26 April 1616, with 3-or-4 day gap standard practice.

'349 is 70th Prime,' noted Rikki, explaining. 'Montreal [Mont Royal] Canada was founded 15 October 1641, 106 years after 1535 Jacques Cartier European discovery. Gregorian correction to Papal States was 1582, when October 15 followed 4, so Montreal aligns 1641-1582=59 is 17th Prime.'

Flabbergasted, I'm aware 106 is a Rosicrucian secret entity, as founder Christian Rosenkruez's born 1378[13@106] and died 1484[14@106].

'Magic 3 Square 492 top-row reverse as 294th Prime 1931-294=1637 Fermat's Last Theorem. 1637 as 258th Prime is Purifying Fire's diagonal to other's 654-365[days]=289=172,' added Rikki.

'What?' I'm lost in 70 and 106 numeric-7 aligns Chloe's C49=72 corner.

'258=YH York Hunt and 365-258=107 as day-of-year is 17 April, the 17th day Julian's first month juxtapose January's St Sulpice is Angelica code.'

'10 and 17 can't both be Julian's 17th day,' I'm aware April's second month.

'7 day discrepancy is 411 Rhenosterspruit contingency to the sextet at Canberra's Watergate axis mundi,' replied Rikki, with 'Until the third and fourth quarterfinals' departing comment.

As Nikki and Connor left the pub, I did also.

***

17th and 100th day abstractions like 17+100=117 is January 17 remain unanswered. Rikki, Nikki and Connor are only interested in Sunday's quarterfinals, until in-between today's two games I revisit the Australian schoolboy arrested in Bali. Name transfixed, I mention Lewis is a Freemason term for doorman-guard and in masonry a lifting device of medieval times. Relevant to Ancient Mysteries as building the Pyramids of Egypt attest. Bracing for conspiracy jest, Nikki surprised with glyph.

'Chicago's codeXX2000,' I gather Nikki's abstracting Australia beat South Africa 11-9. Montreal aligns 9-11 Time Pyramids as 45+75=120 year Settlements, whose 11-9 structure abstracts 'Sustainable Cities with 2020 vision' Resolution of 18th UIA Congress Chicago 1993. codeX2000 to Montreal is Umberto Eco novel Foucault's Pendulum 666 new millennium diabolical plot's a miscalculation of sacred in plain sight. Chicago '2020 vision' infers Montreal support or opposition. Nikki's reply shocks.

'TOA with 2020 vision aligns Tech stockmarket April 17, 2000 crash.'

6-tier Time Pyramid installed 2000 to rendezvous Chicago's 2020 vision aligns a bubble ready to burst, but April 17's unbelievable. Hidden agendas fighting for present-future dominance reflects Christchurch February 22, 2011 6.3-magnitude quake killing 181 people and destroying much of the city. Australians call their earthquake prone trans-Tasman neighbour the Shaky Isles. Christchurch expects a 'big shake' but 222's Foucault's Pendulum Templar 1308+62=1344+666=2000 is 1344+444=1788[British penal colony settlement Australia]=222=codeX2000. Christchurch first quake unknown faultline of Darfield epicenter, September 4, 2010 is 94=ID to my charge, recharge, electrocute ID critical letterhead since 2007. I asked Rikki.

'What's it to 411 Rhenosterspruit contingency in April 10/17 anomaly?'

But Nikki said, '3 August 2011 collar-bomb dirkstraun1840@gmail.com email to USB extortion of Sydney schoolgirl is ransom note architecture.'

I'm Australia lead South Africa 8-3 at halftime spellbound. Accused Paul 'Doug' Peters set-up the email account in Chicago on May 30 and didn't check or use it until 65 days later on August 3, when he's on CCTV accessing it once at Kincumber Library and twice at Avoca video shop on NSW mid-coast. Dirk Straun is protagonist in James Clavell's Tai-Pan novel, which begins 26 January 1841 British settlement of Hong Kong, being Montreal's bicentenary year. But fourth quarterfinal stops me asking if Peters' 1840 implies Montreal bicentenary as installation architecture. I watch dazed.

3 August's 38 is Chloe Speedie's CHE consistency, Peters is described as an Australian parading as Englishman. CHA=381 is 1626+381=2007 of Chloe Speedie classified. CHA to my letterhead's 'charge' interplays 'rge' to 'erg' of New Zealand Institute of Architects Conference Christchurch 1987, weeks before October's stockmarket crash, that I included in Uncanny A*topia Fiction 1988 fourth centurion 1588 Regiomontanus 'doomsday-prophecy' Comet, an international architecture program that amazes.

Peters' May 30 email setup in Chicago is 2011-1593=418th anniversary of playwright/Walsingham-spy Kit Marlowe ritual right-eye stabbing at Eleanor Bull lodging house. The myth he departed Deptford on ship Peppercorn to establish Contact-Zero spy safe-haven's revived by SOE agents compromised in WWII occupied countries without hope of rescue. Elizabethan theatre was rife with 1588 espionage game-play.

Worst of all, my Right-Angle premonition's returned in Tai-Pan's opening scene coincides three month old news arriving from Britain is of cholera outbreak. CHOLERA is CHLOE Right-Angle. Thus I'm slow to New Zealand beat Argentina 33-10 reflects Nikki's glyph is a special Magic 4 Square of 33 secret number instead of 1-thru-16's standard 34.

It's in Gaudi's The Temple of La Sagrada Familia, Barcelona, but is it the Spanish 'organic' architect's key signature in dying mysteriously June 10, 1926 after being hit by a tram three days earlier. Due his ragged attire and empty pockets, taxi drivers refused to take him to hospital, until eventually taken to a pauper's hospital. Barcelona Cathedral's still being completed by others as he left no blueprints.

'No 12 and 16, but two@10 and 14,' hints Nikki.

'So?' I ask. 10 June is 106 and 1926 is tercentenary Vox Piscis.

'2-rows break ―consecutive numbers without repetition‖ rule. Number hidden in plain sight to 33-10 is 14.'

'What?' I'm stumped by 14 to John Frith's 33rd year of 16th Century, if 23 June conviction to 4 July execution's 11 days is 12 inclusive as 10's other.

'6@33=198 aligns ―oneninety‖ Mystery Theatre.'

Speechless to how Nikki knows my 'paired' workings, I can only nod.

'oneninety' Mystery Theatre exhibit#966[322+223+232+189]

'oneninety' Mystery Theatre exhibit#977[322+223+232+198]

198 hides in plain sight. 777+189=966 but 777+200=977, so 2-MR [missed rendezvous] as Foucault's Pendulum premise to Templar 'miss' 1584 rendezvous due 1582 Gregorian's 10 days between Catholics and Protestants. I hadn't considered 198=33@6 to Magic 4 Square is six directions of right angle points of the compass and up and down.

'1/14/14/4 row reconfigured is 141414/777=182 and 182x143=26026.'

Nikki insights 777x143=111111 maths phenomenon all XYXYXY digits are 777-divisible and all XYZXYZ digits 143-divisible, i.e. 026026/143=182. 143 'I Love You code' coined by Reverend Fred Rogers, an American children's TV host who weighed 143lbs for 30 years, long before the texting age. He died of stomach cancer 27 February 2003 abstracts 272nd day of leap year 28 September as 289=172. Keeping 2003's a two year MR to current 272 visibility as contingency, I showed glyph.

If Rikki, Nikki and Connor were surprised by 218 Latin Square, they didn't show it. Instead Nikki said '182 Greek Cross is first of six steps' and left the pub. The other two followed, Rikki asking 'But is it 411 contingency to the sextet at Canberra's Watergate axis mundi?', without waiting for an answer.

***

A lot transpires in six days and doubts set in realising 2011 Rugby World Cup Final is Sunday 23 October, not 22 as Rikki claimed. But arriving at the pub for first semifinal Saturday 15 October, preparations are upturned finding Rikki, Nikki and Connor celebrating backing Southern Speed in the Caulfield Cup. Drinks are on them and we discuss rumours of Lewis Mason asking locals to score disputing sting setup, fake social media releases from him while in police custody and various opinions on Indonesian law.

I voice suspicions to mainstream media reports police prosecution are basing their case on him flagging down taxis with the drugs bragging his score. Taxis avoided him until one contacted police. Naiveté isn't to be underestimated, but 'taxi' is T-Architecture-11 catchcry for 11-tier Time Pyramid to 2064 rendezvous. The game started and for 40 minutes we watched rugby, until Connor showed the halftime score of France leading Wales 6-3 reflects Magic 3 Square secret numbers.

Realizing 15[numeric]=6 and 12[numeric]=3, I'm Magic 3 Square of 0-to-8 digits captivated. 246-column abstracts 24 June St John's Day which with St John's Eve the Templar and other sacred orders held in high esteem, while its 048 cross 20th century aligns UIA 1948 inauguration in Lausanne. But what resonates is its Purifying Fire 4/6interchange, as 418 bottom-right-corner aligns Peters' email in Chicago with Marlowe's murder. My 'whose wearing what' second half thoughts intensified with Connor's '9 Spaces of the 8 Dimensions Sensed' remark on France beating Wales 9-8.

It's my 1995 unfinished submit to The Juice, an architectural competition for a memorial garden design of The End, Los Angeles, based on the OJ Simpson trial. A long story and although it's international news, I attended the concurrent trial of David Bain, accused of murdering his parents and three siblings in Dunedin. I asked. 'How d-you know?'

'UIA 2011 Tokyo's DESIGN2050,' replied Connor.

'What?' My mind's hyperactive. A 9 Spaces of the 8 Dimensions Sensed remnant exists in 41st blueprint proposition one of Shakespeare's 38 plays, two lost or unknown play deciphers master-plans at work. The Titans are no longer Greek myths. Human intent with technology is playing God disguised as acts of Mother Nature wrecking havoc on the unsuspecting majority, leaving most accepting their plight is God's will. I'm not a Luddite as invention is a human attribute for betterment and believe there's a dimension describable as God, but it doesn't dismiss master-plans are embedding a master-race of New World Order. Magic codes technology like in the past.

Connor tabling glyph reflects my mind belatedly achieving the insight.

41-years structure of math's 40 addition/subtraction has unlimited application, and even though I should've applied it to 2010, I'm unaware until reflected in 24th UIA Congress Tokyo 2011's theme DESIGN2050. Whether original intent or even present at late September conference I'll never know, but I'd kept it to myself until now it's presented to me.

'3-Square back and forth 2022=TV is Operation Trojan Horse Surveillance graphic you established in 2000 to codeX2000, defies Bain/Bard difference INRD less Arcadia code's RN is ID,' said Connor, departing.

I protest contingencies as part of architectural practice, but they won't listen, Rikki asking if 'It's 411 contingency to Watergate axis mundi' and Nikki adding '182 Greek Cross is first of six steps', neither waiting for a reply.

***

Sunday 16 October's early evening Australia versus New Zealand semi-final has Rugby League Test between the two nations as TV curtain-raiser played in Newcastle. Rikki, Nikki and Connor were at the pub late afternoon and at halftime, Australia leading 26-nil, they said it's my turn to tell a story.

'52x5=260 Mayan calendar to two sacred and 260260/143=1820=35@52,' I began, wondering if they knew of 52=VB=222. Thoughts I know were decimated with 3@666=1998 'bookshop incident' court-case, but are they OTHS. I probe by changing tack. 'Australia's only fatal earthquake was 13 deaths Newcastle 5.6 magnitude December 28, 1989. Nine died at inner-city Newcastle Workers' Club and three at Hamilton suburb Kent Hotel, when older brick-construction façade collapsed. Thirteenth victim's from shock. NWC's tilt-slab firewall fell-over and two-storey concrete floors concertina to basement carpark. Crowded House were playing NWC that night to a full house of 2,000 and schools closed for Christmas holidays. What do you know of Chloe Speedie?'

'First, can you prove its human intent?' asked Rikki.

'December 28 is Innocents Day and quake hitting 10.28am is December's Decagon=10,' I replied, adding, 'It's ninth anniversary of Rendlesham Forest UFO 26 and 28 December 1980. UK's Roswell, it's witnessed by USAF military police. USAF deputy-commander RAF Bentwaters-Woodbridge bases Charles Halt verified second sighting. Rendlesham Forest was destroyed in 1987 storm.'

'Where's its story to ghost-character possibilities?' asked Nikki.

'41x813=33333: November 28's 332nd day of year plus 33 is Leap Year's 333-33.' Believing its 'oneninety' Mystery Theatre, I said. 'December 28 has three days remaining and fourth New Year invisibility. Newcastle quake is 1990 Montreal installation and Rendlesham UFO's 1981 inverse 1681=412.'

Second half begins before probing 1981 reverse 1891 hoax of priest Berenger Sauniere's treasure-map renovating Rennes-le-Chateau parish church with inverted pillar and 1681 tomb connects Saint-Sulpice and Priory of Sion 1956 forgery. Thoughts of divining are unsettling. Rugby scores aren't rigged, at least not in exactitude, but it's not science. 52=VB=222: I recall Osama bin Laden's killed during SEAL Team Six's May 2's codename Geronimo early morning raid on Abbottabad mansion-hideout only US loss was a previously unknown 'Stealth' Black Hawk helicopter. Déjà vu mechanical problems failed 1980 Iranian hostage rescue, but downing US helicopter on Saturday August 6, 2011 killing 22 SEALs from Team Six unit's an intel setup.

A captured wife said in five years Osama never left the top two floors, al-Qaeda's split in two and financially bankrupt. It's a no-brainer the world's a better place without bin Laden, but I feel a greater game-plan's at play, as compound information shows al-Qaeda plans from February 2010 to tilt a train into a valley or off a bridge. Attacking America's train network for 911's 10th anniversary didn't happen but Valley/Bridge is VB=222 and/or 52.

Early 1990s I bought fourX for a mate in Auckland, a costly import beer in VB happy-hour. Coincidence or OTHS: not being wealthy, Montreal's 6-tiers is VB aligned when briefing abstracts fourX, or made me a fool. Certainly I'm a fool, but Gillard's Vox Piscis alignment is uncanny, as Pakistan's powerful Joint Chiefs of Staff Committee General Wynne was in Canberra on day of bin Laden's death and for three days after. Pakistan claims its proof they're unaware of his whereabouts, America rejects it, and I think it reflects Opposition leader Tony Abbot to 'oneninety' Mystery Theatre.

Architecture theory has practice. XXXX inspired 40=41 Time Pyramid of 52=32+42 diamonds. I'm floored by Australia's 42-6 Rugby League win is 'septet/sextet' insight, hallucination, I'm uncertain, but Watch This Space saying '545's my coding and 4@545=2180' seemed real as 7x6=42.

'What?' I bewilder, realising 545 is Watch This Space but not what 2180 as 10th power is of con218ad Julian calendar interface of Harold Camping's Radio Family End Times for 21 October 2011 after five months of disease and disasters. Camping left the Baptist Church in 1988 to take his Radio Family audience to its destiny. First predicted for September 1994, Camping inbuilt a contingency for 21 May 2011 Rapture, as followers left jobs and sold possessions to preach Christianity's second coming, doomsday. May 21 wasn't the big quake to God's chosen people departure so they now believe Rapture and End Times as one. Sum 1-thru-17=153 and 13+53+33=1+125+27=153; The Bible's John 21:11: Simon Peters went up, and drew the net to land full of great fishes, one-Hundred-and-Fifty-three. 102=one hundred and 17+62=fifty-three. 153=9x17 and 122+32=153: 21 May Rapture to 21 October End is 153 days.

'Today's Friday 21 October playoff Australia verses Wales has begun,' informs Watch This Space.

I'm about to dispute it's the second semifinal, but on the pub's big screen it's red jerseys of Wales, not All Blacks against gold jerseys, reminds New Zealand beat Australia 20-6 after 14-6 at halftime. I lapse in a comatose state.

88*

'Choose a story?' asks an unknown identity I'll call BOB, deciding I must be ALICE as 14@6=84 years Inflation Period of BOB and EVE and 20@6=120 years Settlement of ALICE and BOB to the Benzene Seal. As BOB's common-denominator, in the 'encryption-decryption' context of Alice messages Bob knowing Eve's intercept is preferably without decipherment, I read the list.

  * The Veteran

  * The Art of the Matter

  * The Miracle

  * The Citizen

  * Whispering Wind

I choose The Miracle as it's about the Siena, and storyteller Italo Calvino died in a Siena hospital September 19, 1985 after admitted 'stroke-victim' September 6. The Nobel Prize for Literature contender was due to deliver Charles Eliot Norton Lectures, Harvard. He'd completed five of six essays, post-humorously published as 6 Memos to the Next Millennium, each dedicated to a particular 'art and values of writing' aspect. I experienced this concluding sixth memo titled 'consistency' as The STIFF Code that Rests in .. ?

The Miracle's setting is 1975 Palio, which I know is Siena's 16 August annual historic horse race around Piazza del Campo between Contrade or Districts of Siena. Palio's Romeo code, not Verona as Shakespeare tells. Verona celebrates Juliet's birthday as 16 September, but it's 16 August, the day after Pi-fraction's 227th day of year's August 15 Madonna Assunta. Elvis' 16 August 1977 death is 'banana-onion sandwich' 228th day of year is 229th leap year code. Proof of calendars conflict is Madonna Assunta's Christian Pi-fraction's 22/7 is Magdalene Day 22 July. I consult my notes.

Shakespearean earthquake debate July 31 Lammas Eve or August 1 Lammas Day to whether the wet nurse refers to Juliet or her own daughter Susan is Boobquake's Capulet anagram Cup-tale to ALICE message's BOB 'Car 54 where are you?'

In Luigi Da Porto's 1530-novella, the Venetian Republic Captain claimed a bowmen, Pellegrinoda da Verona, told him the true story, but Juliet's September 16 birthday's 259th day of year and 106 remaining is Rosicrucian, 52 years before 1582 Gregorian correction. 1582-1476=106 and 3@62=106 when interlocked. Porta's R and J reworks Masuccio Salernitano's 1476 Thirty-Third Story set in Siena of Mariotto and Giannozza's secret marriage. Their families aren't feuding but Mariotto's banished and story's similar. Giannozza goes to find Mariotto in Alexandria. Miscommunications, Mariotto returns to Siena and beheaded by soldiers. Giannozza joins a convent.

Shakespeare used Arthur Brooke's 1562 R and J poem, an English translation of Matteo Bandello's 1554 R and J, as major source. 2@777=1554. Before T-Rex pop-star fame, Mark Bowland's alias to Marc Bolan September 16, 1977 car crash death.

Learning BOB's story is set July 2, I recall the Palio's run twice a year. On special occasions there are three Palios, the last being September 9, 2000 aligns missed rendezvous The STIFF Code as 'Metaphysical Tomb @4-Corners'. The Miracle's a story-within-story with flashback to exactly 31 years earlier and a German surgeon's work to save Nazi and Allied wounded in Siena during 1944 German retreat of Italy, when visited by a 16th century nun as mise-enbyme. With conclusion questioning a miracle, I'm surprised to discover Watch This Space has just read a Frederick Forsyth story.

'Why July 2?' I ask, re-gathering my surroundings I realise it's the Bronze Final, Australia leading Wales 7-3 at halftime.

'Papa Hemingway topped himself at his Ketchum, Idaho home, July 2 1961, 20 years after Cuban escapade posing as agent-08 during WWII searching U-boats landing Nazi infiltration America as Literature Nobel Prize allegory The Old Man and the Sea. He'd flight tickets to attend Pamplona's July 7 Saint Fermin's Encierrro running of the bulls he'd made famous.'

'Pamplona in July story,' I startle Hemingway's witnessed account of a trampled victim he reported as himself. It's annually celebrated with Ernest Hemingway's look-a-like contest at Sloppy's Joe's bar, Key West, Florida, his favorite USA bar started in 1981, 20 years after his death.

1981 is 412=1681 reverse and Hemingway's 1961 suicide's first three digits is 142=196 and 132=169 is 1691 reverse to 196+169=365-days-per-year. Saint Fermin was beheaded in Reims, France on 25 September, his Feast Day and July 7 reflects Sept=7 25=7-numeric. Running of bulls and horse races confused, Watch This Space's reply alarms.

'July 2 is 29+16=45-days, being 46 attending two Palio's aligns Psalm 46 of KJV Bible's 46th word from beginning and end is 'shake' and 'spear'. PAPA=161161/143=1127+400=1527 Matthew Bible's same Psalm-46. Palio/Pamplona difference I-MPNA anagram's IN-MAP reminds Elizabethan soldier-courtesan Philip Sidney's Arcadia narrative poem's first use of name Pamela, as Pamela/Pamplona difference E-PON is OPEN. Codespeak proof is Psalm/Pamela difference SEA aligns Calvino 6th memo ―consistency‖.'

'Aware Sidney's sister Mary Herbert finished Arcadia poem after her brother's killed in Netherlands and Hebrew translated the Psalms between Matthew and KJV Bibles,' I ask. 'Pamela reverse is ―alemap‖ but what's Pamela/Palio difference MEA-IO?'

'If U=M, it's the vowels AEIOU.'

'U's therefore any letter,' I protest, as the pub erupts in cheer to Australia winning the Bronze Final 21-18.

'Double-U codespeak is written W, the inverse of M abstracts poetry. 7-3 halftime score as 73x29=2117=UQ to 21-18=UR confirming Eco's The Name of the Rose novel ―QUatUoR‖ secret-library chamber coding your 2184/2244 EQUUS cipher interface.'

Watch This Space then disappeared, as if never being there.

***

'Canberra's oldest building, present-day Duntroon House at Royal Military College, was built in 1833 by merchant shipper Robert Campbell after granted land now comprising part of the Australian federal city.'

'What's this to August 16?' I demand, unable to comprehend 'oneninety' Mystery Theatre of the adverb.

'Are you Julian or Gregorian time?' asked Connor. 'Today's October 16.'

'What?' I gasp. Romeo and Juliet were Lectors, their miscommunications due the Alexandria Library's destruction.

'You asked of ghost characters to 411 Rhenosterspruit contingency at Canberra's Watergate axis mundi?' Rikki cites my drunkenness to Australia winning the League and New Zealand the Union. 'Canberra's first ghost was Robert Campbell's granddaughter Sophia Campbell, who died 30 May 1885, falling from her first floor bedroom window, aged 28.'

'Suicide?' I question. 1885-1593=292nd anniversary Marlowe's death. Do I know the Bronze Final score?

'Death certificate says apoplexy, a cerebral hemorrhage of stroke victims. It's rumored Sophia suicided after becoming pregnant to Duntroon's gardener,' replied Nikki, adding, '182 Greek Cross is first of six steps.'

'Romeo and Juliet's a haunted house?' I need another drink. 1833 is third tercentenary Frith's execution and reputed writing Vox Piscis. 1885-1833=52.

'2011-1885=126: Duntroon House bedroom definitely is,' Connor calculated. '1912-1885=27: 1912 town plan right-angle axes sights three mountains, has the anomaly of Walter Burley Griffin's town plan showing concave axes crossroads whereas architect-wife Marion Mahoney's visuals show convex rendering and Watergate entitlement. A conundrum as construction's a straight water-axis Lake Burley Griffin at land-axis junction, and 2001 Federation compounded in constructing a lake pier out at Watergate axis mundi, as concave-shape juxtaposes its convex building.'

I'm dumbfounded and unprepared for Connor's conclusion.

'Watergate axis mundi is the legendary ―Solomon's Spring‖ pertaining numerous myths, from physical and spiritual intention to actual composition.'

Dizzy, I'm uncertain if I'll be sick or blackout, perhaps both.

***

'What's Bronze Final insight to tonight's final?' asks Watch This Space.

'21-18,' I'm uncertain, as on the pub's big screen the game's between finalists France and New Zealand.

'462=2116=UAF is Uncanny A*topia Fiction 2-MR to 2118 is your building mountain as learning institution to architecture in landscape construction.'

462=2116=UAF surprises. The nuclear age is capable of rendering planet Earth unsustainable to life as we know it and sprouted new meaning to 'bunker construction'. Uncanny A*topia Fiction's accompanying graphic was Pieter Bruegel's Tower of Babel painting. Nimrod's supervising construction. Whether Nimrod and Asshur are the same person as many contend, or different people, is Asshur/Shure difference AS/E to R-N arcadia-code is ARSEN of order-4 Magic Hexagon. Sum 1-thru-36=666 and Babylonians knew Magic 6 Square of 111 secret number. Sum 3-thru-39=777 also known for millennia and 111@777=777 so order 4 Magic Hexagon potential, but it wasn't until Zachary Arsen's internet disclosure in the public domain.

LC=Shure transition's 1981-82 and 'stylus' derived, being Asshur/Shure without LC connection, as my submission didn't disclose realsite has

Mount Nimrod neighbour. New Zealand leading France 5-0 at halftime reflects Watch This Space's reply. '2116+5=2121=YUU: ―oilop‖ code UFO.'

Another oversight's not realising 777 working YUU: 'oilop' code UFO to 8th Osaka Design Competition 1996-7. Brief's YUU is Year 2121 and 1344+777=2121. Its Eureka's 534+666+777=1977 wavelength as Ohio State University's Big Ear radio telescope 'wow signal' 15 August 1977 SETI-anomaly 6EQUJ5 alphanumeric code's 6EQUJ5=EQUUS, if UJ=UU and 5=S.

'au' aligns Shakespeare's Henry VIII original title All Is True anagrams Atreus ill, as late 19th century discovery of Troy reaffirmed Trojan War Greek leader Agamemnon's the House of Atreus. Myths include Pallas of Troy escaped to found Rome. Henry VIII split Britain with the Roman Church in 1534, a first millennium Eureka Gematria's 534 is 52=32+42 Pythagoras theorem. Atreus anagram's tres au of Earth to Sun 'astronomical unit' of planetary distances was calculated with 1761/1769 transits after Halley of Comet fame's 1716 used intermediary body Venus. 1769 included Cook's Tahitian observation after Kepler predicted 1631/1639 transits. Foucault's Pendulum novel explores '666' scenarios as characters try to find out or are fakes. Police inspector De Angelis finds tres codename's key, but his family's threatened, he's rural station demoted and whatever trail, true or false, is lost.

Mind a-jumble, New Zealand won the 2011 Rugby World Cup, 8-7.

'8-7 Bloomsday's X-Factor code,' reminds Watch This Space.

PAPA=161161 composite's KJV 1611 and 61's year of Hemingway's suicide. 61's Australia's International Telephone Code and 2061 is Halley's Comet next appearance. Frieze: Vitruvian Wave 161 Architecture to James Joyce's Ulysses novel Part I three chapters form acrostic code Stately; You; Inelectable as S=19; Y=25; I=9, is 19-25=6; 25-9=16 June 16 Bloomsday. Part II's 12 chapters acrostic code reads: Mr By Martin Before Pineapple Urbane The Bronze I The Deshil The. As four triplets, first and fourth MBM and TDT are palindromes, so decrypts BPUTBI letter-number encodes differences:

2-16-21-20-2-9

14-5-1-18-7

9-4-17-11

5-13-6

8-7

'Regiomontanus was poisoned in Rome 8 July 1476, Gregorian's 189th day is 'oneninety' Mystery Theatre exhibit#966[322+223+232+189], but what's August 7 alternative?' I reply, leaving much unsaid.

'Factors are key,' cautioned Watch This Space, departing.

***

'Thought we'd lost you,' said Rikki, Nikki or Connor, picking me up off the floor. b-LOOM aligns 1584/1644 soLOMOn codex. With much unresolved, we arrange to meet for next Friday's Bronze playoff and Sunday's Cup Final. I sit awhile after they leave, realizing ikki=119911 is 191-voyage to R-N arcadia coding, but uncertain of Connor's decipherment. Do they connect to August 7 Bloomsday X-factor?

August 7's Julian's sextet-septet, but if Regiomontanus is July 8 alternative, I need Gregorian's 219th insight.

Suddenly it hits. 10x19=190 so 11x19=209 is X-factor 219, and Robocop's sidekick is ED-209 robot with a screw missing. ED=54 to 'Car 54 where are you', except it's only half the contact code, without their interconnection.

I remember Watch This Space's caution.

209's sacred as 61+52+43+34+25+16=209, so there's other dimensions to Contact: Computer Modeling being beyond speculation. It's when I see an envelope on the table. Is it a dead-letter-drop? Opening it I find The Canberra Times March 14, 2007 Public Notice classified:

Is it addressed to me? If June codes 6, then Pi-date's 4th anniversary significant to me, while Magic 3 Square's 12 secret number following Purifying Fire format is 6-4 interchange.

Have I three sisters unknown? Is 'h' anomaly of June Witaker-Hodges a type-set error aligning HEAD: codeX2 Mystery Theatre #33 storytelling. Concentrating on Rose and Gail as coding, I'm surprised Rosen spell-checks, finding it's 'consisting of roses', as Grail is the quest of many sacred orders, not least R-N arcadia disclosing Rose and Gail is Rosen Grail. Shock, horror, Rosen abbreviates Christian Rosenkruez is Rosicrucian founder.

Reminded of transmedia is mythvertising ANZ landscape escapades 'archetype' prerequisite's Robot from Czech robota=compulsory labour deconstruction, I ponder Czech oral rendition 'check' to written code configuring 'Contact-Zero CHE' to Purifying Fire sacred architecture.

'Work-in-progress' imagination or not, I leave the pub transfixed by turning over the classified reveals the handwritten note:

'BFR=ZAH=261H,' Chloe interrupts. 'Before-ray's sacred before daylight.'

My 'Right-Angle' premonition informs its Chloe Speedie's OP-ED ghost-character verification, but not what it's to Australia winning the League and New Zealand the Union. Then there's the uncanny twilight experience of Watch This Space's 545 transgressions into next weekend's finals, as I reconsider 'oneninety' Mystery Theatre of the adverb as 1289 is 209th prime. 2011-1289=722, being 723 installation top-row Magic 3 Square of secret number 12. It's only part of the story living transmedia.

Barry Walsh

Griffith, NSW

Wine and Rose Petals

Tracey Smith

Sawtell, NSW

From within a corner, of my mind,

there is a memory, that settles.

It tells of ice cold, winter morns,

of blackened, steaming kettles.

Of soft, warm hugs and kisses,

from old hands, tired and worn

While struggling for a better life,

their spirits, flagged and torn.

From a young girl's face, in the mirror,

once alive, with hopes and dreams

Is an old one, creased with worry,

for how long ago, it seems

Far, from their days of childhood,

when life, was so carefree

With Sunday picnics, after church,

down by the old oak tree.

And those hands, once young and supple,

now wrinkled and stooped with age

Yet strangely warm, and comforting,

the mix, of lemon and sage.

For they have seen, the rearing of children

they have endured, the ravage of war

Those hands, now folded and resting,

they will not be felt, anymore.

Except in the corner, of my mind,

where their memory, it settles

A gift from God, of eternal love,

of wine and rose petals.

The Black Wind

Michele Fermanis-Winward

Leura, NSW

Climbing over wires

that kept us from the bush,

we thread along smooth tracks

fresh graded on the ridge.

How storm has changed it all,

a canopy once dense—now sparse,

huge gums torn from the ground

resisting gale force winds.

They lost what little hold

tied them to shelves of stone,

or snapped along their trunks

exposing russet hearts

of raw and splintered wood.

Long ribbons of shed bark

weave through the bush below,

with lines of saplings spun

from life and hope of growth.

As mounds of leaf engulf

the path we tread upon.

Art and the Drug Addict's Dog

Paris Portingale

Mt Victoria

Welcome to the first instalment of the world's first 'breadcrumb novel':

Art and the Drug Addict's Dog by Paris Portingale

Paris is the former writer-in-residence for Narrator Magazine Blue Mountains. He is a prolific story-teller with a different take on the minutiae of life.

Here Paris brings you the story of Art Handel, a man with a mission, trust issues and a Stop-Rite SG87 stun gun. Combine these with a dog acquired from the local drug addict, his long-term friend Minnie Fielding who is under attack from an unknown stalker, his other friend, Alex Elinsky, who sees dead people, and a contract he just can't complete, and suddenly Art is under a lot of pressure!

The second instalment of Art and the Drug Addict's Dog will appear in the first issue of Narrator Magazine Vic/Tas due out on 1 March 2012.

But if you can't wait until then, you can follow it in daily instalments on the Art and the Drug Addict's Dog Facebook page at www.facebook.com/artandthedrugaddictsdog or buy the print, PDF or epub from The MoshShop at www.themoshshop.com.au.

But for now, please enjoy the first instalment, from Paris, with love ...

PROLOGUE

There were policemen, three in their uniforms and one in a suit. The suit policeman was in charge and he spoke in one to five word sentences. I heard him say, 'Get the door there sergeant,' (a long one), and 'Fuck that,' (a short one), 'You,' (probably the shortest), and out in the car park, lighting a cigarette, 'What a fucking mess,' (medium to long). There was an ambulance, Nolan the driver, Phil his assistant, and a stretcher without wheels because stretchers with wheels hadn't been invented yet. Which was why Nolan had Phil: because one man can't carry a stretcher—the physics make it impossible.

There was a lot of blood of course, and other grey stuff, and it was concentrated on two walls, most dense in the corner, in the V where they met.

There was Cath the cook, crying in the kitchen, and up in the main bar of the hotel there was a sprinkling of customers who'd stopped drinking briefly, then resumed again.

Nolan and Phil were taking the stretcher out the back way. Nolan had parked out the front initially but the suit policeman told him to bring the ambulance around the back to the car park because he was in charge, and so Nolan left the siren on because it was his ambulance.

There will always be conflict in any situation where more than one person is involved. And the more people the greater the potential for back-biting and name calling and you only have to look at the two big ones from the twentieth century, the two which had pretty much everyone involved, even the Swiss in their own funny little way, if you see what I mean. The Great War, and then the next one, when they started numbering them, to avoid confusion further down the track, because it was becoming clear they weren't going to stop there.

My father was there but he had only a peripheral involvement, he didn't have a speaking part. Cath the cook had lines but you couldn't understand them and later in the afternoon, while getting the corned beef on, because people have to eat no matter what else is going on, she threw an epileptic fit and the barman had to be brought down to put a spoon handle in her mouth to stop her swallowing her tongue.

I myself was feeling a mix of emotions: guilt, because in a way it was my fault (I was certainly up there near the top of the cast list anyway), and a sort of dry anger at the universe which had turned on me when I was still all young and unprepared. I'd never thought it would do that. Now I had trust issues.

~~~
CHAPTER ONE

What if, when you die, as a special surprise to both the believers and the non-believers alike, you didn't shuffle off to a heaven in the clouds to meet up with Mum and Aunty Ellie and the kid that used to kick the crap out of you at school? Or, in the event that you were bad enough during your lifetime, a trip down in the red elevator to the caves of fire? Or if you were just so-so, a little bit good, a little bit bad, but mostly nothing, a trip to purgatory, where the benches are all hard and uncomfortable, and nothing comes on time and the staff, all angels, but grubby ones, are all sullen and uncooperative, or boring to the extent that when they speak it's like time's going backwards and you'd had your sentence extended?

What if, when you die, none of those are an option at all but everybody, good bad or indifferent, all religions right across the board, including the ones that have you coming back as a dolphin or a paramecium, what if every person gets their own black, infinite void to float in? For eternity. You can move around but there's no point of reference and nothing to see, so it's pointless. You can do it if you want to though. Other than that, all you can do is play mental naughts and crosses with yourself and replay old conversations and arguments from when you were alive. You can't commit suicide, you're already dead. You can't go mad, you don't have any synapses to misfire. But you do have a million billion trillion years or more (and when you get to the end of those there's another set there waiting there for you) of self contemplation mixed with bursts of tic tac toe where you always win, and old recordings of the argument with the garage mechanic and discussions about the material for the new curtains in the living room. A traditional hell would be better: you'd have some other people around and you could bitch about things together, complain about the humidity and how it was that, more than the heat itself, the humidity made things so uncomfortable. 'If only it were the dry heat, like we used to get in Vogel's Hole, when I lived there. Boy, some of those summers, I tell you.'

~~~

I got a dog from a drug addict named Rainbow Davis. It was an unusual dog for a drug addict: a poodle, a large one with brown dreadlocked wool and paws the size of fists. He wanted thirty dollars for him. He looked desperate and the dog looked desperate as well, sitting on the street corner beside him on the end of a piece of rope. Rainbow obviously needed a drug of some sort when he stopped me—his forehead was perspiring and it was twelve degrees Celsius. His hair was greasy and his hands were shaking and he smelled of urine and stale sweat and something else unpleasant. I told him to bugger off and walked on home and went inside and turned on the TV and sat down on the couch and watched five minutes of something. Then I got up and went out and walked back to the corner and he was still there. I took a fifty out of my wallet.

'I'll take the dog,' I said. 'Have you got change?'

'Oh fuck, I don't have change man! I don't have change. Do I look like I have change?' He looked at the note. 'Make it an even fifty, an even fifty, man. Let's just make it fifty and you take the dog.'

'You said thirty,' I said. 'He looks like a thirty dollar dog.'

'I'm not a fucking shop, man, I don't have change! Fifty and he's yours, drive away, no more to pay. He's a good dog, outstanding dog.' He was looking at the note. 'He's a fifty dollar dog, man.' He put the end of the rope into my hand. 'Come on, drive away, no more to pay. Fifty bucks, fifty dollar dog.'

'Forget it,' I said and handed the rope back.

'Oh fuck me!' Rainbow was trying to think on his feet, difficult when you're that messed up. He was looking at the ground, trying to concentrate, shifting his weight from one leg to another, saying, 'Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!' He was using it as a mantra to get a focus on the situation. He looked up and thrust the rope back into my hand. 'Hold onto this,' he said and snatched the fifty. 'I'll get change.' And he trotted off down the street and tripped on something and fell and picked himself up and turned around and did a thumbs up. There was blood starting to run down the side of his face but he was smiling reassuringly at me and he went off around the corner. I squatted and ran my hand over the dog and he snorted and shook his head. You could feel his ribs, he was so thin. I waited a while, not really expecting Rainbow to come back, but he did. He had twenty dollars and a blender with its cord dragging behind him. He held it up. 'You can have this for twenty. Take it and we're square, drive away, no more to pay.' He'd taken something, and was clearly feeling better—his pupils were pin pricks. 'Outstanding machine,' he said, 'twenty bucks, no more to pay.' The jug hadn't been cleaned in some time—it still had something green in the bottom and Rainbow shook it and it came off the base and smashed on the pavement. He was bending to pick up the pieces so I pulled the twenty dollar note from his hand, gave a tug on the rope and walked home with a dog.

Back home he sniffed around the place and I put the heater on and poured some milk into a bowl and put it in front of the radiator. He sniffed it and drank some then did another lap of the room and he sniffed and then drank more milk. He was underweight and suspicious. Eventually he lay down in a corner on the other side of the room and went to sleep with his eyes open. You could see his balls. They were large and oval and they glistened.

I typed an email and sent it to Minnie Fielding, a friend who had no dog. I was looking at the dog asleep across the room and I typed:

To: Minnie Fielding

Cc:

Subject:

I have a dog now. I bought him from Rainbow Davis, the junkie on King Street. You'd remember Rainbow if you saw him, he looks like a hamster would if it had a drug problem. If you ever find yourself buying something from him be aware he has an unusual pricing structure. The dog cost me thirty dollars. I forgot to ask his name. Being Rainbow's dog it would probably be something like Nembutal.

So he's the thirty dollar dog for the moment. You should get one for yourself, they're a great thing to have around. They drink milk and sleep with their eyes open.

Art.

After sending it, I saved it in my miscellaneous folder and decided to call the dog Fletcher.

~~~

Doctor Harvey thought he was about a year old. It was my first visit to a vet. Fletcher was put into the computer as Fletcher Handel, the protocol at veterinary clinics where the patient gains the owner's surname.

There was a man already in the waiting room—he had a brown paper bag and a dog. He showed me what was in the bag: two plastic jars labelled 'Jason Watt—left testicle' and 'Jason Watt—right testicle'. Jason's balls. Mr Watt spoke conspiratorially.

'Is he here to be knackered?' He looked at Fletcher.

'Just a checkup,' I told him. Fletcher sniffed Jason's head. Jason just looked distracted.

'This one was done on Monday, that's why we're here—faulty job.'

I got a picture of an infected scrotum. There was pus. It would explain the anxiety.

'Poor guy,' I said.

'Three days he's been done, still wants to fuck me. It was all supposed to stop, the pissing, the fucking. Look at my trousers!' There were stains.

'Obviously didn't take. I want a refund or the cunt's going to put these back.'

'Can they do that?' I asked. I supposed they could—medical science was screaming ahead now they had the genome sorted out.

'Must? Look, they marked these ―left‖ and ―right‖. Why'd they do that if they didn't think they could have to go back?'

'You're probably right.'

'A hundred and seventy-seven dollars! That's a lot of money if he's still going to look at me like that.' He shook one of the jars—the one with the left testicle. 'But they're beauties aren't they?'

I had to admit they were.

~~~

Doctor Harvey was bleeding slightly from the chin. He wiped it with a tissue. 'Owner a bit upset,' he said. 'The animals pick it up. Just a nip.'

'He said the castration hadn't taken. Could that be right?' I asked him.

'Residual testosterone. Flush out time can be more than a week—it's a powerful hormone.'

'So you can't put them back?'

'No, the tissue's dead. There's no putting back I'm afraid.'

'He showed me they were labelled left and right.'

'We put them both in one jar when we can.' He had Fletcher up on the examination bench, rubbing his ribcage. 'He's a bit under weight,' he said.

'He used to be owned by a drug addict. I got him for a fix.'

'There should be laws,' he said. His stethoscope was moving over Fletcher's chest listening for things.

'I gave him thirty dollars,' I told him. 'He was going to throw in a blender.'

There was nothing wrong with Fletcher. When he'd finished the examination Doctor Harvey asked, 'Anything else I can do for you today?' He was looking at Fletcher's balls. The examination cost fifty dollars, the same as a visit to Doctor Watson, my general practitioner.

~~~

So, when we got back I got a notepad and a pen and I started to make a list of character traits to look out for that could prove awkward. It was a new pad, open at the first page, the cover flipped back over the spiral binding. New dog, new pad. The list began to form by itself.

  * Bad genes

  * Bad manners

  * Wrong shape

  * Only one kidney

  * Barks

  * Bites

  * Pisses and shits indiscriminately

  * Leg fucker

  * Mad

  * Picky eater

  * Killer

  * Idiot

  * Disobedient

  * Can work out how to open the fridge

  * Farter

  * Tyrant/Despot

  * Crap in a fight

Fletcher was licking himself and I looked over at him and he stopped licking and looked at me and I flipped over to a new page and wrote:

  * Hypnotic eyes, could possibly hypnotise. Could be a plus

Then I went back to the other page of possible hurdles to our relationship:

  * Snorer

  * Indolent

  * Thief

  * Destructive habits

  * Jumpy

  * Stinky

  * Eats with mouth open

  * Slob (All dogs are naturally slobs of course. The species has no natural sense of order.)

  * Ratbag (Slightly different from mad.)

  * Sees dead people

I was starting to run out at this point but I have a friend who sees dead people and I didn't want a dog who saw them as well. Alex Elinsky saw dead people. He was Russian.

My mind started to wander after I wrote 'Sees dead people'. If my theory about the infinite void was correct then how did dead people get into Alex Elinsky's bedroom at night? It would mean there'd have to be a loophole, a trapdoor in the void somewhere. It was an interesting thought—it opened a whole new range of possibilities. If you could move in and out then it wouldn't be just mental naughts and crosses for eternity—there'd be day trips, and night time pop-ins to all those people you'd been meaning to catch up on.

I laid down on the couch and woke up twenty minutes later to find the dog had pissed in the middle of the carpet, so I got the pad and ticked, 'Pisses and shits indiscriminately'. That was all a year ago, a year and a bit.

~~~
CHAPTER TWO

At night Alex Elinsky sees dead people floating up through the floor of his bedroom. They speak to him. They're dead people from all over the world, from all different times and they all have a story to tell. Multilingual Alex can understand many of them, and the others he just lets wash over him, absorbing the tone. He's made recordings, and he played one to me over the phone.

'Listen,' he said, 'listen to this.'

As I listened, he put the phone down and turned something on, then the receiver was filled with static for about twenty seconds.

'Did you hear that, did you hear it?'

'It sounded like static, Alex.'

'You're not listening properly.' I heard the tape recorder go into high pitched fast forward then he put the phone back in front of it and the line filled with the same static.

'It still just sounds like static,' I told him.

'It's Russian,' he said. 'Can't you hear it?'

'I guess I can hear Russian static,' I told him.

'Bah,' he said, then something else in Russian, then, 'You can't hear it because endless capitalism has dulled your sense of the lateral and unorthodox.'

He could have been right. He told me I'd been listening to Sergey Petrov telling how he was killed and eaten by wolves during a particularly bad Siberian winter. He said the detail was astounding.

'Listen,' I said, 'next time you're talking to one of these people could you ask if they go back to an infinite black void when they disappear up through the ceiling?'

'I'll think about it,' he said, but I don't think he has.

~~~

Once, Lyn Hoskins grabbed a letter I was holding and put it in the breast pocket of her white school shirt and dared me to get it out. I didn't; I was a coward and I baulked. But I had to have it back: it was an important piece of correspondence and more than one person was involved. I'd seen her do the same thing at school, a week before, with James Taylor. They went behind Miss Danielle's art demountable, with him snatching at her breast pocket and when the bell rang and they emerged some time later it looked like the folded piece of paper had been in and out of the pocket quite a few times. It looked damp and it was bent to the curve of a breast.

If she did it now of course I'd just walk up and stick my hand in and pull it out. I'm no longer uncomfortable with the breast. Breasts are not a big deal any more, no matter what their size. But back then ...

~~~

I checked on the internet: there have been one hundred and six billion people die in the six million or so years we've been on the planet. If my theory is right, that's a hundred and six billion infinite voids. That's got to take up an awful lot of space—infinity would have to be feeling the pinch. So not only did I have the worry of an eternity in an infinite void, I had the worry of there not being one left when I called in at the counter. It was impossible to finish the cup of tea. I emptied it into the sink.

~~~

Fletcher was on a lead. We were walking to Bob's Friary, beside the fire station that, disappointingly, didn't have a fireman's pole. We passed Rainbow Davis, standing on a corner. He had another dog. I hadn't seen Rainbow for a while. He didn't look good. He'd lost weight, and was looking chalky but red around the eyes. Fletcher sniffed his dog and it growled so he left it alone. Rainbow stopped me.

'Hey, you want a dog? I'm selling this dog. Man's best friend, man.' Then through whatever haze he was seeing the world that day he somehow recognised Fletcher. 'Hey, it's Scooby! That's Scooby, man.' He was a little unsteady on his feet.

'He's Fletcher now.'

'He's in witness protection?' He was serious, I think. 'Hey Scooby,' he said again, then he looked at me and possibly recognised me as well, but that may have been projection. He said, 'Hey, I'm getting straight man, I'm going to do a course. Going to sign up next week. Going to get straight. They're going to call me Arrow I'll be so straight'.

'Good for you,' I said. And I meant it.

'Colonic irrigation. I'm going to irrigate colons. Big money in colons. I'm going to irrigate those fuckers. Signing up next week. I'll be irrigating in a month, two tops. My plan, right, stores right across the country, my face on the front, can you imagine that?'

We started to walk away.

'Hey, do you want the dog?'

I turned my head, still walking. 'How much?' I asked him.

'Thirty bucks, man's best friend, drive away, no more to pay. I have change!' He was shouting behind us, but we were halfway down the street.

~~~

I bought two hamburgers from Bob, at his Friary. I asked Bob not to cook one of the patties. He reminded me it was his balls if the health inspector called in.

I said, 'I'll keep a watch. You can't just sew those things back on. I've spoken to a Doctor'.

I'd been to Bob's before, and this time I told him something that occurred to me on the previous visit.

'You're Bob, right?'

'That's me,' he said.

'The pun doesn't work, Bob's Friary.'

'I know,' he said.

'It'd work if this used to be a Friary.'

'I know.'

'Or looked a bit like a Friary. You could just put a cross on the wall. That'd help.'

'I'm not religious,' Bob told me and I left it there because he was preparing food and I didn't want to get his back up.

~~~

We sat on the seat at the bus stop and Fletcher ate the raw meat out of his bun and no heath inspector turned up to take Bob's balls. Halfway through I had to reposition the top half of the bun and I noticed that a small, oval shaped area of the meat patty was slightly discoloured, a little greyer than the rest of the meat. I finished it but found my mind wandering back to the discoloured area of meat and it occurred to me that it might have been part of some cancerous growth inside the animal and I may have eaten a piece of cancer and you know when a thought like that gets inside your head it churns faster and faster 'til it becomes unstable and turbulence is introduced and pretty well every single synapse is charged and firing with the single thought that you've just eaten a piece of cancer. So instead of going straight home we headed off the other way and I turned into Phillip Street and then down Wood Lane

and then I called into Doctor Watson's surgery.

He had a different receptionist and I told her Fletcher was a therapy dog and he was allowed to lie down under my chair where he went to sleep.

There were two people ahead of me, a woman and a man. It was impossible to tell what they were there for, just by looking at them. It could have been anything and they could have been contagious but life is a lottery and I read a Reader's Digest and then an old copy of the Lancet that had pictures of the insides of a cancerous human lung and an annoying article on the new trend of treating depression with counselling, which is clearly crap.

They went through in their turn. Everything was very serious, nobody smiled and nobody spoke except Doctor Watson and all he said was, 'Mrs Winton,' and then when Mrs Winton came out, 'Mr Harris'. Then he said, 'Mr Handel'. I left Fletcher asleep under my chair and followed Doctor Watson and my file into his surgery. I noticed he had the smallest of frowns as I sat in the single, steel framed chair in front of his desk. This is how it went.

I said, 'Doctor Watson'.

He said, 'Mr Handel'.

'How are you Doctor?'

'Fine, what can I do for you today?'

'I just want to ask you something. It's a medical question.'

'Yes?' There was an edge of caution to his voice.

'Doctor, if you eat a piece of cancer, will you get cancer?'

He looked at me for a second, I suppose to see if I was joking or not, then said, 'Why do you ask?'

'I think I've eaten a piece of cancer.'

'Where would you get a piece of cancer Mr Handel?'

'From a hamburger. I just had a hamburger and I think there was some cancer in the meat. I'm pretty sure it was cancer.'

'You can't get cancer from eating cancer, it doesn't work like that.'

'Are you sure? How do you know?'

'Well, it's hard to explain... Cancer cells occur when a healthy cell divides, it's ...'

'Yes, but are you sure that eating cancer won't give you cancer?'

Doctor Watson stared at the floor for a moment, then looked up with a smile of relief. 'Was the meat cooked?'

'Yes, it was cooked.'

'Well there you are! You're quite okay.'

'You mean if you eat cooked cancer you won't get cancer?'

'Exactly! It can't happen.'

'But what if it wasn't cooked properly, if the cancer wasn't cooked all the way through, though?'

Doctor Watson threw his biro onto his desk and it bounced against his computer keyboard and spun onto the floor. 'Mr Handel, I had to tell a woman this morning she only has three months to live. I have patients with genuine problems.'

'Cancer was it?'

'Yes Mr Handel, cancer.'

'From eating cancer?' I knew I was pushing my luck with that, but I was determined to plug on 'til the very end with this.

'No, not from eating cancer.' He was up and over to the door, opening it to usher me out. I remained seated.

'Are you sure?'

'Yes, I'm sure'. He scribbled something in my file then closed it and went to the door and opened it.

'Can you point me to any research done in this area, eating cancer?'

'I'm sure there'll be something on the internet if you want to have a look.'

I got up and he looked relieved again.

'Thank you Doctor,' I said and I shook his hand. 'If I find anything interesting I'll pass it on.' I was out the door now and Doctor Watson was getting the next patient's file from his receptionist.

The visit cost me fifty dollars but it was worth it because it ratcheted my relationship with Doctor Watson up another cog turn, which was good.

~~~

When we got home I rang Minnie Fielding.

'What would make a person go into colonic irrigation?' I asked her.

'Why?'

'Are there schools? How do you get into it? Do you get to be a Bachelor of Irrigation? Do you study for years and then find you're fighting back street guys with a bucket and a bit of garden hose?'

'I don't know, Art.'

'Who would want to do that, irrigate someone else's colon?'

'I don't know. When was Rasputin alive?'

'Late nineteenth, early twentieth century. Because that's all it'd be, wouldn't it, basically—a hose and a bucket.'

'He was one mad bastard.' She was typing, I could hear the clack of a keyboard.

'Minnie.'

'Yes?'

'Nothing.' I hung up.

~~~

Someone was watching Minnie. She didn't know it yet but he was there in the shadowy edges and if she could have smelled him she would have smelled a black tangle of desire and fear and revulsion and lust and a hollow loneliness. He was watching for now and for now that was enough.

Paris Portingale

Mt Victoria

To immerse yourself in the world that is Paris Portingale's, visit his website at http://www.parisportingale.com or find him on Facebook - he's always looking for new friends!

You can also read short stories by Paris in each of the Blue Mountains issues of Narrator Magazine, or purchase his anthologies: 'Paris in Black' and 'From Paris with Love'. These are both available on Smashwords.

Last issue's winners...

Blue Mountains Spring 2011

The Blue Mountains Spring 2011 issue was judged by Lis Bastian, CEO of Varuna, the Writer's House in Katoomba. Here are Lis' choices ...

First Prize—$200 to Linda Yates for 'Endings'

A concise, poetic and evocative piece of writing, encapsulating universal experiences of family relationships, parenthood, death and regret.

Second Prize—$100 to Alan Lucas for 'Faustus'

An elegant, tight, beautifully constructed poem - hinting at so much but allowing the reader to fill in the detail and interpret the metaphor.

Third Prize—$50 to David Bowden for 'The Man Who Talked to Animals

A well written and entertaining contemporary fairy tale addressing issues of workplace bullying, government inaction, journalism playing liberally with facts and animal rights, in a light hearted parable for the 21st Century.

Highly Commended—Tony Dwyer for 'Selling Green'

A wittily bitter exploration of cruel twists of fate, written in a pacy style.

Highly Commended—Samantha Miller for 'Vide Grenier'

An amusing and realistic reconstruction of a brief moment in time, with entertaining and believable dialogue.

People's Choice Winner—$50 to James Tingle for 'The Facility'

Central Tablelands Spring 2011

The Central Tablelands Spring 2011 issue was judged by the Team at Bathurst's independent bookstore, BooksPlus. Here are their choices ...

First Prize—$200 to Rebecca Wilson for her piece 'Treasures'

I found this a terrific piece of writing with a strong plotline with great suspense and surprise twists included in crucial stages of the story. The characterisations were beautifully drawn and their circumstances believable without any weaknesses in their development or the pacing of the story. The story had great atmosphere with vivid landscape description, immersing you completely within its surrounds. This was a standout story, beautifully written with great zest.'

Second Prize— $100 to JE Doherty for 'Always the Children'

A moving, heartfelt story. he life of an ambulance officer is sympathetically drawn and the unimaginable grief of dealing with the loss of a child is beautifully evoked.'

Third Prize—$50 to JE Doherty for 'The Dancing Suit'

The characters of Robert and Beckett are strongly detailed to create a rich descriptive air of the period. A seemingly innocent and charming anti-hero soon becomes the reader's worst nightmare in a surprising twist in the tail story.'

People's Choice Winner—$50 to Paul Phillips for 'The Eyes Have It'

Correspondence

Questions? Problems? Opinions?

We would love to hear your thoughts on Narrator—what you like, what you don't like, and how we can improve the magazine.

So please, drop us a line on the Contact page of Narrator at <http://www.narratormagazine.com.au/contact.html>

Judging and Voting

Each quarter, merit prizes are awarded to the three pieces judged most worthy by our Guest Judge for that issue.

First prize: $1,000

Second prize: $500

Third prize $250

Winners are announced in the following issue.

If you would like to sponsor a merit prize, please contact Jenny Mosher at narrator@moshpitpublishing.com.au

People's Choice

Don't forget to vote for your favourite piece at:

<http://www.narratormagazine.com/vote.php>

Voting opens on 1 December 2011 and closes 31 January 2012.

People's Choice Prize is $200

If you would like to sponsor a People's Choice prize, please contact Jenny Mosher at narrator@moshpitpublishing.com.au

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Generally speaking, only one industry type per region is permitted to advertise, but this will depend on the particular business' reach.

For example, only one financial institution would be allowed to advertise in the NSW/ACT issue of Narrator, but we would allow three different dog groomers if they serviced three distinctly different regions, such as The Riverina, Greater Western Sydney and Coffs Harbour.

Our rates sheet is available for download from the Narrator website at <http://www.narratormagazine.com.au/advertise.html>

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If you are interested in advertising, please contact Jenny Mosher on 1300 644 380 to enquire about special offers being run on our standard rates sheet.

Image credits

Cover: 'Tram Graveyard, Sydney' by Steve McLaren

Pg 3: Jenny Mosher by Todd Sharp

Pg 22: 'Nature's Tears' by Linda Callaghan

Pg 36—41: Images supplied by Barry Walsh

Pg 43: 'Mt Wilson in Winter' by Jenny Mosher

All other images purchased from iStockPhoto.com

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