 
# Narrator Magazine

### Blue Mountains

# Spring 2010

# Smashwords Edition

narrator MAGAZINE is published by MoshPit Publishing

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**Cover:** _This issue's cover image is courtesy of local Dungatti artist Blake McHugh. Blake's 'Art Stops' is a most confronting, yet honest, artwork. It featured recently in his exhibition at the Olde Block Factory Gallery (OBFG), Faulconbridge._

For more information about Blake, please contact Robyn Caughlan, curator at the OBFG on 0413 231 831 or via robyncaughlan6@gmail.com A3 posters on 220gsm paper of Blake's image are available for $20 + P&P from the MoshShop at

<http://www.moshers.com.au/moshshop>

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

Thank you for your interest in this new initiative!

We've had a fantastic response to three little advertisements which we ran in the Blue Mountains Gazette in late July/early August and are very pleased to bring you this great collection of poems, essays and short stories from your fellow residents.

As well as literary contributions, we also have a few contributions from local artists and agreement from Paris Portingale (known to most as the author of very many amusing letters to the Gazette) to be our 'writer-in-residence' for the first three issues.

We live in a great area—not just from an environmental point of view—but from a social point of view. Since moving here 19 years ago, I have been constantly delighted with how supportive Mountains residents are of each other and their efforts to lead better lives. This little magazine is one fine example of that.

Although the seed of an idea was only planted in July, it has sprouted and borne fruit much more quickly than I would have thought possible a year or so ago. And that's thanks to the people who have seen the same opportunity that I did—an opportunity to help residents get samples of their work out there, without some corporate boffin 'being the judge'.

But with all due respect to corporate boffins, the businesses which have advertised in this magazine have also made it possible—so if you have a need and one of these wonderful businesses can help, then please consider using them first!

This first collection is uncensored* and virtually unedited, save for a basic spelling, grammar and punctuation check. Our aim is to bring out your work and then sit back and let the people speak. So don't forget to vote!

If you've ever had a piece of your writing published, or enjoyed the thrill of a picture you painted being hung in an exhibition, then you would also know the tummy-churning feeling of 'putting your work out there'—it's like standing naked in front of crowd.

So to all those contributors who have taken the brave step of 'standing naked' in front of their fellow residents—I thank you for your trust and goodwill.

Enough from me! Please, start turning the pages, and enjoy this collection in the spirit with which it was made.

Jenny Mosher

September 2010

### Table of Contents

## Poetry

Bright Spark – Zoya Kraus

The Liberation of Ted Farmer – Robyn Nance

Saturday Glory – Margaret Dighton

My Ancestors – Karen Maber

A Descent – Frances Sherlock

The Good Politician – Greg North

Save Catho – Dee Dee Graham

Hanging Rock, Blackheath – Dee Dee Graham

Fatality at Warrimoo – David Berger

Black Future – Greg North

All Mine – Ryan O'Shannessy

Out of the Mist – Jean Bundesen

### Stories

Carving – Jordan Russo

The Playground – Alexandra Martinez

Fresh Milk – John Egan

God's Shout – David Berger

Yes Mum, Why? – John Egan

Journal Extract: The Red Rattler – Nana J

Canine Wisdom – Janet Richardson

The End? – Robina Cranston

Lifewreck – Linda Campbell

What Have You Lost, Old Man? – John Egan

Gathering at Unaminka – Kate Matthew

The Spirit and Ghosts of 'Catho' – Dee Dee Graham

Beyond the Oak Door – Arthur Gray

Aunt Agnes – Peter Adams

Everything Seems to be Broken – Elizabeth Dight

Jules and Aime – Paris Portingale

### Essays

Prominence in the News: The Age of the Celebrity – Albany Dighton

The Main Event is the Country's Future - Beverly Elizabeth Taylor

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Carving – Jordan Russo

'What should we carve?' thought a man in a long dark brown hessian cloak, as he looked upon the mass of jagged rock. A woman dressed the same way, smiled next to him and cocked her head. Her light hair blew in the gentle breeze in time and in the same direction as the light green grass blades. The man and woman both looked down at their belts of chisels, mallets and gourd water bottles. The bright azure sky hung over the green fields, stretching out for miles around them and the light green grass swayed in the wind, changing direction with every breath. The man walked out ahead and moved around the large rock feeling its rough pale grey surface. He reached into his belt and took out a mallet and large wide chisel. He hesitated, looking along the huge uneven rocky wall. Then he locked his eyes on a random spot and placed his chisel. Clouds overhead moved along their unhurried endless journeys and the sun began to gleam through the big trees behind the rock mass. All the while, the scraping, the ringing and the beating echoed throughout the day.

'I'll start here' he called around the corner. He began chipping across the rock smoothing and shaping its ragged surface. The woman stuck her head around the corner. The man looked across the long tall grey wall of rock at the woman as she smiled at him, 'I love you,' she whispered. The man smiled and went back to his work. 'You big muscular boofhead,' she said, and disappeared back around the corner as the man snapped his attention from the rock to where she had just been. The man scowled and then broke into a silent chuckle. 'I will start on the opposite side to you and then we shall carve our way to meet up,' she called from around the corner. He worked tirelessly all day. Between each placement of the chisel he could hear the strong soothing chipping of the woman - and feel her passion.

His feet rustled the grass as he adjusted his footing throughout the work. At the end of the day as twilight seeped in, he and the woman would leave for home. In the mornings on one occasion he and the woman went together to the market to buy new chisel sizes. On many occasions they would shop for food together and help take care of their sick family members. The busy city streets were filled with people, the tapping of their steps sounding on the cobble stones, carts grating their wooden wheels across bridges over human made waterways and sellers yelling out over the murmur of people wearing all sorts of garb. Some people sat on fences staring into space. Others played lively tunes on their flutes while sitting on the streets for hours. The smell of tobacco smoke mixed with hot spices, filled his nose.

Whenever the man left the city and stepped once again onto the spacious plains, the powerfully fresh air charged into him and then freedom set in with that. Months circled by as the man chipped into the rock wall and then smoothed out its undulations. He moved from the now smooth wall to the top and began chiselling that. He opened a bag of small granite stones onto the surface and ran a big rectangular sander across the top smoothing it out. Sometimes he leant over the edge on his stomach and smiled at the woman. 'Get to work you boofhead' she would say, whenever she saw him. Heat rippled the air and the man pulled his sleeves up. The man had to keep drinking from his water and decided they had best finish for the day. The next day he got exactly what he wished for, cooler weather, so cool it rained for a few days. It became uncomfortably cold. Then warmer weather finally fixed that, but funny enough the woman seemed to prefer the heat when he preferred the cold.

The man switched to a finer pointed chisel to inscribe fine details. The stone was smoothed out entirely. It was a stone that now looked like a man and woman. With their arms around each other, their faces looked triumphant with bright smiles. They wore simple robes. The carving's muscular arms showed even the veins and scratches that could only be so meticulously crafted by passion and skill. It was the man and woman's interpretation of the good side of humanity, the good in individuals using their minds as much as their hearts. The man was aware that some people believed what they thought were undeniable facts. So their experience was to them, the way of the world - a lack of intellectual faith. The man turned around and saw their home city engulfed in an angry orange blaze.

Bright Spark – Zoya Kraus

'This poem is something I wrote for my son after he/we lost his little sister Lila. I wrote it in support for him but, a creative outlet for myself through grief, and as a way of reaching out to other people in grief. It feels pure and innocent and real to us. I'd LOVE to share it.'

Hello White Cockatoo

I've been waiting for you.

My night was long, lonely and dark

Now here you are, Bright Spark.

I feel warm, joyful and light

When I see flashes of your yellow and white.

You have come to me every single day

Since the moment my sister passed away.

I KNOW you are her, she is you

That's why I love you White Cockatoo.

One day her heart stopped beating

Her time with life was brief and fleeting.

I feel scared and sad, that's the truth

But then show up and give me proof

A fallen feather, a mighty screech

A smile creeps in, you're both in reach.

My sister is free and with you now

Look after her, look after me somehow.

Now that I can see her in you

I KNOW she lives on, White Cockatoo.

The Liberation of Ted Farmer – Robyn Nance

Charlie was sitting on the Royal's

verandah

With his old mates, Pete and Bill

When they saw Ted Farmer's trusty ute

Come chugging over the hill.

'Well stone the flamin' crows,' said

Charlie

'That's an unfamiliar sight

His missus must have let him out,

and I bet not without a fight.'

Ted's wife was notoriously bossy

And ruled Ted with an iron hand

To see him in town in the middle of the day

Meant he'd finally made a stand.

Just as the weekly bus pulled in

The ute came to a shuddering stop

Out of the bus stepped a beautiful girl

You could almost hear the jaws drop.

They watched as Ted stepped forward

And whispered in the stranger's ear

He escorted her over to the ute

Dropping her bags into the rear.

He pointed out the three watchers –

Charlie, Bill and Pete

And the girl waved gaily and blew a kiss

As she climbed into the ute's front seat.

Lifting their glasses of amber

The three wondered who she could be

They all came up with suggestions

But no answer could they see.

As the ute drove away they returned

To the world's problems and the drought

They forgot all about

Ted and his guest

And the fact he'd driven north, not south.

Five days went past and the three old mates

Were having their daily 'good oil'

When they saw the town's only police car

Pull into the front of the Royal.

The passenger door opened and a woman appeared

And they recognised Ted Farmer's wife

She seemed a shadow of her former self

As her face registered worry and strife.

Dan Roberts, the cop approached the three

And asked if they'd seen Ted Farmer

'Not for a coupla days,' they said

Then mentioned the beautiful charmer.

'Just as I feared,' Ted's wife cried out

'It's that bloody internet –

He said he was looking for a new house dog

But picked a different kind of pet!'

As the months went by there was no word

Of Ted – he'd simply disappeared

The three old mates called it 'the great escape'

Drank their beers and quietly cheered.

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Prominence in the News: The Age of Celebrity – Albany Dighton

'Andy Warhol predicted that the time was nigh when everyone would be famous for 15

minutes' - Roger Kimball 2007

Murray Masterton (1998) conducted surveys with journalists to ascertain what the essential elements are to make a story newsworthy. Results from the surveys revealed that the three main elements to making a story newsworthy are interest, timeliness and clarity, followed by (in order): consequence (the level of impact on the audience, eg. how interest rate increases will affect home owners), proximity (nearness), conflict, human interest, novelty/unusualness and prominence (best described as any news concerning well-known or powerful people such as politicians, business leaders and celebrities).

When examining today's news mediums, it is now ostensibly clear that prominence would rank higher in the newsworthy stakes. Twelve years post-Masterton surveys, we have undoubtedly entered not only a new millennium but the Age of the Celebrity. It is the age whereby a chef can become as famous as the movie stars of Hollywood, and the public are educated on every event within their lives. It is an age where news serves far more than a conversation piece by serving as a form of entertainment. Sally White argues that the public 'watch television bulletins or read daily papers to fill in time and peek into other people's lives, much as they would read a novel or watch a soap opera' (White 1996, p.6).

A thorough examination of the influx of celebrity news across all mediums will argue the case for modern day society's insatiability for celebrity 'goss'. There will be discussion on the positive, negative, didactic and psychological aspects of celebrity news which will offer insight into how prominence news became so prominent in the news.

Firstly however, it's important to discuss the journalistic involvement on the above said topic. Are journalists and the editorial department to blame for the onset of such prominence? They are certainly aware that 'they are dealing in dreams and fears' so they can certainly capitalise on this notion (White 1996, p.7). What are the reasons that celebrity news acquired so much currency in the media? What about ethics? Has the adage 'names make news' been taken too literally and what are the consequences of the influx of celebrity news? (White 1996, p.14).

It is important to note the outcome of John Hemmingham's (1998: 335) series of surveys during the 1990s where he asked journalists why they entered their profession, because it is one of the contributing factors as to why prominence stories are so prevalent in the news. John discovered that 27% said they became journalists because they were good at writing, 20% because it is an exciting career and you get to meet interesting people, 16% said they had an interest in news and current affairs (!), and 4% wanted to expose wrong doing and corruption (Study Guide CMM29 2009, p.1).

The survey reveals that almost half of the respondents were simply good writers and it was a glamorous job. Twenty percent became journalists because they get to meet interesting people (undoubtedly referring to famous people), therefore 20% of journalists are guaranteed to advocate investigation of a celebrity story over a story concerning something of more significance. Cause for concern?

John Hurst argues that the Australian Journalists' Association's Code of Ethics stipulates the way 'news should be reported', but says little about what 'kinds of news they should or should not report' (Hurst 1991, p.23). He also argues that important and significant news is often overlooked by 'interesting' or 'entertaining' news (Hurst 1991, p.24).

An example is the Prince Charles story that Sally White refers to whereby Prince Charles broke his arm and achieved a 22 centimetre coverage in Melbourne's The Sun News-Pictorial (White 1996, p.15). Journalists and the news-deciding teams are guilty of not asking themselves what is significant about the event. Sally White argues 'they become seduced by the name' (White 1996, p.15). There would have been thousands of broken arms throughout the world yet a royal broken arm has significantly more credence than anything else.

There are many other examples like the Prince Charles story. The most trivial of events can become news and thus news mediums tend to concentrate favourably on prominence stories to the exclusion of others. White argues that this imbalance in fairness of reporting 'perpetuates existing power structures and denies a voice to minorities, the poor and the weak' (White 1996, p.14-5).

Yes, celebrities provide more 'grist to the news mill than the person in the street' and yes, the majority of the public have an abounding interest in celebrity news but it doesn't necessarily mean the public should be inundated with it (White 1996, p.15).

In 2007, researchers at the Pew Research Centre in America asked the public what news stories they considered had the most coverage. 40% said celebrity news and Hollywood gossip had the most coverage, 12% said the Iraq war and 5% said politics. Australia is renowned for following American trends and there is a significant similarity between our news coverage of celebrities compared to the war in Afghanistan and some of our own political issues. A simple click onto www.ninemsn.com.au (any time of day) will reiterate the influx of celebrity news in conjunction with polls on whether Brad and Angelina should adopt another child, blogs on what you think of Jennifer Aniston's hairstyle and a comments board for every celebrity story.

Marcy Franklin, author of the paper America's obsession with celebrities and celebrity news: when is it too much? reveals psychologist researchers in America have argued in defence of celebrity news, 'Celebrity worshippers who do so for entertainment-social reason are extraverted, seek information and support, and are able to display emotions' (Franklin).

Psychologists in America have confirmed that the public obsession with celebrity news stems from high school days where everyone follows each other's romantic 'going-ons' and other issues (Franklin). Adults are deprived of that social interaction once they enter the workforce so discussing who is dating who in the movie star realm offers some compensation.

Franklin questioned Bonnie Fuller, the chief editorial director for America Media Inc., 'the tabloid conglomerate that publishes the Star, the National Enquirer, and the Globe', about why the public are so infatuated with gossip news (Franklin). Bonnie's answer is 'celebrities give us a whole world of people in common – people to gossip about at work over the water cooler or at a dinner party' (Franklin).

So whilst this statement makes one ascertain that celebrity news is a social tool for bringing people together, Franklin argues 'however, it should be noted that Fuller's career depends on the validity of celebrity news' (Franklin).

There are several problems posed by news mediums curtailing to the polls and providing for market demands such as celebrity news. As John Hurst argues, decisions about what news stories should be provided could be based on (a) misinterpretation of market survey data (b) whilst the audience may be more interested in celebrity news, it doesn't mean they will be 'satisfied if ownership of the media is concentrated in a few hands and the dwindling media outlets present an increasingly narrowing range of news and views' and (c) advertisers will take advantage of the media outlets whose audiences 'have the purchasing power to buy their products' (Hurst 1991, p.25).

It is interesting to note that many of those advertised products are represented by celebrities and even owned by celebrities as part of their branding campaign. An example is Kylie Minogue: singing sensation plus director of her own lingerie and perfume lines. Her products are sold in Myer and David Jones who are major advertisers in the online and print news mediums. There is a higher tendency to run a story on these celebrities if their product is also paying large sums to be advertised.

Many will argue that celebrity news is needed for the news industries to survive otherwise ratings and circulation will flounder (Franklin). The most fundamental function of a news organisation is to make a profit and as John Hurst argues 'for unless it can do that or can depend on some other means of support (such as private or government subsidy) it will be unable to perform other important functions' (Hurst 1991, p.25).

However, there should be greater weight given to important issues. Journalists and editorial teams have a responsibility to inform the public of important news yet the trend in celebrity news is steadily increasing. There is fear that if prominence news stories acquire too much prominence in the news than we are 'more likely to think about celebrities rather than the issues that are pertinent to our democracy' (Franklin).

Franklin continues her argument by citing the words of famed journalist Edward R. Murrow who in 1958 told the Radio-Television News Directors Association Convention, 'For surely we shall pay for using the most powerful instrument of communications [television] to insulate the citizenry from the hard and demanding realities which must be faced if we are to survive. I mean the word survive literally' (Franklin). To surmise, 'journalists cannot insulate citizens with celebrity gossip, for it will be detrimental to society' (Franklin).

Some media outlets are aware of this trend and are fighting back with huge success. Frankie Magazine editor Jo Walker is proud to admit their rising success in magazine circulation is due to 'divesting of celeb goss' and replacing with 'scone recipes, articles on indie artists, DIY tips' (Wells 2010). Walker quotes in The Age, 'I think last year, with the GFC, people started looking for things that were a bit more genuine and real. That's something we've also tapped into, this whole new craft movement with a lot of emphasis on handmade and DIY, which people are loving right now' (Wells 2010).

This is evidence that audiences are still just as amused, if not more, by reading down-to-earth subjects. The fact that Frankie Magazine covers exhibit unknown, fresh faces is also evidence that profit can be made without a famous name attached to it.

Other issues that arise with an increase of celebrity news include invasion of privacy and Celebrity Worship Syndrome, a term coined by psychiatrists to diagnose individuals who have an unhealthy interest in the lives of the rich and famous (Gray).

Invasion of privacy is one of the ethical issues still standing in today's society whilst a high demand of celebrity stories and photo galleries exists. The greatest case to spark the ethical debate is the case of Princess Diana and her tragic end in the Paris tunnel. Sally White argues that whilst many famous personalities 'actively court publicity', questions will arise about the 'degree to which all parts of a person's life and the lives of their families or intimates should become public property' (White 1996, p.15).

When there's demand there's a market so it's no surprise that the paparazzi will go to extremes such as the tailgating of Princess Diana to get a close-up of their in-demand target. Grahame Griffin argues in agreeance to the question of invasion of privacy, 'This event [Princess Diana tragedy] highlights once again the ethical question that continually dogs more professional and sensitive press photographers – the question of invasion of privacy' (Griffin 1998, p.301).

Whilst there is a demand for these photo's for tabloid magazines there should certainly be a protocol set in place to protect famous personalities from a tragedy synonymous to Princess Diana, irregardless of whether the celebrity courts the publicity themselves.

Celebrity Worship Syndrome is another contributing factor to the influx of celebrity news. According to researchers at Southern Illinois University School of Medicine, about a third of us have it in some form or other. Researchers believe a reason for this syndrome is that celebrities offer a diversion or escape from reading about depressing or negative news (Lagorio 2006).

Researchers also believe that many positives, didactic positives, can come out of the syndrome. For example, if celebrities are attached to an organisation promoting a health issue (eg. Asthma awareness), there will more publicity and an increased awareness that wouldn't achieve the same results if the celebrity name wasn't attached (Lagorio 2006). This awareness increases consumer education. Society will understand more about an important topic and thus lives can be saved in the cases of awareness for health issues. It's no wonder that organisations actively seek a 'face' or ambassador for their campaign.

Another positive aspect is that celebrity news can convey important political issues that normally achieve less coverage. For example, the actor George Clooney is a political activist for the United Nations and raised considerable awareness about the Mugabe regime in Zimbabwe. Many people who are categorised as Generation Y would have been hard pressed to have known who Robert Mugabe is, let alone what was occurring in Zimbabwe. But they all know who George Clooney is and it is this prominence in the news which can really be of benefit.

Matthew A. Baum, Assistant Professor of Political Science at University of California argues that those who are oriented moreso with the soft news or celebrity media can be 'exposed to information about high-profile political issues, most prominently foreign policy crises, as an incidental by-product of seeking entertainment' (Baum 2002, p.91). In other words, these 'politically inattentive individuals' are learning whilst they think they are zoning in to yet another, entertaining, George Clooney story (Baum 2002, p.91).

We are inundated with stories concerning celebrities and their various charities or positions within organisations such as the UN, and whilst the celebrities themselves agree that they have a high profile in the media, they are simply using their star power to focus people's attention to important matters, a positive that comes out of over-exposure and exactly the point that Professor Matthew Baum makes above concerning soft news readers being exposed to political information inadvertently.

George Clooney, one of the most recent recipients of the Messenger of Peace title by the United Nations told ABC News, 'I think what they're looking to gain from [awarding me] is cameras following me to places that they're trying to get attention to and that's fine. That's a good use of celebrity if you ask me' (Willoughby 2008).

Angelina Jolie, also famous for her contributions to the UN as Goodwill Ambassador, told ABC News a similar reason for celebrity involvement in political activism, '[Activism] gives celebrity some reason. Celebrity is very weird ... So when you're doing something good and can bring attention to that or discuss that, then it feels like you have some sense in your life' (Willoughby 2008).

Gillian M. Sorensen, the Assistant Secretary-General for External Relations voiced the advantage of celebrity involvement in the UN at a New York meeting organised for celebrity advocates of UN causes, 'We think this is a very special gathering – we know that [celebrities] reach audiences and younger people that our own speakers sometimes do not, so we welcome this occasion and look forward to a very lively and interesting exchange' (www.un.org).

What can we expect to happen in the future with prominence in the news? If Frankie Magazine editor Jo Walker is anything to go by, prominence will back down to where it used to belong in the newsworthiness stakes. The fact that the existence of research surveys and news stories scorning the celebrity news influx serves as a reminder that prominence in the news really does concern a lot of people, both the public and academics alike. There is more to life than reading about Paris Hilton's pet Chihuahua's new wardrobe.

Erica Bartle argues in her media blog Girl with a Satchel, 'Paris Hilton is a product that evolved with the boom. She symbolised all the excesses of the boom: slim, blonde, ostensibly a bimbo, obsessed with the here and now and living for the moment. Paris' star may fade during the recession because she symbolises all the frivolity and emptiness of rampant consumerism. She's the wrong product for the time' (Bartle 2009).

Thankfully the GFC, as abysmal as it has been for many individuals, is ironing out excesses of superfluous information. Lets hope Frankie Magazine can send an example to the other news mediums that down-to-earth and significant news is back in fashion.

In conclusion, the most important point that can be made is that a balance needs to be sought with the amount of prominence news versus significant and important news. It will always remain a fact that names do make news but the issue with names making too much news is that people are influenced to believe that prominence stories are the most important issues. John Hurst argues 'If particular kinds of issues or events are given generous air time or newspaper space, they may be easily considered by the audience as particularly important' (Hurst 1991, p.24).

It's not to say celebrities aren't necessarily important or significant. Entertainment and the Arts are an extremely important and functional structure of society. Journalists and editorial teams simply need to prioritise news stories to serve the public interests better. There are many issues of corruption, politics, health, finance, to name but a few, which are overlooked in the name of celebrity news.

What we've discovered is that whilst many citizens are in favour of prominence in the news, there are many negatives entailed such as the lack of importance given to news that matters, invasion of privacy issues and the almost unheard of Celebrity Worship Syndrome which apparently one in three people suffers from.

With every negative there is a positive and prominence certainly provides positive outcomes such as utilising star power to promote a good cause and inadvertently educate soft news readers on political issues. Prominence can be utilised to provide impact, both good and bad. Sally White argues how some stories may appear to be a prominence story but are really an impact story.

An example White gives is when Kerry Packer suffered a heart attack while playing a polo match. According to statistics from the National Heart Foundation, 'One Australian dies every 10 minutes from cardiovascular disease' (White 1996, p.15-6). Kerry Packer's collapse made front page news the next day under bold headings such as The Age's 'Kerry Packer critical after heart attack' and The Australian Financial Reviews 'Packer heart attack: TV in turmoil' (White 1996, p.15-16).

Whilst some will argue 'why is the story about Kerry when many people die from heart attacks?', it's actually a credible way of alerting readers to the affects of a deadly disease. If Kerry dies and television is in turmoil, it's all because of a heart attack – something that affects one in ten Australians.

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### The Playground – Alejandra Martinez

It had been one year since she had seen her son. She could still feel his soft skin. His arms slightly hairier than they had been in the last few years. He had grown tall over the summer. Long, lanky.

His thick dark hair, slightly over his eyes. Never brushing it as he rushed to get to school in the morning. He had started high school this year. He felt older, proud.

That morning he had packed his own lunch. A ham sandwich. He was running late, she offered to drive him. He declined. He ran for the bus, a piece of toast in his hand. He forgot his maths text book. It was left on the kitchen table together with his half finished Milo.

She waved goodbye as she did every morning from the door. He no longer wanted to be kissed goodbye. He was 'too old for that'. 'Have a good day' she said to him.

She cleared the breakfast dishes, and then went to have a shower. She had a bit of shopping to do before work. Tonight's dinner? His favourite was meatballs with spaghetti. She would surprise him with this. He had been doing so well at school. She was proud of him. Her daughter would complain. Why didn't she cook her favourite?

She rushed her daughter and kissed her goodbye. She watched her as she walked to the bus stop. They were growing up fast.

The call had come about an hour later.

She rang her husband. It was difficult to talk. She was in shock. One of the staff came to pick her up and drove her to the hospital. In the car, she couldn't speak. Her heart beat fast; she felt a cold sweat all over her body. Mrs. Davies, the School Counsellor, kept telling her, the ambulance got there very quickly.

She couldn't even cry. Her face felt frozen, paralysed. Her mind fuzzy.

They got there before her husband. He had to drive through city traffic.

He was strong for her. He spoke to the doctors. He asked questions. She still couldn't speak.

He asked to see him. They held him and cried and cried. She couldn't let him go. Her husband had to pull her away. She cried. She couldn't stop.

Her chest was still tight. Grief had invaded her, inside and out. She could feel nothing else.

Her husband was angry. He drove fast. He shouted. He ate quickly and he watched television whenever he was home. He didn't talk about it. After a few months she wanted to talk to him about it but he still could not.

She went to a grief counsellor. She was afraid but the pain inside was so big it was eating every part of her.

He didn't want to meet the boy's parents. What for? There was no point to it.

The Counsellor said it could help. She had agreed. It had taken her a long time to say yes she would meet them. But only the mother.

The boy's parents had wanted to meet just after it happened. She couldn't.

The boy's parents sent flowers and a card.

Three months later she refused again. She barely left the house.

Today she was meeting her. They had arranged a park nearby. The park had a pond with ducks. She liked it there.

She didn't tell her husband or her daughter.

She got there early, she wanted to prepare herself. It was a warm day. The pond was full with ducks. A brood of ducklings followed their mother in a line.

Se watched the ducks feed. A woman wearing a navy blue dress was walking towards her. It must be her; she had told her she would wear a blue dress.

'Are you Renee?' the woman asked as she faced her.

She looked like she was in her mid forties. Her hair was discolored and the grey was showing.

'Yes, I am.'

The woman sat down next to her.

'I'm Amy. Thank you so much for meeting me.'

They looked at each other. She the victim's mother. The other, the attacker's.

Amy looked at her.

'Everyday I hate myself for what my son has done.' She spoke softly.

'I don't just blame myself, I despise myself.' Her eyes were moist. They were a very clear blue.

'Don't', she found herself saying.

For a minute, the mothers of boys killed in wars and the mothers of sons who had killed flooded her mind.

She didn't feel pity for this woman, or anger. She didn't feel anything.

'I didn't know he had a knife. He had bought it with his own money. He carried it in his schoolbag. I never looked in his bag. I didn't want to snoop, or invade his privacy. I thought he might have notes in there from a girl he liked. Or empty chip packets. I was always at him not to eat junk food. He was getting fat. He didn't like sports much.'

The woman spoke quickly. Her words tripping over each other.

'I don't want to know. I don't want to know your son or anything about him. It's too late. I don't know why he killed my son and I don't want to know.'

The woman began to cry. The words 'killed my son' piercing through her.

'Then why did you agree to meet me?' she managed to get out through her sobs.

'I don't know. I thought it might help.'

'This has destroyed my life and my family's. I have two younger children who have suffered deeply because of this. I'm not saying this to take away from your pain. I don't know why my son did what he did. He was a normal boy. He had friends. They were arguing about a ball.'

'Please don't tell me. I have read all the reports. I know you have a need to tell me, but I don't want to hear it. Every morning when I wake up it's the first thing I think about. He's not here.'

'I'm so sorry'.

'I take valium everyday to dull the pain. I don't want to get up, but I have to for my daughter.'

'Sometimes I drive past the school and I stop and look at it. You think your children will be safe in the playground. I see him there, standing with his bag over his shoulder, smiling and I just want to die. Some days it doesn't feel real.'

She looked at the ducks as she spoke.

'I don't feel angry at your son or at you. I just feel pain and loss. I feel the loss of childhood, of innocence. You know it's strange, but I don't just feel my loss but a greater loss, a collective loss. I want to cry for every mother that has lost a child. It's almost like I'm carrying the pain of all those mothers.'

Amy reached over to take her hand. She quickly took it away. She didn't want this woman's sympathy. The woman was crying.

Lives that will never be lived. They haunted her.

Both women sat there looking at the ducks.

She looked at the distraught mother. She knew that this woman was wounded too.

The playground would never be a place of dreams again.

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Fresh Milk – John Egan

This is a story about myself.

When I was about 10 years old, I was taken by my parents on holidays to Tuggerah, a seaside town on the Central Coast. I remember that the name of the cottage that my Father rented was 'Tomani'.

The first morning after arriving, and before breakfast, I was told to take the billy can and go across the ploughed paddock at the rear of the cottage, for milk from the local dairy. I was told to ask if the milk is fresh.

Experience told me to follow instructions to the letter, so dutifully I asked 'Is the milk fresh?'

The farmer looked up from what he was doing and said, 'Can't you see, it's coming from the bloody cow?'

'Yes,' I said, 'I can. But the cow may not have been milked for months!'

Saturday Glory – Margaret Dighton

I'm here right now, the wind blowing strong.

Way up high, and coming down to greet me on a whim.

It's fresh, it's crisp and enticing.

The light sound of a clarinet comes to greet me and fades,

A light aircraft passes on with a jet up high in harmony.

I stare around my garden, very sparse in a square formation.

The place I bought is just that, the place I bought.

My roobis tea keeps me company as the morning moves into noon.

Neighbours stirring, traffic and noises collaborating.

The wind still stirs my soul, it's something ancient

And strong in amongst these modern dreams.

The wind it stirs louder, the trees they sound like the ocean waves,

Then it dies down to silence, the sun rays are light on my face

And the sound of the clarinet comes floating back,

While the wind takes a short break.

I feel I am right here, right now.

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God's Shout – David Berger

Ian, Mark and I met God at the front of the pub on Saturday afternoon. We went inside and sat on four stools at the corner of the bar. I was going to order our first round of beers,

'What'll You have?' I asked God.

'Make it the same as yours,' He said, 'I like to try different brands.'

No one else knew He was God, only us. He just looked like an old bloke wearing a red checked shirt and a pair of dark blue overalls. Each of us had a hundred questions to ask Him, but we sat patiently until the beer arrived. I paid for it, then we all watched as God sipped His first mouthful of Aussie beer. He gave out a great sigh of pleasure and put His glass down on the bar. We grinned at each other. Mark smiled at God and asked, 'Is it better than American beer?'

'Oh, I'm afraid the Americans don't ask Me to have a beer with them,' He said mournfully, 'so I can't say I've really tasted it ...'

We were keen to get onto the really deep theological questions.

'So, what do You do at Christmas?' Ian asked.

'Oh, I love listening to the carols, especially the outdoor Carols by Candlelight that you Aussies are able to have... As a matter of fact last year I was just sitting in my little singularity listening to the carols from Rooty Hill, and I was thoroughly enjoying them, until Gabriel came in and told Me there was a storm front rapidly approaching Rooty Hill from the south and it was due to wash out the show. 'Can't we do anything?' I asked him, 'No,' he said, 'it was that butterfly flapping its wings again in Brazil, last Friday.' I got a bit annoyed about this, so I said to Gabriel, 'Run it all backwards quickly and get the butterfly to flap its wings on Saturday. He started to protest, but I had to shoosh him because 'We Three Kings of Orient Are' was just beginning.'

'You've got to be kidding,' I said.

We finished our beers and Mark ordered another round. God had the same brand as Mark this time.

'Tell us a joke, God,' Ian said, 'Got any good political or sexy jokes?'

'Yes, perhaps,' He said, 'but do you know, I could never understand your 'Knock, Knock, who's there?' jokes... All right, umm, let Me see... what is green in the morning, yellow in the afternoon and blue at night?'

We all shook our heads and said, 'Don't know.'

He laughed loudly, then said with a great merry hoot, 'Seventeen!'

He roared with laughter while we looked at each other like idiots. But a pretty girl sitting further along the bar had heard God's joke and giggled so much that she had to squeeze her legs together.

'How come she gets Your joke and we don't?' I asked.

'Eh? ... Oh ... She's an angel,' He said, 'Today's her day off.'

We stared at her; she smiled a 'hello' and returned to her chardonnay. We hadn't seen her before. She looked ... ordinary ... blue jeans and a yellow shirt, brownish hair, no make-up ... maybe early thirties, give or take a millennium.

'Okay, God, let's cut to the chase,' I said, 'Which religion is true?'

He winked at me and then looked at Mark and Ian, then me again. He had a huge smile on His face and said, 'The one practised by the animals ...'

'Animals?'

'Yes, you know, dogs, cats, birds, and all that.'

'Do you mean,' Mark asked, 'that despite all the wars, persecutions and arguments none of our religions are true ... not even a bit?'

God chuckled loudly and merrily. The angel let out an uncontrollable shriek of amusement. They both sat there swaying on their bar-stools. God couldn't stop laughing and had to hold His sides. He almost fell of His chair. The angel had to leap up and run to the Ladies' Loo.

'Ho,' He said, amid big gasps of air. 'That's a great joke – didn't see that one coming!'

We mere mortals could only look at each other stupidly. Better change the subject. It was Ian's shout and he bought four more beers.

'When will this world end?' God looked at Ian, cocked His head over to one side and raised an eyebrow, 'End?' He asked, seeming not to understand.

'Yeah, END,' Ian repeated. 'End, finish, kaput.'

'Yeah ,' I added, ' You know, Armageddon, Oblivion, no more Earth.'

'You mean, 'end'?... END?????' God said, 'Now you've got to be kidding... watching the Earth and the antics you lot get up to is My second favourite past-time! It's not going to end soon ... if at all.'

'Is there really life after death,' I asked, 'and if so what happens?'

'Do you think that death is part of life, or life is part of death?' He asked. Then He sipped His beer and said 'Just remember that life is a continuity, it always is. It had a beginning which had no beginning and an end which has no ending. It just is, and you're all in the loop. But, to put it in a nutshell, read the poems of Emily Dickinson if you really want to understand it all.'

We looked at each other. It seemed that most of our preconceived ideas were going out the window. Here we were with the greatest opportunity anyone could have asked for and we were left floundering.

Then Mark said, 'Ah... You said before that watching us was your second favourite past-time?'

The angel was just coming back from the Ladies'.

'What's Your favourite activity then?' Mark continued.

God drew in a breath and surreptitiously glanced over toward the angel. She glared at Him. God actually seemed to squirm. He smiled at the angel, then turned to us, 'My favourite activity is, ah, how can I put this... I like Big Bangs, Worm-Holes between universes... and designing flowers... ahem.' He glanced at the angel. She coughed loudly.

It was God's shout, His turn to buy the beer. We put our empty glasses on the bar and looked at Him expectantly. He patted his pockets, 'My round?' He asked with an upward inflection, raising His eyebrows in a painful, apologetic way that suggested He was broke.

'Yes,' we said in unison and watched him.

'I couldn't bless myself with a dollar ... I didn't come prepared ...'

He smiled at us regretfully, and He knew we were disappointed. However, He took on a serious expression and called the bar-maid over and asked for four glasses of water, which were free. Ian scowled. Mark stuck out his lower lip. I just shook my head and thought to myself, 'This is Australia, mate. You can't welch on a shout.'

God looked at us for a moment and grinned, then lightly touched each glass of water and it instantly turned into beer.

'Wow! Where'd Y'learn that trick?' Mark asked with his face lighting up into a smile.

'My young bloke... My son... he picked it up in, um... San Francisco? Or was it New York? Anyway, somewhere in America. I love those Yanks, they're always doing the 'Lord's Work' for Me. I know they try their best, but look how they stuffed up Greenland!'

'Greenland?' we all said at the same time.

'Oh, sorry about that. No, that hasn't happened yet, has it?' He turned to the angel for confirmation and she shook her head with what seemed to be a look of exasperation on her face. Like a mother would do with an errant son.

'That water to beer trick ... You sure it didn't come from Cana or Galilee, or somewhere over there?' I asked.

'No, that was wine,' He said.

Of course!

We kept drinking and the horse races were droning away continuously on the pub TV screens. We were all feeling merry and the angel was getting tipsy. I thought she was starting to look very attractive and considered chatting her up, then the devil walked in through the open door.

'Hi Dad!' he called.

God turned to him and smiled. 'Hi Nick! You should try some of this Aussie beer, it's a bit like that stuff pharaoh gave you a few years back.'

Nick pulled up a stool and bought himself a beer with real money. He was dressed very neatly in casual clothes. He had black hair and a black goatee beard. We stared at him, then at each other.

'Is this the son who taught You the water into beer trick?' I asked.

'No, that was the other one, he should be here shortly ...'

Two sons?

'Well,' I fumbled, 'how does that fit in with the trinity bit? We've tried for centuries to work out how the trinity operates, but if You've got two sons ...?'

'Heh, heh, heh ... yes, I know,' God said, 'I've had a few chuckles over that one. But, do you know what? It never was trinity it was always trilogy. You lot got it all terribly wrong. It should be TRILOGY.'

I could imagine a few theologians pulling their hair out over that one. Suddenly it all seemed much simpler ... we should have listened to the Jews.

'Well, what trilogy?' Ian asked. 'Hi Dad!' someone called as he approached from the door, ensuring that Ian was not going to get a quick answer. The other son had arrived and pulled up a bar-stool. Jeans, sandals, white tee-shirt, long hair and a wispy beard. The angel walked over and sat beside him with two new glasses of chardonnay. He took a sip,

'Hmm ... nice ... Rosemount 2004?' he asked the angel. She smiled and nodded. He turned to Nick,

'How've you been, Nick?'

'Not bad, Jess, except for that damned Faust. Look, he's the only customer I've got. You couldn't take him off my hands, could you?'

Jess laughed, 'That original price he paid, with inflation, would be higher than a Sydney mortgage by now, but I'll think about it.'

'What were you saying, Ian?' God asked respectfully.

'Oh it doesn't matter!' Ian said, letting his shoulders slump. This was all getting too much for us. Mark started to whistle softly and tunelessly. I looked at the four visitors and wondered if it would be appropriate to take a photo of them with my mobile phone.

'It wouldn't turn out,' the angel said. Wow! She had read my mind! 'Nor would your earlier ideas...' she added with a smile. It wasn't with condescension, it was more like sympathy.

'Hey Jess,' God said, 'what time's the bus coming?'

'About five minutes, I think. Depends on the traffic.'

'What traffic? What bus? What ... what trilogy?' I asked, feeling the frustration rising in my body.

God looked at me in a really beautiful, kindly way, 'We've got to get home soon and the bus is picking us up. It has to come down from Andromeda and the traffic has more to do with the magnetic lines of this solar system. It should be here in a few minutes. What was the other thing? Oh yes, the trilogy ... or more officially, 'The Doctrine of the Whole Trilogy'... it's based on the equilateral triangle, as deciphered by Pythagoras and rendered comprehensibly perspicuous to humanity by the recondite work of Hermes Trismegistus, these three arcana were the lacunae before the Big Bang, written by black fire on white fire bringing the letters of the alphabet into existence so that the universe could be created, through the tomes of existence, silence and lucidity, each rendered from the perspective of a sixty degree angle, the cosine of which, when multiplied by the geodetic constant, gives the prime integer for analysing string theory's measurement of the Theory Of Everything, or TOE ...'

'Bus is here!' the angel said, picking up her purse. She gave us a wave goodbye, and kissed me on the cheek. Jess and Nick walked with her out through the door. God finished His beer and signalled to the barmaid for three glasses of water. He turned them into beer and said,

'I've really enjoyed myself this afternoon, gents, thanks for the experience. Do you think we could do it again some time? No, probably not ... I'm very busy. Oh well ... if you get the chance to drop in and see me, I'll try to organise something.'

'Do you think we'll meet again?' Ian asked, in such a sad but longing way.

'Yeah,' God said, 'don't see why not!'

He got up and walked to the door, then He paused and came back to us. He bent over towards us in a conspiratorial manner, we leaned our heads in close to Him,

'Number eight in the next race at Flemington,' He whispered, winked, then went out with a loud 'Mazel Tov!'

We sat there without a word for two or three minutes. Mark picked up the racing 'form guide' and looked for the next race at Flemington.

'The next race is in ten minutes, and number eight is called ... Tipsy Angel!'

We were stunned. Then we jumped up as one and made a rush to the TAB betting window .

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Yes Mum, Why? – John Egan

The room was bright and cheery. I sat with a man I knew very well, a man senior to me. I asked him if he would mind telling me what it was like growing up when he was a boy; was there anything that he could recall in relationship to his Mother that he will remember for the rest of his life?

I saw before me a gentleman, sitting quietly, looking straight ahead, his hands clasped together and resting on a walking stick. He did not move, except to turn his head towards me and say:

When I was twelve years old, I remember, we had a cat. Being the only boy in the family it was my job to feed the cat whom I recall liked sardines. Mum bought them often. There came a day when I decided to sample the sardines. I liked what I tasted so the cat got one, and I got two, until there were no more left. Some time later, I was asked, had I fed the cat? I answered, 'Yes, Mum, why?'

'Because,' Mum said, 'the cat is very noisy and will not let me out of sight. There is only one thing left to do.'

When I went to take the cat's bowl of sardines from Mum, Mum gave me a clip over the ears, with the comment 'I can smell your fishy breath!'

I listened attentively to all that was said. I smiled the smile of understanding, which was acknowledged. I left the room happy in the thought that my father was being well cared for.

**Journal Extract – The Red Rattler – Nana J**

It was the Easter weekend. We were supposed to say 'until death does part us'. He dumped me instead. He said that he couldn't bear to watch me dying, so the bastard left me crying. In hindsight I see that Easter as a watershed, my personal independence day. Cancer became my strength, eventually.

And now, looking through the window of the old 'red rattler' (the Hawkesbury train) I tried to enjoy the sight of the cows and horses casually grazing in stupendously green paddocks. I tried to enjoy the sight of hills, something I'd sorely missed while living on the Hay Plain which I had so recently left. The Hay Plain is mostly flat, dull and brown. Our house by the Sturt Highway was on the only hill I knew of on the Plain. We were surrounded by Paterson's curse which my ex hated, as any horticulturalist hates noxious weeds. I didn't mind it, I could look out through the windows of our house on the hill past the orange orchard, and see a veritable ocean of purple. Now that I was back with the hills, the valleys, the trees and streams, I missed that piece of semi-desert. Even the promise of the Blue Mountains that I loved so much and could see in the distance couldn't ease my mind.

So there I sat, on the red rattler with the bell on my faithful blue leather travelling bag jingling merrily. Don't you just despise a cheery companion when you're in the throes of utter depression? But I loved that bag with its bell, we'd travelled many places together through many adventures ... so I didn't throw it out the window. Unlike modern trains, the red rattler, which ran between Riverstone (the end of the electric line) to Richmond, had windows that opened. If that wasn't enough air conditioning there was a fan in each carriage. In winter you shut the windows ... and there was a heater in each carriage. Anyway, I sat on that train cursing men and fate for having to be on the train. It never occurred to me at the time to curse myself for being there.

I had a thought the other day and said to my sister Di, 'I could probably smile again if I could live out of the boot of a car.' Preferably the new Laser that my ex was driving while I mused on the train. 'Don't be stupid,' Di said, taking my wistful comment far too seriously. 'I've done that and it's nothing to smile about.' I'd done it myself several times and it had never bothered me, but I kept that thought to myself. 'You have to get well and start a new life,' she went on, 'don't even think about a car until you can afford a decent one.' Oh crap, I thought, that's eons away and my poor blue bag is terminally ill from years of use and abuse.

I hated public transport then. I spent a lot of time, between tests and treatments, travelling from one sister's home to another. I needed to regain some sort of control over my life and by moving around, I didn't feel like I was intruding so much on my sisters lives. I had to carry assorted timetables for buses and trains. My sisters all lived in convenient spots ... when I had a car. They lived in different directions and the Mountains/Penrith and Richmond trains were on different lines and buses were few and far between, except for Lower Portland (outside of Richmond), which has no buses at all, in school holidays that is. I was forever trying to organise connections and timetables. But worse than the inconvenience of public transport was having to pull out my battered concession card which told the world that I was unemployed. It didn't tell anyone that I was thrust homeless into a world of sickness benefits. It didn't state that my pride would prefer that I didn't use the card but my financial state dictated that I had to. No, my card simply stated my name, age, address and expiry date. Every time I said 'half please', to a bus driver I could see the thought flicker in his eyes that here was another half fare that his job was dependent on. Why was he dependent on us? Because all the full fares were driving cars!

I sat on the train thinking over and over about my ex. I thought of all the warning signs that I had ignored. We have an inbuilt radar system to help us avoid emotional disasters in relationships. It's called a 'gut feeling', which is simply a mix of intuition and rational thinking. But it's a faulty system. If you've been in a bad relationship, you know how it works. Something he says or does gives you a feeling that things don't quite 'gel'. These warning bells ring now and then in your head, but your heart makes excuses. And then one day you get a real clangourn, so you bury your thoughts the way an ostrich buries its head. So, the relationship goes on and you become more dependent as you desperately cling on to it. Then you end up somewhere like the Windsor train wishing that someone would put your mind in a straight jacket, turn the taps off behind your eyes and give you one coherent thought that didn't involve the words why, if, how, bastard, it's over, it's over ... That's one of natures little quirks encumbering a speedy recovery from heartbreak ... reiteration.

I can laugh at this now. I was like the heroine in one of those old silent movies, 'The perils of ...' Except that I always had to save myself. There was never a white knight, a cowboy with a white hat or a new age sensitive man on hand. So I was finally forced to find my independence, and for that I am grateful.

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**My Ancestors – Karen Maber**

The rivers are my Ancestors

They give me fish to feed,

With the wisdom of the ages

Deep within a planted seed.

Passed by Elders to the young

Sound knowledge and values taught,

Our place within this natural world

The answers to questions sought.

My lyrebird she comes to me

And sings her clever song,

She shares with me her qualities

To show that I belong.

She sings me up a rainbow

And lets my dreams take air,

But all the while reminding me

That I love, I listen and I care.

When in times I feel alone

My Ancestors lost from me,

I remind myself they live again

In the stars, the land, the sea.

**Canine Wisdom – Janet Richardson**

Mew had placed my mat in front of the Aga stove, a most considerate action, as although it wasn't that cold, being late summer I preferred being inside. This in-between weather was miserable, overcast with showers of rain: grey and bleak. So I didn't really mind that Few* (his wife) had not unlatched the doggy door to enable me to go about my usual inspection of the property boundaries.

I sighed contentedly and stretched my four legs as far as I could thus doubling my length as the smell of lamb roast permeated the air. If I kept out of Few's way I would most certainly be rewarded with some tasty leftovers. A happy gentle groan escaped from my lips at the thought and I retracted my extended limbs and curled into a tight ball and, with another gentle groan happily slipped back into my world of pleasant thoughts of sunny afternoons running free in the dog park.

Especially pleasing were those days in the dog park when a previous evening's rain left muddy puddles to splash and roll in. I would take perverse delight in ignoring Few's shouts at me to stop the muddy romp and I particularly loved the admiring stares from the other dogs; I was their hero! I knew they wanted to join in the fun but were fearful of the consequences, but at least my actions had a cathartic effect on them and I happily surrendered to their veiled joy at my blatant disobedience.

'Niggy stop that,' 'Niggy come here,' Few would shout as I happily splashed and slid. I always feigned innocence and deafness at such times and it was especially fulfilling to hear the humans shriek with laughter, they were enjoying my muddy romp too! When I finally conceded to Few's commands and ran to the attentive group of onlookers I'd stop just short and shake myself vigorously. Fat droplets of mud would spray out from my coat in a wide brown arc splattering clothing and turning them into works of art which the humans thoroughly enjoyed judging by their shrieks of laughter as they ran around in dizzying circles. Oh what bliss.

Akrat, with whom I share the duties of protector of the household and who I might add holds a wide-ranging mixture of canine breeds in her genes (some of which are Kelpie- a dog generated by convicts!) was piss-weak at such times. She would sit at Few's feet looking up at her 'mistress' adoringly, as a slave might. She'd occasionally throw a disapproving glance my way then, as though her meeting my eyes may risk her being infected by my happiness, she'd quickly look back to Few with a dispirited half-wag of her tail and a concerned expression which said 'I am not part of Niggy's infantile behaviour'. Yes Akrat's approval seeking was truly pathetic but I shouldn't be too judgemental. We go back a long way Akrat and I.

In The Beginning

My mother was a pure black Labrador and had won many medals and ribbons at various dog shows including Sydney's Royal Easter Show. She shared her household with Sir Blackie, supposedly my father, also a pure black Labrador with a few medals to his name. Their charges were five humans.

The humans were a bit odd; the male human leader was called Oscar, the female Susie (Susie was also the pack leader) and their offspring Simon, Sara and Sassafras (which my mother noted was an aromatic tree with dark blue fruits from North America, and which she and Sir Blackie saw as a harmful name to give a child).

Simon, Sara and the unfortunate Sassafras were young teens at the time of my birth and so the human household presented a wonderful learning opportunity for all the non-human animals that lived there. After all it is well known that humans have peculiar and contradictory habits that often defy rational thinking, which is strange particularly as they regularly use the phrase 'rational thinking' as an argument to do irrational things. My mother said humans are often very dishonest.

For example their eating habits spring to mind. My mother told me that often when she was stretched out under the table at dinner parties she would hear Few and Mew's guests politely refusing extra helpings when they really wanted more, or conversely guests would often accept more when they didn't really want any. No matter what, they would always leave a small portion on their plates as this was seen to be polite rather than the wasteful act it truly is.

During the course of such evenings my mother would watch the humans discreetly undoing their belts and sometimes even their zippers and they would often make more space in their bellies by shifting their weight onto one buttock and noiselessly farting. If their farts were detected by the foul odour they never claimed ownership; my mother always got the blame instead and was quickly banished from the room, which left her feeling confused and unsettled.

My mother said that she and Sir Blackie thought farting was good for the body and she always encouraged us to fart as often as possible. In fact my brothers and sisters used to have competitions as to who could fart for the longest time. Unfortunately we missed the best of our farts according to our mother as she said that the longest and best farts usually happened when we were asleep. Then, she said, the air became combustible with all the expelled gas. On such occasions Sir Blackie worried that the male human would light his cigar and blow us all to smithereens.

Apart from their confusing and dishonest habits involving their digestive systems humans are equally bewildering when it comes to sex. They have rituals, which are not only time consuming but also unnecessarily confusing and exhausting for all involved. My mother happily mates with a huge variety of handsome beaux when she comes 'on heat'- the great fun being that she never knows which one is the father of the ensuing litter.

When she gave birth to my brothers and sisters, in total eight healthy black puppies, the human family assumed Sir Blackie to be our father. However as we grew, our expanding paws and ears were decidedly larger than was decent for potential holders of ribbons from the Royal Easter Show. It was obvious we had a father other than Sir Blackie. To the eternal shame of the household my brothers and sisters and I were identified by the veterinarian as being somewhat less than noble stock and as a consequence were sold at 'a discount'.

The subject of human sex was of particular interest to my mother and when, in our company, mother discussed human sex with Sir Blackie it usually lead to paroxysms of giggles that rendered them helpless and unable to do the smallest of tasks like to give me my licking bath. Their distorted facial grimaces with lips pulled up tight under their nostrils highlighted their large white teeth, lolling tongues and swathes of drool and these were not the kindly and soothing expressions of love and security emotionally tender offspring need at bath-time.

My mother said that humans have sex when they feel like it and usually male humans feel like it all the time and never think of the consequences and female humans hardly ever feel like it because the consequences are all they think about! However when female humans desire conception, if they tell male humans of the reason behind their sudden warmth and neediness, male humans suddenly develop an aversion to sex. My mother and Sir Blackie thought this all to be quite odd because Sir Blackie only felt like sex when my mother did and this seems to make good sense. Of course when my mother felt like it there were many other male friends and acquaintances in the neighbourhood who also felt like it too so my mother let them all have a go which seems a fair and sharing gesture.

My mother said that you could always judge an honest individual by the way they accepted basic bodily functions as normal processes, because that is what they are. This worried me a lot because it seemed to me to mean (even in my short lifetime) humans were not honest and yet I would be living with humans for my whole life, so was I doomed to spend my life in a state of unrelenting confusion? I remember watching my mother and Sir Blackie watching their humans a lot and this was most likely because they didn't know what was expected of them; and they always wanted to please.

My mother said that child humans had more common sense than adult humans and that she would try to ensure that when the time came for us to go to homes of our own we would go to households with children. She would do this by behaving very, very badly to childless couples when they came to view us. She would bite, snarl and if the opportunity presented itself grab a handbag or other item belonging to the pair and run off with it or bury it or toss it in the pool. This behaviour always resulted in the childless pair discussing some complex subject called 'genetics'. There would be a great deal of heated whispering debate – which of course my mother with her acute hearing would hear every word – and they would take their leave soon after, politely acknowledging our beauty but stating that they should perhaps reassess their position with respect to owning a pet.

The reason my mother knew that human children were more rational that adult humans was because of discussions she had overheard when Sir Blackie was introduced into the household.

Simon, Sara and the unfortunate Sassafras chose his name soon after his arrival and only after a great deal of arguing with their parents. 'Sir Blackie' was considered by the children to be a most appropriate name because he was of aristocratic stock and had a shiny black coat; however the adults thought it totally inappropriate – and this is where the logic gets really hard. The adult humans said that there was 'nothing wrong with being black' but you shouldn't call a living thing black because this 'might be offensive to some people'. They actually thought this answer to be a suitable explanation as to why Sir Blackie was an inappropriate name. Fortunately the children shook their heads in dismay and continued to call him by that name.

We knew our mother was relating this example truthfully because one day we overhead another conversation which made us all sit up and listen because we thought it might enlighten us to the human way of thinking and therefore we would be of greater service to them in the future. Oscar and Susie were arguing with the children about the inappropriateness of Sir Blackie's name and cited the example of a plant that used to be called a 'black boy' which is now called a 'grass tree' because to call something 'black' as well as 'boy' was twice as offensive. Simon said that he didn't know that being a boy was offensive and wondered if his parents thought he should try to hide the fact that he was a boy in the future. His parents said of course not and to stop being silly which left the children even more puzzled and us so perplexed we thought it easier to just go back to sleep.

My New Home

When Few and Mew read the 'puppies for sale' advertisement in a local paper, I was in fact the only one of our litter left. Throughout their 'inspection' I was stretched out in the sun on the flagging near the pool, snoring deeply and blissfully satisfied with my life with my mother and Sir Blackie. I felt safe in the knowledge that my parents would protect me from human irrationality. However my situation was about to change forever.

Because I was the last of my litter to find a home my mother and I had a lot of time to discuss the peculiarities and inconsistencies of the world and this stood me in good stead during my adolescence and is still valuable in my adult life. Even in those early days it didn't take me long to understand the wisdom of my mother's words. These humans hovering over me were obviously suffering from the same mental confusion my mother and Sir Blackie attributed to most humans. They were saying nice things to me but their faces were frowning and their mouths pulled into a snarl, yes I could clearly see the confusion in their expressions. Unfortunately Few and Mew decided to buy me.

The journey to Few and Mew's home was uneventful and long and I spent most of it curled up on the soft travelling blanket on Few's lap. Remembering my mother's words, I relieved myself of unwanted gases and urine as necessary. This appeared to cause Few and Mew some consternation however, as whenever I felt the urge Few would cry out and Mew's driving would become downright dangerous causing Few to yelp again. Few seemed uncomfortable at these times and would adjust her ample frame accordingly. Perhaps it was the weight of me on her lap I couldn't think of any other reason and being mindful of my mother's sound advice, 'Humans never get upset with a sleeping puppy so if in doubt, sleep', I decided on this course of action.

Few stroked me a lot and gave me little kisses on the forehead, which I quite enjoyed. Mew unfortunately was the patting type and I viewed his outstretched arm with apprehension as it darted towards my head with monotonous regularity. My mother had always told us that our skulls were quite delicate and I was very worried that my brain was being pulverised by Mew's kindness. Just thinking about it made me feel a bit off colour but this was quickly relieved after I vomited the entire contents of my stomach onto the blanket and onto Few's now exposed damp and rumpled tweed skirt.

I was very pleased when the journey ended and I was carried from the car to the lawn of my new home. (The home was referred to as 'Emoh' by Few and Mew, which highlighted their bleak lack of creativity – I wondered if I would have to spend the rest of my days asleep in order to escape the comments that leaked from their pedestrian brains.)

I heard a commotion and looked up to see two huge dogs running towards me. The big black one looked like a rug in full flight but turned out to be a female Newfoundland with a long black coat of hair that swung from side to side in harmony with the strings of drool cascading from her mouth. The big golden one, a Labrador like my mother and Sir Blackie, waddled more than ran due to his over-generous proportions. He seemed to have a friendly disposition – a common trait of the obese according to Sir Blackie.

Few, fearing my imminent demise, quickly picked me up and lowered me just enough for the two to sniff me from head to toe. It seemed I passed the test as the black one registered as Dame Esmeduna and called Set, walked back to the house slowly, almost at a snail's pace as though to emphasise her boredom. The golden one, named Iznof licked my face and ears – a sure sign of welcome. I later learned that because Iznof was difficult to say, he was sometimes called the Great White Fart or the Stinging Eye Dog due to the frequent and uncontrolled emissions of sulphurous fumes erupting from his backside. I knew that he and I would be the best of friends.

I was carried into the big house and there met the pack leader, a cat with the official name of Persephones Vishnu but referred to as Lord Dup. Lord Dup looked as though he had run into a brick wall at high speed; his tiny nose was flattened against his moon face, the greater part of which was made up of two huge yellow eyes; from his lower jaw a large tooth broke surface and jutted menacingly skyward. He had an almost spherical body swathed in a long brown coat of fur and a bushy tail that danced and flicked through the air – a stamp of his superiority over the rest of the household. He was a Kashmir, a distinctive breed created by careful genetic manipulation involving crossing the Persian breed with the Burmese breed and other peculiar crossings until a suitable mutant animal was created.

My mother had said that humans not only like to control things like the look of their animal companions but have a compelling urge to do so, the twist being that they are only satisfied when the outcome of all their controlling results in them being controlled and Sir Blackie said that this was a perfect example of how confused the human mind really is. I found this all so difficult to understand at the time Sir Blackie and my mother first explained it to me but now here was Lord Dup, a perfect example of the wisdom of their words. Few and Mew were happy they were controlled by Lord Dup, he being a carefully designed mutant who did what he liked when he liked and as a reward for his exerting his authority was given everything he needed and wanted.

Settling In

I soon adjusted to life at the big house. There are wide-open spaces to run as the property's grounds are large with expanses of green lawns interspersed with orange, apple and mulberry trees. At the front of the property there is a very long fence that runs alongside a bridle path and this offers wonderful opportunities to chase stupid pampered horses along the fence line from the safety of the other side. What fun! Dozing horses would suddenly rear up threatening the safety of their riders who would shriek and cry out, Few would yell and along with whistles from Mew the whole thing would be calamitous fun as they tried to bring Set, the Great White Fart and me to heel. It is good for the soul to have a loud gutsy bark and run at full pace.

At other times, particularly in the summer, we would sleep under the fruit trees occasionally rising to chase ducks dropping in for a swim in the pool. But by far the best part of every day was the large meal at the end of it and I grew rapidly in the ensuing months to be only a few centimetres shorter than Set. I don't feel it is vain to say that I was a handsome adolescent with a shiny blue-black coat, long silken ears, smallish brown eyes and an aristocratic nose that was used extensively in my never-ending search for food.

As I grew into strong healthy adulthood I watched Set shrink in size and sprout grey hairs around her mouth and temples. She walked with great difficulty due to hip problems caused by inbreeding compounded by severe arthritis. The Great White Fart didn't age in appearance but he succumbed to dementia and used to wander off as if in a dream or lie in the blinding rain- a habit most unusual. I realised Few and Mew's security would soon be my responsibility although I would need to be vigilant to Lord Dup's reactions on matters of importance.

A great sadness descended on the household when Set didn't wake up one morning. She had suffered a severe heart attack during the night caused in part from running and barking at horses the previous day. To make matters worse soon after Set's death the Great White Fart was found happily wandering the streets totally oblivious to his surroundings- he didn't even recognise Few and Mew. By this time he had also become incontinent and Few and Mew decided to have him 'put down' for 'his own good' which Few saw to one bleak Monday morning. Both my companion dogs were buried wrapped in their favourite blankets in the orchard between the vegetable garden and the big apple tree.

It was a time of great sadness for me. I didn't understand how killing the Great White Fart was good for him and I tried very hard to remember if my mother had any words of wisdom about this bizarre human behaviour. I do remember her saying once humans tend to rid themselves of things that are outdated and no longer of any use to them. This can be seen in their state of excitement following a trip to the local municipal garbage tip where everything from household appliances to nourishing food can be discarded without conscience. In fact I well remember many visits to the local tip with a joyous Mew whose happiness I found puzzling- it would be displayed in bursts of deafening and tuneless whistling all the way home. I would have thought that a living thing was a bit different to other things though, particularly if they were a 'member of the family'.

I wondered if humans 'put down' their older folk for 'their own good' when they become no longer useful. I felt decidedly uncomfortable about this particularly when I realised it could be my fate also. I decided then and there that I would faithfully follow the ancient tradition of wandering off into the bush to die - which was most likely what the Great White Fart was attempting to do, the problem was that with his dementia he lost his way.

The new arrival

Following the demise of Set and the Great White Fart, Few and Mew decided to look for another canine of similar appearance to me because I had 'turned out so well', although both thought a female would be more complementary to the household. Mew, who was a bit of a snob, liked the idea of a pedigree black Labrador until it was pointed out that the better the pedigree of animal the higher the veterinary bills, as they had clearly discovered with Set, the Great White Fart and Lord Dup.

It wasn't long before Mew saw reason and, tempted by the thought of reduced financial outgoings, warmed to the idea of a crossbreed or even a mongrel of unidentifiable parentage! Daily papers were scanned each weekend until an advertisement appeared which perfectly fitted a suitable addition to the household.

Akrat was born of poor mixed stock, her mother's background so appalling her owner had attempted to drown the litter in the local dam. Her father's appearance was notable for its lack of uniqueness and pointed to such a mixture of breeds he was simply described as big and black. Few and Mew thought the offspring looked like little black otters. After stretching their limited imaginations and in a state of agitated excitement at their combined cleverness, they gushed that the chosen one would be named Akrat after an otter in a popular book. I found their attempt at quaintness – which even a 10 year old would find embarrassing – appalling.

Now I share my duties with Akrat and love her very much in a brotherly sort of way. I think she's slightly silly although she can also be condescending and sometimes she slips into slyness. Being fully aware of her slight size and thus vulnerability she is alert to opportunities that might ingratiate her with the female human. I acknowledge I do this too sometimes, but for different reasons. Akrat is quite happy to receive praise alone but I, although praise is happily received, am only deeply satisfied if some material reward like a bone is forthcoming.

Like now for instance, here I am within easy reach of food stretched out in front of the Aga and Akrat is nowhere to be seen. This is not to say that I only love my human charges because they feed me. That is certainly not the case, I love them with a passion; I really do. I know that Few and Mew are my responsibility and I have to always be there for them as is my duty. However I sense things are changing.

My life for the most part is exceptionally happy but I am becoming seriously concerned about the relationship between Few and Mew, which has deteriorated since the passing of Set and the Great White Fart. I hope they try to sort things out otherwise they may decide to discard each other and then what would become of Akrat, Lord Dup and me? Would we be discarded too?

I remember back to when Few and Mew came to pick me up from my first home and Sir Blackie remarked to my mother and me that sometimes humans of opposite traits are attracted to each other. He said Few and Mew were an example of this. He judged Few to be outgoing and opinionated while Mew was more the retiring, quiet type. He said that the effect of a union between such a pair is negative and this can clearly be seen if numbers are assigned to traits. For example if you assign -1 to the extravert and +1 to the quiet retiring type, basic mathematics of multiplying (-1) x (+1) proves the union to be negative that is -1. (Fortunately my mother and Sir Blackie were similar types in all respects hence the outcome of their union was always positive be it with their negative traits (–1) x (–1) or with their positive traits (+1) x (+1), the result is always a positive +1.)

Sir Blackie was therefore slightly concerned that with my going to Few and Mew I could well end up in a household surrounded by considerable tension. So I now live in apprehension about my future.

When I think back to Sir Blackie's careful education of my siblings and me there is one piece of philosophy I find particularly thought provoking. He used to say that it has been shown that the human world is stupefyingly consistent in its inability to understand the simple laws of nature and most of this understanding could be achieved through communication. His favourite line used to be 'the paradox is that there are millions of species in the world yet because of their dulled senses humans can't communicate with any of them'. I wish I could ask Lord Dup what 'paradox' means.

That lamb roast smells particularly good.

*Mew and Few are corrupted abbreviations of 'male human' i.e. m.hu and 'female human' i.e. f.hu.

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A Descent – Frances Sherlock

Sun and sum held out over a brutal cast, cracked sky

as I get dragged down with you.

At dawn the light seemed pink and hued

with soft subtleties I could hold in my hands;

but this is a timely thing, and whithers-

whisped away with each gentle breath.

Your hands are bigger than mine

in ways that are important and indelicate.

Ways I can never touch seem to electrify the air

and stands my soul on end painfully.

As if a bright, flaring filament

to some forgotten, uncared for deposit;

lost to abandoned memory and demanding attention.

Those mirrored, clouded (broken)

sheets of paper line the sky.

As if small paper planes; once screwn up,

were now desperately pressed flat

against the sound.

The wind too disturbing to gain any permanence

in their half decayed flights.

Side by side, unmoved by words

that turn to drowned out cries-

impossible to comprehend

over the rushing, tilting horizon

as it warps and rotates in unnatural distortions.

You are blind to the small, hinted shadow

that is me.

I have an emotion

tumultuous as the ripped out heart of ground.

You stand; I shake.

Like fallen debris, strewn unmeasured

but seeming carefully stacked;

I am another misplaced object of curiosity

not defined by sexuality,

or any other coarse, carnal delight.

Just a sorrow, bent double with the grief.

At last light; a finality, which quietens all noise.

The crazed rush of reason is a grappling-

like of sand. The product of violence and destruction!

Of erosion; of wearing

all streaming through regretful fingers.

These of my smaller hands,

that would only be held in yours.

The Good Politician – Greg North

There was a young man on a mission

to be a real GOOD politician

he always spoke truth,

was never uncouth,

and got fried in a royal commission.

The End? – Robina Cranston

Penelope was a successful sole parent. She had been abandoned by her husband ten years before and had been raising Brian, Mary and Max on her own ever since.

When the time was right she started to date. It was a very bad shock for Penelope.

She was a little princess before she married her husband. Boys, money, travel, friends and freedom. Marriage changed all that.

She was in her late thirties, fighting bitterness and craving the life she used to live. She tried the singles ads in the newspaper. She got a lot of replies and spent a lot of time responding and narrowing the list down.

The first man she met insisted that she pay for her own coffee; she had thought he was joking and had laughed. It was a cold rainy night but she still sought respite from her home duties and ventured out for an adventure.

He was late. He rang Penelope 30 minutes after he was supposed to arrive. He was lost. Penelope felt the first of many disappointments. Shouldn't he have checked on the directions before this? Her initial impulse was to get up and leave. However, she didn't want to waste the effort she had already made.

One hour late, a very unattractive, unpleasant and rude man finally arrived. Penelope's heart was sick. She couldn't wait to get away. She cried all the way home.

Not completely deterred, Penelope agreed to meet her next prospect. This next one had moved in to look after his mother. 'Nice guy' thought Penelope, until he said that this was nine years ago. Her tongue burned from gulping down her decaf.

Her friend Cath was having her fortieth party at a local nightclub. Penelope was determined to get back out there. She was bored until 10pm when the alcohol started to kick in. She danced gaily with some blonde guy. She was a princess once again and he, a prince?

When he arrived the next weekend to take her on a date, she was horrified when she saw him through her sober eyes. Did he just come from St Vinnie's? Couldn't he have made an effort? Out to dinner in a cab as he explained he wanted to drink. Penelope tried to fight off the disappointment.

During dinner he drank the first bottle of wine after pouring her half a glass. Noted. He bragged about hiding his income so he didn't have to pay child support. 'You're telling the wrong person, you swine' she thought.

Awaking the next morning she resolved to stay hopeful.

New Years Eve at a local 70s disco. There he was. Handsome. Nice shoes. They danced and sang the daggy old songs to each other. He brought her champagne until the bar ran dry. A perfect evening.

When he came to pick her up for their first date, he arrived by bus! She had to drive them to dinner. His conversation was not as sparkling as his shoes. Penelope was trying to keep that look of disdain from her face. Try as she might, the night was a fizzer.

Answering an ad online, Penelope connected with a man her age, from her neighbourhood and he seemed to be able to spell. They met for a coffee and although he was a bit older than she expected, they had a reasonably good chat.

Spending Saturday doing the chores and driving the kids to the Grandparents' house an hour away, Penelope felt a little bit of hope as she dolled herself up.

She could smell the alcohol on his breath when he arrived. He couldn't help being late, he said, his mates were over and they were watching TV. As they walked to his car she changed her mind. A voice within took over and told him to take a hike.

He looked like Mr Big. Red tie. Suit. Penelope's eyes rested happily on this vision. A swanky bar in the city. She felt like Carrie. They chatted and he actually sprang for a drink for her and then offered Penelope and her friends a lift home.

Now, this was starting to feel like it should, thought Penelope. They walked towards a fancy black car. Finally! she thought, a man who has some success in his life. But, he kept walking past this car and started fumbling for his keys at a little red bomb. Truth be told, Penelope was embarrassed for him.

Choking back another crushing disappointment, she agreed to a date next Saturday. He said he'd bring some drinks and they could order in pizza? Her inner dater was screaming now. She suppressed her instincts and convinced herself that this might not be so bad ...

He arrived with two cans of premixed drinks and told Penelope that this was his contribution and she could pay for the pizza. Not that she minded paying her share but Penelope thought this extremely rude for a first date. Or make that 'only date'.

Date number 567,843. Again. Late again. Forgiven, but noted. Dinner arrived just as he accepted his first phone call. Penelope covered her annoyance by eating and gulping down the wine before he got to it. He answered the second phone call 10 minutes later. Still no apologies. After he bade goodbye to his third caller, Penelope's temper erupted. She told him how rude he was and that too much of her precious time had been wasted that night waiting for him!

She will never forget the confused look on his face as she stood up and wished him well, and went to pay half the bill, and leave.

Then there's her young admirer. He also was late but Penelope forgave him as he had to catch the train and he didn't know where her suburb was. And no car. Again. There was at least an effort made on his part so she felt she should do the same. Although she still had to drive him back to the train.

Things looked promising until he started getting angry with her if she didn't answer the phone. Yet, when she did answer they had nothing much to say.

She loved to read; he said he could barely get through the latest 'Zoo' weekly before the next one came out. This was both sweet and disgusting at the same time.

So Penelope poised over her laptop, about to log onto her brand new online dating profile, fingers reluctant to tap the keys.

Should she keep going and suffer more disappointment? Is there a time in life when you get the message? Or is Mr Right just around the corner? Penelope took it as a sign that she remembered her new password and clicked her way to her future. Just as she was about to read she thought 'Maybe I'll write a short story instead' ...

The End?

Lifewreck – Linda Campbell

The chirping of the sparrows, a salute to the winter dawn, joined the growing noise of the cars on the nearby road. Her sleep disturbed, Aggie groaned and extended a bony hand to pluck at her covering, pulling it up over her face to shut out the thin light. She tried to hold on to her dream but the cold Edinburgh morning chased it away.

'I c'd sleep forever', she grumbled. 'There's nothin' t' wake up for'. Opening her faded blue eyes, she rolled over onto her side, feeling the stiffness of every muscle. Her blanket of damp newspaper crumpled as she swung her swollen feet off the wooden park bench. Coughing jerked her into cruel consciousness and she spat on the frost-covered ground. Winters were always the worst with the long hours of darkness. Orange street lights blinked out as the sky gradually lightened.

Motionless, Aggie let the dizziness of the new day wash through her before digging into the pocket of her torn, threadbare coat, groping for a cigarette end. The tiny, flickering flame of the match barely warmed her dirty hands. The smells of the phosphorous and the stale tobacco made her wrinkle her nose, red and swollen with a myriad of broken veins. Wisps of white hair escaped from the knitted hat, jammed askew on her head. They surrounded a tired, wizened face with haunted eyes.

Clutching the butt in broken-nailed fingers, Aggie spluttered through her first smoke of the day. Pigeons were stirring in the wan light of the dawn. A bird with a twisted foot lingered nearby, its feathers bedraggled, one wing drooping. The others pecked at it whenever it came close enough. Aggie searched in her pocket until she found a tiny crumb. She shooed the other birds away and then tossed it to the lame pigeon.

'There you go, my beauty', she said as it jabbed its beak at the tiny piece of bread. 'We're the same, you and me. A fine pair, we are!'

Aggie surveyed her patch of park. A fragile mist stole from the grass; gossamer threads of the palest white etched the bushes while the naked arms of the trees threw themselves up to hail the grey sky. The wind chased litter down the path.

She had had a garden of her own once. Well, an allotment really; a small parcel of ground among rows of other parcels, near the railway line. She had been lucky to get one. Not all the people who lived in the tenements had a space of earth to call their own.

A thin smile played along her lips as she remembered the feeling of the rich loamy soil running through her fingers (trails of chocolate dust on her hands), and watching the worms scurry away from the sun. All sweat and aching muscles she would pause to watch the smoke-chugging trains, with women and men and children, each with their own histories and futures, sharing a brief moment of her life.

The cabbages and carrots, peas and potatoes that she had grown there, the soups and stews that she had made, had helped to fill out the scraggy, rationed war years.

She pushed her memories back. They had no place, no point in the present. Aggie staggered upright, stamping her feet and chafing her arms. Time to get going – it was only a few days to Christmas and she had a plan! A warm bed and good food, a blether with her friends; that was what she wanted.

She picked up her pillow – a plastic bag containing all that was left of her life – and, adjusting her coat collar about her neck, went in search of breakfast. A soft rustling, like mock taffeta, betrayed her thermal underwear of newspaper.

People hurrying to work saw only another tramp, an old woman with a dirty beanie, wearing a torn coat two sizes too big and ragged shoes two sizes too small. Unthinkingly they moved away from her. Just another piece of human jetsam cast adrift; a lifewreck.

Yesterday had been a good day. Lunch had been an abandoned hamburger, still warm, with only a bite or two out of it; her sharp eyes had spotted many cigarette ends (doups, she called them), a bit squashed but good enough to roll into new ciggies, after buying a packet of papers. She had even managed to save a few strands of tobacco for this morning.

Eyes down, forever scavenging, Aggie trudged to the bus station where the cafe was open and where she was known. The steamy heat of the room swirled over her as she shivered and shuffled on numb feet through the wrinkle-nosed customers to the counter. The smells of the frying sausages and eggs started the saliva flowing in her mouth and she swallowed noisily, feeling the gaps in her teeth with her tongue. No words were spoken but a polystyrene cup of sweet tea and a bacon sandwich were slapped down in front of her. Mumbling her thanks, she extended a hand clad in an old, dirty fingerless glove to pick up the sandwich which she shoved in her pocket and then, grasping the tea, made her way back outside to the cold.

Sitting on a bench, hands wrapped around the warmth of the cup, thawing her nose over the steam, she drank quickly before the heat was swept away by the wind. Across from her, the buses spewed diesel fumes as the drivers warmed their engines, the heaters running to clear the film of condensation from the windows. The salt bacon taste watered her eyes as she chewed slowly, peering at the passers-by, wondering about their lives. She had once been like them, had once enjoyed a home, children, a warm bed at night. Her envy of them had long since died but she always felt puzzled by what she had become.

Memories, like stills from an old movie, jerked in her mind: a smiling man in naval uniform (the feel of his hair, the smell of his skin); a girl, arms outstretched, running (the giggles, the tickling games); the grey sea roaring its fury against the harbour wall (the cold spray drenching her, the sound of the water spattering on the road behind).

Blinking, Aggie licked the last of the bacon fat from her fingers and stood up. With a sense of purpose she walked briskly, eyes checking the gutters until she found what she was looking for. The sun was poking over the grey buildings as she quickly bent down to scoop up the heavy stone and then made her way to the modern shopping centre, all clean tiles and glass. Once inside, she savoured the warmth for a brief moment although she knew that it would not be long before she was thrown out.

She noticed the policeman as she shuffled towards the jeweller's shop and smiled. God was watching over her. The bobby was right where she needed him to be. She did not even glance at the display of glittering baubles, cold metal and stones beneath bright lights. The merest of these was worth more than she was. Suddenly Aggie hefted her arm, letting fly with the rock she carried. Pirouetting through the air, it smashed the glass and nestled among the watches, rings and necklaces.

The centre went quiet. Aware of the people staring at her, their looks of amazement or disgust, Aggie flinched and shrunk. She'd done it now. Her heart was pounding in her chest but she stood still as the policeman ran towards her.

'Oh, Aggie, it's you,' he said, trying to hold her arm and yet not get too close to her acrid body smell. 'I thought it was a robber!'

The shop manager came out, smoothing down his balding hair. A round, replete man, he moaned and raved about the state of his window and the possible damage to his precious goods. They asked her questions but Aggie had decided on a policy of silence. She stood, head bowed, simply enjoying the fact that she was out of the wind and cold.

'She's harmless,' said the policeman, tapping his head in the age-old gesture. 'Your insurance'll pay for the damage.'

The well-dressed man stared at the statue of smelly rags. Aggie lifted her head. She saw pity and disgust in his eyes and saw him exchange a look with the policeman. They were going to let her go! She looked around at the curious onlookers with their bags of Christmas shopping (too much money spent), all watching this pathetic drama. She had to do something; she must be arrested. Aggie flailed her free arm, the one holding her plastic bag. It swung up and caught the policeman's flat cap, knocking it to the ground.

'Now, now, Aggie. That'll never do,' he admonished sternly. 'Assaulting a policeman! That's very serious, you know.' Relief burst into Aggie's heart and she smiled.

Out into the cold again, into a police car and then to the holding cells at the station. Cups of tea and toast, a luxury to be relished; the friendly, teasing banter of the police officers. Aggie was well-known here and, if not exactly liked, she was tolerated. She relaxed, sure of a warm bed that night. Thirty days, that was what she usually got for something like this.

Thirty days! That would see her safely through Christmas and the New Year. Everybody was expecting her back at the prison. When Aggie had been released the week before, she had told them what she wanted for Christmas dinner. She had spent the last ten Christmases 'inside'. (Never for any serious crimes – usually for vagrancy or drunk and disorderly.) Her friends would all be there. They would joke and laugh and have hot food. Her mouth was watering at the thought. And the beds, clean sheets and warm blankets. The wind could howl all night outside her warm cell. It wouldn't bother her. 'See you all, soon!' she had said when she had been discharged last time. Thirty days in prison, a few days to a week at liberty, thirty days back inside. That was the pattern of her life. The prison was her home, where she was secure and free to be herself, free to enjoy food and shelter. Outside was where the terrors lay.

The local court was familiar to Aggie. The magistrates were like old friends to her, but this time was different. As she stood in the dock Aggie realised that she did not recognise the young man sitting in the magistrate's chair. Pink-faced and smooth-cheeked, hair neatly swept back; he was young enough to be her grandson. The magistrate was new, possibly a little in awe of the power that he held. He saw an old, dirty woman; blue eyes

peering at him out of a begrimed, wrinkled face. She vaguely reminded him of somebody, his own grandmother perhaps.

Christmas was only three days away. He thought he would be kind, give her another chance. (Nobody had explained the rules of the game to him.) He let her go.

Standing in front of the grey stone building, Aggie shook her head in bewilderment. Stupid man! Did he think he was doing her a favour? Sending her back to the cold streets

when her friends were all waiting for her at the prison! It wasn't fair. Tomorrow she would need to try again. Perhaps even steal a wee something, although she shook her head at the thought. Stealing was a sin. But maybe God could overlook it, given that it wasn't her fault the young laddie of a magistrate hadn't treated her right.

Her tired mind floundering, she made her way back to the park bench that was her one place of solace in a dark, cold city. The bins that she passed yielded up their treasures to her grubbing hands and peering face: old newspapers, a stale sandwich, half a can of lemonade. But the dividends were little; others had been there before her.

She spread out her newspapers on the bench, carefully arranging them, and then smoked the last of her cigarettes. At least she had spent the cold day inside and had been fed. A tight smile wavered about her thin lips as she watched the pigeons strutting in the last of the daylight. She searched for her 'beauty', laughing when she saw its peculiar hunched shape.

'Ah saved you a bittie bread', she said, tossing it a piece of crust. 'You'll be glad Ah didn't get sent to prison – who w'ld feed you then?' She glanced up at the heavy clouds in the sky. There would be no stars glimmering above her tonight.

Aggie stretched out on the bench, wiggling her hips, trying to get comfy. She pulled the sheets of newspapers over her. Sleep was a friend who took away the troubles of her life. In sleep, her young sailor opened his arms to her, his strength swathed her frail soul.

That night it snowed – thick flakes fell all through the dark hours. The morning found children dragging out sledges, whooping and laughing. Their parents smiled at the promise of a white Christmas. In the park, a white mound lay unmoving on a white bench. And a lame pigeon scuffed the snow, futilely waiting for a few crumbs.

What Have You Lost Old Man? – John Egan

One does hear, quite often, about the attitude of the young, towards the not so young. As I now rate amongst the not so young, I can speak for myself.

Not so very long ago, while waiting for a bus home, I was sorting coinage in the palm of my hand, putting together correct money for my bus fare. I dropped what I knew to be a gold coin. I stooped down to retrieve it from the footpath.

Standing upright, I came face to face with a young man who said to me, 'What have you lost, old man?'

By no means offended, I said, 'Nothing, I dropped a gold coin and I found it.'

'Good, here's another one,' he said, as he dropped a dollar coin into the palm of my hand, then walked away.

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**Gathering at Unaminka – Kate Matthew**

We thought Johnny Bale had the record when he sent two reporters to cover the six-legged buffalo racing in South Australia. And we were impressed when Steve Weeks went one better with his scheme to investigate the Blue Mountains panther using his own reporters as bait. But Nicola Harris was going to top them all with this one.

As journalists we are like the police or the army – ready to serve, ready for anything. Our paper is a little outside the mainstream, and every story has an element of the unusual. Our assignments were never going to be about some cute kitten stuck up a tree, peeing on the fireman who was trying to rescue her. And we love the chase of these stories; it's what we live for. So when Nicola called us into her office for a new assignment, the adrenaline was already pumping. It probably wasn't the best time.

'Jimmy, Davo, I have a new assignment for you. A reliable source tells me that there will be a UFO gathering in two weeks just outside Unaminka. I want you to cover it.'

Davo and I looked at each other, and back at Nicola. Her face was calm and business-like – no hint of a smile, even in her eyes. This woman could hold her cool in a set-up. Davo and I burst out laughing. It was a good joke; she deserved the pay off of our mirth. Her face didn't change. Was she serious?

She was. She had out-done Johnny and Steve. This was impressive; and hilarious. Her facial expression turned to anger when she realised that we were now laughing at her. A beetroot flush crept up her neck and onto her cheeks as her eyes narrowed to the small slits that indicate revenge is brewing in a woman's mind. She stamped her foot – actually stamped it on the floor in anger – and broke the heel. But the adrenaline had made us reckless, and we laughed until the tears flowed freely down our faces, holding on to each other for support. We couldn't sit down unless we sat on the floor. Nicola didn't have chairs in her office other than her own. Visitors didn't stay that long. So we were left to bob around her office, getting control of ourselves enough to stand up and wipe away the tears, and then collapsing into laughter again.

Finally the laughter ebbed and we settled down long enough to hear the rest of it.

'Have you two finished?' Oh the scorn! 'You'll need a cover story; I don't want anyone else getting wind of this until we publish it.' A cover story? I had visions of Davo and I in drag, mincing around a UFO convention. Not likely. 'You'll travel as two mates cruising through central Australia who just happen to visit Unaminka. I doubt there's much there, so if you need an excuse to stay for a few days you'll have to damage the car in a way that means you can still use it, but would be too risky to drive to your next stop. Get it?' We both nodded. 'Good. Now get out of my office.' It was going to be a while before she forgave us for laughing at her. But what did we care? We were going on a road trip, all expenses paid. When the UFO thing turned out to be a hoax, at least we would have a cool story to tell.

So that's how Davo and I found ourselves bouncing over a corrugated road on the way to Unaminka. Before we left we did some research. It turns out Unaminka is considered a hot-spot for UFO activity among those who take such things seriously. A surprising number of websites carried reports of sightings in and around the area; mostly from tourists enjoying the 'Australian experience' on an organised tour comprising 30 other tourists, a British guide and a luxury air-conditioned coach.

Now Davo and I are no strangers to road trips and, with no chance of a story at the end of this one, we treated it like a holiday. We were going to enjoy a true Australian experience – dust, unkept roads, dodging wildlife, sleeping in swags, eating burnt sausages cooked over our own fire and plenty of beer. These pampered tourists didn't know what they were missing. Davo's Holden ute was well fitted out for travelling through the harshest and most remote country in the southern hemisphere. The cab bristled with antennas for everything from GPS navigation to CB radios. We knew exactly where we were and could keep in touch with the truckies and the army transports that shared the highway with us. Hard core guys most of them. Good to know where they were so we could make sure we were not. Holden guys aren't afraid of anything, but we know not to challenge these guys on their own turf.

By the time we arrived in Unaminka we looked like we'd been travelling for weeks. Perfect for the cover story Nicola had told us to use. The ute was now red from the dust, with only a few specks of metallic Kermit-green paint flashing through occasionally. We'd stopped half a day before for petrol and wanted to wash the windscreen, but the drought had produced fairly harsh water restrictions. They would only give us enough to wash the areas immediately in front of our faces. The result was two eyes on the windscreen, with teary streaks where the water drained away. The car itself now looked like an alien vehicle.

Unaminka is a typical Aussie outback town. Faded paint peeling off the weatherboard shop fronts on main street, dust everywhere and the vehicle of choice is a ute or a 4WD. Nothing else would last out here anyway. We arrived late in the afternoon and it wasn't hard to find the pub. It's the only building on main street with vehicles parked out the front. Correctly guessing that it was probably the only place for accommodation we decided to start there. And we needed a beer. Or three.

Luckily, Davo and I look like average Aussie blokes. It's an image we've cultivated because it opens doors for us. Davo is bald with a bushy black biker beard and bad-ass tats visible from a sleeveless shirt over black jeans and army boots. I look like a farm hand, with curly blond hair, a flanno open down the front over a faded blue t-shirt, faded jeans and well-worn steel capped boots. It fits our cover story and has the added advantage of being comfortable. This whole cover story balony wasn't necessary – we were just being ourselves.

Amid the laughter and joking around on the trip to Unaminka, we decided our tactic in this town would be different from the usual. We planned to tell them exactly who we were and why we were here, let them know that we weren't taking it seriously, and settle in for a good time with the locals. If there was anyone in town who believed in UFOs they would find us; probably in the local pub enjoying the hard-earned reward of a very cold beer. And it would save us having to damage the car. Nicola was a real girl when it came to mechanical things. How do you damage a car enough so that you can still drive it around but cripple it enough that it can't get to the next major town?

It was a good strategy. Of course it was. Strategy is our middle name. The locals welcomed us with open arms. They get plenty of tourists who read the same websites we did who hire cars and come to this little town to see a UFO; so it was a huge relief to them that Davo and I were not believers. We had many drinks bought for us in the pub from locals who wanted to hear the story of our meeting in Nicola's office again and again. It was still hilarious for us and the local blokes roared with laughter at the idea of a UFO gathering. If it grew a little in the telling, well, that was just another Aussie tradition.

In return for our one story told over and over again, the locals told us that the lights these tourists see are the planes from the US Air Base that no-one is supposed to know about, flying out to bases in Asia. When we asked how they know that, a wink and a nudge confirmed that they get a few visitors from the air base in Unaminka too; and that the cold beer loosens many a story from officers who cannot hope to blend in. We might not go back empty-handed after all – there was definitely a story here.

Not sure when they noticed that we weren't drinking as much. Maybe the bar-keep saw his takings drop as we slowed the alcohol intake to see if there was a good story around the air base. Just the fact that it was there wasn't really news; or at least it wasn't once you got past the headline. We needed more. Davo, pretending to be more inebriated than he really was, kept leading the conversation back to the lights that the tourists thought were UFO's, but the local boys quickly led him away from it again. There was definitely something here they didn't want us to touch.

Man can't drink all day, unfortunately, so we had to find ways to occupy ourselves during daylight hours. We cruised around in the ute but there was nothing much to see but red dirt and spinifex. The time Davo got out for a leak and fell over into a spinifex bush with his pants around his ankles was the only real source of amusement that these trips offered – and even then it is fair to say that I found it more entertaining than he did.

Each evening our new-found friends were keen for us to join them for a drink or ten. A real sociable lot in this town. Davo abandoned the restraint that wasn't getting us anywhere anyway, and proceeded to get roaring drunk on their shout. He quickly fell ill, bit of a two-can screamer is Davo, and I went to take him outside for some air. We really didn't twig that there was something up until the locals tried to stop us. Even the bar-keep, who surely didn't want Davo puking on his carpet, insisted that the best thing for him was to stay put – draped precariously over a bar stool that demonstrably couldn't support his weight for long.

This was too suspicious. I made a break for the door and rushed outside. In the middle of the road I looked around wildly, searching for something that I wasn't supposed to see. The handy little voice of instinct said 'Hey stupid, look up'. And the sky was full of moving lights coming from all directions. They weren't stars, and they certainly weren't planes. These babies were UFOs!

I hollered for Davo and witnessed the second wonderous sight of the evening – Davo staggering out of the pub under his own steam. As he looked in my general direction I pointed up towards the sky. His gaze followed my finger and his face performed a perfect cartoon expression of surprise. 'Cooooool' was all he could manage. I grabbed his arm and propelled him towards the car. We had to follow the lights and see where they led. Or until our petrol ran out.

Davo fumbled with the keys trying to unlock the drivers door. Oh no, I don't think so. Definitely not in the right shape to drive. The locals were now trying to marshall themselves to stop us leaving; but Davo seemed to have done a good job of getting them drunk as well. I took the keys, poured Davo into the passenger seat, went around to the driver's side, went back to the passenger side to put Davo's seatbelt on him and raced back around to sit behind the wheel. The ute roared into life and I was relieved to see that the tank was still nearly full. We could follow these lights for quite a way before the petrol ran out. Getting back again was tomorrow's problem.

The squealing tyres got the crowd's attention, but they were too late. We were outta there and on the trail.

Unaminka has no street lights, and about twenty seconds after we left the pub we were in total darkness except for the headlights, the driving lights, the spotters and the rescue grade searchlights. Davo knew how to rig a ute. Despite the bright beacon that we now presented, it wasn't difficult to follow the lights above us. They were coming from different directions but seemed to be heading for a common point somewhere ahead of us. I seriously doubt that I stayed totally on the road as I kept looking for them. The ute fishtailed in the soft dirt and Davo moaned occasionally to indicate his opinion of my driving prowess.

We got to the top of a small hill and, as we barreled over the top of it, I saw a huge lit area in front of us. I hit the one switch that killed all the lights at once, yanked on the handbrake and the ute started to spin. It was too much for Davo, whose over-taxed stomach lost its grip and sent its contents on a gravity-defying journey through what little space was available to it. The ute came to a stop at the base of the very small rise, having neatly completed a 360 degree loop and buried its nose in the soft dirt by the side of what passed for a road. And I was covered in spew.

One thing that has never satisfactorily been explained to me is why, when someone vomits at velocity, it usually covers everyone except themselves. Davo was clean as a whistle; and rapidly sobering up now that he'd re-gifted most of the alcohol that was waiting to be absorbed by his system. He was too dazed to laugh; but I knew it would be a big feature in the re-telling. He'd never be able to accurately describe the smell though. Road-kill-grill and beer, shaken not stirred, is not the kind of aromatic combination that gets bottled.

We looked straight ahead of us, taking in the sight that we never would have believed if someone had told us about it. It was a UFO jamboree; a gathering of many different spacecraft and, as far as we could tell at this distance, many different aliens. It was bizarre. Think of the bar in the first Star Wars movie where the band plays. No, not the recent prequal, the real first Star Wars movie.

We had to take a closer look. It didn't even need discussion. Davo grabbed the camera and we slowly slid out of the car. The dirt under our feet was so soft that we both slipped and fell. Davo landed on his arse, so no harm done. I wasn't so lucky. I fell face first into the rich red dirt; which of course clung to the fresh gooey spew. As we met at the front of the ute, Davo nearly burst a blood vessel trying to hold in his laughter. At least he was now sober enough to exercise some caution. On the plus side, I probably looked sufficiently alien to fit right into this intergalactic shindig we were about to gatecrash.

The advantage of soft dirt and sparse vegetation is that it is very quiet. We had little trouble sneaking closer to this amazing sight; and stopped about 10 feet away, still in the shadows, to have a good look around. It was like a car-boot sale. Each space-ship had a stall in front of it and an alien overseeing their trading goods. Other aliens were milling about in this well-stocked market place to see what they wanted to buy or barter for. At one end was a band keeping everyone entertained. The mood was relaxed and jovial – and familiar. It was easy to see that they had been here before.

There were aliens of every description. Some bore a strong resemblance to Hollywood stereotypes; as if they'd just walked off a Star Wars set, or maybe Men in Black. Others were outside the imagination of even the most stoned script-writer – think Edward Scissor-hands meets a giant squid with Dame Edna Everage's fashion sense. Scary. Especially the hat, which featured a recently caught and rather bemused quokka perched on top.

Davo took a few photos, without the flash, trying not to draw attention to us. The ships were of every shape and size, from short range run-abouts to large scale transport ships. The whole scene was mesmerizing; dazzling in its bright strangeness. So overwhelmingly novel, in fact, that we almost missed the key to the whole mystery.

In the middle of all these space-ships was a Ford ute. A Ford! Ok, not the most shocking part of the scene, but still. If there was going to be a ute in this gathering it could at least be a real one. Apart from the fact that it couldn't break free of the earth's orbit, or clear 100 km/h and still look cool, the Ford looked to fit right in. It was backed into the circle with its tray down, and in front of it was a stall tended by a feral looking individual who would not have been out of place in a police line-up. The table held plastic buckets that he was obviously selling.

We were both dumfounded; but only a few seconds later he saw us. He stared at us for a few moments, then beckoned us over. Davo and I looked at each other, and looked back at this guy. We'd come this far, might as well take a closer look. I pulled Davo around in a large circle behind all of the space-ships until we could sidle up alongside the Ford to talk to the feral.

We waited quietly in the background while he finished serving a customer. I noticed that he didn't take payment in cash, but bartered his buckets for something else wrapped in a cloth. He seemed very pleased with his deal; and so did his customer, who walked away with three buckets. When he saw that he didn't have another customer waiting to be served, he turned to us.

'Hey guys. Whadda you doing here?' What a ridiculous question. What did he think we were doing here? Had he noticed that I was covered in spew and dust, and starting to smell freakishly bad? Luckily Davo decided to leap in and use inanity to respond to inanity, leaving me partly in the shadows.

'Hey man. Saw the lights and followed them to take a look. This is cool. Who are these aliens. Friends of yours?' I was amazed he could make coherent conversation while my brain was still trying to process what my eyes were seeing.

'Yeah man. These guys come here once a month, Earth time of course, to trade. I found them out here one time – like you I followed the lights – and saw them all here.'

'What brings them to this armpit of Australia?' Davo had found a conversational style that suited the feral and established a connection. I actually think this is closest to his real style, but he hates it when I mention it.

'Believe it or not, man, this little piece of the Aussie desert is at a cross-roads for these guys. They come from all over; and this is the closest they have to a central point. And it's not near too many people either. They track our broadcasts and they know how bent outta shape people get when they glimpse a UFO. They actually try hard not to get seen, but sometimes they have no choice.' The feral broke off to serve another customer.

When he had finished, Davo lept in to resume the conversation.

'So, man, what are you selling in those buckets of yours?'

'Cow lips, man. They can't get enough of them. I don't know what they use them for, but I never leave here with any unsold. They love it when I make it to these gatherings.' The feral looked proud of himself. I wondered how he worked out that the aliens wanted to buy cow lips; but Davo was not on my wavelength and took the conversation in a different direction.

'What do you get in return?' It seemed a harsh question, but the feral was into showing off now and was glad to talk.

'Technology, man. Cool stuff that we humans haven't even thought of yet. And I get good money for it too, when I can find a buyer. Some of it is easy to shift because it's not such a huge leap from what we have already. Know those iPods that all the kids are into now? Came from that guy over there with the green skin and huge head. And the Hadron Collider? The one that everyone's afraid will mean the end of the world? The technical know-how came from that woman in the slinky dress with the handlebar moustache. They've had them for forever and it doesn't cause any problems.'

Davo's next question was inspired.

'How do you understand these aliens?'

'Hey, this is one of their coolest inventions. See this band on my wrist? It's like a portable translater. You ever read The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy? Well, these bands work like a Babel Fish, see? With this on I can understand any of them, and they can understand me. They gave me this the first time I stumbled across them out here. That was nearly three years ago now. I've been coming here every month since. Well, as many as I can manage. Say, you haven't told me anything about yourselves. Who are you guys anyway?' With that he pivoted slightly so that his gaze took in me too. I think that's when he really saw me, and caught my aroma, for the first time.

Davo decided to be straight with him.

'We're journalists. Our editor had a tip off that this gathering was happening and sent us out here to take a look. Until about two hours ago we thought she was completely nuts.' He stopped, not sure of what else to say. The feral took advantage of the pause.

'You're not going to write about this are you? These guys value the space, and the peace. They don't mind me because they want what I've got, and they'll tolerate you for tonight. But if hordes of people start coming out here they wont come back.' It was clear this meant something to him, but he wasn't going to beg us.

Davo looked at me for assistance, but I couldn't help him. Not write about it? Was he kidding? The story was too cool to ignore; and we'd been sent on this assignment by our editor – she knew we were out here. But maybe it wasn't a good idea to tell him that. You never knew what kinda weapons these ferals were packing; and that's without factoring in whatever laser guns and light sabers the aliens might be carrying. Better pretend we'd gone off the idea until we were safely back in Unaminka. On second thoughts, probably better not to mention it again until we had left Unaminka well behind us.

Davo seemed to have the same idea.

'Nah, man, we're not going to write about this. Who would believe us? Aliens gathering for a swap meet in the central Australian desert? Not bloody likely.' He sounded so convincing that I wondered if he really believed it. That was a conversation for the trip home. The feral believed him; and that was the most important thing. He smiled at Davo, glanced briefly at me, and said 'Cool, man, thanks. Look, this is going to be wrapping up soon, and I've only got a few buckets of cow lips left to sell. You guys had better get out of here.' And the feral turned his back on us and shifted his attention back to his customers.

Not sure exactly where Davo got the idea from, but it wasn't me. Next thing I know he's jumped the feral and rolled him into the shadows beside the ute.

'What?' I asked, as quietly as pure astonishment will allow. It didn't even begin to express what I was thinking. But he knew.

'I want to check this out – in the interests of journalistic integrity.' Davo flashed the Babel Fish band on his own wrist. 'I gotta try this.' And he stood behind the stall of cow lips as though he had always been there. Like all cunning plans, it had a flaw that was not immediately obvious to us; but it probably should have been.

The next alien to come over to our stall was the tentacled one that the feral had pointed out to us earlier. The one who brought iPods to this previously impoverished world. I dubbed him Squid-man, as we were never likely to be properly introduced. He spoke to Davo, but of course I didn't have a translater so I couldn't understand him. It turned out I didn't need to.

Squid-man spoke.

'Dazza is sick. He asked us to take over.' Dazza must be the feral. I was impressed by Davo's bravado in calmly lying to Squid-man. Not sure if I could have lied to an alien. And what if they had a lie detector in those band things? It's not as though we had time to do a lot of research before leaping into this undercover operation.

Squid-man spoke again. It's amazing how tones of voice are recognisable regardless of language – even one from another planet. It was easy to hear his skepticism.

'It was real sudden. He was fine one minute and crook the next. Must've been something he ate.'

Squid-man turned to get the attention of another alien. It was the woman with the handlebar mo. Now we were really in trouble. Every red-blooded Aussie male knows that you don't mess with a woman who has a bigger mustache than you do. She minced over in her slinky dress and looked down at Davo with eyes that looked a lot like Nicola's. I made a mental note to tell her that when we got back, sure that she would value the comparison.

Mustachioed woman spoke for a while. Davo just stood there. I stayed in the background trying not to smell. Even without being able to understand her, I could guess the sentiment. We were in trouble.

She reached across the table and grabbed Davo by the collar. As she dragged him towards her, the table collapsed and the remaining cow lips went flying into the dirt. They must be really valuable to these aliens because I could see some of them scrambling to pick them up and slink off with them while we were otherwise occupied. I couldn't stay in the shadows and let Davo be harassed by this freakishly strong alien with no sense of humour. I stepped forward, drawing myself up to my full height and trying to look menacing. I told her to put him down or she would have to answer to me. She looked at me, sized up my potential threat to her well-being, and threw Davo to the ground. I guess she wasn't too concerned.

As she went after Davo, kicking him and pushing his face into the red dust, Squid Man came after me. I'm pretty good in a bar fight; but I've never fought a guy who can punch with six fists at once. I was vaguely aware of Davo getting to his feet and trying to box with the woman, but I had problems of my own. I landed one good shot on the Squid-man, and was shocked to feel how squishy his skin was. It must have been a good one though, because I could see the inky bruise come up under his skin. Take that, alien! But he was pummelling me thick and fast with fists and suckers bruising my arms and legs, followed by a couple of solid hits to the head. My vision went blurry, giving the rotating tentacles the look of a demented ferris wheel before I passed out completely.

The first sensation I felt was the sun burning my skin; quickly followed by the pain from my bruised and battered body. As bad as both were, the smell was worse as the old spew heated up in the morning sun to a knee-weakening stench. Davo was lying next to me and just starting to moan.

I rolled on to my knees and looked around. There was nothing. No space-ships, no aliens, no Ford, no feral. Just us, and our ute half a kilometre away. Did we imagine all this? Davo lost the camera in the fight, or perhaps the feral took it. Regardless, it was gone. We had no proof, and therefore no story. But even that would be OK if I could be sure it had really happened.

Davo rolled over and sat up, looking down at his clenched fist. He slowly unrolled his fingers and held up a chunk of medium-length hair with a curl at one end. The alien woman's handle-bar mustache! He looked at it for a moment, looked at me, and said 'Cooooool'. Not sure if we can print it, but it sure is a great story to tell.

Kate Matthew

Warrimoo

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The Spirit and Ghosts of 'Catho'

The following piece was used to support a small coastal mining community which was under threat of being taken over by developers. Since then, the NSW Government has applied for a heritage listing and it appears that for the time being the little town of Catherine Hill Bay is protected.

Although the piece has been used once previously, we reproduce it here to remind ourselves of our own battle for World Heritage Listing, and to show empathy for our coastal friends as they seek to protect their environment.

Reaching out to sea like a giant steel centipede the Catherine Hill Bay coal loader groans against the force of the incoming tide, still standing as proud and strong as ever.

Symbolising the strength of this small town's spirit, the old coal loader has now become an iconic landmark to many Lake Macquarie locals and east coast surfers. Although now in permanent retirement it is a constant reminder of Catherine Hill Bay's heritage and its struggles.

At dawn standing on the beach one can almost feel the ghostly presence of the long gone miners and hear the faint echoes of a once buzzing community. You could almost be mistaken into believing that Catherine Hill Bay was one of those towns that time forgot. That is of course until you realise that with all its natural rugged beauty and bygone charm it is actually a place that is purely 'unforgettable' to many people.

Catherine Hill Bay just south of Swansea on the NSW North coast is a 'special place' for many people, its natural environment virtually unchanged since white settlement. The fabulous 2km beach is a haven for surfers providing great waves without the crowds. The northern end hosts several peaceful little rock pools for those that prefer to just swim and as a bonus it has been rated one of the cleanest and most unspoilt beaches in the region.

Neatly tucked away just off the Pacific Highway thousands of motorists pass by it daily, totally unaware of its very existence let alone its ambiance and historical charm.

It was once a struggling yet closely knit coal mining community but with mining ceasing in 2002 Catherine Hill Bay (or, as it is affectionately known, 'Catho') slowly shut down, with post office, local shop and eventually the little school now ceasing to exist. In 2006 the town's state heritage protection lapsed and with the 'wolves' at the door (or, as they are affectionately known, the 'developers') Catho now has a new struggle on its hands and faces constant developmental threats.

Due to the closure of basic amenities most of the locals have moved out but those that remain are fiercely proud of their heritage and determined to keep this peaceful little village intact and out of the wolves clutches. Most people who know this town and everyone who has surfed her pristine beach would be devastated to see all the history and natural beauty disappear underneath a bulldozer. Even Mel Gibson would join the battle having made his first starring movie here, the great Aussie surf classic 'Summer City'! Indeed anyone who has had the 'Catho' experience would want to keep that memory alive.

It is a place definitely worth a day trip (only 2 hours from Sydney), or even better – a weekend. Many of the old miner's cottages now provide holiday accommodation and have great views of the beach and surrounding national parkland.

If you are a surfer you will appreciate the 'vibe' of the town and the local surf culture. What is obvious in Catho is that while the surfing law is still respected it is almost like taking a day trip to the country or a childhood summer holiday. The atmosphere is just that little bit more relaxed and the people are just that little bit friendlier. These conditions alone can make for an enjoyable and memorable surfing experience.

Catherine Hill Bay hosts a couple of great festivals each year: the Heritage Festival and one well known to surfers 'The Catho Classic'. These events are wonderful for the local community as they breathe life into this tiny town and create an awareness of how important it is to preserve all of Australia's hidden treasures, no matter how small (or hidden) they may be.

The miners may have gone but the 'spirit' of Catho is definitely still alive. At the top of the hill, also standing proud and prominent, is the town's other familiar landmark, and there is no shortage of spirit here! 'The Catho Pub'. A very popular watering hole for day-trippers and locals alike and often with live music on a Sunday! The big old veranda out front is the perfect place to chill out after a surf or swim and soak up the atmosphere, the fresh ocean air and the town's unique history.

Now that's a spirit worth bottling!

**Save Catho – Dee Dee Graham**

Oh Catho sweet Catho, she's captured our hearts

Please don't let them change her from maiden to tart

We love where she's come from, we love who she's been,

we can't let them ruin her peaches and cream.

Such beauty and temperance and timelessness grace,

we need to act soon before all is erased.

Her virgin white sands with a backdrop of green,

such mystique and history like never we've seen.

So many seducers are courting her now,

with offers so tempting and deceit in their vows

They long to caress her lush coastal cliffs,

to bathe in her waters and offer her gifts

They will take what they want and than leave her exposed,

they will ravage her landscape and spoil her clean coast.

So hold tight to this beauty, as she offers her hand and whispers:

'please don't try and change me, I'm already so grand'.

**Hanging Rock, Blackheath – Dee Dee Graham**

The wind did howl through the valley below

The great force which has carved these cliffs

But the light that fell on the Hanging rock

Was as soft as a lovers kiss

And although I had travelled many a mile

Just to witness the valley's haze

It was the golden hews of the Hanging rock

That seductively stole my gaze _._

Beyond The Oak Door – Arthur Gray

I was editor of a weekly newspaper in Barking, Essex. Each year around Easter and Christmas the paper closed for a week and I would be seconded to the major paper; the Chelmsford Weekly News, to work as a sub-editor. It was not a task I relished since the Weekly News, unlike the Advertiser, was in the centre of a rural area and much of its editorial space was devoted to farming, cattle shows and dairying. Not quite my cup of tea! So I was always glad when the week was up and I could get back to my own paper.

During one particular term of duty at Chelmsford I got to know some of the editing team better than usual. It transpired that one of the journalists was leaving and a going-away party had been arranged for Friday evening at the Town Hall. I was invited to join them.

So after work on the Friday I strolled down to the Town Hall- an imposing sandstone building which may have been built around the turn of the last century- which housed the local council offices and a number of banqueting rooms.

At the entrance I was met be a doorman, or usher, in a rather tired looking uniform, who offered his help. I explained that I was looking for the press function but had no idea where it was being held. Neither did he but he motioned towards a sturdy oak door on the left where, as he put it, 'there are sounds of merriment'.

So I pushed open the door and just hoped I was in the right place. I was just about to make my excuses when someone called out 'come and join us'. A few words of introduction, during which I explained that I had been looking for the farewell party, and I was invited to sit down at a long, narrow table laden with food and drinks.

I was instantly made welcome and decided this was going to be quite a night. There appeared to be about a dozen youngish men, attired in blazers and suits, some smoking cigars, some smoking cigarettes.

My impression was that they were all university graduates, or undergraduates, and holding some kind of reunion. They reminded me of a group of young toffs I had seen in film set in the 1920s. I didn't dwell on it though but got into the swing of thing, chatting and joking. At one stage I was invited to get up and tell some of my own jokes. A few of them were rude, but judging by the applause they seemed to go down well.

So the evening progressed and it was only when I remembered that I had to catch a late train home to South London that I began to make my excuses. I got up and ambled towards the door saying something like 'Give my regards to Cambridge' as I left. Why? I don't know, but it seemed the thing to do.

I was curious about the previous night's events so the next day, Saturday, I dropped into the Town Hall again on my way home. This time there was a much older attendant on the door. I explained that I hadn't been able to find the press party but had spent an enjoyable couple of hours all the same.

He asked where and I pointed to the room just behind him. He seemed surprised. 'Ain't bee no party in 'ere last night, Sir.' He said. 'That place 'as been closed for three months for repairs.' I walked towards the oak door. It was barred and padlocked.

Fatality at Warrimoo – David Berger

It was Friday night and the train was mountains bound.

We'd finished the week with money in hand and a complacent satisfaction.

Warm and happy, our train rattled on, expecting smiles at home:

Sausage sizzles, kids and sport, a weekend full of fun.

She was wandering towards the line,

She was crying and asking why?

She'd given up hope in all she believed,

Enough's enough, can't cope any more ... she called to an empty sky.

Bon vivants with wine and cheese, not really breaking the law,

Our cocoon of bliss split the night, we'd caught our train of dreams.

She also wanted to catch our train, but higher up the line,

On a dark and lonely vacant stretch of bush, where none would intervene.

We didn't know, we didn't think, we were going home content.

She didn't know, could not think, blind to our existence.

Penrith called us for a stop, an unexpected beer,

Fatality at Warrimoo, they said. How dare she interfere!

She'd caught the train, or perhaps it caught her,

On a dark stretch.

On a Friday night.

On the mountains.

Black Future – Greg North

I'm worried 'cause there are some folks who'd like to bury coal –

the industry, is what I mean.

I don't know why; it's pretty clean,

and such a great contributor to Aussie as a (w)hole.

They reckon that we shouldn't mine our ancient bands of coal.

I don't know what they're on about.

It's useless till we rip it out.

Yeah, maybe it supports some rocks, but that's a minor role.

How bored would all the water be without new depths to plumb

that coal mines open up for it?

Old creeks are dull you must admit,

and think what water might pick up and what it might become!

And if we didn't burn our coal, just how would we survive?

That solar, thermal, wind and wave

are too expensive. We must save.

To tear out coal is cheap as chips, so mining comp'nies thrive.

Oh, sure it makes some greenhouse gas, but of our nation's sum,

that forty-two per cent, as such,

it really isn't very much,

and starving trees of CO2 could see them all succumb.

Some cleaners would be out of work because of lack of dust.

No flyash, acid rain or gas

means far less cancer too, alas,

so doctors with no work to do would quit in sheer disgust.

But most of all we need our coal to sell off overseas.

Until they act on climate change,

our coal is tops of all the range,

with far less ash that brings about respirat'ry disease.

Old mines are great for shelter after nuclear attack,

and open cuts become flat land,

all cleared for suburbs to expand.

So, come on, keep on mining coal and make our future black.

The Main Event is the Country's Future – Beverley Elizabeth Taylor

We're looking at voting again. We look at the man or woman in the sky; 'Oh! I mean on TV'. Do they look good, do they look pretty, do they have a good look in their eye? Have they been featured in 'The Australian Women's Weekly' magazine?

Do they talk sense? Do they hold you with what they say? Are you enthralled with every word while sitting back on your sofa with your beer and eating your meat pie, watching the worm?

Ah! But you have to vote. You have to have your say. You're trying to make some sense out of all this; the tides shifting in and out, or maybe even a tsunami is on the way. After all, playing the political game is under way. Who's playing which game? Both I would say. Give a game like this to your kids and you could end up being confused.

Confused? Who's confused? They come up with their differences, but really it is just the same. Yes, these front men and women are so important, looking good and well clothed as they emphasise, with body language, to convince us that they know how to talk their talk, walk their walk, while kissing babies – kissing babies – kissing babies, and working hard to get their way.

Whose way? They are the Front Men, the Leaders of the day. Those walking the country, talking the country, saying, 'Vote for me!'

Vote for who? Who are we voting for? Are we voting for what we see? And 'what we see, is that what we get?' or what we get is that something else? Maybe they are both one and the same, depending on the day.

Peter Costello saying, 'In politics, if you can fake sincerity you're got it made.' What a guy. What a thing to say. So maybe it's not so much as 'who are we voting for' but 'what are we voting for'. Are we really sure? Or is your guess as good as mine? What we are voting for, is that what will be? Or will it disappear as fast as it began? After all, what they really want is to be elected and to work in that great machine.

Canberra, a working machine? Who is the real machine? The hollow men, men and women behind the scene. The ones who keep working year after year after year, going over and over the same thing making sure there is little or no change. Toillessly playing a difficult game. The Heads of Departments, or the guys down the line. The unseen, the unknown, the forgotten, but certainly there all the same.

'Yes Minister' could do with a replay.

We shift. Do we stay with Labor, go Liberal, or even vote Green. It's 'so important' we're told. It's all for the sake of our future. Is it? Who really is pulling the strings? Which guy, which Company, which Bank. Surprise, surprise, it might even be the political machine ....

We're on a roller coaster ride, rolling up and down, going which-ever which-way, even from side to side, or upside down.

The Main Event is the Country's Future, isn't it? We like to believe so, don't we.

Well, of course we do, and, yes our country's future in the main event. Is that after the economy, or before the economy? Which comes first, the chicken or the egg? And if the chicken laid the egg and squashed it, it is not an egg at all is it. Just an awful mess.

How's the weather going? Too much rain? Too much snow? No rain at all and nowhere to go. What's the hurry, make a guess. Give it time, we'll know what to do ... maybe, just wait a few more years, that's what is best. Don't worry about not enough water. If we run out, there will be so many people there won't be any water left. This is a dry country after all is said and done, unfortunately it's a long way to swim if there's nowhere to run. Dig deep into the ground, it's amazing what you might find. Minerals - coal, gold, lead, tin, iron-ore, uranium and, hey presto! Great! Water ... maybe.

But of course the economy must come first. It's all about balance as they say, and wait long enough and then you will know which is the right way. Money, money, money. Power, power, power. Which power? The one that turns on the lights, or the one at the top of those great Corporate buildings the power most of us don't see.

The power which turns the lights on? Maybe candle power is what will be. Lots and lots of candles, and yes, that could create another environmental problem probably.

If I don't have a job, I won't be able to pay for my electric bill. If I don't pay taxes I won't be able to contribute to the pension scheme which I will have to be on if I need to pay for those candles I will need to buy. And if the Company's not there for me to get work because it is cheaper for it to go overseas, my wages can't compete with theirs, so then where will I be.

But the Main Event is the Country's Future? I have been round and round in one big circle, and have ended up, once again, at square one.

I have to vote. Vote for whom.... 'There's a hole in my bucket, dear Eliza dear Eliza', for those who still remember the song. 'Well, fix it dear Henry dear Henry dear Henry, dear Henry fix it.' And after going through many exercises of fixing it, it still ends up with 'a hole in the bottom of the bucket'. Is politics just the same?

Our future is in their hands. It's time to vote again so that we may be able to rest in peace... in hope... in desperation... in despair. In 'oh well, maybe it will be alright, ..... perhaps'. We have to believe in something don't we? Well, don't we? Good luck, God bless and happy voting, that's all I can say.

Beverley Elizabeth Taylor

Woodford

All Mine – Ryan O'Shannessy

Falling

Ever so gently

Down,

Gather yourself together

You will soon feel the ground.

Things are slowing down

Come a little closer.

It's drawing to a close

The more time we spend out here

The greater becomes the fold.

Soft

Glass fingers fail to fit the mould.

There's really nothing here

Just everything I know

May be a ghost

Still part of the machine

Take a look out the window

All these trees

This land

This sky

It may take a bit

But one day

It will all be mine

**Out of the Mist – Jean Bundesen**

Sunday morning

misty rain

soft as feathers

on my face.

Endless stream of highway traffic,

there's no order

to its comings and goings.

A tall man appears out of the mist

shoulders hunched,

coat flapping

he shivers, pulls it closer.

Rays of light and shadows

on distant mountains;

mysterious as a sleeping Buddha.

Sweet perfume of

wattles along the highway

golden balls

against grey green leaves.

Emptiness

of an aluminium sky

through a window in the clouds.

I lose sight of the man

in the swirling, eddying mist.

'Was he the prophet?'

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Handcrafted websites

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**Aunt Agnes – Peter Adams**

I remember my Spinster aunt and Mitre Cottage, where she lived with her Spinster companion. These days, we'd presume she was gay - assume they were both gay - but in those days, she was really just a crusty old woman from Wiltshire with a prickly chin, who gave prickly hugs.

I remember how difficult it was to get close enough to her powdered cheek to plant the obligatory plonker - the one my parents always insisted I plonk. The problem wasn't so much the prickles, but those Bodicea Battering-Ram Bosoms that preceded her by a good foot-and-a-half, as she came down the garden path to the Lavender hedge to greet us. Sensible brown brogues clattered on the limestone flags and a sensible tweed skirt concealed mysterious rustling's that came from within.

She would stand there, arms cosseted in one of her many 'sensible' starched white blouses, as one-by-one we would be enfolded into her prickles. I would be forgotten in the midst of all this - crushed by the rush of those eager to get it all over and done with. Meanwhile, her femininity would tower above me like a balcony, concealing everything above it \- darkness seemed to close in around me.

At seven years old, I seldom saw her face.

I remember my Aunt's bosoms were heavily textured - like the swirling brocade wallpaper in her sitting room, and the Broidery Anglaise table cloth - which only came out on special occasions - and the Belgium lace anti-Macassar's on the arms of the Ottoman, in the hallway. At Mitre Cottage everything seemed to be embroidered with Dog Rose and Japonica, with Lily-of-the-Valley and Forget-me-Knots, all intertwined with festoons of Ivy.

At seven years I believed that every bosom - on every woman - was as solidly upholstered as the leather arms of my Aunt's Ottoman - furthermore, they all seemed to radiate the same bouquet as the contents of the chest in her spare room - where she stored her surplus lavender in small muslin pouches tied with pink ribbon.

In a way, my Aunt's bosoms were like her garden - always in flower and always a vague trace of Lavender.

Some ten years later, I discovered that bosoms had mysteriously changed into boobs and that these were smooth not textured, and soft not hard, and nice to nuzzle up to - it has never ceased to amaze me how much things had changed in a short span of ten years.

I remember too the sound of her garden.

The chink of old tin lids as they spun and clattered in the wind, against bamboo poles - in the belief they would to scare away the Blackbird and Thrush from the ripening peas. I remember too the harmony of the Thrush and Blackbird, as they took no notice what-so-ever and joined in competitive concert. I remember the repetitive whirr of a hand-pushed mower after the Sunday Roast - a sound long since gone \- and the distant sound of bell-ringers crucifying the Angelus at St Michaels.

And the drip of summer rain from a cracked gutter.

Peter Adams

Katoomba

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Indigenous Artist

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Everything Seems to be Broken – Elizabeth Dight

Hello Jack you will be pleased to know that I am alive and well of body and almost sound of mind or will you? I tried to send a message to you but they would not allow me to send anything; so I sit and write this in the hope one day you will read it. I don't' think anyone ever understood me; but you have always understood me; or I thought you did; I just want you and the others to know who I really am. Not the broken thing you last saw.

I am longing for you to come and take me home; to put your arms around me and tell me it's all ok and we will be ok. When I am in your arms I feel like I have died and gone to heaven. There is something special about our relationship even if it has been like a roller coaster; and broken for the moment. You taking me home is not going to happen anytime soon, I know that and I know how badly I hurt you and the children. They tell me I will have to remain here for sometime to finish off my healing process. I have been living in a delusional world; acting a little crazy at times and I seemed to be insane to most people. Everything around me was shattered and broken; or is that another of my illusions? Sometimes I hear voices inside my head and I wonder if it's spirit talking to me or the craziness inside of myself.

At the toss of a coin I would explode and seem a little crazy to anyone listening. I would lose control and not be able to regain it for a very long time. I attacked anyone within arms length or my tongue lashed out and cut deeply into people's souls; destroying innocence; friendships and relationships; like the force of the cyclone I destroyed whatever was in my path. Every time I think of you I have to stop and try hard to remember to breathe; I miss you so much. There was a storm raging all around and in me and I had no idea where to shelter and how to stop it. I felt desperate and I felt like I was losing control. The word 'control' keeps coming up and I get all nervous when I think of it; such a powerful word; such a small word; a word that can cause so much pain.

I lay awake and wonder will I ever get a chance to tell you how I feel; and to be able to touch you and to feel your arms around me now that would be perfect. You cringed and pulled away from me as they took me; and I saw the tears of terror streaming down your face. I gave you my heart and you turned out to be a Judas. Are you a Judas or did you do the right thing?

As they took me away I screamed out silently for you to forgive me to know that it was not me; that I would never intentionally hurt you. You walked away from me, turned your back and as they put me in the van I knew then with a certainty that I had destroyed yet another relationship and it was broken; shattered and lost like myself.

2

Someone always gets hurt and someone always loses. Is there ever a winner in love and war? Was our relationship love or war? I suspect a little of both. My heart aches and my soul cries out for you to understand the real me. The rage and anger inside of me came from deep within me; it was not of my making.

We met when we were young and feel deeply in love but I always kept something physically and emotionally from you. I tried to overcome it and I tried to love fully but there was always something inside of me that raged and still does at the injustice of it all. I am so much better now but they tell me I still have a way to go before I am completely healed and allowed to go home to you; do you still want me, you never come to visit me, where are you? Did I break you; are you broken like me?

I was born the second child of four and like any small child I had dreams and hopes for my future. Laughter and tears were the norm in our house and there was love, lots of love. My parents were loving and wonderful people; did they know? Did anyone know my dirty secret? Was it written on my forehead for all to see? As an adult I did lots of intense work on myself to forgive and forget, but if I am to be honest with you and myself I did not dig deep enough. I held back for fear of losing my mind; how ironical is that?

I blamed my moods on PMS and then on menopause but deep down I knew it was that 'secret' I kept to myself causing it. Our children suffered for it, and this haunts me every day of my life. I lay a wake thinking of them and how I almost destroyed their lives with my 'anger' and my 'secret'. Was it wrong of me to keep it to myself, should I have told you before we married and the children long before I did?

Then one day I confessed my dirty 'secret' and you and I cried together; holding each other and you whispered into my ear that it did not matter to you; that you would always be here for me. We decided not to tell the children; too much information for ones so young. Were we right; has it helped or hurt them keeping secrets only hurts people; or does it?

My childhood was like most; school and homework with visits to grand parents and church on Sundays. In summer we sang all the way to the beach in our Holden with the tailgate up and we ate water melon sitting on the hot sand. I was a skinny little kid with thin brown hair; who loved to climb trees and talk to the fairies; and make mud pies; ride my bike and play hopscotch with my friends and siblings. We played hide and seek in the bush land surrounding the school.

We dipped the plaits of the girls in front of us in the ink wells and we drank warm milk in bottles. We played cricket and used hula hoops when we could get one, they were in big demand. If we were lucky we would be brought an ice cream when we went to the movies.

3

Dad grew vegetables in our back garden and mum baked apple and blackberry pies. We would go down into the bush and pick the blackberries, always coming home with the stain of berries on our mouths; sometimes eating more than we brought home. Nana dropped in often and with her visits came laughter and love; she was such a wonderful loving giving woman. Mum's very much like her and I am like them in many ways. The only thing is they did not have the anger inside them that I have.

Life was simple and happy until the day my innocence was taken from me; the day of terror and disbelief. You know all this because we have talked about my childhood many times, but we never really talked about my loss of control or my bouts of temper or the depression and anger; my black dog days and the excessive drinking. I guess it was easier to sweep it all under the carpet and pretend it was all ok.

They tell me it is normal for woman like me; the abused to feel anger; to lose control and strike out at the loved ones around us. Maybe I went too far; is that why you let them come and take me away or was it because I lost my mind and tried to take my life? My brother took my innocence all those years ago. He should have killed me then and there; it would have saved all this pain and anguish.

I drank to forget; to dull the pain so I did not have to think; but it never helped it just got worse. It got so bad that I found it hard to get out of bed and to function. The black dog days grew worse and the anger raged inside of me, spilling out and creating chaos all around me. I conquered my drinking habit; so those days are over but now I have to face reality sober; not such a good thing. I have been seeking; searching and trying to find myself in all this mess for years. I know underneath all of this I am a good loving person. I try to embrace life and face my fears but the anger gets in the way. I have been so tired of being depressed and I wonder why I am like this? Then I discovered that depression is 'anger' turned inwards and it became clear to me what I had to do.

Does my brother ever stop to think about how he ruined my life, how dirty he has made me feel? How many others has he devastated and how many lives has he ruined? Nobody would listen to me and when they did they would say; I was imagining it, I was telling lies and I was naughty girl and it was probably my fault for encouraging him. How can a small child encourage something like that, how would I have know about such things? I grew up shy and afraid of boys; I only ever felt comfortable around my family; but never completely comfortable around my brother and still don't. Over the years other boys and men tried to use my body; the anger raged and burned inside of me but I fought back and I have survived, just.

4

Life with you has been mostly good and we have wonderful grown children; but I have not been fair to you. I have held back part of myself and never really let you love me like you should. There have been many times when I have raged and ranted at you and I saw the pain in your eyes and the children's eyes. Once I unleashed the anger I could not stop and we all suffered for it.

Do you remember how we met? We were on a blind date; you walked into the room and crossed the dance floor and stood beside me. The only words you said were 'Hello Sue' and 'Can I hold your hand'. You just stood there staring at me and that is how we remained for most of the night. Both of us were shy and had no idea how to make the first move. I remember thinking I can not go out with him again; he's boring but when you rang the following week I weakened and the rest is history.

I was a child growing into a woman and you a young boy trying to become a man. We knew nothing of love and relationships; I thought that love came with abuse; not that you physically abused me. I have tried really hard not to let the children see this other side of me; the dirty side. I wanted them to grow up in a loving family with their innocence in tact. Did I do a good job, who will judge me?

Life here is ok; they let you have free time to wander in the gardens; even if it is surrounded by a huge wall. I feel comfortable with the wall I have live behind one most of my life. This time of the year is nice, the daffodils are out and the air is crisp just the way I like it. Remember how much I loved it when the autumn came and trees changed colour and then after a long cold winter came spring with the flourish of new buds on the trees. Only as a child did I ever love the summer, I worshipped the sun and would lay out in it all day if I could. I have a room to myself here whereas the others are in a dormitory with at least 8 people. I am not sure why I get to have a room to myself; did you arrange it? The games room is noisy and has a lot of crazy people in it; so I try to avoid it but they want let me; and like the group sessions that I dislike I have to attend.

They are confronting and the other people are always wanting to know what I am here for and why did I try to finish off what they see as a perfect life? I have no interest in telling complete strangers my inner most thoughts; I'm not comfortable with that. It is quite amazing how other people see your life; I guess it is different looking in from outside. I wonder how the children perceived our life; how did you see it; was there always a black cloud hanging over our relationship for you to?

Our children seem well adjusted adults, but are they really, what is going on in their minds? The counsellor says I am doing really well, would they say that if they read my private diary that I hide in the walled in garden. I have searched for years why some people do what they do to others, and still the answer eludes me; do you have the answer?

5

They search every ones bags and take away the mobile phones when we come in here. Most of the others have phone privileges; apparently you told them you did not want me to phone you anymore; why? I feel broken and isolated; where are you? They make us sit in on a meditation class and this makes me uncomfortable. For a very long time I have been trying to work out who I am; maybe I need to become a monk; the Buddhist are such peaceful people. The solitary life would suit me to a degree; I love people but they can be so cruel, what is happening to this world? Why are people so cruel?

When they give me my sleeping pill at night I pretend to swallow it, I have gotten very good at putting it up on the roof of my mouth and then when I am completely happy they are not watching me I put it up my vagina till the morning and then I flush it. I lay awake and dream of you and our love making and the happy times we shared. The night is the only time that is completely mine, it is the time when I reflect on my life and how I got here. It's the time when the angels come to visit me and I am not so alone; I like that.

Do you miss me at all or have you replaced me with another lover? I miss you more than I will ever be able to say on paper. I'd like to get the chance to show you how much I miss you and love you, but you never come. It would be nice to have something else in my vagina other than a pill; is that too rude for you; should I say these things to you? Never mind I've written it now so it will have to stay on the paper. It's crowded and noisy here but I feel so alone and lonely. I have felt this way most of my life; actually all of my life. I can be in the midst of a huge crowd and still feel alone, why is that? Are you lonely?

I've never been one for having loads of friends like my sister; I prefer just to have a couple of close friends. She surrounds herself with people all the time and can not bear to be alone. I on the other hand do not mind being alone, but then when I feel the need for company I have no one to call up. It's like a catch twenty two thing isn't it? We always want what we do not have. Do you still want me? We were made for loving each other; I could never get enough of you and you me. Oh Jack smile; I can see you frowning that frown of yours; lighten up Jack.

I long to walk by the seashore and collect shells and then wonder what I am going to do with them. I have a compulsion to collect every brochure I find and you would always laugh at me for taking them home. Have you cleaned out all the draws I stored them in and thrown it all out or is it still waiting for me? I am a woman that likes a tidy house, but don't look in my draws and cupboards they are a mess. Does this tell you I am orderly on the outside and a mess on the inside; I think it does. I wonder what the head shrink would make of this one if I told them; I tell them very little. I hate talking about my inner most thoughts, it hurts oh how it hurts and I feel broken and out of control when they make me talk in the group. Even writing this to you hurts and causes me pain.

6

I miss my quilting, but I am not allowed to have scissors and needles, they think I am still a danger to myself. They constantly ask me what put me over the edge that day and I never say, to this day I have not told anyone the reason why. Maybe if you come to visit me I will tell you, but you never come. They tell me until I am willing to open completely up to them and be more willing to share my inner most thoughts I will remain here. It's not such a bad place to be. I remember when I told my mother that there have been times when I would like to lose my mind and not have to think; and then I got scared the God's would hear me and take my mind away; so I stopped saying it, but I guess they decided that I had said it enough and they stepped in and took it that day. For who in their right mind would take their own life? Did you not see the danger signs; did you not hear me screaming out to you for help? Were you so blind to me that you did not see the torture I was in and how badly I needed help? Have you ever stopped to look at our relationship and see how toxic it was? I would often say to you that you were like 'a dead man walking', because you appeared to not feel. Were you willing to live with me under any circumstances?

Our love became a very different kind of love; we went from that intense passion to taking each other for granted; not seeing the real person. Most couples go through this and some come out the other side more in love or they decide it is all too hard and they go their own ways. I took this decision out of your hands; I could see you were struggling to hang in there. It's not why I did what I did that day; and it's not your fault, please do not blame yourself for that one. You can take the blame for some of our broken relationship, but not all of it; I was there too.

Love can be a painful experience and tear you apart; or it can complete you. I am glad to have experienced ours; there have been so many beautiful times and on the other hand so many painful times. We have laughed loved and grown together over the years and seen the children grow into beautiful adults. Our son has your quiet spirit and my impulsive behaviour, our daughter is the spit out of my mouth and also has my impulsive behaviour but has many of your family's genes; some good and some not so good. I am a loving giving woman and I have always tried to be a good wife and mother I am afraid I might have failed at both of these, please forgive me for that.

They tell me I have a lot of work to do on myself and until I am willing to share more of myself with them I will remain here a broken spirit. Did I tell you this already; sometimes I get mixed up and I forget where I am and when reality comes back I want to scream and scream; but if I do they stick sharp needles in me and they lock me up till I calm down. I feel tormented each and every day here because you do not come. I feel like a caged animal yet I will not and can not tell them what they ask of me. I suppose is not too bad here, there is the garden to walk in and there are daffodils to pick. You don't come; where are you? I keep hoping you will come to one of our family group sessions, but you do not come.

7

You stay away and I stay here locked in my mind and behind the garden walls. Dreams are all I have; no one can take them away from me; not even my brother. Have you moved on; are you seeing someone else, is she completing you better than I could; is this why you stay away? I feel tormented when I think of you with someone else yet I know you need to move on and mend yourself. Don't stay broken like me my love. The sun is shinning and I am allowed to go out into the garden this afternoon; but not till the counsellor says it is ok. They tell us when to eat and when we can go to the toilet; they govern our lives and they rule with an iron fist; yet they are kind and they care. Do you care; where are you my love?

Sometimes I think of that day, the day you let them take me away and I wish you had not come home so early. You called out to me s you came into the house and said there was something you wanted to tell me, what is it? Even in the fog I was in I can remember the shocked look on your face when you found me taking a bath in blood red suds. I laugh to myself when I think about how comical I must have looked, all dressed in my best in the bath with cut wrists. Did I steal your thunder; did I take from you the glory of what was so important that you had to come home early? Bugger you! Were you going to tell me you had; had enough and were leaving me or were you finally going to talk to me about our toxic broken marriage and tell me it will be alright? It's not alright is it; you never come here; is it because I disgust you that much or are you such a mouse of a man you can not face me and the truth of who I am? I am woman who loves you and I am here alone in all this madness I am here screaming silently out for help.

I am a victim and I do not belong here, I know this with all my heart but I will not and can not tell why I tried to end my life. Why is it so important for them to know? Crazy people walk around here all day and some even have those straight jackets on and rock back and forwards moaning so loudly it almost deafens you. Is this to be my life forever more, a crazy lonely woman locked behind a garden wall screaming out for help and not getting any?

Remember when I told you about my brother and you said I did not ever have to see him ever again; well I am so pleased I do not have to see him; it just disturbs me too much. The counsellors are always asking me to talk about him and I tell them to mind their own bloody business and I usually scream at them and that is when I get one of those needles and go to sleep for awhile, did I tell you it is nice here?

The counsellor said I was progressing nicely, what the 'fuck' does that mean? Progressing nicely! Sounds like a barn dance to me; he talks so much shit. Did I tell you that it's nice here; great garden. They let us walk amongst the daffodils and sometimes we are allowed to pick them; hmm it is nice here. I wanted to go and get some material to make a quilt for my bed but they said the shops are closed on Sunday; but I knew it was Monday.

8

I think they are the mad ones; not me. Everyone knows Monday comes after Saturday. Hmm they said that I could go another day; but then they said I was not ready to go out, it just goes to show you; who the crazy one is. When you come in next time please bring my sewing and some blue material. Oh and also when you come; please bring my brother I have not seen him for awhile; we can all sit down and have a nice cup of tea together. I hear the visitors bell ringing and the ever hopeful foot steps running down the hall to see if they have a visitor; stupid people; don't they know no one comes. I pray that today is the day you will bring the children to see me.

Good night my love; sweet dreams and please give my brother my love. Yours forever more Mary the mother of your children xx

Elizabeth Diehl

Wentworth Falls

This section brought to you by ...

Art and the Drug Addict's Dog

A novel by Paris Portingale

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### Jules and Aime – Paris Portingale

He was parking his Citroen, which was almost brand new and had been for the better part of eighteen months, and she was parking her Renault with the funny fanbelt that made the most extraordinary whining sound if you applied too much power, and that her mechanic had said made his ears bleed freely the first time he heard it. They closed their doors practically together and when they saw each other, he approaching the house from the left, if you were looking from the other side of the street, and she from the right, Jules said, 'Fuck,' and Aime said, 'Oh no'.

Together at the double gates he added, 'You're here,' and she capped her, 'Oh no,' with, 'This is going to be fun'.

He said, 'This isn't going to work. I'll go. I'll ring and say I'm sick.'

She said, 'No, you go. I'll just go home. I wasn't all that keen about going in the first place. Colin's going to be there, anyway.'

He said, 'No, I'll leave, you go. You had further to come.'

She said, 'No, I don't care,' and he said, 'No, you go, I don't care either'.

They stood looking at each other for a short time, then she smiled and said, 'Oh, come on, we can do it,' and he said, 'Do you think?' and she said, 'Of course, come on, deep breaths and in we go!'

He smiled too and she tucked her arm into his and half led him up the path towards the house. As they neared it she unhooked herself and he said, 'So, how do you feel?' and she said, 'Fine, I'm not worried. Just don't talk to me. It'll be fine. You never know, it might be fun.'

He said, 'Right,' sounding not quite so sure how it could be turned into fun and she said, 'We'd better not arrive together. I'll go in first. You'd better go back to the street and hide.'

'I'll just wait here,' he told her, and she said, 'No, they'll see you. Go back to the street and hide.'

He shrugged and she said, 'See, I told you it could be fun!' He turned to walk away, then turned back and, holding her, kissed her till she pushed him away, saying, 'Stop, someone will see'.

Holding her shoulders he squeezed them briefly, then released her and walked back into the street and she proceeded to the double front doors and rang the bell.

He counted to thirty in his head, inserting the word 'chimpanzee' between each number, which made each count roughly equal to a second, then he gave it another ten just to be sure before going back through the gates and up to the house. When he reached the door he heard music, a Latin American rhythm, and seconds after ringing the bell it was opened by a young woman with bright scarlet lipstick and a black and white maid's uniform, only the dress was skimpy and there was probably too much cleavage evident for absolutely one hundred percent good taste in anything over and above a medium class brothel. She had a tray of glasses, champagne flutes still releasing bubbles, and he took one and thanked her, awkwardly not looking at her bosom, and she smiled and turned and as she walked away, back into the crowd of couples and trios and foursomes and septets, talking and laughing and drinking from their own individual champagne flutes, he watched the back of her legs, where they slipped up under her skimpy, slightly fluffy, black servant-girl's dress.

Moving through the crowd he keeps an eye open for Aime but she's disappeared. It's a large house and there are a lot of people. The music is coming from upstairs. Clearly a live group, playing, just at that time, a bossa nova. He nods as he passs Georges Durand and his wife Poppie, talking to Albert Bonnet and his third wife, Adelle, and the Durands smile and nod back and Albert Bonnet's wife winks at him so that Albert looks around to see who it is. When he sees it is Jules he smiles and raises his glass and Jules raises his and moves on. He passes the Blanchards and the Fourniers talking about the Laurents, and just past them, a sextet of the Girards, Blancs and Martins who call him over and Domenic Girard, still laughing, says to Alban Martin, 'Tell that one to Jules, dear Alban. Jules, you'll love this.'

Jules smiles at the three women. 'Hello Adrienne, hello Claudine. Ah, Colette, you're looking well.' The six are all very drunk. They've somehow managed to find whisky and tumbler glasses, which are now in varying degrees of fullness or emptiness.

Domenic turns to Alban, 'Go on, Freud and Jung. Tell Jules,' then to Jules, 'You'll love this. It's so ... silly and ...'

His wife, Claudine, adds for him, 'Existential,' and her husband makes a noise, perhaps conveying impatience, and says, 'Oh, it's not existential at all, Claudine!'

Alban Martin launches into the story, saying 'Sigmund Freud and Karl Jung are at a psychiatrists' convention in Vienna and they're talking in the foyer when Freud turns to Jung and says, 'Jung old chap, did you just fart?' to which Jung replies, 'Of course I did. Do you think I smell like this all the time?' ' and he laughs, as do the others, except Claudine Martin, who still thinks the story is at least a little existential.

Jules laughs too, and Alban Martin, drunk and feeling quite the stand-up comedian now, starts on the companion story, saying, 'So, it's intermission and Freud and Jung are in the foyer talking to Mrs Schmidt. Suddenly Freud turns to Jung and says, 'Jung old chap, did you just fart in front of Mrs Schmidt?' ' and here he laughs himself because the punchline is just dangling there now, then continues, 'To which Jung replies, 'I'm terribly sorry. I didn't realise it was her turn.' '

They all laugh, including Claudine this time as there's no cloud of possible existentialism over this one.

Jules pats Alban on the shoulder and tells him how funny he is and then excuses himself as Alban is preparing to tell the salesman-and-the-goat story. He moves on and in the next room sees Aime talking to Colin, whom he knows she wished to avoid. She catches him in the corner of her eye but doesn't turn and he saunters towards them and Colin sees him and waves. Jules waves back by wiggling his champagne flute and walks over to join them.

Colin says, 'Ah, Jules'.

Jules says, 'Colin,' then looks at Aime with his eyebrows raised to indicate questioning.

'Aime,' she says. 'Aime Roux.' And she puts out her hand and he takes it.

'But you know each other, don't you?' Colin says and Aime says, 'No,' while Jules says, 'I don't think so. Do we?' and the question is directed at Aime.

Colin says, 'I thought I saw you two having coffee together, up the back of The Moroccan'.

'No,' Aime says, and Colin says with a half smile, 'You pretended not to see me. You ducked down as I recall. All very cloak and dagger,' and his half smile turns into a full smile, then a laugh.

Aime says, 'No,' and Jules says, 'No,' and Colin says, 'Sorry, then,' but in a voice that doesn't sound convinced in the slightest.

Jules and Aime look at each other and Colin says, 'Oh, come on you two,' and Jules empties his drink and says, 'I'm going for a refill. Can I get anyone anything?' and Aime empties hers and gives him her glass.

Colin says, 'Sorry. If you want to keep it hush-hush ...' and here he runs his fingers across his mouth in a pantomime of doing up a zip, then follows it with doing up a very small padlock and throwing away the key, all the time grinning.

The doorbell rings then, although the trio doesn't hear it. Jules is looking for the black-and-white maid and sees her opening the door and he walks towards her as his wife enters, takes a champagne from the maid's tray and sees him.

'Ah, there you are,' she says, and he says, 'Alice. I thought you weren't coming?'

And she says, 'I changed my mind and caught a cab'.

Jules takes two flutes from the maid's tray and says, 'I'm just getting someone a drink,' and Alice says, 'I'll follow you. I've got something I want to tell you,' and this sounds ominous to Jules so he says, 'Good or bad?' and she says, 'Depends on your point of view,' which makes the thing more ominous still. He then says, 'What's it about?' and she says, 'Deliver the drink, I'll tell you later'.

He says, 'Just tell me if it's something good or bad,' and she says, 'I can't because it depends ...' and he cuts her off by saying, 'Okay,' and starts off for the other room while Alice takes a sip from her glass and begins to follow him. She nods at the Durands and the Bonnets and the Blanchards and the Fourniers and the Girards, Blancs and Martins, passing Alban Martin just as he delivers his punchline of, 'A good goat will do that, your Honour'. Alex, lured into the group to hear the joke, extricates himself saying, 'Ah, there's Alice,' and he takes her arm, saying, 'For Christ's sake get me away from that man. Those jokes ...'

The pair follow Jules and when the three reach Colin and Aime, Colin does the introductions, beginning with, 'Aime, this is Jules. Jules, this is Aime,' and his voice has a kind of pantomimie, sing-song edge that Alice and Alex, but particularly Alice, find odd and which Jules finds unsettling because Colin is the type of person who likes to tell the end of movies and reveal secrets of all kinds, and is the worst possible person in the world to have seen you having coffee with someone you've just denied having ever met before.

Jules says, 'I know, we introduced ourselves a few minutes ago,' but Aime puts out her hand to Jules and says, 'Pleased to meet you,' and Jules takes her hand awkwardly, then releases it.

Colin concludes the rest of the introductions, ending with, 'Aime, Alex. Alex, Aime'.

There is the space of about three seconds where nobody says anything, then Aime says to Jules, 'So, what do you do, Jules?' and Colin snorts and asks Alice if she's ever been to the The Moroccan because they do the best Turkish coffee, even better than the Turks themselves do it.

Jules tells Aime, 'I'm n theoretical physicist,' to which Aime replies, 'Does that mean you're only theoretically a physicist?' and he laughs and says, 'Theoretically'.

Aime says, 'So, theoretically, what do you do?'

'Theoretically,' he says in the most boringly scholarly voice he can produce, 'using mathematics, I study areas of nature that technology can't so far allow us to observe using experiments.'

'Mathematics was never my strong suit,' Aime tells him. 'Adding and subtracting are okay. Multiplying's passable, but dividing's always been a bugger.'

'Dividing's just a series of takings-away. All mathematics is just adding and taking away. Basically. When you boil it down.'

'He also does a lot of daydreaming,' Alice says.

Colin says, 'Don't you want to know what Aime does, Jules?' and Jules says, 'So, what do you do, Aime?' to which she replies, 'I cook'.

'Interesting. What do you cook?' Jules asks her and she says, 'Meat mainly. Vegetables. Fruit sometimes. A lot of meat though.'

Worried he's going to fuck things up, and anxious about the direction Colin is trying to take things, Jules says, 'I noticed the Bointons'. He's addressing this to Alice. 'They're champing at the bit to tell us about the new lake-side villa they've got at Saint Jean Montclair. I think they have photographs. Perhaps we should get it over with.'

Alice says, 'Sure,' and sips her champagne. 'I'll follow you,' but she's looking at Aime and wondering what it is Colin is doing.

Jules touches her arm and they leave to find the Bointons. Alex moves in on Aime and says, 'So, tell me about some of this meat you cook. Have you ever cooked a whole goat on a spit? I was in Zambia once ...' and while Jules and Alice are now out of earshot, Jules turns around three times on their way to find the Bointons because Alex is a predatory fuck and he doesn't trust him an inch.

Jules leads Alice upstairs and the musical group begin playing an Antonio Jobim song, 'The Waters Of March,' which Jules and Aime had played incessantly while they were falling properly in love in a small, third-floor apartment, with unpredictable hot water and a funny smell in the little laundry. The lyrics are just a list of vaguely connected things that tell a sort of a story. 'A stick, a stone, it's the end of the road, it's the rest of a stump, it's a little alone,' and something about the riverbank, how it sometimes talks of the waters of March. They stop and listen together and for a short time, he, at least, is taken back.

When it's finished she says, 'Well, where are the Bointons?' and he tells her, 'I don't know.'

She says, 'I thought you'd seen them,' and he says, 'They're probably here somewhere. They're usually at these things. So, what's the thing you wanted to tell me that's so pivotal on a point of view?'

She says, 'Do you want to sit down?' which immediately makes him think she's going to tell him she's got cancer, but he doesn't articulate this, nor does he sit down. He says, 'No. What is it?' and she's looking at him and he can't help it and he says, 'Are you sick?' and she says, 'Just mainly in the mornings'.

He tries to think of what type of cancer would only make you sick in the morning, and he thinks possibly stomach, which is just one down in terribleness from pancreatic, and he suddenly feels ill himself.

Thinking he'd have picked up on the morning sickness hint she says, 'So, what do you think?' and he says, 'I don't know what to think. Good God.'

'Well, are you happy?' she asks, and he says, 'What do you mean? Good God no. Why would you think I'd be happy?' and suddenly the only possibility was that, not only had she been diagnosed with cancer, she knows about Aime as well and it was a question rooted in sarcasm, and while she hadn't sounded sarcastic, he felt with a certainty that that was where it was coming from.

She's worried by his attitude of course and says, 'Do you want to know the sex?' and of course all he hears is the last word, sex, and he swallows and says, 'The sex,' and she says, 'I thought you'd be pleased. I'd hoped you'd be pleased.' And she suddenly looks let down and tired and not a little sad and he puts all this down to a mix of the cancer and his infidelity.

'So ...' he starts hesitantly, 'what is it?' expecting the exact nature of the disease, but she says, 'Are you sure you want to know?' and he says, 'Of course I don't want to know. And of course I have to know. God!'

She says, 'It's a boy,' and for a moment he's confused and then he understands and says, 'Good God! I thought you had cancer.'

'No,' she says, 'I'm pregnant. I hoped you'd be pleased. You don't sound pleased.'

'I thought you were telling me you had an incurable malignancy.'

'Idiot,' she says. 'No wonder you were all so iffy and funny.'

'Fucking hell,' he says, and she asks, 'So, now you know I haven't got some terminal illness, what do you think?'

'Great,' he says. 'But I'm just getting over the cancer scare. I might just get another drink. Do you want something? Are you supposed to be drinking?'

'Just today,' she tells him. 'I've already thrown away a whole carton of Gitanes. It was painful. Anyway, I'm going to have another champagne because it's not every day you get to tell your husband you're up the duff.'

'And it's a boy? How do you know?'

'I just know. It feels like a boy. A boy child. Get the drinks. But you are happy, Jules?'

'Yes, yes. Of course I'm happy. Certainly I'm happy. I'm happy you haven't come down with a cancer as well. In equal measures. The balance is sort of horizontal.'

She smiles and says, 'Get the drinks, there's a good daddy,' and he's suddenly unsure how he feels about being any kind of a daddy, let alone a good daddy. And as he goes off to find champagne he wonders how Aime will take the news, because he surely must tell her. He wonders, in a kind of half panic, if she'll still want him, now he's some kind of a father. A good daddy. If it'll feel different, fucking a father rather than a free man, which was how he had seen himself, being married but with no children. He felt he should tell her tonight.

He finds another black and white maid and gets two champagnes and takes them back to where Alice is standing, moving a foot in time with the music. The band is playing the One Note Samba, the verse of which is plucked out on a single note, B flat in the original key.

Jules is looking at Alice's stomach. He says to her, 'How far along is it?' then he kisses her cheek because it's the least he can do, she having just told him he's got her up the duff.

'Six weeks,' she tells him, smiling, and he says, 'And when did you find out? Like, have it confirmed? What did you do, get one of those home testing kits? How reliable are they? What do you do, pee in a cup and then stick the thing in like a thermometer?' He's rambling a bit. He has things to take in.

'I did it this evening. That's why I came. I couldn't wait till you got home.'

'God,' he says. 'And you're sure?'

'The things are pretty much infallible these days. I'm a hundred percent pregnant I'm afraid.'

'Well,' he shakes his head. 'Sure beats cancer.' He holds up his glass and they clink champagne flutes and drink. 'To Rufus,' he says and she says, 'Good lord no. He's not a Rufus!'

'No, of course not,' he says but having no immediate alternative he says, 'To the little lad, whoever he may be,' and she says, 'To the little lad'.

Jules sees the Bointons, usually found at these things with tonight being no exception. They are across the room, beside the small band platform, and he says, 'There they are. The Bointons. Will we tell them?'

'I don't know that I'd want the Bointons to be the first to know,' she tells him, but he's already waved and they've seen him and are beginning to make their way over, all smiles and photos of their new place in Saint Jean Montclair secreted about themselves waiting for the – 'Oh, and look what I've found' – to herald their appearance.

She sighs, just a small one, because there's surely more to be said between them about the new thing, but she's sweet and polite when they arrive, until Jules puts his arm around her waist and says, 'Alice is up the duff. To me,' he adds, smiling, and the oohs and ahs are suddenly gushing and he downs his drink in a swallow and wiggles his empty glass at Alice to indicate he's going for a refill, as he slips away with a quick smile in the direction of the Bointons who are still in mid gush.

He goes downstairs and back to where Aime and Colin and Alex are still talking. Alex is standing much too close to Aime and Jules tries to form himself into a wedge between them but it leaves his back to Colin so he has to abandon the tactic. There is an uneasy desperation about him, focused on a need to tell Aime about his being a daddy, to see if it will change anything between them, because he has a nasty feeling in his stomach, around the area of his pancreas, that it will. So he has to know for sure and in a flap of impatience, says to Aime, 'Aime, there's a painting in the next room I'm sure would delight you. Do you know Kris Klein?'

'The guy who does the deserts?' she asks.

'Yeah. There's one of his of the Gobi in the next room.'

'Great,' she says, 'I'd love to see it. The Gobi is my favourite desert, next to the Patagonian.'

Alex says to Aime, ignoring Jules, 'I went to Patagonia once. Vomited for four days solid. I'll join you, if that's alright.'

Colin says, 'I may as well tag along. I flew over the Libyan desert once, on the way to Cairo,' and the four of them saunter off into the next room where there actually is a Kris Klein featuring the Gobi on the wall, which Aime finds a relief as she half suspected he was making it up, which would have been awkward and a little revealing.

The painting is raggedly divided in two across the horizontal, the lower half being mainly a flat, washed out yellow and the top a powder blue and it holds their attention for all of ten seconds, after which Jules says to Aime, 'Look, I wonder if I can have a word,' and Aime says, 'Sure,' and he says to Alex and Colin, 'Won't be a second,' and Colin says, 'Oh, you two!'

Jules steers Aime away and finds a room which is fitted out to be a kind of library that has bookcases high enough to require a wooden ladder on wheels to reach. There are three other couples, talking separately, and he leads her to a corner and she says, 'My God, that Alex is a sleaze. Fucking hell. And Colin ... that man could bore the leg off an elephant!'

Jules says, 'Listen,' and Aime says, 'Yes?'

There's a tray of drinks on a table in the middle of the room and he says, 'Hang on,' and goes and gets two champagnes and hands one to her and says, 'Um, it's just that Alice is pregnant'.

'Pregnant,' she says. 'When?'

'Now,' he tells her.

'No, idiot, when did she get pregnant,' and he says, 'About six weeks ago I think. She got a tester thing. Peed in a cup and stuck the thing in like a thermometer. The mercury went all the way up to pregnant.'

'Huh,' she says. 'So did mine,' and she catches his eyes with hers and won't let them go, so he has to say, 'What do you mean?'

She says, 'My mercury went all the way up to pregnant as well,' and he's achieving a little familiarity with this sort of thing now and says, 'Right. They're pretty reliable these days I believe, those things.'

She says, 'I wasn't going to say anything this soon. There's a lot to consider. But ...'

'Is it ...' he starts, but can't finish the sentence because he wants to make sure it's his child she's talking about before they get any deeper into the thing and can't see a way of phrasing it that won't appear a major affront.

She says, 'Is it what? Is it yours do you mean?' and he nods and she says, 'I was getting to that,' and she downs her champagne in one swallow and holds out her glass to indicate she'd like another.

Cloaked now by his new professionalism in this area, he says, 'Should you be drinking at this juncture?' and she says, 'We'll get to that too,' and wiggles her glass and he takes it and finishes his and gets two more from the table in the centre of the room.

Handing her a glass he says, 'So?'

'So,' she says. 'Are you familiar with a Nigerian gymnast named Abayomi Osarobo?'

'No,' he replies, and she says, 'Well, I am.'

'Which means?' he asks, but he knows what it means. She has slept with, or was sleeping with, or is even now sleeping with the Nigerian gymnast, Abayomi Osarobo.

'Which means,' she says, 'that's why I'm being so up-front. If I decide to have the thing it'll be obvious the father's not white. I mean, you'd see that it couldn't be yours. She won't be the whitest kid in the nursery.'

'A Nigerian,' he says, and she says, 'It just happened the once. Not that that matters or makes any difference. But it was just a one time thing. More of a mistake than anything else.'

'Is he Olympic standard?' he asks, and she says, 'Why on God's earth would that matter?' and he says, 'Because I'd find it just that much more humiliating. It's bad enough to be cuckolded by a gymnast, but if the idiot's an Olympic hopeful as well it's like a twist of the knife.'

'He's not an idiot,' she tells him. 'He has a degree in bio-chemistry.'

'I've got three science degrees and I'm an idiot,' he tells her.

'Well, he's not an idiot.'

'So, do you still see him?'

'No, he's back in Nigeria I think.'

'Does he know?'

'No.'

'So, I don't suppose it matters at all that Alice is pregnant then,' he tells her and she says, 'Of course not,' but it's no longer the relief it once would have been.

He says, 'How do you know it's a she? Is that a woman thing?' and she says, 'I had an ultrasound,' and in his mind he's like a scatter gun, firing off boys and girls in all directions.

He finishes his drink and gets two more, drinking one down on the way back, then the other, and he goes back and gets the last two on the tray.

When he's beside her again and has put her glass on a tread of the wooden ladder on wheels, he finds himself suddenly stinging and he says, 'So, you're breeding little black bio-chemists now then?'

'Fucking hell, Jules,' she says. 'You really can be an insensitive bastard,' and he says, 'I'm sorry,' and grabs her upper arm and she shrugs him away. Now, there's a bubbling of unusual hormones forming in some dangerous area inside Aime and for an instant she feels tears building, but the thing twists at the last moment into some form of secretion-based rabidity and with her face all pulled into an almost-teary grimace she says, 'God, imagine having a child with you!' and she walks off to be in some other section of the party where he isn't, so he drinks her champagne and goes off to find another black and white maid.

By the time he's back beside Alice he's approaching full-blown drunkenness, having played a game he's recently invented which he calls 'find-the-maid'. He found five in total, managing to engage two in mild conversation and alienating another by spilling champagne on her and staring at her breasts in an inappropriate manner.

Alice says, 'You're quite drunk. That was quick,' and he says, 'Celebrating. Had a bit of news. Thank the good Lord for alcohol. Where are the Bointons?'

Alice points across the room and he sees the Bointons flipping through a hefty wad of photographs for an older couple who are saying, 'Oh,' periodically, appearing for all the world enthralled.

He says, 'Do you know, I think I've been through every room in this house and I haven't seen a single TV set. Actually, I think I may need to go home. They have no food here, that I could see. And I think I've looked in every room. I'll just ask this black and white.' And Jules asks a passing skimpy-skirted maid where the food is and she tells him it should start coming out in half an hour and he tells the maid it was unlikely he could last that long and he might just go home now and she smiles and moves on and Jules says to Alice, 'I should have grabbed a drink'.

In the car, on the way home, Alice driving because Jules is now actually fully-blown drunk, he says, 'My head feels like I may have slaughtered up to two hundred million cells. More perhaps. I can't seem to recall the periodic table. Oh well,' and he collapses inwards into silence, five minutes later saying, 'Hey, you're pregnant. Absolutely well done. What do you think about Copernicus for a name?'

'It wouldn't be my first choice,' she tells him, and he agrees, saying, 'Mine either, actually'.

They are silent again, until he says, 'So, thirty weeks to go?' and she asks him, 'Are you really happy about it?' and he says, 'Yes, I really am, I think'.

He has no lectures the next morning and sleeps in and Alice is gone when he gets up. He's looking for an old pair of slippers he hasn't worn for a while. They've bubbled up as something necessary for the comfort of his hangover and as he's rummaging on hands and knees towards the back of the bedroom closet, he finds a single gym shoe. It's a stylish model and is all buffed and shiny like an almost completely new shoe and he picks it up and turns it over, then looks for its mate but there's no mate there. In the process he finds his slippers and he brings the three items to the bed and sits down. After putting on his slippers and noticing they do nothing whatsoever for his hangover, he inspects the gym shoe. It has an emblem on the side, two wide, vertical green stripes separated by a wide white stripe and he's prompted to believe it may be a flag. He drops the shoe and lays himself back on the bed as a little wave of nausea washes over him and a bubble of gas rises in his throat until he belches, and it smells and tastes like stale, flat champagne.

A little later, after he's had coffee, there's a nagging at the back of his mind and he goes back to the bedroom and gets the gym shoe and takes it into his study and turns on his computer. Into an internet search engine he types, 'flags of the world' and clicks the first result. They are all there, alphabetically sorted, and he scrolls slowly down looking for two green stripes separated by a white. He hits the Ns and finds Nicaragua, blue and white horizontal stripes with central logo, Niger, orange white and green horizontal stripes with orange sun logo, and Nigeria, green stripe white stripe green stripe. He shakes his head and a totally preposterous idea goes through him and buzzes around and buzzes around and the more it buzzes the more thoroughly entrenched it becomes until his whole consciousness is consumed by the idea of a Nigerian gym shoe being in a closet in his bedroom and the one possibility out of the many, many others, none of which can match in scale or audacity the main possibility that's now thumping away in there, niggling and juggling and prodding and rubbing so nothing else in the entire world can get the merest of a look-in.

His whole world is now encased in, and inextricably connected to, this Nigerian gym shoe, sitting on his desk and, inasmuch as an inanimate object like a shoe can actually taunt, it is in every nuanced possibility of the word, taunting.

Paris Portingale

Mt Victoria

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

Find out more about Narrator Magazine at

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