 
### Table of Contents

Licence Notes

Foreword

Editor's Pick

Copyright reminder

I Give You...

Taste Of Country

Lambs To The Slaughter

Paint

Silence

God's Child

Ten Years

ANZAC

Xing Saga Part 18 – Life On Mars

What Now, My Love?

Absolute

The Form Remains The Same

A Father's Day

Spectacle Illusion

Pyromania

Drunk

Juliet Returning To Nature

Last Man Standing

Forever Sublime

Floods

Strands

If I Had My Druthers

Honey Bee

In Dreams...

I Need Your Lovely Smile

Over The Top 1918

Parallels

To Absent Friends

Bogue

The Pride Of The Runic

Paint Two

The Net

Opportunity Lost

About Footprints

My Winking Muse

Mum's The Word

Australian Haiku No. 4

Yoo-Hoo!

The Baby and the Jinker

Xing Saga Part 19 – Lights In The Sky

Paper Plane – Paper Dreams

Emigrants Lament

The Ride

Disinspiration

Mother Nature's Cocoon

Oval Portrait Of Orlando Florida In Winter Australia

High Tea

Amsterdamned

Farty The Feline Gastropod

Chasing The Dragons

Yesterday And Today

The Day Of The Flat Head

She Is Poems That Speak Of Love

A Riddle Evolves

Where Does It Come From?

The Revolving Door

I'm A Figment Of Your Imagination

June

Heron Haiku

Winton's Children

Hidden Innocence

Train

Oh, The Stories Here

Extreme

Evolve, Revolve, Devolve

Fox Sports

Revolver

Unsuspecting Evolution

The Friend You Wish You Didn't Have

Physiological State

Evolution?

Sexuality

Turning Forty

Licence To Thrill

Revolution

Indecision

Mind Games

The River's Bend—Have You Ever

Just Shrapnel

You Restart...

The Transaction

Broken Smile

As It Is!

There And Back

The We

Machine Made Bread

Sweet Moonlight

The Miner's Hut

21st Century Blues

The Cost Of A Thousand Word Picture

The Karmic Debt

Reprieve

Callitris Glaucophylla

Lombok

Little Girl Lost

Talking Out Loud

Under The Eaves Of Heaven...

Still A Mother

Gabe In A Pickle

Yoknapatawphan Melody

By Way Of Dream

Heaven's Bow

Our Grandmother's Story (From My Perspective)

Garrison Town

Gay Pride 2015

The Pareidolia Effect

Nature's Calling

Glass Act

Across The Waves

Turning Back

Rosie And I

My Revolt

Homicide At The Hydro – Part 1

The Foundling

Witty, Wilful And Whimsical Roald Dahl

Calculations

That City Bloke

Fragile

Whistle Dance

Homicide At The Hydro – Part 2

Cash And Calico

Poppy's Diary

Forests, Feathers, Fins And Fur: Frantically Fading

New York Lands

Snow And Ice

Homicide At The Hydro – Part 3

Gone

'Picture It' Writing Competition

The Performer

Palestine

The Farmer

A Travel Tale

Aftermath

Homicide At The Hydro – Part 4

Homicide At The Hydro – Part 5

Xing Saga Part 20 – Please Explain

Queues And Why I Hate Them

She Wrote Love On Her Arm

3 am Ramblings

Spring Shower

Turandot

On Being Straight

Wormhole Bigot

Homicide At The Hydro – Part 6

Homicide At The Hydro – Part 7

We Build (5.9675°N, 62.5356°W)

The Doctor

Listening To Music

Ubud

Pedestal Men

I Like A Lot

Nuts

Realities Unknowable

A Fire Starter Speaks Of His Love

The Fatal Waterfall

The Hotel Key

Homicide At The Hydro – Part 8

Homicide At The Hydro – Part 9

Twilight Songs

The Sentinel

Weather Permitting

Hush Now Child

The Grand Lampstand

We'll See You Home Soon

The Tourist

Island

Mere Hobbyist

Homicide At The Hydro – Part 10

Homicide At The Hydro – Part 11

Get Up, Get Up

The Journey

One July

Prick Free Zone

Spin Fatigue

Monday

Service

Hear Me

Flying Free

Homicide At The Hydro – Part 12 (Conclusion)

Goodbye Lee

Dearest Sister

Halloween

Spring Cleaning

The Thing

Country Is

Amit's Return

Closure

Dance

Betrayed

Checkmate

Instinct

Fear Of Choice

Tears For The Little Syrian Boy

Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

Untitled

About Change

The Little Warrior

Outside The Church

A French Twist

Night Muse

Habit Tails Outlaw (What is it all about?)

Take Care Of The Rose

Candy

A Cry For Help

Goodbye To narrator

A Parting Glass

Done

Bios and contact details

Index

About MoshPit Publishing

Copyright Statement

Endnotes

A showcase of Australian and International poets and authors

who were published on the narratorINTERNATIONAL blog

from 1 May to 31 October 2015.

narratorINTERNATIONAL is  
brought to you by MoshPit Publishing  
an imprint of Mosher's Business Support Pty Ltd

PO BOX 147  
Hazelbrook NSW 2779

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

Copyright 2015 © Various Contributors as listed in the Index

Edited and compiled by Jennifer Mosher, AE and Sarah McCloghry

Cover image: _Hawks Nest after Rae-Lee,_ acrylic and sand on paper by Jennifer Mosher. <http://jmoshereditor.com>

All rights reserved

**Licence Notes**

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

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the author and publisher.

MoshPit Publishing

Hazelbrook, New South Wales

Foreword

Welcome everyone to narratorINTERNATIONAL Volume Three. It is with a mixture of pleasure and pride, yet sadness, that we bring you this final volume.

We have derived great pleasure from dealing with such a warm online community of enthusiastic and creative writers. We have learned from you with every submission, and we thank you sincerely for sharing your thoughts, your ideas, your imaginations, your creativity, energy and support over the last few years to help us bring narrator to an international audience.

And we hope that you're as proud as we are with what we have achieved with all of our publications, from the very early narrator MAGAZINE, through the various online versions (geographic and genre) to this final volume of narratorINTERNATIONAL which you now hold in your hands (or are reading on your device!).

Without you, dear writers and readers, there would have been no 'us' and for that we will always be grateful. But while we have loved and enjoyed the narrator project, we have always struggled to bring it to a wider audience and to make it profitable. As the internet has grown, so, too, have people's expectations of how much they're willing to pay for things, and what they're willing to pay for. We have always had to heavily subsidise the production of narrator and there comes a time when you have to make the tough decisions. And so, sadly, we did.

However, the www.narratorinternational.com blog will stay live in its current state, without posting any new submissions, at least until the end of 2017. Anywhere you have been published helps to give you credibility as a writer, so please remember to refer to your works there when developing your writing career.

As the years go by, we expect to see many of you pop up here and there across the internet in other writing vehicles and we will look at your name and your item and will be able to say, 'I know that writer! They used to contribute to narrator!' And we will be even prouder--of you, of us, and of narrator.

So thank you again, one and all, and we wish you all the best.

Jenny Mosher

_Founder and Editor-in-Chief_

Sarah McCloghry

_Assistant Editor_

Ally Mosher

_Graphic and Web Designer_

Wayne Mosher

_Office Manager_
Editor's Pick

Throughout this volume you will notice certain items will have received an Editor's Pick. In many cases we're sure you'll agree with us but in other cases you may wonder 'whatever were they thinking?' And this is the beauty of creative writing and art in general: we all have different tastes and ideas.

In the past we awarded Editor's Picks as we posted items to the blog each week, but when it came to compiling the book, re-reading the submissions often highlighted entries which we felt should also have had an Editor's Pick. As of narratorINTERNATIONAL Volume Two we have awarded additional Editor's Picks after they have been posted on the blog.

There is no formula for achieving an Editor's Pick and we don't set ourselves a quota. You will also find that while one piece in a certain style may get an Editor's Pick, successive pieces in the same style may not; it's the unique quality that sets the original piece apart.

Sometimes it was the way a piece was written, or the surprise at the end, or the subject matter. Sometimes it wasn't the subject matter, but the spirit or meaning behind the piece. Sometimes we read a piece several times, then suddenly felt very strongly about it, while other pieces grabbed our attention from the get-go.

Ultimately we looked for quality, creative writing, no matter what form it took.
Copyright reminder

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

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

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

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

Thank you.
I Give You...

1 May 2015

Maxima

Germany

I love you,

My pretty one

And I give you

Not just one billion kisses.

I give you, my beloved,

All the flowers

Growing on the meadows

Of my homeland.

I give you

Two white doves

And a small wooden horse

My late grandma

Gave me for my birthday.

It doesn't mean that much to me.

You know,

All the kids from my neighbourhood

Used to ride this winged horse

Imitating famous John Wayne

Showing off before the girls.

No, it doesn't mean that much

To me.

It's just that right now

All I want is to lift you on it

And take you

To our oasis of joy

I love you,

My pretty one.
Taste Of Country

2 May 2015

Judith La Porte

Monash, Canberra

Australia

'O'Grady! Take a photographer and get out to Emu Road. The Harris property.' Joe, the corpulent and cantankerous editor of the _Country Advocate_ appeared in the doorway of his office. He peered over his multifocals. 'More sheep have been mauled out there,' he growled.

Larry O'Grady wolfed down the last of his morning doughnuts. He licked the remains of the pink icing from his fingers. Gulping down scalding sour-tasting coffee he threw the styrofoam cup towards his bin, missing it. The cup landed under the desk. Dark brown liquid, like blood, dribbled onto the carpet.

'Jeez, mate,' the editor said, eyeing the empty doughnut carton on Larry's desk. 'It's only 8 am. It's a wonder you're not fat as a mining magnate the way you eat.'

He looked with irritation and a certain amount of envy at Larry's lean muscular frame. The _Advocate_ 's star reporter was strikingly handsome--tall, in his early thirties, with a mane of shoulder length brown hair. His good looks were marred only by his slightly discoloured teeth and dark mono brow.

Larry grinned. 'But have you tasted the doughnuts from that new place next to the supermarket--mouth-watering. The chocolate ones...'

'Yeah, yeah. Just get cracking,' grumbled Joe, thinking gloomily about the green salad and carton of natural low-fat yogurt his wife had packed for his lunch.

~~~

'Hell, what a mess,' muttered Bob, the _Advocate_ 's photographer. He stared with distaste at the three sheep carcasses.

Grunting, he gingerly lowered his arthritic knee to the ground to get a close-up of one of the mutilated sheep. All three had had their throats torn out. Their stomachs had been bitten into savagely and hollowed out. Crimson wool, matted with saliva, was scattered about the paddock.

Larry slid his designer sunglasses onto the top of his head. He surveyed the carnage with cool disdain.

'What do you reckon, Constable?' he asked the young police officer who was standing with Greg Harris, the property owner.

The constable shrugged. 'Dingos, I suppose. Or domestic dogs gone feral.'

Greg Harris pushed back his sweat-stained hat and grimaced. 'Once those bastards get a taste of blood they come back for more. I'm the third place 'round here they've hit.'

Larry pulled out a small paper bag from his fitted black leather jacket. He fished out a fistful of salami sticks and jammed them into his mouth, chewing noisily. 'We'll do a front page feature--unless of course we get a murder or a juicy sex scandal before this evening.' He winked at Bob. 'We live in hope.'

~~~

Larry suggested he and Bob stop off at the _Tasty Truck Stop Café_ before heading back to the newspaper office in town.

'Large steak sandwich--bleeding and still kicking thanks, babe.' Larry gave the plump middle aged waitress a wolfish grin.

She frowned at him, unmoved by his dangerous good looks and startling pale blue eyes. She knew the type.

'Just coffee, thanks,' said Bob.

Bob looked thoughtful. He drummed his fingers on the table. 'Remember there was that old bloke living out in a bush shack near the Harris place. The cops found him dead a month ago. There was no press coverage but my mate Dave, at the police station, told me he'd been, how'd he put it? Half consumed. Savage injuries just like those sheep.'

Larry glanced at Bob. 'So?'

'Well, I know you'll think I'm barking mad, but have you ever considered there might be...' He looked around furtively and lowered his voice to a whisper: 'a werewolf?'

Larry let out an explosive laugh. 'Mate, are you serious? This isn't the Dark Ages. Next you'll be telling me you believe in vampires, little green men and that Elvis is still alive.'

'He is.'

'What?'

'Elvis. He is still alive. Me and the wife went to the States last year to visit her sister. We saw him, large as life, old as dirt, sitting in the booth next to us at a Burger King in Macon, Georgia. Got his autograph.'

Larry stared at Bob open-mouthed. He shook his head, speechless. Just then his food order arrived and he set about it hungrily.

While Larry ate ravenously, Bob sipped his coffee. He peered morosely out of the smeared café window. The day was grey and blustery. He wished he had not witnessed those pathetic bloodied sheep lying in the desolate paddock. He could still smell them and there was a sickening taste in his mouth.

He finished his coffee and tried to ignore the disconcerting gnawing sounds coming from across the table.

For such a good-looking bloke, Larry can be bloody unattractive sometimes, he thought.

~~~

Throughout that spring and summer, farm animals in the area, including a couple of young dairy goats, continued to be found mutilated. Neither the police nor the land owners were ever able to catch the suspected canine culprits. Traps were set and guns were always loaded and at hand, but to no avail.

The slaughter became so commonplace it was no longer front page nor even second page news in the _Country Advocate._

Larry got his sex scandal--scintillating hijinks between the mayor's wife and one of the local councillors, involving fluffy pink handcuffs, whips and careless emails.

A travelling salesman driving into town late one silvery moonlit night claimed to have seen a large coarse-haired animal moving with extraordinary speed alongside the barbed wire which fenced the O'Toole sheep property. It had raised its massive head and stared into his headlights, baring large yellowed fangs.

'I swear its eyes glowed red. It looked positively evil,' he shakily told patrons in the bar of the hotel where he was staying.

The barman raised his bushy eyebrows incredulously and handed the salesman another schooner.

Inexplicably by the end of December the killings had ceased. As the months went by the farmers and their livestock, or what was left of them, started to relax.

Larry had resigned from the _Country Advocate_ just prior to Christmas. He had landed a job with an Adelaide newspaper. Everyone always said he was wasted working for a small town rag.

'I've lost my taste for the country life, mate,' he told Bob airily. 'New horizons, fresh blood calls.'

Several young women in the district cried a lot after Larry's departure.

Joe, the editor, begrudgingly admitted to himself that he missed Larry.

'I suppose he's covering that spate of unsolved murders of vagrants in the Port Adelaide area,' he remarked wistfully to his wife one evening.

He smiled ruefully. 'More exciting than dead sheep. Something a journalist can really get his teeth into.'

Bob stopped regaling people with his improbable werewolf theory. He did, however, occasionally bring out his treasured Burger King paper napkin signed _Elvis Presley_ and dated September 2014.
Lambs To The Slaughter

3 May 2015

Terry Hopper

Luton, Bedfordshire

England

Seventeen... thought I was a man

For king and country... did all I can

I heard the call... signed up fast,

Be over in weeks... it will never last

Parties and dances for heroes' returns

shell shock with shrapnel, mustard gas burns

trench foot Tommies, told you are the cream

All swagger and poise, but not what he seemed

You said there's adventure, medals are won...

All boys together, not one versus one

Food will be plenty, cigarettes by the score

Welcome to Flanders, welcome to war

Like lambs to the slaughter. You sold us the lie

Believed the impossible, we were too young to die

Your country needs you, everyman to the last

For England, for freedom, till victory is past

And now I'm here, in a hospital bed

Seventeen and three quarters, a hole in my head

Left arm is missing, they search, but can't find

Lost with my reason, my heart and my mind.
Paint

4 May 2015

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, New South Wales

Australia

Fill

the

canvas

with glowing

colour, a swirling

mass of iridescent phantoms.

There will come a time, when waiting for the leaves to change,

the painter will bend her head and

softly contemplate.

Palette slips,

floats away.

Droplets

free

fall.
Silence

5 May 2015

Reiroshu Eigenlicht

Legnano, Milan

Italy

Soul fragments, knitted over raindrops, poured against time.

An ash grey sky weighed over water, pushing it against the back of the earth. A boundless lake, or just a dark sea that had forgotten about life.

She had got there following the cracks which appeared on the glass floor of history. Her history, someone else's, the world's: it didn't matter. Events had melted and so had the glances of those who had lived them.

Shreds of unspoken words had tangled in her tongue like a fur-ball. She moved her ears following the sounds swimming in the air: slow, sparkling, unaware fish.

Her eyes, though, stared at a point far away in the centuries, with such intensity they looked blind. Grey as the world that murmured to her mind, like the meek confusion spreading on her voice when she was on the verge of speaking. She always gave that up, eventually. She hammered her cloudy eyes in those begging her to talk and, softly, she shook her head. The only things deserving to be spoken out were the ones already existing in the tension of the atmosphere. They had a life of their own and no limit. They had never been bridled and would never dissolve.

Those things she had refused to say glimmered in the darkness of the universe, they warmed worlds up, they fed lives. They kept exploding and burning. But she kept quiet, listening to the sighing water, to the waves chasing each other: at a step from bliss, they were swallowed away again, in the immensity of time. Her lips curved in a feeble smile at the memory of the other creature's voice. Without it, that universe would have had no light, those worlds no warmth and there would have been no life. Not in that shape.

Say it.

Instinctively, she shook her head, once again. She felt rivulets of ice making their way on her skin. They became lava, they became light. She felt like she could reflect herself in the last breaths of the Sun: anguished, it sank, invoking help, in those silent waters.

Her world turned towards the night. Without detaching her eyes from that cold, dumb point, she bent down to the night. Without detaching from that still, cold something, she bent down to pick up an abandoned pebble. She tightened the grip, more and more. She had been there before. The place where something was about to break, and then it had broken.

Every time she had wondered what would have happened if she had decided to stop. If she had felt fear. If she had listened to the voice warning her she would never be able to go back. She felt a faint creak and then the liquid heat of blood starting to flow on her locked palm.

She would say nothing. Above all, she would not say what she most wanted to. She would not let rot at the contact with oxygen. She would not taint it with a voice she didn't recognize as hers every time she happened to listen to it by chance.

Stubborn silence. That absence, that delicate, fundamental lack contained all the potential of creation. That tiniest discrepancy, that would have been so easy to fill up, was the only thing tempting her to feel trust. It was a vibrant void and she had a firm belief in the power of that vibration.

She knew the other creature would understand. That was why keeping quiet weighed on her soul like a leaded sphere. But that silence would not just enlighten the dark. It would swallow it and give it back its honor and heartbeat. It would give it back blood and dignity. That silence, stretched to the extreme like a violin string over the indifference of time, would create universes. And in those universes she would have lived forever, never fading, never fighting against an end. Without using the last remaining rays to beg a destiny that, maybe, she had never even really believed was real.
God's Child

6 May 2015

Madeline Ross

Winmalee, New South Wales

Australia

The world was never perfect;

this not so hidden secret,

Was known to us all along.

Despite pain and anguish,

Love and hope exists;

It is hidden in subtle beauty;

It's the smile of a passing stranger,

The blossoming of wildflowers,

And seen in the giving of a gift.

Do not fear the darkness, my child,

For the dawn has almost come.

And darkness only lingers

Where hope seldom grows.

These times are confusing,

You may feel ignored.

But let me tell you something

That will lighten your load.

No matter how dark,

No matter how hopeless

This odd life may be;

Remember this and this only:

I will always love you;

Amidst the darkness,

Hope is always there.

I will be beside you

To guide and help you,

When no light remains.

I am your star in the darkest of skies,

Shimmering and twinkling like a beacon.

And when the worst is upon you,

I will fight beside you,

A glimmering shield and sword,

Defending you at any cost,

And protecting you from harm.

I will wipe away your every tear,

Make you feel happy,

All I desire is to see you smile,

And to hear you laugh again.

So don't worry, my dear,

The end of your sadness is near.

And just remember you are my child,

And are as precious as the world.
Ten Years

7 May 2015

David Newman

Jacobs Well, Queensland

Australia

As we go through life

we each follow a different light

For what to one, may seem oh! so bright

to another is as dark as night

So, we set ourselves on various paths

that to others would be just too daft

As is sorted the wheat from chaff

we strive, but only fervent by half

As we seek lost dreams

we lament of things that could have been

but we missed our chances, it does now seem

How can we fight what fate itself deems?

'Ten years ago, had we but known!'

But too late now, no seeds have been sown!

Then ten more years pass, and still we groan

'Ten years ago, could we have but known!'

There Saint Peter waits

as we arrive at the Pearly Gates

'They must have mixed up the dying dates?'

'We're not ready yet to face our fates!'

'If only they gave us more time!'

'Ten years more, and we would have been fine!'

'Just ten more years, and then we would shine!'

'But, too late now, we've run out of time!'
ANZAC

8 May 2015

Samantha Elliott-Halls

Campbelltown, New South Wales

Australia

As the sun goes down

On this furtive ground

Surreptitious murmurs proliferate

Might be found agglomerated

Unescaping

Shadows steep

Ghosts that creep

Never sleep

Silenced eternally

Friend and foe

Loved ones

Clandestine abide

Caressing breeze

Gentle and loving, intimate

Crosses elongate

Shadows deepen

Reclaimed again

Everlasting night

Recondite

A silent figure

Transitory, impermanent

Standing silently, alone

Head bowed

Hallowed ground

Connected

Waves that dandle

Cosset the shore

Boys befit men nevermore

Inhumed, quiescent

Gloria-perpetua

Acclamations

Fallen lauded

Righteous and honourable deeds

Commemorate combat

Reverenced moiety

In memoriam

In perpetuity
Xing Saga Part 18 - Life On Mars

9 May 2015

Jane Russell

Mount Barker, South Australia

Australia

_In which Oggie negotiates the use of the planet Mars by the metalbots of Xing with its indigenous population, much to the surprise of the representatives of Earth..._

The rusty, dusty, red planet Mars loomed large on the craft's viewing screen. On board, most of the craft's occupants were excited, anxious or, in the case of Nanny Grey, terrified. Oggie looked sideways at the two humans who'd been selected to accompany his mission. They were suited up and ready. He sighed inwardly as he replayed the reception he'd received when he went to inform the United Earth government that they would soon have neighbours on Mars, and could they please assign some suitable location on Earth for the Xing embassy? They'd looked at him in disbelief:

'Mars? What do you mean you're settling aliens on Mars? Mars is ours! It's out of the question!'

'With all due respect, sir,' said Oggie, 'Mars belongs to its indigenous inhabitants, and it is from them we will be asking permission.'

'Nonsense, man. We've been looking for life on Mars for centuries--we've invested billions in our research and never found anything. Why do you think you'll do better?'

'Oh, just a hunch,' Oggie replied, then mentioned the signals and movement picked up by Xing instruments, originating beneath the surface of the planet.

Grudgingly, a representative of the government was sent with the mission to parley with the Martians, and a reporter was sent to immortalise the event and beam the footage back to Earth. For their comfort, the spaceship (Bodwilf's crashed craft, refurbished) was set to a pleasant 25ºC with an oxygen rich atmosphere. Accompanying Oggie from Xing Town were: Mo, who could speak for the metalbots of Xing as their emperor, Nanny Grey to look after Mo, and a couple of bodyguards to protect everyone if necessary. Oggie set the craft down near the pitiful remains of the failed Mars One settlement. This was where he'd picked up traces of multiple lifeforms.

'Well?' asked Thompson, the United Earth representative, impatiently. 'Where are these Martians of yours?'

'A couple of them are standing right in front of you,' replied Oggie. Then, addressing the Martians, 'Come on, show yourselves. I know you're there.'

The bleak red landscape wavered, and then a couple of forms solidified before them. They had eyes on stalks, sucker-like mouths, wispy tentacles and they floated on the ground, rippling like jellyfish.

'It's a fair cop, mate,' said the one on the left, in a broad Martian accent.

'How'dya know?' asked the one on the right, 'this other lot never had a clue.'

'I could smell you,' admitted Oggie.

'What did they say? What did you say? Are you sure they're Martians? They're not at all what we expected,' waffled Thompson, who didn't speak Martian. He was thinking that these waving jellyfish were a far cry from the monstrous, fantasised aliens that always seemed to be threatening or invading Earth in the sci-fi stories. Oggie ignored him.

'Take me to your leader,' Oggie continued. Then as an aside, he said in English, 'I just asked them to take me to their leader.'

'Oh damn!' complained Thompson. 'I wanted to say that!'

'Well, the thing is,' began the Martian on the left, whose name was Fmmwit, 'we're just the workers, like. The blokes you should be talking to are the masters.'

'Okay, take us to your masters, then,' and the group followed the flowing forms of the two "worker" Martians down into an underground area where they were told to wait.

'I don't like this at all,' said Thompson, 'it could be a trap.' Then he yelped as they were bombarded with jets of chemical vapour.

'Just a precaution, you know,' explained Fmmwit, 'in case you're covered in nasty alien microbes and stuff.'

The group was led further into the interior of the planet, most having to duck through low passages until they reached the entrance to a vast underground city. Thompson gasped as a small green man approached them. It held up a three-fingered hand palm outwards in what looked like a greeting, which Oggie respectfully mirrored.

'It is Blughrrg, who is speaking,' the creature began, 'who is here to talk for the city of Mallwyygnh.'

'Honoured to make your acquaintance, Blughrrg. It is Ogglebog who is here before you, representing the metalbots of Xing. Allow me to introduce our esteemed leader, the Emperor Mo, and two representatives from the little blue planet Earth: Thompson and Singh.'

'What's he saying? What's going on? I demand to know!' said Thompson, who of course could not follow the Martian words, but recognised his own name.

'They are strange creatures the aliens of Pishtwah,' commented Blughrrg, 'but I didn't realise they came with shells. Certainly our observations of them did not include that oddity.'

Oggie explained the need for the spacesuits due to Mars' atmosphere being poisonous to humans. He also told Nanny Grey to translate the conversation into English for the Earthlings, or Pishtwats, as Blughrrg called them.

Oggie outlined his proposal for use of the surface of Mars to house his displaced people, with an offer to restart the planet's magnetosphere in order to retain a denser atmosphere and protect the surface from the sun's UV rays and solar winds. He also hoped to reduce the ferocity of the dust storms. There was a risk of geological activity following the changes and nobody wanted to activate the massive volcano, Olympus Mons. He also proposed flooding the enormous canyon of Valles Marineris to create an oily sea for Xing oceanic lifeforms.

'Hmm, that's all very well,' said Blughrrg, 'but what's in it for us?'

'Well, once things have stabilised on the surface, your people may wish to return there. We will leave room for you to do so.' Said Oggie, 'Also, you may wish to establish an embassy on Earth/Pishtwah. They certainly plan to set up one here on Mars.'

'Mars?' Blughrrg looked puzzled. 'Oh, you mean our planet here? We call it Zoot.'

The discussions continued, touching on resource sharing, trade, mutual benefits, and non-aggression pacts. Thompson was getting restless.

'Look here, I want to say something to these, these aliens.'

'They are called the Zootl. Go ahead, we will translate what you say,' said Oggie.

'From what I gather, you've been discussing terraforming the surface of Mars. If you can do this, I insist that you create an Earth-like atmosphere with proper, breathable air, and a warmer climate.'

Oggie just stared at him, then ventured, 'Why?'

'Just tell them. I know you robots don't need to breathe so it shouldn't matter to you.'

'We don't, that's true, but the Zootl do. Why should they change their air to suit you and poison themselves? It makes no sense.'

'They can stay in their underground cities and maintain a breathable atmosphere down there. Earth has always wanted to colonise Mars. The biggest drawbacks have always been the lack of air and the cold. If you have the capability to transform Mars into an Earth-like planet then I demand you do so.'

'We're outnumbered seven to seven thousand. You really want me to tell them you're planning to take over their planet?'

'You're right, I apologise. Don't say anything of the kind. Tell them you will transform the surface to suit you robots, then change it as I just said, to suit us.'

'You're wrong, as it happens. We cannot terraform a planet. That's a fantastic notion invented by science fiction writers. We can make small adjustments which involve some unknown consequences. We cannot change the composition of the atmosphere to Earth normal. You are entitled to build a modest structure to house your embassy; this will be your only presence here. This will need to be "air-tight" so to speak.' Oggie paused, containing his anger. 'Now, what would you like me to say to our hosts on your behalf?'

'Nothing,' grumbled Thompson, but he didn't look convinced. Oggie knew that Earth's ambitions were going to be trouble in the future, but for now the crisis had passed. The whole disgraceful tirade had been beamed live to the population of Earth and he hoped they didn't all agree with Thompson. But for now, the Xing fleet was on its way, and he had a lot of preparation to do.
What Now, My Love?

10 May 2015

Winsome Smith

South Bowenfels, New South Wales

Australia

Fay: What now, my love? What now, Fred?

Fred: Well, my dear, I think I've found a nice new home for us.

Fay: Wherever it is it will have to do. We have to leave here now. We cannot stay in this dangerous environment, not anymore.

Fred: We've been so happy and now that we are in our old age, it is so unfair that we have to move away.

Fay: I know, my love, but if we stay here we won't have any life left. This is a polluted place now.

Fred: I think this new home I've found is very suitable--that is, it suits me. I hope it will suit you, dear Fay.

Fay: You know I would follow you anywhere, my love. I want to spend my last days with you. Of course, I will miss our old dog, but we must leave him behind and go.

Fred: I know, my darling. It's a slightly difficult trip but the springs and suspension are still good, so let's go.

A few minutes later.

Fay: These new surroundings are surprising, Fred; so flat, smooth, almost like a bed.

Fred: I know, dearest Fay. Mr and Mrs Macdonald sleep here every night.

Fay: But will they want to share it with us?

Fred: They don't have any choice, but think of the advantages for us. It's warm, we don't have to struggle through any undergrowth and the food will be tasty.

Fay: Yes, I see what you mean, and I trust your judgement.

Fred: The best thing of all, now that we are old, is that we will be so safe for the rest of our lives. Nobody ever sprinkles flea powder in a human bed. We, Fred and Fay Flea will be safe and happy.
Absolute

11 May 2015

Judith Bruton

Marino, South Australia

Australia

_There's no absolutes in life --only vodka_.

~ Keith Richards

Warm morning light filtered through her eyelids as the buzz in her ears gave way to the rhythmic hum of snoring. Jane swept a strand of long dark hair from her face. A fractured collage of the previous evening cracked through her aching head.

Jane attempted to reorder last evening's events: Aeroflot business class from London, snowstorm, no connecting flight, complimentary vodka, lots of vodka--Absolut vodka--black city, taxi to flea-pit in bloody-bus-stop. _Vladivostok?_

Jane's last recollection was of stumbling into a dim hotel room. After that, all was blank.

The ambient snoring became louder.

_Snoring? Who in the hell?_ Jane shuddered. As she sat up she noticed a large mound on the far side of the king-size bed.

_God, what is that?_ She shuddered again at the sight of a stubbled chin oscillating above the doona.

'Good Lord. What are you doing in my bed? Get out, get out!'

'Hmm... Mushka, mushka...' moaned the stranger. He continued to snore, grabbing the doona as he rolled over, leaving Jane naked and reaching for a towel to cover her body, and the hotel phone.

No one at reception responded.

'Marvellous, bloody marvellous!' shrieked Jane as she threw the phone onto the bed.

'Nyet... nyet,' sighed the sleeping intruder.

'Right!' Gathering as much courage as she knew she had, Jane pulled the bedding away to reveal the interloper. She gasped. Oh god! It's the young Russian from the plane... the blonde one sitting across the aisle. He's also been poured into a taxi and delivered to this dump. I've heard of a red under the bed, but not a hunk in my bunk?

Jane searched her memory for more details of last night. She prayed nothing had happened between them. _Pull yourself together woman, he's in worse condition than you_. Wondering what to do next Jane extended her hand to the barely clad stranger who was now stirring. 'I'm Jane, from London. And you are?'

The man's green eyes flashed as he regained consciousness. He looked bewildered and more surprised than Jane. Shaking his head and pointing to himself he said, 'Me,... mus' go.'

'There's been a mistake, but, but... you don't have to go in a hurry.'

'Nyet... Moscow. MOSCOW!

'Ah. We're both headed for Moscow. Snap!'

'Schnapps? Yah. Good.'

Jane looked around for the mini-bar but could only see a grimy bottle of water on the coffee table.

The blonde Russian emerged from the bed all muscle and might, morphing from stranger to a ruffled Baryshnikov double, ready to leap and twirl across the dingy room into Jane's fantasies. In an instant Jane heard Tchaikovsky playing, saw swans cascading in snow, a seam of ice melting from London to Moscow, tundra cracking into huge chunks and polar bears swimming for life--

'Ladies and gentlemen, please switch off all laptops and mobile phones, put seats upright and prepare for landing,' crackled the in-flight recording.
The Form Remains The Same

12 May 2015

Graham Sparks

Bathurst, New South Wales

Australia

At the hearing of the tales of tender girls seduced by caliphatic propaganda,

to be the brides of aging jihad men who dream of meadow couch and virgins,

my memory clunks and groans in recollection of another paradise;

The hexa-deccan 'topia of fifty years ago

where girls bedecked in saris slaved at kitchen stoves

and washed the nappies of a hoard of brats by hand,

while cheese cloth boys went out adventuring in search of fuel for bongs.

Nothing's really changed;

the bong transports a bloke to meadows furnished with fine couches,

upon which virgins may be broken in.

Love hippie... blood hippie

peace hippie... war hippie,

the names of variables varies

but the form remains the same.

Perhaps my vision is a little stilted

but it seems to me it's man alone who dreams utopias

while women do the dirty work that keeps the bubble floating,

a paradise with dirty underwear methinks

is not a paradise at all.

And so it seems that all utopias are boats that float upon

what flows from kitchen hearth and washtub,

and hence from women's' elbow grease.

And further;

all utopias are sharers of the same foundation, and each a scum upon a surface,

and further yet;

every apple has its worm, and every paradise its serpent.
A Father's Day

13 May 2015

Marcalan McVicker

Grants Pass, Oregon

USA

'That's the last of it?'

His voice was like thunder rolling across the sky, echoing in an empty building that was not home anymore. I looked out my window from the bare floor and blanket pillow. It was still dark but the glow on the edge of the eastern hill had begun. It looked like Pa had snatched the sun from its spot and put it in the lantern as it danced around as he fussed with the wagon strapping and the team. The mules weren't used to being harnessed this close anymore and they nipped at each other and Pa, stomping their aggravation. Pa moved toward the back porch with the glow of the sun and returned it to its rightful spot. The house smelled with work sweat, old, dry, dusty bacon biscuits and coffee from the kitchen. Pa's steps meant business as he pounded in.

'You got to the count of ten; git to that wagon!'

'It's gonna be alright Mama,' he hushed, 'this time you'll see, it's gonna be alright!' She didn't bother to look at him, as she pressed by, with the black skillet and coffee pot, out the screen door. Tossing them into the wagon was her response as she climbed onto the tailgate and collapsed wiping tears from the "too soon lines" on her face with her dirty apron. My brother and I flew out the same door and jumped into the wagon either side of Mama; she pulled us close, 'Here you boys, a biscuit and some coffee cooled down.'

Pa stood there, looked around, spit on the plank floor and I heard him cuss, 'God dammit! It's gonna be alright!' He turned in disgust and slammed the screen door and as he mustered the team, 'Hap Jim, go girl!' they jerked into the unforeseen future.

I looked and watched the door fall from its top hinge and tear the screen in a cloud of dust. It didn't dare make a noise.
Spectacle Illusion

14 May 2015

Valerie Vaughn

Phillipsburg, Pennsylvania

USA

Manipulations and lies

made to believe in the land

of the free plentiful

proceeds entice the masses

come to the land of promise

our cultural identities altered evermore

as our feet manoeuvred the shores

of our unspoiled new world.

Generation's progressions

the advancement of open eyes

empty promises

an illusion of freedom

witness to a country in disarray

disharmonious struggle

a race between the wars

regional political party lines impenetrable

formations in a nation

divided inharmonious

unions take rise.

Halt the erosion of our pride

time to conquer the divide

oust the spectacle illusion

reacquire our vanguard names.
Pyromania

15 May 2015

Patricia Walsh

Cork

Ireland

Starting fires in another's grille

wish-disposed sleeps in the night

rotten with longing, unrequited revenge.

What god permits you to burn incessantly

warming the kitchenette by extension,

a choice made, dividing the domicile.

A buzz made, a word to swear by

while novel predictions promise a universe

that you can walk in, surplus to requirements.

I cannot know you, from the map of predictions

stuffed in my watch, nor can I

Eat without knowledge of your past transgressions

nor can I love without qualifications

in that case, I break the daytime

into urgent camaraderie, and slam the door.

Same magic that keeps us apart snaps tightly.

An airtight curmudgeon, that's all that matters

an avid adventure of sleeping alone.

The bones of argument lock tight.

Joint to joint, suture to suture

amplify misadventures every day of life.

A gallery of fire, framing disconcertion

Knock at the door of militant goddesses

open for coffee, a parody of the divine.
Drunk

16 May 2015

Fantail

Mount Barker, South Australia

Australia

_Gabe's situation worsens..._

The city wilted under a quilt of heat. Sun chased late-afternoon shadows into alleyways as a bedraggled figure struggled to its feet, ran a few unsteady steps and leapt into the air. It managed three wing-beats before tumbling back to the pavement to sit, head in hands, astonished by its sudden fall.

'Ow,' Gabe groaned. 'My head; my arse.'

That last drink had been a big mistake. Desperate to find something to blot out time until he could travel again, he had been drinking not Ambrosia--his usual pick-me-up--but brandy.

Slumped on a stool at the quietest end of a dim, narrow counter, vision blurred, ears humming, he relished the burn of the amber fire slipping down his throat. As he sipped, he squinted at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, fascinated by the way it changed. His nose, for instance, kept morphing from perfect to pocked; and, at times, it overhung a bristling moustache. Puzzled, the angel ran his fingers across his smooth top lip.

'Oh God. Hic!'

His space had been invaded. Morosely, he stared into his empty glass, irritated at being flanked by two humans.

'Not from round 'ere, are you mate?'

Gabe glared at the speaker. The man traded glare for stony stare--a bristling moustache the only thing mobile on his ugly face.

'Hic!' Frowning, Gabe rapped his chest. 'Acshually,' he drawled, 'I'm from far away. Hic!' He lifted his glass and waved it vaguely about. 'Over there. I want to go back. Hic!'

Moustache leant forward and winked at his pock-nosed companion who was ogling Gabe's back from the other side. A hump under Gabe's coat had begun to twitch.

'Hey bro...' Pock-nose reached to touch. 'What you got under there?'

Gabe flinched. 'Doan tush!' His voice edged upwards. 'Not your bishness. Hic! SHTOP IT! HIC!'

Bottles rattled on their shelves and a chunk of plaster fell from the ceiling. Pock-nose backed off. 'Bro! Settle down! I'm not touching; but, whatever's on your back... it's alive!'

Moustache pushed a tenner at the hovering barman. 'Give the bloke something, will you mate--before the roof falls in?' He slapped Gabe heartily and flinched. It had been like whacking a pillow. 'Here, toss this down!'

Gabe gulped the small drink and shuddered. 'Ah, boodiful,' he slurred. He flung his arms around his companions' shoulders and wrapped them to him. The hics had stopped. His wings were still. 'You know, ish hard to be an angel.' He peered first at one man and then the other. Both were struggling in his grip.

'Hey bud!' The bartender leant over and grabbed his wrists. 'Let go! You're hurting them.'

'Oh!' Gabe swayed on his stool. 'Am I hurting you?' He studied Pock-nose flailing in his left arm. 'Why are you purple?' He turned to Moustache. The man's eyes were popping and moisture oozed across his forehead.

'Leggo mate, c'me on!' The barman cursed. 'Someone call the police!'

But Gabe was suddenly seized from behind by a pair of large, tattooed arms and hauled off his stool. 'Had enough of you, bud,' a voice growled in his ear.

Moustache and Pock-nose slid away as the angel was dragged to the door and heaved into the street. The word "police" reverberated alarmingly in his head and the sound of a siren insinuated its way into his mind. He needed to be somewhere else. Staying close to the solid support of the building, he jostled through the crowd and turned into a narrow lane. He felt sick and hot. The alley swayed. The sun on the opposite wall was dazzling. He tugged his suffocating coat off, dropped it and leapt for the sky.

Once over the astonishment at his failure to fly, he thought to try a second time, but could only stand and scratch his head in drunken wonder at the sight of his wings fallen onto the pavement.

'Phew; you've certainly tied one on mister!' A policewoman bent to retrieve wings and coat while her partner seized Gabe.

The angel frowned in frustration. How was he to deal with the police if he couldn't understand their language? But he understood well enough when his arms were restrained and he was led to their car. Too far gone to resist, he meekly climbed in and passed out... until the wee small hours, when he regained his senses.

'Excuse me?' he called, aching from his time lying on an impossibly hard bunk. 'Is anyone there? I am ready to leave...'
Juliet Returning To Nature

17 May 2015

Myfanwy Dabner

Newbridge, New South Wales

Australia

Juliet wagged school this afternoon.

Juliet had been to the dentist and now didn't want to go to school.

Juliet said she wasn't wagging as she was sick of school.

Children are learning how to turn up when they would rather stay at home.

This afternoon I was keen to let Juliet be sick of school.

Rarely do my children have a day off.

With junk food in hands we hit the park together.

A tree with a trunk like an elephant foot is first from Juliet's memory so Juliet immediately chases her memory to the trunk but when she gets there it is roped off. Threadbare grass at the bottom of the trunk is getting a chance to re-form its ground tapestry which has been worn back to roots and soil by people treading, sitting, and lying there.

We course back to picnic seats and on our way I watch a grandmother with her grandson looking and waiting for someone. The grandmother gets up from her seat and paces telling the grandson, 'Mum said she will meet us here'. I watch her swaying for relief. Her legs are painfully swollen. Her pain seems to feed her anxiety, removing relaxation from her face and replacing it with stress. I wonder how long she has been hidden by stress.

Juliet and I sit quietly to enjoy eating our junk food. I give the food a plug in my mind as I eat. It tastes, smells, crunches, is soft, warm and consistent. Juliet's daily ham and cheese sandwich is binned for this McDonald's which plays originality and attraction with its big sign the 'big M'. Tall icons including the big M, church towers and business skyscrapers put themselves in peoples visions repetitively and thus in their minds, their thinking, and their doing.

After eating we meander and end up at the begonia greenhouse. It is full of bread and butter plate sized begonia flowers set on tiered garden beds rising to the roof--an indoor antique flower garden. Juliet boldly engages in the room and reads the names of the begonias such as Madeline, Nicole, and Guy Chart. The flower itself is beautiful for the sake of the flower alone yet for us to see and remember it we name it to store it as a memory in our plastic mind a place where we deposit to and withdraw from at all times.

The begonia flowers were attractive, fertile and enduring. Their colours could have inspired lipstick makers with their solid bright reds, oranges or pinks. Perhaps they gave their pastel colours to the fabric dyer which I can see as reproduced in reams and reams cascading down walls in fabric stores. Apart from these fresh bursting colours the begonia petals were visionary because they looked soft, velvety and fragile but were strong and thick to touch.

Never having been to this concentrated, and repetitive, display of begonia flowers it was nothing less than an outstanding way to get me to remember the begonia.

So as Juliet's tapered fingers gently touched many petals we moved around the begonia room and I loved her. I watched how the lines blurred between Juliet and the flowers, Juliet and the plants, Juliet and the air and Juliet and the dappled light. My loving memory of her was renewed in this begonia garden.

Dreaming now and satisfied.

Juliet synthesised with nature.

It was immediate and required no wires.

A positive pea soup

of light, atoms, and quarks

moving between us all.

And there was dreaming

and loving

We quickly rounded the room and walked out into the hot sun where I disappeared into my phone leaving Juliet to sit in a tree.

Now things fade and things come back.

Reinforce.

Experience.

Love.

Plastic treasure trove

of mind

of body

of earth; my soul

Where is your greenhouse?
Last Man Standing

18 and 19 May 2015

MC Alves

New York City

USA

The oldest 'friend' the actor had was a grouchy old drunk, once a ham actor still a ham, now seventy-two and quite moist on Canadian Club, a daily diet for at least the last fifteen years. The actor had been working in short films with a troupe of youngsters with hope in their hearts and crystal meth on their brains and when the two first met The Bald One had been doing much the same thing. The actor had once played 'God'; Baldy, a rotting corpse. And a damn fine corpse he had been. Best lines he ever uttered. Silence was not his habit and he was still a fine one to pronounce on politics, movies, the art of the audition, showtune lyrics and, of course, himself. He once had his malevolent visage on a billboard on Times Square, circa 1963, as the Nikolai Vodka czar. A ham of the off-off Broadway stage and an icon of Upper East Side drunkards, charlatans and retired pathologists.

It did not take long for the young actress to become bored and frisky.

'Me go now,' she said.

'Lovely working with you. Let's fuck next time.'

The actor splurged for a cab uptown in search of his old ally and The Next Big Thing. He thought no more of jade.

It was Monday afternoon and Broadway is always dark on Mondays meaning some of his pals should be around, sneaking out on their patient wives for a cocktail and casual flirt. Union guys. Stagehands, grips, ticket-takers, day off. But when he arrived at the Roman restaurant where they all often gathered he found it shuttered. No menu in the window, the name painted in red and gold lettering still visible but the glass covered with pasted pages of old newspapers, chairs all standing on end from what he could see inside. The waiters had been warning for several years of its impending demise if tips did not improve but all the regular patrons had heard the lament so often they came close to boycotting tips altogether. But it apparently had now gone belly-up. Doors locked. Not quite the end of an era but a final scene nonetheless. Like so many places--and people--in New York it was now simply no more. He had seen many such demise. Entire city blocks transformed into monstrous monoliths, testaments to nothing. All is transient here. Only the laughter echoes.

There are never enough clean, well-lighted places and now there was one less. Unaware of the details, he could imagine the story. He could imagine also, then, that the last of his and Baldy's many impromptu performances had already taken place. Another impromptu curtain. Heavens to Murgatroyd. Exit, stage left.

The Palace Theatre had once been quite a venue. He recalled it as he stood somewhat awkwardly on Lexington unsure of where to go next. The actor had once been dragged to the Palace to see 'Viva Las Vegas' by a spinster aunt back in the day. She was a fine old theatre but over time not even marquis music names like Steely Dan, Mountain, ELO--who had played the Palace long after she had been host to 'Gone With the Wind' as well as mercifully few castoffs from Yale Drama which were once the lifeblood, if anemic, of community theatre in the greater New Haven area- could stave off her eventual closure. Sardis beware. Caveat Emptor. With nowhere left to drink themselves to death nor places like the Palace to loiter about muttering of the pathetic impotence of their wretched agents the remaining living ghosts of venues past might try passing themselves off as respectable patrons. Artists even. There goes the neighborhood. Portrait of the artist as an old sod.

'Hi, honey!' Of all the many fine characteristics S possessed, she insisted upon being called only 'S' for reasons unknown to the actor, but he suspected one or all of her several ex-husbands' lawyers, his favorite was her penchant for receiving him in her home naked. She perched at the top of the stairs on the first landing of her Park Avenue townhouse mansion with sunglasses in one hand, cell phone in the other and nipples at attention.

'Have you waxed since last we met?'

'Yes, honey! You noticed! Like it?'

'Charming.'

'You're a doll. Sit, sit. There's some wine on the table. Help yourself. Pistachios, too. I was glad you called. I've nothing to do tonight. I'll be right down.'

She was a good ol' girl, S, and the actor not quite old enough a sod not react to the sight of a spirited nymph with short blonde hair, on her head, among other enticing aerodynamics, so he ignored the call-to-arms which was rising in spite of the chafing of the last night's repeated takes and poured two goblets of Cotes du Rhone. He had taken to maintaining a completely oblivious attitude to S's many poses when he came calling: sometimes straddled upon the Rhino-hide footstool, sometimes smearing herself with Coppertone while sunning naked in the arboretum or most often partially hidden underneath a mountain of Mr Bubble. They had come to an understanding of sorts following a brief, ill-fated but always amusing attempt at lovemaking. She was married. To a wealthy man who had once directed some of the most successful ads ever to have run on sixties TV. Her current husband was seventy-eight, living year-round in Amagansett. She was forty and managed their four townhouses on Madison and Park Avenues. She went to see her husband at Christmas and spent the rest of her time complaining petulantly how there was nothing to do in the city on weekends (anymore). The actor was poor. Their first coupling had been one of those poorly recalled nights when they had been too fucked up to fuck properly, the second had been better, or apparently lasted longer, but she would not allow him to sleep over in her bed. Not that he had wanted to. But she said it was not right. She had money. He did not. She could get a reputation. The actor adored her.

'Do you know why pistachios are often painted with red dye?'

Father Paulie was sitting at the roulette table. S's mansion had been furnished with much of the props her husband had once used as sets for his commercials. There were all manner and fashion of items including a king's throne, sword and scepter in the foyer with an original Warhol hanging above; a massive Viking's table set with pewter goblets and daggers, dragon-carved chairs all around, the walls adorned with large works of the arabesque as well as 'pedestrian modernist'; a finely crafted desk where a Napoleon once sat to endorse Capstan pipe tobacco and in the parlour, where Father Paulie now slumped, the gaming table family legend claimed had been used in 'Casino Royale'. He was studying his pudgy, red-stained fingers rather closely.

'No idea.'

'To prevent the servants in Athens from stealing the prized pistachio from their masters. Anyone caught with red fingers was the obvious culprit and subsequently punished or banished from the household. Greeks! Orthodox heathans all.'

A legend, Father Paulie. He was pastor of the poorest church in the nastiest neighborhood, his flock a gaggle of raggedy-ass wretches who were not above looting the collection plate if given half a chance. Father Paulie gave everybody half-a-chance regularly. Said it was his goddamn job. Longed for the times of the Inquisition, the good old days, and was a regular at most of the older saloons in town where he was known for booming out Bavarian folk songs in between bratwurst and Jeagermeister. Sober on Sundays, he had been giving hope and Old Testament hellfire from the same pulpit for thirty-odd years. Today was not Sunday, however, and on any other day the good man was fond of his whiskey neat.

'Afternoon, Father. Been a while. How are the saints treating you?'

'Like a Jew. Rome is filled with fascist dogs. Frugal as Franciscans. Need a new post. This working with the bleedin' poor is a young man's game. Give ya the stigmata if you do it long enough.'

'Hang the rich.'

'Perish the thought. Working, are you?'

'Not today. Expect to be free this Sunday, too, if you need an extra to help with wafers or something.'

'Amateur.'

'In some... artistic... circles I am held in high esteem, actually. A specialist. Having high tea with the lady of the house?'

'More or less. I come here to resist temptation. Keeps me off the streets. The poor can come to me. Here I am hard to find.'

'A blessing to all concerned no doubt.'

'Hardly. But then I am no Jehovah's Witness. And a Satanist is just a Jehovah's Witness with a moustache.'

'Is that a Papal position?'

'How the hell would I know?'

The actor lacked theological convictions and had long since realized that the vague concepts he retained from childhood had been forged by Hammer Films. The image of the crucifix brandished by Peter Cushing on Christopher Lee had been the first and most lasting and no amount of secular reasoning had yet to banish the still vivid memory of Dracula being decomposed by the cross as potent weapon against vampiric evil. There were times when one simply required the services of a professional. An exorcism, for example, certainly would call for a heavy hitter, dressed for the occasion. Barring the onset of demonic possession or the rare entreaty, the actor's religious beliefs were pending his post mortem. But Father Paulie was always damn good company and could 'marry 'em, baptise 'em and plant 'em just as good as any midget Buddhist'.

'Cure any lepers lately?' Anything to keep a conversation lively while he hunted through the bottles behind the gleaming jet-black, shellacked bar for something to drown in slowly, to the bottom of the bowl. The red wine was a fine opening, single malt to be the main course.

'Lepers! Always the goddamn lepers! You must be thinking of the Jesuits. Missionaries just adore making documentaries about lepers. Anywhere they can be found. Hard to find lepers these days. Is it that you once played a leper in some forlorn film or is that your idea of a bon mot in the making?'

'Leave my mots out of this. Although I did play God once...'

'Bishops do that all the time. Bastards.'

He was a very large man, over two hundred and fifty, just under six feet, a nearly bald cannonball of a head with a thin remainder of hair bending around back from ear to ear, but leaving plenty of smooth hairless head for S to kiss when she bounced into the room. A quid pro quo act among the hairless, the actor imagined. Father Paulie grinned, grunted and sighed before knocking down the remains of his own whiskey and sitting back with the look of a fat man content.

'At least you have not yet been flayed. Or peeled. Broiled...'

'I leave that sort of thing to the pros. Or Illinois Nazis. So should you, by the way.'

'Yeesh, what are you two going on about? Bavarian Jumbalaya?' Fully clothed and perhaps the better for it, S, moving swiftly and lightly across the floor as she had been taught at Julliard, levitated to the nearest throne and propped herself upon it, cross-legged in seemingly transcendental repose, bright-eyed and looking as ever for mischief.

'Something not altogether dissimilar if you fancy Lutherans. Divinity's mysteries, my dear girl, nothing that would concern you.' The good man let out a hearty burp and made the sign of the cross, extending apparently both benedictions to all mankind with a final flourish of the wrist. The actor's inner Dracula flinched.

'Mendacity, dearest Faddah; mendacity I say, madam.'

'Hmmm... okay, whatever. What was that Hungarian, Father Paulie? And how have you been there, handsome? Been a while. But I am so glad to have two of my favorite boys together in my house even if they make no sense. Where's my glass, darling?'

He brought her the goblet and wondered just what, aside from a shared gusto for good liquor, had held them somehow together as friends. One of the unique beauties of this town, the cauldron of mestizo alliances, however fragile, which often last a lifetime. Or until money was owed.

'Thank you! So, honey, where have you been? I heard awful rumors.'

'You always do. Been on tour with a small troupe, Vermont, Canada. Just back a few days ago. Did "A Funny Thing Happened..." Played Pseudolus.' He decided against mentioning the previous night. She might have found it amusing but, being a man of the cloth, Paulie was not above getting self-righteous now and again, often out of a sense of duty if no longer deep conviction.

'How did it go?'

'They hated me in Canada. I hated everybody in Vermont.'

'What's next, then?'

'No idea. Yet. I was looking for Baldy, see if he knew of anything opening up.'

'I doubt it. He's been banned from Elaine's, you know. They finally got sick of listening to him go on and on about himself. And pissing off everybody around. That Cruella de Ville bartender told him to hit the sidewalk. For keeps!'

'After only twenty years? Poor bastard. He'll just have to find someplace else to drink breakfast. And how about you? How have you been?'

'Oh, I just broke up with some guy. Turned out to be a real asshole.'

'Fancy that.'

Two constants in an ever-shifting frame of social reference were Baldy's propensity to be highly annoying to any and all within his radius and S engaging and soon disengaging from one man then another in rapid successions. In love, out, with the intensity and frequency of a teenage drama queen. The only constant characteristic all shared was a great deal of money. Or so they claimed. Of course.

'He was married!'

'So are you.'

'Well I still don't do married men. Not if I know. This one lied. They all lie. But he did turn me on to Saratoga Springs. Have you ever been up there? Ever seen the races?'

'No. Not a fan.'

'It's wonderful! I have been spending every weekend sipping Hot Toddys in the shade. Love it. Makes me feel like a Southern Belle on her plantation.'

'Not a fan of that, either. Plantations. Slavery. Belles, maybe.'

'I wish! A Mandingo chained to the bedpost would make a better lover than the schmucks I come across around here. No offense, dear.'

'None taken. I cannot speak for the Mandingos.'

'Mandingos?! Where...?' Good Father Paulie, feeling the power in a flash of hazy awareness, sprung up from his prone position in an abrupt and awkward movement, sliding off the chair and landing quite heavily on his ass with a godawful thump that shook the assorted Nordic crockery, completing the movement by stretching on his back and promptly passing out. Snoring within seconds, he remained apparently at peace with the world.

'Does that every time. He will be out for a while. Claims to have epiphanies.'

One good snore deserved another but he paused and mumbled 'Phooey!' before resuming.

'Charming man.'

'He told me once that his faith came upon him suddenly after the Jets won Super Bowl III. Said he knew right then there must be a god.'

'I understand. It was the first bet I ever made. I was the only kid in fifth grade who bet on the Jets. I cleaned up. Had the best collection of Marvel comics and Mets baseball cards in all of fifth and sixth grades thanks to Namath.'

'Well that's just great dear but what are we going to do tonight? I want to go out. And he won't mind.' The snoring was steady and reaching operatic levels.

'Right. Okay, I guess. Elaine's?'

'That's the only place you ever want to go! It's not the only tavern in town you know.'

'It's the only great one.'

'Was once. Alright, then. Buy me a drink or lose me forever.'

'How might I tell the difference?'

She ignored him, passed up on any retort, too easy a mark perhaps, and they went in search of a cab going uptown on Park. Since it wasn't raining vacant cabs were readily available. The day of the colorful New York cabby, crusty city bred expert of the side streets with pack of Camels on the dashboard, was long gone and the driver was of Middle Eastern extraction who had what sounded like a call to all slumdogs for Jihad in Farsi blaring on the radio until S demanded that he please turn it off or at least lower the volume. He glared into the rearview mirror but said nothing and turned it lower but not off. The ride a short one, she settled for that, lifted a mocking eyebrow and sulked in silence as every traffic light along the way turned red.

'Youth and arrogance are no match for old age and treachery.' This rather eloquent old villain's refrain, uttered originally by JP Morgan who could indeed make such a claim, had been scrawled on the mirror of a tiny, drafty dressing room in one of the tiny, drafty theatres near Quebec. It came back to him now as the dingy, drafty taxi cab approached the corner of eighty-eighth and second. Large, bold letters in red lipstick left probably by some aspiring King Lear as possible inspiration to those who might follow, it could readily apply to the general ambience of the legendary tavern where they were arriving, none too soon for S who opened the door and was out before the driver had come to a complete stop.

Fare paid and paltry tip provided by the actor whose every two-bits were keenly accounted for, they nonetheless both sauntered into Elaine's with an attitude of obvious star quality, proudly erect and smiling slightly, at ease within their skins. Brassing it out, filled with moxy and witty palaver at the ready, prepared for any treachery. They had been here many times before.
Forever Sublime

20 May 2015

Judith Bruton

Marino, South Australia

Australia

The canvas

elongated, taut and smooth,

the image complex

colour, line and shape

narrate an enigmatic myth--

an organic design of paradise

nirvana, utopia, Shangri-La

ideals flash in my thoughts

the sublime made visible

blue roses, entwined thorns, a forever-crimson sunset

etched with dexterity

shaded with raw pigments of desire

entranced, I try to decipher the

cryptic text embedded in the twisted foliage--

'she dreamt of paradise everytime she closed her eyes'

palms sway, snakes writhe, canvas moves

the young woman selects a green apple,

flicks long blonde hair across her tatooed arm

and vanishes down the supermarket aisle.
Floods

21 May 2015

Katrina Wirth

Rutherford, New South Wales

Australia

Do not go into that torrential rain,

Snaking rivers, water crying in floods;

Death, despair and pain.

Wind sounding like a train,

Roads covered in mud

Do not go into that torrential rain.

Water down the street's main.

People shouting 'crud'!

Death, despair and pain.

Oh, how traffic blocks the lanes,

And out comes insurance duds,

Do not go into that torrential rain.

Grounded planes

Thunder thuds,

Death, despair and pain.

It is hard to maintain constrain.

I weep for those in need and send my hugs

Do not go into that torrential rain.

Death, despair and pain.
Strands

22 and 23 May 2015

Robert Murphy

Plumstead, London

United Kingdom

My brothers, my sister and I once saw the man who was responsible for our existence throw a full dinner plate against the wall of our kitchen with all his strength. He had been informed by post that morning that he had been banned from driving. A month earlier policemen had stopped him on a dark, wet road while he was driving home, and tested his breath. I remember the crash of the plate, and watching a piece of buttered potato slide down the yellow wall.

In his youth he spent a number of years in the British Merchant Navy. He travelled around the world. While abroad in May 1968 he learned that his mother was ill. He tried to return to Ireland through France, but was unable to leave Paris because of the political unrest. When he finally arrived home she had been buried.

He met my mother shortly afterwards. At that time he had a motorcycle, and later in his life, when in a rebellious, disillusioned mood, he would sometimes say that he was thinking of buying another. My older brother and sister were secretly horrified by this possibility. If he had bought one it would have embarrassed them intensely. He knew this, and it amused him.

When I became conscious of him he had lost interest in travelling. He spoke occasionally about taking us abroad for a holiday, perhaps to the southwest of England, instead of Cork or Kerry, as he usually did. These suggestions always thrilled me, but he never acted on them.

He wore dentures, and kept them by his bed at night, in a glass of water to which he used to add a drop of bleach. Most of his teeth had been removed before I was born. He mentioned this once, with a strange mixture of bitterness and pride, while discussing with my mother the orthodontic treatment I was receiving. He considered it unnecessary.

'I don't see why I should have to pay that much for a cosmetic procedure. And why is it taking so long, anyway? I had mine out in a day, and it cost me nothing.'

After a pause my mother replied, 'What was done to you was barbaric.'

Listening to the conversation from the adjoining room, I heard no reply.

His stomach expanded during his thirties as a result of drinking beer, but he became thin again later. He developed diabetes when he was forty. The amount of sugar in his blood would sometimes get dangerously low while he was working in the garden or cycling. He would burst into the kitchen, tear a bottle of Lucozade from the fridge and take long draughts from it, exhaling deeply after each one.

When he was in this condition the slightest incident could cause a frenzy in him. He once found his racing newspaper on the carpet of the front room, a few centimetres from the coffee table on which he kept it. He summoned all of his children into the room. We stood in a row, facing him, while he screamed, 'Who put it there?' repeatedly. Drops of saliva flew from his mouth, and his features were charged with blood. None of us spoke. He sent us to our bedrooms and ordered our mother not to feed us for the rest of the day. He was aware that the position of the newspaper was not the true cause of his rage, but it was so intense, and he was so lacking in inhibition, that he had extreme difficulty acting reasonably.

After outbursts like this, when he was calmer, if he was reproached for his behaviour, he would often try to justify it by referring to his diabetes. 'You don't know what it's like to have a hypo.' His disgust had not vanished completely, but it had weakened enough to allow some regret and guilt to emerge in his mind.

~~~

He had two brothers: Patrick, who was older than he was, and Michael, who was younger. He and Patrick were scornful of Michael, because he was gentler than they were, and drank and smoked less. He once met Michael in a pub after a football match. They nodded without speaking, and immediately looked away from each other, as though they were slight acquaintances.

Our mother told us that he had been afraid of his father, who had died before any of us was born. She described a visit they had paid to the farm on which he had been raised. 'While we were outside in the yard, he heard his father shouting for him in the house. He ran inside as if a dog had bitten him.' We were amused by the image of another person having the effect on him that he had on us.

After the death of their parents the farm had been inherited by Patrick. It lay a few miles outside a town in east Cork, close to the border with Waterford. We visited Patrick and his family there during a summer holiday. When we arrived we sat in their living room and the adults began to talk. The house was old-fashioned, and contained many crucifixes and religious images. Patrick's son Jonathan, who was tall and thin and had bright red hair, came in and sat with us. After a few minutes he asked me and my younger brother Colm if we wanted to kick a ball around the yard. Outside he said to me, in a confidential tone, 'I saw you looking at the pictures on the wall. That's a sure sign of boredom.' As we played we could see beyond the greys and browns of the yard, with its sheds, its gates and its animal droppings, to fields of a rich green and a cloudless sky.

Later, Patrick's wife Theresa gave us dinner, and we sat in the living room again, still silent, but comfortable now because of the exercise. It had made our surroundings familiar and unthreatening, by allowing us to pour some of our tension into them, and thereby tame them. We watched our parents talk for a long time with more relatives and neighbours who had arrived after hearing that there were visitors from another county. Theresa gave the men whiskey and stout, and my father relaxed into a mood of humour and generosity. With an old man he discussed a series of strikes that had recently occurred in the civil service. He dominated the conversation. 'The nurses were first, and I'd say they had a fairly genuine case, but now they're all out to see what they can get.'

My mother would drive us home from days out when he was too drunk to do so, and he would sit in the passenger seat. Sometimes he was offensive, and sometimes he was pleasant and amusing. On this occasion he rambled for a while, and then slept.

In our house the following day I was sitting in the room that contained our toys and games, and a desk for schoolwork. He was in the kitchen eating the lunch that my mother had prepared. He was hung over and his mood was desolate. Through the door I heard him say, 'Patrick sent Jonathan out to bring in the cattle yesterday evening. Jonathan is only what, fourteen? Our little darlings can't even fix a puncture.'

~~~

If we did not have to go to school the following day Colm and I would sit late with him in the front room, after the rest of the family had gone to bed. We would watch films and talk about sport, history and music. Our speech was punctuated by long, thoughtful pauses.

He had not been to university. He told us on one of these nights about a schoolteacher of his. 'She preferred another fella in the class. We spent months studying for an exam, and she was always helping him. I still beat him out the gate. She wasn't happy with that at all.' The memory of her disappointment gave him even then an intense, triumphant pleasure.

'The best meal I ever had,' he said ponderously, on another occasion, as if he were about to reveal a much-sought secret, 'was in Mongolia.' The extensive journeys of his youth jarred in my mind with his intolerance, and his hatred of many modern ways. It seemed as though they belonged to someone else's life, as though a person who had travelled so much should be more relaxed, more open-minded and more sociable.

If the night was cold we would put lumps of coal in the fire every few hours, every time it subsided into a pulsing red glow.

He had read many history books, and he was fascinated by the Second World War. 'It was the Russians beat the Germans, not the Yanks or the Brits. Dunkirk was a typical British victory. Running away and leaving their allies. The battle of Stalingrad was the real turning point of the war.' Because he tended to be sympathetic to people who were widely condemned, he claimed to admire Hitler and Stalin. I suspect that this was prompted more by contempt for those who denounced them than by genuine admiration. He told us that the Holocaust had been exaggerated.

Next to the radio he kept a stack of audio cassettes. After finally going to bed, Colm and I would sometimes hear the music they contained, the music of Beethoven, Mozart, Wagner and others, being broadcast into the night.

During a summer holiday his aunt Cathleen and her daughter Margaret came to visit us from the USA. Cathleen had moved to New York as a young woman and Margaret had been born there. He had visited them when he was a sailor. Our house was given the most thorough cleaning I had ever seen in preparation for their arrival. My father drove alone to the airport and brought them to meet us.

We sat in our front room for a long time with them. The room's atmosphere was ceremonial, and my brothers and my sister and I perched awkwardly on the couch in our best clothes. My father drank coffee, the other adults drank tea, and Margaret asked him questions about the travels of his youth. He said to her, 'If I went back to the same places now, I'd say I'd enjoy them more.'

She asked him why. He replied, 'I was less... critical then.'

After a pause she said, 'Right,' using the word reflectively, to indicate understanding, in the way that seems to be characteristic of the USA.

I sensed that my father found some of Margaret's expressions disagreeable. When he heard similar ones on television he shouted with disgust, but on this occasion, for the sake of his guests' comfort, he managed to appear indifferent to them.

Cathleen still had a strong Irish accent. She had neat white hair and a slender frame, and wore a silver crucifix on a chain. She spoke with energy and an irreverent sense of humour. While being driven through the city she made mischievous remarks about the men she saw on the streets. 'I suppose he's too young for me.' We found her very funny.

They stayed in a bed and breakfast on the main road nearby. On the second day of their visit we went to a hotel in Adare for lunch. Near the end of the meal my father left the table to pay the bill. When he returned Margaret said, 'Seán, you shouldn't have,' and offered him money, but he refused it. 'You were very good to me when I came to see you as a young man.'

Afterwards we walked slowly through a park in the village and talked. The day was sunny and warm.

We took many photographs during their visit, in our garden, in the park in Adare, by the Shannon and the Treaty Stone. Later we noticed that our father was not frowning in them, as he usually was in photographs, but laughing or smiling. As we entered the house after taking them back to the airport he said, 'Cathleen's a gas woman,' with a laugh that was both contented and mildly scandalised.

After arriving back in the USA Margaret bought my father a subscription to the National Geographic, which they had talked about in Ireland, and renewed it every year. The yellow magazine with beautiful photographs that arrived every month was a silent, regular reminder of her and her mother. None of us saw Cathleen again before she died a few years later. Her death caused brief sadness in our house, but no grief.

Margaret stayed in touch with my family, occasionally telephoning and sending letters and cards. One year she addressed her St Patrick's Day card to my mother, and concluded the message inside by writing, 'Tell Seán to stay out of trouble.'

On the day it arrived my father came in from the garage and took a bottle of water from the fridge. The card had been left on top of it, and while drinking he picked it up casually, and began to read. When he reached the final remark his hand, which had been lifting the glass to his mouth, paused. His breathing quietened and his eyes focussed. Suddenly he slammed the glass on the table and began to storm around the house looking for us, crashing through doors. He held the card to our faces, jabbing it with a thick, oil-stained finger, and shouting, 'What does this mean?' We shrugged with terror and weakness. He seemed to believe that his children understood the words better than he did, perhaps because we were younger, and more familiar with American language. He almost seemed to suspect us of conspiring with Margaret against him.

He ranted about her for hours, calling her a coward and a snake. My mother told him that she had meant nothing by the remark, that it was only a joke, that he should not think too much about it.

His fury eventually subsided, but every few days, for weeks afterwards, he brought the remark up again, having brooded on it silently in the interval. He made it clear that he considered it an attack on his character. In a quiet mood he said morosely, while sitting in his armchair, 'My sister rang me up once and gave out shit to me, because I didn't go to our uncle's funeral. At least she had the decency to speak to me directly.'

A few days later there was a quiz at the local GAA club to raise funds for my school. I went to it with Colm and my parents. My father usually enjoyed quizzes, but on that evening he was in a foul mood, which weighed on our table, and crushed conversation. Enviously I watched my classmates' fathers, who seemed to be mingling effortlessly with the teachers, laughing and drinking. The principal of the school, Mr Quinlivan, was moving about the hall, greeting people and thanking them for coming. At one point he leaned against a pillar near our table and listened to the quizmaster. There was a lull, and he turned and saw us in our unhappy silence. After a moment he said, 'How are the Donnellans?' He spoke with the energetic bluntness that people sometimes summon to deal with uncomfortable situations, and with a touch of severity that he may have acquired from the daily performance of his job. A few of us murmured replies, but my father remained silent, and did not look at him.

On Christmas Day that year the telephone rang and I answered it. I heard Margaret say, 'Oh, hi. Is that Anthony? Can I speak to your father please, honey?' I was stunned. I mumbled, 'Okay,' went quietly to the kitchen, and frantically told my mother who was on the line. She hesitated, then went to the front room and opened the door. I heard her tell my father that Margaret wanted to speak to him. He said nothing and did not move from his armchair. My mother stood in the doorway for a few moments. Then she went to the hall and picked up the receiver.

~~~

My father never spoke to Margaret again. Years later, after his death, I was on a train in France, and I overheard a conversation between two men from the USA. They had just met. As the train approached a station one of them stood up and took a suitcase from the overhead rack. I heard him say 'Stay out of trouble' as he shook the other's hand. It occurred to me suddenly that the expression was a common, humorous American way of wishing someone well, and that this was probably how Margaret had used it. I felt a brief surge of joy, and I believed for a moment that it was not too late to explain the misunderstanding to my father, that my words were sure to make him forgive, and that a sorrowful, enduring mystery had finally been solved.
If I Had My Druthers

24 May 2015

Ruth Withers with Robyn Chaffey and Janet Mancy

Uarbry, New South Wales

Australia

16/09/2009 23:39  
Ruth Withers

If I had my druthers, as I druther I did have,

I druther be a sprightly lass, with energy to spare.

I druther have a spotless house and all my bookwork done,

I druther have a whole full head of shiny, bouncing hair.

It would be nice to stay at home and just do homey things,

The way I think I used to once, a long, long time ago.

Things were so much simpler then, it seems to me right now,

And any problems that arose, well, who was there to know?

I druther not be going to the doctor in the morning

And have to stay in town all day, as I will have to do,

Because I have a meeting to attend late afternoon and

I druther stay at home, alone, and read a book or two.

A druther, it would seem to me, must be nice to have,

And several druthers better, 'though I'll likely never know.

Maybe if I had my druthers, I'd find, to my dismay

I druther have the other druther, but I druther not think so.

17/09/2009 08:44  
Janet Mancy

I druther be a millionaire

And never have my arms to bare.

That's what maids are for!

Roll up my sleeves and get to work?

Don't ask me please, I druther shirk

I druther be without a care

Life sucks, it really isn't fair.

Troubles, there's the door!

17/09/2009 16:07  
Robyn Chaffey

I did only now remember,

Just since you mentioned it,

That I once did have a druther,

For safe keeping placed it in a pit.

Thought 'twas duty first you see

And the druther it would keep.

I thought just now where might it be

That long since I buried oh so deep.

I've moved four times since then.

There are new houses where it was

And, oh poor me, alas, I do not ken

The look, or even shape it was.

I'm sure there've been other druthers

Have reared their heads at times,

Some choked me, some tried smothers

Others tried to temp my will with rhymes.

None since that first could duty kill.

Now in my dotage I druther druther

And leave stuffy duty do its own will

So please if you can, and if you druther,

Allow me to join you as you druther

For I druther druther a fun joint druther.

I druther with another dance the druther.

18/09/2009 11:58  
Ruth Withers

Well, I've druthered half my life away, to no avail at all,

So I woke with new resolve today, to heed the siren call

Of housework and humdrummedy. I ought to earn my keep,

But I guess there is no remedy for vice ingrained so deep.

I thought, I'll say good morning, then I'll go about my work.

I'll pay no heed to yawning. Today I will not shirk.

But I didn't tell the neighbours of my virtuous intent

And I've not begun my labours, as I really, truly meant.

First the one came calling, closely followed by the other,

Now my resolve is falling and I've begun to druther,

But I won't give up without a fight. I've a few hours yet to try

To redeem myself before the night, 'though I druther sit and cry.

18/09/2009 17:48  
Robyn Chaffey

With only two hours sleep

'Twas this morning my resolve

To leave all duties in a heap

And no dilemma seek to solve.

So I chose that which I druther,

Painted the town with a nuther

Though I washed a floor or two

And saw to friends and fam'ly,

Made my list of what to do,

I did it slowly and so simply;

For in my heart I knew I druther

Relax to the music of my muther

As I sat out in the sun to write,

Flicking thrips from pages of my book,

I followed one druther and rested light;

Was quite uncaring about my look.

It was a good choice, do what I druther!

I druther my druthers with uthers I druther!
Honey Bee

25 May 2015

Adrian Levet

Darlington, Western Australia

Australia

Honey bee,

I fear you will tire of me,

That my dawn will turn to dusk,

And you'll grow weary of my lust.

Honey Bee,

Would you come to find me,

Across the lake and up the hill,

Just past the old mill.

Honey bee,

I know you'll tire of me,

Many years will drain away,

And beside another man you will lay,

I'll find myself in the streaking rain,

With that littering sorrow again,

Finding my way to the closest neon sign,

Yeah, I'm alone, but the night could be mine,

Craving for that old city grunge,

For that drink I'll leap and lunge,

Honey bee,

The stripper said I had a baby face,

I feel like Charles Bukowski in this dingy place.
In Dreams...

26 May 2015

JH Mancy

Tallebudgera, Queensland

Australia

I close my eyes and I'm back once more,

Back to the days of you

It's as though I'm on foreign shore, for

I know it can't be true

It's all a dream, such beautiful dream,

Awake you'll fade from view

They cause a smile for a little while,

Those memories of you

In dreams I recall in such detail

What caused me to love you true

As moth I am drawn to dreamlike state

At dawn you'll fade from view

Oh, could I but spend my hours asleep

to catch sweet glimpse of you

Ah, but our years too short together

are slowly fading from view.
I Need Your Lovely Smile

27 May 2015

Maxima

Germany

I need your lovely smile

The warmth of your hands

The breadth of your soul

And the secluded cave

Hidden deep in your heart

Without them

A harsh word would kill me

A song playing on the radio

Would take me

Into the cold starry night...

I need a myriad of gentle words

To bring me happiness,

Joy and peace

Here I am, my darling

Sitting by the fire

In the dimly lit room

With a bottle of wine

In my hand

Dreaming of you

The DJ playing

A song for us

I love you
Over The Top 1918

28 May 2015

Terry Hopper

Luton, Bedfordshire

UK

The silence before, a cough and a yawn

The dew on the duckboards, the calm before the storm,

The sleeping lay hushed, not a sound nor a snore

The rats are a-scurry, before the Howitzers roar

Stench of the dead, strewn scattered limbs,

Prayers to angels, soft murmur of hymns,

Confessions a bounty, tears mellow and fall

Ladders are ready, the bugler calls

The whistles are blowing, the calling to arms

Last draw on the cigarette, kiss lucky charms

Over the top, bayonets fixed

No turning back now, the boxes are ticked

Mud and fox holes, shells passing me by

Standing but falling, as hard as I try

A burning sensation, smoke in my eyes,

Best friends and comrades slaughtered by lies.
Parallels

29 May 2015

Madeline Ross

Winmalee, New South Wales

Australia

A world once light,

Now plunged into darkness.

And the world of men

Lay fragmented and shattered.

Discordia reigns eternal;

Lost in selfish whims and deeds,

All once pure and unadulterated,

Now tainted and broken.

The remnants of perfection

Lay abandoned in the gutter;

Swept away by polluted waters of humanity.

A rose blooms amongst the rubble,

Showered in revered brilliance.

It blossoms in the miserable gloom,

Growing boldly in barren soils;

Its fragile voice sings out,

Its beauty stark and rare;

Its petals are vibrant,

Its perfume sweeter still,

Glowing radiance within the depths of weary souls;

The rose lingers in these darkened places,

Whispering comfort to weakened men,

Restoring hope to fragmented humanity,

Man's lost perfection a distant memory of long ago.
To Absent Friends

30 May 2015

Margo Poirier

South Australia

Australia

'Don't you miss her?' I enquired tentatively, nervously sipping my vodka. He had poured it so swiftly and carelessly that most of it was pooling on the polished wooden kitchen counter. I brushed the drips from my suede skirt.

'Miss her? You are joking aren't you? Have you any idea how much I've had to put up with for the last seven years? Miss her? I'd rather live with a gorilla!' Steve raised his voice, his bitter words carving a cold current into the air.

'Well, it's just that it seemed rather a sudden decision, that's all. I'm surprised, as is everyone else. Are you sure...'

Steve interrupted me, slapping his long, slender hand on the counter, unable to hide the pain and visibly wincing as he began to make a point. 'Look! What's done is done. I have no regrets. You didn't have to live with her day by day, night by night, listening to her demands, her wailings, the way she constantly criticised everyone. Mostly me. I asked myself for years, what had I done to deserve this shrew? She wasn't like that before, was she?' Steve raised his eyes to meet mine. I wanted to pat him like one does to a cocker spaniel who has lost his bone. But Steve hadn't lost a bone, he'd lost the plot and love him as I did, there wasn't a thing I could do about it.

'Drink up, Steve. And you can pour me another while you're at it. The counter drank most of mine. Got a dishcloth?'

'A dish cloth,' he repeated stupidly. 'Oh, yeah, here's something.' He reached for a grotty sponge that sat on the edge of the sink. 'Use this.' He opened the fridge door and pulled out the ice tray. It was empty. 'You'll have to drink it without ice. She forgot to fill it up. Typical.'

'And I suppose that was one of her jobs, was it? To replenish the ice trays? She doesn't drink. Must have had better things to do.'

'Don't you start. I've had it up to me bleeding eye balls. Are you on my side, or what?' He gave one of his belligerent looks.

'I'm not on anyone's side. Look, this conversation is not going anywhere. You're angry and tired. I'm reaching the end of my listening tether. I'm going home to finish my thesis. Call me tomorrow when you're calmer.' I got off the stool.

'Calmer! That's a joke. How can I be calm after the chaos she left me? What am I going to eat? I've got a dozen shirts that need ironing. The bloody dog hasn't had a walk for a week. There's no ice in the trays,' he wailed, pouring a large vodka for himself but not me. 'Do you have to go? Like, straight away?' he pleaded, looking like a cocker spaniel again.

I resisted his look and picked up my jacket where it trailed on the back of the stool.

'Steve, pull yourself together. You wanted her to go, right? Well, you got your wish. She's gone so live with it. And now _I'm_ going, Okay?' _Again_ , I muttered under my breath before I pecked him on the cheek and walked towards the front door before he could start more wheedling.

The phone rang several times before it was picked up. Steve wasn't any calmer than he'd been the night before. His mood had turned sour, well, more sour if I was being honest.

'Whad'ya want?' he threw at me crossly.

'Just checking to see if you're all right,' I tried to keep my cool.

'Course I'm not all right. I've got a head like a melon and every bone in my body is aching. And before you say it, yes, I know. Self-inflicted. Still, it numbed everything for a while. You coming over after work?'

'Depends.'

'On what?'

'On the reception. I will not put up with a repeat of last night,' I said, but knew I probably would.

'Okay. I promise. I'll even clean up the kitchen a bit. And I'll order in a pizza. Satisfied?'

'All right then,' I sighed into the phone, annoyed that I'd been persuaded so easily. 'See you later.'

'Good. That'll be good. Oh, and bring some wine will you? There isn't any left. _She_ probably took that too!' Steve hung up.

He was on my mind a lot that day. Cara had perhaps been his favourite. In fact, if one must be truthful, she was a lot like me. I say that without ego pushing its nose in. We were both much too compliant, too patient, too forgiving for a man who was intolerably spoilt and who was oblivious to any needs other than his own. Yet, there was, and is whilst I am still being truthful, an essence about Steve that couldn't be overlooked. Apart from his social charm that would guarantee any comfort he required, there was this other side that one couldn't quite put one's finger on. That was the thing that most stunned us, because we never knew what it was. We had been drawn to him like a magnet. The fact that I was number one and she was number three, didn't faze us in the slightest. Now, why was that? And now, the latest contender in the Steve stakes had flown the home hearth and joined the legion of exes. So here I was, on the second night in succession, sitting opposite Steve, dear, familiar Steve, as we devoured a supreme pizza and washed it down with a not too bad Southern Vales Shiraz.

'I've decided to go to the Alice again,' Steve announced suddenly as he noisily chewed on a piece of pizza. 'It'll be good to get away and the clinic up there has a vacancy. So, I'm taking it.'

'Oh, well I guess that's a good thing. Take your mind off things. Quick decision, isn't it?' I asked.

'Oh, you know me, not one to wallow. And yes it will help to focus on something more lofty than the ungrateful bitches that have been sprinkling my life lately.' He said this so matter of factly--without a hint of derision or bitterness--that I nearly choked on my wine.

'Really,' I said tartly as I dabbed my lips with a handy tissue. 'That would include me, would it?'

'You? Oh, no pet. You've been very supportive in your funny little way. It's them. I'm never going to make the same mistake again. Never!' he said emphatically, grinning cheekily.

Feeling diminished and chuffed simultaneously--Steve had the ability to do that to a person--I asked him just what mistake he was referring to.

'I would have thought that was obvious. Marriage of course. It came to me in the middle of the night. It's always the wrong women.'

'You mean you chose the wrong women?'

'Oh, no! They chose me! And I just can't resist until I see them for what they really are and then, then it's too late.' He took a large gulp of his wine. 'I understand now.'

'So, you are saying that you had no responsibility at all in these... these contracts and that you were persuaded, beguiled, had your stupid arm twisted into doing something that you didn't really want to do in the first place and then you felt justified in blaming them? I can't believe I'm listening to this drivel.'

'Hey, that's a bit harsh, isn't it? Is that how you see me?' Cocker spaniel again.

'Frankly, yes, and while I have the chair,' I continued, 'I agree that the best thing you could do is to go up to the clinic at the Alice. They must wonder if you are still alive!

If your ego didn't govern you completely, you might just be a half decent human being. For a talented eye surgeon, you see very little of how things truly are. Why don't you, for heaven's sake, take a look at some of the lives of the people up north whose sight you save. You might learn a little about humility, acceptance and, and... love!' I blurted out.

With sudden clarity, I realised that this essence I saw in Steve was his god given talent for saving sight, and how he had worked tirelessly to perpetuate this talent. This was where his humanity lay. It did not lie in the kitchen, or the bedroom or at the supermarket. A woman, a wife, was superfluous. We had all tried to compete in our own way but it was never enough for a huge man with a huge appetite for greatness.

I waited for the tirade I felt sure would follow in response to my 'honest' assessment of a man I was once married to and loved, still loved and here we are with the truth again. I searched his face for the cynical expression, the false admission, the inverted charm that had seduced many beautiful women over the years, that spaniel gaze, but his face showed none of these.

'You're probably right,' he replied, looking into my eyes. The spaniel was gone and I swear he was almost on the brink of some timely honesty. Almost.

'So I've decided to sell the house. I shall rent a small place up north and focus on my work,' he continued ruminatively, fingering the stem of his glass. 'I want to ask you, Cara, if you will come and assist me. It will be like the old days. What do you say? Please say yes. You are the only one who understands me.'

I closed my open mouth, floundering in this unfamiliar sea of admission, searching for the right words to say. His offer was genuine, it was persuasive, it was appealing to my own altruism that I could once more make a difference standing alongside a man I admired and loved. He expected me to say yes unequivocally. I swallowed a mouthful of wine, took a couple of slow breaths and looked him in the eye.

'I'm flattered that you should ask me, Steve. I can truthfully say I am tempted and I remember how it used to be. But because I remember and because the past can never truly be relived, I am saying a very definite no.'

'Why am I not surprised?' he replied, a bemused look on his face. 'It wouldn't work, would it? But promise you will stay in touch?'

'I promise I'll remember you, Steve. I very much doubt if our paths will cross again. But anyway, let's drink to some pleasant memories and to an enlightened future for both of us, Okay?'

'It's a deal,' he said. 'And shall we also drink to absent friends?'
Bogue

31 May 2015

Demelza

Taroona, Tasmania

Australia

I wanna be a Bogan

Enough of wearing shoes

I'm sick of fancy fashion

With all its have to do's

I wanna a pair of ugg boots

(Or cheapish look-a-likes)

I wanna wear me trackies

Ditch the Prados and the Nikes

They always look so happy

Like they've just rolled out of bed

Like I'd like to be as comfy

But I'm stuck in shoes instead

I'm practising my protocol

'Looking better than the rest'

Often quite uncomfortable

Forever 'dressed for best'

If I could be a Bogan

Just for a-half-a day

I'm sure you can appreciate

The passion I display

Fashion is a fickle thing

That makes me wanna cry!

Can't I kick my heels off

Just once before I die?

Don't think of me a snob

Or a social upper class

I'm trying to reform

Stick my birthright in my past

I'm not a troublemaker

Nor the least bit of a rogue

Please heed my fashion mantra

Let's make Bogan Vogue!
The Pride Of The Runic

1 Jun 2015

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

Commodore Tajhonon W. Fist, commander in chief of the Grand Imperial Forces was very displeased. In fact he was extremely angry. He had finally convinced the High Council of The Runic to agree to his proposal to colonise and subjugate Heart, the third major planet from the sun; but his Executive Officer and Chief Scientific Advisor--Banyan Bothtot was intent on thwarting him, or so he believed. 'There will come a time when...' was the phrase that seemed to Bothtot, to precede all of "The Fist's" grandiose pronouncements.

Banyan Bothtot had been studying Heart and the Heathens __ for some millennia. He believed that the Heathens would be agreeable to negotiation, given that they were now in danger of causing serious ecological damage to their planet. Indeed, the population of The Runic had already exhausted all of the resources of their tiny world, which was only five kilometres in size, heavily polluted and practically uninhabitable.

The Runic (known as Cruithne to Earth scientists) is actually an asteroid orbiting around the Sun in a 1:1 orbital resonance with Earth, making it a co-orbital object. At one time it was erroneously believed to be Earth's second moon. It is actually a minor planet in the solar orbit that, relative to Earth, orbits in a bean-shaped trajectory that ultimately describes a horseshoe pattern, and which can transition into a quasi-satellite orbit. The Runic or Cruithne orbits the Sun in about one year but takes around seven hundred and seventy years to complete a horseshoe-shaped movement around the Earth. Runic mythology had it that the Heart, or Earth, and The Runic were formed at the same time as the birth of the Solar System. In fact they believe that The Runic was once a part of The Heart. Consequently, they considered that Heart/Earth was theirs by birthright.

'There will come a time when we shall recover The Heart. It is appropriate that I, "The Fist", will lead the Runic to our glorious destiny and that time is now!' Commodore Fist had secret aspirations to become the first President of The Runic-Heart. Banyan Bothtot realised this obviously, and confided privately to his colleagues that 'The Fist' was a pride-driven fool. Of course, Bothtot harboured his own secret ambitions, but they were tempered with an uneasiness that still not enough was known of The Heart's actual size and gravity. Monitoring radio, television and internet activity was all very well but inconclusive. Every drone or unmanned craft sent to The Heart to obtain hard information on barometric pressure, temperature, etc. and collect soil, air and water samples, had completely disappeared without a trace as soon as they entered that planet's stratosphere. Supposition that The Heart had the same potential for humanoid life was based purely on what could be gleaned from 'eavesdropping.' What was even more baffling was the fact that Heathen news services made no mention of finding traces of alien craft.

The Runic's closest approach to Heart/Earth is twelve million kilometres, about thirty times the separation between The Heart and its Moon. The Runic makes its annual closest approach to Heart/Earth in November. (The Runic had long ago adopted the same standard of time/space measurement and curious names.)

Banyan Bothtot and his team had finally found a way of breaching time/space. However, the system was still at the embryonic stage. Objects that entered the teleportation device were greatly reduced in size, then sent to their destination and reconstituted automatically at normal size--or that was the theory at least. Nevertheless, the plan of conquest was to cause The Runic Starfleet to appear suddenly on the surface of the planet in a strategically convenient place in a densely populated area. Times Square in New York was the favoured place. Capitulation of the Heathens would be swift...

'Commodore Fist, there is no example of a realm profiting from protracted warfare,' Bothtot had argued. 'The teleportation system is not fully tested yet, there have been some serious anomalies; surely a few more...'

'I _agree_ with you Bothtot--just this once, but time is of the essence. The Runic is practically... a ruin! Hah!' "The Fist" laughed at his joke. 'In any event, the High Council has made its decision. It must be war. The pride of The Runic must be restored! I have seen the test results for myself; your machines have worked admirably with only _minimal reduction_. There will come a time when...'

But Chief Scientific Adviser Banyan Bothtot had stopped listening and arguing his case. It was an exercise in futility. 'Very well, Commodore, I acquiesce--war it shall be and the teleportation system will be made ready in say... nine months?'

Fist smiled enigmatically. 'Eight, Bothtot. This is 2015 and you know full well that, in nine months, The Heart begins to pull away from us once more. The next series of close approaches will not occur before the year 2292. Do not try to thwart my plans any further. It could be construed as treason.'

In the eight months allowed, Bothtot and his team worked feverishly and managed to have the entire Runic fleet of starships and personnel miniaturised on time, including his own laboratory that was housed in the mothership. At precisely the right moment, the fleet was dematerialised and sent out in a stream of energy across the time continuum towards The Heart. Target coordinates were sketchy and everyone was nervous, especially Fist and Bothtot. However, the fleet rematerialized in New York City, much to Fist's relief and Bothtot's astonishment and delight. Reduction effects were negligible, but there was some disquiet...

Commodore Fist sent a message for Chief Scientific Adviser Bothtot to report to the bridge. 'Ah Bothtot, we appeared to have reconstituted or landed safely on a vast concrete plain that is relatively narrow. You will note that one side is bounded by a huge wall and the plain disappears off into the distance. No sign of The Heathens--surely they must know we are here! What do you make of it?'

'Well, Commodore, there was some temporal disturbance just as we left The Runic...'

Bothtot's explanation was cut short by a cry from the helmsman, 'Commodore, look, on the horizon!!'

Everyone turned to the vast tele-monitor that took up an entire side of the bridge that gave them a view outside. A vast black shape with curious criss-crossed patterns was headed straight for them. In its path it had crushed virtually all the other ships in its wake. Escape was impossible.

In his anguish Fist cried out, 'Bothnot this is your fault, now what do we do?'

'We die, you pride-driven ignoramus, we die!'

~~~

In the year 1955 in New York City, Evelyn Gulliver stepped up to the gutter, holding the hand of her eight year old son Jackson. 'Alright, Jackson, it's safe to cross the street now. The truck has passed.'

As Jackson stepped off the gutter and looked down, he slipped his hand out of his mother's grip. He bent down and picked up several curious metallic and plastic-like objects--each was about the size and shape of a USB stick. One was slightly larger than the rest. All were irrecoverably crushed. 'Look, Mom, what do you think these are?'

Evelyn screwed up her face with disgust at the objects in her son's hand. 'Throw them away you dirty boy! How many times must I tell you not to pick up things in the street?'
Paint Two

2 June 2015

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, New South Wales

Australia

Sun

splits

the clouds

with light shafts,

as canvas bathes

in a pool of ultramarine,

evoking a gentle feeling

of deep connection to places filtered by this hue.

Just after dusk, fading sky reveals this vibrancy.

Painter places upon this seal,

mystical symbols

transposed from

beyond

this

veil.

Time wraps its cloak around this task

and folds it into

memory's

keeping.

Sweet

dreams.
The Net

3 June 2015

Reiroshu Eigenlicht

Legnano, Milan

Italy

Clawed at by the thorns

of mortality, canned

in a box of nerves

and chemistry.

I live in a haunted house

where objects breathe and

the skin of humanity folds

up, desperate doubt.

The backbone bends

to pick up the net,

knitted with seaweed.

It drips on the odorous hold:

the new cargo of events.

They struggle, they flounder,

wild eyes, mouths open,

flattened by the dull,

choking dawn of transience.
Opportunity Lost

4 June 2015

Shirley Burgess

Rosebud, Victoria

Australia

Amit sat dejectedly looking at his University End-of-Year examination paper for Mechanical Engineering. I know I've failed, he thought, because I couldn't finish either question three or four and there were are only four mathematical problems to solve for the whole test. They were just too hard for me.

All the bright students had long handed in their papers, he noticed, and probably disappeared back to their rooms. He looked around and saw there were only seven left in the examination room, looking as lost as he was, he had to admit.

'Time,' said the supervisor standing with hand outstretched for their papers and they had no alternative but to hand in their work.

Amit couldn't bear facing the others back at the residences. They'd all be discussing how they had solved this and that part of the problems, and he'd feel even worse. They'd also be looking forward to returning home to India for the end-of-year break, and right at this moment Amit didn't want to even think about that. He went to the Campus Centre for a soothing cup of coffee, and found a seat away from everyone else. His mate Pavel found him and brightly asked how he went in the exam.

'Okay I think,' he lied. 'The first question was the easiest I thought, but I hope I've passed this time.'

'Of course you will. I've never seen you sweat like these last weeks. You'll do better than you think, and we'll be able to travel home together in about two weeks' time.' He gave Amit a friendly push on his arm to show how excited he was about the forthcoming trip home.

Pavel was a good friend. He knew the tremendous pressure his friend had on him. The son of a foreman at Nestlé in New Delhi, money wasn't wasted in their family. When Amit turned nineteen, and his sister, Lalita, turned seventeen, the parents sat them down and told them there was only enough money to send one of them to Australia to a good university. Lalita had acquitted herself brilliantly at school. Amit had fared less well, and never excelled in maths, his better subjects being Politics, International Affairs, and History. He would like to have done an Arts course.

His parents had the last word and, being an only son, it was decided to enrol Amit into an engineering course at Monash University, in Melbourne, Australia, and told he would be expected to work hard while doing the course.

Amit had tried hard all year. He'd locked himself in his room over the last few weeks and tried to study but the work was complicated. _My trouble is, the maths won't stay in my head permanently_ , he thought to himself. Each assignment had been an ordeal, each term test had been harder, and this end-of-year exam was about to find him out.

His stomach churned at the thought of fronting his expectant parents. They presumed he would be able to settle into any course at any university. Although Pavel knew his friend suffered from this constant strain, he didn't know how fevered Amit was about going home and fronting his family. How would he face his sister? _She should have come to this university, not me_ , he'd thought often throughout the year.

Pavel left him saying he had a date and was off to see a film in town. He slapped him on the back saying, 'Cheer up, Amit. You'll find everything is okay. Don't think about it until next week when we have our marks back. Go out somewhere and lighten up, man!'

Amit felt steadily more depressed. As afternoon turned into early evening he wandered back in the engineering faculty garden area. No-one was about and he walked past his lecturer's room. Dr Campbell's office was on the ground floor, one of several with a sturdy planting of greenery and shrubs outside their windows. He glanced in catching a glimpse of Dr Campbell's desk and his heart gave a thud. He pulled the shrubbery aside for a moment and confirmed to himself that there was a neat pile of exam papers sitting on the desk and the obvious answer sheets placed on top. They were waiting to be marked in the morning as all the lecturers had long left the car park for home. There would be no-one back that night.

He stared at the pile of papers. If only he could get in, pull out his answers and copy the correct ones from the doctor's own notes! He sat in the gloom on a nearby seat and thought about this. It would be easy. A towel put against the glass wall, near the bottom, would dampen any sound of breakage; once inside he'd be invisible because all those northern facing windows had tinted glass. The more he thought about it, the more feasible it became and of course it would solve all his problems immediately.

Amit left it another two hours then, with a hammer, towel, writing pad and pen all tucked into a satchel over his shoulder, he set off to bring about a more fortunate result to his examination.

Everything went to plan. He was invisible from the garden although no-one was around anyway. The towel deadened any noise of breaking glass, and all he had to do was make it large enough to crawl through without being cut.

He was in! In front of him were the papers, and a lamp on the desk meant he didn't have to use his torch after all. He soon had his own paper out in front of him and compared his answers to the correct ones. In question one he had half of it right anyway, and that would certainly earn him a few marks, so he decided to leave that as it was. If he suddenly gained one hundred percent, everyone would be suspicious. Question two was similar, so if he corrected the last two questions he would end up with an average mark, and no-one would think to question that. Out came the pad he had used earlier that day so the paper would match.

After copying the correct version of questions three and four he knew it was time to go. Carefully slipping his altered exam paper back where it had come from, he collected all his things. Mustn't leave anything behind. He crawled out of the hole at the bottom of the window, stood at the back of the big shrub and looked each way before emerging, then walked back to his room. What a relief. He'd fixed everything in half an hour. He'd be able to go back to India with his head held high, and that night slept like a baby for the first time in months.

Unfortunately for Amit, Dr Campbell didn't sleep so soundly. Lying in bed idly going over the exam he'd set, he realised he'd made a mistake in the answers to question four. He decided to redo the mathematical problem right there and then, and worked for some time on it. Relaxed he went back to bed and he, too, slept soundly.

When he opened his office door and saw the hole, he was alarmed and sent for both the Dean and Secretary of the Faculty who came hurrying down to see the damage and all agreed it must have been someone having an urge to alter an examination paper.

'As it happens, I'll be able to find the culprit pretty quickly I think,' said Dr Campbell, smiling at them.

The lecturer set to work looking through all the question four answers and soon found that only one student had the same figures as the original answer sheet. Amit Kaul had produced an exact copy of the incorrect answer sheet, and, after consultation with his superiors, Amit was sent for, to attend Dr Campbell in the Engineering Drawing Room One--the site of the original exam.

Amit was not alarmed, only alert. No-one saw him; he knew that, so it must be something about his ticket home to India and visa to return.

He opened the door and was shocked to see the hierarchy of the Engineering Faculty sitting waiting for him. Amit tried not to panic. 'You wanted to see me, doctor?'

Dr Cameron quickly outlined the problem finishing with, '... and your paper was the only one with the figures I had put on the original marking sheets on top of the papers. It must have been you who broke in. Is that so?'

It was no use trying to deny it. Amit sat there staring at them first of all, and gradually his face dissolved into sobs as he told the group why he had felt desperate enough to take such measures.

When he'd finished and was trying to compose himself there was silence from his interrogators. Every one of them felt sorry for him. Finally the Dean of Engineering spoke. 'There's no doubt we're all sympathetic to your plight, Amit. Why didn't you speak to your tutor about this? Why couldn't you explain to Dr Cameron here? Caught early enough we could have transferred you to Science or Arts and enrolled you in something more suitable. You probably could have excelled there. One thing you must have in engineering is a good head for maths.'

'My father would only hear of me doing engineering--for its prestige, you know.'

There was another silence. 'Very well. Amit, just wait outside for a moment while we discuss this will you lad?'

When called in, the Dean spoke again. 'Amit, we are very sorry for the ordeal this year has caused you. Most students here don't have to work under such pressure and we can only imagine how hard that must have been for you. However, you tried to cheat, and there are rules about that. Your marks are annulled; you will have to leave the university and you'll never be permitted to enrol in engineering again under any circumstances.'

'Yes sir.'

'You may stay overnight in your room in the Residence, but must be gone during the day tomorrow. However, we have decided not to pursue you for the cost of the window you smashed. I don't know what you're going to tell your father,' the Dean continued 'but, although your actions were wrong, we have addressed that and the matter is a closed book now. Do you understand, Amit? '

'Yes sir. Thank you,' Amit said in a wobbly voice.

'We wish you all the best Amit,' and they all nodded to him as they left the room.

'Poor bugger,' they all agreed as they walked away. 'Fancy expecting him to excel in any university course decided by his Dad!'

Next morning Amit was packing for the journey home. His plane left at 5.30 pm and Pavel was puzzled at the sudden departure. Taking the lead from the academics, Amit had already decided not to impart any details of the break-in to anyone so he told him what he was going to tell his family--that he knew he'd failed. Although he'd worked very hard for the whole year, he'd never had a head for maths, and, unfortunately, Engineering was full of maths.

Amit decided that, when he fronted his father, he'd try a proposal. As his father had been prepared to support him in a four-year course, he might relent enough to support him in a three-year Bachelor of Arts degree. Melbourne University was famous for their results in Arts degrees. This was prestigious too, and, as he had proved that he was a hard worker, he was reasonably sure the results would please next time around.

It was certainly worth a try, and who knows, his dad just might be interested in retrieving the opportunity lost.
About Footprints

5 June 2015

Robyn Chaffey

Hazelbrook, New South Wales

Australia

Ms Margaret Fishback-Powers

wrote of footprints in the sand,

how the Lord's were seen with hers

till the day she could not stand

for the sadness of her life,

the stresses and the trial,

bitterness born of strife,

heavy cross of long denial.

In dream state she questioned Him,

why, when needed most, He'd left;

abandoned her; made her to skim

the sands of life alone, bereft.

He whispered in His quiet way,

perhaps through human messengers,

reminded He loved, would always stay,

while human friends as well He stirs.

Our trials, His opportunities!

To test the hearts and minds

of those in His communities

He'd helped before, out of their binds!

As into my mind her picture flowed,

a deeper story began to unfold.

Further on, a new scene showed

other footprints, numbers untold.

Many had walked that beach so wide;

each alone, yet each with Him.

Each lone pilgrim, I soon spied,

at times He'd carried when life was grim.

I felt compelled to trace each track

as it meandered along that beach,

surprised to see that few turned back.

The travellers knew for what they reach.

Then I saw in the light of the Cross,

where each had stumbled and felt alone,

the tracks of another would cut across

as He carried them both toward the throne.

At the intersect He'd seemed to rest,

stood aside, left the two alone.

He'd wait to see how they took the test

to rise above their pain, for another's unknown.

My mind wandered in the scene I now dreamed

to the sands of my life and the trails I had trod;

to times I'd been carried, to friends who'd redeemed;

those who'd supported, thanks to my God.

I'm grateful to say, I feel you've past the test.

My life's so much kinder since you crossed my track.

He brought me the people who'd give me their best

in spite of their tiredness, and ask nothing back.

He's carrying you, as He's carrying me.

He will see us through to the end!

So when all seems hopeless, just stand still and be;

He'll carry you through--be a Friend.
My Winking Muse

6 June 2015

Ariette Singer

Palmerston, Canberra

Australia

Evolve, Devolve, Revolve Competition Entry

Thalia, my winking Muse, loves to amuse!

How can I ever such fun-filled times refuse?

When _she_ entertains me in her unique style

I, in return, love clowning for her--in mine!

We have become good friends, my Muse and I.

Her visits never fail to cause great excitation

When she brings new threads of magic inspiration.

She trusts me to wisely use her precious load

Of novel notions, words and matching music notes

Within my spacious and most eager mind to float.

My Thoughts come and go, but those confident

Of their importance, remain and firmly insist

To be typed onto screen--which I rarely resist!

Once I oblige, they're content they'll be read,

And knowing well my rules, are quite prepared

To go through my selection process, and accept

That only the best I'll carefully select or reject.

My Words, perched on my mental trees,

Wait patiently to be picked out by fussy me

At the right time and the right place,

So no jealousies exist in my mind-space!

I aim to give all words exposure chances,

And like old friends, they trust my choices.

But I'm most grateful and my heart rejoices

When, sensing I am stuck, a clever word

Flies to my aid eagerly--of its _own_ accord!

My Music Notes made my mind their cosy home,

And amaze me when into melodies they form!

I scribble or type, or play and record in haste--

To lose inspired gems would be a tragic waste!

But, when I'm unable to capture on Record--

To console, new tunes form! So, I'm never bored!

My Words, Thoughts and Notes are always with me

And I am most grateful for their lovely company!

As long as in my mental space happily they roam,

I know I'm alive, with my grey cells in good form!

At great times when creative juices flow so well--

My dirty dishes must be patient--not dare to rebel!

And when each time a new poem or a song evolves

My gratitude to my sweet Muse even stronger grows

For her irresistible attentions

And productive interventions.

I hope this collaboration will be life-long!

I'll always need her services for my creation--

Without them, I'm bound to get it wrong...

But... one day, Thalia might think it's not quite fair

To grant _me_ so much of _her_ precious presence,

While there are greater artists here and there

Waiting, thumbs twiddling, to be touched by her...

Of course, I'll understand... she can't discriminate!

Well, I'll catch up with my housework, while I wait...

Without Muses our World would be too prosaic;

With lives cluttered with Boredom and Bad Taste--

The Muses, to prevent it, descend on us in haste!

They provide that _magic fuel_ of high passions

That inspires artists to paint, sculpt, choreograph,

Dance, write, compose music and photograph

For the World to admire, acquire, criticise and love.

Yes, we owe much beauty to loyal services of Muses,

Who've proved their 'worth and being', and who insist

That _they_ --yes, like fairies, most undeniably, **exist**!
Mum's The Word

7 June 2015

Connie Howell

Wentworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

Two hearts beating in the same body though yours was separate from mine. I didn't know what to expect, who you were, what you would become. I helped to create you but I did not own you.

I housed your body until it was time for you to enter the world and begin your journey through life.

I may not be the mother of your dreams. I am different from others, that's because like you I am unique. I may share the title of 'Mother' with other women but I have my own dreams yet to be fulfilled.

I am not just mother, I am wife, daughter, sister but most of all I am woman.

It may seem at times that I don't care, but my love is there, deep and sheltered in a cocoon especially for you. It may seem that I am selfish but I am showing you that I value my life as much as I value yours. That instead of surrendering my whole identity to that of mother it is only one aspect of who I am.

I have so many desires yet to be fulfilled, one of which is that you become all that you can be. A person not defined by parents or life experience but that you can embrace your you-ness and make your own mark on the world.

My love may not always be apparent but it is there none the less. It exists and embraces you even when you cannot feel it...
Australian Haiku No. 4

8 June 2015

Tom Coley

Hazelbrook, New South Wales

Australia

(Some people call them limericks but Haiku sounds more sophisticated)

The military industrial complex likes war

It's our way to relate to the poor

It sounds like insanity

But war's good for humanity

Let's go out and blow up some more
Yoo-Hoo!

8 June 2015

Irina Dimitric

Mosman, New South Wales

Australia

Here I come, yoo-hoo-hoo!

Your beloved cockatoo

Oh yeah, screech I do

For I love you, yes I do

Away, away with you

Cheeky, screeching cockatoo!

Shoo and shoo and shoo!

Yeah, I loved you too

Before the bite you took

With your blasted beak like a hook

(You don't seem to need a cook!)

Out of my poor table that it shook

With searing horror and in pain

To be thus sliced and slain

Now exposing wounded grain

Depart at once, you pesky pest

NO, I'm not saying it in jest

NO, I'm no more impressed

By your splendid sulphur crest

You're no more a welcome guest!

Shoo, shoo, shoo!

BOO to you!
The Baby and the Jinker

9 June 2015

Winsome Smith

Lithgow, New South Wales

Australia

The Harringtons knew how to party. The beer flowed and things called "nibblies" were passed around. The homestead verandah table was laden with food: tiny frankfurts (colloquially called "little boys" due to their pinkness and cylindrical shape), sausage rolls, bowls of tomato sauce and sandwiches of every variety.

There were also lamingtons, sponge cakes and cupcakes. It was indeed a party, but food alone doth not a party make. There was also joking and laughter with relatives and friends perching on verandah rails or sitting on the steps. Children chased each other around the homestead yard and Jason and Suzette, recently back from their honeymoon, cuddled on a wooden bench.

Among the jollity there was one voice that rang out above the others. One of the older Harringtons, Aunty Ellis, had the loudest voice and the loudest laugh of all the family. Not that she was necessarily the happiest; she just managed to make the most noise.

Hector Harrington, (a.k.a. Old Man Harrington), had reached what was called a mature age as had his brothers and sisters. They had all produced large families and there were nieces, nephews, grandchildren and countless in-laws. He sat on a plastic chair and contentedly surveyed the raucous scene.

One of the uncles, or perhaps one of the cousins, or perhaps an inebriated in-law, stood up as if to make a slurred announcement.

'Ellis,' he began. 'Ellis, do you know you are getting louder every minute? I can't hear nobody else. Just shut up.'

A brief silence ensued; the silence that predicts an argument, the tension and veiled excitement that predict a fight. Aunty Ellis, as the family well knew, was never slow to respond to anything she regarded as an insult. She quickly raised her skinny frame, slopping some of her drink as she did so.

She ran a hand through her lank, greying hair and said, 'Well, bugger you. I've gotta be loud. I've been making a lot of noise since the day I was born, and just as well, or I would have drowned in the mud.'

Old Man Harrington then also stood up. He knew how to defuse any situation with some entertainment. 'Tell them, Ellis. Tell them the story. We oldies know it, but some youngsters might not.'

Aunty Ellis now had an audience and knew how to make the most of this moment.

'Yes, tell us the story,' a few voices requested.

'Well, would you believe it? They dropped me off the jinker,' Aunty Ellis said. Now that she had their attention she had no need to shout.

'What's a jinker?' someone ventured to ask.

Thirteen-year-old Josh, Hector Harrison's grandson, knew everything and never hesitated to share his knowledge, whether anyone wanted to hear it or not.

'It's a little two-seater sulky with shafts for one horse, in case you don't know,' he told them. Aunty Ellis, not wanting any interruptions, proceeded to tell her story.

She was the sixth child of Bob and Edna Harrington but on the night that she was born, it became evident that her mother would need to get into town to the midwife's house. Their farm was six miles out of town and the only transport was the jinker pulled by a young and somewhat nervous pony.

A fierce thunderstorm had blown up but the situation was urgent. Mr Bob Harrington harnessed the pony and helped his wife, who was in extreme labour, into the jinker.

They set off along the track. The wind howled louder than any banshee, and the rain pelted down like punishing spears. With no moon and definitely no street lights, visibility was nil, so Bob Harrington had to take a hurricane lamp and lead the little horse.

He trudged through the mud holding firmly onto the halter, aware of his wife, Edna, alone in the jinker.

After a perilous journey they reached the town and stopped in front of the midwife's cottage. Bob Harrington went to help his wife out of the sulky but she was screaming.

'I've had it! I've had the baby!' she shrieked.

'What, well where is it? Bob Harrington demanded.

'It's back on the track somewhere. I dropped it out of the jinker. That track's so bumpy.'

The midwife was at the door and she and Mr Harrington helped Mrs Harrington into the house. Bob knew there was nothing for it but to walk back along the track with the lantern and search for the baby.

Miraculously he soon heard a wail between claps of thunder. He found the tiny girl on the muddy track and took off his jacket, which was dripping wet anyway, to wrap her in.

Inside the midwife's house there was a roaring fire in the grate and plenty of blankets. Both mother and baby survived but the baby yelled in protest until it clamped itself onto the breast. Bob Harrington also survived as did the brave little horse.

'But, would you believe it, after five girls Dad really wanted a boy, and when he saw that it was a girl he was tempted to leave the baby there. I must have known that when I was newborn, because I bellowed louder than any calf so he had to pick me up.'

'So don't ever try to shut me up,' declared Aunty Ellis at the end of her story. 'I had to make a lot of noise and I'm a survivor. I survived being dropped off the jinker.'
Xing Saga Part 19 - Lights In The Sky

10 June 2015

Jane Russell

Mount Barker, South Australia

Australia

_A continuation of the Xing Saga in which things don't go as smoothly as expected. The colony ships are approaching Mars and you can see it all on TV..._

'Arrold!! Get in here now, you gotta see this!' shouted Elsie from the TV room.

'What is it?' growled her husband, Harrold, immersed in cyberporn and cross at the interruption. 'I'm busy.'

'You can watch that later. Come and see this, quick!'

Harrold paused the screen and reluctantly lumbered over to where his wife was almost jumping up and down with excitement. 'What's the fuss about, woman?'

On the enormous TV screen there appeared bright moving lights in the sky while a voiceover remarked:

'Yes, folks, those glowing lights everyone's reporting are real. They really are alien spacecraft. We've identified them as colony ships from the planet Xing drawing closer to Mars. Here are some enhanced images captured from our Deep Space Telescope.'

'Aren't they beautiful?' murmured Elsie in awe.

'Stuff and nonsense!' complained Harrold. 'It's all special effects--you can see the strings! I'm going back to my movie.'

Elsie stayed watching as the scene returned to the TV studio and the perfectly coiffured presenter prepared to "chat" with a couple on a specially reinforced couch.

'Now, Mr Piggy, how do you feel about the imminent arrival of your people on the planet Mars?' she began. She was addressing a large metal creature of a startlingly bright red colour. He seemed quite at ease.

'Well, Shirley, it's all pretty exciting for us Earth-based metalbots I can tell you.'

'Oh? How many of your people are settled here on Earth?' she asked, innocently.

'Oh, very few, very few,' he said quickly. 'We're just a small town of survivors from the failed invasion, which was over fifteen years ago now. But we have no plans to join our people on Mars, if that's what you mean.'

'And why is that? I'm sure our viewers are very curious to know,' Shirley gushed.

'Well, when we were cut off here we didn't think we'd ever be able to get home again, so we "adapted" to our environment and changed ourselves. This would never have been possible back on Xing and in fact is still regarded as a serious crime of heresy.'

'And what would the penalty be if you went to Mars?' said Shirley, now looking serious.

'Death, dismemberment, or worse.'

'You're kidding me?' she blurted out.

'Yes, I am,' agreed Piggie with a wry smile (or the robotic equivalent, sadly lost on Shirley) 'I have no idea what they would do. Perhaps this new government will be more understanding.' He paused. 'However, we also breached some cultural norms which will be harder to forgive.'

'Such as?'

'Such as mixed-caste marriage and offspring--a noble with a servant. This would never be tolerated by Xing society and the children would be rejected at best, terminated at worst.'

Shirley gasped in horror. Then the chap next to Piggie started to squirm with impatience, and said:

'Oi! Is it my turn now?' He was a scruffy individual with a cloth cap and stubbled face. He was an ex-UFOlogist newly released from prison and bristling with righteous indignation.

'Yes, Tommy, you can talk now,' agreed Shirley, resignedly.

'That's MISTER Tommy to you!' he said, 'and I ain't got no truck with no bloody aliens living in my back garden!'

'Why? Where do you live?' asked Piggy.

'I'm not talking to you. You twist me words and trick me. Then I find myself arrested. It shouldn't be allowed!'

'MISTER Tommy,' said Shirley, heading off a free-for-all. 'Please state your address for the audience.'

'I live in Belle Isle and that's close enough to them in Middleton Wood,' said Tommy belligerently.

'What exactly is your problem?' asked Piggie. 'We're not noisy, you rarely see us, and we keep to ourselves.'

'You're robots! Aliens! No honest Loinershould have to put up with that!'

'To get back to the point, MISTER Tommy,' said Shirley firmly, 'what do you think about the Xing population colonizing Mars?'

'I seen it in the movies,' Tommy was drooling now, his eyes bulging with fervour. 'All the attacks on Earth come from Mars. Why don't we just shoot them out of the skies while we've got the chance?'

'You do realise that the Martians have agreed to allow the metalbots to use the surface of their planet?' Shirley said, 'and that the Martians in the movies were just fiction, right?'

'I saw those Martians on TV,' replied Tommy. 'They're the ones who abducted me and experimented on me head. I'm crazy now because of them!'

Shirley mimed a "cut" across her throat, and continued, 'Thank you gentlemen, and now we return to footage taken earlier today.'

The TV image changed to show a red background, with the text "current situation on Mars". A small green man who looked rather like a mint jellybaby was seated on a rock. Next to him was a large pink metalbot with white spots, and to complete the trio, a human in a spacesuit.

Shirley spoke from the studio, 'Greetings all! This is an historic occasion for our three civilisations. In barely twelve hours' time the first colony ship from Xing will be making planetfall. Is everything in readiness for their arrival?'

The pause of nearly eight minutes before anyone responded had been cut so as not to test the attention span of the audience. The green man stood up and appeared to reply at once, but it was an unintelligible stream of gobbing noises. The metalbot, Oggie, translated for him:

'This is Blughrrg speaking, I talk for the city of Mallwyygnh, on Zoot.' Oggie remarked as an aside that the Martians call their planet "Zoot"and its people "Zootl", then continued: 'We are proud to witness the coming together of two noble peoples on our planet and hope we can live in peace together.' Oggie then gestured politely to the human to say his piece. The human was Thompson. Shirley sighed. _Some of this will have to be edited out_ , she thought.

'Two noble peoples? Two? What about us?' he said. Oggie calmed him with a remark out of range of the microphone.

'I am honoured to represent Earth on this momentous occasion,' continued Thompson, and Shirley breathed another sigh, this time of relief.

'There have been fruitful negotiations and we will soon have an embassy to represent us on Mars, just as Xing and Mars will build embassies on Earth.' Finally Oggie spoke his piece:

'The people of Xing are eternally grateful to the Zootl for their acceptance of us in our hour of need. We will do everything in our power to assist them in any way required. The final preparations for the arrival of the fleet are underway. Sadly I cannot remain to greet them, as I need to return to Earth before they get here. I don't want to put anyone in the embarrassing position of having to arrest me. Our Emperor Mo will remain, of course.'

Shirley thanked them all, and broke off the connection. Surely it was time for a commercial break; she was dying for a fag. Elsie, watching up until now, agreed. She needed a pee and then decided she'd make a nice cuppa tea.

She returned with a steaming cup and a biscuit to find sirens ringing and alarmed looking news reporters talking over each other. What on Earth had happened?

Shirley looked frazzled and scared as she reported: '... it's been confirmed, several missiles have been launched from our space station near Jupiter, although the United Earth government denies authorising any attack.' Behind her there was an image of an exploding spaceship and Elsie gasped in horror.

'Arrold?' she whispered, and he came without complaint. 'Oh Arrold, why did they have to do it? We might be at war.' She broke down and cried. 'Why couldn't they just leave well alone?'
Paper Plane - Paper Dreams

11 June 2015

David Newman

Jacobs Well, Queensland

Australia

I stand here wounded, though I am not,

a soldier of this world that mercy forgot,

I came along with a song,

that does not belong:

I would leave this place!

I would depart from the battlefield, but to where?

What's out there?

What could there be beyond?

Roll over once, roll over twice,

and then just once more, will make it thrice.

Bad advice! Such bad advice!

Now there are uncontrolled spins,

to the Devil's own grin,

stopped only by the rolling of the dice,

but it is a blank sided dice:

The blank dice just confuses the price,

Pay it! Pay it!

I paid and I paid, and I'll pay again,

but still with no end in sight:

Pay for what? The dice was bare!

There were no wrong doings of mine shown there,

just a she-predator's bite.

So, I packed all my dreams into a paper plane,

with hopes that I might fly away

but then came the day of the pouring rains,

to wash all my paper dreams away.

Young lady! With beautiful blinded eyes,

she could not see beneath the lies,

to the evil witch that lurked inside?

Young lady! With her selective ear,

she could only hear, one-sided, two-faced,

savage, twisted and ugly lies:

Please now! No more secret smiles,

no little waves, no more hidden hellos,

for I don't know, what's the go?

They were given so covertly, so few might see,

nor anymore hear, for the she-predator, she must not ever know:

Words, my only worth,

they were never for me, they were all for her,

so how then do such words become a curse?

If the Rose bleeds, it does not bleed alone!

For the Winter came, but then the Winter's gone,

leaving now, only rejected verse.

Then she put all her faith into a paper plane,

with hopes that she might find a way

but then came the day of the pouring rains,

to wash all her paper faith away.

She-predator, desperate despot,

like a hyena going through withdrawals,

so I guess her reality must really blow.

With straw for hair, and leather skin,

this her wants to be a him,

but she's still just a creature from a horror show:

All the lies, continued lies,

she's all too sly, but she's not too wise,

push them all out now, with whispered shout:

One by one, it was begun,

and then it became a thing used, just for fun,

as her seeds of doubt were handed out:

Too many were planted throughout the year,

it cost us so much that we held dear,

all for a sadistic witch's game:

Shame! Shame! We all know her game!

But still, I cannot understand,

What was the predistic bitch's gain?

'Cause she placed all her plans into a paper plane,

with hopes that she might get her way

but then came the day of the pouring rains,

to wash all her paper plans away!

Don't you pack all your hopes into a paper plane,

with dreams to find some better days

'cause if comes the day of the pouring rains,

it'll wash all those paper dreams away!
Emigrants Lament

12 June 2015

Marcalan McVicker

Grants Pass, Oregon

USA

In the darkness, if only I had a gun.

I wouldn't have hesitated his demise

on the cold city street corner.

I found, I could be Homer,

chasing dragons in the sky.

If only I had a gun.

If only I had a gun.

If I had a peace pipe,

a penny whistle on the cold city avenue,

I wouldn't hesitate to share it, but,

to scream at the violence and bring them to circle?

Maybe not, but, I'm chasing dragons in the sky.

If I only had a peace pipe.

If I only had a peace pipe.

In the sunshine, if I only had a rainbow.

Giving hope to all around.

The homeless on the avenue,

in the parks, all around you.

If I only had a rainbow.

So some of us would know.

If we only had some justice

in the dark or the sun,

in the rain or the fog, ice and snow.

Being honest, letting people understand.

If we only had some justice

and we only know, it's just this; some justice.

If I only had some power.

My voice does not command.

I'd want to stand for all of us

that suffer these mad men.

Chasing dragons in the sky.

Chasing dragons in the sky.
The Ride

13 June 2015

Valerie Vaughn

Phillipsburg, Pennsylvania

USA

I offer her a ride

an escape from a gray Pennsylvania winter's day.

She opens the car door

smelling like cigarettes and stale beer

her story begins to unfold as I greet her eyes

life written over her hardened face.

She thanks me for the ride

leaving the miserable cold behind

as we drive between the painted lines

her story begins to be told

abusive husband

ungrateful child

dying parents.

Each sentence like a pointed arrow

unleashed without mercy

her pain escapes through each piercing wound.

I witness her fear--

empathy

understanding

encouragement.

Words fall,

like drops of splattered paint upon a wall

her emotions run like tears

streaming to break free of hardened confines.

We reach her destination.
Disinspiration

14 June 2015

Patricia Walsh

Cork

Ireland

Inspire yourself, a dog's bite of a sentence,

that serves to magic the doorways shut,

a catalogue of errors serving purpose.

Nobody want the fight the good fight anymore,

sated with staring into a boxed machine,

for hours on end, entertained somewhat.

Wait for the ships to come in. It is only then

you will find if the cat is still alive

uncertainty poisons you otherwise.

God did create all manner of things,

a rotten hierarchy to go and multiply,

male intervention reigning supreme.

Plagiarise beauty, a sawn-off manifesto,

that aims to chill sorrow skin-deep

this is our world, a wreckage binding.

The break of the day betrays its promise.

A gallery of small things, a keepsake

for what it is worth, a decree of a sample.

Oxygen for your enemies is paramount

enough to burn all semblances of poison

natural selection garrottes your greed.

Sleep while you can, a glorious failure

Rotting secretly, a dying inbred

trying to communicate a dire need.
Mother Nature's Cocoon

15 June 2015

Katrina Wirth

Rutherford, New South Wales

Australia

_Oh my, oh my,_ Kate thought to herself.

Her childhood was quite lousy and still to this point is... where she sat confessing her deepest feelings to me her only really true and closest friend of how she is the middle child in her city urbanised family flat. One older brother and an annoying prissy little sister who always seems to be getting on Kate's nerves, but she never really wishes to go into much detail of her home life, if you don't mind me saying. Perhaps it is because her older brother is so talented at music and they favour her younger sister because she is like the perfect angelic grammar school child with the little halo and wings--if they could possibly sprout out of a child!

I once asked Kate what attention she received from her parents and was horrified, a thousand daggers stabbing at my chest, an eerie silence, to learn that she receives NONE at all!

You're probably thinking that my friend Kate has some problems, but her story delves deeper than this as she is almost always weeping cold icy droplets sliding down her cheeks, her eyes always inflamed redder than a tomato, her thoughts buzzing with different things each second; racing a thousand miles per minute.

Perhaps this is because beneath her skin and bones, she is caught between the little games of high school and the fear of adulthood.

Maybe, that is why she has now lost contact with me her only true friend (who now is unfortunately living half way across the world). I regularly try and contact her with no prevail, it chills me constantly to my spine, it is like I am in eternal darkness; but I know Kate must be feeling worse than what I feel.

One day I did see Kate again, on a visit to her small much now greatly so urbanised city, she was lying in a hammock. The hammock like her safety net, cocooning and enveloping her so, the nature around her looking as though it was revitalising her, allowing her to forget about the smog coated city atmosphere behind her. The busy hustle bustle, rush, rush, do this do that, must keep to my schedule now no time for chit chat, her family, her changing stages of life and her constant ostracism displayed by some of the devils in her year. They weren't very nice girls; especially from what I heard Kate tell me!

Is it any real wonder that Kate sat here in this jungle-like environment alone connecting with nature and belonging to a carefree, relaxed environment with no stress, no worries and no constant affection to others; except for Mother Nature towards her...?

It seemed she really truly belonged with nature there for her to appreciate and belong to. So much of nature the nature that she had grown up with had been destroyed and was only now starting to appear in the hearts of many as they take a stance against this horrible urbanisation that is intruding on the lovely jungle-like aspect of the surrounding environment. Even me after travelling from my home in America back to my old much urbanised city could find peace and tranquillity in this untouched jungle-like environment and feel as though I truly belong to something really important in life!
Oval Portrait Of Orlando Florida In Winter Australia

16 June 2015

Myfanwy Dabner

Newbridge, New South Wales

Australia

I'm there with you sunny red

You are resting

Your tummy's not sore

Hands free from swaddling

As you like it.

In gently crumpled green silkie

Clashing knitting on me

Around you

Warm.

I'm out of zone

Here it's winter

Who took this photo?

Uncomfortable me

was not seen

in this heaven.

Uncomfortable me

anxious and manic

unable to rest.

Joyful connection came well after

I couldn't count

I burnt the dinner

I went away

Our fleet captain-less.

Blessed.

I am here and there now

And all is well

As pain retires

for health.

I stare

I see you back then now

I love you back then now

Past now.

Rubbing my turquoise silkie

My comfort

The maroon crochet rug

Was our lounge room

Later my toy where I practised sweeping

Even making my own broken paper garbage

To sweep from under.

I love sweeping.

Sister's orange vinyl beauty-case

Her perfumery

Mixing them altogether

For something more beautiful.

Cross.

The purloined letter is to know thyself.

Premature death for early maturity.
High Tea

17 June 2015

Graham Sparks

Bathurst, New South Wales

Australia

A sociological investigation into the commonality of form between High Tea, Middle Tea, and Low Tea.

'twas I myself, who,

steeped in mists of ignorance

did ask about the nature of a lofty institution alien to me;

'HIGH TEA', just what the fuck is it?

Its very mention brings me images of bucktoothed toffs

with absolutely nothing on their minds,

floating indolent through life on oceans of old money.

'twas I myself whose barbarous radar passed beneath the elevated ritual,

who breathed the coarsest humours emanating from the ground

and went about without the processed carnal knowledge of its dainties.

And when a friend enlightened me,

my mynde amoeba'ed down two disparate tracks

that later will be seen as one;

the Middle Kingdom path and then the Lower Western one.

In the Middle Kingdom, when folk are not at work,

and wish to pass their time away in doing absolutely nothing,

they get together to yum cha and eat pork buns and other dainty stuffs.

And whilst they're so engaged they yabber on in waxing reminiscences

of other sessions yumming cha.

And now we travel west again but in the company of lowies,

to analyse the nature of the session 'Bong',

a bottom western way to pass the time of day in doing absolutely nothing.

As the bong is passed around and strained expressions do abound

as bongers try in desperation not to cough,

you'll see the yabber herein found to be in nature quite the same

as in a yum cha session,

for the talk here found is inward bound as bongers heads do go around

in waxing reminiscences of sessions past;

whether the dope was good or not

or when they had the grousest time

or who it was that coughed the most

or who it was that spun right out.

'twas I myself , I recollect,

who once upon a session,

introduced a topic of discussion not the norm.

This gross faux pas caused silence to descend

and blanket one and all,

as bongers reached inside their heads to

try and nut things out.

And so although not privy to the esoteric and arcane

discussions present at high tea,

from my investigations into yumming cha and bong'n on,

I may extrapolate and theorise

that the topics of consideration native to high tea,

are simply cogitations on the qualities

of teas and dainties present there at previous sessions high.

I'll probably never know,

for a person of my lowly station,

when elevated to such icy regions,

where bong smoke never reaches,

would most likely crack before he kenned the craic!

Although I feel disdain toward all things that reek of pedagogy,

if I would ever deign to be an academic,

and write a thesis on a theory,

I'd use this diatribe as a starting point for a sociological theory,

on Sessionic Incest.
Amsterdamned

18 June 2015

Adrian Levet

Darlington, Western Australia

Australia

'This is one crazy place...' I heard my friend Dan say, barely discernible over the din, as the lights danced about his face. It was the last bar on the crawl, and people had either gone back to their hostels or were winding down with their cigarettes and joints on the street. Things were blurry for me then, but my friend gave me a nameless drink and I went out to join the rabble outside, lighting up my Lucky Strike. I took a swig of the mystery drink and immediately spat it out. _Disgusting_. I looked at the colour of it: green and foamy. It must have been a mix of absinthe and Heineken. Awesome. I tipped it out into a nearby bin.

People nearby were singing some song, whilst a guy played his guitar. I thought back to when I got here two weeks ago whilst I smoked away the bad taste in my mouth. Cigarettes always suited the brooding type.

My friends had been living here for eight months, in a five-storey squabble of a house. I walked in, barely eighteen years old, into this crazy existence and here I was to stay. There were about ten people, give or take, who lived there at one time. It was a maze of bodies, and a haze of weed smoke. I remember walking into the bathroom, a huge British guy just snorted up some cocaine. He stared at me.

'You didn't see that.'

I just shook my head. You don't mess with a coke head; even at eighteen I knew that from watching stuff like _Scarface_. There was stuff everywhere, vouchers for the pub crawl my friends worked for, strewn about the place. Dirty clothes, old plates with crusted food, and empty take away boxes in the corners.

I remember walking into the bathroom; stains on the ceilings and to my surprise, there was no toilet paper; just stacks off old pornos ripped into strips. There was something very unsettling about using a porn magazine as toilet paper, but I couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity. It only got worse when that ran out, because my friend brought back napkins from the local Mexican restaurant that said "Damn Tasty!" on them to use instead. My reflecting on different toilet resources was interrupted when my friend came out; his pub crawl shirt looked like someone had spilt something all over it.

'So that wild Canadian chick spilt stuff all over me. I think she is keen. Might need you to sleep downstairs tonight. Might be pulling tonight.'

I sighed. I had been here for two weeks, and the closest thing I had to female contact was walking past the red light districts.

'So what do you think of the life?' he said, raising his eyebrows.

'I think it's shortening my life span,' I smirked.

'So tomorrow we take mushrooms, the day after we head down to Spain for the La Tomatina. You're going to love it, man. Glad you're here.'

Little did I know that the only love in store for me there was losing my friends in the crowd, getting robbed and my shirt getting ripped off, only to walk aimlessly around getting sunburnt. What an adventure.
Farty The Feline Gastropod

19 June 2015

JH Mancy

Tallebudgera, Queensland

Australia

He ran on sulphuric jet propulsion,

Which did leave a trail of rank revulsion

His diet to human tastes improper,

Dried cat food with occasional 'hopper

His breath was putrid and somewhat baited,

No-one would say it was understated

We did love him though and it needs be said,

Just not at close quarters, or in our bed

He was part of the fam'ly, so he thought,

Affectionate and loyal to a fault

Couldn't leave him caged outside pet shop door

It was his loud mewing that I fell for

So home he came to much coos and ahs

And free from that awful pet shop, at last

Pet shop pets are characters, you know,

They're ever willing to put on a show

To them we're responsible, must be kind

Even when they drive us to lose our mind

He entertained us all for quite some time,

Until basic instinct had him cross the line

His girlfriend lived 'cross highway out of reach

It's why poor Farty came to grief

Desexing cats it really is a must,

But it doesn't always work, take it on trust

His urges let him down, it's sad to say

We still miss him a lot most every day

My advice which I'll share with you today

If near a pet shop you must walk away!
Chasing The Dragons

20 and 21 June 2015

MC Alves

New York City

USA

_I was as hollow and empty as the spaces between stars._

~ Raymond Chandler, _The Long Goodbye_

It was Holy Week in Lisbon. The interval between Christmas and New Year. The towers were still smoldering back home and the days dank and gunmetal grey in the City of the Crow. I wondered if I could still call Gotham home. It was not as if I had anything to go back to. Lisbon was never home but I knew it quite well. I had flipped a coin while crossing the breezeway between Madison Square Garden and Penn Station as secretaries were opening envelopes filled with Anthrax in the offices of the Masters of the Universe. The coin came up "Tails". So I said 'yes' to the plane ticket being offered by someone who had always been more afraid and prone to panic than I. She meant well. I was bone-soul-weary of the ugliness and dread and despair of the Ground Zero environs. I had also exhausted the jukebox at the Mars Bar. Boarded a TAP flight from a deserted El Al terminal at JFK to Faro the next day. Not many wanted to fly just then. The city was spooked.

Spent the next few months sulking, writing dreary prose but trying not to, smoking SGs and drinking cheap wine while getting my comeuppance from an ex-French Foreign Legionnaire. I had known him a long time. He had once stayed with me in our townhouse in Hartford after a stint as private soldier in a blood diamond mine in South Africa. That was when I still had a fine wife and wonderful little girl, in some other life long since gone. He was now returning the favor but grudgingly. He had spent most of his life in a foul mood, trying to prove he was not crazy. I always thought he was brilliant. But a tad crazy. He was getting even for everything I had not done for him. Maybe he was right but he seemed to have forgotten anything I _had_ done. No matter. I was drunk most of the time, a good idea under the circumstances. But when my hands started to tremble if I did not take a drink it was time to dry out.

The Algarve is the same as any other tourist region, ersatz and soulless--it's all about the buck. They were fond of saying the gringos, and Limeys, were all fish for their nets. Charming. I decided to take a train north.

It was a long walk to the train station. I had packed my US Army duffel bag and sauntered out in the middle of the night. I couldn't sleep and got impatient. The road was desolate, not one car or truck, at night. During the day it was a short-cut often used by truckers. There was a large, abandoned quarry along the road where some desperate hooker would stand in hot-pants and halter top, beckoning to the drivers. She was wretched. But I saw a couple of guys stop and pick her up, hot times in the old mine shaft. Not tonight. 'Fucking Spanish Style' they call it in Lisbon. There were several large houses along the way, all surrounded by high, chain-link fences, some stone with broken glass at the top, or barbed wire, to discourage intruders. It was the only degree of separation required between the "haves" and "nots". The dogs helped too. A lot. Mostly Dobermans, the only dog I despise, they tossed themselves up against the fence, growled with evil intent as I passed. It brought to mind my Uncle Emory. He was an infantryman in WWII. Damn good one, I heard. One of his favorite colorful expressions, among countless, was 'Hell, when I croak you can stick a hambone up my ass and throw me to the dogs for all I care!' He was dead now but I never found out if he had such a curtain call. Either way I think he would have been disappointed. To say nothing of the dogs.

What is it about dogs and funerals? I went to a Viking Funeral once on East 75th. A legal secretary, far drunker than even I, picked me up at Heidelberg, a German joint quite popular in a neighborhood once brimming with Bavarian beer halls, on a frigid winter night. I have never worked in a law firm. Given the people I have come across who have, other than partners, I never want to. She was a prime example. Maybe she had her reasons. Everyone does. A more cynical and bitter human being, albeit plastered, would be hard to find. Not that anyone would want to. The heavy mink stole she wore did not help. She went on and on about how disgusting men in general were--I offered no argument--and the one who had left her in particular. Although I did not know him I should think there would be few men, or women, who would have stayed around her for long, myself most certainly not. After my second Old Grand Dad and countless, colorless ugly adjectives describing 'that bastard' I got up to leave. She clasped my wrist and pulled me to the street. I let her. She told me to wait 'right here!' and went up to her apartment. It was below zero on Second Avenue. Why I waited I do not know but I did. I may someday die along with some alley cat from curiosity. She returned carrying a black rain coat with tartan lining. London Fog. The sidewalk was piled high with snow drifts, much of it a sheet of thick ice. She threw the coat on a large swath of ice, poured Ronsonol on it and dug deeper into her pockets. 'His!' she hissed. Then, 'Hey, you got a light?' I gave her a book of matches from Elaine's. It took a few tries but she got the coat lit. The flames grew and the chemical smell of the smoke was nauseating. Broiled Naugahyde. Lust's labors lost. A Viking Funeral. 'No dead dog, eh?' I asked her.

'What?' she slurred.

'For a proper Viking Funeral you would need a dead dog at his feet.'

'Viking? HAH! He was no frigging Viking! He was a PIG!'

'Well, maybe then a cat will do. Got a dead cat?'

'Huh? Screw you asshole.'

I never claimed to be a genius. I left her to her reveries and her pyre to its symbolism. I didn't mean it about the cat.

It was dawn by the time I reached the Faro train station. I sat on a wooden bench waiting for the next train to Lisbon in front of a taxi stand. From where I sat I was looking through the cab, the driver snoozing, rather enjoying the refraction of sunlight on the windshield. There was a tavern and a bank across the avenue. The train was scheduled for nine fifteen. The tavern opened around six and around seven an armored car pulled up in front of the bank. A guard brandishing an automatic rifle stood in watch as two burly types unloaded stacks of currency in large plastic bags onto wooden pallets. Euros. The new European currency was due to go into circulation in Portugal on the second of January. Pound after pound of Euros were hauled into the bank under the watchful eye of a sullen Centurion and a tarnished vagabond. Paradise by the dashboard lights. That would have been around the same time the Brinks guys hauled the gold from underneath the Towers. The taxi driver woke up, took off, and I took a "tracado" in the tavern, red wine with OJ, and boarded that train north when it finally arrived, only thirty minutes late.

Cais do Sodre is a murky, rather dangerous neighborhood of Lisbon. Many are. It is a poor place, populated mostly by junkies, petty thieves, dope dealers and, of course, whores. There are several bars along the strip: "Texas", "Viking", "Rotterdam" etc. It is a good idea to keep walking. If you pause, one of the ladies will hit you up for a smoke or anything at all they can get. Most all are junkies, many in very bad shape. Such human frailty can be revolting, especially the boils, but it is nothing if not deeply tragic. Not far from the docks, it had always been frequented by sailors and stevedores, now also the refugees from the former colonies Mozambique and Angola. Any man who could afford better would not come to Cais do Sodre. Except maybe me. I loath such places. But it was not the first time I had been there. They are grim, ugly. But they are real. They are not contrived. Here was Darkness. Deep, ugly darkness where all had been lost or surrendered or forsaken. Is there wisdom to be gained from peering into such ugliness? I do not know. If so, it may not be worth knowing. When I am drunk I fear nothing. I should, perhaps. It was seemingly a fitting route for a lost soul, grimly poetic, a labyrinth of hopelessness, the Minotaur prowling with impunity, trolls lurking in the shadows. Theseus was not expected. But these pitiless trolls were, at least, honest in their dishonesty. That was as well as I could think of them. Loitering with intent under the overpass at the eastern entrance to the main drag are the lookouts--at the opposite entrance, the cops. Both groups are there in case of trouble and both are in the employ of the dealers and/or madams. Of the two, I would venture a guess that the cops are the more expensive.

I pretended not to hear the catcalls and kept on walking. I paused once. Sitting in a doorway was a guy who looked like a stevedore, bald, many intricate tattoos, maritime themes, powerful arms. He sat leaning against the door frame in his Manchester United jersey, soiled, whispering. In those gnarled arms he held a teddy bear. He was petting his teddy. He looked up at me. There was no malice in his eyes. One had to smile. 'Just won 'em,' he said, holding up the bear, 'over at the Feira Popular.' He seemed quite proud.

'How?' I asked.

'Shootin' gallery!'

'You must be damn good. Those crooked barrels they use are hard to aim.'

'Yes. Indeed... hey, you gotta smoke?' I gave him two. He had his own matches.

I left Lucifer's enclave via a twisting alley, onto the wide, well-lit avenue and made my way to the docks along the edge of the Tagus river. The Tagus is a mighty river, an estuary of the Atlantic, deep enough for tankers and tramp freighters. There were no ferries still running at that hour but there were several Trampers in dry dock. A Carnival Cruise liner was moored, Muzak and twitters coming from her upper decks. Off in the distance one could see the outline of the Salazar Bridge, now the '25th of April Bridge', the change of name reflecting one of the very many political about-faces this ancient nation has seen, and across the Tagus on the shore of Almada stood the Christ King statue. A smaller version of the one in Rio, no less prominent, brightly lit, His arms spread wide as if in embrace with all humanity. A grand gesture, perhaps, in the face of such an absence of humanity.

Jutting out toward the darkness was a stone quay. It went off just above the murky waters lapping at its edges into the darkness. For no good reason I stepped down onto the flagstones and walked. It was rather slippery and in some spots dipped just under the waterline. It gave the impression of walking on water. I turned back when I heard a whistle from the shore behind me and only then realized how far out I was. The waters were black. I ignored whoever it was, whatever they wanted, and kept going, heading toward the indistinct point where the Tagus and the vast Atlantic converged. When I drew near the end of the quay I saw a small shadow. In the darkness it seemed to be a coil of rope, an anchor. When I reached the tip I saw it was a man. An old man, raggedy trousers, the thick, woolen fisherman shirt which the city of Nazare was famous for. Maybe he was one of the salty dogs who could predict the weather for an alm. No mean feat in a city where the inclement winters brought infamously unpredictable storms suddenly. An old and honorable role for an ancient fisherman when his strength had forsaken him. There was an empty bottle, two, of Sagres beer beside him. At his feet stood a seagull. Here was man who was selective in his resting place. Perhaps not. But the seagull did not seem to mind. It was the bird's perch, no doubt, and he stood as if at attention, a volunteer sentry for a weary old fisherman.

I had sought and found the End of the Line. Someone was already there. I turned and headed back toward the shore and the light of Lisbon.
Yesterday And Today

22 June 2015

Richard Scutter

Macquarie, Canberra

Australia

Yesterday God decided to take a holiday

and I really can't blame him at all, I mean

He must have been a little disappointed

with one of his projects going a little off track,

and working twenty-four by seven over the

centuries is, I imagine, quite demanding.

I am sure God knows where to go for a break

and I am sure He won't want us to turn up!

Today is a little different, I'm happy to report that

the sun is breaking through threatening clouds and

the waste-paper bin is empty, sprawled out on

the desk are his original drawings, a little crumpled,

maybe He believes things can be straightened out--

perhaps He has far more faith than you or I.
The Day Of The Flat Head

23 June 2015

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

I looked at the clock again for the umpteenth time--thirty minutes had now elapsed. I confess I was now becoming frantic. _Why did I ever come here?_ I looked around at the sterile, white tiled surroundings and a vague sense of foreboding came over me. My wife sat nearby, giving me that "Oh God, here we go again" look on her face--not that I blamed her. We'd been down this route before. The kids looked happy enough, but they, of course, had had a feed of chips. They didn't realise what was at stake...

It's rather a sobering moment when your GP tells you that it would be a good thing to get your affairs in order; take plenty of money and go and do the things you'd really like to do. Not only is George Sandown my GP, he is also a close friend whom I've known for over thirty years. Consequently, I knew that he was giving me the best advice possible.

'Take my advice, Bert, it's the best place to go for a flat head,' he had said seriously. 'You know that I wouldn't send you to just anywhere. They do good work and their reputation is second to none; not a flash place but first rate facilities and great surgeons too, if required. Incidentally, I refer all my patients there, 'cause the clinic's nearby. Haven't had one die on me yet!' he added with a laugh. 'I'll even make the booking for you!' George has a reputation for black humour. You'd think he was giving me a recommendation for some boutique hotel, instead of... anyway, I gave him what I hoped was an enigmatic smile.

'Okay,' I sighed, 'give us the address and phone number--I'll call myself; I don't suppose I've got anything to lose now.'

The clock had now advanced another fifteen minutes. My nerves were on edge. It was noisy in the waiting area and now the kids were becoming fidgety. We'd managed to grab a small table and the kids now had their pencils and bits of paper out. My wife was no help whatsoever, 'I honestly can't believe George sent you to such a place for a flat head; we could have done better back in the city. Honestly, look at that woman over there--do you think she deserves a flat head? No, of course she doesn't...' that set my head reeling!

Personally, I thought that was a very insensitive thing to say. However, I put this down to the stress we were both under. Nonetheless, I was determined to see this procedure through... I just had to know the truth; whatever the cost. Some music came through the speakers set high on the walls, _Red Sails in the Sunset_ if I wasn't mistaken. Humph... very appropriate! Is it someone's idea of black humour? Probably George's! Next they'll play _The Codfish Ball_! Just then Finn, our youngest, said, 'Daddy, when's it our turn?'

I snapped, 'Your turn?' I practically snarled back at him. 'You mean my turn, don't you?'

'Go easy sweetheart,' cooed my wife. 'It's not his fault. Just be patient a little longer.'

Patience--what a concept! My mother always told me that I had no patience and my son, from my first marriage, was always asking me, 'What are you getting yourself so stressed about?' He never seemed to comprehend that it was him that was causing me angst.

I glanced over at the huge aquatic display, and wondered vaguely if they serviced the tank themselves--the fish were multi-coloured and they didn't look too happy, either. I looked up at the clock again; another five minutes had passed. Perhaps it was George's intent to distract me. It wouldn't be the first time he'd thrown a "red herring" to put me off the scent. There was the time, for instance, when he'd insisted that... just then, my wife dug her elbow into my ribs and said, 'Heads up, there's somebody coming towards us; looks like the results under her arm.' I looked up to see an earnest young woman approaching us. I hoped it was good news. I had been _nil by mouth_ since early this morning in expectation of this day's operation (just in case) and now I was ravenous.

'I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting so long,' she said all apologetic and condescending, 'we're so busy as you can see and we had a bit of an emergency, so please...'

I held up my hand for silence; I couldn't stand it any longer; the chips were already down; it was crunch time. I blurted out, 'Well, have I got a flat head or is it something worse?'

The young woman fell silent for just a moment. She looked askance, even crestfallen some might have said. 'Well sir... yes, you do have a flat head and it's imperative that we operate without further delay!' My wife groaned. My head was reeling again. It seemed as if I was in slow motion or under water. Then her face brightened, she laughed and said, 'Actually, we've had such a run on flathead tonight, we've run out. But we could do you a nice piece of cod, flounder or sturgeon if you like. How were the chips?'
She Is Poems That Speak Of Love

24 June 2015

Maxima

Germany

My soul and my heart belong to you

My love

And I sing this morning,

I sing this morning...

this, beautiful Sunday morning

love poem for you

Deep in my heart

I feel

My dreams of a woman...

Woman whose lips kiss fantastic

Woman whose arms embrace gently

Now, when you're with me,

My sweet, wonderful love

With your hair gently, touching

My face

To the happy heaven, I sing.

I've had a dream,

My dream is now a reality

A soul more radiant than the sun itself

I need more than anything.

Oh sweet Sunday morning

She is poems that speak of love

I love her forevermore
A Riddle Evolves

25 June 2015

Margo Poirier

South Australia

Australia

Evolve, Devolve, Revolve Competition Entry

As I evolve from dawn till dawn

And change because I must

I dare to ponder on my fate

As often I have done of late

Resisting all attempts to mourn.

And in this evolution state

My thoughts revolve so fast

In ever spinning whirling spheres

While spitting damning angry fears

That threaten love with hate.

Ah you may think 'a nutter here'

And perchance you could be right

Yet I must fast this problem solve

Before I land in mode devolve

And swiftly disappear!

And so it is and is to be

A bow with endless strings

A symphony of words sublime

Defying all restraints of time

The answer will remain as mine

For all eternity!
Where Does It Come From?

26 June 2015

Ariette Singer

Palmerston, Canberra

Australia

Evolve, Devolve, Revolve Competition Entry

When rhymed lines in my mind appear,

Or melodies well pitched and clear,

I am always grateful, but it amazes me...

If 'Nothing comes from nothing' is often said,

These questions twirl in my curious head:

_How_ and _where_ does inspiration come from?

What kind of magic spell ignites chosen souls

And makes them burn with life-long passions

To express emotions and notions in art forms?

What special rule deems who a creator becomes

And receives unique talent gifts for the Arts?

When urgent world problems will finally be solved,

Then Science will have much more time to devote

To research how creativity in humans has evolved.

It will explain the compulsion of the gifted _to give_

Arts to the world or others' thirst for the arts, _to 'receive'_.

Meantime, creators will always exist in the world,

Because artistic urges will never be kept on hold!

And IF the whole world in the Arts would immerse

This trend might all conflicts and violence disperse...
The Revolving Door

27 June 2015

AA Anderson

Bathurst, New South Wales

Australia

*** Winner ***

Evolve, Devolve, Revolve Competition Entry

The Grocery shop of Jones and Son of late had been quite blue,

The reason being customers had not been coming through.

Young Jones he quietly racked his brain to find a unique way,

To bring the people back once more to make the business pay.

Now Jonesie had a brainwave he was sure would help the store,

The thing that would bring customers, was a revolving door.

The day that it was finished it was a great delight,

All shiny glass and fittings, it sparkled in the light.

The townsfolk how they gazed in awe and couldn't wait to try,

This shiny new amazing door you couldn't pass it by.

The first was Tilly Wilburn from the beauty shop below,

And from her throat her new silk scarf in loveliness did flow,

It caught upon a hook outside and then before she knew,

It looked like it would throttle her, she turned a dreadful blue.

An old aged couple, pensioners, on walking frames and bent,

Decided to get their groceries and in the door they went.

The woman made it to inside though bending down quite low,

But the old man missed the opening and round and round did go.

An ambulance was called for and the old man taken to

The hospital, and thereafter that horrid door did rue.

Some children thought the door, was just a great temptation,

They entered it with great delight and great determination.

Two of their friends stood just outside all looking rather innocent,

And then they started to spin the door this was their main intent.

The youngsters spinning round inside, soon lost their admiration,

As nausea turned them sickly green and their face dripped perspiration.

Another ambulance then was called and parents most displeased,

Declared the Jones' brains had somehow been diseased.

To place a dangerous monstrosity where people could get hurt,

And called for that revolving door to be chucked out in the dirt.

No more to choke or maim again the innocent and lame,

And poor young Mr Jones must surely shoulder blame.

Now Mr Jones stood most abject and his tears how they did drip,

As he saw his amazing invention going to the local tip.

Now if you have a brainwave and think it is a must,

To help your family business, from eventually going bust

Just keep your ideas to yourself or there'll be worries evermore,

And remember the Jones's problems with their darn revolving door.
I'm A Figment Of Your Imagination

28 June 2015

Judy J Newman

Rutherford, New South Wales

Australia

Oh, don't mind me, I'm not really here, just something caught in the corner of your eye

You heard me whisper? No, not I, just the breeze softly moaning, my dear

I haunt you, taunt you, sometimes you believe I have passed by

I'm a figment of your imagination, though at times I am real, as I whisper in your ear

You find me in the strangest places, doing the weirdest things, but I was never here

You watch for me every day, I know not why, as I have never been

You talk to me, secrets, I keep them, of course, my poor dear

Though you have sought me, and thought you caught me, you have never really seen

I am a figment of your imagination, your constant companion, but I was never here

You gave life to me, though you could never do so, quite

Like the mist on a cool morning, I too drift away, my poor, poor dear

I am a figment of your imagination, I am not here, I am the light

The light, which in the daylight burns, but is not seen, except to one

The second rainbow, that is there, but somehow not, 'tis I

You search for me, you hear me whisper, I am not here, you are the only one

Perhaps one day you will lose sight of me forever, and watch instead, the birds flying on high
June

29 June 2015

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, New South Wales

Australia

Winter

chill!

Wild wind

whips jonquils.

No subtle movement

to gracefully caress yellow

dainties, shredded thoughtlessly by vaporous vagrants.

Not a good look for garden cowered into retreat.

Only dreams of sublime sunshine

keep anchors steadfast

and promise

early

Spring

Time.
Heron Haiku

29 June 2015

Chris Lewis

Dublin

Ireland

The grey heron poised

Motionless as porcelain

Spies a river trout
Winton's Children

30 June and 1 July 2015

Shirley Burgess

Rosebud, Victoria

Australia

Evolve, Devolve, Revolve Competition Entry

We all heard the German military car pull up outside.

'Ruth, Emil--under here,' my Aunt Brigitte called softly to us. We scrambled under the small round table and our aunt let the tablecloth fall back in place to the ground. We knew not to make a sound. I was ten and my brother was seven years old.

Voices came into the room, and we could make out that there was trouble with some of Aunt Brigitte's goats. They'd apparently wandered outside the fence and the Germans were complaining about being held up.

Aunt Brigitte apologised profusely and accompanied them outside to fix the matter and everyone's voices retreated with them. Being Jews we didn't dare move a muscle in case there was someone left behind in the room. After a long time listening hard for voices, we heard the car pull away. It was a relief when the tablecloth lifted and our aunt told us it was clear.

The trouble sorted, she collapsed on a chair, and vowed any more frights and she wouldn't survive until tomorrow when we had to be taken from her farm in Chemnitz, Germany, back home to Czechoslovakia, where it was safer for we Czechoslovakian-Jewish children. Our usual short holidays with our aunt were becoming more and more dangerous as we knew the German military was to be feared.

This fear was felt again the next day after we'd left Chemnitz and stopped at the German/Czechoslovakian border. The German guard studied us suspiciously at first although our papers were all in order, then reluctantly let us through.

It was good to be home, just outside Prague, and to look forward to the 1938 Christmas celebrations. True, we were Jews, but religion played only a small part in our lives and we wouldn't miss Christmas for anything. All those toys and fun! It was worth waiting for and we made the most of it. When I was little I'd told our Rabbi on a rare visit to the synagogue about our Christmas tree and, in a fit of enthusiasm invited him to come and look at it '... as it's so pretty'. Of course he didn't come, and was very annoyed about it, I'm afraid. Mum and Dad had a good laugh when I told them.

Soon after the New Year my mother went to visit her cousin in Prague city and stayed away for five days. When she returned we overheard her talking to Dad saying she'd, 'Queued for four days to be put on the list because an Englishman had made all these arrangements in Prague and some more in England, and what had evolved was an escape route through the Netherlands', then Dad put his arm round Mum, who was crying and said, 'We have to let them both go.' We didn't understand any of this. Who was going to escape? And from what? Why should anyone bother us here in Czechoslovakia? It was only in Germany we had to be afraid.

We forgot about it until March when our mother started packing two small suitcases with our clothes and, with a wobbly voice, told us that we'd be going to England in a few days' time. It turned out that Emil and I were the ones to 'escape'.

Sure enough, in the morning two days later, on March fourteenth 1939 we were taken to Platform One at the big station in Prague, and were startled to see over two hundred other children waiting on the platform in front of a big black train. We all had cards round our necks with photos on the front and information on the back.

I hugged my mother and father, as, although this was for our safety, I wondered what would happen to them. We were all in tears in a moment. My heart was pounding and then a gentle lady whom everyone called 'Aunty Truus' called out our names. We hugged our mum and dad again but Emil wouldn't let go, and I was hanging on to Mum's dress until she told us we must leave. 'We'll see you when Czechoslovakia's free again,' she called to us as we turned and waved to them at the door.

Auntie Truus gently took our hands and was so kind and friendly. She showed us to our seats, told us where to put our cases, made sure we were comfortable, said we'd be on our way 'very soon', gave us a little friendly hug and was gone to look after the next lot of children. We couldn't see our parents on the platform because we were on the wrong side of the carriage, and all the parents had crowded round the train windows. The train moved off and I had a huge lump in my throat. Mum had asked me to be sure not to let Emil cry, but he didn't, and I was proud of him.

Where were we going? Who would look after us in England? What was going to happen at home? We were given some cake and a sweet drink, then we settled for our journey through Germany and the Netherlands. Emil was tired and went to sleep, but as the train rattled along I began to realise that we were on the brink of something big, going into an unknown future without our families to look after us and my world now seemed to revolve around this locked carriage that was taking us 'somewhere' to 'someone'.

There were several others looking after us during the journey. Some of them wore funny clothes--long plain dresses with sheer white caps on their heads. Auntie Truus told us they were Quakers, and they were kind to us. All through the journey they were checking on us, giving us drinks if we wanted them; we only had to put up our hands and one of them would be at our side. They were all wonderful, and I began to relax.

We stopped at Nuremburg, and then Cologne. Someone put his or her window up to look out and the next thing a bundle of clothing was thrust through the window and landed on someone's lap. One of the Quaker-ladies quickly gathered it up; it was a baby wrapped in covers, and was taken to the back of the carriage to be looked after. We guessed someone wanted their baby to go to England, too, but the windows had to be kept shut after that.

It was dark when the slow train journey came to a stop and we were at the Hook of Holland where we were to leave the train and board the cross-channel ferry, already waiting for us. This would to take us to England. The ferry's name was BODEGRAVEN and we went on board straight away. When we'd found our seats, someone brought us some nice food and drinks. We all felt better after that and later our ferry moved away from the wharf into the black night. I was disappointed because I'd been hoping to look at the sea, as I'd never been able to before.

In the morning we docked at Harwich, and there was yet another train to board. Emil was still tired although he'd slept most of the way over, and both of us were sick of all the travelling and waiting around. I kept stifling tears thinking of our parents all the time but didn't let anyone else see because I thought the others must have been feeling like that too. The further we went the more miserable we became, and by the time we tumbled out at a station called 'Liverpool Street' and were herded into a big hall we were feeling sad. A smiling young man with glasses was walking amongst us, picking up some of the smaller ones and trying to make them smile. We didn't know who he was, but guessed he must be in charge, and liked him straight away.

Names were called out and one by one strangers took the children away to their new homes. Gradually the crowd became smaller and smaller until there was no-one left but Emil and I. Standing there alone we were both shaking badly, especially when we saw that brothers and sisters were parted and sent to different homes, so I held on to Emil's hand tightly.

The people with the lists seemed to be in some sort of worry, looking at list after list, and we just stood there waiting for something to happen. I have never felt so frightened in my life.

Suddenly the door opened and a small happy lady rushed in. She checked with the people who had the lists, and stopped short when she saw us both there.

'There are two of you?' she asked. She paused and then said, 'I thought there would only be one. Never mind, we have a big farm and lots of space. We can find room for two. Do you like farms--Ruth is it?'

'Yes, I'm Ruth,' I said nervously with a dry mouth, 'and this is my brother Emil.'

'Hello Emil.' She gave us a big hug and told us we would be catching a train to Shropshire where her home was. _Going to a farm_ , I thought, _that sounds good --but yet more travelling!_ 'Do you like farm animals?' she asked with a twinkle in her eye.

We both said 'Yes,' together.

'Well, we have chooks and chickens, turkeys, some cows, goats to make our cheese, pigs, a few ducks, two dogs, a cat and some canaries in a cage. You can help us feed some them if you like. But only if you want to.' I was cheered by the thought of two dogs. Our family had never had a dog.

'Uncle Jack' met us at the station in the car, and we found Shrewsbury a pretty town as we drove through, the farm being a little outside town. There was the same confusion when two of us turned up instead of one, but pretty quickly we had a room each and they were lovely. When we found that our new aunt was named Bridget we both smiled broadly and explained that we had another Aunt Brigitte and she owned a farm too, in Chemnitz.

Emil had no trouble starting school and made friends straight away, but being shy, I found it hard at first because my English was not very good. The teacher asked Sue to help me learn English quickly and we became fast friends. We loved our school, and I felt important for I could speak German, Czech and had a smattering of French and was forever being asked what this and that was in one of those languages and that made us all laugh.

Time passed quickly for us on the farm. We named all the chooks, chicks, ducks and turkeys, and enjoyed feeding them all, even the pigs. We kept writing letters home and to Aunt Brigitte, but no-one replied, and we supposed mail wasn't getting through.

A year later we heard from our Uncle Dominik. He'd made it to England via Switzerland through a rescue line, but it had taken a long time. When he came down to see us it was at first such a happy thing. We all sat round the table and told how we'd each made the journey.

He hadn't mentioned our parents and when we asked his face went white.

In tears, he held our hands as he told how the Germans took our parents away several days after we'd left and knew that they'd died in Dachau concentration camp.

'Aunt Brigitte? She was adopted and Aryan so she'd be safe?'

'No,' my Uncle said, 'her horrible neighbour' (and we knew who it was) 'informed the Germans that she'd married a Jew, and although he was long dead, she was taken into custody immediately.' It was no surprise to find he now owned Brigitte's small farm, and that was why he'd betrayed her. When his wife had been ill Brigitte had looked after her for many weeks for him, but he forgot all that, and we were all sickened to hear this.

One by one he told us of the cousins and relatives who'd all disappeared. Two of our cousins had been on the last of the rescue journeys that we'd used--the ninth. Two hundred and fifty children were aboard ready to start their journey on September third, but Britain declared war on Germany and all the borders were immediately shut. Within an hour the train was diverted to Belsen, and the children were never heard of again. There would have been two hundred and fifty foster-parents at the English end waiting for them in vain.

We all went into shock, especially Emil, and it took many months to recover from all this news. My uncle asked if we might stay in Shropshire, for he only had a small one-roomed flat in London, but at least he'd found a job in a munitions factory. This seemed eminently reasonable to everyone.

We were still in Shropshire on May eighth 1945 when the war ended with great rejoicing. The time came for us to return to Czechoslovakia, using our bond of fifty pounds, but our foster-parents couldn't bear the idea of our departure. Uncle Jack seemed to be the saddest. With no children of their own we knew we were loved and had become theirs absolutely when we found out we were orphans and they'd been so comforting.

They sat us down talking to us seriously; it was their wish to adopt us, and Uncle Dominik came down to help with the discussions. He told us that the Communist government in Czechoslovakia treated anyone with the slightest connection to England or America as suspicious, and we'd probably be in danger again. The logical thing was to go ahead and become British citizens so he was able to officially endorse the application as our only living relative.

It was not until 1988 that a BBC program told the story of the twenty-eight year old 'British Schindler', Sir Nicholas Winton, who had organised the exit route for 669 of we children through eight rescue journeys. He was the one with the spectacles who'd welcomed us at Liverpool Station all those years ago.

Before Christmas 1938, after the 'Kristallnacht' in Germany, he became alarmed at the Nazi intent to storm into countries. A friend of his was trying to organise some sort of rescue of Czechoslovakian-Jewish children because, although there were rescue operations covering other stricken countries, nothing was happening in Czechoslovakia and it was under direct threat of invasion.

In a flash he'd organised an office and recruited excellent volunteers in Prague, including the wonderful 'Auntie Truus', devolving to them all the arrangements to run things from the Prague end while he flew home to Britain. There he harried the government until they agreed to receive batches of children from infants to under seventeen-year-olds provided they had a foster home to go to and had paid a warranty of fifty pounds to cover their return journey at war's end. This was the only rescue organisation that guaranteed housing on arrival in England. Others had lengthy stays in camps before settlement.

Offers poured in and the first train, our train, of over two hundred set off on March fourteenth, the day before the fall of Czechoslovakia into German hands. There were eight trainloads sent on their way between March and August until that fatal biggest batch of 250 children--the ninth collection of refugees on September third 1939.

Nicholas Winton rarely spoke of his achievements in the decades that followed believing his actions to be unremarkable, so no-one knew to whom they were indebted until he showed his scrapbook to a friend. It contained 669 photos and documents with all the names of the children he'd rescued. His friend showed it to a newspaper. In turn it was featured on the BBC program, 'That's Life', run by Esther Ranzen, with Nicholas Winton present, unexpectedly in an audience of adults whom he'd previously rescued as children. A wonderful night! There have been reunions since.

Nicholas Winton is still alive, 105 years of age, and living in Maidenhead and one of his rescued children, now in her seventies, looks after him in his home. In February 2015 he received an award there for his work, but it was one of a multitude of awards received by this modest achiever, among them a knighthood, an MBE and a Freedom of the City of London to name just three.

There are life-sized group-sculptures of the children with their sad luggage, at the Vienna, Prague, and Liverpool Railway stations, and at the Hook of Holland.

Sir Nicholas' mantra is: 'I came to believe through my life that what is important is that we live by the common ethics of all religions--kindness, decency, love, respect, and honour for others--and not worry about the aspects within religion that divide us.'

How relevant in today's world.
Hidden Innocence

2 July 2015

Madeline Ross

Winmalee, New South Wales

Australia

Hidden inside where eyes rarely see,

Singular images of a world set free.

Broken glass, glinting and sharpened,

Piercing into infinite souls;

A looking glass magnified,

Bare innocence exposed,

Grown obscure by sinful throes,

Fragile and delicate in nature;

Hidden deep in subconscious thought,

An emerging catharsis of knowing,

Blooming sweetly as roses;

Innocence blooms seldom in the mature mind;

A bittersweet flower, smelling sweetly,

But riddled with sharpened thorns;

Thorns of corrupted thoughts and losses.

The rose blooms in rare moments,

Vulnerable and child-like;

The subtle beauty missed by the ignorant,

Shortly snuffed and hidden from view;

Once more buried and lost in persona.

Distant memories are once again forgotten,

Of happiness and the simple wonder of a child.
Train

3 July 2015

Robyn Chaffey

Hazelbrook, New South Wales

Australia

**T** he

realities

of life

can make

you feel

that

you're

just

clicketty-clacking

and

**R** unning

off

down

a

track

with little choice

**A** ll folks need,

of destination

left or right

as Maya Angelou

or variance to

advises,

is a

regular

planned

day out.

**I** ndulge your

senses and

your cravings

for peace.

Leave your phone

at home and

**N** ever

Tell

your

plans

as you

pull of life!... Save yourself

take

push and

the

time out,

from the

worry...

your way,

Train

yourself

to

take

the

train!!
Oh, The Stories Here

4 July 2015

Marcalan McVicker

Grants Pass, Oregon

USA

'Kids, you listen yo mamma now. You get on in here and wash fo suppa, c'mon now.' And the air hung, wet like the moss on the live oaks; Mamma's laundry on the line three days now. No breeze rattled the screen door and the flies knew their way to the kitchen.

I sit here on the porch listening to shrills of happiness from my girls and son, coming in all sweaty to cold tea and fried everything. The smell was glorious, something I held with me in the dark hours while we waited for the next bad thing to happen. Even the humid air and the smell of the river, riotous noise of bullfrogs, tree frogs and cicadas, the occasional splash of a snapping turtle rolling off a dead log, wobbling back and forth in the current, all this and more. Life hung too, in olfactory memory easily called upon. And, so, I sit here with this shotgun, waiting for the next bad thing to happen.

I try to forget things now. It's hard to separate what's gone on, good, bad. Hold onto the blessings they say. You forget what blessings look like. But you always know a bad thing when it comes your way and never forget its face. I swanny, I don't know how God does it. Just as I try to forget I remember and see images of Daddy and Mamma laughing together, sneakin' a kiss or a wink, but us kids watched 'em and felt home. Daddy's gone now, it's been sometime, cancer, lung cancer. Died right there in his bed. It was an awful time not being able to help him. Mamma and Daddy came to live with us, when it got too much for her alone, it was the right thing to do when bad things happen, so I sit here and wait, I sit here, with this shotgun.

Brothers and sisters, up and gone when Daddy died and there weren't no money. Never heard from them again.

'Jimmy, you should come and eat somethin'. It ain't right you sittin' out here. Them skitters will carry you away, now.'

'In a minute Mamma, in a minute.'

'Well here Son, take somethin' cold.'

We were close, I thought, family-wise, but I was the young one. I never paid attention to them, the way they were. Hell, I didn't know better. Wasn't nothin' I could do anyway but tried to help Mamma. It was an awful mess; after Daddy gave up I burned all his things. He told me he wanted a Viking burial and winked at me. I didn't know what that meant. He said, as best he could, 'Get some paper to scratch on', so I did. I'd never seen Daddy put pencil to paper but that man could create an image! I knew what he meant then. Mamma was there, too. I looked at her and she had this half smile on and she winked at me. I set to work. We had a flat bottom boat 'bout ate up with mold and bugs. Late, the third night out, me and Mamma picked Daddy up in the bedroom in a wheelbarrow and run him out to his long boat. I had already fitted it with timber to burn and dressed the bow with what I thought a dragon would look like. We dressed him in the suit he never wore to the church he never went to, shoved him out in the current and all the noise suddenly stopped. It was dead quiet as the river paid homage to the man it knew. I shot a fire arrow into it and it burst into flames.

I was in a hole with my buddy when the flares started, the outline perimeter was breached. The enemy stormed us from everywhere it seemed. We got away, I don't know how, just did.

So I wait, here with this shotgun, wait for the next bad thing.

Mamma hollered, 'I'm gonna lay down now, you eat somethin', hear? Jimmy? I love you.' So I sit here and wait, with this shotgun, and the owls start in. The kids in bed, I walk to the river. Yellow eyes follow me every step. The boys are out in full choir tonight.

I stop by my tree I talk to from time to time. I say, 'Tree, we've been together a long time you and me. You saw it comin' didn't ya? You knew! I kick myself for not listen to you. It's only me to blame.'

You know, we can live way out here and not see a 'live' soul for months. Never even thought people knew we was out here. Go into town when we need and pick up mail, ha! That's the laugh. Who comes down on ya? The government, draft card. Only lottery ever called my name. And there I go, on a Greyhound, came special for me and Tommy Dixon, scared to death. Me and Suzy just got married, she at sixteen already one child with her and our son and another on the way. I was twenty-one when the draft came. Suzy and Mamma were in the house when I left. She didn't come to see me off.

I was gone to boot camp when the baby came. They wouldn't let me go see. Tiny little girl, Mamma wrote, pretty as a button. I shipped out three weeks later, Viet Nam.

It didn't take long after Suzy recovered, maybe four months, Mamma wrote, she went into town for letters from me and never came back; left Mamma with those babies. So Mamma did what she does and I sat, in the mud with a shotgun, waiting for the next bad thing. I had to write this down. I didn't know if I'd make it out. Never felt so driven to write, so I did.

Somebody's talkin'.

About how it all got started.

Somebody's talkin'.

About being broken hearted.

But that's not what happened,

that's not what happened at all.

Somebody's cryin',

their heart is bleeding.

The things they'll tell you,

but the words are misleading.

Cause that's not what happened,

that's not what happened at all.

I am a soldier.

Left to recover.

I wouldn't be here,

except for my brothers in arms.

They grabbed and carried me

from all that could do us harm.

The bullets came quickly.

I didn't know they hit me,

slow motion, I fell to the ground.

My sight, it went blurry,

sickening pain in the fury,

and all of a sudden, no sound.

Somebody's cryin'

they are so lonely.

Deserted and left all alone.

It wasn't too long,

it didn't take too long

before she picked up the phone.

There's people sayin'

I'm getting better.

not long for home now.

Then I got your letter,

been denied, deserted.

Never been so mistreated

so you're not staying around.

But that's not what happened,

that's not what happened at all.

I am a soldier

beaten and broken

reading these words now.

Words that should never be spoken.

But that's what happened

that's how it happened and all.

And so I sit, with this shotgun on the porch, old tree. Making sure my kids are safe and Mamma is well and here with us. And I can always come to you to talk of Two Wars.
Extreme

5 July 2015

David Newman

Jacobs Well, Queensland

Australia

What extreme things could I say that I have done?

Well! Now, this could turn out to be a bit of fun;

for what may be called extreme by the number of one;

might just be considered to be rather tame by some;

I've broken in some horses and I've gentled some too;

and I've ridden with gusto, where would dare but a few.

Out in the desert, where only the lizards do scurry;

I tried my luck, with thoughts, to get rich in a hurry:

I've worked in the mines, so deep under the ground;

but not for me, the precious things that were found:

I returned to the coast, where I surfed for a while;

I was almost a Hippy, and lived a peaceful lifestyle.

As I travelled along, I wrote down many the song;

but still, I could find no place where I felt I belonged:

In wet lands I trekked, and through sunburned plains;

my search led me for years, to find my elusive domain:

Oft' I wandered in good company, but more oft' alone;

looking, trying to find a place that I could call my home.

Beneath the Southern Cross, in this land of extremes;

where both the rich and the poor dare to still dream;

in freedom won by the brave, they who came before;

to bequeath such opportunity for the one and for all;

now I write my own passage, in words that are mine;

I've found home, Australia, it was here all the time.
Evolve, Revolve, Devolve

6 July 2015

Connie Howell

Wentworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

Evolve, Devolve, Revolve Competition Entry

Evolve, Revolve, Devolve

A puzzle for me to solve,

What word will I choose?

And will it amuse,

Should I be funny or slick?

Will it get "Editors Pick?"

Or will it fall flat on its face with a thud.

So I used all of the words

For you literary nerds,

To ponder, chew over, reflect

You may even try to perfect,

My grammar and rhyme,

If you have the time

Or just enjoy it which I think that you should.

So read it with ease

My aim is to please,

And to tickle those senses anew

I write with the view,

To delight in a childlike way

Without any pay,

I've offered my poem, 'cause I could.
Fox Sports

7 July 2015

Myfanwy Dabner

Newbridge, New South Wales

Australia

Evolve, Devolve, Revolve Competition Entry

The fox sits next to me as I drive to understand.

I know three Nevilles: City, Country, and Town.

City won't be baited. Hiding his hands he says there is nothing to it. It's just boys showing off. 'Scare mongering your kin is an old wives' tale, fox.' Dead foxes hang from the fence.

Country speaks for its form and tenants. 'I am the land and grasses, the trees, the water, the reeds in the creeks, the bushes, the nectar, and the minerals. I am the home, the feeder and protector to the insects, spiders, reptiles, amphibians, birds and mammals. I have fine balance but you foil my system and eat my protected. You have gorged on the Pilliga mouse. You don't belong here. Rich show-offs dress up in red coats like yours. Playing fox chase fox. They brought you here for sport. For thrills they brought rifles, horses, hounds, and you. My only purpose to them was be trodden, stripped and beaten. They've brushed away my undergrowth where I protected Pilliga. Whilst I'm bare and down for the count you burrow and stay alive. I would deport you but I have no influence until they start to suffer.'

Under foggy moon frosty ghost gums tried to scare the men. Their whispery howls through breezy leaves only made the men pick up their rifles. A shot is heard. Death of old is new.

'Man's evolution now sees me farmed for lamb in which you delight. Men watch you. The guns sit on their porches so run the way of the rabbit.'

Twice daily Town Neville drives the school bus past the foxes hanging on the fence. The children see them. This chink to their gentle armour will mostly harden how they think and deal with the fox. How do I explain away the foxes exposed; with throats cut, spirits strung up, killed and not returned to nature? An old wives' tale says 'it's to hang you up, and make you suffer, to scare you off fox'. I see that we kill to protect what we eat. I'm ancient and have eaten from several thousand skins. Can we help? Let's return the fox to his nature. Let's return nature. Let's return. What do you say?
Revolver

8 July 2015

Adrian Levet

Darlington, Western Australia

Australia

Evolve, Devolve, Revolve Competition Entry

The boy awoke to another howl in the night. Another pack of wolves was in the fields again. He wondered if it would have been Florence again; she used to howl like a wolf to lure him out of the house. She was always daring, and would come to see him at night, though his father caught her the last time and he hadn't seen her since. They were but fifteen, but he felt his love for her was strong. He would always remember the curve of her smile when she first saw him and he would smirk back, like he was partaking in a guilty pleasure. She was such a free spirit and he really admired that. He often wondered whenever he heard the howls of wolves, if it was her. He had to really train his ears to listen for it, but lately he'd begun to get a little lax. _She wouldn't come again_ , he thought to himself. Not after the fear his father had put in her. He saw the light flicker on in his parents' room, and a flurry of movement as his father's heavy footsteps would move to the cupboard to grab his shotgun to shoot the wolves or at least scare them. He looked out the window, and saw the light sprawl out where his father smacked open the door and started yelling at them like a madman. His lantern was waving to and fro as he moved with his familiar uneven gait, most likely still drunk from the night before, as he shuffled out into the field. He shot a few rounds into the air upon recognising that he couldn't even see them, let alone catch them. The boy heard whimpering, and assumed that they must have moved off into the woods. He wished his dad could have killed one of them; maybe he could have kept its pelt and made something out of it, like the American Indians would have. His dad didn't like him idolising them, however. He said 'It wasn't any kinda' thing to be a savage' and just spat out his chewable tobacco as he always did.

The next morning he helped his dad check the damage the wolves had done. Three sheep got killed, but the wolves must not have had enough time to retrieve the body and bring it back to their burrow. They took the bodies in, sheered the wool off of them, skinned them, and cut them up for meat. The boy knew they would get a nice dinner after all of it. His father was in a bad mood now, however, and when he was in a bad mood he would drink even more than he usually did. Hours later, after a time yelling at the boy's mother, drunk and stupid, his dad brought out his prized revolver. It was one of the original Colts, with its long barrel and intricate swirling designs decorating it. He set up some old cans to shoot, nearly falling over one of the fence poles as he did so. He came back, holding it up to the boy's face, forcing him to admire it.

'Ya know, boy?' he said, 'I bought this here gun from a true wordsmith. He was saying all kinds a' fancy things about it...' drunk and swaying he waved his arms and did a terrible accent: 'This revolving revolver is one amazing machine. It's a true evolution that can be used from revolution to resolution, whether you're involved or absolved, it will protect you against tyranny or infamy and prevent injury or protect liberty. Step right up, gentlemen!'

He swayed a little more and after a moment, he bowed, realising that it was quite impressive that he managed that "tongue twister" of a sentence at all. He placed the revolver in the boy's hand.

'Go on boy, take a few shots. It'll wipe that frown right off yer face...'

The boy aimed the revolver and shot a can off the fence. The gun almost popped his shoulder out it kicked so hard. His father clapped his hands and hit him hard on his back.

'Well now... you ain't so useless after all... see? It's fun ain't it?'

The boy took another shot, and his father spoke again. 'Ya not still sore about that girl not comin' around anymore ain't ya?' The boy said nothing and took another shot, taking down another one of the cans.

Later that night, after a large sheep stew, the boy went to bed. His father, for some reason, gave the revolver to him. Perhaps he was sentimental in his drunken haze, because usually he wouldn't let the boy touch it. He secretly liked having it under his pillow, but he often checked to see if he hadn't accidentally cocked it. He checked it three or four times, and ended up putting it on his bedside table before he went to sleep because he was so anxious about it. In the middle of the night there was the howling of wolves again. There were a few howls, but then the boy perked up. It sounded like a different howl, and after what felt like a long time with the ebb and flow of doubt and certainty, he knew it was her. His father didn't wake up, perhaps because he was as drunk as humanly possible before he collapsed into bed, or perhaps her howl was just quiet enough for him not to hear it but either way, the boy got out of bed and lit a lamp to go and see her, leaving the revolver sitting delicately on his bedside table.

He walked slowly through the dead of darkness, his dim lamp only illuminating perhaps ten feet or so of the paddock. He called her name softly in the dark.

'Florence? Are you there, Florence?'

He saw a shadow approach, but as it emerged into the light, it wasn't his lover, but a wolf, smaller than the others, with a quieter howl. The boy reached for the revolver, but it wasn't on him. He had left it behind. He heard the patter of movement, and three more wolves appeared out of the darkness, in front and behind him and in a sudden, dreadful moment, they were upon the boy and he died alone and in darkness as the lamp smashed upon the green hillside. The revolver still sat delicately on his bedside table and his father didn't even stir in his sleep.
Unsuspecting Evolution

9 July 2015

Katrina Wirth

Rutherford, New South Wales

Australia

Evolve, Devolve, Revolve Competition Entry

Unsuspecting evolution,

Over successive generations,

Leading to devolution,

Hanging by many accusations.

I watch them... fears, the diversity.

Natural selection... and genetics,

in the lands quite markedly,

run by eugenics.

Experiments within the field,

Many cases of mutation and adaptation,

Biology practices appealed,

like a positively charged cation.

Charles Darwin the father...

of life sometimes causing bother.
The Friend You Wish You Didn't Have

10 July 2015

Graham Sparks

Bathurst, New South Wales

Australia

Of all your friends like Davo, Stevo, Tommo and the rest,

Inspo is the one you really wish you didn't know.

When he's got hold he'll never let you go

until you've done his bidding.

You try to be a steady bloke

you don't imbibe or smoke or toke

and don't crack on or blow

but Inspiration's worse than all of the aboves.

He'll keep you up at night with pen and pad

to catch a fleeting verse,

He'll spin your mind around and round

in search of that lost chord,

lead you by the heart and mynde

to realms of profitless endeavour

and make it hard to get and keep a job,

so home and hearth become a dream.

Best to be creative not,

best to ditch the aether ariel,

best to follow not caprice or fantasy,

best to be a fucking drone.
Physiological State

11 July 2015

Valerie Vaughn

Phillipsburg, Pennsylvania

USA

Evolve, Devolve, Revolve Competition Entry

Damaged beings, desperately clinging to their structured shells

each turn of life, like a knife, plunging deeper into one's soul.

The cutting away of the very last shred of hope, as the prescription dope takes hold.

Ideas run like wildfire waves, insane rates of speed crash into cognition

framed within a makeshift world, formulated to thwart our very escape.

Devolving minds, numbness evolves, life's revolving door ushers in new false promises, downtrodden masses, beaten down classes, time to pick up your signs and get off your asses. Masses to The Man no longer, sit and ponder, futures that will never be, loss of hope,

no longer humanity, sirens echo in our ears, warning us to stay clear.

I keep my pace, so not to lose face, in my space--my place.

In this ever-changing world. Done with the powers which try to enslave me,

try to encapsulate me, into a mold of their making, there is no mistaking.

I no longer sit lost in thought, too much ignorance came with a cost--States missing

to the massively growing seas, seas which use to feed you and me, nourish no one now--even those lost at sea, still drown from the hunger pangs of empty freedom and individuality.
Evolution?

12 July 2015

Jane Russell

Mount Barker, South Australia

Australia

Evolve, Devolve, Revolve Competition Entry

'You'll be the first bastard up against the wall when the revolution comes!' growled Orry, as he whacked me unnecessarily hard on the back.

'Oh, you're so original,' I mocked. We'd just come out of the pub and were both the worse for drink. 'What was that one about the dolphins and the fish?'

'Na, shut it, gobshite,' he said. I could tell he'd lost interest in quoting from books and movies, though it usually kept him going for hours.

'What's up, mate?' I asked. He definitely wasn't himself tonight.

'I been thinking,' he began, and I refrained from jumping in with a silly remark about this being bad for his brain. 'What if them scientists find a way to bring back the mammoths? I read about it somewhere, and they said they could do it right now if they wanted.'

'So what if they do? What's it to you?' I asked, not getting it.

'I'm worried about it,' he replied. 'They're going to put them all on the frozen bits of the planet, but they've forgotten about climate change.'

I sighed. Orry was not exactly Einstein and once he got an idea in his head he kept at it until everyone was sick to death of it. This sounded like another of his obsessions. I didn't encourage him.

'I've seen those _Jurassic Park_ movies Paddy, I know what happens when people mess about with extinct animals, it always goes wrong. What if they set a lot of ginormous mammoths loose in areas which are melting away, they'll end up tramping back into populated areas, like the polar bears--I wonder how those two will get on? At least down south they'll only have to contend with penguins. Wonder if they can swim?'

My mind switched off soon after the mention of _Jurassic Park_. I was thinking of something much more interesting--Jenny Ryan's tits. She'd been sitting next to me in the pub with her long legs crossed and showing a fair bit of them, and as she leaned forward her cleavage had wobbled like vanilla jelly and I couldn't take me eyes off them.

'Oi,' she said, laughing, 'I'm up here you cheeky bastard.' She had nice eyes, too, and though her teeth were a bit crooked, she had a nice smile.

I was just fantasizing about what else she had that I'd like, when Orry elbowed me in the gut. 'Urgggh!' I grunted, 'what'ya do that for you eejit?'

'You're not listening, Paddy. You've either gone ga-ga or your mind's in the gutter, judging from the drool on your chin.'

'Leave it, will yer?' I snapped, wiping my chin with the back of my hand. I'd quite gone off both Jenny and Orry and just wanted to go home in peace.

Later that evening, when I was engrossed in some mindless reality show on TV, Orry rang. 'Paddy mate, just wanted to say sorry for bugging you before.'

'No problem, Orry. Think nothing of it.' I was only half paying attention, still watching the nonsense on TV.

'The thing is, I just read that scientists at Harvard have put some Woolly Mammoth DNA into elephant DNA, moving them closer to the ultimate clone. But they're making the same error they made on _Jurassic Park_. Don't they watch the movies? If you mix dinosaur DNA with other species you get something completely different, with scary abilities.' He paused for breath, 'Paddy?'

'Yeah mate, I'm still here.'

'And those of us who watched the _Ice Age_ movies, we know that mammoths live in icy cold places, which is why they have the long hair. Wouldn't it make sense to wait until the Earth cools down again before introducing an extinct animal that needs the cold? Why couldn't they have picked a small, harmless, tropical dinosaur? I suppose it's because they found a few entire frozen carcasses of mammoths so they... Paddy? Are you there?'

'Sorry, must have dropped off. What were you saying?'

'What about the plants they used to eat?' Orry continued, oblivious to any cues I was giving as to my complete lack of interest. 'They may not like the modern equivalents. Then again, what if the re-introduction or de-extinction experiment is a resounding success? What if the mammoths breed and become plentiful? Where are they going to go?'

'Look mate, you gotta stop thinking so hard or you won't be able to sleep!' I said in desperation. He was doing my head in.

'Sorry mate, I just needed someone to talk to.'

'I know what, why don't you write a letter to the editor of one of the scientific magazines you like reading and tell them about all your concerns and see if one of the boffins can answer them?' That should keep him occupied at least until tomorrow, I hoped.

'Mate! You're brilliant! I'll do it right away. Thanks for your help, I owe you one.' And the phone fell silent. I almost said a "Hail Mary" in relief. The reality show was long over and there wasn't anything else worth watching. I had a brief temptation to watch _Ice Age I_ on DVD, but resisted. I didn't want to dream about the bloody mammoths of Orry's obsession. Instead I decided on a whim to phone Jenny Ryan and see if she'd talk to me.

'Hey Jen, it's Paddy.' There was silence on the line. 'You know, the bloke from the pub?'

'The one who couldn't keep his eyes off my tits?'

'You should be flattered, love.' I was imagining them right now. 'They're bloody marvellous!'

'Is that what you called for? To compliment my tits?'

'I also want to tell you that I really like you and wondered if you'd like to meet up, for a coffee, dinner or whatever you like?' I held my breath. Would she blow me off or did she like me too?

'Maybe,' she replied. My heart did a somersault. YES! We set up a meet for Friday, when she wanted to go for drinks then on to a girly movie. I'd have said yes to anything if it meant she'd go out with me. I went to bed that night full of excitement that I gratified satisfyingly before sleep.

The next evening after work, in the pub with Orry, I hesitated to tell him I'd got off with Jenny. I didn't want to jinx it. But I didn't need to worry, he was excited about his own thoughts.

'I did it,' he said, 'I wrote the letter like you told me. I wonder how long before I hear if they accept it or not.'

'I'm sure they'll shelve the mammoth project straight after reading it, mate.' I said with a straight face, 'Would that make you happy?'

'I'd rather be happy than right,' he quoted, quick as lightning. I was chuffed to see he'd got his good humour back.

'Glad to see the old Orry back, I missed him,' I said. What I didn't tell him was that I'd just read an article about the discovery of another complete dinosaur carcass preserved in the permafrost like the mammoths. It was a sabre-toothed tiger.
Sexuality

13 July 2015

Terry Hopper

Luton, Bedfordshire

UK

You don't worry about my appearance... Nor fret about my stance...

Don't question my position... About how I talk or dance...

No comment on my politics... Or thoughts about my friends...

No questions on my fashion... My wayward liberal trends...

No opinions on my work job... Nor the car I drive...

The protests or the causes... From the starving to the Pride.

You don't worry about my lifestyle... Or see the smile that hides the frown...

Nor the tears of sadness... When I refrain from being the clown...

No fretting about me at any time... So safe in your cocoon.

Your heterosexual feelings... Beam upon me like the moon...

If friendship is forever... No matter who we are...

Whichever way the wind blows... No matter what the scar...

Then tell me please be honest... If none my faults harm do...

Why my sexuality... Terrifies the bloody hell out of you
Turning Forty

14 July 2015

Winsome Smith

Lithgow, New South Wales

Australia

It is reaching a hillside terrace

and looking back at a landscape

part shadowed, part bright,

and in places treacherous.

It is carrying luggage

of little rituals

making a pattern

defined by crepe and crease of skin.

It is stepping into the someday

to find that how it was going to be

it may never be.

Nevertheless it is affirming

that here in my future

I am making my past.
Licence To Thrill

15 July 2015

JH Mancy

Tallebudgera, Queensland

Australia

Evolve, Devolve, Revolve Competition Entry

Oggiemakes me smile, he has for quite a while

Bending rules you see; that's what appeals to me

He had a comical bent--magnificent!

He amuses me, he's nailed it to a tee

Pam1 needs mention, her wit holds attention

Rare English roses, each gem she discloses

Her words entertaining like sweet summer rain

Her book held to my nose, I'm deep in repose...

These are not the only scribes who've thrilled me through the years

Many have charmed through laughter, but some caused salty tears

Some bespeak of serious things, of warfare, drought and pain,

Others show a brighter side, their subjects quite inane...

Then there are the novelists, a race who stand apart

I'm no Barbara Cartland freak, (be still my trembling heart!)

I like my characters challenged, made of the right stuff

Authors who perform this task until I shout, 'Enough'

Alistair was such a man, he kept the pages turned

His characters' bravado indelibly burned

His dislike of editors immense, the story goes

Restricted him at ev'ry turn, them he came to loathe

Where are such authors now, I would deign to ask of you;

And the plots so bold, tested, tried and true...

Evolving here on narratorINTERNATIONAL's site--

Intriguing and endearing, I'm glad we got it right!
Revolution

16 July 2015

Richard Scutter

Macquarie, Canberra

Australia

Evolve, Devolve, Revolve Competition Entry

James Ussher calculated the starting point.

About 4004 years before the birth of Christ,

apparently at 9:00 am on a Monday morning

in late October.

Thomas Guythen annotated his holy bibles

enforcing this fact within the Church and for

years the populace believed his added words.

Then Darwin learnt that truth lies in geometry

and that a circle has no start or finish.

But if you believe in the 'Big Bang' theory

then everything is gradually losing energy.

Being in my latter years this is understandable,

my circulation not being what it once was.

However, we do have plenty of time up our sleeves

for our best scientists have predicted it will take

several billion years before the Sun expands and

drags the Earth within its heated arms.

So there may come a day when everything stops.

Perhaps at 11:15 pm on a Saturday in September--

after the late night news.
Indecision

17 July 2015

Ariette Singer

Palmerston, Canberra

Australia

Evolve, Devolve, Revolve Competition Entry

The state of indecision, like forgetting,

Is a significantly 'inconvenient curse'!

So often, my life, instead of moving forward

Is at a standstill, or in a situational reverse.

Due to my frequent indecision, afraid to take a risk,

How many opportunities have I lost, afraid to err,

Then often realised, too late, that despite my fear

Some risks _could_ have been taken--with good care.

I still have so many of life's dilemmas to resolve:

What should I do? Which door to open?

If I do this, how will my new situation evolve?

Who can I--a complete stranger in this town--trust

To ask for help, honest opinion and good advice?

My head is splitting! My cheeks are rosy-flushed,

At nights I toss and turn--strong signs of over-stress!

I must find fast ways to end the indecisive phase!

I know, I have to learn how to untangle present mess

And start making good decisions--nothing less!
Mind Games

17 July 2015

Ariette Singer

Palmerston, Canberra

Australia

Evolve, Devolve, Revolve Competition Entry

Ah, what bliss it is to play with thoughts,

Words, phrases and lovely music notes--

A better mind-game I cannot name!

And when out of these mental games

My newly conceived piece evolves

My spirit soars and my heart glows.

And I'm impressed that--at most times,

Lines flow in alive and kicking rhymes!

These words are being often said:

'Nothing comes from nothing' right?

But satisfying my curiosity might

Need to quite indefinitely wait

Till Science might deem to investigate

How thoughts in our brains originate.

But while I wait, I often celebrate

That my playful mind loves to create!

So when poem lines form in my head

Or embryos of melodies, happy or sad,

My fingers itch to type arriving thoughts

And eagerly play out fresh music notes.

When Science will wish to research how Arts

And Creativity affect our minds and hearts--

I'll be the first eager volunteer to take part!
The River's Bend--Have You Ever

18 July 2015

Demelza

Taroona, Tasmania

Australia

Have you ever ridden a horse bare back into the middle of a stream and experienced the weightlessness of the animal as its feet ceased to touch the river's floor?

The sensation of the horse slowly drifting sideways, downstream, as the gentle current pulls it further from its goal. For me it was a very real and wonderful experience.

The sun warm

The icy water fresh from the mountain

Mixed feelings of goose bumps and sweat on my skin

My girlfriend and I would battle mid-stream to demount the other amongst laughter and squeals.

Both of us

Spending breathless minutes in the chilly water

Scrambling to remount our steeds lest we froze

Thawing out on large sun soaked boulders

Everything fresh and clean

The realities of life far from our childish minds

Yes the river's bend brings back many good memories.

But alas the ghosts of the bad season are always close to the surface and I cannot reminisce, about the river, without the poison of its time inflicting the shame that haunts me.

It was there, on the warm sandy shore with its sheltering rocks and overhanging ferns that my innocence was taken.

At fourteen years of age I could not call it unconsented, but I question as to whether I was fully aware of all the consequences that my promiscuity would bring. There was no love on my behalf and only a distorted, self-centred lust on his.

When I reflect back on my naivety I am beset with shame not because of my misconduct--no, that could be defined as juvenile experimentation. No, the shame came from what he went on to do and how neither my friend nor I had the ability to expose him.

To have stood by, calming the animals, while he forced himself upon my companion and then for years continue a perverted relationship with her still dumbfounds me. I can only cringe at my cowardice each time it is remembered. How meek and foolish must my comfort have been?

It never occurred to us to report him. How could we tell of his crimes without exposing ourselves? We were conditioned by society to know that we had done wrong. We had no mature confidants to navigate us through our dilemma. Our relationships with parents and teachers were those of mistrust and harsh consequences.

Through a series of events I was able to break from the unhealthy situation but my friend was not so lucky. The entrapment of alcohol and drugs claimed a stake in her life. Although we did keep a threadlike relationship going for some time the thread was as thin as the worn out clothes of our childhood.

Decades have passed and as I reflect upon the river's bend I change the memory. My new characters are turned into people, wholesome and sincere. There is no remembrance of my friend or our dark acquaintance.

And

I am happy to keep them out

Of my new world

The warm sand becomes a place of seclusion

Where my lover and I entwine in romantic escapades

Surrounded by the beauty of nature

Ferns spread patterns of sunshine over our bare bodies

All the fun of the water and horses become part of his life and I am morphed into the blissful contentment of a virtual reality. We cavort and play with an innocence that is recalled from almost another lifetime. The days are always idyllic and we delight in each other.

I wonder... when I am old and they return me to paddle my feet in the river's bend, will I see the past for what it was or will I see my fantasy and believe my flimsy illusions to be real?
Just Shrapnel

19 July 2015

Vivienne Adlere

Blue Mountains, New South Wales

Australia

He was so dashingly handsome, and He wasn't even the groom! Although all the men were back in the fifties, they knew how to strike that manly balance between well-groomed and rugged. He was nothing like the men I see today, who know nothing of my value... I will never forget the first time we met, oh, and _She_ was stunning, the sort you take a sneaky second look at if you pass Her on the street. She was embarrassed by the attention too which only made Her more charming. I suppose that's partly why He fell for Her in the first place. I still remember that exact moment, it's my fondest memory actually, and that's saying something considering _all_ the things I've seen. Granted I'm usually in pockets, but I have access that spies envy; in fact I think spies have been known to use things like me to do just that, but I digress... the day _they_ met.

It was like out of a movie, on a wharf in beautiful France. The sun was shining but it was that soft afternoon sun that doesn't sting; there were cute little girls who had just finished their ballet lessons giggling which added to the chorus of the little waves lapping. And there was the church, only a very short stroll away--that's where He was, at a wedding! She and I were at the wharf, She taking in the sea air and letting Her cares flow away like only the sun and the sea can allow, I stuck between an old, weathered bollard and an equally uncomfortable metal bolt. I had been there for what seemed an eternity. The problem was that I and the metal bolt were somewhat camouflaged, but luckily (for me and not the bolt) there was a flood of stylishly dressed people on their way toward us, directly from the wedding.

They didn't see each other at first, and to be honest, as smitten with each of them as I was, my main concern was getting out from between 'a rock and a hard place'. But luckily for all of us the balloons had just been released by the flower girls, which caused the whole party to begin kissing one another. The poor young woman, well, She wasn't French and didn't understand the custom at all. I had seen it play out many times before: the balloons are released, and all the men have to kiss all the women (on the cheek usually) and if they miss just one lady the wedding will be unlucky. This ensures all the women don't reject any kisses and usually causes many laughs and much delight.

So there She was, not even a part of the wedding group, but it didn't matter--the excitement was infectious and He was not shy about being drawn to Her, and took advantage of the stroke of luck that came with the wedding tradition. He moved deftly through the crowd and to Her side, then took Her by the waist--and by surprise--then planted a passionate kiss on Her unsuspecting lips. _Oh how awkward_ I thought, but for some reason it actually wasn't. I was witness to the very beginning of their two worlds becoming one. Then I became a participant instead of just an observer. He spotted me; I must have been glistening in the sun. He picked me up and told Her to keep me as a memento of their encounter. She was completely lost for words and his party were either demanding a kiss from Him or had begun moving on to the hotel for the next stage of festivities. He was clearly distressed at leaving so He gave Her his card and the hotel's address then left as spontaneously as He arrived. She and I were equally sad to see Him go, although the view...

Coincidentally She was already staying in the hotel (it was the most popular in the area after all) and had another week and a half already booked. After an hour or so of deliberations together (mainly involving her staring at me hard and thoughtfully) She 'just happened' to find herself in the foyer, looking glamorous in Her best outfit, fresh make-up and impeccable hair (She couldn't have done it without me). They started with talking, which turned into dancing, then drinking, and were laughing like old friends into the small hours of the morning. She nearly gave me away whilst drinking but luckily He told Her I was special and should be kept safe forevermore. I am forever grateful because Her pocket sure was a nice change from the usual cold tills or rough purses I usually tolerated.

Over that glorious week and a half He progressed from charming travel guide, to trusted friend, to soulmate. He wasn't the only one changing though, lovely She shed Her naturally nervous and shy veil to reveal a happier and gorgeously confident spirit. I can assure you there was nothing so beautiful as watching those two souls, clearly destined for one another, bonding. They perfectly complemented one another, He was fiery and passionate while She was patient and coy, so it was no surprise when they promised to devote themselves to each other solely.

When She had to leave it was heart wrenching and people believe I don't even have a heart. They were both determined to stay together and promised to write every day. Neither broke their word and after only three months of letters expressing the most desperate of passions, worst of longings and deepest of secrets it was decided that they could be apart no more and that it would be most beneficial for both if She went to Him. All the necessary plans were made, blessings were given and before long, though it seemed far too long to Them, they were in each other's arms once again. It was as though no time had passed between them and it truly was a love story that would impress anyone who heard it. They had their own wedding soon enough, on the same wharf that they had met--naturally. I was in his pocket all day, closest to his heart and boy was it thumping! I was their 'lucky charm' and given a beautiful glass case to show me off. My new home was on the mantle and none of us could be happier.

That is how it was for years, a decade in fact! But for some reason, I'm still not sure why, everything that was once so beautiful became dust in an instant. Perhaps it was the pressure from His new and unforgiving manager, or maybe it was their difficulty having a child, or perhaps it was Her isolation from family; actually, it was probably all of them. It was like watching a drop of dye in a glass of water--it starts so small and is diluted so you are fooled into thinking it is not there, but with each seemingly small drop the water gets darker and murkier, until finally it is black and no matter how you try you cannot take the dye out, and there is no hope of the water ever being clear again.

So it was with Them, an argument--drip--not talking--drip--avoidance--drip--shutting down--drip. Even though I willed it to not be so, the inevitable conclusion came and with such unexpected ferocity I still rattle and chink to think. She had been at home all day, for the seventh day in a row, and didn't move from the lounge. He got home, after another awful day (I always knew because He would come and ask _me_ why I hadn't delivered Him more luck of late or would give me 'that look'). She didn't even acknowledge his entering the room and He 'snapped'. The shouting began, but only from his side--Her fight had long since abandoned Her and this only served to infuriate Him more. She could sense His temper was reaching new heights and I was scared that _this_ fight was different from the rest. Then, as quick as lightning and just as frightening He grasped me; I thought He would shatter my beautiful glass case his grip was so tight. She got up and held Her head low with Her gaze steady--like an animal sizing up its competition as a fellow predator. That was when it happened--He _threw_ me straight at Her... I tried to miss Her but there was no time or space... I hit Her hip and then fell to the cold tiles where my glass case, my beautiful clear home, my safe space, smashed into a thousand, tiny, vicious pieces. Both my mouth and Hers were gaping in shock, our eyes filled with tears and terror, but His... His looked like the wild fire in them had been instantaneously smothered and replaced with fear too.

She crumbled to the floor more in emotional anguish than physical pain and He went to help Her, but now it was Her turn to be ferocious. She swiped at Him like a tigress and gave Him a stare so cold and menacing that He involuntarily stepped back, but He tripped in doing so and landed on the floor too. They both sat there for what seemed an eternity, just staring at each other as if they were strangers, before She whisked Herself up and hurried away to the bedroom.

After hours of crying from both in separate rooms, He eventually came over to release me from my terrifying nest of shards. Then He put me under Her door and left. If I had known then that it was to be the last time He would hold me tenderly in his hand I would have done things so differently...

In the morning she woke and saw me on the floor. She scooped me up and I got a sense of déjà vu, we were back on the end of the bed, with Her looking to me for the answer of whether or not She should take the chance and go see Him. I tried to do whatever it was I did the first time, but I must have done something wrong because She didn't. Soon enough She and I were back on the train, on our way to Her home, away from France and away from Him. I'm not even sure why she kept me, but I suspect it was because she didn't realise she'd packed me. I think that's also why I fell through the bottom of the box I was in; surely she wouldn't have abandoned me on purpose?

So that's how I found myself here. I was left all alone on the dirty train station platform until someone picked me up. He wasn't anyone special, far from it, actually, because the first thing he did with me was put me into an awful gambling machine to get bumped, scuffed and squished with thousands of others like me. Problem was, they weren't like me, they had never been 'charmed' like I was, never been taken care of, and now I was ruined. And so I spend my days revolving around feeders, slots and chutes. I console myself by thinking that one day I will be given the chance to make amends for my 'lucky charm' title by being returned to He and She in a 'big win'.
You Restart...

20 July 2015

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

In the pathologist's waiting room,

I can feel the rising gloom.

I **say torture** and impending doom--

They take your blood--it makes you swoon.

A lady in a strange costume,

Asks, 'Is that your name or non de plume?'

'Are you _nil by mouth_ , did you consume...

The demon meat or plants legume?'

You cast your fate upon the loom;

Can you feel your heart go boom?

How long before we reach the tomb?

How long's it been since I left the womb?

I watch the phases of the moon;

Will the grim reaper come for me soon?

I catch my breath... now, to resume:

Life passes by at light speed--zoom!

So turn up the music at full volume.

Said Stanley, 'Dr Livingstone, I presume?'

'On another **stray route** do I assume?'

As you brush a dog, so you cat-a-comb,

But, to sweep your floors you need a broom.

Now winter's here, we lose the bloom...

Of flowers; we miss sweet perfume.

But when I'm gone they won't exhume...

My body: there'll be smoke in dark plume,

Above the... _heavens!_ The needle--watch me fume!

As at the mouth I froth and spume,

Like the Arab racehorse named Khartoum,

Whose head was severed... de-feathered, deplume...

_Not_ **a true story**. No guts, no glory, ends this pantoum.
The Transaction

21 July 2015

Margo Poirier

South Australia

Australia

The wan looking woman, arms crossed, lips drawn into a thin line, stood watching the stallion as the man whipped him on. The horse had wild eyes and resisted the urging of his rider as best he could. The woman gritted her teeth. She couldn't bear to watch any longer and turned on her heel, running, running away from a sight that turned a knife in her heart. And yet a strange compulsion drove the woman to the track. Sometimes she watched him from afar, sometimes a little closer; but not too close to attract attention. He was as black as the inside of a chimney and his ribs stood out like signposts. Each time the watching brought tears to her eyes and she wondered why she came at all. He was not her horse. The RSPCA had responded to her report, but had not deemed the animal to be in bad enough condition to press any charges.

The man, incandescent with rage, slammed the stable door. Vector whinnied in fright, rearing up and pounding his front hooves into the wood of the door.

He hated 'the man'. He had whipping scars on his flank and a sore mouth from an ill-fitting bit. He was tired and hunger gnawed at his thinning belly. He wouldn't win. He just wouldn't do it. At night he slept fitfully in the filthy straw in a draughty stable that was hardly ever mucked out. He had night terrors and would wake in a most terrible sweat. If he didn't cooperate, then perhaps 'the man' would shoot him. It couldn't be worse than this unendurable existence.

Vector shivered in the autumn breezes. Swirling, dying leaves fell at his feet. By the time winter had arrived, he had lost all hope of ever escaping. If it were not for the woman who visited him every week, he would have starved. Spring drew a few fresh green shoots up from an unforgiving ground to furnish the barren paddock but Vector needed more than these early grasses that had little or no nourishment. He feared another summer would finish him. Perhaps the man knew that. Perhaps the man had no intention of selling him. And soon summer _did_ come, creeping at first, then bolting in with searing heat, vicious north winds that made his eyes water.

Panting from forcing her geriatric bicycle once more up the hill towards the stables, the woman arrived at the track. It was deserted. No Vector, no unpleasant man, no one in sight. Puzzled, she continued on towards the adjacent paddocks. Her heart pounded as she neared Vector's paddock. He was standing very still, his head hanging a little, his tail drooping behind his thin flank. As he picked up the woman's scent, his nostrils flared a little and as she drew closer, he began to nod his head up and down, whinnying softly as he sensed friend and not foe.

'Hello, boy,' the woman spoke softly.

Vector nickered and pawed the ground.

'Oh, how I wish I could just take you away to somewhere safe,' the woman sighed, stroking his neck gently. 'Hang on in there, fellah. I'll work something out. I promise.' She pulled out a couple of carrots and the horse snuffled into her hand, searching and gobbling greedily. 'I'll be back.' She drew away reluctantly. Vector trotted alongside the fence whinnying, as she cycled off. He knew just one thing: woman good, man bad.

'Sell 'im? Are you crazy? He's a bag of bones. Never won a race in 'is life. But 'e's not for sale, anyway. I'm keepin' 'im. He makes the other horses look good, he does. Now piss off.'

With a dismissive gesture, he turned his back on the woman.

'Wait!' she called after him. 'So he's a bag of bones. Can't be much use to you, surely. I'll take him off your hands. I'll buy him.' She held her breath, knowing this wily horse trainer would probably want an unreal amount, provided he agreed in the first place to sell him.

'Are ya deaf, woman? He might be a bag of bones, but he's my bag of bones and I'm tellin' ya, 'e's not for sale. Now get off me property before I set m' dogs on ya!'

The woman stood with clenched fists, afraid and expecting vicious dogs to materialize any second. Now what? She couldn't make him see reason and she couldn't steal the horse, could she? Could she?

The woman drew in sharp, painful breaths as once more she tackled the hill. Nearing Vector's paddock she lifted her head. A faint but sure smell of smoke was in the air. The smell grew stronger and by the time she arrived at the stables, she could see it in the distance. Vector was still in the paddock but was pacing up and down. He was very agitated. He knew something was wrong. The woman called out to him from the paddock fence.

'It's okay, fellah. It's okay. Calm down.' She instinctively climbed the fence and began to approach Vector, sensing his fear. His nostrils flared before he reared up then began bearing down on the slight figure before him. In fright he was much more formidable than she could ever have imagined. Words of warning issued by her father flashed through her brain: _'You can never completely trust a stallion. There will always be that bit of wildness in him'._

And now this proud, black stallion had somehow found enough strength in his broken body to gallop towards her and she just stood there, riveted to the spot, her fear matching his as the smoke in the distance heralded worse to come.

Vector registered the woman in his path but at the last minute, his instinct drove him towards the fence instead. In a frenzy of escape, he crashed through the old farm barrier, taking off down the road and away from the hateful man and his barren paddock. Not far behind, a mob of terrified sheep were thundering along the road. Someone had released them and as the woman looked back, she saw the fire rising up like a tidal wave, beginning to bear down on everything in its path. As soon as the sheep had passed she leaped onto her bicycle and began pedalling furiously down the hill. The dust had made vision almost impossible, but she had to keep going. She had to find Vector before it was too late.

The sheep disappearing over the ridge ahead of the raging fire was an awesome sight. They moved as one big grey cloud, hooves slamming into the dry dirt, kicking up clouds of blinding dust as they followed one another in panic. They couldn't know that just beyond the ridge, was the edge, unfenced and dangerous to humans and animals alike. One by one, the sheep rocketed outwards and fell to a sure death, down to the boiling surf that surged over the rocks below.

The woman threw her bicycle down to the ground, arriving just in time to see the sheep leap to their death. Her lungs were burning from the inhalation of smoke, dust and the sheer effort from her ride. Vector was nowhere in sight. Dusty tears streaked her face as she faced the awful truth that he had suffered the same fate as the sheep. She could hear the roar of the fire as it gathered speed and force. A darkening sky bore down on her as she sank to her knees.

At first she didn't notice the large drops plopping onto the ground. Not until the drops began to wet her head did she look up at the rain--the miraculous rain--rain that drowned out the sound of approaching hooves until she felt the warm breath on her neck as Vector bent down to nuzzle her in greeting.
Broken Smile

22 July 2015

Judy J Newman

Rutherford, New South Wales

Australia

In the dark of night, when the monsters roam

When the wind has fingers made of ice

When the voices scream, you can't go home

When your thoughts are racing, look back, twice

You stand, head held askew, hardly a breath

Eyes searching, in the darkness, for that light

Shaking, not from cold, you're scared to death

Monsters never leave you, the world is not right

Tick tock, that thunderous sound, exploding in your ear

You wince, as a leaf falls upon your face

But all they see, is your broken smile, my dear

Not the monsters, not the fear, not the pain on your face

The broken smile, hides all your pain

It hides the anguish of your life, that broken smile

No one sees the monsters that live inside your brain

No one will ever know, what lies behind that broken smile
As It Is!

23 July 2015

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, New South Wales

Australia

Two

old

ladies

face the Wind.

Side by side they stand,

braced, on an empty lower deck.

Hungry waves pepper their trim coats. Their mission is clear.

'He was a bad 'un, a black sheep, a hobo, a thief,

and more; too terrible to relate. We blame the war,'

one shouts.

Hailed as a hero when he was a rat of Tobruk.

What turns a man to empty grace?

True to their mother's wishes, the sisters deliver Tom into the valley of bones.

White heat reclaims his pain and reduces him to ashes.

An urn is placed in sisters' care.

Trust Tom to choose a stormy day.

Upending the urn to the sea's icy blast, they try to release him from his earthly cast but he flies in their faces, their clothes and sticks fast.

'He always was a dirty bloke,'

one

shouts.
There And Back

24 July 2015

Shirley Burgess

Rosebud, Victoria

Australia

Frank, in New Zealand, had a parcel from Mum

For this was November and his birthday had come,

Wife Ellen just looked at them with utter disdain,

'It's the usual horror socks she's sent you again.

They're ugly and grey with a purple streak,

And they aren't even fit to put on your feet.

How does she find them, it's really a sin,

'Cause each year I simply put them all in the bin.'

'But I don't have a present for brother-in-law Andy

In Sydney, so I think they might just come in handy.

For Xmas this year instead of some jocks

We can send him these wonderful, colourful socks.'

Well, in Sydney they were received as a horrible bore,

Andy shoved them right to the back of his big sock drawer,

But the grey/purple socks had a different fate

For they were posted to old unsuspecting, Uncle Nate.

He lived in Perth on the River Swan

But unfortunately Nate died without putting them on.

We all hope the shock of those socks at first sight,

Wasn't the reason for his big heart attack that night?

Nate's wife said 'It's November and Frank's birthday is due,

I'll send him those socks with the horrible hue.'

Frank scratched his head when he again saw the socks

'They're just like Mum's present but in a different box.

How come they arrived from faraway Perth--

All this way to celebrate the day of my birth?

Mum might be upset if she sees them I fear,

So I'll hide them with the socks she gave me this year.'
The We

25 July 2015

Deborah Stanbridge

Dubbo, New South Wales

Australia

We are like ants following a trail.

We are the masses pulled together

The driving force that causes a leader to sail.

We water drops that form a cloud

And rain down the ideas of the one reining

We, the majority, the multitude, the many, the crowd.

So often we are enchanted, entrenched, enlightened

By the Adolf Hitlers, Pol Pots and Isis leaders.

We have me frightened.

O woe to foolish first followers!

They encourage us to join the cause

Of depraved doctrine we then become the swallowers.

We agree not just with a yes, but also because there is no no.

We are not just agreeing but making the decisions with our leaders

The we can be mankind's greatest foe.

And yet the optimist in me,

Clings to, longs for, hopes in

Better decisions from the we.
Machine Made Bread

26 July 2015

Patricia Walsh

Cork

Ireland

May we ever celebrate our road to perdition

glancing skywards at our fate outlined,

focus on our limits, smashing the roadblock

through which we struggle to enter in.

We've bettered ourselves, with want of reason,

sound bytes still call the doomed masses,

'Three quarters of the world never make a phone call',

slight, sated, our brains are our temples.

If the power is out, where are the candles?

If the server is down, how will we live?

Sit back and be still for at least five minutes,

service will be resumed, although found wanting.

Eating terabytes to keep up with the pace,

memory, though sorrowful, remains outside,

inside the Neanderthal mind, we shoot survival,

hunting and gathering too de rigueur to work.

Getting old and senile. The bad cops sweetly sing

barricade knowledge to a click and drag

from our homes onto the street. Condoning

implicit violence, by assignation. Glory be!

Give us this day our daily bread. Manufactured

with sleight of buttons, passed in time.

Processed with uniformity, blandly produced

to our homogenous taste, a programme worth watching.
Sweet Moonlight

27 July 2015

Beatrice Ross

Winmalee, New South Wales

Australia

I found him floating on an evening breeze,

melting and oozing like treacle.

The edges of moonlight

glistened on his treacle skin,

glowing like angel silk

hovering weightless.

I watched his lips loosen, peeling back in a smile.

For the first time in his life, he was back home,

back where the wild things grow;

The night orchids, the rivers of oozing honey,

the glowing bell frogs, croaking in the bubbling stream.

The dew glistening on the hard grain trees,

the moonlight catching the hollows of the bark,

casting long shadows across the water.

I follow him there by the light of a candle.

The flame flickers and hollows in the breeze,

tunnelling and snuffing out as I breathe deep.

The world falls into darkness and I can finally think.

I can breathe again and I know I'm safe in the dark.

Alone, wrapped in my cocoon.

And in the darkness come the rich smells of night;

The honeysuckle, plump and sweet.

The sounds, the sights;

The river frogs croaking.

The shadows creeping,

the roses blooming.

I can feel it all in the darkness.

And that's when I know I'm alive.

When my heart beats in time with the river frogs.

When I feel the cool water over my fingers.

The bubbling stream churning,

The moonlight catching the water,

dancing, sinking deep.

I can feel again.

I can dance again.

The world spins around me, but I don't care.

I'm home in this sacred place.

Every breath, every beat of my heart

grounds me here in this Eden.

I'm home again.

Alone in sweet moonlight.
The Miner's Hut

28 July 2015

AA Anderson

Bathurst, New South Wales

Australia

It was the year of federation in 1901,

The house was built with love and care, to last for years to come.

He would make it such a lovely home for his wife and little son,

And so it was, until the year, the year of World War One.

His beloved son in the Light Brigade was killed when overseas

And his wife with grief she passed away, his heart began to freeze.

He hit the grog and as he aged, his home was his retreat,

He couldn't sleep; he couldn't work and soon refused to eat.

He'd lost all that had mattered most, his life it seemed to wilt,

The only thing that he had left, was the home that he had built.

The house contained his memories of those gentle days of yore,

When his wife and son had graced the rooms

If he could see them just once more.

But grog will always take its toll and one night in his sleep

He passed away from this mortal coil, but his ghost God couldn't keep,

And the house it just grew older and no one gave a care.

The roof it leaked, the boards they creaked,

And there were spider webs here and there.

After many years of this neglect the council had a plan

To sell the house to someone, to come and pull it down.

The old man's ghost was so upset; he walked from room to room,

He saw the way it used to be, not all the grime and gloom.

He prayed for someone caring, to come and see his place

And see it for its beauty, but blind to its disgrace.

Perhaps someone who would love it too, from somewhere on this earth

Who would value all the workmanship and finally see its worth.

A young man had been coming past in daylight and at night,

He often would imagine how, he'd buy it and make it right.

He could fix up this and fix up that and then to his surprise

A FOR SALE sign upon the gate, and he went to see inside.

Oh the joy to see the craftsmanship that he saw everywhere,

The open fire, the old wood stove, not all the wear and tear.

He'd clean it up; he'd paint and wash, the windows they would glow,

Pull up the weeds in the garden bed and the front lawns he would mow.

The young man bought the old man's house,

And when it was complete, the neighbours looked in awe at it

When they passed by in the street.

The old man smiled when he saw the change,

He thought it looked just grand,

The birds were back and even fed, their seed from the young man's hand.

There was coffee brewing on the stove; the aroma filled the air,

There were eggs from the chickens and fruit from the trees

And contentment, love and care.

In the fire grate the lovely warmth, of embers glowing red

And near the hearth, two puppies slept in their cozy little bed.

The old man tiptoed through the rooms; he felt that he'd been blessed,

And he turned and quietly walked away,

It was time to take his rest.
21st Century Blues

29 July 2015

Madeline Ross

Winmalee, New South Wales

Australia

The carriage is silent,

Time ticking by,

Buttons and touchscreens buzzing;

This is the anthem of the modern age.

Their eyes are fixed and staring,

Their eyelids barely move,

Like lifeless, brainless zombies,

Technology the fabled cause.

No one is talking,

Absorbed in lonely worlds,

Lost in social media,

A special kind of social isolation,

Not very social at all.

This happens every day;

In crowded trains, on the street,

And in the family home;

An addiction to worldly 'connection';

But are we connected at all?

Sharing, posting, tweeting, liking,

The jargon of the current age;

Of technology twisting young minds,

The distortion of images and icons,

Spreading lies, deceit, and deception,

Of peoples' 'perfect' lives.

In this breeds obsession,

A desire to feel and gain connection,

Dependant on sharing opinion

But never speaking a word.

Trains were for conversing,

Time for meeting new people and passing the time;

But not a word is uttered anymore;

A lost art is becoming ancient.

To talk, to joke, to laugh,

To meet future friends;

To reconnect with old ones,

Opportunities and future partners,

Lost to the clicking of an internet link.

Society grows larger,

Technology more advanced,

Getting smarter with every development;

Yet we are becoming mindless,

Lost in false connection,

Zombies in the growing epidemic,

Helpless to stop its spread.
The Cost Of A Thousand Word Picture

30 July 2015

Robyn Chaffey

Hazelbrook, New South Wales

Australia

Yes, 'a picture', they say, 'is worth a thousand words'! What then was the picture before me saying?

The silver-haired woman sat immobile, expressionless, hunched in an old armchair. The television rambled and squealed but she seemed oblivious to it. Her dull, brown eyes stared in its direction but did not see.

~~~

The story she was watching and hearing again was in her heart and mind! It was buried very deep where she could not quite reach it.

Snatches! Snapshots and blurred tapes which at one and the same time, she felt a frantic need to reprieve and yet... a sense of slammed, locked doors within and her own aged mind silently shouting at her to 'Leave it be! Leave it where it lies!'

She knew well what those around her said about her: 'Silly old Duck!... Off with the fairies!... Pay her no attention!... Dementia!'

In her 'waking' moments (which were more than they realised, she knew) she heard them! Many of them had written her off, de-humanised her, and little knew or cared whether or when she was lucid. This she understood when her mind allowed it. Some, indeed, had written her off long before her dementia had set in.

They did not know her but they had judged her!

She smiled, that wry smile her carers had often seen and wondered about... 'They will never know me now!' The thought both saddened and amused her.

Momentarily her thoughts were diverted. It was as though she had stooped over a garden in her mind to tug at a weed or two... her imminent death?... Imaginings as to what 'they' would say about her then?... Questioning whether 'they' would then wish they had got to know who she really was? These thoughts swam through her mind and mingled, and got lost in the criss-crossing ripples of other thoughts.

Suddenly, the smile too dissipated into the ripples and was caught up in another wave of puzzle pieces. They were a mix of pieces from a multiplicity of pictures from her past.

Not only in dementia had she struggled with the puzzles. In childhood, too, and throughout her adulthood the fragmented pieces had haunted her, then suddenly come crashing together in a jumble causing her to question so much.

She had managed to allay them a little whilst she raised her children. Focus had been easier as she struggled to answer their life demands. Yet even then, fragmented pieces would appear in the static and the hum-drum of living causing her to doubt herself.

At times she would imagine that she'd found a fit for some piece and would rejoice in the quiet of her own heart. The spinning spiral would, it seemed, expand to form a perfect circle. Then she would allow herself to breathe and to relax. She'd feel the light shine from her eyes, hear herself laugh and momentarily revel in the joy of living.

There had in fact been much joy of living over the years. Most definitely there had been joy... and love, and laughter. Victories had been won, too, and much of what she had wanted to achieve, she had.

If she could just have reached those memories which haunted her in her quiet times and invaded her dreams!

They had seemed so distant and so vague, like shadows in the deepest fog. Haunting, sinister, shadow memories which always travelled with her; not in her mind alone, but in her heart and in the very pit of her being.

The now aged woman had known since earliest childhood that the memories were real. Each time they returned they broke her heart anew. So strong were the associated feelings, yet the pieces would not all come out at once. The memories were ugly 'teases'. The effect on her was like the schoolyard bully's taunts, designed to maim, but then presented to the world as 'just a joke!'

Yes... she knew when she was lucid that she was deep into the winter of her life. She knew that life's cold winter dulled her senses with dementia. Somehow she welcomed it!

Was there a brand new spring on the other side? If so, perhaps the pieces would come together then, or even (could it be possible?) disappear and grant her a brand new start.

If indeed there was no new spring... if this winter marked the end... there would be no more sadness still. This being so the ghostly pieces would go with her. This thought brought with it the return of peace. The turbulence within her mind quickly dissipated. Ripples joined and formed again a spiral. Her thin and fragile lips curled almost imperceptibly and her brown eyes dulled again as though the light had gone out too in the recesses of her mind.

~~~

No! They did not know her. They would not know her now.

The momentary moments of lucidity diminishing before my eyes, as paid carers came and went with little time to truly stop and see her failing humanity, made my heart ache!

It renewed in me memories of some I had known personally... some with dementia and others, like my beloved grandmother, whose minds had remained sharp while their bodies let them down.

The 'picture' I was witnessing raised in me most definitely a thousand words... of memories and questions! They were difficult and anger-making questions mingled with beautiful memories and sad of those I've loved and lost... those who through my life have touched my heart and worked to make me who I am!
The Karmic Debt

31 July, 1 and 2 August 2015

David Newman

Jacobs Well, Queensland

Australia

Unfurling his long black wings, Baakiel felt a tremor of excitement wash over his entire body. Not that his face conveyed any such information to those who were around him. They saw that which was always there to be seen, intense hatred for all around. Hatred for everything, both of the Natural World and of the Supernatural World. If Baakiel had love for anything other than himself, it was for his one true master, the King of the Underworld. Even toward his king, he had always felt a certain amount of jealousy and had often imagined himself in the position of Supreme Ruler.

Baakiel knew that someday it could be that he would challenge God himself, but never the King who had raised him to such a high position here among the other demons. No never! He knew that if the Earth were to be taken by the Underworld in the final battle, his King would set his own temple upon it, and he, Baakiel, would remain here, where the mantle of ruler would then be his alone, and he could do whatever he pleased with this underworld kingdom. He would be set to rule, unchallenged, over the remaining demons and over all the souls, those of unredeemed men.

Another tremor of excitement coursed through him, causing his black almost metallic wings to shake as his quivering lips twisted up in a strange approximation of a sneering smile. Then, lest any should mistake that smile as being a sign of weakness within him, Baakiel suddenly lashed out at two lower ranking demons, whose great crime had been in standing too close to Baakiel, close enough for him to strike.

The first demon screeched and got quickly as far away from Baakiel as was possible. The second was not so lucky as it writhed in agony, almost cleaved in half. Unable to escape, it felt the full force of Baakiel's fury in an onslaught that seemed to last forever but could not have been for more than a few minutes. Demons cannot die, but the wounds that Baakiel now inflicted on it would cause the demon to curse its own immortality for many decades yet to come.

Now Baakiel's 'almost smile' would not be seen as weakness, but rather as anticipation for some horror that he was planning to bring upon the unsuspecting Natural World.

He had heard his name being called. All those here had heard it! Summoned like a lowly jackal to do the bidding of a fool. Baakiel knew this man well. He had known them all! Five generations now, father, son, father, son, and now father again. Yet another mortal, one who believed that he had control over Baakiel himself, and for a measure of time they did have, but Baakiel knew that in each case their audaciousness would have to be paid for in full.

With each generation their power increased, but so too did the Karmic debt, passed on from father to son.

Baakiel recalled the first one, the first father. A simple, unintelligent man who was somehow filled with an unjustified sense of his own importance. That man's self-righteous attitude had made it easy for Baakiel to claim him, to teach and guide him on a path of destruction that would last for many generations beyond himself and to be visited on his sons, sons, sons...

~~~

For as far back as he could recall, luck had never been a close companion of his. From his early childhood he had possessed a strong understanding of right and wrong. Right?... Well... one could just feel it. Wrong?... Most everything that his father ever said or did. Ben usually chose to do what he thought was right.

So often now, Ben had begun yet another project that was designed to make things just that little bit better in his own corner of the world. He always had grandiose ideas of the kind of good that they would bring to people. Yet rarely did any of his projects seem to work out in the way that he had planned. Unforeseen events continually rose up to prevent his dreams from ever reaching their fullest potential.

When something did seem to gain any form of success, Ben's father would either belittle the result, or claim credit for it himself, taking it over and leaving Ben to feel betrayed yet again.

Soon after the take-over of a project, it would fizzle out to nothing, or be incorporated into his father's powerbase over people. It never became that which it had been intended to be at all.

Ben wished that he had more guts, guts enough to stand up to his father, like others in his family had. Standing up to his father had gotten them all disinherited, a fate which Ben both feared and wanted at the same time. He had seen that some of those disinherited family members had fallen apart to become almost 'basket cases', out in the world with no preparation for it. Still, others of them seemed happy and stable enough, even if they didn't own much to boast of.

He had heard many stories of how kind a man his father had once been, until one day his entire personality, for no known reason, changed, and he became the man he now was. However, Ben could not recall a time when his father had been anything other than a complete arsehole.

Often Ben wondered whether he had been born under an unlucky star, or whether he was in fact cursed. He knew that all of his father's money and power had come about through generations of suffering, all in the name of redemption and salvation. He didn't understand the rhetoric or why a God of love would want to test people well beyond the limits of their endurance. All he knew, was that if he one day should inherit the mantle from his father, he was sure that he could turn it all around to be able to do some good on this Earth, and maybe by doing so, break the seemingly endless cycle of harm that had been done over the years. He allowed himself to daydream of such a day coming, but subconsciously he felt the weight of doubt pressing in on him, until he questioned whether he would ever be able to escape from beneath his father's shadow.

~~~

Baakiel felt the cool air of the Natural World as he soared over it. He needed to exert little effort as his metallic-like black wings carried him aloft. He wondered as he often had, why his king would even want such a disgusting place from which to rule. The only reason that Baakiel could even imagine for it, was that it belonged to The Most High God, and that was more than enough reason for his king to want to claim it for himself. After all, wasn't it this God who had cast them down to this miserable planet in the first place? Did this God really believe that Baakiel's king would allow man to, one day, claim all that had been taken away from himself, and to rule in his place?

For me, Baakiel decided, the Underworld will be more than enough to rule over, but for my king, he shall have all that was taken from him returned again to him.

He seethed with rage as he watched small fluffy white clouds part before him, crackling with electricity, though no storms were near. On a planet which was mostly covered with water, not one single drop could he draw near enough to ease a ten thousand year old thirst. Baakiel knew that were he to plunge himself into the sea, the very oceans would boil, but it was not time, not yet.

~~~

Strange phone calls were made, three in all, to Ben. They always came when he was alone. It was the same voice on the line each time, that of a young sounding lady. The first time that he received one, Ben laughed openly at her, telling her, 'You must be crazy! I think that you must mistakenly believe that I'm rich and you want to scam money from me. You need to find yourself another pigeon, Miss. I have nothing of my own, and I would not be so foolish as to part with it for something so ridiculous if I did have.' He laughed even more after that first phone call, but only because it had him feeling spooked.

Ben couldn't decide where the lady's accent came from. 'Probably fake,' he mumbled to himself, 'just like her fake story!' But still he felt shaken by the conversation. 'I should have just hung up on her!' he scolded himself, but the truth is, she had held him enthralled for twenty long minutes and he had almost given in to her spiel during that very first phone call. Almost, but not quite.

The lady with the accent had told Ben about so much from his past, things that he had talked about with no-one. She spoke of his luck being cursed, of all good fortune that had been destined to come his way having been stolen from him, by the same man who had placed the original curse upon him, because of the man's great jealousy toward him. That man, she had told him, was his own father.

'It is too late for your father!' she had told him. 'He carries the Karmic debt of the four generations that came before him, as well as his own. You are the Sixth Generation, Ben! Please! It must be stopped at you, before it is too late to do anything about it. Let me help you! Please Ben! I know that you won't be strong enough to fight this on your own. Your father believes that an angel of the Lord guides him and does his bidding, but it is the dark side that is in control of him. You must listen to me Ben! You are in great danger, perhaps your very life is in the balance, or worse, your soul. It has to be stopped with you! I will help you if you let me! You have subconsciously fought against this since you were a small child and you have fought against it all alone, without even understanding what was happening or why. You don't have to fight it alone anymore. I'll be with you! You have a good heart Ben, and it is there in your heart that you know that I'm telling you the truth. All I need is your permission Ben, and I will help you for free. There is very little that you will need to do at all. I can protect you, but I need your permission to even allow that much.

The second phone call was short. As Ben answered it, he heard the same lady with the strange accent say, 'Hello Ben! In three days you will hear of an event that science cannot predict, an enormous solar flare erupting from our sun. The size and magnitude of this flare will be reported as having had the power to wipe all life from the face of the Earth, had it actually travelled in our direction, instead of out into empty space.' With that, she hung up.

Ben was left feeling dazed. 'Bullshit!' he said to himself, but it was only to quell the questions that were coming into his mind.

For the next few days, Ben managed to push the words that he had heard from the accented lady to the back of his mind, replacing them with thoughts of starting yet another project in his neighbourhood, one which, he had hopes--if it worked--that his father might actually let him keep.

He made the plans for his next project away from the house, in the fruit grove at the back of the six hectare property, to keep it away from any prying eyes until he was happy with it. He was just about to add the last detail to his plan, when the sky lit up as bright as a camera flash for an entire six seconds.

'War!' was his first thought. 'Some bastard has just nuked us!' He waited for the Earth to rumble and shake, as he would have expected that such an explosion must cause it to do. Nothing! Even the birds remained silent for a long time afterwards. All was silent...

Every television and radio station covered the event. It was reported that the largest ever recorded solar flare had erupted from the sun to go hurtling across space with such speed and force that, had it travelled in the direction of the earth, it would have wiped out every living thing on the planet. The oceans themselves would have disappeared in a flash.

Ben was ready to listen now, as he waited for the third phone call from the lady with the strange accent.

She made him wait, for another two full weeks. For two weeks, her previous words continued to play havoc with his mind. 'Cursed luck! Karmic debt! Sixth Generation! Me! Me! Me! It falls all on me!'

Then came the third phone call.

'Hello?'

'Hello Ben!' unmistakable accent. 'Are you ready to listen to me now?'

'Of course I'm ready! I don't even know who or what you are. At least tell me who I'm dealing with! What is your name? Where are you from? How do you know all these things? Tell me!'

'It isn't necessary that you know everything about me, Ben. The important thing is, for you to believe that I am willing to help you and that I have the ability to do so. For the sake of a name, you can just call me Zeta. I will help you but you must follow all of my instructions exactly, or it will all be for nothing and you will lose this battle that you never should have had to fight in the first place.'

'Okay! Okay! Just tell me what I have to do to beat this thing!' His voice was far shriller than he intended for it to be, but he was beginning to panic now.

'I need you to calm down Ben! I am here to help you, and I won't abandon you, not if I get your solemn word that you will see this through until the end. Whatever you do, you must not stop half way through this. So long as you do everything that I tell you, and I do mean everything, your life will turn out far better than you could have ever imagined that it would. All of the luck that was destined to be yours, from a time before you were even born, will be restored to you in full. You will have no Karmic debt at all. The debt was never yours Ben, and if you do everything that I ask of you, it never will be.'

'Sure! Okay! Tell me what I must do!'

'Your solemn word first Ben! If you give it, then you must keep your promise, not only for the sake of your own soul, but for the sake of your future generations.'

'You have my solemn word Veta! I'll follow your instructions, all of them! Until you say otherwise.'

'Zeta! Veta! It makes no difference. I have your word! That is all I needed. Thank you! Now we can begin in earnest to bring this mess to an end. Keep your promise Ben, and you have nothing to fear.'

~~~

This man of the Fifth Generation, had summoned Baakiel more often than any of his predecessors ever had. He always wanted more.

Baakiel would strike the man dead and personally escort his soul to the underworld if he could, but the Karmic debt was not yet ready to be transferred to the sixth generation. Or, that is to say, that the Sixth Generation was not yet ready to receive it. The one who was known as Ben had somehow managed to avoid it for all these years. Though with no luck and no protection, he was slowly but surely being worn down. He was not considered by Baakiel to be a particularly strong minded individual, yet even with his soul being gradually eaten away, to be replaced with a sense of hopelessness, somehow the man of the Sixth Generation had managed to hold out against the onslaught.

Even the King of the Underworld had lost patience, at one time, with the slow speed of Ben's induction, and had ordered Baakiel to attack the man of the Sixth Generation in a much more direct manner, and to force him into compliance with the plan for him to take on the Karmic debt. That was the only time in many a millennium that Baakiel had ever felt fear. It was the only time ever that he had directly refused to follow the King's orders.

'He has never even once stood up to his father, who even with all the power that we have granted him is still as nothing. This Ben is a weakling of mind.' Baakiel stated the opinion that dared to challenge his Lord's order.

'This weakling of mind, as you call him, Baakiel, has successfully stood up against all of your efforts so far!' The King of the Underworld spoke to Baakiel with a venom that was usually reserved for lower ranking demons. 'You will obey my command!' he screamed.

'I will not!' Baakiel spat out, then immediately regretted his rashness as fear almost overwhelmed him. He quickly hid his fear but not before his King had noticed it. Then adding in a softer tone, Baakiel said, 'If I attack him in a more direct manner, his mind will turn to mush, and the sixth generation will be of absolutely no use to us. I will not fail you my Lord! We will have him doing our bidding, but he must be brought along carefully. I do not want to lose this one, my Lord. Too much work has been put into achieving our goal for us to risk losing everything now. We need this Sixth Generation.' Then almost as an after-thought, Baakiel added, 'Many have tried to bring the Karmic debt along before me, but only I, Baakiel, have managed to bring it this close to fulfilment.' It was something that his King could not deny.

Baakiel recalled that argument, as he flew toward his summoning. He had won the debate in more ways than one. His Lord had ceded to his reasoning. The King of the Underworld knew that the Sixth Generation had to be won for the Karmic debt to continue to gain the momentum and power that would bring about the final battle not only for the Earth, but for Heaven itself.

He had won the argument and all the demons of Hell now feared Baakiel, the only demon to ever directly refuse their king's order, but the price, should he now fail, was incomprehensible.

~~~

For the next three months, Ben continued to receive unusual mystic symbols. Each time that they arrived, they came with simple instructions of the way in which they were to be used and a warning that those instructions must be followed to the letter. They involved moon phases, planetary movements, the lighting of white candles and Latin sounding chants.

He had no idea just how the mystic symbols arrived. One time, he opened a new pack of cereal for his breakfast. Just inside the pack, was yet another symbol. At first, Ben thought that the woman, Zeta, must have come into his home while he slept, and placed it inside the cereal box. Then he saw the instructions for it. They were clearly printed on the inside of the previously unopened cardboard box.

Another time, a symbol and Latin sounding words gradually, over the course of a day, appeared on his left forearm. Ben was unable to wash it off. He wore a long sleeved shirt to hide it, so that no-one would ask him questions about the strange symbol and words.

That night, under the power of a full moon, just as he was instructed to do, he lit two white candles and placed his forearm on the table between them as he chanted the words that were given to him to recite, seven times over. Immediately after Ben had uttered the last word of the chant, for the seventh time, the flames of the candles rose to a height of fifteen inches and enveloped him in a brilliant blue light, before slowly receding back to their normal yellow flames again. Ben sat feeling stunned for a while but was then galvanised into action and blowing the white candles out from left to right, he wrapped them in white cloth and took them to the street outside the family home. He placed the white, cloth wrapped candles inside the bin for rubbish that was due to be collected the next morning.

It was the same ritual with the candles every time. New candles were to be used for each mystic chanting. Afterwards, they were to be wrapped in white cloth and thrown out. He had been warned, never to keep the candles or to use them more than once each.

At first, Ben didn't notice any changes at all, but as his confidence grew, his luck seemed to change and everything that he turned his hand to began to bring him success.

While Ben knew that his father had never loved him, he did begin showing Ben some grudging respect. Still, he could detect a jealousy in his father's eyes, a deep resentment that he held towards his son.

~~~

Over the next two years, Ben's confidence grew in leaps and bounds. Business could not have been better than it was under his guiding hand.

While there was still no part of it officially in his name, it remained only in the name of his father, the aging tyrant had not had any other choice than to give Ben a greater and greater control in the everyday running of the empire.

Ben could not have been happier than he now was, married to a beautiful if somewhat naïve woman. His first child was now on the way and business was booming in an empire that was destined to one day become his own. His stolen luck had been restored to him in greater abundance than he ever could have imagined.

Then came the phone call!

'Hello?'

'Hello Ben! The time has come now, for you to keep your final promise that you made to me, your final instruction. You must take your wife and leave your father's empire forever. I will help you to build a new and far greater empire!'

At first, Ben didn't recognize the voice that he had not heard for two years, and then he remembered.

'Zeta! Things are different now Zeta. I no longer need your services! I am running almost the entire empire by myself, and I have my father's respect. He doesn't like it but he has no choice in the matter. He can't hurt me anymore and he knows it. Everything has changed now!'

'Don't be such a fool Ben! Your father still has more power than you can imagine. He is the Fifth Generation of the Karmic debt. You gave me your solemn word!'

'Karmic debt! Karmic debt! If there is a Karmic debt, born of generations before me, then as you yourself said, Zeta, it is in no way mine. If I have incurred a so-called Karmic debt myself, then I will give a little more to charity. Not that I don't give more than enough now to deal with any kind of debt that you think I might have. Do you not read the papers, Zeta, or watch the news? In the last two years, I have personally donated over one hundred thousand dollars to charitable organisations.'

'You have made over two hundred million Ben! Do you really believe that a few thousand dollars given here and there, can somehow absolve you of any guilt?'

'Then I will donate another hundred thousand! My guilt is not that large! I have done nothing wrong! You want me to take my wife and my unborn child away from here, to just walk away from everything that I have worked so hard for? You want me to just give up everything and walk away, the empire, the money, everything? I won't do it!'

'It is the only way that I can protect you from Baakiel and his intentions toward you Ben, and even more importantly, your unborn son. You are the sixth generation! If you don't leave now, Baakiel will win your soul and place the entire Karmic debt on you. Let your father be the last one Ben, not you. Let me help you! I have proven that I have the ability! I have already got your stolen luck back for you. You can build a new empire, one that has not been tainted by generations of Karmic debt. I will help you! If Baakiel wins your soul now, he will become the second most powerful force of the Underworld. You will have no hope of ever escaping the debt or being in control your own destiny again.'

'Fuck off! I am in control of my own destiny now, and no-one, not Baakiel, not even you, Zeta, will ever take that away from me again!' The venom with which Ben now spoke surprised even himself, and reminded him of the way that his father used to speak, before Ben had managed to get control of his own life. _Now_ , Ben thought to himself, _this bitch, calling herself Zeta, wants me to simply throw it all away?_

'I have done all that I can do to keep Baakiel from claiming your soul for himself Ben. You know that I have! Last chance now, to keep your promise to me!'

'FUCK OFF!'

The line went dead and Ben wondered whether Zeta would try to do him some harm with all her mystic spells, but in all truth, he no longer believed in any of it. 'No! My luck finally changing for the better, had nothing to do with her. It was simply because I have become stronger and more confident.'

Zeta did not bother to cast mystic spells on Ben. In fact, he never heard from Zeta again.

~~~

Baakiel took his own time to go to the summoning. He had no choice other than to answer the call from this man of the Fifth Generations, but he refused to be rushed.

He could sense that something was different this time. The call had been desperate, almost begging in its nature. The man of the Fifth Generation had become weakened in so many ways, and the man of the Sixth Generation, Ben, was becoming stronger. Baakiel knew that soon he would claim yet another soul and that the Karmic debt, which had been nurtured and grown for generations, would be passed along to someone new. That is the way that it had always been. The next generation always resisted taking on the Karmic debt, but given a little taste of power, here and there, they eventually became hungry for it. The lure of the Karmic debt's power became like an addictive drug to them. Once they had taken on the debt of previous generations, it melded intricately and inseparably with their own, growing in power with each new merging. It was in the merging with the new receivers own Karmic debt that made it impossible to remove again, until it was passed to yet another generation.

Below him, Baakiel saw a few lower ranking demons, playing mindless games which brought despair to a few hapless humans. The demons squabbled among themselves in their own pointless little political struggles to gain position over one another. Baakiel knew that not a single one of them would ever have the chance to climb the ranks and become anything of significance, either here in the natural world, or within the underworld, so he chose to ignore their foolishness. Even so, as he soared through the sky above them, his shadow alone was enough to send them scurrying like frightened mice.

~~~

'Empire? Empire you say!' His words were toxic towards his father. 'You have no empire, old man! These papers, that I hold here in my hand, say so. They say that you are senile, incompetent and not able to make reasonable decisions for yourself. Read them!' Ben shoved the papers into his father's face with such force that a small droplet of blood trickled from the nose of the former tyrant and settled on his quivering lip. 'I have an empire!' Ben continued with his tirade. 'You! You, old man, have nothing! You are nothing, not anymore!' He vented his anger against his father, remembering all the years that he himself had been made to feel like he was nothing, but now the power was all his.

For the last few years, a change had been coming over Ben. He had become very adept in the world of business. A hard man, but always a fair man. He had loved his wife, but had been unable to show it. Now she had left him. He had loved his son too, very much so, and had found that he could lavish all of his love and affection on the boy, that which had always been denied to Ben from his own father.

Now a further change came over Ben. One with a seeming finality to it. At last, he had become able to stand up to his father. True, the first time was in a rather underhanded way. He had procured all the necessary legal papers that would allow him to take over the empire. Now that he had felt such power, he wanted more. It gave him a kind of strength that he had never known before, and he couldn't get enough to satisfy his newfound hunger for it. He wanted it all, whatever he could take. To Ben, the old man was nothing more than a mere symbol for everything that had previously been denied to him.

Just then, a small hand pushed the door open and four year old Jeremy stepped into the room.

'Get out, you little piece of shit!' Never before had Ben spoken to his son in that way, not to the only human being in the world that he had been able to openly show affection to. He was not now, however, prepared to share this moment that he saw as his glory with anyone, not even with this innocent little one.

Tears welled up in the boy's eyes and he ran from the room. He had always adored his father, but this man who had his father's face was a complete stranger to him. Four year old Jeremy was terrified. His mother had packed her bags and left the family home three weeks beforehand. Jeremy now felt completely alone.

The old man gathered up the last vestige of his pride and raised his head high, to look squarely into his son's eyes. He could barely recognize Ben anymore. He chose his words carefully and spoke them clearly with what little courage he could muster.

'Death to you Ben! Death be on you! May Death itself come to rest on your head!' The rest of the curse was mouthed over and over again, but it was inaudible. 'Baakiel... Baakiel... Baakiel...'

'Fuck off old man! I've had enough of curses and the like. I am not some weak child anymore to live in fear of such things. I refuse your curse! I refuse your authority and I refuse you!'

~~~

Baakiel arrived at the house silently and invisible, three days later. He quickly surveyed the situation. Everything had changed.

The old man of the Fifth Generation sat silently, still mouthing the same word over and over, 'Baakiel... Baakiel...'

Ben, the man of the Sixth Generation stood glaring at his father with pure hatred, almost daring him to come out of his catatonic state.

A small child lay curled up on the floor near the door, hugging himself, obviously terrified of both the men.

Baakiel touched the mind of the man of the Fifth Generation, at least what was left of the man's mind. He saw all that had transpired and knew immediately why he had been summoned.

Reaching into the old man's body, Baakiel removed his writhing, tormented soul.

'No! No! No! Not me! Ben is the one that you are here for. No!' the old man screamed to Baakiel as he saw his own body slump lifelessly on the sofa.

'There was only ever one rule for you to follow, old man!' Baakiel sneered at the man of the Fifth Generation. 'You could not physically harm, nor bring harm to, the next generation. You dare summon me to bring death to him? Ben is strong now, old man. He has refused your curse. Still, it has been issued and I must take someone. This was the last time that you will ever summon me, the last time that I will ever come to your bidding. Now you come to me! Don't worry old man! Ben may have refused your curse, but he no-longer refuses my gift.' With that, Baakiel released the man of the fifth generation from the Karmic debt, and watched on with glee as the man of the sixth generation took it onto himself. The five generations of Karmic debt bound itself tightly to Ben's own Karmic debt, becoming one with it, then the six generations of it were complete and more powerful than they had ever been before. Full understanding came to Ben now, and he relished its arrival.

The old man's last scream was eternal.

As Ben had watched his father draw his last breath, and understanding was imparted to him, he had felt the power of the generational Karmic debt surge through him. All that it had cost him, to have everything that he had ever wanted, was his eternal soul. He glared balefully at his four year old son, who was still curled up in a fetal position by the door. The dark look that Ben gave to his son now, under the renewed and strengthened power of the Karmic debt, was enough to make ornaments rattle in their places on the shelves.

Ben knew that he would never be allowed to bring or to cause any kind of physical harm to the child. The child was of the Seventh Generation. Ben also understood that if his son were to ever grow up to be strong enough, then the child, and only the child, could take all of this newfound power away from him. Ben deemed that he would never allow that to happen. Instead, he vowed to keep the Seventh Generation weakened.

He could feel his own power, strong, determined, sure that none other than himself would ever be needed for the final battle. He had taken on and beaten the powerful fifth. The mantle of power, Ben decided, was now his right alone to possess. He was no more willing than was his father before him to share it, and he was prepared to go to any length that was necessary not to lose it to another, not even to his son.

Baakiel spread his wings in preparation to leave. As he did, one black metallic wing tip touched, almost caressed, the small boy's head, leaving a mark upon it and draining him of his destined luck. Baakiel then added it to the new power, that of the Sixth Generation.

'Soon! Soon my little one, my seventh and last generation.' With that, Baakiel was gone, returning to the Underworld and taking with him the tormented soul from the man of the Fifth Generation.

~~~

Jeremy was small for his age. Only a few days short of his tenth birthday, he looked only six, or at most seven, years old.

He waited, just as he'd always had to wait, for a driver to come and take him back home from the purpose built school house. The little school had been built just for Jeremy alone. There were no other students at all. Jeremy could hardly remember a time when he had even seen other children. When he had seen them, he was never allowed to play with them, or even to speak with them. His father did not want him to be in the way, hanging around the house, so the little school had been built.

He had always been told that the high walls that prevented him from seeing out from the school yard, had been put there for his protection. Jeremy hated those walls.

Through the wrought iron gates, he sometimes caught a glimpse of the guards who stood on duty just on the other side of them. He had on occasion gone over to those gates to try and befriend the guards. He didn't bother to do that anymore. Whenever he had managed to make a friend of one, that guard was soon replaced by another. It was the same with his teachers. Jeremy had seen so many new teachers come and go, each with a different method for him to get used to, and his grades suffered badly because of it. All for his protection, he was told.

'Hello Jeremy!'

Jeremy was caught by surprise. He had not seen a car drive up, or realised that the stranger was standing beside him.

Yet another new driver, he thought.

'Hello.' he answered timidly. 'Where is the car?'

'We don't need a car, Jeremy. Why don't the two of us just go for a walk instead?' the stranger smiled at him. Jeremy had never seen a more dazzling smile than the stranger gave to him. It made him feel light-hearted and for the first time that he could recall, he felt completely safe.

'What's your name?' he heard himself ask.

'I have used many different names throughout the years Jeremy. Your father knew me as Zeta. Just call me Zeta!'

'You know my father?' Jeremy was incredulous that his father might know such a warm and wonderful human being as this young lady seemed to be. He thought it to be even more incredible that someone like her would even want to know his scary old dad.

'I knew him! I knew him before he changed to become what he is now. I knew your grandfather quite well also Jeremy. In fact, I even knew his father too.'

At this, Jeremy gave the one called Zeta a curious look, but then he started to laugh. It was quite obvious to him that such a young lady could not have known his grandfather's father. He liked this lady. She had made him laugh. She took him by the hand and as they walked, they chatted. It felt so good to Jeremy to at last have himself a friend, that he didn't even notice, that when she pushed on the gate which was supposed to be locked, that it opened easily for her. He didn't even question why there were no guards on duty. He just walked with her, trusting his newfound friend.

~~~

The Supreme Ruler of the underworld ranted and screamed, 'What do you mean, you can't find him, Baakiel? You promised me seven generations for the Karmic debt! Where is my Seventh? Where is the child Jeremy? If you have allowed the man of the Sixth Generation to harm him in any way...'

'No, my King! The man Ben knows that he is not to harm the child!'

'Then where is he? I want my Seventh!' he spat at Baakiel.

'My Lord, I have scoured the face of the entire Natural World for him. The child is nowhere to be found within it.'

'Well then, Baakiel, if the child is not to be found anywhere within the Natural World, he must no longer be in the Natural World. Can your pathetic mind comprehend that? If you cannot bring me the Seventh, then you have failed me. You have failed in the very mission that you yourself asked me to send you on, in exchange for the largest possible reward, I might add. So, Baakiel, tell me, what do you plan to do now, in order to keep your promise to me? Oh! Please do tell me that you plan to storm the very gates of Heaven, all by yourself, take on the vast army of the Most High God, somehow find the missing Seventh and deliver him back here to me. The thought of you attempting that would bring me no end of amusement.'

'My King,' Baakiel pleaded, 'I can still get you a Seventh. Ben, the man of the Sixth Generation could father another son for you, one that could become the new Seventh.'

'Did you disobey my direct order Baakiel?' the Supreme Ruler of the Underworld asked, hissing.

'My Lord?'

'Did you, or did you not, place the mark on the head of child Jeremy, as I instructed you to do? The mark that would have him found anywhere that he might go or be taken to in the Natural World?'

'I did as you ordered Lord!'

'Then no other can bear the mark for one hundred years, once a chosen one has been given it. Do you think your stud, Ben, will still be up to fathering another child one hundred years from now?' the King asked sarcastically. 'Your failure to me is complete Baakiel. Now you must face judgement.'

'Wait! Please!' pleaded Baakiel. 'Many have attempted to bring you seven generations of the Karmic debt before I did. All of them failed, my King, but I, Baakiel, came closer to succeeding than any of those before me. I brought you six generations my Lord. Surely such an effort is deserving of reward, not punishment. Who, before me, has delivered that much to you?'

'You dare to ask for a reward Baakiel? Do you really believe that coming so close to success, before utterly failing me, deserves to be rewarded? No! The reward for success, for personally delivering to me all seven generations, was to be the highest ever given. The punishment for your failure must be the greatest possible punishment.'

The Supreme Ruler of the Underworld suddenly leaped to his feet and placed a finger on Baakiel's forehead. The finger seared deep into Baakiel's skull, creating a wound that could never heal. Baakiel screamed and immediately felt his power drained from him.

'Now you have your very own mark, Baakiel. Let every demon that sees it, for all time, know that they can do with you whatever they please. The lowest ranking have power over you, for you carry no rank evermore.'

As soon as the words were issued by their king, every demon that heard it, pounced on Baakiel, whom they had formerly feared. Each of them was determined to exact their own kind of revenge. Baakiel was carried off by a seething horde and was never seen by the king again.

~~~

The Supreme Ruler had changed his appearance yet again. That didn't surprise any of them in the Underworld. What did take them by surprise, was that an angelic looking child sat by their king's side. 'Just call me Zeta,' quipped the king, 'and say hello to the Seventh, my greatest weapon yet, for the final battle!'
Reprieve

3 August 2015

Myfanwy Dabner

Newbridge, New South Wales

Australia

When Constancy's rain drops die as the clouds are lighter and resting.

When the gum's ombre brown shades peel off delivering silver skin.

And with leaning limbs out to bespoke green tips I have been given.

Strangers stand out; imposters wearing a garish glow; Mistletoe.

When our village is tucked just below the lightly laced cloud-line

That is machining a hint of snow cones,

It's chemistry who thanks the wind for her absence.

Until her Antarctic blast brings the crucial chill

then even stillness

then the sprinkling snow.

There is no sound only an eye to outside witnesses the even fall.

When lichen enclose my house I will return.

When I die I will.

When.
Callitris Glaucophylla

3 August 2015

Myfanwy Dabner

Newbridge, New South Wales

Australia

My healthy Cypress pins run in many lines across and parallel. Honey and smooth, stretching beyond one eye and one breath they are returning to me.

Out of reach

Lift me to touch them

Strong, coupling my waist

Straining

Up.

My tips touch honey

Smooth and

down.

Too far down now

I am not honey and smooth

My pins won't last a hundred cypress years

They're too soft and easily succulent to the termites that have moved in. Breaking and discarding my armour and eating my nut.

I'm failing.

Everyone is too much.

I bite like a termite.

But I know.

So I sit still like a pin and am aided by acid and numbing potion 'til the termites dissolve.

Pity

I will never be honey and smooth

I am not Cypress

I am a soft human.
Lombok

4 August 2015

Adrian Levet

Darlington, Western Australia

Australia

My dad used to collect shells from the beaches when we lived in Indonesia. As a child I would walk into the immaculate, shiny white-tiled bathroom and admire his collection. There were spiky shells, half clams and sea urchins that lay empty husks sitting on a cupboard. The star pattern was so detailed, it lay deeply embedded and etched into the top of the urchin's dome-like body, like it was an epitaph of some kind. Though I do not remember much about my time there, but joy and simplicity, such is the life a child should, and is lucky, to know, and I'm reminded of a story my mother told me fairly recently:

We stood among the beaches of Lombok, where we lived at the time. I was young, perhaps one year old. The sand was grey in areas; that volcanic sand that you find in these tropical areas that always seem to surprise you when you're there, because it's not as white as the glowing moon, and the sand doesn't squeak beneath your toes like they say it does on the adverts.

She held me tight, there amongst the water, much cleaner and pristine, then I'm told, holding me just above the small waves, which gently smoothed over the beach like a nice cooling blanket. I danced my feet in there, as her warm, comforting voice accompanied me. It was then that my mother referenced as her most feared moment in her life. A wave came and, so involved in our own world, we didn't notice it was to be shattered in an instant. We were dumped by the rogue wave, and we were sent hurtling through the disturbed sand, underneath the deception of the calm waters. My mother said she knew that if she let go of me, she would have never seen me again. I was held close, as we were tossed to and fro, as my mother had nothing but fear and worry in her mind.

When we emerged from the water, we were fine. She described the look on my face as someone who had just been the victim of a cruel joke. She told me I frowned at her, as if to say, 'Why did you do that, Mum?' How strange that our lives could be so fragile, that in one instant be here and then gone the next.

Now I walk on the tiles of a different bathroom, with the same shells lining the shelves and cupboards, exotic and intricate in their own ways and ponder how I might not have seen them in that room, there at that time, had she let go of me on that day.
Little Girl Lost

5 August 2015

Felicity Lynch

Katoomba, New South Wales

Australia

The pale lingering moon lit shadows under the trees in the park, whose branches reached out to embrace the stars whose light pinpricked the dark sheet of the sky.

A dog barked, breaking the deep silence in this vast park. A fat rat scurried across the path and vanished.

On the edge of the path was a bench, lit by a tall lamp, revealing a young child huddled asleep, her tears making glistening runnels on her cheeks.

The mother leant down and softly woke her daughter, gathering her close in her arms, whispering soft words of comfort to the little girl lost. She had wandered away from her parents a few hours earlier.

The father, a tall thin man, came running. He had been looking for his small daughter in another part of this vast park. He wrapped his arms around his wife and daughter in a big hug.

Lit by the bright lights of the tall lamps set on the sides of the many paths in the park, the little threesome walked slowly home. A family together again.
Talking Out Loud

6 August 2015

Jane Bevan

Lawnton, Queensland

Australia

Keoni was so excited. He was going to his great grandmother's ninetieth birthday and he was looking forward to cake. He was a bit worried about there being lots of old people though.

He'd been learning about the different generations at pre-school and he wasn't quite sure he would like a room full of old people. Someone in class said their grandmother was old and she smelled funny. Grammie didn't smell funny. But she wasn't that old, just his great grandmother. He hoped she didn't smell, especially at the party.

The big day arrived and Keoni was ready early. He tried to wait patiently while his mummy got dressed but she was so slow and he was thinking about the cake and hoping he wasn't going to miss out. 'Hurry up, Mummy,' he yelled. 'We're going to be late.'

Finally Keoni, Mummy and Grammie got in the car to go to the party. There were lots of old people at the nursing home; he hoped there were some kids his age at the party. He peeped nervously around the door. Oh my, there were so many old people. He didn't really want to go in but if he didn't he wouldn't get any birthday cake and besides his mummy was pushing him through the door.

He saw his great grandmother. She was dressed in her best clothes and she didn't smell so he gave her a big hug. They said at school that the older generations died to make way for the younger ones. He wanted to make sure he gave her a big hug and said goodbye before she died. He wouldn't see her for a long time once she went to heaven.

There were so many people standing up to talk in the microphone. He asked his poppy why only old people were allowed to use the microphone. Poppy just laughed.

Someone talked about Great Grandma's husband who had already gone to heaven. They said he was in the army. That was exciting--Keoni liked the army. He asked his mummy in his best loud voice if Great Grandpa had shot anyone. Mummy just laughed and looked embarrassed. She told him he had to be quiet while people were talking. Goodness, why did grown-ups laugh so much at his questions?

Finally, after so much waiting and after he had to eat lunch, they brought out a big chocolate cake with lots of candles. Keoni raced over and blew the candles out. It would be too much for his great grandmother to blow them out--he didn't want her to be tired for her party.

Poppy gave him a great big piece of cake and a spoon.

All the waiting and listening was worth it. He was a very happy little four year old.
Under The Eaves Of Heaven...

7 August 2015

Maxima

Germany

Tonight

On your lips, my darling,

I can read love verses

Flowing softly and sweetly

I welcome them

And turn them

Into a gentle touch

That wanders all over you

Dreaming our dream...

Dazzled by a swallow's joy

Under the eaves of heaven

I build our home

Build it for you,

So beautiful and graceful

Under the moonlit sky...

Inside me

There is an eternal flame

Burning so bright,

My angel,

You are the love

Of my life
Still A Mother

8 August 2015

Susan Sargent

Australia

The darkness of the room was comforting, all the better to see that small screen. She had been anticipating this day since she booked it a few weeks earlier, finally able to see her precious baby. Her excitement was obvious in her expression as the details slowly appeared: a spine, a heartbeat, a face. She was so engrossed in the magical images, that she didn't notice the frown on the sonographer's face.

He did, however. He missed nothing. He didn't wish to upset her, so sat quietly beside her while they waited for the doctor, holding her hand in both of his and hoping she did not feel his anxiety. Perhaps he had misunderstood, and seeing the doctor was normal. They hadn't done this before, after all.

She couldn't remember the name of the problem that the doctor told her. It didn't matter anyway. All that mattered were those words that came after--incompatible with life. They hit her like a punch in the face. Her baby would be born, and then die.

And then they asked her to make a choice. End it now, or wait until Mother Nature called the baby home. What sort of choice was that? Not one that any mother should have to make, that's for sure. She certainly couldn't. That was Nature's choice, not hers.

Did she have any questions?

Questions? Questions? How could she ask a question in that moment? There was only one, but it could never pass her lips. How exactly does one live with the knowledge that your child, your desperately awaited, precious baby, safe inside you, with beating heart and dancing limbs, was already condemned to death?

Her mind spun in a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. She lashed out at her husband for the slightest detail, then dissolved into weeping a moment later. She sat and stared for hours on end, looking at nothing but feeling everything. Why? Why her baby? She had done everything right. All those recommendations, she had followed every single one, down to the letter. She felt the fluttering movements, she saw and heard the heartbeat. There was life! Maybe she would wake up and all would be fine. Yes, a nightmare. A prolonged, excruciating nightmare. That's what this was.

One small phrase finally created some sense of acceptance. 'You are still a mother.' One little comment, she couldn't even remember who said it, that made sense of the situation. Mother Nature may rob her of her child soon enough, but she could never rob her of motherhood. She could never take away the magic feeling of a life moving inside her, the immense love of a mother towards her child, the gift of life, no matter how brief. She would nurture and protect this life, as any mother would, until Nature's call could no longer be ignored.

Death did not frighten her. It hurt. Oh, did it hurt. But she had the courage to pull herself through.
Gabe In A Pickle

9 August 2015

Fantail

Mount Barker, South Australia

Australia

_A huge solar flare --the largest for millennia--erupted, spewing ions and isotopes into space..._

Different-paced streams of material collided, generating shock-waves that moved at over twelve hundred kilometres a second. A strand of this roiling wind gusted past a warped wormhole, straightening it and knocking it back into its proper place.

In a city lockup, an angel sensed the change and grew restless. 'Is anyone there?' he called.

'Oi! Mate,' the duty constable spoke through the cell door, 'pipe down! Court in the morning so get some shut-eye.' Yawning widely, he returned to his office and stood, looking at the huge wings sprawled across the desk. Their luxury intrigued him. Lightly, he ran his hands along them. Must have cost a mint. They were heavy, too. He lifted them and carefully placed them on a shelf. Above him, the wall-clock quietly ticked. Only one o'clock in the morning. It was going to be a long one. The fairy in lockup had finally quietened so he stepped out into the night. A lightning flash far to the north made his hair prickle. He hated thunderstorms. Definitely time for a burger and chips. The young policeman shuddered, crossed the road and walked briskly to the big M on the corner.

Back in the holding cell, sudden urgency tugged Gabe from his bunk. Visions assailed him: of chaos; of a tunnel in space; of clouds twisting with argent violence, demanding his attention. He needed to be back at his house in the hills.

'Let me outta here!' he yelled. All was quiet. He called again. Irritated by the lack of response, he threw himself hard against the back wall of the cell and exploded into the dim-lit city. Wings! He barreled back inside, smashed through into an office, snatched the streams of feathers from a shelf--ignoring the coat--and sped back out. For a second, he gazed wildly about. Buildings buttressed the sky in all quarters but one. There, a range of hills reared against the wavering red glow of an aurora. Gabe set his sight on this and ran.

The whoop of sirens lent wings to his feet. He fled into a side-street, ducked behind a pallet of boxes and waited for a stream of police cars to pass. In the silence that followed, he caught the hum of a vehicle approaching from the other direction. For a second he waited, then sprinted from his hiding place, out and across the main road just in time to haul himself onto a bus that had stopped to let a passenger alight. Puffing, he validated his for-all-emergencies ticket and flopped onto a seat near the middle door... and was most amazed when the bus, which had been heading in the right direction, turned left, stopped to let the only other passenger off, and then turned left again to carry him away from his home in the hills.
Yoknapatawphan Melody

10 and 11 August 2015

MC Alves

New York

USA

_None of us can help the things life has done to us. They're done before you realize it, and once they're done they make you do other things until at last everything comes between you and what you'd like to be, and you've lost your true self forever._

~ Eugene O' Neill, _Long Day's Journey Into Night_

The landlady was fuming in the quince orchard. Lori had vanished. Dona Flora, a short, squat troll of a woman was muttering obscene incantations, ham-fisted hands on bovine hips, eyes ablaze with naked fury as she marched along the rows of trees. Every so often she would snatch one of the mangled fruits off a branch, inspecting it and then discarding each with an angry grunt. It was another blisteringly hot August day on the road to nowhere.

The boy watched from above, hidden behind the entwined grape vines which shrouded the entire terrace. It was an old but lovely _finca_ , not nearly large enough to be considered an _estancia_ , but the previous lady who owned it had taken great care in her choice of flowers and shrubbery. She had created a place of brilliant colors and subtle scents, contrasting with the arid and rocky lands which surrounded it, cold, dank and muddy in the long winter months, during summer harshly hot, dusty and drier than your granpappy's scalp.

Unlike her neighbors she had kept no chickens or goats, not even a dog--there had apparently been a pig once given that a dilapidated, fenced pen still sat underneath the terrace but, legend had it, it had vanished under mysterious circumstances--and so the plants remained ever undisturbed. It had been she who had nurtured the quince orchard and it was the fine harvest it produced which gave the small property its value. It was also the reason Dona Flora had bought the place.

He did not know to where, nor why, Lori had vanished. A group of her friends from the Lycée had come looking for her and they had been quite worried. Beyond that the lad knew nothing. He did, however, know about the fate of this season's quince crop. His friend from Toulouse was one hell of a shot with a BB-Gun, a far better marksman than he as evidenced by the final tally of perforated fruit bullseyes. He felt a sudden need for privacy. The landlady would soon turn her attention toward discovering the cause and culprit, best to be elsewhere when she did.

He went to Lori's room. It was a mess. That was not like her. The bed unmade, clothes strewn on the floor as well as her favorite Beach Boys 45. Lori was infatuated. Love she called it. Maybe it was. She had been in love before. It usually ended in tears. Hers or theirs. But this time she did seem quite smitten. She played Harry Nilsson's _Without You_ constantly. That was apparently her new amour's favorite. She was even teaching the boy to dance. Not that he wanted to learn. She would prevail upon him to join her out on the large veranda and then drag him about through various and sundry dance steps. He did not think he would ever again wish to waltz or watoosi but he submitted to the lessons so as to please his older sister's enraptured condition.

The boy loved Lori, too. She was his best, only, girl friend. After their parents' divorce they spent summers together when the boy was sent over for the duration of his school vacation. Lori lived here with their grandfather. She was also a better student than he. But he harbored no competitive feelings toward Lori. She was brilliant, popular and until the divorce they had always been close. He had noticed changes in her, the influence of a culture rather different than their native New England, for one, and other subtle differences but he imagined that it was simply the fact that she was growing up. _Too bad_ , he thought.

What had happened? She had said nothing to him. But experience taught him to be wary of knocks on the door. One summer a cousin had appeared unexpected. His grandfather was not fond of the lad, why he did not say, but he allowed him to stay for a while. He had proven to be a good mate and they went swimming and played football on the street almost every day. In this country, as in so many, football is a mighty passion. One would be hard-pressed to find any vacant lot, space or side-street anywhere that was not being used as a football field. The boy and his cousin and anyone else who showed up would play pick-up on the street, pausing only when the rare car approached. These pseudo-olympic games stopped only after the Guarda Nacional Republicana answered a complaint from some cantankerous curmudgeon about the racket made by shouting boys. He and his cousin sought other endeavors after being warned sternly that playing ball in the street was forbidden. There were many things forbidden in that country back then.

The boy developed mixed feelings about his cousin. He had a somewhat sadistic bent. This became evident when he demanded they go frog hunting. There were hundreds on the river bank. It was not an uncommon sport for boys to hunt frogs. But his cousin liked dissecting them. He told the boy that he had been reading a textbook about instincts. He said that there were different reactions, the learned and the instinctive. For example, a 'learned' reaction was when someone first put their hand in flame, got burnt, they would not do so again; an 'instinctive' reaction was exemplified by the male frog: while copulating, if the frog were cut in half, would nonetheless continue its motion. His cousin found that fascinating. The boy wondered whose idea it was to cut the frog in half.

There came one early morning when a loud knock on the door awakened everyone. The GNR. Both the boy and his cousin were hauled off to jail. His grandfather asked him what he and his cousin had done. The boy was shocked. He had no idea. After a few hours sitting on the hard bench of the station, they were taken before the Chief. His cousin had escaped from a Reformatory. The boy was given a stern warning about playing football in the street but his cousin was taken away. He had not, and would never, forget what that knock on the door sounded like.

He decided to see if he could find out what was up with Lori. But first he wanted a smoke. He went to the dresser where Lori hid hers and slid out one 'High Life' from the pack hidden underneath Lori's pile of _Paris Match_ magazines. There was a photo of her in one of them. She was a very pretty girl.

The boy opened the doors and crawled out onto the metal grates which were the skeleton supporting the overhanging vines above the front terrace and made his way quietly down to the road. He learned such stealth from the many times he had needed to avoid the scrutiny of his stern grandfather on those occasions he had gone night fishing with his mates. He could still hear the landlady's invectives, and the smooshing of quinces, as he made his way to the village.

The village had only one café. Small, of course. This was the hub of the universe for anyone who lived within twenty kilometers along the road to nowhere. It was the post office, cultural center, dry goods store, town hall, communications center, in short, the nerve center. In the evening it was always packed with folks who had come to watch television--a rare luxury, having a television in those days--or play various card games and dominoes. They also had four Futsal tables, table football. The boy had developed quite a knack for that game. He had learned the trick of dominoes from his grandfather but it was at the Futsal tables where he would spend much of his time. When he got there the café was empty. A rarity even for this early afternoon hour. Not a soul. It was dark and cool inside so the boy headed for the back room from where he could hear the 'schwokk!' of the hard, wooden balls as it caromed off the side of the table. There was good sport afoot. He made for the game. As he passed one of the empty tables he noticed a small pile of change on one of them. No empty cup nor glass, nothing else, just a few coins. Enough for three games. He was not one given to thievery but this seemed to be a matter of finders-keepers. He deliberated for a few minutes but then scooped up the coins and went to off to play.

He won three out of four. But when he emerged from the game room the owner and a patron were in a heated argument. The man was bellicose, beet-red and animated, furiously exclaiming his outrage at being accused of not leaving payment for his sarsaparilla on the table. What was the world coming to when an honest man need tolerate such unwarranted suspicion? The owner remained impassive. The patron remained outraged. The boy made his way quietly out the door. He once again appreciated the value of stealth. He had not intended to cause such a ruckus. Had he seen anything else on the table he would not have taken the coins. Too late now.

He sat on the bench in front of the café, wondering whether he should go back in and explain. But that would mean a reimbursement would be required. Therein lay the rub. Perhaps tomorrow.

As he sat deliberating, from the alley across the road a group of men emerged. They were quite loud and quite harsh. The boy soon saw that in the middle of the group a young man was staggering. His shirt was ripped and had blood stains on the front. The men were shoving him along, grabbing at him, taunting and every so often they would kick him. The boy was startled at the sight. He had never seen anything quite like it. Tar and feathers lacking, it seemed as though they were dragging this lad along with as much discomfort and humiliation as they could inflict. The back road to Calvary.

Then the boy saw who it was. It was Lori's new love.

The boy cautiously approached the group and asked one of the men what had he done. He stole a fucking chicken, he answered.

The walk back home was far longer than the one to the café. When he arrived the landlady was thankfully gone but the air was full of the smell of quince. As he climbed back up along the hanging vines he could hear sobbing from Lori's open window.

He knocked gently on her door and asked if she was alright. She said yes. After a few moments he asked her if she would give him another dancing lesson tomorrow. She said maybe.
By Way Of Dream

12 August 2015

Graham Sparks

Bathurst, New South Wales

Australia

Serene may be the face with which the

waters contemplate blue heaven,

where little puffs of doubt go scudding by,

and there a company of ripples play,

at whose emergence is bewrayed in hidden deeps,

convolved emotional batholith

and clots of rocky embolism,

in reefs of sinister array.

To think this is a phantasm,

or something come by way of dream,

is but an object gained with reasonable misperception,

for in the light of day

this is the face of every person in the street.
Heaven's Bow

12 August 2015

Graham Sparks

Bathurst, New South Wales

Australia

Desirous of possessing lifetimes five

I think of feats I would perform,

and being granted such expanse of temporal territory,

the seeds of things that jostle in my breast and vie for birth

would all be born and come to fruit.

But knowing that a single lifetime's span is all I have,

and that what was is mostly gone,

those seeds beget examination scrupulous,

knowing that the most of them will go with me to grave.

How keening is that pain of choosing.

With lachrymose resign do I relinquish

hold on birthing projects mine,

little living things, prototypes of my design.

Things beloved yet within the womb.

Knowing this I'm led to know that this is for the best,

for if I were to tarry longer than the standard deal

my genome would incur retardance in its evolution.

How can I not love that string that from the first does stretch unto the last?

That thing of which I am an avatar,

a little knot of rich harmonics standing in a wave upon that twanging twine,

stretched across the span of heaven's bow.
Our Grandmother's Story (From My Perspective)

13 August 2015

Marcalan McVicker

Grants Pass, Oregon

USA

In London,

The Hall was packed.

Beautiful ladies in their gowns and jewels,

the men in their finest attire.

Chandeliers, gold embossed scroll work on the balconies and walls,

palatial wonders, nothing lacked.

The audience murmured with excitement as they found their way to their seats.

The orchestra settling with their instruments,

arranged their music and wiped their sweaty palms.

Nervous eyes awaiting the conductor's calm.

Pitched to wild crescendo, lingering, he works the audience,

as he enters 'the pit', they jump to their feet.

He mounts his podium after several stiff bows,

the musicians sigh quietly, internally, they can focus and relax now.

He turns his back to the audience and gazes over his well-tuned, human machine.

His stern, chiseled face looks at his music and opens the page.

The baton is raised, the curtain remains closed

on the stage.

The violins start with the lightest of pastel,

the French horns and cello paint their green and blue,

the harp adds its silver and gold.

So, begins the dream.

The notes begin to rise, he stirs them together in a whirling tempest strand,

they fill the air into the hall; no ear escapes his hand.

The lights have dimmed except for the amber light on the curtain.

She watches from behind, to the side of the stage

and moves to her seat at the Grand, fully engaged.

Her demeanor defined, her poise, her spirit swells.

She is the star of this performance; that one thing, is for certain.

The audience, well primed, is at an emotional peak.

Her cue arrives and with her dynamic chords;

away the curtain sweeps!

The audience is left breathless, together they gasp for air.

To be the witness of such skill,

to marvel at perhaps the one thing holy in man, oh, what a thrill.

Surely, they have just tread,

where angels only dare.

The end falls heavy, a short pause, the audience dazed.

Suddenly, they shoot to their feet with a deafening roar, totally amazed!

She rises from the Grand, her beautiful face smiling at her adoring crowd.

The conductor nods, he is pleased,

she acknowledges his gesture and quickly curtsies.

The applause remains constant, thundering loud.

Then, sharp light flash, like God himself, pain, smashing glass piercing into my eyes and I scream.

Starburst explosion, the crowd is gone, me, who is... floating in... blackness, my dream.

I was a child once... I had ideas of my own once.

I thought, and was pleased with my thoughts; I knew things for certain.

My dream, the stage, the curtain.

Wait... I remember... I... think I know... but... no... can't be sure.

Betrayed!.... People I thought... love?

I knew... someone... with family, children, faith in God above.

Forget her name now... thought... so much of her...

'Missus Alice!... Alice Cordelia!... Missus Alice, you there?

Doctor, her eyes are open but I don't think she's aware.'

The doctor didn't look up, 'She'll snap out of it in an hour or two.

Take her back to the ward,

she won't be going anywhere, on her own accord.

But you'll see, in a few weeks she'll be as good as new.'

The two nurses looked at each other,

then to Alice and wiped her mouth,

wrapped her shoulders with a blanket cover.

'Oh honey, bless your heart.

We'll make you comfortable, let's go now,

get you back to your bed,

let you rest your poor, weary head.

You know, she is such a beautiful thing,

this treatment, is just tearing her apart.'

Grandad said,

'Don't tell the young ones

how this drove your Ma's mind away.

This business took the best from us,

I love her to this day.

I took her in the car,

to a place, that's south of here.

I saw her standing in the window

as she watched me disappear.'
Garrison Town

14 and 15 August 2015

Ian Williams

Launceston, Tasmania

Australia

_Scenes from the Home Front: Brisbane, October 1942_

The Captain drove her home. She refused to go to a hotel. She let him feel under her blouse, but it wasn't what he wanted. It wasn't what he'd paid for, but he was too polite to complain. She liked that about the Yanks: so polite, so charming. So generous. The first Yank she'd gone out with, a Lieutenant, had his own car and driver. She still had the little bottle of perfume he gave her. Never pushed a drink on her she didn't want. Everything was ma'am this and ma'am that.

'Why ain't that the prettiest little cottage?' he said when they pulled up at the Beck house. It was early so they took a ride on down the street until they stopped in the shadow of the powerhouse. 'Take a walk, driver,' the Lieutenant said, and she was alone with him. He smelt nice, he looked good enough to eat, but she didn't like it because she felt cheated by all that _yes ma'am, no ma'am_ malarkey.

'You watch yourself,' she told him just before he kissed her. 'I'm not an easy sort of girl.'

'You just tell me when to stop, honey,' he said and already his hand is under her skirt and up over her knee. He was good as his word too, but none too happy about it. Even in the dark she could see the smirk on the driver's face when he got called back so quick. At least she got to keep the bottle of perfume.

She let the Captain escort her up the steps to the front door. Her father's house, she explained: she was separated from her husband. Pulling him into the dark of the porch, she kissed him hard on the mouth.

'You want to see me again?'

'Sure, baby.'

He didn't mean it. She was too much trouble for him, when he had so many willing local girls to charm and seduce. She worried that it would get back to Theo. She would never convince him there was nothing to it, just cocktails in Lennon's, free nylons and smokes and a chaste night at the flicks. The truth was, there had been too many men, already. Too many cashed-up, sex hungry Yanks since that first hands-off date with the Lieutenant. It was not what she intended, leaving Theo. It was the war with its potent coupling of fear and opportunity. Such uncertain times, such unnatural freedom... it surprised her that she fell into it so easily.

~~~

The girl was gone when Louis woke. Her name escaped him for the moment. His first thought was to find his pants and check that his wallet was still buttoned inside the back pocket. Rolling off the bed, his toe clipped an empty bottle.

_Oh, sweet jivin' mama_... where the heck had he left his guitar...? It was a big old Stella, cost him five bucks in a Jew run music store on Maxwell Street. Hawked it halfway round the world and he loses it in a two-bit whorehouse in some British colonial outpost. Before the war, between jobs, he'd play on street corners like those old bluesmen from South Carolina and Mississippi. Some days his takings equalled his present army pay. He owed that guitar. Dropping his head between his knees, he peered under the bed. Glory Hallelujah! Stored for safekeeping.

Raising his head made the room spin. Leaning gingerly forward, he grabbed his pants from the back of the chair. A reassuring bulge to the back pocket, the button still fastened. Good girl. Black like him, not that it made any difference. Just another sweet talking whore. No more than sixteen, he reckoned, pretty enough still, except for her teeth. He'd noticed that with the Aussie blacks: lousy teeth.

Rose. That was her name. Like some high society girl in one of those English movies. The moment they're through the door she's all over him like a monkey.

'You like black girls?'

'Sure, baby.'

'Black girls better than white girls.'

Would it have shamed him to say no? Right now he wanted no truck with all that black shit white shit. He was just a guy getting some pussy.

Later, she said, 'You play cowboy songs?'

'Yeah, I play cowboy songs.'

'My brothers play cowboy songs,' she said. 'Murri cowboy songs.'

'What's Murri?' he asked.

'We're Murri. Black people are Murri.' She put a bottle to his lips and let him take a gulp of warm flat beer. 'Your people got a black name?'

He wiped his mouth. 'We're just niggers,' he said.

_Born a nigger, die a nigger_ , he reflected. Being a soldier didn't make a bean of difference. Not to the army. The provos were the worst. Nigger haters to a man, that was Louis's experience. Beat a man just for stepping over the colour line. For blacks, in this piss ant garrison town, north of the river was no man's land. Venture over the bridge and you were as good as dead, if the provos caught you. No questions asked, just another dead nigger straying where he had no business.

It was different out of town. Out in the suburbs, at the dances, just walking the streets, a black GI could get treated real nice. Helping white ladies stow their shopping in their automobiles, just smiling and being on your best manners. You weren't no nigger then. You got asked home to tea by big-boned schoolgirls, busting out of their uniforms, wanting to show you off to their brothers and sisters. Their mommas too. He just had to know his place. Not to step over the line. There was a colour line here, same as the Victoria Bridge, though it wasn't going to get him shot if he forgot himself. Back stateside, if he'd dared date some nice white lady's daughter, he could expect to have the dogs set on him.

Rose didn't stick around to hear him play cowboy songs. Louis must have slept like a babe, not to hear her go. And didn't lift his wallet, he kind of marvelled at that. He pulled on his shorts and singlet. He noticed it then, what was missing. Why he'd had that feeling of being more naked than naked. He turned the room over, tearing the filthy linen from the bed in a vain search to find it. _That damn bitch, that goddamn black bitch whore_. Souvenired his dog tags.

~~~

For months Dr Simm had been complaining to the authorities about the vacant lot behind his practice on the corner of Brunswick Street and Merthyr Road. It was strewn with rubble from the schoolhouse that had burned down a year ago, overgrown with weeds and infested with vermin. Torn posters from a broken hoarding compounded the eyesore. He was moderately gratified, though somewhat mystified, turning the corner a few minutes after nine that morning, to see a police patrol car parked across the sidewalk. A sergeant beckoned him to approach. The man's face was familiar, though not especially friendly. At the back of the lot, partly obscured by a vandalised billboard, an American army jeep was parked alongside a black sedan.

'Mr Penny, isn't it?'

'Sergeant Penny, sir.'

Theo observed the scene on the lot. A short distance from the vehicles an American sailor sat slumped against a brick wall, his head in his hands. A uniformed policeman and two marshal provost officers stood over him. 'What have we here, Sergeant?'

'Dead tart.'

'Really?'

'Take a look?'

'Yes,' Theo said. 'I think I should.'

The pasty-faced woman slumped forward on the back seat of a black sedan appeared to have choked on her own vomit. There was an empty liquor bottle beside her and a greasy limp prophylactic draped over the dead woman's shoe. Her knickers were twisted around one ankle.

'These times...' Theo murmured, withdrawing his head from the scene. The sergeant was probably right; the girl was a prostitute, but she could just as easily be some soldier's fiancée or wife. It disturbed him a little that he felt nothing for her. These days he kept his head up and his mind on his job. While the world around him fell to pieces, it seemed. With the American forces came sophistication and mayhem in equal measures, he had observed. It was futile to judge or conjure up fear of the deep abyss they were all about to fall into. The abyss was the war itself.

Before the Japs bombed Darwin some element of sanity prevailed. The threat and the danger was somewhere else. And then, after those bombs fell, everything changed. A macabre demonic circus had come to town. Ministers fulminated from their pulpits, and good luck to them. The denounced sat in Theo's surgery, waiting for contraceptive advice. Young girls he'd treated for acne and menstrual problems a year or so back, had become garishly painted lounge lizzies, hanging around hotel bars night after night, waiting to be picked up. And as for their mothers...

He watched the senior provost officer approach. The MP drew the sergeant aside, though not out of Theo's hearing. It seemed, Theo thought, calculated to offend.

'We'll take our boy.'

Penny nodded towards the car. 'What about her?'

'She's yours.'

'Your boy anything to say for himself?'

'He's intoxicated.' Penny accompanied Theo back to the sidewalk.

'Friggin' Yanks, 'scuse my French.' Theo smiled. The man's knowing stare bothered him. He sensed that it had nothing to do with his disdain for Americans.

'How's Mrs Simm, Doc?'

'Mrs Simm...?'

'You got a new girl. Receptionist. Thought Mrs Simm might be poorly...'

Theo kept his smile. He was grateful for the arrival of a Black Maria. From the lavatory window at the rear of the practice he watched the orderlies remove the prostitute's body from the American sailor's hired car.

~~~

Louis set out, retracing his steps from the night before. Blue sky, hot and cloudless, the meanest breeze on his face. October: late fall back home, springtime Down Under. He was still having trouble getting his head around that. He proceeded at a steady pace east along Grey Street. This narrow stretch between the rail track and the river was familiar territory. Bars, low rent rooming houses and greasy spoon cafes: reminiscent in no small way of the South Chicago quarter where he mostly grew up. Card games, illicit booze, fly bookmakers, cheap whores... he'd spent more time here on leave since he'd come ashore in July than any place else in the city. Like most US army coloured boys. Some nights, some bars, coloured faces were the only ones you'd see. You'd think you were back down Mississippi way. Everyone carried blades. Louis carried a three blade jack-knife, which he'd had to pull more than a few times. There was always trouble between white boys and coloureds and the coloureds and provosts. Just up the road, in the basement of a big old red brick building, the provosts kept a lock-up, temporary accommodation Louis so far had stayed away from. Losing his dog tags could change that. Army property to the baton-wielding provosts. To Louis it was his beating heart, his mind and soul that had nothing to do with the shape of his face or the colour of his skin. He pressed on, across the street, turning the corner into the narrow filth-strewn lane that led to the wharfs.

~~~

The only blacks Iris had seen before the Yanks came to town were the Abos who hung around the parks and alleys of South Brisbane. You didn't mix with them. They kept with their own people, except some of the girls who tarted themselves around the bars and factories at night. The men drank and brawled. You wouldn't know they existed unless one of them got knifed and killed and it got in the newspaper. The Yank blacks were nothing like them. Wild-eyed Rastuses, her father had said they were when he first saw them on the city streets. That's how they looked in the movies.

She saw Louis one Sunday about a month back when she was going to the Trocadero with her sometime friend Gloria who worked in the bar at Lennon's and had dated more Yanks than Iris could count.

'Look at that gorgeous buck Negro,' Gloria said. 'Don't he think he's the big shot, but.' Louis was sitting on a crate outside a café, playing a guitar. Iris was looking good that day, new dress from Finneys, lipstick and stockings her father's mate Vic had taken in lieu of a repair bill on a truck.

'Hey babe,' the Negro said, 'don't you look a picture?' She gave him her home telephone number, telling him to ring in the late morning when her father made it his business to be out of the house. He called about a week later when she'd all but stopped hoping he might. It was just on midday. Her father picked up the phone as he was coming through the door.

'Some Yank for you,' he told her. He never asked questions he didn't want to know the answer to. 'Sounds like a real hometown boy,' he noted sarcastically. He never said black. Wouldn't have even thought it. If the day ever came when you could see who you were talking to down the telephone line, Iris thought, a girl would have to pick her dates carefully.

~~~

The Digger knew the girl. 'Don't trust the Abos, mate,' he told Louis. 'They'll thieve the fillings out of your teeth while you're asleep.' He winked. 'You blokes are okay. Civilised in the ways of the white man. Got a smoke?'

Louis broke open a fresh pack of Camels. The Digger was about nineteen, unkempt and dirty. When Louis came upon him he was sitting on the kerb, lacing his boots. He wanted to hear Louis play his guitar. 'Jimmie Rodgers,' he enthused. 'Jeez, I love the way he does that yodelling. You yodel? Don't know that I ever heard a Negro yodel.'

'Niggers holler,' Louis told him.

The Digger took a long drag on his cigarette. 'I just love these Yankee smokes,' he said.

Louis nodded. 'Where'd you see Rose?'

The Digger knew Rose from the red hat she sometimes wore. 'My mate been with her,' he told Louis. 'Hot little girlie, he reckoned. Don't go with the street tarts myself. I got a sweetheart back home in Rocky. She's enough for me.'

He had a boyish pockmarked face with a day's growth of downy fair hair on his upper lip. Rocky could have been the other side of the continent, for all Louis knew. To his ears, all Australians sounded the same.

The Digger introduced himself as Jacko Finn. He followed Louis down Stanley Street the way a stray dog will tail a fellow who has patted its head instead of giving its butt a kick. He told Louis that Rose and two or three other black tarts operated out of a cottage down near the dry dock. He didn't know whether they lived there or if it was just their 'place of business'. The expression caused him to snigger. Louis thought he was a hayseed. Every few yards he'd stop to tighten the knot on his bootlaces.

Turning the corner back onto Grey Street, they passed a café just opening its doors for business. The proprietor's name, printed above the door, was Nowak. Louis hadn't seen a Polack name since he'd left Chicago.

'You want some brekkie, Louis?' Jacko asked. 'I know this cove. He'll have a couple of nice lamb chops for us. You and me, we're mates, right?'

Louis considered the dull ache cramping his gut. It wasn't hunger for a greasy spoon lamb chop. Balls scratching cook and a gob of spit in the pan to check that it was hot enough to fry. _This godforsaken place_ , he thought. His soul sang for home.

~~~

Try as he might, Theo could not erase Penny's smirking face from his mind. He had noted the same look on certain of his more regular patients in recent weeks, those time wasters with boils on their necks or bunions protruding through the split seams of their cheap shoes. He didn't deserve this. Hadn't he given Iris a good life? Happiness? Happiness was a two-bedroom apartment in Balfour House, was it not? Happiness was an account at Finneys, a motorcar in the garage, dinner parties, cocktails and gossipy afternoons with doctors' wives. And love and sex, it went without saying... How could he not give her happiness? He said nothing when she left. He thought a few weeks with her father would give her time to reflect. It was the times...

Everything was the times, affecting the populace like some mind changing drug. He waited for her to come back to him, renewed and loving. He heard instead that she was seen riding in hired cars with allied servicemen, her arm around their thick necks, her face painted like a street tart's. What could she want from these flash, uniformed loudmouths, except sex? Wasn't that the sentiment expressed in Sergeant Penny's contemptuous leer? The situation he had been caught in that morning could not have been more grotesquely suggestive. Penny knew it, half the neighbourhood knew it. How deliciously likely that the sailor's girl choking on gin and God knows what could have been precious Dr Simm's wife.

~~~

Another Digger had joined them, a redheaded rough-skinned guy, squeezing in the narrow booth beside Jacko to share his lamb chop. He didn't look at Louis.

'Cripes, Jacko,' he said, 'you don't have to sit with Yankee coons.'

'Louis is me mate,' Jacko said.

'Since when?'

'Since half an hour ago.' The Digger's name was Blue on account of his red hair. He told Louis he didn't mean no offence, calling him coon. Louis laughed.

'Louis lost his dog tags,' Jacko said. 'Abo tart pinched it. We're gunna find the bitch, ain't we Louis? Get it back.'

'Give her a poke, did you?' Blue asked Louis. Louis said nothing. Blue's talk could be as honey-coated as he could make it, it didn't fool Louis one bit.

'Be best when you boys move on,' Blue said. 'Get stuck into the Japs instead of fooling with our Abos, stirring them up. Cripes, they'll be wanting the vote next. Bad enough we had to give it to the sheilas, eh Jacko?'

Jacko had pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his greasy lips. 'Bugger politics,' he said. 'Let's go get your dog tags, Louis.'

Blue kept his seat. He stared at Louis. 'Yous boys want me along?'

Jacko shook his head. 'She'll be right, mate. I know where we'll find the tart.' Blue was staring at Louis as if he hadn't heard.

'No,' Louis said. He moved quickly, sliding his butt out of the diner before Blue could make his retort, which Louis could see he had a mind to. He'd left the Stella in the Polack's care, behind the serving counter. The Polack was wiping glasses with a dirty rag.

'Give me my guitar,' Louis said.

The Polack, cussing some Polack oath, slid the Stella over the countertop. Even in the gloomy yellow half-light of the café, Louis could see splatter of breakfast fat over the guitar's polished top. The Polack shrugged. He wiped his rag across the strings. _If he spits_ , Louis thought, _I'll knock his lousy Polack teeth out_.

'You paying?' the Polack asked.

Louis laughed. 'So you can charge me double?'

'You don't pay, I call the MPs,' the Polack said. He tapped a grubby square of paper taped to the wall. 'I got the number. Here in five minutes.'

Louis rested the Stella against the front of the counter. A fly buzzed in his head. When he felt a touch at his elbow it was like a baton striking him, making him flinch as if it had caused him real pain. He knew it was Blue, and he knew he was going to regret what he was about to do, but he did it anyway. In one slick move, because he was practised at it, he pulled the jack knife from his pocket and pressed the open blade against the Digger's throat.

~~~

A sullen-looking girl of about sixteen, a grubby apron hanging loosely from her waist, answered the bell. Theo announced himself brusquely. The house, solidly built of red brick and stone was dark and cool. The girl directed him to an over-furnished front room. He could hear a girl's voice raised in anger in another part of the house. A door slammed. Presently Mrs Douglas entered. She was a small, expensively dressed woman of forty, pale-skinned as if she'd spent too long out of the sun. He wondered if she were anaemic. She apologised for calling him out, when she knew how busy his practice was, and the frightful cost of petrol. Theo smiled.

'It's my daughter...' Mrs Douglas said. She lowered her eyes. The maid brought tea. Theo listened to the mantel clock's measured tick. The maid closed the door. 'Joy,' Mrs Douglas informed him. 'My eldest.'

_The angry girl_ , Theo thought. She didn't sound sick.

'She's pregnant,' Mrs Douglas said.

Theo sipped his tea, which was too hot and sweet for his taste. 'How old is she?'

'Seventeen. Girls... and this dreadful business...'

He supposed she meant the war. Her husband was a naval officer; Theo was vague about the rank. A large painting of a battleship, guns blazing, hung over the mantelpiece, above the ticking clock.

'I'll examine her,' Theo said.

'Yes. She's less than two months...'

Theo stared at the woman's small bony ankles and tiny feet. Iris could never wear shoes like that. They'd look ridiculous on her. She'd never cared much for expensive clothes, anyway. She was a utilitarian dresser. Practical. He liked that about her, comfort over fashion. Of course, a slim, well-heeled naval officer's wife could carry off just about anything.

'It would be better if she didn't have it,' Mrs Douglas said.

'I imagine,' Theo said. He'd last seen the girl some months back after she'd slipped and sprained her ankle, alighting from a punt on the river. He remembered her tittering laugh and knowing look as he examined the sprain. He had a lovely gentle touch, she told him. She'd raised the hem of her skirt considerably higher than was necessary. Her mother was sitting in reception, reading a novel she'd brought.

'And the boy?' Theo asked.

'The boy?'

'The father. Is he aware...?'

She lit a cigarette, ignoring him for the moment. A boyfriend, a nice lad from a good school, outraged but understanding and supportive parents... this wasn't it. The deliciously named Joy had been spreading her favours much further afield. The girl was probably lucky not to have contracted venereal disease. Papers and medical journals arrived on his desk almost daily revealing figures and accounts of sexual abandon that would make a good man cry. Professional tarts were less of a problem than the goodtime girls, the enthusiastic amateurs like Mrs Douglas's knocked up daughter. Professional girls were regularly rounded up and subjected to compulsory medical checks. A colleague of his had taken a position at the Wattlebrae Infectious Diseases Hospital. He told Theo about girls, still infected, jumping out of the window to root with American servicemen in the hospital grounds. Most were tarts, but many were wives whose servicemen husbands were overseas, fighting the good fight. One goodtime girl, a teacher of unsuspecting young college ladies, had infected a dozen men with gonorrhoea before being forcibly detained for treatment.

Theo said nothing of this. If the girl had VD he would have to report it. The mother had probably not even considered the pox. She stubbed her cigarette on a small silver ashtray. 'How difficult would it be to get a termination?' she asked.

Her directness caught him by surprise. He listened to the little mantel clock strike two before murmuring that he might be able to arrange a discreet referral.

'As soon as possible,' she said.

'Of course.' He smiled. She did not respond.

It was pointless speculating where she got her information. Such women always knew what they needed to know. A few words over afternoon tea or a card game... the urgency, he suspected, had less to do with social embarrassment or her daughter's health than her husband's unexpected return. It was no business of his how she might account for the necessary fee. Such procedures--in or out of wartime--never came cheap. He jotted a figure on a slip of notepaper, which she read without comment. A fair sum, he thought, in the circumstances. Backyard abortions were for shop girls and impoverished Catholic wives.

~~~

Hunger helped Louis run: an empty, grumbling belly. A full gut would have slowed him down. He could handle the Stella hanging over his shoulder. He'd lost count of the times he'd had to take off from street playing just because some cop or loudmouthed white boy took offence at his choice of guitar picking. He'd lost Jacko streets back when the mob had started after them. Louis didn't have to hear Blue hollering for his black nigger ass to know it was the Digger leading the pack. Louis had never run so hard in his life. Hell, thieved dog tags wasn't worth getting his throat cut.

Only the Jews in Europe got it worse than the coloureds in America, Louis had always thought. For that, he had the daily news to enlighten him. The daily news had never enlightened him about the habits of the Australian native. Sometimes Louis felt his life was like one of those bad dreams you wake from only to find yourself caught in another just as bad. Like he was running from one demon into the claws of another.

Louis knew what it meant. It meant there was no escaping your fate. But it never stopped him running. A little black mouse running on a wheel. It was what his Daddy told him. 'You always running, boy, and never getting nowhere.'

~~~

Iris went out to the street when she heard aircraft, but there was nothing to see. It frightened her how aircraft so far away could make so much noise. It brought home to her the reality of wartime, more so than ration coupons and air raid shelters and identity cards. Or the streets filled with uniformed men and military trucks and cars trailing smoke from gas producing charcoal burners. All this seemed like some comic-like make believe world. She thought how everything was so frightful early in the year. The air seemed charged with fear and anxiety. You couldn't pick up a newspaper without reading some terrible report on the front page. You never got the Japs out of your head, the savage things they were doing, their hateful unstoppable advance. Then the Yanks came and the Japs didn't seem to be doing so well, and then the talk in the street and in the homes and the workplaces was about nylons and cheap spuds and two-timing lovers and what sort of woman would trade sex for a bag of onions. It was strange and exciting but no longer scary. At least, not so that it would keep you awake at night. Only the airplanes unnerved her, their rumbling engines making the china shake in the cabinet, and the newsfront pictures they impressed on her mind of falling bombs and burning cities.
Gay Pride 2015

16 August 2015

Terry Hopper

Luton, Bedfordshire

United Kingdom

Heterosexual is what I am

red blooded male... a real man's man

but London's gay pride has just marched by

I peek and look get close I try

with screaming queens and fairy dust

I know the score... I've got it sussed

be loud and proud... and make a scene

we know who we are... we know what we mean

All that pass in fancy dress... some wearing more

some wearing less

but all united... in one voice...

we have the right... we have the choice...

as whistles blow and trumpets sound

new beginnings and new friendships found

a bond so close... between all united

And all the wrongs have so been righted

I may not be a queen or even gay

but today I saw and am proud to say...

no better folk have I come across

what others say... I don't give a toss

oh how they know how to have fun

in London... in sunshine... together as one

and yes I'm angry at bigotry

it has no place in society...

So be loud and proud... one and all

hold your head high... hold it tall

for a heterosexual is what I am...

but proud of you all... each woman and man

Gay or straight... in a wig or a dress

Seriously folks... I couldn't care less

I will not define you by your orientation

But as my friend, my equal and our association

Today together marching side by side

Shoulder to shoulder at London's Gay Pride
The Pareidolia Effect

17 August 2015

David Anderson

Woodford, New South Wales

Australia

Tamotsu Furuta first saw the man in the tree as he chatted on his mobile phone, while gazing absently from his back porch, across to his neighbour's house. The man in the tree was not a physical human being, but the outline of a man's head displayed by the various branches and leaves, and Tamotsu couldn't believe the image was so strong in detail that the hair, eyes, nose, mouth and teeth appeared to delineate a representation of a man, grinning menacingly into the distance.

Tamotsu took a photo with his phone for future reference. Unable to concentrate on his friend's conversation, he made an excuse to hang up, and moved swiftly to his computer to download the picture onto his desktop. Within minutes he had put the photo up on Facebook, and sat waiting patiently for his friends to reply, as to whether they too saw the image of the strange man.

After an hour, he managed to get some replies in the affirmative, and a similar amount in the negative; some telling him to give up his hallucinatory drugs. Tamotsu's wife, Haruko, said she couldn't see anything, and begged him to stop worrying about it as it was probably a trick of the light, as it faded into dusk.

Tamotsu couldn't sleep that night, and wild nightmares tortured his mind as he drifted in and out of sleep. One dream had the tree come to life, marching towards his house, the branches crashing into, and breaking the windows, as a huge wind roared above the roof.

All the next day Tamotsu kept glancing at the tree from his seat, as a constant breeze tossed the tree's leaves into a frenzy until near twilight, when the breeze calmed down, and he again saw the terrible apparition of the man's head appear among the branches. After becoming very drunk on sake, Tamotsu decided he should ring his old friend, Atsuto Kamiya, a psychologist, who once told him that as a friend, he couldn't see him professionally in his rooms, but if the need arose that Tamotsu felt he needed mental help, he could offer him advice on who would be the better psychologist for his purpose.

'Atsuto? This is Tamotsu. Sorry to disturb you, but you said you could help me if I needed it. My mind is very unbalanced at the moment and I appear to be seeing a hideous man's face in a tree.'

'So why is the man in the tree?'

Tamotsu explained that the man was only perceived by him within the foliage, but that it was a powerful image that was troubling him deeply.

'I think what you are suffering from my friend is what is known as pareidolia. It's nothing to worry about and it can't hurt you. I don't think you need to see a psychologist. Your mind is triggered by stimulus that plays tricks and you are imagining images that are perceived by you as real and important. I'm sure in a few days you will cease to see it. Did you see animals or faces on the patterns on curtains or walls, while you were lying in bed as a child?'

Tamotsu recalled his worried mother rushing into his bedroom to comfort him as a child when he screamed that a monster was lurking among the drapes on the window.

'I did--I remember it well. So it is my imagination?'

'Yes my old friend. Even Leonardo da Vinci spoke of it. Find something to take your mind off it, and try not to look at the tree.'

Tamotsu thanked Atsuto and decided he would read some of the books he had neglected, and leave the vision in the tree to gaze with its sinister eyes undisturbed.

For a few days he sat and read his books and when he found himself lifting his gaze towards the direction of the tree, he would swiftly blink his eyes sharply and look away. However the very next evening, after feeling he had conquered his fear of the apparition, he steadily faced the tree and was relieved the image was no more. Glancing down to his book he read a few paragraphs, happy that his nemesis had vanished, then laughed and looked up again, only to see the image of the man was stronger than ever; while the face appeared to be laughing wildly.

Tamotsu ran screaming to Haruko, who sat long into the night with her frantic husband's head on her lap, as she rocked him gently, until he fell into a fitful sleep.

For the next few days Haruko was worried for her husband, as he drank more sake than ever and lay mumbling, near exhaustion on his bed, insisting that the man in the tree was coming for him, and soon he would be no longer of this Earth. Haruko smiled, as a possible solution had flowed into her mind and she decided then, resolutely, to put it into motion.

Walking to her neighbour's house she knocked on the door and told her about her husband's dilemma concerning the tree, asking whether it would worry her if the tree could be cut down.

'Oh Haruko. I hate that tree. It has no flowers, and has leaves all year, which blocks out the sun, and my vegetable garden could be so much larger without it. The very old man in the village used to come and sit under it, but he is too old now to venture here. By all means, I am too old, and my dear husband is no more, but Tomatsu can cut it down if he wishes.'

Haruko waited for Tamotsu to recover from his drunkenness and told him of her idea, and how their neighbour agreed that the tree could be destroyed. Haruko and Tomatsu decided that the very next morning, the evil tree would be cut down.

Sitting, sipping only a little sake that evening, Tamotsu smiled as the image of the man appeared in the twilight among the branches and leaves. No longer afraid of the apparition, he raised his glass in a toast to its farewell, and relaxed with his feet up on the table as Haruko brought their evening meal out onto the porch. At last her husband would soon return to his old self. As the darkness fell and the image disappeared, Tamotsu moved inside the house, and after a long hot bath, listening to his favourite music, he silently moved into the bedroom, and took Haruko by surprise with his vigorous lovemaking.

The next morning Tomatsu walked with head held high to his neighbour's house, his sharp axe swinging from his hand, and after knocking on her door to tell him of his intentions, he stood in front of the tree, laughed and took the first swing of the axe, which bit deep into the tender bark. Tomatsu leant down close to the wound as the thick sap flowed--a blood red.

Was it his imagination, or did he hear a small gasp of pain from the tree when he struck the first blow? Shaking off this disruption he continued to chop enormous chunks of wood from the trunk. Looking up to the branches he laughed as he could imagine them soon crashing down in disarray, a look of consternation on his fearful tormentor, no longer resembling anything other than tree debris and firewood for his neighbour. A strong man, Tomatsu swung the axe as if he were in a wood chopping competition, determined to end the task as quickly as possible.

In her kitchen, Haruko put the finishing touches to Tomatsu's favourite meal, knowing that he would be ravenous after his toil. From her neighbour's yard she heard the first cracking of the broken trunk, and knew that Tomatsu would soon be home. She waited for the sound of the axe to stop, and when it did, and the cracking sound became continuous, she knew that the tree was falling. Wiping her hands on her apron she moved to the window to see Tomatsu standing stock still, the axe unmoving in his hand, as he stared upwards into the falling branches, transfixed and reluctant to move out of its way. Haruko screamed a warning.

'Tomatsu! The tree is falling. Run my dear--quickly.'

Tomatsu turned towards her and to Haruko's horror, the tree crashed down onto Tomatsu and he disappeared under the foliage.

The village of Shinjō was in mourning for their popular comrade for many months, and as the people gathered in the markets, they would all whisper of the horror that befell Tomatsu, and how no-one was willing to cut down a tree again, for fear of suffering Tomatsu's fate.

For the mystery that sent shivers down their spines was how it could be possible that when the men of the village heard Haruko's cries and went to the aid of their friend, as he tragically lay whimpering under the tree, they found that when they raised the trunk from his body, Tomatsu himself was found to be immersed deeply into the trunk of the tree.

Tomatsu's body was half way inside the trunk with the rest of his body facing outwards, and it appeared that the tree was completely surrounding his skin--as if he were melded into it, unable to be parted from it. Unaware of his misfortune, Tomatsu continued to rant in a strange tongue as his forearms and hands, and his feet, danced, and wiggled, in an attempt to move his body from his entrapment.

While Haruku cried at his feet, the townsfolk gave him water, but they knew they couldn't attempt to feed him as his rear was entombed within the tree's trunk. After deliberation as to whether they should end his suffering, his close friend, Atsuto, decided he was in no pain and that Tomatsu's end would be a matter of days, and they only gave him water for his thirst.

Perhaps it was the next morning, when people saw the tree bark was growing further around his body, as green sprouts sprang from his mouth, while wood bugs scuttled from his nose and ears, and strong green buds of vegetation began sprouting from his stomach and legs. Haruku cried out as she saw his finger tips sprouting buds of new foliage, and she then demanded the local doctor give Tomastsu a final needle, which resulted in a compassionate death of euthanasia.

As a few brave men chopped the tree surrounding their dear friend, from just above his head and below his feet, to place him into a grave at the local cemetery, a very old man who people knew was well over a hundred years of age, was carried to the graveside by his sons on a litter. He shook his head and muttered: 'Poor Tomatsu. I fear that what he had seen in the tree wasn't a mirage. Our dear friend was a victim of the kodama's curse. It was my responsibility to look after the kodama , but I grew too old. Poor kodama. It was hoping Tomatsu would be its new protector, not its executioner.'

When questioned, the old man said that the legend of the kodama, who were spirits that lived in some trees, in fact, were part of the tree, and were protected by various elders of the village. He had never told anyone of his duty toward the kodama for fear of ridicule. If anyone attempted to cut down a kodama tree or drew its bloody sap, they would be forever cursed.

Six months after Tomatsu was entombed, a small growth of vegetation, which quickly sprouted into a small tree, was seen growing on his grave. Not one person in the village attempted to cut the plant from the ground, and everyone knew that its growth was way beyond that of any normal vegetation. Within a year, the strange foliage grew as tall and as strong as the tree that Tomatsu had cut down, and many people shuddered if they glanced at the tree near twilight, as the outline of a face resembling Tomatsu appeared to gaze out from the foliage of the tree in the direction of his house, and at certain times of the year the old man on the litter, carried by his two sons, would spend an afternoon under its ominous shade.
Nature's Calling

18 August 2015

JH Mancy

Tallebudgera, Queensland

Australia

I shall arise and go now and plant myself a seed,

A tribute to our feathered friends, many hues and breeds

We need arm ourselves with tools for following the creed,

It is high time we made a move against corporate greed

Creatures are disappearing at an alarming rate

Should we just all sit back and leave them to their sad fate?

Too late, I have heard some say--time to start was yesterday!

What we need here is guidance, could someone point the way?

Someone of integrity, with mind like a rocket

Who will serve for good of all, be in no-one's pocket

Someone who will inspire us to even greater deeds;

We need many such someone(s) in order to succeed

Those weeds insidious creeping rampant o'er our land,

Began life on foreign shores before they made a stand

Our own native plants lie dormant, choking in the dust,

Victims of our gluttony, our greed and abject lust

Let's rise and make a stand, take up tools to rid the land

Of damned invasive predators--rise and lend a hand!

Let's help preserve our wildlife, before it is too late

Make our land a vibrant haven, surely that must rate!
Glass Act

18 August 2015

JH Mancy

Tallebudgera, Queensland

Australia

Why can I not find reading glasses?

Relentlessly make endless passes,

Search room to room, e'en to the rafters!

If I wish to take up pen I can't find 'them'

It is ever such a wrench, it makes no sense

I have many spectacles of diff'rent hue--

I just don't understand it at all--do you?

It is asked, 'Where was last place you had them?'

Oh! Why am I still looking--can you no ken!

Infuriated I resume search AGAIN

Ideas are gone 'cause I cannot jot them down

I feel useless without glasses, causes frown...

Should resort to wearing them around my neck,

Attached by long string, now that would be the thing...

They would get tangled up, I'd find myself stuck--

But answer it be, at least I could find me!
Across The Waves

19 August 2015

Valerie Vaughn

Philipsburg, Pennsylvania

USA

Jenny slammed the office filing cabinet shut as the florescent light above flickered above warning her of approaching darkness. A mature lesbian woman in her early forties with lengthy legs and Nordic features, tattoos dotting both sides of her upper arms, Jenny's tattoos represented a testament to her rebellious youth. Tasteful in design, so not to offend the professional pricks she found herself rallying against daily as her unequal pay chipped away at any hopes for a stable financial foundation. Jenny, a polished graduate of a private, female liberal arts college, spent her lifeless hours fending off uninvited advances from the senior members of the personal injury law firm she prostituted herself at five days a week, often for twelve hours a day, depending on the severity of the case load which she was assigned.

The smells of wealthy masculinity were torturous. Jenny did find some relief from her mundane duties in the follies of the firm's semi-retired receptionist/secretary who ate the same thing for lunch every day for the past five years which produced a fresh whiff of canned tuna, as its distinctive odor permeated the office air. Working at a law firm dealing with pretentious, self-absorbed liars was beginning to take its toll on Jenny. Every morning like clockwork the lawyers gathered by the office water cooler at eight-thirty to begin debating the happenings of the latest episode of what Jenny liked to call, 'straightprogramming' which dealt with some random character or another and their fucked-up relationships. Jenny was subjected to the work week banter which included a television drama set in a fictitious hospital somewhere along the west coast to which baseball team was in the lead for the National Pennant. Jenny wandered through the law firm halls careful to walk in long strides as she briskly made her way towards the firm entrance. Her hurried thoughts concerning her bad career choice propelled Jenny forcefully out the door onto the sidewalk. At the corner restaurant, Jenny's lunch consisted of salmon cakes with a spring mixed salad, tastefully washed down with one too many glass of house wine. Jenny knew better than to drink during lunch, but today she needed to escape from the confines of her current reality. A reality that included a crushing amount of student loan debt, coupled with a girlfriend who made online purchasing also look like a competitive sport. Feeling overburdened and underpaid, Jenny found solace in the book stores which dotted the subterranean shopping mall located underneath the office in the high-rise building. Dissatisfied and sleep deprived, shopping offered a momentary release from the tedious doldrums of her soul-sucking day. Mindlessly wracked with episodes of depression the thought of spending money on needless material possessions helped to relax her nerves along with a freshly rolled blunt courtesy of the office building security officer, whose name she could never remember. After the long work week, Jenny spent the weekend in her sunless, overpriced micro-apartment with her best friend and lover. It was within the darkened walls of Jenny's self-conceptualized cave where her words came to life as her thoughts and feelings found meaning within the deepest parts of the writing ocean, flooding the blank pages of her composition book with the wave-like strokes of her pen, and where there was once nothing, a rediscovery began to fill the empty parts of her need to succeed and break free from the constraints of an unforgiving society.

The brim of Jenny's coffee mug barely had time to touch her naturally pink contoured lips when she tensed with flashbacks of the work week. Jenny tried her best to shake the feeling from her exhausted drawn-out frame. Outside, the chilly summer morning's mist covered her window and the city's annual heritage parade. The parade participants were lined in formation up and down the freshly paved street as a fine mist rolled upwards towards each participant's recently pressed parade day outfits. Jenny took her morning cup of liquid fuel into the living room office, taking a seat on the apartment-sized--made in China--hot pink and black futon which was about as comfortable as an outside garden bench. Jenny could feel her haemorrhoids begin to form as her behind began to go numb. She knew it was useless to move. The futon had her ass, and it wasn't going to let go, for her need for outside human contact had reached its peak for the week. Part of Jenny resisted the urge to peek out from behind the heavy darkening curtains to see the crowd gathering on the sidewalks with their colorful coolers and matching lawn chairs. For now, her writing pen had won the battle until some small distraction provided a brief respite. Her thoughts consumed the spaces between the lines of the paper as her wisdom came pouring out. A life filled with ups and downs, future concerns melted together on paper forming a chain of change. Jenny heard the marching band playing in the background. Glancing up from her notebook, she drew the curtains ever-so-gently, going unnoticed by the crowd. She caught a glimpse of glistening sunlight as it danced from a brass trombone reflecting restorative hope and a restoration of pride.

Jenny closed the curtains, deciding to hide inside her cave for another day. It was her reclusive way of staying sane in a world on the brink of evolutionary decay. Jenny whispered goodnight as she pulled the curtains tightly together while Tommy Tutone's song 'Jenny' carried her name across the radio waves. She inhaled deep, her eyes began to narrow slightly as mellow relaxation filled her hundred-miles-per-hour brain. Jenny sunk back into the pink and black futon feeling unburdened from life. She exhaled white rings as the goodness released her cluttered thoughts. Jenny closed her eyes, shifting all focus from possibilities to realities as her dreams vibrated to the music playing on her reliable radio.
Turning Back

20 August 2015

Jane Russell

Mount Barker, South Australia

Australia

The sun was almost beyond the horizon as it set spectacularly over the ocean, tinging the wispy clouds a stunning crimson and mauve, while the deep sapphire of the sky provided the perfect backdrop to the picture postcard scene. This would have been the best photo opportunity Trevor had had all week, if it weren't for the fact that on the opposite side of the sky an even more impressive scene was evident: an enormous blue moon was rising, also over the ocean. How is it possible that Trevor could see ocean in both the east and the west? Not so hard if you're marooned on a desert island in its midst. The beauty and rarity of the scene should have filled him with wonder. Instead, he was frustrated and feeling rather cross.

Trevor, although he was brought up in Fiji, was not an outdoors man. He'd been travelling in a small boat around the top of Australia as part of a project to photograph the tropical sunsets and islands he came across. As a freelance photographer he was happy to have landed a lucrative contract with _Life Magazine_. For the first couple of days all had gone well. He'd got some good shots then gone to shore each night and tented on the beach. His supply of beer and pretzels was holding up well and the lack of mobile phone signal meant his wife and mother-in-law couldn't bother him.

One day when the sea was choppy and the wind was up, he had some problems with the steering. The boat seemed intent on going around in circles. He'd just corrected course to head for shore when an Australian naval vessel intercepted him.

'This is the Australian Navy. Turn off your engines and prepare to be boarded.'

Trevor panicked, thinking frantically about what he had on board that might be illegal. He pulled to, and was astonished to see five Navy personnel clamber aboard.

'Your papers?' one demanded.

'Eh? I've got an old copy of _The Australian_ if that's any good,' offered Trevor.

'Don't be clever with us,' growled another officer. 'Do you have a passport or not?'

'Yes, but it's in Darwin.'

'So, you've got no identification with you?' the first man said.

'Just my Video Ezy membership card.'

'You are an illegal immigrant attempting to enter Australia by boat. You will prepare to be "turned back" to where you came from.'

'Not back to Darwin,' groaned Trevor, 'it's yonks away.'

'Certainly not to Darwin,' agreed an officer. 'You'll be turned back to Indonesia.'

'Eh? That's even further! Why are you sending me there?'

'Operation Sovereign Borders,' said the man. 'It's our job to return all asylum seekers to where they came from, making sure they never set foot in Australia.'

'That's all very well,' said Trevor, 'but I'm not an asylum seeker and I've never been to Indonesia.'

'So you say,' replied the man, 'but as you have no identification, our orders are to turn you around.'

Despite Trevor's claims to be Australian the Naval vessel towed his little boat out into the open sea and pushed him off in the direction of Indonesia, with dire warnings of what would happen if he didn't keep going. He obeyed until they were out of sight, and then turned back towards the northern coast. The swell had become huge and the little boat almost disappeared down the side of the mountains of water. Trevor was not a good sailor. He saw land and headed for it. He didn't see the rocks, however, until they ripped through the bottom of the boat. His precious camera went overboard and he dived in after it. Somehow he arrived on the beach, spluttering and swearing with only minor scrapes and bruises but no camera. He watched the boat break up on the rocks and cursed the Australian Navy for their pigheadedness.

Trevor thought he was back on the mainland, but a brief tour of the environs soon revealed he was on a small island, surrounded by sea. _I'm bloody Robinson Crusoe_ , he said to himself.

He could see the horizon in every direction, but there was nothing on it. The island had plentiful coconut palms and some other fruit and he supposed he could spear a fish or two. On stormy days like today, he would sleep up a tree as the seawater swirled over the land. When the next day dawned, the sea was still and the sun shone relentlessly. Trevor constructed a huge message of coconuts on the beach that he hoped could be seen from the air.

'HELP ME!'

His hair grew longer, and he got heartily sick of coconuts, but he was okay, as long as the mosquitoes let him sleep. He remembered some survival tips and smeared his flesh with mud to keep off both the sun and the bities. On his head he wore a sort of hat of palm leaves. Finally, on the tenth day as he scratched another mark on a tree, he saw a dot on the horizon. He peered at it intently as it grew and grew. _I'm saved!_ he said to himself, and started to jump up and down and wave his arms. But when the vessel kept on course and appeared to be heading directly for him, he began to have doubts. The thing was bright orange and looked like a huge lozenge. He retreated away from the beach and watched behind a couple of trees as the vessel charged up the beach, grinding to an ungraceful halt, having missed the deadly rocks by sheer luck. The top popped open and an unending stream of humanity climbed out: men, women and children. They looked around, confused, and then spotted Trevor.

'Help us!' they cried. 'Is this Australia?'

'Buggered if I know, mate,' replied Trevor, realising that this was definitely not a rescue boat. The people told him similar stories of being intercepted by the Australian Navy. Unlike him, they were taken off their unseaworthy boat and loaded onto this orange lifeboat. They too were supposed to go back to Indonesia. Was this Indonesia? It seemed rather small.

Trevor went on board and marvelled at the high-tech equipment and large stores of food and drink. There was even a first-aid kit. He wondered if he could get the boat started, that is if he could stop stuffing himself with bottled water and TimTams. He helped the others to coconut water and showed them anti-mosquito techniques, then returned to study the craft's navigational equipment. Once he'd established which direction to go, he hot-wired the starting motor and called all the people to push the lifeboat out into the water and get back on board.

Some months later, the Australian government were red-faced when the press reported on the apparent beaching of one of the mythical orange lifeboats on the remote northern coast of Australia. No trace of its occupants was ever found. A later census would show a large increase in the population of the Tiwi Islands.
Rosie And I

21 August 2015

Shirley Burgess

Rosebud, Victoria

Australia

'What a fantastic view of New York it is from here! It's quite exciting isn't it?' Then quickly--'Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't notice your guide dog. What's his name?'

'Her name is Rosie.'

'Oh, apologies Rosie.'

'It's okay; Rosie's a forgiving dog,' I laughed. 'I'd like to see the view too, but we came up in one of the express elevators from the ground floor to here and that was exciting enough for me. I hope my insides go back into place okay.'

We both chuckled. 'Yes, it's pretty quick isn't it?'

'I couldn't see the floor numbers whizzing by, but it doesn't take a skilled mathematician to know you are flying when you leave the lobby and arrive at the seventy-eighth floor in a matter of seconds!' We both chuckled again.

'Are you working in New York? You're not American are you?'

'No, I'm from Australia. I'm doing a PhD on some aspects of the American Civil War. I've done most of it now, so I'll be going home soon, but New York has the best histories in the world of the Civil War produced in braille, so that's why I'm here.'

'That's great. Good luck then, man, and all the best to you both.'

'Thank you.'

The elevator arrived again, and this time it was good news for me. I heard, 'Good morning Mr Forrester, you're early as usual. Come in. Hello Rosie,' and although he knew he shouldn't scratch behind Rosie's ears while she was on duty, I could tell he had because she'd wagged her tail. I didn't blame him because I knew Rosie was a beautiful golden Labrador.

Mr O'Connor was in the middle of telling me what my scholarship money was doing, and was helping me to sign some papers, when he stopped for a second or two and, as though talking to himself said, 'A plane's flying very low out there. It's coming from the left side of the Empire State Building. If it doesn't stop it'll hit something. What's it doing flying as low as that over the CBD?'

I asked, 'Did you say a plane?'

'And it's not stopping. It's a big passenger jet aircraft. It's coming straight at us. No he's lifted the nose and dropped a wing.' Then more quickly, 'Here it comes... it's going to hit us, just above here!'

After a moment's silence there was a huge noise like thunder, the building swayed, the crashing noise continued and I felt several long trembles up and down the whole building, like an earthquake. I shot to my feet, and bent over to protect my dog from the bits of tiles raining down from the ceiling. We were coughing, so I supposed the walls could be crumbling. Rosie was shaking and so was I.

This was the worst scare I'd ever had in my twenty-eight years of existence. It was 8.46 am on Tuesday, eleventh of September 2001 and we were in the North Tower of the World Trade Centre.

'Mr Forrester, get out of the building straight away,' Mr O'Connor shouted through the din. He grabbed my arm, hurried me to the front door and as he opened it he said, 'Good luck; I must help our staff,' and was gone.

Rosie took over and went straight across to the brace of elevators where we'd come up, but didn't stop. Instead she pulled me past all of them and we rounded the corner to a stairwell in the corner of the lobby. With her wonderful hearing, Rosie must have heard the crashing of metal and rubbish falling down the elevator shafts and sensed burning material falling as well. I could feel the heat coming from the doors as we rushed past.

What I didn't know, but Rosie did, was that the other two stairways were blocked with crashed material from above. This was the only stairway that serviced the seventy-eighth floor down to the lobby exclusively, thus free from the mess above us.

We heard voices coming from a trickle of people apparently from the remains of another stairwell that finished at our floor. I could hear them, arriving breathlessly after running across the lobby to join us. Noise, rubble, heat and now thick smoke seemed to arrive with them as we all started walking down the narrow stairs together. Rosie, as usual, pushed people aside to let me in. We'd only managed to descend two flights of stairs when several called out that the lights had gone out.

'Does anyone know what caused the explosion?' someone behind me asked.

I said, 'Yes, it was a plane hitting the building flat out. It was a commercial plane, probably full of passengers and fuel,' I recited, 'and hit somewhere above the seventy-eighth floor.'

'How do you know all this?' someone asked sceptically. 'Forgive me, but you are blind, dependent on a dog.'

'Someone gave me a second-by-second description as it was happening, and it didn't make sense until the explosion.'

A shaky voice said, 'I saw it too; it set the building on fire and that's why it's so dreadfully hot in here. I was looking right into the cockpit and it looked deliberate to me.'

We all started talking at once, but he went on. 'Remember in nineteen-something-or-other, terrorists exploded a bomb in the car park underneath here hoping to bring the building down? I reckon they're trying to bring it down again.'

'You could be right. But then it could also be a pilot in trouble from Kennedy Airport with a whole lot of poor sods on board,' somebody added.

At that moment there was another din like thunder and we all stopped. The person behind slipped and fell on me. I had a firm grip on the banister or I would have slipped over too. Was the building falling in on us? I couldn't tell. We heard a voice shout up to us, 'Another plane has hit the South Tower, and their building's on fire, just like ours.'

'That proves it was all planned,' someone commented, followed by a string of swear words describing the authors of these travesties. He said it for all for us.

'What's the time--can anyone tell me?' I felt on my wristwatch and told him it was 9.03 am.

Further news came back up to us that many had vacated the South Tower when our tower was hit. They were able to use all the lifts and stairwells, so their building was much emptier than ours when attacked. It was the only good news we'd had so far this morning.

For a while we moved at a steady pace until about five flights further down we began to slow up and then stop, the intervals becoming longer and longer until we were waiting five minutes between stops and starts. It was incredibly hot, and I could hear Rosie panting badly trying to cool down in the heat--a fresh worry.

I wondered if everyone else was as toey as I was when someone from behind me yelled, 'Someone is holding us up. Get a move on you lot in front.' I knew how he felt.

'People are pushing in on every floor--it's only going to get worse,' they called back up to us. Of course they were, and there wasn't a thing we could do about that, although at each floor Rosie tried to skip me past people, and sometimes we were successful.

Climbing down seventy-eight floors was going to take long enough, but with this stop-start pattern we could be here for hours. I kept thinking about the building's ability to stand the plane's weight plus the petrol together with a raging fire and wondered how much more it could take?

The man next to me said he'd seen petrol streaming down the side of the building. _What if that catches fire?_ I wondered to myself and shuddered.

We plodded on in a sort of 'terror stupor' with no answers to my theories.

At the next lobby, Rosie rushed me round some slow climbers, so I lost my friends from the stairs. The next lot were much quieter and that was a shame. When you are frightened, it's comforting to have someone to talk to, no matter what they are talking about. Down and down we went, concentrating on moving whenever we were allowed. We'd been struggling down the stairs for thirty minutes and it felt as though someone had turned up the heat on an oven we were all in.

We came to a woman in front of us who was very slow. I heard several offers to help her. They tried again and again, but she refused curtly. It was a relief when, about four more floors down she paused at a lobby to get her breath and everyone rushed past her, Rosie making sure I was one of them. Rosie's panting seemed to be worse and I worried that I couldn't do anything for her.

At about floor fifty-one we moved over into single file as the first of a line of firemen climbed up past us. One of them encouraged us as he passed. 'If I can get up here, you can get down there,' he told us and that bucked us up.

We'd been jammed into this stairwell for nearly an hour when someone called back up to us, 'Floor thirty-nine coming up. That's halfway. That's better,' and we all gave a cheer. Thirty-nine sounded much better than forty something, and I dared to hope that we might make it out of here safely after all. My watch told me it was nearly 10 am. Without warning there was a huge crashing noise like nothing any of us had ever heard. The fright it gave me sent me into a cold sweat and I felt chilled despite the heat. I staggered to stay upright and no one moved. I felt around for Rosie and she was standing quite still too.

Again I thought the building was finally disintegrating on top of us, until thick dust came flying up the stairs at us. It was disgusting. We were virtually force-fed cement dust and dirt and I could hear everyone coughing and trying to hit the muck out their clothes. I tried to scrape it from my face with a hanky with only partial success, and tried to wipe Rosie's face too, but she hated it so I probably didn't make things better for her.

We all knew it was the South Tower crashing down. Would our building collapse too? Of course it will. There was a fresh surge of urgency. We were now down where all the floors had emptied so we made faster progress and when my watch told me we'd been struggling in the stairwell for one and a half hours we burst into the bottom lobby.

But were we better off?

Not thinking too clearly I'd been expecting the smooth polished floor of the lobby we knew, but it was awash with glass and the same debris that had rushed up the stairwell at us. It was chaotic, full of deafening noise and people kept bumping into us from all directions.

A policeman identified himself and asked me where I was going.

'Over to the PATH station to catch a train home.'

He was guiding us out while he was talking. 'The subway was closed after the first plane hit, and I'm afraid there are no trains to take you anywhere.'

'No taxis either I guess.'

'No. Where did you come from?'

'We were on the seventy-eighth floor. It's taken us over an hour to get down the stairs and I'm dead worried about my dog. What should I do?'

'Your dog looks completely dehydrated to me and I think she's on the point of collapse. This way.' I felt fresh air on my face; at least we were away from that constant heat. 'You must both find some cover right away,' he continued. 'Billy,' he called to someone, 'could you take these two to the hotel down there please? They must have cover immediately.'

"Billy" complained that he was unloading material for the firemen, but the policeman insisted, and I heard a young voice now closer to me say, 'This way, it's not far, sir.'

'Thank you, very much,' I said and it was heartfelt. We followed Billy quickly, although the mess underfoot was much thicker here on the roadway, and I heard another voice say as we were approaching, 'No more, you can't come in here, we're full.' Billy explained that I was blind, my dog was exhausted, and we'd just come out of the North Tower. 'I was unloading for the firemen, and I must get back...' he started to explain when there was another thunderous din as the tower we'd just exited crashed. It was all over in a few seconds. Someone yelled to get inside because there was a massive cloud of rubbish coming at us.

We all scampered inside, and my heart seemed to be turning somersaults. I heard Billy swear. When it was quieter I heard him quietly sobbing. 'My mates,' he murmured, and I had a lump in my throat too--the policeman who'd rescued us moments ago would have been back in the lobby on duty and trapped inside. All those firemen we'd passed would have been trapped inside too. It was a fresh shock to absorb.

'This way,' someone said in my ear and I motioned Rosie to follow. 'Come into the restaurant, and I'll get your dog some water. Would you like a towel to help clean off the ash? Like a cup of coffee too? I'm the manager here, sir.'

'That would be wonderful,' I breathed, 'and thank you very much.'

'You've come from the towers. Where were you?' he asked as he helped us to a table and seat. When I told him he gave a gasp. That's about where the first bastard hit. You were lucky to escape.'

I nodded. 'Thank you again for giving us shelter,' I said sincerely.

The water arrived in a dish and Rosie lapped it empty without stopping, so another was sent for. Several people started to gather around trying to pat Rosie, amazed at our escape from so high up in the tower, and asked how we'd made it here.

'... and we ran out of the North Tower just before it fell,' I finished. As I relived it all I couldn't stop shaking, and when I leaned down to pat Rosie and she licked my hand, unbidden tears came as I remembered how she'd saved my life. Someone gave me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and I could feel the empathy from a crowd of people fussing over us.

'My name's John Forrester, by the way,' I offered, and several introduced themselves.

I went to pay the manager for the coffee and water, but he answered quietly, 'I couldn't charge you for that; this is the least I can do.' And he patted me on the shoulder, too.

While I tried to settle myself down, several of them told me how they had watched the drama from the beginning, ending with fire setting alight the tons of paper and dust debris after each tower's collapse. Although hoses from the fire station opposite the towers made short work of the flames, it left huge areas of mud behind.

Someone asked me how I was going to get home. 'I've no idea. We came by train from Penn Station. It's directly under my apartment, normally pretty easy for us to do, but the subway in this area has been closed. I understand no taxis are available yet, but I'm hoping we can stay here until one can help us.'

'Any family we could contact for you?'

'Not here in New York. I'm from overseas.'

'My name's Mike Oakley,' said someone near me. 'Where do you live here in New York, John?'

'My apartment is in The Garden Towers, corner of Seventh Avenue and Twenty-second. It's opposite Madison Square Garden.'

'My car is in the basement of this hotel, John. When we're allowed out of here, I'll take you home; I'd be glad to help.' And he wouldn't hear of dropping me off at a station somewhere nearer. 'No--I've been wishing I could help someone all day!' was his firm answer.

~~~

I gained my PhD six months later, but it took years to recover from the trauma, and I still keep in touch with Mike Oakley. Rosie served me for another six years before she was retired back to her original puppy trainers. I have Bennie now, but daily I still reflect on the calamity that brought out the best of human nature confronting the worst.

There were many brave people there that day--bosses like Mr O'Connor who thought of his client and staff safety before his own; those four hundred fire fighters and police dying in those collapsed buildings trying to help their fellow man; perfect strangers who were unstinting in their offers of assistance and my fellow travellers down those hot terrible stairs keeping up good-humoured talk that made it bearable.

Like the perpetrators of this travesty, plenty of people will rubbish our way of life, be it by terrorist acts or preaching hate from many corners of the world, but it takes an emergency such as the one I travelled through to show what our status is. Our way of life is here to stay. No one can better it.
My Revolt

22 August 2015

Ariette Singer

Palmerston, Canberra

Australia

In winter, poets get spellbound by the _magic_ of the mist!

Alas, for my arthritic body, this kind of magic is a curse,

So don't expect _my_ poetic contribution on this topic's list.

Besides, I come from different species; and in my verse

I'm inclined and moved to perform other writing duties--

And not to glorify Nature's wondrous, abundant beauty!

So the pale moon can smile, and stars: tremble, twinkle, shine

In works of other, more poetically developed writers' lines!

The various moods of skies, multi-coloured shapes of clouds

And perfect, radiant rainbows--won't get the slightest mention!

To be sighed about and praised in florid verse, or other version,

Breathtaking golden sunsets will have to _beg_ for _my_ attention!

Considerately cool and gentle, playful breezes shall not caress,

Or sweetly whisper into exquisitely shapely (or ordinary) ears.

And obviously, enchanting bird-songs you will never hear!

The seasonally adjusted hues of leaves can curl and swirl,

Fall gracefully and rustle. Such actions, traditionally autumnal,

Will _never_ be a feature in my creations! And that is final!

All kinds of waters; cascading, running, still, immense or small--

Will, adamantly, _never_ be included! No, I will use none of these!

To write of lovely this or that--I have no time, or any urge at all,

And to use expected metaphors and imagery; don't ask me, please!

Ah! Let's not forget to mention flowers! Unfailingly, lovely,

Exuding their (note well-- _never_ bitter) fragrance, nightly!

With an obligatory smiling moon in full, so bright and silvery,

Are an ever-present literary prop for swooning lovers' poetry...

Yet, I am still a romantic! Despite refusing to produce

What thousands have done, and still are doing very well!

I remain loyal to my own style and the elected themes I use--

I can't be sentimental, when human dramas are unveiled!

Well, you can have it! Go on--use all of that! Feel free!

But I opt to dwell on issues that concern humanity.

And when audiences respond to _their_ portrayed reality

Wholeheartedly, that is the most prized reward for me.
Homicide At The Hydro - Part 1

23 August 2015

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

It was a particularly hot day in January in Medlow Bath that summer in 1921. Accordingly, most doors and windows of the Hydro Majestic Hotel had been left open to take advantage of whatever breeze was available. It was the seventeenth and there was considerable excitement as the staff had been told that the eminent novelist, spiritualist and raconteur--Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (creator of Sherlock Holmes) was about to arrive for a short holiday, following his return from a successful lecture tour in New Zealand. The newspapers had been full of a fair amount of religious indignation directed at Sir Arthur, because of his spiritualist beliefs. There had even been one or two ill-advised death threats. No one noticed the killer who performed a subtle movement and slipped into the cool surrounds of the Hydro's main kitchen.

The young Irish waitress, Annie, had just finished her morning shift from seven in the morning to noon and was preparing to catch the train to Blackheath. She would return later that day to serve dinner from six o'clock onwards. She hated split shifts but really needed the money to help support her family, as her husband's fledgling upholstery business was still struggling. The twenty five shillings she made per week helped, in a meagre way, to make ends meet. As a married woman, Annie considered herself lucky to have a job at all. In lieu of a room at the hotel in the servant's quarters, she also received an additional five shillings a week. Annie was tiny and very pretty and therefore received a considerable amount of attention from Mr Foy, the general manager. She was just about to leave when Foy came through a side entrance.

'Who left that door open?' he demanded angrily. 'The blowflies will be having a field day!'

'Oh it wasn't me, Mr Foy; perhaps it was Charlie, the kitchen hand. He's quite new and inexperienced. He'd be better off in a haberdashery or something.'

'Really?' Foy asked sarcastically. 'Know a lot about kitchen hygiene do you? I've been watching you, with your airs and graces; fancy yourself as something above your station do you?'

Annie bit her tongue, not rising to the bait and not wanting to put her job at risk. 'I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about Mr Foy; I do me work and go about me business. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to catch the train and get back to me husband; he'll be expecting his lunch.' She made towards the open door.

Foy was taken aback for a moment--he was not used to underlings speaking back to him in such... an impertinent manner! 'Er, ah just a moment if you please, I have a proposal of sorts to put to you; there'll be plenty of time for you to catch the train.' Annie stopped dead in her tracks, fearing the worst. 'I believe your husband... um Albert is it?' Annie nodded her assent, 'has recovered one or two of the couches in the Cat's Alley, and I'm told, did a reasonable job of restoration. Well Annie, you're a pretty sort of woman, not too common. In exchange for one or two... how can I put it?... special favours from you, I'll see to it that your husband becomes our full-time maintenance manager. And I'll be your second husband so to speak, do you get my drift? Moreover, as an additional sweetener, I'll raise your wages by a further five shillings per week; what do say, hmm?'

Annie was stunned. Her first instinct was to tell Mr Foy what he could do with his job. Her mind was reeling; all she could think of was getting away. _You really are a snake!_ she thought to herself. She stammered, flummoxed for a moment then replied, 'Well I... I'm... flattered Mr Foy. But I've already got a loving husband... and a baby. Whilst my Albert is a first class tradesman, to be sure. Why, I'd be breaking me sacred vows; I'll need to think this over--you can't expect me to give you an answer on the spot.'

Foy came up to her side. 'Take all the time you want, let me know when you come back for the evening shift.' He patted her on her derrière then made for the side door before she could protest.

'Oh, by the way, make sure you take the trouble to make yourself presentable. You'll be on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's table tonight--you should consider it an honour! I can't have my special employees looking bedraggled. On your way now and shut that door behind you on your way out.' And with that Foy left to attend to other pressing matters.

Annie slammed the door. She was close to tears as she made for the railway station; she had just enough time to catch the one o'clock train. Meanwhile, back in the dark shadows of a corner in the kitchen, the killer had witnessed the skirmish between Mr Foy and Annie. It wouldn't be too long to wait...
The Foundling

24 August 2015

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, New South Wales

Australia

The Mittagong of my childhood was a remote country mountain village populated by discreet, honest folk who had no pretensions and welcomed good people into their midst.

There's a posh girls' school called Frensham nestled in the bosom of that town, and it was on the doorsteps of this erstwhile establishment that a small babe was placed. It was the end of the nineteenth century. The headmistress took the baby in and raised it to be a servant for the school and so my Great Aunt Eva survived.

When she grew up, the headmistress granted her a small collage on the edge of school land to be her place of residence for as long as she lived.

My grandfather and his brother travelled to Mittagong to build a church. The brother met Eva and they married despite an age gap of thirty years. Eva fell pregnant and their joy was evident in the little cottage on the side of the mountain.

Unfortunately, the baby died, soon followed by the husband. The mist twirled around the mountain and Eva immersed herself in her sorrow and became a recluse.

When my brother and I were children we were sent to Mittagong for a holiday.

I remember the long steam train ride, the quaint country town, and a little lady, dressed in black, meeting us at the station.

I remember her chuckling delight as we ate ice cream.

I remember her showing us the well and warning us of danger. 'Don't go near the edge.'

I remember going to fetch the milk pail from the dairy next door.

I remember her showing me the trunk of tiny baby clothes.

I remember her listening to the radio, baking bread, and telling us that her birthday was on the first of April: April Fool's Day.

Years later, as a young adult, I went back to stay in the little house on the edge of the school grounds, halfway up the mountainside.

I was proud to take my great aunt out to lunch at the Golden Fleece Café. She told me that she had never eaten in a restaurant in her life. She hoped that she would not embarrass me.

When she was too old to look after herself, one of my uncles arranged for her to go to the old people's home at Bowral. By all accounts she was happy there. I don't remember her funeral.

I'll always remember her quiet spirit and her delightful smile.
Witty, Wilful And Whimsical Roald Dahl

25 August 2015

Deborah Stanbridge

Dubbo, New South Wales

Australia

Witty, wilful and whimsical

He was named after a polar explorer

Dahl delights generations

With his personified animals, delicious chocolates and giant flora

Danish parents but was English raised

A tender mumma's boy all your days

In your childhood you excelled at sports, mischievousness and fun

Placing a dead mouse in a jar at the local sweet store

You survived the 'Great Mouse Plot of 1924'.

An English teacher wrote of you

'I have never met anybody who so persistently

Writes words meaning the exact opposite of what is intended'

And yet you pumped out fantastic children's books consistently

At six foot you were a big friendly giant

On your adventures in Africa you meet a range of dotty crew

Including the naked dancing captain, the snake man

And a lady who ate oranges with a fork and knife--just to name a few.

As war broke out you became an Army Officer by default.

Despite no training, you were an Englishman in Dar

So with your platoon of natives you were to lead an assault

And bring all Germans into a war camp

You left here to be a RAF fighter

All the while sending letters home with a stamp

You returned due to injuries of the head

You married Patricia Neal on July second 1953

Not so suddenly five children who had to be put to bed.

And you wrote, and wrote and wrote,

For the rest of your long life

Like Charlie in the glass elevator our imaginations flew

As words were spells summoning us

To

Witty, wilful and whimsical

He was named after a polar explorer

Dahl delights generations

With his personified animals, delicious chocolates and giant flora.
Calculations

26 August 2015

Patricia Walsh

Cork

Ireland

'You cannot divide by zero'

I write my own jokes, too.

A big fat nought, gibes amiss

Miss the target, shred the opposition

seated in front, baiting my life.

'You can eat yourself slim, you know.'

Gorge on the good things in life.

Temperatures dropping in a private oasis

skinning wind your only reward.

Brave the cold, since you have to.

'You're intelligent, but you don't work.'

Rip out my brains and

give it to someone who needs them.

Cold storage for independent reference

future genius is standing by.

'Don't mix paper and plastic'

recyclable ideals catch on, for the better,

as long as you abide by the function

sleeping the sleep of the just,

sated by righteousness, a godly heart.

'There's always someone worse off than you.'

Wipe clean the record collection, resurrect the iPod,

and burn the earholes with preferred music.

Stand-offing boredom, watching through windows

the burning adventure of genuine life.
That City Bloke

27 August 2015

AA Anderson

Bathurst, New South Wales

Australia

Being brought up in the city, I was sent out to the farm

To my grandpa who was very strict, so I wouldn't come to harm.

But a whole new world was out there, for me to come explore,

With that farm grown, healthy country food, and fresh air through the door.

Now some lessons were there to be learnt, and much to my disgrace,

I soon learnt just how dumb I was, and so much out of place.

The first, the water pump outside, to prime it was a must,

Or it wouldn't spurt out water; it would only spurt out dust.

Well the cup it sat there on the hook, with water there inside

To be poured down in the water pump and could not be denied.

I thought it was just there for me to have a nice long sip

And when I pulled the handle all it could do was drip.

That followed with a lot of dust that blew my hat away

And no more water could come out, no water for that day.

I had to fetch it from the stream a couple of miles away

I think I'm not so popular, they might cut short my stay.

However this was nothing to the wherefore and the how,

To getting milk from Nellie, and just how to milk a cow.

Oh I thought it would be easy, just pull hard upon her tit.

But no matter just how hard I pulled I couldn't get a bit.

She pooed on my good pair of shoes, then swished it with her tail

I copped it right across my face and then upset the pail,

I tied the tail up to the fence and thought I was real smart,

Then she kicked me in the shins and let off one almighty fart.

The stink was overpowering and I let out one big curse,

But then she kicked me once again, and this just made it worse.

I then tied up two of her legs and thought this was the end,

When there I spied my Grandpa, a coming round the bend

'What do you think you're doing to this my lovely Nell?

All trust up like a turkey, you have really given her hell

Untie her you uncouth young rogue, before I put you down

And get your bloomin' sex from some young floozy in the town.'

Well Grandpa wouldn't listen though I tried hard to explain

As I found myself being bundled, back on that city train.
Fragile

28 August 2015

Judy J Newman

Rutherford, New South Wales

Australia

They may appear to be strong, but they are very fragile

They spent their lives in servitude, always smiling,

And now their all is not good enough, others want more

So, with a smile that hides years of unshed tears

They try to find the strength to carry on, but fail

Their minds and bodies no longer can bear the great weight

Of giving of self, of loving, with no return of love

Their hearts have broken into so many pieces, they cannot repair

They look back on their lives, and wonder where they were

They lost themselves, or someone took them away

Without their noticing, like thieves, but slowly, slowly taking

What was not theirs, and they didn't care, just kept taking

Fragile, and now lost, some forever, but some find strength

Strength to take back what was theirs, to roar

To fight, no more fragile, now great warriors, warriors of self

And those whom took and gave nought but grief

Now wonder how they escaped, but the door was never locked

Merely shut, for the only lock is the one self made

That lock, although it appears strong and foreboding, is as fragile as they once were.
Whistle Dance

29 August 2015

David Newman

Jacobs Well, Queensland

Australia

Before we left for church, our father double checked, that we knew the signals quite correct, so we assured him that we understood, we told him that we all got him.

He said it might save our lives, he'd learned the signals to survive, in the jungles of war, but I am quite sure, that had he tried to use such there, then his own side would have shot him.

He claimed that he'd been a colonel, his stories all infernal, straight from 'Boys Own Journals', skills from fantasy time, when he had been a spy behind enemy lines.

Although he could not speak the language, it was there that he would languish, to the enemy's frustration, he gathered vital information, while with top officials he would dine.

He didn't need to speak nor understand, his bearing being of such command, just flash blank papers with a grunt, was enough to throw the enemy off the hunt.

Way back then, of course, he was much taller, but a battle wound made him smaller, he must have been so near to dead, about six inches off his head that left him quite the runt.

Back home to atone, he'd found the one true church, this ended our father's endless search, however, research found them not quite correct, so they needed him to fix their defects.

For us his children, blessed be we, all our faults, he could see, for others too, that's for sure, all who came to our door. For us and them, of our sins, it took one so perfect to detect.

Arriving at the church, smiling to make our faces hurt, our father herded us like sheep, ushered in by his chagrin. All hail now to the Almighty!

~~~

All must be made aware, that our father was there. He the one, secrets to unlock, while time ran out on the clock, with days numbered, numbers be, a countdown to eternity.

After services at the school hall, our father made his way to the front, so that three hundred might see and more, and so three hundred there, who could not ignore.

His eyes so serious and his lips a'pout, for with such secret business, there must be absolutely no doubt, that our father had received the call, for he knew all.

Lifting his arms, one and two, over accentuated signals for all to see, 'Gather unto me, left side, right side, all I entreat!' thus far only visual, of his army days residual.

But of his children, for which this was meant, he could see, not one at all, none of us had answered to his call. Our exits were made stealthy and gradual,

for we had been in, we heard the chuckles, we saw the grins, embarrassment set in, so we moved towards the door. We his children, one and all, we had left the hall.

Although there were many there then, to inform us, tell us, mock us, that our father was once more dancing before all the brethren,

we chose to ignore it, knew nothing at all of it. Somehow, our father's mighty efforts had become derailed, seemed to have failed, to get our attention.

~~~

Our father then, not to be undone, decided on a whistle then, for each one. One for each, and we were many, high pitch, low pitch, twitter bird, whilst dancing absurd.

He stood so straight and with such class, as if a broomstick were lodged fair up his arse, whistling strong, whistling loud, so none could claim that they had not heard.

Arms flung into the air, whilst feet were planted firmly down, to turn the torso but not the hips, it's not well known, but there was a trick, just swivel on that phantom stick.

Left arm a'wave, right arm a'wave, then both hands sustain, for a purpose to retain, a novelty sized head a'bobbing, to this dignity robbing, in order to call us all in quick.

But we all stood and watched, then said, 'His plans must be botched, our father's game must be ended.' So we all pretended, just as we intended, that we were all deaf and blind.

The whistles became ecstatic, the dancing more erratic, as he started making little jumps in the air, which caught the brethren unaware, but still no children could he find.

~~~

Going home in the car, we would have to answer to our dancing star, as to why we had not come to the whistles, his manner all a'bristle, unacceptable to answer: 'We are not dogs!'

For one full year, he brought us such cheer, yet never once would we appear, for we remained ignorant of the facts, as blind as bats, as deaf as logs.

Once home again, out came the strap, brought down by this happy chap, in order for expedience, to teach us all obedience, and to knock out our defiance.

For all his hard work, it did not work, and now the years have passed and so has he, but I can't help but wonder, were he here to see, what he might think of me, as I pay homage here now to the Whistle Dance.
Homicide At The Hydro - Part 2

30 August 2015

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

Thierry Mercier was a French chef who had come to Sydney via New Caledonia. He had trained in some of the best restaurants in Paris. Foy, who had eaten at the restaurant in Sydney where Thierry was previously employed, declared that he must have him for the Hydro Majestic in Medlow Bath. Accordingly, he made Mercier an offer he couldn't refuse. The only problem was that the general Australian palate was not ready for Monsieur Mercier's cuisine. What worked as the menu for a high-end restaurant in Sydney, was seemingly inappropriate at a country hotel--there had been many complaints. Foy repeatedly stated that Thierry must modify his cuisine, thusly. For his part, Thierry hated the Hydro, describing it as _provincial_ , and was counting the days until his contract was complete. In particular he reviled the patrons whom he described as 'les rosbifs!' Thierry had a peculiarity that he was completely unaware of: he bore a striking resemblance to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the creator of _Sherlock Holmes_.

Thierry had just returned to the kitchen. He had been taking a break after the breakfast session, smoking a _Gauloises_ , in the shade close to the kitchen door. In fact, it was he who had left the door open--not Charlie Watson, the new kitchen hand-cum-waiter. He watched somewhat bemused as Annie stalked away, after slamming the door. Thierry had caught the last part of the fraught conversation between Annie and Foy. He understood enough to confirm in his mind what Thierry had perceived about Foy--that he was yet another 'rosbif', consumed with his own self-importance; not to mention an opportunist. Thierry Mercier, of course, was also an opportunist and an idea began to crystallise in his mind as to how he could extricate himself hastily from his contract. The head chef was not required to provide high tea today, as a buffet had been arranged for service in another part of the hotel. Thierry turned on his heel and headed instead for the general manager's office.

Meanwhile the 'red rattler' was just coming into Medlow Bath station. Annie, sweating profusely, had just enough time to get across the highway and onto the platform. She watched with interest as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, his wife, children and servants (she surmised) alighted from the carriage. Sir Arthur looked curiously familiar to her, although she was certain that she had never seen him before.

Sir Arthur looked about with some annoyance. 'Blast, where is that chap? Ford... or something; he was supposed to meet us!'

'It's _Foy_ , Arthur, and I'm sure he'll be here momentarily my dear,' his wife replied. 'Thank goodness the heat here is nowhere near as severe as it was in Sydney. What is this place called again?'

'It's called _Medlow_ or at least it used to be. Now known as _Medlow Bath_ apparently.'

Doyle's son tugged at his sleeve. 'I say, Daddy, do you think we might see a snake whilst we're here?'

'I'm sure I haven't the slightest idea, Denis; but one never knows.'

Annie suddenly had a brain-wave. She raced up breathlessly to Doyle and his party. 'Excuse me Sir Arthur, my name is Annie, I work at the Hydro Majestic Hotel. Mr Foy sends his apologies--I'm his assistant. He was called away on... ah, an urgent matter, sir--begging your pardon. He said that you should use the pony and trap service, and that the Hydro will be more than happy to cover the cost of transfer of your good selves and luggage over to the hotel. Furthermore,' she continued in a rush, 'the Hydro would be pleased if you and your family would care to dine tonight at our expense.'

Doyle and his wife exchanged a glance. 'Well that is most generous of your employer, I must say. Are you absolutely sure... _Annie_ is it?'

She nodded vigorously.

'Well we would be delighted to accept Mr Foy's invitation. Did you know Annie, I once co-wrote the libretto of an opera called _Jane Annie_ with my friend James Barrie? He was the chap who wrote _Peter Pan and Wendy..._ '

Just at that moment, the station master blew his whistle. 'All aboard, Blackheath next stop.'

'Yes sir, Mr Doyle... ah I mean Sir Arthur, most interesting I'm sure but you see I have to catch this train to Blackheath. I'll be back this evening to help serve the evening meal, so I'm certain we'll meet up again. Now don't forget, the cost of the trap and tonight's evening meal is with the compliments of Mr Foy and the Hydro. Goodbye for now. Cheerio!' No sooner did she finish this rush, than Annie entered the train's second class carriage and it began chugging out of the station. She fell into a vacant seat and said aloud, 'Oh God, what on earth have I just done? Who _does_ Sir Arthur remind me of anyway?' However, her mind was in consternation and it eluded her.

Doyle looked incredulous for just a moment, then burst out laughing. 'How extraordinary,' he exclaimed. 'Come along everyone, let's find this pony and trap. I have a feeling that we have gained some new friends.'

Back at the Hydro, Foy had indeed been delayed by his head chef, who had a smug expression on his face.

'Now look here Thierry, I'm supposed to meet the author chappie, Doyle, and his family at the station; your contract has a further six months to run. We've been through this before; give the modified menu a chance to settle in. You're supposed to be doing a special dinner tonight in his honour... what are you smirking about?'

'Mon ami, I 'ave been watching you. Zee way, how you say, harass some of zee waitresses.'

'I, I er haven't the slightest notion what you're babbling about. Now if you'll excuse me I have to...'

'Not so fast Monsieur Foy, I over'eard your tête-à-tête avec Annie, zee serveuse Irlandais.'

'What on earth are you talking about you stupid Frog? You've got the wrong end of the wooden spoon!'

Thierry was puzzled. 'Excusez-moi, Monsieur, Je ne comprends pas-- _wrong end of zee wooden spoon_?

Foy threw his arms up in frustration. 'Pah,' he exclaimed and stalked off. But Foy knew exactly what his chef, in fractured Franglaise, was trying to tell him and what he was trying to achieve. There was a 'closing gate' looming and Foy did not intend to be on the wrong side of it. He'd have to take drastic action with regard to Annie and with his exasperating chef. But fate was about to take its own course, thanks to a certain 'collaborator' waiting patiently in the kitchen.
Cash And Calico

31 August 2015

Winsome Smith

South Bowenfels, Canberra

Australia

When Eleanor Hughes reached the sophisticated age of fifteen in 1948, she presented herself at MacIntosh's Emporium, the local department store. Two salesgirl positions were on offer, one in Shoes and one in Dress Materials.

The store manager, a fatherly gentleman called Mr Blake, suggested the Shoes department but Eleanor cringed at the idea. She could not possibly kneel in front of a customer to help them try on shoes. It was so humble and submissive. She intended to be a woman of the world and could not see how smelling other people's feet all day would lead her along that path. As she loved fashion, she chose Dress Materials.

On her first day she arrived wearing a freshly ironed white blouse and black skirt, as required by the store and was immediately introduced to Miss Kerslake, manager of Dress Materials. Miss Kerslake was tiny, blonde, Pomeranian-snappy and had already reached the ancient age of forty.

As she showed Eleanor how to write out dockets in the docket book she said, "I'm only telling you this once, so remember it." She also said, "Press hard with the pencil so the writing will go through the carbon paper."

She showed Eleanor how to write,

2 yds cotton poplin @ 4/- per yard with 8/- entered in the money column.

She then demonstrated how to put the docket, with the customer's cash, into the little canister. She pulled a handle and the canister flew along a line up to the cashiers' office which was an eyrie high up in the building's domed ceiling.

Eleanor knew this shop well. Each department such as Hardware, Grocery, Haberdashery and Accessories had a long counter with willing shop assistants standing ready to be helpful. There was a Confectionary counter near the front door and a Shoe Department at the back near the downstairs office. Each counter had its cylindrical contraption for the cashiers' canisters and there were wires extending to the ceiling. It would seem that counter attendants were not capable of, or trusted with, counting out change.

Between Dress Materials and Haberdashery there were large tables on which were placed bolts of material being held upright by metal stands. This was convenient as customers could buy fabrics then go straight across to Haberdashery to buy needles, pins and sewing cottons. All very efficient, Miss Kerslake pointed out to Eleanor. Every sentence she spoke seemed to have 'and don't you forget it' hovering silently at the end.

On her first morning Eleanor was kept busy tidying up the bolts of fabrics. There were sturdy cotton materials and flimsy laces. There were satins and tulles for evening dresses and warm corduroys and velvets for everyday wear. In the afternoon she was behind the counter and served her first customer.

A plump matron demanded of her, 'Where's the calico?' Among the velveteens and laces Eleanor had not seen any calico. She was not really sure what it was.

Of course the sensible thing to do was ask, so she approached Miss Kerslake and repeated the woman's question, 'Where's the calico?'

Miss Kerslake's mouth twisted a little as she said, 'There's a bolt of unbleached calico on the end of the counter. If you'll look.'

Eleanor looked, as told, and located the material. She then asked the customer how much she wanted.

'If it's thirty six inch I want four and three quarter yards. If its fifty four inch I want four yards. If it's seventy two inch I want three and three quarter yards.'

Not having the slightest idea how wide the material was, Eleanor again nervously approached Miss Kerslake who was measuring out a length of green velveteen for another customer.

Again the twisted mouth along with an exasperated glare. 'If you'll look, there's a little label at the end of the bolt, telling you the width.'

Eleanor located the little label and discovered the calico was thirty six inches wide and she informed the customer. This lady seemed to have no more manners than Miss Kerslake because she said sternly to Eleanor, 'Four and three quarter yards, I told ya.'

Measuring out four yards was easy because yards were clearly marked on the measuring tape fixed to the counter. Three quarters was harder. How many inches were in three quarters of a yard? Eleanor attempted some quick mental arithmetic. Thirty six inches in a yard. How many fours in thirty six? Nervous and trembling while the customer tapped her foot, Eleanor silently said her four times table. Oh yes, four nines were thirty six. Then multiply nine by three and you get twenty seven. Three quarters of a yard had to be twenty seven inches. But was that right? Her father, a carpenter, had always said, 'Measure twice. Cut once.'

She pushed the already measured four yards aside and hesitated before proceeding to measure the next twenty seven inches.

'You haven't got time to stand there in a dream,' declared Miss Kerslake. 'You've measured out your four yards. Cut it off and don't keep the customer waiting.'

'But,' Eleanor began, wanting to say that the customer wanted another three quarters of a yard. She was too late. Miss Kerslake took up the scissors and cut off the four yards.

'Write out the docket, girl, as I showed you then put it with the cash in the canister.'

The customer resembled an angry cockatoo, seeming to ruffle her feathers as she screeched, 'I wanted four and three quarter yards, all in one piece, not in two bits. I'm taking my custom elsewhere.' She stormed out of the shop.

Miss Kerslake's fury reached such heights that Eleanor hid behind a bolt of floral cotton poplin and shed a few tears. From where she stood she could see the Shoe Department. In the Shoe Department there was no measuring, no mental arithmetic and no cutting. Furthermore Eleanor could buy the most fashionable high heels at a 10% discount.

She then marched straight to the manager's office and asked for a transfer to another department. She also discovered that as the customers were always required to wear socks or stockings there were no smelly feet.
Poppy's Diary

1 and 2 September 2015

Demelza

Taroona, Tasmania

Australia

I feel sure you won't have read too far into this story to realise it isn't really Poppy's diary but an account of day to day doings as seen through the eyes of his care giver. Perhaps 'Caring for Elsa' may have been a more fitting description or even 'Confessions of an In-law'. Whatever the title the fact is today was a confused day. Today he thought the doctor from Queensland, where he'd recently been hospitalised for an acute attach of pancreatitis, would be visiting him and didn't he need to drink at least two glasses of water before the doctor arrived?

'Well, Poppy, drinking water is always a good idea, but we can't see the doctor from Queensland because we're in Tasmania and you had an MRI last week and that's all we need to do for now.'

I woke up this morning thinking, _What does today hold for me?_ Managing a household of eleven is never without external forces controlling my almost every move.

There has been a gastronomical bug affecting our lives for the last two weeks. Not the type that bowls the whole house over in one strike--you know the one where someone didn't wash their hands before mixing the salad--no we have been fortunate, if you can say that, to have had the other one--the one that seems to incubate slowly and then wait until 2.30 am before spilling stomach contents down the toilet or over the sides of beds or passage carpet and then waiting another day or two before claiming its next victim.

Day sixteen looked good. I'd slept for six hours, this month's record, and then woke up at 5 am to discover the toilet cistern had over filled. Cool water seemingly inches deep had spilled onto the bathroom floor before travelling up the passage to be sucked up by the playroom carpet.

Well that was a step up from the previous night's 2 am hose down of vomit from the passage runner.

'How are you this morning, Len?'

'Well I'm okay but (pauses while he remembers what he wants to say) I messed my pants.'

'That's okay, Poppy. Do you need a shower?'

'No, I'll be alright.'

'Do I need to change your bedding or clean the bathroom?'

'No, it's just my pants.'

'I'll take the washing with me now. Have you got a tummy ache?'

'No I feel fine.'

Later he was on his way out for the day and I asked how his tummy was. 'Oh, no problems there, it's just up here that's a problem,' he said as he pointed to his head.

Three weeks and lots have happened since then but here we are in the emergency waiting room with perhaps another attack of pancreatitis.

I return home at 8:30 am after taking Eric the gymnast to his 6 am training session. I play our normal game of tag team with Tommo, my husband, who mentions Pop is feeling a bit unwell. He'd felt sick since lunch the previous day and so we were keeping a good eye on him. I kiss my husband goodbye, greet my visitor with delight and declare this to be my 'best day ever' as I've accidently found the spare laptop charger and will now be able to plug in for the first time in seven days. I'm not addicted to technology but life without my lappy was getting pretty tough.

In my past life I was happy to write things down, sort through my thoughts and then type them up--but these days I find that I can type as fast as I can think (which although is very slow) uses much less paper.

My 'best day ever' changes as soon as I open the adjoining flat door to Len's place. The stench of faecal matter jumps straight to my nose nearly causing me to display two hash browns and a coffee. I follow the trail from the bed, to the pyjamas on the floor, to the bucket, sitting on the kitchen bench, full of poop, shitty undies and toilet paper. I can't believe that Tommo hadn't noticed.

After showering, dressing and hopefully comforting Len I settle him into his chair and hunt down the remaining dollops of bluck bluck before throwing every unclean towel, sheet, sock and article of clothing into the boiling hot wash cycle. After hurling profuse thankyous at my visitor for offering to babysit I return to sanitise the kitchen sink where I have found some utensils that may have been used to remove bluck bluck from the kitchen floor. Must say I am tempted just to dispose of them in the rubbish bin and it is providence that I open the cupboard door to do so as there is more poop hiding in the rubbish with a roll of used toilet paper. I confess that I'm not one for using bleach but I'm sure I'll be forgiven for doing so today!

So that brings us back to waiting here, in the emergency waiting room, wondering if we're doing the right thing. We've waited here for up to four hours at times and with a confused and unwell eighty-six-year-old it's not top of my list as most pleasant pastimes but we make the most of it by reminiscing on Len's childhood. His own doctor is nearly an hour away and after speaking with the reception nurse we decide to front up at the Royal Hobart rather than trek all the way out to the suburbs and then have to return back here. Now I'm not so sure, perhaps it is just a resurgence of the tummy bungles.

If so I hope he never eats the Mullingataway soup again from wherever it was he did.

If there was an Olympic event for power burping Poppy would breeze in with gold every time.

We're in our second hour of wait and all is calm--apart from the burpies. Left home in a moment of stress and confusion with everything happening at once. The year ten coordinator was on the phone about my uncompliant fifteen-year-old son ignoring the rules about shoes being compulsory to wear on the school grounds as the taxi arrived to pick us up. In my haste I left my wallet, along with Pop's medical history, and health care cards at home. The car (we share this between a household of eleven) today is with my daughter who is down the Channel working on rehearsals for the up and coming Festival of Voices.

Looks like we've done the right thing in bringing him in as it isn't the evil gastro but an acute attack of pancreatitis brought on by gall stones, three in fact left over in the pipeline after the removal of his gall bladder. Hopefully just a simple procedure to remove them and we'll be back home.

The last simple operation went slightly wrong and the day after admittance and removal of the gall bladder the hospital wanted to send him home with a catheter attached and the promise of a 'trial of void' in ten days' time.

I'm elated they can squeeze him onto the end of the day surgery and have it all over and done within an hour. I knew this was my best day ever!

Today's the first of July. I visited Poppy this arvo. Simply just didn't happen and due to an operation Poppy had last century his anatomy just didn't present the way they had expected so they had to abort the procedure and return him to a ward which also never happened because his blood pressure dropped so low they sent him to ICU. They also forgot to tell us.

This is not good for Len and it brings a flood of grief over him and his family because his wife Elsa died in this hospital only six months earlier from complications brought on by a broken arm. It took Elsa ten days to die and it was right from the beginning unexpected, expected and unexpected again. It was hard for us but for Nan some of it was hell. Mostly I had to stay with her full time as she wanted me to be there and that was fine with me as we were very close. We had cared for her at home for the previous nine months and I honestly felt that the nurses were so busy that at times they were unable to meet her needs. One day they called me in and I found her crouching, naked at the top of the bed lashing out like a banshee. Tubes and wires were a tangle of attachments and it took a while to calm her down but by the end of half an hour we were sitting together with our cups of tea talking about the weather in China and I console myself that she'll only remember the good bits.

One good bit I remember was the party atmosphere created by her small grandchildren and the small grandchildren of the gentleman in the bed opposite (yep--there's no discrimination of age or gender at this hospital). The children brought cheer to the entire ward one evening by sharing one doll and a pram with each other and visiting whom they could. That was a good night, but I still struggled to leave her and one day she told me how she was taken from one place to another by an ambulance, a boat, a car and various other modes of transport and then left on the top of a building where she could see doctors and family walking past her. She called out to them but none of us would respond. We just kept on walking past and ignoring her calls for help. It broke my heart to hear the sadness in her voice and I said, 'You know, Nan, it was only a ketamine dream.'

'I suppose so,' she said, 'but it really did seem real.'

It was a shock to walk in and find Len connected up to oxygen as, once again, no-one from the hospital had called to tell us he'd had a bit of a problem at breakfast time and couldn't breathe. They'd sent him off for a heart scan and returned him to a more closely monitored ward.

It was Nan, not Pop, who always needed the oxygen. She was the one with the lung condition. Well at least he's looking alright now- apart from a bit of confusion.

MRI today, stone removal tomorrow and out by next Wednesday, sounds easy.

Tommo and I visited last night about 7:30 and he was sitting up in his chair looking pretty good and full of conversation. He told us he was waiting for his dinner. _A bit late_ , I thought, _but who knows_.

Eventually the nurse mentions to us that he'd already eaten his dinner. So we talk a bit more and he asks about breakfast. So we whip out the Tim Tams, make a cuppa tea and declare it supper time.

07/07/14

Hurray! Poppy comes home today--this Monday morning--a week to the day he went in. The infection's gone and taken the confusion with it. I'd better get busy now and make his bed, vacuum and replace all the biscuits borrowed by his grandchildren. I've had a week to do so but it went so quickly and here we are with the lucky last minute thanks to Sal, (the eighteen-year-old), who's taken Max (the three-year-old) for a bus ride and Rochelle, who's borrowed the car and will fetch him home for me. So now it's back to the phone to reinstate all the appointments that were cancelled and work out transport for next week.

30/07/14

Poppy's doing so well, way better than I would have dared to imagine. He still has a memory problem but his confusion is so much improved it makes me realise that his pancreatic problems had been affecting him more than we were aware of.

He is making good decisions, even purchased a pair of sport shoes on his own. Said, with a huge beam on his face, he'd always wanted a pair like that. Well done, Len, we are as proud of you as you are pleased with yourself.

As happy as I am for Pop I still seem to be emotionally overwhelmed with other areas of my life. It saddens me to see my children make less-than-best life choices. Today was one of those days on about three issues which I'll spare you from except to say that I was feeling extremely low and crying while driving. I must have looked a state: red eyes, no smile and three young ones in tow.

After needing to leave the house early for a 9 am appointment with an older child, I decided not to return home on account of the house being incredibly messy and very cold. The thought of chopping wood to light a fire sounded way too fatiguing so I took the smalls shoe shopping instead. The day didn't seem to be warming up so after making our purchases we ended up at McDonald's (the only cheap undercover playground) for lunch and planned to go to a nice warm library after to do a bit of school work.

No gluten free, except the chips, so I purchase three small bags of fries, for the young ones a coffee for me and one hot chocolate, which I decant into three glasses and add cold milk because it's way too hot for the smalls to consume. I rummage through my backpack to find the zip lock bag full of busking money I'd traded with my son, by putting the equivalent amount into his bank account, and then proceed to pay with twenty and fifty cent pieces.

We enjoy the fries and apart from the youngest spilling her drink all over the table, her shoes and the floor, everything is going okay. The kids play, I check my emails and then a gentleman, in disguise as a rough diamond, with tattoos, leather looking face etc., places a Macca's bag on the table and says it's for the kids as he remembers what it was like to do it tough. I thank him and his partner through my tears and the girls hoe into a cheese burger each full of wheat, soy, dairy, sugar and every preservative we avoid by not coming to McDonald's. I am overwhelmed with their generosity and thoughtfulness. Was it the coins that made them think we were broke or the sharing of the one over-sugared drink? I didn't offer to say we weren't poor in cash but only in spirits. Either way their act of love had a positive effect and the children and I talked about how to pass on a kindness.

We did end up at the library. They were running a community awareness event on death and grief. They gave me a lovely hot cuppa brewed with a sympathetic ear and needless to say we all returned home cheerier than when we had ventured out.
Forests, Feathers, Fins And Fur: Frantically Fading

3 September 2015

Katrina Wirth

Rutherford, New South Wales

Australia

What a clamour, what a commotion...

The sight of beautiful arrays of colours of birds' feathers in a flurry, like that of the most enriching dreams.

Fish with fins that are sharp as razors travelling up the vast streams.

Fur being taken from many animals hides.

You will never see me standing near these murderers of furs, feathers and fins, sides.

The environment is peaceful and tranquil, why destroy animals' habitats and cause an uproar?

Why even cause a furore?

Don't take for granted what is our environment and our natural heritage sites.

Take responsibility, take a stance in preserving these precious sites and the environment for many a more future generations, and fight.

Discover dazzling sights at the depths of the forest floor.

Learning that there are always lots of things in the forest and many different fine feathered, finned and furred creatures to explore.

No matter how hard we all try to preserve this enriching landscape we call home now...

We will still be faced with many problems to preserve our environment in the future and the impounding question of how?
New York Lands

4 September 2015

Myfanwy Dabner

Newbridge, New South Wales

Australia

New York lands

It is affluent of me

To seek my ancestors

By a passport

Spending thousands

To sit in a plane

Which costs the earth

I fly

To New York

To talk with intellectuals

Lonely and abstract

Insight to none

Ether minds

Sipping wine

I whine

Holding the program

I fold a wordly paper plane

I've licked the gum

Left a trace

It flies

New York with prudence

I'm now in two

For a few hundred cents

Saving thousands

My DNA here and there

Earth de-briefs

It is right of me

To stay home

To give all my worth

To cheeks without smiles

To the full-bodied homeless

To seeing

To stop taking

To stop flying

To fade

For futures wake

I shadow back as you alight

Ancestors' winds blow sensibly
Snow And Ice

5 September 2015

Paul Humphreys

Oxley, Canberra

Australia

Witchy knew Snow and her gang could be had over easily. The opportunity to escape their reality was the only excuse needed to drop out, to move away.

The gang was a motley, dishevelled group. Snow shone as a personality of note above the other seven members of the loosely organised gang. Their reality was, that at night, they doshed down on anything that was comfortable. Their sleep out was a disused railway yard. It had an old, dilapidated, faded blue caravan that acted as the mothership. It was not out of place amongst the piles of rubbish, jettisoned construction materials and damaged, archaic carriages.

'Hey Snow--this should grabya.' Witchy held out a small plastic envelope of white powder to Snow. Snow was a young, attractive but not so beautiful woman who had lost count of the number of years she had had on this earth. It was another round of dropping the white powder and wasting another day in blissful oblivion.

It didn't take long; the overwhelming lift elevated Snow to a place where everything was magnified. She could hear and smell the colours running through her.

The conjunction of her conscious and unconscious held her wrapt in the claws of an angelic dragon softly encompassing all of her skin and senses.

And then it got bad.

The euphoric burst of energy that should have come with a rush, didn't. The Dragon plunged with her into a dark swirling whirlpool of tar; she lost her voice and panicked to breathe. The more she struggled the more she was enmeshed in the black ooze that appeared to be alive with small creeping insects. It was a downer. A bad drop. She thought she had been here once before. Then the pitch black of the night that lasts forever enveloped and drowned all her senses, emotions and memories.

'She don't look well,' Doc choked out, holding Snow's head in the crook of his hand and trying to get her to respond.

'Don't fart around--slap her!' yelled Sulk, anxiously pacing backwards and forwards agitated and concerned with what might be the result of an OD.

'What's goin' on?' called Dozer to no one in particular. He gave a big yawn as he stumbled across the yard to join the group.

'Buggered if I know,' mumbled Dumbo, shrugging his shoulders and moving away. Dozer also turned away and went back to his swag under the caravan.

'Need to get an ambo here quick! Otherwise she might cark it.' Achtung followed his statement with a deafening sneeze that disturbed two or three scrawny dogs that were lying next to the mothership.

'Oh she'll be right, soon as she sleeps it off,' said Gig, with a broad knowing smile that inferred he had seen it all before.

'NO! This looks serious!' yelled Achtung, holding his head back and trying to control another sneeze.

'Who's got a mobile?' Doc looked around at the remnants of the group.

'Don't look at me, mine's stuffed.'

'My battery's flat as a tack.'

These responses injected a pall of despair and desperation amongst the gang.

'I think I have enough signal,' said Sulk, screwing his eyes up, looking at the screen.

'Well do it!' yelled Doc. 'Triple O!'

Snow showed no sign of change. The seven gang members now sat around looking at the ground trying not to look at Snow lying on the ground with her head propped up on a pile of old newspapers.

They could hear the siren before they saw the paramedics' van. A young man, neatly dressed with a stethoscope in the top pocket of his white coat, jumped from the vehicle and walked briskly toward the group. He immediately knelt alongside Snow and started his evaluation. He placed the stethoscope on her chest and assumed a look of intense concentration. He rose quickly and brought his clenched fists down hard on Snow's chest. Snow did not respond. He again probed with his stethoscope. He discarded the stethoscope, opened Snow's mouth, tilted her head back and, without any explanation, firmly locked his mouth on top of Snow's mouth and started to breath heavily.

After a few tense moments, Snow's legs slowly started to move and then her eyes opened; she then became agitated and tried to push the young paramedic away. His mouth clung to hers and he continued his deep breathing. After a minute or so he stopped and leant back on his haunches.

Snow was helped up to a sitting position.

After checking her pulse he said, 'You should be alright now. You were extremely lucky we were close by.' The paramedic picked up his stethoscope and started to walk towards the van.

'Than--thank you,' said Snow in a very weak voice, tears slowly descending her cheeks. 'How can I ever thank you?'

'It's okay, it's part of my job.'

'What's your name?' said Snow going uncharacteristically demure.

'My work mates call me Prince.'

'But what is your real name?

'Peter, uh, Peter Charming.' He smiled as he got inside the van, wrote a few notes and then waved as he drove away.
Homicide At The Hydro - Part 3

6 September 2015

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

Chef Thierry Mercier was now in a state of agitation. His plan to coerce Foy into releasing him from his contract had come unstuck. _Mon Dieu, que dois-je faire?_ He thought to himself meaning: 'My God, what must I do?' He stalked off once more, this time towards his room in the servants' quarters. Firstly he made a detour to the main bar where he pilfered a bottle of fine cognac. Back in his room, Thierry closed and locked the door. He then immediately opened the bottle of brandy, taking a long drink directly from the bottle. He opened the window to let some fresh air into the stifling hot room. He was just in time to see a flock of cockatoos go shrieking around the side of the hotel. 'Zat is 'ow I am feeling too,' he said aloud. Just at that moment, he also heard a kookaburra laughing uproariously. ' _Even zee wildlife torment me!_ Zo I vill torment zee lovely Charlee--il est la récompense!'

~~~

Charlie Watson, on the other hand, had been in a state of agitation for some time. He had been a waiter-cum-kitchen hand at the Hydro Majestic now for around six weeks, and was rather unsure if he wished to continue. He quite enjoyed the work--as long and arduous as it was--but the pay was abysmal. Furthermore, he was receiving some uncalled-for attention from the main chef, Monsieur Mercier. Charlie referred to him, contemptuously, as a _'bloody shirt lifter'_ when yarning with his mates. Despite this, Charlie loved the ambience of the hotel--its elegance and gentility--and he liked nothing better than to watch the patrons in their finery, as they paraded up and down the Cat's Alley. The ladies in their crinoline gowns and the gentlemen in their formal attire were a source of constant delight to him. Charlie did his best, on his meagre salary, to always appear neat and tidy. He was enamoured of fine tailoring and it was his ambition to, one day, open his own haberdashery or exclusive gentleman's clothing store. Thus, Mr Foy thought that young Watson showed promise.

Earlier on, Charlie had been approaching the open kitchen door; he stopped short and hid behind a poplar when he came upon the chef, Monsieur Mercier, eavesdropping, apparently, on a conversation going on inside. He couldn't hear it-- _more's the pity!_ Moments later, Annie the pretty Irish waitress, whom he had made friends with, came out through the portal and slammed the door behind her. She looked rather distressed and did not see Charlie behind the poplar as she passed by him on her way to the station. _My, oh my!_ thought Charlie. _What's cookin' I wonder? Looks like old murky Mercier heard something interesting; I'll just keep out of harm's way for the moment!_ Charlie stayed put until the chef disappeared around the corner of the building.

~~~

Sir Arthur and party had now transferred themselves to the pony and trap and were on their way across to the Hydro. Regrettably, there was not enough room for everyone. So Sir Arthur and his son, Denis, had elected to walk across and stretch their legs, as they had not been off the train since Sydney, even when they had stopped at Wentworth Falls for the locomotive to take on water. Just as they approached the main entrance, a flurry of screeching white birds flew over them.

'Gosh Daddy, it's so hot--oh look--a flock of seagulls!' exclaimed Denis.

'Not this far inland, old chap!' replied Sir Arthur. 'I think they call those chaps cockatoos. They're a sort of parrot. Noisy blighters, aren't they?'

Just then, Foy the manager arrived on the scene. 'Damned _parasites_ if you ask me! Forever attacking our supplies from the valley as they come up in the flying fox. Ah, Sir Arthur, I presume? Welcome to the Hydro Majestic. My name is Foy, the manager. I've just met your good lady wife and I presume this is your son?'

'Err, ah, yes... thank you, Foy! Yes, this is my son Denis--he's hoping to see a snake while we're here--aren't you Denis?... _Denis_?'

Denis shuffled his feet and finally said, 'Yes, I suppose so.'

'Well, you won't find any in our hotel at least!' Foy stated firmly. 'Anyway, let's get you both in out of the sun, eh? I'm terribly sorry I didn't meet you at the station, Sir Arthur. I'm afraid I had a staffing problem.'

'Oh don't mention it, your assistant Annie met us instead; before she got on the train to Blackheath. I must say it's uncommonly generous of you to provide the pony and trap, and to offer us our evening meal... _gratis_. One realises that staffing problems do arise. However, it would be churlish to refuse your kind offer.'

Foy was confused. So Annie "my assistant", said that the evening meal was on the house, did she? Why that little minx, her days here are numbered! 'Well... yes, of course Mr Doyle, err Sir Arthur; we do pride ourselves on service here you know.' To add to Foy's confusion, once they were in out of the glare of the sun, Foy was startled to note that the eminent author--Sir Arthur Conan Doyle--bore an uncanny resemblance to his headstrong chef, Monsieur Thierry Mercier. He had a strong sense of foreboding.

~~~

Buoyant now that his boss had disappeared, Charlie Watson entered the kitchen. The intruder had retreated to the larder area; consequently, Charlie was unaware that he was not alone. In fact the rest of the kitchen staff were attending to a buffet in another part of the hotel. In the meantime, Charlie began preparatory work for the evening meal, expecting any moment for Thierry Mercier to reappear.

~~~

After perfunctorily checking in Sir Arthur, his wife, children and entourage, Foy led his guests along the Cat's Alley to the function room where the buffet had been laid out.

'Well I must say, Foy, you were a successful draper in Sydney, and you are certainly a man of taste--adorning this passageway with such a vast collection of prints and paintings; this would attract attention in any city in the world. Don't you think so, Jean?'

Jean, who was tired and fatigued, replied, 'Yes, Arthur, delightful--I'm sure; do let us get to luncheon. The children are wilting and so am I!'

'Of course my dear. Another time eh Foy? I especially like your series of French prints, representing events of Byzantine history. Incidentally, did you know that _Foy_ is actually a French surname?'

Sir Arthur prattled on in similar fashion but Foy rolled his eyes skyward. Lord, an insufferable bore and he looks like Thierry Mercier as well. I must be careful not to dispose of the wrong one!
Gone

7 September 2015

Graham Sparks

Bathurst, New South Wales

Australia

The grave that waits for me is warm and dark and snug,

a fold of earth where rest and peace do manifest,

quilted with the fronds of burrawang and fern

next to where my Darkie lies.

They'll lay me six feet down without a box and plant a tree above my head,

and when those roots like fingers come to live within me,

I'll ride the sap unto the tops

to be dispersed upon the breeze by restless leaves,

and 'crobes and worms and such will spread me 'round beneath the ground,

a little bay, whence depart disbursements of myself.

When folks are gone that way a fence no longer is a thing of meaning,

and roads upon a map no more than squiggly lines.

Ownership of lands and stuff becomes anathema,

and governments and laws, nations and their wars,

no more than kids at play.
'Picture It' Writing Competition

In September 2015, we ran a 'Picture It' writing competition. Entrants had to write a poem or story using one of the following images as the stimulus--their choice. Over the following pages, where an entry relates to this competition, we have indicated at the start of each piece which image the author used for their stimulus:

(All images © Jennifer Mosher <http://jmoshereditor.com>)

Image A

 .

Image B

Image C

Image D
The Performer

8 September 2015

Beatrice Ross

Winmalee, New South Wales

Australia

Picture It Competition Entry - Picture A

Behind the mask, the empty smile, the performer hides his toil.

The curtains draw, the spotlight hot, his skin begins to boil.

He takes the stage, plays his part, recites his pithy lines.

But behind him lies a deeper cause, a balance act on high.

On the edge, holding tight, teeter here and there.

The tightrope sways and twists, hanging over air.

And when the curtains fall,

when the day is done and dusted,

he strips the clothes, the fancy dress,

the mask, the face, the act.

He sinks down deep in darkness,

and dies another day.

The makeup hides a deeper truth,

a soul deep care for death.

Poor Pedrolino, pale Pagliacci,

teardrop on the cheek.

The gentle ending nightmare

of life is at his feet.

The child dies within him,

his life so cold and empty.

The performer plays his final act.

Now throw the man his penny.

The noose pulls tight and heavy,

swinging to and fro.

Now back once more,

swinging to and fro.

The balance act is over,

the performer hides no more.

Now takes a final bow.

No reason to applaud.

Fin! Finis! Finito!

Now, now, no need to cry.

T'was just an act, a final act.

A burning urge to die.
Palestine

9 September 2015

Terry Hopper

Luton, Bedfordshire

United Kingdom

Another day in paradise,

Nobody cares or glances twice,

The children scream, as mothers weep,

Shrapnel blasts and scars run deep,

The world it turns its blind eyes shut

Amidst the blood, the wounds, the cuts

How we stand and turn away,

Upon deaf ears, not a word we say,

The plight of people, innocent lives,

Who just want freedom, and to survive,

Under oppression and occupancy,

Unlike us, both you and me,

No aid convoys or flotillas flow,

Waters cut and seeds don't grow,

The olive tree she once stood tall,

Now charred and chopped, made to fall

This broken land, with rubble strewn

Will never dance to the invaders' tune

The world has turned its back on us,

No more the fool, no more we trust,

And as the bombs reign down we pray

Maybe tomorrow, maybe today,

Someone somewhere will stand and fight,

For Gaza's children, and their human rights

Broken hearts with broken bones,

Israel's rockets and unmanned drones,

How much longer, how many more years,

Living in squalor, living in fear,

Just where has our humanity gone?

We idly sit and watch the slaughter go on,

A Genocide is taking place,

A new holocaust, with a different race,

It's time we stood united as one,

Took a stand for what's right and needs to be done

Look deep inside and take the time

And pray for the people of Palestine.
The Farmer

10 September 2015

David Anderson

Woodford, New South Wales

Australia

Nature can be such a bastard, to a farmer working the land

Even with modern equipment, when your grandfather tilled it by hand

This farmer was proud of his son, 'It's yours when I'm under the ground'

Then his son said he soon would be leaving, for the Big Smoke he surely was bound

So the farmer picked up his rifle and said, 'There's some lambs that I have to slay,

They're all skin and bone from no water, they'll not last another hot day'

So with old Blue, his loyal dog he'd driven, to a place he held dear by a stream

Recalling how often he'd gone there, with his grandad to fish and to dream

To hear stories of past wars and famines, and floods and the fear of Big Red

Then they'd carry a fish home to dinner, to the farm house, and then off to bed

He'd dream of that day in the future, when he too could toil on this farm

With a loving family beside him, to work for and shelter from harm

When that day came he couldn't defend them, when the bushfire caught them outside

He found them beneath a wet blanket, the kids safe, but his wife had died

Protecting her kids with her body, so scorched and burnt by the heat

With young Blue cowering under beside them, licking his black blistered feet

Now he lifted the gun to his forehead, the trigger poised ready to press

Hesitation then quickly flowed through him, at the thought of this cruel bloody mess

His children would see when they found him, the sight would cause them to grieve

As to why their father had done this, was it his son's decision to leave?

When some drops from above broke his musing, and he gazed up above to the sky

Where black clouds were crying of promise, answered prayers to end the Big Dry

With a laugh and dance he remembered, how his sweet wife Kathleen had once said

'You were meant to look after this wide land, until the day you are dead'

So with Blue he drove back home contented, with his wipers scudding on high

Heaven knows if this rain could continue, it could save his farm from the Dry

Then at night as he sat by the fire, while his son was packing his case

His daughter sat down beside him, a country girl filled with such grace

She told him to worry no further, that she too was heading from home

University study was her goal, and with Blue he would not be alone

Within a few years she would come back, to help him and be at his side

A degree in agricultural studies, would be nailed on the wall with much pride

For she too loved this land he was farming, and to her too, it was always a dream

To farm here with her future family, then the farmer's face swelled in a beam

Of how his dream was ensured now, he'd neglected his daughter for sure

Now the farm may continue to prosper, in the family's name evermore

These dark clouds we fear as foreboding, sometimes fill us with such deep despair

Had dropped rain of hope down upon him, filled gently of promise to share

From above where Kathleen was abiding, saving him from a selfish misuse

Of a grand life that still lay before him, a life he should never abuse

With his daughter's head warm on his shoulder, and old Blue spread out by his feet

Slumber soon fell upon this sweet trio, as they slept by the log's restful heat.
A Travel Tale

11 September 2015

Lynne Honan

Blackheath, New South Wales

Australia

The dunnyand the lunch room had a bit of rivalry going on. _After all_ , the dunny thought, _the lunch room had started out as a dunny but then the plumber had wanted it built elsewhere, over the sewer pipe_ , so the builders had started again and just dubbed their first attempt "the lunch room" to differentiate between the two. The lunch room took exception to this and pointed out that it was in a more salubrious area under a tree, was much bigger and more sturdily built and even had a roof--with no smelly loo inside it! The dunny had to admit it was true it didn't have a roof (or much of a floor for that matter) but then the workers weren't supposed to linger inside but rather get back to work as soon as possible--especially when it was raining, snowing, sleeting or blowing a gale--as it often did in Blackheath. Sure, they could huddle in the lunch room for a while but it was full of nooks and crannies through which the wind howled and the cold crept, so it was not exactly the Ritz, either!

The lunch room maintained that it was much classier, could accommodate up to three workmen at a time, if necessary, and also be used for the storage of more expensive items which the builder didn't want nicked before he had the chance to install them. Also, and most importantly, it didn't stink! The dunny stoutly protested that it performed a very valuable, necessary, service and the builders couldn't do without it--at least until the plumbing was finished!

There came a day when the wind blew so hard that one particularly powerful gust lifted the dunny right off the ground, just as the owner arrived. She and her granddaughter watched open-mouthed as it sailed over the trees into the valley below. It left the loo behind and they were both appropriately thankful that no-one had been using it at the time...

The dunny was also dumbfounded at first but then started to enjoy itself. _Well, this is a bit of an adventure,_ it thought. _I'll have a travel tale to tell that stuffy old lunch room when I get back!_ It rather liked being in the valley--the view was lovely and it had landed on some nice, soft moss. Unfortunately, it had landed right next to a walking track and many of the hikers took advantage of its presence and used it for obvious purposes--even though there was no loo inside. Now the dunny had a strong stomach, but the smell became too much even for it after a while, especially when the rain came down, the water started rising and the reason for all the beautiful moss became apparent: it was sitting in a bog!

Now the dunny had discovered by this time that it could take advantage of the wind, being so light and all, and gradually managed to start hopping back up the slope with every gust of wind in the right direction. Regular hikers were not sure what to make of this at first but ended up concluding that the rangers must be moving it to "spread the load" so to speak. One especially windy day, the dunny finally got enough uplift to sail back over the ridge and trees back home. By this time, it was tired of travelling and not having anyone to talk to, so it was delighted to see its old sparring partner once more. It even had a quick chuckle to itself to see that the loo had been moved behind the lunch room so the ripe fumes were getting right up its nose!

'Well, do I have a tale to tell you!' the dunny cried, flushed with success, but before it could say another word, along came the builder with his sons saying, 'Right, lads, let's get this lunch room dismantled and seeing as how the dunny has finally decided to rejoin us, we'll take it apart too, now the job's all done!'

The dunny recoiled in horror at these words. 'Sorry mate,' it called to the lunch room, 'I'd love to stay and chat but I've got things to do, places to see and I won't be able to do that if they rip me apart! Goodbyeee!' and it was off with the next big gust of wind to pastures new.

~~~

The dunny next made a trip down to Hartley Vale and was amazed, and a little intimidated it must be said, by all the open space. It settled down next to a barn on a small property to get all the goss on valley life. The first thing it noticed was the smell:

'Phew mate,' the dunny cried, 'you smell even worse than I do!'

'That's because I've a whole pile of manure inside me,' the barn replied. 'Nice and ripe it is too--just about ready to be spread on the fields.'

'Well, it smells like a load of shite to me,' the dunny said confidentially (one of the builders was originally from Ireland as you've probably guessed).

'That's exactly what it is, mate--horse shit, cow shit, sheep shit, chicken shit--every kind of shit you can imagine, except human shit for some reason.'

'Well, you could say that last one is my specialty,' the dunny claimed modestly, 'or rather was--I'm into bigger and better things now.'

Just then, the farmer came along and, spotting the dunny, scratched his head a bit before deciding the dunny's parts would be ideal for patching up the old cow shed. The dunny hastily took off with the next good gust of wind and wandered all around the valley taking in the sights and chatting with stables (more manure), pig sties (same), chicken coops, cow sheds, etc. until it was convinced all the buildings in the valley were full of it.

There came a time when it decided to return to the Blue Mountains--it missed all the trees, the narrow valleys and gorges. A gale force wind helped it back up Victoria Pass and it finally found its way to the Grose Valley and landed in a small clearing in the Blue Gum Forest. The dunny was concentrating so hard on getting the aerodynamics just right that it didn't notice some bushwalkers making their way into the clearing from a walking trail nearby while it made its final descent. They stopped in their tracks as their laughter rang through the forest!

'What the hell is that?' one of them cried.

'It must be the Australian version of the Tardis!' another joked.

'Right,' said the third, 'let's see if it's bigger on the inside!'

'Well,' said the fourth and last member of the group. 'I must say this dunny is a very welcome sight!' and opened the door. 'Strewth,' he said, 'it's not only no bigger on the inside but it's missing an essential ingredient--no bowl!'

'Well, it wouldn't be connected to a sewer out here in the middle of nowhere, anyway,' the leader said pragmatically, 'so we'll have to dig a hole just like always, but at least we'll have complete privacy for a change.'

'Just so long as it doesn't decide to fly off again while we're getting down to business, so to speak,' the joker laughed.

The dunny was less than impressed by all this frivolity but decided to do its duty and remain until they had finished. It was growing very tired of being taken advantage of and felt its former life was beneath it now that it could fly. It slowly travelled deeper and deeper into the ranges until it found what seemed to be an ideal spot surrounded by tree ferns, eucalypts and pines with only the faintest of trails weaving through it. It was so peaceful there that the dunny gradually relaxed and reached almost a state of nirvana. One day, it was dozing in the sunshine, while colourful birds flitted through the branches above it, when suddenly it heard voices moving towards it. It jerked awake and swore that it would never again suffer the indignities of its former existence. When the men entered the glade and gasped at the sight of it, the dunny flew at them with its door banging open and shut in a menacing manner so that they stepped back into the relative safety of the trees.

'What on earth?' cried the scientist.

'How could a dunny have got here of all places?' wondered the botanist. 'I mean, only a very select few know of this place--has the secret home of the Wollemi pine been betrayed?'

The Aboriginal guide looked at them solemnly. 'This is no ordinary dunny,' he intoned. 'It is obviously a spirit guide from the Dreamtime, here to protect these sacred trees from the white fella!' and turned aside to hide his grin.

The dunny was suitably impressed by this explanation and decided it rather liked the idea of being a spirit guide. It listened intently to their conversation and discovered how rare and wonderful this particular spot was and how the Wollemi pines needed to be protected at all costs. It had grown tired of all the travelling and resolved that this was going to be its final resting place. It would stand guard over the glade and frighten away any undesirables that might seek to exploit or destroy the Wollemi pines. At last it had found its true mission in life and woe betide anyone who dared to try and take advantage of the pines or their spiritual guide!
Aftermath

12 September 2015

Fantail

Mount Barker, South Australia

Australia

The storms in space were echoed by earthly tempests that smashed over the ranges, over the town where a mansion-within-a-house sat impervious to noise, wet and wind, wrapping my sleep until I woke to voices snapping out my name. Struggling from a cloud-cushion, I wrapped a soft blanket around my nakedness and nervously trotted out to come upon Aebon and a short redhead circling each other, snarling and yapping like two disgruntled dogs.

I was in Gabe's house, but there was no Gabe--only these two who, although they weren't touching, nevertheless seemed to be engaged in a tense struggle. Their voices rose. They spilled into the foyer. I crept along behind, drawing my cover tighter, and attempted to blend into a white corner while fog cleared from my brain. Why was I in Gabe's house? Why could I not recall anything beyond the last few minutes?

The girl and Aebon fought, faces taught with concentration. She seemed to be triumphing, forcing the dark angel back to the huge front door.

'Elisabeth asked for it!' Aebon screeched. 'She had no business there!'

'Neither did you.' The redhead's voice was harsh.

'She was all over me in the Garden, Rubes,' Aebon whined.

Rubes?

'Tempting me.' His tone was shrill.

_The Garden?_ My stupefaction fell away in a rush. I jammed fingers into my ears and cringed as the girl shrieked, 'Get thee hence, thou perfidious piece of scum!' and the door burst open and Aebon spewed out. Abruptly, the door slammed shut on an almighty concussion and I was thrown to the gold-flecked floor.

Breathing fast with the intensity of her outburst, and radiating censure, the girl with wild red curls bore down on me. Her colour-sense was odd. Swathes of purple and blue draped her; yellow and green stockinged her legs; purple slippers were on her feet; and dainty red wing-tips rose above her shoulders. She was dimpled, chubby, child-like; but there was nothing childish about her eyes. Sharp as steel, they bored into me as she stood with one small foot tapping.

'How could you?'

'Pardon?' I mumbled. My bones ached. 'What made that noise?'

The redhead sighed. 'Listen! I'm Ruby--Gabriel's cherub. I've been sent here to clean up your mess. That noise was smart-ass Aebon breaking the sound barrier on his way back to Hell. Now, where's Gabe?'

I opened my mouth, closed it again in confusion and shook my head.

'Elisabeth, we have to find him. His hole's coming. Gabriel wants him. And he's gone off-wave. Jeepers human, get with it!' She yanked me to my feet. 'Dress!'

I stumbled back to the cloud-cushion room, threw off the blanket and began to pull on my clothes.

Ruby leant against the doorpost watching, her glare ferocious as a kraken's.

'How could you?'

Hadn't she asked that earlier?

'How could you enter the abour? You were forbidden! Totes amazeballs, Elisabeth. What in hell possessed you to make a play for Aebon? He's a freaking angel! I've not seen Gabriel so wild since that business with Adam and Eve.'

My mind spun. I said the only thing I could think of: 'I was tempted'.

Her snarl made me want to shrink to the size of a slater and crawl under her swift little foot, but an urgent buzz issuing from the folds of her dress saved me. Ruby pulled out a tube, flipped it open into a thin grey tablet and peered at it.

'Super! He's back on-wave. Now, where... Ah, found him. What? In jail?' She hissed and glared at me. Her eyes were knives.

I shrugged, but her attention was back on the flexi-tab. 'Uh-oh,' she purred. 'Cool... look!'

She thrust the tablet under my nose. 'He's escaping. Come on, he needs help.' She pulled me out into the pouring rain and into a waiting taxi.

Surprise after surprise! Who was this girl?

We hurtled towards the city watching Gabe escape and board the bus. Astounded, we realised it was heading, not towards the hills and longed-for wormhole, but directly for the coast.

'Amazeballs! Why doesn't the crazy angel get off? Oh, frac. That's why! Gabriel's got him.'

Gabe was huddled into a seat, his angel-fire feebly flickering. The bus driver's aura was so bright that I had to pull my eyes away from the screen.

Quietly I said, 'I thought Gabe was Gabriel.'

Ruby chuckled. 'Totes,' she murmured. 'Hasn't that angel told you anything? He's Gabe--nothing more than an ordinary messenger angel. Gabriel is the Arch Angel on High. Boss of all angels. And on high is where he prefers to remain. He won't be happy to be down here. But I do want to see what happens to Gabe.'

I stared out the window, fearing for us as I recalled my return from the Garden and the mighty angel in the arbour who had shredded my soul with his scorn.

'Driver!'

Ruby's yelp pulled me back to the present as we shot over a rise and almost collided with a bus parked side-on, head-lights pooling on the curl and crash of waves foaming around wooden jetty piles. We slewed to a stop. I glimpsed two figures pushing towards the jetty's end. The lesser one flickered dimly in the field of the other's great aura.

Ruby handed our driver a fifty-dollar note. 'Here. Wait, we'll be a while.'

'Come on, move!' She tugged me out into the rain and onto the jetty.

I gulped. Around us the weather stormed and, even though it seemed to shelter beneath an invisible canopy, the jetty vibrated alarmingly with the ocean's thrust and withdrawal. And out to sea something huge, something darker than night, moved swiftly towards us.

'Wait!' Ruby stopped and grabbed me. 'God in Heaven,' she moaned. 'A Hell-hole!'

Stretching from heaven to earth at jetty's end and rent with jagged red flashes an enormous funnel whirled. Beneath the clamour of thunder and ocean, its deep thrum vibrated my bones.

'Do we pray?' I muttered.

'What? Frac no!'

We stood, frozen to the spot. I hardly dared breathe. Above the din of the storm, I thought I heard angels howling.

And then, everything ceased. The jetty was still, the sea calm. There was no noise. Startled, Ruby and I gaped. With a slurp and a great sigh, the behemoth at jetty's end retracted and disappeared.

And Arch Angel Gabriel stood with us, his light too bright to behold. I threw an arm across my eyes. Beside me, Ruby was as edgy as a mouse caught in the gaze of a cat.

Gabriel's scrutiny burned across me. 'Trespassing in the Garden,' he boomed, flashing his aura. 'Hmph! Beyond all comprehension!'

_What?_ The angel-fire dimmed. I dropped my arm. Gabriel lowered his voice.

'Gabe is taking a bit of heat in Hell. Until his return, you might want to attend to his house and garden. NOT the arbour... OR what's beyond.'

He started to walk away, then hesitated. 'By the way,' he threw over his folded wings, 'if those pesky angels topping the pines give you any trouble, just hose them down.'

He faded into the dark. The cocoon of protection broke and the storm crashed over me. I heard Ruby chuckle and turned, but she too had disappeared. I ran. The bus had vanished; but the taxi waited, isolated, a vague shape barely visible in the rain. Sopping wet, I wrenched open the back door and fell in. The driver jerked awake. Gusts of wind rocked the car and drove sheets of water across the esplanade. One solitary street light was all I could see--and the first of the jetty lights. Beyond that, the world had ceased to exist.

The driver stretched and looked in the mirror. 'Gawd, you're soaked!'

'Can we go?' My teeth chattered.

'Wait a sec.' He lifted a large jacket across. 'Put this on. Don't want to catch a chill, do you?'

~~~

I lie awake staring through dust-streaked glass, wondering if I should clean the windows... and then I remember. Gabe. And Ruby. I think the cherub and I could have been friends. As for Aebon... I shudder.

Wondering what the time is, I look at my smartphone and am shocked to see I have slept through two days and two nights. I need to care for Gabe's earthly home. Will the house still accept me? Pondering this, I start to make a cup of tea and find a note on my tea caddy. 'Gabe's Earthly Abode' is written on it and under is a small metal key. I pick it up, wondering how it came to be there; but with angels, devils, gods and cherubs, there is no point wondering about anything. I put the key next to me as I breakfast, and watch its intricate teeth change shape again and again.

I gather up mop, bucket, cleaning cloths, and slip next door. The key turns easily in the lock. I enter and hear the door close behind me with a faint click. The mansion-within-a-house is empty, hollow. I look around the foyer: at the vaulted ceiling, translucent as the day I first saw it, the white walls, the gold-flecked floor. After a while, I go into the room with the fireplace where I'd first seen Aebon with Gabe, first seen the angels' lack of a navel. ('Not born of woman, Elisabeth.') The fireplace is empty, the room icy, the cloud cushions like snow-puffs. In the long, mirrored passage, I am aged. Despondently, I walk the length of the hallway, glancing with every step, willing the magic to return; but my visage remains old, wrinkled, flawed. _Damn you, Gabe_. I have too many memories.

I dump the bucket and mop and pass through the back door, unsure about my ability to survive Gabe's absence. But the hum of bees in the sunny garden lifts my spirits. The conifers neatly reach for the sky. On top of each, a small winged figure turns and bows to me. I'm sure one winks. I grin hugely, stroll along the tiled avenue to where the pond sparkles in morning light, and sink onto the seat near the arbour. The archway is blocked by a dense tangle of thorny roses. I have no wish to enter. Gabe will be back.

Enveloped by cloud-cushion and rose fragrance, I relax and drift...
Homicide At The Hydro - Part 4

13 September 2015

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

Luncheon in the function room was a long and tedious affair. As a consequence, the staff took their time returning to the main kitchen. Charlie Watson was therefore able to get on with his work, although he began to wonder what had transpired early in the day and why Monsieur Mercier had not reappeared. Suddenly the entry door to the dining room swung open and Foy strode in.

'Watson, where is Monsieur Mercier?' Foy demanded.

'I... I'm sure I have no idea Mr Foy.' Charlie stammered.

'Good God man, what do you mean you have no idea? He is supposed to be here preparing for the special dinner in honour of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle! I have some last minute alterations to tonight's menu which must be included. It seems that Dame Nellie might be joining us tonight.'

'But Mr Foy, the menu has already been set and the prep--'

Foy cut him off, 'Do _not_ presume to tell me, young Watson, how to run the hotel's kitchen!' Foy barked. 'Now the moment Mercier returns, show him these alterations. I am quite sure they will not cause too much of a problem. We must at least have _Peach Melba_ available for our distinguished guests! Mrs Locke will be along shortly to assist.'

With that Foy threw the few scraps of paper down imperiously on Charlie's workbench, and strode off back towards his office. Charlie shook his head in surprise and made up his mind, then and there, that he would leave the Hydro at the earliest opportunity, thinking, _Who needs this?_ Gazing at Mr Foy's alterations, Charlie realised there would be hell to pay when Thierry Mercier reappeared, and it was likely that he would be on the receiving end.

~~~

Luncheon had taken so long because Sir Arthur kept excusing himself so that he could browse in the Hydro Majestic's very fair library. 'This is a remarkable place, my dear Jean; what other attractions does it hold I wonder? Do you know, I actually found a copy of the novelette _The Foundling_ by Charlotte Brontë? She wrote it in 1833 at the age of seventeen. Another is _Joe Wilson_ by Henry Lawson, who I greatly admire, with sketches of bush life...'

Not surprisingly, Foy had taken his leave of Sir Arthur and family at the earliest opportunity, and returned to his office. There he found a telegram waiting for him on his desk. Taking up his letter opener, Foy made a mental note to _again_ remind his secretary to bring all telegrams to his attention wherever he may be in the hotel. The telegram was from his friend Hugh Ward, Dame Nellie Melba's Australian manager. It read:

Dame Nellie would like to know if usual suite is available May arrive at Hydro later tonight · Please confirm by telephone to Williamsons Sydney · She might sing · Regards Hugh ·

Foy was now in somewhat of a dilemma, for he had already assigned the most sumptuous suite in the old Belgravia wing to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the adjoining suite to Doyle's assistant--Miss Jakeman. What on Earth could he do now to retrieve the situation? Perhaps Miss Jakeman could be persuaded to move to another room? Unlikely. Could Dame Nellie be persuaded to accept a lesser room? Out of the question! Still, he had better make an effort just in case. He reached reluctantly for the telephone.

'Mildred? Get me Williamsons in Sydney--quickly. _Yes, the theatrical agency!_ '

~~~

Annie arrived back at the hotel in a troubled state at around 5.30 pm for service of the evening meal. She entered via the door she had left earlier. She noted how hot it was in the kitchen. _They really should have one of those new flyscreen doors in place here_ , she thought idly to herself. 'Charlie, I'll leave this door open--it's stifling in here!'

'Er, righto Annie,' Charlie replied vacantly as he peeled potatoes.

'Why, whatever's the matter Charlie?'

'Mr Foy brought these around earlier, insisted that they have to be included in tonight's menu. I tried to tell him that the menu had already been set. So he tore a strip off me--bastard! Excuse the _French_.'

Charlie handed over the additions to the menu that Foy had given him earlier. Annie ran over them quickly. 'Tsk, tsk, _language_ , Charlie! Oh dear, I don't know if we could even handle _Peach Melba_ --do we have any? I could have a look in the back larder... No... it's not my responsibility! Lord knows I agree with you, Charlie me lad, about Mr Foy and I've a surprise comin' for him! What will Monsieur Mercier say I wonder; where is our esteemed chef anyway? He is another snake if you ask me! Forever groping people he is; doesn't seem to matter be it feen or beour! Anyway, I'd best be off and start settin' up the dining room. But first the loo, me back teeth are swimmin'!' She lay the slips of paper back down on the bench and headed for the dining room door.

Despite his low spirits, Charlie was heartened by Annie's Irish brogue. _Jeez, she's a character!_ he thought to himself as Annie left. 'What's cookin' I wonder...'

Just then Shirley Locke, who was nominally second chef, arrived back from the function room. 'G'day Annie,' she said to the Irish waitress' back as she went through the swinging doors towards the dining room.

'Hello Charlie, I'll tell you what's cookin' matey--sweet FA from the look of things here! Where's that Frog mongrel? Pissed again I expect. Do I have to cover his arse-- _yet again?_ '

'Jeez, I dunno Mrs Locke,' he said wearily, 'but you'd better have a dekko at this; it's from the boss.'

Shirley quickly scanned the menu alterations. 'Struth, don't tell me that windbag Melba is comin'--well I'm afraid that's Foy's folly! Old Frenchie won't like this one little bit. He's always tryin' to impress the nobs, is Mr Foy, like that _Sir Artie Cannon Ball_ , or whatever his name is; this arvo in the function room. He was all over him like a rash. Well, young Charlie, you'd better get stuck into peelin' the rest of those spuds. I think it's gonna be a long night! I reckon Annie better put out some of those flash doilies on the tables too!'

The intruder, still waiting half asleep and feeling hungry, in the far corner behind some large storage containers, heard mention of Doyle. It wouldn't be too long to wait now.
Homicide At The Hydro - Part 5

13 September 2015

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

Luncheon in the function room was finished, but Sir Arthur was not. His lecture tour of New Zealand might have been over though it seemed the creator of Sherlock Holmes was not yet ready to relax. His wife Jean determined that she would repair to their room, taking the youngest children with her. She was greatly displeased when he asked Miss Jakeman--their long-suffering assistant--to please wait, as he had a few thoughts about future writings that he wished to discuss with her.

'For goodness' sake Arthur, you've just returned from New Zealand; there was the brush with that awful man at the last lecture in Sydney; we've just had word that Mother has passed away--can you not take things a little easier for a while? I'm sure Jakeman could do with a breather!'

'My dear, I assure you I won't keep her long--I must strike while the iron is hot, you know.' He made a gesture with his eyebrows.

Jean rolled her eyes skyward. 'Oh... very well. Come along, Denis.'

Denis started to protest. 'But Mother, we were going to...'

Jean was having none of it. ' _I said, come along, Denis._ ' Then more conciliatory, 'Plenty of time to find snakes later--did you enjoy your lunch? Have you still got the cricket ball that Mr Trumble gave you in Melbourne?'

Sir Arthur watched them stroll away, sighed, then he turned to Miss Jakeman. 'Ahh Jacky, it's not really work that I wished to speak to you about; I'm afraid Mr Foy the manager has made a request.'

~~~

The request, of course, was that Foy wished for Miss Jakeman to surrender her room in favour of Dame Nellie Melba, who would be on her way to the Hydro later in the afternoon from Sydney. He also wished to know if Sir Arthur and Lady Doyle would be agreeable to having Dame Nellie dine with them. He had been reluctant to turn Dame Nellie down. Indeed, had it not been for the persuasive intervention of her manager, Hugh Ward, it was almost certain that the casual engagement would have been cancelled. Foy had been negotiating with Ward for some time now; both men trying to deal with the capriciousness of the Diva. Their telephone conversation had been somewhat demeaning as far as the manager of the Hydro Majestic was concerned:

'Now look here Foy, I've managed to coax Madame Melba into accepting the lesser suite, as she sees it, but she's gotten wind that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is also staying at the Hydro. Is that who is staying in _her_ suite?'

Foy silently swore, _Bugger!_ 'Err... yes, that's right Hugh, I couldn't put him off. He is, after all, a world famous author with his family, and I hadn't heard back from you until your telegram arrived and...'

Ward cut in, 'Well that's all well and good but now I'm afraid that she wants to meet him. Been reading all about him in the Sydney newspapers about his spiritualist lecture tour meetings. Of course she's read some of his Sherlock Holmes stuff as well; do you think you could manage to perhaps put them both on the same table in the dining room?'

'Well, that _could_ be arranged I suppose--but Hugh, can you assure me she will come? I realise that this is strictly incognito because she's not due to resume touring officially until later in the year--isn't that right?'

'Absolutely spot on old sport,' Ward confirmed. 'We've got the _Concerts for the People_ programme upcoming, so this will be a little break for her. Now another matter. My son Melbourne-- _Mel_ for short--is a budding anthropologist as you know.'

'Yesss,' said Foy with trepidation.

'He's got this hare-brained idea about opening a museum--you know, natural history and so forth. Well, I was wondering about that disused building in your grounds.'

Here we go! Foy thought, a white elephant to match the Hydro. 'What about it Hugh?'

'Well, isn't it obvious my dear fellow? A natural history museum in the Blue Mountains! Now is your mind _open or closed_ to the suggestion? Could be quite an attraction for your guests--what do you say?'

~~~

Foy actually thought that Hugh Ward's idea had some merit, because as far as he knew, no other establishment in the upper mountains had a similar facility. At the moment, though, he had other pressing matters to attend to. He rang off assuring Ward that he would manage to seat Dame Nellie at Sir Arthur's table, and that he would give the museum proposal serious consideration--in the future. It was at that point that he had sought Sir Arthur, who was still browsing in the library and the adjoining cat's alley.

'Yes of course, Foy, Miss Jakeman shan't mind a bit. She's a most obliging employee--I'll let her know shortly. And Mrs Doyle and I would be honoured to have Dame Nellie dine with us. We are both avid admirers of her glorious voice. As a matter of fact, we saw her in a performance of _La Bohème_ after the war at the Royal Opera House, which was the re-opening production after four years of closure. It'll be a lovely surprise for Jean.'

'Thank you so much, Sir Arthur! Now, if you'll excuse me...'

'I think from memory, she received about half a dozen curtain calls and a standing ovation--do you know we passed by Madame Melba's place at Lilydale when we were down in Victoria? The wonderful woods there with their strange tree-ferns seemed fit cover for such a singing bird...'

Foy gritted his teeth as Sir Arthur ploughed on... 'I say Foy, did you notice someone must have been standing on that splendid couch over there in the Cat's Alley? Gone right through it. I'd hazard a guess it was a lady wearing one of those new evening pumps with a two-inch Cuban heel! How they manage to walk around in them I do not know! Such lovely views over the valley below--what's it called again? _Megalong_?'

Foy endured Sir Arthur for a few moments more before abruptly saying 'Excuse me'. Then he practically sprinted back down the Cat's Alley on his way to the kitchen. 'God, what a crashing bore,' he said aloud. He rounded a bend, almost colliding with Shirley Locke, the second chef.

' _Careful, Boss_ ,' exclaimed Shirley, who almost dropped the serving platters she was carrying. 'If you're talkin' about that author bloke--I agree. Do you know he looks awfully like Thierry Mercier?'

'Err, ah no, _not_ Sir Arthur, I meant someone else--not that it's any of your business. But you are right, he _does_ rather look like our _head chef._ ' Foy hurried away once more.

Shirley screwed her face up at mention of the words-- _head chef_. 'The sooner that French mongrel is gone from here the better. Then I'll be _Head Chef Shirley_!'
Xing Saga Part 20 - Please Explain

14 September 2015

Jane Russell

Mount Barker, South Australia

Australia

_After missiles are launched from the Earth space station near Jupiter, the hapless station chief, Charlie has a lot of explaining to do..._

As the missile struck the fighter craft, creating a spectacular explosion, Snoopy felt a pang of grief at the death of the brave soldier inside. Amblecot was his name. She would make sure no one forgot his sacrifice. The second missile missed and shot past harmlessly. The other fighter craft protecting the colony ships now awaited her orders.

'The attack originated from the Earth space station near Jupiter, but the United Earth government denies any involvement. Take a couple of craft and go to the station. Contain the threat. They've got some explaining to do.'

The craft left immediately, while Snoopy reviewed her options. She could hit the station with an EMP, but that might be extreme--she didn't want to condemn the occupants to death. Not yet, anyway. She shivered as she thought of what might have happened if the missile had hit a colony ship. So much could have been lost. While the space station was rendered harmless she'd better get on with landing the fleet on Mars, though the excitement and anticipation of this was now tarnished by the cowardly attack.

Meanwhile, on the space station there was utter chaos.

'Oh my God! We're so dead!' shrieked one of the controllers as the two alien craft hurtled towards them.

The station's chief, Charlie Jones, was panicking big time as the implications of this disaster became clear to her. Security staff had subdued the culprit, Mad Mickey, but what was going to happen now? Her support staff were desperately trying to discover how Mickey had broken through security protocols to launch the missiles. It should not have been possible. This attack may have sparked a war between the aliens and the people of Earth. Who was going to believe it was just an unfortunate sequence of events--an accident, really? No, if heads were going to roll, hers would be first on the block.

An image appeared on all their screens. It was red, metallic and cross.

'This is commander SnoopyLoo of the imperial Xing colony fleet. Who is in charge there?'

'Um, that would be me. Admiral Charlene Jones of Earth space station Jericho.'

'I'm sure you have a pretty good idea why two of my security vessels are arriving in your airspace?'

'Please don't kill us!' Charlie was on the verge of tears and didn't feel very well.

'We will reserve judgement until we have heard your explanation. So, please explain.' Snoopy's grim expression only added to the fear of imminent death just about everyone on the space station was now experiencing.

'It was Mad Mickey! He's usually just a bit eccentric, but he's gone off his meds and we didn't know until it was too late.' Charlie knew she was ranting, but hoped the metal nemesis would keep up.

'He'd been watching a recording of this interview on television, you see. And there was this crazy chap going on about aliens attacking the Earth, and Martians and abductions and goodness knows what. But he said "We should just shoot them out of the skies while we've got the chance", and Mickey thought the voice was telling him what to do, so he did it.'

'I see,' said Snoopy, 'and where was everyone else while this was going on?'

'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I take complete responsibility. He was very sneaky about it and no one noticed. What we are still investigating is how he got through our security measures to actually launch a weapon. He was certainly not authorised to do so. He's schizo.'

'Schizo? Is that a mental condition? What was he doing working on a space station then?'

'We have an obligation to employ people with physical and mental disabilities. It's the law,' muttered Charlie, lamely.

'So, what do you plan to do about your actions? How do you propose to compensate the family of the brave metalbot who sacrificed himself to save a colony ship from certain destruction?' Snoopy's voice rang with anger. Charlie felt she was shrinking to the size of a pea, a lowly amoeba, soon to disappear through an approaching black hole. She broke down and sobbed desperately.

'Perhaps we should question this "Mad Mickey"?' suggested Snoopy who was rapidly losing patience with this so-called Admiral.

'Of course, if you like,' said Charlie, 'but you won't get much sense out of him now he's been sedated.'

Mad Mickey was pushed in in an automated wheelchair. His tongue was lolling out of one side of his mouth and his eyes were pointing in different directions. He sat up and took notice though when he saw the image on the screen.

'Aliens!' he managed to say.

'Are you the Earthling known as Mad Mickey?' asked Snoopy.

'Not telling,' mumbled Mickey.

'Yes, he is,' said Charlie, and Mickey threw her a murderous glance.

'Can you explain your recent actions regarding the attack on the Xing fleet?' Snoopy continued.

'Had to do it,' he said. 'Shoot them out of the skies before they attack Earth, they told me.'

'Who told you to do it?'

'Mr Tommy said on the television. He told me, so I had to do it, no choice!'

'How did you get the launch codes for the missiles?' asked Snoopy.

'Joe always scribbles them on a note next to the firing button. Everyone knows that.'

Charlie gasped in horror. The security on her space station was rubbish and she would be held responsible.

'Oh my God! I had no idea! I'm so sorry. What do you plan to do to us?' she asked.

'Well, don't launch any more missiles. Explain the situation to the United Earth government exactly as you explained it to us. Keep Mad Mickey restrained until he can be evacuated from the station. And... we'll let you know.' The image abruptly disappeared and Charlie wailed in relief. They weren't going to die. At least not yet.

Snoopy turned her attention to the successful planetfall on Mars and pondered what punishment could be imposed on the aggressors. The "Admiral" was woefully incompetent, that was obvious. So, demotion and transfer for her. Disarmament for the space station, obviously, and material compensation for the family of the victim. That should do it. She would let them know in a day or so. Let them fear the worst. They deserved it!
Queues And Why I Hate Them

15 September 2015

Shirley Burgess

Rosebud, Victoria

Australia

Do you have to endure queues that annoy and frustrate?

They are everywhere we go and so everyone's fate,

For you can't get tickets, food, petrol, or such

Without queuing forever and not enjoying it much

Deciding the worst, is a chore I've just done,

For there are heaps of places that dispense us no fun

To we queuers who stand on one foot, then the next,

No wonder we all end up saying we're vexed.

My list's down to two, though it's hard to decide,

Actually they both do enough to put us offside.

It doesn't shame them at all that they earn our brickbat,

But it _is_ bad for business; you'd think they'd know that.

One is our Post Office. We always wait,

While someone takes ages and I must say I hate

Watching them send faxes, post parcels, letters, the lot,

But ten minutes later we realise they don't care a jot.

The queues at our bank are a terrible pain

They go down the room and nearly back again.

I arrive for my turn--a window's shut tight,

Leaving one lonely teller to help the queue's plight.

I've tried being early; I've tried being late,

But still end up having a dull lengthy wait.

Yes, they're _all_ pretty awful but if I have them to rank

The winner of bad queues must be my own Rosebud bank.
She Wrote Love On Her Arm

16 September 2015

Jenny Kathopoulis

Wodonga, Victoria

Australia

She wrote love on her arm

in the brilliant red of her blood

angry slashes cover white skin

screaming out her silent pain.

She rams fingers down her throat

gagging on bruised knuckles

tears staining her cheeks black

she purges hate and disgust

She bites her tongue off

throws it on the floor and stomps

scared it will shriek like a banshee

all the misery her mouth locks in
3 am Ramblings

16 September 2015

Jenny Kathopoulis

Wodonga, Victoria

Australia

It's nights like this that haunt you

when the dark pit that is your soul

shakes you awake to be heard

demanding the façade be dropped.

When the rain against the window

chants all your missed opportunities

and the wind whispers your every regret.

When you wander the silent halls

of your home in hope of answers

and buried hurts of the past

play out before you on bare walls

like a movie in slow motion on mute.

When all your armour is removed

and your heart bleeds onto the floor

while your tears soak your feet

as the thunder and lightning outside

mirror the war raging in your heart.

As dawn chases night from the sky

and your heart is healed for now

when light seeps under the door

only then your mask slips back on

until the next long sleepless night.
Spring Shower

17 September 2015

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, New South Wales

Australia

Lay

soft

mantle

over soil.

Newly weeded beds

glisten in anticipation.

Mist weaves gossamer garments around cedar pines.

Green spears of bulbs stand at attention, ready to daffodil the soft pink of cherry blossom.

Meandering pathway plays court to lusty lichen.

Moss covered rocks ride sidesaddle in bejeweled tiaras.

Silver fern fronds fervently weep over dead leaf heap.

Serves him right!

He asked for rain, now

garden's

flooded,

once

a

gain.
Turandot

17 September 2015

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, New South Wales

Australia

Calm,

bright-

harbour

scripted scene.

Lively foyer crowd.

Chatter pre-show, building expectations.

Sydney Opera House explodes with joyful radiance.

Musicians vibrate in rhythm.

Choir ebbs and flows with precision,

capturing thrill sound.

Tenor laments, audience intake and exhale,

carried over the bridge of reality.

Soprano soars, drama unfolds.

Dreamlike, people leave

In wonder.

Silent sounds

inside

heads

Sing.
On Being Straight

18 September 2015

JH Mancy

Tallebudgera, Queensland

Australia

I'm straight

Just can't seem to relate

Untidy rhymes

I'm straight

Pictures

Leaning off to the side

Cannot abide

I'm straight

I am

Obsessed by all clutter

Mutter, mutter

I'm straight

I must

Make effort to reform

'Fore nerves are worn

Too late!

I'm straight

Back to warm little bed

Pain in the head

When straight
Wormhole Bigot

19 September 2015

Adrian Levet

Darlington, Western Australia

Australia

The sheen of the glass moved up and down the bottle from the light shooting through the ceiling fan blades. The sweaty humidity manifested itself as beads of sweat on his brow. John sat in his usual spot; old Hurk at the bar had given him his usual beer, the crisp but refined taste of Kahuna Lager. He found the name strange, seeing as Bermuda wasn't even near Hawaii, but it was a nice cold beer and he savored it all the same. He had found himself here a couple of years ago, after the war, working the skies taking cargo from Miami to Bermuda, stopping sometimes in Puerto Rico, and some of the other small islands that needed resupplying. Not as exciting as his old Air Force days, but he lived in a nice spot and it paid the bills and was otherwise perfect, except for every single person he knew and lived near. They were all insufferable.

'Hey John! Hey!'

John looked over the pool table to see Derrick. 'Ah... dammit...' he muttered under his breath. All he wanted was a solitary drink, with nothing but him and the barman, and the only conversation being transmitted was the one he initiated. Derrick approached and took a "pew" next to John, worshipping at the altar of drunks once again.

'So how are you son!? It's been a long while. How's the flyin'?'

John took a little sigh and tried his best to be polite. It didn't work. 'Horrible! Just the same stuff, over and over again, and what's all this I hear about the gays in town parading around? Do they want a medal or somethin'? Anyway... what about you? How's... what's her face?'

Derrick's face turned stern. 'Martha.'

'Yeah, Martha. How's all that stuff you were doing? With the... hospital?' Derrick was getting annoyed. John could tell by his expression that started with the "happy to see an old friend", and turned to "wish I didn't talk to this guy".

'I'm not working with the hospital anymore, I told you that months ago. You know, you really are an asshole, John. Have a good one...'

He got up and left the bar. John raised his hand for another round. Big Kahuna lager, poured into a glass mug with a large handle, just the way he liked it. It wasn't the most tactful way to get rid of other awkward parties, but it was very effective nonetheless. The sandy, humid dusk turned into a calm twilight, with the beach's ebb and flow the only sound, save for the merry voices of other patrons in the bar. John left at that point, because that was when all the young people would come in, and the gays, and the blacks. He didn't seem to like them very much.

'See ya, Hurk! I got a flight tomorrow, so I won't be in until a little later than usual...'

A thumbs up and a wave from Hurk, and he was out the door, stumbling a little, but knowing he was still under the limit. He got into his truck and drove home, ready for a flight he thought rudimentary, but was to be something quite unexpected.

He awoke to the familiar groggy feeling, his head still spinning from his collapse unto blissful rest the night before. He still had his sandals on when he fell asleep. He looked over at his alarm clock. It was early still, and he had time. It was one of the beauties of living in the tropics; you could wake early all the time, because the light and heat always woke you up. Not like when he was doing runs over Berlin, waking at odd hours for missions that sent them over a city aflame, sirens and flak fire and exploding bombs were the calamity that accompanied him in his cockpit. He was told once that the first bomb that was dropped killed Berlin zoo's only elephant. What a shame, an animal falling to the misdeeds of the country it resides in, with nothing to do with the tyranny of its masters. John liked animals, they were neutral and they just lived their lives. Humans always complicated things, with politics, sexuality, and war. John thought all this talk of peace after World War Two was all nonsense, the Korean War was the newest thing, and then it would be China or Russia. There was always some enemy, some backward place needing a beat down.

He got up and tried to make some coffee, but the milk was off. It seemed like his fridge had stopped working again. He yelled out into his empty, dirty house, 'Darn!'

He had his coffee black, but put four sugars into it, making it into a sickly sweet thing that seemed it would scream diabetes. He made some toast too, and grabbed himself a banana before heading out to the airfield and juggling all his food items whilst he drove at the same time. The airstrip wasn't too far away. Bermuda was a small island, after all. He drove up and parked in his usual spot, saying hello to Doreen on the way through.

'Just another fruit and paid cargo run, John. You excited to head back to Miami?'

John shrugged. 'Not really. America is turning into something I don't like. You hear they have brought the black and white schools together? When I was a boy that would never have been tolerated!'

'Change is going to happen, whether you like it or not, John. Hey, you hear that new guy on the Ed Sullivan show? Something... Presley? Boy, he was somethin' else!'

John just ignored the comments, said his goodbyes and got his gear ready for the ride. He was stubborn and liked things the way they were. So in his mind, he would avoid it as much as possible, namely by finding a dive bar on a tiny island to live out his days in. He got his things together and it took some time, but finally he was able to board once all the cargo had been loaded by the ground teams. He was piloting a Convair CV-440 which, as far as aircraft goes, was a pretty safe bet. Many European airlines had started using them commercially, and he had yet to fault it. Eventually, after many checks upon checks, he got the green light from the Bermuda air traffic control and started his engines. The massive propellers spun into life, the loud hum filling the cockpit of the plane and reverberating through the entire hull. He tested his electrics, including radio contact with control. His co-pilot sat down in the chair next to him. It was William again, an insufferable young gun who thought he knew everything about aviation, and even more on morality and politics.

'Well, well, well, if it isn't grumpy old man John! How are you, sport?'

'Get in your damn spot and shut your pie-hole, Bill. I'm not in the mood for another one of your rants. It would be swell if we could get through this ride with no hitches. Agreed?'

'Alright old man, have it your way. Let's get this hunk of junk to Miami.'

'Hey! Who you callin' a hunk of junk? This is some great equipment here!'

'I wasn't talking about the aircraft, John, I was talking about you.' He cackled with laughter as they rotated the craft for takeoff. John just gritted his teeth and concentrated on the job at hand. The flight time should only take a few hours but he hadn't done it in a small while, instead ferrying supplies for the smaller islands.

An hour into flying, William had decided to nullify their agreement, and instead started making fun of John again, citing how much of an "old coot" he was, and how it was disgusting that he could still believe in segregation. All the talk made the next hour intolerable, and John was sick of saying the same thing over and over again. Things don't _need_ to be changed. They were fine the way they were. It was at this particular time that John caught something strange on the horizon. It looked like an odd shaped cloud that had seemingly come out of nowhere. Weather conditions were perfect as far as he could tell, with hardly a cloud in the sky. Control had said nothing about incoming storms. It floated towards them, a massive gaping cloud that dwarfed them in comparison. It had a strange warping shape, almost like a halo sticking out of it. John could see a flash of lightning in its midst.

'What's with the cloud over there? It was clear before... where did this come from?' William was starting to panic.

John smirked. 'Who knows, but we can't divert our course now, we don't have the fuel or the time, nor can we adjust altitude in time. Looks like we're heading in. Buckle up, Bill!'

Bill's face went pale. He hadn't been flying for very long, but he behaved in a similar way when they went past a hurricane a year or so ago. John knew it would shake him. Perhaps it would make him shut his patronizing gob.

'I think we should turn back, John! I know you're experienced and all, but that doesn't look safe to me...'

'Oh what's wrong, Bill? You a scaredy cat?' He leveled the controls and kept on course. He tried the radio to warn control of the storm, so at least they were aware if anything went wrong. 'Control, do you copy? We have a storm in front, looks like a doozy, over.'

John was received with nothing but static.

'Control, do you copy? Over.'

Still nothing.

'Looks like the storm is interfering with our signal. We're on our own, Bill. Help me level her out would you?' Bill was unusually quiet, so it must have done the trick. John thanked the storm for that one.

They both took the reins, like a hesitant horse being guided to the starting gate. John started to feel physically ill, but he wasn't sure whether it was just his lingering hangover from the night before. _A Big Kahuna day_ , he thought to himself. It could be that he was actually nervous, but it was hard to tell. It looked like one hell of a storm, John was sure of that. As they veered closer to it, the plane started to shake a little, and the sounds of the incoming storm started to really affect the aircraft. Soon after, tiny droplets appeared on the windscreen, then bigger ones, then it started pouring with rain.

'Help me stabilize, Bill, this is going to get bumpy.'

He flicked a few switches on the controls, Bill sitting in the side seat, as rigid as a board. Pretty soon the storm hit in full force. The plane started being uncontrollably blown from side to side, and the turbulence was becoming hard to handle. It was only now that John realized the gravity of the situation: the aircraft was in danger of losing altitude and the whole thing could tumble into the middle of the ocean. Suddenly, a bolt of lightning hit the plane, and everything in view lit up like a Christmas tree.

'Don't touch the controls, Bill!'

They both leant backwards, whilst the controls just floundered on their own, the equipment on the dashboard going haywire. John grasped the controls back again after a short time, and tried to stabilize the aircraft, but it was no use. The compass was still moving faster and faster around, John could see their bearing was completely gone now. The aircraft was shuddering with turbulence, but seemed to be easing off a little.

Strangely and suddenly, they emerged out of the storm cloud, the last of the rain blanketed itself onto them, and left them alone, the silence and low hum of the engine the only noise that was left. Bill sat out of his seat and looked back towards where they came from.

'It's... gone. Just gone. Clouds don't just disappear like that...'

His face was pale, and beads of sweat were lining his eyes. John could indeed see that the cloud behind had completely dissipated. It was a clear sky in front, and a clear sky behind. Did they imagine the entire thing? There were still remnants of the rain on the windscreen. In all John's years of flying a storm had never just "vanished". 'I guess... I guess we just keep going. We're lucky to be alive, Bill. That was in dire danger of going pear-shaped.'

He tapped the compass and it seemed to be working, heading south-west like they were supposed to. They looked over the horizon to see the sprawling seaside of Miami Beach. They weren't meant to reach the coast this early. John looked down at his watch, and saw that they had only been flying for about two hours. Impossible timing!

'Look, John, it's Miami! I thought we were pretty far out? How did we get here so fast?'

John didn't answer. He was too busy looking at the coastline. Something seemed different about it; there were a multitude of tall skyscrapers, and many peculiarly shaped buildings. They looked for the airport, but it wasn't where it usually was. This wasn't the same Miami he had been to--everything about it was different. John started to panic. Where was he going to land the plane?

'John! What do we do! The airport isn't there. It's just... buildings everywhere...'

Suddenly, their electrics failed. There was a flash of light that blinked out from a tall building in the centre of the city, and the aircraft just lulled in the air like a flailing fish.

'Jesus! Hold on Bill!'

They grabbed onto their sides and braced for emergency impact. The plane nose-dived downwards, plummeting towards the earth. They had reached maximum velocity and John thought it would be the end, a view of alien looking buildings and streets teeming with people, but suddenly, a massive blue netting, made from some kind of laser technology, caught the whole plane and as they tangled into it, the netting wrapped around them. The force of hitting the net had taken its toll on Bill. He hit his head on the dash controls, and John saw a line of blood flow down his forehead. He lay back, limp in his chair. John undid his belt and stood to look out the window, balancing himself on the side of the dash. He gasped in amazement. Before his eyes lay a futuristic Miami, skyscrapers as far as the eye could see, with massive pinned advertisements, digitized down entire sides of the concrete behemoths. Into his vision appeared a few planes, which seemed to hover magically in the air. They looked alien, sharp angled in design, with bright reflective lights. Suddenly a burst of red light shot through his cockpit and moved from top to bottom. John winced as it moved over him, but it didn't seem to hurt. There was a flash, and John lost consciousness.

_To be continued... one day..._

__
Homicide At The Hydro - Part 6

20 September 2015

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

It's been said that religious fanaticism comes not from deep faith, but from a lack of it. Either way, Richard (Dick) Wesley was a man possessed: a fanatic. It was difficult to tell if he really believed the dogma he would espouse at every opportunity, or if he was just intent on drawing attention to himself. Dick had attended Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's spiritualist lecture at Sydney Town Hall, and watched with interest as some hecklers called out 'fairy stories' attempting to disrupt proceedings. There had been an article in _The Truth_ suggesting that Sir Arthur's leg was being pulled in regard to the _Cottingley Fairies_. Dick had stood apart near the door and cried out, ' _Anti-Christ!_ ' several times and raised a crucifix. Sir Arthur had replied, 'And you, my pious friend, are extremely contumelious!'

The organisers had finally bundled him out. Dick couldn't quite believe his ears when he heard one of his "assailants" say to the other: 'Well, Sir Arthur will be certainly looking forward to his holiday, starting tomorrow, at Medlow Bath; after having to deal with the likes of this cove.' Then to Dick he said, 'Go on, you close-minded git--push off!' The man shoved him down the steps. Dick took one or two steps forward then spun around to confront his protagonist.

'Shove off? Me?' Dick gathered together his self-righteous dignity. 'I, sir, am a decent, clean-living Christian man and that peddler of depravity and blasphemy should be put down like a mad dog!' With that last retort, Dick had quickly stolen away; incredulous that the man he reviled was to take a holiday in his hometown! Dick Wesley had taken 'The Fish' down the mountains earlier in the morning--he couldn't believe his luck. He was keen to get back to Medlow Bath to plan his next move, and to look up the dictionary meaning of _contumelious_. He just _knew_ that it would not appear anywhere in the Holy Bible.

~~~

Dick had reached the Hydro Majestic around mid-morning on the day of Sir Arthur's arrival at Medlow Bath. He had mostly kept out of sight, wandering about the grounds looking for a way into the hotel without arousing suspicion. He had thought that had he simply walked in the main entrance, he would be stopped and asked to state his business. Notwithstanding that he'd lived in Medlow Bath for quite some time, Dick had never before stepped foot inside the premises. As a teetotaller, he condemned premises such as the Hydro for serving alcohol. He was also convinced that it was a bordello where women of ill repute lured God-fearing men with sins of the flesh, despite the fact that the Hydro was a well-known family destination.

Dick watched with interest as a number of staff members began filing out of a doorway; one was wearing a chef's white hat. It's all a matter of degree, because every religious person feels he or she has to do _something_ ; it's only a question of how much. Accordingly, an idea began to form in Dick's mind and he crept closer. The sun was in his eyes, consequently he could not see the chef's face. Had he been able to see, he would have been astonished at how similar an appearance the chef bore to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

~~~

In another part of the Hydro, drama of an entirely different kind was unfolding that would have an impact on Sir Arthur's visit. The inner workings of the Hydro Majestic Hotel were all thoroughly modern including a steam-driven generator that was imported from Germany. This generator produced electricity for the hotel and the adjoining township of Medlow Bath. However, it was never intended for extremely hot weather conditions. In 1921, the summer was very hot. Steam engines powered the world throughout the Industrial Revolution from the eighteenth century and into the twentieth. But they were huge, cumbersome, and relatively inefficient--breakdowns were frequent and spare parts were not always available.

The Chief Engineer at the Boiler House--Nigel Strachan, was worried that a major blackout was imminent. Nigel, like many technical staff, was always wary. He decided to contact the manager, Mr Foy. He reached for his telephone, knowing full well that the latter would be busy with his important guests. But, it would give him another opportunity to speak to the lovely Mildred, telephonist and secretary.

'Hello Mildred? It's Strachan here down at the Boiler House--could you put me through to Mr Foy please?'

'Oh I'm afraid he's not here, Mr Strachan; he's somewhere within the hotel. Sir Arthur and his family are arriving shortly, so he's been in a bit of a flap today--a bit tetchy in fact. Was it urgent?' Mildred already knew what his answer would be; Strachan was a 'bit of a dish', in her opinion, but a born worrywart. _Everything was urgent!_

To her surprise he replied, 'Ah well, no... not at this stage, Mildred. Perhaps I'll ring later.' Then as an afterthought, he said, 'Err, ah, Mildred, I wonder are you doing anything after work?'

She thought, _So, is this the real reason he rings all the time?_ 'Well, no... _Nigel_. What did you have in mind?'

~~~

At around 7.30 pm, Sir Arthur and his family had finally reconvened in the dining room. The creator of Sherlock Holmes had some rather esoteric tendencies and had once more lingered in the library, thereby delaying proceedings. Sherlock Holmes might have been portrayed as a sceptic, but Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, in addition to spiritualism, believed implicitly in fairies. Indeed, he was convinced that the _Cottingley Fairy_ photographs, the famous 1917 hoax, were genuine. He was perusing _Princess Mary's Gift Book_ --a popular children's book, published in 1914, that his youngest daughter had picked up--blissfully unaware that it was the very same book from which the illustrations of dancing girls had been copied with additional wings.

'I say, Jean, do look at this charming book! Some of these drawings are simply delightful!'

Jean cast an eye over her husband's shoulder. 'Hmm, more fairies, Arthur?'

Sir Arthur looked askance at his wife, 'Jean that telegram I received from Gardner, when we were in Melbourne, confirms for me that the fairy photographs are genuine and have not been faked. You know as well as I do that those technicians over at Kodak are biased. I fully intend to proceed with publication of _The Coming of the Fairies_ when we return home.'

'Yes of course, Arthur. In the meantime, perhaps we shouldn't keep the other famous fairy waiting in the dining room. Do come along!'

Whether Lady Doyle was referring to Dame Nellie Melba or to Annie the waitress, she gave no indication. In fact, there was still no sign of Madame Melba. Mr Foy, the manager and mine host, was starting to feel the stress.
Homicide At The Hydro - Part 7

20 September 2015

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

' _Oh for pity's sake,_ Hugh, how long do we have to wait here? They've probably started serving dinner already. What time is it?'

'It's about quarter past seven, Nellie. I'll go and speak to that policeman again.'

'Yes, you do just that. Impress on him who he is delaying here, that's _Dame Nellie Melba_! The very idea! Most inconvenient of them to have a _bushfire_ on at this time; the controlled burn must have got away from them. Honestly, you'd think they would get their priorities in the right order.'

'I don't think they've done it to deliberately inconvenience you, Nellie...'

Dame Nellie cut in. 'Yes, Hugh, _I do know that_. I lived in Mackay in Queensland when I was a girl, remember? They were always burning the sugar cane to get rid of the vermin. Perhaps they're doing the same thing here; I know there's a few on my list.' Then, she laughed--realising how absurd she sounded. 'Do your best, we'll just have to return to Sydney if necessary. Whereabouts are we anyway?'

'Ah Bullaburra, I think,' said Dame Nellie's accompanist, who was looking furtively out the window from the back seat of the Bentley.

'Hugh, don't bother the police again. Let's turn around and call into the hotel at Lawson--they've probably got a telephone we can borrow. See if we can get onto old foxie Foy!'

~~~

The first course _had_ arrived in the dining room at the Hydro Majestic. Foy, resplendent in his tux, had decided that the first course, bearing no association with Dame Nellie Melba, could be served to Sir Arthur's table without loss of face. Sir Arthur and Lady Doyle were informed that Dame Nellie had clearly been delayed and would arrive shortly. Foy could feel a trickle of sweat running down his spine from neck to coccyx: it had no relation to the abnormal heat. Thierry Mercier--the head chef--had still not made an appearance in the kitchen. Foy beckoned to Annie who was in charge of service to the VIP's table.

Annie, with a silver serving platter still in her hands, nervously bent close to hear what Foy had to say sotto voce: 'Well, you little minx, or should I say "my assistant"? Has Monsieur Mercier graced us with his presence yet?'

'I'm sure I wouldn't know, My Foy. I've been rather busy.'

'Oh yes, I can see that you and Sir Arthur are getting along famously,' replied Foy with an acid tongue. 'And what have I told you before about fraternising with the guests?'

Annie held her ground. 'I was only being civil and--'

Foy cut her off. 'Don't argue with me madam, I am your employer! Now, have you thought over the generous proposal that I put to you earlier today? You'll say yes... if you know what's good for you and your wretched family.'

'You'll have my answer later tonight, Mr Foy, I promise.' Then she added coquettishly, 'I'm sure you'll be pleasantly surprised.' Annie gave him a sweet smile then turned on her heel and headed for the kitchen.

Foy allowed himself a conceited smile. _Sometimes you just have to be firm._ What Foy did not know was that Thierry Mercier had indeed returned to the main kitchen.

~~~

Given that Foy had only given the kitchen staff very short notice of changes to the evening meal (in order to impress both Dame Nellie and Sir Arthur), Shirley Locke and Charlie Watson had acquitted themselves rather well. Shirley had improvised as best she could and her version of _Melba Garniture_ : chicken, truffles and mushrooms stuffed into tomatoes with velouté sauce, would've passed muster... but for Mercier's untimely reappearance. Thierry burst into the kitchen through the staff entrance to the outside. He was weaving about unsteadily, his chef's hat was askew and he held in his left hand a cognac bottle that contained only about a quarter capacity. He picked up a meat cleaver.

'Voila, I 'ave returned to chop up zee joint for zee 'rosbif', s'il vous plaît!' He brought the cleaver down with force on a wooden chopping board and nearly split it in two.

'Hang on, Frenchie,' exclaimed Shirley. 'Had you been here earlier, without a skin full, you'd have known there was a change in the menu from roast beef to _Chook Melba._ '

'Vat is ziss you say, you stupid woman-- _Chook Melba_?'

'Yeah, you know, whaddya call it? _Melba Garniture Chicken_. It's for that singin' canary, Nellie Melba. She's arriving later tonight, accordin' to the fabulous Foy who asked for it. See? Here's the new menu.'

'Impossible à faire!' He screamed, 'Ve have no truffles--is Foy mad?'

'Aw keep your shirt on. Charlie here had already peeled quite a lot of spuds, we'll use them instead.'

At this point Thierry Mercier flew into a rage. Much of what he was shouting was slurred and unintelligible apart from, ' _Garniture Chicken_ was created in her honour by zee cerveau (mastermind) Auguste Escoffier. I vorked for him, zis is sacrilège. Il doit être truffes you... nincompoops!'

Thierry threw the brandy bottle at Charlie who ducked and it struck a shelf of dishes and shattered. Many of the dishes fell to the floor and smashed on the tiles. He swung the meat cleaver and board in the other direction, and struck Shirley Locke a glancing blow on the arm. In doing so he slashed his hand and blood ran down his arm. Blood also splashed over Shirley's chef's blouse. She in turn dropped the tureen of soup she had been carrying. At that moment, Annie came through the swinging doors into the kitchen. She slipped on the spilt soup and the silver platter flew out of her hands. It fell to the floor with a loud clatter, smashing even more dishes.

Everyone was shouting at the top of their voices. Thierry Mercier staggered backwards from a retaliatory blow from Charlie, as they grappled for control of the meat cleaver. The intruder, who had been aroused by the pandemonium, came out of hiding and saw an opportunity, striking just as all lights failed and the hotel was plunged into darkness.
We Build (5.9675°N, 62.5356°W)

21 September 2015

Myfanwy Dabner

Newbridge, New South Wales

Australia

Picture It Competition Entry - Picture B

Brick Upon Brick We

Build Upon Brick

We Brick Upon Brick

Upon Brick Upon Brick

Upon Us We Build

Brick upon Brick

Without forethought

from noble rubble.

Brick Upon Brick

Brick Upon Brick

Brick Upon Brick

With no architect's arch

Or mortar--

We Fall

To smithereens

and we feel angels' churnings.
The Doctor

21 September

AA Anderson

Bathurst, New South Wales

Australia

Picture It Competition Entry - Picture C

He lay spread-eagled on the white covered iron bed, gazing tentatively at the small window and the tree limb without. 'Why,' he asked himself, 'are there bars on the window?' He felt compelled to reach out to touch those tree limbs and to feel the rough texture of the brown bark. But no, there were the bars. Just like there were bars also on his memory restricting his search for truth. All he could think of in his troubled mind was a number. Yes, his number; it was engraved in his brain. He had been told, 'Only give them your rank and serial number'. He had long forgotten about his rank, but the number, yes, it was still there. His name, did he have a name? But as hard as he tried to remember it was as if a blank wall came down and closed off whatever lay beyond it.

They said he had been injured in Vietnam, or "Nam". He felt his legs and arms; there were no injuries. His heart beat too seemed strong in his broad hairy chest. Except for the ringing in his head he seemed to be okay. Then why was he here in this small almost bare room, with its locked door and bars on the window?

A male nurse in white fatigues opened the door and entered the room. He dragged a trolley with several items on it and a white cloth covered basin. A bottle of red pills, a vial and a syringe lay nearby.

No, he was not going to let them stick needles in him and give him pills. A faint memory flooded back with terrifying fear. That's how it all started. He had been given a needle and pills to stop sickness when at first going over to Vietnam. He fought the nurse as an orderly rushed into the room. They held him down, administered the needle and forced the red pills down his throat.

Slowly he sank to his knees, the faint light of memory flickering out. They carried his inert body back to the white bed.

~~~

Janet had been waiting in the hallway of the hospital for over an hour; this had been a very tiring day. A bus ride, then a train journey and last of all a cab, to this, the veterans' hospital, and now the long wait to find out if her husband was ever going to be well enough to ever come back home.

She had been making this trip now for the past two years, ever since his return from Vietnam.

She remembered how happy they had been; she was eighteen and Jeff had turned twenty in nineteen sixty seven. As newlyweds they had been planning their life ahead together. They had saved for a small cottage on the outskirts of Sydney and her trousseau was there ready to make it a very comfortable home, for them and also the baby that she had been expecting.

Then war was announced and Jeff, being over eighteen, was drafted into the army. It was no time at all when he was sent to a camp in Queensland, to train until he was ready to be sent overseas to Vietnam. 'Why do you have to go?' asked Janet, terrified, when he came to say goodbye. 'Who will be here when our baby is born?'

'I must go so Australia won't be overrun by the yellow hordes,' answered Jeff, remembering what had been said on the radio. And tearfully Janet waved goodbye to her young, strong and handsome husband.

Janet remembered how she had waited each week for the thin airmail letters that told her how much he loved her and missed her; they were her only lifeline to him so many miles away. How she cherished each one of those letters and longed for when he would be safe home with her again.

Their little son was born and Janet felt deeply the need for her husband, but he was not there to see his little boy born or to hold her hand during a very hard and painful birth. How she hated those Vietnamese and also the Americans that had drawn Australia into their war.

Mobs marched in the streets of Sydney, accusing the government for having had any part in the war. The men who came back were labelled murderers and some pelted with rotten eggs and tomatoes.

Her Jeff was not a murderer. He was gentle and caring. These scenes were very upsetting to Janet.

~~~

At last the doctor came out. 'I'm afraid no change,' he said, taking Janet by the arm. 'Come and have a cup of tea. We must discuss what's to be done next in his treatment.'

The young doctor smiled and, putting his arm around her shoulder, led her into the tea room. Janet felt uncomfortable-- he was just too sweet and accommodating. She sat down making sure not to make eye contact with him. Dr Roberts liked the red dress Janet was wearing but his mind was really on the shape underneath; mentally he was seeing her as naked and a sly smile creased his mouth. _Slowly, slowly,_ he was thinking to himself. _Give her time and the drugs to do their work on her husband, then she will be putty in my hands._

Janet once more returned home to find that she had a visitor. A tall man with fiery red hair asked if Jeff was home. His name was Bruce and he had been with him in Vietnam. He was angry when he heard what had happened to Jeff, also very shocked when told of the doctor and asked her the doctor's name. When told "Dr Roberts", Bruce gave a cough. _No, it couldn't be the same one, surely._ 'Next month when you go to see Jeff, do you think I could also go to see my old mate? I think I might know this Dr Roberts,' he asked. Janet agreed--it would be nice to have some company and perhaps Bruce could help with her husband's treatment.

~~~

Janet travelled in Bruce's car straight to the hospital. It was so good not to have to catch buses and trains. However, when they reached the hospital, Bruce insisted that he stay out in the corridor when Janet saw Dr Roberts. Janet thought this rather odd and when Dr Roberts once more took her arm and led her in to have a cup of tea, she saw Bruce quietly and unobtrusively looking round the corner of the doorway. _Why didn't he come in if he knew Dr Roberts?_ she thought. But then Bruce disappeared, just as she felt Dr Roberts' hand touch her leg under the table. _Oh_ , she thought, _if only Bruce would come back_. Janet didn't know what to do; she had to trust this doctor as he was helping her husband. She quietly removed his hand and stood up to go.

'Don't you want to see how your husband is coming along?' asked the doctor.

'Oh yes,' Janet replied. If only she could just see Jeff, perhaps this time she might be able to see how he looked. The doctor took her hand and led her along the corridor, through another door and down some steep steps. He brushed a male nurse aside and opened the door to her husband's room, taking her inside. Jeff lay prone on the bed. 'You see, he will never be any good to anyone,' and he tightened his grip on her arm. 'Now I am well and strong and can give you all the pleasure you need,' and with that he pushed her up against the wall and ripped down the front of her dress, reaching into her bra and pressing his body against hers. Janet screamed out.

Somewhere in his befuddled memory Jeff heard the scream. It was from Janet; someone was hurting his Janet. With all his strength he rose from the bed and grabbed at the doctor--he would kill anyone who hurt Janet. Suddenly his mind started working again--it was like a bolt from the blue. Jeff grabbed the doctor by the throat: he was going to throttle him. _Oh no_ , thought Janet _he mustn't kill the doctor!_ Perhaps Jeff was worse than she thought.

A hand took hold of Jeff and pulled him away. 'Not today old mate, but you will get your chance,' and Bruce pushed the doctor onto the bed and asked Janet if she was okay.

A burley policeman appeared at the door. Janet went weak at the knees. _This couldn't be happening! Is Bruce ill like Jeff?_ she thought. _They were both in Vietnam_.

However, the policeman came over to Bruce. 'Is this the bogus doctor?' he asked, pointing to Dr Roberts.

'Yes,' answered Bruce, 'and my friend is the Vietnam veteran that he has had drugged, hoping that Jeff would die so that he could get his wife, Janet.'

This was all too much for Janet. She fainted, but when she eventually came around, there was her beloved Jeff bending over her and behind him, his mate Bruce.

Bruce explained that the bogus Dr Roberts was only a male nurse who had taken all the staff in with his pompous manner. He was actually an ex soldier who had seen Janet's photo in Jeff's wallet and decided that he would make her his own. But first he had to get Jeff out of the way. The fiend was now in jail and Jeff was being given the proper treatment to rid him of the dangerous drugs he had been given.

The iron bars were now gone and the wall that held Jeff's memory back was now disintegrating; very slowly pieces of information were filtering through. He must now get his strength back; he had a life to live and a young son to get to know. And all this thanks to the fact that his old mate Bruce had kept a promise way back in Vietnam, to one day look him up.
Listening To Music

22 September 2015

Felicity Lynch

Katoomba, New South Wales

Australia

Listening to music

Is a catalyst for memories

Such longing and passion

Does music evoke

Whether it is a choir

Singing Mozart's Requiem

Whether it is a band of gyrating young men

With noisy guitars and hazy voices

Or a full orchestra

Taking us on an inner journey

To times and places of great happiness and sadness

To memories of favourite people who are forever lost to us

Music binds and holds our hearts

In infinity
Ubud

22 September 2015

gARThibiza

San Augustine, Ibiza

Spain

Magic Alex tell me why,

monkey forest firefly.

Ubud jungle August night

Magic Alex give me sight.

Jamaica, maybe, yes I did

she was so intuitive

Doctor John and Charlie's snack

delivered us to ski her track

up and down the slopes we slid

entered forests she forbid

shared her every trick and treat

tongues caressed the bittersweet

till finally we did collide

we lay panting side by side.

lips reformed into a grin

rivulets ran from our skin

the sounds of insects fills the night

as our bodies reunite.

Magic Alex you know why

monkey forest kiss the sky

Ubud, you're beyond compare

Magic, Alex, everywhere.
Pedestal Men

23 September 2015

David Newman

Jacobs Well, Queensland

Australia

Shape shifting sheep become the ravening wolves, among the innocents and the fools

Faiths leap dredges deep to bring a mask upon the past and be a true craftsman's tools

Serving first one side then the other, switch--and back--switch, it gets confusing brother.

Persistent persuasion advances to a higher station, making a seemingly impeccable cover.

Up high on the pedestal, set to rule, no fear, everything looks all so clear, from way up there

but topple the tipplers, those seasoned ripplers, and it's a great fall from such grace and airs.

Seeing arrogance with some variance, ays are ays, nays are nays, but depending on the day.

While all the slaves who would be saved, save that they never interfere with pre-written play

are given lectures with similar textures, by these men of high intent who make the standards.

All they speak must be true, if you don't see what they do, but only listen to the braggarts.

With measured madness of our sights, held up to the light, where even such darkness shines

then comes the fall from height, for they of might did fail on the scales, set into our own minds

and when they fall, one and all, when comes the day that they must pay, as surely they must do

out of place, loss of face, fallen grace, forced to answer now, what was lie and what was true

who shall remain to help them stand again, for they are men, and even one third angels fell?

Once given so much love, those we placed so far above, but now, how could one ever tell?

Loss complete, shuffling feet, those who stumbled, oh! So humbled, now all feel the heat.

So unaware, we ought to care, for we helped to put them there, and so should share defeat.

From the wings they come, more than some, new voices make choices, to climb the pedestal

savagely wrestle upon the vessel, until at last, repeat the past, a new order does then nestle.

Below the throne, newly owned, they bow and scrape, no thought to hesitate, to worship on cue.

They enjoy the ride, to pay the tithe, of politics and filthy tricks, and the Devil takes his due.
I Like A Lot

24 September 2015

Jennifer Mosher

Hazelbrook, New South Wales

Australia

I lick a lot

I like a lot

I like to look and laugh a lot.

A little alliteration

alleviates the load

after a worrisome working week.
Nuts

24 September 2015

JH Mancy

Tallebudgera, Queensland

Australia

There are many types of nuts,

I'm allergic to some,

Others, quite frankly,

Are a pain in the bum!

There are peanuts, hazelnuts,

And more, to be sure

Some, if we're greedy

Make us bolt for the door!

The type I avoid

Ride the Surfside bus--

Without bus conductors,

Who will protect us

Why do they always

Squeeze in next to me--

I'm a largish person,

Can't they see!

They fidget and squirm

And yawn in my face.

Some pick their noses--

What a disgrace!

Next time I'm sitting

Up front with the driver!

If he objects I'll

Slip him a fiver.
Realities Unknowable

25 September 2015

Robyn Chaffey

Hazelbrook, New South Wales

Australia

'Some things in life' they say, 'are harder.'

They say, too, 'Forgiveness is the way to go.'

It is true enough, yet this I do better know,

That there are times when life's realities are broader!

There are realities unknowable

Like waking up to memories...

Unreachable, untenable realities;

Which from one's very being are inseparable!

Who are you to judge what I may feel?

You, who grew and lived by things I learned

Before you were a 'twinkle', and before I got burned!

You who say from me you got the raw deal...

Never knew realities unknowable!

How I looked forward to your adult years;

To the days when I could chat with you as equals,

Laugh about days gone by, and finally be pals...

Enjoy prizes won only by blood, sweat and tears...

Laugh at my realities unknowable!

Aye, some things are not so easy in this life.

Sometimes best efforts do not reward our hope.

Others' dreams may send them slipping on a too steep slope.

Yet that should not ever be a cause for strife...

The sadness of realities unknowable!

What made you think I needed you to live for me...

That it was not in me to support you in your choices?

You still don't see that my fight was for your voices...

I bonded me to you so that you could be set free!

The courage of realities unknowable!

Yes, to see you live stronger than I ever was enabled

Was my reason to keep going; what stopped me giving in!

That I wanted so much more for you! That was my sin!

I believed the cruel myth of mother joy that's fabled!

There are realities unknowable

Like waking up to memories...

Unreachable, untenable realities;

Which from one's being are inseparable!
A Fire Starter Speaks Of His Love

25 September 2015

Ian Williams

Launceston, Tasmania

Australia

It's her hair that makes you want to laugh, the reddest hair you ever saw, except maybe for the picture on the box of matches which Pop says looks like some pasty faced tart peering through lipstick red curtains, hanging out for some guy to come and pay for a poke. You can't wait to tell Pop about the red-haired lady. Like she had flames shooting out of the top of her head, you'll say, you could almost hear them crackle and hiss, the same as that scabby brown dog you found dead in the yard crackled and hissed when you poured diesel over it and set it alight. That was something to watch, but nothing like watching the red-haired lady crying and punching Sergeant O'Rourke, begging him to let her through. You can see the smoke billowing across the bottom of the street where her house is, and then, just as the wind whips up and dies again, you get a glimpse of the Juna fire tender and two Yellowskins rolling the hose across the kerb.

Jeez, you wish you were down there with them. The red-haired lady is giving O'Rourke such a hard time you could almost slip through without him seeing. 'Hey, hey, hey,' O'Rourke keeps saying to her, soothing like, trying to hold onto her. She's as slippery as an eel, wriggling and crying, and O'Rourke's hey hey heying getting him nowhere until he grabs hold of her wrists, real tight, like he wants to play some dumb kids' game. She goes kinda limp, then, time enough for O'Rourke to push her up against the side of the squad car and hold her there.

'Please,' she says, 'please...' but O'Rourke still has hold of her. 'You can't go down there,' he tells her, shouting it now, like she's deaf or stupid. He has his face right up close to hers, but she isn't looking at him. She's looking down the street to where her house is, and the fire burning all around it, the flames jumping and crackling and hissing. Laughing.

That's my girl for you, laughing at you, laughing and licking her fiery lips, just burning (ha ha) to eat you up. You think you can stop me? she says. No one can stop me. The Yellowskins can't stop me. I laugh at them. I laugh at them rolling out their hoses. They turn their tanks of water on me and it's no more than a squirt of piss on a blazing log. Stone walls can't stop me. I can jump roads and rivers. I'm on my own in gullies, racing across the tops of trees. I can move through an open paddock quicker than a mad snake. Fences and chook pens and lean-to sheds are just a taste. Lady, you've got no hope. I'm on the roof of your place now, licking out your gutters. I'm tasting the walls, running my fingers under the eaves, along the windowsills. I'm so hungry I could eat the bricks from your chimney. Hear me. Hear me burn your house down. I'm burning your pretty curtains, the rugs on your floor. I'm burning your books and your bed and the long dresses hanging in your wardrobe. I've boiled your goldfish. I know everything about you. I know the pattern on your plates and saucers. I know the movies you keep, the CDs you bought. I know what pictures you like, the photos you took of your Mum and Dad. I've seen the notes you write yourself, the bills you haven't paid, the dirty washing piling up in the laundry basket. If you've got letters from some smooth-talking guy who's been into your pants, I've burnt them. I've burnt the termites under the floorboards, I've barbecued the lamb chops in the fridge, melted the honey mango ice cream. I've cleaned out the pantry...

Red Hair knows it. O'Rourke's still got hold of her, but sort of loosely, like they're positioning themselves for a country music dance. He's talking at her, jaw jaw jaw, the old business... fire... heat... smoke... suffocation... death... it's like he's telling her a bad news story, getting his side in before she hears it on the six o'clock report. Red Hair shakes her head. No, she says, this isn't happening to me...

Down at the creek where it started there'd be just ash now. Ash and baked earth and smouldering splinters of fence posts hanging from blackened wire. And silence. Except for the crows, maybe, always the first to return to pick the steaming flesh from a possum or lizard or a brush turkey, fat as Nan's Sunday joint. Poor little creatures, Nan always says, watching television with Pop sitting in his old chair, crunching on peanuts. 'Poor little creatures,' Nan says, waiting for the news guy to say, '... caught in the conflagration...'

Conflagration... deflagration... phlegethon... you know these words from Pop's thesaurus. So many words, you never knew half of them existed. When no one's around, you sing some of them out loud, like it's a poem you're reading.

Fiery... flagrant... ignescent... piceous...

Emblaze... incinerate... cremate...

Some don't sound like fire words at all, but you sing them all the same.

Calcinate... cauterise... self-immolate...

How would it be, you keep thinking, to burn to death? Pop says no one ever died from burning because the smoke or the heat gets to you first. Best thing, if you know it's coming, is for your heart to give out. Just the fear of it. Pop says he's seen more burnt bodies than charred steaks on the barbecue, but you'd be dumb to believe that. Pop always takes charge of the barbecue, and how Pop likes his steaks is with the moo cooked right out of them. Pop can't take the taste of blood in his mouth. But give Pop a beer and get him talking, and Nan'll be saying, 'You watching them steaks, Pop?' And you'd smell them. You'd smell the fat crisping to a cinder. You'd think Pop would notice, but he always says human flesh burning has a smell of its own. Those times you've lit a match under your calloused fingertips, you know what he means.

If you'd been Red Hair, you'd never have left the house. You know the drill, see, you know what to do to survive. It's the same as that list of words for fire which you can recite like a poem. You know it by heart:

Protect yourself from radiant heat.

Keep away from windows.

Fill big containers with water.

Watch for embers.

Control mini fires.

Don't hide.

Don't run.

Stay near an outside door for when the fire front has passed.

Maybe--Pop's advice--say a little prayer.

A Yellowskin comes running up the street, waving his arms and hollering at O'Rourke.

'Move back! Move back! Move back!'

You can feel it, like someone blowing on the back of your neck, making your skin prickle. The wind's on the change.

It's just a big game, sporting with nature, Pop says. After October till the autumn rains come, it's the only game to play.
The Fatal Waterfall

26 September 2015

AA Anderson

Bathurst, New South Wales

Australia

*** Winner ***

Picture It Competition Entry - Picture B

What a sight it was for one to behold

How in mud the delivery truck had rolled,

And casks of gin and old Jim Beam

Had rolled down into the mountain stream

And oblivious to the driver's frantic call

It wended its way to the waterfall.

Now the ladies from the church's guild

Didn't know the alcohol had been spilled

And as it was their picnic day

Camped near the waterfall not far away,

They filled their jug from the tranquil pool

And thought the waters taste real cool

'Twas odd tasting water they all agreed

But found it had just what they'd need

And feeling high but with memory dim

All stripped off to take a swim.

Now the Bishop cycling by to Mass

Spied the women's clothes and cried 'Alas!

'What's been going on here, is there a crime?

'Or what's been coming off, it would seem this time.'

And when he went to look, the silly fool

Saw the women naked in the pool

And it seemed to be, this was not all

They were prancing full starkers in the waterfall.

When found next morning the news was grim

They found a heart attack had done him in

It seemed he'd really lost the plot

He was found stone dead in the picnic spot.

But when they laid him out in the funeral place

They couldn't wipe the huge grin from his face

And something that doesn't happen often

They couldn't get the damn lid on the coffin.

So take heed and when you hear the call

Of maidens prancing in a waterfall

For heaven's sake, DONT STOP!
The Hotel Key

26 September 2015

Jane Russell

Mount Barker, South Australia

Australia

Picture It Competition Entry - Picture C

I looked down wistfully at the ancient, tarnished hotel key, with its heavy brass room number and thick brown tassel. My "souvenir" of our honeymoon in Paris, and it had been old even then. Eddie had been scandalised that I'd kept it, but how could I return something so full of beautiful memories? Now, thirty years later, we were going away on what was to be our "second honeymoon". Not Paris this time, but exciting just the same.

How we'd both changed in all those years. When I first met Eddie I thought he looked like Robert Redford, while he told me I was the image of a young Audrey Hepburn. Ha! Now look at us. His blonde hair receded so far it didn't even have time to grey before disappearing altogether. His waistline increased, and he grew a couple of extra chins. He never lost that enchanting smile, though. He was still my Eddie. As for me, I'd been colouring my dark hair since forever, letting it lighten a bit over the years. I also no longer had my svelte figure, and my pixie face sagged a bit, but he still sees me as beautiful.

'We'll be staying at the Venice Albertina,' I boasted to my friends at the office. It was my last day at work and they'd bought me cake to wish me bon voyage.

'Oh, wow! That's a gorgeous place. Bill and I stayed there during our month in Italy last year. It's on the Lido in Venice. The views! The history! The character!' gushed Wendy the tea lady, while I struggled to imagine how the pair could have scraped together enough funds for such a holiday.

'Well our hotel is in Venice, Florida, I'm afraid,' I said.

'Lucky you, Alice,' said a colleague. 'What do you have planned while you're there?'

'Oh, all sorts of things, you know--the beach and stuff,' I said, though I hadn't really thought about it.

'Well, I'm sure you'll have a marvellous time. Don't forget to send a postcard.'

I said my farewells and gathered my things to head for home. The taxi was expected in two hours' time and I still had to clean out the fridge. I'd not contributed much to this holiday as it was all organised by my husband Eddie, so I didn't quite know what to expect.

Back home, my daughter bundled me out of the kitchen with a freshly brewed cup of tea.

'Don't fuss, Mum,' she said, 'I'll take the perishables home with me, and I'll drop in now and then to check on the place and water the plants.'

Then before I knew it, I was speeding off to the airport. I looked across at Eddie, loving the barely concealed excitement in his expression. He was squeezing my hand.

'This is it, darl. We're finally off. You'll love it, you'll see,' he said.

I hoped so. This was our first holiday without the kids, and Eddie had put a lot of effort and research into the destination. I would force myself to have a good time, whatever happened, for his sake.

It was a long flight, but we enjoyed the drinks and the cardboard meals, watching interminable movies on the tiny screens on the seat in front. At JFK we had time to stretch our legs before joining another flight to Sarasota in Florida. We looked around in wonder at the lightly dressed people and tuned in to the American accents surrounding us. Eddie steered our luggage out to the taxi rank and finally we were heading for the hotel.

The cab pulled up outside a multi-storey building that had seen better days, the driver expecting a large tip before he hauled the cases out of the "trunk". Eddie was frowning. 'It didn't look like this in the brochure,' he mumbled. The reception hall was dark and gloomy with an air of bygone days and a smell of brass polish and musty carpets. Eddie marched up to the abandoned desk and rang the bell. Eventually an elderly man in an ill-fitting uniform shuffled over to us.

'Are you checking in or out?' he croaked.

'We've just arrived. We have a booking in the name of Robinson,' said Eddie.

'Eh? Speak up young man, I can't understand you.'

Eddie repeated himself, more slowly. The man checked the register, nodded to himself, got Eddie to write his details in the book, took our passports and reached for our key. It was as much a relic as the elderly receptionist. I gasped when I saw the room number: 472, the same number as our honeymoon suite in Paris. Was this an omen? It was on the fourth floor, and we were directed to a tiny lift. Eddie had to tip the old man and then wave away another uniformed character who wanted to take our luggage.

Even the lift, sorry "elevator", looked like something out of a Hitchcock movie, with large numbered buttons for each floor, a distorting mirror at the back and a loud bell that rang with every stop. We wheeled our bags out into the dark, narrow, fourth floor corridor. We eventually found room 472 and went inside. Once again, Eddie was muttering under his breath. Apparently the brochure had shown bright, modern suites with stunning views and facilities. Our room was dark and poky, with a tiny ageing bathroom and a sagging double bed. Eddie flung open the curtains and opened the French doors to our balcony. We had a view, all right: it was of a brick wall.

I put the door key on the ancient, flaky radiator attached to the wall. It was supposed to be a warm climate here, so I hoped we wouldn't need to use the heater. Then I noticed an air-conditioner over the door and tried it out, but it sounded like a low flying jet engine, so I quickly turned it off.

'Let's go and explore,' I said in a bright voice, to cheer Eddie up. So we went downstairs again, getting a free map at the front desk before setting off on foot to see what there was to see. Luckily, the beach was not too far away, so we went that way. It was late afternoon and the sun was getting low in the sky, yet it was still warm enough for short sleeves. We sat and watched some surfers do their thing. Eddie had booked us a boat trip for tomorrow, so we just relaxed until sundown, then headed back to our hotel to dress for dinner.

I only realised we were being followed when I heard the revving of a motorcycle alongside me, and felt a tug on my shoulder bag. Someone was trying to rob me! I reacted quickly and pulled back sharply on the bag. The thief lost his balance and there was an almighty crash. Eddie and I went over to see if he was okay, which was not a wise move in these parts, apparently. The young man was furious and looked like he was reaching for a weapon, so I swung my bag at his head and he fell like a tree.

'Bloody hell, Alice love! What've you got in that bag?' asked Eddie. I showed him the heavy hotel key from Paris.

'I brought it with me for luck. Just as well, eh?'

When we got back to the hotel, and arrived at the door of 472, we realised we'd left the door key on the radiator inside. Back we went to the reception desk. This time, Eddie had to ring the bell several times and even shout before the old man showed himself.

'Are you checking in or out?' he said again.

'We already checked in a couple of hours ago. Room 472, remember?' said Eddie. The old man just blinked at him.

'We accidentally left our key in our room so we're locked out. Can you let us in, please?' I added. The old man's eyes widened and the silence lengthened. We were about to try again when he said:

'How do you know we've got a room 472? Eh? Never seen either of you before in my life! What are you up to? I'm calling 911.'

'Look, we're in your register,' said Eddie, trying to keep calm, 'and you've still got our passports. Why don't you check the photos? You'll see it's us.'

The old man was still muttering and glaring at us in suspicion, when a younger man arrived in the same uniform.

'What's the problem, Pops?' he said.

'These two are trying to trick me! Just because my memory isn't what it used to be they're trying to pretend they're guests here. Where'd you put my gun?'

Eddie and I backed away in alarm. We'd heard all sorts of stories about Americans and their guns. The younger man calmed the other and told "Pops" to go home. It was his shift now and he'd take care of us.

'Now, what can I help you folks with?'

Eddie explained once more, offering to show where he'd signed the register and asking the man to check our passport photos, if he wanted proof of who we were.

'Well, now, I can see there's been a slight misunderstanding here. Hope you're the forgiving sort?' said the man. 'Pops has a problem with short-term memory. It's probably about time he retired, but what can I do? He keeps coming to work.'

We both agreed to forgive Pops and were grateful to get back inside our room and retrieve that damn key off the radiator. We'd both lost our appetites now, so we sat on the saggy bed and drank duty-free whiskey before settling down to an amorous night. A second honeymoon? Something like that. We remembered our key after that, and kept well clear of Pops, in case he found his gun.
Homicide At The Hydro - Part 8

27 September 2015

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

Mildred touched up her makeup for about the third time in five minutes. It was around six thirty; the telephone had gone quiet and Mr Foy had not been seen for some time. Mildred had a room at the hotel and her hours were not what you would call regular. She was intrigued by Nigel Strachan's interest; particularly as Mr Foy had stopped showing her favours. She suspected that he (Foy) had designs on someone else. _Perhaps it's Annie the Irish waitress? Cow!_ she thought. _Probably leading him on!_

So off she went down to the Boiler House to see what it was he wanted. _As if she didn't know!_ Mildred had never actually been inside the Boiler House before and was a trifle apprehensive. Nigel met her at the door. After a cursory tour around the premises, a few murmured endearments and a little nip of gin, Nigel suggested that Mildred ( _Oh, call me Milly!_ ) might like to 'rest' for a while on the cot that was kept for the benefit of whoever was rostered for the night-shift. Quite conveniently, it was Nigel's turn. Milly's hesitancy evaporated and the couple were soon engaged in generating their own steam. ( _Milly, you are magnificent! Ooh, Nigel, you are naughty!_ )

~~~

No one could be certain, but it was at about half past seven when the power failed. Nigel's attention was elsewhere when a climax at the Boiler House precipitated a climax of quite another calibre in the main kitchen of the Hydro. Simultaneously, the telephone began ringing at Mildred's desk at reception adjacent to Foy's office.

The operator at Katoomba exchange let the Hydro's number ring for some time, without receiving an answer. 'I'm afraid I'm not getting an answer sir, at the Hydro Majestic; do you wish to continue?'

'No, not at present, thank you,' replied Hugh Ward. 'It's damned unusual I must say for nobody to be on duty there, though; I'll try again later.' He rang off from the manager's office at the Blue Mountain Hotel in Lawson and returned to the Ladies' Lounge where Dame Nellie was ensconced with a Pimm's Royal Cup.

'So, what's the good word from Father Foy?' demanded Nellie. 'I'll wager Sir Arthur must be getting hungry.'

'No idea,' replied Hugh, after taking a sip from his lager. 'No one is answering at the Hydro--damn strange!'

'Oh for pity's sake, Hugh, what do we do now?'

'Relax and have another drink old girl--the bushfire is still raging, so we're not going anywhere, anyhow! If I don't get a response next time, I'll give the police at Katoomba a ring instead. They at least will tell us how the fire is progressing--I hope!'

'Very well, go and get me another Pimm's. This is going to be a long night--wish I'd stayed in Sydney!'

'Amen to that,' replied Hugh as he returned to the main bar. 'This will be quite a travel tale.'

~~~

In the pitch dark of the kitchen, as Annie and Shirley screamed and grasped for something to hold onto, bringing down more plates and glassware, Shirley felt something brush past her foot and screamed anew. The intruder, having done the deed, slipped out the staff entrance into the relative cool outside.

Thierry Mercier gave out a howl of pain. 'Ahhhh! Vat have you done to me, Watson-- _Sacrebleu!_ '

'I ain't done nothin', you French git!' replied Charlie, distressed.

'Find some candles or a kerosene lamp, quick!' cried Annie, but for the moment chaos reigned.

Thierry fell to his knees and bashed his head on a bench as he went down, his chef's hat falling off in the process. He started crawling across the floor over crockery shards to what he thought was the staff entrance. He was bleeding profusely. He felt the door jamb and gained his feet once more. Dick Wesley saw Thierry Mercier emerging from the staff entrance in the pale moonlight. He had heard the commotion inside and wondered what on earth Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was doing in the kitchen. _Pull yourself together, this is your opportunity to rid the world of this Anti-Christ!_ thought Dick. He picked up a large stone, ran forward and made to strike Thierry on the side of the head. Thierry saw him coming and raised his hand instinctively to ward off the blow. He was only struck lightly but it was enough to fell him once more. He lapsed into unconsciousness. All at once, Dick Wesley was overcome with remorse at the enormity of what he had done. He dropped the rock by Thierry's side and ran off into the darkness; tears streaming down his face.

~~~

Mr Foy sat at Sir Arthur's table and endured the latter's harangue about spiritualism. The Mayor of Blackheath and his wife were also guests at the table. The mayor's wife had remarked casually that Australia's first Prime Minister--Sir Edmund Barton--had actually died in the hotel in January 1920, the previous year. And that perhaps, given that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was a prominent spiritualist, they should hold a séance when Dame Nellie Melba arrived. 'I'm told she often consults fortune tellers,' she said quite innocently.

Naturally, Sir Arthur had leapt in saying, 'Dear lady, all fortune-telling is really a feeling out in the dark. If good things are going to happen, be content to wait for them, and if evil comes nothing is gained by attempting to anticipate it. My sympathies are with the police in their attitude to fortune-tellers, whose black magic is far removed from the services of our mediums in striving to bring comfort to those whose loved ones have gone before. In this respect, at least, I am in empathy with my friend Harry Houdini whom, I believe, is really a powerful spiritualist medium, performing many of his stunts by means of paranormal abilities. He denies this of course. Furthermore...'

Foy had stopped listening to Sir Arthur and felt a modicum of sympathy towards his wife. Just at that moment, there was a fearful cry and a loud crash that came from the kitchen. Foy got up from the table and started running towards the kitchen door with the Mayor in hot pursuit; he pushed open the door just as all lights failed and the hotel was plunged into darkness.
Homicide At The Hydro - Part 9

27 September 2015

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

It was just as things were getting to the interesting bits, down at the Boiler House, when suddenly there was a loud... 'BANG!'

'Oh my Gawd,' exclaimed Nigel Strachan, 'the lights are out!'

'Oohh, it's ever so romantic, Nigel! Did you arrange this especially for me? _You naughty boy!'_

'No of course not you silly bint--there's been a failure in the generator!'

'How dare you? I'm no such thing!' said Milly outraged. 'I've a good mind to slap your face!'

Nigel quickly recovered, not wishing to offend and spoil a possible future liaison. 'I'm sorry Milly that _was_ rather rude of me! It was just the shock of the lights going out. Look, I'll have to attend to this immediately.'

Nigel scratched about in the dark until he managed to find a couple of paraffin lamps, which he lit immediately. 'Look, you'd best slip back to reception. Perhaps I can make it up to you later. Hmm?'

'Well... we'll see! Maybe I'd _better_ check the telephones. Mr Foy will be having kittens.'

'Good, good. Here Milly, take this lamp _Tilley_ and don't be silly; you're a lovely filly! Did you enjoy the dally and dilly? By Jove, love to see you again! Ah, best adjust your skirt perhaps.'

Milly giggled, 'A poet as well eh? Well, goodnight Nigel,' she said, rather mollified. 'I really had a lovely time.' She picked up the Tilley lamp and sashayed her way to the door.

~~~

Foy slipped on the greasy floor of the kitchen, now awash with spilt soup, blood and various other liquids that had been knocked over in the melee. The Mayor of Blackheath fell down on top of him. Charlie struck a match and Annie managed to find some candles. The soft light from a candelabra did not show the full extent of the carnage in the kitchen.

'Get off me you oaf!' bellowed Foy.

'Doing my best Foy--the floor's a bit slippery.'

Foy and the Mayor finally regained their feet. Foy immediately went on the attack, 'What on God's earth is going on here? Watson, where's Mercier? What did you do to him to make him cry out?'

'Not a blessed thing, Mr Foy!' cried Charlie Watson. 'He was swinging a meat cleaver about and I was trying to get it off him. He's already hit Mrs Locke with it; though I don't think he drew blood there--he was drunk and completely off his head!'

Foy ran his hand through his hair. 'So why was he enraged do you think, you ignoramus?'

Shirley spoke up, 'Go easy, boss. It was because I showed him the revised menu, told him that _Melba Chicken Garniture_ was now on for tonight's meal. Then he threw a tantrum 'cause I told 'im that we were usin' spuds instead of truffles as specified.'

Foy listened open-mouthed and dumbfounded. 'But it wasn't a huge change and truffles...'

There was worse news to come. The Mayor had taken a candelabra and ventured outside and discovered Thierry Mercier, lying face down on the gravel just outside the kitchen door. He reappeared in the doorway looking grim.

'Foy, grab yourself a candle or something and come and have a look at this--I've found your chef, I think.'

Annie handed Foy a candle; a blob of hot wax dripped onto his hand. 'Oh dear, so sorry I'm sure,' she said, as coquettishly as was possible.

Foy glared at her. 'Why don't you make yourself useful and start issuing candles in the dining room. Start with Sir Arthur's table; I'm sure you can remember where it is! When you're finished there, go and check if there are any stranded guests in the Cat's Alley. Mrs Locke, please salvage what you can of tonight's meal and continue serving. Watson, start cleaning up the mess--be mindful of any broken glass, crockery etc.'

Foy picked his way gingerly over the debris until he reached the staff entrance. Outside, Foy found the Mayor crouched down beside Thierry Mercier's prone body. 'Come on Thierry, on your feet,' Foy demanded. 'There's still work to be done inside. Give him a poke, Mr Mayor.'

'He won't be doing anything evermore, Foy,' replied the Mayor. 'This cove's dead!'

'What? It can't be!'

''Fraid so, I felt for his pulse. Look, there's a nasty blow to the right side of his temple. Do you know, he bears an uncanny resemblance to Sir Arthur?'

Foy felt the earth move beneath his feet. _What else could possibly go wrong? I must have killed a Chinaman in a former life!_ he thought to himself. For just the briefest moment, his instinct was to get the Mayor to grab Thierry's shoulders and for him to grab his feet, and together they would fling the obstreperous Frenchman over the edge of the escarpment that was not so far away, claim that the chef had gone missing, was drunk and had stumbled over the edge in the dark due to the failure of the lights and power. But he knew that the Mayor would not deign to sully his hands and reputation. There was only one thing for it--they would have to call the police. He mused, _A real-life mystery for Sir Arthur._

~~~

In the dining room, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, his wife Jean, eldest son Denis, and the Mayor's wife, sat in bemused silence. Even the general hubbub from the rest of the dining room had become rather subdued. Finally Sir Arthur said, 'A bit of a rum show this my dear--a loud crash from the kitchen; lights are out and now we have candles; Dame Nellie still hasn't arrived, not to mention our main course. I wonder what the deuce has happened? The waitress, Annie, wasn't particularly forthcoming.'

'I just hope Miss Jackman and the children are all right in our room,' Lady Doyle replied. 'When do you think the lights will go back on Arthur?'

'I don't think there's a ghost of a chance of it happening soon, Jean, my dear. Might as well have another glass of wine and just wait. Something's amiss. Foy the manager will be back soon, I'm sure he'll explain.' Sir Arthur turned to his son Denis who, unaccountably, was whistling. 'Look here, old chap, consider other people's nerves and give up that rotten habit of whistling.'

'Oh sorry, Daddy. I was just wondering if a snake got caught in the hotel's electrics.'

'Perhaps it was the ghost of Sir Edmund Barton.' said the Mayor's wife sardonically, still piqued by Sir Arthur's previous reaction to her mentioning of fortune-tellers and mediums.

Sir Arthur was about to respond to this thinly veiled insult when Foy and the Mayor emerged from the kitchen. The Mayor returned to the table to report on the commotion in the kitchen whilst Foy, holding a candelabra and looking like a spectre in his ruined tux, made straight for his office and the telephone.
Twilight Songs

28 September 2015

Irina Dimitric

Mosman, New South Wales

Australia

Once upon a time

You were like a butterfly

Here and there and everywhere

Now you are stuck in a wheelchair

Once you sighed day in day out

'Why must I live so long?'

Now you're blissfully content

You don't remember

What you've ever said

You live in a foreign land

Like most in the dining room today

The piano plays soft melodies

Of bygone years, I feel my eyes

Well up with tears

Tears keep rolling

Down my cheeks

As I watch you sitting

Motionless, expressionless

I turn away my face:

A young nurse's belly carries

A new life, a new beginning

Amidst the very ending

My tears keep rolling

Down to my trembling lips

The nurse keeps smiling

Her words are sweet

'Come on love, up you go

One two three, well done

Hang on to your walker, dear'

The old soul, half her size

Slowly shuffles on

I shed one more tear

My wet eyes I wipe...

The piano played

Their songs and mine

Once upon a time
The Sentinel

28 September 2015

Madeline Ross

Winmalee, New South Wales

Australia

The sentinel sits commanding;

Its mighty form unmoved,

Staring with cold indifference,

The callous power abused.

Its will is strong yet stubborn;

Fixated on ageing constitutions;

Never changing, never dying,

Never leaving its place;

Some fear it, others follow blindly;

The panopticon of ancients,

The ever-watching eye;

It has always watched,

It will never stop watching,

Haunting us always,

Death the only release,

From its single, bloody eye.
Weather Permitting

29 September 2015

Judith La Porte

Monash, Canberra

Australia

I had a friend, April, who was totally obsessed by the weather. She allowed meteorology to dictate most of her decisions and actions. It drove me crazy.

'Don't let the state of the weather dominate your life, April!' I used to say to her in exasperation.

When we were in our twenties, single and carefree, we always planned our holidays together. Both competent skiers we loved the exhilaration of speeding down a sparkling white slope in our fashionable pastel ski suits and black knit beanies, or gracefully gliding along groomed eucalyptus-lined trails on cross-country skis.

But more often than not the annual winter escape to our favourite mountain chalet was thwarted. All because April had days earlier studied the predicted snow conditions and decided that there was either not enough of the white stuff or that blizzards were on the horizon.

'But, April,' I pleaded, 'it doesn't matter--we can sit in the pub drinking gluhwein on the bad weather days. Think of all those lovely Austrian ski instructors we could get to know.'

She would ponder that enticement for a second or two but would then shake her curly blonde head. 'We can try for next season--conditions may be on our side then.'

So I either begrudgingly cancelled as well or else spent a miserable week skiing solo, admittedly in a face-numbing whiteout or scraping my skis over mud patches in the melting snow and eating alone in a near empty hotel dining room.

Not one to totally embrace technology, April did unfortunately discover weather apps with warning notifications. Much to my chagrin she installed several on her mobile phone.

Weekend excursions were regularly stymied because of weather considerations.

'Cycle ride around the lake?'

'No, too windy.'

'Bush walk?'

'No way--it's much too hot and I smell smoke.'

'Picnic in the park?'

'Are you kidding--there's a chance of showers and thunderstorms.'

'Afternoon movie?'

'Sorry, it's too sunny and warm to waste indoors in a stuffy movie theatre.'

If she had not been such a charming, funny and kind friend I would have discarded her years before.

After I married I was able to participate in all manner of excursions with my husband, despite the forecasts from the Bureau of Meteorology. Jack was very easygoing and not in the least concerned about the weather, as April was.

I did persevere with her though, often inviting her to join Jack and I at our sprawling comfortable holiday house at the beach. There was a charming guest room painted blue. Sea shells and paperbacks were piled on the bedside tables. Between the pale yellow window curtains there was a sea view to die for.

'I won't come down after all,' inevitably April would tell me over the phone. 'I see there's a mass of low pressure and a cold front moving rapidly towards the coast.'

After these calls I would sit on the balcony in the warm coastal sunshine and still air, looking out at the shimmering and invitingly calm ocean, gloomily waiting for the foretold change.

Jack could sense my disappointment and be gently reproving. 'I don't know why you bother asking her.'

When April was well into her forties with several doomed relationships behind her, she announced that she was to be married. I was overjoyed for her. But I did wonder how Rick, her fiancé, handled her weather mania.

On the day of the wedding dark clouds loomed ominously, despite April's painstakingly researched forecast of warm, sunny conditions.

As we sat in the small village church, mass anxiety gradually descended like the stormy clouds outside. April was forty minutes late--that amount of tardiness was not fashionable even for a bride.

I looked about to see if I could spot Rick, no doubt distressed by April's non-appearance. But he was nowhere to be seen, either. The elderly priest kept glancing at his watch with increasing irritation. The wedding guests were starting to murmur and shift restlessly in their seats.

After an hour we realized that the wedding was not going to take place. By this time the rain had started to pelt down with fury. Thunder boomed.

The priest left, shaking his head and muttering about time wasted. Some of the guests huddled in the church foyer hoping at least for champagne and canapés as compensation.

Leaving Jack at the church door to stand guard, I hurried to the nearby guest house where April had stayed overnight. I arrived drenched, my pale green suede shoes, bought for the occasion, ruined. I found April and Rick sitting in the lounge room holding hands and calmly gazing out of the window at the bleak weather. April had removed her flowered hat and it lay at her feet.

They both looked up guiltily but defiantly.

'We decided that we didn't want rain on our wedding day, so...' April's voice trailed off, lost in a clap of thunder.

Rick nodded in agreement. It seemed he did share her views on inclement weather.

'Can you apologise to everyone for us? I'm sure they'll understand,' he said, beaming at me.

_No they won't,_ I wanted to shout at them over the noise coming from the heavens. Instead, I dutifully returned to the remaining small cluster of guests and announced the unhappy news.

April and Rick were married three weeks later. The civil ceremony was conducted by a cheerful young woman in a short purple dress, outdoors in glorious sunshine with just the slightest hint of a breeze. Jack and I were the only others in attendance.

Their marriage, although brief, was a happy one.

April died suddenly one afternoon in early Autumn. At the burial I stood heartbroken by her grave.

_Oh, April, I'll miss you so much. Now who'll advise me to take a jumper or an umbrella on outings?_ Deeply saddened as I was, I did feel some comfort from the warm sun caressing my back and shoulders.

Rick, who was standing beside me weeping silently, suddenly raised his face to the blue cloudless sky. He turned to me and smiled through his tears.

'She always wanted perfect weather for her big occasions.'
Hush Now Child

29 September 2015

Terry Hopper

Luton, Bedfordshire

UK

Sleepy head with eyes a blur

led by hands both Lords and Earls,

Risen in the dead of night,

from slumbered sleep, to electric lights,

Dressed for bed not time to play,

Silent whispers come their way

Hush now child, don't be afraid

The deal is done the fee's been paid

The man he smells of drunken bars

late night debates and stale cigars

His touch it leaves me cold and frigid

caressing me intimately with yellow digits

Paraded round, I'm the victor's prize

Bribed with sweets and vicious lies

Hush now child, don't make a sound

As he has my hands all taped and bound

And as the tears they stream on my face

His belt, his trousers and shoes unlace

The darkened room, the bed I fear

Lustful looks and dirty leers

Slobbering, drooling, agony and pain

Slaps and beatings, I cry in vain

I'm passed around from pillar to post

Here them cheer, here them boast

Clock stands still, the minutes pass

But I know this time, won't be the last

A special child, the pretty one

Someone's daughter, someone's son

And as the years have left their scars

The abusers leave in chauffeured cars

Back to the commons and family life

Back with children, and a loving wife

The civil service and MI5

Hiding secrets they contrived

Blame each other for their crimes

Dam the tabloids, the 'accusing headlines'

The establishment hides its dirty stains

With dementia and 'lost' files it duly feigns

The wounds are open, out in the air

No more visitors to Dolphin Square

So tonight as you lay your kids to sleep

Think of those who gently weep

For those whose screams couldn't be heard

Silent victims without a spoken word

The time has come to name and shame

The time has come to lay the blame

Free the children and break the chains

Heal the wounds and ease the pains
The Grand Lampstand

30 September 2015

Shirley Burgess

Rosebud, Victoria

Australia

Picture It Competition Entry - Picture C

It should be said: I didn't always look like this.

I was born in 1951 and stood grandly in the Lampshade Department of The Myer Emporium waiting to be sold. No-one else had turned rings all the way up the stand like I had, each one carefully worked to provide a scalloped look, with my three-tiered base to match, and finished off with a hat of cream satin edged with a double row of piping below a band embroidered with beautiful miniature flowers. The wood had been stained a pleasant maple colour and the clear varnish had been applied so generously and smoothly, it looked as though it had been French polished. What made me special, though, was the expensive looking tassel that had to be pulled to turn my light on and off. The tassel was a No. 472, the top grade in tassels.

Not surprising, then, I was chosen to be a wedding present for Helen and Jim, given to them by their Best Man, and moved into a brand new house in the outer suburb of Blackburn where the newlyweds now resided. My position as chief item of interest in the lounge room was unchallenged and I gave a lovely subdued lighting to the room when friends visited.

Five years later I was reduced to second place by a newfangled mechanism called a TV, sitting in the opposite corner to me, and, as it was the year of the Olympics held in Melbourne, there was always a crowd of people gathered around the set each night for the duration of the Games. It was all very exciting and I noted it all with interest.

After a few years the TV was replaced by a bigger, better and more beautiful one. TVs had advanced, but they still needed my gentle light for comfortable viewing. Helen and Jim's children arrived one by one, and when the eldest, Zoe, eventually grew to be tall enough she'd pull my light on and off non-stop. But tassel No. 472 was pretty tough and survived all the teasing.

A move to a bigger house relegated me to a minor bedroom, with my soft satin material now drooping and with paint spots here and there on my stand, acquired when, minus hat, I was used for extra light while rooms were being painted; I was aware that I was beginning to look a bit tatty. Zoe, now a grown woman, took me aside for a makeover. My varnish was sanded off, I was painted white and had a new hat; it was in black and white, the very latest in lampshade styles and I was smart looking again.

Now it is 2015 and Helen is on her own. She has grown tired and is moving to an aged care facility, constricted to taking very few pieces of furniture. So she took a bed, a chest of drawers, a new TV and... me! I am looking tatty again, in fact; quite knocked about after being loaned to Zoe whose energetic children had her same fascination for turning me on and off, but I can still shed a pleasant light for Helen to read under, watch the TV in comfort, and be useful to someone who loves me.

I've ended up a bit like my owner, not smartly turned out any more but glad to be able to exist in my old comfortable persona. Helen has always had a sympathetic disposition, willing to help others, and with a personality that always shone brightly. She is doing that now while meeting new people for the first time in this place of quiet relaxation, and, as old friends, we are both trying to be useful while we are here.
We'll See You Home Soon

30 September 2015

Shirley Burgess

Rosebud, Victoria

Australia

Picture It Competition Entry - Picture A

'Here, put on your coat, you want to look smart

When you report for duty for this war from the start.

It's the argument from the North on how slaves should be freed.

They say using their labour is nothing but greed.

'Mr Lincoln can talk. In the South we disagree,

And we have the best General, Robert E Lee.

He's the one to make sure we show them our might

And win for our plantations and what is our right.

'It's up to the South's men to take up arms

And show them we're ready without any qualms

To reinforce our views--things stay as the same

And we're ready to show them it's not just a game.

'You'll see this is over as soon as it begins--

No shouting it's our fault because of our sins.

We'll see you home soon. You'll come through our gate

You'll be the big hero and we'll forget all the hate.

'Don't forget your luggage, it's not much I guess

But my good-luck charm's in there, I must confess.

You report to that office in the building behind us,

And should feel proud, responsible, grown-up and righteous.'

He's gone in the door, a proud soldier boy.

Why am I frightened? Knowing war can destroy?

I'm shaking. I've a premonition. It might even be sad,

That I won't see my twin again and that this war will be bad.
The Tourist

1 October 2015

David Anderson

Woodford, New South Wales

Australia

Picture It Competition Entry - Picture B

Sissy sat by her favourite waterfall in the Australian bush, and pondered on the night a few months beforehand, when she sat watching her new found friend's life blood pour out of his neck, pumping like merlot from an overturned bottle.

Wiping the kitchen knife on his tee shirt, she sighed, then lay back down beside him, while caressing his black cat, Herman, who nestled upwards into her neck; as if the death of his owner was insignificant. Friedrich had been one of the good ones, and Sissy felt it was a shame she had to end his life. She glanced at the piano which would never again feel Friedrich's fingers play a Chopin étude on its keys. Herman jumped from her arms and sat licking Friedrich's bloody throat. Sissy laughed and reached for her GoPro camera and began videoing the repulsive scene. Moving around the bed, she filmed Herman, and Friedrich's body, from many angles.

She had met Friedrich a few days previously at the Hofbräuhaus in Munich, where he sat beside her on one of the long benches, and after suggesting the Bierbratle from the menu, he offered to buy her a litre of Münchner Weisse beer. Sissy was unsure of the content of the food suggested. 'What in God's name is Bierbratle?'

Friedrich laughed; then felt a thrill of attraction at Sissy's charming screwed up face. 'It's pork belly. Could I suggest you have sauerkraut and potatoes as well?'

'You could... if I knew your name. I'm Sissy.'

'Hi, I'm Friedrich. Welcome to München. Would you allow me to offer you a stein of Münchner Weisse?' Sissy again gave him a bewildered look, and Friedrich laughed. 'Please believe me, it's the best beer they serve here.'

'Ja, Mein Herr.'

Sissy's attempt of the German vernacular was greeted with a smile, and over a few steins of beer and the filling meal, Friedrich learnt that Sissy was from Australia, and was travelling around Europe before starting university. Dancing to the Bavarian oompah band, the couple became engrossed in each other's company, and Friedrich offered Sissy accommodation at his unit in the Ottobrun district.

For two days Friedrich and Sissy were the perfect lovers. Their days were spent on Friedrich giving Sissy the tourist's trek of Munich's charming museums, art galleries and gardens. Night time was spent dancing and drinking at The Atomic Café and Paradiso Tanzbar, which led to home and passionate lovemaking until the early hours.

Sissy opened the window and let Herman outside. Packing her meagre belongings into her back pack, and blowing Friedrich's corpse a kiss, she picked up her bag and left the building.

Now, sitting on a rock beneath the waterfall where she had walked with her family since childhood, she reached into her bag and drew out a sandwich and a bottle of water. She knew it was time to confess her sins to the world. She had tried a psychiatrist, but he was getting too close to the truth of why she had committed such crimes. Confessing her slayings had been committed on animals hadn't worked out the way she intended, and the doctor was becoming suspicious. Why couldn't she just end it all by jumping off the nearby cliff? She knew that the answer was that she was a coward, and could never carry it out.

Her decision was that she would relate her crimes and fall on the mercy of the court, pleading insanity. Better locked up in a cell than to perpetrate another murder; even though her intended quota of victims was fulfilled. Tears fell gently down her cheek as she remembered Peter in London.

Peter was a singer in a jazz combo and met Sissy on his night off at The Crazy Coqs, a dimly lit cabaret club near Piccadilly Circus. Like Friedrich, Peter courted Sissy around London's famous landmarks by day, and after their exhausting run from one club to another in Peter's Soho district, he enjoyed making love with her at night.After two nights Sissy awoke in the morning and looked at Peter's lean muscled back as he lay faced away from her. Reaching into her bag beside the bed, she withdrew a 9H pencil--the hardest lead of the range--and cupping the pencil in her left fist with just the tip showing, she placed her fist a centimetre above Peter's ear. Drawing in a breath, she held her right fist above the protruding pencil end, and slammed down hard; sending the pencil into Peter's ear with such force that it penetrated deep into his brain. Peter's body shuddered for a moment, then Sissy removed her left fist and drove the remainder of the pencil hard into the ear, her fist pressing on Peter's ear lobe.

Peter was number two.

Sitting at the waterfall now, Sissy placed her head in her hands and sobbed. The ringing of the bellbirds calmed her for a time and she began thinking of Marcel, who she met in Paris as he busked on the walkway at the side of the Seine, near the Île de la Cité. Only one night was spent with Marcel, when he talked Sissy into taking her on his Vespa to Étretat in Normandy to see the white cliffs. They enjoyed the day sightseeing, making love, enjoying fine food and wine, as Marcel taught Sissy how to ride his much loved red scooter. It was after they had made love on the cliff of Manneporte, scene of Marcel's much loved Monet's painting, The Manneporte, that it occurred to Sissy that it was time to wish Marcel adieu.

As Marcel stood in front of her, describing his love of the massive white natural arch, all it took was a push and it was over. Sissy never heard Marcel's scream as she immediately placed her hands over her ears. Riding the Vespa back to Paris she was glad there was only one more to be chosen.

Sissy left the Vespa in a laneway in a street behind Notre Dame and travelled to Amsterdam by a high speed Thalys train. She met Hans the first night as usual at a bar in the Hazenstraat district. Chet's Jazz Café was an acoustic jazz club where local solo and duo musicians performed. Hans was a singer guitarist who loved the music of Django Reinhart. Sissy sat down the front and slowly sipped her cocktail while she gave Hans every reason to think she was interested in more than his music. Like the others the couple exchanged smiles, and it was during the break that Sissy told Hans she may only stay the one night in Amsterdam as she was running out of money. Hans offered her to share his lodgings and Sissy moved in the next day.

Sissy stayed with Hans for over two weeks, which began to confuse her as she nearly always only stayed a day or two and then ended the tryst in more ways than one. However, Hans was different. He had a calming influence she'd never felt before, and he never pressured her into making love or anything in any demanding way. Sissy thought she might be better moving on for a short time to find the last and final killing and then return to Hans as his lover.

This changed, however, the night Hans found her with his beside drawer open, and Sissy looking at a small photo album. Sissy had been in awe of the photo of Hans with Olympic medals around his neck. Medals that lay in the drawer and displayed that Hans had won them for archery. Hans flew into a rage and slapped Sissy while throwing the album across the room. It was only after he calmed down he told her that his future career in archery was curtailed after a street brawl with a knife wielding thug, which left him with an impaired wrist tendon. Hans cuddled Sissy and apologised, but for Sissy, the damage was done. Hans would be her last victim.

The method Sissy used was to use the last of her diazepam tablets to bring Hans into unconsciousness, and then tie him up by the neck, to the doorknob of the entrance door to his apartment, assuming police would believe Hans had committed suicide. Sissy put the tablets in a hot cup of milk; a habit she had Hans adapt to over the past few weeks. An hour later she tried to rouse him, but he was in a deep sleep. She pondered on whether a massive dose could have finished the job, but Sissy didn't want to use her prescription for more tablets in the Netherlands, in case it was checked against her whereabouts.

Dragging Hans to the door, she used his favourite tie around his neck and wound the ends around the doorknob. Hans, even in a deep sleep, was having difficulty breathing. Sissy sat for a while and found the pain of watching Han's life slip away too much to bear. Hans had been different, and maybe she should cut him loose? Then again, how would she explain the marks on his neck and him becoming aware that Sissy had tried to murder him? Packing her backpack she opened the window and made her way down the fire escape and walked around Amsterdam until dawn broke. Sitting at a cafe at Schipol railway station, she made the decision to return home and put an end to her trail of slaughter, and walked across the station to Schipol Airport to book a flight to Australia. After enquiring, she couldn't believe that a seat was available that afternoon; she would be home the next evening.

~~~

A whip bird's call woke her from her reverie and she prepared how she would present her confession. Sissy organised herself and the items required for her confession, took a deep breath, and commenced to rehearse her admission of her crimes that she would present to the police. For five minutes she spoke in a calm voice of how she murdered her four lovers. Why she had perpetrated the crimes was now to follow. Taking another breath she continued.

'My father was a musician; a very well-known professional musician who everyone thought the world of; except my mother and myself. In the rare times he did come home he took out his anger on us both and treated us with a complete lack of respect. My mother knew he had many women in his life, and my father let her know about them, and what he did with them, at every turn. One night he brought three of his new found friends home, musicians from another state, and they drank long into the night, with my father ordering my mother around to cook and clean up after them. My father's old band mates had been warm and friendly, but as my father retreated into alcoholism, they slowly faded away and never returned. My father's new friends this night were evil looking bastards, and talked my father into smoking ice.

'My mother stood up to him that night and told him she was leaving, but my father beat her so badly he broke her jaw and she lost most of her front teeth. I intervened and he threw me across the room and nearly broke my arm. In the early hours of the morning while my mother had gone to sleep, with the help of strong pain killers, and with my father unconscious and drunk on the floor, the three men entered my room and... and... I never told my parents. My mother, my very brave mother, told the police of my father's brutality and my father was arrested. At his trial he pleaded that he was on drugs and didn't know what he had done, and with his clean record and public reputation, the judge gave him four years in prison. I know now that even before my rape I had a psychopathic personality. I always manipulated people and couldn't help being cruel, even to my dog. I confess it was me who pushed Graeme Dawson into the river during our school camp in 1995. I knew he couldn't swim, and he was always teasing me anyway.

'I tried to find my father's friends, to take them out one by one, but I wasn't successful. Everything is almost clear now: except I still cannot comprehend why I took my revenge out on those innocent men. I told myself it was because they were musicians. I made a promise to select four musicians for my revenge; my father and his fucking rapist friends. God help me I don't know and I prob--'

Sissy stopped mid-sentence as a searing pain crushed her chest. Looking down and reaching up with her hands she couldn't comprehend that her fingers surrounded a bloodied pointed metallic object. In her head the sound of the bellbirds faded and a blackness swiftly clouded her vision and she tumbled off the rock ledge onto the ground.

Folding up his portable crossbow, Hans placed it in his backpack and, whistling softly, moved through the bush towards his fallen prey. Following Sissy from her home, he had been laying not far from her as she sat by the waterfall, only standing up to listen as she recited her confession. Hans shook with rage as he realised that he had been number four in Sissy's list of slaughter. Hans, too, had been reminiscing on the night he nearly became Sissy's fourth corpse. How fortunate that a homeless girl, down on her luck with nowhere to stay, had seen Sissy leave by the fire escape and decided the apartment may have been empty and that Sissy was possibly a thief. Again so lucky that she found Hans and rang for an ambulance.

A woman like Sissy deserved a punishment far worse than the court could bring, and now with three men before him murdered Hans felt revenge for them all. Perhaps Sissy had forgotten the family photo she had placed on the lintel of the fireplace in Hans' apartment. It displayed them enjoying a picnic at this very location. She had also forgotten that the name of the waterfall, together with her Australian phone number and address, were penned on the back.

Reaching Sissy, he kneeled down, and removing his woollen balaclava, turned her over to see she was nearly on her last breath. Bright red spittle bubbled from her mouth, and her eyes barely registered that she recognised him. As he reached down he was aware Sissy was trying to talk. Holding his ear to her mouth he heard her final words and sat back in shock. There were only two words, but they were words that Hans couldn't believe he would hear from someone he had just brutally slain.

'Thank you.'

Hans stood up, looking down at Sissy with pity. She had been the victim of a terrible crime, but her crimes were far worse, and Hans was resolute in meting out his brand of justice. Dragging Sissy's body into the bush, he returned to the scene of his crime and scraped his boot along the dirt to integrate Sissy's blood into the soil. Looking up at the trees and the sound of the bellbirds, Hans whistled softly and departed. Perhaps he'd stay in this beautiful country for a while.

Fluttering down from a tall eucalyptus tree, a few minutes later, a magpie landed on a flat rocky ledge, not more than two metres from where Sissy had been sitting. Giving the camouflage covered Go Pro camera a peck, he jumped back for a moment as the memory card on the camera gave out--emitted a little beep--and stopped recording.

From the bush track a little boy ran towards the magpie, who flew away in panic, as the child shouted out to his mother of his important find.

'Mum! There's a waterfall.' A split second later his mother flinched as her little boy screamed out in amazement. 'Mum! I've found a camera. It's a GoPro!'
Island

2 October 2015

Leonie Bingham

Katoomba, New South Wales

Australia

Picture It Competition Entry - Picture D

In Sydney Harbour

east of The Bridge

is an island risen

from the ocean's bowels

that only she can see;

dusk yields to night,

she stretches her legs,

wades into the water;

waist-deep, she waits

under the blue moon

for the familiar channel

to take her;

lithe arms, taper-fingers

glide blissfully

through mineral sea,

weightless

on the shifting tide;

white-wash ripples

and sand bubbles

dance among seaweed,

carry her forward

to the burned, time-etched

faces of the ziggurats,

those three rocks

that protect her island;

she drifts

pass the sentries who

masquerade as shadows

and follow her into the cave,

breathlessly guide

her to the porcelain sand

that glistens her skin,

colours her cheeks and

turns night to day;

native bees flurry

on wildflowers,

the log hollow

draped in orchid

reflects on itself,

a kookaburra laughs

from somewhere out there,

the woman laughs too,

then she breathes

breathes breathes;

before dawn rises and

the island fades into light,

she tucks a wildflower

behind her ear

and glides back

through the cave, past

the orange-scarred rock faces

and the sentries

that skirt them;

she blows them a kiss,

knowing that

she will see them again

when the next blue moon

rises.
Mere Hobbyist

3 October 2015

Demelza

Taroona, Tasmania

Australia

Picture It Competition Entry - Picture B

The seeds of regret

Fell beside a river

And the river nurtured them

Wild and inviting thoughts splashed up from the rocks

Spilling onto the river bank

Soaking their roots

Feeding them thoughts of freedom

Turning them lush and

Palatable

The river carried their perfume to me

And I desired their knowledge

I sought through my mind until the river became clear

Reaching in I grabbed recklessly at the foliage

But it was beyond my reach

Struggling for liberty I tried again and again

Until all hope was gone and I cried a river

Humbled I knelt beside the flowing waters and made a harvest

I bathed naked in the river and

Bore my soul to the life giver

No one saw me

And there was no shame

I took the harvest to the market

Where you called me a hobbyist

Because I was old

But you are naive and your mouth has not yet savoured regret

You labelled me such

Because your craft is your breath

Both pleasure and pressure are your companions

To create is the essence of your survival

And you flourish like the perfected waterlily on a warm lake

Spreading your beauty abundantly over mysterious shores

Spilling your harmonious colours into creeks and rivers

Oh how I fill with pleasure at the sound of your voice

Call me tardy or late

But my beginning was delayed

And the path already strewn with debris and discouragement

My feet bruised and bleeding with no place to rest

I had to work with my hands

Suppress my imagination

Never allow my dreams to surface

So practised was I that it became second nature

And without thought I denied myself

More than was necessary

Always being available for you

Growing together and apart

And together and apart

Now allow my passion to weave its tendrils into your world once more

Let the vines creep along speaking quietly of my forbidden love

Let the blossoms fall as carpet under our feet

Let never the beauty of age be seen as bitter or discontented

I wish you well

You inspire me

With your beauty and your bluntness

Hobby or not it shall invade me

Until I'm overwhelmed

Until my words become compulsive

Until my alias speaks

And I am no longer an old woman looking for success

But your equal

Where age is irrelevant

And we sit shoulder to shoulder

Albeit mine are more rounded than yours
Homicide At The Hydro - Part 10

4 October 2015

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

Mildred stumbled back to reception in the dark and set the Tilley lamp on her desk. The telephone was ringing and in the darkness seemed louder and more urgent. She picked it up at once: 'Hello, Hydro Majestic Hotel, good evening can, I help you? Mildred speaking...'

'Hi Milly, it's Jan at the exchange. I've got the police on the line from Katoomba--what have you been up to you naughty girl? Ha ha...'

Milly blushed in spite of herself. 'Nothing at all Jan, do put them through.'

'Hello? Is that the Hydro? It's Sergeant Starr here at Katoomba Police. I've rung a couple of times--is everything alright there?'

'Err... y-yes Sergeant, it's Mildred Prior here--the receptionist. I'm afraid our power has failed and we've been a bit, um, preoccupied.'

Just then, Foy, the manager, arrived with a candelabra. 'Who are you speaking to?' he demanded.

Mildred screamed in fright, ' _Ahhh!_ ' and almost dropped the receiver. 'Mr Foy, you gave me ever such a fright. I thought you were a ghost! It's the police--Sergeant Starr.'

Foy was perplexed. 'The police? Give me that receiver, _quick_.'

_How on earth do they know so quickly?_ Foy thought to himself. 'Hello, it's Foy here, the manager, how did you know--'

Starr cut him off. 'Listen, Foy, I've had a call from a Mr Hugh Ward, who's presently down at the Hotel at Lawson, claims he's Nellie Melba's manager--you know him? Says he's tried to ring there a couple of times and got no answer; where's your receptionist been? I've rung a couple of times meself.'

Foy slapped his forehead in frustration. He'd forgotten about the delayed arrival of Dame Nellie in the ensuing chaos. He shot a furious glare at Mildred. 'Yes, I know him, Sergeant. We've been wondering where Dame Nellie is. We've also got Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and family staying with us, and--'

Once more, Sergeant Starr interrupted Foy. 'Okay, well listen. We've got a serious bushfire problem down below Wentworth Falls that's crossed the highway, so no traffic's getting through in the foreseeable future. Gotta go, we're very busy tonight. Okay?'

'Hang on Sergeant, before you ring off! We've got another problem here, besides no power... I'm afraid there's been a death!'

~~~

Richard (Dick) Wesley ran out of the main gates of the Hydro, and started stumbling along the highway by the side of the sandstone fence that bordered the hotel grounds. Dick had never been known to perpetrate violence before. Consequently, his own actions perplexed him. He was still crying as he crossed the railway bridge, making his way towards Blackheath.

'Time for a fresh start,' he said to himself between sobs. 'They don't appreciate me here anyway; catch The Fish in the morning down to Sydney. That's the place to do God's work--no more _Sir Dick_ or _Saint Dick_ from the plebs hereabouts. At least that spiritualist blighter Doyle won't be spreading any more evil.'

~~~

Constable Joe Morey was just sitting down to a late supper at the Blackheath Police Station residence, when the phone rang. His wife groaned. 'Oh no, who can that be now? You've just got back from that ruckus at the Gardner's Inn.'

'I don't quite recognise the ring,' Joe replied giving his wife a wink. 'Never mind love, I'll deal with whoever it is quickly.' However, they were Constable Morey's famous last words.

'Hello, Blackheath Police, Constable Morey speaking.'

'G'day Joe, or should I say good evening?It's Ernie Starr here at Katoomba... enjoying the heat?'

'How are you, Boss? How's the fire doing down at Wenty--keeping you busy? Need some help I presume?'

'Jeez, you can say that again Joe! Nah, not with the fire mate. Listen, there's been a death at the Hydro. Had Foy, the manager, on the blower--isn't he a slippery cove? Anyway, the lights have failed there and apparently there was a disturbance in the kitchen and the head chef's had some sort of accident; bashed his head or something--seems a bit queer. Now I'm reasonably sure that it's simply a case of death by misadventure, but that's not how it looks... at the moment. I know this could be outside of your area of responsibility, but, could you slip down there and sort things out? Just at the moment we're flat strap and I haven't got anybody to spare.'

'Struth, boss!' Joe replied. 'Didn't Barton, our first Prime Minister, turn up his toes there at the Hydro about twelve months ago? It was _your_ blokes who had to deal with that. This might be a bit sticky!'

'Yeah, well if it's a bit of a mystery, ask Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for assistance. He's staying there at the moment,' Ernie Starr said with tongue in cheek. 'He's on some lecture tour about spiritualism. You know, the bloke that writes those Sherlock Holmes detective stories--read any of them?'

'Aw, not really Sarg-- _are you serious?_ ' Joe asked incredulously.

'Yeah, fair dinkum! Not only that we've got Dame Nellie Melba, the op'ra sheila, presently waiting at Lawson 'til the fire menace passes, so she can meet Sir Arthur for dinner. _Very, la de bloody da!_ '

~~~

In the dining room at the Hydro Majestic Hotel, the Mayor enlightened Sir Arthur's table as to the state of affairs in the kitchen. Sir Arthur and his wife sat open-mouthed as the Mayor recounted the altercation between the drunken chef and the other staff members which resulted in the chef's unfortunate demise. The Mayor also noted to Sir Arthur the remarkable resemblance of the chef to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Lady Doyle shuddered involuntarily.

At reception, Foy tore strips off Mildred for deserting her post. 'I note that the Tilley lamp you've so fortunately come by belongs down in the Boiler Room. How do you explain that?' She couldn't.

In the darkened Cat's Alley, Annie shepherded hapless guests to the comparative safety of the dining room. She noted that several couches had been damaged by guests who had stood on the seats when the lights had gone out. She made a mental note to inform her husband, Albert, an upholsterer. It also gave her a further idea as how to deal with Foy and his odious advances.

~~~

Joe Morey fired up his 350 Douglas Motorcycle and sidecar and was soon on his way to Medlow Bath. As he began to approach the railway bridge, the headlight of the cycle picked up a figure wandering erratically along the side of the road. _Good God, who's that out at this time?_ Joe wondered. _Shall I ignore him or what? Nah... best see who it is._ Bringing the cycle to an abrupt halt in front of the hapless rambler, Joe was astonished to discover it was _Saint Dick_ Wesley--the well-known lay preacher and self-righteous pain-in-the-neck.

'Bloody hell, is that you Dick? What on earth are you doing wandering along the highway in the dark at this time of night? You're liable to get yourself killed; you're not wearing any light coloured clothing!'

'Oh, Constable Morey, I'm ever so pleased to see you; what a fool I've been!' Dick bleated piteously.

'Whatever _are_ you talking about Dick?'

'It's that heathen _Anti-Christ_ --Arthur Conan Doyle,' replied Dick shaking.

'Yesss,' said Joe Morey cautiously, 'you mean the author bloke staying at the Hydro--what about him?'

It took Dick a few moments to settle himself, 'I think I've killed him...'
Homicide At The Hydro - Part 11

4 October 2015

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

Foy was still in the midst of venting his spleen at reception, with Mildred being the unfortunate recipient, when the telephone rang once again. 'Good God in heaven! Who can that be now?' thundered Foy.

Mildred was tempted to say, _I don't quite recognise the ring_ , but bit her tongue just in time.

'Well just don't sit there girl, answer the damn thing... oh never mind, I'll do it myself--seems it's the only way to get things done.' He answered gruffly, 'Hydro Majestic, Foy speaking. Can I help you?'

Jan, the operator, was expecting Milly to answer, anticipating some juicy gossip. Upon hearing Foy's brittle tone, she put him through to Hugh Ward at Lawson without delay.

'Foy, is that you? My God man, what's going on? I even rang the police at Katoomba. Dame Nellie, her accompanist and I, are stuck here at the hotel at Lawson because there's a fire raging below Wentworth Falls.'

'Yes I know, I spoke to the police--Hugh, you wouldn't believe what's happening here...'

Hugh Ward cut across him, 'You'll have to speak louder Foy, there's quite a hubbub coming from the bar. Dame Nellie's having a sing-a-long with the patrons to while away the time. It's quite an experience hearing _Knees up Mother Brown_ being performed by an opera singer, I can tell you. Mind you, she's about three sheets to the wind now because she hasn't had dinner yet with _Sir Archie Coconut Oil_ , as she's taken to calling him. Hah!'

Foy raised his voice accordingly and filled Hugh in briefly about the chaos at the Hydro. '... so maybe, Hugh, you'd better grab something to eat there; come later when you can.'

Hugh Ward, though, was not keen on the idea of Dame Nellie Melba being involved in a possible murder scandal. 'The press, especially _The Truth_ , would crucify us,' said Hugh. 'In any event, she's got an engagement in Sydney tomorrow at the National Club. I think I'll convince her to just stay put for now, and then we'll slip away quietly back to Sydney when we can. And I'll be in contact again soon to confirm further bookings and to talk about that museum idea for my son. Righto, bye for now.'

Foy gnashed his teeth. It was clear that his grandiose plan of bringing together two of the greatest cultural icons of the age, was not going to happen; at least not in his establishment. He slammed the phone down in a fury. Just at that moment, Constable Joe Morey arrived with a very contrite Richard Wesley by his side.

~~~

In the dining room, Charlie Watson was speaking with Sir Arthur. 'I'm sorry it took so long to serve your meal, Mr Doyle, err, I mean, _Sir Arthur_ , but you see, um, our chef had a bit of an accident and he's...'

'Dead? Yes, so I hear from the Mayor. And your name is _Watson_ eh? Bit of a coincidence.'

'Err yes, sir,' said Charlie, not realising what Sir Arthur was alluding to, 'but it wasn't my fault--the lights went out and the floor was so slippery and my hand got cut.' Charlie held up his bandaged hand. 'See?'

Sir Arthur held up his own hand for silence. 'Best tell it all to the police when they arrive, young Watson--it'll be _elementary_ , I'm sure! Ha ha!' The creator of Sherlock Holmes laughed at his own in-joke. His wife groaned.

~~~

Annie, the Irish waitress, had heard Foy's strident voice berating Mildred, the receptionist. She waited nervously in the shadows. When she saw Constable Morey arrive with the strange little man with head bent, she remained hidden. Her intention had been to try and use the telephone and call her husband and let him in on her plan.

She heard Mr Foy say to Mildred, 'Miss Prior, _if_ you happen to see Annie, send her along to the kitchen. In the meantime, you might give Strachan a call down at the Boiler House, see if he can tell you when the lights might go back on. _Use your influence!_ ' he added sarcastically.

'At once, Mr Foy!' replied Mildred, who was still reeling from the tongue lashing. ' _Snake!_ ' she added when they had moved out of earshot. She reached for the extension phone. 'Nigel... sweetie? It's Milly...'

In the dark, Annie blushed. She slipped away again, wondering how best to use the latest piece of gossip.

~~~

As luck would have it, moments later the lights were suddenly restored and everyone cheered, just as Foy, Joe Morey and Dick Wesley entered the dining room. Before approaching the kitchen, they made for Sir Arthur's table.

'It can't be!' exclaimed Dick Wesley. 'You're dead! I struck you outside the kitchen!'

'Oh my hat, Arthur!' cried Lady Doyle. 'That's the dreadful creature who was so beastly towards you at the last meeting in Sydney at the Town Hall. How does he come to be here?'

Joe Morey's antennae was aroused. 'You _know_ this man--Richard Wesley-- sometimes known as _Saint Dick_ or _Sir Dick_?'

'Just of recent times,' said Sir Arthur, now with a grim expression. ' _Sir Dick_ was rather acerbic __ when we last encountered him, as my wife has just said. Constable...?'

'Oh, _Morey_... Sir Arthur, I presume? Constable Joe Morey from the New South Wales Police, Blackheath.'

'Morey, did you say?' Joe nodded. 'Did you hear that Jean? This policeman's name is Morey!'

Lady Doyle laughed despite the strained circumstances. 'Yess, his name is _Morey... Artie!_ It seems that your main villain is really a policeman!' It was Sir Arthur's turn to look suitably embarrassed.

But Joe Morey was less than impressed. 'Yes, terribly amusing, I'm sure. However, we do have a death on our hands to attend to. The chef, Thierry Mercier, whom I believe bears a striking resemblance to you, Sir Arthur, is dead. And Dick Wesley here believes he is responsible for your, or rather, the Frenchman's, demise.'

The enormity of the situation confronted Dick Wesley, who gave an anguished cry and sank to his knees. 'Oh God forgive me, I have killed an innocent man!' He began intoning, 'The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want...'

'And you judge me to be at fault sir?' shouted Sir Arthur. 'You are a hypocrite of the first order!'

At this point, Foy, fearing a public relations debacle there in the dining room, said, 'Ah, should we not adjourn to the kitchen now, Constable? I'm sure you'll be wanting to look at the body. Watson here has no doubt cleaned up the mess by now.'

'What?' Joe Morey roared. 'That kitchen may well be a crime scene. Nothing further should be touched!' He turned to the Mayor (who was of a robust build), 'Mr Mayor, could you please keep an eye on _Brother_ Wesley there for the moment?' The Mayor nodded his assent, whilst Dick Wesley babbled incoherently.

'Right, let's go. Foy, Watson... and you, too, Sir Arthur... if you're willing.'

'Yes by gum, I think I'd better. Perhaps I can lend you some expertise,' he added sagaciously.

Lady Doyle's nerves couldn't take anymore. 'Arthur, if you're going off to play detective again, I think that Denis and I will retire.' Turning to the Mayor's wife, she said, 'Please excuse me, but my head is reeling--would you mind?'

The Lady Mayoress smiled sympathetically. 'Not at all... Mr Foy, what news, if any, of Dame Nellie?'

'Please excuse me ladies. I had forgotten to tell everyone that due to a bushfire at Wentworth Falls, the highway has been blocked. Consequently, Dame Nellie Melba and her associates are unable to get through; tonight at least. Mr Ward, her manager, passes on their apologies and hopes that...'

Lady Doyle waved her hand in annoyance, not wishing to hear any further platitudes. 'Come along, Denis.'

'Oh must I, Mama? Just when things are getting interesting... at last!' Denis looked at his father pleadingly.

'No, Denis, not this time. You'll hear all about it in the morning,' his father replied. 'Anyway, you've got a big day tomorrow--a trip to Jenolan Caves by motor-coach; you're sure to enjoy that. And you might get to see a snake at last! Off you go, there's a good chap.'

~~~

In the kitchen, Constable Morey ordered the staff to cease cleaning for the moment. He took various statements from the staff members who were in the kitchen at the time the lights had failed, including Foy. Earlier on, Foy and the Mayor had moved Thierry Mercier's body to a storeroom adjoining the kitchen, turned him face up and covered him with a blanket. Whilst being unhappy that the body had been moved at all, Joe Morey was relieved that with the lights restored it would be easier to see what injuries Thierry had sustained. He took a deep breath and removed the blanket, making sure that indeed there was no pulse. The first thing that struck him was a strong smell of alcohol. So the Frenchman apparently _was_ drunk as all the statements seemed to indicate. Secondly, there was a nasty contusion on the right side of the temple and serious slash marks to his hands, consistent with the story of the struggle for the meat cleaver.

Joe Morey took a pocket knife from his trouser pocket, and under the watchful eye of his companions, began cutting away the chef's tunic. After a while he sat back on his haunches with a puzzled look on his face. There were numerous small contusions and cuts across the chest. Whilst the gash on the Frenchman's head looked dreadful, none of the injuries seemed to be serious enough to have caused the man's death. The only other strange phenomena were that the man's eyes were open and the eyeballs distended. Furthermore, he had been bleeding from the mouth perhaps indicating some internal injury? Unlikely. A heart attack? Impossible--Thierry Mercier was too young!

Joe scratched his face. _Yet the man is as dead as a bloody doornail!_ he thought wearily. He turned and looked up at Sir Arthur Conan Doyle who was still marvelling at the doppelgänger in front of him. 'Well, Sir Arthur, Mercier here _does_ look like you. As to what killed him I'm stumped. Got any ideas?'

But Sir Arthur just shook his head. 'I'm afraid not, Constable Morey. I might write about _Sherlock Holmes the brilliant detective_ , but I really am just an amateur sleuth.' He admitted, then added, 'We might have to sleep on it.'
Get Up, Get Up

5 October 2015

Jean Bundesen

Woodford, New South Wales

Australia

Early morning

The day is dawning.

I wake with a start

What is that sound?

It gets louder and louder.

Laughter this early?

Who or what could be laughing?

It is ringing through the forest.

I struggle out of bed.

To hear the dawn chorus

All the birds are singing

And

Sitting on a branch of an old gum tree

Are three Kookaburras

Happily laughing with never a care.

What a wonderful way to start the day.

Now I'm awake!

And

Have had my morning cup of coffee!
The Journey

5 October 2015

AA Anderson

Bathurst, New South Wales

Australia

Picture It Competition Entry - Picture D

_Oh!_ I thought as they rolled me off the production line. _I am beautiful_. I was a new Kenworth truck. I had lovely black new tyres and my chrome shone like glass. My blue exterior and black interior looked spectacular. 'I will be king of the road.'

My next trip was in a large red container to be shipped from my birthplace in Seattle to a place called Adelaide in far away Australia. The other new trucks had said it was a very big place with lots of kangaroos and to watch out for these creatures, as they deliberately jumped in front of you to make you swerve on the road. They said they were huge, nearly as big as a truck.

I don't think I will like Australia and certainly not these strange animals.

Next I was offloaded in Adelaide. My new owner, Burt, was there to pick me up. Burt would have been in his sixties. He was a very robust man for his age, with big thick muscled arms. He was going grey and his hair cut very short. Piercing blue eyes told that he was aware of every detail on his new Kenworth. I found that Burt was one of the best road train drivers in Australia and owned and maintained a fleet of Kenworth road trains. Burt was to drive me. I felt very proud I was to be the head of his fleet.

It wasn't until I was out on the road that I realised just what a road train did and what its purpose was. My trips were to carry several loads to Tom Price and also loads to Kalgoorlie to be picked up by another road train and taken to Perth and there were several large trailers full of goods that had to be pulled. It was hard work but I knew that that was what I had been built for in Seattle.

There were many other problems more serious than kangaroos and I was also surprised to find that the latter was not what I expected, no! The kangaroos were not so huge and certainly did not present a problem with my big bull bar at the front.

One of the most pressing problems were floods--the floods out there spread for miles in the wet season and as the road train was on a time schedule, they could not stop for long and had to drive sometimes through flooded areas. This was very dangerous at night as Burt could not see the road as the road and water seemed the same in the dark. Sometimes he would stop for a rest--the truck drivers had to stop for sleep rests after a certain amount of hours driving. Burt would then write in his log book and then take out his thermos full of coffee and sandwiches, not to forget the fruit cake made by his wife, Pam. She would always put a little bit of rum in it, she said to keep him warm, and Burt loved this fruit cake, as a drink of his favourite beer was out of the question while he was driving. Next, a sleep in the bed in the compartment behind the seats, which was called the Dogbox.

It was some time after that, we were travelling once again through the harsh outback when we smelled smoke. The strange smell of dust and burning filled the air. We had been warned earlier of a huge brushfire in the area. These areas covered hundreds of miles of flat country and the fires were on several mile fronts. We had to be careful, but get through as fast as we could or be caught in the middle.

We could see the glow as we neared the area and I shivered as we passed two burnt out road trains on the side of the road. I had heard that they had been caught the year before and the trucks and the drivers incinerated. It was a shocking sight. Burt put the foot down and we raced through, just barely keeping ahead of the fire. Finally, as it looked as though it would get to us, at the last minute the wind changed and the fire went in the other direction.

I was so thankful I was owned by Burt. He was indeed, in my opinion, not only the best driver in Australia but after that, Burt was the best in the whole world. And of course as trucks went, so was I.
One July

6 October 2015

Myfanwy Dabner

Newbridge, New South Wales

Australia

Take breath from out and breathe in winter delight!

Venus comforts Jupiter tonight!

Beacon and torch skate lanes apart

yet earthly angles plane them side by side.

Take breath from out and thank the twilight

for spectrum for bodies in dark to shine light.
Prick Free Zone

6 October 2015

Myfanwy Dabner

Newbridge, New South Wales

Australia

The shady prick pricks my prime

The shady prick is falsety fick

A complete line of failing rhymes--

Prick prickle, wolf whistle, ript riddle.

A complete line of thorny times

Thistles thick, soul sick, nickety nick--

I pluck out the fickity fick fick

And weed the done dee

I see me me me--

I hear me me me

Me hunger cries insatiable.

So I acid wash me born and bought

To reveal the gentile

Me to me me me.
Spin Fatigue

7 October 2015

Graham Sparks

Bathurst, New South Wales

Australia

Australia,

a ship without a mounting even

for to place a rudder,

where the word democracy is but an empty piece of bling

and referenda seldom get an airing.

A playground for the oligarchs.

All the rhetoric and mon' and dialog,

that shuns like plague the fundamental issues,

and spans with vehemence, the gamut of peripheral subjects

with spin that's torqued the members of my hoping organ

to the point where they are rent asunder,

has left me now a sufferer of spin fatigue,

whilst OZ does trundle on in blunder.
Monday

8 October 2015

Paul Humphreys

Oxley, Canberra

Australia

Peter let the water from the hot shower massage his head as he felt his spirits rise looking ahead to his day at work. In front of the mirror after he had shaved he smiled at his reflection. _It is soo good,_ he thought to himself. Property and share investments had paid off handsomely. He and Priscilla had moved into their luxurious apartment two weeks ago. It was on the twelfth floor with a balcony that overlooked Palm Beach out to Broken Bay. Monday was a workday for him. He did not need to, but he used to joke to his friends that it kept him out of mischief.

Some of his associates referred to Priscilla as a trophy bride, which he thought was unfair but he could understand their logic. She was twelve years younger than him. He was happy, she was attractive, made heads turn when she entered a room and to him she was attentive and compliant. He regarded it as a business relationship. He had no idea how Priscilla saw the marriage or relationship but she seemed happy enough.

Reception rang through to say his government car had arrived. Priscilla was still asleep so he picked up his government issue briefcase and left for work.

In a back alley behind Peter and Priscilla's apartment block Arthur slowly crawled into wakefulness. A crust of spittle hung on the edge of his lips, his face showed the pain of many days sleeping rough. He could not remember when he last had a shower. He had only the clothes that were on his back. The empty whisky bottle that had lured him to sleep the night before rolled from his hand. He was a frequent visitor to the homeless men's shelter, but had overstayed his welcome by frequently creating disturbances and arguing with the superintendent--generally over trivial matters that lost their importance in the realisation of his situation and depth of isolation from 'normal' life.

It did not help that his daughter had seen fit to take out an Apprehended Domestic Violence Order against him. He had not meant to hurt her. It was in his understanding that a simple act to grab her hands to focus her attention on what he wanted to say was okay. She had struggled and caught her hand on the edge of the sink which resulted in a deep gash. On his reckoning that was about three weeks ago. He had no idea what day of the week it was. But it was Monday. He watched through blood shot eyes as a government car picked up its passenger and sped off.

Arthur could not get up. He felt hopeless and helpless, a tsunami wave of anxiety and depression enveloped him in its relentless push on him to a deserted beach of melancholy and despair. He broke into a cold sweat, his body convulsed and then someone or something turned his electricity off. Then nothing.

Priscilla slowly stretched her body as she woke from a deep sleep. It was 9.40 am and she was looking forward to a luncheon date with two of her girlfriends from school. She filled the bath, added some bubbles and lowered herself into the warm water. She let her mind wander and she thought on her relationship with Peter and decided that he was easily handled and manipulated and the arrangement they had would continue to work for the foreseeable future. However, she had always held the view that it was not for life.

Priscilla hardly gave the paramedics hunched over a homeless body alongside the apartment garage, a second look--she was late. Her injured hand was bound and still throbbed with pain. It would be an interesting talking point at lunch, she thought.

Monday morning was like any other morning in its camp routines; ablutions, and breakfast at the centre's kitchen. Sathay Murphy Ramachandran was always aware of his duty to his wife and children to assure that they were properly fed and well presented. He had gone very early to the place that had been set aside by the Tamil people in the camp for prayers. His prayer for this day was for a happy and conclusive outcome. He wore on his face the anguish from three years and forty-three days in detention without any real hope of a predictable future. Today would be the turning point, he felt sure of it. His appointment was at 9.30 am in the interview room located near the security entrance gate to the compound.

He was nervous as he entered the room at exactly 9.30. Peter placed his government issue briefcase onto the table and withdrew a large file and placed it in front of him and then looked up to stare Sathay in the face. Peter enjoyed his work as a case manager for the Border Protection Agency. And having a preliminary review of the file before the meeting he anticipated that this would be an emotional interview but one with, ideally, a happy outcome. But a twist of evil pushed him to decide to delay the good news for Mr Ramachandran. So he started to tell him in detail the history of his involvement with the Border Protection Agency from the time he and his family had arrived by boat, their transfer from Christmas Island to Villawood to allow his wife to give birth to their third child.

Mr Sathay sat motionless and wide-eyed as he heard the official record of his long stay in detention. He deliberately remained calm and expressionless.

Peter then stopped his history recitation, pausing for what seem an eternity. The tension was palpable.

Peter then smiled and said, 'You and your family have been granted a temporary visa for three years to stay in Australia. There are many conditions, which will be explained in due course.' Another short pause before Peter said, 'Welcome.' He had a half smile on his face and he extended his hand to Sathay, who accepted it with a trembling hand and tears running down his cheeks.
Service

9 October 2015

Judy J Newman

Rutherford, New South Wales

Australia

You put your hearts and lives on the line, time and time again

You reach out to those lost, and suffering great pain

You ask nothing in return, and oft get trodden down

But we remember you, those of us you have helped, the lost and the found

You are not forgotten, you are who keep us safe

Without you, the world would be a crueller place

So when you think no one gives a shit, remember this

We remember you, and the deeds you do, always remember this

Those of you who left your shores, to protect your nations

Or rebuild that which was taken, by flood, earthquake or war

Those who gave your lives, have our unwavering admiration

And those of you who battle PTSD, suffering daily, such frustration

We remember all of you, those who volunteer, and those who were swept in

Your service is not unnoticed, we are humbled by you

So, thank you, one and all, for bettering the world we're in

We will never forget what deeds of good you all do
Hear Me

9 October 2015

Judy J Newman

Rutherford, New South Wales

Australia

Hear me oh Mighty One! Take these years of blood from the river!

Take this broken heart oh Mighty One! Take these broken wings!

Take this cold, cold fire, that makes me shiver!

Take all! Take all! For all the pain it brings!

Oh Mighty One! I implore you! Take these chains that bind me!

For I can see the sun no longer! Only blackness do I see!

Take it all oh Mighty One! Take it and set me free!

For I am weary! 'Tis too heavy, don't want to be!

Give me new wings that I might fly! Oh Mighty One hear my plea!

The pain is great my soul is broken!

I am lost! I am lost! Lost in a blood red sea!

Too many times I have silently screamed! Even before I have awoken!

Hear me oh Mighty One! Hear all those within!

Take these tears of blood from the river!

Hear me oh Mighty One! I plead with you now!

I cannot take this burden! Oh Mighty One! Do not let it win!

Oh Mighty One! Let me fly again, show me how!
Flying Free

10 October 2015

Beatrice Ross

Winmalee, New South Wales

Australia

I was fighting in the darkest heart of Vietnam, hunkering down low on my belly. I crawled through the thickets, my boot laces tangling around bulging roots. I took cover in the shade of towering bamboo. The heat was swathing, tropical. And the flies! They were everywhere. A plague sent by God. Sweat rolled down my brow, stinging my eyes. Bullets whizzed past, nicking the ground, flicking up dirt. Patrick Reynolds, a fellow soldier, crawled beside me, his face smudged black. He jolted, the whites of his eyes startling against his smudged skin.

'Reuben! Look out!'

Up ahead, Viet Cong soldiers thrashed through the thickets, plastered with branches, almost invisible amongst the trees. Patrick took down the first. The soldier jolted, howling as a bullet caught him in the shin. The second bullet silenced his shrieking. He hit the dirt, twitching like a man hooked to a live current. The second "Charlie", a yellow-skinned brute, lunged for me, slamming down his bayonet. I twisted aside. The blade missed me by an inch, stabbing the dirt. I rolled onto my back, blasting him with my M16, the rifle flaring to the sky as I emptied the round. The beast flailed, gurgling and choking on his own blood. He sunk to his knees, collapsing beside me.

A shadow blotted out the garish glow of the sun. I gasped. A Charlie. A huge one. I was paralysed. The soldier reached down. He pinched me by the ear, pulling me to my feet.

'Reuben! Stop that!'

Back in the garden, crawling amongst the hydrangeas, I dropped my stick. Mum pinched me by the ear, dragging me out of the mulched garden patch. The swathing heat of Vietnam disappeared.

'Ow! Mum!'

I tried to pull away. She pinched her fingers tighter. I stopped fighting. She looked me over, grimacing.

'Look at you!' she snapped, brushing the dirt from the front of my shirt. 'Filthy.' She knelt down, looking me straight in the eyes. She licked her thumb, rubbing a smudge of dirt on my face. Back then, Mum was only young, maybe twenty eight. But she had aged beyond her years. I always thought she looked older because she tied back her dark curls in a bun, like Grandma used to. But really, it was her eyes. They were older, tight with the strain of waiting.

The bitterness slipped away. She pursed her lips, patting down my ruffled hair. Setting her hands square on my shoulders, she held my gaze.

'Reuben. Please. Not in front of your father,' she urged. 'Now go and apologise.' She nudged me away, returning to the clothesline. Working up the courage, I crossed the treacherous stretches of no man's land, dodging my mum's straying eyes from the enemy's Hills hoist. I hesitated at a small paved clearing with rusting, wrought iron seats. My Dad sat beside a small aviary, watching a flock of finches titter anxiously, the tiny birds fluttering and chirping. I joined him there, poking my fingers through the bars. He took a long drag on his cigarette, slouching back in his chair wearily.

'Hey buddy,' he sighed, forcing a tight smile. It quickly died on his face.

My real Dad didn't come home from Vietnam a year ago. Someone else did. Someone cold and distant, a stranger with sunken cheeks and a hollow voice. He carried a limp in his left leg. He'd told me it was a VC's bayonet that'd carved up his leg, but Mum said it was a bullet. I never found out the true story. No one ever talked about the war anymore. Not at home at least. Not since Ricky Donaldson, the kid next door, called my Dad a baby killer. Or since Dad watched the burning Vietnamese villages and the screaming children on television.

Dad ruffled my hair, leaning in close. He whispered in my ear, as if he had a secret to tell me.

'Don't worry about me. Play your games. You're going on twelve this week. You're old enough.' I recoiled, the stench of alcohol strong on his breath. His faded clothes had a fabric memory of exhaust and cigarette smoke, a scent he carried around with him from his day job at the truck depot.

'But remember, don't take prisoners,' he said.

He slipped his hand inside the aviary, cornering a finch and closing his fingers around it like a cage. The finch fluttered madly, beating its tiny wings. He manoeuvred his hand from the cage, latching it shut. Flaunting the bird before me, he watched it with hollow eyes, his lips set in a thin, hard line. 'Even the cuckoo was meant to fly free.'

An American soldier once told Dad about cuckoos. The Yankee said the birds were like Nazis. They invaded nests and killed baby birds. I thought about this as Dad opened his fingers, releasing the finch. The bird writhed in a curl of feathers, fluttering free. It buffeted on a thermal, rising in a puff of feathers. I watched it disappear against the cold, hard blue of the sky, feeling the weight of my Dad's hand on my shoulder, cringing as his fingers tightened like iron vices.

~~~

I shook the last brightly wrapped box. It was long and thin, finished off with a curled piece of ribbon. Sprawled on the lounge room floor, I ripped open the wrapping of my birthday present. Mum and Dad watched on, exchanging smiles as I struggled to pull the ribbon free. I threw the paper aside, beaming in delight as I discovered a toy rifle, a BB gun, just like the one I'd imagined in my guerrilla missions.

On the lounge, Mum stiffened, throwing Dad a cold, venomous look.

'Jack. He's just a boy,' she muttered, her voice wavering. Dad shrugged.

'It's just a game to him. It's not real. It's all in his imagination.'

She grimaced, picking a loose thread in the stitching of the corduroy arm rest, pinching it loose and starting on another. She had never liked guns or bombs. She was a freedom fighter. When Dad was in Nui Dat, she had marched in the moratoriums, the anti-war riots.

Jumping to my feet, I tested the trigger. The gun was empty, so it just clicked. The BB gun was solid in my hands, light but sturdy. I aimed at the doorway, imagining a VC soldier barrelling at me, rifle raised, jerking and jolting as I fired.

Dad watched me, his face scrunched up as if he'd swallowed something unpleasant. Mum wasn't looking at all.

I raced to the far end of the lounge room, dropping to my belly on to the shag rug. I aimed my rifle at a chair across the room.

Back at the lounge, Mum stared hard at the floor. Dad watched her sidelong. Hesitantly, very slowly, he reached for her hand. She flinched from his touch, her fingers tightening into a fist in her lap. Taking a deep, shaky breath, Dad took to his feet. He leant over her, kissing the top of her head gently. She stiffened, her lower lip trembling.

Limping towards a shelf lined with vinyl records, he fingered through the cardboard sheaths. He paused on one, slipping it out with a smile. He placed the vinyl on the turntable of the record machine. Propping the needle down, the record popped and scratched, pucking as Ben E King's _Stand By Me_ started up. He limped back to her, offering his hand. He held it there, waiting her out. She hesitated, tears streaking fresh down her cheeks. She sighed, wiping away her tears. She took his hand.

Holding her close, he cradled her, shifting her into a slow dance. Circling with a heavy limp, he leant over, whispering in her ear, muttering secrets again. Mum ran her fingers through his hair, twirling his dark ringlets. They chuckled, smiling for the first time in months. Really smiling. It was a private moment, something special. In that instant, my mother stopped fighting him. She had left her trench, crossing no man's land to reach him. The distance in his eyes disappeared. I watched them dance, wishing they'd always be this happy.

~~~

It was late evening. Creeping down the stairs, I jumped the last step. It was a creaky one. And Mum was a light sleeper. I should have been in bed, but I'd left my BB gun in the lounge room. I couldn't lead a night raid in the jungle without my rifle.

In the lounge room, Dad lay sprawled in an armchair, his head tilted back. He stirred restlessly, moaning and twitching like a sleeping dog. A cigarette died on an ashtray on the side table, ghostly trails of smoke curling and fading. The fizz of static on the television screen threw long shadows across the floor, lighting up the facets of an empty whisky bottle and an overturned glass. A softball bat lay propped by the armchair. He never slept without it. If he could have it his way, he'd sleep with Grandad's old hunting rifle on his pillow.

I crept across the room, watching him from the corner of my eye. Dad was caught in a dream again. He was probably back in Nui Dat or Long Tan, riding in a chopper, patrolling the jungle or mowing down Viet Cong soldiers with his M16. He was a hero, even in his dreams. That's what Mum always said.

I spotted my rifle on the lounge. Snatching it up, I hunkered down low on the carpet, inching forward on my haunches. I held my silence, slipping into the darkness of the jungle.

The moon was bright, my skin cool with sweat and mud. The mosquitos buzzed and zipped passed my ears. They left angry welts all over my face and neck. I led my squadron through the thick brush, feeling my way in the dark. The mud sucked at our boots. Beside me, Patrick squinted, making out the outline of a mound of undergrowth. We had received intelligence that this was the opening to one of the Viet Cong tunnels. It was our job to find out if anyone was home.

Patrick crept through the darkness ahead of me, the moon lighting a path through the lush layers of ferns. A rustle in the thicket caught my attention. I paused, motioning my men to stop. Patrick walked on, oblivious to my command. The ferns rustled on one side, a tree above swaying. An animal? I listened, scanning the tree line. An uneasy dread settled in the pit of my stomach. I couldn't swallow it down.

'Pat!' I hissed.

Patrick didn't hear me. A twig snapped under his boot.

BOOM!

The air filled with hell fire. The fire roared, sending rolling waves of scorching heat. The deafening blast propelled me backwards. I landed hard on my back, winded, ears ringing. The searing heat licked at my clothes and face. Stunned and deaf, I staggered to my feet, the world spinning around me. Trees blazed with fire. I gasped for air. It was too thick to breathe. Patrick lay dead under a tree. He had no legs. Blasted off from the knees, his blackened, burnt stumps sizzled and smoked.

Blinded by the smoke, a soldier staggered out into the mine field. He didn't see the landmine under his foot.

Dad shrieked. Back in the lounge room, I jolted, scrabbling for cover behind the lounge. Dad dropped to the floor, hands over his head, gasping. Pressing himself down on the carpet, he shuddered as another round of fireworks went off. The fireworks boomed, popping like exploding shells. A mail box across the road exploded, the dull _thunk_ of metal drowned out by the whizzing explosion. Dad trembled, stifling ragged sobs.

As Dad lay curled on the floor, the nightmares fresh in his eyes, I couldn't help but wonder if he'd been there in the darkness of the jungle with me. Had he watched Patrick die too? Was Dad still there, staggering in the mine field? I hid in the shadow of the lounge, listening to his ragged sobs, my ears still ringing.

~~~

Out on the road, it was darkening at the horizon. The street was quiet, a chill biting at my skin. I wheeled my bike in tight circles on the asphalt, doing loops. The clicking of the gear chain and the thumping of the tyres helped me forget about the emptiness in Dad's eyes. The fireworks shook him up last night. He hadn't spoken a word all day. He had a _deer in the headlights_ look.

A gunshot fractured the silence of the street. It came from the house, loud and clear. Jumping in my skin, I skidded my bike mid-loop. I raced to the porch, heart racing. I climbed the steps two at a time.

I opened the front door by an inch, peering inside. A lava lamp hurtled past. It shattered against the wall. I flinched, jumping clear. Gathering my breath. I nudged open the door with trembling fingers.

The lounge room door was wide open. Inside, Dad carried Grandad's old hunting rifle, pressing the stock close to his shoulder. Mum huddled in the far corner, terrified, tears streaking down her face.

'Get down! They're here!' he roared, searching the room with frantic, bloodshot eyes.

I crept closer, lingering at the doorway. My parents were alone.

'No one's here!' Mum gasped, 'Jack, put the gun down!

Dad searched the room. He was wild, delusional, caught up in a nightmare again. Landmines exploded inside his head, artillery guns rattling, shells exploding. A fire raged in his eyes. Wide-eyed and unseeing, he grabbed the edge of the record cabinet, shoving it from the wall. Vinyl records tumbled out. The cabinet slammed hard on the floor, the impact shuddering and shaking the floorboards.

Mum sobbed, shrinking against the wall, trembling all over.

I watched with baited breath, wishing I could get back on my bike and ride as far away as possible. But I couldn't move.

Dad overturned a lounge, his breath coming in thin gasps. Delirious with rage, he caught his reflection in a mirror across the room. He fired on reflex, the rifle knocking hard against his shoulder. The mirror exploded, glass shattering, powdered shards tinkling to the floor. He staggered back, gasping, eyes aglow. In the jagged, spider web tracks of the shattered mirror, his face came back distorted and broken.

He paced the floor, cooling his rage. With every restless loop, he calmed his nerves. Mum sobbed in the corner, her shoulders shaking. I scuffed my feet on the floorboards, shrinking behind the door frame when I felt the heat of his eyes.

When he finally realised where he was and what he'd done, he sagged with exhaustion. A shadow stole across his face. He looked ill, his face pale and drawn. He swayed on his feet, leaning on the wall, as if the strings holding him up had been cut. He slumped in defeat. And then and there, his soul died. The bright light in his body snuffed itself out.

His voice wavered, tears brimming in his eyes.

'I'm s-sorry.' Fighting off the tears, he left the room. Out of sight, the back door swung open. I heard his heavy limping footsteps on the back porch, down the steps and on the paving stones in the backyard.

Unsticking myself, I followed him to the back door. Mum caught me before I could. She snatched me by the arm, bleary eyed, sobbing. I shook her off. I ran to the door. Mum called after me, her voice thick and choked. I didn't stay to hear her out. Dad was like the soldier in my imagination. He was blinded by the smoke and fire, stumbling towards the minefield. I needed to stop him. To tell him everything was okay. That he was home, that he was--

The final gunshot echoed. Birds fluttered.

I hit the door at a run, slamming it back on its hinges. Racing on to the back porch, I skidded to a halt, my heart sinking. My dad lay crumpled near the aviary, bleeding, rifle loose in his limp hand. The cage door was open, the finches fleeing into open air.

I sunk to my knees, a cold, dead shock chilling me to the bones. I gazed up at the sky, watching the birds, now tiny black silhouettes, flocking out across the darkening horizon. They spread their wings, flying free, taking my father's soul with them.
Homicide At The Hydro - Part 12 (Conclusion)

11 October 2015

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

It was a beautiful day for a trip out into the bush, albeit hot and dry. The motorcoach had arrived from Katoomba at the Hydro Majestic Hotel early in the morning, to convey Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his family plus Miss Jakeman out to the mysterious grotto known as Jenolan Caves. As fate would have it, Sir Arthur's youngest child, Baby Jean, was sick and was left, en route, with the long-suffering Miss Jakeman at Hampton half-way house. It was later in the afternoon before they returned to retrieve their 'castaways'.

Sir Arthur remarked to Miss Jakeman, 'The caves are truly prodigious and I do believe that it has given me an idea for a new novel about the primordial era. I think I'll call it _The Lost World_ ; these Blue Mountains are truly inspirational...'

It had been a disappointing day for Miss Jakeman and like so many before her, she gritted her teeth. 'Yes Sir Arthur, _of course_. Are we returning to the Hydro now?' she asked hopefully.

Denis had finally got his wish and seen a snake. However, it was not as he had imagined it to happen. As they were leaving Hampton, a long snake writhed across the road and was caught by one of the wheels of the motor. The luckless creature was killed instantly. The carcass was placed in a hessian bag in the luggage compartment.

'We'll have your photograph taken with the snake when we get back to the hotel,' Sir Arthur promised his son, though his mind was distracted for the previous night's disturbing events at the Hydro were weighing heavily on him. Then all of a sudden he had an insight and rather thought he now knew how Thierry Mercier, his unfortunate double, had been killed. He was anxious now to get back and consult with Constable Morey.

~~~

Back at the Hydro, Constable Joe Morey was becoming frustrated. What he hoped would have been a relatively simple case of death by misadventure, appeared to be turning into a possible homicide investigation. Joe had worked through the night, having taken statements from all persons who were in the kitchen at the time the lights had gone out. He retraced, as far as possible, everyone's movements and trawled the kitchen. This was particularly frustrating as Charlie Watson and Shirl Locke had done a thorough job of cleaning up after the melee. He did, however, find a little blood residue on the side of a working bench. Having obtained permission from Foy, Joe had Dick Wesley locked up in a vacant room in the servant's quarters. Despite Dick admitting that he struck Thierry Mercier with a rock, there was something niggling at Joe that did not make sense. Up to now, Dick had been a nuisance, though harmless. But he was not about to let him go for now, just in case. Perversely, that vacant room turned out to be Thierry Mercier's former accommodation.

Early on Joe was able to eliminate Annie as a possible suspect, even though she admitted that she disliked the French chef. Simply on the basis of logistics, she seemed to be nowhere near him when the fatal blow was struck--that is if there was a fatal blow. The Mayor of Blackheath was also eliminated as he had entered the kitchen a split second after Foy, the manager, when the loud crash was first heard. As for Foy himself, he _did_ make some disparaging remarks about his hand-picked chef. Foy stated that Thierry was extremely uncooperative and although there was a contract in place, he rather wished that he had _not_ employed the French chef in the first place. But Joe Morey concluded that Foy was too shrewd to have committed such a heinous act. In any event, Foy, Annie and the Mayor were finding it hard to keep their feet on the slippery floor.

Shirley Locke made no secret that she resented Thierry Mercier, and coveted his position as Head Chef. But again, her location in the kitchen at the time that Mercier had screamed out ' _Vat have you done to me, Watson?_ ', made it seem unlikely that she had anything to do with the _fatal_ blow either. Furthermore, she was nursing a badly bruised arm from when she collided with the chopping board that had a meat cleaver imbedded in it. That left Charlie Watson. Here, Joe Morey was troubled for he knew Charlie Watson well; and despite Mercier naming Charlie as the assailant _, He's a good lad_ , Joe thought. _A bit rambunctious, certainly, but aren't all young men the same at his age?_ Joe rechecked Charlie's statement and concluded that the fatal blow had probably occurred whilst Thierry Mercier was reeling backwards _after_ the lights had failed. Consequently it was unlikely that Charlie Watson was responsible. The other kitchen staff who took care of washing plates, cutlery and other equipment were in another annex at the time of the melee. Therefore, could there have been someone else in the kitchen, in the dark? Was that person Dick Wesley?

~~~

The Doyle family finally arrived back at Medlow Bath around five in the evening. Sir Arthur took leave of his wife and children as quickly as possible. Lady Doyle was again most displeased saying, 'Oh no! Arthur, _must_ you go off playing detective again? Leave it to the constable, that's what he's paid for!'

'Yes, yes, Jean my dear, I know! But this piece of information is crucial--he'll be appreciative--trust me. Anyway, I feel somewhat responsible. It could be argued that the Frenchman has lost his life because of an unfortunate chain of events that I am at the centre of. Surely you must see that?'

Lady Doyle sighed resignedly. 'Try to be brief. You promised Denis that he could get his photograph taken with that ghastly snake.' She again shuddered involuntarily. 'I shall be _so_ delighted to return to Sydney.'

~~~

Joe Morey was standing at reception, his eyes red-rimmed. He had managed to snatch a couple of hours' sleep sitting in an arm chair in the Cat's Alley, but still felt wretched. Joe noticed that many of the chairs and couches had suffered damage and assumed it had occurred during the blackout, when people were stranded. He had phoned Sergeant Starr to report on his progress... or lack of it.

Starr was less than sympathetic. 'Well I'm sorry if it 'asn't turned out as straightforward as _you'd_ hoped Joe,' said the worthy sergeant, subtly moving the onus of responsibility. 'Sounds to me you've got the bugger well and truly trussed up anyway. Don't waste too much more time, I need you down here in Katoomba. There's still a bit of a problem with that fire at Wenty so I still can't spare you anyone to help. If _Sir Alfred Corgi Dog_ is of no help, ask the Mayor, wots 'is name? _Belvedere_ --that's it! He was a medical orderly during the war. Keep me posted!'

Joe wearily handed the receiver back to Mildred the receptionist. _The Mayor has already done his bit by keeping an eye on Dick Wesley!_ he thought to himself... Turning to Mildred he said, 'If anyone wants me, I'll be at the storeroom where the bod--'

Just then, Sir Arthur came through the entrance. 'Oh, Constable Morey, glad I caught you. I think I've got some information that might be of vital importance.'

~~~

By a process of elimination, Dick Wesley was emerging as the prime suspect. The difficulty was that Dick insisted that he had never entered the kitchen. Furthermore, the wound to Mercier's temple was on the right side of his head. As Dick Wesley was right-handed, it stood to reason that a circular motion whilst holding a rock would have been directed to the _left_ side of the head, as they were standing face to face. Dick also stated that Mercier had, to an extent, deflected that blow. Consequently, Joe believed that the wound to Mercier's head could have occurred during a fall in the darkness on the slippery floor of the kitchen, thus accounting for the blood residue on the side of the bench. Sir Arthur had also read the various statements, and concurred with Joe Morey's theory that it was a glancing blow to the _right_ of Mercier's head, due to a fall in the darkness. Having reached a point of agreement, Sir Arthur proposed to Constable Morey that they re-examine the body. Joe again glumly agreed.

The two men again approached the body with trepidation. After removing the blanket, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle pointed out to Constable Morey the state of Mercier's distended eyeballs as being a clear sign that the French chef had an advanced case of syphilis. Indeed, Sir Arthur, who had initially trained as a doctor in Edinburgh and become a practitioner, was an expert on the diagnosis and treatment of syphilis. Moreover, he was also an ophthalmologist and had been a volunteer doctor during the Boer War, for which service he had received his knighthood. Joe Morey was very interested, _naturally_ , but was puzzled as to what relevance this all had to the case on hand.

'So, what's it all about... _Arthur_?' said Joe, dispensing with the title. 'Surely, you don't think that Mercier succumbed to syphilis, just at the climax of the disturbance?'

Sir Arthur raised an eyebrow at the new note of informality. 'Oh no... Joe, I don't believe it was syphilis that killed the chef; although his body was undoubtedly in a weakened state because of it. No, I believe that our friend here died as a result of snake bite! I've seen it before numerous times in Pretoria in South Africa--lots of venomous snakes there; not to mention syphilis.'

' _Snake bite?_ That's absurd!' exclaimed Joe Morey. 'Even if he was bitten by a venomous snake, contrary to popular belief, though some deaths are sudden I admit, it's uncommon for someone to die within four hours of a snakebite. When was he bitten? Where's the two puncture wounds? Surely you're not serious!' Joe was overtired and becoming angry and frustrated.

'Oh but I am Joe... and stop calling me _Shirley_! It's _Sherlock_... remember?' Sir Arthur said flippantly, trying to lighten the situation. 'Let's turn him over and I'll prove it to you--come on, give me a hand!

~~~

The two men turned the corpse back over with some difficulty, as they were in cramped surroundings. Also, rigor mortis had set in. 'Ah there, you see?' Sir Arthur said almost gleefully. 'Those two distinctive puncture wounds at the bottom of his calf on the left leg through the trousers. There's a bit of dried blood on the outside.'

Joe Morey took out his pocket knife once more and carefully cut away the material from around the puncture marks, which were bruised, discoloured and swollen--irrefutable evidence of snakebite. 'Well I'll be a monkey's armpit!' Joe finally said after a minute's silence. 'You're absolutely right, I know snakebite when I see it.' Joe, however, was stubborn. 'How on earth did you know? Why didn't you say something last night?'

'I wasn't sure last night. There I was staring down at a man who looked just like me, who was dead--that was unnerving! I couldn't think straight and anyway I thought that it was _Sir_ Dick Wesley who'd done the deed. He'd been a damned nuisance to me as I explained before.'

'Yeah, okay, I'll accept that. But what gave you the clue that snakebite killed Mercier?' Joe persisted.

'There was a mention in Mrs Locke's statement that something had brushed past her shoe in the dark, and that was after Mercier had screamed out implicating young Mr Watson. Not only that but he'd been bleeding from the mouth and that is _not_ a symptom of syphilis. In any event, where would another person have been hiding in the kitchen? It came to me in a vision earlier on when we ran over a snake on our trip to Jenolan Caves earlier today.'

Joe was still not ready to admit defeat, especially to an amateur sleuth who had "visions". 'It's still a very short time from being bitten to actual death, even though Mercier had the pox--got an answer to that too, I presume?'

Sir Arthur shrugged. 'It's not conclusive but consider that Mercier was drunk; very drunk I'd say--he'd been drinking cognac all afternoon. He'd have been in considerable pain all the time from the effects of syphilis, so anything to deaden the pain. Alcoholic liquors are harmful to persons bitten by venomous snakes. The alcohol acts first as a stimulant, speeds up circulation and distributes the poison quickly through the body. Convinced?'

Joe nodded wordlessly. Thierry Mercier had died from snakebite.

'Righto... well... no need to thank me, Constable,' said Sir Arthur, reverting to formal titles. 'If you'll excuse me, I promised my son that I'd get his photograph taken with the dead snake. Must go and find Foy.'

~~~

Constable Joe Morey was actually relieved that he could finally put this frustrating case to bed and that no foul play had been committed. A murder was the last thing that anyone wanted, especially Foy and the Hydro Majestic. He quickly finished writing up his notes. The full report for the chamber magistrate would have to wait for now. He made his way to the manager's office and found Sir Arthur and Foy deep in conversation. He left them to it. After retrieving the key, Joe made straight for the room where Richard Wesley had been briefly held.

'You're free to go, Dick. I've determined that you're not responsible for the Frenchman's death. Although I _could_ charge you with public nuisance and common assault. I'd suggest that the Lord would be best pleased if you served him elsewhere--get the drift?' Dick did. He left immediately and went home to pack his bags.

Eventually, Joe Morey was promoted to Sergeant for his exemplary work on this case and other matters. He moved to Katoomba Station. His wife was delighted.

Charlie Watson could scarcely believe that a snake had been in the kitchen the whole afternoon, when he'd been working. _It's time to leave, though_ , he thought. 'I'd rather be involved in haberdashery, I think, Mr Foy,' he said during their latest conversation. Foy agreed for he still thought that young Watson held great promise. Foy offered him a position in the menswear section of his grand Sydney store. Charlie accepted at once.

Unfortunately, Shirley Locke was _not_ offered the position of Head Chef. It seemed that her ethnicity (she was part Aboriginal) and her gender were against her. Nevertheless, she stayed on for she still had a family to support and provide for. 'Doesn't really matter who Foy puts in charge--it's _my_ kitchen, and everyone knows it!' she rationalised to Annie the Irish waitress. Annie, though, had her own future ideas that she was soon to set in motion.

~~~

Sir Arthur and his family took their leave a few days later. Foy prevailed upon Sir Arthur _not_ to mention the unfortunate death of Chef Thierry Mercier in any subsequent memoir, fearing what effect that might have on possible future guests to the hotel. Numbers had declined significantly, for a while at least, when Sir Edmund Barton had died in the hotel of a heart attack some twelve months previously. Sir Arthur was happy to accede. Denis Doyle had his photograph taken with the unlucky snake. Foy promised that the carcass would be sent to a taxidermist and displayed in the new natural history museum, to be run by Mel Ward--son of Hugh Ward who in turn was the manager of Dame Nellie Melba. The Doyles had not managed to make the acquaintance of Dame Nellie, but they enjoyed the rest of their stay nevertheless. So much so that Sir Arthur referred to Medlow Bath and the Hydro as 'That little earthly paradise, which is the most restful spot we have found in our wanderings'. Back in Sydney once more, the Doyles also managed to have a quiet, comfortable stay at the Pacific Hotel at Manly whilst Sir Arthur made preparations for their trip back to Blighty. This was broken only by a cruise on Sydney Harbour organised for them by the Sydney spiritualists. Ironically, their excursion included a tour of _Watsons Bay_. But whether they had a meal at _Doyle's Seafood Restaurant_ is unknown.

~~~

Annie the erstwhile waitress at the Hydro left quickly after these unfortunate events. But not before she had formed an alliance with Mildred at reception. During the blackout, when she had been shepherding guests from the Cat's Alley back to the dining room, Annie had inflicted her own damage to the furniture. Her rationale was that her husband Albert was the only upholsterer available in the near vicinity. Ergo, he would be called upon to do the repair work. Annie herself was an experienced seamstress and knew that she would be needed to assist with subsequent repair work. Mildred, who had her own issues with Foy, would also exact damage to the furniture from time to time and advise Annie when another chair or couch needed attention. She continued to find comfort in the arms of Nigel down at the Boiler House.

Annie had another unexpected windfall. The Mayor of Blackheath had observed Annie closely during the initial serving of the meal and her easy repartee with Sir Arthur, Lady Doyle and other guests. He also noted with even closer interest that a state of agitation existed between her and Foy. The Mayor first consulted with his wife, then made Annie an offer to start work at his own modest establishment in Blackheath called _Belvedere Guesthouse_ that had its own nine-hole golf course. She accepted readily, it was a reprieve. But it was as well for her own piece of mind that she had no idea of the Mayor's former situation.

During the war, Mayor Belvedere had been a medical orderly with the AIF. Before the Anzacs sailed off to the disastrous campaign at Gallipoli, they did further training in Egypt and spent their nights drinking and carousing in the fleshpots of Cairo, where every imaginable vice was on offer. Belvedere, like many other young Australian lads, was away from home for the first time. He succumbed to temptation and fell in with a young French chef called Thierry Mercier, who was attached to the French Foreign Legion. Years later, with his wartime indiscretions behind him and now a pillar of the community, Belvedere was startled to come upon Thierry quite by chance one day in Blackheath. Thierry had been on a rare day off from the Hydro and had been drinking heavily at the Gardners Inn; the publican had refused to serve him anymore and thrown him out.

Even in his drunken state, Thierry recognised Belvedere. 'Ah it is Beelzebub from Cairo! Zo, zis is where you ended up, mon ami! Zets us have a drink together, for old time's sake, s'il vous plaît?'

Belvedere almost fainted. 'Err, ah, you've mistaken me for someone else, I fear!'

But just at that moment, an associate strolled by. 'G'day Mayor, how's the _Belvedere Guesthouse_ goin?'

Never one to miss an opportunity, Thierry said, 'Zo you are now, how you zay--zee big shot! I vork at zee Hydro under zat oaf Foy. You could use your power to haz him release me from a contract. Tu as de I'argent sur toi?'

'Wh, what?' Belvedere babbled, his French being rudimentary.

'Moonay, ignoramus ros bif! Give me some moonay,' roared Thierry, 'zo I can get back to Sydney! Or I spill zee beans!'

'Keep your voice down,' Belvedere hissed. 'I'll be at the Hydro next week, I'll see you then!'

~~~

Belvedere had gotten away with difficulty that day with Thierry's drunken ranting in his ears. He knew exactly what Thierry Mercier was referring to. _I'll be ruined_ , he thought. The troops back in Cairo had a saying: ' _Something Sphinx in Egypt!_ ' When Belvedere first met Sir Arthur in the dining room of the Hydro Majestic, he was taken aback at how alike the world famous author was to Thierry Mercier. When the crash was heard coming from the kitchen, Foy and Mayor Belvedere had been quick to investigate. After their own fall on the greasy floor and disentanglement, Belvedere went to explore outside with a candelabra. He found Thierry face down on the gravel. The Mayor, being observant and a former medical orderly, was also well acquainted with the effects of snakebite. He noted the head injury and the two puncture wounds on the calf. He knelt down beside the French Chef, whose breathing was already laboured, and set the candelabra to one side.

Belvedere was also an opportunist; he made a split second decision. He quickly pinched Thierry's nose and covered his mouth with a handkerchief where blood was seeping out. Thierry struggled feebly for a few moments then lay still. Belvedere felt for a pulse: there was none. His hands were shaking but he had the presence of mind to dispose of the bloody handkerchief. He could hear Foy bellowing orders at the staff inside. Coolly, he turned back towards the kitchen door and re-entered saying, 'Foy, grab yourself a candle or something and come and have a look at this--I've found your chef, I think.'

~~~

Foy had once remarked that he must have killed a Chinaman in a former life. His run of bad luck continued. Fire had destroyed the gallery building in 1905 and the Belgravia wing of the Hydro Majestic was severely damaged by fire again in 1922, the year following Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's visit.

Construction on the new Belgravia wing commenced in 1922 and was not completed until 1936. By contrast, a contract to purchase the Belvedere Golf Links by a consortium of businessmen was signed in April 1922 and it eventually became the Blackheath Golf Club. It made Beelzebub from Cairo a very rich man for a short time. He succumbed to dementia at an early age. In the great game of life, there are always winners and losers.

Snakes and ladders--elementary really.
Goodbye Lee

12 October 2015

David Newman

Jacobs Well, Queensland

Australia

Goodbye Lee!

I hope to see, that you make it okay, that you make it alright.

Goodbye Lee!

Please remember me, on a lonely day, on a lonely night.

You never knew just how I felt

of the ache I had inside for you.

Well, I turned each card as it was dealt

but the Joker on my Ace stopped my dreams from coming true.

Goodbye Lee!

I guess I was looking for another Nicky!

Goodbye Lee!

I guess I was looking for another Julie!

Goodbye Lee!

Now, I guess I'll be... I'll be looking for another Lee!

Lee--has Nicky's eyes!

Lee--has Julie's hair!

We--could have stuck for a while

but I--felt too much there

Oh! I swear! I had too many feelings there!

Now it's goodbye to Lee!--Goodbye to Lee!

I'm so sorry!

Now, goodbyes are hard to say

when you know, it didn't have to be that way

It could have been a'voir, but too late I learn

for now I know, there can be no return

It's goodbye! Goodbye! Goodbye to Lee!

It's goodbye to Lee!

Well! Goodbye Lee, didn't have to be

It's a curse on me, it's the memory

of all the girls who have said goodbye to me

that I find myself now saying goodbye Lee

Goodbye Lee!

I'm so sorry! Never meant to hurt you! Never meant to hurt me!

Goodbye Lee! Seems goodbyes for me, are my big debut, are my destiny

I didn't mean to make you cry

but sometimes tears are what see us through

No-one could say that we did not try

when the past returned with a truth of a different hue.
Dearest Sister

12 October 2015

David Newman

Jacobs Well, Queensland

Australia

Dearest Sister,

I find that my thoughts have turned to you this day. So, I put pen to paper, but I must not delay! For even now, as I recall those bygone years, an ancient ghost, it re-appears. A spirit thing, it is of mist. It is just one's own fears then which we must resist!

You are such a gentle soul, but truth be told, with a life on hold. It's hard to fly with clipped wing, when a dream is a broken thing. It's hard to walk and yet not stand, still not released of the quickened sand. It's hard to heal from that which is got, from before memory even, it of the cot.

Still! Such talent there, wish I... that I might see such, without despair.

For all those years, and of the lies, for delivered tears, by a demon in 'guise, I'll tell it yet, and yet again, from such as this, we must ascend. They of the doing, they of such wrongs, they are pursuing in the belief that they'll be strong. They do not receive of that for which they seek, for no true power is ever given to those so weak.

If point ten of zero was the measure of it when at its most, what then is left of this would be hero, who is now but a ghost?

Your talents were not born of misery, let them rise far beyond it now, to embrace a destiny. It is towards this end, I now you advise. It is not to forget, and yet to still rise. For we cannot serve, but that we too are served. There is no such thing as the undeserved. It is all in the how, with others we deal, then through this and by this, we ourselves do heal.

Your baby brother,

The cute one,

Not the other.
Halloween

13 October 2015

Katrina Wirth

Rutherford, New South Wales

Australia

The day those witches came with their frightful smiles,

Suffice to say, we were terrified,

Mum stated to me, 'What weird hair styles!'

And yet we watched them awhile,

Just standing petrified,

The day those witches came with their frightful smiles.

We contemplated running for miles,

As we feared genocide,

Mum stated to me, 'What weird hair styles!'

I stood fixed to the tiles;

Somewhat terrorised,

The day those witches came with their frightful smiles.

I looked at their nails and thought _Geez they need some files_ ,

Or maybe it was just me being like Mum--paranoid;

Mum stated to me, 'What weird hair styles!'

We stood there laughing and rolling in the aisles,

As it was Halloween--we eventually verified,

The day those witches came with their frightful smiles,

Mum stated to me, 'What weird hair styles!'
Spring Cleaning

13 October 2015

Ariette Singer

Palmerston, Canberra

Australia

I must find a way to spring-clean my mind

And strive to achieve a more efficient kind!

It has become an utmost necessary chore;

All mental debris immediately must go

To make space for best thoughts to store!

Must delete old informational clutter,

Store only the data that really matter!

Keep it tidy, well aired and sanitised

And its House Rules revolutionise.

Sweep up useless old, broken thoughts,

And repair those that are lame and tired.

Swiftly abort negative thought-train

And strive for a positive one to attain!

Place 'Pending' in my cleared mind's full view

Prioritise the most viable, and ASAP DO!

Then, thoughts that are most worthwhile:

Review, re-analyse, re-sort and re-file!

The filing system for my thoughts and ideas:

A--amusing, attractive, arresting, anxious, annoying, awful

B--brilliant, beautiful, bad, brave, bold, brutal, bright

C--charming, cheerful, creative, crazy, clear, chaotic, curious

D--deep, daring, dark, dangerous, dull, depressing, dumb

E--excellent, evolving, enchanting, entertaining, energising

F--feeble, foolish, fantastic, frustrating, funny, flimsy, fleeting

G--gay, great, gloomy, generous, gruesome, gleeful, grumpy

H--happy, humorous, horrid, hasty, heavy, harmful, hopeless

I--intelligent, interesting, inspiring, innocent, intriguing

J-- judgemental, jumbled, jovial, just, jealous, justifying

K--kind, kinetic, knowledgeable, kosher

L--logical, lovely, loving, lousy, lame, lucid

M - miserable, mad, mean, muddled, manipulative

N--nice, negative, novel, nauseating, noble, nasty, narcissistic

O--optimistic, original, ongoing, organised

P--positive, precious, persistent, pretty, petty, pleasing

Q--quality, queer, quirky, quarrelsome, quiet, quizzical

R--rational, realistic, rare, rash, rude, rusty, roaming, rapid

S--serious, surprising, silly, sudden, slow, startling, sweet, smart

T--terrifying, tragic, tender, trifle, torturous, tired

U--ugly, unusual, unexpected, unsettling, useful

V--vain, vehement, varied, vicious, vile, vexing, vapid

W--witty, weird, wonderful, wistful, whimsical, wishful

X--xenophobic

Y--yearning, ''oung at heart', yucky, yuppy

Z--zany, zealous, zinger, zombie-like, zippy
The Thing

14 October 2015

JH Mancy

Tallebudgera, Queensland

Australia

They are found in high places,

Those out of way spaces,

Unnoticed by you or by me.

But at night when we're sleeping

They are busily creeping

Awake, full of laughter and glee!

On curtains they swing

'Tis a juvenile thing

Then scurry and flurry, all in a hurry,

Unburdened by guilt, don't you see!

Old Mrs Godper received quite a shock

er, what was that THING she just saw?

If she sees it again--let me make myself plain

she'll most certainly show it the door!

It ran out to the garden

And THEN, 'Beg your pardon!'

Was said to an ant passing by

'Must watch where I'm going,

And just so you're knowing,

It was rude of me not to say hi.'

Ant's response was well thought out,

A creature born of habit

'When next you come, not to be glum,

Could you wear something less rad? It

Is so colourful, you see, it's

Sure to scare the rabbit!

'A rabbit! In your garden?

Introduce him sir to me

Oh, please, please do, I beg of you--

We'll be best of friends, you'll see!'

Rabbit from his hiding place

Watched events unfold

Though he was shy, he hopped on by,

For he was feeling bold!

He hopped to a nearby shady bush

To get a better view

Decided he liked what he saw, said,

'I'll be a friend to you...'

Mrs Godper recovered from shock, her

Humour intact, glad to say!

It resides now in her house, out of sight,

If visitors should happen by...

But at dusk should you venture

In search of adventure,

Beware, or you might get a fright;

For the THING has claimed the night!
Country Is

14 October 2015

JH Mancy

Tallebudgera, Queensland

Australia

A singleness of purpose beneath a blazing sun

It's yarning by the fire whilst chores remain undone

It's sharing an ice-cream with your children in the park

Weeping softly, lonely in your room when it is dark

It's cursing 'neath an onslaught, the myriad of pests

And it's sowing by moonlight when you would rather rest

Seasons move relentless out across the western plain,

Summer into autumn, winter, spring, then back again

Brilliant stars are canopied and seem just out of reach

Glorious sunsets greet you, and goodness, what a treat!

A dusty heat haze gathers, its rivulets to spread

Breathe chocking wretchedness, beneath and overhead

Weeks turn into dreary months--stock are slowly dying

Water carted endlessly; red, brown earth is frying

Melancholy notes sound forth from magpie perched on high

I love his tenacity; it's drought, but he'll still try!

Farmers talk has turned to gloom, the rain they're not receiving

Can they meet their mortgages--some consider leaving

At last! Longed for rain pelts down, smiles soon start appearing,

But will it end, this dreadful drought? Not yet, we are fearing

Weakened stock held fast in mud; curse the rising water!

Cruel drought has turned to flood on thirsty Riverina

But wait!

A soft green tinge has pushed its way through paddocks thinning

Our stock will quickly fatten up, could it be a new beginning?

Country is the contentment of knowing that when the day is through,

The friends which we have gathered will always stay 'true blue'

It's a feeling of belonging, a peace that's seldom known,

Such sweet music for the soul, a place that I call home!
Amit's Return

15 October 2015

Shirley Burgess

Rosebud, Victoria

Australia

The nearer Amit's plane came to India the faster his resolve melted because when he landed at New Delhi he would have to face his father.

It had seemed straightforward when he boarded the plane. Following the lead of the Engineering Faculty academics at Monash University, he was going to explain that, forced to study Civil Engineering, he'd failed the first year because he had no head for mathematics, and engineering was founded on maths. They understood that. They even understood why, in desperation, he'd cheated so spectacularly that it sent him packing, but still left with the academics' good wishes. They suggested he'd be better suited to study at Melbourne University for a BA there and it was possible to win this degree in only three years whereas it would have taken four years to earn one in Engineering. It seemed a very logical argument to Amit in Australia. He'd thought his father might approve that.

But as the plane circled for landing Amit's heart was racing. He knew it was not going to be simple at all.

His father's face was set grimly tight as Amit launched into his idea of returning for a further three years, but he could see the idea was falling on deaf ears. Instead, there was a roasting for wasting the family money. It was an Engineering degree his father wished him to earn. In vain Amit tried to explain he'd really worked hard but his father simply didn't believe him, and continued to ignore his errant son for the rest of the week. Amit had nothing to do but read the paper.

That was where he noticed an ad from the New Delhi Institute of Technology announcing a scholarship covering a course of instruction with a view to obtaining a Bachelor of Arts degree at Melbourne University. Included was a commitment to return to New Delhi as an instructor, but he had to apply by the weekend. He downloaded the application form, completed it and delivered it by hand the same day, without a word to his family.

A test and interview followed and after completing these he was told he 'would be contacted', so it was back to a depressive vacuum at home full of black looks and foreboding. Two weeks later he was contacted. Amit was ecstatic and quickly told his father that he was shortlisted, with a final interview necessary; later he was amused to hear his father telling a friend how clever his son was.

The interview was full on and took a whole morning. They'd already contacted Monash about his engineering course and asked about his work ethic and were told that Amit was a hard worker but it was also their idea that he should attend Melbourne University Arts Faculty where he should do well.

Soon a letter came to say he and two others had been chosen and that he'd be expected to arrive at Melbourne University residences in February to settle in. Brandishing the letter he ran to show it, relieved to know that at last his father was proud of him.

'The odd thing is,' Amit explained, 'the year I'd spent at Monash, although it ended in failure, tipped the scales my way. They considered it experience gained in knowing how to use university time the best way, and agreed that settling in would be no problem for me.' The Gods had indeed been kind, and Amit was aware this was a second chance at an opportunity. This time, he thought fiercely, he'd make sure he was successful.

On arrival his course was soon sorted with help from the admission officers. He would major in Political and International Studies and use Development Studies as his minor discipline.

While waiting for the start of tuition, he decided to call in to Monash, say hello to Pavil and friends still there and report to Dr Campbell on his good fortune. It would be good to thank him in person for all the help he'd received along the way. Dr Campbell showed him to a seat and Amit couldn't help glancing at the spot where he'd bashed in the glass panel and tried to alter his exam marks last year. With a rush of guilt, he wondered how on earth he could have been crazy enough to do it in the first place.

Dr Campbell was delighted with his news. 'It's all due to the academics here,' Amit told him 'and the good advice I was given,' and Dr Campbell assured him his thanks would be passed on.

Open Day came and went and early in March tuition began in earnest when Amit realised there was nothing easy about this course, either! Just a case of hard work needed.

Gradually he found friends and this time his assignments gained regular average marks. This was a change, and Amit's spirits rose. The first year rushed past and at the end-of-year exams Amit had a creditable result, but, returning for his second year, he realised that the only way to make that horrible shadow called 'fear-of-failure-again' disappear was to make an even bigger effort--it was all up to him.

The year flew past again and at classes during the last semester, he noticed a beautiful girl, always in traditional Hindu dress, but also always accompanied by a surly-looking young man as though he were her guardian.

The end-of-year exams results showed, to his delight, that he'd topped one of the disciplines, a fact he quickly passed on to his father.

A last big 'class-coffee-meeting' was organised in the usual noisy spot--a corner of the big coffee shop on campus and, to his joy, the beautiful girl was there. Happily she was on her own. No surly guardian to frown him away. Amit decided to introduce himself and found out that her name was Shalina. It sounded silvery when she said it, and as they chattered easily with each other, realised that she came from an area not far from his home in New Delhi.

A query about the thickset guard was introduced carefully, and Shalina laughed. 'His name is Mikul Garde,' she explained, then casually added, 'his family and my family are good friends and are trying to finalise arrangements for our marriage. There is a stumbling block though.'

He was dying to know what it was and if she were keen on the marriage idea or not, but not game to ask. Instead he decided to ask her out to a film in town, before he had to leave for home. After their date they decided to fly home together for company, and Amit's heart soared at the idea.

It was on the plane that she mentioned Mikul again. 'His family think my family is not good enough, you know, and,' here she paused, 'I've told my family I am not in the least interested. However, Mikul won't give up!'

Amit had asked his friends if they knew much about Mikul Garde and they'd immediately become serious. 'Don't butt in there Amit. Mikul's a bad-tempered bugger, and he's set himself up as her protector; you are buying into trouble my friend,' one of them explained anxiously.

'Well, she can make up her own mind about that,' Amit said, surprising himself at the comment.

'Just be careful. He's resitting exams this year so that's kept him busy, but if he passes them he'll be back next year,' one of them added.

In Delhi both young people visited each other's families and Amit realised he was now totally committed to winning this delightful person for himself. She'd told him she 'liked him', but that wasn't the word he wanted to hear.

All too soon, his last year at uni was to begin. The old routine of café breaks continued and, as well, Shalina and he often enjoyed a Saturday trip with friend, Josh, who filled his car with friends and took them all on short trips, exploring the Dandenong Ranges and the Mornington Peninsula often, and by this time Shalina and Amit were holding hands comfortably.

Mikul had tried to take up guard duty as usual but Shalina pushed him off. Soon after that Mikul bailed up Amit in the middle of the cloisters when he was on his way to lectures. It didn't matter that everyone was passing them as Mikul shouted at him for alienating Shalina. Amit tried to calm him, but Mikul became more and more aggressive and went to hit him, when someone grabbed his arm from behind and he was told to 'bugger off'.

'You need a bodyguard mate,' the stranger laughed. 'He's one pissed off man. I'd watch it if I were you!'

'Thanks for the help,' Amit told him still recovering from the surprise attack. 'He's a bad loser, that's all.'

'They're the worst kind! Cheers!'

After this incident, one of Amit's friends told him that Mikul had gone over to the Engineering Faculty at Monash telling them darkly that he was 'making some enquiries about Amit's time at Monash'.

'He means trouble for you, Amit, so I thought I should warn you.'

Indeed he did mean trouble.

At Monash, Mikul asked first to speak to the Faculty Secretary, who referred him, with plain disgust, to Amit's main lecturer, Dr Campbell. Settling himself in the chair Mikul immediately asked several pointed questions about Amit's life as an engineering student.

Dr Campbell gave him short shrift. 'I wonder why you haven't asked Amit yourself, seeing he's at Melbourne Uni with you? Amit was a hard working student here. We suggested he would better enjoy a course in the Faculty of Arts. Simple as that.'

'Then why didn't he come to the Faculty of Arts at Monash? Was there some reason why he couldn't?'

'Because he was offered a course there by his home university, with a job attached; you'd do well to display the same acumen that Amit has shown, Mr Garde. This interview is over, so please shut the door after you,' and Dr Campbell resumed the writing Mikul had interrupted.

Amit had already confided his idiocy at Monash to Shalina, but no one else, so he waited daily in anxiety ready for the bomb Mikul would set off. Nothing happened and Mikul kept his distance from both he and Shalina, telling anyone who'd listen that his family was far too exalted to be interested in Shalina as his future wife. But no one listened to Mikul anymore.

Studies were over, Amit's mother and father both came over for the graduation ceremony, and Amit and Shalina flew back with them the following week. This time as Amit approached India, his heart wasn't in his boots, it was soaring again. He'd enjoyed the course, held a brand new BA Melb, had a job to go to, and it was hinted he might be offered another year to complete an Honours degree. He'd regained his lost opportunity.

Best of all he was sitting here holding his fiancée's hand, and looking forward to their big engagement ceremony, already being arranged for them.

'What a journey it's been,' he said to her. 'It's made me appreciate my friends, and value all the luck I've received; here I am with you and I'm so happy!' Shalina smiled and gave his hand an extra squeeze.
Closure

16 October 2015

Richard Scutter

Macquarie, Canberra

Australia

don't slam the door kid, when you leave your room

don't slam the door tight when you enter the night

go quietly; go gently, as you enter the night

go gently as you vanish from sight

at that age when there is no age

and when the rolling of the years

matters only to another

and the inscription on the wall

is left for others to recall

and when they resurrect your name

will they relinquish certain blame?

let them shed their tears kid!

how can that have any meaning

is there meaning in a flower?

you knew exactly who you were kid!

don't slam the door kid when you leave your room

don't slam the door tight when you enter the night

go quietly; go gently, as you enter the night

go gently as you vanish from sight
Dance

16 October 2015

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, New South Wales

Australia

Wind

howled

'Blossoms!

Time to sway

to my melody.

I'll whip up a furious tune.'

Pretty pinks and pearly whites refuse to dance, in fright.

Sagaciously clinging to weeping cherry bough.

'It's far too fast, this dance of yours.

Not our time to grace the gravel.

We're busy kissing

happy bees,

who love

our

trees.'
Betrayed

17 October 2015

Subroto Pant

Sinnamon Park, Queensland

Australia

Picture It Competition Entry - Picture A

'Statue.'

I freeze in mid-motion on hearing that effervescent voice. In an instant I am a child again.

Fingers wrap themselves around my neck--I'd know that touch anywhere.

'I must be dreaming,' the words stumble out.

I feel her breath on my neck, standing on the beautifully landscaped gardens with its lush green lawns.

'I've missed you too,' she whispers, drawing closer, the fingers tracing an arc from my neck to my ears.

'I had no choice.' My fingers wrap around the dagger and I turn in a quick motion.

My blade cuts through the empty air.
Checkmate

17 October 2015

Subroto Pant

Sinnamon Park, Queensland

Australia

Picture It Competition Entry - Picture B

They visited me again this evening, asking the same questions, probing, peeping and prying.

I could see it in their eyes that they were on the hunt.

Me, immutable in my grief, asking them questions, too. It is a game of chess really, with moves and countermoves. Till that decisive move finishes the game.

She went behind me--her move.

I read her messages--my move.

She declares her adoration to me after meeting him--her move.

I take her out to the waterfall--my move.

In grief I contort my face. 'I miss her so much, officers.'

Check mate.
Instinct

18 October 2015

gARThibiza

San Augustine, Ibiza

Spain

I was a pilot, one of the few

The roll-call of duty, uniform blue

The sky we would scramble, the life that we knew,

At angles ten, gaining surprise, to pursue.

I had a lover in whom I'd confide

We shared our passion, in green countryside

We felt the future was with us each day

Lived for the moment, that could slip away.

Oh how I loved her, that warm august night

Slept in the cornfield, under moonlight.

That dawn was the last one we would outgrow

The fates had decided, though we couldn't know.

Now I'm another, drifter in time

A painter of pictures, a dealer in rhyme

Sailing alone, on the internet sea

Fantasy calls, in the mind of the free.

You just can't believe it, that's what they say

And yet I've this message, she wrote it today

Alice in wonderland, seeker of fun

Wants gentle and crazy, and I am the one.

Hot and cool, spicy, soft-centred, tough

Playful and caring, may just be enough

She's got the brains and plenty of guts

Health and good fortune, is calling my bluff.

Honey it's your turn, to fly through the blue

We'll pick up the pieces, with this rendezvous

You're off to the airport, you have to be brief

The angels are smiling, it's beyond belief.
Fear Of Choice

18 October 2015

gARThibiza

San Augustine, Ibiza

Spain

Unexpectedly roused from bed

Coffee fails to soothe the head

Time to talk, that's what you said,

Chaos clogs the fountainhead.

Things just slip into routine,

Like alcohol, or nicotine.

Separate ways, the painful truth

Breaking up, or breaking loose.

Your good looks and your soulful voice

The time is now the fear is choice

Passion gives itself to rage.

Close the book, or turn the page.

The art of love, the act of sex

What you find, you don't expect.

The barber sat me in his chair, his super models underwear

Without my glasses, just a blur. Voice to him, eyes for her.

Whatever you think I'll leave it to you

The easy option's what you'll do

Replace my glasses, still I find

The blonde still leads the walking blind.

We live in a strange dark world, mostly fiction, partly fact

Actors in relationships, insensitive, or overact.

There's more to life than you, or us.

Hope and optimism balance on the tides of change

Followed by the ticking clock.

For a small delicious moment, on a moonlit night

We follow the logic of our sensual needs.

Craving intensity, physical connection.

Fear transforms to tenderness

Saturated with feeling beyond words

Embarrassing to talk about

Like the progress of this tear across my cheek.
Tears For The Little Syrian Boy

19 October 2015

Terry Hopper

Luton, Bedfordshire

United Kingdom

Don't turn away and hide your face,

It's not the time, it's not the place,

Look at me, stand and stare,

Lifeless and listless do you care?

My only crime was to be born,

Three years ago in a place war torn,

My short lived life, my mother's tears,

Hopes and dreams destroyed by fears,

And as the world turns inside out,

Back to front and full of doubt,

My picture goes around the earth,

Governments decide what we are worth,

An immigrant, or a refugee,

Is that your eyes can see,

Human beings are we not the same,

Being used as pawns in a political game,

For now my life has ended here,

On a beach somewhere, so far so near

Close to freedom, a promised land,

As waves crash over, covered in sand,

My life cut short, my screams lay still,

How many more, take the bitterest pill,

Don't let my passing be in vain,

For I was one of many who came,

And as you lay your head for sleeping,

And hear your child who's gently weeping,

Remember me, awash the deep blue sea,

No mother's arms to comfort me,

Take a moment, maybe three or four

Think of those displaced by war,

For a better life, peace and care,

A world where everyone can share,

So as I lay here in the surf,

My life cut short, three years since birth,

My name is Aylan, please don't label me,

I was a child... and not just another refugee.
Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

20 October 2015

Paul Humphreys

Oxley, Canberra

Australia

It was a new coffee rendezvous for both of them. Beth enjoyed the opportunity to have a chin wag with her only daughter, Maria.

'How's your week been?' Beth always started their coffee get together with a simple but what appeared to be, for Maria, loaded question.

'No probs, Mum,' Maria said without much enthusiasm, concentrating on chasing the froth of her cappuccino with her teaspoon, not wanting to look her mother straight in the eye. 'Mohamed bought a new lawnmower last week so the place is looking less scrappy.' With this statement Maria seemed to shrug off her disinterest and offer the information to say something positive about her husband.

'About time, the place was starting to look like a shanty dwelling.' Beth's comment was as usual direct and bordering on cruel.

'Oh it wasn't that bad and you gotta remember Mohamed is keeping down two jobs, so he's flat out.'

'So how are things with you two?' Beth could not help going straight to what she regarded as the nub of the matter.

'Okay, uh good.' Maria's response was not very convincing. 'I am a little concerned about the children though; they have been a little quiet lately and I am not sure why.'

'Having problems at school?' Beth's question indicated she was genuinely concerned. This was a rare occasion when her daughter confided in her that she may have a problem.

'Nah, they both adore their teachers and really enjoy going and they have a good group of school friends.' A simple smile lit up Maria's face as she briefly captured the images of her son and daughter in her mind. 'No, it's at home that they go quiet. It appears to be when Mohamed is with us.' Maria was reluctant to divulge this, as she knew it might open a can of worms with her mother.

'He's not too tough on them is he?'

'NO! At least I don't think so...'

'You need to sort it out.' Beth had moved forward on her chair and was leaning across the table staring directly at Maria with a look of desperation and concern on her face. 'His upbringing may be a problem, you know. You never know what cultural influences have on a person's behaviour.'

'Oh don't go on. Just because he is from Lebanon, and not a ten pound Pom like you and Dad, doesn't mean that he is ill adjusted.' Maria was starting to boil inside. 'Anyway, I will talk to him; just need to wait for the right moment. Mohamed is sometimes difficult to talk to, about the children, that is.' Again she realised that she had said more than she wanted to. 'Just need to let sleeping dogs lie at the moment. Mohamed and I have a heavy work schedule at the moment.'

Beth had not heard from Maria for a good three weeks, which was not unusual, but Beth had a strange foreboding about Maria's family.

Beth was in the kitchen preparing dinner when there was a loud knock on the front door.

As she opened the door Mohamed stood there with a distressed look on his face. He blurted out, 'Maria and the kids--are they here?' He was agitated.

'No. What's wrong?'

'I came home from work and they were not at home; they usually are on Tuesday. And I found this.' He held out his hand with a small scrap of paper in it.

Beth grabbed the paper. It was a note written by Maria. It said, 'I feel like I am standing on the cliff of anxiety looking down into the valley of despair. The kids and I need a rest.'

The phone rang in the background. 'I need to answer that,' said Beth as she disappeared into the house.

After a few minutes she returned to the front door. Mohamed was sitting on the top step of the stairs leading to the front porch, his head in his hands.

'It was Maria. She and the kids are with her aunt. She seems happy enough. She said she was leaving now and was on her way home. I asked her about the note. She said it was part of one the kids' English homework assignments.'
Untitled

21 October 2015

Myfanwy Dabner

Newbridge, New South Wales

Australia

with his softening paw

his comforting fur

his perfecting purr

with this sun on low lids

tickling nerves with orange

I'm closed now.

with swallows singing so loudly

it lulls this soft nothing

to sleep.
About Change

22 October 2015

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, New South Wales

Australia

It's

all

about

perception.

Look at this weather!

Darling daffodils fry in heat.

Winsome cherry blossoms wind-shattered on the gravel.

Vegetable gardens melt in sizzling temperate madness.

Grannies' Bonnets suspend their heads in confusion. Then,

on the other-side of midnight,

Mist-rain washes view.

Blankets the land. No sun peeps through.

Nature, demented,

forgets

Its

cue.
The Little Warrior

23 October 2015

AA Anderson

Bathurst, New South Wales

Australia

He walks with bowed head and dragging feet,

Towards his parents, their eyes afraid to meet.

He'd wanted so much that trophy tall,

He'd played with all his might, he gave it all.

They'd lost, the game they'd come to win,

He wanted them to be so proud of him

And now he felt so small, a tear was shed,

He felt he'd lost and let them down instead.

The other team seemed oh! So big and fast,

Their energy just seemed to last and last.

He tried, his teammates they tried too

But the others seemed to beat them through and through.

He stumbles and a gentle hand

Holds fast, it is his loving Gran,

She is so proud of this her little man.

The football game is over, she is glad

He was not hurt, this her tiny lad,

He was so brave he fought his best

And to her mind stood out amongst the rest.

He'd scored a try, her old heart overflowed

He'd taken on the biggest kids the biggest load

To even up the score--but could not stop,

Their final football going o'er the goalpost top.

She holds him firm this little seven year old

And leads her little warrior back to the fold,

His parents' hugs soon make him once more grin

It's then he knows they're always proud of him,

It's how you play not what you win.
Outside The Church

23 October 2015

AA Anderson

Bathurst, New South Wales

Australia

It was hard to think of him as anything, other than a bishop, with his tall bishop's hat and his thick pale hands bearing the large purple ring of his office.

He walked, or should I say wobbled, down the cobbled streets, past the fancifully dressed older women with their ridiculous, long bustled dresses, high powdered hairdos and huge hats, or the younger ones with their luscious red lips and long flowing curls. He smiled, or perhaps it was a smirk, as he enjoyed staring down their low frontage as they dropped to curtsy.

No one dared to object to his behaviour as it would have cost them dearly if they even looked displeased.

He was the Chief Religious Advisor to the king and had more than once shared the bed of the 'ladies in waiting'.

However, this rich, pompous, silk and lace cassocked bishop had one dubious mania: the penchant to enjoy dressing as a female. Though male in habits and personality, he would raid his housekeeper's wardrobe to find female clothes, then garbed as a lowly maiden, though a rather overblown one, he would walk down the dark back streets of the city enjoying the freedom that it gave him.

It was indeed dark in these streets--many had warned that this was where the wild things were and they could lurk in any doorway. However, it was a freedom seldom felt in the role of a bishop.

Alas, though, this venture was fraught with danger, as the notorious Jack the Ripper was known to frequent this district. Many young women had lost their lives when Jack the Ripper was about.

On our prancing bishop went, if you could ignore his red bulbous nose and strange wobble of his huge rounded backside. The bobbing blonde curls from his female wig, of course, viewed from the back, could perhaps give the appearance of a very, very, very buxom lass.

But alas! As our bishop rounded the next corner he came face to face with this dangerous man, Jack the Ripper, and instantly fainted. Jack the Ripper in the darkness only saw a blonde headed maiden. He tore the bishop's frail blouse, but, when he observed the pudgy flesh and coarse black hairy chest instead of the sight of a delicate female appendage, shock overtook him and he was instantly nauseous and ran to be sick in the nearest horse trough.

The bishop, regaining consciousness, went as fast as his fat feet would take him, straight for the sanctity of his church, his female wig flying off his round bald head, and ran, straight into the arms of His Majesty the King who had come to see him on official business.

The king was overjoyed. 'Oh you darling boy, I didn't think you cared, but not outside the church!' And before the poor bishop could explain, the king had whisked him around into a back alley.
A French Twist

24 October 2015

Judith Bruton

Marion, South Australia

Australia

_In order to understand the world, one has to turn away from it on occasion_.

~ Albert Camus

' _Monsieur_ , how much further?' Tess puffed as she struggled up the steep, dirt road.

Jeannot raised two wobbly fingers on his free hand and wheezed, ' _Deux kilometers_.'

'Je me sens... very tired... très fatigue!'

The trip up the mountain was arduous. After flights from Adelaide to Toulouse via Paris, the taxi trip in the old Renault should have been a breeze, not a major breakdown within kilometers of her destination. Too impatient to wait for help, Tess began hiking the remainder accompanied by Jeannot, the jovial taxi driver now carrying her knapsack. Tess was struggling in high heels, and her iPad, reputedly 'the world's thinnest, lightest tablet', seemed to be gaining weight by the minute. Early September in the Cabardes region was still experiencing summer temperatures, and _Rue de la Place_ leading up from the village carried very little traffic, seemingly none on a Sunday.

_After all_ , _it is leading to a retreat,_ grumbled Tess under her breath. _Why would a recluse be mad enough to travel halfway around the world to a retreat?_ To meet other recluses! Tess amused herself by parodying her paradoxical situation.

'Look, there... _le vieux château_.' Jeannot exclaimed in an effort to cheer up his disgruntled foreign passenger.

Finally _la maison grande_ was just in sight, and what a magnificent site. Not exactly a castle, but old and elegant.

Tess's anticipation about arriving was now partially eclipsed by physical effort, but doubts about her month long sojourn still clouded her mind. She had not ventured far for many years and was anxious to leave her beloved dog with a house sitter. The decision to stay at La Muse, a retreat for writers and artists in Southern France, had not been made lightly; and 2015 seemed the right time to experience something of the world beyond computer and television screens.

Tess realised she was becoming reclusive; her physical world was shrinking. She rarely ventured beyond her letterbox and lived an almost monastic existence as she valued peace and order above the unpredictability of social situations. Tess knew she needed to broaden her horizons before she was too old, and the mountain retreat reflected her current contemplative life on a craggy cliff overlooking the South Australian coast. She would have been a lighthouse keeper if the job still existed. _Besides, if my muse won't come to me, I'll go to La Muse..._

Absorbed in thought, Tess barely heard the birdsong or saw the afternoon light daubing the thick foliage with a multitude of green hues, or smelt the pine needles, or sensed the cooling breeze, or the hum of an approaching car--

' _Beau jour, bienvenue_... welcome, Madamoiselle Tess. We are expecting you.' Dion, a La Muse _employé_ , was graciously opening the passenger doors of the silver Citreoin courtesy car.

'Oh... yes... _oui, oui, beau jour_...' Tess had only a smattering of French, and without the help of Babel Fish, the only other word that came to mind was inappropriately _pétanque_. Admittedly, she did feel bowled over by the charming young Dionysus.

Dion, with his two charges onboard, glided up the mountain. The ease of the ride was matched only by the smoothness of his English with a twist of French. 'Ah, _Madamoiselle_ , you will enjoy La Muse! "O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention..." You have Shakespeare in Austria, _Australie... oui?_ '

Dion's dialogue was as delectable as _chateaubriand_ followed by _crème brûlée_.

Tess could now clearly see the grand French residence 'enjoying sublime views of its own intimate valley and river', just like the website promised.

As they arrived in the terracotta courtyard, the late afternoon sun enhanced the worn stone and chestnut wood of the imposing building and Dion continued to charm and inform. 'La Muse was a weaver's house in the 12th century-- _regardez_ , you can see some of the original structure. _Avec le temps_ it was expanded by a landowner and his family to include neighbouring _maisons et rues_.'

The La Muse was already weaving its magic as it had done for many centuries, now enchanting Tess and dissolving her doubts.

Dion added, 'And last century, the house functioned as a convent.'

_Suits me_ , smiled Tess.

Francoise, the flamboyant _propriétaire_ , with great flurry greeted Tess and led her through the garden gate and terrace doors, past the kitchen, dining area, library and up two flights of stairs to her room 'Erato', named after the muse of love poetry. All main rooms were named after the nine muses of Greek mythology.

But where are the other dozen or so residents? wondered Tess. Retreating?

Within minutes of taking in the Impressionist view from her window, the elegantly furnished room with its high ceilings, original marble windowsills and fireplaces, and the oh-so-soft bed, Tess was asleep. She dreamt of a giant cocoon being spun into silken thread and woven into a translucent golden robe by a cast of characters, resembling Jeanotte, Dion and Francoise. A young dark haired woman, draped in a similar white robe, welcomed Tess, 'to your ancestral home. I am your past, _votre grand-mère_ ; and La Muse is your present, a precious gift. Use it well, _mon cher_.'

Upon waking, Tess wondered if she had really been visited by her long deceased French grandmother, or perhaps had read too many chocolate wrappers on the flight over.

After showering and dressing in a fresh white t-shirt, white jeans and tying a golden ribbon in her long dark hair, Tess was more than ready for the evening meal.

Most of the residences gathered in the rustic kitchen. There were international writers, visual artists, a New York chef, a Finnish composer and two very animated Italian film directors; as well as Dion, Francoise and gentle Jeanotte, still waiting for a mechanic. All shared in preparing the meal of cassaulot with Toulouse sausages, freshly baked brioche, herb salad and local red wine. Tess's cynicism was lessening as she enjoyed the laughter and passionate discussion of ideas. The eclectic group of people cobbled together were generous and gregarious, and the plentiful wine was making her head spin. Tess was unwinding for the first time in years and began humming, _potpourri and repartee, oh so sweet to feel replete, this retreat is quite a treat..._

A distinct and familiar 'woof' shocked Tess into opening her eyes. Gizmo, Tess' dog, was bounding towards her with unrestrained glee, followed by her partner Dani carrying hot fish and chips from The Broadway kiosk.

'Have you started your story yet... or still daydreaming in the sun?'

Tess was stretched out on a grassy knoll at The Esplanade, South Glenelg, her iPad at her side. She remembered she had been researching writer's retreats, the subject of her next short story.

' _Oui!_ I mean... yes. Writer at work. Hey, how does France next year appeal? I've been googling retreats, and well, the present is a gift, after all.'
Night Muse

24 October 2015

Judith Bruton

Marino, South Australia

Australia

_And it was at that age... Poetry arrived_

_in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where_

_it came from, from winter or a river..._

~ Pablo Neruda

Tyra sat down to write all she could remember of a night last winter, a night so elusive it haunted her.

Tyra was a meticulous woman who enjoyed details. She had a gift for remembering trivia--the name of friends' dogs from thirty years ago, obscure film-titles and minor events long since passed. Tyra revelled in the abundance of minutiae that was archived chronologically in her brain. Her last long-term partner, a computer whiz, often referred to her as his main memory, and marvelled at the swiftness of her retrieval system.

Tyra had numerous lists committed to memory, like the list of former lovers she recalled sequentially on sleepless nights. _Why count sheep?_ she would muse. Admittedly, faces materialised more often than names. There was also a darker list of friends and relatives who had now joined 'the choir invisible', the only list that seemed to be increasing annually.

But what actually happened on the icy July night two months ago mystified Tyra. She searched her memory for traces of the events. She sat at her computer to record anything she could recall. Tyra rarely transposed thoughts into written words. Art was her medium and portraiture her specialty. Ideas often chattered away in her mind and she had commenced many a virtual memoir during restless nights, usually after her obsessive lists of life's loves and losses had failed to induce sleep.

Early July, Tyra accepted a portrait commission from a crime fiction writer she met one evening at a city gallery opening. Always arriving late and disorganised, Tyra's new client sat for her on several nights during midwinter in her riverside studio. She liked his unpredictability and nervous energy, despite her own need for order and calm. As an artist, Tyra was a paradox to the usual stereotype of the free flowing, messy, creative sort. Most things in her studio, as in her life, were colour-coded and highly organised. Tyra's style was best described as 'controlled expressionism'--a visual oxymoron--and for her it had proved to be a successful formula.

Tyra preferred to paint at night and would often stay late in the studio. Some mornings, after painting her new subject, Tyra noticed scrawled alongside her sketches, poems of sorts; probably scribbled after having a few drinks to wind down after he had left, scribbles that she could barely decipher. This strange night-code, drawn in black felt-tip pen, appeared to be the residue of those rare times when she allowed her scrupulously neat life a bit of slack.

_But what actually happened on the last night he visited?_ Tyra needed to get these fragile memories down before they could no longer be accessed. She opened a new Word document and felt a shiver as the rectangle of white light beckoned her to commit her recollections to a readable form. She believed she always dealt with most life events efficiently and appropriately; she had mourned, rejoiced or celebrated according to the occasion. Any loose ends were metaphorically tied-up with a bloody-big blue bow and stored away with the sealed space-bags for some future season. _But what precisely did happen that night?_ Tyra knew that she couldn't wrap this one up with a neat bow let alone a dozen octopus-straps. Tentative words appeared on the screen:

... One evening, mid-July, I was in my studio. Several large canvases faced towards the centre of the room. 'Faced' is right! They were all portraits of him, not on either list of 'lost loves' or 'loved losses', yet to be categorised. He, who rocked my boat, upset my applecart... eek! Clichés, clichés and more bloody--

Tyra hit the delete key and poured one of the occasional beverages that helped her relax. She was much more comfortable using a piece of charcoal or wielding a brush charged with paint than organising words.

_Right!_ Feeling a little more experimental, Tyra told herself, _Just get it down and sort it out, stream of consciousness stuff, Molly Bloom and all that_ :

... vague memory of him arriving very late to view the finished portraits and I guess as usual he had a bottle of red under his black felt jacket and was all wild and dishevelled with a tangle of jet-black hair almost obscuring his eyes pensive and intense like a Heathcliff character on a bad day untamed yes romantic and lyrical elusive and obscure a mystery maybe a composite lover or my animus perhaps even my nemesis and with no apologies just a lot of words and yes and yes and--

_No!_ Tyra couldn't wrap this one up or put him on any list. He had tangled her up in his emotions--intoxicating rhythms--her night muse. His sense of disorder had begun to unravel her carefully constructed life. Tyra was now fired up and continued to type:

... We drank the wine, laughed at the portraits, swam in a river of bloody clichés! We talked about everything under the moon, but I sensed that was the last night we would ever share. The softly lit studio was our refuge for only a few more hours. As he casually explained, 'It's not to be, you can't preserve magic, freeze emotion, capture a fleeting likeness, see the "ghost in the machine", we are all destined to change and move on...'

_Why did I listen to such drivel? Emotional, drunken drivel that I knew would evaporate at the first ray of morning light._ Tyra continued to reconstruct the blurry events. She recalled having more than a few drinks with him on that occasion before falling into a deep sleep. _No need to recite any annoying lists or compose misty memoirs in my mind with him around,_ she giggled affectionately. Tyra now vaguely remembered waking late the following morning, reaching for a Berocca, and suddenly realising that she had slept in the old armchair in the studio. The door was ajar and the frosty morning air had eventually awoken her. Previously transient memories were becoming clearer as she typed. Tyra was beginning to capture more than just the visual likeness of this enigmatic man, the possible catalyst for her irrational jottings:

... I awoke to find a sketchbook open on my lap. Scrawled over one of the many pen portraits of him was that same black, barely-legible text...

Tyra glanced at the sketchbook open on her computer desk, now an _aide-mémoire._ Many of her impatiently scripted words were difficult to read, but the charcoal sketch of a single figure against an early morning sky on the opposite page helped to deconstruct her last precious memory of him:

... He left as unpredictably as he had first arrived at my studio, only two months earlier. We shared Neruda's 'fire and flowers, the winding night, the universe. And I, infinitesimal being, drunk with the great starry void, likeness, image of mystery, felt myself a pure part of the abyss...' I watched him drape his dark, velvety coat over his shoulders. He glanced at me ambiguously, and then at the pristine white canvases--all awaiting a subject. Nothing left to say. The black night was softening to a lighter hue. The river breathed transparent mist and murmured low in an unknown language. I watched him slowly disappear. River hours with him were momentary fire. Now in early spring, I am still struggling to understand my sense of enormous loss and yet quiet, profound joy.

Tyra had finally pinned down some of the elusive magic of the midwinter night, the night her muse left her with a studio of blank canvases, and a profound love of poetry. Although nothing had seemed quite as intense in her life since, she felt a sense of relief that she was not losing her mind, altogether.

Tyra calmly sipped her green tea and transcribed into readable text, what she thought was one of her own chaotically scripted poems:

... a diminishing figure, silhouetted

against the scarlet tendrils of the rising sun,

fore-runners creeping across the sky

from a determined and hopeful dawn.
Habit Tails Outlaw (What is it all about?)

25 October 2015

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

**W** ell it's all about murder,

**H** ow to do a foul deed.

**A** las there's a burden--

**T** o be discovered; indeed.

**I** strive to lay false clues,

**S** uch a devious fellow!

**I** like 'red herrings' of many hues,

**T** aut strings on a strident cello.

**A** ll through the night, I write it out--

**L** onging to know what you think.

**L** ots of loose ends--to make you shout...

**A** re we near the end? I'm near the brink!

**B** ut never fear, all things made clear,

**O** n balance... it's for you to decide.

**U** nder sufferance I've shed blood, sweat, tears,

**T** his is the end of my Hydro Homicide!
Take Care Of The Rose

26 October 2015

David Newman

Jacobs Well, Queensland

Australia

Take care of the rose,

for this rose can bleed,

as my heart is the rose,

and so the rose is me.

Yes, and though I know--even though I know,

we are far from each other,

I'll just be your good friend,

until we are lovers.

I'll still be your good friend.

And if you feel lost, the road ahead is unclear,

then, let it be me--please, let it be me,

who dries all your tears--I'll dry all your tears.

Because there's something about love that makes those roses thrive.

A rose without love, may just break down and cry.

There's something about you and your angel smile.

There's something about you, that makes it all worthwhile.

So, take care of the rose, for this rose can bleed.

Take care of the rose, and it will touch the sky,

but if this rose should bleed, love may surely die.

Take care of the rose,

for this rose can bleed,

as my heart is the rose,

a rose I give to thee.

And though I can give--you know I can give

you no prestige nor wealth,

it is this I offer,

it's part of myself,

a real part of myself.

And wherever you go, or whatever you do,

always remember--please remember--

the rose is for you, this rose is for you.
Candy

27 October 2015

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, New South Wales

Australia

Hush!

Look!

Dawn's blush

filters through

cotton candy clouds

floating on distant horizon.

Morning's melody awakens

to Spring's frog-mating calls all around dapple pond. Fern

fronds wave in delight as their greens are mirrored in a dainty water-ripple display,

whilst water lilies look forward to playing nursemaids

to tiny tadpoles hide and seeking from crafty currawongs and proud kookaburras.

Lusty lizards scamper over ochre rocks, rustle

under rich umber-splattered leaves

escaping dinner.

Perhaps not!

Tasty

treat

time!
A Cry For Help

28 October 2015

AA Anderson

Bathurst, New South Wales

Australia

There's a great big hole where my heart used to be

Because the world that I knew has crashed down around me,

When she stated that night that she just wanted out

I could not comprehend what it was all about.

Another man turned my life upside-down

Took my love, took my life without even a sound,

Now I sit and I wonder why wasn't I told?

By someone who had seen what was to unfold

I drink my grog, I can't eat, I just feel so cold.

Were our vows not worth keeping?

When did she kill trust?

Why did she exchange my love for her lust?

She has gouged out my heart and ground it to dust.

I am drowning in tears and seem too tired to swim

Life is filled with my grief and my future looks grim,

I am angry with her, but more angry with him

My body seems heavy, my sanity slim.

He has taken my love, my home and my wife

It's goodbye, yes goodbye, like a cut from a knife,

To my head and my heart, it's goodbye to my life

Farewell and Goodbye.
Goodbye To narrator

29 October 2015

Demelza

Taroona, Tasmania

Australia

Goodbye to narrator

Cheerio see you later

Your presence will stay in my mind

Your lay was out good--your manners as should

And comments were always so kind

But alas I've been tight

In supporting your site

The monies just didn't come in

I've guilt like a barb--I hope you don't starve

Because of my horrible sin

Thanks for the edited

Yes! There now I've said it

I've learnt such a lot from this site

So receive my confessings with millions of blessings

I hope you'll continue to write

Goodbye my dear friends

Keep hold of your pens

Perhaps we can still be in touch

Right now I have grief with high unbelief

And think I have written much
A Parting Glass

30 October 2015

JH Mancy

Tallebudgera, Queensland

Australia

Farewell to you narrator, know you have served us well

Through dismal days and gloomy, or sunshine days so swell

The many ups and downs of life; in our hearts you'll dwell

Your support appreciated in cities and towns;

far flung lands across seas, but especially our own

Usually offspring fly the comfort of the nest for

adventures new; this time with regret, we find it's you!

The hard workers at narrator caused us smile each day

Kudos are awarded to you, we say hip hooray!

We wish for you everything that we could wish for you--

Wherever you may wander our thoughts go with you too
Done

31 October 2015

Leonie Bingham

Katoomba, New South Wales

Australia

The manuscript stretches...

it gazes over empty pens

tossed in the air like

pick-up-sticks that fall

wherever they choose:

some lie between

scrunched-up paper-balls,

others jut from

ink-blotched and

teacup-ringed mountains--

such bountiful ribbons of A4

finely shredded

by urgent fingers;

stirred up from time-to-time

to turn the crumbs,

hold the ferment off

for just a little longer.

All those words

weaving and wending

as they tumble

into the worm farm.

The manuscript looks back at me,

we smile at each other--

this chapter of our journey

is done.
Bios and contact details

Anderson, AA

AA Anderson is the pen name for Jan Shephard, artist and great grandmother, who started writing for cancer therapy and now writes for sheer pleasure. She has three books in progress: _Tips and Techniques_ , on art, _Memories of Bathurst,_ on local history, and _The Unknown Pathway_ , on the journey of her four cancer survivals. She has won several prizes for literature at the Royal Bathurst Show.

Bruton, Judith

<http://www.judithbruton.com>

<http://alfiedog.com/fiction/stories/judith-bruton/>

Judith Bruton is an Australian artist/writer who photographs and paints poetic seascapes, and has many quirky short stories and poems published in anthologies and online including _Salt Breezes_ , _Poetry from Byron Bay and Beyond_ , 2014, _Dangerously Poetic Press, Short and Twisted 2011 -13_ and _Came as 'I', Left as 'We'_ , Alfie Dog Fiction, 2013. Please enjoy a selection of Judith's stories, poems and art at the above websites.

Bundesen, Jean

Jean Bundesen moved to the Blue Mountains in 2003 from Sydney, where she had worked for many years. Her iInterests include reading, gardening and writing. While her first piece of prose _A Rock Pool_ set at Caloundra, Queensland, was published when she was 15, it was not until she attended a number of creative writing courses in 1999-2001 that she wrote her first piece of poetry, _Give me a Dollar_. Jean continues to write prose and poetry and has had a number of poems published in different publications and has won several prizes.

Burgess, Shirley

Shirley retired to Rosebud, Victoria, on Port Phillip Bay, and, over the past four and a half years has had seventy short stories published (including the odd foray into poetry). She enjoyed winning a competition in _Positive Words_ magazine and an appearance this year in _Short and Twisted_ , Celapene Press, but particularly enjoyed appearing in the narrator series. She wishes everyone good luck in the future.

Coley, Tom

http://www.amazon.com//dp/0992504651/

Tom Coley is an author, sculptor, activist and ex-wanderer.

He is the author of the memoir _Laughter, Tears, Peace_ , available from Amazon via the link above and other online retailers in print and ebook formats.

Craib, James

<http://biarcsemaj.blogspot.com.au/>

Prior to retirement, James was an office manager. These days James is a musician (drums, percussion, ukulele and vocal) and a radio plays actor. He is also a writer of short stories, poetry, song lyric and fractured greeting card verse. The latter is usually inflicted on family and friends--whether they like it or not! James has been known to use acrostics and anagrams to make his point, however obscure. A long term ambition to write a full-blown novel is still unfulfilled. He has been a regular contributor to narrator since its inception as a print magazine.

Dabner, Myfanwy

Myfanwy Dabner is a writer and visual artist who has poems in all narratorINTERNATIONAL volumes.

After the close of narratorINTERNATIONAL, Myfanwy will contribute to the Ballarat Writers' Group. For Myfanwy, narratorINTERNATIONAL has been an open-minded and highly professional web space and online community where she was comfortable to publish her writing.

Demelza

Being a professional parent leaves Demelza with very little time to pursue her writing and she is therefore grateful to narratorINTERNATIONAL for giving her the opportunity to have her works published.

Her highlights over the past four years have been receiving an Editor's Pick, being part of the Glass Coin exchange and meeting like-minded people online.

Until recently Demelza was very confident but since discovering she has four EPs (not one) she now has serious doubts about her memory. She invites you to read them and leave a comment: _Jillian's Secret_ , _My Little Girl_ , _Precipitation_ and _Predicate Etiquette_.

_Editor's note:_ Make that five, and please add _The River's Bend_ to the list above! J

Dimitric, Irina

<http://irinadim.com>

http://www.amazon.com//dp/B00LPBDGMM/

Irina's poetry reflects the many moods of her soul, sometimes playful and sometimes sad, as shown in the two poems in this volume. She enjoys photography and her poems are often inspired by her photos. In 2014, she self-published her first book of poetry and photography, Dreams on my Pillow. Irina also enjoys writing form poetry and is the creator of a new form of tercet--tercetonine--which appears in her book, has been published by narrator before and can be seen on her blog, Irina's Poetry Corner, as well.

Fantail

<http://www.ginninderrapress.com.au/Picaro%20Press/picaropoets.html>

Fantail is a wife, mother, etc, who lives at Mount Barker in the Adelaide Hills. She writes short stories and poetry and has a Picaro Poets chapbook, _Stray Thoughts_ , published under the name of Lyn Williams and available from Ginninderra Press at the link above.

She has thoroughly enjoyed presenting her tales in narrator--both narratorAUSTRALIA and narratorINTERNATIONAL--and in other publications, and hopes to continue writing and sending her pieces 'out there' as long as her imagination allows.

Gow, Virginia

http://www.amazon.com//dp/0992300975/

Virginia Gow is a poet who lives at Blackheath, NSW, Australia. Her poetry book _Escarpment_ is available on Amazon and Angus and Robertson. Her poetry is based on Fibonacci sequence of numbers.

Levet, Adrian

<https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/466193>

Adrian Levet is a writer from Perth, writing on and off for a couple of years. He takes inspiration from the likes of Cormac McCarthy, Robert Matheson and Patrick Rothfuss. He is currently writing a novel, entitled _The Way North_ and if you enjoy some of his work, you can follow him on twitter @LevetAdrian for any updates. Additionally, there is a free download of his first short story, _Planet Four Fourteen_ , available from Smashwords at the link above.

Murphy, Robert

<http://www.narratorinternational.com/a-childhood-friendship-robert-murphy/>

Robert Murphy was born in Ireland and now lives in London. He has a master's degree in Anglo-Irish literature from University College Dublin. He spent four years in Australia, and while there he had another story published by narratorINTERNATIONAL--please see the link above. He is currently working on a collection.

Russell, Jane

Jane started writing short stories regularly in 2012 after joining a local writing group. She enjoys whimsical tales with humour and fantasy, sometimes inspired by dreams. She lives in the Adelaide Hills with her black dog, teaches Italian and paints.

Scutter, Richard

<http://richard-outoftheblue.blogspot.com.au/>

<https://mywordinyourear.wordpress.com/>

Richard originates from Hampshire, England. He is a retired public servant living in Canberra. In another life, as a statistician, he helped produce metrics in a vain attempt to define reality. He now delights in exploring how words define life. To this end Richard enjoys analysing poetry as well as creating his own personal response. He supports the local poetry scene by his involvement in University of the Third Age courses. He is married and has four beautiful granddaughters. He disseminates his writing via the above internet sites and he is working on a publication due for release in 2016.

Vaughan, Valerie

Valerie Vaughn is a perceptive poet and feminist writer. A native of central Pennsylvania, she received her BA in History from Mary Baldwin College in Staunton, Virginia. Valerie is currently under contract to publish her first chapbook of poetry. She plans to begin her MFA studies in Creative Writing in 2016.
Index

Adlere, Vivienne

Just Shrapnel

Alves, MC

Chasing The Dragons

Last Man Standing

Yoknapatawphan Melody

Anderson, AA

A Cry For Help

Outside The Church

That City Bloke

The Doctor

The Fatal Waterfall

The Journey

The Little Warrior

The Miner's Hut

The Revolving Door

Anderson, David

The Farmer

The Pareidolia Effect

The Tourist

Bevan, Jane

Talking Out Loud

Bingham, Leonie

Done

Island

Bruton, Judith

A French Twist

Absolute

Forever Sublime

Night Muse

Bundesen, Jean

Get Up, Get Up

Burgess, Shirley

Amit's Return

Opportunity Lost

Queues And Why I Hate Them

Rosie And I

The Grand Lampstand

There And Back

We'll See You Home Soon

Winton's Children

Chaffey, Robyn

About Footprint

If I Had My Druther

Realities Unknowable

The Cost Of A Thousand Word Picture

Train

Coley, Tom

Australian Haiku No. 4

Craib, James

Habit Tails Outlaw (What is it all about?)

Homicide At The Hydro - Part 1

Homicide At The Hydro - Part 10

Homicide At The Hydro - Part 11

Homicide At The Hydro - Part 12 (Conclusion)

Homicide At The Hydro - Part 2

Homicide At The Hydro - Part 3

Homicide At The Hydro - Part 4

Homicide At The Hydro - Part 5

Homicide At The Hydro - Part 6

Homicide At The Hydro - Part 7

Homicide At The Hydro - Part 8

Homicide At The Hydro - Part 9

The Day Of The Flat Head

The Pride Of The Runic

You Restart...

Dabner, Myfanwy

Callitris Glaucophylla

Fox Sports

Juliet Returning To Nature

New York Lands

One July

Oval Portrait Of Orlando Florida In Winter Australia

Prick Free Zone

Reprieve

Untitled

We Build (5.9675°N, 62.5356°W)

Demelza

Bogue

Goodbye To narrator

Mere Hobbyist

Poppy's Diary

The River's Bend - Have You Ever

Dimitric, Irina

Twilight Songs

Yoo-Hoo!

Eigenlicht, Reiroshu

Silence

The Net

Elliott-Halls, Samantha

ANZAC

Fantail

Aftermath

Drunk

Gabe In A Pickle

gARThibiza

Fear Of Choice

Instinct

Ubud

Gow, Virginia

About Change

As It Is!

Candy

Dance

June

Paint

Paint Two

Spring Shower

The Foundling

Turandot

Honan, Lynne

A Travel Tale

Hopper, Terry

Gay Pride 2015

Hush Now Child

Lambs To The Slaughter

Over The Top 1918

Palestine

Sexuality

Tears For The Little Syrian Boy

Howell, Connie

Evolve, Revolve, Devolve

Mum's The Word

Humphreys, Paul

Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

Monday

Snow And Ice

Kathopoulis, Jenny

3 am Ramblings

She Wrote Love On Her Arm

La Porte, Judith

Taste Of Country

Weather Permitting

Levet, Adrian

Amsterdamned

Honey Bee

Lombok

Revolver

Wormhole Bigot - Part 1

Lewis, Chris

Heron Haiku

Lynch, Felicity

Listening To Music

Little Girl Lost

Mancy, JH

A Parting Glass

Country Is

Farty The Feline Gastropod

Glass Act

If I Had My Druthers

In Dreams...

Licence To Thrill

Nature's Calling

Nuts

On Being Straight

The Thing

Maxima

I Give You...

I Need Your Lovely Smile

She Is Poems That Speak Of Love

Under The Eaves Of Heaven...

McVicker, Marcalan

A Father's Day

Emigrants Lament

Oh, The Stories Here

Our Grandmother's Story (From My Perspective)

Mosher, Jennifer

I Like A Lot

Murphy, Robert

Strands

Newman, David

Dearest Sister

Extreme

Goodbye Lee

Paper Plane - Paper Dreams

Pedestal Men

Take Care Of The Rose

Ten Years

The Karmic Debt

Whistle Dance

Newman, Judy J

Broken Smile

Fragile

Hear Me

I'm A Figment Of Your Imagination

Service

Pant, Subroto

Betrayed

Checkmate

Poirier, Margo

A Riddle Evolves

The Transaction

To Absent Friends

Ross, Beatrice

Flying Free

Sweet Moonlight

The Performer

Ross, Madeline

21st Century Blues

God's Child

Hidden Innocence

Parallels

The Sentinel

Russell, Jane

Evolution?

The Hotel Key

Turning Back

Xing Saga Part 18 - Life On Mars

Xing Saga Part 19 - Lights In The Sky

Xing Saga Part 20 - Please Explain

Sargent, Susan

Still A Mother

Scutter, Richard

Closure

Revolution

Yesterday And Today

Singer, Ariette

Indecision

Mind Games

My Revolt

My Winking Muse

Spring Cleaning

Where Does It Come From?

Smith, Winsome

Cash And Calico

The Baby and the Jinker

Turning Forty

What Now, My Love?

Sparks, Graham

By Way Of Dream

Gone

Heaven's Bow

High Tea

Spin Fatigue

The Form Remains The Same

The Friend You Wish You Didn't Have

Stanbridge, Deborah

The We

Witty, Wilful And Whimsical Roald Dahl

Vaughn, Valerie

Across The Waves

Physiological State

Spectacle Illusion

The Ride

Walsh, Patricia

Calculations

Disinspiration

Machine Made Bread

Pyromania

Williams, Ian

A Fire Starter Speaks Of His Love

Garrison Town

Wirth, Katrina

Floods

Forests, Feathers, Fins And Fur: Frantically Fading

Halloween

Mother Nature's Cocoon

Unsuspecting Evolution

Withers, Ruth

If I Had My Druthers
About MoshPit Publishing

MoshPit Publishing is the publishing imprint of Mosher's Business Support Pty Ltd.

Under our MoshPit Publishing banner, we help people publish and promote their books using 21st century methods.

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Copyright Statement

First published 2015 by MoshPit Publishing

an imprint of Mosher's Business Support Pty Ltd

PO Box 147

Hazelbrook New South Wales 2779, Australia

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

First edition 2015 © MoshPit Publishing on behalf of all authors listed in the Index.

The moral rights of the authors have been asserted.

Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the National Library of Australia at <http://catalogue.nla.gov.au/>

**Authors:**

Various contributors

**Edited and compiled by:**

Mosher, Jennifer 1961-

McCloghry, Sarah 1987-

**Title:**

narratorINTERNATIONAL Volume Three

**Publisher:**

MoshPit Publishing, Hazelbrook, New South Wales

**ISBNs:**

978-1-925447-11-8 (paperback)

978-1-925447-12-5 (epub)

978-1-925447-13-2 (mobi)

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the Australian Copyright Act 1968 (for example, a fair dealing for the purposes of study, research, criticism or review) no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

Cover image: _Hawks Nest after Rae-Lee,_ acrylic and sand on paper by Jennifer Mosher. <http://jmoshereditor.com>
Endnotes

Xing Saga Part 19 - Lights In The Sky

 Loiner = resident of Leeds

Licence To Thrill

 Oggie--Ogden Nash

 Pam--Pam Ayres

 Alistair--Alistair MacLean

Revolution

 James Ussher (4 January 1581 - 21 March 1656) was the Irish Archbishop of Armagh and Primate of All Ireland between1625 and 1656. He was a prolific scholar and church leader, famous for his chronology that sought to establish the time and date of the creation.

 Thomas Guy (1644-1724) was a British bookseller, speculator and official publisher of bibles and from his wealth became the de facto founder of Guys Hospital in London.

You Restart...

 Pantoum (also spelt pantun): form of verse.

The Pareidolia Effect

 Pareidolia is an emotional experience whereby people may see images of animals or human faces in clouds or other inanimate subjects, like curtains or foliage. The Man in the Moon is another example.

A Travel Tale

 Editor's note: 'dunny' is an Australian colloquial term for an outdoor toilet.

The Macquarie Dictionary Online's definition is: _an outside toilet, found in unsewered areas, usually at some distance from the house it serves and consisting of a small shed furnished with a lavatory seat placed over a sanitary can_. 
