

### narratorAUSTRALIA

### Volume Two

Various Contributors

November 2012 to April 2013

A showcase of Australian poets and authors

who were published on the narratorAUSTRALIA blog

from November 2012 to April 2013

Smashwords Edition

First published November 2012 by MoshPit Publishing

an imprint of Mosher's Business Support Pty Ltd

Shop 1, 197 Great Western Highway

Hazelbrook NSW 2779, Australia

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

This ebook © MoshPit Publishing on behalf of all authors listed in the Index.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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

Cover image: Abstract fibers by RBFried, purchased from http://iStockphoto.com

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

# Contents

Foreword

Copyright Reminder

Index

Contributions

Bios and contact details

A brief history of narratorAUSTRALIA

#  Foreword

How quickly time passes. Just six months ago we brought you narratorAUSTRALIA Volume One, and now we're doing it again with Volume Two.

It's been a fantastic year watching the narratorAUSTRALIA community grow, watching the participants begin forming online relationships with each other, supporting and encouraging each other to challenge themselves to new and more intricate writing tasks.

As narratorAUSTRALIA expands and reaches more people, we all learn more and are exposed to more writing styles. This last six months has seen us publish poems based on the Fibonacci sequence as well as our first Decuain poem, not to mention other poems which have been based on different rhyming patterns.

The volume of weekly entries has increased, as has the standard of competition. When we first started, there were sometimes weeks when I was worried that we would have nothing to publish! Now, we have a fair amount of choice, and the quality of that choice is increasing, which is the aim of the game – to encourage entrants to spit and polish and deliver the very best work they can, whether they have an already established writing career or are in the baby steps of venturing out into the creative writing world.

Like all publishing companies, we look for work which has a minimum of errors. Because we don't charge for entries, we don't have time to edit. And a poorly edited piece is hard to read, anyway. And we look for work which entertains, which makes us sit up and take notice – either with its rhythm, its words, its ideas, its humour or sadness or thoughtfulness. We look for creative writing, and are getting tougher about this. While some of the pieces we publish will occasionally appear to be based on memoir, we discourage memoir and essays per se – we are after creative writing. So if you have something to say in the memoir or opinion vein, be creative about it, or risk missing out to someone who is out to entertain!

And when we do receive something which really gets through to us, we give it an Editor's Pick, which you will notice as you read through this volume. However, as was the case with Volume One, there were other pieces which missed out on the Editor's Pick by a whisker, and this will become more frequent as the overall level of competition improves. So congratulations to all contributors for helping highlight the great standard of creative writing in Australia with this second volume.

Where pieces are illustrated, these are generally works by the contributor – we are cognisant of not using images which may break copyright, so while a piece may have been illustrated on the blog with an image we can link back to (e.g. from Wikipedia or a free digital images website) we don't include those images within this book.

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

But enough from me. It's time for you start enjoying this new volume which contains 235 poems and short stories written and submitted by 111 emerging and established writers published at www.narratoraustralia.com.au during the six month period from 1 November 2012 to 30 April 2013. Most items were published at 8 am Sydney time, unless otherwise time stamped.

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

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

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

Jennifer Mosher, AE

Editor-in-Chief

# Copyright reminder

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

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

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

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

Thank you.

#  Index

AB

The Billet

The Spirit Of The Thing

Abecca, Kylie

Sense Of Life

Shattered Reflections

Adamopoulos, Stephanie

Who Are You Sir?

Adams, Peter

A Cruise From Hell

Anderson, David

An Unusual Noise

Cuba

Maya

My Friend The Yowie

Renationship

Arden, Lynette

Only

Arvan, John

Christmas Performance Report

Left

Long Live Johnny

Wedding Secret

Assumpter, Irene

Following Taraji

Bingham, Leonie

Over The Fence

Blackwell, Penny

The Persian Tanker

Boko, Armin

Alice Springs Regatta

Widow's Last Son

Brown, Jadei

Life Choices

Puzzle Of Life

Brown, Laura

Daisies For My Daisy

Bruton, Judith

Paradise

Slow Burn

Bundesen, Jean

Curlews Call

Raw Cuts

What A Day!

Winter Shadows

Callaghan, Linda

Reach For The Stars

Carew, Dominic

It Will Come

Chaffey, Robyn

Behind The Door

Flitting In The Moonlight

Lawson's Inspiration

Radox Hair

Cholewa, Pawel

A Sentimental Cynic

Concepcion, Miss

Love's Destroyer

Cox, Robert

Departures

The Perve Next Door

Craib, James

'Baffling' Bill Letts' Magic Billets

Bend In The River

Cardboard Families

I Left It At Home

Unholy Futility

Cumming, Jennie

Kites And Heart Strings

Rain

Davidvee

Development Games

Passing Over

The Exercise Book

De La Force, Julitha

I Don't Understand

The SMSer

Demelza

Comments Please!

It Made A Most Unusual Noise As It Landed

Multitasking

Predicate Etiquette

What I Really Want For Christmas

Dimitric, Irina

A Fibonacci Poem For Australia Day

My Holden Barina

The Anzac March – A Decuain

Edgar, Bob

Angelita

Forbidden Fruit

One Lazy Sunday Afternoon

Ten Seconds Of Light

The Truth At Last

Elliott, Hannah Mary

Holy City

Elliott-Halls, Sam

Love Not Lost

Ellis, Phillip A.

The Landscape Of New England

Townsville

Fermanis-Winward, Michele

Encounter

Fielding, Susan

Ambiguous Loss

Henry's Hope

Fogarty, Naomi

A Flash Of Red

The Unspoken

Freedman, C.G.

Obituary Notice

The House At The End Of The Tracks

Gardiner, Alexander

A Lang Time Ago

A Wee Adventure Past

Possum's Pride

Tae A Flea, Wee Courin' Beastie

Gibbs, Thomas

Little Minds

She Stole My Pen

The Back Room

Gibson, Alison

The Boy On The Tracks

Girolamo, Hazel

Caveman

Gift Of The Grab

Pride And Presents

Spirit Of The Sea

Goodwin, Peter

Dispatches

Lacuna

Govier, Mark

Ballad Of The Twilight Man

Extract From Diary Of A Mephisto

Gow, Virginia

Burnt Toast

Downpour

Shallow Night

Under The Wharf

Hall, Emma

Backwards

Hammad, Sharon

Podiatrist

Slides

Harrison, Heather

Bleeding Bark

Heks, Andris

Federer vs Murray

The Third Eye

Howell, Connie

Insects

The Fly

The Swing

To Those In Need

Humphreys, Paul

Secrets

Shoreline

JAC

In Each Other's Heart

James, Nicole

Big Mumma

Final Curtain Call

Tired

Jamieson, Mariah

Shiny Diamonds

Jenkins, David

Love's Passing Remembrances

The White Goddess And The Fisher King

Johnson, Amber

Experimental Existential

Follies Of Formicidae

Marvellous Words

Southern Tablelands

Stockholm Sponge

Vita Brevis

Johnston, Henry

The Conjurers Club

The Milliner

Kale, Ashwyn

An SMS Summer Journal

Pancakes

Kathopoulis, Jenny

Julian And Cecilia

The Maiden, The Mother And The Crone

Kay, Susan

Disconnect

Flaky

Saturday

Kennedy, Rob

Counting

La Porte, Judith

Small Town Boys

Lee, Crystal

Masks

Red Lips

Lee, Melanie

Story Of A Girl

Linn, Marilyn

Murray Bridge

The Gravy Train

Waiting For Him

Lock, Julie

Gran's Billy Lid

My First Love

Lutta, Fayroze

Arrive Singing At Les Folies Bergère

Mr Harry Morgan

My Heart Has No Home

Lynch, Felicity

Great Aunt Maud

The Great Grandmother

Time Remembered

Mancy, JH

General Mayhem

The Creak/Creek On The Stairs

Mathias, Mikhail

Let's Get Metaphysical, Physical

McCaskill, Ben

Following

Piece Of Meat

McDougall, Garry

Tribute To Decazeville

McGloin, Barry

Adam And Eve's Lamb, Pork Or Goat With Coriander

McKern, Kari

The Daughter Of Durga

Metcalfe, Carly-Jay

Redemption Poem

Want

Monica, Vita

A Journey Of Maturity

Mask

Murfet, Laura

Life In The Light

NaNaG

Tripping Over Rainbows

Waiting

Newman, David

The Winter And The Rose

Nickols, Lynn

It Made A Most Unusual Noise As It Landed

Summer Storms

Paton, Toni

A Gate Ajar

Every Golfer's Treasure

Fly Bys

Payne, Kaylia

Norman Nightingale

Pensable, Des

The Demon Hunter

Tits Should Be Out And About

Pierce, Jill

Information Simply Given

Pippi, Miss

Brighton

Portingale, Paris

And Out Of The Darkness Comes – Limbo

Love And 13 Cossacks

The Time Travel Machine

Pratt, Tamara

Alien Exodus

His Gift Back

Rainbow Tornadoes

Rain, Joanna

Camping Trip

Strange Days

The Black Dog And My Dog Bundy

Ramsay, Sallie

Cockie

Secrets

Somewhere Else

Renew, Sandra

Dissident

Robertas

Croak

Recollection Of My Future

You Slipped Away

Ross, John

Bill's Visit To The Big Smoke

The Cave

The Newcomer

The Wind

Saint-Malo, Shey

Hippolito

Sargent, Susan

The Driver

Satori, Sonia Ursus

Ode To Life – Prologue

Scott, Emma-Lee

A Natural Scape

Blood And Men

Of The Mind

Summer

Tranquil Darkness

Shankar, Peter

Landed

Speak English Please

Singer, Ariette

Barbra Streisand Would Love This!

Discriminating Cupids

Smith, Winsome

A Lucky Find

Let Down Your Hair

Selma's Birthday Present

Tales The Laundress Told

Smithers, Alexandra

Kitty And Father Bob

Smithers, Shane

Girl In The Garden

Stuck On Five

The Photograph

Soul, Jessica

Sonnet Of Love

Sparks, Graham

Hypothetical Machine

I Am Desire

Shooting Star

Words For An Omniscient God

Stanbridge, Deborah

The Feather

Walker, Vickie

The Peacock

Ward, Ken

The Headstone

Wicks, Les

List Of What's Left

Williams, Ian Kennedy

Hares

Windsor, Arielle

An Infatuation With The Semblance Of A Man

Losing The Chance To Choose

Withers, Ruth

Dignity

Ode To The Fledgling Flown

Sisterhood

Wood, Claudia

Red

Yates, Linda

Broken Armour

Kitchen Meditation

Of Might And Mouse

York, Marie

Solid Oak

Zaknic, Athena

Damaged

To Australia

Trapped
Thursday 1 November 2012

### Under The Wharf

**Virginia Gow**

Blackheath, NSW

Under the wharf fairy penguins are nesting,

Feeding their babies, despite human noise.

Watched over and guarded by ancient traditions;

Vague dreaming of pathways

Entrenched in genetics.

This is a billet of survival.

Is it?

Under the wharf the wild god is sleeping,

Clutching a crumpled photograph in chilled hands.

Lost in a maze of human suffering,

Searching for freedom.

Fear to go there!

This is a billet of survival.

Is it?

Under the wharf poison is seeping,

Creeping out of fuel tanks

Driving all insane.

Bottled up fortification,

Craving companionship!

This is a billet of survival.

Is it?

### Friday 2 November 2012

### Holy City

**Hannah Mary Elliott**

Southport, QLD

Not the mind but its unfathomable waters

Listen midafternoon to birds

Sing joy enough for the whole earth

A winged parish atop sycamore cathedrals

Chiming the ineffable essence of being

Holy river of songs converging and flowing

Along banks where the cement briar reek

With the spurned carcass of consumerism

In man's temple of metallic shrines and

Carcinogen incense

Compassion still clings

Blades of her green hand reach out

From cracked geometry

One can find sprawling the obsequious tarmac

The ancient ones

Stray wisdom in a stone

A few trees

Some monks of verdancy left

Bend reverently to the wind

### Saturday 3 November 2012

### Story Of A Girl

**Melanie Lee**

Avoca Beach, NSW

This is the story of a girl who lived in a world where all was not fair or right or just too much of the time, but still there was laughter and still there was joy.

For along the way and in her travels she had learned quite a few valuable lessons, one in particular being that which brings you down cannot keep you down, unless you allow it, and that you cannot hold another down unless you stay down with them.

She learned most lessons the hard way and in doing so learned that pain can be a gift that allows you to see more humbly and deeply into the hearts and souls of others.

She learned that sometimes life's most treasured gifts often come in the most unwelcome packages.

She came to understand that it is letting go that requires the greatest strength.

She came to understand that not getting what it is you think you want, can bring about a greater joy than you anticipated or dreamed.

She discovered that the happiness she sought was closer to home than she realised.

She learned that loving someone sometimes isn't always easy but that it shouldn't always be hard.

Sadly she learned that you can't always be with the one you love and that you don't always love the one you are with.

She learned that too often it was the people who she thought were supposed to love and care about her the most were the ones that caused the most pain.

She learned and valued that acceptance really was the answer to many problems, discovering it's more important to be who you are, than to worry about what you are.

She understood that possessions ought never replace the value of people, things are replaceable, people are not.

Although she lived in a world of extravagance, she learned that less is more. She came to believe that happiness truly was a means of travel and not a destination.

She discovered that hope really is the jewel of life and that when everyone else has given up, when all else fails, hope will find a way.

She saw that some people's fears haunted them more than actual events. She saw that many people around her stumbled over the truth every now and then, but most picked themselves up and brushed themselves of as if nothing had happened.

She learned not to fear her darkness for she had discovered that some things only show up in the dark and that is where the light shines the brightest.

She realised people come and go but feelings do remain and that there could be great healing on the other side of great suffering.

She learned that being alone and feeling lonely were two different things.

She discovered that there is always another way and that she would never have known the joy of finding her self if she hadn't got lost.

She found that sometimes the answer to the problem created an even bigger problem.

She came to understand that there is great relief and freedom in forgiveness but that it is a journey in itself to get there.

She realised that she was never able to un-love that man, discovering that it really is true, it is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.

She learned that surrender is often a sign of great strength, as is gentleness.

She came to the understanding that there was a difference between loving someone because you need them and needing someone because you love them.

She discovered it takes courage to remain true to yourself and that sometimes you have to be willing to let go of everything you think you have to hold onto yourself.

Then she lived...

### Sunday 4 November 2012 1 pm

### Tranquil Darkness

**Emma-Lee Scott**

Callaghan, NSW

Cracked pavement of dirty grey,

Aging tree trunks of deep strength

And cloudless sky filled with a sweet peace.

An ebbing quiet filtered by the night,

With gentle breeze,

And an embracing darkness.

A space of nature's virtue,

Heightened by the hour,

Hiding the unearthly that encroaches.

When eyes need not be shielded,

When senses are intensified,

When the night reigns supreme.

The trespassers have disappeared,

The moon has fallen,

All that is, is nothingness.

It is the call of the night,

When we have silently been enchanted,

By its peaceful freedom.

The room to let our minds roam,

Without the broken thought,

And the obtrusive day.

It is the tranquil time,

When we feel what we see,

And truly just be.

### Monday 5 November 2012

### I Don't Understand

**Julitha De La Force**

Katoomba, NSW

Why did you say I was your girl

And you were my man

Then vanish in a whirl?

I don't understand?

'It has to be a secret,' you said

'Nobody can know what we did,' you said

Those phrases keep going round and round

In my head

You told me I was cute

You said I was a real sweetie

You called me sweetheart and darling

So I don't understand why

It seems to have become nothing

I was freezing, shivering, asked you

If you had an electric blanket on this thing

You wrapped your arms around me saying,

'I'll be your electric blanket darling'

Was it really just a one night stand?

It felt like more to me than a one night stand.

I'm sitting here hurting because...

I don't understand

### Tuesday 6 November 2012

### Tired

**Nicole James**

Narrandera, NSW

Tired, tired of going on

I've lost all reason and will,

Tired of facing another day

In a time that stands so still.

I see peace when I close my eyes,

When I imagine myself to be dead,

I see no hunger left to live

Within a world so full of dread.

I think never of heaven or hell,

I seek no paradise or evil retreat,

All I want is to close my eyes on life,

For my sentence to be complete.

I hold my life in my palm,

To live or to let me die,

With this decision I always struggle,

It's so hard and I'm unsure why.

Pulled in so many directions

With no power to pull away,

I hope when I close my eyes tonight,

I don't have to wake to another day.

### Wednesday 7 November 2012

### Adam And Eve's Lamb, Pork Or Goat With Coriander

**Barry McGloin**

Holder, ACT

And it came to pass that Adam and Eve sat on a goatskin, huddled naked in a cave. They shuddered from the sounds of the Lord God Jehovah's wrath as it rained into the valley splitting trees and hurtling boulders. Adam could smell Eve's hair, feel her cold skin, and verily he could feel her tremors.

They did not comprehend Jehovah's words nor the reason for His anger. They were dismayed but aware that it had been caused by their new feelings for each other as they had become one within the beauty of their garden, its glorious warmth and succour.

They had not eaten an apple from the Tree of Knowledge. But they had made love. They were young, in fact they were all the company they had, apart from The Lord who was away mostly. There was no serpent. The serpent was a metaphor. The author of Genesis knew that the words would be read to the children of Israel.

They had made love for a whole week, following some exploratory fumbles, while The Lord was away. He hadn't told them they could not, well not exactly. He did say that they shouldn't do anything He wouldn't do. God was holy. No doubt about it. He wore an air of kindly benevolence. Until He found out. Then He went ballistic.

They had fallen asleep in Eden. The grass was soft, the sunlight filtered in golden light through the leaves of fig and the aromatic Hasmesh, the doves softly cooed, white goats bleated, and to be frank they were exhausted, but blissfully happy. Then God appeared. They had been naked before but now they were entwined and naked, and they became ashamed in His gaze and tried to cover up with fig leaves. It was mostly ineffective.

God let out a roar that froze waterfalls, stuck birds to the sky and cleaved a valley. Adam blamed it on Eve and said that he had been tempted. He immediately regretted his words but it was done. God replied that he would put enmity between them, and between Adam's offspring and hers. This was a bit puzzling but Adam let it go.

God spoke to Eve and said that he would greatly increase her pains in childbirth. As she had never had children this was another mystery. He also said that her desire would be for her husband and that he would rule over her. God did not foresee womens' liberation, but hey, that was millenniums later.

Contemporary Biblical scholars, particularly those who support the theory of Intelligent Design date the 'Fall of Mankind' at about 6000BC. The oldest human skeleton is dated at about 4 million. Such discrepancy is dispelled by Faith. Faith is the essence of True Belief. Each religion has its own version of Faith. Faith is a gift from God. There are more gods than you can poke a stick at.

In his Divine Rage Jehovah ranted that the ground was now cursed, that Adam would painfully toil his days on earth, that weeds would spring up, thorns and thistles, and he would live off the land until he dropped dead and disintegrated to dust. Verily this was a setback.

In His continuing Divine Rage Jehovah expelled the young couple from the Garden of Eden and placed cherubim and a flaming sword, flashing back and forth, as a deterrent. His words fell like hot cinders on their backs as they stumbled into the valley of darkness. After some time, yea they found a goat trail leading to a cave, where we found them earlier.

It was stony damp, dark and cold with a whiff of urine and sulphur, and lo and behold a blue fire formed around a rock and a tall slim figure appeared before them. 'Please allow me to introduce myself. Maximilian Price. Friends call me Max, or Pricey. I imagine you're both a little upset and a trifle peeved? If it's any consolation He can be a touch tetchy at times.'

Max Price carried a suave jaunty air. He was an indeterminate age, strangely neither old nor young in our terms, although Adam and Eve didn't try to guess his age, after all they had jump started the tribe of Israel yesterday, and had no idea of age; God just looked different...

Pricey wore a suit of the finest cloth. I say this for your benefit reader, Adam and Eve had no concept of apparel, other than the goat skin God had thrown at them when they parted, which they now sat on. God Himself was sort of luminous.

'This is indeed a pleasure which, incidentally, I have been anticipating for some millenniums past. You must be Adam? Eve? Do call me Max. Max. Yes. Well... you know... you can do all you can to please Him and believe me I have been there, where you are, perplexed by such prima donna behaviour which would indeed try a saint... Ha ha, I mean really what did He expect? He gives you the dangly bits and expects angels? Well there's the flaw in the design hey? Dangly bits have their own mind ha ha, it is an unrealistic expectation. You guys as the prototype are up the creek without the proverbial if you get my drift hmmm??'

Adam drew Eve closer.

'Look, I'll give it to you straight. The Lord says I'm not to be trusted – if He's likely to impart any advice that is... once he's over His huff, heh heh... He will tell you that I'm a black angel who was once his favourite but got ambitious for the top job, well hey what's wrong with a little ambition? You can't stay second fiddle for eternity. I've done my bit, I've put in my share. I'm known in other places as a decent chap. India? You've heard of India? No? Well over there humanity is thriving already and those guys have rolled me in with one of their gods, Shiva I think, basically a good fellow, they love me but oh no not here, oh no, we have to be angels, squeaky clean, what's wrong with a little raunch every now and then Eve, do you think?'

Eve looked away.

'Yes well, The Lord will tell you I'm a corrupter of souls which to be honest is absolute hogwash. He will tell you that you have free will, you are free agents and can make choices, except that you must make the right choice or you'll end up in a locale undesirable for eternity. Look I'll be straight with you before you continue pumping away at humanity. Free choice is an illusion. You are what you are and can merely make one decision which is what you end up doing. You may think you have options, and you do, but being the person you are, there is only one choice. Let me introduce The Panel.'

And it came to pass that before their eyes four figures appeareth. They were sitting, smiling with sparkling teeth, each with a hand on a buzzer. Adam and Eve knew not the buzzer, but I say that for you my reader, and Adam and Eve were startled and clung together and Max Price saw their shame and lo placed clothes upon them, which they found were soft and warm, and verily it put a smile on their faces.

'The Panel my dears is an ancient Greek concept and here we have four ancient Greeks who estimate your next move. Let me introduce Zeus, Persephone, Stavros and Maria. Stavros and Maria run a fish and chip emporium at the far end of Hades, melt in your mouth and the aroma is to die for ha ha. You may think of these folk as gods and they often think of themselves that way but in reality they are like you and I, well not I ha ha, but certainly thou.

'The sequence of events known as 'history' is recorded and understood by the concept of 'time'. In fact all events have occurred and can be accessed at any point. Think of it as a flat picture, a cave drawing. The aim of The Panel is to have fun, with real live players, and how do they do it? They do it because they have your specifications, your characteristics, your DNA, your personality, and so given a set of circumstances, for example if Eve were to bear children, using the information they project what should happen in the future, in minutes, hours, days or years – the sex of the children, what she might name them and so on. Now, the score is greater the further the prediction. Fun? It's more fun than you can poke a stick at. What? The estimate is checked against the actuality. What? So fun guys.'

Lo the anguish of The Lord then echoed into the Valley of Darkness and boulders boomed into the darkest chasms and shook the earth. The Panel disappeared. Adam drew Eve closer. Max Price's dark figure filled the cave which became icy, glittering with stalactites like knives poised to strike. His voice hardened and ripped into the void. They covered their ears but verily they could hear. They covered their eyes but still they saw.

'I... I... will NOT be compromised nor praised by posterity. My shadow will cause the earth to groan in its burden of fear and destruction. My legions will roam the earth. Yea verily I shall wrought such ill that even you Jehovah will tire of my vengeance. Awe is my greeting, Woe my fortune and Death my legacy. I am Random Disorder.

'I am the Unwelcome Guest.'

Eve looked at Adam. 'Shee-it. Heaveey eh Ads? This place is freezing my tits off. Whaddya reckon?' Max Price looked at Eve, then at Adam, then at Eve, stunned disbelief on his face as he slowly vanished, saying 'You know...'

'Cripes Chicky Babe, just as well he pissed off. I was bored shitless eh? Could eat the crutch out of a low flyin' duck.'

And it came to pass that Ads failed to score a low flying duck but lo he did leap upon an unwary goat and Eve found many herbs and stuff and it became a fine wholesome meal. In the fullness of time Ads (and Eve) begot Cain and Abel who were wayward youths with a liking for herbs and stuff. Verily after a night on the turps Cain slew Abel. Shit happens.

In accordance with Genesis Ch.5. Verse 5 Ads lived to a ripe old 930 but had separated from Eve 903 years before. Eve married Mario with whom she had been carnally familiar and had 25 children and 102 grand kids. Eve was rapt. Ads married Kiralee 903 years back, she was 6 years younger and spunky as, eh? Kiralee bore Ads 4 children: Little Ads, Kezza, Stevie and Jack and became less spunky after each one. Lo she found Ads was in an adulterous relationship with 'That Bitch' Lenore 'Hey, call me Lennie' and so left him for Nicko with whom she had been carnally familiar on occasion usually at Christmas parties. She kept the boys and Adam kept Lenore which lasted for 10 years before Lennie left Ads for Todd 'Let me turn your lights on babe' The Electrician.

And so the Earth spun around with neither favour nor malice in tune with the nature of this particular existence. The Panel played their game unbeknownst to anyone, always smiling. Adam's seed stumbled and fumbled onward as humanity increased, stubbing toes, bumping into things, making mistakes, making progeny, dying, waging wars, and occasionally being beset with natural disasters, plagues, pestilence, famine, flood and other population reducing inconveniences. In early years it was believed that the Lord God Jehovah, or other gods launched these initiatives at mankind, to teach respect, or in recognition of the errors of their ways. Later humanity following 21st century arguments by Dawkins and Hitchens among others generally regarded religion as superstition and mythology, and it became clear that no superior celestial being had any interest whatsoever, beneficial or malicious. Except maybe Batman. Shit happens.

The Recipe

The recipe which commences 'if you are hungry, catch a slow goat' has long since gone. So, I have appropriated an excellent Sri Lankan recipe to tack onto my story. Of course it has been modified to my taste. Folk culture, whether cuisine, music or other art benefits from interaction, and is reborn. You can substitute lamb, pork or beef for goat meat, in fact adapt to your own taste.

Finely grind the following spices:

2 tsp brown mustard seeds

½ teaspoon whole peppercorns

3 tbls coriander seeds

2 cloves

Grind or blend the following:

1/4 medium Spanish red onion

½ inch piece ginger

3 medium cloves garlic

4 coriander roots

2 small hot chillies, red or green

Heat 3 tablespoons of oil – corn, macadamia, olive or peanut – to medium and add:

1 medium cinnamon stick

2 whole cardamom pods (crushed to put a split in pod)

2 bay leaves

½ kilo approximately (can be more) lamb, goat, pork or beef

Sear the meat quickly. Add the spices from the first bracket. Fry for 1 minute. Add the 2nd bracket. Fry for 5 minutes.

Add 1 cup good dry white wine and 1 cup water, 1 tsp lemon juice, 2 tablespoons Thai or Vietnamese fish sauce and 1 tsp salt.

Cover and cook on low heat – 90 mins for beef, 60 minutes for goat, lamb or pork. Add 2 chopped coriander plants and 270 ml tin of coconut cream.

### Thursday 8 November 2012

### Shiny Diamonds

**Mariah Jamieson**

Sheidow Park, SA

Through those windows

Lay two precious rocks

Paced neatly upon a cloth

Real pity about those locks

Oh those shiny diamonds

Enormous numbers for those

Printed on that tiny tag

I could never afford such

When one can hardly afford a rag

Oh those shiny diamonds

I must have those gems

They are simply brilliant

How hard can it be?

I must be resilient

Oh those shiny diamonds

I will steal them

When the clock strikes twelve

They will be all mine

Take them right off that shelf

Oh those shiny diamonds

What a mistake

This room is cold

Trapped and alone

I will be here till I grow old

Why those shiny diamonds?

### Friday 9 November 2012

### The House At The End Of The Tracks

**C.G. Freedman**

Rouse Hill, NSW

***Editor's Pick***

I spotted Damon in the crowd almost immediately, dragging his feet as he paced back and forth on the platform. One hand held his phone up to his ear while the other gripped firmly at his crotch. He spat on an empty bench as the train eased into the station, terminated his call and pocketed the phone. People began to approach the slowing train, carefully assembling behind the yellow line and keeping a noticeable distance from Damon. As if to demonstrate the sheer scope of his malice, Damon kicked a discarded bottle towards the passing train. The bottle met the train with a resounding pop, sending a shower of glass across the feet of the other passengers. Despite some grumbling and cursing, no passenger dared to confront the insubordinate reprobate.

Damon pushed past the disembarking passengers as he boarded the train. I moved through the carriages to head him off. When he saw me coming he raised both arms in the air and called out to me.

'Boy-ee!' he yelled with an elongated emphasis. He stood with his feet apart, blocking a woman's exit from the train. She glared at him indignantly as she was forced to shuffle awkwardly around him. Damon reciprocated by barking in her face and stalking her to the door as she scurried off. I laughed at the moron, who returned with an exaggerated swaggering gait.

'You're late, nig,' he said, poking an accusing finger at me in jest. 'Late!'

'Awww,' I said with mock sincerity. 'Wanna hug?' I returned.

'I'll get you a watch for your birthday, hey? A watch. Make me wait!'

'Too late. You've missed it. I'll get you a calendar for yours.'

Damon smiled a crooked smile. 'Just a couple of stops, bru.' He peered in the tattered backpack between his legs, fingering some of the concealed objects. When we got off the train, Damon wordlessly took the lead. We were at the final stop behind a row of old suburban homes. Everyone headed out of the station. We went the opposite direction, jumping down onto the tracks and over to the other side, following the row of houses. Damon peered over each fence in passing and rattled the gates.

'Here. Here,' he said. He stood beside the gate and pissed on the fence, throwing caution, and discretion, to the wind.

'Marking your territory?' I muttered.

'Man, you made me wait so long,' he complained. 'So fuckin' long.'

When he was done, he inspected the gate one final time, then, without warning, threw his side against it. The battered wooden fence shuddered from the shock. He heaved himself into it one final time with the gate flinging wide open. Damon headed straight in. I glanced over my shoulder back towards the now desolate station and followed, eager to avoid any eye-witnesses.

This was a first for us, setting the bar far higher than it had ever been before. Damon was confident it would be a breeze. I was just glad to have a day away from the monotony of my job. Any break to the routine was welcome as far as I was concerned. I carefully raised the gate to its former position.

I had earned my wings as a trespasser early on, when I was only about eleven or twelve. My brother and I would jump the fence behind the canteen block at our local pool every sweltering Saturday. We'd wait until about midday when we just couldn't stand the heat anymore and about the time when every one's stomachs told them it was time to haul arse out of the pool to load up on foods of the greasy salted variety. People lumbered back and forth from poolside, to canteen, to the piss soaked bathrooms. It was easy blending in. We'd already be stripped to our boardshorts. We just needed to throw our towels across the fence so it didn't snag our bare flesh, hoist ourselves up and tumble over.

'This is it, boy. This is it. The "track lift".' Damon trudged through the garden with his hands in his pockets kicking the heads off tulips as he spoke. 'On a silver-fucking-platter. A silver – fucking – platter.' He repeated. 'Free transport and me tools on m'back. We go in, we get out, hop on the train with a poker face and a bag full of loot and we're gone, gone who-the-fuck knows where, ay.'

Jumping the fence at the pool, it never felt like we were doing the wrong thing. It's not like the lifeguards and canteen girls weren't going to get paid. We didn't have our own pool and our parents never gave us so much as a dollar. It was jump the fence or die of dehydration as far as we were concerned!

There was this one time by the pool that always reminded me of Damon. For better or worse, it's how I'll always think of him. After another smooth entrance, my brother and I strolled casually through the crowd past the canteen block and over to the Olympic-sized pool. He always dived in headfirst but I liked to ease myself in. The toes of one foot, then the whole foot. The toes of the other foot, then the whole foot. By the time my legs were submerged, I'd built up enough confidence to raise myself up on my arms over the edge so I could slip down to the bottom in a final effortless plunge.

'Best thing is,' Damon continued as he pulled a car jack out of the backpack while lighting a smoke, 'nobody will be home... unless it's a mother, some dole bludgin' wank or a "geri" in a fuckin' nappy!'

On this one particular occasion, I'd only just worked my legs into the pool when I saw a bee caught up in the gentle current, thrashing in vain as it drifted towards my leg. I pulled my legs out in a panic and pulled back from the pool's edge. I watched as miniscule ripples encircled the helpless bee, the current pulling it further along. I'd never been stung before but I always had that fear – a fear of the unknown, I suppose. I'd seen kids screaming and crying from bee stings before, but I figured they must have done something to set them off. I convinced myself that if I tried to save it, it wouldn't sting me. It would know, it would sense somehow that I was doing it a good turn. And as I did what I did, and it did what it does, I felt I'd been taught a kind of lesson in the nature of things. The damned thing just couldn't help itself.

Damon used the jack to bend the bars protecting the windows then battered open a window and slinked through the tiny entry. I waited, wondering if Damon expected me to follow. I was a little heftier than Damon. There was no way I was going through the window. I looked around at the windows of the neighbouring houses, searching for prying eyes or fluttering curtains. Then the door opened. I entered hastily and closed the door behind me.

~~~

I met Damon in Year 10, just after my brother went interstate. He managed to con his way into a job at the mines. Mum had left by then and dad's time was divided between his job and his solitary, obsessive carpentering, so I guess I kind of gravitated towards Damon. He was pretty harmless at the time, just a weedy halfwit. He made me laugh though. That was enough back then. Damon's complete lack of shame made him the funniest guy in school.

When I caught up with Damon in the kitchen I tried to listen for signs of life in the house, but Damon was thumping around carelessly. He had an upturned pot on his head as he inspected the contents of the fridge. He took a bite from an apple and tossed it across the room. After helping himself to a bottle of juice he wandered away from the fridge, leaving the door wide open. His innate arrogance eased my tension somewhat.

When we were in high school, this little rough-as-guts Italian kid used to give me a hard time in Science. It was stupid little things like knocking my books off the desk or flicking cut up bits of eraser at me. Retaliation wasn't worth the trouble it'd heap upon me, so I ignored it. Damon didn't. Without uttering a word he strolled behind the guy, grabbed his bag and walked out the room. No one even noticed him. It was all so casual, so smooth. The teacher was still talking out the front, the students were still making notes and that fat shit was still flicking water at me from the dripping tap on his bench. And then Damon appeared, positioned perfectly, right outside the window where the class could clearly see him but out of sight of the teacher. He must have sprinted around the building to get there so fast. He was holding the bag upside down and thrusting his groin at the contents as they tumbled out.

I followed Damon into the living room where he was rifling through a drawer. He shot a sly smile at me and winked as he took something up in his hand and held it tightly in a clenched fist.

It was Damon's face that made his antics so funny. While thrusting at the falling objects he had a look of intense pleasure spread across his face. Then, when the bag was empty, he tossed it aside with complete nonchalance and strolled back around the building and into the room. He sat right across from the Italian turd, who didn't have the guts to take Damon on. No one did. He was in with all the hardest kids. He had this infectious way of rallying the troops and garnering support. Most of what he said was utter garbage, but it was how he said it, that way of repeating himself once or twice, or repeating certain words and phrases. 'You're gonna sit on the back seat?' he'd say when we got on the bus after school. 'On the back seat?' he'd repeat after a moment. And even as the offenders moved obediently to a more agreeable section of the bus, 'the back seat?' he'd say one final time, with a hint of incredulity.

'Well, we've struck paedo, mate,' Damon called across the room.

'What?'

'Paedo, mate. Paedo,' he said holding up a framed photo. He chucked the photo to me before moving off to continue his pilfering. I looked down at what was clearly a picture of a grandfather and granddaughter on some kind of family outing. I shook my head and laughed as I returned the photo to its place. This was the reason I was here instead of on the job site. After all, we weren't going to walk away with anything of great value. Damon's backpack wasn't big enough.

I know what I was getting out of the relationship but I never understood Damon's motive. It's strange really; I was the only person ever spared from Damon's unpredictable roguishness. Perhaps I was the exception that proved Damon's rule, Damon's dominion. I suspect my mild disposition and the amusement I showed in his antics contributed in some way. I certainly had nothing to offer him, or to be taken for that matter. Either way, he always had an inexplicable loyalty towards me.

There used to be a group of us back in the day, ditching class and lifting magazines and junk food. School didn't really do it for us. And I suppose we didn't really do it for school. At any rate, there was no real effort on their part to keep us coming back. And Damon had always been resistant to any kind of authority or institution, all to his own detriment. Truancy, loitering, vandalism, shoplifting. Miniscule ripples.

It was a nice old house, truth be told. Whoever this guy was, he'd certainly put the hours in to have established such a respectable abode. The décor was outdated and the furniture had clearly seen better days, but I finally understood what people meant when they described a place as 'homely'. It had a warmth, it had character, stories to tell. The drawers alone, the ones Damon had just ransacked, were full of history and heart. There was a stack of letters and papers spread throughout the drawer. I skimmed over a few lines of one at random:

... whistling that sweet tune. It stopped me in my tracks. I was completely and utterly captivated. Over a whistle! I have never felt so powerless. It was the way you rose and fell over the notes, carrying them gently and bending them at your...

I flicked through a couple more, all in the same vein as the first, riddled with gushy sentimentality. There was an assortment of trinkets, tickets stubs and polaroids floating around the drawer. I picked up the photo frame again, brought myself face to face with our victim. I had done a lot of stupid shit in my time, engaged in a lot of underhanded practices, but this was a first.

Looking around, I had to admit my place was a rat's nest by comparison. I shared a flat with three other guys, meatheads stuck doing menial labour by day and glued to their respective game consoles by night. But no matter how pitiful my situation was, I took solace in the knowledge, the empirical evidence, that it could be worse. Damon never left the nest.

His dad was an okay bloke but he and Damon shared more of a mateship than a father son relationship. His dad didn't work and the apple didn't fall far. The closest Damon managed was a week on the back dock of one of those generic retail giants. He spent the bulk of the week smoking and taking shit-breaks to avoid any real work. He couldn't get his head around the invoices and every unsupervised minute saw him riding the pallet jacks or messing around with the stock. They sacked him when one of his bosses caught him and another dropkick duelling with those long tubular fluorescent light bulbs. They'd pop and burst into tiny pieces when they smashed. Damon repeated several lines from Star Wars as they escorted him from the premises. 'Aren't you a little short for a storm trooper?' he said, quoting Princess Leia. 'A storm trooper,' he repeated bluntly, oblivious to the gravity of the situation. From that day on Centrelink was his home from home. He filled in the rest of his time wreaking havoc on the community.

When I saw Damon burst back into the room, the pot still upturned on his head but now with the old guy's underwear pulled up over his trousers, something inside of me clicked. All the dignity and humanity in the drawer had been upturned in a single act of idiocy. I didn't laugh. I couldn't.

'Let's go, Damon. Take that shit off,' I insisted. Damon had found a cane at this point and was shuffling around with a hunched posture, knocking over all the furniture he could.

'Sh-orry, old boy,' he said with a doddering voice. 'You'll have to sh-peak up, me King Lears ain't what they used to be.'

Some men were born for this world, content to live for their work, bleed in their toil and be at peace with their lot. Some, like me, were born with a kind of restlessness, not content to punch in and punch out, determined to break free of the mold and experience something else, something intangible, elusive, inescapable. There are those who give without hesitation, those who struggle against unforgiving circumstance, and those who simply yield. And then there are those born with a kind of emptiness. The sociopath. The anarchist. The agent of chaos. Irrational. Unfathomable.

'Seriously, Damon,' I said grabbing his arm. 'Drop your shit and let's go.'

'Say what?' he continued in the feeble voice. 'You want me to drop my shit? Well, I usually wait 'til the nurse shows up, but–' I yanked the cane from his hand and knocked the pot off his head.

'We're leaving,' I demanded.

'Fuck off, nig,' he said with some surprise, pulling free of my grip. Those were his last words. He turned around and it hit him. It sounded like a roast chicken being dropped on the floor, cartilage and bone compacting under the blunt base of a sailing trophy.

'Oh, oh no. No. I– I– I– I didn't mean to hit him so hard,' stammered the elderly gentleman in the doorway. The blood drained from his face almost as quickly as it drained from Damon's. He fell back into the doorframe as Damon dropped to his knees. The trophy clattered to the ground.

'Damon?' I didn't expect an answer. Damon slumped back onto the floor, his arms falling limply by his sides. He looked up into my eyes, spluttering. As the sound of sirens tore their way up the street towards the house, Damon unclenched his fist. A gold watch slid free and fell against the cold hard tiles.

_Editor's Note:_ _This is not a 'nice' story – the main character is not redeeming, yet does he really deserve his ending? But without his ending now, where would his story go, and would we really want to know? Perhaps we sense relief at his ending – this particular problem has been solved. But at what cost? How can we be pleased with the outcome when, after all, a human life has been taken? We found this to be a very stimulating, well-written and thought-provoking piece._

### Saturday 10 November 2012 4 pm

### Let's Get Metaphysical, Physical

**Mikhail Mathias**

Bathurst, NSW

Everything is everything, and everything matters.

There are still things that we do not understand. And that's something which we should never lose sight of. Our big unanswerable questions, our existential crises, both personal and shared, those questions have answers. There are ways in which existence works, ways in which we are connected, that are not yet apparent to us. When and if they become apparent, they will hold keys to our questions.

What about when you're thinking about someone, and your phone lights up and dances with their name? That phenomenon only came about with the advance and availability of communications technology. Does it prove anything? No, but it's interesting. Little indications of things beyond our comprehension are what keep us going. A world without magic and mystery is a dead world. Today, we have the language and the knowledge to explain away the feeling of love in terms of biology and psychology. Why, then, do we hold on to its mystery? Why do we continue to contemplate and wonder and look at love as though it is something ethereal, something that we will never understand? It is because we crave mystery. So long as there is mystery and magic, there is something to strive for.

As a human race, we strive. That much is certain. What we strive for is up for debate. And probably up to the individual. It comes out to the same thing though – whatever we strive for, we are pushing the boundaries of human knowledge. Pushing forever outwards. Not everyone is on the edge, not everyone directly affects the expansion of human knowledge. This is reserved for those at the top of their fields, those explorers of the unknown. But these people stand atop a pyramid whose structure is composed of all mankind.

There is an undeniable arrogance that is deeply entrenched in the composition of our souls. We are fortunate enough to live in an age where we understand the vastness of the universe. Qualitatively at least, we can place ourselves on the universal scale and know how small we really are. We know all this, yet we ignore it. We are convinced of our ultimate importance. We are omnipotent and impotent all at once. It is this internal power, tempered with our innate feelings of inadequacy, that produces drive and ambition, that decides our trajectory on the path to enlightenment.

The knowledge that there is more – that there is always more, is both a help and a hindrance. Humankind has at many times reached what they thought was a conclusion. Thought they had learned all that there was to know. We have built the tower of babel more than once, only to have it blown apart and scattered. Cycles of boom and bust are not reserved for economic systems. They are apparent in all facets of life, both on a small personal scale, and on a grand universal one. We build up to be broken down.

There are still things that we do not understand. In truth, the more we know, the more there is to know. As soon as we solve one mystery, a hundred others open themselves to us. This is our gift and our curse. This is the way the world works.

### Sunday 11 November 2012

### Behind The Door

**Robyn Chaffey**

Hazelbrook, NSW

My sisters One, Four and Six

Each blessed with raven hair

Long and straight, easy to fix...

I was the one who missed out

Simply, I could not be there

When that blessing was tossed about

I was behind a door somewhere

Siblings Two, Three and Seven

With our young brother, Nine

Were first in line when hosts of Heaven

Granted talent for usage of words

In stories and poems sublime

Describing awesome valleys and birds

Behind that door, I didn't get mine.

Sweet sister Eight got best

Multiply blest with great talent

To paint or draw as well as the rest

Though in the garden she couldn't compete

Brothers Seven and Nine scored that bent

Behind that door my lacks to complete

'twas I who missed out, I resent

The crowds were fearsome that day

Inherently small and shy was I

The jostling game I could not play

Soon I was cornered right by the door

When the door opened I wanted to cry.

Trapped there behind and left talent poor

... Behind the door while the talents flew by.

Robyn created this an exercise with the Blackheath Writers' Group to write a poem using the following rhyme sequence:

a

b

a

c

b

c

b

It makes it very interesting to read as the usually predictable rhythms aren't there!

### Monday 12 November 2012

### Waiting

**NaNaG**

Springwood, NSW

Young man riding by on tandem, solitary,

alone through Belmore Park this fine crisp Autumn morn,

my thoughts reach out to you.

Turn, turn again, embrace my waiting heart!

'Some mystic magic drew me back, my lady, hast thou need of me?'

'Sir Galahad I've waited long for this, The New Beginning!'

'Come Eleanora mount my trusty steed.

Together we will travel through the streets of Sydney,

and on and on to where the cool stream glistens,

and currawongs delight us with their song,

and on and on to freedom and beyond.'

'Sir Gal, you send me spinning with your wondrous words!

My heart's aflutter with the skyward birds.

I'd no Idea my magic wove so well.

( I find myself alas twixt heaven and hell!)

Cruel fate has offered little time for us, I must away.'

Here comes the blasted bus.

### Tuesday 13 November 2012

### In Each Other's Heart

**JAC**

Kilsyth, VIC

For one brief moment

in the great sea of eternity

We have met

We're both small drops of seconds

in the river of time

Like a single pebble

I've caused a ripple

in your cool pond of serenity;

While you're the soulful wind

that kissed the splendid pearl

from out her shell ...

I remember the beautiful name you gave

You must have loved me then, somehow

A treasured pearl

could I really be that way for you?

Whatever that lies between us

then and now

Is like raindrop from heaven

so refreshing and sweet.

Yet life is still far from crystal clear

The pain of silence torments

and we're both sad

For one brief moment

in the great sea of eternity

we have met

but I know

Immortal we'll always be

In each other's heart.

### Wednesday 14 November 2012

### Shooting Star

**Graham Sparks**

Bathurst, NSW

Love is like a shooting star,

a thing of wonder, and ephemeral.

The head that penetrates the heavens

is made of blinding white hot stuff,

and the gravity of lust bends space and time alike,

and reconfigures structure in the mind.

Entrained behind , the afterglow,

a tail that stretches for a life in special cases,

composed of stardust

and reverberations of the violence of ignition.

In the case of lucky ones,

machineries are embedded

for the processing of maintenance sex,

but some like me abstain

although a warm and glowing fusion yet remains.

### Thursday 15 November 2012

### Piece Of Meat

**Ben McCaskill**

North Balgowlah, NSW

On the stool she waits for the sight of white skin,

When he passes she calls, she calls after him

Offering, willing, and tempting his lust

To listen and look, to his brain it's a must

Just one little glance is all it takes to arouse

He sees the skirt, the young face and the skimpy little blouse

Making a turn he heads straight for the girl

His intentions are clear, his lips make a curl

Taking a seat, his hand, on her leg it will lay

He's older than her father, but as long a he'll pay

That doesn't matter not by any bit of measure,

She will be his object, his medium of pleasure

At the end of his drink he asks for the price,

She tells him with a smile and doesn't think twice

Together they leave, he leads the way

To their destination they walk, to the place where they'll lay

Her heart beats faster when they arrive at the door

She knows what's next, she's done this before

But every time she does she breaks deep inside,

But she cannot show this, from the rich white man she must hide

He's the one with the money, it's his little treat

The person to him is dead. She's just a piece of meat

When it's over she leaves and remembers being a child

So innocent, so happy, when she could run wild

Playing with friends and not worrying about tomorrow

Oblivious to the life which would evidently follow

A tear rolls down her cheek and she asks the sky 'How'

How did this happen, I want to stop now

But she needs this job, or how will she live

She has no choice, the world she won't forgive

The lights of the bar glimmer not far away

She wipes away the tear, it's her only way

### Friday 16 November 2012

### Stockholm Sponge

**Amber Johnson**

Highgate Hill, QLD

A harsh florescent light flickered on as I heard approaching footsteps. After isolation in this dank metal cell, his presence was comforting. The snap of elastic echoed around the basin as he slid the rubber on. I wasn't sure whether to feel grateful for his consideration or insulted for the lack of intimacy.

He remained silent as he pinned me down forcefully. He pushed me harder than usual but I didn't protest. I knew what happened to those who did. He once possessed another who he kept safe in this little den. She had a rough side to her that was edgy and abrasive. He loved how hard she fought back so he pushed until she reached her limits. One day she just couldn't scrub up like she used to. She lost her edge and so he disposed of her like his silicon sheaths. I didn't want to end up like her. I wanted to stay with my master.

After he was satisfied with groping and squeezing my body, he yanked me in the air and held me over the tub. The room filled with white noise as the water trickled into the basin. This was the sound of our reunion. Nothing soothed me more.

As he lowered me into the basin, I lathered myself up in bubbles. With a gentle hand, he guided me towards the circular glass walls that lined the edge of the tub. He pressed me firmly against the glass and watched as I rubbed my body against it. All of the bubbles rubbed off as I cleaned the screen by grinding and rubbing in vigorous motions. It pleased my master when I danced like this.

Once he grew bored with the glass wear, he led me to the porcelain. I thrust myself against the surface as he guided my movements. I felt like Viva von Tease as I spun around the breakfast bowl. I imagined that it was her famous martini glass that she swirled around. But that's not how he sees me.

Each day I fear that he'll think I'm too old and will dispose of me like the others. I am no longer fresh and vibrant like I was when he first brought me here. My body is weak and I am turning grey. I still push myself as hard as I can bear just to stay here a little longer. I couldn't bear losing him. I can't break down.

When he is done, he tosses me aside in the steel cage where I spend most of my days. Sometimes I wonder why I still service him, but the sad truth is that despite it all, a part of me still waits for his return each day because without him, I am obsolete. That's why no matter how rough he treats me, or how dirty it makes me feel, I'll always be waiting in this enclosure until he needs me again.

Sometimes it is interesting to view things through the perspective of an inanimate object. In this short piece Amber Johnson tells the story of a kitchen sponge who is a victim of Stockholm Syndrome.

### Saturday 17 November 2012

### Tits Should Be Out and About

**Des Pensable**

Kirrawee, NSW

My good friend Barry at the bar a month ago last night,

told me of some tits he'd seen that gave him great delight.

I went home sober that night thinking I was missing out,

they sounded quite glorious and should be out and about.

A few days later I was as determined as I could be,

that pair of beautiful tits were perfection that I really had to see.

I woke early before dawn, it would be a lovely spring day,

with binoculars and a thermos of coffee I was off and on my way.

I crept carefully through the brambles getting stuck once or twice,

in the darkness every sound was a snake or possibly just mice.

I fell over a few times, tore my shirt, and got dirt upon my face,

but finally after cursing a few times I arrived at the predetermined place.

On the bank of a creek at the back of the new housing estate,

just down from the national park and near the ranger's entry gate.

I took up my secret hide overlooking a backyard fence,

the mist was just on rising but still far too dense.

I cleaned the lenses on my viewers as they'd received a little mud,

and had a swig of hot coffee to stimulate my blood.

As the new day dawned and the haze began to clear,

I saw those two lovely blue tits in a cage hanging quite near.

They belonged to an ornithologist that had lots of caged-up birds,

a prison for these lovely tits made me quite lost for words.

I climbed over that backyard fence and snuck up to their cage,

I released the catch on their little door in a mood of pique and rage.

I watched as they flew up high to their freedom at last,

then fled back through the trees and bushes running very fast.

Breathing heavily and covered in sweat, I returned back to my bike,

a ranger was waiting there. 'Son' he said, 'come on let's take a hike'.

We've had a complaint from a customs officer living near,

you've released illegal birds in this National Park we hear.

They'll breed like bloody sparrows and soon become a pest,

they'll displace all the natives and block up gutters when they nest.

European tits like Aussie boobies should be free to fly not in cage,

but we must care for our environment in this modern day and age.

The place for tits to be free is in their native country side,

like Aussie boobies that flourish at the beaches where we reside.

The magistrate let me off on a good behaviour bond,

and a warning about foreign birds of which I'm always very fond.

I was at the bar with my good mate Barry, he's wondered where I've been,

he told me about some beautiful caged parrots that he'd recently just seen.

I went home sober that night thinking that they were missing out,

they sounded quite glorious and should be out and about.

### Sunday 18 November 2012

### A Wee Adventure Past

**Alex Gardiner aka The Auld Yin**

Bullaburra, NSW

Peter an' Lynda hail frae a local toon,

an' Peter at the moment is neither up nor doon.

Peter had a wee operation oan his nether parts,

oan the opposite side o' his boady frae whare he farts.

Aye!! Roond aboot the place whare yea need tae pee,

an' fur Peter a region whare it's hard tae see.

A wee shunt intae his waaater storage place,

a divert frae his operation tae keep it safe.

A wee wee tube if yea furgive the pun,

now am no writin' this tae hiv sum fun.

Jist gein' yea the basic faqs,

an tryin' tae use a wee bit tact

Weel Peter dis aw his ain bandigin',

a chore that kin be a wee bit grim,

Lynda heard Peter shout frae ben the hoose,

ignorin' him cause he is a'ways cursin' an lettin' loose.

Mair cursin' frae Peter made Lynda investigate,

lookin' intae his room to see whit wis his fate.

A wis tidying ma bandages whin a cut ma wee tube,

noo am leaking aw o'er the place a hope am no rude.

Lynda didnae ken whither tae laugh or cry,

nae wurries Peter yer no gonna die.

Whit wull a dae hon, what wull a dae?

Whit wull a the blidy nurses hiv tae say?

Noo wae wee leakin aw o'er the place,

an' Peter gittin ridder in the blidy face.

Hoo kin a stoap ma wee thing frae leakin so?

Aw jings it's oaf the the hospital a'll hiv tae go.

Wae twa clothes pegs oan his leaky parts,

oaf the the hospital went this auld fart.

Haudin aw his nether parts wae his richt hand,

enterin' emergency whare aw the nurses stand.

Noo there wisnae wan wee dry eye tae be seen,

tryin' tae see Peter's dilemma they wir a very keen.

Comments like; dae yea need a hand wae that?

Dae yea need a wheelchair fur yer leaky parts tae cart?

All hands on deck wis the nurses charge,

didnae need them aw fur the damage wisnae large.

A new tube here an' a wee tap screw,

an' Peters wee thingie wis nearly brand new.

Noo Peter disnae ken aboot this wee write,

if he did he wid call me a daft auld kite.

But whay could pass up aw this ammunition,

fur a poem tae write aboot Peter's condition.

If Peter finds oot aboot this wee write somehow,

An' am stull alive a'll tak a bow.

But you folks oot there dinnae say a wurd,

an' Peter wull no ken aboot leaky poems 'absurd'.

### Monday 19 November 2012

### Winter Shadows

**Jean Bundesen**

Woodford, NSW

Bright yellow sunshine throws

Slender summer shadows

Loping across my back yard.

It's a warm pleasant picture

Luring my friends and I outside

To have tea on the patio.

But

Summer's alluring shadows

Are gone – replaced by bleak

Cold frosty winter shadows.

Still with contrasting light and shade

But the sun has lost its warmth.

To enjoy it you must rug up.

Western sky bush-fire red

Darkness settles mantle like

As day dissolved into night

Full moon rises – floating...

A golden gondola.

Creating pools of light

Cool soft shadows... while

Ghostly shadows of ink black trees

Cast on the road

Appear to have substance

It's a cold night

Time to pull up my anchor

My warm bed beckons

I drift off to sleep.

### Monday 19 November 2012 4 pm

### Every Golfer's Treasure

**Toni Paton**

Blackheath, NSW

I am accused of being aloof –

Of having a mind of my own.

Alas, only go where directed,

Take the path that I am shown.

I was created for pleasure they say,

To make human kind feel good,

For them to relax and enjoy,

Hitting me, with an iron or wood.

The game that's played is a challenge,

Each time one enters the course.

I'm needed, I'm there, I am happy,

To play around, do my bit, of course.

My most redeeming features are,

My DIMPLES, of which I am covered.

Worn with pride, envied by humans,

My secret, they've not discovered.

Gather your friends, play a round with me,

Let's relax and all have fun.

When you take up the game of golf –

Your adventure has just begun!

### Tuesday 20 November 2012

### Cockie

**Sallie Ramsay**

Torrens, ACT

***Editor's Pick***

The first time she saw him he was standing guard over a small bundle of blood stained white feathers in the middle of a busy suburban road. Without thinking, she slammed on the brakes, bucketed over the gutter and on to the nature strip, leaping from the car and waving her arms like a traffic cop. Vehicles swerved around her, horns shrieking disapproval. In an instant she gathered him into her arms and somehow, against all the odds, made it back to the nature strip.

'You poor old bugger. That was your mate back there wasn't it? No point you ending up the same way, though I expect you may have preferred it.'

The big white sulphur crested cockatoo repaid his saviour by pecking her viciously, drawing blood in at least four places.

'How am I to get us home in more or less one piece?'

After a moment's thought she grabbed a sweater from the back seat and unceremoniously bundled the bird up in it, tying the sleeves to keep it secure.

'The bloke who had the house before me kept budgies so there's a bit of a cage I can put you in. Horrible bloody things cages but till you settle down and I check you over, a cage it is.'

She gingerly unwrapped the bird on the kitchen table checking for injuries. Her attempts to dodge angry thrusts from beak and claws were not always successful.

'Come on then mate, give me a go. You've had a shit of a day but I am doing my best to help.' She frowned, 'That wing looks a bit wonky, ouch! Bloody bird! It's broken, but I can't see anything else wrong with you. Now it's into the cage with you while I attend to my wounds.'

Sometime later, its wing skilfully splinted, the cockatoo squatted at the bottom of the cage, bright black eyes following every movement she made. It had made some inroads on the parrot mix she had offered and had had a drink.

'Tough old sod, aren't you? Lucky for you I've worked for a vet. Be right as rain soon and then it's back to the bush for you.'

She had always felt some affinity with the raucous sulphur crested cockatoos, she loved their larrikin ways: stripping blossoms from trees seemingly for no better reason than it was fun and how they managed to manipulate the rubber seals out of the street lights to make swings which they used with all the skill of circus acrobats.

There was another reason, too. All her life she had been nicknamed Cockie, the hooked nose, the shock of blonde hair, the raucous voice, the small dark eyes...

The wing healed slowly but the bird soon had the run of the house and garden. They spent hours together, the big white bird and small bird-like woman. She talked to it as she had never been able to talk to anyone or any thing before and was more at peace within herself than she had ever felt before. As for the cockatoo, it more than held up its end of the conversation squawking and chortling contentedly as it followed her about.

Local kids and neighbours were quick to notice the likeness between them. 'Hello Cockies! When you gonna fly?'

Then one day a neighbour remarked she hadn't seen the woman or the bird for a few days. The car was in the garage, the letter box overflowing. The police were informed and all the usual checks made: bank accounts hadn't been touched, mobile phone not used. Weeks turned into months, a distant relative came to sort out the house, the mystery deepened. It was assumed by most she had fallen victim to foul play. They had searched everywhere but nobody thought to look up into the towering gum next door, where the pair of particularly large sulphur crested cockatoos busy preparing a nesting site may well have given an enquiring mind some food for thought.

_Ed:_ _We really enjoyed the warmth of this story, and the way it didn't end the way we thought it would, with Cockie's body being found inside her house. We thought the ending was very creative and a really fresh slant on the old concept of there being someone for everyone._

### Wednesday 21 November 2012

### Angelita

**Bob Edgar**

Wentworth Falls, NSW

Why did you leave us Angelita? You blessed us with your life for two hours, your eyes so blue and pure, as to fuse our souls with yours. So helpless you were, and yet able to wield such power.

Your mother and I had yearned for the day when we could hold you in our arms. That day came and went, followed by another day ... then another.

You left us ... you were taken ... you died a peaceful death and returned to Heaven. No matter what words are used, they are hollow ... heartless.

We anticipated a lifetime of love and parental devotion; we were given two hours.

We blame no one, and yet we blame everyone.

But never you, Angelita. For a decade now your love and power has bound us.

'Have another,' we are urged. 'It will help to heal.'

For fear of losing the two hours, we don't want to heal.

So we listen, softly smile and lie.

'Maybe next year.'

SANDS Australia provides support for people dealing with the loss of a child by miscarriage, stillbirth or early newborn death. For more information visit their website at http://www.sands.org.au/

### Thursday 22 November 2012

### A Sentimental Cynic

**Pawel Cholewa**

Glen Waverley, VIC

The most frightening and simultaneously liberating thing I can imagine is the sensation derived from absolute and complete loneliness and isolation. I have experienced such a moment. Trapped in the void of my own imagination and excessive thoughtlessness I found a critical and pivotal form of transcendental clarity. What if there was such a thing as eternity and it was accessible from the arch of the brow and the scope of the mind? And yet there I was, lying sprawled across the floor of a room – the physicality of the situation was real, lucid – and I realised that if I attempted to step outside its doors I would float into an endless vacuum and I would be totally alone and my actions would have absolutely no consequences, and I would become and enact my previous lives, up to and including the most recent in which I had animalistic qualities that I now fail to adequately grasp. Yet I now have total familiarity and reciprocal appreciation for the potentiality of these possibilities. And I was immersed in silent contemplation, and there was so much peace and clarity in this isolation. I began to writhe violently on the floor, and engaged in all the rigid-less and residually resonating bodily movements and behavioural motions that would either be deemed unfit, or unnecessary, or unreal or impractical in everyday life. There are actions like this. There are movements like this. The body has the subliminal and subconscious capacity to move of its own free will, and when it does it is devoid of any other responsibilities previously committed to the ego or by the ego, or vice versa, or to the confines of the earth and the upside-down topsy-turvy shelter of the ground beneath the souls of our feet.

The body is malleable and permeable and has the ability to be liberated by the mind's insidious concentration – to become another organism: a seal, a lotus flower, an organic parasitical insect hovering over the rooftops and treetops and mountaintops and yoghurt tops of the containers, tinned cans, atmospheres, ultraviolet rays streaming from the neon lights and hidden messages and fetishes and uncontrollable impulses that are contained and limited by reason, or in other words logical and systematic restriction of the wandering ghost of TIME and IT.

And thus, I am aesthetically free in the centre of this room – this kitchen smoldering of crystalline clarity – in the centre of the universe in which my actions and bodily behaviours have no other consequences but are made primarily for the purpose that they are MADE and that is all. They serve no other function and that is settling. For it is rare to behave in a way that does not dictate foresight or reminiscence or hindsight or nostalgia – it is rare to behave in such a way that simply fulfils the purpose of IS and DOES and nothing more. And I am satisfied and content in this room with walls and if I do choose to leave through THAT door in the corner I will enter THAT vacuum of space and that is my personal derogative. That is my impulse – my choice.

Yet I notice that there is someone else physiologically present in here and he is pouring orange juice, and he is pacing and marching powerfully. Power-marching and pouring juice – these are the fruitful juices of our quenched labour; self-sufficiently satisfying and reciprocating the vitamins and minerals evident in this fantastic room with a doorway that leads to infinite self-satisfaction and SPACE and TIME. The duality becomes clear: action and reaction – onward forward momentum and speed.

I peered out of the window in the room. The sky appeared to be moving, though it may have been the room itself, or perhaps time in a playful projection of sky and stars that occasionally dance around and explode into an image of ultimate infinity, and what some saints or mystics or believers might refer to as God, who was reincarnated in the night sky, stemming from a cluster and combination of bright shining mythical lights glaring and projecting their past tens of thousands of years into the future and into the current contemplative contempt-filled contemporary world. Stars – they are the real philosophs – the time travelers of future incomprehensible destinies that we simply cannot fathom – our potential is too unrefined to compete with such grand forces of grandeur that live and breathe and swell and implode in the restlessly racing night sky.

Yet my dreary eyes continue to wonder and anticipate the future and all other future generations yet to come and churn the minds, spirits, and bodies of thoughtful thoughtlessness, thinking tirelessly about all and everything. I wonder about these people, and what they'll look like and what they'll say about us! We are but another generation and we will not be the last. And we stand at a precipice of wonder and fear and glory, for mankind will always maintain a sense of self that can be best described as frivolously in love with life, regardless of the endless adversity that clouds our endeavours.

Yet we shelter ourselves and themselves and yourselves and all selves that are mimicked and mimed and translucent and adjacent to their own sense of self. This room – this cluster of collective experience and truth and 'Dharma' and IT and TIME – as insightful as it all may be it cannot be enacted or produced in any artificial way. It is too unreal, too unorthodox, too strange and alien and foreign and unpredictable. Our collective selves cannot REALISE the now. It is too much of a frightening thought. As frightening as the ironic fear and timidness in which I initially approached the trajectory of this projection room. It is frightening and liberating. Simultaneously, of course. But it is reason and logic that will always be victorious. Those sinners have a firmer 'understanding' of the realities of perception and its rigidity as something that is ingrained and anchored and clawed into the now-frozen streams of our conscious mind. And so we continue to shelter our 'selves' in our erratic displays of angst and self-destructive peacocking portrayals of vulnerable yet violent independence – a continually restless battle between mind and matter and what actually matters in the mind.

### Friday 23 November 2012

### Predicate Etiquette

**Demelza**

Taroona, TAS

***Editor's Pick***

Euphemisms, idioms, metaphors and similes

Spoonerisms, superlatives, syntax and redundancies

Do I need to know the meaning before I can write an essay?

Or is it just a screening test to keep my mind in disarray?

Infinite, reflective, possessive or comparative

Expressive or imperative, progressive or a narrative

I'm so completely full of adjectives

(I think I need a laxative!)

Infinite and definite, predicate and irony

Homonym and acronym are they a form of tyranny?

If I could grasp the concept of the meaning of these terms

Would I be a better writer or an apple full of worms?

To intimidate or educate by passing an exam?

Will it make me more intelligent or fill my head with spam?

I'd like to be impressive, expressive and compulsive

But the logistics of linguistics to me are just repulsive!

_Ed:_ _This reminded me so much of the Gilbert and Sullivan songs my mother used to sing around the house when I was a youngster that it just had to have an Editor's Pick award. The fact that it talked to me as an editor who also doesn't always understand all the bits in between sealed the deal for me!_

### Saturday 24 November 2012

### The Cave

**John Ross**

Blackheath, NSW

It was a beautiful morning. There was not a cloud in the sky. The air was still cold but the sun was warm on my face as I set out along the trail. Even though it was heavy my pack felt comfortable on my back. I had brought enough provisions for three days, a feather down sleeping bag and plenty of warm clothes, as it can get very cold in the mountains in autumn. The whole trek down to the cave and back should only take me two days but I had learned to be careful and to always prepare for the worst.

There was no well-trodden track, just a cleft in the rocks that led down to a narrow platform. One had to inch along this for about two hundred metres to the remains of a rock fall. This was a rather steep slope strewn with man-sized boulders and loose scree. About two thirds of the way to the bottom between two larger boulders there was a small round opening into the cave.

I had no recollection of the track at all as I started along the cliff face to find the cleft in the rocks. The last time that I had made this trek I had been found just outside the opening to the cave. I was unconscious and had a large wound on the back of my head. Bush walkers on the top of the cliff face had spotted me lying on the rocks below. At first it was thought that I had fallen from the cliff and was surely dead. However, when the rescue team from the local police station reached me they found that I was still alive. It had taken them many hours to bring me back to the top and then by ambulance to the nearest hospital. The doctors did not give me much of a chance of surviving but, against all odds, I slowly got better and after four weeks I was ready to be discharged.

There was, however, one major problem. I could not remember anything before waking up in hospital. Not only did I not have any recollection of walking down to the cave but also I did not even know my own name or where I had come from.

Initially the police tried to help me but as the weeks wore on they gradually lost interest. There were only a few clues as to who I was. I could speak English, albeit with a strange accent that I was told was closest to an Irish one. I also had no words for all the modern conveniences of life such as television, mobile phones, computers etc. It was assumed I must have come from a remote rural area. The doctors told me I was about twenty years old. The clothes that I had been wearing when I was rescued did not have any maker's tags and appeared to have been home made. They were, however, of good quality. They had not found any pack, provisions or other clothing.

When I left hospital I had initially stayed with one of the male patients that I had become friendly with. He had been discharged a few days before me and owned a small flat in the city. I had to attend a clinic three days a week for the next year. They helped people like me who had lost their memory or who had become mentally restricted because of an accident. At first it was hard as everything was strange and new to me. Little by little I adapted and after the year was up I was able to gain employment and to save up and rent my own place.

The years had rolled by and now I was forty years old, married with two children and a mortgage. Lately I had become more and more curious about my past and with my wife's support had sought out one of the police officers who had been in the rescue party. He was now retired and living in the mountains. He told me about how they had climbed down to where I was and described the route that they had taken. He could not help me with any other information except to describe a scrap of paper that I had grasped tightly in my hand. He did not know what had happened to the paper and could only remember that it had part of a picture of a bird on it. The bird had a brilliant red head and a silver flash on its wings.

After discussing it with my wife we decided that it might be helpful if I was to go back to where I had been found. There was just the possibility that it might make me remember something about my past.

All these thoughts were swirling around in my mind as I found the cleft in the cliff face and headed down. I found the going surprisingly easy and was soon approaching the area where the cave should be. I rounded a large boulder and there it was, just as the policeman had described.

I stood staring at the opening for many minutes and at the area where I must have lain all those years ago. Nothing! The past was still just a blank wall.

Crushingly disappointed I sat on a small rock and tried to gather my thoughts. I must have sat there for at least an hour and then feeling both hungry and thirsty I opened my pack and had something to eat and drink.

After the meal I was still hungry so I took a biscuit from my pack. As I was about to eat it a male King Parrot landed near the opening to the cave. I threw it a piece of my biscuit and then it struck me. The male King Parrot has a bright red head and a silver flash on its green wings.

The bird took the piece of biscuit and flew into the cave. It disappeared into the darkness. For a moment I was too stunned to move but then grabbing my torch from my pack I followed it into the cave.

The opening was narrow but not far inside it opened out into a large chamber and from this numerous tunnels led off in different directions. I was just in time to see the bird disappear down one of these. Again I hurried after it. The tunnel twisted and turned and then came to an end in a large cave. The floor of the cave was littered with rubble that had fallen from the roof and many stalagmites and stalactites almost obscured the view through to the back wall. Then I saw it.

In the middle of the cave was a skeleton. I approached cautiously.

One side of the skull was cracked open. Beside the skeleton was a rucksack that had nearly rotted away. It was full of books. Tied to the bottom of it was a bag of what must have been provisions and a water bottle.

I pulled back the flap of the rucksack and on top was a sheet of newspaper with an article on the wildlife of the mountains of the Colony of New South Wales. It was dated 1867.

Something made me glance back at the skeleton. The bird was sitting near its right hand.

Grasped in the bony fingers of that hand was a scrap of paper with a picture of a bird with a bright red head.

### Sunday 25 November 2012

### Recollection Of My Future

**Robertas**

Drummoyne, NSW

How many candles? One, two, three, four, five, six, seven ... er ... seven ... eight, nine, ten, eleven. Eleven!

Can't be! Just look at my hands. No!

That little boy is eleven. I've seen him before.

Hello, what's your name? Did you already tell me?

Yes – I'm Richard, Grampa.

Oh, of course ... Richard. I didn't really forget you know. You're my grandson, that's right isn't it?

Yes. Well ... not exactly. I'm your great grandson.

My goodness! Am I that old? Oh, so this is your cake. You're eleven.

No, silly. I'm only eight, and it's your cake – it's your birthday.

Then why are there only eleven candles?

'Cos you're one hundred and eleven.

Am I? Are you sure?

Yeah, Mum said.

What's that dinging sound? Who's doing that?

That's only Dad dinging his glass for everyone to be quiet.

Bit of hush please everyone. It gives me great pleasure to see you all here today to celebrate Granddad's birthday, yet again. Well Granddad, here we all are again to wish you happy birthday ... and I must say, you seem to be getting younger every year – you don't look a day older than 105.

You always were a cheeky boy ... I think.

No I wasn't! Oscar was the cheeky one. I was always a good boy ... and got all the treats ... I'm no fool.

Happy birthday to you,

happy birthday to you,

happy birthday dear Bertie,

happy birthday to you.

Hip hip ... Hooray ... Hip hip ... Hooray ... Hip hip ... Hooray.

Oh, for he's a jolly good fellow ...

Well thank you. Thank you all. I hope you don't expect me to make a speech.

No Bertie. You just have another glass of bubbly. Keep you young.

Well thank you. Don't mind if I do. Oh, this is lovely ...

As Robertas says, life's a wonderful ride but we all lose it in the end.

### Monday 26 November 2012

### The Persian Tanker

**Penny Blackwell**

Blue Mountains, NSW

The snow was a white blindfold over the tanker's windscreen. The Iranian, vibrating with the old engine, drove at the wheel and peered hard through the curtain of falling snow, hoping, as we all were, that we'd beat the snowdrifts.

We had got this ride outside Tabriz. There had been four of us but John, thinking he would make a bigger profit, went to sell the half-pint of his blood to a private bidder instead of to the hospital. We had waited for three days and even gone to the police but John didn't show up again. It was only Jim, Neville and I, Penny, who got the ride on the tanker. Three hours on the dusty roadside under the hot sun had seen the last of our naan eaten and furious bidding with the tanker drivers for the cheapest ride. Finally one had given us a ride for nothing.

It was fine then. The warm air blew fresh through the numerous cracks in the cabin floor and the areas where the windows didn't fit. The old tanker's vibrations triple-exposed the landscape in our eyes. The Iranian could speak little English and, having all grown tired of laborious sign language, we had lapsed into silence.

He was thin, the Iranian, with features rugged like the worsening weather. His clothes were worn, as all clothes are in Asia, and torn in places like the clouds by the ragged mountains on either side of the winding road. His eyes were kind and paternal, like our memory of the sun.

We had taken a short cut. We'd left the surfaced highway at a creek bed where two trucks had overturned in the rising water and nine others mourned with dipped headlights. Our own truck driver remained undaunted and we'd joined the dirt road.

It was cold. 'Snow,' warned Haan (the driver) by sign and he pointed ahead. No matter, Haan would get us through and he knew a little cafe where we could eat and get a glass of tea. 'Tea!' I thought. 'My world for a glass of tea!'

It was closed! The whole village was closed and battened down against the coming storm, dark and black. Haan mumbled a few Iranian adjectives along with his English equivalents and we shivered with the chill wind blowing up our legs.

Snow fell then. Not in tentative flakes but with determination, 'to block the road', according to Haan. The engine roared louder in an effort to devour the distance before the snow devoured us. But the effort seemed hopeless – within an hour the snow was a foot thick on the road.

Jim and Neville took turns to climb onto the bonnet and clean the windscreen; the wipers didn't work, obviously the reason for the free ride. The Iranian wouldn't let me help because of my sex. Two minutes outside in the wind and snow and Jim's and then Neville's clothes were stuck to the glass. Their bodies were so rigid they found it difficult to return to the cabin. Their fingers were numbed into the shape of the rag.

'Road falling!' A truckie gave Haan the message as he passed. Haan's lips tightened and his foot forced more on the pedal. He'd beat the fall. His family was waiting.

Not quite like zombies the two men dreaded their turn on the bonnet. The engine screamed and the snow rose calmly.

We stopped once, when the snow did, to give a lift to a burly shepherd. There was no room inside so he clung desperately to the door but we hadn't gone far when, with a cry of despair, he flung himself onto the bonnet to gain a little warmth. We could have told him not to bother. Now we had a mascot; a Samson with his hair cut. The night was the saddest darkness we'd ever felt.

'Road down!' The cry, in Persian, came from the shepherd. Haan braked but the tyres slid on the snow. 'Stop!' the shepherd cried with his fingers a forked star in panic. With a struggle the tanker stilled and we climbed out to take a look, our heavy breaths a fog around us. The dirt road had fallen away on one side into the depths of the gorge. There was room enough for a lucky car on the right but the dirt was wet and loose, the snow slippery.

Haan decided to take the truck across. We tried to argue against it but he wouldn't listen. We could have tried harder regardless of the futility of doing so but none of us was feeling particularly well, and if he did get across we'd be in Teheran that night. Haan spoke quickly with the shepherd who then walked on ahead, torch in hand and waving.

The snow started to fall again.

The engine roared in low gear, backed up to line up, then inched forward. Persian words holed the night.

The name of Allah was called. Flakes of snow like a million stars displaced the air while the torch danced and the tanker jerked and revved. Another piece of road fell away to the rear of the great roaring monster.

Two shouts. Then the night slowed to savour every moment of its victory. The rear red tanker lights made slow parabolas then straightened out in their descent to final death below.

Then quiet. The night was clear. The fallen snow was fresh with no smelly tanker noise.

We went with the shepherd.

### Tuesday 27 November 2012

### Love's Passing Remembrances

**David Jenkins**

O'Connor, ACT

I asked her:

'Can you write a poem in the shape of a human heart?'

'Of course,' she said.

And we watched in silent awe,

As these sparks that danced across my soul,

Came each to rest and finally fade at her feet.

Like the scattered and happy memories,

of love's passing remembrances.

### Wednesday 28 November 2012

### Reach For The Stars

**Linda Callaghan**

Bullaburra, NSW

If you do not try you will never know,

Should you forget your dreams or give them a go?

Little steps with hope in your heart,

Is always a very good place to start.

Then when you slowly grow in pride,

Move away from the shadows, no longer hide.

Shake off the fear and let go of the doubt,

For no one will hear if you do not shout.

Follow the trees, see their arms stretched high.

Reach for the stars, only then will you fly!

### Thursday 29 November 2012

### The Great-Grandmother

**Felicity Lynch**

Katoomba, NSW

The mists of time draw a veil

Around the great-grandmother

As she sits watching

Her fragile hands folded

Her inner life a secret

Her dreams unspoken

An elegant young woman

Now over 50 years wed

Time has smoothed years of hardship

Endurance and stoicism

Laid a map of fine lines

Her beautiful eyes sad and wise

Happiness, glimpses of eternity,

Found in the achingly sweet birdsong

Her garden full of flowers, her children's laughter

Memories she's garnered over the years

Her husband's warm loving arms

The gift of their children, their children's children

All aware that she put them first

All the days of her life

Today she sits unmoving

Her fragile hands folded

A gentle smile given the small boy

Planting a wet smoochy kiss on her lined cheek

Laughter warm and gentle

Enfolds the great-grandmother

The family gathered together

To honour her life

She's loved and she knows it

Happy, perhaps even content

She loves them all still

As she has all her life long

So she sits quietly watching

Her fragile hands folded

Hands that have tended untiringly

Those that she loves, her family

### Friday 30 November 2012

### Cardboard Families

**James Craib**

Wentworth Falls, NSW

Life-sized cut-outs so exciting advertise the movies trying ...

To encourage the jaded public in city theatres.

Now you can order cardboard wizards, heart throbs and lounge lizards

To decorate your home with the other creatures.

Although they don't discriminate alas they're still inanimate,

Two-dimensional Tussauds figures, life size and imposing.

Indulge your weirdest fantasy and try a little ... origami?

Paper lovers don't fall asleep: they're comatose-ing.

A young widow innovative had cut-outs made for husband's funeral,

But later the grieving wife couldn't bear to let it go.

He was the life and soul of the party and although it's quite surreal,

The children even dress him up as Santa in the snow.

Young wives of soldiers overseas keep their 'flat daddy' near;

He's just as tall as the models in the mall.

He might amuse the children or he just might raise a tear,

But he's no comfort in dead of night when passion calls.

Even President Obama is subject to cardboard drama,

The folks adore their avatar, or, he's a target.

While others think he's just divinable or place his head in the urinal,

Now Osama has bitten the dust, they have a new prophet.

And yet the families still live in cardboard city slums;

From Soweto to Rio de Janeiro, nothing much modified.

Obese people nowadays eat from cardboard takeaways, leaving crumbs

That the pigeons swoop upon, be it baked or fried.

I have a cardboard family that I keep in a cardboard carton.

Photographs of my former life and my former wife, we were so naïve,

Images of my daughter and son from high school to kindergarten;

Mustn't linger for too long, melancholy rises – I start to grieve.

And it's hard to just recycle and be done with endless sighing.

Anxiously, I await my progeny to call on the telephone.

Indeed there's no denying that I am prone to crying,

For a man's not made of cardboard but flesh and bone.

### Saturday 1 December 2012

### Let Down Your Hair

**Winsome Smith**

Lithgow, NSW

It had been a hard ride; the forest had been dark and he had had to dodge the low branches but the young man eagerly looked forward to the reward at the end. The villages in the shire were full of the stories of the beautiful maiden in the tower and the pleasures to be gained by doing the climb. In the taverns he heard the bawdy conversations, perhaps somewhat embroidered but nevertheless enticing. He never paused to wonder at the truth of the stories and he never met anyone who had returned from the tower but as he listened his anticipation and determination grew.

He gasped when he saw the splendid tower rising high in the forest clearing. He chuckled when he saw the long plait of golden hair that was looped over the window ledge. He rested for about fifteen minutes, anticipating all the promises of that tower.

He dismounted then called out the words, 'Lady, let down your hair,' in his strong and masculine voice. He repeated his words in a gentler and more enticing voice. 'Lady, lady, let down your hair.' The face that looked down from the window was more beautiful than any he had ever seen.

Darinda smiled as she moved back from the window. 'Yes,' she murmured, 'I will certainly do as he asks.' She took down the roomy, silk-lined basket and picked up a large plump hare. She smoothed back its velvet ears and whispered, 'You know what to do, little one. I have taught you well, and used my magic.' She kissed the animal in its furry head, placed it in the basket and said, 'God speed.'

She firmly attached the rope to the basket and gently lowered it. She gave a cheery wave to the waiting youth on the ground beside his horse.

He had not expected a basket; he had anticipated the long golden plait to be lowered and had readied himself for the climb. With surprise and something of shock he lifted the brown hare from the basket. It was large, plump and firm, not what he wanted, but it reminded him that he had not eaten for hours – in fact he had not had a good meal for a week. Visions of jugged hare came into his mind. This animal was perfect for such a dish, or for a rich hare stew. He could sense the aroma of meat slowly cooking, with onions and herbs, over a steady fire. He could even taste the mug of good ale that would go well with such a dish.

The hare began to struggle, and with a sturdy kick into the youth's stomach, leaped from his hands and hopped a short distance away. Undeterred, the youth slowly approached. If he was patient and careful, he could catch the hare. The pleasures of the tower could wait; he had immediate work to do.

The hare loped temptingly away, keeping just out of arm's reach. The young man followed. The hare hopped slowly around the curve of the tower wall. It picked up speed and continued around the tower. The young man noticed that there behind the tower the forest had ended and there was a thicket of tall firm plants. He knew he had to head off the hare before it reached this thicket and he quickened his pace. Being strong and athletic and used to hunting, he felt so confident of his success that he almost drooled.

He followed the hare for a few yards, staying close to the rough stone of the tower wall. He noticed that the nearby growth of plants was thickening but kept up his careful pursuit.

The hare suddenly turned, increased its pace and ran into the thicket. The youth followed. At first the going was easy, with slender branches that could be thrust aside as the chase became intense. As the youth ran the plants grew closer and for a moment it seemed that the growth was closing in behind him and he wondered how he would ever get out.

The gentle plants were replaced by thorn trees with thorns and prickles inches long. The hare, being close to the ground, ran into this wooded area with complete safety, dodging and scampering further into the growth. The man followed but more slowly as cruel thorns scratched at his face and limbs. He bravely ran further. He had his sword but could not reach it as the forest of thorn trees was so thick. He tried to turn but could see that there was no going back and no way out. The hare had disappeared but he sensed it scuttling along the ground in the thicket.

The young man had been in battles and as a child he had been well trained in the use of the sword; his courage was undoubted but he had never been faced with a situation like this. With his gloved hands he tried to push the branches away but the thorns pierced his gloves and tore them from his hands.

Scratched, stabbed and bleeding profusely he finally fell to the ground, never to rise again.

In the tower Darinda picked up and patted one of the half dozen leverets who ran freely around her room. She shook out her short golden curls and checked that the long detached plait was still looped over the window sill.

Her laugh was soft, almost wicked and triumphant.

'Men only want two things – food and sex. I can tempt them with both. Never again will a male person promise me everything in order to satisfy his appetites then leave me. Never again will I be betrayed. I have hair and I have hares that will do my bidding.'

She patted the young hare again and laughed even louder.

### Sunday 2 December 2012

### Sisterhood

**Ruth Withers**

Uarbry, NSW

In the garden of our lives are many tracks and trails,

Some of which we once explored, but never will again.

Some are full of thorns and burrs that tear us to our souls,

Others hide strange animals that seek to cause us pain.

There are caves we've ventured into that are full of dark despair

And nooks and crannies hiding things we'd rather not have known,

Trails we've lost ourselves upon for months and years at times

And tracks we'd never dare at all to venture on alone.

But there are other places in the garden of our lives,

Places bathed in warm sunshine all day.

Where sweetly scented flowers breathe their secrets to the air

And dancing streams can wash our cares away.

There are trails to wondrous places that can cause our hearts to soar

Far above the pain and anguish we have found elsewhere.

There are waterfalls of love and hope, behind whose magic veils

Fairies, elves and other wonders kiss away our cares.

To reach the very best of these, we sometimes have no choice

But to suffer through the worst of burrs and thorns;

To creep in fear along those tracks, through cold, forbidding caves;

To grab those beasts by gnarled and twisted horns;

To look them in the eye and say 'I will not yield to you.'

And ride them through the darkness 'til we reach the other side,

Where the cloaks of love and kindness will wrap us in their warmth

And joy and peace once more within our hearts reside.

And every time we tame a beast and ride him to the sunlight

We leave a trail of healing in our wake

And flowers burst forth and birds and magic things arrive

And the cold, dark cave is swallowed by a lake.

You and I will hand in hand explore the tracks and trails

We never dared to venture on alone.

There'll be no dark and cold in the garden of our lives

By the time that you and I are done.

### Monday 3 December 2012

### A Natural Scape

**Emma-Lee Scott**

Callaghan, NSW

A steady warmth,

The sun kissed sand,

The salt engrained breeze,

And the green-blue of watery expanse.

The frame of the day,

Enshrouded and encompassed,

By the depths of the hearts,

Standing between the ceiling of blue,

And the floor of grainy gold.

Gilded by the rises,

Given to the crashing midst,

Passed by the oblivious,

Remaining in the clear cloud,

Free from a continual rush.

Intricacies lace the blue,

With pattern of whitened plunder,

Edging the grainy gold,

With a hardened ground,

Of rewritable path.

Footsteps have embedded,

To be unrecognizable,

Leaving a trace of broken beauty,

Upon a world seemingly untouchable.

A refuge of immense,

The distance seems forever,

The horizon foretells,

But the continuity remains.

The unchanged space,

Revolving on a constant pulse,

Of ebb and flow,

Unstopped,

Irremovable.

A reconfiguration,

A metamorphosis of normalcy,

Individualistic in a span so collective.

The gilded beauty of golden white,

Embraced by that intentionally created,

Juxtaposed to the mass of opaque,

Etched upon by the callings of pull,

And by the whisper of wind.

A sound so unique,

A world defined to tell the silent secret,

Of hidden honesty,

And true perception.

### Tuesday 4 December 2012

### Strange Days

**Joanna Rain**

Nelson Bay, NSW

Strange days ahead,

Strange days I will face,

Strange ways to interpret

Our peculiar human race!

Strange, vibrant days,

Of a celebratory life,

Strange days ahead,

Now I've given up the fight.

Strange days

Of bizarre interactions,

Grand sweeping statements,

And shame filled retractions!

Strange days of decadence,

While half the world

Struggles with dissidence –

Strange days – present.

Strange worlds of individuals,

Thoughts and ideals so incompatible.

Strange, crazy days,

With all the mental delirium

Of our human ways.

Strange that our days,

Should melt into togetherness,

When our days merge, united,

Through all of our differences!

### Wednesday 5 December 2012

### Final Curtain Call

**Nicole James**

Narrandera, NSW

Thank you ladies and gentlemen,

And welcome to you all,

I ask of you to stay seated,

Until the final curtain call.

Please provide the contact number,

And name of your next of kin,

Now without any further delay,

Your journey will begin.

As you are all well aware,

This is the final frontier,

Upon joining in this journey,

There can be no turning back from here.

All suffering shall be ended,

No more struggling for every breath,

There will be no pain and sorrow,

When your destination is death.

All things have an ending,

Though some we just can't find,

And so we offer this opportunity,

To leave all we endure behind.

You will find beneath each chair,

A flask of brandy and a loaded gun,

If you would all join me in a toast right now,

The formalities are all but done.

We shall all travel together,

United by lives of dread,

So good people take your guns,

And now hold them to your head.

Before we pull the trigger,

That will be our journeys end,

I'd like to thank each one of you,

And hope you consider me your friend.

On the count of three we fired,

We crossed to the other side,

Our bodies were never discovered,

Nobody cared that we had died.

Our decaying bodies rest in peace,

Freed of wrath and hate,

Destiny lost its hold on us,

For we turned our hands of fate.

Life is meant to be a gift,

But it isn't for us all,

I bid you folks my farewell,

The final curtain call.

Nicole says that some of her works are a little controversial as they are of a morbid nature. She has suffered depression for 20 years and has found writing to be her greatest therapy yet. She feels these topics are largely forbidden in the public forum but knowledge is power and awareness, which is vital in understanding.

### Thursday 6 December 2012

### The SMSer

**Julitha De La Force**

Katoomba, NSW

There was a woman

I won't say her name

She really doesn't

Deserve the fame

One day she really lost the plot

Into a state she really got

Beep beep beep beep...

She got frantic

Went into a panic

Got stuck to her mobile phone you see

And sent SMSs non-stop to me

Well I was wondering what to do

For really I had not a clue

Every time I took a breath

There was another SMS or two

Well I knew this somehow had to end

Because really it drove me round the bend

Hours and hours she would send

SMSs with no end

Her mobile phone got sick of her

Buttons being pressed

In vain she did protest

Well in the end her mobile gave up the ghost

As the woman had used it to the utmost

May her phone rest in peace

Thank god the SMSs did cease

### Friday 7 December 2012

### Gift Of The Grab

**Hazel Girolamo**

Ulverstone, TAS

There in the country were some shepherds, simple civil shepherds abiding in the fields by night as lamb prices were now at a premium. And as they sat musing quietly about industrial reform and unionism, a brilliant light shone around them in the darkness and they were sore afraid. And the Angel of the Lord came upon them and said, 'Fear not, for behold I bring you tidings of great joy.' And as it was told to them, they listened and marvelled at the excellent working conditions and above award wages of sin, with maternity, paternity and eternity leave thrown in. 'It's a certainty,' the Angel said furtively. 'See Daniel at the inquiries den.'

So the shepherds voted unanimously to go unto Bethlehem and see this thing come to pass, what the Angel of the Lord had made known to them.

So the shepherds fled deep into the night with the Angel's words floating behind them: 'Conditions apply!'

~~~

Once there was a simple country girl who one day found the Angel of the Lord hovering over her and Mary listened to the Angel and wondered, wondered if she had heard right. 'I get no say in the matter and I have to call him what and have him where?'

The Angel of the Lord impatiently explained it all to her again.

'Comply with all the full term conditions that have been offered, sign on the dotted line and we'll take care of the rest with all the advantages of Cain, Willing and Able home delivery service and you will still be eligible for the bonny bouncing baby bonus.'

~~~

The Innkeeper said, 'You are kidding, right? I've been booked out for months. There's a year long waiting list!'

'But I'm the Holy mother to be of God! I'm not going on a waiting list. Surely there is room for me.'

And Joseph said, 'We've a had a time and a half getting here.'

'It would not have been half so bad if you had stopeth and asked for directions. We could have gone Virgin Airlines but oh no, you had mates' rates on a wonky donkey.'

'What manner of place this be? Three stars the holiday guide said, what a joke!' So Mary sat on her ass and waited for Joseph to secure a deal and shortly he was back.

'I got non smoking and organic cows and he threw in a bucket in the corner for free.'

'Oh, Joseph, have you not heard? Ask and ye shall receive.'

'Yes, and have you not heard that this is the silly seasoneth?'

~~~

When Herod heard the rumour of great savings, he was agog and enquired directly from his three wise yes men.

'Why do they no come to my Babel Towers where I offer so much, camel crèche and ark parking. I put in new leper bays and provide ass holding. What more can they want? Are they not free to peruse at leisure with no staff to hassle them from impulse buys and I give credit where credit is due, even if it is a sacrifice to me with my no deposit money back policy if they spend, spend, spend!'

'It is called competition and it is good that this has come to pass.'

'Says who?'

'Economists.'

'May their eftpos card curl! Well, what are you waiting for? Hurry, go and find the bargains so that I too may save. Scour the land of plenty, and the one with the milk and honey and oil a few palms if need be.'

And all this was done and the shareholders were very pleased.

~~~

The three wise men took the scenic route but they were not pleased.

'Are we there yet?' Caspar asked. 'It will be closed by the time we get there.'

'We got an extra night going via the Red Sea and if we stay an extra Saturday night we will be able to check out the Gaza Strip joints along the way, and do not forget thy gold Visa card, or immigration is gonna be hell!' Melchior explained.

So the wise men shutupeth.

'What gifts do you bring for this mighty prince?'

'Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh.'

'Myrrh, myrrh?'

'I have no idea what it is either but I got three for the price of one. Gold is now trading at three hundred shekels a cubit and as the use by date was approaching fast, the frankincense was fifty per cent off.'

'You got it at Balthazar Bazaar Bargains I ken? Truly you are a wise man. Remember it is not the thought that counts, it is the flybys.'

~~~

And they hastened greatly for it was near closing time and woe betide those who miss the opening hours for they shall forsake meat and drink until they reopen.

Then the doors parted and a great rejoicing was heard all over the land. Hark, hear the herald angels sing and listen to those cash registers ring, but alas no relief staff was in sight.

And the Angel of the Lord said unto them, 'So to you, our valued customers, on this day you have been given a great gift, use it wisely and kindly. Listen, the cattle are lowing and so are our prices! Bring your sacks and stockings and your old bags! Make a list and check it twice and don't be the one to miss out on bargain begetting time!'

And so they gazed in wonder and amazement at what they saw before them. The baby lying in the specials bin, well wrapped to keep him nice and fresh and to seal in his goodness.

They knelt and adored him with the light shining out onto thy ass and oxen and asked who do he looketh like most?

Then the shepherds turned and hurried back to their flocks as stock had a habit of running low at this time of year, glorifying and thanking him for all they had seen and saved and to be first in line for when the market reopened.

And a multitude of heavenly hosts gathered and chorused to all who would listen.

'Go forth and multiply into a global conglomeration and remember the brand name of God, ye shall shun all other brand names, he takes only the best, rejecting all the rest and his religion shall be known as generic!'

So the three wise men hurried back to their kingdoms and issued new decrees to all departments.

'Where upon once man rested on the seventh day he will no more! From this day forward it shall be known as seven day trading. And a great spirit filled the land and it will be known as consumption and thy new slogan shall be, "We never close!"

'So come all available staff, sullen and resentful, taking your holy orders now and serve them faithfully, for we know you so love your fellow man, you will live only to serve.'

Heaven be praised for surely this is specials time.

~~~

'What miracle is this, I came upon a checkout clear,' said Mary, admiring the fatted calf and much tempted by a tender rump but she turned her face away and bought wholemeal loaves and fishes and capers and sun dried tomatoes and porcini mushrooms, but she digresseth.

'You know what all this means?' she said to Joseph. 'Rellies descending on us like locusts eating us out of house and home and there is sure to be a vegan to be catered for and I doubt Thomas will bring even a fruit platter. If only I could turn water into wine. I swear this will be the last supper I have here in this hovel. Just because we missed the property boom doesn't mean we're stuck here forever and ever. Amen!'

'No fear Mary, I hear it will be 20% off everything after Christmas.'

'If you think that applies to real estate, you really are a moron. Honestly, as God is my witness, if I had known what I was getting myself into it would be a very different version of events I can tell you.'

For the Lord helps those who help themselves.

So self help me God!

### Saturday 8 December 2012

### Marvellous Words

**Amber Johnson**

Highgate Hill, QLD

The rumour reached my ears

that you harbour a rage.

It swells when my writing

manoeuvres through each page.

Who knew that writing 'mum'

would cause such upheaval?

Your dismal behaviour

is simply mediaeval.

Why not take a moment

to freely analyse

the cultural difference

that you fail to recognise?

You swiftly criticised

how I spelt every word,

but I won't apologise;

your objections are absurd.

I savour each sentence

because I make you squirm.

If I say my favourite colour

will you wriggle like a worm?

Pound your chest like Tarzan

and call me 'snobby-bitch'.

I'll still use British spelling;

I find humour in your twitch.

Amber wrote this satirical poem for an American rival who loathes British spelling. Amber says: 'May he shudder upon reading it.' We are sure he will!!

### Sunday 9 December 2012

### Renationship

**David Anderson**

Woodford, NSW

Zoe and Barry bought two homes the past five years

Renovated, auctioned off, a profit with no tears

With every idle moment searching hardware catalogues

They had no time for making love, no dream home, kids or dogs

No time for dancin', romancin' or weekends by the sea

Just garage sales and auctions, DIY shows on TV

They didn't see it coming – but their best friends they all knew

If they didn't change this lifestyle their relationship was through

Renovate your love life, don't paint that new front door

Take her on a weekend break, not to a hardware store

Just lay down that toolbox and spend more time alone

Buy her flowers, take her dancing, call her on the phone

This couple were in trouble – they fought most every night

Arguing Art Deco? Modern? Who the hell is right?

Till a New Age counsellor – sent them both away

To a quite retreat at Byron on a five day holiday

Laying in a hot jacuzzi sipping cocktails by the score

Checking out the cedar ceiling, windows and the door

'When we get back to Sydney, let's build a room like this'

They spent all night drawing plans – they didn't even kiss

Renovate your love life, don't paint that new front door

Take her on a weekend break, not to a hardware store

Just lay down that toolbox and spend more time alone

Buy her flowers, take her dancing, call her on the phone

### Monday 10 December 2012

### Over The Fence

**Leonie Bingham**

Katoomba, NSW

Clouds sit in the sky. They don't billow. They don't move. They just sit there, touching the trees and each other. Where there is space, the blue sky is veined, almost sinewy. A small piece of cloud, a rebel, escapes the herd. It flits over the sun and the valley darkens, just for a moment.

I have recently moved to Katoomba in the Blue Mountains. My home sits on the north-eastern escarpment of The Gully in the Upper Kedumba River Valley. The Gully is both an Aboriginal Place and a site of Aboriginal displacement and dispossession, a paradox created by colonisation. White settlement saw the area surrounding my home resumed by local government and renamed Frank Walford Park, then Catalina Park. During this period of prolonged instability, an amusement park and touring race car track were constructed on the site culminating in the 1957 eviction of all Gully residents.

This landscape is one of secrets and historical legacies. Its many trails lead to other times and places. A pristine waterfall carved by nature's hand sings of a time when its water ran clear. The edible pith of tree ferns, and peat moss used to dress wounds existed here long before smallpox and influenza arrived in this valley. Less than a century ago the Kedumba Creek flowed freely before it was dammed for human recreation. A place once devoid of racing cars, rusted advertising signs, blackberries and bitumen.

The Gully is part of the Blue Mountains' dry sclerophyll plateau. A series of deeply dissected sandstone escarpments such as The Gully plunge into gorges and valleys, masquerading as mountains. The soil here is said to be infertile, acidic, a phosphoric pool of bleakness. But some flora and fauna disagree. The forest's understorey is busy as parrots flitter from bottlebrush to wattle, indecisive, gorging on nature's plenitude. A bee settles on a wild spinach flower. Pockets of invisible rainforest hide deep inside the eucalyptus's protective arms. Here wet and dry sclerophyll are neighbours, offering this complex ecosystem protection.

Nuances in this landscape speak of oppression and survival. Introduced blackberries tangle with native maidenhair ferns. A 1950s toilet block spattered with bird poo and graffiti; the crumbling bricks seem held together by cobwebs and pale winter grasses. Native ducks swim in the man-made ornamental lake, once Katoomba's swimming pool. A chainsaw screams, its sound bouncing to and fro. This part of The Gully is a natural amphitheatre, which has seen many actors take its arena of sandstone and clay. Watching over the arena, grandstands of gum trees step neatly down from the hilltop's dress circle of workers' cottages. Long slender branches gloved in sunlight, rise and fall, as though breathing new life over the plateau.

snow clouds rush

across the valley

a light flickers

Dusk is my favourite time of day here. Quiet descends on the valley, today broken first by the yipping of a fox. A train sounds its horn in the distance. I find myself the third marker of white settlement this quiet evening. Soon dusk turns to twilight and trees become shadows. The only sound now is the wind, whispering through the gums, the gullies and the creek. Tonight a muted wind intones. Some nights it wails as though singing dirges for all that is lost. Evening is a timely reminder of all that has gone before.

I think of the spirits that inhabit this valley. The first human inhabitants here were Aborigines. For at least 14000 years, the Darug and Gundungurra people used The Gully as a traditional camp for respite from the summer heat. Their permanent settlements were in the valleys surrounding the plateau, now known as the Blue Mountains. When white settlers encroached on and claimed these valleys as their own The Gully became a permanent settlement for the Darug and Gundungurra tribes. White society's fringe-dwellers, the impoverished, the displaced Chinese market gardeners, sought refuge here in the late 1800s and lived peaceably with the Aboriginal inhabitants. The families shared poverty, knowledge, food, water, kinship and friendship. By the mid-1950s there were some seven extended families in The Gully community, living in about twenty shacks and huts. Others slept in tents or under the stars.

afternoon mist...

cracks in the old racetrack

spill native grasses

My yard is orderly and restrained. Across the fence the land is wild, disordered, uninhibited. Dense privet camouflages walking tracks lying beneath. Privet was introduced from China to Australia in the mid-1800s for use as a garden hedge. This noxious weed has escaped the confines of suburban back yards. Whilst it holds the clay and sandstone together to slow its erosion, it also dominates this part of The Gully. Trees hang heavy with fruit, as though overburdened. Purple-black, like bruises sitting just under the skin, these fruit are eager to canker this valley. Privet threatens to consume native flora in the same way that colonial enterprise consumed The Gully in 1957.

I crouch and crawl through privet tunnels, looking for a way over the paling fence and onto the bitumen of the disused racetrack. I can see where the fence is broken but cannot get through the gorse. Blackberry thorns snare me, as though holding me back. Vines weave and wend through privet and English ivy perhaps laying down traps for those with less than altruistic purposes.

I talk to the spirits. I promise to tread lightly on this earth. I wish them no harm.

I find a way through and head north on the racetrack towards Katoomba. At the first bend in the bitumen, on the outside, is a clear area. I close my eyes. My logical brain tells me someone has lived here, as do the history books. A terraced clearing spills native grasses, and climbs up the hill to the sounds of suburbia. This area is contained, rectangular, seemingly unwilling, or unable, to escape into the forest on either side. I sense a presence here, unearthly, but not frightening. My mind rushes with questions: who lived here and when? Were they forced out of The Gully? This landscape leaves so much unsaid.

Two rows of white gums form a windbreak on the northern slope of the clearing. They tilt to the west begging for winter sun. Silver spangled branches against deep blue sky. Halfway up, a cluster escapes. To the right of them stands a huge sandstone boulder. Too large for a house footing, I sense that this boulder is somehow significant to this landscape, an omniscient ziggurat looking out over the valley.

afternoon shadows

walking

in another's footprints

A series of walking tracks connected families and homes in The Gully. Homes were well hidden to avoid interference by white authorities, especially where removal of Aboriginal children was feared. Some of these tracks exist today, though many are buried under bitumen and the detritus of white expansion. It is sometimes hard to distinguish walking tracks from animal trails.

At the northern end I follow a partially cleared trail that parallels the bitumen and branches in many directions. Invisible birdsong reverberates, perhaps as a warning, but their chatter seems more conversational than cautionary. Tree ferns and foliage brush my face. The scrub is denser the higher I climb. Chill air grips my chest, twists and releases. Old fence-posts lean and litter the earth. These fence-posts once signified a border between neighbours. No such colonial boundaries exist within The Gully today. From the hollow of a log crawls an ant, a symbol that nature is reclaiming its own.

In this clearing, just a few metres from the track, are the remains of a home. Four concrete footings, speckled with lichen, peer through the grasses that will one day consume them. I wonder whose home this was. A well-used cast iron firebox invokes a conflagration of emotions. I imagine a newborn taking its first breath by this fire. I picture crisp cotton sheets hung out to dry and wonder what secrets they kept. I think of The Gully families and their reliance upon, and interconnectedness with nature and each other. I let the forest speak to me. I get a sense of time and place here. How hard it must have been for The Gully residents to survive in this terrain despite its beauty. But they did until the imposition of colonial borders forced them to leave their beloved valley. For many, the only home they had ever known. Blue Mountains City Council dispersed the Darug and Gundungurra tribes into the greater white community. Many left the area. Colonial expansion effectively rendered the Traditional Owners of The Gully homeless, along with mainstream society's outcasts.

hiking uphill...

a blackberry thorn

catches my sleeve

I hear water sounds, running water. The sound draws closer. Closer. I wonder if my ears are playing tricks on me, and if the sound is simply the rumbling of the nearby highway. Remains of an old timber fence lead uphill. The verdancy of the foliage intensifies. Veined maidenhairs touch me; pale and delicate in the shadows. Clumps of peat moss converge in mounds underfoot, lumpy with seedpods.

The track suddenly ends when it opens onto a miniature wetland. A sandstone wall arcs and then falls away into rainforest on either side. Water pours over the wall and settles in a small pool at its base. I wonder if this might be one of the wells I have read so much about, from which the Gully Residents drew water. This looks like a natural well to my untrained eye. There is only one track in and one track out.

The water is cold, icy cold, but invigorating not painfully cold. The bottom of the pool is sand, water-washed from the plateau over time. In my mind's eye, I draw a straight line between the top of the wall and the edge of the pool to make a pyramid. I stand inside. I lean to the wall and let the mountain water flow soothingly over my hands. Above, the forest carves out of the sky. Trees protectively overhang the sandstone wall. I can now see why The Gully is called a hanging swamp. Dappled sunlight shimmers and settles on the tips of my eyelashes. The water carries the tint of the sandstone's burnt umbers and ochres. Acutely aware that the Great Western Highway and all its smog are uphill from me somewhere, I choose not to drink. A rusty old mower angles out of the water, half-submerged in sand. This jolts me back to the harsh reality inflicted by colonisers on the area's Traditional Owners.

The Gully is a place of continuous transition, an ongoing work-in-progress. It is a borderland; a shifting postcolonial landscape of belonging, alienation, dispossession, reclamation, oppression, kinship, hope and despair.

sandstone wall...

rivulets of water

on my hands

### Tuesday 11 December 2012

### Long Live Johnny

**John Arvan**

Underdale, SA

Near the land of Long Live Johnny

there dwelt a clock it's said

That chimed away the days of youth

and filled the town with dread

65 65 65

Now Long Live Johnny was a soul

in tune with tempting time

Lived life with sense and revelry

Kept one eye on the prize

65 65 65

Time came.

Onto his timeless steed

did Johnny mount, and cried

'It is my time you tick damn clock!!'

He lunged.

The clock fell quiet.

65 65 65

Now with each year that passes by

Long Johnny lives it up.

We celebrate with love, and cheer,

The man who stopped the clock.

Happy Birthday John

John's good friend John lives life in defiance of his years. John wrote this poem to highlight his friend's 65 year achievement.

### Wednesday 12 December 2012

### A Cruise From Hell

**Peter Adams**

Katoomba, NSW

It didn't take long to realise I had made a huge mistake.

The frightening realisation that I was trapped for fourteen days with 2000 elderly people, set in as I queued at Sydney's Overseas Terminal at Circular Quay to board the 'Radiance of the Fleas'. Some were in wheel chairs, many carried walking sticks, and none appeared younger than 60 – and, as they stood in line, they were already in full flight about their ailments and medications.

I boarded this sea going Westfield Shopping Centre in Sydney on the 17th November and by the 18th I was ready to jump overboard and swim home.

A decent cup of coffee was the least of my problems.

Why is it that the Americans – who are obviously capable of designing and building a floating Septic Tank as ugly as this – still haven't got the remotest clue about how to make a decent cup of coffee – but can still manage to serve it with such great charm and voices that would shatter glass?

By the 20th, I was making enquires about getting off and flying home.

I had hoped that somewhere on this floating hotel I would be able to find somewhere quiet to write. I assumed the library would be a good place to start.

That was my second mistake.

The library was little more than a pathetic cubby hole in the wall, furnished with some book shelves, a couple of chairs and coffee tables and a sign that read, 'Please respect the other users of this library by maintaining quiet'.

The library was located on deck nine in the seven-storey atrium called 'The Centrum' – presumably named in Latin in an attempt to put some much needed good taste onto this ghastly shopping mall. Although the sign read 'Please respect the other users of this library by maintaining quiet', this library alcove was completely open to the nine glorious levels of the funnel shaped atrium and the endless and painful live performances taking place five floors below.

By the time the sound from any event taking place on deck four had travelled up to the library level, it had acquired that distinctive distorted echo of someone speaking with a mouthful of lamingtons – somewhat similar to that experienced in an airport.

So, without lifting your eyes from the pages of Moby Dick, it was possible to enjoy everything from a loud mumbled course in Japanese culinary arts, or kung-fu for octogenarians, or marvel at a toy horse race for idiots, or listen to a country and western band (most probably on loan from an Aussie country RSL club) playing tunes for boot scooters.

The entire ship was exposed from one end to the other by an endless nightmare of cheerful elevator music.

Strangely enough the quietest place was on deck 14 between 9 and noon, in the 'Starfucked Disco' – or whatever it was called. This was partly because the room was unused during that period – unless an art auction was taking place, which it did on four separate occasions during the 14 days – but also because I discovered how to remove the fuse from the PA system and toss it overboard.

Sadly the management had an endless supply of new fuses.

Between those hours I had the entire disco to myself and could pretend to be John Revolting from Dirty Dancing, or more importantly sit down and write.

Of the 2000 passengers approximately 40 were younger than 17, and of that number half were infants. Everyone else was 50+ with the majority appearing to be older than I am. They brought with them a large number of clicking teeth, pushy elbows, electric wheelchairs, an even greater number of Zimmer frames, attitude and a veritable forest of walking sticks.

It was hard to tell if the clicking and clattering emanating from the old dears was the sound of ill-fitting dentures or walking sticks on the marble floors outside the elevators.

There was a bank of seven cylindrical glass elevators at The Centrum, ingeniously appointed so you couldn't see which elevator had arrived, until it made a pinging sound and was about to leave. At this point all the walking sticks, Zimmer frames and motorised wheelchairs would hobble in a mad clicking panic towards the closing doors.

Occasionally, one or two managed to squeeze into the already overstuffed car before the doors closed. Sometimes only their Zimmer frames made it aboard and their owners remained abandoned outside, clinging to each other, until the same elevator returned and they could retrieve their appliances.

This sometimes took several hours.

As this performance was repeated on every one of the 13 floors the elevators serviced, the clicking and clattering could continue into the early hours. And quite often, by the time the passenger had finally boarded, the function they were going to had long finished, or they hadn't got a clue what they are doing in the elevator in the first place.

This was usually resolved by pressing all 13 buttons at once in the vain hope that seeing something familiar would remind them why they boarded the ship – let alone where they were going, or indeed why they were in the elevator.

The ship's designers added to their confusion by daily changing large terrazzo panels in the floor of the elevators, inset with the different days of the week. Before these old ducks realised – around day 12 – that the elevators were in fact travelling calendars, they assumed that each of the seven elevators were named after different day of the week.

'We got out of Thursday Martha, and turned left, I distinctly remember turning left'. A reasonable assumption. But as all the cars had the same name, turning left could mean that Martha could end up shuffling towards the engine room at the opposite end of a ship four football fields long.

It was not unusual to find your way blocked behind a slowly travelling conga line of zimmer frames attached to ancient biddies heading for somewhere they had forgotten. The ship's propellers, incidentally, were at the pointy end.

One wheel chair bound, constantly complaining, large English lady with a very plumby Joyce Grenville voice and overblown everything – affectionately referred to around the ship as 'The Dutchess' – found this to be a great comfort because she at least knew what day it was – and made a point of telling everyone. Endlessly.

She seemed to enjoy filling an entire elevator for the sheer joy of it – and would explain to anyone prepared to listen just how bad her breakfast had been – before announcing that she looked upon the elevator 'as my peer-sonal calendeh' and that the lettering in the floor was 'changed by some coloured person every-a day-a'.

The rest of us simply drew comfort from knowing the day of the week, and the realisation that once we entered this twilight zone at breakfast time, were resigned to the fact that we might arrive by teatime on the following day.

I abandoned the quest for a vacant elevator and got fit by using the stairs.

There were, however, two things the Seppos got right on this floating septic tank: the food at the two free restaurants was excellent, and the staff were super attentive – 65 nationalities were represented in the crew.

With 1000 staff and 2000 guests, we had a half an employee each. I selected a quiet bit – the bottom half of a Turkish chappie called Abdul – for my bit. If only he (and his 999 compatriots) would just stop saying good morning every time they passed me, I might grow to like the top half as well.

In fact with 1000 happy smiling staff people asking you 'How are you?' every couple of minutes, my voice grew a little hoarse from replying 'I am fucking wonderful thank you'.

I think if I ever took another cruise on an American ship, I might save my voice and keep a permanent sign around my neck with the words, 'Thank you', 'I am very well', and 'piss off' – and I would just point to which ever was most relevant.

The food and staff they got right but everything else in this gin palace involved an additional cost.

For example, it cost $150 to take a guided tour through the engine room, up to $45 for a glass of champagne and $7 for bottled water – the stuff coming out of the tap was purified sea water and had an odd taste – which might explain the curious taste of the coffee. Paying for alcohol was fair enough – but with a cup of undrinkable Starbucks coffee costing $4 – everyone quickly swapped to drinking tea.

The coffee was so bad in fact, that the predominantly Australian passengers made a run on English Breakfast tea bags and the ship – without a word of a lie – ran out of tea bags by day three! This was a situation that wasn't rectified by the end of the cruise.

There were plenty of Chamomile, Jasmine and Lemon Grass tea bags on offer, but I bought my own supply of Ceylon tea bags and had planned to sell them at $1 each.

And so it goes.

Deciding to 'take a shore excursion' by coach was a truly bizarre experience and there were many to chose from. Everything from visiting a sheep farm, to visiting a farm with animals.

Usually a few sheep were involved somewhere.

First all the anticipated checks took place – where men and women in ill fitting navy blue suits, arm bands, military badges and day glow vests, match shipboard passes with driver licences (but seldom with the faces standing opposite them), then as you gently waddle down to the bottom of the gangplank behind a zimmer frame, the ship's photographic team would offer everyone a themed photographic opportunity – for a palm crossed with twenty five dollars worth of silver.

Naturally, these shipboard events differed from port to port, but on the New Zealand run I encountered fully grown men wearing furry costumes representing kangaroos, Captain Cook, flightless birds, lumberjacks and an American version of a (sic) 'Koala Bear'.

I doubt if anyone caught on, or even cared, but in reality the koala was an American Brown Bear which had been modified by adding a furry pouch to the front.

I elected to take one tour, to the Maritime Museum in Wellington.

A young, efficient and fast walking guide from the Maritime Museum took our tickets – which cost nearly $80 each – and led us on the 500 yard walk to the entrance to the museum. This short distance would usually have been covered in a few minutes, except she had to allow for two short ten minute breaks allowing an elderly couple sharing a single Zimmer frame to catch up. One was walking forward and acting as a navigator, while the other walked in reverse – most of the time. Occasionally she forgot where she was going, and started walking forwards whereupon a tussle would ensue and they would end up making circles for a while.

We covered the 500 years in thirty minutes, by which time the exertion had proved to be too much for several cases of incontinence, and the two single toilets located at the ground floor were suddenly in great demand for the emptying colostomy bags. I heard the tour guide mumble under her breath, 'This is like herding a flock of sheep'.

You just couldn't get away from sheep on these tours...

Neptune met us at the front gate, complete with his plywood trident which he had made himself, all wrapped up in Alfoil; he was to be our guide around the museum this day.

Sandwiched between a school tour of third grade chattering children and the owner of the Zimmer frame, it was a little difficult to hear Neptune's well-rehearsed story about his costume. However, I later discovered that his mother – an avid supporter of the All Blacks and an honorary life member of the Wellington WI – had taken many hours to sew his seaweed cloak using strips of fabric torn from her late husband's collection of maritime pyjamas.

The noise inside the bright, echoing walls of the Maritime Museum was so deafening, I quietly advised Neptune that I would be leaving the tour and spent a couple of happy hours exploring the galleries on my own.

I discovered later that an unbooked ticket into the gallery was $15, and $9 for a concession.

So much for my $80!

Would I take another cruise? Probably not, but if I did it certainly wouldn't be with an American cruise line – for those who may remember, it was a bit like being at a Butlins Holiday Camp.

I was very fortunate it was a present from someone!

### Thursday 13 December 2012

### Hippolito

**Shey Saint-Malo**

Parkerville, WA

Paul seeped in with the first rain. From under the April shower he appeared through the doorway and reclined against the fretted brickwork of the cafe, scanning the heterogeneous Beaufort Street crowd of business-suited short blacks, cape-cardiganed lattes and eyebrow-jewelled cinos-to-go. I'd sat for an hour on that Saturday morning reading a tattered copy of 'The Birth of Tragedy' when a rising bitter spiral of muddy grounds caused me to gag and fall under his surveillance. I tried not to look back as I rose to order another drink.

Amid the cacophony of ceramics, personalised ring tones and rain on the tin roof, I stirred my sugarless coffee until a rhythm emerged linking together the disparate life noise. While the rain eased into drizzle until long droplets hung like diet mozzarella from the window panes, sound bytes of conversation, cushioned into brief wafts of silence, slid by me.

'... but just hear me out ...'

'... who left you with the large black ...'

'... those L-shaped chaise sofas ...'

'... and if it did, you wouldn't want ...'

'Why do you do that?' A close-up voice interrupted my long black and shot of milk on the side.

'Excuse me?' I asked. Arabica-bean eyes gazed down at me and their softness overrode the asymmetry of his nose – a boxer's nose, I thought on first impression. One damp ginger ringlet sprung loose, dangling over his forehead. He persisted.

'If you want black coffee, why do you need a milk standby? Just take a chance and leave off the training wheels.' In a half hula, he manoeuvred into the chair opposite.

Usually, as soon as I have examined a stranger's eyes, my attention falls straight to their feet as if they may impart some important information or hidden character trait. Each toe starts to resemble a face, the set of ten revealing the complete range of faces exhibited by an individual over their life time. At times I think a person's composite toe face matches their actual facial features but just as often I am surprised at the contrast. Paul's feet were slender and symmetrical, unlike his nose, and each toe had large, rounded smooth nails like honest open faces. One big toenail was painted with glittery black polish about which he explained how his friend Kylie's little girl loved to paint his toenails when he visited their home.

Reaching into his shirt pocket, he withdrew a red and gold foiled Easter egg and presented it to me. It was semi-melted from his body heat but we shared it and chatted, and I drank my coffee black.

An hour later we were still there, sharing a bowl of black olive tapenade and ciabatta. By mid-afternoon I had a sense that we'd known each other before. Maybe that's why I stayed talking to him instead of turning up to my nephew's fifth birthday party. When the cafe crowd thinned the surrounding conversations became audible and we listened, contributing in whispers, arbitrating the world's issues.

Outside the rain had stopped so we walked the long way back to our cars. In Hyde Park the swans and ducks aired their wings as they skidded on top of the lake. When the rain started again we threw off our sodden shoes and joined the ducks in the water where the mud squelched between our toes. Bright bands of green, yellow and violet sent the darkened sky to background. Our friendship began that way – a contrast of darkness and colour.

Winter fostered intense discussions punctuated by Lou Reed and Leonard Cohen by Paul's open fire place. After too many glasses of red wine, Paul made us strong Italian espresso. Between sips, he recounted episodes from a previous life, how his ex used to wake in the morning screaming at him for reasons he never understood. He would grow quiet at the mention of his son from whom he'd been estranged by law. And he would lean into me then and rest his head on my chest, one hand on my breast absent-mindedly, telling me how much he valued the platonic thing we had going, especially since the friendship he had with his friend Kylie had ended so abruptly and without explanation.

Occasionally, we would meet during my lunch hour. One day I received his call at work asking me to a picnic lunch he had planned for that same day. It was all arranged but I'd needed more notice. When I said I was too busy and couldn't take two hours off work just like that, Paul became frustrated and accused me of being too inside my head, lecturing that I needed to loosen up and stop worrying about responsibility and authority so much. I gave in and met him in the park beside the lake. He was there waiting with a basket and a rug and for two hours we ate prosciutto and melon out of season, blinis with smoked salmon and sour cream and drank chardonnay.

The following night he called me after ten o'clock, demanding that I come to visit him immediately. His voice was halting and the phrases came in bursts, increasing in intensity. Already his need was exhausting me. I said it was too late but that I'd come the next day and we could talk about it then. Impossible, was his reply, tomorrow would be too late, he had cut a snake into his arm with a pocket knife and wanted to make more cuts. Why couldn't I, just for once, do as he asked? There was no one else he could tell.

Approaching his house, the light from the verandah was turned outwards and blinded my way. I bumped into the large ceramic pot, knocking a branch off his Dracaena, Side-show Bob. Paul named all his plants according to what inspired him on any particular day. Each time I visited he had a new name for his cat. That day she was Bronte and I called her Tigger by mistake when Paul opened the door. If I'd visited more often I would have known that.

On the table was a letter he had written to his parents in Victoria, returned without response. Paul asked me to read it because it contained a secret he wanted to tell me but couldn't manage to repeat the story out loud. He'd tried to explain to his family that it wasn't his fault, and that circumstances had given a false picture, and that it was all a misunderstanding. Denials were made but not accepted. Maybe I could come up with an idea.

Babysitting his niece, Melanie, is always a pleasure, they get along so well. But a shift occurred that plagues him to this day. Perhaps it's being fourteen that causes her to invent scenarios just as she had used it to convince him to let her stay up very late and wear her mother's make up and high heels. He likes to indulge her fantasies and games and told her she looked grown up. As usual she watches a chick flick while he burns dinner then gives up and orders a pizza. Tamilo, a friend, turns up at the door. Apparently he has a new job at Pizza Hut and his shift has just finished so Paul invites him in. Okay, maybe he shouldn't have accepted the joint but he didn't smoke much, leaving most of it to Tamilo. And he knows that he shouldn't have fallen asleep on Melanie but she didn't seem to mind. She fell asleep too and woke crying but Paul stroked her hair for a while until she was fine again. Melanie has nightmares – everyone knows that. A fist in close range blocks his vision and, when he opens his eyes next, his father is telling him to leave the family home and never return. He frogmarches toward his suitcase, packed and waiting on the doorstep, and drips blood from his nose on the verandah and down the path. Now, all he wants is to complete the patchwork and he remembers more every day. Soon he'll have the answers. Unreliable as ever though, Tamilo remains uncontactable, unavailable to verify the events of that night.

Emerging from the kitchen, espresso maker still gurgling, Paul stopped in front of me and poured it black and strong. I was still holding the letter when I glanced down at his socks, distracted by one big toe wiggling, and then back to the page. It was handwritten and it occurred to me that I had never seen Paul's handwriting before. When I looked up at him, he was pacing and I watched on, trying to read that which was missing from the letter as he tracked a stretched figure eight across the carpet. Not knowing where to start, I commented that I'd not heard him mention this absent friend and asked how he knew him. Troy ... Troy – he thought he knew the guy but obviously you can never really know anyone. When I explained that I was referring to Tamilo, he snorted and said he'd decided not to call him that anymore. In fact, he didn't deserve a name at all.

He scratched at his arm and the red tail of his crudely-drawn snake slid into view. I put down the letter and suggested that he call his parents and talk instead but he was shaking his head before I'd even finished the sentence. They'd simply hang up as they'd done several times already. In any case, he needed to remember exactly what happened first and asked me to prompt him with suggestions since I was always the thinker. At that moment, the black toenail invaded my thoughts, only fleetingly, and I realised that it matched his face – an inner face. I said it was too late, that I was tired and would have to think about it some more. And I drove home. The next morning I called Telstra to change my phone number and wondered also if my name had been changed.

### Friday 14 December 2012

### The Spirit Of The Thing

**AB**

Kanimbla, NSW

The servants buzzed around the dining room rushing to bring last minute dishes. The table groaned under the weight of the best silver. Enough chairs were brought for a dozen hungry relatives. On the heavy, oak sideboard, a large silver platter rested beside a tray of spirits.

'Well, here we are! All ready?' the silver Sole asked gaily, lying back on a bed of green garnish.

'I suppose so.' Beside him, the bottled Spirit sighed bleakly.

The Sole laughed. We've been well "plaiced" to see the party get underway. I don't know about you but I'm "breaming" with goodwill and cheer. Ah, the life and sole of the party, that's me.'

His companion groaned. 'Always one for the puns.'

The Sole smirked. 'Don't tell me you're fed up to the "gills" with my frivolity.'

'No,' the Spirit sighed. 'As long as I can see clearly, I don't mind. Sometimes, you're very punny. Ha ha! You see? I can be humorous.'

Together the large, silver Sole and the lugubrious Spirit in the bottle watched as the guests arrived for the mandatory birthday dinner.

'I notice the party has started: squashed together in the vestibule like sardines, and already drinking like fish. Smart set,' the Sole murmured, watching them with his glassy eye.

'Snappy dressers, too. Except, of course, for that old trout in the corner.'

'Yes, I've been watching her,' the Spirit replied heavily. 'Thinks everyone is calculating how many breaths she has left.'

'They are,' the Sole said. 'She'll be eighty in a few hours. And she's learned by bitter experience that "where there's a Will, there's a relative". In her case, there are many minnows circling. I'd say she feels filleted by life, wouldn't you?' the Sole asked archly. 'Gaiety has passed her by: I find her perfume depressing. Is it Poison or Chanel No. 5? For myself, I prefer "Parfum Poisson" or "Irrigation Channel No. 6". But let's talk about something, anything else.'

'Let's talk about the meaning of life, my old friend Sole.'

'Ah! Something light then!' The Sole sighed resigned: deep conversations were something he'd studiously avoided.

'So you're not interested in the meaning of life?'

'The meaning of life?' the Sole repeated askance. 'I thought it was obvious: slip unobtrusively through the waters until you're hooked. Then leave the shrimps to carry on after you. Or, in your case, spend your life fermenting until your essence is purified and you're bottled.'

'Scotch that idea, Sole. There has to be more to it than that.'

'I thought it was a rum idea,' the Sole grinned. 'Say, have I told you my favourite book?'

'No! I suppose it doesn't have much to do with the meaning of life, does it?'

'Hardly. You'll never guess. It's "Tequila Mockingbird". Get it?'

'Oh dear! I need a drink.'

'Wahoo!' the Sole shrilled. 'You are in a wobbegong mood, my mournful friend.'

'But life?' the Spirit resumed. 'What of that?'

'Oh, do stop carping,' the Sole sighed. 'I'm trying to think.'

'Are you really?' the Spirit asked hopefully. 'Are you sure you're not being a piker?'

'I'm trying my best,' the Sole murmured. 'I was never in a school of fish, you know. And we never swam with anything deep like sea bream: too far out. Maybe that's why I'm so shallow: that's where I grew up, you know – in the shallows.' He sighed. 'I suppose you think I'm a bit of a flake?'

'Not at all,' the Spirit said. 'I suppose I can't expect answers at my time of life.'

The Sole said quietly, 'Don't be dispirited, my friend. Please! Not everybody works out the meaning of life before there isn't any. I mean, look at us. You're about to be drunk and I'm about to be eaten. Ha! We don't have much time left for the deepest philosophical question ever asked.'

The Spirit was silent for what seemed an age. Then he said, 'So you don't think we need to know the meaning of life before...?'

'Before "Eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow we die"? Oh no! It's enough that we live being the best we can. Don't you feel that, my friend?'

Again there was a deep silence.

'Yes,' the Spirit replied at last, his voice sounding lighter and more cheerful. 'I do believe you're right, friend Sole. To live, being the best we can. Yes! I believe we may have discovered the meaning of life after all.'

As the platter was removed from the sideboard, the Sole called back, 'That's the Spirit!'

The glass bottle was opened. The Spirit was poured to be shared among the many.

Neither Sole nor Spirit was lost as they mingled in the depths of the guests and were once more transformed.

AB says that redesigning the phrase 'the soul and the spirit' into something else was a fun challenge and that she enjoys a twist in the tale!

### Saturday 15 December 2012 8 pm

### Girl In The Garden

**Shane Smithers**

Katoomba, NSW

As the storm raged a girl strolled in Katherine's garden, sheltered only by an umbrella. Her lack of clothing only served to accentuate her beauty and increase her mystique. Her milky skin drew the perfect contrast to the deep green foliage. Katherine beckoned to her from the window, but she did not come. The rain swirled, fell sideways, lashing the girl's every curve.

Katherine stood at the door, opened her umbrella and hurried into the storm. The ground was sodden underfoot. The girl sat on a garden chair, raised her knees and perched her heels on the edge of the seat. It wasn't the most modest of postures, but she didn't seem to care.

'As much as I appreciate you beautifying my garden, I think you should come in out of the cold.'

'Is it cold?' she asked. 'I don't feel cold.' The girl's nipples stood erect and goose bumps gave texture to her silky skin.

'You look cold.' Katherine paused. 'I can bring you some clothes if you don't want to come inside.'

'All right, I'll come in and get warm,' she said as though it hardly mattered.

Katherine smiled reassuringly.

'You can have a hot shower if you like. I'll get you a towel.'

'Thank you. That would be nice.'

She followed Katherine through the rain. They lowered their umbrellas and stepped into the warmth.

'It must be cold out. It feels like a furnace in here,' said the girl.

'Yes it is quite cold outside. The bathroom is this way.' Katherine pointed to a fresh towel and closed the door behind her.

Three minutes later Katherine heard the water turn off, she grabbed some clothes and was heading to the bathroom when she saw the girl standing naked in the living room. 'That was quick.'

'I didn't want to use all of your hot water.'

'Oh, you should have taken your time.' Katherine handed her some clothes.

'Oh thanks, do you mind if I sit down?'

'Please do.'

The girl sat down placing the clothing beside her on the lounge. 'It's a nice house you have here.'

'Thank you,' said Katherine a little surprised that her guest hadn't put the clothes on. 'Would you like a cup of tea or something else perhaps?'

'Tea would be nice, thank you.'

The rain fell as the sun surrendered for another day. Katherine poured water from the kettle into a china teapot, turned it several times and then poured two cups. She returned from the kitchen with a tray.

'You are different from last time I saw you,' said Katherine.

'Am I?'

'Yes, I think so.'

'Was I wearing clothes last time you saw me?'

'I think so. I think I would have remembered if you were naked.'

'Naked, not nude?'

'Is there a difference?' asked Katherine.

'Nude is what we are when we're born, what we are under our clothes, innocent, pure. Naked is undressed, uncovered.'

'I see,' said Katherine a little confused. 'So are you nude or are you naked?'

'That depends on you,' she smiled. 'As far as I'm concerned I'm nude, but you might think I'm naked, I'm not sure. It's not necessarily up to me.'

'It's not?'

'No. Not entirely.' She paused. 'I could be naked if you like, it's up to you.'

You can't be more than 22 or 23, thought Katherine, as she took a sip of her tea. 'You're very beautiful.'

'So are you. I think you are far more beautiful than me.'

Katherine blushed. 'Oh no, you're so pretty and you have a lovely figure.'

'Maybe I am naked,' mused the girl.

'I must admit, that I'm a little confused.'

The girl shifted in her seat, allowing her legs to fall open a little. Katherine couldn't help looking. You certainly are naked. I can see your pussy, thought Katherine. The girl watched Katherine's eyes fall and linger. Katherine noticed a little smile when she looked up. The girl opened her legs a little wider, rocking one knee from side to side rhythmically. Katherine couldn't help stealing another glance.

The girl's smile widened. 'The more I think about it, the more I think I might be naked, rather than nude.'

'I think you might be right,' said Katherine.

'There is one way to be sure,' said the girl.

'There is?'

'Yes, all you need to do is take your clothes off.'

'You want me to take my clothes off?'

'If you want to.'

'If I want to?'

'Yes, if you want to take your clothes off, I would like you too. If you don't want to take them off, I don't want you too. I only want you to be comfortable.'

'How will me taking my clothes off resolve our little dilemma?'

'Well, if we are both free of clothes, we will be able to figure out if we are naked or nude.'

'How?'

'If we want to be undressed together we will be naked, if not, we will be two nude people drinking tea.'

'Undressed? Isn't that just a euphemism for being naked?'

'Well, that is kind of the point. It's not a euphemism for being nude. Therefore, if we are undressed together we will be naked not nude.'

The girl smiled, rocked her knee from side to side, opening and closing her legs, then leant back in the lounge and stretched her arms above her head. Her breasts rose and flattened as she stretched. Katherine took a deep breath. God you're stunning, your breasts are so perky and smooth and the way your areolas pucker is – oh my – and your nipples are just perfect. Katherine took another sip of her tea.

'Do you want me to?' asked Katherine.

'It might be nice,' she cooed. 'I think you want to.'

'Do I?'

'Yes, I think so. You keep touching your hair and wetting your lips, but it's the fact that you have rubbed your hands up and down your thighs more than once that makes me think you want to.'

'You're probably right, it just feels a little funny, that's all.'

'If you feel funny about taking your clothes off, you'll definitely be naked not nude.'

'Right.'

'So then, are you going to?' She let her arms fall to her lap, traced a finger along her landing strip and then said, 'I can help you if you want. We would definitely be naked if I helped you get undressed.'

'Would you kiss me when you helped me get undressed?' asked Katherine.

'I might.'

'I just think it would feel silly, if you didn't.'

'I will kiss you if it makes you feel better about me helping you.'

'Okay then,' said Katherine.

The girl stood up and walked around the coffee table to where Katherine sat. Still holding her tea cup, Katherine looked up at her, at her breasts and smiled. Slowly she leaned forward and placed the cup on the table. Her face was only inches from the girl's body, from her tummy, her landing strip and the moisture that gathered in the furrow between her legs. Her pheromones were intoxicating. Katherine's pulse increased, she looked up into her lovely green eyes.

The girl took Katherine's hand, stepped back and pulled her up. As soon as Katherine was on her feet the girl kissed her, sweetly at first, then more deeply. Katherine's cardigan fell from her shoulders. The button on her skirt was undone and the zip lowered. Her skirt fell to the floor. Katherine returned the girl's kiss, their lips sliding hungrily over one another. The girl brushed the hair from Katherine's face, holding her and kissing her more passionately. Katherine slipped her thumbs into the elastic of her waistband and slipped her white satin pants down her thighs.

Katherine could hardly contain her desire. Her hands followed the girl's curves, around her waist, over her bottom and up to her shoulders. The girl didn't object. Their breathing was heavier now, rasping, between feverish kisses. The girl hurried to unbutton Katherine's blouse, then her hand raced to the clasp on her bra, undoing it in an instant. First her blouse and then her bra was discarded. Katherine broke their kiss, only to fall upon the girl's neck, kissing, her tongue tracing the line of her neck, licking her soft skin.

A moan escaped the girl's lips as she lifted Katherine's knee wrapping her leg around her waist. The girl ran her hand along Katherine's thigh, caressing her bottom, following that divide down and forward.

'That feels so nice,' gasped Katherine.

They kissed again, lips sliding, mouths sucking, teeth nipping playfully as they embraced.

'I think we definitely are naked,' said the girl.

'Yes, definitely naked,' said Katherine almost breathlessly.

The girl's deft fingers traced Katherine's lips, lingered and teased her just enough to inspire a change of location. They bumped into things on the way to the bedroom, knocking a hat stand over. Sleep was a long time coming. In the morning they woke in each other's arms, nude.

Shane says this piece was inspired by a black and white photograph of a woman sitting naked/nude holding an umbrella. The photograph was artistic, the woman elegant and the subject well captured. Like all good art, it made Shane think.

### Sunday 16 December 2012

### Ambiguous Loss

**Susan Fielding**

Wantirna South, Vic

dying embers

passions long spent

linger repentantly on the grate of life.

heat expended

heart in arrest

a protracted passing leads to relentless uncertainty.

sorrow picks its way

over smouldering coals

hesitant without a corpse.

unverified death

conflicting perceptions

frontrunners to emotional exhaustion.

no codified event

clear cut surrender

grief frozen in obsession.

mourning masked

complicated closure

no entombment to mark the calendar.

resisting extinction

demanding more grace

clawing for resuscitation that cannot revive.

denial dancing

on the empty grave

an absence presence only contradicts.

the human spirit

rebellious to relinquish without certification

ambiguity ambushes our loss. 

### Sunday 16 December 2012 4 pm

### Sense Of Life

**Kylie Abecca**

Port Albany, WA

All alone, I sit, I stare,

Bare walls of fate stand boldly there,

All my feelings on the wall,

Strip their skins and show to all,

My fear and courage draw their swords,

While hope and loss hide in drawers,

Packed away all nice and tight,

I let out more of trouble and fright,

Pain and comfort sit on their own,

While excitement and boredom sigh and groan,

Embarrassment and pride are put away,

And love and hate come out to play,

I close my eyes and breathe in deep,

Relief and worry stand close and weep,

I turn my head and walk away,

Leaving them there to fight and play,

Shame and guilt walk close behind,

Regret and anger sit down to unwind,

My walk breaks out into a run,

I keep on going, face into the sun,

Suddenly I feel I'm free,

That's all I want to stay with me,

I close my eyes and go to sleep,

But feelings are something you always keep,

They'll be back, that I know,

I'll never be able to let them go,

Whatever life may have in store,

I'll need them here forever more,

I trust in them to return,

The respect they get, they surely earn,

For now I sleep and dream of them,

When I awake, they'll be here again.

### Monday 17 December 2012

### Bleeding Bark

**Heather Harrison**

Noranda, WA

Driving with a one-handed confidence, tapping the driver's door along with the pop-rock-country hybrid hit. The last set of traffic lights along Great Northern Highway changed green to amber, and she accelerated through them, the back window lighting up red through the fog.

Fog eddying up from the river, covering Yagan Bridge and half its road. Swirling around the car bonnet, and caught in the headlights. She fumbled for the high beam, the heightened light only serving to make the fog thicker. Hesitating, she switched back to the headlights.

Driving along, she concentrates. After passing the river the fog soon lightens. Driving through the last minute swirl, she reverts to the high beam. The sharp light hurls itself far away and lights the highway and the peripheral brown, gravelly shoulders. If not for the occasional truck and car, she could be the only person around. The only one left in the world. She welcomes the solitude, her mind wandering as she speeds along. The wide highway is surrounded by bush and occasional acreages of settled land, and its monotony is deceptive to many drivers, especially those who aren't locals. But she has learnt to drive along it, and is familiarised with its few bends and gravelled edges. The couple of years experience driving along the lonely road has entitled her to this sense of confidence.

A splintery static spits forth from the speakers, interference from the radio. Scoffing her irritation, she snaps the radio off, and her attention is redirected. On the opposite side of the road, a flash catches her attention. Squinting into the darkness, she sees a young pale figure, waving and trying to flag her down. Surely not much older than herself. Her hesitation takes her foot off the accelerator, slowing, caught off guard. Her pale skin is illuminated by the high beam, she's dressed in a simple dress and a some sort of wrap cardigan, despite the nightly chill, and her legs and arms are pallid. She looks oddly familiar but unplaced. Maybe an alumnus from the year below her? The familiarity picked at her mind, irritating little nicks and stitches.

She forces herself to exhale the breath that she had only then realised she had been holding. Glancing into her rear view mirror, and unsurprisingly seeing nothing, steers into the shoulder of the highway, numerable meters past the figure. The brake lights illuminate the road and gravelled shoulder a blackened burgundy.

Beside is the gumtree she usually marks as the halfway point of her journeys homeward. Its ashy white-grey bark stained with crimson. Bleeding trails of sap, revealing the resilient totem's hidden fault and vulnerability.

Putting the car into park, she turned her head back toward the road, and found her face engulfed in an otherworldly brightness. White light blinding her corneas, she blinked; in an instant, the road train soared and rattled past her. She felt insignificant in its enormity, its power solidly rocking her car. Rattled, she breathed heavily, her knuckles white against the steering wheel.

She turns again, squinting for the pale figure. One hand hovers over the door handle, the other still clutching the steering wheel. There, further back along the shoulder, further away from the road than she'd previously thought. She steps out and stares into the dim shadows, trying to focus on the figure on the side of the shoulder. Her hand outreached shatters the darkness.

The cry, "Oh thank God", echoes in the empty space. The night seems quietly devoid of the noisy traffic that a highway should embody, but after all, this is Australia and furthermore not exactly some people's ideas of civilisation. The fringes of civilisation, as the joke goes.

Stepping across the road, her senses seem in overdrive. With her steps, she feels the heat from the day still radiating from the bitumen beneath her feet. Alert. Adrenaline coursing through her. She hears the subtle crunch of her reaching the road's shoulder, and the taciturn night around her.

Her confusion pulls her at face, furrowing, lines etching her brow and surrounding her eyes. She stares at her feet, the off-point finally connecting in her mind, that her feet are bare. They are as pale as the rest of her, but smudged with something else. Stained. The dark sickly colour starkly contrasts with the white.

She finds herself involuntarily taking a step back, grazing the smooth, ashen bark of the tree beside her, if only a moment late.

~~~

The sunrise brings new light to the previous night's darkness. The car unlocked on the side of the highway is all that remains of the night's unexplainable mystery, and many logical minds will have more questions that remain unanswered.

### Tuesday 18 December 2012

### Disconnect

**Susan Kay**

Bellevue Heights, SA

she wakes, remembers, sighs

selects a cardboard face

from her collection in the bathroom

pads to the kitchen

puts on coffee

leans heavy on the counter edge

morning peace spoiled

by anticipation

of an early jetlagged footfall

a flush, a running tap

she steels herself

adjusts the face

smoothes something at her waist

turns full-toothed upon her guest

hiding a snarl

behind a Californian greeting

drowning intimacy in exaggerated

Hail Fellow

her guest wonders

is her host planning

to eat her for breakfast

washed down with Arabica beans

### Wednesday 19 December 2012

### The Truth At Last

**Bob Edgar**

Wentworth Falls, NSW

Albert Collector was turning 100 years old today and the Lilac Nursing Home was decorated to the hilt. Today was the 17th March 1998, and Albert was the first resident of Lilac's sole aged care facility to reach the century. The home's managing director had invited the small country town's most influential people to attend his birthday party.

Head nurse Patricia Smalling had planned the big day with precision, right down to a magnificent cake adorned with 100 candles.

Albert was well aware of the fuss within the home, and the fact that he was the centre of attention. He was an intelligent, alert man who had kept an almost silent countenance since arriving two years earlier.

Although having been born and raised in Lilac he had no known family or friends. Albert had for many years been known as the sad man who dwelled in the house on the hill.

For two days now Albert had been unusually edgy and snapping at the nurses. Just this morning he had shouted at a young trainee nurse and twice thrown cups of tea to the floor. Although out of character for Albert, Patricia was not overly concerned. She instead focused on the party, and wished for the day to be over.

Patricia became a little agitated when informed that three candles had gone missing from Albert's cake. Petty, maybe, but enough to put her on edge.

Patricia had planned on presenting Albert with the telegram from Queen Elizabeth at the party. However, she reasoned that if she gave it to him now he would be in better spirits for his guests.

Finding Albert sitting on the side of his bed, Patricia proffered the telegram to him with a caring smile. Albert opened the envelope and read the message for two seconds, before tearing it in two and flicking it into Patricia's face.

'Albert Collector, behave yourself! You are 100 years old today, we have a party in your honour and you should feel proud of yourself.'

Albert stood defiantly before the head nurse.

'I'll be cursed if I allow you or any person to celebrate my life. Who are you to say I am 100 years old? Who are you to say I should be proud of myself? Get away from me, leave me alone!'

'Please calm yourself Albert, I'll send in a nurse to sit with you.'

Patricia retreated from the room and made for her office to peruse Albert's personal file.

Albert shuffled across the room to confide in his catatonic roommate.

Albert's voice quivered as he spoke.

'I need to tell someone; Please listen, please forgive me. 1916 was the last time I had a friend. His name was Walter, he was my best friend and we were very young. He didn't want to join up, he was frightened. Didn't want to leave his Mum.'

Albert suddenly clutched, then cradled his left forearm and groaned.

'I made him join. I wanted my friend to be with me. Walter was killed on his first day on foreign soil.'

Albert slid to the floor, confessing to himself.

'We were only 15.'

### Thursday 20 December 2012

### Information Simply Given

**Jill Pierce**

Curtin, ACT

Caravanning

allows glimpses into others' lives,

provides an intimate space

chance encounters

people never seen again.

Grey Nomads, families on travelling holidays,

local people in dusty towns

outback dwellers.

A couple pull in to the Warrumbungles,

walks provide magnificent views

volcanic rock plugs and scrub-covered cliffs

steeped in eucalyptus vapour.

The husband cannot venture far.

A lifetime of smoking led to emphysema,

he quit, but 'trouble with his son'

sent him reaching for the tobacco.

Information simply given

as we walk to the toilet block.

Kangaroos watch warily.

Edna and Joan mind the local museum,

ten to twelve each day,

health permitting.

Their chairs set to catch the morning sun,

both in their eighties,

watching for the weekly cattle train.

Edna's husband, now ten years dead,

built models of the old town,

with local mulga and a chisel

proudly set up the dusty displays.

Edna carries on his work, keeping history alive

'But who will take over when we go?'

I swim out to a raft on the Roper River

one other woman, her husband off fishing.

We cleave through the clear water, refreshed.

Then lie on the pontoon,

baking, chatting.

They sold their house for the travelling life

after her husband had a heart attack.

Their son was a keen horticulturist,

Passionate about plants,

but 'all a waste'.

He died when he was twenty-five.

The words drop like stones in a pool

Solicitude ripples,

questions hang in the still hot air.

A bright red dragonfly lands,

the cabbage palms lean in.

Tomorrow we move on.

### Friday 21 December 2012

### Maya

**David Anderson**

Woodford, NSW

Working hard, saving dollars

Only one thing on my mind

Palenque – got to go there

Find the spirit of the Mayan kind

People say they are no more

Nothings further from the truth

Maya people – everywhere

Cry it out from the temple roof

Maya – the future the stars

You set our course long ago

Two thousand and twelve will reveal

A future of joy or one of woe

In the Forest of Kings the people danced

As the galleons arrived on the Yucatan coast

They conquered, but Mayan culture survived

And their spirits still taunt Avendano's ghost

### Saturday 22 December 2012

### Following

**Ben McCaskill**

North Balgowlah, NSW

Running numb through the cold

I follow the swaying crimson

It's all I know, all I'm sure of doing

The world changes

Heat from other drifting souls from every direction

A deafening, disorientating noise engulfs me

Creates the aura of surrealism

I cannot tell how long ago lucidity made its evanescence

Senses are distorted, patterns change

My eyes avert, I scan the sea

The stockings catch my eye

They stand out like a bride at her wedding

I stand fixated, waiting,

She turns

We meet eye to eye

An invisible force as real as the wind draws us back together

Our hands clasp

A rush of excitement, a release of joy

Alone at last

I don't waste time

I yell the whisper in her ear

The response is a tug on my arm

She leads me down whatever path she creates

Again I follow

Suddenly, the force of her legs around my waist

Light reveals her shining emerald eyes in flashes

My eyes close, all I have is touch

Our lips meet

I want to smile, I'm happy

My wish has been granted

All yearning, all hoping, becomes real

My mind is as always untamed, I ponder more

Now the floor moves, it's tilting

The room is spinning

Stumbling, contact remains but our embrace is broken

I covet the last second's moment again

A moment of magic, but it must end

We're not ourselves

A poison has brought us here

Through the haze the voice of truth remains clear

Battling the desire to remain a prisoner, I announce for a conclusion

I'm met with her wandering gaze

The gaze of a shell left behind by its occupant

A hand squeezes mine tightly

Through the swarm of heat and confusion she leads me

I follow

### Sunday 23 December 2012

### Losing The Chance To Choose

**Arielle Windsor**

Nakara, NT

Sunday was flat out. Stretched across the sheets, her head lay centred unnaturally on the pillow like a porcelain doll set neatly in a cradle. Her level of consciousness was dead-flat too. The shallow indentation of her chest and the slight rasp of her exhale were the sole things that showed the life behind the pale skin.

It was time to make a choice. There were multiple possibilities, but none felt right. Nothing had felt right since I woke up to discover my brother Sam would never wake again. And that his girlfriend Sunday was to be suspended, neither waking nor sleeping, merely lying there, flat.

Even before the incident, it didn't feel right. Not when my brother stole my best friend. When he took the only person I felt comfortable around and slung her round his neck like a trophy. Not when Sunday only talked of Sam and Sam only boasted about the things they did together. It wasn't wrong, exactly ... but it wasn't right.

It was the two of us, Sunday and me, who then became three when my brother decided that girls no longer gave you germs. When they got together it felt like I was at the centre, squashed between them, wanting to separate them but instead left suffocating and in need of space to breathe. Now I've got the space I wanted, but it's a lonely, guilty place. I've become so hollow that I'm empty. Devoid except for the hope that Sunday comes around again.

The choices lay like the distasteful Cherry Ripes at the bottom of one of many Favourites boxes on Sunday's beside table. There was not even a thin layer of sweet-talk coating to make them easier to swallow. There was the option to flick the switch and pull the plug, but Sunday was always arguing with me about the injustice of euthanasia. That choice would definitely be a wrong one. The doctors had said it was possible to leave her in the coma and simply wait for a natural recovery, but there was a hesitancy and doubt to their tone, as though they were wishing it to become true. Sunday had no patience and always tired quickly of playing patient. It felt wrong to make her wait, like I was holding her back for myself. That left the last two. Stimulating her brain to arrive at consciousness through a physical procedure involving 12 hour surgery, a small lobotomy and shocking her nervous system would have freaked Sunday out. It was apparent, then that inducing consciousness through newly developed medicinal drugs was the best option for Sunday. There were side effects, the doctors explained to me, such as increased sweating from the postulate glands, skin irritation, nausea, migraines and fatigue. There would also be a slight risk of the inability to recall past events from the temporal lobes, although this was rare, and highly unlikely due to Sunday's current stability.

Sunday had no relatives, which is why she lived at our house for most of the year, sharing our food, our clothes, our bath and our bedroom. When we started at Ennui High, she moved into the barn, but we all still shared secrets, games and laughter. There is nothing I wouldn't share with Sunday.

So I shared my hatred and my fear about her future whilst she lay upon the bed, hand loose in mine, even though the doctors said pessimism was forbidden. Sunday had been on the stimulants for a month now, and the flickers of neural activity had been detected. If she had never heard a word I said, it wouldn't bother me, as just talking to her left me feeling calm and reassured. As long as one of us was benefitting then it didn't really matter. I was staring at the texture of the plain white wall as I contemplated the past, when I felt Sunday's fingers twitch. I turned, and her eyes twitched too. 'Sunday ...' I managed to whisper, before she fell back into her comatose state.

After that I didn't want to leave her side, but the doctors convinced me to leave for dinner at 11.30pm. On my return, I sat by her side and we slept like that, hand in limp hand.

A movement in my hand woke me with a start. I opened my eyes to a falsely dark room which suggested night from the slightly dimmed lights. It was Sunday; eyes open wide in the dimness.

'Sam?' she croaked in her unused voice

I leant in closer so there was no doubt she could see my face. Even in the poor lighting, it was easy to tell between Sam and I – he was good looking and I was definitely not.

'Sam – it is you isn't it?'

The memory loss, low risk, only three in every thousand, new technology, facial recognition, never retraceable, prosopagnosia ... a hundred thoughts flashed across my mind ...

'Yes, Sunday of course it's me.' I held my eyes steady. It would be best for both of us, right?

'You liar!'

My mouth dropped.

'You said, you said we'd go home.'

I shut it.

'You said we'd find Dave, you said you tell him we'd split. You said, "Let me do the talking". You said, "He's not going to take this lightly". "He'll hate you", you told me. You said "You're wrong to do this you know". You said so much that I never got to talk. To tell you that I'd realised that everything I ever liked about you was something that I saw first in Dave. That it's not you I love. It's David. I never got to say it. The car swerved, and after that I don't remember. I made a wrong choice Sam. I have to make it right. Where's Dave, Sam?'

I stumbled for some words. I choked back tears.

'The Dave you knew is gone forever, Sunday.' At least that much was true.

Sunday screamed, but her voice snagged. The scream kept pouring out of her, silently contorting her face into a grotesque image of pain love, sorrow and loss. Her body shook, from the emotion, I guessed, but when I went to touch her gently, she began convulsing in giant shudders. A night warden came running with the defibrillator, I stood back.

She followed the cues, a paddle on each side of the chest. A shock. No signs of life. The voltage was switched to high, all red lights and automated voice. A second shock rippled through Sunday like she wasn't even there.

The nurse turned it off, sagged into a chair and hid her face beneath her hands.

Sunday was gone.

I'd thought I could save her with a white lie but I'd killed her with a half-truth.

I'd made a choice.

It was the wrong one.

### Monday 24 December 2012

### Christmas Performance Report

**John Arvan**

Underdale, SA

Whoops!

Someone left the door ajar

And Santa snuck back in

Resplendent in his shorts and thongs

And snow-white bearded grin.

So let me now review your year

He breathed with too much pleasure.

We'll talk about how good you've been

Performance is my measure.

No – we cried in unison

'cos life's a bit too short.

We've revelled in some indolence

of deed

and want

and thought.

Ok said Santa

I accept

that sometimes you've transgressed.

That wine and beer go hand in hand

with good folk that are stressed.

But what of all those cakes and pies?

And I've logged all your 'lil white lies.

The cash foregone far better spent.

That crazy road rage incident.

When you wee'd in the swimming pool.

Unseen, you thought, your doggy's poo,

and I can tell ... you think I'm fat!

I'll have to give an 'F' for that.

Please Santa! Stop!

we've had enough.

The neighbours may be woken up

and if you haven't brought your sack

the year's a waste but for Barack.

Then Santa smiled with too much glee.

Out to his sleigh invited we

and there on that hot summer's night

with moon a-glow and stars a-bright

he rummaged round in his great sack

the games and dolls he did attack

until he found it

just for us ...

... and bellowed

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!

### Tuesday 25 December 2012

### What I Really Want For Christmas

**Demelza**

Taroona, TAS

What I really want for Christmas

Is a housemaid for a year

One who washes dishes

And cleans up everywhere

But I'll be happy with a tea towel

'cause I know the money's tight

And you'll stand close by and watch me

As I use it every night

What I really want for Christmas

Is a cruise on a big ship

Where I can put my feet up

And watch the dolphins dip

Where exotic lands can pass me by

Or I can go ashore

And watch exotic dances

And eat exotic boar

But I'll be happy with a basket

A melon or a peach

And you can watch me carry it

Up and down the local beach

What I really what for Christmas

Is a new and shiny car

One that's really sporty

No rack or towing bar

But I'll be happy with the bus pass

That you buy me every year

And I know it saves us money

Yes I know that cars are dear

What I really want for Christmas

Is a man to prune the roses

To spread a bit of compost

And fix up all the hoses

But I'll be happy with a spade

'cause I know you'll buy the best

And you say, 'It's good to be outdoors

– a change is like a rest!'

And now I'm saving money dear

Look what I've bought you

Some tickets to the movies

And my mother's coming too!

### Wednesday 26 December 2012

### Burnt Toast

**Virginia Gow**

Blackheath, NSW

Would you offer a guest who has travelled far

Burnt toast from yesterday?

If it's all you have, then this will do.

'No way,' I hear you say.

Would you rather offer a sheer delight,

Creamy buttery bread

Still smelling of baker's dough?

'Yes, Yes,' you answer low.

All care should then be taken

With a serving for the soul.

Line up the poet's recipe

In a wabi-sabi bowl.

Each morsel, a sliver of 'bacon'

Crisp and tender to the ear,

Golden, egg-ripple interplay

Resembles the wandering seer.

Slow cooking, play with one line,

For an hour, a day, or a year.

Unique ideas are a breakfast feast,

Researched and sifted through.

The ego has no place in rhyme.

Who will offer a serving to you?

### Wednesday 26 December 2012 4 pm

### Lacuna

**Peter Goodwin**

Warilla, NSW

No words placed me here,

on this wooden bridge, above a dark pond.

There was no invitation to accept,

no meeting to decline.

It is a place where I come

between sentences.

It is silent here, surrounded by meadows,

absent of birds.

In this season, the clouds dim the sun,

most of the time.

Charcoal shadows are cast

as though someone is sketching me.

It is a place where I come

when there are no words.

### Thursday 27 December 2012 9.55 pm

### Hypothetical Machine

**Graham Sparks**

Bathurst, NSW

Imagine there's another place

where simplicity reigns supreme

the measure of a machine

would be its density of function

divided by complexity of system.

And so I feel a poem is in analogue

a word machine.

Density of concept over textual complexity

would give a reading of its overall efficiency,

and conceptual units non aligned with rhythmic ones

avoids the bane of modularity,

and gives the whole cohesion.

Verbosity dilutes the power of the words.

### Friday 28 December 2012

### Secrets

**Sallie Ramsay**

Torrens, ACT

'Can you keep a secret?

I don't believe you can.

You mustn't smile,

You mustn't laugh,

Just do the best you can!'

I hate that rhyme; I hate being tickled and that rhyme always ends with me being tickled. No matter how hard I try not to wriggle and giggle, by the time they get to 'You mustn't laugh', my body is jangling and jiggling and ready to break into a fit of unfunny giggles.

My cousin Susan is four years older than me, she is the worst. Other people tickle me too but they just do it as a joke and don't understand how much I hate it, they aren't ticklish of course but then ticklers never are. Susan knows exactly how I feel and just enjoys upsetting me. She creeps up behind me, pounces on me, rushes through the rhyme before tickling me really hard.

'There, you are laughing again!' she shouts in triumph. 'You can't keep a secret!'

I can keep a secret, I keep lots of them. I keep secrets about Christmas presents and special surprises; I keep the secret about where Uncle Ron hides his bottle of whisky in the garage and I know that my brother keeps a packet of condoms in his pocket, just in case. Just in case of what I don't know. I'd never tell what my big sister Jane and her boyfriend do in her room when my parents are out. That is such a big secret not even Jane knows I am keeping it. So I can keep a secret no matter what Susan says.

The only thing I can do is to try and learn not wriggle when someone starts 'Can you keep a ...' It's very, very hard, my arms and legs shake, my face goes red, my eyes fill with tears but little by little I'm learning not to seem ticklish. That nasty rhyme is less scary now, people have stopped pouncing on me; it's no fun to tickle someone who isn't ticklish. Of course I'm still ticklish, but I've learned to be ticklish so that it doesn't show on the outside.

I told my parents about what Susan does but they thought it was a joke and told me not to be a sook. Somehow Susan found out I'd told my parents. She grabbed me by the arm and pushed me up against the wall, she drew her finger across her throat and glared at me and said if I ever told tales again ...

'Tell tale tit,

Your tongue will split

And all the little puppy dogs,

Will have a little bit!'

Even Susan stopped tickling me but now she does other things. Yesterday she chased me with a big spider, I think she likes to frighten me, she really enjoys making me cry, although I try very hard not to. This morning something strange happened. I was looking out my bedroom window when I saw Susan coming up the street. Just before she got to our house a car full of what my brother called yobbos from the pub pulled up next to her. One got out and pulled Susan into the car. I think she was screaming; I couldn't hear anything but she looked as if she were screaming. One of the yobbos looked up and saw me at the window; he shook his head and drew his finger across his throat just like Susan did to remind me something bad would happen if I said anything.

My life since Susan disappeared has been much nicer. Everyone is very puzzled about what happened to her. The police have asked me lots of questions but I've said nothing. If there is one thing I'm good at its keeping secrets and Susan taught me never to tell tales ...

### Saturday 29 December 2012

### The Demon Hunter

**Des Pensable**

Kirrawee, NSW

I was a scientist from a parallel dimension exploring a new world just recently discovered. I came from a society where we valued knowledge, reason and logic above all. Our science had advanced to a stage where we had detected multiple realities and could travel to them. I was sent out to one to collect information and study the inhabitants. This was my first mission so I was quite excited.

My avatar body had been bioengineered to look like them. I had taken a study course in off world etiquette and I had an artificially intelligent universal translator device implanted which could quickly learn any new language and translate it for me. So I felt reasonably confident that I could blend in with the locals and learn about them.

They had a society based upon the use of fossil fuel as a source of energy. Logically it would run out eventually and their society would have to change and adjust otherwise they could destroy their world and a large proportion of their population in the process. It had nearly happened to my world but in the end we were saved by science and a popular uprising against the financial monopoly that controlled the world. I was going there to investigate whether they were aware of the danger.

My avatar entered their physical reality a few kilometres from a small farm located several kilometres from a rural community and approaching the people working there I asked if I could do some work for them to earn some food. They seemed quite happy to accommodate me and soon had me working at harvesting one of the grain crops.

The other workers seemed quite happy and talkative. We all sat around a fire in the evening whilst a story teller told tales of great heroes and imaginary monsters and we all had a good laugh.

I shared a common room with several other males each night and we chatted about which female we liked and discussed their virtues. It was here that I learnt that one was particularly interested in me. Her name was Sara.

One morning I woke at the normal time to find that my co-workers had all left the room. At first I thought that I must have slept in so I hurried outside but they were nowhere to be seen and there was no activity in the fields. What I did see was a person approaching wearing a uniform curiously similar to an ancient one from my own dimension. He had a serious look on his face.

'So you're the new worker are you? I've heard that you're not from around here. That doesn't give you any excuse not to be at the temple at dawn to give thanks to Our Lord for the fine harvest,' he said.

'Oh, sorry,' I replied. 'I didn't know the owner of the farm held a service to honour his benevolence or I would have come. It's certainly lovely working here.'

'Not the farm owner you idiot, the Lord, our god, Zexon.'

'Oh, your god Zexon. I don't believe in gods. I've seen a lot of amazing things but I've never seen a god in all my travels,' I replied honestly.

'You don't believe in Zexon? Who makes the sun rise? Who makes the crops grow? Who brings the rain? Who gives us love and children? Are you mad?' he queried.

'I had to take a battery of psychology tests before they let me visit here. If I was mad I'm sure they wouldn't have let me come.'

'Hmm ... so not believing in Zexon means that you won't want to pay the 15% tithe on your earnings. Is that what you're on about? You want to visit our country and not pay your dues to Zexon?', he asked.

'Oh no, not at all. If they are normal taxes I don't mind paying and I'll go along to your service if you want. It should be interesting. I don't want to upset anyone. It's just that I don't believe in gods,' I replied.

'Hmm ... you can't come to the service or even work here on the farm unless you're devoted to Zexon. It's against the rules,' he stated emphatically.

'But I won't be able to eat unless I work,' I pleaded.

'That's not my concern. If you're not one of us you don't exist. You're just another animal like all the others and our god said quite plainly that we have dominion over all the animals.'

'Oh. I don't want to be declared an animal. That doesn't sound like a good option,' I replied. 'So what are the good and bad points about joining your religion?'

'That's not a very positive attitude to start with. You should be happy to have your soul saved by Our Lord Zexon,' replied the priest, a little annoyed.

'What's a soul?' I asked.

'You really are ignorant of the glories of our faith aren't you?'

'Sorry,' I replied.

'Well, in a nut shell you are made of two parts, one is flesh and the other is spirit. The flesh part of you is bad and will do all sorts of nasty things if it gets a chance but the spirit part is there to advise it not to do those things and watch over it. It also keeps a record of all your good and bad deeds throughout your life.

'When you die the spirit part of you will go to a place in another dimension called heaven where Zexon lives and present your record sheet to him. If he thinks you've been a good servant to him and mainly kept by his rules then he'll let your spirit stay with him to serve him there.

'On the down side, if you break his rules and let your body rule over your spirit then he'll send your spirit to a place called hell where it will live in pain and agony for all eternity.'

'So the spirit part of me is to stop the flesh part of me from having fun, otherwise it won't have fun after the flesh part of me dies. Is that the concept?' I asked.

'That is a very selfish way for your flesh self to think. You should be ashamed to even suggest that!' he said quite annoyed.

'I know my flesh part can feel pleasure and pain. How do I know my spirit part will feel pleasure and pain after my flesh part dies?' I asked becoming quite interested in this novel concept.

'We don't ask questions like that. We have faith that what the Lord has said is the truth,' he replied.

'How do you know all this about Zexon if he lives in another dimension?' I asked curiously.

'He has sent his servants here to tell us, of course. It's all here in this book.'

'Can I have a copy of the book to read?' I asked.

'It wouldn't do you any good. It's written in a strange language that only people like me can read. I actually went to college for several years to learn how to understand Zexon's holy words,' he replied indignantly.

'Did you learn other knowledge like mathematics, science, philosophy or perhaps even art?' I asked, wondering about their universities.

'No. Why should I? This book contains all the wisdom that a person needs to live a happy life in the service of Zexon,' he replied. 'So are you going to join our faith or not?'

'Umm ... can I think about for a few days?' I asked.

'I'm not unreasonable. You have until next week. I want to see you at the dawn service and ready to sign up to our easy pay deduction scheme. You won't even notice the money gone,' he replied with a smile as he left.

That evening the young female named Sara came and sat beside me while we were sitting around the fire drinking some of their local brew and chatting.

'I've heard that you come from a place where they don't believe in Lord Zexon,' she said.

'Yes,' I replied, intoxicated by her beauty.

'That seems strange not to believe in a god. What makes the sun come up and who put the stars in the sky? I love to know more about everything that God has done. It all seems so wonderful,' she said with a happy smile.

'Well, I could tell you a few things, but you probably wouldn't believe me,' I suggested.

'Try me!' replied Sara. 'I have an open mind.'

I guess I should have known better and followed the instructions of the field guide to trust no one. But she was beautiful and seemed so innocent and wishing so fervently to learn that I opened up a little.

'Well, for a start your world is a ball shape not flat as it might seem, and it revolves around the sun up there in the sky, not the other way around. The earth spins so it only seems that the sun is rotating around the earth. The stars are other suns just like your sun only a very long way away.'

'That's sounds so amazing. Is that what they believe where you came from? They must be all very primitive. It sounds like you should learn about our Zexon and go back and tell them about his wonders.'

We discussed other concepts as well. After she left, the discussion around the fire was quieter than normal that evening, so I went to bed early that night thinking that it might be prudent to move on as the priest might get the owner of the farm to tell me to leave unless I join their cult.

I had only been asleep a few minutes when I was roughly awoken by several males wearing hoods who bound me and gagged me then dragged me down the road for about a 10 minutes to where we met Sara the demon hunter, wearing a robe with the logo of one of the fossil fuel companies from my home dimension emblazoned across her back.

'So here you are, unbeliever. We don't like you demons in this dimension,' she said as they bound me to a pole on top of a pile of logs and stood around smiling as the she lit the fire.

'You come here from another dimension to try and corrupt our faithful. I am going to send your soul to meet Zexon. Soon you will believe in our god. This will teach you to meddle where you're not wanted. I'm also going to send a prayer to Zexon who will probably contact your boss about this intrusion into our affairs and I might even get a promotion for catching you.'

As my avatar body was wracked with unmentionable pain from the fire, I woke up in my own body in the university's extra dimensional travel machine.

Field work can sometimes be dangerous when you're a scientist. I certainly should have read that section on the dangers of alternate world religions in the field manual.

More importantly, we hadn't realised the oil barons had got there already. Another world in another dimension is already being exploited! What the rich will do for more wealth is unbelievable!

We haven't found any evidence of any gods in our multiverse yet, only demons in the form of greedy banks and giant fossil fuel companies. They nearly ruined my world. It looks like they've moved elsewhere to ruin other worlds. I wonder how long it will take the people to learn that Zexon's dogma has enslaved them and only science and reason can free them.

I had better write up my log book about this experiment. I'm due out again early next week. I'll make sure to read the field manual fully and next time I'll keep my mouth shut!

### Sunday 30 December 2012

### You Slipped Away

**Robertas**

Drummoyne, NSW

Machines misled us when they said

You would be here another day

It was not true

They fooled you too

And while you slept

You slipped away

Or did you will it?

Did you dread to live in pain

And be wheelchaired all your life?

Did you yearn to meet your loved ones

In a better place than this?

Did you deprive us of our farewells

And of our last loving kiss?

Well sleep you now

And sleep you soundly

Sleep you quiet, as you lived

But feel our sorrow

And our sadness

See the tears that fill our eyes

Hear the grief in our cracked voices

And our keening lullabies.

### Monday 31 December 2012

### Tae A Flea, Wee Courin', Beastie

**Alexander Gardiner – The Auld Yin**

Bullaburra, NSW

There is a couple o' wee swearie

wurds in this poem be warned.

Stoap ya wee courin', sleekit' thing,

Tae ma Erse an' aufie itch yea bring,

Crawlin' aw aroon ma private parts,

Ya disgustin' broon wee abhorrent fart.

Nae bigger than a blidy flea,

noo that's nae surprise, cos' that yea be.

A scaly lang legget hoppy thing,

An' a bite that causes an aufie itchy fiery sting.

Why dae yea prefer aw ma dark wee bits,

causin' a fiery crazy itchy itch?

An' a'ways oot o' ma reach fur me tae scratch,

this Auld Yin yea seem tae catch.

A wis at the doakturs surgery jist last week,

fed up, an' jist starin' at ma honds an' feet.

Aw aroon wir patients waitin' thare,

Patiently, jist waitin' an' eyes a stare.

Oh, oh no, oh no a feel a flea aboot,

sinkin' its slavery wee jaws in this auld coot.

Oh wheeshed, ah wull jist ignore it fur a while,

ah tell yea this, it took a lote o' guile.

Wid yea believe it? Right between ma ain bum crack,

nae kiddin' the wee bitey thing did jist that.

Wisnae sae bad fur a moment tho',

slowly, very slowly that itch did grow.

Noo remember aw aroon me, ither patients waitid,

while tha' wee sleekit beastie ma Erse it fated.

Tryin' tae wiggle ma bum slowly, jist fur a start,

unfortunately it caused a wee sqeekie fart.

Aw patient's eyes noo fixed on me,

oh a silently cursed that courin' sleekit flea.

Noo the wee flea has bit ma richt wee He-Haw,

oh agony, am' noo jist aboot climbin' the blidy wa'.

Richt, ah wull hae tae go to the loo,

as that blidy itch startid' tae accrue an' accrue.

Ah wull get that wee broon sleekit bitey thing,

an' rub ma He-Haws tae ease that fiery sting.

Aw naw!!! The doaktur has cawed me in,

an' me jist aboot daein' the blidy hielan' fling.

What's your problem today my man?

I will do my best to help, if I can.

Oh Doaktur!!!! It's jist that ah hiv an aufie itch doon thare,

ah said, as a kept ma eyes fixed firmly oan the flair.

Ah droaped ma pants fur him tae see, (sigh)

not too bad my man it's just a little flea.

Oh that's a relief doakter a thocht it might be wurse,

ah thocht it might be the blidy curse.

Weel, ah shot oot oh that doaktur's place,

wae ma wee He-Haws as rid rid as ma blidy face.

Cost me fifty bucks fur that doakturs fee,

aw cos'oh tha' wee broon courin' sleekit flea.

Stull niver foond that wee fleaie bastard yet.

an' a real diagnosis fur that doaktur's visit, av stull tae get.

### Tuesday 1 January 2013

### Slides

**Sharon Hammad**

Winmalee, NSW

We sit together sorting slides

Of people, places, 'times and tides'.

On table top our lives displayed,

The tender memories replayed.

White plastic frames held up to light

Show dated hairstyles, faces bright.

While babies grew and dear ones died,

We chose to travel side by side.

The years like minutes slipping by,

I hold you closer as we lie

And darkness magnifies my fear

That all too soon the end is near.

We sit together sorting slides –

Though colours fade, true love abides.

The beauty of the view expands

The further off the viewer stands.

### Tuesday 1 January 2013 4 pm

### Insects

**Connie Howell**

Wentworth Falls, NSW

Insects crawling, hurrying scurrying,

This way that way, carrying food.

Big ones, little ones, funny shaped black ones

Withering, dithering, finding mates.

Ants and beetles, flies and mosquitoes

Flying things with big fat wings,

Busy busy, always busy,

Getting on with nature's way.

Eating, feeding, sometimes misleading,

Insects can be annoying things.

Exploring toes, and legs and dresses

Tickling, itching here and there,

Giving me moments of interest and mystery,

Wondering about their history

Back I go to watch some more,

Insect habitats on the floor.

### Wednesday 2 January 2013

### My First Love

**Julie Lock**

Box Hill South, VIC

I was 15 years old and I loved him.

I saw him peek around a corner. He looked straight at me. My heart leapt at the sight of him. My knees went weak. Then, very casually he strode into full view. He was very handsome. I think the first thing that attracted me to him was his stunning athleticism. He was tall and strong with thick golden hair which shone brightly in the sun.

Although our first meeting was brief, I decided my family should meet him, confident they would approve and they did. The minute they laid eyes on him they could see he was a gentle giant and more importantly to my father – he seemed trustworthy. So he was warmly welcomed into our clan.

I remember Dad saying, 'Don't you let him break your heart.'

We shared so many good times and adventures. We spent hours exploring my family's property together. He quickly became my best friend.

The farm, on river frontage, was covered in abundant native scrub, fallen logs, lignum bushes and was alive with rabbits, kangaroos, emus and mobs of livestock – this was our playground.

In the country, neighbours are kilometres away and they always welcome unexpected visitors. He and I loved to pay surprise visits, and we were generally offered a glass of milk and home cooked biscuits before we made our way home. We were both born and bred to the land, but even knowing it as well as we did, there were hazards.

Some seasons, after heavy winter rain filled the dams to capacity, the decision would be made to open dam gates in the catchment. Gushing water would make its way down the creeks and rivers. Often the volume was too much for the systems to handle and the swollen creeks and rivers would burst their banks and overflow into lower lying paddocks, turning them into small lakes.

We headed off together armed with a picnic lunch. The creek was up and as we headed down the muddy track my dad called out behind us, 'Make sure you take the stock route across the creek. You know – where the two gums grow together.'

Dad was always concerned for my safety and I trusted his advice. However, unbeknown to us, the torrid flood waters had taken out part of the crossing. Halfway across it dropped away from under us and we were both swept into deeper water. He was incredibly strong and a good swimmer. Luckily I managed to take hold of him and he swam us both to safety.

I then had to spend a couple of years away at boarding school and I missed him terribly.

When I finally returned, he was standing there to greet me. He looked even more handsome than I remembered. I ran up to him and gave him a huge hug. I sensed he had missed me too.

I was looking forward to spending some time together.

One day, my father went to collect him but returned without him. I could see Dad's face was grey. He had to break the news to me. Dad assured me it happened quickly.

'It was his heart – it just stopped!' he said 'There was nothing I could do.'

I cried for a week.

His large frame was too much for his heart. We believe he may have been born with a genetic weakness.

I will never, ever, forget him: 'Luther', my Palomino Quarter Horse.

### Thursday 3 January 2013

### 'Baffling' Bill Letts' Magic Billets

**James Craib**

Wentworth Falls, NSW

***Editor's Pick***

'Baffling' Bill Letts was an average stage magician and illusionist. His best tricks and performing years were now well behind him. Constant touring around country shows and fairs, not to mention an above average consumption of grog, had taken its toll over the years. His long suffering partner and wife – 'Fay the Fair' – had endured his taunts above and beyond the call of sanity. Bill's once mysterious charm had now vanished in the smoke that accompanied some of his more elaborate illusions; now, sadly, a dim memory also. Bill nowadays relied upon 'sleight of hand' tricks that were the magician's stock in trade. His prowess in this area was also in the decline.

Fay, (who was simply known as Fay Johnson when she first met Bill), was a crack shot, lasso artist and trick rider in her father's small-time bush circus. Bill had joined the circus briefly and the gormless Fay was instantly captivated by Bill's oily charm and his dark, hypnotic eyes. When Bill suggested they should join forces, run away and leave the circus, Fay promptly agreed. The only life she had known was with her father and the chances of finding a handsome, sophisticated partner like the swarthy magician were slim. Indeed, young Bill had looked remarkably like a young Bela Lugosi and affected the same dark, mysterious, manner. Bill, moreover, was of Eastern European origins, immigrating to Australia in 1948 from Latvia with the name Vilhelms Krūmiņš, aka 'Wilhelm the Wizard'. This name proved to be 'baffling' to Australian audiences and so in a rare moment of inspiration, with a nostalgic reminder of his origins, Young Vilhelms became 'Baffling' Bill Letts.

Bill had lost his family during the war and never got over it. Consequently, he came to rely upon alcohol, especially vodka, as the only means of escape. When Bill was drunk, he became particularly nasty and belligerent and the hapless Fay soon became the target of his scorn. As the years passed and Fay's girth widened, she played less and less a part in Bill's performances. Her once trim figure, from years of horse riding, had ensured that she was able to contort her body so as to perform the magician's more elaborate illusions, such as 'disappearing' from locked cabinets or folding over double so as to appear being sawn in half or avoid swords pushed into her sequinned torso. Highly strung as she was, Fay resented the decline in her physical stature and paranoia gradually increased.

'You iz not so fair now Fay; your rump is as vide as ze horses you once rode,' Bill told her bluntly. 'But you could still be ze plant ven I appear to read the minds,' Bill justified Fay's demotion. 'It also means I do not need to pay some oaf whose billet I know in advance ... is good, no? You just keep your dumpy frame out of sight 'til Showtime and zen no-one vill suspect you are part of ze act.'

Fay protested loudly that the other skills she brought to the act, like shooting a hole through an ace of spades or the bullet catch that would appear 'magically' in the magician's fingers or mouth, brought excitement to the performance.

'Zat time is now past,' Bill declared. 'Anyvay your aim iz now not so good!' Bill, who had a couple of close calls during the war, had a healthy aversion to firearms anyway.

Fay snorted in contempt. 'He knows damn well that we use wax bullets,' but did not voice this out loud. Instead, she said simply, 'Alright Bill, I'll be the plant – what would you like as the message on the billet?'

The deception used in billet reading is known as the one-ahead method. The performer relies on knowing what is inside one of the envelopes ahead of time, and using that knowledge to stay (hopefully) one step ahead of the audience. The performer does this by having a plant in the audience insert a predetermined message as one of the billets, or by secretly opening one envelope. The performer subsequently pretends to read the contents of the first sealed envelope. Actually, the plant's message is being recited and the performer must simultaneously commit the new message to memory. Bill now performed this trick as the end of his show. Alas, his memory was failing and he was having difficulty in recalling each message from one envelope to the next. His excessive vodka intake did not help.

Bill tried to cover up his mistakes by emulating one of his 'magical' heroes – Tommy Cooper – by appearing to be drunk when he performed. Indeed, like Tommy, Bill frequently was drunk. Regrettably, Bill lacked Tommy's panache and the refined comic timing to carry it off and consequently just seemed inept and pathetic. When Fay had suggested that perhaps they should just retire, Bill flew into a rage. 'Never!' he bellowed. 'Ven my time comes, I vill die on stage just like Tommy!' Fay, in a vain attempt to remain a more visible part of the act, had suggested that a billet could be secreted inside a cartridge with a wax bullet that she would fire from the rear of the audience. Bill actually considered this momentarily but then declared that the logistics were now more than he could handle. He turned her down again. Fay seethed.

Fay endured the humiliation (as she saw it) of being the plant in the audience for a few months. Then they had a miraculous change of luck and Bill secured a booking in one of the bigger RSL clubs in Sydney. 'My luck is changing at last,' declared Bill. 'Zay are oafs but ze money is good! I need a big finale!'

Fay again suggested that she fire a wax bullet from the side of the auditorium. 'Come on Bill, it's your signature, your name – Baffling Bill's Magic Billets. You just do a substitution and place the real bullet with the message – This is the end of the show! in your mouth when you pretend to fall down!'

Bill's vanity got the better of him and so he agreed, thinking that it might impress other clubs and he could always get a newer and more attractive assistant at a later time!

At the Sydney RSL club the performance was going well and Bill, eschewing his customary vodka pick-me-up, was in fine form. He called on a few random people to write down various messages on pieces of paper ... the billets. Fay as usual was one of the random people and wrote her standard message – I really love horses – on the billet. This she placed into the discreetly marked envelope that Bill would recognise as hers and place it on the bottom of the stack. She then walked to the side of the auditorium, near the stage, and waited quietly with her hand in her hand bag grasping her pistol. Having collected all the various envelopes, Bill placed Fay's envelope on the bottom by sleight of hand. He placed the top envelope against his forehead and after a dramatic pause called out, 'Our first person says that he or she really loves horses – iz this the right message?'

Fay acknowledged that it was and added 'That's amazing – how did you know?'

Bill replied, 'Vell, you look ze horsy type!' There was general laughter. Fay seethed.

Bill dutifully went through the same routine with each envelope and read each billet in advance before solemnly declaring each message, feigning a little difficulty and basking in the applause when each person acknowledged that he had 'divined' their particular message. Having arrived at the bottom envelope, Bill intoned, 'My dog has fleas', as the last message, adding, 'Dis person must have an unfortunate doggie ... or play ze ukulele!' There was laughter and the usual expressed amazement. Bill tore open the envelope expecting to see Fay's usual message – I really love horses.

Bill looked up from the billet with a look of puzzlement. He turned in Fay's direction but was unable to see as a spotlight was in his eyes. 'Fay, wha ...' A single shot rang out.

A neat, red, black hole appeared on the magician's forehead and he dropped to the floor, the billet fluttering from his hand. There was much confusion. People screamed. Some said it was just part of the act.

Afterwards, the police recovered the billet from the stage. It read: The horse has bolted. Your last billet is a bullet. No wax this time, Wilhelm!

Fay demonstrated conclusively that she had, in fact, lost none of her prowess as a crack shot. When asked by police why she had shot her husband, Fay answered with a vacant stare. When pressed again she replied, 'He got his wish, he died on stage – just like Tommy.'

_Ed:_ _Some stories are just fascinating. While even a one-dimensional item can still be really entertaining if well written and the subject matter carefully chosen, this one has so much in it is was hard to pass up: humour, sadness, irony/sarcasm, apathy, desperation, depression, repression, Australian history and culture (our bush circuses and RSL circuits), world history (post-war European migration to Australia), education (how a certain magic trick can be performed – watch out James: you don't want The Magic Circle after you!!), and a story that I had to work at to follow – not too difficult, but certainly couldn't be just breezed over, unless you were a magician yourself and understood in advance how it was all going to pan out. All-in-all a lot to successfully pack into 1,466 words!!_

### Friday 4 January 2013

### Solid Oak

**Marie York**

Glebe, NSW

Autumn leaves can't fall when you are around.

The're suffocated – thickened – blinded – by your eyes.

Beneath the stem of each leaf, lies a backbone,

So slightly bent the moment you acknowledge my existence.

Melancholy in my state I lie, pursing my lips as though you fell upon them.

Your petals fall unto another woman,

Fall stubborn leaf unto another man,

Real love should not bind you to an oak

Fall stubborn leaf into the air I float

Tight in her lair she guards you with her long stemmed rose.

That to which I could never bloom.

So, drop stubborn leaf, for you shall harden, fall and disintegrate soon enough,

Eyes are but the ray of light that seeps through closed lids

Bend stubborn backbone to those moments you neglected

Whose love will not bind you to the oak, so rooted in its ways.

### Friday 4 January 2013 4 pm

### Waiting For Him

**Marilyn Linn**

Darlington, SA

night after night

she waited for him

listened for him

watched for him

but he would not come

he could not come

he did not know

she waited.

emboldened the stars glittered

the stars grew bolder

the moon shone brighter

clouds drifted softly

sounds echoed

through the nights

until the moon became a sliver

and the stars grew dim.

her heart grew heavy

her eyes gazed

far into the distance.

he would never come

he had found a new love

but still she waited

in vain.

### Saturday 5 January 2013

### The Newcomer

**John Ross**

Blackheath, NSW

The Royal Hotel was not only the biggest building in the town it was the only one built of sandstone blocks. Today, the twentieth day of the long hot spell of the summer of 1949, it was also the coolest place in town. Outside on the dusty main street two very dirty, battered four wheel drives and an even more decrepit ute stood at the kerb. The street was deserted apart from a blue cattle dog asleep under the shade of a drooping gum tree. Nothing moved except the slow beat of the dog's tail as it dreamt of a bowl of icy cold water.

Inside, three men: Bluey, Snowy and Mad Mick, sat on stools staring into their schooners of amber liquid. The barman, Angus Applethwaite Bertwhistle, otherwise known as Angry, was perched on a chair behind the bar reading the racing guide. The only sound was the loud buzz of a large blowfly as it beat itself senseless against the front window; soon to join dozens of its mates already dead on the window sill. The sound of a vehicle pulling up at the front of the pub stirred the men.

Bluey noted the shiny new Ford motor car and remarked, 'It's the bloody Yank that bought old Smithy's place. Bloody heck he's cummin in 'ere. Been 'ere three bloody years and thinks he owns the bloody place.' The three men returned to studying their drinks.

The American, Eugene Antwerp, sometimes known by the locals as Twerpy, but more usually just as The Yank, strode up to the bar and addressed the barman: 'I'm looking for Constable Jones.' Silence. The barman continued to read and the three customers, in unison, took a long swig of their drinks. Eugene tried again, 'Well! Is Constable Jones here?'

The barman slowly put down his paper, looked slowly and pointedly at each of his three customers in turn and replied, 'Nope.' He then picked up his paper again and started to read.

Eugene, with a tinge of anger in his voice now, 'Well where is he? I need to report a theft. Some goddamn rustler has stolen twenty head of my sheep out of my holding paddock.'

The barman slowly put down his paper and said, 'Hospital. Cloncurry.'

Eugene, backing off a little, 'Why did he go there?' To which the barman replied, 'Snake bit him.'

Turning to Snowy, Eugene, pointing at the barman, said sarcastically, 'Is this man always this full of information?'

Snowy thought for a few moments and then said, 'Well he is usually a quiet bloke but he is right talkative this afternoon.'

Now totally exasperated and losing his temper Eugene turned to Mad Mick, 'I guess I will have to wait till he gets back. Any idea as to when that might be?'

Mick, with a bit of a mischievous grin, replied, 'You might have a bit of a wait.'

There was a long drawn out silence before Eugene, now very visibly angry said, 'Alright, alright I give in. Why?'

Mick, now with a sad face replied, 'He died this morning.'

This was too much for Eugene, he was so taken aback that he was lost for words. Finally, in a rather strangled voice he managed to say, 'So where do you suggest I go now?'

Bluey muttered under his breath, 'I could make a few suggestions.'

Snowy quickly intervened and suggested he ring the police sergeant in Cloncurry.

Eugene stormed out of the pub with a parting, 'You goddamn Aussies; you would never make a go of it in the States with attitudes like that.'

Mad Mick turned to Snowy and said, 'With lots of blokes like him around why would I even want to live there? Snowy, you also forgot to tell him the Sarge in Cloncurry is on leave for a month.'

The barman intoned, 'Bloody Yank.' They all nodded and returned to their drinks.

After Eugene had driven off with a screech of tyres and flying gravel the pub settled down again. Outside, after opening one eye to watch Eugene's departure the cattle dog slipped back to its dream. Inside Bluey, Snowy and Mad Mick started on another round; the blowfly finally gave up trying to escape and sank down to join its dead mates on the windowsill.

After a while Bluey turned to Mad Mick and said, 'You know you're a lucky bastard. That copper dying lets you off the hook. You didn't happen to steal his bloody sheep did you?'

Mad Mick, looking offended, replied, 'What me? Never. I just found them out on the bloody road, fence broken down and put them in one of the Yank's adjacent paddocks. He will find them eventually.'

Snowy asked, 'Why the bloody hell didn't you tell the bastard?'

Mad Mick grinned, 'What? And spoil my reputation?'

### Sunday 6 January 2013

### Tales The Laundress Told

**Winsome Smith**

Lithgow NSW

To call her merely the laundress was to deny about eighty percent of the woman's character. She was Mrs Inman, raconteur extraordinaire, a wisp of a woman who came to our place every Tuesday afternoon to earn herself a few bob doing the ironing. A wisp of a woman, a whirlwind of a woman, one is tempted to call her birdlike but there never was a bird that could move as swiftly as Mrs Inman, nor talk as much.

My mother too could be garrulous when the mood took her and the two women together on Tuesday afternoons could fill our kitchen with networks, cobwebs, interweavings of conversation and stories.

My mother, however, was not always there on Mrs Inman's afternoons. The minister's wife was supposed to be a help to the minister. She was expected to attend every gathering of church women and take the chair at women's meetings. For true approval from the congregation she should do the flowers, teach Sunday School, sweep the church steps and sing in the choir, while breast-feeding her baby, and of course, with cheerful heart and gladsome mind.

So it was that my mother, although she would have preferred it, could not always be in the cosy kitchen on Mrs Inman's ironing day. As I worked shift work at the telephone exchange I was often home early on Tuesday afternoon so to me fell the duty of making Mrs Inman's cup of tea (black with lemon) and listening to her tireless talk.

She was supposed only to do the ironing, that was what she was paid for, but there was not one aspect of domestic life that escaped her attention and comment. 'Stop!' she cried in alarm as I was about to slice a cucumber. 'Always run a fork down the sides of peeled cucumbers before you eat 'em. Let's the poison out. I once knew a man died a terrible death because he et poison cucumbers.'

I obligingly scored the sides of the cucumber although my Domestic Science teacher at school used to tell us that it was merely for decorative effect.

For Mrs Inman there was no such thing as a taboo subject, highly unusual in an age when many things were never spoken of.

'Gotcher monthlies,' she told me with conviction one day when I said that I had stomach cramps and must have looked a bit pale. I did not know how to reply, never having heard periods or monthlies mentioned by a soul except my mother, and then in a hushed voice behind the closed bedroom door. But to Mrs Inman 'women's troubles' were no more sacred than the latest political events.

'Lie down for a half-hour with a hot water bottle on yer belly,' she advised. This I refused to do as it would have been acknowledging the unmentionable. Instead I sat by the fuel stove and sewed the hem of a dress.

'Thirty-two inches, that's the right length for a dress. Mine are always thirty-two.'

I ignored this. On tiny Mrs Inman a dress thirty-two inches long would have nearly reached the floor, but on leggy me it would have been short enough for my mother to call it indecent. It would have been unfashionable anyway because that year Christian Dior had created the New Look and other Paris designers had declared that skirts should be very long and very full. Oh yes, in our little town in country New South Wales we knew all about Paris fashion.

Foolishly I mentioned to her that I was subject to another kind of cramping – leg cramps –which woke me up in the night. 'Very common,' announced Mrs Inman, her little hands flicking water over some starched tablecloths. 'Tell yer what to do. Yer go down to the river and fetch some of them river stones, you know, them little white pebbles, all round and smooth, and put them in yer bed. Yer'll never get leg cramps again.'

She reflected for a while, working with long, smooth strokes. She stopped, touched the iron with a licked finger, switched the power off, then said, 'Another good thing for cramps is a sheep's knee bone but they're a bit hard to come by, unless you do yer own slaughterin'.'

While she was on the subject of beds, she added, 'Camphor in the bed. Put some in the bottom of yer bed and yer'll never get blood pressure.'

Thinking of river stones and the smell of camphor, I wanted to add, ' – or much sleep,' but didn't as I could see that she wanted to speak again. 'It's all part of growing up. It's part of being a woman, all them cramps and things.'

'There's another thing but,' she said suddenly. 'It might be yer bowels. Are yer bowels working? Do you go every day?'

'Of course,' I muttered into the sewing. I wouldn't have mentioned it to anyone, even if I'd been permanently clogged up. I did not wish for my bowels or my periods to be the subject of household, thence neighbourhood, discussion.

'Well if they're not working,' she continued with grim foreboding, 'if yer not going every day regular, you can get terrible sick. I used to have piles something awful. It's because you keep putting off answering the call. I was always too busy to go when I wanted to, especially when I was running the boarding house. I'd say "I'll just peel these here murphies, then I'll go" or "I'll just light the copper, then I'll go". You put it off and you put it off then when you do go you can't do nothin'.'

I made what I hoped was a sympathetic noise.

'Had to have an operation in the end,' she said, with absolutely no intention of pun. 'What they do is, they pull out the bowel and cut off the bit with the piles. They cut off yards of mine.' She stood the iron on its end and extended her right arm several times as if measuring yards of fabric. From nose tip to fingertip was said to be one yard but for diminutive Mrs Inman it must have been so far short of a yard that she would have been cheated in the buying. She measured out several yards of invisible bowel then said, 'I had no more trouble after that.'

I wanted to say, ' – and not much bowel to give you trouble,' but again refrained because it would have been making light of what was to her a very serious matter.

Laundry and housework received a large part of her attention. She had been a farmer, a shop owner and proprietor of a boarding house during her lifetime but believed fervently that for a woman housework must come first. After all, if the woman of the house didn't do it, who would?

'Not expecting, are you?' she exclaimed one day when she saw my mother vigorously turning the wringer while she fed wet towels through. A sound like a little motor starting up issued from my mother's throat as she tried to suppress a giggle. 'Not likely,' she said.

My mother listened politely as Mrs Inman continued. 'I never turned the mangle when I was expecting. I always got someone to do it for me. All that turning can cause no end of trouble to the child. Knew a girl who always turned the mangle herself. She had an awful lot of washing to do and I warned her plenty of times but she never listened. Her baby was born with a wry neck. No, never turn that there wringer while yer carrying a child.'

Every member of our family received her advice. She recommended a soap and sugar poultice for drawing splinters, paraffin oil for smooth operation of one's innards, tomatoes for relieving the sting of sunburn, cucumbers for toning up the skin.

Most of her remedies really did work, but I was going through my glamour stage and had no faith in anything that was not purchased at the chemist's shop or the cosmetics counter. No tomatoes or cucumbers for my skin.

Of all the day to day problems of human life it was women's troubles that received most of her wisdom and folklore. She arrived one afternoon just as I was about to wash my hair. I had the enamel dish at one end of the kitchen table and was giving my hair a vigorous brushing. She glared at my bottle of shampoo as she spread out the ironing blanket at the other end of the table. 'What's that there?' she asked.

'Shampoo. My bottle of Halo Shampoo,' I told her.

She gave a disgusted snort. 'Damn modern stuff! Do you know what's the best thing for washing hair?'

'Yes, Halo Shampoo,' I said.

She did not hear because, as usual, she just kept on talking. 'Dog soap. Dog soap's the best thing for hair. It's especially made for a dog's delegate skin. If it won't hurt the dog's skin, it won't hurt the youman scalp. Better'n all that manufactured muck. You should use dog soap.'

I wanted to say, 'Should I go out and roll in the dust afterwards too?' but was cut short by her next statement.

'Haven't gotcher monthlies, have yer?'

'No, Mrs Inman, I haven't,' I assured her. I wouldn't have told anyone, even if I had.

'Good thing. Never wash yer 'air while you've gotcher monthlies. Sends yer mad.'

I bent over the dish, wet my hair and gave it a hearty lathering with the Halo. I then went out to the laundry to rinse my hair with water from the tank tap. When I came back to the kitchen, Mrs Inman had made a considerable reduction in the size of the bundle of damped and rolled-up clothes in the basket.

As I towelled my hair and combed the tangles out she took up her story. 'Knew a girl who always used to do that – wash her hair at the wrong time of the month. Sent her mad. They had to send her away to an asylum. She got worse and died there. She had a twin sister, y'know, and they didn't dare tell the twin that her sister had died of madness. They thought the shock might kill her so they just said "Oh, she's gorn away. She's took a short trip". O'course she never came back, so the twin fretted so much that she died too. Terrible sad it was. No, never wash yer hair while you've gotcher monthlies.'

This was one piece of wisdom that I did heed but not in the way Mrs Inman expected. I had always found madness to be a topic of compelling fascination. There had recently been some publicity about a local woman reputed to be mad. She kept her blinds down and her curtains drawn all day, and blocked up the keyholes to protect herself from the enemies who were spying on her. On the rare occasions when she had to go out to the corner shop she wore a man's overcoat and a hat and wrapped a scarf about her face so her enemies would not see her. When she encountered people in the street she told them she was Joan of Arc.

The world was coming to a terrible end, she knew because she had kept every newspaper since they had dropped the atom bomb.

I was enthralled. Human oddity was for me a constant interest. Perhaps that was why I listened so much to Mrs Inman and absorbed her stories; they were full of accounts of quirks and frailties.

Having no way of plumbing the mysteries of human nature I decided to engage in scientific experiment by always carrying out the opposite of Mrs Inman's advice. I put no pebbles or camphor in my bed. I never used a soap and sugar poultice nor took paraffin oil.

Whenever I had a period I washed my hair with Halo Shampoo every day for its five-day duration and I analysed my own actions for any signs of madness.

As I grew out of my teens I had no more cramps and I never suffered from blood pressure. I exuded vitality and rude health and my hair took on a glowing sheen. Furthermore, except for a penchant for falling in and out of love, I was not much madder than anybody else.

With the passing of my teens and the eventual demise of Mrs Inman a richness went out of my life. Whenever I hear the gentle hiss of an iron gliding over damped-down linen I am taken back to that stove-warmed kitchen and the folklore that filled our Tuesday afternoons.

But I think it is safe now to tell it. I never, ever slice up a cucumber without first scoring along its sides with a fork. You just never know.

### Monday 7 January 2013

### Brighton

**Miss Pippi**

Toowoomba, QLD

The smell of saltwater hits your senses, so delightfully salty you can almost taste it. The sea itself is a lot like Brighton. Layers of unique pebble rocks giving you a sense of wonder.

The smooth surface of a beautiful white pebble sits amongst the scratchy surface of a beach filled landscape. You can see the water lapping at the edges, inviting each small swell to join the water and rocks together on the beach.

Under the surface it's full of more delightful discoveries, what you see could be something lost and have found its arrival point right under your feet, somewhat like a passion in your mind because of the space and wonderment of the vast opportunity in front of you. Sometimes it happens when a stranger passes by and takes notice of the same opportunity: a creation is born.

Between the two souls a change in the energy flow brings about a rainbow in the clouds. Brighton is much like a rainbow, you see, embracing any of the colours you wish to believe in, from people to poetry to a journey within.

Each person here has a lifetime to soak it all in. Whether you live by the water with pebbles under your feet or soak up the landscape and the people you meet, Brighton has a way of reaching deep into your soul, deep down in there, and it wishes for your peace your passion and everything which is whole.

### Tuesday 8 January 2013

### Love's Destroyer

**Miss Concepcion**

The Ponds, ACT

Her eyes widened dramatically, staring into the scrying glass. Their once vibrant, dainty cerulean color changed: it seemed as if the storm of the century was raging inside those now tempestuous, intense, indigo eyes. Aphrodite, goddess of love, beauty and lust, slowly ground her teeth together in silent rage. Her eyes squeezed into tight little slits and her fingers curled into claws. She wanted, no needed, to urgently severely impair something or conceivably, someone.

'She's so beautiful, like a Goddess.'

'Yes, she's much more beautiful than Aphrodite and she's right here for us to worship.'

'Who needs Gods and Goddesses when we have someone like her right here with us?'

'She should be the Goddess of Love and Beauty. Who needs old Aphrodite?'

That was IT! The ornate mirror was hurled across the room with unsurprising swiftness and strength, the slow shattering sound bringing a fierce satisfaction to Aphrodite's bitter heart. This is exactly what she was going to do to that cursed mortal: break her.

'EROS!' she screeched, the air around her glimmering with the electricity of untamed power.

A gust of wind blew into the room, Eros appearing alongside. 'Yeah Mom, way to yell, I was right in the middle of...' He halted, staring unabashedly at her twitching eyebrows and expression of fury. A barely perceptible tremble went through him and he unsteadily juddered. 'Whoa. What is it? What's happened?' he asked.

Renowned for her playful and flirty qualities, no one be it mortal or god, had ever seen the love goddess truly angry. Unquestionable, they'd been on the receiving end of her irritation; however, she'd never been truly angry. Now, all the lightheartedness was gone, taking her blithe attitude with it. Currently, she was furious in full-fledged destructive goddess mode, crackling with power, eager for bloodshed. Putting it lightly, it wasn't pretty.

She flashed with power and her eyes grew darker, whirling with hidden storm clouds. Her hair whipped around her shoulders in almost wet-looking tendrils, writhing like snakes, waiting to strangle anyone that got too close. Her face was a mask of inhuman beauty, the goddess shining so completely through that any mortal that saw her would have been instantly incinerated. She was beautiful and terrible, embodying all of the darkness that love could be.

Aphrodite raised her hand, a mirror appearing in her grasp. 'The people in this town have turned their backs on the Goddess Aphrodite; so therefore, I turn my back on them.' An image of the quaint town wavered and swam up to the surface of the mirror. 'See how they live without the touch of Love and Beauty? As they worship another, all that they cherish will wither and die without my blessing.'

She shook the mirror and the image changed to show a beautiful, dark haired girl standing on a hillside, surrounded by wildflowers; a lovely woven crown of purple blossoms sitting daintily above her head.

The girl was laughing and talking with her friends. 'Everyone says that I'm so pretty I should be the Goddess of Love. Aphrodite's all old and stuff. People should just worship me.' Her friends gasped at the scandalous blasphemy, but giggled along with her, a couple of them nodding their agreement. She was beautiful and none of them had ever seen the Goddess in real life.

The mirror flew through the air impacting with the wall, the broken pieces falling to mix with the remnants of the last mirror.

'Eros, you will kill her. It can be fast and clean, but she will die. Do you understand me?' Aphrodite looked at her son with blazing eyes. The tension in the air seemed so thick; Eros could almost cut it with a knife.

Eros swallowed hard and bobbed his head in a nod. 'Yes, she will die.'

'No mistakes, Eros. No falling onto your arrows. No blessed marriage and immortality for her. She dies today, whether by your hand or mine. And if I have to go down there and do it myself, she will not be the last to lose her life.'

'Yes Mother.' Eros flashed out in a twinkle of muted sparkles. He was only glad to escape from her unscathed; sighing with relief he continued on his journey to the mortal world. Never again did he want to see the picturesque expression of rage upon her face.

Aphrodite leaned back on her throne, clasping her hands beneath her chin. The air of rage still hung around her, but she was carefully holding it in check. She had lived for centuries, more than enough time to learn how to control the darker aspects of her temper. Even though no one wanted to be on the receiving end of the bad side of love, it would have been hard to hold their worship if they ever saw how truly abysmal she could be.

Within those previous moments, her family resemblance to the House of War had been readily apparent. She had appeared dangerous, almost evil, truly someone not to be crossed. There was very little of the more familiar Aphrodite to her right then, most had only ever seen the light-hearted exterior, not the blade within.

Love and hate are two sides of the same coin and sometimes they melt together into one. The passions of jealousy and rage bubble up like unexpected guests; however, they are always hidden just beneath the surface of every romance, waiting for a spark to ignite them.

Fully embodying her Godhood, Aphrodite held as much ugliness within her as she did beauty. Because without the smooth edge of everyday ugliness, how could anyone recognise the sharper edges of beauty peeking through?

She was passion and grace, lust and glory, wrapped together in a gauzy pink dress, but there was hardness in her too, something that allowed her to survive the unruly emotions of mortals and the ferocity of the other gods.

Beautiful and dangerous, as strong as she appeared fragile, with the power she held she could break the very Earth. Because without love and beauty there could be no war, no anger, no growth, no aspiration for anything better, because everything would be in thin shades of grey. No one would ever claw their way out of the darkness and into the light because the light itself would not exist.

She was powerful, but few ever saw her like that. They looked at her and only knew foolish, beautiful love. She hid her darkness, but it was always there, always waiting and she used it more often than anyone would ever suspect. In every relationship she put together, bubbling beneath the surface was her hatred, making everything sweeter, although it was unnoticed and undetected.

### Wednesday 9 January

### List Of What's Left

**Les Wicks**

Mortdale, NSW

Take the colour, the drum

shiny little satellites

garish empty eyes.

I will have your hands

as they loosely collate my hair

a walk in stormed sunshine where

our aspirations are stone rings,

sick air-conditioning plants

in the winter of our mall.

We have left the cotton behind and all our colour

is made from petroleum.

We are birds who buy their feathers

watch chirping on TV.

To be better.

New shoots are always deep

within a clamour of litter.

Even though the fruit as blood upon the verges.

Even if it kills us.

Return with an almost empty plate,

we could not possibly eat more.

### Thursday 10 January 2013

### Caveman

**Hazel Girolamo**

Ulverstone, TAS

In the beginning was the word, or so says the good book. But that word had first to be spoken. Way back before Noah begot and begat and began, primitive man, bored with sitting, shivering and sheltering in his dark dank draughty cave, ventured out and looked in wonder upon the sunrise and sunset and lightning storms. New life teemed all around as man took his first steps into this new world. Primitive man has never been particularly lauded for his intellect but surely some form of sound must have emitted from him, imitating the animal and nature sounds he heard around him.

Running hysterically from big hairy brown things could not be adequately conveyed a in mindless diatribe such as 'Eeh, Arr, Urr' and so primitive man discovered an early warning cry all his own. He also, presumably, developed some kind of sign language to augment his meagre vocabulary, perhaps used even as much as it is today, when words and emotions can be expressed so eloquently with one gesture of a finger.

The much admired cave paintings and drawings may have been some kind of early blackboard daily special menu planner, where other members of the tribe could point out their preferences for dinner with each member taking a part: one to draw the menu plan, one to make the costumes, one to be the bait or the lure or lunch – if they proved unlucky or slow on their feet.

Primitive man would also need to name things, mainly to distinguish who belongs to which and what of Og, Mog, Gog, Migog and to eventually meld into the more recognisable OMG, perhaps with an exclamation mark or three.

Primitive man may have a limited vocabulary, for example 'Ug, Urg and Eegods' which can be roughly translated as 'Big brown hairy thing coming up behind you!' but even he could deduce that two clubs beats all comers – even big hairy things with brown teeth and claws.

But primitive man and his friends would have relaxed around the campfire after a hard day chipping flint axe heads and fashioning clubs out of old antlers telling tall tales of how 'my big hairy brown thing was bigger than your big brown hairy thing' and 'that's nothing, you should have seen the one that let me get away'.

When Primitive man got the bright idea of using animals to warm himself and somebody else got the brighter idea of skinning them first, and an early Martha Stewart type snagged the head for a dandy cave decoration, sewing animal skins together with animal sinews and fishbone needles may have been the catalyst for a few choice swear words to be added to his vocabulary as he slowly evolved from a hunter gatherer to that of a more settled way of life, tired of carrion and fighting off crows and vultures and scaring off other beasts, finally realising that fresh is best. He gathered his seed and when his spelt got spilt and saw it sprout, decided that he was onto a good thing but, as all gardeners know, nothing goes easy in a new venture and he is sure to have been left scratching the many hairs on his head and declaring that if that big hairy mammoth tramples my seedling again I'll give him what for!

Early man's language was probably not unlike our own: constantly evolving, tweeting here and there to make sense of his surroundings and situations. His words may be lost to us today but his etchings carved on mammoth bones, and the cave paintings he left behind, transfer some of his labour to make sense of the world he found himself in.

When we marvel at these works of art, drawn in the darkness of time, far underground, perfectly preserved is his memory to us and we have no need of words.

### Friday 11 January 2013

### The Daughter Of Durga

**Kari McKern**

Ashfield, NSW

The Demi urge of dentistry has the hands of Parvarti but Saraswati's talents.

Daughter of Durga, her dexterity flows like the Ganges.

She sculpts her art with stuff indistinguishable from magic.

Her Dental Dharma is virtuous and unstained,

like porcelain, and refined like her dark flawless beauty.

In a white sari, using high magnification,

she gives mouths moska and her clients karma.

She is not of this world but sealed away,

behind full bio-protection, a golden goddess in a gown,

who uses four arms, is kind to Buddhists and

resting on a lotus, India incarnate.

### Friday 11 January 4 pm

### Big Mumma

**Nicole James**

Narrandera, NSW

I was sitting with my daughter,

Just having a little chat,

When suddenly she asked,

Mum why are you so fat?

Now it's not often that I'm speechless,

And let it be understood,

I'm not easily taken aback,

But this time she got me good.

After some consideration,

I decided exactly what to say,

I went to bed skinny one night,

And woke up fat the very next day.

I could see her mind ticking over,

Then in her attempt to do a good deed,

She said mum I've got it sorted,

Jenny Craig is what you need.

I told her that's a great idea,

Hoping she left it there,

Instead she made me start doing sit ups,

And watched from her comfy chair.

Before too long I was buggered,

And had worked up a decent sweat,

She said don't even think of stopping,

You're still not skinny yet.

I'm a usually patient person,

But I wasn't this day you see,

And I told her she might just grow up,

Twice as fat as me.

She looked worried for a moment,

And even a little queezy,

Then with her hands on her hips she announced,

That she will go to Lite and Easy.

This is a random little story,

Only partly true at that,

But my daughter really asked me,

Why was I so fat?

Children are brutally honest,

They say it as they see,

I always laugh whenever she says

She won't be fat like me!!!!

Nicole says this poem was inspired by her youngest daughter. She had uploaded it to an ebook app with 24 other poems as part of achieving her dream of being published, but the poem was reported and removed as it was deemed politically incorrect. Apparently Nicole's use of the word 'fat' was offensive. She is now looking at other ways to publish her works.

_Ed:_ _We have published Nicole's poem because we felt that if Nicole is able to have a laugh at her own expense, then how can that be deemed offensive? Would we consider the ground-breaking work of comedians such as Nick Giannopoulos and Akmal Saleh offensive when they make jokes about 'wogs' and Middle Easterners respectively? Once we lose the ability to laugh at ourselves... I shudder to think._

### Saturday 12 January 2013 8 pm

### The Maiden, The Mother And The Crone

**Jenny Kathopoulis**

Wodonga, VIC

The maiden looks into the mirror

Her eyes are innocent, her mouth lush

Her body ripe and untouched

She is pert breasts, firm skin, strong muscle

Her heart is naïve and earnest

Full of hope and never been broken

The mother looks into the mirror

Her eyes are knowing, her mouth wide

Her body soft and yielding

She is swollen breasts, glowing skin, stretching muscle

Her heart is full and content

Full of love and near bursting

The crone looks into the mirror

Her eyes are watery, her mouth thin

Her body hunched and decrepit

She is sagging breasts, loose skin, wasted muscle

Her heart is bitter and sad

Full of despair at the cruelty of time

### Sunday 13 January 2013

### The Exercise Book

**Davidvee**

Glen Waverley, VIC

It's a quiet place, a place where I feel peaceful and safe; as if I was in a nest hidden in thick branches or a cosy cave underground. It is my secret place.

These words were on the first page of an old exercise book. We had just found the tattered book under the floorboards of the derelict cottage we were renovating in the South Gippsland hills. The pale blue letters had faded to pale yellow and appeared to have been written in ink – not a ball-point but the ink one dipped a pen into. The few pages of the book had been damp at some stage and were bleached and brittle. The front cover had been torn off but the word 'Betty' was written at the top right hand corner of the first page.

We wondered about this 'Betty'. The handwriting appeared to be that of an older child, carefully formed but spidery. Using a magnifying glass we saw 'Caxton, 1934' printed on the back cover. We read on, having to guess at words occasionally:

I often go to my secret place. It is nice there and I can't hear mother and father fighting; they fight a lot now. Father lost his job at the meatworks and is at home all day. Mother says it's because of the Great Depression; people in England don't have money to buy our meat.

I love being down beside the old river gums near the creek. The four big trees and the bushes along the creek make a sort of a small room – a room with blackberry bushes and tree trunks for walls and branches for a roof. I pretend the grass floor with little daisies all around is my carpet. No-one can see me there unless someone crawls through the little tunnel between the bushes and a gumtree. If I'm very quiet I see rabbits nibble grass. There are lots of birds and one day I found a baby sugar glider that must have fallen from its home in the trees. Once, when I stayed out late, I saw an owl come out of a hole high in the gum tree. All the trees have holes in them, some quite large. It is my own place where I talk to imaginary people who are nice and happy and have lots of money for books and toys.

Anyway I must write down what happened there today so that I don't forget. It is the most exciting thing that has ever happened. I was sitting there in the evening reading the magazine that Mum got from the barber's shop when I saw, out of the corner of my eye, a sort of flat silvery bird fly straight into a big hole halfway up the trunk of the largest gum tree. I have never seen a bird like it though lots of wattle birds, robins, magpies and even currawongs often come here. I stayed very, very quiet and watched the hole for a long time but nothing came out. Then I heard Mum calling me for supper and ran home.

We turned the page – little cracks like cobwebs appeared as we did so we carefully placed it flat on the table and read on:

Today, six days later, I saw it again. It isn't a bird, it is something very strange. It seems to be made of silver or glass covered with something like cobwebs. The thing is about the size and shape of Mother's soup tureen. It's silvery around its edge and has some holes around it on the outside. It came from high up in the sky, flying very fast, it wobbled as it ducked into the big hole in the rivergum. I waited quietly for a long time but it didn't come out again. It flew like a sugar glider, silently but much faster. That's what I will call it, the 'Silver Glider'.

I climbed up and put my hand into the hole – it seems to go down an awful long way – but couldn't feel or see anything. Then, after I climbed down and sat under the big gumtree branch, I suddenly realised everything was quiet – the birds that normally sang and fought up in the trees and around the creek were silent, nothing was making a noise. Perhaps they were frightened of the Silver Glider. I told Mother and Father what I had seen as soon as I went home for supper. Father burst out laughing and said it must have been a white cockatoo or a corella and would not listen when I told him it was silver, not white. He then went on about wasting my time down by the creek when I should be helping Mother with the work around the house. He wouldn't come to my secret spot with me to see it. Mother didn't believe me either and said I must have been asleep and dreamt it. I wasn't dreaming, I know I saw it and it was nothing like a bird except that it flew. No one will believe me – I will find out what this thing is and show everyone.

I haven't seen the Silver Glider for a whole week now – I wish it wasn't holidays and I could tell Miss Murdoch about it. Perhaps she will come and see it when school starts.

I saw it again today, it flew down but this time it didn't go into the hole in the tree, it sort of hung in the air over the creek and put a little silver tube down into the water. I suppose that's how it drinks. I wonder if it is alive? Perhaps it has a creature inside, a tiny creature that got thirsty. Gosh, that would be exciting, the creature may look like an elf. No, fairies and elves are not real, but there must be something inside or why else would it need water? Perhaps these creatures are like leprechauns and came here with settlers from Ireland. No, maybe the silver thing itself runs on water, like Mr Roberts' steam truck.

When it got its water it didn't go down its hole in the tree but flew straight up into the sky.

Mother didn't want to hear about it, she told me that things were difficult enough without having to worry about silver birds. Father has gone away looking for work and we don't know when he will be back.

It came again today and I am still scared about what I saw. It flew into my secret place just as I was going home and hung in the air just above the grass. Suddenly a magpie swooped down on the Silver Glider. This magpie had a nest in the gum tree and it had dived on me too. The magpie landed beside it and looked at it with its head on one side. The Silver Glider tried to fly away but the bird followed it, flying up and pecking at it. Suddenly there was a flash, a puff of smoke and the magpie seemed to disappear for an instant and then I saw it on the grass, limp and still. It happened so fast. The Silver Glider flew off and all there was left was smoke in the air and a smell like burning kerosene. I picked up the dead bird and saw the feathers on its breast were burnt. I took it down to the creek, put it on a piece of bark with some daisies and watched it float away like the Viking funeral that Miss Murdoch told us about.

I was frightened, actually shivering, and ran as fast as I could all the way home. That creature is not like a leprechaun, they would never kill birds. I felt very frightened about what had happened. I must make Mother believe me because this is important. Perhaps she will tell the Police?

We turned over the last page of the exercise book. It only had a few lines on it:

Mother doesn't believe there is really a Silver Glider, she says she is too busy to play games what with Father away. But I have an idea, I will get Father's rabbit nets and catch it and then they will have to believe me. I will set the nets over the hole in the tree. When I catch it, I will put the Silver Glider into the old water tank. Then we will all be famous and go to Melbourne and show it to the government people. I wish Father was here, he might help me to catch it but he won't be back for a while.

That was all. We searched under the remaining floorboards but there were no more scraps of paper.

We now spend our weekends and a large part of our holidays in the two roomed cottage. We have about a hectare of land going down to the creek though there isn't any water in it in these drought years. We think we have found the remains of the clearing that 'Betty' referred to. There are stumps of what must have been four enormous red river gums near the creek; they look as if they were cut down a long time ago.

This morning, at the farmers' market they hold every month in the nearby town, we met a local farmer and his wife and sat with them and ate our lunch of pies and a beer. He remembered hearing about the family who lived in our cottage before the war. He was too young to have met them, of course, but his mother knew of them. She was here, sitting in the CWA tent. Did we want to meet her? Soon we were sitting with a dear old lady, well into her eighties, trying to get our words heard through her rather inadequate hearing aid.

Yes, she remembered the family quite well. Name of O'Rourke, she thought. She then went on to say:

'The husband worked at various jobs including the local farms at fruit picking time. The woman was nice enough, passed the time of day with her occasionally. She was a bit of a quiet one, mostly kept to herself, and after that dreadful tragedy she hardly ever came into town.

'What dreadful tragedy? Oh, a shocking thing happened to that poor family. They had a girl, 12 or 13 years old, Elizabeth, I think her name was. According to the teacher at the local school she was a bright one. Well, one day in the early spring they lost her. It happened on a clear day, not a cloud in the sky, very strange it was. Her father was away and the mother found her down by the creek. The poor child was found with torn rabbit nets in her hands – probably trying to help out by doing a bit of trapping, I guess. Things were hard in those days, the depression, you know.

'I will never forget that poor woman at the funeral. She kept saying it was all her fault, she should have gone with her daughter. She was heartbroken, probably never recovered.

'How did she die? Oh, sorry, didn't I say? She was struck by lightning, poor child; there were scorch marks on her clothes.'

### Monday 14 January 2013

### Summer

**Emma-Lee Scott**

Callaghan, NSW

An endless whirring fan,

A door flung open,

Cold creaming soda can,

This is Summer unspoken.

Shoulders branded red,

Bushfire updates,

No blankets on the bed,

While it snows in the States.

The shimmering road,

The dash too hot to touch,

Cicadas singing in code,

The heat seems to corrode.

Burning pavement,

Snakes on walkabout,

Under the sun's enslavement,

This is Summer's route.

### Monday 14 January 2013 4 pm

### Damaged

**Athena Zaknic**

West Beach, SA

Escape is not possible

the inner soul edged in

is unwilling to be implicated

drawn into the labyrinth

it hears the crashing of a psyche

against an unrelenting hard core

unable to interfere. Condemned it lies

until a thrust ejected by the sun

pierces the doomed totality

restoring a semblance of normality.

Soon the mental cogs restart their wheel

reinstating the eternal uncertainty.

### Tuesday 15 January 2013

### The Landscape Of New England

**Phillip A. Ellis**

Tweed Heads South, NSW

The bare bones that rub against the sky,

the exclamation marks of trees reaching

like stubble defying the razor-blade,

and the animals that pass the bus –

all are as blurs that mark the passing

moments that coalesce into travel,

across the northern tablelands

of the eyes, like fleeting songs static-blurred.

And yet, as the night shaves over here,

and away from the scattered townships,

light reaches up towards the stars, and it mocks

the pretensions of country houses:

they stand the last stand, the valiant fight

in their bones eroded like boulders

barking up from the earth, lean-ribbed kelpies

stiff-haired in overwhelming winter.

### Wednesday 16 January 2013

### Shoreline

**Paul Humphreys**

Oxley, ACT

As Mary alighted from the train at Tarago station her face was ashen white. The smile acknowledging Eric and his mother waiting on the platform did not have enough intensity to dilute the worried look that reflected in the furrows on her forehead. She was a small-framed young woman wearing a simple floral dress, a grey cardigan and flat-heeled shoes.

Eric's mum moved forward slowly and a little hesitantly, hugged her in a manner that reflected a casual lukewarm greeting founded primarily on duty and responsibility rather than deep felt caring. It was an anxious moment of dread and anticipation for all. All Eric knew from his Mum was Mary was to stay with them for a while. 'Needed a break', was the reason given. He could not put into his mind how another person would be able to share the confines of their shack without someone being put out in some way.

'Eric, grab Mary's bag,' she said, reaching for it so that she could pass it across to Eric. 'Did you have a good trip Mary?'

'Unfortunately, Aunty Violet, I was a tiny bit sick at the beginning just as we left Central,' Mary whispered in a weak, strained voice that Eric had difficulty in hearing properly.

'To be expected,' Eric's mum said without an ounce of sympathy in her statement. 'You should call me Vie, most people do.'

~~~

Eric was a man of short stature. His head sat on a short 'second rower's' neck and tight muscular body. His face was rugged and weather beaten with lines of anguish and glee intermixed in a strange residual mosaic representing a history of bitter experiences and hopeful ambitions.

There were many superficial scars from past work injuries across his arms and his legs. On a good day he looked as if he had just stepped out of the ring after a ten round bout with a showground champ. On a bad day nobody saw him as he failed to come out into the sun. His grey, unkempt beard was permanently stained with traces of nicotine and food. At any time he was not a pretty sight.

He was distrustful, to the point of a debilitating social paranoia of police, authorities, banks and their ilk. The distrust was based on his bitter experiences at the Somme as a stretcher-bearer. 'A fateful exercise for debased beings fighting in a bloody bedlam to plans conceived by lunatics.'

He lived with his ageing mother on a small sheep farm on the eastern shoreline of a dry lakebed north of Canberra. There had been a woman and a child. They were there but gone from his contact.

Eric found it difficult to interact with people. He kept his thoughts and emotions to himself. It was as if his mother and he co-existed in different spatial environments. Neither sought any unnecessary involvement with each other or outsiders. They were comfortable within their exclusive lives. It was not that they consciously avoided each other; they couldn't in the small four-room shack that was their home.

Meals were shared but generally in silence.

A shared, tragic incident, not long after Mary arrived, created a chasm of silence that grew from the indifference between them. It was a queer mix of anger, fear and disbelief in their complicity. The depth of the estrangement grew. Any display or communication of common feelings or simple emotions in their demeanours eroded.

Every clear night Eric would leave the dinner table, and amble down to the dry shoreline of the lake. A log of an old eucalypt marked the high watermark of the past. It had been there for many years. The bark was split and in places decaying with the effects of weather and in past times the lapping of the water in the lake. It made a convenient seat.

Eric sat looking out across the dust of the lake and puzzled when there might be water again. He knew why he was drawn here and often queried the reasons why it had become a ritual. Perhaps it paid back a recent obligation not easily defined or explained. It also jarred his long memories of the harrowing scenes of no man's land at the Somme.

It made sense to him to be there at night. The circumstances and reasons of his vigil plagued his mind. He knew, even if he had the opportunity, it would be difficult to discuss his thoughts and motives with anyone. He was painfully apprehensive of the response even from a sympathetic ear, if one could be found.

Eric was always fearful of not being able to anticipate the end result following the unravelling of circumstances where people in authority were involved. He would not trust anyone in authority with his burden.

What they had done was not wrong. It was logical. This was the explanation he had mentally rehearsed every day at the shoreline looking out toward a specific point about 400 metres toward the centre of the dry lake.

The spot would be indistinguishable to anyone else but it was etched in his mind. In the early part of this emotional struggle the blinding, sweaty nightmares of the torch beam strafing the dirt while he worked with the mattock and spade prompted a nervous nagging of his stomach and recall of the madness of that no man's land.

He was not sure what would become of this ritual when water again returned to refresh the lake and his point of attention would disappear under the grey murky water.

'Why did we do it – different?' His loud voice of despair carried across the dry lakebed. The question had plagued him for a long time. Maybe his mother could provide insight and clarity, although that was not a certainty. It was not possible for them to talk about simple aspects of their life together let alone the events that had caused the hiatus of communication between them.

~~~

Accommodation arrangements for Mary all went neatly with no fuss and confusion and Eric enjoyed the solitude of the sleep-out on the side verandah.

Eric's mother told him that Mary, who was only fifteen, was in 'serious trouble' and had been kicked out by her father.

One night over a cup of tea Mary explained further about her 'serious trouble'. After losing his wife (Violet's sister) Mary's father started to drink heavily. Most nights he would fall asleep on the settee, radio blaring. Frequently, he would fly into a rage of frustration and anger, which included punching the walls of the house, and often Mary. She took to staying away from home seeking refuge with friends.

A couple of days after these revelations Eric noticed a letter on the kitchen table. He was not sure if his mum had left it there in a moment of absentmindedness or had deliberately left it for him to find and read. After reading the letter he thought it was the latter.

In the letter Mary explained that her father wanted a fresh start in Queensland, without her. He did not know she was pregnant. In desperation Mary had written to Violet. Her father left for Queensland not knowing the whereabouts or condition of Mary.

~~~

Eric was a little put out and, if he was honest, jealous of the growing friendship between Mary and Violet. Her pregnancy was physically evident to Eric not long after her arrival. Eric kept to himself as the impending time of birth drew closer. Vie and Mary became closer as the birth approached.

One night as they sat round the dinner table, Mary broke off her conversation with Violet and, seeking to involve Eric in her announcement, raised her voice and said across the table to Vie and Eric, 'I don't want anybody to know about this baby!' Her forehead knitted with worry and determination. 'I want to have it here.' Her voice grew shriller. 'Promise me that you will help and that you will keep the baby a secret!'

'Now, now love,' Vie said patting her hand on Mary's arm to give comfort. 'We will deal with that when it happens'.

'No! No! Promise me now! I do not want anybody to know!' Mary was now sobbing and shouting at them both.

'But what if something goes wrong?!' Eric blurted, with little consideration of the sensitive circumstances of Mary's condition and predicament.

'Please! Please promise! I don't want anybody to know!' Tears ran down her face.

'Okay. There, there. It will be all right.' Vie wrapped her arm around Mary's shoulders and held her tight while the heaving sobs subsided. 'We will do all that we can to help you and keep the birth and the baby secret,' Vie said, staring hard at Eric to imply he should not raise an objection. Eric was aghast at this commitment on his behalf and started to speak, but lost his nerve as he stared at Mary. He fell silent and bowed his head.

~~~

The birth was in the middle of winter and it did not go well for all concerned. Vie and Eric did their best. There were complications beyond their limited experience and so much blood. Mary's screaming with unspeakable pain triggered clear images of dead and bloody bodies of the Somme. Eric gagged, as the images of the past resurfaced and hammered his imagination. The emotional wrenching of his past linking with absurd accuracy and conditions of the present unnerved him. Their hands and clothes were soaked in blood.

'Oh my God! No! No!' Vie screamed and collapsed into a chair tears streaming down her face.

Eric was speechless looking hard at the two lifeless bodies on the bed. Mary and the baby were milk white. He had seen so many lifeless bodies during the war that this incident contained little reason for emotion but he was shocked at this crazy tragic outcome.

After awhile he whispered, 'What are we going to do? How are we going to explain this?' There was an underlying tenor of panic and disbelief in his questions as he anticipated that people in authority and the police would be involved.

It was a long time before Vie was able to speak rationally.

It was 2 o'clock in the morning when Eric watched as her face hardened with a grimace that reflected her resolve to do something to overcome their predicament.

'Get your mattock and shovel.'

'What the hell... are we going to bury them? Where?' Eric was now in a panic.

'Go and get the tools!' Vie shouted hysterically. 'Get the tools!'

Eric quickly moved and returned with the mattock and shovel. Vie took them and carried them.

They were a strange, sad group as they crossed the shoreline of the lake and walked in the darkness to almost the centre of the lake. Vie used the torch sparingly to reduce the opportunity of detection. Eric carried the bodies of Mary and the baby wrapped in a blood stained sheet.

'Here is as good as anywhere!' Vie yelled at Eric. 'Start digging. We don't have a lot of time.'

Eric dug furiously, pushed on by a fear of discovery.

'It needs to be deep,' Vie said almost offhandedly.

When he finished, Eric was perspiring profusely from exertion and fear. They deliberately flattened the earth with the back of the shovel to make the site less obvious.

They returned to the shack, collected all the dirty clothing and bedclothes and burnt them in a fierce fire of eucalypt logs and tea tree cuttings at the back of the shack.

Eric's sentinel ritual at the shoreline was initiated not long after this fateful night.

Nobody came seeking the whereabouts of Mary. Eric and his mother never spoke of the matter again.

Many years later the lake caught some water and the lake filled and Eric disbanded his nightly ritual at the shoreline. He still wondered how he would explain that night if anybody asked, as he still did not understand why they did it different.

### Thursday 17 January 2013

### Experimental Existential

**Amber Johnson**

Annerley, QLD

How important can one claim to be

in a world where seven billion others

live on the same planet, breathe the same air,

and strive to excel in every aspect?

There just isn't room for people like me

absolutely (un)extraordinary.

I know that, from the moment I was born,

I was doomed for mediocrity.

I live in a tempestuous ghetto

where the only salvation from the darkness

is the feeble glow of the waning moon

and the art of being invisible.

Countless men exchange paper for pills,

while wanton women work the corners.

Crime and promiscuity runs rampant

so I shut my door and ignore it.

My house isn't much better than out there.

Deadlocks on each door, the wrought iron gates,

cracked plaster, mouldy walls, broken chairs,

and steel mesh windows so you can't escape.

There's instant ramen for dinner again

and re-runs of Seinfield and The Simpsons.

To wash down the shit I have swallowed,

a cheap bag of goon will do the trick.

No matter how severely I fuck up,

There is always someone worse-off than I.

In that sense, averageness is a blessing

at least that's what I tell myself at night.

Music blares through paper-thin walls.

Once an annoyance, now my lullaby.

I lay on the futon, goon sack in hand,

and try to travel to a better place.

Each night a chariot takes me away

to an august land of which I am king.

Riches, fame, unattainable things

are all within reach once the sandman dreams.

### Friday 18 January 2013

### Counting

**Rob Kennedy**

Glebe, NSW

Samuel Peeps counted everything.

As he walked, he counted his footsteps. Sometimes this got him into trouble and sometimes, his counting disease won him a fortune. Sometimes, both at the same time.

Concentrating on the numbers, more than the direction he was heading, once he fell down a hole while going to the shops. He successfully sued his council for not putting up the proper signage around the hole they had been digging.

Samuel Peeps lived by himself. He had to. His counting drove everyone mad, including himself. In the mornings, he would sit and count every grain of cereal in his breakfast bowl. It took him a long time to do anything. Each breakfast was soggy and unappealing.

As he did the washing and hung out his clothes, he counted the pegs. Again, when he brought them in. Then folding socks, everything in twos.

Samuel Peeps wrote. He would count every word. Until he realised his word processor did the counting for him. He sat and looked at this counting machine. He thought, 'That's me. I'm a counting machine, but I can't turn it off, like I can do with this.' Every day he wrote and every day he counted the words until there was enough. He finally turned off the counter on his processor – he didn't like the competition.

Even in his sleep, he counted, but not sheep. He counted the crazed wild memories and visions in his dreams, even the ones that weren't his. He counted the number of times he had sex, 12,946; all but two were in his dreams.

Samuel Peeps counted his age. He was 42 plus one, one year. He lived at 63 Third Street. At 42, plus one, he imagined that this is where he got his counting disease. Living on a street without a name. 'Third is not a name,' he said to himself. 'No one in the world has the surname of Third.' Then, he imagined, what if they did? Imagine the ribbing they would cop. Mr and Mrs Third and their three little pigs. 'Which one's the third third?' He could hear them say. Or, 'What's it like being a third of a third?' Samuel Peeps imagined a lot.

Out in his back yard he would rake up the leaves and twigs, placing them in piles around the lawn. He would sit on the grass and sort through these mounds and count out the twigs, then break the twigs into pieces and count them again. For no reason. 'My mind's a disease,' he would say to himself. He counted he said this 918 times.

Samuel Peeps got to be 97 before he died. Most of his life he counted things. The day before he passed away, he lay on his bed and summed up the loss, but then he remembered what Einstein said: 'You can't create matter from nothing.'

### Saturday 19 January 2013

### Tribute To Decazeville

**Garry McDougall**

Balmain, NSW

Please note that several words are deliberately misspelt, for example, Goggle instead of Google, churn instead of turn. Please also note that a 'cave' is French for a retail liquor outlet.

I don't know you Decazeville, though you were born 'La Salle', your name changed by Napolean III, your nation shamed when King Louis gave you away to his mistress, enriched through fornication, embarrassments by-passed by adopting nom de Monsieur Decaze, mine and foundry owner, keeper of the open pit, going deeper, underground and out of view.

From Goggle maps, from God's sky – who can know you and your thin tangle of streets, 6000 people and sinking, an inscrutable grey coal pit to the south, to the north, Jesus found amongst the grass and weeds, worn and cast aside?

I walked your hills in innocence, pilgrim to your curving roads, no signs for direction, lost and giddy, encroaching your valley from above, growing confident with those pleasant homes at your edge, unaware of your blasted centre, entering after a day's determined walk from Conques, hazelnut forest and farmland nestling into memory. Didn't I wonder that pilgrims avoided you, bypassing your plainness for prettier towns?

From your narrow lane appeared unwelcome, trafficked street, a welcoming bar, cold drinks a treat, breathing aromas of tobacco and old France, the sign clearly saying 'Non Fumer', barman serene.

You can smile Decazeville, but you still cough.

I don't know you D, deceived perhaps when our alberge host practised her wondrous violin, head shaking, feet aching, soaked and soothed in cold water, wrapped in dry towels, before the cat stole my pate.

Roundabout then, we pilgrims wandered into another of France's million Rue de Gambettas – with bars, take-aways and the mundane, late afternoon citizens deserting main-street for air-conditioned shopping centre, short of the great pit. With another cluster of people in your square, with your amusing postcards, your hand-made sausage and pate campagne, were we misled by this liveliness? Wandering down discouraged lanes, past curious monuments, unseen better days, standing with surly youth at Jean Paul Sartre Recreation Centre, thinking I might try out the weights of justice, press the barbells of freedom, the balance bar of fraternity, and spell 'being' and 'nothingness' in a friendly game of Scrabble.

But fellow pilgrims prompted our descent into clean and pleasant pizza palace. Dinner. Diner, s'il vous plait.

If France has too many falafel and kebab shops, Decaze villains prefer Italian pizza, pizza and more, six of them pretending choice. Does rolled bread offend you my villains? Are falafels too foreign, and salad too unmanly? Is the pizza's flatness alluring after centuries of digging holes, only dough to be trusted? Are clear-sighted ingredients glued to your landscape meal, more agreeable and reassuring than the rapt unseen? Are creamy cheese, rich tomato paste and crispy edges the stuff of legend? Maximum illusion! All that pizza consumed will leave you hungrier. And five others are ready to serve.

Non fumer, says this sign.

We ordered The New York pizza, The Genoa pizza, The Roman pizza, even The South Seas pizza. Nowhere did I see 'The Works,' or better, 'The Decaze Villian'. But it all tastes better with Coke.

We left town next morning, climbing the steep north-western hill towards Livinhac-le-Haut, meeting a pale white church in broken form, doors locked. In the vacant lot opposite, we discovered the Crucified One, expelled from church, flat on his ground, barring entry to Heaven's door. Neighbourly satyrs invited us to crush their grapes, extract the juices, taste the terrior; blending flavours, handing out favours, all for the vino tinto, all for the vin rouge. I took a churn, all laughter with our Decaze villians, youthful bluster, timely muster, the older uncle deep in his own cave, baton in hand, orange apron, master of the dark ways.

I don't know you D, though I sweated on the downhill in, and laughed on the uphill out, all your ingredients plain to see.

Short note on Decazeville

From Conques to Figaec, Camino de Santiago pilgrims have three possible routes, largely determined by the distance to their next overnight stay. Decazeville is ideally placed for most, as it is 24 km from Conques, including a sizeable morning hill climb before the afternoon descent. However, some long-distance walkers head for Livinhac-le-Haut, a 29 km walk with a steep climb in the morning. With Decazeville considered a certain disappointment after Conques' wonders, many pilgrims push themselves (too far?) to by-pass the old mining town. For more on Decazeville in the Averyon, southern France, and its associated attractions, go to its Wikipaedia entry. There are references to further websites that will explain, and give new info on the town.

### Sunday 20 January 2013

### My Heart Has No Home

**Fayroze Lutta**

Randwick, NSW

Mon Amour Driss,

I feel forgotten by you, I can't forget you. I can't bury you in the cemetery of the past. It's a hoax this business of forgetting. It's high summer here in Sydney and the days are dark without you.

I walked over the Harbour Bridge yesterday; it has a view of the Opera House. All I saw was six lanes of metal and the roar of petrol but the comforting rattle of the train that passes over the bridge. With work I feel like I pass the day in perpetual silence chained to my desk drowning in paper. My friend said, 'It's just a job ... change your attitude.' I don't know ... I'm going to continue to write to you and I will not get a reply. It will cost you 89 centimes for a stamp. It seems too much to ask ...

I want to frame those first three months I was in Paris with you, and that month last year in Morocco. I want to hang it next to the wooden clock on the wall above my bed. Those hot nights of waiting, of talking, of making love with our words on Rue D'Aboukir. Waiting for you to return to my fourth floor apartment with ice cubes for the Martini Rossato and the loud love making that would follow next to paper thin walls where I could hear the neighbours cough. Paper thin walls never mattered in that hotel room in Morocco calling out 'Oui' bent over the bed and the knock of the chamber maid on the door.

What to make of all those moments of ecstasy past? I want to unfold you again, not curl up in the misery of an unanswered phone, or worse, a woman's voice to answer. I want to smear my lipstick all over your shirt collar with my lips. I want everyone to see you are for me, like yesterday, like before and for always. I don't want to know another man's touch or form. I want you to keep me to make love to me in the mornings before work. To make love so loud the neighbours blush. Oh mon objet d'amour, I will return to you to your embrace. What to make of all these frayed threads of my heart ...

Je t'embrasse forte, (I kiss you hard)

Ta chérie

Fayroze 

### Monday 21 January 2013

### The Winter And The Rose

**David Newman**

Jacobs Well, QLD

Chorus

For all the seasons to be and gone;

We are the Winter and the Rose;

Someday this Winter will pass on;

I know! Yes I know;

But you will still always be;

You will always be my shining star.

The Rose can thrive with the Winter;

The Winter is always brighter for the Rose.

And this Rose will always be loved by the Winter;

Until we see Heaven closed.

At last, the coming of the Spring;

From a childhood that was so strange.

My heart began to sing;

I got back all my feelings again

But there was something missing

Started to search, can't just be wishing.

In this world there just had to be

Someone I could see, who can see me?

I didn't know the colour of your eyes,

But I knew that I would recognise.

No walls in those eyes, and an open heart

To make you a shining star.

I am the Winter, it's true,

But I'll not be cold to you.

I hold you in such esteem;

To watch you reach all your dreams.

You are my shining star.

Chorus

Enter in, the Summer of dreams;

Still didn't know my destiny,

Nor know what my life means;

But I knew, someday, I would see;

One able to understand;

The many facets of this man.

I'm borrowed and I'm cultivated

I'm not my own, but I'm dedicated.

Borrowed from those who were more temperate.

Was not enough, still needed something more;

To be taught, and not ignore.

There was something still to get;

Should be tangible, and yet!

It seemed to be elusive;

Left me with no way to give.

Needed a shining star.

Chorus

The Autumn came to bring me hope;

A baby girl, a special soul.

I can give, I can cope;

There was someone, so there was a goal.

The years equal one dozen;

When this Winter was never frozen.

But then the walls were there to see;

And they were all built up against me.

And there was you, with a loss of your own;

You helped me through that hopeless zone.

Yet all I can say is, thank you Luwana.*

Jessica, the shining star.

And I can only repay;

By the words that I can say;

I will speak them for all time;

Jessica! One of a kind!

You are that shining star:

Chorus

The Winter loves the Rose;

You!

You are my shining star; – Yes you are.

The Winter loves the Rose;

You!

My Dear Jessica, – You are the Rose;

The Winter loves the Rose;

You!

You are the Rose!

Come now, just bring the Winter on;

I am not weak, you made me strong.

And now there is someone;

I know that I can help along.

don't you go and lose your crown;

Your enemies can't bring you down;

For of them, you are well aware.

Hurt may come from ones, for whom you care.

Now! Don't you listen, just pay them no mind.

Their words of jest can be unkind.

I want you to know that you are a star;

don't forget just who you are.

I write this to remind you;

I'm the one who can see truth.

I can see behind those eyes;

To the Jessica inside;

Where lives the shining star.

Chorus

For when my body is decayed;

my bones so brittle in the grave;

I pray that I'll be saved;

It's just to love you beyond all days.

And when you rise to meet me;

Well! Then, I swear that I will greet thee.

Just to prove these words are all true;

I'll still keep on watching over you.

When the Earth sits quiet and no longer turns;

And when our old Sun, no longer burns;

And the only thing left at all – are stars;

I'll still find just where you are.

And when all the angels sing;

And with all the love that brings

I'll still only want one Star;

And that's you, Dear Jessica.

You are my Shining Star.

The Rose can thrive with the Winter;

The Winter is always brighter for the Rose.

And this Rose will always be loved by the Winter;

Until we see Heaven closed.

The Winter loves the Rose;

You!

You are my shining star; Yes you are.

The Winter loves the Rose;

You!

My Dear Jessica, You are the Rose;

The Winter loves the Rose;

You!

You are the Rose!

* Aboriginal for beautiful girl

### Tuesday 22 January 2013

### Shattered Reflections

**Kylie Abecca**

Port Albany, WA

A broken heart, a shattered soul,

The demons within are taking their toll,

My mind is working overtime,

It's time for me to draw the line,

Like broken shards from a crystal ball,

I have no choice but to let the pieces fall,

There's no point in putting them back again,

Once broken and shattered, it's never the same,

Looking back, I often wondered why,

I settled for people who only lied,

To live a life of pure honesty,

Is something that will never happen to me,

Depressing as this poem may seem,

Why don't you read it again to see what I mean,

I often come across the wrong way,

It doesn't seem to matter what I say,

But if you want to understand me,

Look a little closer, tell me what you see,

Behind the laugh, behind the smile,

Is a girl who's been dragged over every hard mile,

I'm not asking for help, not asking for a hug,

I can get out of this hole, I myself dug,

Just close your mouth, keep opinions to yourself,

I know how to play with the cards I've been dealt,

Just leave me alone, I don't want to hear lies,

Only honesty do I want to see with these eyes,

I can pick up and I can move forward,

A new life for me, I have to work toward,

Think what you like, shadow me with doubt,

But I will stand tall and show you what I'm all about.

Kylie wrote this poem following a sexual assault, moments before she was due to face her attacker in court. She says she is proud of this piece simply because it shows that she refused to allow another person's actions to ruin her positive outlook on life. 

### Wednesday 23 January 2013

### A Gate Ajar

**Toni Paton**

Blackheath, NSW

Today it creaks and grinds on its hinges, as it swings in the breeze.

Each day as I take a stroll, I pass this gate, always closed.

I am entranced,

I hesitate and wonder what lies beyond.

Character abounds,

A creation of weathered wood and rusting wire.

I have always been tempted to open this gate,

But have respected its trust – keeping trespassers out.

And here today it is open, inviting me through.

With reluctance I step forward, am drawn forth.

The path ahead is rugged, well used – but not for a long, long time.

I am compelled to continue.

I feel exhilarated.

Either side of my walk are patches of old time flowers, lilies, daffodils and violets,

Hinting of the past, of life, and dwellings.

Nostalgia is all enveloping.

A haze lies ahead, through it something discernible.

I edge forward and realise what I see was once a home,

Old, neglected and dilapidated.

And yet it portrays a sense of peace and calm.

I venture closer, am overwhelmed with tranquillity.

Obscurely hanging over the front door, a sign: 'WELCOME.'

I choose not to intrude, disturb the peace.

Reluctantly I turn to walk away.

Hesitate to reflect.

How I would love to know the history of this gem.

Trudging slowly back, gazing onward,

I recognise the gate, the inspiration of my venture.

Should I close the gate?

Keeping our secret hidden from others passing by?

I shall leave it as it is,

Content, unrestricted and free.

### Thursday 24 January 2013

### It Will Come

**Dominic Carew**

Newport, NSW

In the half-light of dawn the specks of blood on her shirt appear brown and were it not for the sudden memory of his last, dying expression tumbling into her mind like a falling light, she might have forgotten the blood was his.

'I have a request, if I may,' he'd said politely, his accent rounded with an English sheen. 'Take my hand young lady, grip it tight. I'm not dust until I'm dust.' His air was light and calm as though it was not his last minute on earth but a dreamy dusk in a park with his dog by his side, a blaze in the sky and a breeze caressing his face, albeit a little coldly.

'I want you to do something for me young lady – Rose, isn't it? Yes – I want you to make me a little promise.' Learned in the language of blood pressure, of heart rate, of all the medical measurements that foretell death's presence, and knowing these were his final moments, Rose lamented deeply that hers would be the last ears into which he spoke. But she heeded the call, leant in close and let him pull the side of her head up to his face. His words whispered into her ear like a wind and echoed, shaking the hollows of her heart. She intended to promise him that his wish would be fulfilled, that she would do what she could to carry it out, but by the time she pulled away to look into his face he was dead. It was not the death itself that affected her, God knows how many of those she had witnessed, but the final, loving cast of his eyes looking back at her, as though she were his child.

The night shift is the darkest shift because the terrors come upon the dying then, when there are none of the many happenings of day to block them. Rose had become accustomed to the sight of frail, disorientated patients gripping the fringes of sheets like frightened children, revealing on speckled, time-worn hands the stories of their lives. She would stop to comfort those that she could, take a hand in hers and rub it or put a palm to a wrinkled brow or sometimes she would just stand there, not touching them at all, rocking on her toes in a soothing manner to let them know she was there. Mostly she'd be too busy to see to everyone and this caused an aching sadness that never left her so, when she finally climbed into her own bed of a morning and closed her eyes, the anguished faces of those untended patients would stare back at her from the blacks of her eyelids.

In her small apartment, with only one south-facing window, the sunlight is slow to penetrate. Her post-work ritual of undressing and showering and eating breakfast takes place in a crepuscular haze for which she, after so long under fluorescent bulbs, is grateful. The dawn twilight is for winding down so she tricks herself, or that inner part of herself responsible for discerning time, that towards her morning the night is coming.

She examines the specks on the collar of her shirt by the living-room window. As death raced towards him it wore away the walls of his lungs and filled them with blood, some of which he must have breathed onto her collar while speaking into her ear. It was not unusual to come home with stains on her clothes but she finds herself, this particular day, moved by the image of an old man's dying breaths preserved in the white cotton fibres of her shirt. She holds the garment for some minutes in her hands, thinking all the while about his final wish, and decides, for now, to leave it unwashed.

In the bathroom she showers without light and lets the steady flow of water – its echo and its touch – soothe her. She spends long enough in front of the mirror to brush her teeth and ensure her face is clean and proper, but no longer, for she is not interested in how she looks. Was it always like this? Are young women like Rose, at some point in their youth, not greatly consumed by the world's perception of their beauty? Perhaps they are, and perhaps Rose passed down that street, but she did not do so for long. There was too much pain in holding herself up before the world in that way; too many eyes to fill. Over time, beauty appeared more an idea than a shape and it came at her when she was very still, watching from a quiet shadow. Occasionally, in moments of what she has come to call grace, death presents a kind of beauty and in those instants she feels as though nothing will ever harm her or anyone who stops to look and listen.

'Don't you want love?' her mother Alice asks, a ripple of despair passing glumly through her eyes. 'Don't you want children?' She is standing in Alice's kitchen the following afternoon, the fridge beaming its messy smile of family photos and novelty magnets. She likes the old pictures, drained by time of colour, the corners curling in as though trying to shield the tawny images from final, irredeemable destruction. Rose slowly takes them in, her eyes following the same left-to-right path across the fridge as always, absorbing the pieces of her history with which she is so familiar and yet which always appear to her as new and oddly startling. Today she stops on a particularly tattered photo, faded almost beyond recognition and identifiable only by the whites of the smiles of its subjects. Don't you want love? the smiles seem to say. Don't you want children? Her mother reaches up and takes the picture from the fridge, holding it gently in two hands like a holy cup. 'We were twenty-five,' she says, with a long, indulgent blink.

'Somewhere in Spain,' continues Rose, knowing exactly the story of the picture, the time and date it was taken, the soft, incredibly balmy twilight unfurling around the couple on the other side of the lens.

'He would have wanted you to have children,' Alice says, referring to the man in the picture, the man who grew Rose up on his shoulders and whose smell – of musk and earth and coffee, of summer roads after summer rain – breathes on in a treasured hallway of her memory. He taught her many things in many ways but his favourite pearl, which he uttered daily, was to always, above all else, laugh every day as if it's your last. He had been sick nearly a year before her parents told her the truth. They erected a pretence of wellbeing so that Rose and her sisters would not have to suffer too and so he could hold onto fatherhood for as long as possible, the one thing he loved more than anything else. At the time Rose did not know about the hospital visits and the radiotherapy, the dozen different tablets he swallowed each day. She did not hear the muffled sobs through the walls of the house in the smallest hours of morning as mother and father wept in silent, sorrowful repose. When she finally found out she remembers imagining her parents as a pair of armoured sentinels guarding a sacred, tranquil garden from packs of wolves and crocodiles and land-faring sharks. They fought like warriors she saw in Hollywood blockbusters, their backs up against garden walls, their fingers dripping blood. And even though looking back through the mesh of memory she recalls having had suspicions, her gratitude towards her heroes forever swells in her heart.

Returning the picture to its place on the fridge with gentle reverence, Alice holds back a tear quivering on the rim of an eyelid, a skill she has learned in the three years since her husband's death and one which bespeaks, she supposes, a recovery from grief.

'We lost an old man this morning,' Rose says absently, as though to herself. 'He died alone.'

Alice, facing the fridge, is quiet as she sifts through a pile of thoughts with motherly care. She initially encouraged her daughter's decision to work with the dying though always wondered whether Rose had done so too soon after her father's passing. In the beginning Alice, overwhelmed by the blizzard of mourning, could not see the goings on around her and lived her days in a state of functional paralysis – breathing and talking and eating, but not alive. Eventually, by an unbidden intervention of grace – for she did not ask to be saved – the ice thawed and light slowly pierced the fog. With the little reserves of energy remaining, Alice once again turned her life to her children and it was Rose, of all of them, who had changed the most. No longer were the simple preoccupations of young womanhood remotely relevant to Rose's life, called as it was to a higher, heavier place. Her work had come to occupy all but the thinnest permitter of her time and was beginning to take the shape of an obsession which bordered, in Alice's view, on the morbid. Today though, as ever, Alice is careful to prod with delicate strokes.

'He didn't die alone,' she says, finally, 'if you were there.'

'He died without his family present, Mum. That's dying alone. He died without his loved ones by his side.'

Alice turns to face her daughter and smiles wanly, revealing, as she does, concerns shifting about beneath. 'Sometimes I think you take too much on in that job,' she says after a beat of silence. 'A young woman like you should be out there enjoying life, making friends. Instead you live alone with a weight in your heart.'

Rose looks down at her folded arms with her head cocked to one side and a puzzled, somewhat troubled expression in her eyes as though she cannot quite remember where she is or, perhaps even, who. After a while she raises her head and, with arms still folded, says, 'I kind of made him a promise, just before he died, to fulfil his final wish.'

Alice's face sinks a touch and a grim, cloud-coloured lamentation shivers out across the room. 'Oh, Rose,' she says, drawing her daughter into her chest, 'this is too much.'

The two women stand there, embraced in the kitchen, holding gently the common threads of their lives in their arms, weeping a little – out of gratitude more than grief. Then, with a curious contentment Rose hears and feels but does not understand, Alice says, 'It will come Rose. You remember that? When it comes.' They are words her father would say in the final phase of his dying, during which he seemed to be looking through a window, away from the world, upon a profound tranquillity that awaited him. It is in these words that now, as then, mother and daughter let themselves be comforted.

As Rose is leaving, poised to step through her mother's front door onto the street, Alice, with calm, considered conviction offers a final thought, 'It won't bring him back, you know.'

The wind outside abruptly kicks up and blows through Rose into the house, rattling the cupboards and causing the old ceiling lights to jingle sweetly on their strings.

'He's gone from us and you can't bring him back.'

Rose pauses, feels the pulse throb in the heart of her throat and without offering a response, walks out the door.

The following day, on a street at noon, Rose bumps into a child holding a star-shaped balloon.

'I'm sorry little lady, I didn't see you there.'

The little girl looks up at Rose and smirks, her grip loosening on the unwieldy mass of helium swaying about above her. 'Where's your boyfriend?' the little girl asks.

Rose, slightly affronted but smiling, says, 'I don't have one.'

The little girl's face bunches into a serious frown, her eyes narrow into serious slits, 'But who holds your hand while you fall asleep at night?'

'No one,' says Rose. 'What a strange question.'

'Mum says a boyfriend's job is to hold his girlfriend's hand while she falls asleep and that's why he sleeps in her bed.'

Rose laughs but as she does she is reminded of the old man: the grip of his hand in his last seconds; the silent, solemn quiver. Where was his wife? she thinks. Where were his children? In a sudden uprush of commotion, the little girl's mother, puffing and panting into view, picks the child up and chides her sharply for wandering off. The balloon wriggles free and Rose and the two strangers watch as it soars frantically skyward.

'Sorry about that,' says the mother, grinning. 'They're slippery like eels, you know.'

Rose nods and smiles, but no, she doesn't know they're slippery. She doesn't know much about eels at all.

A week later, on the chilly yet spring-touched edge of winter, Rose finds herself sat before the tombstone of the man that died alone. It was not difficult tracking down his resting place, what with her contacts, and the fact that he was buried in the same cemetery as her father made it all the easier. She sits for some time by his grave, considering the small, polished slab of stone which has not yet been inscribed with an epitaph. Overhead the late afternoon sky is a-swirl with whorls of cloud broken by ringlets of blue. A dozen shards of sunlight fall to the ground interrupting the shadows of the cemetery with soft, shimmering splashes of gold. Presently, Rose catches a glimpse of a stranger standing above the adjacent grave. He is tall and slim and drably dressed, carrying with him a small bunch of wilting flowers that seem to be suffocating in his white-knuckled grip. The man begins to watch her and she feels his glare soak into the periphery of her thoughts.

'I'm sorry,' says the man with a nervously hushed stammer. 'Your father?'

Rose looks up at the stranger and, seeing his face, relaxes, for his eyes are kind, albeit wet with fresh grief.

'No,' she says, 'We weren't related.'

'A friend, then?' persists the man.

'No,' she says, 'we weren't really friends either.'

'Then why are you here, if you don't mind me asking, tending to his grave?'

Rose turns her face back to the tombstone and notices, for the first time, the vague outline of herself reflected in its surface. Somewhere nearby leaves rustle in a breath of wind and the first pinkish hues of dusk spill into the sky.

'I came to tell him I'll try,' she says, without shifting her gaze, 'to fulfil his final wish.'

'Oh,' says the man, bemused and faintly curious.

'Yeah,' continues Rose. 'He said he wanted me to laugh every day as if it's my last. Can you believe that? I mean, what are the odds?'

The man offers a thin, uncomprehending, desperate kind of smile, kneels down to deposit the flowers and quickly leaves, heaving heavy sobs into the heels of his hands all the way back to his car. After a time, Rose stands up, brushes a few blades of grass from her legs and, making for the streetward gates, notices the sky aching in its final burst of colour. From where she is she can see, up the gentle slope of the cemetery, her father's grave before which she has knelt and cried so many times. Today she glimpses something moving above it, a bird maybe, or perhaps just a shadow playing tricks in the dying light. 'It will come, Daddy,' she whispers and the wind blows, flushing her face with fire, 'when it comes.' She raises her hand and waves and whatever it is that stirred her thoughts waves back and a happiness tumbles into her heart like a falling light.

So she walks.

Off to discover all of the things on which it shines.

### Friday 25 January 2013

### Left

**John Arvan**

Underdale, SA

The distant shore is always near

Our vague demise is ever clear

And what is left

Just memories

Of what was done

And what was dear

And we return

To what we were

### Friday 25 January 2013 4 pm

Saturday

Susan Kay

Bellevue Heights, SA

***Editor's Pick***

perched

each on a chair arm

swaddled in gently falling smoky strings

of roll-your-own

they watch his mouth

a teasing 'O'

small shoulders tense

fists ball on collar bones

ribs ache with waiting

and just before they must

shrug or scratch a foot

he releases

a perfect silent ring

they gasp as it wobbles

on unseen currents

and try to grasp its magic

as I do now

_Ed:_ _I found this to be a beautifully crafted story of innocence and love, but was enthralled with the concept of setting it against a backdrop of something which we now perceive to be evil and to be avoided at all costs. It harks back to a simpler time, and I feel grief emanating quite solidly from the last two lines._

### Saturday 26 January 2013

### Speak English Please

**Peter Shankar**

West Ryde, NSW

'I can't believe that you would do this to me, Wong. After I especially asked you to speak English today, you still insisted on speaking Chinese. How could you?' Lee yelled at her best friend. She was furious! How could Wong do this to her? 'And my name is Linda now not Lee!'

Lee and Wong had been friends since they were five years old, growing up in the poorest part of China together. Through some twist of fate, both girls had applied for jobs with an Australian company that had been looking for workers from China. It had been sheer luck that they had both ended up in the same place as many hundreds of people had applied for the fifty jobs that were available. So, at age twenty they found themselves working at the same company and sharing a small apartment in Sydney.

Lee had fallen in love with Australia the moment she had set foot in it. The people were so friendly and easy going, and in no time at all Lee had made some great friends at work, started a TAFE course to learn English and joined a local bushwalking group. She quickly picked up the Australian vernacular and, after only five years in Australia, it was hard to tell that she had ever spoken anything other than English.

It had been a great comfort for both girls having each other in a strange country. It had been difficult for them leaving their families behind, but it had been the chance of a lifetime and neither of them could ever go back and lose face, their families would be in disgrace if they blew this opportunity, so being together had been a source of strength for both of them.

But Wong missed China much more than Lee did. She often complained of how lazy and loud Australians were, how difficult it was to understand them. How could Lee stand being amongst them so much of the time?

Lee couldn't understand it. She didn't hear their loudness, she just heard the kind words. She never thought Australians were lazy, they just took one thing at a time. Lee absolutely loved the Australian bush and spent many happy weekends hiking and camping with groups of friends who shared her love of the bush.

Wong had become a bit of a loner. She had joined a Chinese club where Chinese people of all ages came together to dance and eat traditional Chinese food. The only time she ever went out was when she went out with her Chinese friends. Her English was stilted and broken with Chinese words mixed throughout. She really didn't feel comfortable talking English and found it hard to express herself. It was just easier to start shopping in Chinatown in the city. At least there the shopkeepers got her orders right and didn't snicker at her broken English.

Lee was impatient with Wong. 'You're not in China anymore, you need to speak English.'

'But it's too hard Lee, you don't understand. It's okay for you. English is easy for you. You speak it like you were born here. Don't you want to be Chinese anymore?'

'I speak it well because I speak it often! You don't even try.'

'Yes I do! I have to speak English at work don't I?'

'You speak mainly to Mrs Chan, I've seen you. You ask her to talk to Karen for you. Have you ever actually spoken to Karen yourself?' Wong's angry flush was answer enough.

And now this. Lee had met an amazing Australian man, Steven Anderson, at her bushwalking group and she had brought him home to meet Wong. She had specifically asked Wong to speak English and to call her 'Linda', the name she had adopted a year ago, but Wong had insisted on talking Chinese the entire time he had been there and calling Lee 'Lee' instead of Linda. Lee was furious and knew it was time for her to move out and told Wong so.

'I'm sorry, Wong, but I'm going to find somewhere else to live. You knew how important this was to me and you made Steven feel so uncomfortable. He tried to be friendly to you and you pretended you didn't understand a word of what he said. I can't live like that. I want a home where I can bring my friends without them feeling like imposters.'

Wong was hurt and upset, and also afraid to lose the flatmate who could speak enough English to order the takeaways. But Lee had been adamant and two weeks later had moved into her own place. That hadn't lasted long though, as two months later Steven had proposed, and eight months later they had married and moved into a small house out in the suburbs. Two years later they had welcomed a beautiful son. They tried for more children but sadly they only ever had the one boy, Peter.

Lee still kept contact with Wong but not very often. They would see each other in passing at work but rarely socialised. Wong had also married, to an older, wealthy Chinese man that she had met at the Chinese social club. Lee and Steven were invited to their wedding.

Wong fell pregnant not long after her marriage and quit her job at the factory and after that Lee didn't really hear much from her anymore. Of course, when Wong had each of her three children she phoned Lee and Lee would call Wong whenever something big happened in her life, but apart from that they rarely spoke.

While the children were small they invited each other's children to birthday parties but even that became uncomfortable. When the party was held at Wong's house, Lee's son felt like a fish out of water, as only Chinese was spoken and all the other children there were Chinese. Lee's son didn't understand Chinese very well and found the foods and customs different to what he was used to;. At home it was standard Australian food: potatoes, meat and three veg, with party food consisting of lollies, chips, fairy bread, party pies and sausage rolls.

And when the party was at Lee's house, Wong's three children felt left out as their English was not strong. They didn't like the Australian party food and refused to mingle with the other kids, keeping to themselves and having their own private party. By the time they hit double digits even birthday parties no longer brought them together.

Lee was sad about her lost friendship but she had a full life and had made many more friends to fill the gap that Wong's friendship had left. She was still working at the same factory but had risen in the ranks and was now in management. She and her husband still hiked and enjoyed weekends away with their friends and their son rarely felt the loneliness of being an only child. Their house was filled with his friends and it was not uncommon for three or four friends to sleep over most weekends or go on a hiking trip with them.

The years raced by. Lee's son was now in his twenties but still came home on a regular basis. He would often bring home lovely girls of all nationalities but as yet had not found the right one. Lee was only working three days a week by now – they were comfortable and there was no longer the need to work as many hours as possible. Lee loved working in her garden; really, she just loved being outdoors and thought Australia was really the best country of them all. So little rain, so much time for outdoor activities.

Lee was musing over her many blessings while she was gardening when she heard the phone ring inside. Damn, she thought, I'll never make that on time. But she tried anyway. Sure enough, by the time she got to the back door the answering machine had picked up. She was just about to turn around and go back to the gardening and let the answering machine deal with it when she heard Wong's voice. She could hear it was Wong but she couldn't understand what she was saying. She was hysterical, crying and saying something about an ambulance. Lee snatched open the screen door and raced inside and picked up the phone.

'What's wrong Wong? Slow down, I can't understand you!' More spluttering noises from the other end. Lee tried again. 'Wong, stop it! What's wrong?'

Finally, after what seemed like hours but was probably only minutes, Lee started to understand. Wong's husband had had some kind of an accident and was lying on the ground, apparently dead or dying, according to Wong.

'Call an ambulance!' Lee almost screamed. 'Why are you calling me?'

'I did, they're coming. They were counselling me on phone to help my husband before the ambulance arrived. I don't know what to do, they are taking him away right now,' Wong wailed. 'Please help me Lee.' Lee couldn't believe it.

'Okay, I'll meet you at the hospital. I'll be there as fast as possible.' And she promptly hung up on her old friend. Lee arrived at the hospital as soon as she could, but by the time she got there it was all over. She found a distraught Wong in the waiting room, waiting for one of her sons to come and get her.

'He's dead, Lee, now what do I do? It's my fault. They said he wouldn't have died if I'd followed their instructions accurately till the paramedics arrived, he might have had a chance. It's all my fault.' Before Lee could say anything, a nurse appeared at the waiting room door.

'Mrs Huang?'

'Yes?' Wong said tremulously.

'Your son just phoned to say he can't pick you up until five-thirty.' Wong looked at her blankly.

'Your son can't get here till five-thirty,' Lee translated for her. 'That's still two hours away. You can't stay here by yourself for that long,' Lee said, horrified at the thought. Wong had never learnt to drive, she said all the traffic made her nervous and that people always shouted stuff at her. 'Look, I'll give you a lift home. Come on, my car's out in the top car park.' Lee dropped Wong home and stayed with her for a while.

A few days later the funeral was held. Lee dropped Wong home since one of her sons, Chan, was abroad and couldn't make it for the funeral. Wong said it was okay and that she could make it home by herself but Lee insisted.

Lee pulled up out the front of her friend's huge mansion. Wong had barely said a word all the way home, Lee guessed it was shock.

'Come on, let's get you inside.' She got out and went around and helped Wong out of the car like she was an old woman. Gently she helped her up the front stairs and to the front door. Wong's hands were shaking so badly she couldn't get the key in the lock, so Lee unlocked the door for her. As they came in the front door, a young, elegantly dressed woman came out of one of the rooms, followed closely by Wong's oldest son.

'Oh, excuse me,' Wong stammered. Wong's son didn't say a word, he turned the young woman away swiftly and into what Lee knew was the sitting room.

He threw an annoyed glance over his shoulder at his mother before turning away, and as the sitting room door closed they heard the woman say, 'Since when does the hired help use the front door?'

Wong scurried off in the direction of the kitchen with Lee close behind her. 'Hired help? Who was that girl?' she asked Wong.

Wong looked embarrassed. 'That's Chan's girlfriend. He said it's just easier if she thinks I'm the help because then she won't try talking to me. He hates it when I talk to his girlfriends.' And seeing the horrified look on Lee's face, 'It doesn't matter, she won't last. He never stays with one girl for long.' Wong refused to meet her eyes but Lee could see her pain and shame.

'But you said he was abroad?!' Lee was outraged. 'Does he know his dad is dead?'

'Yes, he knows. But he's been very busy with his new job.'

Lee couldn't believe it. 'I think I need to go in there and give him a piece of my mind,' she fumed.

'No, Lee! It's okay, honest, I understand. He means no harm. He has to think of his future too, you know. It's probably best if you go now. I'm okay. There's no point you hanging around. I'll call you later,' Wong said and ushered Lee out the back door. But she never did call.

Lee was told by one of Wong's sons that she had gone back to China and that was the last time she spoke to any of them. Lee tried phoning her but all she ever got was the answering machine. She went around and knocked on Wong's door but no one ever answered. And then one day she heard through the grapevine that Wong's house had been sold and rumour had it that she had remarried. Lee wasn't really surprised; Wong had never really taken to Australia and had often said that she felt like a fish out of water.

And so the years rolled on. Lee's son married an Australian girl and they produced four grandchildren in rapid succession. Lee and her husband continued to bushwalk, not just all over Australia, but on annual holidays all over the world. They saw some amazing things and lived the blessed life that only people in countries like Australia get to live, a life free of hunger, free of the pain of losing children to needless tragedies, a life full of love, laughter and good times, where people are rewarded for working without having to work themselves to death. Until one day Lee's husband died, quite suddenly after a very short illness.

Lee continued to live on her own for a while but she was often lonely at night. She often went to her son's house to help look after the children while they both worked, so it was only natural that she should move in with them. She loved her daughter-in-law and they got on like a house on fire. Lee often said that Tina was like the daughter she'd never had. Since Lee's English was good, they talked about everything and Tina totally understood what Lee was going through and had a lot of respect for how she had raised her son. Lee was happy and loved, and content to live out her life this way. Sometimes she thought of her old friend Wong and wondered if she had found what she was looking for in China, she sure had never found it in Australia.

Then one day she got a phone call. It was from a nursing home and they were looking for her on behalf of one of their patients.

'Oh,' Lee said, 'Who's your patient?' only to be told, 'Mrs Wong Huang.' Lee couldn't speak.

'Hello?'

'Oh, sorry, I thought you said Wong Huang.'

'Yes, that's right. Is this Mrs Linda Anderson?'

'Yes, it is. Where did you say you were calling from?' And the nurse named a nursing home that was about fifty kilometres from where Lee lived. 'How long has she been there?' Lee asked, only to be told twelve years.

'She never has any visitors,' the nurse went on. 'I was told that when she first came here her children would visit her once a month, but then that went down to special occasions, then once a year for her birthday, but the last visit was three years ago now and we have tried to contact her children but they all seem to have moved. Her daughter lives in Melbourne and her sons are somewhere in Western Australia but won't contact us. She hasn't been well lately and we asked her if there was anyone else she would like to see and she mentioned you. I'm so glad we've found you. Her English is not great but we're all very fond of her.'

Lee was dumbfounded. All those grandchildren and no visitors, ever! She felt immeasurably sad for her old friend. Lee promised to go and visit the very next day.

When she entered her friend's room in the nursing home the next day, she was shocked and saddened at the sight of her. She was lying propped up with pillows in a hospital bed and she looked ancient and fragile. Her eyes were closed and for a moment Lee thought she was dead. But then the eyes opened and Lee recognised the eyes of her old friend.

'You came,' Wong said softly. 'I'm so glad. I'm sorry I never called you back but I felt so ashamed. My sons hate me.'

'But why?' Lee asked. 'What happened?'

'They say my ignorance killed their dad. They say I didn't try hard enough to learn English. But it was too hard! I could never grasp it like you did. It felt so awkward. And everyone would laugh at me. I saw how they looked at me. They never gave me a go!'

'You never gave them a go, Wong. You never really tried. You lived like you were living in a little China inside Australia and that doesn't work! You need to become integrated or you'll become isolated. There are good and bad Australians, but you have to give them a go.'

Although Wong didn't want to hear it, you could see in her eyes that she had paid the biggest price when her husband died, but it was too little too late. 'The grandchildren don't visit – they say they don't understand me.'

She stayed a while longer, each of them catching up on the missed years until Wong's eyes started to droop. Lee stood up.

'I'll come back next week. Please, don't cry.' She patted her friend's hand. 'I'll be back,' she repeated, and walked out. She went home to her cosy life, enveloped in the warmth of her family and wished she could warn others who were planning to start a new life in Australia. But it was too late now, she was too old. Two days later she received another phone call from the nursing home, this one to tell her that Wong had died that morning. She sat down and cried.

No one came forward to claim her friend's body and no one could be found except her family in China. In the end Lee arranged the funeral. She and her kids were the only ones there to see her laid to rest. Lee was so sad. Wong hadn't managed to keep up with her family and her adopted country. Since she had never accepted Australia, her family disowned her and in the end she had nothing.

Wong left a little book titled 'Speak English Please'. Lee didn't take much notice but later saw enrolment forms for TAFE that were dated two weeks before her death and found a book that encouraged new Chinese Australians to speak English. 'Not because you're losing your culture but because you're gaining respect' it said on the cover.

Wong wrote that she was always frightened that she would lose her culture and heritage by learning English, but that's never the case. By the time she realised it, it was too late. A tear rolled down Lee's cheek. Wong's last wish was to have this book published so no one else would make the same mistake. She wanted the proceeds to go to the Australian government whereby they would make it compulsory for all new Australians to undergo a course, which didn't force people to learn English but showed them the negatives of not learning it. She kept saying in the book repeatedly, 'It might sound stupid but I was never told this in China when I applied for a visa, that's where I would have really listened'.

Lee went home, kissed her son and daughter-in-law and sat down and started a letter to a publisher.

She didn't know if anyone would understand Wong's message or not. Maybe they would call it racist. But she knew one thing: she had to try, not for Wong or herself, but for the thousands of people coming to the Australian shores each year with the dream of starting a new life but with no rules to go by.

### Saturday 26 January 2013 4 pm

### A Fibonacci Poem For Australia Day

**Irina Dimitric**

Mosman, NSW

26 January 1788

That

Day

That year

Long ago

Marking the landing

Of the First Fleet – eleven ships

Carrying the sad cargo of the condemned and damned

That day today we celebrate as Australia Day – the birth of a new nation

Bathed in warm sunshine, may she prosper fair and black, or any other pretty colour

The Promised Land of great riches and blessed Freedom

Citizenship ceremonies

For the lucky ones

Fireworks! Wow!

Fun day

For

All

### Sunday 27 January 2013

### General Mayhem

**JH Mancy**

Tallebudgera, QLD

The general came to visit me.

He's retired now, do you see –

(you'd never know – he raves on so)

'Attention Jan,' he says to me,

'How can you let this clutter be?

Your vowels are foul, your nouns a mess!'

He's right you know, I must confess.

'Your writing's unsightly, your spelling worse.

Your verbs inexcusable, and as for your verse...'

Sit General, sit, you must relax,

It's all in fun – I feel like an ass!

'Fun!' he thundered, 'Take it from me –

Such trivial utterance ought not to be.

Life is a serious matter, you hear!'

He lowered his head, producing a tear.

I tried not to notice, I tried not to see,

His serious nature enigma to me.

General Mayhem you are folly,

In fact you are a busybody.

Sit Sir, sit, I do implore,

Or else you shall be shown the door!

### Monday 28 January 2013

### Want

**Carly-Jay Metcalfe**

Highgate Hill, QLD

It is as though I have two heartbeats. This is how you make me feel. You give me fucking tachycardia, and then in a fresh breath, my heart softens.

I want you to lay with me; I want you to read to me. I want to read to you. Soak up Johnny Cash's entire catalogue with you in me so I can taste your sin.

I care not for coffee, phone calls, dirty dishes, washing, paperwork or doorjambs that need painting. It all seems so unnecessary and futile, so I forget and clutch your waist with my thighs, squeezing the breath out of you. It's like I want to make you hurt, but for reasons only I know. Then you catch your breath and surrender heavily into my neck.

Stars hail down on us like confetti and I want to take you across the street to the park, get you alone; cup your face in my hands. Simple things. It is all simple.

You make me want to strike piano keys and suck on cherries and peel pears and beat my boots into the ground until my feet ache.

And all of this terrifies me.

Like water snatching at ropes, you pull me in like a tide, then let me go. Spank my rosy ass in the nighttime. Hell, even in the daytime; such sweet agony. You're someone I don't want to leave behind.

And all of this terrifies me.

It's like:

shovelling wet sand up a mountain of ash

exploding fruit

writing a killer line

hitting a money note

swallowing sour milk

a stitch in my belly

a sliced finger

a fresh burn

a lime tree bursting with fruit

sun splintering through clouds

rain on dry land.

So many things.

And all of this terrifies me.

I watch you and your mouth and see it's a little lopsided. I could unfurl that crooked grin with an eager tongue.

In the afternoon, we wrestle; bodies laconic with fatigue and marks from hard fingers. I pin your arms and you to wrangle my body to the other side of the bed and I'm yours – at your mercy and you know it; my sex wet all because of a lopsided grin.

I can't tear my eyes, hands, mouth off you.

And all of this terrifies me.

### Tuesday 29 January 2013

### Stuck On Five

**Shane Smithers**

Katoomba, NSW

The first time I shot him, I felt nothing. The second time I felt surprised, the third I felt relieved, the fourth made me happy and after the fifth I felt sad – there were only five bullets. I have felt sad ever since. I really wish there'd been six bullets, maybe seven.

I'm not a very emotional person, or at least I wasn't. Maybe I should say that, before the shooting, I wasn't a very emotional person. I have been 'emotional' every day since the shooting. That in itself, being emotional, is to be expected. Apparently trauma can do that to a person. I just wish the one emotion I feel wasn't sadness. Being sad all the time is... um... well it's just sad. I can't find another word to describe it. I think everything is sad.

I used to listen to the Rolling Stones, they were my favourite band. My favourite song was Paint it Black. Paint it Black is a sad song, about a sad man. I don't know what my favourite song is anymore. I wonder, do you have to be happy to have favourite things? I suppose you do, because I can't think of anything I like. Being sad is so miserable. But it's not all bad.

At least I don't have to look at his happy face anymore. He was cremated a week after I shot him. He's not an emotional man, not anymore. He wasn't an emotional man when he was alive. He was kind of soulless, narcissistic and dark. The only emotion he ever showed was joy. Real joy! He expressed an unrestrained and deeply fulfilled joy, but only when he caused other people pain. That's why I shot him. He was hurting someone, someone innocent, someone I loved, even though we had never met. Hurting her gave him real joy. Unfortunately, killing him only brought me sadness. I wish killing him gave me real joy, but it didn't. I wish I'd had more bullets.

My psychologist thinks that there is something wrong with me; not because I killed that sadistic bastard, but because I am sad all the time. Apparently, I am supposed to go through several stages of grief and end up resolved. If I was Catholic I could get absolved, but I'm not. I wonder if I was absolved, whether I would become resolved to the facts and not be sad anymore. It's a horrible thought, surrendering to religion. All that lent, suffering for your sins, purgatory, limbo and heaven. I think heaven is the worst, singing praises and plucking harps all day; I think I'd rather go to hell. Maybe shooting that sadistic bastard will get me a one way ticket. Probably not!

The one thing I don't understand is why 'dispensing vigilante justice', as the judge called it, automatically lands me in hell. The world is a better place without him. No-one who knew him was sad to see him die, only me, and that was not because he died, but because I killed him. I don't know why. I don't regret shooting him. The only thing I regret is that his death was too quick. If there was such a thing as poetic justice he would have suffered more. Maybe, poetry is dead – that makes me sad. Maybe there is a hell and he's stuck down there. In which case, I don't want to go to hell.

I have thought about not torturing him before he died, about how I failed to deliver natural justice, about my inability to really hurt another living being. It was kill him fast or let him live. The first option seemed like the best one. He may not have suffered much, but he didn't want to die. I am tormented by the idea that he got off too lightly, that he should have rotted in gaol for what he did. Instead, I sit here wasting my life, rotting in an endless sea of sadness. He should have got the life sentence, not me. It's one of the things that makes me feel sad.

In hindsight, I should have let the law deal with him, but they never seemed capable of believing that an upright citizen like him could have been guilty of such heinous crimes. Maybe I should regret not going to the police, but I can't regret killing him. It's a sick cycle, and it keeps me in an emotional holding pattern, always sad, unable to resolve the problem. Oh yeah, I do have one other regret. I regret not stopping at four shots. At four shots I felt happy, at least I think that that's how I felt. It's hard to remember what happiness felt like.

My parole hearing is tomorrow. The parole board will ask me if I feel remorse, if I regret what I did, if I have changed. They ask the same questions every time I come before them. I tell them I feel sad, that I have felt sad every moment of the last twenty years. But that is never enough. They want me to lie, as if murder is not enough. If I lie and tell them that I am a changed man, that I am a penitent man they will forgive me and set me free, as free as any paroled murderer can be.

I killed a man who deserved to die; at least he deserved to die as much as any man can deserve to die. I got a life sentence. Prison gave me a home, three meals a day, discipline; perpetual sadness is my real sentence. The only freedom I desire is to be free of the sadness I feel. Tomorrow I will tell the board that I feel sad, that I felt sad the moment the fifth bullet entered his chest, that I have felt sad every moment from then till now. This time I will keep the fact that I feel sad that there was not one more or one less bullet to myself. If they ask I will tell them that I do not regret killing him, that it felt right, just. I will tell them that I can never be happy, because what I did that day still haunts me. In reality it makes no difference what they say, whether they return me to my cell or to 'society', either way I have a life sentence.

### Wednesday 30 January 2013

### Henry's Hope

**Susan Fielding**

Wantirna South, Vic

October

Wednesday night's group is completely different to what you'd expect.

I've only been twice. But there is an instant knitting of souls as soon as the first person starts.

It's more balanced gender wise than usual, not that that means much to anyone. A hurting heart is the same for either sex. It's heavy and sore and usually, by the time it reaches the Wednesday night group, exhausted and close to collapse.

The majority fit the clichéd profile; distraught, frazzled, looking backwards to middle age, at end of tether, needing relief. But others, like Henry for example, well he just made our hearts melt. There were two of them that night around the same age. Young, way too young to be facing and dealing with this stuff on their own. Which they were. She had been doing it forever though and had the wisdom and self-possession of someone twice her age, whereas for Henry, this was his first time. He was still so ardent, even hopeful. The years hadn't yet had their chance to grind that out of him.

He arrived late with the laconic arrogance only his generation can get away with and sat down in the remaining empty chair next to me. I wondered fleetingly, if there had been a choice, whether he would still have sat there. But not to worry, he did.

He had the casual good looks of a modern day Clark Kent, his spectacles only serving to reinforce the notion. He wore a beanie that made him look even more like the little-boy-lost, needing to be picked up and hugged. I'm sure that was what Lois Lane was always attracted to. There was some fluff on his chin. My motherly instincts felt his desperation to grow something more substantial.

Unfazed by his youth he shared with disarming honesty about his love for his older brother. This was where maturity sat at odds with his chronological body clock. No sign of awkwardness that could accompany one so tender in years. And no restraint either.

'It's just so fucked,' he said emphatically, unaware of the social mores that prohibited the rest of us from such freedom of expression. Yet it was deliciously appropriate. Which was obvious from the vigorous nodding around the room and the release of collective tension amassed over years of rigid self control.

We identified with his anguish too as he went on to speak about the many incidents and the all consuming nature of them. The isolation that he was starting to realise had eaten away at his life before it had even gotten underway. The sacrifice that he seemed too willing to make was costing him. Not that he was complaining mind you. Just sharing you understand.

The other mothers were disturbed more than usual too. You could tell. 'Poor Henry,' they fussed. 'What about his parents?' they admonished. 'Not fair for one so young.' But this was its indiscriminate nature. There were no favourites. And it wasn't fair for any of us.

We all knew that of course but it was an unspoken understanding. We all had to deal with it. Those of us going through the angry stage had bitterness and resentment colouring our speech. Others who had hit a good patch in the last month were more philosophical. More tolerant. But not boasting in their good fortune. They knew, as we all did, it wouldn't last.

I had remembered Sarah from last time and had admired her wisdom. Her self-control was text book stuff. How did she do it in the face of the provocation that taunted us all? So I was determined to strike up a conversation with her this time if she showed up.

I didn't recognise her at first. She was wearing her hair differently and the sudden blast of warm spring weather had us all in brightly coloured summer-hopeful clothes. Her red dress with the Peter Pan collar looked too young for the lines creasing her face and the top button was unflatteringly left open as if she had dressed in a hurry, revealing a flattened cleavage. And then she began to cry.

Those more seasoned than I were prepared. The tissues were close at hand and thrust in her lap. Nothing unusual. It was just another stage. 'It's the memories,' she began. 'They've just been flooding back and... I...'

'Need to deal with them,' we finished her sentence in our heads in silent sympathy.

We all did. At some point. That's why we were there. On a Wednesday night. Sitting in a circle amongst strangers instead of at home with our loved ones. The irony that we felt more comfortable on hard upright chairs in a brightly lit seminar room, bonded by our hopeless situations, was lost on no one.

Except perhaps Henry.

November

Henry wasn't there last night. Well, not for the session at least.

Funny thing was I'm sure I saw him, just for a moment or two, before we started. I was looking out for him. And Sarah.

I'd swept the half empty room for a sighting when I arrived. A few of the faces had a vague familiarity about them. But not enough to register recognition or to break through my newly built up layers of protection. So I fussed around the chair I'd chosen. It was safer that way. No fumbling through awkward re-introductions or false cheeriness. When I felt satisfied I'd adverted unwelcome advances I looked back up.

And that's when I saw him. Or at least I think it was him. This time he ignored the empty seat next to mine and paused with his back to me. Perhaps he too was having trouble remembering. He moved towards one chair, then changed direction and sat next to a balding middle aged man. The beanie had been replaced by a hoodie and his demeanor seemed less confident than I recalled. He wore an air of indecision that was ill fitting.

Maybe I was just projecting my own anxiety. It wasn't until later that I realised what else was missing.

Irresolute, I hesitated. Hand half lifted to catch his eye.

But the moment passed and balding stranger was rewarded with his attention instead. And then the distance between us just seemed to stretch out like a yawning chasm.

And so I lost him. Well, lost sight of him after he got up and wandered to the back of the room. Seemingly to look over the pamphlets. They were laid out ceremoniously as if for a viewing at a private funeral. They could as well have represented the loved ones we all mourned. Each message proclaiming a different aspect of our loss, reassurances we were not alone, information, phone numbers, hope?

No, never hope. Not even a silhouette of it. They were always very careful about that. No one ever offered the impossible. Those that wrote these tracts knew that was the unforgivable sin.

And then he must have gone.

Was it something he'd read, standing there alone, fingering through the corpse of his own pain? Did he lose sight of it then?

Sarah arrived quite a bit later. She squeezed past the door and edged her way to the last vacant seat which oddly happened to be next to me. Again. We exchanged knowing smiles. We had spoken by text a few times since last month. Short bursts of anger and sympathy traded electronically.

The room was bulging with newcomers. Extra chairs were fetched periodically as they drizzled in, some alone, some trailing spouses on invisible leashes. The occasional offspring of a lone mother cajoled into sharing resentments about their self obsessed sibling, plumped up the parent's guilt. But their subjects were always the same. The adult child, early twenties. Umbilical cord still attached. The self destructive centrepiece that the disintegrating household revolved around.

And then it was my turn to explain why I was there. By this time we were three quarters of the way around the room closing in on the remaining few minutes. The convenor was doing her best to muffle her frustration at those who ignored her carefully worded parameters stretching their moments into monuments of self-absorbing monologues. Professionally trained she reigned in stray words that might imply judgment or criticism, punctuating instead with empathy laden sounds.

I was there, I began, because I still revolved around the adult child. Not bound by birth however but confined by contract. I had become the substitute parent by a warped twist of fate. Or self deception. Wrapped up in the blindness of the early throws of love, decades earlier, ignorant of the destruction that would follow, as inevitable as night followed day.

And that was the moment I realised I didn't want to belong to Wednesday night's group, no matter how much I did. I didn't want to be engulfed by the darkness anymore. I yearned for even a shadow of the light I had left behind years earlier.

And I remembered what it was that Henry had lost too. What was so different about him tonight.

It dawned on me as the early morning light does, unnoticed at first, creeping out of the dark shadows, gradually washing the horizon in lighter shades of grey. A thought that had been hovering just beyond my grasp since the last meeting. There was no one else there bound like me. By covenant. Not Henry. Not even Sarah.

The hard upright chair no longer felt so comfortable.

I cut the umbilical cord that bonded me to their hopelessness as I left.

Grateful for Henry's silhouette.

I hoped he had too.

### Thursday 31 January 2013

### Norman Nightingale

**Kaylia Payne**

Queanbeyan, NSW

Norman Nightingale was old. Very old. No one knew quite how old, some say that not even Norman himself had kept count. To the few he spoke to, he always said the same thing when the question of his age came up. 'I am as old as my mouth, and a little older than my teeth.' But let me tell you right now, his mouth and teeth were much older than anyone else I have ever heard of.

I did not know Norman personally until a few weeks before the incident. I had heard of him of course. We all had. We knew he was abnormally old, and we knew he had not left the house for a very long time. We knew him as a ghost, a wizard, a vampire, a spy, an alien; the list was endless. He was the butt of many jokes, and the villain in many a campfire horror story.

We had never talked to him. Only about him. Our own stories scared us away from his house and from him. Even then, I had a feeling he wanted it that way.

When we got older we knew him only as the crazy old guy. A prisoner of his own making. Someone to feel sorry for as you reached his home, and then forget about when you passed it.

So I was startled one day as I walked passed his house to mine, when the curtains moved. Only an inch or two at most, but enough for an eye to peer through. I could have even sworn I saw one watching me. But two seconds later the curtains fell back to their original position, and I shook it off. Everyone knew that Norman had never so much as peeped outside, at least not in my lifetime.

Though I have to say, my appearance was something worth peeping at; and was peeped at, often. It is not every day you see a dead man walking. Okay, so that may be an exaggeration. I'm not dead yet. But I'm much closer than any teenager should be; which is apparent from the skinny yellow frame and air of resigned sadness that I drag about me wherever I go. I look nothing like how I did when I was diagnosed a few years ago. Back when it was classed as treatable. But then the treatments came and went. Now they call it terminal.

As it must be obvious that I had more on my mind than whether or not a hermit had snuck a curious look at me, I didn't give it any more thought, and a few weeks passed without the curtain moving again. But then one afternoon, I arrived home to a small while envelope on the doorstep.

It was a letter from Norman. I knew that because my impatience had gotten the best of me and my eyes had skimmed down to the three last words on the page. Yours sincerely, Norman.

The rest of the letter read like this:

Hello young man.

I could not help but write to you after I saw you, my poor child. I call you that because I know death and how it drags on the body – I who came so close to it myself at your age. I too have felt death's bony grip and had the chill of the grave follow me even on the warmest of days.

I know that you and I have not met, at least not yet, but I feel as if I know you. You see, we are very alike in some ways. Neither of us wants to die. You, because you're young. Me, because I am a selfish old man.

It is a dilemma, this death business. But it is one I have solved. If you would like to know how to cheat death, live until your rightful age and then some, come visit me at 6 pm tomorrow.

But whatever you do, DO NOT teach me anything new. It is a matter of extreme importance.

Yours sincerely,

Norman

Of course, my first instinct was that he was crazy. I was sure of it, especially after reading the last line. But I have to say, I was also intrigued.

Worried that my parents would see the letter and conclude that I was the target of a perverted old man willing to try any strategy to get a teenage boy into his house, I snuck it down my jacket and smuggled it inside. In the comfort of my own room I read the letter again. My first instinct was right: what a nut-case. I rolled my eyes and went down to dinner. Forgetting about the invitation, or simply ignoring it until 3 am the next morning, I suddenly found myself bolting upright in bed, gasping for breath. I could not remember the dream then, and I can't remember it now, but for some unknown reason I felt certain that I had to visit Norman tomorrow. After all, I reasoned, it would be an amusing story to tell my friends afterwards.

At least that is what I told myself.

However the next day I found myself glancing at the clock repeatedly, counting down the hours until I got to meet Norman. It was more than just wanting an amusing story. Like it or not, he had hit a nerve. I did not want to die. And while it was only the ravings of a shut-in, I was desperate to hear what he had to say. What if he really did know a way to cheat death?

Obviously I knew deep down that he didn't. I even knew it on the surface. But I clung onto these few hours of hope with everything that I had. And why not? I had earned it. I had earned these few hours of feeling like somehow, everything would be okay again. He would tell me his secret, I would get better, and everything would back to the way it was before I got sick. It was a nice daydream and I enjoyed it while I could.

Finally the clock hit 5:45 pm. I practically flew to Norman's house and banged enthusiastically on the front door.

Norman opened on the fourteenth knock and glared down at me.

'Come in.'

I looked up. A little frightened, I'll admit. He really was a frightening spectacle though, with his dirty old clothes, long matted beard, rotting teeth and leering face. I had a good mind to run for it. However he grabbed me by the arm with his withered old hand and pulled me inside.

I started choking as soon as I entered his house. The smell of whiskey was overpowering. It clung to everything, smothering the house in a thick blanket. I tried to breathe out of my nose, without Norman noticing. He noticed.

'You get used to it.'

He then gestured impatiently at a filthy old armchair that was one hefty person away from falling completely apart. 'Sit,' he demanded, before disappearing into the kitchen.

So I sat. And tried to stay calm. Images of Norman grabbing a butcher's knife from his kitchen filled my brain. Relax. Breathe. I looked around the room to distract myself. It was no different from any other room at first glance. Granted it was dirty and old, much like Norman himself. But it was relatively normal. However the more I looked, the more I felt that something was not quite right.

Then it hit me.

There was no TV. No computer. No remotes lying around. As sad as it sounds, this was really strange to me.

When Norman came back out, he was bearing two cups of tea and a plate of biscuits on a tray. 'Now,' he said, settling the tray on a coffee table between us, then himself into another old armchair, 'let us get started.'

'Before I begin, you must promise me that you will never tell a soul my story. I am telling you this because I have taken pity on you. I am not asking for a repayment of any sort, other than your silence. Do you accept these conditions?'

I nodded eagerly, though with my fingers crossed behind my back.

He looked at me for a while. He must have concluded that I looked like a trustworthy sort, because he continued.

'Do you promise that you will adhere to my condition not to teach me anything new?' he asked sharply.

I nodded again, but this time that response did not seem like enough. 'Yes, I promise.'

'Because I am taking an extraordinary risk right now even letting you near me.'

'I promise,' I repeated again. 'Cross my heart.'

Norman smiled his approval before settling down to begin his strange tale.

'When I was young, I loved to learn. It was a passion. It did not matter the subject. I just loved learning for its own sake. I craved knowledge. I collected facts like other children collect stamps. Every day was spent poring over books, talking to people, exploring. I learned more in my first twenty years than most learn in their whole lives. However, I had found that something dreadful was happening to me. I was ageing at an incredible rate. At ten, I looked as if I were thirty. At fifteen I looked as if I were fifty. And at twenty, I looked much like I do now. The doctors could make neither head nor tail of it. I was studied by teams of experts. They could find no reason for it. But I knew what was leading me to an early grave.

'Knowledge.

'And so, at the age of twenty I vowed to never learn anything again. I wrote down a list of every word I knew, collected every book I had ever read, and locked myself away from the world.'

I stared, open mouthed.

'So you have learned nothing since? Nothing at all?!' I asked, amazed.

'Nothing,' he stated matter of factly.

'But how did you see friends? Family? Girls?!' I asked, placing an extra emphasis on the word girls.

He sighed, and looked off into the distance. At another life. The shorter life he could have had. 'I have not contacted my family since I made my decision. As for friends, why, I simply surround myself with people with almost no knowledge at all. They are surprisingly easy to find.'

'What about girls?' I pursued.

'Girls? What about them?'

'Have you never fallen in love?'

'No,' he laughed. 'Why would I? Knowledge of love, of heartbreak, of divorce and anger? Who needs it?'

I looked at him. An old man. Older than any man. Yet in a way, he seemed so much younger than me. I felt pity that I had never known before stirring in my chest, though I knew that it was mainly pity for myself. Because in my mind we were one and the same. Norman had been right in his letter; we were very alike, if only because we were both so afraid of death simply because we knew just how close to it we were.

'So that is how I can survive? Lock myself away and never learn anything new? Surround myself with people who know even less than I do?' I fired these questions at him, my heart racing.

He nodded.

'But that's no way to live!' I cried.

He looked at me, his eyes empty with years of drinking and regret. 'It's the only way to live.'

He was right. This was my only chance to beat the disease that was slowly eating away at the time I had left. Could I do it? Could I sacrifice everything to simply live in that in-between state? To stay the same age forever? Never knowing any more than I do now?

Wait a second. I shook my head and laughed. I was so desperate for a cure, desperate to survive, that I was even listening to the ravings of a lonely old man. I looked at him with sympathy. He really did seem to believe all that he had told me.

'Well,' I said, getting up and stretching my legs. Trying to act nonchalant. Pretending I hadn't been affected by what he had said. 'This has been awesome and all, but I really have to go.'

'What do you mean, awesome?' he snapped.

'Oh, you know. Cool, great, a grand time and all of that.'

Then I left.

He died the next morning. I saw the ambulance pulling away as I did my usual morning walk past his house.

It could have been a coincidence. It probably was a coincidence. But a small part of me still believes it wasn't. A small part of me hopes it wasn't.

I hope that he realised he had learned something new. Accepted his fate. Then went and did something he hadn't done for countless years.

Lived.

I hope that he ran wild in the streets that night. Making friends, hearing stories, laughing, eating new foods and seeing new sights. I hope that he fell in love millions of times that night. And fell out of love. Experienced the depths of heartache, and the dizzying heights of seeing his dreams come true. Did everything he had been scared of almost his entire life. Learned everything there was to know. Saw everything there was to see. Felt everything there was to feel. And soaked up every inch of knowledge that he could.

I hope that is what happened.

Because that's what I'm planning to do.

### Friday 1 February 2013

### Somewhere Else

**Sallie Ramsay**

Torrens, ACT

He said the word to himself over and over again. Listened to it, felt it, tried to see it. Some words were easy, like rabbit, for instance: 'rabbit, rabbit, rabbit'. It sounded like a small hoppy animal, and when he said it he felt his lips hop and he had no trouble matching the picture in his mind of a rabbit with the word. 'Slither' was another good one; his tongue slipped and slid around his mouth as he said it. It felt right, sounded right too. But some words were a problem, like 'else' for example. What kind of word is that? 'Else. Else. Else?' The more he said it the less sense it made; he thought it should mean something wet and squelshy. It sounded and felt wet and squelshy. But 'somewhere else?' He understood 'somewhere' but when 'else' was tacked on he couldn't make sense of it. He went into the kitchen and asked his mother. She turned away from the sink, towards him, a cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth.

'What kind of a bloody silly question is that? You're really weird. D'ya know that? Really weird. Why doncha go and play somewhere else like a normal kid? Go an' do somethin' useful.'

~~~

A 'bituvabash' they called it. The number of men, some gaunt, almost skeletal, others with paunches bulging over shabby work shorts, gathered around the beer keg out the back, continued to grow. Nearby, 'the girls', a group of females of various ages, shapes and sizes, cackled and squawked like the chooks at the bottom of the yard. He stood watching in silence. 'Bituvabash' was a satisfying word he thought, as were 'cackle' and 'squawk', but 'else' remained a real problem.

He thought very carefully before he asked the question. He wanted a serious truthful answer. Not to be patted on the head and told he was weird or asked, 'What do you want to know that for?' Just a simple answer, that was all. He knew he had to ask soon, before too much beer was drunk and 'the girls' got stuck into the cask wine.

'Where is "Somewhere Else"?' He got no answer so he raised his voice and asked again, 'Please, I want to know where is "Somewhere Else"?'

'Wouldn't you like to know?'

'Yes, I would.'

'Wouldn't we all? Wouldn't we all like to be there?' the man laughed, gold fillings in his teeth gleaming in the light of the late afternoon sun. He took a swig from the stubbie in his hand.

'You're a weird kid, aren't cha?' he said, shaking his head, before turning back to his mates.

The boy knew it was no use asking again so, with a sigh, he headed back to the kitchen. His mother, her hands dripping suds, turned towards him from the sink.

'Didn't I tell you to piss off and go play somewhere else?'

'I just want to know where "Somewhere Else" is, that's all. How can I go there if I don't know?'

'Cheeky young bugger. Piss off.' He dodged the slap aimed at his face and was about to ask again when the man with the gold fillings came in.

'Not botherin' your mum are ya?'

The boy watched as the man came up behind his mother, pressed her hard against the sink, covered her breasts with his hands and began to squeeze. His mother closed her eyes and leaning back began to move rhythmically against the man.

'I just want... ' the boy began.

'Didn't I tell ya to piss off?' His mother wrenched herself around to face him, her face red and angry. 'Now piss off or else!'

As he closed the kitchen door the boy glanced over his shoulder and saw the man gather his mother's skirt up above her waist and lift her onto to kitchen bench. He didn't know why but he began to run; away from what was happening in the kitchen, away from the bituvabash, away from the cackling, squawking girls, away, away to somewhere else.

Suddenly he understood, 'somewhere else' was not where he was, it was another place; somewhere different, maybe better, maybe far away, maybe close by but not here. He kept repeating it over and over out aloud: 'somewhere else', 'somewhere else', 'somewhere else'. It began to feel good and sound right; he grinned and was laughing as he set off down the road to find it.

### Saturday 2 February 2013

### Hares

**Ian Kennedy Williams**

Kings Meadows, TAS

You should have seen them, he had said. Hares. Mob of them, big as wallabies. He pulled her close to the window, but the open ploughed field where he had seen the hares had given way to crops of vegetables and stretches of bright yellow rape seed. Bad timing, he had said, meaning her decision at that moment to go to the toilet. It was disgusting, she told him. Someone peed on the seat. And it flushes straight onto the track. He laughed, not caring much. She stared out the window, watching for more hares, while the train lurched and swayed, rattling across the border into Slovakia.

They were both retired, comfortably off. She was the one who wanted to go. Before it was too late, she said. She was not old. Sixty-eight is not the time to be contemplating final things, she had told their friends. The truth was, she was in remission, felt strong and wanted to make the most of it. Their friends agreed. It was Maurice who took some convincing. She would watch him from the back verandah while he mowed the lawn or picked the last tomatoes, knowing he would come in late in the afternoon for his glass of beer and with a new argument against their going. Why Europe, he had said at first. Why not New Zealand? You always said how ridiculous it was that New Zealand was so close and we had never been there. It was true, she had often expressed a desire to see the thermal springs at Rotorua. But New Zealand was not Europe. And there was not the sense of urgency then, when going to New Zealand one year could be put off because there was always the next year. Or the year after. Who was it said, she asked him once, that being hanged in a fortnight concentrates the mind? He shuffled off to the computer to Google it. He took it so seriously, this dying business, more so than she, it seemed. At least they could talk about it. She had feared that it would be too much for him, that he would retreat into bewildered silence. Of course it was the practicalities they discussed; practicalities were his strong point. There were the wills to update, bequests to consider. Funeral arrangements. There were some good jokes over that. It kept the real things at bay, the painful, hurtful part. The part about fear and loss and helplessness. And love. If there had been children, it would have been different. Grandchildren, especially. Young people are so tiresomely free with their feelings. Occasionally, when a bottle of wine was all but drained (she was not supposed to drink), she would note his unease, and sense a struggle inside him to say something that he could not say when he was sober. Was it her courage he wanted to speak of, her seemingly calm acceptance of her condition? Her agnosticism? (The sooner you die, the longer you're dead, some joker on TV quipped, giving her a laugh.) Were there infidelities he wanted to confess? She would have liked to think so. Something other than sex and death informed his discomfort; she could see. Something more like hurt and anger. Why are you doing this to me? he wanted to say. How will I live without you?

The closer they came to leaving, the more he fretted. She would tire easily, he said, lose her medication. He went over the small print of the travel insurance. He feared she would die suddenly in some unspeakable foreign place. The horror stories he had heard about overseas deaths and the rigmarole surrounding the return of bodies. She reassured him; have me cremated and posted home. So much cheaper. Before they left, their friends threw them a party. Austria, they sighed. The Alps, Salzburg, Mozart. Vienna. It embarrassed them to feel so envious. She had always dreamed of visiting Vienna, she told them. It was Maurice's sister, Angela, who gave her a moment's pause. She aspired to see Venice, but knew she would never go. You should leave something wanting, she said. When you die. Some wish, some desire. Some dream unfulfilled. That's how life is.

She had travelled a little when she was younger. Asia mostly, though there had been a week in New Caledonia in 1968. This, of course, was before she met Maurice who had never travelled outside Australia. Mostly they holidayed in North Queensland to escape the raw Tasmanian winters. Their friends came home with tales of river cruises, medieval castles, concerts in grand palaces and English pub walks. What was the food like? she would ask of a French provincial bus tour. Maurice would query the cost. In Vienna, they booked into a small family hotel a little out of the city centre. Maurice said it would be a more authentic experience than staying at one of the major chain hotels; one Hilton was no different from another half a world away. In the event, he was right. Streetcars clattered past the front entrance. The guests were mostly German or Swiss, or salesmen who exchanged business cards at the bar while she practised her German on the concierge. A transport pass bought at the Tabak across the road from the hotel allowed them to travel freely around the city. In the evenings, they walked a block to a pub where they ate pork sausages and sauerkraut and goulash soup. Maurice complained about the stink of cigarettes, irritated that people could still smoke where others were eating. He was given to saying, Back home you couldn't do this, or Can you imagine anyone doing this in Australia? until she told him to give it a rest. She had gone fully expecting him to hate every moment of the experience, and was determined not to let it get to her. For the first couple of days, because the flight had tired her, they had stayed mostly around the hotel. The one excursion was to Schonbrunn Palace because it was only a short bus ride away. The day was unseasonably hot, the palace and grounds thick with camera-wielding tourists. They climbed stairs, shuffled with the throng from room to room, Maurice alternately grumbling because he was not allowed to take photographs and reading from the literature they had picked up at the entrance... Emperor Franz Joseph, who was born in the palace in 1830 and died here in 1916, replaced all the empire-style furnishings with those of rococo... Outside they drank lukewarm coffee in a crowded café and wrote postcards to their friends. Struggling to find the words to describe what she had experienced, she wrote the attendants are all stony-faced and: Maurice is taking a photo of sparrows eating cake crumbs under the table...

At the end of the week, the exposure to the city's fabled riches had left her struggling to recall, in any meaningful way, what she had seen; she wished she had had the patience and energy to take notes. She had to remind herself that she was in Vienna, the anticipation and thrill of arrival of a week ago having given way to something mundane. Familiarity. Where to today? Maurice would ask. What about the Freud Museum? There's a museum dedicated to The Third Man, did you know? He wanted to ride the Ferris Wheel at the Prater. An American couple shared the cabin with them. Isn't that something? the woman marvelled. On a calm, clear day, the panoramic view of the city from the top of the wheel was breathtaking. The man shrugged, lifted a camcorder to his eye. Sure, baby, but it's not Paris. Maurice photographed everything, each shot meticulously recorded in a notebook he had bought at the airport. She had observed, as the week progressed, that there was less of a whine to his complaints, though he still had something to say about the local beers, if not the old women in the street with their defecating dogs or the tardiness of the hotel housekeeping staff. She was surprised, given his disdain back home for public transport, at the readiness with which he took to riding the streetcars. Clutching his knapsack and chattering nonstop, he was like a small boy being taken on a special excursion. On Kartnerstrasse, one afternoon, he disappeared into a basement store and returned wearing a black fedora. You look ridiculous, she told him. She could not understand the change in him. He had begun to enjoy himself while she weakened to the pull of home and what was waiting for her.

It was Maurice's idea that they take the intercity shuttle to Bratislava. It was a few days before they were due to leave, and he felt they had 'done' Vienna. He wanted to see something of the old east, the Europe that had been closed to the free world after the Second World War until the fall of communism in the late eighties. Before leaving Australia he had confessed to knowing next to nothing about European history. All you read about, he said, is financial crises, political scandals and ethnic butchery. It was his last breath of resistance to their going. She told him to think on the trip as a late education. Now his head was filled with dates, statistics, potted histories and references gleaned from a myriad pamphlets and information sheets. Enough material, he was thinking, to inform a Rotary talk after their return to Launceston.

It was about half an hour into the journey that he saw the hares. There was that childish delight in the new and unexpected again. Except that this time it prompted memories of his childhood, growing up in a small farming community in the North West. He fell quiet after that, his comments confined mostly to the surprising frequency of wind farms and to the crops he recognised growing in the fertile soil of the agricultural plain stretching across the Austro/Slovakian border. She sensed that something of the energy that had driven him to take such delight in the experience of Vienna had burned out, and that, like her, he was preparing himself for the return home and – as far as it was practicable – the resumption of their normal lives. What that meant for him, she could only guess at. What she did know, what she had come to realise, was that, however helpless he might feel in the face of it, the wasting months she faced ahead would be all the more unbearable if she had to journey them alone.

Arriving in Bratislava, his spirits revived. The city was smaller than Vienna, the old town, though again crowded with visitors, seeming less a cultural artefact than the more famous city across the border. Maurice thought it much like Melbourne, noting the bustling narrow streets and alleys with their student-filled bars and cafes. Everywhere there were brightly coloured banners touting some sporting tournament the city was host to. This, Maurice read, while they sat drinking beer, was the historical heart of the city, the old world Hapsburg baroque. That vision of the communist era that had piqued his curiosity, the Eastern Bloc concrete with blank apartment buildings and potholed streets, could only be explored by taxi or streetcar to the outer suburbs. Instead, after lunch, they dozed on a city bus tour. A castle was visited, foreign embassies pointed out and a monument, too high on a hill for her to climb the steep path, photographed. On his return, Maurice described rows of gravestones, explaining that the monument commemorated the Russian soldiers who had died liberating the city during the Second World War. In Europe, he said, the dead never leave you, do they. It seemed to her a very un-Maurice thing to say. Whatever photographs he had taken, she noted that he was no longer keeping a record of them.

Minutes after leaving Bratislava Central, he fell asleep. The section of carriage they were in was empty, apart from an elderly woman sitting opposite them who was accompanied by a small boy, most likely her grandson. The boy flipped through a picture book while the woman watched the passing scenery, turning occasionally to say something in German to the boy. Maurice slept through the ticket check on the Slovakian side of the border and was still asleep when the train passed the open fields she recognised as the place where he had seen the hares. For some utterly stupid reason she suspected that it would be the hares – or more pointedly, that she had missed seeing them because she was in the toilet – that would linger in her memory while the jewels of Vienna would need Maurice's meticulously recorded photographs to give them some sense of propinquity. Perhaps Angela was right; Vienna would have been more meaningful to her if she had never visited.

With this dispiriting thought in her head, she left Maurice sleeping while she went again to the toilet, which thankfully was relatively unsoiled compared with the morning journey. On her return, she was surprised to see the boy standing in the aisle with a grave expression on his face, and his grandmother sitting where she had sat, next to Maurice. Maurice was slumped forward, his head seemingly resting on the windowsill. Reaching for her hand, the grandmother placed it in on Maurice's, which was familiarly warm and calloused. The woman's expression resembled her grandson's. Tot, she said sharply. Tot. And then, because she was not understood, in English. Dead.

### Sunday 3 February 2013

### The Headstone

**Ken Ward**

Berowra Heights, NSW

There's a freshness in the air that belies the true nature of this place. A light dew glistens on a park bench though this doesn't deter Alice as she sits down absentmindedly. She stares past the grass. Past the headstones, past the iron fence, past the church steeples, staring up at a sky of brilliant blue.

An intake of breath, sharp, through her nose and throat, filling her lungs. There's a constant restlessness buzzing through her, tension burning in her chest. A spreading tightness across her shoulders. With a feeling of emptiness she takes in the scene about her, looking closer now, in more detail. And all she sees is what's missing.

There's the absence of pain. There's the absence of anger. In this place, a monument to the tragedy of life, where is the hurt, where is the outpouring of grief?

'I want to feel it in waves. I want to gulp for air and sputter and choke.'

She's clenching and unclenching her fists. An elderly woman shuffles by, glancing at Alice with a friendly smile. Alice flinches, turns her head away, and looks down at the ground. Once the woman has passed from her line of vision she gets up from the bench and wanders through the maze of graves.

'Is this it?' she thinks, absorbing the unremarkableness of the death and decay around her. Headstones in various states of ageing, very few looking recent, very few looking cared for and visited.

Alice lets her head drop to her chest then rolls it around her neck, exhaling in exasperation. Lines from a book, the title long forgotten, come back to her in this moment:

We lie them down here amongst us as a reminder. Then we walk away trying to forget, fearing the day it is us who are laid down to rest.

And then a flourish of colour out of the corner of her eye. Flowers, fresh and upstanding, in Technicolor. A glistening marble headstone, shining in the sun.

Alice ponders the flowers cut from the earth and the soul displaced form this world.

'Not long ago this person was here, breathing, talking, laughing, alive.' As she stood in front of the plot, she read the inscription on the stone:

My name was John Walters

I enjoyed my life

I loved my wife

I am proud of my son

I'm thankful for the time we had

Frozen to the spot Alice read and re-read the message. Finally, someone was speaking to her. And they weren't even alive. She sat down, cross-legged at the foot of the grave.

'Who were you John Walters? What was so good in your life? How did you die? Was there pain? How are your wife and son coping?' she thought, the words flooding her mind in crashing waves.

With no trees providing shade over this spot the sun warmed Alice. Even though he was unknown to her in this life she imagined John Walters as a friendly neighbour. Always ready with a smile, as he stands out on the street washing the car with his son.

They'd pass each other outside the corner shop from time to time, Alice would always be too busy, lost in her own thoughts to acknowledge his nods of hello, the openness in his face as he attempted to connect with her in that moment.

A wave of tightness flushed through her as she cursed her lack of awareness.

'If only I'd opened my eyes, taken the time to know him. His easy-going, everyday ways. His love of the back pages of the newspaper. His out of date jokes that made him laugh more than anyone else. His simple sincerity. The way he remembered things about you, you thought other people let slip through the sieve of their mind once you turned and walked away.'

In a moment of unconscious action Alice removed from her bag a small notebook and pencil. She flipped through pages filled with sketches and random thoughts until she found an empty space.

Dear John Walters

My name is Alice Shewgrand. Though alone as I feel, I am glad we met here.

Thank you for your kind message. I feel envious of your wife and your son. I feel envious of all who knew you. And sad that I did not.

Though, in life I may never have been able to know you as I do now. I hope your wife and son take comfort from your message and from your memory. I hope they haven't suffered too much.

I hope they. I'd like to come back and visit if that's ok?

Rest now.

Goodbye,

Alice x

She carefully tore the page from the bind in the notebook and folded the note in half. Over the fold she wrote his name 'John Walters' and slid it between the flowers in a bouquet of white carnations.

Jonathon held the note in his hand as he crossed the street and into a café across the road from the cemetery. He kept it folded on the table in front of him until the cup of coffee he ordered was served. A heaviness sat upon his shoulders. Up until now he'd felt an ambivalence about his father's passing.

Others thought him numb or in a quiet shock. Unable to grieve. Not mature enough to express his hurt and loss. But he felt no loss. Just a confused sense of obligation to a memory.

He sipped his coffee and felt a scorch down the back of his throat. He opened the note and re-read it for the second time, then folded it once more placing it on the table, his father's name staring up at him in Alice Shewgrand's looping penmanship. After rereading it he couldn't seem to form a clear thought in his head. Too many questions all flowing together at once as cars merge lanes joining a freeway during the peak hour rush. The cacophony of car horns, revving engines, then squealing tyres drowning out all rational thought.

Was it anger? Was he angry at Alice?

'What right does she have to say these things? She didn't know my father,' he thought. But was that it?

He'd worked out from her letter she may be facing her own troubles. And something about the headstone affected her in some way.

'What did she see there?' he asked himself. 'What did she see that I've missed?'

It'd been just over a year since his father passed away. Jonathon hadn't visited the grave since the funeral. His mother urged him to go today. Not so much to pay his respects, more to be with him. She was aware now, more than ever, how little Jonathon had connected with his father. He was sensing something from his mother that he couldn't quite comprehend. He didn't fully understand that she needed him to connect. With his father. With his loss. With her loss.

She needed her son to feel this sense of absence before she could truly reconcile with her loss and move on.

He took his time finishing his coffee. He stared out the window, at passing traffic, which was light today; at people queuing at a bus stop; at a blue sky littered with white marshmallow clouds; at trees in the cemetery; at the grass surrounding the headstones; and then back to the table in front of him and the note with his father's name on it.

His mind had begun to clear. And one thought came through stronger now.

'Really read it,' it said.

The tissue was stained black and damp from tears. There was no one reason for her tears today. Alice just couldn't help herself. A letter in the mail addressed to her. An upcoming date marked on the calendar hanging in her kitchen. A particular scar on her stomach that her eyes lingered on for the first time in a long time. It all added up.

And sometimes the sum-total was simply too much for the dam she'd built inside to hold it all back. She'd been walking. Without too much purpose. In no real direction. And when she reached the large iron gates of the cemetery she knew she'd visit John Walters again.

She sat in the same spot as before, at the foot of the grave, and placed her notebook on top of her bag, open to an empty page. There were fewer flowers this time. These ones not as fresh. Maybe they'd been here more than a week or so?

It had been weeks since Alice had met John for the first time and she had not returned since. She held tight to the warm memory of that first encounter. It had a gentle power. It calmed her for a time. And then it had faded and her mind had become consumed with other thoughts and feelings.

Before she could think of what had become of her letter she noticed a slip of paper resting behind a small bunch of colourful garden flowers. It had her name on it.

Alice Shewgrand

The handwriting was plain and looked as if the author had been careful to make it as neat and legible as possible. A feeling of both trepidation and anticipation coursed through her. She had never considered receiving a reply. Her letter to John was written spontaneously, with no thought for consequence. Her hands trembled as she gingerly unfolded the letter.

Hello Alice Shewgrand

My name is Jonathon Walters. John was my father. Although I didn't know him that well. I never took the time. He was much older than my mum. He was much older than all my mate's dads. He was quiet. He always had this knowing smile on his face.

I understood this as being distant. I would do things, sometimes just to provoke a reaction. He would smile that smile, not saying a word and that was that.

It infuriated me. I could never pierce his bubble. I felt I could never reach him. So I stopped trying. People liked my father, though, and he enjoyed being around people.

I think it's ok if you visit him. He's dead after all. It's been very hard on my mum. We're doing our best to cope. Thank you for your concern.

You take care also,

Jonathon

Alice quickly reread the letter absorbing each word, each sentence. So many thoughts rushed through her mind though ultimately she felt very sad for Jonathon Walters. He didn't know his father. He's struggled to feel a connection with his father's death.

For quite some time Alice sat staring at John's headstone message. There was a calmness, a stillness to this place around where John lay. In this moment her pains dissolved in the words and sentiments John Walters had left as a parting gesture. Alice picked up her pencil and began sketching.

An old man leaned on a small retaining wall. His arms were folded. He had a faint, beatific smile on his face. He was watching a young boy, eight or nine maybe, waving a gushing hose over the family car. You couldn't see the boy's face as the picture drew him from the back.

'This is how Alice sees my father,' Jonathon realised. 'This is how she sees us.'

This may be the first time Jonathon thought of himself and his father as an 'us', the two of them together, joined by an unseeable force. He was seeing them both through another's eyes, as someone might instinctively view a father and son. It was a pencil drawing and details were at a minimum.

This is no memory Jonathon remembers. Though somewhere inside him he wanted it to be. There should have been something familiar about this picture Alice has drawn. But maybe it was more about her?

Was it a connection she wanted to see?

He put the drawing face down on the kitchen table.

John & Jonathon Walters

His father's name linked with his staring back at him. He felt uncomfortable. Alice was joining dots together where there were none to connect. Her narrative wasn't right. Jonathon stared into space for a while, his mind drifting. He got a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water from the sink, draining it empty in one long, slow gulp. He picked up the picture, put it in his pocket and went upstairs to the study.

She'd been sketching a picture in her notebook when her phone rang. It had been three days since Alice had visited John's grave. There were no flowers this time. Only an envelope resting up against the marble headstone with her name printed in block capitals on it. Alice picked it up, felt the smoothness of the paper, the lightness and bend in its contents and then put it in her bag.

And three days later she remembered the letter in her bag. Alice carefully opened the envelope and removed an A4 page folded in three. On the inside was a colour photocopy of a photograph, left aligned with some writing in the white space to the right of the picture.

On the right side of the image, a middle aged man in a smart shirt and tie, smoking a cigarette sitting on a sofa smiled straight at the camera. To his right, Alice's left, at the other end of the sofa a young teenage boy, t-shirt and shorts, sitting cross-legged, his head buried in a Gameboy. This could be two images taken at completely different times laid over each other to form one artificial moment. The note written next to the picture read:

This photo was taken 12 years ago when I was 13. My dad was 51.

This is the last photo I could find of just the two of us.

Alice wanted to know more. But everything she looked at was just small, mundane details. Was there a story to this picture?

Possibly not. Maybe the camera was just on hand. A moment of forced fun with Jonathon refusing to join in the spectacle, though John's smile didn't look forced, fake or insincere. He looked relaxed. The smile was the sort saved for someone you know – a shared moment of understanding.

Alice realised whatever was behind his smile was between John and the photographer, presumably his wife. Jonathan was simply there and the camera lens was zoomed out enough to include him. Alice wanted to move beyond the fiction and fantasy of her imaginings to know what was between this family.

Jonathon insisted on carrying the new flowers his mother and aunty had brought to place at his father's grave. He was a good few paces ahead of them as they made their way through the cemetery. There was a nervousness, an anxiousness that pushed his walked into almost a trot and the closer he got to the grave the more he picked up speed.

And there it was. Another letter.

He quickly scooped it up, pocketed it and hurriedly put the bunches of flowers in place. He then retreated to the end of the plot, standing behind his mother and his aunty – his father's sister. He remained mostly silent and still for the rest of the visit, which didn't last too long.

Before leaving his mother knelt before the headstone and kissed the top of it lightly, as she would her husband's forehead when he was alive and then turned, without looking back, heading for the car.

Jonathon lingered at the foot of the grave for a moment, looking at the spot his mother kissed, his eyes then falling down over his father's message. A tightness built up in his stomach, a feeling he hadn't felt standing here before. He lowered his head in a half-nod then followed his mother back to the car.

Back at home in the peace of his father's study he opened Alice's latest note. This time no picture, simply words.

The only photo I've seen of my dad and me together is when I was only a few months old. He's holding me in an awkward way. I'm asleep and he's looking at my mother (who's taking the picture) with a strangely blank expression.

He left soon after that. I've never had contact with him. I wouldn't know where to start. He has a name, which I know, of course, but beyond that?

I guess that's something we have in common – our fathers and the unknown. I wonder about the other people in my life. Are we connecting?

Sometimes I feel like's there's an obstacle in the way that I can't get over or push through. People are talking at me about things, not to me about anything. It's as if I'm sliding by people with nothing to grip onto.

And then your dad.

'And then my dad,' Jonathon thought. He reread the line Alice had written about the feeling that's there's an obstacle in the way. There was the shuffle or re-organising drifting up the stairs from the kitchen. The house was in a constant state of flux. His mother was always tinkering with seats, coffee tables, bookshelves.

Two months ago the living room got its first new coat of paint in five years. That was just the beginning. Jonathon couldn't bear to be around it. It made him uneasy. He'd moved back home just before his dad passed away. To be there for them. For support.

He flicked open a photo album lying on the desk and looked at the picture he'd copied for Alice. Twelve years ago was the last time they'd been captured on camera together. What happened since?

Surely there were odds and probability formulations saying this couldn't be the case?

Jonathon spent the next two hours feverishly going through every album, every envelope, every shoebox filled with photos he could find. And nothing. He could find no more than nine photographs of himself and his dad. And all but two of those were beyond his infant years.

Where they destined to grow apart, to never have a sense of understanding or connection?

There had to be more. How could they be father and son and yet have so little between them?

Jonathon tore into his room, pulling out everything from inside his wardrobe. School notebooks. Diaries. Unused art sketch pads. Football boots in various stages of decomposition. Folders covered in stickers and graffitied band logos. But nothing linking his dad with him.

Rising from the sprawling mess on the floor Jonathon moved to safer ground at his computer desk. It was a relic of a thing and he hadn't booted it up in, well, who knows, three, four years. It was plugged in and all looked in reasonable order, if a little dusty.

Power on, it whirred into action. It took a couple of minutes to push through DOS and the Windows start up screen.

'Amazing!' Jonathon thought. 'No password.'

This was pre CTRL-ALT-DELETE and password protection for the home PC. The start-up process finally settled on the home screen, the wallpaper a pixelated and stretched image of a rock band he'd long ago lost interest in. A few familiar documents saved on the desktop took him back to the last years of high school.

He opened up Word eager to browse through his old work, now completely irrelevant and useless. He clicked 'File' and scrolled down to look at the most recently opened documents.

Letter.doc

Dien Bien Phu – A French Mistake.doc

JW Resume.doc

Hamlet Themes And Quotes.doc

Shakespeare, Vietnam and the HSC. That dodgy job at Grace Bros promoting after shaves in the summer of '96.

'Letter.doc' didn't ring an immediate bell, and as the most recently edited document he opened it first. It took a few seconds to load the file and the instant it did Jonathon caught his breath.

Dear Jonathon, my son

Years separated us but blood will always bind us always together.

For whatever it's worth I'm your father and I am so proud of you and the man you've grown to be.

There was more, much more, but Jonathon couldn't see the screen clearly through the welling-up in his eyes. Downstairs in the dining room as she was lifting out the dining table chairs into the hallway, Jonathon's mother hears him thunder down the stairway, followed by the door slamming loudly. Then silence.

Alice carefully folded the letter and placed it back inside the envelope. She held onto it for some time while seated at the foot of John Walter's grave. She should be relieved. She should be happy.

Instead she was tired. Worn down. But in a much better place than she had been. Alice could move on with her life now.

Putting one envelope into her bag she removed another. This one had Jonathon Walters' name on it.

'Thank you John. Good luck with Jonathon.'

She placed the envelope with a card inside it against the base of the marble headstone, stood up and read John Walter's message one last time.

'Thank you,' she said again.

'Why? Why write it on a computer nobody uses? We don't even have a printer anymore. Who's going to read it, huh? WHO?'

Jonathon was scowling, his hands balled into fists as he spat anger at his dad's headstone. 'When did you want me to find it? Did you even want me to find it?'

He stopped, throwing his head back. His jaw muscles clenched, teeth grinding.

'You're smiling at me aren't you? Laughing at me. How could I make you proud?'

Jonathon took a deep breath, exhaled and released his shoulders, feeling them drop a long way down the side of his body.

'Why now? Why are you telling me this now? Why couldn't you tell me before...'

Silence.

He was crying, his body shaking, kneeling now in front of the headstone, his hands holding the side of the cold marble. Opening his eyes Jonathon noticed the card lying in the grass near the headstone. He'd only half seen it before, his fury flooding his vision with blinding red anger. It was addressed to him, in Alice's cheerful handwriting. He held it a moment before opening it.

'Thank You!' on the front of a greeting card, a big teddy bear smiling from ear to ear waving his hands in the air. He opened the card.

Even here, in death, he is still trying to be your father.

Jonathon put the card on the grass. He ran his fingers over the engraving on the headstone. He ran his finger through his dad's name. He placed his palm against it and pushed hard, letting go, letting it all out.

### Monday 4 February 2013

### The Gravy Train

**Marilyn Linn**

Darlington, SA

The Election Express is now boarding on Platform 5 – all aboard please.

Carriage 1 – all sitting members who expect to be re-elected please proceed to your carriage

Carriage 2 – only for female candidates who have organised reliable child care

Carriage 3 – new candidates with high hopes please board Carriage 3

Carriage 4 – candidates who are only in it for the generous superannuation, board Carriage 4. Please note it is a larger carriage. Check door numbers.

Carriage 5 – those who don't fit any of the other categories board number 5.

The Program

Carriage 1 – will be fitted with buckets and brooms with which candidates must clean up the mess that emanates from their collective orifices. One glass of Penfolds Grange will be available on the quarter hour for the duration of the journey.

Carriage 2 – will be provided with DVDs of the latest Wiggles to ensure candidates do not miss out on any bonding experiences with their young off-spring.

Carriage 3 – will have supplies of tissues and chin wipes to assist with mopping up brows and chins. Spring water will be freely available to keep candidates hydrated.

Carriage 4 – genuine leather seats will be provided for those who are growing accustomed to luxury at taxpayers' expense. Cream cakes and cola will be provided to give all candidates sugar and fat fixes to keep them happy.

Carriage 5 – crisps and orange juice will be available for these candidates. There will be a bell rung on the quarter hour and everyone must change tables and endeavour not to sit with more than one other person known to them. Small talk will be required. Advisors will advise.

All candidates must present a positive countenance and banish any negativity. A broad smile must be worn at all times. Hand shaking is an art to be practised and an executive consultant will be available to assist with correct grip and finger positions and strength of grasp.

The expectation is that, during the outward journey, all candidates will ask questions and answer each others' questions. If an answer is not known or the other person chooses not to answer the question, then the candidates will learn a few set answers for such situations. An executive consultant will be available to assist with word choices and candidates will learn to avoid answering yes or no to any further questions. This skill is mandatory.

Candidates will avoid all polling booths on Election Day, but information may be fed to candidates through mobile phones. Candidates may wish to keep in close touch with helpers at particular polling stations either of strength and safety, or weakness and risk, with little time spent on the middle areas. Consultants will be available to assist with choices.

Photographs are a must and the media are welcome to attend. However, care must be taken to ensure current leaders are not photographed in such a way that underlings appear taller or stronger than their superiors. A box will be available for height challenged personnel to stand on discreetly and consultants will be available to assist as needed.

Clothing will already have been discussed with potential politicians and anyone not suitably attired will be assisted by a consultant to improve their personal presentation. Optional clean ties for men and scarves for women will be available to cover spills incurred during the journey.

On arrival at the destination all candidates are expected to grin and wave happily, no matter the outcome of the journey. Party faithful will clap and cheer and spouses will hug. Caution is advised that only one's own spouse is embraced enthusiastically. And smile.

When the polls have closed and the results are known, many candidates will have to change carriages for the return journey. As many newly elected candidates will be uncertain where they should go, advisors will assist and public opinion is to be ignored.

Bon voyage and good luck.

### Tuesday 5 February 2013

### A Lang Time Ago

**Alexander Gardiner**

Bullaburra, NSW

A kin remember back in ma Scoatish days,

Whin I as a wee boy in the snaw did play.

Ah boy, yea micht jist ask? Aye! Ah wance wis a boy,

an' aw capers an' tricks ah did employ.

We built igloos albeit very small,

then, as bairns we wirnae very tall.

Ah wis born in Auld Reekie toon,

in 1936 oan the furst o' june.

Auld Reekie. Whare is that be?

it's Embra' ah bonny place tae see.

Stull no' ofay wae thay twa names?

it's Edinburgh whare wee played snawie games.

Sledges wee made oot o' widin' crates,

an' slid doon the Cockle Shell wae aw' oor mates.

This wee shell like hill in the then, King's park,

wis covered in snaw at the winter's start.

An' St Margaret's loch whin thick wae ice,

an' aw' wee boys an' lass's, skatin' wid entice.

Until the auld Parkie wid chase us oaf,

rid faced, splutterin' an' wae an' aufie coaf.

Git oaf tha' blidy thin ice at wance,

it's oanly huddin' yer weight by chance.

Na na, na, na na, Parkie canny catch us,

we cried oot, no' unnerstondin' aw' the fuss.

The same Loch in summer we wid fish fur fun,

the same splutterin' Parkie chased us oan the run.

Back noo tae the winter snawie games,

whare wee bairns that Parkie kid niver tame.

Buildin' Snawmen in the middle o' oor street,

an' dressin' them up tae look a treat.

Makin' slippery slides oan the street's footpath,

whilst ignorin' the dangers an' the auld folks wrath.

Oh we had a rip roarin' time as wee lads or lass.

rememberin' aw' those shenanigans o' the past.

I luved the snaw an' the winter time,

cos it covered Auld reekies smoky grime.

Edinburgh is noo a smokeless zone,

an' durty grime is nae langer prone.

An' snaw!! Weel yea kin keep, thanks,

ah wull though, remember aw' those pranks.

Wan wee wee trick I wid like tae mention,

frae the beginnin' it wis ma intention.

We wir wan up oan aw' the lass's games,

we could pee in the snaw an' write oor names.

### Tuesday 5 February 2013 1 pm

### Podiatrist

**Sharon Hammad**

Winmalee, NSW

Pain in toe

Where to go?

One who'll treat

Only feet

Sick with dread

Lie on bed

Never knew

Legs askew

Plaster cast

Sets so fast

Surely part

Work of art

Pretty soon

One more moon

Better news

Cushioned shoes

Twinkle toes

Smell like rose

Pain all through

Money too!

### Tuesday 5 February 2013 6 pm

### Comments Please!

**Demelza**

Taroona, TAS

As a budding poet

I long for true critique

Someone brave enough

To say where I am weak

To point out all my spelling faults

And my grammatic errors

Someone who will surely cringe

When scissors rhymes with terrors

I'd hoped that this 'narrator' stuff

Would provide some good insight

And give me clear direction

On should I cease to write?

Let me throw no judgement here

We write for different reasons

Be they therapeutic

Or a changing of the seasons

But if anyone could let me know

(Be it James or Jen or Bob)

Should I continue writing?

Or keep my day time job

Comments please are welcome

Make them long and full

Use a little tactfulness

Sometimes the truth is cruel

### Wednesday 6 February 2013

### Lawson's Inspiration

**Robyn Chaffey**

Hazelbrook, NSW

In 'The Ballad of the Drover'

Henry Lawson showed the strain

As 'Across the rocky ridges,'

And 'Across the rolling plain,'

Stout-hearted men and women

Long passed, etched out a living

Companioned just by animals,

Never minding days of striving.

As the hero of this story,

The young drover, Harry Dale,

Pressed on long day by day

Thoughts of love to keep him hale

So, by Lawson's words of old,

Pride of our heritage evoked,

Descriptions of our fragile land,

Emotions stirred, I'm feeling choked.

The reading of this famous work,

This writer's powers descriptive,

'Hazy dado' and 'light'ning trickles',

His 'fatal stream', enrich his missive

Till my heart and soul cry out

In pride for this, my country –

For generations past who forged...

Forged our way and made us free.

As one who also likes to write,

Lawson fills me with such awe;

As with rhythm, rhyme and language

Each stanza has me wanting more.

No painter ever yet existed

Could more clearly paint a picture

Of hard work, love and sadness

Borne our future to ensure.

Living now mid our Blue Mountains

I look 'across the rocky ridges'

Out toward 'the rolling plains'

Ever grateful for the bridges

Those like Harry Dale and sweetheart –

Bridges not alone of landscapes

But of peoples, souls and hearts –

Designed that I may freely traipse.

Oh that I may learn from Lawson,

All of life and love and land,

All the joy of life and living,

To paint in words but half so grand.

### Thursday 7 February 2013

### Life In The Light

**Laura Murfet**

Gympie, QLD

A solitary light, in golden attire

The attraction for many,

The embers of life.

A heartbeat turned still,

The key to life.

We wander paths

Of stone and grit

To arrive at death

Unscathed by logic,

Unharmed by existence.

In the end,

When all is finished,

For the very first time

Our eyes are open,

Wide with life.

Entity is but the beginning,

A journey where departure

And arrival, mean the same thing.

Goodbye is the foundation

To embark on new paths,

To let go of being,

To live in the light.

### Thursday 7 February 2013 4 pm

### The Black Dog And My Dog Bundy

**Joanna Rain**

Nelson Bay, NSW

They say the dog is black,

Mine is blue, black and grey,

His coat changes colour

With each passing day.

My dog comes to visit

Almost every day,

He is the only constant,

He rarely stays away.

Sometimes he brings nothing but his presence,

Sometimes just slight unease,

Often he brings total despair,

Sometimes, just fleas!

He has many different breeds,

Bipolar, anxiety, PTSD, OCD and PND –

For some he only visits them in winter time,

They call that SAD you see.

My dog's name is 'Bundy'

It's what I feel like drinking in his company.

I don't know why they chose the dog for this metaphor,

Dogs bring happiness and joy,

Maybe it is their empathy?

Strange, I can't imagine life without Bundy,

Depression and anxiety are far from funny.

He's always been there,

He knows my every joy and fear

He knows my sadness, my nervousness,

He knows my total and utter despair.

My dog 'Bundy'

Dear beautiful dog,

No one loves you,

You're scruffy and you're ugly.

You drag your feet

Through the mud,

Then traipse it all through

My humble hut.

Dear morbid, melancholy dog,

Who I've grown to love –

You mope around

With such sad eyes –

When I look at you,

All the joy from me is robbed.

The other day

A loving soul passed this way,

Dear Bundy –

She offered to take you away –

For not even five minutes,

Did I hesitate.

I'm sorry Bundy,

You've been betrayed –

But you were only meant to stay

For as long as I needed you to play

This sad and lonely game.

I will see you now and then,

But you will no longer be my pet,

You'll get a new owner,

Who will change your name,

And give you all their blame,

I'm sorry, Bundy your fate is set.

Dear beautiful Bundy –

I love you,

You're scruffy and you're ugly.

I see your purpose now,

Next time we meet,

I'll see your sad eyes,

Extend a soft pat,

And a warm smile,

And that will be enough

Somehow.

Joanna says that she finds it amusing that the term 'The black dog' is used as a metaphor for depression, so she decided to personalise her own experience with mental dis-ease by giving her 'dog' a name and identity. She found it a loving way to accept depression as just another part of her life.

### Friday 8 February 2013

### Broken Armour

**Linda Yates**

Katoomba, NSW

For Tony

I thought of you today,

as I tended my garden,

gloved and bonneted,

growing stout with age,

(how you would laugh to see me!)

and you dead, Christlike, at thirty three,

from the demon drugs

you took when your childhood demons

came to pierce and crucify you.

I thought about how I never marked the anniversary,

being young and rushing to embrace life

and wanting to distance myself

from your fate

because when I got the call,

saying you were dead,

I wanted to lock all my loved ones away

for safekeeping.

I thought about how I still

need to speak to you

in realms where you have never died,

for you were wise beyond your years,

though that did not help you

in the end.

I thought about all the seedy dens

we had lived in

and the adventures we had

in our precarious hand to mouth,

seat of the pants existence.

And how it was you who read

my first tentative poems

and later told me how worried you were

because you would not know what to say if they were crap,

but luckily they were ok.

I thought about how I could not

let it work between us,

because you were too much like me

and I was looking for knights

with no broken armour.

And how it was mean,

wanting to keep your loyalty

without wanting you.

I thought of your funeral

and how it did justice to the richness of your life,

without glossing over,

and everyone being so close and kind

for a while.

And how the funeral director said

that where ever you were you were now at peace

and maybe you were working your problems out on another level

and I hoped he was right.

And how, on the way home,

I had such an urge to tell you

what a wonderful funeral

I had been to today.

And I thought of the fifty dollars I spent

to send flowers, when I had refused

to lend it to you a week before,

knowing it would go straight

up your arm and I would never see it again

and how I never saw you again instead.

And I thought of the son you left behind,

his mother already dead the same way

before you.

I thought of the doctor's receptionist

who kept ringing to hassle me to

give your mother's address

so she could send the unpaid bills.

And I thought of your mother

who had to identify you,

lying there, I imagine,

a wax effigy of yourself.

I hoped your beard showed

the Celtic red, of which you were so proud.

And I thought of how I told her

I could not believe you were dead,

it was some trick you were playing on us

and she said she felt the same way

and she had seen your body.

I thought of your mother

who had you too young at sixteen,

so that you were farmed out to her mother

until she married and how you told me your

step father hated you,

though he seemed like a nice man to me,

and how you bounced around from

foster home to foster home

until you finally ran away

to join the rest of the unwanted,

washed up on the shores of King's Cross

where we met.

I thought of how your stepfather

would not let your mother grieve

saying she had other children (his)

to care for

and how then I knew

what you had told me about him

was true.

I thought of all the 'if only's.

And, lastly, I thought of the lover who,

in trying to shirk me off,

once told me I needed

an older, more together version of you.

And I thought how he was probably right,

for, armour all broken,

I have grown wiser with rust alongside you.

### Friday 8 February 2013 4 pm

### The Driver

**Susan Sargent**

Narrabri, NSW

It was dark, so dark. It was quiet, so quiet.

Eerie silence in the gloom.

Except for the drip, drip, dripping of something nearby.

Fear hung low, heavy like a blanket.

No memory at all of how this had begun.

Stuck fast in the darkness, can't feel a thing, in this fog you could almost cut with a knife.

Would anyone come?

Did they know you were here?

Did anyone see you when you missed that last bend?

Oh, when would they come?

Did they know you were here?

Life's grip was slipping, slipping away.

Fading into the gloom, merging into the fog with no separation.

What was real? What was not? No way to tell now.

No more pain, no more pain, an unexpected relief.

One saving grace amidst the panic increasing.

Fear has its hold, a heart fluttering wildly.

Was that a siren, could that be likely?

Oh, when would they come?

Did they know you were here?

Out of the mist, red and blue, red and blue.

A jumble of voices, faceless in the gloom.

Then one, a lone voice, extremely quiet, but a whisper.

Yet somehow louder and clearer than the others combined.

So very close, no more than a breath in the ear.

'You don't have to stay. It's okay to go.'

Your waiting is over, your salvation is near.

A message so simple, a message so clear.

When will they come?

Does not matter now.

They know you are here, but they lingered too long.

A snap, almost audible, then swirling, rushing, spinning like a vortex, as life's grip breaks away.

Relief, peace, panic's hold released.

Looking down on the scene, no hurry now.

A breath of wind felt by all as the last knot breaks.

Not cold, like you'd think, but a warm little zephyr.

It is done. It is over. No more fear. No more life.

Another one taken, another one lost.

### Saturday 9 February 2013

### His Gift Back

**Tamara Pratt**

Mount Gravatt, QLD

It was strange, Tania realised, how in the middle of a perfect Spring day, moments before she saw the military police standing on her front porch, that she could sense the news. Her husband, Mick, continents away, had died in the middle of a sultry Summer night, fighting to protect another nation, the civilians of another family he may never have known like he'd known his.

Now, with the news still raw and her heart threatening to stall, she stood with fledgling composure in the kitchen, the unassuming cardboard box on the table. In nights long passed, when Mick warned her bad things could happen, she had closed her ears. Was this his way now of having her open her eyes?

It had taken less than a few minutes for the police to hand her the box after they had it shipped from his post – a journey she wished her husband had made home – not a scrappy, dented parcel. If she had the strength, she'd throw it across the table to its own demise. She couldn't though. Not when she could feel Mick's hand touch hers and hear her last words to him as he packed his bags. In here, she told him, holding up the box, is everything you need to remind you of us.

He'd smiled and kissed her gently, told her that one day he might have to do the same. And that if that day came, she would promise not to mourn him, but do everything to keep his memory alive in their little girl's mind.

'Mum!' Amy squealed, skipping through the kitchen, arms reaching out, grasping her mother's waist. 'Did Daddy send us a present today? Can we open it?'

Amy slipped out from her mother's hold and grabbed for the white card on the box. Something Tania had stared at for minutes.

'Don't!' she called. Too late. Little Amy was already unfolding a familiar page of stationery.

'It's a note from Daddy!' she said, her eyes wide with delight. 'He tells us that in the box is everything we need to remind us of him.'

Amy tugged at her arm.

'Can we open it Mummy, can we?' 

### Sunday 10 February 2013

### Little Minds

**Thomas Gibbs**

Sydney, NSW

On the farm there were cows. Many of them. They just stood there, waiting for the hay bales to be thrown every day. I was ten years old. I could barely carry a hay bale.

On this particular day, it was sunny. My father was talking to a man with a rifle. They both had sunken shoulders, and concerned eyes. I could hear them talking, but I didn't understand what they were talking about. I was too busy playing soccer with my brother. We were kicking the ball to each other, and made goals out of the large pine trees. I took a shot. My brother was the keeper. It went in the bottom corner! It's at times like this where you really need a net.

My brother was rubbing the dirt off his knees, so I ran past him, to collect the ball. I could hear my father talking: 'Cows have small brains.' He held up his hand to the man, connecting his thumb and index finger, forming a hole.

I went back to play with my brother. He wanted me to be keeper. 'I've only had one shot,' I said. 'You have a cow's brain,' I added.

My father walked past with the man. The rifle was still in his hand. I could see him loading it. It was weird to see a gun in real life. My father raised his hand and pointed towards one of the cows. This cow was my favourite. He had a great personality. All the others just stood there. This one would shake its head at me, and sometimes stomp around. He wasn't the most attractive cow. One of his eyes was always red, and looked painful. There were black teardrops that had dried up underneath his eye. I walked over to my father. I was bored. I could hear the man talking: 'One shot should be enough.' The man looked through the sight of his rifle.

'You're not going to shoot one of the cows are you?' I asked. My father looked at me, and then looked back at the man. He took me away.

'Son, one of the cows has a brain tumour; we have to put it down.'

'What's a tumour?'

'The cow is suffering; see its eye?'

'Yeah.'

'The cow has lost its vision.'

'Why?'

'The tumour is growing out of its eye.' My father turned back to the man.

I ran over to my brother. I told him what my father had just said. We followed our father, and this strange man, from a distance. They were trying to get the cow to move. They were trying to guide it into the place my brother and I used to climb on. It was like a prison for cows. You could climb up the bars and swing on the metal gate. They eventually trapped the cow inside the cow prison. All the other cows were watching, just standing there. The man walked through the gate and approached the cow with his rifle. My father was standing at the gate. He couldn't see us. We were hiding behind a large pine tree. The man raised his rifle to the cow's head. 'BANG!' The cow just stood there, doing nothing. 'BANG!' Eyes couldn't turn away. My brother was holding my arm. 'BANG! Fuck!' The man was getting angry. His face was all sweaty. The cow fell down.

We ran back to the house. There was some kind of tractor entering the property. My brother and I started playing soccer again. This time I was keeper. My brother missed his first shot.

### Monday 11 and Tuesday 12 February 2013

### Love And 13 Cossacks

**Paris Portingale**

Mt Victoria, NSW

Once upon a time, somewhere towards the end of the twentieth century...

They were drunk when they met. Pissed and staggery, about an hour away from passing out, maybe a little longer for him, but that was more to do with body mass than anything else. She was a slighter build, the way women often are, and he was a little heavier and taller, the way men often are, and the extra mass meant if he went drink for drink with her he'd remain, if not altogether upright, then at least conscious for maybe thirty minutes longer than she would.

He was sitting on a stool at the bar drinking vodka, '13 Cossacks' vodka to put a definite name to the thing, and she'd come in, it was around 12.30 in the morning, and she'd tripped and fallen onto her face and while she was thinking she might just stay there for a while, he got up and went over and, standing beside her, said, 'Can I get you a drink, or are you alright?'

She said, 'I don't know, what are you having?' and he said, '13 Cossacks,' and he bent unsteadily and grabbed onto her wrist and, as she'd been picked up from the floor some number of times before, she handled the manoeuvre with a level of competency.

He said, clarifying, 'Vodka, but you'd get that from the title. From the name. I don't think they have Cossacks anywhere other than vodka-drinking Russia. I think they're unique to that area. Or were. I don't know if they still exist, they used to go around on horses. I can't see a band of Cossacks travelling across the Russian steppes in Mazda hatchbacks.'

The picture made her laugh. She said, 'I might have one of those 13 Cossacks,' and he said, 'Well, follow me to the bar my dear, we'll pick one out for you.'

He led her to the bar and gave her his stool and he went and found another for himself and he brought it back and ordered two doubles. He asked for big doubles, but doubles are what they are and don't come in different sizes, but he was more showing off than anything else.

While they were waiting for the drinks he said, 'It's possible I could be unconscious within the hour. Do you think you'll be able to find your own way home?'

The drinks came just then. It had been over half an hour since her last drink and she threw hers down in a swallow and wiped her mouth in an exaggerated manner with the back of her hand.

His smile was funny and his eyes were soft and his voice had a sort of powdery, almost self-conscious poshness, like he'd been recently deported from old Mother England for wilful yet uncompromising drunkenness and dissolution, all of which touched her in a funny way so she said, 'Buy me another one of those. What number Cossack was that one?' and he said, 'Ivan, he's number twelve,' and she told him, 'Another Ivan and I might just join you.'

'Don't you have a cat?' he asked her, and she said, 'No, my cat left me,' and he said, 'Oh no, that's so sad,' and she said, 'I know.'

He asked her, 'How did things break down like that?' and she replied, 'We lived in two different worlds. It ultimately generated irreconcilable differences.'

He said, 'Do you ever see each other,' and she said, 'No. I once thought I saw him, Tom his name was, I once thought I saw him going past on a number twelve bus, but it could have been another cat. You know how you do that,' and he nodded, because he did know how you do that, and had in fact done it himself with a woman who'd quite officially changed her name from Rose to Magdaline, who'd suddenly spurned him when she discovered he had not, in fact, read the bible from cover to cover, as he'd explained during the process of getting her pants down and off. 'I have so read it all,' he'd said, and she said, 'Oh yes, well, what did God say to Moses on Mount Sinai?' and he'd replied, 'He said – Moses, take this down, and you may need another tablet,' and that was the end of that.

So, he ordered two more doubles and told her his name was Anderson and she said, 'What's your Christian name?' and he said, 'That is my Christian name,' and she said, 'Bullshit, that's a surname,' and he said, 'Not to me it's not.'

She said, 'Well, what is your surname?'

He said, 'I forget.'

'But your first name's Anderson, right?'

He nodded and drank half his double and she drank half of hers.

She said, 'Well, my name's Valerie,' and he said, 'Is that true?' and she said, 'As true as you've got a surname for a first name,' and he said, 'Fair enough. Do you come here often?'

She said, 'Seriously? Do I come here often?'

'It's a line so hackneyed and parodied it's quite fresh again I've found. I've been using it quite a bit lately, to good effect too, I might add.'

'Okay, well, no, I don't come here often.'

'I think you should,' he said. 'Hey, I have to visit the gentlemen's lounge. Don't go away, for Christ's sake,' but when he got back he saw that Christ had in fact been forsaken and she had gone away. He ordered another two doubles, in case she came back for some reason, but on that particular night she didn't.

She did come back three nights later though, and she had someone with her. A man named Harry. She looked for Anderson from the door and when she saw him she walked over unsteadily with Harry and said, 'Harry, this is Anderson. Anderson, this is Harry.'

He said, 'Hi, Harry,' but he was mainly looking at her. Harry looked like an idiot, he decided, in that way you can in the first instant of meeting someone.

She said, 'Harry and I are going back to my place to fuck. I'd ask you along, only...' and she waggled her hand in the air to show just how iffy his coming along would be for all concerned, even Harry, who was an idiot and pissed to boot and keen to get going, or at least have a drink.

Harry said, 'Hi,' then he put his arm around Valerie's waist and pulled her against him and said to her, 'So, what are we doing? Do you want a drink, or what? Or should we just go? What do you think?' His tie was undone, and while ties can be undone in quite a fashionable way, Anderson decided Harry's was undone in a stupid way that just made him look more like an idiot, and on an impulse, perhaps to underline for her his feelings towards Harry, he leaned forward and started to straighten Harry's tie.

Being pissed and an idiot, Harry lifted his chin for an instant, then, getting a more realistic grasp of exactly what was going on, he pulled away. He said, 'Hey, watch it, champ,' in a way that was belligerent, pissed and idiotic, Anderson thought. Then Harry reached forward and pushed Anderson in the chest, and because it was 11.30 pm and the 13 Cossacks had well and truly made their presence felt, Anderson toppled off his stool to crash to the floor and end lying flat on his back. Staring straight up at the ceiling, he found a spot, ever so slightly to his left, and he directed his concentration on that, so that, when she looked down at him and said, 'Can I get you a drink, down there, or are you alright?' he didn't look at her, but rather said to the spot, 'No, I'm fine. Don't let me stop you though. Get something for yourself. And Harry too. Tell Jimmy to put it on my tab.' Then he closed his eyes.

Any amount of time could have passed, or no time at all, until Anderson felt Jimmy grabbing at him and heard him say, 'Come on, up,' in a way that was half bartender, half serious bouncer. He opened his eyes and let Jimmy get him to his feet and he sat on the stool again and ordered a double. '13 Cossacks,' he said, 'and make it a double. A large double,' and Jimmy put an extra jigger into the glass, on top of the double, to ease the pain of everything, because he had a soft spot for Anderson, in a similar way that Anderson had a soft spot for him, Jimmy being his bartender and all.

She'd gone, along with Harry. They'd slipped off while his eyes were closed. He said to Jimmy, 'She didn't seem the type to fuck an idiot.'

Jimmy said, 'Yeah, well, you can't tell with women.'

He nodded, even though the statement was of itself a vast and meaningless generalisation that often bartenders, taxi drivers, bored men in ticket booths and sometimes even dentists deliver in response to other vast and meaningless generalisations, and he didn't hold it against Jimmy in the slightest because Jimmy, his bartender, lived in a soft spot Anderson had created specifically for him, somewhere in the middle of his chest there.

So, two nights later, sitting on his stool, well into the 13 Cossacks, he saw her come through the door again. She saw him and, as much as he suspected himself of wishful thinking, he fancied he saw the briefest expression of relief flit across her face, so he said, 'Is there a male equivalent to the line "Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?"'

She said, 'Nope, girls don't show it that way. Obviously. You are such an idiot.'

He said, 'Talking of idiots, how's Harry?'

'Harry is an idiot. Was an idiot,' she corrected herself and Anderson ordered two doubles, then asked her, 'Why would you fuck an idiot? I'm genuinely curious.'

She said, 'I didn't fuck him. He spewed in the gutter. Just a little way down from here as a matter of fact. And I escaped. Into the night.' And the drinks came then and she drank hers in three quick swallows.

He said, 'Lucky escape. So, would you have fucked him if he hadn't spewed?' and in asking the question he hoped his voice was carrying the full weight of the casual indifference he was trying to convey, because he felt that to be important at this particular point.

She was looking in her purse for a cigarette, pulling things out, piling them on the counter. There were keys and crumpled banknotes and small change and a little tin of eucalyptus based sweets. A handkerchief with a lipstick stain, a small notebook and part of a padlock that had broken in her hands and she'd kept, just in case. She said, during this, 'What would you like to hear?'

'No,' he said. 'I'd prefer to hear you say no. But anything in the ballpark of the truth would be okay.'

'Okay, no, then,' she said, and he said, 'Is that the truth?' and she said, 'What would you like to hear?' and he said, 'That you wouldn't fuck an idiot. Particularly one like Harry who'd be like the genetic pinnacle for idiocy. He's probably got trophies for idiocy. A special cabinet for them in his lounge room.'

She'd found a crumpled packet of cigarettes and was lighting one.

He said, 'How excellent that you smoke. I think smoking is about the most sophisticated thing a single person can do.'

She looked at him, to check for sarcasm or irony, but both were absent and she took a deep drag and, leaning back her head, she blew a vertical column of smoke.

'They will kill you, though,' he told her. 'I'd really appreciate it if you didn't die before I've got to know you a bit better.'

'Excellent line,' she said, and he said, 'Thanks.'

She said, 'Do you write all your own material?' and he replied, 'Mostly.'

They drank on into the night and when it was time to go he said, 'I'll walk you home,' and she said, 'That would be nice.'

On the street they were both a little staggery, just a little.

She said, 'Down this way,' and they walked without touching.

Before they reached the corner he said, 'I'm so much less an idiot than Harry, you know. I can do logarithms in my head.'

'Really?' she said.

'I can show you how much less an idiot I am. If you want me to,' he told her, and she said, 'Go on then,' and he stopped and took her arm and turned her so they were facing and he moved closer to her and she looked up at him, because he was a little taller, which, as I said, is often the way with these things, and she tilted her head slightly because it was obvious his plan here was to kiss her, but instead he said, 'I'll show you I can get you all the way home without spewing in the gutter,' which is what he did and it proved no effort whatsoever.

At the entrance to her block of apartments they stopped. She said, 'This isn't a euphemism. Do you want to come up for coffee?'

'Why not?' he said, and they took the little lift up to the fourth floor and she found her keys and they went inside and, while she went into the kitchen to make coffee, he lay down on the couch in her lounge room and went to sleep.

In the morning he woke up with his head feeling like it did most mornings and his hand tingling from sleeping on it, and he got up and found the toilet and peed and washed his face and came out to find her. She was in the single bedroom, lying on her stomach under the covers, on the bed and she smelled lightly of cigarette smoke and perfume, and he found the smell strangely exotic and compelling. He sat on the edge of her bed looking at her and after ten minutes of this he tentatively reached over and touched her hair and her eyes opened and for a moment she looked at him uncomprehendingly, then she groaned and said, 'Oh God,' then, 'There's a bottle in the freezer. Oh God, get the bottle from the freezer. I'm seriously about to die. I'm on the precipice of death. Seriously.'

'Okay,' he said, 'you wait here.'

'I'm going to pee,' she told him, and she pulled off the covers and got out of the bed and small-stepped, almost tip-toeing, to the toilet in her underwear and he heard her close the door and throw up in three retching contractions.

She was sitting up in bed when he came back with the bottle. It was vodka, chilled to a thick oiliness so it didn't make the usual splashing sound as it hit the glasses. He'd brought a bed tray with fold-down legs he'd found and he set it up across her thighs and they each lifted their glass to their lips, both giving that early-morning, first-drink shudder you do when you're starting early, as they were, because he saw the bedside clock and it said 8.30 am.

They were pissed by 11 am, still in her bedroom and the bottle was mostly empty. She said, 'There's another in the cupboard,' and he got up to find it. On his way back he noticed the bookshelf and briefly ran a hand over some of the spines. They were mostly poetry, a lot of Keats, and he pulled one out and took it with him.

Back, sitting on the bed, with their glasses topped, he opened the book, flicking through, and he found a page and, smoothing it down he read aloud:

I met a lady in the meads

Full beautiful, a faery's child;

Her hair was long, her foot was light,

And her eyes were wild.

I set her on my pacing steed,

And nothing else saw all day long;

For sideways would she lean, and sing

A faery's song.

I made a garland for her head,

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;

She look'd at me as she did love,

And made sweet moan.

She said, 'Keats. He was still just a little boy when he wrote that. He used to make me cry. Not so much now. Actually I don't think I've cried in quite some time. Guess that's an indicator of happiness, right?'

'Maybe,' he said. 'We're the only species that cries, I guess because none of the others developed the ability to read Keats.' He looked up from the book. 'Do you have any Byron?' he asked her.

She said, 'No,' and he said, 'There's something I'd love to read you. It's sad and angry and about the end of the world. It's really very sad, but in a kind of not-sad way. When I read it, when I get to the end, it makes me want to kiss someone beautiful.' He snapped the book shut, to distract from what he'd just said. Then, 'There's never been anyone there before, when I've read it. It's just that, you're here and there's a bookshop not that far away. We could...' and he looked at her to see if her face said, 'yes they could,' which he figured he could read there, or at least he couldn't see, 'no they couldn't,' and he stood and picked up the tray to take it to the kitchen, saying, 'I'll wait for you out here, till you get dressed. If you want to go. Or we could do something else. Or I could just go. Maybe I should just go.'

She didn't say anything, and he said, 'I'll just go,' and started out of the room with the tray and she said, 'I'll come,' and he said, 'To the bookshop?' and she said, 'Yes,' and nodded, and he said, 'Only if you want to,' and she replied, 'I want to,' and he said, 'Really? Because I could just go,' and she said to him, 'You're such an idiot, you know that?'

He said, 'Like Harry?' and she told him. 'No, idiot. And stop mentioning Harry. Harry was only a ploy, anyway,' and he filed that away to explore later and took the tray into the kitchen to let her get dressed by herself, which was polite and quite right at this stage of the relationship.

So, they walked together the blocks to the bookshop, not touching except for twice, when they crossed the road and he grabbed her hand to steer her and keep together, so that, once the street was crossed he released her, and the second time, when he dropped her hand, he ran his through his hair in an absent way, to show how insignificant the action had been.

On the way he bought two flasks of vodka, but they didn't open them. Not straight away. She put hers in her bag and he put his in a pocket, and when they reached the bookshop he held the door open for her.

And as luck would have it, in the reverse of the way you mainly find luck doesn't have it, the bookshop had the volume of Byron he needed and he found the poem and, standing towards the back of the shop, in amongst the bookcases, he opened his vodka and drank some and passed the bottle to her, then he read her the poem, 'Darkness,' by Lord Byron. And when he'd read the final lines –

They slept on the abyss without a surge

The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,

The moon their mistress had expired before;

The winds were withered in the stagnant air,

And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need

Of aid from them. She was the universe.

– he saw it was alright and he kissed her as the shop assistant rounded the aisle to ask if they needed any help and, seeing them, turned and returned to his counter with the question unasked.

When the kiss ended he said to her, 'That's exactly how the poem should end. I've known that for so long, without having it ever end that way. But now it has.'

'It was beautiful,' she said, and he said, 'The poem?' and she replied, 'Yes,' and he asked, 'And the kiss?' and she said, 'I don't remember,' so he kissed her again.

Of course they ended up in the bar, sitting in front of Jimmy, ordering 13 Cossacks, in doubles, and drinking them while he recited sections of poems he'd written when much younger. The pieces he could remember. And she recited for him a poem she'd written to a young man, twenty he was at the time, she was eighteen and so much in love she thought she would surely die. As surely as the night was black, as surely as caterpillars grew wings and the tide turned, as she'd told her friend Marcy, in the toilets of the Bright Hill cinema complex one Saturday evening before the show. She'd sent it to him in the mail, and a few days later he sent her one he'd written himself, that began, 'My love is like a red, red rose,' so she knew it was Robbie Burns and love evaporated the way it tends to in the face of minor treacheries and the subversion of the little truths that seem to hold the whole thing together. Hers had been about how love is like a mist and when two people are in love, how their mists coalesce and in the mixing a wonderful and special energy is established that, properly nurtured, can carry the two through all of their days on the earth. She explained it was a young person's poem and he both nodded and shook his head to say it was, yet was simultaneously much more.

At 9.30 pm, an early hour, he said to her, 'If we leave now we could still fuck,' and she said, 'Are you sure? I thought we'd given up on that,' and he told her, 'Not entirely,' and she said, 'Okay then,' and they got their stuff together and wished Jimmy a good night and 'bonne chance' for some reason, even though it was clear he had little need for any additional good luck at that particular point in things.

They went to her place. He'd said, 'Let's go to your place for a change,' and she'd replied, 'Break the routine,' and he'd added, 'A change is as good as a holiday,' and she'd said, 'Change is the lifeblood of the universe,' and he'd stumbled, 'Change... change... nope I'm out,' and she'd clapped her hands and said, 'One nil.'

In her apartment they undressed each other, lying on the bed, facing each other, which was awkward, but there was strangely no rush and in a funny way the awkwardness made it somehow more of a funny, special thing, and when they were finally unclothed he looked at her for so long she began to wonder if everything was in fact alright. It was alright. He was in a kind of hazy awe, and the alcohol was ebbing and flowing so that he kept jumping back to the start, to begin his examinations again, as though from the very first instant.

Afterwards they drank and talked and drank and talked some more and about an hour before the sun was due to rise they went to sleep. And when they woke up, somewhere around the midday, they took it in turns to throw up in the toilet.

They were married four days later, in a civil ceremony, and as Jimmy couldn't get away they got permission for Rory, the table-wiper, to take an hour off to be the witness, and when they got back, Jimmy showered them with the torn pieces of a dozen paper napkins he'd made for them during a slow spell at the counter.

And over the next months they managed to work and drink and sometimes make love, when they remembered, and the occasions for making love seemed to become more and more separated until they stopped altogether one night after a drunken fight about something like tomato sauce or why the lottery had to be a fake, and he'd staggered into the night street and slept under cardboard in an alley somewhere and next day collapsed on the way to Jimmy's for a quick one before work.

The doctor at the hospital told him it was his liver and he'd replied, 'Good God, do I still have one? How extraordinary,' and the doctor had smiled briefly, then told him just how bad it was, and when he'd finished, his patient made a whistling sound and said, 'Boy, I could really use a drink right now,' and the doctor shook his head the way they do with naughty patients and gave him a pamphlet which outlined more fully his condition and what to expect.

She came to see him of course, always pissed or just flat out drunk, and as he was sober now, he found the visits increasingly unsatisfying. Jimmy called in once, saying he'd meant to bring a bottle but had forgotten at the last minute, however he'd definitely remember next time, but there was no next time as the bar was a full time occupation and even very regular customers could only expect so much.

And as it transpired, on the very night his mortal coil finally shuffled itself off to join all the other shuffled off mortal coils, wherever it is in the universe they ultimately reside, and the usually jagged red line on his bedside monitor went flat and lifeless, pretty much at exactly the moment those things were happening, she was entering Jimmy's, trailed by a fattening businessman in an unnaturally shiny suit and skew-if tie, leading him to be introduced to another man, met the night before, in this very same establishment, to say, 'Fattening business man, this is the other man. Other man, this is fattening business man. Business man and I are going back to my place to fuck,' and the man she'd met the night before got to his feet, more than a little unsteadily, and just looked at her, till she said, 'Well, see you,' and left.

### Wednesday 13 February 2013

### Love Not Lost

**Sam Elliott-Halls**

Campbelltown, NSW

Time's flown by

Still asking why

Things that'll never be

Said between you and me

The silence crashes around me

No answers abound

Just questions that beggar

Answers that'll never

Be found

The angry brother

The hostile mother

And we who loved you

Like no other

People sang your praises

They still do

I loved you

Couldn't reach you

Sheltered we were

From their deeds

Those who hurt you

Took away your smile

The promise and love

Of a beautiful child

You ran like the wind

Are you still running now

Would you answer

If you could

Were you still here

Look at the land

That nurtured the child

The great silkie oaks that shared your smile

Stores your secrets

Still do

But can give to me

No answers

Just silence be

You said I'd know

After you go

You gave to me

It washed over me

The emptiness you felt

The stone walls

A castle

Around you built

A citadel, a fortress, a fort

We were there with you once

Protected by your love

But as we grew

Two individuals that never knew

The secrets of the family

They couldn't wouldn't talk

It was left to we younger ones

To ponder the answers

That we'll never understand

The aggressive stand

Of just one man

Your eyes held a light

Through that last night

I'd never seen

A brief moment in time

Your love will survive

That love we'd shared

When I was a child

Too brief

Those last few days

Before you left

And went your way

I promised you no pain

Never again

We will go on

Protected by your love

Carry this this burden

No longer an encumbrance

We will protect our own

And like we didn't

They will know

All that we

We should have known.

### Wednesday 13 February 2013 4 pm

### Ode To The Fledgling Flown

**Ruth Withers**

Uarbry, NSW

Do I sound bitter, do I?

Do my words sound harsh and accusing?

Do you wonder why you bothered calling home?

But it isn't home now, is it?

It's just the house where your mother lives,

And you don't need her now; you're on your own.

But did you think I'd worry less,

Not knowing how or where you were?

Do you think the mother also leaves the child?

If the fledgling's wings are but

Half-grown the day he leaves the nest,

Don't you know the worry drives her nearly wild?

And should it be a comfort;

Should I be pleased and proud to know

That strangers do for you what I should do?

Am I such a lousy mother?

Have I given you so little

That what they give is more than I gave you?

And do you begin to comprehend

The futility of mother love,

That has one use in life, one thought in mind?

That works so hard for oh, so long,

That breaks the spirit in the quest

To make the fruit far better than the vine?

So yes, perhaps I'm bitter now.

I will admit to the shame and pain

Of seeing yet another fruit fall green;

Of yet another fledgling flown

Before his wings are fully grown;

Of wondering what the point of me has been.

I was supposed to raise you up;

To build you strong and good and wise.

I was supposed to make you ready for the world.

I was supposed to guide and nurture;

To keep you safe from pain and harm.

I was meant to get to watch your wings unfurl.

In your undue haste to leave me

You have robbed me of my purpose.

You have told me that I wasn't up to scratch.

Just because they said you could do,

You decided that you would do,

And as you left too soon I had to stand and watch.

### Thursday 14 February 2013

### A Flash Of Red

**Naomi Fogarty**

Perth, WA

The sound of the wind as it rushed up behind her was like a jet engine roaring towards the ground about to crash land. The noise was terrifying and as it hit her back, it whipped her long hair viciously around her face. Her hair looked like a pile of writhing snakes and for a split second you could almost swear she had become Medusa. Her large, green eyes had gone from bright and joyful to a darker shade of wrath and it seemed like they were daring you to stare right into them. Begging you to so she could turn you into stone. The bright blue sky that previously had birds flying and singing so sweetly about had quickly disappeared as the black clouds started to form around her.

She loves the mixture of danger and excitement that lightning brings when, for just a bright, blinding second, it zips across a dark menacing sky. It tantalises her and leaves her wanting more. She loves the power of thunder, the way it seems to vibrate through her bones as it releases its fury just above her head. In the middle of this chaos she stands strong and firm, not afraid, feeling no fear of death, just empowerment with every single breath. This is exactly where she wants to be, this storm is a part of her. The icy cold wind felt refreshing on her skin and she inhaled it deep into her lungs and just like a balloon she suddenly started to grow with every breath she took.

She had become the storm and towering over the landscape she looked down and chuckled with glee. The black clouds around her head were thick and dense so when her chuckle rumbled through them it echoed around and around never seeming to stop. The wind stopped blowing as she looked down at something right in the middle of what would become her path of destruction. Her dark eyes squinted into a sinister glare as one corner of her mouth lifted into a smirk and she rubbed her hands together in anticipation. Very slowly she raised her giant hand up high and with a click of her giant fingers she brought the storm down upon it.

The rain was pouring down so thick and heavy it was impossible to see what was in front of you. But not satisfied with this she blew the clouds an icy cold kiss and the rain then turned to hail and with a damaging force it fell to the ground. Spinning around in a circle she then became a tornado ripping everything apart at the limbs. This seemed to please her and, looking smugly around, she thought that from now on she would call herself The Tempest, like the storm from Shakespeare's play. This part of her could be conjured up any time and any day. But like all storms they eventually run out of force. The rain became lighter and the dark clouds were slowly starting to drift away as she became small once more as the damage she wanted to inflict had been done.

She had used all the power that the storm had provided her and with The Tempest inside her now kept at bay, out of nowhere came a piercing scream. Blinking her eyes as if waking from a dream she glanced around at the mess she stood in. She was standing in the kitchen where cups and plates were smashed all over the floor and whatever food that had been on them was now smeared on the walls. The kettle on the stove behind her had finally reached its boiling point and the steam pouring out of it was starting to fog up the room. As she looked around the damaged kitchen she saw something cowering in the corner. It was the same thing she had brought the storm down on, and she was quite sure it was the same thing that had just screamed.

His eyes were big and bulging right out of his head and his mouth had dropped down to the ground. Sitting on top of his head was half an egg shell, while raw egg yolk dripped off his face. With a shaky finger he pointed down at something she was holding. Gripped tightly between her white knuckles was a sharp, deadly knife. With a nervous laugh she dropped it onto the table and looked back at the frightened man, her green eyes full of innocence. Sighing with satisfaction she said, 'So... I have a temper.' As an awkward silence filled the room between them, one of her delicate fingers brushed a lock of hair out of her face. It entwined itself around her finger and looked like it flicked out a forked tongue at him. Then with a shrug of her shoulders she said, 'The red hair really should have been warning enough.'

### Friday 15 February 2013

### Croak

**Robertas**

Drummoyne, NSW

God's a practical joker

He's the Phantom Croaker

There is no frog

And I can sense His

Self-satisfied smile

As he watches me peering here

Staring there

Aiming my antennae ears

At the CROAK-CROAK-CROAKS

Hours pass

As does eventually my persistence

My Absolute Determination

To see one of the little bastards

How many times

I've focussed and zeroed in

And silently edged toward

A CROAK – one of the Chorus

I know it's coming from there

That half-sunken log

That weedy place

I'll spot you ... you @!#* ... FROG

But when I'm almost there ... can't fail

The Chorus stops

Silence reigns

Except for the hiss of steam from my ears

God's a practical joker

Making noises to suck me in

Contorted-mouthing clever CROAKS

Slapping His sides and rolling with laughter

Another sucker! ... Gotchew-a-Beauty!

CROAK CROAK CROAK

### Friday 15 February 2013 4 pm

### Rain

**Jennie Cumming**

Blackwood, SA

The gentle rain on the tiled roof

wakes me with memories

of soft slippers in the hallway

and a child needing comfort

in the night.

No children now.

Only the rain to comfort me.

### Saturday 16 February 2013 4 pm

### The Milliner

**Henry Johnston**

Rozelle, NSW

Long gone the drowsy days of selling newspapers to the young and the arthritic old. Days of meagre wages saved for the months beyond schools' end and finding a job on Courland Street. Dim, dusty, dark days when I would collect the 'inkies' from a Greek newsagent who stacked my shallow yellow pushcart.

With pea whistle in mouth, I would traipse the neighbourhood, seeking out regulars, swapping stories and teasing barking dogs.

The run began at 7 am, rain or shine. I remember a woman with curlers trying to coax me inside to fetch a non-existent cat out of a tree, the happy chappies and tired workers and the occasional kind-hearted soul with a 50-cent tip.

The frail elderly waited by their letterboxes, coins clenched in withered fingers.

I would flick one from under my arm and watch, as they hobbled back indoors, not a word spoken between us.

I liked the Europeans. I imagined they bought a paper to enjoy the pictures and break up their day. Perhaps they kept it for a son or daughter away at work. Some smiled and tried to tousle my hair, others pointed at a car parked in the street and said in halting English, 'bloody fast mite'.

Mrs Frankel spoke with a German accent. She too waited outside, tapping her coins on the metal fence once I came into view. With newspaper in her grasp, she'd snap it open, and scan the headlines all the while muttering in my direction. I walked on when the tension eased from her face and I sensed our one-way conversation fade into the bustle of the street.

One Saturday morning Mrs Frankel lost her temper.

'You are late. Where have you been?' she demanded.

'It's raining,' I shot back, 'and my barrow is full of water.'

She snatched the sodden newspaper from my hand, relented and beckoned me in doors.

Most of the homes of the old town boasted three ducks hung on floral wallpaper with matching Formica furniture, but Mrs Frankel's house displayed none of these niceties.

Faceless wax store dummies lined the hall, each in perfect proportion to a female head. Hatboxes filled the parlour and in the next room stood neat piles of newspapers. Mounds of sheet music rested within easy reach of a black upright piano.

I towelled my hair, and sipped a mug of sweet coffee. A song tinkled in another room.

'Never be late again,' she said.

'All sorts of things happen around here, and besides,' I said, 'I'm leaving in a few weeks, and I'm not sure who'll take over the run.'

'I must read the paper every day,' she said. Her words shot into my eyes.

Mrs Frankel led me to a room filled with hundreds of multi-hued hats made of straw, felt and taffeta. She walked to a dressing table unlocked a drawer and lifted out a green cardboard box, and chose a handful of yellowing papers which she fanned and gave me.

I read out the unfamiliar shorthand code.

'Your last received first inst. Stop. Cabling 50 pounds to Olga Frankel c/o Austerlitz Hotel Friedrickstrauser. Stop. Regards, Leopold.'

Each telegram – there were at least 30 – looked and read the same. The sequence of days of the week did not vary. Short, curt details of money transfers, ticket sales and hotel bookings, signed 'Leopold' or 'L Gottlieb, Sydney, Australia'.

The stamp of an ornate double-headed eagle gazed from the right hand corner of each document.

Then the telegrams changed. The deep imprint of a cobalt blue Nazi Swastika suffocated the words printed on the parched pages.

'See the date,' she said.

'March 12 1938,' I replied, a date which meant nothing to me.

Mrs Frankel then spoke two words in her precise Austrian accent.

'Anschluss Österreichs. You understand,' she said, as a sobbing tremolo caught her voice. 'I designed hats for the daughters and wives of the elite of Europe. Marlene Dietrich visited my salon, and the wife of the Austrian president Madame Schuschnigg. And that doe-eyed whore,' she paused and bit her lower lip, 'Eva Braun. Do you know these people or are you too stupid?' she said. The words struck me as if a whip across my cheek. 'I survive by knowing everything,' she said, gesturing toward the street.

I walked to the front door and into the pouring rain.

A few days later, I told the Greek my time as a paper seller ended once my trial final exams began. He blustered and called me a lazy so-and-so, but he understood the ritual. Sure enough on my last day, a friend accompanied me to the newsagency and volunteered to take over my run.

We met up again during a brief summer of long hot blue-sky days. I asked after the newsagent and joked about the bald man in the Onkaparinga dressing gown, but his gaze dropped when I mentioned Mrs Frankel.

He described how a council truck pulled up outside her house and a crew of men wearing facemasks wheeled trolley loads of junk on to the street.

Three weeks after Mrs Frankel's death, the gramophone short-circuited the flimsy fuse box, blacking-out most of the street. Curious electricity workers traced the fault back to her house.

They found Mrs Frankel upright in a chair, a newspaper in her hands. A blistered 78 record had melted onto the turntable. No one could read the title on the label.

On those rare days when I return to the old city, I strain to hear the paper sellers' whistle; a shrill modulated toot followed by a pause then a trill, now close by or distant, and I recall Mrs Frankel's favourite song, and think of her as I hum the tune under my breath.

### Sunday 17 February 2013

### Dispatches

**Peter Goodwin**

Warilla, NSW

There may already have been something wrong with me when I came ashore. I was making my way through the docks, along dark passages, when someone hit me from behind. I was warned to stay away from such things. I was left bleeding among bags of imported floor. On exchanging signals, the night watchman let me pass. I greeted the morning sun, my shaking arm raised above me like a flag. It had been a long campaign in countries too small to name, on seas too vast to chart. Our king in exile, our palaces in flames, we abandoned our posts, and fled the capital. We suffered terrible defeats from town to town, village to village, our broken and bleeding bodies strewn across the untilled fields of abandoned farms. On tree limbs bound with vines or curved planks nailed together, we set sail, the open sea our safe haven, but each landing, on various islands, the president's militia set upon us again, slashing us with steel blades. Our harvest gods silent, our stone temples ruined, we scattered and went our own way. With fake papers, I boarded a cargo vessel. I needed a modest port away from the shipping lanes, a place to write dispatches to the king. The voyage was rough, without women and decent wine. I found both in an underground bar in the poor part of town. It was dark, secluded, little alcoves, a candle on each table. The woman behind the bar, draped in the coloured garments of her island civilisation, approached again, and gave me another glass of wine. A gesture from me, she sat down. I was tired of crossing borders by night, hiding in cellars by day, drinking dangerously by choice. I had nothing to say to her. I was already drafting my dispatches. She took command, told me the story of her life, the plot long, the theme intense. I let myself drift towards her as though I was lost at sea. It was not her words that tempted me. I had heard too many confessions, unsolicited, unhinged, to fall into that pit. It was her body, dark, beautiful, unknown to savages, a peaceful shore, where I could lay down, close my eyes. By the hand, along a dirt track, out of sight, she led me to her isolated shack by the river. I wrote my dispatches at night, the witnesses gone, the town dead, the lights extinguished, the roads too dark to walk, the ships in the bay rusted, empty bulks long neglected, the captains drunk, unfit to voyage. Night after night, while I wrote my dispatches, her olive skin glistened in the lamplight from my desk. Night after night, my dispatches became stories, my stories poems, my poems fragments, my fragments broken lines, even I, one day, would no longer be able to read. 

### Sunday 17 February 2013 4 pm

### Trapped

**Athena Zaknic**

West Beach, SA

He feels he is choking

Escape is the only way out.

The lure of the unknown beckons

beguiling and welcoming

His paralysed guts

nullify all courage mustered.

The rope of his efforts

loosened, is now giving away.

Failing to divert his path,

defeated he falls back

onto a wayward world

that is devoid of reverence.

He'll never be anointed

by exotic fragrant balms

in far away places

where the daring are rewarded

with a simple tune

on a four holed flute.

### Monday 18 February 2013

### To Those In Need

**Connie Howell**

Wentworth Falls, NSW

Come, let me touch you

And heal your hurts,

Let me spread my wings around you,

Protecting you from life's sad days

And baffling ways,

I am a shelter

Please come,

Abide within my loving arms

Secured against my breast,

I'll love you and enfold you

Until it's time to go

To meet again the challenges

With strength renewed once more,

And as you go along your way

Look back from time to time,

And see me as your beacon

Between this life and Divine

For I am in the middle

Of this world and the next,

And I can help you always

By bridging rivers deep.

### Monday 18 February 2013 4 pm

### Bend In The River (A Bent Sort Of Hymn)

**James Craib**

Wentworth Falls, NSW

Brethren Divine there's a Bend in the River,

Revert In Behind and thou shalt be saved.

Taste of the sacred wine ~ Dei Herb Vintner,

Never Thine Bird shall be kept in a cave.

That's where we should meet ~ Bend Thine River,

Dive In Brethren the waters shall cleanse thee.

Never Bind Their clothes – they shall not shiver,

Words In Thee Verb Rind like the bark of a tree.

It's time to forgive and Rebind The Riven,

Let's meet for a drink at The River Bed Inn.

Wine, whiskey, song and Thin Beer, Driven

Divine Brethren to where the River Be Thinned.

### Tuesday 19 February 2013

### Paradise

**Judith Bruton**

Lennox Head, NSW

If paradise was just across the road

What would you do?

Admire it?

Dream upon the ancient pines and birdsong;

Feel the cool sea breezes and misty mornings

Photograph the dawn

Paint midday?

Maybe venture into the archetypal forest

to touch the afternoon?

Immerse yourself in the warmth of tropical air

Feel leaves and grass moist beneath your step

Watch light dapple your body with myriad shapes

Look into infinite seascapes, rivers and bays of changing hue

Paint twilight?

Perhaps you would capture

the spirit of paradise in words?

And plant a memory seed

in places afar

where paradise once was.

### Tuesday 19 February 2013 4 pm

### Summer Storms

**Lynn Nickols**

Griffith, ACT

Wading through whiting in warm water shallows

Watching the fish whisk away, shadows fleeting

Wondering why they are nervous like swallows

Waiting for whispers of wind, heartbeats heating.

Suddenly up comes the southerly buster

Showering its leaves across water and sand

Soon we retreat to some shelter, protection

While Summer's hot swelter turns cool on the land.

Cumulus clouds brilliant white, growing darker,

Fluff across forest and sweep across scree

Water first sprinkles, then splashes, then rushes

Through everything, everywhere, down to the sea.

Soon there is lightning and rumbles of thunder

Crashes and flashes and tumbling branches

Then it's all over. The sun bursts asunder,

Sparkles and shimmers and rainbow enhances.

Air smells of greenness and life in the earth

Crickets go crazy and fish head to sea

It's summery season, the wildness, the rebirth

Vigorous nature enjoying a spree.

### Wednesday 20 February 2013

### Puzzle Of Life

**Jadei Brown**

Edgeworth, NSW

Life is a puzzle of many pieces

Some days pieces fit easily

Other days we struggle to match

At times we feel we have lost pieces

And the puzzle will never be complete

I thought my puzzle was finished

Until you turned up

With you came a picture of a puzzle

That looked similar to mine

Just a few different pieces

I didn't wanna change mine

As I had taken so long

To put the pieces together

Although the new one looked much clearer

I struggled for a day or two

As I was over putting the pieces together

When you said though you would help

I chose to start again

Together we worked day and night

So many times I wanted to give it away

The puzzle you bought me was too hard

But you stayed strong and by my side

And together we put the pieces in place

Now I see the complete picture

Without your pieces my picture

Would never feel right

So thank you for helping me

To join the pieces tight.

### Wednesday 20 February 2013 4 pm

### Tripping Over Rainbows

**NaNaG**

Springwood, NSW

Tripping over rainbows, falling down the cracks ...

Offer an arm to lean on thru these roaring years,

mirror my mirth, lend comfort to my deepest fears ...

when dreams are shattered, old friends prove untrue,

give me your smile to stir the pulse anew

### Thursday 21 February 2013

### Daisies For My Daisy

**Laura Brown**

West End, QLD

Darcy stood awkwardly at the light post, his walking stick barely holding his dense frame upright. He squinted through the cloud haze until the dancing man turned from red to green. Large figures, void of expression, shoved past him in efforts to make time go faster.

Drivers yelled at him, at each other. A symphony of horns filled the canvas of white noise coming from the secret box behind his right ear. His feet had stopped moving forward across the asphalt. Instead, he was moving on the spot. A flash of yellow screeched to a halt. Daisy Dogs Car Wash was painted on the side, in letters large enough that even he did not need his trusty magnifying glass.

'We better get you checked out,' a voice called out above him.

'Daisy... I knew one once. A bright young thing. Down on her luck, even to the very end. She won the lottery, you know. Then it came – the real bad luck.'

'Don't move. Help is coming.'

'She hit her head on the side of the coffee table. Mild concussion was all she was told at the hospital. Next thing, she was dead.'

The clock tower in the distance sent out its hourly chime – four gongs in all. The first drops of rain sliced his skin as around him, the brown landscape softened. His brittle fingers stretched, their warmth contrasted against the sharp concrete.

'Daisies for my Daisy,' he gasped. A warming smile came over his face. The stranger's brief chuckle turned to a sob when the lightness of the hand within hers grew heavy.

### Thursday 21 February 2013 4 pm

### Gran's Billy Lid

**Julie Lock**

Box Hill South, VIC

'I see Gran!' Billy shouted joyfully as he ran onto the front lawn.

Gran pulled her car up in the driveway and clambered out. Ten year old Billy rushed to greet her. 'Hello Billy,' she said, leaning down to give him a huge hug.

'Hello Gran,' he replied meekly.

'What's up? Where's that lovely big smile of yours today Billy?'

Maree, Billy's mother, appeared at the front door. 'Hello there, now don't you sook him up too much Gran.'

'Why not? My dear Billy,' said Gran, giving him a big kiss on the forehead.

Billy stayed close.

'He's been a naughty boy,' said his mother.

Whenever Billy was badly behaved a favourite toy would be placed up high out of reach.

'What's all that, Billy?' asked Gran, looking up at the garage roof. On the top of the corrugated iron shed were Billy's bike, his ride-on tractor, his scooter and all his cricket gear.

'It's been a really bad week Gran,' he replied.

### Friday 22 February 2013

### My Friend The Yowie

**David Anderson**

Woodford, NSW

While walking below the Three Sisters one day,

Through the mist a tall bloke came heading my way,

I said, 'Mate, how come you're so bloody tall?

I'd hate to face you in a bar room brawl.'

He said, 'I'm hungry. You got something to eat?'

I laughed. 'Where'd you get those huge hairy feet?'

'I'm a Yowie, Son, don't you understand?'

he said, as he reached and held my left hand.

'I'm lonely, where's a girl to be my sweet wife?'

My other hand reached for my Swiss Army knife.

'I'd be your friend, but then I would worry,

That I could end up in a Yowie curry.'

He laughed. 'I can't cook to save my own skin'

I relaxed and said, 'Don't you have any kin?

No brothers or sisters, parents, or mates,

To line you up with some promising dates?'

'That's the problem, Son,' he sadly replied.

'You see, every last one of them has up and died

Now what do you say, will you be my friend

And bring my solitude to an end?'

I assumed a facade of being really brave,

When he lead me to his Mt Solitary cave.

I said, 'Living like this could send you quite mad,'

He hung his head low with a look oh so sad,

His eyes welled up, and he started to weep.

'In Megalong, they blame me for killing the sheep.

But I'll tell you true, that's no work of mine,

That's the black panther living in the Jamison mine.'

I said to him. 'Mate, now I understand.'

And smiling, I hugged his huge hairy hand.

'We'll get your story on Sydney TV,

when people meet you they will plainly see ...'

Then I stopped, and knew that if this I tried,

My new found friend would be crucified.

In a lab, by scientists and ASIO

There must be more safer ways for us to go.

Well I tried to think of what I could do

I don't want to see him in Taronga Zoo

So I brought him some things to enjoy a new life

A fridge, plates, spoon, a fork and a knife.

A solar panel for electricity,

a satellite dish, a colour TV.

Laptop with broadband, a stove that he'll brew

A nice pot of tea, and some wallaby stew.

He's even on Facebook, as large as you please

Aussie friends by the thousands, and some overseas.

Makes girls want to meet him and see the real deal

But wait till they meet him – and his photo is real!

My friend the Yowie, he's nine feet tall.

You'd hate to face him, in a bar room brawl

But now he's happy, 'cause I'm his best friend

And he'll never face loneliness, ever again.

### Friday 22 February 2013 4 pm

### I Am Desire

**Graham Sparks**

Bathurst, NSW

To think that I could ever be a Buddhist,

or ever be a Daoist even!

To think that I could shed desire,

desire for anything,

desire for female flesh,

desire to clothe conceptual bones of dreams

in flesh that I could touch and feel,

and bring those dreams to life.

To feel them being born through me.

In the past they said I was a cunt,

I cannot prove them wrong,

The world is flesh and I'm its man.

### Saturday 23 February 2013

### The Billet

**AB**

Kanimbla, NSW

'Out here,' the woman said as she walked to the back of the house and gestured towards a closed-in verandah. With the twin iron bedheads against the wall, they reminded him of hospital beds – white sheets, white coverlets – except for the thick, homemade crocheted throws at the end of each one.

'This is nice,' the young soldier said politely.

'Spare blankets in the wardrobe. It gets cold at night when the sun goes down.'

'I'll be fine,' the young soldier reassured her. 'I have to learn to rough it, Missus.'

The woman smiled tiredly. 'I'll call you when tea's ready.' She turned and left abruptly.

The young soldier shrugged. Not your motherly type, is she? Feel like I'm imposing. A bit rough when I'm off to fight for my country: I thought country people were friendly. He stared out at the acres of thirsty soil; three granite boulders huddled together near the chook house in the backyard.

'I wouldn't be too hard on her.'

The young soldier spun around, his slouch hat flying out of his hand. Opposite him, sitting on the spare bed was a soldier in muddy, ill-fitting khaki.

'Where'd you spring from?'

'Me?' he laughed. 'I'm always around. Keeping an eye on things. Making sure Mum's alright.' He smiled wearily at the newcomer. 'Me mum's had a rough trot. Don't be too hard on her.'

'I didn't know she had a son.'

'Only one. Me! The bad boy.'

'Bad? How?'

'"Wilful" she calls me. Ran away to fight. Her best bad boy: I know what she thinks, always thinking about me,' he said idly pulling at the wool of the crocheted throw. 'Anyway, what's your name?'

'Tommy!'

The weary soldier laughed. 'That's a shame. Tommy! Bet you get ribbed a lot.'

'Why?'

'You know, tommy gun. Maybe your parents knew you'd go to make a soldier some day.'

Tommy shrugged then asked, 'What's your name?' as he held out his hand.

'Len,' he said, shaking the proffered hand. Abruptly he said, 'When do you go?'

'Two days,' Tommy answered, eyes sparkling, his boyish face full of hope for adventure. 'I volunteered. Off to France!'

'Muddy place, France.'

'You been there?'

'Yeah! Dad was there too.'

Tommy looked surprised. 'When?'

'The last war,' Len laughed bitterly. 'The Great War! "The war to end all wars". At least, that's what everyone hoped.'

Tommy asked cautiously, 'Did he make it back?'

Len's face took on a strange expression. 'Would have if he hadn't got lead poisoning.'

'That's a shame,' Tommy said, head bowed.

'Yeah! More like a family tradition. His father went the same way.'

'Lead poisoning? '

Len nodded. 'Occupational hazard if you're a soldier.'

Tommy looked blank and then laughed. 'Oh, you mean bullets.'

Len shrugged. 'Well, young Tommy: not yet blooded.'

Tommy blushed under the soldier's gaze. 'I know it sounds funny but sometimes I think I've already been to war. Sometimes, I'm sure I hear gunfire and smell cordite.'

'Maybe you were always a soldier. Maybe you were a soldier in another life. Some people believe that. Learning that fighting doesn't win the war.'

Tommy grinned. 'That's a mad idea. You mean, soldiers just come back as soldiers until they refuse to fight any more?'

Len smiling gently shrugged again and stood up. 'Maybe. You should take a look at our granite boulders before you go off fighting.' He looked keenly at Tommy but Tommy just smiled back uncertain. Changing the subject, Len said quickly, 'Look, it's almost teatime. Do me a favour. Don't tell Mum you've seen me. It'd only upset her. Alright?' He stood up and hurdled over the spare bed, disappearing around the corner of the verandah.

Tommy shrugged. Odd family! Why wouldn't I tell her?

Just then, Len's mother walked out to the verandah. 'Alright?' she asked, echoing her son's last word. Briskly, she said, 'Bathroom's first on the left.' She pointed outside. 'Outside dunny: drought's not broken so don't waste water. You from the city?'

He smiled pleasantly. 'Erskineville! All my life.'

She nodded. 'Tea's ready.' She walked back to the kitchen, Tommy following.

They sat opposite each other, lamb, gravy, roast potato and pumpkin, peas, and slices of thick bread on a plate in front of them. They ate in silence. When she'd cleared the plates and put them in the sink, she said, 'I'll put the kettle on.' Placing the teapot on the table, the woman sat down heavily, staring into her cup.

'Very nice tea thanks Missus,' Tommy said. She nodded shyly. 'Do you get some help on the farm?'

She sighed. 'I do most of it now with help from my neighbours at harvest time. My son used to help.'

She looked up at him and smiled her tired smile. 'My bad boy.'

'Bad? How?'

'Wilful. My best bad boy! Sorry,' she said suddenly. 'I've forgotten your name.'

'Tommy!'

She shook her head. 'That's a shame. Tommy! Bet you get ribbed a lot.'

'Why?' he asked slowly, feeling his scalp tingle.

'You know, tommy gun. Maybe your parents knew you'd go to make a soldier some day.'

'That's just what...' He stopped himself in time.

The woman glanced up at him and then back into her teacup, as if she would find an answer there.

'You know Tommy, mothers have sons and fathers dig graves. The men die of warring. And the mothers die of grief.'

Abruptly, Tommy stood up, his chair falling onto the kitchen lino. 'Those granite boulders out back – I think I want to see them.'

She nodded slowly. 'I'll show you.'

With his heart beating wildly in his chest, Tommy followed her onto the verandah and out to the backyard. Without looking at them, she waved him forward.

Slowly, Tommy squatted down on his haunches, staring at the weathered face of the rocks in front of him. Taking his time, slowing his breathing, he began to read the inscriptions:

Leonard Albert Frost, died 1899, Boer War, of wounds sustained.

Leonard John Frost, died 1916, the Great War, of wounds sustained.

Leonard Frost, died 1941, World War II, of wounds sustained.

And then, further down, he read:

Mary Frost, died 1942, mother of Leonard Frost, of grief.

'That's right,' she said softly. 'I'm buried with my son.' Turning to the young soldier who rose pale before her, she asked, 'You've volunteered, Tommy. Will you still go off to war?'

### Sunday 24 February 2013

### Julian And Cecilia

**Jenny Kathopoulis**

Wodonga, VIC

Present

My name is Julian and I am scared. Cecilia will not leave me alone. I am in the bathroom, hiding from her at the moment. I go to the mirror and look at my reflection, my pale face and huge scared eyes stare back at me. I quickly go to the door and lock it because Cecilia can get violent at times and she's very strong. She's becoming more and more demanding. I told her to leave me alone and I've been ignoring her. She hates it when I do that. I need to get rid of her or she will ruin everything. Livy must not find out about her, never. She's getting reckless and appearing when she shouldn't. It's like she wants us to be caught! I can't believe it all started so innocently all those years ago.

Seventeen years ago

I am nineteen years old and in the throes of another beer buzz. The nightclub is crowded and the smell of smoke and sweat overrides everything else. I'm on the dance floor, dancing and laughing while enjoying the sensation of the floor spinning underneath my feet until I taste bile mixed with alcohol in my mouth. I quickly leave my friends and enter the toilets rushing to the basin. I splash my face with water and close my eyes in an attempt to make the nausea go away. I can feel my breath becoming shallow, fast and my heart picking up pace to match my breath. I fill with dread as I recognise the signs of a panic attack.

'No, no, not now, please.'

'Awww, what's the matter? Is the poor little boy feeling sick?'

My eyes fly open. In the mirror I can see a woman standing just inside one of the cubicles. She is blonde, mannish with watery blue eyes. I spin around to face her.

'Wh-where did you come from?' I stammer.

'Been here all the time, sweetness.' She moves closer to me. She oozes sexuality. I feel the stirrings of sexual attraction but also revulsion at the same time.

'So what's got the poor boy all worked up?' She is brushing up against me, her finger tracing the sweat running down my face. I can smell her fermented breath breathing into my mouth. It turns my stomach.

'Ummm, nothing. Just drank too m-much,' I say pulling away, but she moves with me, leechlike. 'I, umm, better get going, gonna go home. I feel like crap.'

'Well, I have just the thing for you,' she says, pulling a small vial from her top, being sure to flash bare skin. 'Here, take this. You'll feel better in no time. I promise.'

I stare at the vial with its green liquid in it. I remember all the panic attacks of late, the stress, the constant tightness in my chest. I want to relax. Just for one night. I take the vial from her.

'So what's your name?'

'Cecilia.'

'Well, here's to you, Cecilia,' I mock salute her, before downing the liquid.

Cecilia laughs slyly.

'Thata boy. How about you show a girl a good time now, huh?'

This is the last thing I remember of the night I first met Cecilia, but since that night, we are inseparable.

Twelve years ago

I am twenty-four years old and Cecilia and I are at a party. We are both high and a little out of control.

'Hey Jules, this is Ari. Isn't he scrumptious?' Cecilia squawks. She has draped herself over Ari as they sit on the couch.

I sit on the arm of the couch, trying to keep some distance between myself and the loved up couple, pretending not to notice Ari's hand on Cecilia's thigh. Cecilia notices my disapproval.

'Come closer, silly,' Cecilia stretches out her hand. 'We don't bite ... much,' she coos as her hand glides up Ari's leg, obviously enjoying my possessiveness. Suddenly I feel tired, tired of all the mind games.

'You ready to go Cill?' I stand abruptly.

Cecilia's eyes narrow. 'Ari, honey, can you get me a drink?' Ari stumbles, clumsy in his effort to impress. 'What the fuck is your problem, Jules?'

'Nothin', just wanna go. Not really interested in watching you lie all over some guy. It's getting old,' I say, the drugs fuelling my confidence.

'Yeah, well you've become a bore lately, haven't you?' Cecilia's voice is getting louder. I know she does this on purpose because she knows I hate scenes.

'Whatever, Cecilia, whatever. Go have your fun with Ari. I'll be here.'

'You could join us,' she says, running her finger down my arm, her face inviting.

'Not tonight, Cecilia.'

Her face closes and she stalks off.

~~~

Much later I am ready to go home so I look for Cecilia and find her and Ari in a bedroom. I stop short as they are in the middle of having sex and I watch through the slightly open door. Their backs are to me and they are facing a vanity table. Ari's eyes are shut as he pounds into Cecilia from behind. Cecilia catches my reflection in the table's mirror and smirks. We stare at each other for a moment. She sees the hurt in my eyes. She knows she has won. Why must it always be this way with her? I ask myself. Always these silly mind games. I vow to distance myself from her.

Ten years ago

'Why don't you just leave him the hell alone?' Cecilia screams at my father. I am twenty six and we are at my parents' house for the quarterly 'family dinner'. Cecilia has just reacted to yet another of my dad's put downs of me. Half of me cringes and half of me applauds her.

'Not once, just once, have I heard you say something positive to Julian,' she continues in full flight. 'It's always, "Well you could have done this better, Son", or "Why didn't you do that, Son?"'

My parents sit, staring at Cecilia with identical gasping fish expressions, their eyes bulging and mouths wide open with shock. I suppress a sudden urge to laugh with nervous tension.

'Cill, stop. Please.'

Cecilia then rounds on me. 'And as for you, stand up for yourself and start being a fucking man! You make me sick, you're such a little pussy!'

She then stands suddenly, overturning her chair. She turns and leaves the table but our eyes meet in the hallway mirror.

'I'll be waiting in the car, you got five minutes,' she tells my reflection as she heads out the door.

'S-sorry, Mum and Dad,' I mutter to my parents as I scramble after Cecilia.

Seven years ago

'Oh Cecilia, her name is Olivia and she's gorgeous.'

'Oh Cecilia, her name is Olivia and she's gooorgeeoous,' Cecilia mimics back at me.

I am twenty-nine and Cecilia and I are sitting on her bed. After the fiasco at my parent's house I tried to distance myself from her but Cecilia wouldn't allow it. The more I pushed her away, the more she tried to get closer. There were tears and promises but the nature of our relationship was continued: Cecilia acted as she liked and I always forgave her.

'Come on Cill, don't be like that,' I plead.

Cecilia looks at me, suddenly sincere. 'You won't forget about me now that you've met somebody, will ya?' I am surprised by her sincerity and the vulnerability in her eyes so I gather her close and hug her from behind. We smile at our reflection in the mirror propped up against the wall. The same vulnerability is reflected in my eyes as I answer her. 'Course I won't forget you, Cecilia. You're a part of me. Just promise me you won't ruin this for me?'

Cecilia's smile wavers. 'Promise.'

We both know we are lying to each other.

Three years ago

'She's cheating on you, Jules.'

I am thirty-four years old and Cecilia and I are in the bedroom that Olivia and I share as husband and wife. I am furious with Cecilia. For the last four years Cecilia has been taunting me with suggestions of Livy's infidelity. At first, I simply laughed it off but slowly her taunts began to work on my insecurities, as only Cecilia could do. My distrust of Olivia nearly ruined my marriage until I woke up to Cecilia's games.

'Shut up Cecilia. You're lying. Stupid bitch.'

'Aww, what's the matter? Can't Julian handle the truth?'

'It's not the truth, Cecilia. Now stop the silly games. While I'm at it, Cecilia, I know it's you coming in and touching Livy's stuff and stealing her clothes. She fired the cleaner, thinking it was her, you idiot,' I ranted.

'Stealing her clothes? Please! She has the style of a twat. Don't insult me,' Cecilia sneered.

'Cut the crap, Cecilia. I know it's you. Only you would write SLUT on the mirror.'

'Yeah well, if the shoe fits ...' Cecilia lets the sentence hang and walks to the dresser. She studies her image in the mirror, reapplying her lipstick. Her reflection blows me a kiss. My self control snaps. I lunge off the bed and grab the back of her head, pushing her cheek up against the mirror.

'You leave Livy alone, you listen. Enough, Cecilia, no more,' I growl against her ear.

I know I will pay dearly for this but I am too angry to care. Cecilia's laughter begins slowly and then becomes a cackle. I stare at her reflection, her scarlet mouth twisted in laughter, the lipstick smeared. Our eyes meet in the mirror and to my surprise Cecilia is crying despite her cackling laughter. Her cackling vibrates in my mind and I need to get away from her. I run out of the room with Cecilia's cackle chasing me.

One year ago

'Tell me about Cecilia, Julian.'

I am thirty-five years old and I am talking to my psychiatrist, Lana. I have decided to get professional help in an attempt to help my marriage. Cecilia is a constant presence in my marriage. Even though Olivia is not aware of her, she is a major player in our marriage with her insidious accusations.

'Umm, well, she's strong and bold. Everything I wish I was.'

'Alright, then what's the problem?'

'Well, she lies to me about Livy and tells me Olivia is cheating on me, for one.'

'So why don't you end the relationship?' Lana says logically, not understanding that our relationship is anything but logical.

'I can't.'

'Why not? Why can't you end the relationship with Cecilia, Julian?'

''cause, I need her ... in some messed up way. I rely on her,' I answer. I jump off the chair, agitated. I catch my reflection in the window, my frightened eyes look back at me. I think I catch a glimpse of Cecilia's sardonic smile. She is everywhere.

One month ago

'I'm sorry Jules, really I am,' Cecilia cries.

'Just leave us alone. This time you've gone too far.'

I am thirty-six years old and Cecilia and I are in my car. I have told Cecilia that it's over. I don't want to see her anymore. Her last little game of hiding a pack of condoms in Livy's bag nearly led to Olivia getting hurt again but thankfully, just the second before I struck Livy, I realised the truth. I promised myself then that Cecilia had to go. Today I was keeping my promise to myself.

'Please Julian, I–'

'No Cill. I can't do this anymore. Too much has happened. It's over!'

Cecilia's jaw clenches. 'You don't get to say it's over. Understand? You're nothing without me. Who's the one who sticks up for you, fights your battles and stops you from getting walked over, huh? Me, because you're a little pussy. I say when it's over, not you!'

Cecilia then undoes her belt and flings open the car door, slamming it shut behind her. I look in the rear view mirror just as she turns around. The rage in her eyes turns my blood cold.

Now

I am thirty-six and have locked myself in the bathroom. I can hear Cecilia looking for me, calling for me.

'Shut up,' I whisper.

I am terrified Livy will hear her and all our dirty secrets will be found out. Cecilia has the power to destroy everything. If Livy were to find out about her, it would be the end. I look in the mirror and Cecilia's reflection stares back at me, smirking, defiant.

'Julian? You alright in there, babe? You've been in there a while.' Livy is at the door.

'Yeah, I'm fine, Liv.'

'Go to hell bitch,' Cecilia screams in my head and in my heart I know I will never be free of Cecilia. Cecilia is a part of me, the part that wants to be set free, the part of me that I despise and fear and most importantly, a part of me that I will never let go.

My name is Julian and I am scared.

### Monday 25 February 2013

### My Holden Barina

**Irina Dimitric**

Mosman, NSW

My Holden Barina rhymes with ballerina

I'd write a terza rima to my Barina

If only my muse would enthuse

An Aussie car is what I like

I'm so glad she's not a bike

My mane will stay dry in the rain

She takes me from point A to B

Humming softly as a bumble-bee

Via alleyways and highways

To park her is a piece of cake

I can do it half awake

Squeeze with ease into smallest space

My Holden Barina rhymes with ballerina

For this little beauty here's a rima piccolina

Not Dante's terza, but a fine rhyme of mine.

For the poetry buffs out there, and those who love to learn something new every day (your mother was right, it IS good for you!), this is Irina's own style of terza rima or tercet. She created it along the following pattern:

Each stanza has three lines (tercet).

The first two rhyme.

The third line contains internal rhyme.

The rhyme pattern in this poem is, therefore:

aa(bb) cc(dd) ee(ff) gg(hh) aa(jj) with the internal rhyme shown in brackets.

Irina says that on the day she created this form, 18 May 2012, she checked online and could not find mention of a poetry form like this one. Perhaps we should could it a Dimitric Sequence? (Please see 26 January for enlightenment on that one!)

### Monday 25 February 2013 4 pm

### Passing Over

**Davidvee**

Glen Waverley, VIC

Process of dying is underway,

lungs and heart in rapid decay.

They say I can't expect a stay,

it may possibly happen today.

Reconciled, can't procrastinate,

too weak to even remonstrate.

No choice but to lie and wait,

one more move to checkmate.

Will heart or brain be first to chill?

Do I struggle or just lie still

or a progression, by divine will,

a series of steps to fulfil?

I wonder who or what decides

where the essential me resides?

Is there anything at all inside

to pass over to that 'other side'?

If not and there's nothing there

to move through a porte cochere,

well then, do I bloody care

if I do not end up somewhere?

No more strength to converse,

pain is growing, getting worse,

nervous system's quite perverse.

Can't take any more, call nurse.

More and more I've become fond,

of morphine, true magic wand.

It will slash life's final bond,

ease my way to the great beyond.

### Tuesday 26 February 2013

### Alice Springs Regatta

**Armin Boko**

Lake Heights, NSW

Unlucky to freeze

In Moscow zoo,

It's dawn and already

warmish thirty two

At Alice Springs,

Where a mob of red 'roos

In the suburbia

graze the night through.

On Todd's River dry bed

A regatta is to take place,

A real regatta we're told

On real river sand.

A true sensation;

World's one and only

Regatta on sand.

Media and tourists

Swoop down on Alice

Adorned in her finest.

Alice drowsy begins to stir

At first daylight; engine running

A Police van pulls up

To pick up strugglers

After a hard night's binge.

Log fires put out,

Hence a free ride assured

Back to the outback station.

Council's rubbish truck

Calls up next to collect

Bedding of sorts, miscellaneous

Litter, empty booze

Containers for most part.

All Police leave's cancelled,

Let the regatta begin.

Cheers and salute to all

Part takers, dignitaries

And spectators,

Skipper and deckies

Brave seamen, welcome all!

And the Mayor goes on.

Ahoy! Ten minutes

To the starting gun,

Maneuver the craft

On long reach helmsmen,

Watch out starboard

For pushy upstarts!

Starter's gun off,

Hell for leather

From hereon;

And it's free for all

No handicap rating

Either sailing in NT.

In quick step as one,

We charge down wind

On the spinnaker leg.

Alas, without spinnaker,

Blooper or big genoa,

Propelled by our own feet

We run through heat

And choking dust,

All the way to the finishing line.

Winners to be showered

By deafening jubilation, crowd

Some already on turps,

Here in Alice Springs NT,

World's one and only

Regatta on river sand.

### Tuesday 26 February 2013 4 pm

### What A Day!

**Jean Bundesen**

Woodford, NSW

A cyclone rages along the Queensland coast, but in NSW...

We are driving across the mountains

Tires drumming on the highway

Surrounded by clouds

Light rain is falling.

A Sage in a long grey woollen coat

Could describe this wet weekend

His coat shrouds the scene

Trees snuggling up.

Approaching car headlights glisten golden

On the glossy road

Like the shiny buttons on the Sage's coat.

Visibility's reduced cars ahead are

Just greyish shapes, in misty rain.

It looks like everything is asleep until

Sulphur crested Cockatoos screech.

Bright yellow Wattle blossoms

Add a spot of cheer.

Our windscreen wipers slip-slop back and forth.

Off the mountain clouds lift –

Theatre curtains rolling back,

Leaving sullen grey clouds above

But no rain.

Groups of Lombardy poplar trees

Turning gold along the highway

Banks of Brunswick Green pine trees

In the distance.

We have gone far enough; home is calling...

### Wednesday 25 February 2013

### The Creak/Creek On The Stairs

**JH Mancy**

Tallebudgera, QLD

The apartment felt lonely now that Bill was gone. It made noises which sounded remarkably like weeping. The taps did weep. They dripped constantly, depriving Mary of sleep until the early hours. When finally she did drift into an uneasy slumber in the wee hours she woke just a few hours later. Usually she willed herself to rise, to get her day started.

Lately Mary had been feeling a little unwell. She'd have to ring the doctor to make that appointment. The one she'd been putting off for weeks. She'd thought her tiredness was the result of Bill's sudden death. The funeral arrangements had been taxing on her. She'd had to contend with disagreeable in-laws and their snooty offspring.

Then there'd been accommodation to arrange. Her small house had overflowed with people she hardly knew. They offered help, trying to ease their own grief in any way they could. She'd appreciated their efforts, but found it stifling. She and Bill had led a quiet life – they were not used to fuss. They'd avoided it whenever possible, preferring each other's company.

After the visitors had departed for their various homes, amid promises to keep in touch, Mary had the house to herself. The first few days were a blur. She simply was too depleted to attempt anything, let alone sort through Bill's personal effects. It was a small comfort to be surrounded by his things. Reminders of his interests were everywhere. They'd been unable to have children, so there would be no-one to pass them on to.

To please a well meaning friend, Mary decided to see a grief counsellor. The time was set for mid-morning. It will be the shortest session in history, she thought ruefully.

The receptionist was all smiles and welcoming. Having given her details Mary was ushered to a chair. She immediately felt at her ease. The décor was restful and calming, none of those garish colours seen in some more modern waiting rooms.

The clients were a mixed bag. For the most part they seemed relaxed, apart from one lady, who was tearfully wringing her hands. Mary surmised her lost to be quite recent – and settled down to wait her turn. By the time her name was called she had perused most of the ancient magazines in the waiting room.

The counsellor was a spry looking man in his mid to late forties. His hair was beginning to thin at the temples. Just a touch of grey was visible. His gaze took in her neat appearance.

He'd not had time to read her history, apart from a cursory glance when he'd had a few moments to spare. It had been busy this morning, but the waiting room was almost empty now. Many of his clients had chosen early appointments as they had jobs to go to.

The woman sitting before him was of retirement age, which meant he could grace her with a longer consultation. He'd wave the extra charge this one time in the name of good customer service.

'Mrs Black, may I call you Mary? My name is Kerry O'Connor. Kerry to you. Tell me about yourself. What brings you here?' The mark of a good counsellor is to listen and this he did with great patience.

Surprisingly at ease with this stranger, she unburdened herself about things she hadn't consciously thought about in a great while. Things previously only shared with Bill in their quieter moments together. O'Connor sat passively, only interrupting occasionally in order to clarify some point or encourage her to continue.

Counsellor O'Connor was well pleased. Mary Black's initial session had been revealing. No further appointments were necessary. A pity. She could have proved a rich source of income. He thought of her parting words as she'd left his office. 'I won't be needing you again. I only came because a friend was worried about me. I'm staying at her house tonight – she insisted. I'll be able to tell her what a great help you've been. Knowing her, she'll soon be sending more business your way!'

Mary fully intended to visit her friend that evening. She'd had to cancel as she once again felt unwell. She was rather tired and looked forward to a quiet night in her own bed. Sarah would understand.

She made her way up the stairs of her two story apartment, her feet dragging with every step. Nearing the top, she felt an urgent need to use the toilet, but couldn't summon the energy to make the extra distance. Such a short distance, such an effort of will. It was all too much. She was exhausted!

Mary's bladder opened, releasing a warm stream of urine. The creek on the stairs became a flood and with it flowed her dammed up emotions.

Counsellor 'Kerry to you' O'Connor, with impeccable timing, chose this very moment to put his plan into action. He'd taken time after Mary's session to read her file. Deciding the recently widowed woman was rich pickings, he worked on a plan to share some of her perceived wealth. He let himself carefully into Mary's home. It was surprisingly easy.

A quick scan revealed nothing of value in her small living room, apart from various models, signifying many interests. There was a large record collection which might be worth a second look. He could do that as he was leaving. He'd need some sort of bag to carry them. He should be able to find any number of them in the house and decided to try his luck upstairs.

At first he did not see Mary sitting on the step. She was doing her best to be quiet, but could not stem the gush that issued forth. She held her breath and observed him until, reaching the halfway point, his foot slipped from under him and he landed in a heap at the bottom of the stairs.

Mary could not contain herself. The more she laughed the more relief she felt. Her relief grew in volume and a yellow river rained down upon the would-be thief. The step on which she sat creaked in rhythm to her swaying. It was punctuated by hysterical laughter and sounded like a strange eccentric band.

Based on Mary's description police apprehended a bruised, foul smelling, soon to be ex-grief counsellor. Dishevelled and shamefaced, he was led away between two burly law enforcement officers.

Following this encounter Mary's demeanour underwent a change and she found herself smiling at the oddest moments. The local Police Citizens Youth Club may appreciate Bill's many models and hobby paraphernalia, she decided. Bill had supported their cause for many years. The association had become more than just a voice on the telephone over time. It had meant a lot to Mary that some members had attended Bill's funeral and offered ongoing support.

The recent adventure sustained Mary. She thought of the times Bill had endured her nagging when things needed fixing about their home – glad now that he had not found time to mend the annoying creak on the stairs. In her imagination she could hear his booming chuckle reverberating from another realm.

### Thursday 28 February 2013

### Fly Bys

**Toni Paton**

Blackheath, NSW

We make quite a noise as we buzz through the day,

Surviving on refuse, on rubbish tossed away.

We are not averse to fresh food, if, perchance we find,

Food not covered, morsels left behind.

Never welcome, rejected where ever we go,

Disliked with a vengeance, this we know.

Yet – we are here for a reason,

Excelling in the summer season...

When the sun is shining, the days are warm,

'Tis time to swoop, in abundance swarm.

We are drawn by aromas repulsive or sweet –

Places to multiply, substance to eat.

No place is immune, to 'we' nuisance flies.

'They are even here,' everyone cries!

To ensure our species shan't become extinct,

Survival relies on natural instinct.

Depositing eggs, when threatened, in strife

So they can survive, create a new life.

Though we're disliked, not welcome, we say

Take note, believe us – we are here to stay!

We'll work on your rubbish, help manage the mess.

We thrive on this planet – couldn't settle for less.

### Thursday 28 February 2013 12 noon

### Encounter

**Michele Fermanis-Winward**

Leura, NSW

Without a shock

or sharp intake of breath

the snake and I connect.

Late afternoon

when I presumed

it safe to wander out.

There by the door

among the clogs and boots

it eyed my little dog

and she unsure

what action best

stood anchored to the ground.

While I admired

the beauty of its scales

black as a polished shoe

with muted red below

so I could name its kind.

I turned,

scooped up my dog

and praised her reticence.

Tomorrow I will raise my boots

upturned upon a bench.

### Thursday 28 February 2013 2 pm

### The Follies Of Formicidae

**Amber Johnson**

Annerley, QLD

As the tiny soldiers make an epic journey, following the promised scent, their beady eyes fall upon the crystalline mountain that towers above them. Ebony plates cover their bodies in natural armour ask they trek onward. In a single file regiment, they scale vertical heights like they were born to climbing. No safety rope or harness secures them from the fall, only tough feet and the strength exceeding that of men keep them secured to the walls. Team work keeps them going along with the trust in the brave soul who dared venture first. Should the scout break formation and retreat, the company's morale will diminish.

Once they conquer tapering cliffs, the fumes that rise from the caldera become intoxicatingly potent. At the very rim of the volcano, the regiment halts. They no longer march in the orderly fashion that they followed throughout the climb. A caldron of emotions bubbles within them until anarchy breaks loose. Some pace nervously around the lip, watching others surpass them and plummet to their demise. It is the cautious ones that survive the longest. Once they have gained the courage to make a steady descent into the hazardous pit, the amber nectar beckons them closer. Only when their eyes fall upon the pool of molten gold do they realise that they are not alone.

They were not the first to find this sacred site, and they won't be the last.

Legions of fallen kin litter the citrine surface with twisted bodies. Their shiny black corpses float along the lost sea like a fleet of sunken ships. A few survivors struggle to pull themselves from the depths, pleading for help from the new-comers. Some of the adventurers heed the warning cries and scramble in a hasty ascent towards the exit. They will not risk their lives for this madness. Others have travelled too far to return empty handed. They know that this will be their last journey should they fail.

One dares perch above the sacred liquor. They pay no regard to the fact that the pool is tainted by the flesh of their kinsmen. The desire to quench their insatiable thirst is too strong. Feet cling to the slippery walls as his lips send ripples across the surface. Taking note of his method, others began to follow suit.

Two opportunists fish their comrades from the aureolin sea, dragging them up the steep ascent. Whilst it may appear that they are respecting the dead this is not the case. In a barren land where each meal could be your last, you take no chances. Regrets are for the weak and protein is scarce.

It is often not the journey there but the one home which is the hardest. I have watched countless victims fall prey to madness, consumed by the giddy thrill of the hallowed syrup. They never leave, forevermore lingering at the surface until the jitters kick in and they drown in sickly bliss.

Those few successful enough to survive the quest return with protruding bellies, filled with sweet triumph. Their opaque skin reveals the amber fluid stored in their rumps in preparation for harsher days whilst they scurry away from the mass grave that rests upon my desk.

### Friday 1 March 2013

### Pancakes

**Ashwyn Kale**

Moonah, TAS

My relationship with pancakes is as follows:

My first job, real job, paying more than odd cents in the strawberry-juice-stained palm of a summerlabour pimpleton, was in a pancake restaurant. It was located in the centre of Melbourne in the flagship Bourke Street Mall. It was called 'The Pancake Parlour' – despite parlour being a known euphemism for illegal brothel – and its logo featured the image of a wavy-haired dryad saying 'Lovely!' as if she were ripped on magic mushrooms marinated in avgas.

I started as a dishwasher and finished, maybe seven months later, as a dishwasher. In between I washed dishes at a furious pace and eventually became known as the Gun Dish-hand of Bourke Street. Not really.

There were Chefs (chef is an English word meaning university dropout who can flip pancakes), Waitstaff (waitstaff is a Hindi word meaning unemployed foreigner) and Dishwashers (dishwasher is an Australian word meaning Untouchable). The system was such that Waitstaff would approach Customers pausing at Please Queue Here sign and guide them to slimy booths. Orders would be taken, written in triplicate – one for Chef, one for Taxman, one for God of Abysmal Lunches – and the Customer urged to purchase a drink, example: white coffee for listening, black coffee for talking. Drinks were good business. Cup for Regulars, mug for Punters Having Nervous Breakdown. Next, Waitstaff would clear dishes from vacant tables and return them to wash-up area with such violent disdain that parfait glasses would break and slash hands of Dishwasher. This, according to a manager who had such a long moustache that it covered his name tag and I never found out who he was, was unfortunate.

Meanwhile Chefs were busy cooking. This mysterious art involved swearing just loud enough for customers to wonder if Scriptures were being invoked, required the regular splatter of batter upon a hotplate and orders being called as they were fulfilled. As I have never in my life achieved any kind of substantial fulfillment, I reminisce about this time with some nostalgia. Shinta – short stack with mushrooms! Shinta was Waitstaff with pertness and Asian heritage and at the time I was very interested in same. Music to my ears, from what I could hear above the whirring of the dishwashing machine. Alfonso – cheese special! Mary – buckwheat with whipped butter! Shinta – tall stack twice! Shintaaaaaaaaaaa! I can see her still as she dumps another tray upon the stainless steel bench, shattering plates with her intensity. Perhaps it was contempt. I pull the handle again. Another load goes through. The machine whines. I discard another pair of useless latex gloves and bleed into a bin of half-eaten pineapples and irradiated marshmallows. The nameless, faceless shift manager comforts me. 'It's not your fault,' he says. I never knew Shinta's other name. She exists only in jeans, regulation waitress-fade, t-shirt, lovely yellow, stoned, blue pumps, squidging on the grease that had accumulated on the tiles come late-shift, and the fear of too many fulfilled orders cascading over the front counter.

If only I had had Hindu god pedigree, or a glossier vinyl apron, I might have stood a chance.

I just realised, while looking in the mirror at the hairdresser, that my left eye doesn't open as widely as my right. I've noticed it in photos before but thought it might have been a squint, a funky angle, whatever. It's not. Now that I think about it, it's most likely the result of being kicked in same during a soccer game in 2002. No-one has ever commented on it. Does no one look into my eyes anymore? What have I done?

### Friday 1 March 2013 4 pm

### Spirit Of The Sea

**Hazel Girolamo**

Ulverstone, TAS

Somewhere in Italy a statue of Juliet has a well rubbed left breast, presumably for luck in love. In America, Lincoln has his nose regularly shined by passersby for luck. Kissing the Blarney Stone supposedly gives one the gift of the gab. Could this be the saving grace for the much maligned Spirit of the Sea? A bit of the old urban myth and legend?

Think of Nelson's column and St Marks square with their pigeons, Copenhagen with Mary and the mermaid.

Amid concerns about artistic integrity and cultural merit and vandalism and nudity confusing small children notwithstanding, we need to think outside the mould. After all he is being touted as our next tourism drawcard. Instead of worrying about vandalism, encourage locals and visitors alike to rub a certain part of his anatomy. If rubbed the right way, what miracles may befall us!

The pulp mill waiting lists reduced, rebates for cyclists on maternity leave, old growth pensions decimated, proper pipeline parking, pay as you go politicians, backhanded baby boomer bonus and safer bowling for all.

Despite the portholes of public opinion, art is relative depending on your point of view. Head on, it's Lance with No Pants, side on, it's Leer from a Pier, and when you're completely past it, Unfrocked by the Dock.

Proper spin doctoring of his assets will soon have his image engraved on all manner of cheap tacky imported souvenirs, t-shirts, car bumper stickers, rubbers and rulers and erasers.

Slogans like:

'I rubbed raw on the foreshore'

'In the buff by the bluff'

'Starkers by the water markers'

'Is my bass strait?'

Although a change of stance may be in order. Instead of looking like he has just gotten a nasty bite from a jack jumper or been run over by a rabid log truck driver, have him prising off the odd art critic or two currently clinging to his plinth. Have him brandishing, aloft, in triumph, a fox carcass as a customised advisory service as to what one actually looks like.

Incorporate a siren at his feet, to beckon any reluctant visitors to our fair shores. It will also come in handy if Tassie ever decides to join the state footy league.

In order to placate all those not in favour of the current artist further benefiting from the taxpayer's purse, plans can be placed on a turntable to enable the critics to turn the other cheek.

But if he has no cultural connection to our region, why would we want to give a foreign pagan refugee any street cred?

Well, ancient Greece had their Colossus of Rhodes, so why not our very own Colossal Waste of Money?

Have him and his trident astrident across the Mersey. Let the great spirits glide between his legs, and give the tourists something to really aim their camera zooms at.

Get big businesses on board, they're currently gunning with enthusiasm to expand our horizons. Split the cost of his erection with the public sector. There will be no room to harbour a grudge when his public and private parts are hoisted aloft for all to see. Have the Greens labouring on one side and art critics tugging on Merseyside, and the rift between rich and the shore will come together in a rare show of nudity unity for all to admire.

If a certain part of his delicate anatomy were to be subtly altered to include a bell, he could really ring out the changes of tide and fortunes of man in these troubled times. Devonport residents could pause in their toasting of the new day and know that the spirit is really with them.

Ask not for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee and me and our 'Spirit of the Sea'.

### Saturday 2 March 2013

### Redemption Poem

**Carly-Jay Metcalfe**

Highgate Hill, QLD

Refusing to cry for your past

I usher you into a softer place.

Falling like confetti out of happy hands,

you stop, drop and claw at the ground

like you've lost something precious.

Dipping back into that wound,

a blanket of goose bumps as big as horns

cover my shinning bones

but don't worry – you're young, still have your milk teeth.

It won't hurt as much for you.

A procession of ants – slow to love the sun, yet fast enough to leave.

That's how I want you to be –

to shoulder the silence; lean into it so you're comfortable with my cause.

You are:

Nosebleeds and flowers

The early bird that breaks its wing

Offering more wisdom in silence

You are more and you are less

where you talk about everything, yet know nothing.

The sheet falls about my neck like a cowl.

Soon it will be festooned as I fight sleep, but for now

it is gentle and limp

like your mess mixed with your mirth, unfolding like wet origami.

Old trash doesn't glitter when it rains.

After it's rained and cops a spray of sun,

that's when you hear old trash bleating in the stinging heat.

You tell me we're home

and I look for my feet in the water.

You tell me the ocean will do the teaching,

to slow us down to a tidal pace,

but all I got was salty water and a rusty hook in my heel.

### Saturday 2 March 2013 1 pm

### Secrets

**Paul Humphreys**

Oxley, ACT

Derek woke with a jolt. Memories of last night tumbled into his waking consciousness like a rockslide of mud and rocks.

He decided to rest awhile in bed to recollect his thoughts, to sort the mud from the rocks from the avalanche of information pouring into his mind about last night. His Hong Kong hotel was well appointed and close to the venue for the Restaurant and Catering Conference.

Mr Sammy Lee had been courteous, highly excited and a little pushy at his banquet table at last night's reception after the Conference. The Mai Tai (54% alcohol) flowed freely and all those around the table were feeling merry and it appeared delightfully uninhibited.

Derek was more interested in Grace Weng who was sitting to his left. She was a slight, young Asian lady with doe-like eyes and sensual, petulant lips that some Hollywood stars pay thousands for. Derek was immediately attracted to her and spent as much time as Sammy would allow engaging her in conversation.

Sammy, who was on Derek's right, was a fat ebullient Chinese man of small stature. He spoke English well and tried to dominate the table conversation. Each time he smiled, which was often, a gold filling in one of his front teeth gleamed. The filling matched the small gold stud in his left ear. Small beads of perspiration were a constant feature on his forehead and four or five small tendrils of a grey beard hung precariously from his lower chin. He was probably 60 plus years old and reasonably well off.

'I give you vely special material for cooking,' Sammy said in a loud voice at some point during the banquet looking directly at Derek.

'CSS7I – good stuff, addictive – customers come back to your restaurant many times. If you like I supply much to you.'

Derek owned a very successful restaurant in Double Bay, Sydney. Affluent patrons, big mark ups – he was doing well. At the time of Sammy's offer he thought this new ingredient, whatever it was, might be an opportunity for future expansion. This morning, lying in bed, for him the rest of the night was a blur.

He sat up on his elbows and realised that Grace had left the bed and the room; when, he would never know. He turned on his side in the bed and a small plastic bag of white powder pushed into his chest. It was stamped in black ink 'CSS7I'. He turned the plastic pack over and over in his hand as he contemplated the possibilities.

'God, if this works and it is addictive it could be a god send for the business,' he muttered to himself.

'What did CSS7I stand for? Was it important?' He again was talking to the vacant room. He knew that he and Sammy had discussed it numerous times over the course of the evening. But at this time in the morning, after a heavy night, the meaning of the cipher was secreted in a residual alcoholic fog covering the border of his conscious and unconscious mind.

'It will come to me!' he blurted in a gruff frustrated voice the retort aimed at the opposite wall of the room.

It was not until he was approaching Sydney on QF88 in business class that he started to become really agitated about the quandary that almost certainly would confront him at Quarantine clearance at the airport. A sealed, clear plastic bag of white powder would not be easily explained.

A statement 'It's a cooking ingredient' would not go down well he was sure.

Could I be suspected of being a drug mule? This thought flashed through his mind and he thanked his lucky stars that he was not landing in Indonesia as memories of the Bali nine surfaced in a mental panic of the realisation of his desperate situation.

'Where can I hide it?' he asked himself, as his pulse and breathing quickened with nervous anticipation of what may lie ahead in Quarantine. The prospect of giving it up did not cross his mind. This could be a big money earner for his restaurant.

Then he had remembered the meaning of the cipher CSS7I: Colonel Sander's Secret 7 Ingredients. If it works for KFC it should work for him. He decided that the best way to proceed would be with the plastic bag of white powder in his business coat pocket. He planned to declare the samples of the rare Chinese teas that he was also carrying back from the conference.

'The teas should divert their attention – I hope!' he muttered to himself in desperation as the quandary and the reality of his situation loomed large in his mind and imagination.

'Empty your pockets please.' The quarantine officer's request was polite but firm.

'So sir, what is this?' His demeanour was now changed and Derek had the impression that he had raised his body up a few inches and was now looking down on Derek's red face as he turned the plastic pillow of white powder over to examine the cipher CSS7I.

Derek knew, just as he stumbled over the words in his reply, that it was the wrong thing to say, but it came out any way.

'It's a secret.'

### Saturday 2 March 2013 6 pm

### Forbidden Fruit

**Bob Edgar**

Wentworth Falls, NSW

Reunited after an absence of eight months, the very core of my being longs for you; nay ... lusts for you. Caressing the smoothness of your skin, feeling the slight imperfections as my fingertips absorb the warmth of you. You have been basking in the sun, and only now are you willing to offer your sweet flesh, for me to devour.

I am flushed with expectation, as this is only my second time. Those with more experience have suggested I treat you as I would a good book.

Allow myself to be enticed by the cover ... but don't be deluded, as the body of work may disappoint. Imbed myself within your allure; commit!

I will do all that for you ... and more.

I remove my shirt and hold you close to my heart; peeling away your exterior, I decide to have you in the shower.

First mango of the season ... awesome!

### Sunday 3 March 2013

### The Boy On The Tracks

**Alison Gibson**

Newtown, NSW

The weak, winter sun is gentle on the back of his neck, reaching him through a hazy mist leftover from the early morning fog. The metal of the railway tracks is cold and damp on his cheek and somehow its metallic taste has crept into his mouth. The bars support his body in odd places: his forehead, his last ribs, the top of his thighs, his kneecaps. He feels mismatched, uneven. His stomach hangs down like a pot-belly. He pushes it out, trying to get it to touch the dirt between the bars but it doesn't quite reach. He imagines the vibrations a train would make as it neared the small country station, out of use now for twelve years. The vibrations, he thinks, would be barely perceptible at first. Vague tremors like his blood is shivering in his veins. A few seconds and they would be too strong to be internal. His teeth would chatter, his ribs would bruise as they jolted against the metal. A wall of heavy, metal-on-metal noise, a rush of warm wind, scented with coal, his body flattened into long metal strips, the weight of the carriages rolling over him in a one-two, one-two limp. And then release, his lungs fill with air.

He digs his toes into the dirt. The fresh, cold smell of earth surrounds him. How does smell have a temperature? He reaches his hands up and grasps the furthest bar he can reach. He holds it tightly, his fingers slipping slightly with the damp. Gravity, he thinks, is all that stops him swinging as though he were on a ladder. He squeezes his eyes shut. The world, with Australia hanging precariously at the bottom, and Tasmania just barely holding on underneath. And there is the train track, empty but for a small boy who swings back and forth, bumping into the earth. His stomach swoops as he pictures himself stuck on the bottom of the world, the only thing between him and space is an unseen force which pulls at him. He kicks his legs out and imagines them flying through the air before bumping back against the ground. If gravity were to soften suddenly he would still hold on. All those other people, walking around, would tumble into space, but not him. His hands grip the metal bar tighter.

'Boy!' Mr Johnston, station manager since the forties who now likes to sit on the empty platform, has spotted him. 'That ain't no playground, boy. Get yourself home!' The voice cracks with age. The boy on the tracks rolls over, his bum hits the dirt and the metal digs into his back with a harsh bite. Mr Johnston is waving a walking stick at him as though at a rabbit, trying to shoo him away. The boy stands and starts slowly hopping along the tracks, balancing on the bars, avoiding the dirt. A few more words yelled from the station platform and he veers off to the side, leaving the empty metal tracks behind him.

The noise from his house carries through the still air and reaches him as he makes his way down the hill. He stumbles over his feet as the slope propels him forward. Baby Harry is crying, the boy knows his cheeks will be flushed red in fever. A sodden bib, brown and grey swirls showing its age, will be hung around his neck. His little chest will be fluttering with attempts to breathe and scream at the same time; his fists will be mashing the air, trying to make contact with anything solid enough to resist his despair. Sally will be trying to prod food into the baby's mouth between cries, her own dress soiled from having food spat back at her. Their mother will be yelling instructions from the kitchen, her face red and sweating from kneading the dough for the day's deliveries in front of the hot oven. By lunchtime they need to be heading out to deliver the bread to restaurants and cafes in the nearby towns, but right now, a sick baby and uncooperative dough are the only things on her mind.

The boy circles around to the back of the house. He doesn't want to go inside. He sits on the ground by the side of the house. The shade from the house engulfs this spot for most of the day. He leans against the thin white boards of the house, facing south into the great valley. The boy digs his fingers into the ground, it's cold and clumpy and when he withdraws them his skin has turned a dark, dusty colour. He looks up, watching the mid-morning sun pull itself through the watery clouds. Everything will stay damp today. The boy's stomach grumbles. His legs are cold, the thin cotton of his pants is pressed into the damp earth. He can hear his mother and his sister having an argument, their voices shrill with anger. He stands up, slapping his legs to shake off the clumps of dirt. He starts walking, trying to get some blood moving into his frozen limbs. He'll circle back around to the tracks, he thinks, a few hundred metres north of the station to avoid Mr Johnston.

The grass is long and his shoes are full of water, squelching with each step. He wraps his arms around his body as he walks. He pushes himself up and over a rise and looks down the two metre drop to the train tracks. A mixture of gravel and dirt lays either side of the metal. He normally walks further towards the station to where the rise peters out, and the gravel gives way to soft dirt. It is still morning though, and Mr. Johnston will be on the platform. He jumps, his legs spring down to cushion his landing but his foot catches the side of a rock and he sprawls to the side. His head knocks into the ground with a clunk, gravel digs into his elbow, cheek, thigh. The soft sun glints down at the boy's sleeping form, his cold skin and bent legs.

He is dreaming of the noise a train would make, hauling itself along the tracks towards him. The giant machine emerges from around the corner with a burst of steaming noise, crashing past him with a hot, wet breath of air. He climbs on top of the great screeching hulk as it roars by him, his arms pull at their sockets but he is quick. The metal burns against his hands, smoke billowing in his face, warm and sticky. He climbs up the steep wall until he is lying on his back on the top, the warm metal shudders beneath him. The rhythm of the train becomes the rhythm of his blood, the wind pushes his skin, his cheeks engulf his eyes. He stands slowly, then balances easily on top of the roaring train. He waves to the rolling hills, the valleys with dots of houses hidden in them, the boy who rides trains.

'Hey. Hey.' An insistent voice as his arm is shaken. A strange boy is squatting near his head, his hand poised, ready to continue shaking the thin shoulder in front of him. 'Whatcha doin'?' The boy lifts his head, trying to see who is asking but the sun is too strong in his eyes, the figure is nothing but a silhouette. He tries to form words but his lips don't move very well. He reaches a hand up and touches the side of his head. There's a large lump, the skin burns in pain when he presses it, thick liquid oozes against his fingers. 'Shit, boy, you're bleeding pretty bad.' The strange boy sounds impressed. The wind whistles around them, the morning mist has been blown away but the sun has no warmth in it. The strange boy stands up and looks down the tracks. 'Where does this go, then?' The boy on the ground pulls himself to a sitting position, then, slowly, leaning heavily against the rise off which he jumped, he stands. Nausea rises and he turns, retching against the stones. 'You're hurt pretty bad, aren't you?' The strange boy's voice is a soft statement. The boy presses a hand to his head and nods slowly. They are the same height, looking eye-to-eye. The boy shields his eyes from the sunlight. He could be looking into a mirror. Their hair is the same pale blonde, their faces are narrow, their eyes the same dark brown. The strange boy, though, has longer, danker hair; his skin has seen more sun and his body is slighter, though he looks strong. The boys stare at each other, eyes narrowed in confusion.

The strange boy turns and starts making his way down the tracks, his interest waning. The boy coughs to find his voice. 'Where are you going?' he calls out.

The strange boy half-turns but doesn't stop walking. 'To the horizon and beyond!' He flings his arms out wide.

Warmth, the boy thinks vaguely, would be over the horizon. 'Wait!' he shouts.

The strange boy pauses uncertainly. The sun glints up at them off the metal at their feet. The boy catches up and they start walking side-by-side. The strange boy is walking quickly, half-skipping over the tracks. The boy stumbles over the rows of metal, his steps constantly out of sync with the space between the bars. 'C'mon, we haven't got all day.' The strange boy is impatient.

The boy stumbles, his hands catch him before he hits the ground, and when he gets up again the strange boy is several metres in front of him. The boy has a stitch in his side, his head feels like it's full of thick fluid, the sun is too bright. 'Wait,' he coughs, bending over and wrapping his arms around his body. In the distance he can see where their train track meets the main line. The strange boy is twenty metres away and going faster. 'Wait!' the boy calls again, his voice echoing back at him from the surrounding hills. In the distance he hears the loud honk of an approaching train, the air around him starts vibrating in preparation. The strange boy has started running towards the main line. The boy sinks to his knees, yelping in pain as his kneecap strikes the edge of a metal bar. He tries to crawl over the bars, his stomach filled with the need to get to the strange boy, the boy who is going somewhere. They will ride trains throughout the world and leave the cold of this place behind.

The strange boy has stopped at the point where the new and old train lines meet. He is standing, hands on his thin hips, staring intently to where the train has appeared. Black and maroon and a thick column of smoke is curling its way around the bend. The strange boy glances over his shoulder. He raises a hand and cups his mouth, creating a funnel through which to yell. 'C'mon!'

The boy manages to get to his feet and stumbles a few steps forward before collapsing to his knees again. 'Wait!' The train is too fast, the noise is ricocheting around his head. He closes his eyes, trying to block it out. The whistle of the train is loud and long. 'Too slow!' The voice is barely perceptible over the rush of wind generated by the train. He opens his eyes. The strange boy has disappeared. The boy's eyes follow the train, searching. A small black figure is moving its way along the side, spider-like in his grip of the steep metal walls. The figure pauses and one long thin arm rotates in a giant wave, then he is gone, swallowed by the black smudge of an open compartment door. The boy on the track sinks further into the ground. His stomach aches in disappointment. His nausea comes back to him in a wave, and he retches between the bars. He closes his eyes, sinking further into the ground.

He wakes with the taste of dirt and metal in his mouth. The sun is in his eyes, he doesn't know how long he has been asleep. He gets unsteadily to his feet and starts to run, his legs wobbling, towards his home. His chest is heavy with a disappointment he finds hard to place.

As the house comes in to view he sees Sally leaning against the front post of the verandah, her arms crossed. She calls out to him when she sees him approaching. 'Where the hell have you been? You're in so much –' She stops mid-sentence, her mouth hanging open in surprise. 'What happened?' Her voice is quiet in reverence for the blood which has dried down the side of his face. She opens her arms wide as he comes up the steps, and pulls him close to her. 'Oh Jim.' She turns his face to the side so she can study the injury. 'Come inside.' With her arms still tightly around him she leads him into the kitchen. 'Mum! Jimmy's hurt!' she yells, and Jim shudders at the noise in his ear.

Their mother appears, her face white in panic, her arms already outstretched towards him. 'Jimmy, Jimmy, what's happened?' She pulls him away from Sally and holds him close to her aproned chest.

'I fell,' he mumbles against the mound of soft fabric in his face.

She leads him in to the bathroom and sits him on the edge of the bathtub. Carefully she mops his face with warm water, trickles of it run down his neck and under his shirt. 'That's it, that's it. It'll be over soon.' She mumbles under her breath as he winces at the disinfectant she applies. Sally is standing at the door, baby Harry on her hip. Both of them are staring at the clean-up operation in front of them, mouths slightly open in concentration. It only takes a few minutes, though his head is still tender where the large lump has formed. 'You go sit on the couch now, Sally will bring you some tea and toast.' Their mother glances over her shoulder at Sally, as though daring her to make a fuss, but Sally merely nods and disappears back to the kitchen. Jim is led to the soft brown couch which sits in the afternoon sun. The fabric is warm and slightly scratchy to touch. A blanket is tucked around him. A large mug of milky tea and a plate piled high with toast appears. His mother and Sally stand over him, their faces still furrowed with worry. He grins at them and shoves a large piece of toast in his mouth. His mother smiles, and Sally moans in disgust. The warmth is finding its way through to his skin, his bones. Riding trains, he thinks, would be a pretty lonely adventure.

### Monday 4 March 2013

### Extract From Diary Of A Mephisto

**Mark Govier**

Warradale, SA

You opened your mind and the cat ran out/

Never to return/ Now ghosts

And monsters fill your house

Your head in the mirror/

The rest lies on a stained mattress

In a distant land/ Rented by the hour

The forest within/ The same in all directions/

Paths without end/ But no way of knowing

If there is a centre

Dope fiend getting wasted/ The latest poisons/

High as a vulture circling his own

Dying body/ Savouring every crumb

Free as a poet/ I say what I want/

Within the confines of the law

Who listens? Who cares?

The door is open, but who wants to leave?

Endlessly patched up to watch television

In nursing homes, without end

Shaking like a leaf in the chemical winds/

Hands and mind tremble/ Nervous agony

Another nail in the coffin?

Suitably nullified/ The Great Boredom/

Becomes bearable/ All ignominious thoughts

They start to fade

Peace bomb, blowing my head out/

A silent rain, the unseen breeze

An elixir called spring/ The scent of oblivion

Haze so thick you could cut it/

Walls, ceilings, inner and outer

And the block could last for days

Man having a fit/ Frothing, shaking/

Who is he? Where is he?

A film I saw two days ago

The end of another story?

A red river/ Brains shot out, mince like

Birds feeding in suburban pavements, again

### Tuesday 5 March 2013

### Barbra Streisand Would Love This!

**Ariette Singer**

Canberra, ACT

Text on LIBERTY EGGS packaging:

Barn laid. These eggs come from hens that are:

* Free from hunger and thirst

* Free from pain and injury

* Free from fear and distress

* Free from discomfort

* Free to express themselves

Wow! Free to express themselves?! Barbara Streisand would love it! I can just hear her belting out these words to the tune of People who need people!

Chookies, lucky Free Range chookies,

Hens, that lead happy lives in their barns!

Where they're free from hunger and thirst,

and from injury, pain and distress,

Lucky chicks, that are free to express!

Because they are Free Range chookies!

lucky Free Range chookies!

Are the luckiest chookies in the world!

It would be the best kind of promotion for the world's hen farming community, encouraging all to follow these high moral attitudes to adopt these hens' unique existential arrangements, which improve their psychological state, resulting in superior quality of eggs.

So... just how does the Liberty Eggs company really know if and what their hens 'express'? All clucking sounds Greek to me! Why should I believe the advertising on the packaging?

For all we know, Liberty Hens could be bitching about a boring menu, or that grains are past the Expiry Date, or that drinking water is not spring water. Or, indeed, they might be expressing their eternal gratitude to the enlightened, health conscious, caring humans!

A thought! Could it possibly be... that I've gained my powers of expression thanks to these Free Range, well-cared-for birds? I mean, I've been a long-time convert to the Free Range eggs ... my burning curiosity is killing me!

I'd really love to find out how, exactly, these chooks feel! That is, apart from those high-jumping, vociferous model chooks, in Toyota Corolla ads. Were they paid in choice, organically grown grain, for their unforgettable performance? Hmmm ... I wonder why there are no more ads seen with these energetic chooks? Did they become more assertive and refuse to appear in more ads, due to bad working conditions?

But how would I check the veracity of claims made by Liberty Eggs, and other free range egg producers?

Assuming I'd learn their 'language', will they cluck to me from my first 'hello'? If not, I'll have to eavesdrop, somehow. Or perhaps, befriend one trusting chook, convey my good intentions, and persuade this hen to cooperate with me on my research, by assisting with interviewing volunteers from the barn. She might be seduced by the opportunity of being in a photo with me in a newspaper ...

Of course, it would be so much simpler if Dr Doolittle was available ... and, if he'd do it for free – out of the goodness of his heart – to serve humanity.

I know, it sounds like an impossible dream. But imagine if I persist and succeed ... I might even receive the Nobel Prize for Originality of Research!

### Wednesday 6 March 2013

### Time Remembered

**Felicity Lynch**

Katoomba, NSW

The cicadas sang outside the window. Freshly mown grass scented the room. The sun moved slowly over the garden, lighting the shadows as it slipped beneath the blinds and lit the photographs on the dressing table and the woman in the bed, whose face was wet with her tears.

Ellen had suddenly found herself weeping. It was on such a beautiful day as this, that her husband had taken the children and herself to visit his parents at Yamba.

It seemed to Ellen at this moment she stood still in time – remembered, a busy, loving, noisy, laughing time when she was young and beautiful, when the present still stretched into an unknown but happy future. Time itself hugged them all, promising them a future together forever.

Loneliness stalked her now. Time so relentless had swept them all away, leaving her with a broken heart and memories that took her breath away.

The young nurse held Ellen's hand and gently wiped her tears away. She knew Ellen's ghosts were with her today.

The nurse put her head on the pillow beside Ellen's head and cradled her in her young arms, crooning a song to her that Ellen's mother had sung to her and Ellen had sung to her children when they were small.

Oh, Ellen loved this young nurse. Smiling she whispered that for her she would enjoy her party, for to be 100 years old and still be loved, as she was by this nurse, was to be celebrated on such a beautiful blue-sky golden day.

### Wednesday 6 March 2013 4 pm

### Of The Mind

**Emma-Lee Scott**

Callaghan, NSW

Drifting space of empty thought,

Floating in the image of the eye,

Vengeful, wrathful and evil fraught,

Shimmering, swimming, yes I do spy.

Bleeding tears of deep fears,

Seeping through the thin veneer,

Staining, ripping and stripping bare,

Torn, tattered, no don't stare.

Ravaged memories of days gone by,

Burning through the guilty crack,

Festering, cursing and ready torn,

Blackened, born, yes draw back.

Itching skin of the broken veil,

Revealing the story of time's tale,

Long, twisted and stones that glisten,

Harsh, hurtful, no don't listen.

Darkened voids of caverns heave,

Growing with the silence of the return,

Breathing, sighing and quiet leave,

Lost, afraid, yes I do yearn.

Words laid in a book of complexity,

Frowns formed in dense perplexity,

Puzzled, pained and easily hidden,

Defined, different but no I won't be forbidden.

Speaking louder are words of new,

Shuddering forth in steady flight,

Telling, true and in plain view,

Disjointed, damaged, if only for the night.

### Thursday 7 March 2013

### Townsville

**Phillip A. Ellis**

Tweed Heads South, NSW

The light of the buildings

crowds out the stars

in the river, spreading

like cane fields across the water,

jostling each other

like the crowds of tourists

when the schools are out

and the children are gathering.

There is talk in the restaurants,

there are gatherings of people,

even of hens' parties,

but the river is silent

and it is so dark that the shore

cannot be heard from the city.

### Thursday 7 March 2013 4 pm

### Shallow Night

**Virginia Gow**

Blackheath, NSW

A sallow knight came riding in

No whiskers bore him on his chin

No helmet drew upon his head

Nonsense rattled round instead

So tell us, how you came to be

Banished here, in misery.

'Oh, I am famed,' he replied

'Up and down the countryside.'

'I am the most deliberate bore,

All around, I hold the floor,

Never shut my mouth all day,

Though I have but naught to say.

'I love the sound of my own voice,

Polite people have no choice.

I have never met discernment,

Or the silent sweet lament.

'Tis a shallow night when I come to call

To slip and slither over all.'

### Friday 8 March 2013

### Wedding Secret

**John Arvan**

Underdale, SA

it wasn't much to go by,

just a hint or two

of something that may happen soon,

but few were those that knew.

depended on the planets

you know how they align?

the cycles of the summer moon

and if the weather's fine.

love and marriage happens

at least where laws allow.

a complex of emotions

dreams

kisses

life-long vows

congratulations david

regina's made for you

but where's my bloody invite??!!

you know i love you too!

### Friday 8 March 2013 4 pm

### Flaky

**Susan Kay**

Bellevue Heights, SA

Silvery flakes drifted down, glittering in the bright moonlight.

'I must do something about this dandruff,' mumbled Julia, 'or stop wearing black.'

Shaun began to flick, flick at the shoulders of her black pashmina, but the scale stuck stubbornly to the cashmere fabric. Julia wanted to tell him to stop it but this was the closest they'd ever got to an affectionate interchange. He was so intent on flicking and picking at the white patches that the frown line between his eyes became deeper and deeper. She imagined falling into the crevasse developing there. How silly, she thought, one falls into a loved one's eyes, not between them.

Julia knew she should pull away from him before his obsessive-compulsive disorder kicked in. If it did, he would insist on removing every bit of scurf from her scarf. She couldn't afford to be there till morning; she had a job to go to. Gently she touched his arm.

'Let's go for a coffee, Shaun. Next time I'll wear my white shirt.'

### Saturday 9 March 2013

### The Photograph

**Shane Smithers**

Katoomba, NSW

I saw a photograph of a person I had never seen before; I still don't believe it was me. He was different somehow. He had a different attitude, the way he stood, the way he carried himself was not at all like me. The photograph haunts me still.

Maybe it's not the photograph, or the man in the photograph that torments me, but the fact that other people believe that the man in the photo is me. I'm not sure. Not being the person in a photograph is no big deal, I'm not the person in most photographs. But, the unwavering belief of the people who say that I am the person in that photograph needles me more than you can imagine.

I feel shallow. What other people think shouldn't bother me, but it does, and that bothers me. That's not all; I never thought that I cared about what other people thought of me, but I must. If I didn't care about what they thought of me, I wouldn't care about the photograph, or the person in the photograph; whoever he is. I certainly wouldn't care about that person being mistaken for me.

The fact that I'm bothered about caring about what other people think of me makes me think I'm neurotic. Who cares if I'm shallow? Who cares if I care about what other people think of me? For that matter, who cares if I'm neurotic? As long as I'm not some kind of narcissist, I'm okay. Right? Why am I asking you? I shouldn't care if you think I'm okay. Maybe you think I'm a narcissist, maybe you think the guy in the photo is me. So what? You can think whatever you like. What you think about me is none of my business.

I'm okay. Really! I just don't understand why people think that that other guy is me. That's what bothers me. The fact that they think I'm like him; the fact that if they think I'm like him, or that he is me, they don't really know me at all. That's what bothers me. It shouldn't but it does. No one wants their friends to think that they are someone else. We all want our friends, or at least someone, to know who we really are and love us anyway.

The difficulty is that the more I look at the photograph, the more confused I become. Don't get me wrong, the guy in the photograph is definitely not me, I don't care who he is. What I'm confused about is that I'm not really sure who I am, or why. And the 'why' really makes me question the 'who.'

'Who would you like to be?' is the most ridiculous question anyone can ask. Because, in a world where that other person already exists, if you were them, the 'real you' wouldn't exist. So the question really asks you whether you would rather not exist. But people don't understand the question so they say, 'Brad Pitt', 'Meagan Gale' or 'Captain Jack Sparrow'. It's similar when your friends think some person in a photograph is you, only that it's not you saying you would rather not exist, it's your friends saying that the real you doesn't exist, that you are someone else.

The more I think about it, the more the whole neurotic thing plays on my mind. I mean people can't really know who I am on the inside, can they? Oh crap! There I go again asking you, as if I care about what you think. No. No, this is not a question about what either of us thinks; it's a question about existence, existentialism. If a tree falls in the forest and there is no one there having a picnic, what do the ants eat? I really wish I studied philosophy. Maybe I should have studied psychology, at least that way I could figure out if I was neurotic or not. Self-diagnosis can be a problem though.

It's no surprise, the photograph made me think about who I am, about how I became me. I don't think I had much choice. I don't want to blame society for who I am, because I don't think 'blame' is the right word. It's too emotive. 'Credit' is not the right word either. But I do think society has had a major influence on both the real me and the 'me' other people think I am. If I was born into a different community I could have been a Buddhist, or a communist guerrilla. I could have been an accountant. Chances are I'd be a different me.

No, I am who I am because society had certain expectations, certain possibilities for who I might have become. Maybe that is what those people saw in the photograph, someone they expected to be me. The problem is that expectations are matched to class, gender, sexual orientation, political bias, age and taste in music among other things. People use a crude taxonomy to find the right box and then they dredge up the set of expectations that match the box you fit into and measure you against that. It's hardly fair.

Expectations be damned. The problem is that the real me, and the 'me' that people judge me by don't match very well. And besides, the real me doesn't comply with society's expectations. And that, in a nut shell, makes me deviant by definition.

There is one more complicating factor. Not only do I want not to be the man in the photograph, I don't want to be the me that I actually am. And because there is no point wishing I didn't exist, I can't bring myself to wish I was someone else. No, that wouldn't do. Instead, I wish that I was a different me.

Drinking a whisky, wishing I had a nice Cuban, I thought about being a different me late one night. That night I dreamed about being a different me. The next night I dreamed again. The second time I wasn't the same different me as in the first dream. Neither of them was me. I didn't think I could ever be like either of them, nor did I want to be. The more I think about it the more I think I am stuck being me. And that's not so bad, it's not so good either, but I wouldn't want to be anyone else. I like existing, for now.

I looked at the photograph again. I studied the man that those people said was me. I showed the photograph to my wife. I love her, she loves me. She said, 'It's a photograph of you, but it doesn't look like you.'

'Who does it look like?' I asked.

'Someone that looks like you,' she said.

'But it's not me?'

'No. It is you, but you don't look like that. You look different, more like yourself.'

I was grateful for her honesty. I hadn't thought of it like that before. Maybe the reason I didn't recognise the man in the photograph as being me was because it didn't look like me, because sometimes I look like someone else that kind of looks like me.

Maybe I'm not actually me, maybe I am someone else. Maybe I'm delusional, maybe I have multiple personalities and at that time I was someone else. But that doesn't make any sense. I might be neurotic, but I'm not delusional. The more I thought about it the more I thought she might have been onto something. Let's say that I was playing up, say I was nervous and was playing the part of the extravert; anyone who knew me as that guy, that outgoing party animal would recognise the man in the photo as me. But because that was not really me, because he was very different from whom I really am, I can't recognise him as me. If only I could remember. But, I can't remember the photograph being taken.

I looked at the photograph. I looked intently. It wasn't me. He didn't look like me, but he had the same kind of watch as me, and that scar on his hand looked a lot like the scar on my hand. I looked at the background, the other people. The photograph was taken at a party. The man in the photograph had a glass in his hand. There were at least half a dozen glasses on the table in front of him. He was circumcised. He had his pockets turned out in an elephant impression. Everyone was obviously inebriated, laughing, hands covering mouths, others cheering.

I thought about the photograph, and about how I didn't do impressions. I looked at all of the empty glasses on the table. I thought about how foolish he would feel being shown that photograph of himself with his old fella hanging out like that. It wasn't very impressive. The more I thought about it the less neurotic I felt, the less I cared about what everyone thought about me or the bloke in the photograph, for that matter. In the end I decided to cut down on my drinking.

### Sunday 10 March 2013

### Departures

**Robert Cox**

Pawleena, TAS

'It's not cowardice, old chap,' Hamilton said, subdued but earnest. 'At least I'm pretty sure it's not. I've given the whole show a lot of thought and I don't think you could say we're running away.'

'I'm sure you're not,' I murmured.

'After all,' he went on, not quite convincingly, 'a handover is only so much talk at the moment. It might never happen. But what with one thing and another, we just felt it was time for us to get out.'

Overhead, the public address system boomed into life, announcing the imminent departure of another flight. There seemed to be so many nowadays. The announcement, ricocheting around in the ceiling's concavity, was hardly intelligible and conversation ceased as people strained to comprehend it.

Two armed security men strolled past. Hamilton watched them until the announcement was over. 'It wasn't the tension, either,' he went on. 'God knows we've stood that for long enough. Mind you, it hasn't done a lot for the way we look.' He grinned quickly, almost apologetically, and ran his hand through his thinning grey hair. 'Funny, but it was just the other day, immediately after we'd finally decided to pack it in, that I really looked at Libby for the first time in years. Gave me a hell of a shock to realise how much the poor old memsahib's aged since this terrorist nonsense got really bad. It was almost as though I'd refused to notice it before – as though I were afraid of what I might see and be forced to pack the whole thing in.'

The waiter, a black, drew near, and Hamilton fell silent until the man was past and out of earshot. Poor beggar was probably harmless enough, but it was one of the precautions one took nowadays.

'I think what finally got to me,' Hamilton continued, 'was not knowing whom we could trust. I was pretty certain of our boys; most of them had been with me for years after all. But there was just no way of being sure. All the rest of it – having the dogs and sleeping with a ruddy great Smith & Wesson under the pillow – was bad enough, but I could never get used to the idea that if I did have to shoot someone, it could be a boy I'd known and trusted for years, perhaps one I'd grown up with, even played cricket with. I still trusted them, mind you – at least as much as I dared after what happened to poor Reggie Poole. We'd no choice but to trust them, but after poor Reggie ...'

Never a loquacious man, he began to look abashed at his own garrulity and wiped his damp face and neck with a handkerchief to cover his embarrassment. But it was obvious he hadn't finished talking. He seemed to be thinking aloud, as if he were trying to justify his decision to leave the country for the safety of England. 'I'll tell you something else,' he said, stuffing the handkerchief back into his pocket, 'something I'd never have dared mention at the club. In an odd way I sympathise with their cause. I'm no bloody radical, of course, and I certainly don't condone violence as a means to an end, especially against women and kids. Don't know that I fancy living under black majority rule either, to be perfectly honest. But I can understand their fighting for it.' He glanced up, as though expecting condemnation, before he continued. 'It's taken me quite a while to come around to that point of view, let me tell you. I suppose those of us who were born here find it hard not to think of the place as ours – you know, grandfather carving the farm out of the bush and all that. But when you think about it, it was inevitable that they'd want the place back sooner or later. I'm not denying our own rights, mind you; a lot of European sweat and blood has gone into making this country what it is. But to be perfectly frank, I don't know that I shouldn't be fighting too if I were in their place.'

'How long have your people been here?'

'Well, they came out soon after Rhodes in '98 and it's '71 now, so, um, seventy-odd years.' He looked up and smiled as his wife returned from the ladies' and sat beside him.

Elizabeth Hamilton was a late-fortyish and still-handsome Englishwoman. Only the olive of her skin and, more recently, a weary alertness suggested two decades spent in Africa. 'Guess who was in the ladies'?' she asked, and immediately answered her own question. 'Lucy Geyer. She and Allan are on our flight.'

Hamilton made an expression of distaste. 'Off to London to whip up support for the great white cause, I expect. It's a wonder that he, of all people, would dare leave his farm at a time like this. I should have thought he'd be an obvious target.'

'I expect three adult sons minding the place are deterrent enough,' Elizabeth said.

'I expect you're right.' He shrugged and drained his glass. 'I say, it was decent of you to come and see us off, old man. Didn't really expect anybody. Don't know that I'd have dared leave the farm just to see someone off.'

'I couldn't let you go without saying goodbye,' I said. 'Besides, I'm absolutely certain my boys are loyal.'

He nodded. 'You know, I believe this terrorist nonsense has been their biggest mistake. This whole country was built on a simple matter of trust – had to be, distances and communications being what they were. Our people trusted each other, of course, and we all relied on our boys. But regardless of what happens now, whether we win or they do, trust has well and truly gone out the window; doubt we'll ever get it back. I expect you've heard the rumours that some of our people are helping the terrorists? Rotten business, if it's true. Can't imagine what they hope to achieve – favour with the inevitable black regime when it comes, I expect. But it seems to me that if a chap'd do the dirty on his own people, he'd do the dirty on anyone, so I can't see them trusting him when they get in. They're human. They'll use him for as long as he's useful and then drop him well and truly.'

The public address system boomed again, and Elizabeth Hamilton, after cupping her hand around her ear and tilting it slightly towards the ceiling, touched her husband's arm. 'Johnny, that's our flight.'

'Is it? Well, we'd best be off then.' He stood, a russet farming man bulkily uncomfortable in suit and tie. 'You know, the more I think about it, the more certain I am that we're doing the right thing. It was getting me down, being suspicious of people we'd always trusted. Libby's poor old Dad died just in time; without his money we'd have had to stay, or walk off with nothing.' He smiled a little wanly and thrust out his hand. 'Well, goodbye, old man. And all the luck in the world.'

'Goodbye', I said, shaking his hand. Elizabeth hugged me and kissed me on the cheek. 'Goodbye. Good luck.'

'Best of luck,' I said. 'Keep in touch.'

They picked up their cabin bags and strolled towards the departure gate, which was flanked by two armed soldiers, and joined the queue just behind Lucy and Allan Geyer. I watched the four of them until they passed between the soldiers and disappeared through the gate. I liked the Hamiltons and was sorry they had to go. They had always been the best of neighbours.

After that I wandered up to the observation lounge to watch the takeoff. I was hoping to find a table right at the big observation window but they were all occupied, so I had to sit at one some little way back. There were quite a few people there seeing others off, and a couple of them were had gone to stand at the window, somewhat impeding my view, but by shifting my chair around a bit I was able to get a clear sightline and could look down at the Hamiltons' aircraft loading below. It seemed almost close enough to touch. I could see the pilot's and co-pilot's faces quite clearly; each had a trim moustache and neatly trimmed dark hair. I ordered a whisky and soda and waited, checking my watch from time to time.

Loading seemed to go on interminably. When I found I'd finished my drink, I ordered another. Eventually the companionway was removed and the aircraft's doors closed. I checked my watch again as the aircraft began to move. Loading had taken so long that I thought takeoff would be late, but it was actually a few minutes early. As the aircraft turned towards the main runway, I found myself looking at my watch again. Then, unexpectedly, an alarm began to ring, and a few seconds later the aircraft stopped. Something seemed to have gone wrong. A door in the fuselage was flung open and an escape slide was thrust out, but at that moment the aircraft disintegrated in a single enormous ball of flame, shattering the glass wall of the observation lounge and slamming me backwards onto the floor. I must have been knocked unconscious for a few seconds and when I came to, people nearby were moaning or shouting for help, and somewhere behind me a woman was screaming. More than a little stunned, I lay still for a short time until I'd gathered my wits. There was blood on my face and hands and blood was seeping through a rent in my coat sleeve, but I seemed to have suffered nothing more than a few cuts from flying glass or debris. Nothing felt broken. I used the overturned table to lever myself shakily to my feet and looked around.

The observation lounge was a shambles of glass and bodies and upturned furniture. There was a strong stench of aviation fuel. Black smoke was pouring in through the gap where the observation window used to be. Where the aircraft had been there was nothing but an enormous fire, which emergency vehicles were streaking towards with shrieking sirens and flashing lights. I felt weak and my ears were ringing from the blast, but shock impelled me forward. I staggered through the bodies and wreckage and out of the observation lounge to try to find out what had happened.

Something had indeed gone wrong. The bloody morons in the organisation had tipped off the media too soon, made the charge too big, and set it to explode too early. My God, thirty seconds sooner and it would have totally destroyed the terminal and everyone in it, including me. Johnny Hamilton was right. Nowadays you just couldn't trust anyone.

### Monday 11 March 2013

### Murray Bridge

**Marilyn Linn**

Darlington, SA

The river is wide at Murray Bridge,

flat and dirty brown –

at the end of a ribbon of bitumen

flung, like a lure, from Adelaide town.

The bridges that span the waterway

were placed with precision and pride.

No computers to aid those intrepid men

in 1879.

Cattle graze on flood plains,

silos guard the hill,

Mobilong Prison stands sullen,

its inmates feel the chill.

Summer brings the tourists,

with jet skis, boats and booze –

their buzz like angry bush flies,

sedate houseboats take a cruise.

Old stories tell of a Bunyip

that ate wayward children at night –

for two dollars you can see it now,

tourists' cameras click in delight.

Come to The Bridge at your leisure,

munch hot chips in the flash new park –

stroll the banks of the Mighty Murray,

but leave – before it gets dark.

### Tuesday 12 March 2013

### Multitasking

**Demelza**

Taroona, TAS

Dedicated to Caroline

Doing one thing at a time

It is not!

Taxing on the brain?

Yes a lot

We wake up every morning

With such a lot to do

Set the bread

Make the bed

Put the baby on the loo

Kids here

Kids there

Washing hanging everywhere

Fold it up

Stack it high

Hang it out and let it dry

Meantime read the storybooks

Sweep the floors and

Feed the chooks

Check the mail and

(While still on line)

Flick through the site that's selling wine

Burp the baby

Change his pants

Find the Wiggles

Let's have a dance

And while we do

We'll pick up toys

Cook some muffins

Enjoy the noise

Watch the babe with the back of our head

Stir white sauce

And slice the bread

Think about tomorrow's meals

Check how hot the bath tub feels

Listen to them learn their tables

Check their spelling

Make some labels

Fed the baby on my knee

Wow!

Let's all stop for morning tea.

### Wednesday 13 March 2013

### Radox Hair

**Robyn Chaffey**

Hazelbrook, NSW

After years of life-rules and caring

Which include a stint of child-bearing

My energy died!

I just felt tired!

The need for change was just glaring.

I wanted some joy and some laughter

Before I must greet the here-after.

I'd really no clue!

Got a lop-sided do

To my stuffy acquaintances fluster.

I made for myself a new rule

To now and then play the fool.

I took a rest!

Gave it a test!

A soak in the bath might be cool.

The water I ran full and warm...

Added crystals to act as a balm.

Green water so sweet!

I sank head to feet!

Just lay there until I felt calm.

Too abruptly my luxury ended

As the front door noisily opened.

Hubby was home!

My hungry gnome!

With no dinner he'd be offended.

Hair dripping green salted water,

I now had no time for a shower.

Quick grab for towels!

Utter rude vowels!

I'd thought his trip home would be slower.

Soon dressed, from the bathroom I ran...

Towel wrapped my head like a turban.

Did what I must!

Finished and just

Collapsed on the couch to unburden!

Next morning I woke with a fright.

I'd worn that towel through the night!

Slept on the couch!

Yet couldn't grouch,

Only giggle at thought of the sight!

Well... perhaps I'm no longer anal!

Early dementia may well be causal.

Towel-shaped Radox hair...

Throwing away all care...

'twould be fun to depict in a mural

Reminder of freedom, quite choral!

### Thursday 14 March 2013

### Rainbow Tornadoes

**Tamara Pratt**

Mount Gravatt, QLD

When you come for me in the middle of the night

like a rainbow sprinkled tornado and

I bend with fright

at what you might say

that seems so silly and so sad and

when I see it's too far to send you back on your way

I dabble with the direction you might head next

and whose life you might make brighter.

When your sparkling stardust rains down on me like

a thousand tiny fireflies

and the skies turn black and the moon smiles with delight

at what you have done and where you have been

I see that it's never been your intention to stay

because to stay would mean

you'd have time to play.

When the dazzling diamonds pin-prick the sky and

allow me to peek, just a quick peek, into your world

and I hear the laughter, a chuckle that pops in my ears

and you slip away back through a vortex of fun

where you start to sing with bling and

your sweet features fade with pain

I want to chase after you.

You, my rainbow tornado, you brush by above our heads

without fear or trepidation and

the giant bang when you touch time

or the soft dash when you tip toe through the clouds

is like ice-cream on a hot melting day

where you'll stick to me forever

and drip down my fingers

all gooey and delicious

and I'll giggle and you'll say

your fun is bigger than a carnival.

When you come for me in the middle of the night

my rainbow tornado

with your big smile like a blazing sun

and the words singing in heart that this is fun

I'll follow you with springs in my soul

and chase you

through and through

until we sink into one.

### Friday 15 March 2013

### The Wind

**John Ross**

Blackheath, NSW

Darkness had long since settled over the city. The night was dark, humid and the sky was full of the threat of a summer storm. Now, however, the wind was so gentle that it made no noise as it ever so softly meandered through the back yard of the large house. The leaves on the tall gum tree near the back fence hardly moved apart from those on the very tallest branches. Even here one would have had to watch very closely to detect any movement. Two large white towels on the clothesline hung perfectly still; in the darkness they appeared like two dim windows into another dimension. A large spider had strung its web between two pot plants on the back porch and now it carefully investigated a leaf that had fallen and become entangled in the web. The leaf was slowly swinging back and forth in the gentle breeze.

Inside a man sat watching a football replay on the television, a half empty bottle of beer beside him. In the kitchen a women was washing dishes in the sink and listening to classical music on a radio. The man turned towards the kitchen and said, 'You coming to watch the telly?' The women replied that she would be in as soon as she had finished.

Minutes passed and now the wind had become stronger. It made a rustling noise as it pushed its way through the yard. The leaves on the gum tree had started to dance to its tune and those at the very top were carried back and forth as the smaller branches moved under the influence of the breeze. The white towels on the line now swayed in unison like twins performing at some macabre ceremony. The spider had realised that the leaf was not its hoped for evening meal but now crouched at the centre of its web believing that the breeze might bring it an unsuspecting insect. A small lady beetle flew dangerously close to his web.

The man, starting to get annoyed that the woman had not come out of the kitchen, yelled in her direction, 'What on earth are you doing there woman and where is that bloody cup of coffee that you promised me ages ago?' He then settled back and opened another bottle of beer. The woman visibly jumped at the sound of his voice and in her haste dropped the cup of coffee on the floor.

Even stronger now the wind made a loud whistling sound as it forced its way through and around the objects in the back yard. The gum tree had now become a living thing as its branches yielded to the force of the wind and the occasional leaf gave up its grip and swirled away into the darkness. The towels now gyrated wildly, giving up any semblance of unison as they strained against the pegs that held them attached to the line. The spider clung grimly to the centre of its web. He was now in danger of being blown away but still had the strength to try to move over to the lady beetle that had been blown into his web. He knew that this might be his only chance of a meal that night.

Finishing another bottle of beer the man was now constantly yelling at the woman to bring him his cup of coffee. When she did not reply he got up and went to the kitchen door and said, 'I want my coffee now and if I have to ask again you will be bloody sorry.' Seeing the woman still trying to clean up the spilt coffee he kicked the dustpan out of her hands and when she cringed back dropped the empty beer bottle on the floor and said, 'Clean that up. That's all you ever do, clean, bloody clean. Now get up and get me my coffee.'

Outside the wind was now a brutal force as it howled through the yard threatening to smash and dismantle anything in its path. The gum tree was now bent over by the winds power and its branches thrashed madly as leaves and even small branches were blasted away and sent crashing into the back fence. The towels unable to break free were being torn and shredded by the wind's fury. The spider still concentrating on getting to the lady beetle in its web did not notice as the leaf in its web was torn away and sent spiralling into the darkness. It did not see the large piece of debris that smashed into its web and carried it away into oblivion.

The man, his anger now in full flow, was cursing at the woman and trying to drag her to her feet. When she resisted he slapped her hard across the face. At first she shrank back trying to protect herself but when he continued to hit her she picked up the empty beer bottle from the floor and hit him with it as hard as she could. The bottle smashed as it crashed into his skull.

Suddenly the wind died away to just a whisper. The gum tree quickly returned to normal; standing tall and majestic in the bright starlight that now washed over the yard. The two white towels, although tattered and torn, had survived all that the wind could throw at them and now shone like two welcoming beacons in the yard. The spider would never see the small lady beetle as it broke free of the last strands of the shattered web and flew away.

### Saturday 16 March 2013 4 pm

### A Lucky Find

**Winsome Smith**

Lithgow NSW

Edith stooped slightly as she entered the one-room cottage. It was slightly warmer inside than outside where the late autumn winds swept across the meadows. She adjusted her rough woollen shawl to bring it closer around her shoulders but she only had a long thorn to keep it together around her and it needed a stronger fastening.

She had left the field earlier than usual because the babe inside her was growing heavier and her body demanded rest. She had toiled for hours in the long strip of the field that her brothers rightfully owned but as it had been their day to work for the lord it was necessary for her to do the farm work. Not that she minded; this was her life as a peasant and she knew no other way of living.

The fire had died down to a few embers but the pot of barley gruel she had prepared earlier was still warm. With her customary brisk movements she threw some more wood onto the fire and gave the pot a stir. Her brothers would appreciate a hot meal when they returned. The fire, as if thanking her for the extra fuel, sprang into life. She contemplated making some dumplings but their meagre supply of coarse flour had to last them through the long winter yet to come and it had not been a good year for the harvest. Instead she quickly peeled and cut two onions and added them to the gruel.

From outside she could hear the many sounds of the village. Children shrieked as they played and women chatted at their spinning. A carpenter was hammering nearby and she heard the sound of someone sharpening a scythe. Hens cackled, announcing the great achievement of egg laying and she heard a donkey braying, Work went on in the village until well into dusk as there was much to do.

She sat on a little three-legged stool and held her hands to the fire. The baby inside her stretched and rolled into a more comfortable position as she wondered about its future. That it was the child of the lord's son gave it no advantage, except for handsomeness and vigour. Like all children of the shire, it would live its life working in the fields, but that was not an altogether gloomy prospect. It would enjoy such things as hay making, harvest festivals, May Day, celebrations for the end of brewing and the feasting of Easter Sunday. In good years there would be the celebration of Christ's mass with stored apples and pears and dried fruits. And there was always the good ale to ensure the child's health. It would surely bring joy into the wattle and daub cottage and it would be welcomed among the villagers as babies were.

She knew well that throughout the shire there were other children related to the lords of the manor. For generations the rich land owners had had their way with local women. The custom was accepted; perhaps here more than elsewhere, as the present lord was a kindly and just man. He kept law and order himself and listened to grievances of the local people.

A wave of unaccustomed sentimentality swept over her as she thought of the lord's son. Theirs had been no rough tumbling among the grasses; there had been a gentleness about his lovemaking and always a reluctance to leave her, when it was over. Always she had been aware of the perfume of the honeysuckle and the gurgling of the nearby stream, as well as the strength of him and his unique odour. She put such thoughts from her and prepared to rise and collect more sticks for the fire.

As she pondered, a shadow appeared in the doorway. She looked up to see himself, the lord's son. He stooped, and without ceremony, entered the cottage. As she stood, her shawl fell from her shoulders and she attempted to gather it together. He took her in his arms and said, 'I see the child is growing.'

'Of course,' she replied, slightly amused at his unnecessary statement.

'Are you well?' he asked. She nodded, surprised by this unusual question.

He bent down and picked up a bag he had brought, 'Here are some apples and a string of onions. I have ordered a man to bring some wood for the fire.'

He placed the bag on the floor beside her. 'There are also two loaves.'

They sat together on stools near the fire and he held her hand as they talked of the usual things: the seasons, the harsh winter that had been foretold, the doings at the manor that she loved to hear about. Edith had heard about the gowns the women wore, the walls hung with rich tapestries, the silver goblets and bowls, the jewellery. She felt no envy, only wonder at the richness. She would never see these things as the manor was two miles away, beyond the hill known as Lion Hill because of its shape. Here in the village among the strips of ploughed land her life was complete. She heard from outside the stamping and occasional snorting of his horse and she knew her visitor had ridden to the village.

'The shadows are getting longer,' he said at length and rose to leave. As she stood up he put his hands on her shoulders, bare now as the shawl had fallen to the floor. As he looked into her eyes she detected something strange, a tenderness and longing he and his family never displayed to the villagers. There was depth in his eyes that she recognised as love.

She remembered that he had stroked her hair which he said was acorn brown. He had said that her skin was like cream on the top of the milk and her breath was as sweet as cider. No lord's son had ever spoken to a peasant girl that way.

Involuntarily she shivered as the evening was drawing in. He picked up the shawl and draped it around her shoulders. 'Stay warm,' he said then he took something out of his pocket. 'This is for you,' he said as he held out a shawl pin. It was made of bright metal with a sharp spike on the back and a small intricate design on the front.

She sprang back as if he had cursed her. She put up her hands, 'No, no,' she cried. It was an object from the manor, never something owned by a peasant and the penalty for theft was loss of a hand.

'I am giving it to you and my father knows,' he tried to reassure her.

She pushed him away and said, 'I dare not take it.'

'You accepted the onions, the apples and the loaves,' he chuckled, almost teasingly. 'This is just as necessary.'

As she hesitated, he said, 'My father and I administer justice in this shire and nobody else. I will not have my child or its mother dying of the cold.' Then he added, with mock sternness, 'Anyway, I am from the manor. You dare not refuse me.'

He tenderly gathered the shawl around her and pinned it before he left.

~~~

'That's it,' said the Time Team photographer. 'Yes, a bit closer and turn it slightly.'

'What a lucky find!' declared the archaeologist, hardly unable to control his excitement. 'We were looking here in the right place all along.'

'Yes,' agreed the historian. 'This is late Anglo Saxon. Not the richest of jewellery, but practical in the typical Anglo Saxon way.'

'This is where the manor house would have been,' replied the archaeologist, 'and this place has been undisturbed for centuries. We'll put our first trench in here – and we were going to dig over there behind Lion Hill – what a mistake that would have been! Here's where we'll find the artefacts, the treasures we thought were elsewhere.' He waved his hands. 'Okay, boys, bring the machinery over. We can't waste any more time digging in the wrong place. The manor house is not over there; it'll be here.'

With renewed enthusiasm the Time Team members gathered their spades, trowels and brushes and stepped aside for the diggers.

### Sunday 17 March 2013

### She Stole My Pen

**Thomas Gibbs**

Sydney, NSW

I couldn't believe it. I lent my pen to April, and she didn't give it back. I was very slow to realise. The bell was ringing, and I hadn't forgot about my pen, but I was stuck on the last question. My eyes were sinking into the page of my dilapidated maths textbook. My field of vision was blurred, as if I had stared at the sun too long. They hurt, and to close them made them feel heavy. When I closed them hard, I could feel a dense liquid draining into the fat tissue in my eye orbit.

'Miss? I'm having trouble with this last question ...'

The teacher walked to the back of the classroom. Her manufactured gait indicated a lack of enthusiasm. It was supposed to be lunchtime, for students and teachers. But I had been staring at this maths problem for 20 minutes. I wasn't about to get up and leave, without an explanation. I didn't care much for this teacher. Maybe, that was because I didn't care much for mathematics. She was boring. This would have been okay with me, if she could teach. But, she always seemed to be more interested in showing off her repertoire of theorem derivations, and calibrating students' minds for the purpose of turning simple problems into more complex ones. This always left a bad taste in my mouth. It's not necessary, I thought. Why not just teach us the easiest methods? It's always the same answer. Isn't it the answers we're looking for?

'What question would you like me to help you with?'

'This one.' I pointed at the last problem on the bottom of the page.

Question 14: Sketch the function y = 1/x.

'Oh. Okay ... let me ask you something. Do you know what an asymptote is?'

'No,' I replied, unsure why she was answering my question with another question.

It's so frustrating when people do that. She is supposed to know the answers. She is the teacher, not me.

'I'm not sure,' I said, vaguely, shielding my impatience.

'Imagine a curve that comes closer and closer to a line without actually touching it.'

'Okay.' My eyes wandered off, to affirm that my mind was indeed imagining.

'Can you picture it?'

'Sort of ...'

'Draw what you see.'

I took pen to paper. This was my second choice pen. A cheap biro. My Parker Pen, given to me by my grandmother, had been stolen in front of my own eyes. This pen could be refilled with ink, when it became empty. A never ending pen. The pen I had in my hand could not be refilled. Once it was empty, it was rubbish. It had no value in the long term. The tip of my pen was resting against the paper of my maths grid book. I had an x-axis and y-axis drawn. I tried to think in logical steps. It is a curve, I said to myself. And, it gets closer and closer to the x-axis without actually touching it. I drew a curve starting near the y-axis, declining steeply at first, and then approaching the x-axis. As soon as I committed pen to paper, I realised that the curve must past through y=1 and x=1, at the same time. This satisfies the equation. I adjusted my curve and presented it to the teacher.

'Is it something like this?' I said, pretty certain I had the correct answer.

She had turned away, twiddling her thumbs like she was busting to demonstrate her alternative solution.

'Yes, that's exactly right. I need to go to a meeting now. Can you close the door on your way out?'

'Sure.'

I packed up my schoolbag and headed out. As the sickly green wooden door slammed behind me, an anger swelled inside. I remembered that my pen had been stolen. I had to see the principal. For any other matter, it would have been appropriate to confront the teacher on duty. But, this wasn't just any pen. This was my Parker Pen. My grandmother had given it to me.

I walked into the administration office. It was customary to check whether the principal was available, or to make an appointment in advance. This was too urgent. I didn't even want to imagine what April must have been doing with my pen. I knocked on the door. It was slightly open. A deep voice muttered: 'Come in.' It sounded like his head was buried in a pile of papers. I walked inside. He put his reading material down and lowered his head.

'What can I do for you?'

'Somebody stole my pen.'

I felt stupid. I should have mentioned that it was a Parker Pen, for dramatic effect, I thought. The principal looked concerned. Perhaps, he was mirroring the concern that was radiating from my face, or sensed I had omitted a vital detail.

'Do you know who stole it?'

'April,' I replied, as if I was taking a lie detector test.

'Okay. Can I get you to send April to me next period?'

'Yes,' I replied, satisfied, as he wrote something down on a green slip of paper.

'Hopefully, we can settle this and you can get your pen back.'

He handed me the green slip of paper. It had torn edges and the school emblem was watermarked in the background. In the middle of the slip of paper I could read, 'April to see me ASAP – Room 1 – Admin.' His signature was also scribbled underneath. Finally, I thought. All I had to do was to show this to my teacher next class, and I would get my pen back. Like a soldier who had seen too much, I sat outside the admin office, eating my rations, waiting for the bell to ring.

The bell sounded. My heart skipped a beat as I paced towards the classroom. It was Modern History. I liked history. It made much more sense to me than maths. History was useful, I thought. We learn things from the past. We were studying the Cold War. I found it so interesting to learn about the all the personalities, and to study the events that occurred. The different periods of the Cold War were fascinating. For instance, the intensity of the Cuban Missile Crisis, the period of detente, the reawakening of the cold war, and the eventual economic reform under Gorbachev. This reform was called Perestroika. It's literal meaning meant 'restructuring'. I would always get full marks on my history essays. It wasn't that I had superior knowledge of the details of the past. I had a firm grasp on the themes that connected the past, to the present time. I knew that something big in history, like the Cold War, leaves a mark. A mark that doesn't diminish completely. Like memories. Energy doesn't disappear, it just transforms into something else. This is why I didn't get asymptotes. They don't end. But, they should. It's just maths.

I handed the slip of paper to the teacher, as soon as I entered the classroom. April hadn't arrived. As I sat down and stared at the blackboard, I closed my eyes for a little while, and tried to picture the graph I had drawn. If every one unit across, the distance between the x-axis and the curve halves, where does it end? The teacher said the answer was infinity, but she stopped short of explaining what this meant. She said it continued forever. But forever is the same as infinity. That's not explaining it. That's just re-wording it. A bad taste entered my mouth again.

April walked into the door. The teacher handed her the slip of paper. I couldn't help but smirk, as her eyes filled with concern, and she reversed out the door. It was last period. I was really hoping that I would get my pen back before it was time to go home. I wasn't listening to the teacher. His low drone didn't register. I needed my Parker Pen. I felt as if I had reached my limit. Without my pen, I couldn't concentrate. I couldn't work with any confidence. With my Parker Pen, there seemed to be no limit. April probably knew this already. I stressed my brain again. How can a line get closer and closer to another line over time, and not touch it? What can be halved, with the answer being zero? The teacher said that for all purposes, it was safe to assume, after a certain period, that both lines touched. But, I didn't have any purpose, other than to understand the basics. How can we assume the line continues on towards infinity, if we can't visualise it? If you can't think it, it's just maths, I thought. It's useless.

April returned and walked towards me. The pen was in her hand, and her eyes were defeated. I almost felt sorry for her. She looked depressed. Her head was hanging limp off her neck, like a stork of old celery. She placed the pen carefully on my table, and took her seat, on the other side of the room. I was about to say thank you, but I held back. I don't need to thank her, I thought. She stole my pen. I picked up my pen. It was warm. It didn't look damaged, and it still gripped well. The anger inside me was quenched. I held the pen to my mouth, thinking, as the teacher walked outside the classroom. Everybody started talking. I sat there in silence. I had just endured my own Cuban Missile Crisis. It was a close call. From now on I would have to be more careful, and more strategic. The day was nearly over. The bell was just about to ring. I pictured myself, walking along the curve of an asymptote. The line hadn't quite touched. There was a long way to go. It left a bad taste in my mouth.

### Monday 18 March 2013

### Mask

**Vita Monica**

Southbank, VIC

Who is the girl, made so wonderful?

Beauty surrounds her like universe

Lips with sweets, eyes with pleasure

The world recognises her as the woman of excellence

Fame and prestige belong to her

Who is she that her mien does not show her?

In the midst of young, she sees no more

The natural splendour, a high esteem

Her glittering world

Close-meshed the glory

A heavenly bride should not be hidden

An honoured request from the king

'The fairness of the queen is herself'

Here she is

The one longed for has finally come

A lady shines as bright as sun, moonless expression

Purity against pleasure, enlightened heart

Eyes with lights, beauty of lightning

Slowly she ambles, her palm passing the light

Softly

An uncovered glory exceeds beauty

The fairness of the queen is herself

### Monday 18 March 2013 4 pm

### Life Choices

**Jadei Brown**

Edgeworth, NSW

Out with the old

In with the new

How do we make this true?

So many thoughts

And habits

Connected to the old

Yet so many dreams

And hopes

Longing to be the new

Going from one to the next

Seems so hard

It's the unknown path

That is so scary

The new seems so clean

The old is getting weary

But it's where I'm safe

Safety or happiness

Oh what will we choose?

Out with the old

In with the new

It's all up to you.

### Tuesday 19 March 2013

### Red

**Claudia Wood**

Glenfield, NSW

It was dark, misty, still. The trees gave shadows and the wind brushed leaves. A chill rippled through the air. She walked. Weaving around the shadows on the moonlit path. A full moon. It shone, dimly. She kept walking, her red hood lightly flailing against her back. Her face, fresh with innocence and beauty.

He crept. Crept through the shadows, away from the light. Hungry. Saliva forming as the smell of her skin and hair wafted through the breeze. Growing near and disappearing as she followed the light. Claws, gripping the bark; hair standing on end. Delight. Hunger.

He emerged. She smiled. Red dress and red lips. Provocative yet untouched. They spoke. She was coy, but naïve. She refused him. He smiled, accepting her answer. He already knew where she was going. She continued. He faded into the shadows. She was unsuspecting. He was cunning. He knew a quicker path.

Still creeping, he reached the dull cottage. Candles flickered in the windows, lighting his dark, hairy figure. Yellow teeth and yellow eyes. The door creaked. His large frame shadowed the old woman. He was excited by her fear. Her eyes were wide. Her grey hands froze. No scream. Silence. He gripped her neck. He crushed it and sliced her open. Blood drained from her haggard body. Her head barely attached, eyes glassy and open. Blood speckled her cheeks and dripped from her mouth. A pool of red surrounded her on the floor.

Too easy. No struggle. No fight left in her. He tried to provoke her. A cry at least. He slashed her legs and her stomach. No attraction. She was old. She was dead. He pushed her under the curtain and sucked up her blood. Unsatisfied.

He waited. He could smell her before her saw her. Fresh, flowery, pure. He peered through the foggy window. Her red dress was appearing through the mist and trees. Saliva dripped from his blood stained jaw. He let out a low growl. He crept upstairs and waited. Impatient.

She appeared in the doorway. Stunned. Red dress and red hood. Her basket dropped. He lunged. Her big brown eyes filled with fear. His greasy, blood drenched hair touched her skin. He held her in his grip, claws penetrating her. He urged her to make a sound. She stayed silent. She was young and fresh. He enjoyed it. His razor sharp claws ripped into her legs. She screamed. He couldn't resist anymore. He tore her throat and pulled her flesh from the bone as she flailed, then stopped. Dead. Her meat was tender. Her left her head. Red lips and red blood.

### Wednesday 20 March 2013

### Only

**Lynette Arden**

Norwood, SA

People mainly seem to be interested in one's interactions with other people and I have none of those. My voice is rarely raised except when imploring the few clouds that drift over this god-forsaken place to squeeze out a drop or two of rain, or in imprecation at the wind when it whips up a day of red dust from the western desert.

Sometimes I fancy my vocal chords may wither away from lack of use. In the long winter evenings, I call the kelpie and we both crouch in front of the small pile of kindling in the hearth. He watches me and pants, as the kindling flickers into flame and licks around one of the logs I have chopped up and hoarded against the bitterness of the season. Wood of any size is scarce in this place of hard angled rocks, but a moderate walk will take me to a cleft in the hills where mallee scrub flourishes along a dried creek bed.

I set out the beacon then, even after all this time, in the odd hope that someone will return.

Usually I concentrate on what lies around me. In the shed, I have erected shelves to hold the myriad specimens I have collected over the years. Most of them go only under names I have invented. A drawing and a full description are carefully filed with each specimen. Of what use they may eventually be I don't know.

They left provisions that could suffice for a hundred years. 'You can have all of ours,' they said, as they left. There are days I curse them for their consideration.

Through the split carved in the shingles that serves as a window, I can see movement along the horizon. What we once called a 'murder of crows' flaps furiously up from the scrub just where the rough track disappears from view. The kelpie pricks his ears and I pick up my shotgun.

lightning

trees on the far ridge

send smoke signals

### Thursday 21 March 2013

### Arrive Singing At Les Folies Bergère

**Fayroze Lutta**

Randwick, NSW

Chère Kellie La Merveille,

I stopped singing the dirty Delta blues. I hope that I have found some resolution between the sheets. I am tired of chasing dreams. I want to put a spell on him because he is mine, didn't Nina once soulfully moan all that jazz? He is mine for now. I am his always. I stopped stabbing the keys, just a gentle tap, a léger tinkle.

The lady on your postcard holds a letter close to her heart, the caption reads, 'La Lettre Brûlée. Elle est brûlée. Ah c'était fou!' Translated it says, 'The Burnt Letter.' She is burned. Oh it's madness! I hope you have not burnt all my raving mad postcards.

I can hear the joyous laughter, cackling and youthful uplifting singing of girls leaving Les Folies Bergère théâtre.

This man of mine seems to be always singing Gainsbourg and his song and tune he hums is, 'Je suis venu te dire que je m'en vais' (I just came to tell you that I am leaving). Alone I sing like Gainsbourg and Boris Vain's song, 'Je Bois,' (I Drink). Like the blithering-blind-drunk young man from the night before. It took him a half hour to navigate my street hardly 500 metres in length. In his drunken stupor people turned on their lights from all floors of these eight storey Haussmannien apartment buildings. Asking him to be quiet, as if that could contain him, I guess it was nearing midnight. I felt sorry for his girl, who could not quieten him or hasten him. I laughed to myself as he sang in his slurred French vocal stylings.

Perhaps I am singing more the likes of darling Ella (Fitzgerald), her and me together, 'Sippin' Black Coffee'. Love's hand me down brew, and from one o'clock to four all we do is talk to the shadows then pour. Never knowing a Sunday in this weekday room.

Without your voice, I suppose nothing is possible, and you are bound nowhere. The lesson from the imbibed gentleman from the night before and his noted appearance on my street, late night on Rue de la Boule Rouge, the only sound to make is to arrive singing.

We must all sing if just for ourselves, to ourselves as we all hold a song in our heart of hearts. Let it be it the low down blues or a hypnotic schizoid scatting number to hopefully sing the world back into vivid being. A choir of solemn songs creating a soundscape that gives the universe a soul that has a rhythm, that beats like an animal skin drum in line with our own heartbeat.

This city can show itself to be beautiful in the sun but oh what the sunlight masks. However I am just a bleeding-open-wound-paper-cut in this postcard town, I rang this city it answered the telephone and called me here. Although it can be mean spirited and however how cruel it is, I am still keen.

I draw open the curtains leaving them wide apart on the fifth floor so all of the ninth arrondissement can see that I have company tonight; so all of Opéra and the people of Les Grandes Boulevards know that I do not sleep alone tonight.

Love,

Fayroze.

### Friday 22 March 2013

### Unholy Futility

**James Craib**

Wentworth Falls, NSW

Between the heartache and the healing,

Why not partake of tea Darjeeling?

Rest awhile upon the terrace, gather strength.

So I sat, admired the roses,

Whilst the scent assailed my nose,

And I wondered: where on Earth my life has went?

Between inheritance and harassment,

(And much to my embarrassment!)

There is much unfinished business left to transact.

Even roses demand maintenance,

But alas I lack the patience,

I'm still looking for opportunities to circumvent ...

Between the Arctic and Antarctic,

There's much that's so cathartic.

The fragility of life just weighs me down.

So now my children have flown the coop,

And as my body begins to droop,

In all humility: there's a futility we carry around.

Between the fatuous and florid ...

Politicians who seem quite horrid.

There's precious little who seem worthy or inspired.

They all just drone on endlessly,

About the damned economy,

And dig another enormous hole into the ground.

Between recruitment and retirement,

When your dear career was everything meant ...

To sustain you, entertain you: the cornerstone of your existence.

With hindsight now ... it becomes apparent,

Those paths we trod were quite abhorrent,

We work to live or live to work: it's all perplexity.

There's endless heartache and minor healing,

(Gee darling I'll have another Darjeeling!)

Just live in the moment and forget about the rest.

Even the Pope has chucked the towel in,

And now begins the pontifical howling,

Whilst agnostics, ever caustic, voice their disdain with dexterity.

Between the black smoke and the white smoke,

Will the Cardinals pick a real bloke?

There'll be lots of argy bargy; dare we say pell-mell?

First we had an Aussie saint,

Struth, it's enough to make you faint!

It would put you off your tea – Georgie Porgie at the unholy see.

James says that this is a bit of a strange rage about heartache, healing and life in general, mixed in with an observation laced with bits of black humour about the changing of the guard at the Holy See.

### Saturday 23 March 2013

### Camping Trip

**Joanna Rain**

Nelson Bay, NSW

Pull out the map

A five cent piece,

Chuck down the coin randomly,

This time next week

This is the place we will be –

Somewhere between Hawks Nest,

Coffs Coast and ... TAREE!

TAREE? WHAT THE HELL

Never heard of it, CRIKEY!

Pull out the old gear excitedly,

We've got the tent, chairs and fishing gear.

We've got the camp shovel to dig our bog,

Dear lord, don't forget the grog!

Our budget holiday is supposed to save us dough,

Already our wallets are running low.

But we have petrol in the tank and in the jerry,

The stress kicks in,

'Let's go before we get off track'

With this many adventures under my belt,

You'd think by now I'd have the knack.

We hit the road with the GPS,

Hubby packed the car

So the car's a mess!

20 kilometres into the trip,

The GPS has directed us into a ditch!

'STOP THE CAR, GET THE MAP'

We've gotta plan our next attack.

The trusty five cent piece gets the toss,

This time old Queenie won't get us lost!

'Right, that's it, we're going south,

Down the coast, to the river's mouth.'

We swap drivers at half past five –

With hubby's fatigue it's amazing that we're still alive!

The petrol tank is getting low,

I hope we find the campsite before my panic grows!

We're getting cranky, we're getting stressed,

We're tired and we're uninspired,

Just then we see the glow of campfires.

'HOORAY' we yell enthusiastically,

Jump out of the car and kiss the ground ecstatically.

Hubby downs a six pack in record speed,

Whilst I wrangle by torchlight with the tent,

'Where the hell are the pegs?' I yell

He's darted off into the shrubbery,

'Hold your horses, I've got to pee.'

At last the tent is up,

We've made the beds.

The fire is lit,

Beer in one hand,

Cards in the other,

We play our fave game

'Shithead'

And drift to sleep in our chairs.

Awake at 4.30 am

To the sound of kookaburras cackling.

Covered from head to toe in morning dew,

From last night's indulgences, a little spew.

Hubby does the coffee round –

Local 'roos are on their morning bound.

We whittle the day away peacefully,

With games of cricket and cups of tea,

Immerse ourselves in nature blissfully –

'Ah' we sigh contently

This feels like home –

This is the way it should be.

### Saturday 23 March 2013 4 pm

### Vita Brevis

**Amber Johnson**

Annerley, QLD

Some would consider it masochistic to live in the mountainous caldera at our age, but my roots run too deep to leave. This town is the keystone of my history and where I have lived all of my life. Five generations of Wilson descent have resided here. Even bones that ache with age won't discourage me from living out the rest of my years in this climate.

From the lounge room window, I saw the first frosts reap the May leaves from their boughs. It was hard to imagine that only two months prior the yard flourished with orchids and roses. At that time of year, it resembled a barren wasteland more so than a garden. Winter arrived early that year and it was as merciless as ever.

We were well prepared for the battle against Jack Frost. Slippers, coats, and woven rugs were our armour and our defences were fortified by the fire that crackled in the centre of the room. With a rug over his lap and a mug in his hand, my husband was quite content in his favourite leather chair.

'Is the fire hot enough?' I asked him.

'Yes, dear,' he replied.

'I just noticed you shiver.'

'I'm fine,' he said as he sipped the mug of Ovaltine.

As I lifted my mug to my lips, I glanced over to him. Even though his hair had faded from ebony to ivory, he was still a handsome man. His eyes were a stunning cornflower blue, akin to the sapphire on my finger. Perhaps the likeness of his irises explains my fondness of the ring. When he spotted my gaze, he shot me one of his cheeky grins.

'What's on your mind?' he asked.

'My mind is just straying into memories,' I said. 'It's not important.'

'Perhaps we should make the bed,' he suggested. As he lifted from his chair, his eyes appeared unfocused.

'What's wrong?' I asked.

'I need to sit down.'

'That's fine, Jack. I'll go make the bed,' I said as I slipped past his chair and drifted into the bedroom.

When I entered the room, I glanced at the portrait above the bed frame and chuckled. The lord, Jesus Christ, wore the same expression that he always did. His humble gaze reminded me of a father reminding me to tidy my room. The quilt at the foot of the bed was twisted and tossed aside carelessly from a rough night's sleep.

'I better change the bedding,' I said to myself. 'This one is too light for winter.'

As I began to fold the summer blanket and return it to the wardrobe, I heard a cacophonous gargle through clogged pipes.

'Jack, did you hear that sound?' I asked. 'I think we have a problem with the plumbing.' The gargling was cut short by a choking splutter.

'Jack!' I shouted and rushed to the lounge room. There I found him in a heap on the floor, clutching at his chest. His twisted form jerked in agony on the Peruvian rug. Every muscle in his face contorted in a tortured grimace as froth bubbled in the corner of his lips. I grabbed the phone from the table and dialled triple zero. An operator prompted me.

'Ambulance,' I said as knelt by his side.

'Please hold,' she said. A recording of Beethoven's fifth symphony played through the speaker. The track was swiftly cut short but the melody remained in my mind.

'Hello, what's your emergency?'

'I think my husband is suffering a heart attack.'

'Is he still breathing?'

'No, he's not.'

'Do you have neighbours?'

'Yes.'

'I want you to stay on the line but go next door and ask for help.'

Tears streamed down my cheeks as I tried to soothe Jack's spasmodic jerks. The horrific brutality of his anguish shook me to the depths of my soul. I didn't want to leave him, but I did as I was told. My slippers slapped against the concrete as I ran as fast as my legs would carry.

'Bethany!' I yelled as I reached next door's porch. A startled woman answered the door.

'Anna, what's wrong.'

'It's Jack! Help me!'

'George! Come quickly. Anna says there is something wrong with Jack.' A man raced through the door when he glanced at my watery eyes. Without further explanation, I rushed back to my home with George at my heels.

I swept my arm towards the lounge room and watched George kneel beside my husband. His hands flew to Jack's chest, rhythmically compressing his rib cage.

'I think I can get a pulse,' he said. My heart fluttered with trepidation and a twinge of hope. Maybe he'll be okay. This might just be a bad scare. The sound of approaching sirens pierced the air, announcing a fleet of white and red vehicles that pulled into my drive way. Paramedics unloaded stretchers and medical gear and shuffled me aside.

I watched anxiously as they examined the body. Some took notes on their clip boards whilst others checked for vitals. Meaningful looks were exchanged.

'What's wrong?' I asked as they began to pack away their gear. Most of them left without a word, like poltergeists moving on. I needed to know what they thought. One of the emergency response crew glanced at me and returned a grim look.

'Things are not looking good, Mrs Wilson,' he said. My heart sunk within my chest as I swallowed my prayers. He was gone. I slunk into a chair, haunted by Beethoven's crescendo. Numbness ebbed over my skin as I tried to process what they said. I don't understand. How did this happen? George's fingers slipped around Jack's wrist. He shook his head. It still didn't feel right. This can't be real. I don't know what to do. Anxiety gnawed at my nerves as my eyes prickled with tears. Bethany placed her hand on my shoulder. It felt alien rather than comforting. Jack's body was the elephant in a room that seemed to grow smaller by the minute. His azure irises iced over like the frost that laced the windows.

'Come with me,' Bethany said sympathetically. 'I'll make you a cup of tea.' I focused all of my energy in placing one foot in front of the other. Lift then drop. Left then right. Never in my whole life had this task been so hard. There was just too much weighing me down. I couldn't think straight but I just needed to try.

We sat in silence as we each tried to process the grief in our own way. Every now and then she would try to give me words of comfort, but nothing she said eased the pain. Death ripped my husband from my arms and left me as a helpless spectator. We still had plans. It wasn't fair.

'Mrs Wilson?'

'Yes?' I asked, and glanced up at the two men who stood in the walkway. The gleam of the handcuffs clipped to their belts caught my eye.

'My name is Constable Laurence and this is my partner Constable Jones. We need to ask you some questions,' the first officer said. His platinum blonde hair was tucked neatly under his cap and he wore a blank expression.

'What kind of questions?' I asked.

'We need to know exactly what happened here and what role you had in your husband's death,' he explained bluntly. His words were like a vice on my heart.

'Excuse me?' I asked, mortified by his accusation.

'Please just co-operate.'

'I don't understand.'

'We need you to tell us the truth, Mrs Wilson.'

'I w-won't l-lie,' I stuttered. The blonde officer raised an eyebrow.

'Is there a problem, ma'am?'

I glowered at the table, furious at my inability to speak steadily. No matter how hard I tried to control myself, the words wouldn't slide from my tongue. After a few deep breaths, I managed to speak again.

'If I hesitate, it's not because I am trying to be deceptive,' I explained slowly. 'I have lupus and so I have a hard time vocalising, especially under pressure.'

'Is that true?' the officer asked my neighbour.

'Yes, it's true,' Bethany said.

'Why do you look so shocked?' Constable Laurence asked suspiciously.

'I just wasn't prepared for the question,' she replied earnestly.

'How long have you known Mrs Wilson?'

'I've known Anna for over twenty years. We go to mass together on Sundays and have afternoon tea together once a month.'

'And did you see what happened?'

'No,' she said slowly. 'Anna knocked on my door asking for help. My husband and I came and saw Jack on the floor.'

'Did Mrs Wilson seem distressed to you?'

'Yes, very distressed.'

'I understand,' the officer said, turning towards me. 'Can you tell us what happened, Mrs Wilson?' Constable Jones asked.

'I left the room to change the sheets and heard a terrible noise. When I came back, I saw my husband having a heart attack on the floor. He died shortly after I called the ambulance.'

'Were there any signs prior to his death that indicated that he was dying?' Constable Laurence asked.

I paused. 'No, he just told me that he wasn't feeling well,' I said grimly.

'And how did you react?'

'At the time I thought nothing of it. He often complains of minor ailments.' My heart plummeted into my stomach as the realisation struck. What if I had taken it more seriously? Maybe he wouldn't be dead.

'I understand. Now, Mrs Wilson, Have you moved anything?'

'No.'

'Are you sure?'

'Why would I move anything?'

'May we see your bedroom?'

'Why do you need to see my bedroom?'

'It is where you were during his time of death. Please step aside, ma'am.' His words were more forceful yet not hostile. Although I didn't understand the procedure, I knew I had to comply. My mind whirred in confusion. Maybe they thought I was responsible for Jack's death. What if they found me guilty? I shuddered at the thought.

As we entered the room, the officers fired questions faster than I could respond. The jumble of wheres and whys knocked me off my feet and left me feeling disorientated. All the while, the only thing on my mind was Jack. I asked questions concerning his body, only to receive vague replies doubled as questions.

I watched the police rummage through my bedroom and dig deeper into my wounds. Although they searched with delicate precision, the embarrassment of young men examining my delicates was profound. Tears pricked my eyes as it all overwhelmed me.

'I just don't understand.'

'We are just trying to do our jobs,' Constable Jones explained, noticing my distress.

'But I don't understand,' I repeated weakly. No matter how many times I asked, no one ever explained. Were they accusing me of murder? Did they think this was my fault? I didn't do anything. But maybe that's the problem. Maybe I should have known something was wrong. Maybe I should have stayed with him.

'You've provided us with the information we need. We'll be in contact with you within a few days.'

Two days came and went and I was graced with a letter of apology from the police department. It detailed how their rampant questions were all part of protocol and they meant no disrespect and was stamped with a generic condolence and the signatures of the supervising officer. Needless to say, it swiftly found its way into the fireplace. As I watched the paper scorch and contort in the flames, I thought about their insensitivity. They didn't have the gall to tell me in person. Even if they did, it wouldn't help. You can't medicate this degree of anguish with an empty apology. In my darkest hour I was swept into befuddlement by officers who just needed to do their jobs. There was no room for grievance, nor for understanding.

Once the letter had been reduced to a pile of embers and ash, I examined the lounge room and scene of my husband's death. On a superficial level, everything looked the same. The house was intact and everything was in the right place yet remnants of Jack's memory haunted me. His leather chair held the mould of his body and he smiled from portraits on every wall. The Peruvian rug was now stained with his vomit and his last breath clung to its fibres. How could he be gone when so much of him remained? Even when I hid the pictures and rolled up the rug, a fragment of his existence lurked behind every sock and every spoon.

People don't understand that losing a lifelong partner is an on-going trauma. It's not something that just fades away with time. Nearly two years after his death, the soul of this town still torments my waking hours. Recurring visions of his death plague my dreams no matter how many pills I take. There are days when I stare at my gaunt reflection for hours until a thought I would never have fathomed crosses my mind: Maybe this isn't the place for me. I knew that the void would never be filled, but the concept of a new start made the pain seem less omnipresent. Sometimes the best way to move on is to do so physically as well as emotionally. Life can be cut short at any moment and I don't want to wait here while it happens. I don't want to be alone. As I rang my financial advisor to discuss my options, I thought, Maybe it's for the best.

### Sunday 24 March 2013

### Kites And Heart Strings

**Jennie Cumming**

Blackwood, SA

High tensile rods

light rip-stop cloth

strength in design and construction.

More strength comes from setbacks

from slips and from crashes;

resilience grows with repairs

and with patches.

The longer the cord

the higher the kite flies

and the greater the tug on the heart.

### Sunday 24 March 2013 4 pm

### Masks

**Crystal Lee**

Adelaide, SA

I'll use a broodoo for my courage

Hoodoo for these violent tunes

Paint me in black until my skin is without hue

I dance to fear in a phantom waltz

And bury myself in an open sky

Nobody knows me here

I exist where memories lie

I'll wear a kabuki for my tears

Masquerade for my pain

Blacken all my years until I'm left without blame

Bless the soil below my head

While I dance to denial's song

Wrap me up in grace and love

Carry me home

I'll wear a facade for my flaws

And bind us with these broken strings

I crawl through fields of despair

Unlocking doors to leave

I immerse myself in dandelions

Wrapped in wind and rain

They carry all my hopes and dreams, in vein

Masking my love, my pain, my rage

I lock myself inside of fear

I'm dancing in dark corners

In a faceless dream

Under this skin, nobody knows me ...

### Monday 25 March 2013

### Great Aunt Maud

**Felicity Lynch**

Katoomba, NSW

The elderly face peeked up at me. Her bony hands poked me in the ribs. She gave a snort. 'Where have you been? Haven't seen you for a bit.'

Great Aunt Maud was living up to her feisty reputation. She was quite a handful for her family, even though they loved her.

She had been a great beauty and even now so frail and old she was still beautiful. Men had flocked around her and still continued to court her.

A beautiful woman, she was the toast of the town. She had buried three husbands. But she was still an amusing flirt. Young men loved her. She was tender towards them.

Having loved and been loved all her life she could see no reason why, even at what was considered a ripe old age, she now had to change and be quiet.

But it was the older men she treasured as they also, like her, were old. She remembered how dashing they looked and so bold. Together they relived their lives and adventures, drank gin and tonics, and remembered the laughter, the women they loved, their scent and their smiles and desires. With Great Aunt Maud, again they strode back through the years so many of them they normally hid.

A splutter of laughter came from the group in the corner; holding audience was Great Aunt Maud. The occasion, today, was her ninety-ninth birthday.

### Monday 25 March 2013 4 pm

### The Fly

**Connie Howell**

Wentworth Falls, NSW

Oh my said the fly as it sat upon the ceiling

That human on the chair down there is looking quite appealing

Perhaps I'll buzz and flap my wings

And let him know I'm friendly

I know that humans don't like flies

So I'll land on him quite gently.

Oh my said the human as he watched the fly come over

He didn't quite know what to do so he tried to duck for cover

But the fly was quick and agile and landed on his nose

And the human watched in awe then he momentarily froze.

So eye to eye or nose to nose the two of them were silent

The fly was calmly sitting and the human wasn't violent

He was amazed as both they gazed into each other's faces

And both of them began to think what fun if they'd trade places.

### Tuesday 26 March 2013

### The Third Eye

**Andris Heks**

Megalong Valley, NSW

There are three of me, though I'm rarely number three

I yo-yo from one to two, yet only three's free!

Only three is balanced, only three is true

One is always sky high, two is always blue

One doesn't want to know two

And two is ignorant too

One's sight's fixed on heaven, two eyeballs hell

Three looks through the third eye and guides me well

In three I watch the pair seesaw, I stay still in the centre

I see every move they make as they exit and enter

One pulls me towards cloud nine and two towards abyss

In three I see through them both and what I see is bliss!

Hey, hold your horses, this sounds ever so neatly yogic,

But real life, you might agree, is more toxic than tonic!

Isn't bliss just another form of the number one addiction?

Why don't you rather develop the power of your convictions?

Why don't you accept yo-yoing as the core of your nature

And the search for some 'nirvana' as a means for self-torture?

Why don't you just trust yourself and quit the yogic addiction?

That will indeed develop the power of your convictions!

For no matter how blissful, the lone third eye can't fly,

But when two wings swing, even a sparrow can swoop and soar high!

... Yes, but not without number three, the third eye!

That lone third eye is never lonely

One and two belong to it only!

It takes good care of these flapping wings

Under its guide they no longer swing

Rather they just glide with the grace of god

For three is the spirit, lest I forgot!

### Tuesday 26 March 2013 4 pm

### Raw Cuts

**Jean Bundesen**

Woodford, NSW

A Crepe Myrtle grows

like a gangling youth

by the boundary fence

in my garden.

Graceful beauty.

Crimped rose blossoms,

harbingers of Autumn,

when quivering leaves

turn to gold.

Pink and blue evening skies

air crisp and chill

a tonic after summer.

He said, 'I'll trim that bush,

it offers no protection.'

He couldn't wait.

Electric trimmer hummed

chainsaw slashed

leaving the carcass of my tree.

### Wednesday 27 March 2013

### Cuba

**David Anderson**

Woodford, NSW

The women are brown as I walk by the pool

To spend Cuban pesos from a bar room stool

In Havana bars drinking Cuban rum

Then warm my body by a hot Cuban sun

Dance charanga francesa at the Dupont Mansion

Talk of Castro and Che, were they right or wrong?

How the world held its breath back in '62

Then we'll dance all night playing Mongo's songs

Cuba – the colour the sound

Cuba – I want so to stay

But for many freedom's a heartbeat away

Across Florida Straits to Miami Bay

Smoke a Monte Cristo and blow the smoke high

Into a deep blue Cuban sky

That's gazed down on slavery and revolution

Where Fidel read Marx to find a solution

Hot Cuban days and warm Cuban nights

I've drunk my fill of exotic delights

Believe me now people – hear what I say

I want it all – except Guantanamo Bay

Cuba – the color the sound

Cuba – I want so to stay

But for many freedom's a heartbeat away

Across Florida Straits to Miami Bay.

### Thursday 28 March 2013

### One Lazy Sunday Afternoon

**Bob Edgar**

Wentworth Falls, NSW

One lazy Sunday afternoon Galileo Galilei, Aristotle, and Hans Christian Andersen lay upon their backs on a grassy hillside, chewing the milky latex from dandelion stalks whilst contemplating a cloudy sky.

'Forsooth Galileo, tell us of what you perceive in the cloud formations as you gaze into the skies above,' Aristotle enquired of Galileo.

'Aristotle my philosophical adversary, as I peer through my perspiculum, to ascertain a more accurate assessment of the visible masses of water suspended at altitude, I see a glimpse into the mechanics of the universe. In the clouds I envisage an almighty collision between science and religion, culminating in my own descent into a sightless cenotaph. But pray tell, Aristotle, I beseech you to enlighten Hans and myself with your interpretations of the cloud formations?' Galileo concluded.

Aristotle responded thoughtfully, 'Teleologically having disembodied the whole, I feel that all things in nature, and their parts, are inherently purposeful to life on earth. Therefore the clouds are both ethically and reasonably changing form, to adhere to Mankind's thinking.' Aristotle sighed and sought from Hans Christian Andersen, 'Hans, you of infinite imagination ... buoy us with your visionary concepts within the clouds.

'Well, I was going to say that I see a duckie and a horsie.'

### Friday 29 March 2013

### Of Might And Mouse

**Linda Yates**

Katoomba, NSW

Once I had a little mouse

that lived inside a wooden house.

Well he was not all so small as that,

In fact he was a mouse so fat,

most people took him for a rat!

But this verse is not about his size,

or the colour of his eyes.

Perhaps a tale for the would-be wise

about might and love and their disguise.

His tail was long, by the way.

His eyes were red, anyway.

His coat was soft and white as snow.

All of this you may as well know.

And that his body rests where live things grow,

In an underworld place not far away,

hidden from the light of day,

buried in a pot of clay,

in which fond flowers bloom and sway.

Red-rimmed eyes full of rage

if I dared to keep him in his cage.

A zest brimmed heart so full of life,

He was always getting into strife.

A great big heart brimmed full of zest?

Could it be contained in that little chest?

But now you'll think my tale a jest!

I used to let him go about.

He wandered in and wandered out

of favourite places here and there.

I found his nests most everywhere.

When he'd had enough, he'd come back home.

He did not always wish to roam.

Dare not disturb through all the night –

My god he had a mighty bite!

Sometimes he'd come and sit with me,

climb up my leg, get on my knee,

but never there would stay for long.

Some restlessness would stir him on.

Sometimes he'd seem to look at me.

I did not know what he could see.

Was I just a familiar object there

beside the books, the shelves, the chair?

From a creature so very small

It was really hard to tell at all.

Was he mine to have and hold

that little creature oh so bold?

Was I the gaoler in his life?

His protector from all strife?

The ethics of it worried me.

Should I keep him in or set him free?

Can one own a living thing?

Is it a right or a grievous sin?

There was the time he got away.

I searched for him through all the day,

worried 'til my heart grew sore.

Then I found him in the drawer,

sleeping there without a care

while I was driven to despair!

The time he ate the Valium,

I thought for sure he was really gone,

but he swayed for a bit and slept for a night –

'twas only me that got the fright.

But from then he lived on borrowed time.

I knew that soon he'd not be mine.

Would my handbag be the lethal place?

The endless browsing in the bookcase?

Those weighty tomes on mighty things

Could it be the Freud would do him in?

I won't be long, the tale is told,

that little mouse was growing old.

That sleek white coat and the fat were gone

And now my tale is nearly done

About a life so small and brief

that one should scarcely pause for grief,

except that mouse contained within

some living, being, spirit thing,

some restless, reckless thing about

defying measure from without.

Something that made itself be shown,

some presence let itself be known.

Sometimes I think that it had grown

beyond the cage of that small home.

And in the end it had its way.

I knew it could no longer stay.

Sometimes I see it lurk at night

that wicked, wanton, wayward sprite.

That playful thing still visits me.

It's just there is no mouse to see.

And if you at all have any doubt,

It made me write this poem out!

That final day I hurried home.

an inner feeling urged me on.

I found him lying in his bed,

I moved my hand across his head.

It was then I sat and cried

for he crept into my hand and died.

Then I knew for sure this time

that little mouse had been truly mine.

### Saturday 30 March 2013

### Kitty And Father Bob

**Alexandra Smithers**

Katoomba, NSW

***Editor's Pick***

Robert Farther lived a turbulent life. Aged 26, he thought he had it all: a beautiful wife, two gorgeous children and a manageable mortgage on a brick veneer house in Dulwich Hill. His universe was ordered and secure, his future optimistic. He was not prepared for the day his world exploded; the day his son died.

Kitty lived a tragic life. Adopted at a young age, she grew up in Woolloomooloo, overlooking Sydney harbour. She was lavished with cuddles and kisses, her every whim pandered to. Her universe was adorned in extravagance. She was not prepared for the day her world exploded; the day she fell pregnant.

When Robert lost his son he started drinking and, like a domino effect, all the good things in his life began to topple. He lost his job, his house, his family and inevitably his mind. Without a home, he drifted to the inner city and made Hyde Park his residence. There, on countless occasions, he was robbed, bashed, laughed at, ignored, thrown money, thrown food ... The man Robert Farther slowly faded like a photo left out in the sun too long. Years later, the city's vagrants and local missions referred to him only as Father Bob, an appellation whose comical element they had long since forgotten. So, finally, even his name was stripped away, leaving nothing but a shell of a man sitting on a lone park bench in a busy city that never stopped.

Kitty's family were horrified at the prospect of a teenage pregnancy. They quickly decided she was not worthy of their love, that she was not one of them. Thrown out of the house, she started a life on the streets. But she was much too young to be pregnant and miscarried late one night in a small lane off Market Street. She would never be the same. Constant hunger in her belly drove her to do things she was not proud of. Food, once handed to her on a platter, she now found by raking through bins or stealing. She roamed the inner city at night, never sleeping in the same place twice. Raped and beaten many times, her face, once refined and beautiful, now looked much older than her years. Her youth lay strewn on the city's streets.

Kitty and Father Bob met one cold, rainy night at Town Hall station. Kitty's tired eyes rested warily on Father Bob's unkempt figure, his greying beard and tangled hair. Her thin frame shivered as he quietly sat down. He held the remains of a burger, thoughtlessly discarded by a man in a business suit, hastily boarding a train bound for suburbia. He offered it to her. Too hungry to refuse, she ate. They didn't speak. They didn't judge. Instead, side by side, they listened to the city's blustery weather howl in indignation. For a brief time they were safe from the streets.

Kitty and Father Bob's exploding worlds collided by chance for a fleeting moment. That night at the train station these two homeless souls, rejected by society, shared a kinship. He showed her kindness, and in so doing, she restored his humanity. By sunrise, their worlds had separated, and they never saw each other again.

Father Bob died on his park bench in the early hours of the morning, some years later. His hand clenched an empty brown bag, the bottle, which had been inside, was nowhere to be seen. The City Coroner deemed Robert Gerard Farther's death to have been caused by liver failure; he was only 52. They held his funeral on a Saturday. A few people from the street and the local missions mourned his passing.

Kitty died alone in an alley, behind a dumpster. She was not discovered until four days later, when a kitchen attendant from the nearby restaurant decided to investigate the foul smell wafting through the rear entrance. The remains of her once beautiful fur coat still clung to her thin, bony body. Underneath her pale skin, flies and other insects were eagerly emerging from their pupae cases. While pinching his nose with one hand, the kitchen attendant picked Kitty up by the tail and tossed her into the dumpster. No one mourned her passing.

_Ed:_ _We all love a good twist in the tale (tail?) and this story embodied that really well. When we got to the end, we had that same feeling you get after watching a movie like The Sixth Sense – you immediately scroll back over what you've learned, looking for clues._

What we also found interesting was that the writing style for this piece didn't appeal to us initially, but once we reached the end, it seemed very logical to use such a style in such a piece. So a vital lesson was reinforced here: don't be too quick to judge – explore the whole package before forming an opinion!

### Sunday 31 March 2013

### The Time Travel Machine

**Paris Portingale**

Mt Victoria, NSW

The device was still in its prototype stage. There was no gleaming chrome or smooth hydraulics. Instead there were cords and electronics spread everywhere, and the parts that needed raising and lowering were operated by ropes on pullies. Particle distributors were hanging on wires and the stand for the test subjects was an upturned milk crate.

It was finally ready for testing though, and James Schnelling had offered his assistant, Arthur, the honour of being the first man ever to experience travel through time.

Arthur, a rather short and nervous man, while pleased to be given the extraordinary experience, was also a little apprehensive. It would be the first time the device had been used on a human being and the outcome was still uncertain. Various inanimate objects, and James' cat, Arturo, had been sent whirling back through the corridor of time. They had crackled inside the halo of tachyon particles and disappeared, but their fate was yet to be determined.

'Someone has to be first. If it's not you, Arthur, then it's my mother, but I worry about her ability with electrical devices. She has only just mastered the television, and any understanding at all of the video recording device is still quite some way off indeed.'

'But what if something goes wrong?' Arthur asked.

'What if something goes wrong indeed, Arthur? What if something goes wrong indeed?'

'That's what I asked you, James.'

'That is what you asked me indeed, Arthur.'

'But...'

'You will become part of history, old chap. You will be the Neil Armstrong of time travel. One short man's step through time, one giant leap through time for all humanity. Actually you should say that when you arrive, when you burst through into... when was it we decided to set the thing for?' James checked his notes and said, '1902, the square root of the sum of the right angle time axes squared. The safest jump to begin with. Nothing can go wrong, dear Arthur. You can put your mind quite to rest on that.'

Though not quite fully convinced, Arthur eventually accepted the role of first man through time, and prepared himself for the journey. As proof of his delivery back to the year 1902, it was decided Arthur would have his photograph taken beside a news stand bearing a date and a headline of the times and, in case objects from the past could not be returned directly to the present, it would be placed in a box and buried in a specific place, to be unearthed on his return.

There was a second, smaller device, also ready for testing, which would be used for the return to the present. James handed it to Arthur as he stepped onto the milk crate.

'Now, I've explained how you use this. It's quite simple but I will run through the operation one more time. The large red button there with "BACK" written underneath, when you're ready to return, simply press that. You will arrive approximately two seconds after you left.'

'Press BACK. Yes I think I have that.'

'Good. So, are you ready to begin the big adventure?'

Arthur checked his bag. 'Sandwiches, check. Thermos and mug, check. Map of London 1902, check. Spare socks and underwear, check. Camera, check. Box for burying photograph, check. Trowel for burying box with photograph, check. All in order, James.'

Extending a hand, James said, 'Good. I wish you luck. I'll see you back here in a couple of seconds,' and he pulled the cord with the wooden toggle, taken from his motor mower, which started the machine. Seconds later, in a hail of faster than light particles, Arthur disappeared.

When, after half an hour, Arthur had not returned, James took a spade and went out to the section of garden where it had been arranged Arthur would bury the box and began to dig. The box was there and James picked it up and opened it. Inside was a note, saying:

Your stupid 'BACK' device didn't work. I've been pushing the wretched button for 10 minutes, and nothing. I'm stuck here in 1902. Please send back someone with a proper, working device. I'm very annoyed and have eaten the all the sandwiches.

Arthur.

Over the next day and a half, James designed and built a totally new return device, based on a new set of principles. Happy, and more confident in the new approach, James confronted his mother, a dithery and easily fuddled woman, to convince her to enter his time device and take the new model back to Arthur.

'You want me to do what, dear?' she asked.

'Take this piece of equipment and travel back to 1902 in my time travel machine and give it to Arthur.'

'What is Arthur doing in 1902?'

'It's all part of an experiment I'm conducting.'

Looking at the device James was holding, his mother asked, 'Is that for the television? For changing the channels? I don't understand, we already have a perfectly good channel changer. I don't want to have to spend another two weeks learning how to use a new one when we already have a perfectly good channel changer right here.'

'No, Mother,' James told her. 'It's for bringing Arthur back from 1902.'

'This is all very confusing. I didn't think they had television back in 1902.'

'They didn't.'

'Well, what is the point of...'

James cut across her and handed her the device. 'Just hold onto this and come with me,' he said and led his mother out of the house and across the garden to his backyard laboratory.

Crossing the lawn, his mother stopped and said, 'Why on earth is there a hole there? Did you do that? And look, you've just left the shovel lying there, waiting for someone to trip over it. That's just asking for an accident. And if you really must dig holes...'

James took his mother's arm and guided her on down to the laboratory where she was immediately overcome by the mess and began trying to clean up.

'I honestly don't know how you can work with your shed like this, I really don't,' she said, and James took the broom from her hand and guided her up onto the milk crate.

'Just stand here and in a moment you'll feel a little tingle and then you'll be back in 1902. Arthur should be there and I want you to give him that piece of equipment.'

'The channel changer?'

James sighed and said, 'Yes.' Looking around, he found an empty sweets tin and he handed it to his mother. 'Give him that as well, for the photograph.'

Taking the tin, his mother looked down at the crate and said, 'So that's where the milk crate went to. I've been looking everywhere for that. I've had to put the bottles out in your father's old army foot locker. Heaven knows what the neighbours have thought. We look like we've turned into a family of old rag and bone men.'

James gave a very sharp pull on the toggled cord and his mother disappeared.

Years earlier, back in 1902, James' mother appeared with a pop and a small rush of air. Arthur was standing some yards away, holding a trowel and looking annoyed and impatient. When he saw Mrs Schnelling he visibly brightened.

'Mrs Schnelling,' he said, 'what a relief to see you.'

Holding up the return device, Mrs Schnelling said, 'James has sent me with this for you. I think it's a television channel changer.'

Arthur walked over and took the device from Mrs Schnelling and, turning it over in his hands, said, 'I hope this works better than the first one, which was completely useless.'

Mrs Schnelling said, 'I don't know about that, but I can tell you this, James has made a terrible mess of the lawn and his work shed is a disgrace.'

After waiting over an hour for the reappearance of Arthur and his mother, James went outside to check the hole in the lawn. The sweets tin was there, a little rusted now, and he picked it up and opened it. Inside was a note.

This stupid thing is useless as well. Your mother and I are very annoyed. We're booking into the Chelsea Regent and will be staying there until you get the wretched thing right. I shall be expecting complete recompense for this and other assorted sundries.

Arthur. (Very annoyed indeed.)

There was also a second note, this one from his mother. It said:

I want to see that hole filled in and your shed tidy when I get back. And I want the milk crate put back where you found it.

Mother.

James spent the next week and a half designing and constructing a new return device. It was based on the concept of a reverse polarity field, an idea James had come up with in the bath one evening, watching the bubbles rising after a flatulence event. Confident this one would work, he decided to take it back himself. In his laboratory he devised a system of pullies so that he could pull the lawn mower cord from the milk crate and, clutching the latest device, gave the toggle a strong pull.

When James appeared in 1902 he found himself alone. Getting directions for the Chelsea Regent, he set off to find Arthur and his mother. When he got to the hotel he discovered the pair in the dining room. They'd just settled in to a fine meal of roast spatchcock, pommes dauphinoise, Kahlua carrots, Belgian truffles, two different wines and a bottle of 1876 French champagne. Crossing to the table, he found the pair in high spirits and more than a little tipsy.

'Ah, James,' Arthur said, then gesturing expansively, 'pull up a seat old chap. You've missed mains but we've got petit fours and a wonderful croquembouche coming up for sweets. The pastry chef, monsieur Gaston Vichie, is a French marvel.' And capturing the attention of a passing waiter, said, 'A glass for Mr Schnelling, garcon, if you will, and double the order of petit fours, my friend has had quite a long trip.'

In an act of unusual foresight, before leaving, James had checked the archives of the London Times and jotted down the winners of a number of the horseraces of the time, as a precautionary measure against the slim chance that his third return device somehow also managed to fail, leaving his mother, himself and Arthur stranded in 1902 without any means of support.

So it was that, after the third device did in fact fail, Arthur booked himself into the Chelsea Regent with Arthur and his mother. They spent their time enjoying pleasant and fruitful days at Ascot, Epsom Downs, Newmarket and the other grand racetracks of the time, and in the evenings, wining and dining extravagantly in the luxury of the grand hotel, enjoying the seemingly unending array of wonderful treats from the kitchen of their new friend and French marvel, monsieur Gaston Vichie.

On the morning after James' arrival in 1902, over breakfast, James' mother had asked, 'James, tell me truthfully, did you put the milk crate back where it's supposed to be?'

'Yes, mother,' James replied.

'And you filled in the hole in the lawn?'

'Yes, of course, mother.'

'And tidied the shed?'

James nodded.

And so, with those matters resolved, they settled comfortably into the slower, more orderly and altogether pleasant routine of their new life in the year 1902. 

### Monday 1 April 2013

### Landed

**Peter Shankar**

West Ryde, NSW

It made a most unusual noise as it landed

I grasped for breath but it was too fast

A bright light shined through

The look on her face was enough to overthrow Greek gods

She demanded an explanation!

My dad kissed her on the neck, in a desperate effort to disarm her every move

Her eyes were piercing through my heart as she held me in her arms

She was looking between my legs

I couldn't hold it any longer

I cried...

The doctor yelled out 'It's a boy!'

This item formed part of our 'it made a most unusual noise as it landed' week.

### Monday 1 April 2013 2 pm

### It Made A Most Unusual Noise As It Landed

**Demelza**

Taroona, TAS

Her belly large to nearly popping

She waddled in her slippers flopping

As she walked

Her husband talked

This is it! There is no stopping!

He let her stand to huff and puff

He filled in forms and other stuff

She screamed too late

It's coming mate

This labour's not been long enough

All eyes were quick to turn and poise

It made a most unusual noise

As it landed

Lungs expanded

Sounds spilled out like plastic toys

Receptionist all aghast

Called to the midwife 'HURRY FAST!'

It's a boy!

Dad shouts with joy

As visitors just scuttle past

They settled her for after birth

Put up a screen for all it's worth

Mum at rest

Babe at breast

Father settling back to earth

A room was very quickly found

Peaceful hush now spread around

Mother stated

We should have waited

Father's face turned to a frown

My dear if we had left it later

You could have birthed in elevator

She gave a moan

Why not at home?

No thanks! I'll fix accelerator!

This item formed part of our 'it made a most unusual noise as it landed' week.

### Monday 1 April 2013 6 pm

### Possum's Pride

**Alexander Gardiner**

Bullaburra, NSW

Gorging all night in a cherry tree,

tummy stretched to the nth degree.

Rotund like a barrel full of gas,

a possum now an ungainly mass.

Feeling taught but in a relaxing way,

toilet etiquette this possum is not au-fait.

Dreamingly scratching its nether parts,

causing many wee silent squeaky farts.

Presupposing it was wind if felt,

and with a squeezing of both eyes and its furry pelt.

That thought though really was never valid,

it made a most unusual noise as it landed.

At least a kilo and a wee bit more,

rocketed fiercely to the garden floor.

Now changed from a cherry red as it voided,

it made a most unusual noise as it landed.

Now being an innocent possum an' all,

let go of his perch and began to fall.

Falling down at a pace quite languid,

it made a most unusual noise as it landed.

So if you come across a possum with a brownie-cherry arrrr's,

Just think about this, this stupid farce.

A possum that's pride was sorely wounded,

When, it made a most unusual noise as it landed.

The lesson here is for all to see,

never presuppose what will be will be.

Any spectator to this scene would say if he was candid,

it made a most unusual noise as it landed.

This item formed part of our 'it made a most unusual noise as it landed' week.

### Tuesday 2 April 2013

### Pride And Presents

**Hazel Girolamo**

Ulverstone, TAS

Christmas festivities at the local village church took on a less than festive air yesterday when Santa stumbled over a suspected deliberately placed foot (believed to belong to a local urchin who can expect a lump of coal this year, having already been on the receiving end of a quick thump behind the ear), and lost his hold on his bulging sack. It made a most unusual noise as it landed and out tumbled not the gaily wrapped presents that the excited waiting children were expecting, but a man's body, all trussed up 'quite like a Christmas turkey', as Father Reed was overheard saying. The mystery of the man's identity was quickly dispelled when Miss Gwendolyn Murray uttered a piercing shriek that it was her Herbert, before fainting into Father Reed's arms.

Dr FitzHerbert Lyons-Byron Symon-Jones was recently seen out walking with said Miss Murray amid rumours their betrothal was to be announced at Gwendolyn's 21st birthday party to be held at Featherington Manor next month. It was expected to be among the social highlights of the new year, with rumblings of royalty being among the guests invited by Miss Murray's mother, Dowager Duchess Marjorie Mainwaring Mountbank, who refused to confirm or deny.

As Father Reed later stated to the newspaper reporter who had been dutifully covering the nativity festivities, having found himself on the other end of a scoop that he fervently hoped would lead him to a promotion over that 'Neville No Nose' as he privately referred to him (just because he was the boss's daughter's current boyfriend's cousin), Father Reed said he had last seen Herbert a few days previously over a private personal matter that he had no intention of divulging to either the cub reporter/photographer or to the readers of his illustrious well distributed rag, at which the reporter took a final snap of the buxom beauty of Miss Murray being fanned back to consciousness by Father Reed's cassock.

Miss Gwendolyn declined to comment. The police are investigating what happened to the missing gifts. Anybody who can shed light on this matter is cordially invited to contact Scotland Yard.

This item formed part of our 'it made a most unusual noise as it landed' week.

### Tuesday 2 April 2013 2 pm

### Federer vs Murray

**Andris Heks**

Megalong Valley, NSW

It was a night that must have felt shallow for Federer.

It is not that he did not do his best to try to dig deep within himself; to try out every trick in his incomparable repertoire that he accumulated through his career as a tennis player who broke every record in tennis. But this time his past was not good enough to empower him to beat his nemesis, Andy Murray, nearly ten years his junior.

I watched Federer's last few matches that led him to his showdown with Murray in the 2013 Australian Open. Once he won a set, he tended to simply overwhelm his opponents, no matter how good they were.

As long as these opponents were not among the top four in the world.

For Federer, remarkable as it is, at the veteran age of 31, by when tennis players tend to retire from competition, was fitter than most of his much younger opponents. Add to fitness the fact that he is by now the most experienced tennis player ever in the world and you indeed get a package in him that is simply too much to his less experienced opponents.

Watching him through the tournament was like watching tennis perfection in motion. His movements, dance, hits and overall behaviour have been always graceful. His is not just tennis. It is a kind of natural tennis ballet. The ease of his play is so mesmerising that it is tempting to see him as a guru; a master player who is seemingly ageless, perfect and immortal.

But after all, he is mortal; he can be beaten. We, of course, know this from statistics. Even though he holds the record for the tennis player with the greatest number of weeks to have been number one in the world, he has not ranked number one now for some time. But when one watches him in the games he wins, it is easy to forget that he is no longer the world number one.

Having seen him play Andy Murray in the semi-finals, I realised why this maestro is being dethroned by the world's top younger tennis players. It is to do with power: such as the power of his first serves in comparison with theirs. No matter how devastating his first serves are, they are not as powerful as his strongest opponents'; hence it is much harder for him to return their serves than it is for them to return his. Secondly, in games where he keeps missing his first serves, his opponents can even more easily return his second serves. Against the top four players of the world he would just about have to be able to get his first serves right at every service game, to have a chance to win. And of course, the higher the tension in a match and the longer it goes, the harder it is to get the first serve to be both powerful and to be in.

So watching him haemorrhage in slow motion faced with an upcoming top player in the world who was ranked just below him until now, Murray, was rather sad. It was not that he did not play well, rather, that his opponent's power simply prevented him to play his very best and even in those short periods during the game when he was able to play perfectly, he was mostly neutralised by his younger and more powerful opponent who was able to step up a gear and match his magic.

Indeed, as every new generation of tennis players has more physical power than the previous one, it is easy to see that the older players cannot keep up with them once the younger players mature enough to be all-rounders.

Hence Federer, like all kings of the game before him, had his crown taken from him by the upcoming top princelings.

In the decisive fifth set Murray brought up two match points. He was denied the first one.

But then Federer hit a forehand ball that was heading outside the court. It made a most unusual noise as it landed, detonating a sound bomb. The audience exploded in a roar as history was made. For the first time in a grand final, Murray beat Federer.

Nevertheless, I am yet to see Murray or any of the other pretenders to Federer's throne demonstrate grace anything like the one this greatest tennis player of all times consistently exudes.

This item formed part of our 'it made a most unusual noise as it landed' week.

### Tuesday 2 April 2013 6 pm

### The Peacock

**Vickie Walker**

Orange, NSW

Bob put an arm around his wife's shoulders. 'It'll be okay Christine, you know that don't you?'

'I suppose so, it's not what we expected though, is it?' Christine lowered her head.

'Perhaps not.' Bob linked his other arm to his daughter's. 'Come on, Kate, let's get you both home.'

Kate ran her fingers through her straight blonde hair, 'It's not fair, Grandma's not that old.' The three walked slowly down the concrete path towards their car. 'Maybe the doctors are wrong.'

'I wish they were,' said Christine, close to tears. 'Six months! It's not enough time.'

'How can we let Justin know, Mum? He was really close to Grandma,' asked Kate. 'We don't even know where he is.'

'Your brother hasn't been a part of this family for several years,' her father said sternly. 'He didn't even bother speaking to us before he left, just that note. That postcard from India is the only contact since. And when was that? Over a year ago now. Let's go home. Justin is the least of our problems.'

~~~

A large group gathered around the graveside. 'Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,' the minister intoned. Bob and Kate stood on either side of Christine. Family and friends were gathered behind them. Her mother lasted a little over the six months the doctors had predicted, fighting to spend precious time with her family. Sobs choked Christine as she placed white rosebuds on her mother's coffin and it was lowered into the ground.

Back at the house, people gathered for the wake. Her mother's many friends all wanted to say farewell and to offer Christine their support. She handed around trays of food and drinks for what seemed like hours. People kept asking where Justin was. 'He's overseas,' she muttered in a vague way. The old aunts tutted. All the sympathetic hugs and condolences overwhelmed her.

Suddenly she needed to escape, to seek the peace of her garden. Down behind the shed, there was a large open area. Here she had planted trees and shrubs. In the spring warmth she found her quiet place. She was hidden from the house. Wearily she sank onto a bench. The grief of losing her mother was bad enough.

Making her last wish come true seemed impossible. Justin had not contacted her for a long time; she had no idea where to even begin searching.

A scratching sound made her look up. Staring at her from the safety of a low tree branch was a peacock. The bird was preening his blue-green plumage, his long train of eye feathers drooping behind. Suddenly it made a most unusual noise as it landed on the ground at her feet.

'Where on earth did you come from?' she asked the bird. 'Not many peacocks around here.'

He eyed her calmly, pecking in the dirt. Christine watched him for a while until she felt ready to face the crowd again. The bird was still there when she returned to the house.

The peacock stayed. Every day Christine went down to the garden. She began to take seed with her. At first the peacock ignored her, but gradually it recognised her and would come out and greet her. Bob and Kate thought she was mad.

'It must belong to someone,' they said. 'It'll go home if you quit feeding it.' Somehow Christine couldn't do that. It felt right to care for this bird. Her family shrugged and gave up mentioning it. Like they had given up talking about Justin. Christine however did not forget her son. She knew she had to find him.

The last contact had been a postcard from the Taj Mahal in India. Why he'd sent this after having been missing for 18 months she wasn't sure, but it was the only clue she had. She rang the Australian embassy. The staff was sympathetic and promised to try to locate him, but they held little hope of success. She rang his old friends. None had heard from him recently. Christine posted ads in newspapers and on the internet.

'If he wanted to see us, he'd have come home,' Bob said. 'Not much interested if you ask me.'

'I have to try,' she told him. 'For Mum's sake and ours.'

Christine searched for months. The embassy didn't manage to track him down in India. However, they could tell her he'd been in England six months previously. She tried advertising in English newspapers. Again she called his friends, his old school chums, his workmates.

When the task of finding her son seemed most daunting Christine would head to the garden and visit the peacock. His very presence seemed to give her a renewed hope. His antics amused her. He seemed to enjoy rolling in a shallow hole scratched in the dirt, or the sun would tempt him to stretch out and lie down. A tree provided his favourite spot to roost. That blue-green plumage was a bright beacon in her day.

Summer and autumn came and went and winter arrived with bitter winds and chilly days. Christine had almost lost any hope of finding her son, when out of the blue she received a reply on her net posting. Justin was in Central America, working as a volunteer. This was a chance. Bob was doubtful that the information was true, but Christine sat down and wrote a long letter to her son, telling him to come home.

Spring had only just begun when the peacock's behaviour changed. He started to preen his plumage and to strut and fan out his eye feathers in a train. His shimmery dance of courtship was reserved just for her. As she appeared each day, he'd puff out his blue-green chest.

'I'm not a peahen,' she told him, laughing. 'Perhaps you should go and find yourself a mate.' But the peacock ignored her and stayed.

She hadn't heard anything of Justin. Maybe her letter had gone astray; she wasn't sure how the postal system was in Central America. He could have moved on.

'I should just give up,' she said to the bird, 'but somehow I can't. Mum wanted me to find him and put the family back together.'

On the anniversary of her mother's death, Christine, Bob and Kate decided to go to the cemetery and lay some flowers. As they pulled into the car park, Bob noticed that someone else was at the grave. The man was kneeling, his head in his hands.

'Who can that be?' Bob asked. 'I can't recognise them from this distance.'

Christine had been staring at the roses in her hands. She looked up and peered at the man. Her heart leapt. 'Justin!' she cried. Tears flowed as she raced from the car and took her son in her arms.

A few days later, Christine went out to feed the peacock. He was nowhere to be seen. She looked under the shrubs, peered into the trees. He was gone. She sat on the bench, feeling a little lost without her feathered companion.

Justin joined her. Christine smiled and held out her hands to her son. 'Come, sit with me.'

'Dad says you have a peacock down here.'

'He's gone,' Christine informed him. 'Just like that. Same as when he came, a year ago today. Day of Mum's funeral.'

'Maybe he's gone to find his family,' Justin pointed out. 'It is spring, he needs a mate.'

Christine squeezed her son's hand. 'Mum always said the only really important thing in life was family. She was right of course.' She hugged him. 'I'm glad she made me promise to find you.'

'I'm sorry, Mum. I was young and foolish. I needed to get away from family and to find myself.'

'It's fine,' she patted his shoulder.

'No. I should've at least spoken to you and told you how I felt before I left. Crazy I know, but at 19, I was very selfish.'

'At least we knew when you were in India,' his mother replied.

Justin grimaced. 'Yeah, I suddenly felt guilty, not writing or anything. But I didn't send anymore, didn't think to really. Wish I hadn't been so stupid now. When I got your letter, it made me stop and realise what I was missing.' He stood up. 'Can you forgive me?'

His mother hugged him fiercely. No words were needed.

'Come on, let's go up to the house,' Justin said. 'You don't need the peacock anymore.'

They walked arm in arm. Christine turned to look back at the garden one more time. Mum had done her job, she'd sent Justin home. She knew her mother's spirit would always be there to watch over her. With Justin, she entered the house.

This item formed part of our 'it made a most unusual noise as it landed' week.

### Wednesday 3 April 2013

### Following Taraji

**Irene Assumpter**

West Perth, WA

It made a most unusual noise as it landed. It had to be the stuff nightmares were made of. We held hands, closed our eyes and said our Hail Marys. As usual, my sister Taraji said it wrong. When I tried to correct her, she retorted that it did not matter.

'They get the message. God, Mary, Jesus, Joseph, Jack, Beanstalk, Cinderella and all those heaveners ... heaven people. It is late and they don't have time to analyse the words. They get tired too. Don't analyse everything, pumpkin, okay?'

I have grown up mastering Taraji's words. It was not one of those okays that required an answer or a nod. It was one of those I-need-you-to-shut-up ones. Taraji is only a year older than me, but you would think she is five years older. Even now when we are no longer little children, she likes to put an assuring hand on my shoulder to try and calm me down when I am scared, panicking or just being silly. It makes me smile. That I-am-in-good-hands feeling only a person with an older sibling can relate to makes me smile so wide.

Our beautiful Taraji. Her name really suits her. She does bring hope at that moment when you know you are well and truly finished. She cracks jokes in the most serious of moments and manages to laugh so hard she sheds tears while at it. Her skin is a shade lighter than mine, light enough for you to see she turns a little darker during a fit of uncontrollable laughter. She is the one that coins phrases in our family. Last Christmas, she coined something along the lines of 'united we stand, divided we sit and life goes on'.

Taraji always reminds me how important it is to be together at all times, in all circumstances. I remember the time she broke Ma's expensive bottle of perfume when we were trying to find hidden chocolate cookies. Taraji sweet-talked me into confessing it was my fault too. According to her, if I had not suggested checking Ma's dresser, the bottle of perfume would not have been broken. She knows how to arrange her words. No chance in hell she would use 'I would not have broken it' or anything to suggest she had anything to do with it; Taraji went for 'it would not have been broken'. Broken itself, perhaps.

This noise. This crazy sound anyone with good ears heard is going to make me jump out of my skin. And if we get home safe and sound, Ma is going to hit the roof. We were supposed to wait for the school bus. But Taraji said it was okay. I wanted to try this double-decker bus, anyway. It was new in town.

'Are we dead?' I asked Taraji without realising what I was saying. 'I don't want to be dead.'

'Yes, we are. You are eating ice-cream with Jesus and I am playing peek-a-boo with Saint Taraji.'

'There is no such saint.'

'You are younger than me. I am eleven. I know better.'

A dry-skinned man taller than Jamu the milkman is staring at us as if we are two children with hollow heads. Jamu is taller than Kobe Bryant, so you can only imagine how tall this man is. Maybe he can even touch the sky. His eyes are so red; red like Mama Amani's tomatoes that are grown on the other side of our backyard. The ripe ones that our other neighbour Mtundu likes to steal and eat without washing.

Then there is this little boy who can't stop sobbing. Maybe he needs changing. I don't know how old he is. I think it is strange that his T-shirt is labelled 'Winners Don't Cry'. I really want to hold his hand and tell him things will be okay. I think he has forgotten who his mother is in this commotion. He is looking at every woman with hope in his eyes. Hope that one of them will turn into his mother.

Then some horror of horrors with dark lips is smoking a cigarette or something. He is sitting next to an angry-looking woman whose butt is the size of China. The kind that makes her look like she is walking or standing while bending.

Taraji nudged my side and told me she could feel her mouth burning. She always says such things when she is scared. Crazy things. Things that do not exactly take fear away, but somehow put it aside. Five minutes ago she said she felt like someone was pressing her head between two huge pieces of lead. Then when I whispered to her that I could feel my heart in my throat, she looked at me for two seconds and said, 'Well, mine is in my mouth ready to be thrown out.'

Now I am really scared. All was not well. This crazy sound was bad news. Nobody in his or her right mind hears that kind of sound and feels fine. It is not the sound a normal bus driven by a normal driver would make.

And normal passengers do not scream if everything is fine.

'Kaa square!' someone yells. 'Tulia! Sit tight! Sit tight!'

How can this shrill voice say that? Sitting tight ... what in the world is that? I have never heard anyone say that. Not at home, not at school, not at church. We are not even sitting to start with. We are standing because we were told we were children who needed to have some respect by letting big people have our seats. This bus does not even have seat belts. Who made this bus? Someone on River Road must have made this silly, stuffy bus with stolen parts.

'Which uniform is this?' the dry-skinned man asked me. This man really needs some moisturiser or even cooking oil. Even grease, surely. 'This green-checked uniform is which?'

What is he saying?

'Mine,' I muttered.

Taraji gave me one of our many family looks. The one that means, 'Ma said we should not talk to strangers; strangers kidnap children and ask for ransom.'

'I mean, it is for school which?'

'We don't talk to strangers,' I said.

There is an ambulance on the way. I can hear it. How this bus landed upright on a ditch is beyond me. Someday when I am older, I will tell the whole story. How it all started. How I really did want to try the gorofa bus but would have waited for the school bus, if Taraji had listened to me. Taraji said experience is the best professor at the University of Nairobi. I will tell everyone I wanted to go to UoN for my first pedigree, so I had to listen to Taraji.

I think we are going to be just fine, except my left hand is numb. I cannot turn my neck either. I don't know whether to tell Taraji or not. She looks even more scared than I am. I want to hope that we are going to be rushed to Wallaby King's Hospital or something like that, somewhere Ma can find us. Ma will hug us and smile at the doctors and nurses all night, but she will also whisper 'you just wait till we get home' when no one is looking.

We are going to be just fine. Fine and ready for Ma to kill us.

This item formed part of our 'it made a most unusual noise as it landed' week.

### Wednesday 3 April 2013 4 pm

### Obituary Notice

**C.G. Freedman**

Rouse Hill, NSW

Francis' demise was a wholly unsavoury affair. Within the confines of a warm and welcoming drinking establishment is where Francis, a man of unmatchable quality, spent his final hours. He had resided in one of the rooms on the top floor for some days now free of charge. However, let it be known that while Francis enthusiastically accepted charity, he was no beggar. He was a firm believer in the old adage that home is where the heart is, and his heart had nestled gently in the hands of those who graciously accepted him into their homes.

Francis breathed his last breaths doing what he did best – spreading good cheer like the sun scatters its rays. In fact, Francis had about him a warmth almost equal in radiance to that of the sun. Standing by the bar, he took a sip from a beer placed before him by one of the benefactors of his merriment as he concluded one of his many entertaining personal anecdotes.

'We lacked the requisite funds to buy ourselves a round,' said he, face beaming with joviality. 'That no chance in this life were we going to buy him a drink!'

His little audience chuckled, as our absorbing orator continued. He was nearing the end of a favourite in his extensive repertoire of anecdotes. This was the one about the guy who promised to dance on the piano at a club with more than its share of swank if only this group of strangers would shout him a drink.

'It was at this stage that he spied the remnants of a drink from earlier in the night, sitting in the middle of our table. He asked if he could finish it off and we all shrugged and said, "If you really want." So back he threw it back with a cough and splutter before leaping up onto that elegant ebony piano!'

The audience were in tears as Francis ploughed on.

'It gets better,' he said with a mischievous grin. 'He didn't know it at the time, but the drink he just finished had been there for hours!' The laughter increased. 'No one knew who had been drinking from it!' He had to speak up over the laughter. 'But wait, what he also didn't know at the time was that we had been using it as an ashtray!' The laughter was uncontainable now. 'He was just dancing around up there on that piano!' Francis acted out this little dance. A deft touch. 'He had no idea!' Francis prepared now for his big finish.

'Here's the twist though,' he said, focusing their attention as they sobbed with laughter. 'That idiot dancer was me!'

They burst.

Quite simply, they burst.

They were clutching at their sides and slapping their thighs. They nearly died when Francis did his little dance again. This was Francis' finest hour. Had he known at the time that this would be the last anecdote he ever recalled, I'd wager he'd have been content. Although the star of the show, the centrepiece, the master of ceremonies, you would be forgiven for questioning Francis' eminence.

Francis was one more inclined to dress for practicality's sake, yet he managed to do so without completely rejecting some sense of style. He wore a tidy pair of maroon trousers, perhaps more of a burgundy. He dressed in layers for maximum adaptability, throwing a three quarter length high collared coat over a hooded jacket, over a light sweater, over a pale blue long sleeve 't', over a singlet top. His shoes were dark and somewhat scuffed, owing in some measure to these little jigs he insisted upon, no doubt. For all appearances, there was no concealing that Francis was a seasoned traveller. The truth is, he charmed his way from door to door, meal to meal, always sincerely and politely rejecting offers of charity until being dragged into people's homes or being practically force fed warm broth and buttery toasted bread.

Francis was always smiling, always courteous, a modern gentleman. He spun a good yarn, timed a one liner to perfection, danced a lively jig and had the voice of a tenor! He bore nothing of value, relying instead on the rare commodity of human kindness and unflinching positivity. This is not to suggest he did not have his share of enemies, or that he cruised by conflict free. No, the truth is he had been in many a squabble, for while one can play their cards however they may choose, they cannot change the hand they're dealt. And so it is that Francis, on occasion, would inadvertently provoke other, shall we say, less kind people into a bitter resentment, as was the case on this particular evening.

After his masterful performance, his crowd gradually dispersed to top up their glasses and freshen up, perhaps for an encore performance (that you and I know will never come to fruition – at least not in this world). Alone, Francis was approached by a brooding pack of oversized goliaths.

'You wanna keep it down, mate?!' the biggest of the lot asked, nay demanded!

'Certainly,' replied our benign Francis with much humility. 'I'm sorry for disturbing you,' he added to ensure a peaceful conciliation.

'Are you talkin' wise to me, boy?!' said the behemoth stepping forward. 'I ain't seen you buy a drink all night,' he continued before Francis could respond. 'You come 'ere just to scab off payin' customers, 'ey?'

Again, Francis was denied any chance of justifying his position.

'Why don't you piss off an' free up some space for us payin' customers?!'

Francis knew better than to answer this, the latest in this aggressive line of questioning. Surely it was not designed to elicit a reasoned response. Francis remained silent and firmly rooted where he felt he had a right to remain. For a modern gentleman, matters of honour remain a high priority.

'You 'eard me! Piss off!' and with this the ruffian took a swing at poor Francis, a modern gentleman who never throws the first punch. Fortunately, Francis was quick enough to step back and avoid his foe's first fist, unfortunately the same cannot be said of the scoundrel's second swing. Francis hit the floor with a thud.

Now, our dear Francis did not have a fighter's physique by any stretch of the imagination, but he more than made up for this with a lion's share of a fox's wits about him. As goliath turned to collect his accolades from his brutish crew, Francis concluded that now was perhaps the appropriate time for him to relocate, to find a new place to rest his weary head for the night. Wiping his bloodied nose on the back of his sleeve he retaliated in one smooth motion. Down came the antagonist's trousers as he himself rose, then, with a heavy shove in the small of his great back, David floored Goliath! There he lay, face flat on the floor, bare backside exposed to the world. His crew stumbled over backwards to avoid being crushed under the form of this toppling giant, allowing Francis the time and space, though somewhat lacking they appeared to be, to walk across the exposed posterior of his enemy and out onto the street beyond. Sadly, Francis was sorely outnumbered and outmatched. A quick thinking mind such as Francis possessed is all well and good until it's spread across the pavement before you. It made a most unusual noise as it landed, a supernova collapsing into a void. A loosened brick brings Francis' story to this abrupt end.

This item formed part of our 'it made a most unusual noise as it landed' week.

### Thursday 4 April 2013

### Dignity

**Ruth Withers**

Uarbry, NSW

My Dignity has run away. Has anybody seen it? No doubt it's found a comfy place to hide. Somewhere it can watch me from as I struggle to cope without it. Oh, it'll be somewhere close at hand, enjoying my discomfort.

I should've known it would come to this. Dignity always was weak and sickly. When we were little and people picked on us, it'd slink away into some dark corner, leaving me to manage as best I could alone.

As teenagers, it was nowhere to be found when the boys started hanging around. It never even tried to help me. I think that's when I first began to suspect that it wasn't what it claimed to be. Every time I tried to stand on my Dignity for support it simply crumbled and left me in a heap in the dirt. I began to think it was laughing at me too.

The strange thing was though, that every time my Dignity deserted me to run and hide, it nevertheless seemed to incur a terrible beating. It was a little like a perverted version of Dorian Grey's portrait. I took the knocks and my Dignity got the bruises.

After the birth of each child it was left so shrivelled and bruised that I wondered whether it could survive. When my marriage was on its way to the marital graveyard, Dignity ran after it, screaming, 'Take me with you!' As that marriage breathed its last, my Dignity glared at me in disgust and curled itself into a wizened little ball reminiscent of a raisin.

Through all of this and so much more I never once deserted Dignity. No, sir. Not once. I tended its wounds and fed it nourishing food to build up its strength. Since it wouldn't defend itself, I did my level best to protect it. Sometimes I surprised both of us with a small success, but alas, it was always short-lived.

We were mismatched, my Dignity and I. Somewhere in the world is someone who got short-changed – big time. My Dignity always knew I wasn't worthy of it. I was supposed to get the runty Dignity that couldn't shrink any further. The one I got was far too big for me and had to spend all its time trying to make itself fit.

Oh, why didn't I realise it sooner?! My poor Dignity! It was like an eagle trapped in a budgie cage. It couldn't stand up for me – or even defend itself. It was meant to belong to someone of far greater substance; to perch, preening on the shoulder of royalty or some such. My poor old Dignity was never meant to have to defend its existence. It should simply have been on display; unquestioned and unchallenged.

Instead, it found itself allocated to me. Who did I think I was? What made me think I was entitled to its services? What poor royal personage was suffering the indignity of being lumbered with the diminished Dignity that should have been mine? Is it any wonder my Dignity despised me?

All the same, now that I come to ponder on it, there were moments when Dignity relented a little and stepped forward to shield me. Only in my very darkest moments, mind you, when my defences were completely down; when I had nothing left to fight with. At those times Dignity grew suddenly strong and purposeful, holding me up and forcing me to go on. At those times we worked together, forcing our way through the bracken and thorny brambles of my life. Now, why would it do that when it so despised me?

Perhaps it was in the interest of self-preservation?

Maybe, just maybe, being stuck with me was better than having no-one. Maybe old Dignity couldn't survive on its own, however unworthy it considered me. Now that thought puts recent events in a whole different light, doesn't it? I know I can survive without Dignity. I've had to – many times. The question is, if the tables were turned, could Dignity survive? It just might be time to put that to the test.

~~~

Considering what we've been through in the past, it really was too precious of Dignity to desert me again over such trivialities. It isn't as though I even asked it for help.

What was I supposed to do when the cattle decided they liked the colour of the grass outside the fence better and just bowled the fence over as if it wasn't there? I had no choice but to chase them up and down the road, trying to persuade them to go through the gate that led back to captivity. Is it my fault that just chasing them wasn't enough persuasion? You would certainly think so! Old Dignity cringed in horror at the names I called them. It worked though, didn't it?

When the pup tripped me up as I walked through the door, causing me to drop a log of wood on my foot, bash my shin and hurt my hand, Dignity almost shrank away to nothing as I screeched at said pup. As for the adult dogs – you'd think that randy old mongrel would have more sense than to demolish half his kennel trying to get to the bitch next door. He even tried to chew through the wire mesh! I was a little upset at his antics and moved him far away after telling him there'd be no nookies for him today. Dignity almost had conniptions at that remark!

Then there was the early morning I awoke with a start, remembering that I'd turned the pump on to fill the tank, but pretty sure I hadn't remembered to turn it off. An overflowing tank can make quite a mess, so I left Dignity sleeping while I sprinted outside in my undies to remedy the situation – as far as was possible. Well! Guess who was wide awake when I came back inside? Honestly! You'd think I'd been dancing naked around the clothes line in the moonlight.

Cats that sit at the back door and squabble like politicians; a featherless cockatoo who likes to eat wire and poops in his water; a mangy wombat that takes up residence under the house; the amorous steer with designs on me; the list goes on and on and on. All of these things are beneath Dignity, but I still have to deal with them. Do you see anyone else here?

Do you know what tipped the cart though? The final straw was nothing I said or did. I was the innocent party. I was the wronged party. In order to go through the back gate, one has no choice but to walk under the gum tree. The gate is under the gum tree. I had to go through the gate. How was I to know there was a magpie in the tree taking careful aim? Magpies have very good aim and this one was aiming to make a deposit on my head.

Well, he succeeded in making that deposit and as he did so, Dignity fled. It made a most unusual noise as it landed among the bark and leaves under the tree. I'm not sure I can describe the sound. It was a sort of wailing, sobbing, choking noise, as though the deposit had been made in its throat. I found myself almost wishing it had been, as I stood there deserted once again. The things that Dignity most hates, I've learned, are witnesses and laughter. There was no shortage of either on this occasion.

~~~

So here I stand, my friends, completely devoid of Dignity. I'm convinced it's nearby, waiting for me to beg it to come back. The thing is, as I mentioned before, I'm not at all sure it's all it claims to be anyway. Even if it is, I don't know that I want it back. I've decided that Dignity is a dreadfully high maintenance commodity and I'm not at all sure it's worth wasting the remainder of my insignificant life on.

So, friend Dignity, let's have ourselves a trial separation, shall we? Let's just see who needs whom the most. Are you listening, Dignity? I plan on wearing – or not wearing – whatever I'm comfortable in. I plan on berating dumb animals as loudly as I please. I plan on arguing with the man in the radio and with every inanimate object that earns my displeasure. I plan on dancing with the broom, singing into my hairbrush and dyeing my hair hot pink. I plan on laughing uproariously whenever the opportunity presents itself. I plan to be totally without Dignity, because I do not plan to wither quietly away while waiting for oblivion.

I hope you can find someone you consider more worthy of you to latch onto, because to be honest, I really don't think I'm going to miss you nearly as much as I thought I would; or for that matter, as you probably think I should.

This item formed part of our 'it made a most unusual noise as it landed' week.

### Thursday 4 April 2013 2 pm

### It Made A Most Unusual Noise When It Landed

**Lynn Nickols**

Griffith, ACT

Our friend the 'Gadget Man' always has the latest gizmo. He enjoys showing us how they work and how amazingly useful/clever/cute or funny they are.

One New Year's Eve he could hardly wait for us to all to get a glass of champagne in our hands before dashing in to his office and returning with what Santa had brought him for Xmas – a remote controlled toy helicopter.

Of course, a demonstration was demanded. We stood back a little while he got it started. There was a general cheer at 'lift-off', then it flew above the lounge, narrowly cleared the candles on the dining table and circumnavigated the light fittings. Maybe he lost concentration on his remote control, or maybe a battery ran out, but it made a most unusual noise when it landed – a sort of 'plop' into the guacamole dip!

This item formed part of our 'it made a most unusual noise as it landed' week.

### Thursday 4 April 2013 6 pm

### An Infatuation With The Semblance Of A Man

**Arielle Windsor**

Nakara, NT

'Ting-ting,' chimed Flick's phone cheerily from somewhere beneath the rubble of textbooks, notepaper, pens and chewing gum packets that flowed out the mouth of her upturned bag and spilled onto the floor. Flick, who was dancing around with her headphones in her ears and her arms waving over her head like a madwoman, paused in her wild antics for a moment to smile at the sound. Then she rushed about searching for the location of the source – had she left the phone in the pocket of yesterday's jeans? Or amongst the junk on her bedside table? Was it in the dock where it belonged?

'Aha,' Flick murmured, as she spied the phone, buried beneath the books, turned upside down and wedged in a stapler. Excited, she pulled it free and slid the lock screen across to see who had texted her what.

The who was Jason, and what he had written was nearly as gorgeous as the man himself.

'Hey Flickibabe, got something important to tell you. Meet up this afternoon?' read Flick aloud. Oh she loved it when he called her that. That little set of text made her feel as though she had made a name for herself, if not in the eyes of the world at large, at least in the eyes of Jason Montague. And, oh, his eyes were worth measuring yourself in. Amber, golden, passion lit eyes, with flecks of green and brown. Jase had eyes that held the sun when they laughed, beaming rays of pure, radiant energy. Pools of light they were, like liquid bronze. They shone and glittered, dazzling her mind. Those eyes were beacons, calling. They drew her in, the green flecks swirling in a sea of gold, pulling her closer, closer, until she fell into the dark cavern of shadows at their core.

Aside from her daydreams, she couldn't see those eyes right now. For now they were out of reach. If she couldn't have those eyes, decided Flick to herself, she'd at least have his voice.

That voice. That voice had been the first part of Jason Montague she'd ever known, a stranger with no face who had called her phone by accident. Entrancing, nearly hypnotic, that voice was. She could feel the sound of it running through her bones. The resonant intonations of his voice as he spoke that very first time had captured and bound her, mesmerised in the spell of his words.

That voice had caught in her ears with its melodious tones, lodged itself there like a catchy tune and refused to leave her head. Every time she heard that voice, it drew her in to the lilting beauty of its sonorous depths and held her there, fully captive to the sound of what Jason Montague had to say.

She could get lost in that sound, so rich and full, so handsome. Power ran through that voice, an electrical current that sent shivers down her spine. Yet at the same time it was so soft, so tender, you could hear the care that stood behind the words.

Instead of sending off a quick reply, Flick's fingers danced across the screen to type in the only number she had learnt by heart, despite the fact that it had been saved in her contacts list. She hit 'Call' and Jason's face filled the screen.

Her heart swelled with each crisp 'Brinnng-brinnng' of the phone, as she waited for him to pick up with anticipation and joy. The phone stopped its cheerful song, and a pause filled the air.

'Hey Jase!' called Flick, 'S'happening? How are you? And what's this "important" mysterious thing we need to chat about?'

'Well ...' began Jason. Although that sentence could have led anywhere, Flick felt her stomach drop away. His voice was not the one she had expected. It was still the voice of Jason Montague, but it was not rich or deep or full. It sounded hollow, contorted, empty.

'Well,' repeated Jason, 'I don't want to see you anymore. I'm breaking up with you.'

'What?' cried Flick, 'Why?'

'I've had enough of you. I think it's time to move on.'

'Why though?' Flick demanded, 'I still don't understand.'

'That's your problem then. Work it out.'

'Jason, what's wrong with you?' she cried.

But the only response was silence, and the gentle sound as the other line clicked off. Flick threw her phone onto the tiled floor.

It made a most unusual noise as it landed, a hollow tinny clang that rang through the room. The sound seemed too empty and weak for the significance of the moment. Flick slammed her fist into the desk with a muffled thump, and kicked her paper basket as hard as she could. She put her head on the varnished wood and screamed as loud as she could without letting the sound escape from her room. For a long time, she sat there sobbing and shuddering with the terror of what it all meant. Finally, she lifted her head and took a few shaky gulps of air. It was no use. No matter how furious her yell or how terrible her cries, she could still hear the cold empty silence surround her. In everything she did, she felt the space of his body; in everything she saw, she could see his eyes and in every sound she made, she heard the echo of his voice.

Without Jason Montague her world was empty. It was a long time before she began to fill it again.

This item formed part of our 'it made a most unusual noise as it landed' week.

### Friday 5 April 2013

### The Back Room

**Thomas Gibbs**

Sydney, NSW

The back room in our house was a mess. There were all sorts of creatures living underneath the debris. Every now and then a cockroach would show itself, exploring the outskirts of its heaven. The stink of cat piss would get caught in your oesophagus upon opening the door. At least the door opened. If it didn't, we couldn't call this space a room. Do you get the idea?

She was outside in the backyard, so I went out to help her hang out the washing. 'Hey Pip, do you want to sort out the back room today?'

'I'll do it, stop stressing me out!'

The backyard was a great place to take respite. It was a typical suburban backyard with not much grass and a large slab of concrete called a driveway. I usually sat on one of several milk crates and enjoyed a hot cup of coffee, while her dog barked its head off at the neighbours through the fence.

'C'mon, just tell me what's rubbish and what isn't and I'll help.'

'Seriously, go away.'

I was still sitting down on the milk crate with a coffee. Whenever I have a coffee conversation comes naturally. Pip was concentrating on positioning the pegs correctly. She has tried more than once to teach me how to do it the right way. I guess I'm just a slow learner when it comes to household chores.

Pip's eyes were intense. At first I thought she was in a deep focus. She often looked stressed. Her fierce, red hair would tangle itself in knots. If it wasn't for her large downturned eyes you would identify her as a crazy-woman. But now, she was starting to cry. I thought about what to say. I had to say something.

'Are you okay?' I asked. She widened her eyes and a teardrop slid over her cheek into the corner of her mouth.

'Not really.' It was at this point where she began to tell me a story that I would never forget. 'Do you know why the house is such a mess?' I didn't answer and let her continue.

'My ex, Giles, was an alcoholic. He wouldn't go away. So, the only way I could get rid of him was to literally force him out. That's why the house is the way it is. When his alcohol abuse started to transform into physical abuse, this is when I started to collect all this junk. I was already working overtime to distance myself from him. I had a good job so I could afford it. After my dad died I lost it and told him to get out.'

'Oh.' I wanted to ask why she still had everything, now that Giles had moved on, but I held my tongue.

'He went in cycles. One month he would be charming and the next month he would slam the door in my face. Apparently, this behaviour is common in people with alcohol dependence.'

'At least he's gone now,' I said, alluding to the idea of cleaning up as soon as possible.

'He keeps bloody texting me when he's drunk, trying to get my attention.'

'Just ignore him.'

'I do but, he knows how to push my buttons. I was with him for almost ten years.'

'Why don't you get a new number?' I suggested.

'All my friends have this number and I want to keep getting all his messages anyway so that I have evidence of abuse.'

I had many things to say myself. I wondered if she still had feelings for Giles. I walked inside and entered my bedroom. I was still being stalked by the smell of cat urine and wet dog. It was getting late so I had a quick, microwaveable dinner and headed off to bed.

The next day I slept in. Pip had already left for work. I made my way to the kitchen to make a coffee. As it was brewing, I walked through the hallway towards the back room. It looked as if Pip had ventured across and opened the window slightly. I always wondered how she did this. She must have moved a few cupboards in the process, like a game of Tetris. Out of curiosity, I opened one of the many cupboards. There was a wooden box inside. I thought about opening it, but I went back to check on my coffee. It was probably a good idea to have a break from the room. Its atmosphere was quite toxic and would make your eyes water. It would make you cry.

Later on that night, Pip arrived home from work.

'Did you have a good day?'

'It was okay.'

I could smell alcohol on her breath. I wondered if she had visited Giles. She parked herself on the lounge and let out a great sigh. As I sat down next to her, something must have fallen. It made a most unusual noise as it landed. I looked around the room.

'What was that?' Pip said, slurring her speech slightly.

'I don't know.'

I got up and searched for anything unusual. There was just too much stuff. It could've been anything that made the noise. Pip got up and walked to the back room. I could now see it through the hallway. The wooden box had fallen and all of its contents were on the floor. Pip was in the back room. She looked back at me. I could see a tear rolling down her cheek.

This item formed part of our 'it made a most unusual noise as it landed' week.

### Friday 5 April 2013 4 pm

### Selma's Birthday Present

**Winsome Smith**

Lithgow, NSW

Mark Barrow hurried along busy Porter Street. It was nearly closing time and he just had to get to the bookshop before five o'clock. In this town shops always closed exactly on time.

He had forgotten to buy his wife, Selma, her birthday present. He had been in the bookshop at lunch time and had seen the book, but in his hurry to get back to the office had forgotten it. This was the busy time of the year and he hardly had time for lunch. As head accountant he had to keep everything running smoothly and he could not take extra time away.

The bookshop was a new idea; a bookshop and coffee shop combined. There were signs advising customers to browse and read and perhaps buy if they found a book they liked. It had become one of Selma's favourite haunts and it was there that she had seen the book she wanted. It was a large hardcover book entitled A Romance Omnibus and was a collection of books written by Selma's favourite romance authors.

At the thought of his wife, Selma, Mark felt a slight panic. Selma was a person whose birthday you never forgot. Selma got everything she wanted and she wanted everything now. He could not face the tantrums and tears if he forgot her birthday present. There had been the time when he booked theatre seats and they happened to be behind two very tall people. Of course it was Mark's fault and Selma had sulked for days. There had been the time when she had got hayfever from the flowers he bought her – but he'd rather not think about that.

Fortunately the shop was still open. It had two entrances, one on Porter Street and another on Castle Street. Between the two doors the shelves ran along the side walls, something like an arcade. You could order your coffee at either entrance, drink it and read at tables in the middle, then take your book if you found one and pay for book and coffee together. The shop had a cosy, foodie, bookish smell and was doing a good business.

Mark rushed through the Porter Street entrance, and almost ran to the shelves labelled Romance. There was the book with a cover design of an ecstatic couple swooning in each other's arms surrounded by pink roses. At first he was not aware of another man who hurried through the Castle Street entrance and rushed to the same shelf. When Mark did notice him he saw that the man was reaching for the very same book – and there was only one copy.

In his determination to get the book, Mark pushed in front of the man and took the book from the shelf. The other man gave Mark a push and tried to pull the book from his hand.

What followed was a brief tussle. The other man was bigger and stronger than Mark and it looked for a moment that he would be the winner.

Mark was not a fighter; he was a Clark Kent kind of person, with his dark-rimmed glasses and his mild manner. He was known as a gentle soul and the staff at the office respected this. He was always the peace maker. On this occasion there was no peace making; he would have that book, no matter what.

The tussle lasted for a couple of minutes. The other man held up a fist but Mark ducked, regained his footing and pushed his assailant. The other man staggered back and reached again for the book but after a quick glance over Mark's shoulder he let go of the book. The action was so sudden that Mark staggered backwards. As he regained his footing he saw his assailant running headlong towards the Castle Street entrance – or exit, depending on which way you were going.

Still slightly shaken, Mark clumsily dropped the book. It made a most unusual noise at it landed on the floor. You would expect such a large hard cover book to land with a heavy bang, but it fell softly with a gentle thud onto the polished floor.

Retrieving the book, Mark approached the cash register and made his payment. The cashier smiled at him as she dropped the book into a bag and gave it to Mark. Somewhat shaken but relieved, Mark strolled out to the street. Oh happy day! He had Selma's birthday present.

He walked straight into a policeman who was standing at the shop entrance. Another policeman grabbed Mark's arm and said, 'Bought the book, didya mate?' Before Mark realised what was happening both policemen were waving their identity badges and advising him they were taking him to the police station. As one held his arm the other took the book in its bag.

On the way to the police station Mark demanded to know what was happening. The policeman who was not driving said, 'We'll ask the questions, matey. You can give us answers at the station.'

At the station they typed all his details into the computer then took Mark into a room, which he supposed from watching television was an interview room. The atmosphere at the station was surprisingly relaxed and almost cheerful. Mark looked around the room. There was no recording equipment and there wasn't one of those mirror things which are actually a one way window so people can look in. It was just a plain room, painted a greenish-yellow puke colour and with a couple of filing cabinets and uncomfortable chairs.

Of course it would be plain; it was not as though they were charging him with murder. In fact, they had nothing to charge him with.

The book was placed on the table and a policeman said, 'Do you recognise this?'

'Of course I do,' replied Mark. 'It's a book I bought from the shop where you found me. You have no reason to keep me here. I don't know much about the law, but I must have some rights.'

The bald headed policeman whose name was Sergeant O'Mara said, 'You're admitting it's yours, so you won't be surprised when we open this book.'

With a smart-arse grin Sergeant O'Mara opened the book. It opened wide like a box to reveal that a neat oblong hole had been cut in the pages. The box-like middle of the book held two small packages containing what looked like a white powder.

No wonder the book landed on the floor with a soft thud, Mark thought. He guessed that the white powder would weigh less than the weight of four hundred pages.

For Mark it was proving to be an afternoon of shocks. All he could do was gasp and stare. The shorter policeman, Sergeant Berry declared, 'You were very anxious to have this book with the drugs in it. You almost knocked another customer off his feet.'

'I wanted it for a birthday present for my wife,' Mark protested.

'Hm, she's into drugs too is she?' asked Sergeant Berry.

The mild-mannered side of Mark's character began to fade in his reaction to the sarcasm. 'She wanted the book.' His voice rose by about a decibel. Trying hard to control his anger, he said, 'We are not into drugs, or anything else.'

Sergeant O'Mara said, 'They all say that. How can you explain why you wanted this very book; the one with a prohibited drug concealed in it?'

'It's the book she asked for.' Mark reminded himself he had to remain calm. Shouting would only make him look guilty. The questions and the sarcasm continued, the policemen finding it hilarious that the drug should have been hidden inside a book with an obviously drugged couple on the cover. Sergeant Berry joked about the book having roses on the cover. He remarked with a chuckle that poppies would be more appropriate. Mark refused to acknowledge the joke.

They allowed him to ring his wife. Hardly knowing what he was going to say, Mark dialled the number. When he told Selma he had been delayed she spoke sweetly and reasonably. She understood perfectly. Mark knew from her voice that she was expecting a surprise. That was the cause of his lateness. He always provided a surprise and a present on her birthday.

The police interview was interrupted by a knock on the door. A young policewoman put her head in. 'Can I see you for a sec, Sarge?' she asked.

Sergeant O'Mara rose and left the room with her. When he returned his stern look made Mark feel even more nervous – and angry.

'Mr Barrow, they got the other bloke. The one you had the tussle with. Of course you're the one with the evidence – he's empty handed – but another copper watching the place recognised him. No, don't look relieved yet, Barrow. There's a lot more investigating to do. Here's the story: we saw the dealer who planted the book with drugs in it. We'd had a tip-off but the bloke slipped away. We knew that the person who got the book off the shelf would be a user but also a dealer who would be selling at a huge profit.'

It took another hour for the police to establish that the other man was a known offender and had been on drugs charges. Mark had no police record; he'd never even had a parking fine. The general atmosphere at the station was one of relaxed toughness, as though they were all thinking, We're so clever and smart that we can be relaxed. Mark felt extremely out of place and almost wished he'd been drunk and disorderly at some stage of his life. He did not mention that he had stolen two packets of Lifesavers from Coles when he was twelve.

There was a lot of typing into the computer and lot of checking his details and a great deal of laughing at the cover of the book.

Towards eleven o'clock Mark finally staggered out onto the street. In a daze he walked towards the car park. He badly needed a stiff drink, or a strong cup of coffee, or something.

In the deserted car park, he got into his car and settled into the driver's seat. He leaned back and closed his eyes. He would be glad to get to his comfortable home and fall into an easy chair. He sat up and opened his eyes. Selma! The police had kept the book of course. He almost wished he could go back to the police station; better to face sarcastic police than Selma. At the end of this terrible night he was going home – without Selma's birthday present.

He turned the key in the ignition. Well Selma would just have to get over it. He had had a great adventure and Selma with her tantrums could go to hell.

This item formed part of our 'it made a most unusual noise as it landed' week.

### Saturday 6 April 2013

### Alien Exodus

**Tamara Pratt**

Mount Gravatt, QLD

Jacobson Henry squinted through the telescopic lens. Did people really believe that there was no other intelligent life except for that on Earth?

The signs were there, after all. There wouldn't be any need for a million stars if it were just the human race admiring them. And what about the Siding Spring Observatory? Secretly, it was probably monitoring for life on other planets at this very moment. And the most obvious question of all: would Jacobson be out here, night after night, interpreting the static noises on his replica Intergalactic 320 Telecommunications Radio if he wasn't convinced now that something or someone else did exist in outer space?

He peered through the telescope even harder and held his ear tight to the radio receiver. The planet X20986, also known as Malecrador, was definitely out there, even if astrologists weren't aware of its existence yet. The undiscovered planet's inhabitants had convinced Jacobson only days ago that they were alive and well. These were the noises he heard, the static buzz of intention; occupants of an alien nation were speaking to him.

Yes, speaking to the insignificant, introverted Jacobson Henry, who was constantly mocked by his twelve-year-old classmates because of his stargazing tendencies. Now those kids would have to eat their words like they were super-sized cosmos worms. He'd be more popular than anyone could imagine. Then they'd want him at their birthday parties, their camping trips, even their sleepovers. Maybe he would become the world's most renowned astrologist, or even better, the world's first intergalactic peacekeeper. Not that the Malecradors had threatened any harm towards Earth in the past few nights they had exchanged small talk, but if Jacobson could speak to another race, if he could translate what they said for government leaders, officials, presidents even, he'd be more sought after than a teenage heart throb centre stage at a world concert. Heck, he could be the next world leader. He would have something no one else around him had; something everyone else wanted. He'd be in demand.

'Wa do mak a linkin.'

Jacobson's heart hammered with adrenalin as he snatched at the translation guide in his backpack. Flipping through the pages, his palms sleek with sweat, he spelled out the words.

What are you doing?

He grinned. The Malecradors had proven to be a curious bunch – but not necessarily on expected topics. They didn't care to learn anything about Earth – they had visited it thousands of times over the past fifty years since they'd finally matured their space travel technologies. They were more interested in Jacobson. What he ate, what he wore, what he did at school, what school was, why he should even go, and what he really thought about his life at this very moment. He liked their line of questioning – he had plenty to say on all those subjects that no one else was particularly interested in hearing.

Jacobson flipped the translation guide over and around and flicked through the pages at the back – English to UAL (Unidentified Alien Languages). The guide was generic, but they had understood every word he'd said.

He cleared this throat and spoke clearly. 'Nion la rekin houting hars.' Tonight, I have been reading up on shooting stars.

Jacobson heard what sounded like a little giggle on the other end.

'Cain sek tema?'

He flicked through the guide. Can you see any tonight?

No, negative, he relayed back.

'Yot heuk nos?' What about now?

The transmission sounded the clearest it had ever been, up here on his garage rooftop. He glanced through the telescope in order to answer the alien's question. Malecrador appeared the same size; it hadn't moved any closer, but he could see shooting stars through the lens – flying this way and that, streaking the sky. He stepped back from the telescope. To the naked eye he couldn't see anything, not immediately anyway.

Until he saw a host of small dots, green and luminous, zipping in and around the stars. Were these also shooting stars, brighter and more visible to the naked eye? He watched on with awe. Perhaps this was more a meteorite shower.

'Cain sek me?'

Had the alien just asked what he thought he'd asked: Can you see me?

The green objects were coming closer now, and one in particular was more clearer than the others. Jacobson locked his eyes onto that one. The green object was a circular disc shape, with a towering cylinder that appeared to be ascending out of the centre of the disc. It lifted high into the air, and with mind-warping speed, throttled through the sky, hurtling towards Jacobson and his front yard; once a dot, then suddenly the size of a car.

And it made a most unusual noise as it landed.

A squirt, squat, squish, really, or so it sounded to Jacobson. Not unlike a sound where items of clothing are dropped sopping wet onto bare tiles.

It bounced across the driveway, over the front lawn, kicking up mud and grass as it hopped his way. The green cylinder had come away from the circular disc, and now stood erect on the lawn. With a buzz and a zap, a panel in the cylinder lifted up, and out hobbled a slimy green creature with webbed feet, leap frogging down the platform. Two bulbous eyes stared up at Jacobson, who had dropped to his knees in shock. He reached aimlessly for his translation guide, now lost in the commotion. It had dropped to the ground below.

'Hello.' The green alien lifted a hand – only two fingers – and waved.

'Hello,' stammered Jacobson. He leapt to his feet as the alien moved forward.

'Pleased to meet you after all this time, Jacobson.'

He knew his name? So, was this the alien he'd been speaking to these past few nights? Jacobson clambered to his feet, his knees shaking. This wasn't helpful, all these jittery nerves. He needed stay calm, focused.

'I don't understand,' Jacobson said, pushing through the astonishment in his voice. 'I mean, what are you doing here? You're billions of light years away, aren't you? I mean, weren't you. We were just speaking ...' He slapped a hand to his mouth. 'You're speaking English?'

'Part of the time zone,' the alien said, grinning. His mouth opened wide to reveal sparsely placed but sharp catfish-like teeth. 'Or what we call planet zone, actually. We adapt. Or I will. I've decided to leave Malecrador after our conversations these past few nights.'

Jacobson's mind flipped in disbelief – at the strangeness of the situation, at the fact he had a real life alien in his yard. 'But why ever would you do that?'

The glowing green creature considered the question. 'Many reasons,' he finally said. 'The traffic, I suppose, and the smog. And then there's the matter of accommodation.'

'Really? So where will you go? I mean, you can't stay here ...' Just the sight of the alien seemed alien. He, she, it, couldn't possibly live here.

'Oh, no.' It shook its head, all green and bobble-like. 'There's plenty more places to inhabit besides Malecrador.'

Jacobson felt dizzy with the last few minutes. Up on the garage roof, the sky felt darker, heavier than it had before, as if the entire black mass might open up and swallow him whole. This could not be happening, this could not be happening...

'So, what do you think?' the alien said.

Jacobson shook his head until it felt less muddled. 'What do I think? About you leaving your planet to move to another?'

'Yeah, sure. You seem like a bright kid. I trust you. How's it sound? Crazy?'

Jacobson glanced to the sky. Moments ago, thousands of tiny green dots lit the sky. Where were they now?

'You're not going by yourself are you? Why, you'll be the only one like you if you turn up. What if the inhabitants there think of you as a...' He paused. He couldn't say freak. The little alien seemed so harmless, so friendly. What would conquering a new planet be like? What would be more alien than feeling alien on a new planet? The emotions didn't seem so foreign to Jacobson; it's how he'd felt nearly every day of his own life, here on Earth.

'I could give it a go,' the alien said with enthusiasm. 'I mean, my buddies that took off with me, they're off to Juilabera. I heard it's not bad there, a bit icy though. I don't want icy again. We had icy for two thousand years. That's why we look like this now.' He pointed to his webbed feet. 'Had to adapt to all that water once it melted. Who would have thought that building spaceships wasn't so good for the atmosphere? Say, your planet's pretty grubby too you know. We see it from Malecrador most nights. Won't be long before you're all swimming too. Adapting, like we did.'

Jacobson shuddered. There was no maliciousness in the alien's words, just a matter-of-fact, been-around-for-two-thousand-years' kind of wisdom.

Suddenly, a voice called out. 'Jacobson Henry, are you still out there? How much longer are you going to be?' And then the quiet words that followed: 'That kid; there's something not right with his head.' His foster mother.

He called back. 'Um, sure. Be right there.'

The alien looked at him with those big eyes. 'Does that mean you might be missed if you came too?'

'Hardly,' he said, shrugging. 'Say, how long did you say it would take you to find another planet?'

'Well, I didn't, but at best, probably two nights.'

Could Jacobson steal away for two nights? He'd need an excuse. It couldn't be a birthday party; they didn't go on for two days. A sleep over perhaps, on a weekend, with one of the boys from school? That might work, although he'd have to make up the host of activities they were going to do so his foster mother thought it genuine. Would she believe him? Would she care? He could always tell her he had a new friend. That wouldn't be an entire lie. 'So, do you think this new planet might need, you know, some sort of leader?'

The alien considered this question too, his eyes rolling back and around in his head. 'It's possible,' he said. 'I'm hoping to find a planet that has no inhabitants, so yes. Let's make that our first order. Let's find an uninhabited planet. It's better for one's health that way. No pollution, that sort of thing. Be our own masters of our fate, and all that.'

Jacobson felt a thrill tickle his spine. This could work. Discovering new planets, speaking to other life – he didn't need to tell presidents – he could be his own president, on his own planet. Life had suddenly become a little more achievable. 'How about you stay with me for a few days?' Jacobson said. 'We'll hide your ship in the shed, and on the weekend, we'll sneak out for a long sleepover.'

'A what?' the alien asked.

Jacobson was already clambering down from the garage roof. 'Never mind,' he said. 'A sleepover is what these inhabitants call it here. Let's make up a new word for it when we find a new planet.'

This item formed part of our 'it made a most unusual noise as it landed' week.

### Saturday 6 April 2013 4 pm

### An Unusual Noise

**David Anderson**

Woodford, NSW

It made a most unusual noise as it landed

On the ground at Gloria Park

It came far from the Andromeda Galaxy

An alien Noah's Ark

The Hazelbrook people gathered around

Some eager – some filled with fear

The Fire Brigade instigated a sizzle

With sausages, onions and beer

'Why have they come – and will they attack?'

The townsfolk stood there in awe

When all of a sudden a 'swish' was heard

From the silvery opening door

A hush passed around – while people gasped

As a creature came tumbling down

The ramp from the ship – and then with a squeal

It finally fell to the ground

'We've made it!' it shouted. 'We've finally arrived

Our new home we've certainly found.'

'Illegal aliens!' an old chap roared

'Get the guv'ment to turn them around!'

'We'll surely not harm you,' the creature replied

As he waved his four arms to the crowd

'Our numbers are few – our animals too

We'd love to stay if allowed.'

His family emerged with their pets by their side

He was right – there were only a few

'Let them stay – there's no harm,' some said

While others objected: 'Ship 'em out on a boat to Nauru!'

Then the aliens sneezed and started to cough

While their eyes started streaming with water

Their animals rushed – back into the craft

While the creature took hold of his daughter

'Another nice planet that's so full of allergies

We'll have to give this one a miss!'

As he ran to the spaceship – then turned around

And blew all the people a kiss.

'Goodbye!' he said, and rolled up the ramp

Then he shut the silvery door

Commotion and smoke flew out of the saucer

As it lifted – took off with a roar

The townsfolk shrugged – the brigade packed up

While the children played with their toys

'They were really nice,' some said, while others were frightened

'I've never heard such an unusual noise!'

This item formed part of our 'it made a most unusual noise as it landed' week.

### Sunday 7 April 2013

### Flitting In The Moonlight

**Robyn Chaffey**

Hazelbrook, NSW

It seemed they were always on the move. They moved from town to town, across state lines... school to school. No explanation was ever offered to the children. Theirs was just 'to do or die'. Such things were 'for us to know and you to find out'!

They were an exceptionally large family. Indeed, there were at the time ten children living at home. Living poor was for them the only thing they knew as the household head was more often than not 'between jobs'. The truth is he changed jobs perhaps more often than residences. That, however, was 'secret men's business ' and most certainly not to be discussed with children!

It had not been too great a shock to them then, that he had come home from work just past a year ago in an agitated state of mind and angrily announced 'That's it! We're moving... NOW!'

It was familiar territory.

The woman... the wife and mother would, each time this happened, fly into a flurry of panic. She would rush to finish feeding her young ones and race around the house trying to decide the best, most pressing items to take. It was rather like the panic which takes hold in extreme bush-fire emergency when one is totally unprepared.

As they grew, the children realised that there was a name for what they were doing. It was called 'doing a moonlight' or 'a moonlight flit'!

Cars were 'upgraded' as often as addresses, and at that time the father... the head... was driving a big old Dodge. I think perhaps it was a 1936 model. It was a dull black colour as the duco had long since worn away, but it was apparently in very good shape mechanically. It had long bench seats too high for many of the children to reach the floor when they sat back in it; also a cover on the boot lid for the spare tyre and long running boards which made it easier for the children to climb aboard.

It was indeed a big car but still the children had to be piled in on top of one another. With no seat belts they were squashed and squeezed to sit four bigger children across the back seat with four smaller sitting on their laps. Both parents and a middle-sized child sat across the front and the mother nursed the baby on her knee.

Before they could get to that stage though, the children were commanded to take up their positions and wait. This was a necessity in order that the parents could stuff belongings under their feet and on their laps as well as stuffing the boot and piling bundles high upon the roof racks.

Finally the car could hold not one thing more!

They drove away! They seemed to drive forever along rough and narrow country roads with no particular destination in mind.

Tired and cramped, the children dare not ask where or why. They tried so hard not to complain. It would only make things worse.

Finally the father pulled off onto the verge of a dark and pot-holed road. He had a few quiet words with their mother and then got out of the car and walked off into the darkness.

Inside the car no-one spoke! There was nothing much to see out there but, deep in the shadows, a rather sinister looking building which created the most amazing, haunting shadows.

In their weary state, those still wakeful young souls ached to move outside the car. However they were packed so tightly with their belongings that it would all have tumbled to the road-side. They did not dare!

After what seemed like long hours, though it may well have been a much shorter time, the father returned. Again he spoke only to the mother, but this time audibly enough for the children to hear, 'It took some persuasion, but he says we can have it for a few weeks for only five quid a week!'

He climbed back into the old Dodge and swung it around, down a long over-grown driveway to the dingy old building which turned out to be the house they were to move into.

The first morning light was just beginning to show and one can only imagine what must have gone through the minds of the mother and the children as the first dawning realisation hit them ... the ghostly building they had been looking at was to be their new home!

A more sad and derelict house would be hard to imagine. There was no skerrick of paint left on the aged weather boards of its shell and there were quite a few boards missing. Spiders and other creepy-crawlies had long since taken over the decorating. Bowed and seemingly spindly stilts had, in another life-time held it proudly aloft... but they had long since wearied. The house had not seen any water or electric power in many a year. By far the most notable feature however was the fact that there were no stairs by which to enter it... front or back!

This last fact the father did not see as a problem! He set about to cut some infant trees and strip them of all twigs and leaves in order that he might fashion a ladder by which his rather rotund wife and brood might enter the house.

Having taken care of this small problem he bravely sent his wife up first. There is nothing quite like leading from the rear.

One can only surmise as to the feelings of this poor woman as she climbed that rickety, almost vertical ladder into the unknown. We might suppose that the feelings of the children would have ranged from anxiety to excitement in the more adventurous ones, to utter rage in those old enough to be fed up with the lifestyle which was foisted upon them.

The first thing to strike home once inside was the awful, thick, choking, powdery dust! Then there were the cobwebs and the small droppings of mice and birds.

The mother surveyed her new situation whilst the remaining family made their way up the make-shift ladder. Everything inside was ancient, yet surprisingly intact. It would have to do!! She had no choice!

As the family arrived 'upstairs', one issue hit home quickly ... the whole house swayed with every human movement. It swayed as well with every breeze!

Belongings dragged and winched up from the car, the mother did her best to feed her weary family out of cans. She laid some blankets on the dusty floor and coaxed the smaller children to try to have a sleep. The smell of the dust was irritating her nostrils and so she could not imagine how they must be coping with it.

With the littlies bedded momentarily and the father having left them there to do his own thing, she and her older offspring sat about on the floor and tried to ease the tension with a game of 'imagine'. They told each other stories of the possible history of this house. They wondered how long it had stood empty and concocted dramatic reasons for its abandonment. 'If the walls could talk,' one of them suggested 'what stories would they tell?'

~~~

It did not take long for the father to find work. He possessed an amazing gift of the gab and could talk his way into, or out of, any situation. It was the holding of a job which was the problem.

In a matter of weeks he had managed to make steps out of rough store-bought timber. He bolted the new timber supports to the osteoporotic skeleton of the house.

Somehow he had also to manage to talk the landlord into 'Just a little more time.' He persuaded the poor man also to reconnect the power and the water temporarily... though what feats of persuasion he had to use on the 'powers that be' can only be guessed at.

~~~

'A few more weeks' turned into twelve months!

Daily the mother and her children went through the motions. The mother stayed at home and tried to make sense of their lives. She did her best with what he brought her to make them comfortable and keep them fed.

The older children went to the nearby one-teacher school. They did their best to learn. They did their utmost to blend in.

As to the community, however, they did their best not to notice any of the family. 'Fly-by-nights'! 'Urchins'! This is the way they were seen! This is the way they felt! They did what they felt was expected of them anyway. What choice did they have?

At home, the mother struggled with the dust, the babies and the lack of all things nice... all things safe... all things nurturing. At times as she accidentally noticed again the life which held her captive, her heart broke anew. She would choke it back again... choke on it until she felt her chest would burst.

Mustn't let the children see. Mustn't let the father see. Must not let the children run too wild ... mustn't, mustn't, mustn't!

She was certain that the house was swaying more than ever. The fear at times almost paralysed her. Only her fierce maternal need to protect her children prevented this.

These issues were never discussed. The father had made his choices. They were his to make. He was the head!

~~~

So, twelve long months had passed!

The unwilling landlord was becoming more restless. The community was talking... questioning... pointing. The mother and her children had, as one, slipped into a quiet solemnity so thick that it was palpable; and the father's discomfort tightened like an iron girdle day by day.

He spoke to no-one with regard to his anxiety, but stayed out later night after night and disappeared at weekends. Week by week the silent gulf between them grew along side the fear and hopelessness.

Still, no word did the father share of his dark fears, or of his plans. Till, on a wet and windy Friday when the mother was past panic, he came home early. His demeanour was markedly changed though she was too overwrought to see it.

'Start packing!' he demanded. 'I have found a better house. It's smaller but much nicer; closer to town. The kids will change to the big school in town.'

That familiar panic now consumed his wife as she moved about the house to pick and pack. He'd move the stuff in car loads this time then come back for her and the kids. They would be out by sundown on the Saturday.

All that night and late into the Saturday she struggled and toiled between packing and sorting... and children!

All that night and into Saturday the rain and wind assaulted the stilted house, and the house recoiled against them, pulling this way and that. It groaned and cried as though in agony.

The packing finished and the last load gone, the mother and her children sat on the floor and waited. They sang songs to mask their feelings, and they made their faces brave.

Finally he came for them. Tired now and angry, they bit their lips and filed out at his command. They made their way gingerly down the new store-bought-timber steps and felt them heave as the frail old house retched its protest against the elements. It screamed its protests too, like a too-ancient man living in arthritic agony.

As the family walked toward the car, they could none of them resist the urge to turn and look one last time at the wreck which had at one and the same time provided them with shelter, and filled their lives with terror.

As they seemed to turn almost in unison, an angry wind gust cut the air and slammed into the side of the house. The old timbers could no longer hold on to the new. They wrenched themselves away. The steps seemed to pause in mid air in shock for a few seconds before crashing down and then the spindly stilts, like a weak and chalky skeleton, gave way. The house teetered, seemed momentarily to right itself, then toppled to one side.

As melodramatic as it may sound, all this happened seemingly in slow motion, and was to the ear like a sound track slowed right down; it made a most unusual noise as it landed! It was a sound like a tortured and cornered animal too weary to battle anymore; yet too strong of mind and too angry at the hunter to simply lie down and die.

That sound struck the mother, like a victory trumpet after a protracted and bloody battle or rather, perhaps, a call to battle. In her heart and mind she memorised the sound, and willed her members to play it over and again. She savoured it! Indeed, she tried to recall every note of it.

Suddenly she 'knew' that the house had fought to stand this past twelve months, not to panic her but to rest, protect and teach her. It seemed as though the house itself had recognised and identified with her weariness. As the house roared its dying agony, it breathed new strength into the mother. That battle cry would remain imprinted on her memory to recall each time she needed to draw on it for strength... for independence... for hope.

That house would be remembered with affection after all.

This item formed part of our 'it made a most unusual noise as it landed' week.

### Sunday 7 April 2013 4 pm

### Dissident

**Sandra Renew**

Dickson, ACT

It made the most unusual noise as it landed.

It came out of left field.

It bounced and jostled and discomfited.

It called for the letting go of preconceptions,

of prejudice and of predisposition to the conservative.

It shook up the aggressive,

and spoke to the transgressive.

It shied from being named as progressive,

and claimed to be a missive

from a dissident thinker,

a thinker who stood out from the crowd,

a tall poppy who stuck her neck out,

who challenged the popular, and the cliché,

who went against the flow of crowd speak,

who had an unusual world view,

who asked unusual questions,

and made unusual commentary.

And the unusual noise it made as it landed,

stunned the world into,

(in-drawn breath),

unusual silence.

This item formed part of our 'it made a most unusual noise as it landed' week.

### Monday 8 April 2013

### Mr Harry Morgan

**Fayroze Lutta**

Randwick, NSW

Cara Andréa,

I am here abroad thinking of my home town of Sydney, to see you again at Bar Milazzo to take a macchiato together made by that other expat paysano Claudio. I miss you my dear Italian friend. I miss you like I miss my city made up of all my old haunts, my family, my dear friends, and all those much loved renowned of Sydney's inner city street urchins.

The day before departing I bumped into a man that calls himself Harry Morgan. I am not sure if this is his real name as he may have appropriated it from the longest serving WWII veteran of the same name. He roams the inner city much like the man at high speed on his maroon moped on the footpath who blasts Elvis songs from speakers secured firmly to the back for everyone's pleasure.

I met Harry all those years ago on the corner of Oxford Street and Brisbane Street when Surry Hills had not yet been completely annihilated and unravelled by gentrifiers. The White Horse Hotel lay as a vacant shell, rumours of Mafioso biker gangs letting it decay – demolition by neglect they call it. Still adorned and crowning with the crumbling horse – hooves proud in the air – wild and unbridled, the building boarded up.

Harry is known to most shop keepers around Oxford Street and the art school students that walk up and down Oxford Street, too poor to catch the bus to the train station. He is a darling of the inner city, one of Sydney's much loved sons. It is because Harry is tuned into life in such a way he doesn't miss a minute of it.

By day he wanders the inner city, a reassuring face in the faceless crowds of nobodies. What is his story? I have wondered what was the sudden change or the moment of impact that let voices speak aloud inside his mind. He has his ways I am sure, his idiosyncrasies-a-plenty, less able to disguise them as the rest of us attempt to present ourselves as normal-well-adjusted beings. A friend of mine told me once that the world is one big open asylum. He looks better these days, less distressed than those days of my early twenties walking up and down Oxford Street on my way to and from art school, saving the bus fare to buy a cup of coffee. He seems more self assured these days as we all get with age.

My art school days I would usually catch Harry standing on Oxford Street wearing his fatigues. He was clean shaven then, but he had the wild look of disturbed thoughts that marched through his head. He would carry on and rant, lost in his schizophrenic scatting, angry at the world. I felt the same then, raging against the world and trying to find my place in it.

There is one day in particular in 2001 that I still recall. I must have had bus fare that day and I saw Harry from the bus on the corner of Oxford and Pelican Streets. He was in his full army regalia with matching metal army helmet, waving the front page of the newspaper, overwhelmingly distressed and distraught. Harry was screaming and the front page read 'WAR'. I felt Harry's pain and he was right all along. Why nobody else was screaming along with him I don't know. I wanted to wrap my arms around Harry and tell him the dismal truth – that it would be alright, that here in this far flung city we would be untouched, and the world's indifference would let life continue as normal here in our city.

I then think to the bicycle courier, one of the many that gather at Martin Place and drink brown bottled long necks on Friday afternoons on the steps of the GPO. However, this courier is special – in between errands he plays his trumpet for the people of his city, his siren song to the city of the South. Yet his presence and his playing is only for the uptown-Hunter-State-Street elite where he rides. When he plays he speaks to my broken heart – he echoes all the great sadnesses I have felt in my life in this city. He plays it all out on the streets of Market, King, Hunter and Elizabeth, killing me with his playing. He plays out all the darkest secrets of my heart and my soul on that trumpet of his, echoing all the solemn cries of the past as I toss a coin, walk on letting it fade into the background, fade into the crowd, fade into the past.

On that last day before departure, seeing Harry on the corner of Bathurst and George Streets on the steps of the Energy Australia Building, I shared my umbrella with him as it was raining. He told me he lived in a house now, by himself in Redfern, and he was happy with that. He explained to me that he didn't have any money until pay day. I gave him all my coins – they mean nothing much to me but a cup of coffee. He gave me a kiss on the cheek, his razor sharp stubble prickling me as he moved his face away. We stood under my umbrella. He was dressed warm and smoking a cigarette, I smoked one with him.

Fayroze

### Tuesday 9 April 2013

### The Conjurers Club

**Henry Johnston**

Rozelle, NSW

A freezing rain silenced Dublin. Citizens seeking shelter said the sleet crossed the Irish Sea from Britain and Belgium and as far away as Poland. The crystalline water seeped into the cracks of old Georgian mansions behind O'Connell Street, forming stalactites on the garden statuary and biting into the granite of the stately homes of Irish high society.

I had disembarked the ferry at Dun Laoghaire a few days earlier. Passengers wore life belts the entire rough crossing from Holyhead. I struggled to keep down my last meal of pickled eel and chips.

My editor suggested a thousand words on a reunion of magicians at Dublin's Conjurers Club. Perhaps you've heard of it. No? Me neither.

'Are you serious?' I asked, but a city map and an expenses chit countered incredulity.

The logo of an upturned top hat, a rabbit peeping over the brim identifies the Conjurers Club and beneath in prefect copperplate script, is the club's motto: one and three are odd numbers.

The building is in Holles Street near the old National Maternity Hospital, a kilometre from St Andrew's Church, a temple of sobriety James Joyce dubbed All Hallows in Ulysses.

If you find St Andrew's, scrunch up your eyes and imagine Leopold Bloom exiting the church and turning left toward Sweny's Pharmacy on his eternal round of the city.

I located the club after two or three missteps. A company of men stood beside an open wrought iron gate of the old Georgian house, fidgeting in the cold, stamping their feet and breathing into their gloved hands before walking single file through the club's front door.

I crossed the street, my collar turned to the rain, but as I approached, the men emerged carrying furniture, seats, a dais, and boxes of magicians' stage props.

A tall, older fellow with a patch over his right eye and dressed in full evening tails, followed. He expanded a large black umbrella, picked up a wooden sandwich board and propped it on the footpath. The sign, written in sublime copperplate read, 'Conjurers Club reunion cancelled'.

A riderless horse with neither bridle nor saddle, clip-clopped the cobblestones obscuring my view, and when I looked back, the notice, the old man and his accomplices had gone.

### Tuesday 9 April 2013 4 pm

### Southern Tablelands

**Amber Johnson**

Annerley, QLD

In a field

where the earth is a rich ochre

and the grass is bleached gold,

ewes graze with their lambs

in a flock two hundred

head strong.

They seek refuge

beneath the shade of an aged eucalypt

with skeletal boughs

that stretch to the sky,

silver trunk

stripped bare.

Cicadas sing

in an eerie drone,

praising Sol for his kiss on this valley.

Their relentless song

becomes the melody for leaves

that dance in the wind.

As you scan the landscape,

mountains encompass your view.

The distant ranges along the horizon

are consumed

by a blue haze.

And the hills roll like the thunder

that booms through the clouds,

striking the earth,

caressing the gums,

and embracing natural curves.

Farmers and their Blue Heelers

jump aboard their John Deere tractors

and groom the pastures,

wheat fields,

and crops,

to a handsome

clean-cut finish.

They toil

until the powder blue sky becomes streaked

in tie-dye hues.

Sun ebbing from sight,

fading to dusk.

The lambs are left rest

beside that lone gum tree,

beneath the obsidian sky

that shines like magnetite.

With gentle winds

like sighs from a baby's breath,

the Southern Tablelands

are illuminated by moonlight.

### Wednesday 10 April 2013

### An SMS Summer Journal

**Ashwyn Kale**

Moonah, TAS

When everything was packed and ready, I knew that the one thing I really needed to leave behind was me.

~~~

Life Jacket Under Your Seat No Smoking In The Toilets Fasten Seat Belt While Seated Please Do Not Remove This Poem From The Aircraft.

~~~

Distant dogs barked as you slept, thickening the unease. Only seven plums on the tree this year and that, too, unsaid.

~~~

Too much sunlight now. My eyes wider than the desert, unable to grieve. Flowers bent and wilted, coloured paper flapping in the hot northerlies.

~~~

She offered to explain, but explanations are of no value to those who have never loved, and those who love need no explanations.

~~~

I had strawberry stains on my shirt and sunburnt nose, ears, neck. The red on my chin was juice or blood and I couldn't tell the difference.

~~~

You laughed, and I wanted those ripples in my dark world, tapping at the silence, yes.

~~~

Graves, orderly, only Mr Selman Ibrahim facing west. I remember his bulbous nose, leave-me-be eyes and dark children. In death still foreign, alone.

~~~

Currawongs lament purple skies, privet air, heat, curling ferns, absent wind and the cake that was fresh only yesterday.

~~~

I turned on the television, waiting for a politician to say, 'and at the end of the day, the sun goes down'. I watched a movie starring rain.

~~~

Shadows wept across the fields as the pickers and packers made their way home. Seconds, three dollars fifty a kilogram, self service.

~~~

You have the right to breathe happiness. You have the right to sing lonely clouds to sleep. You have the right to love the world. You.

~~~

I sat down in the plaza next to a one-eyed fortune-teller with a dove on his shoulder and he said the future just wasn't what it used to be.

~~~

Every mountain ash stood to attention, gunbarrel straight, and the prospect of evil seemed barely a dim green light in the distance.

~~~

The family gathered for dinner. Small lies were a bother to cook so they had big lies. They were very juicy. It was a kind of tradition.

~~~

Petrol cheaper on Wednesdays, the cool change too late for one drowned so far at Safety Beach and still caravans queued at the freeway exit.

~~~

If and when my acting career ever resumes I'll be playing a dead serf in an arty BW film where skinny people stand around grim rooms talking about Dostoyevsky.

~~~

The hand upon the desk that clicks the mouse that guides the pointer across the screen that starts the program didn't even flinch.

~~~

When the stars came to pull the covers back from that shaky night the darkness was lying at an uncomfortable angle.

~~~

The neighbours parked their beige car in front of their beige house and had beige holidays every second weekend until they died.

~~~

At the summit there was a grassy clearing with a kangaroo kissing the ground. A branch crashed down. The Pope raised his pointy ears and hopped away.

~~~

Was there any need to ask when you heard the question tremble and fall before it even thought about passing your lips, unkissed?

~~~

Thunderheads tumbling. Frogs swimming in rain. Wheels licking roads. Drains gargling muddy broth. A cat hiding, watching, twitching, waiting.

~~~

From what I can recall she was a collision of light and flesh that dropped by for dinner one day, ate my soul and departed.

~~~

Suitcases, backpacks, travel bags and trussed boxes parade along the catwalk. Take me, they beg, take me home if you still care about me. Take me.

### Thursday 11 April 2013

### Sonnet Of Love

**Jessica Soul**

Avondale Heights, VIC

Around and around

The flight of its flaps goes

Above our lonely heads

Floating like a single wave

Cool air, the breeze

It whispers upon its breath

Hush sonnets of the heart

It's what determines our fate or will

Before the dawn awakens

True spirit is uplifted

Behind each inspirational thought

It's first seduced by the words and then the music

It carries you away.

### Thursday 11 April 2013 2 pm

### The White Goddess And The Fisher King

**David Jenkins**

O'Connor, ACT

Falling exhausted to a knee at the end of another mortal life,

Dazed and confused; finally and again knowing her.

My last breath out is the whisper of her name,

And my last breath in; a silent hymn to love.

And between these incarnations she waits for me there,

And I forever searching; find her again and again.

### Thursday 11 April 2013 6 pm

### A Journey Of Maturity

**Vita Monica**

Southbank, VIC

A ship, seas, waves, storms

Crushing, splashing, squashing, smashing

In a cloudy, clueless, endless journey

Where does the ship carry me through?

Unseen sailor, feels like I'm alone

But he is doing well he is doing well

A thread, spindle, needle

Single, brittle

I'm waiting for someone to come

Unchain this loneliness

Unseen sailor, I am not alone

He is still here, still here holding my life

Are we stopping at the land of tranquillity?

Land, trees, green, grass, ground

Life, love, light

Unseen sailor, he is carrying me through

On this ship

I believe, I will see

'There's a time the sea will calm

There's a time the sun will shine

But there will be no ending in this voyage

The land of comfort leads to destruction

But the ship will cross to the world of maturity,'

Says the captain.

I say, 'Keep holding the wheel.'

### Friday 12 April 2013

### Backwards

**Emma Hall**

Canterbury, VIC

From the beginning things had been wrong, backwards. He had fallen head over heels in love not long after meeting her; she had resisted, reluctantly agreed to a single date, and slowly, very slowly, allowed him in. Now, married six years, she did love him, undeniably – but there would always be that difference, the small, seemingly insignificant fact that became so large in her mind: he had loved her first.

He had told her he loved her, and with such tenderness, that she – out of fright, out of obligation – blindly repeated the words to him. She had not loved him then, had even had doubts during their engagement. There were many things she would never tell him, and one of them was this: the day before the wedding, when the order of desserts had arrived (exquisite little meringues, dusted in icing sugar) she had taken the two large boxes, walked to the kitchen, and one by one dropped them on to the marble floor. Then with equal calm she'd taken the ruined boxes out to the rubbish bin, swept up the remaining white sugary shards, and acted appropriately outraged when Nick complained that the meringues had never been delivered.

She loved him because he loved her, took care of her, tolerated her. She had learnt to say the words gently, sincerely – those three words that she had scoffed at and been terrified by in her youth now fell from her mouth with habitual ease.

Until Callum. She hated even thinking his name. She had never said it out loud – not to him, not to Nick, not whispered quietly when she was alone. Names had meant nothing to her in those few weeks – moments, really, in the scheme of things, but how they dominated her memory of the last few years, how time distorted in her mind when she thought about her affair.

It was brief, heated, impersonal – the way such things should be. He was her lover, never her love. Once, with Callum in her bed, she had suddenly thought of Nick and, looking up at the man above her, been startled to find they were not dissimilar. When she first agreed to go home with Callum she had felt guilty, but the surge of guilt that shot through her in that moment made her cry out. Callum mistook her anguish for pleasure, as of course he would – he rolled off her and lay next to her in the bed, his body slick with sweat, a slight smile playing over his lips.

'How was that baby?' he asked her. His breathing was heavy. 'You like that?'

She was suddenly disgusted and with a slight nod, turned away from him. She couldn't keep looking at him, terrified to see again the likeness between this man and her husband. If ever she had justified her actions, she knew any justification had disappeared.

It was not long after that night that she had told him. She had seriously considered organising it so that she would be caught. In bed was too cruel, but leave a dirty text open on her phone, or call Callum when Nick was in earshot. She wanted to give Nick time to gather himself, build up his anger. She wanted a confrontation, a proper fight such as they never had because he always agreed with her on the things that mattered.

But in the end her guilt was too much. She was brushing her teeth before leaving for work when Nick walked into the bathroom, stripped to the waist, his mouth stretching open in an exaggerated yawn.

'Mornin' wife.' When they'd first married they had taken pleasure – he had taken pleasure – in calling each other by their new titles. The game continued even after six years.

He leaned down and kissed her neck, so softly, so tenderly. She went on brushing, more vigorously than before, eager to finish and get away. Nick laughed as white froth foamed from her lips.

'Got enough toothpaste there?' he joked. With one finger he wiped the side of her mouth, getting a generous amount of froth on his finger, and slid it over his own upper lip. Nick was always clean shaven, but the froth made him look like he had a white, bubbly moustache. He pulled a face for her amusement.

Maybe it was the joke, the loving kiss, and casual reference to her as 'wife'. Maybe it was just Nick. But she told him then, she couldn't stop herself.

At first he hadn't reacted. The smile stayed fixed on his face while she confessed. She had rehearsed the words in her head, but when she said them they seemed so flat, so lifeless.

'I had an affair.'

She kept the details from him – Callum's name, age, where they met, what they did. All she said was that it had gone on for two months, and it was finished now. She couldn't look him in the eye. Instead she focused on the smear of toothpaste on his face, watched it slide down the side of his mouth, the bubbles fizzing out, and slowly harden to a pasty white mark. Nick was perfectly quiet while she spoke, his face passive.

She stopped. She hadn't said she was sorry, or asked him to forgive her. She was sorry, she hated herself for doing anything to hurt this man. She didn't expect his forgiveness. She knew she didn't deserve it.

Nick raised his hand, and for a single, crazy, exhilarating moment she thought he would hit her. But with disappointment she saw him run a hand through his hair. He looked up at the bathroom ceiling.

'It's over?' He wouldn't look at her either.

She nodded. 'Yes.'

He sighed deeply.

'I'm sorry!' she blurted out. The words felt wrong, so inadequate for the terrible thing she had done.

To her amazement, he looked down at her, and smiled.

'It's over with. We don't have to worry about it.'

Then he touched her cheek, smiling warmly, and brushed past her towards the shower. She stood, frozen, while he stripped, turned on the water and climbed in.

It wasn't right. It wasn't how things were meant to be. She did not deserve his forgiveness. Husbands did not forgive their cheating wives. He should punish her – he should want to punish her. Leave her. Shout at her. Ignore her. Remind her of her crimes every day so the guilt never disappeared. That's what she deserved, what she wanted.

She had gone to work, come home, thinking that perhaps now Nick had thought about it and would be ready for an argument. But he came home at seven, helped her with dinner, asked how her day was, told her about his. All was as it had always been between them. And she kept up the charade. For her, that was exactly what it was; this playing happy families, ignoring the giant rift between them. She had thought he too was pretending, a defence mechanism she supposed, a way of dealing with things. Later, when he was ready, he would act. But as weeks went by she began to realise he had no intention of punishing her for what she had done. After that morning in the bathroom, neither of them ever mentioned it again. She was suspicious, convinced he must have some ulterior motive, some reason for silence. He was relaxed, content, happy to continue their lives as they always had.

It was backwards, it was so backwards.

### Saturday 13 April 2013 4 pm

### Ballad Of The Twilight Man

**Mark Govier**

Warradale, SA

I met a man, 'twas in dream

In this land, or in that

He came upon me as I dreamt,

And told me of his cat

His hair was white, most fallen out,

His face decayed and rotten

His teeth were stubs, but when he spoke,

His uttered words, they swallowed me,

I could do ought but follow...

Like a lost disciple, he led me down the roads

And through a tear, within our realm

He pointed to his place,

Grey streets of mansions, endless rooms,

Which where the twilight stay,

Spectres talking to themselves,

Through days which never end,

A lamp half dead, to light their dark

Cold stove and broken fridge,

No place to wash their excrement

'Cept down the open hole

The cat, the cat, he said to me

Opening his door,

The cat, the cat, and he did point

Onto a faded wall

And there it hung, in wooden frame

As silent as a mute

A magic being of black, and gold

All captured in dead paint...

And who, asked I, strung out with awe

Did create this wonder

Its eyes, those eyes, do quite beseem

Yellow bright and shining

To bore into my distant soul

As if, as if, it's feeding.

'Twas me, said he, in strangened laugh

'Twas me, another life,

I sinned the sin, of worshipping

The phantoms in my mind

Then found myself, one long gone day

Cast down, by those above me,

Condemned as wrong, to fester here

For here and here, for always.

The man then knelt upon that floor,

Like slave afore his goddess

And brought from cupboard, lard bread dust

Old pipe, and cup of matter

Proceeded there, to fill his mix,

With which, with which to merge with:

Those medicines that kill all thought

Such gifts from those who'd damned him;

Butts obtained, from any street

But stripped of all their filter;

Snips of feathers, all cut up, said he,

To make his spirit fly;

And just to make the spell complete,

Rat dung, 'twas hash, he said he'd watched

Descend float from his ceiling.

And when he smoked, this twilight man,

This one who lives amongst us,

His eyes once blank, they did recoil,

As if he'd chased, the purest pure

Upon a silvered foil,

And now so high, he did prostrate

Before that cat of wonder

And did expound the truth, his truth

That he had found his answer

Whispering, it was to me,

The me that he was dreaming,

Go tell, go tell, go tell someone

That I have found life's meaning... 

### Sunday 14 April 2013

### Ten Seconds Of Light

**Bob Edgar**

Wentworth Falls, NSW

'How many more fights Luther? How many more nights do you come home to your son and me with your nose busted and your eyes stitched?

Ruby McCarty had married Luther in the winter of 1907 in Hitchcock Nebraska, following a blistering courtship. She had succumbed to his chiselled features and granite-like physique; and bore him a son in the summer of 1908. Luther laboured for twelve months as a floor sweeper in a grain factory, before embarking on a career as a professional boxer. His earnings in the ring outweighed his factory wages by a large margin, but he was paying a price.

Looking up at Ruby through slits, that hid his eyes beneath pulped flesh, he slurred, 'I gotta keep fight'n Rube, I'm a contenda ... I win the tidle and we're set fer life, I gotta keep fight'n Rube, yer know that. Fer you and lil'l Jimmy. I gotta ... I gotta jus roll withthe punshes, thas what yer gotta do Rube ... roll withthe punshes.'

Ruby cradled Luther's head in her lap and combed her fingers through his hair. Four year old Jimmy kissed his father's cheek, then sang 'Twinkle, twinkle little star', as he did on every fight night.

Luther sparred more than 400 three minute rounds during the following April, often against heavier opponents. One sparring partner would step out of the ring and another would step in.

Twenty fourth of May 1913, Luther kissed Ruby then placed his hand gently over her lips. He picked Jimmy up and blew a raspberry on his cheek, evoking a giggle from him.

'Wha'are yerso 'appy about, yer ol'man's goin' out ter get 'is'ead beat in agen.'

Jimmy hugged Luther's legs and exalted, 'This is your happiest night Daddy, I love you.'

'Ge'yerself terbed, and mind yer Mother.'

Luther sat on the dressing room table, legs dangling and gloved hands covering his face. The nagging pain at the side of his head only subsided when he closed his eyes and submerged his head into his gloves.

Dressing room door opens, referee declares, 'Ready to go, two minutes to introductions.'

Trainer's voice, 'Let's go Luther, this is the big one ... we need this one, let's go.'

Luther's hooded head hung low as he was guided along the aisle, trainer's hands gripping his shoulders. Searchlights swivelled around the stadium, cutting a swathe of light through the cigarette and cigar smoke. Luther attempted a dance on his toes, but his feet merely shuffled to the apron of the ring. He flicked his head back to remove his hood, as he stepped between the second and third ropes into the ring.

He felt a strange hurt, as if a steel band was being tightened around his forehead. Six thousand muffled voices blanketed Luther's thoughts, as he mumbled to himself, 'I nee'thiswon, Rube'n jjimmy nee'thiswon ... thisis the larsswon.'

The bell rang four times. The referee ordered, 'Touch gloves and come out fighting!'

Luther McCarty suffered no facial damage that night, no blood letting, nor the pain of 6oz gloves tearing his face apart.

The first punch killed him.

Bob extends respect to Luther McCarty, and every boxer ever to have stepped through the ropes.

As the referee began the count, a beam of light encircled Luther. The referee declared 'Ten ... you're out!' The shaft of light vanished and Luther was dead.

An image of Luther McCarty in the beam of light at the end of the match can be seen at http://www.cyberboxingzone.com/images/w1102mccarty-tensecondsofsunlight.jpg

### Monday 15 April 2013

### I Left It At Home

**James Craib**

Wentworth Falls, NSW

I've got a hot tale if time permits me; just listen close so that it's clear.

Dancing at the tip of my tongue for everyone: a totem flea I hit in your ear.

It hovers about my hypothalamus, a leitmotif, the recurring theme grating.

The hypo manages the 'Four Fs': feeding, fighting, fleeing, and ... mating!

Were you waiting for the other word? Don't be absurd: I left it at home.

It sounds like duck and there's many a drake 'round the lake that roam ...

Like my random thoughts. I'm a hot elf; imitate me at your peril,

That would be terrible, 'cause I'm in like Flynn but don't call me Errol!

A monarch butterfly is a fit elite moth cut from the very same stuff,

Later at home I felt it brush against my face like a gossamer puff.

So ... had enough of my poetic whimsy? 'Pathetic Jimsy!' I hear you groan,

At the start, mate I felt hot, I now do not; inspiration? I left it at home.

Sometimes it becomes a hot item if late at night you're burning midnight oil.

A dark circle under eyes – no surprise, is time a thief? Lot of stressful toil.

I feel about as wise as my concrete Buddha; take me toilet faith instead.

I have written my quota to meet filth iota, a little smut to muss up your head.

Consequently, might I gently suggest, it's best, to become a garden gnome,

When my poetry item hit foetal position, my intuition is to leave it at home!

### Tuesday 16 April 2013

### Downpour

**Virginia Gow**

Blackheath, NSW

Bright

Slim

Lilies

Lighten up

A garden pathway

Where salacious snails munch basil

For early breakfast a hearty healthy herbal treat

Sombre charcoal clouds dancing high upon mountaintop bring sweet promise of steady rain

Brittle little black ants skittle amongst leaf litter

Inviting evacuation

Clashing timpani

Embracing

Earth's

Vein

Virginia based this poem on Fibonacci numbers.

### Tuesday 16 April 2013 4 pm

### Curlews Call

**Jean Bundesen**

Woodford, NSW

A baby girl sleeping

Under a huge coral tree

Gnarled branches spread

Shielding the home from tropical sun.

Swathed with vermilion blossoms

Fallen flowers carpet the ground.

A brilliant flash of lorikeets

Shades of green, orange and blue

Across the azure sky

Swoop onto the tree

Screeching and squawking

Search for its rich nectar.

Down on the swamp flats

Brolgas dance

A number

Of elegant movements

Corroborees

Not just a courtship ritual.

Startled by

Rustling in the reeds

A water rat or a snake?

They trumpet,

Gracefully soar

High above the flats.

The baby wakes, watches them.

She could be thinking

'What a terrible din'

In the distance curlews

Call 'Koo-loo, koo-loo'

Like a woman sobbing.

### Wednesday 17 April 2013

### Who Are You Sir?

**Stephanie Adamopoulos**

Burwood East, VIC

I always sat with him, the little man whose eyes twinkled like those of Santa Claus belying the fact his unkempt beard did not resemble the snowy, clean version of such a character, because it was a dullish red and brown and rather scraggly. Outside the corner milk bar every single day at exactly four o'clock for one hour we sat. Well not really. I sat and he strutted, crawled, leapt and danced on that corner, sometimes so close to the road that cars honked at him, thinking he was ready to become road kill. See, despite the fact I wore a clean uniform, whilst he refused to let me give him new clothes, or to even wash is ragged, holey and filthy ones, he was the one who was lucky. All day he sat there on the corner. Well, that is what I believe as he was never inclined to tell me what he did when I wasn't there, who he saw, where he went at night. Perhaps he didn't want me to worry. In any case, he was lucky because he could see into your soul. Three seconds and he knew enough about you to act out a part of your life's story. With few props, perhaps a borrowed hat or walking stick, sometimes the person's pet dog, he would show who they were, whether they liked it or not. But he never showed me who I was.

A lonely seventeen-year-old boy and a lonely man can get along like a house on fire if they want to. So we did. Our daily ritual began with me sitting beside him on the kerb, feet hanging into the car park ahead of us and our backs to the milk bar. Every day I asked him the same questions: 'Who are you sir?' and 'Who will you be sir?' His smile, genuine and filled with blackened teeth always greeted me thus: 'Who can I play today?' Then he would do his amazing performance. He would wait for a person to pause by us, whether they were re-tying a shoelace, tying up their dog whilst they browsed the milk bar for its hidden treasures, or even just someone curious about our general welfares, his eyes scrutinising them meticulously, before he would leap to his feet and begin his first performance of the day. Sometimes he spoke to them, the few words they replied enough for him to imitate their voices in a way that any actor in the blockbuster films could reckon with. He slipped into their shoes with ease. Right before my eyes he was no longer a dishevelled man to feel pity for – no, he was a man to be revered for his control of these people's lives in this manner and although he did not control their motions past the corner of the milk bar, it was mesmerising in every detail.

As he took on these roles he told me their stories. Stories that made me laugh so hard I cried at the pain of not being able to breathe whilst in my moment of happiness, while others made me cry so much I clenched my fists in anger, wishing the world was a different, better place that would suddenly re-invent itself just for that one person. His stories included a war veteran, who survived the constant raining of bombs and tanks but could not overcome the distress of losing his animal companion, a German Shepherd who fought by his side until shrapnel killed it, while another story told of a teacher who had had enough of wrestling with students to learn, so began to use video games as a tool to both teach and engage the students. I loved that one because I was left with the hope my school teacher might hear this story and be converted to this particular way of thinking. One time he became a cleaner, and through his words, I took a tour of five different houses, exploring the lives of others through their furniture, precious objects and photos hanging on the walls, whilst still sitting on the kerb outside the milk bar.

I don't know if this acting was reserved for me only. It certainly became another lesson like at school, one about morality and understanding. If everyone could have watched him perform, perhaps there wouldn't be so many wars, human rights issues or prejudices. But then he would probably stop the performances. These lessons were the keys he gave me to unlocking the doors to the secrets of the world, to those secrets that he said would support me, and not lower me. I asked him one day about his experiences. He sat chewing his lip and staring at the sky.

'The world is a strange place. There are places that few can go but many who would give their smallest finger to get a glimpse of. There are seemingly kind people whose masks only slip away once you are in their power grasp, while there are a great many who are genuine. If you can gather these people together, you can make a difference to the world. Never let your spirit be broken, even if the world's whims bend you so. Imagine its thoughts are like the tides of a river that sweep beneath you. You must not let yourself be carried away without a support, no, find a raft to cling to and you will always be able to navigate the world's perils. I did not succeed at staying afloat and that is why I am here today, entertaining you every day.'

I scrambled to my feet, nearly tripping over as my feet caught the gutter.

'I did not mean to burden you,' I said quickly, before reaching for my school bag and preparing to flee. He grasped my arm, but did not rise.

'Life is thus: a rebellion against that which we have been given, a chance to strive for something else. A taste of danger and fear to be had from a poor man strutting around like a gentleman, or a common youth sneaking around like a spy. The tang of orange juice straight from the flesh and yet bitter like black pepper crushed between your teeth. What I have experienced is only one of these paths. You will soon tread one also, with decisions to treasure and others to regret. Burden me you have not, you have given me the opportunity to explore my purpose further.'

I sat beside him once again, waiting for the next person to have their past told in the form of a one-man play.

Sometimes he'd perform for the locals, borrowing a top hat, scarf or cane and showing off his acting abilities. People would laugh, throw a few coins and beg for an encore. This wasn't his real acting. He held back a little when the people pressed too close, their musky smell of sweat and perfume threatening to overcome him. He kept most of it for me. I think I was like a son for him, though he only described me as his best friend. He never spoke to anyone else that I knew of, didn't accept donations of charity from anyone except for my small offerings of pork pie, sandwiches of bread, butter and cheese and even something sweet occasionally like a cherry or two. He also spoke little of himself, instead inquiring into what I had been doing since I last saw him. I told him about school – being given detention and wishing I was as free as him. He reprimanded me a lot then, telling me education brought the greatest freedoms for young people like me. He'd smile at that, his crooked teeth showing he'd never learnt to brush them. I tried to teach him the alphabet, drawing in chalk on the pavement. He learnt a few words, grateful for that but said he was simply past his time. He'd given up I suppose of ever achieving what he believed I could if I stayed at school. Instead of moping like any other man in the gutter would, he'd delight me with the stories of the people he became, drawing them on the pavement each day and letting the rain wash them away each night. It was only a few years later regretfully that I realised how much they meant to me and with my newfound knowledge, put pen to paper and wrote them down. He never saw them like that. Never would have wanted to.

What I did know of him wasn't too pleasant. He'd grown up as an orphan, without an education like I had or anyone who cared about him. He always warned me to be grateful for having those I loved and I never forgot that. He'd met his sweetheart, almost married her before she left for a richer husband. From there, he'd begun acting, sneaking backstage to watch plays and see what the world could really be like besides his miserable hole. Then he'd told the stories he entertained me with to himself, making the corner shop his home, living like the rest of the filth that everyone treated him as. He said when I came that I'd looked like innocence captured and bottled ready for him to drink, a little star fallen from the sky. He'd implored me to stay, tempting me with a story. I was caught in his net, and he never let go of me. I didn't mind. He regularly told me we were best friends in his special way, holding my hand and telling me stories to make me feel better when the world grew too big or the doors too small to crawl through.

How long can a lonely man and a lonely boy live as friends? I used to think forever. I still think so. I still return to the place we last met, that little corner shop now with a new owner, a lick of paint and a new sign hanging over the door with a new shiny bell that clangs whenever someone enters. His last story is still there, faded after eleven years of weathering from the wind, rain, sun and snow. People walk all over it, unaware that their lives may just be written in the beautiful pictures staring back at them. All the stories he told me are woven into one, running side by side until they meet at the end. There sits a lonely man and a lonely boy, holding hands outside the corner shop, the boy inquisitively asking, 'Who are you Sir?'

### Thursday 18 April 2013

### Kitchen Meditation

**Linda Yates**

Katoomba, NSW

It was old, the kitchen where I spent much of my childhood, long and narrow and looking over the side garden into the neighbours' yard, which always seemed, alien somehow – other. Not us. I had plenty of time to think over this and other matters, as there was no hot running water and doing the washing up required multiple boilings of the kettle and this task itself difficult because of my fear of lighting the gas stove with its boom. It was us kids' job to wash up after the Sunday roast and well I can remember the feeling of congealed fat on the steel wool against my fingers as the water cooled down.

This convinced me, until I was thirty years old or so, that washing up was an impossibly hard task, best left to others, as countless flatmates will attest to. After I left home, I ate out, or on the run, or at other people's houses. I was known to throw out piled up dirty dishes. Kitchens were to be avoided except when having great conversations and other people's food.

I had my second existential crisis in this first kitchen at around twelve years of age while making toast one evening. A devout and well behaved Catholic girl, I had been giving a great deal of thought to the concept of God, when, just like St Paul on the road to Damascus, but in reverse, I realised that god (that's when he lost the capital) was a myth, like Santa (who has oddly kept his), we told ourselves to make us feel safe. And boom, with this epiphany, the bottom dropped out of my world, and as I contemplated the life of emptiness that stretched out like eternity before me, time stood still and the toast turned to carbon.

The first occurred some years earlier when my mother came upon me in the kitchen, trying to sneak my wet pyjamas out to the laundry. She waged such a relentless campaign of terror against my bed wetting that I always tried to hide it, while the mattress rotted away unnoticed, for a time. A short lived, over too soon, reprieve, like school, where I could try to make up for the absence of motherly love by trying to impress the teachers.

'Filthy whore!' were the words that accompanied the cup of tea thrown in my face. 'You think the nuns at school and neighbours think you are such a good girl, well I have told them all, and everyone knows what a dirty thing you are!' And in the time that it took for the first drips to hit the floor, I felt a hole opening up in me, and a vast nothingness come to claim me. I was unhinged and anchorless. I now knew myself to be unwhole, unwholesome, unholy, worthless, less.

Later, I would come to understand what the word whore meant, just as I would come to understand my mother's rage as her own feelings of shame and failure reflected back to her through me. I would come to understand that being godless does not rob life of meaning and that washing up in my kitchen, looking over my garden, is a deeply spiritual experience.

But the journey from that kitchen to this one is a different story.

Back then, that kitchen, it would seem, was a place that would foreshadow much of the rest of my life, which was often spent in free fall, the ground giving way beneath me.

### Friday 19 April 2013

### The Unspoken

**Naomi Fogarty**

Perth, WA

Hands can tell you more about a person than you think

Their silent language reflects what we don't speak

My hand happily knocked on the large wooden door

Then jumped with delight at the person it saw

Her hands were warm and inviting

And as one hand gestured for me to sit

The other poured me an icy cold drink

Resting tentatively on the glass as it paused to think

Their long tanned fingers smoothed the tablecloth neatly

And aggressively slammed the glass down in front of me

The fingers fidgeted nervously with a large diamond ring

Then held her watch intently as if waiting for something

A cherry red nail tapped the table impatiently

And with one hand outstretched urged me to drink

Tensing in anticipation as I took a small sip

While the cherry red nail curiously touched her bottom lip

Those long fingers clenched tightly into a frustrated fist

While delicate fingertips pushed the glass towards me suggestively

Drinking every drop they relaxed with relief and clasped together they waited

Suddenly my mind could read the signs, her words had been translated

As the room started spinning those hands rubbed together with glee

Looking down my small hands clung trembling to the table with fear

With heavy eyes I watched those hands as they waved goodbye mockingly

Finally the fingers counted down until up stood the middle one, triumphantly

### Friday 19 April 2013 4 pm

### Slow Burn

**Judith Bruton**

Lennox Head, NSW

The fire nibbled at the edges of their property

slowly, quietly

consuming the place they had made home

for over thirty years

At night flames crept closer to the house

devouring the cacti, the pool

the sky of indigo blue, the summer stars

the deck where they often sat to watch the sea

This morning she sensed the fire's fury

smelt its acrid breath

Was this phantosmia

or the inevitable?

Forked tongues quivered

and curled around the frames of her life

laughing cherry orange

a tormented demon surrounding her by stealth

The flames began months ago

fed on her neglect, took advantage of her inattention

waited till night while she dreamt

to weave their way around her world

As the house slowly burnt

she collected memorabilia

the photos, the poems and paintings of time past

Archived what she could

For weeks the fire feasted on their lives

their loves, doubts, hopes and fears

She bundled clothing into plastic bags,

gave vinyl biographies to strangers

offered silver objects, bone china,

vintage anything to anyone

The heat of summer fuelled the slow burn

days passed as she rescued what she could

steadily the smoke invaded her waking thoughts

nothing could now stop the inevitable focus of fire

As in a terrifying dream she could not move

lying transfixed until hair and bone

would singe, melt, incinerate

she waited to vanish piece by piece

Waking abruptly, she knew what mattered

bundled her dog and albums into the car

longed for morning when the inferno might abate

perhaps exhausted from its own menace

She weighed the worth of three decades

Fire disregards the value of love, life and chattels

Change comes at a cost

### Saturday 20 April 2013

### Small Town Boys

**Judith La Porte**

Monash, ACT

'Junie, it says five-thirty for six for this drinky-poos and light supper thing. So is it bloody five-thirty or six?' Gary stood at the mantelpiece holding the thick white card. He frowned as he studied the invitation from Mrs Felicity Fortescue-Lamb.

'I never really understood that either,' his wife called from the kitchen. 'I thought we could get there at say quarter to six and see if anyone else has arrived.'

June was ironing Gary's beige chinos. There was a small lime-green stain on one of the pockets. She rubbed at it briskly with a damp cloth. 'Gaz, have you been buying green frogs on the sly again? You know they're bad for your teeth.'

She walked into the living room and smiled fondly at Gary's sheepish face. She held out the trousers to him. 'Here, you dag, put these on, and wear that nice black shirt I gave you for your birthday. And no thongs!'

Gary would look handsome in whatever he wore, thought June. At forty-two he was still youthful-looking and gorgeous. A real country boy still. He was cheated out of movie star good looks only by his slightly sticking out ears.

Already dressed for Felicity's party, June began to feel a little anxious. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror on the wall by the buffet. She noted with some satisfaction that her butter-coloured rayon dress looked good against her lightly tanned skin.

Lifting her slender foot, she examined the grey polished toenails peeking out of black high-heeled sandals. She had read that Michelle Obama wore grey nail polish during the last Presidential election. However, on herself it looked a little too much like the mould that appears on lemons when they are left too long in the fruit bowl.

Shrugging her shoulders and patting her cropped auburn hair, June sighed. She tried to feel enthusiastic about the afternoon's social event. She hoped Gary would not feel out of his depth. She had a sudden bizarre and disturbing mental image of a bull with Gary's face bumbling about in a china shop. She let out a little yelp of laughter.

Felicity, or Fliss as she liked to be called, was the convener of the Book Club to which June belonged. The group met monthly at the library.

At these meetings June tried hard to make astute observations about the books they read. However sometimes she squirmed in the car on the way home, recalling some of the inane things that had issued from her mouth.

Like the time she had mistakenly read Middlesex instead of Middlemarch. Her comments about hermaphrodites had caused much confusion. Mrs Biddle though had nodded knowingly. A few of the astonished younger members had flicked avidly through their copies of Middlemarch.

She did not think Fliss liked her much after that faux pas. She would narrow her eyes behind her pale apricot glasses frames if June ever dared to utter a contradictory opinion.

So the invitation to Sunday afternoon drinks and supper at her opulent residence in leafy Waratah Drive came as a complete surprise to June.

Fliss was what June's mother, Beryl, called uppity or Gary would call up herself. As well as being rich, she was tall, blonde and boney. She did not work.

'Too busy chairing my lovely charity committees.'

Nevertheless she and her husband, 'Darling Stuart', travelled overseas frequently. They entertained a lot, numbering among their circle of friends a High Court judge and an emerging HIV-positive portrait artist named Chip.

Stuart, a successful businessman, owned the mandatory Range Rover. Fliss drove a ruby red Subaru.

Glancing out at their dented old ute parked in the driveway, June said to Gary, 'We should try and park well away from the Fortescue-Lamb's front door, so it'll be easier to get away after.'

~~~

Clusters of guests dressed in smart casual attire and holding champagne flutes stood about the velvety green lawn. The large garden was bordered by a neatly clipped hedge. Roses and lavender grew abundantly. June caught a glimpse of a shimmering swimming pool at the side of the elegant two-storey house.

'Jeez,' exclaimed Gary, 'I'd hate to have to mow this lot.'

'Oh, Gaz, I'm sure Fliss and her hubby hire a gardener to take care of it.'

At that moment Fliss floated towards them, peering myopically. She was dressed, or rather overdressed, for the warm temperature, in a flowing white silk gown with bat-wing sleeves. Elaborate gold jewellery adorned her ears, neck and slender wrists.

June was treated to a dainty air kiss – mwaw, mwaw. Fliss's cloying perfume made June's eyes water.

'So glad you could come, June darling.'

She flicked her large green eyes over Gary.

'Fliss, this is my husband, Gary.'

Gary stuck out his large tanned hand which was ignored. Fliss flapped her own well-manicured hand towards a spacious pagoda-shaped marquee. 'Do grab some champers, darlings.'

June stared at Fliss's grey nail polish.

'A beer would hit the spot,' Gary said to Fliss's slender departing back.

'Must mingle. Lovely to meet you, Gareth,' she called over her shoulder, waggling her fingers.

'It's Gary,' said June and Gary in unison.

Fliss's eleven-year-old son, Nigel, waved a tray of canapés in their direction. He was dressed in a waiter's uniform and his hair was slicked down onto his pale forehead.

'Thanks, mate,' said Gary taking a handful of fish balls and gulping them down in one go. He reckoned if the supper was going to be light he should eat up. 'They paying you for this, sport? Seems like child labour to me.'

'Mummy's buying me the latest iPad for doing it,' Nigel said politely.

'Sweet,' replied Gary. He crossed his eyes at June. June giggled and turned away. They moved towards the drinks table, Gary grumbling good-naturedly about the absence of beer.

As they stood gawking at the splendour of the Fortescue-Lamb mansion, June felt a rustle like dried leaves near her left elbow. A combined waft of attar of roses and tinned cat food assailed her nostrils.

'Hi, Mrs Biddle,' said June, gazing down into a wrinkled little face and eager bright blue eyes.

'Hello, dear. How's that girl-boy friend of yours?

June looked momentarily puzzled. 'Oh no, Mrs B. That was just a character in a book I had read.'

Mrs Biddle leaned towards June and whispered theatrically, 'My cousin Edna had both −'

She was interrupted by a joyful bellow from Gary.

'Rakka!'

Startled, June watched as Gary hurried towards an attractive thick-set man who was bounding down the stone stairs from the house to the garden. Dressed in a white linen shirt

and tailored black trousers, he was holding a mobile phone. An expensive gold watch encircled his wrist.

He gaped at Gary.

Gary pumped the man's hand. 'It's me − Gaz Widdup. Mate, how long's it been?'

'Gaz?'

'You look great, mate. Like a real toff,' said Gary wonderingly.

June joined them and peered at the newcomer. She could detect some cosmetic surgical enhancement to his face − it had that Jiminy Cricket look. And his too-brown hair, unlike Gary's with its sprinkle of grey at the sides, was blow waved and shining.

'Junie, this is Rakka Lamb from the old home town. We grew up together.'

Gary's eyes glistened with emotion as he beamed at Rakka.

A wide-eyed Nigel had appeared, followed closely by his astonished mother.

'Stuart?' Fliss looked inquiringly at her husband. 'You know Gareth?'

'Gary,' chorused June, Gary and Rakka.

'You're married to this posh, I mean, to Fliss here?' asked Gary, looking from one to the other in amazement. 'Well, seeing you own the joint, Rakka, how about getting us some beer, mate?'

~~~

In the fading light of the evening, June, Nigel and a few other intrigued guests sat on garden chairs listening with amused indulgence to Gary and Rakka reminiscing about their boyhood in Kookaburra Flat. An esky full of stubbies sat by their feet. Fliss stood nearby pretending not to listen. Her face held a stunned look.

'Rakka's olds owned the little corner shop, Lamb's Grocery Store, and he was supposed to sweep out the storeroom after school. But, remember, Rakka, you used to skive off and meet me down at the river to smoke.'

Rakka's unlined face held a beatific expression. He nodded.

Gary grinned. 'Remember the time your old man got pissed...' He glanced apologetically at Nigel. 'Sorry, I mean got blind as a welder's dog. He'd had a win at the trots and came back to the shop and was giving all this stuff away. There was a line of people all the way down the street that afternoon when word got out.'

Chortling, Rakka shook his head. 'Mum was that cranky with him. He had to sleep on the couch for a week.'

Nigel came over and sat on his father's lap. 'Did you sell lollies in your shop, dad?'

'Yep, we sure did, Nige. Clinkers, freckles, musk sticks, choo choo bars.'

'And green frogs,' added Gary, giving June a gloomy look.

'Can we go there, dad?'

Rakka looked across at Fliss and raised his eyebrows. She moved towards him, smiling slightly. He took her hand.

'Yeah, Nige,' he said, 'I reckon it's about time we all took a trip to Kookaburra Flat and met the rest of the Lamb family.'

Gary raised his beer. His face was flushed and solemn.

'Here's to the old town. And to good mates.'

### Sunday 21 April 2013

### The Swing

**Connie Howell**

Wentworth Falls, NSW

I looked at the garden through my kitchen window. Little finches darted here and there from branch to branch on the tree outside. Next came the parrots dressed in their colourful uniforms revelling in the bountiful crop of edible flowers and daintily picking up the sweet fragrant meal in their claws, expertly eating the flowers and discarding the leaves. A carpet of green lay on the ground below. I watched for a while then my attention turned to the big old willow down the back. There hanging from its strongest bough was the swing.

Ropes tied with a knot led down to the wooden seat which hung low. Both the tree and the swing were old like me. We'd seen a lot of changes over the years and now as I looked at them my thoughts turned back the clock and I could see myself happily pushing the ground with my feet until I gained enough momentum to raise us both higher and higher. This was my escape from the world and I loved the freedom and the feeling of strength in my body.

That strength was no longer there, my legs and body frail with the passage of time and my days were spent gazing through the looking glass into a world I seemed no longer part of. My memories were my constant companion keeping me warm at night and occupied during the long drawn out days.

As I looked at my swing, it seemed as forlorn and desolate as I. It hung silent and still, the only movement occurring when a strong breeze blew and I wondered how much longer we could endure.

I felt a stirring inside me and with much determination and effort I slipped on my overcoat as my body was unable to stay warm by itself. With halting steps I opened the door and with my stick as support I ventured down to the willow and my old friend the swing, and I managed to sit and I managed to push and together we soared toward Heaven.

### Sunday 21 April 2013 4 pm

### Discriminating Cupids

**Ariette Singer**

Canberra, ACT

I've made a most disturbing observation –

Apparently cute Cupids avoid shooting arrows

Into the lonely hearts of the older generation!

It is quite obvious, Cupids discriminate unfairly –

stop 'Love deliveries' to older singles too early!

When, whimsically, into a senior's heart they shoot,

It is because they do it purely just to have a hoot,

or by mistake, as they are aiming with little care.

That's why love stories of the ageing population

Make big news – because they are extremely rare!

Should we forgive cute Cupids their utter ignorance

about the humanity's capacity to love – at any age?

No! These immature Cupids should be well taught

That love can be felt deeply by both young and old!

The education for Cupids must no longer be delayed!

But where do we lodge our complaint and this demand?

And who – to give such lessons, will be most qualified?

Where? When? How? Urgent answers must be found!

### Monday 22 April 2013

### The Feather

**Deborah Stanbridge**

Douglas Park, NSW

As an adult I stare at a feather

Like my life it is speckled

It is so delicate

So light almost weightless

Not enough friction to tie it to the earth

But enough that it gently falls down

Plunging, plummeting, collapsing

Falling, descending, dropping softly

Slowly dawdling down

You can't hear it land on the ground

I don't know when I got here

Like I watched the feather falling

But can't tell exactly when it landed

People watched me falling through adolescence

But can't tell exactly when I landed.

### Monday 22 April 2013 4 pm

### Ode To Life – Prologue

**Sonia Ursus Satori**

Medlow Bath, NSW

dawn – devined – ancient

sea

stood cracked open

once

sense of extinct wonder

look

beneath the surface of

3.8 billion years

of time

a-na-e-ro-bic existence

before

cy-a-no-bacteria is oxygenating

earth's atmosphere

fossilised memory survives

bouts of catastrophic extinctions

and bursts of evolutionary boom

100 million years (!)

squeezed in between

recrystalisation

petrification

saturation

carbonisation

casting – moulding – impressing

traces

death – burial – decay

original features

of earliest life forms remain preserved

reappearance emerging

before our eyes

today

and for all times to come

therefore I am

gunflintia –

proterozoic microscopic life

first oxygen-producing cy-a-no-bacteria

glorious 5 microns

therefore I breathe

gunflintia – first fossil in our earth rock record

oh canada – ah australia

oh how I love thee

bangiomorpha of the rho-do-phy-ceae

stacking multicellular filaments

in your bust of 20 microns

sunlight beckoned your release from

the depths of ocean mud and

magnetised your frenzy of

sexual reproduction

my cell ancestry – my ode to the beginning of life

### Tuesday 23 April 2013

### And Out Of The Darkness Comes – Limbo

**Paris Portingale**

Mt Victoria, NSW

Limbo. How long since any of us have thought about limbo? Latin: Limbus, meaning on the edge, in this case, on the edge of hell. One of the outer suburbs. An earthly equivalent would be our Rooty Hill, or Penrith.

In limbo it's all old corrugated-iron humpies and unsafe, rickety furniture and the corner convenience store has no refrigerator so the drinks are warm, and the packaged goods are past their expiry date and there's white fur growing over the two oranges that make up the fruit and vegetable selection, and Larry, the little rat-fuck who's always behind the counter, will rip you off as surely as he hasn't showered or changed his shitty white t-shirt since 1927 when he first opened.

In limbo all the condoms break as you put them on and the prostitutes have no teeth and the TV reception is barely watchable and just old episodes of The Bill anyway, and the buses are full and people fart clouds of black death, and when the police do drive around they drive around with tinted windows up and the doors locked and look straight ahead and the mayor sleeps every night in his own sour, fetid vomit because all the crack-cocaine and heroin and ecstasy and Tijuana-skunk is laced with rat poison.

And the prime minister and cabinet are on PCP so all the windows are smashed and the furniture piled up in corners, and it's always night time and the street lights are old truck tyres burning on the corners and all the bookshops have been smashed and looted and burned for selling:

Fanny Hill, renamed Vagina Hill in a stupid piece of political correctness that backfired

Animal Farm, which has talking pigs and goats

Satanic Verses, for misrepresenting Satan as a nancy poet by a critic who, like the rest of the world, had never read the book

Nineteen Eighty-Four, for being so old and out of date now

The Diary Of Anne Frank, because of the Jewish question

Moby Dick, for its obscene title

Cock Robin, for the same reason

A Tale Of Two Cities, for its indecisive and vacillating opening line, It was the best of times, it was the worst of times

and a book on peanut growing, by Jimmy Carter, for stupidly mixing agriculture and politics and for being boring.

In limbo it's always 9.50 pm, too late to do anything, too early to go to bed, and the beer's been watered and has no head, and the gin will send you blind, and inflation runs at 1,000 per cent a second and your accountant is always having a well-earned break in the Bahamas or the Caymans or the Maldives or the Aspen ski-fields – in any case, he's never there when you ring and his secretary is infuriatingly vague or stupid or on drugs or any combination of the three. And no matter how many times you move, your mother-in-law is always living next door and the people on the other side will belong to an outlawed motorcycle gang and the phones don't work properly so you always get your ex-girlfriend who despises you with a poisonous hatred that has soured her and dried her to her very person so she is one large, walking, talking, venom-filled fang, ready to strike.

And the music's out of tune and the trombone player's always high and the radio crackles and the announcer stutters and the news reader is profoundly retarded. The street signs are all 'No Standing' and you always come back to a ticket and, just for good measure, or maybe to salt the wound a little, your car's been robbed, stripped, smashed and burned by laughing kids too young to prosecute.

And the garbage in limbo is never collected and everyone has cancer and the only hospital, hopelessly overcrowded, and staffed by medicine's rejects, is a blaring disco at night with the patients and their beds and drip-stands and beeping monitors all pushed to one side, and where, by day, amputations are done without anaesthetic because a cock-up on day one ensured there is not now, never has been and never will be any form of anaesthetic for any procedure whatsoever, great or small.

In limbo your spouse hates you more than ever, and every day in limbo you find out something even more horrible about yourself, and all the people who have ever loved you, one by one, prove they never really did. In limbo it's perpetually Friday the thirteenth and April Fool's Day combined, and the tap water's always rusted and the pipes bang and the rent's forever due and you know with an honest clarity and a white-hot, blinding certainty that your life was nothing more than an arid wasteland and every day you lived was squandered and every page of your personal folder has 'FAILURE' stamped across in red, or some other crushing epithet, usually prefixed with the word 'ABJECT'.

In limbo the roads are jammed by a senseless jumble of derailed trams and burning buses, on their sides, exits jammed and women with babies still at the breast, shrieking and clawing at the glass while the thieving driver, laughing and oblivious, steals the spilling coins from the money tray.

Who goes to limbo? Little rat-fucks like Jimmy McCarthy from year six who'd never share, and Lynette Johnson who showed everyone my love poem and the note where I misspelled 'syphilis'. And the little fuck from the garage whose limp and glass eye justify all the ripping-off he can muster, and the slut whore-bitch at the mini-mart who imbecilically checks my signature each and every time. The thin-lipped, pious legislators who deny the dying a timely death by their own hand, who deny the relief of the heroin for the agonies of a bone-rotting cancer, who deny sanctuary to the lost and the disenfranchised and those seeking of refuge, who deny women the simple sanctities and government of their own bodies, who force the raped to come to term, who use the idea of God as a club to beat and punish, and the whole construct of religion as a chain to guilt and ignorance. And John Wall, who kicked the total crap out of me because I caught him masturbating. Phil someone-or-other, a little rat-fuck who I think fucked my first wife in the toilet at a party once, and my wife, for fucking Phil rat-fuck in the toilet.

Limbo, by the hand of God almighty, is a place for the rat-fucks and bastards, the inconstant and unfaithful, the idiots and morons who subscribe to faith without consideration, the rat-fucked self-serving Caesars and Fuhrers and Generalissimos and Presidents-For-Life. The pinch-nosed rat-fuckers who tread further on the already downtrodden, the stealers from the already have-nots, the conscienceless usurers to the already-can't pays, the little people put in charge, the buffoons somehow found with power. The Idi Amins and the Pol Pots and the Augusto Pinochets. The Stalins and Husseins and Milosevics and Nixons, and at the other end of the scale the little rat-fucking killers of the world's Lennons and Kennedys and Luther Kings and Ghandis.

But more often than not it's for the inconsequential bastards and rat-fucks whose little evils are kept behind doors so the men quietly beat their spouses and diddle their children and the spouses don't shop for a week, not with an eye like that, and for the children, sex is forever warped and reviled and the sins of the father are continued by the son in a solid and unwavering family line all the way from the roots to the tender new tips of the family tree. There are only so many Hitlers and Gengis Kahns but we're producing rat-fucks at a rate of thousands a second. They're coming in a gusher. It's like a hundred thousand fire hoses at full pressure, gushing rat-fuck sperm and embryos and seminal fluid and wet vaginas and blood and mucus and all the viscous slimes the human body can produce, and it all comes together in the little rat-fuck, wife beating, daughter molesting, hero killing, mass murdering, rat-fucky, limbo-bound arseholes we call humanity. That's who goes to limbo.

Now, hell, on the other hand, is a whole other kettle of fish.

### Wednesday 24 April 2013

### To Australia

**Athena Zaknic**

West Beach, SA

Olive groves and the blue Aegean,

but the rocky Peloponnesian soil

could not sustain us.

Politics prompted some,

desire others.

On my calendar it was only one month.

Survival food. Endless water,

we tasted the salt of three oceans.

Only seagulls welcomed us to this land

in the midst of an alien cobalt sea.

The children would play anywhere

although miles away from home,

they settled in from the first day,

made friends spontaneously.

The older ones could glimpse

opportunities for their children

and set upon their dreams

coupled with personal sacrifice,

as they clutched their first pay.

In hindsight my family was lucky.

Our future turned out okay.

Others, my aunt Voula among them

never recovered from the shock

of cultural displacement.

They had knitted their lives

with their country's wool.

Unable to pick up new wool,

frustrated and confused,

they returned home.

### Wednesday 24 April 2013 4 pm

### The Anzac March – A Decuain

**Irina Dimitric**

Mosman, NSW

My Muse, oh please help me write a poem

In thoughts I see the bloody battlefields

Anzac Marchers proud and very solemn

The battling soldier heartfelt prayer shields

He fights against the wicked, never yields

Returns per chance a hero, shell-shocked, maimed

Or killed, the stuff that always wartime wields

Blood and tears are shed, victor is proclaimed

See the medals, hear the bagpipe's rhythm

Cheers to all who fought for sacred freedom

Irina says that the decuain (pronounced deck won) is a 10-line rhyming form in iambic pentameter created by Shelley A. Cephas. The rhyming pattern in this decuain is: ababbcbcaa.

### Thursday 25 April 2013

### Blood And Men

**Emma-Lee Scott**

Callaghan, NSW

***Editor's Pick***

Space above,

Space below,

Space between,

Space to grow.

Blood spilt,

Blood drawn,

Blood filled,

Blood sworn.

Men fall,

Men rise,

Men pray,

Men's cries.

Knees bend,

Knees break,

Knees wend,

Knees crack.

Mud forms,

Mud sticks,

Mud dries,

Mud slicks.

Swords sing,

Swords shine,

Swords swing,

Swords tear.

Death follows,

Death breathes,

Death swallows,

Death breeds.

Loss shadows,

Loss hides,

Loss wins,

Lost brides.

Victory turns,

Victory sounds,

Victory burns,

Victory kills.

Space above,

Space below,

Space between,

The white cross row.

_Ed:_ _We received this in January, and I read it without knowing what it was about. By the time I reached the bottom, I was mesmerised with the pattern of four different ways of looking at each word, the four different inferences you could take just by changing its partner, and then I reached the last line and ... BAM! ... I was brought to tears._

I felt this was the perfect poem for an ANZAC Day tribute.

### Thursday 25 April 2013 4 pm

### Widow's Last Son

**Armin Boko**

Lake Heights, NSW

On sunset platoon rode

Down from the hills.

Wide eyed wild men

Surrounded the farmstead

At the point of loaded gun

In my face they demanded

Moonshine, gold and money.

Spared none I gave them all,

Including the wedding ring,

Left none for my poor self.

Alas worse was to come,

Not content, drunks

Hollering for blood took him away.

Lost to merciless war,

Last one of my four sons

But an innocent child

Of thirteen young years.

I went down on my knees

Before the Captain,

I begged for mercy,

I begged for pity,

I begged in vain.

Would you men do this

To your own mother?

I pleaded, reply came

None in words rather,

Brutes just for fun,

Shot up the place,

Then took him away.

Bound in wire

In fits of laughter

They mocked him,

Shaking from fear,

About to wet the pants;

But an innocent boy

Of thirteen young years.

I pleaded and I cried,

I cried bitterly, I cried

Till the night fell I cried,

'fore I saw a rifle fire

A bullet rang and there

I died brokenhearted.

### Friday 26 April 2013

### Bill's Visit To The Big Smoke

**John Ross**

Blackheath, NSW

Bill Smith, for most of his life known as 'Curly', (he had been bald from a very early age), was visiting Sydney for the very first time. It was his eightieth birthday and his son, who had lived in the city for the past forty years, had invited him down to celebrate. Bill had been born and lived all his life on a large cattle property way out beyond the back of Bourke. He reluctantly visited town once a month for the cattle sales, or to catch up with a few mates. He always complained that Bourke was too big, too many people and too noisy.

In the car from the airport to his son's house in Sydney he described his first trip in an aircraft as, 'Bloody terrifying and the bloke next to me nearly spilled his drink when I told him he looked like a bloody sheila with hair that long. Turns out he was in IT. Not sure why he had to spell it and never did find out what 'it' was.' To change the subject his son turned the car radio on to the hourly news bulletin.

The announcer said, 'The treasurer has announced that the current deficit is in line with the forward estimates and is in line with most OECD countries with comparative GDPs. Tax revenue in the first quarter of this fiscal year was unfortunately not up to budgeted figures but this was offset by a drop in the demands on social welfare.'

Bill looked over at his son and said, 'Translate please?'

His son replied, 'The country's buggered; we are spending more money than we are earning.'

Bill answered, 'Well why can't he just bloody well say that instead of pooncing around with all that fancy palaver?'

They had to stop at a supermarket on the way home so his son could get some milk and bread. Bill offered to fetch the milk while his son searched for the special bread that his wife wanted; double soy, five grain, organic, low salt made with added fibre.

Bill found the milk way down the back of the supermarket and was confronted with a whole aisle of confusing signs advertising everything from full cream (permeate free), to lite, to skim to A-plus and even these in about five different brands. He confronted a nearby shopper and asked where the real milk was only to be told to 'Get real, grandad' by the young woman.

That night Bill's son and his wife and three adult children organised a barbecue in the backyard of their house. Bill was very hungry as he had refused to pay an exorbitant price for a few sandwiches on the aircraft. He was, however, sadly disappointed as most of the meal consisted of potatoes drowned in mayonnaise and sprinkled with parsley, some sort of purplish leafy thing that tasted very bitter and two tiny lamb chops. When he asked for a steak he was told by his son's wife that lamb was better for ones digestive system. Being a cattle farmer all his life this made him see red and he just managed to control his temper.

Later that night, entranced by the conversation of his three grandchildren, he sat sipping on a rum and coke and listening to them for about an hour. The conversation was all about friending or unfriending people on something called Facebook. The attributes of an iPhone compared to a Blackberry or an Apple. Something called blogging. The latest gig and a lot about twits tweeting. Some of them seemed to be worshipping a small square thing that they jabbed at with their thumbs.

When Bill went to his son and asked him if anyone in this place spoke the King's English, where could he get a decent feed of real food and could he book him on the first flight home tomorrow, he was told to 'Lighten up'!

### Saturday 27 April 2013

### Development Games

**Davidvee**

Glen Waverley, VIC

Developers go on a chase each year,

with control of millions, they have no fear

that anyone in power would interfere.

Powerful friends they could commandeer.

They believe all land with attractive view

currently 'wasted' on such as me and you

need lots of concrete where grass now grew

and hundreds of dwellings, all brand new.

To them they were paddocks near the sea,

poor land with gorse where rabbits ran free,

some scrubby bushes and occasional tree,

valueless, as any accountant could see.

Their wealth can buy clever doctors of spin

and change design rules already locked-in.

They know the power of money will win

despite the community who live therein.

They promise jobs, there's bound to be some,

and rates would increase council income,

building plan one step up from a slum

and sell the development for a tidy sum.

But gone will be bushes where thornbills hide

and delicate wildflowers which grow beside

casuarinas through which spring gales sighed.

All these for profit would be cast aside.

No more will we hear a pair of plovers cry,

their calls echoing through darkening sky,

no more will a goshawk hover on high

above sun-warm rocks on which lizards lie.

The piercing eyes and noble stance

of the kelp gull will no longer enhance

cliff tops overlooking wide expanse

of ocean where wave-tops foam and dance.

How much more open coastal land central

to a community's well-being, physical and mental,

must be sacrificed to such a developmental

frenzy? Are local views just incidental?

### Sunday 28 April 2013

### Red Lips

**Crystal Lee**

Adelaide, SA

Red lips, laugh lines

They sing the blues, patronise

Lips that quiver in the winter

Like the falling leaves on autumn paths

Red lips, like a joker's smile

The cracks appear in the summertime

They melt away like freedom walls

Casting shadows in hallways

Closing all your doors

Red lips they speak

Like tidal waves

Crashing, burning, hurting, using

Speaking of forbidden fables

Telling fractured fairytales

They lure you into the blackness

Like the foggy cold nights of despair

Red lips, a faux laughter

Promising you forever afters

Lying, loving, kissing, dying

Handing out happiness

Like balloons the grey skies possess

Red lips, sweet emptiness

Promising love, swearing of hate

Speaking of truth, to retaliate

Red lips, a joker's smile

They sing the blues, patronise

### Sunday 28 April 2013 4 pm

### Words For An Omniscient God

**Graham Sparks**

Bathurst, NSW

So deeply pierced was I

when burdened with rebuke for proffering

a rhyme containing certain words,

the gash within my mynde did groan and stretch and bleed

when bringing forth a progeny of trope derived.

So please, hereafterprinted find,

a progeny of words for your perusal:

A neuro semantic topologist,

perhaps a cranial geologist,

that is what I am.

Not a politically correct apologist

or a nursery rhyme symbologist.

As language is a vast and growing thing,

as precedents, in time diminish not.

As little branches reach from limb to limb,

so language waxes futureward.

Its echelons do coalesce,

its disparate branches coenmesh,

so words beginning with the letters F and C

a valid place do occupy.

As Lingo ownes all things from dirt to sky,

as God they say inhabits all,

He occupies those words

and occupies what they describe.

### Monday 29 and Tuesday 30 April 2013

### The Perve Next Door

**Robert Cox**

Pawleena, TAS

Sure enough, next morning he was there again on his back patio, staring at her, never just looking, as she hung out the washing, and by the time she went back indoors Bridget was very angry. She made a cup of tea and sipped at it as her anger waxed and waned. At first she thought she would go next door and chip the man – stood, even, preparatory, and smoothed her hair, preparatory – but on reflection thought it would be more effective if Wayne went with her. Wayne was of only medium height but he was solid and had a rugged-looking face suggestive of a life spent in pugilism or petty crime but in truth the result of a motor accident in his teens. It gave him a coarsened appearance that some of the girls in the supermarket where she worked three days a week claimed turned them on – not a very ladylike thing to say, she felt, about somebody else's husband. Wayne was actually a passive man, but she thought his appearance might help.

When he came home that night she broached the subject with him. 'Wayne love, will you come next door with me after tea?'

'Aw jeez, not to the Crumps'.' Frank Crump barracked for the wrong football team and Pam Crump was vociferous about her contempt for country music.

'To the new chap in Steve and Sue Allbright's.'

Wayne hated going out anywhere after work. 'But you reckon he's an optic nerve. You told me that a coupla times. A perve, you said he was.'

'You said that; I don't use that sort of language. What I said was, he stares at me all the time. And that's why we need to have a word with him.'

'Just for pervin'?'

'Just?'

'Well, he's been doing it for a coupla weeks, you said, ever since he moved in.'

'Well, I'm sick of it. It's not a nice feeling, let me tell you, to know a strange man's ogling you whenever you go outside. He could be a sex pervert or something.'

'It's took you a long time to get sick of it.'

'Well, I am; I'm sick of it. Every time he sees me in the yard or on the patio he just stares and stares.'

'On account of you're a good sort, love.'

'Stares and stares – ogles me,' she said, fending off his hands and his intentions. 'It's bad manners at the very least.'

Both were momentarily silent. She knew Wayne ogled – her when she was in the shower or getting dressed, other women when he thought she was not looking – just as all men, in her experience, ogled.

'Y' sure he's really pervin' on you?'

'That's your word, Wayne Dix, not mine.'

'Well, are you?'

'He stares and stares at me – ogles me – whenever I'm in the back yard without so much as waving hello. It's very offputting – very bad manners. We'll have to speak to him.'

Wayne sighed. 'Aw, all right. Let's go.'

'Not now, Wayne.'

'But –'

'It's teatime.'

'But –'

'You know that'd be bad manners.'

But Wayne fell asleep watching television while she was washing up. She knew it was no good trying to rouse him. He would not wake until long after she had gone to bed, then turn off the television, flop into bed beside her, and soon signal his resumed slumber with snoring.

She decided to consult her best friend, Aymee, whom she had toasted sandwiches and cappuccino with every Thursday lunchtime at the Café de Paris next door to the supermarket where she worked. Aymee, a blonde beautician, coiffed and buffed, led a busy social life and always had a lot to talk about, sometimes making Bridget feel she herself had little to offer in the way of conversation, but today she told Aymee about the man next door.

'Are you sure he's really having a perve?' Aymee said. 'Doesn't he ever say anything?'

'No he does not. Not a word. Just ogles me.'

'Never waves or anything?'

'No, just ogles. All he ever does except ogle me is play the piano. You can hear it at our place as plain as day.'

'Maybe you're imagining it. Maybe he's just looking in your general direction.'

'No, it's the same every morning. He just sits there on his patio ogling me while I'm hanging the washing out. And that's the worst part – you know, hanging out my undies and things and knowing he's ogling me while I do.'

Aymee sniffed. 'Yeah, I've heard of weirdos with a thing about knickers and bras. Maybe he's one of them. Maybe he just fancies your undies.'

'That'd be bad enough, but for all I know he could be planning to murder me, or even worse.'

'Have you told Wayne?'

'I certainly have. I've told him we need to go next door and chip him.'

'What's he say to that?'

'He's not very keen. He says he will but he always falls asleep before we get a chance to go. Anyway, he says he can't see any harm in a man ogling me. I think he thinks I should be flattered.'

'Well, that's what I'd be doing, dragging Wayne over and letting this pervert have both barrels,' Aymee said. 'I mean, Jesus, you've got to, haven't you? I mean, you've got to let him know you know he's perving on you and you don't like it. And you've got to take Wayne when you do so he knows you're serious. That's definitely what I'd be doing, yeah.'

'The hard part'll be keeping Wayne awake long enough to go with me. He always falls asleep as soon as we've had tea.'

'Why don't you wake him up?'

'He gets cranky if I do. Like a bear with a sore head.'

Aymee patted crumbs from her lips with a paper napkin and searched in a small hand mirror for any resultant lipstick damage. 'You could try giving him a big cup of black coffee before tea instead of a couple of stubbies.'

'Yes, and I can see him drinking it too.'

'Well, tell him he can't have his beer until he goes next door with you and puts the wind up this weirdo.'

'Oh yes, and I can see him agreeing to that too.'

Aymee examined pensively the carmined gloss of her fingernails. 'What time do you finish tea?'

'Near the end of the news usually. Wayne likes to flop in his recliner and watch the sport, then falls asleep while the weather's on.'

'What about if I ring you tonight right at the end of the news? Make sure you're busy so Wayne has to answer the phone. I'll just keep ringing until he's wide awake, then you both go next door straight away and have a go at this perve.'

'But we couldn't do that.'

'Why not?'

'Well, he could be in the middle of his tea.'

Twice-divorced Aymee pursed perfect ruby lips. 'Bridge, I am telling you I am definitely going to ring you tonight right at the end of the news and I am going to let the phone ring and ring and ring until Wayne answers and then I am going to hang up so you and him can have a go at this creep.'

'But what if he is having his tea? He'll think we don't have good manners.'

'Fuck good manners!'

When the telephone began to ring that night at the end of the news, Bridget fought the impulse to answer it and kept on washing dishes. It rang, it continued to ring, it rang and rang, and she thought it would never stop ringing.

'Phone's ringing, love.' Wayne's sleep-thickened voice came from deep within the recliner.

'Can't answer it,' she heard herself say. 'I've got wet hands. You'll have to get it, if you don't mind.'

There was no answer and the phone kept ringing. She scrubbed furiously at a spotless plate until the ringing stopped and she heard Wayne's grumpy voice say 'Hello? Hello?' He paused, then said 'Hello?' again before banging the receiver down.

'Who was that?' she asked.

'Dunno.' All sleepiness had gone from his voice. 'Wasn't no one there.'

'That's funny.' She swallowed, feeling guilty and conspiratorial. 'Well, since you're up, why don't we go next door and talk to the man there about ogling me?'

'Nah, he's probably having tea.'

'I don't think so,' she said. 'I can hear him playing the piano.'

The two-storey house that until a few weeks ago had been Sue and Steve Allbright's was the biggest in an incomplete subdivision in a fledgling outer suburb of Hobart. Because the Allbrights had had neither enough furniture to fill it nor sufficient income to buy more, their presence in it had always seemed transient, as though they were squatters. Now it was in darkness; only soft sad piano music from within denoted life within. At Wayne's knocking the music stopped, and seconds later the front door opened.

'G'day. Wayne Dix from next door and this's the trouble and strife.'

'Bridget,' she said. 'Bridget Dix. Pleased to meet you.'

'Wouldn't mind a quick dicky bird with you,' Wayne went on.

'If it's not inconvenient, of course,' Bridget said. 'If you're not having your tea or anything.'

Their neighbour shrugged. 'If you must,' he said.

They followed him along the dark hall into the living room and blinked in surprise when he switched on a light. In place of the Allbrights' sparse workaday furnishings was a decorator-magazine cornucopia that included a zebra-skin rug and a white baby grand piano. Large colorful abstract paintings fenestrated white walls. A double bass painted pillarbox red and mottled with signatures in white paint stood upright in one corner. Bridget felt glad she had put on a clean apron.

'Siddown. If you want,' their neighbour said. Of skinnier build but no taller than Wayne, he seemed to be older than they, although a face as grey and weathered as an old jetty conspired with receding hair close-cropped to darkish stubble to make his age indeterminate. Barefoot, he wore a black T-shirt and faded jeans with frayed cuffs.

Bridget would have preferred to stand. She wanted to get to the point of their visit and then leave, but Wayne nodded and said 'Ta' and sat in a gold-brocaded Louis chair, so she sat down on a white leather sofa. It was so deep and soft that her feet did not reach the floor, which made her feel unbalanced and even more uncomfortable. Catching her husband's eye, she made the merest gesture with her head. Wayne nodded. 'The reason we come over –' he began.

Their neighbour was still standing. 'Can it wait a tick? I was just fancying a coffee when you knocked.'

'Ta, don't mind if I do,' Wayne said.

'But only if you're sure it's no trouble,' Bridget added. 'We don't want to put you to any trouble.'

Their response seemed to take him aback, and he was frowning as he left the room.

In the silence that followed Bridget whispered, 'We shouldn't've said yes. We should've just said what we came to say and gone straight home.'

'Aw, a coffee can't hurt. And I reckon I know his Salamanca Place from somewhere.'

'We've come to complain – to chip him. We mustn't forget that. I just want to get it over with and go home.'

When their neighbour returned he was carrying a tray bearing three mugs of coffee, a carton of milk, a bowl of sugar, and a bottle of cognac. He gave each of them a mug and held the cognac bottle out towards them. Wayne held his out mug but Bridget refused. 'Thank you, no. I don't drink spirits,' she said. 'No offence.'

'She don't drink at all,' Wayne said.

'That's not true, Wayne Dix. I sometimes have a glass of bubbly if we go out somewhere, as you well know – but only one, never more than one. Wayne doesn't drink much either, do you, Wayne?'

'Not since guzzlin' come in,' Wayne said, laughing at his own wit.

She felt things were not going according to plan. 'Actually,' she said, so unexpectedly that she surprised herself, 'we've come over to make a complaint.' Her voice was firmer than she might have expected, although she would have felt better placed if her feet had reached the floor. Taking care not to spill her coffee, she sat forward so they did.

'Piano too loud?' he said, frowning.

'Oh no, it's not the piano, Mr –'

'Not Mr anything. Just Charlie.'

She did not want to call him Charlie, had no desire to be on first-name terms with him. She had already decided there was something about him she did not like, something abrupt and unpleasant, at odds with the room's cheery decor. He did not belong in such a colourful room, she thought. She would not call him Charlie – but then he might think her rude. No matter that they were here to chip him, she did not want him to think she was rude.

'Excuse me for saying so but we didn't come to complain about your piano playing.'

'What then?'

Bridget put her cup down on a small glass-and-chromium table next to her sofa and sank into worried muteness. He seemed touchy and she did not want to make things any worse. She looked to Wayne.

'Nah, nothin' like that,' Wayne said. 'Fact is, the wife's a bit worried about you starin' at her when she's out in the yard. I wouldn't blame you m'self cause I reck'n she's pretty easy on the collar and tie, but the starin' worries her.'

Charlie was silent, staring, his expression inscrutable.

'It's nothing personal,' Bridget blurted out, 'but you could be a sex maniac for all we know and –' It was not what she had meant to say, the words had come out wrongly, but there was no way now she could retract it. She closed her eyes at the horror of it all.

To her surprise Charlie guffawed, though without humour. He took from the piano a pair of oversize spectacles with an overwrought red frame and held them up. 'I'm short-sighted, see, but I hate wearing glasses so I usually don't.' He put the spectacles back on the piano and looked back at the Dixes, who looked puzzled. 'Look, I sit out on the patio every day to soak up a bit of sun, something I haven't had a lot of lately, and if you aren't right in front of me there's no way I'd know whether you were in the back yard or not, especially if it's glary.'

Bridget foundered further in embarrassed silence. There seemed to be nothing she could say except to attempt an apology, but Charlie, going to answer a telephone ringing in another room, ignored her.

'There y'are,' Wayne said in his absence. 'Told you he wasn't an optic.'

With difficulty, Bridget heaved herself out of the sofa's grasp and stood up. She felt like a bad-mannered fool, making a fuss about something so innocent. In agitation she began to pace about, looking at various paintings as inscrutable as their owner. On a small boulle chest next to the red bass stood an ormolu-framed photograph of a woman who looked familiar, and Bridget was distracted enough to pick it up. It was inscribed To Long John, with love everlasting, Carnal. She was still looking at it when Charlie came back into the room. 'Excuse me,' she said, flushing. 'I hope you don't mind me looking at that. I didn't mean to pry but she looks familiar, only I don't know anyone by that name.'

'You wouldn't. It's a nickname I gave her.'

'Oh,' Bridget said, backing away. She found she was standing on the zebra-skin rug and hurriedly stepped off it.

Wayne had picked up the photograph. 'I know who that is,' he said. 'That's Elsa Carnaby. The Queen of Country Rock.'

In her embarrassment, Bridget hardly heard him. 'And I'm sorry too I called you Charlie,' she said, then was unable to remember whether she had. 'I mean, what I mean is, I was sure I heard you say that was your name.' She felt terrible. She had come in with right on her side but all she'd done was apologise and somehow had even got his name wrong.

'What the hell else would you call me?'

'But ... it says John. On the photograph.'

'That was just her nickname for me.'

It was a queer thing to call a man John when his name was Charlie, she thought, and he wasn't tall at all. Nothing about him made sense, which made her more unsettled. She just wanted to go home. She looked to Wayne but he was staring at their neighbour with great intensity.

'Changa!' he said suddenly. 'Thought I knew your Salamanca from somewhere. Charlie Angas – Changa. You was the bassist with the Mulga Country Mob, Elsa Carnaby's group. And didn't you write Love Everlasting? Jeez, that's one of our most favourite songs.' Charlie's expression darkened but Wayne was talking to Bridget now. 'Jeez, love, a celebrity, livin' right next door to us.'

'Listen, just keep it under your fucking hat,' Charlie growled. 'I'm not interested in advertising who I am or where I am. As far as anyone's concerned, I'm just plain Charlie Anderson, retired nobody. Understand?'

'Whatever you like, mate. I won't say a dicky. But what're you doin' in Tassie?'

'I was hoping for a quiet life where nobody knows me. Was.'

Wayne screwed up his face in thought. 'Yeah, wasn't you in the Engelbert Humperdinck... somethin' to do with drugs?'

Bridget was rigid with horror. This was worse than being ogled, worse than having a sex pervert next door. Here they were, drinking coffee with a criminal, a jailbird, a drug fiend. Her body poised itself for flight but she did not trust her legs.

They were all standing. Bridget was looking with longing at the door. Wayne was looking at Charlie whose expression had darkened. 'Yeah, I got busted once too often for coke,' he said in a low voice, 'and they threw the fucking book at me.' For the first time he noticed Bridget's expression. 'You needn't worry, love. Charlie Angas's dead and buried and Charlie Anderson's as clean as a whistle. Doesn't even smoke.'

Wayne put the photograph back on the chest. 'We got the band to play it at our wedding,' he said. 'For the bridal waltz.'

'What?'

'Love Everlasting. We had it for our bridal waltz. It's our favourite song.'

'But it's not a fucking waltz ...'

'It's still a great song, mate. Loved Elsa singin' it. Made a great bridal waltz.'

Silence filled the room in a way Bridget had not previously experienced, not so much an absence of sound as a pervasive presence that highlighted everyone's discomfort. She tried to catch Wayne's eye but he was staring at Charlie with something between wonderment and worship.

'Her record's still the best, if you ask me,' Wayne said. 'None of the others even come close.'

'No, there'll never be another one as good as that. I wrote it for her and on the record she was singing it to me.'

Wayne nodded. 'That's right, I forgot. You were on together, weren't you, and–'

'Wayne!' Bridget found her voice, although to her it sounded like someone else's. 'I think that's Mr Angas's private business.'

'Hardly bloody private,' Charlie said in a low voice. 'It was all over every newspaper in the country. Bass star dumps wife, kids for sultry songstress. I'll never forget that one. Bass star! Nobody'd even heard of me till then. Five months later it was Carnaby chucks Changa, punts on footy legend, and then there was Love Neverlasting: Carnaby, Changa split.' He poured cognac into his mug, his hand shaking with emotion. 'One poor fucking muso's life and career immortalised in half a dozen shit newspaper headlines. I can still remember some others. Mulga Mob cites booze for Changa boot – nice rhythm, that, and double illiteration – and New Changa coke charge: star's career on the nose. And what about Touching bass: cokey Changa weeps in dock? Loved that fucker.

'And you know what?' he said, his voice rising. 'Somewhere in there was one good one too, one real fucking cracker of a headline: Love Everlasting breaks US, UK chart records, or something like that. That was the only good one. Good news is no news as far as the fucking papers are concerned.'

'At least you was famous,' Wayne said.

'Yeah, I was famous all right. Do you want to know what I was famous for? It wasn't for being an okay bassist in a pretty fair group or even for writing a pretty good song that broke a lot of sales records all over the world – it was for leaving my wife and kids and going off with Elsa Carnaby. That's all I was famous for, thanks to crap newspapers and shit women's magazines. When Elsa dumped me I got to be even more famous, and when I got sacked from the group because I couldn't stand to be near Elsa after that unless I was so pissed I couldn't tell you what key I was in, I got more famous still. And when I got busted for possession the last time and chucked in the slammer – mate, I was a fucking star.' He poured more cognac into his mug and drank it straight down.

Silence engulfed them. Charlie, staring into space, was gripping the mug so tightly that his knuckles showed white. He seemed older than he had at first and somehow pathetic, and Bridget had to remind herself that this was a man who had deserted his wife and children, a man who had been a drug fiend and had gone to jail, a man, worst of all, who was now her next-door neighbour. It was all so alien, so unthinkable, that she needed fresh air. 'I think we should go home now, Wayne,' she murmured. 'It's a work day tomorrow and Mr–'

'Wanna know something?' Charlie said suddenly. He had begun to slur words. 'Since you've busted into my house and helped yourself to my life, I'll tell you something I've never told anyone before. Never.'

They waited, Wayne curious, Bridget apprehensive.

'It's this,' he said. 'Would it surprise you to know I'm a lucky guy – a very lucky guy? How 'bout that? Quite a surprise, eh? Treated like fucking shit by the woman I love, chucked out of the group I started, done time in stinking jail with the scum of the Earth, always watching my arse in the showers... lucky guy, eh?'

'Well, you was a big star and had a big hit and probably made a lot of brass,' Wayne said. 'I'd call that lucky.'

'Crap! I'll tell you why I'm a very lucky guy – because I've experienced something most people never do – passion. Real passion. You ever experienced passion, Wayne?' He answered his own question before Wayne could respond. 'No, you haven't. Yeah, I know what you're going to say. You're going to tell me how you fell passionately in love with wifey here and got married and plan to live happily ever after. Well, I've got bad news for you, sunshine – that's not passion. I was in love with my wife too, just like you, and I loved our kids to bits, but I left them for Elsa Carnaby because of passion. We had five awesome months together and the sex was fucking seismic and in that time and out of that passion I wrote Love Everlasting and she sang it on the record with the same passion I felt because she felt it too and that's why everybody loves that song and nobody'll ever make a better record of it. Passion.'

Nervously, Wayne glanced towards the door.

'No, don't go. Let me finish, for Chrissakes, since you started it. Love's what you got married for, what we all got married for, but it isn't passion. Love's for kids, sunshine. Passion is when love isn't enough and could never be enough. Passion's what makes you leave the wife and kids you love and burn your bridges. After that, love's just too fucking pissweak. Yeah, I wrote that song and put everything I felt for Elsa into it but it wasn't enough. Know why? I wanted to die for her, die a heroic death for her somehow. I'd even have killed for her – wanted to, would've killed someone if she'd asked me. That's passion, sunshine. That's what I felt for Elsa Carnaby. I'd happily have taken a bullet for her or run into a burning building to pull her out. Jesus, I really and truly wanted that to happen – I really did. I wanted to give my life for that woman just to prove the depth of my passion for her. And that was my big mistake.'

They were helpless to move, gripped by the visceral power of his emotion.

'It was my big mistake because eventually she knew she couldn't match what I felt for her, couldn't even come close to feeling like that for me, and I scared the shit out of her.' His voice cracked and fell. 'So she dumped me. For a footballer. A dickhead fucking footballer.'

He seemed spent. His shoulders shook. Bridget tugged on Wayne's arm. 'Thank you for the coffee,' she said, needing to say something to break the binding but surprised she could speak at all. She wanted to say I'm sorry I thought you were ogling me but it seemed irrelevant.

'Just go away!' he said, his voice low and choked. 'Just get the fuck out!' The last word shattered into a sob, and the sounds of engulfing anguish followed them to the front door and out into the sanctuary of darkness.

Bridget did not feel like sleeping. For a long time after Wayne went to bed she stood in the shower, soaping her body and thinking about Charlie Angas. He was not a nice man. He was coarse, she thought, especially his disgraceful language and his nasty temper, a man who had left his wife and children, a man who had been in jail, but really he was just pathetic. After musing about it for some time she found she was still soaping and resoaping her body. She rinsed it off, stepped out of the shower, and began to towel herself dry with a sometimes uncomfortable vigour.

When she took herself to bed and put the light out she still did not feel drowsy. She lay restlessly amid the rhythmic hills and dales of Wayne's snoring. The night was pleasantly warm; spring blossoms were opiate on the air. Her body was warm from the shower and warm from the towelling she had given it. Somewhere out in the night two tomcats began to threaten each other but stopped when a dog barked.

Wondering how she could report the night's events to Aymee while respecting Charlie's desire for anonymity kept her brain churning. She turned her bedside radio softly on and listened for a while to a favourite talkback program, but tonight the callers' cavilling opinions made her so irritable that she turned it off. When the tomcats began to yowl again from a different direction she tensed, expecting the barking to resume, but it did not, and as the yowling moved gradually away she relaxed and finally succumbed to sleep. Deep in its eddies she dreamt she had left a door open but when she got up to close it she found it already shut. She returned to her bed and her dreaming but the door was still there and it was still ajar. It was a door to an unfamiliar room and no matter how often she tried to close it, it stayed ajar.

#  Bios and contact details

Arden, Lynette

Lynette Arden lives in Adelaide, South Australia. Her first poetry collection, A Pause in the Conversation, was published in New Poets 15 (Friendly St Poets and Wakefield Press). She also enjoys writing short fiction.

Assumpter, Irene

Irene is an artist and writer based in Australia. Her first entry to narratorAUSTRALIA, Odd Footy Boy, has been nominated for the Caine Prize for African Writing. The winning story will be announced at a dinner at the Bodleian Library in Oxford on Monday 8 July 2013.

Bingham, Leonie

Leonie has recently moved to the Blue Mountains from the Far North Coast of NSW. She works as a manuscript assessor and has recently completed a university degree in creative writing. Getting to know the Blue Mountains' landscape and culture is her current passion.

Blackwell, Penny

Penny Blackwell is a former teacher, Traditional Chinese Medicine practitioner, and more. Her autobiography, Loki's Joke, shows how she spent the first sixty years of her life fighting to be happy inside the male body she was born with. Loki's Joke is available in print and for Kindle from Amazon and in epub at Smashwords, Kobo and other online ebook retailers.

Penny's next books, The Hermit and the Ivory Box (a novella based on a character in Loki's Joke), and Twentieth Century She (a poetry collection), are due out mid-2013.

Bruton, Judith

Judith is a published writer and visual artist who lives and works in Byron Bay, NSW. For more about Judith, visit her website at www.judithbruton.com

Callaghan, Linda

Linda Callaghan is a Blue Mountains artist who released her creativity late in 2008. She exhibits yearly and in 2011 won the Springwood Art Show prize. She uses a wide range of mediums and paints many subjects inspired by her surroundings and emotions. Linda also enjoys writing inspirational poetry to accompany her works. Her paintings and poetry can be viewed at lindart1.redbubble.com/ and her book, Essence of Australia, is available at au.blurb.com/bookstore/detail/1466296.

Chaffey, Robyn

Robyn is a writer who says she is 'still on her "L" plates'. She enjoys experimenting with differing types of writing as well as the camaraderie of the writers she is coming to know.

Cox, Robert

Robert has published two well-received books of Tasmanian history and has just completed a third. His short-story collections Alibis, Lies, Goodbyes; The Clarity of Tears; and Agony and Variations are available at www.ginninderrapress.com.au.

Demelza

Demelza loves to write and loves to read, but doesn't always understand all the bits in between. You can Google her with 'call me in the morning – poems by mellie' where she intends to upload one poem, once a week, for one year.

If you like her work you can see more of it at melzapoet.blogspot.com.au.

Dimitric, Irina

Irina enjoys writing short stories and poetry. Most of her work can be found at www.gather.com.

For more on Fibonacci poetry, have a look at The Fib Review at www.musepiepress.com/fibreview and About.com's Poetry page at poetry.about.com/od/poeticforms/a/fibonaccipoems.htm.

Edgar, Bob

Bob is the author of the young adult adventure novel, SOS from Rhodon Valley, as well as the early reader, Tom Tuff to the Rescue.

Tom Tuff tells the story of a little tug boat with a big heart. It has been beautifully illustrated by Todd Sharp (www.toddsharpartworks.com.au) and is available online through Amazon.

For more about Bob, visit his site at www.robertedgardauthor.com.

Elliott, Hannah Mary

Hannah enjoys writing poetry and short fiction. She is the author of The Brown Exorcist which is available on Amazon.

Hannah's blog is at hannahmaryelliott.wordpress.com.

Ellis, Phillip A.

Phillip is a freelance critic, poet and scholar. His chapbooks, The Flayed Man and Symptoms Positive and Negative are available from Amazon and his website respectively, and he is working on a collection for Diminuendo Press. Another has been accepted by Hippocampus Press. He is the editor of Melaleuca and his website is at www.phillipaellis.com.

Fermanis-Windward, Michele

Michele finds that poetry allows her to step out of the day-to-day and into a playground of words where she can follow the sandy footprints of her imagination. For more about Michele and her writing, visit her blog at www.michelefermanis-winward.com.

Fogarty, Naomi

Naomi says that she enjoys putting her amateur writing and expert daydreaming skills to some good use! Her alter ego also blogs at queenandsword.com and you can join her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/QueenandSword.

Gardiner, Alex aka The Auld Yin

Alexander Gardiner (aka The Auld Yin) is situated in the beautiful Blue Mountains of New South Wales, Australia. He creates sculptures and poetry in the scenic town of Bullaburra. In real life he manages a small wholesale nursery in the Blue Mountains, propagating everything from African violets to maidenhair ferns and all other sorts of exotic plants. He hopes you enjoy his passion, in this case for poetry in the Scottish vernacular.

To read Alexander's poetry and listen to it being read in the Scottish vernacular with sound, visit his page at Fanstory at fanstory.com/mypage.jsp?userid=465108.

To view his sculptures and other works visit his Red Bubble page at www.redbubble.com/people/windana1.

Gibbs, Thomas

Thomas Gibbs is a 23 year old writer from Redfern, NSW. Follow Thomas on Twitter: @ThomasAGibbs.

Govier, Mark

Mark grew up in Port Adelaide, went to Adelaide University, and ended up working for Long Bay Prison, Sydney, and in many other court and government positions.

Mark's first novel, The Trials of Nian Gao, is a sci-fi book. Set in 2084, in a China run by a sinister Party, it follows ex-criminal Nian as he tries to oppose the Party, before managing to escape. It is available from Smashwords, in various formats, and from Amazon in paperback and for Kindle.

Hall, Emma

Emma is a writer, reader, student, tutor, blogger and perpetual dreamer. For more about Emma and her writings, please visit her blog at www.waywithwords4.wordpress.com.

Heks, Andris

Andris has a background in political journalism and social work. He has written many poems and articles, a few songs and two plays including Ai Weiwei's Tightrope Act that recently premiered at UTS in Sydney. You can find his music on YouTube and his written works across the internet by Googling 'Andris Heks'.

Howell, Connie

Connie is a western shaman who loves to write stories that inspire others, especially women. She has worked in the arena of energy healing for thirty years and continues to expand her awareness which then helps those who come to her.

Johnson, Amber

Amber holds the record, we believe, for having one piece of work published in each month that narratorAUSTRALIA has been running. Find out more about Amber and her writing career at her new blog at xianthia.blogspot.com.au.

Kennedy, Rob

Rob is a writer, poet and composer. He has articles plus poetry published in the Sydney Morning Herald, Cordite, AGNSW, State of the Arts, Five Bells, Say Something, Art Interview, Newswrite and the UK based Culture Wars on the arts and social commentary. Find out more about Rob at his website at www.robkennedy.co.

La Porte, Judith

Judith began writing short stories a couple of years ago. She usually bases her stories on personal experience and then allows her imagination to take hold.

Linn, Marilyn

Marilyn has been writing poems and short stories for pleasure for a number of years. She has had several small pieces of work published.

Lock, Julie

Julie Lock lives in Melbourne with her partner, two daughters and two cats. She loves to write so last year she joined the Avenue Writers' Collective in Blackburn South. Follow Julie on Twitter: @Juli3Martin.

Lutta, Fayroze

Fayroze is a non fiction writer who likes everything real tactile and direct to the touch. She can be found somewhere hiding out holed up in a café-side late night with her Olivetti typewriter skulking in the corner typing away, ghosts of Jack Kerouac and Paul Bowles haunting her moves.

McDougall, Garry

Garry is an author, artist and photographer, not to mention a traveller! His Tribute to Decazeville is part of a soon-to-be published ebook series, Tapas Pilgrimage: French and Spanish Pilgrimage Towns and Tales. Find out lots more about Garry at his website at utrave4.wix.com/garrymcdougall.

McGloin, Barry

Barry has been busy compiling his second book of short stories and poems, called Old Mates. His blog is at barrymcgloin.blogspot.com.au.

Metcalfe, Carly-Jay

Carly-Jay is a Brisbane based writer of poetry, literary fiction and memoir. For more about Carly-Jay visit her blog at bruisesyoucantouch.com.

Paton, Toni

Toni is the author of Whimsical Verse, an illustrated poetry book for children aged four through to 12. It is available from Amazon in print form and for Kindle.

Pensable, Des

Des Pensable is interested in satirical writing, poetry, philosophy and social commentary. You can read some of his recent works at www.despensable.com.au or join him on Facebook.

Portingale, Paris

Paris Portingale is the author of the novel Art and the Drug Addict's Dog, The Trouble with Daleks, several other unpublished novels, and many, many short stories.

Paris' published works can be found on Smashwords and Amazon and you can connect with Paris at www.parisportingaleauthor.com.

Pratt, Tamara

Tamara's short stories have been published in Australian and USA anthologies and have placed in several short story competitions, including the Glass Woman Prize. In 2011, Tamara was awarded a Fellowship by the Eleanor Dark Foundation and stayed at Varuna, the Writers' House, where she was mentored by Australian crime author Marele Day. Tamara has authored crime fiction and young adult novels. Tamara is active in a number of writing groups and is serving as Vice President of the Fellowship of Australian Writers Queensland (FAWQ), and is Senior Editor of Compose Online Journal. Currently, Tamara is represented by literary agent Rick Raftos Management.

Tamara's website is www.tamarapratt.com, and you can follow her on Twitter at:@tamarapratt.

Renew, Sandra

Sandra lived in the fascinating country of Afghanistan for three years, working with children affected by armed conflict, and worked in other war-affected countries for many years. She is now attempting to capture and share some of her memorable and significant experiences.

Ross, John

John Ross is an ex airline manager who lives in the beautiful Blue Mountains and is the author of The First Man, available on Smashwords. He loves writing, gardening and reading good science fiction.

Saint-Malo, Shey

Shey is an ex scientist rehabilitated to the arts. She holds a Master of Arts (Writing) and has published short fiction and poetry in Regime, dotdotdash, Islet, Blue Giraffe, Trove, Cottonmouth, Landscapes and Creatrix journals.

Sargent, Susan

Susan is a registered nurse and midwife in country New South Wales. She has always been a writer of sorts, but only recently brave enough to try publishing ... her hard drives are full of unfinished pieces!

Shankar, Peter

Peter grew up the son of a migrant family and realised the implications of not speaking English over a lifetime. If you're interested in buying his book, which includes the story Speak English Please, published in this volume, get in touch with Peter at petershankar@rocketmail.com.

Singer, Ariette

Ariette is a performance poet/singer/composer who loves to entertain live whenever possible with her 'tongue in both cheeks' poetry and songs, or make her readers and audiences think. She performs live and on community radio, has won national poetry competitions, and her work has been published in anthologies and online poetry magazines in the USA and Australia.

Smith, Winsome

Winsome lives at Lithgow at the edge of the beautiful Blue Mountains, New South Wales. She has always been a writer and a storyteller. She has won prizes and been highly commended for stories, articles and poems. Her latest book, Tales the Laundress Told, will be released later this year.

Smithers, Shane

Shane Smithers is a Senior Lecturer in Humanities at the University of Western Sydney.

Stanbridge, Deborah

Deborah is a free spirited person who is inspired by God, travel, life and friends. She grew up in Western Sydney, studied in Albury and is currently chasing work and adventure around Australia. A creative writing course created a love of writing poetry.

Walker, Vickie

Vickie enjoys writing short stories and poetry and has had some minor success in competitions. She loves to travel and uses her travels often for inspiration.

Wicks, Les

Les has toured widely and been published in more than 250 different magazines, anthologies and newspapers in nine languages across 16 countries. His tenth book of poetry is Barking Wings (PressPress, 2012). Find out more about Les at leswicks.tripod.com.lw.htm.

Williams, Ian Kennedy

Ian lives in Launceston and is the author of three novels and three collections of short stories. He is the books editor for Tasmanian Sagacity magazine.

Zaknic, Athena

Athena is a member of the U3A writing group in Adelaide. She has had her poetry and short stories published in hard copy and online over the past three years.

### July 2010

# A brief history of narratorAUSTRALIA

**Hazelbrook, NSW**

It was a dark and stormy night...

Actually, it wasn't stormy, but it was certainly dark and cold in the Katoomba laneway where we had gathered to shoot the cover of Paris Portingale's Art and the Drug Addict's Dog. As we were wrapping up, Paris' lovely wife said to me that she felt he should publish a collection of his short stories. My first thought was: Who reads short stories? Well, apparently, lots of people!

The wonderful thing about being in small business is that you can make a decision, and then execute it. No committees. No arguments. Screw it, just do it. (With apologies to both Nike AND Richard Branson!)

Ten days after that photo shoot, we ran an ad in the local paper, and seven weeks later released the first quarterly issue of narrator MAGAZINE Blue Mountains.

A year later we released the first issue of narrator MAGAZINE Central Tablelands, as part of our plan to have many regional issues across the country. What we hadn't counted on was the effects of the GFC – getting advertising was impossible. Trying to produce two quarterly issues without funding was beyond us, so we rolled them into what would be the bigger, better, all new, shiny, singing and dancing narrator MAGAZINE NSW/ACT, with plans to bring out other state issues.

Again the GFC beat us, and in March/April 2012, we figured we were dead in the water. The decision was made to pull the plug, and then, in the dark of night, an idea floated in out of nowhere, thanks to The Sandman. And so narratorAUSTRALIA was born – as a daily online publication, supplemented by a half-yearly print on demand version. It makes us so happy to be able to use modern technology to adhere to ecologically beneficial practices (digital and print on demand publishing) to reach across the country on a daily basis and connect with so many wonderful writers.

Thank you all – readers and writers alike – for your support. Without you, these volumes would not exist.

Jennifer Mosher, AE

Editor-in-Chief
