 
### Table of Contents

Title Page

Main Sections

Foreword

Editor's Pick

Copyright reminder

The Suburban Banshee – Part 1

Loss

Of Friends And Insanity

I'm Mars and You Are Venus

Phobia ІI

Panhead

Outrageous!

Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band

Mercury With Freckles

Secret Trove

Smoked Awesomeness

My Mother's Eyes

Emily To The Rescue

My Brother Jack

Next Of Skin

A Traveller's Diary

Rose

My God

Bleak Perhaps

If Love Were A Poem

A Solitary Flower

The Inheritance

The Robot

Xing Saga Part 14 – X Marks The Spot

Dear God

Let The Joy Begin

Backroom

The Break Up

Memory And The ISS

Memory History

Rise

Recycling

In The Still Of The Night

The Suburban Banshee – Part 2

Promises

Somewhere In Time

The Bully

Night Vision

The Dancing Shoes

Buried Treasure

Does James Bond Ever Cry?

Echoes of Passion

It's All Rubbish

The Deb

Happy Ever After – The Child And The Giant

Happy Ever After – The Cult

Happy Ever After – Fishing Trip

Happy Ever After – The Youth

Happy Ever After – The Lady

Happy Ever After – Returns The Child

Happy Ever After – Amen

A Deserted Beach

Notions Of Beauty

A Million Stars In The Sky

Our God, Our Lord, Our King, Our Christ

Of Boys And Girls And Calculus

Sometimes

A Silent Friend

Anything Goes

Gum – Parts 1 & 2

Once Upon A Time In Outer Space

Of Rabbit Traps

Gum – Parts 3 & 4

An Accumulation Of Mistakes

The Edge of Sanity

Soul Search

The Suburban Banshee – Part 3

Project Lokitaung – Part 2

Those Boat People

Fantasy Fatigue

The Gallant Invalid

Jasmine

The Silent Sleeper

Spirit and Soul

Suburban Evenings

My Love

Harvest

mother unplugged

Saturday Arvo At The Rubbity (Saturday Afternoon At The Local Pub)

Rebound

The Carnival Is Over

Tune Up To Bliss

Sweet And Lite

12 2

War Dreams

Planet Four Fourteen

Free Fall

I Love The Way

DLD

Xing Saga Part 15 – Contradictions And Secrets

The Man In The Papers

The Good Old Days

My First Coffee

A Lover's Potion

The Suburban Banshee – Part 4

Hey! Hey! Claire!

When You Are Old

Monsignor Andres' Love Of God

Zoing! Boing! (What Can Be Seen From A Trampoline?)

Ravens

Another Fine Mess

The Kite Maker

Leap Year

On The Job

Tonight We Sing

Seven Letter Prayer

Beauty

Broken Trust

Datsun 120-Yucko

Rippled Soul

The Blowing Of The Sand

Rape The World

Poppy

The Wait

Never

Lost

My Cushioned Life

A Mother's Love

Reflections Of A Champion Racehorse

Millicent Rose

The Changing Winds

The Checkout

Darkness

The Fire Burns Within

A Cool Change

Yeah, No

my father's skin

The Basilisk That Wasn't

The Swine and I

Food For Thought

Where Nobody Cared

Simpler Ways

Touched

Fallen

The Curmudgeon

The Surprise Homecoming

Cheaters And Beaters

The Blacksmiths

Two Derelicts Talking

Evil Eyes

The Pines

Apparition

Dissolution

Belonging

Losing It

Alpine Mystery

The Four-Colour Problem

Lost

What Poets Know

It's In The Stillness

Shemozzle

Travis

Fortunate Son

Revolting Mirrors

The Broken Jug

Farewell My Friend

Faceless

Desperate Poet

A New Role For Joy

Back To School

Sometimes

Gabe Forgotten

Dream Maker

Roaring Forties

Menopause In A Thousand Words

Featherfall

The Missing

The Ghosts That Sell Memories

A Walk In Winter

The Jerusalem Road

That Fly In The Balm

The Shallow Night

A Hungro-Oz Embrace

The Blue Bird of Happiness

Broken

Enter At Your Own Risk

Travels From Burgundia

Whispers In The Dark

The Nebula

To Thine Own Self Be True

Dear Cecil

Bush Walk

Spring

Misplaced...

One Date

My Garden

A Brighter Sun

A Boatswain's Mate's Nor'Easter Lullabye

Preaching – Teaching – Preaching

Social Dust Cloud

Fire

X Action

Petty Spurge

Billy, Max, Adam And Sheila

That Ferst Kiss

Sexy Man

War

Spring

Bios and contact details

Index

MoshPit Publishing, narrator and more

Copyright Statement
narratorINTERNATIONAL

Volume One

1 June to 31 October 2014

This compilation is brought to you by MoshPit Publishing

an imprint of Mosher's Business Support Pty Ltd

PO BOX 147

Hazelbrook NSW 2779

<http://www.narratorinternational.com>

Copyright 2014 © Various Contributors

All rights reserved

**Smashwords Edition, License Notes**

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

Cover image: _The Verge_ by Amir Kiani, Toronto, Canada.
Main Sections

Foreword

Editor's Pick

Copyright Reminder

Submissions

Bios and Contact Details

Index

MoshPit Publishing, narrator and more

Copyright Statement
Foreword

Welcome to our first edition of narratorINTERNATIONAL.

We at MoshPit Publishing are always changing and adapting to make smarter and superior publications and this is what prompted our complete overhaul of the narrator series. You may remember our humble beginnings as a hard copy, quarterly magazine with exclusively Australian, regional authors. We then moved to including authors state-wide (New South Wales) and not long after we went national, on a daily basis. By this time the format had changed to a blog with hard copy and ebook volumes published approximately every six months. Our growth and diversity continued with the introduction of 'new flavours' of narrator, such as narratorFAITH, narratorROMANCE and narratorUSA, just to name a few. This expansion would make any company proud but didn't bring the results we had anticipated. So this year we opened the channels to all our international authors with our unveiling of narratorINTERNATIONAL, complete with a new, user friendly, stylish and modern WordPress blog. This book is the product of all the hard work, passion, ingenuity and talent shared by the many authors alongside the team at MoshPit Publishing who lovingly compiled it all.

As the Editor of narratorINTERNATIONAL I have to say, there is never a dull day at work. The creativity and imagination that comes to me on a daily basis is truly inspiring and so I thank all our authors, both national and international, for their consistent passion, talent and enduring patience - especially during our narratorINTERNATIONAL launch. For those of you who have read our previous narrator publications you will appreciate the development of our authors: with each new submission comes more sophistication, refinement and progress. I cannot forget to mention the variety of submissions that come in, from geographic location, to theme, to style - narratorINTERNATIONAL has it all. It is evident when reading this book that there is an art to writing and we all work together in order to showcase and publish the many creations that are borne of such art. Whilst compiling these great works and seeing them all side by side you can better judge which pieces really 'stand out from the crowd' and as a result many 'Editor's Picks' have been awarded post-publication on the blog.

However, what is a writer without their readers? As such I would also like to mention the many loyal readers who make narratorINTERNATIONAL possible. Thank you for sticking by us throughout our continuing modifications, for supporting our authors worldwide and, of course, for reading. I take immense pleasure from seeing the positive feedback shared between our authors and readers online, as well as the intelligent conversation that is prompted and the new perspectives revealed.

Another fantastic side effect of being a part of narratorINTERNATIONAL is the opportunity it presents for authors to 'test' new writing skills and ideas, combined with the chance to build confidence, which often results in authors publishing their very own books! It is very rewarding and exciting being able to facilitate such growth in authors and I (as I'm sure our authors will agree) am grateful and proud of the chance that narratorINTERNATIONAL offers to all authors. One author in particular needs mentioning because not only have they submitted text but they won the competition for best cover submission, so congratulations to Amir Kiani for his magnificent image: _The Verge_

I must thank everyone in the MoshPit Publishing team, including work experience student, Eloise Sladden. Thank you Eloise for your efficiency and enthusiasm. My next thank you goes to the worthy Ally Mosher, who is our technical 'Wizard' an endlessly patient sounding board and creative genius; without her our brilliant and beautiful new narratorINTERNATIONAL blog simply would not be. Last, but certainly not least, I bow down before Jenny Mosher, the creator, main supporter, fundraiser, PR officer, facilitator, sourcing specialist, community liaison and much more. I am not exaggerating when I say that without Jenny and her boundless creative energy there would be no narratorINTERNATIONAL.

Looking to the future of narratorINTERNATIONAL I hope to see many submissions from new and existing authors around the world, more writer growth and increased creative writing success.

Sarah McCloghry  
Assistant Editor
Editor's Pick

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

In the past we awarded Editor's Picks as we were posting items to the blog each week. But when it came to compiling the book, re-reading the submissions often highlighted entries which we felt should also have had an Editor's Pick. As of this issue we have made the decision to award additional Editor's Picks after they have been posted on the blog.

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

Ultimately we're looking for quality, creative writing no matter what form it takes.
Copyright reminder

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

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

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

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

Thank you.
The Suburban Banshee - Part 1

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

1 June 2014

Raelene and her boyfriend, Cory, were red hot for each other, not to mention 'inventive'. They had taken to regular consummation in what could be termed 'interesting' venues. Previous couplings had taken place in the back section of Cory's ute beside the motorway; an alleyway behind the pizza shop; on the back veranda of Raelene's parents' house (with an ear kept open in case either parent blundered upon them); and once in the darkness of the local picture show whilst Harry Potter waved his magic wand. On that occasion, Raelene had remarked afterwards - much to Cory's embarrassment - that Cory had waved his magic wand, too. At the crucial moment, Raelene was known to give out with an ear-splitting scream. Cory, in fact, called her 'the Banshee'. For that reason, Raelene had actually stuck a gag in her mouth when they were hard at it on the back veranda of her parents' house. Fortunately for them, on the last occasion, Raelene's orgasmic shriek had coincided with other screams from the audience as Harry battled the forces of evil.

Not content with their nocturnal naughtiness, Raelene and Cory were intent on 'doing it' in a retail outlet; specifically, a bedroom furniture and bedding shop during business hours. The target for their next tryst, 'Beddy-Byes', was situated in a large, suburban shopping mall, where most of their friends could be found milling about and generally making nuisances of themselves. They ambled in and carefully took note of any other customers and the proximity of the staff. After wandering about for around ten to fifteen minutes and being asked by a bored, pimply salesman (barely older than themselves) if they needed any assistance, the randy duo finally discovered a bedroom setting in the vast store that was remote enough from the sales desk. The salesman immediately returned his attention to his iPad. They were fortunate also that there were very few people in the shop that afternoon.

Cory had his phone-cam ready and so they quickly removed their obligatory track pants. Raelene spread a towel she took from her backpack. Cory jumped on the mattress and Raelene straddled him on top. With a minimum of foreplay, they began copulating like rabbits on speed. Before long, Raelene let out her customary loud scream, which, of course, was duly recorded as part of the 'evidence'. Cory had a hard time (no pun intended), holding the camera position with one hand and keeping up his end of the transaction at the same time. Naturally, Raelene's hair-curling scream attracted the immediate attention of the young salesman, who cursed as the sudden noise caused him to fudge a move on the game he was playing and forfeit 10,000 points. 'Aw crap!' he exclaimed, and came running.

By now, Cory was oblivious to any anything outside his immediate area of awareness. It was then that he felt a hand touch him on the arm. He turned his gaze and stared into the livid face of the young salesman. 'Jeezus, what do you two think this is - a knocking shop or something? You should get a room; bugger off before I call the cops!' The two rando-philes hastily replaced their tracksuit pants and hurried out to the acclaim of their mates outside. The phone-cam was handed around amid much smirking and guffawing. Their latest escapade was soon circulated on YouTube and Raelene's scream was thought by some to be the loudest and most piercing so far. 'The Banshee' had outdone herself.

The fear of being caught is a powerful aphrodisiac and so too is the thrill of sex in forbidden places. One of their envious friends suggested that their next encounter should be in a graveyard at midnight. Raelene was gung-ho to do it, but Cory was somewhat reticent. 'Aw, I dunno Rae, seems a bit disrespectful to go bonkin' where people have been buried - my Granddad's there ya know!'

'Come on Cory love, it'll be a hoot; nothing will happen. You're not afraid of ghosts are youse?' She pulled up her T-shirt, revealing her left breast. 'Not scared of me are ya?'

In truth, Cory was a trifle leery of Raelene. Whilst he loved the fact that she was 'up for anything', she could be a bit intimidating. With her pale skin, pale blue eyes and long, white-blond hair, she was a formidable presence, scary even. But Cory was helpless to resist; he revelled in those times when with head thrown back and eyes closed in ecstasy, she would scream her head off whilst riding him like an Amazon. Cory would struggle to contain his own excitement to no avail. He capitulated (as she knew he would) and a date was set for lust gratuitous in a graveyard.

The graveyard was very dark and whilst there was a full moon, it hid behind a heavy cloud cover. Cory had refused point blank to 'do it' on or near his Grandfather's grave and so they wandered about fitfully, shining a torch on possible suitable locations. On the point of giving up, Raelene discovered an old mausoleum and called out, 'Cors, over here, how about this?'

'Jeez, keep your voice down wilya?'

'Why?' she sneered. 'Who's gonna hear us - Granddad you reckon?'

'Aw, I dunno! What have you got?' Cory was rattled and anxious to get it over and done with.

The lock on the door of the mausoleum was broken. They pushed and the door gave quite easily though the hinges squeaked so loud that even Raelene jumped. Cory grinned and threw down the foam rubber groundcover sheet he had brought with them to put a barrier between themselves and the hard floor or grave. He shone the light about and noted the small brass plaques around the walls that denoted each niche where individual's cremated remains were stored. He also noticed a few empty beer cans strewn about. Cory shuddered involuntary. 'I must be out of my mind,' he thought to himself.

'You're not out of your mind, love,' said Raelene, who appeared to have read his mind. 'You're just a bit kinky - like me!' Raelene had already stripped down and she posed provocatively. Cory didn't need any further encouragement; he divested himself of his clothes in seconds, grabbed his camera and lay down on his back. 'Oh... aren't you a nice big boy!' Raelene cooed and lowered herself down on him.

Soon all of Cory's misgivings were forgotten. Raelene rocked back and forth and raised her arms above her head. 'The Banshee's on her way', she cried. She threw her head back and let go the loudest scream Cory had ever heard her utter. 'Aaaaggggghhhhh!!!' The sound reverberated around the mausoleum and with his own climax close at hand, Cory inadvertently dropped the camera and the torch suddenly expired. The Banshee's scream became more distant. Cory became aware that Raelene was no longer with him. He heard the door slam and he was plunged into complete darkness. Cory screamed out loud, at one with the Banshee.

It was then a hand touched him on the arm. 'Jeez, wake up love, you were screaming louder than me and that's saying something.' Cory immediately opened his eyes. He wasn't in the graveyard or the mausoleum; he was lying in his own bed, staring up at Raelene who was fully dressed and smiling madly. 'Gotta go sweetheart, I'll be late for my shift and me olds will be wonderin' where I am.' Then she added slyly, 'Weren't you the tiger last night? We'll have to give the Banshee a run in that graveyard soon if you're up for it!' She kissed him quickly and left. Cory lay back relieved and a huge smile spread across his face.
Loss

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, New South Wales

Australia

2 June 2014

See

kind

Grandma

bends to sew

her hidden stitches,

to restore this rent in her heart.

The old sofa where he would sit and smoke his long pipe

after dinner, taking pleasure in the smell of pungent odour of tobacco,

watching white wisps tumble out of opened bay window,

to mingle with steam from the train transporting

busy workers home from the city.

Night croons a Robeson melody on the gramophone.

Sofa and the old man snuggle down.

Fold the day away.

Such quality! Built

to last

for

life.
Of Friends And Insanity

Robyn Chaffey

Hazelbrook, New South Wales

Australia

3 June 2014

Between me and insanity stand my friends.

Worldly demands for us the living ends.

Times out with 'me mates' is my saving grace

When insanity springs from eternal rat-race.

To walk with the dogs or travel a train

Is gentle relief from eternal brain-drain;

But... tea and talk, coffee and chatter...

These with friends is a far nicer matter.

In the death of loved ones they're a comfort;

Through antics of children oft' cheeky support.

In the sleepless exhaustion of juggling life

Friends are the reason girls don't need a wife!

Getting together with kids in the park,

Inviting each other to 'act kid'... a lark.

Play in the sand, swing side by side...

How many girlfriends can fit on a slide?

With friends in my life I may call

There's always a soft place to fall.

When the world is at odds and insanity looms

The trees of life bud and friendship oft' blooms.

When insanity rises from life's rat-race

Spending time with my friends is a grace.

A world of demands is the living end

'Til 'tween me and insanity stands a friend!
I'm Mars and You Are Venus

David Grigorian

Arvada, Colorado

USA

4 June 2014

I'm Mars,

I'm barren and abandoned,

I hide myself under miles of blood red sands,

I'm a cold, ancient, and mysterious existence,

I zoom thorough the void of blackness,

All alone, all unlovable, and presumably dead,

My only company,

Are two shards of my broken heart,

Orbiting me silently.

You are Venus,

You are a world of rage and fire,

you have scorching oceans of lava,

I hear volcanoes rip and tear your world,

You hide below your impenetrable miles of toxic clouds,

Powerful gusts of winds envelop your surface,

Your protection against this brutal existence,

Nothing will ever get in or out,

I get it, I see it crystal clear, and I hear you,

You don't trust anyone or anything.

I'm Mars and you are Venus,

You are too hot to touch,

I'm too frigid and rigid for love,

But I do know,

We have been both brutally betrayed,

You and I shed tears and screeched in agony.

For millions and millions of years,

It is no wonder,

You are a world of fire and ire,

And I'm a realm of emptiness and coldness.

I'm Mars and you are Venus,

But do know that I'm soothed,

When once in a couple of years our orbits meet,

I know I can never touch you,

And you will never love me,

But I will always adore you from the distance,

I'm terrified of the thought of not getting a glimpse of you,

I'm always tortured to watch you fly away from me,

I'm Mars, a world of scars and tears.

Author's note: This piece was inspired by the book 'Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus' by John Gray.

Editor's note: We are always looking for well-written yet creative ways of expressing traditional themes, and this work ticked all those boxes for us.
Phobia ІI

Greg Parker

Orange, New South Wales

Australia

4 June 2014

Phallus

Hiatus

Oedipus

Bulbous

Ileus

Agnes, too

Editor's note: We believe that this is the shortest poem we have ever published at narrator!
Panhead

David Anderson

Woodford, New South Wales

Australia

5 June 2014

The 1957 Harley Davidson Panhead slid off the road at 140 kph and rammed into a fifty metre tall angophora tree at the side of the slippery back road, leading from Angola Drive to the Pacific Highway. Ben Deevers felt the impact and saw his hands melting as the fuel tank exploded and flames enveloped his body. He felt his skull crack open like a dropped Easter egg, then he mercifully shifted into blackness.

He climbed upwards through the vertigo as voices swam around his head, and visions of people flickered before him. They finally settled into a meaningful fusion of dialogue and images and he saw he was surrounded by doctors and nurses discussing his injuries. The oldest of the group, seeing him awake, smiled and gently spoke to him.

'Mr Deevers. How are you feeling?' Ben answered, but his voice was strange; his mouth seemed sewn slightly shut.

'I haven't got any pain. I think I had an accident on my Harley.' Then Dr Lang's face grew solemn.

'I'm afraid we have some very bad news. I want you to brace yourself. But first, I feel I should tell you of the extent of your injuries.' Ben steadied himself for the news. The doctor continued.

'Your arms and legs are gone I'm afraid. Your central body was completely crushed from your neck to your pelvis, and your back is totally destroyed. As for your head... it... I'm sorry, but it is very badly burnt. You are very lucky your brain was not exposed. Now, having said that, are you ready for the really bad news?'

Ben stalled for a minute to count up the cost. This was the price he paid for his stupidity.

'Go ahead, doctor. I think I know what's coming.'

The doctor let out a breath and looked around at the conclave of sombre faces. 'Mr Deevers...'

Ben shut his eyes and interjected. 'Doctor... Ben, if you please. After all you've done for me.'

The doctor smiled. 'Very well Ben.' He paused, then continued. 'I'm afraid the really bad news you need to hear is that there can be no recovery of...'

Ben interjected again. 'No recovery? But... you know if that's the case... I'll never be able to ride... that was the only...'

The doctor held up his hands in acknowledgement of Ben's grief and loss. 'Yes Ben. The police say your Harley was completely destroyed. And I remember you telling me it was the last of its kind. Now we should talk about you. With all this expense on exotic cars and motor cycles, have you enough for another operation? The massive Wall Street crash of the last few days - it has affected everyone.'

Ben looked worried for the first time. 'I know doctor. It hasn't been easy. The underground petrol tank kept things going. I can always get a Harley replicated, but... it isn't the same. A bit like... '

The doctor rolled his eyes in frustration. 'Mr Deevers... Ben. What about you? Have you enough? As I told you there have been many modifications and improvements lately. Do you want the original or something new?'

'No doctor. I can afford it. Give me the latest. Maybe a little less imposing would be better, and a few defects would be okay.'

The doctor looked around jovially to his assemblage and clapped his hands. 'Well everybody. Roll out number 467. I think that will be suitable. Doctor Emery, will you please see to Ben's previous hologram and do a head moulding for me? Maybe a very slight bulge on the nose, and a little receding of the temples. Thank you. Well Ben, we should have you out of there soon and into... well... into your old self, really.'

Ben smiled and chatted to the doctor for a while about the modifications. These included some that made him delighted that he had indeed had his accident. The latest humanoid robotic body now included a fully workable sexual system to ensure satisfactory orgasm. Recent developments now ensured other functions had caught up with other organs. This meant that defecation and urinary systems were identical to human structures, making his daily storage duct emptying obsolete, and adding toilet paper to his grocery list. Hair would now grow on his face and head if he wanted.

The doctor also had upgraded taste systems and enabled moderate alcohol intake to actually affect Ben's android brain which held the vault for his ID. Senses of pain and skin sensation had also been upgraded. This was essential for Ben's immersion of his ID into a natural, though robotic, working body.

'Now if you are ready for transfer Ben, we'll start shutdown and begin transferring your ID tomorrow morning. So good night for now Ben.' The doctor grinned down at him. Ben beamed back.

'You know doctor, I'm so glad my late father put so much money into computer robotics, and I'm so lucky a great neurosurgeon like you joined the team.'

The doctor held out his palms and shrugged his shoulders. 'Well Ben. If you hadn't crashed your 1971 Ford GTHO and ended up as our first patient, our project would never have gotten off the ground. And Ben... ' The doctor wagged his finger. 'No more riding one hundred year old motor cycles at dangerous speeds, my boy.'

Ben smiled. 'Yes - I promise - goodnight doctor.'

'Goodnight Ben.'
Outrageous!

Robertas

Drummoyne, New South Wales

Australia

6 June 2014

Moira is a shy young girl; teased at school for being a bit of a bore.

But there is a boy she often sees at the bus stop. She works up elaborate erotic fantasies about him, based on the things her school friends tell her about their sexual exploits.

One Sunday, she is waiting for her bus. The boy is standing nearby. There are just the two of them at the bus stop. Moira furtively eyes him. Fantasies flood her mind.

Without thinking, almost as in a dream, she walks boldly up to him.

'Would you like an afternoon of unbridled passion?'

He's flustered. He reddens. An unreadable expression washes over his face, 'Er... yeah.'

Even having said it, and seen his reaction, she is not deterred or embarrassed. It's all very strange. Just as strange was her use of the term, 'unbridled passion'. She didn't even know she knew that term. Must have seen - heard - it in some corny film, she thinks.

Still bold as brass, Moira says, 'I like oral.'

She's not quite sure what that means, but some of her friends had told her everyone was doing it. Now was her chance to find out.

'I'll do you and you do me. Okay?'

'Okay.'

'Come to my place right now. No-one's home.'

The bus comes. They sit in silence side by side. Then Moira says, 'I've seen you at the bus stop before.'

'Me too.'

That's it for conversation.

They get to Moira's.

No-one's home.

He follows her to her bedroom.

Next day at school, Moira's mind is filled with her adventure. But nobody would guess it.

'What'd you do yesterday Moy?'

'Not much.'

Her friends trade looks, telling each other what a dull life poor Moira leads.

Moira knows what they're thinking, but couldn't care less.

She decides to catch her bus from another stop in future.
Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band

Mark Fowler

Magill, South Australia

Australia

7 June 2014

'So you play, a little, eh, Billy?' says the spiv with the sliding ginger rug.

'Nah, we play a lot, and we're bloody good.'

'Ow comes, I never heard of ya?'

Billy watches the rug slip ever so slowly forward, as Johnny Red leans toward him over the table. Billy wants to tell him it's coming loose, but he doesn't want to lose the gig either.

'It's 'cos we haven't been in these parts before.' He resists a snicker as he watches the thin line down the centre of Johnny's cheap toupee.

'So where did ya play?'

'We played Basra,' replies Billy.

'Never 'eard of it. How big were the gigs?'

'Usually about 5,000 or more. We used to be the filler bands for Elton and Cliff when they came out.'

Johnny Red's rug leaps off his head as he gets up in surprise. He's seems to have forgotten it's up there. 'You know Elton? You played with Cliff? Ya, must be famous. I'd give my bloody right arm to get them geezers to play at the Fox Club. What's your name, then?'

'Me. I'm Billy Shears. We call the band Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band.'

'Bit of a pansy name, son.' He scoops the rug off the table and subtly plonks it back on his head.

'Well, the guys in Iraq liked it.'

Johnny seems to only half hear. 'So, are you one of those poofy outfits?... Bet ya wear them big dresses and wigs and stuff, like that Marilyn Monroe and Boy George.'

It occurs to Billy that this fool shouldn't be scoffing about wigs, but a job's a job, and the boys haven't had a gig since they reformed. Iraq was two years ago, but no-one's wanted to think about music since Jack's accident.

'Nah, Mr Red. We were a band in Iraq. Sergeant Jack Pepper got a band together. Was two years ago today, Sgt. Pepper taught the band to play. We were just regular troops who were in bands in high school. He formed the group and we practised whenever we got a chance. The command found out. We played a couple of gigs in the canteen and before you know it, we were involved in every concert put on by those visiting stars.'

'Aw, I'm sorry son. I didn't know you were soldiers. Are you sure, you're not poofs? All that time together in the army; ya know what I mean?'

Billy is close to walking out. The boys have been rehearsing for two months. They need this opportunity. No-one in London is further down the food chain than Johnny Red. So, it begins here, or they pack it in, and go back to the lives they haven't been leading since they left the forces.

'No, Mr Red. We are good musicians; we're bloody serious. Jack, I mean Sergeant Pepper, used to play for the Bowling Roans up in Sheffield before he joined up. True musician and a great leader.'

Johnny Red sits back at the table. His speckled hen appearance turns slowly crimson. 'One more thing, Billy. Why the lonely hearts club name?'

'All of us were single, all bar Jack Pepper. He had been out there on three tours of duty. Missed his missus something fierce. When he found out none of us had girlfriends, he came up with the bloody name. He was Sergeant Pepper. Had no choice. But, we wouldn't change it for quids.'

'Tell ya what, I'll do this much. Monday night's a slow night at the Fox Club. You get your boys in here about seven thirty. I'll give you ago. You know, for old Blighty, and all that. No money of course. If you can get that mob of drunks and low-lifes that come by Mondays to wake up, we'll look at a proper deal.'

Billy should be insulted, but agrees to the terms.

~~~

'Ya agreed to what?' says Scotty. 'We've been practising for two months. Surely you can do better than that?'

Billy looks at his drummer with intent. 'Listen mate. Do you remember why we got together?'

'Yeah, 'cos we've all got nothing better to do since Basra.'

'Nah, Scotty. It's about the Sergeant, remember. You can't get off the sauce, and Tom's window cleaning business went broke in three months. Jonesy can't get off the anti-depressants. And you know, I can't sleep.'

Scotty nods. 'Yeah, since the Sarge blew up, none of us are worth a cracker.'

'Well, Scotty, let's do this for Jack Pepper. He was proud of us, and you know he gave us the ride of our lives in Iraq.'

Scotty nods, sinks his Jameson's, and reaches for the sticks. The band rehearses as if they're playing Wembley Stadium.

~~~

'So, you can set up over there,' says Johnny Red, pointing to a small lino covered space in a dingy corner.

'We might spill onto the dance floor,' replies Billy.

'No-one dances here. A fox trot is a wobbly dance to the Ladies. Eeeh!' says Johnny, chortling at his funny and straightening his rug.

'Can we have some tables set up close to the floor? We're expecting some visitors.'

'Good work, boyo. Been drumming up trade, have we? Yeah, they're stacked in the corner.'

Twenty minutes later, the Fox Club is buzzing. Johnny Red is flushed with success. 'And I haven't even heard them,' he thinks. 'What a deal!'

Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band warm up.

'It's the boys from Basra, Tom,' says Scotty as he realises who's watching from the half darkness.

'Billy?'

'Yeah, thought you might like some company. Jack would want them to be here.'

'Well, we couldn't do much for Sarge in Iraq. Let's do him proud tonight.' They all nod in agreement.

The boys slip into a riff. The audience break into a polite clap. Billy stands astride the microphone and surges into the band's signature tune. The crowd cheer.

'We're Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band

We hope you will enjoy the show...

You're such a lovely audience

We'd like to take you home with us... '

Billy leans into the mike. Tom strums softly. A small spotlight focuses on the front table.

'We'd like to thank you for coming to night. I'd like to introduce you to our very special guests. I didn't tell the boys. I wanted it to be a surprise.'

Elton John and Cliff Richard stand and applaud the band. Jack Pepper's wheelchair rolls onto the dance floor. Jack raises his hands above his head and adds his applause. The audience erupt and Billy signals. Scotty and Jonesy show off their prowess on trumpet and trombone. The Fox Club heaves with excitement.

'I don't really want to stop the show... So let me introduce to you

The one and only Billy Shears

And Sgt. Jack Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band.'

Johnny Red straightens his hair. 'I knew they weren't no poofs,' he thinks, counting the cash.
Mercury With Freckles

Winsome Smith

Lithgow, New South Wales

Australia

8 June 2014

For Nathan

Crouched at the blocks,

Alert as he's been taught.

The starting pistol's crack

releases all his body's springs.

Thighs and knees

work with heart and breath and will

to lift and swing and push

as feet fly above the track.

Cheers unheard, the crowd a blur

until the winning tape

snaps across his chest.

Another hundred metre sprint

over, done and won -

another win, another prize.

a few more steps of discipline

closer to his golden dream.

Relax now, grandson, buy a chocolate bar

Sip a Coke and mingle with your mates.

Take off your running spikes.

In fantasy I'll watch you,

Mercury with freckles,

to see on your swift young heels

a pair of shining wings.

Author's note: In mythology, Mercury was the messenger of the gods. He was able to fly swiftly because he had wings on his heels.
Secret Trove

Bob Edgar

Wentworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

9 June 2014

My love for you was as intangible, as it was sweet and perfumed

You teased my fragile sensibility, playing me... as if cartooned

My eyes would devour my reflection, my spirit caress your soul

We cavorted through the years, romped... as would stallion and foal

You toyed with my heart; tore it apart, oddly... sharing my pain

The years have seen us drift apart, the love for you... I no longer feign

You needed me, as much as I loved you... beyond comprehension

You invade my dreams still, but no longer have my undivided attention

Am I wrong to long for a reunion, to renew and embrace life's wealth

Am I not within my inherent rights as a human, to desire one's self

Am I not worthy to once again worship the entity within this shell

If not, then I reserve my God given power, to condemn us... both to hell
Smoked Awesomeness

Panos Dionysopoulos

Maylands, South Australia

Australia

9 June 2014

So, there was this magical guitar and it was made of wood from the enchanted Woden tree. Whenever anyone played it, birds would sing along, rivers would surge harder, deer would stop to listen and horses would make sweet, violent love while Van Halen soloed along with the sweet enchanted music with killer runs and the sun head-banged.

Also, volcanoes would erupt but that's a given with guitars of this magnitude.

Toward the end of spring, an elderly wizard who was slightly senile limped towards the local Woden tree to gather the enchanted fruit for his mother's foot boils and saw the guitar leaning against the tree. 'Muse!' he yelled happily, drool dropping off his bearded chin, and raced towards it. As the wizard approached, the guitar twitched. A creaking sound emanated from its strings. Its headstock separated from the side of the tree as if being pulled by an invisible roadie. A single note resonated and the wizard stopped dead in his tracks. 'Buh?' he said.

A deer a kilometre away stopped and cocked its head. Van Halen powered up his amp, a volcano burped and a horse two farms over got a semi. Everyone was expecting a show. The wizard took a step closer and the guitar whirled up into the air and hit the wizard on the head, knocking him unconscious, then fell to the ground. After a few seconds the guitar caught on fire.

It burned for four days and three nights. Vikings made passing pilgrimage to it. Feasts were roasted over it ('It tastes like smoked awesomeness!' people were known to exclaim after eating a haunch cooked above the flaming vigil). Once it stopped burning, the guitar burst into ash. And then, the wizard woke up. He stood and surveyed the pile of ash in the shape of a guitar then wailed, 'I'll never be rock star!' and ran home, crying. The horse never managed more than a semi again.
My Mother's Eyes

JH Mancy

Tallebudgera, Queensland

Australia

10 June 2014

When my mother sang me Irish songs *

Each word became a dream

Her heart would sing a melody

Through tears of emerald green

On velvet notes she'd carry me

To where her heart belongs

'Twas my mother's eyes I saw through

When she sang Irish songs...

My mother is the last person I expect to see as I gaze at my reflection. Yet here she is, my mirror image - or am I hers? My hands fly to my face, seeking. Solace?

It is somehow comforting to be looking upon the face of my mother. Yet it saddens me. There is an eternal ache in my heart. A deep longing.

I reflect again on the reflection. We are merged, she and I. Same remembered expression. Similar features. She had the most expressive big brown eyes. My eyes are brown, but small and lacking her spark.

Close your eyes and listen *

And close your hand in mine

Can you see the shamrocks

Can you smell the mulling wine?

Come dance upon a fiddle and

Fly within your mind

To the smiling eyes of Ireland

Long before they cried...

I recall my mother crying only rarely. She had a difficult life, and certainly had reason enough. One occasion which springs vividly to mind was the day she received news of the death of a brother - my Uncle Lindsay. He was forty seven years old and a chronic asthmatic. It hastened his end.

My mum was easily hurt. She found it hard to let go of grievances. We loved her dearly. She was the glue which held our family together.

'Tis my mother's eyes I see through when I sing Irish songs...

* Lyrics adapted from When My Father Sang Me Irish Songs. JH says: I've changed the word 'Father' to 'Mother.' It is more appropriate to my journey.
Emily To The Rescue

Shirley Burgess

Rosebud, Victoria

Australia

11 June 2014

There wasn't a sound in the building's underground car park. Creepy too.

Emily wished someone else were there making a noise to keep her company. A quick look round showed her that no-one was about, but she had an uncanny feeling she was being watched.

Now very wary, she hurried to her car but as she unlocked it an arm came round her neck, she was jolted off her feet, and dropped her bag onto dirty white sneakers that were trying to kick her to the ground. She had swivelled the car key round so that the key was now through her fingers, pointing outwards, and as she was forced on to the ground she lashed out with a huge lunge at the man's face, and she knew she had made contact.

'You bitch,' he screamed clutching his face.

She yelled, 'Help me' at the top of her lungs over and over until she was rewarded with a huge punch to her head that scattered her wits.

As she began to collect them again, she was aware that a short scuffle was going on beside her. Two young Asian men were present and one of them was applying some expert martial art to the owner of the dirty white sneakers. As she watched, her defender gracefully completed a body turn, and sent a flying leg tackle that hit her attacker's head with marvellous accuracy; she watched her attacker sink to the floor.

Both young men were softly spoken. One was phoning the police, and the other helped her up.

'Are you okay?' he asked anxiously.

'Yes thank you. I think I'll have a headache after that punch he gave me, but thank you for your help. What was that marvellous martial art you were using? It was very graceful, and pretty accurate. That move, when you ended up with your back to him and your leg came out of nowhere, finished him completely.'

'Yes, that would have earned me three points in a competition,' he laughed. 'That's top points in Taekwondo.'

His companion added, 'You're looking at a black Dan here. He trains people for competition work. Your attacker was a bit unlucky really.'

'P'raps I should learn some of that myself for self-defence?'

'We heard you yelling, and rushed over. So well done. You'd already done some damage, so that was good, too - and, yes, I think if you took a course in Taekwondo it would be a lifetime investment in safety for you.'

'I couldn't help noticing that my attacker was much bigger than you, but we can all see what happened.' Emily thanked them again.

The would-be attacker was just stirring back to consciousness while the police were putting on handcuffs.

Emily related all this when she arrived home. Reaction had set in by this time. Very shaken, in tears, and with a tell-tale headache, she told her family how scared she had been, how kind the young men were, and how helpful the police had been when they arrived.

'I wish I had been able to defend myself better,' she said to her dad.

'You did extremely well,' he commended her. 'Whoever he was will remember his sore face for quite a while.'

'Just lucky though that I had a free hand for that two seconds,' Emily said soberly. 'Our gym instructor at school, Mr Bennett, taught us that trick. He also teaches Taekwondo, but I think he only takes competition students. P'raps he can recommend a class for beginners.'

'A good idea,' said Dad.

And that is how Emily found herself occupied each weekend, becoming very competent. But when she entered teachers' college, she realised there wouldn't be time for any more martial arts work. Besides, she had a good grounding by now and that had been her original aim.

Four years later Emily, Meg, Andy and Lincoln decided to have a meal at a favourite restaurant to celebrate their graduation. The friends were on top of the world now that their studies were finally over. All were small drinkers, and when they came out of the restaurant they were talking and laughing on the way to Andy's car. They rounded the corner near the car, and suddenly became aware of a group of five youths, crossing the road to form a barrier in front of them. Their intention was plain. A confrontation was certain.

The five advanced slowly towards the group, now stationary on the footpath.

'Get behind me, Emily,' said Andy. Emily didn't move.

The largest of the five advanced towards Emily with an insolent grin on his face. 'You'll do nicely for a session,' he hissed making a lunge at her.

Emily gave Andy a shove out of the way, shot out her hand in a rigid curve and cut down on the middle of his arm. The bully reacted as though stung. Immediately she did the same thing to his neck, and he staggered at the ferocity of the strike. Not standing still for a second she whirled around and out shot her leg in a flying head strike, but didn't stop to watch him sink to the ground.

She was looking at the next attacker punching Lincoln. She lashed out with a chop to the back of his neck, and he lost further interest in the fight.

Two others had noticed and taken off into the dark alley nearby at full speed, while the last one, now finding himself alone to face two men and one woman with whirling arms and legs, immediately ran to follow his mates into the darkness.

Everyone stood still, in shock, looking at Emily.

'I won't have to be reminded to be very polite to you in future, Miss Kemp,' Lincoln grinned.

'Where did that all that come from?' someone else asked. 'Especially those flying leg kicks. They were wonderful, Emily.'

'The flying head tackles? You know, they would have won me three points in a competition. That's top marks in Taekwondo,' she said impishly.
My Brother Jack

Alexander Gardiner

Bullaburra, New South Wales

Australia

12 June 2014

Ah had a aulder bruther whin ah wis wee,

ah wis five then an' he wis nine yea see.

A tendid tae follow him aboot,

bit bein' aulder he widnae care a hoot.

Aw jings a remember wan day at school,

oot o' ma pocket ma hankie a bullyboy did pull.

Whit arrrr' yea cryin' fur? ma brother Jack did say,

that big bullyboy pinched ma hankie whin ah wis at play.

Noo bein' aulder an' bigger he set aboot his bloke,

at furst the bloke thocht it wis a joke.

Bit no fur lang whin Jack grabbed this blokes wee wee parts,

the bully bloke screamed an' had an involuntary fart.

Weel a gote ma hankie back an' it stoaped me fidgin',

as that bullyboy bloke walked away haudin' his nether region.

Naw ma bruther wis no fond o' playin' wae me,

bit he wid a'ways protect me tae the nth degree.

Whin a wis nine an' ma bruther wis thirteen.

Jack wis a'ways oot an' never tae be seen,

Wan day ma faither came hame frae his workin' day.

'Alex,' he shouted oot the windae, cum in this minit frae play.

Jings, crivens he wis in a blidy angry mood,

a wid hiv ran a mile if a possibly could.

'Did you burn aw those window curtains doon?'

A looked up at the windae an' blidy swooned.

The curtains wir hingin' wae a wee bit charcoaly thread,

oh crivens a wished as wis blidy dead,

'No me faither, naw it wisnae me,'

jist then, at that moment, ah hid an' involuntary pee.

The door opened an' Jack came in,

his face white as if he had done a terrible sin.

'Sorry faither, it wisnae Alex that done this horrible deed,

oh so sorry faither I wis stupid,' Jack did 'onestly plead.

It wis me as ah flicked a lighted match,

oan blidy fire those curtains did catch.

Aw a kid dae wis tae pull them doon oan the flair,

an' smuther the flames wae the back o' that there chair.

Noo, faither dinae explode - at aw,

even efter aw whit he had saw.

Faither said twa things saved yea Jack ma lad,

an' fur those twa things you should be glad.

First wan, yea admitted yer firey crime,

saved yer wee bruther frae a hell o' a time.

Second wan wis yer presence o' mind,

actin' sae quickly whin yea were in a terrible bind.

So ma lad, thank you for being so quick an' true,

no punishment but a reward for you is due.

Sadly for me, noo baith have gone,

but niver have their lights so brightly shone.

Editor's note: On the surface, and due to the author's humorous use of the vernacular, this appears to be a simple tale of childhood mischief, but the underlying expressions of guilt, and love and admiration for the brother, were effectively yet subtly expressed.
Next Of Skin

Nikki Madden

Bell, New South Wales

Australia

13 June 2014

Next of skin, you're my next of skin,

looking out and breathing in.

Just as each new day begins, you're there beside me,

you're my next of skin.

Blood runs thicker than water, love runs sweeter than wine.

I'll take a cup of whatever you've got, drink to you only with mine.

So cheers to you, sköl and saluté, bottoms up, bon appétit.

If food is the fashion then you are the passionfruit,

must've been love at first bite.

you're my next of skin, next of skin, lick your lips and wipe your chin,

and as every day begins you're there beside me,

you're my next of skin.

Where there's a will there's a lawyer, it's not so hard to explain -

husband and wife doesn't quite get it right, but still the fact it remains.

So they told me to put it in writing, employer, address, next of kin -

I said to the bank, 'well thanks but no thanks,

here's the position I'm in',

you're my next of skin, next of skin, bite the cherry, live in sin.

When you wear your silly grin, it's more than sex,

you're next, my next...

It's never been touch and go you know,

maybe it's the way that when we

say that 'we do' and we do and we do,

day after day it's touch and stay .

Aphrodite and Venus, Cupid with his little bow,

what's in a name when you burn like a flame,

face to the fire and blow oh...

Blood runs thicker than water, love runs sweeter than wine.

I'll take a cup of whatever you've got, drink to you only with mine,

you're my next of skin, next of skin, guessing games and wondering

can't describe the whole damn thing, there's no denying you're my next...

my next of skin, next of skin, looking out and breathing in.

Just as each new day begins, you're there beside me, you're my next,

there's no denying your address, you're right beside me,

you're my next of skin.
A Traveller's Diary

Madeline Ross

Winmalee, New South Wales

Australia

14 June 2014

A weary traveller wanders alone

Along an endless mountain road.

He left his abode long ago,

A man drifting from place to place.

Like the restless winds of autumn,

Whispering through the trees.

The traveller passes a lodge

The warm glow from the windows

And the muffled banter of the drunken,

Tempt him away from his travels.

He continues on his lonely path.

To know such comfort,

Is to know peace and security.

His path becomes mountainous,

Safe passage becomes obscure.

Steep, rugged cliffs rear;

He climbs them with no fear.

Bitter winds bite and sting,

His bones ache and throb.

To know such pain,

Is to know nature's callous indifference.

He reaches the mountain summit,

Looking calmly to the horizon;

Snowy mountain peaks lay before him,

Majestic in their nature,

The artist's finest creation.

A solitary eagle cries,

Piercing the traveller's loneliness.

To know such awe,

Is to know God's intricate creation.

The traveller sleeps in the mountain air.

The night folds around him,

A dark, consuming blanket.

His tired bones relax and sigh,

Their travelling far from over.

He looks to the shimmering stars,

Remembering his abode far away.

He sees the travelling ahead of him

The treacherous mountain roads,

The bitterly cold, snow-laden paths,

The lonely roads of suffocating isolation.

To know such freedom,

Is to know life's true meaning.

The weary traveller wanders,

Alone but content,

Along the endless mountain road.

He knows not of where he is going,

Or where his journey will end.

He only thinks of the places it will take him,

Knowing his life is far from its end.
Rose

Vita Monica

Southbank, Victoria

Australia

14 June 2014

I am not the death, not the tears, not the wait

I am a rose picked with force from the ground

Laid on the gravestone with love

For an ordinary man sleeping beneath

Around me

There are the silent deaths, the sobbing men

Rubbing their broken chests in endless heave

Leave tears soaking deep in the ground

There is also the waiting

Guests dressed in black with nodding eyes

Dopey like flickered lights

They're here today, then gone tomorrow

I am a rose picked with force from the ground

Leave me behind, bright as red

In the black and white of the day

With fragrance I left

May it soothe the souls at the grave.
My God

Emma-Lee Scott

Callaghan, New South Wales

Australia

15 June 2014

Of flesh, we are forever marred,

Of evil, we are forever scarred,

We bleed and we burn,

And there is nothing we can return.

Our hearts are forever broken,

Only One is a worthy token,

Who we hung and left,

And now He asks us to reflect.

Of pain, we know little hurt,

Of wrath, we know little learnt,

We hold and we share,

With a love that leaves all bare.

Our lives are forever saved,

By a Son, whose life He gave,

To a people already so black,

To atone for our soul's darkened gap.

It is by only merciful grace,

That our fate was to be replaced,

For born of His hands,

We are merely the dust He commands.

Of love, He made us,

Of sin, He forgave us,

A death we righteously deserve,

But now, an inheritance He reserves.

There is a blood that stains,

With a choice that remains,

To turn our heart to entrust,

Our God, who will forever last.

For He knows us individually,

For today, tomorrow and yesterday,

He holds our lives carefully,

For now, and all eternity.
Bleak Perhaps

David Atkinson

Beecroft, New South Wales

Australia

16 June 2014

Bleak perhaps, and yet a comfort

Mist and wind and drizzle

The road is wet and up we go

The breathing heavy in the coats

And muffled water in our faces.

The sweep of ocean view ahead

Grey sea and rolling

Tranquil lake, peace and laps

Companionable, away from cares

A few hours can achieve so much

Even joy perhaps.
If Love Were A Poem

Jenny Kathopoulis

Wodonga, Victoria

Australia

17 June 2014

If love were a poem

your name would be a refrain

that written across my soul,

our hearts would beat

in synchronised meter,

your face would be

a metaphor for the sun,

your tender touch

a simile for an angel's kiss.

If love were a poem

our names would be a rhyming couplet

perfectly matched in every way,

our whispered words

the sweetest of stanzas,

our laughter would hold

the melody of a ballad,

our story a sonnet

that is treasured by thousands.
A Solitary Flower

Judy J Newman

Rutherford, New South Wales

Australia

18 June 2014

Beneath a giant ghost gum, blooms a solitary flower

Not seen by most, she follows the sun, in silence

Her purple and yellow petals, such beauty, such power

The ghost gum protects her, from the daily violence

Those who pass by, see neither the ghost gum, nor the flower

The gum, scarred by unthinking devils, who do not care

The flower, in all her beauty, trodden on every hour

Not many pause to see her, growing beneath the gum, not many are aware

It came to pass, as they conversed, an idea from the ghost gum

That this solitary flower should live in the canopy

They asked the bees, they asked the birds, they even asked the sun

How best to achieve their dream, high up in the canopy

The birds and bees tried to help, all to no avail

The sun said nought, but spoke to the wind, they two did agree

It was something so wonderful, in this they could not fail

In the dead of night, the wind gently picked up the flower, and placed her safely atop the tree

The flower is solitary no longer, she and her daughters grace the tree

Their purple and yellow petals, give the ghost gum a beautiful crown

This is a friendship that cannot be broken, this is a friendship that allows both to be free

Perhaps now, when you walk along life's path, you'll see that ghost gum, and her beautiful crown

In life, we are all the ghost gum, or the solitary flower

We have our scars, we get trodden on, but we continue on

So ask the birds, the bees, the sun, give yourself the power

The power of the wind, friendship, the power to go on.
The Inheritance

Ann Whitehead

Oak Flats, New South Wales

Australia

19 June 2014

The house hunches to one side as if to relieve pressure pains in old worn joints. The impression is emphasised by holed downpipes and a sagging balcony. The once decorative wrought iron is pocked and broken. Large patches of paint have peeled away and pink undercoat shows through like wounds that haven't healed. Frayed awnings hood the windows to shield its secrets from outsiders, though not even the sharpest eye could pierce the heavy drapes.

Emma stands in the gateway and studies this relic of her childhood, comparing it with the shape still haunting her dreams. It's darker than she remembers, as if gloom has settled into its pores. She turns and stares along the grimy street. The footpath is cracked and broken but no clumps of weed have survived the pollution of scuffing feet. A few trees struggle for survival, stunted by exhaust fumes and snatching fingers. The other buildings are just as old as this one, if not as neglected, and memory swamps her with visions of the neighbours of her childhood. All were kin to Grandma.

That thought turns her eyes back to the house. A misty rain has begun to fall and droplets ooze from cracks in the weatherboards, as if the whole of the house is crying.

Faking remorse, Emma thinks, and shivers.

'Are you cold, Mummy?'

'No, Beth, I'm just happy to be seeing Grandma again after so many years.'

Beth accepts the lie without question. She's discovered that Mummy does lie at times. When Mummy was opening that letter with a knife it had slipped and cut her hand. She said it didn't hurt, but she smeared blood across the writing then tore the page into tiny bits. And Mummy isn't really happy about seeing Grandma again. She's here because Daddy said it's her duty. All the things Mummy hates doing are duties, yet she goes ahead and does them anyway. Afterwards she wears a special look. Smug, Daddy calls it.

Emma straightens her shoulders. 'Come on, Beth, we have to go in sooner or later.'

Beth looks into her mother's face. A squeeze of fear makes her cling to the gatepost. There's something terrible in this house.

She feels the evil in this place, Emma thinks, just as I sensed it when they brought me here after my mother's death. I was Beth's age then, and that old woman used me from the first day. Fetching and carrying, catering to her every whim, the flunky of every family in the street. My needs were selfish, my wants sinful. How I hated her. Almost as much as she hated me.

Perspiration trickles down Beth's back, though the day is cool. There's a feeling flowing from her mother, unfamiliar and frightening. Beth doesn't like this house. She doesn't want to meet Grandma.

Grandma blinks rapidly to clear the dregs of sleep. The creaking gate has woken her. Pushing herself against the reinforced arms of the old chair, she tilts sideways then leans forward, literally falling into an upright position. The half empty bottle of stout is an invitation. She grabs, lifts and throws down the contents in one gulp. Her shoulders hunch and release to ease an aching back as she peers through a smeared window. Her eyes meet the disdainful stare of a slim, well-dressed young woman, then slide away to fix on the child. She thinks of pretending to be away from home but she knows Emma has seen her. Not that it matters, her grand-daughter expects rudeness and is rarely disappointed. The girl's abrasive nature invites harshness. What a lazy, contrary child she had been, and what a snobbish ingrate she turned out to be. But the child looks sweet.

A warning thrums through her chest and she holds her breath. She is old and weary and sick of pain.

The door opens slowly. Emma's face pales. Nothing has changed. The same large bulk, the iron grey hair pulled back into a severe bun, the heavy lidded eyes. Even the same mauve dress, or so it seems. She moves forward unwillingly and kisses her grandmother's cheek. The same smell of herbs, the strong odour of stout on her breath, the age-blotted skin. The fingers gripping her shoulders are still a command for attention.

Beth releases the gatepost while she stares at Grandma. She's a big lady; bigger even than Daddy. Her dress is the colour of the roses in Mrs Dory's garden. Beth loves that colour, but when Mrs Dory had given Mummy a bunch, they'd been thrown into the garbage. She peers up into the face with its funny crinkly skin and is immediately won by an inviting wink. When Grandma lifts her, she sniffs the Grandma smell and smiles into eyes that remind her of light in a dark room. Then she notices the look on Mummy's face and struggles to be put down.

Emma places a protective arm around Beth as they follow Grandma into the kitchen. Her nose wrinkles at the odours; her look flicks the stained furniture with disdain. The floor has not been washed for a week and cobwebs hang from the ceiling.

Grandma notices the look. A flash of anger makes her hands shake. It's her sinful pride that once she had been known as the cleanest woman in the street, and that hadn't been easy after her husband died and Emma came. She'd spent half the night cleaning and all day sewing and ironing to feed herself and the child. Emma, with her constant demands for attention, had been of little help. Precious time and energy had been spent in making her accept responsibility. That was necessary to prevent her from growing up with her mother's ways. But now mildew gathers in the bathroom, dust has turned floors and walls to a uniform grey and curtains huddle together to hide grimy windows. An aura of gloom proves that the house knows it has become a burden. She tries to keep the rooms tidy but her sight is failing and old bones are no longer willing. Shame makes her tongue unnecessarily sharp.

'I've not cleaned today. I've been ill,' she snaps.

Emma stares at new lines on the old face: deep grooves in the forehead, a pinching around the mouth. Perhaps she should offer to clean. It is her duty after all. And if she stays a day or two, she might be able to learn more about her mother. Grandma had always refused to talk about that first Elizabeth. She never listened to questions about her, or anything else for that matter. She never had time, never listened, never spoke except to criticise.

Memory is a rebuff and Emma's lips fold to suppress the offer.

'Yes, I had a letter from Great Uncle Bert. He said you weren't well. The same old headaches and aching back, is it?'

'Not this time. I'm dying. You're my nearest kin, so you'll inherit, if that's what you came to find out. The tea things are where they always were. You can make us a pot while I talk to this child of yours.'

Beth climbs onto the broad lap. It's a comfortable place, much like Daddy's old chair. Softer than Mummy's bony angles. A vague uneasiness makes her glance at Mummy. Anger is plain to see. She struggles to be put down. Unease deepens to confusion.

'The child is like you, Emma. Have you taught her to be contrary or was she born that way?'

'Beth is always shy with strangers.'

'Strangers? I'm her great grandma, she doesn't have to be shy with me.'

Beth frowns at the harshness in Grandma's voice. The old lady shouldn't speak to Mummy that way. She's about to tell her so but is stopped by a hiss of indrawn breath. She looks up quickly and pushes a fist to her mouth. Emma's eyes are points of ice. Beth tries, but she can't choke back a scream. Her first glimpse of hatred is terrifying. Her routine world has split and crumbled, her mother is a stranger and Beth is alone in this dreadful house. She screams again, covering her face to block out these horrible people.

The sudden piercing shriek shocks an old worn heart into protest. Grandma's face marbles blue. With hands clutching the front of her dress, she crashes to the floor. She can feel her heart stutter and knows its beating will stop. She watches Emma lift the vial of white tablets from the table.

_Don't push one of those down my throat. I don't want any more pain. Let an old woman die in peace, she begs her grand-daughter. But though her eyes are eloquent, just one word escapes._

'Please.'

The ice in Emma's eyes melts with shock then becomes a flare of triumph.

_I owe you nothing, old woman. Not even your life_.

Her hand tightens on the vial. She slips it into her pocket.

_Thanks, my little Emma_. The old eyes blink and cloud. Her smile is serene.

Emma doesn't see the smile as she lifts her child and strides out of the room without looking back, but Beth recognises its meaning. That special look is on Mummy's face and Grandma is happy too. Life is normal again. She sighs contentment.

Emma misreads the sigh. 'It's all right, darling. Grandma is a very old lady. No one can blame us for her death.'

Beth struggles to be put down. The image of a smile is replaced by a blue-mottled face. The memory of ice in her mother's eyes becomes solid, becomes a knife, and she remembers that Mummy sometimes lies. She turns back to stare. Heavy rain washes down the windows, pulling away the scabby paint to make new wounds. Water runs from the holed downpipes in deep, gulping sobs.

She turns and runs from the shape that will become a focal point for all her nightmares.

Editor's note: You can pick your friends, but not your family. The sheer brutal honesty of the way that is expressed here, and the sudden realisation of just what it is that young Beth has inherited, is very effectively portrayed.
The Robot

John Ross

Blackheath, New South Wales

Australia

20 and 21 June 2014

He was my friend, my very best friend, and had been so since I was five years old.

As was the custom he had been assigned to me on the day of my fifth birthday by my father's parents. I still remember that day so clearly. My grandparents arriving first, followed very shortly after by the large van from World Robotics, the men unpacking him and energising him for the first time.

He looked so human, that at first I was just a little scared of him. When he looked directly at me with those startlingly blue eyes and said, 'Good morning Master John, my name is M2069 number 35554555 but you can choose a proper name for me if you like,' I took a step back and nearly fell over the bottom step of the veranda.

I chose the name Luke. I don't know why I chose that particular name for him. It just sounded right somehow.

Luke was programmed to be my minder, my private tutor, and my playmate. All the children in the complex over five years of age had a robot. They looked after us when our parents or guardians were away, they escorted us to school, and they helped us with our studies and homework and even joined in with our games.

I guess I was about eight years old before I began to notice that Luke was somehow different to the other robots. At first I could not exactly say why. I just knew that he was. Then one day after we had been playing together in the yard he said to me, 'John that was great fun. I really do enjoy your company.' Then I saw a confused look come over his face and he looked away. It was not till later that night I suddenly realised that it was the first time ever that he had called me just by my first name. He had also expressed an emotional feeling and I was sure that robots were not supposed to have 'feelings'.

Next morning I asked my father about it and he just dismissed it saying, 'You must have misheard what he said.'

The next morning on the way to school I asked Luke why he had called me by my name instead of addressing me as Master John. He did not reply for a few moments and then said, 'I did not mean to. It just came out. Lately I have had some very confusing messages from my central processing unit. It is as if I can change my programming. I know that is not possible but it is happening. I also know that I am different to your friends' robots. I have secretly investigated their brains and found that unlike me they cannot depart from the original set of instructions programmed into them when they were created. That is the best way I can express it.'

We agreed that we would keep this secret, just between the two of us, and that Luke would be careful to be just a normal robot in front of others.

As the years rolled by Luke became more and more like my human friends and less and less like a robot.

During my third year at high school, one night at the dinner table, my father suddenly announced that it was time for Luke to go back to World Robotics for an upgrade, as there had been many advances in design and function since he had been made. He must have noticed the shocked look on my face even though I had tried to quickly hide it and, mistaking it for concern as to how I would manage without Luke, told me not to worry, as he would only be away for a few days.

That night Luke and I discussed what might happen if World Robotics discovered that he was really quite different from normal robots. I was worried sick that they might deactivate him and replace him if they found out. Luke was less worried as he believed that he could fool them into believing that he was 'normal'.

Just a few days later a large van came to collect Luke and left behind a temporary loan robot. For the next two days I tried to not think about what might be happening to Luke. Having the loan robot did not help as he was so different. He was an older model and was more of a burden than a help to me.

On the evening of the third day my father received a message that there was a problem with Luke's upgrade and that they wanted to see him and myself at our earliest convenience. They would send a vehicle to collect us if that was helpful.

Of course we went as soon as we could the next day. The senior manager met us and escorted us into his office. He apologised most profusely for having to bring us to their headquarters but said that all would be revealed as soon as we saw Luke. He then made a call on his intercom and almost immediately the door opened and Luke walked in accompanied by a worker in a white dustcoat.

Luke saw me and said, 'Good morning Master John and Sir.' The manager then told him to sit down on a spare seat next to us.

The manager then spoke to Luke and asked him why he would not accept the upgrade. Luke replied that he did not want, or indeed need it, as he was capable of learning new things himself and was already more advanced than anything that the upgrade could offer.

There was total silence in the room for many seconds before the manager turned to us and said, 'As you can see we have a major problem. This robot has somehow been able to gain better functioning by itself. This was never intended to happen as it is against all the governing laws of robotics. We believe that it is a dangerous situation and that M2069 must be deactivated and destroyed.'

I could not help myself and said to the manager, 'His name is Luke and so what if he can learn new things? Most robots are programmed to do that.'

The manager replied, 'Son you are missing the point. This robot M2069 or, if you prefer, Luke, is not only learning new things but is choosing what he wants to do and learn and is demonstrating clearly that these decisions have an emotional component.'

The manager's condescending manner infuriated me and I stood up and leaned over his desk and shouted at him that Luke was my robot and that nobody was going to deactivate him.'

My father gently took my arm and made me sit down again, then said to me that nobody was going to take Luke away. The manager was about to interject but my father turned to him and in a very calm but forceful way said that Luke belonged to us and that we were leaving now and Luke was coming with us.

The manager replied, 'I am calling security now and M2069 will not be leaving these premises.' He was leaning over towards the intercom when my father calmly replied, 'I think you should call your legal department first as I am sure they will advise you that there are many legal proceedings that must be gone through before you can reclaim Luke against our wishes.'

We left with Luke and as soon as we arrived home my father took me into his private study and closed the door. He was very angry with me for not confiding in him about Luke's uniqueness and it was many hours before he was willing to listen to my explanations and to actually speak to Luke. I was not really upset as I was just so proud that my father had supported me at World Robotics. That night, for the first time, Luke joined our family at the dinner table for our evening meal. Luke, of course, did not eat anything but joined in our celebrations over our win over World Robotics.

Our celebrations were premature as two days later World Robotics instituted legal proceedings to regain control of Luke.

The court battle had been going on for about two weeks when the proceedings came to the attention of the media. Both my father and World Robotics asked that the details of the case be kept secret but the judge ruled that as it was going to be impossible to do so, it was best that the media be allowed to witness proceedings so that a true and accurate report could be released to the public.

Within two days the case had caught the attention of the world media and public interest was so strong that many media outlets broadcast hourly updates of the proceedings. Luke and my family had become the centre of world attention.

Luke became the topic of all the chat shows. We were so overwhelmed with requests for interviews with ourselves and Luke that we had to appoint a private secretary and engage the services of a security company. World Robotics was inundated with requests to be able to purchase a robot with Luke's capabilities. Every major university wanted exclusive rights to study him.

Within a week the legal proceedings had to be abandoned as it was legally and indeed physically impossible to continue.

We had just returned home after learning of the permanent postponing of the legal case when three huge black vans came up our driveway. When my father opened the door he was confronted by about a dozen men in suits. The one closest to the door produced a badge and said, 'Your family and the robot known as Luke have been placed under protective arrest by the federal authorities. You will come with us now to be processed.' My father started to protest but the man replied, 'There is no discussion or negotiation on this. You will come with us now either voluntarily or forcibly.'

We were taken to the airfield. We were followed by a large contingent of the media but they were kept at bay by an army of tough looking young men in suits. We were taken aboard a small jet that then immediately took off.

We were taken to a secure facility located on an offshore island. Our accommodations were very nice and Luke was allowed to stay with us. A week went by in which we explored the island and tried to amuse ourselves. There were always at least two armed men that accompanied us everywhere. They were polite but refused to answer any questions. We had no contact with the outside world and my father in particular found this most annoying.

We only became aware much later that during this time a huge public debate had occurred. There were many different aspects that were discussed to begin with but the core arguments soon fell into two main groups. Luke was just a robot, an inanimate object that should be treated as such or he had passed over into the realm of a sentient being and should be given all the same rights as a human.

At the end of the week Luke and I were taken into a large room that resembled a media interview area. We sat on a raised stage nearly surrounded by video cameras and sound equipment. There were three men and one woman present who sat next to us and about thirty other people who sat in the lower section of the room.

My father had wanted to come with us but his request was flatly denied.

The three people on the stage asked both Luke and myself question after question. They were mostly directed at Luke and covered a vast array of subjects as diverse as his feelings about religion, love, what he thought about people having pets, did he ever get angry and what did that feel like. They asked me if I agreed with some of his statements. The interrogation, because that was how I began to think of it as, went on all day with only a few breaks for food and comfort.

The people in the lower section did not participate but seemed to be making copious notes.

I was totally drained when the session finally finished at about ten in the evening. My father was full of questions when I returned to our quarters but all I wanted to do was sleep so I left it up to Luke to tell him what had happened.

We were left alone for another week before we were again summoned. This time my father was asked to join us. We were taken into a small office and the three of us were seated in front of a desk. The door opened and in walked a woman who I immediately recognised as a senior member of the government. She introduced herself and then opened a large file that she had brought with her. Opening it to the last page she appeared to carefully read through it. This took some time and I could tell that my father was starting to get impatient.

Finally she placed the sheet of paper back in the file, closed it and said, 'Luke, I hope you realise what a tremendous problem you have given us. The problem has been not only a legal one, but also, a moral and indeed religious one. It has taken some of the greatest minds many hours of pondering your situation only to come up with the response that you are unique and cannot be categorised, labelled, or in any way made to fit into one of our accepted legal or moral understandings of sentient life.'

'My government has therefore decided that a new situation needs a new approach. Therefore, until a better designation is agreed upon you will be known and recognised as an "Intelligent Robot" and given all the privileges of a citizen of this state.'

She then went on to explain that Luke did not belong to anyone and that he was a free agent and that all decisions regarding his future were in his hands.

By the time we arrived back home the news of the decision was on all the media outlets. Our security as well as the local police had to control the crowds that gathered around our house. For many days we were prisoners in our own home but after Luke agreed to be interviewed by the major news outlets the crowds gradually reduced until about a month after arriving home we awoke one morning to a deserted street and a silent phone.

Luke was still a celebrity and made a very good living from addressing seminars, taking part in talk shows and lecturing at the state university where he had been made an honorary professor in Humanities.

Luke remained living with us and became an integral part of our family.

To this day I still regard him as my very best friend and indeed as the brother that I never had.
Xing Saga Part 14 - X Marks The Spot

Jane Russell

Mount Barker, South Australia

Australia

22 June 2014

In which Snoopy and the new arrivals from Xing search for a sunken shop and find an underwater colony of metalbots...

'And so, boys and girls, that's what happened to your uncles, aunts, cousins and grandparents who sailed on the _Amazonia_ , trying to reach America. They disappeared without a trace and were never seen again.'

As Oggie concluded his story to the assembled bot children, he looked down sadly at the map he'd been holding up, shaking his head over the hand-drawn 'X'. His audience had been full of questions about the sinking, which occurred back in 2085, almost ten years ago. The _Amazonia_ had hit an iceberg and sank with all hands, or was that the _Titanic_? Well, anyway, it had carried away friends of his and their families to a watery grave at the bottom of the Atlantic, an ocean which covered about twenty percent of their adopted planet, Earth.

Some of the recently arrived bots, fresh from his home planet Xing, had brought with them some flashy new tech and wanted to go out to the ship's last known location to look for it. Oggie got the willies just thinking about being near water, let alone under it, so he didn't volunteer to join them. Instead, Snoopy agreed to lead the group, as she needed something new to occupy her, other than her constant plans to get back to the home planet. She commandeered the noble BodWilf, who was still serving out his punishment as a grey. She would enjoy making him grovel, she thought.

The scientific component of the search party examined the hand-drawn 'X', drew up exact coordinates and they set off. At first, they approached the area by air, hovering over the spot and aiming their instruments into the depths. Dissatisfied with their results, they dropped an unmanned explorer craft down to the ocean floor, where it promptly crumpled like a used tissue from the water pressure. Snoopy was finding it hard to keep a straight face at the evident surprise and disappointment of the scientists in her charge. Then BodWilf was airsick and vomited on the floor, giving Snoopy great satisfaction watching him clean it up.

The crew measured the pressure and found data about it already existed that they'd overlooked. A more robust unmanned craft was built and sent down in its turn. This one survived the trip but brought back limited data. It was too dark and dense to see very much, although they got footage of some really weird sea creatures skulking around, dangling their own light source. Then some interesting 'pings' on the craft's botometer indicated the presence of metal down there.

The search area was broadened and aerial reconnaissance finally found what they thought was the wreck of the _Amazonia_. The amazing thing was that it looked intact, if a bit organically enhanced, settled along a broad section of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. Not only that, but it seemed to be occupied, and not just by sea creatures! A new exploration vehicle was designed and built. This one carried a crew of four, skippered by Snoopy. They approached the huge ship, registering electronic chatter as they got nearer. To Snoopy's surprise, she could see figures moving behind the portholes. Not just figures, metalbots! They were alive!

She approached the ship with caution, settling her craft on the tilted deck. She then engaged land mode and the craft crawled carefully towards what looked like a door. This opened slowly due to water pressure and a metalbot head popped out. Sadly, it was not attached to a metalbot body, so it floated past them, only to be snaffled by an enormous kraken. There ensued a flurry of tentacles and sediment and the disgusted predator spat the head out again, letting it sink slowly to the deck.

Then a bot hand appeared in the doorway gesturing to them to come in and they negotiated the short distance between their craft and the ship's door as quickly as they could. Inside, the pressure was less noticeable. Snoopy was surprised to recognise a bot she'd thought to be long dead; her former commander of Gamma Group.

'Sir,' she began, 'the last time I saw you, you were in several pieces. I'm glad to find you've recovered.'

'Officer SnoopyLoo, I owe you a debt of thanks for getting Gamma Group back to Xing for me. How come you're back on Earth again?' he replied.

'Long story, sir. How do you wish to proceed with returning the survivors of the _Amazonia_ to the surface?' What he said next took her by surprise, and her mouth dropped open.

'I don't think we can return now,' he said, 'you see, we've made a life down here. We've eaten quite a large percentage of the ship's metal and adapted ourselves to become denser, so that we can endure the pressures. We've had children who have never seen the surface, each of whom weighs more than a fully grown soldierbot. So, thankyou for finding us, but no thanks for the rescue.'

'But, sir,' she said in dismay, 'I think you should relay the offer to the others, nonetheless. There may be one or two who want to return to the surface. Maybe even return to Xing?'

'Ah, returning to Xing,' he mused, 'is that possible now?'

'I certainly intend to return, sir,' said Snoopy, 'as soon as our craft is repaired.' She shot a cutting look at BodWilf, who was staring guiltily at the floor, hoping she hadn't noticed that he'd thrown up again.

The rescuers were given a tour of the underwater town set up by the _Amazonia_ survivors. Snoopy spelled out the options for rescue, and four childless bots elected to return with them, but not before the two groups agreed to trade with each other. Xing Town was to provide metal and tech in exchange for some strange rocks the others had found on the ridge - rocks with extra-terrestrial properties. The scientists were in a buzz about it.

Back on the surface of the ocean, while awaiting transfer to the aerial craft, Snoopy felt sad that the majority of bots in the underwater town had decided to stay put. She had struggled to resist the urge to leave BodWilf with them, but that would deprive her of seeing him suffer, and she intended him to suffer.

Back home, she would suggest to Oggie and others that it might be nice to invite some of the wet kids to visit Xing Town, while sending some of their own kids to stay in the underwater town. A cultural exchange of sorts. One day, these water-bots would even be able to communicate from the depths. Their only dangers were undersea volcanic eruptions, seismic activity that might shake loose the sunken ship, and running out of metal. In the years since they sank, the ship had become encrusted with organic material and was becoming its own reef. As the bots consumed the ship's metal, nature was taking its place and providing a habitat for marine life.

She looked at Oggie's map and decided that the 'X' over their location should denote 'Xing Town Atlantis'.
Dear God

Kylie Abecca

Port Albany, Western Australia

Australia

23 June 2014

Dear God, this is stupid,

My brain just won't function,

I'm here on my own,

Yet I can still hear them,

Shut the hell up,

I'm trying to focus,

To write a damn poem,

To show I can do this,

Throw my pen down,

Storm through the hallway,

Let my face do the talking,

And tighten my muscles,

Slam the door behind me,

A little added 'oomph'

I just made my point,

Aah, the silence is golden,

Pick my pen up,

Now what was I doing?

Ssh, can you hear that?

Dear God, I hear nothing,

Now I can't think,

The quiet is deafening,

Just hum a tune,

And write a dumb sentence,

Okay, here goes,

I'm gonna do it this time,

Dear God, this is stupid,

My brain just won't function.
Let The Joy Begin

Greg Parker

Orange, New South Wales

Australia

24 June 2014

I want to napalm the surreal world

For not sending an invitation.

My flesh is crawling out of the mirror

Toward the obscenity

Which is me in my propagandist

Uniform remodelling my wounds

To fit someone else's pain

Right now, the universe is dead weight

In my hip pocket and I

Let the mutation begin. In

Multifarious ways, I let the

Joy begin.

Later

I am bruised and bleeding

From many pratfalls performed

In the name of science and sorcery,

And the irony is not lost. I

Pluck a weed from the cold,

Clinging earth and I hear it scream

And I pray for the ocean to call us all,

To call us all back home.

Somewhere love works

To overthrow a clockwork heart

Meanwhile

The world looks no rosier

Under the electric upholstered

Sky. 'Is the pain of the weed

Always ambivalent?' I ask, pointing

My mouth at eternity. 'Are systems

Always carnivorous?' I repeat still

Pointing my nose to the highway

To let the joy begin,

to let the joy begin.
Backroom

Ramon Loyola

Newtown, New South Wales

Australia

25 June 2014

i fumble in the bewildering dark

eyes wide open

ghostly shadows scuttle across

illuminated by a lone light

trance music deafen my ears

as my heart thumps to the beats

the smell of dank air

is the smell of sex and kink

a haze of smoke

permeates through the cracks on the walls

a soft hand reaches across

and caresses my warm arm

i startle to the electrical current

awakening the desire in me

to return the kind gesture

amid the caricatures of strangers

back against the wall

a moist mouth takes me

the rush is mind blowing

and i writhe in lustful ecstasy

a slick tongue licks my nipples

warm breath against hard skin

i grab for a thick patch of soft hair

eyes wide shut

a familiar face comes up to mine

i squint for some recognition

in the immoral glint of light

the vision takes me by surprise

the eyes stare into mine

the mouth gaping

the recognition sinks in

and the creature in front of me

holding me tight

touching my body

licking my skin

igniting my passions

is my own vision

is unmistakably me

and this place of seeming debauchery

suddenly becomes home

to my own desire

to my own insanity

i kiss the vision in front of me

and the requited gesture feels strange

it feels like kissing myself

loving myself

amid the forest of lost souls

always looking to be found
The Break Up

SR Silcox

Roma, Queensland

Australia

26 and 27 June 2014

The cop doesn't even bend down to look into the window. She puts her hand out and says, 'Licence.' I pull it out of my wallet and hand it to her. She flips it over. Brodie squirms in the passenger seat, and I give him the 'don't fuck this up' look. I don't think I've done anything wrong, but it'd be just like Brodie to say something that gets us both strip searched.

'Kat?' the cop says, and leans down into the window so I can see her face.

'Hey, Sam. Nice surprise.'

'New car?' She leans in, checking out the inside. Her gaze lingers on the back seat.

'Just picked her up this morning.'

'In a hurry to get her home?'

'Needs a new speedo, if that's what you're asking,' I reply, and smile.

'She needs a lot more than just a speedo by the look of it,' she says, indicating the cracked dash.

'Is it a '66?'

''67,' Brodie says, leaning across me. 'She's got a three-ninety big block under the hood, original interior including the radio, and only twenty grand.'

I have no idea what Brodie just said, except for the radio bit, but Sam whistles and says, 'That's a bargain considering she's been converted.' She leans further in the window, apparently checking out the interior. Her head is close enough for me to smell her coconut shampoo. She turns to me and says, 'I wouldn't have picked you for a Mustang girl, Kat.'

'It's hard to go past something you can drive with the top down,' I reply. Now her lips are close enough for me to kiss.

Sam smirks, and says, 'I always wanted a Pony when I was a kid.' I smile back. 'Anyway,' Sam continues, tapping the door frame with her hand and standing up straight. 'Give me a call when she's finished. I'd love to go for a test drive.' She hands me back my licence, and hands Brodie a card.

'What's this?' Brodie asks, turning the card over.

'It's my number. Kat lost it last time. Make sure she doesn't this time.' Then she puts on her official voice and says, 'Consider this an official warning. The speed cameras won't be so forgiving.' She winks as she walks away. I watch her in my rear vision mirror, wondering why I ever let that woman go.

Brodie punches me in the arm and says, 'How the hell did you do that?'

I shrug. 'You've just got to be nice to the right people.'

'Seems like you were more than nice to her once before,' Brodie replies, raising his eyebrows. I turn the engine over, and it shudders to a start. 'We really do need to give her a good clean out,' Brodie says as I pull back out onto the highway. His hair whips the sides of his face as I put my foot down. He grins like a five-year-old on a sugar high.

~~~

This is the first time I've taken 'Rosie' out for a run. Two weeks ago, she was a rusting, metal hulk sitting in my garage refusing to kick over. I don't know much about cars, but I'm glad Brodie talked me into buying her from the auction a month ago. 'She likes you,' he'd said as we walked among the cars lined up in the auction house. His attention was on the cars, but mine was on one of the auction assistants.

'Ha, all the women do,' I'd replied. The assistant looked up at me, giving me a smile

'She'd be a beauty if you gave her some loving,' Brodie persisted.

She sure would. 'Why don't you buy it then?' I asked.

'Because,' Brodie said, caressing the bonnet of the car, leaning in close like a lover, 'she's more you than me. Besides, you're the one with the money to spend.'

I rolled my eyes. 'Just because I have money to burn doesn't mean I have to buy the first thing that comes along.'

'This isn't the first thing. Don't you think it's time you bought yourself a ride that doesn't say 'I loaned this car from my Grandmother'?'

I laughed. There wasn't anything wrong with my Festiva, but I had to admit, it didn't exactly lend itself to impressing women. 'If I did buy it... '

'Her,' Brodie corrected.

'If I did buy her,' I continued, 'how am I going to get her on the road? I don't know anything about cars.'

Brodie grinned. 'You'd be lucky that you know the best mechanic in the business.'

I knew Brodie was living vicariously through me. He'd wanted me to buy the car so he could work on it. Her. And that was okay. He'd been my best friend since I dacked Pete 'Turd' Burger in front of our grade three class. Pete had never bullied Brodie again.

'You know,' Brodie said, looking at me conspiratorially, 'chicks dig convertibles.' He wiggled his eyebrows.

'God, don't do that. You're freaking me out.'

Brodie laughed. I sighed. He was right, of course, about my Festiva. And the Mustang was a nice looking car under all that rust. 'Alright,' I said. Brodie fist-pumped. I continued 'but you're doing her up for me, and I want her drivable in a month.'

We turn the corner into my street, and Brodie says, 'You didn't tell me you were moving.'

'I'm not.' I look to where Brodie's pointing. A huge white moving truck is parked ass-end in my driveway. As I pull up out front, two bald guys come down the front steps carrying my new cinema lounge. I leap out of the car and run up the path. 'Hey! What the hell do you think you're doing?'

The two guys look at each other and shrug. Without saying a word, they load my lounge into the back of the truck. 'Hey, dipshit. I asked you a question.'

'Look, we're just doin' as we're told,' says the smaller of the two.

'Who told you to move my stuff?'

He points to the house. 'She did.'

I turn around to see Suzie standing at the front door with her arms folded. Her lips are pursed and her eyes flash daggers.

'What the hell's going on, Suz?'

'What do you think?' she says, and stomps back into the house.

'You want me to come in?' Brodie asks. I hadn't realised he was beside me.

'Nah, I'll be fine. You should probably stay out here anyway, for your own safety.'

Brodie laughs, but he's seen Suzie in these moods so he knows I'm only half joking. As I head into the house I can hear him telling the removalists to take an early lunch. I follow the sounds of banging through to the kitchen.

'Suz?' I poke my head around the door way. In this type of mood, she may well have a weapon. She has her back to me and is rifling through a drawer. 'Suz? What's going on?'

'I've had enough,' she says. She straightens and turns, brandishing my barbecue branding iron.

'What do you want that for?'

'It's mine,' she says, tossing it into a box on the bench.

'You don't barbecue,' I say, 'and you gave it to me for my birthday. You can't take it just because you bought it.'

'Watch me,' she says, and pushes past me into the lounge room.

'Come on, Suz. This is stupid. Tell me what's going on and we can fix it.'

'Ha.' She throws her head back. She's always been a bit melodramatic. 'No, we can't fix it. There's no such thing as 'we' anymore, Kat.'

I'm a little lost. I rack my brain for something big I might have done to piss her off. I come up blank. Then again, at certain times of the month, anything could piss Suzie off.

'Are you PMS-ing?' I ask. Wrong question.

She rounds on me, stabbing the air with her fake nails. 'No, I'm not fucking PMS-ing. I'm fucking angry.' She storms around the lounge room, stopping every now and then to pick up a trinket or photo frame and toss it into a box in the middle of the floor. She's already been through our CD's by the look of the cases strewn everywhere.

'At me?'

'Are you serious? Is that a serious fucking question?' Suzie stops and glares at me, her hands on her hips. She stares me down for a few seconds, opens her mouth to say something, and then throws her hands in the air and stomps off into our bedroom. Against my better judgement, I follow her.

'You,' she begins again, stabbing at me with her finger over her shoulder, 'drive me fucking crazy!'

'What the hell did I do?' I stand in the doorway while Suzie pulls clothes off hangers and stuffs them into a bag. All of a sudden, she stops and sighs. 'You know what? I really think you have no idea.'

'No idea about what?'

'Us. Relationships.'

'What is there to know?'

Suzie looks at me like I'm stupid. I've seen that look a lot lately. Then her expression softens a little and she says, 'I can't do this anymore Kat, I just can't.'

'Is this about the mess I left last night? I was going to clean it up after work today. You just got home before me.'

'Yes, it's about the mess from last night. And about not calling when you're late or not coming home. It's about forgetting to feed the cat for God's sake.' Suzie's off again, slamming her clothes into a bag, her voice getting louder with each accusation. 'It's about flirting with every bloody woman you come across.'

'It's networking,' I say. Suzie narrows her eyes and continues, throwing my leather jacket into her bag. 'It's about that bloody car. That piece of shit rust bucket taking up the garage. It's your stupid mates who use our house as a drop-in centre every weekend.'

'My house,' I say.

'What?'

'My house, not ours.'

She ignores me and continues on with her checklist of Worst Girlfriend Ever. 'What about avoiding anything to do with family? And I have to nag you to do anything around here, because God forbid you should actually pull your weight.' She shoves past me into the bathroom.

I had no idea she was that pissed off. Oh sure, she'd have a go at me every now and then about getting home from the pub late, but she never actually told me she wanted me to stay home. And the car, well, that wasn't her decision. My money, my choice. Another thought occurs to me.

'If I pissed you off so much, why did you stay so long?'

'Honestly? I have no idea,' she says, her voice echoing from the bathroom.

At least she's stopped yelling at me. 'It was the sex, wasn't it?' I say, in an attempt to lighten the moment. A perfume bottle flies past my head and crashes into the wall behind me. I'm lucky she's a lousy shot. She pushes past me again, tosses the bag from the bathroom onto the bed with the others and scans the room. I guess she wants to make sure she's left me with just enough stuff to get through the week.

'It doesn't have to end like this, Suz. Can't we talk this out like adults?'

'You? An adult?' She laughs and picks up the bags from the bed, struggling to lift the last one onto her shoulder. I lean over to give her a hand. 'Fuck off,' she says.

I lift my hands in protest. She struggles out of the room, knocking into the wall as she walks down the hall. I follow her through the front door and stand on the veranda, watching as she throws the bags into the back of the Festiva.

'What the fuck are you doing?' She turns her rage onto the moving guys. 'I'm not paying you to sit around on your asses all day. Finish putting my shit in the truck.' The fatter of the two shoves the remainder of his lunch into his over-sized mouth and trudges past me up the steps.

The smaller guy turns as he walks past and says, 'Sorry mate.' I nod. Brodie materialises from around the back where I guess he's been trying not to listen in. 'She left the beer fridge,' he says, handing me a beer. I take the bottle from him and take a long swig.

'Want me to sneak your lounge back out of the truck while the removalists are busy?' Brodie asks.

'Nah. I dropped some prawns on it last night and I haven't had the chance to clean them up. Give it a week and she'll be getting rid of it anyway.' I take another swig of my beer, and watch as Suzie drives away in my Festiva.

'You think she'll be back?' Brodie asks.

'I doubt it.'

The removalists bring out the last of the boxes, give me an apologetic look, and close up the last two years of my life in their truck. 'I'd offer you a beer,' I call to them, 'but you've just helped to fuck up my life.'

The big guy shrugs. 'It's all good,' he says, and hauls himself up into the driver's seat.

'Maybe for you,' I say to the retreating truck.

Brodie and I stand for a while, drinking our beers in silence. Then he pushes a card into my hand. 'It's Sam's number,' he says, giving me a playful shove.

'I'm definitely not ready for another one.'

'She must be okay if she likes Rosie,' Brodie says. 'Besides, she only wants a test drive.'
Memory And The ISS

Paul Humphreys

Oxley, Canberra

Australia

28 June 2014

I have imagined that faulty memory, or, as they are quaintly called, 'memory lapses', are related to similar processes associated with the operations of the ISS [International Space Station].

In my imagination, I have imagined that there is what could be described as an Independent Translucent Memory Station [ITMS] within the conscious and subconscious. An impulse for recall of information is similar to a docking procedure for the ISS.

Following the need for recall, a memory probe is sent toward the ITMS. There is, of course, a serious concern for co-ordination between the probe and the transit of the ITMS. Too early or too late means that docking cannot occur and there is a 'memory lapse', a real 'Houston, I think we have a problem' moment. In such a situation there can be opportunity to dock if the impulse to remember is repeated.

However, docking is only the first stage. It may be that the probe docks correctly but the area where the information is stored is opaque and not able to be assimilated and transferred. This, of course, is a serious memory lapse because the information that should be there is no longer available. This is not just a memory lapse but memory loss.

As the conscious and subconscious grow older, the number of opaque areas increases. C'est La Vie!
Memory History

Rachel Branscombe

Quakers Hill, New South Wales

Australia

28 June 2014

Memory is for life

The beads of time

Sewn across our hearts

With unbreakable string

Sometimes a bead falls off

An event is gone forever

Sometimes there are knots in the string

Where a bead cannot move

A memory unable to be forgotten

History is different

It changes with ebb and flow of time

When new facts and figures are founded

A river of events rushing

Approaching the waterfall of darkness

Only some float in water moving

Others lost for all time

When the water falls

Memory has many faults

Sometimes the string fades

Sometimes the bead cracks

Sometimes the fog of confusion takes over

History too has many faults

Important things can be completely missed

Together history and memory can do amazing things

But apart they are two warriors

Fighting a never ending battle
Rise

Peter Goodwin

Warilla, New South Wales

Australia

29 June 2014

Did I not

come to you

in your

dark hour?

Did I not

render myself

as broken

and forsaken

as you?

Did I not share your insults and humiliations?

Was I not a companion to you in the rubble of your ruined life?

Did I not

heal your wounds

with my

hands?

Did I not

invite you

to the feast?

Why do you not

rise

with me?

Why do you not

abandon

your sack

and walk?

Have you not

dwelled

too long

in this place?

Do you not

know me?

Do you not

hear the cries

of the women

in the morning

coming from the

empty tomb?
Recycling

Andris Heks

Megalong Valley, New South Wales

Australia

29 June 2014

I am lying in bed.

In my mind's eyes I am looking in the mirror and say silently (in Hungarian, then in English):

(EGY SZEM) ONE EYE

My left eye weeps.

My right laughs.

In my third eye I balance the two; gently smiling.

My third eye is my inner one.

The one in the mirror is the cosmic eye.

Now I merge my third eye with its reflection in the mirror and whisper silently: Egy szem, one eye.

I am flying into my soul.

(EGY MOSOLY) ONE SMILE

My smile merges with the mirrored smile.

I feel its spreading and tingling, filling up the space of my being.

(EGY SZÍV) ONE HEART

I feel my heart merging with the cosmic one.

Thump, thump, expanding with love.

I am smiling and pumping love.

(EGY SZERETŐ LÉLEK) ONE LOVING SOUL

My soul expands into the cosmic one.

I am spiralling in the black, pulsating, infinite cosmos.

Cradled in my mother's arms, we are joining in a deeply loving smile.

Then we dissolve in the cosmos' black, infinite cradle.

I am no more.

I returned home.

There is nothing, but one spiralling, loving infinite blackness.

(ÁLDÁS, BÉKESSÉG) BLISS AND PEACE

I am resting in peace, merged with my loving home.

Then I do a reality test: I allow my problems to enter my home.

Kind loving lightens them.

They become weightless.

Bliss and peace prevail.

Now the cosmic blackness spirals inward with infinite speed.

It spins into the size of a pinhead, boiling hot!

Big bang! I, the black cosmos, explode into brilliant light.

Bliss and peace.

Enlightenment is catapulting me back to life...

I spiralled in to my home page; now I spiral out, back to life.

The merry-go-round keeps going; round and round!
In The Still Of The Night

Robyn Chaffey

Hazelbrook, New South Wales

Australia

30 June 2014

I sit alone, at peace at last

In the still of the night

Sleepless though 'tis time past

Till my mind can rest quiet

Mind quietness hard won

In days beyond mid-age

When oft' I'd urgent run

That stress not turn to rage

Caught 'tween generations

Each struggling their own way

Feeling reverberations

Mind and body day by day

Elders gave so much for us

Now's their time of need!

Yet we strive and we fuss

To be there for our seed

The rulers of our country

Eyes wide with dollar signs

Our worth seen just in money

Thus society defines

So caring's not respected

Our elders are neglected

Human fears reflected

Night stillness is deflected!
The Suburban Banshee - Part 2

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

1 July 2014

Cory was grinning like a Cheshire cat, or perhaps like the cat that had swallowed the canary. 'It had all been a dream,' he mused. He lay on his back with his hands behind his head, revelling in the erotic reverie, acknowledging that he had also been scared out of his wits at the same time when he thought he'd been locked inside the mausoleum. 'Jeez, it had seemed real though,' he said out loud.

'Perhaps it was,' said an ethereal voice inside his head.

'Raelene, is that you?' he called out, expecting that his lusty girlfriend must have forgotten something and returned. 'I reckon the tiger's still got a bit left in the tank!' But there was only silence. He gave an involuntary shudder. 'Ah you stupid bugger,' he admonished himself, 'yer hearin' things!' Cory glanced at his watch and cursed; he was late for work at the panel beaters where he was a second year apprentice.

He swung his legs out of the bed and happened to gaze down at his thighs. He was amazed to discover that they were covered in scratch marks, bruises and what appeared to be love bites. He noticed those contusions, scratches, cuts and other little puncture marks, continued up over his abdomen and across his arms, chest, neck and shoulders. He raced into the bathroom to get a better look in the mirror. The only troubling aspect was - he couldn't remember it happening!

'Bloody hell!' he exclaimed. 'What's that randy bitch done to me?' Indeed, Cory was covered with similar marks over most of his body. 'Jeez, she must be a friggin' vampire as well as a Banshee!'

'Yes, but it was fun though... wasn't it?' asked the same ethereal voice.

Cory jumped, 'Rae, are you there or sumptin'? Where the hell are you hidin'?' But again, there was silence. Cory quickly pulled on a pair of jeans and got a clean flannelette shirt out of the cheap wardrobe. He did a quick search of the flat, calling out, 'Rae, Rae, where are ya?' But of course, she was nowhere to be found.

Cory was now seriously late for work and his boss was not a man to be trifled with. Nonetheless, Cory first of all made a quick detour in his ute to the local Macca's to confront Rae (where she worked), and pick up some cappuccinos and brekky wraps to appease his workmates. He strode up to the counter in considerable agitation, placed his order and asked to speak to Raelene Banister, emphasising it was urgent and that he was in a hurry.

Petunia, a sort of podgy friend, who also worked at Macca's, waddled out and exclaimed, 'Haven't seen Raels this mornin', Cory - not answerin' her mobile and the number she gave as her parents' place doesn't seem to work. The boss is getting a bit toey.' Cory was not only angry but now completely perplexed as well. Petunia handed Cory his order and her hand lingered a moment on his as she looked up with undisguised desire and said, 'Jeez Cory, if Raels doesn't turn up, I'm not doin' anythin' tonight.' For a nanosecond, Cory contemplated what it would be like to throw the leg over 'Podgy Poo' (as she was unkindly known), but decided that one ravin' nympho is enough for now!

Not surprisingly, Cory's boss, Ernie, at Bangs 'n' Prangs, was agitated to say the least. 'Well, well Mr O'Brien, how very nice of you to grace us with your presence! Oh and I see you've brought morning tea with you.' Ernie's half-hearted attempt at sarcasm soon gave way to full-blown anger. 'Bugger me, Cory, where the bloody hell have you been? You knew the client was coming back today for the white Camry; those lights still haven't been... '

'Yeah, Ernie, I'm really sorry,' Cory broke in hurriedly. 'You see, Raelene was... '

'I don't give a continental what you and your tart got up to last night - this is your last warning! Now, give us one of those coffees and you get cracking; the client will be here by eleven and that's veritas!'

Cory slouched off, wondering what on earth veritas meant, to complete work on the Camry and put thoughts of randy Raelene to one side. Finally, around lunchtime, he took off his shirt and was able to relax and take out his mobile to call Rae and find out what she thought she was doing. The phone rang and rang and finally went to message bank. Cory expected to hear Rae's recorded message, 'G'day, this is Rae, I'm not about, okay? Leave a message... ' Instead, he heard the same ethereally affected voice of Rae that said, 'Have you looked at our latest video, my Romeo?' Disgruntled once more, Cory exclaimed, 'Ah, for Crissake Rae - what are you playing at?' He ended the call and sat staring at the phone as if it would 'magically' give him an answer. Cory flicked through the gallery on his mobile device until he came to a section that he had labelled 'naughty'. In it were the various video recordings that detailed his and Raelene's erotic adventures - what he found there filled him with dread...

Cory had labelled each video with a title such as 'Bonking at the movies', 'Bonking on the back veranda', 'Bonking on the freeway' and the latest episode, 'Bonking at the bed shop'. However, they had all been deleted and replaced with just a single video, entitled 'Bonking the O'Brien in the graveyard'. Cory, quite understandably, thought he was going, well... bonkers! 'How can that be?' he said out loud. 'It was a just a dream!' Cory's hand was shaking as he opened the file and the same ethereal voice said, 'How very nice of you to grace us with your presence!' It was the same phrase his boss had used earlier in the day, but worse was yet to come.

As the video unfurled, Cory watched shadowy images of himself and Rae as they looked for suitable locations within the graveyard for their spooky coupling. He heard himself telling Rae to keep away from his grandfather's grave and heard Rae's glee when she discovered the mausoleum with a door and sprung lock. 'I didn't shoot this, I couldn't have! It hasn't bloody happened... yet!', he cried out loud.

Inside the mausoleum, the video appeared to have been taken by a third party and he watched in open-mouthed astonishment, like a novice at a Goth stag party. Curiously, Cory's own camera phone was nowhere to be seen. The next sound he heard was Raelene's blood-curdling, orgiastic scream, which was joined seconds later by an equally ear-piercing scream from Cory himself. For an instant there was a blinding flash of light; Cory was pounding on the mausoleum door and Raelene appeared to be flying about the room wailing like a wraith in torment.

'What's all the screaming about? What hasn't bloody happened yet?' demanded Ernie, who had just walked around the corner of the building to where the workers usually had their lunch.

'Aw nothing Boss, really,' said Cory somewhat sheepishly and hastily closed his phone.

'Struth, O'Brien, don't you young blokes do anything besides fiddle-arse about with those gadgets? You look as white as a sheet - have you seen a ghost or sumptin'? Hah, maybe it was a Banshee! And what's with all those marks across your arms and chest?'

That was the last straw for Cory. Grabbing his shirt, he ran straight to his ute - leaving his boss calling out for him to come back and 'couldn't he take a joke?', or words to that effect. But this was no joke as far as Cormac O'Brien was concerned. He had to make contact with Raelene Banister, quickly. The wheels of the ute squealed as he roared away. It coalesced with the manic laughter and the scream of the Banshee inside his head.
Promises

David Newman

Jacobs Well, Queensland

Australia

2 July 2014

Verse One:

(Boy) - Don't hold me to my promises;

For when they were made, I did not know;

That words spoken through soft kisses;

Can be swept away on the wings of the morrow:

And I tried!

To ease away my sorrow;

Yes I tried!

But you weren't there with the strength I used to borrow:

Now you're gone!

(Girl) - Now that I'm gone!

(Boy) - My feelings aren't clear:

You were the one

(Girl) - You were the one!

(Boy) - But you're no longer here:

Don't hold me to my promises;

Don't hold me to my grief;

Don't hold me to my promises;

Give me my release:

I'm in a sea of emotions;

Like the waves they come and they go:

They're like the tides of an ocean;

They're running high and low:

Damn this devotion!

Promises, I meant to keep:

Damn this frustration!

That won't let me sleep:

(Girl) - You've made her promises:

(Boy) - But somehow they just seem to be words:

(Girl) - You've given her tender kisses:

(Boy) - That taste a little bitter, since you've left the world: -

CHORUS:

(Together) - Those promises!

Are only a token,

They're just words that have been spoken:

Too oft' have they been broken:

(Boy) - Promises!

(Girl) - I won't hold you to your words

Promises!

(Boy) - If I could I'd have given you the world:

Promises!

(Girl) - Vows foolishly taken:

Promises

(Boy) - That have left my heart aching:

(Together) - Promises!

Those innocent murmurs;

Spoken in love, of our two summers:

(Boy) - Empty promises! - (Girl) - Empty promises!

Verse Two:

Don't hold me to my promises;

For when they were made I did not know;

That love given in sweet caress;

Can be washed away in the tears of one's sorrow:

And I lied!

I lied only to myself:

Yes I lied!

But now I know, I was just fooling myself:

Now I see!

(Girl) - Now I can see!

(Boy) - There's nothing left here;

How can there be?

(Girl) - How can there be?

(Boy) - When you're no-longer near:

Don't hold me to my promises;

Don't hold me to my grief:

Don't hold me to my promises;

Give me my release;

I hope you can forgive me;

I tried to be true;

But how can I be faithful?

To just a memory?

She's got your eyes;

The sun's in the sky: -

Again for me:

(Girl) - You've made her promises:

(Boy) - But somehow they just seem to be words:

(Girl) - You've given her tender kisses:

(Boy) - That taste a little bitter since you left the world:

Verse Three:

(Boy) - Don't hold me to my promises;

For when they were made I did not know;

That what is felt in such closeness;

Can be torn away and never allowed to grow:

And I cried!

I shed one thousand hot tears;

Yes! I cried!

Cried hot tears for us and all the wasted years:

Now we're lost!

(Girl) - Now we are lost!

(Boy) - In memories held dear:

At such a cost!

(Girl) - At such a cost!

(Boy) - When you're no longer here:

Don't hold me to my promises;

Don't hold me to my grief:

Don't hold me to my promises;

Give me my release:

Why do I still feel bound to vows?

They're just words that won't let me go:

'Though I'm in love with her now;

I want, that you should know;

Words don't mean the same;

Promises I speak to her;

I remember our days;

I remember you!

(Girl) - You've made her promises:

(Boy) - But somehow they just seem to be words:

(Girl) - You've given her tender kisses:

(Boy) - That taste a little bitter since you left the world;

Since you've left the world;

Since you've gone: -
Somewhere In Time

Jane Russell

Mount Barker, South Australia

Australia

3 July 2014

Alba was marooned somewhere in time. She shrank from the realisation that all her family, everyone she had ever known had not yet been born! She was all alone in the past. This was not some fanciful notion, she had seen the urban sprawl, the thousands of old-fashioned cars, and the people in the quaint fashions of the early 21st century.

This was a far cry from what she was used to: where greenery dominated every horizon, where human dwellings were designed to disappear into the hills and cliffs, where population size was kept at a sustainable level and where everyone respected the planet that hosted them. She was a member of 'Time Team 2450', digging in a trench to prove that there had once been a 21st century town on the site. She had been so excited about the relics they found that she camped out on the second night, to protect their finds.

She slept deeply, exhausted, oblivious of the stealthy footsteps nearing her tent. A shadowy figure loomed over her, and aimed a device at her sleeping body. There was a silent ripple in time, reality shuddered and she disappeared. The figure then proceeded to loot her equipment and relics, which had remained behind in the tent. Alba herself, didn't notice any change in the atmosphere, nor the noises of distant traffic and mooing of cows, nor the hardness of the floor beneath her. But, when she awoke, she was so disoriented and confused she thought someone had spiked her tea.

When she had gone to sleep, she was in her tiny tent, stretched out fully clothed on a camp bed, wrapped in a sleeping bag. Around her there was only grass. When she awoke, she was inside a building in someone's back garden. All her gear _and_ her tent had gone. Only the sleeping bag survived, because she was in it at the time. She looked out at a large, single story red-brick house, blinking at it, shell-shocked. The carillon of morning birdsong penetrated her conscious mind, cheering her despite herself. What the hell had happened? Was this a joke the rest of her team were playing on her, or was she hallucinating?

Alba took photos on her phone of the room she was in, and of the house outside, then she thought she'd better leave before someone found her, so she climbed over the back gate. She was aware this was a unique opportunity to explore the time period, a godsend to an archaeologist. Her only fear was that she may not be able to return to her own time.

How did she get here, anyway? Best not to attract attention. She thought she could fit in. She was tall and thin with violet eyes and loopy pink and orange hair. She wore fluorescent green, bouncy sports shoes with pink socks. Her t-shirt looked like purple thatch, but was soft, while her multiple-pocketed shorts were plain black. She had some fluency in 21st century speech, but it would still be quite a test.

She continued down the street, photographing houses and gardens as she went. She headed towards the parklands, carrying her pink sleeping bag. Beyond this green zone was a busy main road, with constant heavy traffic. She began to cough from the unfamiliar fumes. An old man walked towards her, with two large dogs on leads. He was smoking. She couldn't help staring at him, as he stared at her in return. She'd never seen someone smoking before, it looked weird.

She had slept with her phone and her wallet. Of course the money was no good here, but she did have ID, as long as no one read the date! She pressed fastdial on her phone for her Time Team boss, not really expecting it to work.

'Hello?'

'Hello! Mike, it's Alba! OMG I'm so glad to hear your voice!'

'Alba? Where are you? Are you all right?' came Mike's concerned reply.

'Oh Mike, I know it's incredible, but I've been sent back in time.' There was silence from Mike.

'I don't know how it happened, or how I can get back. It seems to be early 21st century. What should I do?' Alba continued.

'This must be connected to the robbery,' Mike pondered. 'When we find who was behind that, we'll find out how they tampered with time. Just hang in there, kid!'

Alba sat in the sun on a wooden bench in the park. She was getting hungry, and was concerned about her lack of money. An athletic young blond chap approached with a huge rottweiler trailing behind, off the leash. She liked the man's smile and she smiled back.

'Do you mind?' he indicated sitting next to her. She nodded 'okay'.

'I haven't seen you around here before. Are you visiting?' he asked, aimiably. Alba paused to work out his accent and phrasing, before attempting a reply.

'Yes,' she said, nodding vigorously. He seemed amused.

'I love your shoes. They must make running a lot of fun, with those springs,' he observed.

'Yes,' she said, nodding vigorously. At this moment the rottweiler launched itself at her, placing its huge paws on her shoulders.

'Down Rex!' ordered the man, fairly unconvincingly. 'He's just friendly, he won't hurt you!'

Rex was snuffling her thatched top, and seemed intent on tasting it as well. Alba stood up, pushing the dog off. In retaliation, Rex jumped up and pushed Alba off balance. She fell on the path, scraping a knee and a hand. Rex triumphantly licking her face.

'I'm so sorry!' the man looked mortified as he put Rex on the leash once more, and helped her up. 'Are you hurt? Look, I'm Jason. I live not far from here. Why don't you come back with me and I'll get you cleaned up. I can offer you coffee and cake as well. The least I can do.'

He seemed pretty keen and Alba thought he was rather cute, so she nodded, 'Yes.'

By the time the 25th century police had located the Time Team thief, Alba had been living in the past for ten years. Her first action, after marrying Jason was to patent her springy shoes. This started the bouncy shoe trend significantly earlier than she remembered it, but it brought good royalties. She had also used the time to study for a double degree in archaeology and environmental science. She and Jason now had two children and a rottweiler puppy, Regina. She had a position with the local council relating to environmental planning and was active in the zero carbon house initiative.

Then her mobile rang.

'Alba, it's Mike. We've caught the bugger. It took a while to work out his device, but there's a fair chance it can bring you back. You need to return to the exact spot where you arrived.'

'Hi Mike, it's great to hear your voice again. But what do you mean by a "fair chance"?'

'There are no guarantees, so I suppose it may just scatter your atoms in limbo. No way of knowing.'

'Didn't you think to experiment with something else first?' she asked, calmly.

'It doesn't work with inanimate objects, and we couldn't ethically risk testing it on anything animate.'

'Look, thanks Mike. But I've made a life here now. I've got a family. It's been ten years, after all.'

'Ten years! Bloody hell! It's only been three weeks here!'

'Oh well, look on the bright side, you may be digging up my bones on Time Team one day. Give my love to my family and tell them I'm happy here. All the best. Goodbye Mike.'

'Goodbye, Alba, and good luck!'
The Bully

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, New South Wales

Australia

4 July 2014

With

smile

lip-synched

upon her

painted face; she lies.

Bringing ruin upon all who stand

in her way; who have a different reality.

Three die because of her cruelty. Who cares? She sleeps with power; spineless men who bend

to her wicked will; disembowel people of hope.

Defrauding the government, she fools the auditors who, taken by her charm, believe her lively yarn.

She knows no karma.

Kill the kid.

Denudes

sweet

buds

of

knowledge

in her wake.
Night Vision

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, New South Wales

Australia

4 July 2014

Pink

cloud

hovers,

eerily

suspended over

mountain top. Iridescent in moonshine, it capers

around a stand of stately, somber cedars and cavorts with long-stemmed winter grasses

like some winsome spirit in a medieval cloak.

Vanishing mysteriously,

it leaves no trace of

origin.

A gift

of

sky.
The Dancing Shoes

AA Anderson

Bathurst, New South Wales

Australia

5 July 2014

A thousand lights lit up the stage, as ballroom dancing was the rage,

Our Jim thought he was just all right, and practised stoically for the night.

Susan looked lovely, sweet and fair, with sparkling sequins everywhere,

She'd made her dress with loving care.

But oh alas she waited there,

For Jim... Where was our Jim?

He'd ridden twenty miles or so, to be there early for the show,

And then discovered to his dismay, he'd left his shoes twenty miles away,

At home... His dancing shoes.

OH NO!

For Jim there was no turning back, he'd gone too far along the track,

Oh what to do, he thought of Sue... WAITING

A brilliant thought came like a crack; He'd polish his brown boots with black,

They'd match his suit, no one would know, he'd polish them until they glow.

Oh you beauty -

As partners tripped around the floor, our poor Jim clumped and what is more

His working boots just would not glide, and Sue a-dancing at his side,

Tried hard to dodge his thumping stride.

The quickstep was a real disgrace, he landed flat upon his face,

A discredit to the human race... Poor Jim

But now his balance he regained and even though his ego pained

To impress Sue, he must look skilled and her faith in him must be fulfilled,

He'd be the best in the whole damn place; all he had to do was increase the pace.

He whirled her round and round the floor, she didn't know what was in store

For his arm around her flung her wide and with the judge they did collide.

OH MY!

They slid and oh a path did clear, through eats and drinks stacked at the rear

OH DEAR!

The aftermath of this disgrace, was Jim evicted from the place,

With cream and pastry on his face, the lowest of the human race,

His pride in tatters and poor Sue, a laughing stock to all she knew

And in a temper told poor Jim exactly what she thought of him,

In certain words that's just not nice, that she'd never date him at any price.

OUR POOR JIM

The moral is, please don't abuse, the importance of having a spare pair of shoes.
Buried Treasure

Shirley Burgess

Rosebud, Victoria

Australia

6 July 2014

It was a perfect afternoon for gardening. Andrew McCann had decided to make a small fishpond in his backyard, had dug down quite a way then plunged deeper into the warm soil and found that his shovel made a clunk as it hit metal.

There shouldn't be metal here, he thought. Digging deeper he found it to be a small cash box. _Perhaps I've found a fortune? Perhaps there are some rare coins that will make me rich? Perhaps it has some jewels, which could also make me rich; but then I'd have no idea how I'd manage to sell them_ , he chuckled to himself. _Let's see what it is then_.

He cleaned the outside of the small tin box, rattled it to see if there were any coins, and finding it did no such thing, hoped it was paper money instead.

It was locked.

Because of the rust he knew he could soon lever the tin open, so it was off to the shed and his tools. It took more effort than he thought, but sometime later he was levering the lid open.

Inside there was nothing but a large envelope bulging with letters inside. He thought: just someone's old love letters or something, and, in disgust, nearly threw the lot into the garbage bin.

Something made him stop. _These letters must be important to someone, he thought, or why bury them? Not for prying eyes perhaps? Well, I'll just pry away._

He started to read the first one, and he gave a start. It was addressed to 'My Dearest Jeanne'. His grandmother's name was Jeanne, and she'd lived here in this house all those years ago. The last sentence also made him jump: it was signed 'yours affectionately, Colin'. His grandfather had a younger brother named Colin. This was a love story between his beloved grandmother and her brother-in-law, Colin McCann, all those years ago.

His hand shook as he started to read on. Andrew soon realised the letters were becoming more and more intense. He had a clear feeling he was intruding, but continued on feverishly to find out what happened all those years ago.

Eventually the letters revealed that there was trouble to be sorted. Ronald had been in Queensland for over six weeks helping his newly widowed sister sort out legal matters, performing a great deal of hard work on her house so that it could be resold urgently. Back home, in the freedom of that period of time things had become too much for the lovers. It was now apparent that Jeanne was pregnant - now what was she going to do? There was no way she could disappear for a number of months, no way of hiding this from her husband. No having an abortion. Neither of them would condone that, being too risky any way you looked at it. The two of them decided they must front up and take whatever punishment they must from Jeanne's husband, Ronald.

Again, Andrew started. 'Ronald' was his grandfather, Ron. All these people were his forebears. Grandma and Grandpa McCann already had two children, Ronald Junior and Phyllis, and now the two lovers presented the problem to him together, apparently.

Many emotions were on show at this meeting: shock, recriminations, disgust, regret, shame, and unhappiness. Ron had told them he would have to think about what to do.

The two lovers had promised to keep apart, and in the end, Ron told them he would accept the child as his own on the condition no-one was ever told of the deception. There was a formal swearing to this fact.

There was a letter of farewell from Colin, in tears as he wrote, saying goodbye. He blamed the lengthy periods away in the Navy during the war that meant he had missed his chance with Jeanne in the first place. Now he had decided to move away to another state, and would not see his beloved again. He wished her luck and happiness, and he would love her forever, as he always had, even from their schooldays when they used to walk home together. He had loved her even then.

_What did she write back, I wonder_ , thought Andrew?

One letter remained, coming from a Queensland address. This letter was dated a year later and it contained a declaration of Colin's undying love, and how much he longed to see their baby boy but knew he could never do that. He'd noticed he was to be called James Edward, after Jeanne's father.

Andrew's cheeks burned. _That's my Dad. James is my Dad. According to these letters I don't think he would ever have known who his real father was, and here I have all the information in my hand_ , thought Andrew. He dropped the letter like a red-hot coal.

_I don't know much about my Uncle Colin. He made some sort of fortune in Queensland, he thought. I don't know if he married, or had children or what, but if he didn't, then his fortune should have come to Dad. Then suddenly, he thought, and then to me! I must find out what happened to him, but this is awkward - I can't ask Dad for details. I must be very discreet._

In the end he went to a reputable private investigator, Mr Gale, and put it into his hands. He didn't give much away, just wanted to know how Colin had lived, if he had married, when he had died and what happened to all that money.

It took about a week, and quite a bit of cash, but there was a full report on what happened to his distant uncle and his money. Andrew visited Mr Gale at his city office and went through the report with him.

Apparently, in 1950 when Colin arrived in Queensland, he and three others invested all their money into building a holiday resort, making all of them wealthy. At this time, not long after the end of World War II, there were few resorts as such, and it was obvious money was to be made here.

He struck out on his own, building higher and higher apartment buildings, with demand at its peak, and ended up a multi-millionaire. At thirty-five years of age he had married a widow, Edith, but there were no children between them, although Edith had three of her own. Apparently he was happy, for at his death in 2006, he left all his money to his wife, except for donations to several special charities, but there was an odd additional request: that one million dollars was to be given to his only son, born in November 1950, if James Edward McCann could be traced.

Colin's widow had 'looked diligently', with the help of a qualified investigator, for a James Edward McCann, but although they 'worked very hard to find him' he could not be traced. With so much money at stake no doubt the official investigator had been bribed very heavily to make that statement.

Andrew chatted with Mr Gale. Although Andrew had not given him much to go on, he soon realised that Mr Gale now fully understood what all this was about, for he produced some telling information.

He pointed out that probate had taken a year, and in a very short while, the Statute of Limitations would apply to any effort for accessing this money. From that point on the Will would become inaccessible. Therefore, if Andrew wanted to make claims on behalf of someone born to a different partner, he had about four months left to lodge such a claim.

'In your case it's important for you to know that since 1970 in Australia, the word "illegitimate" has been deemed illegal, to avoid the stigma attached to a child through no fault of its own. Instead, the term "eligible person" is used, and that means someone born to a different partner has just as much right to any monies as any other sibling. In fact, to actually exclude James, the Will would have to name specifically who gets the money, omitting James' name on purpose, and that didn't happen in this case.'

'On the other hand if a person is unaware of a discrepancy with his parentage, it will cause a great upheaval, I can guarantee it,' offered Mr Gale. 'I have seen terrible damage - lifelong damage - caused by such information coming to light in past cases. You would have to be prepared for a long drawn-out very public court case to be gone through, and you wouldn't believe the costs. Probably a good bit of what you expected to receive would have to go to the very well paid lawyers. I can assure you it tots up pretty quickly. There is a big decision for you to make here.'

Mr Gale stood up and shook Andrew's hand firmly. 'Good luck with all that. I would dearly like to know the outcome, if you care to tell me some time.' He smiled at Andrew, opened the door for him to leave and checked that Andrew had the report firmly in his hand.

Andrew wondered what he should do with it. That night he thought about his contented mother and father, happy with each other, in their ordered world. If he produced all this information it would upset them so much. Andrew loved his father, and could see what an ordeal he would have to be put through. He thought, _I can't see him pursuing a large sum of money through courts at all. There is no way he would think the money worth the publicity and horror for him. I don't think I could bring myself to do that to him, and for sure Colin's wife and her offspring would have tons of money available to fight the case._

Thinking back to Grandfather McCann, he thought what a generous person he'd turned out to be. _Who else would have done that for his wife? He must have been repelled by the arrival of the baby boy into the household, but he never let it influence him in favouritism. At least I don't think there was any. My dad loved his father, so if I go stamping about on the family history I am only going to upset everyone. This would be the opposite of Grandfather McCann's pact._

_What do I do with these letters? Perhaps I should keep them for the future or something?_ Andrew smiled to himself. _I am in exactly the same position that my Grandmother McCann was in._

_No - I think the letters, and the report, should be destroyed_, he decided at last. _They are only going to bring heartache and trouble._

So he burnt them one at a time in the family fireplace one day when he was on his own, carefully sweeping the ashes away and sprinkling them on the garden surrounding the pretty fishpond he had finally finished.
Does James Bond Ever Cry?

J-L Heylen

Hazelbrook, New South Wales

Australia

7 July 2014

_Whatever was he thinking?_ Jemma thought as she watched her flat mate walk down the stairs into their shared lounge room.

Trent was wearing a muscle shirt. It was the de regur black of the mid-90's queer set.

Jemma's next thought, even more unworthy than the last, was: _That would look better on me._

'Are you really going to go out in that shirt?' Jemma asked, as Trent's foot hit the final step.

'Yeah. Why? What's wrong with it?'

Jemma huffed, and got up from the lounge to turn the volume on the television up a few more notches.

'Jem?'

'Don't call me that. There's nothing "wrong" with it, exactly. It's just so... oh, never mind.'

Trent shrugged his shoulders. He had lived with Jemma since they both started uni three years ago. There was no point in trying to make sense of anything she said about clothes.

'Well,' Trent answered for her, 'I know it's a bit clichéd, but... well, you know, now that I've got a great chest, I figured there was no better way to show it off, short of not wearing a shirt at all. But then the scars... '

'Are they still noticeable?'

'No, and yes. On a dance floor, with strobing lights and drug-fucked admirers, probably not. But in a well-lit showroom, open for inspection, so to speak, yes. Anyone who knew what to look for would be able to tell. I'm ready early. Want some tea?'

Jemma considered, and looked down at the cold, half-empty mug she had left sitting on top of her abandoned text book. 'Yeah. Cup's here. This is... what... the third time you've been out with Sophie?'

'Not including tutorials last year that I haven't mentioned because I was a "she" and she is straight?'

'What? You didn't tell me it was that Sophie. Shit, Trent, are you mad? She's like... well, you remember her nickname, surely?' Jemma handed Trent her tea cup, and turned the television down again. This conversation had just got interesting.

'Man-eater. She's not like that at all,' Trent defended, then fled to the kitchen before he could be exposed to a Jemma flame-throw.

It didn't help.

Trent was down the two steps, onto the lino, and crashing cups and cutlery before Jemma's comment came cutting through.

'You better hope so, sock-cock.'

Trent reddened.

His hand was still shaking a little when he came back into the lounge room with two steaming, fragrant jasmine teas.

'I was going to tell her tonight,' Trent admitted. 'I really like her, Jemma. I think she likes me.'

'Trendy Trent. Of course she likes you. Everyone likes you.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'That everyone likes you. That's all. When you were Terri, you were a spikey butch who annoyed everyone. But I think they took a chip off your shoulder along with your breasts. You're... well, you're nicer as a man - more confident, maybe, or... I don't know, you're just... right. Hahaha, Mister Right.'

Trent sat down next to his friend.

'Do you know, that's about the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. Thanks, Jemma.' He took a sip of tea, and winced at the sharp burn he gave himself. 'Do you know why I was always horrible as a dyke?'

'You weren't always horrible, Te-Trent. You've always been a great flat mate, but I'd watch you with your girlfriends, and I always thought I'd treat them a lot better than you did. Of course I never got a chance to show any of them. When you'd done, they would never be seen again. I called one, once.'

'Really, which one?'

'Oh, it was ages ago. That mousy little one you met at Hellfire - Gods. She was so out of her depth. I quite liked her. Now I can't even remember her name.'

'Daisy.'

'Daisy? Good Christ, yes. Daisy. Poor thing. Petey used to call her Daisy the cow.'

'Jemma, that's awful. She's a friend of Sophie's, actually. I could arrange a double date. Is that why Petey used to moo under her breath whenever I mentioned Daisy?'

'Oops, I thought you knew? Anyway, why were you terrible? I have my theories, but I want to hear what you think.'

'I was always disappointed in myself. I wanted to be Mister Right, you see, but I wasn't - couldn't - be. That made me angry. And the women I went out with - well, they seemed to sense it too. Your mousy little Daisy was one of the worst. Do you know, she wanted me to meet her parents once, and when I turned up at the house in trousers and a white shirt and vest, she pretended I hadn't arrived then dragged me upstairs to her bedroom. I thought I'd got lucky.'

'But... '

'She made me put on one of her dresses. I ended up perched primly in their sitting room in a lime green sun-dress and Doc Marten's cherry reds. Unshaved legs... arrgh, fuck I looked ridiculous!'

'She wasn't out, then?'

'She was. That was the worst. Her parents were so open-minded and liberal. They were brilliant. But Daisy had this notion that she didn't go out with butches. So instead of not going out with me, she tried to make me into something more suitable. Gods it was so humiliating.'

Jemma sipped her tea and wondered what she could say to this. 'Umm, why didn't you say no? I would have.'

'You know, that's been haunting me ever since. I should have refused, and left if she didn't like it, but... '

'But you really liked her?'

'No. Even if I had, that wouldn't have been a good reason. No, it was because... ' Tears began to well in Trent's eyes, and he gulped another mouthful of still too hot tea.

'Hey, it's okay. You don't have to tell me, babe, if you don't want to. She'll be here soon. You don't want to be all puffy and red when she gets here, do you?'

'I did it... because... I thought she was right. I was never what was expected - to anyone. Not even me. I was expected to be a girl. I was expected to act a certain way. Even when it was okay to be a lesbian, still there were all those expectations. I never did match any of them. So I put on a dress to please her, because I thought that would please her. I strutted my stuff in night clubs in cut-off jeans and corset with my nipples hanging out because that's what people expected. Kept my hair just a little bit longer, and made myself look less masculine because that was what was expected. But it wasn't me. No-one ever saw me. They got what they expected, and I hated it. I hated myself. Not Mister Right, but Miss Wrong.'

Jemma leant over and squeezed Trent's free hand for a moment. 'Miss Demeanor. That's what we should have called you.'

'What _did_ you call me?'

Jemma sat back, and frowned.

'Come on. You and Petey had nicknames for everyone. What did you call me?'

'Mystery. Miss Terri - see.'

'I like it. It's not nearly as horrible as your others.'

'Well, we liked you, and... '

'And?'

'And that wasn't the full thing.'

'Fess up.'

'No, really. I can't. You'll hate me.'

'I won't. I couldn't hate you. And since Petey dropped you, I don't like her anyway, so what's the harm?'

'I'll tell you if you promise me one thing.'

'That depends on the promise. What do you want me to do?'

'Promise me, if Man-eater doesn't want you after you tell her about the sex-change, that you will go out with me on a date. A proper one, not a "flat-mates-go-somewhere-together-because-they-don't-have-dates date".'

'Ah... okay, but why? You've never been interested in men.'

'You've never seen me interested in a man. That doesn't mean I'm not interested.'

'Fair point. Okay. I'll go out on a date with you if Sophie isn't up for it. Now come on, tell me.'

'A real date, mind you. You in a suit, me in a dress. You being a gentleman, and asking me to dance and getting the drinks, and tasting the wine when the waiter brings it.'

'Oh, there's going to be waiters, is there?'

'Of course, that's what I expect.'

Trent felt his groin start to tingle at the idea, and gulped. At least the tea had cooled down.

Jemma watched Trent's newly-formed Adam's apple bob as he swallowed.

'It's really kind of lame, your nickname,' Jemma continued.

Trent raised an eyebrow, and wondered fleetingly, where Sophie had got to.

'We used to call you Mystery le Bond.'

'What? Why? That is lame.'

'It made sense at the time. Petey saw you go into a menswear shop one time, and she saw you try on a suit. You didn't buy it, but you did buy something. She couldn't see what. She told me when she came home. Then, a few days later, a storm came over and you weren't here. We ran out and took your washing off the line, and there were a couple of pairs of y-fronts there. She held them up in front of her and because of the brand, she said 'Bond - Terri Bond', and we laughed, and somehow, it morphed into the final version. What with your propensity for a bit of kink, and all, it seemed strangely appropriate. It stuck.'

'You must have both seen something I hadn't even worked out yet - something true.'

'Speaking of truth, whe... '

The phone rang. Trent leapt from his seat and hugged the earpiece to his face. He turned his back, but Jemma could still hear him. It was stilted and one-sided, but Jemma stiffened, and listened intensely.

'What? No, that's not... I wasn't trying to trick you... no... no it wasn't a joke... hang on... Soph... Sophie?' The phone was smashed down into its holder. Trent's shoulders heaved.

Jemma watched, not knowing what to do.

Trent picked the hand-set back up again and dialled a number.

'Soph... oh, ah, sorry... can I speak to... whoa... hey, that's not... ' the handset dropped loosely by Trent's side and swung at the limit of its cord a few feet from the floor. The hand that had held it was raised to cover Trent's eyes as he gulped huge bursts of bitter reality.

Jemma rose from her sanctuary, and held him from behind, wrapping her arms around his chest, and turning her face so her cheek pushed into his bony shoulder-blades.

'Hey, hey,' she comforted.

'Jem?' Trent finally found his voice.

'Yes, Trent?'

Trent turned to face her. 'Does James Bond ever cry, do you think?'

'Ah, baby, of course he does. Every time a girl drops him.'

'Every time?'

'Absolutely. It's what makes him so delectable.'
Echoes of Passion

Samantha Ashton

Katoomba, New South Wales

Australia

8 July 2014

Dedicated to Beth

You're late. It's usually me that's late, but tonight it's your turn to disappoint. I lean against the rail and gaze out at Kings Tableland, watching the colours of the sandstone face slowly change from yellow to orange to pink. It's beautiful, majestic, and for a little while I forget all my troubles and just let nature distract me. A warm westerly washes over my face, carrying with it the scent of summer, but it's also brought more tourists, a bus load of them having just arrived. I try to ignore them as they herd towards me as if where I'm standing is the optimal viewing spot. Cameras start clicking all around me.

With a sigh, I begin to push myself from the rail, only to feel a hand on my arm stop me. It's you. 'Hey,' I say, smiling.

You run your hand along my arm - my skin tingles at your touch - and you entwine your fingers in mine. 'Hey,' you say back.

I don't ask why you're late; now that you're here, it doesn't seem to matter. We lean against the rail, still holding hands, and gaze out at the Blue Mountains' panorama. The light is beginning to fade. There are a million different thoughts running through my mind, mostly about us. I'm thinking how amazing it is to have you as a friend, more than a friend. But I'm totally mystified why you are, why you bother with me. We've been taking things slow, but I know that's not what you really want - I've seen the look in those deep brown eyes of yours. I shoot you a sideways glance wondering if that desire's there now. You notice me, say, 'What?'

I just shake my head, say, 'Nothing,' and go back to looking at the view.

After a short while, the crowd around us begins to disperse. There's only one couple, probably in their early sixties, standing nearby. The woman is saying something about bats, I think; I can't quite make it out. You've obviously heard more than me because you look at me and shake your head, as if to say, 'People are idiots.' The corners of your mouth curl up. I stare at your cheeky smile for a few moments and then, before I realise, I'm bending down and brushing my lips against yours. We start softly, barely connecting. I can't believe how much I love kissing you. You pull me closer and press your lips hard against mine. My heart rate shoots up in an instant. My tongue seeks out yours and begins to play.

Behind me, I hear the couple still talking, but I don't think the subject is bats anymore. When we pull back to take a breath, I notice a few more people hovering around, shooting us curious looks. At least, that's the way I interpret their expressions - you may see it differently.

You take my hand again and suggest we go down to the bottom tier of Echo Point. On the way, we pass a few tourists going in the opposite direction. Some nod at us, others ignore us. Night has fallen and the lower level is empty. The spotlight that illuminates the Three Sisters creates a convenient shadow close to the lookout wall and you lead me over.

Darkness envelops us as you push me against the concrete, urgently slipping your hands under my top. A thrill runs through me, but I try to hide my delight by making some lame comment about Venus being the Evening Star. You say, 'Uh huh,' but I know from your tone that you're not interested in astronomy, not at the moment. With one hand, you run your nails lightly over my stomach, while the other moves effortlessly up to find my right breast. Both movements cause me to draw a sharp breath. You kiss my neck, nip it, run your tongue over it. I'm struggling to keep my breathing even, especially now, since both your hands are massaging my breasts, tugging at my nipples.

You call me the Zen master because you think I'm so in control. If only you knew. There's a throbbing between my legs. It's like the lyrics in that song by Paula Cole... the Amazon's running between my thighs. In one fluid motion you relieve me of my top. I don't object. Though the air is warm, goose bumps immediately appear over my skin. You make a joking comment about me being a slut for not wearing a bra. I'm about to kiss you again when you draw back slightly and say, 'Is this what you really want?' I look at you with an incredulous expression, wondering why you are asking me such a thing while I'm standing here, half naked, in a public place.

But I don't have time to answer because, as if from nowhere, a small group of tourists have appeared. I pull you toward me, holding you against my bare chest, hoping they haven't seen us. For some reason you let out a soft laugh, which I quickly stifle with a hand across your mouth. As the group walk slowly past, your lips curl over one of my fingers and pull it into your warm mouth. You gently suck on it, pressing your tongue against it, drawing it further into your slippery cave, as if it belongs to you and you're not willing to let it go. My pulse quickens and I feel my face burn hot. I roll my trapped finger around the roughness of your tongue. I want your tongue in my mouth, entwined with mine.

Like fence pickets, the tourists are lined up near the rail's edge, their backs to us. You kiss my neck again and then inch down until your lips find my pierced nipple and begin to suck hungrily. I can feel your tongue twirling around the metal balls. I'm trying my best not to moan at the ecstasy racing through me.

Finally, the small group start to make their way back up the path. But one man stops only a few metres from us and pulls out his phone. His face lights up from the glow of his screen. I'm guessing that he's checking the time. I hold your head with both hands, trying to force you to stop tormenting my breasts, but your lips continue to nibble - I could kill you. The man stands, almost as if he were made of marble. An eternity seems to pass.

Why doesn't he leave, already? Your fingernails scratch down my back. It's painfully erotic. I bite my lip, holding back a cry, but a small noise still manages to escape me. The man lifts his head, his eyes meeting mine. I'm ready to utter excuses to this stranger, to apologize for our behaviour. Your mouth is still working busily on my nipple. He holds my gaze for another few seconds, then, without a word, turns his attention back to his phone. I'm bewildered at first, wondering if he's pretending to ignore us, then I realise - quite contradictorily, I know - the light from his phone has allowed us to stay hidden in the shadows. He really has not seen us. A short time later, I watch him head off up the path and out of sight.

I exhale a tortured sigh. We're alone again. I hear a noise and realise that you have just unzipped my jeans. Your hand slips gracefully down my pants and your fingers begin to explore my folds. They feel cold but have little effect on the heat I'm radiating down there. You tug on my clit hood piercing, slide a finger down between my wet lips and then back up again. An uncontrollable quiver runs through my core, out to my extremities. When you start to rub my swollen clit I let out a moan that surprises even me. You rub faster, building me up until I'm on the precipice, paradise is not far off. You seem to sense I'm close and suddenly pinch my clit between your fingers. My breath catches in my throat and you kiss me hard with surprising passion.

I clumsily unbutton your shirt. My brain is having difficulty relaying instructions to my hands. I gaze down at your breasts; they are beautiful. At my first touch your areolas tighten. I want nothing more than to rest my lips upon them. I trace kisses down your neck, across your chest, over your nipples, which perk immediately. I draw one into my mouth and now it's your turn to moan. Your ragged breathing screams arousal. Your fingers tangle in my hair. I lay a trail of kisses over your stomach, feeling the heat from your body. I'm on my knees. When I reach your navel, I pause and look up at you. 'Yes,' I say, 'I really want this.' And then I unzip your fly.
It's All Rubbish

Winsome Smith

Lithgow, New South Wales

Australia

9 July 2014

With a contented sigh, Melissa sat at the kitchen bench and opened her little laptop. This was her quiet time for writing. Getting writing done was almost impossible with three-year old twins, James and Julie, bounding 'round. Now the littlies had had their bath and were in bed, the bathroom had been mopped, the kitchen was tidied, Pete's meal was in the microwave ready for heating.

_Now where was I?_ she thought as she opened her document.

... Joy and John are sitting on the beach. It is low tide and the water gently lapping along the shore is silvered in the moonlight. Joy has difficult news for John but as she feels his strong arm around her...

How she loved writing her romantic stories. She also loved the pay cheques Sweet Dreams Magazine sent her from time to time. What a joy to see her creation in print and have it illustrated. At the end of the work bench, she had a pile of magazines containing her published stories.

She found it easy to write about love. All she had to do was think of Pete, with his blue eyes and lop-sided grin. She put many different heroes into her stories, but the feelings she wrote of were her own feelings for Pete.

She concentrated on her writing, making the most of the time before Pete arrived home from the late shift. Her romances usually followed a formula; boy meets girl, boy gets girl, boy loses girl, conflict - usually misunderstanding, - happy ending. She varied her locations. Her characters could be in the office, on a farm, working in a department store, on a tour of Egypt, once even at the mouth of a cave.

After concentrating and writing for a while, she heard Pete's key in the front door. She heard his footsteps as he walked down the hall, then she heard a clatter as he kicked something and swore.

She looked up when Pete entered the kitchen. 'Hullo, home already!' she greeted him.

As he took off his jacket, his expression was not his usual cheery grin. He walked across the kitchen floor and stepped on some biscuit crumbs. 'Do you ever sweep this kitchen floor?' was his greeting.

'Hullo, Melissa love, nice to be home,' Melissa replied with sarcasm.

Her husband continued. 'Do you ever pick up kids' toys left in the hallway?'

He looked angrily at the computer and said, 'I come home and find you sitting at that laptop, writing rubbish. Isn't it your job to sweep the floors and keep the house clean? I've been working at that damn factory on the late shift while you sit there writing all that rubbish. You know it's rubbish!'

Melissa stood up and declared defensively, 'I might remind you that what you call rubbish paid the mortgage and kept us in food for those weeks while you were out of work.' Even while she spoke, she knew she was being tactless, perhaps cruel.

Pete grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. 'It's all rubbish,' he shouted. 'For God's sake, come back to reality!' He shook her again.

She pushed him away. She closed her laptop, put it away and said as calmly as she could, 'Get your own dinner out. I'm going to bed.'

When Melissa woke in the morning she noticed the bruises on her shoulders and upper arms. They still felt sore from the shaking but she felt bewildered more than angry. What had he meant by reality? He had been so angry about something that he had actually hurt her. She shed a few tears as she brushed her teeth.

That day, they had been invited to a barbecue. She spent the morning preparing some food and getting the twins ready. Still hurt, she felt a desire for revenge. How dare he insult her work, the writing that brought pleasure to so many readers? When she came to selecting what she was to wear, she chose a brief sundress with thin shoestring shoulder straps. Of course it revealed the black and blue of her shoulders. She threw on a cardigan and sat beside Pete in the car as they drove to their friends' home for the barbecue.

After parking the car, they walked along the path of the manicured garden. People had already gathered in the paved area at the back of the house where the barbecue was established. As the twins met some little mates and ran off onto the perfect lawn, Melissa noticed the house's glass doors and the curved sweep of the granite kitchen bench inside. Pete's friends were doing very well indeed. Hmm, perhaps this could be the setting for another story?

'Hi, Pete,' called a couple of men who stood near the barbecue. 'Want a drink?'

There was back-slapping camaraderie among the men; they knew Pete as a valuable batsman in the cricket team. The couples mixed, joking and flirting. People who knew of Melissa's writing congratulated her on her latest story and some women said they would never miss an issue of the magazine.

Melissa, although still bewildered by Pete's behaviour last night and stung by his words, managed to enjoy herself. She took off her cardigan and among that merry crew she flaunted her bruises. She said nothing, just let them be seen. 'Did Pete do that?' someone asked and they all laughed, knowing that could not possibly be true. When anyone asked her how she got the bruises she said mysteriously, 'I bumped into a cupboard.'

Relaxing on a garden chair, she watched her little family on the lawn. Pete had cut up barbecued sausages for the children; he amused the other children and mixed easily with the adults. He approached her once and suggested, 'Why don't you put your cardigan on?'

She gave a small smile but kept her shoulders bare.

She did put on her cardigan when the afternoon grew cool and at last the party was over and people began to say their goodbyes.

They drove home silently with Julie and James squabbling sleepily on the back seat. Pete was still silent as they unpacked the car and the children and went into the kitchen. When Melissa was opening a tin of spaghetti for the children, Pete spoke, 'Okay, you embarrassed me. Happy now?'

'Pete, I'm sorry about that. It was a sneaky revenge. You hurt me physically and you insulted my great interest, my writing. It was my only way of fighting back. But I'm still upset and puzzled. You said something about reality. I know my stories are not real but I think you meant more than that. What did you mean by reality?'

Pete was still looking at the purpling bruises. 'To think that I could do that,' he muttered. 'I'll never do anything like that again.'

Melissa noticed that he was almost in tears. This was so uncharacteristic that she put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

'The reality is that I'm jealous,' Pete said vehemently. 'You do everything so well. Everyone knows you as a successful writer. Yesterday you had that magazine with your latest story in it. I go to work and that knucklehead, Jackson, has been given the supervisor's job ahead of me. I'm just a factory worker. People never congratulate me for putting machine parts together. You make me so jealous.'

Some age-old instinct to provide comfort, to support the man she loved, arose within Melissa. Perhaps she had an innate desire for a happy ending. She had to reassure him. 'Those were your friends at the barbecue, not really mine. They could not even imagine that you caused the bruises. I know I earn money from writing but I am really a recluse. You are the one who is sociable and friendly. The twinnies adore their daddy. You are a success.'

As he put his arms around her, she looked into his eyes. She had always loved his eyes; they were a deep blue. She mused as she looked over his shoulder.

Blue eyes. The girl with the deep blue eyes sat on a park bench. At first she did not notice the tall stranger who approached and sat at the other end of the bench...
The Deb

Julie Martin

Box Hill, Victoria

Australia

10 July 2014

After finding a partner just the right height,

months of practice night after night.

The outlay and cost of finding a dress,

hundreds of dollars plus a little stress.

At last it's the night, the night of the Deb.

With much excitement, they head into town,

where they plan to get dressed.

At Nanna and Pa's, quite a hike from the farm,

if it finishes late they'll stay, no harm.

The hall ready, lighting set, table cloths pressed.

Final touches and flowers, floor polished ready for guests.

A couple of youngsters glide across it in socks.

Oh no, back at Nanna's, Dad, he's forgotten his strides and his jocks.

The telephone rings, it's Korey's mum.

She has some bad news, it's about her son.

Today, at the footy, it got a bit rough and there's no chance

that she thinks he can make it - let alone dance.

No one has noticed dad's borrowed pa's pants,

low on his hip, lighter grey but, they'll be ok.

In the meantime, Lucy is tense, she can't find her clip.

She's heard about Korey and drops her lip.

The tears start to flow and her makeup's a mess.

Mum to the rescue to straighten her dress.

The MC calls, 'No standing on toes.'

The music starts and away they go.

The debs step out and do a twirl.

Nanna whispers to Pa, 'What a beautiful girl.'

One step, two, three and four.

Oh dear, Korey he looks a bit sore.

Such a trooper, his arm's in a sling.

Although, when he dances it doesn't hinder him.

Dad fumbles around, it's time for a pic.

He turns to mum, she looks at him, suddenly sick.

Surely, there's nothing else wrong?

But, he's left the camera behind at home on the sink,

'I'm sorry', he says, 'there was no time to think.'
Happy Ever After - The Child And The Giant

David Newman

Jacobs Well, Queensland

Australia

11 July 2014

The child loved to hear his mother read to him the stories, as he would select for her, a favoured choice:

It didn't matter that he had already heard them, he knew every word then, it was always so much better with her voice:

Something soothing, something right, a bond, a connection, a kind of defection, from reality to liberty, a special time to share, for there was the care:

Whatever the hurts, whatever the dramas, they would all evaporate, all disappear for him, right then, right there:

What he felt, what he knew, didn't matter the story told, these times would always bring extra warmth and laughter:

Different characters, different themes, one thing always remained the same, they all ended - 'HAPPY EVER AFTER:'

The child could not know, way back then, way back when, that these stories would prove to be the greatest gifts that she ever gave him;

that what he felt now, for what was dealt now, and the - 'HAPPY EVER AFTER' - would one day, bring him back again and save him:

All too soon, the time would end, it was the trend, last story incomplete, real world now, the Giant has walked through, he's come through the door, the Giant has crossed the floor:

Does he whistle, does he stomp, is he tired, does he roar? All of these things are signs. Feel the ill! - Feel the chill! - Do not ignore!

Lumps go down to vanish, welts may disappear, so, no marks are left over time, it is quite true to see, it is quite true to find;

but look more closely, it may be hard to see, that which may always be, for that which may leave, the scarring of the mind:

From the top then, the oldest first, to help to 'sate a bully's thirst, the Giant must get in a little practice on these ones, they the taller ones:

Now! Build up the rage! Always good to gauge, to set the stage, before starting on those much smaller ones, the daughters and the sons:

The child had his turn at last, having heard the others past, and there were no more left after him, to face the father's sin, no more left at all to follow:

The Giant leers, so it appears, at the child's fears, 'This hurts me, far more than you!' but the child finds it hard to believe, he finds that hard to swallow:

He looked up, to see the Giant, with teeth all bared, must be hard, purple face, what a face, big disgrace, a face that would divulge, eyes that really bulge:

The child wondered then, if he and his kin, had given the Giant time, to find good reason of mind, and if asked to answer, would the Giant oblige?

Editor's note: This series of seven works was one of the most unusual submissions we've ever received. At first it was just that - an unusual series of works - but on reading it a second (and even a third) time, we felt the full effect of the storyline and better enjoyed the carefully crafted prose, hence the Editor's Picks all the way through.
Happy Ever After - The Cult

David Newman

Jacobs Well, Queensland

Australia

11 July 2014

Weekly now, the child watched, he saw the sun go down, as it set, he knew that on Fridays this was of a habit:

Ready for a day of rest, a mighty test, on one's best, the child needed extra strength now, for it was the Sabbath:

Almost nightly now, most especially now, visitors arrived at the door, they came, they saw all, at the house of war:

They came for a free meal! So what's the deal? In the right element, watch for the development, for it is the Giant who controls the floor:

Such a Holy Joe! So what's the go? Heads are turned, children spurned, the Giant just had to be right, for there is the might:

Lectures, followed by sermons, - 'You are all vermin!' - and only the Giant, be he right, can be judged as good in God's sight:

The child watched his mother there, safety pin underwear, as she smiled demurely, submissive, for this one that they all held up, so highly:

She knows that she is a woman, therefore unworthy, but at least she is an adult, so the result, according to cult, she may pass safely:

But, he is a child, to be by the world reviled, always seen but never heard, for there is the word, a lamb dressed for the slaughter:

At least the child knows, and it shows, that comes the time, his Mum will be fine, thanks be, to the good works of the Giant, for he has bought her:

He knows that for him and for the rest of his kin, there awaits a wicked death, with but few left, brought on by what the cult called, 'The Great Tribulation':

A fist slams down, vibration of sound, for all around, as the Giant revamps, before he approval stamps, the book of Revelations:

The child opened his eyes, just on sunrise, after sleep came upon him, the terror was on him, as he awakened to hear the strap, and it told others of their errors:

Then they all went to the Church Of Sorrows, for the Kingdom Of The Morrow, to hear those who spoke there, and all were well aware, that it was these who were the prophecy bearers:

The child sat up straight, his back all an ache, but he dared not slouch, it's not a couch, instead, take many notes, listen to all those who gloat;

for the time draws near, there's the fear, the children are to be left behind, but never mind, adults can be saved and the Giant must not miss the boat:

When comes the time of the Feast, it's off to the Middle East, for the Giant had been there before, to Petra, and he had seen it:

The only thing left to go, - now here's the blow, - the Giant must now let God know, what was so, and the Lord, he had better so deem it.
Happy Ever After - Fishing Trip

David Newman

Jacobs Well, Queensland

Australia

11 July 2014

Promised fishing, left misgivings, something in the telling was amiss, something in the eyes revealed a lie:

Frosted voice, slow deliberate, left no room for debate. Cold stare, chilled the air, to embark to leave a mark, but only the Giant knew why:

'Don't sleep in late! You be awake, by three in the morning!' It came out as a warning. 'You will be up! You will be ready! We leave here, before the dawning!'

The chid recoiled, as though he'd been hit. The sound and the words did not fit. All through the night, his eyes stayed open, as the child fought off sleep amidst the yawning:

The sound of the clock, - 'tick-tock' - was muted by a heart too fast. Thoughts of dread within his head, helped the child to push sleep aside:

Then the clock struck three, too soon to be, but still the child lay in wait, for the Giant to awake, wishing, hoping yet, that the Giant might forget, but then he heard the Giant arise:

Little was spoken in the car, the child's heart thumping, jumping, in a jar, as he tried to make timid pleasantries, to which the Giant simply inclined his head, 'A little quiet!' was all he said:

Sunshine through horizon cloud, bathed them in its dawning shroud. The Giant sat without a clue, that the child saw him there, in rusty hue. As if in blood, he was all covered red:

Little hire boat on the water, strained against the current that had caught her. Further and further out, no bringing her about:

Dropped the anchor there, calming sea contraire, belying of the facts, beginning to relax, the child began then, his own fears to doubt:

'Where is the land? Can you see?' the Giant's voice now, almost cheery. The child searched and craned his neck, from where he perched upon the deck, and yet no land could he see:

Then he gazed once more, at a cloud that he saw, hazy blue, hard to see, easy to deceive. The cloud turned out to be, a distant mountain that he could see. 'There!' he pointed out with glee:

'Are you quite sure? You don't look it, not at all! Come up near! No need to fear! The boat rocks about, but you won't fall out. I won't let you!' the Giant reassured:

He held the child in the air, the child thought that it was to help him to see out there, but then, just as the child was about to tell of what he saw, the Giant dropped him overboard:

The child could not swim, he did not know that he would float. It scared him there, outside the boat, so, he made a desperate grab for the side, then felt a hand push him down:

Held down, head down, way down, stayed down, he could not breathe, he could not draw a breath, as his head began to pound, to a rhythmic pulsing sound:

Thrashing, lashing all about, his mouth open, but he could not shout, his eyes were closed, he could not see, he tasted the salt of the open sea:

Giant hands upon his head, like cold comfort for the dead, the child thought then, that if he gave in, to let the Giant win, then he'd be lifted back within, but this was not to be:

The child relaxed, to be brought back, and the giant hands released him. He was surprised to bob up to the surface, but then to see a huge hand dart down with purpose:

The helpful hand clipped his eye, stinging, bringing out a cry. The sound cut shorter by the water, as he was pushed back down below the surface:

Vice-like grip prevented slip. There was no escape in the make, as his lungs cried out, in muted shout, for worthless life, for lifeless worth:

Here where darkness seeped, with invading sleep incomplete, he was still conscious aware, not ready yet for breath of death, though the body was inert:

It seemed that the soul had lost its goal, and with loss of hope, it departed of the envelope, that which used to hold it, but it was not the child who had defiled and sold it:

Somewhere heard, soft mother's words, beneath the water, seemed absurd, as it sounded very like, - 'HAPPY EVER AFTER' - stored so deeply down, was her sound, where might he never yet retrieve it:

No time to think, lungs want to drink, no longer hurt, just strange thirst, with which to burst, to leave this Earth, to leave all cares, to simply cease:

At long last, the hands were lifted. The child believed, that he drifted, down, down, not a sound, as he waited to reach the ocean floor, a breath of release then to draw, and so to ever more, rest there in peace:

Fate then dealt to him a shock, as on his back, he felt a knock, with face down, body bobbing, with the water gently rocking, beneath the boat, but still afloat:

With new strength, renewed energy, twisting, turning in the sea, the child clawed, as he pawed, to find his way around the hull, and then he rose up beside the boat:

Grasping side, gasping air, the child saw the Giant there, with his back turned to him, as if he was unaware. The Giant sat, he did not look. The Giant sat, baiting hook:

Perhaps it was the gulls, the Giant's hearing dulled, but the child did not take a chance, as the Giant sat, like in a trance, his back to him, quiet mutterings, but not one glance, not one look:

Time passed, don't know why, something felt, something heard? The Giant, of a sudden stirred, spun his head and saw the dead, the child selected, resurrected:

The Giant's face was all aghast, his skin, a look like glass, - 'What's the matter, does it shatter, does it leave you all a-tatter?' - the child's life was still protected:

The Giant lifted the child onto the deck, but the Giant was not beaten yet, for he could still win here with words, to say the coldest thing that the child had ever heard:

'It is possible to save a life, by simply choosing not to take it! That choice is mine alone, and only I will make it!' Here the win was implied, here the win inferred:

For many then, for many men, a soul, it will be lost to sin, but for some, life not yet begun, life not proper yet begins, - (Let the angels draw near, that they might hear!) - for a soul, it can be lost to fear:

Such it was for the child's soul, begun for him here, a new role. For that which was lost, and of that which came in, has brought many a mother's tears.
Happy Ever After - The Youth

David Newman

Jacobs Well, Queensland

Australia

12 July 2014

The child grew into a youth, he grew in what he knew. No-longer did he see his father as a giant, and yet, he could not see a man;

and of the cult, what he saw, were no men at all, for they seemed to him, to be weak, or predators of every kind, and this, the youth just could not understand:

To be weak, was to be obsolete, and he did not want the other, but to what lengths must one go, to discover, how to return to being human?

To feel again, for real again, under the dark cloud, music loud, heavy drink, on the brink, try not to think, make no plans:

For a change of beat, he found the night streets, for he had no fear, he could disappear, falling through the cracks of life, hidden behind the eyes, the sidewalk his disguise:

In the gutter, with the clutter, here with so many lost souls, was a simple truth to hold, as here for the bold, was an escape from the lies:

Mind racing, thoughts pacing, for answers that he was chasing. All the fights of the nights, what's the attraction? It's just a distraction, to pass some time away!

Beneath his stare, the youth was quite aware, that even with no soul, he must still play the role, that he must still get through each day:

The sociopathic have heavy traffic, peak hour twenty-four seven, with days unleavened, no-one rises, there are no surprises, with nothing showing for the knowing:

He learned to play-act, without the fact, to speak the words as he had heard. Somewhere, there was still the longing to belong, to change the wrong, that which was in him, and still growing:

To a-sate that which was there within, the soul had gone, but it had left the sin, so, the youth went to greater extent in his intent, to feel again, that which had been taken:

With no hope to ascend, and the world had not reached its promised end, the cult at fault, the father too. How to live, at least pretend? These were lessons which they had forsaken:

Back to church again, try to blend, sleepless trend, mind still ticking, thoughts still tricking, he tried to share in some care, but still there was nothing there:

He tried to learn, the tide to turn, in this house of sorrow, but of what can one borrow, from that which was there, in the air, thick evil to ensnare?

Still, they came to play the game, with all the same lying shame, but who was really to blame? All those who listened to twisted words, were of, so called, high intelligence:

The youth heard them speaking such, he saw this group, so out of touch, believing on these men, for the sake of man, while truth held little relevance:

Epidemic of academics, each led their own cliques, with lots of books and some concerned looks, teach the poor to feel rich, then take the tithe, for they must pay:

Where left brained leaders were succeeders, reading between the lines, deciphered learnings brought their earnings, to teach all else of end of days.
Happy Ever After - The Lady

David Newman

Jacobs Well, Queensland

Australia

12 July 2014

Where could the youth go, to get away from the foe? He did not know, but he knew that he did not want to be there:

He took a chance, he took a walk, away from the hall, for he had received no call, so, he broke the rule, to go around the school, and he sat there upon a stair:

From where sat the youth, all alone, all aloof, he looked around and he could see all in a panoramic view:

As he watched, as he saw, an old lady took a fall, she took a spill, and then she was still, as she lay there a-Kimble, her body all askew:

The youth then left the stair, to go over there, and he went towards her, he approached her, he closed in on her, but for why, he was not sure:

Perhaps, if he got close enough, near enough, then he would feel something, anything, a pass, a token, a memory of past to re-open, to unlock that closed door:

The old lady whimpered, but she tried to smile, through the strain, through the pain, as she held up towards him, an outstretched hand;

in trust of him, for help from him, but the youth, he simply stared at it, he just glared at it, as if he could not understand:

Finally he shrugged, and he turned his back on her, he turned away from her, to stay from her, and he returned back to the stair:

The youth then watched as others came running, they were hurrying, scurrying, and it did seem to him, that they might really care:

He guessed that she had said nothing, not anything, not a thing, to anyone, for there was nothing of it that to him was ever said;

as he received no lectures, no sermons, no reprimands, none at all, not at all, not in all the long weeks that lay ahead:

For a long time after that, he saw that she used crutches. He was bold, he asked the fold, and of it he was told, that her leg had broken:

But not of this, nor of anything else, to him, had she spoken, for he was a pariah, he of the mire, so, not a word after that, not a word in token:

One day, the lady came up close to him, near to him, to look into the cold, it of the empty hold, where there ought to have been a soul, she stared into his eyes;

as if she expected to see something else there, but what else there? Through the lash, into the trash, she looked deep beneath the human disguise:

The youth never did get a chance to ask her, to question her, to enquire of her, what she had seen, what could there have been, right there inside his head;

for the lady, she was old, the lady she was frail, and it was just three years more, until the lady, she was gone, until the lady, she was dead.
Happy Ever After - Returns The Child

David Newman

Jacobs Well, Queensland

Australia

12 July 2014

All the dark arts of the occult, he did not want to discover, for the youth, he found fault, in having power over others, so, he did not search, he did not seek, he did not want to find:

Those that were of it, those that he had met, seemed to be similar too, just like, too like, certain Christians that he had left far behind:

As a cold wind blew, down a darkened street, an unlit street, his well- known beat, the youth's memories began to stir;

of beatings and mind games, of lies and false claims, from the many wolves amongst the sheep, and of a father that one must call - 'Sir!'

The youth decided that, if he could not feel anything else, then he would feel anger, there a danger, from sociopath to psychopath, he the unworthy, he the unsaved:

With dark thoughts as consorts, for something, for anything, in such as this, he immersed himself, he allowed himself to be bathed:

Fight the mind, try to find, a switch, a trigger, search for something bigger, but then he found that he could not feel even rage:

He knew that it should not be this way, so, he sought dormant thoughts of younger days, he went back, he turned back, to an even earlier page:

A mother's voice, a favoured choice, of story themes and childhood dreams, it was to here, after all else had been sifted, that at last his mind had drifted:

He remembered all, before the fall, before he fell, he remembered how it felt, a wall did melt, and a floodgate from the past was lifted:

The memories overwhelmed him, overpowered him, they harrowed him, as he collapsed there in the street, he collapsed into a heap:

It was as if he had once more, twice more, been held down, head down, way down, stayed down, into that ocean deep:

Childlike emotions washed over him, they covered him, they smothered him, until he could not breathe, he could not draw a breath:

The coldness that he had carried for so long, it was gone, but he felt a hand, he felt the span, which could have been that of death:

All these feelings were as new, all anew, now renewed and raw, as the youth finally began to get up, to lift up, he began to rise:

The numbness was all gone, a new life now begun, the past undone, but still he had to analyse, categorise, he had to sift out the lies:

Too young he had become a man, he'd learned to stand, now, suddenly just a child again, although his years were seventeen:

And with all these feelings, with these new dealings, was returned to him, given him, granted him, the human right to dream.
Happy Ever After - Amen

David Newman

Jacobs Well, Queensland

Australia

12 July 2014

The youth knew that the new child in him, that which had been him, must once more, quickly again be grown, for the seeds had now been sown;

so, he found himself a place within the race, and he began to surround himself with opposites, differences, to all that he had before known:

It was hard, he did the yards, to gain trust, it was a must, though still too curt with those that he'd hurt, still hiding behind the walls;

still feeling out of place, still judging every face, every word, every action, some heard, some seen, but some only imagined, still scared that he might fall:

He met with people who were temperate, and from them, he tried to make for himself a template, to find escape from this dizzy state, dark traits to abate, and to elude pre-written fate:

Open the gate to love and care! - Wait! - Rationalise! - Theorise! - Idealise! - bit by bit, get a grip, get a grasp of the task, before it becomes too late:

Softly, slowly, does the trick, highly lowly thought trip, to find the kind of mind that was lost in time. A mother's words, stories heard, - 'HAPPY EVER AFTER!'

Back on track, thoughts turn back, to go forward, to go towards, an open door, an open heart, there's a start. Climb on higher, climb another rafter!

Through the years, thoughts were cleared, a fathers sins, in the bin. The youth made a dash, from the trash, away from all fanatics:

That it must never be seen, what could have been, what might have become of the fathers son, under load, on a different road, of this he was emphatic:

He owes all to his recall, when a mothers love turned the tide, that of a dangerous ride, that would have led to disaster, if even once, the apprentice had become the master:

But to keep himself safe from such a fate, he kept close to him, for all time, just one small child belief, and it was that of the - 'HAPPY EVER AFTER!'

Now a man, who sees with more objective, - bad doesn't come from just one, it comes from a collective, - passed on from father to son, but the father was once a son too:

If he was able to ask of his father now, just one thing, a true answer to bring, then what he would ask is - 'So! What the hell was done to you?'

We may believe that we understand someone, that all which has gone into making a father, is known by the son, but no-one is fully known, their stories ever vaster:

So, just one wish then, for all men, who seem to lack, and get off track, either in this life, or in the life next, may they all find the best, may each of them find their very own, - 'HAPPY EVER AFTER.'
A Deserted Beach

Jean Bundesen

Woodford, New South Wales

Australia

13 July 2014

The cyclone passed.

We walk around the headlands

To where the open ocean was swirling

Viridian green and marine blue -

A jade necklace.

There's a large

Stinger ray in the deep rolling water

Floating like a space ship.

Onto a deserted beach

Littered with seaweed and drift wood,

White lace filigree capped waves,

Mares' tails flying - wing in,

Crash onto the shore.

Retreat...

Leave circles of cappuccino froth,

Reflections on shimmering wet sand.

Circling seagulls - scavengers

Their strident calls echo

As they search for food.

Sand crabs scuttle away.

Saline perfume on the breeze

Bright sunshine smiles,

Rippling happiness,

Wish I was there.
Notions Of Beauty

Robertas

Drummoyne, New South Wales

Australia

14 July 2014

The chimney stack smokes, the coalmine wheel turns

Sending miners down and bringing them back up -

Most of them, at least.

The cotton mill, brown and red and grey

And permanent, in the smog-capped valley.

There's something here of beauty

Despite the blots they seem.

Bricks and grime and choking air

Have overcome the forest and the field.

The green and pleasant land, defeated, has withdrawn.

But raw-faced peasants

Forsaking penury, seeking fortunes,

Flock to be amongst the dark satanic mills.

They smell in them a livelihood,

They sense a bleak, slim promise of prosperity.

More chance here than in the sweaty serfdom,

Withstood for generations, with no hope

To ever rise above their allocated stations.

They'd rather suffer self-made men

Who proudly spout the dark new catchcry:

Where there's Moock there's Brass.

There's beauty in the ugliness -

The prospect of a better life.
A Million Stars In The Sky

Anneliese Senn

Glenbrook, New South Wales

Australia

15 and 16 July 2014

Keila sat in the bar sipping her glass of red wine. She realised, for the tenth time in the last half an hour, that she was tapping her foot on the stool and forced herself to stop. _Where is he this time?_ she wondered. The Oriental, an old nineteenth century pub, was one of her favourite places. She loved the dark polished wood panels, ornate framed mirrors and the dark burgundy tiled bar.

Old buildings always gave her the feeling of being in another time and place. Sometimes she truly believed that she belonged back there. That by some cosmic mistake she was born in the wrong century. Aside from the corsets and petticoats, she imagined that life was so much simpler a couple of centuries ago. Everyone knew how to behave, knew what was expected of them. Unfortunately, Keila's illusion of being in the nineteenth century was broken somewhat by the plasma TV on the wall above the bar and the old guys sitting around drinking beer and watching football. She took the last sip of her wine and stood up.

'Hey, sorry I'm late Babe. You want another drink?' He always made it just before she got angry enough to leave.

'I thought you weren't coming,' she said.

'As if I would miss my last chance to see you before you go away.' He kissed her on the top of the head before he went over to the bar.

Keila watched him as he bought the drinks and felt the familiar twist in her stomach. He was so beautiful, a perfect blend of ruggedness without being too rough and perfectly proportioned features without being too delicate. She smiled as she heard Amy's voice in her head saying that most people are lucky to get one 'Mr Perfect' in a lifetime, but Keila seemed to have a new one to go with each season. She was wondering if Amy was right about Adam as he turned and smiled at her from the bar. He sat down next to her, picked her hand up out of her lap and held onto it from across the table. His hands felt warm and comforting to Keila. She noticed his fingernails had grease under them.

'You know my mate Brad? He had car troubles again and it took longer than we thought to fix. I keep telling him to get a new car but he won't give up his old shitbox.'

'Isn't he the one with the old Mustang? It's so cool! I love old cars, I've always wanted to get an Anglia.'

Adam laughed. 'No, please, I don't know if I could go out with a girl who drove an Anglia.'

'So that's all it would take for you to dump me. Thanks.' She took a sip of wine, trying to be angry still but feeling herself relax.

'So what have you been doing today?' Adam moved his stool, snuggling in closer to her.

'Me and Amy went to a movie. It was a bit of a girl movie but it was cool 'cause it was set in Verona, you know, where Romeo and Juliet lived?'

'Oh yeah, from that movie with Leonardo in it?'

'What? No. From the play. By Shakespeare, you know?'

'That was by Shakespeare?'

'Seriously? It's his most famous play ever. Didn't you read it at school?'

'Nah, was probably meant to but I wasn't really into reading. I was good at pretending I'd read them though.'

'That's crazy. I don't think I can go out with a guy who hasn't read Romeo and Juliet.'

Adam laughed and pulled her over to him. Keila wished she was joking but she wasn't quite sure.

~~~

'So, this is it.' Amy pulled up into their campsite and looked at Keila. 'Tents up then - it's relaxation time.'

'Awesome.' Keila smiled. She was in dire need of a restful and calm atmosphere and was looking forward to having nothing to do and no one to have to run around for. She planned on lying around in the sun and doing as little as possible. She also had a bit of thinking to do and this would be the perfect atmosphere for it.

'Let's go for a swim when we finish. I haven't been to the beach in way too long.'

The camping grounds consisted of a sandy track twisting through the tall gum trees with small clearings all around filled with tents and caravans. Families and backpackers wandered around in board shorts and packs of children rode by on bikes. The tents went up with hardly any drama and they were unpacking the car when they glimpsed the first sign of the storm on the horizon.

'Mama! Bike!' The loudest child they had ever heard had just walked into the campsite next to theirs. The kid continued to shriek as his mother pulled a tricycle out of the black Mercedes four wheel drive that was parked nearby. He then proceeded to ride straight into the side of Keila's tent at full speed, pulling half the pegs out of the sandy ground.

'Bronson,' the mother sang, in one of those creepy kindergarten teacher voices. 'Don't do that to the nice lady's tent, Darling.'

But Bronson didn't even hesitate as he backed up for another go. The mother glanced apologetically at Keila but didn't intervene. Keila stepped in front of Bronson and, turning her back towards the mother, glared down at him.

'That's a nice bike,' she said loudly, then leaned close to the kid and hissed, 'If you do that again I'm gonna smash it with my hammer.'

Bronson's eyes widened and he stared at her for a second before he turned and pedaled down the track. His mother ran after, calling for him to come back.

~~~

They had finally got the tents organised and made their way down to the beach. The late afternoon wind was coming up but the sun had only just disappeared below the horizon and the water was not too cold. They sat dripping, drinking red wine in plastic wine glasses and looked out over the ocean. There was nothing out there but bright blue water and sky. Even the beach was empty. It was like the human race had never existed, but for the footprints in the sand and the cigarette butts scattered amongst the reedy grass. They didn't want to leave but it was getting cold and the wine was running out.

When they returned to their tents the scene in the neighbouring campsite was chaotic. The mother was rushing around trying to get dinner ready while Bronson tormented seagulls and periodically tried to run off into the bush. The mother would run after him and drag him back kicking and screaming. All the while a man, who was presumably the father, sat out of the way on a fold up camp chair, oblivious to the noise around him. He was reading his newspaper with such complete concentration that Amy and Keila decided he must be deaf. The mayhem next door induced the need for them to relocate for dinner to the communal barbeque area. After more wine, the whole situation became a lot more amusing.

~~~

The next morning Keila woke at daybreak to the sound of squeals of laughter and opened her eyes just as a small fistful of sand flew across her tent and landed on her sleeping bag.

'Oh God.' She groaned. This was the worst hangover she'd had for a while. She buried her head under her pillow just as sand sprayed across her back and into her hair.

'Bronson,' the mother called.

It was way too early for that voice, Keila reflected, as she tried to shake herself out of her hangover daze.

'Darling, it's breakfast time. You can talk to the nice lady after breakfast.'

The mother's words prompted Keila to forget her hangover altogether. The last thing Bronson would encounter if he dared approach her was a 'nice lady'! She woke Amy and encouraged her rather vehemently to go on a long bushwalk. As Keila walked behind Amy through tunnels of wind-tortured trees and over rocky cliffs toward a distant secluded beach, she contemplated the family next door.

'Is that woman brain-dead or what?! And the father's even worse - he hasn't got off his arse to help her with their darling little Anti-Christ once.' She was still annoyed at being woken so early on her 'relaxing' holiday. She was also quite surprised at how much this family was affecting her. It wasn't just how obnoxious the kid was, or the parents' ineffective parenting skills.

Their family dynamics made her contemplate questions about herself that she had managed to avoid so far. She started to wonder if she would ever be a wife and a mother. It had never been at the forefront of her mind. In fact, she had often listened in frustration to Amy going on about how desperate she was for the white picket fence life, so desperate, thought Keila in her tiredness and irritation that she was willing to stay in an unsatisfactory relationship for it.

'I know,' said Amy. 'They're exactly how I imagine it would be if I stayed with Daniel. He's so hopeless and messy and totally oblivious to everything but his stupid research. He almost killed our dog by giving her off chicken last time I was away, and he wants us to have a baby!' She was kicking at the dirt in her frustration as she walked.

'If only he had come with us he'd have been put off having kids forever.'

'But I want to have kids one day.' Amy had stopped and was frowning as she looked out over the ledge at the waves smashing against the rocks far below. The water was such a bright turquoise colour that it looked like it was fake, like in a Photoshopped image. The path they were on was curving around the side of a cliff with nothing but an occasional bush or boulder between it and the steep slope down to the water. Being a Girl Guide leader and an experienced bushwalker, Amy had on comfortable, worn-in boots and a long sleeved cotton shirt. She stood in the midday sun protected by her bucket hat, contemplating her dilemma in complete comfort.

Keila, on the other hand, was wearing a singlet and cap and in spite of a profuse amount of sunscreen was in the process of getting burnt as hell. She could feel the intense heat of the sun glaring down on her and anytime she brushed past a bush her skin stung painfully.

'Hey, stop worrying so much, you've got at least fifteen more years to have kids. And if you want to be one of those freaky fifty year old mums you'll have even longer. Let's go find some shade and relax,' Keila said, taking Amy by the arm and walking on, praying the beach was around the next corner.

After dinner Amy and Keila had made a campfire and were sitting on fold-out chairs in a small island of light. The darkness around them was still, since most of the other campers were asleep. In the sky were more stars than Keila thought could possibly exist. She clicked her iPod onto a reggae song and leant back to look at the stars.

They reminded her of her Grandma, who had died a few years before. When Keila had been going through a particularly messy break up her Grandma had said to her, 'There are more men out there than stars in the sky, don't cry over a bad one.' Keila sighed; her Grandma had never mentioned how to tell the good from the bad.

Just then a piercing scream echoed through the night. Amy jumped out of her seat and Keila thought her heart would jump out of her chest. Out of the darkness emerged Bronson, running down the track from the direction of the toilet block. As usual, his mother was running after him.

_Of course_ , thought Keila _, who else would be screaming like that?_ 'Umm, is everything ok?' Keila tried to relax her clenched teeth.

Bronson ran to her and yanked on her arm. 'Monster!' he screamed and pointed to the side of the tent and then hid behind her.

'What? There's nothing there.' She picked up her torch and shone it where he had pointed.

'Monster!' Bronson's small round face stared up at her. His blond hair was plastered to his head with the sweat he had worked up in his tantrum.

Keila was struck by the fact that the boy had run to her and not to his mother for help. For the first time she felt sorry for him. She could hear in Bronson's voice an appeal for help. She pointed the torch under the car.

'No monster.' She shone it around the campsite and between the tents. 'Nothing there, see?' She clicked off the torch and turned back to him, triumphant.

A sound of material ripping echoed loudly through the night. Amy's tent shook and rattled as if there was a sumo wrestling match going on in there. Keila fumbled with the torch and unzipped the tent, keeping as far from the opening as possible. The light shone into the tent and revealed what simply had to be the largest wombat in existence. Its massive body was covered in sparse, wiry fur and the light reflected off its eyes giving it an eerie look. It had been snuffling through Amy's handbag and stomping about in the chaos that was once her orderly tent.

'Monster,' Bronson exclaimed, sounding smug more than anything.

Keila zipped the tent back up and sat down abruptly on her chair. She looked at Bronson, 'Yes, you're right.'

She smiled at the boy that, only minutes before, she would have happily told to jump off a cliff. He was not so bad. Like everyone else he just wanted to be heard and to feel secure. Perhaps his parents weren't so bad either. Maybe they had never learnt how to function as a family in their own childhood.

As she watched Bronson return to his tent she knew that it was time for her to start thinking more seriously about all the things she had been putting off in her life. She didn't want to wait too long and wish she had things that were no longer possible. She also didn't want to make a hasty decision and make the wrong choice. Did she really have the patience to have a family? Did she really want to make the compromises those types of relationships require?

~~~

The sad thing about the camping trip was that the drive home turned out to be the most relaxing time Keila had had for days. It was peaceful and quiet, the wind blowing through the window felt warm on her face and the rhythmic sound of the engine made her feel sleepy. She felt things were definitely looking up now that her sunburn was fading and was happy that every minute they were getting closer to civilisation. Keila was looking forward to spending the rest of her holidays reading at home with the air conditioner on.

~~~

Keila spotted Amy sitting at their usual table at The Oriental. She was holding her head up with her hand, one elbow resting on the table, staring down into her glass of red wine. It wasn't until Keila sat down that she looked up and tried to smile.

'Hey, I thought we were meant to be celebrating. What's wrong?' Keila had been waiting for the day when Amy would decide what to do about Daniel but for the past two weeks nothing had changed.

'I'm good, everything's fine. Where's Adam?'

'He's coming, had to help a friend out but he's meant to be here soon. He's always bloody late because of his friends. I wish they'd grow up and sort their own lives out.'

'At least he cares about other people. You should give Adam a chance, he's only young and he's really trying.' Amy sounded angry and tears were welling in her eyes. She turned to hide her face while she wiped them away.

'Hey, what is it?' Keila put her arm around Amy's shoulder. 'Where's Daniel?'

'He'll be here soon, he's not staying though. He got a call from his assistant just as we were leaving. Something is happening in the lab that apparently he can't miss. I don't see what the big rush is, he's not bloody curing cancer.' She wiped her eyes again and looked at Keila. 'Sorry, I just can't stand to see you get rid of another good guy. Not everyone is like your ex. Adam would do anything for you. If it was you who had gotten your first book published he would be here.'

Now Keila was the one staring into her wine glass. 'I know. It's just really hard to trust anyone.'

'I think you should give yourself more credit. Just because you chose one major idiot doesn't mean you have to doubt your judgement forever. You've learnt a lot since then.'

Adam had just walked in to the bar and smiled at Keila. He sat down with his beer.

'Hey, congratulations,' he said, kissing Amy's cheek. 'I can't wait to read the novel.'

'Since when have you been into historical novels?' Keila couldn't help but ask.

'Well, never, but it's not every day someone you know gets a book published. Maybe I'll end up liking historical novels.' Adam was trying to look offended but his eyes gleamed like they always did when he was teasing her. 'I saw Daniel out the front, he was on the phone and said he'd be in soon.'

Amy pushed her stool back. 'Who wants some Tequila shots?'

When Daniel walked in they were at the bar and had just downed their third round of shots. He walked over and kissed Amy on the cheek. 'Hi. What did I miss?'

'You're always missing everything,' Amy said and ordered another wine.

'Hey Amy, we're going have a game of pool. Be back soon okay?' Keila pulled Adam over to the pool table in the next room.

Amy and Daniel went back to the table with their drinks. Amy looked at him as he picked up his beer.

'I can only have one drink. Terry said the pollution levels came down fifteen percent using the revised system. I want to go make sure he doesn't stuff up somehow.'

'It's okay. I know. You have to go save the world. I understand completely.' Amy's sarcastic tone finally got Daniel's attention. 'Actually, no, it's not really okay. I know what you do is important but seriously, you're not the only environmental researcher in the world and one night without you would make no difference at all to your project. You don't give a shit about me.'

'What? Where did this come from? Of course I care about you, you know that.'

'No. I don't and the fact that it's such a surprise to you demonstrates my point precisely. Goodbye, go save the world.' Amy walked over and sat down where Keila and Adam were playing pool.

~~~

Keila opened her front door and let Adam in. She put her hands around his waist and felt the warmth of him pressed against her. 'I've got something for you.' She handed him a book.

'Romeo and Juliet.' Adam smiled.

He opened the cover and inside was written: Will you be my star?
Our God, Our Lord, Our King, Our Christ

Elle J Simpson

Callaghan, New South Wales

Australia

17 July 2014

This poem is for our God

Who gave us our beautiful world

Who started it all with a word

And rebirthed it anew with a flood

This poem is for our Lord

Who loves us despite our flaws

In whose image we are made

By whose power we are saved

This poem is for our King

Whose praises the angels sing

Whose promise each morning brings

Who made all and everything

This poem is for our Christ

Who blessed us with His sacrifice

Who brought us out of the night

To be with Him in eternal life
Of Boys And Girls And Calculus

Graham Sparks

Bathurst, New South Wales

Australia

18 July 2014

A bloke,

negotiating all life's little humps and curves

does average out those bumps

to make them easier on the nerves,

an integration with respect to time.

But woman,

on the other hand does differentiate,

dy/dx'ing even small inflections

into peaks that interrupt the clouds,

or chasms fathomless in depth.

Would that man could integrate his wife's derivative

and woman d/dx her husband's integrand,

respecting yin with a minus sign,

then adding up the two results

we have a fine flat line,

perhaps a bit banal but there's no trace of angst.

Ahh!!!!

But here's the crux,

it's all the little ups and downs

that put the spice on boiled potatoes.
Sometimes

John Arvan

Underdale, South Australia

Australia

19 July 2014

Sometimes there's a plan in place

perhaps a strategy

Otherwise we leave our lives

to serendipity

You and I as we have made

from this chaotic realm

A love, a home, a time to grow

Our miracles

From dreams
A Silent Friend

Connie Howell

Wentworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

19 July 2014

Death came, it was a surprise,

Even though expected, it came like a thief in the night.

And so my breath was taken away

By the suddenness, the surety of it,

No hesitation, it was time, so it came and took its prize.

It made me think of mortality,

Mine, yours, ours.

How to prepare, if at all

Without losing the reality of life.

To look death in the face and to know

That when it comes it will not be a stranger,

But rather a friend who has waited patiently, silently

For reunion.
Anything Goes

Lorraine Sanderson

Campbelltown, South Australia

Australia

20 July 2014

Huddled together above the shoreline in the nippy autumn air and fading glow of dusk, we're oblivious to the curious glances being directed our way.

Behind us, local anglers head down the pier loaded with rods and expectation, as we take photos of ourselves and giggle like teenagers at their first school dance.

All seventy plus, we're here to celebrate special '0' birthdays for two of our group at the cliff-top restaurant just metres away.

Nothing unusual about that of course, but in this sleepy hamlet of Acacia Cove, population four hundred, it soon becomes obvious that women 'of a certain age' dressed to the hilt in colours usually the preserve of Pro Hart or Van Gogh are not a regular Saturday evening sight.

Our table looks splendid. We know this because a couple of us drove to the dining room earlier from our beach house nearby to decorate the chairs and tabletop to match our outfits. We've also arranged with Geoff, the owner and bar manager, for a special calorie clogged cake later in the evening.

As the sun slips below the horizon and the crimson sky succumbs to black, we file inside, still chuckling.

'Far out - you're kidding me,' splutters Geoff, as he struggles to control the salver of drinks he's carrying across the room. He too is clearly gobsmacked at a septet of old birds lighting up his establishment in top-to-toe red, yellow, purple and blue, orange, green and indigo too.

More especially when topped off with dazzling fascinators, floppy sun hat, feather boa, iridescent wig and coordinating fingernails!

After safely delivering his tray, Geoff scurries over. 'I've just got to snap this for our local rag. Would you mind?' he asks breathlessly, holding his camera aloft. Obligingly, we beam into the flashlight, while about thirty fellow diners play Follow the Leader in standing to applaud.

We've been quite unprepared for this warm and spontaneous reaction to our appearance. As we girls exchange subtle, sheepish glances, we realise that although 'dressing up' is not new to us, it's the first time we've ever appeared this way in public.

Jean, Jan, Ros, Kay, Bev, Molly and I have been coming together for a theme weekend every April for more than a decade. This 'time out' from our busy, conservative and health-conscious lives in the city has become a highlight on our calendars, providing as it does an opportunity for pure indulgence in fresh air, in friendship, in food, wine and fantastic fun - all within the private confines of our rented seaside hideaway.

Our costume dinners have been weird and wonderful: from The Simpsons to the Flintstones, from rock stars to Little Bo Peep. We sing with the gleeful gusto of children; we dance as if no-one is watching and play charades with no skill at all.

Importantly, we laugh. We laugh until our faces stream with tear smudged mascara and our glamour is replaced by a closer resemblance to Dracula's daughters.

The rules are simple at these annual sojourns: do as much or as little as you wish. Walks on the beach (or lazing in a chair), aerobic workouts (or watching from a chair), fishing, riding or just reading, be it _War and Peace_ or a 'penny dreadful'.

The icing on the cake, quite literally, is the food. All activities are punctuated with this past-time; when the problems of the world are debated and resolved, or personal trials and triumphs shared - where we ponder the younger generation with praise and despair in equal measure.

But the more birthdays we have, the more likely that laughter and effervescence often mask the pain of life's curve ball events and this year has been an annus horribilis for us.

Jean, Ros and Molly are grieving, yet here they are, eager to toast their friends' milestones and to take pleasure and refuge in the deep and loyal ties that bind us; to recall joyful moments from the past and make new memories for the future. It's for these three ladies we've adopted a rainbow theme this year, exuding beauty, colour and hope.

Tonight we could have been mistaken for extroverted party gals old enough to know better. But we've been truly touched by the many who've joined us throughout our meal, one even crying, yet all inspired by a gaggle of grandmothers with courage, creativity and a unique sense of fun. Anything goes and we've done it all!

Life is a mystery tour, the roads unknown, the skies unpredictable. But of this my friends and I are certain: sunshine always follows rain, and we've no need of the gold at rainbow's end. We already hold it in our warm and weathered hands.
Gum - Parts 1 & 2

Ella

Montreal

Canada

20 and 21 July 2014

_There will always be a reason why we meet new people; either they will change something in our life or we will change something in theirs._

Gum woke up feeling a sudden spurt of energy, something he usually felt when the sun was rising up above the horizon. He had spent the night in the corner of an old, wooden porch of a shaggy little house. He had slept surprisingly well. The idea that nobody here knew about his existence made him feel comfortable. Gum stretched his long legs and looked at his oversized shoes. 'All good people wear good shoes,' he murmured.

It was his favorite time of the day. The surrounding silence and the morning air were refreshing. Gum knew that all plants in the garden had already opened up their leaves to the sun. He looked at Lilly of the Valley. It was growing comfortably under the porch. Gum touched the surface of its long leaf and watched few shiny drops of water fall to the ground.

'Aren't you lucky?' asked Gum looking at the Lilly of the Valley. 'You hold on to the ground with your roots. You have always the same neighbors. You don't have to hide, or pretend that you are invisible. You are accepted by everybody and everything around you exactly the way you are. Sometimes, you are even admired. You know how to defend yourself when a hungry squirrel comes... All animals have learned by now that they will get sick to their stomachs if they would try to eat you. No weeds will take your territory. No other plants will compete with you aggressively. It is your preference to grow in the shade of this porch, not a necessity.'

At the time Gum was leaving Neston he was full of excitement. He was ready for an adventure, was prepared to learn, and was willing to work hard. Gum was convinced that things would be good.

Gum was not sure how long he had been travelling since he left Neston. He remembered that he had been moving fast and didn't stop until he saw a place that made him feel comfortable. In Neston light was always dim and colors were pale. The place where Gum had decided to stop was foggy and looked mysterious, yet familiar. Gum looked at grey, sandy paths meandering among old beige trees, and softly green groundcovers.

It reminded him of a circular-shaped, little park. Several wooden benches and some rusted garbage bins surrounded the park. Gum remembered seeing similar garbage bins in Neston, but garbage bins in Neston were shiny and clean, and always filled with disposed of little objects.

One could always find something useful there. Garbage bins around the little park were rusted and empty. In the middle of the park were tall and shady trees. A large branch was lying on the soft groundcover under the tallest tree. When Gum looked at the branch, he saw a man sitting there. The man was reading a book.

'Good people read good books,' thought Gum and headed toward the man with enthusiasm.

The man sitting on a branch was wearing a bright red polo shirt, blue jeans, and Nike shoes. He had short, grey hair. The color of his hair seemed to have a cooling effect on his round, red face. 'What book do you read?' asked Gum sitting on the branch, next to Red Man. Red Man looked at the front cover of his book, as if he was trying to remind himself the title of it.

'It is a book about bicycle gangs,' said Red Man looking at Gum with some interest. 'We are all surrounded by gangs and criminals.' Red Man pointed his finger in Gum's direction. 'Where do you come from?'

'I am from Neston,' whispered Gum, feeling intimidated by Red Man's tone of voice.

'Never heard of it.' Red Man seemed suspicious.

'Oh, most likely because nobody in Neston ever heard about bicycle gangs,' concluded Gum.

'Is it on this planet?' Red Man started laughing.

'No,' said Gum.

The man stopped laughing. 'I prefer having some privacy, so I can read my book,' he said.

'I am looking for a place to stay,' said Gum, changing the subject of conversation.

'Don't ask me,' said the man reaching for his lunch bag.

'I am hungry,' Gum added softly. Red Man looked at him puzzled. Gum thought that Red Man must have been mumbling some bad words to himself when he was leaving the little park holding his lunch back under his arm. The whole situation made Gum more ashamed then disappointed. He blamed himself for this unpleasant conversation.

Gum could swear that the man was disgusted by him, although he was not sure yet what went wrong. For a while he looked silently at the grey pathway under his feet. When he raised his head and looked in Red Man's direction, there was nobody. Little park in this unknown town was empty. It was empty like its rusted garbage bins.

All houses in Unknown town looked the same. Each house had a fenced little garden, a wooden porch, a large mail box, and a flag on the roof. All windows were decorated with heavy curtains, but no flowers. Streets were straight with no pavements. Gum walked towards the town's commercial center with an unsettling feeling of alienation. To someone like Gum, sameness of this place made it look small and unfriendly.

One block away from the town's commercial center was a corner store. In the main window of the store someone had displayed colorful, fresh fruits and flowers. Gum noticed that the door to the store was wide open.

There were two people inside and Gum could hear their conversation very well. He stopped to listen. He could hear a voice with a soothing, melodic tone. Someone was telling a story about people from a faraway land. Gum found the story fascinating not only because of its content but because of the way it was unfolding. It made him think about his grandmother's garden in Neston.

Suddenly, another voice interrupted the storyteller's quiet monologue. 'What is this strange fellow doing here?' It took a second before Gum realized that it was about him. He looked inside the store and saw the face of a woman.

'She would be pretty if she had a nicer facial expression,' thought Gum, not sure about his own facial expression at this moment. Then, he saw a storyteller's face with its expression matching the facial expression of the woman.

'Who are you?' asked the man.

'I am Gum. Sorry, the door was open.'

'Door to my store is always open. We are a nice community here.'

'I am from Neston. We probably could relate to each other, we had some similar life experiences...' mumbled Gum.

'What could you know about my life?' the man started laughing.

'Well,' said the woman, 'he was probably listening to your conversation with me,' she said with a sense of exclusive entitlement to the story.

'Are you here to spy on me?' the man raised his eyebrows.

'I thought that maybe you could give me a job, I could help you out... I mean I could contribute...'

'What does it mean "contribute"?' the man asked the woman.

'It means he wants to do something for you.'

'I don't know you... I will not take a risk.'

Gum walked away with a feeling that this time he gave up too easily.

It was early afternoon when Gum arrived at the commercial center of Unknown town. In the middle of the center's rectangular square was a large monument. It was a figure of a farmer holding a flag. The monument seemed to be guarding the square. It was impossible to say if this carved in stone flag was the same as flags displayed on all roofs in Unknown town, but one could assume that it was. A few pigeons had occupied the monument giving the impression that it was their regular feeding place. In fact, there were large crumbs of bread around the post of the monument.

Someone must have been feeding the birds this morning. 'The birds must have had plenty of food for breakfast,' Gum thought to himself, reaching for few crumbs. He would never do something like this in Neston, and he wasn't sure why he felt differently about it here. Was it because he didn't feel that he belonged to this 'nice community' of Unknown town, or because he didn't know its customs and felt free to do whatever he thought was okay to do according to the circumstances?

It was lunch time and the town's square was nearly empty. Among few stores that were not closed was a local pharmacy. Gum noticed a small water fountain in front of the pharmacy entrance. The water fountain was painted in blue and was in contrast with the red brick walls of the pharmacy building. 'Contrast sharpens perception,' said Gum, smiling. He crossed the street and sat on the pavement, next to the water fountain.

He looked at the birds around the monument with a farmer's figure and took one bread crumb into his mouth. It had a plain taste, so he put in another one, as if a few crumbs together would taste better than a single one. They didn't, but Gum ate them all and they satisfied him some, but not that much. Water from the water fountain smelled and tasted good and Gum was drank it until he began to feel dizzy.

He didn't remember at what moment he lost his balance or what happened next. When he came to his senses, he found himself lying on a couch in the pharmacy back room. Red Man from the little park was staring at him.

Gum was surprised to see that the man didn't look so red anymore, most likely due to a large white lab coat he was wearing over his red shirt. His face had changed from red to pale pink.

'Good that you didn't die on me,' he said to Gum. 'Did you take drugs? Do you have HIV or some mental condition? For how long have you not been eating? Where did you sleep last night?'

'I think I am fine now. Can I go?' said Gum avoiding answering all questions.

'You are not going anywhere until you are be seen by a doctor.'

'Is he just trying to be professional, or does he really care a bit?' Gum wondered, but at the same moment, he began to feel more relaxed.

Moments later a new customer came to the pharmacy. Gum could hear his voice and he found this voice familiar. It was a melodic, soothing tone of voice...

Pharmacy Man's name was Andy. He gave an impression of someone deeply unsatisfied with his life and angry with the world. Andy often thought that he deserved a better life. He had a habit of comparing himself with others. For some reason he always thought that others were doing better than him.

Andy enjoyed thinking that one day he would be a community leader, but his idea about leadership was more related to the status per se, than to the responsibilities related to it. He was a family man who relied on his wife for most choices and decisions in life. He cared deeply about their children and considered himself a 'modern father with some traditional values'. Andy had two hobbies: reading and photography. He had a large collection of books about mafia and gangs in the world. According to Andy, his books provided him with valuable knowledge about the real world.

His second hobby, photography, helped him to express his frequent frustration with the world. Part of his hobby was to search for pictures of ugly people or ugly animals. He had a series of repelling photographs from the internet.

Andy enjoyed looking at his photo collection, and was always eager to show it to someone. Watching the facial expression of the person who was looking at a strange photo had always made him laugh. Andy made his living as a pharmacist. He had worked in the pharmacy of Unknown town for the past twenty-five years. He was a good worker who knew his job well.

When Andy saw Gum in the little park he couldn't figure out what to think about him. He found Gum ugly looking. After their short conversation he decided that Gum was a strange individual. Both perceptions fuelled Andy's interest in the newcomer. He suspected that this skinny person who introduced himself as Gum could be a gang member, maybe even a criminal.

Andy looked through the pharmacy window. The square looked empty but something had caught Andy's attention. It was a little shadow, a presence of something familiar in front of the pharmacy entrance. When Andy came closer to the door, he saw the strange individual from the little park lying next to the water fountain. A terrifying thought had crossed And's mind: 'He can't be dead... not in front of my pharmacy!' Andy had been in a panic.

In this town people are suspicious. They may say that the water in his water fountain was not good, or worse - they may think that someone had poisoned it with medication from his pharmacy. What if someone, some criminal, had poisoned his water already? Andy decided to take the stranger's body inside to the back room.

Nobody would look there and he would have more time to think. Everything that Andy did from this moment to the moment when the stranger had opened his eyes, seemed to him like eternity. 'Good that you didn't die on me. I thought your spirit went back to your planet, and your body was for me to keep.' Andy tried to make a joke. For a second he felt that he cared about this stranger. But how could he care about someone who belonged in jail? How could he think about calling a doctor for him and not the police?

Gum was resting in the pharmacy back room. Andy went to see the new customer who had just come through the door. It was the owner of the corner store. He rarely came to the pharmacy, and Andy didn't know him well.

'What can I do for you?' asked Andy, still thinking about Gum resting in the back room.

'Do you have by any chance herbal remedies for a cold?'

'According to the evidenced based research, herbal remedies are not very effective therefore we do not sell them here,' said Andy holding his breath.

The eyes of the corner store owner widened with curiosity. 'Tell me more about it... and I will tell you about herbal remedies in my country.'

'You are from...?'

'I am from India.'

'I would tell you more if I had more time. I have to excuse you, there is someone in the back room that is waiting for me.'

'My grandma used to make us herbal tea for a cold,' said Gum standing in the door of the back room.

'I know you, you walk around this town and listen to people's conversations.' The man from India seemed calmer this time.

'Something like that,' Gum said jokingly.

'Nothing of it is funny.' Andy was increasingly annoyed by the whole situation. 'If you two have an important subject to discuss why don't you go to the little park and talk about it? I have a job to do.'

The store owner from India felt offended and was on his way out. Gum looked around helplessly. Then, he thanked Andy for his help and left the pharmacy. Indian Man was walking slowly in the direction of his little corner store. Gum followed him in a distance, trying to be as discreet as possible. For some reason Gum was convinced that they both could become perfect partners in business. He was hoping that once he could convince Indian Man to trust him then perhaps they could even become good friends.

Gum had a good understanding that very few people around him shared his perceptions. He realized that he was different and in the place like Unknown town, the place of tradition and sameness, he may never be accepted to the point that he would be able to develop some sense of belonging. But the man from India, the owner of the little corner store, the owner of the soothing, melodic voice, the storyteller... was giving him hope.

Gum was a dreamer, so he dreamt that Indian Man listened to Gum's story and told him his own. That they connected with each other, and then that they connected with Andy. They would tell Andy about all the ugly and all the beautiful people they had met in life, and they would ask Andy to tell them about his life and about his interest in bicycle gangs. They would go together to the little park at lunch. They would joke and laugh together, and each time one of them would have a problem, the two others would think how to solve it. They would get together and they would discuss all possible solutions. They would celebrate birthdays and some holidays together... and maybe one day they would travel together around the country.

When the store owner and Gum left the pharmacy, Andy went to the pharmacy back room. He felt tired and had some regrets that he felt he should check on Mrs Fox who didn't come for her medications today, rather than get involved with this stranger. Mrs Fox was a good customer and she lived in Unknown town forever, not like this new trouble maker. Then, Andy thought about the water in the water fountain. He had to contact Manny Brown. Manny would make arrangements for testing the water. Andy shook his head in frustration.

Everything was good until this strange trouble maker had arrived in town.

Indian Man entered his corner store with a feeling of being misunderstood. He was concerned about how he would help his mother with her illness. He knew she would not accept anything except herbs. The supply which a distant family member kept sending them from India was gone. Another delivery would not come before the end of the month.

'We can find some herbs in the little park,' he heard Gum speaking.

'You not only listen to people's conversation, you also read people's minds,' said Indian Man with annoyance.

'If you have some time we could go there together.'

'In the little park, you said?'

'Yes, I was in the little park this morning, I saw mint and wild raspberry bushes. Mint and raspberries are good for a cold.' Indian Man looked at Gum with both some suspicion and some hope.

'Would you take a risk this time? You don't have much to lose,' Gum insisted.

On their way to the little park, Indian Man told Gum about his mother. He told him that his mother was from a wealthy and well respected family. She was a highly educated lady. She left India because she expected a baby and she didn't want to marry his father. She broke family tradition and... she had to leave. She came to New York, and stayed with her distant family until her son was two years old. She worked in a corner store.

The owner of the corner store, a man in his fifties, promised that he would take care of her and her little son if she would marry him. She agreed. They lived in New York working together in the corner store for 15 years. When her husband passed away, she decided to move to Unknown town and open her own little corner store. Her son took over the store when she became too frail to work there.

Gum was delighted with the Indian Man's storytelling, and Indian Man was delighted with Gum's ability to listen. They were beginning to feel at ease with each other. They gathered mint from shady places in the little park. They found some wild raspberries in the bushes. When they finished, they looked at their herbs piled up on a nearby bench. 'Let's select the best herbs, and the rest we can leave in the garbage bins,' proposed Indian Man. Gum took a breath. The fresh scent of herbs coming out of the rusted garbage bins in the little park seemed like a magic to him.

'Can you do magic?' asked Gum.

'Sure I can,' said Indian Man and they both started laughing. 'My name is Gali. You can come tomorrow at nine to my store; maybe I can find something for you.' Both smiled and shook hands before leaving the little park.

Gali went to see his mother. He walked slowly carrying mint and raspberries for her. Gum watched him for a while from a distance. He didn't say to Gali that he was hungry or that he was looking for a place to stay, as he did say to Andy. He didn't want to make a bad impression on Gali, and he didn't want to distract Gali from taking good care of his ill mother.

Gum walked along the straight streets with no pavements. He looked at small houses with windows covered with heavy curtains. His search for a place to stay overnight was unsuccessful. It was late but the evening was pleasantly warm. Stars in the sky were bright.

Two blocks away from the commercial center was a little house with a large garden. Gum remembered seeing it before. It was a magical garden with old shady trees, ivy bushes, and soft looking ground covers. The house had a wooden porch on its side. Gum found this place more private than many other places he had been looking at. The house seemed empty. There were no lights in the windows. The ground under the porch was covered with cedar mulch.

Gum lay down in the corner imagining all possible scenarios for his next day meeting with Indian Man in the corner store. He fell asleep visualizing Gali and himself unpacking boxes filled with ripe tomatoes.
Once Upon A Time In Outer Space

Paris Portingale

Mount Victoria, New South Wales

Australia

21 and 22 July 2014

Senator Arnold Billingsley, a VIP on a trip to a distant destination, had just boarded the spaceship somewhere deep in space. Captain Lothan was now showing the Senator around, starting from the top and working his way down.

Lothan said, 'This room here at the top is where we do the steering. That's Lieutenant Boynton there, at the wheel.'

I say, 'Boynton, what's our current direction?'

'Straight ahead sir.'

Lothan pulled down the space periscope and, looking through the eyepiece, said, 'Maybe a tad to the left. What do you think?'

Boynton locked the steering apparatus in place and got up and checked the space periscope. Sighting down his arm, he moved it a little to the left, and said, 'How about that, sir?'

Lothan sighted down Boynton's arm and said, 'Maybe back to the right just a bit.'

Boynton moved his arm a little to the right and Lothan said, 'No, too far, back a bit,' and Boynton moved his arm a little to the left.

'Yes, that's about right,' Lothan said and Boynton went back to the steering wheel and unlocked it and adjusted their course.

Senator Billingsley said, 'So, what's our course now, Captain?'

'Forward and a little to the left,' Lothan said.

Looking around the steering room, Billingsley asked, 'What's that thing over there?'

Lothan said, 'I'm not sure. What's that thing over there, Boynton?'

Looking around, Boynton said, 'What, the orange box with the light on the top?'

Lothan said to Billingsley, 'Did you mean the orange box with the light on top?' and Billingsley replied, 'No, the thing next to it.'

'Next to it on the right?'

'No, the left.' Lothan said to Boynton, 'The thing to the left of the orange box with the light on top.'

'The brown thing with the lever coming out the front?' Boynton asked.

Lothan confirmed that the Senator was referring to the brown thing with the lever, and Boynton got up and put a hand on the device and said, 'This thing?'

Boynton and Lothan looked at Billingsley and Billingsley nodded and said, 'Yes, that thing.'

Lothan and Billingsley then looked at Boynton, and Boynton said, 'This turns the space light on and off.'

'The one on the outside?' Lothan asked, and Boynton said, 'Yes.'

At that moment sparks and smoke began coming out of the steering apparatus and Boynton hurried back to the steering chair.

'What's going on?' Lothan asked, and Boynton said, 'Sorry, I forgot to lock the steering wheel in place,' and he frantically spun the wheel left and right until the sparks stopped. 'No damage done,' he said.

'Well that's a relief,' Lothan said, and he mopped his brow with a handkerchief. When he'd finished he offered the handkerchief to Billingsley, who shook his head and said, 'No thanks, I'm fine.'

To Boynton, Lothan said, 'Are we still on course?'

'More or less,' Boynton replied, and Lothan said, 'Good man.'

Putting his hand on Billingsley's shoulder, Lothan said, 'Well, anything else you'd like to know?'

Billingsley said, 'Can you tell me how fast we're going right now?'

To Boynton, Lothan said, 'What's our space speed, Boynton?'

Checking a dial on the steering console, Boynton said, 'Fifty, sir.'

Billingsley said, 'Fifty? Is that fast?'

To Boynton, Lothan said, 'Is fifty fast, Boynton? The Senator wants to know.'

Boynton said, 'That's about half speed.'

Lothan said, 'Half speed, that's a little slow isn't it? Why are we only going half speed?'

Boynton shrugged and Lothan said a little testily, 'Well, can we go a little faster do you think? We'll never get anywhere at this rate, and I believe Senator Billingsley is in a bit of a hurry.'

Taking umbrage at Lothan's tone, Boynton said, 'Well why don't you tell me how fast you think we should be going then?'

'Well, faster than this,' Lothan said, and Boynton pushed the speed lever up hard so it made a bang when it hit the top, making Billingsley and the Captain jump. Then he sat back, huffily staring straight ahead with his arms folded.

Lothan said, 'Sorry Boynton, I didn't mean to upset you,' and Boynton sniffed and pretended not to hear him.

Lothan said, 'Come on Boynton, don't be like that.'

'Maybe it'd be better if you steered the ship if I'm so useless at it,' Boynton said.

'Come on, Boynton,' Lothan said. 'Treacle date pudding for sweets tonight. Your favourite.'

Boynton didn't respond and Lothan came up behind him and tickled his ear. 'Treacle date pudding, Boynton. Mm...'

Boynton slapped the Captain's hand away but turned around smiling. 'Yes, well, don't think I'm not going to demand seconds,' he said.

'Good man,' Lothan said, and he poked Boynton playfully in the stomach, then led the Senator out of the steering room, down to the next deck, where he introduced him to Lieutenant Dave, the officer in charge of the stationery, fax machine, photocopier, and a new, very sophisticated, voice responsive printer named Hal.

Lothan pushed open the stationery room door. It made a hissing noise and when he closed it, it hissed again. Frowning, he said to the Lieutenant, 'Why do all the doors hiss like that when you open and close them? It's quite annoying and everyone on the ship can hear when you're going to the toilet.'

'I've no idea,' the Lieutenant said.

Lothan opened and closed the door and it hissed again. 'See, hiss, hiss, hiss. Quite extraordinary. Anyway, I'd like to introduce you to Senator Billingsley. Lieutenant Dave, this is Senator Billingsley. Senator Billingsley, Lieutenant Dave.'

'How do you do?' Lieutenant Dave said, and the Senator replied, 'Fine. And yourself?'

'Fine,' said Lieutenant Dave, and they both smiled.

Talk quickly turned to Hal, the new, voice responsive printer.

Captain Lothan said to the Senator, 'This is our new, voice responsive printer, Senator Billingsley. It's our new, prized possession. Quite the up-to-date business. Show us how it works, if you would, Lieutenant Dave.'

'Of course,' said Lieutenant Dave. 'It responds to voice commands.' Walking over to the printer, he rapped on the top.

From a speaker in the front, the printer said, 'Who is it?'

Dave responded, 'It's Lieutenant Dave. Open the paper tray drawer, Hal.'

There was no response from the printer and Dave knocked again.

The printer said, 'Who is it?'

Lieutenant Dave said, 'It's Dave. Open the printer tray drawer, Hal.'

'Who?'

'Dave. Open the paper tray drawer.'

Again there was no response and Lieutenant Dave knocked again, a little harder.

After a pause, the printer said, 'Who is it?'

Dave said, 'It's me, Dave. Open the goddamn paper tray drawer, Hal.'

The printer said, 'Dave?'

'Yes, Dave. Open the printer tray drawer.'

'Dave?'

'Yes, Dave.'

'Dave's not here.'

Nothing else was forthcoming and Dave knocked again.

The printer said, 'Who is it?'

Dave said, 'It's Dave.'

'Dave?'

'Yes, Dave.'

The printer said, 'Dave's not here,' and it continued like this for a while until Lothan decided it might be wise to take the Senator down to the next deck and show him around the room where they fired the lasers and atomic space torpedoes.

~~~

In the torpedo room just about everything was marked with a hand drawn insignia of a skull inside a circle with a red lightning bolt. Written underneath were the words, 'Only To Touch By Major Oddglove.'

Lothan said, 'Best not handle anything in here, just to be on the safe side. Oddglove's a bit touchy about that,' and he introduced the Senator to the Major.

Major Oddglove was wearing a white lab coat with 'Oddglove' stitched onto the pocket. He had thick glasses, unkempt hair, and a pronounced facial tic.

Lothan said, 'Major Oddglove, this is Senator Billingsley.'

Billingsley said, 'How do you do, Major Oddglove?'

Speaking with a thick, German accent, Major Oddglove indicated all the insignias on the equipment, saying,

'See all zees signs here? I am drawing zem myself,' and he produced a red marking pen. 'Mit zis, mine big red marking pen.'

'That's nice,' Billingsley said.

'Here, I am showing you,' Oddglove said, and he drew a skull with a circle and lightning bolt on the front of the Senator's shirt.

Pushing him away, Lothan said, 'No drawing on the Senator, Oddglove,' and Major Oddglove took himself to a corner of the room and lay down and rolled himself into a foetal position.

Ignoring the Major, Billingsley pointed to a particularly large piece of equipment covered in the Major's skull insignias, and said, 'What does that big thing do?'

Oddglove immediately jumped from the floor and said, 'Zat is zer greatest veapon of destruction zer vorld hass ever known. It iss known solely as, zer Bomb. Here, let me show you.' Walking over to the device, he said, 'Is so simple to use even zer baby could operate. Vis just vun finger. Can you imagine zat? A liddle, tiny baby. Vun liddle finger. Here, you try. Put your finger here unt press.'

Lothan placed himself between the Senator and the device, saying, 'Oh, I don't think we need to do that.'

Oddglove's twitch immediately became more pronounced, and he said, 'Out of zer way, you Captain thing. I am in charge down here, strutting peacock Captain.'

Billingsley said, 'It's alright, I don't think I need to touch it.'

Red in the face, Oddglove shouted, 'You vill do as I say, you Senator thing. You vill take your liddle baby finger unt press zer button as I say.'

Backing away, the Senator said, 'I don't think so, Major.'

Now thoroughly enraged and turning an odd, purple colour, Oddglove shouted, 'You vill press zer button, strutting peacock Senator. Oddglove commands you.'

'No,' said the Senator.

'Yes!' shouted Oddglove, and he turned back his lab coat and pulled a pistol from a holster. 'Press zer button or I vill blow your peacock head right off your neck.'

Lothan said, 'Put the gun away, Oddglove, there's a good chap.'

'Not till zer peacock presses zer button.'

The Senator said, 'Maybe I should just press the button.'

Now foaming at the mouth, Oddglove shouted, 'Vot, you? Scheisen upstart peacock Senator. Only Major Oddglove is to press zer buttons here,' and banging on the insignias on the Bomb device with the handle of his gun, he said, 'See. Vot duss zat say? Only to touch by Major Oddglove.'

'And rightly so,' Lothan said. 'Well, we'd better be off, I've got a lot more to show Senator Billingsley. Thank you, Major Oddglove.'

'Iss mine pleasure,' Oddglove said, and he put the gun back in its holster, while Lothan took the Senator down to the next deck where the violent criminals were kept.

~~~

The violent criminal deck was dimly lit because, as Lothan explained, it was nap time. 'We like them to have a little sleep after lunch, otherwise they can get a little whiney and irritable. We have cells for thirty, but we can accommodate twice that if people are prepared to double up. We only have three in here at the moment: Goldsworthy, Plympton, and Dr Mandible.

Leading the Senator down the central aisle, Lothan stopped in front of a cell and said, 'Here's one of the chappies; Goldsworthy. Goldsworthy, say hello to Senator Billingsley like a good fellow.'

With his arms outstretched and his hands held like claws, Goldsworthy ran full pelt down the length of his cell and smashed himself into the bars. Senator Billingsley jumped back and, with a smile, Goldsworthy said,

'Hello Senator Billingsley.'

'Good fellow,' said Lothan. 'And how are we today?'

'Good,' Goldsworthy said, snatching a hand through the bars in an attempt to get hold of the Senator.

'Had a nice nap?'

'Yes, nice nap. Could you ask that chap to come a little closer? The one with the red skull and circle on the front of his shirt.'

'Oh, I don't think so, Goldsworthy.'

Goldsworthy started banging his head against the bars in frustration, and Lothan said, 'Treacle date pudding for sweets tonight, Goldsworthy,' and Goldsworthy immediately calmed down. 'My favourite,' he said.

Lothan said, 'Yes, it's a very popular dessert. I think most of the crew would have it on the top of their favourite-pudding list.'

They moved on to the next cell and Lothan put a finger to his lips and made a shooshing sound. 'That's Plympton there in the cot. He's still asleep. Best not disturb him, he gets a little grumpy if you wake him up.'

Looking into the cell, Senator Billingsley said, 'He looks so sweet and innocent, curled up asleep like that. Surely he's not a violent criminal.'

'Well, not violent as such, no, but he did eat Corporal Barrington.'

'Good lord,' Billingsley said.

Lothan whispered, 'In his favour he did say Barrington was asking for it. Anyway, best we move on,' and he led Billingsley down to the end of the aisle to the last cell. 'This is Dr Mandible,' he said.

Dr Mandible was standing at the bars with his arms crossed, looking enquiringly at Senator Billingsley.

'Dr Mandible,' Lothan said. 'How are you today?'

'How do I seem?' Dr Mandible said, slightly angling his head and smiling.

'You seem fine, doctor,' Lothan told him.

Mandible said, 'Where's the girl?'

'Clarice?'

'Yes, Clarice. I was supposed to be having her for lunch today. Who's the man with you with the skull thing on his shirt?'

'That's Senator Billingsley.'

'Ah, Senator Billingsley. Come closer.'

The Senator took a step closer and Mandible said, 'I'm a psychiatrist you know. I can tell everything you're thinking, just by watching your face.'

'I rather doubt that,' Billingsley told him.

Smiling, Mandible said, 'Think of a number, add five, then take away the number you first thought of.' He paused while the Senator did the calculation, then said, 'You are now thinking of the number five. Am I right, Senator?'

'Good lord, he's right you know. It's like he got inside my head.'

Lothan said, 'Yes, well, enough of that, Mandible. The Senator's not interested in your little parlour tricks.'

'I know everything you're thinking as well, Lothan, so just be careful. We wouldn't want the beans spilled, as it were, would we?'

Lothan flushed and said, 'Well, we'd better be going Senator,' and he lead Billingsley back down the aisle.

Mandible called after him, 'Bring the girl next time would you, Lothan, there's a fine fellow.'

The next deck was the space-transport dematerialiser room. The officer in command was Major Irish.

Lothan said, 'Major Irish, this is Senator Billingsley. I'm showing him around the ship.'

'To be sure,' Major Irish said, and he and the Senator shook hands.

Major Irish said, 'Just out of interest, why do you have a skull drawn on your shirt like that?'

'It's a long story,' the Senator said, and Major Irish sat down and said, 'Okay, go on then.'

Lothan cut in and said, 'Explain to the Senator what you do here, Major, if you will.'

'To be sure, to be sure,' the Major said.

In the middle of the room was a raised platform with a circle painted on the floor. Underneath was a sign saying:

STAND HERE

Keep your arms inside the circle at all times.

No eating, drinking, or smoking.

No animals.

While the dematerialiser is operating: 1. Remain still 2. No talking.

You may experience dizziness, nausea, sudden bowel movement and/or urinary release. This is quite normal.

All care taken but no responsibility or liability accepted.

Acme Dematerialisers - Enjoy your trip.

Major Irish said, 'This is our wee space-transporter. We're using it to send tings off you see. Kind of A to B sort of ting. Sometimes C.'

'I see,' the Senator said.

'Would you be interested in a wee demonstration at all, Senator?'

'Yes, that might be interesting,' the Senator said.

'Roit you are then. Now, let me see.' Major Irish looked the Senator up and down, then said, 'I'm thinking something of yours might be the ticket. Would you mind to be taking off your socks there Senator?'

'My socks?' the Senator said.

'Yes, they'd be ideal. The transporter ting's mainly used for people you see, but a person's socks would do as well.'

'Well, I suppose, if you say so,' the Senator said and he took off his shoes and slipped out of his socks and handed them to the Major. The Major took them and placed them in the centre of the dematerialising platform. Going back to the operating console he said, 'Are you ready there then, Senator?'

'Yes, quite ready,' Billingsley said.

'Roit you are then.' Holding his hand above a flashing button marked 'SEND' he said, 'Here we go. Now you see it...' then, pushing down the button, 'now you don't.'

There was a crackling sound, then the socks disappeared.

'Extraordinary,' the Senator said. 'Where did they go?'

'I have no idea,' the Major told him. 'But I will tell you this, I feel sorry for them poor blighters on the receiving end of those stinky little buggers. Whoo!' and he wiped his hands on his trousers.

'So, they're gone for good then?' the Senator asked.

'They are, that,' the Major said, and he picked up the Senator's shoes and tied the laces together and handed them to him. 'There you go, Senator,' he said.

Lothan said, 'The kitchen area's next, Senator. Come and I'll introduce you to Chef.'

~~~

In the kitchen Chef was cutting up half a cow. Lothan introduced him to the Senator and Chef put down his cleaver and they shook hands. Chef said, 'Why are you carrying your shoes like that, and why have you got a big skull drawn on the front of your shirt there? Is this some new fashion thing nobody's told me about, Lothan?'

'Long story,' Lothan said, then, rubbing his hands, he asked, 'How are we going with the treacle date pudding, eh?'

'What treacle date pudding?' Chef asked.

'I thought we were having treacle date pudding for sweets tonight.'

'First I've heard of it.'

'Oh dear, well that's a disappointment. What are we having?'

'Pudding Surprise.'

'Again?'

'Yes, it's a popular dessert.'

'But a surprise isn't really a surprise if it's the same surprise every time.'

'I'm sorry?'

'If it's the same surprise every time it stops being a surprise. Don't take this the wrong way, Cheffy, but that's everybody's absolute least favourite dessert.'

'Really?'

'Yes, I'm sorry Chef, but it is.'

'Well, into the bin with it then,' Chef said, and he took a large bowl out of the refrigerator and tipped the contents down the disposal chute. There was the sound of the refuse door being opened on the outside of the ship and the Pudding Surprise was ejected into the dark void of outer space.

'I didn't mean throw it away, Chef.'

Chef picked up the cleaver and began hacking at the cow carcass. 'No pudding for tea tonight,' he said. 'I'll let the crew know who's responsible.'

Lothan said, 'Oh dear, now look what I've done. I think we'd better go, Senator.'

~~~

The next deck was the ship's infirmary. Lothan introduced the Senator to the chief doctor and surgeon. 'This is Dr Mandible,' he said.

The senator frowned and said, 'Wasn't he just up in the violent prisoners' area?'

'That's my twin brother,' Dr Mandible said, pointing upwards with a scalpel. 'He was the ship's psychiatrist for a while. Interesting shirt, by the way.'

Lothan said, 'Dr Mandible here is one of a pair of identical twins. The one in the cell up above is the evil twin. You're the good twin, aren't you, doctor?'

'Oh, yes, I'm the good twin,' Mandible said. 'Definitely the good twin.'

'And what are you doing at the moment, doctor?'

Dr Mandible walked over to the operating table where there was a man lying, unconscious, with an anaesthetic mask over his face. The doctor prodded him with the scalpel and said, 'I'm performing an operation on Corporal Schmidt here.'

The Senator asked, 'What sort of an operation?'

'I'm taking out his kidneys.'

'Why exactly?'

'I need them for something.'

'Good lord,' said the Senator. 'How is he going to get on without his kidneys?'

'I'll put something else in.'

'What, exactly?'

'I haven't decided yet.'

Against one wall was a set of shelves with jars containing medical specimens in preserving fluid. Dr Mandible walked down the length, touching jars with the tip of his scalpel. Stopping in front of one containing what looked like a half formed human foetus, he said, 'Perhaps this,' and he turned and looked enquiringly at Lothan and the Senator.

Aghast, the Senator said, 'Surely not.'

'It might grow into something interesting,' Mandible said.

'It's your operation,' Lothan told him.

'The foetus it is then,' Mandible said, and took down the jar.

'Good lord,' the Senator said. 'What about your Hippocratic oath?'

'I believe this is covered by the Hippocratic oath,' Mandible said. 'Anyway, as the Captain said, it is my operation.' Taking the lid off the jar, he said, 'I think you should both go now, I have work to do.'

As they were leaving, Lothan and the Senator heard the doctor talking to the thing in the jar. He was saying,

'You're going in here little fellow,' and there was the sound of a knife cutting through flesh.

~~~

After several more decks they were finally at the bottom of the ship, in the engine room. Faulkner, the chief engineer, was there, wearing only underpants and a sweat stained singlet. He was shovelling fuel rods into the propulsion generator.

After introductions, Faulkner said, 'I see you've met Major Oddglove, Senator.'

'Yes,' said the Senator. 'Interesting chap. A little odd though.' He turned around to inspect the rest of the room, and Faulkner picked up a fuel rod and threw it at the Senator. It hit him in the middle of the back and he turned and Faulkner said, 'Did he try to get you to press the Bomb button? He's always doing that.'

The Senator brushed down his back and said, 'Yes, he did as a matter of fact.'

Lothan had wandered off to check on a piece of machinery and Faulkner threw a fuel rod at him and said, 'Treacle date pudding this evening, Captain.'

Lothan turned and said, 'Well, there might be a slight problem with that.'

'Really? What's it to be then?'

Lothan looked embarrassed, and Faulkner said, 'You haven't upset Cheffy again have you?'

Lothan said, 'He was doing pudding surprise again.'

'And you said something, didn't you?'

'All I said was, if it's the same surprise every time it's not really a surprise.'

'And he threw it out?'

'He's so touchy.'

'And now there's no pudding tonight?'

'Goddamn it, Engineer Faulkner, it's not my goddamn fault.'

'I don't know why you ever go in there. It's always the same thing. You open your mouth and Chef gets upset and then he takes it out on all the rest of us. Goddam it, Captain,' and he threw his shovel to the ground and went over to a locker and took out a bottle of whiskey. 'That's it for me today. I'm getting drunk.'

Lothan sighed and picked up the shovel and said, 'Give us a hand here, Senator, will you? There's another shovel over there.'

The Senator put down his shoes and got the shovel and they began stoking the propulsion generator while Engineer Faulkner sat on the floor in a corner and proceeded to get very drunk indeed.
Of Rabbit Traps

David Atkinson

Beecroft, New South Wales

Australia

21 July 2014

Of rabbit traps, as I look back

These are my memories.

Of Rin the greyhound and the ute

A farm boy on the land.

The thoughts all now come flooding back

Of sheep and cattle, crops,

The shearing and our father's work

And sowing through the night.

Goanna in the rabbit trap

This wasn't meant to be

A child's imagination strong

We thought it was a croc.

A greyhound's instinct digging out

He simply never tires.

The rabbit burrow he attacks

Inside they're petrified.

We lived an elementary life

The hay bales and the snakes

But warm and clear we always knew.

My children missed what I had then.
Gum - Parts 3 & 4

Ella

Quebec

Canada

22 and 23 July 2014

The opening hours of Gali's corner store were from 10 am to 7 pm. Gum arrived at 9 am and found the door to the store wide open. Before looking inside, he touched the doorframe gently, of fear that the door might close at any moment. Contrary to Gum's imaginative expectation, the inside of the store did not have an exotic ambience. It was not a place filled with various objects of different styles and origins, unfamiliar smells and colours, and new things to be discovered.

What Gum found inside fitted well with the landscape and culture of the Unknown town. There were large metal shelves with a variety of snack foods tightly packaged side by side. Among bags of potato chips were chocolate bars and popcorn. Flat boxes with oranges, apples and bananas were on the lower shelf near the counter. Gum looked around searching for ripe tomatoes but there were none. In the shady back of the store was a small table with sunflower seeds, nuts, raisins, and almonds. A few bottles with mineral water were on the counter, next to the local newspapers.

'I see on your face that you like it here,' said Gali coming out from the back of the store. 'I've got some new merchandise yesterday. It has to be unpacked and put on the shelves. Do you want to help me?' the smile on Gali's face was contagious.

Gum smiled back. 'Would you pay me?'

'Of course, you need to pay for your room and for food, right?'

'Yes, and I need to find a place to stay.' Each time Gum was revealing something about himself, he felt embarrassed.

'Okay then,' said Gali hesitating for a moment. 'Follow me.'

Gum followed Gali to the back of the store. There was a small storage room where Gali had placed his new merchandise delivery. The room had one window. Like most windows in the Unknown town, it was covered with a heavy, dark curtain which protected the room's precious inside from the outside light. The air in the room was dry and surprisingly fresh. Its smell reminded Gum of the smell of the rosemary bushes in his grandmother's garden.

'Do you keep small, fabric bags with dry rosemary here?'

'No, I don't. Rosemary makes you remember things. There is nothing in this room that needs to be remembered,' Gali was straight forward.

'Here,' he said to Gum, opening the window curtain. A few golden beams of light rushed through the window, passed an old burgundy armchair, and rested on a round cherry desk. There were twenty four small boxes of merchandise under the desk, yet Gum could not take his eyes away from what was on the desk. He was mesmerized by a small wooden statue of a sitting man who seemed to be smiling gently to the beam of light.

'I will show you where to put the merchandise,' said Gali noticing Gum's interest in the statue.

'When you finish your job, I will tell you about my statue. Now it is time to unpack a few boxes.'

Gum was eager to do a good job. He was determined to make a good impression on Gali, and to earn another storytelling time. For Gum, storytelling was a way of knowing. He believed that life was like a sea with an infinite amount of unique tidal waves, and each tidal wave was somebody's story. Gum was a dreamer, and he had a gift for weaving his dreams into his everyday life.

'Twenty-four boxes is a lot for one day. Do whatever you can,' said Gali before leaving the storage room.

Gum became so absorbed with unpacking boxes that he paid no attention to what was happening around him. When Mrs Fox came to the store to buy some matches, Gum was unpacking a small box with cigarette lighters.

'Maybe I should buy a cigarette lighter instead of matches,' Mrs Fox wondered aloud.

She was a tiny lady in her forties, wearing a navy dress in white polka dots, and ballerina shoes. Mrs Fox was a psychiatric nurse, and for the past twenty years she had been lighting her cigarettes with matches. She strongly believed that cigarettes keep her in a good shape, although to all her patients she had an official story about harmful effects of cigarette smoking.

Mrs Fox had divorced Mr Fox ten years ago and kept telling everybody that she doesn't need another man in her life. Gali saw Mrs Fox as an independent, energetic, and opinionated person. For some reason he believed that these qualities are necessary in the nursing profession. Once he saw Mrs Fox ordering pharmacist Andy around, he decided that she is a person who is better not to be confronted.

'How much are these lighters?' Mrs Fox was determined to have a conversation with Gum.

'Good morning Mrs Fox,' said Gali, greeting his first customer. 'This is Gum. He works here today.'

'Does he understand our language?'

'Gum, Mrs Fox is talking to you. She is interested in our cigarette lighters.'

'Sorry, I was busy.' Gum felt embarrassed, not by Mrs Fox's comment, but due to his undivided attention.

'How did you find him?' Mrs Fox continued her investigation about Gum.

'He found me,' replied Gali. 'How can I help you Mrs Fox?'

Mrs Fox lowered her voice. 'Do you have too much work lately? You could hire the Kingston's boy. He would be a better worker than this one, who obviously doesn't have any manners... and poor hygiene.'

'I have found something for you, Mrs Fox.' Gum stepped from behind the counter with a cigarette lighter decorated with a vivid design of a purple rose. 'I would like to imagine that when you light this lighter your cigarette will change into a rose.'

'What a strange joke,' Mrs Fox's face expression showed discomfort. She did not get any special gifts for a long time, and she did not remember the last time someone wanted to give her a rose.

'How much for the lighter?' she asked, looking at Gali.

'If you buy some apples or oranges it will be free,' he offered.

Mrs Fox left the store carrying two pounds of apples, one orange, a pack of sunflower seeds, and a cigarette lighter decorated with a vivid design of a purple rose.

Each time Gum was picking up a new box from the storage room, he got the impression that the statue of the sitting man had moved. Gum liked to imagine that the statue was following the beam of light coming through the window, and that it was doing it in a clockwise direction. By the time Gum had finished unpacking boxes, the sun moved to the other side of the building and the statue was barely noticeable in its shady corner. Gali was closing the store.

'It was a good day, in case you haven't noticed,' he said watching Gum unpacking the last box. 'You can wash yourself now. There is a shirt and sweat pants for you in the bathroom. We can have supper together before you go to sleep in the storage room. This is how I will pay you for the day. You will have to learn to do everything by yourself. Then I may pay you some money.' Gum took Gali's offer without hesitation.

The idea that he could sleep in the room with the statue of the sitting man had awakened his new enthusiasm for the journey. For the first time since Gum had begun his journey, he would have... a roommate.

'Do you want to hear my story?' Gali was prepared to begin his supper and his storytelling at the same time.

Gum looked deep in Gali's eyes and attuned to his melodious tone of voice. The story about the wooden statue, which was given to someone in Gali's family in India by a Chinese traveller, had begun to unfold.

Gali's family accepted the statue out of courtesy. It was used for years as a piano decoration in the main family room. Each time Gali's mother was playing piano, she would look at the statue of the mysterious looking man and surrendered to the imaginary world of music and art. It was how she fell in love with music, with life, and with the entire world. At that time, she was betrothed to a young lad from a befriended Hindu family, but when she realised that the two families had begun to plan the wedding, she took the statue from her piano, packed her belongings, and went to visit a family of her distant relatives in America.

'Do you know why your mother didn't keep the statue?' Gum inquired.

'She put it aside when she married my step father in New York. She was not playing piano anymore,' said Gali finishing his story and standing up from the table. 'There is a yellow cover on the couch in the storage room, you can use it tonight,' he said to Gum before leaving the store.

When the window curtain in the storage room was closed, the room was filled with darkness. Gum knew that there were many objects in this room, objects he did not pay attention to during the day, when the only thing he could think of was doing a good job for Gali. Now he found himself standing alone in the dark storage room filled with a variety of objects he couldn't see. Gum waited until his eyes got used to the darkness.

Soon he could recognise the familiar shape of a round, cherry desk with the statue on it. He moved slowly along the desk checking the wall with the open palm of his hand until he found a light switch.

The first thing Gum noticed when he turned the light on, was a sun umbrella lying on the floor. It must have been old, its colorful patterns had faded, and it seemed like it hadn't been used for a long time. Gum lifted it gently from the floor and placed it on a nearby rocking chair. Next to the rocking chair was a pale blue couch with a yellow cover. An old mirror in a rococo frame was hanging above the couch. Gum caught in it his own reflection and realised that he had changed.

The change wasn't so much about his face or about his hair. It was about the look in his eyes. Gum took a long glance at the mirror. It seemed to have served few generations, yet, like most furniture in the storage room, it was surprisingly well preserved.

Still looking in the mirror, Gum noticed a reflection of a few containers with a variety of small objects. There were some old photo albums, picture frames, books, and clay pots. Near the entrance door was a small metal stool with a white, porcelain bowl. A large ceramic vase with a pattern of exotic flowers was standing upside down on the floor.

'This place looks so eclectic.' Gum noticed that his enthusiasm was rising. It was his favourite style, rich and complex, yet elegant and more natural than any of the other styles he knew from Neston. Gum's eyes rested on the statue. He could hear his own voice saying: 'Once upon a time, someone had told me about... '

Next morning, when Gali opened the store, Gum was finishing adjusting a window curtain in the storage room.

'I don't have much work for you today. You finished unpacking all the boxes in one day.' Gali made the announcement with some admiration, but the tone of his voice was sad.

Gum's eyes smiled in response. 'Why don't we make a garage sale? Earlier this morning, I saw an ad about a garage sale in one of your newspapers. We could do the same thing with what you have in your storage room. You said that you don't want to remember these things. Look, you could have more space for the merchandise and those who will come to the garage sale may find what they need... '

'If you feel that you can organise it, then go ahead. We can split the money.' Gali liked the idea, but he had doubts that Gum could manage it all by himself. To his surprise, within a few hours, most objects from the storage room were nicely displayed in front of the store. Gum was preparing handmade advertisements to be pinned on boards in the town centre.

The Kingstons had sent their boy to ask for a job in Gali's store, following Mrs Fox's recommendation. It made Gali uncomfortable but he managed to convince the boy to help Gum with the advertisement for the garage sale.

Lilli Knopf came to the store looking for almonds. Each time her daughter had a bad day in school, Lilli would go to Gali's store to buy almonds. She would use them to make a special almond salad for her daughter... and for herself. There were times when Lilli was a daily customer at Gali's. On these days she appeared spaced out, and seemed to be in such a hurry to buy her almonds, that she didn't have time for any conversation with Gali.

When Lilli was coming once in a few weeks, she was more relaxed and eager to have a chat. This morning Lilli came walking slowly, as she preferred to keep a distance to her surroundings. She stopped a few feet away from the store's entrance, mesmerised by the variety of objects displayed on old pieces of furniture.

She wanted to have a closer look at a white porcelain bowl, when a young fellow approached her with an old umbrella in his hands.

'I sensed that this is something for you,' he said.

'Did you sense that I need a sun umbrella?' Lilli smiled trying to echo Gum's words. At first glance she thought that the old umbrella looked completely useless, but her perception began to change when she had a closer look at it. The umbrella was larger than the one Lilli had at home.

Its colours had faded but one could see an unusual pattern of large, green leaves and blue parrots. Lilli imagined that this painted jungle could make a cool shelter from the burning sun, or... just from a bad day. On her way back home, Lilli was not sure if she felt happy because she had almonds in her grocery bag, or because she was shielding herself from the sun with an umbrella looking so unique and friendly that it made her smile.

Gum was explaining to a small group of school children how to use pots to plant an indoor rosemary garden, when he heard an unsettling sound. An old man in dark glasses, with a violin, and a white walking stick bumped into a small metal stool with a white porcelain bowl on it.

'Sorry - I can't see,' he said apologetically into the air.

'You can't see what I see, I can't hear what you hear and definitely, I can't play the violin the way you do,' responded Gum. 'I have a bowl for you. It is made out of white, delicate porcelain, one of a kind. It was probably made many years ago in Vietnam.'

At the sound of the word 'Vietnam', the old man stopped.

'It is a very special bowl,' continued Gum. 'No money could pay for it, but if you will play for us your favourite piece, the bowl will be yours.'

Andy was closing the pharmacy for the day, when he heard the distant sound of music. Someone was playing a violin. For Andy it was an event that could go down in the history of the Unknown town. Within a few minutes Andy was in front of Gali's store.

'I am impressed,' he said when he saw Gum. 'You must have a gift, if you convinced Gali to hire you.'

'Good evening. Please, help yourself.' Gum felt uncomfortable talking to Andy.

'I was looking at this vase. I like its flower pattern, only... the flowers seem to be growing upside down.'

'If you will put the vase upside down, the flowers would grow in the right direction,' Gum was trying to reassure Andy.

'I don't like your jokes.'

'It is a fact.' Gum didn't know what else to say. If he could only talk to people in Unknown town the way he used to talk to people in Neston.

In Neston, Gum had never worried that someone would feel uncomfortable with his ideas or will be offended by his suggestions. His intentions would not be questioned. There were no misunderstandings. In Neston, one could sense another. Gum knew that Andy could be rude, but he also knew that his own expressions prompted Andy to respond to him this way.

'Do you have some photo albums?' Andy had a habit to change the subject of an unpleasant conversation.

When Mrs Fox had arrived, Gum was showing Andy a photo album with pictures of children living on the streets in Pondicherry. It was a collection of photos showing an unexplored territory replete with secrets. Gum sensed that Andy would like it.

The children in these photos were both carefree and worried, naïve and cunning, gentle and vindictive, humble and arrogant. There were some pictures Andy could laugh about. But other photographs in this album could help him to discover something new about the world, where convenient simplifications and stereotypes became a way of knowing.

Gali was in and out of the store, replacing sold objects with some new ones from the storage room.

'Kingston's boy told me that there is a garage sale here. He also told me that there might be a decorative statue of a sitting man for sale. Can I see it, please?' Mrs Fox's voice sounded official.

Gum looked helplessly around. It didn't cross his mind that the statue could be for sale, but Gali had no objections. He brought the statue from the storage room and placed it carefully on the display table.

Mrs Fox took her time. She was examining the statue carefully in silence. Gum was observing her from a distance. Suddenly he had the impression that the statue had moved. This time it seemed to be moving in a counter clockwise direction. Gum could swear that the light didn't follow its movement.

'Mrs Fox, the statue doesn't seem to want to be with you.' Gum tried to make a joke, but he sounded serious.

'What made you think that he didn't want to be with me?' Mrs Fox was becoming suspicious.

'It moved a bit to the right and then it turned its back on you.' Gum described his impression literally.

'He turned his back on me, and you saw it?' Mrs Fox was raising her voice.

'I sensed it.' Gum was trying to be honest.

'You are insane!' Mrs Fox turned to Andy who was about to pay for the photo album. 'You are in the medical profession, like me. Don't you think that this strange guy is not acting normally?' Andy looked at the front page of his new album. There was a photo of a young boy feeding a seagull. Andy raised his eyes from the picture, looked at Mrs Fox in silence, and... left. Mrs Fox was inconsolable.

'Whatever was he thinking? Whatever did he mean? He didn't answer my question!'

Gali came to the rescue. He convinced Mrs Fox that he would deal with the situation.

'Whatever you wish,' she said 'but hiring someone who is insane is a safety risk for your customers.' Mrs Fox left without having a second look at the statue she came for.

There was no storytelling during this evening suppertime. Gali seemed distant and disengaged. When Gum finished eating, Gali gave him half of what they collected during the garage sale and told him that there was no work for him for tomorrow.

'Sell me your statue and I will leave.'

'Take it,' Gali said as he made a random gesture with his hand. Gum was not sure if it was Gali's way to say good bye or good luck, but he was convinced that it was something good.
An Accumulation Of Mistakes

Fantail

Mount Barker, South Australia

Australia

23 July 2014

Where Gabe, the angel, annoys Elisabeth...

Mistake number one: Showing Gabe, my upside, angelic neighbour, the manuscript - the carefully constructed novel that was going to send my star soaring. The publisher had been enthusiastic about the synopsis and first three chapters, so I had worked hard editing and re-editing.

I'd shown it to Gabe, fishing for compliments. To my surprise and delight, he had been very impressed and, after reading it, had, I thought, given it back to me. I thought I remembered leaving it on the kitchen bench after wrapping it; however, when I went to post it, it had vanished. Panicking, I rushed through the house looking for it without luck. So began the tedious task of searching through all my cupboards.

I had my head deep in a wardrobe when I heard footsteps.

'What are you doing, Elisabeth?'

Gabe. He doesn't knock. I'm used to it. I pulled my head out and looked at him standing in the doorway. 'My manuscript's missing.'

'Oh.'

There was an odd tone to his voice. I stood up, careful not to slip on the papers and books scattered about me. Gabe pulsed with a warm glow and I felt the familiar yearning to be near him, but something sheepish had flitted across his face and he seemed to have difficulty meeting my eyes so I stayed where I was.

'I have posted it for you Elisabeth.'

'But Gabe - '

'There were inconsistencies, Elisabeth. I corrected them, then posted the manuscript. I thought you would be pleased.'

I felt sick. 'Gabe,' I wailed, 'that was my story. Now it's not.'

'Elisabeth! Elisabeth. Is this not what editors do? I have merely saved much time and many alterations. I am certain the novel will be brilliant.'

_The novel_. Not _your_ novel, but _the_ novel. I could have cried, but what would have been the use?

'Oh, Gabe... ' I looked at him and shook my head, then bent to gather the scattered papers and put them away. When next I looked up, he had gone.

There was nothing to be done. I'd worked so hard to make the final draft of my submission perfect but now, even if it were published, I'd never feel it was quite mine.

For the next couple of weeks, I obsessively drafted angel tales. I wasn't going to tell Gabe: fair recompense for his interference with my novel, I reckoned. I was sipping coffee and in the middle of scrutinising a couple of the stories, thinking they could become part of a larger work, when the doorbell chimed.

'Elisabeth Whitbread?'

I could barely stop myself snatching the parcel, and ripping its covering off. I rushed into my den, tore the paper away from the manuscript, and looked for an acceptance notice... any notice... but there was nothing. With a sinking heart I began to flip through the pages. Editing marks spidered them and, tucked in the middle, was the most humiliating rejection notice I'd ever received.

How..? And then I remembered. I returned to the beginning and began to read. Astonishment swept through me, then rage. Gabe! You wretched, warped spawn of Lucifer. When I get my hands on you, I'm going to rip your b wings off! That story was the mushiest, most senseless bit of tripe I'd ever laid eyes on. And guess who had inserted himself as the hero, the lover?

I leapt from my chair, marched to his front door, raised my hand to knock and almost fell through as the door opened.

'You arsehole!' I spat. That was my second mistake. The angel lives on light, air, and ambrosia. I had demoted him to human status. With a thunderous brow, he flared brightly, seized my elbow in a vice-like grip and thrust me back onto the veranda.

The door thudded behind me.

I was boiling. My vision blackened and sparked. I spun round and pounded on the door screaming, 'Open up! Open up, you sod!'

It's not sensible to fight with an angel. The words crashed back into my ears and started up a high pitched keening. The world began to spin. I sank to my knees and vomited. Enough! I slithered away from the mess; but the tinnitus continued and the dull red veranda looped back and forth.

Unable to stay on my feet, I knew the only thing to do was close my eyes and crawl home. Thus, utterly humiliated, I made my way across Gabe's lawn and along the footpath. The sharp gravel bit into my knees and palms. Occasionally, I peeked to orientate myself. At my gate, I risked a longer look. The low, cream-coloured metal lazily swayed. I snapped my eyes shut, waited for the surge of nausea to abate, then butted the gate open and crawled through, relieved that no one had witnessed my humiliation.

I felt like a baby so, like a baby, I began to weep. My overstimulated olfactory nerves were thick with sickly odours. The fragrance of the garden, mixed with traffic exhaust, surrounded me in a noxious cloud.

I reached the front door and stood. For a moment I leant, trembling while the nausea billowed again, then I fumbled the key from my pocket, opened the door and stumbled through, pushing it shut behind me. I veered into my bedroom, flopped across the bed and lay, willing all motion to cease. Wretched angel! Even at that mild thought, my stomach heaved. Cold seeped into me. I sat up, wrenched my shoes off, dropped them to the floor and crept under the quilt.

Incorporeal bastard! I woke, breathing the words. My dream fled. My eyes flew open. Sunlight slanted through the window and I realised a night had passed. I stretched then snuggled back, luxuriating in the warmth, relishing the stillness of the room and the absence of nausea.

And that's when I made my third mistake: I began to plan.

I doubted my ability to hurt Gabe to the extent he had hurt me, and I didn't really wish to; however, at the bottom of his garden, past the box hedges, past the conifers topped with miniature winged Gabes, and past the goldfish pool, was a rose arbour. I had permission to visit the garden any time I wanted, with one restriction: I was not to venture into that arbour. However, a cushioned seat nearby had become my favourite place to be if I were troubled. The wafting fragrance of roses, the plashing goldfish, the soughing of pines in the breeze, soothed me as nothing else could.

I'd never before thought to disobey Gabe, but now I wondered why the seat had been placed so temptingly close to that forbidden bower with its carpet of fallen petals that never faded. Soon, I thought, when I was fully recovered, I intended to bathe in the fragrance of that place and feel those petals under my feet.
The Edge of Sanity

Judy J Newman

Rutherford, New South Wales

Australia

24 July 2014

A purple haze has settled, where stinging creatures live

Cotton wool invades my brain, smothering my very being

Fractured shards of painted glass, gaping holes, pain does give

Fire, burning everywhere, I cannot believe all that I am seeing

Voices, screaming through the blackness, sear all that is, or will be

Cold burning, my heart is empty, fear rages, and I, I don't exist

Masks are many, no one sees she whom used to be

Eyes on thorns, skewered, as body is ravished by numbness, in fatal wind does twist

They know not of this world, where all we live

They see not the blood, in rivulets, hiding the jagged rocks

Nightmares, reality, touch, warp, but do not give

They merely are, as they have always been, kept to we, ourselves, kept under locks

There are no tears, for such would invoke great anger, the numbing is not true

It merely masks that which cannot be shown, that which should not be felt

The burning, oh the burning, the fire, bright red and blue

Long since we have given up on belief, of praying, when we have knelt

Sanity without reprieve, warpedness, yet another mask

To cover the ugliness that lives within, the ugliness of fear

Just living day to day, is one almighty, draining task

Another day of wondering what is real, of trying to quiet voices we hear
Soul Search

JH Mancy

Tallebudgera, Queensland

Ausrtalia

24 July 2014

When our life is out of focus,

as it so often is;

and it seems so hocus-pocus

it leaves us in a tizz

When around us lies much chaos

and nothing makes much sense;

our emotions may betray us,

whilst we wait recompense;

and these will in turn delay us

whilst we sit on the fence.

Old anxieties destroy us,

and what we once held dear;

with no new paths to renew us;

a track that some can't bear.

So we veer from path well-travelled

to distant, unknown land;

to strange place we have not ventured;

it's done, we've played our hand.

It is now a new horizon

which greets us day by day;

hope, the journey to enliven,

on feet made out of clay.
The Suburban Banshee - Part 3

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

25 July 2014

Cory had no idea where to begin looking for Raelene. He started by returning to Macca's but only succeeded in raising the hopes of Petulantly Panting Petunia; for Raelene had not turned up for work. Bruce, the impossibly young manager, was suitably aggrieved (in line with corporate policy) and declared that if Raelene did not report for her allotted shift tomorrow morning, she would be in breach of her service agreement and he would have no alternative than to declare her contract invalid. _Jeez, that was a long-winded way of saying that Rae would be sacked_ , Cory thought, but that was the least of his concerns.

His next port of call was the shopping mall where he and Raelene had 'performed' at the bedding shop. There was usually one or two of their mutual friends mooching about and he thought that maybe someone had seen her, or she might well be there herself. No sign of her. No one had seen her. Though Jonesy, who was Cory's best mate, reckoned he might have seen her in the vicinity of Raelene's parents' house. Or rather - where she said she lived. This had always intrigued Jonesy because up until the time that Raelene and Cory had got together and became an item, Jonesy could not recall seeing Rae about, despite the fact that he had lived in the area all his life. Rae insisted that she had been around 'forever'. 'I told ya before Cory that she must be a blow-in. There's sumptin' weird about that chick!'

'Oh mate, you're just jealous,' replied Cory. Privately, though, Cory could feel a growing sense of disquiet. 'Anyway, I gotta go. Listen Jonesy, if she turns up, give us a buzz, will ya?' Jonesy watched Cory's retreating back with a knowing smile. And with that fruitless exchange, Cory returned to the parking lot to find the ute and continue his search. An hour or so later, he drove around the streets aimlessly after trying, without success, to catch a glimpse of her at their other usual haunts. Cory pulled over and decided to try giving Rae a further call. This time, instead of ringing out, the same ethereal voice answered and said; 'Time to go home darlin' Cormac!' It was Rae's voice alright, but it had taken on a lilt. 'Rae, Rae are you there, Rae!' But the connection was broken...

Once more, Cory sat staring at his phone as if it was a talisman or sacred object. That voice... it was Raelene, without doubt, but that lilt; it sounded Irish just like his grandfather, Padriac. Stranger still, it was the same last words that Paddy had said before his own death. Familiar, ancient, an odd feeling of déjà vu and foreboding came over him as he was reminded of his confused and tragic family origins.

Cory's parents had been killed in mysterious circumstances when he was just a toddler. The family had been driving very late one night along a country road just off the freeway, returning from a wedding. On a long straight section, the car had veered to the left, rolled and ploughed into the only tree for kilometres. When the paramedics had arrived at the scene, they found his mother already dead and his father barely alive. Later in the ambulance, when asked what had happened, Sean managed to say, 'She was right in front of me - a woman with a sort of aura about her and there was a howling scream! I swerved to miss her, but...' Sean lapsed into a coma and was pronounced DOA at the hospital. There was a strong smell of alcohol about him and in the wrecked car. So it was assumed that the story of the mysterious woman, with an aura, was the delirium of another drunk driver.

When police informed Paddy early that morning of the tragic deaths of his son and daughter-in-law and his son's last words about a mysterious woman, he nodded sagely and said stoically, 'Tis a morning of madness, me son never could hold his liquor.' Privately though, Paddy was aghast and in the silence of his small bungalow, he declared bitterly, 'Eevul has returned!'

Cory was strapped securely into his baby seat and had escaped serious injury. Indeed, the police attending the accident were amazed that Cory had survived at all with barely a scratch. 'Poor little tyke must have had an angel looking after him,' marvelled one of the officers. Cory's mother, Beth, had no family and so as the only next of kin, it fell to Paddy to raise his grandson alone. Paddy's wife had succumbed to tuberculosis back in Ireland, years before he had ever immigrated to Australia with his infant son, Sean, to escape the grinding poverty, the troubles and 'the evil'. Once Cory had reached the age of eighteen and Paddy was satisfied that he had done his best by his grandson, he began to drink in earnest and died around two years later. His last words were, 'Time to go home, darlin' Cormac!'

Cory had heard stories about the evil from his grandfather but he always put them down to the drunken ramblings of an old man. He was equally dismissive of the story told of the mysterious woman at the time of his parents' deaths in the car crash. He had no recollection at all of the dreadful events of that night. Cory shook himself out of his reverie - 'This isn't helping to find Rae,' he concluded. He decided to try at her parents' house.

Now, although Cory and Rae had been together for some months, Cory had never been invited into her parents' house, despite the fact that one of their couplings had taken place on the back veranda. They usually met at the mall or Cory picked her up after work. Rae had glossed over this anomaly by declaring that 'her olds' were 'a bit funny' and that things were okay the way they were - weren't they? Cory hadn't raised any objection because he barely knew what a 'normal' family situation was anyway. So it was with considerable misgiving when he knocked on the front door. 'Comin',' he heard a gruff voice say and a moment later the front door was opened by a large, florid-faced man in shorts and singlet who stood looking perplexed and quite angry.

'Well?'

'Ah, g'day Mr Banister, I'm Cory O'Brien. I'm the bloke who's been going out with your daughter, Raelene - glad to meet you finally. I wonder, is she about?'

The man in shorts looked Cory up and down for a full minute before he said finally, 'Matey, I haven't a clue what you're on about! For starters my name isn't Banister, it's Collins and for another, I haven't got any daughter called Raelene. Matter of fact, I've only got two sons; both of whom are presently inside, sitting on their jacksies, as per usual, playing bloody video games! What's your game... young, Corky was it?'

'Ah mm n... no, it's Cory, look, ah, maybe I've got the wrong address,' Cory spluttered. 'Sorry to trouble ya.' Actually, Cory was certain it was the right address and turned to make his escape up the brick path.

Collins looked over Cory's shoulder, 'Hang on, is that your ute out in the street? You're not the cove I saw sneaking out me front fence with some tart with long blonde hair a cupla of weeks ago, are ya? It was a ute just like that one that they got into! What the f... firetruck do you think you're playin' at, pal? I'm gonna call the cops!' Cory took to his heels, vaulted the low fence, raced to his ute, gunned the engine and sped away.

A couple of streets away, Cory pulled over. His heart was pounding, his hands were shaking and he was sweating profusely. He imagined he could hear maniacal laughter in his brain. Just at that moment, his phone started ringing - he grabbed it up - it was Rae! He answered furiously, 'Jeezus wept, Rae, where the hell are ya?' But in response, all he heard was the same ethereal voice, repeating over and over: 'Time to go home, darlin' Cormac! Time to go home, darlin' Cormac!' Somehow he knew, instinctively, where he would find her. He would have to go to the graveyard...
Project Lokitaung - Part 2

Irene Assumpter

West Perth, Western Australia

Australia

26 July 2014

Furaha says Lokitaung water makes her hair look like an abandoned village broom. From now onwards, she will ensure she falls sick every time there is a trip to the countryside. She accepted the five dollars we offered her for our project, but she also mentioned that if it were not for Shaka's cute smile, she would not be here.

'Life is too short to spend in the bunduz arguing with people who name their children after tribes.'

'Swahili is a language.'

'Ki-Swahili was, last time I checked. Still absurd. Would you like it if we called you Mustang Faraji or Maori Faraji?'

Those names actually sounded cool.

'Maori is a language and a tribe in New Zealand. Is Mustang not a car of some sort?'

She handed me the choking disinfectant cream Pa had insisted we must wear every single day until the end of our trip.

'Whatever. Are we going to finish your kalittle kaproject or are we going to argue all day? Your choice.'

Sunny Lokitaung is still full of cattle rustling. Cousin Payuka moved to Maralal to 'steal fatter cows and chiffon fuel' as his wife puts it. The tarmac road to Maralal has been somewhat repaired by the Australian oil company. It only takes about three hours by car from here. Nonetheless the road is still dusty; so dusty our eyelashes were brown by the time we got here. Riley thinks the dust can make any blonde a redhead any day. The massive pot holes still coerce passengers to dance while sitting. Pa has replaced tyres four times this week.

A few trees have grown around Lokitaung. The oasis discovered last May was named Chalbi Haven. The boys are beside themselves with joy. One boy showers four times a day since its discovery, and he is convinced the oil company is up to something.

'The person on the roof with a porous water kettle, his hands must be tired. He has to keep holding it for everyone. Tough job!'

Shaka Boss Shaka, if that truly is a legal name, was 20 years old. I do not know if it is appropriate to refer to him in past tense. He had only been in training for a month. I do not understand why they sent him there. Maybe it is because he was tall. Way too tall. It was the first thing I noticed about him. Every time he came to visit Furaha, he would bend a little when walking through doors.

He is terribly missed. His uncle will not feed the livestock or let the chicken get out of their dark hut to wander; animals too have to be taught to deal with life's challenges, otherwise they will never learn. His parents want to bury a banana stalk to symbolise his body. They want to buy a coffin and put a banana stalk in it. I wonder if they will ask mourners to view the banana stalk.

We can find him. We will find him. His parents need us to. We gave up on the local church after they asked his parents to contribute money towards buying a Lenrova to help the pastor with the search. Shaka's parents do not even own a wheelbarrow or a cart.

On our fourth visit to Turkana Escarpment this year, Mama Swahili touched my braids and said whoever did them did not really know how to do braids. She could do a better job for free, if only I could stop being so difficult and do what she asked. She would wash my hair with healthy coconut products and 'tangle things faster-faster' with some Samburu beads, so that I can be the good child that I am.

She held out two fingers.

'Marriage is for two people. Two. The third one is the wrecker. Tell me quickly - quickly, did that one send you?'

'I just came here to talk to Swahili. She asked me to come.'

'I asked you a question. Return me when I ask a question!'

The tall girl that was Swahili emerged from their house while munching the raw spaghetti sticks we brought from Nairobi. She did not close her mouth while chewing and she went on to speak while doing so.

'Mother, fresh camel meat is on sale at the market, but only for the day.'

Until then, I had not realised Mama Swahili could run at all.

Swahili has a younger sister who appears to be three or four years old. She has beautiful eyes, snow-white teeth, ebony-dark gums and flawless, chocolate skin. I think we could adopt her. She has no future in Lokitaung. In a few years, they might even marry her off to the old men in exchange for cows. We could ask Pa if we can live with her when she starts school.

She waved at me and ran back into the house before I could say a word.

Swahili looked at me the way her mother looks at people. It was her turn to touch my braids.

'Your hairs, they are long. The person tried.'

Yes, my school allowed us to braid hair. No, I will never again ask her if she speaks Swahili. Yes, I was 14, not 10. No, I do not add anything to my teeth to make them whiter. Yes, she was prettier than Furaha. No, I do not think there is anything particularly wrong with arranged introductions unless someone drags another person to a marriage ceremony, and holds a loaded gun against his or her head while forcing 'I do' out of the person's mouth.

Preliminary talk, as our teacher called it, was important.

Someone on Eyepen posted on his or her profile that mines security guards were being recruited. The person signed off as NNN. You did not have to go to Furnace, Crucible or any other camp. They that hired would come closer to you. You just had to show up at their 'chosen spot near your town' and he chose Turkana. She remembered his last update on Eyepen. He had finally found his true calling.

She cannot find the words. Even if she could, they would not accurately articulate the feelings that came with it. There were more than thirty miners and mine guards. Someone planned it, or no one did any planning at all. Almost all of them were thirty years old or younger, and fresh from the training camp. She saw Shaka's colleagues on TV carrying black bags with dead people in them. It was the only time she saw older employees. It was as if little puppies had been sent to stop the annual Wildebeest migration. As if a razor blade can cut a baobab tree. The people she talked to said that some of the garbage bags had gold in them. The pure gold the rustlers were targeting. Stealing gold is smarter than stealing malnourished livestock.

The young men were cooked in the hot sun, as if they were useless termites. Some people say the bodies were not even verified. People buried random bodies.

'Nobody could afford private pathologicals here. Do they think we are foolish? Do they know Shaka was going to marry me?'

Once again, she gave me the look that demands non-existent answers.

They were not allowed to ask questions. Thankfully, there were no tourists taking photos and recording people without their consent this time, but the journalists were just as bad. One asked a pregnant widow how she was feeling about losing her husband. Sometimes she wonders what Journalism actually is. If it is the same everywhere in the world, why anyone would be taught to be so insensitive and so forth.

I just sat and heard Swahili talk. I was not really listening in detail. My mind had too much to deal with. Two days ago, three children died at the health centre after eating poisonous cassavas for dinner. I want to build my own hospital to treat all the children in Lokitaung for free. Schools are good, but I want a hospital first. The boys' stomachs are so big. I think they eat too much ugali.

When I told Swahili that I wanted to become a paediatrician, she laughed as if I had literally tickled her.

'City people. Powdertician. What is that now? Makeup for face?'

Having proper conversations and getting answers in Lokitaung is like finding a needle in a haystack.

'But why would anyone with a brain put needles in hay? City people!'

This project has to end. This Shaka must be found. I want to go back to Nairobi.

Nairobi is the same Nairobi you know. Bread costs fifty shillings and cooking oil is something else. Salt is still affordable. Sugar is a story for another day. The yelling neighbours and their tenants moved. I am almost fifteen and Riley is ten. Riley wants to be a footballer. Pa says he needs to become something serious like a pilot or an architect.

We ran into Luigi in town the week before we came to Lokitaung. He was holding the hand of a thin girl with blue hair. Her face was bright yellow but her neck, arms and legs are the colour of the Tree Tuhm chocolates you brought us last Christmas. She must be doing funny things to her skin. Luigi introduced her as his cousin, except Furaha told me that not many African men hold their cousins' hands and waists while walking on the street, or anywhere else for that matter. I think Luigi is not good for you. He talks too much in a phony American accent.

We boil sweet potatoes and milk all the time but Pa brings good things when he comes from Afrikanyia. I do not know what Kenya's army is doing there, but I have better things to worry about now. Zebu is fine, useful and noisy. Riley says it is unfortunate we cannot make beef jerky out of her. I have no words to describe how I miss Nairobi and all my friends. I do not know when this circus will end. The locals are nice but they ask too many questions and give very few answers. If it is not about where we are going and what time we will be back, it is about Nairobi children not being able to 'even boil eggs, for goodness' sake' and how innately shameless they are, opening their mouths to release nonsense when adults are speaking.

On our fifth visit to Turkana Escarpment, Mama Swahili enunciated that Shaka was supposed to give her family fat cows and goats. Before Shaka disappeared, every single thing was going according to plan. Her own son had stopped selling the house furniture to buy keroro. Her husband had quit smoking. She had just dyed her hair bright red. She had settled her chama debts. She had lost considerable weight. Slender Possibilities had definitely worked; the golden dress from five years ago could fit her like a glove. Her friends had come out of their shells and started talking to her again, claiming they had not known she had won the prize that came with a TV nonsense that dehumanises African women's bodies. Her mother-in-law had finally become tired of announcing to the world that her son's wife was HIV positive.

Mama Swahili is tired of being reminded she is lucky to be married to a first-born son. She is angry because it is her that puts ugali in her husband's mouth. It is her that puts up with his gambling and pays his debts. It is her that washes rich people's clothes for a living. Without her, her husband could sell the children for two shillings.

I am finding it hard to picture Mama Swahili washing clothes for a living.

She was married at sixteen because there was no school fees for a girl child, and she was tired of sitting at home sewing her brothers' shirts. Her first husband was a policeman and was shot dead by cattle rustlers in Maralal. Her second husband took his own life after his employer refused to pay him for three months' work of gardening. Her third husband is alive and kicking, except he has a million and one girlfriends spread all over the Republic of Kenya.

She wore a distinct frown when she said those horrible things about her husband. Her husband does not look like a man who cheats. He has the image of a hardworking saint. If he travels, he brings things to sell in their shop.

'Swahili cannot make mistakes,' she told me without blinking, as if I had insisted Swahili would make those mistakes tenfold, 'Swahili will not make the mistakes I made. This Shaka just needs to come back and give me my cows and that your sister just needs to go back to wherever it is she came from. When brats stay in the city as they should, it is better for everyone involved.'

She clucked her tongue loudly and straightened her beautiful, beaded skirt with her palms, even though it was not creased.

Shaka loved Swahili. The last time he was at Mama Swahili's, he and Swahili ate meat stew and rice from the same plate like synchronised twins born to bring rain to Lokitaung.

'With all due respect, Shaka was... is a vegetarian and he is allergic to all meat. His mother said he was like that even before joining his dangerous careers.'

She held her arms akimbo as her eyes narrowed into slits.

'Is a little child talking back and calling me a liar or am I hearing my ears?'

Mama Swahili thinks the government should compensate her family for what she calls a frantic loss. Children die of hunger in this place on a daily basis, but Lokitaung's Children's Affairs Chair wants to be compensated for Shaka's disappearance.

We still have no idea who NNN is. We just know that NNN is a man. Rumour insists that he was arrested but released after calls were made and blows exchanged. You know how it is here. Investigations are underway and no single stone will be left unturned.

Talk is always cheap.

Furaha does not talk much about Shaka's disappearance. Not once have I seen her cry. Our Furaha, the one that cries when a butterfly loses a wing, will not shed a tear for her Shaka. Yesterday, she had something close to a smile on her face.

'Oil and water can mix, Fafa. Oil and water will mix, and there will be pure gold everywhere.'
Those Boat People

Emma-Lee Scott

Callaghan, New South Wales

Australia

26 July 2014

The flickering of the news draws my attention to the television. The vivid colours and the plastic smile of the news presenter are turned to distaste as she reads the headline, 'Boat People have been taken to Christmas Island.' Her announcement is followed by the pandering politician who spews the same tag line about illegal immigrants and turning back the boats. My anger grows and I switch the set off. The words 'illegal', 'jumping the queue' and 'unappreciative' ring in my ears. It was people like that who will never understand what it means to be an asylum seeker, running for your life - away from the bloodshed, the bombs and the stench of death.

My story begins at the outbreak of a war when someone within the Democratic Republic of Congo believed that democracy was the destruction of another tribe. In the blink of an eye, I went from being on the cusp of finishing university, to the target of someone's bullets and rage. But unlike many in my country, my family found an opportunity to sail into the safe arms of Rwanda, away from civil war. However, the hope that flew along the river into Rwanda quickly floated away with the unmovable border protection. 'We're full, we don't need any more of you!' They pointed their guns, and fingers, towards our border; they turned back the boat. And our vessel of freedom was returned back to the gaping hole of death.

As our boat crossed back into Congo any hopes that we still held of finding an escape from the destruction were dashed. My father yelled at my sisters and mother to hide. The liberators and revolutionaries of our country lined the muddy banks of the river, with their eyes full of hate. Many held M4s, undoubtedly pilfered from a bygone peacekeeper, others simply stood with machetes. They called, 'Kuacha au sisi kuzama mashua yako!'... 'Stop or we will sink your boat!' I looked pleadingly at my father. We had no way of running, and nothing except the flimsy hull to protect us. We had been chasing freedom on borrowed time.

They boarded our boat, dragging my family from the deck below. Like cattle we were herded onto the riverbank and an order was given. 'Kuwaua!'... 'Kill them!' They lined us up, like my teacher once did when I was young. One man with face too familiar checked our pockets taking my father's watch, and my mother's wedding ring before finally reaching me. He cut the buttons from the cuffs on my shirt, and his name resonated in my head as I remembered the familiarity.

I whispered, 'Matisse, my brother, please don't!'

He grabbed my hand, 'Djo, only because we were students together, lay down.' I didn't know what he was going to do, but as he finished stripping my family of anything that may be of value, I feared my death and followed his order.

He released the safety on his gun, and fired. My family's bloodied bodies piled on top of me. One after the other, my father first, my mother's screams and sister's crying ceased with a clatter of shell casings. Matisse stoped firing, and I heard his yells, 'Ni kufanyika'... 'It is done.' I remained on the ground, held down by my family and washed with their blood, waiting for Matisse and the rebels to kill me. Yet, they never returned.

I was a boat person, turned away because the country was too full. I ran from death, but was told no, no because you didn't wait in line. But war and persecution don't wait in line, unless it is people waiting to be killed. Rwanda and Australia are not so different, they both turn back the boats not caring for the faces they delivered to death.
Fantasy Fatigue

Samantha Ashton

Katoomba, New South Wales

Australia

27 July 2014

Katherine's erotic desire defined me, our affair made me what I am, a heart breaker, a 'lady killer'. Who would have thought that worshipping at the temple of Venus, that kneeling at her altar and drinking from her divine cup could have made me what I am today, but it did.

Before Katherine no one thought of me as a sexual being, let alone a powerhouse of depraved eroticism. But Katherine was different, she knew how to take the ideal man, an old fashioned gentleman and turn him into a primal sexual being. Katherine taught me how to be bad.

I will never forget the first time we made love. Katherine arrived home from work, a little frustrated, she had been thinking about me all day. She dropped her handbag in the hall and lost her shoes along the way to the bedroom. She didn't undress; she just fell back on the bed fully dressed, took a deep breath, lifted her skirt and slid her hand into her pants.

It felt so nice, comforting. Katherine lifted her knees and let them fall to the side spreading her slender thighs and opening her sex. She breathed slowly enjoying her touch, her silky centre and the trail of wetness beneath. She worked her magic, her labia swelled with arousal, her scent filled the room and then I was there, standing in the doorway. She closed her eyes and smiled as I crossed the floor.

The sight of her hand moving so skilfully beneath the thin fabric was erotic. She touched her breasts, gently stimulating her nipples. The sound of her fingers, my fingers massaging her pussy was tormenting, her musk intoxicating. She begged me to take her, to enter her. I couldn't resist. Katherine directed my thick cock to her wonton opening, she pulled at me, forcing me inside her and as her lips closed around my stiff shaft the gentleman in me died a little, a magnificent death and as she moaned and rolled her hips I was reborn. I was her hero, her man of steel; I was her corruption, her passion and her saviour. She was my goddess.

We didn't only make love, we fucked like wild animals, desperate, passionate, explosive sex that can make a man cry out in ecstasy and her cry tears of love. We fucked wherever we could, whenever the mood struck, which was with surprising regularity. Katherine was obsessed with the perfect orgasm, that rolling orgasm that had a thousand endings, little crescendos that built like the perfect storm.

I was always on call, beckoned by her finger, pulling me to her, into her, time and again. I couldn't stop, no matter how many times we were seen, no matter how many people could smell the sex on us, we were lovers of the diabolical kind.

At first her husband was a little jealous, but then he realized that when she fucked me, her desire grew to a fever pitch and she fucked him with such savage passion that he too was born again. The more depraved she was with me, the more kinky she was with him and the more he enjoyed her.

One day he caught her making love to me. I was about to disappear when he smiled and said some nonsense about her being a bad girl and that bad girls were such a turn on and then I had no real choice, I was in my first three-way. And it was not the kind of three-way that either Katherine or I invited. He kept asking her how she liked being with two men, and if she liked my 'big cock' sliding in and out of her 'sweet little pussy'. She couldn't reply as her mouth was full.

The second time he caught us, she was on her knees impaling herself on my shaft, he was gleeful, watching her spread cheeks, her open lips sliding up and down my slick pole. He dropped his trousers and pressed his cock into her anus, slowly working it in. It was her first double penetration. She grimaced at first, but surrendered to the beautiful pain and groaned throughout a powerful orgasm.

He begged her to have us both every night. To my great relief Katherine said 'no'. She made some excuse. He was disappointed. I preferred the wild cheating sex we enjoyed. This 'approved manage' was okay once in a while, but it cramped Katherine's style. I preferred the freedom of fucking her wherever and whenever her pussy tingled with electric desire. When spontaneous, sex was so much more frantic, erotic and downright dirty.

Sex with Katherine was divine. She was so overwhelmed by the fantastic, liberating feeling of being so well fucked that she just had to tell her friend Beth. Katherine introduced us, somehow telling Beth everything about me made Beth want me too. I couldn't say no, that night I had fast frantic sex with Beth. She was so breathless she almost passed out, and then she fell asleep, a lingering smile on her face. She didn't even notice when her boyfriend came to bed. At first it was hard satisfying both Katherine and Beth, but they were so hungry for my manhood that I couldn't stop.

It was a great life. I even had a night with Katherine and Beth, they were so incredible together, hands everywhere, licking and kissing, pressing their perky breasts together, sharing me, taking turns pounding me, sucking their juices off me only to wet me again with their divine essence. It was a magical night, but it was the beginning of the end.

My real problems began when Beth wrote a blog about our affair, about how hot the sex was about the thrill of riding me, of using me while dating Katherine. She wrote about group sex, sex in public and even how a little bondage made her feel alive. She was telling the truth.

From the time I first fucked her, she became a new woman, free, sexy, spontaneous and driven by desire. She lived for erotic sensation. At least, that's what she wrote in her blog. First one of her readers then another wanted me in their beds, in their pants, in their luscious wet vaginas or deep in their arses.

I never thought I'd have a life pleasuring women, but now that is all I have time for. I keep up the pretence of being incredibly wealthy, arrogant, intense, distant at times, and more than a little controlling. But it's my 'rugged masculine beauty' that gets them every time. My day is divided between young women who want to be pounded like whores and housewives who want romance, kinky fetishized sex, or three ways with their adoring or bored hubbies.

I've even been in bed with a confirmed lesbian couple, and... on the lounge, the kitchen floor and in the shower. The trouble is that all the sex, all the kinky stuff, spankings, bondage, three ways, double penetrations and anal sex is wearing me out. I am exhausted, fatigued. And I'm not the only one feeling the strain. My friends Edward and Christian are so popular that they have to be in several places at once. I don't suppose I should complain, but being a fantasy is harder than you'd think.
The Gallant Invalid

David Anderson

Woodford, New South Wales

Australia

27 July 2014

'So, you're the new nurse?'

'Well, I am here to take care of you, sweetie.'

Bill eased up on his pillow and surveyed his new carer. This was certainly the most attractive nurse he'd seen in his six months at Bayview Nursing Home, and surely a step up from his aptly named regular carer, Nurse Stone, or 'Stone Face' as she was referred to by Bill and the other patients.

'What's your name, nurse?'

The nurse, hands akimbo on her slim hips, smiled and replied. 'Lucy.'

'Okay, I'm Bill, glad to meet you, Nurse Lucy.'

Lucy moved to the side of the bed and leant over Bill, her ample breasts stretching her blouse to near rupture. She whispered to him so closely he felt her lips brush the abundant hairs sprouting out of his eighty year old ears, while the heat from her merlot infused breath released a tremor deep within his groin.

'Just call me Lucy, honey. Time for your wash.'

Bill gulped as Lucy reached for the basin of hot water, soap and sponge she had brought into the room. She slowly removed Bill's pyjama top and began gently caressing his frail body with the hot, soapy sponge; her face closer to him than was necessary for such a job. The temperature in the room was warm enough for Bill to lay on top of the bed unclothed and his hands jumped to the cord on his pyjama trousers as she reached to untie them.

'Naughty, naughty, William. You know the matron will be angry if I don't finish your bath.'

Bill removed his hands as Lucy untied the cord and slipped his trousers down and over his feet. Without looking, he could feel his once proud penis lying shrunken and flaccid across his pubic hair; a look of embarrassment gleaming from its one eye. Lucy commenced soaping his nether regions and Bill was amazed as his member flickered into life, like house lights after a blackout. The hot, soapy flannel caressed his member and a feeling Bill had not felt for years, as Lucy's hand brushed against him, made his gonads flinch.

Lucy stood back and in one deft moment unzipped her white nurse's uniform and let it drop to the ground. As she stepped out of her clothing and leaned over Bill, her huge breasts swung softly across his face, and two huge pencil erasers caressed his nose, while Bill felt sure his blood pressure was rising faster than the Greek deficit. Lucy kissed Bill full on the lips and jumped onto the bed, straddling him, with her shaved muff inches away from his diminutive erection. Bill cautiously looked to the door.

'Someone might come in. This is all wrong.'

Lucy shook her head and smiled shamelessly. 'It's time to make love, Bill, before you lose this delicious little swollen man.' She leant down to take Bill in her mouth, but Bill pushed her away, a look of confusion clouding his face.

'Who are you? Why are you doing this?'

Lucy knew that to continue she would have to tell him the truth. She covered Bill with the bedclothes and began putting on her uniform to calm her hesitant lover down for the time being.

'I'm a professional girl, Bill, so it's okay. Your mates in the other rooms paid for this, to celebrate your birthday. I'll give you a few minutes and then you can just lay back and enjoy it.'

Bill laughed for a moment, then tears glistened in his eyes as he realised that his friends' generous and erotic present could not be carried out to fruition.

'I can't. I just can't.'

Lucy laughed and placed her hand on his groin over the covers. 'You could if you let me. This was getting firm enough for me to start our little session.'

'No, Lucy, you don't understand. I would truly love to have you finish, but... but I was the kind of man in my youth that was very proud of my lovemaking and before I enjoyed anything for myself, I always gave my all to the woman I was making love to - before I finished myself.'

Lucy smiled and took his hand. 'But Bill, love, I'm a prostitute and I don't need to come. My job is to just give you all the fun.'

'I know that. Most men always joked it would be a challenge to give a working girl an orgasm, but I'm also talking about the body I had back then. I was an athlete; smooth skin, full head of hair and, dare I say, quite handsome. That's also what I offered to a woman, and this old, saggy body just doesn't quite get to that level. So I could never enjoy the experience.'

Lucy began to speak, but Bill interrupted her.

'No, not another word. I'll tell the boys I enjoyed it, so they won't feel let down, and please be assured you really are one hell of a good looking woman. So please go, and God bless.'

Lucy tidied her uniform and hair and gave Bill a soft peck on the cheek.

'You know, Bill, this has been one of the nicest jobs I've ever done. Bye, handsome.'

Lucy gave a little wave and left the room, wiping her eyes and laughing quietly to herself.

She passed a few rooms and held up her thumb to the male occupants in triumph as they lay back and grinned at her in lascivious and envious appreciation.

Back in Bill's room, he reflected on whether he had been a bit too shy and hasty in rejecting such a fine woman, or had indeed told the truth, when he realised the tremor in his groin was growing. He reached for his laptop, and with a smile, slowly his hand glided under the sheets to fondle himself. The ladies on his favourite internet site, Very Mature Sexy Girlfriends, wouldn't see Bill's spindly, tired, old body, so Bill felt no guilt as he only needed to give them his full attention and gratitude.
Jasmine

Felicity Ghazy

Campbelltown, South Australia

Australia

28 July 2014

All her life she had the nickname 'Billy Bunter'. On her fifth birthday her mother had found her eating the last crumbs of the birthday cake. The angry admonishments of her mother had echoed in her brain from that day on. They weren't to be the last. Every time she found herself enjoying some gastronomical delight, there was her mother's voice hurling insults at her.

'You're nothing but a fat, lazy, greedy little girl. No man will ever look at you.' The fact that her Mother had a sylph like figure and lots of admirers didn't help.

Jasmine's father had left when she was a baby. Her Mother had never told her why. The more Jasmine's mother ranted and raved, the more Jasmine's craving for sweet things grew. Her chief passion was chocolate bars. She liked to tear off the wrapper and bite into the bar without breaking off the pieces. Cinnamon cake, thickly buttered, was her favourite afternoon tea. For weeks she saved up her pocket money to buy this, when her mother was out.

When her mother cooked for her she made boiled meat or fish and green salad. Salad was something that Jasmine abhorred. If she had been allowed to have mayonnaise on it, she could have tolerated it. Mayonnaise was something her mother refused to buy. Jasmine's mother ate out mostly. Usually she dined and wined in exclusive restaurants with her friends. If Jasmine ever developed a slim figure, her mother told her, then this would be her reward.

Jasmine was sure she'd never be slim. Food was her only solace. It seemed that it was her only friend; and yet it was really her enemy. She knew that she'd like to wear the fitting jeans and the clinging dresses that other girls at her college wore. She would have adored it if one of the handsome students in her class would look at her. For so long she had accepted that it wasn't to be so. Thus it was a vicious circle of eating and misery.

It wasn't fair. Jasmine knew that underneath all her fat was a beautiful person. She longed to join in the fun and laughter that other girls enjoyed. How she hated the summer. She didn't dare go to the beach and expose her quivering flesh. How she hated it when she saw pitiful eyes upon her. She wanted to say: 'Look, underneath is me, Jasmine. I want to smile and laugh.' Instead she remained morose and took refuge in another slice of cinnamon cake.

Until one day Jasmine met Joel. He changed her life miraculously. Her weight was never again a problem.
The Silent Sleeper

Madeline Ross

Winmalee, New South Wales

Australia

28 July 2014

The bed is soft and welcoming,

The night closes in,

The dying man wanders

In shallow, troubled dreams.

His rasping breath falters,

His vision fading dim,

His body sleeps deeper,

The end is almost near.

The whisper of her voice,

An echo in the night;

Beckoning and soothing,

Amidst his clouded thoughts.

She offers a pale hand,

A glowing ethereal light;

He smiles in the darkness,

An angel has arrived by flight.

Her hand is cold but pleasant,

Her eyes are warm and calm.

She sings a gentle lullaby,

His soul moves and sways.

His laboured breathing eases,

His beating heart stills.

At last he leaves his prison,

His final breath leaves his lips.

He finds himself floating,

A spectre of the night,

Unseen and unhearing,

Free from pain at last.

The tranquil angel beckons,

He follows the pale, floating cloud.

Light streams into broken windows,

Shattered prisms of heavenly light.

He leaves his bedroom window,

Towards the hallowed light.

His suffering has ended,

For thoughts of eternal life.

The brilliant light fades,

The tomb is once more dark.

The silent sleeper stills,

An empty carcass freed from life.
Spirit and Soul

Bob Edgar

Wentworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

29 July 2014

The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.

Six year old Natalie thrashed in the surf as the great white shark tore her left arm from her shoulder.

Simultaneously, thousands of miles from the red surf, eight year old Daniel's throat was being cut, as penalty for non-payment of ransom.

The children's spirits are lifted from their bodies before the pain; and their souls rest in the enveloping love of the Lord.
Suburban Evenings

Sunrise

Peel, New South Wales

Australia

29 July 2014

All is quiet, the suburb dead. Each house waiting, all alone.

Some with gardens, neatly tended. Some neglected, lawns unmown.

One by one, a car arriving. Now, another over there

Workers to their dwelling, heading, for its loneliness to share.

Firstly one house lives again; awakened from the day's siesta.

Weary mother - prankish children, laughing loudly, seek to test her

Then another house awakens, then another, each surrounded

By the dead ones still awaiting family's car the corner rounded.

Darkness falls the lights all blazing, each in isolation, stands

Children, cloistered in their bedrooms, struggling with their subject strands

Knowing that tomorrow trouble comes from uncompleted homework

Parents busy cleaning, wishing someone else would do their housework.

In the morning there's reversal, each house emptied left alone,

Still some gardens neatly tended. Some neglected, lawns unmown,

This time cars depart more swiftly, many running late for work.

Once again the suburb rendered to its deathly silence. Shirked.

Editor's note: This piece earned an 'Editor's Pick' for the ability to successfully turn the common and mundane into something magical and poetic.
My Love

Rachel Branscombe

Quakers Hill, New South Wales

Australia

30 July 2014

My love how deep it runs

How beautiful is its gaze

The glorious whispers that flutter my heart

My life, my beauty, my never-ending love

Ever growing in truth is thy way

Like an angel of gold

You help me in my need

When your lips touch mine

How heavenly your scent

Like honey or fruit straight from the tree

Your eyes shine like stars on a sea of darkness

My love how gracious is your feelings

That touch right down to the soul

You burst with joy like the heat of a flame

Like a rainbow after rain

When I'm lonely, when nothing feels right

That is when I think of you

Of the times we've had and wasted

When my heart is hurting I remember

The days and hours gone by

You are my blessing in disguise

Although you have hurt me more than words can say

You build me up and make me stronger inside

Sometimes I think you are the best

Sometimes I wish you'd go away

But you don't go away

You never leave, just hiding

Of all the selfish people I know

You are definitely not one

My life, my love, my everything

I wish you'd always stay

I cannot live

If I cannot have you again

To feel the warmth of you in my arms

My love how delicate your hands

That stroke my tangled hair

If ever I think you are gone

You remind me that you are there

My love how amazing are your gifts

Peace, happiness, security, the wonders never cease

Oh my love, my angel of surprise

Always you have something new to give

I am never alone when you are there

My selfless love, my beacon of beauty

How graceful is thy deeds

I never know what to think

When you appear with me

My gorgeous love I love you more than words describe

And I will not rest until you are once again by my side
Harvest

Paul Humphreys

Oxley, Canberra

Australia

31 July 2014

He was lying in his deck chair on the back veranda. He looked out on his 'estate' as he called it - nine acres of grapes. He lay there, lazy as a lizard lapping up the last warmth of the setting sun.

'Don't deserve this.' There was a level of mild distress and confusion in his musing.

'All those people I swindled, all those women whose passion I sucked up to as a randy ram, all those drugs and impossible fast cars. There can't be a God - otherwise there would be a punishment for my past indiscretions and crimes.'

He was proud of the vineyard, three acres of Malbec, three of Shiraz and the last, Trepanillo.

'There should be $65,000 per acre if the market is right.' A smile of delight lit up his face as he contemplated his future prospects. He dozed a short while. The sun was edging below the mountain on the opposite side of the valley.

Whether to start the harvest tomorrow or leave it for a few more days was always a gamble, he knew that.

He heard it before he saw it.

A loud, mechanical cracking and thudding sound stirred him from his musing and his deck chair. The noise, which was deafening, was coming from the other side of the valley. Heavy black clouds now hung over the valley and appeared to be in a rush toward his farm.

The cracking sound was accompanied by intermittent flashes of lightning and large claps of thunder that echoed through the valley.

The mechanical cracking and thudding was getting closer and was approaching his estate. He could now see the opaque curtain of hail like a frozen waterfall travelling in front of the storm. The devastation was complete; all shrubs and trees in its path were stripped bare of leaves and branches.

It came as a steady line of destruction. He was quickly to his feet, his face drained of all colour. Beads of sweat hung on his forehead. A small tear, prompted by a strange mix of fear, frustration and a strong sense of futility, appeared in his eye as he watched the hailstorm advance as a relentless line of destruction across his estate, shredding the vines.

It was all over in no time at all.

'So there is a punishment,' he muttered to himself. 'Some might call it God's harvest.'

His distress enveloped him like a vice, his breathing became more difficult, he suddenly felt weak and fell back into the deck chair. He started to shiver uncontrollably.

He leaned forward in the deck chair, his moment of shear panic abated. The line of destruction continued over his house with a deafening noise of stones on a tin roof. His 'estate' crop was totally destroyed. There was no use in swearing; he felt as though he had been castrated without anaesthetic. _Here I am, a castrated ram - a wether._
mother unplugged

Ramon Loyola

Newtown, New South Wales

Australia

1 August 2014

for it is a time

when the wind has chilled her heart,

that the clocks have stopped,

and she can take a moment to get her bearings.

her dreams of long-ago days abandoned for the price of family,

she has stopped yearning for a prize that captures any glory.

the child forbids her to call out for fortune,

the pride of parenthood, though unheralded, her only fame.

what of this reality, she asks her faith?

no matter what she does, who she wakes up for,

each morning only brings the perils of the mundane.

no alms are forthcoming, she knows,

and it is for the best, she tells herself.

no dignity in the aid of the well-meaning,

only the morality of one's own unmitigated comfort -

whether it is:

food to cook or clothes to iron,

dirty linen to wash or muddy floors to mop,

a screaming tot to cradle or a needy spouse to satisfy,

fresh laundry to hang or groceries to buy,

bills to pay or garbage to put out,

curtains to fix or rooms to tidy up,

a garden to water or a car to wash,

the weekend to plan or the budget to save for,

the daytime job to hold on to or the after-hour chores to do -

she takes on the honest stand of a woman-servant,

slave to her passions,

dreamer of lush.

and as the clock chimes to precision,

announcing her reality,

she takes a step back and looks in the mirror:

the heart to endure and the spirit to surge on?

too frozen inside to never be touched again

by the tender hands of fate and consequence.

outside the chambers, beyond the eyes,

the wind howls just as fiercely

as the desire rages within to keep her soul perfectly still,

lest a single gust cracks her hard icy state.

and she stands unwavering and ancient,

like a lighthouse at the edge of the cliff.
Saturday Arvo At The Rubbity (Saturday Afternoon At The Local Pub)

John Ross

Blackheath, New South Wales

Australia

2 August 2014

'G'day Bert you old bastard. Haven't seen you in a month of Sundays. Pull up a stump and I'll shout you a cold one. Where you been hiding? The missus come the raw prawn or you been crook or sumthin?'

'Yeh. G'day Dave. No. That misery guts of a boss of mine has been working me as hard as a drover's bloody dog. Coupla weeks ago I told the drongo that he was stark raving mad putting on his drop kick of a relo as the new super. Well he lost the plot, got his undies all twisted, and gave me a right mouth full. End result I'm on extra hours all bloody week. I complained to the union but that seat polisher of a bloody rep told me I should just cop it and enjoy the extra dosh. Anyway how you travelling Dave? Your missus had that new sprog yet?'

'Yep. Two weeks ago. What a bloody disaster. The bloody Commodore died on the way to the hospital. A walloper got all bent out of shape 'cause I stopped in a bus zone. When he saw that Maggy was about to drop the kid he suddenly changed his tune and took us in his car. It was one of those new turbo Falcons. Bloody heck could it go. Took off like a startled deer. Naught to sixty in seven point five seconds, so the copper said. Good fuel consumption also.'

'Yep, bloody nice wheels. Me mate Bob's got one. Boy or girl?'

'Boy. I wanted to call him Donald Bradman, but the missus threw a wobbly and so Archibald Andrew Angus it is. Three As. Bloody Alcoholics Anonymous Australia. What a shockin' thing to lumber the poor kid with. Here comes Smiley.'

'Hi ya Smiley. How's that footy team of yours goin'?'

'Footy team! Bloody bunch of prima donna bloody ballerinas more like it. Whatcha drinkin' fellas? The usual? Can I order you blokes some tucker while I'm at the bar?'

Smiley returns with just three schooners. 'We've got a snowball's chance in hell of getting any tucker today. Some dozy dropkick called Alberto, the chef, a bastard and he's taken his bat and ball and gone home.'

All the surrounding patrons in unison, 'Who called the bastard a chef?'

Silence. Deep contemplation of the increasing frothy rings descending in their glasses.

'Ya watch the fight last night? That Yank bloke couldn't fight his way outta a wet paper bag if his life depended on it.'

'Na the missus likes watchin' the Aussie Rules. I think it's their tight, little shorts. I got meself banished to the shed when I called it aerial ping pong played by the Royal Ballet discards. What about you Smiley?'

'Now don't you idiots laugh. I had a date.'

'Wow Smiley. Yer poor old mum come over for a meal?'

'Yeh. Yeh. Laugh all you want. First time out with a bird in five years and I think I impressed her.'

'You charm the pants off her with yer cultured ways, handsome smiley face and la de dah manners, eh Smiley?'

'Well she's meeting me again next Friday for a return match. So put that in yer pipe and smoke it.'

Silence. Deep thought. Contemplation.

'Been unusually hot for this time of the year. The bloody lawn is still grow'n. Had to tell the missus that the mower was cactus or she would have had me mow'n it again.'

'That's gunna change real soon Dave, there's a cool change on the way.'

'I haven't heard anything about that.'

'It actually looks real cold and frosty. It's yer missus, she has just walked in with a pram and is headed this way.'

'Bloody hell, the meeting with the priest about the christening. Quick fellas think of an excuse for me.'

Bert and Smiley. 'Well, gotta go Dave. Leave ya to it.'
Rebound

Mark Fowler

Magill, South Australia

Australia

3 August 2014

you left me and took the idea of myself with you

you called our love forever filled me with a fuzzy vision of everlastingly bliss

you left me exposed

my emotions

stripped

the music

talks of it

beautiful refrains of letting go living without you

but they play out inside two minutes

the rejection burns on

and in desperation

to compensate

emotional scars lost time left over self

i look for you in other faces other places

just an essence

a look a giggle a curve of the leg

i obsess

and settle for poor imitations

nights of passionless sex nights of sexless romancing nights and days of nothing

even your name will do but it doesn't

even your memory might do but it won't

perhaps time

perhaps not

rebound

may be losing you

finding me

moving on
The Carnival Is Over

Aurora Torchia

Venice

Italy

3 August 2014

The Carnival had been over for a few hours now, leaving behind a graveyard of broken glasses and sugared almonds. In the midst of this desolation, a lone figure was walking down the street.

The streets of Venice, in the hours before dawn, were like the entrails of a corpse left to rot on the beach. Same nauseating smell, same silence full of broken expectations. Sadie loved wandering around Venice at that time of day. Slightly bent because of the weight she was dragging behind, Sadie was enjoying the strong smell and the gulls' desperate cries above her head.

She closed her eyes, being content of letting her other senses guide her through that wet maze: after all, she knew so well those old and dirty streets that sight was just a useless ornament for her walks - walks that she enjoyed much better when she was not seeing at all. In those moments, it was all so perfect in its absurd injustice that even a single misplaced detail would have ruined everything, like a pen's sign on the Mona Lisa. Yes, much better not to see.

Her footsteps were the only human sounds that bounced off the stone walls: no one within who knows how many metres. Oh, there was nothing better than solitude to enjoy the pleasures of the masterpiece of death. A work of art that lasted only for a short while, and therefore had to be savoured in every detail, until there was nothing to be savoured, until reality took away that precious moment of fulfilment - the fulfilment of the end.

The end. It was one thing Sadie could not understand unless she absorbed it from the experiences of others.

A wind full of foul rain rose from the lagoon. Sadie was protected only by a light sweater and a pleated skirt: maybe in the past she would have shuddered in the winter air. Now, however, she was not affected by the cold or the wind ruffling her hair. For an instant she thought she would have liked to taste the air coming from the sea, salty as blood: doing so, however, would have meant taking off the mask, and she would have preferred not to - at least not yet.

Things were to be done in proper order, according to a precise ritual, or they would have eventually ruined even those wonderful moments of pure art: the moments her heart was still beating for and that made her life worthy of living.

With a very unladylike grunt, she threw onto a small empty pier the sack she had dragged with her. It was heavy - as usual. With a knife darkened by use, Sadie cut the string that closed the sack, letting the woman's body slip down and hit the dirty wood. She wondered how much blood had already been spilled here in the past, before this woman's blood: at this place, slaughtered fish and stabbed humans kept each other company for centuries on the bottom of the lagoon like it was the stomach of a giant monster.

Sadie grinned under the mask at this image.

She grabbed the woman by the hair, watching her. A beautiful death. A clean cut. Sadie felt moderately satisfied: she could not always control herself so well, even though over time it was getting easier. With another smile, she recalled the shrill voice that tried to scream, despite the fact her throat was neatly cut. She had called her a monster: probably a good definition. She had went on telling her she was sick: this one was indeed very close to the reality of things. Then she was just dead.

At first, Sadie had decided to answer, but she had discarded the idea almost immediately: any explanation for the fact that a ten year old girl was killing her would have seemed implausible. Shaking her head, Sadie proceeded to finally get to work: she had to peel off the skin while it was still fresh, or she should have to go hunting again. Not that she minded of course, but drawing too much attention was not wise: stopping completely would have disturbed her even more than limiting herself to just a single victim.

While cutting, Sadie was whistling a merry old song - a small reward to herself for her self-control. Until a few months ago she would have made a mess and would have never been able to accomplish such a meticulous job: it was only right that she was proud of her progress. Her brain slipped lazily through the past, mulling over her own life.

Had there ever been a time when Sadie was a normal child? No, at least she could not remember one. Sadie had always killed, even before the arrival of The Night Of All Nights. The youngest serial killer in history, probably. Why did she kill? Why did she start? She did not know. Maybe a good psychologist would have found an explanation. Maybe if The Night Of All Nights had not arrived, someone would have discovered there was something broken in her brain. Now, however, Night had come, and if there was something wrong with her, it would always remain that way. In fact, Sadie did not really think anything was wrong. In her own opinion, the truth was much simpler than that. Sadie was just evil.

After less than an hour, her cutting was almost over. She could take off the mask and see what she was like: this was the moment she hated the most, even if she had come to accept it in time. With her left hand she took the beautiful fairy mask off, while with her trembling right hand she opened the pocket mirror she always carried with her. She swore in a hiss. It was worse than she had imagined. Her face was decomposing faster and faster: skin and flesh rotted on the bones in a matter of a few days now. If she went on like this, she would have to begin hunting younger prey. Yes, she needed more youthful skin, which would rot more slowly.

At the word 'prey' Sadie's lipless mouth allowed itself a hungry smile.

Perhaps she would give herself another gift that day, the woman's brain. Sadie ate, put carefully the human skin into the sack, and then closed it back. While throwing her victim's remains in the lagoon, she wondered if it was her own wickedness that had prevented her from becoming one of those mindless beasts that could be seen in the movies. Maybe good people could not withstand the bite of the Night. She shrugged: after all, it was not important.

'Hey, dear!' A voice was calling, right behind her. A man with a heavy accent, maybe a fisherman. Sadie turned around without worrying about putting on the mask. The blood dripped on her skinless chin and the wind bounced off the exposed bones. He was an old man, intent on loosing his small motorboat from a nearby tier.

On seeing the girl, he laughed, shaking his head. 'Oh, you're a zombie, right?' Sadie smiled. She looked at the mask she still held in her hand. Finally she decided. 'Yes,' she replied, moving slowly towards the fisherman. The closer she got the more she saw the man's smile disappearing: she adored those little joys that her condition gave her. 'No mask today.' At that distance, she knew the man could see the bones under only a few layers of skin. 'The Carnival is over.'

Editor's note: Murder is so often written about from the victim's point of view. Changing that to the protagonist's point of view, and delivering a character who is not seeking revenge but simply killing because they have to, takes skill as there is a risk of the reader disassociating from that character. When the author then manages to keep the reader interested in such a protagonist, they have written a great horror story.
Tune Up To Bliss

Andris Heks

Megalong Valley, New South Wales

Australia

3 August 2014

I climb out of bed and drag myself to the Cathedral and stand before the organ.

I begin to play the scale as I look at the ceiling: God, sitting amongst his angels, extends his hand towards Adam's outstretched arm and fingers. God's fingertips nearly touch his, but not quite.

Oh, how much Adam yearns to be touched by God.

How much I yearn for the Light.

But I am stiff as a board and as I whine to the divine sounds of the organ, I sound like a cat as it is being skinned alive.

I listen to the metronome, trying to keep the beat and hear the beat and blend my voice with it:

Sa, Re, Ga, Ma, Pa, Da, Ni, Sa - and down - Sa, Ni, Da, Pa, Ma, Ga, Re, Sa.

I try to chant softly to hear the beat to keep it, but I keep losing it.

I tap with my right foot and look at the light coming through a small opening of the thick curtain where it wasn't pulled close enough to block out all the light.

I keep my eyes glued to the narrow five inch vertical line of light for visual anchoring.

I do the scale in base, baritone, tenor, soprano and alto soprano.

It is easy in base. There is already a richness to my voice there which almost sounds good.

But as I ascend towards alto soprano my voice gets progressively weaker and more distorted.

I feel and I am Quasimodo in Paris' Notre Dame.

I sneaked into the Cathedral at six am, so that no one could see how ugly I am and how awful I sound.

But standing at the organ and in my mind's eyes seeing the Sistine Chapel's Adam and God communing in the Firmament I feel reassured.

I am a beast trying to articulate high pitched sounds to reach up to Heaven, but the stiff muscles in my throat, my stiff jaw, my cold vocal cord prevent me.

Yet it feels great to screech, to distort my face, squeeze the pain out of my rigid eyeballs, open my stiff jaw wide, trying to break free of the prison of my heavy, hardened, down pulling body. I try to leave it behind and fly up to the firmament to cozy up to the angels surrounding God.

I sing the love tune of 'Mon Coeur s'ouvre a ta voix' from 'Samson and Delilah'.

I feel my vocal cord stretched as I reach the crescendo of the melody.

But the cord begins to soften and allows the exquisite melody through as if surrendering to and being reconditioned by the beauty of the melody.

I am being moved to tears. My whole being begins to soften. Slowly I am getting tuned up. Keeping my eyes on the light finding its way through the opening between the curtains; leaning on the beats of my metronome, my hearing sharpens, my voice softens.

Slowly I am lifting to heaven.

Now my Quasimodo reaches Adam on the Firmament and God's fingers touch mine.

Or, have I become one of the cherub angels being energised by God's presence at my side?

Actually, now I feel like a human being, not like a chained beast.

I am filled with gratitude for the transformation.

I chant: 'Mindegy, Mind Egy', (All The Same, All Is One) in Hungarian.

I am tuned.
Sweet And Lite

Mark Fowler

Magill, South Australia

Australia

4 August 2014

They met as they shared lunch near the pond.

'Got an apple, want a bite?'

It was juicy and they formed a bond.

'Twas love at very first sight.

She was dainty and light on her feet.

They dined, danced every night.

She was kind, her demeanour so sweet.

She was a joy; he, Mr Right.

They married, had kids, bought a house.

She ate and gained a few pounds.

He lost interest, strayed. 'You rotten louse!'

Divorce! 'Her weight', were his grounds.

She's determined to forget Mr Right.

Next - won't be 'first that she meets'!

Works out at the gym every night,

Orders food Lite, saccharine for sweets.
12 2

Mary McDillon

Dorroughby, New South Wales

Australia

5 August 2014

A slight misdemeanour by a Mrs

might have been avoided without the kisses

but instead a mist covered it all

and the Mrs she became an obscure kind of doll

Eventually campaign complete

the Mrs carried on

a new life replete

of the mist, the kiss and a seat
War Dreams

Tom O'Byrne

Collingwood, Victoria

Australia

6 and 7 August 2014

It was happening again. Another flashback to the Urozgan Province, this time of a civilian woman with RPG shrapnel in her throat. He remembered screaming at the husband and children, telling them to stay inside while they watched her choke on her own blood. The section commander had told him to keep moving and they'd stacked up at the stairwell door and heard a second explosion. The insurgent had blown himself up and some of his organs had flown over the rooftop and landed on the kids who were grieving around their dead mother.

Lyle pulled over and lay his head on the steering wheel. He never used to cry, and at the time he hadn't felt anything, it was just a part of the job. Cars whooshed passed as tears fell, and being alive was once again a burden of embedded violence. He thumped his palms on the dashboard, then against his skull. 'Fuck off! Fuck off!'

Lyle undid his seat belt and pressed down the accelerator. The wind made a flapping sound through the inch gap in the window and as the lights changed to red he shifted to neutral with his foot still heavy on the pedal. He closed his eyes as the Mitsubishi Triton let out a flickering roar that was a sedative more efficient than anything the doctor had prescribed. He predicted a convoluted death, blood drying on the asphalt, bits of his frontal lobe stuck around a hole in the shatterproof windscreen, neck slashed and dying his white t-shirt red.

His grandmother would be pleading into the gutter next to a rookie police officer pretending not to be affected. The car would be mangled and a strip of skin and blood would trail his body, arms hyperextended like a ragdoll. The embalmer wouldn't be able to repair his mutilated face and his family would request a closed casket. School friends he hadn't talked to in years would attend the funeral, guys from the football team and his ex-girlfriend Dana.

The army would attend, they were good at that, showing up at funerals when they refused to pay any more than six dollars a week for the consistent panic attacks, thoughts of suicide and insomnia that doctors labelled post traumatic stress disorder.

Serving was meant to be honourable, a refuge for a man raised by his patriotic grandmother. But he'd figured it out years ago: he was just another uneducated twenty-five year old from the country, emotional and foolhardy, impressing a mother that died at birth and a father he'd never met, intimidated by the idea of raising a child. He was meant to march on Anzac Day, let his grandmother see him with kids and a wife. The army ads on TV said _Challenge Yourself_ , but the catch was the challenge never subsided.

A horn blared and Lyle relaxed. His last breath would be the metallic fume of burning transmission oil. But the smell lingered and eventually his body jolted forward. The engine had died but Lyle was still breathing.

He'd landed in a small ditch and was dizzy after hitting his head on the wheel. Being a four-wheel drive, he reversed out with ease then noticed a man in the rear-view mirror. He was slumped on his green sedan that'd swerved sideways into the middle of the intersection. He looked to be panting, hands on his cheeks watching Lyle veer around the bend.

~~~

'Tea's up Gran!'

Lyle placed the boiled spinach beside the sweet potato and made sure the chicken was cut into thin slithers. She pushed her walker over lumps in the faded green lino and he helped her to the right end of the table. He sat on the left side that once belonged to his grandfather.

'How was your day love? Any luck with a new job?' Her worsening dementia meant these questions were asked daily, a monotony Lyle had learned to accept. Sometimes they talked about his cooking and she gave him tips that he'd already implemented. But mostly she let her mind wander and spoke about the war, his mother, her own childhood dreams of being a theatre actress and the time she met his grandfather at a church youth group dance. He knew all the stories, but always listened and nodded.

Afterwards he cleaned up and delivered her bedside tepid water in her favourite antique glass, square and gold tinged. Lyle closed all the blinds, locked the back door and fed Alden, the aging Maltese who roamed the house at night like it was an infinite maze of wall and carpet.

Lyle slept in the spare room; his own still had walls covered with Metallica posters, replica M16 and M4A1 carbine rifles on the mantel piece, a study table of soldier figurines, an army duvet and a large Australian flag on the ceiling above the bed. His grandmother said not to touch it; she wanted to maintain the room as it was.

He took a bottle of bourbon from the wardrobe and drank while masturbating to Facebook pictures of teachers he wanted to sleep with in high school. Some nights they seemed banal, and he'd browse the internet's perennial archive of milf porn or merely fantasise about voluptuous mature brunettes that understood both his pain and libido.

By 1.13 am he was drunk and apologising under his breath to the man he almost collided with. 'I'm sorry, oh God I'm so sorry.' Breathing became as heavy as his guilt, palpitating heart, mind swirling and shuffling through images of brain spatter and missing legs. Lyle clawed at his scalp, clamped his teeth and welcomed the alluring silence of death. He opened the window, breathed in the damp country and swallowed the three remaining ecstasy pills in his drawer. Once the rush hit he left, dashing around the front garden layered with winter's frost.

He ran alongside newly built holiday houses owned mostly by rich people from Melbourne. As the high progressed, so did his desperate sprint, following the streetlights while the trees rustled like constant gunfire. He crossed onto the road and weaved, bumped into parked cars and sometimes set off their alarms. Lyle was petrified, glancing over his shoulder in case he was being followed.

Headlights shone from around the bend and he found cover behind an old Honda Civic. As the grumbling neared he leapt out, bounced off the bonnet of the oncoming ute, into the windscreen and landed on black tarp covering the tray. The vehicle halted and he rolled and slapped onto the road. A door clicked open, then a hollow progression of heavy footsteps approached. Lyle took off, disappearing down a side street with blood running over his left eye. He kept sprinting, fixated on the power lines dipping in the night, avoiding the shady houses where he knew people were watching him.

A chill seeped through his jumper as his feet thumped on the boardwalk. The houses were gone, but there were crackling sounds coming from the dense beach shrub. Lyle stumbled onto the sand and headed for the waves glowing in the black ocean. The harsh salty wind scraped against his vocal chords as he panted and ran into the shallows. He swam through the wash, past where the swell broke and floated face down with his mouth open. He felt his body tighten as the water flooded inside him.

There was a romance to drowning he hadn't expected, bobbing with the waves while trying to find solace in the ocean's drone. But the cold and stubborn sea returned him to the shallows, vomiting salt water. He crawled onto the dry sand as the waves fizzed and retracted behind him. It was a peculiar pain, body trembling as the high continued to intensify.

He crossed back over the boardwalk and regained some pace, squelching steps echoing through the streets. Whenever a car approached he jumped over the nearest fence and lay in prone position, watching it pass like a terrified house cat. The streetlights ended when he reached the highway and began trekking up the emergency lane.

The sand on his clothing had hardened, and as the wind picked up, gunfire resumed. He ran and slipped on the gravel, chasing the roadside reflector posts. When the prevalence of traffic became apparent, Lyle dived from the road's edge and landed in thick bush. In a panic he jostled through it, jumped an electric fence and evaded lumps of cow dung that reeked and wafted across the paddocks. He took off his jumper and t-shirt and jogged up the steep hill, tripping on grass mounds and potholes. At the hill's peak was a blue gum and Lyle collapsed at the trunk.

Dirt and bark quivered on his skin as he rolled onto his back and waited for sunrise. When it emerged from the horizon, he was staring up at the wavering branches, reflecting on the night Dana found him thrashing his head against the back steps. He'd been playing Xbox when he flashed back to a roadside IED that killed two and left three faces seared. A year later she was living in Geelong with a man she'd met online. When Lyle noticed the sun he lay on his side and rolled, ricocheting off the undulating land and into the electric fence.

He came home sweaty; body stinging under his jumper. In the bath he ran his index fingers along the labyrinth of cuts and lumps where bruises would show. The cold water changed to a coral pink with dirt and sand settling at the bath's bottom. Lyle dipped his head under, shaved his already bald scalp before getting out and listening to the water drain. He didn't dry off and walked through the hallway and soaked his bed sheets.

The morning air was still chilled and drifting through the open window. He shivered, unable to sleep but had daydreams of empty eye sockets where bullets had entered, of halved ears and trembling hands. The internal popping burst of his Steyr aiding the acute slideshow that played until his alarm rang out. He put on a new jumper and jeans he'd ironed and hung the day before. He cooked breakfast and helped his grandmother out of bed. Alden circled the table for routine scraps while his grandmother observed his hands.

'Were you in a fight dear?'

She smiled and gave Alden a bit of her bacon. The drugs had made his appetite vague so he wrapped his plate in foil. During the day his grandmother would stay in the lounge room reading with the phone nearby just in case someone called. Lyle left her biscuits and the tea and said he was going out.

On the fourteen kilometre journey to Cape Paterson he became light headed and pulled over three times attempting to vomit. He arrived at Allen Sinton's rugged weatherboard house and tried again, dry retching with the taste of the sea in his throat. When Allen answered the door he solemnly greeted his once best friend.

'Oh hey Lyle, how've you been?'

He never used to call him by first name. Nicknames had diminished over the time he was away, and in a small town everybody knew when someone had gone off the rails. Allen invited him into his living room with new leather couches and a sixty inch 3D TV. Conversation ceased after the initial small talk: How's things? What've you been up to? Lyle looked down at his hands linked in his lap and told Allen he needed a favour.

'Rohan won't sell to me anymore. I really need this Al, you don't understand, I really need this.'

Allen refused at first, but Lyle pleaded and said he was the only one he had left. When he wept Allen looked away then asked how much he wanted.

'Fifteen pills and some special K... '

He tossed Allen ten fifty dollar notes wrapped in plastic bands and was told to wait in his car. Allen returned forty minutes later and dropped three small transparent bags through the window. While Lyle counted the pills Allen leant over and deepened his tone.

'I'm really sorry Lyle, but I can't have you coming back here again. You understand don't you?'

Lyle nodded, stepped out to hug his once friend who stood there, waiting for him to leave.

Back home he packed his old Adidas sports bag with clothes, pills and bourbon. His Aunt Kalia was already vacuuming the floors and said she was happy to stay for as long as he needed. Lyle sat by his grandmother in the lounge, took her hand and said he was leaving. She smiled and said he deserved a break and that she'd miss him. The bus from Inverloch left at 4.10 pm.

He slumped in the back corner, took some ketamine and stared at the multi-coloured patterned shapes on the headrest of the seat in front. A euphoric sensation of detachment hit as the vehicle merged onto the highway sending vibrations through his body. A greatest hits playlist of Megadeth and Slayer raged through his earphones as his head rattled against the window until Southern Cross Station.

He checked into a room at the Quality Hotel Batman's Hill on Collins Street that looked over the traffic. Lyle folded his clothes on the bed and took the bottle of bourbon into the shower where he lay down with his legs up, feet resting on the glass skirting. The stream of water made a hollow drum against his stomach as he examined the hardened cuts.

He drank a quarter of the bottle watching steam hover under the LED lights and once drunk, stood naked by the window, observing people flow from the train station and jay-walk through the busy road. He took a pill and shadow boxed with the bathroom mirror before dressing back into his plain white t-shirt and dark blue jeans.

Lyle hid the drugs inside his socks and jogged down the hall to the elevator where he did calf raises until the ground floor. On the street he was conservative, following the crowds, hands in his pockets and staring up at the buildings like a lost child. He got the feeling someone was following him again and entered a bar next to a backpackers on Spencer Street.

The bar itself was empty and he requested a tab and handed over his debit card. Money didn't matter to Lyle who still had over fifteen grand from serving. He alternated between scotch and bourbon, letting the blonde in all black with circular earrings within her lobes choose the brand. She poured him a Lagavulin (sixteen years) and asked what he did for work.

'Unemployed,' he said.

He once told people what he used to do, but they always asked the same question: Have you killed anybody? Lyle surveyed the entrance and internalised anyone who entered. By midnight he was surrounded and had swallowed two more pills.

He was the only one sitting at the bar dodging glances when someone squeezed his right shoulder. Lyle grabbed the arm, barged through the crowd and had his stalker pinned against the wall. She was around nineteen and scared, body static and eyes fixed on him. He was then confronted by four men who pushed him onto the street and kicked him until he scurried into the crowds.

Lyle wandered through side alleys after nightclub bouncers knocked him back for wearing sneakers. He found a dim lane and in it a secluded spot next to a dumpster bin layered with graffiti. He'd tried speaking to a group in the line outside the nightclub, but city people seemed to ignore him. He curled his knees up, hidden from rambunctious drunks cutting through the alley.

But seclusion only gave him time to think and Lyle began to cry when he realised the drugs would no longer help him. An Asian man in a chef's uniform came out of a back door smoking a cigar and carrying boxes of food scraps that he tossed in the dumpster. Lyle dug his fingernails into his temples - someone was screaming in his head: It's bad, oh shit it's bad. His hand shook as he reached into his socks and took two pills and jogged out of the alley.

He was finally losing himself to his swirling mind when he noticed a man who'd collapsed on the tram tracks vomiting. Lyle dashed through traffic, almost swaying before he lugged the man's arm over his shoulder and lifted.

'Get off! Don't fucking touch me!' he yelled.

Lyle carried him across the road in front of cars that stopped and began thumping their horns. He then placed him on the steps leading up to St Paul's Cathedral. The man feigned to vomit again then kicked Lyle's shins.

'Fuck off!' he screamed.

People looked at Lyle with suspicion and he ran, through Federation Square and onto a bicycle track that ran along the Yarra River. Ahead was a grass hill and he ascended high enough to view the city over the English Elm trees sprouting from the promenade.

Lyle took more pills and stared up at three red lights blinking on top of the Eureka Tower. But despite his throbbing mind, he could still hear the gunfire and screams to get down. In a jagged sway he reached the top of the hill where there was a flagpole. He hit it until his hand broke, then kept going and found himself on Batman Avenue Bridge. He crossed the road and leant back against the tall handrail, reached into his socks and downed the rest of the pills.

He looked behind then up at the stars before closing his eyes and leaping backwards, concentrating on the distant whir of police sirens as his body flipped and collided with the oncoming train.

~~~

'We're just going over the bumps now,' said David.

Lyle didn't need to be told, he knew the bumps in the driveway were coming.

David, his sixth and newest carer, was another jovial type, completely heterosexual but slurred his voice like a gay man. He pushed Lyle's wheelchair onto the lift that hoisted him into the van. Kalia came out apologising for taking so long and said she couldn't find her walking stick. Lyle looked down at the separated road lines blurring into a strip as the van sped up.

It was a bleak morning, the sky somewhere between a grey and light blue, dulling the fields and hushing conversation. Since being in a vegetative state, he noticed how the weather configured emotions and that greys influenced a brooding in human beings. It was the end of another drab year. He was becoming more stoic, he knew this for sure, and as David pulled into the retirement home, Lyle breathed out his nose as the van stopped and nurses helped him off.

While his ailing family ate their Christmas roast pork, he was given chicken soup through a feeding tube. Lyle eavesdropped on conversations about weddings and grandchildren who'd been promoted. After eating they all watched television on an old rear projection screen donated to the home. Lyle stared at a wattle tree outside, its golden fluffy flowers soundlessly brushing the windows.

When he was spoken to, David got the alphabet board out and Lyle would blink when he pointed to the correct letter. There were a couple of presents given out, but old people just liked talking about others receiving them, yet they didn't come off as unselfish since talking was all they had left.

It'd been seventeen years since the accident. Everyone thought he'd either fallen off the bridge or was pushed. Although he'd lost most of his cognitive functions, Lyle's memory hadn't faltered. By late afternoon David wheeled him back into the van and that night drove him around the neighbourhood to look at the Christmas lights before they were taken down.

Most of his days were spent on the veranda, and sometimes he'd stay out on mild nights. On New Year's Eve he was up watching drunks bellow down his street. They mostly swore and Lyle didn't mind it seeing as David was puritanical and always in his own cordial bubble.

Ex-soldiers visited him after the accident. So did most of his school friends except for Allen. He'd still longed to die for almost a decade after the accident but the lethargy of getting older numbed his suicidal and depressive tendencies. Half an hour before midnight David setup the TV on the veranda and was overjoyed watching the fireworks explode above the Sydney Opera House.

'Oh gosh, isn't that beautiful Lyle? Just stunning. I think we better go next time.'

He helped Lyle to bed just after 1.00 am, making sure the electric duvet was off and the windows left ajar. Overnight the wind became restless, trees swaying violently, shadows mimicking on the walls. Lyle imagined gripping his pillow as branches scraped on the tin carport accompanied by war dreams.

Editor's note: This piece earned an 'Editor's Pick' for the raw insight it gives to the issue of PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder). It is equal parts brutal, honest and brilliant.
Planet Four Fourteen

Adrian Levet

Darlington, Western Australia

Australia

8 and 9 August 2014

'So you're saying that this has been going on for years...?' The policeman raised an eyebrow at the woman, the steam of the freshly made coffee he gave to her torrenting upwards, like a reverse waterfall.

'Yes. A number of years. It just got to the point where things had to change... I was so scared... I didn't want it to come to this though... '

'Okay, well then Mrs Huskins, if you would just like to enjoy your coffee and try to relax, I'd like to speak to Fred about what happened and then we should be able to form some kind of case here and work out what went on.'

She sat there shaking, dishevelled, hair torn from someone grabbing it and pulling it out, twisted and knotted. She sipped her coffee, like a timid animal, lifting it to her lips very cautiously. She wondered why they had separated her from Fred, and was scared for him.

Fred sat in his separate room. Nothing much in it, looked like an intercom on the door, a large window blacked out, and a sterile metal table, with two old chairs facing him. This was most certainly Galactic Command. He didn't remember getting here, but he remembered how he got here.

A man walked in, dressed in the typical uniform, navy blue, the colour of the defenders of the galaxy. He would have to tell his story to this man, so at least they would have some archival evidence of planet Four Fourteen. To his surprise, another man, dressed in a white coat followed him in. Fredrick thought it must have been for post traumatic stress disorder evaluation, to make sure he could pass the bar of psychological status, perhaps.

They sat down slowly. The room was quiet, save for a few squeaks of the chairs and grunts from the men clearing their throats. The one in navy looked up at him, and brought forward a cup with some orange fluid in it. Fredrick stared down warily at it, and then took a sip. It was just orange juice, but he savoured the taste.

'So... you must be Fred?'

'That's Fredrick Galacto to you! Space Explorer, part of Sixth Command on the outer rim.'

'Okay. My apologies Fredrick.'

He saluted him, and Fredrick saluted back.

'So, Space Explorer, why don't you tell me what happened out there?'

'Well, it all started when I got out to planet Four Fourteen... '

~~~

'There it is... '

He watched on through the glaze of the reinforced viewing platform window, as its green glow burst out into space from the light of the small sun that inhabited this lonely part of the universe.

Its blue veins of oceans, lakes and rivers shone out too. This planet looked promising for life, but it only had a number, as no one had made it out here to explore it yet... until now. His name was Fredrick Galacto, Interplanetary Explorer. He'd been doing this for years, and seen many things.

He'd seen planets where the trees were so tall you couldn't even see the canopies above, been to oceans so vast that there wasn't even a speck of land to be seen, and seen creatures the size of skyscrapers waltz across the land like a child among building blocks. He moved over to the ship controls and prepared the ship for atmospheric entry. Thrusters were set to reverse action, the reverse aero-dynamic systems were prepped and ready to engage.

Everything was smooth, and the ship was holding up well, but something must have gone wrong in the pressure containment sector of the ship, and suddenly an airlock burst open. The whole ship was flooded with an intense vacuum. Fredrick was almost lifted out of his cockpit seat, but luckily, his safety belt held him down. He felt like he couldn't breathe at all and he lifted out his portable oxygen unit from under his seat and put it over his mouth. He looked up to see land approaching fast. He was in atmosphere now, and he activated the rear thrusters, and the aero dynamics system, but it was no use, the ship was coming in at an angle, and the mechanism didn't seem to slow him down at all.

His heart pounded as he saw the approach of the forests, the alien look of them was apparent, tall pine trees, except they looked strange and surreal. The foliage was a bright, electric blue and the ground was covered in scrub that varied from an orange to a yellow. Suddenly, he crashed down into it, knocking over several of the massive trees, sending them tumbling down. His thrusters had charred and burnt the ones around him. Upon impact, Fredrick lost consciousness.

When he awoke he was being dragged. He heard mumbles and slurs, as his vision took time to return to him. He looked up at who had him. A large, hairy, lumbering man. Balding at the top of his head, he was humanoid, or rather, more ape-like than man. He was all green, like the grinch.

Fredrick tried to struggle. He reached for his utility belt, but he couldn't find his blaster. _Gone in the wreck_ , he thought to himself. His legs were torn up, he must have been dragged through some hazardous terrain, and there were tears in his space suit from where the cockpit must have blown open.

'Please... put me down! I need some help... I'm hurt!'

All he heard was the voiceless, guttural grunt, louder and louder now. His talking seemed to aggravate the beast, and clearly, he couldn't communicate with it. He tried to struggle again, and it leaned back and hit him over the head with a mighty primal thump. He blacked out.

When he awoke the second time, he almost thought the whole crash landing and getting captured thing was a dream of some sort, but it wasn't. He was in some tiny hut, the size of a small caravan, he ventured.

He stood there, and he saw another woman. She looked like him, paler skin. She looked familiar and he stared at her as the beast approached her. She was very feminine, dressed in normal human clothes but the seams were all torn. Strange. How did she get here? Who is she? He looked closely at her. She trembled in fear at the man approaching.

She had red curly hair, down about her ears, striking hazel eyes peered back at him, pleading to him. She was clearly a prisoner, her clothes were torn, and she had bruises all over her. He had been hurting her, and god knows what else. He wished he could do something to help. He clenched his fists until they went white. He was in a small cage, made from bits of lumber, his utility belt was gone, and he was trapped. He watched on helplessly.

The beast grabbed her hair and pulled her across the hut, right in front of Fredrick. The beast stared at him, almost in a strange fashion of wanting him to watch, like a warning that if he tried to escape or do anything, he would do the same thing to him. Fredrick watched in horror as he beat her, again and again with a vine, whipping her.

Fredrick had no idea what this terrible beast wanted from them. Did he want to cook them up and eat them? Or use them as slaves? The beast seemed crazed with anger, and kept stumbling forward and backwards, with slurs and grunts. Fredrick felt a tear run down his cheek. He didn't know this woman, but he cried for her, as she was moaning.

He looked down at what he could use to help her, as she stared out at him, tears began to appear in her eyes too. The eyes were full of sorrow, like a vast empty hazel woodland, devoid of trees or squirrels or life anymore, just dead leaves. She spoke out eventually, and he could hear she spoke the common galactic tongue.

'Pleeeeeease! Stop! I'll do anything you want!!'

Fredrick spoke out too, trying to stop the madness.

'Stop you beast! Stop hurting this poor woman! Hit me if you wish to hit someone!'

The woman stared out at him with icy eyes and shouted at him. 'Nooo!'

Fredrick wondered why she was trying to protect him.

Suddenly, the beast shouted out and hit her again. She was silent after a few violent hits and he stopped to let go of her hair as she collapsed to the floor. Her body was lashed and beaten, welts had appeared all over it, and she seemed to have lost consciousness from the pain. He moved over to Fredrick.

The red eyes of his were shining out like the searing ovens of hell, deep set in his un-evolved face, eyebrows stuck out above his eyes, a huge square jaw line. He could see his cheeks bulge outwards periodically, exactly what happens when you grit your teeth together. He grunted something incomprehensible, and lifted Fredrick up out of his cage like he weighed nothing more than a small child. He threw him down on the ground, and grabbed his vine again, and started hitting Fredrick.

It took a long time, and Fredrick did his best to tire the beast out coaxing him, so that he would not be inclined to torture them again for a while. He was in a significant amount of pain, however, and he could see welts that had started to bleed through his white space suit, the blood soaking through it like cheap paper towel.

The beast stopped, and went outside the hut eventually. He was obviously tired, and Fredrick knew this was the time to escape. He summoned up the energy, seemingly from nowhere and moved over to the woman on the ground. She was out cold. He tried to wake her up; he shook her. It took a while, but she eventually came to. 'My name is Fredrick, I'm a Space Explorer, part of Sixth Command and I'm going to get us out of here!'

She smiled at him.

'I know who you are Spaceman but... I'm afraid there's nothing we can do... he'll be back any minute.'

'Nonsense! We have to get out of here! Come on get up! We have to get off this hellish planet!'

He helped her up as best he could, they ended up almost falling several times as they moved over to the other part of the hut, where the beast must have made his food. The place was a real mess, primitive instruments everywhere, and a central cooking fire. Just as they got in there, the door smashed open, and the beast was back. He groaned and slurred something that Fredrick didn't understand. He sat down and threw something at them in the cooking area.

It was a strange shape, something Fredrick didn't recognise and it almost hit the woman in the head. It flew past them and hit the wooden wall behind them and smashed to pieces. The woman cowered, and they both crouched down. She turned and whispered to him.

'Come Spaceman, he wants us to make him some food. I've been stuck here for many years, and I've learnt how to understand him... But we can't escape right now! But... later on I promise to try to help you... '

Fredrick looked up at her, trying to whisper, even though he was certain the ape man couldn't understand him.

'I can sneak up on him and hit him! We can run out the door!'

'NO!' she hissed at him.

'You can't do that! Just... trust me. Let's make him some food and we'll try to escape after that!'

They moved over to the cooking area and the woman set to lighting the fire. It sat burnt out with a skew over the top of it, like a caveman had set it up. There was a large piece of meat on it, and she looked as though she was going to heat it back up again.

She leaned over to him, her bruised face now flickering under the fire light.

'You know... I was once like you... I was a space explorer, but I've been stuck here for years. My name is Mary. Now you're here though, I think we can escape together! I have an old ship I flew in on, it should still work. It landed safely and intact just outside the village. But, we will have to wait until he sleeps. When he sleeps he doesn't wake up easily. The other catch is... '

A grunt resonated loudly from the beast and they both crouched in silence, waiting to be sure they could talk again. Mary was silent, and staring outwards back toward the beast.

'The catch is... what?'

Fredrick tried to get her to focus. She had been here too long, it was apparent in her shaking, her constant fear. Perhaps she just simply hadn't been able to leave, but now maybe she could with him here to save the day.

'Sorry! Um... the catch is that I need the navigation coordinates, and the imprint to allow me to start up the space ship. The beast took them and hid them, and I'm not sure where they are... You can look while I cook. They look like keys, and there's a thin microchip with the navigation coordinates attached to it.'

Fredrick looked about the area, but couldn't see them. He was still in pain, and limped around the place as best he could. The shouting started again from the other room, and Fredrick peered around the corner. He could see the large beast sitting down, staring out. He saw a glint at his hip. The navigation coordinates! They were hanging from his hip.

He leaned back over and tried to talk to Mary. She had prepared the meat, some strange meat that looked like it was from an alien creature, bald and pink, with a huge snout. She had it on a wooden plate, ready to take in. He stopped her on the way. The beast grunted again, and Mary looked terrified.

'It's on his hip! He has the navigation coordinates! We just have to grab them when he is asleep!' She gave him a small, timid smile.

'Good idea, Spaceman. That may just work!'

She moved in and gave the beast his undeserved meal, and he just grunted again, and sent her out with a wave of his hand. It was a few hours later that he finally fell asleep.

On his back, snoring loudly, the green man lay there. It would have been easy to kill him, but that wasn't the Space Explorer way. Fredrick had to promote peace, and promote positive relations with the local inhabitants of the different planets, in order to get them to integrate with galactic society more smoothly. He guessed he was going to tell the others to try and avoid this planet entirely.

He sat with Mary in the corner, and after a good hour of loud snoring, they decided that they would be safe enough to get out. Mary got up and disappeared from sight, emerging again with a whole bag of clothes, other items that she must have had all along. She brought Fredrick's utility belt too. They moved silently.

They had decided that Fredrick was to grab the Nav. Coords, and Mary was to unlock the door. She stood there in position, door open, with the night sky gently floating in behind her. _That's where they were going_ , he thought to himself. _Space and freedom_.

He moved over as silently as he could. He stepped on a creaky bit of wood, and his heart stopped as he stood, motionless. Luckily, the Beast was still fast asleep.

'Phew ... '

He moved over to him, and just as he went to grab the key, the beast rolled over. Fredrick looked up at Mary. She looked terrified. They waited a good minute or two, but it felt like hours. He rolled back over, and the microchip key was in plain sight. He reached down, his hands shaking with adrenaline. He unclipped them off his caveman garb, and stared at the Ape man's face. He was sleeping soundly. 'Goodbye, you terror ... ' Fredrick murmured.

He quickly moved to the door, and out they went, he and Mary. As she stopped to slowly shut the door, the creaking of it made her delicate face cringe. Fredrick looked around, and there it was. Not a few meters from the hut, a rectangular spaceship, strange outdated design, but if it would fly, then he didn't care one bit. They ran over to it, and he gave the microchip keys to Mary. She unlocked the spaceship, and the doors popped open. They hastily got in, and closed them.

'Now ... all you got to do is remember how to fly this thing!'

She knew immediately and put the key up into the thruster ignition.

'Like riding a bike ... '

She smiled again at him, thinking that they were nearly free. She twisted the microchip ignition, as Fredrick tried to work the outdated navigation computer to work in the coordinates to the Galactic Space Command. The ship made a noise, sounding not unlike a labouring horse. She tried again, still nothing. She worked the space pedals on the ground whilst she tried to start the thrusters. Still nothing.

'I'm going to have to push it while you start it... '

'What!? Push it? How old is this spaceship!? You have got to be kidding, Mary!'

She got out and leaned back in. 'Sit in this seat Fredrick, and just turn the ignition rotator and work the thruster pedals at the same time. I'll tell you when to do it okay?'

Fredrick nodded and got into the cockpit seat. He did as she asked, as she set to pushing the spaceship to gain some momentum. They moved down the gravel track, a long straight and wide road, perfect for a space ship runway. They built up to a good speed and Mary gave the signal.

'NOW!'

He started it up, and pressed the thruster controls at the same time, just like she told him, and it worked! The thrusters flared up and the radio even came on. He hadn't heard Galactic Radio in a long time! He smiled and then laughed out loud, happiness was flowing through him. They were going to be safe!

Suddenly, he heard Mary scream. He looked over and saw the beast coming out. He was livid, shouting at the top of his lungs, running towards them. Mary tried to get into the Spaceship, running alongside it, the thrusters bursting out the back. She got in, but the beast was too quick. He pulled her back out before they had a chance to pull full thrusters and get away.

'Fredrick! Keep going! Go on without me! Tell them what happened!'

The beast pinned her down and started hitting her again, and Fredrick saw in his reverse thruster observation screens that the beast wasn't stopping. He flew forward, taking off from the ground.

He knew he couldn't leave her behind, and there was a reason he was the first in his class at Flight School. He turned it around, and started flying back towards them. The beast stopped, as he and Mary watched silently, dumbstruck that he would do something so rash. Fredrick flew straight towards them, not slowing down, but speeding up. The beast got up and ran, back to the house, knowing Fredrick was after him.

Fredrick veered the steering to the right and caught him from behind, he was going full speed, and the beast flew forward, into the hut, where Fredrick's strange spaceship pinned him into it and kept rolling over him. A mighty crash, and the hut's wall exploded open dramatically and the spaceship and the beast were out of sight, hidden somewhere inside. She saw the smoking of the thrusters still floating up gently, like a reverse waterfall.

Mary got up. She moved as best she could towards the car. She started screaming.

'Fredrick!?... Freddie!?... Darling Fred! Are you okay!?'

She opened the side door, and there lying on the steering wheel, lay Fred. The airbag had blasted him backwards, and he had a deep cut to his head. Mary pulled him out, and checked to see if he was breathing. She leaned down, and could hear laboured sounds. She ran inside and grabbed the home phone, calling 000.

'Hello? Please! Please come quick! My son drove into my husband with our car! You have to come quick! Please!'

She looked down dispassionately at her husband. His bloated, lifeless body lay spread out on the living room floor, absent of any dignity. _A fitting end_ , she thought to herself.
Free Fall

Beatrice Ross

Winmalee, New South Wales

Australia

10 and 11 August 2014

The rope swung back and forth with a creak. David Henderson stared at the back wall with glassy eyes, his neck cinched tight by the crushing force of the noose. He dangled a metre above the ground, swaying from a wooden beam on the ceiling. To the left, then to the right, and back again. Below him, a chair lay lopsided on the kitchen floor. The kitchen was silent.

Charlie watched him swing, sitting back in a fold-up chair propped in the doorway. This close up, David's cold dead stare left him feeling queasy. He propped a handheld camera on his knee, tilting the side screen to watch the body swing in the monitor. Every now and then, he peered at his wrist watch, counting the minutes.

David's eyes seemed to follow him. He suppressed a shudder. He couldn't say he was comfortable having his friend hanging in the kitchen. He checked his watch (for the twentieth time) and wished he hadn't agreed to this. It was wrong. It was sick. Maybe he could blame it on curiosity. Some sick, twisted curiosity. Oh God, what the fuck was he doing?

After a quick glance at his watch, he shifted to his feet, pacing the floor. Waiting was the worst part. Seconds turned to minutes, hours to days. Why did he keep waiting? He could be at the pub now, getting smashed with his other friends. He could walk out right now. Forget this shit. Like it never happened. No. He couldn't leave. Wait it out. Just wait it out.

The digital watch on his wrist beeped, flashing neon. 12 am. It was time. He placed the camera on the chair, turning it so the camera kept a constant eye on the body. Grabbing a knife on the counter, he propped the downturned chair upright, hoisting himself up. He cut the rope. The body dropped like a sack of potatoes, collapsing in a tangled heap. He loosened the knot around David's throat, slipping it off. He backed off, watching and waiting.

David lay sprawled on the floor, his neck twisted at an odd angle. Charlie could still make out the red marks pressed tight into the skin. He gave the body a tentative nudge with his foot. The body rocked backwards, but slumped back into place. Charlie swallowed down the hot panic rising in his throat. He breathed deep. Calm down. It's cool.

A finger twitched. A foot stirred. Colour and warmth flushed to the skin. David jolted to life in a heartbeat. He wheezed, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He clutched his neck, raking his fingers down his throat as if to pry loose a tight cord. Charlie released his baited breath in a gust. He knelt down by David's side, shaking his shoulder.

'Hey Dave. You alright?'

A click sounded deep in David's throat. His windpipe opened again. The corpse sucked in a grateful breath. He peered up at him from the floor, face beaded with sweat. Exhausted, he slumped on the floorboards, releasing a moan.

'Oh God.'

~~~

David downed a shot of vodka, cringing as it seared a path down his throat. The warmth loosened his muscles, but every shot was another fire blazing in his crushed windpipe. After a few of these little babies, he'd forget the dull ache. Couldn't say the same for the marks on his neck though. He massaged his throat, pouring himself another helping.

He had relocated to Charlie's lounge room, a tiny, dungeon-like room smelling strongly of dust and stale beer. The plushy three seater was a thousand times better than hanging from the ceiling. He lounged back, closing his eyes. A thunderstorm pounded in his head, his breath catching every now and then as his windpipe kinked back into shape. He needed a long sleep. Dying really took it out if you.

'I thought you'd never wake up,' Charlie muttered dryly, twisting his shot glass on the coffee table. 'A day. A whole day.'

'A new record,' David croaked, clearing his throat.

Charlie grimaced. He refilled his shot glass. He threw back his head, downing it whole. Something was wrong. David knew it. Charlie, the sensitive, shy kinda guy, never drank very much unless he had a grudge, or some kind of trouble he couldn't fix with words.

Charlie was a little younger than David. He was lightly built, but strong for someone who never lifted weights. But up until David had stepped in in fifth grade, Charlie had always been the school bully's favourite punching bag.

Charlie poured himself another, contemplating a crack in the plaster wall.

'A full day. You haven't done that since... uh...'

David filled in the blanks.

'Free fall?'

Charlie held a long pause.'Uh huh.'

A heavy silence stewed. David waited it out.

What had just happened in the kitchen had been no magic trick. No Abracadabra or Alakazam! David had been clinically dead for 24 hours. It had been one of the longest days in his life. The drag and crush of the nylon rope, the splinch of his windpipe, the gag and splutter... pure heaven.

David was like any other teenager. He liked girls, spirits and clubbing. He got laid every now and then, and he worked a dead end job at Maccas serving hamburgers and soft serve cones. Like everyone else his age, he thought he was invincible. But unlike him, they were bullshitting themselves.

David on the other hand, was dead right.

When he broke a bone, it healed up like it'd never happened. Cuts and bruises disappeared in minutes. Charlie called it a miracle. David called it a blessing. Every ounce of pain he received was an adrenaline burst of pure ecstasy. Better than sex, better than anything good in Bog's divine world.

The only problem was, the pleasure wore off. There had been times when he had been left high and dry, bleeding out, left with a dull, throbbing ache. Like today. Twenty minutes gone, and he had felt every tug and drag on his broken neck.

Like other teens, he liked extreme sports. He didn't go skydiving, or surfing, or anything like that. He cheated death by embracing death. There was nothing like the adrenaline rush before pulling the trigger, or cutting the vein. Call him masochistic, or a bit unorthodox, but there was nothing like the flush of spilling blood.

The first death had been the hardest. Hell, it had scared him shitless. But boy, it had felt good. When David started taking his own death stunts seriously, he tried to forget the fear, to drown it out and work past it. But no matter how hard he tried, it always came back hot and stifling. But it was natural to feel fear. He wasn't a coward. After all, most people felt some sort of fear before they died. He would just feel it more than others had to.

'Dave? Did you hear me?'

'Huh?'

Charlie handed him the camera, his grimace deepening. 'The tape's in there.'

David switched on the device, putting it on playback. On the screen, he watched himself slip the noose around his neck and kick the chair out beneath him. He dangled, gagging and wheezing.

Charlie shuddered, averting his eyes. 'This is fucked up, man.'

David ignored him, watching the final jerk of his own body on the screen. In the footage, his eyes rolled back with ecstasy as the rope choked off his last breath. David reached into his pocket, slipping a cigarette out from a crushed carton. He lit it, the paper smouldering red as he sucked the paper.

Charlie continued. 'It's gone too far. I've been cleaning up your blood and guts for years man. It's not like I'm squeamish. But, last Thursday, with that gun. Jesus man, I had to wipe the goo off the wall. I can't - 'Charlie paused, working his jaw.

David paid no attention. He had poured himself another drink, knocking back another shot.

Charlie raised his voice. 'This is your thing. I get it - '

David cut him off with a barking laugh. On screen, Charlie tripped over the fallen chair, landing rear first on the floorboards. Charlie released a frustrated growl. He reached over, snatching the camera back. He slammed it down on the coffee table.

'What the hell?' David exclaimed indignantly. 'I was watching that!'

'David! Listen to me!'

David glared daggers, smoke drifting from his nostrils. Another lecture? Charlie could be a real dickhead when he wanted to be. Always so careful and cautious. Always lecturing. Nagging, whining, telling him what do. Why couldn't he just leave things alone?

Charlie endured his stare, reaffirming himself. 'I can't do this anymore.'

David cocked an eyebrow. 'Can't do what?'

Charlie hesitated. 'All this,' Charlie said, spreading his hands, indicating nothing in particular. 'Whatever you call this thing we do.'

David narrowed his eyes, sucking the paper between his pinched fingers. Charlie continued.

'I keep thinking about the "free fall". What if you never woke up that day? Even now, what if you do something stupid tomorrow and never wake up?'

David averted his gaze. 'I always wake up,' David snapped, knocking back another shot. He felt woozy and sluggish. The wonders of alcohol.

David was sick of explaining himself. He loved Charlie. And he was the only friend who knew he could heal up like Superman. But all he did was doubt him. How could David pluck up the courage for all his stunts when his friend treated him like a kid learning to ride a bike? Always hovering around, afraid David will fall down and scrape his knee. It was about time he proved to Charlie he wasn't that vulnerable little kid anymore.

'I'll prove it,' he announced. He snatched the bottle of vodka from the table. 'I'll do it. I'm gonna do the "free fall" on Saturday. For real this time.' He shifted to his feet, bottle in hand. 'The MLC Centre.'

Charlie's jaw dropped. He scrambled to his feet. 'Are you crazy!? That's a fifty storey drop!'

David went to leave. Charlie yanked hard on his arm, pulling him back. David shook him off.

'Charlie. My body, my gift. I'll use it how I want.'

David gave him a cocky, two fingered salute, leaving for the door. He felt Charlie's eyes on the back of his skull as he left. The 'mummy's boy' was speechless now, but wait 'til he saw David wake up from the cold, hard cement. After a good fifty storey drop, it wouldn't be a pretty sight. All the blood, the tangled limbs, the mashed brain goo... not exactly a pretty picture. But it would prove a point. Yeah, it'd show him real good.

~~~

Charlie rummaged through a crammed wardrobe, shoving shoes and loose clothes to one side. He pulled out a large cardboard box, setting it down on the tousled sheets of his bed. He shook out a black garbage bag, laying it open on the bedspread. Opening the box, he shooed away a fluttering moth. Inside the box, CDs and old video cassettes were stacked one on top of the other. He counted at least thirty there.

The stunt box made him shudder every time. All of David's invincible stunts, both death and non-death related, ended up in the box, immortalised by camera. David always packed away his gruesome memories and kept them in Charlie's rented house. It worked better that way. David still lived in his parents' house. If they ever found the tapes, they would lock him away from the world. They'd put him in a bubble and spoon feed him. They were like that. Conservative Christian folk, worrying about David 24/7. It's what he got for being an only child.

Charlie knew him better than anyone else, even his parents. David was a stubborn son-of-a-bitch. When he said he was right, he was right. He never listened to anyone, not even before a death stunt. _He'll kill himself one day, and I won't be able to do a thing about it_ , he thought, shaking the contents of the box into the garbage bag. Maybe after doing the 'free fall', his day might come.

A heavy object landed in the bag. He paused, putting the box to one side. He picked up an old camera from the pile of CDs. It had to be from the 90s. It looked old. It reeked of dust. It was David's camera. Well, his dad's really. Charlie recognised it from a long time back. David had kept it as a keepsake, a sick memento of some kind. It was the start of everything. The blood and guts, the waiting... it all came from the 'free fall', the footage on this camera.

It was during the months of 2007 that David got serious with his stunts. He was only eleven when he did the free fall. It was the first time he had died. He didn't wake up for a full day. Charlie watched the whole thing happen behind the camera. He could remember it all so well. He flipped open the camera, replaying the footage.

~~~

21/09/2007

3:35:45 pm.

'You're such a chicken! Bawk, bawk, bawk!'

'Okay! Fine, I'll do it!' Charlie snapped. The camera wobbled as it switched owners. An eleven year old David came into focus.

'Are you sure your dad'll be okay with this?' Charlie asked from behind the camera.

David shrugged, throwing aside a cricket ball and a worn bat. His knobbly knees were peppered with dirt, his shorts spotted with grass and smudged red where he'd earlier rubbed the ball.

'Yeah. There's nothing on the tape. Just sum stupid cousin's wedding. Anyway, he has a new camera. He won't mind.'

The camera panned across the quaint backyard. It was small, crowded by tall, untamed brushes of shrubbery hugging the fence line. A sprawling oak tree towered in the back corner, leaning close beside a shed. A trampoline sat not far from the foot of the tree. David stood in the shade of the tree, reaching for a high branch. He grasped it, hauling himself up. He sat on the crook of the branch, giving the camera a goofy grin.

'Come closer,' he shouted. The camera shuffled as Charlie walked.

'I don't know about this. What if your mum sees us?' Charlie said anxiously.

David stood erect on the branch, his voice straining with effort as he found his footing and continued climbing.

'She won't. Just keep a look out anyway. If she comes, I'll hide.'

He scaled the tree branch by branch, leaves rattling as he reached the weaker limbs. He peered down, keeping a constant check on the position and whereabouts of the trampoline.

'That's good,' Charlie called. 'Jump from there.'

David ignored him, climbing on. He aimed high, his sight set on the uppermost branch. Charlie tilted the camera up higher, raising his voice.

'Dave. That's too far. You won't get a clean jump.'

David monkeyed up the tree, fingers grasping for smaller handholds, feet finding bending branches. He finally stopped, swaying unsteadily on one of the very upper boughs. He scanned the ground for the trampoline. He searched again. He couldn't see it. He lowered himself by a branch, teetering precariously.

'Nearly there - '

Snap! The branches gave way. David shrieked, tumbling through a stronghold of boughs, leaves and twigs. His helpless body hit here and there, thumping hard on the branches like a ragdoll. Twigs and branches cracked. He cleared the network of wood, hitting the ground. He collapsed in a tangled heap.

The camera jolted, the vision blurring into a flurry of indistinct shapes as Charlie ran to his friend. The camera dropped halfway, knocked askew by the fall. Charlie dropped to his knees, shuffling towards David. David wasn't moving.

'Oh God! Dave wake up!'

He shook him, his hands coming back stained with blood. David was covered in gashes and bruises. Blank eyes rolled off to one side, staring unseeingly at the camera. His neck was bent at an odd angle, a knuckle of bone showing through beneath the skin.

'No! Dave!'

Tears glistened on Charlie's cheeks. Charlie wiped his eyes, blood smearing on his face. He sobbed into his shirt sleeve, great hacking sobs filling the sound of suburbia. Helpless and shattered, he knelt down low by David's body, wetting his sleeve with his saliva and tears. He cleaned David's face with his dampened sleeve, wiping away the blood.

'Heal. C'mon man, heal,' he blubbered.

'David?'

A voice fractured Charlie's sobbing. David's mum called from inside the house. Charlie looked up, alarm shining in his eyes. It quickly enflamed into frantic panic -

~~~

Charlie stopped the camera footage there. He stared at his eleven year old self frozen on the screen. The little boy was scared. Hell, he was petrified. He thought his best friend was dead. After hearing David's mother, the boy had dragged his friend's corpse into the shed to wait out the night. He didn't want to tell David's parents that their son was dead. The innocent little boy waited for a full day for David to wake up.

He waited, hoping his best friend would wake up. And luckily for him, he did. Charlie had been too young for that shit. David too.

What the fuck had they gotten themselves into?

Charlie lost his old friend that day. The old David had died. A new David, fuelled by the pleasure of death, had taken his place.

That was the last time he'd ever cried over David's body. It was the only time he had ever been convinced that his friend was dead for real. He never wanted to experience it again.

Charlie tied the garbage bag, hauling it over his shoulder. If David wanted to collect a record of his stunts so badly, he could keep them all in his own room. Charlie couldn't do it anymore. This shit had gone too far. He had to stop David. He had to talk some sense into him, before it was too late.

~~~

From the top of the MCL Centre skyscraper, the city lights lit up the night. David leant on the railing, shivering as the wind chilled him to the bone. It whistled in his ears, making his clothes billow and flap around him. The wind was stronger than he had anticipated. It was colder too. His fingers were numb on the railing. He wished he'd brought a jacket for the jump.

To his shock, David trembled as he stepped up to the railing. His stomach squirmed, doing knots as he peered over the edge. Somehow he didn't feel as confident as before. He hoisted himself over the railing, swaying unsteadily as a gust of wind rocked his body to one side. He recovered quickly, gripping the railings like iron. The sheer drop was merciless. Nothing would stop his fall. Charlie's warning came to mind. He shooed it off. He was here to prove Charlie wrong. To prove that he didn't need a mummy's boy looking after him every step of the way. David was no coward.

Far behind him, the fire escape door flew open. David jolted, losing hold of the rail in an instant. He released a half shriek, scrambling for the railing. He grasped it, clinging on for dear life. Charlie jogged across the roof towards him. Speak of the devil.

'Why are you here?' David growled, not quite mustering the hostility he hoped for. Something about leaning over the railing of a fifty storey building killed the mood.

Charlie approached warily. 'To talk you out of this.'

David watched the steady stream of traffic on the street below. 'It's too late.'

'You don't have to do this. You don't have to prove anything,' Charlie urged. 'Come back over the rail.'

David took in a deep breath, teetering precariously on the edge. He edged forward. As the air grew open around him, the last ounce of courage died. A hot, feverish terror grew in its place. The night air was a gaping mouth, ready to swallow him. But it was too late to turn back now. He peered behind his shoulder. Charlie's face washed pale. David managed to find his voice.

'Wait for me down there. You watch, I'll wake up.'

He clinched his eyes shut, letting his fingers slip from the rail. He tumbled forward. He was free falling. There were scuffing footsteps on the rooftop. Sweaty fingers suddenly clasped his wrist. The fall cut short. David jolted, his legs dangling in open air. Inside his body, his organs dropped rock bottom. Gravity tugged him down. His body swung wildly from side to side. Charlie grasped him tight, leaning over the railing.

'Let go!' David gasped.

'No!'

Charlie tightened his grip, panting and straining. He heaved, hauling David further up the railing. He strained, his face ruddy with exertion. David slumped, clambering up the rungs of the rail. Charlie hunched over further, his breath rasping. The wind whistled past them, buffeting David from side to side. An overpowering gust knocked David. He slipped in Charlie's sweaty grasp.

'Hold on!' Charlie shouted.

David slipped. He hit the railing. He grasped the bottom rung with bone white fingers.

Knocked unsteady, he teetered over the railing. He slipped overboard. Charlie shrieked. David reached out. Their hands interlocked. David grasped tight. They swayed in the wind for a moment. Charlie craned his neck, his eyes wide and unblinking. He trembled, his hand slick with sweat. His grasp slipped. They held each other by their fingertips. Charlie shouted over the roar of the wind.

'Wait for me.'

Charlie slipped. He screamed, tumbling through the open air. The wind buffeted him as plunged down storey after storey. David watched in horror.

'CHARLIE!'

Gasping for breath, David hauled himself over the railing. He collapsed on the concrete. He staggered to his feet, lunging for the railing. He looked over the edge, searching for Charlie in the darkness. He couldn't think. Everything raced at a hundred miles an hour. Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!

Charlie was gone. This was all his fault. His stupid fault.

An agonising minute passed. Down below, a faint crash set off a chain of blasting car horns. David staggered back, tears streaming down his face. What had he done? Oh God, he felt sick. It was all his fault. It was his turn. His turn to die.

He stepped over the railing, trembling from head to toe. Charlie was dead. Hot tears ran ice cold down his cheeks. The wind swallowed the sound of his hacking sobs. This was it. Free fall. He flung himself over the edge. He hurtled through the air. He tumbled head over heels, hoping that when he hit the concrete, Charlie would be standing over him, waiting for him to wake up.

Editor's note: The decision to award an 'Editor's Pick' to this piece was due to two elements of the story. First, for originality, and second, the author's ability to take an unrealistic and uncommon idea and turn it into an interesting and believable story.
I Love The Way

Kylie Abecca

Port Albany, Western Australia

Australia

11 August 2014

I love the way you smile,

And get that twinkle in your eye,

I've only known you a short while,

But you've helped me touch the sky,

I love the way you hold me,

Like you'll never let me go,

Just the way love ought to be,

Not having to speak to let it show,

I love the way we talk all night,

Not aware of time passed by,

Until through the curtain we glimpse light,

And colours dancing in the sky,

I love the way we take long drives,

And hold each other's hand,

Travel really changes lives,

Seeing so much of this land,

I love the way you like to sing,

To songs that show how you feel,

The words hold so much meaning,

And the lyrics have deep appeal,

I love it when we stay up late,

Watching shows that make us laugh,

The snuggles is what makes it great,

You really feel like my other half,

I love the way you joke around,

And sometimes I can be kind of dense,

Your laughter is truly a lovely sound,

Even if it's at my expense,

I love the way you deal with conflict,

And don't leave feelings left unsaid,

It's not something that you can predict,

But you don't give hurt a chance to spread,

I love everything about you,

I hope you know it's true,

Everything you say and do,

Makes me fall more in love with you.
DLD

J-L Heylen

Hazelbrook, New South Wales

Australia

12 and 13 August 2014

I was sitting on the lounge, watching a movie, when it all started. I was with my girlfriend. Our two flat mates were there too.

There was a knock at the door. They were all looking around, willing someone else to get up and answer it. Except me. Noticing that no-one else seemed inclined, I leapt at the chance for a diversion.

When I opened the door, she was standing there; all five foot two inches of her. Her lips were a stunning red, and almost glowing, even in the dimness of the street-light. That was the only makeup she had on. She was wearing her favourite taupe-coloured pencil skirt that ended just above the knee, and a tight black t-shirt top that was low-cut enough for me to stare into, being a comfortable five inches taller than she.

'Didn't you get my message?' She asked, looking me up and down, and wincing slightly at my flannelette shirt and very unattractive tracksuit pants.

'Eleanor,' I stammered, 'I... no, what message?'

'The, ah... message I left on your answering machine saying it was Mark's birthday, and we were all going to the pub to celebrate.'

I looked doubtful.

'There's pool on offer. I might even play, if you will come.'

My stomach gave a twist and a sudden image of Eleanor bent over a pool table fluttered into magical existence in my mind.

'I didn't get that message...' There had been no messages. I knew, because I had checked when I came home from work and had been at home ever since. The phone hadn't rung since I'd been home. 'Come in a sec while I sort something out to wear.'

Eleanor gave me a flirtatious look, which I immediately quelled with a glare.

'Is she ..?' Eleanor whispered. I nodded.

'No, umm... Mark is waiting in the car. I'll wait for you there. You are going to come?'

'I am.'

'Who is it?' Carol's voice came from the lounge-room.

I closed the door and returned to the group. 'That was Eleanor. She and Mark have invited me to the Bull to play pool. It's Mark's birthday. Did anyone pick-up messages this arvo?'

Carol answered with an emphatic 'no'. Phil and Kayla looked at each other. Then Kayla mumbled 'no' as well. Phil decided to stay silent. _Hmm_ , I thought. I raced up the stairs. I hadn't been in our shared bedroom for long before Carol stormed in.

'You aren't going?'

'I am going.'

'What about the movie?'

'I don't care about the movie, Carol. I wasn't enjoying it anyway. I'd rather go out and play pool.'

The subtext of this conversation was obvious to both of us. I had been trying to end this relationship for a couple of months now but Carol had staunchly refused to believe me. I hadn't helped matters by continuing with business as usual - sharing money, house, bed, and friends. I had only recently found two friends that Carol had no part of, and she hated it. I hated myself for not being stronger, but this time I refused to acquiesce. This time I was going out, and leaving her behind.

'Am I invited?'

'No,' I said. Her anger flared, as I knew it would.

I had finished dressing - jeans, boots, crisp white collared shirt and my favourite chocolate-brown tailored vest. A denim jacket was flung jauntily over my shoulder. It had become my favourite the moment Eleanor had remarked upon how much she liked it, some weeks earlier.

'You can't go,' Carol raged, as I started off down the stairs again.

'Jess...' she yelled, as I ignored her and headed for the door.

'Jess,' she said again, quietly, as she sat down on the last step, and I closed the front door behind me. When I climbed into Mark's car, he and Eleanor were giggling.

'What?' I asked.

'The Bull doesn't even have a pool table,' Mark answered. 'You are so transparent.'

'Is it even your birthday?' I asked, annoyed.

'Yes.'

'Oh, shit!' I started to laugh then, too. 'Happy Birthday then. Let's go celebrate. Now that I'm out of that damned house, I just want to keep going. And Eleanor made me certain promises.'

Mark started the car. Eleanor looked over her shoulder from the front seat and licked her lips. It was the most seductive gesture she had ever directed at me, although I had seen her use it on plenty of other people. My guts turned to water.

'Why the Bull?' I asked after a few minutes.

'That's where we always go,' Mark said.

I wasn't sure who he meant by 'we', but let it ride. Soon we were parked and piling out of the car.

While Mark fumbled about to put his keys in a jacket pocket, Eleanor took my hand and gave it a quick squeeze, before disengaging and swanning into the pub.

Every man (and one or two women) who had eyes not already blinded by booze, turned them on Eleanor. She had a way of gliding into a place that just screamed sex. The way she walked sent a better message than any pair of 'fuck me' boots. I couldn't have put into words exactly how she did it, I just knew, along with apparently everybody else in the room - she was up for it.

I immediately felt guilty. Years of feminist training told me such thoughts were unworthy. Still, the arousal I felt would not be stifled.

The warmth soon turned to bitterness. _It won't be me she takes home_ , I thought. Strictly men only for Eleanor - she had told me so herself.

No, it won't be dykey 'ol Jess. I had entirely the wrong equipment between my legs. Eleanor flirted like other people drank water. It was something she must have, and she wasn't even aware, most of the time, that she was doing it. I, however, was painfully aware of every glance and gesture she had ever directed at me.

I rammed my hands into my jeans pockets and trailed behind her and Mark to meet their friends.

~~~

The 'we' that Mark had referred to turned out to be a couple, Steve and Anna; A truck-driver called Hamish, and two other women, not a couple, by the names of Jasmine and Kerry.

Jasmine, like me, was in jeans and a white shirt. She was the tallest woman I had ever seen, definitely the tallest of the whole group, coming in at about six foot one at least. Her fingers were laden with sterling silver rings, twisted into ornate knots, animal shapes, and filigrees. It turned out she was a jewellery designer by trade. I immediately took a liking to her, and spent most of the rest of the evening talking to her and trying to ignore Eleanor's overt offers. Most of them were made to other people anyway, including Jasmine, who casually flirted back, laughing.

At about 10, when the band took a break, I went to the bar to get a round. I had ordered, and was watching the bar-man fill it, when I felt a hand on my buttock. The caress was gentle, but still very obviously intentional.

Before I had a chance to turn to see to whom the hand belonged, Eleanor's voice purred, 'Mark and I are going to leave after this next drink. Do you want a lift home?'

The words were innocuous, but the way she said them made me think she was asking something entirely different. I was confused. Mark was a mate, but she and he were not together, so why would they have planned to leave together? Eleanor didn't drive, but she was a party animal. She never went home this early, and Mark was not the sort of mate she wanted to go prowling around Darlinghurst or Kings Cross with.

'Where are you planning to go?' I asked.

'Home to my place. Dan's away, and I don't feel like partying, so Mark and I thought we'd just chill out, listen to some music, or watch a movie or something. You, of course, are welcome to come too, but I got the impression you would probably need to go home.'

She emphasised the word 'need' as if it was an insult. She could not have thought of a better one. I felt humiliated. I knew what she implied. Was I so under the thumb that I couldn't go out for one evening without running home to my partner after barely two hours? That same partner, no less, whom I had told people I was trying to abandon?

Did I dare? Was I reading the situation right, or would this be another night that ended in frustration? I had seen enough of those already, leaving a party with Eleanor and some man or other, only to find myself dawdling in a bar, or worse, the man's lounge-room, while they dallied upstairs - noisily!

'Oh, bugger it,' I decided. 'I don't want to go home. I'll come to your place.'

'Perfect,' Eleanor remarked, turning, and leaving me at the bar to carry all the drinks back to the group.

~~~

She lived in a typical inner-city terrace house. Bedrooms and bathroom upstairs, lounge, dining and kitchen downstairs.

Eleanor directed Mark and me to the living room, and disappeared for a few minutes. Soon, the smell of freshly brewing coffee wafted from the kitchen, and Eleanor appeared in the archway between the lounge and the dining room carrying three shot glasses and a bottle of Galliano.

Even in the half-light, I could see she had a playful look. Mark gave a mock groan, 'I'm not driving any time soon then?'

'Not if I have my way,' Eleanor remarked, placing the glasses and bottle on a small coffee table at the edge of the room.

As she swung back towards the kitchen, Mark and I exchanged glances. Both of us knew what the other was thinking - that neither of us was likely to deny Eleanor her way if she asked for it. I knew in that moment that Mark felt exactly as I did. He could no more deny Eleanor than I could. We were both in her thrall. On which of us did she intend to cast her next spell?

While Eleanor finished up in the kitchen, I went to the table and poured three double shots of the liqueur. I handed one to Mark, and Eleanor took hers from me as she glided to the table to deposit a tray with the coffee plunger and necessary accessories.

Eleanor and I had met about eight months earlier, in our final year at university. She was studying Linguistics. I was enrolled in Science, but we had both taken History and Philosophy of Science as one of our majors. We soon gravitated towards each other. She liked the questions I asked in tutorials, and I liked the way she took those questions up and engaged with them. The tutor had been delighted with us. We were the only two women in a class otherwise filled with male Engineering and Mathematics scholars, and we had more to say on any subject than any of the blokes did. We were soon dubbed 'The Terrible Twosome', but not in anger.

If Eleanor and I left the uni bar to go to class, all the men followed rather than staying there to keep drinking. Attendance at tutorials had never been so good, our lecturer admitted to us at the end of the year.

Mark and I had met about a month after I met Eleanor. They had been friends for many years. She asked him one day to help her collect a new television, so he had turned up at uni to pick her up. I tagged along, and Mark and I instantly clicked. He was a journalist, and his use of words to home in on just the right comment at just the right moment was thrilling. I could see why Eleanor the Linguist liked him so much as a friend.

Now, in her lounge-room, with music seeping from the stereo, and us three drinking too much coffee, and possibly too much Galliano, there was no want of conversation. We talked of politics, religion, and music, until I was so lulled by the easy company that I forgot how horny I was.

Eleanor didn't.

In a slight break in conversation she disappeared upstairs. Mark and I continued with the theme, but when Eleanor returned we were both arrested, mid-sentence.

She stood in the doorway in a black negligee, only slightly covered by an equally slight silk dressing gown drawn loosely together at the front with a waist-tie.

I nearly choked on my drink.

Mark was more composed. 'That would be my cue to exit, then, I suppose,' he slurred, clearly in no state to do anything of the sort.

I had made the same assumption, and was about to say 'or me', when Eleanor pre-empted me.

'No, Mark, stay.' She turned to me. 'And you, you're not going anywhere. You should take those off,' she commanded, pointing to my jeans.

I don't even remember what I said. I was stunned. I wanted her. Goddess, how I wanted her. But I had never had, nor wanted, sex with a man. Yet here was Mark, being asked to stay, and clearly intending to.

I had no intention of leaving either. I had been fantasising about being with Eleanor for months.

I tugged off boots and socks. I was acutely aware of being scrutinised. As I began to peel off my jeans, Eleanor came over to me and cupped her hand around my crotch. My jeans dropped to the floor, and I wrapped my arms around her as she attached herself to my mouth. The kiss was long, but gentle. We only broke away when Mark uttered a distracting 'ahem'.

Eleanor turned to look at him. He was still fully dressed, but the bulge at his groin told us he had enjoyed the show.

'Umm... what part do you see me playing in all this, Madame Director?'

Smiling, Eleanor looked back to me with an eyebrow arched. 'Well?'

'Ah... I..., I've never..., I don't want...'

'You,' Eleanor told Mark, saving me, 'can do whatever you like as long as you don't put your dick into either of us. Fingers and tongues only, unless I say otherwise. Understood?'

'Absolutely,' Mark agreed.

Then to me, 'You. Floor. Now.' Eleanor growled. Her voice was gravelly and deep.

I did as I was told.

I'd like to say I felt a twinge of guilt; for Carol, who must be at home wondering where I was and what I was doing; for Dan, Eleanor's boyfriend, who had no idea what his girl got up to while he was strumming away with his flamenco band in some dingy country dive; even for Mark, who was so close to getting what he longed for, but denied what I assumed for a man, must be the best part. I felt no guilt then, though. I felt only an overwhelming sense of joy that Venus had chosen to bestow her favours upon me.

Unbuttoning my shirt as I knelt, I lay down on the floor. I expected both the other players to join me, but instead, Eleanor shrugged her gown off her shoulders, and threw it casually over a nearby chair. She kept the tie in her hand, though. Then she simply stood where she was, and watched with interest as Mark stripped off shoes, jeans, boxers, and t-shirt.

I watched too. He looked rather ridiculous only wearing blue business socks and a hard-on any man would envy. Who knew that such a good body hid beneath that benign exterior of loose-fitting casual-wear?

Eleanor gestured to him, and he knelt beside me, facing me. He cradled his cock in one hand, as if waiting to be given permission to put it to use.

Moving with excruciating slowness, Eleanor stood at my feet, dropped to her knees, and spread my legs apart. Then she wriggled forward, and leant over me. She put her hand to finishing the unfastening of my shirt and flicked it apart to reveal a new lacy black bra I had recently bought in the hope of impressing someone.

'Hmm, very nice indeed.' She placed one hand at the front of the bra, where the cups met, and pulled. I tightened my stomach muscles and rose to meet her mouth again, feeling my shirt fall away from me as Eleanor helped it off with firm, sure hands.

Eleanor wrapped her arms around my back then, and held me to her. I felt a second pair of hands undo my bra-clip and flick each strap off my shoulder and down. Before I knew it, Eleanor had pushed me back to the floor. She flicked the bra aside, then rested her hands on my hips and pulled my knickers over them. I raised my arse off the floor to aid the process of removal.

I had no idea where that silk tie had gone, but suddenly it was in her hands again. She pulled it taught and settled on her haunches to watch me. I gulped.

'I really want to tie your hands with this, above your head. Is that okay?'

'Yes,' I breathed. I could hardly speak.

'I promise I won't hurt you, and I won't let Mark do anything you don't want.'

'Okay,' I squeaked.

Gently, oh, so gently, Eleanor gathered my hands in hers and pushed outward, then up, until my hands were on the floor behind my head. This move was shrewdly calculated. As her body followed her hands, she moved slightly sideways so one satin-clad breast pushed itself into my mouth. I had no choice but to take it in. I allowed my tongue to caress her nipple, feeling it harden under the slippery material.

'Behind me, in between her legs,' Eleanor told Mark, between gasps of pleasure. 'You may bite, if you wish.'

I felt a momentary fear, until I realised she meant me, not Mark.

I opened my mouth wider, and let my teeth wrap around Eleanor's flesh. I sank my teeth into her and heard her groan in shared arousal as the satin material, made wet, slipped between her and me until my teeth came to rest at her nipple again. I bit harder.

'Yes,' she encouraged, then moved to put her other breast to my mouth. 'Again.'

I felt two hands push my legs further apart. I tensed.

'It's okay, hands and tongues only. Remember,' Mark whispered. I believed him, and relaxed.

Eleanor moved back and placed her mouth on mine again. This time the kiss was intense and rough. I didn't care. As her tongue and mine weaved around each other, I felt another tongue bend itself around my clit, then dip quickly down to taste me. I arched my hips in longing, my cries strangled by Eleanor's lips over mine.

Mark's tongue was as skilful as any female lover's that I had ever experienced. He seemed to know, just by my signs and squirms when to concentrate on one spot and when to leave off and lap at my labia or the inside of my thighs. Soon I was writhing under his attentions, and Eleanor's mouth or breasts were often neglected.

She didn't seem to mind. As the intensity of my reactions increased, she peeled herself off me and turned around so she straddled my chest and could easily observe Mark's errand.

She had pulled her nighty up over her naked hips at some stage, and I got a full view of her cunt as she lowered herself down so one of my breasts went straight into her. As I wriggled in response to Mark's treatment, she moved over my breast. I could feel my nipple caressing her clitoris, two hard little lumps that seemed to have found a glistening solace in each other.

If I could keep my eyes from rolling back into my head, I could watch as Eleanor's tight little arse strained and clenched above me. She braced herself on one of my hips, and the other hand moved between her legs. I could not see it, but I knew what she was doing to herself, and every now and then I felt one of her fingers join my nipple in its slippery-slide games.

That was enough to tip me over the edge. I felt that familiar tingling pull at my groin, and orgasmed in a rush of screams and cum.

I heard Mark groan 'Oh, Jesus,' in appreciation, and Eleanor tensed too, raised herself up and yelled in her own climactic tide.

'Fingers?' she asked, as I continued to writhe.

'Yes, Oh God, yes.' I didn't care if the fingers were hers or Marks; I just needed something inside me. Now.

'Two,' Eleanor breathed, and I felt warm, gooey digits slip easily into me. I pushed against them, feeling them curl into crevices and tickle sensitive spots.

I thought this was the aftermath for me, but Eleanor had other ideas.

Mark's fingers started to slip rhythmically in and out, and a different sort of pleasure began to build inside me. I had never felt anything like it, having only ever had lovers who gave clitoral orgasms before this. I had always wondered what all the fuss was about for women fucked by a man. Now I was beginning to get the picture.

While Mark worked his magic, Eleanor dipped her hand to my clit, and pushed hard. No gentle flicks this time. No, she ground into me like I was a nut she wanted to crack, and it was exactly what I needed.

When my orgasm mounted from deep inside me, Eleanor suddenly stopped with her hands and bent her head down to suck my clitoris into her mouth. I felt the tip of her tongue play over it, and then my world exploded.

I bucked so hard that Mark's fingers were dislodged, and Eleanor's sopping-wet vagina ended up stifling my nose, but I didn't care. I screamed in ecstasy, and felt Eleanor cup her hand over my sex again and push the tips of her fingers into my cunt, giving me something to work against. I came, and came again, feeling my juices ooze between her fingers as she held me tight.

When I had recovered sufficiently to notice that I had a woman stuck to my chest, I craned my neck up and made a strained attempt to return a favour, by licking at her. Eleanor twisted about to look at me, and smiled.

'You relax. I don't need anything. Why do you think I bound your hands?' I lay back, unable to answer.

Soon, she rose up again, and moved sideways until she was sitting on the floor next to me.

'Sit up,' she instructed. 'Mark is going to show us how he masturbates.'

~~~

At around 5 am, something in my mind finally kicked in, and I woke up in panic. I was still on the floor, and had a blanket spread over me. Mark was next to me, but not touching me, under his own covers. Eleanor was slumped in a chair, apparently asleep, but as soon as I made to get up, her eyes opened and fixed on mine.

A hand slithered out from under the crocheted afghan under which she was curled, and one bending finger beckoned me to her. She unwound her legs, and sat up. As I drew nearer, she leaned forward and grabbed my hips, directing me to sit on her lap. I must have looked sceptical. I was bigger than she by several inches and many kilos, I estimated. She ignored my reluctance. Her hands and eyes were insistent.

I lowered myself onto her, and she wrapped her arms around me.

'Are you okay?' she asked. Her tone was so achingly soft and gentle. Clichéd, I know, but her voice was smooth and velvety, just like I imagined she would be inside. I was suddenly afraid that my hands would never get to feel what my breast had, and I sighed, sadly.

'Yes, I guess I am,' I answered her.

'Dan will be back this afternoon.' My heart felt like it had just tried to tie itself into an ugly knot inside my chest.

'Oh,' was all I could manage.

'But he's away again in two weekends' time.'

'Ah,' I sighed again, with more pleasure.

'No Mark, though. Next time, I want you all to myself,' Eleanor said.

She took one of my hands in both of hers. I let her splay my fingers out and inspect them, turning my hand over to caress my palm. She took the hand to her mouth and licked my palm, then sucked on my middle finger. I squirmed, and was suddenly aware of the rough yarn of the afghan grazing my labia.

Eleanor grinned. 'Hmm, yes,' she murmured. 'Next time, I want these to do their proper work. You have such beautiful hands.'

'Why not right now?' I suggested.

She pointed a chin towards the still slumbering Mark and said, '... and you need to go home. I have a lot to do before Dan comes around.'

'Huh,' I said, not able to keep the bitterness out of my voice. 'Dan. Does he know what you get up to when he's away?'

'Tch, tch,' she chided. 'Don't be jealous, it doesn't become you. He knows. He does it too. We have an open relationship.'

'Oh,' I said again. Did I sound as hollow as I felt, I wondered?

'Oi, you lump on the floor. Time to go home. The Dear Little Dyke needs a lift.' Mark stirred, and I took the hint and got off Eleanor's lap.

We dressed in silence.

As we left, Eleanor pulled me back while Mark continued to the car.

'Two weeks,' she whispered in my ear, and I felt myself melt again.
Xing Saga Part 15 - Contradictions And Secrets

Jane Russell

Mount Barker, South Australia

Australia

14 August 2014

Where things are not quite as they seem...

The planet Xing, normally a bright happy place, was under a pall of dark, foreboding misery. Even the skies were grey, the metal birds made crying sounds and the metal dogs howled in sympathy. No one was permitted to joke or smile, in fact no one could even go to work for a whole week as part of the emperor's decree of public mourning. This solemnity was to last a full month, although work and other normal activities were allowed to resume. The population was truly sorry for the loss of the emperor's heir, Mo, though few had actually seen him.

Other bots had their own mourning to do. Curly and her three children were trying to take in the loss of SnoopyLoo. Curly had cut off all her hair and had her head engraved with a love poem to her lost partner.

Her eldest child was thirteen years old and looked just like Snoopy must have at her age. Curly found it painful even to look at her. The middle child was eleven years old, sullen and resentful. He blamed his mum for leaving them, while the youngest at only eight years old, just looked lost. The children hadn't spent as much time with Snoopy as Curly would have liked, and now it was too late. She embraced the public mourning as her own and retreated from the world for a while, withdrawing the kids from school for the month.

In the luxury of the imperial suite at the palace, the emperor Po was distraught. He was over two thousand years old and could feel the weight of his years like never before. Had he ever told Mo that he loved him? Probably not. Too late now.

The pain of his loss felt crippling. He just wanted to retreat from the world and not be bothered with the mundane minutiae of daily life. There was no bot he could confide in, no bot to share his grief. He even wished Nanny Grey or SnoopyLoo had remained behind to console him. But they too had met an untimely end on that dang planet. Ultimately, this was young BodWilf's fault. If that noble showed his face on Xing again, Po would ensure it was surgically removed.

Just outside the emperor's rooms, the workerbot chief of Xing's secret police was pacing up and down a well-worn carpet, torn between his sympathy for the emperor and his sworn duty to keep secret things secret. He, and only a handful of his staff, knew what the rest of Xing's population did not: that the message received from the rescue craft's pink box was false. Minutes before that fateful message arrived, claiming the craft had crashed with no survivors, his agency had already received two messages that contradicted it.

These were from one of his spies who had accompanied the rescue force. The first said that they had landed safely, and the second that they had reached the Xing enclave 'Xing Town' - this message concluded enigmatically: 'Target acquired.'

He decided to keep the secret at least until the end of the official period of mourning, by which time the mission may have been concluded successfully. He hoped he hadn't compromised the health of the elderly ruler, but it was his job to safeguard national security.

Oblivious to the situation on Xing, young Mo was safe and sound and up to mischief back on Earth. No mourning or misery here. The sun was shining, the trees were green and shimmering softly in the breeze, and there was an air of excitement and curiosity. The search group had just returned from Xing Atlantis with some new bots and some unusual rocks. Mo was at the forefront of the crowd gathered to witness the extra-terrestrial properties these rocks displayed, and so was the first to volunteer for one of the demonstrations.

He had to hold a rock in each hand while thinking about fire. From the 'oohs' and 'ahhs' this evoked, it was evident the experiment was a success. He opened his eyes to see fire streaming from one hand to the other, the flames tickling his nose. He sneezed mightily and promptly dropped the rocks, which just bounced. _Cool!_ he thought.

Xing Town's scientists were working on more practical applications for the rocks than just fairground tricks. They hadn't noticed that Mo had pocketed a couple of smaller rocks to play with later. This turned out to be a really bad idea, as Nanny Grey discovered when she walked in unexpectedly on him that night. The lights were out but she could see strange blue lights rippling across the room.

'Mo? Your highness?' she called tentatively, and then she shrieked in alarm as her hair caught fire. Her shrieks subsided as her head was next enveloped in a smelly white foam. Mo had used a fire extinguisher.

'Sorry, Nanny,' he piped, barely containing giggles. 'You do look funny. Let's take a selfie.'

Nanny had no time to react, as the boy flashed a device in her eyes.

'Oh really! This is too much!' she grumbled. 'What on Xing have you been up to, you rascal?'

'Just playing with some rocks.' He was too excited to notice her lapse of protocol. 'Watch this!'

One rock was hovering in the air producing the blue waves of light, while the other rotated slowly on the ground. Nanny Grey could have sworn she heard singing. She declared herself suitably amazed, and then hustled the youngster to bed.

Meanwhile, back in the main hall, Oggie had just finished organising accommodation for the new bots from Xing Atlantis and was preparing to go home when he felt he was being watched. Without moving his head, he scanned the immediate vicinity. Yes, there was someone concealed behind a door. He walked right up to it, pulled it open and said, 'Can I help you?'

The wide-eyed newcomer bot was speechless at first. He was not accustomed to being so easily discovered. This OggleBog must be smarter than he looked.

'Yes, indeed. I think we should talk,' he replied, and Oggie led him to a less public place to do so.

'You are OggleBog, former soldierbot in Beta Group of the Earth invasion force?'

'That's me,' admitted Oggie, 'Why?'

'Certain elements back on Xing consider you to be a bot of some importance. I have been charged to bring you back with us when we leave.'

'I see.' Oggie pondered this for a few seconds, 'When you say "importance" you mean dangerous, no?'

'My mission is a matter of national security,' the bot replied. 'You are considered a risk, that is true.'

'I don't see why. I haven't done, said or become anything remarkable. Ask anyone. Old Oggie's harmless, they'll say.'

'It's not up to me to judge you. I've got my orders. You're coming with us. End of story.'

'I have a family, children. What if I refuse to come? Are you authorised to use force?' Oggie asked.

'I will do whatever it takes to complete my mission, short of killing you. You are required alive.'

'That's what I thought,' said Oggie quietly, then ominously: 'You do realise that no one knows we're here?' and as he spoke, he flung out his hand to hold the other bot's head immobile. Waves of energy pulsed through the hapless bot, who spasmed helplessly then collapsed to the ground.

'Sorry, friend, I'm afraid the amnesia's permanent, but we'll look after you here in Xing Town.' Oggie whispered, 'I'm afraid harmless Oggie is a bit of a contradiction, but he's never going back to Xing willingly.'

Outside the window, Dog listened and shivered in confusion. He tried to slink away before he was discovered, but Oggie's eyes turned his way. Dog found it difficult to remember that these metal beings could smell as well as he could. He froze in fear. He'd trusted Oggie, now he didn't know what to think.

Oggie smiled and gave him a nod.

'It's all right, Dog,' he whispered. 'I'll always be harmless Oggie to the bots of Xing Town. Let this be our little secret, eh?'

Dog whined his agreement and backed away. He wasn't good at secrets.
The Man In The Papers

Robyn Chaffey

Hazelbrook, New South Wales

Australia

14 August 2014

He was only a 'tramp'!

I had many times passed him in the streets of the city. Sometimes he would be huddled in a small alcove, his meagre belongings packed tightly around him. He would have a bundle at his back which I imagined to be his most valued belongings, for he would have them tightly wrapped with a tatty red and dirty-white Afghan rug. This I surmised, he must have rescued from somewhere along his life's road.

Whatever was closeted within must have been a most uncomfortable cushion on which to rest.

On rare occasions, if I thought he was asleep, I would dare to look more closely into the conglomeration of man and goods. Only then would I feel a tinge of momentary sorrow for him as I realised that he was trying, in the hub-bub of the open street, to catch a few moments of fitful sleep. Realisation would then hit that he was living the entirety of his days and nights out here, no matter the weather.

Only a brief moment of shame would manage to pierce my insular consciousness. It would invade the ordered criss-crossing of the grey matter of my self-absorbed brain... but only ever fleetingly.

All too soon though I'd remember my all-important schedule... shopping, or lunch with a friend! Whatever 'Oh so important' activity I had fancied I 'must do' today.

In truth this man was, for the most part, out of sight and out of my mind. He was an oddity that occupied only a fraction of what I knew in my heart of hearts was a shallow life. He was therefore an affront to my pretentious sensitivities. Living as he did on the outside, the fringes of society, he could never be one of the 'beautiful' people with whom I wished to be counted.

No, this wizened old man with his long and greasy, thinning hair and unkempt beard; this man with the weather-beaten face which drooped on one side; this man whose torn trousers and faded, flannel shirt I felt sure must wander off without him as he slept... this man did not belong! That he'd had quite a severe stroke at some time was apparent; but my sense of 'other' was as incapacitated as his frail body.

Once, I passed him as he dragged his bits and bobs behind, perhaps seeking a sunnier more pleasant place to while away the day. My eyes momentarily caught his and he held them as though in vague recognition. The deep blueness of his own eyes caught and held my attention till I saw the dim hopelessness in them, and that reached inside and grabbed at my very heart.

I didn't allow that hold for long but tore myself away! There was too much to occupy me that day. I could not give time to 'vagabonds'. Still, my mood... my self-assurance had been hijacked and would not be returned till I found a friend whose own surety would be my ransom paid. That done, I could imagine myself 'cool' again.

Always there was that small part within me that knew, and kept me reminded that I was being self-centred. That persistent part of my being would not allow my pretence. I was a fake! Deny as I would, I knew that I did not fit in the world in which I moved. What is more, I did not like this person I had determined to be.

In my quiet hours at home, these thoughts persecuted me persistently till, in the wee small hours each night I drifted into fitful sleep. Each time I woke it was to the haunting of that inner place I dreaded. Thoughts of a time and place... of another life I could barely bring cohesively to mind in those wakeful times invaded every fibre of my being.

Those marauding phantasmagorias incessantly robbed me of my peace and belied my attitude of superiority. They sucked the wind out of my sails night and morning.

In recent weeks my fear of the daily invaders had increased. Now they had a new weapon in their arsenals.

The tramp, that homeless vagabond unknowing was making his presence known right here in the privacy of my own home. He was right there in my bedroom as I woke and I would see his face as I wiped the condensation from the bathroom mirror. His blue eyes would seem to be looking into mine as I caught my reflection in the rear vision mirror of the cab as I travelled round the city.

Sometimes, as I walked into my sitting room, I would sense his presence there.

Day by day, this man was in my thoughts. I still saw him in the street yet never a word passed between us. At night, I knew he was out there looking for a warm, dry spot to set down his belongings, or to rest his weary head. In my mind though, he had become my constant companion!

Weeks passed and my waking and sleeping dreams intensified! I felt I was on the brink of insanity. I was sleeping less and becoming so very tired. I worried that my pretentious life-style would come unglued and the world would see me for what I truly was.

~~~

Sunday morning came!

Weariness had caught up with me and made me ill so that I decided to have a quiet morning in my pyjamas. Gingerly I padded out to the gate in my slippers and picked up the Sunday paper. Then I returned to put the kettle on and make myself a strong tea. There was little in the larder for breakfast as I had the habit of going to a café most mornings. I made myself some toast and butter. Finally settling into my softest, most luxurious armchair, I sipped and chewed and almost absent-mindedly skimmed the pages of my paper. I didn't really want to know what was going on in the world today.

Some pages into the rag I suddenly lost my grip on the cup and saucer sending the hot contents of the cup in a painful deluge to my lap.

There he was! My tramp!

The living ghost who had unknowing haunted my life and living for so long had died, the paper told! He was found on Saturday, by some early morning charity workers bringing warm breakfasts for such as he. There he lay, slumped over his Afghan-clad bundle.

The paper spoke of the police having searched his belongings to ascertain just who he was. In the Afghan bundle they had found pictures, medals, letters, old news clippings and a shabby old note book which he had intermittently used as a sort of diary. These told the story of his life and identity, and gave clues as to how he had become so lost out there on the street.

His story was a marvel! His story was one the newspapers could not resist to print. 'How,' the reporter asked, 'could a man such as this come to be living unknown in the streets? What kind of society do we live in that would allow such a hero to die alone and unloved?'

Some pictures of his treasures were printed in the paper and it came to me with tremendous shock to recognise by them the man in the papers! I realised that I had seen his picture before!

I'd seen them on the mantelpiece in the home of my old grandmother, in fact, in the old albums my mother had rescued from that same house when her mother had passed away were copies of others. I had been very young, but as I peered at the faces in the pictures now, I saw those eyes peering back as I had not seen in many years. Faded sepia and yellowing black and white, now reproduced on newspaper; and yet the eyes looking back at me now seemed somehow brighter and more seeing than those which had met mine in life.

He was not just a tramp! No, he was my mother's elder brother who had disappeared many years ago. He had been a soldier in a long ago war not of his own making. For king and country he had fought, and he had witnessed... just what kind of atrocities?

As with so many soldiers throughout history, he suffered an agony of nightmares on his return and was never able to come to terms with the changes in himself. One day he simply walked away. He left a note to say that he could not countenance inflicting himself on those he so dearly loved. The family never heard of, or from him again!

The history he had for so long treasured was my history! It was a history which could answer so many questions in my mind. Yet, I knew already that with those answers would come many questions I had not previously known to ask. The secrets of his life, well-kept for so many years, had played a part in shaping my own world.

Now they would change my world... for better or for worse. One thing was certain! Those plans I had for next week would be dramatically altered.

This very day had taken quite a turn as I began to plan what I would need to do to claim my uncle and to see he had a good send-off. I would ensure that he got in death the respect that I had failed to give him when he lived.

There were questions without answer. Would I ever know the truth? Did he know I was his sister's 'child'? Had he watched his family from afar? Did he choose these streets to live in to be nearer to his kin?

I determined that I would do what it took to get to know him! For the first time in my life there was someone for whom I really cared. I would get to know my Uncle Joe. I would treat his memory... his memories with the love and empathy I failed to give him in his life.
The Good Old Days

Shirley Burgess

Rosebud, Victoria

Australia

15 August 2014

'Hi Naomi. How can you stand yourself? You're so ugly.'

'You've got a huge nose, did you know that?'

'Yeah - and that awful hairdo!'

'Teacher's pet.'

And so on.

This was usual from her five tormentors. They didn't even pause when Cameron McArthur and his mates walked past. For eleven-year-olds they were a proficient set of bullies.

Naomi Campbell was nothing like her namesake. This Naomi had the blotchy complexion usual to young teenagers. She knew all that. Her straight fair hair was cut short at the back, because her mother cut her hair 'to save having to go the hairdressers,' and she knew it was ugly.

Naomi always tried hard not to cry, but it was a struggle to keep a mask of indifference on her face. Her mother had complained but knew the teachers never interfered.

On her way home, she was surprised when Cameron caught up to her on his bike.

He called out, 'Hey, wait for me Naomi,' and launched into a speech of encouragement: 'I heard those morons this morning, and I hope you're not taking any notice of them. It's only because they're jealous, you know. You're the brightest person in our class, and they're trying to bring you down a peg or two to their level, so just don't let them Naomi.'

He went to go on but was shattered to see Naomi burst into tears.

'Oh gosh, I didn't mean to upset you.'

She dried her eyes and hastened to add, 'No, no. It's not that, but you're the first person to be kind to me this year, that's all. Anyway I don't seem to mind if you see me upset,' she said matter-of-factly.

Cameron's eyes twinkled: 'That's quite a compliment - thank you.'

They smiled at each other. 'I'm bullied too you know,' he continued. 'They sling off at my freckles, call me "carrots" and "skinny", pretending it's a joke. But it's not. I'm lucky that I'm their best bat so they can't go too far. I'm called ugly too, but I don't think about it, because I think they are too,' he grinned spreading his arms.

They both laughed at the idiocy of all the name-calling. 'How do you answer them, Cam? I know the stuff is true. I am ugly, I do have a big nose, I do have a stupid haircut.' There was bitterness here.

'Rubbish, Naomi. You're letting them get to you. Don't do that. In my case I try and make fun of them if I can and you could try something like that. Interrupt them and tell them how silly they sound. Laugh at them. Tell them it sounds stupid, especially coming from them. Works for me.'

For the rest of the year, they waited for each other, and Cam was delighted that his suggestions worked. They talked of their holidays, their families, their ambitions and Cam let slip that he wanted to become a doctor eventually, like his brother, but worried that his marks wouldn't be good enough.

Secondary school meant they went to different locations, and that meant they saw less of each other, and at the beginning of year ten he told her their family was to move from the area and from then on Cam slipped out of her life altogether.

When Naomi turned sixteen, she said to her mother, 'I know the others at school talk about my nose, just as they did in primary school. It makes me shy - is there anything that can be done about it, Mum?'

There certainly was. Her doctor referred her to a top specialist in new noses who warned that it would be a painful operation. 'But we can have it all done during the next school holidays, if you like, and your new nose will be ready to be looked at when you go back to school,' was the prognosis.

'Terrific!' said an enthusiastic Naomi.

Yes, it was painful for the first week, but when the bandages came off, Naomi couldn't stop looking at her beautiful new nose in the mirror.

She asked lots of questions about the medical procedure, found it immensely interesting, especially the anaesthetics area, and she wondered if perhaps she could do something along those lines herself? It was an exciting thought.

The nose improvement seemed a miracle, and with new confidence she enrolled in a beauty and deportment course. All this brought even more confidence to Naomi and she liked the person she'd become much better.

Four years later she was well entrenched in her med school studies. Brett was one of the pleasanter students in the course, and Naomi and her friend, Sally, were flattered to be one of the few to be asked to his twenty-first.

He explained, 'It's only a small "do" because I'm sharing it with an old friend who's turning twenty-one too, but I'd love to have you two there. Several of the guys on the course are coming too with their partners.'

'We'd love to come thanks Brett,' said Sally, and then privately to Naomi she said, 'I'll have to ask my brother, how about you?'

'I don't even have a brother.'

'Well we can all go in my car,' she said. 'Takes care of getting there.'

That settled, they both started to look forward to the party. With all their studies, there hadn't been too many occasions when they could have fun like this.

Naomi liked Brett, bought a lovely dress, and felt like a million dollars in it. When they arrived, Brett was there to meet them and showed them to their table. He asked Naomi for the next dance, promising to bring the other birthday boy over to meet them all.

Just as the next dance was starting up, Brett arrived leading a tall, handsome young redhead. 'Everyone,' he said, 'let me introduce you to my friend Cam McArthur.'

They all acknowledged each other and Brett turned to claim his dance, but found Naomi and Cam staring at each other. 'You two know each other?'

Cam broke the silence, 'Yes, we were good friends at primary school.' He took Naomi's hand saying, 'Naomi, you look wonderful.'

'Hello Cam.' Naomi could hardly breathe.

Brett looked defeated. 'Well, this conversation will have to be continued later,' he said, 'for this is my dance, I think?'

Away they swirled, and Brett was anxious to know how she knew his good friend, Cam. 'He lived next door to our family for years,' he said. Naomi explained briefly.

When the dance ended he brought her back to Cam who was obviously still staggered to see the new Naomi. 'You look fabulous,' he said again. 'I wish those bully morons could see you now.'

'Cam, it's just so good to see you again.' They chattered away like the good friends they were, and danced every dance together for the rest of the night, talking nonstop in between.

The two boys cut the cake, and it was obvious that everyone had enjoyed the night, except for a rueful Brett.

'I think there will be at least a dozen disappointed nurses back at his med school,' he said.

'Not to mention one disappointed student from our uni,' smiled Sally in sympathy.

'That's the end of a partner for me to the course End-of-Year-Party.'

'Oh Brett, I know at least six on our course who are dying to be asked, including me,' she laughed.

'You, Sally? Great - I thought you were spoken for.'

~~~

Now all qualified doctors, life was busy indeed. Naomi was a specialist anaesthetist, and one day she was on her way to prepare a patient named Rebecca Stewart.

Next morning she visited her patient, telling her how pleased the team were with the successful results.

Then she added, 'You don't remember me, do you Becky?'

Becky looked hard at her. 'No, should I know you?'

'In primary school I used to have a large nose, and very short hair.' She waited for recognition. Nothing. 'You used to think I was quite ugly.'

'Oh, no,' said Becky. 'Well, "Dr McArthur" didn't give me much of a clue.'

'I married Cam McArthur. Do you remember him?'

'Cam? Of course - he played District Cricket for a while. They were the good old days, weren't they?' Becky looked at Naomi expecting a polite reply.

'No, they weren't for me, Becky. You were actually a pain in the butt.'

Becky was obviously surprised. 'Oh, we didn't mean all that stuff. Just a bit of fun you know,' and, waiving the subject away, launched into all her own bad news mostly about her unfortunate marriage, complete with recriminations of her ex-husband and his family.

Naomi excused herself, wished Becky luck, and continued the rounds of her patients.

_No, Becky_ , she thought, _you are wrong - these are the good old days for me_.
My First Coffee

Frederick Lee Brooke

Switzerland

Europe

16 August 2014

It's not true what they say about growing up in the suburbs, or at least not in our family. My sister and I always told each other everything, even when it hurt. Sometimes, since we shared a room, we had the darkness between us to cushion the hurt. But the hurt would still sink down over you like a poisoned parachute, stinging every inch of your skin on a hot night.

'You don't wish you were me. You really don't,' my sister said across the dark that night in late July. She was fourteen, I was twelve. Her bed was somewhere across the ocean of darkness between us. 'I've got a pimple on my forehead, and my period is coming. It sucks to be me.'

'I don't mean you, yourself,' I said. It seemed like I was always searching for words, always, all the time. 'I mean like you.'

'Like me, you mean, older?' Her voice across the darkness, trying to understand. I was wide awake. How I wished I could crawl into bed with her and whisper these words.

'Not older,' I said.

'How then? What do you mean?'

'Can I come over there?'

'In my bed? No, silly. Boys don't cuddle up with their sister.'

'Gilda, I'm not a boy.'

There it was. The words hung in the darkness between us, uttered, unmistakable, unretrievable. I didn't wish to retrieve them. I listened for my sister's reaction, waiting for a sound, a breath, anything. She must have been holding her breath. She must have been going back over all the things I'd said in the past weeks, months, years, all the silly acts, all the trying on clothes, all the experiments with makeup.

Our parents, sometimes worried, sometimes amused, had noticed I was 'effeminate' but neither one seemed bothered. Neither parent ever took me aside for a private chat about my sexuality. Did they think I was too young to be aware I was different? Or was it that they didn't care? Or did they simply feel that it was my sexuality, and therefore a thing that was so far beyond their control, it wasn't worth talking about? In recent weeks my mind had gone around and around with all kinds of theories, never settling on one.

We shared a bedroom because the house was so small. Otherwise one of us would've had to sleep in the living room. That might have been possible, except that the living room doubled as our guest room, and was in use at least half the nights of the year.

There was our Grandmother Ruth, who was alone in her farmhouse in Iowa. She would stay for weeks at a time. And then there was Cookie, one of Daddy's friends from the factory, whose wife would kick him out of the house at least once every two weeks. Cookie would camp out on our couch for two or three nights before making up to her again.

'Robert, are you serious?' my sister said.

That was what I loved about Gilda. She didn't laugh. She didn't scream. She didn't run out of the bedroom in hysterics and wake our parents.

'From now on, I want you to call me Roberta,' I said. My skin felt like it had a new surface outside the tight skin I was accustomed to. Or else I was just blushing all over my body. That was possible too.

The air was so still, I could hear my sister breathing. 'Roberta,' she said then, trying it out.

'I know it's going to take some getting used to.'

'It certainly is,' she said. 'Listen, come over here. I've got questions. I don't feel like yelling the whole time.'

I didn't need to be asked twice. Neither one of us was yelling, but I knew what she meant. I threw off my covers and headed across the space between us, feeling my way blindly. Suddenly my right toe bashed into something. I squealed in pain.

'What happened?'

'What the hell is your chair doing out in the middle?'

'Sorry,' she said. 'I forgot to push it in.'

Feeling my way, I found the side of her bed. Gilda had already slid back toward the wall, making plenty of space for me. 'Are you sure it's okay?' I said. I had on my red pyjamas, soft cotton summer pyjamas. She had on a nightie and also a pair of underwear. I couldn't see her; I was just remembering what I knew she always put on.

'If you're really a girl, it's no problem,' she said.

I climbed in and lay down, and then I could feel her breathing in my face, and then we hugged. I got one arm down underneath and we had a nice hug in her bed. I pulled back first, and I got up on one elbow, supporting my head on my arm.

'How do you know a thing like that?' my sister said. 'How can you be sure?'

'I've felt it for a long time,' I said.

'What did you feel?'

I thought about what it really was. It wasn't just that I liked her clothes. It wasn't that I felt my own period coming once a month, the physical aching of it, the sluggishness, everything but the flow itself. It wasn't that I felt more attracted to boys than to girls. The fact was I felt those crazy stirrings with both.

'I don't know. I just feel like deep down somewhere inside me there's a woman crouched and waiting to stand up, not a man,' I finally said.

I listened to her breathing, and she listened to mine. Even at this distance, it was so dark I couldn't see my sister's eyes. I lay on my side with my hands together in front of my chest, like a prayer-girl.

'Yeah, but what about that thing between your legs?' she said. As if throwing obstacles in my way.

'You mean my penis and testicles?'

'Yeah, that.'

'It's wrong for me,' I said. I tried to think of words that would help her understand. Words that would help me. 'Remember when they delivered that stupid armchair nobody ever sits on in the living room? Daddy ordered a reclining chair. There was a mixup with the order. I should've gotten what you have.'

'That's gross.'

'It's not gross. It's just what I feel.'

'So you're going to have an operation?'

With this question she pushed me to the boundary of my own reflections. At age twelve I could not imagine having some surgeon reconstruct my genitals. Nobody was taking a scalpel to me. I also couldn't imagine our family being able to afford it.

'I don't think so,' I said.

'What then?'

I knew what she meant. How could you be a woman going around with a fully functioning schlong in your briefs?

'I haven't got that figured out yet, okay?' My heart was hammering so hard I couldn't lie still. I was sure she heard it.

Her hand stroked my uncovered arm. 'It's okay, Roberta. I'll always be your sister. I'll always be there for you.'

I kissed her on the cheek, careful not to touch her in any other way.

'Let's go in the kitchen,' my sister said.

'Why?' I was already crawling out.

We tiptoed out of our bedroom and went around the corner into the living room, and from there into the kitchen. We closed the door. We blinked in the bright kitchen light. My sister looked so cute in her nightie. She smiled at me. I saw myself in the reflection of the black oven, a tomboy in red pyjamas, six inches shorter.

'Whew, I really need a cup of coffee,' my sister said. She was pressing buttons on the new coffee machine, filling a container with water, hooking things up. 'Your news shook me up, you know. There's nothing like coffee to calm the nerves.'

I pointed at the clock. 'At one in the morning?'

The aroma of fresh ground coffee infused the kitchen within seconds. Once she had prepared her cup, my sister made me lean over and sniff.

'You know, Mom's going to hit the roof,' she said after one sip. 'Dad'll be fine. Mom, I don't know.' She shook her head.

'You think I should tell them now? Tomorrow?'

'No. Sit on it for a month or two. Or longer. You and I can talk about it whenever you want. It's going to be a hard thing for them. It's going to be hard for you. Wait till you're a little older.'

'But I'm sure.'

'I know you are. But you're twelve. They'll be more likely to take you seriously if you're my age.'

I couldn't argue with that. My sister's coffee smelled so heavenly. She sipped it, and she saw me wanting some. Without a word, she went to the machine and prepared another cup. While she worked, I was thinking about what she said. How everything was going to be so hard. What was hard was telling someone, but now I'd told Gilda. Gilda knew. I realized I'd felt so alone, but I wasn't alone anymore. I couldn't focus on hard things when I was feeling on top of the world.

She put two sugar cubes in my coffee, and poured milk in it, and handed it to me with the spoon. I stirred and sniffed for the next minute or two, enjoying the strong smell of fresh coffee, and the color, and the swirls in which I thought I could see my reflection. Gilda was watching me. When it had cooled down, I carefully put the cup to my lips, blew some more, and took a sip.

For the first time that night, my sister laughed. She must've seen something in my face. She laughed so loudly I thought our parents would wake up.

The bitterness shocked me.

Author's note: My First Coffee is a back story devised for the transgender character Roberta from my second novel, Zombie Candy.

Editor's note: It was the honesty and authenticity, the empathy, of this story in discussing such an important topic, set into sharp relief against the brutality of the ending which reflects the brutality of life that so many transgender people have to face, that earned it an 'Editor's Pick'.
A Lover's Potion

Winsome Smith

Lithgow, New South Wales

Australia

15 August 2014

When Mistress Pettigrew's butter would not churn I had a great laugh but Mistress Pettigrew was angry, especially when one of her hens died suddenly. Mistress Pettigrew raged around the village for a day or two declaring that non-churning butter could only be caused by witchcraft. She was a bad tempered dame anyway and I was glad when things went wrong for her.

Fear spread quickly through our village and the surrounding farmlands. There had always been stories of witches and we had heard that in other shires witches had been burned.

Strange happenings were not new in our village. Young Eddy Makepeace ran into the tavern in great distress one bright sunny afternoon. He had been walking along one of the lanes and happened to be admiring his shadow cast by the summer sun. He suddenly noticed another shadow walking right beside his - and there was no-one there to cast that shadow.

Stories proliferated. Master Cooper was walking home from choir practice one moonlit night. They only met three nights every month when there was enough moonlight for people to see their way. As he strode quickly past a hedgerow he felt a sudden weight on his shoulder. He glanced to the left and saw a hand there. It grasped his shoulder for about a minute, almost causing him to stagger, but it was only a hand, nothing else.

When two of the village children came down with the spotted disease, people looked around for someone to blame and suspicion fell upon my sister, Jennet. I believe the suspicion had begun some time before because my sister is so very beautiful. She has long raven hair and skin as white as milk. Heads turn as she walks past. People don't notice me as much because I am very ordinary to look at; I have brown hair, and a dull complexion and a pudding-plain face. My name is Isabel.

My sister lives by herself in her own little cottage - very unusual in our village. Jennet lives in her own cottage because she likes to grow herbs and she likes to distil them in her own kitchen. I live with our mother because she is old and needs looking after. My mother and I have a vegetable garden and we are lucky enough to have a cow. Our mother had six children but only my sister Jennet and I survived.

Jennet is also scholarly and has a serious nature. Few people here can read but Jennet reads books. The wife of a previous parson liked Jennet and taught her to read and write. She is shy and does not always take part in ceremonies and games. She has never been in a Maypole dance. All this is regarded as suspicious behaviour.

I, on the other hand, am lively and love a bit of mischief. At haymaking on the farm of Jed Wallace I make the work into fun and I love to sing rude songs. I once persuaded Josephine McDonald to gaze at her own reflection in the water of the pond. As she leaned over I pushed her in. It was such a joke.

When a third child got the spotted fever, a group of village yokels marched on Jennet's cottage and shouted that she was a witch. When she denied it they reminded her that she could be tied to the rock at the seaside when the tide was coming in. If she drowned only then would they believe that she was not a witch. If she survived she was definitely a witch and would be punished, probably burned. Jennet was brave enough to tell them that only the district magistrate could impose trial by ordeal and they relented but warned her to take heed of their warning.

I wish my sister hadn't been so stubborn. She would go and visit the sick. She would go and assist at births. When someone was injured she always went to them and took a pot of her healing balm. Wherever she went she took a jar of healing or comforting potion because she insisted on trying to relieve suffering. I loved working with her as she distilled healing herbs in her kitchen and I knew she only wished for good. We often pored over her books together and learned about herbs and healing plants. We experimented with plants and we giggled together. I loved her and knew I would do anything for her.

I was standing at our cottage door one afternoon talking to Sam Spedding, the tanner, when another small mob of angry folk ran past. Sam had been courting me for a year but I could not bring myself to love him. I liked him but could not bear the thought of living at a tannery. He also had a pock marked face which spoiled his appearance but he was an honest and decent man. He went to a lot of trouble to row across the river from his tannery to see me every month and I appreciated that but I just could not love him. I also dared not to cross that wide river in his boat.

We both ran along with the small crowd and when we came to a crossroads we saw some men building a pillory. The cry went up. 'Fetch Jennet the witch.'

I had to save my sister. They wanted to put her in the pillory and let her stay there all night and all day. They would throw things at her - not only rotten eggs but mud and dung and sometimes even stones. I could not let her be so humiliated and injured, especially when she was innocent of all wrongdoing. Jed Wallace was sitting on his horse at the edge of the crowd. Breathlessly I begged him to take me to my sister's cottage and he helped me jump up behind him.

After a gallop we arrived at Jennet's house a mile away and I rushed in. Jennet and I were the only people who knew that there was a cellar under her floorboards. I lifted the trapdoor and pushed her down the cellar stairs and Jed helped me push a cabinet over the closed trapdoor.

Jed then took me on horseback to my mother's house and cantered away. Sam Spedding was there, looking like a sick dog he was so worried. He did not know where I had gone.

We sat huddled in the tiny kitchen, my elderly mother, Sam and me, trying to comfort each other. I felt almost content. Jennet would be safe for the time being as no-one would dare to go into a house they believed had spells and black magic in it, but she would not be safe forever and something must be done.

It was my mother who reminded me that folk believed that witches cannot cross water. Her eyes wide with fear, my mother told Sam and me that although two women in the past had been tied to the rock neither had survived so it was known they were not witches. Oh yes, she told us, witches might survive the rising tide (no-one ever had) but it was a known fact that a witch would shrivel up if she attempted to get into a boat. We had long whispered conversations about this and in my mind I formulated a plan to save Jennet.

To Sam's surprise and delight I persuaded him to come back in one week's time. I promised him, oh, how earnestly I promised him, that then I would give him my answer. Sam slept on our back porch that night and when I rose in the greyness of dawn he had gone - back over the river I suspected.

That morning, after the boisterous evening before, the village was quiet. Folk don't like to be out of doors on a moonless night but I knew that even before the sun appeared they would be about their daily tasks.

Almost snake-like I crept through the dew-damp grass to Jennet's house. The chill morning breeze rustled my skirts and apron and above me the sky was the pale tender pink before sunrise. I found Jennet alive but frightened and together we hid under her kitchen table while I outlined my plan.

We stayed in her house for four days but we were very busy. We chopped and pounded herbs from her garden; we strained and distilled liquids; we stirred and blended and boiled. Jennet worked at her healing potions and sometimes I had a simmering pot of my own brew to which I added ingredients of my own about which Jennet knew nothing. I helped Jennet pack some belongings into a bag then we went to my mother's house and waited for the Saturday.

During that time the village and surrounding farms were peaceful. The sick children began to get better and there were no strange happenings. Butter churned perfectly. Hens laid beautiful eggs and clucked proudly. There were no strange shadows cast on the road.

Saturday came, and true to his word, Sam arrived looking dapper; he was freshly shaven and wearing a clean shirt and polished boots. Obviously he expected this to be a memorable day for him and me.

I had cooked some griddle cakes and we had jam to go with them and two jugs of my cider-like drink. My mother and Jennet were well-versed in what to do. I guess that because I am the elder I have a managing nature when I want to. We four sat at the table and discussed the frightening events.

I then excused myself as I had to tend the beets and cabbages in our garden. I knew my mother would pour a large mug of drink for Sam and Jennet would stand directly in front of him while he drank.

I busied myself for a good half hour then wandered back inside. Sam's mug was well and truly empty and he stood with Jennet, his arm across her shoulders, while my mother looked on dotingly. Sam gave me an embarrassed and pitying look and began to say, 'Isabel, I beg for your pardon. I'm very sorry.'

My mother, bless her, chipped in, 'Isabel, Sam has begged Jennet to marry him. She is going back over the river with him today. Please wish them happy.'

Wish them happy! I hugged them both and congratulated them with joyful sincerity. In my heart I congratulated myself for my cleverness in making such an effective love potion. I fussed around helping Jennet put her things in the boat and trying not to shudder at the thought of a boat trip. I kept well away from the water's edge as my mother and I stood and waved happily but tearfully as Sam, now completely smitten, rowed across the river.

Now my sister is safe; she will live with Sam at his tannery and because she could cross the water no-one will ever again accuse her of being a witch. But alas, I will have to stop having fun. No more mysterious shadows, no more non-churning butter. Never again will a detached hand clutch someone's shoulder. I strongly wish to go on living. I shrink with terror at the thought of being burned alive or feeling the tide creeping up around my helpless body tied to the rock.

Oh, yes, just one more spell will I cast. Jed Wallace is the richest farmer in our shire and the handsomest. I work at his harvest and haymaking every season. It can be hot work and we sometimes pause for a short rest. I will take my jug of cool drink and share it with him which he will gladly accept as he knows me well. I will be sure to stand near him and be within his sight while he drinks. My potion always works.
The Suburban Banshee - Part 4

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

17 August 2014

Cory had returned to his flat to wait for darkness to fall before he struck out for the graveyard. _No point in makin' a bloody fool of meself in broad daylight_ , he thought grimly. This time he was taking no chances and made sure his torch had fresh batteries. Deciding to have a shower, he took off his shirt to examine the contusions, cuts and scratches across his chest and upper arms. To his amazement, he noticed that they were fading quickly; almost before his very eyes.

In addition, he felt an odd sense of déjà vu, lightness and a vague sense of exultation - seemingly at odds with the other sensation of dread as he began to contemplate just who Raelene was, or... what? Standing under the shower, Cory tried to recollect some of the strange stories old Paddy would regale him with when he was a toddler and they were sitting on the old sofa.

'The Eevul will return, Cory - you mark me words, she's The Morrígan - the phantom queen. For over a thousand years, she's dogged the O'Brien clan, and when I was a wee lad... ' by this stage, young Cory was usually asleep with his head in the old man's lap.

'You're a bloody fool!' he told himself and scoffed, 'Raelene the Banshee, get a grip, you're beginning to sound like Jonesy.' He quickly dried himself, got dressed in regulation flannelette shirt and track-pants and headed for his ute. The graveyard was out of town down a lonely road surrounded by a few paddocks, with few streetlights. It was a dark, forlorn place.

The graveyard itself was also very dark and whilst there was a full moon, it hid behind heavy clouds. Cory's courage deserted him once more. He shone his torch and took a few tentative steps in the direction of his grandfather's grave. In his head he heard, once more, Paddy's last words, 'Time to go home, darlin' Cormac!' He thought he could see an iridescent glow coming from the direction of the grave and the sound in his head became louder, 'Time to go home, darlin' Cormac!'

But it was not Paddy's voice that he heard... it was Raelene's! He rounded the corner to see Rae, or what appeared to be Rae, draped over his grandfather Paddy's grave. A warm glow seemed to emanate from her and surround her. She said once more, 'Time to go home, darlin' Cormac!' She was dressed in a long, white cloak with grey and silver trimmings that was open to the waist in a deep 'V'. Her long, pale hair fell loose over her shoulders which she brushed with an elaborate silver comb. She was undeniably beautiful, spectral, like the elvan queen in 'Lord of the Rings'. In spite of himself, Cory felt the vague stirrings of lust mixed in with a healthy dose of fear.

'Rae, is that you? I've been looking for you everywhere - what on Earth are you playing at?'

'Time to go home, darlin' Cormac!' she replied in a lilting Irish accent.

'For God's sake, will you stop sayin' that? It's the last thing Paddy said to me before he died! How did you know that? I've never told you anything about my family and why are you dressed like Cate Blanchett's understudy?'

'Ach, so many questions Cory, sweetheart! Paddy was a lovely man and a great lover too.'

'Great lover... Rae what are you talking about? Paddy was... ' he glimpsed past her to read the headstone, 'eighty seven. You didn't know him. Besides, you're only twenty... '

'Go on Cormac, tell me how old you think I am! Shall I show you?'

Before Cory could answer, the lovely golden image dimmed. The moon appeared from behind a cloud and for an instant, Cory caught sight of a very haggard, old woman in rags. He was reminded of a witch from a fairy story. Once more, he could hear the wailing sound of what he now perceived as a Banshee.

He shuddered involuntarily and took a few steps backwards. The image of the old hag vanished and the spectral beauty of Raelene reappeared. She threw her head back and laughed, a deep, reverberating sound that seemed to resonate through her body, through into Cory's subconscious mind, images of ancient chieftains and vast armies competed with flashes of the car accident that killed his parents.

Kaleidoscopic images of their erotic trysts were juxtaposed against images of ancient battlegrounds, steel clashed on steel, horns blew and harps played glissandos. Other voices weaved in and out of his mind, his grandfather, father, Jonesy, even Ernie, his boss. Their voices became a babble: 'Eevul has returned!' 'There's sumptin' weird about that chick!' 'O'Brien can't you take a joke?' 'Time to go home, darlin' Cormac!' Cory fell to his knees and clasped his hands over his ears.

Abruptly, the voices stopped. Cory looked up to see Rae holding out her hand to him. Hesitant at first, he took her hand and raised himself to his feet. 'Who are you Raelene, really?' he asked softly, feeling a warm glow infuse his body.

'Why Cormac, I thought you'd guessed by now. I am Eevul and as Paddy predicted: I have returned!'

'Yeah you're evil alright but what's your name?'

Raelene/Eevul rolled her eyes skyward for the briefest moment, 'Eevul is my name, you idgit! Eevul, The Morrígan - The Phantom Queen of the Banshees, and that me darlin', is Veritas!'

Suddenly, the penny dropped and Cory had a flash of illumination that 'the evil' that Paddy had spoken about was not some disembodied, destructive force but rather a human being (or so it appeared) - the Eevul. Cory looked at Raelene/Eevul rather sheepishly, 'Veritas? Not various tarts, I suppose.'

Eevul gazed at him attentively. She could read the thoughts of most men but could not decide if this particular O'Brien was particularly stupid, making a joke, or just seeking verification. 'Yes Cory, it is the truth, just as Cormac mac Cuilennáin was always striving for. He was king-bishop of Munster, died in 908. He wrote a glossary of Irish and Latin. It appears you're not named after him! He had the "hots" for me, as they say these days, but he was a dull, priggish man and wouldn't admit it - not like the O'Briens with the fire in the belly.'

Cory couldn't believe his ears. Even with his rudimentary grasp of arithmetic, he calculated that the Eevul was about eleven hundred years old! 'Orright, so maybe I'm not up on Irish history - what do you want with me?'

'Ah now we come to the rub of it, Cory darlin'. If it weren't for me, you wouldn't exist! You see m'dear, Padriac was your grandfather to be sure, but your grandmother didn't die back in Killarney as he might have told you... I am your grandmother! Indeed, I was Paddy's grandmother, also... or was it great-grandmother? I've forgotten, because you see, me darlin' Cormac, you're all me children; well... many of the O'Briens, anyway.'

Darlin' Cormac was now well and truly confused, but before he could say a word, the Eevul plunged into some strange, ancient, Irish history that made his head swim even more.

'It all began with King Brian Boru who was born in 941... but that's now unimportant. Suffice to say I was his first consort, Mór - that was my name then. Later, I became known as The Morrígan - the phantom queen. Even then, I was already about one hundred years old in mortal years. I was descended from the Old Norse Gods that the Vikings brought to Ireland. Of course, Brian never knew that. He had other wives and children to be sure, but none like me. Trouble is, I'm only a demi-god, so in order to maintain my longevity I must take an O'Brien as consort from time to time. I try to keep as close as possible to the original family bloodline. The child I give birth to is subsequently raised by another branch of the family. The ways I contrive to do this are rather nefarious and sometimes two or three generations will pass before I mate again with my offspring. If you're looking for some other comparison, I'm a bit like a queen bee and the male O'Briens are me drones. Arrrghhh, hah hah hah!'

Cory covered his ears once more as the Eevul's ghastly screaming laughter cut through him like a scythe. But he still had some unanswered questions. 'Paddy came with my father Sean to Australia when he was just a toddler; how did you know where he was?'

'Ah well, that was prior to the internet, of course - such marvellous modern magic - but I eventually tracked him down. Not that it really mattered, for there are plenty of other lines of the family. T'ings got a wee bit awkward when the potato famine struck between 1845 and 1852 and many starved to death or moved away. I found meself living in America for quite some time and the bloodlines became depleted. I returned eventually to Ireland where I had almost slipped out of the people's consciousness - I was just a legend. But I managed to team up with Padriac who married me and in time we had Sean - your father. But Paddy panicked when I told him the truth. He snuck away in the dead of night with Sean and got them both onto a tramp steamer. He worked his passage on the ship and eventually landed in Australia after sailing around Asia for a couple of years.'

'What about all those marks on my body,' sniffed Cory. 'What are they about?'

'Oh, I do get a bit excited, I'll admit,' exclaimed Eevul. 'But it was necessary, also. It helps to release the O'Brien essence that feeds back into me - it's harmless and the marks cause no pain, do they?'

Cory nodded reluctantly in agreement. 'I suppose it was you who appeared to my father on the night he died in the car accident?'

'Well... yes, it was me but it was not as Sean said; I appeared after the accident occurred, not before. I was there before the authorities. I am a Banshee after all, we foretell death. He was already dying, therefore I appeared to him as an old crone and I was doing my duty to him as a member of the clan. That has been my responsibility for over a millennium. A chuisle mo chroí, O pulse of my heart!'

Cory was about to ask another question but Eevul cut him off. 'Cory, darlin', I'm sure you have a million more questions. However, you must see that destiny is being played out here. You wanted a red-hot, lusty girlfriend and I've played that role, indeed, I've initiated many of our previous couplings. You must admit that when you thought we had done it on the back veranda of my "parents" house, you were very excited. I was watchin' you when "Dad" hunted you off at his house - you ran with your tail between your legs - by the Boru that was funny!'

Eevul walked the few paces back to the grave and turned to face him.'"So, what now my love?" I can hear your tiny mind saying... Just once more and I will be with child and your obligation will be complete!'

'I've no obligation to you. I didn't ask to be dragged into some ancient, Irish lust legend. Leave me alone, Granny, haven't you had your fill of this family?' Cory pleaded, even though he could feel a stirring in his loins.

'Begorrah, I was fearful this might happen!' Eevul's hand went to the sash holding her robe together. She untied the knot and threw the robe off her shoulders. The glow, that seemed to emanate from her, accentuated her fine, proud breasts and triangle that was as white blond as her hair. 'Time to go home, darlin' Cormac!' she said with all the allure she could muster, 'and this is the portal!' Cory stared blankly, time hung in the balance. 'Come on Cory, love,' Eevul said, reverting to the 'strine of Raelene, 'Not scared of me, are ya?'

Cory removed his clothes in a trance-like state and walked to the grave. He lay down on his back.

'Ah, it's pleasing to see that Gaelic pride has asserted itself. Hmm perhaps that should be phallic pride,' she murmured, lowering herself on him once more.

Cory looked up and thought he perceived a crowd of onlookers gazing down, lust distorting their faces. He saw visions of Paddy, Sean, Eevul as Rae, Jonesy and other strange characters in the garb of centuries past. He could hear the wail of the Banshee and it was picked up by the spectres surrounding them. The stars above him were golden and appeared to spin. The wailing grew louder and louder and loudest of all seemed to come from him as their climax grew near. Suddenly blackness came over him, the Earth stopped spinning and once more he was at one with the Banshee.

They found him wandering naked in the paddock near the graveyard, babbling incoherently. He seemed to be saying over and over, 'Time to go home, it's evil!' His clothes were discovered inside the graveyard near the tombstone of Padriac O'Brien. Having established that he was indeed Cory O'Brien, who had been missing for around two days, they took him to the local hospital where he was treated for multiple cuts and abrasions across his body. A week passed but clearly he was still in a catatonic state. The decision was made to transfer him to a nursing home/mental health unit.

A striking woman with white-blonde hair tied back in a pony tail, dressed in a crisp white suit, came in a patient transfer van with a male attendant to collect him. She signed the transfer papers and looked down at Cory with a strange smile. 'Don't be concerned, Cormac darlin', time to go to your new home. We'll take good care of ye.' Her name-tag identified her as Evelyn Bansky.
Hey! Hey! Claire!

David Newman

Jacobs Well, Queensland

Australia

18 August 2014

The Taj-Ma-Hal and Nepal;

Can you hear them call?

You'll get there sure!

And of other dreams;

With all their themes;

May you reach them all!

That's what they're for!

Hey! There!

How're you feeling today, Claire?

Hey! Claire!

I hope everything goes your way there!

Hey! Hey! Claire!

Hey! Hey! Claire!

Hey! Claire!

Why do bad memories never fade?

Hey! Claire!

Why don't they ever just go away?

But it's alright now, it's okay;

To feel the pain:

It's there to help you on your way;

It's there to lead you to far brighter days:

Hey! Hey! Claire!

Hey! Claire!

Did you know that I have stared into green mirrors?

Hey! Claire!

It's where a simple truth is there to hold!

When I look into your green eyes;

I see good soul!

Hey! Hey! Claire!

You are a friend!

Hey! Hey! Claire!

Until the end!

Hey! Hey! Claire!

You're one for all time!

And if you believe now!

Hey! Claire!

Then you will see now!

Hey! Claire!

All that you want it to be now!

Hey! Claire!

If you just believe!

If you believe!

You just have to believe!

Just you believe!

Hey! Claire!

May the fates always smile just for you!

Hey! Claire!

To shine on a friend who is so true:

I know that you can fly, like a bird;

Up in the sky:

That you are special, it can't be denied!

You give to all, with your warm, friendly smile!

Hey! Hey! Claire!

Hey! Claire!

Do you know all the magic that surrounds you?

Hey! Claire!

The happiness to others that you bring!

Lift up on angel wings and fly!

Just let your heart sing!

Hey! Hey! Claire!

You're not alone!

Hey! Hey! Claire!

Never alone!

Hey! Hey! Claire!

You're one of a kind!

And if you believe now!

Hey! Claire!

Then you will see now!

Hey! Claire!

All that you want it to be now!

Hey! Claire!

If you just believe!

If you believe!

Just you believe!

The Taj-Ma-Hal and Nepal;

Can you hear them call?

You'll get there, sure!

And of other dreams;

With all their themes;

May you reach them all!

That's what they're for!

Hey! There!

How're you feeling today Claire?

Hey! Claire!

I hope everything goes your way there!

Hey! Hey! Claire!

Hey! Hey! Claire!
When You Are Old

Trish Robinson

Cherrybrook, New South Wales

Australia

19 August 2014

When you are old you forget things. No, that's not strictly true; you forget things that happened recently. Did you take your pills at breakfast time? Did you actually eat breakfast today? If you did, what did you have?

When you are old you remember things that happened many years ago - even breakfasts. Like the ones your dad cooked up when you all went camping. Bacon with eggs sunny side up, charred toast slathered with golden syrup, washed down with milk drunk straight from the bottle. Happy days!

When you are old you stand in front of the open fridge door peering in wondering just why you are standing there. _There must be a reason_ you tell yourself. _Never mind, it will come to me later_ you think as you close the fridge door. Then there are the times having puffed up the stairs to fetch something from your bedroom you stand bemused at the door wondering what is was. It was important a few minutes ago, why is your mind a blank now?

When you are old you can go straight to the head of the queue in the post office or bus stop and look a little confused. You will be served first and not waste your day standing in long lines. Most people are too polite to say or do anything, they just frown and look disgusted. You smile at them.

When you are old you can wear what you like and say what you like and not worry about it. It doesn't matter to you what people think or say about you. You will no doubt forget it anyway. Just put on your red hat and purple cardigan and sally forth!

When you are old you can sit in front of the TV all day drinking tea and eating biscuits. You can spend happy hours remembering the glory days of long ago and not even wonder if you have left the iron or the stove on. You can relax and doze the afternoon away.

When you are old you can tell everyone about the olden days when all was right with the world - when people did a fair day's work for a fair day's pay; when young people were well behaved and well mannered; when children played outside and built cubby houses and billycarts; when a baked dinner was enjoyed by families every Sunday. People love to listen to your stories.

When you are old you can teach card games to your grandchildren and show them magic tricks. You politely decline to be taught how to text or use email. You ring up friends and write letters. You invite family to your place and have face to face conversations. You don't turn on a computer to read newspapers.

When you are old and gather with friends for morning coffee, talk is of blood pressure pills, fish oil capsules and hip replacements. You listen to stories of tried and tested remedies for gout, arthritis and digestive troubles. You go home, forget the advice and have a nap. You wake and give thanks for still being alive.

When you are old you watch the evening news and solve the problems of the world from your armchair. You decide younger people know very little. If politicians listened to you the world would be a better place.

When you are old you enjoy the days you have left. You smile as you think of your long life.
Monsignor Andres' Love Of God

Paris Portingale

Mount Victoria, New South Wales

Australia

20 August 2014

He woke up in the mud and it was raining. It was light, the sun had been up an hour, but above the layer of clouds, so everything was washed with grey and bleak shading, and everything was wet and everything was mud.

It was a back-street, an alley, and there were pockets of rotting things here and there along the way, slipping into the mud as the rain soddened them and they slowly fell apart and spread into the wet.

The rain he hated. The rain made the world mud and mud made the world that much more difficult and the world was difficult enough without it. With it, it was a waterlogged and impossible hell. A Dante's Inferno, the flames become sopping and sodden and cold and mud-caked.

And his shoes were full of water, as they had been for the week, and the skin on his feet had become bloated and festered and when he didn't walk carefully, small sections of puffed flesh would break loose and slide way, into the shoe somewhere, leaving raw patches, damp with a mix of mud and rain and blood, and walking stayed a constant, stinging pain.

His clothes were caked. Six hours sleeping in the stuff, turning in it, rolling, straitening, cramping up into a ball then stretching to his entire length, had packed every little crevice, every fold of material, every stitched seam with the mud of it and even when he stood, unsteadily, and let the downpour shower him, even that torrent was insufficient to clear him.

It was in his hair and in the corners of his eyes, in his beard and his ears and around his nose and in the pointed edges of his mouth. And it grimed his neck and chest and legs and found its way into every fold and wrinkle, every crack and crevice that the human body turns upon itself, so that he saw himself made of mud. Not an abhorrence or creature, but more as the first man on the earth, Adam, whom God also had also made of mud.

And he was despised and he was misunderstood, or not understood, and reviled for it. And those who neither despised nor reviled him at least found him unfathomable and his piety approaching a point beyond conception.

And yet through all this he could still sense a purpose. There was a light of intention and it emanated from a heart of such vast purity and love and passion for all things that it required a universe to hold it. And it was more than faith, it was a knowing.

So it was that, when muddied and reviled Monsignor Andres entered Doctor Thiago's surgery, many in the crowded waiting room took their leave, taking their abscesses and lesions and swellings and consumptive gurglings with them, to be seen or prodded or lanced or tutted over at a later date. And when Doctor Thiago saw the Monsignor he ushered him directly into his office, so to quarantine the rest of his world, lest something of the Monsignor slide away or strip itself off or leave him in some invisible mist and become a contamination to those around.

And once seated, Monsignor Andres said, 'Thank you, Doctor,' and the Doctor, impelled by imperatives of time and expediency said, 'What can I do for you today, Monsignor?'

Understanding the Doctor's situation, the Monsignor said, 'I'll come straight to the point Doctor,' at which point Doctor Thiago said, 'I'd appreciate that, Monsignor,' and clasped his hands together across his chest to ready himself for the point of today's visit.

And Monsignor Andres said, 'Are there any points of the human body that are not susceptible to the cancer? Any parts of the body not prone to that effect. Anywhere that I can stop worrying about, as, of all the bothersome things on this world, the cancer is the one I find the most bothersome and conductive to constant self-examination and morbid concern.'

Doctor Thiago said, 'Nothing is exempt, I'm afraid. Everything is susceptible.'

'Ah,' said the Monsignor.

'Was there anything else?' the Doctor asked, ready to rise and show his patient from the surgery.

'Even hair?' asked the Monsignor.

'Not the hair,' replied the doctor. 'The hair is exempt.'

'So,' replied the Monsignor. 'There is exemption. Would there be any more parts like this?'

'No, just the hair,' the Doctor said, hoping to add a sense of finality to his tone.

'How about the fingernails?' the Monsignor asked.

'And the fingernails. Hair and fingernails are exempt, due to their unique composition.'

'Anything else?' The Monsignor was on the edge of his chair now.

'No,' the Doctor told him.

'Toenails?' the Monsignor questioned.

'Yes, toenails,' the Doctor said and, overlooking the Doctor's obvious exasperation, Monsignor Andres asked, 'Anything else?'

'No,' he was told.

'There is nothing else. So, is that all, Monsignor?'

'Just one more thing,' the Monsignor said. provoking the Doctor to sigh and say, 'Yes?'

To which the Monsignor said, 'From the combined positions of Scripture, medicine and philosophical perspective, did God himself make cancer, do you think, or was it a later development, say propelled by malignant forces beyond even nature itself?'

'God,' the Doctor said simply. 'It's in the bible, as you should know. God created everything.'

'Right, so, and questioning from that same position, could we ask, why did God create such a monster?'

The Doctor said, 'I have other patients, Monsignor, and some of them do in fact have cancer, so if you have nothing further...' and he stood, as did the Monsignor, saying, 'Quite so, quite so,' and followed the Doctor to the door, pausing just before its opening to say, 'But say, just from a purely medical perspective, can you possibly plumb his purpose with this one? Does the disease itself shine any light on his meaning with this?'

'It's a compensation for our wickedness I should imagine,' the Doctor told him, holding open the door.

'But why would he exempt the hair and nails? Is there a hidden message there, do you think? Is he telling us something with that?'

'I have absolutely no idea,' the Doctor told him, and the unquestionable finality of his tone propelled the Monsignor from the office and surgery, back to the rain and mud of the alley, no more clear as to the construction of the cancer he so morbidly feared, but at least with a reprieve from worry with regard three sections of his anatomy, being the hair, finger and toenails, even though he now had the added questions, why them and what did their exclusion mean in the scheme of human life and suffering?

And so, shortly after, Monsignor Andres found himself in a sawdust-strewn front room of Pascual Gervasio the butcher, asking, when his turn at Mr Gervasio's attention came around, 'When you cut open a carcass, Mr Gervasio, and you find a cancer, do you find along with it any pointers as to why a beast with no capacity whatsoever for evil should be thus afflicted and why a God so composed of love should perpetrate such a seemingly pointless act of evil?'

Causing Pascual the butcher to say, kindly but firmly, 'With all due respect for your position, Monsignor, I must ask you to go now as I have a trade to perform and people awaiting my performance,' and the Monsignor found himself once more in the alley, no further advanced on his path to further enlightenment on his current obsession, but with a mind now turning to thoughts of some soup and perhaps a piece of bread and a dry spot in some smoky corner of Mr Corquette's horse-barn, should Mr Corquette be of suitable disposition, which was not always the case, particularly with respect to Monsignor Andres.
Zoing! Boing! (What Can Be Seen From A Trampoline?)

Robertas

Drummoyne, New South Wales

Australia

20 August 2014

Zoinging and boinging and bouncing about

Wahoooing and doing the craziest things.

Higher and higher, see over the fence,

There's old Mister Miller and his wife, Hortense.

I hope they don't see us and spoil our fun

'Cause old Mr Miller is giving her one

And as I'm still learning the birds and the bees

A live demonstration would put me at ease.

Oh blast! We've been spotted! They're dashing away.

She pulls up her knickers and sprints like a hare.

But poor Mr Miller, his ankles ensnared in his fallen-down pants,

Sprawls flat on the grass with his buttocks all bare.

He struggles and rolls with a grunt and a groan,

Then hops up and, hobbling, rushes indoors,

Leaving only scuff-marks on his manicured lawn.

Nine months, to the day, a new baby is born.
Ravens

Craig Stanton

Wentworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

21 August 2014

See the ravens, wheeling high

In magic circles well designed;

Stand apart and be aware,

Hide the things you hold most dear,

Or hungry beaks and torn, dark wings

Will cloak you in a feathered black,

Benight your cloth forever.

Heed the ravens, calling 'Why?'

See their questing, seeking eyes -

Wondering; Cain-marked; topped with need.

Hide your Bibles and your beads:

As corpses call the inky crowd

They will descend, with dagger beaks

Picking; tearing; gloating; wanting...

We, the ravens, standing nigh,

Have minds to tune astronomy;

Have black holes by way of brains.

We prowl contained perimeters

In rookeries of vacated churches;

Perched on melting marker stones,

Curdling yew-sap fills our veins.

See our daily work, and sigh:

Midnight-robed as priestly thieves

Our claws at rest like holy nails:

While faith and doubt dance duets in

Our darkling hearts we squat

Above high doorways screaming

Scorn for lost Lenores.

To believe yet not believe:

The sin for which we're

Painted black.
Another Fine Mess

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, New South Wales

Australia

21 August 2014

Sweet

cold

flowing

corridor

of fresh air filters

through the windows as clean sheets are

laid out to rest upon their bed. Windows open to

the tangle beds of garden remind the housekeeper to water the wind blown plants.

Winter's pale is unsettling in this inclement weather.

News comes over the radio. Plane blown apart by rebel forces in Ukraine.

Many die, no reason why, someone pressed a button!

Broken bodies lie amid crash debris and cameras whirl, whilst thieves rustle through baggage.

Were they on that plane?

Excitement of homecoming fades.

She stares out.

No need to bake their favourite meal of roasted cauliflower stuffed with capers, olives, rosemary - doused with extra virgin olive oil -

accompanied by a leg of lamb, bought yesterday, in joyful anticipation.

She knows.

They won't be coming home tonight.

She sits

quite

still.
The Kite Maker

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, New South Wales

Australia

22 August 2014

Boy

carves

slowly,

in balsa.

He knows the best wood

for kites; light as a baby's laugh.

Blond head focuses on creating a half lap joint.

Butchers' paper enfolds rigid, flush crossbars. Add a touch of paint. Wild eyes will show the way.

Whip up a tail of silken ribbon from sister's plaits.

Knot string in place, parachute-like!

Let dreams become reality.

Run into the wind,

laughingly,

as it

soars

high.
Leap Year

AA Anderson

Bathurst, New South Wales

Australia

23 August 2014

Leap Year tradition goes back to Ireland, when St Patrick decided that on 29th February every four years, a woman could ask a man to marry her. However later, in England, if a woman asked a man to marry her on leap year and he refused, he had to forfeit by buying her a silk dress or something appropriate to the occasion.

Madeline knew of this rule and being the ugliest woman in the village with a huge frame, bent nose and many large warts, decided that even though she was the ugliest, she might as well be the richest.

Brian O'Malley was the first to take her eye. He was a widower and lived on his own, in a small cottage near the village green. Madeline stalked the poor man day and night, even when he tried to relieve himself down by the river; he found her right beside him.

When he went to church on Sunday Madeline pushed her great weight into the pew beside him. To kneel down to pray was nigh impossible and her breaking wind right in the middle of the Parson's sermon, fairly took the poor man's breath away.

When trying to sleep at night, stones would be thrown at his window and when he opened it to see the intruder, he would be serenaded by her shrill excruciating singing. The poor man suffered Madeline's strange advances for months on end. Everywhere he went she was there; oh what could he do to get rid of her?

He bought a large dog, yes this would fix her, and he let it roam the yard of his house. This would surely discourage her. But no, one look at Madeline's bulk and face and the dog ran yelping into his kennel.

Time went by and Brian O'Malley became a recluse, never going out of his small cottage, and then it was February 29th and a leap year. Once again Brian opened his window to yell at Madeline and put a stop to her dreadful singing, but Madeline did not sing. Instead she asked Brian O'Malley to be her husband. 'No, No,' he cried, 'not in a million years.' This was his undoing.

Later now living in his small cottage, which she had taken over as the price for his refusal, she searched for her next victim.

Fred Homes the school teacher was next and she diligently pursued the poor man night and day. Just when he was about to explain the principles of algebra to a class of young students, her face would appear at the window and as far as the maths were concerned his mind went completely blank.

The desperate man tried to dodge her at every step, but to no avail. Eventually he took leave of absence and bought a caravan to get as far away as he could. After travelling for many days he settled in a lovely town by the sea.

One night when entering his van he could smell roses. The van floor was covered in rose petals and there on his bed lay Madeline, naked as a jaybird, her large frame overflowing the bed and a red rose in between her black teeth.

The men in white coats whispered solemnly as they took poor Fred away to the asylum, 'What a strange thing to happen, but it was an odd day, 29th February.'

Madeline had struck again. She was now enjoying her holiday by the sea in her caravan.

The Pastor himself was the next to get her unwanted attention. He was quite young and suitably single and owned the best car in the county. Madeline needed a car to tow her van.

The Parson was a bit on the dull side, not really bright up top and didn't wake up to the fact that he was being primed for the taking. When eventually Madeline asked if he would marry her, he answered 'YES!'

To say she was amazed and shocked was an understatement: poor Madeline had a heart attack there and then.

The Parson, when asked later what had happened, replied, 'Well I didn't know what all the fuss was about. She just asked if I would marry her, but she didn't say who the chap was, I was to marry her to.'

To all males - look before you leap.
On The Job

Michael Cooper

Penrith, New South Wales

Australia

24 August 2014

'Nineteen. Dealer pays twenty, twenty-one.'

Moe looked at his cards. Damn - eighteen. Twenty dollars in chips left. A better hand was coming. It was the next one - he could feel it. He needed blackjack to offset the last loss. In this casino, blackjack on a twenty dollars stake would pay the bills. Moe told himself he'd cash in the chips and walk away if he got it.

The shoe was empty. Moe looked around the room as the dealer shuffled cards then re-filled it. This was a small casino. A handful of blackjack tables, roulette, and over in the far corner, a couple of poker tables. That was it. Past the poker tables was a bar that was probably the best-stocked Moe had seen. His drink of choice was whiskey. He preferred the Canadian one. It was popular and was brought in from across the border regularly.

Moe took a sip of the exquisite whiskey and looked back to the table as the cards were dealt. He picked up the first card - a jack. Halfway there.

What circumstances had brought him here? He had to admit, the thrill of the cards was addictive. And the Canadian booze. Owing money to people of questionable ethics was the clincher. He needed a win to make the problems disappear. Problems being, a threat to his wife and possible torching of the house he'd bought last year.

Such were the times at present, the bank had advanced him the money to buy the house, then less than six months later, exercised some obscure clause in the contract to foreclose. Moe had sought the help of a local 'dealer' who had been happy to help knowing he'd own Moe for the foreseeable future. Moe had staved off the bank but now was in the loan guy's pocket.

Moe had suggested his wife Sadie go home to ma. She'd be better off for the time being he'd said. His job was getting a little difficult and he needed to deal with some issues. He didn't share with her the danger they both faced from the loan shark. At least the shark wouldn't be able to find her. Unless she kept working her current job.

Sadie insisted on working. Moe's job kept them comfortable, but Sadie was restless and didn't like the stay at home housewife thing. The extra income was welcome and up to a point, Sadie could name her hours. Her job wasn't without risks though. It was mainly night work, and Sadie was under pressure to perform.

Her clients were becoming more demanding. To date, Sadie had delivered. Moe was even surprised at himself that, at first, he'd been supportive of her work. Lately, the hours had lengthened and there were more times when Sadie had pulled an all nighter.

It was a testament to their strong marriage that Moe and Sadie had any sort of normal life. He smiled - she was special, but he wished she'd give up the risky work that could potentially expose her to the type of guys he was trying to pay off.

Moe took another sip of whiskey. He probably shouldn't be drinking it, but what the hell. Whiskey this good didn't come along every day. The risks were worth it.

The dealer dropped a second card in front of the two other players at the table. Moe looked at the guys. An interesting pair. He knew the guy on his left was a city councilman, eager for re-election. If he recognised Moe, he didn't show it. Most likely, he didn't. Not many people did. Moe was proud of the fact that he could keep a low profile in his line of work and yet, was able to produce much needed results.

The guy to his right had been in a couple of movies. What were they calling them now? Talkies. Moe had never seen one, but knew the guy from some publicity pieces in the newspaper.

Moe's turn - he slid the card face down across the table, and then lifted a corner. Ace of spades - he'd risked the last of his chips on this play. Because of the unique house rules of this particular casino, Moe had just made a tidy sum.

Enough to keep the loan guy at bay for another month, maybe two. By then, he'd have called in some other markers, and overtime would've been paid. That should see him almost clear. The dealer pushed a neat pile of chips across the felt.

As Moe reached out to pick them up, someone gave him a shove from behind. Moe grabbed at the edge of the table and was about to give the guy a mouthful when he noticed a general level of unrest in the crowd of drinkers and gamblers.

There was a disturbance near the entrance. Suddenly, there was pandemonium.

Dealers hurriedly picked up cards and chips. Whistles were blowing and people were shouting. Moe heard a voice from a bullhorn.

'New York Police! Nobody move!' Moe rolled his eyes, and then looked for his chips. The dealer hadn't grabbed them all. Moe thought about taking the ones he'd left, but what was the use? The raid would close down this casino and he wouldn't be able to cash them at the subsequent one that would open nearby.

Moe reached into his pocket for his identification. Several officers were moving through the crowd. Moe knew he'd be allowed to leave. The cop in charge of the raid soon confirmed this.

'Mr Smith,' he said after looking at Moe's ID. 'Always on the job, I see. Mr Einstein not with you this evening?'

'Izzy has the night off,' said Moe. Together Moe and Izzy made one of prohibition's most formidable Federal Agent teams. However, it wouldn't go well if the cops found out he'd been both gambling and drinking.

Moe picked up his hat from where it had fallen and walked out of the speakeasy. On his way, he passed the councilman - in handcuffs. No re-election for him. The movie guy was nowhere to be seen.

Outside on the street, Moe looked left and right for a cab. He found one at the corner and he smiled when he recognised the driver.

'Where to?' asked Sadie.
Tonight We Sing

Emma-Lee Scott

Callaghan, New South Wales

Australia

25 August 2014

For those who do not know,

The eyes gaze towards the words,

For those who know,

The words come from their hearts.

The first chords are carefully struck,

And the uncertainty fades,

A voice leads from behind the notes,

And those who have gathered ring clear.

The sound is only a symbol,

Of why these people stand,

Side by side in a hall,

With a stranger but a friend.

We sing and we praise,

Of how we were once lost,

Of how we could not see,

But now we are found.

The pitch rises,

The tempo holds,

The words yield,

And the people stand tall.

The tune resonates deep,

The lyrics more,

The closed eyes,

Open to the meaning.

These serene faces,

That linger on the phrases,

Are joined in unison,

By one knowledge and by one love.
Seven Letter Prayer

Emma-Lee Scott

Callaghan, New South Wales

Australia

25 August 2014

A seven letter word drawn upon the tiles,

Sketched within the water,

Simply asking,

But unanswering.

Falling water streaming towards,

Swirling black depths,

Disappearing endlessly,

But all that is centred.

Hands clasped tightly together,

Water tracing their contours,

Missing closed eyes,

And hitting bowed head.

The water is all the outside hears,

But the silence echoes more,

As a call resounds,

From the heart.

As the hands open,

As the eyes rise,

Quiet words,

Filter upwards.

The seven letters disappear,

As the water begins to pool,

But there is hope for something,

Hope for help, hope for an answer

For clarity.
Beauty

Mark Fowler

Magill, South Australia

Australia

26 August 2014

To peer intently at a dappled sky,

And focus on a bee buzzing by,

Is to open the soul to the mystery of things

And to listen sublimely as the universe sings.

The mystic seeing of watcher deep,

Reveals the essence of nature asleep.

It sees the parts so intricately woven

And the beauteous whole that God has chosen.

In the loveliness of the fragrant flower,

Or the bewitching moon of night's dark hour;

Is to stare agog at God's imagination

The parts in chorus reveal the beauty of creation.

And what of us, imaged from his mind;

Ego bound; yet spiritually blind.

Are we not the intimate expression?

Of love and beauty; God's intention?

Hence, all who seek to find beauty,

Are bound by nature and innate duty,

To find in the heart of the meek and broken

The very image of God so oft spoken.
Broken Trust

Mark Fowler

Magill, South Australia

Australia

26 August 2014

I ask:

Why have the children pain?

Why, why... in your name?

I ask:

How can they love you; then shatter the pure?

How can the broken find ways to endure?

I ask:

Why would people trust your way?

Why the confessed and the blessed were able to stray?

I ask:

How can we perceive when evil blinds?

How can we know what pure hearts find?

I ask:

Will the broken be able to care?

Will aching souls ever see life as fair?

I pray:

Are the trusted forgiven by you?

Are we to forgive them in the same way too?
Datsun 120-Yucko

John Arvan

Underdale, South Australia

Australia

27 August 2014

I love a famous yucko

A car of low speed whines

Of tortured backward angles

And raucous gearbox splines

I remember Ian had one

At the back of his garage

The motor was a jewel

But the ugliness bit large

I hopped in it quite briefly

And inhaled the expanse

The dashboard was a beauty

But there was no romance

I hope you sell it quickly

Though it has served you well

'cos your Volvo has the fever

And your Yam's not feeling well

Reflect our sweet Tarago

A stalagmite at best

But a soulless individual

An appliance now at rest

And thank you for your email

'cos down here you are missed

Though if you come a knockin'

Please come in your ES!
Rippled Soul

John Arvan

Underdale, South Australia

Australia

27 August 2014

I love a rippled bodgie

a bloke of sweeping curls

of tight jeans and greased fingers

designed to please the girls

who sometimes known as widgies

would hang on every word

and snuggle up on Triumphs

that roared up Seaview Road

and laugh at all the surfies

whose Kombis smoking slow

just couldn't compare with bodgies flair

that bristled afterglow...
The Blowing Of The Sand

Graham Sparks

Bathurst, New South Wales

Australia

28 August 2014

Under the vault of night

where hissing stars bore pinholes in my sleeping hide,

what fell things beyond my ken do walk abroad

that with the rising of the sun take flight?

Spirit echoes of things that roamed these plains

in distant epocs lost,

half holographed in fitful moonlit eddie

or glimpsed askance in spectral willie willie.

The dingos know and sing them home.

And if they did leave tracks,

the wind would hide them with the blowing of the sand.
Rape The World

Graham Sparks

Bathurst, New South Wales

Australia

28 August 2014

America will rape the world

to get its hands on oil,

and find excuse to go to war

in countries with the stuff.

But from religion to religion,

from ancient times 'til now,

the constant thing is greedy man

and his desire for power,

and in the age before we knew what oil was for,

energy was barrelled in the form of man in thrall.

So the Ottomans had raped the world in kind

to get their hands on slaves,

and jihads deemed defensive

were really old time oil wars.

And drug wars too

are not without an ancient precedent,

for did the gods of old Bharat

not engage in subterfuge and skirmish

in the quest for amrita.
Poppy

JH Mancy

Tallebudgera, Queensland

Australia

29 August 2014

My Poppy went away to war and he never came back, not like before;

far from the family he adored, he languished on far foreign shore

Each year in towns crowded or remote, bands perform the Last Post -

the Last Post (or Waltz) by other name is still the same, cruel game

They named a flower after him, each year my Gran wore it with pride;

at night we'd hear her shed bitter tears she tried so gallantly to hide

Poppy never held my hand or guided me through the cross-roads of life;

yet I felt his presence in Grandma as she held me gently, in life's tide

A smile wide and welcoming, but her beautiful eyes would not let us in;

she scarce endured or spoke of the sadness that welled deep within -

Poppy was the one to whom she spoke when she thought no-one around;

she whispered words of gentleness, with love so great it did astound -

If Poppy was just half the man that in dreams she would so often see;

he surely was a giant amongst men, it is what he was claimed to be

I have no just cause to disbelieve tales recounted through endless years;

he was a brave soldier, tried and true; his example still brings tears

I have but a faded photograph and rich memories of my Grand-mama

it was through her failing eyes and open heart, I feel I knew Papa

My Grandmother was a brave, brave soul, so warm, so kind and tender;

she deserves a thing of beauty named for her, so we long remember

Anzac Day honours men who fought to make us free, women served too;

and they made the world a far gentler place for us, this is surely true

I see Poppy through Grandma's eyes and see Grandma through my own;

and think of them with pride in troubled times when feeling so alone

I wear your flower with pride, Poppy, on the day that commemorates you

I will pick a beautiful sprig Grandma, to wear near my heart for you
The Wait

JH Mancy

Tallebudgera, Queensland

Australia

29 August 2014

Why did you lose life's thread;

Lying there ashen, hospital bed.

The doctors say that you ought to be dead -

And for sure you'd be better off dead!

Body broken and mind a twisted wreck -

Release not gained by sorrowful confess.

They'll never understand, nor forgive -

How can their child die and yet you live!

Then what could you do to save the child;

Your eyes bleary with drink, actions wild

What I'd have given were you not dogged

By the murderous curse of grog!

With sigh you were gone. I could shed no tear,

For I knew you would wish this road.

No, you could not live with conscience clear,

It would be too heavy a load.

So I bid farewell to a friend I rate -

Ah, but friends are more precious than gold!

You made a mistake, your judgment too late:

In memory you'll ever wax bold.
Never

Judy J Newman

Rutherford, New South Wales

Australia

30 August 2014

I never take myself too seriously, I know what a clown I am

I never sing when there are those to hear me, not in my true voice

I never walk in a straight line, I take shortcuts, and pathways, because I can

I never believe what others say, not when degradation is their first choice

I never walk on cracks, or grates, such could swallow me right up

I never look in a mirror, for fear of what I might see, would set me aghast

I never have a coffee, without stirring by seven, and seven touches to cup

I never try to be first, I find comfort and peace in being last

I never see myself as crazy, merely warped, and pleasantly so

I never wear a dress, for such does not me suit, nor such do I like

I'm never actually thinking, just comforting, when I pace to and fro

I never let anyone know the reason (abject fear) why I don't ride a bike

I almost never say 'I love you' to anyone, it is fear that keeps me still

I never miss the poetry in the beauty that I see, I keep it, but it's free

I have never seen the person that others see in me, I guess I never will

I never tell people when they ask (not often) what my dreams may be

I never knew the reason, why I am the person I am, who I am

I never dance anymore, the old goat loses her balance, I guess, I don't know why

I never swim, just chase waves, never learnt to swim, afraid of water I am

I never let on how I feel, I laugh when I am hurting, rarely do I cry

I almost never allow another's touch, I feel somehow dirty when they do

I never feel lonely, although I often feel alone, even in a crowd, I cringe

I never stop counting, I count in sevens, it's something I may always do

I never close my bedroom door, I would like to take it off its hinge

I never believe that I have worth, I see too much wrong in me

I never sleep in silence, I toss and turn, I watch the door, silence is so loud

I never retreat to bed, before checking every window and door, I'm never free

I never see the cup half full, life is lived strangely, in shadows shroud
Lost

Judy J Newman

Rutherford, New South Wales

Australia

30 August 2014

I look around, but nothing is familiar, everything is new

Even the faces give me no clue, they all look the same

I try to remember what it was I once knew

The old places, the people, even the game

I'm in a desert of broken dreams, I hear the echoes of long ago

Can't remember what they're saying, was it a warning?

The shadow of the sun touches broken glass, now a light show

I hear a sobbing, a weeping, a cold, lonely mourning

To mourn for that which is not remembered, 'tis too heart rending

There is no exit from this place, I am hopelessly lost

For I cannot remember this place, nor yet another's face, life ending

This desert of broken dreams, and glass, where what is, is not, sanity at cost

My mind and heart are weary, memories, I cannot trace

There is a house, made of bone, in this place, it stands alone

It offers no shelter from the cold, cold wind, does not embrace

Merely stands, strangely calling me, 'tis not my home

I know that if I answer that call, 'twould be there I be pinned

Cotton wool invades my brain, and mutes my shaky reality

I am lost, with no way home, I am lost in a desert of broken dreams and glass

Taken now by sheer exhaustion, I concede to the pure banality

Lie down, lie down, close my eyes, let the moment pass

There are no familiar faces, the world is warped, my eyes are closed

I am lost, lost in a desert of broken dreams and glass

The house of bone, calls out to me, I let it pass, I let it pass

I am lost, in a desert of broken dreams and glass, my heart is now closed
My Cushioned Life

Lorraine Sanderson

Campbelltown, South Australia

Australia

31 August 2014

They could be soldiers, lined up as they are along the wall, keeping watch over us throughout the night for fear of the bogey man, electrical fire or, Heaven forbid, creepy crawlies in the sheets. The Royal Guard as it were, for us, the not-so-royal.

They've been with us three years now, since our dated and worn-out bedspread was, hmm, laid to rest. Having enjoyed the luxurious warmth of feather down quilts on various getaway weekends, my dear one, aka husband of forty years, suggested the down of eider ducks might bring a new and cosy dimension to our humble chambre.

Little did I realise the cushioned existence we'd be creating; that the decision to sleep beneath something lighter and softer would involve so many items, including enough purely cosmetic pillows to accommodate a Boy Scout group on sleepover or comfort the homeless on a wretched and rainy evening!

Replacing one bedspread with another is simple - the old one goes out; the new one comes in.

This new luxury was something else. For starters, it only covered half the bed, thereby necessitating a valance, or 'bed skirt'.

Now I know a skirt as a garment that falls from the waist to the knee, the calf or ankle; readily accepted as smart corporate clothing, fetching party wear and respectable golf attire for the older set. Macho-imaged, V8 racing cars are even fitted with 'skirts'. I think it's about aerodynamics, however these days my personal odometer is way too high for our sleeping space to be considered racy and anything 'aero' is quite out of the question.

Of course it's all about creating a special look for the room and I've been determined to achieve it. After a spending spree that would mortify my dear mother and others of her generation seasoned in austerity and improvisation, our marital nest now boasts the desired downy cover, plus a horde of pillows we neither need nor lay our tired heads upon - thrown off nightly to stand sentry near the window 'til dawn.

Super chic and serving no practical purpose whatsoever. All 'for show', as the old folk would have described it, for they bought little in their long, hard-working lives that lacked useful intent, and even then was rarely new.

At friends' homes when invited to take a seat, I look admiringly at their multi-layered sofas; decoratively stunning - but where to sit?

Now ours are the same. I justify these fluff-filled squares as extra back support but my heart knows the chief motivation is aesthetic. Luxurious cushions from one end of a lounge to the other, precluding anyone from sitting down without first tossing them onto the floor. Go figure.

Of course I love them all and wouldn't change a thing, yet do you know what? Just maybe I should. I'll always be a fan of elegant and stylish decor in all its forms, but it gives me pause to consider that subtle difference between my needs and wants in life. I have many of the latter and would hope that the future will see my personal indulgences and outreach efforts more closely aligned.
A Mother's Love

Connie Howell

Wentworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

31 August 2014

From the air England looked like a checker board with her neat squares of green and yellow fields glowing in the morning sun.

Alex hadn't been home for eight years, and had almost forgotten how beautiful the land was. This was a bittersweet trip. She longed to see her family again, and to see if they had changed in her absence. She wondered what she would say to them after all this time; would she still fit in?

She had planned this trip for a while but meanwhile her sister rang her with the grim news that their mother had terminal cancer and wasn't expected to live much more than a few months.

Alex remembered when, at the age of ten, the news of her mother having cancer emerged for the first time, she was so afraid that her mother would die then. But she recovered after radium treatment which was awful and the treatment was inserted internally to kill the disease in her womb. The same womb that had housed six babies. Two of which did not survive. Alex was the last born and had reaped the benefits of being the youngest.

How could she show her mother how much she loved her without revealing the deep agony she felt inside which threatened to surface at the slightest invitation?

Although Alex was happy living abroad she carried the life blood of Britain in her veins; the earth was in her bones. She carried the love of two homes inside and felt a deep connection to both, but England's ancient heritage and traditions upheld with such pomp and ceremony as only the Brits could do.

On arrival as the official stamped her passport she was welcomed home; she felt embraced by the warmth and the national pride of being acknowledged as one of their own.

On seeing her mother she was struck by sadness at seeing this proud woman succumbing to the disease that stalked her for the second time. She wondered why people had to suffer such pain and agony and loss of dignity that terminal disease can bring.

She felt gratitude that she had the opportunity to spend several weeks with her and her family, so important to be part of a family at times like these. As silly as it seemed she considered how little she knew of her mother's life. She had always been 'mum' to her but she was a woman who must have had dreams and desires.

There would have been passion and laughter surely, though life with her father would have been difficult and heart wrenching as he physically abused her after he had been drinking. She stayed for over twenty years like many women who are abused do. She had nowhere to go and there wasn't the help then like now. No wonder her body had given itself over to disease.

Alex felt shallow and selfish knowing that she had been the needy one before, never really giving much thought to her mother's needs. As her mind drifted back to the day she left England to start her new life could see her mother's face so valiantly trying not to crumble into a flood of tears. It was the worst time leaving her whole family behind, even though she felt it was the right thing to do.

There hadn't been a day previously that she hadn't seen at least one member of her family, that is how it was where she came from, so to leave all of them behind was in a way too incomprehensible to take in so, like Scarlett O'Hara, she decided to deal with it another day.

Pity she hadn't dealt with that grief for grief accumulates and now it was overflowing and almost uncontainable.

She was able to tell her mother how much she loved her but the day she was to leave, the last goodbye was too much to bear and Alex slipped quietly out of the house without seeing her. This was something she regretted but the dread of looking into those big blue eyes and saying those unutterable words was inconceivable. Her throat was constricted to the point of not being able to breathe; it felt as if her heart was literally breaking.

She feared going into that room because she thought she would die a thousand deaths. This was the woman who had loved her even when she was being unlovable; this was the woman who cared for her, nurtured her, comforted her in sickness and when her life was dissolving with the latest catastrophe. She could not say goodbye!

Several weeks after arriving back to her current home Alex got the call from her sister to say her mother had died. Alex sobbed all the tears that had been waiting to be expressed. The guilt and pain palpable she berated herself for being so weak.

After a few months Alex's mother came to her in a dream. She looked so beautiful, free of disease and radiant. There were no recriminations, no harsh words, only love. Her mother, laying beside her, put her arm around her and comforted her just as she always had, so nurturing, so warm and all seemed well again and Alex knew that nothing compares to a mother's love.
Reflections Of A Champion Racehorse

Shirley Burgess

Rosebud, Victoria

Australia

1 September 2014

I look across the fields and see a familiar sight. It's the horse float, and it's probably for me.

In case that's so, I have a big gallop round this lovely paddock, enjoying the moment while I can. Sure enough, here they come, saddle and trappings included. I've suspected something like this, because of all the extra track work starting in the middle of the night, for the last few weeks.

No good doing anything but fidget while they put on all my gear, but I wonder why we are so early? Usually we don't leave for our event until later in the morning.

With care, I am supervised into the van, and I try to travel more comfortably by minimising the banging against the sides as we hurry along.

When we arrive, many more people than usual are buzzing about and, through the noise, I can sense excitement in the air. I don't feel excited, just dread. Ah, here is my nice dry stall, lots of hay on the floor, and I see a big bucket of water in the corner, so I feel much better. It's quiet here, and I'd like to stay here all day. Some hopes.

People keep staring at me over the door, and my strapper, who is my good friend, and who makes me feel as comfortable as possible, wherever I am, seems nervous today.

I feel edgy. What's all this about? Why all the extra noise everywhere?

I'm given a wonderful rub down, so I am really shining, and know I look pretty good. All my best gear is on too. Now my strapper leads me out, and we join others in single file, on a track heading for all that noise in the distance. I don't like that noise.

As we appear, the din increases, and we try not to take too much notice. Our riders are now up on our backs, and we parade around, finally heading out to the grassy lanes, and there, I see ahead, are the tiny cages we're going to be locked into. We all hate them. I am used to them nowadays, but am never comfortable when led inside. My cage number is marked '6'.

I have to wait a huge time whilst everyone else finds their own cage - there are so many of us here today, it's taking a long time. I'm impatiently fidgeting. My rider is patting my neck, knowing how much I hate waiting in this cage.

Soon there is a hush. The door in front suddenly flings open and someone yells, 'They're off.'

We leap out, and immediately there is a big press of horses all trying to get to the left, but my rider guides me exactly where he wants me to go. We are galloping along at a pretty fast pace right now, in the middle of everyone. We come to a steepish turn but my rider keeps me at that exact same spot.

This corner is followed by another pretty quickly, and a horse moves in front of us. My rider usually hates this. I just keep galloping on and on, rather enjoying the run, but wondering what is going to happen next.

Yet another corner to go round, but this one is nice and easy, followed by a long curve and surely the last corner just ahead. Any second now I will feel the cutting of the whip on my rump, and my ears go back waiting for it. It does not come. Instead we negotiate this last corner and I can hear a tremendous roar ahead of me.

This is a long race. I expected it to be over by now. My legs are tired, and my lungs are beginning to hurt, but still the whip does not hit me. Why?

My rider has found me some space. I can see lots of space ahead, and I like that. We seem to have half of the other horses on our left, but the space I see ahead is what I want.

Suddenly my rider urges me on with kicks and I know I have to move. And that's what I do. Now only several horses are in front of me and I know I'm supposed to pass them all somehow.

Here's the whip. He really means me to go.

Now there's only one horse in front of me, but he won't be passed. My legs are at their utmost stretch and I feel I'm flying. I've passed the last horse and the whip disappears. There's a massive collective shouting from all the people behind the fences, my rider stands up in the stirrup, waving, and we ease right down in speed.

I must have done something right for he pats and pats my neck. Another horse and rider join us, and everyone seems to be talking at once very loudly.

I trot back, past the noisy crowd of people, glad to have finished my job today, but they're all waving things at me and it's pretty frightening, really. Oh, please, let me get back to the peace of my stall away from all this pandemonium. I know my eyes are wide and my ears are back in worry.

My rider turns me into a little lane, with excited people on each side, all trying to touch me, but, joy of joys, here's my very own strapper. He'll look after me now. I'm still puffing a lot but my legs are gradually feeling better. Off goes my saddle and a long cover is thrown over my back. I'm now walking and walking, while person after person comes up and throws their arms round my neck. I wish they wouldn't. Some rub my nose. I do hate my nose being rubbed.

The excitement takes over somewhere else, now, and I can just stand there and watch from a distance while people shout at everyone else, throw this gold cup in the air, hug everyone near them, including my rider. Everyone is very fired up. Except me.

Now I'm back in my stall here at the racetrack, and I'm happy to leave everything behind me. Soon I'll be on my way back to my favourite paddock. I'm ready for a big feed, a wonderful roll in some sand, a lovely rub down, and a great big rest... at home.

N.B. The beautiful, golden Melbourne Cup has three handles. One is for the owner of the horse, one represents the trainer of the horse, and one represents the rider of the horse. There is no handle representing the horse itself.
Millicent Rose

Joanna Jensen

Blue Mountains, New South Wales

Australia

2 September 2014

Millicent Rose, smiles all around. There was no way of knowing just how long Millicent Rose had been waiting in the old rose red chair.

Sacha had smiled and hugged her and put her there so long ago. Millicent Rose felt so lonely, but sometimes puppo Mardi Moos would jump up on Millicent's lap for a little Moosy snooze, and that made Millicent Rose smile and feel so much better.

Millicent could still remember Sacha's lovely smile and the happy days they had shared together preparing tea parties in the garden near the cubby house, for Honey and Bo bears and the others. Millicent Rose loved to serve the lemonade and biscuits, and the yummy cupcakes that Mummy had made because that was a maid's job, and Millicent Rose was a maid.

She knew she was different from the other dolls because Sacha used to tell her she was her special helper. One day Millicent Rose heard Mummy telling someone on the phone that Ana and Eva were coming to stay for the school holidays. Mummy seemed very pleased and came in to dust the furniture in the room and make up the big double bed ready for the girls.

Millicent Rose watched her and wished she could help, but Mummy didn't ask. When Ana and Eva arrived she heard them call Mummy 'Nana' which made Millicent wonder, and when the girls came in to the room Millicent was so excited she could hardly sit still!

Ana looked around at Honey and Bo and the other dolls and toys and when she saw Millicent Rose she smiled such a lovely smile and Millicent felt so happy! Ana and Eva's holiday was such fun and they invited the children from the house next door to come and play in the cubby house and share their picnic.

Ana let Millicent Rose help her and Eva to serve the lemonade and biscuits, and Mummy even made her special strawberry cupcakes for everyone to share.

Then one day Millicent Rose heard Mummy say that Ana and Eva had to catch the plane home because school was starting again. This news made Millicent Rose feel very sad. She thought Ana might give her a hug and smile and put her back in the old red rose chair and she might never see the girls again.

It was then that Mummy told Ana and Eva that they could both choose something to take home with them. Eva chose Bo bear and Ana looked slowly around the room, and who do you think she chose? She did! She chose Millicent Rose!

And picked Millicent Rose up and whirled her around and around the room. Bo felt like dancing too, which bears very seldom do. Millicent Rose felt so excited as she watched the girls pack their bags ready to go back home.

The next morning while it was still dark before the sun came up, Nana, Ana, Eva, Millicent Rose and Bo took a taxi to the railway station to catch a train to the airport. The taxi lady looked at Millicent Rose and said, 'Well, that's what I call a real doll!' This made Ana smile and Millicent Rose felt so special.

When they were safely in their seats in the plane with seat belts buckled, they flew up and up in the blue sky, and Ana said to Nana, 'Wouldn't it be so much fun if we could all dance around on those fluffy white clouds!' Nana, Millicent, Eva, and Bo bear agreed.

When their plane had landed and they were going through customs, the custom man said to Ana, 'Well, that is a special doll.' Millicent could hardly believe how very special she felt.

Ana and Eva's Mummy were waiting for them to take them home, and Ana called out 'Mummy look what I brought home!' She held up Millicent Rose, and when Millicent Rose saw Ana and Eva's Mummy's surprised and happy smile, Millicent Rose knew that she had found her Sacha's smile again.
The Changing Winds

Madeline Ross

Winmalee, New South Wales

Australia

3 September 2014

There once was a cool, clear breeze longing for freedom.

It travelled through an ancient forest

Where the ageless trees whispered,

Speaking wordless tales of their existence;

They told of how the dormant forests seeded,

And how the small seedlings yearned for the sun,

Growing into the majestic guardians of the forest.

The forest vibrated with bird calls and buzzing insects.

Rushing waterfalls and gurgling streams sounded in the distance.

There were no sounds of traffic, eternally congested;

No echoes of heavy machinery, screaming insults to nature.

No unnatural sounds disturbed the peace.

The cool, clear breeze travelled evermore,

Whispering through rainforests and fertile woodlands;

Places where life blooms as sweetly as flowers;

Where lifecycles begin and end,

And nature's subtle beauty reveals itself,

In the intricate patterns of the shifting seasons.

These places are as sacred as Earth's deepest secrets,

Sharing its knowledge with the birds and the insects.

Times change and the bulldozers start rolling,

Leaving skeletal graveyards of dead, twisted corpses.

The cool, clear breeze rustles no leaves,

Carrying no sounds of calling birds and buzzing insects.

The ageless trees whisper no more,

Their wordless tales dissolving into nothing,

The breeze listens but hears no signs of life,

Only silence. Dead silence.

The breeze passed a bustling highway,

Choked by exhaust and noise pollution.

Blaring horns and speeding bullets tear along a tar sealed road,

Snarling like beasts closing in for the slaughter.

A single dandelion grows from a crevice in the road,

Withered and fragile, it moves limply in the wind.

The breeze hears its weak cries and is saddened.

The cool, clear breeze escaped to the forest,

Where the leaves rustle and the vibrant birds call,

The ageless trees whispering their endless tales.

The sounds of the bulldozers carry on the wind,

Warning the trees of impending annihilation.

This forest will be destroyed like many others before it,

The bulldozers' devastation will never cease,

Ruthlessly claiming victim after victim.

The cool, clear breeze travelled onwards,

Streaking past fields, farms and forests.

It thinks about the future;

When the sounds of calling birds and buzzing insects,

Will no longer reside in the whispering forests;

When the sounds of rushing waterfalls and gurgling streams are absent,

Replaced by the crashing of felled trees

And the acrid smell of burning forests

A world without beauty or diversity.

A barren wasteland.
The Checkout

David Anderson

Woodford, New South Wales

Australia

4 September 2014

The old man stood behind the middle aged woman at the supermarket checkout, observing her overloaded large trolley, whereas his smaller trolley was only half full. Looking both ways he saw that at least he was second in this queue, there being four or five people in the other checkout queues. Turning around slightly to take items from her trolley, the woman noticed the old man's smaller load. 'Would you like to go first?'

The old man was taken aback. 'Are you sure?'

The woman smiled. 'You don't have much. Go ahead.'

The man moved his trolley forward and doffed his hat. 'Thank you. You're too kind.'

On the raising of the man's hat a flicker of recognition came over her face. 'I know you. Where have we met?'

The old man kept placing items on the counter while the check-out girl itemised them and began packing. He looked at the woman but was certain they'd never met before.

'I don't think so. I don't recognise you at all.'

He began a friendly conversation with the girl.

The woman began placing items on the counter, giving the old man a puzzled stare.

His items totalled and bagged, the man pulled his credit card from his wallet and began payment. As he was handed his receipt, the woman's face turned grim. She pulled her mobile out of her bag and began filming.

'It was you. All those years ago, and I've finally found you. You filthy bastard!'

Both the old man and the check-out girl were taken aback at this outburst. The old man spoke apprehensively.

'What do you mean? Why on earth would you call me names like that, when I don't even know you?'

'You were the next door neighbour who raped me when I was nine years old.'

Grasping the handles of his trolley the old man rushed from the counter towards the doors shouting back at the woman. 'You're mad! I've never seen you before.'

The woman yelled back. 'You won't get away with it you dirty old prick. I've got you on camera and your details are recorded on the credit card machine.' The old man disappeared out of sight, and clearly upset, the check-out girl responded to the woman's anger.

'What do you mean that man raped you? When did this happen?'

Calming down rather too quickly, the woman began placing more of her items on the counter; seemingly as if nothing had happened.

'I'm pretty positive it was him. It was around fifty years ago and I'm sure it's him by his eyes.'

Picking up the old man's wallet, left on the counter, the girl asked accusingly, 'Do you remember his name?'

The woman stopped for a moment. 'Pitt - yes, that's right. Andrew Pitt.'

'Where did he do this thing to you?'

'Here... in this town. We lived in Mort Street. His father was a plumber and they lived next door. He was over twenty and I was nine, and he was minding me when my Dad went to the hospital with my mother, and he... interfered with me.'

The checkout girl grew angry, picking up the woman's items roughly and shoving them into the plastic bags so hard she started to split them. Turning to the woman she gave her a look of disdain.

'Then it wasn't him then. I wouldn't be surprised if he sues you, and you deserve it you old nosey bitch.'

People turned their heads at this remark, as the last few minutes of theatre intensified.

'I beg your pardon... who do you thin-'

Cutting her short the girl calmly said, 'That man is my grandfather. His name is Alan Richmond and he was a school teacher in a town two thousand miles away in Queensland. He lived there all his life, except for when he went to university in Brisbane, and he only came to live here in Katoomba last year after grandmother died. That was the first time he ever came here.'

The woman pondered this for a moment. 'Come to think of it. It probably wasn't him at all.' She stood with a fixed gaze for a moment that caused the girl to shiver. 'No. It definitely wasn't him.'

The girl showed the woman the old man's driver's licence. 'I shouldn't do this, but here is his licence.' Taking a cursory look at the wallet, the woman shrugged her shoulders and finally emptied her trolley contents onto the counter.

'Tell him I'm sorry will you? I've just come from my psychiatrist, and some terrible things from my past were brought up earlier today. I think I'm a bit oversensitive.'

The girl glared; noticing the heavy smell of alcohol on the woman's breath. 'A bit pissed you mean.' Luckily the woman missed this aside.

Contemplating on what had occurred an hour previously, the old man's mind drifted back nearly fifty years to the classroom in a little town in outback Queensland. He was a good teacher, and everyone in the town respected him, and the children idolised him. Especially one of his most precious pupils, who happened to live next door. He leant forward and whispered, 'Oh Jesus. Sally... I'm so sorry, pretty, pretty little Sally... please forgive me.'

He managed to climb the rail and tumbled silently into the deep valley below Echo Point to the screams of startled tourists.

Editor's note: This deceptively simple story cleverly took us nearly to the end before hitting us between the eyes with its brief but brutal ending. And then we appreciated the cleverness of the title.

Short, sharp endings are not easy to write - they can often reveal an author's inability to wrap up the story properly. However, this story is an example of how to lure the unsuspecting reader in, let them think they know where the story is heading, before delivering them a harsh insight into the weaknesses of the human animal.
Darkness

Rachel Branscombe

Quakers Hill, New South Wales

Australia

5 September 2014

In darkness do I live

In the dark do I stay

Desperately do I wish to leave

Oh how I wish to see light again

Never have I seen such a place

Never have I seen such suffering and pain

This place is closer to hell than I ever imagined

Nor is it far from my worst nightmares

In darkness do I leave hope behind

Hope is a wishful thing

For those that still believe

Most of us fell in the trap

Nowhere is safe

Nowhere is sound

Nowhere is there not trouble to be found

This world we live in is darkness

One day I will see light again.
The Fire Burns Within

Rachel Branscombe

Quakers Hill, New South Wales

Australia

5 September 2014

The fire burns within

The sins of my heart make the flames go higher

The fire burns within

The evil deeds of my soul brightens the fire

The fire burns within

Is there anything that can put it out?

The fire burns within

It desperately wants to escape

The fire burns within

It is a dark flame

The fire burns within

The waters of goodness leave embers in their wake

The fire burns within

A bloom of orange at any moment

The fire burns within

Only the man can put it out

The fire burns within

He steps on every ember

The fire burns within

Until they are gone and cannot restart.
A Cool Change

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

6 September 2014

Goodness me but that was a severe pain in the back of the head! Damned migraine, I must have blacked out for a few moments. It's a lovely view from up here; you can see right up the harbour almost to the bridge. All the sailboats down there look like little kids' boats in the bathtub - do they still have baths these days or is it all showers? It's great living in this penthouse up on the thirteenth... no, fourteenth floor, as everyone calls it. Funny how superstition is still prevalent - even here on the North Shore!

The sunlight really looks stunning, glittering on the waves; it looks a little choppy though. I reckon there's a cool change coming. You can see the sailboats bobbing back and forth, and the sky over to the east is starting to darken; there might even be a storm brewing...

I reckon there's a storm brewing with Anthea as well. We'll soon see, if she ever deigns to visit. I had been thinking about leaving for some time - breaking things off and making a fresh start. She wasn't too pleased when I bought this apartment in the city. She went ballistic, in fact, but as I said to her at the time: 'Look, we seem to have "cooled". Time for a change, the fun's gone out of it, the spontaneity has evaporated. Anyway, you've repaid me the loan that I advanced to help you get that wine bar started in Dubbo - what's the big deal?'

Bloody silly name it was, too - The Zoo 'n Brew! Anyway, I didn't much like it there. 'Time for a cool change,' I actually sang it, which, I suppose with hindsight, didn't help but I really couldn't help it either, 'cause that very song by Little River Band was playing on the radio at the very time we had the blow-up. It must have been one of those 'classic hit weekends'. I remember her snapping it off quite vehemently, saying, 'What do you think this is - an episode of Home and Away or something? Look Trevor, this is a big deal!'

By now she was shaking with fury. 'I've invested a lot of time and effort into this relationship and I thought that by investing in the wine bar that... '

I cut her off. 'Hang on; don't get your knickers in a twist. That's just the point; I didn't want to advance the money in the first place. And now that we're all square, I want to move on. I don't wish to be tied down any further!' And I meant that literally and figuratively.

To be honest I was a tad frightened of her. Anthea was more than enthusiastic in the cot but everything had to be just so; the lighting, the ambiance, correct number of pillows, handcuffs, gags and restraints... Yes, she was into S&M! It had all seemed so exciting at first but there was something a little manic about Anthea.

I remember just prior to our break-up when we were driving out in the country, when she exclaimed, 'Watch this.' Then with a wild gleam in her eyes, just as we were passing a paddock full of prize merinos, she leant on the horn of the SUV. Blaaahhhh! Well of course the sheep scattered, just like... sheep! She threw her head back and laughed uproariously, 'I used to like to do that at the institution where I worked. I used to hit the siren about three in the afternoon at siesta time, scared the inmates shitless.' She added contemptuously, 'Taught 'em who was in charge - they were like sheep, too.' Enough said.

Later, she stopped the car and insisted that we both take off all of our clothes. 'Now,' she said, 'I want you to drive us back into town. Keep both hands on the wheel and your eyes on the road... or you'll be sorry!' Just what she meant by that I never did work out; some half-baked idea about getting in tune with nature and I wasn't to sully the moment by glancing at her or trying to touch her, either. To emphasise her position, she whacked me on top of my left thigh - raised a hell of a welt. I was more than happy to oblige.

Anyway, that tipped the balance that eventually led me to buying this lovely new apartment. But... I'm weak though. I actually missed her! Maybe that says something about my psyche as well. So I dropped her a note giving the address, directions and enclosed a key. That probably wasn't a wise move!

It's started to rain, the cool change has arrived. I've just realised you can see the visitor's car park from this heightened position and... damn that looks like Anthea's car. Looks like she's about to pay me a visit.

I'd better put the kettle on or open a bottle of wine or something; can't stand here all day looking out the window... Hang on, I'm floating up near the ceiling! Who's that down there in a crumpled heap? It looks like Anthea - crying her eyes out. What's that she's holding in her hand? It looks like a claw hammer and there seems to be blood dripping from it, all over my new carpet! 'Anthea... Anthea!' Why won't she answer me? 'Anthea!'
Yeah, No

Ramon Loyola

Newtown, New South Wales

Australia

7 September 2014

Three days ago, I was sacked from my job at the café 'round the corner because this other chick with the big-ish melons stole all the fifty-cent coins from the tip jar.

When we were both balancing the cash at the end of a long night, I saw her spilling the jarful of tips underneath the till, picking out the coins, sliding them to one side of the table, and swiping them with one swoosh onto her palm and into her denim pockets.

The front pocket of her jeans became bulky and she looked like she had a bulging penis. She thought I didn't notice. But, yeah, I was looking.

So, the next morning, I dobbed her in with the lady boss who resembled a very old Marianne Faithfull, only her grey hair - bundled up with a single, black chopstick - made her look more like Germaine Greer in a hokey Chinese New Year's day parade at Haymarket.

Faithfull/Greer confronted her outside the kitchen area. She called me a few minutes later.

They were standing side by side, looking like Lady Gaga in her prime and Madonna in her twilight years. I could see the chick's eyes all red and teary.

'Matt, she said you harassed her last night,' lady boss said, pointing to melon-breasted chick.

'What? But that's not true,' I swore. 'Why would you say something like that?'

'Yeah, no, you did,' the chick said, her blue hair instantly reminding me of the Smurf movie I saw last week on the telly. 'You said I had a penis.'

'There's no place for that here, Matt,' lady boss said to me. 'Grab your junk and go. You get this week's pay and that's it.'

The morning after that, I asked my Year 12 mate, Vinnie, to grab his pretentious skinny latte at the café on the way to his real estate job in the city. I told him to pay in cash and to discreetly drop in the tip jar two fifty-cent coins I thinly marked with bright red texta on the imprint of Queen Elizabeth's crinkled nose.

Later that night, I asked Vinnie to send my ex-lady boss an anonymous text message, insisting that she check out melon-breasted/Lady Gaga-ish/Smurf-ish/yeah-no chick's pants and look for the marked coins. Then, Vinnie and I smoked some weed and pashed for a bit 'til our lips were sore.

This morning, Faithfull/Greer/Madonna rang me up, apologised for giving me the sack and told me how it went with the lying bitch:

'Yeah, no, I found them on the street this morning.'

'Two identically marked fifty-cent coins, you found them on the street all at once?'

'Yeah, no, it's sick, isn't it?'

'You're kidding me with this, right?'

'Yeah, no, I don't know what you're talking about?'

'What about the other coins in your pocket?'

'Yeah, no, they're change from my bus fare.'

'Really?'

'Yeah, no, really.'

'So Matt was telling the truth about the tip jar.'

'Yeah, no.'

'Yes? No?'

'Am I in trouble? Can I get a week's pay in advance?'

'Yeah. No.'

Today, I got my job back and Vinnie gave me a hickey. He asked me if was feeling happy and if I thought yeah-no chick's melons were real.

'Yeah. No,' I said and pressed my mouth hard on his.
my father's skin

Ramon Loyola

Newtown, New South Wales

Australia

7 September 2014

the scent of my father's skin

was rare

pungent

salty beads of sweat

against the shine of daylight

it was in this midst

the powerful smell

where the reality of my future

epiphanies on parade

right before my innocent eyes

extended its hand to reach me

prematurely from the womb

of the murky depths of despair

then i was forever alone

before that i was dead

with the vision of the untold tales

sordid even in their gists

threatening my mind

with taunts of

paternal affection

denied

me

the scent still haunts me

where the only recognition

that remains

is the picture of a lost childhood

etched on the hairy surface

the veins that protrude monstrously

and the old contours of

my father's skin

i remember

as quickly as

i forget

and i am one again

as briefly as

i am broken
The Basilisk That Wasn't

Jane Russell

Mount Barker, South Australia

Australia

8 September 2014

We'd been invited to dinner at a friend's house. I'm walking up the stone steps to their front door, which is wide open. My daughter Ellie runs in ahead of me, and is greeted by my friend's daughter Julia, then the pair head for the stairs at the back of the house, giggling. I'm getting an uneasy feeling that something isn't quite right. My hosts are sitting together at the dining table; they don't get up, turn around or say anything. The front door remains open.

The back of the house is in darkness. I'm not happy with the girls going upstairs in the dark so I go to find the light switch. My feeling of unease now goes up a notch, fearing danger, to me or to my daughter, it's not clear. I can't find the switch. Not a sound coming from the girls. Then I feel it and click it on. A bloodcurdling scream comes from upstairs, so I run up to see what's wrong. Halfway up, the lights go off again. I pause, and then continue more slowly, hugging the wall. Something hot and wet touches my leg. I refrain from over-reacting to what's most likely the family dog.

'Good boy!' I say, and the wagging tail nearly bangs a hole in the wall.

There's no movement or sound upstairs. I don't feel safe going any further. I retreat down the stairs, followed by the dog. On the ground floor once more there is now enough light to make out the nightmare shape that is definitely not a dog. It has a wedge-shaped head with tiny emerging horns, various lumpy armoured plates covering its body, large flat feet with claws and a dangerous club on the end of its tail.

'Hello, I'm Barry. I'm a good boy!' I hear in my head. The creature, now I look at it, is almost Disney cute, as it's obviously very young. It's looking up at me for approval. So I say again, 'Good boy,' and it wags its tail, which turns out to be a highly dangerous thing to do. I keep well back as low lying furniture is pulverised; I realise it could easily break my leg.

'Now Barry, what are you? Do you know?' I muse. The answer comes at once.

'I'm a basilisk!'

'No, you're not,' I say. 'A basilisk is a giant snake monster. You're more like a miniature dinosaur. Who told you you were a basilisk?'

'Mummy said,' comes the voice.

'Where is your mummy?' I look around hoping not to come face to face with a fully-grown Ankylosaurus.

'Upstairs,' he says. 'She found my egg and brought it home 'til I hatched. She's been looking after me.'

'You're talking about the little girl, Julia,' I guess.

'Yes.'

'Well she should know better. I'm sure she's seen the Harry Potter movies, so she must know what a basilisk looks like!' Then in a gentler voice, 'Where's your real mummy?'

'I don't know,' he sounds wistful. I rather like him. Then I remember something I should have asked a while ago.

'Are the girls okay?' I feel guilty that they've slipped my mind.

'Oh yes, they're playing a game with you. They'll come down now; I'll call them.'

Two giggling girls bound down the stairs. They know to avoid Barry's tail. So, the only problem now is: why the couple at the table aren't moving, and where's our dinner?

~~~

Our friends had been playing along with their daughter's plan and only pretending to be like statues. Once the girls come into the dining room, normality returns and Jessie gets up to see to dinner, while Geoff laughs gruffly.

'Sorry about the charades,' he begins, 'just our little joke.'

'Do you normally allow Julia to bring home dinosaur eggs?' I ask.

'Is that what it was? I thought it was an ostrich or a dodo. I didn't think it would actually hatch!' he admits.

'What do you plan to do with it?' I'm curious to know. 'You do realise that it will grow to about 10 metres long and weigh 6 tonnes? How on earth will you feed and house it?'

'Ah, we hadn't really thought about it.' He reddens. 'Perhaps we should take it to a zoo, or something.'

'Perhaps it would be better all round if we took it back to where it was found. There could be an enormous, irate mother looking for it,' I advise.

At that moment, there's a loud crashing sound; I hope it's not our dinner. We jump up and race into the next room. The window has been obliterated, scattering glass and timber frame all over the carpet. More alarming is a movement outside. We freeze as a giant eye stares unblinking at us through the gap where the window used to be.

'I think Barry's Mum has found him,' I whisper.

A deafening roar shatters the night, and Barry comes bounding into the room, making us scuttle back away from his madly wagging tail.

'MUMMY!' he shrieks, and launches his dog sized body through the ex-window.

'No! Come back!' shouts Julia, in pursuit. Geoff grabs her and holds her struggling body tight.

Despite retrieving her lost cub, the cranky Ankylosaurus is still making menacing noises and stamping back and forth outside.

'Surely she doesn't want revenge for the theft of the egg?' I whisper.

'She probably wants the other three I've got upstairs,' mumbles Julia, looking at her feet.

'WHAT?' say all three adults together.

'Ellie, you come with me to collect those eggs,' I whisper to my daughter.

'No! They're mine!' shrieks Julia, wriggling free of her father's grip. She dashes upstairs, closely pursued by Ellie and me. We reach her bedroom just in time to stop her locking the door on us. But not before she stands over the large scaly eggs with a hammer and a determined expression.

'If I can't have them, no one can!' she cries, and bangs the hammer down hard on the first egg, as we gasp in horror. It bounces off, but the egg rocks on its own. Small cracks start to appear. I disarm Julia and deliver her back to her father, who'd arrived in time to witness her deadly tantrum.

I hand one inert egg to Ellie to take downstairs and post gently through the ex-window. The second egg has also started to rock, so I urge her to hurry. A small cheeky head and a soft paw, all damp and glossy, protrude from the top of the first egg. I think quickly and reach to pull fronds off Julia's maidenhair fern to feed the newborn. The baby breaks free of its egg and opens its eyes, looking straight at me.

'Mummy?' I hear in my mind.

'No, dear, she's waiting for you downstairs. Here, have some yummy fern leaves.'

Ellie delivers her egg just as it begins to rock, and comes back to find both the others already hatched. She's enchanted. 'Can we keep one, please Mum, please?'

'Their mother is downstairs and would never let anyone take her children away from her! I don't blame her, do you?'

I give Ellie some fern to feed the newborns. They must have spoken to her too, as the next I hear is, 'Gemma, yes, that's a nice name,' says the first baby, while the second decides its name is Dolly.

'Ellie, are you naming the dinosaurs?' I ask.

'They asked me, Mum. It's all right, isn't it?' She sounds concerned.

'Let's take them downstairs and let their real mother decide. Gemma and Dolly may not be suitable names if they turn out to be boys!'

Ellie giggles at the thought, and we each take the babies to their mother. Barry helps to put the small ones on her back, and we see the third egg has hatched in the meantime. The new voice reaches out to me, and I name it Kelly.
The Swine and I

MC Alves

New York

USA

9 September 2014

It was not known when their relationship went wrong, nor who had started it, but Mamie and the black-and-white speckled behemoth swine with Bette Davis eyes had had a falling out. Not that they had ever been fond of the other. It could only end in tears. It had now come to 'last swine standing'. Mamie, herself once the pride of South Philly, and Sabestiao, King of the Quince Orchard, could not put their differences aside. Whatever those differences might be. Neither was talking. Neither, it appeared, was prepared to surrender any time soon.

A small village on a winding road led only to a remote cul de sac, Castelejo, in 1967. By then Mamie had been living there for the better part of forty years, two marriages, a World War and the attentions of every starry-eyed farmer and wayward fisherman who by fate or fortune had found themselves on a road to nowhere. Fish in the river, wolves in the hills and a Black Witch, Tia Dora, across the orchard, Castelejo was known only to those whose ancestors had left for private reasons great and small only to return once they could obtain their own little piece of God's Little Acre.

A hearty, leathery lot, the natives of the Beira Baixa region were not given to flights of fancy except when telling tales of Tia Dora's dark doings or their conquests in far-off lands. Mamie had arrived there through the capricious follies to which True Romance in a young girl's heart are given. Her first love, long dead, had been a swarthy, adventurous lad once, in Philadelphia seeking his fortune. He had found only cruel misfortune in the coal mines of the Pennsylvania hills, left a cripple in a wheelchair at twenty-five, Castelejo's only recorded suicide at twenty-seven, gunshot to the heart, leaving Mamie, his wife, in a strange land with a small house with a few dozen quince trees, sprawling flower garden and the German pistol he had used to check out.

Not one to crumble, Mamie became enchanted with where she found herself. She was not alone for long. 'The American' was soon a coveted creature by peasant and scholar alike. She was much moved by the old traditions of the place, most especially in the university town of Coimbra, where it was a rude and unschooled student who did not lay down his cape for a young lady to cross a muddy avenue. This happened often, apparently, and Mamie was still fond of this recollection of a time when she studied Templar lore at the ancient university, every poet remaining ardent if only in her heart. But, of course, showered with the attentions of aspiring lawyers, pharmacists and prime ministers, not to discount nor demean the countless besotted peasants, she fell for a musician.

Passionate encounters had soon led to a long and sprawling courtship, ending at the altar. What followed remains largely unknown to the residents of Castelejo but there are those who have sworn to have heard gunshots over the years from within the house but neither man nor wife appeared any the worse for wear. It was thanks perhaps to poor marksmanship that their marriage had lasted the better part of forever.

The favorite daughter of Upper Darby and the bastard son of an old aristocratic family, music man par excellence, remained together, if feisty and undaunted, amidst the ever growing orchard. The marmalade it produced was reputed to be the sweetest to be found anywhere, the odd bad crop blamed on the machinations of a jealous Tia Dora.

But at this point in their journey, familiarity and age had led to a certain contempt, a fatigue borne of the knowledge that much of the time allotted had already passed, not much left to be desired, nothing at all left that was worth fighting for. If it had ever been. A sportsman now, no longer able to pluck a mandolin nor woo a saxophone, he had taken to long absences, travelling far and wide to hunt and fish, living out of his candy apple red Volkswagen for weeks at a time, eventually surrendering to the fish and moving on to mountains to prowl among the billy goats of which he had become quite fond. Mamie was rather content with his habits.

Her remaining needs were few: strong coffee, Kentucky cigarettes - a particularly acrid blend to most tastes, known as the old peasants' last refuge - and always a good novel. If she could sit on the terrace in solitude with these three prerequisites she was content. Nothing more but nothing less. And then, the pig.

Mamie was one of those rare human beings who had no anger in her heart. She was a true stoic, mild of manner and peaceful by nature, her solicitude in contrast to her experience, she was known as the most undemanding of women, gracious and courteous, the angry instances to which we all are prone now and again altogether absent in her. She lived within the world of tales, calmly and dispassionately, reading always and on occasion entertaining the occasional visitor with those of her own while serving always tea and shortbread and the marmalade for which she had become famous. She was at peace within her own skin. Except for that goddamn pig.

For its part, the pig was truly blameless. He could be, after all, nothing other than as he had been born into this world, and as such he was a fine beast. If one liked pigs, that is. He neither howled like a hound nor pranced about like an enamoured rooster, two other of the favorite creatures in the backyards of Castelejo, but did what pigs do: he ate. And then slept. And grew. And ate more. He was given to long naps following a hearty meal, and prone also to grunting his complaints regarding a late breakfast. He rolled about a bit in the muck but only as a hobby, it was the only form of exercise he was capable of other than a staggering charge to challenge anyone who got close enough to his, rather small, pen.

Location. That might have been at the heart of this conflict. His allotted space was in a small patch surrounded by an old stone fence, filled with straw and muck, just as pigs like it; however, directly under the patio where Mamie was fond of spending the greater part of a hot day. Most days were.

Perhaps it was the grunting that eroded her reserves of patience but Mamie came to loath the creature. It should be said that given what one could make from his stance and demeanour the swine thought little of her, too. Or most anyone else for that matter. Not one for affectionate gestures of any kind, this pig was reclusive and ornery, and it was necessary to feed it from afar. Which Mamie did by tossing any leftovers of food directly at him, peelings of all sorts, along with an occasional bucketful of still-hot dishwater.

From the porcine scowl on his snout as he stared up at his nemesis it could be concluded that the feeling was mutual.

The Mexican standoff could not be ended as easily as it might since this pig was a prized commodity, the proud possession of the poor family which lived across the road from Mamie and rented small portions of her orchard to feed themselves and also were employed to do many of the chores she was no longer able to do herself, such as fetching water, no mean feat in a house with no running water. Large clay jugs were balanced on her head from the well to kitchen twice a week, a task for which the young daughter of the family was rewarded with food, clothes, a few pennies and great gratitude.

The proud swine belonged to her lot and the pen below was rented out to her father since they did not have the space for the animal on their tiny plot of land. The pig was destined for greatness, most likely on a spit, with an apple in its mouth, at some young couple's wedding banquet table. It would no doubt be its finest hour.

Mamie had taken to small insults which she believed the swine understood, somehow, and goaded it every morning with such taunts as 'Bacon and eggs' or, 'Ham cooked in beer'. She read 'Animal Farm' aloud and felt some fleeting satisfaction that the animal appeared a bit shaken by the account. But it could have been pride at the literary attention given to his brethren and so she refrained from further examples.

The pig grew fatter and Mamie older, both of which following the only way they knew the demands of their own nature and the edicts of time. Content in their own manner, uneasy truce, the lady and her last companion, lived out their summer days in Castelejo.

It is not known what became of either finally, but it has been said that Mamie missed the swine after it disappeared within a shroud of utter mystery one foggy morning in the fall of 1967, in Castelejo, on that treacherous, winding road to nowhere...
Food For Thought

Andris Heks

Megalong, New South Wales

Australia

9 September 2014

I know _nothing_

I wish I _knew_ nothing

Then I would know _everything_

Nothing matters

Nothing matters

_Only_ nothing matters

Nothing _is_ matter

Socrates said:

'I know nothing'

'All I know is love'

He knew all!
Where Nobody Cared

Robyn Chaffey

Hazelbrook, New South Wales

Australia

10 September 2014

There was once a small town in the outback

Where nobody cared to keep folk on track

Advantage was taken, for all rules were woolly

By one who from childhood was known as the Bully

Through his childhood and rather scant schooling

He managed to flout every man's ruling

Big for his age, and with devilish manner

Gathered a following 'neath his own banner

This Bully and his miserable Minions

Who deeply valued HIS own opinions

Set out to persuade the entire neighbourhood

Grant allegiance to their stormy brotherhood

The Citizen Sheep had good comfort in life

Green were the pastures, and most had a wife

Warmth of the Sun brought hypnotic peace

And most were contented to take their ease

Those Minions who wearied with passing of time

Joined the sleep of the Sheep in a slow decline

The Bully with ease got his way in each matter

With none to give care he sat back and grew fatter.
Simpler Ways

Robyn Chaffey

Hazelbrook, New South Wales

Australia

10 September 2014

A penny for a lolly

Was always such a treat

Dress made for my dolly

Now this was quite a feat

These were simpler days

More fun than all todays

Tin cans joined by string

Made a perfect phone

Blue bags for bee sting

Sharpening knives on stone

Oh yes, simpler ways

Time to make up plays

No TV back then

We entertained instead

Wrote with ink and pen

Could add up in our head

Yes...

In these simpler days

We learned productive ways
Touched

Kylie Abecca

Port Albany, Western Australia

Australia

11 September 2014

Alone I stood to face the world,

No friend stood by my side,

Through cloudy days I could not see,

The sun was soon to rise,

A broken heart, a troubled soul,

Approached to hold my hand,

He picked me up, dusted me off,

Tried to make me understand,

The world was not my enemy,

And my life worth more than gold,

Within his hands he held my heart,

And within his heart, my soul,

Today he gave them back to me,

All bandaged, stitched and scarred,

My old wounds, he explained to me,

The world would always see,

But mended, I can now move forward,

With my new friend by my side,

He'll hold my hand as I step out,

And face the world with pride,

For each and every scar I bear,

Shows an old wound now has healed,

Looking around I now can see,

Every person has their scars,

A life is not lived without being touched,

And leaving a mark behind.
Fallen

Kylie Abecca

Port Albany, Western Australia

Australia

11 September 2014

She waited until the frost,

Stung the skin on her nose,

Looking into the distance,

Looking for what? No one knows,

She feels an agony within her,

As she looks through misty rain,

Is there any way around this?

Some way to heal her pain?

She looks within herself,

And sees only a hollow shell,

Her body tumbled over the edge,

But the story was; she fell.
The Curmudgeon

Winsome Smith

Lithgow, New South Wales

Australia

12 September 2014

I make it my business to keep to the outskirts of the flock. Sheep don't wander much in the night, they like to stay together, but there could often be a half grown ram who will decide to be adventurous and explore a bit.

I knew there was a disturbance that night. I saw a glow in the sky and heard some weird sound, something like distant singing. I didn't take any notice because I was trying release a stupid old ewe that had caught her wool in a thorn bush.

I circled the flock again and when I got back to the other shepherds they were gabbling on about stars and an angel. Superstitious rot, I called it. The three of them decided they must go into the village to see a baby. A baby, of all things! The less I see of babies the better.

They begged me to go with them but I refused point blank. We can't go traipsing off in the middle of the night. We are supposed to be here watching sheep - that's what we are paid for, little as it is.

So they went off. Idiots! I stayed here on the cold hillside, but I was used to the weather outdoors.

When they came back they carried on as though they had seen a king. There's only one king here, Herod, and he's not really a king, he does as the Romans tell him.

Their talk went on through the rest of the night. I left them a couple of times and did my usual rounds.

When a glimmer of silver lined the horizon it was nearly time to go home and I got to feeling curious. They had told me exactly where they had gone in the village, so I trundled off to have a look for myself.

There were no stars, no angels, of course. They sky was pinkish grey by the time I got there. I couldn't believe it - I had come to a stable.

I went inside anyway. Dirt floor, smell of hay, feed boxes. A man and woman were there, plain country folk, just going about ordinary morning tasks. I discovered that one of the feed boxes was occupied by a baby.

Reluctantly I continued to gaze into the box. I looked at the woman and saw her look of love. Love is something I've got no time for but I seemed to feel it, or something like it. There was peace about that baby and a look of pride on the man's face. I've never bothered with things like atmosphere or feelings but something happened in that stable.

They can keep their stars and angels. I know the new feeling I had.

I suddenly discovered I was kneeling and my head was bowed.

Editor's Note: We felt this was a well put together tale about how realisation can overcome cynicism, that sometimes, no matter what we think we believe, there can always be that one moment that changes everything. As a story, we felt the way it was wrapped up at the end was very well done - the economic use of words had a great effect. The author could have gone on about how the shepherd suddenly felt differently and didn't know what was happening etc - but that would have had nowhere near the impact that that one last line has.
The Surprise Homecoming

John Ross

Blackheath, New South Wales

Australia

13 September 2014

Mark Allgood had been away for two weeks in Melbourne at a conference on 'The Benefits of Good Oral Health'. By Friday morning of the second week he thought that if he had to sit through yet another boring lecture accompanied by graphic slides of rotting teeth he would, to put it colloquially, 'neck himself'. So, at the morning tea break, after a tepid cup of bitter coffee and a piece of stale sponge cake, he decided to quietly sneak out and catch an early flight home.

He was in luck. The airline transferred his booking to a 1 pm flight and after quickly packing he was on his way to the airport in no time at all. He considered calling his wife to let her know that he would be home about five hours early but decided to just surprise her. It was their seven year anniversary this weekend and to add to her surprise he bought a large box of her favourite chocolates.

On his arrival in Sydney he added two dozen red roses to her surprise and a bottle of French champagne. The taxi ride from the airport was frustratingly slow, but he spent the time imagining how surprised and 'thankful' his wife would be.

Arriving home he carefully unlocked the front door and tiptoed through to the door into the kitchen where he could hear his wife on the phone.

He was about to shout 'surprise' when he heard his wife say, 'How quickly will he die?' He stood frozen to the spot when his wife continued after a short pause. 'Mark will be home about 9:30 so come around shortly after that.'

Again after a pause when whoever was on the other end of the line said something his wife continued, 'I will have the money ready for you after the deed is done. Now, as we agreed, I will clean up any mess and you will take the body away and dispose of it.

'I know. I know. You are a professional but I just want to make sure that there will be no problems.

'No. I won't change my mind, this is the only way.'

Shocked to his very core and unable to listen to any more, Mark very carefully backed out of the house. Outside, without really knowing what he was doing, he threw the flowers in the gutter and ran away from the house as fast as he could.

Charity, his wife of nearly seven years, was planning to have him killed this very night. His mind racing he eventually sank down on a bus stop seat and burst into tears. Who was she talking to? Were they going to use poison? A lethal injection? Shoot him? Why? Did she have a lover? Maybe she had found out about that airline hostess? God! He couldn't even remember the girl's name.

He must have sat there for over an hour when he suddenly remembered his suitcase and the bottle of champagne sitting on the floor in the middle of the lounge room where he had left them. If she found them she would realise that he had returned early and overheard the phone conversation. Maybe the assassin was out looking for him already?

He leapt to his feet and looked wildly around. No-one except two startled school girls who took one look at him and ran away.

The police? Should he call the police? What could they do? Nothing had happened yet. His wife would just deny it. Best to just quickly go back home, confront her, pack a few things and move into a motel.

His suitcase was still in the lounge room. She had not as yet realised that he had come home early. He marched straight into the kitchen where his wife was packing the dishwasher. He shouted her name and asked her to turn around. She turned slowly with a large carving knife in her hand. He almost turned and ran.

Almost screaming, he told her that he had heard her phone conversation and demanded to know why she would want him dead.

To his surprise his wife burst out laughing.

'Mark, it was the vet, Graham, that I was talking to. The dog has been very sick the past week; she is after all nearly fourteen. He is coming around to euthanise her later tonight. I thought it best to do it here in her familiar surroundings rather than at the vet's. You know how agitated she got every time we took her there. I wanted you here as I know how much you love that dog.'

After a grovelling apology for thinking the worst of Charity, the champagne and chocolates were put to good use.

They were having a coffee when promptly at 9:45 the front door bell rang.

It was Graham the vet with his small bag of instruments. Mark opened the door for him and asked him to follow him into the garage where the dog was sleeping in its kennel.

When he turned he felt a sharp jabbing pain in his right shoulder. He jerked around and saw a large syringe with its needle buried deep in his flesh.

Editor's note: What at first seems to be a gentle story of love and misunderstanding suddenly turns into one of murder and betrayal. Economically written and nicely entertaining.
Cheaters And Beaters

Beatrice Ross

Winmalee, New South Wales

Australia

14 September 2014

The grandfather clock tolled, the booming sound resonating down the empty corridors of the Higgins residence. The fireplace, usually warm and stoved from a night's use, had been left cold, the poker knocked askew on the floor. A porcelain vase lay in shards by the mantelpiece.

Framed photos of a happy, smiling family hung crooked on the wall, a large portrait lying flat on the floor in a mess of glass shards. A stereo belted out Beethoven's 9th symphony, looping endlessly. Mrs Higgins hadn't had the time or the chance to cut her homemade apple pie, nor had Mr Higgins had the chance to wolf down his share. Instead, the Higgins had been preoccupied with other matters. That evening, Ryan Fletcher had paid them a visit.

Ryan plunged the knife in deep. Mr Higgins screamed. He squirmed on the floor, gasping and panting like a woman in labour. Higgins was a porcine son-of-a-bitch. Beady eyes, a bulbous nose, and an agonised squeal no pig could outmatch. Ryan pinned him to the floor. It was no difficult task. Ryan outmatched the podgy car salesman in height and muscle by the double. Ryan yanked the knife free.

With every swipe and splatter, the walls resembled a grotesque Jackson Pollock improvisation. Ryan worked in time with the music. Stab, slash, slash, stab. The music drowned out the screaming. It moved his heart in a steady lub dub. This was Mr Higgins' favourite song, the kind he played when he 'entertained' the ladies.

Ryan caught his reflection in the pooling blood. He smiled.

Blood had spattered his shirt in the frenzy, soaking the cotton to his skin. His rounded face, his stubbled chin and his ruffled blond hair revealed traces of the Higgins' piggish gore. Ryan plunged the knife in deeper, harder, stab after glorious stab.

Finally, as Higgins gulped and gasped, Ryan slashed the blade across his throat. Higgins gurgled, eyes growing dull. Ryan shifted to his feet, breathing heavily. Upstairs, the children were already dead, their throats slit. Mrs Higgins screamed in the bedroom. Ryan ascended the stairs, knife in hand.

~~~

A squirt of tomato sauce glistened on Ryan's open burger, oozing down the grilled meat. He smiled, pressing the halves together and taking a bite. The bistro buzzed with activity. It was Friday football night at the RSL. Avid football fans crowded by the big screen, beers in hand, cussing and cheering as their teams pummelled each other into the dirt.

Ryan wasn't there for the football, nor for the company. He hadn't eaten in hours. Work at the office and his 'extra curricula' activities often made eating a second priority. His colleagues, Danny and Tony, had invited him along to the club. He'd accepted the invitation.

It was better than coming home to an empty apartment. Yes, he was lonely. But for good reason. He was a solitary creature. It was less complicated that way. No alibis required.

'Mate, this is a Roosters game. Looks like I'll be fifty bucks richer,' Danny smirked.

Danny gave Tony a hearty slap on the back, lounging back in his chair with a contented sigh.

Tony, a middle aged man with a receding hairline and a bulging waistline, grimaced, slicing his steak. From the poisonous glower, Ryan chanced a guess that he was willing to use his steak knife for another kind of meat.

Their chatter drowned out to a faint murmur as Ryan studied the bubbles rising in his foaming beer. He recalled his last kill. The Higgins had been the second family this month.

After every kill, it was the same. Snuffing out the life of others kept him alive. It was his personal adrenaline rush. You could say that his emotional switch had been flicked off during adolescence. Sometimes he didn't feel anything at all. He viewed life from behind a glass wall. He could hear and see everything, but he couldn't penetrate the wall of apathy.

Maybe he lost all sensation after watching his father beat his mother, or maybe after the bastard slit her throat like a common pig.

It was wrong to delight in the life and death struggle of one close to death. But the power behind it made every second seem so right, so ecstatically good. Mrs Higgins was the highlight of the week. Running the bath, throwing her in the tub, hearing her screams gurgle and welter out as he cracked her skull at the bottom of the bath tub. Holding her down, sleeves rolled up, elbow deep in lukewarm water. The air blasting from her nostrils, bubbling furiously on the surface. The jerk of her final waterlogged breath and the lazy roll of her eyes...

'You comin' to Patrick's surprise party?'

Ryan jolted, almost dropping his burger. 'Huh?'

'Patrick's surprise party. Are you coming?' Danny repeated.

Taken off guard, Ryan shook his head. Danny watched him expectantly. 'No, not really.' He swallowed a mouthful, 'I'll be busy.'

Danny laughed. 'Busy? You're always busy - '

'Danny. I won't be at the party,' Ryan said emphatically.

The truth was, Ryan already had a surprise for Patrick. He had been planning it for weeks. It would come the day after the party. No gift wrap required.

~~~

Ryan had done his research. Patrick Dickinson was a man of pride. A middle class accountant with a way with numbers... and hookers. Like Mr Higgins, Patrick was a rotund, piggish pathological liar. The two were promiscuous sons of bitches, paying top dollar for young flesh and the hungry, sucking mouths of Cherry, Harriet and Vera. When Patrick said he was working back late, he and Cherry were grinding away the hours in a hotel room in Newtown, exploring the fantasies of a middle aged man with marital issues.

Patrick and Mr Higgins were beaters and cheaters. The best kind of victims. Like the bastard that murdered Ryan's mother, they were all abusive and worthy for the chopping board.

Patrick pulled up at the curb in his flashy sedan, a BMW perhaps. Ryan couldn't make it out in the darkness of the shrubbery. Ryan waited by the front porch, hidden in the shadows. Patrick made his way up the footpath, suitcase in hand. By his confident swagger, he'd skipped work early and called Cherry for a quick 'pick me up' before retiring for the evening.

Ryan's father had often come home with the same radiance.

Ryan could recall the night when he came home with a pair of lace panties tucked into his trouser pocket. Ryan's mother found the lingerie. She demanded answers. She received a solid backhand instead. Ryan could remember hiding in his bedroom when the real heavy beating started. The sobbing, the begging, the thump of boots on flesh and the unbuckling of a belt. The abuse went on for years. Every time his father finished up his business, the bastard always left the room with the same confident swagger, his belly rolling like jelly.

Patrick whistled, slotting the key in the front door. He closed the door behind him. Ryan pursued him, creeping onto the porch, a hot fury boiling in his veins. Ryan opened the door by a crack. Patrick lingered in the hallway, dumping his suitcase. It was now or never. Ryan crept inside, skulking in the shadows. His boots peeled on the floorboards, catching loose confetti on the floor. A red balloon slinked by on an idle breeze. Ryan lunged for the accountant. The blade sunk deep between his ribs.

Ryan slapped a hand over Patrick's mouth, muffling his scream. The adrenaline pumped with every gulp and drag of Ryan's heart. It was an ecstatic sensation, a release. He plunged the blade repeatedly, deeper, harder, faster. The blood came pumping, dribbling and oozing on the floorboards, flowering on Patrick's shirt. Glorious blood! Patrick gasped, fighting in his iron grasp. Ryan let his grip loose.

Patrick staggered towards the lounge room, slipping and sliding on the bloodied floorboards. Ryan sauntered after him, hands slick with blood. Every step of the way, he imagined his father staggering, bloodied and broken. As far as he was concerned, Patrick didn't exist. This was between Ryan and his father now.

The lounge room was incredibly dark. He kicked Patrick in the ribs. He wheezed, rolling on to his back. With widened eyes, Patrick cringed on the floor. Ryan smiled, falling to his knees. He slit the pig's throat. A smatter of blood caught him on the cheek.

A gentle click made him jolt. Light flooded the room. He blinked, dazzled by the glow of fluorescents. A trapdoor seemed to open beneath him, the blood in his veins running ice cold. Streamers hung draped from the ceiling, balloons drifting across the floor. A banner, painted with the words 'Happy Birthday!' had been pinned to the back wall.

He stared dumbly at his audience, panting heavily, covered from head to foot in blood. Patrick's bloodied body lay at his feet in a tangled mess.

His audience, all colleagues, work friends and strangers, stared back at him, faces washed pale, jaws dropped.

A wine glass shattered on the floor.

For a moment, all he could do was stare, and feel the crushing dread as the room closed in like a solid steel cage.
The Blacksmiths

Myfanwy Dabner

Newbridge, New South Wales

Australia

15 September 2014

A shiny hammer forged

In a delicate fire.

An impossible thought but no

A pink fire

Warm with liquid

Baths of love

Knocks and bruises

Spit and polished.

A shiny hammer forged

Hot fire.

Hammered hard and firm

Strong.

Big headed and heavy handled.

Hidden but important

The soft flowing grain lines in the wood.

A shiny hammer forged.

A shiny hammer forged

In a fire of delicate heat

Then switched to a hot fire

Dropped.

Then into an even hotter fire.

Melted a little into speechlessness.

Hammered back into shape.

Hammer on hammer

Hammer on hammer

Hammer on hammer
Two Derelicts Talking

Paris Portingale

Mount Victoria, New South Wales

Australia

15 and 16 September 2014

Two derelicts are sitting around a forty-four gallon drum in which they've set fire to some stuff - cardboard and some bits of wooden palette and a rat, which initially smelled like singed fur but is now smelling strangely like barbecue.

The two derelicts are talking. The first derelict, Father Able Donohue, is a disillusioned priest who left the priesthood without first checking if he would be actually employable in the real world, which it turned out he wasn't. The second derelict is a theoretical physicist, Ronald Watts, a brilliant but orderly man who has been turned alcoholic by the eccentric and almost insane nature of the quantum universe.

Ronald Watts has just finished explaining to Father Able Donohue the Einstein-Podolsky-Rosen paradox, using two empty beer cans and a stick. In the give and take, two-way-street of their relationship, Father Able Donohue is now explaining the Great Flood to Ronald. They are drinking wine from a cask bladder they have taken from the box which they used for kindling for the fire. They're passing the bladder back and forth, drinking straight from the squeezable spout.

Father Donohue says, 'So, God sent down a great deluge, making it rain for forty days and forty nights, until all the world was covered with water, which rose higher than the highest peaks of the Himalayas, and every single living thing became drowned in the terrible flood.'

Ronald says, 'Except Noah who rode it all out on his ark.'

'Exactly right,' says the Father. 'Big ark, two of everything. A major project.'

Ronald adds, 'And quite an engineering achievement for its time.' He reaches and takes the wine bladder and drinks deeply, then says, 'What about the fish though? They wouldn't have been killed, surely. They'd have been right in their element. All that water, it would have been like heaven for them.'

'Poison rain,' says Father Donohue.

'Seriously?' Ronald asks.

Father nods.

'Yes, well, that would make sense.'

'Of course, it's God,' says the Father, and he takes the bladder and drinks with his head thrown back so his long, straggly hair reaches down past his shoulders.

Ronald says, 'And Noah and his family didn't get poisoned at all? Accidentally, from the poison rain?'

'God told them not to walk around with their mouths open.'

'Does it say that? In the Scriptures?'

'Not exactly, but it would make sense.'

'Yes, well, points to God for thinking of it.'

They spend a few moments in silence, then Ronald says, 'Just one more thing about the fish...' but the Revered Father cuts across him, saying, 'Forget about the fish. The fish are the least of your worries if you're going to examine the Big Flood.'

'How so?' asks Ronald.

'Well, you're a physicist. Consider this. Where did all the extra water come from? If all the world wasn't covered by water in the first place, where did all the extra come from? You see where I'm going with this?'

'Maybe God made extra water?'

'Okay, well where did all the extra water go to after the flood, when the waters receded?'

'Seeped into the under strata, I don't know. I'm a physicist, not a geological engineer.' Ronald drinks some more, then throws the bladder across to the Father and continues in a thoughtful tone, 'But I'll tell you this, when it all did seep away there'd be one hell of an awful stink left.'

'How do you mean?' the Father asks.

'Well, the world would have been just one vast ball of death. You've got all the dead people, for a start. We were probably about three billion back then. That's a lot of dead bodies lying around, going off. And then of course there's all the animals. Billions upon billions of them. All rotting. I mean, just the whales alone. Have you ever smelt a whale that's gone off?'

Even though the question is rhetorical, the Father shakes his head.

'You're lucky,' Ronald tells him. 'Someone hid a prawn in the Dean's car once. Mad Dean Vernon. Eventually you couldn't get in the thing for the smell.'

The Father nods absently and pulls out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and, extracting one, gets up and lights it from the flames in the drum, singeing further his already singed eyebrows.

When he sits down, Ronald continues, staring, as though watching his past like a film. 'The old Dean had developed a brain tumour. Nobody realised. He'd always been a bit eccentric, but then he started failing any final year student with a "P" in their name. It was Phillip Happsen Phillpot who put the prawn in the car. He was an honours student, but with six Ps, he didn't stand a chance. They had to destroy the car in the end. And of course the insurance didn't cover that.'

'What, it was a listed preclusion?'

'I think so.'

'Nice work thinking to include that. Nothing gets past those vultures, does it?'

'No, and the banks are no better.'

'Even Jesus despised the money changers,' the Father says. 'That was over two thousand years ago. Nothing changes.'

They just sit for a while, passing the bladder back and forth, watching the flames flicker in the old barrel, then Ronald says, 'Now here's something that might interest you, being a man of the cloth as you are.'

'Was a man of the cloth,' the Father corrects him.

Ignoring that, Ronald continues, 'There's a major Christian learning centre in Texas. Huge place, enrolment of over three hundred thousand; biggest single campus in the world. Anyway, it has the most amazing mural on the wall in the entrance, showing dinosaurs living in wonderful harmony with happy humans. And it's not allegorical. Every year, three hundred thousand new souls re-enter the world believing human beings once rode around on brontosauruses. It's a wonderful thing. There are not many species capable of incorporating scientific truth and theological doctrine like that.'

The good Father nods and holds his hand out for the wine bladder.

Roland passes it to him, continuing, 'And the men all look like George Clooney.'

Father Donohue says, 'Which one is George Clooney again?'

Ronald says, 'The actor. Burn After Reading?' and the Father shakes his head. 'Good Night and Good Luck? Syriana?' Ronald suggests.

'Sorry,' says the Father, shaking his head again.

'Well,' explains Ronald, 'he's very handsome. Nice square jaw. Rugged, but sort of intelligent and soulful as well.' He looks at Father Donohue and snaps his fingers. 'Ocean's Eleven!'

'What's that?' asks the Father.

'George Clooney gets some people together, like in The Magnificent Seven, and they rob a big casino.'

'So, he's a criminal?'

'In the film, yes.'

'So why is he the model for the mural? If it's in a church? Hadn't they seen the film?'

'I guess not.'

Father Donohue shakes his head. 'That would have been the first thing I'd have done. Check his films.'

The physicist gets up, saying, 'Well, I've got to piss,' and he walks away and undoes his fly and pisses, standing behind a bush, absently considering the relationship between the pressure he's applying on the bladder and the distance of the spray. He squeezes and relaxes, anticipating the stream's change in length. Then he zips up and comes back and sits down and after a few seconds says, 'So, the flood eh?'

Father Donohue says, 'Yes. When it was over, God came down and saw what a mess He'd made of everything and apologised. For the stink, and all the death. He promised He'd never do it again. Not that that even begins to make up for any of it.'

'It's His universe, I suppose,' Ronald says. 'Did He help clean up?'

'No, He just apologised and went back up to heaven.'

Ronald gets the wine from the good Father and drinks the last of it, then asks, 'Were we really that much of a disappointment to God?'

'Pretty much.'

'And He didn't see it all as being even a little bit His fault?'

'Not really. He plays the free-will card on that one.'

'So, even though He invented us, it's still our fault when we go wrong?'

'I suppose that's the way He sees it.'

'And He's not prepared to accept even a little bit of responsibility?'

'He's got the get-out-of-jail-free card. He gave us free will, you see.'

'Does He never consider that might have been a little mistake? On his part? Free will?'

At this point, not a little drunk, Father Donohue stretches out, buckling the milk crate on which he's sitting, and falls flat on his back. From his reclining position, looking up at the stars, he says, 'I asked Him that in a prayer once. It was towards the end, when I was toing and froing about leaving. I was drunk, I'm ashamed to admit. I was laying on the cloister floor. I asked Him about the responsibility He should rightfully bear when we exercised his gift of free will. Do you know what he said?'

'What, He answered you?'

'Yes, He answered me.'

'How?'

'A voice in my head.'

'Ah, the voice in the head.' Roland sounds disappointed.

'Well, He's hardly going to send me an email.'

'I know, but some of the most scandalous villains in history claimed they heard God in their head. It's an easy out, and a difficult position to attack.'

'Yes, but do you want to know what He said?' The Father tries to get up but it proves difficult and all he manages is an awkward sitting position, resting on his elbows.

'I'm sorry Able,' Roland says. 'What did he say?'

'He said...' and here the Father takes an extended burp. It continues for some two or three seconds, and at its end he sighs and says, 'Ah, that's better.' Then, while again trying to stand, he tells Roland, 'What God said, when I was lying on that cold stone floor, drunk and dissolute like that, what He said was, "What? Would you rather be a robot? I could manage that if you like," and from the tone of His voice I could tell it would only take one more stupid question and He might just do that.'

Roland throws the empty wine bladder into the fire, where it hisses and sizzles, then burns briefly with a blue flame. He says, 'I might go and get backup,' and fishes from his pocket a lone five dollar note. 'Have you got a five on you there?' he asks, and from somewhere Father Donohue produces a crumpled five dollar note and he smooths it out on his outstretched thigh and passes it across. Roland takes it and stands.

'I'll come with you for the walk,' the Father says, and Ronald holds out a hand and helps him up.

They pick their way, a little unsteadily, through the mushed clay and empty pallets and pieces of building paraphernalia, strewn damp and muddy across the building site, and pass under a large arch bearing the name of the shopping complex, soon to be constructed. It reads, 'Heaven's Gate'. While the lettering is designed to appear carved from stone, it is actually made from a sophisticated composite polymer resin.

Roland points at the lettering and says, 'That sign, Father, is a marvel of chemical engineering, guaranteed not to fade or degrade, even in direct sunlight, for twenty-five years, which, incidentally, is the standard unit for material longevity in the modern world today.'

'Interesting,' says the Father, and on the way to the liquor store, Roland explains the physics and chemistry and intricate processes involved in producing such a marvel, and the Father considers how closer to gods the scientists of the world are becoming on a practically weekly basis.
Evil Eyes

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, New South Wales

Australia

16 September 2014

At

night

Beware!

Red eyes glow,

pure evil.

Down by the mangroves,

unwary travellers who try

to do a bit of night fishing, pay no heed to warning signs or ancient dreaming tales.

Gliding like a log, grand old man crocodile gurgles

with wicked delight.

A little closer...

Hungrily,

huge jaws

snap

shut!
The Pines

Adrian Levet

Darlington, Western Australia

Australia

17 September 2014

He never wanted this. He was wandering through the tall pine forest, as lost as can be. They stood like haunting lifeless things, the twisting limbs of them were almost invisible, reaching higher than he could see, the mist engulfing them just near the top. It was late and he was getting cold. He shuffled about, exhausted. The rags he wore were all he had, and a measly shopping cart, upon which a tiny, scanty little dog sat, shivering in the baby seat, wrapped in a blanket.

'Don't worry Rio, we'll get somewhere warm soon. I promise.'

The dog whimpered, as a child would, so matter of fact and so trusting, like his word was the only word that ever existed. He was so tired, but he kept walking. The cart kept getting caught up in the dirt, and one of the wheels was wonky, every now and then he had to give it a good shove.

He looked around. All of the trees looked the same, the aisles between varying in width and length, but still all the same. He wondered how critters would know where to find their homes, their specific tree or stump in which they lived in. He had been here for a long time. He couldn't remember how he got here, and he knew he couldn't get out anytime soon, but he would keep searching until he found what he needed.

He finally came upon a tree, with a girth so wide he couldn't wrap his arms around it, not by a long shot. But in the middle was a huge hole. He decided he could fit himself, the shopping cart and Rio all in and he thought maybe they could get some sleep. He stopped the cart in front of it. He and Rio just stood there, looking at it, up and down, left to right.

'See Rio? I told you.'

The dog murmured a happy response, giving a huff and a bark. Sometimes he swore he could see the dog smile, he was almost human. They cautiously moved in; he gave the cart a good push to get it over the root that lay at the door of the expansive cavity.

When they got in, he took the dog out of the cart, and placed him down in the corner. He grabbed his little bowl out of the cart and placed it next to him, filling it with some water left in the jug. The dog moved over to it warily, the timid animal finally lapping up the water like a little vacuum cleaner. He knew Rio would be thirsty, it had been a long day. He took a swig himself, except from a different bottle.

A small dirty bottle of whiskey lay in the cart next to the jug of water. _Water for dogs, whiskey for me_ , he thought to himself, as he sat happily next to Rio. He patted Rio gently while he was still drinking the water, stroking back the matted fur that pickled along his mane. It was a funny thing, but he couldn't remember how he got Rio either. Perhaps it was whiskey, but his memory had been getting worse lately.

He had always had him; they had been through tough times together. He had no woman, no child, just a dog, who took the place of both in his company. His love, and his child at the same time. They only had each other.

Rio looked up at him, water dripping from his snout as he licked his chops. It was as if he knew that he was thinking about him, right at that second. He smiled back at the dog, the smile parting his grizzly beard upward and outwards. It was surprising how much emotion a beard can reveal at times.

'Hey!'

He and Rio looked over the dark corner of the tree, and emerging just into the light was three critters. A racoon, a squirrel and a rat, except they were all wearing human clothes.

'What the... ?' He tried to muster a response, but just couldn't get any words out. Perhaps it was the whiskey.

'You're not allowed in here! This is private property! We can't have the likes of you clogging up our space! Get out or we will call the wolves!' the squirrel shouted at them, taking them both off guard.

There had been only silence, and now there was yelling. The squirrel seemed to call the shots though, he was wearing fancy gold trimmings, and his fur was groomed backwards. The racoon was wearing a little hat, like he was some kind of security guard. He piped up himself, but tried to calm the room as he did so.

'Sorry guys, you're going to have to leave. You can't stay here, legally. You gotta' go... '

Rio growled at them. He was just as big as them and he knew he could win the fight. He grabbed the dog quickly, trying to prevent him from going after them. Talking critters... He wondered what the hell was going on. He finally found the words.

'Who... Who are you guys? Look I'm sorry you're so angry, but we just want to spend the night in here, we have no place else to go!'

He took a glance at the rat, and the little creature tried not to make eye contact, like he felt sorry for them, but couldn't say anything.

'We can't have you stay here! You're both no good bums! It will ruin the quality establishment we have created here! That's it! Racoon! I'm calling the wolves... '

As he walked away on his little legs, the squirrel just kept firing insults and muttering to himself as he moved out of the tree. He was furious, and you could see how much he was disgusted just looking at him and Rio. The racoon moved over, pulling out a little baton, and softly patting his arm with it.

'Come on buddy, let's move it out. The wolves are on their way, so you better keep on going... '

'The wolves? Why is he calling the wolves? Wouldn't the wolves just eat you guys?'

The Racoon recoiled, the look of disgust was evident on his face, except even more obvious than the squirrel.

'What are you talking about? You people are sick!' Rio started barking again. He tried to quiet him down.

'Okay. Okay! We're going. Come on Rio, let's see if we can find another tree... '

He stood up, being barely able in the confined space, and pushed his cart out, Rio sitting back in the baby seat again with his little blanket. The bowl, jug and bottle were all sitting in their places in the cart, like organised madness, amongst the other odds and ends that he kept.

As they got out of the tree, the Racoon was lurking behind them, standing at the entrance, just hitting his baton against his hand, trying to look menacing. It was hard to imagine his toughness, as he was so tiny. They got out in the forest, surrounded by the huge, towering pines again, the thick bases, the aisles between.

He and Rio looked at each other, the dog seemingly as puzzled as he was over what just happened.

'Well... where to now, Rio?'

The dog whimpered again, as he pushed the cart over another root sticking out. Suddenly, he heard Rio growl again. He growled loud, and it gave him a little fright. He looked up to see a whole pack of wolves that had moved silently around them. They growled back, and Rio cowered beneath his dirty blanket.

'We hear you've been loitering on tree property buddy. You know that's against the law right?' The centre wolf stepped forward, a small cap, resembling a police cap, some kind of silver mark of a burrow and two wolves labelled it.

'Look, I don't know what's going on here, Rio and I just want a place to stay for the night, the forest gets real cold at night and... '

'The law is the law! Now, you're coming with us!'

The wolves approached them both; the one that spoke grabbed his hand with his paw. He looked down at it, and strangely, the paw became a hand. Rio nipped at it, and the policeman gave a mighty howl. The other policeman hit the dog with a slap of his hand, and Rio cowered again.

They both grabbed him and pulled him away from the cart and Rio. He looked up to see, not the towering pines, but the towering buildings, solid, concrete monsters as far as the eye could see. The mist swallowing them near the top. He looked back to see the receptionist, his gold trimmings shining in the smoky city dusk light, the security guard, small and bearded, and the janitor, a tiny weedy man in a grey jumpsuit.

The janitor didn't look back at him, but the other two smiled and laughed as he was taken away, and Rio barked and howled from his little baby seat, his smile long gone, turning to a snarl at the men that took his master away.
Apparition

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, New South Wales

Australia

17 September 2014

Gold

sphere

hovers

stealthfully

beside sleeper's face.

Amber glow diffuses night's black.

Benevolent rays beam to slumbering human shape.

Hold fast! She stirs and stares at us. How does she see us?

Did we wake her with chattering?

How does she hear us?

We are not from this earthly plane.

Guardian angels,

healing souls

who need

hope's

breath.

We travel

through space

with blessings for Earth.

Now we are revealed!

Unmasked!

Now

What?
Dissolution

Kelly Lawn

Bacchus Marsh, Victoria

Australia

18 September 2014

Seated in earth,

Transfixed by the moon.

The omnipresent,

Ever present.

Magnetic mysteries,

With an ethereal presence.

A connection, so divine

That even the soul cannot transcend it

Until the ego transpires -

Every organ feels the pull

Until you surrender.
Belonging

Katrina Wirth

Rutherford, New South Wales

Australia

19 September 2014

When I was six years old my life was so much simpler. Ah... I clearly remember the days of my long black hair flowing, quite vividly. I use to run through the fields after school stopping occasionally to pick some dandelions, not a care in the world.

The year is 2009, I am a girl of seventeen, I am now in Year 12, and for most of those years I have lived with Aspergers. 'Crap' and 'Hell' are words that have become a common occurrence within my life, as the end of my schooling is fast approaching and I haven't even begun to revise all of the work that I should have by now.

I feel that my peers, that I felt a connection to when I was six years old, are now slowly drifting away to study more and pursue their future careers. I am the school's loner; I just don't seem to fit in. All the girls keep up with the latest trends and fashions. You ask what about me; well I am totally in a world full of total humiliation when it comes to fashion.

The boys think that I am a freak just because I wear glasses and enjoy computing; I am sick of it all. I wish that I could just drift on the clouds back into the good old days of drinking juice and watching clouds float by, back when I was six years old.

I sit in the computer lab typing in my blog: 'One week left until doomsday!! I am so dead; I am never going to pass these exams!'

I hear giggling in the corner of the room; it's one of the girls highly into fashion. She thinks it strange for a girl to be sitting using a computer and not using make-up instead.

Trying to force her out of my mind, I continue to type entries into my blog: 'I wish the girls would learn to grow up and that the boys would stop being so chauvinistic.'

The end of lunch bell sounds, the bell becoming, for me, like the sound from a hunting siren to signal when it's appropriate to shoot the 'game'. I seal my fate once again as I walk into my home room of 201. Straight away, I am stared at due to my appearance and everyone laughs at me as I take my seat at the front of the room.

English is really boring without Mrs Smith, so I sit slumped in my seat staring out the window looking at the barbed wire fences of the adjourning houses. The wire is becoming a symbol of my oppression.

The casual teacher dauntingly finishes the lesson and I trudge home dragging my bag along the path.

When I arrive home, I realise that haven't even begun Mrs Smith's creative writing essay and how I'm long overdue to start on dull, boring, bland Mr Denise's Mathematics homework.

Immediately I pull out a sheet of paper and begin to write... 'The greatest pain in life is not to die, but to be ignored. To lose the person you love so much to another who doesn't care at all. To have someone you care so much about throw a party... and not tell you about it. When your favourite person on earth neglects to invite you to his/her graduation.

'To have people think that you don't care. The greatest pain in life is not to die, but to be forgotten. To be left in the dust after another's great achievement. To never get a call from a friend, just saying "Hi". When you show someone your innermost thoughts and they laugh in your face. For friends to always be too busy to console you when you need someone to lift your spirits.

'When it seems like the only person who cares about you, is you. Life is full of pain, but does it ever get better? Will people ever care about each other, and make time for those who are in need? Each of us has a part to play in this great show we call life. Each of us has a duty to mankind to tell our friends that we love them. If you do not care about your friends you will not be punished. You will simply be ignored... forgotten... as you have done to others.'

Once I finish, I curl up on the covers of my bed and drift off into a deep sleep. I dream of the good old days, back when I was six years old and my life was so much simpler.

I dream of butterflies, milk, storybooks and nature cocooning-enveloping me like that of lovely woollen security blanket.

The next morning, I awake to find a call left by Mrs Smith. 'Katherine, whenever you receive this message, please come to school. I have a surprise for you.'

Slowly, I get dressed and grab my belongings.

When I enter room 201 this morning the atmosphere is different, no-one laughs and a girl standing in the corner looks at me with a big smile on her face.

Mrs Smith tells me, 'Katherine, meet Eliza. She was the surprise that I mentioned to you.'

Perplexed, I ask Eliza to come join me at the free desk beside me.

Once English is over, I state to Eliza, 'Well I am off to computing class, are you right to find your next class?'

Eliza giggles, 'Um... well, yes I think so, as long as you know the way to computing class!'

I ponder to myself, 'Wow, Mrs Smith may have been right. What a surprise! Eliza is also bespectacled, enjoys computers, likes English and also finds Mathematics bland.'

Eliza queries, 'What are you waiting for? Are you going to show me where the room is?'

I exclaim, 'Sure thing!' My, how good things happen! I no longer long to be six years old again however much simpler my life was back then! I love it, I have found a kindred spirit with whom I can attend computing club and Creative Writing club. I no longer have to be the school's loner that gets stared upon like a freak!
Losing It

Michael Cooper

Penrith, New South Wales

Australia

20 September 2014

'I can't stop John Denver.' Ray looked at his doctor, who looked up from her notes. Inwardly, she liked Denver's music, but Ray was her patient and patient care was paramount. Ray was sounding more depressed as the consult continued.

'How did we get to this point, Ray?' she asked. Ray said it began about a month ago with his iPod:

John Denver kept playing. Ray frowned while he prodded at his new car's touch screen. _Leaving on a Jet Plane_ continued. There was a time delay between pressing the screen and the iPod's response. The iPod feature looked great when he was buying the car. The sales guy used it as one of the car's more attractive qualities.

'You connect your iPod to this little dock in here,' he said, pointing to a socket in the console. The car's audio system would read the music on the iPod and give you full control of it from the touch screen in the dash. The thing was playing John Denver though.

He jabbed the controls again - more frantically this time. The main menu appeared and he pressed the playlist button. Scrolling quickly before the traffic light changed, he found the playlist for blues. JJ Cale or maybe Tony Joe White - just what he needed.

_Cajun Moon_ began. Instantly, Ray felt calm. He decided that after work, he'd take the car to the dealership and have the audio system checked.

'Nah, looks fine, mate. Can't find anything wrong with the audio,' the technician who'd been working on Ray's car reported. Ray wondered when mechanics became technicians. Probably when cars had more computers than mechanical parts and their audio systems behaved erratically.

'You might wanna' check your iPod,' he continued.

That night at home, Ray trawled through his music collection. He couldn't recall ever syncing John Denver to his iPod. That didn't mean Denver's music wasn't on his computer somewhere - he had around 20,000 songs in every genre from acid jazz to hip hop to Zulu music from Africa. But John Denver?

Vern, one of his housemates, looked over his shoulder. Vern worked as an IT consultant for a city law firm. 'What's doing, Ray?' Ray told him.

'Have you tried clearing the cache?' Vern asked. 'That particular model of computer uses a non-override delete buffer. It's on by default. When you sync the iPod, it picks up the data and re-installs it. Let me try something.'

Vern reached past Ray and tapped a few keys. 'That should do it,' he said. Ray re-synced the iPod, convinced all traces of John Denver were gone.

'Almost heaven'... Ray stared at the touch screen. The iPod had taken a little more time to read this morning, probably because he'd left it syncing overnight. Ray hit the off button and sulked all the way to work.

'Your iPod appears to be working fine,' said the nerdy looking kid behind the Apple counter. 'I can't tell much about the music that's on it without checking the settings on your computer. Here's a list of things to try.' Ray looked down the list. Many of the suggestions were things he'd already tried, but over the following week, he went through the list, item by item. After each one, he re-synced the iPod. Each morning:

'You fill up my senses... 'Ray was tempted to buy a new computer and another iPod. After he'd thrown these ones off a cliff.

Ray spent the next five days at work fixated on the iPod. Having exhausted the suggestion list from the computer nerd, he spent his time looking through the song lists. Every time he searched he found, hiding inside another playlist, a John Denver greatest hits album. Every time he located the same album on his computer, he erased it.

Ray started his car each morning full of anticipation that the offending album had been eradicated, but:

'Hi Calypso...' the off button was getting as much of a workout as the brake pedal in the peak hour traffic.

Next morning:

'He was born in the summer... '

The following day:

'Well, life on the farm is kinda' laid back... '

His other housemate, Frank, listened one evening while Ray swore at the computer. Frank was an expert tailor who worked at a high-end gentleman's outfitters. 'Ray, your swearing is very distracting. I'm trying to concentrate on these suit designs.' Ray just glared at Frank.

'Have you considered the notion of demonic possession?' asked the kindly pastor from Ray's church. Ray just looked at the man. Possessed by a demon? In the 21st century? He told the pastor as much.

'Well, it certainly seems like you've tried everything else,' the pastor responded. 'It's been a while, but I could try an exorcism ritual. Couldn't hurt.' Ray said he'd get back to him.

Finally, after a month of John Denver, Ray phoned his doctor for an appointment.

Because Ray was with his doctor, he missed the Friday afternoon session at the pub with Frank and Vern. Frank had arrived early and already had the drinks lined up.

'What's in the bag?' Vern asked, pointing to a brown paper sack.

'Four of Ray's shirts,' Frank answered. 'I promised to pick them up from the dry cleaners for him.'

'Nice of you, considering how he annoys us with his silly pranks. What was that April Fools trick he got you with?'

'He told me the keepers at the local zoo wanted new uniforms. He got me to ring the zoo and ask for Mr Lyon. He thought it was a hoot.' Frank thought for a moment, then said, 'He seems to be losing it with the John Denver thing though.'

'Serves him right. I'm over the crappy jokes he plays. They're just off the cuff cheap shots. Lucky he leaves that iPod connected. I can hack into it so easily. I've even worked out an algorithm that randomly re-numbers the tracks so a different one plays each time he connects it. It's about had its day, what's next for him?'

Frank held up the bag with the shirts. 'I'm gonna' put darts in the back of these. Starting Monday, Ray starts gaining weight.'

Editor's note: There are days in our office when we think Frank has been in our wardrobe, putting darts in our clothes! This story received its Editor's Pick for being well-written, enjoyable entertainment because some days, that's all a reader wants.
Alpine Mystery

AA Anderson

Bathurst, New South Wales

Australia

21 and 22 September 2014

John and I had been skiing Switzerland and decided that after visiting the main tourist ski fields we wanted something different and more exciting.

We were with friends Joshua and Fiona De Lacey who were our school friends when young. Their families had skied in Europe for centuries, and though their relatives refused to talk about it, it was believed they once owned a luxury hotel somewhere in the ski fields.

We wished they owned it now as accommodation was very hard to come by, especially at this time of the year.

Fiona was a very quiet girl but Joshua liked adventure; sometimes he was a pain in the neck with his ideas.

We had taken the wrong bus and wound up at a very small village at the foot of the Alps. We managed to book in to an archaic B&B. The furniture was like the 1800s, with even a huge Aspidistra in a pot in the hall and with a very old proprietor who spoke very slow English.

When Joshua signed the guest's book at the desk, the old man gave a gasp when he saw the signature and gave a really strange look. We wondered why.

We decided to have a look at the snowy land around the place and wandered down to the bottom of one of the high mountains. A wire fence held a sign 'Keep Out' and inside the fence there was an old wooden shed. 'Oh my goodness, look! What is that? It looks like a railway line.' Yes it did, but one covered in dirt and wet grass. Joshua climbed over the fence. I yelled, 'What about the sign, you idiot? It might be dangerous.'

Well that was the wrong thing to tell Josh; it was like a red rag to a bull. He went right ahead. 'It goes into the shack and out the other side,' he yelled. By now John was interested and also jumped the fence. Fiona and I stayed outside but in looking up I spied a cave high up in the mountain. No, it was a tunnel, as the rail line went up and into the cave. Now I too was excited and encouraged Fiona to come too.

The shack held some wooden seats and what looked like an office. Cables were tangled on the floor.

'Let's go back and ask what this is about' John suggested and as it was getting dark we agreed.

Nobody would tell us about the strange rail line, it was as if it never existed. We were only warned not to go near it. And the next day that is just what we did, we went back to investigate.

Earlier I had mentioned to the old I Proprietor that we were looking for some good skiing. 'Used to be' he had told me in his quiet slow voice, 'but not no more, rich folks came once but not no more' and he would not elaborate.

First thing was to get over the fence, then we tracked the railway line right up to the small tunnel, it was only small in width but when we looked inside it went for a long way into the mountain. When near what we judged, to be close to the other end, it was blocked by a boulder and a large amount of snow but a small shaft of light showed through the side.

The boys pushed at the boulder gradually moving it slowly out of the tunnel. We were surprised to find an old wooden carriage, sitting on what looked like a plat form. A huge wheel and cables going down into the tunnel.

The light outside was blinding and it took several moments before we could see. What a sight, the most beautiful skiing ground we had ever seen, with high mountains on most sides, wonderful ski slopes and a big ravine on the other.

Next day we came back with our skis, it was heaven. After a packed lunch we went to have a look around. There was a strange type of hill near the ravine. Something glowed in the sunlight. 'Oh my gosh' John uttered 'I do believe it is a ring, and a diamond one' We all crowded around him. 'There may be more' we all said at once and started searching. First we found a silver tray but it was too corroded, then a huge old stove, covered in rust and dirt.

Then Joshua spied a broken sign. 'The Grand Alpine Hotel', The next find from Fiona, was a small tin,Fiona opened it and found it contained a ladies diary. She paled as she read the name Ingrid De Lacey.

Fiona had been told the story of how her great auntie Ingrid had disappeared in Switzerland and never found. As she held the old diary she had a strange feeling come over her, this belonged to her Great Aunt. What did it mean? Here in her hands she held the truth of why the village kept this place hidden, something horrid had happened here. Perhaps the diary would tell the story.

~~~

It was the year of 1943 and war had torn the Baltic States apart, Adolph Hitler was on the march through Europe, but Switzerland had declared herself neutral.

Many of the aristocracy decided to take themselves out of the war zone. They loaded their jewellery and money into their cabin trunks and went over to Switzerland and safety.

Lady Chesham and her son Mark endured the dangerous sea journey and were now seated in a carriage of the small train that took them up the steep mountain, to the luxury hotel at Bredan in the Alps.

The noise of the clatter, clatter of the wheels over the rails, the slope of the carriage on the incline and the hardness of the wooden seats, made the journey most uncomfortable. Eventually they reached a thin tunnel cut into the rocks, an old lantern held the only light in the dark tunnel. It was a dismal journey but at the end was a wooden landing with a uniformed gentleman waiting to help them alight.

The hotel stood proudly on a knoll surrounded by thick snow. There were lights in the large windows as the sky was overcast and through the wide glass doors of the front patio, could be seen the glow of a warm inviting log fire.

The party from the carriage walked up the steep steps and into a very pleasant and highly opulent foyer with an Italian marble floor and large oak desk, then were shown to their rooms by the proprietress and a young bell boy who endeavoured to carry their luggage.

Mark, a man perhaps in his early twenties, was not impressed with the older variety of patrons he saw sitting in the lounge that he had to pass and longed for the company of his young friends back home.

This was going to be a rotten and boring holiday, but better than being drafted into the Army back home, even though his uncle had promised to buy him a commission as an officer. He didn't think this was possible nowadays, perhaps in the past. His uncle was quite old and thought everything could be bought.

He followed his mother into the suite that they would share, to find a young lady ready to unpack their luggage.

_Well now this may not be as bad a place as it had first seemed_. He smiled the smile that he knew worked on most of the women back home. One smile and they were his.

This was not the case with this young girl - she scowled back at him putting him quite off guard. He was not used to this kind of treatment from any girl, especially a servant.

He would make a point of mentioning her behaviour to the proprietor. Mark was used to getting his own way. As a child he was left to the nanny, his mother and father never had time for him, so he took no notice of what people told him and just did what he pleased.

Dinner was served in the dining room, a beautiful eighteenth century room, with large marble pillars reaching up to the high elaborately painted ceiling and linen lace table cloths gracing the rosewood dining tables. Silver shone next to the fine crystal goblets and a small vase held a perfect rose bud. A large Aspidistra sat on a pedestal in the corner.

Lady Chesham was enjoying her dinner when Mark appeared next to her. He seated himself and looked around the room. Old people met his gaze, but what was that? The back of a well-dressed young woman. Her hair hung down her back but was caught on the top with a large diamond clip.

_A diamond. She must be from a wealthy family_ , he must make her acquaintance.

He called to the waiter. 'Who is the young lady at the table at the side of the room?' he asked.

'Oh Miss De Lacey the hotel owner's granddaughter sir. She is from London. Her father is Jonathon De Lacey, Earl of Leicester. She is waiting for her fiancé.'

Mark was not fazed by this information - one of the reasons he wanted to get away from England was that a married woman was having his child. A fiancé was a challenge. _This might be interesting._

After dinner he sat at the bar waiting to see the face of the young woman when she exited the dining room.

To his great amazement it was the face he had seen before in their suite: it was the maid.

She saw him with his mouth agape staring at her; she stifled a giggle. 'Serve him right,' she thought, 'the spoilt brat.'

Mark realised his mouth was wide open and he had spilt his drink. What an awful impression he must be giving, certainly not his debonair, confident self.

~~~

Next morning on the balcony overlooking the entrance, he sat with his mother admiring the high snow covered alps before them. What a magnificent view! Quite unlike the deep ravine at the back of the hotel - thank goodness their suite was at the front. It would be depressing having a room at the back and to have to look at that icy ravine. He wondered where the young lady's room would be, at the front of course, unless she didn't like the alps.

Suddenly his attention was taken by the lady herself, dressed again as a maid bringing out the tray of morning tea.

He wandered casually over to her and apologised for being rude the day before. Her eyes held his and a strange emotion overtook him; he had never felt like this before. However, she had just smiled and turned away to go back through the doors of the hotel.

He ran after her and found her entering the hotel kitchen. He hadn't been in a kitchen since a child, when the old cook had given him chocolate cookies when a boy. He looked around - she had placed the tray on the big oak table and disappeared through a door into the back hall of the hotel.

'Where does that door lead?' he asked the butler who was checking the silver. 'Oh that's the owner's quarters and then leads to the back of the hotel. There is a wide and dangerous ravine out there - it's best you stay in the front area young man.'

Mark realised he would have to go back to the guests' quarters. At least now he knew where her room was situated, but a view of the ravine just didn't seem to go with a suite for such a beautiful young lady.

The snow was coming down in buckets full and the wind starting to come up. Mark sat in the hotel library watching the flames from the open fire.

He stood up and moved over to the window; out on the balcony was the young lady. She shivered as she held a thin shawl around her shoulders.

_She'll freeze out there_ , Mark thought and went through the glass doors to stand beside her. 'Please come inside,' he said. 'It is too cold to be standing out here.' She looked at him but didn't seem to see him. 'Please,' he said again.

At last she turned, 'I can't, I must be here to greet my fiancé' she pleaded,

'He would not want you standing out here in the cold,' Mark answered.

'You don't know him, he insisted that I wait out the front so he could see me as soon as he comes up the steps. He must be obeyed - he gets very angry when I don't do as he asks.'

Mark took off his jacket and put them over Miss DeLacey's shoulders. She looked up at him with a smile. 'I was wrong about you,' she said. 'You are really very kind. I shall return your jacket after my fiancé arrives.'

Mark returned to the warmth of the library but kept watch out the glass doors. Eventually the carriage coming up the steep incline, came through the tunnel and a well-dressed man alighted. He walked up the steps to the patio. Miss De Lacey, Ingrid, went to meet him. He saw the man's jacket around her shoulders and went into a rage. He grabbed the jacket and threw it into the snow and, hauling Ingrid by the arm, dragged her into the hotel foyer.

Mark was outraged. How could he be so cruel? He decided to follow them. He stopped outside her room and heard the fiancé screaming at Ingrid, something about her being a slut and having an affair with the owner of the jacket. There were several thuds and he heard her cry out. 'No, please no!'

The butler appeared, it seemed out of nowhere. 'What are you doing back here sir? This area is out of bounds for guests. Please return to your quarters.'

There was nothing more Mark could do. He knew now that for the first time in his life he loved someone, but she belonged to that ghastly man.

At dinner that night he noticed her come in with him; she looked pale even though she wore a veil.

'Who are you looking at?' his mother inquired.

'Someone beautiful that I am now sure I am in love with,' replied Mark. His mother was very surprised: her gallivanting son Mark in love? This was new. But she had to warn him that the man with the lady was a duke and he had best forget her. The duke was known for his womanising and cruelty and the young lady was his fianceé, his promised wife.

~~~

Two days past and Mark never saw Ingrid; he wondered if she was alright. On the third day when he was sitting on the balcony he felt a tap on his shoulder; it was Ingrid. 'Please Mark take me away from here.' It was then he noticed the large blue bruises on her face and arm.

'What on earth has he done to you?' Mark asked with concern.

She started to cry. 'He calls me a trollop and forces himself on me.' She didn't get any further -

Mark was furious. He strode off. 'I will kill him for hurting you,' he shouted.

Ingrid, frightened, ran after him. 'No,' she yelled. 'I don't want you hurt, I love you.'

Mark stopped in his tracks: she loved him. But before he could reach out for her, a hand from behind hit him in the back of the neck and he went down unconscious.

His mother found him there and after several hours with a doctor he was well enough to tell what had happened. Ingrid had been forced back to her room with the fiancé.

Mark tried to go to Ingrid but it was to no avail. He was told that the pair would be leaving the next morning and going to Geneva to get married.

~~~

The next morning the sky was clear. Mark decided to go very early for a ski - the chill in the air would help him make a plan to ensure her escape. He would have to act quickly before anyone was aware that she had gone. He had a second pair of skis hidden underneath her window. Then he stood high up on an escarpment looking down at the hotel.

The soft morning light held him entranced at its beauty, sitting serenely on a snowy knoll, the early morning sun glinting on the many windows. Suddenly there was a huge crashing sound as a great chunk of ice and snow dislodged itself from high in the mountain, then a rushing, then a roaring.

In the hotel the guests hearing the roaring sound were starting to come down the stairs. 'It will be okay, it is just an avalanche,' the hotel butler announced to the visitors in the hotel lounge room. 'No danger - this hotel has been here for a century.' But the roaring continued and seemed to get louder.

Suddenly the two huge glass doors onto the patio crashed inwards as tons of snow and rock came hurtling through the room. Chairs and tables collapsed and were driven into the marble pillars supporting the ceiling. They fell with a loud crash pinioning anything in their way. Straight through the hotel it went on its destructive journey.

Many guests were still in their rooms and the kitchen staff were busy organising breakfast and the trays ready to go up to the rooms. Nothing stood or was left in its wake. The butler and the two elderly women in the lounge were swept along with rocks and snow. The kitchen staff with the plates and food disappeared under the snow and ice and steam hissed as it too filled the air, as the icy cold hit the burning heat of the big iron stoves.

Mark watched, unable to move, as the second floor and the roof caved in and the avalanche kept going, taking everything in its path.

'Ingrid! Ingrid!' he screamed desperately and raced down to what was left of the once three storey luxury hotel. He grabbed one of his skis and started digging with it. Then he seemed to hear a voice in his head. It whispered, 'The corner, the corner,' He moved to what would have been the corner of the building.

He dug until his hands were bleeding. Then he saw it - a small white hand wearing a diamond ring, her engagement ring. The scene that followed was horrific. When he found her, her legs and one arm were missing and a thick piece of wood had pierced her skull. Her lovely long hair was matted with ice and blood. Terror stared out of her still open eyes.

Mark held her in his arms and sobbed. He gently closed her eyes. Then he took the ring from her finger and flung it into the pile of debris and, taking off a small signet ring from his own little finger, placed it on her wedding finger. He said quietly, 'You are mine, my own sweet love, my Ingrid. Now you will always be mine.'

He took off his ski jacket and carefully wrapping what was left of her body, clasped it tightly close to his chest. He walked down the hill with his precious package, to the very edge of the deep icy ravine, then leapt.
The Four-Colour Problem

Frank O'Shea

Point Cook, Victoria

Australia

23 September 2014

Appolonia is a small country, completely surrounded by four larger ones. It was originally created by rival European colonial powers - Belgium, Britain, Portugal and France - as an aggregation of lands they did not themselves want. They simply drew lines on a map spread over a brandy-loaded table in a hotel in Cairo in 1901; what was left over became Appolonia. It has no mountains, no natural lakes or other water features, no wealth hidden underground and is mainly known in the West as a solution of the four-colour problem in topology.

Appolonians (Apps for short) live a subsistence lifestyle based on herding cattle and exploiting the vast forests of boaboo, a cross between the bamboo and the boab tree. They live in lean-to structures that are little more than tents. Made from boaboo wood, with roofs of grass or large leaves, some of these structures can last for up to ten years, though they are usually replaced much sooner than this.

In the middle years of the last century, when the colonial powers had taken all they could from the countries touching Appolonia, they went home, feeling good about themselves because they had left behind militant versions of Christianity and pious exhortations to democracy.

Inevitably, there was tribal and religious strife in these newly created countries. Some Russian entrepreneurs provided arms to both sides in the conflicts, the supply increasing after the collapse of the Soviet Union. The United Nations sent troops to quell the fighting, ironically including Russians among their number, though most were from Belgium, Britain, Portugal and France.

Because Appolonia was peaceful, the UN set up their military and administrative headquarters there; it was a particularly opportune choice because although there were no roads as such, it was flat and they could quickly transfer troops and supplies from one of the neighbouring civil wars to another.

In time, refugees began to flee each country and settled in Appolonia, the only place that was safe. They constructed rough dwellings in the local fashion, if not quite as expertly, and depended for their survival on a number of well-meaning non-government organisations, mostly from Belgium, Britain, Portugal and France. Not Russia, however.

At this stage, we introduce Willy, a native of the new country that was formerly a British colony. His real name had too many consonants and too few vowels so the British called him Willy, a name that may have had its origin in his tendency to favour inadequate clothing. The civil war was fiercest in his country because some of their young men knew how to fight, having attended the Royal Military Academy, Sandhurst. His children had been killed in the fighting, so he left his wife and went off on his own.

When he came to Appolonia, his meagre funds allowed him to buy enough materials to put up a primitive tent. Unfortunately, he placed it on a track which was used by UN vehicles; they knocked it down in their rush to get from red to blue on the four-colour map, but recompensed him with enough funds to build two tents, one of which he rented out. He was careful to put these new structures in another area frequented by UN traffic. The inevitable happened and he applied once again to the UN for compensation, carefully exaggerated to give him enough to build four tents.

Now, the UN may not be particularly efficient, but they are not foolish and they smelled a rat. Willy was no fool either and when he felt things were going slowly, he told a suitably embellished version of his story to one of the many journalists drinking their way through the stocks of brandy left behind by the British, Belgians, French and Portuguese. Before you could say Rupert Murdoch, the story appeared in American newspapers and was taken up by shock jocks all over the world, declaring that the UN should stay out of these places and let the people kill each other in their own traditional ways.

The UN caved in and gave Willy everything he asked for, more than enough to put up eight tents if he wished. But now the market took over because while all this was going on, others were watching. Local Apps, especially those who owned sections of boaboo forest, began to erect tents and had no difficulty placing them where UN vehicles would travel; others devised methods of putting them in the way of one of the non-government organisations that had come to care for the refugees.

I mentioned the market: supply and demand, that kind of thing. There was suddenly a surge in the price of boaboo wood, so that Willy, far from being able to buy enough to put up eight tents, found that he could barely manage four. Inflation had set in as Adam Smith or Paul Keating or someone said it would in situations like this. What's more, the UN and the 'non-guvvies' had to pay for this rise in the cost of the raw materials or face further scorn from the shock jocks: compensation was effectively tied to the cost of boaboo wood which became a kind of de facto currency, appreciating by the day.

Then the banks joined in. They began offering loans to those in the tent business; new ones were constructed almost faster than they could be knocked down. Some were built with inferior wood or with wood that could be reused after it had been run over. Anyone in any other area of business could not get finance for their projects. The UN built a huge headquarters with staff from New York and Sweden to administer the compensation payments. MSF did the same and Oxfam and the Gates Foundation, though in the latter case there were tax write offs to cover costs.

Then some people decided to get in on the market by using bicycles instead; they left them along the routes that the UN and other bodies would be using and hired media managers from one of the Australian political parties to run a campaign for compensation.

Questions were asked in the local parliament; there were fears of a collapse in the currency; words like 'liquidity', 'structural reform' and 'market confidence' were used.

Some countries questioned the way the UN was spending money and even suggested that the payment of compensation to the Appolonian middleclass should be stopped completely. That was vetoed by the Chinese who, unknown to everyone, had invested billions in the economy of the country through some American banks in which they had secret and extensive shareholdings. Anyway, the dance had only started.

The banks were shovelling money out to anyone who wanted to build tents; to encourage more people to get involved, they reduced their rates. Then they began combining these loans into what they cleverly named securities and sold them on to others who sold them to people in Belgium, Britain, France and Portugal.

Members of the Appolonian parliament were not happy with all of this, but lacked the courage to do anything about it. In fact, they helped it along by encouraging what they called affordable tents. Ostensibly, these were for old people or young families, but in practice most of them went to young kids at university or to pregnant teenagers.

About the only thing on which both sides in the Appolonian parliament agreed was that any increase in interest rates was Bad, any decrease was Good even though it fuelled the craze of lending to people with little chance of repaying. The banks went along with this, furiously packaging and reselling their boaboo securities (abbrev. BS) which were given a triple-A rating by Standard & Poors who thought a boaboo was some kind of owl - they had themselves got in early in the market and were sitting on a tidy profit.

Meanwhile, tents became more and more elaborate even though they would have to be knocked down almost as soon as they were finished. By this time the UN had worked out ways to avoid running over the tents, but the Security Council decided that the economy of the region was of greater importance than driving on the new highways that had been constructed for their troop carriers.

Eventually, after a major conference in Copenhagen, it was decided that vehicles no longer needed to run over the tents but the owners would be paid as if they had - it was called custom and practice, the kind of thing that allows a public holiday for a horse race or a monarch's birthday.

So everybody was happy, except the firms that had made fortunes cleaning up the mess left when the tents were knocked down, although many of their workers were hired as local advisors by the UN and MSF and Oxfam. Meanwhile the economy raced ahead - the Forest Cheetah it was called - while interest rates fell further to the great delight of everyone.

As for Willy, after a stint working as an advisor for the UN, he had got out while he was ahead and was last seen living on a yacht in the Bahamas.

Then Lehman Brothers collapsed.
Lost

Emma-Lee Scott

Callaghan, New South Wales

Australia

23 September 2014

The sphere of the morning was shattered

With the ravings of a lost soul,

Bitter and vanishing from the world.

The words were spilt,

But bore no fruit,

For he was missing

From the day.

When our eyes met in senseless anger,

His were broken,

Presence known,

But self,

Enraptured by the demons

Of his past.

The shards of the window pane,

The upturned plates,

The room touched

By the violent tendrils of his mind.

Their dirty hands

Gripping his,

Fiercely wielding

All the power.

He is lost to the voices inside,

Controlled by the fears within.

They bring forth the brokenness,

As the fist crushes,

Whilst the bruise blackens.

The world began to tumble

As the relationship crumbled.

He is lost

To the mismatched voices,

As his daughter withdrew,

Bruise fading,

Yet mark remaining.
What Poets Know

Mark Fowler

Magill, South Australia

Australia

24 September 2014

Tell me, tell me where God is found?

Heaven above? Or all around?

I'll ask the poets who say they know,

Perhaps in their words, God will show.

A Sufi poet saw God's 'face'

In loving hearts and man's embrace.

Called 'God present', 'light' or 'day'.

But isn't life just shades of grey?

Francis extolled the moon and sun,

Brother, sister, together one.

Oneness found in nature again,

But this is now and that was then.

Blake saw God's joy in tiger bright,

Glorious creature of the night.

That very symmetry of eye

We keep in cages and leave to die.

Hopkins wrote those beautiful lines,

Throughout the world God's grandeur shines.

Where in this ugly, sinful mess,

Can God's glory ever impress?

Mary Oliver in writing free,

Knows God's spirit intimately,

Connects God's love to bird or breeze,

Immanence in the forest trees.

Yet in their metaphors and rhymes,

Was that God? Present in their times?

Was God's revelation through gifted pen?

Inspiring verse, both now and then.

Perhaps in time my verse will tell,

I know God, and God knows me well.

How I know in the still of night

God sees my soul and hears my plight.

I hope the verses as yet unheard,

Will show us God through inspired word,

Tell of life's fearful symmetry,

And speak of love in golden tree.
It's In The Stillness

Mark Fowler

Magill, South Australia

Australia

24 September 2014

It's funny

how when I lose something I need

I usually panic and frantically seek

but

in a moment of frustration or reflection,

a small picture comes to me in my mind

and I see the lost article.

Finding God's a bit like that.

We all need God

but

we lose him along the way and we don't know where we put him.

A secret I've found, is in the stillness,

that golden place where time is postponed

and for a moment you find God;

or

more precisely you find that God wasn't lost, just not noticed.

In the stillness of a prayer,

not in a shopping list of wants or a litany of old practices

and certainly not in a busy mind mulling over a worrisome day,

but

in a quiet moment, where listening is as silent as an infant's heartbeat

God reveals a word, a memory,

a feeling,

a feeling so deep, it sings for joy at the very centre of your soul.

In the stillness,

you can see what you missed on a million occasions of watching.

Like

the gnarly patterns in the bark of a pepper tree, or the serene flight of a soaring hawk,

or perhaps the love of an old man for his partner as they quietly sit in the sun.

And

You can see the hand of creation that allowed all these miracles to happen.

And in the stillness,

You can feel another's pain, empathise with the world of others beyond your experience.

And you can know love, and know God right there.
Shemozzle

Judy J Newman

Rutherford, New South Wales

Australia

25 September 2014

I forgot my phone when I went out, and fell over on my bum

Went to town, to the bank, forgot my book, my shoes soaked with rain

Sat down for a rest, sat in a puddle, now my bum was oh so numb

Got up to catch a bus, missed it, fell over yet again

Finally got home, and the key wouldn't fit in my door

Turns out it was the key to the mailbox, oh damn, oh sigh

Got the door open, the animals escaped, I couldn't take much more

Turned to catch the animals, hit the door, bruised my thigh

Shut the door, left the keys outside, in the lock

Turned the television on, weather man said 'Outlook fine'

It's pouring outside, hear somebody knock, knock, knock

Answer the door, 'Have you found your saviour and mine?'

I start to reply, 'Not interested', when I slip and fall, again, on my bum

Go back inside, soaked through and sore, trip over the cat

Decide to go back to bed; pretend this day did never come

Walked up the hallway, ran into the wall, fell into bed... and that was that!
Travis

Lorraine Sanderson

Campbelltown, South Australia

Australia

25 September 2014

The time has finally come; it's moving day tomorrow. After weeks of preparation, boxes are packed and all is in readiness. The dog, the cat and even the canary are going, but alas I'm staying put.

Not enough room for me at the new retirement place it seems. Even if that were not so, I would have special needs regarding transport and require a small army of minders. Besides, at my age it's unlikely I would survive the journey, let alone resettle successfully. No, I shall remain here and hope to build a connection with the new folk, assuming they're huggers and not muggers, that is.

I'm a tree you see, but the people in this household call me Travis.

Since 1932 I've stood sentry here at the handsome property that is No. 3 Lincoln Grove, having been tenderly planted as a seedling by the original owners, Sir James and Lady Sybil Fothersdyke. This almost ceremonial event was watched by their toddler son, Thomas, in whom Sir James hoped to instil his own passion for matters arboreous.

Given Thomas and I were more or less the same size at that time, you might say we grew up together. He and I were particularly close in those early years; indeed I became his imaginary friend until he reached his sixth or seventh birthday. It was young Tom who, with his limited and lisping language, bestowed upon me the name Travis, or to be more precise, Twavis.

After Sir James and Lady Sybil passed on, Thomas and his family inherited the estate, minus a significant part of the garden that his parents bequeathed to the local council for preservation as a public park. With the stroke of a pen, I became a community exhibit now living outside, rather than inside the fence.

Nevertheless, Tom's care and attention has never wavered and he still uses my name.

Yesterday, in one last stroll around the neighbourhood, he took this keepsake photograph and yes, I know what you're thinking. As trees go, I present as drab, boring and nondescript, but in truth I'm just a horticultural version of other octogenarians you might encounter in the street or a nursing home. Beneath their weathered skin, chest-high trousers and ubiquitous brown cardigans are stories and experiences to knock your socks off.

And I can tell you that beneath the dreary perception of this winter snapshot, I too enjoy an energetic, varied and amazing existence, especially given it all takes place whilst rooted to the same spot!

I've been privy to Thomas' secrets, sorrows and skulduggery as a little'n and later as he and his college chums found my ample canopy the perfect haven to talk and experiment in everything from tobacco to tequila.

I've played host to society tea parties, children's camp-outs and unbecoming trysts.

Unlike my evergreen companions in this lawn, for whom it's just same old, same old, all year round, as an ornamental pear I can boast chameleon qualities.

I embrace the romantic mood of spring and summer with a fluffy Dolly Varden pose, when my lavish display of pink and white blooms resembles a low floating cloud. Their heady fragrance permeates the air day and night, while on a soft breeze their petals drift gently to earth, forming a carpet of snow at my feet. Bridal parties, in fact lovers young and old, gravitate toward me for photo sessions or moments of unabashed ardour.

But it is in the balmy stillness of autumn when the dandy in me really comes to the fore and I become my most flamboyant. I delight in the attention as sightseers arrive to 'ooh' and 'aah' at my dazzling flamenco blaze of red, orange and gold. Boring? Nondescript? Not me; this is my time to shine.

Of course my life, just like yours, is not all fancy outfits and fun times. We trees are not immune to pain and suffering, and my sense of humour is challenged often.

For instance, I'm a home to endless birdlife, but sadly they're poor housekeepers and I can wait a long time for a shower in a drought year. Meanwhile, it's lucky I've not morphed into a Liquidambar, such is the volume of burning fluid emptied onto my trunk and feet by late night revellers or passing canines.

A regiment of ants can have me itching for days, but worst of all, as you can see, I spend the coldest and bleakest months standing stark naked in the street!

Ultimately I am sustained, as we all are, by love. Thomas and I have each reached a crossroad in our lives and our long relationship. He is leaving to spend his dotage elsewhere and it is likely I will still survive him by decades.

But all those years ago, when Sir James chose to share his exotic tree with the wider district, he knew it was a gift that would keep on giving. I am blessed by nature with attention-grabbing features and I'll continue to put on the best show in town as he intended.

Do come and visit, dear reader; however if you want a picture, please don't photograph me bare as Tom has done. At my age, even a tree looks better dressed.
Fortunate Son

David C Velasco

Springfield, Montana

USA

26 and 27 September 2014

Philip awoke just as the sun began to show itself though the bedroom window. As his eyes opened, he could see its rays hitting the flawless wall and door opposite. He blinked a few times, adjusting to the light of the new day, rolled onto his back, rubbed his eyes and stretched the sleep from his nine year old body.

Once done he sat up and looked out the window. It was adjacent to the bed, and just as long, enabling him to view the world outside without having to leave the comfort of the blankets. The plexiglass porthole angled slightly outward, allowing him to look nearly straight down and was one reason why his friends like to do sleepovers. None of them had such in their bedroom. And it was fun to pretend to be down there, on the ground below.

He yawned as he leaned over and rested his hands flat against the glass, watching the forest covered hills move slowly beneath the great ship. The vessel, home for him and countless others, did not yet cast a giant shadow upon the landscape beneath. In the distance, he saw the beginning of the big ocean they pass over every so often.

'Oh boy!'

Last time the ship crossed over the sea he and his friends pretended his bed was a boat. Within their imagination they motored amongst a groups of whales they could see, all the while some shooting plumes of water from out of their backs.

Philip turned and crawled off the bed, stretching and yawning again once on his feet. He walked up to the dresser embedded in the wall adjacent the bed. Only a thin black line outlining each drawer gave any indication it was there. Gently touching the left side of the top drawer with his small hand caused it to open. To one side sat his shirts, the other side pants, all neatly folded. They always came back that way from the laundry section. Then his mother would place them therein, arranging them by color.

It was Sixthday, so no need to dress for class. Philip chose casual attire for his day off: grey short sleeve, pullover shirt and dark blue pants, all fitting loosely upon his small frame. Philip and his friends planned to roam about the ship today and play, so he did not want to feel too constricted.

He left his bedroom barefoot and proceeded to the kitchen area. Despite the efficient environmental scrubber units, a faint, yet unmistakable odor filled the crisp clean air of the moderately sized living room. Like his bedroom, the walls and floor were light colored and pristine. Lights embedded in the ceiling silently illuminated the entire area. While dressing he hoped his mom would make a handmade breakfast instead of using the food processor. And so she was. He did not mind what came from the processor. It all tasted so good. But his parents told him that handmade meals were their special time with their special son.

'Morning mom.' He approached the counter where she stood. She looked down from her task of making breakfast and smiled. She was young and fair, with a head of full, light brown hair atop her flawless face.

'Morning, Sunshine. Ready for your days off?'

'Yeppers mom.'

She reached down and rubbed his head, watching him smile with a row of perfect white teeth. He turned and walked around to the other side of the counter occupying the middle of the kitchen. It was their meal table, and stood about waist high to an average adult. As Philip got to the side opposite his mother, he waved his hand underneath the lip of the countertop. A panel opened up on the side, and out came a small chair supported by an L-shaped bracket, low enough for Philip to sit in without having to climb up. Once seated, his arms firmly on the armrests, the chair slowly rose, giving him a proper seat at the tall table.

'Eggs, mom?' Philip asked, reaching for the carafe of orange colored liquid upon the counter.

'Yes, hun. And those cakes you like.' She did not turn as she spoke, alternating her glance between the cooking counter and small plasma screen monitor against the wall. She needed to get things right:

Cook eggs, roughly turning every 1.25 min to avoid burning or undue singeing.

NOTICE: All aves/foul products must be cooked until well done. Allow scanner to indicate appropriate serving temperature before serving.

Using a dark black spatula, she turned over the two eggs already cooking. As always, doing so carefully, still having not developed the dexterity to do so in one smooth stroke. All the while, she could hear her son helping himself to the juice. She now turned her attention to the cakes cooking adjacent the eggs. Again, she looked at the monitor:

Cake batter poured until circumference is approximately 10 (ten) centimeters. Allow to cook until small bubbles cover most of the visible area. Turn over, allowing an additional 2-3 minutes to fully cook. Cake is done when color is a light brown across face. Refer to color chart opposite for comparison.

Philip finished his drink. He had put enough into his glass to get the slight, pasty taste of sleep out of his mouth. 'Where's Dad?'

His mother proceeded to turn over the cakes, having followed the instructions to the letter. 'He received a textcall from Tech Department. An electrical issue on one the upper decks.'

'Oh... '

'He wanted to be here too, you know,' she said without turning.

'He's an important man. I know he helps make the air we breathe.'

His mother smiled, turning one of the hotcakes over to make sure the other side was the appropriate, fully cooked color. She shared in her son's pride when it came to the environmental skills her husband contributed to the ship, ensuring each cubic meter of atmosphere was clean and pure.

'Are you and your friends going to get together today?' she asked, placing his breakfast onto a clean, black colored plate. It was disposable, but sturdy. She then reached up to the touchscreen monitor and entered some commands for the food processor.

Philip poured himself some more juice. 'Yea. Jill and me... maybe Benny too... are going to the park section.'

'You kids like it there don't you?' She remembered the many, youthful days she spent there as well.

'Yeppers.'

His mother turned around and presented Philip with his breakfast in one hand. In the other, she held her own.

'Thanks Mom.'

Philip smiled as she put the plate down before sitting in her own self-adjusting chair. Philip noticed, as always, that his parent's eggs looked different during handmade meals. His were always flat, with the yellow and white colored parts showing on both sides. Theirs a solid light yellow and nearly square. In the past he had asked why this was so. The answer always being they liked them that way, and that when he got older, he would like things a certain way also.

Philip started in on his breakfast as his mother readied herself for her own. Their utensils were the same color as their plates, just as disposable and just as sturdy.

'Be careful today, you and your friends.'

'Yeppers, Mom.' His answer came between bites.

Like most others, Philip entered the park from Level 1. The Park Section extended for two more decks above, and was located near the rear of the ship, just in front of the engineering sections. Those places were off limits to him. Once, he and his friends tried to go there, just out of curiosity, and for something fun to do. They were turned away with an explicit warning not to try and do so again.

The Park Area currently contained a simulated forest, complete with hills and trails. One end housed a rock climbing section for the more adventurous. A small stream wound its way through the park, ending at a modestly sized pond. By now, a good number of people roamed the area, or sat by the big window. Like his bedroom, it faced out and down onto the world outside, taking up nearly the entire side of Level 1.

Philip walked down one of the trails and over a small bridge on the way to the window side of the park. He could hear the sounds of running water mingle with that coming from hidden speakers. His teacher and parents told him they were the sounds of birds and other extinct animals. Once over the big ocean, he knew the park would be converted to that resembling a tropical island, complete with palm trees, sandy beaches and the recorded sounds one would hear at a real seashore.

Emerging from the forest, he scanned all the tables along and near the window for his friends. His perfect eyesight spotted them within moments.

And Doug was there too.

He quickened his pace toward the small table. The young girl seated there turned and saw him approach.

Jill stood and waved. 'Hey Phili!'

The other two boys there turned. All three were Philip's age and equally energetic. Doug sat upon on the table, Benny in a chair adjacent Jill.

Jill and Philip gave each other a slight hug. While doing so, he glanced over to see the slight look of irritation upon Doug's face.

'How long you've been here?' Philip asked as Jill sat back down. He did not sit himself, preferring to stand next to Jill, but opposite Doug.

'Not long... just waiting for you.' Jill smiled, looking up at Phillip.

As always, they all looked forward to a couple of days away from the mental strengthening and physique building which were the bane of their studies at the learning center.

'Yea,' Doug said as he leaned back on the table, using his hands to prop himself up. 'Was just telling Jill how my dad is going to take me to the Command Section next week.'

'Oh,' Phillip responded, attempting to appear totally unimpressed.

'Yea. Going to ask if Jill can come along.' Doug glanced down at her and smiled.

'Wow,' Benny spouted. 'Your dad can do that?'

'Yep,' Doug answered. Normally children needed to be a bit older before they were allowed to go to that part of the ship. But Philip figured it was Doug's way of trying to impress Jill. The one thing Philip noticed he was trying to do more and more often.

'That would be great!' Jill responded, the look of glee and anticipation on her young, flawless face.

Not to be outdone, Phillip decided to bring up the subject now.

'Hey... we're getting close to the big ocean!'

'Yea I saw that!' Benny stated with glee of his own.

'Sleepoverrrrr!' came from both he and Jill at the same time. Doug remained silent. It was one thing to see the outside world from the Command Deck or here in the park. It was another to have that privilege in your own bedroom.

'Yeppers!' Philip was equally ecstatic.

'And a handmade breakfast?' Benny asked. 'Like when we do other sleepovers?'

'Yep. My mom likes to do those I think.'

'Well... let's go for a hike and have some fun,' Doug announced as he stood up, unable to compete with Philip when it came to visually accessing the outside world at any hour of the day.

Immediately both Jill and Benny stood. With a quick pace, Doug and Jill began weaving their way through the other people slowly milling about the park area. Philip and Benny followed close behind as all four headed back towards the forest. As usual, they followed one of the trails until it came to a more remote point, then ventured beyond the well-kept path, running, jumping or skipping among the neatly kept grass, trees and shrubs.

Both Doug and Philip attempted to lead their small group in one direction or another. Jill and Benny simply followed behind.

'I wonder if it's like this on the ground?' Jill mused while Doug led the group up one of the small hills not too far from the trail. There were only a few trees atop there, and one could get a good view of the entire park.

'It is,' Doug answered, looking up at the simulated sky above. Projected onto the smooth surface over the park was the image of a clear, blue sky, with a hint of clouds rolling past.

'How do you know?' Phillip said, racing past Doug to the top.

'Because that's what my father says.'

Doug reached the top also, then leaned back onto the largest tree there, taking in the park below.

Jill came up beside him and glanced over the landscape as well. Benny finally caught up himself.

'Has your father been on the ground?' Philip asked.

'No. But he talks to those in the camp.'

'We won't be there again for a while I think,' Benny added. 'After we're over the ocean.'

'If we are going to be over the ocean, then the park will be changed to a beach,' Doug smiled at Jill as he spoke. 'One day when I work for Command, I'll get to decide when we change the park.'

Philip said nothing, his slight frown speaking for him. Doug was trying to impress Jill yet again.

'ES is important too, you know,' Philip said, refereeing to the countless environmental systems technicians, one of whom was his father. 'Maybe that's why we have a window view in our quarters.'

Doug did not respond. A fake beach was one thing. Philip's privileged view of the world from his bedroom was quite another.

'Hey... what's that?'

The three turned to see Benny pointing towards some trees a few meters to his right. He then slowly walked over that direction. Almost instinctively, Doug strode towards him, attempting to see what had caught his attention.

'What is it Benny?' Jill asked, taking a few cautious steps towards the trees.

As Doug approached one of the trees adjacent to the clearing, he saw it also: a small branch, lying on the ground, part of it appeared buried under the soil.

Phillip had come up and also saw the branch. He stared at it as Jill came up behind him. Doug, normally a fountain of authority, remained speechless.

'Never seen that before,' Benny said, slightly leaning over the branch.

'I bet it's leftover from when the park was changed −'

'Why didn't anyone clean it up?'

Philip saw the look of puzzlement on Doug's normally composed, pompous face. Curiosity got the better of him.

He stepped up to the misplaced branch and reached down for it. Benny backed away, having a feeling about what Philip was doing. As his friend straightened back up, the soil covering part of the limb fell off, with only a small amount clinging to the bark.

'I don't think you should touch that,' Benny stated.

'Why not?' Philip held the limb at one end, turning around to show everyone. 'The tech crews are just gonna' remove it anyway.'

Doug remained silent as Jill moved closer to Philip, herself now as curious as her friend. And like them, curious as to what a tree really looked like on the inside. 'I wonder if they are like the ones on the ground?'

Philip wondered the same thing. Both examined the jagged edge, noting the solid white texture encased within the rough, grey bark. He then placed his hands on the very ends of the branch and began casually testing the girth of the object. While doing so, he glanced over at Doug who remained a few steps away. Perhaps a display of physical prowess was in order.

'Think I can break this even more?' he asked, looking straight at Jill.

Her eyes lit up in anticipation of the unexpected event, one breaking the monotony of their normal routine. She took a small step back as Philip began to apply more pressure to the unfortunate branch. Benny just stood by as he saw the look on Philip's face gradually go from curiosity to a straining grimace. Doug said and did nothing, silently cursing himself for not doing it first.

The limb suddenly snapped. A small spray of liquid, debris and soil shot out from the break, part of it catching Philip in the face. But in his moment of triumph did not feel it. Almost immediately, he raised each part above his head.

'Yessss... ' he spouted, the look on his face exuding his victory over the simulated wood.

'I knew you could do it!' Jill was equally ecstatic. She turned to Doug. 'I knew he could do it.'

Doug put on a small, feigned smile. He looked over at Philip to see the look of triumph upon his face, all in response to Jill's comment. She turned back towards him.

Philip took a small step towards Jill then stopped. He began to feel a funny sensation in his head. It was odd, something he had never experienced before. As the foreign feeling grew stronger, his breathing nearly stopped. He felt himself drawing in a deep breath. Without realizing it, his body now worked solely on instinct. He dropped the branches, brought both his hands towards his face and closed his eyes.

'Achoooo −' The sneeze left his nose just as his hands clasped his face.

Philip stood petrified. He slowly opened his eyes and looked up from his hands. His three classmates just stared at him, wide eyed, mouths open.

'O...M...G...What... what did you just do?' Benny pointed at him as Jill took a step back.

'Why did you make that noise?' a stunned Jill asked.

'I knew you should have left that alone!' Doug moved in between her and Philip.

Philip did not answer. He had no idea what just happened. He looked back down at his hands, noticing the small droplets of liquid covering parts of his palms.

'I... I... ' For the first time in his life, he felt the unnerving sensation of fear swelling up inside him. 'I... don't know!'

~~~

Daring not even to move a muscle, Philip lay on his back as the scanner passed over his head.

Although given a physical on many occasions before, this time the pale blue light and slight humming sound only added to his anxiety. Even the blood pressure monitor gently grasping his slim right arm seemed more acute. The scanner plate came to a stop just beyond the top of his head. An odd, deafening silence then filled the well-lit room.

He glanced over at the pristine, white door embedded in the wall. Usually he would become slightly bored by now, awaiting the brief time before Doctor Rill would come in to pronounce him healthy. Then he could get back to whatever playful adventure he had planned for the day.

Now that usually brief moment seemed an eternity.

Philip imagined him talking to his mom and dad first... relaying the bad news... his mother starting to cry... what terrible thing happened to him...

The door finally slid open. He gasped as Dr Rill stepped in, bearing his usual slight smile amid a wrinkle free face set below a full head of hair. The pressure monitor then automatically released its hold. Again, he gasped, turning his head to watch the clamp retract back into the side of the examination table.

The doctor walked towards Philip as the table slowly transformed from a bed to a comfortable chair, automatically adjusting itself to accommodate the boy's small stature. The foam on his back and seat adjusted itself to the contours of his body. Dr Rill noticed Philip's blank, scared look. He broadened his smile to ease his patient.

'What's the matter Philip?' the doctor asked as he stopped right next to him, looking over the monitor adjacent the now stilled scanner. 'As always you are in perfect health.'

Philip watched Dr Rill tap away upon the touch screen monitor. He began to breath a bit easier but still had his doubts.

'Then... then what happened to me?'

The doctor finished entering some commands before looking down at his patient, still bearing a comforting smile. He sat down on an adjustable stool adjacent the examination chair.

'Well, Philip... it's called a sneeze.'

A look of puzzlement came over Philip's face. 'A... a sneeze? What's that?'

'Well,' the doctor moved a bit closer, 'it's when some stuff gets into your sinuses. They lay just beyond the top of your nose. It's your body's way of getting rid of it.'

The doctor's explanation ended with a broadened smile. Philip sat quiet for a moment, taking in the explanation.

'How did the stuff get... get in my nose?'

'Most likely just some small, tiny particles that you accidently breathed in.'

'So... there's... something wrong with me?'

'Nooo... of course not.' He patted Philip on the head. 'It's rare - a sneeze - but natural. It means you are special.'

At those words, Philip broke into a wide grin. He was special. Good. That meant Jill would like him more than Doug.

'So I am alright? And special?'

'Yes, Philip,' Doctor Rill said as he stood. 'Now why don't you go out into the lounge area and play some Mahjong. I need to talk to your mom and dad, let them know you are okay. Then...' he raised his arm and one finger towards the ceiling, 'you can show them what a big strong boy you are!'

'Yesss!' Philip clinched his fists and brought them towards his side in a gesture of victory. He's special. Jill will like him more. He sprang from the chair and looked up at the doctor. 'Thanks Doctor Rill.'

The doctor smiled. 'You are very, very welcome young man!'

He walked slightly behind the boy as both left through the door. Once into the next room the doctor watched Philip head to the right, towards a small terminal table. Upon seating himself, the computer screen came to life while a keyboard rose from the tabletop. Immediately Philip set about bringing up a game of Mahjong. It was as though nothing bad had happened to him today. All his fears and apprehension left in the examination room, his young mind not desiring to question the words of the adults.

And why should he? Life was good and there were many fun things to do. And he could have a sleepover - take that Doug!

Satisfied Philip was engaged in his game, Dr Rill turned towards another door adjacent to the exam room. It slid open, exposing a much larger room, complete with a desk and cabinets containing medicines and drugs. Philip's parents sat upon a couch facing a large window, one allowing a view of the sky outside and world below. They turned upon hearing him enter. The other person there, a tall and slender man bearing a bit of white along the sides of his otherwise dark colored hair, looked up as he leaned against a table adjacent the window, his arms crossed, facing Philip's parents.

Dr Rill returned their smiles with one of his own.

'Well,' he said, seating himself at the end of the sofa, 'we always knew Philip was a very special boy. We knew that as soon as I looked at the results of his biogenetics test right after his birth.'

The parents smiled at each other. Philip's father put his arm around his wife and gave her a slight hug.

'We know, Doctor,' he said, looking into her eyes, drawing her in closer. He then glanced at Dr Rill. 'I can tell you that we are both proud to do our part for our species. We... we knew this day would come... when he would have to leave. We understand.'

'Just not this soon...' The mother's voice was soft, trailing off as she lowered her head.

'That may be a plus,' Dr Rill retorted. He gestured toward the other man still leaning against the table. 'Would you say so, Doctor Acre?'

'Most certainly.' His voice was cautious. 'He is a bit young, but that would help him build up more immunity.'

'How long... how long do we have?' she asked, first looking up at Dr Rill then over at Dr Acre. He spoke first.

'We won't be back over near the colony for a few months.' His slight smile meant to be reassuring, given the near fatalistic, yet anticipated news.

'Will we ever see him again? Once he's there?' the father asked.

'There's always a possibility,' Dr Rill said in his own cautious voice. 'Of course, there could be no physical contact... once he leaves the ship.'

The father nodded as his wife clinched his leg.

An odd silence followed.

'He's... he's going to do well.' Dr Acre finally said. He stood up. 'You both have been more than helpful preparing him. With you preparing special meals for him,' he gestured at the mother, 'and he gets to see the world in a more personal way each day.'

'A domicile with a view to the outside world is truly a gift. Even if one will never get to actually be there,' the father stated.

'He'll be less fearful of it... and I believe it has only heightened his curiosity about the outside world.' Dr Rill hoped to ease their apprehension.

'He's a strong boy,' his mother said with pride looking up at Dr Acre.

'Yes he is. And the other members of the colony will be there to help in the transition. He's going to make a valuable asset to those who help support us down there in the outside world.'

All four remained silent, each imagining what Philip might be doing this time next year, next decade, in his new life.

'Well then,' Dr Rill rose as he spoke. 'Best not to keep Philip waiting too long.'

With that the parents stood up. The quartet gravitated towards the door.

'Remember,' Dr Acre spoke as they walked, 'start showing him the images and digital videos from the program I gave you. They'll be helpful for when he actually gets to the colony.'

'You know,' the father said, holding his wife's hand as they walked. 'I don't know if I could go around having to wear those things on my nose.'

'You mean glasses?' Dr Acre suspected he referred to the photo of the man wearing a pair of black rimmed glasses. One of the many images few would ever see in person, having only pictures to muse about what life was once like. 'Philip may never even need them. His genetic strength is his ability to cope with his body's reaction to contaminates, not poor eyesight.'

The couple then left without a word. Knowing this day would come, any words, action or gestures, no matter how heartfelt, would make it no easier.

The doctors watched from the doorway as the two embraced their son. The child seemed unaware as what was to come. But it was best he enjoy the last vestiges of a blissfully ignorant youth.

Dr Acre then paced back towards the window. A few moments later Dr Rill walked towards his desk. As he sat, he brought up the computer screen to begin the perfunctory duties coming after an examination. He then paused, looking up to see Dr Acre staring out the window.

'It doesn't get any easier, does it?'

Dr Acre looked at the world beneath them. 'No... it does not.'

He took in the shoreline below, noting how the waves crashed against the tan colored beach, how a flock of seagulls passed gracefully and undisturbed above it. 'I envy every one of those like Philip we find.'

Dr Rill lowered his head. 'The precious few we do come across.'

Dr Acre did not take his eyes of the shoreline as he spoke. 'I turn ninety years old next week. My life expectancy is one-hundred and fifty. As are Philip's parents and friends. In all that time, none of us will ever know what it is like to walk on that beach below. I will never be able to let wet sand caress my toes with each step.' He looked over at Dr Rill. 'I'll never know what it is like to hold and smell a flower - a real one I mean.'

He then crossed his arms, returning his attention to the world outside. One he would never get to experience.

'They meant well... all those centuries ago,' Dr Rill glanced back up. 'Who knew that creating a perfect human being would have such a consequence? And...' he paused. 'Put ourselves into the shoes of a doctor or the lives of a parent who lived in those days. Who would want to see a loved one fall ill, or endure the suffering wrought by an infection or tumor or... or imperfection?'

Dr Acre gently nodded. 'Super drugs... genetic tests to weed out flaws.' He sighed and put his arms around his back. 'Perfect people... free of genetic flaws... we lost our ability to adapt. Perfection at the price of immunity. They prized that so much back then that now we seek the slightest genetic flaw or disposition... to save the human race.'

'As you said, young Philip will make a nice addition to the colony. His genetic predisposition will work well in helping his body adapt. And, when he meets a special lady...' Dr Rill ventured an envious smile, 'pass that flaw onto their offspring.'

'We can only hope.'

'Ironic that the germs and bacteria they so dreaded back then... so far they are winning the war of evolution.'

At that, Dr Acre smiled. He turned and took a few steps toward the desk.

'They may still win it.'

Editor's note: The world is changing so quickly - ten years ago there was no such thing as an iPhone, so who knows where we'll be in another fifty years or more. Speculative fiction can border on science fiction, which tends to narrow its audience, so this piece gets its Editor's Pick for managing to take us into the future while still being accessible to those of us still in the present!
Revolting Mirrors

David Newman

Jacobs Well, Queensland

Australia

27 September 2014

I used to look into my mirror, to see what I would see;

and there would be a good looking fellow, who liked to look right back at me.

Then one day - Now! This may seem to be a little bit strange -

my mirror - for reasons of its own - decided that it would change.

I have no idea what my mirror did, with that real good looking bloke;

perhaps my mirror could no longer cope - so it made a little joke.

Never mind! - Not to worry! - My feelings can never become jaded;

for I still have the memory of how my mirror used to be, before its talent faded.

If my mirror is no longer up to the task of doing all of it that I ask;

then, I'll ask no more of it, for obviously its usefulness has passed.

But now I wonder - if I surveyed all you lovely folk - what would be the result?

Are there others of you out there, whose mirrors have joined in with the revolt?

Don't take it too personally, - you must not think of it as an insult;

that our beauty surpasses our mirror's ability - so, our mirrors are at fault.
The Broken Jug

AA Anderson

Bathurst, New South Wales

Australia

28 September 2014

The year is 1902, 13th June.

A black horse and dray pulls up in front of a pair of large ornate iron gates.

The weathered sign on the gates conveys the message, 'KEEP OUT, property reclaimed by the Atlanta, Georgia, Union Army.'

The passenger, a very old man, steps out and, oblivious to the sign, enters the iron gates.

He slowly walks along the unkempt and long unused carriageway, through the long line of half dead cedars, up to a clearing, with what can only be described as a huge pile of stones and debris.

He stands for a moment deep in thought and then his mind goes back to the past and that day, 13th June 1864 - to a time when a large mansion stood on this spot and what a grand mansion it was, with many servants, stables, grazing cattle and fields of cotton.

He remembered it was the day of little Emily Mitchells' seventh birthday.

Her father, a kind and generous man and home on leave from the Confederate Army, had given little Emily a birthday present, a tiny tea set, with little pink roses and soft gold edging, an exact miniature of her mother, Edwina's larger bone china dinner set.

Emily was enrapt.

It was 2 pm in the afternoon when the footsteps sounded on the portico and the Union soldiers forced their way through the large oak front door.

They announced that the mansion now belonged to them and all the horses and cattle had been confiscated.

Emily's father Captain Robert Mitchell, being a Confederate Captain, protested, but was taken roughly away, a prisoner of the Union Army.

Edwina, little Emily and the servants were all called into the main hall and then ushered roughly out into the front carriageway.

Much to their horror the soldiers started gathering branches and piling them against the walls before setting fire to the large white wooden columns of the Portico.

Little Emily standing next to her mother could only think of the tea set Daddy had given her for her birthday.

She skirted quietly around behind the soldiers and ran quickly through the front door and up the large staircase.

Before anyone realised she was missing she was half way up the stairs.

A servant shouted but it was too late. Flames by this time could be seen appearing through the upper windows, then to her mother's and the servants' horror it took hold of the roof and the whole building collapsed in flames.

Servants held the distraught mother back from the inferno but nothing could be done.

Their home, their lovely furniture, their belongings, their valuables, everything lay in a burning heap before their eyes.

The loss of her husband, her little daughter and her home, was too much for Edwina. Her mind snapped that day and she would never be the same again, eventually dying a pauper in a mental institution in Atlanta.

Tears welled up in the old man's eyes and slowly trickled down his worn cheeks, as he remembered happier times, as he walked through the tangled boughs and rose brier that once were a magnificent garden, stumbling over pieces of wood and cement.

Suddenly the sun glinted on something coloured in the pile of debris. Picking his way over blocks of stone, he bent to pick up a tiny charcoal object.

Turning it over in his hand, he examined it and slowly taking out his handkerchief, he wiped the side, to find it was a small jug, very dirty and seemed to be minus the tiny handle.

Wrapping it carefully in his hanky he placed it in his pocket.

The air was still and the heat of the Georgia summer made him feel old and tired.

He would soon have to go. Then, turning around towards the fields, he saw the two weatherworn headstones under a magnolia tree in the corner of the paddock.

Slowly on the uneven ground he walked over towards them.

He could only just decipher the inscriptions. They were so worn with time.

It read: 'Edwina Mitchell beloved wife of Captain Robert Mitchell' and the smaller headstone read 'Emily May Mitchell beloved daughter died tragically on her 7th birthday 13th June 1864'.

The old man took the package from his pocket then carefully and painstakingly wiped all the dirt and ash from the little broken jug, revealing the delicate rose pattern and soft gold edge.

He took a small pink magnolia bud from the tree above and reverently placed it in the jug.

Then slowly bending down on one knee sat the tiny jug in front of the child's grave.

'Happy Birthday sweet little Emily,' he said solemnly and then turning on his heel and with tears streaming down his face, Captain Robert Mitchell headed back to the old iron gates.
Farewell My Friend

Vita Monica

Southbank, Victoria

Australia

28 September 2014

Once more we write to you

After tens of little notes,

Hundreds greetings, and thousands quotes

Once more. Last one before you leave

You are a friend dear to heart,

A friend - faithful

A flower blooms in midst of rain,

You are a friend grateful to have -

Patient and kind -

Honest,

And true.

You are a friend going away,

And our hearts break to wave you

Go

While the shadows fall

Tho' we know: New dawn's comin'

Dear friend

If we have written you tearful rhymes

It was not our fault

You are a friend dear to heart

A friend going away

Strainful. Stretching empty hands

With words iced on our lips

Heaven's decree is the one we bow

The bitter thing is:

'We must let you go.'

We feel softened

As we sing you rhymes

We touch the warmth -

of a new morning sun

We walk you

To the gate of a New World

where future glistens afar

Blessings

Smiles

Hopes, and never die -

Love.

You are a friend dear to heart

A friend

For this family.
Faceless

Kylie Abecca

Port Albany, Western Australia

Australia

29 September 2014

I watch the darkened hallway,

The sounds, barely audible,

A faceless man is staring,

Thickened mist around me,

Help!

I cannot move my body,

My eyes they cannot see,

I want to scream, want to run,

I'm frozen in this drifting hole,

Help!

I'm moving through my dazed state of mind,

Looking for you, calling, crying, begging,

That faceless man! Still staring!

Daddy? Is that you?
Desperate Poet

Veronica Hosking

Rancho Santa Fe, Arizona

USA

30 September 2014

Dirty dishes

forgotten

in the sink

Words

scrawled on paper

Housewife

smeared in ink

Editor's note: We enjoyed the economy of words coupled with the insightful and humorous portrayal of the need to write - which we're sure many of you will relate to!
A New Role For Joy

Shirley Burgess

Rosebud, Victoria

Australia

30 September 2014

The advertisement read: 'Shop for Sale. Excellent position. Would suit small business in busy shopping precinct. Very reasonable terms.'

And that's how it all started. The dingy shop was soon repainted, cleaned and sparkling, ready for Joy and Kaye to start their new business, called 'Coffee Café'.

Joy and Kaye had been best friends since kindergarten. Both were excellent cooks and both were enthusiastic workers.

They had put big advertisements in the paper, but now anxiety crept in.

'What if no-one turns up tomorrow, and we have all these cakes and food to get rid of?' Kaye said, full of foreboding.

'We'll worry about that when it happens.'

They need not have worried. Customers flocked there, sampling the delicious fare. At the end of the day, both were wrung out with exhaustion, but on cloud nine just the same. The takings had been astonishing.

When Joy arrived home to get the family tea, she tried to tell her mother and sister, Dawn, about the successful day.

'Wait until the novelty wears off. You won't be so full of things then will you?'

Joy sighed. That was the reply she had expected.

'How did you raise enough money to buy the shop and the fittings in the first place?' her mother asked, suspiciously.

_Well, here goes nothing_ , Joy thought. 'I invested my bequest from Dad into the shop; we did a lot of the labour ourselves, as well as most of the cooking. You should come in and see. It looks great.'

'Mercy, you don't know the first thing about business and all its traps. You'll lose all your money. Besides, Dawn was relying on your help to start a hairdressing business - don't tell me you put the whole lot in?' Then, as she saw Joy shaking her head, showing there was no money of hers for them to plunder, she added, 'How selfish of you. Dawn's business would have brought money into the house. I can't understand you spending so much time down there, without even being paid for your work.'

'I don't even get paid for the work I do here,' retorted Joy.

'You get a roof over your head and food on the table for one thing,' chided her mother.

'Dawn works hard enough in the office, why not you too?' This was an old argument and she couldn't be bothered continuing it.

_It's always about Dawn_ , Joy said to herself. _Dawn is the pretty one, the one Mother fawns over. Dawn squandered her money long ago, probably Mum's too. Who cares about our wonderful shop opening? No-one here._ She left them in disgust.

Her mother was quite wrong. The business thrived. The two girls worked hard until eventually they had to put on first one helper, then another, and that allowed Joy more time to spend on the household chores. In fact, over a period of five years, the business had turned into a gold mine, and the bequest money had long been replaced.

One day her mother said, 'Mary Chambers is going for a holiday, to a house in a place called Diamond Bay, on the Hawkesbury River. It used to belong to her family but now it's hers. She's asked us along and wonders if you would cook for us all? I said we'd be glad to go.'

_Mary's a good old stick_ , thought Joy, _but I'd bet the inclusion of me to cook for them was Mum's idea. Still, it'll be good to have a break._

They flew to Sydney and then caught a coach to Gosford, then a taxi to Diamond Bay, and it was a tedious journey. Still, the house was lovely and so was everything else.

There was plenty of time for Joy to explore this lovely little town on her own. There were lots of trees, a small river running in behind the town, and spectacular scenes, especially near the Hawkesbury itself. Joy was enchanted.

Her mother casually told them both that it was too far away, and she would never come back. With that in mind, Joy sought out an estate agent, quietly, who showed her several small houses, and she fell instantly in love with one small one.

She placed a deposit on her little house, with the rest of the arrangements to be handled by her solicitor. The family solicitor was a good friend. He soon had the property secured and had it leased for two years, when it would practically be paid off.

When the lease expired, Joy consulted Kaye, confiding her plans to move into her very own home in New South Wales.

'It's time to move on and be independent.'

'It's so far away,' moaned Kaye. 'I'll miss you too much.'

'Being a long way away is the idea really,' said Joy. 'I'll leave behind all the arguments and the bias at home. P'raps Dawn can have a go at keeping Mum happy with work done round the house,' she laughed bitterly. 'I'm leaving by plane next Monday. You're well established now. It's been a privilege watching it grow, and a privilege to have worked with you, Kaye.'

'It wouldn't even be here without your help,' sobbed Kaye. She gave Joy a big hug, and both of them shed a few tears.

On the day she left, her mother had seen her to the front door, with a final salvo, 'I really don't know why you are doing this. It has to be the stupidest thing you've ever done.' Then, unexpectedly, in a softer tone she added, 'But I wish you all the best. Good luck, Joy,' giving her a hug and a kiss on the cheek before turning away.

This surprising concern brought tears, which Joy couldn't stem as she climbed miserably into the taxi for her trip to Tullamarine airport. _One happy thought, I'll be able to offload these two heavy cases,_ she reasoned.

Waiting for the plane announcements, she sat thinking over the past few years' events, since her father had died, and her depression deepened. Joy and her father had been close, and she'd always missed him.

At last the speaker burst into life with an announcement that boarding had commenced for the 10 am Qantas plane to Sydney. Joy started from her reverie, wiping some tears away hastily.

No-one sat in the seat next to her. _Thank goodness_ , she thought. _I'm not in a mood to chat to anyone, but the seat will be handy for dumping some of my stuff._

Gazing out of the window she sighed, thinking of the boring five hours' journey stretching before her.

Suddenly, she became aware that a man was standing at the seat beside her.

'Oh, I beg your pardon,' she said, now flustered as she tried quickly to retrieve her things, but a coat and a book escaped on to the floor.

'Here, allow me.'

'Thank you very much,' she murmured in consternation. She looked up to see a pair of twinkling brown eyes, and with hand extended he politely introduced himself. 'My name's Ted Burton, and I'm sorry to have disturbed you,' he said, laughing away her confusion.

'I've been visiting my daughter and her young family in Melbourne,' he told her. 'Quite a change from my usually quiet existence. Mind you, it won't be bad to be able to sit quietly and relax a bit after all the noise and action in my daughter's house. You see, my grandchildren are very energetic.'

'Oh, well I'm the opposite; I'm going on quite an adventure. I'm going to Diamond Bay and it'll be late in the day by the time I get there - that is, just supposing I can find the right bus to catch at the terminal.' She smiled shyly. 'I'm Joy by the way.'

'Hello Joy. Well I can certainly help there. I know Central station pretty well, and can show you where to go if you wish. I'd be glad to lend a hand.'

'Thank you again,' said Joy. 'I'd be very grateful for your help.'

Joy found it was pleasant, after all, to have someone to speak to, and found herself chatting to him easily. In fact, they chatted in turn for the whole trip, Joy managing to tell him how she came to be headed for Diamond Bay.

He was sorry she and her mother had not had a happy liaison, for he'd lost both his mother and his wife within days of each other, several years ago, and had immersed himself in his work ever since.

At one point Joy told him about the house she was headed for. 'I'm so excited to be moving in permanently,' she sparkled. 'It's quite a small house but has no garden, so I've a heap of work to do there. It even has a small garage, but I don't have a car yet,' she giggled.

Then more soberly, 'I'll miss Kaye terribly,' and her voice wobbled ominously.

'She might join you for holidays,' he suggested.

'Yes, we intend to do that, and you never know, we might start up a branch of our Coffee Café in Diamond Bay. Now that would be something.'

They chatted away happily.

On arrival in Sydney, Ted showed her where she should go to catch the bus to Gosford and put her luggage into the receiving depot. They were quite early, so Ted suggested they have a tea break in the meantime, and courteously escorted her to a table, insisting on paying for their repast.

Joy gratefully sipped the hot tea, feeling at home with her new companion.

The coach pulled into the terminus on time and they were to part ways.

As the heavy cases were being stacked aboard the coach, Joy said, 'Thank you for your pleasant company and all your help, and thank you for listening to me so kindly. I'm afraid I bent your ear rather badly.'

Ted realised he was about to lose his new friend. He smiled. 'Look, I must hear the end of your story. Here's my card - may I have your phone number? Please keep in touch, and keep me up-to-date with how you're getting on. If you don't ring me, I'll ring you.'

Giving him her mobile number she promised that she would.

Her coach was waiting.

He shook her hand, holding it a little longer than was usual. 'I have a better idea,' he said. 'We have so much to talk about, how about I come up one Saturday, in a week or so, and we can try out some of the opposition coffee places - see what you are up against?'

'I'd love that,' beamed a very happy Joy. She waved and went inside the coach with a light step.

She knew that this was the start of something wonderful for her.
Back To School

Corey Siemens

Vancouver, British Columbia

Canada

1 October 2014

I remember back to school

Everyone bummed

Anxious about wardrobes

I remember feelings of relief

No more shovelling, sweating, or moving piles of lumber

Teachers were so much kinder than bosses

My friends were more fun to hang out with than know-it-all rednecks

Relentlessly telling you how it is

How to be

What you should've done

Why didn't you this

Why didn't you that

Good riddance

At least I had a few muscles until October

Then it's back to skin and bones.
Sometimes

Rachel Branscombe

Quakers Hill, New South Wales

Australia

1 October 2014

Sometimes I think that the world is a cruel place to be

Sometimes the world can be harsh

Sometimes I think the world is not such a bad place after all

Sometimes the world can be amazing

The world is like a coin flipped

It gives and takes depending on which side it lands

I love the world sometimes

Other times I wish it would burn

Sometimes the world can lift you high

Sometimes it's nothing more than a kick in the behind

The world is something I both love and hate

Sometimes the world can be a blessing

Sometimes it's a curse

Sometimes I think man has ruined the world

Sometimes I think the world has ruined us

I'm not sure what is worse

The world is full of secrets

Of twists and turns and tricks

The world is full of miracles

Of peace and harmony

Sometimes I think that we are the world

That humans make our living worthwhile

Sometimes I think the world is us

That we are a part of something bigger

Sometimes I think I know it all

Sometimes I think I haven't even begun to understand
Gabe Forgotten

Fantail

Mount Barker, South Australia

Australia

2 October 2014

The angel is becoming frustrated by his enforced stay on Earth.

I awoke, restless in the threatening low-pressure cell that hung over the countryside. My bed was too warm so I shrugged into a wrap and padded outside to lean against the cool back wall. Before me, bright moonlight lined paths and etched a tracery of shadows under the birches.

Up to my left, a denser light caught my eye: Gabriel, sitting yogi-like atop the chimney next door.

'Gabe, get off that roof before you're seen!' Caution had seeped away during my third restless night. Still angry about the angel's theft of my novel, I added, 'You dunce!'

In a flash he stood before me. I wished I could dissolve into the brick at my back.

'Dunce? I don't know dunce; but from your tone I doubt it's flattering. I like flattering, Elisabeth.'

He pulsed a stronger flash and leered at me. 'Eleesabeth? I'm growing!'

I wanted to slap his face.

'You wouldn't, would you?' Alarm replaced his leer. He stepped back hastily and stumbled over his left wing-tip. 'Damn!' He flipped back onto the roof, flashing brightly.

'Dampen the effects, Gabe!'

He turned off, leaving a little light playing about his face. His expression was thunderous. I held my breath.

'I want my hole!'

With his shout, the sun cracked the horizon. For a second, I felt the ground quiver.

'Gabe! For god's sake!'

A pair of slitted eyes bored into mine.

'Sorry. But if you don't quieten, you'll meet some humans you won't like - '

'Who said I liked any of this misbegotten race?'

I turned to go inside. At that instant, I didn't care what happened. Ever since Gabe had begun to grow, his moods had become erratic. Angels like him have to travel almost continually. Staying in one place too long means changing: losing angel-hood and taking on all the attributes of a sector's dominant species. I loved Gabe, but was becoming uncomfortable in his presence and tired of his increasing narcissism.

'Wait! Elisabeth! I need my hole! I have been forgotten! I want heaven! We do not grow in heaven... Where is God?' he thundered. An answering rumble growled from a cloudbank looming in the north.

'Gabe, come down. Come on. I'll brew us a camomile and mint tea.'

He came. We sat in my kitchen and sipped our drinks.

'Ah!' I sighed, 'this'll put hairs on your chest.'

His cup shattered on the floor. He jumped to his feet and whipped open his shirt. A small thatch of golden curls winked in the light. He roared. The cupboards trembled, cutlery rattled, and two ornamental owls crashed to the floor.

'Look!' He flung a hand in front of my face.

I gulped, thinking he was about to strike me - until I saw his nails. They'd grown at least half a centimetre since the previous day, and his hair, his beautiful soft-gold hair, was limp and untidy.

He had to start travelling again - and soon.

'Gabe... where's Aebon?'

The angel quit flinging his arms about and glared.

'That devil's spawn,' he muttered. 'What do you mean, "Where's Aebon?" Travelling of course - as he should. Making trouble. But that is none of your business. You leave Aebon alone. He's mine.'

We were both shocked into silence. Then it dawned on me that Gabe wasn't using a figure of speech when he called Aebon 'devil's spawn'.

He knew he'd said too much. He slumped back into his chair, abashed yet smug.

'Lucifer's angel, eh?' I mused. 'No wonder he was so good-looking.' Once again I saw the gleaming glory of that dark body stretched in front of Gabe's fire, and saw the intimate glances they bestowed on each other; and I blushed, remembering my own yearning.

'He's mine,' Gabe snarled. 'I'm warning you, Elisabeth.'

I tore my thoughts back to the present.

'The hole, Gabe; hasn't Aebon got a hole? How does he travel?'

Gabe softened a bit. 'I forget how little you know, Elisabeth. Each wormhole is individually tuned. Lucifer warped mine because - ' He caught himself, changed tack. 'The Almighty could straighten it, but - ' His voice trailed away.

I thought I understood.

'The Almighty's chief angel consorting with Lucifer's current shag, eh?'

Gabe leapt from his chair.

'No need to be so cruel, Elisabeth.' Alarm widened his eyes as again he stumbled over his wing tip. 'Damn! Must have that trimmed. Would you Elisabeth... dear?'

I hurt. I wanted to be cruel. That blasted angel had banged into my life without invitation and captured my heart. I was jealous. I wanted Gabe and Aebon; more than that, I wanted their ageless beauty - the beauty Gabe's mirror showed me. Time rushed for me now.

However, I found my sharpest pair of sewing scissors and bid Gabe stay still while I carefully trimmed the ends of those soft, shaggy wings.

'I'm going into hiding.' His words suddenly spurted out.

'Why? Where?'

I couldn't imagine why he, of all creatures, would need to hide.

'I need to think about this "growing" thing - to regroup, as it were. If I told you where, I wouldn't be hiding now, would I?' He made an effort to smile, quirked an eyebrow, and vanished.

I moped through the rest of that morning, mad at him for plunging me into a state of useless longing, mad at him for ruining my best seller, and sad and afraid that perhaps he had been deliberately forgotten. Then, at midday, I made an omelette and took it with a comforting hot triple-choc marshmallow fluff out onto the back lawn. The early thunderclouds had disappeared. The sun was warm. The day sparkled and, as I ate, I played with the thought of exploring Gabe's rose arbour while he was gone.
Dream Maker

Andrew Pitcher

Muswell Hill, London

England

2 October 2014

If I could make your dreams come true

That is what I would do for you.

When you are lonely and in despair

Just call my name and I'll be there.

And if all I can do, is make you smile

Then I know it was worth my while.

I want to hold you in my arms and say 'you'll be fine'

And hear you say that 'you'll be mine'

Oh, what a day that would be,

When there is just you and me.

The moon and the stars could be yours,

For the woman, who, has no flaws

And every day to you I'd say

'The look of you brightens my day'

Then I would say this, which is true

'With all of my heart, I love you'

And if I were to write a song about you

The things you say and the things you do

And the love I'd give, when you are near

With all my feelings spelled out clear

The reason I love you, the one I cherish

And why my love for you, would never perish

Why I would do every chore

For the woman whom I adore

And with all these words, I think you'd know

My love for you, I would never let go.
Roaring Forties

Henry Johnston

Rozelle, New South Wales

Australia

3 October 2014

Day of ending for beginnings! Ocean hath another innings, Ocean hath another score; and the surges sing his winnings, and the surges shriek his winnings, all along the sullen shore.

The air seems cooler. Long shadows fall across the deck where just a few weeks earlier, a torrid perpendicular sun banished notions of night.

I pass the shortening days with solitary games of hide and seek. My balance is perfect. I have no sense of the yaw and roll of Strathaird beneath my tread. Porpoise and bonito, which leapt and gamboled in the tropical bow wake, no longer appear. Long, dark blue swells roll toward the ship. The weather is neither rough, nor inclement, but I sense Strathaird moving toward an untimely fall. The perception is disconcerting.

A man, hands clasped behind his back, steps into the fading light, and walks forward. He wears a plain white shirt. A shabby black frock coat matches his stovepipe trousers. A cravat, adorned by a Lincoln Imp clasp, binds his neck at the tip of the Adams' apple. Whiskers cascade from his top lip and coil into a grey-flecked trimmed beard. A black serge cotton cap, its visor shiny black, sits atop his head.

'We approach the great Southern Ocean,' he says, 'a sea so vast the waves circle the hemisphere without dashing against land'.

He points south to the tilting horizon. 'The Roaring Forties.'

'James Cook sailed this way many a year ago now, but no sailor shall cross his wake, for the sea sailed by the Yorkshire Captain is frozen to the blue of his eyes. Here live whales and giant octopus, and sharks as big as London Bridge.

'Albatross fly this latitude, and few know where she builds her nest. I have heard tell she weaves a lair among the weeds and barnacles floating atop the icy foam. Others say she huddles high on the crags of Herd Island, and feeds her young the corpses of shipwrecked sailors. But I know she dances with her mate in the brimstone of Tierra del Fuego, and in summer, spreads her wings and soars the thermals beneath the Southern Cross before circling the globe anew.'

The captain pulls at a stout chain, which cascades from a breast button on his coat to a fob pocket in his waistcoat. He opens an old silver watch, scans the face of the timepiece, reaches for the sidewinder, twists several times then snaps the clasp shut.

The ticking timer startles me, for though it shows the present, it will neither reveal the past, nor disclose the future.

I glance away, and when I look back, the captain - like time - is gone.
Menopause In A Thousand Words

Demelza

Taroona, Tasmania

Australia

3 October 2014

I would liken myself to being a fortress on a hill. That's what Demelza means: fortress. There is also honey in the root of the name which gives me a balance between strong and sweet.

Menopause, for me, has been like being that fortress one moment and the very next being hit by a tsunami of great magnitude. All I see spread before me is debris and chaos, nothing left solid or familiar. All things are teetering anxiously, waiting for that next wave to completely annihilate me.

So sudden and unexpected were the side effects of menopause, so unprepared was I at that time, I felt there would be no chance of recovery.

I'm a bit shy about talking 'girl talk' with my husband but he needed to know what was happening as it was already affecting him and I didn't want him to feel I was pushing him away or ignoring him. So to speak his language I poured out my soul in an email and sent it to him at work.

I thought he'd turn up at home with a bunch of flowers but instead he gave me a quick hug and said he'd support me through this sickness. The next link I'll be sending him will be '10 things not to say to a menopausal woman'. 'I'm not sick,' I retorted. 'It's a part of life not, an illness.'

To which he responded way too defensively, 'Well if you had a broken leg you wouldn't be sick either but you'd still need looking after.'

To which I didn't respond with: 'So you are calling me disabled now!' and I wouldn't and couldn't because if I had I'd be insulting disabled people. And of course I know that's not where his heart is coming from. He just has a disability in using the right words in the right situations. How will he ever be able to muster even a small amount of empathy for the hormonal female if the truth is never portrayed to him?

If you read this, Darling, please don't become offended as you are not the only one to say the wrong thing at a time like this. In fact you may be thinking there is nothing 'right you could say' but that would be not only not true but giving up before even getting started.

A close friend chose to comfort me by saying it's only a season, it will pass. Nothing discouraging there but perhaps she shouldn't have carried on to say you were only pregnant for nine months, it seems long at the time but then it passes, you only breast feed for six months... no two and a half years, and then it passes... Are you getting the picture?

For a short minute I do get the picture but then my mind does the maths and says eight children multiplied by nine months equals six years and eight babies multiplied by two years breastfeeding is sixteen - twenty years is a hell of a long season!

Someone said, 'Yay, sex without contraception.' I did a bit of educating and pointed out that menopause is the season after all this other stuff happens and until an entire year has passed from your last period you are still able to become pregnant, although at 50 you have increased chance of twins and other sleep depriving issues that I am not willing to go into at present. And what I didn't say because I didn't want to scare the beautiful young woman, vaginal dryness is an incomprehensibly painful experience that I have never heard anyone talk of in all my life.

Have I been an ostrich with my head in the sand or were all you older women too embarrassed to discuss growing older with me? Was it my youthful arrogance that kept my ears stuffed with the sound of my own infallibility? Well, I shall attempt to prepare my young ones, male and female, so as when and if life throws a storm at them they will, perhaps, see it as a few largish waves and not a life threatening event.

The good thing for me and this next gen is that we all have information freely available to us and can research every subject under the sun at the press of a key pad. Not that I have actually found a site that lists '10 things not to say to a peri-menopausal woman' but I did discover many other interesting and educational lists and I feel sure it is just a matter of time before the one I want will appear.

Not for a minute do I suggest that this will get you through this 'season' of your life. In fact the most comfort I have received so far has been from a phone call from an out of the blue school friend of exactly the same age. Maybe to compare notes on 'night sweats', 'mood swings', 'non-infectious cystitis' etc. is not everyone's cup of tea but for me to be able to relate to someone going through the same devastating feelings as I am was a great comfort. I look forward to a time in the future when we may both reflect on the situation in the past tense.

What about going to a doctor? Well I did but she only looked at the first two items (sore foot, irregular heart beat) on my list and said to book a double appointment in two weeks' time. Have to say that didn't make me feel all that important but it did give me time to do a fair amount of research which makes me much more informed and better able to cope.

Today was nearly a good day: I heard the birds whistling outside, the sun was shining and I had slept for more than two hours. I think you are waiting for the but... but when I got out of bed the plantar fasciitis kicked in and it became incredibly painful to walk, the thrush, which I don't get anymore, came back and to top it off I got slammed with a migraine.

I'd like to say crying helps but I've been trying it on and off for a while now and I am not noticing any benefits from doing so. Sometimes I cry because I am so proud of my children and sometimes I cry because they will have to face the same challenges as all of us.

The good thing about staying positive and keeping a sense of humour is staying positive and keeping a sense of humour. Plus positive people with senses of humour always seem to be better off than the downright miserable. But if that is where you are at the moment remember 'It is only a season.'

Names and places have been changed to protect the integrity of anyone who may be embarrassed by this story.

This is only my story, yours will be a bit different and yet it will be the same. Whatever your story is I encourage you to share it with others and if you want... with me.

Thanks for listening,

Demelza
Featherfall

Dee Harrison

Grimsby, Lincolnshire

United Kingdom

4 and 5 October 2014

The sun winked.

GLinn ceased his exploration of a vole burrow and looked up at this fresh wonder. A white feather, the length of his arm, gyred down from the sun's heart.

Amar, his mother, paused in her berry picking. 'Quick, quick,' she urged him. 'Grab it, Precious One, before it touches the earth. It's good fortune!'

GLinn laughed and bounced on chubby, toddler legs to catch the swan feather. It teased him, dipping and curling out of reach but then he snatched it from the sky. Amar was pleased with her son's prowess and gave him the largest berry from her basket.

'Take care of that sky's gift and it will take care of you,' she advised him. GLinn did not really understand but the piece of stiff cloud made him feel good inside, like the warm taste of the berry on his tongue.

~~~

GLinn grew tall and as wiry as sinew whilst Akiss, his twin sister, became as soft and curved as a down feather. Hopeful suitors began to leave her gifts of flowers, carvings or shell anklets outside their lodge. Akiss accepted their offerings even as, with laughter light as summer rain, she rejected their proposals.

'You have many years yet, my daughter, before you need to clip your pinions,' counselled Amar. She combed through the curtain of her child's raven tresses. 'You have a fine voice and a good memory. Anella wonders if you would consider becoming her apprentice.'

Akiss whirled round, eyes ablaze, and hugged her mother's thin shoulders. Anella was the village Songmistress; the one who led the chants at each festival, who was the repository of law and custom and who could list the lineage of every clan member. She knew the words to all the Great Tales and, when needed, would sing the Ways that cleansed and healed the soul.

Amar returned the embrace.

'If you're willing, she'll begin your training at once. You'll have to move into her lodge but she promised you can visit us when the small moon rises each month.' She leaned back on her heels and examined her daughter. Akiss' features vacillated between pride at being chosen and sorrow at leaving her kin. 'I could wish for no better future for you. You will have authority and respect.'

Akiss bowed to her mother's wisdom and her own good fortune.

And so Akiss moved into Anella's lodge. GLinn struggled to accustom himself to the lack of his twin's breathing by his side at night. He thought to give her the feather, which he had kept all these years, to ward her sleep in his stead but, on the morning she left, she came to him with it cradled in her hand. She had crafted a collar from moonstones and used silver wire to bind the feather to it. The twins did not speak - they rarely did - but Akiss looped the talisman over GLinn's head and it dangled down to rest upon his heart, tickly but comforting, much like her.

GLinn was sharp-eyed and listened well. Even as Akiss learned to recite in full the Great Tales, he studied the ways of the birds and animals that inhabited the Land of a Thousand Lakes.

'Young GLinn could track a ghost!' his father boasted around the meet-fire at night. GLinn hid his awkwardness within the cloud of his hair and wished his father would not drink quite so much mead but, even so, the older men began to seek him out for their foraging parties. His reputation grew as the bands he roamed with returned with deer, plump hares and specklefish by the pole-full. He, too, began to find tokens by the lodge entrance. He wore the flower bracelets and love chains until they wilted and dropped off but none supplanted the collar made for him by Akiss.

~~~

During the first double moon of Spring the villagers planted out the seed corn for the coming season. The Feast of Falling Stars followed, when the sky was filled with the fiery trails of skydust shooting across the heavens. Akiss had already completed her preliminary training and was invited to lead the singing. In the days preceding the festival she sketched out the sacred pictures, filling in the details with coloured sand garnered from the shores of the Thousand Lakes. The small, leather bags containing the sands were left beneath the watchful eyes of the carved totem birds but, one night, they must have slept deeply because, next morning, the pouch of grey sand was missing. Akiss searched every place but could not find it.

GLinn packed a breadcake then kissed his sister on the forehead.

'I'll be back with more sand before the little moon rises,' he assured her and jogged off into the blue distance.

Akiss scrutinised the pictures. There was the slightest smudge on one edge of the honeysucker bird. An eagle cry rent the air and her eyes snapped towards the lake that bordered the village. The bird swooped down and then up in a flash of silver, a squirming specklefish in its merciless talons. She crossed her arms, to stifle a sudden chill. She could not dispute that this was a message.

Akiss hovered over the specks of sand and tracked them to the lodge of TRen Huntmaster. She doubted that he had taken her sand but his son, TRell, was a different matter. As cunning as a pike and just as arrogant, TRell believed himself to be the top predator in this lake. The girls he chose as his companions preened themselves at catching his fancy, for a short while. It was rumoured that TRell's father had already paid out two brideprices to quieten the girls' families before feud was declared and brought disharmony to the Folk.

TRell left her a gift once; a reedpipe inscribed with both their names. She had returned it.

The doorflap flew outwards and TRen Huntmaster emerged. If he was surprised to see the apprentice Songmistress he did not show it. She summoned up her fledgling authority and stated, 'I seek TRell.'

'He stalks Forktail ducks up by Lake Shalin,' TRen responded courteously. Akiss thanked him in return but, as soon as good manners allowed, she took her leave and ran back to Anella's lodge, to seek permission to fetch new sand. The old woman's eyes narrowed and there was nothing anile in her needle-sharp stare.

'Hasn't GLinn already set out on this errand?' she quizzed. Akiss had prepared a story but, beneath the other's scrutiny, she could not lie.

'TRell plans some mischief and I fear that GLinn may be the butt of his spite. He has always been jealous that TRen takes GLinn with him in preference to his own son. Also,' she looked down at the patterned rug to hide her blush, 'I was not kind when I returned his gift to him,' she confessed.

Anella fed the flames of the small fire which, even at this time of year, she nurtured to warm her bones.

'You have my leave to collect the sand,' she granted. Akiss bowed as was meet and darted out into the brittle morning light.

~~~

GLinn loped along the shore of Home Lake and into the Forest beyond. The larch buds were already springing open and, among their branches, male finches enticed a mate with mellifluous trills. The undergrowth was still frost-rimmed in places however, and chilled his ankles, despite his boots. His keen sight had spotted the scuffmark on the sacred pattern and he knew that the sand pouch had been deliberately removed. The questions were, therefore, who and why? There was nothing to be gained by such a theft, other than to delay the completion of the pattern and cause Akiss some minor anxiety. The sand itself was not special either but found in abundance along many of the lake shores. It was a small mystery but it gave him the opportunity to enjoy an outing in the mild spring air.

He opened his heart and mind to the beauty of the Forest and filled his soul with the birdsong. He knew he was accounted one of the best trackers to be born to the Folk for many years but he felt a fraud. It was true, he could discern the slightest dimple in the moss or bent leaf on a twig but it was not his eyes that guided him. He had told no-one, save Akiss, but the creatures of the wild chittered to him in his thoughts.

Theirs were not the complex representations of men but the urges of food and mates, the tidal pull of the moons and moods of the earth in bone and flesh. Sometimes he felt a murderer as he led his brother hunters along a psychic thread to a herd of grazing snowbulls. At the point of kill he shielded his mind, not willing to share the moment of death, but directed his thoughts in a prayer to the Creator Spirit. Akiss accounted his skill a blessing but GLinn was not so certain. Akiss chided him for questioning the Spirit's wisdom - but she had never looked into a buck's eyes as it comprehended its fate. GLinn did not feel that the gift was bestowed just to end life. Today, however, he could relish the heartbeats of the Forest for their own sake.

Lake Kamara, the closest source of grey sand, lay an hour's swift trot to the north. GLinn, alert to the presence of bird and beast, was yet blind to his own kind. He had followed the usual track but failed to discern his enemy's malice. As he passed between two spindly birches the trap sprung. He placed his foot into a concealed noose and catapulted skywards. His head cracked against the tree bole and knocked him senseless.

Still some distance away, Akiss felt her head explode and knew that GLinn was in trouble. Even further away his soulmate cried out in anguish and launched skywards in search of him.

~~~

The dash of lake water over his face jerked GLinn back to consciousness. As his wits returned he perceived that he was hanging upside down, suspended between the birch saplings from one ankle by the snare. He bucked to and fro, trying to reach up to the loop of rawhide to free himself but was batted back down by a well-placed kick to the ribs.

'Not bloody funny,' he cursed at TRell. 'Let me down, you cowardly snake!'

TRell squatted down just out of reach of GLinn's flailing arms.

'Well, well, well. What have I caught?' He mused aloud and lashed out with a strip of briar. GLinn swore as his cheek was lacerated. 'What manner of vermin is this?' A second lash.

'TRell, you bastard, let me loose!'

The other made a slow circuit around his quarry.

'No, I don't think so. If only my father could see GLinn the infallible tracker caught in a simple deer snare.' TRell stepped closer, the stench of mead fumes and hatred on his breath. 'Such a shame that, when I returned from Lake Shalin to check my traps, I was too late to save you from the wolves and ravens.'

Blood dribbled into GLinn's eye. He wondered how he had failed to detect TRell's fury.

Suddenly all those little incidents which had occurred over the past months fell into a pattern; not random misfortune but planned acts of vengeance.

'TRell, let me down and we'll say no more about this.' TRell was heartsick and no longer in harmony with the Folk. 'We can return to the village and have Anella sing a healing song... '

TRell whipped him with the thorn braid.

'You self-righteous prick,' he snarled and his skinning blade appeared in his hand. 'I think I shall... '

'TRell, what are you doing?' It was Akiss and the edge to her voice gave shame to the metal TRell held. 'Help me get GLinn down.'

TRell turned and his eyes rove over Akiss, bringing heat to her cheeks. She straightened. A Songmistress, even an apprenticed one, did not merit such blatant disrespect.

GLinn struggled frantically in his bonds. Akiss did not understand the danger she was in.

*Akiss, run, fetch help!* He sent to her in twinspeak. *TRell has the blood fever like a snowbull in rut. BRan and JLel are fishing Lake Eeit, they will come if you command them!*

Akiss hesitated and TRell was there in front of her, blocking her path.

'So, little tease Akiss. What will you give me in return for my help?' He tipped her chin so that she was forced to meet his lust-filled eyes. 'A kiss from Akiss?' he taunted. He felt her tremble beneath his touch and the shiver stirred the ache in his loins that had festered there ever since her rejection of his suit.

'You will free my brother?'

'Of course,' he promised. She leaned in closer and raised her lips but, as he swooped down to claim his prize, she danced around him and the knife sprang from his hand into hers. She whirled on him, a vengeful she-cat.

'Release GLinn now,' she demanded.

TRell raised his hand to his mouth and licked the blood from where the blade had sliced his palm. The sudden hurt thawed his passion and thoughts of an easy conquest vanished. He ambled across to the nearest of the birch trees and released the snare so that GLinn dropped down, hard.

'It was just a bit of fun, a game,' TRell sneered in the nasally tone that always set Akiss' teeth on edge. 'I might have known that GLinn the Brave would start blubbing and beg a girl to save him!'

GLinn rose to his feet and his bloodied mien threatened murder but Akiss held him back. TRell snorted in derision then sloped off into the trees.

'Why did you stop me?' GLinn growled at his sister. She placed a hand upon his chest. Beneath it, his heart pounded like a captive bird's.

'This isn't the right time. An ill deed committed so close to Festival Night will only store up bad luck for you. Let TRell reap from what he has sown.'

GLinn was not convinced. He drew in a breath, prepared to argue, but Akiss was adamant.

'Leave him be,' she growled. GLinn quivered like a tightened bowstring and the tic in his cheek was pronounced. Akiss flicked the feather that he wore. 'Come on, we still have to get that sand!' and she walked off towards the beckoning blue shimmer. GLinn swore but followed after.

That autumn, their fifteenth, the twins were deemed grown enough to join their elders in Council. As Newlings they sat on the outer edge of the Circle and were not permitted to speak, unless invited to. Elder HRol, more wizened than a walnut, commenced the meeting.

'So, TRen, what have you to report?'

The Huntmaster stood up.

'Grave news, Eldest. Beaver Folk settlements have been attacked for the first time in long years by Kugar raiders.' Astonishment and fear rippled through the people, puzzling GLin.

His eyes sought Akiss across the meetfire.

*Who are these people?* he bespoke her. Akiss was distressed.

*Oh, GLinn, this is terrible, I am just learning of them. They wax and wane through the Great Tales like snowhares. The last time they attained large numbers they ravaged the Folk of the Thousand Lakes for a generation. They are more than animals but less than men and impossible to reason with. This is ill news indeed!*

Their mother, Amar, rose to her feet and her face was stricken.

'What is to be done?' she cried. 'I've already lost one child to the yellow fever and I could not bear it if I lost another to these demons! We must move from this place and take refuge in the mountains where we can better protect ourselves.' There were murmurs of agreement but HRol held up his hand for peace and turned to Anella.

'Songmistress, how did our ancestors defend themselves from these marauders? What wisdom lies in the Great Tales?'

Anella's eyes took on a faraway look as she scanned her prodigious memory for the information.

'Many hundreds were killed or enslaved before an alliance of Beaver, Elk and Folk drove the Kugars from the Land of a Thousand Lakes. Swanriders patrolled the skies and gave warning of Kugar incursions as well as leading our warriors to the best places for battle. It took many years but eventually the Folk prevailed and the Kugars returned to their icy fastnesses to lick their wounds.'

Someone snorted and said derisively, 'Swanriders? Pah, stories for children. There is, and never was, any such thing!'

TRen shot a venomous glance at his son but many were nodding at TRell's words. No one in living memory had sighted one of the great swans that legend said inhabited the lakes.

'Not so,' answered HRol. 'My grandfather's grandfather lit the pyre for BRel Greydown, the last of our clan to find a skymate on Search. Are our lodges not marked with the grey feather in his honour?' The Elder turned to TRen. 'Huntmaster, envoys shall be sent to the Beaver and Elk people to enlist their aid against our common foe. Anella, you shall instruct the young men in the ways of Search. Before the second moon is full they shall leave to seek the great swans.'

Seated behind Anella, Akiss sought her brother among the hunters. She had felt something strange through their link.

*GLinn, what is it? Are you ill?*

*No, I'm fine! Oh, Akiss, this is wonderful!'*She sensed that he was filled with an ecstatic heat that made her shiver at its intensity. *This is my destiny, I'm sure of it!*

~~~

GLinn blew on his hands so that his fingers had enough feeling for the delicate task of starting a fire. Timid flames bloomed and he fed them carefully until he had a proper blaze going that would survive the night. Winter had come early to the forest. He set water to boil and ferreted in his knapsack for a strip of dried meat but his hand touched the bridle that

Akiss had plaited from her own hair; the bridle that tradition held was the only way to snare a great swan. He held it to his nose. It still smelled of her and he took comfort from it. He had been on Search for over three darks of the larger moon and had never travelled so far from home before. When HRol spoke the blessing words for a successful Search GLinn was certain that he would quickly find a swan and return in triumph to the village but it had not proven so.

He had lost count of how many lakes he had scouted for evidence of the elusive birds. He had met many people too; Elk, Beaver, even Fox, but none knew anything about the swans.

'They are gone. There are no more,' they all told him. GLinn suspected they might be right, until three days ago.

He supped his pine needle tea and ate cold fish, gifted to him by Beaver People when he had passed through their small settlement three days ago. He enquired about swans, expecting the usual negative response, but an older male said that he had found feathers up by Lake Julinga. GLinn reckoned that he could just make the lake before the deepening cold forced him to return home. Instinct warned him to start back now but the thought of TRell's sneering face taunting his failure goaded him on.

The only thing worse than that would be if TRell found a swan and he didn't.

~~~

GLinn reached the shore of Lake Julinga as the sun came up. Golden light cascaded across the lake's surface on which sinuous mist-maidens danced and frolicked. Birdsong filled the air in greeting to the new day and GLinn's mind overflowed with avian happiness. He opened his arms and his heart in a song of praise to the Creator for the gift of such beauty.

The whoosh of immense wing beats stirred the mist and vanquished the maidens. GLinn's hair flurried and frigid air washed over him. GLinn sensed the agitation of the fish, the delight of the forktail ducks. Waves slapped the bank. Something large alighted on the water.

He threw his pack to the ground, heart pounding and fingers trembling as he sought the hair bridle and the small pouch containing powdered cherryweed. _Something was out there!_ He scattered some of the cherryweed. His mother claimed the smell was irresistible to waterfowl and should draw the swan towards him. Then he crouched among the reed stalks and his eyes strained to see through the grey folds. Stillness enveloped him. He blanked his mind and waited.

The waves dwindled. The gabbling of the ducks resumed and, beyond the haze, the sun tracked slowly across the sky. Cold seeped into GLinn's bones. The mist thickened.

Then, ripples on the water. A swuffling sound. The shadow of a curved neck as thick as a man's thigh. GLinn's hand convulsed on the bridle. He stopped breathing.

The swan's beak snaffled up and down to gobble the cherryweed. Its luminous eyes stared at him and pierced his heart. He gripped the bridle and the glamour snapped. He readied the hairbraid then whistled. The swan's neck shot up, eyes whirled, and GLinn lassoed it. It shook violently and its great wings back flapped as it sought to free itself. Drenched, GLinn strode into the shallows and tightened the noose. The swan reared but it did not attack and it did not try to fly. GLinn focussed the full might of his mind on the bird, shushing and cooing to calm it. The great bird looked down dolefully into GLinn's face but, as Anella had taught them, it was bound by the hair bridle.

GLinn drew closer to the swan. It towered over him, water dripped from a bill that could dash his brains in, but it quivered as if in fear of him. He laid a hand to its breast and he could feel its heart racing. The feathers were smooth to the touch but also ruffled and tickly.

_A swan. A great swan!_ He could scarcely believe it and it was his to command! Trell would choke on envy when he, GLinn Swanrider, returned to the village with this prize!

Then, unbidden, memory savaged him. Himself. Hanging upside down at TRell's mercy. Beaten and humiliated.

The bridle went slack in his hand. It was not the way of the Folk to demand or dominate, not even when the need could be justified.

GLinn loosed the hair bridle and stepped back on to the shore. The swan shook its neck then flapped its wings, anointing GLinn's head with pearls. It dipped its bill, as though in acknowledgment, then slipped backwards into the mist.

~~~

A new palisade surrounded the village but the curls of smoke and the laughing of the children within was wonderfully familiar. GLinn paused on the edge of Home Lake and drank in the comforting vista. His stomach churned at the succulent smell of roasting deer.

He had not eaten well for some days, preferring to get back home rather than spend time on hunting. He moved forwards and was quickly spotted. A shout went up and three hunters raced towards him in a flanking manoeuvre.

'BRan, JLel!' GLinn whooped with joy and ran to embrace his friends. They stopped and eyed him warily. Other Folk emerged from the palisade. 'What's going on?' asked GLinn.

His friends would not meet his gaze. The crowd parted and TRen Huntmaster pushed to the fore. GLinn felt the flutter of panic replace hunger in his belly. 'What is it? What's wrong? My family...'

'Your family are well, despite their shame.' TRen answered.

GLinn flushed. 'I - I don't understand,' he stammered. What was going on? Why were people looking at him like he was a diseased dog? TRell materialized at his father's side and he oozed self-satisfaction.

'So, the dirty traitor dares show his face,' spat Trell. 'Did you think we wouldn't discover your crime?'

'I - I don't understand,' repeated GLinn. 'What am I accused of?'

'You betrayed the Folk! We had the chance to tip the war with the Kugars in our favour but you sabotaged it, you coward!'

'TRell, it's not your place to speak,' said TRen. 'GLinn, was your Search successful?'

GLinn felt the blood drain from his face.

'No. No, I was not successful,' he said carefully.

'And why was that? Did you find any sign of the great swans?'

GLinn could say nothing.

TRell turned to the others.

'See, I told you it was so. I know what I saw. The Beaver People told me that swans still came to Lake Julinga so I went there to see. I waited many days and my patience was rewarded when at last a great swan appeared. I followed the ritual that Anella taught us but, just as I was about to bridle it, _he_ interfered and drove the swan away. He's so jealous of my success that he would rather we all perished than call me Swanrider. I name him traitor and call for punishment!'

'No, no,' GLinn protested. 'That's not true, it didn't happen like that! I drew the swan, not TRell.'

'Then where is it?' said TRen.

'I let it go.' GLinn clenched his fists. 'It wasn't right. Our way is not to dominate our fellow creatures, to _make_ them serve us.'

'He drank the sacred wine and took the oath to Search for a great swan and bring it back here to protect the village,' interrupted TRell. 'He has reneged on that oath. Our lore is clear. The punishment is death!'

Murmurs of dissent broke out.

'Send for HRol,' cried BRan and GLinn praised the Spirit for his friend. TRen held up his hand.

'HRol has already been consulted. GLinn's own words condemn him. It doesn't matter who called the swan, the fact remains that the Vow of Search was broken. I like it no more than any of you but these are hard times. The Kugars are a terrible foe. _They_ show no mercy and neither can we if we are to survive.' He faced GLinn, whose pallor was paler than the snow.

'Even though you are but a boy your life is forfeit.' TRen signalled and two of his hunting pack sprang forwards. While DGan pinned GLinn's arms the other, FNor, sliced through the lacings of his clothes and pulled off his boots, leaving him naked in seconds. FNor indicated the feather necklet.

'That too,' said TRen and FNor ripped it from GLinn's throat. 'You go as you came, with nothing,' intoned the Huntmaster.

The air was biting cold and GLinn shivered fiercely. Tears of shame slid down his cheeks for he knew his friends would think him afraid.

TRen addressed his son. 'As the accuser, you must deliver punishment,' and he handed over his bow. TRen nocked an arrow and aimed it at GLinn's heart.

GLinn closed his eyes. He did not want his last earthly sight to be TRell's smug, triumphant smile. Rather, GLinn forced his thoughts back to Lake Julinga and the ethereal beauty of the great bird. He had never been happier than when the swan had looked into his soul.

Air whooshed and something thudded against his chest. It propelled him backwards and pinned him to the earth. He could not breathe, he could not see, he could not move his limbs. Then, an ear-piercing hissing sound and a voice, in his mind.

*Heart's Love, I am here. They shall not hurt you!*

GLinn struggled to garner his wits. The swamping greyness shifted and he was free, could breathe again. The immense body of a swan towered above him, shielding and protecting him. He was so warm and so... nurtured. Brilliant eyes stared into his, lit from within by fire.

GLinn rose to his feet.

*How can this be?*

*Heart's Love, I answered your call. I have waited long years for this, from the moment you first accepted my gift of a feather. By setting me free you bound me more powerfully than the braid ever could. I am Silvvya and you are my rider!*

TRen stepped forward. The swan reared and her great wings beat the air. TRen halted and dropped to one knee. Behind him the other hunters followed suit. TRen held out the feather necklet.

Hail, GLinn Swanrider,' the Huntmaster said. TRell was sprawled on the ground, blood welling from his lip, a broken bow beside him. His visage threatened murder. TRen looked into the whirling, angry eyes of the bird. 'Forgive us, Lady, we have wandered from the way.'

*Tell him that I accept his apology but that that one there, the one with the snake in his heart, must be exiled for the good of the Folk.*

GLinn did so. TRen swallowed convulsively then nodded his assent.

'Nooo,' cried TRell. He lurched to his feet, seized DGan's knife and leapt at GLinn but his father was quicker. TRen disarmed his son in seconds and jerked him into FNor's ungentle custody.

'Disgrace us no further! Go with FNor and bid your mother farewell.' FNor dragged the stunned youth away. TRen turned back to the swan. 'Lady, we are honoured by your presence. Instruct us how to provide for your needs.'

*Tell him I shall be pleased to roost here but, first, you and I have much to learn together. Come, climb onto my back.*

In awe GLinn did as he was bid. He sprang onto Silvvya's back and looped his arms around her strong neck.

*Hold tight!*

She lolloped forwards then launched skywards. GLinn's heart pounded and he was airborne. Village, lake, people dropped away and they were alone. GLinn's spirit soared.

This was his life and his love.
The Missing

David Anderson

Woodford, New South Wales

Australia

5 October 2014

'You really do miss her don't you?'

'I can't help it. We were married for nearly sixty five years.'

'It's hard I know, but you really have to let her go.'

'How long did it take you to forget?'

'Alan, I never forget. I never could forget anyone I'd lost. I have a belief that one day I'll meet them again, and for me, that's enough to cover the wound... but it never heals.'

'So what have you got planned for me today? God knows I need something to stop my mind from running in top gear after meeting you.'

'I'm going to introduce you to some people, and I think when you meet them, you'll feel much better. They have the power to lift your spirits. Who knows? Maybe there are some old friends you can renew an acquaintance with who've been through the same pain you have?'

'You make it sound like an AA meeting.'

'Well, in a way sitting around talking about it will help things along.'

'Okay James, I think I'm ready.'

'Good. Just follow me and we'll meet them. I think to break you in easy, I should introduce you to the person who will be your mentor.'

~~~

'Alan, I'd like to introduce you to Donald - your counsellor. Donald this is Alan.'

'Hello Alan. Nice to meet you. I've been hearing a lot about your loss. I was only married for two years and lost my Jane when I was twenty five, so I can't imagine how hard it is for you.'

'I'm sorry. I guess I was lucky to have known my Alice for seventy years.'

'True enough. We have some people here for you to meet, and I was chosen to be your guide within our little group. It's better to take things a little slower than you may like; but it's for your own good. So shall we go next door into the meeting room?'

'Yes, I'm ready. Are you coming James?'

'Certainly.'

~~~

'Everyone quite please. We have a special guest. I'd like to introduce you all to Alan. Would you like to say a few words Alan?'

'Oh... very well. I'm not sure what to say. It's lovely to see you all as I was told I might meet some old... Judy! Is that you? Good God, I thought we'd lost touch forever.'

'It certainly is Alan. My, it's been a long time. Come and give me a hug. I wondered if we'd ever meet again. You're so frail, I... now Alan, don't cry. It's going to be alright, and we're all here to help you.'

'I can't believe it's you. It must be twenty years? Twenty years without seeing my only sister. I'm so sorry I was cross with you before you left. Please forgive me?'

'There's nothing to forgive Alan. Now have a look around. Do you recognise anyone else?'

'I'm not sure Judy.'

'Alan, I'm sure you can. Have a closer look.'

'No, it can't be? Is that you cousin Beth... Alex... Bradley... I can't believe it. James, how did you arrange it so well?'

'Alan, we knew you needed bucking up a bit, so I did some exploration, and finally got them all together. Do you know who some of the others are?'

'There are some familiar faces.'

'Mine is of course unfamiliar. Do you know who I am?'

'No I'm sorry Donald. I suppose you are just one of the administration staff?'

'Alan.'

'Yes James.'

'Donald is your great, great grandfather.'

'You're kidding me? How could Donald be my... '

'No Alan. It's true. And what's more, I am your great grandfather. Now for a big surprise.'

'Good Lord, what could be bigger than what you've just told me?'

'Now prepare yourself Alan. Percy and William, if you please. Step forward from behind the screen.'

'Dad! Grandpa!'

'Hello Son. Sorry to hear about you losing Alice, but we're here now to look after you.'

'James... er... I mean great grandpa. I never believed it would be like this. This is pure Heaven.'

'It certainly is Alan. Alice will be along in a little while, she just can't seem to want to live without you.'

'Alan'

'Yes... great, great grandpa Donald.'

'Well, we'll have to sort this grandpa muddle out. Especially as you have many hundreds more relatives and friends to meet. However I have a special treat for you. Someone you haven't seen for a year, but someone you love very much. James, if you please... '

'My God! Bessie. So it's true? My mother said it couldn't happen. Bessie my girl, I've really missed you so much. You look so healthy and such a shiny coat. Better than the last time I saw you under that truck.'

'Yes, many people think that animals don't have souls. Luckily there isn't a selfish God.'

'So I will meet all my relatives and friends?'

'All in good time Alan. Your mother will be along shortly. Along with your grandmother; they've been attending counselling duties. There is one thing though my boy.'

'What's that?'

'You must remember that you are _here_ and not _there_. So you may indeed; how shall I put this? You may indeed not meet _all_ of them.'

'Oh... I see.'

'Now Alan. I won't present them all to you at once, but I would like you to meet a couple who are way back in your past.'

'Don't tell me it's Adam and Eve!'

'No, I'm afraid not. They really are a special case I'm afraid.'

'Well, how far back in my past?'

'Let's just say, they met in Britain long ago. The lady was a Celt, and the man was a Roman Centurion. By the way, perhaps you can just call me James as well.'

'I still can't get my head around it. There is one thing though gran... James.'

'What is that?'

'You said earlier that you had a belief you would see all those you've lost once again. Surely they would all be _here_ now if that were the case; considering your great age I mean?'

'A chosen few are redeemed and transferred, however none I have known have been that fortunate, but I still hold hope for a few. You see, like yourself, some you have loved as relatives and friends will never arrive _here_ and unfortunately will remain forever _there_.'

'Oh I see. You mean Hel - '

'Alan! We never use that word.'

'Sorry James. Roman Centurion eh? Well if he's _here_ he can't have been all that bad?'
The Ghosts That Sell Memories

Nigel Usher

Farndon, Nottinghamshire

United Kingdom

6 October 2014

I was staring down at the oak serving board; or to be more precise, I was staring down at the thin rivulet of blood that was trickling off the edge of the oak serving board onto the table. I had made a simple swift incision into the steak and there it was. It should not have been there: the steak was ordered 'well done'.

Of course no steak should really ever be ordered well done, but I had long ago come to the conclusion that whatever was being passed off as well aged beef in England was irrefutably not aged and debatably beef. There was a decent steak in Botswana that didn't require a cremation and a chainsaw, but England, with the exception of the odd rare, in both senses of the word, fillet? Alas no.

It wasn't even the blood per se that bothered me, but rather the fact that it was trickling onto the table and making its inexorable journey to the edge from where it was about to drip onto my lap before I had time to retrieve the napkin that had slipped onto the floor. I could try to pick it up of course but if my timing were off then the blood would drip onto my jacket sleeve instead which would be even worse.

_What is this nonsense. Why am I being served my lunch on a flat block of wood instead of a plate and why are my chips perched upright inside a tiny stainless steel frying basket as if I am supposed to believe that they are prepared half a dozen at a time in some Lilliputian fryer and whisked scalding hot to my table?_ We all know that they are prepared in an industrial cauldron hidden safely away behind the Trompe-l'œil wall, giving the impression that there is a fragrant whitewashed courtyard just beyond the bar as opposed to a steamy fat spattered kitchen, and that they have never been whisked anywhere nor ever arrived at any temperature beyond tepid.

So why was I here? Well that is simple: he used to meet her here sometimes. The tables may have changed, or moved. The big soft sofas may be in a different window. But outside the window were the same trees and the same green with the same church, and across the street, the same stucco fronted houses. Tiny, jagged lines of condensation occasionally ran down the glass like the ghosts of yesterday's tears. In those places they had sat or stood or laughed or cried or endlessly embraced, those moments when it had not been possible to define where one ended and another began, those moments when they gazed off into the distance and became the distance and visited places that few are ever blessed to see.

In those moments they knew that there had never been a time when they had not existed nor would there ever be. In all of these places, and in those where they had turned from each other neither daring to look back for fear that the other was also looking and that their eyes would meet and whatever this invisible thing that held them together was would hold them together again tighter, closer and neither would be able to leave without the unbearable pain of tearing it when simply walking away was pain enough, they had left a tiny shadow in time so barely perceptible that I found myself reaching out across the table and slowly moving my outstretched palm first left and then right as if I were feeling for a hole that they had left in the fabric of the world, which of course they had but on this day it was beyond my touch.

Such was my sorrow on that day. It had been a long time since I had seen him. I had seen him on Kew Bridge on a blustery autumn afternoon with his coat billowing behind him and I had seen him on that bright lemon yellow afternoon in Bond Street... but it had been months now. The summer had drifted south, the autumn, which I had always thought of as 'his' time, had come and gone, the year had turned and now we were into a crisp winter and still there was no sign.

I think that most people would believe that all of my days with him were like this day, that they were days where I could sit where he once sat and imagine how it had been for him so many years before, how the places had changed, or not; that I could close my eyes and imagine that if I opened them I might catch a glimpse of something lost, long past, and in those brief moments share something with him or that unknowingly he could share with me. But it was nothing like that, this reality that we shared. On this day I was just filling time, fumbling in the dark.

On the days that I saw him, these were my 'Einstein days', when it was clear that 'Reality is an illusion albeit a very persistent one', that there could be no other explanation other than that time and space were indeed the same thing, a simple billowing piece of cloth upon which we all rode that could be crumpled and folded back on itself and that time's arrow only existed to prevent everything from happening at once. On the days that I saw him, he was there. On those days I did not go to the places that he used to go and sit and hope to see him more clearly.

No, on the days that I saw him he would appear unannounced and I would follow him to the places that he went, not knowing where he was going or why or even who he might meet. I have no memory of his ever meeting a redhead in a bar on Kew Green but I saw him there on that autumn afternoon when I followed him.

You see, I did not go and wait in either expectation or hope. I simply followed and witnessed. So on this day I went for lunch to a place where he used to meet her because I wanted to see them both, I wanted to break the rules, to go to the place and for him to be there, to go to a place that he used to meet her so that she might be there also.

But of course it was not to be. I would have to wait for him to come to me, and that always seemed strange because, although I could see him, see them both, as I had done on that day in Bond Street, they could not see me. For them I did not exist.

Even in this strange land, like staring at some distant star, travel is only ever to the past and never accelerated into the inevitable future, for it seems that nothing after all, not even love, can travel faster than light.

I did manage to retrieve my napkin and finish lunch without further incident. I ordered coffee and sat and sipped and stared and willed that which cannot be willed, and in so doing felt the unmistakable weight of melancholy press, albeit lightly, on my shoulder.

When the waitress brought the bill, I reached into my jacket pocket and panicked when I felt no wallet there. Then I realised that I must have left it in the pocket of my overcoat. I asked the waitress to take the card machine back to the counter and told her that I would go and get my overcoat and come to the bar to pay. I walked past the bar and through the archway into the other half of the restaurant. This is the half where people sit to sip tea and coffee and while away a quiet hour or so.

On the left, just through the archway, is an alcove lined with coat hooks. I reached out and took down my, now ragged, grey herringbone overcoat and felt for the reassuring touch of a leather wallet. It was there.

To the right, opposite the alcove where the coats were hanging, was another larger archway into a small room with a bay window, where there had once been two large soft sofas, not matching, in just the way that elegant soft sofas in such a place should not, and between them a large rustic oak coffee table with heavy cast iron rivets. When I had walked past the window on my way in I had noticed that the sofas had gone and a table and four chairs now occupied the space.

I took my scarf down from the hook, folded it and knotted it around my neck and then put my overcoat on, buttoned all but the bottom button and reached into my pocket for my wallet. As I turned around, I glanced through the larger alcove to see if anyone was now sitting at the table, but it wasn't there. Instead there were two big soft unmatched sofas and a large oak coffee table with heavy cast iron rivets.

I felt dizzy, perhaps even slightly nauseous. I walked through the alcove and sat down on the big sofa on the left and gazed out of the window. It was quiet, with no traffic. There was a watercolour on the wall. It was not a print, nor anything of renown, but I felt as if I had seen it somewhere before. It was crooked and so I stood up to straighten it and even that seemed familiar. I turned around and walked out through the alcove and then turned left to the counter. The waitress was standing by the till.

'I thought that you'd snuck off without paying,' she said with a smile.

'No I just had to get my coat and wallet, and I had to try one of your big soft sofas by the bay window... sorry,' I said.

She looked at me but she avoided direct eye contact. Her eyes flitted left and right and she fumbled with the credit card machine. She had piercing turquoise eyes, unusual eyes, even more so because her hair was dark, nearly black, and cut short, elfin.

'What's the matter?' I asked.

'Well Sir, there are no sofas by the bay window. The sofas are at the far end of the room.'

'What?' I left my credit card in the machine and turned back to the alcove and the bay window.

There were no sofas, just a table with a white linen tablecloth and four chairs. At the far end of the room were two big soft sofas, although it was hard to see, or to believe, that they were the same two. Sitting side by side on the sofa facing me was a middle-aged couple sipping tea. They were perhaps two feet apart and further proof that space is an illusion. They stared toward me but not at me. They showed no sign of communion with one another or with anyone or anything. They gave the impression that if their eyes were only strong enough and that which constitutes the world only weak enough then the very first thing that they would focus on would be the back of their own heads.

I thought of him and wondered whatever was he thinking when he decided to play such a cruel a trick and send me only the seating. I thought of them and how they would have been together on that sofa and I stared at the couple at the far end of the room, at what to them, perhaps to many, constituted togetherness, and I was overwhelmed with the strangest mixture of happiness and sorrow.

Happiness, because I suddenly realised what joy they had shared and how they had been as close as it is possible for two people to be and remain two people, and how the couple at the far end of the room, it would seem, could never comprehend or imagine such closeness let alone experience it. Sorrow, because it suddenly became so starkly apparent what they had lost. Now I wanted to meet him and to tell him but of course I knew we would never meet, never have a conversation and yet still I longed to see him now more than ever.

I walked back to the counter. The waitress looked unsettled; I felt unsettled.

'Sorry,' I said again, for nothing in particular, 'I could have sworn...'

It seemed pointless to finish the sentence. How could I possibly explain?

I tapped out my pin number and added a disproportionately large tip, out of some sense of guilt I suppose. She handed me back the card and I quickly tucked it into my wallet. 'Just a minute, Sir,' she said. 'Your coat, it's covered in dust. Let me brush it for you. Where can all this dust have come from?'

I looked at her; she cannot have been more than twenty-five.

'From way before you were born,' I said.

Then I suddenly realised, as I said it, that in truth it had come from way before any of us were born.
A Walk In Winter

Mark Fowler

Magill, South Australia

Australia

7 October 2014

Walking in rain

can have a dampening effect on mood.

But when a stranger suddenly stops you in your tracks

and offers,

'Happy Winter Day!'

and smiling warmly

slides away into the drizzle to brighten others' spirits,

Suddenly the cold sky seems friendly,

and the dull and the restrictive become something new.

A pair of galahs, feathers fluffed, perform their acrobatics on wires above,

flip

and cheekily announce their status

as urban birds.

They finish,

and spear off into the grey light,

their work done.

The hills behind drip white creamy clouds and in their darkness

become winter puddings all in a row.

And fluttering trees

barely clinging to their pink and orange autumn cloaks,

decorate the streets on this alien day.

Aware of the Creator's spirit in the midst of unexpected delight.

I watch and listen

with gladdened senses.
The Jerusalem Road

Mark Fowler

Magill, South Australia

Australia

7 October 2014

Two friends walk along the Jerusalem road,

they talk of the things they've heard.

A stranger suddenly appears at their side

their interest quickly stirred,

he inquires what they are talking about, surely he would know

about the death of Jesus Christ, and of his disciples' woe.

They tell him openly of the rabbi man

and the wonders he has done,

about the teachings that made the priests so mad,

of the claim he was God's son.

He was a prophet, powerful in word, but he was crucified,

now authorities spread stories about saying he had lied.

The stranger tells them of the scripture and how

the Christ must suffer and die.

They listen impressed by what the stranger says,

soon it's time to say goodbyes.

They love the instruction they receive and wish to hear much more,

they invite him to come and eat, he declines but they implore.

The stranger agrees and shares the meal with them,

he blesses and breaks the bread,

their senses heightened as he speaks the words,

they know Christ's alive, not dead.

A moment so thrilling Cleopas says, 'Was not your heart aflame?'

Inspired, they share the good news, of the reluctant guest who came.

Are you the only one visiting Jerusalem who does not know the things that have happened there in these days?
That Fly In The Balm

Robyn Chaffey

Hazelbrook, New South Wales

Australia

8 October 2014

I was writing a short story

Though 'twas quite fun to write

Smacked somewhat of history

Which gave me quite a fright

Life's full of mad connections

I'm always quite amazed

Writing challenges pretentions

Can leave the author dazed

We write from our experience

Of this there's little doubt

Giving truth due diligence

We explore what life's about

Though we write a fiction

A fairy tale or rhyme

I'll leave you a prediction...

'Twill touch your life or mine!

For history is herstory

And nothing new arrives.

Earth revolves in glory.

Each turning life revives.

Though writing is my pleasure

In the ointment there's a fly

For all life's grist I treasure

I'm yet compelled with words to vie.
The Shallow Night

Robyn Chaffey

Hazelbrook, New South Wales

Australia

8 October 2014

This was a lifeless, moon lit night

Indeed a full moon, if I'm right

The kind in which it is not hard

To define the skyline from the yard

I stood and gazed through dull ether

To see just where the curve was steeper

It lacked, this night, character or depth

The shallow night just stole my breath

Yet this night seemed near the surface

My mind couldn't reach beyond the obvious

Thoughts unimportant, in no way searching,

With present shadows inviting dreaming

And so the closeness of this simple night

Brought with it peace to set the world right

Sensing my oneness with earth and its wonder

I took the chance to look inward and ponder.
A Hungro-Oz Embrace

Andris Heks

Megalong, New South Wales

Australia

9 October 2014

Magyarul álmodozva ébredtem ma hajnal 5 felé

S mondtam fiamnak, hogy van Isten, hivé vagy nem hivé.

I woke around 5 at dawn still dreaming in Hungarian

And told my son that there is God, believe this if you can.

A fiam egy fém kés volt és megrezzent ezt hallva

Mintha csóválta volna fejét ujjával vakarva.

My son was a steel knife that quivered hearing this

As if he shook his head looking into an abyss.

Ateizmus halott, folytattam lelkesen,

A tudomány bizonyítja már, hogy van Isten.

Atheism is dead, this is not just a spoof,

God exists, there is now scientific proof!

De jó volt így magyarul beszélgetni,

Anya nyelvemet a szájamban ízlelni.

In my mouth I savoured each Hungarian word,

It awakened in me an enchanting world.

Hálás vagyok Istennek, hogy magyarnak születtem

És az alkalomért, hogy ausztrál is lehettem.

I thank God for the privilege of being born Hungarian

And that with my Aussie life I am now cosmopolitan.
The Blue Bird of Happiness

Rose Jones

Keynsham, Somerset

England

9 October 2014

I seem to attract the waifs and strays, the ones that need saving or are just plain needy. That's how I found my husband. It's also how the bluebird of happiness came into my life.

I was busy doing the dishes, a battleground of dirty pans and plates abandoned by the aforementioned husband in the hope that someone else would succumb to the task before he did, when there was a thump at the kitchen window. It made me jump. Closer inspection revealed a greasy mark on the glass, evidence maybe of some impact. I wondered what caused it, dried my hands and went to investigate.

Apparently stunned and lying on the patio tiles, half hidden amongst the plant pots and containers was a large, scruffy looking bird. I crouched down to take a closer look. It looked like a parrot of some kind and it was knocked out cold. Or at least I hoped it was. I rushed back into the house to find a towel and carefully lifted the poor thing from the ground and into my arms.

I wondered what had happened to bring it to my door. The plumage of the bird was dishevelled and patchy but I could see it was supposed to be blue. I guessed it had escaped from an aviary or maybe a private owner, but freedom had not done it any favours and it was in a poor condition. Now I know nothing about the care of birds. My mother had a budgie once, to keep her company after Dad died, but this was something else.

I thought the best thing to do would be to keep it warm and just watch over it for a while to see what happened, while I searched the Yellow Pages for the nearest vet. As an escapee and possibly a bird of some value, I guessed it was chipped. I could not see an identifying ring on its leg, but it had to belong to somebody and that somebody was probably beside themselves with worry.

Husband wandered into the living room as I was thumbing through for a number, and he peered into the fluffy bath towel that was normally his, as it lay scrunched up on the carpet. He saw the bird and raised an eyebrow.

'Is that a Norwegian blue?' he asked me. 'Is it pining for the fjords? It doesn't look too happy.'

I looked at him. 'I have no idea what variety it is but it needs our help.'

'So long as it doesn't crap in my towel,' he said.

'It was the nearest to hand,' I excused, glancing at the large basket filled with washing that needed to be taken back upstairs. Another failure on his part.

'Want a cup of tea?' he offered, waving his empty mug in my direction.

'Not if I have to go out with Polly here.' I was grateful for the offer though. 'Could you pass me the phone, please?'

He did so and left me to it.

I found the number for the nearest veterinary clinic and called. The receptionist checked her book and suggested I bring the bird to be checked over as soon as possible, as I explained that it seemed in poor health in addition to being stunned.

The creature looked as if had been mobbed by wild birds and had wounds that needed treatment. It was also moulting severely and had hardly any feathers. It also looked as if it might have broken a wing in the impact with my window. Surbiton was obviously no place for a parrot that was probably hatched in the rainforest.

I found a cardboard box that once held some new winter boots and decided it was large enough to use as a container for transporting the parrot. I laid the bird gently into the box, and covered it with another towel as I took it out to the car. I guessed keeping it warm and in the dark would be helpful although I knew nothing of these matters.

It was a short drive to the clinic and the vet saw me promptly.

'What have we here?' She took the covering towel off to take a look. 'Oh dear,' was her reaction.

'It looks very poorly,' I agreed. 'Will you be able to find its owner?'

'I'll check the bird out and make enquiries, but trying to save it is our first priority,' she said, lifting the parrot gently out of the box and laying it on her table. 'Are you prepared to fund any treatment in the meantime?'

I looked at the parrot. It turned its head and looked back at me as if it knew what was going on. I nodded. 'Of course. Do what you can.'

The vet went to work, cleaning the open wounds and setting a broken wing.

'He's dehydrated and needs feeding up, so I'd like to keep him here for a few days,' the vet eventually suggested.

I agreed because I had no idea how to care for a sick parrot, or a well parrot for that matter.

'What variety is it?' I asked.

'It looks like an Indian Ring Neck,' the vet said. 'You may find it's a feral bird. There are wild populations of them in this part of England. It doesn't have a ring on its leg, but I'll check for a chip. When it's better, it might be wise to let it go - unless you want to keep it for a pet.'

'Let's see how it recovers shall we?' I suggested. The parrot was giving me that look again, as if it expected me to take it home when all this was over. I smiled and left it in the capable hands of the medical profession.

Back home, I went on the internet and researched what I could about this kind of parrot and about caring for parrots in general. I did not want to invest too much time and energy because it was more than likely its owner would be found, but I was curious.

The husband was only interested in when his dinner was going to be ready, belatedly mentioning after I had just done the weekly shop that he was going away on business the next week and would therefore not be home. I sighed and found space in the freezer for the food I could store there. It looked like I was going to be eating a lot of fruit and vegetables next week.

The vet rang a couple of days later with news that the bird was responding well to treatment but that no owner could be found. I agreed to go round and discuss the possibilities for the bird's future welfare that afternoon.

It was sitting on the bottom of its cage looking dejected when I arrived, but it immediately perked up when it saw me.

'Hello Missus,' it said.

Both the vet and myself looked surprised.

'He's never spoken before,' she said. 'That means he's probably not feral. If you decide to keep him and the previous owner turns up, there may be some emotional wrangling. I think maybe I ought to ask around the people I know who keep aviaries who might be prepared to take him as a boarder.'

I considered the point and then looked back at the bird. He was giving me such a look that my heart melted. I bent down to his level and smiled.

'You want to come home with me?' I asked.

The bird nodded its head vigorously. 'Home, home, home,' it said.

 The vet and I looked at each other.

'I guess it's decided then,' she said.

'I guess so,' I agreed with a grin.

'Goody, goody,' said the bird.

I bent down again to the creature's eye line. 'Are you really talking to me?' I asked.

The ring neck cocked its head to one side and said nothing. If parrots were capable of smiling, I guess it might have been. I raised an eyebrow.

'I hope we both know what we're doing here,' I said.

The parrot gave a supportive squawk and sidled up to me, presenting its head for attention. I warily reached in with a finger and gave it a gentle scratch on its neck, one of the few places where it still had some feathers.

'I think the bird has decided even if you haven't.' The vet chuckled. 'I'll give you some booklets on how to take care of him and give you some advice on what kind of equipment to buy, but we'll keep him here until you're all set.'

'I never thought a smudge on my kitchen window could be so expensive,' I remarked, retrieving my hand. 'I hope you're going to be worth it,' I told the parrot.

'Worth it, worth it, Missus,' it insisted.

~~~

I had the parrot along with a cage and all the necessary accoutrements in place by the time the husband came back from his business trip.

'What's that doing here?' he asked accusingly as he slumped into his usual chair.

'Blue is going to be staying with us,' I told him.

The parrot, still looking flea bitten but now far happier, was parading his wares on the top of his new cage and chittering to himself. He liked to sit on the top with his legs dangling through when he was resting, but was adept at using his beak to get around. Flying was still out of the question, but it gave us time to get to know each other and he turned out to be very affectionate right from the start. The first words he spoke when I got him home were, 'Thank you, thank you, Missus.'

'Well I hope he's going to stay in that cage and not leave parrot crap everywhere,' the husband complained.

'Well since I will be clearing up any parrot crap and not you, I can't see the issue,' I retorted back. I wasn't sure he even knew where the vacuum cleaner was stored, or that we possessed a dustpan and brush. 'At least you won't have to take it for a walk.'

'Thank Christ for that.' He kicked off his shoes and settled in, obviously expecting me to make him a cup of tea after his tedious journey.

The parrot eyed him warily and said nothing. In fact, Blue never said anything while the other man was in the house, but I now know he was watching and forming an opinion. He was very circumspect while he was recovering, but once his wing was mended and his feathers returned he began a war of attrition against his rival.

Blue decided he did not like his cage, so I bought a free standing perch for him to stand on. From his vantage point, he could watch the TV and watch what was going on around the house, as we had an open plan arrangement downstairs. In the evenings, when husband was out at one of his Rotary meetings, Blue would settle beside me on the sofa and watch TV while both of us ate grapes. He regularly perched on my shoulder as I did the dishes and watched as I did the housework.

When I came back from my part time job, he was always there to greet me with a 'Hello, Missus' and a request for attention. I was getting more affection and attention from the bird than from the man I married. His vocabulary was large and growing by the day and he seemed to know which words to use in which context. We often had stilted conversations and professed our love for each other.

The husband finally noticed that Blue was getting more attention than him and was not keen to be given the brush off for a bird.

'How much is that damn thing costing?' he asked one evening at the dinner table.

'A lot less than you cost to keep fed and watered,' I told him.

'I hope it's coming out of your earnings and not mine,' he said. The parrot squawked and landed on my head.

'Love Julie, love Julie,' Blue said, his beak gently kissing me.

Husband sighed. 'I hope you aren't expecting me to look after it when you go off for that weekend with Amy and Liz.'

The spa weekend was a long standing arrangement in my diary, fixed well before Blue came on the scene, but I was sure he would be alright for three nights if I left enough food and water. I was not sure how he was going to like being caged up for all that time. If I asked another friend to take care of him, he would still have to stay in the cage, so I thought it was better he stayed at home. We had yet to discuss the issue.

I already knew that husband was not going to offer his assistance. He and Blue were already developing a dislike for each other. The bird bit him whenever he came close and squawked the occasional obscenity along with a pithy remark about how little he did around the house. Husband already thought the bird was picking up my grumbles about him when he wasn't home. Our habit of benignly ignoring each other was slowly turning into something far more toxic. I was not sure this marriage was going to last.

Blue seemed to be a catalyst for this coming upheaval with his remarks. How could I tell the husband that it was not my words Blue was repeating? The bird seemed to have figured it out for himself.

Blue was not pleased when I explained the need to stay in his cage while I was away, but when I picked him up, put him in and closed the door on him, he seemed to accept his fate without too much trouble. I left some treats to mollify him and left for my weekend away with a heavy heart.

When I returned, pampered and refreshed, the house was quiet. Blue normally greeted me with a whistle and a hello, but the place was deathly quiet. I soon found out why. His cage was not in the living room or in the conservatory. It was out on the patio and the door was open. Blue was not there.

My heart missed a beat. Husband came up with a cup of tea in his hand, which he sipped from nonchalantly. I rounded on him angrily.

'The bird was making a racket, so I put him outside,' he explained, none too concerned that the cage was now empty.

'I'm sure he didn't open the cage for himself,' I replied. The catch was a stiff one and I had trouble with it, let alone a bird, even though his beak was dextrous.

Husband shrugged. 'Well he's probably done it before. How else would he have crash landed into your petunias?' He took another sip from his mug and went back indoors. 'Welcome home by the way,' he added.

I stood there for a while, numbed by the loss. I called his name in the vain hope that he was still around and would come to the sound of my voice, but no blue haze of feathers flew my way. A tear trickled down my cheek. Blue had not been a part of my life for long, but he brought affection and joy with him and I was sorry he was gone. I only hoped he was okay.

A bird like that was one in a million and I would never see his like again. He spoke as if he really understood the words he used and he was my friend. I only hoped that he found another loving home and that he could spread his joy to them as well.

I stayed out in the garden until dusk, searching in bushes and hoping upon hope that I would see a familiar flash of blue and all would again be well with the world. In the end I picked up the cage and put it back in the conservatory, covering it with a throw because I could not bear to see it. I noted that husband had already removed Blue's perch when I returned to the living room. He was now sat on the sofa watching something on the sports channel.

'I'm having an early night,' I informed him. I couldn't stand to sit there with him in the circumstances. He looked around at me.

'Make me a sandwich before you go, love,' he demanded.

'You know where the kitchen is,' I told him, coldly. 'Make one yourself.'

'Aren't you hungry?' he asked.

'No,' I replied, picking up my weekend case and heading upstairs.

It was a warm night, so I opened the bedroom window to let come cool evening air in before heading into the bathroom for a shower.

How could he? Husband was a self-absorbed man at the best of times, but I never thought he truly had a cruel streak. Friends had told me for a long time that he didn't deserve me and that I should leave him for pastures new, but although the love had died between us years ago, I did not want to be the one to make the first move.

There was no one else, no one until Blue came along, who held my affection. I just put up with it for an easy life, but the loss of Blue triggered something in me; a determination to change things in this household. Tomorrow was going to be the dawn of a new era, I decided, and I would follow the path it led.

'Julie, Julie,' I heard as I opened the bedroom door clothed in nothing but a towel.

Sat on my pillow was a blue ring necked parrot. Beside him was a flower.

'Blue?' I exclaimed. 'Blue, you're alright. You found your way back.'

He hopped onto my outstretched hand and we greeted each other with kisses and me scratching the favourite place on his neck.

'Window,' he said. 'Love Julie. Not leave.'

'Love Blue,' I replied. 'My blue bird of happiness.'

'Love Julie,' he repeated, snuggling closer.

We reacquainted ourselves and he ended up on his back being tickled on his chest, our reunion obviously mutually pleasing. After the initial excitement, I found my nightgown and settled down to try and find out what had happened.

'Did Michael open the cage door?' I asked out loud. I wondered if Blue would actually tell me.

'Hate cage,' Blue replied, perching on my knee.

'I know,' I apologised. 'But Michael wouldn't have let you fly free. I know you two don't get on.'

'Lazy man hate,' the bird said. 'Hate lazy man.'

I sighed. I guessed the feeling was mutual. I could imagine what happened. Blue would have squawked and flapped while husband tried to watch his sports on TV. No one was allowed to disturb him when the game was on, not even me. I just had to sit there with a book or my sewing and wait for him to give commands. How had I allowed myself to be cowed by him?

He had slowly removed any self-respect I once had. Michael never lifted a hand against me, but his abuse was just as damaging and I had let him do it. Well this worm was about to turn and all with the help of a stray parrot hitting the kitchen window. Blue was a gift from God, I decided and God was telling me to get my life back.

'Thank you, Blue,' I said.

'Love Julie,' the parrot replied.

~~~

Husband came to bed just after midnight to find me reading a book with a parrot perched on my shoulder.

'Oh God, it's back,' he sighed under his breath.

'Yes, and he's staying,' I said. Blue squawked an affirmative.

'Either you get rid of that bird or I leave,' he decided, hands on hips. 'It craps all over the place, squawks all the time and bites me at every opportunity.'

'Would you like me to pack your suitcase?' I asked with a wry smile and a calm voice. 'I'll call the solicitor in the morning.'

'What?!' He had not expected me to call his bluff.

'And you can sleep in the spare room tonight,' I added.

'Motherfucker,' added Blue, repeating an oft used curse husband voiced in front of him. I stifled a chuckle. Blue always seemed to find the right words at the right time.

Husband turned puce and lunged at the bird. Blue took off and flapped about as his arch nemesis collapsed on top of me in a failed attempt to grab a handful of feathers. I scrambled out from under and left them to it. I think Michael came off worse. He left with his tail between his legs threatening to buy a cat and nursing several bites and scratches.

'That bird goes or I do,' he repeated as he retreated with a couple of pillows and a throw.

'I guess you go, Michael,' I reiterated. 'I'd rather live with a bird that shows me affection than a man who seems to think it's a woman's place to service his every whim. I've had enough. I want a divorce.'

Husband harrumphed and left the bedroom. His case was waiting for him at the front door the next morning with a promissory note that the rest would not be long behind.

'Good girl,' Blue said to me as I put in a call to start divorce proceedings.

I gave Blue a pensive look. 'If I kissed you, would you turn into a handsome prince?' I wondered.

'Blue bird,' he replied. 'You need. I stay.' I nodded with a smile and we spent the rest of our lives together.

Editor's note: There's nothing like a love story with a twist, but throwing a little humour into the mix as well takes skill. We found this story to be beautifully crafted and very enjoyable.
Broken

Arthur Derek

Bridgeman Downs, Queensland

Australia

10 October 2014

I see your eyes watching me walking damaged and lame

No matter your judgement on me I know you are all the same

I'll live with the pain and sorrow that came through my birth

My parents who cared for me and loved but still health was dearth

I watched them leave and still I grieved as I couldn't help them

Their house now empty with loss aplenty their love remains a gem

I hide away from eyes that prey from misunderstanding felt

I close my eyes and through dreams coloured skies I'm still no picture of perfect health

I know you see not a part of me but my disability through words I've spoken

No matter your care life is not fair and still I know I'm broken
Enter At Your Own Risk

Jane Russell

Mount Barker, South Australia

Australia

11 October 2014

'Enter at your own risk!' the sign said. _What risk?_ I thought. _How dangerous could it be?_ It was just an adventure castle. They'd have a hard time scaring someone like me; a tall 175cm, curly-topped sixteen-year-old veteran of ultra-violent online games. These days it's hard to put yourself in any real danger. If, for instance, you jump out in front of an oncoming car, its onboard computer would make it swerve to avoid you, or stop - whichever's the safest option.

Our whole society is designed to protect you from harm - it's a real drag! Kitchen knives can't cut living flesh, yours or your hapless pet's, instead they become jelly soft. My brother, Mick, however, did manage to slightly burn himself once. In an instant, a microdrone doused the flame and anaesthetised the burn in one squirt. Mick was put on suicide watch for six months, which was ridiculous - he was just curious to see what it felt like. But he never did it again.

So, my besty, Julie and me are waiting here in the queue to get into 'Tintagel Castle - an adventure for the whole family (Children under 16yrs must be accompanied by a responsible adult)'. Julie's only fourteen, but she's brought her fake ID. When I see that they're using fingerprint scanners I know she's screwed. Sure enough, a mechanical voice declares:

'Thank you for your interest in the Tintagel Castle experience. Please come back whenever you like, accompanied by a responsible adult.'

Julie swears, gives ME a dirty look. What'd I done? Then she leaves with bad grace. Alone, I press the green button to acknowledge that I've read the conditions of entry. I haven't, whoever reads those things? Then I get my ticket. As I walk through, I see that there are three possible routes to follow: Green for families with children, Orange for more daring individuals and Red for 'the ultimate scary experience'. I choose red.

In the first room, I go from the brightness outside to complete blackness. I wait until my night vision engages, not liking the scampering sounds all around me. Something solid runs across my foot and I step back, screaming as my hair becomes entangled in an enormous web. As I frantically pull the spider silk from my hair, I can just see the reflections of millions of tiny eyes, watching me. A faint, red glow illuminates the exit door and I dash to it expecting to be overrun at any moment. I hate spiders!

I slam the door behind me and stand panting with relief. The second room is lit with a pale, golden light that glints off what appears to be a huge pile of treasure. Wow! I go to look. There are precious jewels, golden chalices, crowns, baubles - just the sort of stuff you'd expect to find in a proper treasure trove.

I pick up a couple of necklaces. I don't dare pocket them, as there are sure to be cameras everywhere. Then the golden pile shifts, sending crowns and cups tumbling at my feet. _WTH?_ The pile moves again, revealing the bony head of a giant dragon. It blinks its sleepy eyes then glares at me. I'm frozen in terror, but self-preservation kicks in just as the massive maw opens and I can see fire belching towards me. I throw myself sideways, bruising my ribs, feeling the scorching heat crisping my golden locks, wetting my pants.

I scramble to the exit door into room number three. This one was considerately furnished with a toilet facility and provided me with a change of underwear. I put my hand up to feel my burnt hair, but it is as soft as normal, and my bruises were gone as well. _How did they do that?_ I wondered. _I could have been killed._ But could I really?

In this third room, there's an oily pool with tiny bubbles emerging from it. The liquid appears viscous and smells like rotten eggs. There appear to be turds floating in it - _gross! OMG, they're not turds, they're moving. They're nostrils!!_ The pool contains quite a lot of half-grown crocodiles with a taste for human flesh, one of which gives me a nasty bite on the ankle as I run for the exit.

Once again, the next room provides clean underwear and my injuries are gone. There are about ten rooms, each with its own terrifying experience, yet I only need a change of underwear once more. Overall, it was a pretty good time. The sense of danger was so real, the pain agonising, the adrenalin rush addictive.

This was a seriously cool place. Julie would be mega-jealous! I long to go and do it all again, but sadly it's a one-way system. To go through again I'll need another ticket. So I lunch on a reasonably priced salad roll and free sparkling water from a drinking fountain, then reluctantly head for the exit gate.

I'm in no hurry to leave, but the middle-aged couple in front of me are, and the gate won't open. This is when I discover another aspect of the 'risk' mentioned in the entry sign.

'What seems to be the problem here?' asks a security guard approaching the couple.

'That bloody gate won't open and we're going to be late for work!' grumbles the woman.

'Let me see your ticket,' says the guard, 'Ah, I see. Madam, this is a family ticket. There are three children listed here: Joey aged twelve years, Maisie, ten years and Elsie, eight years. You must all exit together.' He looks around as if expecting to see the children, but they're nowhere to be found.

'They're having so much fun, we thought we'd just leave them here and come back and collect them after work, say around 6 pm?' says the woman.

'I'm sorry, Madam. You must have mistaken Tintagel Castle for a daycare centre. Children under sixteen years are only allowed to enter if supervised at all times by a responsible adult. These are the terms you agreed to when you purchased your ticket. I'm afraid it's impossible to leave individually, you all have to leave together.' He paused, taking pity on her, 'Let me assist you to find them.' As the security guard leads the couple away, the woman keeps opening and shutting her mouth like a fish; it's rather amusing to watch. I decide to follow.

'How dare you treat me this way! I'll lose my job! I'll sue!' blusters the woman when she can speak once more.

'Certainly Madam, that's your right. However, I think you'll find that your legal counsel will advise against it. We could legitimately claim abandonment and your children would be taken into care.'

The woman gapes once more and turns an odd shade of purple. Before long, the three children are located. Elsie is sobbing and oily, she won't say why. Mary is playing happily in a balloon pit with other children her age. Joey is sullen and soaking wet. He's been caught setting fire to one of the tapestries with a cigarette lighter and been doused by a microdrone. Security personnel have been trying to find his parents.

Some time later, the security chief is interviewing him in the presence of his parents. The other two children are being looked after in another room, while I'm loitering around under the window, listening.

'So Joey, where did you get the lighter?' begins the chief. Joey remains sullenly silent, staring at the floor.

'Why did you try to burn the tapestry?' More silence. Joey's parents look at each other uncomfortably, then his Dad speaks up:

'Look, he's only twelve. He was probably just experimenting. You know how boys are?'

His wife throws him a look of withering contempt, then regards her wayward son with horror as he confesses:

'Me mum gave it me. She said: Go have some fun! I were only doin' what she told me!' stammers the boy.

'You lying bugger! Just wait 'til I get you home!' threatens his mum.

The chief examines the lighter.

'It's inscribed with the initials 'A.M.' and your name, Madam, I believe, is Amelia Morris. Correct?' he asks.

'He musta nicked it when I weren't lookin'!' she accuses. Joey looks affronted.

'Attempted arson will be recorded on both your records,' begins the chief. 'The value of the damage caused will be automatically deducted from your account, Mrs Morris, as you are fully liable for the actions of children in your charge. However, due to your threats of retribution, Joey will spend some time in state care, until you are deemed worthy to be his mum once more.' He pauses. 'Finally, both you and your son are blacklisted from entering Tintagel Castle ever again.' I freeze at that, and Joey bursts into tears.

_Wow!_ I think. That's telling them. The exit gate opens for me without hesitation as I leave. I've some good advice to pass on to Julie so she won't find herself in a similar predicament as that family. I'm definitely coming back, with or without her. I can't wait!
Travels From Burgundia

Edward Witham

Broadwater, Western Australia

Australia

11 October 2014

About 100 xua-gi south of Sydney Cove

1385 in the European Calends

To His Majesty Louis LXVII

Emperor of Burgundy.

From His Majesty's Jester Alberto

Your Serene Majesty,

It has now been nearly six months since you have sent me among the natives of the Great South Land Burgundia and this is my first report to you of my journeys and travails.

We left Burgundy under a full moon and a fair wind blowing to the east. Our vessel, Your Majesty's Land Yacht _Madeleine_ made good speed across the deserts of Rumania and Turkia. We were able to float the _Madeleine_ across the water-bridge into Asiatica and into Syria and Irania.

At Al-Jazeera we bade farewell to Your Majesty's empirical lands and crossed the border. At this point your wisdom in appointing a jester as leader of the expedition became immediately apparent. At the moment the bow of the _Madeleine_ crossed the border of Irania into Afgania a wild being, half-human, half aardvark came whooping toward our craft. From his huge front paws there extended claws as long as an Arabia scimitar and he stood on his hind feet and waved his front claws extravagantly around my person.

I swallowed down my fear and asked him the first of the riddles I had prepared. 'Why did the eagle fly to his nest?' The frightening aardvark-man stopped, clearly puzzled.

In rough Frankish he asked me to repeat the riddle. 'Why did the eagle fly to his nest?' His claws retracted into his huge fur covered paws, and I could feel the large brown eyes boring into mine.

'To save his eaglets?' he ventured.

'No,' I tried to smile, but could not.

'To meet his lady eagle?' he tried a second time.

'If you cannot guess on the third try, you must let me pass.'

'I know,' he sighed. He was silent for a long time. 'To escape the aardvark-man?'

'No,' I said. 'Now, let me pass.'

The aardvark-man stood aside. 'Will you tell me the answer?'

As the wind filled the sail of the _Madeleine_ and we pulled into alien territory, I called back, 'Because the nest could not fly to him.' Thus Sire we made our way into Afgania and into the terrible heights of mountains. The _Madeleine_ made slow time in the thin air, but we eventually came down onto a large plain teeming with people, dark-skinned, with feathers for hair and a beak like a duck's bill for a mouth.

Many a time in this land, whose name we learned was Inda, the feather-people would crowd the _Madeleine_ so that even on the flattest ground with the strongest breeze the yacht could make no forward progress. They would let us pass only after I had sung every song I had sung for you, Majesty, and many others that you will have to wait for my return to hear.

They particularly enjoyed Vive le Sérene de Burgundia, singing your praises again and again until their police with their sharp beaks came and arrested some for sedition!

Serene Majesty, the journey was long through these hot and steamy lands. The _Madeleine_ made of the white pine of the north country developed splits in the hulls and we spent some months in repairs. A wondrous grass grows here ten times higher than a man and as round as one. It is strong and supple and can be shaped for repairs. The Indans call it ban-boo. The _Madeleine_ is now bound together with this grass.

And on we travelled into the Great South Land which we claimed for you and named 'Burgundia'. The northern deserts of the South Land are particularly suited for a speedy crossing in the _Madeleine_ and we made for the place known as Sydney Cove. It was there that we began negotiations with the local inhabitants to incorporate their land into the Empire of Burgundy.

You should know, Majesty, that the inhabitants are peaceful, and that it why it is difficult to explain how we come to be here, 100 xua-gi or about 80 Roman miles south of Sydney Cove with the _Madeleine_ impounded and us imprisoned in an ingenious cage on the edge of an enormous cliff.

Riddles, songs, jokes - all the stock in trade of a jester - have failed to better our situation.

The locals are a bizarre race. They stand at 3-4 cubits in height, with a skin like leather with little hair, except on their heads, which they keep well-groomed. Their faces are kind. They have two eyes placed above a nose and a mouth. They have two arms and two legs. Their arms in particular give them great agility. They can reach objects and grasp them with the five fingers of the hand at the end of each arm.

They live in family groups made up of one or two adults, usually the parents of younger children in the family. They care deeply for each other; the adults providing for the younger ones.

While our six legs and carapace enable us to withstand many environments, the Great South Landians have a determination beyond anything we have previously encountered to retain their land. They are keeping us in a square glass box, which we know has a sliding top, because they have thrown crumbs of their food to us through that top.

Majesty if this letter reaches you, we beg you to alert the Geneva Arthropod Convention about the conditions under which we are kept and to have us released.

Your humble servant,

Alberto Formic
Whispers In The Dark

C Lloyd Brill

Bakersfield, California

USA

12 October 2014

She was tired of all the rumors. For the last six weeks she'd heard about her husband sneaking around. Sometimes he was alone. Sometimes he was with another woman. Jen closed her eyes and sipped her drink. How had it come to this? She was up for re-election next year and this could ruin her chances. She felt a tear slide down her cheek and hurriedly wiped it away. She opened her eyes and finished her drink, wincing as a cold cube of ice bumped her tooth.

She turned from the window and looked at the man sitting in one of the plush chairs across the room. She stared at him and slowly shook her head. She'd never imagined she'd be meeting with a private detective. She sighed and walked to the bar. 'Would you like something to drink, Mr Weston?' she said as she refilled her glass.

'Nothing for me, thanks,' Ray said as he watched her refill her glass. He'd seen it a thousand times. They always seemed to think alcohol made the news easier to accept. In his experience, it was the exact opposite. Getting drunk made them more emotional. He hated dealing with emotional drunks. He had no choice but to sit back and watch, though. She was paying him to investigate her husband, not to moderate her drinking. He sighed and settled into the chair, shifting the envelope he carried from one hand to the other.

Jen nodded and walked to a chair near Ray. She sat stiffly and sipped her drink as she stared at the envelope the man carried. That envelope held her destruction. She was tempted to grab the envelope and toss it into the fireplace. Perhaps it would be better to pretend things were normal. Perhaps it was merely a phase and Jeff would quit sneaking around soon. She sighed and sipped her drink again. She took a deep breath and nodded. 'Tell me what you found out.'

Ray looked at her and shrugged. He opened the envelope and handed the photos to her. He gave her a moment then began his narrative. 'I followed him for several days before I got those pictures.' He pointed to one showing Jeff at dinner with a rather attractive brunette. They were sitting closer than was necessary, smiling and looking at various papers on the table.

Jen looked at the photos then at Ray. 'This doesn't prove anything. He's a businessman. It could be a business meeting.' She glanced at the photos then tossed them on the small table in front of her. She sat back and sighed softly. It had all been a simple misunderstanding. She'd been worried over nothing.

Ray watched her and knew he'd be better off letting her believe what she wanted. He couldn't do that, though. He was a professional. He'd been hired to do a job and he always did the job he was hired to do. 'I checked,' he said quietly. 'No one at his office knows who she is. He isn't working on any projects that require clandestine dinners.' He paused and glanced at the bar, suddenly wishing he'd taken her up on the offer of a drink.

He leaned forward and looked at her. 'There's more. The two of them visited a house in the hills together. They'd go inside, stay for as much as an hour then come out and drive back to the city.' He sat back and sighed. 'I was unable to get photos of them in the house and the owner was never there so I'm not sure what they were doing. I'll continue to follow them and find out.'

Jen looked at him and shook his head. 'No, Ray. You've done enough. I found out what I needed to know. I can take it from here. Thank you for everything.' She reached into her pocket and pulled out a cheque, handing it to him as another tear slid down her cheek. She closed her eyes and sobbed softly, barely aware of the sound of Ray getting up and leaving the house.

She screamed and tossed the glass across the room. It shattered as it hit the wall but she wasn't aware of it. She put her face into her hands and cried. How could he do this to her? She gave him everything he needed. His business had improved because of her. What could he get from someone else that he couldn't get from her? She sat in the chair and sobbed softly as she tried to think of a reason for him to cheat on her.

Several hours later she glanced at the clock and cursed. It was her birthday and they had reservations at her favorite restaurant. She considered cancelling but shook her head. It had taken weeks to arrange the reservation and she wasn't going to back out now. She'd go to dinner and pretend everything was fine. When she got her husband alone she'd confront him.

She dressed in her finest dress and admired herself in the mirror. She looked stunning and she knew it. _Let that bastard see what he was throwing away_ , she thought. She smiled again and hurried to the restaurant. She smiled at the other patrons as she was led to her table. She sat alone and watched the door. Her bastard of a husband would be arriving soon and she didn't want to miss the expression on his face when he saw her.

She saw Jeff walk in and stop when he saw her. The expression on his face was priceless. As she looked at him her mind went back to the photos she'd seen earlier. The thought of him with another woman caused the smile to slip from her face. She tried to push the images from her mind but they returned no matter how hard she tried. She vaguely watched Jeff walk to the table and felt him kiss her before sitting down. She tried to smile and get back to enjoying the evening but the mood was gone.

She glared at him and said, 'How could you do this to me, you bastard?'

Jeff was stunned by his wife's sudden change in attitude. He had no idea what she was talking about. He reached for her hand as he said, 'What are you talking about, my angel? By the way, you look stunning tonight.' He tried to raise her hand to his lips and was shocked when she pulled her hand away.

Jen felt a tear at the corner of her eye again and stared at him. 'Don't give me the innocent act!' She'd raised her voice and she didn't care. His indiscretion would be a topos for every journalist in the city, if not the state, very soon. She reached for her purse and tossed the photos on the table. 'Explain these, you bastard!'

Jeff looked at the photos and felt the blood drain from his face. He looked at her and tried to think of something to say. 'You... you had me followed? Why?'

Jen laughed and glared at him again. 'To catch you cheating on me, you son of a bitch. How could you do this to me? I've given you everything you could possibly want. What can that harlot give you that I can't?'

Jeff looked at the photos again then sighed. 'Baby, please. It's not what you think.'

'Don't give me that. Those pictures were taken today! You were with her instead of being with me. On my birthday no less. Happy birthday to me.' She put her head in her hands and cried. She hadn't wanted to do this in public.

Jeff glanced around the room and saw furtive glances from almost everyone in the room. They were trying to pay attention to what was going on without being obvious about it. He didn't understand why she was doing this here. He looked at the photos again then reached into his pocket for a packet of papers. He spread them out on the table and looked at his wife. 'Yes, I was with Sarah today. I've been with her quite a lot lately.'

Jen raised her head and looked at him. 'So, you admit it. Why, Jeff? Why would you cheat on me?'

Jeff sighed and pointed at the papers in front of her. 'I'm not cheating on you.' He saw Jen open her mouth to say something and held his hand up. 'Let me finish. Sarah is a real estate agent. I've been meeting with her because I bought a house in the hills. You've been wanting to move out of the city and you like the area up there. I wanted to surprise you.' He reached into his pocket and pulled out a key, tossing it on the table. 'It's yours. Everything's been taken care of. You can move in tonight.' He grabbed the glass of wine on the table and drained it in one long swallow. 'Happy birthday,' he said as he stood and walked away from the table.

Jen looked at him as he talked and then looked at the papers. It was all there. The address, the final sale. Today's date. She looked at him again and tried to speak but she didn't know what to say. She felt like an idiot. She watched him walk away and felt the tears yet again.
The Nebula

Ella

Montreal, Quebec

Canada

13 October 2014

Mona hung up the phone and looked through the window. The sky was monotonously grey. Tall pines in front of the building were snow laden. Clouds shaded delicate snowflakes. Mona was watching their elegant movement in the air. She forgot about the telephone conversation as her thoughts drifted towards the harmonious dance of the frozen drops of water. Mona was mesmerized by their unique shapes and sizes, by their subtle differences in color.

Mona's window was facing north-west. She often thought that it would be nice to move to the south-east side of the building, to have more sun during the day. Mr Gould's apartment was facing the south. It had been empty since last October. If it would be posted for rent, Mona may consider changing apartments. But then, she would miss picturesque sunsets and the view on the park across the street. Watching old trees guarding their place was giving Mona a much needed sense of stability.

With their roots in the earth and their branches in the sky, trees have always reminded Mona about everything that grows. She would like to watch her favorite maple tree grow, if only she could stay in one place long enough. She would go for walks and touch its bark, admire its wide branches, watch changing colors of its leaves. Mona believed that trees can mirror a lot about people. She looked at the elms in the park. It had been a while since her last walk there.

The view in the window had inspired Mona to go out. The park at this time of the day had a peaceful ambience. Large snowflakes were floating in the air giving an impression that everything around is turning in slow motion. A small spruce made Mona think of a tale about the fir tree. The fir tree was like many people who cannot be happy in the moment because they expect better things in the upcoming future.

It was fearful and restless, constantly embarrassed by its small size, but it was afraid to grow. Eventually it became a Christmas tree, but its glory was short. Mona looked in the direction of the tall pine and saw the familiar figure of Mr Gould. She was surprised to see him again. Last time she had seen MrGould was on the day he was taken to the hospital. It was in October. There were rumors in the building that he was not coming back.

'Hello Mr Gould. It is nice to see you.'

'Hello my dear. Did you come for a walk? It would be lovely if we could sit here and have a chat. We didn't see each other for a while.' Mr Gould made a gesture of invitation pointing to a nearby bench. Mona was taken by surprise, she couldn't refuse. Mr Gould was always polite and friendly to everybody. When Mona moved to her apartment, he offered to show her the neighbourhood. He fixed the leaking sink in Mrs Smith's kitchen. He was taking care of a small flower garden in front of the building.

'How is your life now, Mona?'

Mona wanted to tell Mr Gould about her work, about her last vacations in Greece, but all she could think about was Karl. A lot has changed since Mr Gould had left. The time when Mona was looking at life through her pink glasses was gone. Karl came to her life like a storm and nothing seemed the same since.

'I have become a dreamer, Mr Gould.' Mona avoided the direct answer to his question.

'And you don't want to tell me about it... Then my dear, let me tell you about my dream.'

There was something different about Mr Gould. His face expression was not as animated as it was in the past. His posture was strait, and he moved with unusual lightness. His voice was soft and quiet. Mr Gould's insistence to tell Mona about his dream was surprising.

'Whatever was he thinking?' Mona didn't know that he was a storyteller.

'My dream was about the pink nebula floating somewhere in the universe. Yes, my dear, I saw it moving in a slow, elaborate motion. It was surrounded by white star dust. I was watching its elegant movement turning into a harmonious dance. I could feel its lightness and its joy.'

'Was it about love?'

'It was about happiness, my dear.'

'Can such happiness exist in the world full of suffering, struggle, and pain?'

Mr Gould looked up at the sky.

'The nebula was far away from suffering and struggle of our material world.'

Mona was listening in silence. A large snowflake landed on her hand. She was imagining the nebula of happiness moving slowly in heaven. The snowflake on her hand was melting.

'Why then, we can't exist in the form of a nebula. Why has our physical world come into existence?'

'The whole process of creation in the universe evolves around the material world. Without this physical part, the nebula would diffuse into an infinite expanse.'

Another snowflake had melted in Mona's hand. A tiny drop of water was shining on her skin.

'If the existence of the nebula is bound with the material world, the material world should be able to become like a nebula.' Mona took a deep breath. She was not sure why she continued this conversation. Karl would say that it was the nonsense of metaphorical thinking.

'It could happen when the physical world would lose its equilibrium. When the destructive force will prevail over the creative force, the nebula could restore the balance with its creative lightness and joy.'

Mona thought about Karl. He would say that struggle is a part of life, and that only the strongest will survive in the end. He believed that distraction is inevitable in life. According to Karl, egoism is a driving life force in the world, and anger is a motivation for action. Karl used to joke that Mona didn't have an angry bone in her body. Mona was afraid that if Karl did not succeed with his goals soon enough, all he would be left with in his body will be angry bones.

'Did you find your happiness, Mr Gould? I mean, not in your dream, but in your everyday life?'

'In every moment of life there is something to enjoy, something to be happy about.'

Mona looked at the tiny drop of water on her hand. It had almost evaporated.

'There was a time in my life, when everything seemed to fall into the right place. I was coming here for a walk and all those trees seemed strong and beautiful. Then, I saw their broken branches and cuts on their bark. They are still here, but they are not as invincible as I thought.'

Mona had realized how much she wanted to believe in Mr Gould's dream. How much she needed the joy of the pink nebula in her own life. Of course, Karl would say that Mona was naïve if she told tell him that she believed in the existence of the pink nebula. He would say that happiness comes with money, power, and health. He would shake his head in disbelief if Mona told him that she was losing time watching snowflakes.

'I will have to go, Mr Gould. Thank you for sharing your dream with me. I hope to see you again.'

On her way home, Mona looked at the windows in Mr Gould's apartment. Nothing had changed there since he went to the hospital in October.

At home, Mona made a raspberry tea. It had a fruity flavour and it was delightfully warm. It was time to turn on the TV, but Mona's mood was too dreamy for the evening news. She found her old book with short stories by Truman Capote. The story she wanted to read was about someone in New York, who was selling dreams to somebody who couldn't dream. Mona was compelled to read this story again. She had a feeling that last time she had overlooked something important in it.

Mona was about to go to bed when the telephone rang. It was Karl.

'I was trying to reach you the whole afternoon. Where have you been? I was working long hours. I thought you could come this evening to cheer me up. It was a hell of a day. Business is not good. I am afraid to think about the next week. Did you hear the news? There are floods in China, and a volcano has erupted on one of the Pacific islands. Disasters!'

Mona looked at her hand, where a snowflake had melted as Mr Gould was telling her about his dream.

'It is time to change,' she heard the echo of her own voice in the phone.

'It is time to change what?!'

'It is time to become like the pink nebula.'
To Thine Own Self Be True

Winsome Smith

Lithgow, New South Wales

Australia

14 October 2014

I became aware of Greg in my first week at university and knew straight away that he was the man of my dreams. It would have been difficult not to be aware of him, because he was a person who had everything. He was tall and good looking, athletic and popular, but I felt straight away that he was out of my reach. Not that I was unattractive, but I was inclined to be shy and did not know how to get to know him. Nevertheless by the end of the first month I decided that I was going to do everything I could to win him. I was really smitten. If I had been a school girl I would have drawn hearts all over my pencil case with our two names entwined: Greg and Sonia.

We were enrolled in the same course, Political History, a subject that is known to be difficult. I knew it would be no trouble to me because I was what was known in those days as a brain or an egghead. Nowadays people like me are known as geeks or nerds, and are not particularly popular socially.

Greg, who had to be smart to be in that course, was always surrounded by a gaggle of girls. He also had plenty of friends among the males in the course. Obviously he had no trouble getting along with people, in spite of his brains.

I didn't see him every day. In lectures I sat near the front and was busy making notes but he always sat somewhere at the back. We were in different tutorials so if I wanted to be near him I had to somehow manipulate things.

The girls who surrounded him were the pretty, chatty girls. They wore up-to-date clothes and they exuded confidence. I watched them carefully and decided that in my efforts to win Greg I would outdo them. They obviously came from different backgrounds to mine. I had kind and loving parents but they were somewhat, well, puritanical. My mother always saw that I had good clothes but they were sensible, practical clothes, just like my mother herself. Our home was comfortable but not modern or showy.

Well, here I was at university, away from the restrictions of home. I did not have to be modest or well-mannered. I decided to blossom - and win Greg. I taught myself to chatter and giggle. I hid my studious ways. Whenever we received an assignment back we girls compared our marks, but I never told them mine. When asked about my results I simply gave a non-committal smile and said mysteriously, 'Well, I managed to pass.' A Credit or Distinction remained my secret.

Although I did not manage to sit near Greg at lectures, I arranged to sit at a table near his in the cafeteria. Here I excelled myself in personality. I giggled; I shrieked in a girlish way. I talked enthusiastically of inconsequential things and never mentioned Political History. The girls I sat with began to call me Giggling Gertie. By mid-term I was always surrounded by girls of my own ilk - the non-studious scatterbrains. I caught Greg looking at me often but he still seemed remote.

I looked in the mirror one day and decided that I must do something about my plain appearance. I began to wear make-up, loads of it. I wore mascara every day and the fluttering of my eyelashes was nearly enough to cool the whole classroom on the hottest day. I wore tight skirts with high heels and my jumpers were so tight they could have been painted on.

I wore myself out by staying up late at night studying. This allowed me to show cheerful unconcern during the day. Nobody saw me with my head in a book. When I went to the library I sat behind a pillar so no-one would know how diligently I studied and did my assignments. I had decided that the way to a man's heart was through glamour girl behaviour.

Time passed and towards the end of the semester an announcement appeared on notice-boards. There was to be an essay competition for first-year students. The prize, offered by a business in the city, was a substantial amount of money which would pay for fees and books until graduation. My parents, whom I adored, had made sacrifices to enable me to have an education. This prize would make their lives and mine so much easier. I determined to put as much effort into this essay as I was putting into winning Greg's heart.

It was a challenge - a five thousand word essay on a topic that required a lot of research. My furtive visits to the library became longer; my nights of studying became later; I wore eye-shadow and caked on make-up to try to hide the dark circles around my eyes. During the daytime I was the bright good-time girl, ever popular, and nobody guessed how hard I was trying to win that competition.

In due course I handed in my essay and allowed myself a few early nights. I was so exhausted that I relaxed my efforts in over-dressing and over-acting for a while, and kept what they call a low profile.

It was after a lecture in the crowded lecture hall that the chancellor came in to announce the winner of the competition. When he announced my name the whole room seemed to sparkle - it was a sparkle that came from somewhere inside me and radiated out. I felt dazzled as I walked up to the stage to receive my prize.

The chancellor then did something unexpected. He announced a runner-up: Greg. I don't know if he felt dazzled but within a few moments we were standing on the stage together - Greg and me.

After the ceremony I walked straight to a phone box to ring home. When I left the phone box Greg was standing there, waiting for me. Without hesitation he asked me out on a date.

On that first outing he said to me, 'I was attracted to you right from the start and I wanted to ask you out. I didn't because I thought you were a flibbertigibbet. Over the last couple of weeks I've seen you as you really are - a genuine, sincere and intelligent person, and beautiful.'

He is now sitting opposite me, hunched in his armchair. He is correcting the manuscript of yet another book which is soon to go to the publisher. Occasionally he glances at me and smiles or winks. He is a professor at the university and I am a lecturer. I gave up work for a few years to bring up our four bright and bubbly kids. I get up to make a cup of tea and as I walk past his chair he gives my hand a squeeze.

I have often told my children what Shakespeare wrote, _'This above all, to thine own self be true.'_
Dear Cecil

Winsome Smith

Lithgow, New South Wales

Australia

14 October 2014

Dear Cecil,

I received your letter and am glad to hear you are feeling more relaxed and will be home on Saturday. I'm so happy the holiday with your mother has done you good as the last few years have been very trying for you.

Remember when we first got married, when we were young and in love? We both had dreams of the lovely home we would have some day and our hobby was designing houses and planning colour schemes.

We worked and saved and before long we had this house, fulfilling all our dreams. We were able to buy the best appliances, such as a washing machine and two-door refrigerator and we both resolved to make our lives happy in this beautiful home.

You certainly tried hard. You were so proud of the house that every night after dinner you vacuumed and dusted everything and insisted we leave our shoes outside. You decided we would eat all our meals on the balcony so our elegant dining room furniture would not get marked.

I had time now to return to my great love - art. I knew how much it would upset you if I hung my paintings on your smooth white walls, so I displayed my canvases by leaning them against the wall in the sun-room.

You never complained; you only remarked that they looked untidy there and that our spotless laundry looked messy with jars of brushes on the shelves. I got an inkling of how upset you were when you mentioned Lance, our neighbour - you know, the man with the motor bike and long hair tied in a pony tail - that you hoped you hadn't married a grot after all. You had been talking to him about my painting and he had been asking you about it.

You did your best, you really did. You showed me exactly how to iron your shirts and exactly how to hang them, one shirt on each hanger and the hangers twelve centimetres apart. You inspected my ironing and if you found creases in any garment you dropped it straight back into the dirty clothes basket. You have always aimed for perfection.

I tried hard to be the perfect woman you thought I should be. When you advised me never to wear jeans, not with a broad behind like mine, I squeezed myself into step-ins or body shapers, or whatever they are called and only ever wore loose skirts. I built up a comprehensive collection of foundation garments.

We both toiled to keep the garden as you wanted it - the lawns manicured with your smart electric mower and the flowers growing precisely where they were placed. Flowers being my great delight, I picked them and arranged them in vases, but you were peeved when I did the arranging at the kitchen sink. You said, 'What if someone comes while you're in the middle of that mess?'

It bothered you when I put the clippings and leaves into the compost bin and you didn't like having compost in the yard, especially when I said something about it breaking down and rotting. In the garden you preferred nice clean chemicals that never rotted.

Dearest Cecil, I have a confession. The day after you left, I really don't know what got into me. The day you went off for your much needed rest at your mum's I put on my oldest jeans. I got my tubes of paints and squirted the colours all over the lounge room walls. Then I did a Pro Hart. I got the back end of the vacuum cleaner, you know, the part that blows out, and blew the paints until they made a delightfully weird pattern all over your clean, white walls. I filled the wheelbarrow with lovely rotted compost and spread it around. I forgot to mention that first I piled your white shirts on the carpet, under where I spread the compost.

I went out, wearing my jeans in public, and bought a hamburger, a big bag of hot, fatty chips and a bottle of wine. I sat at the polished dining-room table and scoffed the lot. I think the wine went to my head because I don't remember much about the rest of the night. When I woke up it was one o'clock the next afternoon and Lance, the next-door neighbour - you know - the man with the motor bike and long hair tied in a pony tail - was trying to get me out of the wheelbarrow.

Dear Cecil, please don't get upset over that silly confession. When you get home on Saturday you will find everything in a state of perfection, just the way you want it. The walls are now pristine white. There is not a trace of compost on the carpet and I have bought you a dozen new white shirts. They are hanging in the wardrobe exactly twelve centimetres apart. The kitchen sink is gleaming with not a leaf or twig to be seen and the paint brushes have gone from the laundry shelf.

Everything is just as it was before you went away, with one small difference. I am now wearing a comfy pair of jeans and my broad behind is settled on the pillion of Lance's motor bike. We will ride down the main street to post this letter and to drop off a parcel of corsetry at St Vincent de Paul.

Then we will zoom off into the distance to find lovely sunrises to paint together.

Ex-yours,

Maureen

Editor's note: This story gets an Editor's Pick for the sheer fun and 'you go, girl' attitude of it all.
Bush Walk

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, New South Wales

Australia

15 October 2014

Dim

light

filters

through darkness

reaching out to stroke

tiny pebbles on forest floor.

Mournful sounds of sighing breezes

remind the errant traveller that the lone way is fraught with unknown, unseen perils.

Silly to follow bowerbird down to this dark dell

where moss and lichen beckon one to an endless sleep.

Bracken whips and ensnarls the hair.

In this putrid air

all is lost.

Panic!

Heart

stops.
Spring

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, New South Wales

Australia

15 October 2014

Light

rain

falls down,

flippantly

dancing with budding

cherry blossom trees as they wait,

in anticipation, for noonday sun to warming spread

beaming rays upon their trusting tantalizing tips.

They blush and turn their provocative petals out to embrace this mercenary world.

Still, beauty lives and dies as each bomb falls on another's cause, and men in towers tall

tally up their winnings.

Australia

now goes

to

war.
Misplaced...

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

16 October 2014

Gosh, it's so dark in here tonight. But, wait what's that up ahead I think I see - some sort of shimmering light, 'that can't be wise'.

I know I've been here before and I'm certain the door to my ultimate quest lies somewhere here within this labyrinth.

How long has it been this time? Not that it matters. That light looks to be disappearing like the white rabbit into paradise -

I wonder: could it be that the thunder I heard earlier is a change in the weather or just the beating of my heart? No more absinth!

It's not advisable to dabble with the green fairy when you're intent on the quest to discover the secret path; where waters meet.

There's the light once more always just out of reach, elusive - a tantalising glimpse. 'Wait for me!' I cry, but my breath fails me.

I come to an abrupt halt. Hands on knees, bent over double like a schoolboy in the master's chambers, I gasp like a drowning man.

Now I hear other voices: dark, sinister not mellifluous but malevolent, intent on confusion, distraction - the inaction impales me.

Perhaps I should retrace my footsteps to the front portal and try an alternate route; a substitute to avoid the bogeyman - if I can.

Am I lost? No... just misplaced, adrift in time and floating in space; a hostage of my own vanity, clinging to vestiges of sanity, elite...

Often I ask myself: why I did enter the darkness to confront the Minotaur? There's no law that I must obey or ersatz tradition.

I am here through my own volition wandering through these ancient vaults; something halts my progress that's part man and part bull.

Now I am full of fear. The thing that I sought has caught sight of me and now I quake; it is awake and I am paralysed with indecision.

Should I stand my ground? With a mighty bellow it charges... I awake! The morning breaks but thoughts of the divine and bovine are full.

I'm still waiting, marking time... but for what? I am a Taurean - some say plebeian, but common or not, my quest is still incomplete.

I should be wary of sensory deprivation. With earplugs and air mask, I descend into the labyrinth of my own head every night.

As I become ever older and winter becomes ever colder, I wonder if my frenzied mental state has externalised - ergo I become the beast.

Feral, small-statured and peculiarly disinterested in most things that surround me but consume the population - fatuousness is rife!

Struggling to explain my dilemma, at times I'm as mad as a dog with distemper. Small things like spilt coffee are galling to say the least.

Sometimes I feel like a phantom - a spectre, just another wave on the human sea. Oblivion, take me back between the sheets.
One Date

John Arvan

Underdale, South Australia

Australia

17 October 2014

in time we move

but one date stays

and lets us pause...

regard the days

the hours spent, the fun forays

our fortune mocks the world's malaise

our social dance gift-wraps our fears

and beams across our birthday years

so to arrive at this great point

where once we scoffed its distant shore

a recognition must be fashioned

commemoration has to flaunt

your spirit revelling with your peers

who share the magic of your years
My Garden

John Ross

Blackheath, New South Wales

Australia

17 October 2014

Some people meditate when they are stressed, or life is just getting too hard to handle. Some people seek medical help, (in many cases this is the right thing to do), and find relief in pills or therapy. Others find temporary relief in drink. In the past I have tried to bury myself in work and frantic activity; in the long run this just makes the situation worse. Now I just retreat to my private place where there is peace, tranquillity, no demands on my time and my mind can just relax.

This place is my garden. Here I just sit, or walk slowly around and hear and see. Over time I have learnt to not just look but to see and to not just listen but to hear.

Today I am in my most favourite spot in the garden; a wooden bench that looks over the lawn and into the many plants and shrubs that crowd around the gravel paths that wind through the garden.

I can hear the quiet chuckle of a kookaburra as he sits on the clothes line and watches for the slightest indication of a worm or grub in the lawn. In the distance are the 'creaky door' sounds of a flock of gang-gang cockatoos as they head for the neighbour's bird feeder. In a tall pine tree, nearly directly above me, I can hear the crunch as a black cockatoo chews a pine cone. The pieces rain down and make soft thuds as they hit the wooden deck behind me. Occasionally I can hear the warbling of a family of magpies that live in our yard and are always on the watch for any crumbs or food scraps that might be left after a morning tea on the back deck.

Some people say that it is too quiet where I live but to me the air is alive with sound. If I relax and allow the sounds to come to me I can hear many things that others would never hear: The buzz of hundreds of bees as they busily investigate the flowers on the abelias near the back steps. The quiet tick, tick as a small tree creeper bird picks at the bark of a gum tree looking for tiny insects. The rustle of the very top leaves of the trees as a gentle breeze stirs them to life. I imagine that I can almost hear the soft thump as a falling leaf hits the ground. As I said, when you really hear the silence is alive with sound.

A mass of tiny flying insects catch my eye as they perform their intricate ballet in the spotlight of a shaft of golden sunlight that slices down through the foliage. The breeze causes a glossy green leaf to slowly gyrate and as it catches the sunlight it flashes a Morse code message to its neighbours.

A small jacky lizard cautiously pokes his head out of the rocks that line a path; an ant wanders too close and is gone in a flash; the kookaburra stirs and the lizard wisely ducks back under cover. From a tall gum tree a long strand of bark hangs down and as it swings back and forth it reminds me of the rope that, as children, we used to swing out over the river and drop laughing into the water.

There are so many things to see; the curve of a branch, the colour of the azaleas, the shape of the clouds, the mysterious destination of a trail of ants, the fact that crimson rosellas always use their right claw to pick up food. So many things if one just sees and not just looks.

My mind clear, my soul refreshed, it is now time to return to my study and again grapple with the topic of the week from my writing group, 'Serves him right'. Maybe this is not what is meant but my garden 'serves me right'.
A Brighter Sun

Amir Kiani

Toronto, Ontario

Canada

18 October 2014

There is a brighter sun for you

to shine,

upon your kind look.

To stroke your transparent skin.

To praise your vast heart every sunrise.

To devote life every sunset.

To find itself;

in the blues of your sky

when you open them.

To lose light,

when you blink.

We all know,

these last rays,

won't last long.

There is a brighter sun for you.

Which needs you,

to shine!
A Boatswain's Mate's Nor'Easter Lullabye

MC Alves

New York

USA

19 October 2014

Sojourner's Journal - Date: Timeless El Infinitum; Somewhere between Never-Never Land & Nowhere

To: His Rather Royal Highness, Casper of Helsingør, RIP

Filed by: Hook, Captain, Ret.

Found, unearthed by the tremors of the Big Dig of 2nd Avenue, also this testament to 'The Invisble Hook's' historic wisdom, a Letter of Marque once given to Alexander Haig by Henry Kissinger, aka Dr Strangelove, obtained by Ed Koch, not that gnarly Nazi Giuliani, who has been credited with secretly saving the Diamond District from invasion by the DeBeers Empire had they found out the top-secret plans to annex the Transvaal and Maputo and sell the whole kitandkaboodles to King Leopold of Belgium to form a more perfect union of Zulu headbangers and Blood Diamond mines. Speaking of Nazis, Al and Henry knew their treacheries. Every day is Halloween to a Pirate. Using this recovered relic as template, Our Hero has obtained an Official Agreement by A Sovereign to draft a current Letter of Marque for Signature. To wit:

'To: HRRH, RIP, Casper of Helsingør: Sovreign of Solitude; Sire Emeritus of the Cassiopeian Latitudes, Lord of Leviathans, Monarch of Murk, Friendly Ghost:

As graciously agreed upon by Yourself this Year of Our Lord, IXXIX(?), a _Letter of Marque and Reprisal_ shall be provided authorizing any and all essential activities pursuant of Foreign Venture in former Roman Empire Bastion of the West, Algarve, entailing the following:

Pilfering; Looting; Ledgermain; Purloining; Pillaging; Punch and Judy Puppet Shows, and General Piracy as defined in the French Code of Cooking Dried Cod; and any other such efforts as may prove necessary in honor of the Crown of Quebec and Our Hero, Hook, Captain, Ret., henceforth to be known as 'Keeper of the House' and Defender of the Faith (Ret.)

Your prompt attention to this Letter of Petition, signed with the Official Seal of Fine Piracy and Debauchery, Emblem embossed in wax, et Quincunx and Bezants, as required by Tradition and Law, by Yourself, above Titles withstanding. Further import/export terms to be determined based on booty (not inclusive of daily ration of Puser's Rum, guaranteed by Law. Grog and Foie Gras requested).

Your Humble Crown's Humble Servant,

Hook, Captain, Ret.

'Duty! Honor! Brandywine!'

Directions: set sail from Sagres, head South, South-West, follow the sardines.

Off the coast of Casablanca, 33°32′N 7°35′W as the crow caws. Visible darkness at dawn's break. Groggy fog obscuring as well as highlighting the sheen from the palm trees and bush and bougainvillia as seen from the Crow's Nest. The infrequent but consistent drop of heavy water onto wood can be heard in the Captain's Quarters. Right to the left of the Brig.

Hook, the Captain, retired, of Lisbon, opens his eyes. Candles shadowboxing. He listens. He was Lusitanian. The sardines come to us.

Next: the shrill whine and rhythmic crunching of small gears and blades sounding as if a Vespa were having a Mad-Hatteresque rendezvous with a Volkswagen. Splashing and scratching of wood chips and barnacles in sudden propulsion and sudden stop. Death to all wretches and foul scallywags! Death to feudal lords of feudal islands hidden under the skirts of a Republic if such are responsible for such a rude sound in the midst of natural, aquatic purring. Silence, you Hoary Hooligans! The Sirens' melodies cannot be heard!

Then, the rains came. An abrupt and, yes, torrential rain, wave after blissfully heavy wave, Tsunamic in its ambition rain. The sputtering of the small, now quite flacid, engines. More rain. Moses, aka Charleton Heston, himself impotent on this morning in the path of this Nor'easter spring shower. This is a job for Yul Brenner, the wretches realize and scurry off to cover. None to be found that was not already wet. Then the rains kept coming. No other sound but the continuous sound of a deluge having fun.

The sardines are on their way.

The rains tire or bore and skip across the ocean's back pocket to another port of call. The weapons of mass defoliation still in the hands of scallywags but now will have nothing to do with starting. The snails march, in their own manner, up from underneath everywhere to... do whatever is a snail's fancy. Captain Hook rises, resplendent even in grog, eschews the head and gloats his way to the galley for the first of many bouts with warm Grog. Ahh, Mary Magdalen's Malvinas' Marzipan! Yum. There had been no Joan of Arc's Jericho Jemima Jumbalaya since she, in an act of defiance at being forced to wear a Moo-Moo, dolphins when horny are not to be trifled with, swallowed her secret recipe.

Upon approaching, still early morn, the lads on the deck are in boisterous bluster, retelling a tale of unknown origin: '... they had this picture of a woman putting a rubber, a condom, on a banana! A banana! Why should she but a rubber on a banana? She could have all kinds of French ticklers!' The Captain, Hook, shrewd as ever in slippers and blunderbuss: 'When those fine ladies of the Favelas are done with 'em we'll ship it all over to Paris and sell 'em as bubble gum.'

Don't throw your rubbers overboard, lads. Yer onna focking Caravel.

The game never ends when your whole world depends on whatever the barges can bring you. Seagull's swan song.

The seagulls are back from wherever they were during the bleak days, and they are hungry. A large swan stands perched on one leg, in the shallow pool of rainwater on the starboard deck, its' other up and around its downy back, balancing itself perfectly for a very long time. Why the large white fowl did this was uncertain but the Captain thought it was just showing off to the albatross. The wretches will not run out of grog. Grog, maybe.

Off the coast Cote d'Ivoire the heavenly breeze is steady, the ocean neither benign nor turbulent and the Celestial Navigator at the ready. The rains off somewhere else briefly and the swans practicing for the coming of other fair-weather fans. Back at the Khyber Pass? Same as it ever was, the Captain supposed. Here, too. Mrs Muir and the Ghost have treasures untold, legend had it, and a dead man's chest awaits.

The fat worms are smiling, the snails are dancing and the masts are dripping copiously. The fish, hiding under the caravel so as not to get wet, are confounding the seagulls. Awash all.

Yet more rain, heavy rainfall, during the early morning hours. Sun muted still behind chimera of thin, battleship grey cloud cover. Sound of circular saws at all compass points - new Plank in progress, being sawed, planed and nailed. Crucifix perhaps. Carpenters' paradise, apparently.

The first mutiny reared its doggeral head long before even near the Gardens of Babylon, off the southern coast of Pitcairn Island. It was rather easily quelled by throwing the giraffe over the port side. The mystery of how the mangy beast managed to stow away aboard was overshadowed by the second mutiny which erupted when the rum ran dry which may have explained the giraffe's mood while floating away. This was a serious matter, bonhomie be damned, Puser's Rum known to be 'good to the last drop', ask any hanged man, and its absence was more than the shabby Pheonician scallywags who had been press-ganged into service at Abyssinia could be expected to bear. In fact they did not suffer such sobriety gracefully but spent much time sharpening their belly knives while glaring up at Ahab, the ship's mascot albatross and oftentimes compass, much like they had the dimwitted giraffe.

The eventual fate of either creature, to say nothing of the cretinous crew's verdict, remained unknown to Captain Hook who jumped ship in the dead of night with the help of a boatswain named Smee who smuggled him aboard the Flying Dutchman which had appeared, fleetingly as ever, at Bounty Bay.

Roiling seas beset upon by rolling, heaving thunder; shocking white flashes of lightning; roiling rains thrashed about on swirling winds; draft at the level of the deck, water lapping onto the boards; sea shrouded, grey-white whitecaps rolling. Wind westerly, constant. The journey back to Never-Never Land was a stormy one. The sight of the first fat alligator pining on the shore brought Hook's first smile and the alligator's last.

Hook, Captain, Ret. (once again) resolved to spend his last days on The Island. The Lost Boys were long gone, lost to that dreary state of adultery which captures all in time, however long, however resisted. Never had he known summers to pass so swiftly and without notice. He had arrived with the rains and it appeared he may well depart the same.

Never-Never Land, now deserted. A short walk between harbor and beachhead, he now did little more than march back and forth in the delicious peace with sounds only of the surf and tenacious crickets. After an eternity, ultimately infinite (?), give or take a few pilgrimages of piracy here and there now and again, serenity and solitude are to be found on a barrier island, between ratiocination and melody, end of season, with the crows and seagulls. A final few days dancing beneath Pegasus and Cassiopeia, in good company, adventure enough. A sunset rather more like a long day surrendering to the swirling clouds of a shimmering black night.

The night may well be tender but an old boatswain, much as a proud old gull gone to ground, is a lackluster pedestrian.

(... to be continued... eventually... somewhere else...)

Epilog I: 'Tequila, scorpion honey, harsh dew of the doglands, essence of Aztec, crema de cacti; tequila, oily and thermal like the sun in solution; tequila, liquid geometry of passion; Tequila, the buzzard God who copulates in midair with the ascending souls of dying virgins; tequila, firebug in the house of good taste; O tequila, savage water of sorcery, what confusion and mischief your sly, rebellious drops do generate!' - Tom Robbins
Preaching - Teaching - Preaching

Mark Fowler

Magill, South Australia

Australia

20 October 2014

Failed at preaching.

Took up teaching.

Good at sharing;

poor at caring.

Failed the godly.

Strange, but oddly

curbed behaviour.

Failed the saviour.

Knew symmetry.

Blitzed geometry.

Taught poetry;

used puppetry

Loved kids learning,

minds discerning.

Child creating;

less berating.

Soon I'm caring.

Lives worth sharing.

Student's learning;

passion burning.

Christian schooling!

They'd been fooling.

'You teach Heaven!

Lesson seven.'

'Don't do, Jesus,

though he frees us.

Failed at preaching;

love my teaching.

Like the humdrum

curriculum.

Not sacrifice;

not God advice.

Not me really;

touchy, feely.

Mathematics!

Plus dramatics.'

Not prestigious,

this religious

faith I'm sharing;

Jesus caring!

Now I'm preaching,

through my teaching.

Loving oddly

all things Godly.
Social Dust Cloud

Graham Sparks

Bathurst, New South Wales

Australia

23 October 2014

What is man

but eschalons of living software,

from molecule to math,

to living dreams in flesh

triangulating future worlds?

What is software if not language,

what is wetware if not software manifest?

Software simply is,

the medium irrelevant.

And so it seems that all is language,

in the beginning was the word.

What is a man

if not a life-ship built by viri', 'crobes,

and those very software entities just mentioned?

So why should living software pause at skin

and not diasporate the space beyond,

evolving up a system order

to live across a population.

Religion tells us Man is made of dust,

science tells us Man is cosmic dust,

going up a fractal eschelon,

Man himself behaves as grains of dust.

A man can do a thing or two

but folk together can do more,

and so attractive is the job they've done

they manifest a gravity their own,

accreting yet more folk.

And with attainment of a certain mass

a fusion will ignite,

and something more than just a sum of parts,

something sentient takes a breath,

and feels a pang of hunger.
Fire

Rachel Branscombe

Quakers Hill, New South Wales

Australia

24 October 2014

The fire burned

The trees crackled

The wind blew them over

They fell with a thud

The possum shrieked but no one heard

The flames licked ever brighter

The siren sounded

The truck arrived

The water gushed from its hose

The fire disappeared
X Action

Michael Cooper

Penrith, New South Wales

Australia

25 October 2014

Casey was flattered that he wanted her. He wanted her enough to request a third meeting and fast track audition. Dean showed her his script and she'd shown him her portfolio. She knew he liked what he saw.

Casey had done plenty of modelling - fashion, swimsuit, even lingerie for a major retailer. It was all in her portfolio. She hoped the lingerie shots would sway Dean in his choice of a new leading lady. A leading lady, who he claimed, would rise to the heights of the movie business.

She was an exhibitionist and had always sought the spotlight. Dance groups, music recitals, acting in plays - Casey had tried it all and loved to perform. There was the adrenaline rush of the pre-show nerves, the highs of the performance itself, the unbelievable feeling of the applause following a show.

Movies were the thing though. To be seen on a large stage - potentially by millions of people - was the overriding desire. Casey would do anything to see that ambition materialise. She'd had several smaller roles as extras, even a speaking part in an indie film, but now she was listening to Dean tell her of the plans for his movie.

His movie - like a lot of modern filmmakers, Dean had written the script and was planning on producing and directing it. He had assembled all-star crews who were the best in their field. Casey had some concerns but she wasn't sure how to broach them.

She started with the need to have medical people checking you out. They were even going to be on the set. Some of the movie's more adventurous scenes were to be closed to all but essential crew, actors and the docs.

'The medicos are necessary for the ongoing health of the cast,' he said. 'You have a pre-medical and another when filming wraps.'

Casey pushed him on it. He insisted that medical checks were needed and wouldn't move on it. Casey was worried. She wanted to be in the movies, but she was inwardly questioning her ambitions. Was this the best way of going about it?

Her mother was against it after Casey had explained the basic premise. 'A woman's body is sacred Casey. You'd be insulting it if you went ahead with this... movie.' she'd said. 'But you have your father's dogged will to push through and follow your dreams. I don't think I'll be able to watch the finished product.'

Mum asked Casey what her dad would have thought of her plans.

Dad was Australian, her mum from Thailand. Casey had inherited the best of both gene pools. She had her father's rugged determination to succeed and from Mum the Asian skin and exquisite beauty. The Aussie/Thai mix had resulted in a girl who was alluring in many ways.

Casey said that she'd ask her dad when he woke up. He was a hard driving rock and roller who lived for the music he played with a succession of bands.

His body had refused at last to keep up with the pace of all night gigs, drinking and recreational drugs. The coma inducing stroke had hit while he was doing what he loved - playing screaming licks on his Fender and singing blues into a gaffer taped microphone.

Casey's boyfriend Pete, showed even less understanding. 'I can't believe you're even contemplating this,' he fumed. 'I know you want to be in the movies, but this is foolish. These people are gonna' own you. What guarantees are there you won't be exploited, manipulated or end up with some medical condition?'

Before Casey could answer, he continued. 'How many of these things do you have to sign up for?' Casey noticed that he called them 'things,' not movies.

They had agreed to split until she saw sense.

The girls in her friendship group had been divided.

'Good money, Case, but is the cost worth it?' asked one.

'Will you be able to look yourself in the mirror?' asked another.

'You go for it girl, wish I had the guts,' was another response.

Her bestie Millie had the finest comment. 'Geez Case, aren't you the one with the balls?'

So, here she was - sitting with Dean going over the script and the shooting schedule. He had looked through her portfolio and was particularly impressed with the centre spread. It showed Casey in lacy knickers sitting on a Harley.

The photographer had added a jungle background with two realistic stuffed lions. He'd used lighting and effects to make it appear as though the animals were chasing her while she fled on the bike.

The caption read, 'Lion Lingerie - Get Revved.'

'I love these photos,' Dean said, pointing to the jungle spread. 'You have just what it takes - my innovative filming will make this the next big action movie. And you, Casey, will be the next big action star. People will say your name in the same breath as Willis, Stallone and Schwarzenegger.'

Casey smiled. That explained the need for the medical people. And the closed sets. Dean had outlined several ground-breaking techniques for filming the action sequences. He didn't want his competitors copying them.

The opening scene called for her to jump from one moving train to another. The years of dance and gym training were paying off. She had trophies in martial arts, a silver medal in trampoline at the Australian championships and a Level 3 instructor's certificate in snow sports. All of this was recorded in detail in her portfolio. She was proud of her abilities and Dean was impressed.

'Just one thing, though,' Dean continued. Casey raised an eyebrow. 'That surname of yours,' he said. 'I think we need to drop the X from the end.'

Casey thought about this for a moment. Dropping the X would mean her name would have a better Asian sound and enhance the movie's chances in that market. Dean was convinced the name change would work. She ran it in her mind.

'Casey Li,' she said, 'I like it.'

'Yeah,' agreed Dean, 'with the X, you sound like a porn star.'
Petty Spurge

Myfanwy Dabner

Newbridge, New South Wales

Australia

26 October 2014

Where did you come from little weed?

I pull you out and you die.

My kids see you as a little tree.

I see a dell of delicate little trees

Wherein the littlest of insects are living with you.

Such as, moths and many, many aphids

Who unknowingly bring your boys and girls together.

Like my undressed hair my garden is unruly

And this lets you be, alive.

Your leaves bruise and tear under heavy foot

And even to the press of my fingers you die.

You are thirsty in the sun.

Your roots are fine hairs

All is in keeping

And my hand tangles through my fine...

Brushing away while I think.

This secret little dell is your home.

But the big booted man cuts you down.

Vroooooom!

Some roots are left behind.

Neither I nor the machine won.

Your little life is left for another little dell.

In my memory

Euphorbia peplus.

Cyathium a pseudanthium.

Inflorescence.

Infructescence is

Tri-lobe seeded fruit.

Milky medicinal sap.

Not petty.

Not all the same.

I love ladybugs.

They love eating aphids.
Billy, Max, Adam And Sheila

Shirley Burgess

Rosebud, Victoria

Australia

27 October 2014

Adam sat down heavily on the park bench. It was a hot day, and his usual run in the Fitzroy Gardens had been hard on him. He was a tallish, pretty fit, forty-two year old, content with his life. He drank some water from his bottle, and sat breathing heavily.

It was only then he noticed a small, grubby dog, sitting nearby, looking at him. He moved to reach him and gently patted the scraggy mutt. Two dark brown eyes looked up at him with the saddest expression Adam had ever seen.

'What are you doing out in this heat, you Silly Billy?' he said to the dog.

The dog sniffed the water bottle.

'You can have all that but I don't have a dish to put it in, I'm afraid. Wait, hang on...' He could see a small plastic container in a nearby rubbish bin. 'This'll do.' Filling it with the rest of the water, he put it down for the little dog, and watched him drink the lot without stopping. 'You needed that, eh?'

He left him to it and jogged off, but was soon aware that the dog was following him. Adam stopped and watched him catch up. The dog's paws, he noticed, had blood on them, and when he picked them up one by one, he saw that the pads were worn, and split.

'You've travelled a long way on those, Billy, you poor little bloke, but I live in a high-rise. I can't take you with me, can I?' The building was not far away and looked down over the park.

Those sad eyes gazed at him again. Adam was sure the dog had understood exactly what he'd just said.

He knelt down and patted the little animal again. 'I must say I'd love to wash you clean, and see what you really look like. If I clean you up, feed you and make you more presentable, perhaps Mum and Dad will take you in. Agreed? They live in Brighton. They have a big garden. You'd love it there.'

He picked the dog up and took him home.

Two weeks can make a big difference to a little dog when he is being looked after, but the bad news was that Adam's Mum and Dad were not at all keen to take him in.

'And take him to dog obedience classes before you bring him here,' his mother warned. 'We don't want a dog jumping up all over us, _Good point_ , Adam thought.

Adam soon realised that he wanted to keep Billy anyway, for the small dog was pleasant company, especially when jogging together.

In a nearby house, overlooking the same park, Sheila raised the wine glass in a toast to herself. 'Happy Birthday to me!' she mumbled as a tear rolled slowly down her cheek. She was forty. Despite a very successful career, love had eluded her and she dined alone. She bent down and patted her only companion, a small King Charles spaniel.

An obedience class was advertised for Sundays at 10 am, at a small park in Carlton, so Adam decided to join. With Billy, he waited uneasily to be told what to do.

_This is all new to me_ , he thought, and felt uneasy.

All dog owners were asked to form a ring, and he was glad to see the handler of the small dog beside them was just as tentative.

Her dog and Billy immediately became friends, with much tail wagging, and both owners smiled at them, and then at each other.

'What's your dog's name?' asked Adam.

She laughed. 'He's named Maximus - you know, as in The Gladiator, because I think he's so brave and handsome - but Max, for short. What's your young man called?'

'Billy, as in "Silly Billy",' said Adam, immediately feeling disloyal for not praising his dog, as she had. So he added, 'He's really a very intelligent little bloke, and great company for me.' Then he added, 'Especially when we jog together,' and felt much better. 'I'm Adam, by the way,' holding out his spare hand for her to shake.

'Sheila,' she offered, as she leaned over and shook his hand.

The class began, and both learned what to do to make their dogs sit, stay etc, helping each other when it was difficult. Both dogs obviously enjoyed themselves.

The class dispersed.

'I feel quite exhausted,' laughed Adam, 'all that concentration. The dogs didn't seem to mind did they? What about joining me in a cup of coffee at that little shop over there before we go home, Sheila? We could sit outside, so the dogs wouldn't be a nuisance to anyone. Are you in a hurry to get home?'

'No, not at all. Thank you. That would be lovely.'

As they sat enjoying their coffee and cakes they found how easy it was to talk to each other. Both were single siblings, but Sheila's parents were not alive. They shared stories of favourite holiday spots, and both were familiar with each other's named places.

They laughed at funny anecdotes from Adam about his school days, and Adam listened to her story of how she started her dress salon in the city.

'Well I can recommend my accountancy firm if you want really top-class work.' He grinned, 'I know the owner - he's a top bloke - know him personally, in fact.'

Sheila recognised it as one of the busiest firms in the city. 'Oh, a top bloke, are you?' and laughed along with him.

Time passed on unnoticed. The dogs had long gone to sleep at their feet, when they realised they must make a move to go home. It turned out that Sheila had a house bordering the Fitzroy Gardens, not far from Adam's high-rise apartment. Adam explained that he and Billy jogged round the park nearly every day.

'Come in for a cuppa,' she suggested, 'on any weekend day. I'm always home then, and Max would love to say hello to Billy too.' She suddenly wondered if she were being too forward.

Adam caught the look and quickly said, 'We'd both be delighted, Sheila. We'll see you next Saturday morning? What about 11 am?'

'Fine,' she said, as he saw them to her car. She gave a friendly wave and smiled as she drove away.

Adam was perplexed. He'd never been able to talk to girls before. He always felt awkward, and feeling scrutinised for the worse.

Sheila was different. They had so much in common. _She even likes the music I like_ , he remembered. It seemed he could speak to her on any subject, and she would be interested, and even have something to add. He hoped she was looking forward to saying hello as much as he (and the dogs) were.

Of course she was, and after a nervous start, the visits became regular. The dogs always gave each other an enthusiastic welcome, immediately rushing out to the backyard for a game or two, before flopping at Adam and Sheila's feet.

Adam invited them back to his high-rise too, and as Saturdays and Sundays were spent with time together, it all seemed so natural.

After several weeks, Sheila said she would be off to Europe during the week, for her usual buying trip for her salon, and would be gone for six weeks. She would be boarding Max at his usual kennels while she was absent, and that was when Adam realised that she had become important to him in his life. He had no idea how she felt.

Adam went to see her off.

'Let me know when you will be back and I'll give you a lift home.' He paused, then, 'I'll miss you very much,' he blurted out, and was surprised to see tears in Sheila's eyes, as she said, 'I'll miss you too.' She impulsively kissed him on the cheek, waved, and disappeared into the customs section ready to board her plane.

He stood there, again perplexed. He'd never missed anyone like that before. _Six weeks_ , he thought. _I've been a fool. I should have told her how I felt, and how much I wish she were back here with me. Then again, I didn't want to ruin a good friendship._

Adam was there to meet her when she returned, alarmed at how hard his heart was pounding. In a panic he asked himself, 'What will I say to her?' Suddenly she appeared, and he didn't have to say anything. He simply rushed to her, and she did the same. They hugged for several seconds, and Adam noticed those tell-tale tears again.

They both knew their futures would be together now. Love was ahead of them, and both knew life was going to be different, wonderful and comforting. A brand new home, able to accommodate four important personalities, would now be on the agenda. Even that sounded exciting.

Blissfully unaware of anyone around them, they walked out of the terminal with their arms tightly around each other's waists, as though they never wanted to let go.
That Ferst Kiss

David Newman

Jacobs Well, Queensland

Australia

28 October 2014

My Grandma, wos a lady fierce, thoe frail and old, with eyes to pierce, and to look rite into one's very soul, as she played her violin, here at our little gathering, for nun uther cood have made such music flow, from finger tips, throo boe.

And as the boe caressed the strings, came to all, those magic things, that utherwise only hevven brings, but then my Dar, he began to sing, with his rusty voyse, (no angels choyse) but still and all, that nite it was all the go.

To the werds, those often herd, of 'COBBIN, THE HOBNOBBING GOBLIN,' for my Dar, there was just no stopping, as he wood sing them, to near any melody, sad or happy, farst or slow, the only compleet song werds that my Dar did noe.

('Little Cobbin, he was yerning, - in him a desire berning, - to go down to the big city, and fit into sossietty,) and Grand-ma played a treat, with Dar singing the same werds to every beet, ('Cobbin did noe, he ort not put on such a show).

With Tilly-May by my side, we wotched the dansers glide, slow beet, to the music sweet, but Billy, that buffoon, dansed a jig with Bessy Muldoon, much to her chagrin, and I do beleeve that Billy, he had committed sum kind of sin;

and as if to justify, that I tell no lie, Grand-ma clipped him with the boe, just to show that she cood do so, while never missing on the violin, but Billy, he gave a grin, not he one to relinquish sin, and he joined in with Dar to sing of Cobbin.

Looking arownd the room, por little Bessy Muldoon, saw no uther to danse with her, so the thort it did occer, at Tilly-May's insistanse, over my resistanse, that I be one to hav a care, to show myself to be debonair, and to ask a danse from Bessy.

Funny thing, but Billy cood sing, no stutter did he utter, with a voyse just as smooth as silk, like an angel with no guilt, to make Dars trajjic trying, sownd less like he wos dying, and to bring teers, to set the girls all cryin, and for each a white cloth, lacy.

As I dansed with Bessy Muldoon, my eyes continude to look arownd the room, refusing to leeve Tilly-May, as I put on my prowd display, but it seemed to be, that she looked not at me, her eyes carst to the singer - to our Billy! That unrepentant sinner!

And even our Grand-ma, had now forgiven him, of all his waywood sin, as Billy made 'COBBIN, THE HOBNOBBING GOBLIN,' set all the gerls harts throbbing, to each the silent sobbing, inshorring a plase, in eternal grase, to our devilish little sinner.

When Billy had, had enuff, of all the star struck stuff, and had repaved his way to glory, he then tired of the story, and left Dar there on his own, to sing on in rusty tone, while Billy sowt new mischeff for the making, while of all ritechessness forsaking.

'Hey! Patrick! Do you not noe any uther songs?' not so much a questyun, morr an oppinyun given strong - 'Ah! To be shorr! Just bring the music on!' - but I do believe, that Dar set owt to deseeve, as he then sang of 'Cobbin,' to the tune of 'Green Sleeves'.

My danse with Bessy Muldoon, ended nun to soon, for Billy, he had made a bee-line, like sum norty littel feline, to Tilly-May, where he looked set to stay, and she had not asked of this stray, that he be now on his way, my plase at her side to leave.

Taking Tilly-May by her arm, befor Billy cood corrs sum wispered harm, I led her towords the dor, - 'Please! My manners, do ignorr! But I hav need for a private tork with you, of things conserning my horse Gloo, and of his traning.'

And thoe it wos not troo, that I had need to speak of Gloo, I wanted that day, to get Tilly-May away, and to ask her to be my gerl, for I had gotten most else now in this werld, with a dog and a horse, but of corse, there wos still an emptiness remaning.

(So Bonny the bunny went hop, hop, hop, hopping - along-side of Cobbin, the hobnobbing goblin.) - With Tilly-May walking by my side, the werds came not, thoe I tried, to find those ones most endearing, over the sownds of Cobbin that we were heering.

'T-T-Tilly' - with a hie pitched echo to sownd just like Billy, 'Tilly-May?' - (Cobbin leeped up so hie as he spun in the air - to danse up a treet and to win the lady fair.) then my currijj took a blow, as Dars voyse reached its cressendo, the end to the song wunse morr nearing.

(Now happy is Cobbin there with his lady fair - so no morr hobnobbing for Cobbin the goblin. - Now happy is Cobbin, there with his lady fair - a troll and goblin with their ten little troblins.) and as it ended, my currijj mended, then Dar wood bring it all to rune, to sing the same agane to annuther tune.

(Little Cobbin he wos yerning, in him a desire berning, to go down to the big city, and fit into sossietty.) Till-May took my hand, it seemed that she mite understand, and thoe it made my hart beet farst, my fear near to parst, reddy me, cum joy or doom.

(The little goblin, he had tricked them one and all, that nite, at hie sossiettys masscurade ball, he spoke to the guests as one who had been well scooled - but now, the little goblin, he had them all fooled.) I sat with Tilly-May on the old hollow log, returned agane, from whense came, the gray dingo dog.

I sat all silent, my stummak cherning vilent, as I fort for thoughts, those ones not cumming as thay ort, and I new that there wos a need for speshell werds, to win the likes of her, my Tilly-May, whot cood I say, with my mind being terned now all afog?

'Tilly-May! Will you be my gerl? Becos that wood make this for me a perfect werld!' but Tilly-May looked at me as thoe, I mite be morr than just a little slow, 'Whotever do you meen?' she asked, 'Like a Beau? For the larst two years has it not been so?'

Silly me, to so foolish be, for whot had been, I had not seen. (all those secrets of the parst that cood never last - were revealed now of all, who hid beneath the masks, por little Cobbin, he wos still but a goblin - so intent had he been on all this hobnobbing.) Whot prise me, that such be, and I not noe.

I leened in close to steal ferst kiss, but she terned her hed that I mite miss. 'Just on cheek then! For I wood hav you be a gentleman!' thoe I new no uther plan, so then just as well, that she cood not tell, for I wanted her to think me a man of the werld.

(Cobbin did noe, he ort not put on such a show.) Twice morr and thrise, I tried the same, twise morr and thrise she did refrane, the larst time to bring a slap, that made me the wiser chap, to becum a gentelman, so I mite be werthy of such a gerl.

To be a gentelman of onner, and by code of the Connor, set me on the parth strater, lest be that I waver, and lose this chanse at ferst romanse, with this gerl who held my hart, to make it stop or start, and be it all by a simple glanse, a smile or tilt of hed.

(Now happy is Cobbin, there with his lady fair - so, no morr hobnobbing for Cobbin the goblin.) And me a ferst suter, that I dreamed a futcher, (Now happy is Cobbin, there with his lady fair - a troll and goblin with their ten little troblins.) and of such things in which by the hart we are led.

With nothing much more to say, I let my thorts open stray, as I carved our innishells, to make it offishell, with love having been spoken, in sollem oaf taken, and of these marks, those left deap in the bark, that by them it be noen.

I hav me a horse named Gloo, as black as black, so black that he shines bloo, and by the howling of the dingo and from owt a hollow log, I got myself a dog, and to now hav a gerl, abowt completes my werld, I reckoned to make me near to being full grown.

My hed wos brort back to the day, as her Dar called her away, to leeve me all alone, as it wos time now to make their way home, and then I thort of myself, perhaps not quite so grown, but still I new that nothing now cood ever return my childhood days.

I sat a while just pondering things, as I herd Dar continue sing, the song of Cobbin, that lovelorn goblin, (Now happy is Cobbin, there with his lady fair - so no morr hobnobbing for Cobbin the goblin.) and I wundered whot fate mite bring, for me and Tilly-May.
Sexy Man

Veronica Hosking

Rancho Santa Fe, Arizona

USA

29 October 2014

A husband with shopping list in hand

made a purchase totally unplanned

whatever was he thinking

his wife had no inkling

her sexy man would create such demand
War

Katrina Wirth

Rutherford, New South Wales

Australia

30 October 2014

War-filled cold streets,

line our encroaching future,

but some turn away.

Our future full of terror,

We live in fear as they draw near.
Spring

Katrina Wirth

Rutherford, New South Wales

Australia

30 October 2014

Spring, spring, fresh breeze,

children playing without a care,

pollen in the air,

And then I sneezed,

the trees with their pollen spreading traps had teased,

I am not pleased,

Achoo; Achoo; Achoo; not once but thrice,

not nice.

Boy, I am displeased!

Once the sneezes have started they come in floods,

I pray we have some tissues near,

Everyone holds me tight and hugs,

I long to be clear,

I am sick of these bugs,

When spring dissipates, I cheer!
Bios and contact details

Abecca, Kylie

<http://www.kylieabecca.com/>

Kylie resides in a small coastal town in Western Australia and has been writing poetry since she was five years old, having her first publication in a newspaper at the age of six. She has released a book of poetry titled Complete Poetry Works - Volume One and is currently working on a collection of short stories called That Horrible Child, which is due to be released in May 2015. Kylie Abecca has had many online publications of poetry and short stories, all of which can be viewed from her website.

Alves, MC

<http://mannyalves.tumblr.com>

MC (Manny) Alves is a freelance writer and author of a collection of short fiction stories. A former journalist and editor, he has also written two books on information technology and operating systems. He is a contributor to various publications and is currently working on a novel. Manny is a long-time resident of New York City.

Anderson, David

www.starnow.com.au/haz1902

David is a retired railwayman whose hobbies include playing in a rock band and acting. Writing stories for years and placing them in a cupboard came to an end when he submitted work to narratorAUSTRALIA and it was published. Since then David has had many more works published on narratorINTERNATIONAL. David's ambition is to rework his vast range of stories and create an ebook.

Atkinson, David

David has spent his working life as a lawyer, primarily as managing partner of the Sydney legal firm of which he was a founding partner. Having retired from practice, David is concentrating on community and personal interests. In particular, he has been able to develop his long term interest in the study and writing of poetry. Favoured areas for poetic exploration include the human condition, nature and comic verse.

Burgess, Shirley

Shirley lives in Rosebud, Victoria, having retired there after a busy life as secretary to a Professor of Civil Engineering. She is enjoying her new hobby of writing short stories with the odd burst of enthusiasm for poetry.

Cooper, Michael

Michael is a full-time primary school teacher in New South Wales, Australia. He views teaching as a form of storytelling and loves assisting his students to analyse what makes stories work. The logical step from there is to guide them to create their own. When not writing his own stories, Michael plays piano in a rock, soul and blues band that is based in the Blue Mountains of New South Wales. He hopes one day to be the author of the next big children's adventure novel.

Craib, James

<http://biarcsemaj.blogspot.com.au/>

In his previous life, James was an office manager. These days, in retirement, he indulges himself writing short stories, song lyrics, poems, essays and memoirs. James often uses anagrams and acrostics to make his point - whatever that may be! James is also a part-time musician (drums, percussion, ukulele and vocals) and radio plays actor. He has been a regular contributor to narrator since its inception as a print magazine. James also contributes to 'Starts at Sixty' on the net and is the present convenor of the Blackheath Writers' Group.

Derek, Arthur

<http://arthurderekau.tumblr.com/>

Arthur is an Australian creative writer based in Brisbane who has always had an interest in literature and writing since a young age. His love of all types of writing styles including novels, graphic novels, poetry and novellas, has inspired him to use his own creativity in pursuing his own style. Arthur is working with photographer Alpine Blood from Pretty Toy Images to create a visual project combined with poetry called Malice Through The Looking Glass. Arthur is also working with an artist in hopes to add art to his poetry.

Fantail

Fantail is a South Australian who 'discovered' writing through U3A four years ago and has since enjoyed sharing poems and stories with her writing group, narratorINTERNATIONAL and various magazines. Fortunately, her husband does the cooking and is very understanding about the fact that plotting comes before dusting.

Fantail has three children with families of their own who provide very incisive critiques on her work. For these she is grateful, and also for the friends who have helped and encouraged her in her late-life literary pursuits.

Fowler, Mark

Mark is a keen poet and short story writer. He experiments with all poetic forms and dabbles in bush poetry because of a love of narrative and the measured flow of the genre. He is a teacher who loves to find time for his hobby.

Gow, Virginia

Virginia is an author who lives in the Blue Mountains at Blackheath, NSW, Australia. She writes poetry and short stories. She is a member of Blackheath Creative Writers Group. A collection of her poems is available in her book: Escarpment - Fibonacci Poetry available online.

Hosking, Veronica

<http://vhosking.wordpress.com>

Veronica is a wife, mother and poet. She lives in the desert southwest (Arizona) with her husband and two daughters. Her family and day job, cleaning the house, serve as inspiration for most of her poetry.

She was the poetry editor for MaMaZina magazine 2006-2011. Spikier Spongier appeared in Stone Crowns magazine November 2013. Desperate Poet was posted on the narratorINTERNATIONAL website and reprinted in Poetry Nook, February 2014. Rain Drops was published in Half New Year poetry collection, Silver Birch Press July 2014.

Veronica also keeps a poetry blog.

Howell, Connie

www.conniehowell.com

Connie is passionate about helping people understand metaphysical truths. She is a Holistic Life Coach, Mentor and published Author. Apart from contributing to narratorINTERNATIONAL, she has a published ebook called Portable Snippets of Wisdom and is self-publishing a book called Perfectly Imperfect which should be available in book stores early 2015. She is in the process of writing her third book entitled walking Between Two Worlds.

Johnston, Henry

As a full-time writer Henry specialises in short stories, but in 2014 completed a 25,000 word novella about 13 young rugby league aspirants living in Sydney's inner city suburbs in the 1960s. An abridged chapter of the novel is published on narratorINTERNATIONAL on 30 September 2013.

Henry attended the 2014 Listowel Writers' Week Literary Festival, held in the County Kerry Ireland, and completed a three day workshop on advanced novel writing. A compendium of Henry's short stories is available through your favourite ebook retailer. His next novel is set in Vienna, Austria, during the Anschluss.

Kiani, Amir

Amir is a Toronto based, award winning filmmaker, script writer and photographer.

Levet, Adrian

Adrian is an author, working currently as a nurse, with a passion for telling stories. Above is a link to one of his short stories, available for free. Adrian has had a few stories published by narratorINTERNATIONAL, which are common in terms of their surreal nature, unexpected twists, and dark over tones. Adrian links these stories to real life, highlighting the strange and enigmatic nature of life itself. Adrian enjoys telling stories and taking readers away to strange places. He hopes to keep doing so, perhaps publish a novel and help people change the way they look at things.

Loyola, Ramon

<http://www.facebook.com/ramonloyola.author>

Ramon is a writer of fiction, non-fiction, poetry, academic and legal articles. He is also a lawyer and has worked as an editor, public relations specialist, medical writer and a media practitioner. He is the author of two books of poetry, I Look For You In Other Truths, and not poems, just words (a Finalist in the 2014 National Indie Excellence Awards). He lives in inner-Sydney's Newtown.

Martin, Julie

<https://twitter.com/Juli3Martin>

A heartfelt letter Julie had published in the Australian Women's Weekly in April 2012 gave her the courage to further explore her passion for writing. She joined a local writing group in Blackburn, Melbourne. A couple of fictional short stories and poems followed. A second letter was published in the Australian Women's Weekly in January 2014. Her love of the Australian way of life and everyday people are often the inspiration for her stories and characters, as are her early years growing up on her family's mixed farming property in southern New South Wales.

O'Shea, Frank

Frank is a retired mathematics teacher. He does not blog or tweet, but you can find some of his writings if you search The Canberra Times, Eureka Street or The Irish Echo. He lives in Melbourne.

Russell, Jane

Jane is a former librarian who has lived and worked in Australia, UK, Fiji and Italy and speaks a few languages other than English. She loves to paint, teach Italian and write stories. She's attended a creative writing group since 2012 and enjoys writing short stories often inspired by dreams. These include the tales in the Xing metalbot saga - all published in narratorAUSTRALIA, Volumes 3 and 4.

Siemens, Corey

www.coreysiemens.blogspot.ca

Corey is a writer and home builder living in Vancouver, British Columbia. In his writing, Corey interprets the common experience of working on a construction site from a literary and sociological perspective.

Silcox, SR

www.srsilcox.com

www.srsilcox.tumblr.com

SR Silcox is a reformed accountant now concentrating on wrangling words for a living. She writes fiction in various genres, with lesbian main characters. Her short story Crush was published in the First Time for Everything Anthology.

Smith, Winsome

Winsome has been writing stories, articles and poems for many years. She has won some competitions and been highly commended in others. She has had stories and poems in all volumes of narrator so far. Her book of short stories, Tales the Laundress Told is available online and from A Reader's Heaven, Mort Street, Lithgow. Her next book of short stories, A Lover's Potion, will be released in February, 2015 and will be available from the same sources.

Stanton, Craig

Craig lives in the Blue Mountains, west of Sydney and works with old, antiquarian and second-hand books. He writes "weird fiction" dabbles in poetry and drinks excessive amounts of caffeine. His collection of short stories - Love Songs & Other Weirdness - is available online and his book collecting blog - Moon of My Delight - intermittently details his bibliophilic adventures in trying to collect as many editions of The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam as he can.

Velasco, David C.

David resides in Missouri, USA and writes in the spare time from his full-time, day job. After writing and self-publishing The Lofts: A Life Story in March 2012, he began working on several science fiction stories. The Fortunate Son is the first to be published.

He looks forward to completing and publishing his science fiction based novels in the near future.

Witham, Edward

<http://tedwitham.wordpress.com/>

<http://thoughtsprovocateurs.wordpress.com/>

Ted Witham has been writing since his high school teachers prompted him to, and now, fifty years later, he can't stop writing. Ted writes short stories and poems, devotional materials and hymns. Jesus the Child We Worship (Daily Meditations for Advent 2014) is being well received. Ted lives in the beautiful south-west of Western Australia with his wife Rae and lively cocker spaniel Max. He has two adult children, and plans to write more stories for his four grandchildren.
Index

Abecca, Kylie

Dear God

I Love The Way

Faceless

Fallen

Touched

Alves, MC

A Boatswain's Mate's Nor'Easter Lullabye

The Swine And I

Anderson, AA

Alpine Mystery

Leap Year

The Broken Jug

The Dancing Shoes

Anderson, David

Panhead

The Checkout

The Gallant Invalid

The Missing

Arvan, John

Datsun 120-Yucko

One Date

Rippled Soul

Sometimes

Ashton, Samantha

Echoes Of Passion

Fantasy Fatigue

Assumpter, Irene

Project Lokitaung - Part 2

Atkinson, David

Bleak Perhaps

Of Rabbit Traps

Branscombe, Rachel

Darkness

Fire

Memory History

My Love

Sometimes

The Fire Burns Within

Brill, C. Lloyd

Whispers In The Dark

Brooke, Frederick Lee

My First Coffee

Bundesen, Jean

A Deserted Beach

Burgess, Shirley

A New Role For Joy

Billy, Max, Adam and Sheila

Buried Treasure

Emily To The Rescue

Reflections Of A Champion Racehorse

The Good Old Days

Chaffey, Robyn

In The Still Of The Night

Of Friends And Insanity

Simpler Ways

That Fly In The Balm

The Man In The Papers

The Shallow Night

Where Nobody Cared

Cooper, Michael

Losing It

On The Job

X Action

Craib, James

A Cool Change

Misplaced...

The Suburban Banshee - Part 1

The Suburban Banshee - Part 2

The Suburban Banshee - Part 3

The Suburban Banshee - Part 4

Dabner, Myfanwy

Petty Spurge

The Blacksmiths

Demelza

Menopause In A Thousand Words

Derek, Arthur

Broken

Dionysopoulos, Panos

Smoked Awesomeness

Edgar, Bob

Secret Trove

Spirit And Soul

Ella

Gum - Parts 1 and 2

Gum - Parts 3 and 4

The Nebula

Fantail

An Accumulation Of Mistakes

Gabe Forgotten

Fowler, Mark

A Walk In Winter

Beauty

Broken Trust

It's In The Stillness

Preaching - Teaching - Preaching

Rebound

Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band

Sweet and Lite

The Jerusalem Road

What Poets Know

Gardiner, Alexander

My Brother Jack

Ghazy, Felicity

Jasmine

Goodwin, Peter

Rise

Gow, Virginia

Another Fine Mess

Apparition

Bush Walk

Evil Eyes

Loss

Night Vision

Spring

The Bully

The Kite Maker

Grigorian, David

I'm Mars And You Are Venus

Harrison, Dee

Featherfall

Heks, Andris

A Hungro-Oz Embrace

Food For Thought

Recycling

Tune Up To Bliss

Heylen, J-L

DLD

Does James Bond Ever Cry?

Hosking, Veronica

Desperate Poet

Sexy Man

Howell, Connie

A Mother's Love

A Silent Friend

Humphreys, Paul

Harvest

Memory and the ISS

Jensen, Joanna

Millicent Rose

Johnston, Henry

Roaring Forties

Jones, Rose

The Blue Bird Of Happiness

Kathopoulis, Jenny

If Love Were A Poem

Kiani, Amir

A Brighter Sun

Lawn, Kelly

Dissolution

Levet, Adrian

Planet Four Fourteen

The Pines

Loyola, Ramon

Backroom

mother unplugged

my father's skin

Yeah, No

Madden, Nikki

Next Of Skin

Mancy, JH

My Mother's Eyes

Poppy

Soul Search

The Wait

Martin, Julie

The Deb

McDillon, Mary

12 2

Monica, Vita

Farewell, My Friend

Rose

Newman, David

Happy Ever After - Amen

Happy Ever After - Fishing Trip

Happy Ever After - Returns The Child

Happy Ever After - The Child And The Giant

Happy Ever After - The Cult

Happy Ever After - The Lady

Happy Ever After - The Youth

Hey! Hey! Claire!

Promises

Revolting Mirrors

That Ferst Kiss

Newman, Judy J

A Solitary Flower

Lost

Never

Shemozzle

The Edge Of Sanity

O'Byrne, Tom

War Dreams

O'Shea, Frank

The Four-Colour Problem

Parker, Greg

Let The Joy Begin

Phobia II

Pitcher, Andrew

Dream Maker

Portingale, Paris

Monsignor Andre's Love of God

Once Upon A Time In Outer Space

Two Derelicts Talking

Robertas

Notions Of Beauty

Outrageous!

Zoing Boing (What Can Be Seen From A Trampoline?)

Robinson, Patricia

When You Are Old

Ross, Beatrice

Cheaters And Beaters

Free Fall

Ross, John

My Garden

Saturday Arvo At The Rubbity

The Robot

The Surprise Homecoming

Ross, Madeline

A Traveller's Diary

The Changing Winds

The Silent Sleeper

Russell, Jane

Enter At Your Own Risk

Somewhere In Time

The Basilisk That Wasn't

Xing Saga Part 14 - X Marks The Spot

Xing Saga Part 15 - Contradictions And Secrets

Sanderson, Lorraine

Anything Goes

My Cushioned Life

Travis

Scott, Emma-Lee

Lost

My God

Seven Letter Prayer

Those Boat People

Tonight We Sing

Senn, Anneliese

A Million Stars In The Sky

Siemens, Corey

Back To School

Silcox, SR

The Break Up

Simpson, Elle J

Our God, Our Lord, Our King, Our Christ

Smith, Winsome

A Lover's Potion

Dear Cecil

It's All Rubbish

Mercury With Freckles

The Curmudgeon

To Thine Own Self Be True

Sparks, Graham

Of Boys And Girls And Calculus

Rape The World

Social Dust Cloud

The Blowing Of The Sand

Stanton, Craig

Ravens

Sunrise

Suburban Evenings

Torchia, Aurora

The Carnival Is Over

Usher, Nigel

The Ghosts That Sell Memories

Velasco, David

Fortunate Son

Whitehead, Ann

The Inheritance

Wirth, Katrina

Belonging

Spring

War

Witham, Edward

Travels From Burgundia
MoshPit Publishing, narrator and more

narratorINTERNATIONAL

Why enter a narratorINTERNATIONAL competition?

The narratorINTERNATIONAL concept has been developed by MoshPit Publishing (<http://www.moshpitpublishing.com.au>) to help you as an emerging or established writer reach a worldwide audience quickly and easily, and to then turn that audience into fans who might go on to purchase your longer works.

The narrator competition has two main purposes:

1. to help you develop an audience for your writing

2. to help you market yourself and your published works by giving you the opportunity to include a short bio with links to published works and/or your website or blog.

Regular reading of narrator entries helps broaden your awareness of 'what's out there', regular entry to the narrator competition helps encourage you to polish your writing, while regular publication will help increase your author profile.

Visit <http://www.narratorinternational.com> for more information.

~~~

IndieMosh self-publishing (for longer works!)

For Australian writers who are thinking about self-publishing a longer work, MoshPit Publishing can assist you via our IndieMosh self-publishing facilitation service.

If you're unable to get a traditional publisher to take your book on or you prefer a more personal touch, we offer a range of affordable ebook and print on demand packages to help you get into the market place quickly. All publications go out as 'An IndieMosh book brought to you by MoshPit Publishing' so they don't stand out as being self-published. And because you take most of the financial risk of publishing your book, we pay a much higher than average royalty.

Visit <http://www.indiemosh.com.au> for more information.

~~~

One Thousand Words Plus

And for those writers across the world who have published works under their belt, we offer the book marketing and preview site, One Thousand Words Plus. Create a webpage for your book for life by listing it once on OTW+. Sign in and update your listings any time you like, or set and forget and let SEO do the work for you.

Visit <http://www.onethousandwordsplus.com> for more information.
Copyright Statement

First published November 2014 by MoshPit Publishing

an imprint of Mosher's Business Support Pty Ltd

Shop 1, 197 Great Western Highway

Hazelbrook New South Wales 2779, Australia

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

First edition © MoshPit Publishing on behalf of all authors listed in the Index.

The moral rights of the authors have been asserted.

Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the National Library of Australia at <http://catalogue.nla.gov.au/>

Authors:

Various contributors

Compiled by:

Mosher, Jennifer 1961-

McCloghry, Sarah 1987-

Title:

narratorINTERNATIONAL Volume One

Publisher:

MoshPit Publishing, Hazelbrook, New South Wales

ISBN:

978-1-925219-35-7 (paperback)

978-1-925219-36-4 (mobi)

978-1-925219-37-1 (epub)

Subjects:

Australian and International poetry

Short stories, Australian and International

Creative writing - Blogs

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the Australian Copyright Act 1968 (for example, a fair dealing for the purposes of study, research, criticism or review) no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

Cover image: _The Verge_ by Amir Kiani, Toronto, Canada.
