 
### Table of Contents

Title Page

Main Sections

Foreword

Editor's Pick

Copyright reminder

The Night Visitor

The Shadow

Precipitation

Lost

An Accidental Kiss

Sound

The Crown

The Old Fairy Queen

The Exodus

Bush Baby

A Pain In The...

Into The Valley Of Bones

As Red Knights Land (Darkness And Light)

Angels Whisper In Your Ear

Mind Revolution

The Vacuum Cleaner

Dear Artist

Rumi Eyes

Curb Your Enthusiasm?

The Lonely Bloke Next Door

Voices

Reflections

The Doppelgänger Doll (Towards Honour)

The New Road

Joe's Motel

The End

My Little Girl

A Past Life Revisited

Lazy Sunday In Wentworth Falls

Family Loyalty

Wild Thing

Nightfall

Ode To Spring

City In The Stars

Broke

The Whip

Tales Told Tall 2 (Elliptical Epilog)

Your Mind And The World

The Road I Must Not Follow

Babe! I'm Not Dumb

Wildfire

Torn Love

The Old House

Wilderness

Brazil 1700 Local Time, 1400 Germany Time

Smoking Or Non-Smoking?

Catastrophe

Marbles

I'm Not Ready Yet

Xing Saga Part 16 – Immortalised

Escape

Barroom Blitz

Wild Cruel Thing

Wildlife

Betty's Memory

Wild Imaginings

Wild Child

Home

The Firing Squads Of Antebellum (Naked City, Naked)

The Latest Forecast

Cobbin The Hobnobbing Goblin

Courtney

Amongst The Grassy Blades

My True Wild Love

Brain Injury

Art And Craft

Angel Without Wings

There Is Still Hope

Australian Haiku No. 3

An Ode To Freedom

The Mirror

The Missing Assignment

Purr-Fect

The Wood Pile

The Other Side

Lady White

Tempting Angels

The French Boat Boy's New Life

A Lesson Well Learnt

Let The Magic Shine

I Want To Be A Poet

The People Ask

Wildflower

The Knitter

Going Home

The Mozart Effect

Hook a Brother Up...

Open Relationships

Tell My Father

Ray's Revenge

Flame Inferior (In A Former Life)

Australian Haiku No. 1

Australian Haiku No. 6

The Folly Of Man

Cracks

The Bear, The Lion And The Eagle

To Be Honest (For Ben)

Sleeping Pretty

The Upturned Trolley

Hours of Despair

Seeking Serenity

Drake

A Night To Remember?

Who Killed Cock Robin?

Something Wicker This Way Comes

What A Terrific Bonfire

Stream Of Thought

Yearnings

Along Came Greed

Do I Look Fat In This?

The First Kiss In The 1950s

Bent

Imbecile Song

Forever Changed

Old School

The Forge

Arrivederci Roma

Ice Cream Man

True Self

Cosmoverse

Listen Carefully

From A Journal

Home

Banshee

Evil Eyes

Hurricane

Saint Nicholas

Listen Alisa! (Secrets)

Xing Saga Part 17 – End Of Days

Broken Man

The Man From Wild Dog Mountains

Lord Rob

Listowel

Heat

Gone The Days Of Primping

The Sentinel

Mirror

Jillian's Secret

Heston

Nick's Friend Wags A Tail

Australian Haiku No. 2

Rain

Secretive Eyes

1918 Sanctuary

Sing A Song Of Love When The Warlock Beckons

We Still Have Putin

The Long Arm Of The Law

Wounded Sparrow

Fall

Piano Man

Felix's Fortress, Land's End (Forever Ago)

My Brother My Friend

Scary Mary Meets A Ghost

The Scratch

Awesome Superconductivity

Autumn Is Always

Lost In The Transition

Converse

Glass Castle

Archie's Gun

I Crave A Bestseller

In Love With You

Garden Concert

Cinquain Spring

Australian Haiku No. 5

Song

The Dress

Terminal Blues

The Gnomes

Smells

Story Of A Storyteller

Author bios and contact details

Index

MoshPit Publishing helping authors market their works

Copyright statement
narratorINTERNATIONAL

Volume Two

1 November 2014 to 30 April 2015

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

**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: _Elevator_ by Beatrice Ross, Australia
Main Sections

Foreword

Editor's Pick

Copyright reminder

Contributions

Author bios and contact details

Index

MoshPit Publishing, narrator, One Thousand Words Plus
Foreword

Welcome everyone to our second edition of narratorINTERNATIONAL.

Firstly, I must comment on how fantastic it is that we've made it to Volume Two. In my last foreword I finished by saying that I looked forward to many more submissions from around the world, more writer growth and more creative writing success, and I have to say I wasn't disappointed. All our authors, readers and supporters please give yourselves a pat on the back--we could not have this substantial compilation of creative writing without you all.

I also have to thank the lovely Ally Mosher who patiently fixes all our technical woes with a smile and gives constructive suggestions when acting as our sounding board. She is the 'magic behind the scenes' for narratorINTERNATIONAL. Secondly, I must thank Jenny Mosher, the creator and greatest supporter of narratorINTERNATIONAL. Her imagination and determination have allowed its continual growth and evolution, resulting in the diverse and creative format we have today. And lastly, I'd like to welcome Wayne Mosher to the team as our Office Manager. Wayne thought he was retiring but Jenny clearly had other ideas!

I think our team has its greatest advantage in the fact that Ally, Jenny and I are all 'creative types' in the publishing field so we hear first-hand what writers need and want. This advantage has also helped many of our writers become published authors of their own novels and poetry compilations, and that's just one of the benefits available to writers utilising narratorINTERNATIONAL.

For me, the best part about working as Submissions Editor for narratorINTERNATIONAL is that I can see the multi-faceted effects such an opportunity has on writers and readers alike. For writers it allows new ideas, concepts or styles to be experimented with and shared on a world-wide stage. It also promotes honest feedback and creates a support network of creatively inspired individuals. It is truly amazing seeing people from around the globe connecting, encouraging and inspiring one another as readers and writers every day. As a reader you have access to a free, cosmopolitan platform with diverse styles, themes and stories, but even better, you can directly comment to the author and start a dialogue if you wish. In how many other places can you do that?

It is fantastic as a reader myself, seeing how different things are perceived in different cultures and I must use this opportunity to give special mention to our non-native English speakers and writers who have submitted their poems and short stories to narratorINTERNATIONAL. It is daunting enough putting your words on a global stage, it is harder still to do it in a language that is less fluent to you, especially English of all languages! So to those authors I give a very special and respectful thank you.

We love to challenge our writers with mini-competitions, and I have to say our writers never fail to deliver. The competition this volume was Wild, in every sense of the word! We had many entries, each different from the last, which just goes to show the imagination our writers possess. I am happy to announce Lyn Williams as our winner with Marbles. For our cover competition we have Beatrice Ross with Elevator--I'm sure you'll agree it gives a very artistic and stylish feel to the cover.

Finally, I wish to thank all our loyal writers and readers, your support is truly valuable and appreciated. As narratorINTERNATIONAL continues to grow and launch great writing we encourage you all to spread the word, bring more writers and readers into our support network and let's make the next volume our best ever!

Sarah McCloghry

Submissions 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 received an Editor's Pick. As of narratorINTERNATIONAL Volume One 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, other pieces in the same style may not; it's the unique quality in that particular piece that sets it 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 the form on 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 Night Visitor

1 November 2014

AA Anderson

Bathurst, New South Wales

Australia

A wild shriek rent the air. Was someone being murdered? I rushed out of my den where I had been busy trying, as most of us do, to make some sense out of my income tax papers. Surely my wife had not spent all that amount. I didn't get a chance to find out. My wife's shriek had lost any calculations that I had in my head. Her bedroom was down the corridor from mine. I had long given up sharing a bed because of the snoring and, worse still, breaking wind. Hers, not mine.

'What the hell is the matter?' I stupidly asked. Yes, it was a stupid question as she stood in her neck to knee flannelette nighty, large purple curlers gracing her white, beauty creamed face. Did I really sleep with that creature? But then I remembered my bald head and thick bottom of the bottle glasses. We had certainly lost that bloom of youth that seemed to now completely evade us.

'It, it it...' she blubbered, as I tried desperately to decipher just what her message was.

'Has there been an intruder?' I asked tongue in cheek, as I knew who would have been given the biggest shock if there had been.

'A ssssspider,' she at last managed to say.

'Where?' I inquired thinking it must have been in her bed. She pointed tentatively to the ceiling. A tiny black spider hung precariously from a short web. My wife was six feet tall and built, as they say, like a 'brick out house', she domineered every conversation and plan and many, like myself, didn't dare back answer her or question any of her decisions.

This was my chance, my male testosterone was in full swing. 'Oh it's just a baby. And look it is shivering with fright. What have you done to it?' I said.

Well! Have you ever had a hair brush, a lampshade and an alarm clock aimed at you? No? Well you'd better move quickly as the dings in the bedroom door are a testimony that she could have made the rugby team with no trouble at all.

I moved with rapid speed and slamming the door sat doubled up with laughter for nigh on twenty minutes. The tiny arachnid, I hope it finished its web, right down into her bed. Those red back spiders can make nice bedfellows.
The Shadow

2 November 2014

Judy J Newman

Rutherford, New South Wales

Australia

Just a part of the shadow world, she holds her head in tearstained hands

She waits for the sun to set, when the shadows become one with the night

When her bruises cannot be seen, and, barefoot, she walks on the sands

When oblivion can hold her in its sweet embrace, hold on tight, throughout the night

The terrors of daylight hours canst find her midst night shadow

She walks for hours, head down, there is no safety in the house

The fists of a madman, full of whiskey await, she has nowhere else to go

She hears the angry voice, that berates her, degrades her, he is her spouse

One night she'll just keep walking, into the night, into the freedom of the shadow

Wearing black, so no one can see her, head tilted to one side

Searching, searching, always searching, for what she does not know

Perhaps for a place of safety, in eternal shadow, perhaps just a place to hide

She has known the bruises, the shattering her whole life, he isn't the first

Her memories are filled with terror and agony, only the shadow is kind

She never knew a smile, or kind word, often she thought her world would burst

She walks a little further, further still, only freedom now on her mind

She runs, runs into the shadow of the night, the wind catches her hair

She laughs, like a child, swings herself around a pole

To look at her, you'd not know, it's as if she has not a care

He bellows for her, but only silence answers, he doesn't understand, to her he is now but a ghost
Precipitation

2 November 2014

Demelza

Taroona, Tasmania

Australia

The cloud is too full

It cannot hold any more information

The words are now falling from the sky

Everywhere I look I can see them

Floating like a snow flake,

Drizzling like a wet day

Flashing like a lightning bolt in a thunderstorm,

They swell upon the footpath and begin to clog the gutters

I see old people tripping over them

Young kids screaming--with delight--picking up words forbidden to use at home

Words and phrases that escape their intellectual abilities

I see literary scholars and poets hands raised to the sky--waiting to grasp the perfect expression--the line that will bring them brilliance

In that moment

They grasp all that they desire

Take it home

Write it down

And store it in the cloud

Editor's note: We enjoyed the irony in this work, the social commentary and, of course, the humour.
Lost

3 November 2014

Kylie Abecca

Port Albany, Western Australia

Australia

Feeling vulnerable, torn open and naked,

Giving up everything I deemed to be sacred,

Hoping and praying for my pain to ease,

Only to find life's a merciless tease,

Once again falling victim to the world's darkest pleasures,

Unwilling to take the precautionary measures,

Finding myself all alone with my demons,

My mind occupied with the same old reasons,

Am I destined to follow the same path, is it fate?

That I sit in the shadows awaiting the due date,

Oh no, it is not my reflection I fear,

It's the people so close, the ones I hold dear,

My heart's being twisted, it's torture to feel,

The pain deep inside is all too real,

I wish to be someone you look at with trust,

Not leave me behind in a cloud full of dust,

I'm building a bridge to avoid the rising tide,

You're losing your chance to choose a side,

I won't be a bus stop or your stepping stone,

If you don't pay attention we'll both be alone,

Be sure you're aware of what is at stake,

It's not just my heart you're risking to break,

Love runs so deep it is etched in the soul,

Without it no being can ever be whole,

Deep down you're aware of the damage you cause,

Yet unwilling or able to put the habit on pause,

Within you there lies a personality that's unique,

So why would you choose to turn the other cheek?

The real you is truly a wonder to behold,

A story I know you've already been told,

Every addict eventually becomes one with their substance,

And being that person becomes their reliance,

I love you so much, I can't bear to walk away,

But I know I am doomed if I choose to stay,

Look in the mirror and see the man you've become,

Stare at your reflection and see what you've done,

I'm trapped on the sidelines--I'm not in the game,

Sometimes I'm not sure you even remember my name,

Desperately trying to gain your attention,

Wanting so badly your love and affection,

You don't see my tears, you don't hear my cries,

Every time I'm ignored another part of me dies,

Next time you are flying don't forget to look around,

Because next time you might only see hollow ground.
An Accidental Kiss

4 November 2014

Nigel Usher

Farndon, Nottinghamshire

United Kingdom

He was walking with a friend, no, an acquaintance, but he did not recognise him, could not give him a name. Neither could he give him a face. It was always turned away at a slight angle as they walked, as if looking for a particular shop or house number. It was a city street and it felt familiar but he did not know the city or the street. Wherever it was it had a village feel to it. There were shops and restaurants of all persuasions, shops selling only candles, or cheeses, or second hand evening gowns, old fashioned looking pubs. A village feel and yet he knew it was a city and most likely London, for although he did not recognise it he did admit to a certain familiarity and he could not for the life of him think of any other city that might evoke such a feeling.

It had been raining hard. The gutters were awash with water. It tumbled in bubbling torrents and gurgled down storm drains, but the pavement and the centre of the road were bone dry and the people were all dressed for summer in shirt sleeves or linen jackets. No one carried an umbrella. Nobody showed any sign of ever having been caught in the rain, yet empty cigarette packets and sweet wrappers bobbed and bounced by, carried on the water that tumbled along the border of the pavement and road and rushed across the side street junctions when the storm drains couldn't cope.

As he stood on the kerb surveying one such junction, he suddenly saw her caught up in the crowd walking toward him, a crowd that seemed to have materialised from nowhere. One moment there had been a sprinkling of people going about their business, the next a dense sea rolling toward him. He panicked. Any second she would have passed by, carried along in the crowd like a sweet wrapper on the water.

He shouted to his acquaintance, who had already crossed and was still gazing inquisitively at shop windows and doorways, to wait for him, but he gave no response, continuing his steady progress, never removing his gaze from shop front or door knocker and gliding effortlessly through the crowd as if it did not exist at all.

As she passed him by on his right he called her name. She stopped but did not look back. By the time she stopped she had her back to him. She did not turn. She did not speak. He stepped back to where she stood and took her right arm and turned her toward him. He spoke to her softly. She did not answer. She stared, unblinking unseeing dead eyes like the blind. She was looking past him, to his right, not at him at all. He placed the palms of his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him directly. The crowd walking in the opposite direction jostled them, and suddenly one of them bumped into her catching her squarely in the back and pushing her into him. In that instant her eyes became alive, she looked straight at him just as the force of the impact pushed them hard against each other and their lips met.

He jumped back, flustered, embarrassed, and apologetic. 'I'm so sorry,' he stuttered 'I didn't do that on purpose. It was that man, the one who bumped into you. He pushed you into me. It was an accident. Oh please don't be angry, I just wanted to say hello that was all. It's been so long.' He knew he should stop talking. He knew he sounded ridiculous, as if he were addressing a complete stranger, but he seemed incapable of settling within himself, as he wished for a moment of quiet that only he could grant.

It had indeed been a long time and he was far happier to see her than he dare say and he so wanted to talk with her and now this clumsy oaf had crashed into her and pushed her into him and how could she possibly believe that he had kissed her by mistake, who would believe that? How can you kiss someone by mistake?

For a second or two they seemed frozen. Their faces now only inches apart. In that moment he felt further from her than he had in all the time that they had been apart, as if he were staring at her through frosted glass. Then the frosting faded, the glass cleared and dissolved.

'I'm glad you kissed me,' she said. She took his arm and pulled him gently to the side of the pavement, by the wall, out of the flow of the crowd. 'I've missed you,' and then she folded her arms around him, tilted her head slightly to one side and kissed him, deeply, softly, passionately until he felt as if he were melting into her. The soft feel of her hair as it brushed against his cheek reminding him of that Sunday morning, so many years ago, sitting on the steps of the National Gallery.

At last he was back where he belonged, the missing piece of his life's jigsaw falling neatly into place. Wholeness is a rare thing, a holy thing, perhaps that is why wholeness and holiness sound so similar, and at last he was whole again.

Her cheek was soft against his skin. He placed the palm of his hand against the nape of her neck, beneath her hair, and pulled her still closer to him, his fingertips tingling at the touch of her skin. How could they not be aware of this thing that existed between them, not see it for what it was, not sense the power of it as it crackled and sparked and then settled into a delicious soft soothing warm glow.

But as the glow around her grew brighter so the wall beyond her began to fade. He tried to hold her tighter but his arms seemed to fall through her as if he were caressing himself. The water in the gutters rose, filling the street until it began sweeping the crowd away, who clung to each other if they were caught in the centre of this murky brown river flooding through the streets, or to any passing street furniture or piece of sturdy debris, if they were being carried along the edge.

Suddenly he felt his own feet plucked from beneath him.

He desperately clasped at her hand but his grip passed straight through her and then he was gone, battling for buoyancy as he was washed out into the centre of the road, losing sight of her standing, watching, almost translucent, as the water continued to rise and swept him around the corner amongst the many other members of the crowd who slowly and soundlessly swirled by in groups of twos, or threes or more, as if locked in some macabre waltz.

In the distance wailing sirens of what he assumed to be the emergency services became louder until they were almost deafening as they grew closer. But something was wrong. The sirens were not sirens at all but bells, first maybe three or four, then two and then finally one bell, and he became aware that he had ceased to struggle, had not sunk, was not wet. He was dry and afloat upon a sea of cotton. Slowly he opened his eyes to the dishevelled bed and his ears to the repetitive metallic rattle of the alarm.

I think if sorrow had weight then that morning his would have weighed enough to have fallen directly through the surface of the world dragging him with it.
Sound

5 November 2014

Lorraine Sanderson

Campbelltown, South Australia

Australia

The click of her front latch was music to Caroline's ears; home at last. She recalled the stage production, 'Stop the World; I want to get off'. Today had certainly felt like one long circus, with way too many clowns.

Caroline felt moody; Saturday tomorrow, but still a pile of paper to analyse and report on. Thankfully it could be done here and not there--'there' being the studios of Radio Central, where she was political editor, viewed by colleagues with both awe and apprehension.

Raven haired and immaculately groomed, 38 year old Caroline Easton had commenced her inner city role two months before, after moving into a stylish studio apartment just a block away. Educated in London, she came with high credentials and quickly earned paeans of praise within the industry for her professionalism, confidence and work ethic.

But for all her media successes, her capacity to form lasting relationships was not among them. Perfectionism, frustration with fools and a tendency to "pigeonhole" people had earned her a reputation for aloofness, while her punishing schedule meant socialising was rare and dating even rarer.

Stepping out of her heels and kicking them nonchalantly towards the chic white sofa, Caroline paused in the doorway, savouring the silence. The afternoon had been spent covering a story in the industrial suburbs. 'Bureaucrats and blue collar boofheads--what a way to end the week,' she muttered.

The gentle fall of red wine into good glassware was like liquid silk, she thought, replacing the cork and nestling herself onto the couch--stockinged feet finding rest on the coffee table.

'What was that?' Bubble, bubble, glug. 'Blast; must have left a tap running this morning.' In fact the bathroom gurgle was coming from the drain. Her irritation rose. 'This is not good. Don't tell me it's a blockage; I'll scream.' Turning the taps on fully served only to make it louder and more persistent and in such a small space, it was all intrusive. 'The unit's almost new--I don't believe this!'

Back in the living room, Caroline snatched up her phone. 'Prestige Properties, good afternoon; no-one is available to take your call. Our office hours are blah, blah, blah,' sang the recorded message.

'Dammit! What's wrong with these people? You can't run property repairs nine to five! What do they expect me to do--abort my ablutions 'til Monday?'

A gulp of the waiting wine offered little solace and the ticking of her brain was almost audible in its mental rant about shoddy workmanship and management ineptitude.

So far Caroline had met none of her neighbours--in truth, she'd kept a very low profile to avoid being bothered by anyone. It would be unthinkable to seek them out now, just because she needed help.

Settling down to read was futile. 'I've got to get out of here.'

Rising with glass in hand to go change into something casual, Caroline had forgotten the shoes still strewn hazardously on the floor. She stumbled, arms flailing--the unmistakeable shattering of fine crystal assaulting her ears, while the last of the wine being absorbed into the lounge brought tears to her eyes. Her complete over-reaction to a common domestic problem was chastening: she had to calm down.

In an almost single motion, Caroline doused the stains in salt, swooped up her bag and keys and strode the few hundred metres to the cinema complex--broken glass left lying where it fell.

The award-winning movie had been filmed in Jersey, where she'd visited several times while living in the UK. Right now, she wished she was back there.

To her surprise, the theatre was packed, with few remaining seats. In the semi-darkness, his voice startled her. 'Excuse me, do you mind if I sit here?' The English accent was immediately familiar and mellowing somehow--a gentle voice, spoken with maturity and manners. For no obvious reason, she felt her taut muscles easing.

'What a great story,' she uttered unconsciously as the lights came up.

'I agree'.

Caroline turned. The piercing blue eyes and smiling face beside her were as magnetic as the voice.

'My name's Ben, by the way. I have relatives in Jersey--have you ever been to the Channel Islands?'

A bottle of Shiraz and a bowl of seafood later, they'd critiqued the picture, reminisced about life in England, shared their travel adventures and laughed 'til it hurt. Ben was witty and wise, carefree and kind. He too lived nearby and best of all, he had class. There was an undeniable chemistry between them and Caroline knew her prince had come.

As they walked the short distance back to the apartment block, Caroline hoped fervently that this meeting would not be their last. They'd strolled for hours down the memory lane of youth, but discussed little of their lives now.

Standing outside her door again, Caroline felt the sting of shame recalling the chaos she'd left inside.

'I'd love to ask you up for a nightcap Ben, but I've got a really early appointment,' she lied.

'Thanks, but I'm working a few hours myself tomorrow.'

'What do you do?'

'I save people's sanity most of the time.'

'Are you a psychologist'?

'No, I'm a plumber. Sleep well.'
The Crown

6 November 2014

David Anderson

Woodford, New South Wales

Australia

'Will it take long for the anaesthetic to wear off? I've got an important meeting after this appointment.'

Dr Grant placed the hypodermic on the tray and grinned at his eminent patient.

'It should wear off in a couple of hours, but it shouldn't worry you enough to cause you any speech problems. I'll just take out the nerve, plane it down a bit, place a temporary crown, and you should be out of here within the hour.'

'That will get me there in plenty of time.' The mayor lay back and waited for the needle to take effect and decided to make small talk.

'So how have you been Doc?'

Dr Grant smiled. 'Well enough I reckon. I can't complain.'

'That's good. I'm glad to hear it.' The mayor decided to leave the sleeping dog alone and let the needle do its work.

After removing the nerve, shaving the tooth down, and making an impression, the dentist cemented a temporary crown over the large molar, stood back, removing his rubber gloves with a snap.

'That's about it Mayor. I'll write you a script for a pain killer, but I doubt you'll need it, and I'll get you to make an appointment for two weeks time to place the permanent crown.'

The mayor stood up and rubbed his numb jaw.

'If it's like the last one, I reckon I'll feel no pain at all. Thanks Doc.'

The mayor left the surgery and made his way to the council headquarters, musing on how he was going to explain to the aldermen and women how their budget was speeding into the red faster than an F1 racing car. Opening the door to the meeting he was met by a sea of sombre faces and only a few sullen greetings for the day.

After the usual reading of the minutes, the meeting got down to the business of the budget, and the mayor decided it was time to drop the bombshell he had been avoiding for the past few months.

'I have to tell you that in a private meeting with our auditor, I have discussed the current problems in meeting the budget demands of infrastructure in Coleville as regards to repairs to roads. Therefore, as we are not in great shape for the moment, I wish to ask for your assistance in placing a moratorium on any further road works for the next six months.'

Alderman Mitchell let out an audible sigh.

'We have to at least repair the roads that may be truly dangerous to the public. Remember we have lost two lives in the last few months on the curve near Riverdale Drive because of limited funds, and we were warned about the possible outcomes. We have to avoid litigation.'

The mayor shut his eyes and ran his thumb and forefinger over the bridge of his nose.

'You don't have to remind me. I talked to the husband of the lady and his grandchild in question only this morning.'

Alderman Mitchell decided to go for the jugular.

'Dr Grant had sent us two letters warning of the condition of that section of road. It needed drainage to stop the undermining of the surface and it...' The mayor cut him off.

'Please Sam. I realise I was remiss in holding back funds for those road repairs, but after that unfortunate incident, I made that road good. You have to admit the new welcome signs on the road did make a difference to our visitor numbers. In hindsight, perhaps those funds should have gone to fix the drainage. However, enough of the past--let's break for lunch, and we'll talk it over.'

Reaching for his favourite bread roll--ham and salad with pickles--he took a huge bite.

The Mayor's lecture on the condition of the budget was a bigger bombshell than he expected, as a small explosion erupted from the side of his face and distributed fragments of his head, including blood, brain matter, bone and teeth around the room, and among the councillors; completely ruining the plates of bread rolls and cakes on the executive table.

Alderman Cox stared at a bloodied eye which had landed with a plop in his flat white. Mary, the Mayor's secretary, too stunned to scream, wiped her face, covered by a thick soapy substance which a moment before, had contained guilty thoughts regarding the death of the family of the dentist, who had just performed a temporary crown procedure on a tooth a few centimetres below its bony home.

Dr Grant looked at his watch and smiled. Picking up a photo of his wife Dorothy and his granddaughter, Janet, he felt that in some small way... well... in rather a large way actually, he had avenged their senseless deaths, which occurred when the tyre of their sedan exploded in the large hole in the road. Dr Grant saw that the hole was there due to the fact that the Mayor had refused to grant funds for its repair a few weeks earlier, after Dr Grant had a similar experience in the same section of road. Placing the photo back on his work bench, he picked up the photo of himself with his Army mates taken forty years ago in Vietnam, where he was a sapper with the Engineers in the Bomb Disposal Unit. His mates considered him a genius; and indeed he was.
The Old Fairy Queen

7 November 2014

Dawn Meredith

Blue Mountains

Australia

In a hidden, sunlit glade in The Secret Wood, there once lived an old Fairy Queen. Every leaf, toadstool and flower glittered with her fairy dust, which was almost invisible to the human eye.

The Fairy Queen sat upon her pansy throne of deepest purple velvet and felt sad. Her husband had died and she was very old herself. She had lived a long and healthy life, adored by the fairies of Secret Wood, but she had no daughter to take over as queen. Only fairy queens ruled in Secret Wood and to her great sadness she had no children at all.

The Fairy Queen had twinkling blue eyes and a delicate long nose on which she perched her pink glasses, so that she could see better. Her wavy silver hair flowed all the way down her back and was tended to by a team of hair-do fairies, who delighted in combing and arranging tiny flowers in it. The Fairy Queen had fine porcelain skin, with hardly a wrinkle, despite her great age of six hundred and forty six years.

But no matter her beauty, she had no heir and her kingdom was doomed to be taken over by the Goblin King, who regularly buzzed in to visit and pester her with questions.

The Goblin King was short and ugly, with a new wart on his face every week. His hair was tatty and green and he wore the same dirty waistcoat every day. He had no manners, the goblin king, but even though she detested his bad breath and poor personal habits, the Fairy Queen was unfailingly polite to her rival. All the fairies had been instructed not to speak to him, for fear they would anger him and be drawn into a war. This the Fairy Queen did not want, especially at her advanced age. 'It is better to appear a fool and stay silent, than to open one's mouth and prove it,' she had insisted. The Fairy Queen was both dignified and wise.

The Goblin King was insufferable, but he, too, had a burden. He was in love with the Fairy Queen; had been for the last three hundred or so years. Being a goblin, of course, he was expected to choose a goblin wife, but no one in his kingdom could match the Fairy Queen for beauty, elegance, refinement and kindness, so he remained unmarried. Of course, he realised she must loathe him and his goblin ways, but he knew no better. Because there was no other leader, he would come to rule after the Fairy Queen and he wanted to rule as wisely as she, so he pestered her with questions.

The Fairy Queen noticed that the Goblin King seemed to have a sense of responsibility for her kingdom, but there was always that tiny glint in his eye that she did not quite trust. Was it greed? She couldn't be sure. Her heart felt even sadder at this, for he would probably outlive her, being a hundred years younger. Her fairy kingdom was doomed. There was no fairy baby.

Then, one day, an old, wounded badger stumbled into the glade. His black and white fur was bloodied and smelled of decay. Despite his injuries, he caused a panic among the fairies, who scattered in fright to hide. However, the Fairy Queen, typically compassionate, sent her best physicians to tend to the old badger's wounds.

Word was sent back to the Fairy Queen that the badger had a message, for her ears only. The Fairy Queen was mystified. What could a dying badger have to say to the Queen of the Fairies? She flew, surrounded by her attendants, to alight down softly at his head, for he was a much larger creature than she. The badger's eyes were yellowed and ill, saliva drooled out of his mouth and his front paws were damaged beyond repair.

The Fairy Queen's soft heart felt sorry for the badger. It had obviously travelled far and fought off many enemies. She sent her fairies away and approached the badger carefully.

'Dear badger, how may I help you?' she asked.

The badger looked up at the beautiful, elderly Fairy Queen and gasped. Her silver hair was backlit by the sun and her face shone like moonbeams. Her eyes sparkled with warmth and kindness. He swallowed and gathered his strength.

'Fair queen, I see the legends of your beauty and kindness are true, for you have sent your best physicians to tend to me. Alas, I am dying, but not before I give you this message. Do not abandon hope for a child. One shall be given to you, of fairy blood.' The badger paused to cough weakly. 'Prepare a feast of celebration, for if you believe in these words, your dearest wish will come true.'

The Fairy Queen had so many questions. She touched the badger's battered face gently and said, 'Dear badger, please tell me, how could this happen? I am old, with few years left myself, and the Goblin King would take my throne and govern my kingdom. I have little choice but to let him.'

The badger took a long, shallow breath which whistled out through his nose. His chest heaved with the effort. The Fairy Queen could sense his heartbeat slowing and feared she would not discover the whole of his story before he passed away.

'Fair queen, I come as messenger from the King of the Realm. He has seen your plight and granted you this one wish, but you must truly believe, or it shall not come to pass.'

The Fairy Queen had never heard of the King of the Realm. Was he a fairy too? Perhaps a goblin, or worse, a troll?

'Dearest badger, please tell me, who is the King of the Realm? What sort of creature will he send me to rule my kingdom after I am gone? I am afraid to accept his kind offer.'

The badger rolled his eyes restlessly. 'Fair queen, The King of the Realm sent me in secret to give this message to you. He sees the Goblin King's desire to govern your kingdom and fears the demise of all fair folk, should a goblin rule them. This, surely, you have also considered?'

The Fairy Queen trembled with fear, for, yes, she had indeed thought about the future of her folk, should the Goblin King come to rule in her stead. He seemed almost kind in his attentions, but what would happen once she lay cold in the earth? He may become an evil tyrant. Perhaps the only option she had was to trust this King of the Realm, this unknown figure, who had sent a secret messenger.

'Dear, dear badger, how can I know this to be the truth, that an unknown King of the Realm is able to grant such a wish?'

The badger sighed. He had only a moment or two left to deliver his message. His breath was fainter, his heartbeats slow and erratic.

'Fair queen, there is no guarantee that would please you. This is the nature of belief, in things which cannot be seen or proven. I can only say this, that I was once a fairy myself...' He paused, wincing in pain. The Fairy Queen clasped her hands in delight and her eyes shone with tears.

'You were once a fairy?' She touched his matted fur lovingly and stroked his face.

'Yes. I travelled far beyond the fairy kingdom, to the Realm of which I now speak. There I met the King of the Realm as a youngster, who had followed his father's hunting expedition. His horse had thrown him off at a hedgerow and he lay badly wounded. I flew to the palace for help and in so doing saved his life. For this act I received one wish from his father, the old King of the Realm. My wish was to travel beyond all the known kingdoms, as a strong and independent creature of day or night. Thus you see before you the creature's body he gave me--a badger's.'

'Dearest badger, such a tale you tell! But how can this help me in my dire hour?' said the Fairy Queen in distress.

'My time has finally come,' said the badger feebly. 'But this I say to you--believe, fair queen, and it shall come to pass! Your wish for a child to rule in your place shall be granted. As I was granted one wish, so shall you, for your kindness and tolerance, be also granted a wish. Farewell... great beauty... of Fairydom.'

The badger closed his eyes and as she watched his last breath sigh out of his body, the Fairy Queen saw it gather as a mist, swirling and turning, growing thicker. A tiny form began to take shape in the air. The sunlight broke through the trees at that very moment and sparkled with magic light upon the shifting shape. The Fairy Queen stood, her arms ready, her eyes alight with love. The shimmering light faded and there, in her arms, was a fairy baby, a girl, with white-gold hair and the palest blue eyes she had ever seen. The baby cried and snuggled into the old queen's breast.

The Fairy Queen called for her attendants. She laid the child upon the softest petal cradle and called for some milk. Then she prepared a feast of celebration. Joy spread like a fire throughout the kingdom and the fairy folk came to pay their respects to the Fairy Queen's child. They were awed by her white-gold hair and palest of blue eyes. A miracle had occurred!

The Fairy Queen lived a further sixteen years, long enough to train her daughter, Cilla, in the ways of wise rulership. And when the old queen finally closed her eyes in eternal sleep, Cilla buried her alongside the King, who had lain waiting these many long decades. Even the Goblin King paid his respects and then left, never to return again.

Cilla, the young, white-haired Fairy Queen, ruled as wisely as her mother and was beloved by all. In time she married and bore five daughters and three sons.

The fairy kingdom continues to this day, in the sunlit, hidden glade, where every leaf, toadstool and flower glitters with fairy dust, almost invisible to the human eye. If you believe.
The Exodus

8 November 2014

Adrian Levet

Darlington, Western Australia

Australia

He waited in the holding area. It had been his whole life, anticipating and preparing or this moment. His best friend stood by him, she was nervous, standing rigid; he could tell by her expression. She had a large cross marked on her chest, which had been there for as long as he could remember, along with her call sign: X4956312. He looked down at his own chest, noting his own insignia. He had no name, only the numbering: Y4562341. They all knew the final sequence would result in a lot of lives lost, millions upon millions in terms of scope. They had a single purpose and indeed, all knew it. For the greater good, so that the species could continue to live and thrive, they had to leave.

He looked over the crowd, so many faces. How many would be lost trying to get to the fabled "Paradise"? He had been told stories about what it was like on the outside; different things. No one could corroborate the story, however, since no one ever came back. They either got to the "Paradise", or they died on the way there. It was like the biggest migration ever conceived. He heard stories of the way in which they died, acid engulfing them. Some said that a few never made it to the force field at all, and instead were caught in some kind of web. Some told stories of reaching the fabled force field though, which held the gates to the "Paradise", where they could live in peace and tranquillity, but it was all impossible to verify, and he tried not to think too much about it.

Suddenly, it happened. The sirens went off, howling out across the room which was as large as several worlds. Everybody got into their travel pods, the strange alien designs of them, white and circular, with a rear propeller that spurred them forward. He got into his, and fired up the ignition controls. The propeller burst to life, and fluttered side to side behind him. He looked over at his friend, X, and they nodded to each other. He loved her like a sister, they had been spawned together from nothing and now found themselves here, at this pivotal point. He looked up through his front window, the expansive opening appeared above them and suddenly, with a shuddering jolt, he launched out, along with the millions of others, flying through the tunnel that led out of the holding area. It opened up at the end, and he felt as if he was travelling at near light speeds. He found himself heading out into another expansive tunnel, so vast it was that it was impossible to even estimate how big it was in diameter. He had read about this, phase one of the journey, and worse was yet to come. He was surrounded by a fluid of some kind, so his propeller worked much like a submarine now. He had his equipment already primed, so he was able to move easily.

He could still see X close by. They were in this together. Over the way, he could see another whom he knew well, one much less desirable than all the others.

He was bitter, and rude to all he came across, and above all else, arrogant. He was so certain he would be the one and only to reach the "Paradise" and all were inferior in comparison. His call sign was Y2394853, but they just called him Y-him, a silly pun he and X had made up and had been running with ever since.

He looked over at him, and Y-him just gave back an icy stare, and thrust himself forward as if it were a race, hitting several other pods in the process. They were all told that they had to be ruthless, that being far in front of the pack was the most likely chance to succeed, but he struggled with that philosophy, and he believed others did too. He couldn't bring himself to leave others broken and beaten to get there, and believed in helping the others as much as he could. He looked back for a moment, noticing the pods behind going faster and faster. A sudden wave had appeared behind them, almost to fire them outwards, like rapid projectiles. His pod became overwhelmed and he and all the others seemed to accelerate to unfathomable speeds. The other pods next to him, his best friend, and Y-him were just blurs now.

_Phase two_ , he thought to himself. The launching into the unknown, the stories told of the "Stormy Sea", the most deadly part of the Great Exodus. He came out into another place altogether. An alien place, otherworldly in colour. It was then that he saw it. The largest wave he had ever seen, not coming from behind, but towards them. It was clear in colour, and the ones at the front seemed to pass straight through it, almost like a wave in the sea, before it broke upon itself with its full force. He spurred forward, putting as much acceleration as he could into his pod, bringing it to dangerous exertions to try and make it with the ones in front. Y-him and X had already made it through, as he saw them dip down into it. He met the wave just as it was braking forward, crammed together with countless others. He didn't try to push them out the way, and was stuck behind them. As a consequence, the brunt of the wave hit his pod. The wave was some kind of deadly acid, fragmenting around him and hitting the others behind him. It began melting into his electrics, and he saw them flash and sizzle in front of him, as he rapidly tried to get the back-up systems online. He looked back to see others, millions he guessed, wiped away with the crashing of the wave.

Millions... gone. He couldn't believe it. He managed to get the back-up systems up and running, but the propeller was now a little weaker, the strain in the engine was evident with the sounds of the warning sirens blaring out at him, assaulting his senses. He tried to regain his concentration, but he couldn't believe what he had just witnessed. An entire civilisation in scope, were gone in less than a blink of an eye. He and just a handful were all that were left. He took solace that X, his companion and best friend, was sure to make it. She was miles ahead now, but indeed, so was Y-him. He kept going as fast as he could, and somehow, the back-up systems kept everything running at almost optimum level. He saw a couple of thousand pods stop suddenly, floating downwards, sizzling and flashing out of sight. One floated down towards him, and he pulled his pod upwards to try and bump it back on course. It worked, floating back upwards, and then forwards, but the propeller seemed to be slowing. Suddenly, another pod collided with the one he tried to save, and they both were sent into the eternal blackness, their electrics the only light, slowly fading and flashing until they were both no more. How many had been hit? He looked around. A synchronised dance, and he just stared in awe. There were seemingly thousands of lights, fizzling out, just as he had seen a moment before. It looked like a vast cityscape skyline. He thought their pod systems must have failed, most likely from the acid that melted straight through them, just as he had experienced. There was no help for them now, and together they fell and perished, as he watched in horror.

More... gone. _How many of us are left?_ He looked all around himself, at his radar systems, barely working, but there was nothing on them, save a faint couple of bleeps up ahead. He floated forward, his pod seemed to struggle and slow even more, and he feared he would join the fallen, but moment after moment, it kept moving on, like an old faithful horse, wounded and battered. He flew over a crest, a small turn downwards in the vast blackness he travelled, once but a number, now the only solemn living thing, a nomad with nothing but a failing vessel to keep him company. He looked to see if the space between the bleeps on the radar were narrowing, and indeed they were. It looked like two lonely bleeps and himself. Was that all that was left? From billions to three. He clenched his fist in rage, and smashed it down onto his dashboard. There was no point to this escapade! Countless casualties, billions of good people lost on a whim of a system that no one had even questioned. There will be more of them, to meet the same fate he was facing, and for what? "Paradise"? This was no "Paradise", it was hell. He tried to calm down. He sat down in his pilot seat, wishing the powers that be had prepared them better for this, not just with the rumours and unexplained orders that they had been given. His pod emerged into an even more expansive region. Phase three... The road to "Paradise", they called it the "Dead Space", on account of its blackness and expanse of nothingness, with the lure of the glow. It was then that he saw it, in all its majesty. His trace of angry thought instantly silenced. A sphere, with a milky glow, floating down towards the horizon, like the most spectacular moon, large and full, that could ever be imagined. It shone out, with faint incandescent light, and its promise of the final stretch to the end. He tried to engage advanced thrusters, but it was no use. He was resigned to giving up, the futile nature of this entire Exodus, until the moment he saw the Sphere. Now, he wanted nothing else but to be in its alluring glow, the bosom of life, light and all goodness.

He looked down and saw the bleeps were very close. He scanned the horizon for them, trying to distract himself from the luminous glow of the sphere. It was then he saw them both, and indeed they were very close to him, somehow he had gained on them. The insignias on the sides of the pods were unmistakable, X4956312 and the other: Y2394853. X and Y-him! What was the likelihood of only these three to survive? He was in complete disbelief. They raced forward, the last three, across the indeterminate void. X was very close to Y-him. They were bumping into each other, the sparks of the pods flying off dramatically as they did so. It seemed to go on for hours, bumping into each other, with him, trailing behind. Why? Why did Y-him have to try and destroy others? X had done nothing to him... _Perhaps Y-him knows something we do not_ , he pondered.

What if there could only be one? Is that what Y-him believed? Suddenly, the final blow was struck. The Sphere was coming in close now, or so it seemed, but the distance was hard to judge in the darkness. Y-him hit X, and she lost control. He could see that it had done some damage, the engagement control exploded outwards from the side of her pod, and it started flailing, until the propeller gave way and stopped.

He could almost feel Y-him's smugness from where he was. He seethed with rage, and tried to spur his thrusters a little more, despite them being at dangerous levels. He watched X's pod flash a few more times, and it began to fall, like all the others before it, another spectacular fall. He passed her, and he moved over to his side window. She was right there, both hands were pressed up against the screens, and she just stared at him, her eyes pleaded with him, and tears visible on her cheeks. He found himself at a crossroad, to help the one person he loved, or to wreak vengeance on the one who had doomed them both. He raced downwards, arching the controls with his hands and he flew back as fast as he could, the propeller sparking and jolting, as it struggled to do his bidding. He got to X's pod, parking up as close to it as possible, and opened up his emergency doors. He stood by at the containment airlock, and signalled to her to open hers. This was not something that was encouraged, nor something that had been a part of the training for the Great Exodus. Under no circumstances were pods' emergency doors to be used, unless in error during training sequences. Certainly, there had never been any occasion where one had opened it up to allow another into their own. There was no equipment to be used, and he feared for X's travel to his pod, what was the environment like out there? There was no telling what could occur. She was brave though, and he knew if anyone could do it, she could. He saw her through the airlock door, and she took a deep breath and opened it. Her pod instantly flooded, and she desperately tried to fight the tide. Once it had filled and the pressure had subsided, she swam as best as she could to his pod, holding her breath, and after an extremely tense moment, she hit the airlock door with a thud. He activated the depressurisation, standard procedure whenever he entered his pod in case of contamination. The liquid rapidly drained out of the containment airlock, and he opened the internal door. She darted inside. He grabbed her as she gasped and took in deep breaths, the 'X' on her chest convulsing. She looked at him and smiled, collapsing into his arms.

'You're safe, X,' he murmured, realising it was to himself as he found she was unconscious. He checked her breathing and put her down next to him in the pilot seat, while he stood and activated the controls again. He couldn't even see Y-him, he was so far away, but he was going to try his best to catch up. He looked down at his radar as he moved back into the Sphere's trajectory, seeing a faint bleep in the far corner. Luckily, Y-him was still there and hadn't made it yet. He lurched forwards, his rickety horse barely functioning. It felt like some time, but X finally came to. He seemed to be gaining on Y-him, and she stood up as soon as she could.

'It... it worked! Y! It worked! I'm in your pod and we're alive!'

He looked back at her, for a moment enjoying her optimism before wishing he didn't have to shoot it down.

'Barely... I'm glad you're okay, but Y-him is far ahead, and we need to get there before him, which we will never do in this ticking time bomb...'

She looked down, realising the dire situation they were in, knowing the final phase was occurring, that they only had a small window before the Sphere would disappear from the horizon, and the chance to enter the "Paradise" would be lost forever. She looked over to him though, smirking. He looked back at her; he hated it when she did this.

'What, X? What are you thinking?'

'I have a back-up energy 614 cycle mobile unit. I was speaking to X56943024 and she told me that the new version of the pods are being spawned with stronger energy cycles! I forgot she gave it to me! She told me not to tell anyone, and I've kept it ever since!'

She pulled a tiny gizmo from her pocket, a small rectangular thing that seemed to ooze fluid, the same types they used to fuel and to protect the hull of the pods. It, incredibly, seemed to be a mixture of both in one condensed format.

He went to work as soon as he could, fitting the fluid that protected the hull, creating some kind of reinforced plasmic barrier over the damaged part of his pod, and fitted the other fluid into his pre-existing cycle in his dashboard. The Pod lurched forward, and sparks flew from the controls in front him, as he knelt down shielding his eyes. He looked back at her, and smiled.

'You really are quite unique, X...'

She smiled back at him, and the pods' propeller system seemed to explode into life. It jolted back and forth with incredible speeds, he and X almost lost their footing as it shot forward. It was hard to tell what speed they were travelling, but it was as if he was piloting his pod before the acid waves and it seemed brand new. The radar was bleeping constantly now, updating periodically over the distance travelled, and it came closer and closer, until he could see the faint light ahead.

'There's Y-him! Hit him!'

X shouted, pointing at the tyrant that had left her for dead. He was very close to the entrance to the "Paradise", moments perhaps. They flew forward, heading straight for him, at an almost blinding speed, but incredibly, he arched his pod upwards just in time and they missed him. He and X shouted in frustration, but had no time to prepare for what was to come. Y-him had arched his pod upwards, and then instantly downwards, somehow timing it perfectly so that he would hit them, right at the base of the propeller system with the plasma coated nose tip of his pod. It was the weakest point, and the propeller fragmented and disconnected from the base of their pod.

'No!'

They looked up to see Y-him drift above them, as the brightly lit moon drifted downwards to meet him, until they connected together, the impact of his pod piercing the force field, and the sphere seemed to glow even more intensely, blinding them both in their solitary pod. It shone majestically and silenced them as they stared in rapture. Y2394853 had reached the "Paradise" of the songs of the ever fertile, tranquil lands, and the continuation of their species was now in his hands, the hands of a tyrant.

~~~

Meanwhile, a man and a woman consummate their marriage, the beginning of their lives together and the conception of their unborn son.
Bush Baby

9 November 2014

gARThibiza

San Augustine, Ibiza

Spain

In the pitch black forest, I took her hand.

It warmed me like sunlight

Her thick black hair hung straight down

I was proud of her beauty

But hated the way greedy men stared

She was perspiring slightly

The thin dress clung to her breasts.

In the morning, she was gone

Vanished, leaving only her smell on the sheet

I sat on the veranda drinking coffee

Gazing through the trees, the pink dawn,

The dampness and the raucous parrots.

She left footprints in the dewy grass

I smiled, knowing her excited me.

But everything had moved so quickly.

The change had inspired hope and confidence.

Though I could not hear her, she was laughing

And I wished I knew why.

That night I lay in bed

Turning it over in my mind

Happy when I remembered

Her dark body beneath the yellow cotton dress

Disturbed by her unexpected departure

I could not sleep.

Though something had ended

I will never forget it.
A Pain In The...

10 November 2014

Andris Heks

Megalong, New South Wales

Australia

No, not in the arse. But just as bad--in my upper right arm. Of all the places, in my right arm!

The arm that I need to use all the time: to lift, to help myself out of bed, to carry things, to chainsaw, to push a wheelbarrow, to reach the top shelf of my cupboard, to swim, to ride my bike, to drive etc. It could hardly be at a worse place. But when it really gives me hell is at night. I am an absolute right side sleeper. In my pain free past I was content to sleep the whole night through lying on my right arm and shoulder. I cannot sleep anywhere as well on my left side or on my back. So now, bingo! Every time I try to sleep on my right side I wake up in pain. But why? What have I done? Why has this pain visited me over three months ago and is not showing the slightest intention of leaving?

'That's right my friend,' retorts my pain, 'I am here to stay!'

'But why, what do you want from me?'

'I want you to love me to death. Nothing less will do.'

'Well, it is certainly not easy to love you when you torture me all the time!'

'Yeah? Who said that life is meant to be easy? Yet you had it too easy 'til now. Did you think that you can cruise through life without your share of a good dose of suffering? Look at the world! It is so unfair! While three quarters of the world has been seriously suffering, you have had an almost pain free life, at least in the physical sense. It is time you learn how the rest of the world feels!'

'I am certainly starting to!' But why now? Why could you not wait at least until I returned from my so much anticipated visit to my motherland? I mean, I go there after 40 years of absence. I have not had a fall for fifty-five years in my life.'

The last time I fell was also in Hungary, when on a bicycle as a thirteen year old, I collided with a motorbike. It cut the bicycle under me into half and I was sent, in a summersault, into the air. I landed on my right thigh which stayed blue for a week, but that was it. After a week I was pain free.

What happens now? Just a fortnight into my visit to Budapest, just after a wonderful swim on Margaret Island, I step off the pavement at the pedestrian crossing and whoops! I go flying in the air! My right arm leads the way. As if I was a goalkeeper, fully extending my right arm upward forty-five degrees and my body following it, as if trying to punch out that ball heading to the right top corner of the net. An amazing flight, coming to a crushing end on the concrete pavement. Ouch! I land on my right side, with the top of my right arm taking the full force of the fall. I felt a sharp pain in the arm for a second, but I made nothing of it. If anything I felt angry that I fell; how could I so misjudge that fatal step?

As the days passed the pain started to grow progressively worse. I had a hot bath every day, I massaged pain relief cream into it. Nothing helped. After a professional massage I felt better for an hour but then the pain returned with revenge. And by the time I was in Hungary for the third week of my trip, I experienced the first night of pain that woke me up. Then I knew that the pain was not going away. It was getting progressively worse. Yet the real highlights of my trip were still ahead of me. That included a magic pilgrimage to Transylvania for several days in the company of several thousands of my compatriots. But I had to be realistic. I could not risk that walk with a progressively more painful arm. I would be in agony and useless with a frozen shoulder. I obviously needed a thorough assessment of my injury. Has anything broken, or torn, in my arm? I had to see a specialist.

Given the expenses and my need for helpers, I saw no choice but to cut my trip short and return to Sydney after four weeks in Budapest. 'But if I had to have you, why could you not at least wait until I could complete my trip of a life time and returned to Australia?' I ask my pain, as it persists even as I type these words.

'Because I am the pain you tried to leave behind in Hungary when you defected to Australia at the age of seventeen. I gave you a fifty year break. But at last you need to take me on board, bring me back to Australia and face up to me.'
Into The Valley Of Bones

11 November 2014

Winsome Smith

South Bowenfels, New South Wales

Australia

If only Ben's parents hadn't come home from choir practice singing that ridiculous song about bones connecting. If only his teacher hadn't that very day read out the poem about the Charge of the Light Brigade when 'into the valley of death rode the six hundred'. If only he hadn't had two extra pieces of pizza before going to bed.

At the age of twelve Ben wasn't a particularly nervous person. He checked the growth of his muscles every day so knew he could protect himself but just as a precaution he had his fist ready whenever he had to walk out into the backyard at night.

Actually his mother and father, although irritating, could at times be quite amusing. He wondered if the parents of any of his mates jived around the kitchen. He would never ask them and he would never mention his parents' undignified activities for fear of embarrassment. It had been extremely funny when they had tried to tango on the back lawn. They had tripped over their own feet and fallen onto each other, knocking over a potted azalea and sending the ginger cat, whose name was Kat, scampering. Yes, they could be amusing, but he thought of them as childish and considered that they should behave with some dignity, although he wasn't sure what that was.

He knew they both fancied themselves as great singers and they belonged to a choir called The Uptown Singers (silly name) which went about the town entertaining old people. The choir sometimes even put on concerts where they advertised that they sang 'variety'.

So their latest effort was 'Dem Dry Bones' which the choir sang with gusto and his parents practised conscientiously every night at home.

His father had explained to him that the song had something to do with a prophet who went into a valley in the desert and found piles of bones. The words made some kind of sense if you thought about a skeleton.

'The toe bone connected to the foot bone.

The foot bone connected to the ankle bone.

The ankle bone connected to the shin bone,'

... and so on right up to the head bone.

His father had added, 'It's all symbolic.'

His mother had said, 'No, no, it's all about anatomy.'

Whatever it was, they seemed to delight in singing it about the house, tapping out the rhythm with their feet

After choir practice that night his mother had brought home pizza. Ben had stayed up late doing homework, which consisted of learning off by heart a verse of the poem about the Charge of the Light Brigade. Although the teacher had told them the tragic story about someone giving the wrong order, Ben considered the soldiers of the cavalry quite stupid when they rode into a valley occupied by the enemy. Most of the literary stuff they learned at school consisted of blunders and mistakes, and this was surely one of the worst.

So he had heard about two valleys, both pretty awful. There was the valley of bones and there was the valley of death, neither of them a cheerful prospect.

It might not have been very sensible to consume pizza with anchovies and mozzarella last thing at night and wash it down with Coke but it was his favourite evening meal and after partaking of it with enjoyment, Ben said goodnight to his mother and father and went to bed.

As he huddled into his bed warmed by a puffy striped eiderdown and the electric blanket, Ben thought about the next day. He didn't need the TV weather forecast to tell him that it would be a cold day. He knew the ground would be white with frost which crunched underfoot as he walked to school, and blanketed the trees. Every winter there were days when little icicles hung from branches and there were thin patches of ice floating on the bird bath in his mother's garden.

He fell into the huddle of sleep appreciating the bed's cosiness and still tasting the savoury pizza. Ah, contentment.

His sleep, perhaps due to pizza, was not at all peaceful. He dreamed of valleys filled with frost and of six hundred bones which somehow stood up and rattled.

Why did the rattle of bones enter his sleep and his dreams about valleys and death and bones and the thunder of horses' hooves? Somehow bones and hooves clattered together throughout the night.

He opened his eyes, seeing little in the dim light, but hearing clearly an urgent rattling.

He guessed that it was very late, perhaps even early in the morning but the room was too dark for him to see anything that would cause the noise. He heard it again. Rattle, rattle, rattle. Ben shook his head and spoke to himself severely, 'You idiot! Bones don't really rattle; they don't make any sound. Anyway there aren't any bones here. Go back to sleep.'

But the rattling continued, making sleep impossible. He put his head under the blankets and tried to block his ears but nothing would block out the persistent noise. With something of relief he began to suspect that a burglar was trying to get in through the window. At least a burglar was something you could see and somehow escape from, not a fanciful thing like dry bones in a valley.

Remembering that he was twelve and had never been a coward or a sissy, Ben jumped from his bed and crept to the window. Cautiously he lifted back the curtain, expecting to see a horrible face. He looked straight into two round yellow eyes.

'Kat!' Ben exclaimed. 'It was you banging on the window.'

Behind the animal moonlight silvered the frost on the lawn and Ben realised that the animal wanted entry into the house, away from the cold.

'You shouldn't be cold; you've got a fur coat on. Anyway, come on, get into my bed.'

Under the eiderdown Kat purred, Ben breathed deeply and all was peace. Rattling bones and cavalry riding into certain death were forgotten.
As Red Knights Land (Darkness And Light)

12 November 2014

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

**D** awn was breaking and I (the red knight), was caught between reality and the nether world,

**A** ll sense of tangibility and solidarity was lost and I tossed the sword, sheets and hurled...

**R** eams of hose away. I tore the air mask away in anger as my mouth was dryer than the Sahara,

**K** een I was to free myself from the phantoms who roam through my head--nocturnal attackers.

**N** obody knows what it's like--but that is untrue--even dogs have nightmares,

**E** ver playing the sympathy card, but I am guarded to say anymore lest I be caught unawares.

**S** livers of light forced their way through the shutters; buttressing their essence,

**S** cornful of the start of the brand new day, I scoffed at the idea of prayer to a divine presence.

**A** m I now beyond redemption? The powers that be have no interest other than financial,

**N** o doubt my accountant will shed tears when at last I slip away into the dark substantial...

**D** omain of eternal dark; weightless, without form or encumbrance leading a cosmic dance.

**L** imitless power to visit distant galaxies or gulags, but I bags _not_ to do the latter, perchance...

**I** will reincarnate like a Buddhist or regenerate like a Time lord; bored as I am at present,

**G** et behind me Satan... _and push!_ No time to waste? I am an idle idol to view the demented...

**H** overing moon in eclipse as the earth slips between the sun and the moon blood red sweep,

**T** he earth was without form, void and asleep; and darkness was upon the face of the deep...
Angels Whisper In Your Ear

13 November 2014

Jane Russell

Mount Barker, South Australia

Australia

A whimsical tale about someone who hears voices.

'Angels whisper in your ear,' my mum used to say. This was a kind way of indicating that she thought I was nuts! I suppose I don't blame her. I had just managed to burn the house down, after all. I didn't mean to, it was just that 'the voices' made me do it! I'm like Joan of Arc--you know, she had angels telling her to go save France and crown the Dauphin and stuff. Trouble is she was burned at the stake. Lucky I'm not living in her day.

'This place is poison. It must be cleansed by fire,' the voices said in their telltale whisper.

'Are you out of your frigging mind?' I replied (in my head). 'This is my family home. Why on earth would I want to destroy it?'

'You know it's right. You have to do it or it will overwhelm you. Your very life depends on it.'

'Whatever,' I replied, thinking to myself 'No way, José!' Yet a couple of hours later I found myself with canisters of petrol and a cigarette lighter. I'm not always present in my own life. I don't know where I go, but I frequently find myself doing inexplicable things and not knowing why. Maybe I am nuts?

I immediately put them down and backed away. Then minutes later it was all alight. Geez, did I do that? No wonder the old lady wants me committed. She's made me an appointment with a shrink. That should be fun.

At my first appointment I was wary and distrustful. This person had the power to put me in a nuthouse.

'Please make yourself comfortable, Julie. I can call you Julie can't I? I'm Ed,' he blathered as I came in. Mum had to wait outside, so that was a good start. I went straight to the lounge and lay down and relaxed.

'Er, Julie? Julie?' I woke with a start. Why on earth was the shrink's beard smoking? I looked guiltily at the lighter in my hand. Uh oh!

I smiled weakly, 'Sorry.'

'No problem. Let's start again, shall we?' he said genially. I could tell though that he was really pissed about his beard.

'Listen Ed, I don't mean to do these things. I hear voices and they tell me to do them. I say no, I really do. Then I find myself doing them anyway.'

'What do the voices sound like?' Ed asked.

'Um, they're hoarse and whispery,' I replied after some thought.

'And you find yourself doing things you really don't want to do?' he continued.

'Yeah, it's like I'm asleep or something. Then I wake up and I've done something awful!'

'Okay, let's explore the reasons for your "absence"--what are your earliest memories?' he asked.

I was quiet for a while, looking inside, searching for these memories. Then I said:

'I can see my Dad. He's playing a game. I must be about four. He's throwing me up in the air and I'm laughing. Then there's this noise and I'm falling. There's a lot of pain. When I wake up I'm in a bright place with angels all around. They whisper to me: "Your Dad dropped you! He doesn't love you. He's gone away for ever because of you!" I hate these bloody angels. Yet sometime later, in the hospital, Mum tells me that Dad has gone away and will never come back. I feel so guilty I never forget it. It's not until years later that Mum admits that Dad had a heart attack while he was playing with me. He only dropped me because he died. He died because of me.'

'A traumatic event that has affected your mind,' commented Ed. 'You need to relive it. Your father died through no fault of yours. You have to let it go.'

'I would never have met those angels if I hadn't had that accident. How do I make them go?' I asked.

'You have to confront them. Argue with them. Believe that you are not responsible for your father's death. Until you do that, they will continue to plague you.'

'Same time next week?' I said, getting up. What had the old fraud been talking about? I can't seem to remember.

Mum went in for a private word while I waited outside. When she came out I could see she'd been crying, and this made me really angry with Ed. How dare he upset my mum!

'Burn the curtains! Get your revenge!' urged the angels.

'Bugger off!' I replied to them and threw the lighter in the bin. Why on earth is the bin on fire? Geez, I can't win!

At the next week's meeting, Ed insisted that Mum come in with me. He was very wary and searched me for incendiary devices at the door.

'Now Julie, are you still hearing the voices?' he started. I noticed he kept his distance. His beard still looked very grizzled.

'Yes,' I replied, 'they're constantly suggesting all sorts of trouble. How do I get rid of them, again?'

He nodded at Mum, and she looked at me pityingly.

'Julie dear, I'm so sorry,' she said.

'Er, why?' I asked.

'I should never have implied that your Dad died because of you. He had a weak heart. He would have had a heart attack sooner or later. He would never have deliberately dropped you and broken your arm. It was never your fault, darling!'

'I never thought it was, Mum. But the angels kept telling me bad things. I think they should sod off and mind their own business. I'm sick of taking the blame for their rotten advice,' I replied, and as I did, I realised that I really did think they should sod off. I could almost feel them retreating, see their annoyance as they moved on to find some other bunny to plague. As long as it wasn't me! I almost shouted with joy 'I'm cured!' but I didn't want to tempt fate. I decided to give it a week or so and see if the voices had really gone.

They had. I still had to attend the full course of appointments with the shrink, but it was over. I was as sane as I was ever going to be. I just hoped it was enough to keep me out of the looney bin. This was as good as it was going to get.
Mind Revolution

14 November 2014

Valerie R Vaughn

Pennsylvania

USA

Non-yielding ways,

cut short by our very existence.

Still we try to make our way,

feeling like we are going crazy in a drunken haze.

Sweat the indecisiveness,

as if it were a decision which was ours to make in the first place.

Twist and turns,

highs and lows,

feels right.

The system is in place,

it kicks us in the face,

Everyday.

We try to make my way.

One step forward, feels like four steps back.

Who's got my back?

Me and mine.

You and yours.

Progression in a positive direction.

A direction of hurt,

the hurt will be our pain.

Here today, perhaps gone tomorrow,

This is for real, a better tomorrow,

prepare.

Here we go.

Together.

Negative thoughts encapsulate my mind

It's time to let go of the past,

to lessen the entwined.

Hardships were never meant to harden one's soul,

but to gain life experience is all.

Time to unburden the burden,

only then will life begin to flow,

through veins like a crisp mountain stream.

I rush to gain higher ground,

new to my feet, a feeling more secure.

Why did I wait so long to let go?

Of a past which did not define me,

but made me,

into the person I am today.

Strength in wisdom,

freedom in being,

love in learning.

No longer a victim of condition,

I have escaped.

The road behind me is becoming a darkened memory,

left behind, for my will to survive,

to flourish is stronger than the ties that bind.

Snipped from a knotted grasp,

my strength is stronger.

I cut all the pain away,

each layer of rope like a strand of forgiveness

I mentally escaped.

Finally alive.

Finally free.

I fall into the person that I was meant to be.
The Vacuum Cleaner

15 and 16 November 2014

Neil Randall

West Runton, Norfolk

United Kingdom

'I won't tell you again!' she shouted from the kitchen. 'Move that bloody vacuum cleaner.'

The vacuum cleaner stood at the top of the stairs, monolithic, intimidating. While others had keepsakes or trinkets, photographs, jewellery gifted during courtship or upon marriage, things that defined certain stages of a relationship, reminders of happy, special times, they had a functional domestic appliance.

He looked around. The thick cream-coloured carpet was immaculate, the banister shone, all the pictures and framed photographs on the walls were perfectly aligned, the sideboard and coffee table in the front room gleamed. A fresh pinewood scent mixed with furniture polish wafted around the house. There was a time when he liked the idea of living in such a clean, tidy environment, when he admired his wife's hard work (even if it did border upon the obsessive compulsive). It meant something, to be house-proud, to spend so much time scrubbing, sweeping, polishing and hoovering, making sure everything looked just right, but it also took something away: a homeliness, a sense of comfort and of being comfortable, of being able to relax, put your feet up or your glass on the coffee table without a coaster, without being berated like a child, like he had so often in the past.

'They'll be here in a minute!' The in-laws, her mother and father, Hilda and Lawrence, a kindly, easygoing couple, softly-spoken, polite--how they'd borne such a scowling, perennially agitated daughter was puzzling. Then again, no more puzzling than his decision to marry her.

Often he thought back to the early days of their relationship, how both had joined a local club for young professionals, a meeting place for the socially inept, awkward, culturally backward and woefully dressed. Years before dating agencies and lonely heart columns had shaken off the stigma of desperation, they'd both sought someone to beat the solitude of single life, but instead, only made each other all the more lonely and miserable. When you want to be with someone just to avoid being alone, he soon realized, you ignore those voices in your head, the warning signs, the first impressions, the gut instinct that says this person simply isn't right for you, jumping at the first opportunity that presents itself, just in case another chance never comes around.

Now he knew she'd only wanted to get married so she wouldn't look sad and out of place, like there was something wrong with her, being a spinster, living alone, that her search for a life partner was solely for the eyes of other people, be they family, friends, the next door neighbour or a stranger in a supermarket. It was then he recognized how cold and empty their relationship hadn't so much become, but had always been--an exercise in expediency, a façade, something they both benefited from, something which provided an alibi to society itself. But after eight years of marriage, two career changes, three different houses, no children (she considered kids an expensive and unnecessary encumbrance--while he'd remained indifferent), he wasn't sure if it had been a wholly equitable exchange.

'Did you hear me? It's nearly half-past!'

Every time they entertained (and in all honesty, they had few friends who called round for meals or drinks), it was the same semi-militarized operation, her barking orders like a sadistic sergeant-major, having him haul pieces of furniture around, move all the books from the bookcases, the fruit from the bowls and ornaments from the mantelpiece, so she could wipe and polish-sometimes she went so far as to have him wash down the skirting-boards.

From the outset, she'd always been abrupt, abrasive, even if she preferred to call herself assertive and self-confident. The first time he stayed over at her parents' house, she launched a blistering attack on him at the breakfast table for leaving crumbs from his knife in a tub of margarine.

'It's disgusting, clumsy and inconsiderate, not to mention unhygienic. Who'd want to use the butter now with somebody else's crumbs in it?'

He didn't know where to look.

How had he got himself into this position? Attached to a woman who didn't seem to like him, to be able to tolerate his presence, even. He couldn't remember the last time they kissed, held hands or made love, he couldn't remember the last time they had a civil conversation.

Tentatively, he put his foot on the first step and looked up at the vacuum cleaner again. A glint of bright sunlight from the window on the landing reflected off its shiny plastic outer shell. With a shiver of distaste, he recalled the day they bought it from a superstore in town, the many questions she asked the shop assistant, about suction, attachments and bag capacity. He remembered the way the shop assistant had shot him an exasperated glance, as if to say, 'Bloody hell, mate, do you have to live with her?'

In turn it reminded him of all those family functions, when relations would joke about 'who wore the trousers in their house', like he was some pathetic woebegone doormat of a man, and even though he knew they were right, he didn't like the inference, the way people looked at him, like somebody to be pitied. It was such a slight to his manhood, a manhood he'd never really asserted, whether in the playground in face of a school bully or the office when teased by a facetious, piss-taking, socially successful colleague, but a manhood he nonetheless prized.

But what frustrated him most at such functions was the way she continually interrupted him, like a patronizing grown-up talking over a youngster of questionable maturity and intelligence, as if he wasn't capable of answering for himself, or the way she snapped at him, more often than not over a completely benign comment, no more than a token word spoken to conversation make, usually for politeness' sake, and the way he just took it, all meek and apologetic, and how he saw that pitying look creep into people's eyes again.

Even worse was when a cousin, uncle or aunt tried to stick up for him (in a jokey, throwaway manner so as not to incite her, of course), but in a way which made him feel all the more humiliated, because he could feel their sympathy--which was no more than an acknowledgement of his weakness--and he hated himself for it.

Her approaching footsteps disturbed his thoughts.

'Did you hear me or not?' Red-faced, waving her arms in the air, she bundled her way into the hall with the deranged dynamic of a charging bull. But it was the look on this woman's, this stranger's, face--the disdain, no trace of warmth or fondness--that made his own features harden, mirroring hers, and he knew he was never going to move that vacuum cleaner ever again.

'If you want the bloody thing moved,' he shouted back, 'then move it your bloody self.'

Incredibly, despite him rarely, if ever speaking to her like that before, there was no shock or disappointment in her eyes, only a kind of animal relish, an appetite for confrontation, a bloodlust, the stomach for a fight, in an arena where she'd always dominated him.

Lurching forward, she scratched his face; her nails leaving nasty red gash marks on his cheek.

'Move that thing--now, I said!'

He felt too angry to cry out. He grabbed her. He struck her. He kicked her.

'You bastard!'

'You bitch!'

They wrestled all the way along the hallway and halfway up the stairs, knocking those perfectly aligned pictures from the walls, broken glass showering down on them like twisted confetti, a true representation of their union.

'I've never loved you!'

'And I've never loved you, either. You're pathetic, an excuse for a man, nothing more than a little boy. Without me you'd be nothing! You don't even know how to boil a bloody egg.'

'Why are you such a horrible cold-hearted creature? I must've been mad to have married you!'

'Huh! Like there was a queue of women lining up!'

~~~

Hilda and Lawrence got out of their Ford Focus. It was a swelteringly hot afternoon. The sun shone high in a vivid blue summer sky. Insects buzzed. Birds flitted and chirruped. Children's laughing voices and the thwack of bouncing balls could be heard off in the distance, behind picket fences, in back gardens.

On the way up the paved path, the smartly dressed, recently retired couple commented on the pretty, colourful, well-maintained flowerbeds and immaculate lawn.

'Those hydrangeas look an absolute picture,' said Hilda, pausing for a moment to bend down and admire the vibrant white and pink cup-shaped flowers.

'Yes,' said Lawrence, his attention diverted by the front door, slightly ajar. 'Oh...' he nervously imparted, realizing how out of character it was for his daughter to be so careless, especially where home security was concerned.

Hilda looked over her shoulder, and while she didn't say anything about the door, she stood and straightened, and both rather sheepishly walked up to the house.

'Shall we ring the bell or...?' but no sooner had he raised a hand than their daughter appeared, looking slightly dishevelled, her permed hair not quite having the usual bounce and neatness, her cheeks red, and a distinct uncertainty to her movements and manner.

'Hello, Mum. Hello, Dad.' She smiled and smoothed down her light summer dress. 'How are you? Good, I hope. Sorry if I'm looking a little flustered... slaving over a hot stove and all that... wish I'd have done a cold table now instead of roast beef.' A nervous laugh. She put both hands to her cheeks, as if to assess her simmering, self-conscious distraction as much as her temperature. 'Come in... come in.'

Her parents shuffled into the hallway. As always, they took off their shoes. Even though the carpet was over four years old, they knew how much their daughter hated the idea of people tramping through her house, bringing with them unsavoury specks of rogue dirt and hidden germs. As they did so, neither noticed that there were no pictures on the walls now. Only the usual impression of order and cleanliness registered: the sideboards and coffee table in the front room gleamed, a fresh pinewood scent with a hint of furniture polish hung in the air. There was no dust in the house. Maybe if they'd have been more vigilant they would've noticed the vacuum cleaner lead poking out of the cupboard under the stairs.

Their son-in-law, dressed in a short-sleeved shirt and loose-fitting chinos, stood by the dining-table, a bottle of wine in his hand.

'Hilda, Lawrence,' he said smilingly. 'You timed that right. I was just about to pour the wine... white okay for you?'

'Yes, yes,' said Lawrence. Not until he'd got to the table did he notice the large plaster on his son-in-law's cheek. 'Oh, I say, what happened to your face?'

'My face?' He glanced warily at his wife as she stealthily toed the vacuum cleaner lead into the cupboard under the stairs and eased the door shut. Then he touched his cheek and broke out into a wide, anxious, twitchy smile. 'Oh, I, erm... walked into a door.'

Editor's note: At a time when the spotlight is shining brightly on domestic violence, it's important to remember that it can run both ways, and that the psychological is often as destructive as the physical. However, more than that, this story illustrates perfectly the way perpetrator and victim often work together--the victim unwittingly, and often without realising--to keep the secret hidden. For anyone who hasn't experienced domestic violence, this story is a great illustration of the differing psychologies at play in a dysfunctional and violent relationship.
Dear Artist

17 November 2014

Myfanwy Dabner

Newbridge, New South Wales

Australia

Dear Artist,

I was wondering if you could paint me. Big like an Archibald. In my cat print undies and an old grey bra. No silver and vesuvianite earrings but ones with drops of little skeletons. A packet of pills called Seroquel sit big in the foreground also showing the name of 'Quetiapine'. On the floor a lithium battery is out from the back of my mobile phone and a packet of lithium tablets are here too. I clutch some pills in the tips of my fingers and hold a tiny Vegemite glass of water. I am a left hander. Tongue poised to accept the pills. My posture is slouched by a bulging medication pot belly and a mirror behind me exposes the fat rolls of my back. My hair is plain and greying. The rings on my fingers in bands of gold, silver, and a copper signet. Legs veined and a puffy ankle. I have a hot shiny face and sweaty cleavage. Red shoulders from the hot sun in the background. There are wrinkles and minor scars. There is a mole on the edge of my nose for added ugliness. I am not seated for flattery. The words say 'Without my drugs I would be skinny and'.

Editor's note: The best writing is brutally honest, but doesn't ask for sympathy. It simply is what it is--without apology. The picture painted here (all puns intended) might be confronting but also serves to remind us that there is incredible strength in self-acceptance.
Rumi Eyes

18 November 2014

Graham Sparks

Bathurst, New South Wales

Australia

Of a morn when I wake up

and leave the world of dreams,

I rub the sleep away

and peer out at the world that is

with rheumy eyes.

And later,

when I've broken bread

and functioned all perfunctory functs,

thrown my selves away

and opened all compartments,

I see the scope of things the way they are,

receding beyond seeing,

vaster than a feeble mind can ken,

I see the world through roomy eyes.

When weary I become of this,

I view the world of man the way it is,

then in a healing way toward myself

I write down what I see through Rumi eyes.
Curb Your Enthusiasm?

19 November 2014

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, New South Wales

Australia

Laaragi is dressed in bright orange corduroy trousers. His feet are encased in orange sneakers with lime green laces. Over an orange shirt he wears a waistcoat of sequined purple satin. The golden sequins reflect and dazzle the eyes as they catch the light beaming in from outside. He rings a bell, strikes a gong, and plays on a jaw harp. He dances and twirls for his audience. Throwing his head back, he roars with laughter.

Different sounds of laughter are presented to a group gathered in the Sydney Opera House for this wonderful workshop. From the soft chuckle, the silly giggle, the madman lilt, the joyful sound, the polite 'time to laugh in chorus', the hunter's sneering cackle, the knowing HA HA, the smiling laugh, the spontaneous rattle, to the full belly roll thunder, Laaragi gives each type of laugh a name and a number. He calls his converts to laugh when a number is called and the room is alive with sounds until tears run from eyes and some people run for the door. A litany of sound assails the ears and all reason is reduced to tatters. Time is immaterial. Faces display clown features, the plain is made beautiful and the room echoes to a cacophony of voices. People light up from within; hug the stranger next to them and laughter rolls on and ripples out to titivate harbour waves.

As black is to white, laughter is to tears, and through all the joy there is sorrow. Conjure up a laugh and awaken the tears, positive to negative and back again. There is pain in laughter for it triggers the memory and thoughts sneak in when the guard is down. Always there is a price to pay for happiness.

After the workshop Laaragi says that he is off to Israel to teach laughter to the conscripts in the Army. Then, after giggling his way through Germany, Spain will next be open to his style of silliness. He travels in his gypsy clothes to laugh around the world. In his wake, laughter clubs spring up. If there is one near you, lift your spirits, have a laugh!
The Lonely Bloke Next Door

20 and 21 November 2014

Shirley Burgess

Rosebud, Victoria

Australia

There was a warm, friendly, buzz of expectancy in the air. Excitement even.

Well-heeled Uncle James had finally kicked the bucket, and the family was now about to clean up. _He'd taken his time about it_ , thought Freda Murdoch, resentfully, the youngest of James' nieces and nephew, the so-called 'mourners' gathered at the solicitor's rooms. Of course, it'll be well worth the long journey here from Queensland to make sure we end up with a fair cut--together with the rest of the family, of course.

She had been trying to make small talk with her cousin, Tarkyn, Uncle James' only surviving son, but it had been hard going. She hadn't seen him for about twenty years and that was proving too long ago for her to know whom he was talking about when he mentioned far-distant family members.

There were five would-be recipients here today. Tarkyn, she imagined, would get the largest slice, and bundled in with him would be Tarkyn's only son, Robert. Being the only grandson, he was bound to get a little something too.

That left James' nieces and nephew, Margaret, Thomas and herself, in order of age. There should be enough to make a nice little package for everyone. There were a couple of million dollars, at least, to be distributed here; nearly half a million each, she surmised happily. _Our kids might even crack a dollar or two,_ she thought _._

Each of these persons had already worked out how their share would be spent, so there had been a fair bit of happy speculation before this day dawned.

The solicitor, John Hobbs, was a personal friend of James, and he paused before entering the room to deliver the reading of the Will. He thought to himself: _I'm about to deliver a few shocks here today. I wonder how they'll take it?_

The reading droned on. Apparently the Will had only been made last year, and declared that James was of sound mind, and all that stuff. It complimented Tarkyn for improving the family business to the high standard it reached today, and to Freda's husband for providing so well for his family. James noted that Thomas was showing good results for his young building business too.

Freda shifted in her seat, and started to worry that all was not well here.

Sure enough, when it came down to the nitty gritty of where the cash was going to go, some little unknown family somewhere, near where James had lived in Essendon, was going to get one million dollars, all to themselves, with a set amount of $200,000 to his son, Tarkyn, his grandson Robert Olsen, and also to each of the two nieces and his nephew. There was no special allowance for the offspring of his nieces and nephews. A separate designated amount went to a favourite charity, Seeing Eye Dogs, Australia.

Silence greeted Mr Hobbs when he had finished.

'Who is this family that is intruding here?' Freda spoke first, typically straight to the point.

Mr Hobbs took his time passing copies of the Will to each of them, indicating where they were each to sign as a receipt. Only when that was completed and he'd adjusted his glasses, did he answer. 'When your Aunt Faith died, James was inconsolable. He'd just retired, and planned on travelling the world with his much-loved wife. Faith's fatal heart attack put an end to all that, and James' thoughts turned to suicide.'

'He had us to talk to,' cried Tarkyn. 'Why didn't he come to us?'

'I think he realised you were all a long way away, and, naturally, very busy with your own families to take up your time. But his neighbours, the Wilsons, stepped in, and included him in everything they did. He ate with them often, as well as every weekend regularly; if they went on holidays, he went with them all; if they went out to a concert, he came too. Christmas time would come around and he was there when all the presents were distributed, and there was automatically a spot for him at the various Christmas dinner tables. He felt nurtured, as though he was with his own family, and his thoughts of suicide disappeared.'

'Probably buttering him up for the kill, I'd say,' said Thomas in a quite audible aside.

Mr Hobbs continued, 'When he went into hospital last year, they had a roster for visiting him each day, and that went on for two months. They were all there when he died.'

'Well, _we_ couldn't do that from Queensland for goodness' sake,' wailed Freda.

'I daresay,' said Mr Hobbs. 'He told me his association with the Wilsons saved his sanity, and he simply became one of their family. He wanted to repay them as they had always refused any monetary help he'd offered them.'

'Mr Olsen didn't tell them much about himself. For instance, they didn't know he was wealthy. He was just the lonely bloke next door, but before Faith's death, they had gone regularly to the football together, and there had always been a good rapport. When Faith died, they came to his aid generously. They were all there at the funeral, you might have noticed them all at the back of the chapel.'

Everyone looked glum.

'Mr Hobbs,' ventured Thomas. ' _We_ are his relatives, not the Wilsons. We are blood relations, not merely good friends. I have five children, and, I'll be quite honest with you, we'd been looking forward to some help from Uncle James. He always made a fuss of the children whenever he visited us, but always refused to stay overnight. Now that's not my fault. Is there any way we can challenge this Will?'

'I'm not the one to advise you,' said Mr Hobbs, 'you would have to go through another solicitor. I am the representative of your uncle, so I can't help you directly I'm afraid. You would have to produce something very substantial to alter this particular Will though.'

'Why?' said a very agitated Freda. 'What's so special about this Will, except that all the money is going to someone else?'

'There would be many people grateful for a gift of $200,000 my dear,' said Mr Hobbs smoothly. 'That's a substantial amount of money.'

Freda stood up. She addressed the others. 'There's no point in staying here. Let's go somewhere and have a coffee.'

They nodded agreement, and trooped out, a very disconsolate band of relatives, but Tarkyn declined to attend.

A round table at the coffee shop turned into a consultation table, as they consumed many cups of coffee and discussed all sorts of things such as: Won't it be costly to sue? Does anyone know a trustworthy solicitor? How long would all this take, and so on.

One by one they all told their tales of woe. Thomas reiterated he had to face the expense of five children, most at private schools. Freda's husband, Bernie, told of debts (he didn't mention they were gambling debts). He'd been pressed to repay these for some time. Then he turned to Margaret, the only one not married.

'You haven't said much, Margaret.'

'Well, I haven't had anyone to help me pay for anything,' she said. 'I've always had to battle on my own, but I think $200,000 is a wonderful gift to receive, especially since none of us bothered about Uncle James after Aunty Faith died. So if you're thinking of suing anybody for anything, count me out. The Will mentioned how well you are all doing, much better than I am in fact, so I'm going to take the money and be grateful, as Mr Hobbs suggested we do.'

'Ooooh, aren't you the martyr?' cried Freda. She was flushed with anger, and had been fidgeting in her chair from the beginning. She thought, _How on earth are we going to pay Bernie's debts? The $200,000 would just about clean them up, but it wouldn't leave anything for me. I'm the relative, not Bernie, and I'm going to miss out on the only chance of some good money coming my way. Oh, it's so frustrating._

'We just _must_ sue,' she said aloud vehemently. 'It just isn't fair that strangers should get Uncle's money. As you said, Thomas, _we_ are the blood relations and we must do something to get that money into the right channels. Who's for joining us? For goodness' sake, we are talking about two million dollars here.'

Thomas sat thinking. 'I think it will cost more to sue than we are likely to gain,' he said. 'I think the only one to win will be the lawyers involved here. Margaret is right. I think $200,000 is a good gift. I had expected much more, but then I don't suppose I had a right to do that.'

'What a lot of wimps. Then we'll do it on our own,' shouted Freda, 'and the more for us.' She got up in a cloud of anger and left the coffee shop meeting.

In Essendon, the Wilsons were puzzled. Mr Hobbs had phoned them and asked to attend his office. He'd hinted at some good news.

At Mr Hobbs' office Joy Wilson had burst into tears when told the good news, and was still trying to speak with a wobbly voice.

'Did you say one million dollars? You can't mean this is from Jim Olsen. He was just an ordinary bloke, like us. He was pretty lonely when Faith died, but he was a great neighbour, and certainly we were all very good friends for many years before that happened. We were all so sorry when he became ill. Jim seemed like one of the family--someone who had retired from work and then been so disappointed his wife wasn't around to enjoy it with him, but one million dollars... where on earth did he get that from? There must be a catch to this?'

'No. No catch to this at all. Jim had run a well-paying business before retiring, and owned plenty of lucrative investments as well. Just sign here and here,' he said, indicating on the papers that they had received their copy of the Will etc. 'If there is anything you wish to ask me or do anything for you, just give me a ring.' He smiled at them as he enjoyed their excitement.

Mr Hobbs did receive one call for help. Joy Wilson rang him a few weeks later. She said they had decided to buy a small new car and build a new house. They didn't know of any good builders; she knew Thomas had a building business as Jim had often told them that his nephew was a good builder. Did he think he would build them a house? It seemed the right thing to do, and she was sure his uncle would have been pleased. What did Mr Hobbs think of the idea?

'Capital,' said Mr Hobbs. 'I can guarantee Thomas' work. He built my holiday home, and it was a thorough job. Thomas is a good man, and I think you'll be happy with the result.'

Thomas was delighted. The house took shape, and by the time it was finished they were all good friends. Over this period, Thomas enjoyed many funny and interesting anecdotes about his uncle, and knew the Wilsons were all fond of the old man.

The only person who really missed out big time, was Freda. So greedy was she to have her husband's debts paid by someone else, she did go through the courts. It was a very expensive and fruitless exercise. At the end of it all, the couple owed as much again as they had at the reading of the Will.

Sick of the constant bills piling up, for Bernie hadn't stopped his gambling habit at all, she filed for divorce proceedings--and that, she knew, was going to cost even more.
Voices

22 November 2014

Michael Cooper

Penrith, New South Wales

Australia

Dan was worried when the Flowers spoke to him. First it was the Pots, then the Pans. In the early stages of his treatment, Dan's therapist asked if he was hearing voices and Dan replied that he wasn't. The therapist said, 'In a small number of cases, patients with depression report hearing voices.' If that occurred, the advice was to: 'Listen to them, acknowledge they are there. Let them talk and dismiss them without acting on their advice. Listen again if they return.'

The shrink had said that, if he started hearing voices, a good idea was to give them a capital letter, hence the Flowers, not the flowers. Maybe that advice needed revising because now two Flowers were talking to him.

Dan had used some of his paid leave to move into a new apartment. Sally had left him and he realised that alone, he would never make the payments on the massive house they'd purchased. His cheating wife was too busy with her new partner to worry about trivial things like mortgage payments.

It wasn't that she'd left him for another bloke. Geez, it was a woman. Even in his wildest fantasies, Dan couldn't face the notion that his Sally was getting it on with another woman. The few porn sites where he'd looked, briefly, at girl on girl stuff were enough to convince him that Sally had left on a whim. She wouldn't be doing it with someone of the same sex, surely. He'd always known that Sally was turned on by his lovemaking.

Maybe the combination of age, a smallish paunch and a little thing called mental issues were the tipping points. He'd looked in the mirror and thought, _mental issues --everyone has them_. A tiny obsession here, a little compulsion there, impulsiveness on occasion. At Sally's suggestion, Dan had sought therapy. He was doing it for her as much for himself, and then she'd left him. If Dan was a little unbalanced already, Sally had just pressed the ignition switch on a full blown mental issue--depression.

At first the days of sadness were bearable. He put it down to having a long time partner, then not having a long time partner. As the bills kept coming and the money kept dwindling, Dan found himself in a downward spiral of moroseness that he couldn't break. His therapist had asked him, 'Do you feel lost in a familiar place?'

Dan had to admit that, yes he was lost and, he was lost in places he knew. His job, which was always challenging, became mundane. He'd been named employee of the month for the fourth time in a row and salary bonuses were building. But, the bills were outpacing the salary.

Sally had maxed two credit cards on her way out, and then expected him to pick up the tab. He figured he could default on the debts, but then the banks would be chasing them both.

It was satisfying to know that Sally would be accountable, but in the long run, his credit rating needed protecting. A leading futures trader with dodgy credit scores wasn't a good look and blaming Sally just fed the depression.

He felt lost in his familiar lifestyle. His job was full of social gatherings, drinks after work, lunches with clients. Dan looked at these once enjoyable aspects of his life and work with mounting anxiety; an anxiety that he couldn't fathom and couldn't shake.

Heavy on the self-help techniques, his therapist suggested turning on a mental torch and shining it on the familiar places. This would lighten them up and give everything a comfortable white feel. Dan tried it and found it worked. Trouble was, he had to keep replacing the batteries and that drained his energy.

He upped his gym workouts to five a week, changed his diet, cut back on alcohol and even started eating lunch in the park. Keeping the torch shining was a major effort, and there were many days when he couldn't get even a dull glow.

Dan held onto the lost analogy, used the torch technique, and a 'get up, dress up, show up' mantra when he felt like staying in bed and missing work. Gradually the black shadow began to shorten. Dan likened the depression to a dark shadow that either lengthened or shortened based on how he was feeling.

He used times for the shadow. A short twelve o'clock shadow gave him hope for the day ahead. A three in the afternoon shadow meant things weren't going to travel well.

Competing traders in the cut-throat futures game would exploit greed, hesitation and timidity. Dan was aware that his depression would cause his normally sharp decision making skills to falter.

He devised a number of coping strategies to cover himself and this too, drained his energy. Bed times got earlier and, when he sensed a five pm shadow, sleep was a welcome escape. Then, when he was leaving his new apartment one morning, first one Flower, then a second talked to him.

The Pots didn't hassle him too much. They, like him, were new to the apartment building and were just saying hello. What were their names? Bruce and Dianne--Pots, with one T. The Pans were a friendly Chinese couple from across the hall. Also quite likeable, but hardly ever home because of the restaurant they ran. It was definitely the Flowers who were worrying him. They were blocking his path out of the building and he was already late for work.

'Please Dan,' Cathy Flowers pleaded, 'come and have dinner with us.'

'Yes,' continued husband Jack. 'You know you're always welcome.'

Dan had to admit that dinner with the Flowers was stimulating. Jack entertained guests with stories of his African safaris and Cathy could cook up a storm. Those things weren't issues; the biggest concern given his mental state, was their daughter Sally.

'Don't worry about Sally,' said Cathy. 'She's admitted to us she made a mistake leaving you. Do you happen to know a good therapist?'
Reflections

23 November 2014

Robyn Chaffey

Hazelbrook, New South Wales

Australia

It took me three attempts as interruptions came from all directions...

Did finish though, and loved the stories of your recollections.

Reading your childhood and our lives together as a family... 'with difference',

I could feel the lifting of my mood, through your cheerful reference

To a story I had heard so many times before... from Mum's point of view.

How different, yet still funny, is the tale as I am hearing it from you.

As I read it to the end, I felt the twinkle in my own eye... remembering

There were good times... moments, even days of laughter and of singing.

Suddenly I felt it, in body and in mind... that familiar sadness of my heart.

I could feel the deep darkening of my eyes, and again my heart was torn apart.

Once again I found myself pondering the question, just how experiences

Live in the hearts and minds of those who share them like old splotches;

Changing shape, hue and texture as they blend with age and personality...

And with those happenings unshared, to be remembered always differently.

Well, as you said of yourself, there was a time when _I_ thought to write a book.

I thought it might clarify my own mind even if no-one else should look.

I sat for many hours to contemplate what form this tome should take...

I thought best to make it funny... if for no reason but the reader's sake.

Then thought I, What point is there in writing to mind the reader's feeling?

The fiction then would have no depth... no power for heart and healing.

So then I sat and did begin... then sat again to ponder... and to ponder.

Again began to write a memory or two... in mind began to wander.

In mind I wandered post to post among the muddles of my mind

As hours past, I laughed... I cried... as memories did grind...

Then race... elate... berate... muse... refuse... my swirling mind did almost break!

The waters of life's memories washed hard within, creating in their wake

Confusion so wearisome that I could write no word of sense...

Worth showing to another... yet still... in my defence...

I resurrected in that time the grist for many a good rhyme...

Found food for thought, and stories to keep me writing into time!
The Doppelgänger Doll (Towards Honour)

24 and 25 November 2014

David John Newman

Jacobs Well, Queensland

Australia

Cullered paper arownd the lanterns, made it all look pritty, like a magic littel sitty, as we came on down the drive, the plase looked all alive, thoe we werr amungst the very ferst ones:

Then, many uthers did arrive, in carrijj and cart, that thay mite take part, to sherr in the care, of those ones less fortunate, so, we all brort sumthin to donate, to raze much needed funds.

Both rich and porr, came one and all, twise a yeer, to this plase heer, for this event of good intent, when ladys dressed all elligent, and the gents, cood buy danse cards from them;

and I had saved me small ernins made, for one harf full yeer, to spend it heer, at this site, on this gala nite, that I mite buy, at leest to try, all Tilly-Mays cards, to beet owt uther yung gents.

In me own mind, I dansed a treet, thoe I had not lerned to step to a beet, I immajjinned that I wood be quite addept, so her cumpany with me wood be kept, and she wood be sootibly impressed:

Then I glimpsed Tilly-May breefly, dressed in a bloo gown, like royalty, as she seemed to glide amungst the crowd, and it wos then that I vowed, that she must see me, only at me very best.

Dressed up in me good britches, not the ones with all the mendin stitches, me Mum told me that I looked a dandy, and such complimments are very handy, when settin owt to impress a gerl:

But much to me dismay, I cort the eye, not of Tilly-May, but of Bessy Muldoon, who I wood hav just as soon, had go away, from me to stay, for she had no plase in me immajjined werld.

Bessy, whose blond ringlets werr held in gient ribbons of gold, and in her hands, she clutched an oversized doll, that looked suspishusly like her doppelgänger:

And I cood not wipe off her smile, wich on me wos fixated, throo insolts to her, that I related, for she gave back, as good as she got, and try as i mite, I just cood not extricate meself from her.

'Are you not just a littel bit to old, to still be playin with dolls?' I asked her, sarcasm tried:

'Are you not just a littel bit to old, to still beleev in goblins and trolls?' wos all that she replide:

Now, her werds came at me prides expense, for I did not beleev in such nonsense, but all Dars tales, that I liked to regale, had bort a standin for me, in the communitty, for wich I had reelly tride.

Insolt, followin insolt, did not acheev desired resolts, as Bessy, now held me arm in her obbseshun, to clame me as her own posseshun, for I think that she rarther enjoyed the bad attenshun;

but I wos determund, she wood not beet me, as she smiled, sickly, sweetly, and tride to convinse me, that I wos her boe, but for whot reeson, I do not noe, for the why of it, she had faled to mentshun.

To make matters werse, for me romantic cerse, our mums werr frends, sidin with Bessy, towords me bitter end, and I wos horrifide, that thay had tride, to see such torment befall me;

and me Mum, on me sad beharf, had perchased danse cards, from Bessy Muldoon, to wotch all me dreems cum to rune, that I be oblijed, to put me feelins aside, and danse with the doll carryin Bessy.

Billy, me bruther, two yeers yunger, added to me dillemma, wich I will always remember, as he teesed me, with his tork of sum deplorrabel futcher, that only he cood see

and in the cumpany of sum littel erchins, and by request of therr constant ergins, he continude, unassated, as he glibbly overstated, that wich he sed, wood all cum to be.

I mooved onto the danse florr, tryin to ignorr it all, but Bessy clung onto me,

and Billy, with his littel erchin frends, who had faled to make ammends, stayed in close proximmitty:

And Billy, that buffoon, rubbed solt into me open woonds, as he spoke of grate romanse, but he reckonned as to how, I took a chanse, havvin two gerlfrends now, one the doll, the uther bein Bessy.

Me eyes for Tilly-May, kept on serchin, to the amusement of the littel erchins, as me boddy went throo its orkwood lerchins, and for a wile, I fownd meself wishin that I wos ded

And then, I herd Bessy say, 'I just do not like that Tilly-May! I hav no ideer whot you see in her anyway!' but I told her, 'I cannot see much! No wherr neer enuff, throo yor big hed!'

Now, me embarrassment, thoe it not all went, had sum respite, if only slite, as me Mum,--God bless that one!--got me bruther on the run, that he no-longer teese me

and had that but ended the event, a fine finnarly to me torment, I mite hav, had a hope, to sumhow better cope, but me bad luck run, had only just begun, not reddy yet to leev me.

'Step, one, two, three,--one, two, three, pleese try to follow me?' with me Bessy pleeded, but it just wos not needed, for I did not moov to slow, to the music flow, always gettin in steps four and five

and thoe me steps to the music werr not well kept, I reely did try me very best, and the Lord only noes, how oft I trod upon her toes, but sumhow, thay all mannijjed to servive.

Just as I started to feel morr confiddense, me orkwood lerchins less intense, Bessy suddenly slipped, as a broken heel had her tripped, and both of us, almost landed on the florr:

Thoe I tride so hard to catch her, me speed wos unabel to match hers, as she slipped from me hold, and had she just let go of the doll, she mite not hav taken such a fall.

Down she went, into a heep, wile sumhow mannijjin her doll to keep, as the two became one entitty, in pettycotes lost identitty, with no arms or legs, just two heds, with amazin simmillarritty;

and as I held owt me hand, to help her up, a thin arm seemed to grow owt from the lasey stuff, then as she rose, to becum morr composed, she majjicly reganed her former human clarritty.

'Why do you always carry that doll for anyway?' but Bessy wos not preperred to say, and it did seem to me, to be beneeth her yeers, yet she clung to it, throo joy and teers, never settin it down

And it wos sed, that her doll wos kept, wile she woke, or wile she slept, throo

nite and day, in werk and play, Bessys doppellganger doll, with her, cood always be fownd.

'You wate heer!' she spoke it cleer, 'Wile I go get the heel mended!' and I thort, I trooly ort, that she not be overly offended, but I did not agree with whot came to be, as she left her doll, rite therr with me;

so, therr I stood on the danse florr, plane to see, for one and all, left to hold, Bessys doppelgänger doll, and I had no ideer, it wos not made cleer, for just how long this wos intended to be.

Then, I sor Tilly-May, as she made her skillfull way, throo the larfin dansers, and I reelized that all me prerrs had becum anserred, at the very werst time, to me orfull dred

for her eyes werr fixed upon me, as I stood therr in me misserry, wishin that I cood dissapeer, hopin that she cood not see me cleer, with me fase shinin, like a beekon, all red.

With me luck all left me, pannic now struck me, for I cood see no way owt, and I wos left with no dowt, that Satan had plased upon me a cerse, and I cood immajjin nuthin werse, that cood befall me

Then at larst, it came to parse, that I sor a way to make an exit farst, that I not be forevver carst, in the roll of the boy with the doll, the story to be forever told, to continue hornt me.

Arownd the danse florr, therr werr tabels set, and I new that it wos to therr that I must get, to wherr donatshuns werr put in plase, seemed to be, me larst hope, me savin grase:

Therr wherr charritty items werr to be sold, I came to offer up Bessys doll, and I gess that me thinkin wos off track, havvin felt under attack, but for now, I thort only to save fase.

Tilly-May cort up to me, just as I gave Bessys doll to charritty, then feelin embarrassment, at me preddiccament, I had to think farst of an excuse to explane it

'It wos me bruthers! It came to him, as a pressent from our muther, for wich he is gettin to old, and besides wich, after all, it is a doll, and we need to brake him of such bad habbitt'.

'Poor littel Billy!' sooved Tilly-May, and I gess for him, she felt sorry, but she wos always a lady, who wood nevver imply, that she thort, Billy with a doll, wood be a silly site:

'He will get by withowt his doll!' me lie had to be told, 'For we took it from him a week ago, but you wood hardly noe, and after a few morr sleepless nites, I am shorr, that Billy will be allrite'.

Then, changin the subject, Tilly-May asked me of me favorritt subject, 'I herd it spoken arownd, that you bort yorself a wild black hors?' and she wos askin me abowt Gloo of corse:

'Gloo is not wild!' I sed of the stallyun that had wunse been reviled, 'He just needs sum gentellin, becos, he wos not propper broken-in, but he will make for me, a fine ridin hors'.

'I herd tell of his blud lines,' she told me, 'and he wos bred for the rases, so, cums the time to put him throo his pases, if you like, and think you mite, you may hav him werked on our track;

and if he terns owt to be any good, and I am sertane that he cood, he mite win for you the perses, and raze the vallue of his servise, and me Dar spoke willin to help you with yor black'.

Troof to tell, no such dreems had I held, and her famillys rase hors's had not dun so well, but still the offer wood giv me morr chanse to see her, and I reelly wished to pleese her

so, I agreed with Tilly-May, that came the day, I wood speek with her Dar, of tranin Gloo, for it seemed the thing to do, and to not allow the black hors to rase, mite sumhow be impropper.

Sadly for me, it had to be, that I take me leev of Tilly-May, to hide meself away, for I had not yet werked owt a plan entire, and I new that me sitchuwashun wos still quite dire:

I new that I had dun sumthin so very rong, to giv away that, wich to me, did not belong, and in me, a terribull feelin wos bilt, I gess it wos akin to gilt, and now, I had made meself to be a lier.

I new that if me Mum werr to find owt, the evil thing that I had been abowt, then she wood smack me eer, until it wos stingin hot, all becos, me manners had been forgot

and werse to be, that I cood see, me Mum wood be ashamed of me, for I had not been razed, to becum so crazed, or to act as such, when bad luck struck, and wos delt owt, to becum me lot.

I went owtside, sum time to bide, beneeth the cullered lites along the drive, feelin sick, abowt me thortless trick, for I had dun to Bessy, an evil thing, and evil dus evil bring

and try as I mite, me mind cood not make it seem rite, as it brort vishuns to me, of Bessy cryin, and in troof, therr wos no denyin, that to me, she had dun no harmfull thing.

Then, to meself, it wos desided, that such behavyor in me, cood not be abided, that I must be a man, and not defected, and that me own bad deelins had to be corrected

and it wos then that I sworr, to do no evil evermorr, that I mite stand respected, and be troofull to one and all, (exsept in things consernin Billy, becos that wos just to be expected).

I went back inside, the Lord me gide, that I do rite, therr in his site, so that whot I did, mite be hid, and no-one but him, wood noe of me sin, for wich I wos now all repented:

I arrived at the tabel, with all me munny in hand, and I wos much releeved to see Bessys doll on a stand, not yet sold, troof to be told, at long larst, the Devil had relented.

Tilly-May, came and stood next to me, as I spoke to the lady, who wos sellin for the charritty, and she questyonned me as to why, I wood want to buy, that wich I had meself donated:

And I thort it wos rarther impotent, that she sor me as one of good intent, yet the story that needed to be invented, had to be related, to the one of Billy, wich I had former stated.

'Me por bruther Billy, has been to upset, for it seems as to how, he still needs his dolly yet, for he has been gettin the frites late in the nites, and such bad dreems for him hav occerred;

'and Billy, he has trubbel sleepin, withowt his speshell doll for the keepin, and when he dus--well!--those littel acsidents, thay will occerr!' but me meenin wos just left inferred.

For the story that I now weeved, to continue to be beleeved, therr wos a need, to wunse agane take me leev, of Tilly-May, and get away, that I mite retern the doll to Bessy;

and I hoped that Tilly-May, thort not that I tride to avoyd her, for such may hav annoyed her, and she wos the gerl of me immajjinned werld, for I thort that she wos the only one for me.

Befor I went on me way, I took me chanse to say, 'I want you to noe, Tilly-May, that I wished to buy all yor danse cards this day, and I wood hav been onnerred to hav had you danse the hole nite with me;

but on me unwittin beharf, me Mum bort danse cards, from a frends dorter, that has led me as if to slorter, that I be obbliggated, to be such fated, that I must now danse with Bessy'.

'And Billys selfishness, has had most of me munny spent, but for all me tryin, I just cood not leev me littel bruther cryin, for the want of his dolly to sleep with:

'But me munny is not compleet berreft, for I hav enuff of it left, to buy the larst danse from you, and I speek it troo, no uther gerl for me wood do, for that is me determund wish.'

Tilly-May agreed, to save one danse for me, the larst one of the nite, and that sumhow seemed only rite, for it wood giv me the chanse, to lern me how to danse:

And if I had to danse and hold, both Bessy and the doll, then I wood do so unashamed, for me lesson had been ganed, and I wos reddy to take me chanse, for the grater good of romanse.

Billy, cood no-longer uneese me, if he set abowt to teese me, becos, I had gotten me morr matturitty, throo me own behavyorral obscuritty, wich I had now set abowt to correct

and the Devil cerse me all he mite, I wood be a man of onner, just in spite, for the morr he do unto me, the better man I wood be, so, best he leev me now alone, that I not becum to perfect.

I fownd Bessy Muldoon, and it wos nun to soon, for Bessy had been serchin, so that with her, I cood continue all me danse lerchins, and so that she cood make me morr refined:

This time, as I dansed with her, no insolts from me did occerr, for I wos determund, not to go back to childish speek, that had made me week, becos, I had left that child far behind.

As Bessy dansed with me, me steps came with grater eese, and I beleeved, that she wos well pleesed, for we three had begun, to moov morr as one, Bessy, the doll, and me

and Bessy thanked me, for takin care of her doll, as of its story, she finelly told, and I wos paned, to agane feel shamed, for whot I had so neer corsed to be.

For the doll had been, I lerned, the larst gift, from a father not reterned, from the mines, three yeers back in time, wherr therr had been a cave in, from wich thay cood not save him

and Bessy had carryed the doll sinse that day, nevver puttin it away, as sumhow it kept her Dar neer by, her not reddy yet to say good-bye, for she had feered that she mite forget him.

'I hav nevver left the doll, not with anyone else befor!' she told, 'I gess you think me silly, and a bit of a baby?' but I cood not agree, for therr werr teers in her eyes to see

'Do not derr to wurry abowt it! Becos, you must nevver dowt it,' I sed, me voyse a croke, throo the lump in me throte, 'for I am as pleesed as I can be, that you left it heer with me.'

Then, Billy sidelled up, of teesin me, he had not had enuff, wich he made plane, when he sed,

'I s-see yor dansin with b-both yor gerlfrends agane!' and he did not understand when I replide, 'Yes! And prowd I am!'

and prowd I wos, just becos, havvin neer brort her lifes second trajjitty, I now better sor, the doll carryin Bessy, as I drew one step closer to bein a man.

The larst danse of the nite, cood not hav felt morr rite, for Tilly-May still held me hart strings tite, thoe Bessy now, in me thorts, had also begun to stray

but after the larst danse, it wos Tilly-May on me arm, that pritty gerl of grase and charms, as I led her to the stand, to buy lemmonades, with the larst few coyns that I had mannijjed to save.

Then, Billy came up to the stand, therr to make his own demands, but I had nuthin left to buy him treets, the larst of me spendin, now compleet, so, I bade him, that he wood leev us

but he wos not preperred to go, and he began to put on sumthin of a show, for Billy wos serrtane shorr, that I cood not hav spent it all, so, he wos determund then, to make a fuss.

In Tilly-Mays eer, I wisperred cleer, 'I do not want Billy to noe the cost, for me to buy back his dolly, that he so neer to lost, for that wood just spoyl me charrittabull deed':

Tilly-May looked at me with dismay, that of such, I did not want to say, but she sed that she understood, and reckonned as to how, I wos far to good, for me bruther, who wos to selfish indeed.

Takin an empty glass, this yung lady of such class, porred harf her lemmonade in, then she did the same from mine, for him, so that Billy mite stop actin up:

For a moment, it looked as if, Billy wood continue with his tirade, but then, he exsepted the full glass of lemmonade, so, I gess it wos enuff, to end all his selfish stuff.

'Let's hope that yor nites are better for sleepin and for dreemin, so the better to forget, all abowt that horrid wet.' Tilly-May spoke to Billy, of the story that I had told of him;

Billy did not noe, that he ort to feel paned, for he beleeved, that she spoke to him, of all the days that it had raned, so, he just looked back at her with a grin.

'Heer is to dryer nites mate!' I lifted me glass to him, but I did not relate, the story that I had told Tilly-May, abowt his damp sleepin state, for she still beleeved it yet:

So, not noein whot had been told, abowt his need for a doll, Billy smiled and agreed with Tilly-May, that now, therr wood be far better days, with an end to all the wet.
The New Road

27 November 2014

Kylie Abecca

Port Albany, Western Australia

Australia

When I am near the end,

Of this long and winding road,

I don't want to pretend,

It will lighten up my load,

Instead I want to know,

What else will lie ahead?

Is there somewhere I must go?

Or should I stay and wait instead?

But when this path is over,

The new horizon I will see,

I'll hold a four-leaf clover,

As I find out who I'll be,

My past will never fade,

And my future will be bright,

This decision I have made,

I make with all my might,

No longer will I say,

These things I cannot do,

Tomorrow's a new day,

It's the day of me and you.
Joe's Motel

28 November 2014

David Anderson

Woodford, New South Wales

Australia

WILD Competition Entry

Night time driving on Ocean Road

Headlights caught her in hitching mode

Parked my wheels by the highway side

She smiled at me and took a ride

Destination we both agreed

In our eyes a desperate need

To the lights of Joe's Motel

We parked the car and pushed the bell

Should have known to split the scene

Our dingy room was so unclean

While making out this quick inspection

The mirror was missing her reflection

As I turned she started kissing

I realised there was something missing

I tried to curb my hot desire

But in her eyes burnt an evil fire

Joe's Motel--don't stay tonight

It's just not what it seems

I met the creature of the night

The woman of my dreams

In her arms I felt beguiled

Until our loving turned her wild

Her blood red lips and sharp teeth white

Revealed the peril of her bite

She held me close and whispered

For me to join her kin

I didn't wait there for her strike

I couldn't let her win

As I ran my nightmare fades

I wake in a sweat in bed

But I often drive pass Joe's Motel

She still stands there--unfed.

Joe's Motel--don't stay tonight

It's just not what it seems

I met the creature of the night

The woman of my dreams
The End

29 November 2014

Judy J Newman

Rutherford, New South Wales

Australia

Milli waited, and waited, she watched the sun go down

She watched the moon travel across the sky, and her frozen breath plume, like little clouds

She waited for many days for him to come, but he never did, now she fought a frown

Milli shivered in the cold, watching for something to come out of the shadow's shroud

She curled up in agony, unable to stand, unable to speak, tears flowed down her cheeks

She'd asked him to take her to the doctor, but he had better things, more important things to do

Her neighbours were ten kilometres away, she couldn't walk, she was too weak

Milli stifled a scream, banged the step with her shoe

Three days she waited, days filled with pain, so much pain

Milli knew he would show up drunk, that he'd abuse her for not having a meal ready

She watched as the sun rose, heard the first morning bird, she was in pain, and nearly insane

Milli tried to stand, her head spun, she was unsteady

She slowly shuffled toward the gate, agony seared through her, fire exploded in her head

Milli searched desperately for a car, any car on the road, but there were none

The pain was gone now, as she sat down, and he would find her

Still sitting, up against the gate, her dead eyes staring into the setting sun.
My Little Girl

30 November 2014

Demelza

Taroona, Tasmania

Australia

Surprised

As two red shoes and a matching plastic wallet slide into my view

Startled

As I look up to see a male police officer tackling a teenage girl to the ground

--not rough--just matter of fact

Cautious

As I step sideways to direct my child into our car

Thoughtful

As I observe the scene unfold before me

Amazed

As a female officer accuses her of taking the drugs again

Curious

As the teenage girl insistently denies her accusation with words that hiss and seethe on the ground

Interested

To understand the relationship between the girl and the officer

Confronted

As I realise both driveways for my exit are blocked by police cars

--one conventionally parked

--the other facing oncoming traffic

Indifferent

As another officer offers an apology for my dilemma

Casual

As I respond--I can find another way

Concerned

As my young daughter, strapped, in the back seat declares--I don't like that man

Cold

As I reply--he's just doing his job

Relieved

As the driveway clears and we follow the teenage girl and her entourage back onto the street

Angry

When I see you

And you

And you standing at the bus stop

Laughing

Is this fiasco entertaining?

Are you nervous for your friend?

Are you relieved it is her and not you?

Are you all high?

Why she is the only one in the car?

What power does she have to control the work day of five officers and two government vehicles?

Did she steal?

Yell obscenities?

Or is she your scape goat?

Today's distraction from your indifferent lives?

Confused

I drive

Anxiously

I pray--I pray that this time it would be different for the teenaged girl

That there would be a change in her life

A new beginning

That she would know better friends than you

That she would know a mum and a dad who care

And that if this could not be true that she would know someone else who does care

Like an aunty or a grandma

And if there is no aunty or grandma that somehow, someone who does care would find her

Someone who would believe in her and would know her full potential

Someone who would show her love

And that if you were ever to meet her--you would be the one

The one that would encourage her and inspire her

The one that would tell her she is worthy

The one she would believe

And I pray that these things might not take long to pass

And that I might have a change of heart towards her old friends at the bus stop

Suddenly

I am overwhelmed

I pull over unable to drive though my tears

Stunned

I look to the back to see my five year old kick off her shoes

And shake the play money out of her

Red plastic wallet

Editor's note: The ability to help the reader feel compassion for those we would readily discard as a 'waste of space' is a rare talent. It's easy for older generations to write the younger ones off after a quick glance, but this piece very creatively takes a mother's love and reflects on where it has been missing in someone else's life. Powerful stuff.
A Past Life Revisited

1 December 2014

Andris Heks

Megalong Valley, New South Wales

Australia

Mist enfolds that life. Some of it is completely out of sight. Other aspects are just discernible, but there are patches of blue too, where the sun comes through to illuminate important past events.

Yet the overwhelming image of mist remains. But it is a mist that reeks with emotions: excitement, hopes dashed, hopes fulfilled, loneliness and belonging and then a sudden break.

As if the baby was tossed out of the womb; the first world came to a sudden end accompanied by the mixed emotions of traumatic separation and the excitement of getting borne into something new. First the old world shadowed the new one; I attempted to hold on to its lifeline.

Then it started to fade and seemingly become increasingly irrelevant.

But what happens when you transfer a tree from one soil to another, from one climate to another, or a person from one society to a very different one?

How successful will the transplant be? Will the roots take?

Do I end up with roots intact and growing new shoots too? Or, do I become rootless?

Do I become a successful hybrid, an enriched person or an impoverished outsider both to my old and new worlds? These are the questions facing every migrant.

What is my answer? To find it, I have increasingly felt this year the need to revisit my motherland, fifty years after I left it after having lived the first seventeen years of my life there. To revisit, not just in memory, which I have been doing in writing my autobiography for the last few years, but also in flesh and blood.

But I know that the country I am about to go back to is not the one I left behind. After fifty years probably nearly everything changed. That is why many people urge that if you want to keep the memory of your past intact do not physically return home. Because it will not be a home anymore.

But what if it was not fully a home in the first place?

Am I not like many other migrants who sometimes miss 'the real home, the good old days', that they never really had in reality, confusing their frustrated yearning with the hard truth that they were running away from something. Perhaps they have never really belonged to anywhere?

And what if in any case no one can truly belong to anything in this material world because everything passes and shifts like quick sand?

Yet there is a deeper belonging that transcends this world even though it comes through it.

It keeps us going on, through the ups and downs; the trials and tribulations of life.

It is the remembrance of the true home, the soul; the presence of the eternal, in me, in my terminal being.

Then, there is homecoming: a fleeting moment of sight, sigh and a smile.

I bless that great fellow migrant, the Polish author Joseph Conrad, who sums up this truth eloquently.

He wrote about the aim of art:

'To arrest, for the space of a breath, the hands busy about the work of the earth, and compel men entranced by the sight of distant goals to glance for a moment at the surrounding vision of form and colour, of sunshine and shadows; to make them pause for a look, for a sigh, for a smile--such is the aim, difficult and evanescent, and reserved only for a very few to achieve. But sometimes by the deserving and fortunate, even that task is accomplished. And when it is accomplished--behold!--all the truth of life is there: a moment of vision, a sigh, a smile--and the return to an eternal rest.' (1897)

I come out to the balcony overlooking the glorious Megalong Valley that gradually rises to Kanimbla and beyond to the distant peaks around Jenolan Cave Road towards Hampton. The view is blocked with pea soup thick mist enveloping the entire horizon.

For the first five metres the grass is clearly visible. It is lush green after the heavy rain last night. But by about fifty metres down the acreage, the greenness of the grass gradually fades into the ever more impenetrable mist of silver grey steam. The grass seamlessly joins ghost-like masses rising out of it. They look like dirty grey fleece clouds attached to the land. Actually, they are rows of trees which can only be told apart from the entirely grey view by their blackish-grey hues.

There is this magnificent play between the shifting but ever thickening mist and the shapes that it hides.

For moments, almost the entire space beyond a few metres ahead of me is filled with this pea soup-like steam bath with the trees in it seen as vaguely perceptible darker clouds.

Then when the mist lifts temporarily, the clouds metamorphose back to what they are: trees.

The details of the trees are still invisible; they remain ghost-like.

As if all the tree lines luxuriated in and merged with this thick steam bath, thirstily soaking in the moisture. When they succeed in absorbing more moisture than the replenishment drifting into the valley, the trees become more visible and add a patch of dark green to the predominantly silvery steam that keeps overtaking the entire space in sight.

This has been my home turf for twenty-five years now.

Its milieu could not be more different from the 'Pitt Street'-like busy main road of Budapest, Rákóczi Rd, where I lived the first quarter of my life for nearly eighteen years.

I graduated from overcrowding to empty space.

From the buzz and excitement to utter silence.

From tradition and man-made culture invading you everywhere, to the domination of nature now.

But have I merely swapped one kind of loneliness for another? The lonely crowd for the loneliness of vast space?

What troubles me is the discontinuity of my sense of life.

Sometimes I feel connected with myself and others. Then I lose this connection, it is as if my wireless connection with life dropped out.

From being moved and moving I plunge into experiencing myself as disconnected: a state of anesthetized amnesia.

As if my past life of excitement and my present spacious life cancelled out and numbed me rather than integrated me, as they sometimes do, in a magnificent wholeness.

Trapped, not so much in a feeling, but rather, a state of numbness that is reminiscent of how I felt for a while after I lost my father at the age of seventeen.
Lazy Sunday In Wentworth Falls

2 December 2014

James Craib

Wenworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

It's dangerous to eat at the _Blue Mist Café_! Time slips away unperceptively. The food's always good and the ambiance is delightful. And in between each tasty bite full, there's books to peruse, even though they're used; some a little battered, others merely bruised--though it's hard to choose what to take to read.

There's always a title, often intriguing, humorous, gross or insightful. But who is the rightful keeper of the ideas therein? Not Allan the proprietor--he is a violator of the peace. Later, we must grease his palm at the till; against my will. Enduring his brash charm; alarmed at the hubbub we must escape!

But wait... willingly, we leave a tip for Bonnie who is sweet; has strange eyes, always finds us a seat--booking or not. Back on the street bellies full, back in the flow with no particular place to go. The passers-by daunt me; they saunter past me, eyes opaque--have they come hungry from the lake?

They look at me with mild disdain; condescending smiles, life is a trial for the idle rich! Browsing in the antique bazaar, admiring objects bizarre _including_ the owner! My will is weak; a sleek woman gazes at me from a Norman Lindsay painting--a numbered print to be exact. Now, _she_ had evil eyes.

Lindsay's favourite model--Rose, often painted without clothes, who became his wife and lord knows what else. Deep-set almond eyes in actual fact-- _not evil_ but her gaze was lethal. Often portrayed as nymph though her body muscular, temptress, undressed in lascivious splendour.

She was the 'Crucified Venus' that Lindsay's genius had displayed in Melbourne in 1913. A nubile queen with a look of rapture on her face displaying a pained expression or perhaps... a trace of ecstasy. Lindsay's erstwhile concubine, who in time, managed his affairs, sold his wares and became a printmaker. Perhaps she produced the very print that confronts me now--not in mint condition.

There's a glint of humour there, bare arms, arched spine and arrogant breasts. A demonic twist in the lips and a hint of madness in _those_ eyes. With her rosebud lips and luscious dark hair, it's clear she was the model _par excellence_. Scandalised the wowsers in the twenties, and now delights the browsers on the net and the crowds who flock to the gallery in their plenty.

We wander back to the car... or rather these days, I waddle. My head full of useless twaddle concerning the comings and goings of long departed artists and models. Back past the _Blue Mist_ _Café_ where laughter and latté spills out onto the street. Sweet Bonnie hurries away from an outside table, al fresco. Gives me an enigmatic smile, while, on her way to fetch a customer another cappuccino.

I gaze into the eyes of the Madonna of the Blue Mist, but they are unfathomable. Wistfully, we find the car; we are laden down with more books and other bric-a-brac. We give each other the evil eye. But we'll be back, by and by, at another time for leisurely lunch and glasses of wine. When we'll sally forth down to the village at Wentworth... meanwhile excuse me while I falls over... ZZZ
Family Loyalty

3 and 4 December 2014

Winsome Smith

Lithgow, New South Wales

Australia

Richard and Norm, both in their early twenties, were cousins and had known each other all their lives. Because their mothers were sisters and there was a large extended family, celebrations and family gatherings were held frequently. The two boys, along with other cousins, aunts and uncles, were thrown into proximity on these occasions from an early age and were ordered to enjoy themselves.

They hated the gatherings and hated each other.

As they grew up, Norm's mother, Emma, loved to tell everyone about her son's sporting prowess. Her sister, Lois, Richard's mother, told her kith and kin about her son's good marks at school and his brilliant school reports. Their intense sibling rivalry filtered down to their offspring.

The two cousins indulged in pranks against each other. If Richard happened to be running past him, Norm would manage to stick his leg out, tripping Richard so that he fell face first into his grandmother's convolvulus flowers. Richard, not as imaginative nor as intense as his cousin, only managed one or two mild pranks. Once, when Norm happened to be holding a glass of drink, Richard accidentally nudged Norm's elbow sending the drink cascading down his shirt.

Each suburban house, be it two-bedroom weatherboard, three bedroom brick veneer or four-bedroom cement rendered, had the obligatory backyard barbecue complete with plastic chairs and tables. Here the relatives gathered for anniversaries, christenings, birthdays, and all other celebrations. Here adults told anecdotes, joked and laughed while children alternately whined and giggled.

Because Richard and Norm lived in different suburbs and went to different schools they only encountered each other at these family gatherings, which was fortunate because outright war might have ensued otherwise.

On one occasion when the two cousins were in their early teens Norm devised, what he thought, was a brilliant and hilarious trick.

Food and drink were as usual in copious quantities and Norm found a large glass and filled it with a drink for his cousin. He went around retrieving almost empty glasses and collected their contents.

Into the glass he poured two centimetres of flat beer, topped with two centimetres of red wine. He then added a goodly amount of an unidentified liquid then a splash of orange juice. He topped this with a splash of cold tea (with milk). He dropped into the glass a half-eaten piece of watermelon found on a plate and two half-melted ice-blocks.

He spat into it for extra flavour and presented it, with a smile, to Richard.

Richard took a large swig then spat it out. 'This is awful! What is it?' he exclaimed.

Norm was rolling around on the grass. Between gulps of laughter he said, 'It's slops; all the left-overs out of glasses!'

Richard flung the contents of the glass at Norm. Norm ducked and the drink went all over the cream skirt of a well-dressed aunt sitting nearby. Richard got the blame and his mother had to pay for the dry cleaning.

Richard began to associate the aroma of barbecued sausages and onions with humiliation.

When Norm reached the age of fifteen he left school and got a job with the local council working on the roads. Neither of the cousins were regular attendees at the boring and embarrassing family functions anymore, but when they did attend Norm boasted of his expanding muscles and the fabulous wage he was getting.

Richard stayed on at school determined to go on to university and become a journalist. He could boast of neither muscle nor money and was aware that among all the relatives there was no-one who would be particularly impressed with good exam results. He found it galling when Norm always greeted him with, 'Hi, Schoolboy'.

In time Richard moved into residence at the university and Norm shared a flat with his girlfriend. She was originally Richard's girlfriend but had become attracted to money and she enjoyed sharing Norm's minor fame as a footballer.

More angry than heartbroken, Richard concentrated on his studies and became involved in university life. He belonged to several extracurricular societies, including debating and chess, and edited the student newspaper. Both cousins, if they ever thought about it, would have hoped never to see each other again.

Then there came a day which Richard was to remember forever as The Great Day. A local coffee shop and restaurant was much frequented by his fellow university students. Richard and some of his fellow students had arranged to hold a newspaper editorial meeting in those hospitable surroundings. As he approached he discovered that the footpath was closed and one traffic lane was blocked. There, with four other workers, was Cousin Norm juddering away with the jack hammer.

Richard ignored his cousin and found a way into the coffee shop to join his colleagues. Before ordering coffee, he sat down to think. University had taught him many things, including the students' talent for elaborate pranks and for 'taking the piss'. Always scholarly and conscientious, Richard had not taken part in such doings but nevertheless had listened to stories and anecdotes with great admiration. A plan began to take place in his creative mind.

He picked up his mobile phone but before making a call he informed everyone of his intention. Cleverness must have an audience and they gathered around while he telephoned the local Police Station.

'I wish to report a public disturbance,' he told the policewoman who answered.

He continued, 'There's a gang of workers digging up the road a couple of blocks from the university.'

'So?'

'One lane's completely blocked and traffic can hardly move.'

'So, what are you reporting?' the policewoman asked. 'It doesn't sound like a police matter.'

'They're not really workers,' Richard continued, hardly able to keep the joy from his voice. 'They're university students dressed up as council workers. It's part of a uni prank.'

The policewoman began to sound interested.

'Give me the precise address,' she said.

Richard gave the address then added, 'There's a crowd watching. It's causing quite a disturbance. You'll probably need a couple of cars.'

He clicked off his phone.

Vividly remembering past injustices and humiliations and with the other students silently cheering him on, Richard left the coffee shop and strolled across the road. He signalled Norm who switched off the jack hammer and gave his cousin, Richard, the 'schoolboy', an enquiring look.

'The cops are on their way,' Richard told him.

'Coppers?' Norm repeated. 'Nothin' to do with us. We're just working here, minding our own business.'

'Well, they're not really police.' Richard was full of helpful information. 'They're uni students in hired uniforms. It's all part of a "muck-up" week. I know these blokes; I'm at uni with them.'

Norm looked thoughtful. 'Fair dinkum? On the level?' he asked.

Richard gave him his most honest and open look, he then enthusiastically nodded.

'I'd better tell the others,' Norm said.

Richard said, 'Yeah, they're only students. Give 'em heaps. I mean, don't threaten anyone with a shovel but don't hold back on the language. They can't arrest you.'

Norm, apparently in the sure and certain knowledge that he could handle anything wimpy students could do, stood to his full height and said, 'Bring it on.'

Richard strolled back to the coffee shop, ordered a round of lattes and promised his colleagues some entertainment. He perched on a stool where he and his committee had a clear view through the window.

His triumph was complete when two police cars and a paddy wagon came rumbling down the street.
Wild Thing

5 and 6 December 2014

Jane Russell

Mount Barker, South Australia

Australia

WILD Competition Entry

He was coming for me. I could hear his measured tread, smell the chemicals and whiff of despair and death on his white coat. My time was up but I no longer cared. I sat behind the bars of my cell gazing bleakly at my approaching doom. What was left to live for, after all?

I can remember four summers, so I'm not very old. I knew I'd been a handsome dog because all the girls had told me so. I was tall, strongly built, all muscle and no fat. I favoured my father in looks; he was a longhaired black Labrador, while my mum was a beautiful, black and tan Rottweiler. All of us pups looked like dad, at first. I was the runt. We were allowed to keep our natural tails, unlike mum, and wagged them with great vigour. I was happy there with my family. Then HE came. I'd been puzzling over why some of my brothers and sisters had disappeared over the previous couple of weeks, so when the large man with crooked teeth and colourful designs on his arms came and carried me away I wasn't surprised.

I think I was sad at first, but soon my attention was distracted by my new circumstances. The man, who called me 'Chopper', was very strict with me and yelled a lot and hit me with a stick. I quickly learned not to pee indoors, to sit and to stay and to come when called. I was chained up in the yard at night and when he was out. I knew my job was to protect the house and the man. Every now and then he'd forget to feed me and I'd whine softly until he understood. His rate of learning seemed much slower than mine.

My favourite days were when he took me for walks in the bush, off the leash. I loved the myriad of exciting smells, the variety of doggy messages, which I added to wherever I could. I loved chasing anything that moved in the undergrowth, and the opportunity to run flat out before the inevitable calls to return. Other people who met us seemed afraid, of him or of me, I wasn't sure. My man would talk to me and I'd cock my head from side to side and wag my tail, trying to puzzle out his meaning. On such days he was usually in a good mood. Other dogs that came along would greet me and I'd sniff their bottoms and private parts. Sometimes we would play-wrestle, growl and mouth each other until the dog was dragged away by their horrified person. Other times I'd flirt with the lady dogs and fight with the males. I knew my status and wouldn't take any disrespect. My man seemed amused when I got into fights, and tended my wounds when we got home. He wasn't happy though when I showed my dominance by humping, especially when I humped other male dogs. He'd yell at me and pull me off, and then I'd be in for a beating and no dinner. 'Bloody poofter dog!' he'd call me.

One of those days when I was under punishment--no walk, no dinner--my man was in a foul mood. He'd been downing lots of small bottles of drink and was unsteady on his feet. He shouted abuse at me and picked up a heavy metal bar. Lucky for me I was not yet chained up, or I'd be dead. I dodged the blow and bit him on the leg, then ran towards the back fence. I heard the telltale sound of the thunder stick being primed, and fear lent me wings. I sailed over that fence and kept going. The loud bang and the feel of hot wind zipping by my ear meant that he missed. I headed for the bush and freedom. I'd become a wild thing and would live off the land.

This grand plan was not overly successful. At first I ran and ran, so happy to be free. I chased small things and rolled in smelly stuff, and peed to my heart's content. After a while, though, I began to get hungry. I'd only ever seen food in tins or packets, and there didn't seem to be any just lying around. I sniffed the air, and this led me back towards houses, to people's bins. The sort of food I found was in various stages of decomposition, still edible though. To get to it I'd have to push the bins over and empty their contents. The noise brought out angry men who shouted at me and chased me off. I'd find water in puddles and creeks, and chase small animals thinking to eat them, but they were always faster. I got really hungry. I didn't mind sleeping in the wild, except when it rained, then I was miserable. This 'wild' lark was not what I'd expected.

I was hiding in the undergrowth one day when a couple walked by with their German shepherd. He was not on a leash. He sniffed, then growled at me. I really wasn't in the mood for a fight, so I whimpered in submission. The man saw me and grabbed his dog, dragging him away on a leash. Next thing I knew, the dogcatcher arrived and took me away. I didn't put up any resistance. I was taken to a cement cell and shut in. But I had a bed, I had shelter, I had food and water. I had to pee and poo in the cell, as they didn't let me out, but all in all I saw it as an improvement to starvation, at first. As time went on, I realised I was in a prison. Good dogs impressed the passing people and kids and were released. Bad dogs stayed where they were until the bogeyman took them to their deaths. That was what the other inmates whispered, as we shared our stories each night.

'Old Rusty got it today. I saw the man in white come for him,' asserted the Poodle Luis, two cells up from mine.

'That Husky pup got taken by some people with two kids,' remarked the Lurcher Oldboy, in the cell next door; he sounded envious.

'How long have youse been here?' I asked.

'I've been here through winter,' replied Luis. 'If I don't get chosen soon, I'm a gonner.'

'That's nothing!' scoffed Oldboy. 'I've seen two winters.'

'What are you in for?' I asked.

'Hah!' said Oldboy. 'My man was very old, then one day he fell down and stopped moving. People took him away and took me to this place. I didn't do anything wrong!'

'I kept jumping the fence,' admitted Luis. 'My people got really cross and brought me here and I never saw them again.'

'I bit my man when he tried to kill me,' I said. 'I don't ever want to see him again. I tried running away and living in the wild, but it's not as easy as I thought.'

The next day a lady stopped outside my cell. I came forward cautiously, not wanting to frighten her off. She smelt nice. She let me snuffle and lick her fingers through the bars. She looked a lot like an Afghan hound, with clothes that hung straight and long, and floppy fair hair with a fringe. She bared her teeth at me, but I could tell she was trying to be friendly. She had someone let me out on a leash and she led me around the scrubby grounds. I wagged my tail and obeyed every gentle command I could understand. I did my utmost to please her, and she squatted down and looked me in the eye as she stroked my head, crooning strange words. I was gutted when I was led back to the cell anyway.

Time passed. People kept coming to see the puppies, never even looking at me. Luis and Oldboy succumbed to the bogeyman and I had no-one sensible to talk to anymore. The scatterbrained Silky terrier next door never stopped gushing about inconsequential nonsense.

'Do you know, I used to go to the grooming parlour every week?' she'd say. I was so uninterested I never even asked her name. 'I'd be washed with lots of bubbles then air-dried. Then a lady would brush my beautiful hair and sweep it off my face with a pink bow. She'd file and polish my nails, sometimes even paint them pink as well. I'd get lots of treats and everyone would fuss over me.'

'So how come you're here then?' I asked, despite myself.

'My old lady was taken away by her family and they didn't want me. Can you imagine that? They didn't want me!' she sounded like she was going to cry.

'Cheer up,' I said. 'Just use your winning ways on the next lot of people that come by. I'm sure you'll be adopted in no time.'

'Oh, do you think so?'

I was right. She was. Now I didn't even have her chatter to distract me. And now here he came, the bogeyman, to end my misery. I didn't resist as he dragged me out of the cell. I followed on the leash as we headed towards a building smelling of horror and death. My turn had come at last. He got me to sit up on a raised table while he fussed about with an assortment of instruments.

'Now, Chopper, be a good boy, this won't hurt a bit,' he said. I could understand only my name. I closed my eyes and thought of my mum, when there was a commotion outside. The door burst open and there stood my Afghan lady, shouting 'Stop!' at the man in white. He looked taken aback; I think this was the first time any dog had been given a reprieve. She came forward and flung her arms around my neck and I licked her face. She led me outside where there was an elderly Rottie sitting patiently, also her dog. She watched as we greeted each other and sat side by side.

'Oh, thank goodness I was in time,' she said. 'I told them to hold on to you as I needed to see if you'd get on with old Wilma here. They had no right to condemn you in my absence.' I cocked my head in the face of the usual incomprehensible words. She'd saved me. She was taking me home. I had a friend to keep me company as well as the lady. Forget being wild--this was really living!
Nightfall

7 December 2014

Valerie R Vaughn

Pennsylvania

USA

The taste of the small of your back,

sends me reeling.

Kill me now,

before the wait does me in

for my sins.

Your skin

darkened by the sun's rays

you make me feel so gay.

I pray for

one more touch,

one more day,

eternity.

A request too soon,

like the drenching rains

of several inches of sin

I make you mine,

only mine.

My one and only,

not so lonely

anymore.

Your taste

burns upon my lips

I can still feel you

grinding upon my hips.

Come lay beside me

ride with me

into the nightfall.
Ode To Spring

8 December 2014

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, New South Wales

Australia

Fragrant cherry blossoms burst from winter's deep

Dress elegant weeping trees in pale pink

Bringing spring's rhythms dancing into playing.

Randy rhododendrons gambol in crisp air.

Daffodils rebirth, gaily wave in breeze

Whilst whistling workmen empty bins outside homes.

Celebrate birth time, grateful for gift of life

Fly softly throughout diligent daydreams

Remembering those who gave me these good genes.
City In The Stars

9 December 2014

Graham Sparks

Bathurst, New South Wales

Australia

There was a time when I was green,

about the age of seventeen,

when of a Friday night,

Kerry, Pete, Christine and me

would drive away up in the bush

beyond the lights of Durras,

light the bong and work our way

through a bunch of buddha sticks.

Of all these nights there was a one

that stands out singular.

It started out the same old way,

tequila ,beer and bong,

but once I breathed the amrita

the world was not the same.

With one hand on the seat in front,

the other on the girl

to keep my place in common space,

I set out on a voyage.

At first I found myself a'swimming through an empty void

toward a distant clump of lights,

my actions being from a conscious drive.

But later on when I'd relaxed

I nav'd the currents just by feel.

Aeons later, closer to the light,

I felt the tug of a gravity irresistible,

and swam for my dear life

against the pull of a whirlpool made of stars.

A battle lost,

and after passing through the eye

did come upon a realm

where matter came in clumps of roses,

and space itself was but the scent of them.

Now without a form I moved by thought alone

in a place outside the auspices of meaning

and felt a presence far far off

in a space beyond the scent of roses.

Navving now without a thought

I heard that rushing screaming jet like sound

of a soul beyond the speed of light

and felt all things a'pulling gently at myself.

In the distance far ahead

I saw a blue green golden glint

against a field of hot young stars

and streamed toward it for a moment of eternity.

A city full of light

lay there among the stars

and I was floating in its radiance

deciding what to do!

OH SWEET JESUS how I wished to enter her,

OH SWEET JESUS how I wished to join the light,

but I knew that once I'd passed her portal,

I never could slip back

to that universe of discourse

wherein my hand was anchored to a girl.

FUCK THE UNIVERSE,

FUCK THE WORLD,

and FUCK MY STUPID SELF,

if I am not the dumbest thing

that ever walked on legs!

I did what some would say was sensible,

opened up my eyes and clung fast to the girl.

There must be a job for me to do

within this common world of man,

although I've yet to find it!
Broke

10 December 2014

Michael Cooper

Penrith, New South Wales

Australia

Fran's car finally came to a stop outside the hotel. She looked at the street name and sighed. Of all the places for it to stop. Fran wondered how bankruptcy had crept up and wrapped its tentacles around her. She knew she was broke--the events of the past two days and the stoppage of the car confirmed it.

The real estate business she'd built was slow at first but now was flourishing. Sales were strong; auction clearances were at an all time high and the difference was the two new sales people. Rita and Joe--she'd poached them from another agency. She knew their reputations and had aggressively sought their services. Services that didn't come cheaply.

Almost immediately, sales spiked. New business was coming through the door as quickly as the clearances at the other end. People who weren't ready to sell, or just thinking about it, were convinced that Rita, Joe or both would get them the deal.

Not just any deal. The DEAL. Sellers were ecstatic. Buyers a little less so, but in this market, all a buyer had to do was wait. The downturn would come, but their investments would pick up, then they'd be the lucky sellers.

Fran's business model went through several re-writes based on the numbers Rita and Joe were delivering. Fran's bank beat a path to her door offering larger and larger overdrafts.

Fran ran her agency out of a rural English village and she preferred using a smaller bank to the big players. She felt they had a better feel for her business. The manager at the village bank talked her into better offices and company cars. He offered overdrafts to fund staff bonuses and holiday packages.

It was all too good to be true. Fran was aware of the saying, good times, like bad times, don't last. But for now, the good times were good. She was invincible.

Like a fraying shirt though, one pulled thread could start things unravelling. It began with a missed payment on the overdraft. Her Personal Assistant, Sally had been late back from lunch. Her daughter had been injured at daycare.

The call from the daycare had come during lunch. Could she call in to pick up her daughter? She'd fallen from the chair she was climbing on--she'd been given first aid for a head cut but it would be better if mum could collect her. Sally had used an extra hour to pick up her daughter, and then she'd brought her to the office.

Between scheduling afternoon meetings, liaising with clients, emailing sales quotes and tending to her daughter, Sally missed the 4:00pm deadline for the direct deposit to the bank. The business overdraft meant that weekly payments had to be made. Miss one and there'd be a phone call. Miss two; well, you just didn't miss two.

Sally had missed the second payment by ten minutes. She'd phoned the bank but the manager was in a meeting. Sally had sent the transfer and followed it with an email apologising for the oversight. By the time she'd left the office at 5:30, there had been no response.

Fran, however, had received an automated text message 'inviting' her to a meeting with the bank the following morning. It wasn't good news. The bank was re-thinking the advances they'd made. They were reviewing the overdraft arrangements. Fran knew she couldn't meet the commitment if the bank called in the full amount immediately.

In the end, she'd bought time--two days. There were some sales on the books; she would press Rita and Joe to close them quickly. If each sale went through as planned, Fran would be able to cover the bank's demands. It would wipe out her working capital, but she'd have some breathing space until the next sale. She felt like a gambler sweating on the next big pay off.

She had made good on the first missed payment, telling the bank that it wouldn't happen again. A one-off, you know how it is--business is brisk, I'm turning over mountains of cash each month.

Fran had held them off after the first miss--but then the second happened. They weren't so forgiving this time. Two days, or everything is called in. Fran had done the maths. Without a million dollar sale, her business would be gone when the loans were foreclosed.

Fran read the street name again. The car was sitting where it had stopped. She looked at her phone; there was a missed call from Sally. She probably wanted to apologise--again. Fran dismissed the call message only to have it replaced by the text message icon. It too, was from Sally.

Rita's voice brought Fran back to the present. 'Come on Fran, you've landed on Park Lane. It's my property and I've got a hotel on it. You owe me £1,500.'

'I'm broke,' said Fran.

Rita and Joe both laughed. Rita had invited Fran and Joe to an evening of drinks. She and Joe were so emotionally invested in Fran's business they'd noticed that things were prickly with the bank. Rita had suggested the game of Monopoly. Fran had thought it weirdly ironic.

Fran picked up her playing piece--the racing car. She'd rolled ten and landed on Park Lane. She turned over her remaining title deeds, scooped the cash from the banker's tray and added it to the small wad she already held.

£950. Busted. Gone.

Joe said, 'Cheer up; it's only a game Fran. By the way, Rita and I closed a sale this afternoon. Potential commission of around two million. We didn't want to tell you until it was final. That might hold off the bank, don't you think?'

Fran stared at him, open-mouthed. Two million--that would clear the overdraft and then some. Her phone pinged again--the unread text message from Sally beckoning.

She looked down at the screen:

'The bank has seen sense. They're waiving the penalties. We're in the clear.'

Fran had to know--what sale had her power salespeople just closed? She asked them.

Rita replied, 'We sold your bank--to a consortium of Chinese investors.'
The Whip

11 and 12 December 2014

Adrian Levet

Darlington, Western Australia

Australia

WILD Competition Entry

Another day had passed, the angry red of the middle eastern sunset stretched itself over the horizon, like it was the last one before it lay its troubled head. I found myself here, in Saudi Arabia, nine years ago, accepting a job that sounded exciting, a promising engineering contract in the developing world. The money was flowing through the country like a spring down a mountain, the oil filling the gaps of the greedy mouths of the western world. There was a mass of wealth, but there was still the massive divide, and of course there were going to be teething problems.

I lived in a compound, where the outside contractors were housed, and was told to never venture out of it, especially at night. The compound was surrounded by slums, the guys who would actually do all the work getting paid peanuts, while the guys behind the designs like me would get paid a king's ransom. Naturally, with the poor outside and rich inside, it bred animosity. Most of the things I would notice were small, like leaving my washing inside, because if I left it out on the line, it was always getting stolen. Even my old underwear would get taken, and why something like that would want to be taken is beyond me.

It was another calm night, where the heat and intensity of the sun was gone, and what was left was stars; it was like the bare bones of the universe, and you could only see it when the sun had finished its elaborate charade. I was outside, smoking a cigarette out of a pack I'd bought the day before. They were reds, and they felt strong, but seemed to soothe me after a long day at work. It wasn't long before the noise started again. The cacophony of shouting next door had started already, and it was peculiar timing, because my friend, John Grosen, walked up to the house just as it started. I walked over to the front door from the side, and he greeted me with his usually cheery, 'Ello Mate! How are ya?' and on any other night perhaps he might have stayed that way, but this was a different night.

I blew out a billow of smoke into the night, cigarette in one hand, beer in the other.

'Hi John, I'm good, buddy, how about yourself?'

The noise had gone from a minor distraction to a major din now, the yelling and shouting had increased in volume. It was unfortunate that I lived on the edge of the compound, because otherwise I might have never heard it, and it would truly be 'out of sight, out of mind'.

John leaned on the side of the house, a few metres away. 'I can't fucking take it man. The yelling... it's non-stop, and it's going every time I walk near your house.'

I knew exactly what he was talking about. 'Yeah, I know John. I have to live next to it. Sometimes I turn up the music really loud and I can't hear the guy wading in on his wife...'

He walked up and I gave him one of my cigarettes; he lit up and stood next to me, arms resting on the handrails lining the entrance to the house. We both stood for a short while and looked out towards where the house was, being fairly visible from the high rise where I lived.

'You know, we oughta go over there and teach him a lesson... It's no way to treat a woman...'

I would have loved to, but I knew the laws here, and it would just cause trouble, but for the sake of the conversation, I agreed with him out loud, leaving my reservations in my own mind. 'Yeah, he needs to have a little taste of his own medicine...'

I remembered one night I could hear it, the shouting would begin, then I could hear things smashing in the house, plates or the like, then... the guy would bring out the whip he used for his cattle... I continued my train of thought, not really knowing the can of worms I was opening.

'You know, I've heard him... he brings out the whip he uses on the cattle... he brings it in, and just starts hitting her with it... over and over, and you can hear it, the piercing sound of the whip and the otherworldly screams of his wife... It's bloody heinous...'

He looked over to me, blowing out a puff of his cigarette. 'A whip? Really? That sick bastard... Did you call the Police?'

I looked at him like he was a child, like he was born yesterday. 'John, you really think the Police would ever do anything about it? What a joke...'

There was a good few minutes of silence that followed, and I could tell that the shouting was really getting to John. It got louder and louder, and I saw him suck down his cigarette like a vacuum, his fists clenched in the twilight. I didn't pay it too much mind, I just found myself wondering why Arabic was a language that sounded so angry to western people like me. It seemed to make the yelling more exacerbated, and I thought about why he was yelling at her, perhaps the dinner she cooked was not good enough, or the house wasn't clean enough.

Perhaps it was nothing, and he was just a bad man.

Then, that's when it started. The crashing of plates, or something that sounded like plates, and then the door smashed open, almost flying off its hinges by the sound it made. I heard the man curse, muttering to himself as he left the house. For a little while, there was silence, but then... he went back into the house, whip in hand, and John and I could hear every little sound coming from that tiny squalid of a house. It was then when John just snapped.

'That's it. I'm going over there!' He put his empty beer can on my porch and stamped out his cigarette, reminding me of the angry drunks I would see in the club districts. He looked primed and ready for a fight.

'Wait! John, you can't, it's way too dangerous!'

I was starting to panic. Once John had his mind set, there was no changing it, and God knows this was not a good choice. He just started storming off, the noise of the shrieks that still pierced through all the other sounds of the busy compound, and the noises of the mosques' prayer just after dusk.

'John! Wait!' I put my drink down and did a brisk walk to catch up to him, but he was moving fast. When I finally caught up to him, he was at the barrier, at the edge of the compound, arguing with the guard that sat at his post.

'... can't keep me here! I have my rights!'

'But sir, it is not safe. You should stay in the compound, there are many bad people out there, and I am responsible for your well being...'

'There is a man out there, hitting his wife with the whip he uses for his livestock! Beating her! Why don't _you_ do something?'

'Sir, I must ask you to calm down...'

I felt bad for the guard, as he was just trying to do his job. Suddenly, John hit the man, pulling a right hook, connecting with his face. The man went straight down. In that moment I could do nothing but feel like it was completely my fault. I talked him up and now he was at breaking point. Perhaps if I had tried to diffuse the situation and not stoke the fire, the man would have been okay. John stormed out, moving between the barrier pole and the guard station next to it, and disappeared into the night. I knelt down and tried to help the guard. He was unconscious, but seemed to be still breathing, with no visible trauma. I put him in the recovery position and called for help as loud as I could, the sound of the prayers in the mosques still howling out into the night, their ghostly, lonely sounding voices merging with my shouting. I saw someone running in the distance and decided to leave the man and head after John. I hoped there was still time to stop him before he got himself into even more trouble.

I moved as fast as I could around the outside of the compound, to where my house was on the east side. I heard more shouting as I neared the house, darting in between thin alleyways and the questioning stares of the locals. As I got to the square in the village, the dull light sprayed itself out into the street, the silhouette of John could be seen on the road, the large build of him standing over another shadow, which I assumed was the man. The silhouette depicted a very violent scene, John just pumping his fists over and over into the other shadow. I made my way to the front door, but by that point there were already about seven other villagers standing around the door. I pushed through them, and they started yelling at me. I grabbed John back, and held him. He was screaming at the top of his lungs, and was fighting against my grip. The man lay beaten in the doorway, the broken plates laying beside him, with one bloodied whip loose in his clutches. I looked over and saw the woman cowering in the corner, her burka over her face, but the marks on her back were wet from the blood that had soaked through her clothing.

'John! Come back with me! This is very, very dangerous!'

'Get off me! I'm not done with this piece of garbage yet!'

He struggled against me, and eventually shook me off, pushing me into the door where I fell down. It was then that I saw it. A crowd of people moved into the house, yelling in Arabic I didn't understand, some carrying weapons. I looked over at John, who hadn't noticed them, his view so narrow in his rage,that he continued to beat the man who had been whipping his wife.

'John! Look out!'

The events that occurred next seemed to be in slow motion, when your adrenaline kicks in and time seems controllable for a split second, if only I had any conscious thoughts to act on. All the villagers converged upon him, a few grabbing him, whilst the others, perhaps four or five of them, started hitting him. They blocked out my view, and I could no longer see John. I tried to scream for them to stop, but they wouldn't. Suddenly, I was hit with something from behind, and then there was nothing, just the empty dark of unconsciousness.

When I awoke, the wife of the man with the whip was sitting over me. She was dabbing my head with a watery cloth. My vision blurry, I sat up, and looked for John as soon as I remembered what had happened.

'He is gone. I am sorry. The other men took him away...'

We sat there in silence for a time. I was in shock, and couldn't quite find a reaction to the situation. I thought about the violence I had witnessed, and how it seemed contagious, spreading through the other villagers like wildfire. Eventually, my emotions caught up with the situation, and I began to lose control. The woman sat with me and tried to calm me down. I started crying and couldn't stop. I couldn't believe he was gone. I walked out into the dining area of the house, shuffling like an empty vessel. I looked to see the broken plates littering the floor, blood smeared over the side of the table, pooling on the floor and trailing outside. The whip the only thing that was left untouched, the shape of its multiple tails stretched out like accusing fingers.

I never saw John again.
Tales Told Tall 2 (Elliptical Epilog)

13 and 14 December 2014

MC Alves

New York

USA

'The only people who know where the Edge is are the ones who have gone over it.'

--Hunter S. Thompson

'I just finished fucking your best friend!' the Russian pathologist hissed when Phillip picked up the phone. The three thousand miles between them did not seem nearly far enough, and it certainly did not lessen the shrill tone nor the hatred it conveyed. It was the first he had heard from her since his most recent refusal to return and her vitriolic response, vowing revenge. The fact that he had not actually done anything to her made no difference nor the fact that she had been the one to throw him out. He had refused to return and, in her mind, that was enough justification to unleash her fury upon him. She had never needed much cause to unleash her hatred at the world, if any. That call had been a few weeks ago and this now must be her promised revenge. He imagined she was referring to his buddy the pseudo-psychologist, not quite a 'friend' much less his 'best'. She would need to do better than that. But Phillip was painfully aware of his lack of friends. He certainly could use one.

'Did you hear me?' she screamed. 'I just fucked your best friend!'

'Well, I guess I'll have to send him a "Thank You" note,' Phillip answered. He hung up and left it off the hook.

_Life hurts_ , he mused. _Death holds promise_.

The land north of Oakland, Knight's and Napa Valleys, the road to Mendicino's cliffs, is neither east nor west of Eden. It is Eden. Supple and soft, warm and shimmering to the eye and touch, rather like a virgin's charm and a loving mother's embrace, that golden earth. To be danced merrily upon, given every half-chance. The bears know. Swim the Pacific. Live off the 'fat 'o the land', the grapes and peaches and plums. But, as Sam Clemens was heard saying, since nothing in life has any business being perfect, it can still get quite chilly at night. The evening chill was seeping into Phillip's bones as he sat alone in a long-abandoned railroad station, once some last stop, somewhere. He was not quite sure exactly where. He had been walking the back roads for a few hours after Daniel had yet again thrown him out and had finally stopped to rest a while. He should be able to find his way back without a trail of breadcrumbs but he did not know where he was. He was Here. He would, of course, have to go back to Daniel's eventually, he had nowhere else to go, but he did not want to yet. Daniel would still be drunk and it might take until morning for him to sober up. Until then it was best to stay out of his wildly wanton cross-hairs.

_For a guy who wishes harm on no one_ , he thought, _I sure find myself on the street an awful lot_. Phillip was a good man, or at least not a bad one, although at his young age he had not really had much of a chance to be otherwise, but unlucky in his family and at times unwise in his choice of companions. He had failed to notice the early warning signs of mean-spirited madness in his Russian girlfriend, ex-girlfriend, and his half-brother Daniel had always been bad to the bone and proud of it. Other than those two Phillip had no one. It was during moments such as this one that the sad fact troubled him deeply.

He had done the 'right thing'. He had. He needed to keep reminding himself of that. California Dreaming on a cold night in Napa. The Right Thing. Had he stolen the money Daniel had left for him to, Daniel would have been blamed. Not that his half-brother had ever done anything for him except bully him, torment him as a child and berate him still but Phillip simply could not cross that line. He understood Daniel. He had always felt sympathy for him. He could not shaft him. He had done the Right Thing. He took consolation in that. But alone on a cold night in a ramshackle railroad depot at the end of the line that thought was slim consolation indeed. Had he grabbed the cash and bolted he would have been miserable and ashamed of himself. But he would have been warmer. He would not have had to endure Daniel's subsequent contempt. He would not now be at his mercy with nowhere to go. He would have been gone. But he had done the Right Fucking Thing.

It had been a few weeks since that incident. Daniel was not at all happy about Phillip staying. He allowed him to because Phillip had promised that he would pay him rent as soon as he got a job. But he had yet to find one. That very morning he had been rejected by a trucking company, he had applied for work at all of the local farms and refineries but he was told it was off-season. No hand-truck jockeys, buggy-luggers, barrel bung bangers or prune pickers required. Every time he returned 'home' without success Daniel would berate him. And about twice a week he threw him out. Phillip would sleep under a bush in the yard and Daniel would let him back in the morning. Lassie's understudy. The end result of doing the Right Fucking Thing. Hard to feel noble when sleeping under a bush.

He looked down at his wrist. After months in a fiberglass cast it had become ivory-white and emaciated. Without the damn cast he could now rest his head upon it and so noticed its progress often. It was still weak but becoming firmer, less fragile. Phillip's emotional wherewithal, however, was exactly the opposite. He had always had a somewhat melancholy disposition, always prone to withdrawal and dark meanderings but during the last years he found himself sliding up then down some spiritual scale having spent them with an industrial-strength case of wacked for a lover. Now this.

Since high school Phillip had attracted always the Wacky Wicca Queens and Aquatic Tarts. It can be really cool being a Head instead of run-of-the-mill Jock and having an iconoclastic girl on your arm but he began to wonder why he was found interesting by only the floundering female. Did they see a Kindred Spirit? Was his own flavor of wackness glowing outward? It stops being cool and grows old quick. He tended to be a man who did not do things well in half-measures. When his internal darkness rose it often engulfed him. Suicide had intrigued him early, his thirteenth year, and his first broken heart had been crushing. That was his first recollection of being tempted to off himself. He and Daniel were polar opposites--Daniel lashed out, he lashed in.

He had considered suicide a few times but never came any closer than that. Until today. He came home and Daniel had been cruel, particularly cruel. Or maybe he was just weaker than usual. Daniel and his son were arguing. They often did. The boy was the unhappy result of a one-night-stand in West Texas. His mother had followed Daniel to California, eventually finding out where he was living and brought the boy with her. Such liquored-up liaisons ran in the family, as did the suffering of their offspring. Daniel referred to him as the Fat Bastard. The boy was now seventeen and would show up now and again and ask for money. Of course, a fight always ensued. But the boy was getting braver and more stubborn in his acceptance of the refusal. They had already reached a nasty level of conflict when Phillip got there.

'Fuck you! Fuck YOU! Go ask your whore of a momma, you little shit! Fuck you! Fuck her! Fuck all y'all...'

'No! Not this time. All I need is ten bucks, Dad.'

'Do NOT call me that! Do fucking NOT!'

'Ten lousy bucks...'

'NO!'

'Dad, if you don't give me the money I'm gonna... gonna... go mug some old lady! Yeah. I'm gonna go out there and steal it.'

Daniel looked over at Phillip and said, 'That's my boy!'

Phillip said, 'Chip off the ol' block, alright.'

Mistake. They both turned on him.

Daniel called him worthless, a parasite and said he was tired of feeding him. 'Ask that fuck-face for money,' he told the boy. 'He eats enough of my food!'

Phillip gave the boy five dollars just to end it. He left. Daniel gazed at Phillip with naked hatred. 'Yeah, right, you got money to give to the Fat Bastard but none for me, huh? Asshole!' He threw an empty bottle against the wall. It shattered. 'You always were a coward! You never had any balls. Always a parasite. You never had the guts to go and take it. You're just a fucking loser asshole...' He staggered into his bedroom and slammed the door. Phillip heard him crash to the floor.

Phillip could feel his insides churning. It shocked him. He began to tremble. It felt as if some protective wall around his heart had been breached, quickly crumbling. All was lost.

Daniel always had a gun. Phillip knew where it was. He found the taking of one's own life somehow heroic, courageous, honorable. He had read a story as a boy about the old custom of offering a defeated but honorable enemy the option of killing himself instead of a firing squad. The closed door, alone in a room with a gun. A gentleman's death, romantic. He quietly opened the cupboard where Daniel kept his revolver. He closed the lights and sat on the floor in the moonlight and for perhaps an hour tried to find the courage. Conflicted, tortured, he could not find it within himself to commit the act but neither would the misery release its grip on his soul. Finally, he thought to reach out to someone. Anyone. He picked up the phone and got the Suicide Hotline number. Phillip called the number. Twice. The line was busy. He stashed the gun in his jacket pocket and walked out, all the way here to the last stop on the line.

~~~

The biker bar was called American Trash and there was Molly in the house. And Meth. It was a well-known haven for both. He had been in once before. It was another Last Stop at the end of another line. There were only a few Hogs parked in front when Phillip, tired but no longer shaking, got there. If he ever needed a drink it was tonight. There was a sign on the door which read 'Poetry Night'.

It did not take long for Phillip to score. He had not even finished his first Jack Daniel's when Jethro Pugh lumbered over and sat next to him. He had bought a little meth from the ancient biker once before. Jethro, as he called himself, was a big, old-time Cowboys fan. He wore the Dallas Star on his German Army helmet. There was no amount too small for Jethro to sell which is why Phillip was able to get anything at all. A slick, sleight-of-hand later and, presto, he had a small crystal rock and capsule of Molly. He had to ask Jethro for a loan of a pipe. That cost him another fiver but when he emerged from the dank and thoroughly filthy men's room he was quite comfortably numb. A one-hitter blast and a capsule of pure Ecstasy. Beggar's Banquet. He was sipping the whiskey and weighing in his mind whether the high-powered rush was equal to or greater than that of an orgasm when the first Hell's Angel bard took to the open mike onstage. A lovelorn King Kong? The giant beast of a man cleared his throat, paused for several seconds, closed his eyes and in a soft voice began...

'Concupiscence thwarted, holistic, half-cocked habedasheries of the libido. Helium overdrive. Hard on the pelvis. Try inflatables, I am told, nobody can blow just one... "Otto" ("Airplane"), where for art thou, Otto?.... all is pointless, hopeless, hollow... but yet we hang on, carry on, question everything, believe in little or, better yet, nothing and stand while others fall. Fall from grace, fall from high places, fall for love or something similar, fall upon, fall apart, fall down. Last long enough and you will, rest assured, see and feel all there is for you to. More still. You may outlive family, friends and enemies, mother or child, left behind, older still than you ever expected. Youth means nothing to a universe, memories are scattershot and the folderol of failing eyesight, stored haphazardly in the hope chests of all frail souls. We march on, for fear prevents surrender, and there is not, after all, no one nor nothing to surrender to. Bring your banner, claim your place, defend whatever honor demands of you, hold very loosely to the thread which secures the Gordian Knot. Alone you are. Have no doubt. Surrounded always, kinship and fellowship in every corner, but in the end as in the beginning it is alone you will face time's end. What we do in life may echo in eternity. It may not. Remembered you will be. Even if you have forgotten. YOU will fade to black. Thankfully. Until then?'

The room was silent. There was no applause. But no one threw anything at the poet-warrior. The MC yelled, 'Next!' Phillip left.

Phillip had been sitting at the far edge of the parking lot of the 7-11 for quite some time. He no longer felt cold. Since he had taken to his vigil, three cars had pulled up; the customers went in, came out, drove off. One Chevy and a Chrysler. One Gremlin. The customers all took nearly the same amount time to get whatever they had come for, about four minutes each. Only the guy who got coffee took an extra three minutes. No one had appeared for nearly ten minutes now. It was a little after four in the morning. No cars had passed on the street for over twenty minutes. He could hear the mechanical clicks as the traffic light changed. There was no other sound to be heard. There was one street lamp with a busted bulb, dark. He could see the guy behind the counter resting his head in the crook of his arm on the counter, facing away from the window. _This might be the moment_ , Phillip thought. He took out the pistol, held it in his lap for a while. Phillip's heart was racing. But then, it had been racing all night.

'...whether 'tis nobler to face the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune... or take arms... and thereby...' Phillip put the gun in his jacket pocket and walked slowly, very slowly, across the parking lot toward the store. He could see down the road in both directions for a good distance. There were no headlights on the approaching. Only darkness illuminated by dim streetlamps. The guy behind the counter had not moved. '... whether 'tis nobler... to sleep under a bush... or...' He opened the door and walked toward the counter. He had the gun held firmly in his pocket, finger on the trigger. The man looked up. _The safe must be right behind him_ , Phillip thought. _My salvation lies just beyond a few keystrokes at the register_. All he had to do was...

The old man behind the counter wiped his face and smiled sheepishly at Phillip. 'Woha, 'musta dozed off. Whew... can ah help you mister?'

Phillip looked at the man directly, into his eyes. They were green. Phillip stood very still and looked at the man for some time. Who was this man? Just another stranger. The man smiled at him and waited. Phillip said, 'A pack of Juicy Fruit, please.' He paid for it and walked out.

When he got back to the house Phillip walked softly to Daniel's bedroom. He could hear the snoring. He opened it. Daniel lay on the floor. He took the pistol out of his pocket and aimed at his half-brother. He stood over him in silence. Then he closed the door. He emptied the gun and threw the bullets far into the backyard. Then Phillip went over to his bush, crawled under, and went to sleep.

Editor's note: There are some who would find this depressing, but we felt it was a great character study which speaks volumes about all of us as human beings.
Your Mind And The World

15 December 2014

Tom Coley

Katoomba, New South Wales

Australia

Doctor, Doctor, I'm losing my hair

I had it last night but now it's not there

Someone has cast me a curse diabolical

They've given me lurgy in every last follicle

Sorry if I seem so high histrionic

But I urgently need a restorative tonic

Even dynamic lifter like you put on the lawn,

I'm getting quite desperate now it's all gorn.

The Doctor put his stethoscope between my eyes.

He said 'It's all psychosomatic, you realise.

This saving the world lark is stuffing your head.

You'd better take up Brazilian drumming instead,

Tell the world to go and stuff itself

Relax, have a laugh and regain your health.

With a new shirt you'll look so cool and dapper.

Might as well mate, the world's going to the crapper.

Let's have a quick whisky and drink to the future

The world's going alright, just don't let it root yer

Your own happiness is all down to you

Forget your hair--you'll save on shampoo.'
The Road I Must Not Follow

16 December 2014

Robyn Chaffey

Hazelbrook, New South Wales

Australia

I remember when, as a very small child, my parents asked me that inevitable question! 'What will you be when you grow up?'

'I'll be a truck driver!' I answered enthusiastically.

'Oh! No you won't!' came my father's utterly shocked reply.

I was quite shocked at the vehemence with which he spoke and have often since thought about that exchange. I wasn't sure even then why I said I wanted to be a truck driver. The thought had never occurred to me before. I do remember thinking about how lucky they were to take such long trips, and how brave to sleep out in their cabins along the way. I remember too, very well, how shocked I was at my father's strong response. In truth though, I felt rather amused to have evoked such from him, though I would not have dared to show it.

I was not planning to jump in a big truck and take off tomorrow, after all!

However, I think even in those tender years I had already developed an opposition to my father's stated beliefs about the separation and definition of the roles and purposes of the sexes.

I think he really worried in his macho, 'men were created to lead' kind of way. He didn't like that I already argued so many points of view with him (a trend which I maintained for the remainder of his life, I'm afraid).

He was, in his own way, a religious man. That is to say that he appeared to like that the particular church he attended seemed to support his views: 'a man should be the head of his wife and children; a wife should be obedient; children should be seen and not heard'. Children were meant to believe everything their parents told them and not argue the point and girls, especially, should not have opinions which differed from their fathers.

As I grew up, I remember often being called 'opinionated' as though that was a very undesirable trait for a girl! The word sounded rather like a swear word!

It was the demand for absolute acceptance of his opinions, obedience and adherence to his view of the world that often got me into trouble with him. I did have opinions! What is more, I was inclined to express them as strongly as he expressed his own.

In his mind then, I was 'opinionated'!

I argued with him long and hard, but eventually would always walk away in a huff because his word-power was so much greater than mine. He could argue me into utter confusion. No hope at all did I possess to ever win an argument with him!

I can smile today because he forced me into thinking about words, and I enjoy them so much more today.

I never did become a truck driver but am happy today to see that there are quite a few women doing long trips behind the wheels of big rigs, and the huge machinery used in mining. I am glad they are able to have that choice.

For me, it was never really more than a challenge to my father in my young mind.

I have quietened down somewhat over time and I feel certain that if he could see me today, he would have a grin from ear to ear and think, 'I won that one over!'

However, I know I am still strong in my opinions and beliefs and have lived my life accordingly. I am fervent about the rights of women and children. Along the road I have discovered that I was wrong at times. I have also learned that I could and should not foist my own opinions upon the 'children' I raised to think for themselves... No matter how much I may be concerned about their choices.

Truck driving was for me, much to my father's eternal relief, 'the road not followed'. In actuality, it was the road I never wanted to set foot upon! It has, however, brought me many smiles along the way as I remember my father and his attitudes to life and living. It has also set me on the road to sadness as I remember how hard it was to get close to him without tacit agreement.
Babe! I'm Not Dumb

17 December 2014

David Newman

Jacobs Well, Queensland

Australia

Babe! I'm not dumb and I'm not weak!

See the pain running down now and off my cheek!

When I am placed under attack;

It's just like saline water off a duck's back:

Don't you know then, that men don't cry?

Don't you be deceived by the red of my eyes!

True love--it's better to forget;

to have a hole in the heart, and not the head!

Babe! I'm not dumb and I'm not weak!

So there's no need to think now, before I speak!

What can I say--there's nothing left;

All that we might try has been all done to death!

Here's to all those sweet memories--

May they ever shine, beyond the destinies;

to rise again in times of need;

to comfort our souls and the hearts which do bleed:

Babe! I'm not dumb and I'm not weak!

We both know--this is not the life we did seek:

Chaotic lives--shared by default!

The devil may care--can bring no good result:

Here's to all that we knew so well;

before we descended into this--our hell:

Here's to couples who make it work;

and here's to us--as we now grow from the hurt!
Wildfire

18 December 2014

Katrina Wirth

Rutherford, New South Wales

Australia

WILD Competition Entry

Billowing black curly smoke appearing from the trees,

Engulfing all in its path,

Bright red wild flames licking the leaves.

The horrid smoke makes me wheeze,

I feel as though I am in a steam bath,

Billowing black curly smoke appearing from the trees.

Forced to my knees,

due to the fire's external wrath,

Bright red wild flames licking the leaves.

It amazes me that people go on lighting sprees,

that cause much scath,

Billowing black curly smoke appearing from the trees.

A choking breeze,

How tonight I long for a bubble bath,

Bright red wild flames licking the leaves.

Wildlife burnt to nothing--geeze!

Dark crumbled ashes laying beyond my path,

Billowing black curly smoke appearing from the trees.

Bright red wild flames licking the leaves.
Torn Love

19 December 2014

Kylie Abecca

Port Albany, Western Australia

Australia

The day I met him, he meant nothing to me,

All the things he did, I just didn't want to see,

Many days passed and the tables were turned,

As the trouble I was in, was quickly learned,

My strength forgotten, my pride was torn,

Sorrows had risen, my body was worn,

Nearing the end, holding my last piece of hope,

Entering the room, I wondered if I'd cope,

He seemed like an angel, looking ahead,

And not long after, I was sharing his bed,

The guilt was strong, my fear was great,

Had this rescue maybe come too late?

As time passed, we both shed our skin,

We opened our hearts, and I'd let him in,

Through troubled times our love did grow,

He touched my soul, as his tears would flow,

I tried to warn him, that my body was sick,

And still it hit him with a thunderous kick,

Many years later, our lives were entwined,

When I was ill, he was ever so kind,

Where did it go? Had our love disappeared?

The day he walked out, my heart had been speared,

It tore me in two, he wouldn't look in my eyes,

Why did he keep telling me all of these lies?

What had I done, was it really this bad?

Did everything in life, have to make me so sad?

Would he ever come back? Would he find in his heart?

The love that we had, way back at the start,

As I sit here alone, counting the days,

I find myself wanting him, in so many ways,

I'm scared to move on, from fear of forgetting,

I sit and think, what a joke my life's getting,

If this is the end, I really don't know,

Whereabouts my tortured soul will go,

If anyone asks, where the real me is hidden,

I'll tell them I'm lost, 'til the day I'm forgiven,

There is only one person, that ever will see,

What really is hiding, inside the real me,

Forever his name will be etched in my heart,

And from the name 'Callum', I never will part.
The Old House

20 and 21 December 2014

David Anderson

Woodford, New South Wales

Australia

Driving past his childhood home, Barry Cummings couldn't believe that for the first time in years a sign was posted in the front yard that the house was for sale. The last few months had been hard for Barry due to his divorce and resultant loss of his job, due to depression affecting his performance. Turning the car around he parked outside the cottage and jotted down the estate agent's name and made his way to their office. Walking in the front door, he was pleasantly surprised to see that an old school classmate, Heather Duncan, was the receptionist. Barry had always been sweet on Heather but was always too shy to talk to her. She gave a wide smile, recognising Barry as he walked in the door.

'Barry. Nice to see you. I haven't seen you for quite awhile.'

'Likewise. How have you been?'

'Good, no problems at all, just enjoying life with hubby and the kids. What about you?'

Barry feigned the full truth. 'Oh, I can't complain. I broke up with Lynne awhile back and just now I've left my job for something better.'

'I heard about you and Lynne--I'm so sorry.'

Barry shrugged his shoulders and smiled. 'Well I'm sure it will all work out in the end.'

Heather smiled sympathetically and Barry felt a twinge of longing he hadn't felt for Heather since school. Heather broke his reverie. 'Well how can I help you? Are you looking to rent or buy?'

'Maybe buying actually. I've got my share of the old family house and a pretty worthwhile redundancy package. I noticed my old home on Leichhardt Street is up for sale.'

'That would be number thirteen wouldn't it? The little weatherboard cottage.'

The word 'thirteen' stroked Barry's memory for a moment, but he couldn't work out why. 'That's the one. I still remember you lived two doors up in number eleven.'

'I sure did. I don't remember we had much contact though. We didn't even speak much waiting for the bus.'

Barry blushed. 'I know. I was a shy one with the girls for sure.'

Heather smiled and Barry felt the old shiver of his bus stop days. 'I think I remember thinking you were very cute, but as you didn't speak to me. I thought you were a bit stand offish, and certainly not interested in me, and maybe you had a girlfriend.'

Barry blurted out a reply and realised he'd overplayed it. 'No, of course not. I thought you were gorgeous. I guess I was a fairly introverted kid, maybe because I was an only child.'

Old times discussed, Heather and Barry moved to the business at hand. As the home was very old, Heather had made some inquiries of the previous owners.

'I found out that the house was originally built by a travelling magician who used it for rest between his engagements. He finally became a recluse there and went mad, and they eventually had a hard time taking him away from the house. He said his doll had tried to poison him. They were trying to drag him out the front door when he collapsed and died. Did you know anything about this?'

Barry shuddered at this information, as it may have explained some eerie events that occurred to him in the night as a child; events that his parents considered were probably due to Barry's vivid imagination.

'No I didn't know that, but it somehow explains a few things.'

They both laughed and spoke about the old school for a few minutes: their classmates and teachers. Heather told Barry she couldn't leave the office unattended, and gladly gave Barry the key to his old house, so he could have a private inspection.

~~~

Standing at the front door he turned around to survey the yard and vista towards the hill in the distance. He remembered that every year near Christmas a little carnival would roll into town, and from his bedroom at the front of the cottage he would gaze up at the sparkling coloured lights and the glittering, slowly turning Ferris wheel. On Friday evenings at that time, his parents would take him up to see the carnival, and for a moment he imagined he could still feel the excitement of his cocked head peering down the barrel of a pea rifle, attempting to knock over the metal bunny rabbits, or trying his luck at the smiling clowns, their scary painted faces twisting from side to side, as you popped ping pong balls into their mouth and hoped they landed on the winning numbers. He smiled as he remembered the night he was lucky with the drop of the balls, and won a magic set. The shouts of the spruikers still rang in his ears.

'Come on everybody. Have a go--only sixpence a pop. Everyone's a winner!'

Barry imagined the smell of the fairy floss, and the way it tickled his nose like strawberry smelling pink cotton balls. Remembering the fun of riding a pony on the merry-go-round, he imagined the organ playing--the spinning feel of the ride--the children laughing, when a sudden chill came over him as he remembered how scared he was of the little sinister mannequins who clapped cymbals, or hit a drum as their creepy heads turned, while they appeared to leer at him with their frightening smiles.

The organ stopped playing and Barry's daydream faded. He looked down the front stairs leading to the entrance path, and remembered the first memory of his life, when a taxi cab driver helped his father up the steps to the verandah with their luggage when Barry was three years old. Turning to open the door, something he'd forgotten since his family left the house when he was thirteen, flashed into his mind. He'd been crying that last night in the house, as he didn't want to leave his childhood home, and had made a pledge to the house itself. Unfortunately for the moment he couldn't remember what that vow was.

Barry entered the hallway to see that the house was being sold sparsely furnished, and was surprised to see the old hallstand of his youth still in the same place. Moving into the kitchen brought back memories of his father lighting the fuel cooking stove, and of how they would sit around it listening to the old radio programmes--like _Dad and Dave, Inner Sanctum,_ and _Nightbeat_ , and drinking hot malted milk with arrowroot biscuits before bed. The kitchen seemed so small now, but Barry was surprised and grateful that the oven was still in pride of place, obviously now just an antique curiosity. Opening the oven door he felt he could still smell the roast lamb dinners and fluffy scones his mother used to bake on Sundays for lunch.

Beside the kitchen was the entrance to his old bedroom, and it was here that Barry's breath was taken aback. This room appeared to him as so much smaller than before, and Barry couldn't imagine it was the same place. Above where his bed used to stand was the manhole that he was so scared of. After arriving home from a creepy movie at the local picture theatre, _The Savoy_ , he had often expected an unspeakable monster to slide back the cover and descend from it when he was asleep; a beast who would pull him up into its lair and tear off his flesh for its dinner.

A single bed still stood in the same place, and Barry decided to have a rest and let the memories flow. Laying down and thinking of all the years he had spent in this room as a child, Barry lay on his side, staring at the wall, trying to make out the shape of a dog's head in the marks and indentations, just as he did all those years ago. This realisation opened up a flood of lost memories and Barry suddenly remembered the pledge he made to the house the night before he left for his new home. Rising from the bed, he counted up from the floor the number of wooden panels until he reached the thirteenth panel from the ground and recited the vow. This time, though, he didn't have the little wand he remembered he'd held in his hand on that final night in the house.

'I'll come back one day and buy you from the owners. I promise with all my heart. I promise. You'll know it's me because I will touch this part of the wall and recite my promise to you. _Abracadoo-Kadah_!'

Barry was surprised he remembered the little magic incantation he had made up on the spot all those years ago, as he waved an invisible wand across the wall. He'd often heard the chant spoken; softly materialising through the manhole in his dreams. The chills that flowed down his back that night as he remembered how the allotted wooden lining board appeared to glow for a moment, while a distant sinister chuckle emanated from the manhole above him, still held Barry in awe.

He stood for a moment, and touched the wall, tears welling in his eyes, when presently he broke down completely and fell onto the bed crying, until he fell into a deep sleep.

Barry had a dream that would trouble him a few times a year ever since he had left the house. He was trying to crawl along the hallway of the house to the safety of his parents in the kitchen, who, to Barry's dismay, didn't acknowledge his screams. He would reach the entrance to the kitchen yelling out for help, but his mother just sat knitting silently while his father stoked coal into the little oven; oblivious to Barry's ordeal. Then the fiend would drag him back down the hallway. Someone, or _something_ , would have hold of his legs. Something with strong hands and sharp nails, that inflicted immense pain as it tore the flesh from his calves; as if it was trying to pull him backwards through the front door into a place that Barry knew could possibly be Hell. As always Barry woke up sweating, his heart racing, while his body shook in terror. Finally he relaxed and lay looking at the wall, again searching for the marks and scratches that, to him, took the shape of a dog. Finally it appeared to him, and he could make out the shape of a Scots Terrier.

Somehow the wall seemed clearer than before, yet he'd placed his glasses on the dressing table before he lay down. Sitting up he was surprised that they were no longer there, and in their place were other items. How could it be that without his glasses his vision was so lucid? Rising from the bed he saw that the wall was covered in magazine cut outs of famous people, such as Buddy Holly and James Dean. A poster of the muscle man Steve Reeves and one also of Brigitte Bardot were displayed. He walked to the table by the wall and looked down at a model of a Ferris wheel made from a Meccano Set--a Phantom comic, and a bag of marbles. On a cork board was a half finished balsa wood model of a Spitfire aeroplane. He could smell the opened bottle of banana oil that he used to tighten the model's wings, drifting in the air. Barry was confused as these were his possessions all those years ago in this house--in this very room. He picked up a 45rpm record by Col Joye, with his own signature of ownership scrawled on the cover, and tried to understand what was going on. A voice behind him spoke, causing him to flinch.

'I promised that motor for your Meccano Ferris wheel you made. I'll pick it up this afternoon. Good luck in the sports carnival, Son.'

Barry whirled around to see his father standing at the doorway. He smiled and walked out. Turning full circle to the dressing table, Barry stared at himself in the mirror.

Barry was again thirteen years old--complete with pimples and Vaseline slicked bodgie hairstyle; his skinny frame and bony shoulders jutting against his striped t-shirt. Thoughts spun in his mind as to what had just happened, and could it be a dream, or would it be permanent? If he was now thirteen and back forty years, would he be able to tell people what world events would occur, or, Barry laughed at this, make money from winning on the Melbourne Cup? The things he knew would make life so rich and marvellous for a young boy. The Beatles? He'd learn guitar now and get in on the act before anyone else. Girls? Look out women--here comes Barry!

'Barry! Come on, breakfast is on the table. The bus will be here soon, and you'll be late for school if you don't hurry up.'

Barry's mother appeared at the door. God, she was so beautiful, and young and healthy; not like when he saw her in hospital a few weeks before she died last year of... a few weeks before...

Barry stood for a moment, his mind suddenly blank, and wondered why he thought a wooden panel on the wall beside his bed glowed briefly; or did he just imagine it? A fleeting chuckle floated on the ceiling above him. All memory of his future life leaked out of his brain like air out of an untied balloon, and all he knew was that he'd better hurry or he'd miss breakfast, and the bus. He knew he had no hope of beating Lloyd Parrington in the 100 yard run--but he would do his best. He definitely was looking forward to seeing that cute little Heather at the bus stop, and for some reason, something told Barry that this was the day he would pluck up his courage and finally talk to her. If he did, who knows? It might change his life forever.
Wilderness

22 December 2014

Judy J Newman

Rutherford, New South Wales

Australia

WILD Competition Entry

I see you there, in the wilderness, trudging through the bracken, kicking up the dust

Many years, spent alone, have not been kind to you, or your mind

I wonder what made you flee to the wilderness, what broke your trust?

There you are, alone, talking to the elvins, carrying a bucket of black rust

I have watched you, these many years, but approach you, I dare not

For I have lived here too, amongst the bracken, swallowed the red dust

I have lived here, and lain in the mighty river, that all the world forgot

I have heard the cicadas, and the growling of that with no name, which lives beneath the dust

So I watch you, from afar, I do not come too near, for I have a great fear

All I am, tells me I may not draw too closely, I may not utter a warning

So, as always, I watch you, I follow in your stride, never drawing near

I shall follow, as I always do, for this I must, and see only myself, in the day's early dawning
Brazil 1700 Local Time, 1400 Germany Time

23 December 2014

Demelza

Taroona, Tasmania

Australia

WILD Competition Entry

Brazil 1700 Local Time, 1400 Germany Time

And the crowd went wild!
Smoking Or Non-Smoking?

23 December 2014

Demelza

Taroona, Tasmania

Australia

Smoking or non-smoking?

Non-smoking thank you

Christian or non-Christian?

Christian thankyou

Religious or spiritual?

Hold on I'm not sure I know what you mean--what's religious?

Religious is with form and done everyday

Like brushing your teeth?

Yeah, like brushing your teeth

I do that every day--it stops decay

Well decay grows pretty much the same way as sin--so I'll put you down as religious

Alright then, but what's spiritual?

Spiritual is free of decay--no one can blame you for anything

Oh--like our politicians--they must be very spiritual

Well I am sure some are but not all of them--the main one is definitely biological not spiritual

I think you mean physical?

Nope--I definitely mean biological

How so?

TOE--KNEE--ABdomen--BOTTom

Oh I see

He's proof that the majority of Australians are liars

No--you've definitely got that one around the wrong way

No I haven't

Ah... yes you have

No I haven't

Okay--how so?

Well so far I haven't found one member of the public who says they voted for him

Well I guess there is none without decay

You are right--we have all flossed and fallen short of basin

Perhaps I should take up smoking?

No--no you can't

Why not?

'Cause I've already ticked the other box!
Catastrophe

24 and 25 December 2014

Shirley Burgess

Rosebud, Victoria

Australia

WILD Competition Entry

The first inkling of trouble came from his sister, Janet.

Paul had been watching his only child, his beloved ten-year-old daughter, Wendy, enjoying the swing he had just built for her. Her dark brown hair had been blowing in the breeze, and he'd again commented that although he had red hair, and Anne, his wife, was blonde, Wendy had decided to be distinctive and produce miles of glossy dark hair.

Janet looked at him silently. There was an odd look on her face, and he picked the expression up straight away.

'What?' he asked.

After a long pause she said, 'Why don't you check her DNA?'

Paul thought it was a joke and laughed, but Janet wasn't laughing.

'You're serious... now come on!'

Janet thought she might as well do the job properly. 'Paul, I'm dead serious and I think it's about time you knew. Remember years ago when you went to America to do that special course? At the time Anne was very busy on the football committee organising a visit from an overseas Ruby team--remember? Well, there were rumours that she took the job of hospitality too seriously with one player in particular.'

He felt as though a bolt of lightning had struck him. 'I'm not going to listen to any more of this rubbish, Jan. No more, do you hear? I'm aghast you should even think such a thing.'

'Suit yourself, Paul,' and she sauntered off into the house where Anne was preparing Sunday tea for them.

Now seriously distressed, Paul looked at Wendy and her beautiful hair again, and realised his mind was in turmoil. He was very close to his sister, and she'd been so concerned. 'Rumours' she'd said.

They were all called in to tea, and he tried to dismiss the horrible thoughts as nonsense. He tried to sound normal when joining in the conversation, but found his mind kept wandering. Every time he looked at Janet she was looking at her plate.

He had a sleepless night and remembered. Yes, he'd been absent for several weeks in New York, then Los Angeles. He'd been sent to attend a set of special lectures on the latest technology in detection being used in the US, and that had been followed up by two weeks in Sydney, where similar lectures were arranged to pass on what he'd learnt. Quite a feather in his cap at the time.

He'd missed Anne so much and knew she'd missed him too, for, at her suggestion she met him in Sydney on the day he returned, staying with him over several days while he completed the Australian lectures. Then they'd travelled home together to Melbourne. Thinking about it, he realised there could have been an ulterior motive. As fast as he thought of each new clue, he would try and counter it, but in the end he was left with serious doubts.

In the morning Paul was glad to get up and do normal things. Wendy came bouncing out shortly after, climbed on his knee, and he kissed her on the cheek, as she expected. They both had breakfast together with Wendy chattering away to him and he gave her a kiss goodbye when he was ready to leave for work, taking his awful thoughts with him.

It was no better at the office. He was a Detective Sergeant in an elite section of the police force, and here he was facing a situation like one of his own casebook studies. With a heavy heart he went downstairs to the DNA department where his good friend, Bob, worked. There was no-one else there, so Paul blurted out his request.

'I might lose my job if I did a private request Paul.'

'I realise that.'

'Whose DNA is it?'

'Wendy's.' There was a shocked silence. 'Here is the spoon she used with her breakfast this morning, Bob. I don't want to do this either, you know, but--can you help me?'

'I'll put the results in a sealed envelope in your pigeonhole. There'll be no record of it here.'

'Understood. Thanks Bob.'

Later that day there was the envelope. He put it on his desk, propped up against a book. _If I don't open it I still have a daughter_ , he thought. _If I do open it and there's bad news, I don't_. It sat there for five minutes, all the time he could stand looking at it, and then he tore open the envelope.

Tears welled up, and an uncontrollable lump formed in his throat. A kaleidoscope of pictures came unbidden to his mind. They vividly showed Wendy, the child he'd thought was his daughter, laughing and happy, and he sat there with an aching heart.

'I'm going out for a while,' he said to his secretary. Driving home he found his original emotion had now turned into blind fury for the betrayer. Surprised at seeing the car, Anne watched him take the front steps two at a time and noticed the thunderous look on his face. He burst into the house.

'Here's something that might take your interest,' he shouted, throwing down the DNA report with a wild gesture. She had to read it twice before she understood.

'How dare you go ahead and take a DNA sample of Wendy without my consent,' she screamed. And so the yelling match and name-calling went on for some time, until each was exhausted. She would not admit who the father was, although Janet had already told him.

Paul packed up his clothes, and gathered all the personal things he knew he must have, then left the house, flinging over his shoulder, 'I'm off to file divorce papers immediately.'

'What am I supposed to tell Wendy?'

'How about telling her the truth?'

The divorce went ahead with speed and Anne was happy to keep it low key. Much to his surprise, she even agreed to his solicitor's insistence that a large amount of certain monies be returned to him. He guessed this agreement would have been motivated by a desire to avoid a contested public court hearing.

Paul moved to the other side of the city, and after the divorce tried to recover from the horror of it all. Being immersed in work seemed to help, but there was a raw hole in his thinking where his beloved daughter had previously been.

Eight years passed, and one Saturday afternoon there was a knock on his door. A slender, attractive brunette stood on his doorstep. As soon as he opened the door she burst into tears with a 'Hello Dad'.

'My God,' was all he could muster. 'Come in.'

She explained that she'd only found out the truth recently about her father's sudden disappearance from her life.

'Who told you--it wouldn't have been your mother?'

'No, I finally decided to call on Aunty Jan. She filled me in,' and the tears started to flow again. 'I never believed anything my mother said about you, Dad--ever.'

'You can't call me Dad, you know, because I'm no relation, Wendy.'

'My stepfather is no relation, and I'm supposed to call _him_ Dad. You are no relation? Well, I hate him and I love you. I've never forgotten all those funny games we used to play. Do you remember when I used to try and pull your socks off and you'd try and stop me? You weren't allowed to use your hands--it was so funny. I'd always win, but it would take ages and I was laughing all the time. I remember when I was sick in hospital with whooping cough. You were there every day, and one time when I had a bad attack of coughing, you picked me up and cried. Remember when we went shopping in Coles? It was an adventure. What about our terrific holidays? I'd like to say thank you for all those wonderful times.'

At this point they both had tears running down their faces, and she moved over to bury her head in his shoulder, just like she used to do when she was a little girl.

She stepped back, dabbing her eyes. 'I've come to ask a favour,' she said.

Paul blew his nose into his hanky and asked what it was.

'At uni. We're having a party. Were supposed to bring one person--our favourite person it has to be. I want to take you as my partner--would you come?'

She filled him in on the simple function it would be, where it was, who would be there, and what would be expected of everyone, and after much talk and a great deal of coaxing, he agreed, albeit with caution.

'I'm going to introduce you as my father, and I'll be calling you Dad,' she warned.

'But you can't...' he began. Then, after a short pause: 'Okay, you win.'

The encounter left him with sleepless nights again, thinking alternately of his pride in the beautiful young woman Wendy had become, and the feeling of dread about attending the forthcoming dinner, because every time he looked at her he felt he might shed tears. That was one place he couldn't do that.

The function turned out to be a success, with lots of laughter and fun, and Wendy presented him to her new boyfriend, looking at Paul proudly when she introduced him as 'my Dad'.

They shook hands, and Paul looked at the young man's face. He rarely forgot a face. 'Nice to meet you,' Paul said politely.

Afterwards, when driving his daughter back to her flat, she asked him shyly what he thought of her young man. 'Mum doesn't like him, but I think he's pretty cool,' she laughed.

'Wendy, how long have you been friendly with him?'

'I've only been out on two dates with him. Why, what's wrong? What do you know about him Dad?'

Her new boyfriend, he told her, was the son of a family of wealth. 'We know it was acquired by drugs sales, yet we're not able to prove it in court. What we also know is, that this lad has been indulged from birth, and is known to have a dangerously short fuse. Last year he narrowly escaped from a charge of trying to strangle his live-in partner. He's had three appearances in court for violent behaviour, but of course there are family contacts and clever lawyers to call on, and he's managed an acquittal every time.' He paused. 'It's the violence to his partner I'm most worried about.'

At first she was indignant. 'You're just trying to get back at me...' but he stopped her mid-sentence. He gathered her hands in his and looked straight into her eyes.

'No Wendy. I'm speaking to you as your old Dad now. Just try and ease out of this attachment, right now. Say you're not ready for anything other than studies at the moment. Don't go to his family home, and don't go out on any more dates alone. Let him know you're not ready for anything serious at all. He'll cajole, but be very firm. No argument at all. I mean it sincerely, Wendy.'

'All right Dad, I'll take your advice.'

'It's the least I can do for you.'

At their regular coffee meeting, after the usual 'Hi Paul and Wendy' from the owner, Wendy reported that she'd wangled herself out of the liaison more easily than she thought. 'He already had his eye on someone more glamorous than I,' she said rocking forward with laughter, and a relieved Paul ordered congratulatory champagne for them both.

One day Wendy brought along someone quite different to meet Paul. They were both ecstatically happy, and, to Paul's delight, were married a year later. When their firstborn, a son, arrived she named him Paul Gary, his names, and she didn't care a pin that it upset her mother so much.
Marbles

26 December 2014

Lyn Williams

Mount Barker, South Australia

Australia

*** Winner ***

WILD Competition

Thought I'd lost me temper, me voice and me marbles all in one day, I did. Dratted kid. Caught him in 'ere before. 'e gets me so wild! Can't leave a single door unlocked 'cos of 'im. The lectures I give jus' go in one ear an' out the other.

This day, 'e musta' snuck in while I was down the back plantin' vegies, cos I come in to see 'im sitting in the doorway of the room next to me kitchen firing marbles at that 'ole that goes through the skirtin' board into the wall. One o' me old petticoats was draped around 'is shoulders, an' me cupboard o' keepsakes 'ad bin ransacked. Photos of me ma an' pa lay on the floor along with the Italian scarf an' the silver icon an' so much other stuff... an' my floors ain't always clean--not like those fussy ones you c'n eat your dinner off.

An' the little bugger 'ad me marbles.

I yelled so loud me voice went. 'e leapt up like a startled rabbit, but got all tangled in the petticoat an' fell over, so I pounced an' 'auled 'im up by the ear an' dragged 'im over to the 'ole.

'Right!' I 'issed, 'Put yer arm in there an' get me marbles.'

'is face screwed up an' 'e went red--until 'e saw me expression. Then 'e turned white as a sheet. 'e shoved 'is arm into the 'ole an' yelped, for it 'ad grabbed 'im an' yanked 'im so 'ard that 'e'd slammed up against the wall an' got stuck.

'-elp!' he screamed.

I still 'ad 'is ear. I twisted it. No-one, but no-one touches me marbles unless I says so an' 'e'd shot 'em all into the 'ole: the 'ole that sucks up anything--an' I mean anything! Not even the dust that blows into the room gets away from that 'ole.

An' me marbles is precious. They bring memories o' me old school days. Beat the boys, I did, with the green tom bowler an' the rainbow swirly ones. An' the little milky ones: didn' much like their colours; but 'ell! I coulda knocked angels off a pin-head, they were so dead accurate.

An' that scoundrel'd shot 'em all down the 'ole! I 'ardened me 'eart to 'is wails an' twisted 'is ear further.

'You c'n stop yer squalling,' I spat. 'That there 'ole's magic, an' it's gonna take a mighty effort to get you out. Or should I just leave you--let the 'ole 'ave you? Let it stretch you out bit by little bitty bit 'til yer like a long, squashy sausage, then "slurp!" an' you're all gone!'

Gawd! You shoulda 'eard 'im! 'e thrashed aroun' an' belted the wall. Made such a din, I almost lost me earing.

'Alright, alright! I'll 'elp you out; but only when you promise to stay away an' leave me an' me things alone. D' ya hear?'

'e nodded.

'D' ya promise?'

'e nodded again.

I couldn' stand the tears an' snot on 'is dirty face. 'Say it!' I crackled, me voice poppin' in and out.

'e nearly choked on the words, but 'e promised an', with 'im pushin' an me with me arms around 'is waist heavin', we pulled 'im out. Course, we both fell back. 'ard. Me tail-bone still 'urts.

The kid groaned. 'e wanned t' get away quick but I'd seized 'is wrist.

'I see you again, I'll feed pieces o' yer to the 'ole. Unnerstand?'

'e yanked outa me grasp an' fled.

I 'auled me ol' body up an went to tidy me keepsakes. An' would yer believe it? In a box poked to the back o' me cupboard, I foun' me marbles!

Congratulations to Lyn and a hearty thanks to all who entered our 'WILD' writing competition! There were some interesting takes on the use of the concept 'wild' but in the end we felt that the originality and entertainment value of Marbles made it worth the gong.

Lyn received a complimentary copy of narratorINTERNATIONAL Volume 1 as her prize.
I'm Not Ready Yet

27 December 2014

Connie Howell

Wentworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

The reflection in the mirror looked pallid today. Anaesthetic and the shock of having an operation took its toll on the body. However she was grateful that all had gone well and each day from here was a day closer to full recovery.

Step one, done and dusted.

Another challenge lay ahead so she needed to feel better. An early stage invasive melanoma had presented itself prior to the operation. It was an unexpected visitor, unplanned and unwelcomed yet she knew that somehow there was a message attached to the visit.

Initially the shock had been palpable, the words 'I'm afraid the sample showed an early stage invasive melanoma' were echoed throughout her body. Life was just about to take off, finally, _So why now?_ she wondered. The words did register eventually as she was bid goodbye with 'Have a good day'.

How? How do you have a good day after news that stuns your senses and sends you off into a journey off unknown possibilities?

Her friends rallied, gave her support and positive encouragement and she felt that probably all would be well in the end. She had known others that had gone through the same scenario and were here to tell the tale.

Thankfully the operation she had just gone through had been brought forward by a week, giving her ten days' grace to recuperate before dealing with the next round of specialist care.

Well at least it got her out of the garden which was getting too big and too hard to keep up and though the weeds frustrated her at their persistent growth she could not help but admire their tenacity, but she was happy to hand the digging out to someone else.

Death didn't bother her, it was the prospect of living with pain and suffering that she was most scared of, she had seen so much of it in her family and it wasn't something she wanted to repeat.

For whatever reason this shadow had crossed her path she knew it would eventually reveal something she needed to know and she told it: _I am not ready yet, I have a lot more living to do and when it is done then, and only then, will I take your hand and will I walk with you willingly into the great beyond._
Xing Saga Part 16 - Immortalised

28 December 2014

Jane Russell

Mount Barker, South Australia

Australia

In which metalbots get the chance to appear on TV and Polly finds his chance to shine. A continuation of the saga about metalbots from the planet Xing ...

The immense behemoth stomped menacingly towards the trapped teenagers, bright lights reflecting blindingly off its metal sides. They whimpered in fear and struggled to free themselves.

'Resistance is futile!' it bellowed, then it looked directly at the camera and beamed owlishly.

'Cut!' shouted the director, fuming with exasperation. 'How many times have I told you to ignore the camera? And the new line is: _Resistance is useless!_ '

The creature hung its head. 'I forgot,' it said.

The director, Carlo Bassotto, who had rewritten a large portion of the script, dumbing it down so that there were no 'big' words that the general public may not understand, had originally intended to cast a burly man in the part of the scary robot guard. Then it had been brought to his attention that he could more easily employ a metalbot in the role and thereby save significant outlay on the costume. However, the filming was not quite going as planned.

A few weeks ago, he had set out with a film crew to approach the residents of Xing Town with an offer too good to refuse. He arrived in a bad mood due to thick mud on his stylish boots, as the town was not accessible even to his fancy 4-Wheel Drive. He stared at the few residents that came out to greet him. So far, he was not impressed. A pink metalbot with white spots reached the gate first.

'Hello, I'm Oggie. How can we be of service?'

'I'm the well-known film director Carlo Bassotto, no doubt you've heard of me.' Faced by the creatures' blank stares, he blustered on: 'I'm casting the part of a robot guard in my new hit series "Escape from Helltown" so some of you can take advantage of this once in a lifetime opportunity to screen test for the role.' He beamed at them, mistaking their expressions for awe.

'Just one of you will be immortalised on the silver screen, but I will take another as understudy. Now, show me to a suitable indoor area and we can begin.'

Oggie ushered the group into a large public hall, where they immediately began to set up their equipment. After a while, Carlo was becoming impatient. 'I don't have all day! Where are your aspiring actors?'

Some whispered conferring was going on, one bot dashed out and after a few minutes returned with four bots to take the screen test. They were all adult male metalbots, and bright red. The tests did not go well, but Carlo accepted the least worst two.

The one currently on stage, and costing him a fortune in re-takes was known as 'Piggie'. He was the understudy, as the original choice had been woeful. The two teenage actors were taking advantage of the break for a snog and a smoke, not necessarily in that order. Piggie was now conferring with a couple of his associates who had come to watch, and to cheer him on. One of these was Oggie, and the other was a juvenile, red, with a spiky head. Bassotto was wondering whether they might be better actors when Oggie approached him.

'Excuse me, Sir,' Oggie began, politely, 'might I have a word with you about my partner's role?'

'Hmm,' grunted Bassotto, non-committally.

'He's not happy about the artificial voice that's used, as his own is perfectly capable of indicating menace or any other emotion.'

'He's supposed to be a bloody robot,' replied the director, ungraciously, 'so he's got to sound like one.'

'I see,' said Oggie, thoughtfully, 'he was under the impression that he was playing a metalbot. He will be disappointed.'

'Metalbots, robots, what's the difference? The problem with your mate Piggie is that he can't act to save his life!'

'I'm sorry you think that way. We always found him quite entertaining at home.'

'What about you? Or the boy? Do you want to do a screen test?' asked Bassotto hopefully.

'Not me, no. But I'll ask Polly. He'd be interested.'

Some time later in the day, the same scene came around again. The two teenagers were whimpering and struggling to escape their trap when a dramatic shadow emerged with the lights behind it, its spiky head and stocky build scarily alien.

Two red eyes suddenly shone from the shadowy face and a voice from the depths of Hell boomed:

'It's no good trying to escape me, kiddies. I'm going to eat you up for breakfast. But first, these messages...'

The lights shone on Polly's gleeful face, now immortalised on TV, then cut to a commercial break.
Escape

29 December 2014

Valerie R Vaughn

Pennsylvania

USA

Not sure of who I am,

feeling lost inside my skin.

I scald myself

yearning to feel human again.

Comfort comes with a cost

too high a price to pay,

I build walls to block

embraces.

Life's cliché,

to kill one's soul

or to make one pray

for yet another day.

I fight to find my time,

a life once

not so dull.

The smell of freshly painted walls

my skin recalls,

dripping into my mouth

salty sweat of times past.

I fight to stay alive,

to thrive

once more,

to welcome life's sake

to find my place,

again,

on the other side

of these walls.
Barroom Blitz

30 December 2014

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

'Doug, can I get you anything--anything at all?'

Barry the barman was now quite annoyed,

His patience was gone, he was unemployed--

'Soon I'm closing.' I was dozing, leaning on the wall.

She had stood me up and piqued was I.

'Uh... yes,' I stammered in pensive mood,

'So what'll it be?' said he rather rude...

Leigh walked in, said 'He'll have a gin,' with knowing eye.

'So where've you been--it's nearly three?'

'Hang on--is it tonic or soda with the drinks?'

The barman interjected against better instincts...

'Tonic with a twist of lemon, now scoot, if you please; see...'

'It's just no good, I've run out of puff--I have no tact...'

'But anything I have is yours, anything at all.

Money, comfort, silly songs, dreadful puns, small...

Trinkets, sweet incense or are you incensed by the fact...'

'What fact? I've had my cataracts removed,

I can see clearly now--Lorraine is gone!'

She, Leigh smiled, 'I'm not worried or put upon.

I've bigger fish to fry, it's too late to try to get in the groove.'

'Doug, so sorry for the drama and mixed metaphor,

And I know you've been waiting for a long interval...'

I said, with fear and dread, 'Are we, terminable?'

She nodded apologetically, 'Sorry to be a bore!'

Just then the drinks arrived--I felt numb, losing my grip.

'And who are you _frying_?' said I trying to...

Keep calm and carry on. Then out of the blue,

Barry said, 'It's me, she comes on a Monday... with chips!'

The penny dropped! So now I knew what she meant by...

'Going out for _barramundi'_ --never on a Tuesday.

Barry added, 'Lorraine's me sister, by the way.'

I looked from one to the other, 'Anything at all left to try?'

'Nah, Doug you're a mug' said Barry, 'Finish your drink--

'It's on the house and then, _amscray_!'

'Bottoms up' I smirked, downing the gin--feeling play...

Full of Dutch courage, 'Leigh, I've got the clap' and winked.
Wild Cruel Thing

30 and 31 December 2014

Shirley Burgess

Rosebud, Victoria

Australia

WILD Competition Entry

'Hello George,' Kath called as the red parrot flew down to the table beside her. He was a beautiful bird, one of several who called regularly. She filled the saucer with seeds and pushed it across slowly to him watching him hop up on the saucer, as it was still moving and start eating. She chatted away to him and he seemed to chatter back with funny compressed noises at the back of his throat. He'd used his delightful bell-like calls, to tell them that the saucer was empty.

When David came outside, she suggested an outing for the day. Their friends, Margaret and Tom had allowed their son, Josh, to sleep over with son, Michael. 'Mmm, sounds okay,' he said.

Fifty miles away Bill Goodson had been alert since first light, scanning the forest from the top of his fire-watching tower at Eildon. All seemed to be okay but the forecast was for a hot day with gusty northerlies, a top fire danger day. He was scanning every inch of the vast forest area in front of him when suddenly he fancied he saw a wisp of smoke. Now where was that coming from? Yes, there it was again. He picked up his phone to headquarters and reported its location--'Somewhere near Mt. Speculation, in the Razor/Viking Wilderness Area,' he reported, and heard that a plane would be sent up immediately to see how serious this was.

The radio news told it plainly. There had been a sighting of fire in the Razor Wilderness Area and everyone was to be alert to warnings, put their bushfire plans into place, with advice to clear all grass and debris away from houses. Downpipes could be blocked by a tennis ball, for instance, and then filled with water. Hoses were to be placed ready to use. Half hourly reports would be given on this radio.

David had done these precautions long ago, as well as to the adjacent houses. Maurice's holiday house next door had called for special clearing. _No good having my home ready if Maurice's house is a mass of fire-friendly rubbish_ , David had reasoned. David's mobile phone rang and not surprisingly it was Tom. He'd thought it wise to come and get Josh, and was setting out straight away. There was a bushfire raging up the valley a long way away coming at the speed of light.

'We've a clear view to Eildon from here and we haven't seen any smoke at all,' said a worried David.

'It's round our side of the mountain Dave; you wouldn't be able to see it from there. It's a bad day and the wind's already strong. See you soon.'

Five minutes later David's mobile rang again. 'I've just been stopped by the CFA and was told to go back. My house is in the path of the fire, and I can't leave Marg and the kids on their own. Can you look after Michael for us?'

'Of course, Tom. I've cleared all the properties here and taken all the precautions I should. If the worst comes to the worst, we'll head for our bunker. You've seen it. It's set into the side of the hill--the only exposed part is the Zincalume door. It's smoke-proof tested by the CFA and pretty well stocked now. This is Plan B though; we'll get in the car and get ourselves to Benalla or 'Wang' now. I think that'll be the safest.'

'Don't go to Wangaratta, mate. The CFA told me there's a smaller fire at the back of Wang, running the same way as this big one. They are due to join forces just before it hits our mountain. Try Benalla. That's your best shot, but get out now!'

'Shit! Thanks Tom, we will. Best of luck to you all mate. Let's keep in touch eh?'

'Will do. Am on my way home now.'

'Into the car everyone. Kath, love, let's take a bottle of water each, and p'raps put a couple of blankets in the boot. We must get to Benalla as soon as we can.'

'The road to Wangaratta is the better one, Dave.'

'Nope--another fire's in that direction apparently. Tom advised this is the only way out. Quick as you can kids. Where's Jake?'

They called and called but no dog appeared. 'He's been missing all morning,' said Kath. They spent ten minutes calling and looking for the dog, but there was no sign of him.

'We can't wait, Kath, we must go.' Kath, Michael and Judy all burst into tears at the same time. Dave gave another round of calls, whistled and whistled, but no dog appeared.

'We must go--everyone aboard. Jake will have to find his own shelter I'm afraid.' In dead silence they set off. A couple of kilometres on they passed through a deserted Mollyullah. 'Everyone seems to have taken off,' Dave commented. 'I must say I don't like this smoke.' They knew it was only four kilometres to go to the Benalla Road junction and safety, but the smoke was pretty thick making them cough, and the road harder to see. 'Ah, here's the junction.'

'There's a road block ahead Dave. What's up?' They drew level.

'What's up?' he echoed Kath's question.

'Are you trying to get to Benalla?'

'Yes, trying to beat the big fire coming this way.'

'So's everyone else. Where are you from?'

'Ryan's Creek.'

'The road to Benalla is completely blocked. Just down the road from here there's a huge mess of about ten cars mixed up in a huge accident. Apparently some people panicked all trying to dodge the smoke and the fire just down the road. It's hard to see where you're going in thick smoke and it ended in a huge mess. You won't get through this way today. Best beat it back home I reckon, while you can.'

With a 'thanks' thrown out of the window, they turned the car and headed back home. Dead silence in the car again as everyone watched anxiously for signs of fire. The smoke was now thicker and spreading, and Dave started to shake. _The lives of Kath and I, our two kids and Tom's boy depend on whatever I do from now on. I must do everything right_ , he thought.

It was peculiar to be arriving home again after fleeing in fright only moments ago, it seemed. Embers were arriving, the advance guard of a big fire, and Dave leapt out of the car calling, 'Everyone into the bunker, kids, I'll start dousing the embers.'

Kath herded the children, now thoroughly frightened, into the bunker, turned on the light, and calmly reassured everyone that they'd be safe in there no matter what the fire decided to do. 'No-one's going to come to any harm here today. I promise you that. You all have your water bottles? Well there's plenty of water here in the tank, and plenty of chairs. Make yourselves comfortable, and I'll go and help Dad.'

There was an immediate outcry. Judy started to cry and Michael called out, 'We're frightened Mum. Please stay with us,' he begged.

Torn on what to do, she stayed, settling each child by giving them a little job to do, handing out blankets, handing out a torch to each, arranging the chairs and getting out the drinks and biscuits. She looked outside, couldn't see Dave, but with horror saw the bottom fences and a tree on fire, and her heart sank. _Where is Jake and can small red parrots outfly a bushfire?_ she wondered

Eventually, Dave came in, with a burnt smell, and indeed had several holes in his shirt where the embers had landed. He was still shaking after seeing a huge wall of flame racing down the mountain to him. He'd never been so scared in his life.

'Well now, let's settle down cosily,' he said unsteadily. 'We'll be here for about half an hour at most. There's plenty of water, and stuff to eat. Here's the chocolate biscuits and lollies. Anyone want a lemonade?' There were three takers. 'I'll just pull this blanket curtain across the door. That'll keep the radiant heat out. Everyone comfy?'

As he pulled the blanket across there was a fevered scratching and whining on the door.

'It's Jake!' they all called out together. In he came with a big rush, and everyone brightened. He was fussed over, given a dish of water, and his arrival seemed to break the tension--someone else to worry about instead of themselves perhaps. Shut in again, they were alarmed to hear a huge noise as if a train were bearing down on them. Next there was the added sound of breaking glass, and Kath stiffened. She knew her house was being attacked.

That's when the light went out.

'Torches on,' said David, trying not to sound alarmed while his heart was beating a tattoo. 'Now's the time to wrap yourselves in your blankets, covering your heads--not that's it very cold,' he tried a laugh, 'but it'll keep the heat out.' He was thinking, _It takes ten to twenty minutes for a fire to pass_ , but the vision of that wall of flame and listening to all the noise outside, was sitting vividly in his mind.

In another attempt to cheer everyone up Dave said, 'You know this is what the wombats do. They dig their tunnels further into the ground and simply wait for the fire to pass, and that's exactly what we've done. We'll have to call this bunker "Wombat Hollow" or something. What do you think? Anyone got a better name for it?'

While they were competing with different names, Dave tried the back of the door. It was still hot to touch. 'We'll have to wait just a little while longer before we go out,' he said reassuringly. The children started playing with their torch beams, now relaxed a little since the idea of getting out soon had been suggested.

Another ten minutes went by. Dave tried the door handle again and it was cooler. He ventured to turn the lock, and looked outside.

'It's okay. We can come out, but be careful; everything is hot on the ground.'

Kath, who was the first out, gasped. 'The house is gone Dave. It's all gone. The trees too. We've lost everything.' She sobbed uncontrollably, while the children gathered round her.

She looked at the desolation with shock. 'This bloody fire,' she cried 'it's a cruel wild thing. And discriminatory.' She was looking at Maurice's house standing untouched, staring at them.

'We're all alive love. We made it through the fire. And no, we haven't lost everything, come and look. Our big shed and everything in it has escaped, and I put our car in Maurice's garage. It seemed safer than our carport. I think we're lucky. I hope Margaret and Tom have been too, but they're not answering their phone.'

Eventually they heard how Tom's family had escaped--house included. When the fire approached Tom and Margaret walked into their big cold dam up to their armpits, each one holding a small child, huddled together under a wet blanket covering them completely like a tent and breathing through wet cloths. Next thing they heard the helicopter, and listened to the wonderful water falling.

They'd be over to get Josh as soon as the roads were clear.

They heard from Maurice too. He was so grateful that his property had been cleared, probably saving his holiday home, he told Kath and Dave they could 'live in it as long as you like, until you can build your own again,' he offered.

Dave put his arm round Kath. 'This isn't too bad is it? It'll be a fresh start. We're insured so we can build something you like; we'll still be living here, where we love it with the wilderness of the national parks nearby. We've survived this--we can survive anything!'
Wildlife

31 December 2014

Katrina Wirth

Rutherford, New South Wales

Australia

WILD Competition Entry

Wildlife

Feisty, tenacious

Running, prancing, leaping

Creator of nature's wonders

Creature
Betty's Memory

1 January 2015

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, New South Wales

Australia

Dove

grey

shadows

skillfully

conduct

an afternoon's performance

as they filter through overhanging grapevines, casting tessellated patterns on her

wrinkled hands. She told of how 'me and Billy built a road with pick and shovel; took three months.

All the way from the highway to our farm. No tractors needed. We worked the land, built our home with wattle and daub, no money needed, there wasn't any around.'

Contemplate this reality.

We enjoy the warmth

of this verandah,

shelling

green

peas.
Wild Imaginings

2 January 2015

Emma-Lee Scott

Newcastle, New South Wales

Australia

When I was younger I had a habit of imagining improbable scenarios and what I would do should they ever happen. Usually they were insignificant conversations with people or my plan for the zombie apocalypse. Often my imagination only ever served to boost my ego, as a show of my awesome prowess at killing the undead. Yet, every now and again things happen, which no matter how vivid or wild our imagination is, we never see them coming.

~~~

My father began his normal routine. At 6am, while everyone was still asleep he would begin shouting about anything that slightly frustrated him. Often I wondered if rather than shouting at no-one, he was yelling at the horrors that clouded his mind hoping to scare them away. This particular day, he was angry with my brother who had gone away for the weekend and forgotten to do some insignificant chore. In his irrational rage, he was able to tell his unknown phantoms how much he despised a child he usually sung praises for.

As I listened to him screaming at no-one, my ability to ignore his indignant attacks seeped away. My attempt to ask him to be quiet, was met with brutally being told, 'Fucking shut up.' Of course, in typical teenage melodrama, I retorted, 'Grow the fuck up.'

As quickly as I had bitten back, the tone of his rants took a different voice. In the delusion of his mental illness he had taken the attempt to put a halt to his unnecessary tirade, as a personal vendetta against him. I was quickly met with vehement statements of how I wished him dead and how he could make that happen. I'm almost certain that these words were used to bait me into an actual argument, where I, on my mighty high-horse, would try to be the voice of reason. A voice of reason that had no place in a manic episode.

Cue entrance of mother. In recent times, my mother tried to make herself scarce during the morning episodes. However, with an exasperated look on her face, she asked what was going on. I told her he was being a dick, and he told her that he was going to make everyone happy, by killing himself. At this point, I often wonder what an outsider would think, whether they would be outraged, saddened or blatantly confused by the chaotic screaming of a seventeen year old girl with a middle-aged man, and a lady asking them to calm down in a patronising teacher voice.

We finally reached the stage where my father tries to overdose on his daily medication, only to be foiled by the lightening reflexes of my mother. I tap out, and leave her to sort out the pandemonium I helped create. In half an hour, I needed to be on a school bus with the intentions of finishing my last HSC trial exam. For us this was normalcy; wake-up, scream, prevent suicide, and continue our daily lives.

However, as the last of my father's verbal abuse subsided and my mother disappeared, he makes a dig directed at me, calling me a lazy bitch. I bite back. Mustering all my angst, I make a petty remark telling my father how much I hate him. Not an unusual comment, yet this time, holding some weight.

In an instant, he grabs the needle which contained the regular dosage of medication, and multiplying it. I lunge at him as he attempts to inject it into his arm. With all the strength I can gather, against a grown man, I push it away. As fast as my brain operates, his irrationality is one step ahead. My arm is in perfect alignment with the tip of the syringe. To my horror, I go from trying to prevent his death, to my own. I shove him as hard as possible, pushing him off balance, just in time to snap the needle of the syringe.

He runs from the house, with my mother closely in pursuit, having returned from the backyard to ask what the hell was happening. I stand there for a few minutes oblivious to the shouts outside, when my mother returns asking me to help. Apparently, my father had continued on his suicidal rampage and found the spare syringes, successfully overdosing. And in an almost comical fashion, was madly sprinting along the fence-line to speed up the process.

I never made it outside. That was the day I stopped trying to fight, and rang the police. I didn't tell them what my father had tried to do to me, just that he had attempted suicide. By the time they showed up, my father had calmed down, my mother had counteracted the effect of his overdose and I had missed the school bus.

When I walked out the door to verify my safety, my father quite happily told me to keep walking. I had broken the one rule about his health, which was never to tell anyone.

~~~

A month and a half later, following an extremely brief stint in a psychiatric ward, and numerous uneventful mornings, my father's resolve of not speaking, broke. In one last heated argument, he told me whilst pointing an accusing finger that he hated me more than anyone else in the world. I was to get off his property and never look back.

While in tears, my mother told me what had happened was not as bad as I thought. I should harden up. When I told her that someone was coming to pick me up, she told me to leave. Except to pack up my belongings, I never went back.
Wild Child

3 January 2015

Winsome Smith

Lithgow, New South Wales

Australia

WILD Competition Entry

Callie's real name was Carol, but when she uttered her first words at the age of two in the nineteen fifties, she pronounced it as Callie, and that remained her name. When this baby-boomer child was eleven years old, a series of events occurred that led her to make an adventurous decision.

It happened that her father had to move to a new district with his job so he, Callie's mother, and Callie also, to a certain extent, began clearing out, throwing away and packing.

It then happened that her mother's mother, Callie's grandmother, fell and broke her hip, so Callie's mother had to go to Newcastle to take care of her.

Following that, Calllie's father decided that, what with the packing, moving and the house being in a turmoil, Callie would be better off spending a couple of weeks of the school holidays with her two aunts in Sydney. This is how she became a wild child and in doing so became one of the happiest girls in Australia.

The aunties lived in a tall narrow house in a street of similar houses. These aunties were tall and narrow women with lofty and narrow ideas. The other houses were occupied by families with children and it seemed to Callie that these children were squeezed out through the front doors every day. Out they popped, like corks out of bottles, onto the street, which became a concrete playground. No backyard can compare with a street for freedom and adventure.

The aunties' tall thin house was swept and dusted every day; every piece of furniture and every figurine always stood in its appointed place, not daring to move an inch. Even their yellow cat was slim and prim; its name was Chang because it was Siamese and it walked around with a gracefully arched back and a disdainful expression.

On her first day in the house, Callie looked out the front window and said to her Aunty Mabel, 'So that's where they play. Those kids are out in the street.'

'Well, Carol, you needn't think you are going to play with street kids,' the aunt said, displaying a gift for reading Callie's thoughts. 'You've got books and your paints and those jigsaw puzzles you brought. I'll give you jobs. You won't be bored.'

'But it's safe, Aunty. There's no traffic; it's a dead end,' Callie protested.

'Cul de sac,' her aunt corrected, 'and respectable children do not play in the street.'

The children of various sizes and abilities and in ever changing numbers played games of cricket and rounders in the street. Sometimes a cluster of children perched on a fence, swinging their legs and chattering, like swallows on a wire.

Callie's greatest desire was to join in the cricket games. She could see that they were seriously short of good fielders and knew herself capable of carrying out that task. No ball would ever get past her.

She did play in the street once, but once only. Not really taking her aunt's restriction seriously, she slipped out through the front door to join in a rousing game of 'Tig Ya Last'. 'Tig Ya Last' was a chasing game. Whoever was 'in' ran around touching (or tigging) people on the shoulder. If the 'in' person tigged you then ran, it meant that you had been tigged last so you had to chase the 'in' person. With eight or more kids playing and cheering on the chaser or the chased, it became rowdy and exhilarating fun.

Breathless after that game, they sat on the kerb telling riddles. Callie wondered if they might become best friends, but it was not to be. Aunty Mabel ran out her front door, her duster still in her hand, and ordered Callie inside, loudly berating, '... with those common hooligans... running wild in the street... no self-respect.'

When she dropped the final clanger, Callie felt a rush of wild indignation and temper. '... and you a minister's daughter. A fine example you are!'

What? Not have fun; not have friends, not have exercise; not be like other children?

Her father, the minister, would not have said that to her, and she longed for him to come and take her home. She wanted to see his jovial face and the smile that made fans at the corners of his eyes. She began to suffer that ailment for which there is only one cure and that is not always attainable. It is called homesickness.

To Callie's delight her Aunty Claire decided to take her on an outing. Callie thought they might go to the movies and see a musical with singing and dancing but Aunty Claire had made the decision to go to the museum. The visit proved to be rather interesting but as Callie walked around looking at the dead, stuffed animals and birds, it occurred to her that it would have been more exciting to go on a safari and see real animals in the wild. She thought of forests and jungles and deserts, all occupied by living creatures.

Every morning one of her aunts, either Aunty Mabel, or Aunty Claire, arranged Callie's hair into two tight plaits then inspected her for neatness. The mornings were spent helping the aunts tidy up, and sweep and dust.

One afternoon Callie decided to do some painting with her set of water colours.

Aunt Mabel spread newspapers all over the dining table so that not one splash of water colour would land on the polished table top. Callie filled a tall glass with water and began creating a work of art. Aunty Claire happened to walk past as she vacuumed the floor. She glanced at Callie's work and commented, 'That looks like a mess. Is it supposed to be something?'

'It's the sunset,' Callie told her. 'The sky is pink and the sun is sending coloured light up into the clouds.'

At that moment the yellow cat leapt gracefully onto the table. It arched its back and strode across the newspaper, bumping against the glass of water, spilling it and sending water all over Callie's painting.

'Scat, cat!' shouted Callie.

Aunty Claire put her hand on Callie's shoulder and said, 'Shouting is not ladylike. We can clean up this mess.' More worried about the so-called mess than Callie's ruined painting, the aunt collected all the newspaper and the painting, scrunched them together and said, 'Here you are, Carol. You can take all this out to the garbage tin.'

Every day Callie heard the children in the street, and thought that if she could have played with children she might not have been so homesick and she tried to devise schemes for going home.

She could write to her father and beg him to come and get her, but Aunt Mabel would have wanted to see everything she was writing and Callie had no money for a stamp. It happened that one day, as she sat at the front window watching the children in the street she decided that, as her aunts disapproved of wild children--that was exactly what she would become. Then they would be glad to get rid of her and send her home.

She put her plan into action at once. By mid-day, her tight plaits lost their ribbons and her hair got bedraggled. Her hairbrush mysteriously disappeared. At meal times when she had her cup of tea, she drank it with a slurp--and Callie was a champion slurper.

Subsequently, whenever she dried the dishes she moved slowly trying to be as irritating as she could. She wasn't quite daring enough to drop a dish or cup and break it. Her intention was to be wild, not deliberately destructive.

Her clothes lay in a tumbled heap on the end of her bed. Whenever she was inside the house, she kicked her shoes off into a corner and went about barefoot. She also talked and laughed loudly and raucously.

The aunts, who were actually rather nice people, began to gently scold her and Aunty Claire suggested that Callie might need to have some outings. She would take Callie to suitable venues such as the library and the art gallery. She looked at Callie and said, 'But you will have to look tidy. It's a pity you have such bad manners and can't stay tidy for more than five minutes.'

So Callie, untidy and wild as she was, went to such places, making sure to talk loudly and generally misbehave.

There came a day when Aunty Claire took Callie on an exciting outing to a classical music concert at the local Town Hall, declaring that the concert would be good for Callie. To Aunty Claire it might have been exciting but Callie managed to fall asleep, her head heavy on her aunt's shoulder.

On the way home on the bus Aunty Claire explained the music to Callie, who rudely yawned and looked out the window. After the short walk from the bus stop, they turned into the street of tall narrow houses and Callie noticed that there was a cricket game going on. Garbage bins had been placed at each end of a makeshift pitch. Callie noticed that again they were short of fielders then turned her head away, quelling her need to join in.

She couldn't help it; she had to watch so she looked again. There at the bowling end was a familiar figure--her father.

Callie's father had arrived and was playing cricket with the street kids, no doubt offering some friendly coaching.

'Hey, Callie,' he shouted. 'Hurry up. We need you in the slips.'

Hair flying, shoes off, Callie ran to take up her position. What joy, what freedom, what exhilaration, to be allowed to play like a wild child with the hooligans in the street.

There was not really a winning team in that game. Every player wanted to be an umpire and the ensuing arguments got them nowhere. Everyone agreed that it had been a satisfying game and they all ran off to their own homes.

Later Callie and her father sat on the lounge while Aunty Mabel was in the kitchen making a cup of tea. 'Did they write to you and tell you to come and get me because I was awful and horrible?' Callie whispered.

'No,' her father told her. 'I missed you so I decided to come and get you. That is, if you really want to come home. You don't have to...'

'Please take me home,' Callie interrupted. 'I've tried so hard to be the kind of wild child they would not like. I've been out of control and rude and everything else so they would send me home.'

Her father stood up and strode around laughing uproariously. Both aunties then entered with tea, milk, sugar and biscuits on a tray.

'What are you laughing at, Charlie?' demanded Aunty Claire.

'I'm laughing with pride at my wild child,' was his reply between guffaws. 'I've got to take her home. I can't be without my wild child any longer.'

Callie ran upstairs to pack her bag.
Home

4 January 2015

Michael Cooper

Penrith, New South Wales

Australia

Billy ran hard. He turned the corner and headed for home. He'd make it too, if not for the guy waiting just ahead of him. Billy knew the guy was watching for him but he was sure he could make it past him.

Billy stopped and ran back the way he'd come. No sense tempting fate. _I can wait_ , he thought. He sprinted back around the corner to catch his breath.

Now that he had time to rest and assess the situation, he realised that there was no need to hurry. The guy around the corner was a danger, but Billy knew what to do. He would take his time, and when he made his move, it would be quick. Billy brushed some dirt from his pants and waited. Several thoughts of the past couple of days came rushing back.

He'd been playing in the yard with his son when the dudes in the black car with New York plates arrived. Billy saw them coming and called to his wife to come and get their son. He'd prefer to meet this type of guy outside and on his terms.

'Billy, Billy,' said the lead guy. There were three of them. The one who spoke was dressed in black. He had a gold chain around his neck. Although the guys looked calm enough, Billy had had enough experience with people like this to not underestimate their power.

'You don't want to invite us in?' the lead guy asked.

Billy shook his head. 'We're fine out here,' he said, 'What is it you want?'

'As if you don't know, Billy. We're here because our boss wants to own you.'

Billy made it clear that he already worked for a boss and liked him just fine. He was happy where he was and couldn't see himself moving anytime soon.

The guy in front continued, 'You know how persuasive people in our business can be. Just don't wanna see you get hurt, Billy. Surely we can come to some sort of arrangement?'

Billy nodded towards the black car. He started to turn away, convinced the three guys would get the message and leave.

'Don't be a tough guy, Billy,' the lead guy called as they walked back to the car. One of the others dropped something on the lawn. Billy waited until they'd gone, then went to pick it up. It was just a business card. Billy hadn't realised he'd been sweating.

'There must be some way to deal with the situation,' Billy's wife Frances said after they'd put their son to bed. Billy had some ideas, but he said it would mean moving house, maybe moving interstate. They were happy in Illinois. To meet the demands of the guys who'd visited would mean risking everything to stay put otherwise they would have to move to New York State.

Billy was young and very good at his profession. The nature of business these days meant he was for hire. His skills were in high demand and he could name his price--if he performed the way the people who paid him wanted.

More than anything, he wanted to protect Frances and his son through this period of uncertainty. He would speak to his immediate boss.

That conversation hadn't gone well. The boss wasn't impressed that Billy was contemplating a move to New York State. His territory was here in Illinois and he had plenty to do keeping customers and clients happy. There was a lot of money involved and, since the market crash, Billy could forge a very meaningful career if he didn't rock the boat.

Taking himself and his family to New York would cause angst at the very top levels. This was angst that Billy, but more importantly the organisation, could do without, the boss said. Angst was the very last thing Billy wanted and he certainly didn't want to incur the wrath of the top dog. The boss promised to call in some favours to keep the guys in the black car at bay.

Having caught his breath, Billy took stock of his position. There was plenty of open space around him and he knew the guy around the corner was still there.

Billy waited just off the bag at second base. Pitcher Johnny Allen went into his wind up and struck out Gabby Hartnett with an inside fastball. Billy moved back to the bag.

Two outs, the Cubs had five runs, bottom of the ninth inning, Yankees ahead by two. Charlie Grimm stepped up to bat and waited while Allen took the signals from his catcher. Billy led off the bag a little.

He watched the Cubs manager, the guy who had called in the favours to keep Billy in Chicago, signal Grimm to hit a fly ball to left centre. With Billy on second and Johnny Moore on first, the Cubs could tie the game with a well placed hit from Grimm.

Billy knew the Yankees catcher Bill Dickey would be waiting for him as he rounded the corner at third base. He was relying on the Babe's arm in left centre to let the Yankees down. Babe Ruth could bat, but the Cubs had exploited his throwing in this series.

Allen threw a slider that Grimm lofted to centre field. Billy tagged the bag, waited for the ball to fall safely then took off. He rounded third before Ruth had gathered the ball. The throw from Ruth defied expectations. Shortstop Cosetti cut it off and threw a rocket to Dickey waiting at home. Moore had already reached second, so a throw there wasn't an option. Dickey gloved the ball and tagged Billy out just before his foot touched home plate.

Yankees 7-5. The New York team now had a 3-0 lead with game four of the 1932 World Series to be played the next day. Billy Herman walked to the dugout. The Brooklyn Dodgers could wait. He wasn't leaving the Cubs. Not unless they wanted to trade him. Given the talk he'd had with the manager, that wasn't happening.

The Cubs crowd began to leave Wrigley Field. Billy watched them leave. They were loyal fans. He would show them the same loyalty by staying home.

Footnote: Bases in early baseball games were canvas bags, hence the term. Billy Herman eventually joined the Dodgers, in 1941. All the players featured actually played in the game this story is based on. The rest is, well, fiction.
The Firing Squads Of Antebellum (Naked City, Naked)

5 January 2015

MC Alves

New York,

USA

'Manhattan. Sometimes from beyond the skyscrapers, across thousands of high walls, the fearful cry of a too-well-known voice finds you in your insomnia in the middle of the night, and you remember that this desert of iron and cement is an island of un-reality.'

- Albert Camus, 'American Journals'

The Sierra Madre sun had been baking the gawkers, hawkers, dancing Disney Toons, anonymous faces in anonymous crowds for days. Times Square in thick, heavily moisturized air smelled of sweat, Kosher hot dogs forever boiling, salted pretzels and cheap perfume. The t-shirts were out in force. Allegiances in many colors displayed across the breasts of the pilgrims come calling on this shrine to fame (not necessarily fortune). 'Quantum Mechanics--The Dreams that Stuff is Made Of', for example. My own 'Hard Rock Cafe--Hong Kong' was drenched.

Where once the Rolling Stones Tour, name one or any, emblazoned the outer reaches of the Square Skyline now were a myriad of datastreams shouting any number of vastly unimportant appeals to starving imaginations, the crowded skyline alleyway bringing to mind 'Blade Runner' and zeppelins broadcasting via the voice of Tokyo Rose the enchantments of Mars. A tunnel of huge mirrors designed by Doctor No. No longer Neon, still a Wilderness.

The sun ruled, the heat imposing. Dense, all was dense. A crossroad, always crossing, constant motion, constant flow blocked here and there by those searching for whatever it may have been they thought they would find. Just before melting down into the grimy, nearly now slimy concrete of Broadway I needed to release my leaden legs from the weight of heat and age. On safari without prey, today's march had been from Columbia University environs to here. Never one given to aspiring the French Foreign Legion--no, not one to 'march or die'--I found the first available chair, one of those torturous types strewn about for public use, only upon reaching the island between Broadway and 7th Avenue, border of sorts beyond which lay the Garment District and death by prickly heat, the cornerstone and crux a flat-iron, squat structure which was once and will always be to those of us who knew it back in the day as the US Armed Forces Recruiting Center. A favorite perch. On a few occasions during the mid-seventies I had actually come considering enlisting, only to have a change of heart and then, of course, an Anchor Steam or two to assure myself the decision had been undoubtedly correct.

One comes across such perches all over this town, Washington Square Park, the zen garden and waterfalls between 2nd and 3rd avenues on 49th, some secluded or shaded park bench, many such places. I have lost count of the number of times and circumstance which found me sitting somewhere around Times Square at any given midnight (and well beyond) hour. A young man's neon beacon of last resort is now an NYPD outpost and I rested in its shadow on the unforgiving chair as my legs returned to pliancy and watched the thick crowd meandering around uptown. 'Hard Rock Cafe' indeed.

First, sudden movement in the mass two blocks away. Then, a shrill shrieking; not of joy nor yet terror. More shouts. The crowd parts slightly. A couple runs hand-in-hand from the fray. More people running, left, right, anywhere. Cops at full gallop heading toward the minor melee from all directions, melting into the crowd. Shouts, commands. Shrieks, serious now. As if a cattle herd camera-shot viewed from overhead in a Rawhide episode, the human wave moves in one motion. Cops, several now, guns drawn at the ready, emerge into empty space vacated giving chase to as yet unseen prey. Chaos, but not utter, commences but the cops, a growing force by the second, advance in an inverted arrowhead formation, coming closer, pauses now and again, converges, disperses and gives chase. My line of sight impaired by the shifting crowd I could not see who they were after. They soon reach my island, spread across the street advancing slowly but steadily. One cry: 'He has a knife!' from the clustered crowd keeping a safe distance behind the advance; another 'He has a gun!' 'Is it a bomb?' The cops: 'Put it down! Put it down! Lay on the ground!' Advancing, weapons at the ready, pointing forward. Unsure as to what weapon the fugitive (from?) may have had the actions of the police gave pause, seemingly indicating perhaps a gun since they were keeping a 10-15 foot distance. One or two were darting from cover to cover. I still could not yet see who they were marching on. Bearing the possibility of bomb in mind, blaming my smithereens on the nights on Broadway not my idea of 'fade to black' gracefully nor would I ever wish to end this wild ride with the Bee Gees on my lips, I crossed across the island and looked around the corner, moving in directly behind the cops, never in the line of fire, slightly behind and alongside the armed centurions and under an implacable sun.

New York City. It is different here. Always has been. And not because of the movies. One knew immediately _this is no motherfucking movie_. Times Square is a prime target for all manner of mindsets, for a vast sea of reasons and causes, and one can feel the presence of subtle menace at times, the hidden surveillance of which we are all aware. We are aware also that on a crowded matinee in summer while watching Chris Walken portray one tortured soul another stupid soul having drank some other pseudo-sacred Kool Aid had already tried to place a firebomb at the theatres' very doorstep. This man today had only a knife. Seeing that, I followed the ever-swerving pack at close distance, directly behind the police offensive line.

Dead man running. There were at least five weapons aimed directly at him, ready to fire, he was alone in the middle of 42nd Street, no bystander nearby. He was alone except for the brilliant light reflecting off the street. A white shadow. The target held a knife. And abruptly took out what appeared to be a white cell phone, pointed it at us. Someone yelled 'It's a cellphone! He's got a cellphone!' The cops: 'Put it down!' Flailing, dancing a shaman's two-step, always in motion, darting back and forth, slashing at demons nowhere near, the man in a primate rage, a crystal meth blast from his past dangling sugarplums in his head perhaps, he stood dancing madly in the middle of the street. The cops did not fire. He raged, started peddling backward, always backward. He bolted. The fucking Flash now. The cops followed. A zigg and then a zagg, and off downtown on 7th.

The sound of summer running. Those among us, once raggamuffins or streetwise wretches to a man, who knew a street or two in this streetwisest of towns, a smaller crowd here at the threshold of downtowns to be sure, marched along, to and fro, like dodging a mark or following one. Big Bad Leroy Brown and friends. Bearing witness. Once or twice, the team of cops seemed to have cornered him, slowed, stopped, converged, more commands, and then resumed a chase. Clear sight was lost then regained as I kept running close behind. The chase paused. Only the backs of a wall of cops were visible from where I stood. I was at the corner of 38th and 7th, leaning against a mailbox, trying to see him. Shouts of outrage. Commands! Nothing.

*crack*crack*crackcrack*crack*crackcrackcrack*crack* ...

Silence. It was a complete silence, an utter absence of sound, a true silence. A silence I had heard once before.

Close enough to smell. Cordite in the air. Near silence now, lingering forever. The air somehow lighter. No motion anywhere. The lack of sound after gunfire has a surreal quality. I did not see the fusillade. Nor why they after all opened fire. One did not need to see to know the hunt was over. The danse macabre ended underneath an OTB sign, at the foot of a cheap jewelry mart, under a Sierra Madre sun.

Whoever he was, whatever his crimes or virtues, he no longer needed to flee.
The Latest Forecast

6 January 2015

Richard Scutter

Macquarie, ACT

Australia

WILD Competition Entry

today will be fine with

temperatures in the low twenties

at 9am cloud will build up but

the sun will break through by 10am

to a full, rich, blue sky

just after mid-day clouds from the south

will enter with the chance of just a little rain

expect about 3-4mm in the form of light drizzle

if you live in suburbs to the west of Main Street

expect only a touch of moisture

the skies will be totally clear again by 3pm

the mild temperatures will continue...

early this morning Mr R G

who always takes his dog for a walk first-thing

was seen walking back home along Ocean Road

accompanied by a well-endowed billy goat

currently there is no explanation...
Cobbin The Hobnobbing Goblin

7 and 8 January 2015

David John Newman

Jacobs Well, Queensland

Australia

WILD Competition Entry

Little Cobbin he was yearning;

In him a desire wos burning;

To go down to the big city;

And fit in with society.

To go down to the big city;

Where all the girls are so pretty;

Although he'd heard the stories told:

'No place there for goblins or trolls!'

Cobbin strolled through the forest, collecting a feast;

Of beetles, grubs and toadstools--all manner of treats;

When he heard a cry--'Help me! Someone help me, please!'

Then Cobbin saw a man as he raced through the trees.

The man ran and stumbled, before he then tumbled;

And fell down a gully to lay there all humbled;

As six and seventy trolls, of him, took their hold;

To steal his fine clothes, and then to leave him there cold.

The lightning crackled and the witches they cackled;

As the poor man, he lay, all torn by the nettles.

Cobbin, the hobnobbing goblin, so pitied such;

That he went down to offer some beetles and grubs;

But as Cobbin drew near, the man ran off in fear;

Not knowing that Cobbin was his only friend here.

And there in his wake, left there to take, was a card;

Gilded fancy, but Cobbin found reading it hard:

'An invitation, meant for those of high stations.'

Now reward for Cobbin and all his long patience.

'A masquerade ball! Who wood suspect me at all?

Dancing with pretty girls in some grand manor hall?'

Cobbin collected more beetles and grubs to roast;

For he would not go without some gifts for the host.

And as he packed his swag, the word it passed around;

Of Cobbin's good fortune and the card he had found:

From near and far, they came to see Cobbin that day;

That he felt like a king, it was needless to say.

Mythical creatures of the forest, enchanted;

Were hoping that Cobbin would have their wish granted;

To go along with him to the masquerade ball;

But no trolls came, for trolls don't like people at all.

'I cannot take so many!' Cobbin said to them.

'And until this day, most of you were not my friends!

'You laughed at me for wanting to go hobnobbing!

'You said humans would never accept a goblin!

'Give me good reason why I should take you along;

'That all of you may then sing of Cobbin in song.'

Goblins, elves and leprechauns, in turn each one spoke;

But each just wanted to play on human's a joke.

'I'll take none of you, for only Cobbin such dreamed!'

Cobbin said in anger, and the banshees all screamed:

The witches cast spells to make Cobbin this day rue;

'Black of night, switch of sight, Cobbin will not see true;

'Where humans dwell, he cannot tell, them from the trolls;

'And where there be trolls, Cobbin will see human souls!

'Until midnight comes, then spells undone for Cobbin!

'To teach him not to be a hobnobbing goblin!'

Poor Cobbin did not know, the things that were to be;

As he started out, to meet with his destiny.

And as he walked through the trees, he heard soft rustling.

In the leaf litter, small creatures were all bustling;

To get last glimpse, me thinks, of brave little Cobbin;

To chance one last glance of the hobnobbing goblin.

'We'll not see him again! Of that fact, it is plain!

'Far better if Cobbin stays, better he remain!'

But one stepped forth, 'I'll go to the city as well;

'For I know the way north, to where the humans dwell.

'People say, rabbits make the best stews--and it's true!

'But I'll make sweet cakes, pastries and casseroles too!'

So, Bonny the bunny went hop, hop, hop, hopping;

Along-side of Cobbin the hobnobbing goblin.

Twinkling bright, scattered lights, to brighten up the night;

They came to the city, they saw its wondrous sights.

Cobbin and Bonny wandered the cobblestone roads;

And marvelled that humans could live in such abodes.

All did scatter, did not matter, Cobbin saw trolls;

For him, the witches spell had not yet taken its hold:

They travelled on, 'Trolls be gone!'--Cobbin despised such;

'The trolls they came, and for shame, this is just too much!

'But we will not share the invitation with them!

'They would spoil this whole night, on that you can depend!'

Down a darkened lane, where no light could be sustained;

Foul air, dankness there, of fear one could not be blamed:

The wind ghostly moaned, but Cobbin felt right at home.

All the where, they felt the stares, they were not alone:

They heard the bats screech, and the rats ate rotten peach.

Bonny held Cobbin back from joining in the feast;

'Please Cobbin! In such a place we must not linger;

'I feel here, evil clear--it is us to hinder!'

Then Cobbin saw what Bonny could not see at all;

Just ahead, nothing to dread, a grand manor hall!

Bonny tried to run in fear, as they drew so near;

But Cobbin heard no pleas and held her by the ears.

'Your hopes not be forsook! You'll make a splendid cook!'

But Bonny saw only trolls--saw it with one look:

'Ahhh Sir! A fine rabbit! She'll make us a good stew!'

the doorman said to Cobbin, 'Welcome here to you!

'And such fine costume, to look just like a goblin!'

Toothy smile to beguile, 'Rabbit for the kitchen!'

Upon each guest's face, a mask hid all trace;

Of a troll's wicked soul, here in a human place.

On the walls, lanterns dim, cast shadow over sin.

By small light, all looked bright, to a spellbound goblin.

What he saw in the hall of the masquerade ball;

By magic's touch, was not as such.--No! not at all.

All ladies there, oh so fair, dressed in silk and lace;

Elegant, intelligent to make his heart race.

The little goblin, he had tricked them, one and all;

That night at high society's masquerade ball.

He spoke to the guests as one who had been well schooled;

But now, our little Cobbin, he had them all fooled.

Cobbin could not help but stare at one lady fair;

A beautiful enchantress with long flowing hair.

Smitten he, to take the chance, to ask her to dance;

And she agreed, plain to see, the start of romance.

Curious be, those deceived, both goblin and troll;

That at such place, be found grace, and love take its hold.

As they danced, they were entranced, by the witches spell;

Yet loves bloom, no spell can doom, which is just as well.

There was an evil troll by the name of Groll;

By a promise told, planned to wed the lady troll.

As Groll watched Cobbin, romancing her--hobnobbing;

Anger welled within, towards this one so charming.

Plans defined in Groll's mind to win back her heart;

And bring shame to Cobbin, that he must then depart.

Not knowing that Groll had won many a tournament;

He was miffed by the trolls' constant little torments;

And Cobbin desired such, that he then accepted;

A challenge issued, with nought for love respected.

For each of them one chance to step most debonair;

And dance the dance of swords, to win the lady fair.

Cobbin went first, unknown by him the witches' curse;

Where by trolls and human souls, were seen in reverse.

Bonny watched the cook take a long knife to sharpen.

She called for Cobbin, but Cobbin could not harken:

Lost he, in this place, where humans would dare not go;

He felt here at ease, though nothing he saw was so.

Cobbin leaped up so high as he spun in the air;

To dance up a treat and to win the lady fair.

High kicks, acrobatic tricks, up on tippy-toes:

Cobbin he did know, he ought not put on such a show.

Humans cannot dance quite the way that goblins do;

And he saw humans, for Cobbin did not see true.

Some gathered close, with hopes, Cobbin might defeat Groll;

But Groll was the troll that many there did extoll.

In the kitchen, they heard and felt the passions grow.

Came one and all, through the door, just to watch the show.

The cook, holding bonny, reached for all his money;

To wager that Groll would win back his fair lady.

As he reached to place his bet, his hold loosed some yet;

With no, 'By your leave!' Bonny jumped free of the threat.

Onto the tote table jumped Bonny the Bunny.

She ran wildly around and knocked down the money.

Coins of copper and gold, which across the floor rolled;

In the mayhem to steal them, were chased by the trolls.

In their confusion and greed, the trolls did ignore;

One little white rabbit, as she leaped to the floor.

Zigzagging, zagzigging, Bonny raced all around;

But for the poor scared bunny, no exit was found.

Lost he, in the dance of swords, and still going strong;

Cobbin knew nothing of all the things going on.

Back flips, dangerous tricks, with the swords all flashing;

He tripped over Bonny and then came down crashing.

Bewildered he, in that she, might cost him his chance;

To win the lady fair at the masquerade dance.

'What have you done?' he said, 'Groll may now defeat me!'

'So sorry,' she cried, 'but the trolls want to eat me.'

'Trolls?' Cobbin asked, 'I see nothing but human souls.'

'If you've lost me my chance, then you must pay the toll!'

Bonny ran off in fright, so alone in her plight;

As the cook chased her that night, with his sharpened knife.

Groll the troll, that many did extol, took his turn;

So sure he, that Cobbin had such lessons to learn.

Groll had won many tournaments in these events;

And he glared at Cobbin with nothing but contempt.

'Watch now,' Groll sneered, 'as I win her away from you!'

Cobbin felt so sad, for he thought it might be true.

Groll spun around, swords flashing brightly in the air;

And to be quite honest, he did look debonair.

Swishing, twirling swords to make a chandelier;

Cheating death, most held their breath, but Groll showed no fear.

Cobbin watched astounded, his fears now compounded;

As he saw that Groll's confidence was well founded.

To see Groll leaping, through an arc of swords sweeping;

It was a wonder to behold this troll dancing.

The only rule was, that each must dance on their own;

With no help from others, they must be all alone.

Cobbin, head held low, turned away from Groll's display.

That he felt beaten, it was quite needless to say.

For all his hobnobbing, he was but a goblin.

For all his wishing, he was still only Cobbin.

Bonny ran screaming, it was for her dear sweet life;

As the cook chased her around with his sharpened knife.

When she saw Groll dancing with sword numbers untold;

She leaped onto his chest, to take hold of the troll.

'Save me! Save me!' Bonny cried out in her great fear;

But through all the commotion, her words were unclear.

All his steps, in which before there had been no faults;

Looked now strange somehow, as Groll danced the Rabbit Waltz.

Swords falling by the way, Groll was disqualified.

He could not pry Bonny off, even though he tried.

'Ah!' said Cobbin, 'You've found my lucky rabbit's foot.

'Now a wedding present, her life not be forsook'.

They married right there, Cobbin to his lady fair;

They found a troll priest and had a bug feast to share;

But then the clock struck twelve, which broke the witches' spell.

Those things unknown were then shown at the final bell.

All those secrets of the past, that could never last;

Were revealed now of all who hid beneath the masks.

Poor little Cobbin, he was still but a goblin;

So intent had he been on all this hobnobbing.

'What's this?' screamed Groll, 'I've been cheated by a goblin?'

And now Cobbin saw trolls, to end his hobnobbing.

Yet love's bloom, no spell can doom, which is just as well;

For the love betwixt troll and goblin would not quell.

Cobbin with his lady fair, raced towards the door.

Bonny ran ahead, for she, they could not ignore.

Jumping, thumping wildly on the door, Bonny cried;

'Hurry up! I've had enough! Let me get outside!'

One hundred trolls, led by Groll, chased them through the night;

Down dark streets, until came the early dawning light.

They made their way back to Cobbin's beloved forest;

And only when they reached its safety could they rest.

For many more years, all sang the song of Cobbin;

And the adventures of the brave little goblin.

Even today, his story is still often heard;

Through the breeze in the leaves and by the song of birds.

Now happy is Cobbin, there with his lady fair;

So no more hobnobbing for Cobbin the goblin.

Now happy is Cobbin, there with his lady fair;

A troll and a goblin with their ten little troblins.
Courtney

9 January 2015

Elzbieta Uher

Montreal, Quebec

Canada

Courtney's last name was Holub. In Ukrainian, the word 'holub' means 'a dove'. Courtney would prefer to be called Courtney Dove, but in the proud Holub family, the idea of changing the last name was a tough sell. According to the family tradition, 'things should always be, as they were supposed to be'.

Courtney's older sister Ramona passed away on her wedding day. She died as Ramona Holub. That day Courtney became anxiously superstitious. Courtney's mother's eyes had turned metallic. Her father had become kind of mute. Courtney sensed that he could talk, he just didn't. If life could be compared to an open book, Courtney would say that that day, the whole chapter of Holub's family life had closed with a loud clap. She was not sure how things were supposed to be from now on.

Shortly after Ramona's death, aunt Anastasia invited Courtney to stay with her, at least for a while.

Anastasia's house was nested among cascading branches of purple wisterias, on a quiet avenue, and it reminded Courtney of a gnome home. The house was built in 1862 and was one of the oldest surviving homes in town. It remained untouched for one hundred years and retained as much charm and character of its old days as incommodities. It had no central heat, no indoor plumbing, and no electricity. Its fairly large kitchen centered on an old, stone fireplace. The small bathroom was arranged in the kitchen corner. Anastasia used to say that her kitchen arrangements mimicked the natural way of things. To harmonize various kitchen smells, Anastasia dried herbs on the fireplace.

Courtney moved into the house in June, at the time when a multitude of red and pink asters run a welcoming riot in the front yard. The main door of the house was adorned with an eighteenth century iron padlock which served as a knocker. Anastasia said that her padlock had as much power to extend a welcoming gesture to her friends, as to discourage all intruders. Courtney often wondered whom Anastasia considered to be a friend and whom an intruder.

The whole summer Courtney helped Anastasia to grow rosemary, oregano, and thyme. They had large pots with sweet potatoes, tomatoes, and beans. On some mornings she was waking up at sunrise, listening to the songs of gold finches and cardinals, on others, with her nose under a thick comforter, listening to the cracking sounds of the kitchen fire. In Anastasia's place each day was bringing a little abundance and a few friendly visitors. Mr Ruben was often stopping by for a friendly chat. He enjoyed gardening as much as aunt Anastasia. They always had something to talk about. Old Mrs Tylor was coming on Sundays for a cup of tea. She knew all the rumors in town and was a gifted storyteller. Each evening Hermit, the grey raccoon, marched through the garden looking for goodies they had saved for him from the dinner. Anastasia and Courtney lived cherishing each day. According to Courtney, it was just how it was supposed to be.

Summer and fall went by like a day. Courtney rarely thought about visiting her parents, and if she thought about it, it was all she did. It was Anastasia's idea to invite her parents for Christmas. Courtney was convinced that the idea had something to do with family reunion, and that the family reunion could open a new chapter in Holub's family life.

She rushed to help Anastasia unpack Christmas ornaments, imagining how they would glow under the snow-laden roof. She found two cooking recipes for the occasion, one for Kutia, and one for Marmalade Cake. Courtney couldn't imagine Christmas without sweet Kutia. It was made with barley, poppy seeds, honey and nuts. Thinking about family traditions, she filled a kitchen bowl with dry cloves and cinnamon sticks and placed it near the fireplace. Old fairy tales for some reason seemed more real again.

In the morning before the first day of Christmas, Courtney fixed raspberry tea, pancakes with honey, and cottage cheese for breakfast, but Anastasia had no appetite. She remained curled up in bed, looking tiny and fragile.

Courtney's throat became tight. 'Are you sick? My parents are coming tomorrow. It was supposed to be a very special Christmas.'

'Burn some sage and rosemary for me in the fireplace, it should help...' whispered Anastasia closing her eyes. Courtney was not sure if it was the rosemary or sage that helped Anastasia to sleep all day.

Night gave Courtney the chills. She woke up several times staring into the darkness. The thought that Aunt Anastasia may not always be by her side was unbearable. The dawn of the sun seemed to be an eternity away, and only dawn could wipe away Courtney's nightmarish thoughts.

Courtney's parents arrived early in the morning. They said that they thought something might be wrong when they knocked with the old iron padlock and nobody came to the door.'

'There is no doubt that Anastasia is not well today,' said the father. 'But we all know Anastasia's imagination and the way she acts on it.'

Mother's dark eyes expressed suspicion. 'Are you sure it is not contagious? Do you have any signs of an illness yourself?'

Courtney gazed at them with bewilderment. Suddenly the idea of remaining Holub until her last day filled her whole body with fear.

'Can I help you with the food?' asked her mother sensing the awkwardness of the situation.

'Mom,' whispered Courtney, 'I think we should all see Aunt Anastasia.'

'Yes, we should wake her up,' decided the father. 'It is the only way to find out how she is doing.'

'Maybe we should let her sleep a little longer?' Courtney's mother had her doubts.

'Then...,' Courtney inhaled. 'I'll go get Mr Ruben.'

'Who is Mr. Ruben? How do you know him?' Father was clearly annoyed by the idea. 'We don't need any bad news for Christmas!'

There was no answer. Courtney was already outside. She looked around helplessly. The ornaments and garlands on the snow-laden roof had lost their glow in the winter fog. Courtney saw Mr Ruben shovelling snow in his garden.

'Ho, ho, ho... Merry Christmas! How is it going?' he greeted her, as if he was Santa.

'It is not going the way it was supposed to be.' Courtney began quietly.

Mr Ruben frowned and remained quiet.

'They say that things always change, but they don't say that things change for the worse fast, and for the better slowly. I... I don't know how to deal with it,' Courtney was afraid that she was not making much sense, but she kept talking.

'My parents don't believe that Anastasia is seriously ill. They didn't believe in Ramona's illness either. She was supposed to get married. But, you see... I really don't want to believe that Anastasia is very ill too. I am a Holub... I just really don't know what I am afraid of...'

Mr Ruben put his shovel away.

'Life is mischievous,' he said catching his breath. 'When it realizes that you expect it to be in a certain way, it will play a trick on you. It could happen even on Christmas. Me, I do what I have to do, I do what I like to do, I don't expect much, and I trust the flow of my river. And if it is covered with ice, I remind myself that underneath the ice my river always flows. This way, Courtney, this way I am at peace like a dove...'
Amongst The Grassy Blades

10 January 2015

Margo Poirier

South Australia

Australia

They lay, quite flat and listless. The grass was damp and for some time they nestled on the grassy bed. Too tired even for post-coital murmurings, too wrung out to suggest a change of scenery or a cup of coffee at a nearby café--no, that was out of the question.

The sun was still sleeping.

Julie, we'll call her that for the sake of anonymity, was glad for a bit of a break just quietly. Passion was wonderful; sustained passion even more wonderful but at the end, the exhaustion was too much, too draining, too, too... well, would flattening be the right word? It would do as she pondered on her immediate choices. If she had known she would be like this, might she not have thought twice? But no, passion doesn't allow twice thinking and as her best interests flew out of her mind, a new resident flew in, settled and just wouldn't leave.

Alfie, we'll call him that for the sake of anonymity, had been a sharp operator and at first couldn't attract the attentions of Julie. She was distant, aloof and he couldn't know or even hazard a guess as to whether she might be a virgin (that was a laugh surely, these days) or just a stuck up _I'm a princess and don't even think you are worth a look_ type. Still, it was a challenge not to be missed, Alfie thought, and he pursued her as only a dedicated pursuer could; with stealth bordering on stalk; with slyness bordering on deceit. He couldn't get her out of his mind. He dreamed of her every night and often awoke in a milky puddle which hadn't happened since adolescence. He knew he had to pounce and without delay.

On reflection, Julie and Alfie were probably destined to further their sexual education. Alfie's first encounter with the opposite sex had been, to put it one way, a wank. To put it another, it had been ungainly, uncomfortable, unattractive and all the other words beginning with U.

This up and coming encounter (Alfie didn't think for a moment there would _not_ be one), would be the absolute ultimate sexual experience. He would use all the techniques he had learned, mainly from _Playboy_ magazine it must be said, and send her to the moon and back with love and desire.

On the other hand, Julie secretly yearned for the hands of Alfie to run their gamut over her entire body, sending her to the moon and back with love and desire. But to accept his attentions too readily would, she felt, compromise her princess upbringing; no, she would have to delicately and with restraint take her time, all the while simmering on the brink of sexual ecstasy. By the time a date had been arranged, late on Boxing Day 2014, Julie was well and truly on the boil.

Alfie had asked her to a party thrown by one of his friends. It would be a grand bash with lots of booze (free) and a couple of bands he really liked. Like a grasshopper on heat, he couldn't keep still during the hours leading up to meeting Julie at a pre-arranged place just outside the council chambers beneath an iconic gum tree.

At precisely 8pm Alfie arrived at the tree. He was still there, alone, at 8.30.

Julie fidgeted, fully dressed in party clothes befitting a Boxing Day party. She waited for her own inbuilt signal to leave the house. Too soon: she would be seen as over anxious. It would show in her flushed cheeks. Too late: he might get fed up and leave.

But Alfie didn't leave; Alfie waited and at precisely 9pm a blonde froth of smiles and loveliness appeared at the top of the little council grassy rise and stood there, shining in a halo of promises and... before he could think of any more adjectives to describe Julie, she was at his side apologising for her tardiness with a smile as sweet as the marinated strawberries he had eaten for breakfast.

Shyness accompanied the couple to the party and noise engulfed their tender yearnings as The Rockin' Rivets popped out their first number for the night. Talk was impossible but the magnetic heat between Alfie and Julie played the sweetest music and before the bracket finished, they had slipped away unnoticed.

Hands clasped, they hurried towards a sheltered spot alongside the creek where their first kiss almost missed its target in their anxiety for proximity. The water in the creek tinkled and tumbled and very soon, Julie and Alfie had dropped onto the waiting grass for a little tumbling of their own. Restraint, so diligently practised by Julie and wanking, so diligently practised by Alfie, exploded into the skies to be replaced by sensational cataclysmic fondlings that led to, well, you know very well so I am not going into details. They are private and as such belong to Alfie and Julie.

The fingers of dawn's gentle light crept towards the grassy hot bed by the creek only to find that the lovers had already fled.

Julie's lacy, pink knickers lay decoratively and still enticingly amongst the grassy blades and Alfie's boxer shorts, colourfully tartan, lay within easy reach.
My True Wild Love

11 January 2015

Melissa Stevens

Upper Hutt

New Zealand

WILD Competition Entry

He makes me smile, he treats me like a queen

He touches my heart and makes my soul sing

He caresses my body, he pampers my heart

He loves me, my true wild love.

He listens with his heart, he loves through his soul

He cares for his family, whanau and all

He makes me laugh, he makes me cry

He shows me the way to the core of my soul

He loves me, my true wild love.

My true love is here, my soulmate, my friend

Together as one, our beautiful love for each other begins.

He loves me, my true wild love.
Brain Injury

12 January 2015

Paul McMahon

Sydney, New South Wales

Australia

Morning breaks through the window, my eyes start to open, feeling refreshed by the sleep but annoyed by the immensely large amounts of wax covering them. I hear that sound again.

'Wakey, wakey, BREAKFAST TIME!'

It's another nurse who takes pleasure in waking us up. I know she is not there to be annoying but I feel hospital patients don't need to wake up at 6.30am. She settles after a while and so do I. I don't need breakfast today and I fall back into deep sleep.

When I wake again life is more peaceful. I place my shoes on and get ready to conquer the day. I make my way to Occupational Therapy class across the hall and everyone is happy. I like happy people.

We do our work and I stare into the distance a little when I get bored. I don't even know what I'm thinking about--I just venture off for a moment in my own brain. I am always brought back by somebody's annoyance, things I find interesting and the need to pay attention without failure are rare.

I leave the room after an hour and I have great pleasure in doing so. Those classes are massively boring and I just don't get why we do it. I look around the Brain Rehabilitation Ward and see a multitude of varied people. We are not the same, we have had different accidents and different ways to cope.

I look over at one girl lying in a bed in the corridor. She does not talk, she grunts. I cannot ask her how the day is or what she is thinking. Communication with her is near impossible. I am very lucky to walk and talk. They said I would be in a wheelchair for some time, possibly forever. I think this is a much better scenario.

I decide to leave as I am bored. I go out on the hospital grounds and walk in circles around the park. This exercise allows me to feel almost free. I like feeling normal and free.

I come back to the ward and it's lunchtime. We sit in our seats and stare at the new individual across from us. I think to myself. _I may have suffered from a brain injury, I'm not truly certain of it all, but lucky I'm alive_. So many don't have that pleasure. I eat away. _Mmmmmm, cake_. I guess I'm just that old saying: _Lucky to be alive_.
Art And Craft

13 January 2015

Graham Sparks

Bathurst, New South Wales

Australia

When one's muse is moved to speak and resonance occurs

the work ensuing be it line on canvas,

or line of words or notes

may incarnate by one of disparate process.

Process 'A', the path of safety,

wherein the work is moulded, coaxed and bobbed to be an ornament,

to not offend, and stretch not mind or heart,

this we know as craft.

But process 'B', the path of danger is another story,

here the musee follows without question where the heart doth go,

and stumbles, falls and suffers injury, yet carries on regardless.

The work produced heeds not the flavour of the month or social norms

nor fears the power it may mediate,

this we know as art.

Editor's note: So true! And beautifully put.
Angel Without Wings

14 January 2015

Robyn Chaffey

Hazelbrook, New South Wales

Australia

As I stepped gingerly around the door

Which stood, most surprisingly, ajar

My heart skipped... feet melded to the floor

I thought I'd been kidnapped to some distant star

Her reflection I caught in the bay window

I was reminded of a fright'ning fairy tale

Though I knew she'd long been laid low

This 'spectre' was so thin and deathly pale

Yet as my visage met hers in the glass

She turned and met my shock with love

The like of which I knew I'd never surpass

She appeared as one touched from above

I moved to hug my 'angel without wings'

For angel she'd been in long times past

To me and many more, through what life brings

Now my time had come to care at last

I doubted my worth to meet the task

Yet longed for strength to give as I got

So returned the hug... through a smiling mask

Gave thanks for her... and for my priv'leged lot
There Is Still Hope

15 January 2015

Kylie Abecca

Port Albany, Western Australia

Australia

A broken heart, so hard to mend,

When will this pain come to an end?

Hopes and dreams abandoned and shattered,

My pride is broken, the pieces are scattered,

New love will one day help you to heal,

But it seems impossible, even to feel,

I once believed true love was in sight,

Instead I was entering another big fight,

Am I ever allowed to move forward and smile?

Or am I destined to crawl over every hard mile?

I want to believe I will one day be free,

So I can dance happily for everyone to see,

Will someone step forward and hold onto my hand?

Someone strong enough, who can help me to stand,

A person to hold me and help me to cope,

That someone to remind me, there is still hope.
Australian Haiku No. 3

16 January 2015

Tom Coley

Katoomba, New South Wales

Australia

Life's so fraught with angst and ennui

No one cares about poor little me

I have to like it or lump it

With tea and dry crumpet

And a bit of creak in my knee

Tom recognises that his poems are limericks, but feels that 'haiku' sounds more sophisticated, hence his ironic label 'Australian Haiku'.
An Ode To Freedom

16 January 2015

Tom Coley

Katoomba, New South Wales

Australia

I said Doctor, Doctor, look in my ear

It seems to have gone very dark in here

There used to be a little light

Only small but very bright

Now there is an obstacle, I fear

I was never any good at school

The teachers said I was a congenital fool

The other kids used to fight and struggle

To have a look inside my lug hole

Doctors took x-rays but looked in vain

Unable to find my fugitive brain.

They said 'Well, Tom, we can tell you at once

'All your life you'll remain a dunce.'

'That's alright,' I said, 'it's all the same to me

'I'm sick of school, I want to be free.'

Now years later there's something new

An unwelcome impediment to the view

The doctor poked his light into my auricle

And said 'Yes sir, I can be quite categorical.

There's a _butterfly_ in there in full plain sight'

So he _blew_ in my left ear and it _flew_ out the right.
The Mirror

17 January 2015

Judy J Newman

Rutherford, New South Wales

Australia

Fractured shards cause a fractured world, where all is in another life

It used to be whole, glaring back at me, daring me to look at she.

She who resides so deep within, she who walks on the edge of the knife

She who weeps, not seen, not heard, she, who is not yet free.

The mirror mocked all here within, until the day they raged.

When even the black paint could not hide the mirror's face

And so it was left to one to destroy it, the war was waged.

Now the shards mock more so, millions of damned shards, mark their disgrace.

She within, in such a dark place, found only two green orbs, somehow multiplied, but nought else

For the mirror could only catch the eyes, not the ghosting they lived within.

She, and the others, had never been whole, so only two green eyes were seen, nought else.

Perhaps, one day the mirror may reflect the truth of she, perhaps one day she'll win.

The mirror does not see all, even in the shards, it reveals little, if any truth.

But, it holds a deep fear for she, and a deeper sorrow.

She doesn't speak, for fear of not being heard, that is her truth.

The mirror holds her at bay, the shards intensify, even in the morrow.
The Missing Assignment

18 January 2015

Jane Russell

Mount Barker, South Australia

Australia

'Scary Mary' was known as a swot, a brain and a teacher's pet, and this was by the kids who liked her, of which there were precisely two. These three were members of the school chess team and did really well at the weekly quiz night. Mary was of a striking appearance, being albino with milk-coloured, long, straight hair and mauve eyes. Her eyebrows were invisible and her lashes white. Some people referred to her as 'The Ghost'. She always did her homework the night it was given and always received top marks. The kids who didn't like her, basically everyone else in the class, ranged in this from mild dislike to outright loathing. Among the latter were the three boys, Toby, Mark and Joe; boys who consistently underperformed and who never started their homework until the night before it was due, or later.

This was why, towards the end of term, Mary was surprised to meet Toby outside school, a Toby who was being nice to her for a change.

'Hi Mary,' he began, shyly, 'I like your hair like that.' Mary refrained from replying that her hair was no different to the way it had been for the past three years, giving Toby the benefit of the doubt, as perhaps he was just slow to notice things.

'Thanks Toby,'

'Do you mind if I walk with you for a bit? I'd like to ask you about our maths assignment.'

'Okay, no problem. Did you want some help with it?'

'No, no, that is, yes a little. Perhaps we could work on it together?' he sounded desperate, so she agreed.

She had of course already completed her assignment. She tried to show him the basics of how to answer some of the questions, but he really didn't get it. They shared some milk and muffins, and then he left.

'Thanks Mary, you're a brick!' Mary was not convinced that that was a compliment, but smiled anyway. When she went to put her assignment away she was astounded to find that it had gone. Luckily she had a backup copy she could take to class. She would be tearing a strip or two off that Toby. The cheek of it!

The next day at school, she was surprised when she opened her backpack, as there was the original assignment. Had she put it there and forgotten? Her doubts were allayed when Toby and his mates each received the same marks as she did in their assignments. The teacher couldn't believe it and was immediately suspicious. Later in the break, she approached the trio:

'Congratulations boys, I think you've finally got the hang of calculus.'

'Bugger off, ghost-girl!' sneered Joe, nastily. But Toby pushed him angrily.

'Don't speak to her like that, arsehole!' then to Mary he said, 'I've been meaning to thank you for your help last night,'

'Ooow, Toby's got a new girlfriend,' mocked Mark, gesturing crudely. Toby walked away from his friends, leading Mary out of earshot.

'Sorry about that. They can be such dickheads sometimes,'

'You shouldn't let them copy your assignment. One day you'll all get caught and the penalty is zero marks,' warned Mary, hoping that the maths teacher didn't think _she_ had let the boys copy hers.

'I know, but they're my friends. By the way, have you done the English assignment yet?' Toby asked, casually.

'Of course. Why? Do you need some help with that too?'

'Perhaps if you could just go over the meaning of the question?'

Later that evening, after Toby had left, Mary checked and sure enough her English assignment had gone missing. This time she was prepared; she took out a completely different version she meant to submit the next day. The boys would find that, unlike maths, which had definite answers, English was more subjective.

Once again, the original assignment miraculously found its way into her backpack. She thought she saw the boys smirk as they handed in their work. It wasn't until the following week that the results were announced in class. Her assignment got top marks, as usual, and the boys sitting up the back were preening themselves with glee. All the marks were read out in descending order until only Toby, Mark and Joe were left. They looked confused when the teacher called them to the front of the class.

'Toby, your work is sloppy and makes no sense, nevertheless I would have given you a pass, but...' and he paused for dramatic effect. 'Then I read Mark's essay, which is word for word the same as yours. Okay, you've copied each other, I thought, but then...' once again he paused. The boys were writhing with embarrassment. 'Then I read Joe's essay. Joe, you really outdid yourself in the "I couldn't give a shit", stakes. You submitted a grainy photocopy of an essay signed by Mary Smith.'

Toby and Mark were looking furiously at Joe, who was grinning sheepishly. Mary gasped in horror as the teacher turned to her and said, 'Bravo Miss Smith. If these incorrigible, lazy, good for nothing boys were going to copy your work, then let it be bad work. After all, you study hard for your marks, why should they have a free ride?' He turned back to the boys, who were now shaking their fists at Mary, 'No retribution will be taken against Miss Smith or the three of you will be expelled. As it is, you receive no marks for plagiarism--look it up Joe, it's under 'P'. Let this be a lesson to you all. If you copy from one another, or from Wikipedia or from a book, that's plagiarism, and you get no marks. If however you quote from another's work, you _must_ acknowledge that you have done so with a footnote and in the bibliography. I'm tempted to give Joe a mark for acknowledging where he copied his assignment from.' Joe looked up, hopefully. 'Relax Joe, the temptation has passed.'
Purr-Fect

19 January 2015

Connie Howell

Wentworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

My mother sits and grooms me, she washes behind my ears making sure they are clean and with her spit she wipes away any tell-tale signs of lunch from around my mouth.

I sit obediently knowing that it is done with love and when she has finished I curl up next to her with my head on her belly. I feel totally safe and close my eyes and drift towards blissful sleep while mother looks on and keeps watch.

When I wake she is there to remove the sleep from my eyes and like the child that I am I start to play unfettered and I know I live in a purr-fect world.

I love being a cat.
The Wood Pile

20 and 21 January 2015

Joan Morton

Adelaide, South Australia

Australia

' _Du bist neu. Was geschah mit Nummer 5387?_ ' (You're new. What happened to Number 5387?)

'Sie wissen nicht, Sir. Ich glaube, er starb an Typhus.' (Don't know sir. I think he died of typhus.)

Roaring with laughter the commandant said, 'You do your job properly or you might die of typhus. Drive the rubbish truck to the _desinfektionsraum_ (disinfection room). When you have "treated" the corpses, load the truck and proceed to the nearby pit where someone will tell you what to do. Report to me at seven o'clock tonight. Move!'

'Heil Hitler!' my arm stretched into the air as I remembered my last few days.

' _Raus! Raus! Bewegen!_ ' (Get out, get out, move!)

Rifles were brandished in our faces as we tumbled from the stifling train carriages. We'd been stuck in these cattle trucks for days following our capture from Kremnica, my home town in Slovakia. Because we were Jews, we had been deported to Vyhne concentration camp before being handed over to the German Nazis. Exhausted from lack of air, water and sleep it was difficult to regain our posture. Prisoners unable to stand were kicked and punched. My family clung to me, seeking my protection. People were sobbing; husbands were trying to reassure their wives and children. Upon reaching the main entrance gate to Auschwitz I protested loudly as soldiers separated us. My little family clung to me fiercely in their vain attempt to stay together. A sharp prod in the stomach with a rifle butt and a swipe across the head with a pistol sent me to the ground in agony. 'Papa!' screamed my three beautiful children as they were pushed towards a huge white building that was, as I discovered later, the 'disinfection' room. My young, adorable wife, holding my children's hands, was looking back. I could see the fear in her eyes as she quickly brushed her dark hair from her face. Not caring for my welfare I reached out to them swearing and screaming as the German soldiers pummelled my back with their rifle butts.

Since my arrival on that horrible day I'd been made to work the rubbish truck, taking corpses from the 'disinfection' room to the 'rubbish' pit. It was here that I met fourteen year old Elijah.

Surprisingly strong, Elijah had been given the job of removing gold rings and tooth fillings from the corpses. 'What are you doing here?' I asked rather stupidly.

Smiling, knife and metal hook in hand he replied, 'Well this is the closest I'll get to being wealthy!' Under the circumstances I was amazed at his humour and attitude.

'How long have you been here?'

'I was twelve years old. My dad disappeared before we were arrested by the Gestapo.'

'Are you by yourself?'

'Yes. My mum was sent to the "disinfection" room the day we arrived.' Elijah seemed so blasé.

Days blended into months and the months into a year. Every day I drove to the white house to collect the 'rubbish' and everyday Elijah and I chatted about our lives before the concentration camp. One day he confessed he had a secret. 'What's the secret?' I asked. Elijah looked around, making sure no-one was listening.

'Well, you know how I told you my mum was sent to the disinfection room? Well the next day when I was pulling the rings off the corpses I saw her body. While those bastard soldiers weren't looking I took her ring. Those monsters killed my mother and probably killed my father too. At least I have something to remember her by. I've hidden the ring under my bed.' Elijah suddenly broke down and sobbed.

'Shh, shh!' Putting my arms around him, I gave him a comforting embrace. How long had it been since either of us had been hugged by another person? Suddenly a German soldier appeared.

'What's going on here?' he demanded.

Elijah jumped away, wiped his face and mumbled, 'Nothing.'

'You! Number 7819! Get on with your work!' screamed the soldier, lips lifted like a vicious dog, exposing tobacco stained teeth. He then turned on Elijah and swiped him across his head.

As I jumped back into the truck I caught Elijah's eye and tried as best I could to express to him that everything would be all right.

The next day was beautiful--it was spring so as I drove along the bumpy road I wound down the windows for some air. After twelve months of survival in Auschwitz I was used to the stench that first sickened me and made me gag. As I pulled up at the back of the white house I noticed that Elijah wasn't there. He was all right yesterday. My anxiety increased but I tried to stay positive.

The following day as the truck rumbled to a stop at the rear of the 'disinfection' room my heart sank. Fear rose in my throat as I saw again that Elijah was missing. A blonde lad with striking blue eyes stood in his place. 'Where's Elijah?' I enquired.

'Don't know!' was his curt reply as he continued the gruesome job of collecting the gold from the cadavers' teeth.

I'd loaded so many bodies that after a while one corpse looked like another; a bit like loading bags of rags, really. _Nearly finished_ , I thought as I reached for the last body.

My glance changed to a stare of disbelief.

My head throbbed to the beat of my heart as it exploded in my chest.

My stomach lurched and I bent double and retched. I was vaguely aware of a guttural roar emanating from my throat as I reached to the heavens.

'E L I J A H! E L I J A H!'

I screamed his name and kept screaming and sobbing until the Nazi guards arrived, beating me into unconsciousness with their guns, boots and truncheons.

A burning pain in my gut woke me as I shivered in a crumpled heap on the barrack's cement floor. My mouth was dry except for the metallic taste of blood. One of my eyes was sealed shut. The other, I could barely open. Everything was a blur. Then I remembered the reason for my physical shape--Elijah. Without a sound I let the tears fall. _Why? Why, oh why?_ There just weren't any words to describe what I thought of the Nazis, but inhuman came to mind; inhuman, callous, pitiless, cruel, but even those weren't harsh enough. Why hadn't they killed me on the spot? Why spare me? To be hung in front of the other prisoners as an example? Right at that moment I didn't care if I lived or died. Elijah was gone. My family was gone. What was the point of living? As I continued to lie there I realised that there was a reason to live. I resolved to get out. Get out and tell the world of the atrocities in Auschwitz. I just had to get onto the other side of the wall. But how? Trust. There had to be someone I could trust.

My new secretarial job gave me access to lists of people who had been transported from their homes then murdered in the 'disinfection' room. This job was much better than working the 'rubbish' trucks. Even the food was better. Fortunately my prison pyjamas had been replaced with a suit and tie allowing me the freedom to walk around the camp unchallenged by the prison guards. Since Elijah's death I'd become good friends with a fellow prisoner (who I shall call Miroslav) whose job was similar to mine. Every day we would both walk alongside the guards and document the day's events. At times the guards would leave us to our own devices while they smoked their cigarettes and drank their tea. Pretending to compare notes we used these times to plan our escape. We pooled our meagre resources and worked out the most suitable disguise for when the time came. Miroslav and I became aware of the camp guards' routine whenever there was an attempted escape. For three days they would conduct thorough searches inside and outside the camp. If no-one was found the search would be disbanded. Dogs and guards would no longer patrol the electric fences.

The weeks passed agonisingly but we retained our patience.

Our opportunity presented itself several months later when surprisingly we were permitted to work outside the prison fences where inmates were clearing an area in readiness for the arrival of Hungarian Jews. We became very aware of a very large wood pile within metres of the boundary fence. Could we use this pile in some way as part of our escape? Miroslav came up with the idea that if a hollow was created in the centre he and I would jump inside while other prisoners distracted the guards before continuing to build the pile. There we would hide, wait for three days until the search was called off, then make a run for it.

As I was walking through the gates of the electric fence, list in hand, Miroslav bumped into me stating ' _Dnes je tá noc! šesť hodín!_ ' (Tonight's the night! Six o'clock!). It was the seventh of April, 1944.

The shrill of the guards' whistles signified the end of the day's work. As the prisoners began their march towards the gate, one attracted the guard's attention and rage by arguing with another man. Both were severely beaten. During the kafuffle we scaled the wood pile and slipped into its cavity, hearts in our throats and sweat soaking into our shirts. Two pyjama clad prisoners stacked more timber over us before they ran to join the others. All was silent except for the guards' yelling and the sound of feet tramping off into the distance.

'Jozef, do you have the tobacco?' whispered Miroslav. As we rubbed the kerosene-soaked tobacco over our faces and clothes to fool the sensitive noses of the guard dogs we remained vigilant knowing that silence was of the utmost importance. We clung together for warmth as day turned to night. Suddenly the sound of sirens that filled the air told us that our escape had been discovered. Dogs barked and men yelled as they ran through the clearing kicking up powdery dust that seeped through to us. Fortunately the strips of flannel that we'd tied across our mouths helped prevent us from coughing. We sank down further into the wood pile daring not to breathe. Sleep evaded us that night. During the day we remained absolutely silent and alert as one small move or sound could bring us undone. For two more days and two more nights we remained huddled in our wooden prison as guards and dogs searched. We could hear the shuffling of feet as more prisoners were lead to their death. 'Avenge us!' we heard one cry.

Then, at the end of the fourth day and as predicted, the search was called off. Elated, we watched through a narrow gap in the wood pile as the gate was closed and locked. Darkness was our cover. All was deathly quiet.

'You go first, Jozeph,' Miroslav whispered as he touched my arm. Reaching up I removed the first plank. I paused and waited. Nothing. I removed the second plank, the third and the fourth. Miroslav gave me a knee up to help me climb out. Crouching on top of the pile I turned and gave my hand to my friend. As I heaved him out a plank caught on his jacket and clattered back onto the pile. We flung ourselves to the ground and waited. Silence. We smiled at each other as we scrambled up and ran for our lives--ran for freedom and justice. But the danger wasn't over yet. It had only just begun. For three days we'd been practically frozen in the wood pile prison and now we had to run, and boy did we run. We ran, as a leopard chases its prey, not daring to slow down until we reached the cover of the nearby woods. But still we didn't stop because even the woods weren't safe. Troops and convoys, Nazis with dogs, the SS and _Volksdeutsche_ would be everywhere. Three things would lead to instant recognition and execution: the Star of David emblazoned on our jackets, we stank, and our heads were shaved.

After about four hours Miroslav pleaded, 'Can we stop for a while, Jozef? Please? I don't think I can run anymore. My legs won't work.'

'No, Miroslav. We have to keep going. We can't afford to stop now. We can stop when it's daylight. Here, give me your hand.' Miroslav grabbed my hand as we scrambled up yet another embankment, stones flying in the opposite direction, dust coating our already filthy faces. We coughed and spluttered trying to ignore our craving for water.

On and on we went, heading south for the Slovakian border. Suddenly I stopped. Miroslav crashed into me collapsing in a heap. I dragged him up saying, 'Look!' There, about five hundred metres ahead was the silhouette of a village.

'What shall we do?' gasped Miroslav.

'Listen! Can you hear anything?'

We stopped breathing to listen.

'It sounds pretty quiet,' whispered Miroslav.

'Can you see any movement? I can't see any movement. What if we see if we can find food and water?'

'It's too dangerous Jozef.'

'But aren't you hungry and thirsty too? Maybe it's a chance we have to take.'

'All right,' agreed Miroslav reluctantly.

With renewed energy I recited a prayer as we entered the village.

Keep far from us all evil;

May our paths be free from all obstacles as we travel to freedom.

We crept silently along the alleyways, taking the most direct path to the other side of the village. Every time we reached a corner, the temptation to cry out with relief when it was all clear was muffled as our hearts rose to our throats, choking us.

Our cover of darkness diminished as daylight approached. We had to find a hiding place. As we reached the outskirts we noticed a stone cottage standing apart from the others. On one side was an apple tree loaded with fruit. The small side window was void of curtains. Smoke emanating from the brick chimney indicated that someone lived there and was probably up already.

'I'll check it out Jozef.' Miroslav approached the side window, sidled up to it and quickly looked in. He beckoned to me. Quickly I joined him and had a look for myself. An elderly peasant woman was sitting at a wooden table eating breakfast. Being sure that there was no-one else with her we went to the door and knocked. We waited for what seemed like an eternity.

I knocked again, a little louder. The door squeaked open a slit.

'Yes?' the woman inquired, looking as nervous as we felt.

'Please. We need your help. We are hungry and thirsty and we're looking for somewhere to sleep for the day,' I pleaded.

At first the Polish woman was suspicious, but after briefly explaining our predicament, she let us in. As we devoured a bowl of stewed apples, I remembered that somewhere in time, before Auschwitz, we had enjoyed the tangy flavour of the fruit. The warm and crunchy bread that came straight from the oven was the best bread we'd ever tasted. Fully sated, we slept in her loft for the rest of the day.

' _Jungen, Jungs! Schnell! Sie müssen gehen!_ ' (Boys! Boys! Quickly! You must go!) The peasant woman was tugging our sleeves. Immediately we jumped to our feet suddenly aware of our surroundings and the need to leave. As we opened the door, the woman handed us a bag of food each to eat on our way. _'Ich danke Ihnen, ich danke Ihnen so sehr,'_ (Thank you, thank you so much.) we said, shaking her hands. Fully alert, we ran into the darkness towards the tree-lined stream where we could blend in and be hidden from sight.

Feeling more confident, we eventually stopped running and walked through the countryside avoiding roads and railway lines. During the day we managed to hide under rocks or sleep in abandoned farm houses. Sourcing food from potato fields or orchards kept us going. God must have been watching over us because although we often heard the rumble of convoys or dogs barking excitedly we remained safe.

In the early morning of about the twelfth day, we came across a woman tending her crops. 'Stop!' Marislov commanded barring my way. 'Look! What do we do now?'

The woman looked harmless enough but we still had to be extremely careful. Exposure was the biggest threat to our successful escape.

Crouching, we watched her through the swaying barley. She turned, facing us. Tentatively we stood, holding out our hands. Instinctively her hands went to her chest then to her mouth, stifling a cry. She turned to go. 'Wait!' I called, 'Please wait! We won't hurt you.'

Walking slowly towards her I said, 'We need your help.'

'I think I've heard about you.' she stated. 'You're prisoners. I can tell by the star on your jackets. You've escaped from Auschwitz!'

'Then will you help us?' I implored as Miroslav came up beside me.

'The Nazis have searched my house many times looking for you. I've been threatened with deportation if they find out I've helped you,' continued the woman.

Jozef looked at me fearing the worst. My head filled with questions that tumbled over each other wanting to be answered. Was she a German? Was she sympathetic to the German regime or to us? Was she going to turn us in? I had to say something.

'Please, ma'am, please will you help us? Horrible things are happening in Auschwitz and we need to get to Slovakia to tell the authorities.'

Finally, she said, 'Come! Come with me! I know a man who will take you to the Slovakian border. It's about two days walk from here.'

At first we didn't move. We needed to be able to trust her. How could we trust that she wasn't taking us to the authorities?

'Come! We must go. I'm a member of the Polish resistance and we need to get you away from here.'

Relieved, we followed her across the field until we reached a wooden hut tucked away behind pine trees. Upon entering the hut we were met by a Polish farmer whose face belied his youth.

'This is my brother,' stated the woman as she introduced us. 'He has taken many people to the border. He knows a safe route.'

Not wasting any time and loaded with supplies, we set off. Excitement began to bubble up as we neared the border. But now was not the time to lose our cool as the threat of being discovered still hung over us. Two days of trudging through fields, streams and forests saw us at the border's edge. Only a dirt road separated us from Slovakia. Since leaving the wood pile we had hiked for fifteen days and covered eighty-five miles, but finally we'd made it!

'Get down!' the farmer yelled.

We threw ourselves into the shrubbery, covering our heads with our arms. Then we could hear and feel it. As the rumbling grew in decibels so did the vibration on the ground. We waited, hearts pounding as a convoy of German trucks passed a few feet away. I thought of the trucks arriving at Auschwitz carrying unsuspecting Jews and others to their deaths. _Please God, don't let us be found now_ , I prayed.

The world that had stopped turning didn't start again until the only sound we could hear was that of a bird whistling an all clear to its mates.

'Go!' the farmer insisted as he helped us up. 'Go now!' He pushed us towards the road. 'Good luck!' he called as we ran across the road into Slovakia.
The Other Side

22 and 23 January 2015

David Anderson

Woodford, New South Wales

Australia

Margaret Armstrong sat down in her usual seat in the park, removed her sandwich and orange juice from her bag, and began reading a paperback. Watching a few children play with their mother for a moment she didn't notice the young man standing near her seat until he spoke; causing her to flinch for a moment.

'Hello, do you mind if I sit down?'

Margaret checked the man for a moment and decided he wasn't a threat. It was a pleasure to escape from the turmoil of her fast paced work and its constant security, and make a decision for herself. Besides, all the other seats in the vicinity were taken.

'Of course--be my guest.'

The young man smiled and sat down. Placing his small leather satchel on the seat, he opened it and removing an apple, took a huge bite, and swallowed, then started a conversation.

'It's a beautiful park.'

Margaret lifted her eyes from the book and nodded in agreement.

'It certainly is. I find it a bit of respite in an otherwise hectic schedule for me.' Margaret hoped this reply would prod her new companion to leave her in peace. She was mistaken.

'Do you come here often? Sounds like you work close by.'

Margaret folded the book and knew her peace was about to be broken for more than a moment. She decided it was better to chat than be rude on such a nice day. 'I do work close by. I come here when I can, but unfortunately that's not very often. Do you come from this area... sorry... I don't know your name.'

The young man's eyes glazed over for a second and he turned and smiled. Margaret thought his smile was the smile of a warm hearted person; and in her career she had learned the hard way of being a good judge of character.

'I am named Elijah. No. I'm always near here, but I'm actually from the other side.'

Margaret thought this was a strange answer, and forgot to return her own name. 'The other side? The other side of what--the world?'

'The other side of here. I know it sounds strange, but I am actually from the dimension that is parallel to yours. Everything on this Earth exists also on the other side.'

A twinge of fear licked Margaret's spine. Maybe she should pick up her belongings and depart. The man sensed her fear.

'You don't have to worry Margaret. You've nothing to fear from me. I'm only here to help.'

'You ...you know my name?'

'Of course. I thought you would be an ideal person to advise of what is going to happen.'

Margaret glanced at her handbag, knowing that her Ruger LCP handgun was in easy reach. 'When you say something will happen, what do you mean?' Margaret thought it best to dismiss her companion's parallel dimension raving, and concentrate on his prediction.

'Your planet and most life on it are due to end soon. You've reached the tipping point, and the environment and population are completely out of balance.'

Margaret decided to humour her strange acquaintance. 'So how and when will this event take place, and is there anything we can do about it?'

'I can't see into the future. I only exist at the same time as you live on Earth. However all the evidence is there that your end will come soon.'

Margaret couldn't believe she was going to ask the next question, but it fell out of her mouth. 'So you don't claim to be an alien. You appear to be telling me that there are two Earths that run parallel to each other. Why wouldn't they both be destroyed?'

Elijah put his thumb and forefinger to his lips and gazed ahead, wondering how he could explain the physics to one who would almost certainly not comprehend it.

'We have been coming here for about fifty years. Our Earth is nothing like yours in the way that you have been inundated with war, slavery, and greed. Our Earth was decimated about two hundred years ago by a disease. This disease killed almost ninety percent of the population, and so our Earth has a future. Sadly of course with a huge loss of loved ones--but at least a future.'

'Does your Earth suffer the environmental damage that we have inflicted on ourselves?'

'No. Our Earth always was a paradise. We never suffered wars or famine and our environment is as pure as yours was a million years ago.'

Margaret found Elijah entertaining, even if his story was completely inane. 'So how did this happen? I suppose you don't have religion?'

'Of course we do. Our Earth is made up many religions that worship God--or whoever He is called in the various religions. The difference is that we never thought one was superior to another. We have politics, but we never saw the need to fight over it and no country sought to push its domination over another. I must say if it wasn't for the disease we would be as worse off as yourselves, and our Earth would be having problems supporting the excess population.'

'So how was this possible? How did you avoid conflicts in politics and religion?'

'It's like when you make a meat stew or paint a picture. One wrong dash of a condiment or a choice of colour in a painting could be the difference between perfection and going off the rails. Our religion and politics were altered slightly, but in a way that made them almost perfect.'

'So we are going... off the rails?'

'Nearly gone. We persevered with the natural rather than the chemical path. Your chemical nightmare began with the end of WW2 where chemical companies concentrated on agricultural products, such as pesticides, instead of warfare. We never had wars, or used the atomic bomb on humans, in fact we never invented it. We centred on different means of transport and fuel, and we found the answer for our power sources in hydrogen fusion and the harnessing and storage of lightning and solar power.'

Margaret was finding this conversation interesting, even if she knew it was based on a harmless man's dream. 'So getting back to our demise. How will it happen? A comet--disease--nuclear war?'

Elijah smiled and shook his head. 'I told you we can't see into the future, but the scenario is there that you will not survive. You are incapable as a species in finding any solution and you are heading into a slow grinding slide towards your doom. You try to work at it, but your greed for power lets you down. There is too big a gap between rich and poor and your politics and religions are always at each other's throats--choking any hope of solutions or compromise.'

'Then why do your people come here? To what purpose?'

'We are going to save you--or should I say--some of you. The ones who are important to our destiny.'

'What are the qualities of the ones you are going to save?'

Margaret noticed two men a short distance away taking note of their conversation. At first she thought they may have been security staff from her office, but their clothing was different, almost like a white hospital uniform of some kind. Elijah was oblivious to their watchers and continued his explanation.

'We do not want religious leaders or politicians. We want neither rich people nor even poor people. The qualities we are seeking are from people of the highest quality in their field, who are dreamers and of free spirit. Musicians--actors--poets--writers of fiction--philosophers and scientists with vision. Research doctors--architects and computer engineers--'

Margaret cut him off. 'Computer engineers? That sounds a long way from Utopia.'

'Utopia? We are not creating Utopia. Computers are necessary to create a world where everyone can learn, communicate and prosper. We lost many of our creative people and why should they be wasted in your doomed Earth?'

Margaret saw the two uniformed men were closing in and presented a final question. 'How will you get them to your... home?'

'We estimate there will be approximately one thousand people to transfer. We have one hundred people from the other side here to arrange the journey, and most of the dreamers have been chosen. It is a painless, quick and simple procedure.'

Margaret smiled as the men arrived beside their seat. 'Of course I am not one of them.'

'Of course not Margaret--I already knew that.' Elijah looked up at the men with a look of resignation. 'I'm ready to go with you now. I had to reason with someone of note. I feel for the people on this side, and maybe... just maybe, there is a chance they could turn the clock back and repair the damage.'

Lifting him from the seat, one of the men looked at Margaret apologetically. 'Sorry, Lady. We'll get him back to hospital. He didn't take his medication and he ran off the rails.'

'That's okay. We had an interesting conversation in any case. Goodbye Elijah.'

'Goodbye Margaret.'

Elijah held his hand-cuffed arms towards her and she shook his hands gently, and the trio moved away towards the other side of the garden, then disappeared from sight.

Margaret turned to pick up her book when she realised Elijah had left his small leather bag on the seat. Picking it up to see if it contained any address or a cell phone, she found only a slim metallic cylinder with a pulsing orange light and three buttons. Pressing one of the buttons she was aware of a sound not unlike the approach of a thousand bees, and her whole body tingled; as if she had touched a faulty light switch. She cried out in panic, pushed the button again, and dropped the cylinder.

'Ma'am are you alright? We've been looking for you. You really shouldn't come here unaccompanied.'

Margaret caught her breath and looked up at the black man leaning down towards her. Dressed in black suit and sunglasses, his concerned look was replicated by his associate standing beside him.

Margaret leaned down and picked up the cylinder. 'Come with me. This is important. Over behind those trees you may see two men in whitish uniforms leading another smaller man away. I want them brought to me.'

'But Ma'am, we really should go bac--'

Margaret stood and with her voice now demanding obedience, she harshly repeated the order. 'Caleb! I said I want them brought to me... fucking now!'

'Yes Ma'am.'

Margaret's two security officers sprinted off in the direction of the trees and Margaret ran in pursuit. Five mile runs every morning ensured she wasn't far behind them. Reaching the grove of trees she heard Caleb shout an order.

'Throw your weapon down. I won't say it again.'

Elijah and his captors stood before the security guards, while one of the captors held up a cylinder similar to the one in Elijah's bag. Margaret held up her hands to Caleb.

'Caleb. Don't shoot--that's an order.'

Elijah held up his bound hands and smiled at Margaret. 'They have to take me back to the hospital. I really shouldn't have come here at all and told you all those crazy things.'

One of Elijah's captors pushed Elijah roughly. 'He's crazy for sure. I suppose he told you all that rubbish about another dimension, and how your Earth is going to end soon? He's done it before.'

Margaret glared the captor down. 'You don't have to treat me like a dummy. I believe he's telling the... truth.'

Caleb touched her arm and gave her a look of concern. 'Ma'am, please let us handle it.'

Margaret pushed him away. 'Take me with you. I want to meet your leaders on the other side.'

Elijah's captor shook his head and held out the cylinder and pushed the button. 'I see our work here is finished.'

The air in the grove sung with the vibrations emanating from the cylinder, while Elijah and his captor's bodies began to pulsate. Caleb shouted and fired his weapon, but the bullets failed to penetrate the invisible shield protecting the trio. Margaret and her security team moved their hands to their ears to alleviate the humming, when it stopped in an instant and Elijah and his captors were gone.

Caleb turned to Margaret for some kind of explanation, but she waved him off and bade them to follow her back through the park to her seat, where she picked up her belongings and placed Elijah's cylinder into the little leather brown bag. Turning to Caleb she smiled and touched his arm. 'Thank you Caleb, I can always depend on you. Please don't ask me any questions of what just took place.'

'Yes Ma'am.'

Margaret softened a little. 'Caleb?'

'Yes Ma'am?'

'You studied theology once I believe.'

'That's right. I didn't want to do it for a career though. You have a question Ma'am?'

'I do. Do you know the meaning of the name Elijah?'

'Theology 101. Elijah was a Hebrew prophet who they say will return to warn us before the end of days on Earth.'

Margaret stroked the crucifix hanging around her neck. 'Interesting. Very interesting. We should go back to the office--we have important work.'

'Very well Ma'am.'

Margaret Armstrong, Secretary of State, and her two security officers, walked through President's Park towards the White House. Margaret knew that the other side existed, but she was unsure if Elijah was a prophet or totally insane. She held the little bag that held the answer a little bit tighter.
Lady White

24 January 2015

Madeline Ross

Winmalee, New South Wales

Australia

He used to have a home,

A place where he belonged;

A family to return to;

A life he took for granted;

Until the pleasures in life became wrong.

Now living in an alley,

The broken remnants of the man he was,

Cheeks sallow and sunken,

Dazed eyes bloodshot and hollow,

His body shivering and emaciated,

Resembling a walking, breathing corpse.

The alley smells of garbage and urine,

Littered with waste and discarded syringes,

He used to dream of mansions,

Sprawling gardens and fine dinners,

Silverware and expensive trinkets,

The life of the rich and gifted.

But great dreams die hard,

Disappearing like treasured possessions,

Sentimental objects and family members.

His expectations faded to dim flickers,

Hidden away in the abyss of his subconscious.

Now all he yearns for is sweet numbing,

Courtesy of Lady White and her needle, her charming suitor.

He lay on a threadbare mattress,

Staring into the purple haze of a sunset,

Watching the sun disappear behind its veil.

The night bitter and cold,

He watches stars emerge from their slumber,

Their complex constellations shimmer,

Like needle tracks on the arms of a sinner.

He thinks of sweeter days,

Before the cold embrace of Lady White

And her thieving drug dealers.

He remembers his family,

A loving wife and beautiful child.

A future worth living for,

Stolen away by the horror that is addiction.

He used to dream of a brighter future,

A beacon shining, glowing with vitality.

Lady White whispers in his ear,

Her suitor never far from reach.

He wonders if she will ever stop whispering,

Her hold on him tightens every day.

The beacon in the distant future flickers,

Now dimmed to a faint glimmer.
Tempting Angels

25 January 2015

Fantail

Mount Barker, South Australia

Australia

Where Elisabeth enters the forbidden arbour... 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 away...

I felt young and alive, as one often does when the remnants of vertigo finally clear. I slurped the last froth of chocolate fluff, tossed seed to the finches falling like leaves from the birch, fed the goldfish in a small pond further on and slipped through a gate in the hedge dividing our yards. In front of me, shrubs rose in layers to a line of conifers, the central avenue pines, each topped by small winged Gabes turning to stare at me. Unnerved, I halted, but it must have been a trick of the early afternoon light. The angels all faced the back of Gabe's house. A low-flying raven squawked as it almost collided with one of the pines and, startled, veered away. My heart began an irregular beat. The comfort of the seat by the rose arbour beckoned so I made my way to the rear of the garden, glancing, as I hurried between hedge and shrubbery, at the angels, afraid they would be pivoting to watch my progress. But I needn't have worried, they were motionless, their eyes impassively fixed on the house.

I crossed behind the marble-edged pool at the back of the garden and sank into a cloud-cushion and closed my eyes. Breathing deeply of ozone and sun sparkles, mountain breezes and oceans, I inhaled the spice of forests, mothers and spring. My heartbeat slowed.

I love Gabe. When I'm with him, life is intense and full of possibilities.

His absence hurt.

My emotions swayed. I pictured him by the fire with Aebon: angelic bodies of ivory and ebony, a glimpse of sublime perfection. How upsetting to imagine him becoming humanised while dark Aebon remained angelic.

However, after what he had done to my novel...

As if in a dream, I rose from the seat, kicked off my sandals and stepped into the arbour.

Swags of red and yellow hung motionless from overarching stems of green. Except for the soft fall of petals and light pad of my soles, no sound invaded the place. My worries fell away. I had entered the forbidden bower and it was beautiful. Sun spilled through vermilion and gold onto my bare feet and I was safe.

As I walked on, cushioned by the cool, pliant petal carpet, the arbour began to curve. Its entrance vanished. The light changed to one that threw no shadows. Time seemed suspended yet I was aware of moving, until, around a particularly sharp bend, a dense fall of yellow blooms curtained the path.

At peace with what I'd done and expecting to come out into the real world, I pushed through--and halted with a sudden intake of breath. Before me spread a garden of immeasurable beauty: a forest of towering trees, ferns, verdant grasses, vivid flowers... and Aebon.

My heart lurched. The angel's proximity held me spellbound. He reached for me. 'Come.'

The word lit my body. A finger whispered across my cheek. A hand hovered at my waist as, together, we moved into the woods.

We wandered the mossy paths. Birds with exotic plumes and iridescent colours displayed in the trees, insects flashed between the shrubs, rainbow butterflies sipped nectar from high orchid blooms, and skinks rustled out of our way while small deer nibbled plants in emerald glades. A group of unicorns, grazing on pale coral-like lichen in a grove of slender trees, lifted their heads to watch us pass.

I relaxed into Aebon's presence. I touched his warm cheek, trailed my fingers down the graceful sweep of his wing, was stirred by the power in his burnished muscles.

We came to a lake. He drew me down and we knelt side by side at the water's edge, caught by our youthful reflections. He dipped his cupped hands in, lifted and drank, then offered them to me. I bent and drew the cool crystal liquid into my mouth and swallowed. I ran my tongue over his palm and raised my eyes to his, questioning, but he drew back. He picked berries from a nearby bush and held them to my lips. His coal-black eyes smoked promises as he wiped the dribbling juices from my chin. I longed to drown in his gaze but he laid a finger against my lips, denying me, and instead took my hand. The music of our laughter joined as we scrambled up and ran, swift as falcons, light as angels: past walls of ivy lit with jewelled beetles, past tumbling streams frothing over miniature rock-falls, hardly touching the paths we followed while birds carolled in the whispering breezes. Our pairing--Aebon's and mine--seemed so right. I had forgotten Gabe. I had forgotten my age. I'd never felt so alive, so young.

We broke from the garden into a field alive with wildflowers buzzing with tiny pollinators. I halted and stood open-mouthed. In the centre of that expanse grew two huge, gnarled trees. They dripped with fruits, and the scent wafting from them was so delicious that I began to salivate.

'What are they?' I breathed, knowing the answer even as I asked.

Aebon drew me to the nearest. Its fruits looked luscious but as I neared I saw that scale and creeping insects infested the tree. Fungus blackened its branches and a touch of decay underlay its rich muskiness. I longed for satiation and Aebon seemed eager for me to eat.

Tenderly, he took my shoulders and guided me to a low-hanging branch. He slipped my dress off and kissed my bare skin. The desire in his eyes jolted me. My hunger was almost unbearable and it was for more than just the fruit. I stepped out of my panties.

Aebon knelt. 'Take one, fair maid,' he murmured against my thigh. 'Take one and eat.'

I dropped my eyes to his. 'You too?'

He shook his head. 'This food is not for angels.'

I touched a fruit and jerked away. A maggot had oozed from its bloated flesh and I realised I was already stuffed with more than enough from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil and, before Aebon could speak, I had broken away and was running to the other tree. Its fruits were smaller. The scents drifting from them spoke of eternity. I raised my hand and seized one... and was plunged into night. A great gust of wind flung me back to the edge of the forest. I crashed onto my back and screeched as a sharp pain knifed through my hip. Gabe's face streaked past, huge and livid, his mouth a howl that mingled with the roaring gale.

I screamed for Aebon, but he was already there, a murky heaviness pinning me to the ground. He slammed into me.

'Yeowww!' His yell echoed mine. He threw himself off and leapt to his feet. A tirade of expletives burst from his mouth. 'Elisabeth,' he hissed. 'What in Lucifer's name are you doing here? I thought you were a young, innocent maiden, sent for my enjoyment! You have made a fool of me!'

I shrank back. My nakedness, my age, the enormity of my stupidity burst through me, but, in spite of my pain and terror, my body still flickered with desire.

'No!' I howled. But my denial sped away on the wind. I clawed at the ground, wanting to stand and face Aebon, but could find no purchase.

Dark beasts flowed through the trees, watching us. Their mouths slavered, their eyes flamed, they growled and whined with an eagerness that set me quaking.

'Aebon, please,' I gasped. 'I was deluded. Gabe--'

He bent and grabbed my hair, yanked my face close to his. 'Gabe? He wouldn't have allowed you to come here, Elisabeth. You have violated this place.' He thrust deep into my mind. This time, my scream carried above the wind. The beasts drew closer.

'You withered bit of slag! Who do you think you are to play so frivolously with my affections? You sicken me! You have offended the garden, pray it lets you live!'

He dropped my head and vanished.

I lay writhing with shame and agony, longing for obliteration. But some small spark remained. I owed Gabe an apology, I needed to find my way home.

Struggling to my feet, I lurched along the swirling edge of the forest, gasping at the pain in my hip. Sharp stones hurt my feet, hail and sleet lashed me. Jagged red lightning ripped across the sky, bright enough to show me the path into the trees. Gritting my teeth against pain and fear, I turned in and was soon swallowed by the gloom. The monsters raged on the edges of my vision, keeping pace with me, lunging if so much as a toe strayed from the track. Stray brambles ripped into me. Vines caused me to trip and panic that I'd be trapped and held. The air turned thick and foetid. I passed the lake. Once so smooth, so clean, so pure, it now writhed with savagely bright algae.

My hip had loosened, so I began to run but missed my footing and tumbled into a ditch where I lay numb and exhausted. Ice seeped into my bones and great, damp clots dropped onto me from overhanging branches. The beasts reared and plunged above the sludge in which I shivered, and even though none touched me, I sensed their grim circle closing in. A lurid green mist seeped from the ditch. I coughed and began to choke. Terror of asphyxiation drove me to my feet. I clambered out and screeched at the beasts to back off. Wildly I looked around. The path I'd fallen from was only a step away and in the distance I glimpsed a faint yellow blot. I ran for the familiar flower, eyes fixed on its faint hope, trying to ignore the terrors lurking at my side.

The path twisted. The beasts ran closer, bellowing their eagerness and I thought that I'd rather throw myself into the ruined lake than allow those ghastly brutes to have me. But somehow, the single yellow bloom remained ahead, a beacon of safety. It widened and became a curtain of roses. A thundering growl set me leaping for the sweep of foliage. I plunged through and crashed into amber peace. Silence screamed in my ears. My soul howled. The soft light was too bright. Eyelids knitted tight, I fell to my knees and huddled on the petal carpet, trying to catch my breath.

'Been somewhere, Elisabeth?'

I'd never heard a voice so icy. I raised my head. The angel towered above me, statue still, his eyes blazing with scorn. I burned with shame and grief. How easily I'd been led. How arrogant I had been to think that I could consort with angels. I attempted to climb to my feet but collapsed and sank into oblivion.
The French Boat Boy's New Life

26 January 2015

Katrina Wirth

Rutherford, New South Wales

Australia

Thick black smoke billowed out of the ship's chimney.

A young, eleven year old boy called Patrick was trembling all over; whether it was due to his demeaning look or the blazing cold winds; I am still yet to know. He looked at me with his piercing blue eyes; he sobbed a thousand cold, wet tears, trickling down his face like a snaky river.

Patrick stopped shivering, his face was entirely illuminated, and glowing with happiness, as the Sydney Harbour Bridge came into focus. It was a complete turnaround from this shabby looking kid (who also looked quite mischievous).

The groans from the ship were ear splitting as it pulled into the Sydney Harbour port.

Everyone began to clamber off the ship; except for young Patrick and me. He stood there for a brief moment; once again bursting into uncontrollable tears. Noticing me nearby, he stooped down, picked up his duffel bag and scurried off the ship.

Once off the ship I followed him for a while.

He clutched his belongings in a firm, iron-handed grip that was sickening to look at. I followed this young, uniquely different boy, noticing that he held a letter and was looking quite quizzical indeed; his face turned downwards in deep thought and despair.

I decided to approach this boy. He looked up, startled, his train of thought interrupted by my presence.

Lost for words the young boy asked, 'Can you help me please? I am trying to find this place, I am meant to be coming to live here with my new overseas adoptive family, as my family died and my relatives feel as though they can't support me.'

I nearly fainted. I exclaimed, 'My, oh my, my dear boy, yes certainly I will take you there, it is not a problem!'

Patrick looked at me inquisitively and asked, 'Are you sure madam?'

I replied, 'Yes, certainly, I was heading that way myself.'

The young boy and I caught a taxi to the address of the beautiful apartment, where he was to find his new parents and home.

Patrick, exclaimed, 'Oh wow, it is amazing! I guess we both depart and go our own ways from here, it was nice meeting you, thank you very much for your help.'

I started chuckling aloud, 'I don't think that will be the case my young friend, as I am the one who lives at the address of this apartment and have just returned from my overseas holiday. I am Ms Taylor your new parent, it is very nice to meet you, um what did you say your name was again?'

The young boy; flushed as bright red as a tomato; embarrassed for being so indignant and stated, 'Oops, I did forget to tell you, my name is Patrick Lavelle and I am from France.'

I replied, 'Well don't just stand there dear boy, go inside and make yourself at home, there is a nice comfy bed with your name on it waiting upstairs for you.'

Instead of going inside and upstairs, Patrick jumped into my arms embracing me in a giant bear hug and stated, 'Thank you, thank you, I really appreciate you taking me into your home; since my relatives didn't want me!'

I very sincerely replied, 'That's quite alright, let me introduce you to some of the local children once we have you in some better looking clothes and your belongings are upstairs.'

Patrick, quickly felt at home in the new clothes that were neatly folded upon his new bed; it was quite different from the tatty rags that he was used to. He stood in front of his mirror for a few minutes gazing at his reflection.

Eventually, I called to see if he was alright and he came happily bounding down the stairs.

Patrick was ecstatic; full of energy and vibrancy, he asked, 'Can we go meet these children that you know?'

I took him to meet the local children of whom I am good friends with, immediately they all got to know one another and became good friends.

Patrick stated, 'I am glad I chose Australia over any other country to seek my newfound family, as I enjoy how multicultural you all are, how everyone fits into society and I also feel comfortable with the fact that you don't discriminate against anyone because they are different!'

I stood alone and watched the children play, I often longed for that feeling of belonging for a long time and was glad that Patrick was a part of it, but I longed for something more than just a child of my very own.

I continued watching the children play, when a striking looking gentleman by the name of Alexander approached me. I was quite startled by this gentleman starting a conversation, with little, humble me!

Alexander and I began to talk and slowly we found that we had a lot in common with one another, we became good friends and over time we became more than good friends... Eventually we got married, much to the delight of young Patrick, who now felt that his whole life was complete and fulfilled once again.

Much to everyone's delight, Patrick, Alexander and myself, shared a connected bond and internal happiness, all of which lived in our hearts and made our spirits soar high into the clouds like holy angels... for many years.
A Lesson Well Learnt

27 January 2015

Shirley Burgess

Rosebud, Victoria

Australia

Ivan hesitated at the door marked 'Maintenance Department Manager--Phil Adamson', gathering courage to face the scolding and possible ridicule he'd surely receive.

Well here goes. Knock, knock.

'Come in.' Mr. Adamson looked up and gave a start. 'Hello Ivan!' There was an awkward pause. 'Where in the hell have you been these last six weeks? You didn't even send us any word, for God's sake. How about updating me man--you owe me that,' Mr. Adamson indicated the chair with an angry flip of his hand. 'You couldn't wait to go on holidays, last time I saw you, and you had a pretty damaged face then, as I remember. Now, what happened next?'

Mr. Adamson knew all about Ivan's difficulties at home. His mother's partner was a bully, and when Ivan had asked why she didn't leave him she'd always answer: 'We couldn't get by without his money coming in.' One night Ivan stood protectively in front of her and shouted: 'Leave her alone you ape.' With his slim build he was no match for the thick-set man who left him covered in bruises and with a cut face. At work next day he'd had to explain to his workmates and boss.

'Well, I didn't tell anyone before, but he threw me out of the house as well--stood over me while I tried to pack a few things, and shoved me out the door. Mum was crying like anything. After that I didn't know where to go. At first I thought I'd have to sleep in my car or doss down on a seat in the park.'

Mr Adamson screwed up his face in disapproval at the idea. 'I earned so little here as an apprentice, Mr Adamson, I couldn't afford to go anywhere. It was raining, and I wasn't keen on either idea. So I tried my mate. He's used to his own room, but he let me sleep on his floor for two nights. I came to work that last day from there and then started my holidays.

'God almighty,' said Mr Adamson under his breath.

Ivan stared at the desk with non-seeing eyes, remembering the misery of that moment.

'While I was there a couple of his mates came round. They told me they were about to take off on a work-and-travel trip around Australia and it sounded great--earn some money and see the country at the same time. When they found out I had a car, even though it's old, they reckoned now they had wheels there was nothing to stop them. They said they'd put in for the petrol. Another mate had told them about jobs on the Sydney wharves being easy to pick up. He'd said the pay was unbelievable, and although you worked hard, you forgot all about that on payday. There were cheap digs that he'd used when he first started. He was in better digs now because of the good money, so I was all fired up. That's when I decided to chuck in my apprenticeship and go with them. And that's where I've been for so long.'

'Well, it obviously didn't work out, so what happened?'

'At first it did. In Sydney, we all booked into this big room, and when we landed good jobs, we were having a ball. It was only labouring on the wharves, and although it was hard, we were working together. On payday, we couldn't believe our eyes. None of us had ever seen as much money as they paid us, and it was great to have plenty of money in our pockets for a change. As fast as we were given it we spent it. We didn't take any notice of how much money it took to live off fast food all the time.

'I think I know what's coming.'

'After five weeks, without any notice, we were put off. They told us the job they'd hired us for had finished. Just like that. None of us had kept any money, see, we thought the jobs were permanent. We didn't know what to do. Instead of moving on, like that great plan of theirs, suddenly they all wanted to hitchhike back home to Melbourne. Didn't bother about me--they just left me there. I couldn't hitchhike home because of my car, and, as it didn't have much petrol in it, I had to earn some cash somehow in Sydney before I could even take off.

'I found a temporary job with a crowd cleaning at a school at night near our digs, and I did that for a few nights; then further down the highway, I dug spuds for a farmer, and helped him pack them. Actually I didn't mind that job. I answered an ad on a board in a supermarket in Albury and walked some dogs, and then packed shelves in another supermarket in Benalla for a couple of days. The pay was peanuts, but each bit took me a bit further on my way, and that's how I came home.

'I kept eating to a minimum because I needed the money for petrol, and I was able to supplement that at one of those supermarkets, where they were giving away sample burgers in a roll. Someone was flogging them for free. At one town, early one morning at a bakery I was able to get some stale rolls. They didn't taste too bad either.

'It's taken me about a week to do all that. Mum took me back in; and when the moron came home she stood up to him for once. She told him it was her house and I was staying. If he didn't like it he could pack up and go. I was surprised at her. He's been like a lamb to us both since, but I still can't stand him. Mr Adamson I've come to ask for my old job back. I'll do anything to get it back, sir.'

Mr Adamson sat still for a few moments, digesting the story. 'Well that's quite a lesson you've learned, young man! Frankly, I'd love to have you back, but your job is reserved for a Fitter and Turner apprentice only, and you've been missing from night school for over six weeks, so I guess they've written you off long ago at the Apprenticeship Commission.'

Ivan sat there silently, so downcast Mr Adamson felt extremely sorry for him. As he looked at Ivan he thought: What a rotten start he's had in life. It's been one long battle to survive; but if he doesn't get himself a job, goodness knows what'll happen to him.

'Leave it with me for a while,' he said. 'I'll ring the Apprenticeship Commission, and see what I can do.'

Ivan's face brightened with a smile. 'Thanks Mr Adamson.'

'Don't get your hopes up, the Commission has rules, and I don't expect they can do much about it, but I'll try my best. Come back at about four o'clock and see how it went.' Ivan walked out with his head down, and moved over to say hello to some of his old workmates, telling them the story he'd told his boss.

'Well, if anyone can get them to take you back, Mr Adamson can with his "gift of the gab",' said one sympathetically.

'Don't know. He doesn't think so.' They all tried to jolly him out of his depression, although no-one was confident for him.

With a heavy heart Mr Adamson rang the Commission. He told the representative the whole sorry tale with much feeling, including the bit about having to live frugally with food in favour of petrol and finished with: 'I wish all my apprentices could be given such a lesson to make them realise how valuable their apprenticeships are. This lad has learnt his lesson the hard way.'

Ivan tentatively opened Mr Adamson's door right on four o'clock.

'I've got good news and bad news for you lad,' Mr Adamson told him. 'The good news is you have your old job back, and the Commission will take you back too, thanks to a sympathetic representative. The bad news is... you have to attend school tonight or the deal's off,' he said grinning broadly.

Ivan felt so elated he could only stammer his thanks and wiped a small tear of relief quickly from his eye. He pumped Mr Adamson's hand as he assured him he would certainly be there at school that night.

Afterwards, Mr Adamson sat at his desk feeling relieved at the outcome and looked up at the quotation framed on his wall:

'All work is seed sown. It grows and spreads, and sows itself anew.'

Thomas Carlyle.
Let The Magic Shine

28 January 2015

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, New South Wales

Australia

In honour of my friend, Fairy Sparkle OAM

A fairy came to visit me

dressed in a purple cloak.

She gave me words of wisdom

served up with a slice of hope.

Revitalizing energies,

spinning dreams of fantasy.

A fairy came to visit me,

both needed some respite.

So we dined in a manner refined

in the warmth of a Manly night.

People smiled and chatted to us,

enraptured by the sight.

Laughing and listening, Fairy and I

Journeyed forth to wish in a cave.

Friendship sparkled on Fairy wings,

Moonlit was our timely rave.

Thank you for your truth and joy.

I ride the train till we meet again.
I Want To Be A Poet

29 January 2015

Demelza

Taroona, Tasmania

Australia

I want to be a poet

But I don't know how to know it

You know

I don't know how to know it when you are

Naturally mum

It comes from being one

But what makes a man a poet isn't clear

Do I need to write a book?

List the classes that I took?

Make you laugh or cry or even feel despair?

I sit here watching birds

Writing down these words

As they flit about the trees in front of me

In life they take a chance

They like to sing and dance

And I feel it's such a lovely place to be

But I'm not an ornithologist

Or an anthropologist

I'm just relaxing with some feathered company

I want to be a poet

But I don't know how to know it

You know

I don't know how to know it when you are
The People Ask

30 January 2015

Emma-Lee Scott

Callaghan, New South Wales

Australia

The people ask,

In their innocence,

Why and how come.

In my mind,

I wonder how,

How could I explain?

With the emptiness of words,

What is shattered,

With the pieces,

Thrown deep into the void,

Dark, ambivalent,

Unforgiving.

I wonder how,

In useless conversation,

How I could explain?

What is gone,

Will never be discovered,

It is not hidden,

But now a matter for oblivion.

I wonder how,

Without weeping,

How I could explain?

That their naïve question,

Reveals a deeper hurt,

Filled with longing,

With sadness and pain.

I wonder how,

How I could explain?

That the past is present,

Intertwined,

And not bygone.

I wonder how,

But never explain,

For truth is not for the innocent,

Or for simple.
Wildflower

31 January 2015

JH Mancy

Tallebudgera, Queensland

Australia

WILD Competition Entry

Beauty can be found in the most unexpected places. Like the neglected building site I regularly pass on my way to somewhere else.

Old bricks and roofing iron lie on the ground in haphazard piles. Remnants of an ancient chimney rest forlornly, awaiting rebirth.

Unmown grass and weeds struggle against the elements, whilst providing tenuous shelter for small creatures, intent on remaining invisible to other, bigger creatures. Who, ever vigilant, watch and listen for the slightest timorous sound of movement which will enable them to hone in on their next meal. An elusive smorgasbord of take-away delights.

Surrounding this hodgepodge of habitation is a derelict weldmesh fence, badly in need of repair.

As a human creature I am discouraged by law from venturing in to this urban wilderness. The padlocked gate has no great deterrent value however. It leans inward, its frame supported by a half quota of loose screws in rusting hinges. The remaining screws lie neglected on half-baked earth.

A lone vine, tendril reaching ever higher, snakes its way to the top as if seeking to free itself from the imprisoning gate. There, at the very pinnacle, blooms a single flower. Majestic in purple splendour, quietly it shouts a message.

'I have arrived!'
The Knitter

1 February 2015

Deborah Stanbridge

Dubbo, New South Wales

Australia

You knitted the family together like the blankets you always made

The wool you used came in many styles and colours

And for our own life quilts a loving foundation was laid

In our baby years you worked with sticky, smelly, screamy fluff

In our teenage years you worked with scratchy, itchy, bitchy yarn

In our adult years you worked with busy, seeky and quality stuff

The things you knitted keep us warm, secure and remind us of your love

I will miss you while I'm here on earth

I trust Jesus you are with him in heaven above
Going Home

1 and 2 February 2015

Anthony Delmar

Strathalbyn, South Australia

Australia

His eyes were fixed on the eastern sky as the first tinge of steel-grey light defined the jagged teeth of the darker peaks. As the canopy warmed his father's voice brushed his ear, _sotto voce_ , lest he defile the silence.

'Here she comes.'

'Who?'

'Eos, of course. She's just dropped her misty veil from the shoulders of the mountains.'

'I can see pink streaks. Is that her?'

'They're her rosy fingers drawing back the curtain of the night. Her acolytes are following. See? It is said, by those who know such things, their sable cloaks are made from the finest gossamer.'

'What's gossamer?'

'It's a thread spun by very talented spiders.'

'Are they the ones carrying the pots of gold?'

'Who? The spiders?'

'Ah, Dad! No! The acolytes!'

'Liquid gold, it is, to gild the ridges. They work fast, though by my reckoning, they're cutting it pretty fine this morning; they'd want to get a move on.'

'Why?'

'Because Helios is on their heels and they best not be in his path.'

'Will he run them over?'

'He very well might. He's in a fierce hurry and he'll stop for nobody, especially in these champagne months of long days and short nights. Consider this: if he was to pull up his fiery steeds for every Tom, Dick and Harry who ran across his road, sure he'd never get through the day.' His father pointed. 'There they go, sailing west; just in the nick of time, too.'

Silver clouds flared to vermilion as their billowing sails drifted across the molten pinnacles of rock. Refracting shafts of soft melon light spun upwards and outwards, while the valley lay breathless beneath, waiting for its share.

The boy stood transfixed as a brilliant blood-orange disc rose above the ink-blue summits.

'A wee bit red in the face this morning, don't you think: age must be catching up with him.'

'Is Helios old? Will he die, like Grandpa?'

'No, it's only people who grow old and die; gods are immortal.'

The sun cleared the massif to flood the valley with light and stir the air with its warm breath. Grasses bowed and whispered their welcome; a spear of gold noiselessly splintered the lake below. Moments later, the sward was hushed, as if by a gesture; the lake's mirror repaired and a curlew greeted its reflection with a plaintive cry. The disc mellowed and rose higher.

Andrew, the man, lifted his gaze from the water. He had made many journeys here from his home as a boy when he and his father would tiptoe from a slumbering house. Quiet as mice they'd set off, the pre-dawn dark gathering them up and delivering them onto this very escarpment, where the storyteller would spread his oilskin coat on the cold turf, take his flask of tea and two cups from his satchel and declare: 'Sitting in the cheap seats is a good place to be, right at the centre of the drama.'

Andrew had come a long way to reunite with the spirit of the place and with the man who had evoked such an illustrious cast of dubious pagan players to people his play. His boyhood interrogation of his father had been a well-rehearsed ritual: he knew by heart the answers; the mix of myth and meteorology, geography and geophysics and, as he found out later, the sheer, delightful distortion of classic sagas expounded by a man who could weave magic and fill his fledgling son the food of wonder.

The stories told taught him to be acutely observant: to seek in the landscape the subtle changes wrought by light and shade, heat and cold, the waking and the waning of the seasons. He learned to see Helios as an expert in fine art restoration, skilfully working to remove the night's grimy varnish from masterpieces placed daily before him: sponging away the opaque veil of morning mist; bringing forward the vivid colours, the subtle hues and tinctures, the tones and shades of the sedges, reeds and grasses, the bushes and trees, the blossoms and the layers of brown bog that lay beneath.

His father would strip a rosemary stalk of its pines, crush them in his fist and scatter the scented needles skyward in a sweep for him to catch their savour. He would conjure images of Helios stirring the saffron and violet heads of the gorse and bell heather with his brushes to coax the blooms into their gaudiest gowns, then, fanning the canvas with his breath, he'd release the heady aroma of coconut and the earthy fragrance of moss and herb to mingle and waft on the perfumed air.

These pictures, Andrew reflected, had hung in the attic of his mind for so long they had almost entered the realm of unreality: exaggerated imaginings to be dismissed as the saccharine sentiments of a home-sick tragic; a placebo to suck on to conceal the pain of displacement. On his long journey across the continents his dread had been that it wouldn't be the same; that recall and reality would present as two fighting cocks flung into a pit, knowing one had to die when the other was confronted. Now, standing down the years among the bog cotton, he was bearing witness to his affirmed memory of childhood when he had stood here, solid and rooted and sure of his place in the world.

He drew from his backpack the flask the kindly night porter had pressed upon him, advising him that wandering among the Connemara Bens at five in the morning was only for goats and for those who had whiskey in their coffee. He was grateful for the draught, his blood tingling as the hot coffee and Jameson collaborated to draw the early morning chill from his bones.

As he turned down the hill to make the trek back to claim his breakfast, a wisp of white turf smoke snaked skyward from a solitary mountain cottage. The sweet peaty smell of it drifted evocatively to assail his nostrils. Again he was transported, feeling the warmth of his father's hand in his as he tried to match his stride on the bog road leading to their bank of turf.

His mother followed in the cart with the sleán and nestling in the wicker basket under her seat was their day's sustenance, the generous tea towel wrapped sandwiches of fresh-baked bread, lathered with butter and mustard and stuffed with left-over ribbons from the Sunday cut of ham. Sean, his baby brother, denied the status of walking with the men, sulked in the corner of the cart nursing the quart jar of fresh milk, sloppily stoppered with a wad of butcher's paper. He was charged with keeping it intact, for its purpose was to slake the thirst of the men and to wash the feast down.

Singly and in groups, the people he knew like family joined them on the winding road and the company swelled and grew loud with the banter of the men and the laughter of the women. Now he was darting and dodging in and out among them, jostling with Tommy Brennan; wrestling one or other of Pat Burke's six children; racing like a hare to dent the fleet-of-foot reputation of Colum McMahon or throwing cow's eyes at Patricia McCabe, the beguiling raven-headed beauty he was destined to admire only from afar. Exhilarated, he looked round for the company he had imagined only to be enveloped by the silence that stole its ice-cold fingers round his heart and gripped it, engendering a feeling of chilling desolation.

Shaken, he sat on the top step of a stile leading to a field where one cow grazed among the reeds, standing deep in the mud of a poorly drained plot. He took a deep swig of fortified coffee from his flask. _How hard life was then_ , he thought. It was a wonder anyone could raise a smile let alone a family in those days of grinding toil; but they did, for everyone was in the same boat.

An old Irish proverb came to his mind-- _Ní neart go cur le chéile_ --there is no strength without unity. Like a blanket round a new-born babe, their collegial plight bound them tight and secure against the harshness of the times.

The struggles of the people notwithstanding, it was a time in his life when he felt vital and sure-footed, filled with a confidence in his own abilities and in the unshakable strength of his family and his community. His impulsive journey back to his roots was the reawakening of a dormant yearning to regain his place in the scheme of things.

Many changes had already drenched his expectations in disappointment. The sprawling market town, a close-knit village when he left, had been riven, the people separated, not by war or pestilence or deep social divisions, but by a highway, a horizontal Jerusalem wall that had killed the heart of the place and sucked its soul dry. His long absence had thinned the community he remembered as drills of potatoes are thinned, except with the people there was no reinvigoration of the surviving crop: they had withered and mostly died and he was chasing phantoms.

In the days since his return, he had called on the few cherished friends he had managed to trace. Their welcome was warm: they looked as world worn as he felt and the talk floated old memories to the surface of their conversations. The laughs and the tears of shared joys and woes, the tales of sporting battles won and lost, the gossip of marriages made and broken, were aired and exchanged like snuff at a wake.

Common remembrances spent, the talk stalled and the laughter, emptied of its ease, rang hollow. The discourse of the day to day that springs from the constant incremental sharing of the familiar was achingly absent: there were too many gaps in the narrative for words or the imagination to fill.

Andrew realised his friends had grown as their town had grown and he had not grown with them. They were comfortable with him as a product of history, a ghost of times past. His return was an unwelcome resurrection: it confounded their perspective, muddied their memory.

Without a reference point he was floundering: a destination, without the anticipation of old friendships renewed at journey's end, is merely another place to go, another place to be. Thomas Wolfe, he thought, knew the truth of it: you can't go home again because home has ceased to exist except in the aether of memory.

The languid night porter had long gone when he returned the flask to the alert young girl at the front desk. His breakfast waiter was a slow man with lots of years round his shoulders and his accent prompted Andrew to enquire as to his origins. 'Poland, Germany, then Canada; a cruise liner for a while, now, here. No place special anymore. My people, everyone I knew in Poland, they're all dead. If I went back, I would find a graveyard.' As the waiter retreated with his order, Andrew gazed as a fine drizzle specked the dining room window, darkening the day.

Returning to seek a world that no longer existed was, he mused, a hopeless pursuit: some things are better left in the backroom of memory. Yet, he had found much more than a graveyard here among the ruins of his expectations. Weaving mythologies, his father had lifted his sights above the drudgery of the times and woven for him a rainbow coat of possibilities. It had gifted him the imagination, the courage and the confidence to feel he could achieve anything he wanted to achieve. He still wore that coat: always snug around him, it had shielded him against the vicissitudes of life.

Despite the changes in people and places, the beauty of Connemara had remained true to his memory. The dawn had appeared on cue and the mountain altar where he and his father had worshipped its god prevailed. He was enjoying the fruits of the seeds his father had sown. All in all, he was content.
The Mozart Effect

3 February 2015

Sandra Coffey

Galway

Ireland

Aidan McDonagh was a reluctant farmer. On a Friday morning, he tested the swing of a new gate by passing it from his right to left hand. He climbed to the top bar and dangled upside down from it. He watched his father carry new born lambs in from the fields; their frantic mothers followed behind. He relished his upside down view of the world, but dangling days were long gone. 'There will be no college for you, farming is as good a job as you'll get anywhere' was how his graduation to full-time farmer began.

The gate to the shed passed his test. It was hung with the precision of an elderly father passing on as much as he could before his memory failed him. Aidan hopped off. He closed the gate, tapped the hasp down. Inside, the shed's walls were painted off-white. The floor washed with disinfectant that clung anxiously to the air. 'Farming is as much about tradition as about feeding animals and saving hay.' His father words, when he handed the herd number over to him. _He'll be watching to make sure that things are still done his way,_ Aidan thought.

The buying of the new bull was one tradition that repeated itself every two years or so. The bull's name was, is and will be Charlie. Charlie the Eighth's arrival was the main event of a spring day. It was a carefully planned event. Think of it as the stations. Aidan was let go to buy the bull himself, free to take a look at Limousines, Charolais, breeds his oul' fella would never entertain. Charlie the Eighth was a Hereford Cross

'What sort of woman would be attracted to a full-time farmer nowadays?' Aidan asked his mother Millie with the reassurance that she was the one to have the answer. 'They run a mile in Shaughnessy's when I say I'm a farmer.' Any decent woman had followed the money trail out of this town. The nightclubs held only the ones that were too cosy with welfare or tied to a family shop or business of some kind, much like himself.

'Would you be able to get a nice woman and would she sign a pre-nup do you think?' That was all Aidan's parents thought about. Farms all around them were broken up and it wasn't only the women who wanted out. Plenty of farmers couldn't keep themselves satisfied at home and looked for extras in the village floozies. The truck arrived. Aidan walked towards it as its beeps signalled it was time to meet the new bull.

'Left, stall it. A little more left. Stop it there, now.' Charlie the Eighth travelled close to fifty miles to get there, and was itching to get out. His hooves pelted the truck floor with the gritty determination of a model wearing eight inch heels on a runway. Joey Caulfield stepped down from the truck and fixed his shirt inside his trousers.

'We'll give him a few minutes to settle down before letting him out,' he said. 'You've a nice set-up for him here.' A lot rested on Aidan's purchase.

McDonagh Senior stood a few feet away from the truck door. 'If he stays for two or three years and keeps the place going, we'll be as happy as fat cats.' The farm was coming out of a bad year with two still births and three no-shows.

'You can only hope nature gets on with the job,' Joey said as he lifted his black wavin pipe and stood beside the truck, looking in between the slits in the panels. 'We'd better let him out.' The outside door of the truck opened. Inside were two smaller doors.

'C'mon, down you come.' Charlie's feet were pasted to the truck's floor. Once he'd picked his moment, he charged down the ramp like he was being chased. The piss ridden sawdust had the truck floor like an ice rink. Bolts of sawdust came at them like welts you'd get across the gob.

'He's a fine animal.' Aidan saw a ring attached to his nose. He'd remove it once they got to know each other. The gate was hurriedly closed behind him. _He has a good stance and a good behind too,_ Aidan thought of the two things he was told to check for by McDonagh Senior.

'I'll introduce him to a few at a time. Increase it after a week,' Aidan was looking at the four thousand pound bull staring out at him.

'I heard of a man once who let a bull out to forty cows in one go. Wore him out. The vet said he got a weak heart from it and the best thing for him was retirement.'

'We had a quiet Aberdeen Angus cow once. She was a beauty. She'd nearly talk to ya.'

Millie lifted up a bottle of holy water from her pocket and squirted some at Charlie. It caught the side of his face and knocked a hop out of him. Charlie shook the fright off with a nod of his head, his jowls hung like thick snow from the branch of a tree. Millie wondered if McDonagh Senior had been easier on Kevin, their eldest, would he be the one standing beside her now, welcoming the new bull onto the land. Aidan was doing a good job, no surer than that. But Kevin was made to be a farmer. He could have settled over the road and built himself a nice house. He had a knack of helping new animals settle into the farm and he'd get to know their personality. _Every animal has one_ , he'd tell his father. McDonagh Senior was good at complaining. _He'd fight with his own toenails_ , Millie would say to Kevin to pacify him after another blow-out between the two of them. McDonagh complained if Kevin got up early and started the jobs before he was up. When Kevin got up late on a Sunday morning, he would tell him he wasn't giving the farm to someone who could drink the lot.

Millie held Kevin close to her the day he left. 'You'll always have a home here,' she said to him before he turned to get on the bus to Dublin. She didn't ask for the particulars of his journey only to remind him to let her know that he was safe and well once a week. Aidan stood beside her and comforted her on the walk back down the laneway to the house. He wrote to tell her about all kinds of fascinating things he'd tried, such as _Tiêt canh_ , a soup he had in Vietnam which was made with duck blood. He met a Vietnamese girl over there and they were planning more adventures like a safari and driving across America. Aidan was a hesitant type, too much of a thinker and not much of a doer about him. Aidan was a reluctant substitute.

'Would you like to come inside?' Millie asked Joey.

'I will. It's not often visitors like us get asked in anymore. The new housewives like to keep their place tidy.'

They entered the back door and placed their boots by the dresser, then hung their coats on a hook in the wall.

'Nice to see you again Millie.'

'Hope you've dropped us off a good one this time, Joey.'

'He looks the thing. Time will tell if he's any good,' Aidan placed himself by the window that overlooked the yard. Millie placed the holy water bottle in the dresser with the lightly tanned photo of Our Lady facing out through the glass pane.

'How's Kevin keeping?' Joey asked Millie.

'He is in Vietnam. Lovely place he tells me.'

'A young man has to see the world, I suppose,' Joey paused briefly then continued, 'Charlie will make a lovely animal and make lovely animals too.'

'That's what we hope for,' Aidan said as he pulled the kettle over on the range to boil.

'Hope is a curse and a blessing,' Millie said as she hammered the teabags inside the pot before pouring.

Aidan admired Charlie like a new car. Even if the fucker didn't show much interest in doing any work, he was a fine specimen of an animal to have around the place. It was too early to start worrying.

On a regular Saturday afternoon, Aidan set off with a giddiness in his step to see Charlie at work. Standing in the field, he could see the cows crowded around, chewing their cuds like parishioners chatting outside a church. He got closer to them but couldn't see Charlie. He parted the cows by waving his stick at them and took another look around. _Has he jumped the wall to Flaherty's cows_? He turned towards the hayshed. Charlie emerged from the doorway, stretching his back legs.

'Get up outta that,' Aidan raised his voice as he got nearer, careful not to wave the stick in Charlie's face, as that could rise his temper. He held it tight by his side. 'You should be out there working. Isn't that what we paid good money for?'

The spring nights came. All talk was how Charlie made himself at home but was not a bit bothered about earning his keep. Millie was tempted to get the advice of their son Kevin but Aidan wouldn't agree to that. Kevin left for travelling and now only made contact when he wanted money. Aidan knew his mother was sending him out money earned from the farm. 'Hello Joey,' Millie put the phone on loud speaker.

'Hello, and you are?'

'Millie McDonagh here. We have a spot of bother with Charlie. There's no work in him.'

'That couldn't be right. Has he injured himself?'

'He's sick alright,' Aidan pierced his voice into the head of the phone. 'Me standing in the field watching him the past week and not a hop out of him. He's got nothing but the finest of everything. He's laughing at us, that's what he's doing.'

Aidan walked away from the phone and stood at the back window looking up to the fields. McDonagh Senior stayed well out of it, giving Aidan a chance to prove himself.

Millie gave in. Charlie was to stay on. 'We won't take him back for another two weeks at least. It's going to take a while for him to get going.'

'Let's keep an eye on him for the next few days and see if things improve,' Aidan took to the internet for a solution. And there it was. _Milk yields increase in cows that listen to classical music, a new study found._ The journalist described how the study was completed over a six month period on a herd of cows in Hertfordshire. Milk yields went up threefold. Aidan reached for the music player. He unplugged it and headed for the hayshed.

In the shed, he found a place to put it down and hit play. 'Now, Charlie, I have just the thing to help you. If Mozart brought the milk to the cows, he could be the man to lift your performance. Next up, Charlie, is Mozart's _The Magic Flute_ ,' Aidan introduced to the waiting herd who stood looking in at him. 'It's show time.'
Hook a Brother Up...

4 February 2015

MC Alves

New York City

USA

'Oh Brancepeth,' said the girl, her voice trembling, 'why haven't you any money? If only you had the merest pittance--enough for a flat in Mayfair and a little weekend place in the country somewhere and a couple of good cars and a villa in the South of France and a bit of trout fishing on some decent river, I would risk all for love.'

--PG Wodehouse, 'Lord Emsworth and Others'

... so, it's some time around Midnight--isn't it always(?) and in my habitual role of Wayward One, aka Quasimodo of the UES, Ret., I have one or two at Pesce and when the only people left at the bar start giving me the Evil Eye, Republicans and other riff-raff no doubt, I gracefully list down to 40.77918°N 73.95077°W, formerly known as Elaine's, sigh heavily, with resignation in my soul, Alzhemier's waiting in the wings, I abandon all hope and enter. Greeted by faces all aglow, smiling and beckoning, like a Scientology séance and I the ghost of honor.

The scene in this new, somewhat cookie-cutter establishment brings to mind an eatery you might find at The Mall (anywhere). To this old International Vagabond Emeritus it conjures a flashback to '92, across First Avenue from the Beekman Tower, a high-end salon called 'Bar & Books', offering svelt cigars but not a Guinea Stinker to be had. The bubbly lass at this Reservation Desk, actually there were three lasses, must be a Union joint, asks if I would like a table. I refrain from saying that 'my' table, the Kennedy Table, is long gone, for all I know being clawed by a sulking Siamese in some UES Dowager's pied-a-terre as we speak, and I silently point a talon toward the bar and waft over to the long zinc autopsy counter. Clean, spanky clean. Everything and everyone are very clean, spanky too. Not unlike Sweden, or Kaiserlauten, a man feels clean-as-a-whistle just by bellying up. I ask if they, perchance, have Muniemakers and I am sweetly informed that there is no smoking. Our hero sighs once more but not from any surprise, and proceeds to do what he has always done best: stare out the window. CCR ( _Proud Mary_ ) is followed by Led Zepplin(!) and so I settle in, squeezed between two twittering couples, elbows at the ready, and have a few more sweet snorts _as all around the milling crowd confuse themselves with raging sounds and their love's forgetfulness abounds. Be thankful for your grease paint, clown, if loneliness wears the crown of the Veteran Cosmic Rocker..._

And then I realize that something is missing. Outside there is a conspicuous absence. Rare was the night on this hallowed ground when there was not some fine-feathered felon standing just beyond the awning, maybe leaning up against the pole, working the door, trying to earn a meager keep by hailing a cab for the departing patron. I have known several over the years. Street meat. Many a character has played this role, the scraggly, the scruffy, the wild-eyed, but more often than not the dapper gent with an air of profound courtesy, seemingly a fellow who could have played a part in _Uptown Saturday Night_.

There are more than only six degrees of separation in this town but every now and again the well-mannered can strike a charitable chord in the well-oiled. Not tonight. Nevermore? And it is then I realize my new calling. _The Next Big Thing_. Who, after all, better than I to take up the mantle of Pseudo-Doorman at the Former Elaine's? Honest work. Good clean living. Caretaker of the Bridge and Tunnel crowd, valet to the Wannabes, Torchbearer! I am on this night perhaps a bit too well dressed for the role, sporting a black London Fog trenchcoat more suited to The Count than Renfield, but I know in my heart that I can be just as shabby as the next guy.

My destiny becomes crystal clear. My moment at hand, I jam the Jameson and hit the street. I take my position just under the edge of the yellow awning, crack my knuckles and prepare my palms for greasing...

A trio emerges, smiling and chatting. In Japanese. They pay no mind to me and hail their own cab. Ah, forgive them for they know not what they do. Probably Buddhists, waddaya gonna do? The approaching taxi slows as they take three steps off the curb. But, God I love this town! A downtown bus takes the inside lane and comes to a halt right in front of me. I need not ask the bus driver to wait, he gets what I am up to immediately, so I hold the folding door open and call out to the tourists the refrain I have heard so many times over so many years, 'Yo! Yo! I got one! I gotcha one! Here ya go...'and I point eagerly to the M1. They stare at me for a few seconds, befuddled and confounded, taxi door ajar.

The bus driver laughs and says, 'They got thirty seconds'. He waits.

I smile and beckon, bowing low and pointing to the open bus door, palm up, 'Beware of cheap imitations! Hey, any ol' fool can catch you a cab, but me, I got youse a bus!' They stare more. Finally, none the worse for wear and hoping to remain such, _Fortes fortuna adiuvat_ but apparently also the clumsy, all three scurry into the taxi and scram south on Second. The driver and I, sharing a Manhattan Moment, laugh together, if only for a few seconds. I say, 'Hey, it was my first time!'

He says, 'No sweat, buddy, you'll get the hang of it,' and then he flashes me a thumbs-up and too heads down Second.

I shall wear this noble mantle lightly. The Once and Future Elaine's shines on...
Open Relationships

5 and 6 February 2015

FF Jensen

Katoomba, New South Wales

Australia

A bedroom short story for discerning adults ...

Leah could not believe her ears. They were out celebrating their first wedding anniversary when Rudy dropped it on her.

'I want an open relationship... I reckon it'll help us understand what's going on with us.'

Leah took a deep breath and swallowed hard. The stylish restaurant where they were having their celebratory dinner was not the best place for her to make a scene. Not that she would do that either. She gaped at Rudy in silence while he ate his marinated New Zealand scampi.

'Excuse me, honey, but what's going on with us?' asked Leah, her heart pounding, after she regained some of her composure.

'Do you want me to spell it all out? You don't turn me on at all. I would've thought that by now it would be pretty obvious...' started Rudy.

'Pretty obvious? So you splurge on a super dooper dinner just to discuss the weather, the property market and to let me know that I don't turn you on... God, I would've never imagined you'd want to squander a few hundred dollars that way. We should've stayed at home...' said Leah, sighing.

'I've been trying to tell you for days on end. Actually, you didn't notice how I've been leading your hand in the sack lately? You have no idea what to do, really. How many men did you sleep with before you married me?' His level of bluntness knew no bounds.

'Is that what it's all about? Each man's different, you know. It's probably the same thing with women...' she said.

'Oh, sure, but I do satisfy you, don't I?' asked Rudy, with a certainty that bordered on arrogance.

'How can you be so sure?' asked Leah, astonished at his abruptness.

'I just know, honey. No need to make a fuss about that.'

Leah stopped eating her tea-smoked quail breast and closed her eyes. Somehow, she flicked a switch in her mind and found herself in an extremely detached headspace. Keeping her eyes steady and without blinking, she spoke, measuring each and every word.

'Do I get some time to think about it?'

'Of course. I just wanted to bring up the idea sooner rather than later. In the meantime, let's enjoy this meal, shall we? After all, isn't very often that we can afford to eat here...'

~~~

After two weeks in which Leah could not bring herself to touch Rudy at all, he approached her with a rather imperious tone of voice. His self-possession had come unstuck, and he demanded an immediate answer.

'Okay, let's do it,' said Leah flatly. 'What's your idea? Since our wedding anniversary, we haven't been exactly having fun. But let's agree on something: this is your idea. I'm too down-in-the-dumps to take it up with anybody else. I'm doing it for our relationship's sake.'

They both decided to set up their profiles on a budding website that targeted non-sexually exclusive relationships: swingers, multi-partner, hybrid and polyamorous couples. Rudy had high-voltage sexual fantasies as he surfed pages and pages of search results featuring photographs and videos of alluring women. They looked trim, taut and terrific, whereas Leah had always been somewhat chubby and more than happy to eat a large dinner, rather than consider him the enticing 'dessert' he thought he was. It had not always been that way, though. They had started their relationship in the height of passion some three years before. But something was lost along the way, and from Rudy's point of view, it was his sexual freedom. He could not fancy himself as fully monogamous.

When Leah and Rudy discussed their open relationship rules, Rudy's practicality prevailed: they would use protection with all their sex interests on the side, and would keep their open relationship agreement to themselves. Friends and friends of friends were off-limits, and so were work colleagues. Their extramarital romps would only involve people they met online. Leah acquiesced, for fear that she would lose him. Rudy was in awe that she did not need any extra persuasion, and could hardly wait to go out on his first hot date.

~~~

Two weeks after they joined the open relationship site, Rudy scored a date with Brenda, a tall and slender thirty something with whom he had chatted online. She had been married to a forty-year-old solicitor for nearly ten years, and they had agreed to start seeing other people the year before. To Rudy's delight, she accepted his invitation to go out for drinks on a Friday evening.

The night before, while Leah and Rudy were having dinner, he broke the news. Leah shrugged her shoulders and went on eating in silence. She had grown up in a household where the rules were hard and fast, and she was used to keeping her thoughts and opinions to herself.

What's the point of opening my mouth? He's dead set on going ahead with this open relationship business, she thought.

~~~

The following evening, a spruced-up Rudy emerged from their bedroom, wearing his best designer shirt.

'Don't wait for me if you feel like going to bed. I may be back pretty late,' said Rudy, eager to go.

'Okay... Good luck,' was Leah's reply.

He strode out of the house, leaving his wife watching a DVD. He could not believe his luck, but there was a nagging voice at the back of his mind that would not let go.

Leah's taking the whole thing too philosophically... better that way, anyway... he thought.

When he arrived at a busy pub in Coogee Beach, his eyes scanned the place. Brenda was not there yet. Summoning all his poise, he walked to the bar and bought himself a beer. He noticed that there were gaggles of young girls who were probably not a day over twenty-five, both inside the pub and in the beer garden. For a split second, he thought he had landed there on an all girls' night, but there were several mixed groups and his favourite footy team was celebrating a victory that no pundit would have ever predicted.

After waiting in the pub for half an hour, Rudy grew restless and wondered if Brenda had misunderstood his directions. He checked his smartphone to see if she had sent him a text message.

Maybe she's the type that enjoys making a man wait for her, he thought. Oh well, that's the dating game for some...

~~~

Back home, Leah switched off the DVD player and gazed at her laptop screen. Inspecting the Internet browser windows, she discovered that she had received a personal message from one of the men on the site, a ruggedly handsome redhead that called himself AJ. In a daring move completely unlike herself, she invited him to chat.

AJ: Hi lovely, thanx 4 inviting me to chat.

Leah: My pleasure.

She stared at the screen in shock, unsure about what to say next. But she need not have worried: AJ turned out to be quite chatty.

AJ: I've always looked at your photo. Love girls like u, who aren't rail thin. My girlfriend starves herself. She may have an eating disorder. Don't know.

Leah: How long have u been together?

AJ: It seems like bloody forever. 10 years!

Leah: That's heaps longer than my marriage.

AJ: Meaning?

Leah: We just celebrated our first anniversary.

AJ: And u r on this website? WTF?

Leah: My husband wanted an open relationship.

AJ: And u couldn't refuse.

Leah: If I had, he'd have strayed 4 sure.

AJ: U seem 2 be an intelligent girl.

Leah: Why are u in an open relationship?

AJ: My gf likes other ladies. It's got its advantages. Sometimes she invites one of her girlfriends & I score twice. Besides, it's a helluva turn-on 2 watch them do a 69.

Leah felt fascinated and repelled at the same time, but her curiosity got the better of her.

Leah: If that's what u like...

AJ: You don't do it with women...

Leah: No. But there's no accounting for tastes, is there?

AJ: :-D

Leah: What are u up 2 tonight?

AJ: Nothing, wanna catch up?

Leah: Sure.

She could not believe her own brazenness. AJ's photos showed a fit and muscular man in his late twenties. 'Why not?' she said to herself.

When Leah arrived at the pub on Maroubra Beach, AJ was already there, sipping a gin and tonic and staring at his watch. Gathering all her courage, Leah walked towards him.

'Hi! Good to see you... Will get myself a drink...' she said.

'Hello gorgeous! Please sit down. I'll do that... What would you like?'

'Erm... A lemon, lime and bitter.'

He walked towards the bar and Leah sat down on the high stool next to his, staring in the direction of Maroubra Beach. She breathed in the salty air, trying to rein in her anxiety. He was soon back with her drink, and sat down next to her.

'I think I've seen you somewhere...' she started.

'Online for sure,' he said with a chuckle. 'If you drive a vintage car, you may be familiar with the car repair shop that I manage.'

'No, not really... Anyway, cheers!' she exclaimed, raising her glass.

'Cheers! Thanks for coming here. Wow... You've got really peachy skin...' he said, caressing her right cheek. 'Your online pics don't do you any justice.'

'Thanks. I like the pics of your tattoos online. Not that you'd go around shirtless tonight. It's a nice evening, but a bit cool.'

He ditched the rest of the preliminaries and said, 'Your lovely skin makes me feel like kissing you, I have to say... Oops! That was too forward!'

'Probably,' she replied, between laughs. 'I won't hold it against you, though.' Leah's heart raced with anticipation, but she managed to steer the conversation in a different direction. 'Is your business around here? I used to work in the post office at the Junction a few years ago... My first job... Probably that's where...'

'Yeah, business is five minutes away from there. It's actually my brother's... Sure thing, we do go to the post office as well,' he said with a chuckle.

They spoke about vintage cars and how to find spare parts. AJ asked Leah what she did for a living and she told him about her latest office management position. She found herself warming up to him. She had never been one for seduction games, and to her immense relief, AJ's conversation and presence turned out to be relaxing and reassuring. She felt so at ease that she ended up drinking two margaritas and giggling nonstop at some of his anecdotes about his online experiences.

'... So you seem an old hand at this... And a confirmed swinger!' She downed what was left of her second margarita and stared coquettishly into his hazel eyes. 'Tell you what. We should go for a walk on the beach.'

'Now, that's an idea. Let's go.'

Holding hands, they made their way towards the sandy strip. There were a dozen revellers making the most of that cool, though pleasant, starry night. Leah let go of AJ's hand, took off her shoes and raced towards the sea. Laughing, she beckoned AJ to follow her. He took his runners off in no time, and when he reached Leah, she sprinted towards South Maroubra, laughing. He chased her for a good fifty metres, lifted her up in his arms and kissed her lips. Leah responded in kind.

When they let go of each other, she said, 'I'd fancy a bit more than just smooching you.'

'That can be arranged,' he replied. 'Let's go to my place. Girlfriend's away for a few days. We've got the house all to ourselves.'

AJ lifted Leah in his strong arms, and she leaned on his left shoulder. Both of them burst out laughing. He walked towards the dry sand with ease, and for the first time in her life, she felt as light as a feather.

~~~

AJ's townhouse was only two hundred metres away from the beach. He opened the door for Leah, kissing her again and again. There was some ambient music playing in the background. He took off his leather jacket and threw it on a couch in the living-room. He gathered Leah in an embrace, took off her jacket, top and bra, and ran his tongue on her firm nipples.

'They're a treat... Your boobies!' he gasped. He picked Leah up in his arms and lay her on top of his leather jacket. He stripped her of the rest of her clothes and gave her an avid stare. She stretched her limbs and opened her legs wide, with a naughty grin on her face. He shed his clothes and shoes, leaving his muscled and tanned body in all its naked splendour. With eyes half closed, Leah stroke the shaft of his erect penis, and began to run her tongue on his foreskin.

'No, gorgeous...' he gasped. 'I want to give it to you in your pussy... Baby, I may not last very long, but the night has just started for us.'

AJ lay on top of Leah. Her vagina was so moist that he penetrated her without meaning to. Once they started, they found it impossible to stop.

'God, you're...!' she yelled in delight. She could not finish her sentence and rocked her hips as if she were spring-loaded. Once, twice, three times she orgasmed in quick succession before he exploded in a frenzied ecstasy of his own. After he finished, he got up and knelt down by the couch.

'Baby... I want to lick that sweet clit of yours...' he whispered.

Leah eased herself onto a pile of cushions and opened her legs wide again. AJ licked and kissed her breasts and belly, slowly sliding down, and brushed her labia with his tongue. She burst into spasmodic giggles, and pushed her hip towards his face. AJ hooked her legs with his well-toned arms, and gave her soft bites on the tip of her clitoris. Leah found herself in an ecstasy of pleasure and pain--her brain swamped by a sea of endorphins and her whole body shaking out of control.

'You hot thing!' exclaimed AJ. 'Wonderful, honey! That's my baby!'

Leah's body became limp after her mega-orgasm, and her mind drifted into a space of peace and tranquillity--a realm of abandon and timelessness where she had never been before.

AJ's soft chuckle brought her back from her trance. 'Hey, baby, do you come like this often?' he asked.

Leah bent forward and knelt on the couch, smiling. She put her arms around AJ and kissed him.

'Only when I'm with you, Spunkyman.'

'Then we should catch up more often,' whispered AJ, between kisses.

'Maybe... You know where you can find me,' replied Leah.

'Sure... Please stay the night with me,' said AJ.

Still sticky and wet between her legs, Leah got up and said, 'I'm not staying the night here and you know it. I think I'd better leave. Thanks for asking, anyway...' Glancing at the messy couch, she half-smiled. 'I can help you tidy up.'

'That won't be necessary, gorgeous. I can do that myself.'

They both put their clothes on in silence. When they finished, AJ tidied up the couch mechanically. Leah sat down on it again, fully clothed, and in a very serious, almost sombre tone of voice, she said, 'We forgot to... you know...'

'Yeah, I know...' he acknowledged. He pulled a condom from his hip pocket. 'You probably won't believe me, but I'm not usually this reckless...'

'I have no reason not to believe you... Got to go. Goodbye, Spunkyman!' she said.

They exchanged a soft kiss, and Leah walked back to her place. Still reeking of genital juices, she decided not to catch a taxi. The thirty-minute stroll allowed her to drift back into her own reality. Her vagina felt pleasantly sore, and she felt a tingling sensation in her legs and hip muscles that was hard to ignore. Her knees shook a bit, making her gait a bit slower. Deep down she wanted to delay the inevitable meeting with Rudy. He had no right to reproach or criticise her for having had a good time, though.

_After all, isn't it part of our open relationship deal?_ thought Leah.

What she could hardly bring herself to face--once and for all--was that her 'good girl' persona had been disposed of by AJ's overpowering energy. She was only mildly anxious about having had unprotected sex. Since she was on contraception, a pregnancy was out of the question. Resolutely, Leah decided to put those thoughts aside. Deep down it was the demise of the 'good girl within' that she was far more anxious about. Her upbringing had reinforced her sense of submissiveness, and repressing strong emotions was second nature to her.

As Leah was approaching the area where she and Rudy lived, her angst went into a crescendo. But then she remembered why she had decided to go out in the first place.

_Bloody Rudy, you must've had a ball with that lady as well. I'll let you talk about what sort of sex acrobatics you've engaged in, if that's what you want_... she thought. She would listen to him, poker-faced as ever. When she arrived at the terrace house that she and Rudy were renting, Leah was only mildly surprised to see that the lounge lights were on.

'I hope Rudy hasn't brought any woman to the house. Now that would be grounds for a divorce,' she mumbled to herself.

As soon as she put the key in the lock to open the front door, a very drunk Rudy opened it from the inside, looking daggers at her. He still managed to hold the door open for her to come in.

'Hello, honey. Did you have a good time?' asked a very matter-of-fact Leah.

'Yeshh,' slurred Rudy, making visible efforts to stand upright. 'I ended up getting pissed with a group of footy fans... Renda... Brenda... didn't fucking show up, the bitch! I tried to chat some of the other girls up, but they wanted the footy guys...'

Leah opened her eyes wide, but did not say anything.

'What have you been up to, honey? Did you go to your mum's place?' His voice was awash with mockery.

She stayed silent. Rudy went on rambling about how badly the night had gone for him. She pretended to listen to him, but she was far more than eager to go to bed.

After a good five-minute moan against women in general and the one who stood him up in particular, Rudy stopped. He was doing all the talking and Leah owed him an answer.

'You didn't fucking answer... Where. Have. You. Been?' he insisted.

Leah sighed. 'I went out with one of the guys from the open relationships site.'

_The truth is now in the open_ , she thought. _After all, he wanted to start this game_.

Rudy shot her a wild stare and slumped on a couch. Her words had a fully sobering effect. After what Leah perceived as an eternity of silence, he found his voice. His facial features hardened and his drunken rant turned into a menacing interrogation.

'Ha, look at you... She who had to be put between a rock and a hard place! So who was the lucky man? You caught up where? What happened in the sack? Is he a good fuck? You'll give me all the details, won't you?'

'Goodnight, Rudy. Don't bother coming to the bedroom at all. Did we agree to swap that kind of information? I don't think so. I'm not terribly interested in what you did either.'

Leah had never seen such a loss of control in anybody, and she began to fear for her own safety. In an unexpected twist, Rudy snatched his keys from the coffee table, made a beeline for the front door and slammed it shut behind him.

His reaction had brought Leah back from her cozy state of sleepiness. It would be next to impossible for her to fall asleep. She sat down at her dining table, switched on her laptop and logged herself into the chatroom where she had meet AJ. He was not online, but she found several messages from other male members of the forum in her inbox. With half a smile of satisfaction, she started to read them.
Tell My Father

7 February 2015

Kate-Michelle Von Riegen

Hazelbrook, New South Wales

Australia

He lies face down in the slush-filled trench. The morbid stench of death lies heavy in the air, invading their nostrils and seeping into the shredded material of their uniforms. It's inescapable. It leaches into everything. Carried on the wind's sick breath, the scent of suffering climbs through his sinuses and settles in the back of his throat, choking him with every shaky struggle for untainted air to fill his drowning lungs.

He can hear the clash of armed battle on the blood-soaked plains above his head. The landscape painted in the red hues leaking from his fellow soldiers. The fields of slaughter that have become the reality of his every waking moment. The ghastly killing floor of war that haunts his every night. The frightful ornaments of slaughter dancing behind his eyelids, dressed in their crimson rags of battle.

It is the screams of these fallen men that echo through the barren valley. Their anguished shrieks bouncing off the rocky walls above them, surrounding them in a cacophony of high-pitched agony. The horrific symphony of death's dark song, harmonised only by the continuous stutter of gunfire and the wail of whizz-bangs whistling overhead.

He is in hell.

A hell brought about by man's own doing and populated by the thousands of naïve young men who willingly signed away their souls for the false and empty promise of excitement and adventure. Instead they got this abyss of despair. There is no excitement in this hell-hole.

Only fear. There is no adventure within these murky walls of earth. Only the threat of their own obliteration and an agonising call to the Lord's kingdom hanging overhead, each burst of artillery and explosion of earth a reminder of their imminent departure from this life, tormenting them with their own frailty and weakness.

William's body lies strewn in the sludge underneath his own. He can feel each tremor, each shake of muscle, as earth and rock rain on top of their heads. Each rocky bullet cuts through his skin, shredding his thin cotton shirt. There is a faint ringing in his ears, and for a moment he wonders if he is really awake. His dank surroundings swim before his eyes. The dark grave of condemned men.

As he reaches out his arm towards his friend, hauling him up from the oozing swamp below them, he can't help but think of those back home. His mother sitting by the window, the warm flickering flame of a candle warding off the darkness. A small and loving beacon of light leading a young boy home from the horrors of war's red lawn. She had promised him that the flame would be kept alive until he walked back through those doors. It has been almost a year since he proudly sauntered out of that little wooden house, impeccably dressed in his lieutenant's uniform, intent on carving his own place in the world.

Would that candle still be burning? It is the only beacon of hope that he has held onto since being dropped into this horrifying pit of misery. If he tries, he can still see that warm little flame when he closes his eyes, fighting to be seen over the nightmare of detached limbs and vacant eyes.

Will she still be sitting by the window? Quietly humming as she rocks back and forth in her favourite wooden chair. Clawed and wrinkled fingers, slightly swollen with the early stages of arthritis, doggedly threading her needle. Ignoring her own pain while she tries to fight the war the only way she knows how. Battling the stories of bloodshed and loss that have taken over the town with each well-placed stitch. Doing her part in making sure her son is equipped with enough warm bedding and clothing to ward off the chill of the battlefields, all the while praying that he hasn't been struck down since his last letter.

What will she do if he dies? He is her only son. The hopes of their family lay squarely on his shoulders. If he is blasted from this world by one well-aimed shell, who will look after her in her old age?

His father will be there of course, but he is getting just as old. He'll soon be unable to manage the upkeep of the farm. Then what? Who will make sure the ploughing gets done on time if he is dead across the seas, sleeping in fields of green along with thousands of other young men who have been unable to keep their promise to return?

Would he know? Would his father know everything that he needed to tell him?

He and his father have never been big talkers. Emotions are for women, and men don't waste time on the silly things. He regrets that now. He wishes now that he'd made the effort. That he'd made more of an effort to tell his father exactly what he'd meant to him.

Ever since he had been a child he had idolised the man. The retired soldier who still walked tall, demanding the respect of all those who crossed his path. It was his father's stories that he had always loved the most.

Before he'd gone off seeking his own adventures across the sea, he had loved the cold. Now as he sits in the dark beside William, huddled in his thin and shredded standard issue coat, he realises the irony. Back then in the safe confines of their rolling farmland, feeling a chill in the air meant that winter was coming. And winter meant nights huddled beside the fire with his parents, his father's softly spoken voice weaving tales of courage and bravery in the face of battle out of the air around them. To an impressionable child's mind his father's past had seemed almost mythical, the legendary undertakings of a hero more brave than any Greek God of Olympus.

He hopes that if he dies in this cold and lonely place that his father is proud of him.

He doesn't regret believing in those old war stories. Even while he sits here with the moans and laments of the dying the only lullaby to coax him to sleep, he wouldn't change those nights for anything.

In those stories he got a glimpse into his father's closely guarded heart. He had taught him that being a man was about more than finding a wife and buying up a bit of land. Any boy could do that. A man made sacrifices. He acted with honour and did what had to be done, so that he could greet the future with pride, knowing that he had played a part in creating it for his children.

It was that lesson that had made him sign up in the first place. He wanted to find his own adventures. He wanted to turn into a man that his own son would be proud of.

Does his father know that? When they meet again in the heavens, when the shrill of artillery is a distant memory and the angels fly above their heads, will his father look at him with pride in his eyes?

His head drops back against the damp wall of earth, and he ignores the chill of the slime oozing into his matted hair and through the thin fabric of his tattered shirt. His eyes rest on the sleeping form of his best friend currently hunched beside him, and he wonders if the two of them are really going to outrun death's waiting arms, to tell their loved ones everything they need to know.

Then again, maybe they don't have to. Maybe all they need is for one of them to survive to carry on the final words of the other.

'William,' he whispers to the still figure beside him. 'William!' The hushed tones of urgency drift towards his friend's ears, coaxing him awake.

'If I don't make it back home, I need you to tell my father something for me,' he murmurs into the black air. 'Tell my father that I didn't run or surrender, and that I died with honour. Tell him that I tried to be a man that he could be proud of, and that we'll meet again one day with the angels. Just tell him... tell him, that I love him, alright? Tell him that I love him and I'm sorry I didn't tell him that enough.'

~~~

He lies face down on the dining room floor, trying to ignore the discomfort of the hard wooden boards stretched out below them. It's a familiar scene, played out far too often for anyone's liking. Everyone with their own role, and their own lines. Etched into his brain by countless repetition. He doesn't need his father to describe the setting to him. He knows it by heart now.

The morbid stench of death lies heavy in the air, invading their nostrils and seeping into the shredded material of their uniforms. It's inescapable. It leaches into everything. Carried on the wind's sick breath, the scent of suffering climbs through his sinuses and settles in the back of his throat, choking him with every shaky struggle for untainted air to fill his drowning lungs.

He can feel each tremor, each quiver of muscle released from the large form above him, vainly trying to protect him from their invisible assailant. As the weight of his elder's body slowly rises off him, he feels a hand reach down to help him clamber up into a sitting position underneath the large oak table they dived under for shelter when the battle first began.

With each whizz and bang of colour that lights up the night sky, he can feel the man beside him slip further and further away. Lost into the blood-soaked images of a horrifying past that he can never hope to properly conceive, but there's nothing he can do.

Nothing he can do but sit here. Resting against the sturdy table leg, giving a shoulder to his terrified father to lean on as they silently face the turmoil of battle together.

As he feels the tremors that are wracking through the body beside him, he silently curses the idiots across the road and their damn backyard fireworks. With each new explosive spark that adds to the kaleidoscope painting the sky, his father's mind descends further into that dark, dank graveyard of condemned souls.

He can do nothing but wait. Patiently wait for this episode to subside, and be here to help pull his hero out from the fiery fields of battle and back into the present.

As the clock hanging on the wall above them slowly counts the seconds away he reaches out his fingers to gently grasp the calloused, weathered hand beside him.

'It's alright Lieutenant,' he whispers to his suffering companion. 'We're safe. The enemy can't find us here.'

And there they sit. In silence but for the softly ticking clock counting out the hours of their vigil. He can feel his legs going numb beneath him as he sits cross-legged, a quiet sentinel guarding his father's hunched figure. As the rainbow lighting up the outside sky slowly fades back into blackness, he senses the shift in his father's awareness.

Here it comes. The play's final act. Just a few more minutes. A few more minutes enduring the muck-filled trenches of the crimson battlefields and the words that will herald the eventual return into the reality of the present.

With a deep breath he readies himself to hear them. The words that cut deep into his heart every time they are spoken. The words that give him an unimpeded glimpse into his father's deepest soul. A glimpse into his deepest feelings.

'William,' his father whispers to him. But he knows that it's not him he's talking to. He has not even been born in the world his father's mind has now taken him to. 'William!' he repeats in hushed tones of urgency meant to ensure he has his undivided attention.

'If I don't make it back home, I need you to tell my father something,' he murmurs with a hint of hesitation.

And so his father speaks, and he listens. He listens as his father gives him the final words of a terrified soldier facing his death. He listens as his father bares his soul and lays his heart out on his sleeve. He listens as his hero's words echo the feelings in his own heart.

And like every time that this familiar act takes place, he wonders if his father knows the words that he himself would want passed on to him if he was saying his final goodbye.

'Tell my father that I love him. Tell him I'm sorry that I don't tell him that enough.'

Editor's note: While this seemed like a commentary on war to start with, we soon realised that it is so much more than that. The empathy for the shell-shocked (now PTSD-affected) soldier is beautifully drawn as is the love passing back and forth between the generations. Heartbreaking stuff.
Ray's Revenge

8 February 2015

Michael Cooper

Penrith, New South Wales

Australia

'Ray, these ropes are really tight.' Vern was in his office chair with his wrists tied to its arms. Ray didn't look up from the bowl where he was stirring a mixture of paint and glitter, but Vern could tell he had a nasty glint in his eye.

'Ray, please. Is this because of John Denver?' That got Ray to look up and he half smiled as he remembered the iPod and John Denver.

Six weeks earlier, Ray had been worried because some of his shirts were tighter. He couldn't work out why because the bathroom scales in his girlfriend's apartment showed no weight gain. Maybe the gym workouts were paying off, but his chest and waist measurements were unchanged.

The washing machine wasn't to blame because his shirts were dry-cleaned. Then his girlfriend Deb, noticed the darts.

'Were these in your shirts when you bought them?' she asked. Ray admitted that he didn't know. He never looked past colour and bought his shirts based on what appealed at the time.

'If the darts weren't there when you bought them, someone must have added them,' Deb said. 'Whoever put them there knew what they were doing. They're incredibly neat and almost invisible.'

Ray smacked his forehead. He knew who had put the darts in his shirts. It had to be Frank, his housemate and tailor extraordinaire. He'd been played, and magnificently at that.

The more he thought about it, Ray was convinced that both his housemates had conspired to mess with his head. Co-housemate Vern gave the impression of helping when Ray had trouble with his iPod. Vern, the law firm IT manager, had hacked his computer and left John Denver songs all over it.

Frank and Vern had played him at his own game and been way subtler than Ray had ever been. His pranks were, he now realised, cheap by comparison. Ray decided on a plan for payback--revenge was going to be sweet and just maybe, subtle.

'What are you going to do with the paint?' Vern asked. Vern had just earned a promotion from IT manager to full partner. This was rare, because Vern wasn't a lawyer but his astuteness with computers had saved the firm millions.

Vern had detected a major hack of the firm's files by some disgruntled employees. His abilities had staved off a huge loss in client hours. A law firm with compromised files wasn't a good look for clients who relied on confidentiality.

Ray had persuaded Vern's new secretary to let him into the office. He'd surprised Vern on his return from lunch and tied him to the chair. Ray hadn't spoken since he started mixing the paint. Vern tried again.

'I should remind you that we're in a building full of lawyers.'

Ray started painting the mixture around the room. He covered the desk, dabbed some on the computer screen and started on the walls.

'This is insane Ray,' said Vern. 'I admit I went a little overboard with the John Denver thing on your iPod. I'm no lawyer, but you're committing a crime here.'

Ray responded with a blank stare, then his phone vibrated in his pocket. He put down the paint and answered.

A voice shrieked, 'Ray? Ray Jones?' Ray said it was.

'It's your lucky day Ray! This is Mark "Ando" Anderson of Radio 3KMZ and we've just drawn your name from our prize barrel. Thanks to our joint sponsors, Uptown Lawyers and Stitched Up Gentlemen's Clothiers you've won a trip to France.' Ray said nothing.

'Ray, Ray, are you there? Talk to me Ray.'

'I'm here,' Ray said.

'How about that prize Ray? To collect, you need to get to Radio 3KMZ by 4pm this afternoon. It has to be you, in person. Can you do that, Ray?' Ray said he could.

The DJ gave Ray the address of the radio station and hung up. Vern had worked out the gist of the conversation. The DJ had spoken at such a volume that Vern heard every word with crystal clarity through Ray's phone.

'Does this change things a bit?' Vern asked. Trance-like, Ray began untying Vern's wrists. 'I won't report this, Ray. I'll even clean up the mess, but just leave. Please.'

Ray nodded but said nothing. He finished untying the knots and left the office. Vern rubbed the circulation back into his hands then reached for his phone. He called Frank at his shop, which was downstairs in the same building.

'Frank, you'll never believe what Ray has just done.'

'Tried some lame "got you back" prank because of the darts I put in his shirts?'

'Lame doesn't even describe it. He's splattered paint all over my office.'

'You're kid... hang on. Hey stop that! Gotta go Vern, someone's cutting the sleeves off my suits.'

Frank rushed from the back room of his store to find Ray with a pair of scissors. The sleeves of four expensive suits were on the floor.

'Ray, you're nuts. Get out of here before I call the cops.' Ray waved the scissors in Frank's face. 'Okay okay, I'm sorry about the darts in the shirts, but Vern and I are sick of your tedious pranks. You pull them all the time and we've had it.' Without a word, Ray dropped the scissors and left the shop.

'Well that was worth it,' Ray said.

'What was, hon?' asked Deb.

'Leaving my job so I could win this trip.'

Frowning, Deb sat up against the bed's sumptuous pillows and looked at Ray, who was admiring the view from the hotel window where he could see the Eiffel Tower.

'It took some wheeling and dealing,' Ray went on, 'but I used my marketing company to get Vern's lawyers and Frank's clothiers to sponsor this prize. Personally underwritten by Uptown's new partner and Stitched Up's head tailor. I had to resign as CEO because employees weren't eligible to win. Got a nice payout though.'

'But, you won. How many people entered? There must have been thousands.'

'Nah, just one. Me. "Ando" Anderson is a good mate, and he'll keep a secret. The added bonus was that Frank and Vern let me get away with a bit of vandalism.'
Flame Inferior (In A Former Life)

9 February 2015

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

In a former life I worked in an office,

Or, to be more precise, I spent time sitting on my orifice--

Dispensing ludicrous advice.

Taking customer's payments,

Enduring their endless complaints:

'Outstanding? Really? Can I get an extension to pay?'

'I thought I sent the cheque off yesterday!'

'Can I get a discount with no restraints?'

And now those many years in public service,

Come back to haunt me occasionally.

They make me nervous; taunt me, in dead of night.

Reminders of the mistakes I made;

Calculated risks to get the job complete; corners I cut.

Always afraid!

But... _was_ everything really complete?

Had I covered my back? Always that vague feeling in the gut...

In that former life, I was ambitious,

Moreover, to be concise, I was often of necessity--duplicitous.

Maintaining the fiction that the public was always right...

What a joke!

I awoke one morning recently in a cold sweat,

Remembering some long forgotten transgression...

It irritates me that there remains an idiotic obsession to correct errors...

A terror grips that I might still be exposed as being inept.

However, I _am_ adept at survival; in that former life it was a must.

Some of our _superiors_ were office tyrants, their flame inferior.

They were just oblivious to the realities of the day-to-day interaction at the 'coalface'.

Disgraceful really!

Mealy-mouthed maharajahs, avatars, avaricious, sometimes vicious corporate climbers:

Eventually... I succumbed and was overcome with remorse--

A lie of course--it was greed! You should take voluntary redundancy!

I solemnly agreed and fled. That led to being an actor, player and rhymer.

In my former life, I had a family--

A spouse, two point five ankle-biters and a cat--that being the nuclear familia.

Statistically, I was relatively happy but the cracks were apparent.

I was the nominal bread-winner but the circumstances were abhorrent:

It all fell apart, beyond comprehension.

The dust settled but not I; so, in pathetic imitation of a Lothario...

I had a few partners but real love is particularly hard to find.

It's said that real love is blind--to faults and quirks; but that smirks of condescension

In my first life I was born in Scotland--

Of Celtic heritage and possible Scandinavian descent.

We came as immigrants to Australia; all our paraphernalia contained in a chest.

Our life in Blackheath was idyllic--the best!

It all changed when I exchanged innocence in the hurly-burly of high school.

To my peers, it appears, I was a fool.

I left early, my education incomplete and became malcontent--

Hell-bent on acceptance, an odd acquaintance to some, but life's now cool...

It's said that a cat has nine lives; it strives to keep up appearances--

As do I. My estimation is that seven of mine are now gone.

The demarcation line is as hard to determine as the solar wind blows;

It flows outwards as I will again, free of this cage.

In a former life, I was a free spirit,

I wandered beyond the barriers of time and space--altered states...

Inviolate, I knew not who or what I was; part of the endless energy flow; above, about, beyond, inside, insidious... Aglow.

Editor's pick: As Aussie comedian Michael Veitch used to say in his priestly role, 'And I think there's something in that for all of us!' Again, there are truths in this piece which most of us can relate to. We won't each relate to all of them, as we don't all have the same experiences in life, but many of the feelings of inferiority expressed here would ring true with most of us, one way or another.
Australian Haiku No. 1

10 February 2015

Tom Coley

Hazelbrook, New South Wales

Australia

I'm here for a short convalescence

On six kinds of anti-depressants

I take camomile tea

At a quarter past three

With a brace of brandied broiled pheasants

Tom recognises that his poems are limericks, but feels that 'haiku' sounds more sophisticated, hence his ironic label 'Australian Haiku'.
Australian Haiku No. 6

10 February 2015

Tom Coley

Hazelbrook, New South Wales

Australia

Doctor Doctor I need an x-ray

I swallowed my car keys yesterday

I ate without thinking

And now I hear clinking

They've got to come out either way

Tom recognises that his poems are limericks, but feels that 'haiku' sounds more sophisticated, hence his ironic label 'Australian Haiku'.
The Folly Of Man

11 February 2015

Judy J Newman

Rutherford, New South Wales

Australia

The sun blazes down upon the red earth, the skeleton of a tree casts a solitary shadow

You can see the heat rising from the land, every rock, every dying plant, shimmering

A tiny lizard scuttles by, seeking shelter, where not much does grow

The water troughs are near empty, the little water left, is stagnant and simmering

This land once fed hundreds of head of cattle, now only skeletons remain

The rain never came, starvation and fires took the rest

The families moved on, they tired of the fight, of the never ending pain

In the branches of the dead trees, are many, many deserted nests

The clouds promise rain, taunt the thirsty earth, but never deliver

They make angry sounds, such promise, as though laughing, they drift on by

You see those rocks over yonder? That was a mighty river, a mighty river

But now it too has gone, in this place, once of plenty, all must now die

Once this place was lush, full of life, of hope, of dreams, all was right

But man cut down most of the trees, emptied the river of all that lived

Polluted the land with chemicals, the land could not fight

So now it is barren, even the smallest creatures find it hard to live.
Cracks

12 February 2015

Valerie R Vaughn

Pennsylvania

USA

The cracked paint

on the window pane

stares back at me.

Like the traces of my broken soul

the lines of its facade

peeling back

unearthing times ago.

Rain drops hit--

hard

forming scars

cracking the paint

further apart.

Like memories of a time past

I learn to let go,

I remind myself

those memories do not define me

as I watch the rain

through the window pane

wash away my pain.
The Bear, The Lion And The Eagle

13 February 2015

David John Newman

Jacobs Well, Queensland

Australia

The Bear has been forced into hibernation,

and the roaring Lion has lost its nations.

It's said that the Eagle had a teardrop in its eye,

when the great bird fell out of the sky.

It was total devastation,

to all the greatest nations.

When their arguments led to war,

they made sure that they'd argue no more.

The Bear is quiet now as it shakes its head in wonder.

Feeling dazed and bleeding, it sets down amongst the rubble,

but it shan't set long, for when confusion turns into rage,

the Bear shall once more thunder.

A wounded Bear shall rise again, like a demon from the rubble.

It shall rebuild its lost world upon the very ashes of the dead.

Arising like the Phoenix, it will group its strength again.

We shall see a mighty Bear, a super Bear, with a fire burning deep within its head,

a raging fury with claws of lightning, seeking blood to quench its flame.

The Lion ever seeks for its fallen family of ten,

for it must regroup to survive, as it cannot hunt alone.

Off it sets to find its voice, for a mute Lion cannot roar and so cannot lead its nations.

And when the Lion roars again, shall we be here, or shall we be gone?

We find that we have such strength and yet we are so few.

Here we stand, like Wizards and Warlords, in some forgotten land,

fighting among ourselves, as young Lions, we battle tooth and claw and split our land in two.

So, when the Lion finds us, be that we survive, then shall we be ready to follow its command?

The Eagle spreads its wings to try and fly upon the sky,

but the winds do not lift the great bird to its home of long ago.

The Eagle looks down upon its blunt and bleeding talons, then it lets out a piercing cry.

'We shall again reach out and touch the sky, then to war we once more go.

'This time, the Eagle shall not fall out from the sky to walk upon the land.

'This time,' the Eagle vows, 'we shall win, or we shall die in splendid flight.

'Never again to talk of equal nations, for to live, then we must be in the place of command,

and never again shall we allow ourselves to be reduced to such a sorry plight.'
To Be Honest (For Ben)

14 February 2015

Kylie Abecca

Port Albany, Western Australia

Australia

I'd completely lost all faith in love,

Blamed it on pains from the past,

But something gave my heart a shove,

And told me this one just might last,

I've tried to hold back what I feel,

Too afraid I'll feel more pain,

Your love has helped me heal,

And I'll never be the same,

It's true--I've put up many walls,

Done my best to let no one in,

Now I've heeded to your calls,

And my head is in a spin,

There's many things I want to tell you,

So much I want you to know,

For me this feeling's just so new,

And from here it can only grow,

So let's just take it slow for now,

While I'm still learning how to crawl,

I can do this, if you show me how,

I know you'll catch me if I fall,

I'd like to thank you for just being there,

And helping me work this through,

I want you to know how much I really care,

Because I'm already in love with you.
Sleeping Pretty

14 and 15 February 2015

Kristian Becker

Central Coast, New South Wales

Australia

Doctor Hewen was going through drawers of old files in an unused area of the hospital. He looked aimlessly at the names; he didn't know who they were and didn't really care. He had a reason for coming here straight after lunch. A lunch in which he spoke rarely to the other pathologists and nurses in the lunchroom. He was hiding.

He looked at his watch--1:30pm. How long could he hide away? _What about tomorrow you fool?_ He kept on flicking through the pages, and then would pick up another when done so he could drown out the questions that pounded away in his head.

Then his pager went off. He knew exactly why someone would be looking for him. A new body had come in.

'Shit.' He ignored it.

It went off again a few minutes later. His hands were sweating as his heart burned inside him. There were footsteps coming closer. A part of him wanted to hide but another told him to finally face his demons. _Maybe today would be different? It has to end but you know how it has to end. Confess or die._ It was too late to hide now anyway.

The door opened and Nurse Baxter looked in and found him straight away. He pretended to look through the pages but felt her come closer.

'Dr Hewen, what'cha doing down here?'

'Ah, yes,' he faked surprise.

'We've been paging you.'

'Oh sorry. Sorry, I was coming but got distracted. What is it?'

'We've got a body come in, female, early twenties, possible OD.'

'Where's Rebecca?'

'She's in the middle of those two murder victims from yesterday.'

'Alright give me a minute and I'll be up there.'

'Okay.' The nurse turned around and went back out of the door.

He took his time making his way to the ward. His hands were still sweating and there were patches on his body of wetness that made his shirt stick to his skin.

How am I going to get out of this? Shit! What can I say? What can I do? How the hell am I going to get out of this?

Finally he got an idea. He made a phone call to another pathologist whose name jumped out from all the dozens he knew. All the while he purposely ignored the body wrapped in the blue plastic bag on the operating table just beyond the glass. Each dial tone seemed forever as he waited for it to be answered.

'Hey Jerry, it's Brian. What are you doing now? You want to help me with this cut up?'

Jerry's reply was not the one he wanted.

'Okay, I didn't realise you were on the Gold Coast. Alright, no problem I'll see you when you get back. Bye.'

He tried to sound upbeat but his whole heart had sunk.

He replaced the phone slowly as it dawned on him he might be alone to do this one. No witnesses to help him fight his demons, to confirm or deny what he was hearing.

Slowly he made his way into the operating ward. He saw his reflection in a mirror. His back was stooped and his balding grey hair was unusually wet looking. He had slowly put on his apron, mask and gloves; the last one took a while as his bloody hands were still wet. That was good--it wasted time.

Baxter had prepared all the equipment and laid it on a table close to the bed but she wasn't in the room with him. _Where is she? I have to have her here. She could be my witness!_

She suddenly appeared from a back office. She smiled and he was glad to have her there but then he realised she was not dressed for surgery.

'You're not assisting?'

'No. I got the afternoon off. Got to see my son play footy at three. I told you yesterday, remember?'

'Oh yes I forgot,' he did remember her telling him. 'I'm disappointed; I'd love you to stay.'

'Well cutting up a body sounds like fun but my son will _kill me_ if I don't go and the hospital aren't going to pay OT are they?'

'Alright,' he smiled but was bitterly disappointed that it was final. There would be no witnesses to confirm his sanity or madness.

'I'll see you tomorrow okay?' she said as she walked out.

'Bye,' he didn't look up but fiddled with the instruments, all of them cold despite his latex gloves.

She was gone now and he was all alone with the dead girl still in her blue bag. There was a photo attached to the zipper, _Adrienne Keith_. She was blonde, attractive, in her twenties as far as he could tell by the photo of her dead body. He remembered when he was twenty-two and at university where there was unending partying, screwing and drinking. Great times back then but not now.

He took in a deep breath. His hands were shaking as he cut the yellow body tag chord the police put on when sealing the bag and unzipped it. Immediately there was the smell of death. In all his twenty-nine years as a doctor he had never come across the same smell in the real world, nothing could compare to the unique stale tang of rotting human flesh. Thankfully she was reasonably fresh, three days according to the P79 form filled out by the police. Some would come in that were weeks old and they made your stomach churn.

Well there she was. He pulled away the bag and saw she only had shorts and a shirt on. Her limbs were red like a rash but he knew that's where the blood had settled when she died lying on her back. Her face had stains of blood coming out of the nose and mouth along with saliva and mucus. When you die all your fluids run out of your body.

His tape recorder was running and he began his external examination of her body, stating her name, gender, sex and any visible injuries. Then he cut the clothes from her body, stating again that there appeared to be no signs of any sexual assault or immediate cause of death. Again he fiddled with his instruments. It was quiet but for the hum of the air conditioner and his breathing.

As he picked up a scalpel he froze as he heard the sniffling and whimpering close to him. Determined not to look, not to acknowledge it so it would go away, he brought the scalpel close to him and looked at its shiny little blade.

'What are you doing?' came a frightened girl's voice.

No. This can't keep happening. Not again.

He looked down at the girl while holding the scalpel high. Her eyes were wide open with fear and confusion as she watched the blade too.

He took another breath and tried to ignore the tricks his mind was playing on him.

'Please don't hurt me,' she pleaded.

'You're dead,' he said bluntly to himself more to steady his resolve than to comfort her.

She started crying. Swallowing heavily the doctor went about his work. He brought the knife to the top of her chest, her eyes following every movement.

'No, no, no!' she cried out. Her voice pierced the quiet of the theatre but no-one came running to see what was going on. He stopped to take another breath as he tried to control his shaking hand.

'Please don't cut me,' she pleaded again.

His fear had overcome him now and he was angry.

'Shut up! You're dead! Dead! Understand that!' he screamed. Then there was silence, her face still, her eyes closed.

Fuck this shit!

His body was shaking with fright. Twenty-nine years of doing this and now they were speaking to him.

What had happened to him? Last week was like any other week. It was the weekend when it all went wrong. He went out to celebrate his brother's birthday. Old bugger was fifty, he remembered them racing around the yard on an old bike that broke under their weight. Somehow they got away from a beating by blaming the rusting frame and laughed together about it. Now they were married and out on the town drinking and carrying on like old drunks.

It was on the way home, yeah, he remembered but didn't want to. Alcohol was great to drown bad memories.

Determined he tried again. The scalpel touched her skin and he begun to cut.

She screamed like a wounded animal and he jumped back. Why didn't anyone come running with all this screaming she was doing?

Ignoring her, angry and spiteful he tried again. Damn her. He cut again and again she cried out, 'Please stop! Please!'

'I have to do this! I'm sorry alright!' he tried pleading with her as she laid moaning and crying on the table. 'I need to know how you died.'

He was almost in tears as well.

She didn't reply. It took three hours normally to do an autopsy properly and he had never cut corners but now he was tempted. He stepped away from the table to a bench. Hidden in his drawer marked with his name was a bottle of bourbon, which he took a swig of to calm him down. _Maybe I could tape her mouth, or put a bag over her head? Or cut the whole thing off and put it in the freezer until I'm done._

The clock ticked away. Three hours. He looked at her squirming on the table, her head towards him, her eyes wide and mouthing the word, _please_.

He wouldn't be beaten. The head had to come off. He went back to the table and grabbed a small saw, which he took over to the slab. Immediately she knew what it was for and how she hollowed with terror.

'No! No! Please don't hurt me.'

'I have to. It's the only way to shut you up,' he yelled back. He was so frightened that he masked it with anger. He hated being scared and hated yelling but it was the only way to cope.

'One day it'll be you old man,' came a male voice behind him. It was another body lying on a table; his head was out of the bag and watching him. It was the face he saw on that night, his eyes wide with shock and terror in his headlights. His wife had been sleeping, he told her it was a kangaroo; stupid bloody things just jump out in front of cars. He drank to block out the memory but it wouldn't go and now they were talking to him.

Monday was the morning it began, when they brought that man in. He had to do the autopsy himself all the while the man was whispering, 'One day it'll be you old man.'

'But not today,' he replied with resolve before looking back at the shrieking body of the girl on his cold metal table. The metal blade glimmered in the light and reflected in the girl's horrified eyes.
The Upturned Trolley

15 and 16 February 2015

Winsome Smith

Lithgow, New South Wales

Australia

It was an expansive library, a split level design with eight carpeted steps between the two levels. Terence, a senior librarian who had been working all afternoon on the upper level, looked around with satisfaction, noticing the bookshelves, as well as tables, photocopy machines and a librarian's desk. Nothing was crowded; large areas of walking space separated the bookshelves, leaving plenty of room for browsing.

On the lower level there was a circular checking out desk as well as meeting rooms, a computer room, a homework room and a spacious work area at the back; altogether a well-organised library of which Terence and the library staff could be proud.

Terence had one last trolley loaded with books to be put away, but as it was now closing time, he decided that the job could wait until tomorrow. He had something more urgent on his mind. Melissa would be waiting outside her florist shop and she always closed right on time. Still unsure of Melissa's feelings, he was certain of his own; he must not keep her waiting.

He wheeled the trolley towards the desk at the top of the steps and decided to leave it there, not noticing that some careless borrower had left a pen on the floor. A wheel bumped against the pen, causing the trolley to swerve slightly. Terence gave a push but pushed too hard. One trolley wheel went over the top step and the whole contraption leaned, tipped over and ran down the eight steps, scattering its load of books on the floor in front of the downstairs magazine shelves.

Terence let out a few expletives the public never heard from librarians. He glanced at his watch. Five minutes past closing time and he had the appointment to keep. The books would have to stay where they were. He was not going to waste time straightening the trolley or picking up books.

Leaving the mess there, he hurried towards the front door. He switched off the lights, switched on the security, opened the door then hesitated, briefly checking that everything was in order. Well, of course it wasn't, there were books scattered across the floor but they could wait. A sharp breeze swirled through the open doorway, riffling the pages of the books on the floor. Terence left the library and hurried up the street.

Outside the library the trees whispered in the warm summer wind and because of daylight saving time the street lights would not be needed for a couple more hours. In the gentle late afternoon the library's large windows gleamed as the sun hit them.

Inside the library a small crowd was gathering. They were a diverse group of men and women and a few children, wearing a variety of clothes and all wearing expressions of mild surprise. An amiable group, they nodded to each other as they strolled about.

Among them was a strapping young man wearing rough seafarer's clothes. He stood with feet well apart as though still balancing on a swaying deck.

Approaching two elegant young women, he bowed slightly, and, in order to introduce himself, said, 'Call me Ishmael.'

One of the young women replied, 'I am Miss Bennett--Miss Jane Bennett--and this is my sister, Miss Elizabeth Bennett.'

With a graceful gesture she held out her hand. The young man, not used to such niceties, took hold of her hand as if wondering whether to shake it. Perhaps he should kiss her hand as he had seen some of the toffs in Nantucket do. The other young woman curtsied slightly.

A well dressed gentleman mingled with the group. He walked up to Ishmael and held out his hand. 'Allow me to introduce myself,' he said. 'The name is Jekyll, Doctor Jekyll. I am a man of science.' He shook Ishmael's hand. His clothes were expensive and tasteful and he carried a heavy and highly polished walking stick.

'Howdy,' muttered Ishmael, obviously not a young man of elegant manners.

'And who might these be?' asked the man called Dr Jekyll.

The elder Miss Bennett introduced herself and her sister to the well-dressed gentleman. Both young women gave a slight curtsy.

A somewhat stooped man, wearing a fashionable but shabby and much-worn coat, ambled past and happened to bump Dr Jekyll. 'Oh, I do beg your pardon,' said the man. 'So clumsy of me.'

'Not at all, my good sir,' replied, Dr Jekyll, with impeccable manners.

The somewhat stooped man walked up to a young red-headed girl. He held out his hand in which was a gold pocket watch. 'I think you stole that,' said the girl, without hesitation.

'Would you like to learn to do that, my dear?' asked the shabby-coated man, with a sly grin.

'Oh, no sir,' replied the red-headed girl. 'I know the Ten Commandments and "Thou shall not steal" is one of the commandments.'

The shabby-coated man looked at her closely. 'What a strange way of speaking. You are not a Londoner, are you?'

'Oh, no sir, I am Canadian. I come from Prince Edward Island. My name is Anne.'

'Do they have workhouses there?' the man asked her.

'I don't know,' Anne said politely. 'I live in a comfortable farm house called "Green Gables".'

The man looked at her closely then said, 'Well, my dear, let me show you another trick.'

He walked past Dr Jekyll again and with a barely noticeable gesture, dropped the gold watch back into the good doctor's pocket. He gave young Anne a wide snaggle-toothed grin and said, 'Nobody has ever called Fagin entirely wicked.' He walked away, followed by a group of little boys.

Over near the bookshelves a kindly looking gentleman was in conversation with a slender, lively young girl. They were approached by a man wearing a deer-stalker cap. 'Ah, there you are, Watson,' said the man.

'Yes, Holmes, I have been in conversation with this charming young lady,' Watson replied. 'I have been telling her about your prowess in solving crime. She is interested in mystery stories, in fact, stories of all kinds.'

The girl took hold of Holmes's hand and gave it a hearty handshake.

Watson continued, 'I have told her of your ability to deduce much about a person on first appearance.'

'Indeed,' replied Holmes. He raised his cap politely and said, 'My dear young lady, I have noticed a great deal. I heard you talking with Watson here and I suspect you are from the United States of America. I would suggest from one of the easterly states.'

'Well, I declare,' the girl replied with a chuckle. 'But that's all you would know.'

Holmes continued, 'There is much more. You are an unusual type of young lady. I believe your family to be respectable, but sadly, perhaps not affluent at this time.'

'That's true,' the young woman said with surprise, 'but how could you possibly know that? Please tell me more.'

Holmes went on, 'Your gown is charming but slightly faded and it has been neatly mended in several places. Your hair interests me also. It is beautifully brown and glossy but I'm sorry to say unfashionably short. My dear young lady, you care little for fashion and I suspect you have bravely sold your long hair to assist your family. I also believe you are too busy writing something to waste time on vanity.'

The girl glanced at her ink-stained fingers. 'I declare you are a genius,' she exclaimed. 'Vanity and fashion do not appeal to me as greatly as they do to my three sisters. My name is Josephine March and I spend a lot of time writing. I aim to be a famous authoress one day.'

They were interrupted by raised voices. 'Oh look! Look!' exclaimed Jo March.

Near the top of the eight steps there was a disturbance. Dr Jekyll was stooping and turning. He turned in a full circle and when he stood up his genial face was contorting into an ugly expression of hatred, causing everyone to gasp. Some actually cried out in fear.

'Dr Jekyll, please be calm,' someone said, but Jekyll cried out, 'I am not Jekyll. My name is Hyde and I hate you all.'

He began to wave his walking stick like a weapon. He strode among the crowd, barely missing people with the dangerous walking stick. The Misses Bennett, Jane and Elizabeth, clung to each other for protection. They said to Fagin's boys, 'Run, children, run.'

Dr Watson called out, 'Scoundrel! Scoundrel!' and ran towards Hyde.

The boys and young Anne from Prince Edward Island ran down the steps and others in the crowd hid behind bookshelves. The once friendly group became a melee of frightened people.

Ishmael leapt at Hyde, caught him and held him in a headlock. Fagin, although not the most muscular of men, attempted to wrest the walking stick from Hyde. Dr Watson lunged towards Hyde, Fagin and Ishmael and in doing so overbalanced and the group of men tumbled down the steps with the threatening walking stick being flung onto the floor.

'You are a hero,' cried Jo March to Ishmael.

'Not really. He ain't as big as a whale,' said Ishmael modestly.

Suddenly the library door opened and Terence, holding Melissa's hand, walked in. 'I'm glad you talked me into this,' he said. 'I know I should have done it before but I didn't want to keep you waiting. I thought you might be gone by the time I got there.'

Melissa gave him a reassuring smile. 'I'd wait for you forever. Come on. I'll help you tidy up.'

Terence pulled the trolley to the top of the steps where it belonged. Together they gathered up the books and stacked them side by side on the trolley, ready to be shelved the next day.

Melissa bent down and said, 'Oh, look at this. I've found something.' She picked up a walking stick that was lying on the carpet.

Terence said, 'I've never seen that before. Isn't it a beauty?' He ran his hands over the highly polished timber. 'It's heavy. You could do some damage if you hit someone with this. I'll put it in the lost property box with the glasses and pens we find.'

They left the walking stick in the box under the counter near the entrance. Hand in hand they walked out, being sure to turn on the security, switch off the lights and lock the door.

The library remained dark, silent and, as always, beautifully organised.
Hours of Despair

17 February 2015

Katrina Wirth

Rutherford, New South Wales

Australia

An endless nightmare,

Impending danger,

There is despair within the air,

Then a changer.

Life fading,

Heartbeats rising,

Limp and pale shading,

All are crying.

The shimmering lights,

The sirens noisy,

All in fright,

The shock leaving me feeling lousy.

Hours tick by,

Waiting for news,

Under the night sky I don't have a dry eye,

Whilst I fight the urge to snooze.

Hours turn to days,

Eventually a prognosis so I am no longer sad,

I can praise,

Once again I have my dad.
Seeking Serenity

18 February 2015

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, New South Wales

Australia

How

fine

to watch

bees buzzing

amongst cherry trees,

dancing to hidden rhythms played

by blossoms in a springtime breeze.

Puts one in a mellow mood as boughs, heavily laden with fairy floss pink blossoms,

boldly entice sparrows to sip,

whilst scudding clouds of whimsical white skip across an enchanting cerulean sky.

To balance beauty with raw truth of cruel carnage of our time is to live honestly.

Morning, bathe in nature's splendour.

Feel the music in shifting feet.

Regardless of news,

because of its views.

sing to the

awakening day.

Twirl like a white whirling dervish.

Effort

is

real,

has sublime appeal.

Good balance to practise daily.
Drake

19 February 2015

Adrian Levet

Darlington, Western Australia

Australia

You and I, we're so alike,

Just decades apart,

Words from a bleeding heart

On that day you died, a solitary heap,

A secret you kept, an Eden you keep,

Now they discover you,

Scattering your ashes upon the blue.

Now you fly, a burning drake in the sky,

Just like those days you spent so high,

He spoke about you, now a legend,

Himself a conduit, a bookend,

You're ahead of the curve now,

But lying somewhere beyond,

To the others, you did abscond,

A man of few words on the island,

An advocate for you, he took the highland.

And you and I, we're still alike,

And I thought you were right,

We've both been smoking too long,

Something inside, something wrong,

But you said the blues run the game,

And when I beat it, to you I will claim.
A Night To Remember?

20 February 2015

Jane Russell

Mount Barker, South Australia

Australia

Mary broke away, gasping for air. What was happening? What she was doing would have been unthinkable only months before. She felt she was losing control of the situation and wasn't sure that she minded if she did. It had all started a few months ago.

Thinking back to her first day at uni, Mary remembered the excitement and the strangeness of it all. She'd been gratified to get into Sydney Uni to study a double degree: Bachelor of Science (Advanced Mathematics)/Bachelor of Laws, and to receive a scholarship to do so. Naturally her ATAR (Australian Tertiary Admission Ranking) of 99.9 meant that she could do whatever she wanted. Frankly she was relieved to finally be among students she could consider her peers, after her negative experience in high school. Surely here, she would never be referred to as "Scary Mary" the swot.

She flicked back her milk-white hair; always conscious of her unusual appearance and hoping it would not be cause for embarrassment again. She'd seen people look at her, sometimes curious, often aghast. She was alone now. Her school friends had not made it to Sydney Uni. She had to make new friends, and it scared her. She plucked up courage and went down to the student common room to mingle. This would be full of young people in her same situation--away from home for the first time and not knowing a soul. But she nearly dropped her bottle of beer when a familiar voice called out:

'Hey Mary? What're the odds, eh?'

She turned to see Toby, one of the boys at school who, with his cronies Mark and Joe, had made her life miserable--not to mention their cheek at copying her schoolwork.

'Toby,' she managed to reply coolly, 'what brings you here? Are you visiting someone?'

'Funny!' he chortled, apparently convinced she'd been joking, 'I'm doing Arts. What're you enrolled in?'

'I'm sorry, I must have misheard you. Did you say you were studying here? The boy who had to copy my homework to get any decent grades? How on earth did you pass your HSC with an ATAR of over 80?'

He gave a rueful grin, 'You have every right to be dubious. I was as surprised as anyone else when I got a good pass. I dropped those losers Mark and Joe and knuckled down to some real studying in year twelve.' Then he looked at her and remarked: 'You really are a knockout you know, Mary. A real head-turner.'

Mary was taken aback by such unaccustomed compliments, and was briefly at a loss. She resisted the urge to make a sarcastic remark about why she thought people's heads really turned when they saw her albino features. In the end, she showed Toby where the drinks were and introduced him to a couple of people she'd just met. They chatted inconsequentially while her mind raced. How could he be here? Did he really like her? Was he more intelligent than he looked? And, actually he looked rather attractive--tall, dark and blue eyed--why hadn't she noticed before?

After that, they found themselves often at the same table in the college canteen, and would sometimes play table tennis in the evenings, if they weren't going out with the others for a pub-crawl or a picnic or midnight pancakes. Mary found she enjoyed the social side of uni life, and she enjoyed the company of Toby. Uni students were far more accepting of her unusual looks, she thought, not realising that it was her smile that made all the difference.

Mid-year, after acing her exams and congratulating Toby on his bare passes, she was in the mood to celebrate. The college was hosting a fancy-dress party: "Pimps and Prostitutes" and she was selecting suitably slutty clothes and bright makeup. Many of the guys were eagerly cross-dressing for the occasion. Toby painted on a little moustache, wore a sort of suit, a pencil thin tie and greased down his hair. Mary had the enthusiastic assistance of her friend Sophie with her makeup.

'Wow, you look like a completely different person,' she remarked as she completed Mary's mascara and purple eyeliner. 'I've given you eyebrows for once, and with that makeup you look amazing!'

Mary stared at the stranger in the mirror. She, who was always so pale, was now bright and dramatically colourful. 'My hair looks different too,' she remarked. 'I'm glad I took your advice, Soph.' Mary's straight, white hair was now bright ginger and curly.

Toby's expression when he saw her made her stomach flip. She stared at her toes until she'd regained her composure. 'I'm not letting you out of my sight,' he whispered.

'Not good for business, boss,' she joked.

They danced together crazily to the rock music, had a good time with all their friends and got very, very drunk. Some hours later, they were curled together on a lounge kissing passionately, oblivious to their surroundings. People drifted away to their rooms, the music was turned down and finally off, while the only stayers were those determined to finish the keg or die trying. After a particularly lengthy pash, Mary drew away and they both gasped for air.

'I think we'd better call it a night,' she suggested, and they supported each other groggily back to their rooms.

Sometime later, a little before dawn, Mary awoke with a terrible feeling:

'OMG, I'm going to be sick!' she groaned, rolling to the side of the bed. There was no time to get a bucket. Afterwards, she peered blearily around. Where was she? Another groan warned her that she was not alone. _What?_ She turned to see a male form tangled in the bedclothes. What had she done? Who the Hell was she sleeping with? She kicked the form. He turned without waking. It was Toby. Oh no. Had they finally done it and she couldn't remember a thing? What a disappointment that would be.

'Woah! Who's that? Mary? Wow!' croaked Toby as he revived from his stupor.

'Don't get any ideas, I think we were both too drunk to do anything but sleep,' she corrected.

'Just as well,' he said. 'I can't remember a thing.'

'That makes two of us.'
Who Killed Cock Robin?

21 February 2015

Demelza

Taroona, Tasmania

Australia

'Who killed Cock Robin?'

'I,' said the sparrow.

'With my bow and arrow,

'I killed Cock Robin.'

'But please you must understand. It wasn't intentional. I never meant to release the arrow.

'I only meant to scare him. I am not a local bird you know, I am an exotic. The conditions here are hard for me.

'Just imagine for one moment being teased constantly day in and day out for the way you dress or tweet or for what you wear or eat or don't eat. Being isolated for preening your feathers the wrong way at the wrong time... being compelled by cultural pressures to conform to a society different from whence you came. It seemed so constant... it wore me down... I had no idea in the end how to ignore it.

'Most of the taunting came from the wrens and the robins. I'd had enough. Do we really need to use the word kill?

'Could it be collateral damage or an incident? I didn't mean to release the arrow.

'I thought if I scared the Robin the others would learn respect for me. See me less as a target... more as a heroic figure standing up to my adversary and such.

'My parents immigrated to Australia when I was only a fledgling. It wasn't easy for me. I tried to fit in. I tried to be like them. But they never gave me a chance. I was continually pecked upon. My dull brown feathers were never in vogue. Please could you try to see me as the victim rather than the villain?'

'Who saw him die?'

'I,' said the fly.

'With my little eye,

'I saw him die.'

'I'd like to make you aware my eye is no ordinary eye. It's a compound one. I literally saw him die two hundred times. I am having trauma counselling at the expense of the tax payer, and I am so stressed by it all, I may not be able to procreate. My natural life is only thirty days and if I am childless, the compensation will have to be disputed between the state and my one thousand nieces and nephews. Every time I close my eyes, I see him there, and there and there...'

'Who caught his blood?'

'I,' said the fish.

'With my little dish.

'I caught his blood.'

'It was very fortunate I did because if it had been released into the estuary it may have caused a great amount of environmental damage. As you know the council is cracking down hard on pollution, and you can thank me I was right there when it happened. I have had offers for the blood, but the cock was not facing east at the time of his final tune. And therefore it is not kosher.

'Sad to say I am not sure how his funeral will be paid for.

'Forensics have analysed the blood and found he may have had or may have recently had whooping cough and a deficiency in vitamin D. Although the coroner states it was not the condition of his blood, rather the lack of it that contributed to his death.'

'Who will make the shroud?'

'I,' said the beetle.

'With my thread and needle,

'I'll make the shroud.'

'And I will do a fine job too, at no expense to his family. Bless his poor wife and four chicks. Heaven knows how she will feed them if they all hatch. Poor fatherless creatures. They'll probably grow up on welfare a burden to the state. A drain on society. Unless she remarries of course. But she's not as young as she used to be--none of us are you know. 'Poor thing bless 'er heart.

'I'll make the shroud.'

'Who will dig his grave?'

'I,' said the owl.

'With my pick and shovel.

'I'll dig his grave.'

'But there won't be no "mates rates" from me. And if it's to be done before dawn there will be overtime and night pay. I'll also expect penalty loading if it falls on a public holiday. And I want the real matter, too, none of this I'll drop a crate off if I feel like it stuff. Things are tight and I'll not deny it. But if you want a proper job you gotta pay rates. I don't mind the dark like some of the fussy birds around here but it doesn't mean I'll do it for less than it's worth.

'Yes I'll dig his grave alright.'

'Who'll be the parson?'

'I,' said the rook.

'With my little book

'I'll be the parson.'

'I'll be needing a little bit of information from the next of kin as to which part of the book is to be read. It will need to be a multi-cultural, open and inclusive religious service with all the options and parties represented so as not to offend his family, or the public or any other religious sect or order or even God himself.'

'Who'll be the clerk?'

'I,' said the lark.

'If it's not in the dark

'I'll be the clerk.'

'Although I did love the cock and his wife, yes we all did, I do have a problem seeing in the dark. And numbers can be near impossible... some of them are quite small you know... unless there is a full moon... that makes it quite a bit lighter... but I don't think there's a full moon. Well there wasn't last night was there? Well not when I popped my head out of the nest. Unless it hadn't risen... no, no I'm sure there was no full moon.

'But if it's daytime, that's fine. I can see quite well in the day time and I do have quite nice hand writing even if I do say so myself. Which of course I just did. So there you go I'll be the clerk.'

'Who'll carry the link?'

'I,' said the linnet.

'I'll fetch it in a minute

'I'll carry the link.'

'Yeah man I know it's back here somewhere. I'll just need to fix a few things up with my program manager 'cause my head's doing me in and I can't seem to focus. Tripped real bad last week. Someone mixed up me meds and the Docs don't believe a word I say. No compassion that's what I say. They don't have to live like us. I know how much they make. I see their fancy cars and stuff. Can't relate to real people 'cause they've never had life like we have. Best schools. Best cars. Best seats in every joint. They make the rules for themselves they do. Just like the bloody politicians. They never have to wait in ER with their private cover and poshed up gab. They don't care about me, they're just after the cash.

'When I've found it I'll need a bit stuff to go in it too. Sold the last lot for a bit of dough for me brother. Bad day he'd had. Needed a bit of a cheer up.

'How far I gotta go anyway? That cemetery makes me heart pump faster than a mouse can run on a hot frying pan. Are ya' sure it's the one on the south side cause man if I have to cross the western bridge I'll pass out--it makes me head swim being up that high. Man I hope it's the southern cemetery.

'Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'll carry the link.'

'Who'll be chief mourner?'

'I,' said the dove.

'I mourn for my love.

'I'll be chief mourner.'

'Robin and I were always very close. And I feel as though he were my own flesh. His simple wife never knew of our clandestine love. She could never be to him what I'd become. Our two hearts melded together by the passion of our desires.

'My heart is shattered.

'The devastation of grief is more than I can bear. I will coo and cry for him all my waking hours till I am also stricken from this world. Sparrow, aim your next arrow at me, that I may be re-united with my lover. Give him back his bow that I may die and never see despair again. That I may never have to live to face another darkened day. Let me grieve out loud let the earth hear my cry and swallow me if she will.

'Robin be not alone in death. Let me share your grave and whatever afterlife we can. Let us travel on together into our destiny.

'Oh my love.

'My loss.

'I will be chief mourner.'

'Who will carry his coffin?'

'I,' said the kite.

'If it's not through the night

'I'll carry the coffin.'

'With labour the way it is this season, I cannot afford to pay night workers overtime, holiday pay or any extra loadings. And as much as we all loved the cock, we should also be considering the feelings of the sparrow. After all he never asked to be born into this world. He never 'ad no say about leaving his homeland. No say about being teased and persecuted by the locals for his funny little ways of doing things. And his preferring his own gender to that of the feminine species. Yes I will carry the coffin but not through the night.'

'Who will bear the pall?'

'We,' said the wren.

'Both the cock and hen

'Will bear the pall.'

'But it must be as light as mist and spun from the silk of the spider's web. Edged with the beauty of a thousand dawns and capturing the hopes and dreams of all eternity. Every stitch must be a glimmer of hope as captured by the dew of the earliest dawn of this fair age.

'Let its colours be that of pleasant dreams enhanced by the most gentle breeze of a summer's eve.

'Let all who bear to look upon it be guided by its natural radiance of love as it casts its glow over coffin of our humbled robin.'

'Who'll sing the psalm?'

'I,' said the thrush.

'As she sat on a bush.

'I'll sing the psalm.'

'I've got it figured out already. I'll start with a psalm and then the hymn, followed by an Indian mantra and an old Hebrew chant. And then I thought I would finish with one of my own. A little number with a swing rhythm. It may not be the most appropriate funeral song, but it does suit my voice very well and I know how much you'll enjoy it. And anyway, after the dove has poured out her soul, I'm sure we'll all need a bit of something to cheer us up.'

'Who'll toll the bell?'

'I,' said the bull.

'Because I can pull.

'I'll toll the bell.'

'I've worked these muscles and toiled and sweated all my life. I know I'll miss the robin with his cheek of mouth and flaming heart.'

All the birds of the air

Fell a-sighing and a-sobbing,

When they heard the bell toll,

For poor Cock Robin

And although the rook did find a fair bit to say from his book, he did not mention climate change, no not once.
Something Wicker This Way Comes

22 February 2015

Hazel Girolamo

Ulverstone, Tasmania

Australia

There is a magic land of Ideas, where those who choose to live within a colour co-ordinated way of life visit. Often these tourists to their land will choose to take away a souvenir, a nice beech or birch wood contemporary coffee table or a multipurpose bookcase slash office desk.

But a dark secret that only makes itself known when the unsuspecting returnee in the privacy of their comfortable, overpriced and undervalued suburban three bedroom, two car garage, one-and-a-half bathrooms home realises that it will take an ambidextrous, martially trained, spider monkey to be able to get it out of its hermetically sealed, environmentally friendly, biodegradable, non-landfill recyclable packaging that will fill a council skip in moments.

Then you will need the services of a multilingual translator who is proficient in Swedish, Swahili, Finnish, Laplandish, Spanish and if very lucky, a little bit of the Queen's English, if after the intensive therapy support session, the counsellor's report lets you back into your employment--the assemblage can begin in earnest. Pay close attention to where the instructions plead not to proceed, any further from this point if under stress, alcoholic or suicidal, extensive expensive studies have proven that these activities are best suited to those folk who buy their furniture already enabled to be sat or laid or eaten upon.

But I digress. Ensure there are enough nuts around you, also screws and dowels and it is also helpful if there is a lid, base and at least two sides if the piece is to be standing upright. If the correct number of parts are present and correct, it will please us to phone our friendly helpful returns slash complaint department lifeline and have the eight digit catalogue number ready to tell the operator in the sixty seconds that will be allotted to you, as this will also be a first for us.

Make sure you are sitting on well carpeted, shock absorbing material to soak up any spillage for example oil, blood, spit and bile, safety gloves and goggles are highly recommended to have handy, rubber or plastic only, our studies indicate that opera or lace gloves to be worse than useless.

The hex key will be required at some stage just not this one. Put it away somewhere safe so you will be unable to retrieve it at a later date. May I take a moment to recommend our new day glo drip dry multipurpose safe catalogue number 57334856-3A second shelf, third floor, if you can't find a helpful way station attendant not currently on a coffee break. A cross slot screwdriver will be needed for your current situation, if you or your nearest neighbour that is still speaking to you do not own such a valued possession it can be purchased quite reasonably at your nearest outlet supply catalogue number 342817 if they are still in stock, remember to ask for a cross slot and not a cross lot, that will be the staff hiding in the staff bathrooms until closing time.

From time to time our valued friendly customers descend upon us to give helpful suggestive feedback, such as one as this little gem of a recommendation that a rubber mallet be used not a standard hammer as this will shave about three years of community service time.

Thank you for choosing to purchase our imported inferior eurotrash unisex uniformly conforming see one see them all, take it or leave it furniture, by now you should be either reclining, comfortably sitting or climbing the walls.

We are confident we will see you again shortly as our quality control is virtually guaranteed to bring you back to our store real soon!

Editor's note: Again, humorous, contemporary social commentary--aimed directly at those large, nameless companies which torture us with their flat pack furniture and hex keys!
What A Terrific Bonfire

23 February 2015

Shirley Burgess

Rosebud, Victoria

Australia

Good old Mayor Fraser.

According to the posters stuck all round town by our Mayor of Boxton, we were to celebrate the twentieth anniversary of the time in 1951 that all the five surrounding towns were parcelled into the Shire of Boxton. We were to have a bonfire that he dubbed the 'Big Boxton Bonfire Night', set for Saturday, the fourth of September, to be lit, by the Mayor himself at 8.30 pm 'sharp'. The good bit of this was the Mayor paid for all the advertising, and allotted the Shire-owned Aiden Hill Reserve for the occasion.

Terrific news for me, as it's at the end of our street. The fourth of September 1971 was a Saturday so there was plenty of time to gather stuff for the bonfire on the day. At least my mates, Spike, Davey and Tiger--we call him Tiger because his real name is Lyons, of course--intended to help make it more spectacular than ever.

We often used this reserve to play cricket and footie amongst ourselves, and because the river runs round one edge, we swim there when it's hot too. We're lucky because the river has worn away the top end of the reserve where it's high so there are sort of cliffs each side, and we can run like mad to the embankment top, jump off and, as it's a long way down to the deep water, we can make a huge splash. Then we swim down to the lower part of the reserve where there's a boat ramp, climb out there, walk back up the field and do it all again. Until we get of sick doing that.

The water's always cold and it's a good spot when we want to play hooky from piano lessons, recorder choir practice after school, running messages or other chores.

At school we were all talking about the bonfire, thinking what we could take to help make the bonfire mammoth, when Spike said, 'Let's see who can get the biggest load down there, say, by ten o'clock.'

'You're on!' we shouted.

Because of that, I had to see what I could take from home. There was nowhere else I could get anything, and looking at the old chook house wood, sitting in a pile with weeds trying to grow through it, I asked Dad if I could have all the wood for the bonfire. He was happy to see it go and I started loading it on to our big wheelbarrow.

My brother Jeff helped by arranging the wood tidily so that it held more (and made it heavier). Jeff's a pretty good brother. He's eighteen, five years older than I am, and has a terrific physique. He's also a Rover Scout, good at cricket and plays full forward in the Boxton footie team. I hope I grow up to be like him, except, of course, his tendency to get all soppy when his girlfriend, Amy, comes around to our house.

My hands were sore by the time I'd staggered with that wheelbarrow up to the field, but I was glad to see that my load was bigger than Davy's or Tiger's, when up rolled Spike in his dad's car towing a huge trailer of stuff.

I yelled out to him, 'Hey, you aren't allowed to get your dad to drive you here with a trailer!'

'Who says?' Spike yelled back.

'I said "get the biggest load", and mine's the biggest, so I win.' We three reckoned he was disqualified, but when we put all our loads on the bonfire we stood there admiring it because it had made such a difference. By the end of the day there were old tyres, so we knew there'd be a terrible smell, and even chairs and floor coverings. By dusk, it was a huge pile. Terrific.

Eight of the dads volunteered to stand guard while everyone else went home for a bit of tea; that was to stop some clever-dick trying to make a name for himself by lighting it too early, as happened the last time we had a bonfire in our town.

At 8.30 pm it was dark enough to see it properly when alight, and Mum, Dad and Jeff, stood where everyone else was, behind the little dais where the Mayor was to make a speech and light the fire. I reckoned I'd have more room on the other side behind the fire to take some good shots with my new camera, and I hoped they'd be good enough to make it into tomorrow's paper. So that's where I was standing.

A man came up with a big tin of something, walked to the pile, threw some liquid on, came back and put the tin near me, out of the way, then went round the front to watch Mayor Fraser. I was surprised when the Mayor's speech stopped because he usually drones on and on at things like this, but perhaps the mozzies were too much or something, because next thing he lit the pile. Up went the flames and I was busy taking shot after shot, feeling like a real newspaper reporter, when someone shouted out, 'Look out Steve!'

In a flash I saw that the flame had reached the stuff thrown on by the man, but there must have been a leak for there was a separate flame running like a steam train straight for the tin. I knew it had to be petrol, turned and started to run, but next thing the tin exploded and I found myself in a sea of small flames. I knew my legs were on fire, so I ran even harder to the cliff edge where the nearest water was and jumped out as far as I could. We'd all jumped over this cliff many times, but never in the dark and with legs on fire. It seemed ages before I hit the cold water with a shock, and went straight under.

It wasn't as easy to get up to find air as quickly as I usually did when in my swimming trunks, so I had to battle like mad, kicking as hard as I could, to break the surface and take a good gulp of air. My clothes were pulling me down all the time, and I could see the main trouble was my jumper. It was now like a tight thick rope round my chest and neck, and although swimming was easy for me normally, I couldn't use my arms, so kept going under. The stream was in charge now, taking me nonstop down the river.

How am I going to find the boat ramp? I thought. If I miss, it's a long way downriver before I can wade out at Buckley's Bridge, where it's shallow, but I won't make it with this stupid jumper round my neck. I felt guilty saying that, as my Grandma had knitted it for me and was a favourite, but at the moment it was strangling me. All I could do was kick as hard as I could to steer myself as near to the left bank as possible, grab at bits of outcrop to slow me down, and hope to grab something more substantial when I neared the ramp.

'But where's the ramp?' I asked myself out loud. My shirt and shorts were still tugging away from underneath making it hard work, and the water was freezing.

As I neared the spot where the ramp was supposed to be, I felt about frantically, but after several minutes realised I'd missed it. Now I was in real trouble.

I knew that I must get that jumper out of the way first or I would die. When I tried I would sink, so felt about until I found the neck hole. If I became tangled in it I would drown. With a huge breath I started the struggle. Down I went and over my head went the jumper but my arms were both tangled in the mess. I wriggled and pulled until one arm was yanked free, kicked and paddled with my free arm to the surface, took a gulp of air and then yanked hard with all my might, going under again, but suddenly Grandma's jumper floated away. _Success_. I thought perhaps I could get my thick shirt off too, and then I'd be able to float, so I had another go. This took a lot longer because of the buttons, and by the time the shirt floated away I was absolutely exhausted.

_I must float now_ , I thought _because I'm too tired to swim any more_ , surprised that I wasn't panicky. No way would I miss the bridge because it was so big. Cars and trucks used it, and there was a beach nearby, with shallow water, so I rested gratefully while I floated along. Suddenly something in the water nudged me and gave me a fright, but it was only Grandma's jumper following me like a faithful dog, as though it wanted to be rescued too.

_There's the bridge, hooray_ , and I paddled towards the beach. It was heaven to feel my feet on the bottom, and I made a grab for Grandma's jumper at the last minute, thinking I could pull it up over me and it might keep the wind off me. Out of the river at last I simply collapsed on to the sandy beach, closing my eyes for a long time.

Next thing the whole place was lit up by car lights, and I heard Jeff's voice: 'He might be along any minute.' I heard him call, 'Hurry up everybody,' and I could hear the high pitched voices of my mates, all talking at once. I raised myself up and the torches spotted me.

'You beat us to it!' Jeff said. 'Mum and Dad, he's here on the beach,' he called, and then to me he said they'd tried the ramp and realised I must have been carried past.

Everyone crowded round me asking how I was. All I could say was 'I'm cold' all the time. Mum was in tears and put a rug round me, Spike was dancing around me in excitement, as Jeff and Dad lifted me up carrying me to the car because my legs were so shaky and sore.

'Into the car everyone,' yelled Dad. 'It's home to our place now.'

'I'll bring his jumper,' said Tiger, trying to wring it out a bit.

'Thanks Tige.'

It was an uncomfortable ride home with my sore legs, but as we passed the bonfire site to enter our street, I looked across and saw a great mass of red coals with people throwing missed bits back on. Flames were dancing with each other at the top, and it was a wonderful sight. What a terrific bonfire it had been.

Yes, my legs were sore, but after a warm shower, salve and bandages on my legs and into dry clothes I felt good and joined everyone round our big kitchen table. Mum produced hot chocolate for everyone, plus huge plates of toasted cheese, biscuits and lots of cake, with everyone relaxed, talking about all that had happened.

Apparently the Shire had organised the Fire Brigade to be on standby and they'd doused the fire as soon as I left it.

'I wouldn't have minded a shower from them at the time,' I laughed. Then, after I'd thanked everyone, I suddenly remembered my new camera. 'I think I dropped it when I started running.'

'We'll all look for it on our way home,' said Davey 'and if we can't find it we'll look again in the morning.'

My camera was burnt unfortunately, so none of my shots made it into the paper, but on the front page was a caption reading: 'He Was Burnt and Nearly Drowned but Steven Jones' Highlight Was the "Terrific Bonfire" He'd Had to Leave Early,' under a big photo of me.
Stream Of Thought

24 February 2015

Madeline Ross

Winmalee, New South Wales

Australia

My head in the clouds,

Listening to the sounds,

Of vibes of ancient seas and tides;

The waters speak a thousand words,

Shifting shallow sand bars;

Restless sand stirring and sighing,

Flowing into endless ocean currents;

Streams and rivulets trickling time,

Into the darkened depths of tranquil water.
Yearnings

25 February 2015

JH Mancy

Tallebudgera, Queensland

Australia

Awake to the wake of ocean tides,

Where my heart and spirit run free

Tranquillity, words cannot describe,

Surrounding and comforting me

Waves percussion mighty against rocks,

Or sweep gently, as in a dream

I shall set no score by human clocks,

For I'll never tire of the scene--

Time ceases, while I, breathless, in awe,

Stand apart from the cares of man

I send my troubles adrift once more

And it cheers me to know that I can
Along Came Greed

26 February 2015

Graham Sparks

Bathurst, New South Wales

Australia

The Earth was happy when leviathans held sway,

everything took portions in proportion with the system's needs.

And then along came greed,

who from constrained behind by leash and collar trotted man,

and then came rape of land for profit not subsistence,

and pillage of the oceans all to swell accounts,

and felling of the forests for the instruments of war,

and subjugation of one's fellows for an arsehole's personal comfort.

And when this greed had spread sufficiently,

infecting all and sundry,

we see the entrance of protection racket lords,

nasty things whose minions do their bidding,

who war on neighbouring tribes,

offering the hapless hoi-poloi protection from the current range of thugs,

and tax them dry again until they blow away,

and then whose offspring post-entrained are known as royal lines,

harvesters of men.

And think you not that every serf would not behave as royalty

if the opportunity arose,

although it takes a special kind of creep to stay atop the game.

All the warm and fuzzy doctrines fail because they fail to factor greed.

Methinks that man has blown his welcome in this world,

lest he evolve to be a kinder kind'a thing.
Do I Look Fat In This?

27 and 28 February 2015

Margo Poirier

South Australia

Australia

The mantra popped out of my mouth before I could stop it. It was automatic now to steel myself for the inevitable reply: Yes you do.

My friends wouldn't lie. They saw it as their loyal duty to be truthful. My friends couldn't know or understand my dilemma.

I took up day dreaming to distract my mind from food as quite obviously I had no self-control and I was just a selfish person who was too greedy and didn't consider anyone else. Each time I helped myself to whatever was in the serving dishes on the dinner table I could sense four pairs of eyes watching me.

'Remember to leave some for everyone else,' my mother hissing between half closed lips.

'Aren't you big enough?' my younger brother, sniggering.

'Must you always eat for two? You're not pregnant!' my older, glamorous, very thin sister, hurling venom.

'That's enough now. There's plenty for everyone,' my dad gently interjecting.

It was clear I could expect very little understanding. I didn't understand it myself. I was twelve and yet I suspected something was NQR.

I decided to laugh it off and became an expert at witty responses. Everyone would laugh (except the family). Most people thought I was funny and for a time, although the taunts didn't stop, I learned to cope better.

But there was no laughter within me. My misery festered on the inside but no one could see in there. No one was in my room at night to witness the tears and the damp pillows. No one saw the frustration when I tried on clothes that never fitted; when I would sneak up to my room after dinner, pockets stuffed with biscuits and anything I could find that wouldn't be missed. And no one would share the stinging, the thoughtless comments about my fat arse, my huge knockers, my bottomless pit of a stomach. I became used to being the class clown and soon built up a coterie of friends who accepted me because I was entertaining and provided them with a sort of power over me; I was their party trick brought out on special occasions and I accepted the role because I had no choice, or so I truly believed.

The die had been cast--my role in the drama of life had been given to me to replay before a cast of thousands. I envied the elephant man. He had to cover his face and head but no bag was big enough to cover my entire body. Except perhaps a shroud.

I wasn't ready for that. At twelve, I really didn't know what a shroud was. Someone suggested I get into one if I could find one to fit.

At twelve, I also had a journey to complete and I decided to make a huge effort to bypass all the negative comments my size brought to the lips of the ignorant. I counted myself lucky that I wasn't boring, too thin, too ugly, too serious, too dumb, too... well, I could go on. Perhaps I wasn't so badly off after all. Imagine putting up with smelly, sweaty armpits forever. I was lucky in the grand scheme of things.

Yet my pillows remained damp; still I smuggled food into my room; still I winced when Mum took me shopping and the zips on dresses I tried to squeeze into bit me with the ferocity of a crocodile! No brassiere existed to fit my elephant tits, not in the normal shops anyway and in my dreams I was Mrs Gulliver with the only man in the universe large enough to accommodate my ample proportions.

I was lucky all right, as I tried to dam the tears that ran their familiar course.

_I... can... do... it!_ became my new mantra after that. I wouldn't be beaten and repeated this silently especially at dinner with the family which should be a time of communication, joy and goodwill. But the will wasn't good, there was no joy and I was left out of what communication there was, as if I didn't exist.

The night of the pasta incident was the final straw.

Mum had put a huge bowl of pasta and meatballs in the centre of the table.

'Don't reach, Melly dear! I will serve,' and serve me she did with the hugest portion I have ever seen. 'Now don't eat it all if you can't.'

Sniggers rippled around the table. I thought the head of the house got the lion's share. But Dad just sat there, not sniggering, but silent, eyes downcast.

I tucked into my meatballs, doing what I was expected to do.

'Another helping, Melly dear?'

With a still full mouth, I nodded. Mum's outstretched hand took my plate.

'My goodness, Melly, I hope you will leave room for dessert. It's your favourite.'

The sticky date pudding with ice cream and custard kept me awake, until I threw up. I stayed awake after that, scared that I might explode like the fat man in that Monty Python movie. He had one too many dinner mints and the whole restaurant was sprayed with bits of him and everything he had eaten. It was gross. I think Mum took me to see it so I could learn a lesson. I did. I decided I would never, ever eat in a restaurant.

By the time I was 'sweet sixteen', I couldn't see anything sweet about it apart from the cakes, biscuits, toffees, chocolates, bliss bombs and Mum's delicious chocolate cakes. I was the only one in the family who had a sweet tooth. I was the only one in the family now who still lived at home. My brother had joined the army and my sister was studying to be a nurse and lived in a flat close to the hospital.

Then the revolution happened!

Fat was becoming the new beautiful. Fat girls were now appearing on the front covers of the glossy mags wearing swimwear, night wear, sometimes very little wear. Television programs were featuring fat men and women encouraged to diet and report their progress while millions watched from their living rooms. They were becoming celebrities. It was suddenly 'all right' to be overweight; it was healthy; you were lovable because of your fatness. After the fat lady sang, it wasn't ending at all. It was just beginning! _Oh, joy! Right on! Welcome to my world_ , I thought and embraced the new movement with open arms. Now was my chance to find a member of the opposite sex who had loads to give just like me. Loads and loads. But it wouldn't matter because we would be sharing the same journey, wherever it would take us.

I met Jim one Friday night at The Cuddle Club. He was shy and so was I yet, there was magic in the air because before the night was over, we were sharing our sixth martini and he said: 'I'm going to come straight out and say this, Melly.'

'It's Melanie, it's just that my mum always used to call me Melly because it rhymed with jelly.' I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks.

'Okay, Melanie,' Jim smiled broadly. 'Melanie then. A beautiful name. Reminds me of the moon for some reason. Now where was I? Oh, yes. I just want to say that, _hic_ , I am so glad I met you. I feel we have known each other forever (and even longer, _ha ha_ ). I want to say "will you be mine" but that is old fashioned and people don't belong together like they used to, like my mum and dad back in the old days, do they?'

'No,' I replied.

'Now, don't interrupt or I will lose my nerve, wherever it is lost underneath all this "me",' Jim laughed loudly and his body laughed with him. 'I'm sure it's not the martinis, although it has given me some courage, and I would like to see more of you.' He was suddenly very serious.

'There is no more of me. What you see here before you is all there is. There is no more!' I couldn't stop myself and burst out laughing.

Jim went red in the face. His giggle began, expanded and exploded into a similar guffaw.

'Calm down, Jim. It wasn't that funny.' I was a little alarmed.

'Oh, oh, yes it was. It is... it still is... more of you... ha, ha, ha...' and this time Jim collapsed on the floor in a paroxysm of giggling. He writhed, he coughed, he hiccupped but he couldn't stop laughing.

I poked him with my foot.

'Stop it!' I said sharply. 'Stop it. Stop it. People are looking. If you don't stop right this minute, I am leaving.' I poked him again with more force.

Jim's breath was now coming in more controlled spurts. The laughter subsided a little and I could see he was making an effort. He was also now making an effort to get up but he couldn't. He flapped about like a beached whale.

'Help me, Melanie. Help me. Here,' he put out his hand. 'Pull me up.'

'You've got to be kidding! I can't help you up. You're just too... well you're too heavy for me. I'll go and get someone. Wait there.' I felt very panicky and moved as fast as my body would allow me to the reception desk.

Jim wasn't going anywhere. He looked up into a sea of faces, murmuring and tut tutting.

None of them could bend over to look further, or to proffer any assistance.

'Is he having a fit?'

'Is he having a back spasm?'

'Should we call someone?'

'Call an ambulance.'

'Don't you just hate it when people drink too much? Disgusting!'

'Did you see his girlfriend? She'll be on the floor next.'

I overheard the whispers as I pushed through the crowd to find the manager who would help because that was what managers did. They managed situations.

The manager didn't come; he listened briefly to my story and promptly dialled 000 for the fire brigade.

'They'll be here in a jiffy,' he reassured me. 'You go back and hold your friend's hand now and we'll have him up in no time.' He smiled his manager smile and I did as I was told.

I elbowed my way through the ring of gawkers. No one had anything constructive to offer--they were enjoying the free entertainment.

Jim was quiet now. His breathing had returned to normal and he just lay there with his eyes closed until I took his hand and pressed it.

'Oh, Melanie, I'm sorry. I've made a fool of both of us.' A tear escaped and ran down his face into his ear. 'Is someone coming? Can you make all these people go away?' he whispered. 'I'm so embarrassed.'

I panted as I tried to get up. It was bad enough getting down to hold Jim's hand. Getting up was, apparently, out of the question and no one offered any assistance.

'Yes, could you all please go away now? There's nothing to see and help is on its way. You are making my friend, and me, feel very uncomfortable. Thank you.' In truth, the crowd was quite small but simply seemed big because of the huge body mass. Ignorance and oblivion precluded them from seeing a problem of which they were inevitably a part.

Amongst many mutterings of apology, the eaters dispersed leaving Jim and I together and alone in our spotlight of despair.

'Don't exert yourself, Jim. Not long to wait now. I think I can hear a siren.'

'I can hear it too. They probably think there's a fire.' Jim tried to prop himself up on an elbow but it was no use.

Suddenly, two yellow clad, helmeted fire fighters ran into the club followed by the chubby manager.

'Here they are guys,' he pointed.

'We can see. Couldn't miss 'em, could we?' one said as he knelt to check if Jim had any broken bones. 'We're going to need more than the two of us. Get Malcolm in here.' His partner spoke into his device and within seconds, a third fire fighter was on the spot.

'Okay, squat, hands in position for a lift. And on the count of three... one... two... three.' Jim was upright, wobbly but otherwise apparently uninjured.

'You okay, mate? No pain anywhere? No headache?'

'No. I'm fine.'

'Now you, Miss. Steady as she goes. On the count of three. One... two... three... up we go. There, now you are both upright. Careful in future. Might want to watch your, er, step. Might be a good idea to have a check-up sooner rather than later, Mate.' Number one fire fighter grinned rather too widely, winked at me and rounded up his crew. 'We'll be off then.'

Not long after this I swore I would never be the butt of anyone's jokes again. I was sick of feeling different, depressed, excluded, teased and every time I looked at Jim it was as if he was a reflection of me. It was crunch time. No, not to diet but to find out why I felt the need to turn into a Michelin man. With some incredible luck I literally stumbled upon the help I needed. I was wedged in tightly next to a woman on a very crowded bus. The journey was long, the seating uncomfortable. We fell into a casual conversation about the weather, the crowd on the bus, the jolting as the rookie bus driver stopped and started without warning.

I was beginning to sweat and then panic at being confined. My breath was coming in short gasps.

'Are you okay?' my companion asked. 'You seem to be a little uncomfortable. It must be distressing sometimes.'

I looked at her expecting to see a teasing look on her face. There wasn't one.

'I'm not feeling great. I always feel a bit pressured in a crowded space. And I seem to take up a lot of that space,' I added weakly.

'I can help you with that.' She spoke softly, just between us.

'If you're a doctor, don't bother,' I answered rather rudely. 'I've tried every diet and nothing works...'

'I'm not,' she interrupted. 'I am a psychotherapist and I can help you, really I can. I do not want to add to your pressures, but here,' she took a card from her purse, 'take this and when you feel up to it give me a call. Okay? Oh, this is my stop. Good-bye.'

'Oh, thanks,' I managed rather ungratefully but I don't think she heard me anyway.

A week or two passed. Not even Jim could cheer me up. I stopped going to The Cuddles Club as all I could see there were replicas of me. I stopped seeing Jim and he didn't understand. I wasn't interested in explaining. My life couldn't have been more miserable.

As I slipped off my jacket that night, a card fell out of its pocket.

My first appointment with Jackie B. began in tears; there were tears in the middle and tears at the end. I emptied my soul like a child empties a box of toys all over the lounge room floor.

Jackie's responses wrapped around me like a soft blanket and I felt safe. She listened attentively and with great patience as I unpacked my life. Finally, I stopped. She handed me a box of tissues, allowing me all the time in the world to compose myself.

'Thank you for letting me in,' was all she said. Then, she sat back in her chair and was silent for a few moments.

'You have been carrying this around for some time,' Jackie continued. 'Now you will let it go as all the weight you are wearing like an oversize coat is dragging you down. Can you see that all the negative comments you have endured first from your family and subsequently from others have become the insulating protection you needed? Protection in the form of too much body weight keeping insults and people from coming too close. You have been able to hide in there. It's time for the butterfly to emerge and take up her rightful place in the world. Over the coming weeks, we will work on some strategies to do this. None of them will involve dieting because that is not the answer. Forget what people have been telling you. Are we agreed?'

I nodded so much it felt as if my head would flip off. I apologised for the pile of tissues in her handy tidy basket, shook her hand and returned a watery smile.

'I agree,' I replied.

My step did indeed feel lighter than ever before as I left her room. For the first time, some hope had been planted. Soon the heavy coat I had been forced to wear for years would be irretrievably relegated to the rag bag.

Five years later, I am dining out with a friend. A couple walk in as we settle. With a heart leap I recognize Jim. A very _slim_ Jim.

'Melanie? How nice to see you again.'

It is him and he is just as surprised as I am.

'Yes, it's me. A very different me as you can see.'

He looks me up and down. 'You're very different too. You look well. Oh, I'd like you to meet my partner. You remember Henry? He used to be the manager of The Cuddles Club.'
The First Kiss In The 1950s

28 February 2015

Irina Dimitric

Mosman, New South Wales

Australia

In the olden days

A girl fifteen, going on sixteen

Met a boy seventeen

On a summer night

Side by side they strolled

On the Adriatic coast

His bright blue eyes

As blue as the sea

She could not resist

When he did insist

'Let's take a walk tonight.'

When the full Moon rose

She led them to a spot she chose

Where mermaids play and sleep

And sometimes weep.

There under an ancient olive tree

They stood transfixed...

He pulled her gently closer

Felt her shiver

Like a flower in the breeze.

'Have no fear, my dear

I'd never harm you,' said he

'Relax. Set your mind at ease.'

Then his eager lips

Gently touched her longing mouth...

They stayed like that

In the sweetness of young love

For a long, long while

And the Moon approved

With a smile.

'Oh, wow! Will I have a baby now?'

Thought she, a bit alarmed

'Little fool, stay cool,' said the Moon

'No offspring has ever sprung

From a kiss as gentle as this.'
Bent

1 March 2015

Chris Lewis

Dublin

Ireland

Homophobia

is a stigmatisation and a shame

visited upon and carried

by every gay

man and woman

who has not overcome

their history, their memory,

a continuing legacy

in our law

and a wider one in our culture.

It is almost gone,

apparently

invisible on the surface,

but remains rooted in the psyche.
Imbecile Song

2 March 2015

Nigel Usher

Farndon, Nottinghamshire

United Kingdom

I remember when I was falling apart

you told me to pull myself together.

When I couldn't stay away from a drink for more than an hour

... to stay away from a drink for a day.

Is that it?

This imbecile song.

The well meaning... consigning the depressed to a thousand suicides.

The drunks to lonely exiles and haemorrhages.

Are you the people that once applauded

care in the community.

Who closed the tiled Victorian corridors and put us on the street

for our own good...

but vilify single mothers for abandoning babies in doorways.

Crawl out from under your textbooks and journals

Give your empathy wings to fly.

Sing your imbecile song

to your audience on couches.

You are doing your best?

Then you should be ashamed.

Editor's note: Brutal, honest and to the point.
Forever Changed

3 March 2015

Emma-Lee Scott

Callaghan, New South Wales

Australia

I remember the exact moment when our relationship changed for the worse. When I stopped giving you goodnight hugs, and making conversation. When we stopped being little more than disagreeable acquaintances rather than father and daughter.

There are few mornings that I remember more vividly. When the manic screaming woke me on a Saturday, I remember thinking how tired I was, and simply wishing for one weekend where I could have a morning of unbroken sleep. Suddenly, your screams changed from a rant about crappy food, to plates smashing. Through my bedroom door I could hear my mother asking you to stop, whilst the pieces crashed into the bin.

In my tiredness, the sound of breaking glass resounded in my ears and I ran out to the kitchen. It was a mess. In the few brief minutes of your violent anger, all the canisters containing biscuits and tea had been strewn across the floor in your mad attempt to force them into the garbage. Your face was contorted into a sinister jeer which showed such hate, whilst your rage-filled eyes madly darted around looking for something else to break.

I remember you reaching across the kitchen bench declaring, 'I fucking hate everything in this house!' and you tried to grab the coffee mug to hurl it. In that moment, your whimsical hatred broke my calm façade that tried to reason with the irrational. I grabbed your arm and wrenched it away.

I'll never know if it was out of surprise or hate, but when your fist came crashing into my jaw, any care I had for questioning your actions disappeared as the room spun. Whilst the second blow sent my ears ringing. It wasn't until you walked away satisfied that I began to weep.

I remember an hour later my mother asking me to tell you it was okay. That I was alright because you were sorry. I was to sate your remorse. I realised I had succeeded in getting the quiet for a morning's rest as you sat silent while I told you I was fine and I stilled loved you.

However, the bruise became the mark of permanent change. Where we no longer spoke except in anger and no one ever touched me again. Where the relationship became volatile and my hurt reached far deeper than any bruise ever would.
Old School

4 March 2015

Michael Cooper

Penrith, New South Wales

Australia

'No internet use this week.' Jake looked around the room at the other kids. A few rolled their eyes, another couple sighed but most were aghast. Jake's teacher Mr Green, had just finished giving instructions for the latest class assignment. As usual, he added the last bit to frustrate them.

This week's task was to design an underwater city. By denying internet access, Mr Green had cut off a major research pathway. He was always doing things like that to ramp up the level of difficulty. Last week, they couldn't use Google.

Mr Green liked handing out puzzles that stumped Google or Yahoo or Bing. He called the students his puzzle designers, as well as puzzle solvers. The underwater city was another in a continuing line of brain busters that recently included writing a conversation in a made up language.

The language was to have its own syntax and grammar including verbs, nouns and adjectives. As well as solving the problem, Mr Green wanted the students to find a practical use for their answers.

Jake made up a conversation between a shopper and a sales assistant. Next, he replaced each letter with the one three ahead of it in the alphabet. That solved the problem of the contrived language, but he had to find a use for it. It took some thinking, but Jake made his language the basis of a new communications code for undercover detectives. Mr Green had liked it.

'How will we research if we can't use the internet?' Brad asked. Brad sat at the back of the room and if things got too tough, he'd crawl under his desk and sketch spacecraft. He was doing that now.

Mr Green glanced in Brad's general direction. He couldn't see him, but knew where he was. 'Well Brad, how about finding some books?'

'Books?' shrieked Fiona. 'Books are so last century. This is 2048 you know.'

'True,' said Mr Green, 'but you might find some out of date research to which you can add your problem finding skills.'

The class gave a collective groan before Mr Green continued. 'Without giving away too much about how you'll find your answers, I didn't rule out emailing.' He paused while he let this little nugget filter through the walls of protest.

'So, we could email a scientist or ocean research facility?' asked Holly. Mr Green smiled.

'Now you're thinking. You could email from school this morning and have your answers ready to begin work in class tomorrow,' he said. With another look around the room, Mr Green confirmed to himself that he'd set a task that was challenging but not daunting. Even Brad had poked his head above the desk and was smiling. That was a good sign.

At home that evening, Jake started looking through his father's extensive collection of books. He was looking for a snippet that would kick-start a wider search. He loved looking through the books because his father had collected so many. Some were first editions signed by the author and the sheer number of them meant answers were never far away.

Then, as so often happened when he was not actively searching, Jake stumbled across a book that answered all of his questions. It had information about how to construct a breathable atmosphere under the sea and how to transport people to and from the surface.

It even had a chapter about how to deal with the waste a human city generated. Jake checked the book's copyright information. It was recent, only published five years ago so wasn't connected to inferential yet.

Most people had stopped using ebooks years ago, real books even longer before that. Reading material now was streamed to a person's consciousness through a system called inferential.

It was developed by a group of scientists from the Australian National University. Jake's father had explained how it worked, but even as a ten year old of higher level intelligence, not much of it stuck.

What he did know was that inferential saved you the trouble of reading. Wearing a headset plugged into a computer, the story found its way into your head. When you took off the headset, you knew you'd been on an adventure complete with a cinematic view of the action.

Jake enjoyed plugging in and having Shakespeare's works come to life in vivid mind pictures. It worked for newspaper stories, magazine articles; anything that could be published. A whole generation of kids had grown up using it.

Teachers like Jake's dad though, were old school. They still enjoyed spending time with a real book.

'Dad,' called Jake. 'Can I take this book to school tomorrow to use on the underwater city assignment?' Jake knew his father was going to refuse. His book collection was prized and he never let them out of his study.

Jake wasn't sure of their value but he'd heard his dad talking to an insurance guy once and a figure of one million was mentioned. Jake's dad looked up from his desk where he was marking another student's work. His look said it all.

'Sorry Jake, you know my thoughts on letting my books leave the house.'

'But Dad, this book has it all. Everything I need for this assignment. We're not allowed to use the internet for this one.'

'I know, but the answer's still no,' said his dad as Jake frowned.

The next day at school Mr Green asked each student for an update on their progress. Jake volunteered to go first.

'I haven't done anything yet, but I found this really cool book at home. It's packed with information,' he said. Mr Green dropped a rarely used warning tone into his voice.

'Jake Green, can you please explain to the class why you're not ready to work on your assignment today.' Jake had to think fast to get himself off the hook. Like the other students, he was in this class because his intelligence put him in the top two percent of kids his age. He smiled as he thought of his elegant answer.

'That book I found? It's from my dad's collection, but he wouldn't let me bring it to school.'
The Forge

5 March 2015

Deborah Stanbridge

Dubbo, New South Wales

Australia

The crude forge has an old pot belly

Contrasted by the lean amateur blacksmith

Both hunger for heated metal

The hand reeled blower is rotated round

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh the sparks shudder

As everywhere bounces the sound

Embers flitter flutter fly

There is enchantment in the air

Ear muffs muzzle the moans of the fire

Quickly the metal is pulled from the heat

Thud, thump, thwack

The metal is drawn out

As embers and sparks flew

More than just friendship grew

Though we are both amateurs

Like the blower we fanned the flame

And forged a lover friend companion

I hope this first is also a last
Arrivederci Roma

6 and 7 March 2015

Anthony Delmar

Strathalbyn, South Australia

Australia

Blue-tacked to the rough plaster wall was an enlarged satellite photograph of Naples and the Amalfi Coast. It formed a crescent of beauty behind my wedge-shaped table in my wedge-shaped alcove and as I pondered the famous Italian coastline he breezed in and sat opposite me at the pre-booked window table I failed to secure principally because I was refused a booking principally because it was the policy of the restaurant not to take bookings.

He was a footloose kind of fellow who strived to affect a certain _je ne sais quoi_. His wife followed in his wake trying desperately to keep him within her sphere of influence. Leaving her to seat herself he immediately sought attention by cracking his fingers like a carbine at each passing waiter. He was a bad shot and as he displayed apoplectic irritation at his poor kill rate, one of his target waiters ambushed him, appearing suddenly at his elbow.

Haughtily, he scanned the menu and ordered the small marguerite for 'her' and a bottle of pricey red wine to complement his large gourmet pizza--with the added truffle shavings. Then he sat back, sap full of _joie de vivre_ , twirled his fingers and beamed at her.

'I thought we were going to start saving?'

'Tomorrow is for saving: this evening is about romance, letting go, enjoying ourselves,' was his unctuous reply. 'Besides, a good red goes further than that cheap plonk. Trust me.'

She didn't. 'You know what red wine does to me.'

He snorted. 'Haw! Haw! I do: indeed I do!' He touched the side of his nose: 'Grrrr-ruff, grrrr-ruff!'

His resonant growling bark instantly alerted the other diners to the possibility of a rampant sex scene being enacted in full view on the window table. The attention had her blushing to the roots of her dyed blonde hair. The wine arrived, breaking the spell and disappointing the expectant diners present: they returned to the less palatable prospect on their plates.

'I'll just have a glass of water; you go ahead--if you like.'

He did like and gestured for the waiter to fill his glass with the instruction: 'Stop at the top'.

With her eyes she measured his every slurp and sip, a phonetic punctuation to the screaming silence that extended on the taut wire of tension between them. When this tactic failed to inhibit his rapid rate of consumption, she brought out the big guns. 'That couple I was talking about? They found it quite easy... once _he_ faced the fact that _he_ couldn't have children.'

He squirmed with embarrassment, knuckle-washing his eyes and face, like a tired two-year-old finding itself at the centre of adult attention. Furtively he glanced in my direction and, much to his relief, my fascination with the topography of Campania convinced him his secret was still safe between them.

'Impossible,' he said, as he waived away her proposition with his free hand.

She wouldn't let it go. 'Impossible? What does that mean?'

While the waiter served their pizzas he tried to dispose of the subject with hand flaps and clock-work-like shakes of his head. Waiter gone, she was remorseless, pinning her mission statement to the closed door of his mind. 'I want, need, children! You know that, you selfish worm! We agreed--"as soon as we were earning enough", you said. Well, we are earning enough--more than enough--and all you do is blow it on expensive wines and pizzas with fecking truffles! For once you could stop thinking of yourself...'

A half slice of pizza knocked on the door of his mouth, trying desperately to get in before the threatened famine. This was not in his game plan. This was not why he had bribed the waiter to hold a table for him: not just any table, but a window table, the one overlooking the Victorian bird bath and the giant chess set in the yard below.

'Look, give it a little more time,' he reasoned, reaching for her hand. She snatched it away quicker than a thief could snatch a purse.

Vigorously practising hand to mouth coordination, he emptied his glass, his sidelong glance noting the steely resolve in her eyes. He replenished his glass.

'You're drinking too much.'

His eloquent repost was to look her squarely in the eye, drain his glass, refill it, drain it again and hiccup. He then struck the classic imperious pose of a man who was in complete control of the situation as wine dribbled down his chin. He belched his defiance. She grimaced in disdainful disapproval.

He lost the long stare competition and tried again. 'Look, love, this evening is about getting some romance back in our lives... I mean, more sex, really, a little more often than we do at the moment.'

'Screwing me 'til my brains fall out is not going to improve your sperm count!'

Again he glanced with apprehension in my direction. My amphibious eyes were already travelling the ferry route between Sorrento and Capri. He studied her over the rim of his glass. From his point of view, it seemed, the status quo was hunky dory; in her mind, status quo was Latin for a bus load of barren, prune-dry old hags on an excursion to nowhere and that her chance of buying a ticket was zilch. She leaned across the table, endeavoring to stir his responsibility juices. 'A child: a lovely gorgeous adopted African baby in need of a good family: how could you even hesitate?' At this point her ample bosom was heaving over his wine glass. He edged it away from the danger zone.

She dropped her voice to a seductive whisper and gazed into his eyes. 'Take him on board, embrace him and I promise with all my heart, the little fellow will do wonders to bring us closer together.'

'Evo stick is cheaper and it doesn't shit!' That observation rendered her speechless, took the wind clean out of her sails.

A flicker of remorse passed across his face. He eased his grip on the glass, moved the bottle carefully aside and took both her hands in his. His whispered recovery statement was so quietly delivered, I failed to hear it and he failed to realise the end of his tie was floating in his glass of velvety _Amarone_.

She smiled. He sat back smirking, his tie trailing after him like a dead possum on a chain. What had he promised, I wondered, a kindergarten? She reached across to cup his face in her hands and kiss his pickled lips. The responsive bray was his fanfare to the common man; a man who thought he was back on track for a sexually expressive evening. She saw the wine-stained tie and thought she had two children--one, him, in the hand, so to speak, and the other, her target baby, in the bush--the African bush, but now within her grasp.

I raised my glass of house plonk to my lips, cagily watching her in case she disapproved. She was too busy mopping his tie with her scarf.

Mission accomplished, she was fidgety and wanted to go--to book her ticket to Africa, no doubt. He wanted to make the most of the moment and soften her up. 'There's a drop left in the end of the bottle, love. Get it down you--just mind the sediment.' Despite the attractiveness of the offer, she declined, having already adopted the stoic diet regime of an expectant mother. He drained the bottle to the dregs, spitting the bits he had warned her against into his napkin. She waited, drumming her fingers on the table. Dispiritedly, he conceded and signalled for the bill.

As they waited in silence, his anxiety returned and being a perceptive reader of his moods, she saw his dark doubts about fatherhood passing like storm clouds across his face. She cast him a tight smile of encouragement, as she would to a child, if she had one. He looked at his stomach: it seemed to be swelling with the promised child. 'Christ!' he exclaimed: not realizing he had vocalized his despair.

They looked at each other, the child and the continent of Africa firmly planted between them.

The bill arrived. He looked mournfully at his empty glass, at the empty bottle. Thinking, no doubt, of the Treaty of Versailles, she realized she couldn't afford to have a grumbling one-sided agreement festering beneath the surface of their new expanded family's delicate relationship. She made her magnanimous gesture: 'If you'd like another glass of wine, go right ahead. I'll drive home.' On the other hand it wouldn't do to appear too generous. 'Just one glass, mind; you've already had a bottle.'

He was so dejected he was deaf, not only to her peace offer, but to its qualification. Grumbling incoherently he rose and weaved his way to the lavatory. She sat feasting on her lower lip, abstractly sliding it from side to side like a tiller as she mentally navigated her voyage to motherhood through the treacherous reefs of her husband's stunted mental growth.

His slow-motion return to the table had a tragic air about it. Heavily seating himself, he offered her a wan smile. She creased her face in response and rose to go powder her nose. With doleful eyes he watched her departure as a shrill female squeal of triumph came piercingly through the window from the giant chess set in the yard below: 'My queen got your king. Check mate, sucker!'

'Too fucking right,' he grumbled, loud enough to attract some very disapproving looks from nearby diners. He turned from the window and started a semaphore with the bar man. Another bottle of _Amarone_ was delivered to the table. The bill went back to be adjusted. He filled his glass. She returned to see the fresh bottle of wine.

'Have a drop, love--to celebrate.' Her withering appraisal of his slumped form said it all: he was a selfish deadhead and she realized it was an irreversible condition. At this point it seemed to dawn on him there would be no cozy evening now; no sex without responsibility; no such thing as a free lunch. She had fired the shell of adoption and it caught him full in the face. Now his sex life was destined to be as limited as his ability to fertilize her eggs.

The bill, fattened by the extra bottle of wine, was placed before him in its leather wallet. He scanned it, shrugged, drained his glass and looked desolately round the room. His blood-shot eyes settled on the wall behind me. 'Arrivederci Roma,' he said, for no particular reason.

'What?' she gasped, convinced now he was as mad as a box of frogs.

'Roma! Rome! There--on the wall--behind that bloke in the alcove!'

_Amazing_ , I thought. On the aether of his alcoholic breath he could manage to float and sail the good ship Rome over two-hundred kilometres south of its Tiber moorings, yet he couldn't shift the object of his lust one iota to meet his sexual needs. _Life_ , I thought, _is full of little ironies._

Solemnly he stood, hiccupped, raised his glass and toasted the wall behind me, repeating his geographical error: 'Arrivederci Roma'. He slumped into his seat and emptied his glass, mostly down his shirt front. He had come with testosterone; she had arrived with an agenda. He hadn't a chance; she hadn't a hope. In the sullen silence, he filled his third glass from the second bottle and her vision of motherhood began to blur in the mist of her tears.

I rose, paid my bill and left to wend my way home. Shedding my coat on the living room floor, I pointed accusingly at the wife: 'You have an agenda!'

'You're pissed,' she said, without taking her eyes from the television. Then one word borrowed another, until none was left, like Scrabble. We haven't spoken since. Don't understand it: all I did was slip out for a quiet pizza!

Editor's note: Another great character study, nicely tied up.
Ice Cream Man

7 and 8 March 2015

Beatrice Ross

Winmalee, New South Wales

Australia

Cicadas shrilled in chorus, singing summer on high. The sports oval buzzed with the hum of talking and the crackle of applause. From a distance, Paul Harding swore the spectators were melting and oozing in their fold up chairs. Or maybe it was the rippling heatwaves distorting them. Ugh, he couldn't think straight. It was the heat. Yep, the heat. Jesus Christ, he hated sport on Sundays.

On cricket Sundays, he never ventured down to the field. He stayed in the car. It was better than drinking shitty coffee from the canteen and pretending he wasn't dying from heat stroke. In the shadeless car park, he rapped the dashboard to the beat of an old rock song (a little something from 'The Angels') singing in the intervals between drags on his cigarette. Slumped back in the passenger seat of the battered ute, the dry finish of sweating upholstery swelled hot in his nostrils. The cotton of his AC/DC shirt clung plastered to his skin. The heat was unbearable, even with the windows reeled down. He mopped his face with his shirt, the cotton rasping on his peppered stubble. He kicked open the door, unpeeling himself from the seat. Scanning the field, he exhaled a stream of smoke.

Back in high school, he'd never pictured himself as a sport-on-Sunday dad. He'd always thought a crowd would be watching him on the field. Yeah, he once had a footy career in the distance. He could've stretched that extra mile and made it big time. That was until he fucked the coach's daughter and got himself a blue-eyed baby boy.

He wiped the sweat from his brow, releasing a rattling sigh as a loud, high pitched song echoed down the road. The chiming ding of music played on a continuous loop. The ice cream truck worked its rounds. A white truck rumbled down the road, blaring its song. He eyed it with distaste, taking a long drag on his cigarette. If this place had a soundtrack, the ice cream truck would have a solo of its own. That's why he brought his own kind of music. He stooped down over the driver's seat, cranking up the volume of the radio. The music drowned out the garish blare.

The game on the field wrapped up. From across the field, he eyed a woman coming up the hill towards the car park. She held a five year old kid close by her side. _Speak of the devil_. Here they were, the coach's daughter and blue-eyed baby boy.

Paul dropped the cigarette. He crushed it under the toe of his boot, hastily stuffing the cigarette pack in a tattered bag of tools in the ute tray. He fanned the smoke away, spraying himself and the car interior with deodorant. Smile in place, he leant back against the car, waiting.

Renee led Tate up the hill towards the car, clamping a camping chair under her arm. She was a strong woman, both in body and mind. It didn't show now, not with her blonde hair so tousled and her face all flushed and sweaty. But overall, she kept herself well, holding up her gymnastics body, perky arse and all. Paul was lean like her, but in a wiry kind of way. Tate had her eyes, but had inherited the dusty brown mop of hair from his father.

At the car, Tate dragged his cricket bat dead across the gravel. Another bad game. Paul passed Renee a smile. She didn't return it. He kept his distance, watching her load the fold up chairs in the tray. When it was safe, he kissed her. She stiffened, lowering her voice to a thin hiss. She glared daggers.

'You said you'd quit. I can smell it all over you.'

Before Paul could spurt the same shit about him trying and all, Tate noticed the ice cream truck parked at the curb. He tugged on Renee's arm.

'Hey Mum, can I have an ice cream?'

Renee sighed, sparing Paul one last heated look.

'We'll talk about this later,' she grumbled.

She stormed off, yanking the boy in tow. Paul followed closely behind.

~~~

After a short wait, it was their turn to step up to the ice cream truck window. Well this was a first. Renee never bought ice cream for Tate. She was pissed, that's why. Paul could read her like an open book. If she didn't distract herself now, she'd shout. She couldn't do that here, not with Tate around.

Renee fronted the window, rummaging through her wallet. She pulled out a ten dollar note, turning her she-beast eyes on the truck vendor.

'One chocolate swirl,' she snapped.

The vendor grinned a toothy smile, disappearing into the hub of van. Paul watched him closely. The man struck him as odd. He could've passed as a cut out from a 1950s magazine. White shirt, black pants, white soda jerk hat and a black bow tie. The guy could've come from another time in history all together.

Renee didn't seem to notice. The attendant returned with a loaded cone, passing it to her through the open window. She passed it down to Tate, handing over the money. The attendant refused it with a smile.

'Free of charge ma'am,' he beamed in a strong American drawl, sounding something like a southern Yankee. 'Ya'll have a nice day now.'

For a moment, the sunlight caught the truck vendor's eyes. They glinted a dead black, the whites of his eyes swallowed whole. Paul blinked. He did a double take. The ice cream man turned his piercing blue eyes on Renee, holding them there. _Huh, must have been a trick of the light_.

Renee stiffened, her mouth hanging open. She stood dumb for a few seconds, eyes blank, limbs locked. A second later, she swayed on her feet, eyes idling off to one side. She teetered back. Paul jolted, catching her before she fell. She shook herself, peering up at Paul, dazed.

'Are you okay?' he asked.

He set her upright. She gathered the words distantly, clutching her spinning head.

'I dunno,' she grumbled, 'I feel sick.'

The blaring tune of the ice cream truck chimed to life. The window slammed shut. They jolted in shock. The attendant tipped his hat behind the plastic window, smiling as he climbed into the driver's seat. There was something wrong about that guy. Paul had a feeling of uneasiness he couldn't shake. The truck rumbled to life, pulling out from the curb. Paul watched it go. A chill crept up his spine. He let it run its course. When he got the chills, he knew something wasn't quite right.

~~~

It was late. Maybe ten o'clock. The spacious lounge room still held the heat of the day, holding it in like a stale breath. In the corner of the room, a rotating fan worked overtime.

Paul lounged back on the La-Z-Boy, sipping a can of Tooheys. Renee slept on the lounge across the room, stirring in her sleep. She mumbled all sorts of things. Paul couldn't quite make them out.

Renee was good to him. She'd dealt with his shit. All the stuff with his smoking and drinking. He was pretty sure she still thought he was a teenager. Always fucking up, getting drunk, forgetting to pick Tate up from school. But honestly, Paul was too young for this parenting shit. He was a mid-twenties kind of guy, fresh out of an apprenticeship. But he'd made a promise to himself. He'd never duck out on her. He was enough of a man not to put her through something like that.

Ever since they'd come home, Renee had slept, for a full six hours. She'd vomited three or four times. She put it down to heatstroke. Paul wasn't sure about that. He'd seen heatstroke on the field plenty of times. And it wasn't like this. The symptoms didn't match up. Her skin was pale, cold like ice. Even with two blankets she still had the tremors.

He was thinking it through when a sound outside interrupted him mid-thought. He listened as a chiming melody sounded deep in the darkness of the street. It was a song. A sudden uneasiness settled heavily in his stomach. He knew the sound. He'd heard it just today. An ice cream truck.

Paul shifted to his feet, pausing by the window. It was louder now, coming closer by the minute. He parted the linen curtains, peering out to the dark street. His skin crawled, goose pimples rippling across his arms.

On the street, a truck rumbled into view, headlights slicing through the darkness. Paul stepped an inch away from the window, keeping an eye on the truck as it pulled up at the curb. A long, painful minute dragged on. The music blared in loops. In the dead of night, the tune set him on edge. _Who the hell was this guy? What did he want?_ And why did Paul feel so damn anxious? After meeting the Yankee, he'd had a bad feeling. He wasn't superstitious or anything, but he could feel the shadows creeping.

The engine cut out. The door squeaked, the truck leaning to one side as the ice cream man stepped down from the driver's seat. He straightened his hat, plucking his bow tie. Giving the house one good look, he headed up the stepping stone pavers towards the porch. His glossy black shoes clacked on the concrete. Paul lingered at the curtains. _What is he doing here? Did he want his money?_ The ice cream man turned a sidelong glance Paul's way. The attendant's black eyes glimmered like beetle shells.

Paul's stomach dropped. He ducked out of sight. Whoever he was, he was giving off bad vibes. Paul lost sight of him. He waited it out. The door bell rang loud and clear. Paul jolted. He gathered a steady breath. _Okay, it's just an ice cream man_. He crept to the front door, holding strong to his courage. Eyes steady on the door, he reached for a cricket bat propped there. He grasped it tight, his fingers white on the grip.

Taking in a deep breath, he opened the door by an inch, peering out. The ice cream man stood on the doormat, eyes staring, grin never ending. A sickly sweet odour wafted from his skin, a palette of chocolate, hardboiled lollies and toffee apples.

'What do you want?' Paul demanded.

The ice cream man stared with eyes like flint. He held his silence. Paul squirmed. The freak just stood there. Saying nothing, smiling like an idiot.

_No_. Paul couldn't do this. _That was it. No way._ The freak was just too fuckin' freaky. Paul moved to slam the door in his face. The ice cream man planted his hand firm on the door, stopping it.

The stranger smiled a Cheshire grin, the edges of his body blurring in and out of focus. Flickering like television static, the stranger dissolved in a haze of black smoke.

Paul stood in the doorway, dazed.

What. The. Fuck?

He shut the door, staggering back on leaden feet. He didn't just see that. No. He was dreaming. Maybe he was asleep on the armchair and this was all a dream. Yeah, that sounded right. Paul contemplated pinching himself. He let the urge slide. A scream shattered the night.

~~~

Renee shrieked, her cries high and hoarse. Paul raced into the lounge room. He skidded to a stop in the doorway. He gasped, staggering back.

The ice cream man held Renee down on the lounge. He raised a set of raking claws, plunging them deep in her chest. She screamed, writhing and gasping. The ice cream man smiled the same toothy grin, his eyes flashing black. He whistled, twisting his hand side to side. Slowly, but surely he inched his hand free from her body.

Paul expected blood, and lots of it. But the gush never came. Instead, a glowing orb of light squeezed free from her skin. It throbbed in crackling electric pulses. The ice cream man urged the light from her chest. The orb slipped free. Renee's screams cut short. She slumped back, her eyes dull and glassy. The ice cream man held a hovering orb in his hand, closing his fingers around the light until he snuffed it out in his closed fist. He smiled, flashing a mouth of shark teeth. He noticed Paul at the door.

'Wanna a vanilla swirl mister?'

Paul dropped the cricket bat. It thumped hard on the floor boards. He bolted. He raced down the hallway, breath coming hard and fast. _Jesus Christ!_ He couldn't think. _What the hell happened?!_ Gasping for breath, he hit the front door at break neck speed. He slammed hard against the wood, the door shaking on its hinges. Fighting the tremors, he worked the door knob. His sweaty hands slipped on the brass.

'What about a strawberry sundae?'

It was in his ear. The hoarse, candied voice. He jolted, heart leaping in his throat. He swivelled on his heels. He gasped.

The ice cream man towered behind him. Except now, he didn't have a face like a face. His eyes were hollow gaping holes. His smile widened, stretching wider from cheek to cheek. Shark teeth champed. The freak's arms and legs oozed to the floor like melting ice cream, but instead of puddling, billowed out in thick black smoke. He chuckled, the rattling gurgle sinking to a low growl.

Paul staggered back, bug-eyed, mouth gaping open. The ice cream man sauntered forward on misted feet. Paul backed up, hitting the door. In his paralysed stupor, he urged his body to move. _Run dammit! RUN!_

Paul twisted the knob. The door gave way. Paul knocked it back on its hinges. He staggered on to the porch, jumping the stairs two at a time. His thoughts raced like lightening: quick and fleeting, never stopping at one thing. Gasping and panting, he raced for the street. He sprinted through the uneven grass, skidding on the loose gravel of the driveway before finding solid footing on the sidewalk. He chanced a glance behind his shoulder. The nightmare creature dissolved into a haze of smoke in the doorway.

Paul raced down the dark stretch of road, feet pounding the asphalt, heart thundering in his temples. He lengthened his stride, breath wheezing and whistling in his throat.

Blinding headlights lit up the street, hitting his back, lighting up dust motes. He did a half turn. The truck belted out its song, engine growling and rumbling. The music pounded in his head. Behind the wheel, the ice cream man sneered, his lips oozing and melting at the sides in a twisted grimace.

Paul gasped. He urged his legs to sprint, looking over his shoulder. His foot sunk deep in a pot hole, the toe of his boot catching and snicking on the edge. He tumbled forward, coming down hard and fast. His jaw knocked solid on the asphalt, his nose bending and clicking. He gasped, a blinding pain palming his face. Tight, throbbing knots of pain pulsed from his broken nose. Sprawled loose on the road, he pulled himself up, teeth locked tight.

The truck rumbled, wheels spinning. Tyres squealed on the asphalt, leaving the stench of burning rubber. The truck locked out of gear, accelerating, tearing after him. Sucking in a hiss of breath, Paul staggered to his feet. He lunged for the sidewalk, hitting the pavement flat on his feet. The truck hurtled past, loose gravel clinking in the hubcaps. It tore down the road in a blinding flash of headlights and smoke.

Paul huddled amongst the low hanging branches of a bottle brush tree, gasping and wheezing. The ice cream truck melody faded out, the haunting tune hanging in a final echo. His head spun, his senses reeling in a mad rush. He gulped down a breath, blood trickling from his nose.

He waited for the song to fade out altogether, heart thundering. After several long minutes he could think again. The ice cream truck was gone. He couldn't hear it anymore. Just the chirping crickets now. A dog barking next door. His nose was a throbbing mess, blood hot and slick on his lips and chin. The freak was gone. Renee was... well, he didn't know. Dead? Unconscious? The freak did something to her. And Tate... Tate!

Paul shook off the cold shock, staggering to his feet. Did the son-of-a-bitch hurt him too? Paul shook off the images of Tate's cold, limp body. _He's just a kid. Please God, let him be alive!_

He pounded down the sidewalk, racing for the house. He climbed the porch steps two at a time. Tate was still in the house. Some father he was. Leaving his boy behind. He cursed himself, knocking back the front door as he crossed the threshold. In the lounge room, Renee was porcelain white, her body limp. He inhaled a deep, rattling breath. _No. Don't look._

He bounded up the stairs, his breath ragged and hoarse, the blood running hot down his chin.

'Tate?!'

He made the top landing, pausing by Tate's bedroom. He opened the door by an inch, peering inside.

He slumped with relief. Tate sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes. He squinted, his hair fluffed up to one side where he'd been sleeping.

'Dad?'

The relief washed through Paul in a wave: overwhelming and instant. On dead legs, he rushed to the bedside. He sunk down on the doona, collecting Tate in a tight embrace.

'Oh, thank God,' Paul mumbled.

Tate moaned, wiping the sleep from his eyes. Paul looked him over, studying his face.

'You okay buddy? You feel alright?'

The boy nodded, startled by the blood. Paul quickly palmed the blood from his nose. Wearing a tight smile, he tucked the boy back under the sheets, answering the question on the boy's face.

'It's okay. I just tripped. You go back to sleep, okay?'

Tate shook his head.

'I don't want to. I want ice cream.'

Paul's face darkened.

'Did you see the ice cream man?'

The boy nodded, scrunching up the sleeve of his pyjama top.

'He said that we were next.'

Paul's blood ran cold. _No. Hell no_. He stared hard at the floor. He had to be strong. He had to be strong for Tate. There was no way that son-of-a-bitch was coming back for his boy.

The boy watched him, his stare cutting through Paul's grimace and in deeper. He didn't ask why Paul was crying. But Paul was sure he was thinkin' about asking. He was like that. Quiet, always wondering. The child held his gaze for a brief moment before rolling over under the sheets.

Paul stroked the boy's hair lightly, the tears coming hot and fast. He gathered a deep breath, leaving the boy to his sleep, afraid of what he'd find down stairs.

~~~

Paul sat at the dining room table, whisky bottle on the table, tumbler in hand, cigarette loose between two fingers. He pinched two fingers on his strapped nose, wincing when it came back tender.

He poured himself a healthy serving of Wild Turkey, loosening his tie. He'd never appreciated the starchiness of suits. This one was hot and scratchy, like wearing a woollen rug in the dead heat of summer. Whenever he wore his father's hand-me-down suit, he reeked of the old man. The material gave off a musty, salty odour, like the sweat and sea water his father used to battle on the fishing trawler. The material had absorbed as much of Paul as it had his Dad. It had a fabric memory of cigarette smoke and cologne, the last being from his wedding day a couple of years back.

Paul knocked back his head, downing the whisky. The liquid branded a stinging path down his throat. God, he hated funerals. Every single one of them. But Renee's had to be the worst. Family and friends from both sides paid their respects. He was sick of people saying sorry for something they didn't do.

The coroner's report stated Renee suffered from heart failure. Heart conditions were hereditary, something common in her family. So one day, someone figured that, like her late grandmother, Renee might die young, that her heart might just... stop working.

He took a long drag on his cigarette. He gritted his teeth, tears brimming in his eyes. He wiped them away furiously, breathing deep. _Keep it cool, keep it cool._ The knot in his throat made it impossible to breathe.

He didn't tell the others what he'd seen. Who would've believed him? They would have thought he was losing his mind. He had doubts himself. But the thing was, it had been as real as anything.

He watched the burning embers on the end of his cigarette, tapping the shaft on an ashtray. The ash crumbled, greying, the embers dying in a wisp of smoke. He mashed the spent cigarette in the tray.

His mind wandered, his eyes open, but unseeing. He kept returning to the ice cream man and his van. _Was it real?_ He let the thoughts run over and over through his head. He found the freak at the oval on Sunday. So maybe he'd be there again. Then Paul could prove to himself that the monster wasn't something living in his imagination. If he found the freak, he'd teach that son-of-a-bitch a lesson. He'd burn that motherfucker's truck to ash. That crazy freak was gonna pay for--

A swell of nausea hit him hard in the gut. He keeled over, his teeth locked tight. Stitching knots clenched his stomach, a cold sweat breaking loose over his skin. The tumbler slipped from his grasp, knocking to the floor. The bile rose and settled hot in his throat. Ugh. The sickness was back. It came back every hour or so. Just like Renee's had. He swallowed down the vomit, laying back on the chair, weak, stiff and trembling. He was next for sure. So was Tate. That was why he'd sent Tate to Renee's parent's place for the weekend. The kid couldn't stay here. Not now. It was too dangerous. Paul had to hunt down the truck and its driver. And soon. He could feel the shadows creeping.

~~~

The warehouse was on the west side of Penrith, the truck depot squared between a smash yard and an auto mechanic. After following the ice cream truck all day, he'd tracked it from the streets to the warehouse. By the time the ice cream truck had parked in the depot garage, it was about nine o'clock at night. Darkness fell quickly. Paul had to work in the dark.

Paul placed the wire cutters to the linked fence, clipping bit by bit. The black balaclava on his face itched. The hoodie was no better. He worked quickly, patching open a gap in the wire. He crawled through, carrying a red jerry can beside him. It sloshed as he walked, heavy with petrol. Slinking in the shadows, he crept across the courtyard, creeping down a side alley. He looked out for a back entrance. He found one close by. He slotted a bobby pin into the lock, fixing the lock to an angle with a screw driver. He was no expert at lock picking, but with a bit of home invasion, theft and a year of juvie on his rap sheet, he could say he had a bit of luck in forcing the lock. The door gave way, Paul slipping in with the jerry can.

The garage was musty and dark, heavy with the stink of burnt rubber, engine oil and exhaust fumes. Paul flashed the beam of a torch across the room. Heated motors clinked under bonnets, settling in rest. He crept down the lines of trucks, stopping short. _Gotcha._ He found the ice cream truck parked between two semi-trailers. How didn't anyone notice something so out of place?

Paul set down the torch, casting light on the truck. He knelt down on one knee, working the jerry can lid loose. The lid screwed free, the scent of petrol fumes hitting him in swells.

A wrench tumbled off a distant work bench. It clanked on the concrete. Paul jolted, startled. The sound carried in echoes. He had the shivers again. The air chilled around him. His breath misted, gooseflesh rippling down his arms. Gathering a deep breath, he continued, the freezing air stinging his throat.

He hoisted the jerry can up, tipping the contents over the ice cream truck, petrol chugging over the bonnet. He worked quickly, dousing the truck from bumper to boot, tossing the can aside. He reached into his pocket, finding a silver zippo lighter.

'You plannin' a bonfire son?'

Paul jolted. The lighter slipped from his grasp. It clattered on the cement at his feet. A silhouette framed in the flash light. He swivelled on his heels.

The ice cream man stepped out of the shadows. Paul scrambled back. He reached under his hoodie, pulling a Glock .22 from his belt, a little something he'd snagged back in juvie. He pointed it dead straight at the ice cream man. Paul held his ground.

'Stay back!'

The freak dissolved in a swirl of black mist. Paul's limbs locked. He wheeled around, alone in the torch light. Breath coming hard, he jerked left to right. His heart thundered, throbbing in his temples. _Shit! Where did he go?_

'You think you can kill me?'

The southern drawl seethed in his ear. A stinking hot, candied breath brushed the nape of his neck. Paul jolted, spinning on his heels. He came face to face with the monster. Its black eyes glinted in the torchlight.

'Go ahead. Shoot,' it snarled.

The ice cream man circled him in a saunter, gun at his chest. His figure dissolved in and out at the edges, like television static.

'I'm no ice cream man. This is just a soul I collected in Louisiana, sometime in the 1950s. My real name is Siylar. But I can be anyone I want, Paul. Anyone--'

He dissolved, the black mist taking shape. Renee paced the floor in front of him. Paul jolted, hands trembling on the gun. He looked just like her. Every detail was right. If he didn't know better, Paul would've thought she was alive. He managed a stammer, tears brimming in his eyes.

'W... what are you?'

Renee smiled, looking him up and down. She stalked with a cat-like gait. He could smell her perfume. He spoke just like her.

'A demon. I collect souls.'

She flashed a smile, her lipstick cherry red. Her jeans were tight, her white tank top plunging low at the front. Paul swallowed hard. Her eyes darkened.

'Looks like you're next.'

She lunged, fingers curling like claws. She locked her legs tight around his waist, hitting him with a loaded left hook. He teetered back under her weight, stunned. He went down hard, the gun knocking from his hand, skidding across the floor. He gasped under her, sprawled on the floor, nose bleeding hot and fresh.

Straddling him, she urged her fingers into his chest. A blazing bolt of electricity seared through his body. He screamed. Out of the corner of his eye, the lighter glinted in the torchlight. He reached for the gun, fingers edging across the floor.

Her fingers sliced into his skin, sinking deeper. He squirmed, his teeth locked tight. Jolts of electricity blasted through his body, lighting up his nerves. He shrieked, his cries wet and guttural. She flashed a shark tooth grin, her eyes gaping black eye sockets.

He reached across the floor. His fingers closed in on the butt of the gun. Got it!

BANG!

Renee shrieked, jolting backwards. Blood splattered the floor. She snarled, scrambling back. The electrifying pain was gone. She clutched her face, blood seeping through the gaps in her fingers. Gasping for breath, Paul scrambled to his feet, lunging for the lighter. He snatched it from the floor. He worked the flint wheel, the lighter sparking. If he couldn't kill the demon, he needed a distraction to get out alive.

Renee pulled herself from the floor, blood pulsing from her gaping eye. She staggered after him, seething.

BANG!

She jolted back, a neat bullet hole cut in her forehead. She staggered back, teetering with the impact. She regained her balance, coming back strong, her face a scape of blood and shattered bone.

She noticed the lighter. Her face twisted into something furious and ugly. She charged.

Paul flicked the flint wheel. A flame bloomed to life, hot and full. He threw the lighter. The flame sparked in the petrol slick.

Whoosh!

Fire licked the shell of the ice cream truck, consuming it, growing bright and intense. Hot, choking smoke billowed from the burning truck, filling the room quickly.

Renee jolted, shifting in and out of focus. The ice cream man reappeared. He screeched and squealed, his pointed teeth gnashing.

The torched truck blazed fiercely. Paul staggered back, shielding his eyes. He watched the writhing ice cream man. Siylar screamed, staggering on dissolving legs. A great glow of fire travelled up through his legs, burning him deep to the bone. Blue flames licked his skin, dissolving his body as it crept up from his arms and legs, consuming his torso, neck and face.

The ice cream man screamed, dissolving into a swirling cloud of black mist.

The fire raged on, smoke thick and choking. Paul ducked down low, racing to the exit, leaving behind the blazing fire and the swirling black mist.

~~~

Paul took out a crumpled packet of cigarettes from his pocket, giving them one long look. He sighed, tossing them in the bin. He'd give up smoking. Clean up his drinking. It's what Renee would've wanted. He grimaced, wandering out into the corridor. It'd been a few days since the fire. Renee was gone. Both Tate and Paul were still working through that nugget.

The house was quiet at this time of night. Too quiet. Paul climbed the stairs, exhaustion settling deep in his bones. He lingered at Tate's bedroom door, nudging it open by an inch. Tate was sleeping. Dreaming all sorts of things. Hard times were coming. But Paul would work it out. He'd look after his boy. No bogeyman would ever touch Tate, not even the monsters under his bed. He was safe now. He left the boy in peace, shutting the door behind him.

Tate stirred under the sheets, watching the door close, his black eyes glinting in the glow of the night light.

Editor's note: Humanised paranormal horror with a short, sharp, effective ending!
True Self

9 March 2015

Valerie R Vaughn

Phillipsburg, Pennsylvania

USA

Society's exceptions do not define me

mold me

I realize my worth

while I glance into the storefront window as I pass by casting my reflection

welcoming my shit-eating grin.

I shovel my shoes on the pavement underneath me each step leading to new discoveries

the stones of society's pavement cut though the souls of my shoes

still I walk forward

with direction and purpose soothing away my pain.

I no longer hide my true self

deep beneath a veil of shame.
Cosmoverse

10 March 2015

Ashwyn Kale

Tasmania

Australia

in the void of 3.56 am my

cosmonaut is spinning,

wheeling

his apparatus discerns distant extra-terrestrial

signals:

house creaks that are code from another

time, another sun defeated by moon;

a possum, hungry and curious and viciously territorial, barking that language the

computers haven't cracked yet;

memories of yesterday, already fatigued to crumpled

sheet half-thrown;

cheerless whoop of the night train passing as a

dingy comet no-one sees;

blips of ether that everyone sees, but ignores;

the swirl of that girl fragrant as cooked rice, yet glinting like a

burnished star, and she knows who she is.

It's just a small skip between universes,

he heard the ghost of his grandfather say.
Listen Carefully

11 March 2015

Myfanwy Dabner

Newbridge, New South Wales

Australia

If someone sweeps

Then I react

This means I sweep

See 'always'

How could you tell a mother?

Her children must understand her absence

Whilst she pursues her own good

How much must they understand?

'Absence'.

Life is all close in their little hearts

As it was the mother

Was wanting to learn and deliver academia

More quickly so that her good

Is less impinging on her children's present time.

Her 'commitment'.

How could you know her deepest values?

Would cause her to pursue her own good

For their sake at a later date

Is this a conundrum right now?

When typing at a computer screen

'We want mum not computer mum'

I need to do this now

It will bring good

But will it teach you little one

To love some screen

rather than to love the little ones?

If I do things more effectively

I can be less of a computer mum

You've got to love the ones you're with.

It wasn't a lecture it was a layman's workshop

So sweeping was allowed.

How do you give to the child?

Now and for their future?

Discuss.
From A Journal

12 March 2015

Elzbieta Uher

Montreal, Quebec

Canada

I look at the lines on the palm of your hand,

I see some white with pink intertwined,

You seem to have time...

I squeeze my own hand tight,

As if red on my palm had just died.

Your hand is curled up tight,

As if your dreams had just died.

I look at the lines on my own hand,

I see some grey with blue intertwined,

I still have time...
Home

13 March 2015

Michael Power

Dublin

Ireland

At the fireplace we toasted bread with the long bronze fork

And also roasted any spuds remaining from the dinner

The GPO was in flames overhead

And poor Pearse and Connolly were really dead

'You treat this place like a hotel,' my mother often said

And 'waste not want not' 'til the cows came home.

She played the piano in the parlour

Rousing rebel songs relived her stress

While 'Gortnamona' calmed her too-full days.

My father's shed was his refuge

Except for six o'clock and Radio Eireann's news

Silence was demanded and he stopped his mending shoes

He smoked his pipe of plug tobacco

Pared a match stick for to pick his teeth

The pen knife I remember and his skill with the carving knife

Criss crossing with the whetting stone, he me amazed

I have never felt as masterful as he, in all my days
Banshee

14 and 15 March 2015

MC Alves

New York City

USA

Fear once set in motion will remain in motion until acted upon by...

The last ferry across the Great South Bay had left hours earlier and with it the voices of panic and admonition. Fair Harbor, one of several small villages on Fire Island, a barrier island off the south shore of Long Island, was now nearly deserted. He had been living in Fair Harbor since early spring as he had for the past four years. What once had been a refuge of solitude and simple existence this year had become his own Devil's Island. All had been lost or left behind, time and mileage and the various vicious twists to which any one life is prone had left their imprint on his soul.

He was weary and worn, neither hero nor victim, just another man who had already lived the majority of his years as best he could, without fear nor ever despair, always a worthy opponent to whatever challenge might rear itself from without or within. He had at times lost but had also won now and again, whatever those terms are supposed to mean within the framework of living. The sacred geometry of chance was the true taskmaster, after all, and the best any man could do was balance himself on the precipices. That much he had done many times before. But he was now approaching the endgame as evidenced by the fact that many, if not most, of the people he had once been close to were now dead. It was not that he felt particularly aged, quite the opposite, but the fact remained--his contemporaries, friend and family and foe, were gone. Although always a melancholy sort he was not given to surrender nor certainly self-pity but he did indeed understand the nature of futility. But if perchance he were to die tomorrow he would have had his fair share of laughter.

He no longer derived the same potent pleasure from life he had as a young man but neither was he ready to bid bon voyage to its many pleasures, however transient. Death to him had always been life's safety valve--one could always check out. Beyond that, however, he harbored no dismal death wish so when he was warned in no uncertain terms by the lot scurrying to escape the coming storm that he was mad to stay on the island he did, in fact, think twice. But long before he had learned it best to ignore the demands of another's anxieties and fears, the tyranny of another's emotions were always to be avoided for they were seldom the voice of reason and never that of altruism. This would not be the first time his life was threatened, nor even the second, but he was well aware that such experiences did not lessen the impact. There are those who believe that courage was a total sum from which a little more was extracted each time called upon. Perhaps that was true. If so, the nights and days to come might well prove draining. He hoped that whatever reserves remained would prove sufficient.

One last time he asked his partner if she wished to leave. She said no. She loved this place. It was her heartfelt home and had been for many years. She placed her trust in Yemanja, in Brazilian Condemble she is the patron deity of oceans, motherhood and Ogun River in Africa. The spirit of water, her favorite number is seven and she is reputed to favor cigarettes and Champaign offerings at dawn. _Good choice of patrons to put faith in_ , he thought, _given the impending forces_.

A volunteer fireman and a cop came around with the final warning. He told them he would keep an eye on things while they were gone--see you when you get back. They did not find him amusing. They warned him of waves, very high waves and 90-mile-per-hour winds. He told them he had seen such before. If the waves proved massive enough to engulf the island only a boat would do and if so there were several moored nearby. They said they would not come back to save him. He told them that had he ever waited for anyone to save him he would not be alive today. If the problem was that they did not want to save him not to worry, they were absolved from any responsibility. His life was his own, always had been. The argument ended when he showed them his social security number written in large numerals on his forearm in magic marker. He knew this was mandatory in mandatory evacuation procedures. _Okay, let the stupid bastard die_ , they must have thought. Few things ever change. So be it. He had no intention of dying. But given the reports from places to the south which had already been hit he was willing to leave it to chance.

And if the storm hit the coast as expected this island might well be a good place to take shelter given the power would go down, trains would not run, the expressways would flood and general chaos might well ensue on shore. He had food, bottled water, firewood, not enough Irish whiskey but some, tequila if desperate, tobacco and a dynamo-powered radio. And mops, of course. Did he feel lucky today? No. Truth be told he had nowhere else to go. All things considered he would take his chances here. Once again he missed God. An atheist is ever on his own. With a respectful salute to Neptune he would leave his fortune to the whims of whatever goddesses may be.

There was not one soul to be found anywhere by late afternoon, an oddly eerie sensation. PBS warned repeatedly of the violence of the approaching behemoth, its force expected to last for thirty-six hours, perhaps longer. Dire tales of destruction from along the eastern seaboard abounded. There was no point in regret now since there was no way off the island, nowhere to run, no choice other than to accept whatever the fates should choose. At 5:10pm, three hours after the power company had originally indicated, all power was cut. He noticed its absence only some time later when he looked at the frozen hands of the clock on the wall as the radio announced the time on the hour. Better without power, no need to fear ending up as charcoal brisket when stepping in an electrified puddle.

There would no doubt be some rather large puddles soon enough. It is a short distance between the Great South Bay to the north and Atlantic to the south of Fair Harbor, sitting as it does on the thinnest sliver of earth on Fire Island. The wind was fierce and constant from the northeast, the waters of the bay higher than he had ever seen, already nearly engulfing the ferry dock. The waves on the bay were relentless, those of the ocean thrashing madly, lashing out like a sea hag gone mad, easily over ten feet high and rising. It was nearly dark. They slept. The storm was only starting.

It was not sudden but gradual, the rising force of the wind. What started as 'blustery' had overnight slowly and steadily become an intense force which pounced mercilessly. A native New Englander, he learned as a boy it was best to get out into a storm as it grew, before it reached its full force, to navigate it as best one could and gauge how quickly it rose as well as to face it squarely rather than sit back and allow it unchallenged control over one's emotions. Spitting into the wind did have its wisdom if only as a last act of defiance.

The house they were in rested on ancient wooden supports nearly six feet above ground to the rear and just above ground level in the front. The flooding which had started early in the morning was now rising rapidly. From the rear deck he could see that the level was now halfway to its floorboards. If it should start to thrust it would easily take out the deck and possibly the house with it. For the moment it was rising only upward but not flowing sidelong. He went out to check on its wider progress.

The waters from the bay were advancing quickly, in some places along Central Walk, the main road which ran the length of the village and beyond to Saltaire, Kismet then to the Burma Road, a dirt path which ended at the lighthouse where he had meant to head as a last resort, as high as a short man's waist or, as a different clumsy standard of measure, halfway up the side of a Jeep. How high would that be in meters? The 'meter', as defined by a rather bombastic professor of technology as he addressed the class of reprobates sitting in a half-empty amphitheatre who were once his mates in a small college far away and long ago, was the length of a bar of platinum which sat in a museum in Sevres, France. This knowledge proved worthless now to measure the water level but the memory served to remind him once more that he had lived an interesting life peopled with fine friends and several daffy ducks. He was a lucky man.

He had no idea exactly how high the water had risen, in either system of measurement, but he knew himself to be nearly six 'feet' tall and that whoever owned the abandoned Jeep would soon need new upholstery. And had it been the Datsun hot-rod which the old professor had tooled around in way back when, the flood waters would have been just above the hood. An effective, albeit wholly inaccurate, method with which to estimate how long it might be, all things remaining somewhat constant, before he would regret his nonchalant approach to childhood swimming lessons.

The winds were already ripping away and tossing about anything not heavy or not secured. Plastic trashcans thrashed wildly about, a 'For Sale' sign flew off its post and was blown helter-skelter down the road. And according to the radio broadcasts the storm's main thrust was as yet hours away. It was then a small, highly unwelcome worm of fear began to slither into his consciousness. This time he was not, as was his custom, taking a risk alone--his partner was here too.

He went back to the house, 'Wit's End', aptly named after all. She sat silently listening to NPR. She did not move. Nothing if not stoic. He tried but failed to conceal his rising apprehension. He asked her once again if she wanted to leave now, taking to the road before it was entirely impassable. Although already perhaps too late, his fear was not so much for himself, he had always been and was still rather quick on his feet and agile, he began to be concerned for her. She was neither. If those waters continued to rise and flow there might well be real danger of those wooden stilts in the rear being swept out from under the house causing its collapse. She looked at him impassively. 'I have been through hurricanes here before,' she flatly stated, 'and I am not leaving my house.' He persisted, unsure if she fully understood the potential danger. She had not been outside. Her calm was somehow spooky and for an instant he even doubted her sanity or at least her ability to comprehend what was about to come upon her. She looked at him coldly and said, 'Don't panic.' Bloody hell! He was not in any panic but had realized that he was profoundly afraid for her, afraid also that this time one of his decisions might bear horrible consequences not only for himself but for someone else.

Had he confused bravery with stupidity? Would his decision to face the fear, ever an experience junkie, cause harm to another? The fact that she had wished to stay also did not now enter into it. What matter should the worst happen? Her dead calm was exceedingly unnerving but at least she was certainly not in any panic herself. He hoped fervently that she would not. She said again, 'I am not leaving my house and all I have to do if I wanted to leave would be to call my friends and they would drive here and pick me right up.' Once again, he doubted her immediate sanity, especially whether she was taking this risk for the wrong reasons, making assumptions wholly unreliable at their source. No one would come here, not for her or anyone else. They had either left or were about to flee soon. But she was right that it was not a good idea to leave one's shelter. Last chance, now or never. 'No,' she said. So be it. He admired her resolve but knew he would not be able to bear it should something happen to her. The winds outside were blowing harder and the waters were rising. It was now late morning of a steel-grey day and _Adamastor_ was quickly approaching with all the relentless and furious violence only nature can unleash.

The cell phones had no signal; the landline was now also dead. No one to call anyway. The thought of a healthy snort of whiskey occurred to him but no, not now. He needed real courage, not the artificial sort that evaporates soon after being called upon. He was indeed afraid. Not for the first time. _Keep your wits about you, lad, and carry on_. It had been quite some time since he had felt fear, compounded greatly by his responsibility for the welfare of another, a new twist adding to his mounting anxiety. He was not free to move as he pleased, nor as quickly as he might need to. He would never leave her behind and whatever else he would make sure he got her out and into other shelter; breaking in if need be or as the very last resort into a boat moored at the ferry dock. It would depend upon how high the water level might rise. The roof was out of the question given the force of the wind. These were the possibilities which he feared most, that she was not terribly fleet of foot should he somehow become unable to react quickly enough. He knew there was nothing to do about fear but try and ignore it as best one could. The danger was real. But there was nothing more to be done. The storm would do as it damn well pleased.

He found it impossible to sit still. Much like his old man he had always felt more comfortable when in motion, even during the best of times, walking, playing ball, driving--motion. She sat quite still and silent. She had not uttered a word in hours. Such was her faith? He then must be a child of a lesser god. He needed to see what was approaching. He went out again.

The wind was much stronger now but the day was warm. Heavy rains had been forecast but there was as yet no rain except for a light mist of drizzle. These two factors were of immense good fortune since the rain would make the surrounding tress heavier and should it get cold it would become far more difficult to withstand being wet. He had dressed for it in well-insulated layers but was wearing his usual sneakers and his feet were soaked. He ignored it, once again thankful for the mild temperature. The waters had risen and all the surrounding yards were now flooded, flotsam floating everywhere. The skies darkened as night approached. The waters had apparently stopped rising as quickly but had already reached the front of the house, its level just beneath the front wooden platform, normally a small dock upon which to park bikes, a line of demarcation with which to gauge any surge, the neighboring yards and houses flooded.

A small boat which had been resting on the ground between two pines was now afloat and 'Wit's End', with the exception of the higher ground in the front of the house, was now surrounded by waters at least four or five feet deep on all sides. The trick of it would be to know if, and most importantly when, it might become necessary to get the hell out. The wind was now howling, a shrill scream coming from everywhere. The bitch was here.

A large, thick pine tree across the walk started to slowly bend forward; the two slightly thinner pines next to the house had become whirling dervishes, furiously twisting about and slapping the shed like a bullwhip. If they should crack they would surely take down the deck, perhaps the side of the house. It would depend upon if they slowly leaned into the roof or broke apart and crashed down. If the former it might be possible that the structure would support them, if the latter then he needed to be ready to jump in there and pull her out. The tree across the way was bending ever closer under the constant and ever-increasing wind. It was getting ever darker.

The fear was now prancing upon his heart as he realized that any of these trees, if propelled with sufficient force and direction, could well crash into the front bay windows of the house. The two pines would crash directly into the side window behind which she sat, ever still, ever silent. There was absolutely nothing he could do to prevent it. He kept marching up and down along the wooden walk which spanned between bay and Central Walk, gauging the rising waters along it, measuring his footsteps, determining which path would be best and how many steps it might take to reach that Sunbird now floating freely a few dozen yards away. If any of the trees did crash down the only way out would be through the front window given the waters on all sides. That is assuming passage would not be completely obstructed by branches. They were not small trees.

The wind velocity increased and the dense macabre of foliage and brush and branch and thornbush seemed as if some madman's version of a wildly active ballet of shadows as the massive pine bent ever lower as if acknowledging the applause of an invisible audience of ghosts. All was a great howl, nothing but, its shrillness constantly rising in intensity. The bitch was mad now.

He understood the meaning of 'mortality'. For any man to imagine he has control over his life is folly. Vanity. We are, after all, nothing but dust in the wind.

There was nothing more to be done outside. Slightly heavier rain had started to fall and it was quite dark. It was a humble man who came back into the house. Still she sat in silence, on the couch which was directly under the twisting pines. There was one detail about himself he had never mentioned to her since it had never come to mind before: without his glasses, in darkness, he was quite nearly blind. He might manage but he had never tried. All would become blurry shadows. But he had them and thought it best to keep this trifle to himself.

He could not sit still. He kept peering out into the darkness, to and fro between windows, watching the trees, trying to see the water level at the edge of the front deck, never once forgetting the waters in the back of the house and the stilts upon which their fates now rested. He said nothing either but kept marching back and forth. She might well have now thought him mad. He listened intently for the sound of any 'crack' which would mean a tree breaking in two but he could not even be sure it would be possible to hear it above the howl.

In the deep darkness outside he could no longer see clearly enough to tell whether the water was rising. It was critical. The wind now lashed violently--all was violence on this night--against the bay windows. Again and again the gusts would crash against the glass. As if on the bridge of some rust bucket, tramp freighter he stood in the stark knowledge there was nothing he could do but hope the glass did not shatter, the trees did not fall, the waters did not surge, his partner would not suffer. Never had he felt himself more naked.

Over and over in his mind he played out the scenario: if the house was breached, by wind or tree, or if the back deck collapsed into the filthy waters, he would need to grab her, pull her out and through the front window with him, the only means of escape. He thought of little else. Hours were spent prepared to pounce, never letting down his guard or attention for a moment. To her credit she never once faltered, never once betrayed any fear although he suspected hers was a stricken and motionless state of terror. Maybe not, maybe hers was a strength he did not comprehend. Her silence continued to be rather eerie. Yemanja's child held her own.

On the radio, Wagner. The darkest of dirges, nothing if not _funebre_ , music the Marquis de Sade might choose to serenade an enemy on the gallows. No news, no human voice to remind that civilization was out there waiting, just the murky music. He could not help but smile. He could not imagine any worse selection. Or better, perhaps, if one had a decidedly morose bent. Nothing if not deeply disturbing. The DJ should someday hang.

And then, at some point not late in the evening, when all was a deep shade of impenetrable purple, and he was increasingly worried that he could not see well enough to judge the rising of the waters, something wonderful happened. The moon came out. Bursting through the blackness created by the dark-grey cloud cover, a full moon suddenly emerged and all outside was bathed in silver light. Never had a full moon looked so very beautiful. Shining brightly, implausibly brilliant the light made all around clearly visible and he could now see the waters had not risen at all over the past hours. And if they had not risen until then, it seemed unlikely they would.

Until the wee small hours of sixpence that silver moon shined upon the island, as the bitch continued to howl.

The following hours were the stuff of nightmares, lasting an eternity, at the mercy of the bitch, the fear ever present but never in command. Outside only the howling, within only silence. The house had shuddered several times as the wind changed direction from north to south and briefly seemed to strike up from below but only briefly, and it remained sturdy. The pines had continued to thrash about and the large one across the way eventually did crash over. But the wind had been so loud, so pervasive, they never even heard it fall.

Only the next morning when they were able to go outside did they see the devastation all along the beach. Better to not have seen it before. What they saw made them realize just how very lucky they had been. The wind had been so loud they had not been able to hear the destruction being wrought all around them. Devastation everywhere. They had been spared. The sun was rising over the horizon, the roiled still but was now off in the distance, the beach reclaimed by the Atlantic. The storm was over.

Never had he been so very grateful just to be alive.
Evil Eyes

14 March 2015

Winsome Smith

Lithgow, New South Wales

Australia

I knew it was truly great love. With every breath I inhaled I felt him entering my soul. He filled my days of work and my sleeping hours. I had girlish dreams about his arms being around me, or the two of us holding hands as we walked the country lanes. I would never have dreamed of the heartache my love would bring or of how my life would be changed forever by my deed, which was only performed out of adoration and devotion.

I knew nothing about him until that day when I knocked on his door hoping to sell a besom. While some people now call them brooms, we gypsies still call them by their old name and they are used for sweeping. We gather branches and trim them and tie them into bundles. When each bundle is firmly tied to a long stick we have a besom, perfect for sweeping.

These give us an income, but, being gypsies, we are resourceful with many ways of making money. Every week on market day I go into the town, set up my little table and chair and proceed to tell fortunes.

When he opened the door that day, he asked me into his house and when I stepped in, I entered an amazingly strange room. While he picked up one of my besoms and tried it out I stared around me. The room was furnished with long benches and on these benches I saw flasks, bottles and jars of many different sizes and shapes. Some held liquids in various colours. A fire burned in the grate with metal rods placed in its flames.

Many large books stood or leaned against each other on shelves attached to the walls and I could see that those books had been much read and handled. Bunches of herbs and plants lay on a bench. Now that is something we gypsies know about; the use of plants, roots and flowers to make potions, but we don't have to read books about these things; we just know.

Although he was a stranger he took hold of my hand. 'I see you are curious,' he said. He then explained. 'I am an alchemist. We alchemists work at many things. Most alchemists are endeavouring to turn base metals into gold or silver. I explore more widely, mixing many elements and substances to see the results.'

After that I went to his house many times and I soon knew I loved this man. As a gypsy I was destined to marry one of my own folk. Gypsy men are tall and robust, and often spend their time fist fighting. They have no time for book learning as their lives are spent buying and selling, supporting their families and travelling.

This man was a scholar, a man of learning. There was nothing robust in his slender frame, and his face was lean and thoughtful. This was his appeal to me and I could have gazed at him and listened to him for hours. I never had that chance. My visits were short because, although I tried not to acknowledge it, in his eyes I did not see love, only a courteous friendship.

In a polite way he told me many things. He talked of glass and told me that someday clever people would use curved glass to see things so tiny they could not be seen with the naked eye.

Yes, he told me of great wisdom, but that is not what I desired. I wanted him to love me as I loved him. I would have gone to any lengths to gain his love. I recognised that he was not a strong person; even talking for a brief time seemed to make him short of breath and he often had to sit to rest. How I longed to take care of him and cure him with gypsy wisdom, if only he would let me.

I saw him about the town, especially on market days and there came the day when my heart began to break. There he was, sitting on a bench outside the inn with a young girl. I had seen her many times but never suspected that I would see them together.

Local people did not interest me much but I had always hated her because of her beauty. Her hair was the colour of a fresh baked loaf; her skin soft and as golden as a peach. Her lips were plump strawberries. I chuckled to myself as I compared her to a feast. By contrast I had tumbled black hair and my skin was tanned by my outdoor life.

There was no way I could make him love me and there was no way to make him look at me in the way he gazed at her. But we gypsies are resourceful and determined and we have methods and tricks at our disposal. If I could not turn him towards me, I could turn her against him.

I devised a plan and my first chance to put it into practice came one fine day as she strolled past my table at the market. 'Tell your fortune, Lovey?' I offered. 'Want to know about love and your future?'

When she hesitated I said, 'Is love in the air?' I gestured to my little chair and she sat down, dropping a coin into my outstretched palm.

As I held her soft hand in mine I looked straight into her eyes and said, 'Beware.'

She waited for me to continue, then remembering how to encourage a gypsy to talk she dropped another coin into my hand.

I gave her a troubled look and said, 'Beware the evil eyes.'

Her expression was one of complete puzzlement, so I continued, 'You are doing something that will bring revenge upon you. Beware the evil eyes.'

'Please tell me more,' she begged.

As she fumbled in her purse, I continued, 'Love is not always what it seems. Love is not always safe. The gypsies know.' I squeezed her hand and gave her a mysterious look, before standing up and hurrying away.

I did not look at her again on that day, but on following market days I made sure to give her a mysterious, knowing look with my black gypsy eyes.

She could never resist. We gypsies know what people want to hear and we know how to give warnings. 'Beware of love,' I said to her often. 'Love can be evil.' Sometimes she giggled and walked away but I knew I had planted seeds of suspicion. I estimated that if she could be terrified of the consequences of love she would end her friendship with the alchemist so I worked diligently towards that result.

On a night when the moon was waning and there was only dim light among the trees I ventured to her house. It was the kind of mysterious night when shadows flicker and folk know there are evil spirits about. My grandmother had used a potion made of the root of a common forest plant to put drops into my eyes, making them almost as big and round as plates and I had used ash from the fire to darken the skin around my eyes.

I arrived at the house of the young girl and saw lamplight in a front room. I ventured closer until in the room's dim lamplight I could see her leaning against the table. I waited, imagining the terror on her face when she turned and looked into the evil eyes. I did not expect her to run from the room as everywhere else was dark, too dark to see, but perhaps she would faint to the floor with fear and shock.

As I grew impatient, I decided to tap on the window, as my lantern would only last a few minutes. I did so and as she turned I held the lantern close under my chin. I knew from our childhood pranks that a light held that way showed up the face as having ghastly shadows and not appearing like a human face at all. As she looked towards the window I opened my eyes and my mouth wide. How hideous and threatening I must have looked.

She gave a small shriek and stepped backwards. At that moment I saw what I had not previously perceived; she was not alone in the room. The alchemist was sitting at the table, but was hidden behind her. As she cried out, he bravely and swiftly rose to his feet. He saw the horrible face in the window and put out an arm to protect her. As sometimes happens when one is faced with a spectacle too terrible to comprehend, he was transfixed and could not look away.

He gave a cry of pain, and clutched at his chest. He tried to breathe and a desperate expression crossed his face. As he staggered the girl fell against him and together they sank to the floor.

My lantern flame flickered and died. I ran from the scene.

The whole town went into mourning at the news that the two lovers had been found dead in each other's arms in the cottage. Everyone, the merchants, the farmers, the housewives, presented reasons for the deaths. There was no sign of violence, or poison. There was no sign that a stranger had broken into the house. But sudden deaths were not unknown, and we all knew and feared evil spirits.

No one felt the grief as I did. No one knew of my heartache and I could never admit to my terrible deed. We gypsies packed up, hitched our horses to the vans and travelled away a few days later. I still make and sell besoms, I still tell fortunes in return for coins but never again will I be young and carefree and capable of great love.
Hurricane

16 March 2015

Julie Martin

Box Hill South, Victoria

Australia

On the first day of August he was born on green turf

The struggle onto spindly legs, his first on this earth

From the dam _Pink Champagne_ and the sire _Dessert Rain_

Came a blue-blooded colt by the name of _Hurricane_

Under rain, storm or tempest; he was a golden son

The weight upon his back a due paid from his last run

The crowd, the colour, the atmosphere, all he could taste

His dappled frame stood sturdy, awaiting his next race

Fame is, forever fleeting--there is no second place

A leg caught in sodden turf, a curse to end his pace

From glory to tragedy, this had been his last race

Was he doomed forevermore the golden son erased?

On the first day of August he was born on green turf

The struggle onto spindly legs his first on this earth

Came a blue-blooded colt, by the name of _Purple Rain_

His dam was _Wicked Magic_ and his sire _Hurricane._
Saint Nicholas

17 March 2015

Maxima

Germany

Mother was moving around the kitchen table, kneading the dough with great skill, then rolling it seemed to last forever. It was warm inside. The earthen floor, a big stove with logs piled at its side and our cat Pero, dreaming lazily close to it. Father named him after a friend of his, a miller with big moustaches. As usual, I was under the table, teasing the cat with a piece of thread, wishing he would wake up and play with me. It was the middle of the afternoon and Father came in from work.

'Hurry up, Mata! Close the door,' Mother shouted. It had to be warm. Otherwise it wouldn't rise.

Father closed the door quickly, smiled at her from under the brim of his hat, his eyes gleaming as he said, 'It wouldn't rise, huh?'

'You, little devil, aren't you ever gonna get serious? Your boy's here, under the table, playing, and you talk gibberish.'

'Calm down,' he said. 'I meant no harm.'

'Me, neither,' she said, pouring some brandy into his favourite glass. He used to have one or two every day after work, for better blood circulation, he would say.

'Hey, Stipa, my pumpkin, what's up?' he addressed me. I was already climbing up his back. It was my favourite spot. I enjoyed sitting on his broad shoulders and ruffling his thick hair.

'You know, Stipa, I noticed children washing their gift stockings in the other village, getting ready for Saint Nicholas' visit. You have been good this year, haven't you? You might get some presents, too.'

'Hm, maybe not,' Mother added. 'Saint Nicholas knows everything, he knows who did what and gives presents accordingly. If you have obeyed your parents, showed respect to grown-ups, helped around the house... if you haven't defied your sister, have been a good pupil at school, then you may expect some presents.'

'But I don't go to school yet. And I have been a good boy, right, Dad?'

'You have, my boy. Have you prepared your stocking?'

'He has. He put it up at noon,' said Mother and began to close the shutters.

'No, Mother,' I cried. 'Let them stay open so that Saint Nicholas can see there are children here and I, I love getting presents.'

In the semi-dark room shadows started a magical dance, swaying like birch branches in the breeze. Mother finished dinner and set the table. At that very moment the clang of chains was heard below the window of our warm home.

' _Krampus_ ,' said Father.

Editor's note: Krampus is the dark companion of St. Nicholas, the traditional European winter gift-bringer who rewards good children each year on December 6.

(From <http://www.krampus.com/who-is-krampus.php> accessed 20 May 2015)
Listen Alisa! (Secrets)

18 March 2015

David Newman

Jacobs Well, Queensland

Australia

Listen Alisa! The words! The words Alisa! Listen!

For the woman who asks the question,

What are the secrets which are held within the heart of a man?

I will give you the knowledge of all of those secrets here, so that you might come to understand.

Secrets that have for eons been hidden away, so that even to most men, they have not been known:

Those secrets of men that from times beginning, 'cause all of our true feelings to then be shown.

Listen Alisa! Listen! And a man's heart will speak to you, all the secrets that are kept deep inside his mind.

Words!--They are only words, but even through the telling of lies, there is a truth that you can find.

The words Alisa! Listen carefully now! Listen so carefully Alisa, for what can you hear beneath the words?

They are carefully thought out and selected, but listen, for there is so much more that can be heard

Walls! All those bloody walls! Those walls which around each man's heart has been built;

they are made up of former hurts dealt, still, through a man's words, truth seeps up through the silt

Now, if a man speaks to you no compliments, then know that you have the right to make demands.

For it is only through this implement, that you can know his true intent, and at last really come to understand.

The words Alisa! Listen! Listen Alisa! The words!

As your heart skips, then sings, to the music of such wonderful words, that for you are especially given.

Spoken by such, is that enough, to hold back the truth beneath the surface, where it is kept well hidden?

Words of natural looks, for which you are blessed. Listen now Alisa! Is that the only offered compliments?

Of how you dress, or of how you walk and talk? Listen! And you will learn now, what is really meant.

The outer you is always seen so true, but what has been seen of that you who is through and through?

Words! All that is heard is that all that you are? Then as time passes, what will be left of you?

You see the younger then, you remember when, all that they are, you once were, like this other.

A roving eye, that you spy, and is cast towards this younger, leaves you unsure now of your lover.

You try to be, all that you know how to be, but now no-longer can you be what you once had been.

You are still exactly the same inside, the you that you never tried to hide, but you were never seen.

His compliments to you were all spoken true, of all that which he could see of you, he told you no lies.

He never saw, he never tried to get to know who was inside, that you who lives there still, behind the eyes.

Listen Alisa! The words! The words Alisa! Listen!

I will tell you now of another, of a kind of man you will discover, one who comes as if God Given.

With compliments, endless sent, and talk of forever together, surely you'd think, must be love driven.

Speaking to your heart and of your heart, speaking in a true form that is an art, one which brings a fee.

Speaking of what's inside, but as if to guide, the you that could be, the one he thinks that you should be.

Love is the word, so often heard, with only small things to be changed, and ever so slightly re-arranged;

to suit this one, a mind game has begun, for there is so much here now, that for him can be gained.

When his great expectations are missed, then he will insist, for now, you have become such a burden;

with his dreams not reached, his goals are beached, he'll let you know now, that it's all your fault for certain.

His love is for self, it is not for you, and the question of your mental health, now has become an issue.

He puts you out, time after time, then he brings you back again, with words sounding coldly true of you;

compliments with intent to keep you down with reason, to build up the same endless shame of his power base;

one who brings all the change to re-arrange, that in future you ought never again, be the one to bring about his loss of face.

The words Alisa! Listen! Listen Alisa! The words!

There will come a time now when you will meet, one whose words are so much more than just empty sweet.

He plans a future with you in which no doubt is cast, by long dead things from the past, his compliments not replete.

He sees beauty in the outer you, for the inner you shines on through, and mere time cannot fade such vision.

He offers to share your dreams as you share his too, this one who's love is true, as together you make decisions.

Arguments bring no contempt, with good communications, and injured hearts are then once more restored.

Worlds apart in two natures, cannot diminish true loves stature, with the feelings of neither being ignored.

His own secrets, even if not known by him, can always be known by you, if you only listen to the compliments;

and by these, if you please, through difficult times, your world can always shine, as you know his good intent.

Masto! Disco! Tango! Wacko! Bingo! Of the five forms of life, choose the one which you want to live.

Masto! It sounds just like it is. Disco! Two go through life together, but neither one is prepared to give;

Tango! It is her for him, and him for him. Wacko! Both are trying, but there is no communication in the doomed relations:

Bingo! Now there's the care, as dreams are shared, moving the two of you towards a higher station.
Xing Saga Part 17 - End Of Days

19 March 2015

Jane Russell

Mount Barker, South Australia

Australia

We pick up the story back on planet Xing, which is undergoing catastrophic destruction. Can Snoopy save the day?

The Emperor Po sat crossly on his throne, with his palace collapsing about him. His underlings had long since fled, burbling in fear, hoping to find safety if such a thing still existed on Xing, which Po doubted. It had been a particularly hard week for Po, so he was not surprised that the world was coming to an end on a Thirdday. He'd endured interminable annoyance listening to the ranting of the elderbots who predicted the 'End of Days' was nigh. They'd pointed to Xing's seismic instability, the recent volcanic eruptions, the ensuing storms of burning dust, some of which landed on the oceanic oil and combusted. This was particularly nasty when it arrived on shore as a tsunami. The judgement of the 'Old Ones' they called it. All sinners and unbelievers would burn in the furnaces of the ancient gods. _Well, that's it for me then_ , thought Po.

He'd noted with hidden satisfaction the discomfort of these self-righteous oracles of doom when destruction came not to the sinners, heretics and unbelievers as they had said, but to a school full of young children and to a gathering place of their own followers. There was a lot of verbal back-pedalling and reinterpretation of the signs; far be it for them to admit they were wrong. Nevertheless, the planet Xing was in a lot of trouble. The sciencebots had suggested that the disturbances were caused by instability in their star, and that Xing could be on the verge of falling into the sun. None of the predictions or explanations bode well for his planet, or his people. They needed a saviour, but it certainly wasn't him.

Some months ago, a patched up inter-stellar craft had returned to Xing from the little blue planet where Po had lost his heir Mo. On board were a small crew of homesick metalbots and SnoopyLoo.

'Greetings your highness,' she addressed the emperor, after a respectful triple rotation of her head.

'You are supposed to be dead Miss Snoopy, please explain!' boomed Po.

'The crash landing message was a fake, I'm afraid. We're all fine, but our craft was sabotaged and took a while to fix.'

'How dare you come back here without my heir! What the dang have you done with Mo?'

'Mo is fine, your highness, but insisted on staying behind on Earth. There's a thriving metalbot community there now, survivors from the failed invasion so many turns ago. He's made friends there and will in time become their emperor.'

'Hmmph! So, how did this whole fiasco come about? Explain!'

'It was the work of the noble BodWilf, highness. But he eventually confessed and accepted a humiliating punishment. I saw to it personally,' Snoopy said.

'Is the creature still alive?'

'Alive, but chastened, highness.'

'Hmmph!' Po was less than impressed that such 'punishment' left the offender in full possession of his head.

Snoopy was immediately briefed by the sciencebots about the impending disaster, after which she withdrew funds to construct a fleet of long-distance transports. _That female is a whizz at organising things_ , thought Po. No doubt she was even now evacuating every bot she could from the danger zones. Earlier, she'd brought him up to date on the situation.

'According to the experts, Xing is in imminent danger of total destruction, highness,' she said. 'We need to relocate to a new planet.'

'It better not be that dang blue planet--think of all that water!' Po argued.

'No sir, there's not enough room for us there, and the current occupants would wig out.' She allowed herself a quick smile. 'There's another, seemingly unoccupied planet that seems ideal. Humans call it Mars.'

'Well don't think I'm leaving Xing.' Po said in a growl, 'I'm the emperor and I'm staying here!'

'That's your prerogative, of course.'

'Well, Miss? How do you propose to save them all?' Po demanded, a tiny thread of curiosity arousing his interest, despite himself.

'The difficulty, highness, is in saving ALL Xing lifeforms. This includes the local metallic flora and fauna, not to mention the sea creatures and the seas themselves.'

'Well, that settles it!' Po commented smugly. 'There's no way I'll share my space with a dang seagull, a port rat or a smelly rustfish!'

Snoopy had sent a drone to Earth to alert Xingtown of the crisis, causing a great kerfuffle at the news. She'd left a bot called OggleBog to negotiate the Mars venture with the humans of Earth. Strange that when she said that, Po's chief of security almost turned his head inside out and had to be panel-beaten by a medibot. Outside, Po could hear sirens wailing and bots beeping and burbling, but he knew that groups of soldiers would be calmly shepherding them to the waiting transports.

Family groups were kept together, and pets and other animals were loaded as well. Stocks of metal were already aboard--some as food for young bots or pregnant adults, some to use for construction on Mars. Po wondered what the new Xing would be like. Someone had said it was all red there, and he had a little chuckle thinking how the majority of red bots would become invisible. Then his thoughts turned to Mo. His young heir would be a good emperor, though he pitied him the responsibility. Po almost moved himself to safety for Mo's sake, but it was too late. A wave of burning oil washed over him and he fused to the metal floor. His last thought was: _Dang! I'm too old for this!_

Snoopy was overseeing the evacuation from the command arcship. Her partner Curly and her three children were now safely aboard. Their meeting earlier however had been rather traumatic for all concerned.

'SNOOPY!!!' called a familiar voice, full of pain. Snoopy turned to see Curly hurtling towards her and their impact nearly caused a small earthquake.

'Curly, my love, I haven't been away that long!' Snoopy disentangled herself to see her partner's distraught face.

'They said you were DEAD!' Curly shouted, her pain turning to anger. 'Why didn't you send word you were all right?'

Snoopy hung her head, realising she'd never given a thought to the suffering of those on Xing. She'd barely thought about Curly or her kids either. 'I've no excuse, I'm sorry.'

'Sorry doesn't make it okay. The kids have been emotionally scarred and as for me, I don't know if I can be the same bot you left behind. I don't know if we can come back from this.'

'I'll do my best to make it up to you, and to the kids.' She paused, thoughtfully, 'I was so intent on punishing BodWilf for sending that message and sabotaging the craft that I never thought about how I would feel in his situation. I think I'm due for a lot of grovelling.'

The transports were fully loaded, each taking off when complete. Only a couple of craft remained when the inevitable wave of destruction swept away everything in its path. Those looking back at their home planet cried out in horror. Not everyone or everything could be saved, and there was great sadness as they contemplated such loss. Further out in space all that could be seen was the fireball that had been Xing. There would be no returning home now. Everything depended on the new planet, and most bots were fearful of such change. Snoopy had a big job ahead of her.
Broken Man

20 March 2015

Adrian Levet

Darlington, Western Australia

Australia

There he is, a broken man,

He has walked all the land,

He has walked the darkest alleys,

And hid in the golden galleys,

Dirty and wretched, he hid in the attic,

All he heard was just static,

But they heard them through the walls,

And all he heard were foreign calls,

A deafening sound,

How it did resound.

The pianist lay beneath the stage,

No strength to vent his rage,

He used to stand tall above the crowd,

And they used to shout his name aloud.

Now the land was torn asunder,

Rusty spires among the rain and thunder.

He recited a day of memory,

Something sweet, aspiratory

A day of fleeting romances,

Was nothing but glances,

Here and there,

But delighted by a stare.

Now, on his knees he cries,

His crooked nose pointed at the skies,

Send me down, six feet under,

Immortalize me with the rain and thunder.
The Man From Wild Dog Mountains

21 March 2015

AC Llewellyn

Hazelbrook, New South Wales

Australia

He got out of a big old ute with rusty second hand corrugated iron on the back and a tattered Australian flag above the cabin. He was stocky, nuggety and solid and wore crumpled midnight blue shorts, work boots with white dust on them and socks rolled down at the ankles. His skin had been turned but brown by the weather. If he had worn a navy blue singlet he would have been a caricature but he didn't; he wore an old, rust coloured lumberjack shirt that has lost many of its buttons. His hair was reasonably short. He wore a seven day stubble on his chin.

I was sitting at one of the middle-of-the-room tables when he came in. The upstairs wasn't open, and he sat at a table near me. That's what gets me sometimes, especially when I'm feeling unsociable or want to read or do something alone. With a whole room to choose from people choose to sit as near to you as possible. And I was virtually on my own. The proprietress was working today and as usual she spent most of her time in the kitchen. One of the waitresses kept an eye on the café but even she came and went.

He placed his order, kept the menu because it was all he had to read and started talking. I was the only other person there but he made certain I knew he was talking to me by turning in his chair to face me directly. 'Hello love.' I nodded.

He told me he lived in a large hut in Wild Dog Mountains south-west of Katoomba, the largest town on the Blue Mountains, and half way to Jenolan Caves. There is no made road there, only a dirt track for four-wheel drives. I've never been there and have no reason to do so even though he suggested I might like to come out to his hut and have a look.

'I knew she was pregnant,' he said next. 'When I looked at 'er I knew she was pregnant. You couldn't see a big belly or nuthin' but I knew. I thought _she's pregnant_ , but then I thought to meself, _don't be a fuckwit_ and I pointed the rifle. We played the waitin' game then; she looked at me and I looked at 'er. I wanted 'er in a better position. A bit more side on would've been good 'cos then I'd have a bigger target--'er being pregnant.'

He'd caught my attention now and I felt some relief that the proprietress was within calling distance.

'I tell ya,' he said, 'again I felt, I didn't think, I _felt_ "She's pregnant" but I told meself not to be so bloody stupid. She wouldn't move no further so I aimed again and shot 'er. She dropped on the first bullet, kicked twice, then was still. You'll think me soft but I felt a bit sick but holding me feelin's in I shoved her off the roof.

'I didn't 'ave the 'eart to bury her right then. Killin's illegal. I didn't 'ave the 'eart to bury her right then because she'd have still been warm and jelly-like so I left 'er until the next day. Even then, it weren't until late in the arvo that I got around to moving 'er body. Don't that sound weak? I'm not usually weak but I guess I'm a bit sensitive. Me mum says I am.

'I moved 'er once but somethin' pink moved under 'er. It was a little arm. I moved 'er some more. Peepin' out from under 'er was a well-developed baby's 'ead.

'I couldn't do no more just then, I felt a bit sick. I went and put a sack over 'em. I didn't 'ave the 'eart to shoot the baby.' He looked more closely at me. 'Do you think they can feel before they're born?

'That's seven I've 'ad to kill now. It don't get no easier. I'll just 'ave to go over it all again and make sure all the 'oles in the eaves are blocked up.

'Bloody possums.'
Lord Rob

22 March 2015

Judith La Porte

Monash, Australian Capital Territory

Australia

Robert Lumley-Smythe was a familiar figure among the affluent Upper North Shore social set. A tall charming man in his early thirties, he had impeccable manners and a voice lilting and cultured.

Because of his style and flair he was often the 'spare' at elegant dinner parties. No social gathering in these exalted circles was complete without the urbane Robert. His strikingly handsome face appeared regularly in the society pages and everyone claimed to be his best friend.

Robert was frequently referred to as Lord Rob. It was rumoured that he came from British aristocracy and that his mother was a second cousin of one of the minor Royals.

Renting a small apartment, albeit art deco style and at the right address, Robert did not do any entertaining himself. Much of his time was spent in his friends' opulent houses, their country estates and on their moored yachts.

However, in the late morning Robert could often be found seated on his miniscule balcony sipping Oolong tea and contemplating the tranquil view of Sydney Harbour.

His gaze sometimes moved downwards to settle on the wizened homeless man who had taken up temporary residence in the bus shelter across from Robert's apartment building.

The old man had a weathered face but his expression was happily serene (attributed largely to cheap sherry). He clutched a soiled vinyl shoulder bag containing his few possessions and a swag. He would nod at Robert and always get a friendly, regal wave in return.

Magnanimous Lord Rob did not have a snobbish bone in his body. He even chose not to notice the words 'bloody toff' mouthed in his direction by the cheerful derelict.

There was persistent gossip about Robert within the ranks of his contemporaries. It mainly concerned his liaisons with wealthy older women and certain nouveau-riche celebrities.

When questioned about these rumours Robert dismissed them with a polite snort and a flick of his well-manicured hand as he topped up his inquirer's champagne glass.

'Idle goss, darling,' he would retort mildly.

But Fliss Upton-Jones swore on her grandmother's grave that the pale yellow Mercedes Sports that Robert drove had been paid for by her aunt, Sophia.

'Poor Uncle Rufus knows nothing of this of course, but Sophia always looks deliriously happy when Robert is around,' she whispered to her friends with an indulgent shake of her fashionable blonde bob.

'I'm sure Mummy gave Robert that solid gold watch he wears, although she just simpers when I mention it to her,' drawled the willowy Delphine Raison-Brown.

Delphine's cousin, Nigel, made the startling statement that he strongly suspected Robert of pilfering Bunty Hackforth-Manners' diamond bracelet and matching necklace during a particularly rowdy party at her impressive harbourside mansion the previous summer.

'I urged her to call the police when she noticed the jewellery missing, but she would have none of it.'

Nigel rolled his eyes and went on to confide that at the same party Bunty and Lord Rob were seen emerging from the pool house together. Both had been in a decidedly dishevelled state.

Everyone nodded knowingly. Of course the word _gigolo_ was never mentioned with regard to Robert. Everyone knew that those dreadful men were oily, grasping and of swarthy appearance, or else very young, brash and socially undesirable--quite the opposite of the genteel and well-connected Lord Rob.

~~~

Robert leant gracefully against the marble mantelpiece. The party was in full swing. The usual crowd. They stood in small groups conversing in bored tones or hooting with feverish laughter.

Taking small noiseless gulps from his flute of champagne, Robert narrowed his green eyes at Tammy Fotherington. He had established previously that she was just his type: recently divorced, fiftyish, vacuous and fabulously wealthy--old Sydney money no less.

Tammy was seated on a pale-green silk damask sofa by the balcony door. Holding a small silver fork on which was impaled a large king prawn, she was pecking away like a seagull.

The light from the overhead chandelier caused the diamond rings on her plump fingers to sparkle.

Robert sauntered seductively towards her. He dropped down beside her and beamed his wolfish smile.

'Darling Tammy, I simply had to come over and talk to the most ravishing woman in the room,' he breathed.

Mrs Fotherington looked astonished. She then blushed. Her chins, scattered with small specks of prawn, wobbled in delight. Breathing in the fragrance of Robert's expensive cologne she fell instantly in love.

_That $500 tube of wrinkle cream really has worked for me_ , she thought happily. She rested her hand on Robert's knee, giggling girlishly.

'Now do tell me about the time you dined at Clarence House, Robert. I'm simply dying to know what was on the menu.'

He leaned towards her and whispered. 'Roast corgi.'

Tammy blinked twice and then let out a shriek. 'Oh, Robert, you are dreadful--be serious, darling.'

Robert felt content as he sat beside Mrs Fotherington. She would be an absolute pushover and, as an added bonus, was surprisingly sweet natured.

It had turned out to be a very rewarding evening indeed. He placed his hand in his jacket pocket and lovingly touched the delicate pearl necklace nestling there. He could hardly believe his eyes earlier that evening when he noticed it on the floor beside the bathroom vanity, carelessly dropped by the hostess.

His fence in Darlinghurst, Troy, would be delighted with this latest valuable acquisition.

~~~

Father O'Brien offered Robert Iced VoVos from a chipped flowered plate. Robert took one and sipped his lukewarm tea. The modest presbytery sitting room was a far cry from the richly decorated rooms Robert was used to.

He gazed sadly at the one-bar radiator which sat in front of the fireplace.

The old priest beamed at Robert.

'Rob, how can I ever thank you for your generosity to the many struggling families of the parish. This cheque will pay for little Katy Donald's urgent surgery and follow up treatment. You know, she wouldn't survive otherwise. And your Single Mothers Fund helps feed and clothe many desperate city children.'

'I'm glad,' Robert said simply.

'A person with your background couldn't imagine the hardship really poor families endure. And in such a wealthy country as this.'

Robert lowered his eyes to his exquisitely-shod feet and smiled forlornly. He knew only too well about such poverty.

He could still picture the cheerless, sparsely-furnished two-room flat above the bakery in the small NSW rural town where he grew up.

'Stop snivelling, girlie,' his father, Jim had told his mother that dismal April morning. 'I'll get work round the traps and send money when I can. They're hirin' shearers over Forbes way.'

Five year old Robert held the memory of a haggardly handsome face and emotionless, bleary eyes as his father strolled out of their door for the last time.

Afterwards his regular whining inquiry, 'When's Daddy coming home,' caused an unfamiliar hardening in his mother's face.

'Mum says your dad was always in the pub, blind as a welder's dog and talking rubbish,' the publican's daughter told him one day in the school playground.

Robert just nodded his head and looked away.

Eventually he forgot that there was a third person in his family.

Although their life was one of small town struggle, his mother's fierce pride and gentle maternal love softened this deprived existence.

'Always hold your head high, Robert,' she would urge him as she brushed his shiny clean hair, 'but be well-mannered and polite to everyone.'

Every Saturday morning Robert and his mother walked to the small, slightly shabby public library, situated in the town's main street. They came away with as many books as allowed.

The tall, hirsute librarian, Miss Preston, was always astonished at the young boy's selection.

'How you love these English detective stories, Robert,' she would exclaim cheerfully. She would bring her stamp down with such force that the due date would smudge and the library's resident tabby, who always slept on the front desk, would let out a squawk and leap down onto the floor, swishing her tail in annoyance.

Robert developed a wicked sense of mimicry as a way of cheering his mother and himself. Seeing the doctor's snobbish wife coming towards them, he would whisper theatrically:

'Here comes Her Ladyship, wobbling along on her little trotters, heavily weighed down by jewels. Ka-ching. "Must do lunch, darling".'

His mother would look momentarily shocked. She would then dissolve into youthful giggles as Robert sashayed into the library, his nose in the air.

When Robert was a teenager, the social rejection and condescension he received from most of the people in the town were more keenly felt. To them he was just the pathetic and penniless son of the town drunk.

Miss Preston got him a part-time job in the library. Robert was able to indulge his passion for reading, escaping into a fantasy world where he could imagine being whoever he wanted to be.

However he further alienated himself by referring to library customers as 'Old Sport' or 'Dear Thing'. Waving them off with a loud 'toodle-oo,' he relished the shocked or annoyed looks flashed his way.

His mother died when Robert was seventeen. Her death, like her, was gentle and went largely unnoticed.

There were just three people at the graveside--Robert, the young earnest priest and Miss Preston.

'It's Picnic Races today, so...' mumbled Miss Preston. She turned her teary face away, embarrassed.

'La-de-bloody-da,' muttered Robert, shaking his head and dashing away his tears.

~~~

The small wheezing bus headed down the town's main street a few days after the funeral, Robert the only passenger. He waved as it passed the library window. Two faces, one large and sad, the other small and furry, stared out at him.

He then sat stony-faced, eyes straight ahead as he departed the town forever--on his way to Sydney and another life. His fine looks, natural charisma, a carefully cultivated accent and 'Smythe' tacked onto his surname were to be his eventual entree into the world of the Sydney socialite.

~~~

Father O'Brien raised his eyebrows and grinned at Robert. Biscuit crumbs clung endearingly to his top lip.

'My friends at the Salvos tell me you make very substantial bequests there as well.'

Robert waved a dismissive hand.

'Actually, Father, it's not just moi. I pass on donations from my many prosperous friends and acquaintances. Anonymous of course. And believe me, my dear fellow they are so wealthy they don't even know how much they fork out to charity.'

The priest bowed his balding head. His kind brown eyes glistened.

'Well, bless them for their kindness to the less-fortunate; they will be in my prayers always.'
Listowel

23 March 2015

Henry Johnston

Rozelle, New South Wales

Australia

I sought wild salmon in the River Feale where it greets the shallow Shannon, and watched their silver bellies flash in the glittering afternoon eddies as they swam upstream to spawn in hidden pools.

Deep red flesh, tough and near inedible, for the force of life stiffens dorsal muscles for a final kick-on to the Owenmore River by Cavan Town where, hidden by reeds on muddy banks, the clear water stains in clouds of milky, fishy jizm.

Gurgling Feale flowing at high-risen pace from the Mullaghareirk Mountains of the County Cork on an early summer's day, an eye shot from the arc-span stone bridge.

Here I knelt and drank _uisce beatha_ , so cold my teeth rattled and a vein bulged in my temple.

And I saw writers and poets and dancers, and a traveller in a half-moon horse-drawn carriage smelling of turf and Guinness and whiskey-oh water of life.

I plunged my arm to my shoulder and felt the current swift, and strong as a Viking bent at his oar and huffing a rhythmic chant, as white swans two by two, marked an easy pace in the torrent and fed on unseen watery things.

Sated I turned my face to the sun, and stung my hand upon a nettle, then sought a dock leaf and its soothing oxalic spittle, amidst those cursed briars.

I heard Sionann bid the Salmon of Wisdom return on the flow tide, now sweet with burst well-water, and I awoke to the tick-tock of the traveller's timepiece, clip-clopping the hours in this distant land.
Heat

24 March 2015

Fantail

Mount Barker, South Australia

Australia

Meanwhile... down in Hell--not the one here on earth, but the one across the Sticks--the hounds were after Heat.

The small-horned devil had worked hard since being cast down into the pit, and was in charge of the eternal fires while his boss holidayed in Bali. Thinking to speed things up, and maybe earn intermediate horns, he had stoked the fires to white heat--way beyond torturing temperature.

'You stupid devil! What in Hades possessed you?' Lucifer had bellowed. 'You've incinerated most of my souls! I want eternal torture, Heat, not instant annihilation! I tell you, if I didn't have a constant stream of new souls coming in from that war, I'd send you to Limbo, pronto!'

'But, your Dark Majesty,' Heat had protested, 'Limbo doesn't exist anymore.'

'Exactly. Now get to your cell while I decide on your punishment.'

All Hell knew that the second worst punishment was to be jailed and forced to listen to Lucifer's music: Country and Western; so Heat had fled, burning with shame as he scrambled up through a volcanic crack near Mount Etna's centre, Lucifer's last threat resounding in his mind: 'I'll set the Hellhounds on you! Come back here and face the music!'

Bursting into pre-dawn dark, Heat turned and stamped on the fissure, grinning as he heard muffled yelps of pain from the blocked-in, rock-showered hounds. Angry about the unfairness of everything, he burned in temper around Etna's rim, booting it savagely, and watched in amazement as it collapsed: a long, folding tumble of rock and earth with a consequent snuffing of the lava-pit. As daylight broke, an idea burst into his mind. Fires need oxygen. If the Hell-fires were starved of a little air, they'd settle to a better torturing temperature. If enough volcanic vents were blocked...

He bolted down the mountain and across the Italian plains, withering vineyards and vegetables with the vigour of his passing. Confident in his ability to outrun the Hellhounds who had broken through and were in hot pursuit--the ineptitude of sight-hounds at following scents was well-known--he hurtled through Europe and Africa, heaving megaliths into craters and punching mountaintops across calderas. In Russia, he tossed chunks of glacier into lava lakes, creating so much steam that immense rains flooded the surrounding countryside for days after. Leaping from island to island, he raced to the Americas where he stuffed volcanoes in the Andes and plugged St Helens so tightly it suffocated then and there.

He was good!

He sprinted across Greenland, jumped to Iceland and put an end to all volcanoes with unpronounceable names; then on to China, India and Indonesia, plugging all the way.

In Australia, the hounds glimpsed him sizzling through the summer landscape. Baying like banshees, they drew so near that blasts of their super-heated breath frizzled the tip of Heat's tail; but Heat picked up speed. He jetted down the east coast, leaving a wake of willy-willies on the dusty flats and sparking bushfires through the national parks.

Buoyed with enthusiasm and knowing he'd hit on the right solution to the over-heated Hell-fires, and anticipating those new horns, he made a long, looping sea-hop to Antarctica.

The hounds were on his heels, springing from flotsam to jetsam, firing floes with their foul breath in a vain attempt to dump the devil into the sea from where they might snatch him; however, when they leapt from the final floe to the freezing Antarctic ice-shelf, they suddenly lost interest and backtracked to Australia where to this day they prowl the Victorian bush, giving rise to terrifying visions of bunyips and black panthers.

Heat's feet were on fire. He tore through bird colonies, leaving trails of fried egg and penguin for gulls to pick over. He stopped up the Antarctic volcanoes: all except Erebus. Fires must have some air; besides, Erebus was the back door to hell. Gleefully, he bounded up the mountain, slithered into a crack, slid down chimneys and lava tunnels, sprang from rock ledges, and fell to the floor of a great cavern thick with smoke.

An awful sense of dread engulfed him. He struggled to his feet. 'Maybe I plugged too many holes.' He blinked tears from his stinging eyes.

A great cough reverberated in the vast space. Heat looked up and cringed. Over him, shadowed in the eddying smoke, loomed Lucifer, arms akimbo and huge horns blazing. Heat opened his mouth to explain; but it was no use. In one sweeping motion, the Boss of Hell grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, hauled him all the way back up the mountain and, with one mighty kick, booted him to Heaven, roaring after him, 'Maybe an aeon or two of angel music will drum some sense into you!'

Editor's note: Humour, a creative storyline and an interesting concept all rolled into one entertaining piece!
Gone The Days Of Primping

25 March 2015

Robyn Chaffey

Hazelbrook, New South Wales

Australia

On sunlit days or cloudy

She sits the world to watch.

Old rocking chair so dowdy

Somehow her mood does match.

Gently she lets her body rock

The calming rhythm gent'ling

All harshness from the world; she takes stock!

Her quieted mind meanders in its thinking...

From yesterday to distant childhood...

Momentary pain, back to youthful joy...

Her mother's soft caress, poor Depression food.

Deep warmth of father's voice, kiss stolen by a boy!

There's a certain sense of grace about her...

An acceptance now of all that's been...

Of what will be... whether trials or laughter!

She's grateful now for all she's seen.

Gone the days a lolly cost a penny.

Gone too, the days of primping for a lad.

She smiles as she remembers, and has no envy;

Only gratitude and joy for what she's had.

And I'm privileged to watch her on this day;

Privileged her reminiscences to share.

I quietly pray on my life's way,

Just a little of her quiet grace to bear.
The Sentinel

26 March 2015

Lloyd Freestone

Kimberly, British Columbia

Canada

The very air shimmered and shook at its birth. The violent upheaval in the earth's young crust sent it shooting into the smoky sky until it finally reached its utmost level of growth. Over the next few millennia there was more shaking and vibrating but it stood tall, a sentinel for all time.

Several ice ages and their resulting glaciers sculpted and gave the sentinel its present shape, a huge rocky mountain that, over hundreds of centuries finally achieved the appearance it now had. Rocky outcrops were scattered here and there, along all of its many sides and trees dotted all but the very tip, leaving a large rocky peak that was usually covered with snow and ice all year long. Sure, the snow would lessen during the heat of the summer sun, but even old sol wasn't warm enough to completely bare the granite for all to see.

To the sentinel, this was life and it would probably never change. Did it mind? Not at all! Such was its destiny from its inception millions of years ago and that would never change in all the lifetimes that it would stand in that spot.

The sentinel had seen much in its long existence and it would undoubtedly see much more, if it could even see at all. However, if it could see and indeed talk, the countless stories would fill book after book, leaving those interested in such things breathless as they read about what had happened in that very spot. Archaeologists and historians would be in their glory as they read the tomes and tried to piece together the history of man and indeed this very planet.

For starters, they would learn the exact moment in history when this mountain was born and the events surrounding that birth. They would have learned of the plants and animals that roamed this particular area and what caused them to disappear from the face of the earth. Vivid descriptions of the birth of the three valleys it overlooked would keep scholars reading for years to see how the lakes and rivers that sat at its base were formed. However, that would never happen so speculation would have to suffice.

The sentinel had seen much in its lifetime. It had seen the coming and going of the dinosaurs and the foliage that those beasts needed for sustenance. It had seen the coming of man and had seen how the two legged animals managed to survive in such a hostile environment using the various caves and amenities the mountain had to offer.

It had seen the formation of three lakes that sat on three sides of its immenseness and reflected its image to the skies. Trout and various other forms of aquatic life gradually made an appearance in those quiet waters and swam safely for eons until the two legged ones discovered that they could be utilized as a food source.

Rivers ran on all sides of the mountain. They ran beside and through the lakes, keeping them full of water so that the life in there would be sustained, and removing things that didn't belong there by sweeping them up in their currents and taking them away to deposit them in a more fitting location.

Over the centuries, more two legged animals appeared on the scene, as well as completely different varieties of four legged ones that the two legged ones captured and killed for their sustenance as the earlier two legged ones had done. Their methods and weapons were very different but the results were very similar.

It had only been in recent times that the two legged ones had figured out how to travel over the surface of the water and that seemed to make it easier for them to utilize the aquatic life as a food source. It also allowed the two legged animals a chance to move easier from place to place without having to risk their lives traversing the steep mountainside. Only those who wanted to hunt the four legged animals that called the mountain top their home dared to attempt the climb up the jagged sides of the mountain and several of those lost their lives after slipping or falling off one cliff or another.

Even more recently, the sentinel had seen some very strange things happening and it could only watch as events unfolded on and around it. Noisy, smelly machines had made trails along the base of the mountain and had removed a lot of the trees that had tried for centuries to keep their footing in the rocky soil that covered the mountain. These machines were being controlled by a different sort of two legged animal that seemed to be far more knowledgeable than those that came before them and had far superior equipment than the earlier ones.

These newer animals had scarred the entire area with their trails and tree after tree disappeared from the surrounding area as well as on the mountain itself. There seemed to be nothing that could stop this theft and the mountain could do nothing except watch it all happen. However, most of those trees that had been removed were replaced by smaller trees.

In the many intervals between the trees disappearing, the sentinel saw many other strange things that it could never explain even if it could talk. Some of those events had been happening off and on since the appearance of the two legged animals and they were still happening to this day.

Two legged animals, either solitary or in groups would check out the flowing rivers that ran down from the higher peaks and remove bits of stone from their beds. Some of these animals would shout with glee but many others just kept on checking their round pans and kept on moving.

Others would bring tools and make holes at the base of the mountain, as if they were searching for something in particular and most went away dejected due to the rocky nature of the mountain and its seeming unwillingness to give up its secrets. Had these animals thought to check a little higher up on the north side, they might have found what they were looking for.

There were other animals who visited this mountain with seemingly good intentions. These animals would set up portable houses and live by the lakes and just enjoy what the area had to offer. These animals would splash around in the lakes or attempt to remove some of the aquatic life for their sustenance. Many succeeded and many failed and the mountain saw it all.

It had seen turmoil between different groups of two legged animals and had seen many lives terminate during its long history. To the mountain, it seemed like turmoil happened quite often and it was at a loss to fathom such actions.

It had seen other such strange behavior from these two legged animals and wasn't quite sure how to explain it if indeed it could. It had seen small groups of people dancing around small fires and throwing things to the ground that caused others to harm themselves and that eventually caused great fires to ravish the area, charring the trees and mountains beyond repair. Fire had happened quite often so the mountain was used to seeing it come and go and watched as the trees and other plant life fought to regain their hold on the area.

It had seen other animals come to this pristine area in smaller machines and had no idea what was happening when someone was about to lose their virginity or their life. It didn't even care! It had stood here since time began on this planet and it would stand there until the rest of time.

It was uncaring and unmoving. It had survived everything that could be thrown at it and it still stood. It would stand forever, unless the two legged animals decided that it needed to be removed. Until that day it would remain as it always had. It would be the Sentinel.

Editor's note: Personifying an object to reflect on man's behaviours, significance and insignificance is a clever device. This particular piece works well as it takes a longer perspective, from pre-dinosaurs to beyond what we know today.
Mirror

27 March 2015

Reiroshu Eigenlicht

Legnano, Milan

Italy

He woke up in a field

of burning red roses

And the wind was singing

in whirlwinds of light.

He didn't remember

And free he walked

knowing the world

with the touch

of his fingers.

The moon, falling slowly, sliding over a waterfall of stars. With alternated breaths it enlightened the black throat of the faults tearing up the earth. What hadn't been swallowed insisted on reflourishing.

The world was an hourglass. It had cried all its sand and it had been turned over. Time circulated again, running in different arteries. Nothing other than his heart still beating. The only sound in a silent desert.

He laid his glance on the shattered walls of the castles trying to hold on to the edge of their own chasms. They were collapsing slowly, piece after piece. Gurgling words of bricks and dust and disappearing into the mouth of the subsoil. On he went, caressing that agony with graceful paces.

He looked for nothing. He remembered nothing. The flowers' petals opened up before his eyes, thirsty of nightly humidity. And he understood them.

The sky rotated. The clouds chased each other in a swirl, colored with the color of his lips. Everything had just been born. The first gasping breaths of a new universe brushed against his skin.

The melody hit him as a sudden storm. It tasted like water, like the sun, like the anguish of sunsets.

It wanted him to run and hope. And he ran, but didn't hope, because he didn't have memories.

The tree was high and thin. The branches tore off from the trunk, spilling dense liquid. The moon had stopped falling and nervous it floated between the dying fronds, resting from time to time on the top of their fingers. It woke up again and again at every new attack of the melody and it started quivering, attracted and disgusted.

Behind the silver leaves he saw a willowy movement. The feathers blurred with the foliage in that motionless night.

The amaranth of the sky, reflected for a moment on soft dark wings. He needed nothing more. He sank his claws into the bleeding bark and started climbing.

The branches were blades. Inch after inch, his wounds freed red sap, adding to the cry of the world.

The moon had hid. Around him only the fire of the sky and the black abyss of a forgotten land.

With every drop of blood lost in the ascent, he felt the hunger grow. His body became a vacuum to be filled and desire turned him into a weapon, sharper and sharper.

The sweet melody coming from the unknown creature stunned him. He could feel its taste on his tongue, into his lungs, insinuating underneath his skin.

Exhausted, the long mane heavy with blood, he collapsed and breathed the reflex of the night on the top of the tree. The melody broke suddenly. The moonlight stayed white, climbing up again behind the horizon. He glanced up and saw the creature turning, in a swish of whispers and feathers.

It was nothing that he could remember. It was nothing he felt he knew.

Only, he heard a new heart pulsing with irrepressible strength, covering his hissing in his chest.

Their eyes met in a jolt of light: he felt like drifting towards a blurry horizon. Yet he smiled.

And the smile was reciprocated. And at the smile of that unintelligible being, he awoke.

Every inch of his body was burning. There was nothing he could know. There was nothing he knew anymore. But he was feeling. And his only certainty was hunger.

Those wings were huge and strong. That skin smooth and warm. That smile didn't fade. It was shining with more radiance at every bite.

He didn't understand, he didn't judge. He didn't desire. He moved to the will of a fire larger than him.

He tore that strange creature apart, drinking its tuneful life away and not the least did it withdraw. It held tight, instead. With long arms and liquid moans.

He drank and regained strength, filling his mouth with the taste of rapture.

Then why did he feel like emptying? He glanced up to that unknown face. And in those eyes he saw himself sliding with the blood of the tree towards the black ground.

Then he felt that his every bite went back to the origin. That every time he took, he was giving back in turn. That the only life he had ever drunk was his own.

He clinged more and didn't wonder. His food was feeding on him. There were no boundaries, just identity.

The darkness wrapped them softly, swallowing the syllables they broke into each other's mouth. He could hear that honey melody again, sad. It was inside him. It grew at the rhythm of his breath.

He knew nothing. He remembered nothing. But he didn't need to. At every pulse, his heart irrigated the whole universe with truth.
Jillian's Secret

28 March 2015

Demelza

Taroona, Tasmania

Australia

As far as I could tell there were two types of depressive people: those who burdened others with their problems and those who hid them so well, you might never know they had any. The first type bored me. I found them draining, whether it was when they entered the room or when they opened their mouths.

Jillian was in my second category. She intrigued me and scared me. I found her enigmatic and unpredictable.

Although we had lived on the same country road all our lives, I never knew her as more than a little kid until she started travelling on the secondary school bus. She was fourteen then and I was sixteen. She hated all things male but I was quietly intrigued by the female species.

She would not sit at the back of the bus or at the front of it. Driver policy stated if seats were available you sat in them. Jillian was nearly always last on and without a lot of choices it became the norm for her to sit by me. Her backside may have been next to mine but her face was always turned away talking and laughing with the other girls.

My shyness was a distinct repellent to most people which meant I always sat by myself. In fact I spent the entire year sitting by myself... next to Jillian, me imagining deep and engaging conversations between us, with her captivated by my wit and intelligence. Truth was she totally ignored my existence. Although I didn't appreciate her attitude towards the opposite sex, I did envy her ability to mix with the crowd and I continued to fantasise about our relationship.

Standing in the rain at the side of the grave, surrounded by blank and unbelieving faces, I shuddered, reflecting back to the first time I had discovered Jillian's secret.

It was dark as I set out on my nightly ramble along our country road. I saw her step out onto the bitumen only metres in front of the vehicle. The car swerved wildly, obscenities hurtling out the open window, as it knocked its victim sideways towards the gravel verge.

I knew the driver. It was Tanko--rightfully named for his ability to be inebriated at least twice a week. For him to stop would be self-incriminating.

I ran as fast as I could. When I realised it was Jillian I screamed at her, letting a years' worth of pent up passion pour out over her seemingly lifeless body.

She screamed back, 'Piss off creep face! Leave me alone!'

Stunned and relieved I began laughing at her as she continued to abuse me.

I helped her hobble back to her home and left her at the gate post, not daring to enter further into her private life. I never asked her why she had yelled at me and perhaps that's why things changed. No one knew about our meeting. Tanko had no idea whom he hit--if he remembered running down anyone at all.

The second time I found her she was drunk. Real drunk. I knew then something was deeply troubling her. I sat beside her on the edge of the jetty while she vomited into the lake. I remember cringing at the sour smell of alcohol as it dissipated into the water.

It was dark again. All our meetings had been at night. Even the planned ones.

It was at one of these rendezvous that Jilly shared her secret with me. I was horrified and showed it. How could I protect her from her own family?

Her own father?

Her shame was so powerful she seemed convinced she'd somehow brought it on herself.

I wanted her to run away. I wanted her to run away with me.

How stupid I was to think that would solve the problem. I was hardly able to cope with my own inadequacies let alone those of a suicidal fifteen year old. But I was angry and that had brought about a new energy. What to do with it I did not know.

I stared across the grave, the rain blurring my vision.

Would Jilly be at peace now or would her torment continue? I couldn't answer.

Was it destiny or chance that had brought Tanko and Jillian's father together that night? Or was it me, for fronting him and having him chase me up the road, swearing and thrashing the air with his fists?

I wondered what the police had thought when they surveyed them jammed together in the hedge, Jillian's father pressed between branches and bonnet. His fist through Tanko's windscreen. Tanko sprawled over the steering wheel with his face just inches from the fist.

No witnesses. No explanations.

Just the lingering smell of alcohol.

I squeezed Jillian's hand as we turned and headed for the exit. Her secret safe within me.

Editor's note: It took us a moment to realise what had happened here. Punchlines like this are hard to deliver with the surprise intended. More often than not the writer ends up inadvertently telegraphing them and so the story whimpers out, but not in this case. It's nice to give the reader a hopeful ending to such a dark story.
Heston

29 March 2015

Hazel Girolamo

Ulverstone, Tasmania

Australia

Of all the cooks and chefs that have been on television, from the galloping gourmet to the two fat ladies, from the hairy bikers to the naked chef, forever roaming the gloaming, in search of this season's crop of larks' tongues, to wrestle cooking secrets from Sardinian clam farmers, and Portuguese cheese caves, the only one that would grace my kitchen is the king of them all, well perhaps if Marco Pierre White wasn't available and Ainsley Harriot was busy, it could only be, well perhaps if Ken Hom and Nick Nairn sneaked past, it would definitely be Heston.

His very name has people salivating about what culinary delight he would present. His cookbook, a three hundred and fifty-six page tome, lists such ingredients as golden frankincense buds, bee pollen, and uses standard equipment like gold scales, spray guns and industrial strength dehydrators, to produce unique dishes such as salmon poached with liquorice, or snail porridge, or egg and bacon ice-cream. He tells how to make jellies that dance like a belly dancer, a jelly belly dancer if you will, and an exploding chocolate lava cake that will spray all over you and your dining room rug and lickable wallpaper, for any guests that are prone to doing so and a dessert that is sent in by flying saucer to land on the table in front of the diners. As if all of this were not enough, to round off the perfect dining experience, Heston insists sounds accompany the food, that will have you ducking for cover when you hear a seagull diving in for his famous triple-cooked glass chips.

The only dish that I have most of the ingredients for is Hacked Hog Haggis and what is haggis if not an accumulation of whatever is left over from last week? I have mince, oats, salt, oh I need a pig's bladder, damn, fresh out. Then I think, _What is a football if not a pig's bladder wrapped in rubber?_ So I hesitate for only a second and find the old one the dog chewed a hole in and deflated in the back of the garden shed. A good whack to get the dried mud and dog saliva off--and kill any redbacks lurking within. A quick slit with a Stanley knife and _voila_ , one pig's bladder. I put it on to boil.

The mince, Heston states, should be kept at a ninety degree angle as it comes out of the mincer but as I am using Coles' finest fat-free mince, I easily disregard that fact. He also wants twenty-three and a half percent of lardons--that's bacon to you and me. Steel cut organic rolled oats--not breakfast oats--is what he wants but he ain't going to get. A handful goes in. Two free range eggs and a third of an extra egg yolk are called for, with nearly five dozen eggs in my pantry courtesy of chicken overdrive, three eggs go in with an extra one for the pot. Finely diced brown onions, Heston helpfully suggests Japanese steel Fuji knifes--two hundred and eight dollars for a full set, see stockists at the back of the book--yeah right. Himalayan Pink Lake Salt and finest Peruvian Black pearl peppercorns are the seasonings of choice along with tiny tips of organic fresh baby thyme and teenage oregano, preferably picked from yoru personal herb garden just outside your kitchen door. Iodised salt and cracked pepper and Masterfoods' mixed herbs cascade from the bottle.

Gently mix and stuff into bladder. Now this could be a problem. I have left the bladder boiling too long and it is now a shapeless slimy mass. I fish it out with the tongs and bung it in the freezer. Now I see another wee problem. How to get what is now almost two kilos of haggis mixture into a bladder with a hole the size of a pea! I snip it open and begin to stuff. The mix does not take to this and refuses to enter the bladder. I get the kitchen plunger, confident that Heston would approve, however the plunger brings back as much as it pushes in making the exercise a bit redundant. Finally with a loud sucking noise that scares the dog, the mix rolls over and plays dead.

The gaping hole needs to be sewn up so the butcher's twine and the big needle are found and carefully I herringbone the slit closed. When I finish it resembles Madonna's corsets with more bust than bustier.

A quick wrestle with Glad Wrap and alfoil and in it slips into the poaching liquid, which calls for sea urchin and Taiwanese kelp; I put in a spoonful of goldfish food. Two and a half hours later, the kitchen smells like heather on an early Scottish morning wilting from the waft from the next door sewerage pit.

The haggis plops onto a platter with a splatter and sprig of parsley and is presented to the table. Applause? Gasps of admiration? The only sound is from the dog scratching at the door, desperate to get out before it lands in his dog bowl. Finally my husband speaks: 'Anyone for fish and chips?'

Editor's note: Another entertaining piece doubling as contemporary social commentary. Two birds, one stone!
Nick's Friend Wags A Tail

31 March 2015

Shirley Burgess

Rosebud, Victoria

Australia

The small Jack Russell-cross was sitting forlornly outside the door of the newspaper kiosk and Nick gave him a pat in passing before he hurried for his usual train, with newspaper tucked under his arm.

Nick saw the little dog again, when he returned many hours later looking just as forlorn but now lying down with his head on his paws. The kiosk was now firmly shut. He patted the dog, and, finding the dog's ribs were only thinly covered, he said, 'No-one looking after you mate? You can't stay here because there's nothing to eat or drink anywhere, you poor mutt.'

He headed for the car park and the dog rose to follow but Nick shooed him away. 'No, no you can't come home with me--no, shoo,' but when he opened the driver's door he was surprised to see the dog was still there, looking up at him with eyes that seemed to be pleading anxiously.

'You seem to know exactly what I'm thinking, mate, and yes, I do feel sorry for you, but there's no way we can have a dog in our family. We have a five-year-old, and I've heard dogs become jealous of small children, so it's no go you see.' The dog was still looking up at him as though he knew his future was in the balance right now.

For the life of him, Nick couldn't get in the car and shut the door on that pleading look. He stood there for a long time trying to work out what to do. That haunted look bothered him. 'Damn it, I'll take you home and see what Amy thinks we can do about you, but it could mean the Lost Dogs' Home, you know.' Decision made, he picked the dog up and put him on the seat beside him.

'What have you got there?' Amy asked, hand on hip. 'It looks like a dirty flea-ridden stray to me. I hope you don't think we should keep him, Nick'.

'I thought we could wash and feed him, and perhaps he'd be a playmate for Maddie,' he said lamely.

'You mean, _you'll_ wash and feed him don't you?'

'Okay, I'll do that: but look at the pads on his paws, they're all split, and see here where it's been bleeding?'

'He must have walked a long way on those,' she conceded.

Maddie came into the room at that point, and it was love at first sight. 'We can keep him can't we Daddy? Please say we can keep him, Mummy?' and Amy's resolve faltered.

As she looked at the dog Amy added, 'I must say he looks thin. Let's see him again after his wash and de-fleaing then.'

What a transformation the bath made. Nick rubbed the now fluffy dog dry, something the dog obviously enjoyed. He hastened to grab a small bucket from Maddie's sandpit and filled it with water--'He started to drink his bathwater,' Nick explained, 'I guess he's thirsty.' All three were astonished at the speed the bucket was emptied, and watched him start on another.

Amy looked at Nick, plainly sorry for the stray, 'There's some mince in the fridge. I guess he's hungry too.'

That disappeared at the same rate, and this time they all laughed. They named him Samson, primarily because Amy suggested he didn't resemble his strong namesake at all, so it was 'Sam' for short. A comfortable bed was made up on the back verandah, and Sam had joined the household. Maddie, of course, was enchanted with her new playmate, and they became inseparable, although he did lose kudos from her when she put him in her dolly's pram for a walk, an honour in itself, but as soon as the pram moved Sam jumped straight out again in alarm.

During the next winter Amy's parents were at their holiday cottage in the mountains not far from Bright. It had been snowing and Amy and Maddie had joined them for a week in the snow, without Sam, as there was limited room. Nick would come and join them for the weekend with Sam, do a spot of skiing at the nearby snowfields and then bring the family home.

As they approached the mountains, Nick had to admire the surrounding scenery. It was beautiful this year, he thought. The nearby mountains were topped with dainty mantles of shining white, and as the snow had fallen in these lower levels it had made the entire area picturesque.

Leaving Bright behind, Nick was glad when they were approaching their destination, as he was tired after a busy day. The road was becoming wetter and more slippery, and as he came to a particularly sharp bend, he applied the brakes. A bit too suddenly. Without warning the car started to slide with the back of it approaching the edge of a ravine at an alarming speed. For a second Nick thought they'd made it, but the back wheel flipped over the edge and the car turned over and over landing on its side, jammed against two trees well down the slope.

It was the absolute silence that Nick noticed as he came to, and looked quickly to see how Sam had fared. The dog was shaking himself as though trying to work out what had happened, and was twisted round his leash, jammed up against the door handle. Nick tried his legs. He couldn't move them. They seemed to be numb, somewhere in amongst the smashed metalwork of the car, and his arm hurt.

Groaning with pain, Nick leaned over as far as he could, and with his good arm pulled the leash clear of the door handle, threaded the chain round the dog's head, and Sam was free. The dog moved over and licked Nick's hand to comfort him.

'It's up to you, mate,' said Nick now realising that they were invisible from the road. 'Sam--I'll move you to where the windows used to be... there you are, you can slide down the door and get out of here now.' Sam slithered out, fell among the bracken, quickly gained his feet and started to climb the steep terrain back towards the road, disappearing out of Nick's sight, leaving him to wonder what Sam would do. Would he think only of his escape from this predicament? Would he expect Nick to follow him? What could a dog do anyway?

The shock of the accident now cut in and Nick fainted. When he came to he tried the horn. It didn't work; nor did the lights. Everything was smashed that he could have used to attract attention including his mobile phone. Nick realised that he might never be rescued at all, and he lay there, alone, beginning to feel panicky. If only he could free his leg, but it was very sore and solidly jammed.

Another twenty minutes passed and no-one came. He could hear traffic passing on the road up above him, and cursed himself for going too fast in slippery conditions, drifting into unconsciousness again soon after.

Where was Sam?

At that moment he was trotting along the edge of the mountain highway looking and listening for sounds that would tell him people were about. He heard a chainsaw and ran up the drive to where Frank Benetti was sawing small logs into pieces. Without warning a fluffy white dog appeared in Frank's line-of-sight, barking, dangerously near the chainsaw, and, in fright, Frank stopped his machine and chased the dog with a stick right off his property.

Sam had a fright too, but kept on running along the highway. About a kilometre from the wreck, he spotted someone working in a garden above him. He veered off again to investigate, this time cautiously, and gave a short bark for attention.

Jack Barratt looked up: 'Where did you spring from?' Sam barked again several times, moved off, but then stopped and looked back at Jack willing him to follow. He did this two or three times, puzzling Jack at his antics. 'Michael,' he called out to his son. 'There's a dog out here acting strangely. Come out and see what you can make of it.'

Michael watched. 'I think he wants us to follow him, Dad. Let's try it and see what happens.'

Together they followed Sam who kept trotting at a fast pace looking back at them from time to time. 'Where's he taking us?' Michael asked. 'It's getting late, I think we should hurry.' The more they hurried the faster the dog went, until at last he stopped at the spot where the car had gone over.

Michael swore when he saw the mess; he pulled out his mobile phone and called for both police and an ambulance, and passed on the news that they'd found the driver unconscious but alive.

Soon the area was buzzing with action as trucks and helpers arrived. Lights were set up surrounding the wreck, making the scene look quite theatrical, and Jack Barratt, Sam and Michael stood back out of the way to watch all the activities from the road. The police officer in charge approached Jack Barratt for report details, and was told about Sam's part in the rescue. 'This dog certainly saved a life here!' he enthused, 'He's a real hero.'

The policeman was impressed and gave Sam several pats. 'I agree. I think we'll let the newspapers know about this, I'm sure they'll be interested,' and he ambled over to the several TV and news photographers that had just arrived.

A shocked Amy, her parents, and Maddie arrived in their car in time to watch Nick's stretcher appear over the ravine edge and be put into an ambulance. Nick had suffered a badly broken leg and a dislocated shoulder, and Amy went along with him in the ambulance while Sam rushed to Maddie, tail wagging madly. Jack Barratt introduced himself to them, retelling the story of Sam's feat to an amazed audience.

When Nick had recovered the whole family was invited to a TV station to watch Sam receive the medal of the RSPCA Animal Valour Award. There was a speech of explanation by the interviewer, cutting to TV footage of the wreck with interviews, and then a VIP placed the medal around Sam's neck, to the applause of everyone. Cameras took shots from all angles of Sam who gave the medal a disinterested sniff, before creeping closer to Nick's chair no doubt hoping that they could escape soon. Not for Sam the bright lights of fame. At last everyone stopped talking and Sam gleefully jumped into the car for home.

'Amy, I remember you saying our Sam wasn't as brave as his namesake?' teased Nick.

'Yes, but how wrong was I? Sam is braver. Where would you be if he hadn't gone for help?'

'Still down that ravine, I think.'

They pulled into the home garage and everybody was patting Sam whose tail was going like a windmill glad to be home with his family and, hopefully, be allowed to stretch out in front of the fire for the evening, before he went to bed in his kennel by the back door.
Australian Haiku No. 2

1 April 2015

Tom Coley

Hazelbrook, New South Wales

Australia

Said a chocolate addict in Blackheath

'I'm losing some of my teeth.

That's okay with me

On the top there's still three

And they meet up with the three underneath.'

Tom recognises that his poems are limericks, but feels that 'haiku' sounds more sophisticated, hence his ironic label 'Australian Haiku'.
Rain

1 April 2015

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, New South Wales

Australia

Joy

falls

from sky

when droplets

pound battered tin roof

but it holds firm in protection.

Air tingles in suspense as steady beats burst through baked clay. Downpour lasts throughout the day.

All night and on and on and on, flood replaces drought.

This pattern set in nature's code,

relieves life's tensions,

renews hope,

simple,

free

reign,

the Land sings again.
Secretive Eyes

2 April 2015

Madeline Ross

Winmalee, New South Wales

Australia

Emotionless faces, tight-lipped mouths,

Hidden in thought with secretive eyes;

Eyes when screened speak without words:

Troubled times, broken hearts, littered thoughts,

Spilled on the train carriage floor,

Like dust cleaned with great contempt,

Swept away like thoughts with ill meaning;

Lost once again in secretive eyes,

Found only to those who know its meaning.
1918 Sanctuary

3 April 2015

Terry Hopper

Luton, Bedfordshire

United Kingdom

For as I lay in your embrace, my breath be shallow... heart doth race

The trench, the bugle, the distant drum... fight for country

Defeat the Hun So protected in your cocoon... daybreak looming behind the moon

Sleep it cowers and it creeps... tears of mine... I gently weep

Not tonight... well not for me... safe and sound for that I be

The dark... it's cold... a killer's friend... the night flame flickers... bows and bends

The shadows dance to a piper's tune... as we did... that day in June

The day I marched... with head held high... for king and country... live or die

Young men together... comrades in fear... maidens calling hip hip three cheers

The front... the gas... ahead barbwire... the stink... the stench of God's hell fire

Bully beef... and rationed stew... last letters home from me to you

Dearest sweetheart... love of my life... dearest mother... precious wife

Signing off with yours devoted... all my love and sugar-coated

Kisses sent... a thousand score... each one delivered when at your door

Just let me live please God I pray... to see my love... just one more day

So here we lay... safe and sound... hearts entwined... emotions bound

And as the eve does turn to light... my candle salutes... its last goodnight.
Sing A Song Of Love When The Warlock Beckons

4 April 2015

Irina Dimitric

Mosman, New South Wales

Australia

When my spirits sink too low

The warlock's on the prowl, I know

His scheming dart could tear my soul apart

Rejoice he does in his evil deed

Spreading monstrous lies and his creed

Of hate, which, he claims, should be our fate

So with great abandon and the utmost glee

He offers his deceitful words, enticing me

'I'll teach you what I preach'

'Try out some sweet revenge

Your wounded heart thus to avenge

Choose to hurt and punish to a finish'

Depart from me, you ugly creep

Before I make you weep

With my loving song all day long!
We Still Have Putin

5 and 6 April 2015

João Cerqueira

Portugal

Stalin was outraged. Mankind had accused him of being a dictator, a murderer, a psychopath, and worse still, of having a ridiculous moustache. But he was no longer able to lock anyone away in a gulag, deport them to another country or stick an ice pick in their head.

Because now he was no more than a ghost. And even if he could return to earth, he wouldn't scare people any more than when he was alive. No one would die of fright if they saw his apparition and heard his voice calling from the other side.

So he vented his frustration on Lenin. 'Why is it that men are so ungrateful? I used to be the father of the people and now I'm an executioner? Who was it that ruined my reputation? That creep Nikita was one of them but there must have been more comrades who betrayed me. I should have had them shot.'

'Comrade Stalin, how many times have I told you that that's not the way to solve your problems?' Lenin scolded. 'Some people should be shot, obviously, but there's no need to get carried away. Half a dozen comrades you don't get on with anymore and one or two fools causing trouble are more than enough. That stops everyone from challenging socialism for a while. Killing everyone now, without any rules, just can't be done anymore, comrade. It doesn't look good. Scientific socialism sets out rules for everything; shootings can't be an exception. And if we even kill our friends, who will trust us?

'My secret police, the NKVD, did an excellent job. Why did they get rid of them? The KGB? Did you ever see them make a serious purge?'

'The KGB doesn't even exist anymore, comrade,' Lenin lamented.

'The world has gone mad. Where will this all end?'

'We still have Putin...' replied Lenin.

At that moment, Marx intervened. 'I'm sick and tired of this conversation. You're both idiots who stole my ideas and ruined everything. First of all, I stipulated that classless society could only be built in an industrialized country, England for example, and never in a land of peasants such as Russia. And secondly, I never ordered anyone killed, with or without rules.'

'Watch your tongue comrade Marx,' Stalin said. 'You're lucky you're not alive anymore, or else...'

Marx challenged him. 'Or else what? Get someone to kill me too, would you?'

'Calm down, calm down,' said Lenin. We are all comrades and we still have the same common enemy: capitalism. Though I think they may call it globalization nowadays.'

'I'm not that kind of comrade,' protested Marx.

'Ah comrade, you never stopped being a Jewish bourgeois,' said Stalin. 'You, who never lifted a finger in your life, you could really do with spending a few years in Siberia. Kill you--no, I wouldn't kill you. But I would re-educate you through hard labor for the rest of your existence. Believe me, half a dozen years with a pickaxe in your hand, digging holes in the ground, forty degrees below zero, some good beatings in prison, starvation, and you'd soon see how you would end up writing a new manifesto, this time praising me.'

'You miserable wretch!' cried Marx.

'Are you going to call me a murderer too? Look, if you'd never written your theories in the first place, no one would have probably ever heard of me. Like it or not, I am one of your children,' said Stalin.

'I disown you,' Marx answered.

'Like you did to the servant's child?'

'You miserable rascal!' yelled Marx, approaching Stalin.

'I already said that's enough, now,' said Lenin, placing himself between them.

'And you're not much better than him, no sir.' Marx turned on Lenin. 'You led the revolution on behalf of the people, you overthrew the tsar and then you proceeded to be the new despot. I said dictatorship of the proletariat, not a one-man dictatorship. Can't you read in Russia? Is it because of the vodka?'

'Don't you see, comrade? This Jew really hates us,' said Stalin. 'What he can't deal with is the fact that we had the courage to do what he didn't. Writing theories to change the world, any lunatic can do that. But risking life in a revolution, not everyone can do that.'

'Come to think of it, why don't we have any vodka here?' asked Lenin.

'Good question, we haven't toasted the revolution in ages,' Stalin lamented.

'It's part of your punishment,' said Marx, smiling.

'And what is your punishment, Jewish comrade?' Stalin asked.

'Being in your company,' replied Marx.

'Look Stalin, seeing as we're talking about the past, there is something that I've been wanting to ask you for ages,' said Lenin.

'Really? What, exactly?'

'Some people have said that before the revolution you were a double agent, and that you used to pass information on to the tsar's police. Is that true?'

'Pure slander. Do you see now how important it is to kill our enemies?'

'How many did you have killed, actually? Did you lose count?' Marx asked.

'The question, comrade Jew, is poorly made. The question shouldn't be how many I killed but rather how many I freed from servitude around the world. And the answer is billions. Billions, comrade Jew.'

'Yes, that's true,' said Lenin. 'There were some excesses, as happens in all revolutions, but we brought hope and peace to mankind.'

'While he,'--Stalin gestured toward Marx--'spent his life speculating on the stock market and impregnating servants, without caring a jot for the disadvantaged.'

'You miserable scum!' cried Marx.

'So it isn't true that you were doing exactly the opposite of what you were preaching? You criticized capitalism and at the same time invested in shares. You denounced the exploitation of the proletariat and bourgeois depravity, but took advantage of the workers who depended on you. You were no better than a hypocrite,' said Stalin.

'Shall we talk about the Holodomor famine?' blared Marx.

'What's your problem with it?'

'What's my problem, you rascal? You stole grain from Ukraine and you left five million human beings to starve. That's my problem.'

'Statistics, Jewish comrade. Wasn't it you who said that the state should appropriate the means of production? That's just what I did. I put an end to feudalism and serfdom. No owner would have a profit ever again. The problem was sabotage. Sabotage of the agricultural production, probably made by people of your race.'

'Rascal,' grumbled Marx.

'I already told you both to end this discussion,' said Lenin.

Marx snapped back. 'You keep your trap shut, we're going to see this through to the end.'

'You see, comrade?' said Stalin. 'He only sees bad things in socialism. He doesn't even recognize the merit of his ideas. Hitler, despite his faults, was a much more reasonable person. You can't discuss anything with this guy.'

'Oh come on, comrade Marx,' said Lenin, 'don't be like that. Why the hell are you always criticizing us? We've already admitted that we made some mistakes--'

'He hasn't admitted anything,' interrupted Marx.

'Fine,' said Lenin, 'but you have to agree that when you fight for a greater cause these things happen. The means justify the ends, don't you agree? This is that dialectical process that you invented: thesis, antithesis, synthesis. The thesis is the socialist project, the antithesis is the mistakes made, an unnecessary shooting here or there, and the synthesis is the future communist society without exploiters or exploited.'

'And where is it?' Marx demanded.

'Well comrade, you predicted the downfall of the capitalist system, but the only thing that fell was the Berlin Wall. History's march towards progress went out of kilter. Can you explain to us why your theories didn't come to fruition? There must be something wrong, don't you think?' asked Lenin.

'My theories are absolutely right. They are scientific--'

Stalin interrupted him, turning to Lenin, 'He never understood any of this. He never lived with his feet on the ground. It was because they listened to all your nonsense that so much misfortune happened. Thesis, antithesis, synthesis? A Kalashnikov has all the dialectical materialism it needs to educate the masses.'

'It's your fault that the capitalist system still exists. With your brutal methods, with your paranoia and your pathetic cult of personality, you turned the working masses away from socialist ideas. They prefer to be exploited to clenching their fists. The class struggle is over, thanks to you. You, Stalin, are the gravedigger of communism.'

'He had to make his mark. He had a difficult childhood; his mother put him in a seminary,' said Lenin.

'Hey! I don't need you to defend me,' cried Stalin.

'A comrade is duty bound to defend another comrade,' said Lenin.

'A comrade is duty bound to attack those who attack other comrades,' Stalin corrected.

'And that's just what I did.'

'No comrade, you defended me and what you should have done was attack that Jew there.'

'I am very proud to be Jewish,' said Marx.

'Why didn't you become a banker? That's what Jews are: bankers, traders, moneylenders. In short, capitalists. When you start doing things that you're not meant for, that's when the problems begin,' said Stalin.

'There it is,' said Marx, pointing his finger at him. 'There you have the proof that you never understood the classless society project. Leaders of the classless society do not discriminate against people because of their ethnic origin. Proletarians of the world are equal. But you, you reveal all the racial prejudices of capitalist society and of your friend Hitler.'

'He has a point, Stalin, you shouldn't call people Jewish. Some Jews aren't that bad,' Lenin said.

'Trotsky?' said Stalin, hardly stifling a guffaw.

'And let me tell you, there are Russians who aren't that bad either, but that can't be said of you or of your colleague Putin,' Marx retorted.

'I'm not Russian, I'm Georgian,' said Stalin.

'We're all Soviets,' Lenin corrected him.

'I'm German,' Marx said.

'And, by the way, what do you have against Putin, comrade Marx?' Lenin asked.

'What do I have against Putin? He has invaded countries, arrested opponents, silenced the press, and worse still, he has become a capitalist.'

'Comrade Marx, let's analyze the situation in a dialectical manner. Comrade Putin took power at a very difficult time, after that traitor Gorbachev had chopped up and sold off the USSR. Comrade Putin is not a capitalist. Comrade Putin is in a process of antithesis against bourgeois democracy to try to restore the greatness of the USSR. This takes time; there are many enemies, many saboteurs, but he is on the right track. Finally Europe is afraid of a Russian. Who would have known that gas could be the weapon of the future?'

'It was well used in the past,' Stalin joked.

'Comrade Putin is our last hope. Fidel Castro is finished, the Chinese are traitors, that guy from North Korea should be in an asylum and that Venezuelan one too,' said Lenin.

'Putin is very soft. He doesn't have the courage of a true leader. Why doesn't he open a gulag as he should do?' Stalin asked.

'They're not called gulags anymore, comrade,' explained Lenin.

'And purges, how many has he done?' Stalin asked.

'He has purged some journalists and a few entrepreneurs.'

'That's not enough. Sometimes I doubt if that Putin really admires me...'

'He admires you comrade, but for the moment he can't say so in public,' said Lenin.

'Why not?'

'He's not powerful enough yet to confront the Americans,' explained Lenin.

'So the only place I'm still honored is Korea?'

'Comrade Stalin, in North Korea no one knows who you are anymore. Everyone there believes that the world was created by the Kim dynasty,' said Lenin.

'Even they betray me? Well, drop an atomic bomb on them, then,' said Stalin.

'I'm liking Russia less and less,' Marx commented.

'Whose side would you be on if you were alive during the Second World War, Jewish comrade?' Stalin asked.

'I would be against tyranny, the Holocaust and the gulags,' replied Marx.

'What is that supposed to mean?' asked Lenin.

'I was very clear; I would be against the tyrants,' said Marx.

'Which tyrants? The good ones, protecting the people, or the bad ones, who defended the exploiters?' asked Lenin.

Stalin intervened. 'Do you see, comrade Lenin? Jews mince their words; they hide their intentions; they cannot be trusted. But this means that you would be against us.'

'Against you, yes, and in favour of the Russian people,' Marx replied.

'Comrade Marx, that's a guileful answer. You shouldn't abuse the dialectic. Don't you think that a little self-criticism is in order, after so much criticism directed at us?' said Lenin.

'Jews only criticize themselves in concentration camps,' said Stalin.

'You see? He's just the same as Hitler,' Marx said to Lenin.

In the meantime, someone appeared and whispered into Lenin's ear. 'Hey, I have good news: Putin has invaded Ukraine.'

'Really?' Stalin asked with a twinkle in his eye.

'Yes.' Lenin was beaming. 'Crimea is ours again. Didn't I tell you that Comrade Putin could be trusted?'

'And how did the Europeans react?' Stalin asked.

'They are really scared, paralyzed with fear.'

'Excellent. Without Churchill they're not going anywhere,' said Stalin.

Lenin continued. 'The Europeans won't do anything for two reasons: firstly, they have no armies; secondly, they would lose big business.'

'And the Americans? They're always against us,' said Stalin.

'Don't you worry. The Americans don't know what to do either. They have enough wars already,' said Lenin.

Marx intervened. 'You both seem very happy, but you've forgotten the Chinese.'

'The Chinese, comrade Marx, like invading countries. This time they're on our side,' replied Lenin.

'I have to admit, I underestimated comrade Putin,' Stalin said. 'He has leadership qualities after all. Has he already begun deporting Ukrainians? And when is he invading Poland?'

'Let us hope. Comrade Marx here wrote that history repeats itself,' said Lenin.

'First as tragedy, then as farce,' Marx clarified.

'You've got it wrong once again, Jewish comrade. Don't confuse your life with the history of people. My instinct tells me that something big is about to happen. Comrade Putin, I am sending you a hug from down here in hell,' said Stalin, stroking his moustache.

Editor's note: A very creative and entertaining history lesson!
The Long Arm Of The Law

7 April 2015

Winsome Smith

Lithgow, New South Wales

Australia

Max Turner was a good boy, much to his own disappointment. Not that he thought much about being either good or bad before the age of twelve. He had a happy home life; he was joyful or miserable whenever the occasion arose. He squabbled with his brothers, but always bought them birthday presents. All in all he was an average boy.

It all changed when he went into high school. Here he mixed with a wider variety of peers, including boys from tougher neighbourhoods. He looked up to these more worldly individuals and listened to stories of their exploits. They boasted of wagging school, of shoplifting, of getting the cane; of taking part in back lane fights; all heady stuff to a lad who had never been in serious trouble.

They also talked disparagingly of their parents. Some expressed real hatred for their mothers and fathers. Young Max actually respected his parents, although he would never admit it. He thought of them as old fashioned and dull and a bit too strict, but he had no serious complaints about them.

A challenge came when one of his new friends asked him to tell them things he had done. Max made up one or two fairly tame stories, but reluctantly admitted that he had never stolen anything from a shop or a supermarket.

He tried to avoid these more adventurous souls, but couldn't help encountering them in the playground or at sports. To his great embarrassment he began to get the reputation of being a wuss or a wimp or a goody goody.

He decided that this could not go on; he must do something to prove his adventurousness, his bravery, his daring. He must have a story of derring-do to relate among his peers. He would take the day off school and do some shoplifting. He lay awake at nights planning it and quivering with excitement at the thought of it. He planned every move and knew exactly what he would steal. He had been told that 'they' couldn't actually apprehend you and accuse you until you had left the shop, trying to conceal the goods.

At last the day came. Instead of going to school, he hid his school bag under a bush in someone's yard and got the bus into town. He was wearing appropriate clothes including a jacket with copious pockets and a hood that hid some of his face.

In the city he wandered around for a while, feeling nervous in spite of his excitement. Of course he would try hard not to be caught, but what if the long arm of the law reached out to him? Would he be jailed? Would they take those awful photos of him, front face and profile? Would he spend the rest of his life as a known criminal?

No, he would not be caught. He had heard about the tricks of avoidance and knew how to be careful.

In the large department store he began at the confectionary department, finding that bags of lollies and rolls of Lifesavers were easy to pick up. One or two chocolate bars added to his loot. He found himself in the book department and picked up a little book entitled _The Elements of Style_. It meant nothing to him, but it slipped into his pocket easily. On the way to the checkout he popped a packet of pens into his pocket with the rest.

Then came the great acting; he put on an extremely casual air, sauntering along, hands carelessly in his pockets, softly whistling a little carefree tune. He adjusted his face into an expression of pure innocence.

It was surprisingly easy to slip past the cash register beside another customer as the cashier concentrated on her work.

Out in the street he knew he was not out of danger yet. Trying not to think of 'what if?' he readied himself for a quick dash along the footpath.

Then the unthinkable happened. It was then that a hand touched him on the arm. Security! It was too late to think of a lie; too late to throw away the contents of his pockets. Caught!

Panic stricken, Max turned and looked up into the face of--his father.

'We're going straight back in and returning everything,' his father said. 'Then you're going to school.'

This had never happened to his adventurous friends. He could not admit to them that his father had caught him. Sadly he would go through the rest of his life with an unblemished reputation.
Wounded Sparrow

8 April 2015

Elzbieta Uher

Montreal, Quebec

Canada

Courtney looked at Mr Ruben with surprise. She wasn't expecting him to talk this way. Not now, when she told him about Anastasia's illness.

When Courtney first met Mr Ruben, he was like a whimsical bird, showing up unexpectedly with loud news, fancying Anastasia, looking for a chat. He never stayed long.

Anastasia enjoyed his company but she didn't take his advances seriously. She possessed certain knowledge of him that kept her in doubt.

'He is fun to spend some time with,' she used to tell Courtney. 'But he never takes anything seriously enough. He wouldn't harm a fly, but he would walk away from a wounded sparrow.'

Yet, when Mr Ruben was travelling, Courtney and Anastasia missed his spontaneous visits, his high pitch giggle when he was telling something funny, and his contagious smile.

To Anastasia, Mr Ruben wasn't mysterious but an ordinary man waiting for a good moment to act. To her, his special affinity to women was a result of his constant need to be nurtured and taken care of. It wasn't what she was looking for in a man.

To Courtney, on the other hand, Mr Ruben was a constant traveller looking for a partner to guide him on his journey, a partner with whom he could build a nest to which he would return from his voyage. She was always interested in his hidden side. Unlike Anastasia, Courtney didn't see him as an ordinary man. For one, he enjoyed gardening which wasn't an ordinary hobby for a restless traveller.

But Anastasia was looking for someone who could share her imaginary world. A world filled with enchanted moments and magical events which, according to her, could only unravel in a safe and secure place like her own home. She was rarely leaving her little house and she didn't seem lonely even if, for a while, her only companion was her garden and its inhabitants. Yet, she understood that without other people there would be no story to share, and much less to live for.

Courtney didn't understand Anastasia and Mr Ruben's relationship. Sometimes she thought that they were similar in a way known only to them. If Mr Ruben knew that the river flows underneath the ice, he needed Anastasia to break the ice, to show him the flow. If Anastasia knew how to catch butterflies, she needed Mr Ruben like a butterfly catcher needs a magnifying glass.

Courtney wished that one day her father and Anastasia would connect in a similar way. She wished for the family reunion. But her father couldn't connect with Anastasia in a way Mr Ruben did. Courtney's father considered imagination impractical and confusing. His own stories were written in stone. That's how it was supposed to be. That's how it was in Holub's family.

Anastasia's aunts used to tell colorful tales about the family life in Ukraine that were not supposed to be taken seriously. Life back there was anything but a fairy tale. Courtney's father was appalled by the way Anastasia altered the story of Courtney's sister's death. It only complicated things.

Yet, Courtney felt that her own story had been altered by Anastasia too, or at least, since she had been living with Anastasia, she had become more conscious about herself.

Just like her mother, Courtney often felt fragile and vulnerable in the presence of others. Yet, unlike her mother, Courtney was a dreamer. She had Anastasia's imagination. But as much as she enjoyed simple coziness and peaceful existence in Anastasia's house, she liked to travel alone. Only then, she felt a pleasant sense of belonging to the world. Like Mr Ruben, she was not comfortable with a strong attachment, and like him, she knew that even a frozen river flows. Yet, she didn't need Anastasia to break the ice.

The ice breaking idea snapped Courtney back to the conversation with Mr Ruben.

'I've been thinking...' she said apologetically. 'I didn't realize that you have a formula for a peaceful life.'

Mr Ruben shuffled his feet.

'It is getting cold. We will freeze if we stay here longer.' And after a hesitation, as if afraid that he might say something bad, he whispered, 'You said that you don't believe that Anastasia is seriously ill, didn't you?'

Courtney nodded. She turned her head as if she was trying to hear the ticking sound of Anastasia's alarm clock.

'Come with me,' she asked him softly.

'I know who can help.' He avoided giving her a direct answer. 'Znaharka,' he added quickly. Courtney was taken aback.

'What the hell does he know about Znaharka? How much has Anastasia told him about Ramona's death? How could she? It's a family matter. It was supposed to be our family secret.'

She could feel her breath becoming shallow. 'We don't believe in Znaharka's power.'

He raised his eyebrows. 'Anastasia does.'

Courtney found his calm, quiet tone obtrusive. 'She does? In what... in the power of "koltuns"... in a spell?!'

'She said that it is about the power of ritual, about wisdom. Apparently Znaharka's help comes from the goodness of her heart. She doesn't ask for anything in return. She doesn't accept money.'

'We are not in Ukraine,' she gasped, and suddenly, as if driven by an odd amalgamation of thoughts, she said, 'Did you ever see a wounded sparrow?'

'A wounded sparrow?' He echoed her words slowly. 'Go home, Courtney... there are things that you will have to do.'
Fall

8 April 2015

Deborah Stanbridge

Dubbo, New South Wales

Australia

Crunchy leaves made a blanket around us

Beautiful ochres and crispy ambers

You were falling for me

We threw foliage, frivolity, feelings

And made crunchy orange angles as we swept our arms around

I took your hand, but stole your heart.

Editor's note: You would think that there could be nothing left to write when it comes to poetry about falling in love, yet here is a short, sweet piece which uses great visual and aural imagery in a fresh and creative way to punch through to the point.
Piano Man

9 April 2015

Michael Cooper

Penrith, New South Wales

Australia

Thomas was having trouble breathing. What began as a quiet evening of music and entertainment had, with the arrival of the guys with guns, descended into a nightmare. He was doing what he loved, playing his music for an admiring audience. Bewildered, he stared at the four guys pointing guns at him. _What's going on?_ he thought. _They can't shoot me, I'm just the piano player_.

While three of the goons kept their guns on the crowd, the lead guy shoved Thomas towards an exit. A car waited outside and they bundled Thomas into the back seat. Two guys up front and two in back on either side of him. He felt the barrels of two guns pressed against his ribs. 'Relax buddy, we have a ways to go. Make yourself comfortable.' Thomas squirmed a little and tried to do what the guy said.

He thought that if the guys were going to kill him they would have done so by now. Or did that just happen in stories? He was sure they were going to kill him, just not here in a car on a busy city street. More likely, they'd take him to some deserted alley or field and do it there. Question was--why?

Thomas had been to court a couple of times recently, but the non-payment of alimony wouldn't raise the ire of the guys he was sharing the car with. As a doomed man reflecting on his short but eventful life, Thomas ran through the highlights.

Playing music came both early and easily for him. By age six, he was playing the organ in his father's church. Dad wanted him to follow his lead into the clergy, but Thomas had other ideas. Things unravelled when, in church at age nine, Thomas improvised around the chords of a hymn. Dad wasn't impressed but for Thomas this was the beginning of a musical career that would see him defining, then re-defining, a musical genre.

By age fifteen, Thomas had developed a unique style of playing his first love, the piano. As his skills increased, he began taking part time jobs to fund his lessons. His talent was developing rapidly, so higher priced tutors were needed. Recording contracts were just around the corner and live engagements were enhancing the part time work. By the time he was nineteen, music was paying the bills.

In addition to his prodigious talent at the piano, Thomas had developed an entertainment style that was endearing him to a growing legion of fans. It was this adoration that had resulted in his being booked to play this engagement.

His performance was nearing the end when the gunmen barged in. The crowd had been surprisingly quiet, given the circumstances. It was probably the way of the world that men with guns should appear and kidnap someone. Audience members were probably relieved it had been Thomas and not one of them.

Not that there weren't a few dignitaries in the crowd. Thomas could pull a crowd and had been known to play for mayors, councilmen, even governors.

'Relax man,' the guy to his right said again, 'we're almost there.' Thomas looked out the car's window. It was pulling into the rear parking lot of a large hotel. He was hustled out of the car and up the hotel's back stairs. Once inside, they followed a maze of corridors that led to a grand ballroom.

The lead guy pushed Thomas inside where another man waited. Thomas looked around the ballroom. Waiters were adding the finishing touches to tables set for many guests and from the kitchens came the tantalising smells of food being artfully prepared. At the far end of the room, there was a stage and on it, lit by a single spotlight, was a piano.

'Boss's birthday,' said the guy near the door. 'He wants you to play for him.' Thomas needed time to get his head around this. If this was just a normal engagement, why not do it through his agent instead of at gunpoint?

'No guests here yet,' the guy continued, pointing to a door, 'you wait in there.'

Thomas was aware that his breathing hadn't slowed since the gunmen had kidnapped him. Now he was having trouble even standing.

He lurched towards the door and grabbed its frame. Relieved to be for now, away from the threat of being shot, he staggered to a chair and collapsed into it. Thomas wasn't sure when he woke.

The previously empty ballroom was filled with people. The guy from the door had roused him. 'Get up buddy, show time. The boss gonna be here soon and you be playin' when he arrives. Don't make him wait.' The last bit was added as a warning. Shaking, Thomas wondered how his nerves would allow any sort of music to flow.

He walked through the audience to the stage. The people were sitting quietly, waiting for something--a gunshot and a dead piano player? Thomas sat at the piano and flexed his fingers. The nerves had kicked in again. What to play?

Something to ease away the nervousness-- _Lenox Avenue Blues_. There was applause from the opening bars. Thomas smiled and relaxed a little. He hadn't seen the gunmen since they'd delivered him to the ballroom.

He segued a second piece off the first and was just hitting his stride when a hush came over the crowd. The gunmen had reappeared. They formed a guard of honour at the door that opened to reveal a white suited man. He had an air of menace about him that embodied all that was Chicago of the 1920s. Thomas stopped playing and the white suited guy spoke to the room.

'Thomas Waller,' he said, smiling broadly. 'Boys, explain yourselves. Who brought the one and only Fats to play at my birthday party?'

The lead guy smiled back. 'We ain't misbehavin' boss. Nothin's too good for the one and only Al Capone.'
Felix's Fortress, Land's End (Forever Ago)

10 April 2015

MC Alves

New York

USA

"Nothing had ever obliged him to do anything. He had spent his childhood alone. He never joined any group. He never pursued a course of study. He never belonged to a crowd. The circumstances of his life were marked by that strange but rather common phenomenon--perhaps, in fact, it's true for all lives--of being tailored to the image and likeness of his instincts, which tended towards inertia and withdrawal."

--Fernando Pessoa, from the Preface of The Book of Disquiet

Disquietude. The soul's silent center. The white noise of the psyche. One can feel this silent whisper in the wind, at times, along the narrow alleys here at Land's End. Incongruous, contrasting the elan from the surroundings. Along the beach head, the Last Stop of the World, back when the world was flat, this disquietude took hold and haunts still. Far inside, deep within.

The dogs pay no attention to the master's misgivings, the swallows even less. The alleys of the Old City have many secrets, no longer of interest, long since forgotten. Earth's Cul d'Sac, where all remains unknown. Nothing to kill or die for, no lie worth telling, no truth which will allow itself be told. Only poetry remains.

Sunday morning comin' down, softly. Waves thrashing upon the quays. From the Old Church, where ancient fishermen's wives huddle now and again still, the bells toll. A chipper little ditty, a cherubic Franciscan in a hairy hassock perhaps, playfully pulling on the ropes. Palm Sunday in the House the Templars Built. Send in the palms. Bring on the fronds. Can the burro be far behind? In spite of disquietude, for once at least, serenity washes over the alleys and the sound of crashing waves down in the distance. Sunday morning coming down, softly.

A one-legged man makes his way down an avenue, resolute, adept with his crutches, almost effortless march, a man who has done this forever, one who has accepted and adapted to the missing leg. Someone sitting at a cafe calls out, with mirth in his tone: 'Sebastian! You're getting fat!'

Napolean, the mangy dog, patrols the esplanade, as he does every day, answers to no man. Hook a brother up.

Youth. Some guys go to school. Some guys go to sea. Some guys go to jail. Discretion, valor, courage, stupidity. Often confused. But there are motlier crews to be found than the lot at _D'Artagnans' pub_ , a press-ganged crew that absconded with the rudder. No longer young, Lenny rides in his wheelchair, when he is not pushing it himself, proud of being respected in both North and South London, never at a loss for a word, quicksilver wit. Once one of Fagan's boys. Says everyone should get a wheelchair. Otto, a Last Viking, once of Copenhagen, claims to have been a tanker captain. No one believes him. Not even the tourists. Closer to the truth would be the reason(s) he gives for the three years he spent in Berlin's slammer(s). A louder popcorn-fart of a man will not be found easily. His is the rustbucket Mercedes-Benz van driven aground in the Old Gypsy Market. His dog's name is Benny. He is suspected of telepathy. The tea is from Thailand. The hash is from Morocco.

Anchors aweigh. Sunday morning coming down, softly. Up from Land's End, navigating the entwined alleys of the Old City, gingerly on the cobblestones, slowly meandering past the many ancient chalets, ramshackle but standing, cracked but upright, most all shutters closed until their owners finally return from The Crusades. They have been waiting several centuries. They are keeping the faith. In one of the many shuttered windows if you glance carelessly you will note a shadow. Appears to be the form of a cat, a child's forgotten teddy, an owner's requiem. Coming closer you will at some point note that the shadow is watching you. Brown eyes, the color of red clay. Long, gnarled fur, fuzzy, speckled with old dust and grey ash, motionless, comfortable behind the glass. He is not a castaway, he is not a refugee. This castle is his. He likes living alone, Felix does. Fears no dog. Shows no sign of disquietude, this feline. He seems to know the secrets. But he is not telling. No one is asking. Sunday morning coming down, softly, at Land's End. Back when the world was flat... (to be continued)
My Brother My Friend

11 April 2015

Samantha Elliott-Halls

Campbelltown, New South Wales

Australia

Sitting here in this early morn

Watching the sun come up

The quiet and stillness pervasive

Steam rises from the fence

Fallen mist, night gone by

Birds still dance

In the morning dew

I used to watch all this with you

The grass has grown

It needs to be mown

The daffodils that we planted

Now in bloom

I can see you now

On the bench by the wall

Reading quietly

Soaking in the sun

A coffee by your side

Your dog at your feet

The cat asleep

Nearby in the sun

Stretching languidly

Lazily in the early morn

The lizards still climb

The wall behind

The seat where you sat

With your dog at your feet

A coffee at your side

Soaking up the morning sun

Reading

They still don't get on

But they've found their own space

With me my old friend

Where you should be

So you could see

Their joy in each new morn

You're one of many

Old friend of mine

Who has gone

Left me behind

According to some great plan

I'm told

Would that you were here

Sitting in this new morn

Watching as we always did

No more

Sun still shines

Rain still falls

The mist is gone

The weather now is warm

But you're not here

Sharing this dawn

A part of my life now torn

You shouldn't have gone

They've honoured you now

With annual awards

They'll always praise

Your work

Your name

I'd rather you were here

With me

Right now

Lending me your strength

To go on
Scary Mary Meets A Ghost

12 April 2015

Jane Russell

Mount Barker, South Australia

Australia

I gasped as the temperature plummeted giving me cold chills up my spine. They were good, I'd give them that. Very clever. My senses were on high alert as the semi-darkness filled every space around me. There! I felt the faint movement of something to my right. The instruments were quietly registering everything they could. Unlike me, they had infrared capabilities, heat sensing and a wide audio range as well. Nothing would escape them. Slowly, so slowly I turned to face the direction of the presence. I could see no one; then, almost as though I'd imagined it, I saw a ripple in the air--as though an invisible being had moved through it. I had to admit I was impressed. That was an amazing trick or a special effect--how did they do it?

I was looking forward to seeing what came up on the video when something really creepy happened. I felt a feather-light almost ticklish touch in my mind, as though something had gently stroked it. This was beyond fakery, this was uncanny.

'Who are you? What do you want?' I said, louder than I meant to, my voice cracking in fear.

I'd come to this so-called 'haunted house' on a dare from Toby. Of course, I don't believe in ghosts and my instruments were my guarantee that any attempts to fake a ghostly presence would be shown up as the trickery they were sure to be. But why had I been so pigheaded as to come alone?

'Hello?' I asked again, feeling ridiculous, knowing what a fool I'd look on my video recording.

'Why are you here?' came a cold voice in my head. I was so shocked I couldn't stand, and I collapsed into a convenient dusty armchair. 'Have you come to mock my misery?' it continued. When my whirling thoughts settled once more, I noted that the voice seemed male, adult, deep and resonant.

'Where are you? I can't see you,' I asked simply. The air rippled again then solidified into a transparent form. A young man in Tudor dress stood before me, his demeanour arrogant and privileged.

'Well?' he challenged.

'Who are you? What happened here?' I asked. He just looked at me impatiently, maybe I hadn't asked the right questions. Then he deigned to reply:

'Edward Seymour, Viscount Beauchamp at your service,' after which he bowed to me mockingly, flourishing a feathered hat.

'Mary Smith, university researcher,' I replied with an awkward attempt at a curtsy.

'I find that most unlikely,' he mumbled, then went on 'why are you so pale? You look more like a ghost than I do.' He laughed heartily at his feeble joke.

'Never mind about me, what are you doing hanging around here? Why don't you move on like most dead people?'

'Ah, I would if I could, but there's the mystery of my murder to be solved before I can.'

'Alright, tell me everything you can remember about what happened to you,' I encouraged, hoping the video was getting all this, now that we were both talking aloud.

'Really? You think you can solve a murder committed how many hundreds of years ago?' he scoffed.

'You'd be surprised at the resources at our disposal nowadays,' I bluffed, not at all convinced that such a thing was possible. But, what the heck. I'd give it a try.

He relaxed his stance and looked into the distance. 'My lady wife Ann and myself were married for nine years without issue. Neither of us knew why we were not blessed with children.' He looked sad and I pitied him. 'We were of an age, and both healthy and hearty. That was the true mystery. It may be that her family were tired of waiting for grandchildren, and decided to try her with another husband?'

'That's a possibility,' I conceded, as I obtained further details about who his wife was, about her father Robert Sackville the 2nd Earl of Dorset, and, after consulting Google, about her next husband Sir Edward Lewis and the seven children they produced.

'How exactly were you killed? Do you remember?' I asked the transparent Viscount.

'Of course I remember, I'm dead not senile!' he growled, 'Sorry, I've been on my own a lot. Let me see, it was late evening after a particularly delectable repast our new cook had produced. I was drinking some delightful red wine and relating stories of the day's hunting party to Ann. I was completely relaxed and carefree. She should have been the same but was instead slightly nervous and looking around her, I know not what for. I had no reason to suspect anything was amiss.'

'Go on.'

'I was preparing for a night of joyful dalliance with my beloved when there came a knock on the bedroom door. I was annoyed at the disturbance, but Ann insisted on going to see who it was.'

'And, who was there?'

'I couldn't see. She mumbled something I didn't hear and came back to bed. Little did I know that she'd neglected to close the door properly.'

'Ah!'

'Don't "Ah"! You can't draw any conclusions from that. Anyway, we went to bed and enjoyed ourselves for an hour or so. Or at least, I enjoyed myself and Ann was uncharacteristically frigid and miserable. I wish now that I'd asked her about her day, as something must have happened to worry her so.'

'So, you were not in the habit of listening to Ann's concerns?'

'God no, prattling women get me down.'

'Uh-huh!'

'Stop being so judgemental! It was a different time. Anyway, during the night, she got up and moved to another room as she sometimes did when I snored or smelled bad. I took advantage of this to spread out across the entire bed. I was experiencing an amazing dream about one of the kitchen wenches, buxom Sally was her name, when I felt a blow to my back and woke up.'

'What happened?'

'I'd been stabbed! I rolled over to face my assailant, but the dagger hilt prevented me from turning fully. The knife was then pulled from my body and plunged into my chest. It was mighty painful, I can tell you.'

'So, you didn't see his or her face, then?'

'Her face? Surely you're not suggesting my beloved Ann would stoop to murder?'

'Did you see the face or not?'

'Not really, just a blur. It looked like a man with black hair, but I was too busy dying to concentrate on him.'

'Old or young? Think!'

'My oath you're a bossy wench! Um, oldish, I think.'

'It doesn't really matter,' I admitted, while he fumed with frustration, 'the assassin was sent by someone else. The actual killer is irrelevant.'

'So, tell me! Who had me killed?' he demanded.

'I fear it was most likely your father-in-law, the 2nd Earl of Dorset. And yes, he did want grandchildren. Your wife knew what he planned to do and that was why she was nervous and preoccupied. He married her off soon after your demise to a Sir Edward Lewis and the happy couple had seven children. Your ex-wife lived until she was seventy-eight years old. I wonder if she ever regretted what happened to you?'

'That's horrible!' he exclaimed. 'Couldn't we just have got an annulment? I'm pretty disappointed you know. It's really not fair!' Then his face changed and an expression of wonder transformed him. 'Oh look! What's that pretty light?'

He'd forgotten me as he turned towards the door. He walked purposefully away, his form fading as he went. I hoped he'd see Ann once more and have it out with her. As for his father-in-law, I had no idea what a meeting with him would resolve. I was sorry to see Edward go. Despite his pomposity and arrogance I quite liked him.

When he vanished, the temperature in the room returned to normal and I found to my chagrin that all my instruments were off-line. They'd recorded nothing. On the plus side, I'd proved myself a worthy ghost-buster. Now I couldn't wait to tell Toby all about it, though whether he'd believe me with no physical proof I would find out in due time.
The Scratch

13 April 2015

Myfanwy Dabner

Newbridge, New South Wales

Australia

The record stuck

needle only plays the scratch

The scratch

The scratch

The scratch

The scratch

The depression

The scratch

The scratch

The scratch

Scratch two

The scratch

The scratch

The fear

The obsession

The isolation

The scratch

The scratch

The scratch

The scratch

The scratch

Scratch three

The scratch

The blow

By blow

Return

Looping

Editor's note: Poetry about feelings can often be as depressing to read as the writer might be feeling, but this piece wastes no time, no words. It gets straight to the point, delivering its message effectively and with creativity.
Awesome Superconductivity

14 April 2015

Andris Heks

Megalong, New South Wales

Australia

He is from another world.

A bodhisattva: a saintly being, who communes with divinity and who descends into this world to fill the hearts and minds of music lovers with the divine.

While the ordinary person's mind is jammed with thoughts, positive, negative or indifferent, his mind buzzes with music. Not just any music: symphonies and operas in their entirety, from beginning to end.

But a composition does not merely live in his mind, rather in his whole being. For example, as an opera plays in his mind, it takes over his emotions; he virtually plays every instrument, mouths every word of every song in French, he croons as the _bon vivan_ , heaves as the prima donna, is scornful and angry as the antagonist and he pirouettes with the ballet dancers. He simultaneously experiences the collective performance and each part that makes it up, ensuring that each part plays its role optimally to fit in with the others to reflect and bring into being the authentic one collective whole.

How does the opera come to possess him?

Through direct soul to soul transmission from the late composer's living spirit. He attracts the genie from the composer's spirit to enter, fill full and guide him. It does not just encompass the spirit of the entire opera, he also imbibes the composer's creative inspiration for it. He becomes the composer's double as the opera incarnates in his soul, as if he himself was the composer and the bearer of the entire piece.

He lives the opera in his dreams and in his waking hours. The singers and the orchestra are there to materialise the opera for the audience as its genie emerges from him through every performance.

The orchestral pit is under the stage reaching back deeply. The musicians inhabit this underground colosseum from which Orpheus of the underworld will conjure up the music of heaven and hell.

There is a cacophony of sounds as the musicians fine tune their instruments before the conductor arrives for the performance. Suddenly there is total silence and the conductor enters. He walks to the middle of the front of the orchestral pit, steps on his pedestal and turns towards the enthusiastically clapping audience. He has not even started, but he has already mesmerised the audience. They are full of anticipatory awe, already eating out of his hands, as it were.

Next he turns his back on the high voltage audience to electrify his orchestra. He slowly scans their faces, establishing eye contact with everyone. From now on they are all his auxiliaries, organically connected to him through the breath and every sound that they will make. And he, like a spider weaving a perfect web from material released from within itself, begins to weave the web of the captivating opera from the ethereal magic emanating from his being, spellbinding everyone hearing it.

He eyeballs the musician standing behind a huge drum at the back of the orchestral pit, extending his left index finger in his direction and when his arm is fully stretched, he whips the air forcefully with his conductor's baton in his right hand and the drummer obliges, starting off the opera with a big bang...

The old and suicidal Faust makes a deal with Mephisto that he can be young once again and live a life of unrestrained pleasures in return for surrendering his soul to the devil. But his amoral hedonism encouraged by Mephisto leads him to destroy the love of his life and his own peace of mind. He also kills his lover's brother under Mephisto's spell and against his own will. Eventually Mephisto succeeds in snuffing out the life of his innocent and long suffering lover, but he fails to gain possession of her soul.

Rather, it ascends to the luminous heaven in the company of white angels. I can just about see the angels being released by the conductor's genie hovering everywhere in the performance hall. And the heroine's soul and the angels are joined in their ascent by everyone's soul in the hall. We all rise to heaven, if only momentarily perhaps, but we know we made it there and that we would never be the same again. The supermundane reveals its presence in our mundane reality. We are purged of our destructive emotions and feel filled full with faith, hope and love.

The conductor triumphs.
Autumn Is Always

15 April 2015

Richard Scutter

Macquarie, Canberra

Australia

Autumn is always afternoon

that time after lunch in the garden

the plates scattered to one side

but still some wine in the glass

the children at play in the background

the old swing objecting strongly

while discussion leads to friends they've known

far-off the low moan from the motorway

the sun still gives some comfort

as shadows stretch into the lawn

soon it will be time to call the children to task

but now they talk and laugh oblivious

a gust of wind detracts and for a moment

she looks down to the end of the garden

where the children are at play

her fingers feel her woollen jacket on the chair

and if you could hold time in a photograph

it would be caught in this moment forever

in a picture of complete happiness
Lost In The Transition

16 April 2015

Arthur Derek and Robert Chancer

Bridgeman Downs, Queensland

Australia

From each memory I keep within the frame, all appear different but I'm not the same,

Outside the flesh and inside the bone, am I still the man those memories had sewn?

Emotions are gone and mind torn apart, is it human to have this hard of a heart?

Though my body is mortal, my mind is machine, to be clear of this shell eternity is gleaned,

More clockwork my being, with each passing day, when from humanity did I start to stray?

The mechanical world is free of repression, emotions once were, now a digital expression,

Sensation of touch, once a beautiful thing, within my cold circuits hast not lost its sting,

Burnt out from connection my life of disdain, the illusion of consciousness, my positronic brain,

Thought turned to data, digital decay, nanotron despot I must obey,

To escape my impurity I descend deep inside, now I'm lost in transition, am I one with the hive?
Converse

17 April 2015

Judith Bruton

Marino, South Australia

Australia

You can discover more about a person in an hour of play than in a year of conversation

~ Plato

'I woke just after midnight and quietly slunk away from the safe house. It was a balmy South African night. I'll never forget it. The jungle brush was electric with strange and wild sounds.'

As he spoke, Marc's eyes were ablaze with a passion I hadn't seen for years.

'I took a beat-up Jeep down the dusty track to the old boat ramp. Just then vicious gunfire broke out and I was forced to dive into the murky river--bloody awful!'

I watched Marc's body become tense as he relived his experiences; experiences I had never shared, nor been privy to, until now. Exhilarating, frightening memories.

'Why haven't you told me this before?' I probed.

'I didn't think you'd wanna know... you hate violence.'

I had known Marc for thirty years; we'd been married twenty-five. I thought I knew him inside and out, but lately he had changed. This summer he rarely swam in the pool, the garden was neglected, he stayed up late into the night and was off the grog.

Marc fervently continued his graphic reminiscence. 'Anyhow, I managed to find my way onto an old barge. The engine needed a kick start and I panicked a bit as the leaky tub chugged out into the middle of the river. Bullets were ricocheting off the metal engine mount, smoke was all around from the petrol fires.'

Marc lifted his arms to protect his head, and to sweep perspiration from his feverish brow. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes seemed focused on a place very distant from our old Queenslander's back veranda with its shabby-chic charm.

'Marc, I never ever guessed you were...'

'Just listen, please. I want to share this with you.'

Marc was becoming extremely agitated and I feared for my precious Chinese porcelain tea set rattling on the nearby rattan table. 'Okay. I'm listening,' I said.

'The old boat idled down the river for a while and I eventually found an outpost that looked like a promising return to land, but the Jackal's men heard the engine and opened fire from the landing.'

'The Jackal's men. What a terrifying thought... you poor darling, so brave.'

'Luckily the boat's machine gun didn't jam and I managed to clear the way so I could check out the medical supplies in their local hut.'

'Please go on, this is truly amazing.' I poured Marc another iced camomile tea.

'Malaria had been dogging me throughout the last year and without a steady supply of medicine I knew I'd pass out. There were only two syringes left, but that was better than none.'

Ah, that explains the recurring night chills, I thought to myself.

Marc was becoming more animated as a plethora of violent images appeared to flash before his eyes.

I edgily jiggled the ice in my gin and tonic during the brief pause in his monologue.

'What then, darling?' I gently encouraged.

'I took an abandoned Jeep and headed inland for the local bar. I heard there was a deal there that might be good for me.'

'A deal? What kind of deal?'

'Look Angela, stop interrupting and listen for once.'

'I am listening, I just can't believe a capable man like you would...'

'The night sky was very dark but I drove without the headlights just in case...'

'The Jackal's men?'

'Good, you have been taking it in.'

'Well, I'm trying to show interest but the whole thing leaves me cold.'

I chuckled and threw an ice cube from my drained glass at Marc before adding, 'I sometimes wish we had never bought that useless PlayStation.'

Editor's note: More enjoyable contemporary social commentary--carefully disguised until you get to the swiftly-delivered punchline.
Glass Castle

18 April 2015

Patricia Walsh

Cork

Ireland

There was not much attrition, despite your pleadings

as cock-sure incidents sink your boat.

You retire hastily, excused by separation

nay-saying to the death, a proud species

that was not called success, nor trip fantastic.

Wall-to-wall sorrow pervades the room

pacing back and forth, a conundrum hatched

to catch you, explanation is at a loss

to put you in your place, trite platitudes

blow away any sense of irony.

You crash in park doorways, any way convenient

your manifesto in conspiracy is well received

by those who know worse than to associate

with your bad self, a chronic understanding

of which goes where, the laws of boredom

Those cars propel themselves, for good or ill

out of lunacy, out for lunch, a cry in the night

pervades your curiosity, an adventure gone before

it had a chance to acquiesce with you

a noble calling running amok.

Death cannot sink you, gravestone or not.

Friends piece together your lifetime's quirks

hobbled clean for better bearing

conspiracy sunk into clay

a cold mechanism that ruthlessly equalises.

Are you spirit? Are you truth?

I beg to differ. Whatever is not to like

charming birds out of bushes,

no one will scrag your orphaned possession

nor continue your warfare against type.
Archie's Gun

19 April 2015

Marcalan McVicker

Grants Pass, Oregon

USA

There was a time that we all thought was grand. Happy times, prosperity, and silly laughter at the stairs. The house was open and life was abundant.

We lived on the side of a mountain and the river that flowed below us, at the end of the yard, was full of a boy's idea of fun: danger and movement. The train tracks above us followed the road in an easement too close to the house--someone else's decision.

Papa lost his lungs and his will from working the coal mines. With every hard day's work, breathing stagnant air of coal dust and smoking, he gave up his ghost, hacking away his moments in time. Mama worked hard and took care of him and us and followed, shortly after.

I was afraid to look at him, in his bed, as hollow as the caves he worked in. Still, time went by. The river was constant, and the older I got, all I could think of was leaving.

_Things don't change much,_ I think, sittin' here holding this gun.

After all I found out there; just to wind up here, with my sisters, in this drafty house full of cats and kittens. Curtains hung between rooms to keep in the heat. Getting rattier as I speak. Steeped in tradition and architecture. The smell of fried this and that, pungent to the nose. Okra, cornbread, beans and hocks. Fried chicken, tomatoes green and red from the vine. Hot sauce, catfish, I caught, and wild game brother Jack killed from the mountains. Greens from the garden with fat back. All those things, gone. Nothin' but people looking around for something they thought they'd saved for a rainy day, eternally lost, in mountains of necessaries.

My sisters--one weak, one strong--float through the house, already ghosts. Outside on the porch Olive lays and rests on a chaise between pillars of nostalgia and progress. A beauty, and frail; she scared most men away. Such grace she had. Or maybe it was Annie who chased the men away to protect her from something she knew she would never have.

Olive could have been a film star, you know, with her poise, she could light up a room. But now, well she's still; and there, she began to write. I didn't ever see her writings. I'm not sure anyone did, and I couldn't tell you what ever happened to them. I bet Annie knows just that. But I know she did write 'cause she would hide them if I came up on her unexpected. Even though she's dead and gone she still lies on her chaise on the front porch writing, worried I might sneak a peek and see. She would have a fun little smile for me and look away.

Funny, I never even questioned her haunting. It all just seem so natural to me.

I stay in my room most of the time now. When I came back I wasn't surprised. I saw Olive every day but we never spoke. She was up and down the stairs, out in the garden, down by the river, so fierce, unafraid. She was always afraid, but no more. Rain didn't drench her clothes in the garden. She'd walk the halls of the house, glorious and beautiful. Glide the stairs as nothing, although in life she couldn't move. We would watch the sunset together, no words between.

My life? I knew people once, or thought I did...

When I chose to escape, I chose the river, the Kanawah. It flowed south and barges moved coal from the mines and were always looking for workers. I didn't stop and wonder I just put my name in to start my journey. They hemmed and hawed about my age, but brother Jack talked to the Captain 'cause he knew him and I was let on trial basis.

What a day that was, I looked forward to gettin' on board. Out of Sister Land, on my own, truly, on my own.

I hooked up in Charleston at the dock office. Jack dropped me off so I could go it alone. Looked better that way, I was scared to death but made sure I didn't show it. Guess those boys I got to know in time, had a big old laugh when they saw me. They looked at me like I had seven heads.

Sixteen I was. I was willing to do what I had to do, to get the heck away, and away I went. What would you expect though, with the lot I fell in with? A young sixteen-year-old with a bunch of river rats.

These men tested me all the time and I stood well in their eyes. A more agreeing bunch I would never find again. Hard livin' and drinkin' sort, my Ma would sit up in her grave; I didn't care. I seen some come on same as me, but get gone, no one said a thing. I never felt such close ties, as with these fellas.

Family? I have to wonder what that is. It weren't my sisters or my parents. Jack was always gone. It was this boat and what I had to do. My mates let me make my mistakes, which I did over and over. But, they saved me from overboard or getting crushed between floats. The boat doesn't go back and get ya. I was becoming a riverboat man.

The river was more than I could imagine. It raged at times. Sand bars and crooked reels, stumps and debris, made the Captain who he was. A hard man, as you might guess, a cussin' man. A man true to his word and refined in his judgement of what needed done. And for the first time, I felt alive.

I did every job the Captain gave me to do, I didn't care what it was.

We'd float them barges down the Kanawah to the Ohio and back. Slept when we could, laughed all day, and felt a brotherhood I can't explain. There were those that got hurt and those that died. We became closer, all through that tide. When we got to our destination we'd all go a bit nuts. I learned things that I never knew before there too. I lost myself amongst the town and those who lived there. Never caring to stay, but wanting their company, given or not. But as time would move we'd get our call, "On board ya Bastards" and we'd follow through. Most of us found ourselves back at the dock already, snoozing by the ship, bored with the town and the town not sorry to see us go.

Like I said, there were accidents, unexplained. Most of us knew the reasons but never said anything. Men would be lost overnight, not show up the next day. Their lockers would be sent to their families, marked: Tragedy on board. The Sheriff would come to the dock and sit with the Captain in the wheelhouse. He'd leave with a head full of tales and whiskey.

It was then, when going through the late Ned Tussoues' locker, I found this .38 calibre pistol. It was a cumbersome thing and the action was stiff making it hard to pull the trigger. I decided I'd keep this gun and not say nothin'. There was some trouble goin' on and well, maybe I might need this. But my mates were standing behind me. All the same it wouldn't be missed.

Not too long after, I started having dreams of folks I'd never seen before, music was there, some foreign, some not, disturbing sounds.

People's voices crying out. I just thought I was drinkin' too much and would get up and have coffee and work another shift. I thought one night, at the rail of the bow, _When we get to our port I'll sell this gun for another, better one_.

And the fog swirled in and made images before my eyes and whisped away.

The paddle kept turning.

Next stop we dropped our floats and for a couple of days go crazy.

Every gunsmith I went to, the store owner would shy away from the gun.

It wasn't pristine by any means, markings on the butt I'd never noticed, I just thought it was a signature of another owner. I didn't give it much thought and decided to keep it and get it set up right.

I found a gunsmith, he did the work begrudgingly. He gave me a cold stare when I collected it, handed it to me wrapped in a cloth and didn't charge me, and left the counter immediately.

I got back to my room, at the hotel where we all stayed. All the boys were at the bar already. I sat down on this broken bed and took out the .38. It worked so smooth, cleaned and oiled, looked almost new, it slipped, and I fumbled to catch it.

I never felt the bullet.

Annie was beside herself, but then what's new? The Captain brought me home and my mates carried my locker. She stayed away from my room for a long time.

I watched Olive as Annie fussed about the house. The house was up for sale.

Jack came down as much as he could and he was the one who went through my locker. He found the gun, and kept it.

It was late, on that evening, Jack stood at the river with his son.

The fog gathered in and swirled, made images before their eyes and whisped away.

Jack took the gun home with him and never said a thing.

He thought to himself, _This isn't fair_ , but then, nothing is fair.
I Crave A Bestseller

20 April 2015

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, New South Wales

Australia

Julian Pilkington-Smyth was in a state of extreme agitation. A letter had arrived from _Forever_ _Romantic_ publishing house and he could not find his glasses to read the contents. So far, he had sent his manuscript-- _The Sands of Time_ --to at least seven similar publishers; each of whom had rejected it, out of hand, with similar and dissimilar reasons. Namely: too clichéd, too esoteric, too much sex, not enough sex, too many characters, lack of characterisation, too much fantasy, not politically correct, and (Julian's favourite), not environmentally sensitive enough! Just when he thought he'd exhausted every possible location from the ensuite to the refrigerator to find his spectacles, his wife walked in having returned from a shopping expedition.

'Where are my infernal glasses?' he bellowed. 'Have you put them away somewhere?'

Verity replied rather bemused, 'I believe if you look in the bathroom, you'll find them!'

'In the bathroom? I've already looked there you silly...'

'Try again and look up!' She cut across him and made her way to the kitchen with two heavy shopping bags. 'Then come and give me a hand to put this stuff away... _idiot!_ ' she added under her breath.

Julian watched the retreating back of his wife, as she waddled away towards the kitchen with a look of total bewilderment. _Look up? What on Earth does she mean by that?_ Nonetheless, he did as he was told. He walked into the ensuite once more and scanned the surrounds of the wash basin and cabinet. Finding nothing, he glanced upwards at himself in the mirror. Mystery solved. His reading glasses were on top of his head!

Julian entered the kitchen rather sheepishly. 'I found them... why didn't you just tell me?' he said more circumspect that he had been before. 'Do you know how infuriating this has been for me? I've got a letter from the publisher. I've just finished reading it, listen to this...'

She cut him off again, 'And do _you_ know how infuriating it is to be yelled at because of your stupidity?'

'It could've happened to anyone,' he replied, miffed.

' _It's the third time this week,_ ' she said spitefully. 'Why don't you get yourself a lanyard like everyone else? Anyway... what did they say, this time? Plot too soppy, or couldn't your heroine, Ava the pirate, find her buccaneers on the side of her buccan-head?'

'Oh very droll. Well Verity, my little doubting Thomasina, as a matter of fact they're going to publish _Avarice in the Caribbean_ very soon!'

Verity's abrasive tone altered immediately. 'You're not serious-- _but that's wonderful!_ Jules, I'm so happy for you... darling! But what happened to the title _The Sands of Time?_ '

'Been used too many times before--not catchy enough, apparently. You remember that _Ava_ was so greedy that her crew called her _Avaricious Ava_?'

Verity nodded vigorously.

'Well they reckon that as avarice or greed appears to be the main theme running through the book that it should become a metaphor as well and be reflected in the title. In fact they reckon I should take it a step further and call her _Ava Rice_! Hence, _Avarice in the Caribbean_. You get it? Clever, eh?'

Again Verity nodded her assent. Privately, she thought it was a stupid title, as stupid as the name of his heroine. But who gave a damn as long as they're going to publish? Other disparaging thoughts came to mind: _Ava Rice bubbles her way through the Caribbean with her bloodthirsty companions --Snap, Crackle and Pop! Oh God! Or perhaps he could call her Ava Cado or Ava Lanche or... Ava Goyoumug! Who cares as long as he makes some money!_ Verity herself was not immune to avarice. She was heartily sick of their hand-to-mouth existence and longed for some luxury. She began dreaming of an idyllic life on Barbados or somewhere similar; like Jamaica where Ian Fleming had lived and wrote many of his James Bond adventures. _Ah balmy nights, palm trees, caviar, cocktails by the ocean..._ actually it had been her idea for Julian to place his story within the Caribbean. Essentially, Verity knew that Julian was a reasonably good writer. The trouble was he suffered from delusions of grandeur; wanting to write 'important' novels as Tolstoy, Joyce and Lawrence had done. She shuddered, _Lord I hope he hasn't made the story too arty-farty, cerebral or florid..._

'Oh well Verity, just as long as this pot-boiler doesn't get in the way of the serious writing, eh?' Julian replaced his glasses on top of his head once more.

' _Forever Romantic_ reckon that it just needs tightening in a few places, but they're really keen on the idea of a bawdy female pirate in the Caribbean; sort of _Moll Flanders_ meets _Jack Sparrow_ , with a bit of Dickens for good measure to give it a bit of gravitas. So I'll just need to apply a bit of polish maybe, or make it a bit coarser; you might like to do some proofreading? I'll send the cheque off in the morning!' His enthusiasm was mounting...

'Jules, do you think they'll be able to give you an advance...?' Verity's voiced trailed off. She suddenly felt a shadow pass over her dream of cocktails by the ocean on balmy, moonlit nights. Verity had only been half listening to Jules prattle on. 'Wait a minute-- _Forever Romantic_? You're sending a cheque off? Are you telling me that this is a Vanity Press you're sending this heap of crap to for publication?'

'Well, yesss, they assure me that all will be well and they're certain it'll be a bestseller. Look on it as an investment in my literary future. Anyway, it's not crap--not complete crap anyway.'

'How much? Give me that!' Verity snatched the letter out of his hand. She read for a few moments. 'You complete fool!' she exploded. 'You give them five grand; to start, and they're only going to print about fifty copies and 10% to be divided... between...' She couldn't continue. She glanced at the company motto printed below the masthead. _Your Vanity is not Insanity!_ 'Bullshit!'

'Anyway, I'd better get to work,' said Julian somewhat miffed. 'Fire up the computer and make my Ava Rice the buccaneer a bit sexier. I crave a bestseller! Now where have my glasses got to?'

'They're up on top of your buccan-head,' Verity spat and turned away. 'I crave a cocktail!'
In Love With You

21 April 2015

Kylie Abecca

Port Albany, Western Australia

Australia

There are so many things I wish to tell you; so much I want to say,

Let you know how happy I am to be with you in such a special way,

My skin tingles with every touch, my heart melts with every word,

In such a short amount of time you have lifted me higher than any bird,

I've been too afraid to speak, too scared to tell you how I feel,

I suppose I've been afraid that this might not be for real,

Sometimes I want to hug you and never let you go,

Wrap my arms around you and let all my feelings for you show,

I love the way you touch me, I love the way you smile,

The way you kiss my neck and just hold onto me for a while,

What I'm really trying to say, as hard as it is for me to do,

I just wanted to tell you babe, that I've fallen in love with you.
Garden Concert

22 April 2015

Shirley Burgess

Rosebud, Victoria

Australia

In our front garden,

Thrushes trill and call,

Whilst nearby a butcherbird,

Shows just how to enthral.

He's showing the others

He's master of song,

But all the red parrots

Think he's got it all wrong.

With their twittering and bell-calls

I can have quite a chat,

And do it quite often;

Takes a lot to beat that.

No-one pays them,

It's all done for free

Although the parrots will expect

Lots of seeds for their tea.

What a contrast to humans

Who will do little, 'gratis',

When our feathered pals will,

And are all high-class artists.

It's hard to be grumpy

When so easy on the ear

This concert they give us--

I'm just grateful to hear!
Cinquain Spring

23 April 2015

Robyn Chaffey

Hazelbrook, New South Wales

Australia

Spring time

in the garden

fills your heart with gladness,

floods your soul with flowers to bring

you peace!

My bloom!

Red Waratah!

Crimson fingers reach high

coaxing birds with nectar precious.

Love those!

Orchids!

Coming into

bloom to greet the spring sun;

bringing joy and colour with them.

Glad things!

Lilac

budding purple!

Preparing to burst forth.

Set to keep spring colours going.

Pure joy!

Golden

Daffodils gone!

Rise early, herald spring.

Gladness replacing winter blues.

Great friends!

Many

coloured flowers,

Azaleas break out,

white, red and pink decorate our

garden.

Blue Bells

and Hyacinths.

Shades of blue and purple

playing hide and seek 'neath bushes.

Surprise!

Burnished

Banksia head!

Black tipped soft new hairstyle.

This season set to outdo last.

What fun!

Tree Fern.

New fronds unfurl.

Signal life's renewing.

Determination inherent

Inspires!

Blue skies,

sunshine, soft rain.

Nature's remedy for

anything that worried you though

Winter.
Australian Haiku No. 5

24 April 2015

Tom Coley

Hazelbrook, New South Wales

Australia

Keep critical thought out of schools

Say Global Warming's only for fools

With a car and a phone on a three grand loan

Kick 'em out on their own

Team Oz is playing billionaire's rules

Tom recognises that his poems are limericks, but feels that 'haiku' sounds more sophisticated, hence his ironic label 'Australian Haiku'.
Song

24 April 2015

JH Mancy

Tallebudgera, Queensland

Australia

As we journey on life's road together

We'll endeavour to hold love forever

Whatever may befall us on the way

Life's troubles will not bind us in their sway

We've travelled far along such diff'rent paths,

No matter 'cause we have found love at last

With simple words now I'd just like to say,

I'm blessed to have you in my life each day

We do not know what the future may bring,

Each moment of our lives such precious thing

So we'll hold close and share each other's dreams,

That each day may be a joyous peaceful stream.
The Dress

25 April 2015

Jennifer Mosher

Hazelbrook, New South Wales

Australia

I once bought a dress. Not the sexy little number that I'd gone out to buy (which looked great on the rack, but crap on me), but a dress that the boutique owner wouldn't even consider hanging in the window. I still don't know what I saw in it at the time, but I took it off the rack, tried it on and, well, it came to life with a real person inside it. It accentuated the bits that I wanted accentuated. It drew attention away from the bits I wanted ignored. It was every woman's dream! And so I bought The Dress.

It was an amazing dress and we worked together so well. It was light enough for a cool summer's day, perfect for mild autumn weather with a light bolero jacket, and made me look shit-hot when I wore it with knee-high boots and a trench coat in winter.

The two-tone pattern was nice and small and not too obvious--again, just perfect for me. (For once, my mother approved wholeheartedly of my pattern choice.) And it was one of those wear-it-to-work-then-after type dresses. In fact, not only did I wear it to work and after, I wore it to funerals, discoes, dinner dates, movie dates, job interviews and birthday luncheons. It just seemed to be whatever I needed it to be whenever I needed it to be that. We had some great times, The Dress and I.

Over the years, of course, we both changed. Sometimes, I had to work a bit to be able to fit back into it--especially after having the kids. And sometimes The Dress changed, too. I remember one particular occasion when the back hem dropped due to The Dress having stretched across my expanding derrière. We had to seek professional help for that issue.

As times and fashions changed, The Dress changed, too. In the 90s, the hem came up over my knees. On another occasion I dyed it that lovely fuchsia colour that was so popular at the time. The pattern still showed through. In fact, it even brought the pattern out more strongly!

The years passed and one day I realised I hadn't worn The Dress in over a year. I pulled it out of the closet and tried it on. For the first time in eighteen years, we just didn't gel, and I couldn't work out what was needed to fix it. Did I need to reshape to suit The Dress? Did The Dress need to reshape to suit me?

I slept on it for a few nights in the hope that the answer would come to me in the wee small hours, as it often did when I was seeking a way forward. But no. Nothing. Nada. Nyet. For the first time ever, The Dress and I weren't right for each other and I couldn't work out a way around it.

I decided that we should seek professional help again and tracked down my favourite seamstress--the one who had so carefully let out the darts and adjusted the seams as my weight and shape had fluctuated over the years. She looked at us together, listened to what I had to say and studied The Dress carefully, but could only offer some textbook suggestions. It was over. The Dress and I had outgrown each other.

We went home, The Dress and I, and I folded it carefully, one last time, and put it in a charity bag with several other bits and pieces, dropping them off on my way to work the next day. There seemed no point in delaying, yet it felt such a callous thing to do. The Dress had served me well, and it wasn't as if it was falling apart, or had become useless, or as if I had come to despise it. We just weren't a good 'fit' anymore.

Over the following months I bought a few new pieces for my wardrobe, simply to fill the physical gaps, but I knew it would take a long time before I would find a suitable replacement for The Dress.

Many months later I joined the checkout queue in the local supermarket behind a young lass in a real vintage-looking outfit. There was something very familiar about her, yet I couldn't place her. Then it struck me--she was wearing The Dress!

It was no longer fuchsia, but a deep, warm purple-brown. The collar had been removed and the zip opening down the back replaced with shiny new buttons. How retro! A new cinch belt brought The Dress in tight at the waist, accentuating the bust and hips in a way that I'd never been able to master.

The Dress looked good. Different. Younger. Brighter and sassier. Its new owner clearly cared about it and saw its potential, helping it to a new lease on life. But boy, did it hurt seeing it look so fantastic on such a younger, trimmer 'model'.

I walked home, sad that I'd not been able to see that potential in The Dress myself. If I had, maybe I could have kept it. But I knew deep down it wouldn't have worked. A colour like that would never have suited me, and as for the whole vintage look ... I'm far too old for that now!

I changed over the years and The Dress did, too. I truly doubt that I will ever find another dress as suitable and as wonderful. And sad as it is, I have to accept that.

So tomorrow I'm going shopping again. In fact, I'm going hunting for a pair of well-tailored trousers. But no matter how flattering they might be, no matter how many years I get out of them, I'll never forget The Dress, nor the good times we shared.
Terminal Blues

26 April 2015

Hazel Girolamo

Ulverstone, Tasmania

Australia

'Welcome aboard! Come in, sit anywhere you like, don't take any notice of those little numbers, they're only a guide. Any questions? Are you on the right plane? Don't ask me dear, I'm only on work experience. I just have to run through this little list of rules. Please wear your seat belts at all times, I've turned mine into a necklace, goes with almost everything.

'Take note of the exits here, here and here. Of course if anything "bad" happens, extra exit points will open up all over the place so if one happens to be next to you and you want to take advantage... but that is purely a personal choice.

'And if any of those mask thingies fall down, form an orderly line at the back of the plane and feel free to help yourself to the drinks trolley if there's anything left... on the drinks trolley I mean, not if there's anything left of the plane. Of course if there happens to be a "major incident" rummage around under your seat and spare a moment to thank me, that I made you put all that hand luggage up overhead, and try to locate your flotation device. I finally found one that fits me so if you don't find one under your seat you've won lucky the seat prize! Of course you have to survive to claim it but it will be worth it! Isn't it just the most awful colour? Why they can't come in prettier colours, I can't think, when you're floundering around in the Pacific you need a cheering colour like tropical splashdown. Anyway, sling it on and hope like hell it floats, I mean who tests these things? And who are you going to complain to in the middle of the whatever ocean you happen to be sinking into?

'When we land safely, or should I say if, on the tarmac terrorists terrorising us with ash and volcanoes on the war path flight path, please be careful of what may have gone on in the overhead lockers as it's bound to still be in one or two pieces.

'Explaining to OH&S about being gobsmacked by a souvenir Scandinavian googly-eyed snow dome or being brought down by a broad shouldered brand name carrier bag from Beirut is more trouble than it's worth, believe you me.

'Now if you feel any turbulence please keep it to yourself, the only thing we want to hear flapping is the plane's wings.

'The captain will shortly be giving his little welcome spiel, to try to show that he's in total control, but it's not so terribly hard to fly a plane, all those knobs and blinking lights for show, you just put the thing into fly instead of drive and you're up, up and away, so don't worry, we always leave the pilot light on.

'Soon we will be serving those tastebud teasers the airline optimistically calls meal units and then we can all sit down and have a good chin wag and I can find out exactly where we're all headed; I got the short end of the sticky straw.

'Now sit back and relax, I can hear the propeller being wound up and then the big rubber band will be pulled all the way back so we'll soon be in the air. Let's hope we all stay there!'
The Gnomes

27 April 2015

Adrian Levet

Darlington, Western Australia

Australia

He must have left the curtain open a little, because Timothy saw the light slit out of it like a razor sharp wall that shot out across his room. It was when he looked over to the light, playing on his far wall, that a small shadow danced about, perhaps the size of one of his army men toys, but projecting onto the wall to the size of 'real boy' proportions. Timothy darted his gaze back to the curtains.

They were back.

A small man stood and moved about merrily on the windowsill. Timothy moved his doona over his eyes, hoping that the little man wouldn't be there when he took it down again. When he did take it down, his hands trembling slightly, there were two, not one, little men standing on the windowsill.

'Not you guys again! You're not real! Mum says you're just in my head!'

The two men jumped down from the windowsill and climbed up the side of the bed, so they stood on his chest on top of the doona. They were close now, and it was easy for their expressions to be seen, especially as they were almost always exaggerated. They both wore happy, childish grins and upon looking at them, it was easy to call them Gnomes. They had colored hats, one green and the other yellow, with blue and greens and checkered patterns on their jackets and pants, and neat, white beards. The one with the green hat spoke out a high pitched whimsical tone, after a moment of waving their arms and dancing about; trying to show Timothy they were real.

'We are as real as real can be, as real as fishing reel, _really_!'

The other smiled and put a thumb up in agreement. It was then that suddenly the door burst open, and Timothy's mother marched in, with her familiar commanding presence.

'Time to get up, Tim. It's almost time for school and you're still in bed!'

Timothy sat up suddenly, looking around for the little Gnomes, but they were nowhere to be seen.

'But mum, they were here! The Gnomes! They were on my chest talking to me!'

Timothy's mother let out a long drawn out sigh.

'Tim, there is no such thing as Gnomes! We've had this discussion!'

'They were right here! They were telling me how real they were! I swear!'

His mother's facial expression turned from mild frustration to straight anger. She always had a temper. 'That's it! We're not going to school today. I'm taking you to see someone! It's time to see Dr Wilson again, because clearly, you're not well Tim! I am so sick of hearing about "the Gnomes this" and "the Gnomes that!" They aren't real! Why can't you understand that?'

She then burst into tears and sat on his bed. Timothy did his best to comfort her, hugging her as tightly as he could. It was a quiet, awkward breakfast time after that, with only little statements and niceties being spoken, like 'Please pass me the orange juice' and the clattering of plates and knives. Timothy kept seeing the Gnomes while they ate, but never said anything else about it. He didn't want to see Dr Wilson again, or take the pills he gave him. They made him feel queasy and would give him nightmares. He looked back at the foyer and saw the same two Gnomes looking back at him. Timothy motioned for them to come over to him, but they didn't. The one with the yellow hat just put out his thumb again and smiled. Timothy didn't feel like smiling.

What if they weren't real? Was he crazy like his mum said? He looked back at his mum. She was staring at him. She must have known he was looking at them. She said nothing, and continued to eat her breakfast. Timothy knew that it was worse when she was quiet. She was quiet a lot since his dad left. After breakfast, they cleaned up and left the house without much conversation. They got perhaps a few meters down the driveway before his mum spoke out, breaking the silence. 'I just don't understand, Tim... I...' suddenly she slammed on the brakes, skidding on the gravel. In the rear view mirror she saw two little Gnomes, jumping and waving their arms. Timothy looked back to see them smiling with their thumbs up, and to his mother's face, her jaw down to the floor.

'I ... I'm so sorry Tim!'

She turned back to him in the back seat, and reached out her hand to him with a floundering motion. She had tears in her eyes. Tim reached back and held onto his mother's hand as tight as he could.

'Don't worry Tim. We won't be seeing Dr Wilson ever again ...'

'Okay Mum.'
Smells

28 April 2015

Lorraine Sanderson

Campbelltown, South Australia

Australia

The yellow speck that is the bus finally comes into view. It still seems as far away as a comet (well, five stops actually), but a very welcome sight. Slow out of bed and even slower to dress, I miss the earlier one by a nanosecond and am left standing breathless and blasphemous in a cloud of exhaust fumes as my frantic waving is ignored.

Would have to happen today of all days. My friend, Jasmine, and I are meeting up at a popular beachside café to plan a surprise birthday bash for a colleague's thirtieth. It's a good half hour from here and damn it, Jasmine's always on time. In fact that's not true; she's usually early. I pray just this once she breaks the habit.

_Morning!_ The ethnic driver's handsome smile and cheery hello momentarily lift my darkening mood. I return the greeting, making a beeline for the only vacant seat, right at the front--things are looking up.

Yuck, what's that pong? In my haste to get on board I don't notice the shortish fellow drawing his last puff at the steps before grinding his cigarette butt into the footpath. Now, joy of joys, he's strap-hanging right next to me, going hammer and tongs on his mobile phone--it's akin to being trapped in a communal ashtray with a galloping disc jockey I can't turn off!

My designer suit, pristine when I left home, now tainted by diesel as well as the four thousand chemicals that land on me every time Smokin' Joe exhales! And forget my delicately applied Chanel fragrance--at best I suspect that's now become fag-rance.

I'm hovering at the door well before we pull into my getting off point, desperate for clean air. The cool, fresh breeze on my face and the gentle waft from the sea are just what I need as I scurry along the frangipani-lined esplanade, pausing for a minute to bask in the almost exotic perfume of their pink and white blooms--bus boy's memory slowly fading.

I whiff the famed bistro even before I see it, with the tantalising aromas of roasted coffee, freshly baked bread and cinnamon spice permeating the atmosphere. No need to check the address Jasmine provided; just follow my nose.

Hi Jas, so sorry I'm late--bad hair morning of the worst kind. Wow, this place is huge. Let's order; nothing like caffeine and cake to soothe the soul.

Have you thought about a venue for Rosie's party? It'll need to hold quite a few if we include the whole office.

Well, I'd wondered about that sports hall near where she lives. Probably wouldn't cost much to hire.

I'm not so sure. I've been there and on hot nights that area gets a nasty stench from the fish factory down the road, not to mention the compost depot two suburbs away. It's ghastly. And the clubroom's not air-conditioned, which is a worry. There are a few guys in the department who I'd swear get deodorant for Christmas and make it last the whole year! All in all, our proposed eat and drinkfest could turn out to be more of a stinkfest, if you ask me.

Anyway, who to invite and who not? Remember my staff barbecue last year--connoiseur wannabe Tony sniffed at the Shiraz and pronounced it was off, while Ivy Uptight cried foul because the food was over-laden with garlic and gave everyone bad breath. Made me wonder why I'd bothered.

Tell you what, how about getting everyone here? This cafe has a Gatsby era restaurant, glitzy bar and function room upstairs. The buffet tables are mouth-watering, plus they have a fabulous range of 1920s outfits for use by the patrons. You know how Rosie loves to glam up. I'll ask my Dad if he can drive us down in his 1923 Lincoln, usually reserved for weekend rallies. We'll pretend it's Friday night drinks for three; just you, Rosie and me, then _voila_ --amaze her with the whole posh package. What do you say?

Won't she smell a rat?

I don't think so--this swanky soiree already reeks of success.
Story Of A Storyteller

29 and 30 April 2015

Veronica Tomasiello

Italy

'You would think that war is about honor, glory and heroism. That it is about wise generals making the right decisions, about merciful knights fighting for the greater good.

'You would be wrong.

'War is about blood, death and who strikes the _coup de grace_ first. It is about generals struggling to save as many of their men as possible, about soldiers hoping they will come back home in one piece at the end of the day.

'War is nothing like the stories portray it. It is nothing worth even becoming a story in the first place.

'As far as he could remember, Carem's bedtime stories had always been about war. His father, a sturdy woodcutter with honest brown eyes and a curly reddish beard, would sit on the edge of his bed and intone the many legendary exploits of many legendary men in his low, baritone voice.

'When he was killed in a tavern brawl by a drunk soldier--one of those men he would praise in his tales--Carem was brought to a nearby monastery and told stories about peace instead.

'He was taught that that place, his new home, was called Temple of Enerie and that Enerie was the most beautiful and kind among all the gods. That he had descended to Earth from the Palace-In-The-Sky, the celestial abode of the Divine Ones, to bring the gift of peace to the Chaotic Fathers, the very first men who walked on Earth, whose thirst for blood was comparable to that of dragons.

'Without Enerie, they would have been at war until the last men had fallen.

'Carem listened, learnt, and believed.

'However, he didn't forget any of his father's tales either. Now, though, he knew there was dirt underneath their gilded surface.

'Then Amia, the Goddess of War, spread her venom among men once again, inducing the Royal Army of Saidya to march against Adaras, one of the First Free Kingdoms of Men, still existing today for us to honor its vessel. The Saidyans pillaged and killed, tortured and raped, and left only ashes in their wake.

'The Temple was a magnificent building.

'After the Saidyans left, it simply was no more.

'What had been Carem's home for years was gone; what had been his family, scattered to pieces.

'Those who survived were carried away in chains, destined to join the Saidyans' ranks, the women to warm up the captors' beds--priests and priestesses, who had only ever known the safe, detached serenity of the Temple.

'Carem was sixteen when they gave him his first sword, a rusty scrap of metal barely capable of cutting paper, let alone killing people. He looked too fragile to be of any use on the battlefield and they didn't have weapons to waste on walking corpses.

'Carem was sixteen and the Temple had been burning for six days when he fought his first battle--and survived.

'As the Saidyan army charged the disorganized lines of poorly-armed Adarasian farmers desperately trying to defend their small, insignificant village, Carem closed his eyes and bit down hard into his bottom lip to prevent himself from crying out in both pain and fear, because the imminent devastation was against everything he deemed sacred.

'Then he opened his eyes again, and Enerie's wrath shone bright in his green irises.

'The god chose him as the harbinger of his revenge against the foolish mortals who had dared defy him and humiliate his devoted disciples.

'His sword turned into scraps as soon as he landed his first blow, but he barely noticed it. He fought with his bare hands, ripping bodies apart as though they were toys, slitting throats with his nails, breaking bones and crushing armors like you could break an egg or crush an insect.

'In the end, as unexpectedly as he had come, Enerie was gone and left Carem with a burning hollow inside of him, as if the god had taken his harbinger's heart away.

'Carem felt nothing but emptiness; and yet, when he lifted his blood-soaked hands up to touch his own face, to make sure he was still himself, he felt something wet on his cheeks and belatedly realized, with no small amount of surprise, that they were tears. Whose tears they were--his own or Enerie's--no one could tell.

'No Saidyan man left the village on his own legs. The sun kissed the earth at the end of the day and cast its dying rays over butchered bodies, lying in the dust in disturbingly unnatural positions, like puppets played with for too long and suddenly forgotten.

'The inhabitants of the village thought it the blessing of Atsev, the Divine Harvester, protecting their crops from the invaders. The priests from the Temple, for once, didn't complain about the massacre; rather they praised Enerie's wisdom and mercy for sparing their lives.

'Carem didn't rejoice with them, though.

'The god he had sworn to serve had proved to be no better than his father's murderers and he himself had shed blood in his name.

'When the priests and priestesses departed from the village to head back to the ruins of their Temple, there was no sixteen-year-old prophet among them.'

The storyteller paused, taking a long, noisy swig from his leather jug. Whatever the content, the nauseating reek suggested that it must have been there for a long time.

His figure was hidden by the many folds of a heavy, worn-out coat some two sizes too large for him, his face indistinguishable in the shadow of his hood. Only his eyes stood out, glinting somewhat mischievously in the darkness of the hood, as though he knew a joke no one else did.

At first uneasy around him, shortly after he had begun his story, a small crowd of children gathered around his stool and sat cross-legged at his feet. Their parents eyed the man suspiciously and made sure to linger in the vicinity, but soon they drew to the conclusion that he posed no real threat and lost interest in him.

As the storyteller placed his jug back in his lap, the children fussed quietly in anticipation, but this time he didn't resume his story as he used to after a drink. The silence stretched, heavy and uncertain, until a little girl with big blue eyes and long red hair mustered up the courage to raise her hand. 'And... what happened?'

As if surprised to be addressed, the man ducked his head to the side ever so slowly, like a doll trying out its every joint to make sure they worked. 'What happened to whom?' he replied, tone blank, questioning.

Bewildered, the child hesitated and stuttered: 'To, er, to Carem? What's the end of the story?'

'This is how it ends.' The storyteller shifted in a way that suggested he was shrugging, although it was hard to tell as he was almost swallowed by the many folds of his garments. 'He disappeared.'

A timid, low rustle of disappointment swept through his audience while the children exchanged disappointed glances and hushed comments. Emboldened by her contemporaries' backup, the girl insisted in a petulant voice: 'But this isn't the right ending!'

That must have piqued the man's curiosity because he nearly doubled over in order to get as close to his interlocutor as possible. She instinctively drew back from him, her eyes widening as they stared at the devouring obscurity of the hood, trying in vain to catch even the smallest glimpse of the storyteller's face.

'Really?' His voice sounded like a hybrid between an indulgent remark and a contemptuous sneer. 'Then what would make it the right one?'

'Well,' gasped the girl in a barely audible chirp, like that of a chick threatened by a hungry fox, ' _and they lived happily ever after_ , for example. Tales always end well and the prince marries the princess... doesn't he?'

There was hope, tinged with insecurity. The man contemplated rekindling such young hope.

No child should have doubts about the existence of happy endings, after all.

'No,' he said instead with a careless shrug, 'he doesn't. However, Carem is no prince and, as much as it pains me to disappoint you, his story doesn't end well.'

She couldn't--wouldn't--believe him, but at the same time her resolution was slipping further and further away from her, replaced with growing discomfort as she couldn't find anything to counter the storyteller's reasoning with. She was still but a child, after all. 'But he saved everyone and killed those bad men!'

The man gave a derisive snort at that. 'You assume they were bad men, but what do you really know about them? How could you know they weren't forced to do what they did? How could you be so sure to point your finger at them in accusation?'

The girl didn't respond; she lowered her gaze and furiously rubbed her face with the back of her hand to wipe away the tears threatening to fall. 'I...' She paused, struggled with her self-restraint in order not to make her voice tremble. 'I don't know.'

For a while, the storyteller kept silent and still, the shimmering of his eyes under the fabric the only proof that he hadn't fallen asleep. At last he took a sip from his jug, heaved a long, patient sigh and said: 'Fine. I'll tell you the end of the story.'

As soon as those words hung in the cold night air of the yard where the show was taking place, the silence grew so thick with eagerness that you could have cut it with a knife as the children snapped back to attention in unison, like gears in a well-oiled machine. The orange light filtering from under the door of the tavern in which the adults were having their own celebrations--apparently involving far more ale than those of their offspring--waltzed over their features and painted streaks of gold and black on their faces.

The man adjusted his hood--pale, nearly translucent fingers covered with a network of rosy scars running absent-mindedly through the tattered cloth--and cleared his throat, each movement meticulously studied and agonizingly slow, as if to build the tension on purpose.

'The despair ended up driving Carem crazy. They started to call him Carem the Accursed, although little else was known about him. There were whispers, rumors; what was true and what was not, no one could really tell.

'Some said he wrapped himself in the shadow as though it were a cloak and then he lurked in dirty alleys, waiting for dishonest passers-by to punish. Others declared that he was just a lying beggar, probably drinking himself into oblivion in some cheap inn. However, nobody could actually claim that they ever saw him again. It was mere speculation.

'Anyway, whoever he was, wherever he ended up, no one ever envisioned him happy. Or married to a beautiful princess, for that matter.

'There was no happy ending for Carem the Accursed.'

As he drew closer to the conclusion, his voice dropped lower and lower, until it was barely a murmur and then it was nothing at all. For what felt like eternity, none dared to speak, even to breathe, as though they were afraid to violate something sacred.

Slowly, the man lifted the jug to his lips again, tipped his head back in an unexpected jerk and emptied its content. The obnoxious, slobbery, swallowing noise he made filled the air and crushed whatever solemnity he had previously given life to and the children, no more restrained by the awe, started chattering noisily, their voices mingling like a million flies buzzing.

Unexpectedly, the storyteller threw the useless jug on the ground, startling a boy that almost got hit on the head and hurriedly scooted back from the stool, chased by his friends' laughter.

That fit of hilarity came to an untimely end when the man snapped in an irritated, alcohol-addled voice: 'Well, what are you still doing here? Get lost, brats!'

Befuddled by that sudden shift in his mood and behavior, they just stared at him, blinking like deer blinded by a light, until he barked again, even more aggressively than before: 'I said, get lost! Go back to your mothers' gowns, you hear me? I'm done!'

Making to stand up, he finally spurred his audience into action: they practically leaped from the ground and ran into the tavern in an off-key orchestra of light footsteps and high-pitched voices. The storyteller sat down again, muttered under his breath what sounded like _annoying urchins_ and bent down to retrieve his abused jug. It was then that he noticed the children were all gone but one, who was now standing a few feet away from him, indecision written all over her face as she silently debated whether to follow the others.

The man looked up at her from the depth of his hood and tilted his head to the side. 'What do you want again?'

He wasn't outright rude, but not particularly pleasant either. However, the girl gulped down her discomfort and spat out her confession in a rush, as though trying to get rid of a bag of smelly ordure.

'I'm sorry for what happened to you!'

The venomous reply ready on the tip of his tongue withered on his lips at that; he stared at her for a long moment, bewildered, before saying softly: 'What are you talking about, my mad little girl?'

'You're...' She made sure that nobody was around before whispering in a conspiratorial tone: 'You're Carem, aren't you?' When no answer came, she tried again, even had the gall to squeeze one of the man's sleeves gently. 'I'm sorry. Everyone should deserve their happy ending.'

The storyteller didn't withdraw from her touch; he barely breathed at all. At last he spoke and his voice was quiet, filled with bitterness and self-contempt. 'How would you know?'

Relieved that she hadn't been chased away, the girl managed a small, uncertain smile. 'Oh, it's because of your eyes. You said Carem had green eyes.'

Before the man could reply, a woman appeared in the doorway of the inn and waved in their direction. 'Reira!' she cried out worriedly, folding her arms under her breast. 'Reira, come here now! What are you still doing out there in the cold?'

The girl looked at her over her shoulder and let go of the storyteller. 'I should go now,' she murmured begrudgingly and cast him one last friendly glance, her blue eyes shining in the dim light. 'Bye. And good luck with your happy ending! I hope you'll find your princess soon!'

Then she was gone, the door of the tavern closed and the man was left alone, the yard now devoid of any sign of life except for his dark frame perched on the old stool. Soon enough, the celebrations would end and the innkeeper would force him to give it back, thus he decided to anticipate him and rose slowly, painstakingly, like an old man plagued by too many years, too many experiences, too many regrets.

'This time, I guess,' he chuckled, ever so softly, to no one in particular, running his hands through his long, unruly hair and closing his lids over his deep green eyes, 'I made a mistake.'

Editor's note: Writing a story within a story is not easy, but this has been well handled and the device used effectively to give the reader the history behind the main protagonist. His interactions with the young girl round his character and his story out beautifully.
Author bios and contact details

Alves, MC

<https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1816872621>

<http://mannyalves.tumblr.com>

MC Alves is a freelance writer and contributor to various publications. A former journalist he is author of a collection of short fiction and has also written two books on Information Technology. He lives in New York City.

Bruton, Judith

www.judithbruton.com

<http://alfiedog.com/fiction/stories/judith-bruton/>

Judith Bruton, a writer, visual artist and former art lecturer at the University of South Australia, has written poetry to complement her artworks and limited edition artist books throughout her career. After completing her PhD (Fine Art) in 2006, she joined Marion Writers Inc and discovered the joy of creating short stories and flash fiction. Her writing is published in several anthologies including Salt Breezes, Poetry from Byron Bay and Beyond, 2014, Dangerously Poetic Press and Short and Twisted 2011-12, Celapene Press. Please enjoy a selection of Judith's stories, poems and art online at the above websites.

Burgess, Shirley

Shirley has retired to Rosebud on the Mornington Peninsula and has been writing for nearly four years. She likes to write stories of action and finds it a most enjoyable activity. It is also fun to be able to chat to other writers via this medium. Meet her on facebook.com/ShirleyYBurgess

Cerqueira, João

www.joaocerqueira.com

João Cerqueira has a PhD in History of Art from the University of Oporto. He is the author of seven books.

The Tragedy of Fidel Castro won the USA Best Book Awards 2013, the Beverly Hills Book Awards 2014, the Global Ebook Awards 2014, was finalist for the Montaigne Medal 2014 (Eric Offer Awards), and was considered by ForewordReviews the third best translation published in 2012 in the United States.

The second coming of Jesus was nominated for the 2015 Latino Book Awards.

Chancer, Robert

Robert Chancer is a young Australian writer from Brisbane. He has an interest in dark fantasy, science fiction, transgressive fiction and horror. He enjoys channelling his philosophical musings into poetry and is exploring collaborative work with other like-minded writers. Robert is currently in the process of writing his debut novel. His influences include Stephen King, Dean Koontz and Matthew Reilly.

Coley, Tom

What beliefs? We can dream.  
With small offerings a great tree can grow  
Then its oxygen to many lands will blow  
May the protecting forest sing and increase  
And the grateful people live in peace.

Tom Coley is an author, sculptor, activist and ex-wanderer. He is the author of the memoir Laughter, Tears, Peace, available from online retailers in print and ebook formats.

Cooper, Michael

Michael enjoys telling and writing stories and especially revels in the discipline of the short story. He has had nine pieces published on the narratorINTERNATIONAL website. You'll find a selection of them in this volume. When not writing, Michael divides his time between teaching primary school students (his full time job), and playing piano blues and soul in a local band (his full time passion). Apart from writing, that is.

Dabner, Myfanwy

www.narratorinternational.com

The narratorINTERNATIONAL website is the most current and reliable source for creative writing by Myfanwy Dabner. Poetry is the main genre of writing in which Myfanwy explores topics such as life events, mental illness, nature, people and family. Her other interests help to feed her writing and include visual arts, performing arts and music.

Derek, Arthur

Arthur Derek has been a fan of horror styled writing since he was young. Whether influenced by other writers (H.P. Lovecraft, Stephen King, Allan Poe) or by other forms of media, the darker side of fiction has always appealed.

Eigenlicht, Reiroshu

<http://reiroshunomikata.tumblr.com/>

<https://www.facebook.com/pages/Reiroshu/175826862564782?ref=hl>

Reiroshu is an Italian artist born in Milan 30 years ago, living between Venice and Tokyo. She graduated in East Asian Culture and Languages with a thesis on Japanese sculptor Kenjiro Azuma and is a postgraduate in Tourism Management. She mainly worked as teacher, designer and engraver. She enjoys writing, photography and drawing and loves animals and traveling. Her writings include poetry and short stories and she's working on two novels. Her poetry collection in English with Italian translation will be published next May.

Elliott-Halls, Samantha

In her other life, Samantha Elliott-Halls is a teacher of English to speakers of other languages. She is also an animal technician and has been a member of the armed forces.

Samantha has dabbled with poetry since she was a child but never thought seriously about it until catching up with a very good friend at her mother's funeral. Her friend told her about narrator and she decided to give it a whirl.

Although she hates cities, Samantha lives in Sydney, Australia, for work purposes. She enjoys writing and playing with words and has been working on a book for a few years now.

Fantail

Fantail is a writer living in Mount Barker--a growing town on the eastern flanks of the Mount Lofty Ranges in South Australia. She finds composing poetry and short stories an intriguing hobby to keep her busy in her retirement, warm in the cold winters, and hot in summer--especially when angels come to call.

Freestone, Lloyd

Lloyd is a recently retired fiction writer from Canada who started writing shortly after he graduated high school at 48 years of age. His only published work, other than the short story included in this project, is a science fiction novel called Intervention. Lloyd writes mostly for his own gratification and he likes to see where his older mind can take him.

Girolamo, Hazel

Hazel was born in Adelaide, South Australia. With her husband, two sons, three dogs, three cats and a galah called Gizmo, they decided to live in Ulverstone, Tasmania which has been home since 1996.

Hazel joined a creative writing course shortly after. Her stories have been published in their booklets originating from these courses which she continued to attend not only for the tuition but for the enjoyment of writing.

Hazel can find humour in almost everything and her writing reflects this having been read out on radio and performed at local community events.

She is currently in the final throes of revising a seventh novel, Enmeshed, to round off her series which began with Wisdom Beyond Her Years.

Hopper, Terry

Terry as of this moment is an amateur writer of poetry who starting putting pen to paper from a very early age. He takes a lot of his inspiration from events in history, current affairs, travelling, friends, family and loved ones.

His method of writing poetry is to submerge himself into the subject matter, to open his imagination, to live and breathe the situation

Feel it, embrace it, experience it, remember it... then share it.

Howell, Connie

www.conniehowell.com

Connie is a published author and has written the book Perfectly Imperfect available in paperback and as an ebook. Her other book Portable Snippets of Wisdom is available only as an ebook. You can purchase both books online.

Connie's passion is to write insightful and helpful material and she enjoys writing short stories and poems especially for narratorINTERNATIONAL.

Johnston, Henry

Henry Johnston lives in Rozelle Australia. Friends describe him as an expansive, genial, and perpetually curious man who loves company, a good laugh, and importantly, a decent conversation. During a career in media, Henry worked as a producer with the ABC, and served as a senior policy adviser in several New South Wales Government portfolios. Last Voyage of Aratus, a compendium of Henry's short stories, is available online. His other anthology, Port Out Starboard Home, is also available online. Henry's stories are also published on narratorINTERNATIONAL. Henry's next novel is set in Vienna. Friend Henry on Facebook and Google+

La Porte, Judith

Twitter: @JudithLaPorte

Judith is a former librarian who began writing short stories a couple of years ago. She is a member of the ACT Writers' Centre and also belongs to a local Canberra writers' group, The Write Stuff. She is a volunteer reader on Radio 1RPH.

Judith won a Stringybark 100 word story competition in July 2012 for her entry Respect! She has had stories published in Narrator Magazine NSW/ACT, Autumn 2012 and in narratorAUSTRALIA volumes 1, 2 and 3.

Levet, Adrian

Adrian Levet is an author, currently darting between jobs as a carer and a community nurse, studying writing at university. He enjoys writing stories, mainly as a way of escapism. He dabbles in short stories and poems, with two previously unreleased songs-turned-poems available in this edition. He is currently working on a novel about a man surviving a post-apocalyptic ice age. If you enjoyed some of the pieces in this edition, there are more works available on the narratorINTERNATIONAL website.

Llewellyn, AC

AC Llewellyn was a teacher. She is now a practitioner of Bio Resonance medicine. She paints, though hesitates to call herself an artist, sings in choirs, meditates, enjoys her friends and spends a lot of time in the Blue Mist Café in Wentworth Falls. The café and its proprietor are what motivated her to write her latest book, Blue Mist Café, a collection of short stories. Her books can be purchased directly from the Blue Mist Café or through online book and ebook distributors.

McMahon, Paul

<https://pablomajones.wordpress.com>

Paul McMahon is an up and coming author as a result of an accident where he fell 3.5 floors to concrete. He recovered well and is hoping to share that story in a book. He has a Facebook page https://www.facebook.com/paulmcmahonauthor that you can follow if you like the story or like his travel blog. The message is that you should always be proud to be alive, so many do not have that privilege. The worst accident in the world can still direct you into bliss and prosperity.

Martin, Julie

Twitter: @Juli3Martin

Julie Martin is a writer from Melbourne, Australia. Her characters are created from her experiences growing up on the land--family, friends, places and many beloved animals. She writes to evoke emotion and believes a good story should have at least one twist. Several short stories and poems have been published in narrator under her former name Lock. However, she now writes under her maiden name Martin.

Julie works as a legal secretary, is the mother of two teenage daughters (taxi service) and grabs any free moment to jot down ideas for her next story.

Poirier, Margo

www.margopoirier.com

Margo Poirier has always been a writer and poet. Her work has been published widely in journals, magazines and radio broadcasts. Her poetry has appeared in several anthologies and she has released two poetry collections of her own, Sign of the Times and Moon Shards. She has received awards for her poetry.

Her recent short story anthology, Unzipped, was published in November, 2013 by Ginninderra Press. She is a massage therapist and professional counsellor which she manages to fit in between writing commitments! Margo's complete author information details are available on the database of the State Library of South Australia.

Randall, Neil

www.neilarandall.net

Twitter: @NARandall1

Neil Randall is the author of the novels The Animal Farm (Repeater Books, 2015), The Holy Drinker, The Butterfly and the Wheel (both Knox Robinson Publishing, 2014) and A Quiet Place to Die (Wild Wolf Publishing, 2013). His short fiction and poetry has been published in the UK, US, Australia and Canada. Samples of his work can be viewed at www.neilarandall.net and www.narandall.blogspot.com

Russell, Jane

Jane likes to mix fantasy with humour and has been writing about the metalbots of Xing (and other stories) since she joined a creative writing group in 2012. She has dabbled with various topics from gypsies and Roman melodramas to a fictional biography of a transgender girl. She lives in the beautiful Adelaide Hills with her black dog, and also paints.

Scutter, Richard

<http://richard-outoftheblue.blogspot.com.au/>

<https://mywordinyourear.wordpress.com/>

Richard originates from Hampshire, England. He is a retired public servant living in Canberra. In another life, as a statistician, he helped produce metrics in a vain attempt to define reality. He now delights in exploring how words define life. To this end Richard enjoys analysing poetry as well as creating his own personal response. He supports the local poetry scene by his involvement in University of the Third Age courses. He is married and has four beautiful granddaughters. He disseminates his writing via the above internet sites.

Tomasiello, Veronica

<http://evilatelier.blogspot.it>

Veronica is an eighteen-year-old Italian writer. Winner of several writing contests in Italy and author of Libera i Cani, a novella released in Italian and Portuguese, she is pestering editors to publish her first novel and already working on a new one. She is going to study Creative and Media Writing in the UK after she graduates from high school and her ambition is to become a scriptwriter. Also, she is a geek with a passion for fan fiction, Marvel comic books, TV series, and fantasy novels.

Vaughn, Valerie R

Valerie R Vaughn is a poet and writer living a happy life in Happy Valley, Pennsylvania. A native of central Pennsylvania, she received her BA in History from Mary Baldwin College, in Staunton, Virginia.
Index

Abecca, Kylie

In Love With You

Lost

The New Road

There Is Still Hope

To Be Honest (For Ben)

Torn Love

Alves, MC

Felix's Fortress, Land's End (Forever Ago)

Tales Told Tall 2 (Elliptical Epilog)

Banshee

Hook A Brother Up...

The Firing Squads Of Antebellum (Naked City, Naked)

Anderson, AA

The Night Visitor

Anderson, David

Joe's Motel

The Crown

The Old House

The Other Side

Becker, Kristian

Sleeping Pretty

Bruton, Judith

Converse

Burgess, Shirley

A Lesson Well Learnt

Catastrophe

Garden Concert

Nick's Friend Wags A Tail

The Lonely Bloke Next Door

What A Terrific Bonfire

Wild Cruel Thing

Cerqueira, João

We Still Have Putin

Chaffey, Robyn

Angel Without Wings

Cinquain Spring

Gone The Days Of Primping

Reflections

The Road I Must Not Follow

Chancer, Robert

Lost In The Transition

Coffey, Sandra

The Mozart Effect

Coley, Tom

An Ode To Freedom

Australian Haiku No. 1

Australian Haiku No. 2

Australian Haiku No. 3

Australian Haiku No. 5

Australian Haiku No. 6

Your Mind And The World

Cooper, Michael

Broke

Home

Old School

Piano Man

Ray's Revenge

Voices

Craib, James

As Red Knights Land (Darkness And Light)

Barroom Blitz

Flame Inferior (In A Former Life)

I Crave A Bestseller

Lazy Sunday In Wentworth Falls

Dabner, Myfanwy

Dear Artist

Listen Carefully

The Scratch

Delmar, Anthony

Arrivederci Roma

Going Home

Demelza

Brazil 1700 Local Time, 1400 Germany Time

I Want To Be A Poet

Jillian's Secret

My Little Girl

Precipitation

Smoking Or Non-Smoking?

Who Killed Cock Robin?

Derek, Arthur

Lost In The Transition

Dimitric, Irina

Sing A Song Of Love When The Warlock Beckons

The First Kiss In The 1950s

Eigenlicht, Reiroshu

Mirror

Elliott-Halls, Samantha

My Brother My Friend

Fantail

Heat

Tempting Angels

Freestone, Lloyd

The Sentinel

gARThibiza

Bush Baby

Girolamo, Hazel

Heston

Something Wicker This Way Comes

Terminal Blues

Gow, Virginia

Betty's Memory

Curb Your Enthusiasm?

Let The Magic Shine

Ode To Spring

Rain

Seeking Serenity

Heks, Andris

A Pain In The...

A Past Life Revisited

Awesome Superconductivity

Hopper, Terry

1918 Sanctuary

Howell, Connie

I'm Not Ready Yet

Purr-fect

Jensen, FF

Open Relationships

Johnston, Henry

Listowel

Kale, Ashwyn

Cosmoverse

La Porte, Judith

Lord Rob

Levet, Adrian

Drake

The Broken Man

The Exodus

The Gnomes

The Whip

Lewis, Chris

Bent

Llewellyn, AC

The Man From Wild Dog Mountains

Mancy, JH

Song

Wildflower

Yearnings

Martin, Julie

Hurricane

Maxima

Saint Nicholas

McMahon, Paul

Brain Injury

McVicker, Marcalan

Archie's Gun

Meredith, Dawn

The Old Fairy Queen

Morton, Joan

The Wood Pile

Mosher, Jennifer

The Dress

Newman, David

Babe! I'm Not Dumb

Cobbin The Hobnobbing Goblin

Listen Alisa! (Secrets)

The Bear, The Lion And The Eagle

The Doppelgänger Doll (Towards Honour)

Newman, Judy J

The End

The Folly Of Man

The Mirror

The Shadow

Wilderness

Poirier, Margo

Amongst The Grassy Blades

Do I Look Fat In This?

Power, Michael

Home

Randall, Neil

The Vacuum Cleaner

Ross, Beatrice

Ice Cream Man

Ross, Madeline

Lady White

Secretive Eyes

Stream Of Thought

Russell, Jane

A Night To Remember?

Angels Whisper In Your Ear

Scary Mary Meets A Ghost

The Missing Assignment

Wild Thing

Xing Saga Part 16 - Immortalised

Xing Saga Part 17 - End Of Days

Sanderson, Lorraine

Smells

Sound

Scott, Emma-Lee

Forever Changed

The People Ask

Wild Imaginings

Scutter, Richard

Autumn Is Always

The Latest Forecast

Smith, Winsome

Evil Eyes

Family Loyalty

Into The Valley Of Bones

The Long Arm Of The Law

The Upturned Trolley

Wild Child

Sparks, Graham

Along Came Greed

Art And Craft

City In The Stars

Rumi Eyes

Stanbridge, Deborah

Fall

The Forge

The Knitter

Stevens, Melissa

My True Wild Love

Tomasiello, Veronica

Story Of A Storyteller

Uher, Elzbieta

Courtney

From A Journal

Wounded Sparrow

Usher, Nigel

An Accidental Kiss

Imbecile Song

Vaughn, Valerie R

Cracks

Escape

Mind Revolution

Nightfall

True Self

Von Riegen, Kate-Michelle

Tell My Father

Walsh, Patricia

Glass Castle

Williams, Lyn

Marbles

Wirth, Katrina

Hours Of Despair

The French Boat Boy's New Life

Wildfire

Wildlife
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narratorINTERNATIONAL

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Regular reading of narratorINTERNATIONAL entries helps broaden your awareness of 'what's out there', regular entry to the narratorINTERNATIONAL competition helps encourage you to polish your writing skills, while regular publication helps increase your author profile.

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Copyright statement

First published June 2015 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/>

<http://www.narratorinternational.com/>

First edition (c) 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 Two

Publisher:

MoshPit Publishing, Hazelbrook, New South Wales

ISBNs:

978-1-925353-15-0 (paperback)

978-1-925353-16-7 (epub)

978-1-925353-17-4 (mobi)

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the Australian Copyright Act 1968 (for example, a fair dealing for the purposes of study, research, criticism or review) no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

Cover image: Elevator by Beatrice Ross
