 
### Narrator Magazine

### Blue Mountains

### Summer 2010

### Smashwords Edition

narrator MAGAZINE is published by MoshPit Publishing

Shop 1, 197 Great Western Highway, Hazelbrook NSW 2779

MoshPit Publishing is an imprint of Mosher's Business Support Pty Ltd

P: 1300 644 680 ABN 48 126 885 309

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

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

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This ebook may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to Smashwords.com to discover other books by this publisher. Thank you for your support.

**Cover:** 'Bejewelled the Glassy Palace Vibrates' - Jennifer Gabbay - 2009, oil on board

' _This painting is from a series of works on Venice - a city unique in its canals, architecture and masked balls. Reinterpreting the life and colour of Venice through imagination and illusion, I have endeavoured to imbue the works with an emotive spirit and an expression of movement and rhythm via fragmentation and distortion_.'

To contact Jennifer Gabbay, please call 0425 224 890 or email jennulla@aapt.net.au. Website will be coming soon.

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

We are thrilled to bring you this second edition of Narrator Magazine.

We are also thrilled with the kind words that people have sent in and with the general response to the first issue. Most newsagencies across the Mountains have been incredibly supportive, as have several of the independent bookstores—so on behalf of us here at MoshPit Publishing and the contributors to the first issue, a big THANK YOU!

The good news is that **Narrator now has its own website** at http://www.narratormagazine.com.au/. This means that you can now upload your stories, poems, essays and artworks directly to us via the 'Submit' page on the website, and no longer have to send us a separate declaration. By uploading your submission you are agreeing to the terms and conditions on the website, which makes it easier all round.

We also have a Facebook page, so please join us on Facebook for regular updates regarding submission close dates, new issue dates etc.

The other good news is that due to the response to the first Blue Mountains issue, we will be introducing other regional issues over the coming two years, as well as what we are calling our 'Genre' issues. If you like to write in a particular genre, such as romance, horror, mystery etc, you can **contribute to one of our Genre issues**. These will be made available nationwide, right across Australia, so if your piece is chosen to go in that particular Genre issue, you will receive nationwide exposure of your writing! For more information please go to the 'Genre' page of the website.

One of the issues with Narrator Magazine that troubled us from the start was the knowledge that to feel free to publish stories with adult themes and language would mean restricting contributors to the age of 18 or over to avoid any nasty repercussions. This led to a couple of emails from disappointed, but keen, under-18s. In an initial attempt to provide a forum for our youngsters, **one of our first Genre editions will be the Youth Issue** —specifically for under-18s. If you know of any under 18s anywhere in the country who would like to have a shot at getting their writing published, please refer them to the Genre page at www.narratormagazine.com.

As a result of feedback, we have decided to invite guest editors and writers to award the prizes for each issue's contributions, and use the voting system for a single People's Choice Award. Details are on page 34.

But now it's time for you to start turning the pages... enjoy! Thank you for purchasing this quarter's copy of Narrator Magazine, and best wishes for a safe and enjoyable summer from all of us here at Narrator.

Jenny Mosher

December 2010

### Winning Entries for Spring 2010

Our first issue, Spring 2010, was well received and voting quite frantic on some days. The eventual winners were:

First prize—$200 goes to Zoya Kraus of Blackheath for her touching poem 'Bright Spark'

Second prize—$100 goes to Robyn Nance of Valley Heights for her entertaining poem 'The Liberation of Ted Farmer' and...

Third prize—$50 has had to be doubled as we had two third prize winners! Tying for third place were Elizabeth Diehl with her intriguing story 'Everything Seems to Broken' and Greg North with his clever poem 'Black Future'.

The poems certainly struck a chord last issue! Congratulations to all winners, and also everyone else who contributed to the first issue. Simply having the courage to send your work in speaks volumes.

### Table of Contents

### Poetry

Aggifanakapan – Joana Na Na Goanna

Alone Together – Sonia Ursus Satori

And Noise Kills Empathy – Michele Fermanis-Winward

Blue Denim – John Egan

Breakfast at the Stockmarket – Alan Lucas

Characters – James Craib

Death of my Grandson - Mary Krone

Fly a Kite – Joan Vaughan-Taylor

Juju Shimmy – Albany Dighton

Opinions Vary – David Bowden

Spirit of the Mountains – Reginald Reid

Stick It! – Gregory North

The Curse – Sonja Van As

Untitled – Margaret Dighton

What I Wish I Could Be – Robyn Chaffey

### Short Stories

All About Ticker – Mark Riches

Autumn Katoomba Moon – Sandy Mac

Balloon Trip – M.Grace

Bullion – David Berger

Daniel – Sue Artup

Fluid Notions – Sonia Ursus Satori

George the Enchanted Tortoise – Nana J

Guests to Ghosts – Arthur Gray

Identity – Karen Maber

Memories of the Creek – Axel Williams

My Lovely Garden – Taffy Campbell

On a Wet Night – Alan Lucas

Paris Match – Samantha Miller

Roast Beef – Paris Portingale

The Horse Hair Shirt – Mark O'Flynn

The Last Flight of the Cockie – Aristidis Metaxas

The Loaf of Bread – Linda Yates

The Tin Boats of Opoutama – Peter Benson

Three Dollars and Thirty Cents – Rebecca Langham

### Essays

Classic Hollywood and DW Griffith – Albany Dighton

Oh Christmas Tree, Oh Christmas Tree – Rosemary Baldry

This section brought to you by ...

Sunergy Design

Specialising in the design of solar homes across NSW

Visit Sunergy on Facebook at:

 www.facebook.com/sunergydesign/

### Three Dollars and Thirty Cents – Rebecca Langham

This late age of the world's experience had bred in them all, all men and women, a well of tears. Tears and sorrows; courage and endurance; a perfectly upright and stoical bearing.

\- _Virginia Woolfe (Mrs. Dalloway - 1925)_

Gina sat silently staring at the starkly cold kitchen bench. She rested her elbows against the pebbled laminate and sank her face into her palms as though searching for a different, more pleasant, reality inside her own hands. She lifted her head—it felt heavy upon her stiff neck. She rested her chin against the backs of her entwined hands.

Gina's eyes wandered across the surface of the bench. It was worn, faded, in need of rejuvenation, much like her life. Each small blemish had a story behind it, some from before her time in the three bedroom house in Lawson, but many more had appeared since she and her family had moved in three years earlier. It had been so exciting, galvanising, and special. After living in a caravan with a baby and her husband for almost a year the space in their new home was so liberating, it had refreshed her and made her once again thirst for domesticity and family life—a thirst that had all but dried up as the aluminium walls had started to slowly suffocate her. The moment she moved in she had wished, for the first time, that she and her husband earned more money, or that they would miraculously win the lottery (despite never buying a ticket) so she could have a little fun with the space. She planned the landscape of the front garden in her mind before settlement had even been completed. She had picked out different tones of green to create a magnificent feature wall in her eldest daughter's room, pinks for her youngest as she was more prone to fancies of princesses and tiaras. Gina would put her display unit, full of trinkets and baby photos, over in that left corner of the dining room (and what a joy it was to have a dining room, rather than a paltry booth crammed in next to the refrigerator in the caravan). Her husband never let her buy the display unit though and the paint in Kelcie and Samantha's rooms peeled from the ceiling like flakes of skin from an especially sun burnt child.

Gina touched her index finger to a small cut on the bench top. It was around three centimetres long and quite fine, probably not even noticeable to most people. It was the most recent. She had been cutting up carrot sticks to give to the girls. Samantha was at an age when she enjoyed trying to feed herself, though it usually resulted in a rather spectacular mess. Gina, that day, had felt somewhat at sea. She cut the carrots instinctively, having done the same thing every day for several months. Her mind, however, was awash elsewhere. She floated in a deep, dark sea surrounded by an impenetrable mist that blocked out everything but the soft sound of water lapping against an invisible shore, too far off to see, but which she could sense was there, nonetheless. Her peaceful and lonely floating had been rudely interrupted when the screen door had opened loudly, sending vibrations through her hands and causing the knife to slide along the edge of the cutting board and slice into the bench top. She had rushed to push the board along to cover her indiscretion before Mick saw what she had done. Before they had married he had only ever laughed playfully when she was clumsy like that as she often had a tendency to lose focus. Now, however, he took such lapses in concentration like an assault on him personally and though he never hit her, he had other ways to make her pay.

Gina looked away from the bench and down at her eldest child, Kelcie, who was playing quietly on the tiled floor. She had her legs crossed neatly beneath her small frame and was using her thin fingers to twist the dial on a plastic telephone. Kelcie was an especially quiet four-year-old. She rarely cried or had tantrums and she was more empathetic than your average pre-schooler. On one occasion she was concerned that her sister, three years younger than her, was getting cold. So in an attempt to warm her and keep her safe Kelcie had delicately lifted the bunny rug from the floor and placed it over the heater in the belief that making the heater warmer would thus warm Samantha. And naturally, the resulting fire warmed the entire living room. Gina had laughed after she had put out the small flames in a panic, finding her daughter's concern endearing. Mick, however, sat Kelcie alone in an empty bathtub for over two hours so the toddler could supposedly think about what she had done. Samantha remained sleeping throughout the entire incident—totally oblivious to the developing family dynamics.

Gina picked up her faded purple wallet from the bench and began turning it over cyclically in her hands. She knew what she would find inside but inevitably she opened it up anyway, softly slipping her fingers underneath the lip and applying pressure upward until she heard a soft click. A photograph of both of her daughters, smiling and happy, sat inside the yellowed plastic window that covered the coin purse. It had only been taken about eight months ago—Kelcie stood next to her sister's stroller, leaning in to wrap her arm around the soft neck of the baby. Samantha was suckling a blue pacifier. Kelcie had never liked pacifiers. Inside Gina found three dollars and thirty cents. That was all that was left of her allowance. Mick had taken over all of their finances since moving into the house, 'To make sure we can keep the house now that we've got it, baby', he claimed. All of her earnings from her part-time job went into a joint account. She scoffed just thinking about it. Joint, right. He had sole access. Although her name was on the top of the statement alongside his, she could not remove any funds without his signature, but he could do what he liked without hers. Each week he gave her what he perceived to be the absolute exact amount of money she needed to buy groceries. If you count sanitary pads that felt like a surfboard in your underpants and generic brand baby wipes which were little better than squares of sandpaper as groceries, that is.

Every so often Gina would go without something she needed so she could buy an ice cream for her girls. She did this as her way of shielding them from the unhappiness in their home that hung above their heads like a heavy curtain that had gathered dust from years of neglect. Not that anyone else could see it but Gina. Though, in all fairness, she didn't feel that way all of the time. Her girls gave her genuine moments of pleasure (she certainly hadn't gotten any of that—in any form—from her husband since their second daughter was born), and the postcard view of the Blue Mountains from her backyard yielded a particular type of calm she could achieve nowhere else. So, in order to make sure her daughters experienced similar moments of contentedness, she would wear out her underwear until they crumbled between her legs, so that she could use the money her husband issued her with to buy a replacement to treat Kelcie and Samantha—though for many children these treats were merely normality. And there was certainly no danger that Mick would discover the state of the fabric that strained to cover her privates.

Three dollars and thirty cents. Not quite enough to buy the loaf of bread as well as the three litres of milk they needed. She felt a wave of frustration surge through her. She knew damned well that there were thousands in their account. Why was he keeping it from her? All she wanted was another bloody dollar, that's it, one dollar! She sighed, letting the frustration escape from her body; she refused to let this same weekly battle destroy her spirit yet again. And Gina had quite a spirit. Though not quite enough at that moment to remember it was her birthday.

Rebecca Langham

### Daniel – Sue Artup

A few years before The Phantom got sick I went away for the weekend and when I returned he had been to an auction in Burwood. He came home with two artworks, a huge suitcase, a set of kitchen knives and two cars—a little heap of a Honda and a huge vehicular beast—a black Charger.

'Collector's item!' he insisted, as I made fun of his purchases, which he had hidden in the shed and which I gradually discovered over weeks. What the...? Oh, the auction.

The Charger though was pretty obvious. Mostly it sat in the shed and he would just worship at it. Temple of the Road. Of Youth. Of Freedom.

One weekend we went away to the mountains with friends and it was a hoot. People would say 'Hey, Charger!' and make the 'V' sign at us as we roared up Govetts Leap Road.

The Charger was a symbol of masculine force. In particular it was a metaphor for my hero's strength. The beast idled in the shed. Potential with power. Everyone knew how formidable were those engines when revved. Yet they were better known for their purr! In the end the strength was to have little effect—only to maintain the life that remained, but useless to prolong it.

The day my hero sold the wheels of the Charger to replace them with the wheels on a chair, a little of my heart was wrenched out. Yet he sat so brave, so accepting, so silently strong as he gave up this part of himself. It was not just a car, it was his life he was letting go, making way for his death.

I cried watching that car drive away up the street. There went part of my life, our life.

Youth drove away that day. A young man called Daniel sat at the wheel. He had to modify the car to drive it—he was a paraplegic. The irony of selling the Charger to a man who could not walk was at once warming and chilling. It signified hope, and the lack of hope.

Daniel arrived at our place in a four-wheel drive, opened the driver's door, hurled himself onto the ground, hoisted his 'chair' out of the back seat and pulled himself up onto it. One, two, three. No-one would wheel this man. He was strong! And his conveyance consisted of a plank with a wheel either side. No arms for a wheeler to hold onto! His upper body was toned, tattooed—and he was young, he was vital. And my hero was hanging onto his body, his vitality, just barely. Similar restrictions, yet the prognoses couldn't have been more different.

Daniel. He gave us advice about wheelchairs, pulled himself in and out of our not-yet-modified house on his backside, quizzed us about the car, and bought it. How wonderful for him to have it!

Now, five years or so on, I have seen Daniel again. I was out to dinner in the mountains. He was at a table on the pavement having a smoke. I wasn't sure it was him, but I kept wondering, and I thought I would talk to him anyway. He was going through some documents, and was whizzing back and forth, for a smoke, to get a drink—he seemed to know a lot of people. I had my card ready. I was determined to make contact. When I was leaving, I went up to him and asked 'Did I sell you a black car about five years ago?' Yes! I told him The Phantom had died, and he said 'Well, he would be happy.' That was the best thing anyone could say.

So we chatted about life, the car—and he said when he gets it back on the road, he will come by and take me for a spin. I said I would like that. And he was hot!

This section brought to you by ...

People Like You

Tales about overcoming adversity to achieve

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

### Oh Christmas Tree, Oh Christmas Tree... - Rosemary Baldry

Can you imagine Christmas without a Christmas tree? It is one of our most loved and recognised Christmas symbols. The Christmas tree as we know it has evolved over centuries; a mixture of pagan and Christian customs.

The evergreen tree played an important part in pagan festivals. Romans decorated trees with candles and trinkets during the festival of Saturnalia. In England and France, the ancient Druids honoured their gods of harvest by decorating oak trees with candles and fruit. Long before Christianity, the Celts, the Vikings, the Romans, and the Egyptians used both whole evergreens and clippings to decorate their homes during the harsh winters. This was a strong symbol of life; a reminder that spring would return and crops would grow again. Evergreens were also used to keep away evil spirits, witches, ghosts and illness. They were an integral part of the pagan Winter Solstice rituals.

Legend tells us that in the 7th century St Boniface, an English monk, explained the difficult concept of the Holy Trinity to the Germans using the triangular shape of their native fir tree. By the 12th century fir trees were being hung upside down from ceilings at Christmas as a symbol of Christianity.

The first documented use of a Christmas tree as we know it was in Riga, Latvia in 1510. We know little about this tree.

Legend says that men wearing black hats used the tree decorated with paper flowers as part of a ceremony. They burnt the tree after their ceremony. Martin Luther is credited with being the first person to add lights to this form of the Christmas tree later in the 16th century.

In western society there has been much resistance to Christmas trees, particularly the decorated variety, due to the strong link the Christmas tree has to pagan values. In 16th century England, the Puritans forbade the observance of Christmas while their German neighbours were busy developing the art of Christmas tree decoration. Fortunately for Christmas tree lovers, Queen Victoria married the German Prince Albert. In 1846 the Illustrated London News showed Victoria and Albert photographed, with their family, around a decorated Christmas tree. This photo popularised the Christmas tree with the British and had a flow-on effect in America. The Christmas tree was embraced by many Americans but President Teddy Roosevelt refused to have a Christmas tree in the Whitehouse. He could not concede a tree being felled for use as a temporary decoration.

When Queen Victoria died the Christmas tree fell victim to the mourning. It became smaller and artificial trees became popular. Germany invented the Goose Feather Tree while in America the Addis Brush Company used their toilet brush machinery to create the first brush trees. By the early 1900's Japan and America were exporting Christmas tree lights. During the Second World War, large trees in public places were used as morale boosters.

Today families choose their Christmas tree from a vast collection which includes real trees, aluminium trees, plastic trees, pine scented trees, themed trees, aesthetic trees, and delicately balanced trees with fantastic decorations to suit every taste and lifestyle. The modern Christmas tree is a product of society, history, politics, religion, conservation, technology and marketing. Despite this, or maybe due to it, the Christmas tree remains one of our most cherished and popular Christmas symbols.

### Identity – Karen Maber

The Principal's office loomed large as I approached with trepidation. The door was open and I was told to go in, sit down and wait. I swallowed hard watching the door. 'Not long now,' I thought, trying hard to convince myself that I hadn't done anything wrong and that everything would turn out okay. Even so, I had no idea how I was going to make it through. This was unknown territory for me and I was scared. I looked around at the certificates and photographs on the walls. These optical giants pompously displayed in their wooden frames with their superior rim of gold trimming. They stared at me with a deliberant gaze that mocked my presence. This was their place.

I thought of my mother and what she would say. She never understood why I got myself into these situations. She was one to play it safe and not make trouble. 'Don't bring attention to yourself,' she always said. I fidgeted in my chair and rechecked my posture several times; back straight, hands in lap. My palms were clammy and my chest tight. I fumbled in my bag for my puffer and sucked in the chemical in one deliberate gasp, trying to convince my sensitive airways to relax and accept the situation. I was used to fighting my emotional battles in this way and diverted my attention to something outside of my inner struggle. There was a magnolia tree sapling just outside the aluminium window and I gazed at it intensely. Its first buds seemed desperate to break through. Longing to open and release its beauty, it seemed caught up in hesitation. Waiting to be and knowing it must not disappoint.

Suddenly the silence was broken. 'Ah, there you are!' boomed the voice. He muttered something about having to attend to something urgent that had come up and had required his immediate attention. 'Now let's get comfortable and down to business,' he continued in a friendly but firm manner. Comfortable? I was feeling many things but comfortable was definitely not one of them. 'Not long now,' he declared with authority. Perhaps it was the look on my face, the fear in my eyes that changed his tone so unexpectedly. In a lowered voice he continued, 'I can see that you are nervous but you'll be fine.' The warmth in his voice triggered an involuntary smile to seep across my face as I looked up to see understanding in his eyes.

The moment was broken by the appearance of a young boy at the door. 'We're ready for you now,' he politely said. Although the fear within me remained unabated, there was a strange tinge of comfort as I stood up and reassured myself that the sooner it began, the sooner it would be over. My heart was racing as I followed the Principal towards the school hall. Humiliation was surely on its way. It was obviously too late to offer any polite excuses or use sickness as an excuse but there was always the stairs. Perhaps I could trip up the stairs!

As I stood on the stage, taking refuge behind the thick red curtain, I was joined by the Assistant Principal. His stout frame struggled to stay contained within his unfashionable blue suit as he gave me last minute instructions. 'The Principal will give his address and then it will be your turn,' he said abruptly, avoiding eye contact. 'He'll give his speech, you'll then talk,' he continued. 'Got it!' he grunted. The knot in my stomach tightened. Yeah, I thought to myself, I got it alright.

The Principal began to address the children. The murmuring immediately began to die down as the children forgot their itchy noses, uncomfortable positions and grumbling tummies. One by one the final coughs subsided. All eyes were centre stage. The issue of having pride in yourself and your school was raised. The Principal made particular reference to the school cleaner. He informed the assembly that she left her young children shortly after dawn each morning so that cleanliness and order could be restored to each and every classroom. He appealed to the students to look out for Mrs Malone and take the opportunity to thank her for what she did for them each day. 'Perhaps you could pick up a piece of rubbish yourself to improve your own environment and show that you appreciate her efforts,' he added. I was touched by his sensitivity and my thoughts turned to my grandmother. She had been a cleaner at the local hospital many years ago. Her heart held many secrets. Her eyes were full of stories that would never be told. My grandmother was one of the most troubled people I knew with a floor that shone like diamonds. The Principal continued on but my attention was suddenly diverted elsewhere. From just outside the stage door I heard an insistent call. The branch of the little magnolia tree was bending under the weight of a small black bird which called to me again. It flapped around a little, securing my full attention before it proudly and confidently, in full voice, shared its song. I was instantly at one with that little black bird, totally inspired by its sense of confidence and identity.

'And now, it is my great pleasure to welcome today's special visitor, Mrs Matthews.' I stepped out from behind the red curtain. Looking into the sea of young faces I was struck by the similarities we all share. 1975..... 2000, still, I wondered, how much had really changed? My mind was racing; swinging between yesterday, today and what it might mean for the future, I took a deep breath and began to tell my story.

It was during my primary school days when I really became aware of being different. By age ten I was searching for who I was and where I fitted in. Feeling different is an awkward experience, especially at a stage when just being 'one of the gang' was a kid's right. During the 1970s primary school was all about making friends, keeping friends and ot getting caught for picking all the mulberries off the local trees. The serious stuff, the grown-up stuff, was saved for high school and beyond. Standing out for anything other than your sporting abilities was to be avoided at all costs. It was seen as a definite misfortune to be too tall, too short, too fat or too thin. Oh and if you had red hair you could expect to be addressed only as 'blue' or 'carrot-top' from most students and more often than not, complete strangers. The stock standard 'Aussie kid' living by the coast had blonde hair and blue eyes. Brown hair and brown eyes were always considered 'second best'. The colour of a person's skin wasn't an issue because living in a seaside suburb during the 70s it was considered your Australian duty to get a tan. No problem for me, when I got a tan it lasted all year. The Slip, Slop, Slap campaign was unheard of and so some of my friends seemed to be in a constant state of peeling. Our school only had a handful of multicultural families. These included Italians, Greeks and Maltese; although if you came from another State, sometimes even another suburb, you could also be considered 'foreign.' I always got on well with these families. We had more in common than just our dark complexions.

I loved school. My Mum always said that I was lucky to go to school and I never missed a day except for illness. There were times when I had scratched myself so severely through the night that my bleeding legs stuck to the bed sheets but I always turned up for school the next day . . . sometimes bandaged from toe to thigh. Being seen as 'different' could be difficult but, for me, NOT being seen was much worse. I remember one pivotal incident, at just twelve years of age when I was caught between being seen as different and not being seen at all. It was mid afternoon and our class were seated on the floor in front of the television waiting for our usual weekly half hour ABC broadcast to commence. Within moments we were all confronted with images of naked Aboriginal people hunting and gathering somewhere in the Australian desert. I sat on the floor mesmerised by their sense of purpose and enchanted by their unique songs and language. Each week I would sit observing these special people in their magical places. Each week I desperately wished that I could understand why they did the things they did and what it was they were saying to each other. Each week too came the predictable comments from what seemed like the whole of my class. Every time an animal met its demise by way of a spear or a quick strike to the head, the reaction was always the same. Within seconds the room would instantly unite and erupt into a chorus protesting cruelty and condemnation. Week after week the pattern remained unaltered as week after week our teacher offered little information or explanation. This particular day, however, changed all that and it changed me forever. Perhaps it was pent up anger having been seated beside the loudest, most obnoxious boy in the class who today seemed hell-bent on ridiculing every aspect of the noble people on our screen, or perhaps I just didn't get enough sleep the night before, but whatever it was the next thing I remember was my clenched fist connecting firmly with his protruding chin which resulted in him being sprawled across the floor. I can still remember the dazed look upon his face as he looked up at me, his mouth open in silence. I also remember my own feelings; a mix of shock and dread. I was terrified of what my mother would say, terrified of what my favourite, much loved teacher would say and felt ashamed and confused that I had hurt someone. My heart was racing and I felt breathless as I looked around the room. All eyes were upon me and like a volcano unable to contain its powerful force, 'I'm Aboriginal!' I avowed with thunderous conviction. In the moments before my teacher reached me I sat there stunned but fortified by my declaration. I steeled myself in readiness for the punishment which would surely follow. Her eyes were now firmly fixed upon me as her arm extended towards me. I closed my eyes as I felt the weight of her hand upon me. 'Don't worry,' she assured me with a gentle pat on my head, 'No one would ever know.' I was shattered.

Looking up from the comfort of my notes I blinked away a tear. Once more all eyes were upon me and once more I felt very small in the silence of the room. A moment felt like forever and my heart was pounding from reliving the memory. I thought of that spirited little black bird delicately balancing on the magnolia sapling. Suddenly the entire room erupted. The children's smiles said it all and the long, loud and lovely applause filled the thirty five year gap. I was smiling too as the Principal congratulated me on being such a special part of their 2000 NAIDOC celebrations.

Karen Maber

This section brought to you by ...

Blue Dragon Books

A great range of secondhand books!

Ross Street, Glenbrook, NSW

(02) 4739 2466

### And Noise Kills Empathy – Michele Fermanis-Winward

Our new TV

it was the latest thing

the neighbours in

we crowded round

there was so much to see

clowns for the kids

a quiz, some news

a bit of sport

then after tea

the music and amusing men

although a bit risqué

they put on quite a show

this fun and fantasy

a good end to the day

each year that passed

it grew and grew

we gulped it down

you'll all go blind

they used to say

to watch so much TV

more news, more views

the ads and sports

it changed each day

with new ferocity

and appetite for speed

we sat enthralled

as murder, vice

deceit and crime

became reality

we entertained

as death and war

the world's brutality

played out, set to

a music score

when people ask

why violence grows

with callous bullies

for our kids

and rage upon the street

I see a little box on legs

that sang at first

then shouted out

became a scream

to stifle care

and noise kills empathy.

### Memories of the Creek – Axel Williams

I remember a day, when my father drove my brothers and I to the local creek. It was a hot summer's day, the kind where there's a bluish haze from eucalyptus evaporating into the air. At eleven, nine and seven, our sweaty, sun-screened bodies lined up and stuck to the backseat of the commodore, I remember the old car bumping along the gravel road. I remember my father, with his cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, driving with a forearm resting in the empty window.

In summer, the creek was a popular location due to the local pool being closed down. A small billabong, the sun shone through the canopy of the gum leaves, bouncing off the surface of the murky water, disallowed to penetrate. We parked the car in the dirt and us boys leapt out quickly to dive in. My father calmly strolled over to a sunny rock, unfurling a towel to relax.

I remember my first leech bite; I was submerged and the bastard latched onto the sole of my foot. I broke the surface, gasping. It was then that I noticed another car roll to a halt along the dirt track, with two-middle aged men and two young girls hopping out. One of the men was holding an inflatable doughnut with a smiling Loch Ness monster head, and a small white dog bounded along behind them all. I hoisted myself onto a nearby rock, and was amazed by the slender black sliver hanging onto my foot; by now, I was expecting it to be fat, thumping and happy. Later, I would be amazed at how easily a leech bite gets infected, especially after just yanking the bastard out.

It was then the little girl approached me.

'What're you doin'?'

A strange looking girl, she looked about nine, like my middle brother if I remember correctly. With thousands of freckles and a wandering eye, she was homely at best. I opened my mouth to speak before she yapped interruptions.

'Who are you?'

'You look handsome!'

'Would you kiss me?'

I remember, even at that age, being put off by the strange little girl. I probably still thought girls were all icky.

'No. Get away from me.' I quickly replied.

'Why don't you like me?' she yapped. She had an irritating tone in her voice, and when she whined it strained. She began to run circles around me, squealing:

'Kiss me!'

'Kiss me!'

'Kiss me!'

Eventually, I shoved her away, into the creek, where she continued her ritualistic chant with each of my younger brothers, swimming with the other girl who seemed more normal.

There was not a cloud in the sky, and the sun shone brighter throughout the day as if to coax the cicadas into drumming their rhythms louder and louder. On any other day I would have enjoyed myself to no end, swimming gleefully and sunbaking with just the men of my family. But I remember the girl had put me off these activities and had ruined my day. I clambered onto the rock where my father was perched. He was sitting in a kind of thinking man position, his head bowed so as to focus on the mole on his thigh he was picking at. He was smoking another cigarette, a dirty white cylinder dangling from the corner of his mouth. I remember he could roll his rollies in his pocket with one hand, and that he found a way to smoke during his morning shower. I remember how he would smoke a cigarette; the cigarette would never leave his mouth in 'drags'; he was always breathing smoke. Oxygen would have to find another avenue. He wanted that nicotine, and in years to come, it would be the death of him.

Having been rejected by my younger brothers, the little girl followed me up the rock. I rolled my eyes as I saw her climbing up, her little fingers barely grasping the slippery ironstone, the white dog following her carefully. I turned to her supposed guardians, swimming without care or notice of their 'daughter's' interactions with us boys. I sat and watched silently as the girl continued her ritual with my father.

'Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me!'

A grown man of forty, and married, my father spoke my thoughts.

'Calm down, sweetheart. I'm an ugly old man; you don't want anything to do with me.'

With the smoke pouring from his lips, he brushed her off, like a man might flick an ant off his shoulder.

Even at age eleven, it was then that I knew something was wrong with the little girl; maybe not with her, but maybe something that had happened to her in the past. I remember her, rejected, sitting slightly in front of my father, picking up her small white dog in order to pat it. But instead, she held the dog's spine to her chest and began to manipulate the little furrow of fur and flesh on the dog's underbelly, whilst cooing in its ear. She did this disturbing act in a seemingly practiced manner, seemingly oblivious to mine or my father's presence. Maybe she was telling us something about herself, her own experience. It was then that I knew something was wrong, something specifically wrong with her.

Now, looking back, I wish we could have done something.

I wish my father had grabbed her, shaken her, asked:

'Who did this to you? Who's "touching" you?'

I wish my father had jumped down off that rock to rip those two men apart.

But he didn't. I remember, he didn't even take the cigarette out of his mouth.

Axel Williams

This section brought to you by ...

Maber Business Services

Tax Returns ~ Accounting ~ Loans ~ Insurance

<http://www.maber.net.au/>

### George the Enchanted Tortoise – Nana J

It was many, many years ago, around 1969, when we found George in our backyard. My sister and I were excited, a tortoise of our own! Dad drilled a hole through the back of George's shell and put a chain through it which he pegged by the willow tree at the far end of our yard. The willow was circled by a small stream and, all in all, George had a wonderful home. I spent many hours there talking to George and dreaming. Mum eventually told Dad to unchain George, it was cruel not to leave him free. George was happy without his chain and he seemed content living with us. He stayed in the yard by the willow tree for several months. Then he disappeared. He had wandered off to an enchanted forest.

***

It was the day of the grand ball in honour of the Fairy Godmother. Everyone in Fairyland was busy preparing for the ball. George enjoyed watching the preparations as he crawled here and there, greeting friends everywhere he went. After a while he crawled off to a favourite pond to rest before the ball. He soon fell asleep in the lovely warm sun. While George slept everyone had left for the ball. Well, almost everyone. One fairy was late because she overslept. Her name was Karma. She had a quick wash, donned her pretty new party dress, made especially for the ball, and hurried off.

Small fires had been lit in clearings throughout the forest to show the way to the ball. Karma stopped at one of the fires, entranced by the flames wavering in the gentle evening breeze. She danced around the fire, delighting in its colours and warmth. Karma's wings fanned the fire as she danced and a spark alighted on them. Karma called out in fright. A big black moth who'd been watching Karma dance flew over to help her. He beat the fire on Karma's wings out with his own, singeing them in the process. The moth was tired after putting the fire out. Karma's wings were gone, but the moth had saved her from serious injury. Both Karma and the moth were sitting, stunned, when George ambled along. He'd finally woken and was on his way to the ball.

George was sad for Karma and the moth, whose name was Shammon. George offered to carry them both to the ball.

'I am slow', he said, 'but my back is hard and strong.'

'Thank you very much', both Karma and Shammon replied, too tired to say any more. It was a slow journey to the ball. George was tiring but he kept himself moving and finally they were there. George stopped in front of the Fairy Godmother, exhausted. The Godmother ordered refreshments for George, Karma and Shammon. After they had eaten and drunk their fill, Karma recited their story and gave heartfelt thanks to Shammon and George.

Smiling at all three, the Fairy Godmother stood and said to Karma, 'You have been very fortunate Karma. I will give you new wings, but you must not play with fire again.' With the spoken word, sparkling, shiny new wings appeared in place of the burnt ones.

Turning to Shammon the Godmother said, 'I want to reward you for being so brave. I will change your blackness to brightness.' Shammon's black wings turned sky blue with markings of yellow and the outside edge of his wings were lined in a glossy, velvet black. Lastly the Godmother turned to George.

'You are very strong, George, but you crawl very slowly. I know what an effort it was for you to bring Karma and Shammon here. I think that a strong pair of wings will prove quite useful to you. Whenever you need them, your wings will appear.' George was ecstatic—he tired so easily that wings were just what he needed.

The party started again and everyone had great fun feasting, dancing and singing. The party ended at dawn and George was utterly exhausted from all the merrymaking. He felt that he needed his wings to get back to his pond and yes, his new wings appeared, strong and luminous. It took George a little while to work out his balance and steering, and he flew into more than one tree I must tell you, but he eventually got the hang of it. George finally made it to his pond. He fell asleep and dreamt of his home by the willow tree. George was much loved in Fairyland. He gave rides to the fairies and pixies and he would amble through the forest visiting all the animals. Despite his wonderful life though, George grew homesick for the family and home he'd left behind.

George paid a visit to the Fairy Godmother and told her about his problem.

'Dear Godmother', he said. 'I am very homesick for the family I left behind when I came here. I wish to see them again and my home by the willow tree. But I love Fairyland very much too. What should I do?'

The Fairy Godmother replied, 'As much as I and everyone here loves you George, I will let you go. If you come back to Fairyland every half year, we'll all be happy and you will have both of your homes.' George was delighted with this solution. He thanked the Fairy Godmother and went off to say goodbye to all of his friends.

***

I was sitting on the front steps of our house when I saw George coming up the path. I picked him up and took him inside to show Mum and she found the hole in his shell that Dad had drilled. Mum declared that it was George—he'd come home.

After that, George disappeared for six months every year. Mum would say that he'd gone into hibernation, but he always came back from wherever he'd gone.

Nana J

### Alone Together – Sonia Ursus Satori

Skipping rocks into the river

Jacky, on my left shoulder

Nibbles into my ear.

Yes, I know.

You were frightened last night

When I climbed out the balcony

To give you comfort on your

Branch in the tree.

The excitement of danger

Is gone now.

It's only the wind

That's what storms are all

About.

Take the spit from my lips

There, there.

I hop on my bike

Racing along the edge

Of the pine forest.

Claws dig into my jacket

Wings spread open wide.

We tumble in the grass

Run, jump, leap, lie

Nothing to be afraid of.

Cuddle, cuddle, kiss, kiss.

Would you fly away

With the clouds

If your wings weren't clipped?

I'd come with you

To foreign lands

High above the snow fields of the Alps

Across the seven seas

All the way to the end of the world.

Best of all

We'd live amongst the giant turtles

On Galápagos Islands

Feeding only on fish

You like so much.

The sun's going down

Hold on tight, Jacky.

This is another fast ride.

We must be back home by 5

Or Mum won't let us out tomorrow.

### Untitled – Margaret Dighton

I can't speak, I can't say

Where my heart lies.

I'm as lost as I can be,

In this race we call society.

I can't love myself, if no-one cares

Where you are or where you lie.

I feel weak, I feel alone, I feel solitude,

For not reaching out when someone calls,

And life goes on regardless.

I want to be loved for who I am.

If you see my soul, then you see me.

This section brought to you by ...

The Tailor's Apprentice

Make your dream gown – the one you've always wanted

<http://www.thetailorsapprentice.com/>

### Blue Denim – John Egan

Inspired by a visit to Kings Cross where I sat in a park for quite some time, before conversing with a teenage boy sitting on the end of the same seat. I had not previously met the boy, nor have I seen him since.

One summer's night

not very late,

I sat in a park,

down from Kingsgate.

People passed by,

oblivious of me,

as I sat alone,

one leg over knee.

A fountain of beauty

not far away,

caught me occasionally,

with its delicate spray.

The traffic nearby

moved slowly along,

as the red light said 'Stop!'

The green one, 'Come on'.

For quite some time

I sat on that seat,

watching young couples,

crossing the street.

T'was a beautiful night,

not a cloud in the sky,

I almost fell backwards,

when someone said 'Hi!'

There on the edge

of the very same seat,

sat a boy in blue denim,

no shoes on his feet.

I answered his greeting

in the same tone of voice.

What else could I do?

He gave me no choice.

This boy had fair hair

and white pearly teeth;

when I asked him his name,

he said 'Just Keith.'

He came from the West,

walked all the way,

he didn't seem to care that

it took him all day.

He had no job,

so lived off the dole

his future was grim,

he had no goal.

We talked for some time

having nothing to do,

but sit on that seat

and admire the view.

I asked him to coffee,

at first he declined,

but whin I insisted

he said, 'You are kind.'

This story has

no ending,

It can only

begin.

For no one can tell,

what the future

will bring.

*Kingsgate: A 5 star hotel at Kings Cross

*Fountain of Beauty: El-Alamein Fountain

*The West: Western Suburbs of Sydney

### Balloon Trip – M.Grace

Point of contact, home to balloons in Canowindra, where many who own their balloons take off for trips in the sky. It's funny that Canowindra means 'a home' in Aboriginal language. A concept the organisers should have been aware of when choosing this place for regular events. If they were not aware of this, it is possible they were led to Canowindra. Gwen Bates was aware of the meaning of the town as was her friend, Dale, who owned their balloon and took people on board—for a small fee—to join them. That day there were no clouds to be seen and the signal to take off was given. It didn't enter Gwen's mind that Dale would arrive late or that an organiser would accidentally untie Gwen's rope. Off she went into the sky.

'Oops!' said Gwen. She took it in her stride and got on with it. She was not perturbed by this and continued to work the balloon like a professional, off on a balloon trip on her own, which is not in the rule book or recommended, as anything can happen.

The wind started to flare up and the balloon began to be difficult to handle. It was taken along with the wind as if the wind had a mind of its own. The point of contact was beginning to disappear from Gwen's sight. The wind felt as if it had hands guiding Gwen's balloon in a direction not familiar to her. A moment of distraction led her balloon to be caught in a whirlwind—a merry go round. Gwen sat in the basket holding on tight like her life depended on it. The wind subsided as if Gwen was finishing off a pirouette. Coming out of it, she was quite dizzy from the spin. If she was pirouetting, she would have used the technique of spotting and not suffered being dizzy. Gwen, under difficult circumstances in her state of confusion, lowered the balloon the best she could. The balloon lost its impetus for a soft landing and Gwen rolled out of the basket as it fell onto its side.

A few seconds later, Gwen raised her head from the ground to find midgets surrounding her amongst trees which she thought were a rainforest. Gwen raised herself off the ground slowly, concerned for her safety. The midgets never said anything to her but escorted Gwen to a pathway. She seemed to be under arrest. Gwen, a little shaken from her fall, observed the unknown rainforest. Through an opening appeared what seemed to be a red castle surrounded by water. By this time Gwen was thinking that she may have hit her head harder than she thought and was definitely dreaming, even though it seemed quite real.

It was a good twenty minutes before they arrived at a bridge to cross the moat and then into a wide hallway surrounded by ironware stuck to the stone walls, then into a ballroom with a colourful marble floor. At the end of the room sat a middle aged woman on a throne, beautifully dressed with a crown, staring at Gwen seriously. The midgets bowed to the Queen and stepped back away from Gwen, leaving her to face her consequences.

'I guess, I'm not in Central West anymore,' said Gwen as she landed on one knee and fell sideways in a faint, leaving the Queen and the midgets staring at her, confused.

Gwen woke up to find herself on a huge bed in a room resembling a Victorian bedroom, with an open fire, window seat and a maid to attend to her.

'Good morning, miss,' said the maid with a smile.

'Good morning,' said Gwen and, in too much haste to sit up, found her head hurt.

'I guess I did hit my head harder than I thought,' she said as she looked around. 'What is the name of this guesthouse?'

'This is no guesthouse,' chuckled the maid. 'You are the guest of Queenie, to her dismay.'

'I'm not too happy being here either. I guess I'm not dreaming, am I?'

'If it makes you feel better to think so.'

'But, where am I? I don't understand any of this.'

The maid poured her a drink, handed it to Gwen and said, 'When you are able to get up, Queenie wants an audience with you, if not sooner.'

Gwen stood in front of Queenie, as she was fondly called, and others including Queenie's nephew, Chippy, who was a good looking sort and about the same age as Gwen, who was in her twenties. He stood beside his aunt, a little reserved, though looking courteously upon Gwen.

'We are not in the habit of accepting strangers intruding into our kingdom. What have you got to say for yourself?' demanded the Queen.

'I am not in the habit of dropping in unannounced, let alone in a balloon. This is no treat for me,' Gwen said, annoyed. 'If you would allow me to return to my balloon to see if I can get it back in the air I could get out of your lives. I am sure this is some sort of joke. As you can see, I am not laughing. This has got to be some sort of film set.'

'Do you know what this young woman is talking about, Chippy?' said Queenie.

'I'm sure I don't, aunt,' said Chippy as he gave a little bow to Gwen so as not to offend her by his response.

'So, this is not a film set... lot... thingy?' said Gwen as everyone nodded no. 'Well, I never! This is like the Bermuda Triangle. Ships, planes, people go missing without a trace. Right in the middle of Central West. Who would have thought it.'

Gwen stood on a stone, spiral staircase, looking out of the castle when Queenie interrupted her line of thought.

'What did you think of my nephew?' asked Queenie.

'Sad sort of person. He adores you though. I gather his parents have passed away?'

'Very observant of you. What gave him away?'

'Body language. Talking about language, do you have any books I can read?'

'A collective of thoughts and imaginings. It is best to occupy your time getting to know your new environment,' Queenie said and she climbed the stairs out of sight before Gwen could ask what she meant. Before she knew it, Chippy appeared quietly, standing a step away from her.

Gwen turned to face him and said, 'Is there any way for me to get home?'

'We have no means to return you.'

Gwen retreated to the bedroom she had first woken up in, with Chippy's last words going over and over in her mind, not sure if the situation she found herself in was a positive or negative one. The maid entered with Chippy. She stood at the door as Chippy approached her, carefully.

After a pregnant pause Gwen said, 'There are a lot of people looking for me right now. In time, when there is no sight of me, I will be classed as a missing person.'

'And if they didn't find you, would that not be a good thing? You didn't have a choice where you were born or choose the family you were born to.'

Gwen was taking in what Chippy said. She had no problem with where she was born but her family was a pain in the arse—except for a handful of her big family—they would miss her, but at the same time be happy for her to get away. Gwen smiled with satisfaction and considered herself a lucky person to be given a second chance at a new life the way she would like to live it. And having the Queen's nephew as an ally had all the ingredients to make the whole picture come together. Gwen said softly, but loud enough for Chippy and the maid to hear; 'What a balloon trip!'

M Grace

Opinions Vary – David Bowden

sun divulges

afternoon expectations

brute anxieties

blur

into birdsong

distant dog bark

sucked into the

sculpted spaces

of the valley

too much beauty

for sky to contain

molecules

hammer against true silence

clouds swivel

& cavort

your tears

mean nothing

to the gumtrees

This section brought to you by ...

St Flour and Associates – Business Advisors

' _We will help you improve your results'_

<http://www.stflour.com/>

### The Last Flight of the Cockie – Aristidis Metaxas

They say there is a place up north, called Cape Kokadoo, where all the old Cockies go to die; what they call 'Cockie's last flight'. They say there is a big old tree close by the beach, where the Cockies gather, and they sit there all though the night, huddled up close to each other, to wait for the rising sun.

When the big red ball comes up over the horizon, some of the Cockies on the tree say their goodbyes to their old mates, and then start to fly slowly out to the sea towards the sun. They fly until their little hearts stop beating and then they drop into the ocean. They have done the Cockie's flight, it's always been like this for the Cockies; it's their tradition.

Old Charlie was a white Bush Cockie. He was living in Melbourne and was, by now, getting on seventy - some say he was even older than that, but don't let Charlie hear you call him an old codger, he'd be really upset if you did. Charlie was born in Kokadoo, and for the first years of his life lived in Sydney, Elizabeth Bay, in a big posh house with a family. Life was pretty good there, except the lady kept calling him Bernice, and ol' Charlie was getting fed up with this and one day did a runner, and somehow ended up in Melbourne.

He lived with a barman in a pub, and Charlie quite liked the life there. He even learned to roll smokes for the blokes, but what a carry on it was when the paper sometimes stuck to his tongue. When the barman died, Charlie went to live with a jockey next to a racetrack, and all went well until Charlie started to recite the whole of the Trifecta every morning at 3 am. It wasn't old Charlie's fault - it's just what Cockies do.

Charlie once had a love in St. Kilda. Elsie was her name, but she went off with a Major to live in Tasmania on a sheep station. Nearly broke Charlie's heart, but he got over it somehow. He became a bit of a recluse after that and lived with some hippies in the rainforest. He got to learn all the old songs of the 60s and 70s, and they even put flowers in his feathers which made him look like a real dag.

Old Charlie knew deep down that his time was coming, his time to go to Cape Kokadoo for his last flight, but he also knew that he would never make it across the Great Desert; he was just a bit too old for that now. So he thought he would fly along the coast, with plenty of stopovers along the way to rest. This way he could make it to the Cape after all, even if it took a little longer to get there.

So Charlie flew up the Coast, stopped at Kiama for a while, then on to the National Forest to give himself a treat, then on again to Sydney to visit his old mates. A lot had gone on to Cape Kokadoo already over the years, but old Bert was still there at Randwick, and Wally with his black beak, and Bruce and Jock, and blow me down if it isn't Harry 'The Pink'. They were all there to see old Charlie again after so many years.

Charlie and his mates had been sitting in a big old tree in Cronulla all night, looking out over the water and spinning yarns about the good old times, watching the fireflies dance, cracking their beaks and having a bit of a laugh and the time just flew. Suddenly Charlie saw the sun rising out of the ocean like a big red fiery ball, all glowing and shining. His little heart started beating so strong, just like it used to do when he was a young Cockie and in love, and he didn't know what got over him but he just had the sudden urge to fly, fly towards the sun, and to just keep on flying.

He spread his wings and swooped over the water, circling a few times, not sure if he should fly on or go back to the tree. His mates were calling out to him, wondering what was up with old Charlie. But he didn't even hear them. All he could hear was a voice in his little chest calling him home. Charlie kept flying, on, on towards the sun. It was then he began to realise that he would never make it back to the shore, let alone to Cape Kokadoo; that his strength was failing him, and so he kept flying, his eyes fixed on the bright fire on the horizon, his brave little heart beating stronger and stronger.

Back on the shore, hundreds of Cockies had gathered in the meantime, the word had gone out that a Cockie was having a crack at his last run, and although many of them didn't know old Charlie, it didn't matter, because after all he was one of them, and that's what counted. He was doing the last run for all of them, and they were all with him on his final flight. Some of the younger ones were even flying behind Charlie, just to accompany him for the last time, to let him know that he wasn't alone.

Suddenly something exploded in Charlie's chest, like a little sun, and his heart got bigger and bigger until it filled his whole body. He thought about his old home in Kokadoo, his younger years, his long, long wonderful life, about the happy times and the sad. He thought about his one and only love Elsie, and with a final cry, dropped from the dawn sky into the ocean. His mates on the shore sitting in the tree had been very still, watching him fly towards the sun, and they saw his small body fall, fall from the sky like a little white snowball. They all said goodbye to old Charlie silently, in their own little ways. And although they were a little sad, they were also happy and proud of their mate, because they knew that Charlie had done it; he had done the Cockie's Last Flight.

For Diana

Aristidis Metaxas

### Characters – James Craib

(A poem suffering from Mad Cow's Disease, i.e. Too Many Silly Bulls, err Syllables!)

There are Chinese characters – symbols stand for words and phrases.

There are also human characters affecting history through the ages.

Occasionally, there are carpenters, who construct their own divinity.

Others are just caricatures who meddle in human destiny.

But charisma isn't limited to sages, seers and despots.

Characters happen everywhere from cathedrals down to fleshpots.

There are great cartographers who have mapped most of the Earth.

Peerless cardiologists, who extend lives, earn their worth,

There's crafty carpetbaggers staking out their unfair precedents,

And Italian chefs make carbonara that is totally decadent.

'Chariot' comes from Latin: carrus; later Henry Ford built cars.

Carrots grown by carrot farmers are now tinned or come in jars.

Charlie Chaplin was a champion; he made us cry and laugh,

And Charles Darwin's 'Origin of Species' is a lasting autograph.

Choral singers fill the churches singing hymns of honour.

Gunslingers at the OK Corral gave Wyatt Earp some bother.

D'Oyly Carte gave the start to Gilbert and Sullivan opera.

Carters, martyrs, Arthur's order of the garter, add to the panorama.

Most people are deemed carnivores of varying degrees.

Carnivals and festivals are times of high festivities.

Magna Carta - an English charter was signed by bad King John.

June Carter married Johnny Cash, who sang a country song.

Caratacus was an ancient king who fought against the Romans.

Caribbean cricketers are known to revel in the moment.

People too long in the sun are prone to carcinoma.

Caravaggio painted religiously when he lived awhile in Roma.

Children ride the carousel upon their wooden horses.

Caroline Chisholm helped other women organise resources.

Carol Channing charmed the audiences in Broadway's 'Hello Dolly'.

Smoking Egyptian cigarettes was Enrico Caruso's folly.

Card carrying Communistic comrades; the legacy of Karl Marx.

With charismatic carousers drank from goblets in the dark.

Carbon coated miners forage frantically for coal.

Curried curates covet carte blanche access to your soul.

Abraham Lincoln carried slaves from darkness into light.

Whilst the 'USS Abraham Lincoln' is the largest carrier in sight.

Characteristically, I've come to a carved-up carapace:

Just give these lines a cursory glance, their bones are out of place!

This section brought to you by ...

HR Success

Success through people

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

### The Curse – Sonja Van As

Smoking's a curse.

Nothing is worse,

Than being addicted,

Just like your mother always predicted.

And even though it causes you pain,

You know that you'll light up again.

And lying in your bed at night,

You swear to yourself that come daylight,

You're going to throw them all away,

And have a completely smoke free day.

But in the morning coffee comes,

The children hassle you with their sums,

You think 'what harm can one more do,

When already I've smoked a million or two?'

So once again you light one up,

While staring into your coffee cup.

And someone else is making money,

From something which is just not funny.

It's against the law to kill yourself,

Unless you buy it off the shelf,

And slowly smoke yourself to death,

(While killing others with your breath).

But remember! Don't stop trying,

To quit this habit from which you are dying.

Because one day you WILL succeed,

And you too will belong to this other breed.

NON-SMOKERS!

### Fluid Notions – Sonia Ursus Satori

My friend's friend Zumbalala says that semi-precious stones grow in flower pots and that ions are imaginary, and that scents don't have a smell, and that the world is a floppy disk.

She is an imaginative thinker and talks about all sorts of unusual and interesting things. Did you know that the Empire State Building is foldable, so all you have to do is mail it to your teacher so he can see for himself?

She says she does not exaggerate one bit, and microbes are really the biggest life form on earth. So don't for one moment think that the moon does not go to sleep inside her left pupil during the day.

Zumbalala subscribes to the school of thought whereby concepts get scrambled up and facts are turned upside-down. She gives us the best possible explanation about everything there is. Otherwise all these knowledgeable facts floating around in her head would be incomprehensible to us who just don't know enough.

I've been thinking about nothing else since yesterday but excavations inside air bubbles, and spiral cubes. But the most exciting train of thought is about me. I cannot stop imagining triangular fractions of myself running beside me down the street chasing a pineapple with a hat on.

I do so wish Zumbalala was MY friend.

### Spirit Of The Mountains – Reginald Reid

I am the gold seen on the clouds at dawning

And ride the winds amongst the trees.

I am the dewdrops seen on shining leaves

And play amongst the grasses' seeds.

I move the misty shadows

And by my mystic power the eucalyptus I set free.

In the streams and waterfalls I frolic.

I am the blue of rising hills.

In gorges extravagantly I paint,

Teach birds their songs to thrill.

To lifeless rocks and boulders I bring life and colour each new day.

I plant upon their shoulders and slowly carve them all away.

I am the rumble of the thunder.

In the lightning is my dance.

I am the stillness in the storm.

I stoke the sun's hot fire with my enduring unseen lance.

I am the curling mist of morning, the dampness in the air,

The crisp cold of the snowflakes, the moisture beads on hair.

In the rain I bring refreshment

To the land and to the air.

Across the wild and secret land I guide the daytime sun

Down through the ancient places where I make the creeks and rivers run.

I haunt the caves and crevices where man has shelter found.

I speak to them whilst sleeping as they lay upon the ground.

I revel in the night time sky

Amongst a million million stars.

I ride along the moonbeams, my travel has no bar.

In mystery I am shrouded as the fearful trembling call

To the sounds of cracks and rustling,

Thumps and bumps, as darkness falls.

I am the rising of the hills,

The depth of valleys and of gorge.

The vast and open spaces were refined in my great forge.

I am the pleasantness of walking paths,

The peace of hidden arbours.

I am the sandy beach of wandering stream, ineffable safe harbour.

I am the innocence of all creatures.

I am the essence of free life,

The green of grass and verdant ferns.

I am the height of trees, the flowers of shrubs.

I am heat and cold, fire and dance.

I am the Spirit of The Mountains, I am Love and I am Romance.

### Paris Match – Samantha Miller

In a narrow street in the 7th arrondissement of Paris; an unremarkable, yet attractive residential area, is the tiny shopfront of Madame Chauval – the seamstress. It is usefully placed; along the road from the launderette and close to several pensions and small hotels. It was there that Sandrine took herself on a Saturday afternoon in July for her fitting.

Sandrine knew that the dress she would wear at the Bastille Day dinner would be a coup de grace. She knew that all the men would fall at her feet. This dress would levitate her to the heights of a goddess. After all what woman in Paris doesn't feel this way when being fitted for a new dress?

Madame Chauval welcomed Sandrine. They knew each other well and had done business on several occasions. There was a trust between them that resulted in a mutual profit. Sandrine always looked stylish and Madame did well out of this.

The two women were very different in looks and age. Madame was a woman of a certain age, though very well kept by a retired politician who had purchased the shop and its flat for her some twenty years ago. She was still attractive, classically stylish and always impeccably groomed. Her hair remained nut brown due to the ministrations of Claude in the rue de Charles. Her eyes sparkled as much as her few modest items of jewelry and the LCD of her till, which she could beat to the calculation of moneys owed. She was small and birdlike and although her real name was Mignon, she always referred to herself as Madame.

Sandrine was young and fresh, living in the confidence of her own attractiveness. An accomplished coquette from an early age, Sandrine drank in the admiration of others quite naturally. It had always been so. She was a little too tall, her teeth a bit crooked, but her bottom and breasts were round and high. Her eyes were dark and turned up. Her hair was curly and untamed and her mouth was fashionably large. Why should men not pursue her? Madame had said as much since pinning her first party dress.

***

From a long way across the world a couple came to visit Paris. They stayed in one of the lovely little hotels; this one just around the corner from Madame's little shop.

Jo and her husband Robert were enjoying Paris. It was so romantic, it was ridiculous. Was this because everyone said it was so, or was this why everyone said it was so?

They walked the streets holding hands. Drank café in the brassières. Took the lift and walked up the Eiffel Tower. The view from above was captivating. Napoleon had arranged the building of much of central Paris in a neat star shape. Jo and Robert laughed that Napoleon had carried off in Paris what Burley Griffin had rendered so sterile in Canberra.

They retired to their room often to make love and sleep during the day, a usually unheard of luxury for a professional couple.

Jo and Robert wanted to visit the Moulin Rouge. This was something that was so essentially French to them, that despite the fact they would not normally visit a dancing show, they really wanted to see this one. The draw of the cancan lured them and they found themselves signed up for a dinner and show package through one of the tourist agencies recommended by the brochures found at Madame Bricolage's front desk at the hotel de Motte Picquot.

This trip was some days away, but in order to prepare they visited the launderette around the corner to wash some clothes and ensure they were suitably garbed for their night out. It was here that Robert discovered the rip in the seam of his good pants. They must be fixed. He had no others suitable. Shouldn't be a problem, as there must be a repair shop nearby.

***

Sandrine was standing in her dress before the full-length mirror in the tiny shop. Madame knelt behind her on a small cushion, lifting the hem of the dress here and there. The door opened and a couple walked in.

It was immediately obvious that the couple were not Parisians. Their clothes were more suited to a hiking picnic than a walk in the city of love. They were not even French. Sandrine's mind ticked off her list, certainly not American, not German, not English....?

Madame continued to raise and lower Sandrine's hem until the level was satisfactory to both women. Then Madame stood up gracefully and walked behind the counter.

'Tres belle, le robe,' commented Jo in very bad French. Sandrine smiled and stretched herself. She walked behind the counter and entered a cubicle to the left.

***

Madame turned her attention to the task of dealing with the foreign tourists. At least they bothered to try to speak French. The woman seemed more skilled in this department, though she displayed more enthusiasm than skill. The man was nodding a lot and every now and then he would glance away and then down as if his lack of language embarrassed him.

It appeared that the man required a seam to be sewn in his pants. This would be no problem. He could leave them with her and could pick them up in five days.

***

Entering the cubicle with Madame's back to her, Sandrine pulled the curtain almost closed. Through the mirror in the cubicle she could feel the man's eyes on her. They flicked up and away again.

Sandrine began to remove the dress. She moved very slowly and very carefully, so as not to disturb the marks that indicated the desired length of the garment. She also moved with a great deal of enjoyment, sensing the man's eyes, imagining his breath on her neck, his hand on her thigh.

***

Five days appeared to be a problem for the couple. They were going to a good restaurant on Tuesday. The woman was earnest and polite, but her French was so bad and her clothes unattractive. Madame would not understand immediately.

***

Sandrine stood in her lingerie and fussed over the dress. She slid her eyes over to the mirror to ensure her audience was still entranced. He was controlled. He was subtle, and though she liked the look of him, he could have been anyone. This was about Sandrine.

She bent down to pick up her handbag, showing round cheeks of her bottom and the place where her panties creased over between her fat pussy lips. The man looked quickly at Madame and then at her again.

Taking her lipstick out of her bag, Sandrine ran the deep red over her lips slowly and looked the man in the eye. Carefully, she winked. Then she took her dress from a hanger in the cubicle, slid it over her arms and buttoned up the front.

***

As Sandrine emerged from the cubicle, the man and his wife were leaving the shop. They had a receipt from Madame for the pants, which they could pick up on Tuesday afternoon.

***

In the street, Robert walked quickly. As they arrived back at their room, Robert pressed himself against Jo.

'Oh my God!' He exclaimed. 'That woman was teasing me!'

'What woman?' asked Jo.

As her husband finished his story, Jo laughed. It was the laugh of a woman loved; a woman who knew her husband. He was titillated. He was flattered. Yet, he loved his wife. He began to make love to her and it was good.

'Perhaps I should let you pick up your pants by yourself,' Jo teased.

***

Back at the tiny shop, Madame Chauval turned to Sandrine. 'He will be back for more, that one.' she said.

Samantha Miller

### My Lovely Garden – Taffy Campbell

I hate gardening. My garden is wild, and overgrown with occasional bits of cut grass or lawn. I don't know the names of hardly any plant in my garden except grass. Plants are just plants to me. The most boring thing about gardening is weeding.

I received a letter from the Australian Army about a month ago, requesting permission to use my garden as a training area for camouflage and infantry tactics. I took no notice as I thought it might have been one of my neighbors just having a go at my poor gardening skills. However, I must admit, my bushes do seem to move about occasionally.

I don't mind other people's gardens. I can look at other people's gardens, and listen to the running commentary that usually accompanies a tour. It's a thousand times better than looking at other people's family photos!

My garden is only kept under control with a lawn mower, Whipper Snipper, a plastic container of Roundup and a good strong spade. These are my only tools of maintenance.

It does have a small comfortable bench, and at certain times during sunny weather I can sit there and enjoy a nice cold beer. There are eight very important places in the garden and sitting there with my cold beer I often look around these places, and realise I'm never alone. I certainly don't want to start digging, and turning it into a lovely well manicured landscape of flower beds and veggie patches. There are eight small slabs of flat concrete scattered about the place, which are overgrown, but I know they are there.

I retired about 10 years ago after 25 years loyal and continuous service with the Prisons Department. I worked mainly in the protective custody section, where all the prisoners that had committed unsavoury crimes were kept. I knew all the crimes they had committed, and how they carried them out. I got quite friendly with some of them and would tell them about my lovely garden. When they finished their sentence they might like to visit my garden! I always picked the prisoners that worked in the jail gardens.

I knew all their release dates. Especially parole dates, which were always a secret. The publicity some of these prisoners received on release would cause great commotion. Even where they were going to live was a well kept secret, especially from the public. You see, the public didn't like them one little bit. They did not want these people living near them.

I always told the prisoners I was friendly with that they could come and visit me if they had problems with their new address. I was always sure of a visit, after a telephone call in the right direction. You see, everything was secret—even a visit to my lovely garden.

Thirty-five thousand people go missing every year in Australia; one person is reported missing every 15 minutes and 95% are found within a week. I know where eight of them are: in my lovely garden!

This section brought to you by...

Woodford Homes

Building and Renovation Specialists

http://www.woodfordhomes.com.au/

Juju Shimmy – Albany Dighton

Urbane, anarchy

Let's be intrepid

A fetish for realms, a fetish for sol

Eliciting my escapade

Unaware how, the juju knows

Take me forth to where I must go

It's sacrosanct, a juju shimmy

The writing's on the wall, in urban sprawl

Magnetic pouches, fertile membranes

Compass points to East, West, Vegas

Predilection for steam

Harvest the dream

### Fly a Kite – Joan Vaughan-Taylor

My father showed me how to make a kite.

I watched his fingers, in the backyard shed

Construct the frameworks suitable for flight

And helped to cover all, in blue and red.

We took them to the park to catch a breeze

Which often was capricious, sly or wild.

So, several crash landed in the trees

A disappointment for an eager child –

But one kite, it soared in the sky that spring.

How I felt the pain, the power, the pride,

In gruelling effort to control the string!

'Keep on trying, never let go!' he cried

A memory lasting till the failing light

Is father teaching me to fly a kite.

The Tin Boats of Opoutama – Peter Benson

Dear Connie and Emily,

I want to tell you about a very important stage of history in regard to ships and boats.

I'm sure you've heard about the Maori canoes, the Vikings' long boats and even the great Kon-Tiki - but there is one very important boat you haven't heard about: the Great Tin Boat of Opoutama.

When we were young, about ten, some friends, your Dad and I decided to make tin boats so we could have some fun in the creek.

'What's a tin boat?' I hear you say. 'Tin doesn't float.'

Well, it does.

To make a tin boat you need:

1. A sheet of iron

2. Some wood, like the end of a box

3. Some more wood, like a thin post

4. Lots of pitch or tar

Then you flatten the iron and shape it into a canoe, tacking in the wood. The box end is the rear and the small post is the front. Then you seal up all the holes with pitch.

When our boats were ready we took them out on the creek to play ramming games and generally cruise around.

This went on day after day - we were having lots of fun sinking each other's boats.

As with all things, the first excitement started to wear off, so we looked for a new challenge. I decided I would try surfing in the tin boat.

'You can't surf a tin boat!' I hear you say.

Well, you are right - only it didn't stop me.

I took the boat out into the surf and waited for the right wave. Along it came - I started to paddle.

In no time the wave had built up and I was shooting down, down, down and the boat crumpled all about me.

That was the end of my tin boat surfing career and the end of that boat.

You might think this is the end of the story - no!

We were temporarily defeated, but went back to build a new boat, all the time thinking what we could do for adventure.

Then it struck me: I would attempt the journey from Opoutama to Waikokopu, around the rocky coastline, in my new tin boat. We made sure it was seaworthy, blocking all the holes. Your Dad and I set off on 'John and Peter's Great Sea Adventure' to the beach to launch the boat. I started to paddle out and your Dad followed me via the railway line which was just above the rocks.

I had been paddling for only a few minutes and the boat was already filling from waves lapping over the sides. I was a fair way out, to avoid the rocks off the coastline. I needed to empty out or I would sink! Fortunately I found a submerged rock (a bombora) that I could stand on to empty the boat. On my way again, I could see storm clouds building on the horizon. The sea was becoming choppy and again I was in danger of being sunk or dashed against the rocks. I found another rock to empty out on, hopped back in and paddled furiously. I had gone too far to turn back and had to make my destination before the storm hit. The waves were getting bigger, but I was determined. The boat was filling and I was paddling fast. I rounded the bend and could see my destination not too far away.

It started to spit rain and I knew the race was on. Faster I paddled, until I finally arrived at the rocky shore.

Your Dad was there to help me out and haul up the boat, just as the storm struck. How was I going to get back? Even I knew it was too dangerous. I knew that fishing boats had been smashed against those very rocks.

Your Dad said: 'I know a way we can get back and keep dry.' So we headed off, carrying the boat over our heads, keeping the storm at bay.

When we arrived back we couldn't wait to tell our friends how brave we were and what a feat we had performed. They were amazed!

Until this day I'm sure no one has attempted such a journey in a tin boat.

Love from Uncle Peter

This section brought to you by...

Mosher's Business Support

The office you have when you don't have an office

http://www.moshers.com.au/

### On a Wet Night – Alan Lucas

Gillian was a struggling single mother with two dysfunctional boys. She lived on a deserted family farm outside of Melbourne, Victoria. It was 1975 and the city was spreading through what had once been beautiful and extensive farmlands and orchards, now being bulldozed into windrows and burnt. She got the house at a low rent because the area was going to be 'developed'. That was the terminology they used for land grabbing in those days, and still do I assume.

I lived in Warrandyte, an old gold mining town that in those days still retained much of its rural character. I lived some twenty kilometres from Gillian's place.

I knew she was having a lot of trouble with her ex husband. He was giving her grief over custody of the boys, and the boys were being torn between their love for both parents. It was the same sad old story. I knew also that Gillian was getting a bit unstable. She had taken to adding marijuana to her rolled cigarettes. Always a heavy smoker who used tobacco to stay alert, she now began to suffer short term memory loss and, from my perspective, depression. She was also using a few other things that I could only guess at. Gillian had been a nurse in her working days, but was now on a supporting mother's pension. She was poor and never seemed to have enough money to keep her car in reasonable repair. You get the picture.

I was driving home from visiting friends in a Melbourne suburb on this particular evening, when an incident occurred that has left me wondering ever since. It was a mid winter's evening of the kind that bites through to the bone, and I had no heater in the car. This was not unusual, for I always drove cars that were coming to the end of their use-by dates. I had turned my vehicle onto the Warrandyte Road that would take me through the now devastated fruit growing area of Templestowe, when the skies opened. It was the most amazing storm I have ever witnessed. Within ten minutes of the first thunder clap, water was cascading down the banks and verges of the road. It was still twilight and I could see the water sheeting down the slopes of the flattened orchards and flooding the creeks and water courses. Lightning and thunder was all around but I continued on, knowing that the road to my house was sealed and that all the bridges were high above the creeks and well above the Yarra River.

My rented house was situated out of the village. There was a T-intersection that I had to turn right at and continue along for some twenty kilometres before reaching the dirt road that led to my home. If I turned left at this intersection, it would eventually take me in the direction of farmlands not yet touched by developers, an area I did not know much about. Gillian's rented farm was on the edge of this area, some fifteen kilometres away. As I approached the intersection I slowed, pulling over to the side to let the rain ease up a little. It was then that I began to get the strangest feeling. I was suddenly thrown into a state of absolute indecision. I had an overriding instinct that something was wrong, and that I just had to go and see Gillian. Up until that point I had not had contact with her for months, and, apart from knowing she had some problems, I had no particular purpose in visiting her, especially on a night like this. It was not as if we were lovers, it had always been a platonic friendship. And yet, here I was trying, for some reason, to decide whether to drive into an area I was unfamiliar with on a foul, cold night, or to take the well known and safer option of going home to my place.

I started the car and turned back onto the road to my house, trying not to think, leaving it to fate to decide. I had gone no further than five hundred meters when I suddenly turned my car around and headed back in the opposite direction, towards Gillian's house. This was crazy, this was not me, I didn't do this sort of thing. Thoughts like this forced me to pull over again and try to get control of my feelings. The rain was still roaring down. I sat there in the storm for a good twenty minutes. Once more I started the car and headed back towards my place. This time I got no more than a hundred meters before spinning the car around and heading back. Once again I pulled off the road and waited until I felt more certain of what I was about to do, sitting there for awhile. It was no use, I had to keep going in the direction of Gillian's house. But as I drove a feeling of desperation overcame me that I could not explain. Now I began to feel that I had to get there at all costs and as quickly as possible. But it was not to be a straight run. After driving for perhaps twenty minutes I saw taillights and flashing torches in the heavy rain ahead. I pulled up. Someone in a large cape and hat approached my car with a torch. It was a copper.

'You cannot proceed, sir,' he said in a formal manner, 'the bridge ahead is washed out, you'll have to turn around'.

I turned my car once again, thinking that now I can be justified in going home, for at least I'd tried. Not a bit of it. I could still not shake the feeling of urgency and desperation that was now morphing into fear, though of what I did not know. Turning on the cabin light I got out an old road directory and began looking for an alternative route. It showed a dirt road not far from where I was that would take me over the hill and onto the sealed road that led to Gillian's house. Without knowing what condition the road was in or how many flooded bridges there might be, I took it. There were four of them to cross, all covered with rushing water from small mountain streams, but the water was not deep. As I could not see whether the timber boards were still intact, I had to take my chance on each one, hoping for the best. The road was greasy and dangerous, with steep hills either side. It was still raining heavily and the only lights were my car lights. After what seemed to be hours of slow driving through this obstacle course, I could still not dispel my sense of urgency. There was no point in turning back anyway, I had to keep going on this old road I had committed myself to, for there was no space either side of the road in which to turn my vehicle. It then occurred to me that with all the rain and wind I might be stopped by a fallen tree. If that happened there would be nothing for it but to hunker down in the back seat until morning. After what seemed like hours, I noticed far ahead of me occasional car headlights passing from my left to the right and realized I was approaching the sealed road that led to my friend's house. My sense of relief of having got through the forest road was tempered by feelings of apprehension as to what I might find on arrival.

On reaching the sealed road I turned left, knowing that Gillian's farm was not far from the dirt road I had come down, and some minutes later, on entering the front drive, I could see all the lights were on, and that the house was fully lit. I could hear Jimi Hendrix playing 'All Along the Watchtower', and there were a few cars parked in the drive, but not a soul in sight. I stepped out of my car into the mud of the front yard, and moved towards the front porch, full of apprehension and confusion. It was then that Gillian suddenly appeared from behind the house with an umbrella, walking quickly towards me. When she saw who it was she embraced me, saying 'Thank God it's you, I thought it was my ex coming to hassle me again. Quick, come inside, we're having a party.'

Alan Lucas

This section brought to you by ...

Ashcrofts

An unforgettable dining experience

<http://www.ashcrofts.com/>

### Guests to Ghosts – Arthur Gray

My son Chris runs a public relations company in Sydney and one of his clients was a well-known city hotel. It seemed that the under-manager, a very pleasant Italian, had felt 'something' brush past him on the top floor at times and had conveyed his feelings to the manager. In turn, the manager had decided that since the area could be haunted he would make the most of it (unlike many other hotels which prefer secrecy) and publicise the fact that this hotel was harbouring a ghost.

So Chris, knowing my interest in the paranormal, called me in and it was decided that the best way to encourage the public's interest would be to issue a challenge through one of the major newspapers offering a free weekend at the hotel for anyone, with their partner, who could most closely identify the ghost.

I thought the idea was a good one and immediately got in contact with a close friend and well-known psychic, Pat Cameron, who agreed to travel over from her home in Manly and provide some expert assistance. She arrived carrying a small crucifix and a bottle of holy water and was introduced to the under-manager. He escorted us to the top floor where there were just three guest suites in a small corridor beside a flight of stone steps leading to what could have been a roof garden.

Pat stood in the middle of the area, her gaze directed at a corner of one of the large windows overlooking the back of the hotel. She asked me: 'Can you see him?' I said, 'no'. With that she went into a long silent conversation with a young man she described as tall, thin, dirty looking and haggard. After some minutes she relayed what he had told her.

His name was Charlie. He had been sent out from England around the turn of the century for stealing a loaf of bread and put up at the hotel when it was just a boarding house. He had been climbing a tree in the garden to watch women undressing at their windows when he fell.

Pat then crossed to the window and, using the crucifix and holy water, told us that Charlie had now been exorcised. He was no longer there.

The under-manager then escorted us down to a lower floor where, he thought, there might be another ghost. The floor contained just six suites and Pat decided to concentrate on three. Holding the crucifix and holy water she stood outside each door in turn in case it was still tenanted. In the first, she told us, a paedophile had placed a plastic bag over his head. In the second a man had taken drugs. Both suites were haunted.

The third room was most interesting. It seemed that a woman had taken an overdose because her lover had failed to arrive at the appointed time of 2am. The clock in her room had stopped exactly at 2am and hotel staff was unable to find another clock in the hotel that would work. Pat exorcised all three.

Now it was my turn. I had to interest one of the major newspapers into publishing a piece about the hotel (without mentioning specifics) and running the challenge. The competition ran for three weeks in the Sunday Telegraph and attracted several hundred replies. But only one entrant, a woman, was able to closely identify Charlie despite the fact that he was no longer there!

The hotel manager was delighted with the response and praised the efforts of all involved. About a week later I was idly standing on my front deck overlooking the garden and fishpond when I spied a tall, dark dirty-looking figure standing on the gravel path leading to the pond. It was there for a few seconds and I expected it to move either towards the pond or back along the path. It did neither. It simply vanished.

Death of My Grandson – Mary Krone

Only one thing has ever happened to me

Someone said...

There are photos...

I kept a diary...

For Blake to have died other things must have happened

Yet my life is one event

All else gone before and yet to come is lost

Only one thing has ever happened to me

It is omnipresent, like they used to tell us little kids about God

If ever there was a reason not to believe, this is it

This section brought to you by ...

Retrash

Rethinking waste

<http://www.retrash.com/>

### Horse Hair Shirt – Mark O'Flynn

CRASH.

'Darkness and devils!'

Rubbing his knee. Picking himself up out of a hole in the floorboards.

Holy Mary, Mother of God -

'Are you all right Erol?'

'I seem to have fallen through the floor boards.'

'Careful. They're rotten. I'll light a candle.'

Erol hauled himself out of the jagged hole in - what was it? - the lounge room floor. Dusk half-light filtered through a row of pencil pines, pointed and still like the green tips of flames. A match flared and his brother, Drew, loomed towards him, vast shadows above his eyes wafting on the ceiling. Daylight was fading inside the structure - Erol would not condescend to call it a building.

Blessed art thou amongst women -

Outside, birds had begun their noisy rituals for night.

'Ups-a-daisy.'

Erol ignored his brother's outstretched hand. Always the practical one, Drew lit two candles, (35 cents each at the distant grocery on top of the escarpment), and placed them in tin mugs; one on a battered card table (an ineffectual puff at the dust); the other on the dark mantle running the width of the room. Impossible in the dimness to say what sort of wood it was. Erol rolled up his pants leg, licked a finger and rubbed his knee. Cold logs lay in the grate, as if the fire had once been extinguished in a hurry. Things weren't quite as they appeared.

'What do you think, eh?' Drew asked. He was the younger. 'This is the lounge.'

'Was the lounge,' Erol corrected, brushing his vest. 'Something smells.'

'You wanted to go camping. Like the old days. Just the two of us.'

'Not here.'

'I know it hasn't been cleaned in years, but think of the potential. The market down here in the valley is about to go through the roof.'

Erol looked with some scepticism at the ruin and its potential.

'This is the bargain of a lifetime,' Drew continued in the face of Erol's silence. 'There's a south-facing verandah through there,' thumbing, 'with a view of the cliffs. Two access gates to Peach Tree Road. Careful if you go for a wander. Floor boards missing all over the place. Could probably do with a few new stumps.'

'The whole shemozzle needs reblocking,' said Erol, jumping on the spot to demonstrate the structure's fragility. A breeze nudged the empty house. Through the windows, the silhouette of the escarpment was slowly fading all around them, the dark line of the cliffs dominating the skyline, Drew thought, like a projection graph for the all-ordinaries index.

The affidavit rustled in his pocket. All he needed from his brother was a signature.

Demons screeched outside in the guise of possums. There was a sudden scurrying in the roof.

'A nice twenty minute drive up to the shops,' continued Drew, toeing the old coals. 'There's pasture to be agisted; money just sitting there. It's just the sort of place Mum was talking about.'

Mary is the lovely Mother of the World. She is the Beautiful Queen of Heaven.

'Talking to you about, maybe. I think we'd do as well to give the entire inheritance to charity.'

'Now Erol, let's not be hasty.'

Erol examined the shadowy walls while Drew went to fetch a wicker basket and primus stove from the car. Looking down on the house from the hill, he seemed to sense the walls of the valley gradually close in around them for the night. In a way he could see they were beautiful. Orange sandstone glowing with the last heat of the day. He looked with a little shivering envy at the lighted opulence of the Hydro Majestic hotel perched on top of the cliff. If things didn't work out he could always go and knock on the door up there.

'The old girl'll come up nicely in a new dress,' Drew said cheerfully, as he bustled back inside. 'Glowing like a Christmas tree.'

The light from the candle flames flickered. Erol glared at the cornices.

'You hungry Erol? I think we've got a picnic here somewhere. What are you still wearing that silly shirt for?'

'For our sins, Drew.'

'For your sins, maybe. My sins can take care of themselves. The spiders are going to love nesting in a horse hair shirt for the night. Haven't you got an old Pelaco?'

'I'm not staying here for the night!'

'Where are you going? Up to the Hydro? Do you know how much they charge for a room?'

'We could share a twin.'

'We could not. Don't you remember how Mum used to rave about the valley? Some of her favourite memories were down here.'

The old house creaked as they finger-tipped their way into the kitchen. The candle flames flickered and the walls seemed to leap at them, making Erol instinctively shield his face.

Hail Mary full of Grace -

'It smells,' Erol said, as something scurried across the floor into the darkened pantry.

'Rats,' said Drew, 'not to worry, the old chap who lived here left some traps in the shed. Poison too, enough to drop an elephant.'

'Where's he gone?'

'Who?'

'The previous owner.'

'Heaven, I guess.'

'Not, in my opinion, on the evidence of this smell. Why couldn't we have come in the day time?'

Drew shuffled about in a cupboard under the stained sink, between old tins of turpentine and jars of nails and rags that had dried into husks.

'You get a better sense of the valley atmosphere at night.'

'Rubbish. Mother liked the Hydro.'

'Marvelous feeling of history, don't you think?'

'Since when have you cared about history?'

'All the same Erol,' Drew prevaricated, 'you don't want rats nesting in your shirt.'

They understood each other with the intuition and animosity of brothers, even though there was ten years between them.

'Spiders. Rats. You called it a bargain.'

'When we fix it up it'll be worth a small fortune. And remember,' added Drew, 'when Mum made me executor, she explicitly wanted to protect her investment. I see you're not entirely opposed to that idea.'

'No. We could build a refuge, a hostel, a camp for homeless youth. Give them back some pride in themselves.'

'That wasn't quite what I had in mind.'

In the distance they heard a cow bellow. Erol felt for his beads.

'Haven't got a can opener, have you?' asked Drew.

***

'Tuck in,' Drew handed his brother a mug of steaming beans. The place didn't look too bad in the light of three or four more candle stubs they had found. Almost cosy. Drew turned the wheezing primus off, and the immediate silence bound them together more fiercely than blood. As far as Drew felt, they were only now camped under the same flapping roof through whim of circumstance and mutual suspicion. Outside the wind had picked up, rare in the shelter of the valley. The candles, screwed into the necks of dusty bottles, were strategically placed out of the way of draughts.

'Two four six eight -' said Drew, spoon hovering, then stopped. Erol glared. Grace first.

Over their nostalgic meal Drew continued to push the benefits of investing in the Megalong consortium, as he was beginning to think of it. Apart from the guaranteed return on the primary, there were also the aesthetic advantages; the way of life, the clean air, the views. Picture the dawn rising every day over the cliffs of the plateau running the eastern length of the valley towards the river.

('Yes, I can picture it.')

Narrow Neck plateau, did Erol know that? Yes he did. Spectacular wilderness. Imagine the business potential; ecotourism; nature holidays; all those equestrians. They could expect to take a fair slice of the lucrative business away from the pre-existing history-based enterprises, the other horsey concerns. One more teashop in the valley could only introduce some healthy competition. A businessman with vision could see a chair lift descending from the Hydro Majestic on top of the escarpment all the way to the valley floor. Drew could envisage the valley filled with Japanese tourists and the infrastructure to cater for them. A veritable gold mine.

'Naturally we'd get someone in to run the business side of things.'

'Would we just.'

In the meantime, this house and the surrounding hectares were a great start. And Drew happened to know that a further thousand acres, adjacent to the current property, were being auctioned in the not-too-distant future.

'Drew, this house smells of evil.'

'Rats. That's all. And mildew. That can be cleaned up. Rodent eradication.'

'Evil. And you want to squander Mother's bequest on it.'

'A sound investment. More than sound. The real-estate people showed me. There's a creek with running water. A natural spring.'

'Oh, Drew. You really don't understand business. You're not pinging. Ping ping ping, as Mother used to say. Use your loaf. He wants you to think it's a sound investment -'

'She. It was a she.'

'Well that's even worse. Look at the place. It's falling down around our ears. Rotten with evil. You mark my words. I wouldn't be surprised if a murder had been committed here. These real-estate doxies, they're all the same, all they're interested in is sex-u-al in-ter-sauce.'

He pronounced every syllable.

'Intercourse,' said Drew.

'What?'

'Intercourse, not sauce; with a k -'

'As I said. Evil. This house is rotten with it.'

'A few new stumps, that's all we need. I've got a mate -'

Erol glared, ending all conversation. Drew lapsed into the habitual embarrassment he felt at his brother's naivety. His profound silliness. Erol scratched his chest beneath the horse hair, ruminating over every bean.

'I'll just duck outside, Erol. I spotted a wood-pile down the yard when I was last here. See if you can find some kindling in the bedrooms. Do you want a lilo from the car?'

'If we must stay here I shall sleep on the floor. Rats don't bother me.'

No, they wouldn't dare, thought Drew.

Drew wandered down the slope of the neglected farm away from the house. A dozen pencil pines, once a windbreak for the house, hissed and swayed in the breeze. Away from the house blackberries and tea-tree competed for the same patches of poor soil. He stumbled over a rock. Easy does it, don't want to break my leg, he thought. Erol wouldn't find me till after mass tomorrow; should have fetched the torch from the car.

But turning, he was not quite sure \- his eyes playing tricks? - if the light in the car had just gone out.

Kindling in the bedrooms? Erol thought. He tried to pray. Something scratched against the roof and a certain smell continued to intrude on his meditations.

What is it Lord, why can't I concentrate?

Holding a candle at arm's length from his shirt he picked a path through the lounge room, between the hole in the floor and an old dusty couch. Wax dripped on his callused fingers. In the first bedroom, yes, a pile of kindling in one corner; twigs snapped from a dead tree scraping at the window. The creosoted floorboards rose and fell in a smooth ripple the length of the hall way. (It's getting stronger, Lord). In the next room the candle faltered, reflected sudden eyes in the glass - his.

Outside he heard the mute whir of the car's engine. (Drew turning over the motor, after the lilo, the softie). Against a wall Erol noticed a tea chest, Ceylon Tea stenciled on two sides. He flicked off the brittle lid and held the candle cautiously over the black hole.

(What the goodness? Books?) His fingers reached out and opened one.

'Oh my conscience,' he groaned out loud.

What's Erol trying to start the car for? Drew wondered, at the bottom of the hill, clutching a pile of wood in one arm. Spiders scurried away in the darkness. The shells of dead snails crunched under foot. He stood and watched the moonless sky, contemplating a cigarette so he wouldn't have to light up later in front of Erol. Mmm, a Glenfiddich would be nice. It infuriated him that, even now, after two divorces and a bankruptcy, Erol could still make him feel so diminished and small, so like a little brother. The trouble with Erol was that he couldn't conceal his feelings. Whatever they were. The old house stood above him, masked by the conifers and eucalypt saplings and scotch broom creeping up to the walls. Good flammable stuff; have to clear out that lot sooner rather than later. A great radiata pine loomed over the house. He heard the creek gurgle. The moon would soon rise above the escarpment. The trees stood to attention. Thinking it a selling point, the real-estate woman had plied him with legends of ghosts and covens and valley bushrangers. Drew liked those kinds of stories. The Japanese would love them too.

A cry came from the house. Within the deep verandah energetic shadows danced from window to window. Distant thumps. Yelling.

Just let Erol have his moment of grief, thought Drew. It had only been three weeks since their mother's funeral.

Stars began to appear over the escarpment's darker shadow.

Drew pushed open the door, awkward sticks falling from his load. He stopped in surprise, the noise fearsome.

'What's going on, Erol?'

Erol stood by the blazing fire in only his underpants. Baggy white ones like he used to wear as a kid, Drew noted, or like their father. His trousers and horsehair shirt on the floor jumping with ticks. The rats, for the moment, wary of the conflagration.

'Sin! That's what's going on. Darkness and devils. I knew I could smell it. Hail Mary full of Grace...'

'Careful Erol,' Drew warned, 'this place is a tinderbox.'

Flaming sheets of paper spilled from the hearth.

'Crates of it,' Erol wailed, ripping pages from the magazines and flinging them into the fire.

'Feel the heat of it! I've had to strip right down to my underwear.'

'What is it?'

Drew stayed where he was by the door.

'Filth! Degradation! Look at it! Dirty, filthy. Nothing but - but -'

His tirade stumbled.

'What? Have you found a body?'

'Trust you to know all about it. Bodies, yes bodies.'

'You'll set the place on fire. I think it might be heritage listed.'

'And you want to buy this nest of vipers!'

Erol ripped and shredded at the magazines, bundling them into the grate. Drew saw silhouettes of breasts. Lots of breasts. Cold contortions browning, bursting into flame, each page curling off and floating up what was left of the chimney. It was alive with bugs.

'Look at these skinny witches,' Erol continued, 'Vixens! Sluts! Ecdysiasts! Skinny as sticks. Nothing but tits and bums and vageenas.'

At this moment Drew was heartily sick of his brother.

'They look quite old to me Erol, like antiques. It looks like someone's storing them here.'

'Yes, you're an expert I see.'

Something crashed on the tin roof, sounding first like thunder; but then rolling noisily down the corrugations, clanged over a loose lip of guttering. Pine cones? Phase one of development: fell all trees (nb. Pines). Soon all the pornographic magazines were gone. Who would be storing porn way out here? Perhaps they were as ancient as the house? Drew watched his brother hurl the last faded pages into the flames. Erol, ghostly thin and pale in underpants, made the sign of the cross in the air, oblivious to the crackling sparks settling in his shirt.

'You've got a bit of a blaze going,' Drew joked, 'best chuck on a few spuds.'

Soon the coals were organized, pine logs arranged, still spitting sparks. Erol had calmed down and lay back on what was left of the couch. Drew perched on the picnic basket. Camping wasn't quite as either of them had remembered it. Erol took his crucifix and hung it on a nail.

'This'll look after us, Drewy.'

'Don't call me Drewy......You don't know what those books may have been worth!'

Something else crashed on the roof. That wasn't a pine cone - that was a rock!

'And why did you try to start the car?'

'I didn't. You did. You've got the keys.'

'Not me.'

They paused to look at the fire.

'Well, who in Heaven's name is in the car?'

Aware of the precarious parts of the floor, they hurried outside as best they could. A swirling, overgrown path of stone steps rose to the track leading to Peach Tree road. The car was gone. The moon, now launched above the eastern cliffs, blazed everywhere. Pale cloud rags melted about it.

'Who the hell has taken my car?' Drew spat, furious, examining the track for tyre marks.

'Devils,' said Erol, 'Darkness and devils, I told you. I've banished them from the house and they've fled,' then, 'Was it insured?'

'I should hope so. It was a company car.'

Still Drew stamped about in fury.

These material possessions Lord, thought Erol, it is easier for a camel......

'Some bloody bastard has pinched my bloody car.'

'Well Drew, if that's the price of sin.....'

'They weren't my bloody magazines.'

'Does your current wife know about them?'

'Piss off.'

That was the trouble with Drewy, thought Erol, he never could control his emotions. Mother spoiled him. Just as well she made me a signatory to the executor.

'Well what will we do? I don't have a phone. There's no neighbours.'

'None that will open their doors to the likes of you. The Lord no doubt meant us to pass a vigil here tonight.'

'The sleeping bags were in the car! We'll freeze. This isn't what I meant by camping. Aren't you cold?'

'No, I'm hot,' said Erol, but his body shivered, 'You can wear my shirt if you like.'

'No thanks.'

The moon lit up the surrounding bush like daylight. Mount Sugarloaf aspired to the cliffs behind it, towering up, like a great mushroom or a conical breast - No! No, not like a breast, Erol vigorously chastised himself, only like a mountain, only a hill.

As they turned, through the open door below them the glow of the flames was obvious.

'Christ, you've set the joint on fire.'

Erol stared, his eyes wide. Fire cleanses, fire absolves, purifies......

Drew ran back down the steps, stumbling along the side of the house, looking for a tap. There was none. He jumped up and down to see what was happening within. Erol dashed past him, and pranced bow-legged inside. Smoke poured from the doors as the fire quickly spread. Nothing to do about it anyway, Drew decided, if you hadn't got the fire under control within thirty seconds then you may as well give up, and there was not even a hessian sack.

'Erol!'

Erol burst, singed and coughing from the back door. They moved away from the heat of the house.

'Are you alright?'

'The fires of Hell!'

Drew stood waiting. He patted his wallet-pocket. Safe.

'What did you get?'

Erol held out his hand, and quickly spat in it. He rolled the beads until they ceased to smoke.

'Is that all?'

'It's a furnace in there. There wasn't time to save anything else.'

'Jesus wept.'

'That's very true.'

'I left the car keys in there.'

'Ah, Drewy, think boy, what good are the keys without the car?' and he tapped the side of his head with the sound of a hollow pumpkin.

They sat on the raised edge of the dirt track as the fire took hold of the house. (The shack, better think of it as a shack). Each sat on a cold stone. It seemed only minutes before the roof was ablaze, the air sucked noisily back into the roaring hollow beneath. Sparks shot off with the breeze into the darkness. A dark carpet of trees rippled across the plains towards the cliffs, rising up to the famous hotel. How far, in the darkness, did the smoke reach? Surely there was no danger of setting the whole valley on fire?

'Feel the heat of it,' Erol said, 'I bet the spuds are done.'

After the climax of the flames, as the chill air returned, Erol said:

'Perhaps we should walk?'

'At this time of night?'

They stayed until the roof collapsed, the pencil pines shimmering in the heat, by which time Drew had grown used to the spectacle of it. No sirens came. He was wondering how it might be explained.

'We better walk,' Drew eventually agreed, as the blaze began to subside.

Blossoms of sparks rose in the night as loose bricks from the chimney fell into the coals.

'The devil's work,' said Erol.

'What are we going to tell that real estate woman?'

'Tell her the truth Drew; that they weren't your magazines. Thank the Lord you didn't put a deposit on it.'

Drew said nothing.

They made their way along the moonlit track to the road. The glow of the flames shrank behind them. Alongside them the blackberries and the shadows were invulnerable. Drew had always wanted to rescue old weatherboard ruins he had seen sleeping in the brambles along country roads. With a bed in some swanky hotel at the end of it. Erol winced gingerly at the stones beneath his feet. Drew looked at this vision of his brother in underpants at his side. He looked cold, but Erol continued on, his flesh luminous, feet swollen and cut, on the verge of bleeding, at one and at peace.

Mark O'Flynn

This section brought to you by ...

Offbeat Ceremonies –

Giving you the alternative ...

http://www.offbeatceremonies.com.au/

### Autumn Katoomba Moon – Sandy Mac

As is usual in the mountains, the morning autumn air was not simply 'crisp', as the tourist brochures tell it, but a bone-chilling, icy cold. Ellisa loved the mountains and treasured the many times she had spent at her aunt and uncle's home. She looked forward to staying with them again when she finished work for the day.

Pulling her woolly scarf tighter, she climbed the sandstone steps up to the leadlight doors of the elegant house. She felt really cheesed off with this assignment, definitely not one for a young, talented reporter. She resolved, however, on entering the long hallway, that she would get in and out as quickly as possible.

Marjorie, a small, elderly woman, welcomed her with a pleasant smile, clasping her hands and ushering her into a sunroom lined with potted orchids. A tiny lace covered table had been neatly set with a dainty, floral teapot and cosy, two bone china cups with saucers, and scones accompanied by jam and whipped cream. The aroma was wonderful!

The old lady gestured that she sit to one side on a cane chair, whilst she lowered herself into her rocker, so close to Ellisa that their knees almost touched. Thanking her gracefully, but still 'angry on the inside', Ellisa posed her initial question, hoping that the myriad of personal questions to follow would not confuse or irritate the old girl.

'Congratulations Marjorie, on your award as Regional Senior of the Year!'

Marjorie nodded and began to pour the tea.

'What do you consider your greatest achievement?'

'I've always believed that we are all here to make the best contribution we can, using whatever talents and skills we possess, to make life on this earth happy and comfortable for all people in the world, not just the powerful few. Teaching children to think for themselves has been my goal for over forty years....the most gratifying part of my life.'

Marjorie brushed a long silver strand of hair from across her brow, took a sip from her teacup and broke open a steamy scone. Looking Ellisa directly in the eye, she went on.

'I've always loved books and read every day as much as I can. I read all sorts of books on all topics from Dickens to Darwin....and sometimes Donald Duck. It keeps me laughing and alive.'

She then laughed with the broadest of smiles Ellisa had ever seen. She could not help but join her.

'Your novels have brought you great popularity over the years?' Ellisa questioned.

'Popularity can be a strange thing.' she mumbled softly. 'It can be both positive and negative. When I was arrested a few times and had my face plastered all over the newspapers, my friends made me feel famous, but my family were disgusted.'

'You were arrested! Why?'

Ellisa found this statement so alien coming from such a highly regarded woman.

'For standing up for human rights! We had to march and yell loudly in order to bring about the end of conscription and to get our poor young boys home from the slaughter-houses of Vietnam. I'd still be protesting today if I had the energy. All wars are evil and achieve nothing. As a teacher, I would make squabbling children sit down and negotiate acceptable agreements over their problems. Why can't our world leaders do the same? All those kids, killed just to prove national and economic superiority. Senseless, senseless, senseless!'

She shook her head from side to side in frustration. Tears were becoming obvious in the corners of her soft, brown eyes.

'Anyway, where were we? I have always had a tendency to be a bit verbose...go off on a memory tangent from time to time. Please forgive me.'

'That's all right, Marjorie. I've got plenty of time.' Ellisa found herself saying, clasping the old lady's hand in her own.

'Yes, popularity, that was it! Well, since publishing and presenting some of my novels and speeches to various groups, I've often landed myself in a spot of hot water.'

'Why is that?'

'You see dear, not everyone truly believes in freedom of speech. I have been called a 'disgrace to educated Australian society' and an Ozzy Germaine Greer by many over the years. But it doesn't faze me one little bit. The truth just hurts some people. My ego is still healthy and I'm not self-centered or out to please anyone, I just tell it as I see it.'

'Good for you, Marj.' Ellisa could not help herself. She munched into her second scone, the fresh cream oozing from the sides of her mouth. Then she cleared her throat and checked her notes again.

'Your favourite fantasy...is that a secret, or may I ask?'

'That's a curly question dear. Let's see.' She paused and tilted her head for a moment in deep thought.

'That would have to be .... that I would see the reality of John Lennon's song 'Imagine', before I leave this earth.'

She hummed a few lines in perfect tune. Ellisa sat in awe.

'That is one of my favourites too.' she admitted.

They chatted on for about half an hour , discussing music, art and books. Ellisa was stunned by the old lady's frankness and felt drawn to her, to her wonderful intellectuality and ideals.

'I have something for you to give to your uncle Harry when you see him this evening.' Marjorie said, placing a heavy brown paper bag into Elissa's hand.

'You know my uncle and aunt?'

'We have been good friends for many years. I have been helping him with his archaeological collections and research ever since. Now get along, as the weather can turn easily at this time of day.'

After thanking Marjorie for her valuable time and hospitality, Elissa stepped out into the afternoon sunshine. There was a new spring to her step as she headed back to her mini, parked under the oak tree.

Sandy Mac

This section brought to you by ...

Todd Sharp – Commercial Artist

Custom artwork and illustration

<http://www.toddasharp.com/>

### Young Harry – Robyn Nance

Never a single day went by,

She didn't think of her youngest son,

And all the events leading up to,

The awful thing she had done.

She remembered the night he was born,

When the rivers were up all around.

The 'big wet' they called it at the time,

As the floods covered the ground.

The Flying Doc was unable to land,

So her husband had handled the birth,

While the other two boys tended the stock,

She'd welcomed this new son to earth.

Right from the start he was different.

Much smaller than the other boys.

His dad called him the runt of the litter,

Happier playing alone with his toys.

While the older two had been home-schooled,

The decision was made this time,

To send young Harry to boarding school,

At the tender age of nine.

His father ignored his pleas to stay,

He'd failed to show interest in the land.

The other two were considered enough,

To work as unpaid farm hands.

It almost broke his mother's heart,

When Harry's letters were stained with tears.

His loneliness jumped out at her,

Till he learnt to hide his fears.

Young Harry came home every holiday,

His excitement was plain to see,

But he stopped asking did he have to go back,

When his father told him how things had to be.

At twelve Harry finally told them,

'It'd be better if I just stayed with a mate,

I'll only come home for the Christmas hols,'

Just for his mother's sake.

It was late in the summer of 2005,

When the farmers faced their worst fears.

No irrigation in the Murray-Darling basin,

It was the worst drought in a hundred years.

It was then Harry's father told him,

He'd have to leave the life he'd known,

They could no longer afford to keep him.

'Leave school, find a job – you're on your own.'

Harry appealed to his mother,

But to her everlasting shame,

She supported her husband's actions,

And said the drought was really to blame.

Harry felt completely abandoned.

The whole thing was an awful mess,

And when his mother finally enquired,

He'd left no forwarding address.

Each week she tensed in anticipation,

As she waited for the weekly mail plane.

Perhaps this time she'd hear from him.

But sadly she waited in vain.

Five long years had been and gone.

It's as if Harry had gone up in smoke.

So his mother was unable to tell him,

Dad had died and the farm was now broke.

When the bank finally had a buyer,

She fretted and wondered how,

If Harry ever tried to reach her,

He'd know where she'd moved to now.

On the day she waited to leave her home,

She heard the buzz of the incoming plane.

The two older boys had already gone,

And nothing about the farm seemed the same.

She drove to the overgrown air strip,

Ready now to leave this place.

When out of the plane stepped a tall young man,

With a broad smile upon his face.

'Hello, Mum.' he said and she opened her arms.

She couldn't believe what she was seeing,

Young Harry had finally come home again,

Just when she was on the verge of leaving.

'Forgive me, son,' she hugged him close,

'I should never have let you go.

I should have stood up to your Dad,

But as usual I went with the flow.'

Young Harry shrugged and stepped away,

He couldn't tell her he loved her still,

But he told her he'd actually struck it rich,

And handed her a dollar bill.

'I was down to this solitary dollar,

When an old lady took me in.

So I worked on her farm for all those years,

And she made me feel like kin.

When she died, she left me her fortune,

I was the closest she'd had to a son.

Then I sold up all her holdings,

So here I am, and the deed is done.

'Best you get on the plane, Mum,

I have no room for you in my life.

I bought this farm when the bank foreclosed,

And I'll make a home here for a wife.'

The last she saw as she flew away,

Was her Harry, standing tall.

She realised he'd become as hard as his Dad,

And that explained it all.

Robyn Nance

### Breakfast at the Stockmarket – Alan Lucas

After the third night shift

In a row, I go for breakfast

At the stock-market cafe,

Scrambled eggs on sourdough,

Bacon and tomato,

Two cups of strong black

To get me on the straight and narrow.

I make my order and ask

For a side serve of panache,

This cafe has comfortable matrons,

In comfortable circumstances,

They are a lively lot with the chatter

Of snow fields, shared cabins,

Convivial nights around the fire,

And talk of a snow bunny called Jimmie,

Jimmie the skiing instructor.

It could be a scene

From the Canterbury tales of Chaucer,

Winter cold, wooden benches,

Matronly wenches,

Steamy windows and the men

Outnumbered.

A matronly looker arrives,

Wearing a summery skirt,

Oooh, look what she's wearing,

It must be so cold,

Oh, I keep it under my shirt,

'That helps.' says she,

And throwing a leg over the bench,

Whirls her dress and goes 'Woohee'

In front of a friend who is seated.

Someone else makes the comment

'That woman will need therapy now.'

And I note that,

She does look a bit depleted.

I consider it wise to go back

To my breakfast and paper,

Catching a knowing look

From the bloke at the opposite table

I return a smile and a nod,

Both of us knowing that these ladies

Would be too much for either of us,

Even at a jog.

This section brought to you by ...

Blue Mountains Books

New and used books

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

### Bullion – David Berger

He appeared in our local pub about six months ago with his battered old bush hat and drab working clothes. We get a lot of 'blow-ins' in the upper Blue Mountains but he wasn't anything like the hordes of tourists we usually see. He was different: quiet, kept to himself, dark leathery wrinkled skin, sinewy body, probably forty-ish... but who could tell? The publican said he was a swaggie, camped out in the bush near our village for a few days before moving on. I wandered over.

'G'day mate, haven't seen you around before. My name's Dave.'

'G'day, yeah. Just passin' through. Nice little pub you got here, Dave, my name's Jack, Jack Reilly.'

We got talking and I liked him. He said he'd walked over half the continent, looking for any work he could get. The tales he told me, about his life on the open road, 'humpin' the bluey' he called it, kept me either in suspense or stitches. He was a decent and honest bloke, so after a few beers I offered him a couple of nights at my place with a roof over his head, a bed, a shower, and a home-cooked meal. He accepted.

I live by myself in a small rented place, it's all I can afford and Jack Reilly understood that our lowly status in the world was pretty similar. On the second night, just before he left, he said,

'I'll be off tomorrow, but you've been pretty good to me... given me a feed and a bed, put up with my snoring and all that... so in return I'll tell you a true story.'

'Is this a pub-talk 'true story',' I said, 'or is it dinky-di?'

'No, mate, dinky-di, and I've got the proof!'

'OK, Jack, wait a minute.' and I got two new stubbies from the fridge.

'Shoot.'

So he began his story. He said that last year he had been working up in the Forbes area, bushranger country, Ben Hall country. He was doing fence repairs for an old farmer who had no wife or kids, and one night he had been reading a story about Ben Hall, the bushranger, when the farmer noticed the book.

'I can tell you a better story about Ben Hall than what you'll read in that.' the farmer said.

'Oh, yeah?' Jack said, but he was interested and got ready to listen.

The farmer told Jack that he knew that Ben Hall had been in the local area in 1865, on the run for three days after doing an armed hold-up on Robinson's Pub at Canowindra. Hall and his four mates had headed west and arrived in the Forbes area. Then their trail vanished. It was said that they had two saddle bags full of gold bullion, mostly in the form of gold sovereigns. Now, Ben Hall was a hero to some people, the ordinary working man, but he was just a criminal to others. Eventually the law would catch up with him, but the interesting thing was that, before being shot dead by the police at Billabong Creek about one month later, it was learned that Ben Hall had quarrelled with young Johnny, the youngest in the gang, and had shot and killed him.

Everyone said that this was quite out of character for Ben Hall because most ordinary people regarded him as a real gentleman. So, people thought, young Johnny must have done something pretty bad in Hall's eyes. Anyway, after the Billabong Creek shooting, the police only found one saddle bag with the money. But the other one, and Johnny's body, had disappeared.

The old farmer was proud of his local bushranger and he had studied the life of Ben Hall. It was from a letter written by Ben Hall that he knew the bushranger had visited the land where his farm now was. From a description in the letter he knew that, just before his death, Hall had hidden the gold in a cave on the farmer's property. He had tried to find that cave, and was sure that he knew the rocky outcrops and creek which Hall had described. The gum trees were obviously different now, but the terrain had changed little in a hundred and forty years. And so the farmer had searched the area which seemed to fit the description. Up and down he went, and round and round but there were no caves anywhere.

But one day while walking across his property, just before giving up any hope of finding the treasure, he noticed something small, round and brown near a wombat hole. It didn't look like a piece of shit, like what you'd normally find near a wombat's hole.

'I bent down,' Jack said, taking on the character of the old farmer, 'and looked at this thing closer... you could have knocked me down with a feather... it was a coin, an old sovereign. Where did it come from? It must've come out of the wombat hole. So I kicked away at the dirt around the hole and ran my fingers through the sandy soil until I found two more of them.'

The farmer told Jack that this had all happened just near where he'd been doing the fencing. Then he said that despite sifting through the dirt around the wombat hole, he couldn't find anything else. He went back many times but found nothing, so he gave up looking.

Jack said that he just stared at him, unsure, but then the old farmer pulled out the three sovereigns to show Jack.

'I couldn't find any more and I'm getting too old to try. But the rest... is out there somewhere.'

Jack had been impressed with this story but had soon moved on, searching for more work. When shearing time came around a year later, he went back to the Forbes area and returned to the old farmer's property hoping for work. Unfortunately, the old bloke had died and now his vacant farm was up for sale. Jack thought about those sovereigns, could the story be true?

He had his book about Ben Hall in his hands and walked back to where he had previously done the fence work. The look of the land tallied with Hall's account, but there were definitely no caves, a feature which many others had tried to find. But there were wombat holes everywhere and that was where the farmer said he had found his three sovereigns. Jack found a few wombat holes near where he had previously worked and looked inside. He shone his torch into the darkness but there was nothing unusual about them until he came to one hole and, on bending down, he was hit by a gentle updraft of cold air.

He brought out his torch again and looked inside. The burrow seemed to go in a long way so he slithered inside it and dragged himself along the passage by his arms. The wombat hole soon gave way to a large underground cavern which opened up in front of him and the dry cold air increased.

After entering this cave Jack cautiously edged towards what seemed to be a cliff right in front of him. He picked up a rock and dropped it over the edge. It took quite a few seconds for the rock to make a distant splash a long way below. Moving sideways into a bit more space he brushed against what he thought was a piece of leather. He reached out with one hand and felt something hard and then... cloth? He managed to get his torch around to look at... at what? Christ almighty!... It was a mummified man!

Propped up against the wall of the cavern, a sightless grinning leathery old

face seemed to be welcoming him into its home. Jack was startled at first but then began to study the corpse. The man, mummified by the cold dry air, must have been there many years. He seemed to have a fist-sized hole in his chest. Who was he? How did he get here?

Jack tried to get closer to study the remains, trying to identify clothing or some piece of equipment, then he saw an old leather saddle-bag beside the corpse. There were hundreds of dull coins all around him! Could these be the gold sovereigns? Jack scooped up all the coins and put them into his pockets and what remained of the leather bag, then he scrambled out of the cave and into the fresh air. He looked at some of the coins. A bit of spit and a rub brought out their golden sheen and clearly showed some of the dates: Queen Victoria, 1858, 1860, 1863. So, it was true. Eureka!

But what should he do?

He decided to bury the coins in another location until he could think things through clearly. Was there still a reward for the money, or did all the reward money go to that blasted informer, Mick Connolly? Could he keep the coins or was he stealing them? If so, from whom? The farmer? The government? The bank? He needed time to think, so he headed off for Sydney.

When he had finished telling me his story, I looked at him and said, 'Jack, that's a pretty good yarn. Do you have any of those coins on you?'

When he said that he did not, I asked him about digging some of them up and getting one or two of them valued. He said he was scared of bringing attention onto himself. I looked at his craggy old face; it was honest, but he had teeth like a bombed out city. If he had that much money, I thought, why didn't he just take one coin and get his teeth fixed? Frightened, I suppose, so I said,

'Hey, Jack, I wouldn't mind a couple of those coins next time you're passing through, payment for the board and lodgings, ha!' I laughed and so did he. I decided that I couldn't take it all that seriously.

He grinned and said, 'I've got to be off to Wagga tomorrow. You've been a good bloke. I'll see what I can do. Might see you in six months time.'

The next day he packed up and left. I last saw him standing on the side of the Great Western Highway trying to hitch a lift westwards with the truckies. He was good value, a nice bloke, and obviously lonely. Just like me.

I didn't think his story was true. I could see so many holes in it. Did Ben Hall, the popular hero, really shoot one of his own men? Why didn't the farmer dig out the wombat hole and take all the money? Oh well, it was a great camp-fire yarn at least. No harm done, he certainly entertained me. Good luck to him.

Well, as I said, that was six months ago and I had almost forgotten Jack Reilly, even though his memory made me smile. But yesterday, when I was sitting in my local pub after work, just relaxing and having a chat, the publican came up to me and gave me an old tobacco tin.

'What's this?' I said.

'Don't ask me, I was just asked to give it to you.' He shrugged and walked off.

This must be some sort of a practical joke, I thought, 'Oh well, it doesn't look like a bomb.'

I opened the tin and inside, wrapped up in a piece of newspaper, were five gold sovereigns...

I was shocked and with my mouth wide open I looked around the bar. Then in a corner of the room I saw him, sitting there grinning at me, with a new set of teeth.

David Berger

This section brought to you by ...

Gregory North

Three times Australian Champion bush poet

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

### Stick It! – Gregory North

Although there's lots that I don't know,

I wouldn't say I'm dumb, or slow,

but one thing makes my anger grow,

around the silly season.

It's not the debts on credit cards,

not even flashing lights in yards,

or sending dimwits 'kind regards',

or eating without reason.

There's one thing gets me going ape –

that's trying to use sticky tape!

Now as a concept, it's unreal –

you find the end and gently peel,

then cut it off and it will seal

your parcel like a beauty.

But can I ever find the end?

It makes me mad, I won't pretend –

It nearly drives me round the bend;

my language gets quite fruity.

It sets young hearer's mouths agape,

'That stinkin', bloody sticky tape!'

I find the end, hip-hip-hooray!

I stretch it out, to my dismay,

it splits and flies in disarray,

a piece wrapped round my finger.

I draw in breath, my nostrils flare,

I'm stressed and very near despair,

the tape rolls 'neath the fridge... I glare.

I'll leave it there to linger.

My finger's weird out of shape

because it's wrapped in sticky tape.

Another roll is standing by.

The gleaming packet caught my eye.

I'll wrap this gift before I die –

won't let it win that easy.

This brand is number one, you see.

It's quality – now that's the key.

Just one thing that does not agree –

the smell. It makes me queasy.

And now the tape's stuck to itself!

I pry it round and whack a shelf.

As blood pours from my de-barked hand,

I swear at this expensive brand.

I simply do not understand,

why must it be that sticky?

And now I have to cut the stuff,

but will it tear? No. It's too tough!

I'll try my teeth, I'm in a huff,

and now it gets quite tricky.

I think I'm gonna bloody flip,

'cause now it's stuck down on my lip!

And now I can't cut with my teeth

'cause there's no edge to get beneath!

I rip the stay-sharp from its sheath...

I'm not sure what I'm thinking.

The knife held in my cacky paw,

I place it by my quivering jaw,

then flick it upwards and, in awe,

a pink flash through my blinking.

Attempts to cut the tape-roll clear

have seen me slice off half my ear!

I scream in anger, then in pain.

This will be tricky to explain,

but worst of all, it's been in vain –

the roll of tape's still dangling!

I drop the knife, and where's it go?

No need to say, 'cause you all know –

the damn thing stabs me through the toe!

My body's copped a mangling.

I scream and swear and, what is that?

My ear lobe's picked up by the cat!

I try to hop and close the door.

I hear a rip and then, I roar.

The knife has nailed me to the floor!

Can no one hear me screaming?

The cat escapes with fresh red meat,

my ear drips with a constant beat

to swell the blood pool round my feet.

Oh, tell me that I'm dreaming!

'Cause now I'm stuck with no escape –

and all because of sticky tape!

This section brought to you by ...

MoshPit Publishing Pick n' Mix Websites

Affordable, no-fuss, fast-loading websites starting at $440

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

What I Wish I Could Be – Robyn Chaffey

'Oh! How I wish I could be so much more than I am!'

Not wealthy or famous. Not better than they!

I've given life over just trying to morph

to what others would have me be!

How foolish I've been!

Not one of 'them' would have me the same!

Each wants something different.

Not one's satisfied!

I push and I pull and try to mutate;

Turn inside out

Then stand on my head.

Hold my head higher,

Straighten my back.

Be somewhat kinder -

'It isn't your problem so don't be a fool!'

'Stay home for your children!'

A woman's place!

'You should be working, one wage can't suffice!'

'We need your taxes!'

'Who's got your kids?'

'Mustn't look frowsy!'

'Don't dye your hair!'

'Why so much make-up?'

Vanity fair!

'Oh! How I wish I could be so much more than I am!'

I came to that time women reach at some stage,

I just didn't know what I was!

Somebody's mother,

Another one's wife!

My father's daughter, my mother's strife!

Employee to this one, neighbour to that -

I'd like to think a good friend to some.

I raised my children,

I juggled my world,

Got a fine headache being all that I'm not!

Now on my own, do still like to dream,

My body's not working,

My mind won't be tamed,

I'd like to put 'super' ahead of my name,

Tell all these people I'd won at their game,

If only to quiet the 'shoulds'.

The voice that is stronger,

the one overriding

Is the one telling me;

I am not!

I'm me!

I'm free!

I'm more than I knew.

Oh! I wished I could be so much more than I was!

Then I grew!

Then I knew!

Then I was!

This section brought to you by ...

Christina Frost Clayton

Visual Artist and Teacher

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

### All About Ticker – Mark Riches

If you had aspirations of being cool in my day, then watching Countdown was a prerequisite. I'd be there, six o' clock sharp Sunday evening in front of the old AWA, ready and primed for an hour of visual instruction on the latest hairstyles, fashion and attitudes. The girls were swaying to Dancing Queen, and a guy with a patch over one eye told us to 'walk right in, sit right down, baby let your hair hang down.' The year was 1977; I was ten years old and couldn't get those tunes out of my head.

The ability to recite lyrics and imitate the postures and pouts of various rock stars certainly helped, but it didn't make you a legend. No, it was never that easy. That's because I was growing up in the age of the thrill seeker, and the coolest toy any kid could own was an Evel Knievel stunt cycle. Seeing Evel shoot out after manically cranking up the mechanism was enough to transport any boy into the world of their dreams. It was simply a fact of life in 1977—if you wanted to have credibility and impress, then you had to show daring. BMX was just taking off, skateboards were definitely cool (even better looping-the-loop with a yo-yo at the same time), and so were mini-bikes and the ever popular billy cart. All were potentially dangerous in their own right, and required varying degrees of courage to master.

The Christmas holidays had arrived, fourth grade was over and next year Tony S and I would progress a few rows closer to that coveted back seat position on the school bus. Breaking too early was a big mistake, and inevitably led to a punishing ride home. Bags were unceremoniously snatched and contents dumped into the aisle. Clag glue in the big clear bottle with brush applicator was often worked in as hair gel, and pencil cases became missiles to launch at pedestrians and passing street signs. But, times were a changin', as they say, and Tony and I were beginning to enjoy a certain smugness in the knowledge that we were on the way up—or rather, back. The world was opening up to us, and believe me, we had plenty to prove.

Tony's father was a pathologist and worked in the city, which meant his parents had more money than mine. He had a new Honda Z50 mini-bike, and I had a second hand Deckson with a lawn mower engine. It didn't matter, though. Looking the part didn't fool anyone for long. At the end of the day it was all about ticker, and in that respect good old Tony knew he was beaten before he even got started. He may have had better and newer stuff, but I had heart, and at a local level that's what counted, especially with the girls. Where he lifted the front wheel ten inches, I'd bring the whole bike vertical. Where he chickened-out because the jump was too high, I'd tear in with reckless enthusiasm. That was the way of it, and you either had heart, or you didn't. Simple as that. The social order in those days was easily determined.

Like every other kid around, Tony and I had been taken to the cinema in town to see Star Wars. It was a big deal at the time, and almost beyond the scope of imagination. I remember waiting in line and watching the session before us file out of the theatre. Every kid was starry-eyed; a look of sheer enlightenment written over every face. I'm sure there was something about the timing of this movie and the event that would shortly take place and cause such disruption in Tony S's young life. Whether or not the force moved into his personal sphere and emboldened him with its special power, I can only speculate. But something gripped him, that's for sure.

It was Boxing Day, and time to compare and show off new toys. I had Capsela, a sort of radical plastic Meccano with electric motors and gears. It was the cool toy of the year, or at least one of them. Tony had many new things including the latest TV game. It played ping-pong, with bars that moved vertically up and down on each side of the screen. With two speeds and sound effects, it was revolutionary. We spent hours reefing on the controllers and contorting various facial expressions.

The other item of real significance that Tony had been given was a billy cart. Hand crafted by his grandfather from new timbers and with ball bearing wheels, this baby shouted adventure. It had a padded seat, steering was by rope on a pivoting front axle, and it was painted red to go faster. I clearly recall standing there goggling at the thing in envy. It trumped Capsela—ten times over.

For a while his father supervised us as we took turns pushing each other up and down his driveway. Tony's younger brother, Peter, also joined in. But it wasn't long before his dad got bored and went inside. At this juncture I will point out that there was a hill between where Tony and I lived, and its gradient was not slight. It could be traversed by pushbike quite easily, as long as your brakes were in good order. Tackling it by skateboard, however, was another matter altogether. It was just too long and too steep for small wheels to handle. I would usually start my run from about halfway up, and even that was perilous—as many childhood abrasions attested to. The phrase death wobbles wasn't coined for nothing, and this hill could bring out that swerving madness in the best of manufactured toys. Let me tell you straight—nothing strikes fear into a ten year old's heart more than the onset of that dreadful sensation. It is the precursor to tears and unbearable humiliation.

Of course we had been told 'not to go on the road' a million times over. Not that it was particularly dangerous, as we lived in a semi-rural area and there was little traffic. From the hill you could see the huge bonfire being constructed at my house in readiness for cracker night. These were the days when you could buy firecrackers at the corner store or any supermarket. My parents had several acres, so there was plenty of room to let them off in relative safety. It didn't dawn on me until later that my father was actually a pyromaniac. I think it hit home the day the fire brigade helicopter circled low over our dam, which he had set alight to 'clear the reeds'. Anyway, bonfire night was an event keenly anticipated in our neighbourhood, and the hype grew as my dad collected tyres and all sorts of environmentally offensive material to pile up. We prepared for it all year, then on the actual night he would go out and drench this mountain of highly flammable refuse in a mixture of petrol and diesel. Once it got dark I would then ignite the beast by aiming a ball shooter from afar. I have to tell you those balls didn't always fly straight out, and there was more than one instance of burnt clothing and singed hair. Even if you were good enough to dodge those stray balls it didn't guarantee your safety. The eruption which soon followed would ruddy the cheeks of every kid within cooee! But all that is an aside. It was Boxing Day, there was a new billy cart, and three boys intoxicated with the spirit of Christmas...

I don't need to tell you that the aforementioned hill represented a temptation beyond the limits of our self-control. Conquering that hill would propel us to the peak of social heights. No kid could beat it. And so it was actively proposed, and the method by which it could be achieved was resolved in hushed tones. The cart was dragged to the end of the drive, and then with great stealth we slipped away down the street and out of sight of his parents' home.

It was Tony's cart, so of course he would ride first. I was on my mini-bike, and Peter on foot. Our job was to follow alongside and watch for cars. The great attempt was on—we were all charged for it—and I don't think anything could have stopped us.

I thought he was going to start from halfway, or even further down just to get the feel of it, but he didn't. There was a glow in Tony's eye, something bordering on insanity. He had decided to go from the top, which was crazy, although I never tried to dissuade him. Whatever happened, it was going to be epic, and just being there to witness it was worth big points.

He lined it up dead centre in the middle of the tar. It was like a race car sitting there, with all the associated tension and expectation before the flag drops. I felt a thrill of adrenalin in my veins as he sat down and took in what lay ahead. That look was still in his eye, and I could see he wasn't going to chicken out. A sense of pride touched me then. This wasn't really Tony, but some fearless daredevil in his place.

He lifted up his feet and the cart began rolling. Peter on the other side was looking worried. I let the brake off on the mini-bike and maintained a speed alongside, looking back now and then to make sure no cars approached from behind. Tony was in a crouch, hunched forward ready to take the speed and keeping a low centre of gravity. The top of the hill was the steepest part and his momentum ramped up quickly. Before long Peter was sprinting at full speed and falling behind. I accelerated to keep up—and Tony looked nowhere but straight ahead—straight down that treacherous incline towards a destiny he could almost touch.

By halfway the wheels were a blur and he was really flying, with the cart tracking beautifully straight. I felt exhilarated, and knew unless he did something stupid that he was actually going to make it—which was incredible. Then suddenly I was distracted. At the extreme of my vision I saw something move through the line of trees that edged the road. At the very bottom of the hill, just where it flattened out, was a neighbour's driveway. I don't know whether it was a horse running in their paddock or what, but something moved towards the road on a trajectory which would have intersected directly with the cart.

'Car!' I yelled out.

Tony panicked. He tried to ease over towards the side of the road, but at the speed he was doing any deviation meant disaster. The dreaded death wobbles stole the steering from him in an instant and the cart flipped up in the air, hurling him from the seat.

I knew without even looking that it was going to be bad. No car appeared, so I spun the mini-bike around and rushed back to help. Peter, terrified, had by now arrived on the scene too. Tony was up off the road, his clothes shredded, various parts bloodied and obviously dazed.

'Are you okay?' I asked, running up to him.

He just looked at me in amazement, and I'm sure I wore an identical expression when I noticed that his front teeth were missing. All that remained were two jagged stubs.

I tried to locate the teeth as someone at school had said you could re-attach them with spit if you did it straight away. But they must have been in a thousand pieces, and Tony was going into shock and needed his parents.

There was no way I'd go anywhere near his house after that. Peter must have dragged the battered cart back up the hill. I crept home in fear. Within minutes I heard his father's voice echoing out across the valley between our properties. I was petrified, and had to explain it all to my parents.

You must be wondering if this courageous feat actually saw Tony S rise to the status of local superstar. Well, it didn't quite work out that way. You see, they were his adult teeth that he lost, so to allow for future growth the dentist installed two disproportionately large, plastic facsimiles. For the next five years he looked like Bugs Bunny.

Was it my fault? Pretty much. But it was a great adventure, and kids don't hold grudges. We both look back fondly on the day Tony proved he really did have the heart of a lion.

Mark Riches

This section brought to you by ...

Running Over a Chinaman

A tale about surviving in the Web of Trauma

<http://www.runningoverachinaman.com/>

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

### D.W. Griffith's 'The Birth of a Nation': Securing Feature Film Exhibition in the Motion Picture Palace – Albany Dighton

' _No palace of Prince or Princess, no mansion of millionaire could offer the same pleasure, delight, and relaxation to those who seek surcease from the work-a-day world, than this, the Arcady where delicate dreams of youth are spun... Here in this Fox dreamcastle, dedicated to the entertainment of all California, is the Utopian Symphony of the Beautiful, attuned to the Cultural and Practical... No King... No Queen... had ever such luxury, such varied array of singing, dancing, talking magic, such complete fulfilment of joy. The power of this Purple we give to you... for your entertainment. You are the monarch while the play is on!'_

San Francisco Fox - 1920

The advent of the 'Motion Picture Palace' was one of the major historical changes in exhibition practices within the motion picture industry. It was the answer to the call (demands) of the bourgeoisie and due to the success of D.W. Griffith's _The Birth of a Nation_ , feature films were secured for exhibition in the future at a justifiably higher cost. To be succinct, D.W. Griffith changed the film industry exhibition practices forever.

Janet Wasko aptly portrays the significance of D.W. Griffith's epic masterpiece: ' _The Birth of a Nation_ demonstrated that film could be a powerful social force, as well as a powerful source of profit' (Wasko 1986, p.33). So whilst it was a catalyst for cementing feature film exhibition, it was also a catalyst for capitalistic practices including vertical integration, the configuration of the studio system and eventually the high concept film – the exhibition of a film in conjunction to promoting merchandise, music soundtracks, and star power links.

This historical change was a product of change in industrial and cultural practices and therefore a product of change within the production, distribution and exhibition sectors of the film industry. The format of this essay will be structured to highlight the evolution of D.W. Griffith and his film, _The Birth of a Nation_ , in conjunction with the evolution of the picture palace. For the purpose of this essay, the term evolution incorporates the contributing production and distribution factors leading to this historical change.

' _The task I'm trying to achieve above all is to make you see'_

D.W. Griffith

D.W. Griffith (referred to as Griffith from now onwards), began his career at Biograph Studios in New York as a young actor, Lawrence Griffith. As Don Shiach explains, Griffith 'replaced a sick director for the one-reeler The Adventures of Dollie (1908)' which founded his career as a film director (Shiach 1995, p.11). He also dropped the Lawrence for his real name D.W. Griffith.

Between the years 1908 and 1913 he directed 450 motion pictures whilst fathering many innovations in film techniques along the way, mentioned further ahead.

With prior comments in mind like those reported by Joseph Medill Patterson in 1907: 'One studio manager said: 'The people want a story... we've got to give them a story; they won't take anything else... a story with plenty of action... more story, larger story, better story with plenty of action - that is our tendency'' (Bowser 1981, p.331), Griffith had the knowledge of what society wanted and thanks to Biograph's obstinacy in not allowing multi-reel production, Griffith could provide for those needs. Robert Armour encapsulates the reputation of Biograph. Their films were considered 'monotonous and unimaginative' (Armour 1990, p.114).

In 1912, the innovative Adolph Zukor imported a four-reel French film – Queen Elizabeth. It was extremely successful. So successful that Garth Jowett argues it was unprecedented at the box office and opened the industry's eyes to the 'immense commercial possibilities the medium offered' (Jowett 1976, p.57).

Zukor himself noted the same success, as Jowett argues: 'Zukor claimed that it was this film which indicated to others in the industry the possibility that a higher class of trade would be attracted to movie houses by full-length feature films' (Jowett 1976, p.57). This higher class of trade was the bourgeoisie.

Tom Gunning argues that the constant theme in trade journals during the years 1908-1909 was the desire for films which were acceptable to 'refined people' (Gunning 1990, p.4). Gunning argues that attracting a middle-class audience entailed more than lighting the theatre and brightening the content of the films. It was the narrative structure of film that needed to be changed. It needed to be brought more in line with 'the traditions of bourgeoisie representation' (Gunning 1990, p.4).

By 1913, another European import, the eight-reel Italian film Quo Vadis, proved to be another success. With an admission price of $1, the profits were so tremendous that theatre owners were forced to take notice. 'Theatre critics were suddenly made aware of a 'new epoch' in the meteoric career of the motion picture' (Jowett 1976, p.58).

The fact that Europeans were producing four reel films which ran for ninety minutes rather than fifteen minutes provided Griffith with the opportunity to make larger and more spectacular films. Biograph wouldn't allow Griffith to undergo production of multi-reel films as it would disturb their production-to-exhibition system so he divested of them officially on 1st October 1913 and kick-started his career in producing the multi-reel format.

In 1915, Griffith released a twelve-reel epic about the civil war and its aftermath called _The Birth of a Nation_ , 'arguably the most famous silent movie of all' (Shiach 1995, p.12). His film was a box-office hit throughout the world, winning critical praise 'from sources which had hitherto scorned the movies as 'dreams for the masses'' (Shiach 1995, p.12). The film solidified a successful future of feature length films.

It is interesting to note that in 1911 entertainment journalist Robert Grau asked, ''Is the two-dollar-a-seat picture theatre in sight?' Four years later, _The Birth of a Nation_ opened on Broadway and ran at theatre prices of $2.00, for forty-four consecutive weeks' (Staiger 1985, p.133-4).

Griffith's advanced film techniques such as 'close-ups, cross-cutting, the staging of elaborate crowd and battle scenes', editing techniques and composition within the frame 'reached its 'apotheosis' in _The Birth of a Nation_ ' and cinema had progressed to a whole new level (Shiach 1995, p.200).

' _The Birth of a Nation: "A boy can learn more pure history and more atmosphere of the period by sitting down three hours before the films which Mr Griffith has produced with such artist's skill than by weeks and months of study in the classroom".'_

Reverend Charles Parkhurst (Friedberg 1990, p.3)

_The Birth of a Nation_ was the cinema's first great spectacle or epic film, generating profits of approximately $5 million (originally calculated to be $50 million but later retracted) and becoming the new role model for epic feature film. Don Shiach argues that since the success of Griffith's masterpiece, 'many producers and directors have attempted to impress us with the grandness of their designs, the extravagance of their concepts, their devotion to reproducing a historical period and to rewriting history itself' (Shiach 1995, p.215-6).

Griffith not only achieved box office success but inadvertently became an 'active participant in the evolution of a capitalistic film system' (Wasko 1986, p.31). There was trust that high production costs were worth the risk when box office revenue of $5 million was a possible outcome. Some will argue that Griffith was not focused on high production costs but rather 'filmic aspirations to theatrical art', as John L. Fell, editor of Film Before Griffith argues: 'Griffith's _The Birth of a Nation_ is viewed by film scholars more as a strategy of filmic aspirations to theatrical art and an upper-class audience than as a necessity of high production costs' (Fell 1983, p.178).

Arousing great controversy and opposition, particularly from black people, it was perhaps also the content of the film which cemented feature films' place in the motion picture palace. Janet Wasko argues 'Despite its racist content – or perhaps – because of it – _The Birth of a Nation_ caused a sensation, attracting huge audiences around the country, even with a $2 admission charge at some theatres' (Wasko 1986, p.34).

The success of the film inculcated that a $2 admission fee, a generous cost for the time, was justifiable when considering the effort administered to produce the film, and the cost to maintain such an elaborate, bourgeois venue. Jowett argues that the film industry was finally convinced 'that the public would pay relatively high admission prices to see a well-made, intelligent and visually exciting spectacle on the screen' (Jowett 1976, p.58).

Credit must also be given to Harry Aitken, Griffith's Mutual Film Corporation partner and an ex-banker, 'who had insisted upon the $2 admission fee' (Wasko 1986, p.33).

From that point on there was adequate trust to establish numerous picture palaces and ensure that the upper-echelons of society have a place of exhibition suitable to their tastes. Approximately four thousand new motion picture theatres were opened between the years 1914 and 1922.

The Motion Picture Palace

Picture palaces were designed to impress. They were glamorous, ornate and added a regal prestige to the film experience. No longer did an audience have to undergo the drawbacks of attending a nickelodeon. Garth Jowett argues in Enter the Movies!, the 'attendance at a nickelodeon was certainly not the dignified social occasion we associate with attendance at the live theatre' (Jowett 1976, p.41). According to Jowett the nickelodeon patrons were 'attracted initially by colourful posters and bright lights but the theatres themselves were reported to have been small, uncomfortable and dirty' (Jowett 1976, p.41).

Concentrated predominantly in the poorer neighbourhoods and districts, nickelodeons were unacceptable to the well-to-do. They required a venue more sanitary, less crowded and more commodious, somewhere deluxe.

The first picture palaces opened in 1914 and by 1920 most of the great palaces were built in large urban areas or central business districts (populations over 100,000).

Douglas Gomery argues 'why would profit-conscious movie entrepreneurs build so many large, elaborate theatres? Was it just a waste of money, the overindulgence of monopoly capitalists?' (Gomery 1986, p.205). Gomery provides the answer to this very question: 'Desires for monopoly power provided the motivation' (Gomery 1986, p.206).

The desire for monopoly power has been there from the beginning of the motion picture industry. Screen exhibition (in America) began with Thomas Edison's invention of the Kinetograph camera. It was developed between 1887 and 1891, and was the camera with which 'every subject known to us up to May 1896' (in America) was shot (Allen 1979, p.144-5). The Kinetograph films were viewed by means of a 'peep-show device' called the Kinetoscope (available to the market in April 1894) and during the spring and summer of 1894, 'Kinetoscopes were installed in penny arcades, hotel lobbies, summer amusement resorts, and phonograph parlours' (Allen 1979, p.144-5). Five years later, Edison's laboratory produced its own movie projector and hence, the cinema was born.

In 1908 the Edison Manufacturing Company, by then the controller of camera patents, and the American Mutoscope and Biograph Company, controller of projector patents, instigated the formation of the Motion Picture Patents Company (MPPC). The motive of these companies was to try and control the industry by only allowing the production, distribution and exhibition of films by companies which had licensed their equipment from the MPPC. Independent film makers fought this monopolising practice and won. Subsequently they sought distance from the MPPC and relocated their production work to Southern California, imbuing the new film district with the moniker Hollywood.

According to Don Shiach the benefits of the shift to Hollywood as the centre of filmmaking included better resources (e.g. deserts), the labour was cheaper and the 'suburbs around LA were relatively underdeveloped' (Shiach 1995, p.12).

This relocation was another factor in the production, distribution, and exhibition evolution: _The Birth of a Nation_ was filmed just a few miles north of Hollywood. The sunshine and vast land provided a perfect base for building a motion picture empire and thus a spectacle film.

Leading up to the advent of the picture palace, film distribution and exhibition evolved in various intriguing ways. Originally distributed by mail (ordered from a catalogue, the exhibitors would buy prints), films were distributed to and exhibited in travelling shows, nickelodeons (which provided a variety of vaudeville shows and amusements like the Hale's Tours), and eventually the motion picture palace in 1914. All the while, it was the industrial and cultural practices continually driving the powerful force of the motion picture industry. Where there's demand there's a market!

Edward Lowry explains in his essay Edwin J. Hadley: Travelling Film Exhibitor that the earliest films were mostly exhibited in storefront theatres located in large urban areas or cities. The advent of travelling shows or travelling exhibitions meant that people living outside the cities could witness the new medium of entertainment. These travelling shows moved between smaller townships 'introducing, for a profit, the new medium to the uninitiated' and for many years were the only method by which rural Americans could view motion picture (Lowry 1976, p.131).

Travelling shows were usually sponsored by local organisations that made arrangements for appearances by providing a place for the show. These local organisations 'took a cut of the profits, thus the moving picture show was frequently referred to as a 'benefit'' (Lowry 1976, p.132).

Hale's Tours were another early form of cinema exhibition whereby train carriages (each train carriage usually seated 72 passengers) were utilised to exhibit illusion rides by projecting scenes onto a window in order to simulate motion, like a train ride. Train sound effects, vibrations and tilting added to the illusion of being on a real train ride - 'another step toward 'real' experience' (Fell 1983, p.101). By 1907 there were 500 Hale's Tours established in America, proving to be a popular amusement. Raymond Fielding argues that Hale's exhibitions served to link Adolph Zukor's penny arcades to his movie empire. 'In the end, Zukor ripped out the expensive Hale's Tours apparatus, converted the area into a conventional nickelodeon theatre with a regularly changing program, and christened it The Comedy Theatre' (Fielding 1957, p.128).

For many years, vaudeville featured many visual novelties of all sorts: 'pantomime, shadowgraphy, puppetry, tableux vivants, and lanternry, among others' (Allen 1979, p.148). Comic vignettes and trick films were popular motion picture acts in vaudeville, especially with children. Trick films in particular catered for the younger generations (Allen 1979, p.112).

Up until the rise of the nickelodeon in 1906, Robert C. Allen, author of Contra the Chaser Theory, identifies a trend between roughly 1897 and 1901: the vaudeville audience were leaving the theatre rather than sitting through the exhibition – perhaps from loss of interest in the exhibition (Allen 1979, p.105). Motion pictures acquired the reputation of chasers – best described as unsuccessful acts which vaudeville managers 'apparently used to clear the theatre to make room for a new group of patrons' (Allen 1979, p.105).

Allen disagrees however with the designation of the chaser era and believes it to be a 'misnomer, at the most a complete misrepresentation of the exhibition situation at that time' (Allen 1979, p.105).

Why did the chaser era exist? One belief is that motion pictures were 'universally unpopular' during that particular period of time and the second is that the 'public disfavour was probably the repetition of the same types of films' (Allen 1979, p.108). Subsequently, producers put pressure on the industry to produce better films and enough variety to suit every vaudeville audience member's needs (Allen 1979, p.108). Allen extends on his argument concerning motion pictures being unpopular at the time: 'unpopularity of films persisted until the advent of the narrative film around 1903 - until films like The Great Train Robbery, as Mast subsequently put it, 'pulled the movies from the abyss of chaser ignominy'' (Allen 1979, p.106).

Audiences clearly desired a higher standard of motion picture. Evidence that the standard had been raised came on June 19, 1905 when the industry saw a landmark in cinematic history – the release of The Great Train Robbery in theatres. It was the first true film narrative and a film that cemented a new era in the motion picture industry (Allen 1979, p.162).

Subsequently there was a 'rise of the nickelodeons and enthusiasm for movie stories' (Fell 1983, p.103-4). Garth Jowett's sources estimate the 'opening of about a thousand little movie parlours around 1906 and 10,000 by 1910' (Fell 1983, 104). Nickelodeons rented film for exhibition and this attracted a dedicated audience.

Jowett's past study on socioeconomic characteristics of early movie audiences addresses 'matters of increasing leisure time, patterns of social entertainment, and dispositions toward subject matter (often melodrama) on the part of patrons whose needs were no longer served by live entertainments' (Fell 1983, p.103). Eventually it became clear that nickelodeons were no longer as desirable. Once a novelty, they became an embarrassment to those seeking something classier. John Fell argues a similar point: 'Nickelodeon was an incommodious proletarian parlour exclusively servicing male, working-class audiences' (Fell 1983, p.102).

By 1905 the huge New York Hippodrome was built to attract a middle class audience and did so at a cost of $4 million, providing 5200 seats. Janet Staiger argues 'The exhibitors created such an image by improving their theatres and service, and, consequently, they sought a film which could be effectively advertised as a 'feature'' (Staiger 1985, p.128).

By early 1911, _Moving Picture World_ wrote:

' _Today things have changed, the dirty little dumps, with small seating capacity and poor ventilation are fast passing away to make room for large, palatial houses, and the moment that the exhibitor called the attention of the public to a much better class of houses, a new class of spectators appeared and are now eager for more motion pictures' (Staiger 1985, p.129)._

By 1914, The Strand and The Regent picture palaces were erected, and following the release of _The Birth of a Nation_ in 1915, the greatest spectacle the spectators had ever seen, the picture palace was there to stay.

In conclusion, the diffusion to the multiple-reel narrative and success of Griffith's _The Birth of a Nation_ correlated to a shift in exhibition practices over time, resulting in the advent and future success of the motion picture palace.

The early twentieth century was such a dynamic time for the film industry whereby the combination of technological advancements (such as the inventions of Edison) and industrial and cultural practices, all influenced the production, distribution and exhibition sectors of the film industry. One major industrial practice, the monopolising of the Motion Picture Patents Company, led to the relocation of the film industry to Hollywood, thus allowing independent filmmakers like Griffith to push the boundaries in film making and create a spectacle for the masses.

Griffith understood the desires of the bourgeoisie and more than sufficiently met the demands of all film-goers whilst indirectly catering to their desire of a classier theatre venue. After extensive research of Griffith's film career from 1908 to 1915, his improvements and innovations will justify that he not only attempted to improve profits, like any business-minded person, but moreso to provide a superior quality of film product.

The ornate and glamorous picture palace has the likes of Griffith to thank for their ongoing success. This historical change in exhibition practice signalled the death of vaudeville (a pleasure to the bourgeoisie we're certain), and as Douglas Gomery argues 'the coming of sound to motion pictures just insured its burial' (Gomery 1986, p.206), but it extended into a new form of cinema and subsequently, Classic Hollywood.

Albany Dighton

This section brought to you by ...

The Turning Page Bookshop

Books for the Community

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

### The Loaf of Bread – Linda Yates

Melinda forged her way into the shop. People parted for her, instinctively moving aside, confounded perhaps by the contradiction she presented. She had the daintiness of delicate fine china about her and this sat at odds with the expression of blazing ferocity on her face. Usually meticulously put together, this morning she looked slightly awry, like a child who had stumbled into her mother's dress up clothes, teetering precariously, as she did now, on her high heels. Her red hair flared out behind her, which, to her, was just another source of irritation in what was looking like a ruin of a day, for she had not had time to perfect it before she left the house. Bad enough that she had to have that meeting with the senior partner in the law firm where she worked, guessing that she was about to be taken to task for some of her more questionable attitudes and actions, and, now this outrage.

The fragile order of her day, so necessary for her survival, already lay in tatters.

Keith, the shopkeeper, saw her approach. Sensing the oncoming storm, he recoiled slightly and braced himself. A placid and even-tempered soul, he was used to handling difficult customers. It was why he was so good at his job. He was not a highly educated man, but he was a reflective one and he liked to puzzle out why people did the things they did. His mother thought him a bit of a fool and a dreamer, with his head always buried in books, but he had a gift for seeing value and opportunity where others saw none.

He had served Melinda many times before and thought her beautiful, despite the down- turned lines beginning to etch themselves permanently around her mouth and a certain hard edge to her features. He thought she needed something to soften her a little. Children? Love? Could it be that simple? He had even wondered if he might be able to do some of that softening, for he could see a vulnerability hidden in that brittleness. It occurred to him that she might be difficult and high maintenance and might test his patience to the limit, judging by the way she sometimes spoke to people. His mother wouldn't like her. That much he knew. She would think him a mug or doormat and Melinda a bitch, and up herself. But, when she spoke to him, she was often funny and smart and he liked the way her eyes lit up when they smiled into his. It sometimes seemed to Keith that she was more like one of the people in those books he loved to read than anyone else he had met in everyday life. She had a shimmering luminosity about her. He'd read that word in a book once and looked it up. Luminous. The word rolled around on his tongue like some smooth precious stone. And it seemed to him that she had this rare gift, but that it was lost to her most of the time, or that it had been taken away from her somehow, perhaps by those who, not possessing it, wished to destroy it in others. People could be funny like that. And cruel. He was filled with a great desire to help her find a way back to it or restore it to her and maybe, if he were lucky, bask with her there in the grace of it. Or was this just another of what his mother called his fanciful notions?

But there was nothing smiling or funny or luminous about her this morning, as she slammed the loaf of bread down on the counter. She was all incandescent rage, seething contempt, and oozing venom. And was he imagining that she was swaying a little, her speech slightly slurred? Good Lord. Could she be tipsy? Keith felt a sudden snaking fear that his mother might be right.

It is mouldy,' she hissed. 'How could even you manage to sell something in this condition?' She could hear the unreasonableness in her own voice as it hovered on the edge of hysteria and felt the familiar sting of humiliation that always accompanied one of her outbursts.

'I'm sorry,' said Keith, 'it must have been a mistake.'

'It must have been your incompetence, you mean. And now I am paying for it,' she snapped.

'You can have a refund, of course, or a replacement.' Keith's voice faltered.

'The refund won't fill my empty stomach, which needed filling an hour ago.'

People were staring, but Melinda was too far gone to regain control. She knew they would think, Keith would think, her reaction out of all proportion to the event. It had been happening all her remembered life. First they would look at her in bewilderment, then anger, then move away in rejection, abandoning her to her flood of overwhelming feelings, leaving her to struggle alone, engulfed and drowning in the tidal wave of her own unravelling. When she was a child she heard them muttering 'spoilt brat' under their breath, sometimes even bailing her mother up with comments like 'I can't stand people who don't discipline their kids'. And even when they didn't say it, she could read it in their eyes. Judgements and assumptions without ever wanting to know the why. And any explanation given, always seen as an excuse anyway.

Melinda snatched the new loaf of bread from Keith's hands and left quickly before people could see her start to jitter and make judgements about that, too. She needed to eat before it was too late. She could feel her blood sugars jaggedly out of kilter and her thoughts descending into chaos, her own body turning traitor as if in confluence with the rest of the world. Today was one of those days when she could be tempted to slide so easily into the embrace of that final, fatal coma that beckoned always, slyly, from the shadows, as soft and seductive as a lover's caress, more constant and true a companion in its ever faithful, watchful presence, than any other she had known. She sat in the car and ploughed into the bread, hoping it would raise her blood sugars in time.

She hated herself. She had done it again. She had a knack for it. She had alienated another person in her life and, this time, someone who mattered to her. Why did she never seem able to bridge that chasm between herself and another? Why could she not just have told Keith that she had diabetes, that it needed to be controlled by insulin, eating regularly and often, and she had not had time to stock up on food. That loaf of bread meant the difference between life and death to her, and her anger was her only protection from the shame she felt at being different, as though her illness reflected some fundamental flaw or weakness in her character.

She had learned from bitter experience and instinct that the burning stake is never far away for those outside the protection of the herd and always there is the willingness of the mob to turn on those who are different.

How could she trust that he, so seemingly happy and normal, would understand the lifetime of losses that had gone into shaping her disordered self? How her health and people's response to it had laid her childhood to waste, depriving her of schooling and easy friendships, had made her always the outsider, feeling needy and clingy, at the mercy of her skittering emotions, frightened of the teachers and other kids who made fun of her sensitivity and lack of stamina. The doctors refused to do tests, telling her mother she just needed to be firmer with her or give her more TLC, depending on their bent, saying there was nothing wrong with her, that she was putting it on, a case only of motherly over-concern. Then, there were always the other mothers, thinking they knew better, saying 'Just leave her with me for a week and I will cure her.' By the time she got a proper diagnosis it was too late to undo what she had learned—that she was disapproved of, that she was a burden, that she was lazy, selfish, difficult, demanding, manipulative, irritating, that she did not really feel sick and was therefore a liar, that she was just doing it for attention, that she would always be left alone with her pain in an unsafe world, and called vicious when she lashed back at it.

Her mother, meanwhile, her only ally, driven half crazy with anxiety and grief, no longer knowing what to believe, slipped into depression and self blame, unable to help her, as she was losing her confidence and moorings and coming across just as unhinged as the professionals thought her to be. Even her mother seemed to turn on her at times, for bringing her into discredit, and her father, believing the doctors and friends that it was all to do with her mother mollycoddling her, gave himself an easy out when it all got too hard, moving in with her best friends' mother because 'they were normal'—a betrayal that surely confirmed her own worthlessness. It had poisoned all her relationships with men, her insecurity and bitterness driving them away, so fixed was her belief that anyone she loved would be taken away by someone else and she, conveniently, being the odd one, blamed for it.

She believed that she would always have to live with her fury at, and jealousy of, others who seemed to move with fluid ease through the world, knowing their place, their rightness, in it, while she looked towards the losses yet to come, like health, stability and babies to love.

No. Better to keep him out. And not risk the grief of losing Keith, too.

How could she expect him to understand or tolerate her? She had learned that she was too much for anyone, but did not know why.

She often felt herself to be on the edge of a terrifying abyss, heard the roaring force of its pull, and, being frightened, she frightened others. Sometimes this happened because she tried to drown out her fear by being angry and loud, as though she could make herself larger than the tug of this void. And sometimes it happened because her fear tapped into and found some resonance with their own and they sensed they might be sucked into the same vortex, especially if they were close enough for her to cling to. Either way, they wanted to get away from her.

Eventually, Melinda would come to understand this. But that epiphany still lay in wait for her future self.

Right now, it seemed to Melinda, as she sat in the car, that all her losses, past and future, were rolled into one big ball of pain that was as difficult to digest as the bread she had now swallowed.

Linda Yates

This section brought to you by ...

Ore What!

A portrait of the people of Hill End by Peter Adams

<http://www.peteradams.com/>

### Aggifanakapan – Joanna Na Na Goanna

Aggifanakapan lived in the beautiful Aussie bush, up in the true, how d'ya do, Blue Mountains, tiddly bush, hush hush. She lived in a shack with Samantha and Roo, and how did she get there? Well, I'm telling you, she once lived in the town, it was noisy and bustling and all in a hurry, tiddly town, rush rush. Everyone busy with no time to chat. No 'how do you do?' for a witch and a cat. It made them both sad, so they left. That was that.

They went down to Central, and caught them a train, and they headed for Lithgow, to look for some sanity.

'What's sanity?' asked Sam.

'Well it's somewhere that's still, where you don't have to worry. Somewhere, where everyone's not in a hurry.'

'Sounds special,' said Sam, purring round Aggi's broom, 'I'm with you Aggi dear, let's find us some space, toodle pip, catch you later, we're out of this place.'

And they set off for Lithgow, or some place between, somewhere amazing where they'd never been.

They had tired themselves out, so they slept on the train, and when they awoke it had started to rain.

'Sprinklewood station, hey this sounds okay,' Aggi picked up Samantha, and they were away. 'All we have to do now is find somewhere to eat.'

'Ah sweet,' purred Sam, 'like scones and jam.'

They stood on the station, looking into the street, lots of coloured umbrellas and shuffling feet.

'Looks busy,' said Aggi.

'Have we found it?' asked Sam.

'Found what?' answered Aggi.

'Have we found sanity?'

'Don't think so Samantha, but come follow me. That deli looks good, let's have us some tea.'

'But Aggifanakapan, how can I go? They don't allow cats in a deli, you know!'

'Don't worry,' said Aggi, 'we'll cast us a spell, and make you invisible, no one will tell. Abracadabra, tin cans and onions, slippery jellyfish, bellies and bunions, make Samantha invisible, do it for me, and then we can go to the deli for tea.'

'Am I gone Aggi dear? Can we go to the deli? The only thing is, I smell sort of smelly.'

'Don't worry,' said Aggi, 'it's the onions and jellyfish; I'll buy you a strawberry milk in a special dish.'

And off they both dashed through the Sprinklewood rain, Aggi carrying invisible furry friend Sam, and they sat in the deli and ate scones and jam. Yummo!

And when Aggi put strawberry milk in a dish on the floor, some people stared and thought why, and what for?

As Aggi passed the Art School Square, she heard a busker playing there.

She called to Sam, who wasn't there, 'Hey Sam, this busker's music's good. Feel like dancing? In the mood?'

But Sam had sauntered off somewhere.

Aggifanakapan kicked off her shoes, let down her hair, and danced around the Art School Square. Some boys who saw her laughed and called, 'Hey, sticky wicky witchy poo, can we come to the Hogwarts fancy dress with you?!'

Aggi stopped and glared at them, 'You're not polite, you're rude as well. I'm sure you think you're really cool. I'm half inclined to cast a greeny slimy spell on you!'

They looked a bit uneasy, as Aggi grabbed her shoes and hat. Sam saw how they laughed at her; she arched her back and hissed at them. They couldn't see Sam, but they heard her hiss, and ran.

'Hey Aggi, saw a store up the road, lots of lovely vintage stuff. It's called Frou Frou, I'm sure it's just the place for you to rummage and have fun.'

'You're so cool Samantha,' Aggi grinned, 'it's great to have a friend like you.'

And off they went to see what treasures could be found in Frou Frou.

The shop Frou Frou sold old and new, 'Oh wow!' said Aggi, 'So, so cool! Let's step inside and look around.'

In a basket Aggi found a fifties, flowery, frilly dress. She tried it on, and called to Sam, 'What do you think? How do I look?'

The shop assistant said 'Superb!' but Sam, she never said a word. Aggi answered, 'I agree, I think it's just the thing for me, but now I need to find a hat, to shade me from the summer sun.'

'I'm sure I have the very one for you, a gorgeous floppy French chapeau, très fashionable now, you know.'

'Oh yes!' said Aggi, 'that's for me; it's just the thing for scones and tea!'

The lovely lady went away to find the French chapeau, and Aggi turned around to see a dolly's hat drift by on a Samantha cat. 'No Sam! Please go and put it back, whoever heard of a cat in a hat?!'

'But Aggi, that's not fair you know. Why can't I have the dolly's hat to shade me from the summer sun? You have your floppy French chapeau.'

'We'll see, now Sam, please disappear in case somebody sees you here. My spells don't last forever dear.'

Just then, the lady came back with the floppy French chapeau, brim full of flowers of every hue. 'I think it's waited just for you!' she said.

'It has,' said Aggi, 'let me try it. Perfect dear, I have to buy it. I'll wear my dress and chapeau now, please put my old rags in a bag. I'll also take this dolly's hat.'

'For a special doll?'

'No, it's for my cat.'

The lady smiled, 'Well, fancy that!'

As Aggi stepped through Frou Frou's door she felt transformed from old to new, 'Amazing what new clothes can do!'

'Oh wow,' said Sam, 'is it really you? What's in the little Frou Frou bag? Oh Aggi dear, please let me see. You did! Oh thankyou Aggifan, you bought the dolly's hat for me!'

Sam put it on and instantly the spell wore off. There she sat, resplendent in her dolly's hat with a cheesy grin from ear to ear.

'Let's go,' said Aggifanakapan.

'Go where?' said Sam. 'I like it here. It feels like sanity to me.'

'I know dear, we'll just wait and see.'

They walked up past 'The Turning Page', where books are sold for every age (from Ice Age through to Middle Ages, and on to the Age of Discontent, where sages and philosophers lament). 'Look! Special stuff in here,' said Aggi to her small friend Sam, 'We'll have to browse again in here.'

They walked on past the Flight Centre. 'Look Aggi dear, is this where people learn to fly? You might get a job in here, teaching people to fly on brooms. They don't need fuel, and take up heaps less room in car parks, Aggi dear.'

'Nice thought Sam,' said Aggi, 'but nowadays no-one flies on brooms. They're mostly used for sweeping rooms.'

'I see,' said Sam, quite seriously, but she didn't really see at all.

They crossed the crossing, past The Ori, where people sat, flat chat, drinking coffee.

Community Centre, Library, and then the Braemar Gallery, where artists' exhibitions hung. Aggi went inside to see, Samantha followed, 'wait for me!' They slipped into the Braemar.

'So cool!' whispered Aggi, 'Just look at these paintings Sam. Look at this landscape hung over the mantelpiece, what wonderful colours, I wish I had painted it, wow, what a masterpiece!'

'Mmm, Aggi dear, that tree is splendiferous, so, so serenity, truly magnificent, I like it in here.'

Aggifanakapan looked at each artwork, 'Inspired creativity, Sam, don't you think?'

'Oh yes,' purred Samantha, 'you really should try it.'

'What, me be an artist? Oh Sam, do you think?'

'I do, Aggi dear, you're so creativity, AGGIFANAKAPAN Artiste Extraordinaire!'

'Aggifanakapan, what are you doing?'

'I am hugging this tree Sam, that's what I'm doing.'

'But why, Aggi dear, why hug a tree?'

'Because little Sam, trees are special you see.'

'But why are they special though, what do they do?'

'They give us all shade, Sam, and they keep the air fresh, just think, furry friend, if there wasn't a tree, what a terribly desolate place Earth would be! I have an old friend, her name's NaNa G; she always says when things go wrong, hug a tree. And, please remember, when you do, make a special secret wish between the tree and you. I hope your special wishes all come true, I really do.'

Joanna Na Na Goanna

This section brought to you by ...

Art and the Drug Addict's Dog

A novel by Paris Portingale

<http://www.artandthedrugaddictsdog.com/>

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

### Roast Beef – Paris Portingale

_Part 1 – Graham_

It was the second time Graham had bought his lunch from 'Don's – Freshley Cut Sandwiches'. The sign had been painted on the front window in a now dulled, red running-script and for the more than four years Don had been operating there, no one had ever challenged him over his special spelling of the word 'freshly'.

'Roast beef, cheese and pickles,' he told her.

'What kind of bread?' she asked him.

'White,' he said.

'Like yesterday,' she said, and smiled, but just a little, because that was all she ever smiled from behind the counter, being the kind of person she was. And she only smiled then because she liked his voice, it being nicer sounding than most of the other customers.

'Yes.' he said, and she made him the sandwich quietly. Nothing more passed between them except her saying how much the sandwich cost, and him giving her the money and saying thanks and her nodding, then shifting her concentration to the next person in the queue—a man with coal dust only partly cleaned from his face, and fingernails with so much black caked underneath them they looked almost swollen at the tips.

The sandwich was in a white paper bag with the top folded over twice and he took it to his truck with 'Graham Grahamson – Plumber' and a phone number painted over both the driver's and passenger's doors. He put it on the passenger seat and drove to an underpass, where he parked. He ate his sandwich in the rusted light, whatever of it could find its way through, between the concrete stanchions and the pre-stressed, prefabricated lengths of highway that sat on top. When he finished he brushed himself for crumbs and smoothed and folded the white paper bag into four and put it in the glove-box, on top of the other white paper bags, folded in an identical manner.

***

The next day was a Wednesday and at 12.30pm Graham was in line again at the sandwich shop. Without any conscious consideration, he took the queue that led to the half-smile sandwich girl who'd served him the day before, and the day before that, even though that queue was two persons longer than the alternative.

When he was finally in front of her, before he could say a word, before his mouth even began to open to say, 'Roast beef, cheese and pickles,' as he'd planned, she said, 'The usual?' It took him quite by surprise and he said 'Roast beef, cheese and pickles,' and she said, 'The usual then,' and began to make the sandwich.

'On white bread,' he said, to show he was still a little in charge, but she said, 'I know,' and anyway, she'd already started making the thing and had the bread buttered, just a skim, because Ray, the proprietor, was anything but recklessly wasteful and had guidelines to govern such things, and she was putting in the meat even as he spoke the words.

During the process of constructing the sandwich he stood, trying to think of something else to say, but it was a difficult process. With women, he found, thinking of things to say on the fly could be problematic. Intent could be misinterpreted, particularly with women he guessed knew they were attractive, and at the drop of a hat he could worry that they thought he was coming on to them. The simplest of statements could suddenly and shockingly seem lewd, once said, and of all the things he didn't want to appear, in front of attractive women, the few he ever met, was lewd. So he stood, trying to will into cooperation whatever section of the human mind it is that produces things-to-say, but it remained uncooperative till the final moments of the transaction, as she was giving him his change and the twice-folded white paper bag with his roast beef, cheese and pickles sandwich, when his things-to-say section finally coughed up a morsel for him, which was, 'You've got a good memory then.'

She said, 'Sorry?' and he repeated his one and only line for this part of the encounter, saying, 'You've got a good memory then.'

'Nothing much to remembering a roast beef, cheese and pickles sandwich,' she said, and his things-to-say area, almost reluctantly, dropped him one last crumb and he said, 'On white bread,' and she almost smiled again.

He checked to see if, on the off-chance, there might be anything more there to say, but there wasn't, and he took his change and sandwich and left the counter as the man behind him said, 'Egg salad love, and I'll have one of those,' and a tiny part of Graham the plumber's mind briefly wondered what one-of-those was, then the wondering began to dissolve into a sort of wondering mist, and by the time he reached the door he could no longer even remember wondering it at all.

***

The next day, the Thursday, he was on the other side of town and bought his lunchtime sandwich at a coffee shop with tables and chairs and a hissing cappuccino machine. And when he ordered roast beef, cheese and pickles, the assistant merely and rudely pointed to a chalkboard menu of standard sandwiches and said briefly, 'No specials,' and Graham had to read down the list while a woman in the queue behind him sighed loudly and tapped her foot. Feeling rushed and uncomfortable he chose the third offering from the list, a Reuben; corned beef, sauerkraut, Swiss cheese, and Russian or Thousand Island dressing.

The assistant, a homosexual man with the very beginnings of a lisp, whose homosexuality was totally lost on Graham, said, 'Russian or Thousand Island,' while sharing a raised-eyebrow look with the impatient woman next in the queue, so they had a special moment together where Graham was the focus of a joint, 'Oh-dear-the-idiots-we-have-to-put-up-with' fermentation.

Graham said, 'What?' and the assistant had a sigh himself and said, 'Dressing. Russian or Thousand Island?' and Graham, who, while holding little grasp of even the most basic tenets of socialism, still held a mistrust of Russia and its subversive embrace of that system, instinctively decided on Thousand Island. The transaction was concluded without another word as the prices were listed beside each sandwich.

***

The Friday found him back in familiar territory. Where on the Monday, when he ordered his beef, cheese and pickles sandwich, he'd felt himself in a place somehow foreign, now, after the Reuben affair, he found that same place to be friendly surroundings. He felt at home and strangely safe and it energised his things-to-say area, somewhere there inside some odd corner of his mind. When he reached the counter he was prepared and said to his half-smile sandwich girl, 'Ham, mustard and potato salad. I'm feeling...' and he lost the word for a moment and she waited awkwardly while he found it. 'Adventurous,' he finally said, when the lost word somehow found its way back to him, and she silently breathed a little sigh and started on the construction of his sandwich. And because of his new found confidence perhaps, or because he was a little more hungry today, or he was inspired by the almost-brazenness of Wednesday's egg-salad man and his casual confidence, he added, 'And I'll have one of those,' but without indicating which one of the many ones-of-those on display he meant, so that she had to say, 'I'm sorry? One of what?'

Embarrassed, and feeling his confidence begin to founder, he pointed to a jam tart, wishing he'd never asked for one-of-those.

'Tart,' she said, and he nodded and made a to-do of getting money from his pocket.

'Red jam or green?' she asked, and he said, 'Red,' but too softly to be heard so she had to ask again, awkwardly, and this time he said 'Green' because asking for red now seemed like a mistake to be rectified.

'Green,' she said, and put the pastry in a separate white bag with its own double-folded top.

He paid and picked up his sandwich and was halfway to the door when he heard her call out, just heard her, because her voice was soft at its loudest of times, 'Your tart.'

He turned and saw her holding up the bag and he walked back and took it from her and he knew everyone in the shop was looking at him. Torn between the choice of saying 'thanks' or 'thank you,' he said, 'Thanks you,' then coughed in the hope that the end of his awkward little sentence, the misplaced 'you,' would be swallowed and seem part of that noise.

He felt them all looking at him still, as he got into his truck, but of course they weren't. Some were composing their orders, two women were planning the night's meal, another was thinking of how badly she wanted to pee, and one man was as close to thinking nothing at all as it was possible for any member of a self-aware species to be. But Graham Grahamson, the plumber, was of the firmest of beliefs that everyone was concentrating on him and his stupid slip with the tart, and he was so full of the business he couldn't bear to eat the thing when he parked his truck under the concrete highway. In fact his ham, mustard and potato salad was proving a chore and he wished he'd stuck to his usual instead of trying to impress the sandwich girl who now, he was sure, thought him an idiot and a buffoon. And he was glad it was Friday, so he'd have two days to get himself back into some sort of order.

***

On the Monday, Graham called into the hotel just up from Don's and drank a glass of beer, the largest glass they served, and he waited the couple of moments until he could sense the rising effect of the alcohol. He then walked the few yards down to the sandwich shop and joined the queue in front of the second sandwich girl, not his usual girl's queue, as he felt a loss of trust with that one, not in the queue so much, but in himself.

When he placed his order, roast beef, cheese and pickles, his usual girl looked across at him and said, 'Not feeling adventurous today?'

The girl serving him said, 'Bread?' and in confusion he said, 'Yes,' and she looked at him the way you can look at a smart-arse sometimes, when you know you are better and faster and wittier and much, much more clever, and she said, 'There are people waiting you know,' and his usual girl said, 'White, Mary,' then looked at him and said, 'That's right, isn't it?' and he nodded and said, 'Yes, thanks.'

His usual girl, cutting a sandwich in two, in a moment of unusual boldness, said, 'I thought I was your favourite,' and still in the middle of his confusion he replied, 'No,' then, 'Yes,' then, 'You've got me all confused,' so she said, 'Sorry,' and he said, 'No,' again, to indicate she shouldn't be sorry, but mere fractions of a second after saying it, he felt his heart bump and worried she'd hear the 'no' as a reinforcement of his inadvertent rejection of her being his favourite.

The sandwich was ready then and his new sandwich girl put it in a bag and, holding the two corners, swung it around twice like an out of control trapeze, and seeing it he thought how much more difficult it would be to flatten properly, before being folded into four for the glove box.

He checked momentarily if his things-to-say area had left anything for him, but it hadn't, he was empty, so he left the shop with a still buzzing confusion so that he pushed the door instead of pulling it, the way the sign said.

In his truck, under the highway, everything coated in a dull grey light because it was drizzling rain which made the concrete darker and, in an odd way, baleful, with an exaggerated, unfocused foreboding, he sat without touching his sandwich, thinking about how he'd said 'No,' when his usual sandwich girl had said she thought she was his favourite. The things-to-do area of his mind had him reversing the position, so that he was in a situation where he said to someone, probably his usual sandwich girl, that he thought he was their favourite, and the other person said, 'No,' and it occurred to him he would be mortified and embarrassed and full of a feeling of heading for the hills to escape and regroup, if regrouping were even possible after something like that. It had gotten itself in a loop so that every time the scene ended it rewound and started again, from where he was saying, 'I thought I was your favourite.'

So he was late back on the job and, with his mind elsewhere, he botched two gas pipe welds and had to do them over again. He'd be on this job for another two weeks and he wondered where he'd get his sandwiches, now that he'd made it impossible to ever go back to his usual sandwich shop, because of all the foundering and embarrassing flapping around he'd made.
Part 2 - Johanna

Johanna had just finished making an egg, tomato and lettuce with plenty of pepper on white bread and was wiping the tongs.

She greeted the next customer from the queue, saying, 'Hi.'

He said, 'Roast beef, cheese and pickles,' and she recognised his voice from the day before because she'd noted a light Irish, or perhaps Scottish, lilt and his voice had a timbre that she found strangely soothing and comforting and at the same time a little tingly, and that combined with the slight exoticness of the accent had made her take a special note.

'What kind of bread?' she asked him.

'White,' he said.

'Like yesterday,' she said, and smiled. She hoped saying, 'Like yesterday,' would cause him to say more to her, so his timber and accent could tumble over her again, like a little wave.

But all he said was, 'Yes,' and she had to make do with that, and try to hold as long as possible the funny feeling his voice gave her. She told him the price and he paid and left. The funny feeling stayed long enough for her to stuff up the next sandwich order of meatloaf, egg, lettuce, and English mustard on rye bread by using German mustard, so she had to make it again, this time with the English mustard because, as the customer told her a little testily, it was way hotter than the German, and who'd won the damned war anyway, I'll think you'll find it was our side.

***

The next day Johanna saw him come in and she watched him join her queue, even though it was longer, and she found herself touched with a tiny feeling of relief, and resolved to say, 'The usual then?' when he got to her.

When he was in front of her she took a breath and smiled her little smile and said, 'The usual?' which was one word short of her original composition.

She thought he looked surprised by her remembering his usual, and then he said, 'Roast beef, cheese and pickles,' which sort of spoiled the feat of remembering and she started making the sandwich with no further communication, so that, when he said, 'White bread,' she said, 'I know,' then worried that that sounded a bit stand-offish, but there was nothing more she could add and she just went on and finished the sandwich.

As he was paying he said, 'You've got a good memory then,' and as there'd been nothing between them since her stand-offish outburst about the bread, she was taken by surprise and said, 'Sorry,' so that he had to repeat, actually unnecessarily, what he said – 'You've got a good memory then.'

She took it as a personal thing to say, nothing sandwichy, no reference to fillings or type of bread, but she said, 'Nothing much to remembering a roast beef, cheese and pickles sandwich,' which was back to sandwichy and she squeezed her toes up and wished she'd said something like, 'Tell me your name and I bet I remember it tomorrow,' or, 'Your voice is sort of nice, it makes me feel washed over with comfortableness. I think I could remember the sound of it forever.' But she'd said a sandwichy thing instead and the moment was gone and he'd said, 'On white bread,' another sandwichy thing, instead of something personal again, like, 'What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?' to which she could, but probably would never reply, 'Waiting for a man who's voice can soothe and tingle, both at the same time,' or some such.

Then the next man in the queue was standing there and he said, 'Egg salad love, and I'll have one of those,' pointing to a chocolate éclair, and she noted how rough and uninteresting his voice sounded to her.

***

She watched for him the next day, but he didn't turn up and she put it down to something she'd said and she determined not to watch for him again because of the little tiny hurt it left inside her when, at the end of the midday rush, he hadn't come in.

But, despite her determination, the next day she watched for him once again and she saw him come in and join her queue, She felt a tingle in her chest and was suddenly and unexpectedly filled with a lightness that surprised and delighted her when, after a straight fishpaste on white and a ham and French mustard, she chose to examine it.

When he reached the counter she was about to say, 'I missed you yesterday,' but before she could get the first word of it out he said, 'Ham, mustard and potato salad. I'm feeling...' and he stopped suddenly, clearly looking for the word to describe how he was feeling and she held her breath and felt her eyes slightly widen and she tried to think of what the word could possibly be, but without success, so when he said, 'Adventurous,' she let out a little sigh and relaxed again.

It came to her to repeat the line about missing him yesterday, but again, before she could speak, he added something to his order, saying, 'And I'll have one of those.' He hadn't pointed to anything, or she'd missed seeing him point to something, so again she couldn't get out the words, 'I missed seeing you yesterday,' and she abandoned, then, the idea of saying them at all, and resigned herself to flat sandwichy talk and said, 'Sorry? One of what?' and the tingle that had built up as he'd approached her in the queue dissipated, leaving an ever so small, empty feeling in the space where it had once been.

He pointed to the plate with the jam tarts, red and green jellied, and she said, 'Tart?' and he nodded and fumbled in his pocket for money, loose change that he sorted in his hand. She wished he'd say something more to her, and as she reached towards the plate she said, 'Red jam or green?'

The reply was spoken softly, and with the accent she missed the word, so she had to ask the stupid, sandwichy question again, and he said, 'Green.'

After he paid, using his carefully sorted loose coin, he left the counter, leaving his green-jam tart, so she called after him, 'Tart,' while simultaneously wondering if was still possible to say, 'I missed seeing you yesterday,' but when he said, 'Thanks you,' in obvious confusion, she once again abandoned the idea.

Her next customer ordered cheese, beetroot, lettuce and tomato on white bread, and she said, 'Salad on white,' and he said, 'And a coke,' in a standard, ordinary person's voice.

***

Despite her determination not to be fussed at all, the next Monday she found herself watching for him again, so she saw him come in, and she saw him join Mary's queue and there was a brief weight in her chest, but she released it to a ham, cheese and mayonnaise on mixed-grain, ordered by a man with an unpleasantly gravelly voice. When Graham reached the head of Mary's queue and ordered roast beef cheese and pickles, she turned to him and said, 'Not feeling adventurous today?' which was true, because he wasn't at all.

Then Mary got snotty about the bread and she stepped in on his behalf and after that she couldn't help herself, and in a voice she hoped was all jolly and jokish, she said, 'I thought I was your favourite,' and he said, 'No,' then, 'Yes,' then something about being confused, then, 'No,' again, which settled it that, no, she was not in fact his favourite, even though the only other choice for being his favourite was Mary and she'd been snotty about the bread. So that was that. He didn't come back in again, and by the following Friday she'd stopped looking for him and when the end of the next week came and went she discovered she couldn't remember any more the special way his voice had sounded to her.
Part 3 - Graham

So, it was funny when, some six weeks later, he found himself in the 12 items queue at the supermarket, standing behind her. He knew it was her, even without seeing her face. It occurred to him to say something, but it would mean leaning around her, or touching her, and both felt awkward. And anyway, he wasn't sure what he could or should say, if it should be something about sandwiches or just something general. He considered, briefly, moving his head towards her and saying, 'Roast beef, cheese and pickles,' in a kind of jokey way, but dismissed it, thinking it had been so long since they'd been associated in that way, it might not mean anything to her. So he considered, 'Cold for this time of the year,' but it wasn't, it was about average for that time of the year, so he moved to, 'Still working in that sandwich shop?' but dropped that because he feared it intimated she was stuck in some sort of dead-end rut. Nudging his things-to-say area he was delivered, 'You really were my favourite sandwich girl,' and then, in an unusual burst of generosity, he received, 'No one makes a better sandwich than you,' and he was about to use the second when she moved up to the cashier and told the woman she had her own bag and produced it from her basket. She was standing sideways to him now, but with her head turned oddly away, and he stood as still as possible, so as not to attract her attention, because he suddenly felt uncomfortable with, 'No one makes a better sandwich than you,' and further requests to his things-to-say section were proving fruitless.

So, he watched her pay and thank the cashier and take her bag and walk off out of the store, and as he emptied his basket of exactly twelve items onto the rubber conveyor belt, he thought it was probably best that they hadn't spoken.

Part 4 – Johanna

It was in the frozen goods aisle that Johanna saw him. He was looking through one of the glass doors at something frozen and, while she actually wanted frozen peas herself, she turned and went to 'Eggs – Spices – Flour – Sugar,' where she waited for the count of one hundred, after which she checked frozen goods again and found he was gone. She saw him once more, down an aisle that held no items of interest for her, so she just skimmed by, and after a stop at cheese and soy-based products, she headed for the 12 items checkouts.

Choosing a queue, she put her basket on the ground in front of her and as she straightened she got an odd sense that he'd just come up and was standing behind her. Not wanting to turn, to establish if in fact it was him, as it felt, she tried to catch a reflection in the glass doors just beyond the queue, but the lighting was all wrong and the angles weren't right and it was impossible to make anything out, so she gave up and concentrated on not turning around. But it was two customer movements down the queue later that she saw the closed circuit TV screen which showed it was in fact him behind her, and she stiffened slightly and determined to avoid any form of recognition, because she felt it could only be awkward, and anyway, he probably wouldn't remember her after all this time, which she estimated to be about six weeks—ample for any recollection of her to have been well and truly scattered off into the universe. She kept her head turned as she paid, hoping he wouldn't recognise her, then she left the store without looking back as not only was there now no need, it could possibly expose her to recognition, which was quite out of the question now.
Part 5 – The Car Park

Out in the car park, as he approached his truck, he saw her open the boot of a car, one down from where he was parked, and as she lifted her bag to place it inside, one of the straps slipped and the side dropped and oranges, eight of them, spilled onto the ground and, as one was rolling towards him, he dropped his bags and bent to stop it. When he stood, she was looking at him. He moved towards her, holding out the piece of fruit, and he said, 'It's you,' and she said, 'I know,' and he tossed a coin in his mind. It came down heads, but it wouldn't have mattered either way, because he'd already decided to say, 'You were my favourite sandwich girl once,' which he did, and Johanna said, 'I thought I wasn't,' and he said, 'No, you were.'

She said, 'You didn't come back,' and he said, 'I couldn't help it,' and she nodded. He gave her the orange and began to help pick up the others, and as he was on his hands and knees, reaching under her car, he said, 'I could come back tomorrow,' and she said, 'Roast beef, cheese and pickles?' and he said, 'Okay, roast beef, cheese and pickles.' Then he added, 'Unless I'm feeling adventurous.'

Paris Portingale

***

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

Find out more about Narrator Magazine at

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

Published by MoshPit Publishing

www.moshpitpublishing.com.au/
