 
narratorAUSTRALIA

Volume Four

Various Contributors

November 2013 to May 2014

A showcase of Australian poets and authors  
who were published on the narratorAUSTRALIA blog  
from November 2013 to May 2014

First published August 2014 by MoshPit Publishing  
an imprint of Mosher's Business Support Pty Ltd

Shop 1, 197 Great Western Highway  
Hazelbrook NSW 2779, Australia

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

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

**Smashwords Edition, License Notes**

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

Cover image Cover image: Leaves © Hettie Ashwin <http://hettieashwin.blogspot.com.au>

This book is also available in print. Please visit <http://www.narratorINTERNATIONAL.com> for more details
Contents

Foreword

Copyright Reminder

Index

Bios and contact details

MoshPit Publishing, narrator and more
Foreword

Welcome to narratorAUSTRALIA Volume Four.

This compilation of short stories and poetry from around the country brings back many of our regular contributors and mixes them with new writers venturing out for the first time. It's great to see the continuing feedback on entries as they get posted on www.narratorAUSTRALIA.com and the supportive interaction between narrator community members. Writing is such a solitary process, but with the internet we can have the support and feedback we need as we try out our techniques and ideas.

Over the last twelve months we've been slowly expanding the publishing side of our business and this compilation would not have been possible without the help of our Assistant Editor, Sarah McCloghry. Many of you will have noticed the undisguised stress in my weekly notification emails when Sarah was on holiday earlier this year - we are really starting to depend on her here! So from me, a big thanks to Sarah for her help and support with the narrator project.

While Sarah was away we were lucky to have proofreading help with narrator from Keri Welter and for a week in the form of work experience student Samantha Stevenson. Thank you Keri and Samantha - you really helped ease the load!

And I mustn't forget my offsider, daughter, web and graphic designer, Ally Mosher. Ally is the one who sits quietly in the background tweaking the narratorCENTRAL upload site as I mutter away, 'Can we do this with it?' and 'What about adding that?' Always patient and creative, Ally makes this whole project much easier to manage. So my heartfelt thanks to you, too, Kiddo!

During this issue we ran a 'whatever was he thinking' writing competition, and the winners of that were _The Final Judgement_ by Kate-Michelle Von Riegen and _The Green Ticket_ by David Anderson. Thank you to all who participated, and also thanks to Peter Griffiths, our external judge, who is a volunteer with Room to Read Australia, the local branch of the charity which works to help improve literacy and gender equality in education in developing nations (http://www.roomtoread.org/sydney).

And congratulations to Hettie Ashwin for unanimously winning our cover image competition! This was judged internally, and Sarah, Ally and I all came to the same independent conclusion that Hettie's image was the most suitable for this issue. Again, thank you to all who entered, and sorry that there could only be one image on the cover.

In Volume Three I made mention of our narrator expansion plans. I have said before that what I love about small business is that you can make a decision and run with it. And if it doesn't seem to work, you can just as quickly stop. After several months of attempting to get our genre issues up and running, we realised we were fragmenting our audience, which is not good for you as our writers and readers. So we have refined our offerings back to three geographical areas:

narratorAUSTRALIA- the Oceanic region including New Zealand, Fiji, etc.

narratorUK - Great Britain, Ireland, and surrounding European countries

narratorUSA - the US, South America, Canada and surrounding countries.

The coming months will see us start focusing on pursuing more entries from around the world. And if you have writing friends or relatives overseas, please encourage them to consider contributing. The more the merrier!

Well, that's enough from me.

Congratulations again to all contributors and thank you to all readers for taking the time to make it worth our writers' efforts to write.

We look forward to seeing more of these original works over the coming months.

Jennifer Mosher, AE

Editor-in-Chief
Copyright reminder

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

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

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

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

Thank you.
Index

Abecca, Kylie

Learning To Fly

Missing You

To Love For Real

Adamopoulos, Stephanie

Balloons

Anderson, AA

The River Mystery

Anderson, David

A Night On Mt Victoria Pass

Changes

Harassment Blues

The Green Ticket

Andritsos, Sophie

Back-To-Back Facing Each Other

The Loser

Arkleysmith, Eulyce

A Day On The River

Arvan, John

Santa's Christmas Sack

Ashwin, Hettie

Bucking The Trend

Assumpter, Irene

Project Lokitaung - Part 1

Boorman, Alyssa

A Battle Called Sunset

Bruton, Judith

Chancing Paradise

Natural Life

Spice

Bryson

For Phoebe

The Colour Of Days

Bundesen, Jean

Citrus Dawn

Lady In Red

Burgess, Shirley

A Lucky Escape

A Surprise Attack

Bad Luck Honey

Holiday Town

Revenge And Regret

The Postman

Callaghan, Linda

The Awakening

The Tree Swing

Chaffey, Robyn

Mum

My Raggedy Santa

Chancer, Robert

A Place To Call Home

Artificial Sun

As Through My Own Eyes

Craib, James

Bloody Long Lines

Gone Astray (Lost And Found)

I, Ethel

Love's Silly Song

Only God Knows

The Ostrich Complex

De La Force, Julitha

Goodbye Lucy

Demelza

A Matter Of Timing

Derek, Arthur

Disintegrate

Forget Me Below

Of The Human Abyss

Dodd, Rebecca

Shattered

Edgar, Bob

Forever Bound

Elliott-Halls, Samantha

Backyard Morning

Free

Haze

Fantail

A Neighbour

Fallen Angel

Fowler, Mark

Humility, My Greatest Fault

Kelly

Pathetically Alone

Samuel S Tuck

Gow, Virginia

Australia Day

Hollywood Sneakers

Mama Camilla's Cooking School

The Spectators

Tribal Tribulations

Graham, Dee Dee

Hanging Rock

Harris, Garry

Thanks For Asking

Hawkins, Jason

Like A Bird In Flight

Heks, Andris

Battered Grandeur

My Childhood Passion

Hinschen, Corrie

Dead Soldier

Judgement

Standing On A Chair

Whatever Was He Thinking?

Howell, Connie

Rainbow

Whatever Was He Thinking?

Humphreys, Paul

315 Condoms

Harry And Sweet William

Regret And Reunion

Iliffe, Judy

Judgement By Blind Jury

Jenkins, David

For Her

Jensen, Joanna

My Poem

Johnston, Henry

Granda's Wake

In A Mist

Rommel's Gold

Johnstone, Dianne

Seasons Of A Life

Kay, Susan

Psycho Bubble 1, Psycho Bubble 2

Retribution

Lee, Crystal

Ghost Of My Heart

Lenthen, Simon

A Name For Smoke

Loyola, Ramon

as a child i

caught

Somebody's Sunday

Lynch, Felicity

The Neighbour

To My Daughter

Mancy, JH

Derailing The Gravy Train

Fractious Fractions

If Words Could Speak

Just Because

On The Sixth Day

Reflections

Sent Out

Martin-Lock, Julie

Sea Change

End Of The Dry

MD, Evelyn

126 On Love

Behind The Eyes

Being No-one

Bring Music To Us

You

Newman, David

Mist And Thistles

Mystery Lady

Sleep To Death

The Vision That Is You

Newman, Judy J

The Burning

White Light

Parker, Greg

B-Grade Blues

Parr, Amily Jean

A World Afire

Paper Smell

Sandcastle

Sonnet Sonnet

Paton, Toni

Pain

Tomorrow...

Windows Down

Rain, Joanna

One

Subtle

When The Last Tree Falls

You-You-You-You And Us

RL

Summer Storm

The Errand

Robertas

Apple Pie

Just A Tick!

The Jesus App

Ross, John

Beach Fishing At Dawn

Rubbish

The Truth

Ross, Madeline

The Toys Of War

War In A Forgotten Meadow

Russell, Jane

Xing Saga Part 7 - Polly Tackles Things Head First

Xing Saga Part 7.1 - Polly The Christmas Angel

Xing Saga Part 8 - Oggie Has An Accident

Xing Saga Part 9 - Polly The Hero

Xing Saga Part 10 - The UFO

Xing Saga Part 11 - Whatever Was He Thinking

Xing Saga Part 12 - Dog

Xing Saga Part 13 - Searching For BodWilf

Russell, Stephen

The Black Hole Of Dublin

Sanderson, Lorraine

A Secret Meeting

This Walking Life

Scott, Emma-Lee

Seven Letter Prayer

Senn, Anneliese

Solitaire

Smith, Winsome

Banjo Man

Barbara Maude

Dragon

It Happens

The Glass Eye Of The Beast

The Preacher's Daughter

The Short Life Of Cedric Fellowes

Soul, Jessica

Inside The Mirror

We Weep

Sparks, Graham

Body Parts

Hello Mrs Taylor

I Find No Chasm

Rays Of Light

The Mechanism Of Our Demise

The Mother Tongue

Within That Space

Spiller

Awareness

Burdensome Youth

Stanton, Craig

Carriers

Vampire

Sunrise

Who And Why

Tome, Gregory

Frank And Mark: A Tribute

The Twist Of War

Vitols, Wendy

Formica

Knock Knock

Shards

Von Riegen, Kate-Michelle

The Final Judgement

Walker, Vickie

One Man's Point Of View

Whitehead, Ann

Bamboo

Francie Baby

Williams, Gareth Johnny P

Exposed

X

Withers, Ruth

Be Still

Oh You Young And Beautiful

When The Drink Gets Into You
Sunday 3 November 2013

A World Afire

Amily Jean Parr

Callaghan, NSW

Wailing sirens, smoke-choked air

Crossing fingers, desperate prayer

'Please be safe' and 'Please take care'

Fire, fire everywhere.

Flames that race along the ground

Burning rings of hell surround

Blazing roar the only sound

Fire, fire all around.

Many must evacuate

Some will go, but some will wait

Stand their ground against their fate

Fire, fire claims our state.

Spurred on by a fierce breeze

Claiming cars and homes and trees

Spreading like a red disease

Fire, fire, spare us, please.
Friday 8 November 2013

Tribal Tribulations

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, NSW

Hanging out with thirty-five women, sleeping in swags on a dry riverbed was not high on Willow's list of a hundred things to do before she died. In fact, this type of adventure wasn't even on the list, not even considered. Large groups of women reminded her of the hen house where she worked. Her passion was travelling to distant lands. Her adventures were legendary. From the hill of Tara in Ireland, to upriver in a dug out canoe in Sarawak, across the lava fields of the big island of Hawaii, to the black-water rafting in the caves of KiTanawa, she did not shy away from the unknown. She had always preferred to travel independently.

An invitation to go and learn from the Aboriginal Women Elders came at a time when she was open to exploring new ideas, and she began to look upon this type of travel as something that would stimulate her landscape painting and lead her in a new direction. Having a desert experience, exploring the hidden layers of Aboriginal history, intrigued her.

Years ago, at an art gallery, she had met with artists from a remote community in Australia and had enjoyed the playfulness of the gathering. These artists had travelled with their sacred art in a bus, from Pupunya to Sydney, a journey of seven days. After meeting with them she had promised to visit one day. Now this gathering was to be held at Pupunya, deep within the outback of Australia, and she resolved to keep her word. Accepting this invitation to go and learn from medicine women of the Northern Territory, she allowed herself some sense of optimism. How difficult could it be to camp out for seven days in the desert with thirty-five women?

She found herself on a journey of internal discovery and external natural beauty. She had never been to Alice Springs. This journey also gave her friends that she would value for all her life. It was a clearing out of the mind that was about to engulf her, although she did not consciously know this. She had accepted the invitation to go and learn from the medicine women in Central Australia because it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Whatever the agenda, everything changed when 'sorry business' interrupted the learning. Sorry business happens when there is an Aboriginal death on a remote community, and this was the case when a bridge collapsed killing members of Pupunya Community. Willow learned of this when an Aboriginal woman on the plane noticed her black outfit and asked her if she was attending the funeral.

It was like being given a piece of a jigsaw puzzle. Further pieces were added to the mix when another Aboriginal woman at a gathering informed her that Nelly, the medicine woman, was in hospital. The concerned community was closed and the thirty-five women found themselves on another type of journey, one where they would learn from the land directly.

Out through the MacDonald Ranges, caterpillar-dreaming country, they would go, in search of ancient wisdom. The land yielded up its secrets to them easily as they sang and danced their way into history.

The women came from all walks of life and many came from overseas. There was Miss Brazil, who danced in the desert night as if in a Rio carnival. The super model took time out from the catwalks of Milan, London and New York to do grasshopper yoga under the night sky. There were shamans with wild clothes from America, bringing ceremony and magic of their own, creating their links with this land.

There was a lawyer who carried a feather, an accountant who lost the account books, a farmer who built a pit toilet, an opera singer, skilled in the practice of reike. There were teachers of grace and refinement, nurses to heal any wounds. A famous songwriter and her following came to sing songs that went on forever. There were mountain maids and city girls, writers, artists and healers, readers of palms and psychic storytellers, mothers and daughters, sisters and aunts. They were gathered together on a mystical journey and they bonded and helped one another. Whatever the reasons, each had a story of sorrow and joy. As they shared cooking and chores and water, the seven days dissolved into the sand and time was immaterial.

Half way through this journey, the women stopped at Uppie's place. Uppie was an Aboriginal Elder who initiated young males into song lines and stories. Extending an invitation to the women to stay on his homeland, he bade them welcome to this remote part of the landscape. He was a direct descendant of Albert Namatjira, who was the first famous Aboriginal artist in Australia. Willow had studied his skillful artworks as a child. They had been part of the art process introduced to her through convent schooling. Now, surprisingly, she found herself staying on the very land that was depicted in those epic works.

Clearing out a tin shed with the help of a broom was Petal's choice of activity. She was one of the women Willow had met and respected. Petal was practical and this energetic person saw an advantage in securing a clean shelter because ominous clouds pocketed the sky. The idea of another night in a swag on a dry riverbed that may flash flood was far from being a pleasing option. Some of the women spoke of snakes that may be lurking in the riverbed, as ribboned tracks criss-crossed the sand. Willow chose to sleep in the bus. She was in need of a quiet place to reflect, away from company. Earlier on this journey, she had been walking alone by the river, when something drew her up short. She turned to stone when 10 metres from her toes a snake of intense beauty, a fierce snake, slithered by her. She knew that animals attack when frightened, and she controlled her mind to have no fear. This would help her scent to be non threatening. However, she did feel that bus sleep was required.

Upon arrival at Uppie's, she had an epiphany of sorts. The land's vibrations wove around her and she disappeared into its very soul. The 'I' did not exist. Time did not exist. This was her mind clearing out. No name was whispered in the wind. After coming out of this trance, she decided that that bus was the most grounded place for her to sleep. She was intimidated by the energy of this land.

Morning found the women awake and refreshed. As the early sun peeped over Pine Gap, the neighboring American Information base, Uppie joked, 'Missile strike on Pine Gap, bye bye Uppie.'

The women gathered around to do ceremony and listen to Uppie's talk. Uppie told Willow and Petal to 'go walkabout', learn from the land, but not to cross the river - 'Wild dogs over there'. So Willow and Petal set out, overjoyed at being free from the restraint of ceremony and the morning circle that seemed to go on for hours.

They travelled along the dry riverbed. The landscape paled into the purple Namatjira hill and they were inside his painting. Circling around till they found the grave of the painter, they fashioned a simple gum leaf wreath to honour this man who gave so much of himself to his people. Circumnavigating the property, they came at last to a tarred road, the southern boundary.

When people talk of endless flat roads that go on forever in the outback, this, indeed, was one of those. It stretched to and from infinity. Down this stretch of highway the two women sauntered, dressed in their sarongs, gay umbrellas sheltering them from the sun's rays. Song came naturally as they freewheeled along.

A dot on the horizon slowly turned into a car, but the pace and saunter of these two did not change. As the car sped past, amazed faces stared and the unasked question beckoned, 'Who are these women in the middle of nowhere? Where did they come from? Where are they going?'

It was a mild, three-hour stroll, before partaking of a quiet breakfast in the tin shed. Resting there, sipping milk, they felt happy and at peace. Suddenly, fussy, angry women, burst into the shed. They were cranky with being so long in the heat and the circle. They were unaware of the serenity that existed there. 'Don't sit in the middle of the circle,' one said.

Willow and Petal moved outside where Uppie was smiling. 'Enjoy yourselves?'

They answered, 'Yes, we walked the land.' So glad were they to have taken his advice to clear out. They handed Uppie a poem that they had composed over breakfast and he accepted their gift gracefully.

We are desert weaving in this ancient land.

Finding stillness in a star-studded night,

We whisper a song to the soil.

Black cockatoo dreaming tale lives on,

Is this the world before the dawn of time?

Toes in red earth, learn the ways of the elders.

You are invited.

Warmed by campfire sisters sit,

Mesmerised by flames dancing.

Darkness descends gracefully in the desert.

Willow named Petal 'Miss Universe' when she first met her in the desert. She was dressed in white, her slender frame she carried with elegance. High cheekbones and polite conversation delivered with an exotic accent suggested ladylike tendencies of a European nature. Later, Willow learned of a German heritage and a farm at Dorrigo that Petal called home. The connection was casual, but deepened as they learned about the land.

Having said goodbyes to the Finke River Camp, a bus arrived to transport the women back to Alice Springs. Unfortunately, the river sand was soft and the bus bogged down deep into the earth.

The desert sisters formed a circle and started a chanting. They were chanting a 'bubble' around the bus so that it would move.

This was too much for some of the party. Willow realised that no amount of song wishes would move a bus. Why would it? Physical strength and practical knowhow was needed. She turned from the circle and walked towards the bus. Seeking out stones from the surrounding area, she started to place them under the wheels of the vehicle. Seven sisters extracted themselves from the circle and started collecting stones. They piled them up at the back of the bus, building a solid path for it to back up. Petal was one of these people. These eight worked like navvies till the bus slowly drove back over their rocky road. The circle broke up and everyone ran to the bus, singing and delighted with the success of the circle. So that's how wishes work! Many talk, a few do. 'It's the doing that counts,' remarked the bus driver, so pleased to have received assistance.

Willow and Petal were invited to ride back in a jeep with one of the tour men. There's always a backup vehicle when travelling in the Outback, if wisdom prevails. This was a reward for working so hard on the makeshift road. On the way they stopped at Simpson's Creek, and 'painted up' Petal with the ochre from the surrounding clay pans. It was another joyous connection for Petal to the land.

Petal never left Alice Springs. She passed away shortly afterwards; nobody on the journey had been aware of her cancer. There was at the Memorial Gathering held: her photo displayed on a sideboard, surrounded by candles, offerings, and friends. In this photo, Petal lay in state, encased in white, eyes closed by death.

Willow never returned to her city life, either. She finally met up with Nelly and received the learning that she had come so far to find. Nelly told her that she was a butterfly in the Caterpillar Dreaming and this was her home now. She stayed on at Uppie's place. Her passion now is for painting the landscape and gazing into serenity. If you ever find yourself driving down a road to infinity, you may pass her. She walks the land of her dreaming, singing, in her sarong with a colourful umbrella to shade her from the harsh sunrays.
Sunday 10 November 2013

Body Parts

Graham Sparks

Bathurst, NSW

Selling body parts is common in the tertiary world,

sell a kidney for a rental year

or flog a lung to put your kids through school,

but in the west we see it not

distasteful as the concept is.

And yet we see the concept manifest,

a system order higher,

for in the land of Oz, a magic place

where treason is the norm in place of reason,

the government, that august body,

invokes this concept often.

For is a nation not a body of a kind,

having land for flesh and infrastructures for its organs?

So when a politician sells an infrastructure to a foreign company,

is this not unlike the act of selling body parts?

For reference look at Chris and Baz!

And since I am entangled with this land

by love and other quantum mechanisms,

when land is sold to foreign interests

my heart begets diminishment,

and when an infrastructure goes in liquidation

so my organs go by increment.

Does a liquid not escape the pocket that contains it?

The Portuguese of old betokened her as follows:

'Australia del Espiritu Santo',

The South Land of the Holy Spirit,

a name I find appealing.

At the feet of English overlords we learnt our lessons well,

Pillage, rape and greed, the old colonial creed,

and all the arts of heresy and exploitation.

Why can no one see the damage being done?

She needs a loving husband, not a pack of rapists.

Perhaps in times to come she'll shed her burden of myopic lice

and cradle some who more deserve her.

One can only hope.

Ed: Whether you agree or disagree with the concepts in Graham's poem, we felt it was a brilliant analogy for what he was seeing and feeling. It came to us a week after the last federal election, so made even more sense to us under those circumstances!
Monday 11 November 2013

The Twist Of War

Gregory Tome

Burradoo, NSW

'Have you finished wiping up?'

'Yeah.'

'Well go out and get the mail. And don't drop the bread like you did last time.'

Tony and his mother were about to sit down at the table on the side verandah. It was always sunny there and that's where the family spent a lot of time. Perhaps they were waiting for Uncle Cliff. His mail came with theirs. The mother and the boys often asked Uncle Cliff things about the farm. He would tell them if what they were doing was right.

He liked getting the mail. It was an important job. It made him feel important. Wiping the dishes did not make him feel important. He hated it, especially wiping the enamel dishes. He hated the rough feeling of wiping them. If he and Tony were wiping up together Tony always grabbed the good plates to wipe. Tony always left the enamel plates for him. He pushed them towards him so he had no choice. He had to wipe them. He hated that.

Tony often teased him and bossed him around. As he walked through the house-yard gate he could hear his mother talking to Tony. She was talking sternly, 'You're too tough on Nicholas. He's only six. He's just a kid.'

'There's a war on, Mum. He's got to help out more. We're all working hard. He spends too much time daydreaming.'

He thought about these words as he walked along the drive that ran from the house-yard down to the front gate where you drove into the farm. The mail would be on the ground beside the road into the town close to the front fence.

Nicholas his mother had called him. Nobody else called him that. Normally he was just Nick. Except to Tony. Sometimes he called him Santa Claus because Saint Nicholas was the other name that Santa Claus had.

'Hurry up, Santa Claus. You haven't gathered the eggs yet.'

Or he called him Old Nick which Tony said was another name for the devil. He didn't know why the devil was called Old Nick. Once or twice, when they were well away from the house and where their mother couldn't hear, Tony had called him another name.

'Hurry up, Nickel arse. It will be dark before you get the cows into the yard.' Tony had been on the horse, Toby, when he had said that to him. Then he laughed and cantered away. He just had to keep walking and it was a long way from the gully paddock to the cowyard.

Today as he walked he could feel the sand on the drive under his bare feet and he liked the feeling. Before Dad went away he would sometimes race his sons the length of the drive. Usually he won. 'Bloody bunch of doughboys,' he called them whenever he won.

He made sure that he was still walking fast and not daydreaming. They would all be on the verandah soon, waiting for the mail. It was important.

Dad had to go away because of the war. He couldn't remember the time before the war. He wondered what it was like at a time when there wasn't war.

~~~

He liked school. Cherryvale Provisional School was the only school that he knew anything about. In the town he had seen the big schools. Tom and Peter had gone to the high school there. Both had left when Dad went away in the army. Tony was going to go to high school but the family thought that he should stay at Cherryvale. There he did high school lessons by correspondence. Mr Browne helped Tony a lot. He liked Mr Browne because he was kind.

Cherryvale School had only one teacher. It had only one classroom. All the classes were in the one room. He liked it when he had finished his work and he could listen to the older kids' lessons. Sometimes he joined in and answered a question when the older kids did not know the answer. The older kids did not like this and sometimes he could see Tony staring at him and frowning. But Tony wasn't always at school. Often he had to stay at home to help with the farmwork.

Mr Browne liked it when he answered a question that the older kids couldn't answer.

He was the best in his class. Les Mitchell was in his class but he did not like school much. Les Mitchell did not try hard at his schoolwork and he was not good at it. Patricia Hart did try hard at her schoolwork. She, too, was in his class. However, she was not good at her schoolwork. While he sat listening to the older kids' lessons, Les and Patricia had to keep working at their set tasks.

On this particular afternoon the classroom was quiet. As usual he had finished his work before Patricia and Les. Mr Browne collected his Nature Study workbook with its soft green cover. Quickly Mr Browne read through what he had written about insects and larvae and pupae, and his drawings. He ticked the work a few times, scribbled his initials and the date. Mr Browne reached into the drawer of his desk and pulled out a stamp pad and a stamp. Another star found its way stamped into his workbook. Mr Browne winked at him and said, 'Good boy,' as he handed back his book. He looked quickly at the stamp, closed the book and put it away carefully into the shelf under his desk.

On the wall near where he sat was a large coloured poster. On it were pictures of aeroplanes that were fighting in the war. Some were allied planes, others were enemy planes. He liked the pictures of the allied planes best. Without reading the words he knew which one was the Spitfire. He knew the Kittyhawk, the Flying Fortress, the Lancaster bomber which had a special twin-shaped tail. He especially liked the Lockheed Lightning with its double-barrelled shape and the way its tail stretched all the wide way right across the plane. The names of the German planes were hard to remember. The Messerschmitt was the only one he could remember and he hated the menacing Japanese planes with their fierce red circles on their wings but he knew which ones were the Mitsubishi Zeroes.

While he was musing over the poster the silence of the afternoon was shattered by a thunderous noise. One of the older kids had farted, and farted very noisily. There was a universal gasp, followed by a moment's silence, and then laughter right around the room.

'Good heavens, Gwen. Was that you?'

'Yes, Mr Browne. I'm sorry. I tried to keep it in but it just burst out.'

'That's all right then. Let's all get back to work.'

'Hey, Mr Browne,' Barry Duffy called out. 'When Gwen farted I thought Hitler had dropped a bomb.'

'A very reasonable reaction, Barry. I wonder which one would be the more dangerous.'

~~~

The family was sitting around the lounge room. As usual the wireless was playing. Soon the next episode of First Light Fraser would begin. His mother was the last to enter the room. She surprised everyone by switching off the wireless. They all looked at her, wondering what she was going to say.

'I haven't had a letter from Jimmy for a long time. Normally he writes so regularly. I'm worried sick. Tonight we're going to say the rosary. Together. So please get your rosary beads.'

Nobody said a word and all four brothers stood up and each went on his way to find his rosary beads. He knew exactly where his were. As he took them from the little drawer beside the mirror on the dressing table he heard Tom say to Peter, 'It's not fair. Poor Mum. Dad's away, there's a farm to manage. Her two brothers are in the war; Uncle Bruce is a prisoner of war in Germany. Now Jimmy. Fighting the Japs somewhere. No word from him.'

'It'll kill her.'

'She's tough but it's too big a load.'

As they knelt in a circle around the room, each facing out and leaning against a chair, they took it in turns to lead through the prayers. Because it was Tuesday they would say the sorrowful mysteries. His mother led through the first decade. After the mother, the boys led the responses in order of seniority: Tom, Peter and then Tony.

During the earlier decades he allowed his mind to drift, to think about Uncle Bruce and Jimmy. He didn't know Uncle Bruce very well. He had lived a long way away out west. But he knew Jimmy well. Jimmy was his uncle too but nobody called him Uncle Jimmy, perhaps because he was so young. Jimmy lived in town and he often came out to the farm. And he often played games with him.

'I want to play cricket with Nick,' Jimmy would yell. They would have a game with just the two of them playing. If they had a game when everybody played, Jimmy always made sure he was on his side; he always helped him and cheered him on.

They had reached the fifth and last decade of the rosary, the Crucifixion. Who was to lead now? In a way it was his turn but he had never led before. He waited. There was a pause before his mother said quietly, 'Thank you, Nicholas.'

Off he went, his fingers shifting carefully from bead to bead at the end of each prayer. It was important for him to get the number of Hail Marys right. One too many or one too few would give Tony something to mock him about. When the prayers finished they stood. Each stretched or rubbed his knees prior to returning his rosary beads to their resting place. Out of earshot of their mother Tony launched his attack.

'Did you hear old Nick? Thought he was a racing commentator describing a race.'

'Pity he's not perfect like you, Tone,' was Tom's response.

~~~

He was woken by movement on the verandah outside the door of his bedroom. He could tell from the weak sunlight that it was early. A strong wind was blowing and the top branches of the pepper tree swayed backwards and forwards. There were two main clumps of branches, one higher than the other. He could watch them from where he lay in bed. The taller clump seemed to be hitting the other clump over and over again. He imagined the taller clump was the Phantom. The other clump was the Japs. The Phantom often fought the Japs in the comics in the Women's Mirror. Not like Mandrake the Magician in the Women's Weekly. He only gestured hypnotically. But the Phantom used his own strength. He was brave and strong. He liked the Phantom but still he liked to read the Mandrake comics too. But the Phantom was better.

He looked across at Tony's bed. Usually it was empty at this stage because Tony got up to help milk the cows. Now, however, there was somebody in the bed. It was his cousin, Siobhan. He remembered that she arrived yesterday while he was at school. She cried a lot because she wanted to be at home. 'I want to be with my mummy,' she said a lot of times. He didn't know what was wrong at her home and why she couldn't be there. Her parents were Aunty Emma and Uncle Tim. Aunty Emma was his mother's sister. Siobhan did not have any brothers or sisters. Not like him with his three older brothers.

He remembered how his mother had told Tony that she wanted him to sleep on a bed on the front verandah and that Siobhan would have his bed.

'That's all right,' Tony replied. 'Put the two girls in together.'

He cringed at the memory and pulled the blanket over his face as if to hide his embarrassment. Tony was cruel to him a lot and he wished he could sometimes strike back. He would like to call him a clever name. Tony did have a nickname. Because he was skinny Tom and Peter sometimes called him Splinter. One day Dad had tried to console him when he heard Tony calling him a silly name.

'Do you know why we call him Splinter?' Dad asked him.

'Because he's skinny.'

'No. It's because if he scratches his head he'll get a splinter in his finger.'

He giggled quietly at the memory and threw the blanket back off his face. The trouble was if you called Tony a name, no matter how clever, he would belt you.

Not that Tony hit him very often. In a way Tony was often kind to him. At school none of the other kids were ever nasty to him, specially when Tony was around. When he first started school Tony helped him a lot when they walked to school. Things often scared him, things he hadn't seen before.

One morning a dead goanna lay beside the road just where they were walking. He was frightened and started to cry. He didn't want to, wouldn't walk past it. The goanna was scary. Dead things were scary. He stood where he was, frozen to the spot. Tony took him with him away from the road into the bush until he found a long, strong stick.

'Wait here,' Tony told him. He waited and watched Tony use the stick to pick up the dead goanna and carry it a long way into the bush. Even as it hung on the stick with its head and then its tail swaying and its legs sticking out away from its body there was something frightening about the dead goanna. After Tony dropped the goanna he was able to walk alongside the road again without being frightened.

But there was something else that frightened him and it wasn't an animal. It looked like an animal, more like a monster, a huge scary dragon. That was a road grader. He was frightened one day when he was walking home from school on his own. There it was parked on the side of the road on top of the hill. From this hill he could see their farmhouse.

This day he did not cry. He scrambled to the other side of the road and half walked and half ran as fast as he could. He did not look back because he did not want to look at that scary dragon monster made from iron. He did not cry but he felt very frightened.

He wondered if the Phantom was scared of things when he was a boy. He couldn't really imagine the Phantom as a boy. Did he grow up in the jungle? They wouldn't have had road graders in the jungle, other scary things but not road graders.

He thought about Siobhan. He liked Siobhan. Her family visited there often. When that happened he and Siobhan scampered away as soon as they could to play some game. One day Tony came looking for them and he found them pretending to be drinking tea and eating cake using Siobhan's toy tea set. He was afraid of what Tony would say but Tony only gave a silly grin.

'Would you like a cup of tea and some sponge cake, Tony?' Siobhan asked.

'No thanks, Siobhan. I'm afraid I'm a bit too busy.' With that Tony walked away with a smirk on his face. Strangely Tony never said anything about it to him. He waited for it but it never happened.

He liked Siobhan but he like Patricia Hart better. Patricia Hart was rounder and darker and, well, juicier. Siobhan was fair and stringy and dry-looking with her thin face and big freckles. Patricia Hart liked him. She said she wanted to marry him when they grew up. She had told her mother this, but her mother told Patricia she couldn't marry him because he was a Catholic. This surprised him. He didn't understand it. Siobhan was a Catholic, too. But she didn't say she wanted to marry him. Anyway, she couldn't because they were cousins. Patricia Hart told him this.

He wondered why girls talked so much about who they would marry when they grew up. He thought it was silly. He didn't think about things like that. He didn't think the Phantom talked about who he would marry.

'What are you doing up at this time?'

'I'm going to set some rabbit traps.'

'Rabbit traps? You?'

'Yeah, I found six in the shed. Peter knows and so does Mum.'

'Mum? You sure? Where are you gonna set them?'

'Over the road in the stock route.'

'Six is too many for you to carry. Not all that way.'

'I'm only taking three today, and three tomorrow.'

'Well, don't muck around. You've gotta get home and get cleaned up to go to school.'

'Are you going to school today?'

'Yeah, but I'm not waiting for you if you're not ready.'

~~~

It was hot where the sun shone on the side verandah. The family was grouped around, reading the mail and the newspapers. Uncle Cliff was there looking at his mail.

He sat at the verandah edge, his legs dangling down. At the moment he had nothing to read. He had collected up some of the little pieces of brown paper. Each had been wrapped around a tightly rolled newspaper. On each he read the typewritten address:

Mr. T.J. McKenna

Dungarvan

Cherryvale

Dungarvan was the name they had given to their farm. It was an Irish name, his mother had told him. They chose it because her grandparents were born in Ireland. 'McKenna is an Irish name so Dad's people had come from Ireland too,' she said. And somebody had lived in some place called Dungarvan in Ireland. At school one day he had used the school atlas to find Ireland. Then he found Dungarvan. It was at the bottom of Ireland and close to the sea. He told Tony what he had found.

'The printing is not very big. Perhaps it is not a big place.'

'You can bet it's bigger than Cherryvale.'

Mail day on Saturday was different from the other two mail days. On Tuesday and Thursday he was at school and the mail came about one o'clock. On Tuesday when he got home he liked to read the Phantom. Then there were the comics in the Sunday paper which arrived on Tuesday as well. He liked Ginger Meggs and also Henry but he thought it funny that a schoolboy should have a bald head. On Thursday Mandrake the Magician came in the Women's Weekly.

The silence was broken when the telephone started ringing. Everyone listened to work out who the call was for.

'That's yours, Uncle Cliff. I reckon that's three shorts,' said Peter.

'Yeah, somebody wants to talk to me, I guess.'

Everyone went quiet while Uncle Cliff stood in Dad's office as he spoke into the telephone that was fixed to the wall. Uncle Cliff's voice sounded quiet and thoughtful. When Uncle Cliff rejoined them on the verandah their mother asked, 'Everything all right, Cliff?'

'Yes, Betty, but it's a bit funny. That was Alan Hart. He told me he'd been over at Le Clerq's and they have Italian prisoners-of-war working on their place. Alan decided he'd try and get one for his place.'

Everyone went silent as they considered this strange news. He couldn't stop himself calling to his uncle, 'But, Uncle Cliff. Harts don't have a prison, do they? Where are they going to lock them up?'

Uncle Cliff answered quietly. 'They're not that sort of prisoners, Nick.'

'Are you goin' to get one, Uncle Cliff?' asked Tom.

'Dunno. Living on my own makes it a bit awkward. I'd have to cook for him, and I'm not the greatest cook.'

'You might get one who can cook for you,' suggested Tony.

'We'll see. We'll see,' said Uncle Cliff.

'What about us, Mum? We could do with an extra hand,' said Peter.

'With your father away and no grown man on the place, no.'

'It'll be hard at harvest time. Looks like Tony'll have to drive the tractor.'

'I can drive the tractor,' snorted Tony.

'Hang on, Tony,' said Uncle Cliff. 'This isn't just about being able to drive the tractor. It's about driving it all bloody day. Every day, from sun up to sun down. For seven or eight days in a row. Not a day off. You'll be dog tired. And that header's a heavy bugger to lug around a paddock. It takes a strong man to change direction around a corner with that mongrel behind you. No job for a kid like you, strong as you are.'

He paused and then spoke to their mother. 'Betty, do you have any other choice?'

She shook her head slowly and they could all see the tears in her eyes. 'He's only twelve, for God's sake. But what else can I do?'

~~~

It was lunchtime at school and they were playing hidings in the horse paddock which was next to the schoolyard. The horse paddock hardly ever had horses in it. The only time that it did was when he and Tony rode Toby and Prince to school and that wasn't very often.

He and Patricia Hart were hiding behind the big tree. It was called the big tree because it was wide and knobbly but it wasn't taller than the other trees. Patricia Hart always hid behind the big tree. Everyone always knew where she was hiding. They never bothered to look for her. The two of them snuggled close to the tree with its prickly bark and close to each other so that they couldn't be seen. He could smell something from her sandwiches on her breath. Suddenly, like a bird grabbing a worm, she turned her face and gave him a quick kiss on his cheek. Then she giggled.

Next she lifted her dress and he could see her snow white pants. 'I'll take them down and show it to you,' she said. He gave a startled shake of his head.

'The other day I did a pee here.'

'When?'

'When we were playing hidings. Les Mitchell was with me. He watched.'

This was more than he wanted to hear. He charged out of the hiding place and ran for the whippy. He knew he had no hope of getting there. As he pumped his feet up and down as hard as he could and he thought of his cousin Siobhan. Surely she didn't do things like that.

~~~

It was his third morning of trapping rabbits. The previous day he had set his second batch of three traps. He hadn't caught anything in the first three traps he had set on the first morning. When he returned home empty-handed Peter had poked gentle fun at him. 'You better catch somethin' tomorrow. Pablo's depending on you for a feed.'

Pablo was their old Collie dog. Each morning Pablo wanted to go with him on his trapping trips. Each time he had to send him home. He couldn't run the risk of the old dog getting caught in one of his traps.

He crossed the road just in front of the farm front gate and headed into the bush which everyone called the stock route. For him it just meant that nobody owned it. Where he walked gum trees grew clumped together with flat open areas in between these clumps. That was where the rabbits spent time at night. There they dug little holes and did their poos. He had learnt from his brothers that this was where you set your traps. Usually only the full grown rabbits came there. If you set a trap in the entrance to a burrow you were more likely to catch a useless little kitten.

Over his shoulder he carried a sugar bag. This morning it was lighter than on the previous mornings because there were no traps in it. All it had in it this time was a setter and some newspaper. The setter was a tool for digging holes and for hammering in the pegs. There was one at the end of a chain at the end of each trap. When you set a trap you placed it into a hole you had dug for it. There it should lie snugly. Before you covered it with dirt you tore the paper so a piece covered the jaws of the trap. This stopped the dirt from setting off the trap.

He knew exactly where he had set the traps. A quick inspection of the first three showed no result. With the fourth he heard something before he saw it. He had to go around a clump of bushes to find the spot. As he neared the bushes again he heard movement and the clink of metal. Then he saw it. Sitting very upright, with ears pricked, a rear leg firmly caught in the jaws of the trap was a rabbit. Its skin was a very light grey. Its eyes bulged with fear.

Why didn't he feel a sense of victory? He had done something clever, something which should get him praise. For the first time ever he had caught a rabbit. But he had to kill it. That was the problem.

He knew how he would do it. He had been shown often enough. Now he had to do it. For some time he stood still. He stood still and watched the rabbit. It too was still. Its eyes and ears moved the slightest. Then he made up his mind. He moved towards the rabbit. It charged away from him as far and as fast as the trap would allow. He followed and straddled the trapped creature, one leg on either side of it. The rabbit cowed down as if giving up. He reached down with his left hand and seized it firmly at the base of its head. The softness and warmth of its fur surprised him. As he placed his foot on the spring of the trap he fumbled with his other hand for the creature's back legs.

Feeling its back legs free the rabbit kicked fiercely. He felt a scratch on his hand but soon he had a firm grip on both back legs. The smallness of the rabbit was another surprise. Although it was no kitten it wasn't a fully grown adult. He gritted his teeth and set himself for the next vital step. Holding the back legs firm and still, with his other hand he pushed the rabbit's head away from him. He felt the neck stretch. He felt the body quiver. He felt it twist. The shaking feeling ran from the rabbit's body up through his left arm. Almost in panic he flung the rabbit into the bag. He didn't want to look at it any more. He couldn't help notice the sugar bag move with the rabbit's convulsions. They became less and less and further apart.

The setter and the newspaper were in the bag with the dying rabbit. He needed them to reset the trap. He plunged his hand into the bag and pulled them out the way he would snatch something from a hornet's nest. He went to work to reset the trap. He gave the peg a couple of healthy whacks and he tidied up the hole where the trap was to lie.

He was annoyed because tears started to stream from his eyes. 'I'm not crying,' he told himself, but the tears continued to flow. He refused to wipe them away with his handkerchief. That would have been an admission that he was crying. He did allow himself to brush his sleeve against his eyes. He had to be able to see the trap clearly to know what he was doing. Now his nose started to run but all it got was a quick, rough rub on his sleeve.

'I'm not crying,' he told himself. 'I'm not blubbing or making a noise.'

Eventually the trap was set and covered carefully with dirt. He looked around and found some fresh rabbit pellets. Most likely they came from the rabbit he had trapped. He dropped some lightly above where the tongue of the trap was covered. Now there were just two last traps to check. He hoped like anything that they had caught nothing.

~~~

Tom saw him when he got home. 'You got somethin' there?' He took the bag and emptied it on the ground. 'One bunny, eh! Not a big one. Hope you catch his dad tonight. Or a couple of his uncles. You go get ready for school. I'll skin him and feed him to Pablo.'

As he walked towards the house he realised he had thrust out his chest and pushed back his shoulders. He asked himself, I wonder how old Tony was when he killed his first rabbit? Then there was the Phantom. When did he first start killing wild animals?

Ed: We have published this piece in honour of Remembrance Day,2013, as an example of how war affects not just those who serve on the front lines, but also those who are left behind, and in more ways than one.
Wednesday 13 November 2013

You

Evelyn MD

Newbridge, NSW

I wake and you are gone

I cannot recall your look

I cannot work out how to

Get you back

Who are you?

You are not a gentle breeze

Giving soft music to my trees

You are not my children

Who nothing will ever compare to

Nor are you the seductive fog of sleep

That rolls me into deep slumber at night

A place that I do not weep

Who are you?

You arrive too quickly

And want to leave just as fast

You are one and many

Offering time and again

A phrase to turn

Into poetry

You bring words for expanding,

Shaping, loving tenderly,

You give me a momentary lift

a temporary time out of depression

a goal to reach

a poem

You are...

Me in Creativity

I'm sorry I didn't write you down

Thoughts

Come again soon

So I may shape you

Me into a new poem.
Friday 15 November 2013

The Errand

RL

Bathurst, NSW

I sucked in on the cigarette, sputtering at first, than keeping my cool as I drew in again, the smoke winding its way downwards and giving me the shot of nicotine I needed. I sprayed myself with the travel sized deodorant I always carried in my back pocket. I popped a mint into my mouth and let the mintiness override the taste of cigarettes. I'm here for the delivery job. The man hesitated and fidgeted nervously. He leafed through piles of yellowed paper that looked like the sun had danced upon them. His eyebrows rose up from his face like two caterpillars and I could see hair sprouting in tufts from his ears and nose. The mole upon the side of his face also had its own cluster of hair and a gold chain hung down his chest amongst a tangle of dark, thick hair. His glasses were perched upon his straight nose and he shifted in his seat uncomfortably as he tried to find the correct envelope. Upon finding it, he made sure each end was sealed and faltered before handing it to me. He stared at me for a minute, as if he was taking a snapshot of each of my attributes. The envelope was lightly padded, creamy yellow like the rest of the paper and easily tucked into my pocket. He put his head down and told me that was all.

The minute I left, I grabbed another cigarette, not because I needed it, but out of habit, like one washes their hands after pissing. I'd been told what to do, explicitly. Pick up the parcel. Don't look inside. Find the address. Deliver and leave. I began the walk to the location written in a messy scrawl on the back. Shit. Lot further than I expected. I walked towards the train station in hopes that one would be leaving in the next ten minutes. I wasn't in any rush but the quicker I could do it, and be back in my room, the better. That was the best part about being a nobody. No one ever missed the thin guy with scraggly brown hair at school. I was nothing, nobody.

The train pulled up to the platform. Rush hour was long gone and the train was half full with mothers and their young children braving the shops and paying bills. One mother fussed with her two kids as she tried to get on at the station. Looked like she had another one on the way, but you never know with women. She had that look all mothers get. Puffy eyes, oily hair, full breasts. The infant dropped his dummy on the platform. She looked around, no one had seen it. She adjusted him upon her tilted hip, and in one quick fluid motion, picked the dummy up and placed it in his mouth. I saw it, though. She didn't see me.

I slid past her and took the first seat available. That was the good part about travelling in the middle of the day. You didn't have to give up your seat to the elderly or women. The bad part was you had to listen to the children fuss about in a cacophony of languages. No matter where they were from, they would tug on their mother's worn, thin clothing. I want this. I want that. Why this? Why that? Lucky I was able to shut off.

The train stopped and it was nearly empty by the time it got to my stop. The platform was deserted, as was the tunnel that led up to the street. I headed to the beachside. I saw her from a mile off; standing, alone, on the edge of the water. I'd been up here before, a long time ago, though. She was completely still. Watching. Waiting perhaps? I knew the spot where she was standing. I too had stood there. I'd watched the waves thrash below in the murky water where the jagged rocks rose from the water and wondered what would happen if I jumped. I checked my pocket again and heard the crumple of paper; the envelope was still there. When I looked up again, she was gone. I ran to the edge of the water. Nothing. I frantically searched for her body and anticipated what it would look like smashing against the rocks. Nothing. I looked behind me; no one else had seen her. Was I dreaming? Shit. I didn't need this. I looked at the path that made a steep decline down amongst the coastal grasses. Shit.

Then I saw her. She burst to the surface, her hair streaming down behind her. She let the waves carry her to the rocks where she pulled herself up and wrung her hair out. She sat there for a good while, unafraid of the huge waves crashing brutally against the rock on which she sat. I watched her. She seemed like she was in a trance and totally ignorant to what was happening around her. I realised I hadn't been breathing and I gasped. Routinely, I reached into my pocket and lit up a cigarette, turning away from the water so that it wouldn't go out. I took a few sluggish drags and calmed myself. She was gone again. 'Those things will kill you, you know?' The girl was talking to me. I looked at her. She was completely drenched and fully dressed. I tried not to look at her nipples peeping out from the white t-shirt. 'What? Can't you talk or something?' I can talk fine I thought. 'You should have a go,' she said, tilting her head in the direction of the sea. I watched her squeeze her clothes then shake her hair out behind her like a horse would shake its mane. She sat down on the ground next to me. 'Can I have a smoke... and a light I guess?' She patted the ground, signalling me to sit and without really thinking or walking away I handed her my pack. The yellow envelope slipped out too. She was too quick for me. Her hand grabbed it and she slowly slid her finger, teasingly, under the lip of the envelope. I looked away, and she opened it to reveal its contents. 'That your boyfriend's number?'

For the first time I spoke. 'I'm not one of them faggots!' I'd seen my father cut a guy with a schooner once because he had made eyes at him from across the bar. I'd been 13, and he'd taken me with him to give my mother a break. The guy had looked at him, in that funny way, and he'd smashed the glass against the bar and taken it to his throat. Blood poured from him. No one helped him. He whisked me out of there and told me that if ever spoke about it he would do the same to me.

'I don't care what you're into' she replied matter of factly. I didn't think there was much point arguing with her. She gave the envelope back to me. I looked at the number, 10 digits. Could be a phone number, but not one from round here. I tucked it back in the envelope and into the safety of my pocket. I watched her bring the cigarette to her full lips. She inhaled slowly, savouring it. And exhaled, rings of smoke blowing upwards from her mouth. I turned away. Show off.

The shopfronts were starting to get busy. School must be out for the day, where I should have been, sitting at the back of the classroom, disappearing amongst the torn posters and dated work from past students. It was the last day anyway; no one went, including a nobody like me. Tourists stopped by and looked out at the sea. They didn't take any notice of me, but I was sure I caught a few of the husbands ogling the girl next to me. It was a bit hard not to. Her breasts were large. Not just large, but rounded and perky. Like the ones I looked at in the dirty magazines. Her hair was starting to dry off and hung in strands around her shoulders. The sunlight captured the different hues and the faint line of regrowth told me she was really a brunette. Her long legs stretched out before her, brown and smooth. She picked at the skin of her fingernail beds, pulling one piece off so that it tore and left a bright red bubble growing on top of the perfect skin. She pulled it to her mouth and sucked the blood, looked up at me and continued to suck it, maintaining eye contact.

The girl got up and left as suddenly as she had got there. Without so much as a goodbye, she was gone. She blended quickly into the crowd and then disappeared from sight. I was left sitting on the headland. Alone. Now left with a massive dilemma; should I deliver the envelope or just lie, say the delivery was done?

I made my decision. I'd deliver the envelope anyway. I'd make up some bullshit story that it got opened by accident; it was only a number. I wandered north until I found the street. Quiet neighbourhood; could easily slip into one of these houses without anyone noticing. That was another benefit of being a nobody; no one ever paid attention to the plain, skinny guy.

The house was simple; red bricked with a brown tile roof, very typical of the area. The grass was in need of a mow and the garden beds were overgrown with thistles and needle-grass. There was a mailbox, tilted to the left and piled full with junk. I opened the gate that squeaked loudly; it became detached from its rusted hinge and jammed on the concrete. I slipped past it, no time to fix it, and climbed the three steps to the front door. I knocked. Heavy footsteps could be heard coming up the hall. The door opened a crack. I heard my somewhat rattled voice, I have a delivery.

The man stood perusing me. He was a massive bulk of a man. His dirty singlet was tucked into his shorts. The remnants of lunch was splayed like blood down his front. Sweat had collected under his arms leaving two stains on either side of his singlet. His body odour was repulsive and his beard covered his entire face so that the only distinguishing features were two small, brown eyes. 'You're not like the last delivery guy.' I ignored him. I handed him the envelope. 'This some kind of fucking joke?' His face went red, eyes bloodshot. 'Well, you think this is fucking funny?' He slammed his fist against the door frame, making the walls reverberate inside the house. I took a step back. 'Where is me cash?' Before I could answer, he grabbed my jumper, grabbing some of my thin chest hair, and twisted it so it pulled against my neck. 'You were meant to bring me my fucking cash! The number is useless as tits on a bull without that bloody cash!' What was this? There was nothing inside when she grabbed the envelope, just the number. Had she pulled a swifty? I managed to sputter a nonsense sentence. He loosened the grip, slightly. 'Wait til I call ya boss, she's gonna hear about this!' She? What was all this about? The man drew his fist high into the air. As if in slow motion, it crawled through the air. I closed my eyes and waited for the colossal fist to connect with my face. I opened my eyes - he'd missed.

The girl again. She yelled to him, 'I've got your cash, leave the kid alone'. Without faltering, I bolted. He came after me. Heavy feet, right behind me, thundering down the footpath like an out of control train. I could hear him yelling, foul mouth on him. I continued to run. I was small and could easily outrun the hulk waddling behind me. Then I realised there were no footsteps. I dared to turn around: he was chasing the girl. His vast size was no match for the long athletic legs of the girl and she scurried down the street, darting back and forth leaving him miles behind. A bus pulled up to a stop and she leapt on, flashing a smile in the direction of the man, puffing, bright red and shaking his fists in the air. As the bus rolled past me, she slid the window open and yelled out 'Just getting back what's mine...' and her voice drifted off into the wind.

I walked in a daze for quite some time. I finally returned to the train station and jumped on the loaded train with the suits and ties. I got off at my station and began the walk home; dawdling on purpose and trying to work out what I was going to do. I opened the freshly painted gate and tripped on the tightly rolled newspaper. 'How'd you go dear? You run that little errand for me?'

I paused. My small, wrinkled grandmother sat in her recliner in the dingy lounge room, her sprained ankle strapped and resting on the velvet covered footstool. Her cup of tea sat beside her and she munched noisily on an arrowroot. Her face was transfixed on the television.

'Grandma, I think we need to have a little talk.'
Tuesday 19 and Wednesday 20 November 2013

Francie Baby

Ann Whitehead

Oak Flats, NSW

A week ago Selina drained her glass, switched off the light and slumped onto the sofa. Warmth seeped into her bones. Her eyelids flickered and were still.

A sound of breathing. Not her breath. The sound of footsteps. The walls closed in. Eyes stared out of the mirror as the footsteps drew closer, the breathing became louder, the ceiling lowered. The kitchen door swung open to reveal a bleeding mouth and pointed teeth.

The light blinded her at first, but it banished the eyes, the footsteps, the breathing, the blood. The walls and ceiling shrunk back to where they belonged. She lifted a softball bat and tiptoed around the house, switching on every light. When their glow had banished the shadows, she filled a glass from the flagon, drank the wine in a few gulps and returned to the sofa. Sleep had almost numbed her brain when Francie screamed.

Selina opened the bedroom door. Francie was laughing. Playing her games. Fooling around.

The glint of mischief turned to glistening drops sliding down the curves of a chubby face as two eyes stared up at the angry eyes staring down.

'Run!' Selina said. 'The monster's back. Run next door to Mrs Cruzzo.'

Francie ran and she fell down the stairs.

~~~

That was yesterday and this is now. Now Selina trails the welfare man, Kevin somebody-or-other, down the cracked cement path. He continues talking but the words are stilted as if he doesn't want to say them. She can't understand why. They often take Francie for a day. To give Selina a break they say.

'It's her birthday next week, she'll be three,' Selina informs him.

'It's your birthday too, isn't it?' he asks.

She nods. 'Today. I'm eighteen.'

The number seems wrong. She feels older. But younger somehow. The years before Francie have been forgotten. Or is it the years since? She bends forward and peers through the car window. Francie is cuddling into a strange woman's lap. The doll is on the footpath grass not far from the car door. The doll called Francie Too had been Selina's doll first. Aunty Rene brought her back from Paris eight years ago. She wears a red and white chequered dress and a big red bow on long blonde hair and tiny shoes with diamante buttons. Francie loves Francie Too. She'll cry for her later.

Selina edges around the man to pick up the doll. He moves to cut her off and holds out a folded sheet of paper she imagines isn't there. He pushes it into the pocket of her faded denim skirt.

'It explains what you have to do to get her back,' he says.

Brushing past her, he climbs into the driver's seat of the small blue car. Francie turns and looks back as he starts the engine. As the car chugs slowly up the hill, a scream floats out of the window and curls around Selina's ears.

The sun glares down and envelops the car in an orange glow. Selina looks up at the pale blue sheet overhead. She might have wondered about the time if time had any meaning. The meaning of time disappeared along with the job she used to have.

~~~

The little blue car has gone like the job and time has no importance. Selina decides to break up the day by spending a few hours at the park. Easing Francie Too into her pocket beside the folded sheet of paper, she wanders down the hill. By the time she reaches the park, the ache in her legs matches the ache in her head.

An old man is asleep on a bench. His feet are small and crusted with earth. Blades of grass rise from the dirt between his toes as if he's growing a private lawn. His soles are lined with thick callouses. Removing her thongs, Selina places them on his feet and inserts the bar between his toes. He kicks out and says, 'Here, what are you up to?' He looks down at the thongs, up at her face and adds, 'How do I know ya haven't got tinea, hey?'

'What's tinea?' she asks.

'Well if ya don't know that, ya haven't got it, have ya?'

He struggles to a sitting position, straightens the coat and collar of his shiny brown suit and looks down to admire the effect of the thongs.

'Chinese work boots, hey? I suppose they'll do if you haven't got nothing better.' He licks the fingers of one hand as if they're an ice cream and slicks down the ruff of hair surrounding his bald dome. 'Not that you should be talking to strange men ya know. I got a girl around your age. She's twenty-seven and won't talk to her old man anymore.'

'I won't be twenty-seven for another nine years,' Selina tells him.

'I suppose you're worried about the bomb. The one they march about. Don't they march about it anymore? That ud be right. Nobody marches about nothing these days. Whole flaming place has gone to the dogs.'

There had been something on the television last night. People arm in arm chanting a protest. Men and women yelling into microphones. Marching, and placards. Something to do with a load of crap, one man said.

'I think they're putting sewerage in the ocean,' Selina says.

The old man wriggles his toes around the bars of the thongs. 'I heard that some people put theirs in the ground. Never liked the idea of food grown in sewerage but it beats swimming in it, hey girlie? You ever marched about that?'

'Kids don't care about nothing these days,' he adds when she doesn't answer. He marches away, arms swinging, feet thumping. The Chinese work boots slap against his heels.

~~~

The park with an old man has turned into the mall where Selina used to work until Mr Ransom said she had to work Saturday mornings. Mrs Cruzzo from next door won't mind Francie when Mr Cruzzo's at home, and there isn't anyone else. But Joan didn't want to work Saturdays anymore and Joan is Mr Ransom's niece.

'It's just dishing out candies,' he said. 'Any halfwit can do it, and do it with a smile. I've got a list a mile long, girls like you looking for part time work.'

The Candy Shop still gleams with rainbow hues but the jars aren't full to the exact right level. The floor is scuffed, the counter streaked. Selina smiles satisfaction.

'Hey Selina!' a voice calls from out of the colours.

Trish Turner has her job. Trish used to be one of her someones.

'One of the long list of halfwits,' Selina shouts.

Trish's grin would shame a Halloween pumpkin. Selina's sister Janet used to say that if you wanted to insult Trish, you had to write a letter in triplicate telling her she was being insulted.

'You took my job,' Selina tells her.

Trish's face falls. She resembles a horse. 'Truly? Your job?' she asks.

The Candy Shop stinks. The candies are bright and sickly, like rainbow vomit. Selina shrugs.

Trish smiles, and the smile makes her pretty. Not Kylie Minogue or Katie Perry, but pretty. 'Want to get a hamburger?' she asks. 'I've got money.'

'It's not closing time yet,' Selina says.

'Who cares? The man who owns this place is Frank's mate. You remember brother Frank?' Trish locks the aluminium door and hangs a shoulder bag around her neck, like a feedbag on a horse. 'When I'm finished university, I'm going to get a decent job. I'll end up working for myself and never having to rely on anyone else ever.'

Selina clamps both hands to her forehead and pushes.

'What? What?' Trish asks, grabbing the hands away.

'Pain,' Selina mumbles, and almost falls as Trish drags her towards the hamburger shop.

There's no memory of entering the shop or sitting down, or of drinking the beneath-the-counter brandy a short stubby man shoves under her nose.

'Better?' the man asks. 'I can't have you fainting in here. People will think there's something wrong with the burgers.'

He sloshes another splash into the glass and leaves the bottle on the table with two burgers as he rushes to serve three loud and impatient boys. Trish slips the bottle into her feed bag. Selina shoves the hamburgers in beside the bottle and follows Trish out into a stream of people.

Ray is standing in front of the fruit shop with Trish's brother Frank. Selina had gone to school with Ray. That was before she became a mother. She'd gone out with him a couple of times a few months ago.

'Oh migod!' Trish gasps. 'Look, through the end door. It's my mum and dad. I have to get rid of this bottle before they see it.'

Trish has a big house, her own bedroom with matching curtains and bedspread and a wardrobe full of clothes. Her grandparents live just around the corner. It isn't fair that nothing should ever go wrong in Trish's nice little life. Selina decides to hold her back until mum and dad arrive, but she makes the mistake of looking into Trish's face.

'Quick, into the toilet. Put it up in the cistern,' she hisses, and pushes Trish into the washroom.

'Hey Selina.' Ray slouches over. 'What about tonight? We'll go to the park concert. I'll be going to uni next year so it'll be a celebration.'

'I haven't seen you for a while,' she answers. 'Not since that time I took Francie along.'

'Maybe you can get Dennis to mind her tonight,' Ray says. 'He's her father after all.'

The door bangs shut in his face.

Trish has shoved the bottle into the cistern. The hamburgers have spilled out of the feedbag and are decorating the floor with smatterings of lettuce, tomato, clumps of meat and globs of red sauce. Selina kicks the mess into a corner.

'Trish, are you in there?' a voice calls.

'Yeah Mum.' The toilet flushes. 'Coming.'

Selina shoves Trish to start her through the door. A snaking of water follows them outside.

'So it was you,' Mr Turner bellows. 'And with that girl. You've been told to stay away from her sort.'

Selina backs away into the washroom and sees Trish's feedbag lying in a heap on the tiles like a bedraggled doll. She tries to strangle a scream but the second half escapes.

Brother Frank joins his parents. 'The girl's flipped,' he says in a bored voice.

Selina yells again. 'Francieeeee.'

Trish leaps into the room. 'Where? Where?'

'I've lost her,' Selina wails.

Mrs Turner joins them. 'What? What?'

'Francie's missing.' Trish hiccups, and bursts into tears.

Mr Turner and brother Frank push through the doorway.

'Do you mean taken?' Mr Turner asks.

Brother Frank shoves open the door to Trish's toilet cubicle. 'This cistern is busted!' he yells to be heard above the sound of rushing water.

'You're worried about a cistern when a child is missing?' Mrs Turner whacks his ear. 'Get out there and look for her.'

Mr Turner stands on tiptoe, trying not to get his shoes ruined as the snake shape changes into a pool. Mr Turner is aware of the importance of good clothes. You are how you dress, he said as he slipped his feet into the $200 shoes. He paid $162 for the casual slacks, and $60 for his beach shirt. The shirt is blue and covered in upside down palm trees. Mr Cruzzo has one exactly the same. His nephew bought it in Bali for two dollars.

'When did you last see your little girl?' Mrs Turner asks.

Selina turns to the sink and throws water up and over her head, gasping at the cold. 'I think I left her at the park,' she says. 'I had her before the old man went to find his march.'

'Have you lost your child or not?' Mr Turner demands.

He's removing the expensive shoes. The socks aren't important. They were bought at a supermarket. His underpants cost a dollar at a sale.

'I know someone who needs those shoes if you don't want them,' Selina says. 'He might be back at the park by now. That's where I left Francie Too. She's Francie's favourite doll. Cost Aunty Rene a fortune.'

Trish bursts into tears again and runs. She saves herself from a sliding fall by grabbing brother Frank. He goes down but is up again in one second flat and following Trish outside. Water drips from his crotch, yet he walks with all the dignity of a twenty year old. Mrs Turner follows him slowly so she won't slip. Mr Turner looks at the pool becoming a pond then back to Selina.

'You're in the ladies' washroom,' she says with all the haughtiness she can muster. 'They can put you in jail for that. If you go now and don't say anything, I won't tell them how you broke the cistern. You can leave the shoes if you like.'

Mr Turner leaves without speaking. He takes the shoes with him.

Selina climbs onto Trish's toilet bowl and lifts the bottle of brandy out of the cistern. Carefully placing it in the sink, she crouches under the hand drier. While her hair dries, she wrings most of the water out of Trish's feed bag. The flow of warm air soothes her, and the blue-tiled toilet is peaceful. She ponders on the possibility of moving in for the summer. Daytime only of course.

A man in khaki overalls pushes the door open and asks, 'I hear there's a water problem?'

'I fixed it,' Selina states, putting the bottle into the feed bag and hanging the strap around her neck. 'I'll send you the bill on Monday. Thirty dollars an hour plus parts.'

His grunts an obscenity and walks away. Selina follows him to the outside world of the shopping arcade. One look at staring faces sends her back. She sits on Trish's toilet and remembers leaving the front door of her house open. The furniture belongs to Aunty Rene, who owns the house and two others around the corner. But if Aunty Rene was worried about her furniture, she'd drop around occasionally to check out the scruffy old lounge, the chrome and vinyl dining suite, the scratched wall unit, a bed, a cot, one small wardrobe painted white, and one large blue wardrobe with a matching dressing table. They all bear the stains and marks of pain belonging to former tenants, to yesterday's ghosts and monsters.

All old furniture hides monsters that need to be chased away with a broom. Then she and Francie can playact one of the fairy stories, or make up one of their own. Dad will be the bad man frog and they'll turn him into a prince.

Dabbling her feet in cool clear water, she thinks about three and a half years ago when she didn't want to get out of bed. Dad had never hit her before, not even when she was little. She hadn't cried. Her mother cried instead, sitting on the floor weeping fat soft tears, with an inward look that said she was crying more for what was missing in her own life. Selina had walked slowly down the hall to her parents' room, but she turned back when the frog prince kicked the door shut in her face.

Something has her by the thighs. She struggles and hits out, hits down, trying to push the monster away. Its jaws are cold and hard.

It's a toilet bowl. Great sort of a monster that is. But there is something monstrous about it. Something has to be done, and it's something to do with toilets. She has to get Francie then go to the beach and march. There's no way her little girl will ever swim in sewerage. Adjusting the feedbag to a shoulder bag, Selina marches out of the toilet.

~~~

A woman is sitting on a bench eating from a large carton of fries. The smell of salt and vinegar causes Selina's mouth to water. She hasn't eaten since yesterday morning. Veering close, she grabs the carton and runs.

Running down the steps, the top half of her body gets ahead of her legs as if someone has put a hand on her back and shoved. She would have sprawled face down on the pavement if the boy hadn't been there. His body cushions her fall. The carton flies into the air, sending down a shower of chips. His head hits the ground with a thud. Her nose hits his forehead.

His face is screwed halfway between laughing and crying. He looks scared until a voice calls, 'Hey Johnno, they're throwing themselves atcher now. Throwing chips atcher too.'

They're surrounded by a group of fourteen year olds laughing and pointing at Johnno. He pushes Selina aside and jumps to his feet. She sits cross-legged on the cement and tells them, 'He banged his head.'

A boy pulls Johnno's beanie over his eyes. 'He's got a skull like a brick wall, isn't that right Johnno?'

Johnno head-butts a wall. The others roar laughter. One girl grabs his arm and pulls him away down the street. The others follow; laughing, jeering, calling Johnno names. One boy hesitates.

'You okay?' he asks.

She nods. 'Johnno saved me.'

He mumbles, 'Lucky Johnno,' and races away to join the group. Ramming Johnno with a lowered shoulder, he yells, 'Lucky Johnno.'

They are the bosses of the walk; laughing, jostling, calling insults to each other and anyone passing by. People smile or laugh or frown or shake their heads. The bosses of the walk don't care. Selina follows, wanting to be one of them. She knows how, it's still inside her. Fourteen has never gone away.

~~~

An old woman pulling a grocery cart bumps her close to a shop window. Selina looks at herself, at her long black hair plastered against her neck, her cheeks glowing hotly in freckled white skin. Purple smudges half-circle her yellow-flecked eyes. Her nose is beginning to swell, lopsided and alien in a heart-shaped face. The old man said she reminded him of his daughter. You can't be twenty-seven and fourteen.

Her hands begin to shake. Her head feels light. It's a familiar feeling. Her stomach rolls and heaves. That's familiar too.

Just out of the shower, naked and wet, feeling suddenly dizzy, her stomach lurching. Hanging over the toilet to be sick and flushing it away when her mother opened the door. 'I'm pregnant,' Selina said. She'd gone to bed and listened to the argument. It was loud when her father became angry, soft when her mother shushed him. She heard snatches of their accusations; voices swelling and receding, one moment a dumper crashing down, the next moment an ankle-lap. But somehow it wasn't about her any more.

~~~

The sheet overhead is more grey than blue now. The painted sun is slipping off the edge. The darkening sky is one giant shadow about to swallow the world.

The voices reach her as she reaches the park. They're loud and laughing, urging each other on. The bosses of the walk are in the centre of the park running around the duck pond. One girl slips on the grass and sprawls face down. The others salute her action with a raucous cheer. A man stands in the centre of the pond, turning slowly in his own little circle while watching the bosses dance. They begin to chant, 'Oo ar oo ar,' while they stomp four paces back, four paces forward. The fallen girl jumps to her feet and throws her empty beer can at the central figure. The others copy her action but their cans fall short. The girl picks up a stone.

The duck pond man pulls something off his foot and throws it at the girl. Selina recognises the old man. He's throwing her thongs at the bosses of the walk. They scrabble for stones.

Oo ar oo ar.

'Just playing a game,' Johnno says when Selina grabs his arm.

His grin is lopsided and silly. She pushes him away and he stumbles into the duck pond, trips and lies face down in the water.

'What business is it of yours, anyway?' the girl who had fallen asks. She tosses a stone from one hand to the other.

The boy who thought Johnno was lucky looks uneasily at the other bosses. 'Let's go,' he says, and turns away.

'Why should we? It's a free park,' another girl yells, and tosses a stone in Selina's direction.

'Yeah, it's a free park,' someone else echoes, and bounces a stone off the ground close to Selina's foot.

'Think your mate's just about drowned,' the duck pond man calls as the fallen girl is about to throw her stone.

The bosses pull Johnno out of the pond. He stirs and groans, opens his eyes and vomits. They lift him and stagger away.

'What were they doing?' Selina asks.

'Getting a derro,' the old man says sourly, and thumps around the pond whacking at empty beer cans with a recovered thong.

Selina turns away to find Francie before darkness covers the park. The lights flicker to a glow as she walks from bench to bench.

'This what you're looking for?' the old man asks.

Francie Too is slumped across his hand. It's the wrong Francie. Disappointment washes over Selina like a wave curling over a surfer, and dumps her onto a bench. She cringes from his shadow when he approaches.

He walks away and stands directly beneath a light. 'No sweat,' he says and grins, enjoying the game. 'If the light's all around, then the shadows disappear. Or you can just walk away and leave all your shadows behind.'

Selina snatches Francie Too out of the old man's hand and runs fast and hard when he tries to follow.

~~~

Parked under a tree opposite her house, the car has become part of the tree's shadow. There's movement inside, and she knows they're spying on her again.

Beside her foot is an empty soft drink bottle. She grabs it, swings around and hurls it with all her might. It bounces off the car's back window. One fist raised in victory, she hurls a yell of triumph after the bottle then lifts a handful of stones and begins pelting the car.

The engine roars when Selina charges. It isn't until the car moves out of shadow that she recognises her father's station wagon. The rest of her stones trickle to the ground as the wagon skids around a bend and out of sight. Trying to think of a reason for her father being here makes Selina's head ache. Memory of the incident is left at the door.

~~~

She opens the refrigerator and takes out a half empty flagon. The brandy and Francie Too are sitting beside her softball trophies on the mantelpiece.

Now, what is it she has to do? That's right, Francie had asked her to hang the clown.

She rummages in a drawer, finds plastic mugs, fills one from the flagon, places it on a table then lifts the rolled paper clown from a chair. His grin is lopsided and his eyes are different colours, but Francie likes him. Selina pushes two drawing pins through his head into the wall beside the front door then flicks a sideways look at the opposite window. It's nailed down tight so the shadows can't get in. But now they slip in underneath the door or down the old fireplace. At times they appear out of nowhere, but that's only when they're called.

Selina lifts Francie Too off the mantle, takes her into the bedroom and switches on the light. She switches it off again when she sees the empty cot. Turning the doll upside down, she holds her by the pretty red shoes and lets go. Francie Too's ceramic head shatters on the boards.

~~~

The clown drawing flutters as sister Janet pokes her head around the front door. She flicks a hand in a wave and drifts across the floor. Selina smiles at the deliberately slinky walk. It looks silly on skinny awkward Janet. The tall brunette folds onto the sofa and pulls a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches out of her purse.

'You have to go outside if you want to smoke. It's bad for Francie,' Selina says.

'Only since you gave it up because you had no money to buy them,' Janet answers, but she disowns the cigarettes and matches onto the floor.

Selina shrugs, thrusts out her face and stares from her sister to the door.

'I'm only here because Ray's car broke down. He asked me to come and get you. Go find something better than that to wear.'

'I'm not going anywhere.'

'You have to be crazy, Selina. Ray's waiting.'

'Like I did for him two months ago,' Selina mutters.

Janet turns to the softball trophies. 'Dunno why you kept those. It's been four years since you played.'

Selina lifts an imaginary bat, moves into the batter's stance and swings. The ball flies straight at the mantelpiece and hits the trophies. They scatter, and a photograph of the softball team smashes, scattering shards of glass across the floor.

Janet watches her shove the trophies and photograph off the mantelpiece but doesn't comment. She sees a sheet of paper on the table. It's the one Kevin somebody-or-other had thrust into Selina's pocket. They both dive for it. Janet gets there first. She reads it quickly, turning her back each time Selina tries to snatch it away.

Selina starts to push past on her way to the bedroom, ignoring Janet's hand reaching out to her. The hand clamps on her shoulder. Long red fingernails dig in. Selina drops the shoulder and rams it into the soft flesh at the side of Janet's breast.

'You know what it's like around here,' she says as an apology when Janet cries out. 'Someone's always breaking in. I can't leave Francie home alone.' She closes her mind to the pitying look and reaches for the bottle of brandy.

Janet kicks the photograph aside and strolls to the door. 'About time you woke up to yourself,' she says. 'Only reason you kept her was because you didn't know what else to do. Francie's staying with Aunty Rene now. Lots of money and no kids of her own. Your kid is better off and so are you.'

~~~

Shards of glass litter the floor with splints of light.

She knows that feeling. The shattering. She'd felt that way when Francie was being born. The pains began at midnight. The next morning Selina stayed in bed pretending to be lazy. It was Janet who called the ambulance.

Selina didn't know what they expected her to do. She knew she'd do it wrong. She tried to remember the tales Grandma had told about birthing a baby but tales are nothing but talk. This was real and she knew she'd get it wrong. She screamed for a mother who wasn't there and screamed again when they strapped her legs open and shone the light down into her body. She screamed at the shadows behind the light, at the pale faces watching her being torn into little pieces.

Janet heard the screams and shoved her way in, threatening to thump the nurses when they tried to stop her. 'It'll be okay Selina, Mum's coming, she'll be here soon.' Janet's scared look matched her own scared look. 'I'm here now, hey, women have kids every day. Yeah I know you don't know how. I don't know neither but the nurse will help, won't you nurse? It'll be all right Selina, it'll be okay.'

It was real. A tiny body out of her body. Janet yelling and crying. 'She's here Selina, a girl. Oh gees Selina, she's beautiful.'

Oh migod look at that. A tiny head, tiny fingers, tiny hands and toes. Janet sobbing, 'It's okay Selina, nothing's wrong, she's beautiful.' And she is. So beautiful. Mum coming then, pushing Janet aside.

Don't go Janet.

~~~

Her back is jammed against the wall. Her lips are a few inches away from the bottle held tightly to her chest. Her hair hangs in strings, buttons are torn from her blouse, blood oozes from long scratches on her arms. The trophies are bent and scattered. Shredded clown is snowflakes on the threadbare carpet. Red wine is blood-colouring the walls.

A shadow forms and splits in two. Two shadows grow and take shape. Dennis' arm is around Janet's waist. His hand rests on her hip. He'd never held Selina that way. He'd never looked at her like that. She smears her tears with a sleeve and reaches out to touch them. They merge with the shadows on the blind.

'She ran and she fell,' Selina yells.

In one motion she swings around and hurls the bottle. It hits the bedroom door and slides downward. A pool shimmers like a happy dream before disappearing into the shabby carpet. She fumbles the box of matches out of her pocket and strikes one. The shadows flee. The dream glimmers again but is gone as the light flickers out. She pushes the door with her fingertips. Francie Too is just a few paces away. Pieces of head are strewn across the floor and under the empty cot. Selina leans against the door jamb and slides down, lowering herself to the brandy-soaked carpet and strikes match after match, watching the flames flare and recede with the happy dream and the shadows. When the last match is gone, a scream slides out of her throat.

~~~

She's not fourteen or twenty-seven. She's eighteen and now she's free. With the end of the scream trickling out of her mouth, she throws a change of clothing into a plastic bag and walks out leaving all the shadows behind.

'You'll be better off with Auntie Rene, Francie baby,' she whispers, not bothering to brush the tears away. 'You'll be okay.'
Thursday 21 November 2013

The Colour Of Days

Bryson

Broadmeadow, NSW

Some days

Are red, black and grey

Painted with fury, sorrow and fear

Some days

Despair coats my lungs

And each breath

Is heavy and slow

At times

It feels like

My heart beats black blood

Through withered veins

At those times

Even when I am with others

I am alone

I am a ghost

Witnessing the world

But not a part of it

And other people

Become distorted

Their actions twisted

And resentment builds up

Furious and sick

And the rage

The rage strangles me

All I want

Is to burst out of this skin

I imagine it splitting

Or sometimes

I think of running

And running

And running

Because maybe if I run enough

I will be free

This is depression

And people do not understand
Sunday 24 November 2013

Xing Saga Part 7 - Polly Tackles Things Head First

Jane Russell

Mount Barker, SA

In which we meet Polly and Lucy, victims of genetic experimentation back on planet Earth ...

'Hello? This is the school principal's secretary here. Am I speaking to one of CoddlePol's parents?' came the officious voice on the other end of the phone.

'Yes, how can I help you?'

'I'm sorry to inform you that your son has been involved in a serious incident. You need to come straight away and extract him!'

'Extract him? What do you mean?' queried the puzzled parent, hoping he wasn't being expelled.

'I think you'd better come and see for yourself.' The line went dead with a forceful clack.

The Dad arrived at the school as quickly as he could, where he noticed a large crowd massed around the main door, and as he advanced he saw why. Firmly wedged headfirst in the door was his son Polly, who was bound to a large wooden contraption on wheels. Polly, as part of his classmates' history project, had been incorporated into a living battering ram, which they'd unsuccessfully demonstrated to the class. Out of the corner of his eye he could just see his companions standing around, probably like him, pondering what went wrong.

Only the day before everything had seemed idyllic. He and his friend Lucy were returning home across the fields with a group of other schoolchildren. They were in high spirits, Lucy did handstands to show off, some of the others made daisy chains, one of which was draped around Polly's neck, while he attempted to pet the very cute baby lambs. Unfortunately the lambs took fright and bolted, much to the dismay of the other children. Lucy and Polly were so happy being with their 'besties' and always felt a sense of well being when the sun shone. As this was somewhere in the vicinity of Leeds, West Yorkshire, you will know that sunshine is a rare occurrence.

As they arrived at the unsealed road, he and Lucy waved goodbye to their friends, and continued hand-in-hand to their village. Polly was nine years old, Lucy eight. He had a hard time at school with a name like 'Polly', but it was short for Coddlepol, and he preferred Polly to Cod. Lucy was more fortunate. Her progenitors had named her after an actress on TV, Lucyloo. The two children wore the uniform of the local school, but there their resemblance to their friends ended. The bright red metal of their arms, legs and heads would have been a fair give away. Yes, they were metalbots from the planet Xing!

Strictly speaking, though, they were Xingians born on Earth, as all bot children were generated after the failed Xing invasion. Realising there was no way to return to Xing, the exiles made this planet their home. Most of the soldiers were volunteers and had actual jobs beforehand. They now lived in their own enclave, named 'Xing Town'. As they came to terms with their isolation from the rigid hierarchy of Xing society, they entertained thoughts that would be considered treason back home. All of them were from the worker class, and so were a uniform bright red. This meant they were living in a one-class society, so, why not vary the colour scheme, they thought, and their scientists developed a means to do so. This resulted in some interesting experimentation. Baby bots now emerged in blue, green, purple, peach, yellow and pink. They wisely avoided duplicating colours already assigned to Xing classes back home, that is: black, silver or grey.

This revolutionary action made them feel free in a way they had never experienced before. Their thinkers continued to come up with evolutionary improvements such as waterproofing, flexible faces, lighter weight bodies, head decorations (simulating human hair), and retractable springs under their feet, for speed and agility. Sadly, this meant that almost every new bot baby was also an experiment for the scientists. Not all these improvements were a great success.

Lucy and Polly arrived home and ran to play with their friends. Their parents tutted about getting the school uniform dirty, but let them go. Polly was always very self-conscious of his enormous nose. Metalbots normally had only a rudimentary nasal protuberance, which was nevertheless as efficient at distinguishing subtle scents as that of a dog. Despite this, they did not say 'Hello' by sniffing each other's bottoms.

He was the victim of early nasal experimentation, based on such human models as Gerard Depardieu. Negative human responses to his look resulted in this model being rejected in favour of a nose more like that of Michael Jackson. He had equally unsuccessful hair. It sprouted from his head like the spines of a lethal hedgehog. He was so looking forward to his tenth birthday when he could choose to have a nose job and to have his spiky hair coloured something other than red. He favoured a silver metal colour, as he thought it would make him look tough.

Lucy was luckier. She was one of the first bot babies to trial flexible facial coverings. And in her case it had been a resounding success. Humans related better to her because she appeared to display emotions. Her synthetic hair was a work in progress that had not started well, but with continuous upgrades it was looking better and better. It currently resembled red steel wool.

As they burst through the gate, giggling and behaving in an unseemingly jolly manner, Old CrabbleBok, who had been ponderously thumping his way towards the forest, had to jump out of their way. He growled at them, then pontificated:

'No good will come of it. Mark my words! You'll all melt in the furnaces of the Old Ones, and not a minute too soon!'

They shrank away from him, but then rallied and started pelting him with chestnuts. He swore some more and thundered away. Some bots in the town, like Crabby, were traditionalists. Usually those with no children. They complained about any alterations to the original metalbot MRA (Metal-oxy-robo-nucleic-acid), and shunned the altered children and their heretical parents.

'Silly old sod' remarked Lucy. 'He's always such a pain in the bottom!'

Polly giggled. He wasn't as bold as Lucy, and would never have instigated chestnut throwing on his own. When he got home, he asked a parent:

'Who are these "Old Ones" that CrabbleBok is threatening us with?'

'He threatened you? What did the old bastard say?'

'That we'd melt in their furnaces,' replied Polly.

'Oh, don't pay any attention to him; he's a throwback to the early days of superstition. There aren't any Old Ones.'

'Yes, but suppose there were, who are they?' Polly persisted.

'Well, in the dawn of our history it was believed that our people and our planet were created by superior beings, called the Old Ones,' his dad began. 'They called us into being with a song and fashioned our bodies from metal so we would be strong. Our planet Xing was made to suit our needs, with not a drop of deadly water to be found on its surface. Deep within the planet was another story, however. Every now and then a deadly eruption would occur, freezing every bot within its range into permanent immobility.

'There's a legend that the frozen ones live on, aware within the prison of their bodies, and that when the end of days is brought about, following certain catastrophic events, they will be released to live again. The furnaces of the Old Ones are cited as punishment for the evildoers or unbelievers. But, don't you worry, they don't exist.'

'What happens to the good bots, then?' asked Polly.

'Oh, they get to live forever at the side of the Old Ones, in the sky.'

'Wouldn't they fall through the clouds?' Polly wasn't too sure about all this. He also wasn't too sure what constituted 'evildoing' and vowed to discuss it with Lucy after supper (as young bots needed to consume metal to aid in their growth and development).

He and Lucy had agreed to meet with some other children to work on a history class assignment. This involved dragging together some wood and some metal rods and a couple of wheels, as they tried to construct a siege engine. They were very keen and had looked up all the design details on Wikipedia. Hammering and banging and giggling went on well past bedtime.

The result of their efforts was now head deep in the school front door. Polly's dad stepped forward and pulled hard.

'Ouch!' moaned Polly. His dad gave another forceful tug and he came unstuck with a satisfying 'shclok'.

The remaining broken spikes were pulled out afterwards. Polly looked bedraggled with many of his head spikes now of differing lengths, but he was unhurt.

'I don't think the idea was to build a working model for your class homework,' Polly's dad admonished. 'Even so, what has this taught you?'

'That the spikes on my head should be much shorter and blunter, all the better to batter and not to skewer,' ventured Polly.

'Oh? I was thinking more along the lines of "I will read the homework topic more carefully in future Dad,"' said his dad.
Monday 25 November 2013

Forever Bound

Bob Edgar

Wentworth Falls, NSW

George was 87 years old, and he was tired. He roused against his will from a mid morning nap in his well-worn recliner. His sad milky blue eyes, crowned by greyed tufts of eyebrow, dreamily drifted around the photo-wall of his sitting room.

He was almost able to smile as he fixated on an old black and white wedding day photo. The photo showed George kneeling in front of the minister with the soles of his shoes facing the camera. On the left sole was written 'Please', on the right sole was written 'help me'.

His darling young bride was by his side, and had continued to be so for the next 62 years, until her death five years ago.

'I still love you so Miriam,' George whispered as he gently caressed a tear from his cheek with a calloused fingertip.

His right hand encircled the fingers of his left hand, then involuntarily crushed them together, as he caught sight of the adjacent photo, as if for the first time.

The yellowing photo depicted George and Miriam embracing on a beach, and a small boy playing with bucket and spade at their feet.

The windows to George's soul closed, his mind begging for release. His eyes re-opened to envision his life, captured by the lens.

A photo-wall ... sharing happiness and sorrow, as the little boy vanishes from the aging love affair.

George's head slumped back, he sighed, raised the back of his left hand to his lips and kissed the band of gold on his ring finger.

'I'm almost there Miriam ... tell Timmy I'm nearly there.'
Tuesday 26 November 2013

Barbara Maude

Winsome Smith

South Bowenfels, NSW

At a pioneer cemetery an iron fence has been erected but as the graves were irregularly placed and the fence followed a modern surveyor's line, one grave was left outside on what became the footpath. It is the grave of Barbara Maude.

I wished to lie in peace

Amongst familiar kin,

But I rest here outside

And a fence keeps them all in.

My life was corset-strict,

My death it came too soon.

A farm, a babe, hard work

And pent-up tears at noon.

I wanted only sleep,

At my head a marble dove,

But daily I'm disturbed

By the living up above.

It's laughter I can hear

As children chase and run,

Or a child's bewildered tears

When cruelty is fun.

Daily I feel the tread

As couples stroll above.

Nightly I hear the sounds

Of whispered lies of love.

Reminders I don't need

Of broken vows and strife,

Deceit and faded hopes -

I had it all in life.
Wednesday 27 November 2013

Granda's Wake

Henry Johnston

Rozelle, NSW

'For the love of God, will you silence that child?'

I am 'that child' dear reader and the tearless, grumpy whines are not sobs for my dead grandfather, but for Teddy whom Mother forgot to pack at the start of our journey.

Granny, a tall woman, hair pulled back in a severe bun, blows her nose and taps a spoon on the lip of the saucer.

'Fill it up will you,' she says. An avuncular uncle unscrews a jam jar and pours a nip of white spirit. His face is as pious as a priest at the graveside.

Father ever attentive, adds heaped teaspoons of sugar, and fills the cup to the brim with tepid tea, then after a tinkling stir, hands the cup to the bereaved who amidst a torrent of tears, drains the brew, and taps the saucer for more.

'Ah I feel the warmth now,' Granny says, 'but the chill off my old man would freeze the Loch.'

More sobs, and I cry in unison, thinking of poor, neglected Teddy.

Father warns Mother to 'tell Little Lord Fauntelroy to stop guerning, or I'll send him to bed with no supper.'

This rapid elevation to the peerage is much more insulting than a string of curses, for I am the only person in the cottage born in England, and 'Fauntelroy' is a gibe akin to a whack across the backside.

Uncle intervenes suggesting a wee sip from Granny's tea might 'make those big droopy eyes close to bye byes,' but unctuous words deepen the pang of loss for beloved Teddy, and a caterwaul of tears sends gobs of snot dripping from my nostrils.

The room fills with tall raw-boned, country men, dressed in ill-fitting shirts buttoned at the throat. Young farm boys sidle up to girls, and ask for a kiss or a cuddle.

Granny's cheeks glow as red as her eyes, and as she taps the saucer anew, a man in a grey pork pie hat lilts Queen of the Rushes.

An uncorked half-gallon jug replaces the empty jam jar, and the poteen passes from hand to hand.

A young aunt, arms rigid, rises on tiptoes and dances to the beat of the bodhran and the scrape of a fiddle.

I am forgotten. My head barely reaches the kitchen table where lies Granda, dressed in his Sunday best.

The dancing loosens the fob watch from his pocket, and it slips to the end of a gold chain. Black striped sweets, freed by the timepiece, clatter to the floor, and I crawl after a Humbug beckoning from beneath the kitchen table.

Thick, bitter shreds of pipe tobacco stick fast to the sugary peppermint, and as I notice the familiar odour of Granda's warming clothes, I confide to Teddy all is well and I will see him after I say goodbye.
Thursday 28 November 2013

When The Last Tree Falls

Joanna Rain

Nelson Bay, NSW

When the last tree falls,

When we take the last collective breath of us all,

Will we realise the damage that we have done?

Will we listen to earth's woeful tune which is sung?

When the last tree falls.

When the last tree falls,

Will we remember that our lives meant more?

More than what existed inside our four walls?

When the last tree falls.

When the last tree falls,

Will we even mourn?

Will we still be obsessed with possessions we seek to own?

When all around us

We have destroyed our true home.

When the last tree falls.

(To our world leaders)

Every decision that you make,

You put our future at stake.

Every destructive law that you put in place,

You make another grave mistake.

Think a moment Sir,

Think beyond your own financial take,

Please think a moment Sir,

Of the change you could create.

Instead of creating collective pain,

You could be creating a future

We all want our kids to gain.

Are you scared Sir?

Of the true power that you behold?

Does the anger of our earth

Remind you that you are so powerless and small?

Do you choose to instead ignore

How helpless you feel faced with it all?

In a feeble attempt to maintain control,

You hoard the resources that you stole,

Will you have use for those riches?

When the world you know begins to fall?

When the last tree falls...

Will you be left to mourn?

Will you look back on your path?

Will you learn from your past?

If you move on to some other place

Will you once again ignore?

Will you allow yourself to destroy once more?
Saturday 30 November 2013

Ghost Of My Heart

Crystal Lee

Salisbury Downs, SA

Ghost of my heart

Night rider

Keeper of my nightmares

Dreamer of my waking hours

I'm leaving you behind

And I live in the palest of skin

With the blue-green eyes

I'm leaving all the bitterness behind

Ghost of my heart

You are released

Freedom of my dreams

Keeper of my waking hours

You live in me no more

I live in the palest of skin

And the blue-green eyes

I'm leaving all this bitterness behind

Ghost of my former heart

Bitterness of July

Keeper of my freedom bells

Howling in the night

I live in the palest of skin

And the blue-green eyes

You are the pain and bitterness

I'm leaving you behind
Monday 2 December 2013

Being No-One

Evelyn MD

Newbridge, NSW

Been pushed

To be small

To be no-one

Nothing

Have battled

Have won

To be no-one

Nothing

Desires for

Fame

Given to God

As the price

To be well

My destiny

To be no-one

Nothing

It feels good

It makes me

The better man

I now have the

Headspace

To get things right
Tuesday 3 December 2013

A Surprise Attack

Shirley Burgess

Rosebud, VIC

'If you don't tell him, I will.'

'No, I'll tell him myself.' Naomi knew she would have a battle, but it obviously had to be done.

'Dad.'

'Mmmm?'

'I thought I should tell you that I've had some lessons in Traditional Taekwondo up at the shopping Plaza.'

'What? That's a drug depot. It's no place for young naïve people like you. I told you not to go up there and why. I'm sure it is a drug haven. Why did you disobey me this time?'

'Dad, I was recommended to go up there by our Gym teacher, Mr Lockhart. He introduced the basics to us at school and said I was 'promising'. He thought I should try more thorough tuition at the Taekwondo School.

I think it's important for smaller people like me to be able to defend themselves. Why don't you come up and see us all on Saturday, Dad? Everyone is friendly, and there are certainly no signs of drugs anywhere as you imagine. Taekwondo's been an Olympic sport since 2000, Dad.'

'It's a very rough sport, Naomi. There is kicking involved, I know that, and kicking to the head is encouraged. How can you even think of going there, especially as I was so against it?'

'It's half combat and half defence, Dad. It teaches strength, speed, balance and flexibility. We are also taught etiquette, respect and self-confidence. There are breathing and relaxation exercises too, all good things to do. Although it looks dangerous, injuries are minor. We don't have to knock someone out to score points, like boxing,' she laughed. 'Come up on Saturday and watch me train and meet my instructor, Dad. Mr Lockhart will be there too.'

'Only if you promise that if I think it's totally wrong for you, the idea will be dropped for good.'

Naomi felt herself tighten with anxiety. 'Well, why don't you and Mum just watch the work we do before you decide, right?' She gave a wonderful smile of thanks to her father.

Saturday arrived and both parents went along with her. Mr Lockhart answered their queries and worries.

'Naomi is a 'natural' he confided. You know she could easily represent Australia at the next Olympics if she applied herself.'

As they watched the work of two older students, Naomi's parents were secretly shocked. They seemed hell bent on murdering each other. To their astonishment they bowed at the finish, and walked off laughing together, apparently unharmed.

Then it was Naomi's turn.

Naomi was so quick, they were entranced, although they winced every time a quick leg movement seemed to just about take her head off. It did not comfort them much to be told by Mr Lockhart that the 'blows' were only pats, enough to register, in a competition or exam, on an electronic vest 'as they do in Fencing'. After more talk, they realised that objection was useless.

Naomi advanced steadily to 3rd Dan, but by this time she was studying for a Bachelor of Arts degree en route to Teachers' College. Her studies left no time for the Taekwondo sport, so it was quietly dropped.

By second year at Teachers' College, she and three of her friends, decided to go on a cruise around the islands of the Pacific in the next semester. So a passage was booked and with much enthusiastic chatter, four attractive girls boarded their cruise ship.

'What a beautiful ship this is,' Betty proclaimed.

'And friendly staff too,' said Joyce, referring to the attentive Steward who had knocked and popped his head round the corner to see if there was anything he could do for them.

Leaving the wharf was exciting. They explored the ship and shot off to enjoy their dinner, being reminded to do so by their ever-attendant steward.

On return to their cabin, there was the steward again, this time a bit too familiar, they agreed, by not even bothering to knock. The girls wished he would leave them alone.

An hour later he was back yet again offering information on which ports had the best shops to visit, and continued to yarn about his own travels. The girls looked at each other. He was now a real pest.

'Look, Jim, it's eleven o'clock and we all want to turn in, so you'll have to hop off, please?'

'Oh don't mind me. Go right ahead, I won't take any notice,' he grinned. On and on he droned.

What a nuisance he was.

One more try, Naomi said, 'No, Jim, you don't get it. We want you to buzz off. Pronto.'

'I know you don't mean that. Just hop into bed, I simply won't mind a bit. I'll just tell you about our first Port of Call, and what you should do there. In fact I can accompany you if you like.'

From memory and without hesitation, Naomi's leg flashed out, taking Jim's legs out from under him and in an instant she had both his wrists in a lock, and with a mere flick, it seemed, saw him do a somersault, landing on all fours in the small corridor outside their door.

The girls were doubled over with laughter, as it was so unexpected. Jim sat on all fours for two seconds then got up, and scuttled away out of sight. They didn't see him for the rest of the trip.

Funnily enough, he didn't turn up to accompany them at the first Port of Call either.
Wednesday 4 December 2013

The Short Life Of Cedric Fellowes

Winsome Smith

Lithgow, NSW

'I'm fed up with all this,' declared Dom. 'Treating us like kids. Now we're not supposed to stand at the fence because they think we're ogling the girls walking past to the girls' high school.'

'Of course we are,' replied Jason, he of the TV star good looks. 'That's my hobby, ogling girls.'

The Year 12 students, proud of their status, lounged as was their usual lunchtime custom, on the high school veranda.

'Well it's not only that,' declared Liam, known as a Maths whizz, 'I object to having to stand in lines. We have to line up with all the peasants. Surely we've outgrown all that assembly crap.'

Some of them had little brothers in junior classes, but little brothers were peasants anyway.

'My last school was even stricter,' said Andre, only recently enrolled. 'Every morning at assembly we had to say 'Good Morning' to the deputy principal. It's a wonder we didn't have to salute.'

The cause of their discontent was the new deputy principal, Henry Budge, who had arrived at the beginning of third term. He had soon been given the name of Baby Budge due to his shortness of stature and his round face.

The school, being in a disadvantaged district, had no indoor hall so assemblies were held in the open, with whoever conducted the assembly, usually the school deputy, standing on a small platform at the end of the playground.

At the first assembly of the term Henry Budge had chosen to harangue the seniors.

'You seniors standing there at the back had better smarten up. Stop slouching. Do up your ties, tuck in your shirts. You're a very poor example to the younger students.'

On another day it was school fees. Once again he aimed his comments at the seniors. 'There are too many unpaid school fees. You lot there at the back, you seniors are the worst. You've had twelve years of free education and all we ask is some funds for things like sports equipment and library books and text books. I know some of you are working part time. It's up to you to put in and help your parents. We are not educating a bunch of slackers.'

The seniors, perhaps the whole school, suppressed chuckles whenever he spoke because of his habit of rising to his toes to give force to his utterances. Nevertheless, they recognised his authority; even though they saw him as a figure of fun.

Their lunchtimes became 'hate Baby Budge sessions' as they vocalised their resentment of his new strict rules.

'But we can't do anything.' Liam remarked. 'I'm going to get the Higher School Certificate, no matter what. Old Budge is not going to stop me from getting into uni. We just have to put up with it.'

Jason said thoughtfully, 'We can't do anything to stop Baby Budge from being how he is, but I wish we could do something to humiliate him, you know, make him look even sillier.'

They threw around a few ideas as to how this could be done; eventually agreeing that he was managing to make himself look ridiculous enough without any help.

Dom happened to be peering over Andre's shoulder. Andre was glancing through one of his folders while he munched a sandwich and Dom noticed the documents in it.

'You've enrolled, haven't you?' asked Dom, 'Why have you still got one of those enrolment forms?'

'What? Ah yes, I accidentally picked up two while I was enrolling. I s'pose I should throw it out. I'm well and truly enrolled and part of this worthy educational institution.'

Dom's name was really Dominic but it was always shortened to Dom. Sometimes his classmates called him Dominator, which he found flattering in the extreme.

'Hey, Jason,' Dom said, 'you want to make Baby Budge look sillier. I'm beginning to develop a brilliant idea. Let's all get together at my place this arvo and I'll tell you about it.'

It actually took a few days for them all to get together. Some had part-time jobs, some had footy training and Andre had guitar lessons.

In time they had managed to gather in Dom's mother's sun room. Dom looked around at them sprawling in various postures. 'Did I tell you my mother's been working on the family tree?' he began.

'So?' Liam retorted.

'Well she found a great great great uncle whose name was Cedric Fellowes.' Dom spoke as though he was making an amazing revelation.

Liam spoke up indignantly. 'I don't give a rats' about your great (however many greats) uncle or anything else on your family tree. Nobody has a name like Cedric Fellowes anyway.'

'Our boy has,' Dom replied. Using his talent for making announcements, he held up an official looking piece of paper. 'I've filled in this form and he is going to be enrolled at our school.'

They began to howl him down but Andre came to Dom's aid. 'We can do it easily,' he told them. 'I accidentally picked up that extra enrolment form and we've filled it in. We've given Cedric Fellowes an address and put in his parents' names. His father has died, poor bloke, but he's got an older sister.'

The group had some respect for Andre. He had arrived at the school in second term and his parents were migrants from South America. He spoke Spanish as well as English and they discovered that he had learned French at his previous school.

They were impressed by his French prowess during an English lesson. Their teacher, Mrs Post, was discussing with them the Tennessee Williams play 'A Streetcar Named Desire.' Mrs Post had very few discipline problems with any of her classes. She stood in front of classes with confidence and authority. She was always well prepared, appeared to have a phenomenal knowledge of English language and literature and kept everyone busy for a full forty minutes.

On this occasion she read out a passage spoken by the play's character, Blanche du Boise.

'Voulez vous couchez avec moi ce soir?'

She looked at the class and said, 'Does anyone know what that means in English?'

It was Andre who stood up and said, 'Do you want to go to bed with me tonight?'

'That's right, Andre,' Mrs Post said, ignoring the snickers, 'What does that tell us about Blanche?'

Someone said, 'She wants sex.' Someone else said, 'She's randy.'

Mrs Post, always focused, replied. 'Yes, but think. What else does she say throughout the play? What does she do? What do we know about her?'

She had arranged an excursion for the class to see a performance of the play at a theatre in the city. Doubtful and reluctant, attending live theatre being considered a yuppy pursuit only attended by wankers, they had nevertheless paid for their tickets. None of them had been to the live theatre before and as it happened they all had front row seats. Mrs Post had a seat a few rows further back.

The whole class found the play enthralling, possibly due to the action and occasional violence. When the lead character, Stanley Kowalski, had his tantrums and did his shouting he thumped the table, causing cups and plates to fall to the floor and smash. Bits of broken china flew into the audience where the boys picked them up and pocketed them. They cheered at the curtain call, each student believing the afternoon had been almost better than a night at the drive-in.

So both Andre and Mrs Post had respect but for different reasons.

On that afternoon at Dom's home the idea of a 'ghost student' gathered momentum. Jason felt that the idea of an older instead of a younger sister meant that no-one would be able to check on the Fellowes family at the girls' high school. Where the enrolment form had a space for 'religion' to be entered Liam suggested 'Calathumpian' but this idea was discarded as the enrolment form must not arouse any suspicion. An impressively illegible signature by Cedric Fellowes' mother was placed at the bottom of the form.

It was Dom who used his talent for persuasion to get a gullible office lady to process the new student's enrolment form. He chose a day when the office was short staffed due to absences and busy due to a bus drivers' strike when office staff had to inform parents of the need for alternate transport for students.

Once enrolled, Cedric Fellowes' ghostly presence began to be felt wherever possible throughout the school. When a replacement Maths teacher came for one day, Liam took advantage of the young man's nervousness and gave him the name of Cedric Fellowes to add to the roll. Liam assured the teacher that Cedric should be on the roll as he had enrolled at the school the day before but was absent on that day.

Somehow his name got added to other class roll books and whenever a teacher called out his name a voice always replied that he was present. It appeared that Cedric had promptly paid his school fees, thereby not attracting any unpleasant attention. He also obtained a library card and somehow got a bus pass but the new student was not athletic and did not go to sport as that was a little more difficult to arrange.

There was one roll on which his name did not appear. This was Mrs Post's English class.

Cedric the 'new student' seemed to have become part of the school and there was no telling how long he would have remained - until Cedric made a foolish mistake - he wrote a love letter.

One afternoon, after the last schoolboy had hurtled through the gate and the last bus had trundled away, an IP (irate parent) stormed into the foyer, went to the office and demanded to see someone in authority.

Henry Budge, whose duty it was to handle difficult situations, came out of his office and introduced himself to the parent.

Growing more irate, the parent bellowed. 'What kind of students have you got here? My daughter has received this filth from a student at this school!'

Mr Budge remained calm as the parent introduced himself as Charles Maxwell and said his daughter Leanne was a student at the nearby girls' high school and she had received a note from a certain Cedric Fellowes. Young Leanne had not seemed particularly disturbed by the note but she had carelessly left it lying around and her father had found it.

Mr Maxwell now waved the letter in front of Henry Budge. 'Look at that,' he expostulated. 'This Cedric person put a phrase in some foreign lingo at the bottom of the letter. I took it to Leanne's school and had a teacher translate it. It says something to do with going to bed with this bloke. Who does he think he is? What gives him the right to write like that?'

Baby Budge was admirably democratic. 'I do understand your anger,' he said sympathetically. 'But I don't see that this is a school matter. Surely you should take it up with the writer's parents.'

Trying to find some patience and calmness, Mr Maxell said, 'I went to the address on this letter and do you know where these people live? They live on a vacant block!'

The worthy deputy head thought for a moment. He then said very sincerely, whilst rocking on his toes, 'I can assure you, Mr Maxwell that this matter will be dealt with as a matter of urgency.'

Deal with it he did. He stood at assembly the next day and demanded that Cedric Fellowes go to his office straight after assembly. Year 12 stood at the back of the lines enjoying it immensely. They suppressed their chuckles and glanced suspiciously at Jason. During the morning Baby Budge checked the class rolls and he went to the office and checked the carefully filed enrolment forms. Being a school deputy headmaster he was endowed with some intelligence and it only took a day for him to discover the terrible truth about Cedric Fellowes. Then harangue he did - at assembly and in the classroom. He threatened all twenty students in the class with expulsion and suggested he might write to parents.

Soon Cedric Fellowes' name was crossed off the class rolls and his enrolment form disappeared from the office. Year Twelve settled down to more or less serious study and were surprisingly respectful and diligent.

They all did well in the final exams, gaining the Higher School Certificate with varying success and set out on their careers. Dom went into Real Estate and made a pile when there was a property boom. Andre became a chef, specialising, of course, in French cuisine. Liam became a maths teacher and vowed he would not be like some of the idiots who had taught him. Jason got into the Academy of Dramatic Art, appeared onstage and in TV commercials and eventually played Stanley Kowalski in a stage production of 'Streetcar'.

As time passed 'couchez avec moi' became part of everyday life and no longer a novelty.

Yes, they all went their separate ways but amazingly, Cedric Fellows lived on. In his short school life he seemed to have been a prodigious reader. His name appeared on the flyleaf borrowing stickers of dozens of library books. The school had a textbook borrowing system and Cedric's name was carefully written on the flyleaf stickers of books on every school subject.

The initials CF were found carved into a couple of desks and wooden seats. Class roll books, being legal documents, went into some huge archive with the name of Cedric Fellows neatly crossed out, but still visible.

The life of Cedric Fellows had been brief but his legend lives on.
Friday 6 December 2013

Gone Astray (Lost And Found)

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, NSW

There we were sitting in the **Land of Donuts** , overlooking a valley in Leura...

Indulging in café breakfast and I looked up from my newspaper at last; feeling smug, superior.

From a table came the persistent wailing of an infant and the irritation of the harassed father,

Who was out of patience whilst trying to ingratiate himself to the barista - clearly in lather.

Oh dear, **Fun Lost on Dad** I thought; being a young parent is fraught with unseen danger,

Namely: the embarrassment of noisy children in a trendy café, who won't obey. Stranger...

Things do happen! But I've been there, where, your dignity is **Lost and Found** soon after.

Have **Adults no Fond** memories of these times? They do seem like indefensible crimes. Laughter...

Dances about my synapses, perhaps it's simply a nervous reaction; **Daft Old Nouns** occur to me...

Like images through stained glass such as gentility and decorum; there's a forum surely.

Some blog on the Internet, where you can waste even more time discussing things asinine;

Including extraneous comment on the RFS Facebook page - 'like us' for updates it whines.

I was an **Old Donuts Fan** , in the bad old days, when you could eat everything in sight or bust.

Now I become bloated so easily - Colonel Blimp with pimples, minus the conservatism, I trust.

Now you can't trust anything (witness summer in spring!). I wonder **Do Ants Unfold** and retreat?

Probably not: they would appear to be feasting on the carcasses of wasted cicadas in the endless heat.

They, in turn, follow a seven year pattern **Of Sand Untold** as they dig their way out to liberty,

They emerge en masse like **Odd Nuns Aloft** to deter predators; symbols of an ancient Egyptian deity.

I am more lost than pro-found; maybe I should be more resolute and get more **Funds and Loot** ,

But the pursuit of money is a bore, even the government wants more - half a trillion ought to do it!

Doesn't it make your hair hurt? So **Odd Son, Flaunt** your wealth at trendy cafés while you can dance.

Food security will be the next big thing, we hope badly before wee George becomes king perchance...

That we are not subject to **Flood, And Stun** the world through sheer pride and ignorance,

Here one should insert **Odd Flat Nouns** such as conceit, egotism, haughtiness and arrogance.
Saturday 7 December 2013

Seven Letter Prayer

Emma-Lee Scott

Callaghan, NSW

A seven letter word drawn upon the tiles,

Sketched within the water,

Simply asking,

But unanswering.

Falling water streaming towards,

Swirling black depths,

Disappearing endlessly,

But all that is centred.

Hands clasped tightly together,

Water tracing their contours,

Missing closed eyes,

And hitting bowed head.

The water is all the outside hears,

But the silence echoes more,

As a call resounds,

From the heart.

As the hands open,

As the eyes rise,

Quiet words,

Filter upwards.

The seven letters disappear,

As the water begins to pool,

But there is hope for something,

Hope for help, hope for an answer

For clarity.
Sunday 8 December 2013

Bucking The Trend

Hettie Ashwin

Port Douglas, QLD

Social norms differ around the world and anyone who has seen a scantily clad hula dancer in National Geographic knows this fact. Not that our man reads the National Geographic for the scantily clad girls, but in the interest of education he subscribes. Man, we are told, is accustomed to his own mores. His values are set down by his parents or the local newspaper and to stray from these accepted boundaries is inviting the ire not to mention finger pointing from one's peers, and that busy body at number 27 who just can't seem to keep her nose out of other people's business.

So what of the fellow who strays and let's say, doesn't decorate his house on holidays. No flags on Australia Day, no Footy bunting and no Christmas lights. Some would call him foolish, a bit mean or even un-Australian, yet as his friends outwardly tut there is a small swell of support, albeit in private well away from the front gate. No need to advertise your affiliation to a lunatic. Quietly they might applaud his individualism.

'Well done mate.' And a slap on the back for bucking the trend. Our fellow might see his stand as a bastion of hope in a land of crass commercialism. 'After all,' he can be heard to say, 'they didn't have lights in Bethlehem.' No one can argue with his logic. 'Those ropes of lights will stay in their box.' The man of the house has spoken. He doesn't feel the need to elaborate on his reasons, and no one could hear him from his ivory tower anyway. But all too soon his bravado, his strike for common sense could lead to alienation.

Let's start with his family.

His children, the apples of his eye and heirs to his wallet on a daily basis will quickly turn if their standing in the neighbourhood is threatened.

'Oh Dad,' they say. And, 'The Huberts have animatronics this year and Mr Hubert said they have piped music.' These baubles of bait are mere trifles. Even when they go for his throat with, 'You're so mean,' our man is not for turning. Father is made of stronger stuff and will rebuff their whinging and whining. After all didn't he put his foot down when it came to a swimming pool in the backyard. He was only ostracised for the first half of the summer until the spa arrived and was installed. And didn't he veto the cat. One might laud his stalwart behaviour, although to mention anything remotely associated with a cat could see our man in the dog house for days. They huffed and puffed and accused him of having his allergy on purpose, just for spite.

'As if a goldfish can replace their disappointment,' his wife had said at the time and his youngest named the fish kitty, which was just for spite, he was sure of it.

But - his children love him. All the books on the subject tell him so. They appreciate his tireless efforts to bring food to the table and braces on the teeth of the youngest. Yet, as he takes a stand on Christmas lights his children's adoration fails. The love has been snuffed out. Our hero of bucking the trend is left out in the cold. The offspring of his loins refuse his advances. He councils himself that they will thank him later in life when they have children of their own and look to his role model of modern parenting.

Still, he has the unwavering support of his wife. His willing partner in life.

It seems our man has picked the wrong rope to martyr himself. His soul mate, whom he is fond of telling everyone, defers to his better judgement, seems to be in dissent. Now we see our hero is a quandary. He feels he must make a stand vis a vis Christmas lights and yet he knows from bitter experience his wife has a long memory.

This is where our man has it all over the apes. He has the capacity to see things clearly, to judge the situation and get results. Thinking if he could just get a neighbour to, not put up their lights as well, then he might just get away with the old adage, 'Well darling, the McDonalds aren't doing it this year either.' No man could be prouder of the ploy. But this could quickly come unstuck if the McDonalds don't enter into the arrangement.

'Well, he had the silly idea that you weren't putting up lights.' He might well curse the invention of the telephone and his wife's capacity to use it.

Mr McDonald, a man who knows where his Christmas dinner comes from, feels some sympathy for his neighbour and quietly wishes him success in his revolution, but as to joining the cause, well let's just say Mrs McDonald's brandy custard is a mighty persuader.

So our intrepid revolutionary is out in the cold. Alone in his stubbornness and any hope of a ground swell is fading fast. The best he can hope for at the negotiating table is for his family to admire his handy work.

He might skimp on the reindeer he made from plywood in the front yard. Conveniently forget Santa on the chimney he toiled over the year before and the three wise men on the fence he DIY(ed) from his wife's Good housekeeping magazine, but these pale in comparison to the ignominy he feels as he plugs in the lights.

It takes a brave man to buck the trend, and an even braver soul to admit defeat. So as we leave our common man with his blinking lights we see his thoughts turn to next year, or perhaps, the year after that.
Monday 9 December 2013

Like A Bird In Flight

Jason Hawkins

Keilor East, VIC

Like a bird in flight

You flew into my life

Making everything seem right

As pieces in a puzzle we meld so tight

As two people beneath one light

My dreams are filled with thoughts of holding you tonight

I love you

I have watched as people fall in love around me

And have asked why not me

Not any more

I'm thankful that our day has come
Tuesday 10 December 2013

Dead Solider

Corrie Hinschen

Ormeau, QLD

A crack of thunder

Then the rain came down,

Tears of broken men

Fall to the ground.

She wrote to me

And I read from the beach head,

New life will be born

From directorate bloodshed.

How I long--

To be next to you,

Through deserts and fire;

Mountains made my man

And oceans that will be no more.

For I am no hero;

Only a man,

A corpse that will rot,

Until bones become sand.
Wednesday 11 December 2013

I Find No Chasm

Graham Sparks

Bathurst, NSW

Delphi, C, assembler, Mandarin and English,

with a smattering of Mongol and Malayu,

these are languages I speak and write,

and since I am a veteran of many firmwares,

assembler is the one I choose when bringing silicon to life.

And so you'll find my poetry both circumspect and terse.

That's because embedded systems own but

limited amounts of program space and RAM.

We write the code for functionality,

then shave it down to fit the niggardly array

of registers and memory available on chip.

And you may find it heinous to equate

the arts of poetry and software,

but both of them when writ can be expressions of sonata form,

fugues and cannons can be made to operate in both.

I find no chasm 'twix' the poet's art and code,

no difference 'tween the stuff of all the disparate disciplines,

and none between the languages.

Fences previously erected by cultures, doctrines, and the like

are not perceptible to rough shod riders such as me.
Thursday 12 December 2013

Solitaire

Anneliese Senn

Glenbrook, NSW

I flipped over another card on the small wooden table in front of me. The table was frail and wobbled but the wood was polished brightly and it was exactly the right size for a game of solitaire. My son had made it in woodwork class.

As yet, it was my only compensation for paying private school fees for years. I flipped over another card. Playing solitaire usually cleared my mind and brought me a little relief, but not today. King of Diamonds, Ten of Spades... I tried to relax but thoughts of my day kept creeping back in.

A loud screeching of tyres in the front yard broke me out of my troubled reverie. It was my son Alex, pulling into the driveway in his usual fashion. He was always screeching around in that bloody Ute with his rev-head friends.

The front door slammed. My daughters Jessie and Eleanor made their way to the stairs, dragging their school bags after them.

'Hi Dad.'

'Hey Ellie, did Alex drive you home?'

'Yeah, you asked him to last week remember? Taylor wasn't going to training today so her Mum couldn't take us.'

'Oh, that's right.' I didn't really remember at all but that was nothing new, my memory had been getting worse and worse. The girls skipped up the stairs in their soccer boots, leaving a trail of dirt behind them.

A sudden blast of loud music from outside reverberated through the house. The sound of teenage boys screaming and laughing was barely audible over the revving of car engines and the beat of the acid punk music which Alex had started listening to recently.

Within seconds my headache had doubled in intensity. I noticed my hands were slapping the cards onto the table with increasing force. I took a deep breath, gently placed the cards down, and stood. As I walked out the front door ready to yell about the music I heard Alex's friend, Grant, call out in his cracking adolescent voice.

'How close was that? I can't believe you got away with it!'

'I know hey!' Alex yelled back over the music. 'What's with that guy and his bloody tyre iron? He had anger issues! They must be growing pot out there or something for him to go mental like that. Anyway, that Falcon's been sitting there rusting for years. I might as well get some use out of it hey.'

From where I stood near the front door I was hidden from view by a camellia bush and the group of boys was oblivious to my presence. I peered around the corner and surveyed the scene. Four teenage boys and three cars had taken over my front yard. It was littered with numerous tools, car parts and dirty containers of oil.

Alex was fixing his front headlight with Grant's help while the other two boys slouched on the old car seat that had been deposited beside my driveway some time ago. It was used by the various spectators who came to witness the gradual degeneration of what formerly was my front lawn.

'Alex.' A screwdriver dropped to the ground as Alex jumped a foot into the air.

'Oh, hi Dad.' He gave me a tense smile. 'I didn't know you were home... '

I walked over to the stereo, wishing with all my heart that I could take out my frustration on it. I imagined kicking it into the neighbour's Jacaranda tree. Instead I calmly pressed the off button.

'It's time to go boys.' The eerie calmness of my voice seemed to have the desired effect. The boys quickly jumped into their cars and left.

I walked over to where Alex was crouched at the front of his car, about to connect the headlight.

'Give that to me' I said quietly.

'It only takes a few minutes, honest.'

'Now.' The tone of my voice finally convinced him and he handed it over, eyes cast to the ground in misery.

'How dare you drive like that with the girls in the car? How dare you put them in danger by taking them with you to go pull one of your stupid stunts?' I could literally feel my blood pressure rising as I spoke. 'Are you trying to make them into criminals as well?' He shook his head, still staring at the ground. 'Go inside and study.'

I looked at the light in my hand as I walked back into the lounge room and sat down. I placed it on the table amongst the cards. I was still staring at it wondering what to do when I heard an angry scream from the room my two daughters shared.

'Dad!' Jessie stomped downstairs into the lounge room, followed by her older sister. 'Did you tell Ellie you would paint our room yellow? I hate yellow! I want it to be green, like the ocean.'

'But yellow was Mum's favourite colour and Dad said our room can be yellow, didn't you Dad?'

I looked from face to face, seeing the innocence and naivety there. How I wished that my biggest problem was the colour of my bedroom walls.

I wanted to protect them from the hardships of life, to see that innocent secure look on their faces always. I wanted so desperately to not have to tell them that the colour of their walls would not really matter for much longer.

'Go and play,' I said with a sigh, 'we'll talk about it later.'

~~~

I stood outside the door. The thought of entering made my stomach churn with nausea. I took a deep breath and knocked.

'Hello Mr. Bennett, sit down.' He was a very ordinary man, too ordinary to be the herald of such doom. 'Now, you told me you could catch up with your payments but you keep getting further behind. It's going to have to be rectified immediately I'm afraid.'

'I know. I'm sorry, I thought I could catch up but I didn't get the promotion I was hoping for. Can I just have a bit more time? Please?'

'I'm very sorry but I've given all the extensions I'm permitted to give. Why don't you just sell the house and get something smaller? I think it's your only option. You don't need that big house now that... ' He paused, looking down at the papers in front of him.

'I can't move. I can't. This place, it's all we have left of her. She loved it so much.' I knew I was starting to ramble but I couldn't stop myself. 'I didn't get the promotion because I've been distracted but I will get it. It was a mistake, a stupid mistake. I just sent a client the wrong package-such a small mistake but it was a disaster for the case. It was stupid but I've not been myself lately. I will get better, really, and then I will get the partnership. Please?'

'Look, I know you've had a very hard couple of years but I'm sorry, I can't help you anymore. You can't afford to stay where you are. Maybe you'll all feel better anyway, making a new start in a new house.'

I stood, feeling numb, as usual. I didn't really notice the drive back to the house but suddenly I was pulling into the driveway. I got out and made my way upstairs, opening a door that had not been opened in more than a year.

I sat in the rocking chair and looked around me. The cots stood against opposite walls of the room and in between stood a big toy box, the one I had made for the twin's first Christmas present. She had painted a picture on the front, of birds flying in a blue sky, with fluffy white clouds floating in the background.

I still remembered what she had written on the card:

To our dear boys, may you always fly, peaceful and free, love Mum and Dad.

'Dad, what are you doing in here?' it was Eleanor.

I wiped my eyes.

'Don't worry Dad, I don't want my room back. You can leave the baby's stuff in here. We'll let Jessie have the room green, I don't mind.' She reached out to hug me.

~~~

I pulled up to the gate of the property. The driveway coiled off into the distance towards the house. The grass in the surrounding paddocks was long and brown and a couple of disheveled horses chomped on it unenthusiastically. There was an assortment of rusting cars placed here and there around the place, just for aesthetic balance I guessed.

'Go on then.' I said to Alex.

He got out and hurried to the letterbox, placed the headlight inside and ran back to the car.

'Alex, we have to move houses. I am taking time off work and I'm going to need your help, okay?' Alex nodded. 'I know I haven't been doing very well lately but I just want you to know that I'm trying really hard now and things are going to get better.' I stopped the car outside the wreckers and we went in to find a 1991 Falcon Ute headlight.

After I had helped him put in the new light we started to clear up the front lawn, throwing out rusty old car parts and oily containers and packing the tools away in the shed.

'Dad,' Alex said, his voice sounding tentative. 'You know that day, when Mum and the twins... had the accident? She asked me to go with her to the shop but I couldn't be bothered... '

'There's nothing you could have done. If you'd been with her you would just be gone now too.'

'But I just keep on thinking that maybe the twins were crying and distracted her or something. Maybe if I was there I could have calmed them down and they'd all be alright now.'

'Alex,' I put my hands on his shoulders and turned him to face me. 'I'm glad you didn't go. I don't know how I would look after the girls without you. I am so glad you didn't go.' I pulled him over into a hug and struggled to stop the tears from coming.

'I miss Mum.' I felt Alex shaking as I held him.

~~~

I sat in the lounge room in front of my small wooden table, flipping over cards in a game of solitaire. Queen of Clubs, Two of Hearts... the room around me had changed, it was smaller and the furniture was cramped but it had a light and happy atmosphere. This time my mind did not stray from my game. Six of Spades...

'Dad!' Jessie called from down the hallway.

I walked down and opened the bright yellow door.

'Can you tell us a story tonight? The one where you and Mum went to Spain and saw the bullfighters?'

'You always want that one, why can't I choose for once?' Ellie complained from up on the top bunk.

I climbed halfway up the ladder to tuck in her bright yellow blanket and kissed her cheek.

'Ellie, you choose tomorrow okay?' I sat on the edge of Jessie's bed and smiled down at her. Her big eyes looked up at me expectantly. They were just like her mother's. 'Do you know Jessie, I just noticed the walls are exactly the same colour as your eyes. Green, like the ocean.' I smiled and kissed her.

'Once upon a time... '
Friday 13 December 2013

Derailing The Gravy Train

JH Mancy

Tallebudgera, QLD

Diabetes you have me in your grip,

But not for long, you little **** (I'll not slip.)

You think you have me beat? Well think again!

You'll defeat me not (I have a plan!)

You've held me long within your grasp--

It's time to say enough, ENOUGH!

I've shed some kilos--the journey's far--

Unhealthy belly fat must go. (Wave ta-ta!)

Inner beauty will put on a show,

Hidden now by rolls, but you should know,

Guess what! I've learned control!

Exercise will keep me busy,

It's time to rest (I'm feeling dizzy!)

Optimum health ten thousand daily steps.

I'm short of the mark, but won't regress!

I'm changing now what's on my plate,

You won't tempt me, there's no debate!

My life now will be hearty and hale

Hey, Gravy Train you are derailed!
Saturday 14 December 2013

You-You-You-You And Us

Joanna Rain

Nelson Bay, NSW

You-

(Me, me, me, me and me)

This verse is about me!

I'm indulging myself, selfishly,

In a verse composed brilliantly!

You-

Mini-me,

You drive me crazy,

With your endless energy-

You test me constantly,

On good days I respond most patiently!

You-

Curious curiosity,

Polar opposite of me-

You leave me questioning

My existence frequently!

You-

Almost perfect stranger,

Who I understand totally,

Who I love completely,

Who inspires the best in me.

You- you- you and you

And all of us,

Different facets of acceptance,

Varied examples of how to love

The worst and best in all of us.

This poem is about how the people in our lives reflect many different aspects of ourselves back to us, and how through those reflections we learn to love all those varied aspects of ourselves and others.
Sunday 15 December 2013

Summer Storm

RL

Bathurst, NSW

Heat unbearable

A piercing sun

Sweaty bodies

Lying motionless

Too tired to drink

Too hot to sleep

Too hot to think

A cloudless azure sky turns grey

Hot winds gush from nowhere

The eucalypts shake violently

And strong branches sway like twigs

Heat is bearable

Sun has gone

Bodies are cooling

We move... slowly

Take a drink

Too excited to sleep

Brains start to ignite

Lightning flashes the now midnight sky

The gods crack their whips as the sky roars

A perfect droplet, as big as a nut

Falls, in slow motion, moistening the parched soil

Air is cool

Darkness is here

Goosebumps upon our skin

We stand and watch

The soil drinks

No time for sleep

Our hearts leap

Gracefully but powerfully like Mozart's concertos

The water cascades down in sheets

It bounces off the roof like a staccato

Carrying the rich red dust away

Air is calm

Night is here

Our bodies cooled

We creep outside

Land rejuvenated

Ready for rest

Our prayers answered

A distant rumble of thunder resounds and reverberates

Whilst the horizon still glows from the intense sun

Water now glistens under the light of the moon

And a refreshed landscape is settled and still
Monday 16 December 2013

The Awakening

Linda Callaghan

Bullaburra, NSW

Whatever was he thinking competition entry

I heard a faint beep in the distance that slowly grew louder. I felt a warm, soft breath upon my face and a light touch of a hand on mine for a fleeting moment. It was pitch black and I realised my eyes were shut tight. I tried to open them but they would not respond. I tried to move but my body was a dead weight. Where was I? Was I dreaming? These thoughts entered my head for a second and disappeared just as quickly when I heard a familiar voice.

'I can't lose him, I just can't, he is my world, please help him!' It was my wife, Laura, and then she began to sob uncontrollably. I heard a deep male voice in a comforting tone gently say, 'We are doing all we can Mrs Jenkins, we just have to wait it out.' Then the sound of a door opening and closing. There was silence but I knew I was not alone, I could smell her familiar, sweet perfume.

I was relieved to feel her warm hand once again as it settled comfortably upon mine, then the voice that I knew so well. 'I am so sorry Alex, so very sorry, I will never stand in your way again. Come back to me please, I will willingly go anywhere with you, please come back to me.'

I felt the wetness of her cheek upon my face and the fleeting touch of those sweet lips that I had kissed so often. I screamed inside, 'I am here Laura, I am here.' I tried with all my might to speak and to move my hand but failed. I could hear, smell, feel but could not move. I was horrified.

I searched my mind for an insight into what had happened. Images filled my darkness. We had argued. I had received a tempting offer of a promotion in a different area with the marketing company I worked for. With an increase in salary we could have an easier lifestyle, a bigger home, a better image.

We would have to move away and Laura did not want to, she was happy with our small suburban house, close to her parents and friends and did not want to leave. I was angry and frustrated with her and fled the house furious. I had worked hard and had slowly climbed the ladder, I was near the top, I could taste success, it was at my fingertips. I was doing it for us, for her!

I wanted to prove to everyone, and especially to Celia, my boss, I could succeed. Celia, temptingly beautiful, luring me to greener pastures and a promise of rubbing shoulders with the rich.

I had stormed out of the house. I remembered my anger, as I sat behind the wheel of our old Holden, and the way my foot pushed down hard on the accelerator to ride the curves to abate my rage. Determined that I would get what I wanted and that no one would hold me back. Then a loud noise of screeching brakes, a deafening horn, then nothing. Now I was trapped, motionless, in darkness.

A cool breeze tickled my nose as I heard a door open and Laura's hand left mine. I was afraid, I did not want to be alone, I did not want the woman that I had loved for years to leave me even for a second. Then the realisation hit me, I had everything I needed in Laura, I did not need the material things to validate who I was, the promotion was no longer important, I had Laura, she was my life and my home. I needed to tell her how I felt but was it too late?

'Why don't you get some sleep Mrs Jenkins and we will wake you if there is any change,' the male voice was sympathetic. 'No, I have to be here when he wakes up.' My sweet Laura was optimistic as always. I am awake, I wanted to cry, and I can hear you. 'We cannot say for sure when or if that will happen any time soon Mrs Jenkins but we pray that it will.' The door opened and closed. No! My insides screamed and my heart sank I was going to fight, I was not going to give in to whatever it was that held me captive.

I felt her hand squeeze my motionless fingers and the hard coolness of her wedding ring pressed against my skin. I remembered the first day we met. We were younger then, two free spirits with our lives stretched out before us.

I was sitting in the lunch room at college with my mate, Clive when I looked up and had instant eye contact with the prettiest girl I had ever seen. With her long, blonde hair and petite figure, I felt an immediate attraction. Her big blue eyes looked into mine for an instant and she smiled then quickly looked away, but my gaze lingered, hungry for more.

I knew then that she was the girl for me and over the moon when she said yes to me taking her out to dinner. Our relationship blossomed quickly and my thoughts jumped to our wedding day and how beautiful she looked, she was finally mine and I would take care of her always.

My mind wandered back to our argument and I cringed inside when I remembered her tears. I felt ashamed at how I had reacted. I knew how important it was for her to be close to her parents and friends for support. We had been trying for over a year for a baby, but it was not happening.

For distraction I had poured most of my energy into work. I carried the niggling thought in the back of my mind every day, was there something wrong with me stopping us having a child, and I felt inadequate. Was I the one letting the side down? To avoid my feelings I worked hard at the office, my safe haven, and then home to Laura with the sad face.

Celia, on the other hand, appreciated my enthusiasm and extra hours I put in, and constantly said so. I knew she wanted more from me and it felt good to be praised, to be the favourite, it boosted my flagging male ego and I thrived on it. I spent more and more hours at the office with Celia, but now I wished I could have them back to spend with my Laura.

The sound of a door opened and it brought me back to the present. I heard Laura cry, 'Oh Clive I am so glad you are here.' I imagined her moving quickly into the arms of my friend as I lay there paralysed. 'I am so sorry Laura, how is he?' Clive asked. 'They say they don't know what is wrong, or if he will fully wake. I can't be without him, I just can't.' Laura sounded exhausted and I wanted to be the one in her arms. So there it was, I could be trapped indefinitely, and I might as well be dead.

What happened next was truly an awakening for me. I lay there helpless listening to Clive, the successful lawyer, comforting my wife. Clive was a jetsetter living the high life with the flashy car, condo, and a different girl on his arm constantly. I envied his success and what it brought. Laura had a soft spot for him feeling he was a bit of a drifter and needed grounding so he was frequently invited to our home for dinner.

So, I thought, she had turned to him in her hour of need and I felt a twinge of jealousy. 'Laura you don't have to be alone,' Clive said and then I heard the words that shook my world. He confessed that he had loved her for as long as he could remember and if I did not recover then he would take care of her if she would have him. Whatever was he thinking, Laura was my wife! I was enraged, a ball of fire was burning inside of me and it screamed across my body.

I heard Laura shout, 'He will come back to me Clive, he has to, but if he does not, there is no other man I want to be with and I want you to go.' She began to cry, Clive's voice pleaded, Laura persisted that he leave. The door opened and closed and all I heard was the sound of Laura quietly sobbing, my heart was breaking.

She loved me and I loved her, I had to fight my way back. Laura did not want the successful, rich man, the flashy car, the finer things in life, she wanted me, and I her. Her hand found mine again and I squeezed it gently. It hit me like a hammer, I had moved! I was reborn.

Laura shouted, 'Alex, Alex, squeeze my hand again. Alex can you hear me?' She was crying, and I wanted to tell her it was all going to be fine, my lips quivered and I whispered, 'Laura.' My eyes fluttered open and the first thing I saw were her beautiful, big, blue eyes staring into mine. Tears pouring down her face, wetness on mine from my own.

'I am so sorry Laura, I am so very sorry, I love you,' I said breathlessly and I squeezed her hand hard. 'It is alright my darling,' she said as she looked into my eyes, 'I love you too, you came back to me, to us.' She hesitated for a second and smiled before I heard the words, 'We are going to have a baby.' I knew then that I was the richest man in the world and I was going home.
Tuesday 17 December 2013

A Lucky Escape

Shirley Burgess

Rosebud, VIC

'Where's that barking coming from?'

Dan and his friend Pete were walking their bikes home from school, and yes, there was a barking dog, but no animal in sight. They stopped their bikes and listened for the sound. Silence.

As they started off and began talking, the barking started up again, and as they were opposite the big drain grill beside the footpath, they stopped, as it seemed to be coming from under there.

'There must be a dog stuck in the big drain,' said Dan, 'but there's nothing I can do about it, is there?'

The boys parted company as they came to Dan's house, nearby.

Dan put on the TV, and was still watching it when his Mum arrived home an hour later, but he was still thinking about the marooned dog.

'Mum, we heard a dog barking from the big drain up the road. Pete and I think there is a dog caught down there. Is there anything we can do to rescue it?'

'I'll come and have a listen.'

When they arrived at the grill there was silence again.

'Are you sure you heard barking?' Mum asked, but as she spoke, sure enough, there was the sound of barking again.

'It's a bit weaker and a bit more muffled than earlier,' Dan told her.

They could hear the water swirling through the big drain pipes.

'We can't leave him there. We've had so much rain lately, that drain will be pretty full of water. I'll ring the authorities and see what can be done.'

They hurried home and Dan's Mum did some phoning. She was recommended to ring the local Fire Brigade. Yes, they had someone available: 'Should be there in about half an hour.'

Dan looked up at the darkening sky anxiously. 'It'll be nearly dark then. They'll never find a dog in the dark.'

They took up a vigil of two, and although they were talking, no dog barked for attention, and they began to worry.

Eventually up rolled the promised rescue van, and it seemed to have every known device for rescuing anything, and out climbed two uniformed firemen.

'I'm Mike,' said the first man, 'and me mate's Duncan. Let's see what we've got here.'

It took the strength of both of them to lever up the grill, and both peered down the shaft.

'Can't see or hear any dog,' Mike, said, 'but I'll get down there and have a look for you, just so you'll rest easy.'

Ropes were sorted, flashlights were found, and at last he set off down the small ladder inside the shaft, with Duncan kneeling at the edge, armed with miscellaneous gear, watching out for trouble.

By this time quite an audience had grown from the nearby houses, looking on with a good deal of interest. Dan explained to them why they were there, and watched anxiously where Mike had disappeared.

Dan held his breath. Were they too late, he wondered?

After some time, there was a muffled exclamation from the shaft, and a louder 'Got you', but it seemed forever before Mike's head appeared at ground level.

He climbed out of the shaft with difficulty, because he had under one arm a small, white, shivering, sopping, exhausted dog whose tail, nevertheless, was going like a windmill.

Everyone broke into involuntary applause, and they gathered around all trying to pat the dog at once.

'Here he is, young man. My guess is he's probably been there for some time. There was a small barrier of debris, and that stopped him from being swept further on.

'Of course, if he'd been a larger dog, the barrier wouldn't have supported him. Then, I suppose it's because he's so small, that he was probably swept into one of those slippery gutter traps, in the first place. The gutters have been running with a lot of water in them.

'I couldn't see anything for a start, even with a strong torch. Then I saw him-just his eyes, nose and a little bit of his ears were above the water, and I heard a whimper. He was nearly a goner. A very lucky thing you heard him when you did, young man.'

Dan gave an involuntary shiver. 'Poor little dog, he must have been so frightened.'

'Have you got a dog?' Mike asked.

'No.'

'What would you do first if I gave you this dog?'

'I'd take him home, wash him in a warm bath, wrap him up in a blanket and put him in front of the fire--and give him something to eat,' said Dan, with a lump in his throat at the sight of this frightened little dog, in such a wretched state.

'Well, I think you'd better go and do that--and take care of him too, from now on--what do you reckon?'

Dan's face beamed, but he looked anxiously at his mother. 'Can I, Mum?'

'Yes, Dan,' and to Mike she added, 'it would take a harder-hearted person than I am to say "No".'

'What are you going to call him?' asked Mike.

'I think I'd like to call him Mike,' said, Dan with a grin, cuddling the dog, 'and thanks for coming and rescuing him.'

'Couldn't think of a better name, m'self,' laughed Mike.

The two men finished packing up, and a fresh round of applause broke out as they climbed into their rescue truck and drove away.
Wednesday 18 December 2013

Samuel S Tuck

Mark Fowler

Magill, SA

The job sucks. Sitting on that tiny stool pushing buttons. Watching disinterested nobodies come in and out, all day long.

Samuel S Tuck just hates his job. When he dropped out of college in '53 he thought the world was his for the taking. No more pressures and stupid books. Ten years on and here he is in a job that promised a quick rise. But this one also has an equally unsatisfying drop to the basement of life.

And when the floorwalker, Smithers, saw Samuel's name tag on his first day in the job, his moniker became "STUCK". 'Stuck in the elevator, get it Sammy boy?' said Smithers, to a crowd in the Walberg cafeteria. 'Sometimes I'm so funny my girlfriend tells me to be on the stage... the next one out of town... get it, eh... Sammy boy, eh!'

He thinks about Smithers when there's not much happening, like today, yesterday and every other one for the foreseeable future. What a metaphor for a life? he ponders as his elevator reaches the top floor of Walberg's department store for the umpteenth time today.

'Ladies' Hosiery to the right. Gent's undergarments straight ahead. I hope you enjoy shopping at Walberg's,' he babbles with all the sincerity of a snake oil salesman. The elevator empties out its two middle aged customers. He sees fat, stockinged legs and a pair of pinstriped grey pants on tan shoes walk out. Faces are a waste of his time.

'Hello Samuel,' he hears a sweet voice from near the elevator door. His spirits lift. It's Miss Garbo from Ladies' Hosiery. He certainly fancies this fine filly. And she seems to know who he is.

'Hi Sandra.'

'Lovely day,' she offers.

'Wouldn't know in here,' he shoots back, only he's sorry he's let his pessimistic answer spoil this unexpected high point in the day. 'But I'll check it out at lunch time. A bit of sunshine will brighten my day.'

Stuck holds the elevator longer than he should. The flashing lights are nagging on floors three and five.

'You say the most wonderful things Samuel.'

'If you'd like to share a sandwich in the park at half past one, I'm all yours,' says Stuck with the smoothness of glass.

'Love to. Oh, Samuel hold the elevator, I need to go down to packing for Mrs Slocombe.'

Stuck looks up and the vision that is Sandra Garbo totters into the elevator on her extravagant high heels. 'Up or down? Like there's a choice,' says Samuel.

They travel without a word, just meaningful looks down to floor five. A gruff woman wearing a fox around her ample shoulders waddles in. 'Took your time young man! I have a good mind to report you to Mr Smithers. He's my nephew you know.'

Stuck didn't know, but he couldn't quite see the family resemblance. Her sense of humour was even worse than Smithers'. The fox around her neck smiled at Stuck in a sly, knowing way, so he avoided saying what he thought of Wahlberg's youngest floor manager. 'I'm sorry Madam. Where can I drop you?' He was thinking elevator shaft, but he managed a wan smile to placate the woman and her animal. Miss Garbo was still watching.

As the doors shut, a small wizened man in a navy suit races into the elevator puffing madly. 'I'm so glad I caught you,' he says. As he speaks, his face lights up the whole space. A glint of gold twinkles from his mouth. Stuck smiles, 'Not a problem sir. What floor?'

'Ground will do,' he smiles back, 'and don't spare the horses.'

'No sir, here we go.'

The elevator dropped smoothly enough. Until, whirrrh! Clunk! The elevator shudders to a grinding halt. The globe in the ceiling lamp flickers but stays alive.

Stuck slides unceremoniously off his stool and careers into the fox. In turn the woman screams. The wizened man settles the situation. 'Just a temporary halt,' he says.

'I'm sorry folks, I'll call downstairs,' but the elevator phone is as silent as death.

'You were in such a hurry,' says Sandra Garbo.

'Just a haircut. It's hard to get into Romeo's these days. But it's just a haircut,' he smiles and all seems well.

'This isn't good enough. Smithers will hear about this,' puffs the lady.

Stuck smiles sardonically. 'He would already know, Madam.'

'You must get me out of here, now. I might get one of my turns.'

'Your turn will come,' he replies carefully, 'we'll just have to wait a bit, that's all.'

Sandra is impressed with Stuck's commanding presence in a crisis. She smiles.

Time passes. 'It's one thirty,' demands the woman, who by now is redder than a fire truck. 'My Fifi will be fretting. She knows I take an afternoon nap. This is not good enough.'

Stuck assumes she means her husband, but avoids asking. He's feeling a little claustrophobic himself. The temperature slowly rises in the confined space.

'Anyone want a tomato sandwich?' he offers, hoping to break the tension. Sandra is impressed with his sensitivity. The man declines. The fox lady has a queasy tummy and brushes him away. Stuck shares one with Sandra.

Suddenly the light flickers. The bulb dies. The lady screams. The man stays silent. Stuck feels Miss Garbo's body close to him. Her breath is sweeter than primroses. She gives a little squeal of delightful recognition.

'Help! I can't breathe' shouts the woman.

'Let's all calm down... ' says Stuck, 'they'll have us out in a jiffy.' Not overly convinced, he squeezes Sandra's soft hand.

'Eeeeh!' screams the woman, 'don't touch me you foul creature.' Stuck shudders when he realises. The woman swings her meat cleaver right arm through the blackness. Stuck hears a thud, a whimper and then nothing.

'That will teach you,' says the woman triumphantly.

'Teach who, Madam?' says Stuck, 'Miss Garbo?'

'I think she's on the floor,' says the man, 'I can feel her on my shoes.' He rummages around below him. Sandra Garbo is out colder than a corpse in winter.

'Sandra, I mean Miss Garbo, speak to me, say something,' says Stuck reaching out.

'Eeeh!' screams the woman and this time connects with the small man who slumps across Sandra's body in the darkness.

'You stupid old biddy,' he yells into the cavernous darkness. The woman screams even louder and faints, dropping like a broken elevator onto the building pile of victims somewhere below Stuck's knees.

Stuck is alone in the darkness. He doesn't know quite what to make of what's happened in the last few seconds, but he knows it's been more exciting than the previous ten years worth combined.

Suddenly, the elevator jolts into action and drops slowly to the ground floor. Smithers is waiting with the maintenance crew as the door opens. He sees Stuck standing in front of the human pile looking shocked and bemused. 'What have you done to those poor people?' he says.

Stuck is in no mind to explain and cheekily replies, 'Bottom floor ladies and gentlemen. Headache pills and cold compacts to the right.' He then realises the gravity of the situation and that Sandra is one of those people.

'Oh, sorry Mr Smithers, we had a few bumps in the night. I mean the fat lady knocked them all out.'

'Aunt Gertrude! What happened?' Smithers asks animatedly on hearing the lady recovering. He forgets Stuck for a moment. The staff revives the man and Miss Garbo slowly comes around.

Two days later, Stuck has left Walbergs. The fox lady and Mr Smithers make sure he is to blame for the fracas in the elevator. Sandra Garbo isn't speaking to him and he can't really find a way to tell her why it isn't all his fault. The wizened man has broken his gold tooth and is threatening to sue the department store.

But, for the first time in a decade Samuel isn't Stuck in an elevator. He's not riding the box car to nowhere. He's free to go where he wants and do what he wants.

There's always going back to college and that marketing degree he never finished. There's no Sandra, but then again, there never really was. And there's a little war building somewhere in south-east Asia. Maybe they could use a hand? Life is sure to get better from here in!
Thursday 19 December 2013

Xing Saga Part 7.1 - Polly The Christmas Angel

Jane Russell

Mount Barker, SA

In which a topical Christmas tale involves the Xing youngsters Polly and Lucy at the school play...

'Oh Lucy, I do love Christmas,' enthused Polly as he struggled into a flowing white dress. 'And look, I've got a real part in the school nativity play at last! I was getting bored with playing a tree each year.'

'Hmmm,' murmured Lucy, 'I'm not sure about you as the Angel Gabriel, but I suppose they wanted to be fair to each of us.' She brightened and said, 'I'm playing Mary again, even though Juliet insisted it was her turn this year. Obviously I was so good in last year's play that I got picked again.' She preened.

'I think you look very pretty as Mary.' Lucy just nodded. Polly would be wearing huge fluffy white wings and a golden halo was to be attached to his head spikes. He was very excited.

At home, the school play was all the children would talk about. Several of their classmates from Xing Town would be playing trees and sheep, and two of them would play a camel. He suspected that two more would have to be the donkey, but so far no one had volunteered. The date for the final rehearsal approached, and all the organisers were working hard to complete costumes and coach the children with their lines. Having played Mary the previous year, Lucy had complete recall of her lines, however she was inclined to make up her own.

Previously, as a tree, Polly never had much to say. But as an angel he had many lines to learn, and was doing quite well. Lucy was impressed, but would never show it. An older girl, Donna, who enjoyed a certain notoriety as the school bully had expected to play Gabriel herself. She was heard muttering darkly about 'bloody robots' and 'favouritism'. If Polly had been an ordinary child, she could have tripped him up, or threatened him with her penknife. She had tried to do this in the past, but the blade bent double and snapped off, and Polly didn't even notice.

They went through everything at the dress rehearsal, including trying out the specially reinforced harness for Polly's impressive airborne arrival. Afterwards they all congratulated each other and agreed that it was going to be a pretty good play this year.

Most of the human children were keeping out of Donna's way, so they didn't notice her plotting, scheming and giggling nastily--if there'd been a role in the play for a wicked witch, she'd have nailed it.

At last the stage was set and the children were waiting to begin. There was a hush as the curtains opened to reveal Lucy, demure in a pink dress and a blue cape. She was wearing a blonde wig and her normally red features were sprayed a pale flesh colour. She looked towards her window, giving a little 'Oh' of surprise as Polly descended somewhat clumsily and hovered rather lopsidedly in the air. In the rehearsal they'd found that this hovering tended to make him spin around slowly until his back was where his front should be. They'd fixed this by letting him hang on to the window frame.

'Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you. Blessed are you among women.' He said.

'Hey up,' she replied, 'watcha on about, fluffy wings?'

Polly sighed. Lucy was obviously not intending to stick to the script. He particularly disliked her calling him 'fluffy wings' but he supposed it was better than 'big nose'.

'Fear not, sweetheart,' he ad-libbed shamelessly, 'you've been chosen to be the Mum of the Son of God.'

'Get away with you. I'm not even married.'

'No problem. The Holy Ghost will do the deed and you had better hurry up and marry Joseph after that. Don't worry, I'll sort it out with him.'

'OK, I guess,' said Lucy, and before she could think up something else not in the script to say, Polly jumped in with:

'Oh, by the way you have to call the child Jesus. Jesus Christ.' There was applause from the audience as the curtains drew once more.

Polly was aware that his flying harness had been tampered with, half of it had been cut. He was glad he hadn't fallen into a heap, as that would have ruined his first speaking part for good. Donna must be behind the sabotage, but little did she know he had a back-up plan. While the cast and audience sang "Silent Night", technical crew worked to repair Polly's harness.

After Lucy's triumphal presentation of the baby Jesus in a manger in the stable with talking donkeys, camels and sheep, which made the audience laugh out loud, it was time for everyone to sing "Away in a manger". Soon it would be Polly's turn once more. The curtains drew back to reveal shepherds in a field. Everyone sang 'As shepherds watched their flocks by night'.

As Polly's cue approached, he realised there was something wrong as he dangled above the scene in his harness, but the crew ignored his frantic signalling. A bright light illuminated the stage and Polly began to descend to the 'Ooohs' of the audience. This turned to cries of dismay at the audible ripping sound of the harness breaking. Polly fumbled for the switch of his new app as the ground rushed up to meet him. He closed his eyes. Then he heard the crowds' 'Ahh' of amazement. He opened his eyes to find he was hovering only millimetres above the floorboards. There was a frustrated scream of 'Noooooo!' from backstage.

Using a homemade anti-gravity device, Polly ascended to angel height once more.

'I bring you good news. A child is born in Bethlehem. He's the Son of God. You can find him in a stable, wrapped up like a parcel and lying in a manger.'

The shepherds looked suitably impressed. The sheep only said 'Baaa' or 'Well I never.'

'Off you go then, go and worship him.' The scene ended with a standing ovation for the special effects.

As Polly returned to the ground a furious Donna confronted him.

'How the Hell did you do that? I cut the harness right through this time, you should have fallen through the stage and kept going!'

Polly smiled. 'You should have learned not to mess with us metalbots. We're far too smart for you.' And he walked away with her glaring after him.

At the final curtain as they all took their bows, Polly couldn't resist the urge and rose up above the cast, to the amazement of audience and stage crew combined. Lucy hissed at him:

'Stop showing off, you bumblehead. I'm the star of this show.' Polly returned to earth and gave her a fond smile.

'Of course you are.'
Friday 20 December 2013

The Preacher's Daughter

Winsome Smith

South Bowenfels, NSW

O father, a train whistles down in the vale.

In our little town we know every train.

It's not the express and it doesn't bring mail,

But it whistled last night and I've heard it again.

I've kept you, my girl, from the ways of the world,

Your demeanour is modest, your garments are plain.

There's a life of sin you don't need to know--

That whistle, my girl, is the circus train.

O father, their posters are hung about town;

A bare-legged woman walks on a wire,

A sequined girl rides a horse round a ring;

There's a man all in black and he's swallowing fire.

The circus folk live for pleasure and fun;

Those posters are lurid to draw the crowds in.

They never consider the state of their souls,

The people who watch are not warned of sin.

O father, I hear the sound of a drum;

They say that the circus parades through the town.

Ponies trot neatly and tumblers perform.

Children delight at the sight of the clown.

Oh daughter, temptation is rife in this world;

Satan sends pleasures to lure the weak.

We must guard against fun and bright music, my girl,

And make life eternal the reward we seek.

For the past seven years I've stayed by your side

And tried to take my dear mother's place.

I've polished the floors and laundered the clothes,

And lived by your code of duty and grace.

Now your collars are starched, the dishes are done.

Flowers are placed where my mother is lain.

I've bought a silk dress and a tortoiseshell comb--

I'm leaving to go with the circus train.

ooooooOoooooo
Saturday 21 December 2013

Knock, Knock

Wendy Vitols

Foster, VIC

Their house stood, cottage-like and warm, directly next to her own, with its rusty roof. Their floodlit backyard would occasionally keep her awake, along with the yells and laughter of their younger children, and the smell of sausages and bacon making its way over the fence.

On the few occasions her dad came roaring home, down the dirt road, to deliver a meagre plastic bag half full of discounted food, they would sit on their porch and quickly chat, while he impatiently sucked death from his cigarette and splashed drops of premix onto the tattered hem of his shorts. As they sat, they would look straight into the backyard of the family next door, watching the ins and outs of their neighbour's back door.

At other times, she would stand near her sink, flabby face half concealed by the net curtains, one hand barely touching the slimy bench top, the other clenching the remnants of a half-eaten sausage. She would be able to just catch a glimpse of the mother from the house next door, watching her move busily about in the kitchen, turning towards the window, away from the window, stretching to reach, crouching to help. The girl would stand. Still. The only movement an occasional wipe of the grease on her chin. She was curious. Besotted. Envious.

In the beginning, while she still could, she wandered off during the night time, stood silently the other side of the fence that separated the two houses, listening to the clang of the dishwasher, the murmurs and the shouts and the footsteps of the family. Chilly air whipping her ankles. She didn't look in--she couldn't look in from so close, but she sensed the warmth of their fire from the other side of the corrugated tin fence. She would stand, until the family on the other side of the fence started to wander to their rooms. She would wait until the house silenced, ensuring they were all asleep and she couldn't absorb them anymore, and then she would turn, shivering, and slowly work her way towards her own yard.

Most of the time, the imminent presence of her father after many days away would be heralded by the Holden belting towards the house down the driveway. His subsequent quick departure marked by a fading waft of bourbon and body odour. She unpackaged and reheated the food he left for her and her brother, she did it with no enthusiasm, she wasn't the kids' mother after all. Empty packets and wrappers began to litter the mustard yellow benches, towels remained stagnant on the floor, bins overflowed with refuse.

Her father gave no thought or care to their own house. It was up to her to attempt to clean the ageing, nicotine-stained house. She refused for months until even she couldn't stand the stench. She then spent moments, attempting to fix it, but it was too hard. The house was rotting from the inside out, the sorrow seeping through the floorboards and up into each and every crevice. It wouldn't matter, any amount of bleach... it would not change.

She went to school rarely, packing her own Vegemite sandwich on stale bread, expecting her younger brother to do the same. She would meet with the children from the other house at the rickety bus stop. She walked there through a field of weeds, snapping at the kid to get a move on. Her neighbours wandered through grass lawn and a rose arch, wrought iron gate clanging behind them. Dogs bounding excitedly at their feet.

United for those five minutes they would wait the arrival of the school bus... she would pretend she was one of them, hopeful that the bus driver would, for a moment at least, think that she belonged. She envied their squabbles. Their complaints about grandparents and parents and forced family activities. She fictionalised stories for them, about horses owned and family known. They never quite believed her, but also never quite damned her, to her face. They would listen to her fantasies, knowing what they were even if they didn't understand the importance of them to her.

She would turn viciously and openly on her little brother at these times, glancing expectantly at the others to join in. Her insults increased by the day and the most foul and vile words would spit out of her mouth towards the younger child. She would dedicate herself to his distress, and would chip and punch away until his eyes glazed over with pain. The others would turn away, start a quiet conversation between themselves. She became even lonelier, as her brother began to harbour resentment and understanding.

At first her fists and her scratches gave her release. Eventually she didn't even bother hitting him. She chose, instead, to dismiss him.

She ate. She ate and ate.

She ate constantly for months, weeks, and moments.

She watched the television and ate all the food her father would bring. She ate herself out of her school uniform, never bothering to fix it or to go to school again. She lay on the bed or the couch... and eventually just the bed, having moved the television into her room. Open packets next to her. She would venture twice a day to the kitchen to garner supplies... she would stand, still as ever, watching the house next door. The laughter from the house pierced her now, taunted her, she sought solace in the fridge. Her clothes became smaller. The couch became more comfortable.

Even her feet seemed to expand, rooting her to the spot. Rarely, she ventured outside. There were no more nocturnal wanderings. She wanted to jump on the trampoline at the house next door... yet it petrified her. She thought she could never be brave enough to knock on their door. Never to invite herself in, eat breakfast at their table like the other children did. She knew her place, by her fridge, at her slimy kitchen bench.

The curtains remained closed, hers was a twenty-four hour darkness. The line between daytime and night time was non-existent and the kid learnt to get himself organised. She knew he found it better without her. She hated him for that, also.

Her brother went to play at the house next door.

She sometimes heard his laughter over the fence as well. Often he would be gone for hours, her father--if he appeared at these times--would snarl at her that she wasn't taking good enough care of the boy, and then would speed out of the house as if the boy would catch him at home. The kid would wander back at dusk if he'd managed to chance a feed from the mother next door. Or he'd appear, whinging that she'd eaten all the cocktail frankfurts if he hadn't been fed. Either way she would glare at him and sigh, before turning back to the television.

Her hair became matted. She chose not to shower. A patch of scalp oil seemed to give her a halo when she lay on her pillow, head turned away from the window.

Bitterness rose in her like bile. She began to taste it. She began to enjoy the taste of it. She gorged herself on her own sadness, she sank her teeth into the juice of her darkness and feasted until she could hardly fit anything else in.

And then. Months later. Kilograms later. She saw.

'Deal? Or No Deal?' screamed the television.

'No deal!' she muttered.

She felt all the lumps of herself, spilling over the sides of the couch. She looked down at her pallid skin, at her stretched tracksuit pants, her stinking, filthy t-shirt taut over braless bosoms. She felt her grime and her slime. She smelt. She had enough.

'No Deal.'

She suddenly stood from the couch, swayed to the front door, ignored the hinges and stepped outside. The metres felt interminable, her breathing quickened. The air pooled in a cold ball at the base of her throat. Thighs chaffing and cheeks pinking she stepped through their gate, past the roses and ornaments, up their three stairs. Her footsteps thudded clumsily on their deck.

She stood at the door.

And knocked.

The door swung open.

The mother stood there. Tea towel in hand. Slippers on feet. The television blared behind her. One of the kids from the bus stop peered at her from behind the mother, then turned to another child, hidden from view, giggling and pulling faces about her arrival at the door.

The silence between the mother and her grew.

They made eye contact, the mother inquisitive, unsure.

Then.

The mothers' eyes glanced at her filth, her state.

The girl saw the change. She choked on any words that might have been coming. She heaved herself, as swiftly as she could, back down the deck stairs, back out the gate, snagging and scratching herself on the post.

She wiped her eyes as the gate echoed shut behind her.

No Deal.
Sunday 22 December 2013

Sandcastle

Amily Jean Parr

Callaghan, NSW

Let's go down, you and I, to the sand

Where the ocean kisses the feet of the land

To feel the grains between our toes, numbered to infinity,

And the sun on our skin, branding us red:

I Went Outside And All I Got Was This Lousy Sunburn.

Together we'll crouch, you and I, side by side

With the great blue ocean before us spread wide

To feel the grains between our fingers, tangible yet uncountable,

And the wind in our eyes

And the salt on our tongues.

Handful by handful, you and I, we'll raise

A great castle to pay homage to the sun's rays

Then we'll dig a great moat for protection, deep and wide

Together we'll crouch, you and I, side by side.

And when we are done, you and I, we'll stand

Where the ocean kisses the feet of the land

To feel the grains between our toes made free

By the rising tide of the salty, sandy sea

As the waves come closer and ruthlessly raze

The great castle we'd built beneath the sun's rays

(Branding us red)

And the infinite grains that had been the bricks and mortar

Are suddenly claimed by the great blue water

As we, ourselves infinite (or so we like to say)

Will be claimed, you and I, by Death's ocean someday.

But until we are taken to that unknown land,

That shadowy realm past the horizon that we cannot understand,

Let us treasure, you and I, this time on the sand.
Monday 23 December 2013

Bring Music To Us

Evelyn MD

Newbridge, NSW

A Pub called Gladstone

Run by Jo

In a village called Newbridge

On Three Brothers Road

There are a hundred folks

Including twenty kids

One yet to be born

All needing inspiration

In this sleepy town

It's been forty three years

Since the queen stayed the night

In her royal train

At our once magnificent station

So it's been a while since

Some inspiration on a royal scale

Came to our crowd

Perhaps your music

At our pub might meet

The mark

And make singers of our children

And poets of our people

Who have lived

As much as Everyman

We all experience

So come sing to us

Give the children

Men and women

Happy memories

Whilst I weep

In recognition of

Your beautiful music

And the sadness that the

Stone will roll again

And life will move into

Its next calendar day

Without you
Tuesday 24 December 2013

Judgement

Corrie Hinschen

Ormeau, QLD

Walk into the darkness-

Raindrops gather on the moss on my face;

Sanctuary of an abandoned place of devotion;

A shadowy figure;

With whom I am yet to become acquainted.

I watch, silent and still;

I may appear dead, but I am very much alive;

I am trapped, in a gargoyle like stance;

My image captured in stone;

The spear in my weathered hands;

Embedded dragon beneath my feet;

My scales are ready to be filled.

In this darkness, evil manifests;

I will bide my time, as I always do-

Mercy, I can no longer bequeath;

I am a symbol of faith, yet I no longer have any.
Wednesday 25 December 2013

Santa's Christmas Sack

John Arvan

Underdale, SA

I'm unsure how it happened

Was just a few nights back

I looked around and there it was

A misplaced Santa sack

I checked the yard for Santa

By torchlight and full moon

I looked around the lemon tree

(In case ol' Santa'd stopped to wee)

But nothing to be seen

I searched around the front and then again checked round the back

But all there was, was just this little, fuzzy, lumpy sack.

I wondered if a Santa-elf had stowed away inside

And wriggled round the sleigh too much and fallen from the sky

So I hesitated opening the sack a little bit

And just in case an elf was hurt I grabbed the first aid kit

You never really know what to expect this time of year

I don't believe in miracles but with this sack?... not sure

I picked it up and placed it on the table with some care

And called the family around of course 'cos Xmas is to share.

We all peered in, heads touching, eyes wide open, senses sharp

Dunno what we expected--an angel with a harp?

An injured elf? A Barbie doll? An iPad? A toy truck?

Santa's shopping list? Stones tickets!?

Maybe a million bucks!?

A dim light emanated from the fuzzy inner gloom

I hope the elf is friendly, she said, better get the broom

A bunch of sparkles we pulled out which clothed an envelope

And on that envelope was written

Love, and Joy, and Hope

A bit predictable we thought, there must be more inside

The secrets of the universe?

A time machine design?

But what was there? A photo. People.

Looked a smallish crowd

The faces were our family and close friends from all around

And on the back was written in fine writing, rare and tall

'With all these people sharing love

I'd say...

You have it all'

Signed Santa
Thursday 26 December 2013

If Words Could Speak

JH Mancy

Tallebudgera, QLD

If words could speak,

what would they say

Words themselves are nothing

It's actions which speak loud

Actions speak to the heart,

And right to the very core--

Leavened with love, and

Who could want for more

Kind deeds bespeak a man,

Of them, be rightly proud.

Words are soon forgotten

Once another day has past--

Deeds born out of great love

Will be remembered in repast.
Friday 27 December 2013

Love's Silly Song

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, NSW

Corinthians says: make love your aim.

But what is the thing called love?

Is it not just some instinctual game?

Than a commandment from up above?

All you need is love is what we we're told,

But what is this thing called... love?

It is not something tangible from a mould:

Why the comparison to a turtledove?

Love is fickle; love is blind; love is a four letter word.

The game of love is dangerous, and to wit:

The outcome is procreation--is it not absurd?

What's love got to do with it?

Love is the drug; perhaps we mean lust,

Just where is the demarcation line?

Love the one you're with... got the drift? Just...

Be careful; cast not pearls before swine.

'Make love not war', the hippies used to say,

Let the phoenix rise from the ashes.

But love is a battlefield it seems today,

Jeez I love it when you give 39 lashes!

A stroke behind with hand in leather glove:

The difference is subtle there's no denying.

Are you in love? Are you in, love?

For the love of money--keep on trying!

Love me tender--it's my first time,

Can you feel the love tonight?

If you love somebody, set them a fee...

If you want my love, just try it!

A Janus face and a double-headed penny:

'Love' and 'Hate' are tattoos on the fingers;

Friendly persuasion--thee pleasures me in ways many.

Addicted to love, the pain that often lingers!

Love is all you need! Where is love?

Love is like oxygen, love is in the air.

Love is a many splendid, intended thing.

But love is strange, often deranged; a love so rare.

Why do fools fall in love? Ain't love on the rocks?

Love will find a way all the purists seem to shout.

Thee I love, say celibate priests to their flocks,

Especially children; I'm of the cloth so have no doubts.

Love is the answer, love me do...

You think I'm not in love; who's to blame?

The things we do for love applies to cynics such as I,

We all fan the flame and make love our aim.

_James says this is a rumination on what constitutes love these days. The framework is built over many well known popular songs with the word 'love' in the title. Some are a little bent to suit his purposes (his words - not ours!)._
Saturday 28 December 2013

Subtle

Joanna Rain

Nelson Bay, NSW

You are the permanent force

Quietly observing in the distance.

You are the slow but steady tortoise

In our imaginary race--

Laughing at our frantic pace.

You are persistent and patient,

Someone who lives in complete faith,

Who believes that everything

Will always be ok.

You are the invisible, solidifying essence

In a party full of revellers

But you never hold their shows of egos

Against them

Because you see all the greatness

That lies dormant within them.

You are the predictable, dawning sunrise

Never far from sight on the near horizon,

A sight always to be remembered,

One that reminds us of our presence,

A sight that reminds us of

The nature of our limitless essence,

And the wonder of our existence.

You are all the little things

That we forget to appreciate

Until your presence is denied to us,

A gentle breeze upon our face,

The soothing beat of our heart,

The oxygen that we breathe,

The oxygen that reminds us,

Every second of the day

That we are in fact present and ok.
Sunday 29 December 2013

Missing You

Kylie Abecca

Port Albany, WA

I'm missing you, I'm missing me,

Just missing the way things used to be,

I feel embarrassed, ashamed and confused,

Knowing we're both feeling abused,

Raw emotion bubbling to the surface,

Leaving that question--what is the purpose?

The only thing left, we seem to have in common,

Are the same old questions we both always summon,

What do we do? Where can we go?

How do you pick up when it all seems so low?

Should we shake hands, part ways, hide our tears?

Or is there a chance we could both share our fears?

We once got along; we were friends, you and I,

Now it feels like it was all one big lie,

I've fought so hard to keep us together,

But somehow, I just don't feel its forever,

Is it true what they say, about setting love free?

And if it returns, then it's meant to be,

I'm afraid to let go--you might not come back,

It is true that faith is one thing I lack,

But how else will I know, just how you feel?

Letting go is the way to see what is real,

I'm so sorry we hit this bumpy dirt road,

If only I knew, how to share this load,

No longer can I call you my lover or friend,

Because now it is time, as this is the end.
Monday 30 December 2013

A Neighbour

Fantail

Mount Barker, SA

The confused, worm-hole travelling angel has returned...

My memory of the angel's visit had such a dreamlike quality that I pushed it to the back of my mind, untold, and settled back into the routine of voluntary work at the local hospital, teaching art and crafts, and drinking too much coffee - and occasionally alcohol - with friends. My garden was both pleasure and inspiration and my home a refuge from the vagaries of the outside world.

The house next door, a fifties-built five-roomed bungalow similar to the others in my short street, had been empty for more than a year. It slumped; windows uncurtained and yard a weedy jungle. I didn't mind. I wasn't lonely and figured that nobody really knows his neighbour. I often wondered who'd want to. The good ones leave too soon and the bad ones stay too long.

However, when I walked past one day, the windows were sparkling and the walls were somehow more upright. That night, light spilled from the house. Intrigued, I baked an angel cake, put it on my best cut-glass dish and took it over the next afternoon, with a bottle of wine.

I rang the bell. The door opened and I stood facing a huge foyer, white with touches of gold flecking the floor. The walls ran high into a vaulted ceiling constructed of material so translucent that the place was flooded with light. The lush sounds of a Rachmaninov piano concerto swept softly past me. I glanced back over my shoulder. That part of the world was its normal shabby old self.

When I turned back, my knees almost buckled. An angel stood facing me - a glorious creature who took my breath away. I wanted to trace his jaw and brow, to run my fingers through his gold-touched hair. I longed to feel his arms around me, yet fought an urge to fall at his feet.

'Hi.' The single word squeaked out before my throat seized under the steady gaze of great amber eyes.

'Elisabeth!'

I could have spent an eternity vibrating with the resonance of that voice. Until then I'd never realised how exquisite my name was. I sighed.

He smiled. 'Elisabeth, I'm Gabe. I've been waiting for you. Come in.'

The touch of his hand on my waist was thrilling as he ushered me through the foyer and on into a long white passage. A floor to ceiling mirror stretched along one wall. In it, an angel escorted an ageless woman: me, with my rough edges smoothed, my wrinkles ironed out; me, poised and graceful.

Enchanted, I halted. And that's when I heard him quietly quote: 'Elisabeth shall bear thee a son and thou shalt call his name John.'

All at once, the angel's previous arrival on my back lawn flooded my mind.

'You're THE angel!' I gasped.

He nodded, his smile a leer. A bright, pulsing halo ringed his head. 'Elisabeth.'

The name sounded like a curse. I rounded on him. He swept me into his arms and for a second I melted. The embrace was all I'd imagined - and more.

Then it hit me. John. The Baptist. His mother was Elisabeth. Gabe was expecting me--? And himself--? My blood ran cold, then hot. I didn't know whether to laugh at the utter absurdity of my thoughts or howl with the sudden dissolution of my dream.

Coming to my senses, I stomped hard on one of his bare feet and, squirming from his arms, fled down the passage. I slammed through a door out into a vast garden: all box hedges and conifers decorated with stars and topped with miniature winged Gabes.

'I'm not that Elisabeth,' I gasped, ducking behind a small pine. 'Don't you remember? Wrong time, wrong sector? Isn't that worm-hole fixed yet?'

I raced towards a low white wall surrounding a large pool.

'Heavens above Gabe!' I yelled, glancing back over my shoulder.

He halted and looked up, puzzled.

'No it's not, is it?'

'What's not?' I snapped. I'd stopped too and was standing, arms akimbo, puffing.

'Heaven is not above. It's over that way,' he said, pointing east and sidling closer.

Really? That's a new one.

He lunged at me. I dodged. His momentum carried him forward. His toe slammed into the pool surround pitching him halo-first into the water.

There were hissings and boilings and clouds of steam obscured the pool. Half-broiled goldfish leapt onto the paving and lay flapping.

Eventually the steam cleared. A woebegone Gabe sat in a puddle of ash with a scarlet face. His lashes and brows were singed. His hair was a short black frizz and his shirt had disintegrated, exposing a bright red chest. His halo had disappeared. But what really caused me to stare was his lack of ears; those beautifully shaped, delicately formed body parts had burned away.

I chuckled.

'Gabe,' I said, 'I know just the person to fix you. Promise you'll never touch me again and I'll help. Otherwise I'm going to leave right now!'

He promised. I helped him inside.

He's well now. Still waiting for his wormhole to be repaired. His behaviour toward me is impeccable. I delight in the sight of my ageless self in his mirror. He's attempted to explain how his mansion and garden fit inside next door, but I don't understand.

My neighbour's an angel, but no one else needs to know.
Wednesday 1 January 2014

Rays Of Light

Graham Sparks

Bathurst, NSW

Would that I had been around to see her in the flush of youth,

to see her face aglow, lit by rays of morning light,

and taste the sweetness of her breath and flock upon the breeze,

Mother of Cloudless Love.

Would that I had been around before a pestilence had marred her face with scabs,

fouled her waters all and smeared the sky with shit.

Would that I had not been born to witness this offence.

The scabs are cities and the pestilence is man.

And in this state of dark distress with compromised immunity,

the cities being scabs are scabbed again

with buboes in the form of domes, and spires erupting heavenward,

fruiting bodies of an ancient fungus thus unleashed.

Alas it's not alone.

Although Star Trek is fantasy, the Borg are here among us.
Friday 3 January 2014

The Loser

Sophie Andritsos

Vermont South,VIC

It wasn't that there was no hope for him,

In fact it was widely agreed that he had potential,

He was not a Lost Cause,

Just A Disappointment,

And sometimes,

On days when he never did get dressed,

And he mostly just watched TV,

His father would be mad, and his mother quiet,

And they would wonder about Their Son

And one day,

His mother found him naked in the backyard,

Staring at the house,

His father didn't say anything,

She looked worried,

He looked mad.

And when he started crying,

His mother tried to soothe him,

His father slapped his bloated face,

And told him to be A Man,

And then he opened up his veins,

A Son, A Disappointment of a Man,

And when they found the journal,

His mother was mad, and his father quiet,

And, separately, they would mourn

for Their Son,

A Victim.
Saturday 4 January 2014

Rubbish

John Ross

Blackheath, NSW

This is a story about my grandfather, my brother and me.

Grandfather was a hoarder most of his adult life. Well, that is what his neighbours always thought. To be more precise, he was a compulsive composter. I know that sounds strange, but let me explain. My grandparents used to live on a large block of land. Grandad started a small vegetable garden that over the years blossomed into an acre of carefully cultivated garden. All this agricultural activity generated large amounts of plant waste. Initially Grandad placed all this into bins for the normal weekly garbage collection. The local shire council objected most strongly and suggested that he compost it instead. So was started Grandad's lifelong association with composting. When the time came for my grandparents to retire to the city almost half of their small acreage was covered with compost bins.

Their house in the city was on a small block of land and the back yard was nearly all taken up by Grandad's cherished compost bins. There was no room for a vegetable garden and certainly nowhere to utilise the increasing amounts of stored compost. Ever bigger, taller bins were utilised. Everything possible was composted. Newspapers, tea leaves, eggshells, cardboard packaging, food scraps; Grandma used to joke that when she died Grandad would probably compost her.

As he grew older, and especially after Grandma passed away, Grandad started to become forgetful and sometimes confused as to what could go into the compost bins. Dear readers, don't jump to conclusions. Grandma was cremated, but Grandad did sprinkle her ashes on the rose bushes. My older brother and I used to call in regularly to check on him and often found household items in the bins.

My grandad had been born and spent his youth in Russia before migrating to Australia and had never held material possessions in high regard. He often boasted that the most valuable thing he owned was the gold ring set with a large diamond that he always wore on his right hand. It had been given to him by his father when he left to come to Australia. He had become close to my older brother who always spent time drinking and talking with him during our visits whilst I did all the cleaning and necessary repairs around the house. Grandad often told him that he would leave him the ring and I could have the compost bins. My brother was the complete opposite to our grandad as he was ambitious, greedy, and manipulative and, even though he was my nearest living relative, not a very nice person.

I still vividly remember the day Grandad was rushed to hospital with a heart attack. My brother and I arrived at his bedside just before he died. Whilst I tried to comfort him all my brother was interested in was the fact that the gold and diamond ring was missing from his right hand. The nurses confirmed that he had not been wearing it when he was brought in. My brother then kept asking him where it was. With possibly his last breath he whispered, 'Rubbish', then looking towards me, 'Compost'.

My brother spent the next week looking for the ring. Firstly he searched the outside garbage bin at Grandad's house then he started on the compost bins. In his haste and frustration he made a terrible mess emptying the bins and strewing rotting compost everywhere. When he finally gave up in disgust I decided it was time to clean the inside of the house. Lo and behold in the small paper waste basket next to Grandad's bed, along with many chocolate wrappers, was the gold ring.

I rang my brother and told him. He broke every speed restriction coming to pick it up and then took it to a jeweller for appraisal. To my surprise he was back at the house just two hours later. He threw the ring on the table in front of me and said, 'The bloody old geezer was having us on. It's just rubbish. That is what he meant; it's just bloody rubbish. Cut glass and gold. Worth just a few quid. Here you keep the bloody thing.' With that he stormed out of the house and out of my life as I never saw him again.

Shortly afterwards I advertised Grandad's compost bins for sale. I got such an overwhelming response that I went into the compost bin business and built up a thriving company.

I kept the ring in my bedside table for many years. One morning with nothing better to do I decided to look at it under a magnifying glass to see if there were any markings or inscriptions. Around the inside of the ring was some strange writing that I could not decipher.

I took it to a city jeweller who dealt in antique pieces. After he examined it he was almost speechless. It was indeed cut glass but it was the gold band that was important.

It was a name inside the ring in Russian. 'Nicholas 11.' The last tsar of Russia.

It sold six months later at auction in London for 1.5 million dollars.

Remember ... What is one man's trash is another's treasure.
Monday 6 January 2014

126 on Love

Evelyn MD

Newbridge, NSW

Whether love is your 'aim'

or your 'instinctual game'

Love is

or it is not

It is tangible from the mould of

shared experience but never

the same although many crave

compatibility

Many acts are seen to be in the hands

of love yet love is not fickle, blind, or absurd

fickle is fickle

blind is blind

absurd is absurd

love is love

Be in love to work your

transactions

But you are not love

So you must put some

love in you

Cast the pearls before the swine

They may swallow some

Make love not war

Love is not on the battlefield

Nor from the pain of 39 lashes

Love brings calm

it removes vanity

it slows down

it brings measure

it gentles the spirit

_Evelyn says she was moved after reading James Craib's 'Love's Silly Song' (p.107) to write a response. Ed: And for those that are wondering - and it took us a little while to work it out, so don't feel bad - the '126' in the title refers to the number of words in Evelyn's piece!_
Tuesday 7 January 2014

Standing on a Chair

Corrie Hinschen

Brisbane, QLD

I stand here and wait

For an angel to come.

I wait for hours;

Just another excuse not to do it?

Maybe.

Ed: This is one of the shortest submissions we have ever received, and yet it seems to say so much. We also discussed just exactly what it is saying, and found we couldn't quite agree - there's an ambiguity there that's not easy to achieve in 22 words! And we felt that, at this time of year, it's of even more value, as we acknowledge that for some people the thought of another year ahead is a lot to deal with.
Wednesday 8 January 2014

When The Drink Gets Into You

Ruth Withers

Uarbry, NSW

You're a cruel and violent man when the drink gets into you,

And the drink gets into you far too much.

It puts hellfire in your eyes and it puts acid in your tongue,

And the cold and strength of steel into your touch.

They say the truth will all come out when the drink gets into you,

And when the drink gets into you, you're full of hate,

And the bruises on my throat and arms and the pain that's in my heart

Tell me I've almost left my move too late.

I love the you who loves me, but when the drink gets into you,

And the drink gets into you 'most every day now,

A vile and wretched half-a-man, without love, without remorse,

Comes here to hurt me any way he knows how.

Don't tell me that you're sorry now, 'cause when the drink gets into you,

As it will get into you again tomorrow,

That you didn't hit me hard enough, or mock and taunt me loud enough

Will be the only cause you see for sorrow.

What I'm saying is goodbye, my love, 'cause while the drink gets into you,

And it seems to me it's gotten in to stay,

You don't need or want me here and I can stand the pain no more, so

Goodbye, I hope to meet you sober - some day.
Thursday 9 January 2014

Sleep To Death

David Newman

Jacob's Well, QLD

_For little Tess_

Dream, of all the treasures you seek;

Dream, you've got a thousand friends:

Dream, you can dream for a week;

Dream, that this could never end: -

You go through the motions of being awake;

Life seems so hard now, but dreaming comes easy:

You'd better wake up - you're throwing your life away:

Your dreams come from all those pills that you take;

You never knew life could be lived so easy:

You're sleeping the nights - ah! But you're dreaming the days:

Year! - You're just dreaming the days: -

Your dreams are so real - life is an illusion;

Life is untrue - your dreams your reality:

Here in limbo - you can be whatever you want to be:

You don't want to wake up, to face life's delusions;

Here in your dreams, is your mind's liberty:

You're dreaming your way into your own eternity:

Year! - It's your own eternity: -

And I wonder - is she still dreaming now?

And I wonder - is she ever to re-awake?

Are there still thoughts within her head?

And I wonder - is she still dreaming now;

With no regrets, and no heartache?

Is she alive, or is she dead?
Friday 10 January 2014

Xing Saga Part 8 - Oggie Has An Accident

Jane Russell

Mount Barker, SA

Wherein we revisit Oggie on Earth...

A rabbit stared at the rapidly approaching headlights that were weaving from side to side across the dark road. She couldn't look away. She couldn't move. At the last moment, with no screeching of brakes, the car veered to one side, missing her by millimetres and crumpling loudly against a tree. _Wow_ , thought Flopsy, _did I do that?_ To test her mind powers, she stayed where she was to try it out on the next approaching vehicle. As its headlights grew brighter and closer, she willed it to swerve aside. It didn't. There was a soft splat as it passed. Meanwhile, from the car embedded in the tree, there was movement.

~~~

Many hours earlier, Oggie had set off on foot in the general direction of the gypsy camp in the valley.

Oggie had started to obsess about the future as the birth of his daughter loomed nearer. He had to know what to expect. He'd heard about a gypsy fortune teller who was highly regarded by some of his human friends, and decided to give it a go, but didn't mention this to PiggleZit, as he knew he would not approve.

'Won't be long,' he called as he marched purposefully into the woods. His internal GPS was of no use, as the gypsy camp didn't actually have an address, so he was soon lost. He emerged at the road and wondered if he should just forget about it and go back home when a large car slowed and its driver hung out the window.

'Hop in, mate. The name's Paddy. Where are you headed?'

'Oh, thank you. Do you know where the Paisley gypsy camp is by any chance?'

Old Paddy gummed his white whiskers a bit before replying,'I think it's on the outskirts of Tumbletown. Shall we see?'

Oggie agreed and climbed into the backseat of the car, which sank alarmingly with his weight. The back of the car was now so low that he could feel every bump and pothole. They swerved down an unsealed track, slipping in the mud until they came to some ancient caravans and some scruffy tents. Oggie thanked Paddy and went looking for Madame Zelda.

'Cross my palm with silver, lovey, and I'll tell you your future,' crooned the withered crone in a black veil, her long claw-like fingers, startlingly similar to Paddy's, beckoning him into her tent. Oggie sat carefully in a sturdy chair across from her. A veiled glass ball was on a table between them.

'Now let me see,' she muttered, unveiling the crystal ball and peering into its depths. 'Hmmmm,' then she looked up, 'I've never had to tell a fortune for a machine before, lovey. Not sure as it'll work, like.' Then she turned her attention back to the ball. 'Oh yes, I see now. It does work after all. Well I never, oh my,' and she wittered on with further inanities for quite a while.

'Oh no!' she gasped, dropping her hands from the ball as though it had burned her. 'I don't know as I should tell you.'

Oggie, who was resigned to not getting any sense out of the woman, felt a stab of fear.

'What do you see? Tell me please.'

'Oh dear, it's not good I'm afraid.'

'What is it?'

'Your life and that of your unborn child will hang in the balance by the end of the day. There, I said it. And no refunds!' She covered the crystal ball and pushed Oggie out of her tent.

Oggie was horrified. He also realised that he hadn't mentioned being pregnant and no human could tell that he was. He went into worry mode, pacing back and forth, shaking his head and muttering,'Oh scroobledinkaloo!'

Then he realised that Paddy was back and was speaking to him.

'Didye want a lift back, mate? I'm going in the general direction.'

'Er, yes, very kind. Thank you.' He walked to the car as a criminal walks to his execution.

'Bad news, was it?'

'She just told me I'm going to die by the end of today, that's all.'

'Don't take any notice of her, mate. She's rubbish! She predicted Tottenham would win the cup, and I lost a packet on it.'

Oggie looked up hopefully. 'So you think she's a fraud?'

'I didn't say that,' said Paddy, 'she's just bloody inaccurate most of the time.'

They set off slowly as the car threatened to get bogged in the mud, and then they picked up speed. Despite the extra weight they were soon zipping along at 100 kph. Oggie felt inured to the inevitability of total disaster when he realised that the driver was texting on his mobile. Neither hand was on the wheel and he was looking anywhere but at the road. Oggie had just time enough to call 'Look out!' before the car plowed off the road and hit a large tree, the branches of which burst through the windscreen and side windows, whacking Oggie on the head and trapping him in his seat.

'Bugger!' raged Paddy, and unable to open his driver's side door, climbed out of the window. 'Don't you worry, mate,' he told Oggie, 'I'm going to get help.' And he vanished up the road past a flattened rabbit. The hours ticked by and there was no sign of him. Oggie was pinned by the tree, and his head was dented. He couldn't think straight, his mind seemed befuddled, nor could he find any way to call for help, as his communications centre was damaged. Also, his GPS had gone haywire and kept repeating, 'You have reached your destination,' in an annoyingly smug voice.

Oggie remembered that he should have consumed two substantial meals of metal by now, and he cursed the whim that had put him and his child in deadly danger. A pity he couldn't reach the car door, or he'd have eaten it. Instead, he started gnawing at his hand. He was just starting on his arm when he heard a polite knocking from his middle cavity. His baby was requesting to be born, and he was far from the birthing centre. Both their lives were hanging in the balance, just as Madame Zelda had predicted. It really wasn't his day.

He was getting weaker as he finished the remains of his right shoulder, and the baby's knocking was getting more and more urgent. If it grew too large for the cavity that housed it, it would be squashed to death. Oggie's mind drifted. He thought he heard the children from the village. Then a dark shadow blocked the light, saying in Polly's voice, 'Don't you worry, Uncle Oggie, I'll get you out of there,' and he proceeded to head-butt the branches into kindling. Oggie drifted off to the sound of madly staccato drumming from the baby, and wood thunking and metallic screeching somewhere nearby.

He awoke to the reassuring moon face of Doctor Foo. He could hear but not feel the repetitive whacks to the side of his head. This was because it had been detached and was undergoing reconstructive panel beating across the room. Someone was tinkering in his brain circuits. He was pleased to find that his GPS was quiet and there appeared to be a faint satellite signal once more. Then time seemed to stop. What he no longer heard was any knocking from within, nor could he feel any movement. He leapt up, and a blowtorch accidentally scorched his nose.

'My baby!' he yelled. 'Where's my baby?'

To be continued...
Saturday 11 January 2014

Humility, My Greatest Fault

Mark Fowler

Magill, SA

Humility is a quality which I aim to get

For some strange reason I haven't found it yet

I first heard the word celebrating a deserved win

'Cos I don't have a 'humble' victory grin

It's hard to be humble when you know that you're clever

Won't give losers a break, not now, not ever

My mother said I was precious from the very start

That I believe, came from deep in her heart

She told me many, many times that I'm the very best

It's always proved true when put to the test

My wife loves me dearly - she can be impatient at times

Sees my revelry as ugly crimes

So - I've been known to dance around a bit, take the glory

If I don't flaunt it, who'd tell my story?

I heard about this 'humility' in our church one day

Preacher kept waking me as I tried to pray

Said to make it to heaven, it would take a humble man

With that in mind, do the best that I can

I've learned how to say I'm sorry when I don't even care

Even told my wife I love her new hair

I've learned how to go 'Praise him' when compliments come my way

'A real humble guy,' that's what they must say

You would think I'd have mastered humility by now

In fact I'll be the best in time, I vow

Doubt there will ever be a humbler character about

'Humbler than Ghandi!' I can hear them shout.
Sunday 12 January 2014

Dragon

Winsome Smith

Lithgow, NSW

Deserted are the farms,

The villages and towns.

As my roar fills the valleys

My tail whips around

Encircling the forests

With my colleague, the wind.

Well I remember

In eons past

How cottagers huddled, water butts

Hopefully filled,

But my onslaught was always irresistible.

Forget stories of St George

With his mighty sword.

I live on

To consume all in my path;

Trees, crops, gardens,

Humanity's hopes, nostalgia,

And tiny ambitions.

Let me run, let me exhaust myself,

No matter.

Heat and wind return

With the rotating seasons

And I sleep,

To rise and roar again.
Monday 13 January 2014

Fractious Fractions

JH Mancy

Tallebudgera, QLD

Fractions have puzzled me since my days at school

Sit up straight, learn your sums, obey the golden rule...

They cause me pain after all these years, and great anxiety -

It doesn't help to try again, for it's quite beyond poor me!

They plague me in my daily life, it makes me feel quite stupid

I avoid whenever possible, but I swear it makes me loopid.

And here's another thing! Why be someone's 'other half'

Why not just be wholesome me - I want things as before -

I was individual then, not someone else's part. Have a heart!

Ying Yang, grand slam, love's a nil to nothing draw...

Mrs (insert spouse's name) Bloggs. I'm not Mrs Masculine,

I'm the dinkum me! No raging feminist, I'm liberal general

(What's the female noun for general?)

Now you gals who've kept your names, give yourself a pat -

I'm proud of you (you should be too), if I could I'd lift me 'at!

Be whole, not part of someone else's schemes. Be strong and

To yourself be true! Two whole beings is better than two halves

To share those dreams together, with love to hold them fast...

Free of malevolent fractions which have plagued us. At last!
Wednesday 15 January 2014

Only God Knows

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, NSW

God and I are not on speaking terms, it seems I cannot find his ear.

We certainly are not Face book friends and her twitter is not too clear.

The telepathy is intermittent; though ... I _might_ be talking to myself.

It's been said I should be repentant, but really, should we not spread the wealth?

Fundamentalists abound on every side; some say that I'm communistic.

I'm not beholden to some fantasy friend; planned religion has become opportunistic.

Climate change is not just philosophy and the planet is in a perilous state.

We wring our hands and mourn 'oh the money'! No matter, fact is - it's now too late ...

Ten percent of the population have control over, around, ninety percent of the assets.

* The Holy See is possibly the wealthiest corporation; blind faith is a major of its many facets.

Children are prey to rapacious clergy within a culture resistant to the evolving of humanity.

Women are repressed; Magdalene once considered whore; denial of birth control - utter insanity!

And in that most populous of Catholic countries, Super Typhoon Haiyan ravages the Philippines.

God's wrath? No, human folly! Major weather events ignore disparity of poor and those of means.

Will a new wave of refugee boats eschew Afghans and Sri Lankans in favour of Filipino?

Maybe the 'mad monk' might let them in 'cause they're Catholic; George, make more cappuccino!

It's been said God moves in mysterious ways but that does nothing to allay the fears...

That some hold for the fate of humanity; expect a rapid decline, anytime, within say fifty years?

Bushfires, droughts and pandemic bouts of sickness will bear witness to an infinite apocalypse,

And there'll be floods - more Arks required? No way, says the One, _I'm retired; just read my lips:_

_Do as I say not as I do_ - mantra still holds true, _Om mani padme hum_ has become humdrum too.

Nietzsche said that 'God is dead' - transcendence has lost all meaning in a modern point of view.

In place of mysticism, there's only cynicism - there's a détente between God and I,

For I am agnostic with views somewhat caustic; I believe the end of the world is nigh.

* That is the true situation borne out by a Vatican official who, when asked to make a guess at the Vatican's wealth today, replied very tellingly, 'Only God knows.'
Thursday 16 January 2014

Shards

Wendy Vitols

Foster, VIC

I found a photograph.

A girl, two years old. The print torn, tattered, underneath a box of bills and old envelopes. I stood, in the dark of my walk-in robe, holding the photograph. The grey daylight edges through the ajar door, allowed me to see her clearly enough.

She sits, this girl, frozen between the curling edges of the photograph. The shards of light bounce from her curls, playing hide and seek on her face. She is in her grandmother's sun room, in a homemade dress with a fancy collar. The sun streams in from behind her, a smile begins on her face. A hint of a dimple on her pink cheeks. Laughter bubbling inside of her.

Memory helps me find the scent of jasmine, curling around her grandmother's iron gate, seeping through the windows, piggybacked by the streams of light. I find the faint scent of cracked and worn leather, from the chair favoured by my grandfather, also in the photo, just to the left of the girl, in the background.

I allow myself to travel backwards through years, sadness and joy, I watch the girl in the photo--a slide show of memories. Her floral dress twirls around her, the curls bounce.

She is in the garden, watching her cousins ride the horse, bareback. They pelt through the paddock, reckless, loud, teenagers. The horses' hooves thunder through the years.

'Let me, let me,' she cries, too young. The make up on her face from the dress ups sliding down her face. She toddles at the feet of the adults, grabs at her grandmother's hem, pats her grandfather's dogs.

The adults look on, clothed in wide collars and high waisted nylon. Tea is poured, later beers, laughter flows.

She steps out the back door into the veranda, filled with jars and jars of opal and shelves bulging with opal nut for the jewellery her grandmother makes.

In the dark of the wardrobe, I touch my necklace, opal warm against my skin.

I smell earth. I feel warmth.

'Sweetheart,' her grandmother whispers, the voice filters through the window and travels decades to sit on my shoulder. 'Sweetheart,' her grandmother reaches through the years and holds the child I was.

Tottering down the step. She plays. She runs. She laughs.

At night she sleeps in the cold room, she wakes to eyes burning in the dark, a possum inside.

She screams, two year old face red and wet. Her grandmother runs to her, and turns on the light.

'Sweetheart,' her grandmother whispers.

She is comforted. She drifts back to sleep.

In the morning, she wakes to the sun streaming in the window, lavender scraping against the glass.

I stand in the dark of decades later, the light creeps through the doorway and plays hide and seek on my face.

I put the photograph back, and turn to leave. I shut the door behind me and leave the soft scent of jasmine behind.

'Sweetheart.'

The whisper follows as I walk away.

'Sweetheart.'
Sunday 19 January 2014

Paper Smell

Amily Jean Parr

Callaghan, NSW

Gentle lighting, paper smell,

Wooden shelves where tales dwell

Dream-like quiet, no-one near;

Fantasies run wild here.

Pick a book out from its place

Hold it gently to my face

Breathe the scent, the paper smell,

The fragrance of a tale to tell.

What have I now in my hands?

Daring deeds from distant lands?

Creatures from a world that's new

Or a tale of love so true?

There's no knowing what's inside

'Til at last I open wide

What I'm holding in my hands:

A treasure no-one understands.

Ink and paper weave their spell:

Good and bad, heaven and hell,

Love and rhythm, loss and rhyme,

Crossing distance, space and time.

I'm transported, lost within

Let the journey now begin

As the words all weave their spell

Heralded by that paper smell.
Monday 20 January 2014

The Mother Tongue

Graham Sparks

Bathurst, NSW

I hear my country calling me,

in whispering tones of wind and leaf,

I feel her in my bones and water,

and see and smell her in my dreams,

singing softly there behind those southern coastal mountains.

When writ from left to right or right to left

she looks like any other script,

squiggly horizontal lines and upright strokes

with spaces in between,

peppered with a spill of granite tors.

Inked in greens and greys and browns

with blue and white above,

high above the coastal plain

yet not estranged from sea,

for of an afternoon the rising onshore breeze

does blanket her with mist,

that wettest of all kisses.

So here am I a half a thousand miles away,

trapped in country not my own,

scheming up the means to get me home.

I know that all that is is language,

the earth and sky and stars,

and snakes and dogs and girls and men,

notwithstanding this,

my country is my mother tongue.
Tuesday 21 January 2014

Haze

Samantha Elliott-Halls

Campbelltown, NSW

Shifting winds

Winds that sing

Sun beating down

On parched ground

Drifting sands

Across blazing land

Sun turning everything to dust

Parched and dry

Cloudless sky

Eagle on high

Its cry a distant sigh

Watching for movement

So far down

Distant hills shimmering

Changing hues

Greys, greens, reds and blues

Iridescent in the shifting, smouldering haze

Distant voices

On the wind

Mixed with eagles sighs

On the wing

Grass tussocks

Impelled along

Don't know where they belong

Unknown

Where they come from

Floating wanderings

Silence abounds

There's life here

Where does it begin?

Fluid sands, glistening hills

Driven by the wind

In this unrelenting land
Wednesday 22 January 2014

Seasons Of A Life

Dianne Johnstone

Denistone, NSW

Spring, a young girl, a loving family,

But whispers fill the next door room - she hears them,

Knowing eyes avert themselves - she sees them,

And she wonders.

Summer, a young woman, the loving family still,

And still, she hears the whispers, sees the knowing eyes,

And a question starts to shape itself,

What is their secret?

Time is passing, and the woman enters Autumn,

The whispers fade into memory,

The knowing eyes, the protective eyes, are closed.

The question remains unanswered

for there is no one left to ask.

Late Autumn, a cold, unwelcome change,

And the woman is nearly denied her Winter years.

Now there is urgency in her quest for an answer.

What was their secret?

The answer reveals itself at last:

She was their secret.

Nearing the end of her Autumn years, the woman unearths the truth.

She finds her past and brings it forward to the present.

New names and distant places beckon her to them.

Her Spring and her Summer have prepared her for this journey.

Autumn reminds her of the early signposts:

Whispers in the next door room, and the knowing eyes averted.

Her journey begins.

Winter patiently waits.
Thursday 23 January 2014

End Of The Dry

Julie Martin-Lock

Box Hill South, VIC

Ominous grey clouds gathered above

Birds disappeared to shelter

And fell silent, but a dove

A gentle swirling breeze stilled

In the distance, a low rumble

A smattering of large droplets

From cumulonimbus tumble

Smashing down on the parched earth

Before long Thor tipped bucket

After bucket from the sky

The parched earth soon became sodden

'Twas the end of the dry
Saturday 25 and Sunday 26 January 2014

315 Condoms

Paul Humphreys

Oxley, ACT

'Commonwealth Government Senior Inspector of Condom Manufacturers'

'Great title, even if it is unofficial,' Derek thought to himself as he beamed a broad smile out of the small window behind his desk to farewell the setting sun. It seemed to reflect his happy feeling as it imbued a warm feeling that conflicted with the cold air conditioning in his office.

The office, his daily abode for the last six years was a small cube of space sparsely furnished with standard issue public service (PS) accoutrements. 'Rather depressing really,' he reflected each time he had to return to this base. His base was just one of approximately 15 isolation cubes, located along a corridor with solid wooden walls between each cube with dim 'efficient' lighting.

He wondered whether the cube occupants found them as depressing as him. It was apparent to him that many did not as they chose to eat the home made sandwiches in their office during the lunch break. He, however, took every opportunity to abscond into the outside world. Fortunately his job allowed these opportunities to arise frequently, which was his good fortune.

Derek felt satisfied and secure with the place that he had arrived at in his mundane life. He had moved cities to take up a government position in his early 40s and while the workload was at first demanding, it was satisfying as he dealt with the coalface of Public Health as an inspector of pharmaceutical manufacturers. He was a little dismayed that he equated with the common (normal) societal average statistic for males of his age: wife, three children, one car and a mortgage.

Where he was in his life, on a personal level, was not easy for him to discern or characterise, like guessing your position on a speeding night train where the beginning and end of the journey are known but the unseen scenery, inhabitants and emotions of those passing environments were not easy to comprehend and were for the most part unknowable.

As with all of his feelings it was easy to be deluded and assume a pleasant relaxed feeling, such was his nature. He held back from any curiosity to examine his position critically just in case his feelings of satisfaction were based on false and illusory premises. The night train might have an unexpected stop or sidetrack.

He could not prevent his thoughts straying back across the still lagoon of his subconscious to a simple phrase that seemed of late to surface regularly and ripple out to disturb his modest and tenuous equilibrium. The phrase was as simple as it was profound, 'many men die with their music still inside of them'. Where had that come from? How was it that it did not remain in the depths of his subconscious but kept surfacing like a lifebuoy of hope? He might never know the answers to these questions but what was important was that this new position might allow him to tap into that music and explore the highs and lows of the rhythms of his existence which, up until this time had been a little predictable.

'Senior Commonwealth Government Inspector for Condom Manufacturers'

His title sounded grand and impressive until you got to 'Condom' and this added a slightly sleazy but exciting facet to his hidden (confidential-in-confidence don't you know) daily activities. For him it was a good party topic and he had great delight in starting conversations with a complete stranger.

They would in a nonchalant manner common for the casual social-interaction in the mode of I need to say something here or look a complete dolt would ask, 'What do you do?' The innocent query would allow him to expand on his daily activities and in his mind 'talk dirt' in an innocent manner to complete strangers without feeling embarrassed. If he chose his words correctly and introduced elements that would sustain interest and curiosity he might retain the centre of attention for a short time. Otherwise he was a shy and retiring character.

Somehow this satisfied a desire to be different that had been with him since his mother first said directly and authoritively to him 'don't get too confident'. What was her motive for saying that? Perhaps to avoid attention to herself if I did something outrageous? He pondered his own question and answered with a tick. He agreed with his logic for the reason for the inconsequential banter of his earlier life. He physically acknowledged this simple transaction of logic with a slow nod of his head and a shallow smile.

His trivial introspection was suddenly interrupted by the Chief Inspector with a message.

'G'day'. This was the only pleasantry the Chief inspector allowed himself as he hung on the door jamb with one hand implying that he was in a rush, and his grasp kept him from being dragged by hostile bureaucratic winds further down the cube corridor to an entirely different destination.

'How's it going?' Derek queried expecting that there maybe a chance for a more social chat before the conversation descended into business matters.

'Good.' He blurted with out any emotion or thought for the real meaning of his response. 'Look there's a batch of condoms that needs to be sampled, can you grab Nathan and a Commonwealth car and arrange to take the sample, please?'

'Sure' Derek responded without a great deal of thought to the matter.

It seemed, for the messenger, that it was just a normal request, routine. Derek was not so familiar with his new position, even though it was unofficial, so the request for him was anything but normal.

'This company has condoms with pinholes above the acceptable limit and we have agreed with them to resample and retest.' The chief inspector added to his request.

He was a man of uncommon fine features with greying hair that everybody guessed he tinted to retain his 'youthful' looks. Dark, unruly eyebrows offset his fine coiffure. He always wore a neat plain tie and a dark suit. He was, because of his position as Chief, given to moments of serious reflections and many hours of contemplation alone in his office. The responsibility and authority of his position weighed heavy on his demeanour and his conversation, which was invariably sparse and always business like.

'Pinholes above the acceptable limit! How could there be an acceptable limit for pinholes if they were expected to protect against pregnancy and sexually transmitted diseases?' Derek mused to himself.

Dear Reader  
I need to make here a short note [a detour] from these stories to provide a brief history of condom use and related standards, particularly in Australia. In the late 80s when all this took place, condoms had assumed a major importance in the fight against the new disease HIV/AIDS. It was not until a large number of cases were reported in Sydney that it was realised that many carriers from the USA took their winter holidays in Sydney. The standard for condoms had not anticipated that the use of these devices would be a main strategy in a major Public health initiative to curb the spread of the disease. So pinholes were tolerated to a certain level as part of the standard. Not wishing to bore you dear reader with details of the statistical sampling and evaluation process let me say that a sample of 315 condoms would be taken and tested for pinholes. If 7 or less condoms with pinholes were found the batch could be accepted. If 8 or more condoms with pinholes were found the batch was rejected. This was designated by the standard as an Acceptable Quality Level.

'Where would I be able to find 315 condoms from the one batch in a place like Canberra?' Derek's cogitation was interrupted by Nathan at the door to his office.

'Are you ready to get these condoms?' He queried with a slight edge of excitement on his words.

'Yes, but where?'

'I've been talking to the company involved and they have advised that there's a sex shop in a local suburb that should have the batch.' Nathan quickly responded. He was obviously looking forward to the opportunity to get out of his cube and escape from the office for a while. And his eagerness was evident in his tone, which was accompanied by a simple agitated dance of anticipation as he moved backwards and forwards in front of Derek's desk.

'Will they have 315?' Derek queried quite innocently but with an air of acquired knowledge indicating in a simple manner to Nathan his understanding of the requirements of the standard.

'Buggered if I know! We can only go and see can't we?' he said impatiently.

'We'll need a Z car if we are going officially,' he noted.

Dear Reader: a Z car is an official Australian government vehicle used by PS officers [and politicians] on official government business. Z cars are easily identified as the license plate for each vehicle starts with a large 'Z' in bright red

It took a little while for a Z car to be organised. Derek skilfully delegated this task to Nathan who was more than happy to oblige, as this was just one more step for him towards an escape from his mundane cube life. Derek assembled all the necessary paperwork and his official delegation card that identified him as an Australian Government office for the Australian Department of Health.

There was little conversation in the car as the two of them proceeded to the sex shop. It was only a short drive as most destinations in Canberra are. The Z car was a large six-cylinder white Ford sedan and it seemed a little over the top to transport 315 condoms from the shop to the testing laboratory. There was nowhere else to park but in front of the sex establishment.

Nathan had to fill in the travel log for the car. When he was finished they both alighted from the vehicle and proceeded to the front door of the establishment.

'God the media would have a field day if they caught this, a government car outside a sex shop,' Derek casually observed in an oblique manner as he got out of the car with his paperwork.

'Yeah it would certainly put the cat amongst the pigeons if we were not on official business,' Nathan rejoined in what was now obviously a highly excited mood.

Derek could not fully understand the excitement that had been developing in Nathan's behaviour and manner. It could not be explained solely as a response to the escape from cube prison. There was something additional that built this level of anticipation and excitement in Nathan but this was not obvious to Derek nor had a clue been evident during there brief day-to-day conversation in the car.

Nathan was a life member of the public service. He had joined straight from school and had worked his way through the ranks at a slow pace in accord with his limited ambitions and abilities to a level of some serious responsibility as the Commonwealth Government Recall Co-ordinator.

He had reached this dizzy height of authority as a person anticipating his retirement in a short time. The longevity of his career path and idle ambitions had meant he brought to his day-to-day duties a forced level of maturity and wisdom. His curly grey hair was thick and distinctive as it ringed his forehead and framed a face with deep lines from the experiences and torments paid out by the vagaries of a hard and earnest life. A casual observer would say his 63 years were out of step with the drawn, ruddy face and stooped frame.

Nonetheless his smile and the associated lines creased his face more often than those dour lines associated with his periods of despondency and mild regrets. He was portly, but not disgustingly so, and walked with a slight limp indicative of some joint giving into to years of use. In the office he wore a small hearing device, which consisted of an earplug that was always firmly ensconced in his left ear with a wire lead to a small device in his sports jacket top pocket. He was always neat in his appearance in an old worldly sense, always with a tie and a smart plaid sports coat, this was his work uniform and it did not change in all the years that Derek had worked in the cube office.

Nathan was able to get excited about issues related to work, particularly where public health issues were concerned and also where remuneration was under consideration. It was apparent to Derek that Nathan was a highly principled and diligent worker and quite rightly a little proud of his role in the broad scheme of public service activities. Nathan was socially shy and was known not to mix with people easily but he was a good conversationalist when the wheels of his mind were lubricated with a nice red.

On entering the establishment it was apparent that Nathan's mood suddenly changed. He became very quiet and Derek could not be sure but it appeared that he lost all powers of concentration on the job at hand. This was easily confirmed when Derek asked Nathan, 'Have you got any additional details concerning the specific batch we are after other than what you have given me?' Derek knew that this sounded like a stupid question but had learnt from past experiences that some PS officers were notorious in holding back information that might be used to inflate their own importance or information that was not easy for them to ascertain how crucial it might be.

'No, Derek, you've got it all.' Nathan muttered and then added a little more authoritatively but still with a disinterested manner, 'It's fairly simple really. The company appears to have a crook batch of condoms and our senior people have agreed to a re-sampling and retest.' It was the response that Derek wanted but he was a little unsettled by the manner in which it was given. Nathan's jaw dropped slightly but perceptively as his eyes wandered around the shop. His response was spoken into the vacant area of the shop; there was no recognition of the presence of Derek or eye contact with Derek. He appeared mesmerised by the weird, the colourful and blatant paraphernalia that hung from every shelf in the place.

As the pair entered the building they passed a large warning sign indicating that they should be over 18 years of age and that material inside was of an 'adult nature'. Inside the shop they stood at the short end of an 'L' shaped counter. The shop assistant behind the counter was sitting on a stool watching an adult video on a video screen set up below the counter. This screen was clearly visible to both Derek and Nathan.

The shop was dimly lit and even though it was midday the windows were blacked out to prevent light in and any under age passer-by perusing the merchandise without entering the building. A stale plastic smell permeated the interior; this mixed with obscene, flowery fragrances of doubtful sensual nature. This odour was challenged and defeated by the take away food in the plastic dish that the shop assistant behind the counter was devouring. 'Garlic and lemon chicken,' Derek thought to himself as his taste buds salivated in a natural (for him) reflex action. Derek loved exotic food. Food that was different.

The shop assistant was a short, solid frame. A young person about 25 years of age, with long unkempt bleached hair. His face was extremely young, slightly pallid in colour and badly marked with acne scars. He wore a simple T-shirt with an elaborate picture of the famous Led Zeppelin album cover with the sinking, burning zeppelin across his chest, within the context of all the sexual material and products the sinking, flaming zeppelin had a slightly erotic suggestion to it. A black belt with a large silver buckle supported his blue denim jeans. The jeans were set off with a worn pair of volley sandshoes with pink laces. His right forearm carried a simple but large tattoo.

'What can I do for you today?' he addressed, Nathan as though he was a regular. Nathan remained in his mesmerised state and did not appear to hear the question or for that matter notice the shop assistant. His eyes had moved to the video and were immediately transfixed on the film being displayed.

'We are here from the Commonwealth Government to requisition some condoms.' Derek addressed the assistant using a very official tone. The assistant redirected his attention toward Derek, as it was also obvious to him that Nathan was not about to participate in any conversation.

'Sure, we have all varieties here I can assure you.' The assistant chimed in a false voice of politeness as he started a simple sales pitch at Derek, obviously not realising or ignoring what 'requisition' meant or the importance of the Commonwealth Government when it came to condoms.

'I need 315 condoms of this particular batch.' Derek showed the assistant a piece a paper with the batch number of the suspect batch.

'Well I don't know about this. I think ya might have ta speak to the manager. Could ya wait a mo'?' Derek was amazed that the assistant's language and politeness declined immediately when he realised there would be no real sale. Derek agreed that getting the manager would be a good idea as this would be a transaction that required the signature and approval of a senior manager and that he was prepared to 'wait a mo'.

The assistant disappeared quickly through a black curtain hanging from a door opening immediately opposite the video player to a section at the rear of the premises. He returned with a man in a dark suit coat, open neck shirt and pale blue crimplene trousers.

The man who identified himself as the manager was slight in build, brown nicotine stains were noticeable on the right corner of his lips and his eyes lids were scrunched as two slits as though they had been looking through a smoke haze all his life which was probably true as he appeared to be a heavy smoker. He was of a dark complexion and had a distinctive nose that curled upwards away from his thin red upper lip. His hair was black, glossy with Brylcreem and curly.

'My assistant has indicated that you have a special request concerning condoms, is that right?' he queried with a squint of his left eye. The stub of a half consumed cigarette hung on the precipice of his lower lip but failed to dislodge despite him giving voice to the question.

'Yes, we need 315 condoms of this batch,' Derek announced in an official tone as he passed the piece of paper with the batch number across the counter to the manager.

'Y're not a rugby league team tour manager are you?' the manager jokingly responded. 'You certainly would have a great weekend with that many,' he added light heartedly, trying to keep a smile from his face at his own jocularity. 'Of course you'd have to find the sheilas!' he added with a slightly perverse chuckle.

Derek ignored the comments and the attempt at humour and continued with his official line. 'There is a problem with a particular batch of condoms. My colleague and I are from the Commonwealth Government department that controls and regulates condoms.' As Derek started his spiel he glanced across at Nathan to elicit from him some nodding agreement with his opening statement. But Nathan was not tuned into the happenings in his immediate surroundings as his attention was transfixed on the antics and exhibitions of the video showing behind the front desk.

The side of the assistant's pock marked face appeared from behind the manager's legs as he sat down opposite the video and leaned forward to continue watching. He and Nathan were totally engrossed at the action on screen.

Derek could not allow himself to be distracted so continued with his explanation of the official sampling process that was to follow. The manger took it all in and then responded. 'I'll need to look at our stock,' the manager suggested as he left the counter quickly acting on his own suggestion and initiative and disappeared behind the black curtain.

He returned after a short time to the three occupants of the shop. Two occupants engrossed in one of the business's most popular products and Derek who was allowing his lame curiosity to let his eyes innocently and without an obvious interest review the products on the shelves with a false air of nonchalance. This charade was abruptly interrupted by the return of the manager.

'We do have that batch and fortunately for you we have approximately 550 in stock. So how does it work from here, you know, with respect to payment?' he queried with a strong indication in his language and his agitated mannerism that he was concerned that the business may not get paid for the condoms, as this was something 'official'.

'Good,' said Derek. 'Don't worry about payment. I will take the condoms and provide you with an official written order that covers the costs. You just need to send an invoice for the amount to the address at the top of the order form and you will be paid in due course,' Derek recited as if from a standard text from the training manual for inspectors. _In due course, could be six months away if past experience is any guide_ , __ he thought to himself.

The 315 condoms were retrieved from the back of the shop and placed on the counter in front of Nathan. He checked the batch number. The condoms blocked part of Nathan's view of the video screen so he shuffled sideways two short steps to regain his view. It was apparent that Nathan was oblivious to the official proceedings in process. So Derek found himself counting, wrapping and sealing the condoms to complete the official sampling procedure.

Derek thanked the manager and proceeded to turn for the door. Nathan remained motionless. Derek, a little embarrassed, gave a sheepish smile in the direction of the manager and gently but firmly took Nathan's forearm and pulled him toward the door of the building.

As they exited the shop the bright sunlight momentarily stunned them both and Nathan seemed to wake as if from a dream.

Back in the car, Nathan, in the passenger's seat, was sitting bolt upright looking straight ahead unable or unwilling to make eye contact with Derek. Nathan's excitement that had preceded the visit was, it appeared, built on an apprehension of what might transpire and it had dissipated and had been replaced by a euphoria of the experience of territories new and unexplored.

After a minute or two of driving, Nathan, with a smile that with little effort could have transgressed in to a leer exclaimed, 'That fellow was built like a donkey! I have never seen anything like that, ever!' And his smile became a laugh that invited Derek to share its charm of innocent merriment. Derek accepted the invite and laughed along with Nathan.

A true life story from way back in Paul's past. The piece takes place at the beginning of Australia's fight against HIV and AIDS where condoms and syringes and their quality was very important.
Monday 27 January 2014

Reflections

JH Mancy

Tallebudgera, QLD

There's a clean patch on the wall where last year's calendar used to be--

And space in my heart that's filled with remembrance of you and me.

The old year has wearily run its course, events tremendous or sublime--

The world stood still and held its breath or often just marked time.

What of those firework displays to welcome the new year in--

Could the money be better spent helping those less fortunate win...

Garish displays and celebrations may help us forget for a day,

The terrors that immobilised (glad we were not caught in the fray).

It is my great hope as the world plays out acts cruel and obscene--

That we hold tight to the dream held dear of a totally different scene.

Somehow let us claw our way, determined through blood and mire--

If we are pure of heart, we can make a start to set our dreams on fire!

I often think as I reminisce, of deeds undone and all the wasted years--

Words spoken in haste, without thought, words that have caused tears.

They can be used as weapons and inflict pain enough to make us reel--

They're a two edged sword if uttered by a fool, but have power to heal.

Farewell old year, and thanks for lessons learned, some still unclear--

Memories of you remain, your many ups and downs all that I hold dear.

Welcome year that is new, with dreams undreamed and promises unmet.

May we come to an understanding, and we will prove the best one yet!
Tuesday 28 January 2014

Changes

David Anderson

Woodford, NSW

Changes come and changes go

Stand and fight it--or go with the flow

When changes come--take the good with the bad

These changes may free you from the sorrow you had

If the lover you've lost won't fade from your mind

It may strangle your spirit or send you blind

Blind to the soul mate who may pass you by

'Cause your thinking of old love--that you should have let die

Changes--welcome as summer rain

Go so swiftly--but will they come again?

Step back--consider your goals

These changes may free your tortured soul

Don't waste time--living a lie--truth will catch up

Keep you wondering why

All those choices--that you made in your life

Some have charmed you--or have cut like a knife

Though you're weary--right down to the bone

There's a power within you and you're not alone

It warms your heart--re-kindles the flame

Feel the spirit revive you--then re-join the game.
Wednesday 29 January 2014

White Light

Judy J Newman

Rutherford, NSW

Drowsy eyes, slowly waking, dreams fading into mist

A new world awaiting the magic touch of wonder

Memories of laughter, warmth, of when they first kissed

Winters embrace, as they shared a blanket, tucked under

Now at eighty, they still play like children, their minds are young, their bodies old

Hand in hand, they walk along the beach, as they did so long ago

So many years, seem just like yesterday, so many stories to be told

Their children grown, and grandchildren too, their love is the greatest thing they know

Night draws closer, and soon, they will see the white light

They reminisce about good times and bad

They hold each other, for one last time, and they sleep into the night

Morning brings the warmth of the sun, and smiles on the life they've had

They spent their lives in love, and that love always shone

No matter what life brought, they stood together

Though they now are no longer, they're never really gone

For the love they shared with each other, is a love that lasts forever

Fini
Thursday 30 January 2014

Oh, You Young And Beautiful

Ruth Withers

Uarbry, NSW

Oh, you young and foolish, who see in black and white,

Who sit and judge your mothers from lofty, youthful height;

You heartless and self righteous, you selfish and naive,

Who cannot see the shades of grey and so will not believe.

Oh you, who know so little; who play at being grown.

You wouldn't want to be so if the truth were only known.

Adulthood is loneliness and fear and deep regret

And loss of hope and failure and trying to forget.

He knows the most who only knows how much he has to learn;

And you, who think you know so much are coming to your turn

Of crying over bad decisions, losing endless sleep,

Of drowning, slowly, in the well of life, so dark and deep.

Oh, you young and beautiful; you golden, bright and new,

Like gaily dancing butterflies and early morning dew;

You sunshine on a mother's face; you daggers in her heart;

You wretched, lovely, soulless things; how far we've grown apart.
Friday 31 January 2014

Who And Why

Sunrise

Peel, NSW

Whatever was he thinking competition entry

It is rude to stare! My mind knew this but my eyeballs refused to listen or obey. They were drawn to this individual like metal shavings to a magnet. Never before had I encountered another of his kind. Yes! I had seen vagrants and homeless ones before but this man was so different from those I had seen, and, never before had I had the opportunity to observe closely and for such a time as the train took to convey him to the station where he would chose to alight.

He was not young. Of that I could be certain with his white hair and clean shaven wrinkles; but those wrinkles did not convey a man who was dissatisfied with life. So many men his age display the droop at either end of their mouths to indicate some general unhappiness and general resentment for what life has dealt them, combined with regrets for what they have failed to do. This man had no indications that life had been anything but satisfactory at the very least. Yet he had none of the accoutrements that indicate wealth.

He was wearing a very ornate green jumper that would be more aligned to the clothing of a woman and suggested that it originated, for him, from a charitable organisation. His trousers were a little large and probably made to appear more so because of his seemingly small stature. A pair of black runners cared for his feet. He looked perfectly comfortable and at home in his clothes even though they did not conform to the type of apparel normally worn by men his age.

His belongings lay in a plastic bag which boasted its origins in big print as from a high class boutique. Before the train had progressed far he dragged a pear from a paper bag ensconced in that chic repository. He set about to demolish this piece of fruit entirely. No core nor skin was wasted. This downed, a sandwich followed the same route and the paper bag was folded and returned to keep the rest of his belongings company and still my rude eyes refused to return to their rightful and proper viewing.

The train had left the city limits and was assuming a lulling motion. Gradually he grew sleepy and as he did so he assumed a foetal position, giving the appearance of someone who feared imminent attack from an assailant and yet he also exhibited the innocence of a child who could rely on a mother's care. His sleeping permitted me to bring my recalcitrant eyes under control with only furtive glances in his direction.

The sleep must have been comforting because he awoke singing quietly to himself. Although I strained to hear the song, it was too softly sung. After some minutes he politely enquired of the time from a fellow passenger sitting opposite him and thanked him when he replied. Again my eyes stubbornly rejected my control and were riveted to his whole being.

Whatever was I thinking? Whatever was he thinking? Who was he? Why was he like he was? Where was he from? Surely not our city. He was too polite. What was his story? How I would have loved to ask him but that would have been too presumptuous and a departure from 'acceptable behaviour'. Besides, he was now collecting together his belongings in preparation for his exit at the next stop. My gaze was drawn down the carriage as he walked to the door. Then my eyes sought him out as he walked steadily along the platform while the train drew away.

He and those questions lingered in my head for the rest of the journey and I feared they would haunt me and probably remain, forever, unanswered. Even the question, 'Why do I care?'
Saturday 1 and Sunday 2 February 2014

Carriers

Craig Stanton

Wentworth Falls, NSW

Whatever was he thinking competition entry

' ... was there not in the nature of things some venom which nourished while it tormented, so that the very air he breathed did but enable him to endure for a longer time the spiritual malevolence of the world?'

-Charles Williams, War in Heaven

This is no slave-ship, no mean trader's barge. This is the barque of a king.

By no means is this a royal craft. My ship, the _Amphitrite_ , is humble, sturdy, marked by a dozen seasons of voyaging along these coasts. She has surged forth every year with cargo, and returned with a bellyful of gold.

That gold has purchased me a house in the high parts of Caffa, far from the squalid docks, has secured for me my loving wife Marina and our golden child, Sofia. She is surely no vessel for transporting nobility; but if her homely planks and rigging suit his mighty purpose, who am I to deny him?

When we left Caffa all those days ago, little did we understand he had condescended to accompany us. His entourage had taken the city as we waved it farewell. How he had come aboard our ship, I couldn't say; little by little we discerned his majesty amongst us and we began to enter his presence.

Before he revealed himself, we had enjoyed a time of relief. Our joy was tempered with uncertainty--not knowing what lay before us--but also with memories of the horror which we had fled, and the knowledge that, as we placed another league in our wake, we had escaped a fate which Destiny had conspired to make our own.

Our belief that we had won free made the sudden knowing that we had not that much crueller.

My first mate coughs wetly over the starboard rail; the prayers of Aurelio have finally stopped; I have had no words of reassurance from the aft cabin for days now. I throw a stick of cinnamon into the brazier that glows beside me: sweet smoke billows into the air.

The sun is descending and I grip the polished wood of the wheel. The night breeze is freshening from the west and will make progress difficult. Before us the horizon blazes red-gold as the sky above turns deeper blue; behind us, Caffa, and all its dreams, has fallen into the black.

West: It seems that is where our noble passenger wishes to go. He has not spoken of it, but there is a logic to it; a sense of correctness, perfect as any mathematical dogma: the radiant land beyond that line of sky must surely be the land of a king. This king.

King Death.

It was said you could smell them coming.

In our first encounters with them, word came from refugees, reports from traders working the eastern reaches of the coast. A horde of warriors was approaching from the world's edge, burning all before them.

At Ryazan on the Russian hinterlands, a witch had approached the city and had cried out in a broken tongue 'one tenth of everything! One tenth!' before scurrying to safety. None of the city council had taken her seriously: what force of men had the power to demand one-tenth of a city's wealth? Days passed, the incident was forgotten.

Then the Horde came.

True to their implicit threat, they drove at the city walls like a wave; they washed the populace in its own blood and left behind nothing but a stain and the rattling of skulls as the horses' hooves kicked them aside...

Marina smelt them before I did. My days were spent in my warehouse near the docks: in the streets, butchers killed livestock, the guts washing down the cobbles to the waterfront, food for gulls and skulking rats. Tanners swilled their steaming pools of effluent, a hell-broth which cured their hides and fouled the air.

The stench of fish, excrement and the leavings of markets spoiled the world here; I was inured to it. But, after climbing to the city heights where the air was sweeter, I was greeted at my threshold by my wife's complaint: _'Borelis, what is that stench?_ '

My nose was immune. Marina opened vials of perfumed oil: doctors had told her that miasmas crawled from the sea, vapours which carried sickness with them. We argued: she said that I was trailing home disaster from work and that I should stay away, let others carry on my duties for awhile; I chided her for worrying about nothing, for being foolish. There were tears; Sofia cried; I promised to pass by the bath-house on my homeward march.

But others had caught the scent too.

One afternoon, a small boat struggled into the wharf, two people inside--a man and woman--seeking help. A fishmonger helped them ashore, pulled them with bloodied hands onto the harbourside street; an opportunistic whore snatched away a sodden purse from the woman and beat her way out of the gathering crowd, slapping the hands and faces of those who would stop her. From blood-flecked lips, the man coughed out his fateful words:

'The Horde is coming!'

Panic fired the city. The Council was convened: word was sent to their superiors at Genoa; to the town of Vosporo in the east, Soldaia in the west. Patrols were organised, defences manned.

The Proconsul decided that a parley should be enacted when representatives of the Horde appeared: these were poor times, he would say; years of bad weather and poor harvests had driven prices up; trade was not as profitable as it was a decade ago; surely the Great Khan would not see Caffa as a prize worth his while?

The Khans, after their initial bloodthirstiness, had become good landlords and the Genoese, good tenants. Despite these plans, people began to pray; those with wealth hid it beneath floorboards, or deep in wells. I had a load of wool and a shipment of spices: with one ear in the direction of the Proconsul's chambers, I urged my workers on to greater efforts, loading the Amphitrite to her limit.

People began drifting into the city from the landward side: stories of horsemen spread through the streets. Troops from Soldaia arrived to strengthen our walls; of Vosporo we heard nothing. The approaching stench increased--I could smell it now--accompanied by the sound of trees falling in the eastern forests. Ambassadors were sent to parley, but if terms were discussed, we would never know.

Next morning drums and cries rang out; horses whinnied in the distance and the rumbling of wooden wheels was heard. Before we fully awoke, a hail of bodies crashed into the streets: the citizens of Vosporo had come to Caffa. I gathered my family and raced through the streets to the wharves.

About us, heads ricocheted off roofs, sending fractured tiles spinning in a red rain; pieces of torsos and severed limbs crunched onto the cobbles, yawned wide their wounds. As we reached the docks, the streets came alive with fighting dogs and we were slipping over the squirming bodies of rats, fighting for the morsels the Horde had sent.

I pushed my family on board, gave the command to leave. As I cut the tether with my knife, I stared into the eyes of the fishmonger, pleading to come with us: he staggered, his face pallid, and fell, vomiting blood onto the street. I sheathed my guilt as well as my dagger and turned my back on my home.

The King is kingly indeed.

His raiment is made of the ragged leather of corpses, glittering with the sheen of worms. About his neck is a chain of office, a twining serpent of steely scales, twisting its venomous hiss. In one hand, his sceptre--the mummified forearm of a saint; in the other, his orb--a clod of earth. On his head rests a heavy crown as dark and black as himself, its points the fingers of dead men. Not that I can see him of course; but I imagine him so.

We were not the only vessel to flee the attack: others had made similar plans and embarked at the first sign of trouble. We straggled along the coast, calling out to each other, swapping tales and opinions. In the beginning we cheered each other as cunning strategists and thought our small flotilla blessed; it soon became clear that we were merely a cortege for the King.

The second day out from Caffa, a body was seen being pushed over the gunwale of a Greek merchant's boat. Word of the incident passed around until finally a halt was called. Accusations flew; a delegation boarded the Greek's craft.

It was discovered that sickness had claimed his boat. Immediately, she was cut loose, her rudder broken, left behind in our wake. The Greek cried out to us for help, declaring things weren't as bad as they seemed, that matters had been resolved. From then on, we captains eyed each other warily, putting slightly more distance between our craft.

In the days that followed, we passed the towns of Soldaia and Lusta, pausing only to collect water and to pass on our grim tale of Caffa's fate. At Lusta, one of my crewmen, Marco, begged leave to stay behind: he had family there and wished to help them if the Horde moved against the port. We haggled over his contract and, in the end, his position was taken by the eager young Aurelio, keen to learn the trader's craft.

At the approach to Caulita, there was a crisis. Mauro, a big Genoese captain, pulled his ships away from our fleet: at the very edge of calling, he explained that many of his crew were touched by sickness. Black marks, he said, under the arms or between the legs: these were signs of the illness and we should examine our own men.

Accordingly, I made my crew stand naked on the deck while they were checked: two of them, Gamba and Philo, had marks, swellings in their armpits and groins like black, angry boils.

Other vessels had these signs--the marks of the King's favour--and the bearers were herded to the bows to await a decision.

In the end we forced them overboard; made them swim to Mauro's ships. He and his crews objected and there was a bitter fight by those in the water to gain access to the craft. We never knew how it ended: we had sailed on.

From then on I kept Marina and Sofia in the aft cabin of the Amphitrite. I made sure that no-one but myself had access: I set up a brazier there and broke into the stores of spice onboard, burning handfuls of aromatic pods to make sure that they were free of any miasma. Several times a day I would knock upon the door to receive Marina's reassuring words that they were well.

As night fell, a day past Caulita, we made for the port of Cembalo. The heat of the sun was fading at last and I yearned for to a night onshore. Suddenly, a cry echoed off the cliffs; a flare of fire billowed out above the headlands; the ship leading our little fleet burst into a splintering mess. Her freed sail flapped then spread across the water.

We stared as the ship heeled to port, rolled under the waves. A second cry from the harbour entrance was followed by more fire, a gout of steaming water sprayed over us and, panicking, we turned our bows to the west, away from Cembalo.

Outside of catapult range, we gathered, calling our bewilderment to each other across the water; positing explanations, seeking answers. Had the Horde made it this far down the coast? Was there sickness that they sought to keep us away from?

I sat against the railing, pondering our options, when Fidelmo, my first mate, opened his mouth to speak:

'It's us,' he said softly. 'They are afraid of us.'

I looked up at him. Under the falling sky, it seemed that his flesh had a translucent quality, like the surface of a bottle holding dark wine; the growing starlight traced the lineaments of a skull. I knew then that it was not Fidelmo who spoke: a greater agency had touched his flesh and used it as its own.

King Death had spoken at last.

Fidelmo. Glaucus. Simon. Aurelio, the novice. These were the remnants of my crew. The _Amphitrite_ could sail with only three men. Fewer than that, things would become difficult.

Out in the open waters of a hazy morning, we encountered the Ophis, trading ship of Stefano of Padua. Hailing us, he lowered a small boat and rowed out towards us to parley; I told the crew to heave to, then dove overboard to swim out and meet with him.

Stefano was my senior by a decade--close-cropped grey hair, grey eyes nestled in weather-thickened brown skin. As I hauled myself into the dinghy, he lit up his ever-present pipe. 'How is it with you, Borelis?' he asked.

I told him of our plight. He nodded. I looked over the _Ophis_ nearby. Not seeing Stefano's first mate I asked, 'Where is Angelo?'

He drew his thumb across his throat and ratcheted a croak around his pipestem. I was unsure whether this meant he'd died of the illness, or if he'd been killed at the first sign of it.

'You know Ruggiero?' Stefano puffed smoke, eyeing the _Amphitrite_ to one side. I nodded.

'He set course to Kalamita. He was in a bad way and thought they might take pity on him there. You know how the harbour at Kalamita is guarded by those high cliffs?' I nodded again.

'They threw flaming oil down onto his ship. Burnt him to the waterline.'

'Good God!' I exclaimed. 'That's insane! Whatever were they thinking?'

'Whatever was _he_ thinking, after our reception at Cembalo?' Stefano snorted and tapped his pipe on the oarlock.

'We have to get ahead of this,' he went on, 'get further in front of the rumours and the talk. If we ever want to make landfall again. What's your plan?'

'I was thinking Tomis,' I said slowly. 'It's big enough for the _Amphitrite_ , but not a big port of call. They might not have heard anything yet... '

Stefano was shaking his head. 'You go to that backwater,' he said, 'you'll stand out like an emerald in a sack of walnuts. They'll ask questions and they'll _want_ answers. Before you know it, you'll end up like Ruggiero. You need to go somewhere where they'll not look twice.' He sat up straighter, tucked his pipe into his belt.

'I'm going to Constantinople,' he said. 'They'll let us pass without a glance. Once we're through the heads, we'll be in open waters on our way back to Genoa. They'll have answers for us there.'

'Are you sure?' I asked. A bell started ringing onboard the Ophis.

'Of course I'm sure.' Stefano craned his neck towards his ship: men were pointing eastwards, calling.

'There's nothing the Horde can do that the Genoese Council can't undo. What's that?' He twisted around, shading his eyes.

The sky above us was pale blue, fading down to white at the water's surface, where the morning haze had settled. Our two vessels stood out mistily but a shadow had formed in their lee, growing ever darker. It was another ship, on course to pass between the _Ophis_ and the _Amphitrite_ , bearing down upon our rowboat.

'Damn! Row!' spat Stefano. I moved beside him and dropped the oar into its lock. The Ophis being nearer, we pulled towards her as the shadow coalesced into the familiar lines of a ship. As we moved clear, we stopped, watching as she slid past.

Her pace was leisurely: there wasn't much wind, but she had enough sail running to make good use of what little there was. She passed close enough to us that I could touch her hull as she moved by.

' _Jesu Christi_ ,' breathed Stefano, pointing to the railing running her length.

A man hung over her side, his head lolling as she moved, arm trailing down her flank. Rats scurried about the rigging and a fire had burnt itself out on the foredeck. High aloft, a man's legs hung over the edge of the crow's nest; around him flapped and shivered silver wings, hard at work. Finally, the wheelhouse hove into view.

A man was tied to the wheel; his knees had collapsed and he had slumped downwards, back arching, his head thrown backwards. His mouth gaped open in what was left of his face, a silent despairing scream rising to heaven. A seagull stood on his forehead and deftly picked his teeth. Then the ship was past us, driving into the haze once more.

Stefano pulled the oar from my hands.

'Go to Tomis if you think it's a good idea,' he said. 'Now we both have to move faster than that ship: wherever she comes to ground, word will get out. I'm for Constantinople.' He held out his hand; I grasped it.

'It's your ship and your cargo. I can't tell you what to do. But do you really think you'll be safe?'

For a moment, the light caught his eyes and teeth, making them shine flat and hard in his face. I knew for that moment that it wasn't Stefano speaking. I rolled over the gunwale, slipped into the water. Stefano watched as I took my first stroke back towards my ship.

'Borelis,' he called, 'is there anything else you need to tell me?' I looked at **** him, then shook my head and kept swimming.

There seemed little reason to tell him that King Death had visited me in the night and had left his mark.

I swung in a net beneath the bowsprit. Under me, foam-capped water raced; below that, I could see drowned sailors gaping their anger. I knew they weren't really there: it was the fever showing me the retinue of the King.

I rolled over, groaning, facing the sky. If anything that was worse, but the pain in my body would not let me rest: the wet ropes bracing my skin, the buffets of the waves juddering through the frame of the _Amphitrite_ , echoed a thousand-fold in my bones. With the sun burning down on me, I shivered as if the heat of the world had evaporated.

Fidelmo called to me: ' _Borelis? What news_?' That mocking voice which I knew was not that of my first mate, but rather of the thing that travelled with us.

'I still live, Majesty!' I called back; 'you haven't won me yet!'

By way of answer he seemed to laugh; his voice was a tangle of squalling seabirds.

I rolled to one side, staring at the horizon, that line dividing the known from mystery. My shoulders ached, my legs felt dead. Cold spray splashed over me sluicing me down after the endless vomiting. My guts spasmed hard, like twisting coils of wet leather.

When the fit passed, I relaxed. But my upper arm pressed down upon the boil on my side: shrill-pitched pain shot through me. I lifted my arm, gripped the bowsprit above, and stared at the angry, black lump in my armpit: a ring of pink skin bloomed around it from which it stood proud, like a hot ball of glass embedded in my flesh. It felt tight, full of heat and pressure: the slightest contact with it caused me to shout. Exposed like this, even the movement of air over it made my body sing with thin pain.

I gritted my teeth and stared ahead along the spar of wood above me: when the fever had first hit, I told Fidelmo to leave me out here. If I lived, so be it; if I died, they could just cut free the net and let me fall to the waves below. Glaucus and Aurelio had muttered with him and I didn't need to hear them to know what they were discussing-- _he has the sickness; just kill him and be done._

I told Fidelmo to look after my women. He nodded, not meeting my eyes.

As I clambered into the net, he passed me my knife. 'If it becomes too much,' he said, 'there is no shame.'

Thinking of the dagger, I pulled it from my belt. I regarded the blade, shining in the sunlight. I moved it close to my neck until I could feel it biting into my skin but hesitated before the final push: could I end my life in this way? I wanted nothing but oblivion. The pain was incredible; but was it unendurable? I thought of my women in the aft cabin: who would look after them if I died? Fidelmo? I thought of his hooded eyes: would he keep his word? Or would he sell them in the next slave market?

Anger coursed through me. I grabbed the bowsprit above me again and pulled myself up: the boil raged as I jerked my body around. Gritting my teeth, I plunged the tip of the knife into the black excrescence: I gasped as liquid pain bloomed within me. Sucking gulps of air, I pulled the knife back sharply. A rush of watery blood and black bile jetted out of my side, splattering over the net strands; sharp fire clenched in my side then spread to wash over me. I screamed at so much pain and poison.

The last thing I remembered was my blade falling through the skin of the sea and vanishing into the depths...

The sun was sinking when I regained the deck.

The stillness was absolute, broken only by the flapping of a torn sail tied to the mast. Around the ship, light sheened off the water, defining the vessel as a dark space within the brilliance. Unsecured ropes covered the decking; rats flitted through the mess, screeching at the limits of hearing. The deck's hatch had been left open: stiff in all my muscles, I inched across and stared downwards into the hold:

On the bales below, lay Simon and Glaucus, one spreadeagled, the other curled up. Initially, I thought Glaucus was still alive, his body moving in spasms; it was only rats at work that made it seem so. They scurried away from the corpses as my shadow swept across, revealing the extent of their ruination. Both men lay in the brown oil which their weight had pressed out of the wool. I saw ragged flesh, cracked bones... I turned, grasped the corner of a loose sail lying on the deck, and threw it over the hatch.

Pain had forsaken my limbs, leaving behind a grumbling unwillingness to work. My skin was sensitive to everything--the timber underfoot; the lilting breeze. I felt light, my head clear, as if my mind had forgotten how to toil and was learning the trick of it once more.

A racket of gulls from the stern caught my ear and I took slow steps towards it. With each pace, clouds of sea-lice shimmered across the deck, sparkling in the sunlight: as they parted before me, they revealed a small hatchet lying discarded. I slid it into my belt.

Determined that I should see who was piloting the _Amphitrite_ , I shuffled towards the stern, climbing the steps leading to the ship's wheel. I saw that it was lashed: a cold brazier stood nearby, holding charred spices; the pilot couldn't be seen.

I lurched forward, gripping the wheel, and leaned against it. When my head stopped swimming, I heard a groan: lying along the stern, in the shadow of the gunwale, was a man. He lay on his side, across a boathook which had served him as a crutch, his face against the wall of the ship. Two red-eyed gulls perched on him, stabbing idly with their beaks; a stain spread outwards around him.

I rushed over, pulling him onto his back, sending the gulls flying: it was Fidelmo. In the fading light of the sky, his face looked black: his eyes and teeth, exposed in a savage grimace, stood out starkly. The lower half of his face was matted with blood and bile; his breath reeked with a horrid foetor; at the side of his neck a massive boil had formed, shining in the dimming light. Recognition filled his eyes and a soft whimper emerged from his sticky mouth. His pecked fingers twitched.

Impulsively, I pulled the hatchet from my belt. I pushed Fidelmo's head to one side and ran the edge across the pustule below his jawline. A gout of stinking pus burst forth; Fidelmo grunted, staring, his rat-gnawed lips forming an 'O' of astonishment. Mercifully, he fainted; I stood up, away from the mess.

I leaned against the wheel, sucking in fresh air. The hatchet dropped from my fingers to clatter onto the deck as I gave in to a bout of shuddering. What now, I thought; what more could go wrong? I hung my head, considering my options.

On the edge of despair, I heard metal scraping on the deck. I looked up sharply:

A frightful figure stood there, weighing the hatchet in one hand, juggling it until it sat just right. His air was stiffened with blood and bile, the skin of his face and chest was patterned with salt and dark humours.

Like Fidelmo, his mouth was obscured with dried black effusions, against which his teeth stood out; above this mess, bright blue eyes blazed in fear and anger. He waved the hatchet experimentally, feeling its heft; from this motion I could see that he favoured one leg: the egg-sized pustule at the base of his abdomen showed itself as the cause.

'Aurelio ...' I began. The blade slashed the air between us.

'You knew!' he spat, viciously. 'You knew this ship was cursed! Yet you let me sign on without a care!'

'That's not true ...' I tried. Again the hatchet flashed. I stepped back, holding up my hands.

'Shut up!' he yelled. 'This is your fault: all of this; these deaths! I'll see you punished Borelis! I'll see justice!'

I circled away from the wheel, keeping distance between us. When I moved he turned with me, hobbling to keep directly in front. As he came alongside the wheel, he grabbed it gratefully, using it to keep himself upright.

'What do you mean, Aurelio? What 'justice'?'

He sneered. 'My father ...' he started, then coughed wetly. 'My father has influence on the city council. He will see me avenged; you will pay for your crime.'

'Your father?' I looked around suddenly; at the sky; out to the horizonless sea. 'Aurelio: where are we?'

He grinned. 'Heading back to Lusta. There lies your reward. If you make it that far.' He raised the hatchet and swung it at me.

I lurched out of range, my muscles objecting. Collapsing onto the deck I watched Aurelio raise his weapon, sunlight illuminating something unhinging in his eyes.

'Aurelio!' I cried. 'That's madness! If we return to Lusta, we'll doom everyone there!'

Light flared off the hatchet's bright edge.

' _Death_!' a voice hissed from Aurelio's throat; a voice I doubted was his.

There was a heavy knocking sound: The hatchet fell from Aurelio's hands to embed itself in the deck; his eyes rolled back and he collapsed suddenly, an inert pile of limbs. Standing over him, Fidelmo slumped against the wheel, allowing the boathook to clatter to the floor.

'Stupid boy,' he said, 'we should never have signed him on.'

We tied Aurelio to the foot of the mast; when he awoke he began praying pitifully, grating on my nerves; Fidelmo crawled amongst the canvas and passed out.

When the first stars of night shone, I gauged our position: all those days of travel and we were back where we started--west of Soldaia, with Lusta somewhere north on the coast. The western horizon blazed orange fading upwards through blue into black above: with sweet smoke from the brazier wreathing the pilot's station, I stretched my ears to catch the words of our stowaway.

I passed in and out of wakefulness. Scenes blended together in my mind's eye without logic: walking belowdecks through the sticky wool-grease seeping out of the bales into the planking; leaning against the gunwale, watching the blue-green water race by; standing in the bow, staring at the sky, realising that I had been shouting at nothing. I once awoke to find a rat chewing my hand...

It was evening, my head suddenly clear. The world around me sped silently, with the occasional splash of water, or flap of canvas. The horizon still beckoned, alight with pale, gold.

'Fidelmo?' I called out

_Dead_ , a creaking timber seemed to say.

'Aurelio?'

_Also dead_ ; it might have been the slap of a wave against the hull, but I wasn't convinced.

'Does your Majesty approve our course?'

_West is good_. I could feel him behind my shoulder, hear the tireless worms at work in his finery. I shuddered.

'Where does your Majesty wish to make landfall?'

I heard the click of pensive bony fingers, tapping on a fleshless chin. Tomis, I think.

'You heard what Stefano said... '

_It matters not; I have been to Constantinople before._

'Why should I take you there? How have the people of Tomis offended?'

_They have not offended me: theirs is a pleasant settlement; I go to bring them a gift. I felt the flicker of a serpent's tongue near my ear. As to why you should do me this service, what have you left to keep you here?_

'M-my family... '

_Yes. You went into their cabin, did you not, whilst in the grip of fever? But perhaps your memory has failed you --it sometimes happens. His bony feet rattled on the decking; I felt the heat of him like an ague along my back._

_The little one died first, despite her mother's care. She fought bravely, but it was too much pain for one so young. Too much, you understand? I released her with a kiss and her mother swaddled her in the bed linen as a shroud..._

'No!' I breathed, my knuckles whitening on the wheel.

_The woman was too scared to tell you of her failure. But what could she have done? Her sweet smokes couldn't keep me at bay. She fretted and worried and coughed; she didn't notice that my mark was already upon her._

'No!'

_We had a merry dance through the smoke, a sweet game in the spicy air. Finally, she fell against the brazier in a swoon; the fire was small and the smoke soon smothered it before it could spread. But it was enough. You remember now, of course?_

I leaned against the wheel, tears streaming. I blinked swollen eyes towards the glowing horizon, that distant kingdom, and, mutely, nodded. I coughed and blood spattered the woodwork.

_You impress me, Borelis. A shiver like a corpse's hand slid down my spine. You threw me off once, but I don't think you will keep me at bay for much longer. Long enough to make landfall at Tomis, though._

I raised my eyes to the darkening sky. Stars gleamed, distant and uncaring, brightening as the sun fled the heavens. Their patterns and arrangements coalesced, constant and guiding as they had been my whole life and during the lives of those before me. There was no comfort there to be found; no solace. But... there was direction.

Straightening, I spun the wheel to the right. The Amphitrite heeled over to starboard, complaint running the length of her keel. When she righted and fell to her new course, I could see the northern shoreline ahead of us.

_What are you thinking? Do you seek to wreck us, Borelis? That will serve you not at all. The people on the shore will find your broken ship; they will come onboard to salvage your cargo; then they will be mine..._

'That's no honourable plan for a ship's captain, your Majesty. I should think you'd know me better.' The approaching cliffs, limned with the last light of the sun hove into view.

What is this place? _Those headlands look familiar..._

'It's Cembalo, Majesty.' A distant cry rang out ahead. 'It's not Tomis, but their welcome should be a warm one nonetheless.' There was a sound like a soft chuckle.

_Well played, Borelis._

From the cliffs ahead, a bright star rose, not unlike that light which led the kings to the saviour of the world. As it stooped and sped towards us, I spread my arms wide and awaited the joys I would soon find in that mysterious land beyond the sea and sky...
Monday 3 February 2014

Australia Day

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, NSW

Lie

on

ancient

earth-bed, deep,

sandstone rhythms beat

drumming, rumbling, steady rain;

allows laughing trees to dance and shake their dewdrop leaves.

Soil rejoices to the sound of

bush ballad birdcall.

Venerates

nature's

top

tune.
Tuesday 4 February 2014

One

Joanna Rain

Nelson Bay, NSW

I picked one-

One flower to admire

One love to aspire to

One blade of grass

To focus my attention on.

All to assist me

To reflect upon

The nature of love-

The creation of us.

The flower taught me

About temporary beauty-

Blooming only for a season

To be treasured

For this very reason.

The heart opened me up

To lessons about timelessness

The web of inter-connectedness

We weave each time we fall

Into the vast depths of love.

All the joy and pain that

Love creates

Leads us to the same plane-

There is no separateness

We are one-we are the same.

The one blade of grass

Showed me the wisdom

Behind its silence

And how its subtle energy

Is but another reflection of me.

You (us, we)

Are all of these things to me-

Behind all our

Aspects of ego complexity

There is a simple harmony.

The colours of each note are

Each a single colour beam

Each another layer of the rainbow-

All flowing together seamlessly-

The beginning-the end-the yin and yang

All meld together to form

Complete unity.
Wednesday 5 February 2014

Sonnet Sonnet

Amily Jean Parr

Callaghan, NSW

I love a lovely sonnet, I must say.

The gentle, constant rhythm of its flow

Does brighten up an elsewise dreary day;

I'd go so far as to suggest a glow

Surrounds the very letters that comprise

The poem's prized pentameter, each foot

So carefully constructed. No surprise

Disturbs the meter; nay, it stays well put.

In pairs of two the syllables progress;

In pairs of two the lines complete a rhyme;

And every line obeys a rule of stress:

A rule that dates far back past Shakespeare's time.

So, as you can quite obviously see,

The sonnet's the poetic form for me.
Thursday 6 February 2014

Banjo Man

Winsome Smith

South Bowenfels, NSW

Do you recall him,

the man with his banjo

who sat at the kerbside

in Market Street or Park Street

and strummed on his banjo

all throughout the war years?

A busker in his wheel chair,

he beat out the tempos

of quick-step and fox-trot

the toe-tapping dance tunes

that cheered us in that grim time.

As work was denied him,

with no legs and no trade,

this became his living

strumming on the banjo

and cheering us with music

in Sydney in the forties.

So when we saw his wheel chair

and when we heard his plunking

of 'Ukulele Lady' and 'Lullaby of Broadway'

we knew him as a hero,

a hero at the kerbside

in Sydney in the war years.
Friday 7 February 2014

Holiday Town

Shirley Burgess

Rosebud, VIC

We watch them come, from Cup Day on

The caravans and tents.

They'll all be here on Boxing Day

The foreshore will be dense.

They're here--street signs are mangled now,

To confuse our whereabouts,

We shrug and sigh, and say aloud,

'It's all those holiday louts.'

Picket fences, letter boxes

Local structures all abused,

We pay the damage someone does

Just to be amused.

The shops are full of trolleys,

They jam up all the aisles,

And queues to all the things we want

Go back for miles and miles.

But wait! We see kids paddling

And playing on the sand,

The bike track's used by families,

They're all in Happy Land.

The holidays end, it's 'Back To School',

They've packed up in a flash.

So come again you happy lot,

And don't forget your cash!
Sunday 9 and Monday 10 February 2014

Bamboo

Ann Whitehead

Oak Flats, NSW

Whatever was he thinking competition entry

'What do you reckon we should do with the day?'

It's the fourth time he's asked, so she needs to come up with some sort of an answer to stop him from asking again. But whatever was he thinking? What kind of a question is it? What do you do with a day?

'Stuff it up your jumper,' Alma Walters says, cutting a sideways glance at Biddy and that Barnes girl whose name is Charlotte but of course everyone calls her Charlie. Alma can't understand why the girls have become so close.

Her daughter Biddy might not be the smartest kid around, but she's prettier than most and as friendly as a lost puppy. Charlie is as plain as a Monday morning and just as quiet. She hardly ever speaks. 'Not that I give a rat's hiccup,' she adds when Charlie catches her staring.

Hal Walters hides a grin by chewing out the dirt from under a fingernail. He knows his wife is being word-careful because of the girls. Females must become charmed around the age of thirteen. Six months ago Alma would have said exactly what she meant without worrying about them being within earshot.

'We could go for a beer,' he says, which is what he'd wanted to say all along.

Alma dismisses the idea with a gruff, 'Too early,' and places her broad backside firmly on the front step. Dark patches wherever her dress touches her body is as good as a thermometer, but still she enjoys the feel of hot cement beneath her thighs. 'Where's Len?' she asks to lift her mind from the heat spreading inwards.

Hal shrugs. 'Probably across the road.'

Her answer is a curled top lip.

'You're being a snob again,' he says.

They both smile at that. Charlie's grandfather, who runs the local post office, had said 'Inverted snobbery' when Alma complained about her son hanging around with Dennis Benson. Dennis' father owns a quarter of the houses around town plus the movie theatre and one of the three hotels. Now he's built a roller-skating rink.

The Walters know that's more to keep his seven daughters amused than for anyone else's benefit. Building a skating rink for the kids won't hurt his push for mayor, either.

'Dennis? Dennis!' they hear his father shout. The Bensons live in a mansion opposite the Walters' workingman's home.

'Where is that boy?' Fred Benson asks his wife.

Lizzie Benson cringes in the usual way when he uses that tone, but she knows what to say. 'Maybe he's over behind the bamboo stand at your father's place.'

Fred Benson's fists unclench. He'd never keep them any other way when someone mentions his father. He glares from the empty cage to the house across the street.

'You can bet it was the Walters kid who let my rabbits out,' he says in a voice just short of a bellow. 'That boy wouldn't have the sense to know you could start a plague with four.'

Len Walters hears the accusation and realises that the old mongrel had seen him shoot across the road and into the paddock. Old Benson gets his knickers in a twist if any of the kids play in his paddock; probably because he can't figure out a way to make them pay for the privilege.

The only reason he bought it was to stop anyone from building next to his posh house. The bamboo stops anyone from building between the paddock and the railway tracks.

The bamboo stand has been there longer than memory. Nobody would think of cutting it down, although the bushfire brigade usually burns it back during long hot summers like the one they're sweltering in now. The original clump has spread to the size of four football fields. It's the only thing making Hawley different from any other little country town.

'Wish I did let his crummy rabbits out,' Len Walters mutters, 'but he'd only send for more. I could crash the old mongrel's day if I wanted really to.'

Len thinks about the satisfaction of making old man Benson squirm. All he has to do is tell him about Dennis heading for the bamboo carrying a wriggling sack.

'Le-en,' Alma Walters screeches. 'Len, why don't you ever answer me when I call?'

Len scrunches down in the grass. His parents are probably going to the pub. They'll want him to watch out for Biddy. She's only a year younger than him, let her watch out for herself. Anyway, she's with Charlie. No one needs to watch out for Charlie Barnes. She'd grown up with a ratty grandpa who always has his nose stuck in a book so Charlie learned early how to take care of herself.

Lately she's been hanging around Biddy most weekends, and Biddy's gone all girlie since she got the you-know-what. Has Charlie got them too? Do boy-girls bleed other than the usual cut elbows and skinned knees? The thought sends his own blood flying up around his face.

'Le-en!' Biddy screams. 'Mum's calling you!'

He drops flat in the grass, but not before Charlie sees him. She grins and turns away.

'He's probably down at the bamboo,' Biddy tells her mother.

'Rotten place is full of rats and snakes,' Alma growls.

'Not rats,' Hal says, 'not with most of the kids having foxies. Foxies are the best rat-hunting dogs there is.'

'How would you know? All we've ever had is whippets.'

Hal knows she's in an arguing mood. She gets like this at times. Usually when she's feeling horny but won't admit to it.

'Why don't we go down to the bamboo and cut ourselves a couple of fishing poles?' he asks. 'Creek's swarming with mullet they say.'

'You going to clean and gut anything we catch?'

She knows he won't.

'There's all kinds of hiding places in that bamboo. We might find other things to do with poles besides cutting one,' he says.

'Go on, you dirty old beggar. Next thing I know you'll be expecting me to have a baby every twelve months like Lizzie Benson.'

Her tone is at odds with the following sigh. Lately Alma has been dreaming about round little bottoms fitting into the palm of her hand. Hal reckons they've gone too long so she doesn't let him know that she hasn't taken the pill for weeks. Even thinking about not taking the pill transfers the warmth of her thighs to somewhere close by.

'Anyway, there's always kids at the bamboo,' she says wistfully.

'Skating rink's open this afternoon. Kids will all be there,' he answers.

Alma sniffs and turns her face away but he knows she likes the idea. Bedroom's no good on a Saturday afternoon. Biddy or Len can walk in on them at any time. Privacy is something unknown in the Walters' house. Most things are out in the open, even words that aren't said. They all have readable eyes.

'Biddy, are you going to the rink?' he asks.

She grins. 'Can I?'

He fishes ten dollars out of his pocket with only a momentary regret for the beer it could have bought. 'You'll have to walk into town. Your mum and me's got other plans.'

'Can I phone Margaret? If she hasn't already gone her parents will drop me off.'

'Go for it,' Hal Walters says, moving close and giving his wife a nudge.

Alma moves her shoulder, but she jumps up and follows Biddy into the house.

'What about you, Charlie?' Hal asks. 'I've got ten dollars that says you can't beat me to the Benson fence and back.'

'I can't cover it,' she says.

Why do kids have to make things so difficult? 'Two weeks running messages for the wife?'

'I've got a bloody name,' Alma yells.

Charlie toe-scratches the ground. Pride wants her to thank him kindly and make an excuse for refusing. Thought of being with Biddy and the girls makes her want to grab the money and run. Biddy gives her entry into the circle, which means she could learn what having a boyfriend means exactly.

Sex talks at school are purely technical. She needs to find out the secrets of being thirteen. That's why she'd started hanging around with Biddy Walters. Biddy says her mother is never shy with answers. The trouble is that Charlie's too shy to ask the questions.

Pride wins. 'Thanks, Mr Walters, but I promised Grandpa I'd do the ironing.'

She runs towards her house at back of Benson's place and the railway tracks but veers towards the bamboo the moment Mr Walters is out of sight. Charlie has a special hiding place. Somewhere she can sit and think or read one of her poetry books.

It's in the dead centre of the bamboo stand and the dead centre was made taboo after David Moffat cut his wrists there. Nobody can understand why David had done such a thing, not even the adults who profess to know everything else.

The kids decided it was because of the dead centre, but Charlie doesn't believe a place can make you kill yourself. David had taken the bottle of whisky and the razor there. She isn't about to do either of those things.

'Dennis, where the hell are you?' she hears Mr Benson yell as she runs alongside his fence.

'He might have gone to the skating rink with his sisters,' Lizzie Benson says, trying to keep the quaver out of her voice. He likes that quaver in the privacy of their bedroom but not out where people can hear.

She's afraid Dennis heard her begging for gentleness in the middle of the night. He had that sullen look again this morning.

Fred Benson's lip curls. 'He gets life too good. I was working at his age.'

Memory of Dennis' look provokes her into saying, 'You should spend more time with him.'

'He ripped twenty dollars out of the hotel till last week. Swears he didn't, but who else would be game enough?' Fred Benson's voice has that mix of pride and anger it always has when he speaks of his son. 'He'll be hiding in the bamboo because I want him to look for the rabbits. I'm going to flush him out.'

Lizzie watches her husband stride across the paddock then switches her stare to the bamboo stand. It looks so restful, and she's tired of feeling fidgety. Not so much her body, that seems to work automatically. Inside her head is the problem. A fire has begun to burn in there and she doesn't know how to put it out

'Tell him it's your body, not his. Or get the pill whether he wants you to or not. Talk to him,' Alma Walters had said last week. But words are like water. They have to have a direction to be of any use. Lizzie doesn't know how or where to begin. Alma had also said, 'It's time you made a stand.'

But the only stand Lizzie knows is the field of bamboo. That's where Fred got her pregnant in the first place. That's where half the girls in town and the surrounding farms get pregnant after the Friday night dances.

The Moffat boy had died in there; and if the stories are true, so had three swaggies during the depression. When you think about it, that bamboo has a lot to answer for.

Lizzie Benson watches Alma and Len walk up the road bumping hips like a couple of kids. Without bothering to ask herself why, she decides to follow. She runs inside and grabs the sharpest kitchen knife. There could be rats and snakes, she tells herself, and everyone has their limits. One is that look she saw on Dennis' face this morning.

The look on Len's face is unreadable as he reaches one of the cleared spaces inside the bamboo. Dennis is there, staring down at the rabbits while both hands work holes in his pockets. 'Watch it don't drop off,' Len drawls.

'Shut ya face, Walters,' Dennis snarls.

Len steps further into the clearing without challenging the tone of voice. He can tell that Dennis' anger isn't directed at him, and he's curious about the rabbits. They're in a cage twice as large as the one old man Benson made. 'What are you going to do with them?' he asks.

'Maybe wring their necks like my old man does,' Dennis says. 'He likes to hear them squeal while he does them in.'

Len doesn't bother with a protest. If Dennis intended wringing their necks, he wouldn't have bothered with the cage.

'Just once I'd like to hear him squeal,' Dennis says without much hope.

'I saw my old man cry once,' Len offers.

'You ever? Cry I mean.'

Len shrugs. 'If he can I can.'

'I have to tie up that netting underneath so the rabbits don't dig their way out,' Dennis mutters.

He grabs a length of wire and begins to thread the netting. Len squats beside him to help.

Charlie rises up from her lotus position in the dead centre. Even without the bass laughter and contralto giggles, she knows that adults are about to burst in on her. Kids know how to slide through the bamboo without making a sound. Wriggling back into a crouching position and ready to run if the need arises, she watches Len's mum and dad stagger into the clearing.

Mrs Walters screeches when her husband pinches her bum, and then grows strangely quiet and slack-faced when he rubs the front of her dress. She sinks to the ground. He kneels beside her.

Charlie knows she should leave. Their faces say this is a private thing. His has become redder, but kinder than ever. Hers is aglow with something that has nothing to do with perspiration.

The way they look at each other makes Charlie want to cry. She glances around for something to take her mind off the clenching in her chest, that's when she sees old man Benson watching from the other side. His expression makes her flesh creep.

A quarter of the cleared circle away, she sees Mrs Benson's face close to the ground and paler than last night's moon. Her cheeks are streaked with tears. Charlie tosses her book into the clearing and runs.

Hal jumps up when the book hits him squarely in the middle back. Alma props herself on an elbow and looks straight at Fred Benson.

He clears his throat and growls, 'A fine going on, this is.'

'Was until you butted in,' Hal says, smiling apologetically at Alma.

Lizzie's fist tightens around the knife. If she runs fast and hard, and swings with all her might, she could bury the knife in Fred's chest before he has time to move. But even as the thought flares across her mind, she knows she can't do it. His expression right now is much like the one she saw on Dennis' face this morning. It's a sort of yearning for something but not knowing what look.

'Didn't even have the decency to cough or something,' Alma says.

'You're a fine one to talk about decency,' Fred Benson begins to bluster, but Hal's hand around his throat chokes off the words.

'I've learned a few things since I've been working for you,' Hal says. 'I know about the tax dodges, and I know how you got that land for the skating rink so cheap. If I open my mouth, you'll never make mayor, and I know how much you want it. You could even end up in jail.'

Lizzie Benson's chin drops. She knows about the taxes and the land too, but she had never realised the importance of knowing.

'I was just looking for Dennis,' Fred whines.

'Give the boy a break and get off his back,' Hal orders as he throws Fred Benson down like a dirty rag.

'I like to fight my own battles,' Alma complains as she watches him scramble away.

'So do we all,' Hal agrees, 'but we can't have him upsetting a woman about to get pregnant.'

Lizzie almost chokes while trying to hold in a snort of laughter, especially when Alma giggles, 'Get back here and finish what you started,' and pulls Hal down beside her.

'Where do you think you're going?' Dennis asks when Charlie bursts out of the canes.

She sees the cage at the last minute and clears it in one leap, but crashes into Len. They go to the ground in a heap of arms and legs.

'In a hurry, Charlie?' Len drawls as he disentangles himself.

Charlie pulls down her skirt when she sees Dennis Benson staring. He has the same expression as his father had a moment ago. A flush starts upwards from her shoulders.

Dennis holds up a ten dollar note. 'Give you this for a proper look.'

The beginning of a laugh stays in Len's throat when Charlie's flush deepens. He'd fully expected her to run at Dennis with fists pumping. Instead she looks as if she's lost something of importance. He doesn't know what. He just knows he wants to land a bunch of fives right on Dennis' sneer.

'Twenty dollars,' Dennis offers.

'Rack off, Benson. You're worse than your old man,' Len tells him.

Dennis backs away into the bamboo and Len makes his way along a worn trail heading in the opposite direction. Somehow, and he isn't sure how, Charlie's hand has managed to get caught inside his. It's hard and bony with callouses on the palm, but he leaves it there.

'I could have punched out his lights, but he's looking after the rabbits,' he explains.

Charlie accepts the explanation with a nod. She doesn't curse Dennis or try to put him down, but Len knows she'll bail him up later in private and tell him what she thinks of him. That's what he likes about Charlie.

She has a way of being pleased about herself without being smug. She's as thin as her fingers, and not all that pretty. At least, not when compared to Biddy. But her eyes are something else. They're turned on him now, like two headlights.

They meet Lizzie Benson at the edge of the canes.

'Want me to get Dennis for you?' Len asks, not wanting her to see the rabbits.

She smiles. Not at him, he thinks, but at something. She looks past him and waves. He turns and sees his mum and dad coming out of the bamboo holding hands. His hand drops away from Charlie, who lowers her eyes as if she's seen enough for today. But the lights haven't gone out.

'Hey, Charlie,' Hal Walters says, 'I think this is your library book.'

'Thanks, Mr Walters,' Charlie says, 'I left it there last week. Lucky it didn't rain.

'Lucky,' Alma Walters agrees. 'Want to come to our place for a cold drink and a mag, ay Charlie? We've got plenty to mag about,' she adds at Charlie's shy smile. 'What about you, love?' she asks Lizzie Benson.

'No thanks,' Lizzie says, 'I have to pick something up at the chemist, then I'll pick up the girls. If you see Dennis, will you tell him to meet me at the skating rink. We'll have tea at the hamburger shop. I'm not cooking tonight. Tell his dad too, if you see him.'

They don't see Fred Benson lying flat out among the canes, crying out his humiliation as he'd cried so often as a kid. Nobody has dared to hit him since he left home. Intent on memories, he doesn't see Dennis watching him.

Hal whistles silently while wondering if he can talk Alma into an hour or two at the pub. Len stares from his mother to Mrs Benson and wonders why they look so pleased with themselves. Charlie lowers her head and bares her neck to the cooling wind. It blows in gusts, bending the tops of the bamboo which rise again and again.
Tuesday 11 February 2014

To My Daughter

Felicity Lynch

Katoomba NSW

When I am gone my darling

Look at the photos of us together

And you shall see my smile

I love you and nothing can take that away

Love lives on--you must believe

That forever I shall be smiling at you

My little daughter who is so brave and stoic

You have given and continue to give

Me great joy--for you are

All I ever wanted--sweet and vulnerable

Though you are, you have courage and intelligence

You have faced up to what life

Has not given you

And daily I am so proud of you.
Wednesday 12 February 2014

I, Ethel

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, NSW

Whatever was he thinking competition entry

They disgust me--these trolls who surf the 'net looking for fresh ingénues or gullible matrons. I know what they're like. I know what they like. They scan the social media, blogs, chat rooms and dating sites trying to hook up with the lonely types--the undesirables, the 'plain janes'.

They look for the vague signs of vulnerability and, the tell-tale indications of loneliness: despair, desire; the astonishing candour with which the lovelorn will commit their innermost desires to this electronic version of the psychiatrist's couch. Oh yes, I know them well, for you see I was one of them.

Which? I hear your puny minds ask; I'll leave that up to you to decide. I've had my fingers burnt and my heart broken. (Don't you just love mixed metaphors?) Does that give you a clue? No matter. The whole murky world of internet dating is a vast lie; the great lie, the lie and it's now down to me: I, Ethel to remedy the situation one troll at a time.

'Gee, Ethel is an old fashioned name, I haven't heard of anyone using that as a girl's name for years. Didn't your parents like you or something?'

If you only knew! I actually did laugh out loud and sent back a text: 'LOL... my mother was a great fan of Ethel Merman. Sings,"Everything's coming up roses."' I was hoping, of course, that my prospective beau had indeed heard of the legendary diva with the masculine voice.

'Oh sure,' he texted back, 'I love roses but she's not my style; had a voice that could split concrete--Mer-man is right maybe, she sure wasn't a Mer-maid!'

So Fred has a sense of humour, 'Perhaps we were Fred and Ethel from "I Love Lucy" in a previous life?' my fingers insinuated playfully on my laptop. I knew this was pushing the trivia angle a little too far, but, Fred (if indeed that was his real name) was in fact tuned into that area of dated popular culture, when life seemed so much easier in black and white in the early days of television.

'Oh sure doll!' he immediately texted back; no doubt he imagines that to be an expression that Fred Mertz might have said to Ethel in the show. Truth be known, in real life, they hated each other's guts!

It didn't really matter because as you've probably worked out by now, my real name isn't Ethel--a girl can't be too careful at first! Nor is it my real photo, or to be more precise, I was disguised. Anyway, I had Fred hooked--so to speak; time now to reel him in and rid the world of another parasite. Now there's an appropriate name for a pervert's blog--'The Para-site'. But I digress ...

A few weeks later, the emails between Fred and I became increasingly personal; to the point that he began to send me emails with 'interesting' pictures attached of his intimate body parts in various states of arousal. I reciprocated in kind; taking care to send carefully edited photos of naked ladies that appeared to be me.

It's amazing what one can achieve with a Photoshop editing suite. Fred was now feeling supremely confident (smug bastard!), and suggested that we meet with consummation of lust high on the agenda.

Of course, I needed a day or two to finalise my preparations and so, 'playing hard to get', suggested that we meet, say... in Mudgee? We could tour the wineries, I suggested. Fred readily agreed. So 'Murder in Mudgee' it was to be! 'Death De-vine?' It sounds rather... Ethereal. Later perhaps some innovative screenwriter will knock out a scenario--I might even do it myself! But that'll be long after the event.

Anyway, I got myself a motel room in Mudgee under another alias--Photoshop came in handy again--paid for it in cash and got myself ready. I made sure my face was nice and smooth and applied my makeup and adjusted my wig and bra. I didn't bother shaving my legs 'cause we won't be getting up close and personal. Anyway, I'll be in jeans and runners instead of a skirt and heels--just in case something goes wrong.

A call came through on my mobile--it's him! We spoke for the first time. He said I sounded a bit husky; I said he sounded a little light. Anyway we arranged to meet on a back road at twilight overlooking a wheat field. He thought that was a bit strange but acquiesced. Well I mean after all: I am the 'cereal killer'! Hah!

There he is standing by his car--not as tall as I imagined and of slim build as well. With his designer stubble and hair pulled back in a ponytail, he sort of looks like an advertising executive or trendy architect or... something.

I must remember after the deed is done to retrieve his laptop and any other mobile device--it wouldn't do to leave any trace of Ethel behind; it wouldn't be... Ethical! I slip my hand into the pocket of my jacket. I can feel the comfort of the handle of the switchblade as I walk towards him--patience my beauty! 'Excuse me, but are you Fred?' I ask in my husky contralto.

What happened next is rather a blur...

'Indeed I am,' he replied in his own strangely affected voice, coming closer. 'And this is for you!' Suddenly... there was a bouquet of roses in his hand as if by magic.

'Oh Fred, how thoughtful of you,' I gushed.

'Everything's coming up roses,' he sang and gave me a rather demented smile; his voice seemed to raise an octave, 'And here's the perfume, bitch! Gun smoke!'

A shot rang out and I felt a searing pain as a bullet snaked across the outside of my right arm. I eased my hand out of the jacket clutching the switchblade, which felt slippery with blood. Fred threw the shredded bouquet to one side, took stance with the revolver in both hands and pulled the trigger again.

My heart was in my mouth, I almost passed out. Click! The gun misfired. Click, again! I didn't waste any more time; shifting the switchblade to my left hand I pushed the button and a seven inch blade flashed out. I ran straight at Fred before he had another chance to fire and plunged the knife blade deep into his throat. A violent spurt flew across my arm and hit me in the face. Fred dropped the gun and it discharged, narrowly missing my leg.

A red mist seemed to rise as Fred fell to the ground; a gurgling noise came from his mouth as blood seeped between his teeth. I stepped back having released the knife. My head was swimming and the pain in my arm was excruciating. Fred looked menacingly up at me for a moment then his eyes turned opaque.

I knelt down beside him; God, whatever was he thinking? Or rather... what was she thinking? A closer examination revealed that Fred was in fact a woman! The designer stubble was being dislodged by the blood running down her chin. I ripped aside her shirt; the evidence was irrefutable. It seems I had unwittingly killed another (fellow?) troll stalker; albeit female. Oh dear, such a pity...

I stood up and pulled off my wig. Ethel could now disappear and I could be Edmund once more. I looked down and wondered idly if Fred was short for Frederica or maybe Freda--not that it matters--troll or doll. Another wicked thought occurred to me--we could have been partners; as well as lovers! Hah!

Time now to clean up and cover my tracks; it's all subterfuge--a great lie. It's a thankless task but someone has to do it and at times you need to lie. Indeed it's the lie and sometimes, of necessity that's I, Ethel.
Thursday 13 February 2014

Xing Saga Part 9 - Polly The Hero

Jane Russell

Mount Barker, SA

In which Oggie has an accident and young Polly with his new upgrades saves the day...

'Polly, you're useless!' moaned Lucy, as they stopped in confusion. 'That new nose of yours is just as rubbish as the old one.'

'I was sure I could follow Uncle Oggie's scent, but it's gone,' admitted Polly, stung by her remarks about his new stylish, remodelled nose. Then he had an idea:

'He was heading for the road, so let's just keep going in that direction and see if we can pick it up again. It's not like he's trying to lose us.'

'And as for your stupid head spikes,' continued Lucy, 'I laughed so hard when they all fell out.'

'They were supposed to fall out,' said Polly, 'it was part of my upgrade. Don't you like the stubby horns? I think they'll make an excellent battering ram.'

'They make you look like a prize pratt!'

Polly would have sulked, but it wasn't in his nature. He thought back to the morning, when all he'd had to think about was his tenth birthday party tomorrow. Then everything changed when Lucy burst through the door.

'Polly, Polly, you'll never guess,' she chirped, 'Uncle Oggie has disappeared!' Polly gaped at her, but she didn't give him a chance to get a word in.

'Uncle Piggie is really worried because they're so close to birthing the twins. You have to come now.'

They hurried over to Oggie and Piggie's house where many bots were milling around trying to organise a search party.

'Has anyone traced his GPS?' queried one bot.

'It has no signal' whispered Piggie, distraught.

'So I suppose you can't contact him by phone either?' asked another. Piggie shook his head.

'Let's split up into small groups and search the woods, he might have fallen down a mine shaft again,' suggested another, adding 'we should be able to track his scent.'

'Uncle Piggie,' piped Polly, 'what was he doing when you last saw him?'

'Er, er, he said he needed to go for a walk then he headed due west through the forest. He said he'd be back soon,' Piggie dissolved into distraught beeps.

'So, we just follow his trail,' Polly said in a reassuring voice, then without thinking continued, 'you pregnant folk have quite a pong, you know.'

Piggie gave a weak smile despite himself.

As Polly and Lucy came to the road, Polly was convinced he could smell Oggie faintly there.

'I think he got in a car,' he speculated, 'it went north, let's follow.' They trudged up the road, sniffing the air. Polly discovered that his new smaller nose actually worked a lot better than its enormous predecessor.

After following the road for a few kilometres they came to an intersection, and Polly didn't hesitate, turning to the left away from the town. After a few more kilometres and turns though, they were quite lost and had to retrace their steps to pick up the scent again.

'I don't know why I'm following you, you haven't got a clue!' complained Lucy. Polly just marched ahead, wishing she would like him, just a little bit. Back at the intersection he sniffed carefully and thought he caught a faint whiff heading down an unsealed side road.

'I'll just wait here for you to come back, shall I?' needled Lucy.

'Please yourself, but I probably won't come back this way at all,' said Polly, and walked off not looking back, Lucy trailing behind him. She looked up when he shouted:

'Smoke up ahead!' They started to run.

What they found was the wreck of a car, wrapped around a tree. The driver was nowhere to be seen, but trapped in the back seat they were thrilled to discover their uncle Oggie.

'OMG, his arm's gone. Where can it be?' said Polly, trying to pull the tree branches away, but failing.

'He's eaten it' remarked Lucy, sadly.

'Why would he do a thing like that?'

Just then, a frantic, staccato knocking interrupted them, and they realised it was coming from Oggie's middle.

'He needed metal for the baby,' Lucy seemed lost in thought. Polly sprang into action:

'Lucy, you go back down the road until you find a signal, and let the others know we've found him, and that he needs a birthday kit, pronto!' Lucy huffed to show that she was not letting him boss her around, but went anyway.

Polly then set about freeing his uncle. He found that his new spikes were perfect for the job of bashing through the car door and pulping the tree branches that trapped his uncle, by the time help arrived, he'd pulled Oggie out and made him comfortable on the ground.

Lucy looked at Polly in a funny way, but was quickly distracted by the arrival of the bot ambulance. Oggie was whisked away and the two children followed on foot. They returned to the village to hear Oggie's desperate cries:

'My baby! Where's my baby?'

Polly and Lucy stared wide-eyed. Had something awful happened when they weren't there?

Then Piggie appeared at the door, a baby bot in each arm, his expression radiant with happiness.

'Oh Oggie, I'm so sorry to have given you such a scare,' he said in a low voice, 'I just had to see the two of them together. Do you know, we gave birth at almost exactly the same time?'

Oggie staggered over to croon over the babies.

'She's beautiful,' he said, ignoring her slightly squashed head, 'love the pink. And look at our pretty green son.'

He touched foreheads in affection with Piggie, then carefully retrieved his bundle with his remaining arm and held her to suckle liquid metal from his chest nozzle.

At Polly's birthday party the next day his human friends remarked on his new look:

'Hey mate! You're looking good. Love the horns; they make you look dangerous.'

Polly beamed with pleasure; literally, he gave off a pale green internal glow.

'My nose got a bit squashed when I rescued my uncle,' he began.

'Really? I was just thinking what an improvement it was on your previous one,' commented another friend.

Humans! Thought Polly, they have no idea. He noticed Lucy off chatting and giggling with a couple of girls, and sighed.

As the weeks passed, he spent less and less time with her, and more and more with the newly born twins, FairyFloss and Bubblegum, or Flossy and Bubbles as they affectionately came to be known. He was relishing his new role as an honorary uncle.

On his way home one day, Lucy jumped out from behind a bush and surprised him:

'I hate you CoddlePol. I don't ever want to see you again!' she shrieked.

'Why? What have I done?'

'I don't want to talk about it.'

She stormed off, blind with jealousy, leaving him bewildered. If she didn't want to see him, why didn't she just send him a message? Girls! He'd never understand them..
Friday 14 February 2014

Mist And Thistles

David Newman

Jacobs Well, QLD

Whatever was he thinking competition entry

Do you hear the bugle now, as it plays?

It lifts the soldiers up from where they lay:

but Billy, come you back to this place here,

to this land of joy, to this land of tears,

where in the cool mist, the thistles do grow;

to this place here, that we all call our home.

Those of the mist, they oft' whisper your name;

in a strange land, let not your spirit stay.

A young wife sits alone each night to weep,

as she prays to the Lord, your soul to keep;

and she asks, 'Whatever was he thinking?'

The children grow, faster than the blinking!'

Now I wonder, do you see them at all;

or roam lost, there with others who did fall?

Can you not find your way over dark sea;

to this place, where wait the rewards that be?

I heard our grandma here in the morning;

as an echo, through the mist at dawning;

and as she passed on by, the thistles swayed;

it was a homage to her, that was paid.

Then, I saw the stallion, and he ran true;

as black as black, so black that he shone blue;

and if I could ride him, there in the clouds;

then I would find the place where you are now:

Ay! In the early mist, these things are shown;

in death, as in life, good friends are well known;

and by them, others can not draw too near;

to this gateway, betwixt the far and here.

Why stay you there, in a place of sorrow?

'Tis a bastard land, from Satan borrowed!

It's here, not there, for one of such honour!

It's here, not there, for we of the Connor!

Family spirits must be respected;

and others also, to us connected;

but I cannot sense you here, not at all!

Where do spirits go to, those who do fall?

I glimpsed our Dar, here with the leprechauns;

and as the mist parted, I would have sworn;

it was not like in bygone days of old;

for our Dar, he has found his pot of gold;

Billy, come home, and you'll hear the old songs;

for it is here that your spirit belongs:

The small child, he who is of your namesake;

he no longer sleeps now, in the cold lake.

He walks with Grandma, it's her hand to hold;

while Dar tells his tales of goblins and trolls.

Those who have passed on, they guard your son well;

here each morning, in the mist and thistles.

Is your spirit kept there, is it not your will;

in a war now over, but played out still?

Do you travel on, for some secret quest?

Billy, come home now, for you've earned your rest!

We of the living, we do feel the loss;

but they of the mist, do share in the cost;

for neither the living nor dead can tell;

Why you're not here, with the mist and thistles:

When it comes my time, this life be dismissed;

I'll not at first be found, here in the mist:

I'll ride the stallion, my spirit to roam;

until I find you, and bring you on home.

Then, we'll drink from the whisky jar and sing;

the old songs and new songs, that life did bring.

We'll wait in the mist, here with our loved ones;

Then all rise up, in the rays of the sun.
Saturday 15 February 2014

A Battle Called 'Sunset'

Alyssa Boorman

Winmalee, NSW

The mighty moon stands starkly, dominating the sky.

He rules over the bright, watchful stars of the night,

And carefully examines his magnificent land.

He is the emperor of all which lies beneath his radiance.

The silent, lofty trees of the calm, peaceful forest,

Who whisper of their secret admiration for their luminous master.

The gentle, babbling rivers, who in their bottomless depths,

Reflect their lord's extensive magnificence in worship.

The Mountains, stretching desperately up at the sky,

Just for the slightest chance of reaching the one who brings them light.

The lost, deserted plains, forgotten by the dwellers of the earth,

The windswept waters of the ocean,

And the creatures of the night.

They all belong to him.

However, he is haunted by a very powerful rival.

A rival who also owns the land.

A rival more compelling than anything imaginable.

Each morning, he creeps slowly and surely towards the brilliant moon,

He plots and plans, determined to claim back his glorious kingdom,

His wondrous, ideal, and rightful land.

He strikes--

Lashing out at the moon, blinding him with his overpowering glare,

And splashing the sky with a raw, splatter of red.

The still, cold earth, observes cautiously as they battle for the throne.

The morning, so calm and peaceful to the eye of the earth dwellers,

transforms to a scene of destruction in the heavens.

The war rages on, drawing to a brutal, brilliant, and graceful climax.

Then slowly--slowly,

The moon retreats,

Allowing his rival to take power over his much loved earth.

The Sun shines in triumph, as he recovers his position over the world.

He holds his head high as all who had worshiped the moon

Immediately bow down to their new ruler.

They rejoice in the bright, overwhelming daylight, freed from their silence.

They dance, and sing, and make joyful sounds in their new found territories.

But the moon hides away, alone and forgotten.

He remains in his concealed lair, waiting patiently and solemnly

For the time when the victorious Sun is at his weakest,

And he can once again reclaim his land,

In a battle called 'Sunset.'

Ed:We really enjoyed the personification and vivid imagery of this work.
Sunday 16 and Monday 17 February 2014

My Raggedy Santa

Robyn Chaffey

Hazelbrook, NSW

Whatever was he thinking competition entry

My fifth year had been, as my Grampy would have said, 'a right one'!

Oh! It had begun well enough! The beginning had in fact been most promising.

We had, on January first, a most glorious morning! The sky was crystal blue with the colour deepening as the dome curved gracefully away from the horizon. It intended to be a warm day for sure, but the cool morning breeze seemed to breathe a promise of grand things to come.

As was my habit, I traipsed along behind as my father made his way down the front steps and out into the centre of the yard. Then, as he looked up at the sky and surveyed the gently waving treetops, I imitated his stance and carefully followed his gaze.

It was to my great delight that he followed this routine on each such morning. As he took in the beauteous morn he would smile his appreciation, and seeing his pleasure gave me such a warm and positive feeling. That is why I made it a habit to follow and imitate him!

It gave me a real sense of closeness with this man whom I adored. I loved, even relished the sharing of our mornings. It didn't matter either if the day began with rain, or was a mite too cold. On those days he would simply open the curtains at the front windows and marvel at the 'weather' from the protection of the glass.

Somehow his 'taking-in of the morning' seemed to set him up for the day to come. It seemed to feed his already positive demeanour... a sort of breakfast for the soul.

Those really were wonderful days for a little girl who doted on her Dad. However, only a few weeks later, on February twenty-first, our lives took a very different turn!

I'd had my morning pleasure admiring my Dad as he got his morning fix. It was again a glorious morning! The sun was already warm but the sky was, in great patches, obscured by greyish clouds which seemed to magnify the brilliance of the blue behind.

My hero said he had a big day ahead... 'a day of meetings' he told my mother, and I felt it must be important because he seemed already so far away. Mum spoke to him several times but seemed not to be heard.

'Have you got all you need, Dad?' No response!

She moved a little closer. 'Dad! Do you need anything more before you go?'

'What? Did you say something?'

Mum and I looked at each other and smiled. He had already gone away in his mind.

When at last he was ready to leave, I shadowed him all the way to the car. I could not resist glancing up at 'our' sky. The clouds had darkened markedly and occupied a greater portion of the sky.

It still brought a smile to my face though. I think that in my own mind at the time I felt that I was sharing a wonderful secret with my Dad. However this thought was interrupted by a sudden deep sense of sadness which was to grow moment by inescapable moment through the morning. Soon it was to become all-pervasive, inhabiting my mind and heart.

My mate was going away! I was not really sure why or where. I saw though, that he was happy to be going. His look seemed distant, as though he was seeing more of where he was going than of where he was right now. It made me feel uncomfortable to think that he wasn't really aware of me that morning. Whatever was he thinking about that had already taken him away?

As he drove down the long drive and out onto the road... I watched, a growing sense of unease in the pit of my stomach. I had not experienced anything like that before and it felt rather like a soft ball of wool slowly getting bigger inside me. I didn't know how to explain what I felt, but I knew I didn't like it one little bit.

I looked toward my mother who seemed quite at ease. She did not seem at all concerned, yet I could not seem to focus, and when he had gone I went from one room of the house to another looking for something to take my mind off my feelings. After some time I found myself heading for the front window ever more frequently to look out at 'our' sky.

Each time I peered out the darkening clouds seemed closer and more threatening. The happy blue that made Dad and me smile was gone, and with it went my ability to feel positive. That queer feeling within me was becoming a dull ache. I felt frightened, but of what I could not say.

Still my mother moved about the house in her light-hearted way. She did not see the sky. Rather, she saw the dust, and the cushions that needed fluffing. She saw the ironing and the clock that told her it was time to prepare another meal.

Those meals were always wonderful, but it seemed to me at the time that they blinded her to all that was exciting in life. Soon though it was getting near lunchtime. Mum was gathering the ingredients for our meal when suddenly a sharp, heavy banging on the front door made us both start!

We stood still and silent for what seemed to me to be an age. Then Mum looked down at me and offered a smile and a wink. That only seemed to sharpen the ache in my middle. I could see right through that smile. I followed close behind her as she walked through the living room, then stood back and watched her hesitate before opening the door. Only in that moment did I realise that she had been worrying as well.

By their voices I understood that there were two people at the door... a man and a woman. The man spoke first and I saw my mother stumble unwillingly backwards. Then the woman's voice seemed soft and quiet, but when she spoke, my mother began to scream. She reeled back, then fell to her knees which prompted the people at the door to rush in to her aid.

I felt as though my feet were frozen to the floor. Sounds whirled around the room... my mother's wracking sobs, the soothing voice of the lady, urgent sounding questions from the man... and the pelting sounds of rain!

It was really raining now, and a powerful wind had been blowing for a while. I suddenly became aware that the rain was blowing right in through the open front door. I moved without conscious thought to close it. Nothing felt real! Rather I felt as though I were in a very bad dream.

My mother was helped to the lounge and a neighbour called to sit with her. I remember so well my own feeling of utter helplessness. Desperately I tried to make Mum feel better but I couldn't hide my own terror. I wasn't even sure of what had happened. It was our neighbour who finally tried to explain to me...

My lovely Dad had been involved in an accident!

The dark storm had approached from the direction in which he was driving. It hit suddenly! Heavy rain had mingled with leaves and debris in the howling wind, reducing visibility on the road. The driver of the big ute that hit him was dead and my father was in a coma at the hospital.

I can't say I really understood at the time. Simply, I longed to have my morning back so I could tell him not to go. I wanted to run and find him. I wanted to hug and be hugged!

Months went by! My grandparents, all of them, took turns at coming to stay. Yet the house was so hushed all the time! No one laughed or thought to look at the sky. My mother was barely home in my waking hours. I missed her. I missed my Dad!

I felt that I had lost even myself! The world as I had known it had been shattered and I couldn't find the pieces.

Suddenly it seemed, it was mid-way through November! My mother's mood had seemed to lighten and she made a day or two to stay with me. She had never spoken to me of my Dad... not since the accident. Now she wanted me to know! He was awake! He'd need some time to heal she said.

When Mum had gone again to be with Dad, her mother, my Gran, suddenly made a decision! 'We're going to start getting ready for Christmas! We've lots to do, lots of plans to make.' That was about the last thing I wanted to think about, but after a week or two I realised that it was a good distraction. For an hour or two each day I felt more free as we set about the planning process.

We talked about Gran's Christmas past, even those she spent with her family when she was my age: 'We always had a tree!' she told me. There was an abundance of little pine trees around where we lived. My father would take my older brother with him and they would not return until they had a nice tree.

He was a great fan of Prince Albert, who introduced a few lovely Christmas traditions, from Germany I think. We adopted some of those traditions for our own household. '

'The decorations though... now that was my mother's department, and she enlisted lots of help from us!'

'With her help we made strings of coloured popcorn and paper flowers to decorate the tree. Some people used tinsel too, but my mother loved ribbons and kept a collection of her favourite types. At Christmas times she brought her box out and we chose the best to add to the tree.'

Many years before, my grandfather had made a Nativity scene which we still placed under the tree each year. Oh, and as each new child was born into the family, the women would make a bauble and a little lace bag with the child's name painted or embroidered on it. I still have mine!'

'There was no plastic angel on our tree. No! My Dad made a lovely angel carved from pine. Her hands were outstretched in a welcoming way.'

'In those days we did not spend a lot of money on gifts, but we spent a good deal of time and imagination making small gifts for each other. Oh, it was a lovely, exciting time and the build-up, and the secrecy lasted for months! We all really loved it! Not like today when we hear so many people complaining about the time and the cost! For us it was really the joy of giving to those we loved!'

I was in awe as Gran talked, 'It all sounds so lovely Gran! Let's try to do that now!'

We busied ourselves again using what decorations we could find in closets, from previous years in our house but also making some new ones for our family.

Suddenly Gran said, 'Know what? I've been thinking!' (I thought of my Mum then, asking me whenever I made that statement, 'Did it hurt?') 'We don't have much time,' she added 'but let's make our own presents for your Mum and Dad this year!'

'Do you think my Dad will be able to have Christmas, Gran? I miss him so, so much!'

'Well, perhaps if you think really hard about your gift for him, and how much you want to see him... why don't you go back to your room and have a good think about it while I finish here. Let me know if you need any help.'

After a long spell of thinking, I knew exactly what I would do. I would make each of them a painting and ask Gran for help to make a frame. For my mother, I would make a picture of her in the kitchen.

It makes me both smile and grimace today to realise that this is how I thought of her then. She was the person who cooked and cleaned for us! Today I recognise the significance of that early thinking.

For my Dad, (Oh how I wished and prayed that he would be home!) I would do my best picture ever! I would paint him standing in the middle of our front yard with me by his side. We would be looking up into the beautiful blue sky, dotted with only a few wispy, white clouds.

I would ask Gran to frame them both in red because they were for Christmas and I wanted them to be happy gifts.

I really did work hard on these paintings over the next few weeks. I threw quite a few away, crying, 'It's just no good!' By Christmas Eve though, the house was ready and smelled wonderful with all the wonderful cooking Gran had done.

My paintings stood, red-framed on the mantel piece. However, my heart felt very heavy. I had not seen my mother for several weeks and my Dad was still not home.

Gran seemed to understand. At eight o'clock she looked at me with a sympathetic smile and said, 'You're not at all sleepy are you! Tell you what! It's Christmas Eve! Let's make some cocoa and then you can pick a book and we'll sit together on the lounge and have a story.

We had one story, and another, then Gran said if I wasn't sleepy after that it must certainly be time for me to read for her! I was not much of a reader but I plodded on through the pages of a book I knew quite well. I did not want to go to bed! It was too soon for Christmas to come! My Dad was not home!

In spite of all my efforts I was losing the battle. My head got heavy and began to loll back; I jerked it forward and at one time I used my thumbs and forefingers to try to force my eyelids open.

Then sadly, I knew I was asleep for I was dreaming! Santa Claus had come to my house! It must be a dream though because he really did look strange. He was so very thin! Not at all like the pictures I had seen!

Though his hair was grey and he had a beard of sorts, it was shorter and darker than I thought it ought to be. His red jacket was all loose, and in place of the expected leather belt, was an untidy looking chord which hardly seemed to keep it together.

I sat forward rubbing the sleep from my eyes and as I did, I saw to my horror, instead of the red trousers and tall black boots Santa ought to wear... bare, hairy legs and blue slippers!

'Well!' He spoke! 'Little Mimic Mine, I think you had better give me a hug and then scoot up to bed! Christmas in the morning and they say it's going to be a glorious blue sky day!'

My raggedy, slipper'd Santa was the best present I had ever had, or would ever have again! The 'blue sky promise' which began our year so well was true to us after all; and to this day, when sadness dares I can look to the sky and think of my special Dad... and remember that there is always blue sky behind the clouds.
Tuesday 18 February 2014

In A Mist

Henry Johnston

Rozelle, NSW

Whatever was he thinking competition entry

Elegance is the marriage of poise and confidence, and on this score, my friend Detlev D'Arcy posted the banns, walked down the aisle, and kissed the bride with a dandy's aplomb.

Detlev could not resist a quick preen when passing a window, and yet despite incessant vanity and a pious devotion to fashion labels, he like me, accepted time's conquest of face and body; or so I assumed.

To be sure several years passed since last we spoke in the smoky confines of Studio Zwei, so when I waved him down on a rainy boulevard, I expected a quick scoff at age, and a perfunctory nod to the virtues of wisdom.

Perhaps ten seconds elapsed before Detlev placed a crooked right finger beneath my lower jaw, and snapped my mouth shut. Agog is not an adjective I use often, but I cannot think of any other way of describing my reaction.

When I say several years, a decade is a fairer measure and yet Detlev showed not an iota of age, and here he stood, dapper, chipper and keen for beer and Schnapps.

We ducked into a busy bier-bar near _Albertinaplatz_ , found a booth, and began an hour's long conversation. He knew I wanted to dispense with the chitchat, and steer the conversation toward the secret of his agelessness, but he insisted on the rules of _pro forma_ , and completed a detailed litany of who had done what to whom.

I never considered an assignation as a conquest, yet Detlev continues to revel in the chase and in the midst of his enthusiasm, I measured how much we had grown apart. I am married, happy, content, and free from the turbulent currents of bachelorhood, but Detlev, with the gusto of a committed gourmand still pursues his twin passions--beautiful women and rare recordings.

What follows is a quick history lesson, so please skip the section if the information is familiar or inaccurate.

Most collectors assign the year 1898 as the start point of 78 revolutions per minute sound recordings. Almost all 78 RPM records comprised shellac resin, but the more flexible vinyl replaced this brittle medium sometime in the 1940s.

My knowledge of these early years is perfunctory at best, but Detlev is an international expert, and an avid collector.

He was and remains, an avowed correspondent, eschewing typewriter and computer in favour of a gold nib atop an expensive pen. Detlev takes great pleasure watching the ink flow upon the finest French _ExaClair_ paper. He maintained a stream of letters to collectors from around the world, asking after a recording by so-and-so, comparing one company's pressing of a song with another, and as always, seeking, buying and selling collectables from an ever-diminishing stockpile. Make no mistake; collecting pristine 78 RPMs is neither for the poor, nor for the faint of heart.

He often spoke of Viscount Claes Gerritsz Bierenbroodspot, a direct descendant and literal namesake of a 17th Century Dutch sea captain, who claimed the honour of the first landing on the most remote island chain in the world, the volcanic peaks known as Tristan da Cunha.

Viscount Spot, or Captain Clay as Detlev called him, lives in the remains of an ancient castle on an island off the west coast of Scotland. I was sceptical of these facts, as I am sure Detlev was, though he and the Viscount kept up a welter of correspondence during my time as the producer of his popular Saturday night radio program. All envelopes delivered to the studio and bearing the postmark, Mallaig Scotland, contained one, two, sometimes five priceless recordings, which after a close audition, enjoyed an airing on the next week's program.

This is a typical introduction to one of the Viscount's records.

'DD here and now all the way from the Isle of Rum, an inimitable choice from the well-stocked cellar of Captain Clay. First up, Bix Beiderbecke and the Wolverine Orchestra performing _In a Mist_.'

As always the switchboard lit up with a slew of enraptured fans, eager for more of the same.

I spent five informative years on the program, charting the joys and evolution of recordings from all parts of the globe. But I grew tired of the arcana, the endless crackling, the trite lyrics and wooden musical performances, and sought solace in digital technology and new music, which like me, has aged over 15 years. Not so Detlev. Not a line marks his face, nor a grey thatch spoils the hue of his light, brown coif. A puffy midriff testifies to my fondness for Black Forest Cake, but Detlev bears no such signs of lethargy, despite an unquenchable thirst for beer and thick, salt-encrusted pretzels.

The divining rod, which guided him to the waters of the fountain of youth, came via a 16 inch broadcast transcription recording, posted by Viscount Bierenbroodspot. The disc and accompanying letter arrived in a stout wooden crate which Detlev collected from the local post office.

The instructions he said, appeared garbled. He could play the disc but once, for when the stylus dragged across the surface of the master, the corrosion imparted by the tip upon the calcareous shellac would destroy the content.

This conundrum led to preparations for a high fidelity copy, which became a second-generation master. Not an obstacle, for as a rule Detlev backed-up priceless recordings on a Magnetophon, and then onto standard Ampex reel-to-reel tape. As further insurance, Detlev set-up a standard, mono cassette recording, but before the process began, the letter insisted he sign a faded parchment, and return post it to the Viscount.

By now, intrigue ensnared Detlev who could not make out the content, origin or meaning of the script. This too proved a small obstacle to the transcription's debut airing to a small group of friends in his apartment, for among a phalanx of acquaintances and fans, Detlev called on the ability of a specialist from the Department of Linguistics of the University of Vienna.

The text's origins matched similar scrolls from 15th and 16th Century Portugal, and so the author might be none other than _Tristao da Cunha_ who first sighted the eponymous islands in the early 1500s.

However, the meaning contradicted this neat assumption.

The linguist assured Detlev _Tristao da Cunha_ was a devout Catholic, and though difficult to translate, the words suggested a profound antipathy for Christianity.

He told Detlev its putative author claimed to be Lucifer and the words an unbreakable contract. Only the narration, etched on the transcription, and spoken in arcane Portuguese by the Viscount, would uncover its true meaning.

I drained the Schnapps in a gulp, and ordering two more, stared at the now smiling Detlev, who brushed aside my incredulity with a blithe admission. Of course, he listened to the disc, and as if to exacerbate complicity, admitted he thrice signed the parchment and posted it by first class mail to Mallaig.

Whatever was he thinking. Had he sold his soul for a dubious quatrain recorded on resin secreted by insects? I assailed him with an outburst of clumsy student quotes from _Doctor Faustus_ and Oscar Wilde's _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ , but he soothed my outrage with an insouciant shrug.

How could he sell something he did not own he asked, as he tossed a handful of Euros on the bar and called for more drink.

Bile rose in my throat, and for an instant I thought I would be sick and make a fool of myself.

Fearing loss of control, my resolve to berate Detlev for youthful looks and a penchant for carnality, weakened. What right had I to question an old friend about his pursuit of life's prizes?

As the bitter taste subsided, his story seemed nothing more than an alcohol hallucination.

I lurched to my feet, desperate for the fresh, wet air of night, but felt a tight grasp on the sleeve of my jacket, and the rough tug of my head toward an inch of Detlev's lips.

'Let us meet again ten years hence my friend and judge the truth of what I say.'

I freed my arm from Detlev's grip, and stared back into his now glittering eyes, bright red from the throb of blood in his temples, and lit by the bar's menacing, dim lights.

~~~

This transcript, in contemporary Portuguese, of Detlev's contract, was found in the study of the Viennese linguistics specialist who died from a single bullet to the temple, fired from a World War 2 Luger pistol.

_Eu, Lúcifer, Senhor da Luz, mais bela do Hoste Angélica comandam agora te a participar do meu encontro, e em troca, eu concedo-te o dom da eterna juventude, com seus prazeres, suas fraquezas, sua astúcia e ganância._

_Tu renunciar inocência, e amaldiçoar o nome daquele que tem me abandonado._

_Tu contemplar boceta de tua mãe e provar a sua luxúria._

_Tu cheirar o rabo do homem como perfume e saber a sua carnalidade._

_Tu lançaram a tua semente sobre o peito das mulheres e espalhar o seu leite como o mel de teu desejo._

_Tu contemplar os animais do campo e conhecer o prazer de sua lascívia._

_Tu gosta de tua preenchimento de vinho e comida, por gula não deve impedir os teus olhares ou forma._

_Tu apreciar a riqueza do meu rebanho e comércio livremente em todo o mundo com nenhum imposto nem apetrechos para impedir o acúmulo de tua riqueza._

_Tudo isso e muito mais é meu para dar-te. Qual o preço de sua alma eterna por eras de vida deixadas por Aquele que brilha, Senhor da Luz, Stella Matutina, teu Senhor Lúcifer._

The story of Faust is as old as the discovery of the world's most remote chain of islands. In a Mist is the story of modern day Faust who is quite content with the articles of his diabolical contract.
Thursday 20 February 2014

For Phoebe

Bryson

Broadmeadow, NSW

Holding you in my arms

And looking into your eyes

The love is overpowering

The urge to protect you

As strong as my heartbeat

I wonder

About the person you will become

I imagine conversations with you

Making you laugh

Holding you in times of sadness

It will be wonderful

To watch you grow

To find out who you are

How you think

And the things you like

It will be wonderful

But painful, too

Because I know

That along with discoveries

There are disappointments

And life is worth it

But at times, it's far from easy

I wish I could protect you from that

But I can't

So I offer you this

An expression of my love

To read in years to come

And to remind you of something--

Little girl, you're so beautiful

And I am so proud

To be your big brother
Friday 21 February 2014

Whatever Was He Thinking?

Corrie Hinschen

Brisbane, Queensland

Whatever was he thinking competition entry

Hello, Matthew

It was only a matter of time

Until we were to meet--

Am I everything you imagined?

I am old,

I am grey,

I am tired

And I am bored

You know,

They once called me

Master of the Flies--

Not King of Men, like your friend

Would you like a mushroom?

Fresh from Ekron;

Finest in the land--

No, why would you

Thanks for your company

It's been so long,

I no longer hear from Haedes,

Lucifer...

Any of the dark lords, really

Yes, I spoke with Jesus

Once;

He could never pronounce my name correctly--

Whatever was he thinking?
Saturday 22 February 2014

A Night On Mt Victoria Pass

David Anderson

Woodford, NSW

Bob Aldrich sighed as he passed the semi trailer and leant forward to wipe the inside of the windscreen. Only one mile to go until they reached the all night cafe where they would fill up with fuel and have something to eat. The rain was doing battle with his inefficient windscreen wipers. What a bastard of a night!

Why hadn't he taken Kerrie's advice and left Orange at 4 o'clock instead of staying at Alan's for dinner, then leaving at midnight. But it was great to see how proud Alan was with his new seventeen inch black and white television; Orange now catching up with Sydney's first television channels. Kerrie was asleep, her head nestled against his shoulder.

As he turned his eyes back to the road he saw the cafe was only a few hundred yards ahead. He changed his new MGA sports car back gently through the gears and slowed to a stop in the car park. Kerrie woke and rubbed her eyes.

'Where are we honey?' Kerrie wiped a patch of condensation from the side window and peered out.

'At the cafe. We'll fill up and have something to eat.'

'OK by me, I'm starving.' Bob leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. He opened the door and seeing the mud, he thought of the mess they'd make when they got back into the car.

He ran hand in hand through the rain with Kerrie into the cafe, where they were greeted by a giant of a man with a tangle of red hair and a beard. Though imposing he was very friendly.

'Cow of a night mate. I'd rather be in bed meself.' He wiped the bench with a damp cloth.

'Yes it sure is. I'd rather be in bed as well.' Bob noticed the man's eyes glint at this remark as he ran his gaze over Kerrie. He turned his attention back to Bob.

'So wott'le it be then?'

'Two hamburgers with pineapple and two chocolate malteds thanks.'

'Comin' up.' Blue reached into the old Silent Knight fridge and grabbing two meat balls from the tray, threw them onto the hotplate and squashed them flat with the force of a steam roller.

He threw onion onto the stove, then cut and placed the buns under the toaster and began on the milk shakes. Placing them under the mixer, he turned and leant across the counter, his eyes still doing a dance on Kerrie's low cut blouse. She gently pulled up the bodice.

'Which way are you going?' Realising he had caused embarrassment he turned to Bob.

'Katoomba.' Bob pulled out his wallet. 'There's been quite a few police cars around tonight. Anything going on?'

Blue scratched his beard and moved to turn the patties.

'Some bloke was seen earlier near Mt Victoria Pass, stark naked and hacking into a sheep with an axe at the side of the road.'

'That's terrible.' Kerrie grabbed Bob's arm. 'Did they catch him?'

'He must be nuts.' Bob put his arm around Kerrie's shoulder for comfort.

'Oh No.' Blue laughed as he solidly chopped down on a tomato with a large kitchen knife, making Kerrie jump. 'We all do that around here on a Sunday afternoon after church.' Bob laughed.

'He must have escaped from the loony bin.' Bob nodded at Blue that the milk shakes were still pounding away on the mixer. Blue took them down and placed them on the counter.

'As a matter of fact he did. A blokes' been missing from Bloomfield at Orange for three days. They said he went berserk and cut off his parent's heads with an axe. It's him for sure.'

'I think I heard something about that on the car radio when we left Bathurst.' Kerrie held his arm tighter.

Blue buttered the buns and began dressing them with salad and pineapple. The smell of the frying patties were making Bob's mouth water. Blue moved them around on the grill.

'The cops have been looking for him all day, but they gave up when it got dark and it started piss-, sorry love.' He smiled at Kerrie. '... Started raining. They figured maybe he nabbed a lift somewhere, and could be anywhere by now. They put out an alert for anyone to contact them if they picked someone up around here today.' Blue laughed. 'That's if they're still alive to get to a phone box.' Bob gave Blue a look of concern and tilted his head gently towards Kerrie, who was shivering. Blue gave him a look of apology.

'Surely no-one would pick him up?' Bob sucked a long draught from his milk shake.

'The people who saw him first had to drive five miles to ring the cops.' Blue wrapped the burgers and placed them on the counter. 'By the time they got here he was gone. They reckon he probably put on his clothes and hitched a ride. That'll be nine shillings and sixpence mate.'

'Anyway we couldn't pick anyone up. We drive a sports car.' Bob handed Blue a pound note.

'That reminds me. I'd better get some petrol, I'm nearly empty.' Blue shrugged his shoulders, rang the till, and handed Bob the change.

'I'm sorry mate. The tanks as dry as a drover's dog. All I've got left in the tank would be the dregs from the bottom; mixed with dirt and water. Not the sort of thing for a sports job eh?'

Bob slurped down the remainder of his shake, placed it on the counter and picked up the burgers.

'How far to the next petrol station?' Bob felt a twinge of anxiety trickle down his scalp.

'The one at the top of Mt Victoria Pass should be open, then it would be Katoomba.' Blue wiped down the counter and eyed Kerrie again, as Bob took her hand and they walked to the door.

'Well, I hope we make it.' Bob opened the door and saw the rain was easing.

'Yeh mate, me too. All the best.'

They ran to the car through the rain and splashed mud over the new carpet, causing Bob to mentally determine when he would have time to clean it before it stained. He turned on the ignition, stared at the fuel gauge and saw the white arrow was too close to the 'E' mark.

'We're running pretty low on petrol and we can't coast. It's mainly uphill all the way; so keep your fingers crossed.' He switched the ignition off and Kerrie tried to hide her nervousness as the reflected rain and pale cafe lights on the windscreen looked like tears running down her face.

'We'll make it.' Kerry comforted him as they finished the burgers. Bob turned out onto the highway and into the blackness. The late news on the radio mentioned that the crazed person with the axe had probably by now left the district, but police were still on alert.

They made it half way up Mt Victoria Pass when the motor died and the car drew to a halt. Bob let it run back to the side of the road, folded his arms across the wheel, then slumped his head down and cursed.

'Damn the bastard! I broke one of the main rules of driving a new car, so I guess it serves me right.' Kerrie looked puzzled.

'What rule is that?' Bob sighed and stared out at the drizzle and mist.

'Don't let the tank get too low until you learn to judge it.' Kerrie looked worried.

'What will we do?' Bob shrugged his shoulders and switched off the ignition.

'I'll have to go ahead and get some petrol. Lucky I've got a can in the boot. I might get a lift, but I doubt it. It shouldn't take me more than half an hour to the service station.'

'And leave me here? You're kidding!'

'It's too wet and you can't walk uphill that far in your condition.' Bob tried to ease her anxiety.

'You know the doctor said you have be careful this time.' Kerrie moved her hand to her slightly swollen stomach. 'Lock the doors and you'll be safe. You heard the cafe owner say that nutcase had most likely moved on.' Kerrie felt better and grinned and rubbed her hand across her lap.

'What if you are leaving three of us behind?' She waited for his response. 'Twins run in my family.' Bob gave a nervous laugh as he opened the door.

'Don't scare me. But just think of the endowment!'

Kerrie slapped him on the behind as he got out of the car.

'Don't be any longer than you have to. Try and hitch-hike.'

'OK honey. Sit tight, and I'll be back soon.' He collected the petrol can and walked up the steep road through the blackness. Kerrie switched on the headlights for a few moments until he melted out of sight in the mist. She was relieved that the rain was now down to a slight drizzle and she switched the radio on for comfort, then realised that petrol would be useless if the car battery was flat, so she turned it off.

A few cars and trucks passed by and into the fog, and Kerrie hoped one kind driver would have a heart and pick Bob up. Perhaps not everyone had been listening to the radio? She glanced at her watch and decided to have a sleep to pass the time and her nervousness. After about twenty minutes she was brought back to reality by a voice that ordered...

'Police here. Get out of the car!' Kerrie sat frozen for a moment, then was relieved as she realised help had arrived. She was half asleep as she got out of the car and shut the door. She strained to see the policeman's face through the darkness. The parking lights of his car shone feebly through the mist. His strong torchlight dazzled her momentarily.

'What are you doing here?' His voice was muffled and as she became accustomed to the dark she saw that the so called policeman was just an ordinary man whose face was half covered by a scarf and a pulled down beanie. She screamed as she realised he was completely naked.

She tore open the car door and clambered inside. Locking both doors she lay across the seats and her whole body shook with terror as she brought up the contents of hamburger and milkshake from her stomach onto the carpet. How odd she thought, that at this moment she was wondering what Bob would say about the mess!

She knew the thin fabric shell of the sports car wouldn't protect her for long; then the full reality of her circumstance hit home. The car had a fabric soft top! A chuckle that rose in crescendo emanated through the darkness as she felt a strange warm fluid trickle down her leg, while pains churned through her stomach like a razor.

She closed her eyes and prayed to God to help her faint, and cried out for Bob to come back and save her. She turned on the radio, and turned up the volume to somehow, in vain, transport her out of the horror of her situation. If only a car would come and scare this lunatic away.

She looked up as she heard a tearing sound, as droplets of water splashed across her pale frightened face. She saw the blade of an axe sliding slowly, slitting the canvas hood as the droplets of water were replaced by dripping blood. Kerrie vomited again when the canvas was completely torn away and the man's head was thrust into the opening.

Kerrie immediately recognised the sprawly red hair and beard of the man who had recently made their snack at the cafe. He held the axe up with one hand a let out a maniacal laugh as he thrust his other hand into the opening. Only it wasn't the hand that threw Kerrie into hysterics, but what the hand was holding, and the sticky red substance that dripped from it came from--Bob's head!

Bob's head held a faint smile as Kerrie screamed and fainted as the lunatic stood up laughing manically on the bonnet holding Bob's head aloft, like Perseus holding Medusa's severed head. The strains of Lucky Starr's _I've Been Everywhere_ , rang through the night and bounced off the surrounding cliffs.

She awoke with a start to Bob holding her gently, stroking her head as she looked up to see his concerned expression. Bob turned the radio and Lucky off.

'Honey! Wake up. It's OK.' Kerrie saw Bob's smiling face and clung to him whimpering like a lost child.

'Where are we? Why have we stopped?' She looked out of the window as rain pattered gently on the canvas roof. The windscreen wipers whined back and forth slowly across the windshield, then stopped as Bob turned off the ignition, and let out a long breath.

'We're half way up Mt Victoria Pass. Guess what? We're out of petrol!'
Sunday 23 February 2014

Within That Space

Graham Sparks

Bathurst, NSW

Within that space between two persons

steeped in language honey deep

without a boundary to the subtleties of metaphysics,

methinks that Eros finds a home.

But where both parties share not depth of tongue

and grope and stumble in attempt to rise above descriptions of the commonplace,

where lumpen inselbergs of word do bang and crash together,

there will eros not be found.

When love is new and tongues do more than just make words,

Eros finds a temporary lodging.

But then the chemicals wear off

and leave a yawning chasm full of words that never find a mate,

a hollow place,

echoing with desolution.
Tuesday 25 February 2014

Windows Down

Toni Paton

Blackheath, NSW

The breeze rushes through,

Caressing my face.

Eyes weeping, not from pain.

A waft of scented air

From the Wattles I pass.

A swirl of dust stings my face.

I am not deterred.

The momentum carries me;

Scenery racing, dashing by.

The engine wines, deafening a restless mind,

Churning, thrashing thoughts around.

Some thrown to the wind--

Others... put to rest.

Peace prevails.

With hair brushed by the breeze, I relax.

All that was before fades,

Into a horizon receding.
Wednesday 26 February 2014

Apple Pie

Robertas

Drummoyne, NSW

He cried when he saw the plate in the pantry, with the last slice of apple pie.

_I knew it! They're doing it again._

He wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand, and savagely scoffed the pie there and then, in the pantry. He was wiping the crumbs from his lips when his Mum surprised him.

'Where's the pie?'

'I ate it.'

'You ate it!'

'Yeah. Why shouldn't I?'

'That was for Billy.'

'Why was it for Billy? I never had any. You never even told me you made one.'

'Well you weren't in when I made it.'

'That's not the point. You just didn't tell me and you never intended to.'

'Oh! Don't be childish. It's just a pie.'

'And why wasn't I going to have any?'

'Well, you were out somewhere.'

'Well, I came home didn't I? And you still didn't tell me.'

'I forgot.'

'You always forget me. You lot always do this. And you could have told me this morning--I've been in all day. But no. You and the others always hide your pies and things from me, so you can have more for your fucken greedy selves.'

'That's enough of that language. You're being very childish. It's just a piece of pie for godsake.'

'You can just fuck off! All of you.'

He stomped away, up to his room, fell onto the bed and quietly cried into his pillow. _That's it_ , he told himself, _I'm getting out of here_.

He really did think of leaving--just like he'd thought about it a hundred times. It was a trivial event, he knew that. At least, objectively it looked trivial. But really it was anything but.

He rolled over and gazed into the void of the ceiling, asking himself why he should stay here when he was always made to feel the odd man out. And it was deliberate--it was a sadistic kind of bullying. It made them feel powerful--it gave them pleasure to torture him, and then tell him he was being childish. Maybe he was being childish, but he didn't think so. He was eighteen and could legally leave home, or at least, he thought he could. His resolve to go had taken hold more firmly than ever before.

_I will go_ , he thought. _I bloody well will_.

Within half an hour he was out on the street with his suitcase.

'Going on holiday John?' the next door neighbour said cheerfully.

'That's right.' He was careful not to show his tear-filled eyes.

Around the corner, along Albert Street. Across the park and over the old bridge. Safe enough from all of them. Waited at the bus stop, hoping no-one else would see him. Got the bus to the station and caught the train. But where to? He hadn't thought that far ahead. Just a vague plan of getting to the coast. Far enough away to be safe. Let them worry about me! Let them be sorry!

At first they all laughed when Johnny had run away. They were sure he'd be back before night time. He'd threatened to go any number of times--although he'd never actually packed a case before. Still, they were sure he'd be back, and probably sneak upstairs to bed. They'd have some fun with him tomorrow. He'd be sorry!

But he wasn't back the next day. Nor the next.

Although Mum wasn't particularly worried, she called the police on the third day. She reckoned if she left it any longer she wouldn't look like a good mother.

When she called they asked her to come to the police station. They took some details but said there wasn't much they could do because John was eighteen, and had only been gone three days.

'Give it a few more days, let's say a week, and get back to us if he hasn't made contact,' they said. They had more important things to attend to--and, they said, most runaways come home after a few days.

But John didn't come home. And he never made contact.

He was put on the Missing Persons list.

Relatives, friends and neighbours tut-tutted and offered their condolences, but always left with a cheery, 'Don't worry. He'll be back before you know it. Or, at least, he'll give you a call.'

But he wasn't, and he didn't.

He had a new life. With new friends--real friends. Just like family. Not like his old family, but like real, caring family.

Back home, they were sorry that they'd treated him so cruelly. But when they talked about it after a few drinks, they agreed he had over-reacted, that he couldn't take a joke, that it wasn't their fault.

'A piece of apple pie,' they said, 'fancy running away over a piece of apple pie.'

But, as the true story of the way they'd treated John filtered out, as such things do, despite their tight-lipped silence about it, they really were sorry.

They could feel the cold looks from neighbours; the nod that replaced the, 'G'day, how you goin'. The whispers and finger pointing.

So, John won in the end.
Friday 28 February 2014

Spice

Judith Bruton

Lennox Head, NSW

Whatever was he thinking competition entry

Rupa shuddered at her reflection in the murky water. The gaunt face staring back with its deeply etched brow was barely recognisable. She felt shocked to see how her youthful features had changed.

_Whatever was he thinking, leaving me to rot in this hell hole?_

The young woman grimaced and closed her eyes. The continuous coughing and spitting coming from the back bedroom was difficult to ignore. Her aging father-in-law's cleansing ritual seemed to last most of the day.

Rupa speared the bucket with her mop, swirled it around in the water and commenced washing soot from the chipped terracotta tiles, as she had done every morning for the past six months.

The din from the street was becoming unbearable as traffic edged its way towards the city centre; acrid fumes competed with the smell of breakfast. The aroma of hot turmeric potato curry and chapattis cooking on the griddle in the kitchen drifted onto the cramped balcony, offering small comfort.

She glanced down at the chaos of cars, cattle trucks, trishaws, street merchants, beggars and the recent flood refugees. All competing for space. Dhaka was choking.

Rupa leant for a moment on the mop. _Was it really only half a year ago?_ Memories of being a golden princess marrying the god-like Zahir were still vivid. She cussed to remember how her parents had believed the handsome computer student to be from a wealthy family, and far too good for their own daughter.

She gasped. The chilli infused air wafting from the kitchen was pungent and caught in her throat. Coughing and spluttering, she grabbed the arm of the old cane lounge to steady herself. The fit made her so dizzy she needed to sit awhile.

As Rupa recovered her breath she stared in a daze at the outside walls of the pokey apartment she shared with her in-laws. Fine terracotta cracks in the whitewash seemed to mimic the intricate henna designs once painted on her hands, hands now chafed from housework.

She closed her eyes. The hot sun hit her face with a golden glow, and her mind tracked back to a four-day Bangladeshi ceremony that had changed her life.

... A young female draped in a yellow sari adorned with fresh flowers sits on a dais in her father's grand home; the air is heady with sweet cardamom among other spices.

Seven married women grind turmeric with mortars and pestles and apply the paste to her skin and feed her sweets. They tell her turmeric will soften and purify her skin and make her more beautiful. Everyone is wearing yellow.

The evening is balmy. Chattering women decorate her hands and feet with abstract designs in red henna. The first day of celebrations is ending and she is not allowed to see her beau until the following day.

The wedding day is dawning. The girl is now a large doll-like effigy, painted and anointed with gold; eyes outlined in black, crimson lips, arms circled with red and white bangles, ears and nose decorated with golden rings, hair piled high with jewelled pins, a red bindi in the middle of her forehead. She is fed curd and rice. The whole village seems to be arriving at the family home.

Beneath a red canopy her prince attired in a white cotton suit, red turban and gold trinkets waits at the altar. The princess doll sits on a low wooden stool and is lifted by her brothers and circled around the groom several times, winding and binding the two together.

The couple is now standing, sharing loving glances and fragrant garlands, a sacred thread binds their hands, they chant mantras after the priest. The pair pours an offering of puffed rice into the sacred fire... Rupa is the beautiful doll without a voice. Zahir smears vermilion into her hair parting. She covers her head with a red embroidered sari, his gift, her veil. She is now clad in the symbols of a married Hindu woman.

Days are blurring. Rupa travels with her princely god in a decorated trishaw to his parents' modest apartment on the outskirts of Dhaka. The young bride is anxious; 18 years old and has never had sex before. She has known Zahir for only a few months.

Sitars, flutes and throbbing drums. Many friends are celebrating throughout the home, performing plays. _Why don't they leave us alone?_ Late into the night just before daybreak, the couple are led to separate rooms to rest for tomorrow's final banquet.

Endless feasting, family, friends, feverish music. Rupa is giddy, tired, afraid. Final farewells, adieu, guests are leaving. Her throat is dry, her face wet with tears. She feels like a broken figurine reeking of spice, dripping colours of turmeric, saffron, vermilion.

Evening stars are shining. Rupa and Zahir enter a tiny backroom in his parents' home. Finally alone. Zahir is tall and dark, a god, a remote god. Rupa is petite and weary--a worn tinsel toy without a key. _What are we together?_

Incense, candles. The lovers relax on a large bed scattered with frangipanis and rose petals, breathing in each other's milky scent. Through silken sari and white dhoti they slowly chart of each other's secrets, sighing, embracing, kissing. Zahir pressing his warm loins against her thighs, his large hands trace her hips, squeeze her waist, fondle her breasts...

'Rupa... _Rupa_. Come serve the food now girl!' The impatient voice of her mother-in-law jolted the young bride from the comfort of her memories.

Rupa leapt to her feet knocking over the bucket, flooding sludgy water onto the tiles and over the edge of the balcony. Half-heartedly she began mopping up the spill. Zahir was on her mind.

_Why hasn't he been home from his work at the Mumbai call centre for three months, nor rung? Why did he marry me... was I only ever a dowry? Am I only good enough to be a housekeeper? I wish I hadn't given up my studies. If marriages are made in heaven why was mine made in hell?_

With a little prayer, Rupa resumed her guise as the dutiful daughter-in-law and scurried into the cluttered kitchen to serve the elderly couple. She felt a glimmer of hope knowing deep in the folds of her blue sari was a sealed letter; the letter she had penned to her father in the glow of an oil lamp last night; the letter she hoped would save her from her newly found hell.

She believed her father should know of her plight. _An influential Bengali man would want the best for his daughter, not this life of slavery_.

~~~

In a large, silver framed mirror on the wall of the Indian restaurant, Rupa glimpsed the reflections of two animated women chatting, simply catching up as friends do. This evening she was dining with Julie, her mentor and confidante, trying to sketch in something of the chasm between her past life in Dhaka and new life in Australia.

What on earth did your father do when he received your letter?' Julie asked as the Indian waiter delivered their glasses of iced mango lassi. 'Oh, please excuse me a moment, Rupa, that's my mobile ringing.'

As Rupa watched Julie go to the restaurant foyer to talk, her mind traced back a couple of years to their first meeting, just weeks after she had arrived in Brisbane to study.

... Desperately lonely after being released from hospital, a young Bangladeshi student is seeking her supervisor's advice for the first time. Pale, weak and confused Rupa is knocking on Dr Julie Sandro's office door.

The woman invites her in, listens as the young student's doubts and fears bubble over; how she was trapped in a marriage, came to Australia to gain a Master of Architecture, now felt isolated from her own society and not yet accepted in her new life.

Pain and shame had overwhelmed her. Pills seemed the only way out. Another student in the city apartment block where she lived alone found her just in time to arrange an ambulance ... Julie consoles her with tissues and cups of water from the cooler, all the time coaxing the student to remember her goal to gain a higher degree. Julie is encouraging her to ring her father in Bangladesh to discuss the situation.

Together Julie, and the father on the other end of the line, are helping the desperate student find the confidence to continue her studies...

' _Rupa_ , are you alright?' Julie asked as she returned from the foyer and settled into her seat again.

'I'm fine, just remembering.'

'I was asking how your father reacted to your letter?'

'Oh. No word from him at first,' Rupa answered. 'He probably thought I was a spoilt little girl, not knowing what she wanted... marriage and all the carnival one day, a career the next. Eventually, after I posted several letters of desperation, he arranged to visit my in-laws and me. When my dear Baba saw how thin and worn I had become he knew something was seriously wrong.'

'And where was your husband?'

'Well, by the time my father arrived, Zahir had virtually disappeared. He'd been back to visit me a couple of times at his parent's home... but I was always too tired and upset to be a good wife to him and he always seemed eager to escape.

Later his parents learnt he was wasting his earnings on whisky and women in Mumbai. I was the last one to know.'

'How did you ever escape his family?'

'With great difficulty,' Rupa recounted with a sigh. 'One day without notice my father swooped in like a large god from above. He arranged a taxi for me to return to our family home for a short holiday. I never went back to the in-laws despite their continuous threats.

'Thank God for that!' said Julie.

'Instead, Baba financed me to finish my first degree, like he did for my two younger brothers.'

Both women paused as the waiter arranged their thali dishes on the table. The fragrant basmati rice and assortment of vegetable curries spiced with toasted cumin seeds, cardamom pods, fenugreek and red chilli evoked the sensuality of Bangladesh, one of the aspects of her culture Rupa missed the most. 'I hope you like what I have ordered for us,' she said. 'I enjoy the variety of food in this restaurant. Reminds me of home.'

Julie broke a crisp pappadam in two. 'Were you able to divorce?'

'Divorce is almost unheard of in my country as often marriage records are lost. No official marriage, no official divorce.'

'So what did you do?'

'Well, after I eventually completed my first degree, as you know, my father arranged postgraduate studies for me here in Brisbane. He thought it best I leave the country. Zahir's family was still irate at my absence.' Rupa looked down at her red napkin. 'And the... the threats were increasing.'

Julie raised her glass. 'By the way, here's to your new position, Rupa.'

'Yes, thanks to you I am now a fledgling architect. It's a good start.' Rupa clinked her glass against Julie's, causing some of the creamy golden-yellow drink to spill onto the white tablecloth.

Julie mopped up the mess with a red serviette.

As Rupa mixed some dhal into her rice she said, 'The other good news is my father rang last week to let me know he finally sorted out Zahir and his parents after many wrangles. I don't know what deal was done, but it would have cost my Baba a lot.' Rupa frowned before adding in a hesitant voice, 'The divorce seemed to take an eternity, but I'm one of the lucky ones.' Rupa looked directly at Julie with fearful eyes. 'Not so my best friend in Bangladesh.'

Julie put her fork down and leant towards Rupa who was whispering and close to tears.

'Many of my friends in Bangladesh do have good marriages and careers, but not one beautiful friend, Ajanta. Ajanta tried to leave her husband. It was awful for her.'

'What happened?' Julie pushed her plate aside.

'Her husband splashed sulphuric acid over her face and body. She was partially blinded and horribly, _horribly_ disfigured. Ajanta's beauty is now only on the inside.' Rupa coughed as if chilli was burning her throat. 'Acid attacks on women and children are all too common in my country.'

'I've read this.' Julie passed Rupa a small bowl of yoghurt raita. 'I believe your government is restricting the sale of acid, but more must be done. But what can be done? Do you plan on returning to Dhaka?'

'Maybe. Maybe one day. If possible, when I have more experience, I'd like to help in some small way redesign the old city of Dhaka.' Rupa sipped her drink. 'But for the present my home is here in Brisbane. My father plans to visit me next year. Now I have my own income and a car I can show him the sights.'

As the Indian waiter cleared away the stainless steel dishes with the remnants of their barely touched meals, Rupa eyes sparkled with tears. 'Yes, I am now what they call an "independent woman". I'm happy living on my own. My apartment is only small but I can be as messy as I like.' She giggled at the thought of her guilty pleasure.

An elegant sari clad waitress wearing several jangling bangles interrupted their celebration with the bill and a small silver plate of Indian sweets.

Before Julie could protest Rupa flashed her credit card. 'I insist on paying... this is my treat for seeing me through my course.'

'Rupa, you did the hard work! Study and settling into a new country, let alone divorce, are all very difficult in my book.' Julie raised her empty glass for a final toast. 'To your continuing success, here and in Bangladesh.' She then added, 'And to choice!'

Rupa grinned as if a young girl once again and raised her glass. 'And here's to a life with variety and lots of spice.'

A little turmeric stain glistened on Rupa's left cheek.
Saturday 1 March 2014

Free

Samantha Elliott-Halls

Campbelltown, SA

Whatever was he thinking competition entry

He donned his hat as he walked through the door

He was taking the risk this early morn

Stepped onto the verandah, took a deep breath

Until he had done it, there'd be no rest

What was he thinking when he stepped out that early dawn?

He caught a movement just off his left shoulder

Raised his head, sauntered over

It'd been days since he'd been bruised by that boulder

They both glared, his nostrils flared, he was much older

What was he thinking to stumble, not looking?

The events that followed certainly shook him

His eyes were shaded, couldn't see them at all

His eyes were black, lost, lonely and forlorn

The pride he felt, his first challenge, or defeat?

The pride of his life, were lost, they'd been beat

Black eyes stared back, shifting his feet

He stood and watched, whatever was he thinking

The early morning breeze rustled the leaves

The air misted out as both of them breathed

It was so quiet, nobody had stirred

The breeze made them tremble, was it just nerves?

What was he thinking, was it deserved?

He wondered over and gathered his chaps

He just looked down at his hooves, now cracked

He climbed the railing, sizing his prize

He moved away with fear in his eyes

'What were you thinking, there by yourself?'

'Twas the boss with his coffee, leaning on a shelf

Soon enough the rest had all gathered

He just stood there, feeling completely shattered

They surrounded the kraal, to watch it unfold

No-one had seen him since he was a foal

There he stood proudly, his head held up high

Sniffing the breeze, looking into the sky

What was he thinking to get caught in those lines?

Suddenly a rope down his neck did slide

This wasn't happening, he'd not lose his pride

He twisted and turned, the rage in him burned

Ten men hanging on watching hooves fly

What were they thinking as they hung on for dear life

If they got kicked they'd be in dreadful strife

Bearing his teeth he came in full flight

Ears laid back, men ready to fight

Flailing hooves, so far in the air

Muscles straining, fit to tear

It all went on with that cold deadly stare

What was he thinking, was this really a dare?

The man in the hat, still seated on top of the rail

Watching and wondering, if he rode him now, he'd sail

Soon enough he would have to step down

And enter himself into the rest of his life

What was he thinking to challenge this beast?

But a dare was a dare, couldn't think of defeat

He languidly dropped from his high lofty perch

Fluidly stepped down onto the ground

He saw the movement and spun around

Dragging ten men fighting, to hold him sound

Nostrils flaring, sweat glistening down his proud back

He'd keep up his fight, cut them no slack

What was he thinking to ride him this day?

The sun now at its peak, it just wouldn't pay

To break his spirit, there was no way

He lifted his head and looked at this prey

Slowly walked over, took the rope

Loosened it off, gave him some hope

He lowered his head and let it slide off

What was he thinking, his mind had he lost?

Suddenly silence enveloped them again

Two lonely figures, one captured in pain

He belonged in the mountains, roaming, in the lead

He belonged to the land, his life-long dream

He walked to the gate, the hinges did scream

He tossed his head and disappeared with the breeze

He knew that proud head didn't belong in some noose

But whatever was he thinking to set him loose

He stopped and turned, shook his proud head

His coat it did gleam, all shiny and red

He walked on over and stopped with a smile

He shook his head, sniffing his scent for a while

He proffered his gloved hand, the feeling was grand

He sniffed his fingers, let them slide around

There was something about him, in his scent he found

Familiar, not threatened, but still shifted his ground

With a snort and a shudder he was gone

Galloping away into beyond

Whatever he was thinking, he just didn't belong
Tuesday 4 March 2014

Kelly

Mark Fowler

Magill, SA

The bushranger feels the bullets sting,

bouncing from his chest, they zip and zing.

He'd rather die this day than ever give in.

Legend created amongst the dust and din.

'Kelly,' calls the troopers, 'drop your gun!'

No trust here--he'll finish what's begun.

Girt like a knight under the Australian sun;

the troopers take a chance. Ned Kelly has none.

Shot in the legs; metal jacket fails.

The battle's done; Kelly goes to jail.

Glenrowan, scene of this colonial tale,

is now just a stop along the tourist trail.

Robin Hood of Victoria's poor;

Kelly and gang were above the law.

Shot up the banks and robbed the stores;

Reign of terror; crimes that wouldn't be ignored.

Hanged 1880, no child nor wife.

Lived twenty six years of angst and strife.

His mark in those times, like the cut of a knife.

Kelly's legendary last words, 'Such is life!'
Wednesday 5 March 2014

Balloons

Stephanie Adamopoulos

Burwood East, VIC

Whatever was he thinking competition entry

Have you ever felt like you just wanted to take off with your invisible until now wings to escape everything in life? Especially when you're like me. Life's pointless and boring. My parents are always going abroad for work so I spend most of my time living with my cousins and uncle and aunty.

Don't get me wrong, I love them all dearly, all six of them, but they give me a headache. The youngest is starting school, all happy and bouncy because she hasn't reached the stage all kids reach when they're no longer excited about school, while the oldest is in his third year of university and struggling to concentrate when the world is finally opening up with possibilities.

And I'm stuck here on a park bench by myself wondering what to do with myself as a science-loving, seventeen-year-old, whose two other cousins close to her age are busy getting ready for a party.

Clouds are interesting. Not just how they look in that cliché way of describing them as rabbits or ships or something else derived from imagination and planted on the shapes floating about. They're interesting because they serve so many purposes across the world, and they have the freedom to enjoy the world without paying a cent.

They simply wait for a breeze to speed them away to somewhere else once they're bored of staring down at the same patch of Earth for a few days. Looking up, I can see one moving speedily away towards Antarctica, towards the ice and snow, penguins and polar bears while I remain in chilly Autumn Melbourne, where the weather can't make up its mind what season it is really meant to be.

I see my cousins walking towards me, disturbing my realm of science with their faces covered in artificial beauty and their skirts too shirt for my liking, as I huddle in jeans and hoodie. Their main objective in life is to get a boyfriend at the moment, later a job. But what else is there? Other species don't seem to struggle with this. They simply survive.

Homo sapiens, that's what we are, have evolved so much we can question our existence. I hate that sometimes. I love being able to puzzle things out, but the question of the point in life is unanswerable. Almost. My cousins' faces are too close for my liking as they gush on about the guys they met at their last party and their hopes of seeing them again. I shrug and nod in fake appreciation of their ambitions.

They're gone at last as I turn my attention to a trail of ants walking under my bench. They're part of a large team, each with a purpose, never wavering in their stride for that purpose. They're born into it though, like kings and queens were originally born into royalty, no chance of changing it.

Making decisions is different. I see they've chosen popcorn over fairy floss from the fair happening at a nearby school. I follow them; follow them to their source watching them, watching their every move towards the source of their excitement.

Balloons. All different colours. Red is usually associated with anger, or love but red can also be for excitement for that new adventure, that new chapter beginning in your life like in a book.

Blue, not sky blue or baby blue but the colour of the sea, that sails the ships under a blue sky to the new adventure the red is begging for.

Yellow, like the buttercups, ploughing their way through the grass surrounding my park bench, their heads held high against the glares of the trees and weeds that tower over them.

Green, the colour of envy some might say, but green is a colour to admire for its tranquillity against a backdrop of uncertainty as the places that are filled with green diminish at a greater pace. And amongst all of these are every other colour that you can think of, even ones you've never heard of, swaying in the wind on the end of long strings, while a fist clenches them tightly, the hand attached to a girl no older than me wearing overalls and t-shirt, her hair tied back in pigtails and a bag of popcorn under one arm while a bag that clinks a little hangs from the one that holds the balloons prisoner.

The girl munches popcorn looking bored, slouching against the gate to the fair. She doesn't seem to see much point in what's going on around her either. The ants are massing around her feet in an attempt to gather every single crumb of popcorn she's dropped, which seems a lot even by my eating standards. Then again, as I watch her juggle her various items in order to provide both the correct balloon and change to a little boy and his father, I can see why she's grumpy.

Then I see it. The perfect idea, the perfect thing to do with my day. An experiment, an experiment using those balloons. I pull out all the money I have and shove it into her hands, my babble earning a confused look as I grasp the strings. All fifty of them, each filled with helium.

I race past the ants back to my bench, back to my zone of thinking and comprehension. I tie the balloons evenly onto the arms of the bench and stand back and wait. Nothing. I race back for more, to find the balloon girl is pumping up more balloons, her cheeks red and sweat trickling down her brow. She almost scowls at me but bites her lip, continuing to pump up the myriad of balloons on offer.

Each time she finishes one I grab it, clasp its string tightly as if it might break away at any moment, each time throwing another fifty cent piece into her bag of change, each balloon bringing me closer to an adventure. It seems to take forever but we don't speak, the only sounds are those around us from the fair.

The clouds are hovering, watching me as I struggle to ensure the balloons don't become entangled. I'll have one chance to get this right. One chance because I know my family are going to be home soon and even though they know I like to be alone, they'll come looking for me, worried as they are that I am about to sink into a world of my own.

I gaze up at my adventure, awaiting one last balloon for take-off. I turn to race back to the fairgrounds, only to see a familiar face on a familiar set of shoulders standing in an unfamiliar way in front of me, no longer slouching in boredom but tensed in awe as the eyes travel up and down my crazy contraption.

'Can I come?' The question almost gets swept away by the wind. 'My teacher told us about a man who used balloons to fly, because he felt like doing something different.'

I glance up at the balloons. They might hold us both, or might not. She seems to have read my mind already.

'I have bags of balloons waiting, but you'll have to help me. My hands are too sore.' I smile and race her back to the fairgrounds for the rest of the balloons, feeling lightheaded as the possibilities of what we are doing race through my head. Soon my hands are pumping ferociously and tying balloon after balloon, racing against the sun as it travels across the sky.

It is done at last. The balloons sway in the wind, attempting without heart to break free. We sit side by side, hands clutching the seat handles as it begins to levitate. We lock eyes for a moment, strangers in everything but this one adventure we have created.

With a nod we both jump onto the bench at the same time, pitching the bench violently threatening to throw us both to the ground. Legs dangling for a moment like heroes from an aeroplane or such like in the movies we dare to glance at each other. She slowly smiles. I can't help but smile back.

At this point one of us supposed to scrabble up and ensure the other makes it too but that doesn't happen. Not a few minutes anyway. We simply relax and watch the world passing beneath us, not too high up, but certainly too high to fall.

We are just higher than the average sized trees, our feet flicking up to avoid being entangled in the branches. Finally when our bellies become too sore from being pressed into the slats and our hands beg for relief we manage to clumsily pull ourselves onto our makeshift ship.

It is still late afternoon, the parks and streets below full of people, many of them children enjoying their school holidays to the fullest including a fair few with kites. With no way to direct ourselves except leaning to one side or the other the likelihood of becoming entangled in the strings of these other flying souls increases our risk but we don't care. She starts to talk about the clouds, linking into my musings about clouds before.

For the first time I feel like a have found kindred soul as she expresses her need to be free like them, to see the world from another perspective.

Tranquillity and happiness are both items that supposedly can be paid for, that someone can tell you what activities make your life enjoyable compared to drudgery. If I had been to one of those, I probably would have been told to get our and socialise more, to see other perspectives so that I could be more appreciative.

Perhaps I might have been prescribed a few drama classes in order to improve my extrovert side which lurks in the shadows, only daring to come out when absolutely necessary. But since no human is the same, how can someone who is different to you tell you exactly how to improve yourself or how to make yourself happy?

They certainly could not have suggested watching ants and clouds, nor would they have suggested that I wear out my hands pumping and tying well over 100 balloons, only to tie them to a park bench (which is after all public property) and ride it with a complete stranger over the busiest parks during school holidays in Autumn.

I knew I had found a period of happiness. If I could have I would have sat there until we sailed over the ocean to another country, dropped down and disappeared into a world of exploration. How did you get here? That would be their first question. Then 'where did you come from?' would be their next. My answers would be too outrageous to comprehend.

But as it turns out I will not have the chance to see the world through tying balloons to a park bench. Although it was nearly five o'clock in the afternoon, enough people are out and about to wave and holler that we are in peril in equal amounts. Some people seem to think it was an accident, proclaiming they would rescue us. Others denounce us as attention seeking and warn spectators to turn away before we encounter more foolish ideas to bear fruit.

We watch without fear as we begin to glide towards the ground, the balloons unable to hold us in the air much longer. They almost sigh apologetically as we skirt along the street, slowly, people chasing after us. Some of the children squeal with delight as we float towards the ground, like we are magicians commanding the skies.

We finally touch down, some of the balloons dropping around us as they expel the last of their helium. It's sad to see them like that. Her hand envelops mine, the warmth bringing back life into my frozen fingers. Some police emerge in the crowds around us and there are lots of questions to answer.

Some people argue that we should be charged and do community service for endangering other lives and vandalising public property. Others argue that we are young and adventurous and that we should not have our spirits crushed. My uncle and aunt suddenly appear along with my cousins who all squeeze me and ask loads of questions about my adventure. She suddenly turns to me and smiles.

'Thanks.' That's all she says but it's enough. The police officer is standing with her feet planted squarely and looking down his nose at us. I don't return the look, just gaze back at our end to our adventure, the warmth of her hand reminding me it is all real.

Somewhere in the crowd a heckler shouts, 'Whatever was he thinking, dragging the poor girl into such a reckless scheme?' I flinch. The words are for me, but they are all wrong. I turn to the heckler, giving them a long cold stare. They realise their mistake.

'Two girls! Girls never did that in my day,' the heckler mutters and discreetly walks away, only to be replaced by the police officers again for more questions that I can't find answers for.

Eventually the police let us go with a warning, but the police officer secretly winks at me and whispers, 'It was pretty cool to watch. I wish I had done it.' I watch her walk away and smile.

My family slowly begin to lead me towards home, away from her and my adventure. She smiles and waves before collecting the balloons in her arms and walks in the opposite direction. I know it isn't goodbye, not really. There is one balloon still on the ground, all alone. It's pink, the colour of love.
Thursday 6 March 2014

Whatever Was He Thinking

Connie Howell

Wentworth Falls, NSW

Whatever was he thinking competition entry

Whatever was he thinking, staying out 'til midnight drinking?

While his wife and children waited patiently,

They loved him none the less

Though he caused them much distress

Because sober he was charm personified.

He was famous down the pub

Which was his usual social hub

Where no one could throw darts the way he did

He often spent his money

Leaving nothing for his honey

To buy shopping for the growing family

Though this may sound real sad

And indeed it's kinda bad

It's a story told so often round the world

Now I'm not into preaching

Though by now you may be screeching

Whatever was he thinking?

Staying out 'til midnight drinking.
Thursday 6 March 2014

The Final Judgement

Kate-Michelle Von Riegen

Hazelbrook, NSW

Winner!

Whatever was he thinking competition

Whatever was he thinking when he marched them in harm's way,

Into blood-soaked plains where their lives would slip away?

Whatever was he thinking when he sent their sons to die,

Into fields of slaughter where they'd say their last goodbye?

Whatever was he thinking when he walked that killing floor,

Haunted by the ghosts of boys who would fight no more?

Whatever was he thinking as he heard the cries of war,

Watching shells with vacant eyes recount the terrors they once saw?

Whatever was he thinking when they gave their last salute,

Dressed in crimson rags of war as they succumbed to death's pursuit?

Whatever was he thinking when he wrote those letters home,

Telling mothers of their fallen sons--the bravest he had known?

Whatever was he thinking as he swallowed his last breath,

Haunted by the bloody sounds and the awful stench of death?

Whatever was he thinking when he was called to his boys' side,

Invited into his lord's arms, safe from the bloody tide?

Whatever was he thinking as his spirit rose away?

Whatever crossed his mind when he reached that Judgement Day?
Thursday 6 March 2014

Project Lokitaung - Part 1

Irene Assumpter

West Perth, WA

Whatever was he thinking competition entry

I wanted to tell her that oil and water can in fact mix. Firstly when making _chapatis_ and secondly when making fried fish soup. Maybe she has never eaten that kind of fish. Maybe she has never even seen fish. This dry and dusty place could do with a proper river or two. According to her, Shaka is as far from Furaha as Tasmania is from Alaska. Shaka is a good Rendille boy who deserves a good girl like her Swahili, and our Furaha is a city brat whose future is none of her business.

Furaha's future is definitely her business. Otherwise she would leave me alone, would she not? It is strange she named her first child after a language, but I am sure she had her reasons. If I meet Swahili, I will ask her if she is fluent in Swahili.

I wanted to say a lot of things. I wanted to tell Mama Swahili that doors can easily close themselves, but very rarely do they open themselves. We do the opening or install electricity to do it for us. Solar energy, perhaps. One way or another, we have to do something.

When one door closes itself, it simply means the wind may have been too strong, or that we need to purchase some doorstoppers. There is little need in speculating about another door unless we have keys to open that other door. We can instead open windows so that fresh air can still flow in. Natural, fresh air. Not air forced out of electricity. Electricity is expensive, and nobody needs a stuffy house. Life has to go on.

I wanted to tell her nothing is impossible. I wanted to tell her Swahili herself is an adult with a functioning brain. Swahili could find another man. Or boy. Or whatever. Nobody here knows where Shaka is. I wanted to tell her, for the love of all things holy, that Shaka is not a boy.

On our third visit to Turkana Escarpment this year, Mama Swahili asked me if I could say on Youth TV Project that I had been in touch with Shaka. His last words to me were supposed to be, 'I am doing this for Swahili, if it is the last thing I do'.

Then I was supposed to cry and say how much I admired the 'S couple.' Shaka and Swahili. I think at some point I was supposed to abruptly hug anyone who was around me. Actually, if I remember correctly, she mentioned something about falling into someone's hands.

With those lecturing eyes of hers, Mama Swahili was not really asking; she was telling me what to say. I know you remember those eyes. She wears glasses now. You can picture the double effect.

Because I was not born yesterday, I said 'no'. I am not a microphone to feed words into.

'You little ... ' she almost wailed, 'little, little girl, who do you think you are?'

'Furaha's not-so-little sister.'

I could swear she called me a brat under her breath.

'I am fed up. In fact, I have had it with these city brats.'

I heard right. She did call me a brat the first time.

'What kind of child are you? Why do you have such a tough head? Is this how Nairobi children are? If your parents had listened to us and let you grow up here, do you think you would have turned out like this? Where are your manners? What is the world coming to? Eh! Kenyan children these days!'

I had answers to all of those questions. I just did not want to provide them.

'Furaha's _nye-nye-nye_ ,' she said, making a dogface at me. 'That train wreck of a child! Far from happiness. Furaha can get one of those Nairobi husbands she will sure lose to golf. She is a sure bet for anyone looking for a continuous dose of trouble and turmoil. You are turning into her.'

No part of that made any sense to me.

'What is turmoil? Like Turkana oil? How can golf take someone's husband?'

She gave me another of her five-second looks.

'How old are you now, Fahari? A little child I watched with my own two eyes, learning how to crawl here in our dusty Lokitaung ... now talking to me like this! A famous leader like me! You think you are who?'

Surely, who else's eyes would she watch me with?

'I am in junior high school.'

'You have not answered my question!'

As she walked away shaking her head, she said something else in one of the many languages she apparently speaks fluently. This is the same lady who came to our school and told us, in front of all our teachers and her fellow famous leaders, that Lake Naivasha is full of not just dangerous hypocrites, but dangerous hypocrites bigger than elephantiasis and rhinos.

Next time that woman approaches me, I will tell Pa. I want our class project to sail smoothly so that we can move on to something else. Something with answers. Something with no distractions or controlling surroundings. We just want to know what happened to Shaka. We are not here to choose a wife for him. Who even knows if he wants to get married!

Do you think Shaka could be hiding somewhere on this planet enjoying all the attention when his mother can barely eat or shower? His father wore a pyjama to Lokitaung Stadium yesterday. His sister is selling herself on Koinange Street because she is missing her brother and 'dealing with this profound stress'. Do you think Shaka is capable of this level of selfishness? Even though I hardly know him, I think highly of him. When he was in Nairobi to see Furaha, he would open doors for her. He ate with his mouth closed and did not speak with food in his mouth. Not once did he play with his beard or walk on the street with his shirt open like your friend Tatizo's father. I think he was a decent man. He is a decent man. A smart man.

Seriously, whatever was he thinking joining these sorts of violent careers! If every breath he takes is about saving people, why could he not work towards becoming a fire fighter or a surf life-saver? He could have moved to Mombasa to be near the ocean. He could have moved to Kisumu to be near a proper lake. Heck, he could have moved to Australia. Good swimmers do well there, don't they? I saw them on Olympics TV winning every medal there was.

Furaha marvels that she is the one who taught Shaka to freestyle, butterfly, backstroke and breaststroke. Surely Senior Fast Aider and St Jim's Ambulance have been around for years. He could have even joined Armed Salvation Forces. But then again, I understand what passion can do to a person. Passion is ridiculously demanding. Passion is dangerous. Passion can fry your brain. You want what you want. End of story. Come to think of it, passion is arrogant and selfish.

In all honesty, Shaka was not as handsome as I expected him to be, but he was okay. Furaha has never stopped exaggerating things, you know. I thought he was one of those stern men who show their teeth to dentists and dentists alone. I thought better of him when he started humming that song about a schoolgirl who tells her mother she wants to be a rapper; the girl that wants to become well known like Kalamashaka. Do you remember how we used to laugh when the mother scolds her to stop being stupid? That girl was suffering from the passion disease. Let us call it _passionitis_.

Maybe Shaka just had _passionitis_. He wanted to do his thing, not what works.

In your last email you said something about running for Australia. I think Shaka would have done that really well if he wanted to. He could have easily become the next Patrick Johnson over there or David Rudisha over here. Most of the boys here have changed their mind about athletics. Because of the oil discovery, they are not leaving this place, 'come sugar or salt'. Oil is money, they say. Oil is better than sports and definitely better than education. What do you suggest we do about it?
Friday 7 March 2014

My Poem

Joanna Jensen

Blue Mountains, NSW

Whatever was he thinking competition entry

Whatever was he thinking

when he stumbled in the door and settled his body

crumpled cushions on the settee to watch telly.

No 'I'm home toots, just went to meet the boys.'

He's dispensed with all formalities like kids dispense with toys.

So I go on with the washing up, it often calms my mind,

sometimes a little song comes up and leaves my cares behind.

It's Valentine's tomorrow,

I wonder if he knows? Our lovely son is taking Meg for dinner,

bought a rose for her. It's sure to be a winner.

I remember when I met him some forty years ago,

he sidled in beside me and softy said hello.

If I'd gone home alone that night I wouldn't be where I am now,

it's strange how fate steps in.

I wouldn't be here washing up or putting out the bin.

Now that the kids have left the nest,

it should be time to have a rest,

don glad rags and our dancing shoes,

we're free to book the summer cruise.

That first card that he gave me for my birthday years ago

that said 'Life's not so bad when you learn to put up with the bull.'

I should have thought more deeply on that little phrase you know,

but I was young and foolish and it doesn't matter now

whatever he was thinking, 'cos you know I love you Joe.
Friday 7 March 2014

Hanging Rock

Dee Dee Graham

Blaxland, NSW

The wind did howl through the valley below

The great force which has carved these cliffs

But the light that fell on the Hanging Rock

Was as soft as a lover's kiss

Although I had travelled many a mile

Just to witness the valley's haze

It was the golden hews of the Hanging Rock

That seductively stole my gaze
Friday 7 and Saturday 8 March 2014

Somebody's Sunday

Ramon Loyola

Newtown, NSW

Whatever was he thinking competition entry

The thin whistle of the kettle startles Virginia, as she rubs the sleep out of her eyes. She is the first one to awake in the small brood of four, in a house she lives in with her bunch of three children. An overbearing husband has long absconded from the scene. In the early hours of the morning, when the horizon is just about to thicken with the sun, she already has all her chores planned not just for the next few hours, but also for the rest of the day.

Today is Sunday, Church Day for her and her daughter, Amy, who is still fast asleep in her room, but not so much as an ordinary one for her two sons, equally deep in slumber in some part of the house or other.

She hops quickly to the stove and turns off the kettle. Making herself a cup of tea, the first one of many for the day, she wonders if the price of petrol has gone up and remembers what she saw in the evening news yesterday. She certainly cannot afford another price hike.

It's bad enough that they sometimes have to stretch the house budget even more, what with the skyrocketing household bills and school fees. They cannot afford to buckle up any further, sometimes. _Thank God, the price of groceries is steady._

She reminds herself to finish Amy's princess costume for the school play on Friday. It is supposed to be finished by now, but for the alterations demanded by the headmistress. The hems apparently are too high and must extend below the calves. The sleeves are not puffy enough and should look like arching shoulder pads. There should be more glitter and sequins dotting the front of the dress, its hues contrasted by tiny ribbons and lace.

The waist bow at the back is not big enough and should have a longer knot that goes down to the back of the knees. There is a missing button on the side, and another big button is needed to adorn the flaps around the neck. _Has she thought of a red cape? What about the tiara? Are there enough jewels strewn there?_

There is always something to repair, something to fix with it. Maybe it's the headmistress that needs fixing, she thinks.

She takes a few sips of her tea, stands and stretches her arms up as high as she can, wanting to touch the ceiling. Touching nothing at all, she straightens up and feels the crick of her lower back, sore enough to elicit a groan and a muffled hiss. The physical discomfort reminds her that she is not getting any younger. At 45, she knows it is only a matter of time when all her limbs start joining her back in painful company.

Ignoring the pain, she sighs and continues her slow pitter-patter, dismissing the trouble altogether. She has a full day ahead, on top of it being Church Day, and she cannot waste any time dealing with superficial pain.

She is rummaging for anything in the fridge that passes for breakfast, when she hears the soft rustling of approaching feet. The face of her son, Sean, fair and raw in the morning sun, meets her own with a frown.

Here he is, her second offspring, all 17 years of him, the freshness of youth on the verge of discovering all the sweet promises of a full life ahead. Yet, the frown and the brooding belie the anticipation of partaking of it all, much like the shock of auburn hair that falls across his face, hiding the tall arc of his nose and the blues of his eyes. When his eyes peek through the bush (when he combs it all the way to the back and sides after a shower), she can look at them for as long as she can, wanting to figure out the wonderings behind them, wondering herself how this beautiful creature can be so disarmingly shy, even with his own mother, that he often feigns being sated even though he is hungry as a beast.

'Hungry? We've got pancakes,' Virginia says, shaking the bottled mixture at his face.

'No, thanks. Eggs on toast ... I'll make some,' Sean replies. He grabs the loaf of bread from the freezer and puts some in the toaster.

'Coming to church, today?'

Sean does not answer. Virginia knows well enough now that the boy will not pander to her insistence on the ritual, but she always asks him, nevertheless, despite his seeming indifference to religion. It is as if the true motherly thing she can do is to be unfailing in the practice of the tradition (good old Catholic girl that she is, _or was_ ) and to be undeniably reliant on the virtues of a good old-fashioned breakfast.

She does not wait for an answer and starts the stove. The sizzling eggs in oil somehow remind her of the sound of rain, sloshing down her window last night. She remembers looking at the transparent raindrops on the glass pane and willing herself back to sleep around two o'clock. She lets out a wide yawn at the thought.

The eggs cooked, she then tosses several slices of bacon in the grease, deliberately inhaling the delicious smell of the meat. She remembers for a moment that, when she was a young girl observing the rituals of Easter, she was not allowed to eat meat from Good Friday to Easter Sunday.

She recalls how her mother would greet Easter Sunday morning with full relish, the table overflowing with feasts of only the most abundant and delectable dishes, all laid out to celebrate the Resurrection with equally robust fare. It was like her mother was preparing for Christ Himself to visit the table to celebrate His own rise from the dead. They were truly great days. A delicious thought, even to this day.

Her reverie is interrupted by the undeniable shrieks of Amy, rushing through the kitchen, her curly hair sleep-dishevelled and gloriously golden. 'Mummy!'

'Good morning, princess.' She holds the six-year-old to her breast, and gives her petty kisses on the hair.

'I'm hungry,' Amy says.

'Want some toast?' Sean asks her.

She shakes her head and looks at Virginia. 'I want Cheerios, please.'

'Cheerios, it is,' Virginia says. 'And some oats?'

'Yes, please! With lots of berries!'

Her eldest, David, walks in on this gleeful exchange, all showered up and dressed to go. 'Good morning, shlumpkin!' he says to Amy.

'Where are you going to, this early?' Virginia asks.

'Boss wants us to check out the site,' David says. 'Some nitwit cut through a whole chunk of an underground pipe, yesterday, and we gotta clean up the mess before the inspector gets in on Tuesday.'

'Well, if you're going to the city, can you stop by Spotlight and pick up the button for Amy's dress?'

'Stop by the _what_?'

'Spotlight. I can only get this very button there and no one else stocks them but the city store.'

'Pick up the _what_?'

' _This_ button. Here's a picture of it. It has to be this exact button, for Amy's dress.'

'Oh, Mum, I'm running late and dunno what time I'll finish. Why can't _he_ do it?' David says, pointing at Sean.

With a mouthful of egg, Sean just shrugs. 'Can't. Picking up Rebecca from the station in an hour,' he says. 'Then going to the beach and back to her place later.'

'Well, pick it up later, then,' David says.

' _You're_ the one going to the city, so _you_ pick it up,' Sean counters.

'Oh, this is bull. I have no time for this.' David grabs his bag, kisses Amy and starts for the door.

'Aren't you having breakfast?' Virginia asks.

'Just give me the list, Mum. I'll see you later,' David answers. 'Can't promise, but.'

She watches him walking out, the picture of a man assured of his mission, tall and dark-haired, lean but solid, just like his father. Watching him drive away, Virginia cannot help but yearn for his old custom of kissing her goodbye.

'What button, Mummy?' Amy asks her afterwards.

'It's for your costume, honey. You're gonna look soooo pretty in it.'

Amy shrieks with delight, spilling cereal on her chin.

'Gotta shower,' Sean announces silently, puts the dishes in the sink, and heads for the bathroom.

'So, you're not going to church with us?'

Sean stops and puts up his hands. 'Mum?'

'Oh, right. Rebecca,' she says. Nowadays, it is all about Rebecca, the girlfriend of some two months. The girl she has never met.

Alone now with Amy and her scrambled eggs, she whispers to her, conspiringly, 'It looks like it's just you and me again, honey.'

Amy lets out a laugh that reminds her of her own when she was just as young.

~~~

The church is brimming with people. She hurries to find one of the last vacant pews, pulling Amy along. She looks around and is a little amazed at the numbers already deep in contemplation. _Can this small community really be all the sinners in the world?_ She watches Father Smith enter from the vestibule and commence the hymn, the crystalline ding of the piano drowning his voice amid the collective tune.

Her feet are aching and she can hardly stand for more than three minutes. By the time the homily is being read, she silently sighs her thanks for the chance to sit down for longer than ten minutes. She plays with Amy's curls, while the little one fiddles with the laces of her blouse.

As she looks around, she sees an old acquaintance of hers, sitting two aisles ahead. She recognises the face of the woman and wonders how she has managed to maintain the clear skin, the silky hair and the trim figure after all these years.

She remembers the woman back in high school. She remembers tagging along with her as a member of a girly clique that gossiped about other girls, chased all the boys from the grammar school two blocks down, and was regarded by the faculty as the group most likely to succeed.

The woman certainly looks like she has gone places. Virginia just cannot place the name. _Stephanie? Susan? Sharmaine?_ It has been so long, and she cannot remember how she first knew her. She notices the man sitting beside the woman. Grey-haired but well groomed, fit and burly, with a face that any desirable woman can equally lust for, the face of a prince. She notices that his hand is on the woman's knee, while they both stare directly at the altar, intent on the priest's soliloquy. _They're probably married. Or, perhaps, just having a sordid affair._

She turns away and minds her own thoughts. She could have married a prince, herself; instead, she ended up with Ryan, a boor of a man, whose selfish and cruel act of leaving her and the kids about four years ago for another woman of the same age ( _but richer and more beautiful than she, like what's-her-name_ ) could not be overstated enough. _Whatever was he thinking, taking it up with that woman?_

Back then, she felt that his love had flitted away, and she thought it unfair to continue keeping him against his own will, even after around 20 years of marriage. So, she relented at the first offer of separation. But she had all three kids to look after and, with the promise of support from him and the inspiration she derived from her own independence, she decided early on that the children should come first. Amy was just one when the divorce became final. She had told herself not to look back.

She cannot, however, help now but wonder what it would have been like if she married a prince. Or a man just like the one sitting beside _Stephanie_ or _Susan_ or _Sharmaine._

The sight of them reminds her of the olden days, when she was carefree and her life was full of excitement, when whole weekends were spent at the beach, trying to grasp each memory spent with her friends. The special feeling she got every Sunday after church when her boyfriend collected her for an afternoon romp at the vineyards, or a stroll at the aquarium, or a drive to the coast. And all those wild nights she enjoyed, savouring the taste of new wine at the club, the exotic cuisine in the inner city, and the delicious, fresh, new faces she encountered.

She could have finished university, but when she met Ryan when they were both twenty-one, it didn't seem to be the most important thing to do. She first got pregnant just before her twenty-third birthday, and never had the chance after that to regroup herself, what with the demands of a young family.

Since then, the sweet Sundays she cherished have long gone. She knows that, somewhere, somebody else is living out the Sunday she once revelled in. For, nowadays, it is spent around seemingly tedious tasks like tending to the small garden that David set up at the back of the house, doing the grocery, washing the sheets and blankets, stitching up whatever needs doing, taking out the garbage, cleaning the house. Then sometimes there is the odd stroll in the park or the trip to the cinema. And going to church.

Or, sometimes, Sunday is just one of those clear days for reminiscing, and for expressing grace and gratitude for the cheekiness of David, which on better days is in full banter mode: 'Tell me, David, honey, do you know of any twenty-two-year-olds who still live with their mothers?'

'No, Mum. But I do know a lot who still live with their mothers _and_ fathers.' She smiles at the memory, despite herself.

She is in her Sunday best when she can praise the heavens for her apparent resilience throughout the years, for the sense of accomplishment at ironing out every single crease from David's shirt, for the strategic navigating on the road just so she could drop Amy off at her ballet class on time, for the patience and control she seems to possess every time she deals with Sean's teenaged angst, for the enigma of Sean, for the precociousness of Amy. _My darling, Amy._

Amy is looking at her now, those powder-blue eyes and the cheeks pink as a rose, full of the innocence of a girl scout out on her first jamboree. Smiling, the little one pulls her closer and whispers in her ear, 'Mummy, can I have some popcorn at the movies?'

She kisses her forehead and silently gives thanks to all the guardian angels in the world for letting her keep this beautiful creature in front of her. She feels a tinge of guilt for all her hankering for the past. For, here, in front of her, the blossoming rose in the garden that she keeps fresh and green and clean and soft, is the one thing that always makes her feel blessed. It is as if all the good things in the world have assembled to bring to her the only source of her salvation. Her very own saving grace.

~~~

Father Smith shakes her hand at the front of the church, and pats Amy's cheeks. She does not really appreciate it when the priest touches Amy, like he does almost every week after Sunday Mass in front of the congregation, but she relents this time to the unwelcome gesture. He is the parish priest, after all. _Still... those clammy hands..._

Just as she and Amy are walking to the parked car across the road, Virginia sees the woman from the aisles again. Coming out of the church with her male companion, the woman meets her gaze, pauses on the sidewalk and gives her a slight smile.

Virginia smiles back.

The woman, whose name she is now sure of starts with an S, walks over and waves. 'Excuse me,' the woman calls out. 'Do we know each other?'

'I... think we do,' Virginia answers.

'We do! From high school, right? Let me see, it's, uhm... I think you're, uhm... Olivia? Victoria? Emma?'

'It's Virginia.'

' _Virginia_ , right!' The woman tosses her long, silky hair and laughs. 'It's me, Sharyn. With a Y.'

'Sharyn, hi. Yes, I do remember you, but to be honest, it's been a while.'

'I know. What have you been up to? Hang on, let me get my husband. Edward, honey, can you come over for a minute?'

Edward comes around. He is sporting a tight-lipped grin.

'Edward, this is Gina, from way back. Year 11 was it?'

_I'm not Gina._ 'Hi, Edward. It's Virginia. Yes, from a very long time ago.' Edward shakes her hand and only manages a nod.

'So, how have you been, Ginny? What have you been up to? Married?'

_It's not Ginny_. 'Well, the usual. What about you?'

'Oh, you know, got my own fashion design business now, after four _gruelling_ years of uni. Been to everywhere with it. Thank God, as far as Europe is concerned, fashion is still in. I just got back from Milan last week. The new Louboutins are to die for, by the way.'

'Sounds great. How long have you been doing it?'

'A few years. What have you been up to? Have you seen the other girls, lately? It's so sad about Lisa. It must have been hard for her.'

_What happened to Lisa? Who's Lisa?_

'If that happened to me, I'd be devastated. But no, I just push hard and move on and do everything I can to make it through. It's very hard work. But it's so much _fun!_ You get to meet a lot of celebrities. One of them agreed to wear one of my designs at a movie premiere at Fox Studios last month, I'm not telling who. Only that she was nominated in the Logies last year. She was over the moon about it. Well, why wouldn't she? My dress is fabulous! It's part of a new line of clothes. I'm hoping that DJs will agree to stock them soon... '

Sharyn reminds Virginia of one of the mean girls who briefly made her life hell in Year 10. As she feigns listening intently to the woman's self-gushing, she cannot help but think of a talking parakeet she once kept as a pet when she was 12.

'... and I told myself never to let just anyone wear my dresses. They're unique and I can't waste my design on some frumpy old hag,' Sharyn continues, laughing. 'That's what I told DJs the other week. They said I was being a snob, can you believe it? _Well,_ I said, _that's why I was bringing it to you, so my designs only go to the proper place they deserve. If you don't want it, I'll take it to Myer._ What do you think of that?'

Virginia nods. 'I'm sure they'll say yes.'

'Who's this?' Sharyn asks, stooping down to address Amy, who is standing quietly just a little behind Virginia.

'My daughter, Amy. Say hello, honey. This is Sharyn. We knew each other from school, years ago.'

'Hi,' Amy says.

'Oh, aren't you just precious,' Sharyn says.

'She certainly is. Do you have kids?'

She can see the change in Sharyn's expression. Sharyn looks at Edward, who is now fidgeting, looking impatient. 'We've been trying for... well...'

She suddenly feels embarrassed for asking.

'Anyway, they can come later,' Sharyn says. 'What's important now is to get on with the business and hopefully bring it to the overseas market.'

'I see. Well, kids certainly are a handful, especially if you have three of them running around like ferrets. But, like you said, it's _so much fun!_ '

'Yes... well.'

Edward coughs and says, 'We've gotta go. Nice to meet you, Virginia.'

'Yes, it's so nice to see you again,' Sharyn says, as she turns away. 'We gotta stay in touch, okay? I go to Fitness First at Argyle Mall four times a week, maybe we should catch up there? You look like you need to go to the gym, anyway.'

_Fuck. You._

'See you later, Ginny.'

_It's Virginia_. 'Sure.' _Get stuffed, bitch_.

'Sharyn, with a Y.' She scoffs and mutters to herself as soon as she is sure that no one can hear. 'Slut.'

Amy tugs at her arm. When she turns to the girl, she sees that the little one has her hands over her mouth.

'What's the matter, sweetie?'

'Mummy,' Amy whispers with a smile, revealing her milk teeth. 'Is that a bad word?'

~~~

It is almost seven o'clock, and she and Amy are just coming in just after dusk, still reeling from their mildly amusing afternoon jaunt. Virginia quickly acknowledges Sean, sitting on the sofa, seemingly entranced with his iPod. He is obviously ignoring their entrance.

'How's your day been?' she enquires, trying to get his attention.

'Fine,' Sean says.

'Everything okay?'

Sean stays silent for a moment, fidgets on the sofa, and mutters another lowly, 'Fine.'

Even standing a few metres from him, she can tell that he is not in the mood for anything else but to sulk.

'You sure?' she asks once more.

'Yeah.'

_He and Rebecca must've fought. A lover's quarrel_. All she can do is sigh, being careful not to grin. 'David home?'

'Gone out, again. Half an hour ago.'

'Hmm. What d'you want for dinner?'

'Not really hungry, thanks.'

'Well, I'm making some pasta. Come and get some if you want.'

Sean stays quiet. Amy sits beside him, excited about her new wares. 'I got a Kinder Surprise, look! Wanna see?' she tells him.

Sean just shrugs, rumples Amy's hair, and lets her pull him by the arm back to her room to inspect the toy.

She listens to Amy's excited shrills and walks to the kitchen to prepare dinner. But all she can think about is how fast Sean has grown. _Ah, the wistfulness of young love._

By eleven o'clock, the house is silent. She can hear Sean's mumblings over the phone in his room, at times monosyllabic, but always uttered softly. Amy is fast asleep. David is still nowhere in sight.

She needles and sews through the silky fabric of Amy's princess dress, sensing completion with every weave of the thread through the buttonholes. She thinks the hems are just about the right length above the ankles, the shoulder pads holding in place, the ends of the ribbon long enough to reach all the way down to the back of the knees.

Laying the dress down on the kitchen table, she inspects the creation under the kitchen lamp. _Beautiful_. She can just imagine how Amy will look in it (like a princess, waiting to awake with a kiss, pirouetting in glass slippers, kissing a frog).

There is however a small difference, she notices. Something amiss. The flap just around the lacy neckline looks bare. A missing button _. Of course._

She cannot recall asking Sean if David remembered to buy the button. She shuffles towards Sean's room, grabbing her mobile phone on the way. She thinks of calling David, but stops at the coffee table to pick up the Post-It note stuck on its edge. She doesn't remember seeing it when they first came back home in the afternoon.

Underneath the note, wrapped in a tiny plastic pouch, are two buttons each the size of a 20-cent coin. Plastic. _Acrylic?_ Each button is hard, with four holes in the middle, shiny yellow-gold.

She walks back to the kitchen table, inspects the buttons closely, and places one on the flap of the dress. She reads the message on the note under the light: _Hope I got the right one. Gone out with the boys. Home late. Don't wait up. D._

She feels her face flushing with a sudden rush of warmth.

~~~

Lying in bed, Virginia places two pillows underneath the back of her knees. Her lower back is still sore, but the just-about-right hardness of the mattress cushions the rest of her body. She lies there in the dark of her room, waiting for sweet slumber to take over her tired eyes. Outside, the soft rain is a welcome rhythm, like a lullaby.

She is leaving the waking world with an accomplished glow about her. The silky dress is all but finished, now hung up on the bedroom door and silhouetted by the light from the street lamp coming through the window. The shiny gold button is illuminated by the shadow of itself _. Just perfect_.

But right now, she is tired. She finally closes her eyes, finally shutters her mind. Tomorrow, she goes back to her humdrum office job. She will probably hate it as much as anyone else at the start of every working week.

A final sigh, and she wills herself to dream sweetly, with just one tender thought: _Tomorrow is Monday. But it might as well be Sunday_.
Saturday 8 and Sunday 9 March 2014

A Name For Smoke

Simon Lenthen

Springwood, NSW

Whatever was he thinking competition entry

The smoke in the tent pooled around the opaque crystal globe that sat on a squat obsidian pedestal in the centre of a small round table. The smoke curled around the globe like a coil of rope lying on a dock waiting to be used.

At some silent signal the smoke lifted itself like a snake, circled around me caressing my skin, the hairs on my arm shivered as if blown by a cold wind.

I felt, rather than heard, various whispers from different voices: 'Your axe is dull and needs sharpening.'

'Five red poppies in a field for five dead soldiers.'

'There is no key to unlock you.'

'Kiss her or kill her, she will never yield.'

The smoke curled away from me and transformed into the curly grey hair of an old man but his face was young. With shock I realised it was my face staring at me. It aged visibly and then screamed in pain and anguish. I started to rise from my seat when a gravelly voice commanded, 'Stop!'

My face was no longer there. In its place was an old woman with eyes that were as cloudy as the crystal globe. Her voice was compelling and without thinking I sat back onto the canvas camp seat. Her skin was wrinkled like parchment. She wore silver jewellery that looked like the pale smoke and was almost insubstantial.

'Do not give her your name,' whispered a warning voice in my ear. I startled and turned to face the voice. But nothing was there. The woman chuckled deeply.

'What is my name?' she asked.

'I don't know,' I replied blandly.

'Tell me yours and you will know mine,' she said with malice.

'Do not give her your name!' the voice whispered more urgently. And the woman chuckled again at my startled face.

'Why do you need to know my name?' I asked.

The woman smiled knowingly and said nothing.

She raised a leathery hand and covered one eye. The opaque crystal ball cleared and I was looking into a field. A cold wind was blowing through the grass, clouds hung ominously in the sky, a small patch of poppies bent with the wind. 'What is your name?' said the woman's voice.

'Do not give her your name,' I heard from the poppies. 'You are the first of us,' said another voice.

'Then you know my name,' I replied.

'Not I,' said the old woman.

The field had faded and we were back in the tent. She lowered her hand and her revealed eye was hidden by grey smoke. The smoke streamed from her to circle the now misty globe.

The woman lifted her hand and covered her remaining milky eye. The crystal ball cleared and I looked onto a beach. A warm wind blew from behind me, carrying the scent of flowers from a distant field. In front of me were a crude shelter and a black patch in the ground with coals and burnt wood.

'Tell me your name!' the old woman's voice demanded. I felt compelled to tell her my name.

'Do not give her your name!' a male voice whispered urgently. 'She loves you and yet she is the source of your pain,' said an old man in my mind. I recognised that voice as that of a sorcerer who had told me how to receive my lover's gift.

'If you know my lover's name, you then know my name,' I stated with triumph.

'Not I,' replied the old woman sourly.

Her hand was gone and so were her eyes, her eye sockets bled smoke onto the table in the tent which bubbled and boiled like a troubled ocean. The ball's pedestal could barely be seen. The old woman held her hand to her nose and the crystal ball cleared again. I was looking onto a clearing in a forest of ancient cedar. A log cabin was nearby and a hot wind was blowing around me.

I was sweaty, my axe quivered in the stump I used for my chopping block. It was too blunt to be of any use and I reluctantly turned away from the pile that remained. Wiping the sweat off my face with my arm, I strode into the cabin. My teenage daughter was sitting on the floor. A rough hempen tunic had slipped off her shoulder, her long brown hair cascaded like a waterfall down her back. She had her eyes closed and was singing an old song.

My daughter was blind but her sense of hearing was keen. She turned to me and said, 'Your axe is dull and needs sharpening.'

'Yes, where is the whet stone, please?' My daughter had the gift that I coveted from her mother. The gift was earth sense; she could sense metals and minerals. I was jealous of my daughter. I wanted that gift.

The old woman chuckled in my mind. 'Tell me your name and the gift is yours.' My wish was strong. I yearned to sense the metal in the soil, to go deeper with my mind than I could ever go with hand and eye.

'No gift is worth that price,' my daughter said to me. She turned to face me and her grey smoky eyes stared through me.

The old woman laughed. 'I will not yield until you yield me your name.' Smoke still streamed from her eye sockets and was joined by a stream emerging from the centre of her face. I could not see her nose.

She lifted her hand and covered her mouth. The orb cleared again and now I was standing in a field far south of the log cabin where my daughter and I lived. It was the field in which her mother had died. In the corner of the field was a patch of poppies; one for each of my men that she had killed in the chase. 'What is this field?' asked the old woman's voice.

'The poppies hold their secrets, reveal your name and they will wither into dust,' said an old male voice, familiar but forgotten.

'If you know this field, you will know my name,' I replied to the old woman's voice.

'I want you to say your name. Say your name and awaken to your betrayal. Say your name and this will end.' The old woman had no mouth yet her voice was everywhere. And the images flashed through me, the field, the log cabin, the hut and awakened ghosts inside me; ghosts that filled me with dread and despair.

I met her when she came to my tribe with tales of a rich gold deposit. She would reveal its location if we took her in, gave her shelter. She said that she had earth sense and she offered her skill as a service to the tribe, she would reveal the location if the chief provided labour and equal division of the gold.

The chief was doubtful so he sent me and five other men to escort her to the deposit. She led us to an island on the Father's River. We dug into the ground where she told us to. She was right; after two hours of digging we found the gold deposit, a long rich vein that no person could have planted there. We were surprised and pleased. Instantly I wanted the gift she held; the gift to see minerals in the land.

I met him in a cave on the edge of the twisted forest. He was the old sorcerer; he smelled of smoke and putrid flesh. I asked him how I could have a gift like hers. He said the only way to get the gift was to steal it from her. I would have to kill her at the point of orgasm, at that height of sexual bliss she will be vulnerable and her gift will slip from her into you. Kill her so that the gift will not return to her.

It was not hard to feign attraction to her, she was beautiful; a perfect oval face, dark eyebrows above smoky grey eyes and long brown hair, her body was curvy and she moved with sensuous grace. She succumbed to my advances and we had a strong and passionate affair. When I was sure of her complete acceptance of me, I put my plan into action.

It was on the island where we found the gold. We had camped on the beach under a small makeshift lean-to. I seduced her and we made love in the water. My intention was to drown her at the point of orgasm. But her body was so warm, her scent so heady, our lust so encompassing that when we both reached the pinnacle of pleasure, I did not think to kill her.

She disappeared from our tribe after that, I know not why, but eight months later she appeared in the village with a round belly. She announced that I was the father of her child. In front of the chief I stated that her claim was false, that her child was not mine; such an admission would jeopardise the arranged marriage that the chief had planned for me.

The chief had her banished and signalled some of the men to escort her out of the village. As she left she stated that she had divined that the child was female and would have her gift. She said that she would kill our daughter when the child was ten if I did not recant. In the meantime the village would suffer until I admitted the truth.

Afterwards, in private, the chief slapped me on the face, making my nose bleed, 'You were promised to my daughter. Do not shame me again.' As I left the chief's tent, blood hanging above my lip, villagers looked at me and I heard one say to another, 'Whatever was he thinking? He could have been chief of this village.'

For two years I tried to forget the witch and her claim; I lived with the shame that I had brought to my village; the chief annulled the engagement and I was shunned by the rest of the tribe. In that time our village suffered, no crops would grow, our livestock dropped in the field, and there was illness and stillbirths.

The chief was worried but he did not talk to anyone about this hardship. Then one day he came to me, he said that he recently visited a sorcerer who said the only way to restore prosperity to the village was for me to kill the witch. The chief did not like this course of action because he did not want me to betray the village again. I said I wanted a chance to prove myself. Kill the witch and bring the girl, he ordered. It would be my only chance at forgiveness.

I took the five men who had escorted the witch originally and we searched for her. We found her on the island. Under the cover of darkness we crossed to the island and took my daughter while the witch slept. I left a man behind to kill the witch.

When we reached the other side of the river we heard her scream, a yell filled with anguish and anger. And then she was at the shore holding the head of my warrior. The rest of us started running. But a woman with earth sense can feel our footprints with greater ease than any animal. My remaining men thought to ambush her in an open field by hiding in the tall grass. I was to make my getaway with the girl whilst they fought her.

She killed them all. I heard cries of agony from my men such as I had never heard before. She called out, her voice echoing from the rocks. 'I will find you! I will curse you and your pain will be endless!'

I fled with my daughter, away from the island. Shamed by the death of the others, I turned away from my village. I made camp in a stand of cedar trees, and there we lived for many years. At first she was frightened by me and kept crying for her mother. I held her close, reassured her that she was safe and would always be safe with me.

I told her that her mother was dead, I was her father and I would look after her. Over the next five years I built a log cabin and taught my daughter everything she needed to know for survival. She was a smart girl, and together we found ways to compensate for her blindness. But I never taught her about her gift; I feared that if she was to use it, she would betray me to the witch.

Overtime she grew into a beautiful woman; she had the same long dark hair as the witch, and the same smoky grey eyes, even though she was blind. Every time I looked at my daughter I recalled the day I tried to kill her mother. But I overcame the guilt of my deeds to love her. She had a sweet soul and always knew what I needed. It was a part of her gift.

Then one night she confronted me. 'What did you do to my mother?' It was the question I feared she would one day ask. I stared at her a long time in my indecision. 'Well?' she pressed. I took a deep breath and told her the truth.

When I finished the story she glared angrily at me. 'My mother was right!' All of a sudden her eyes became cloudy and in her mother's voice she laid a terrible curse of everlasting pain. 'I have found you, my lover,' my daughter gloated. She smiled a cold and vengeful smile. My heart stopped and I awoke in a tent with the smoke curled around a crystal ball.

The nature of the curse was revealed to me; pain and dismay. It was here in the tent, in the smoke. I cannot recall how long it held me and I wanted an end. An end to the pain I suffered. It was her pain she inflicted on me, and my name was the key to my freedom.

I gave it. 'My name is Manitou.'

'Fool!' exclaimed the old woman and the man's voice as one.

The pain hit me anew and smoke filled my eyes and nose with regret, filled my mouth with a cry of anguish, smothering me. The ghosts of my betrayal filled my body with dismay, filled me with grey smoke; burning my soul into oblivion. My body coalesced into smoke and twisted and gathered.

In my smoky vision I could see a field of marbles. Each had a coil of smoke around them. I was that coil of smoke. I had to end this. Giving my name was not the end, but the continuation of a cycle of cursed forgetfulness. A stranger walked into my tent and sat down beside the ball. I needed to warn him that he was walking into a trap.

I raised myself like a snake and I tried to warn him. At first all I could do was call up words of half forgotten memories. 'Your axe is dull and needs sharpening.'

'Five red poppies in a field for five dead soldiers.'

'There is no key to unlock you.'

'Kiss her or kill her, she will never yield.'

Finally I found my form and appeared to him as myself in the hopes he would recognise me. But I felt the witch pull at me and age my visage. Pain once again ran rife through my smoky soul. I only had a moment to whisper in my ear, 'Do not give her your name.'
Saturday 8 March 2014

The Tree Swing

Linda Callaghan

Bullaburra, NSW

Whatever was he thinking competition entry

Remember when you were young,

Hours were filled with laughter and fun.

A world full of colour brightened the days,

And on a tyre swing one could play.

Swinging high and swinging low,

A special time, we loved it so.

Memories linger that will forever last,

Even though, years have passed.

'Time to take it down,' Father said one day,

'You are all grown up and no longer will play.'

'No Father, please,' our hearts were sinking,

We did not understand, whatever was he thinking?

This is where the swing should stay,

As more will come and enjoy their day.

So time moves on and there on the hill,

The old rubber tyre is waiting still.

Children will soon arrive with cries of glee,

And ride the air, wild and free.

Many a generation will lovingly share,

The swing on the hill, without a care.

Then as the fading sun tickles the leaves,

And shimmer on a warm, summer breeze.

The end of day will shuffle in,

To the sounds of birds, singing their hymn.
Sunday 9 March 2014

On The Sixth Day

JH Mancy

Tallebudgera, QLD

_Whatever was he thinking competition entry_

God created man, fully formed. This is a version of the genesis of humankind. The beginning of sorrows upon the face of the earth. According to The Book, Adam and Eve, the first woman and man drew their first breaths in an idyllic garden. Their utopia was filled with everything their hearts could wish for.

All manner of food to sustain them. Animals in their paradise were not of a ferocious nature. All was right in their world; or was it. You see, they were created with free will. They were given a choice of two pathways.

Choice one was nurture their garden and the many animals in their care. The human's, in return for adhering to certain parameters set by their creator, who would be provided for and their future would be secure.

Initially all ran smoothly, like well-oiled cogs.

Perhaps apathy set in once they'd named all the creatures and plants entrusted to them. Did they become bored, craving excitement?

Whatever the reason, they were sorely tempted by an alternative path. This second choice beckoned them; their increasing desire to explore this path weakened all resolve.

Follow it they did, with dire consequences, so the story goes. Their creator was much displeased and evicted them from their garden. No more could they set foot in their beautiful paradise.

From this time on the story takes a nosedive into the abyss of dismal and horrendous suffering. Each succeeding century brings with it new terrors. Mankind invents ever increasing ways to annihilate all species from the face of the earth.

Weeds and thistles proliferate. Droughts and blizzards obliterate crops and livelihood. Greed is rampant.

Global conflict causes untold misery. Insects destroy crops in plague proportions. Anarchy reins and despair grows daily. A sense of hopelessness descends upon the earth.

On the sixth day God created man. Whatever was he thinking?
Sunday 9 and Monday 10 March 2014

A Matter of Timing

Demelza

Taroona, TAS

Whatever was he thinking competition entry

'You're mad Jake. To think you can get to the airport and back in an hour is foolish. What if the meeting finishes early and the boss sees his ute gone?'

'Aw, chill out Babe. Max will give me six hundred bucks to get him there on time. It's a score too good to miss. And besides I am allowed to drive the ute. See, I've got the keys.' He placed his hard hat down on her desk and picked the keys off a hook on the wall.

'You're allowed to drive around the construction site or on work business, not on an unnecessary joyride to the other side of town.'

'It's a small risk to help a mate out.'

'It's a risk you don't need to take, Jake. You only got this job because I work in the office. If you lose it, I doubt whether there is another construction company this side of the river that'll take you on.'

'There's no lose in it. This here is the perfect win-win situation. Max gets to the airport on time, his girl gets to maul him tonight and I get to drive Malcolm's V8. And you get six hundred bucks to cover the back rent. See, I'm doing it for you, Babe. So if that boss man, Malcolm Stone quits the meeting early, I'm counting on you to cover. So just sit pretty behind your desk and I'll see you in an hour or so... ' His words trailed off as he blew Babette a kiss and hastily left the office.

_Whatever was he thinking?_ thought Babette as she sat at her desk peering out the window. It was true, they owed back rent but there were a few things Jake didn't know. She wasn't sure she would be hanging around much longer.

At seventeen she'd happily left school to become office girl for Malcolm and his emerging construction business. Eight years later the business had proved profitable and Babette had become a trusted employee of the company. It satisfied her to watch foundations and frames transform into apartments and office buildings. She found the bigger jobs, where they fixed a demountable office on the construction site, the most rewarding.

The current location was a hospital extension with two operating theatres and eight new wards. It was all very exciting for the city of Breddlam and Babette was happy to be part of it. She had done well considering her parents had frowned upon her leaving school so early.

There were a lot of things her parents had disapproved of. 'Babette, you are too young to leave school,' she could hear her father say. 'We didn't raise you to leave home and become a lackey for a two bit construction company.'

Their latest gripe was Jake. In her parent's eyes he was irresponsible and reckless. And after being in a relationship with him for eighteen months, Babette begrudgingly agreed with them. However she wasn't quite ready to confess her folly. She knew her parents disapproved of Jake but she had kidded herself into believing their judgement was unjust.

She had savings Jake was unaware of. She had learnt fairly early in the relationship that money was easy come, easy go to Jake. And if she hadn't been pregnant, their relationship would have ended sooner. She hadn't told Jake about the baby exactly. She had only mentioned a couple of 'what ifs' and Jake's reaction had simply been abortion.

Although Babette had not planned this pregnancy, abortion wasn't an option for her. Jake's reaction had revealed another fault in their relationship.

She had surprised herself by not paying the rent as the flat was in her name. Jake had moved in a year ago, but now it seemed he had hardly time for her and the flat had degenerated from a sunny, one bedroom apartment into a drop in centre for all of Jake's needy mates.

The lounge had become a second bedroom with a constant flow of one or two extras. Her request for help with the rent was usually met with a look of concern and followed up by an excuse about needing money to help a mate out. When the rent arrears notice had arrived, Babette had slumped into her chair ready to indulge in self-pity.

But the weeping had only lasted a few minutes when a new resolve came over her. She began instead to think of a different life with just her and the precious baby that was growing inside her. She had savings, she had friends and although most of them had warned her not to hook up with Jake, she knew if she swallowed some pride, she had support. It was all just a matter of timing.

So far she had shared her plan with no one. Each day as she distanced herself emotionally from Jake, her resolve became stronger. As she sat at her office desk watching him leave in Malcolm's new V8, she wondered what had attracted her to him in the first place. The words of her father, 'It's what you do today that makes tomorrow different,' echoed through her mind. Would she ever be ready to tell her Dad he was right? Fear of more judgement had kept her from telling her parents about her pregnancy. Breddlam, she felt, was a small enough place, they would find out sooner or later anyway.

When the office door opened, and Sharli walked in, she decided this was the friend she could confide in. 'Ready for a coffee, Barbie?'

'No I can't just yet. Jake's run off with Malcolm's ute and I need to hang around until he returns. But I'd really like to talk to you after work if I could?'

'Sounds serious,' Sharli replied jokingly.

'It is serious,' Babette retorted. She knew she could share with Sharli. They'd been friends since high school. Sharli always found the lighter side of any situation, and often had Babette laughing until she cried.

Sharli worked as a nurse at the hospital and a lot of her stories were about mishaps at work. Like the time the newbie cleaned dentures in the geriatric ward and somehow swapped Mrs Hicks' top teeth with Arthur Schnapps'. Most of the problem came when Mrs Hicks refused to return the ill-fitting plate on account of the diamond insert in the front tooth.

As Sharli turned to leave, Babette's cell phone began to sing the pretty tune of Edelweiss that signified an incoming text. Flicking Sharli a goodbye wave, she turned her attention to the phone screen.

'Gr8 trip, CU in 30'. Jake had just dropped Max off at the airport entrance with minutes to spare. He deposited the six hundred dollars into his wallet, stashed his wallet into his back pocket and headed for the nearest car park exit, triumphantly inserting the ticket into the slot and gaining a 'no charge' indicator on the machine. The exit rail raised and he was off with an air of excitement. It felt good to be alive. Good to be pushing the limit, taking risks and winning.

Jake felt sure Babette would be pleased with the way he had handled the situation. She'd see that he'd taken the opportunity to do good for a friend in need, and help her out of the rent dilemma.

The rent in arrears bit had surprised Jake. When he had first moved in with Babette, he noticed all bills were up to date and paid in full. Whether it was groceries, phone, rent or power, he had never, until now, seen an arrears notice in the flat. Lately they seemed to be out of everything--from eggs to toilet paper. He mused that she had always been easy going and generous to his mates. It was this generosity that had attracted him to her. Babette had a way of always being on top of things, always finding an extra plate or chop for his spontaneous gatherings. _Oh well_ , he thought _, this money should make things right, bring her back to her cheery self._

At the end of the road, he turned right rather than the expected left that would have taken him more directly to town. On the way to the airport, there had been road works and Max and he had been delayed for a few minutes. Jake had been frustrated and had sworn at the council worker holding the stop sign. When he realised the pole holder was Big Bull Norton he admitted he'd said the wrong thing and backed down with an apology.

Weighing in at 100kg, with workouts four nights a week and a regular morning jog William Norton had earned the nickname of 'Big Bull'. And even though Jake was six foot tall and 80kgs he still felt weedy next to him. So rather than face him again, turning right seemed the logical thing to do.

As Jake shifted through the gears, the vehicle increased in speed until he was comfortably settled into driving mode. He aimed to be back at the building site by 1 pm, thirty minutes from now. The ute gripped the road tightly and Jake's confidence increased with every bend.

By the time Lake Seclusion came into view, he was well over the speed limit, and totally unprepared to face the oncoming semi-trailer. Breaking too fast would throw the ute into a skid. Instead Jake moved onto the grass verge that ran parallel to the narrow country road. As the ute crossed the gravel and slipped onto the grass Jake could hear the air horns of the truck thundering past. Grinding sounds penetrated the cab as the chassis scraped over hidden boulders. Full of pride for his quick thinking, Jake bumped and jolted along until he was able to manoeuvre the ute back onto the road.

The only obvious sign of the mishap was a lengthy scratch from a renegade blackberry bush along the passenger side of the vehicle.

Jake glanced at his watch as he entered the Eastern Outlet heading into the flow of traffic--ten minutes left and 15kms to go. If he got a good run through the lights, he would arrive with time to spare.

Babette looked up from her desk as Jake drove sedately into the boss's car park. Breathing a sigh of relief she opened the door. Her relief changed to horror as she viewed the scratch running the entire length of Malcolm's ute. 'What the hell is that?!' she screeched at Jake.

'Cool it Babe, it's just a scratch. Nothing that a little cutting compound won't fix.'

Babette was furious. She knew Malcolm was generous with his property but she also knew he expected respect where it was due.

'Hey Babe aren't you proud of me for getting there and back on time?'

'You're a bloody idiot,' Babette said dryly and turned back inside shutting the office door.

Slumping into her office chair she stared blankly across her desk momentarily mesmerised by the light glinting off the once perfect paint job on the boss's ute. Incredulously she watched as Jake returned to the vehicle, climbed in and reparked it with the evidence of his joyride against the wooden fence. Returning the keys to the hook inside the office, he picked up his hard hat, saluted to Babette and walked out of the room.

The door had barely stopped shuddering when it reopened and the smiling face of Malcolm entered. 'Great meeting,' he said. 'Eric Thompson, the head of the board, is very impressed with the way things are moving along and Rob Sherwood the State Premier was there too. They were discussing security and the order of events for the opening ceremonies... hey, what's wrong, Babette?' Malcom slowed down, his voice softening as his face took on an expression of concern. 'You don't look so good.'

'I'm okay,' Babette replied, 'just a bit of a headache.'

'You look exhausted. Jump in the ute and I'll run you home', he said, reaching for the keys.

'N-n-no,' stuttered Babette, rather louder than she had intended. 'I'll be alright. I'd rather walk. I think I just need some fresh air.' Her heart was beating at an accelerated rate and her stomach was doing somersaults.

Malcolm eyed her curiously and stepped aside to open the door as she slipped on her cardigan and picked up her handbag.

Confusion swirled around her as she stepped down from the temporary office and headed for the gate. She focused directly ahead, not daring to look at the ute parked against the fence.

The day was warm for this time of year and for the first time in eight years, she wished she had not come to work. In fact, a day fishing with her father would have been a preferable experience.

As she walked the twenty minutes toward her flat, she felt herself relax a bit and her head clear. She'd go home, freshen up, have a cup of tea then text Sharli to find out what time she finished work and where they could meet. Hopefully before Jake returned from work. He was one person Babette did not want the company of right now.

By the time Babette arrived home, her stomach had settled and her confidence was returning. As she entered the front door of her flat, she caught her reflection in the mirror. Her rich brown hair was like her mother's only she wore it longer and clipped it back with hair slides. She was of average height and usually presented neatly. Today however, the mirror reflected her inner turmoil. She had lost weight recently and her features appeared rather gaunt. Her hair was dishevelled, her cardigan buttons skew-whiff, and her light brown mascara had run down her cheeks.

The empty beer cans and smelly clothes that greeted her as she stepped into the living room only strengthened her resolve to change her circumstances. She flicked on the electric kettle, threw herself into the shower and within 10 minutes was settled in her chair sipping her promised cup of tea. Sharli had returned her text and would meet her when her shift ended at a café-bar not far from the flat.

When Babette returned from her catch-up with Sharli, Jake had still not arrived home. She spent the next hour or so cleaning up the flat and returning things to her orderly standard, all the while at peace with herself and her intentions. She thought about where she and her baby might live and how exciting it would be to watch a little person grow. She began considering whether she would be able to stay full time at home with the baby or whether she would need childcare and a job. She would need to patch things up with her parents. Her baby would definitely be needing grandparents. Babette found herself happily humming as she cleaned, something that had not happened for some time.

It had gone well at the café, although Sharli had been less than her usual cheery self. Her anecdote from the hospital had been rather sad. She had spoken of the John Doe who had been shot by bodyguards while attempting to shoot at the premier. Babette of course knew of this as it had been the local and national news a few weeks before. What she hadn't known was that his life support had been removed today, and the John Doe had died without family and friends. As she cleaned, she pondered about a mother and father missing their son, not knowing where he was or what sort of life he led. A pang of guilt crept in as she reflected on her own relationship with her parents. Sharli had been supportive of her desire to leave Jake and rather excited about the prospect of being an honorary aunty.

Babette had felt encouraged by Sharli and was considering the best way to break the news to Jake. She felt nervous about approaching him, and was startled when the door opened. Jake stood before her, with a six-pack under his arm, cutting compound in one hand and the flat key in the other. He grinned and winked at her as he dumped his load on the table.

'See Babette, no problem. Malcolm's wife dropped in and picked him up. So the ute is still on site, waiting for me to remove the evidence. All I need from you is the key to the gate.'

'I can't do that; I'd be sacked if I gave that to anyone.'

'I'm not anyone Babette, and you know what I want to do. Don't you want Malcolm's ute fixed?'

'Of course I do but... '

'But nothing just give me the bloody key.'

'You will be right back won't you?' Babette asked, reluctantly handing the key over to Jake.

Jake didn't answer.

Repeating the question Babette added, 'What about the rent money?'

Smiling, Jake returned and placed three hundred dollars on the table. 'That's only 300, Jake.'

'A man's allowed a beer, babe. Chill a bit, what's wrong with you lately?'

Babette sighed, but said nothing. Jake left, leaving her to worry by herself.

It was not completely dark when Jake arrived at the worksite, but still he was fairly hidden between the ute and the fence as he laboured vigorously on the scratch. The cutting compound worked its magic, leaving only a few small traces here and there. Jake was packing his things back into his bag when he became aware of another person on the site.

Someone dressed in black complete with hoodie and face paint. Instinctively, Jake crouched down and observed the intruder from the shadow of the fence. Within minutes, the intruder appeared to have installed a device under the centre of the ceremonial platform. Jake knew that this platform had been erected for the dignitaries to stand on during the opening ceremony of the new hospital wing.

_It's a bomb_ , was the first thing that flashed through Jake's mind. _What the HELL do I do now?_ Jake waited a few minutes for the intruder to disappear before he snuck back out the gate. Half walking, half running, he headed toward the flat, stopping once at a pay phone where he anonymously phoned the police. It seemed like the best thing to do: no need to say he was there, no need to concern Babette.

Malcolm sat in the office with two police officers and the bomb squad as they viewed the CCTV footage from the site. The building was not under surveillance but the gate was monitored for deliveries. Amazed he sat watching as the gate opened slightly and the familiar face of Jake appeared on the screen. 'You know him?' asked the officer.

'Yes, he works for me. His partner is our office girl.'

Jake's reaction to the 2 am knock at the door and subsequent arrest was one of anger. He made no friends as he fought verbally to maintain his innocence.

Exhausted, Babette sat at the police station. The shock of being involved in such a situation was overwhelming. She had already thrown up twice, her body just not ready to be awake at this hour. She had managed to phone her parents, James and Louise Castle. They sat awkwardly comforting her, the best they could. It was here she told them about the baby.

Surprising, for Babette, they seemed to take it in their stride. Her father joked around with names such as Grandma Louie and Poppy J. At one point he asked her to search the net on her phone to see if fishing vests were available in baby sizes. Babette felt they were making the best of a bad situation and she was glad of it.

Eventually, after all the CCTV monitoring had been screened, both Babette and Jake were released.

Embarrassed, Babette turned up for work on Monday morning. Malcolm was polite and concerned. He said her employment had been so valued over the years that he was prepared to have her continue. In fact he was even grateful the incident had occurred as it exposed the possible disaster that may have occurred during the ceremony.

The 'bomb' had turned out to be a device that would have emitted loud and explosive sounds but it was designed to do nothing more than that. Still, the panic and fear that may have spread through the crowd had been averted. And with that in mind, Malcolm declined to press charges against Jake.

When Monday afternoon rolled around, both Malcolm and Babette were able to laugh when he offered her a ride home.

Relaxed and sitting in the cab of the ute, Babette clicked the seatbelt as they drove off through the gate. As the busy five o'clock traffic revved and honked around them Babette wondered if walking may have been a quicker option.

Malcolm zipped from lane to lane, trying to gain a slight advantage. He had just accelerated when the approaching lights flicked from amber to red. Malcolm began depressing the brake, thinking it better to stop than run the red light. He was greatly surprised when the pedal depressed flat to the floor of the ute with no change in the vehicle's speed. Quickly he repeated the procedure, this time with the desired effect. Only when he released the pedal, nothing happened; the brakes had locked on.

Jake's joyride on the grass verge had damaged the braking system and the ute was now skidding out of control. His vehicle turned into the oncoming traffic and within a few seconds, three cars had collided in the middle of a busy intersection. Babette screamed wildly as Malcolm lurched sideways, airbags punching into her side and face.

Babette's view whirled around as the sounds of shattering glass and screams filled her ears. She was vaguely aware of the smell of blood and oil as paramedics lifted her from Malcom's ute and into an ambulance.

Her head throbbed as she came to, a day later, in the intensive care unit of Breddlam's Hospital. As she struggled to stay focused she saw the worried faces of Sharli and her mother become excited as she began responding to them. A bevy of nurses moved around her adjusting equipment and taking recordings.

'Babette,' soothed Louise, her mother, faltering with the words, 'I'm so happy you are alright.'

Babette sensed her mother was holding back some important information. Maybe, she thought, Malcom was in a serious condition or even worse, maybe he hadn't survived.

Through dry lips Babette mouthed her fears; her mother assuring her Malcom was doing just fine.

_Then who?_ she thought, suddenly thinking of the baby she was carrying. Instinctively her hand moved towards her belly.

'No,' her mother sighed, 'It's not the baby. The baby will be fine. Malcom and the baby will be fine. The problem is... ' she faltered again as Babette interjected voicing her doubt that Jake could possibly be involved. 'No, no it isn't Jake,.' her mother burst forth sobbing.

Babette was becoming distressed, her throat too dry to say the words in her mouth.

'Your father,' her mother sobbed, 'James, your father, oh Babette, your father is dead. Last night after your accident... I... I was there when it happened, his heart stopped. I called the ambulance but it was too late. His heart just stopped, just stopped they said.'

Babette stared into her mother's face, stunned, unable to take in the whole situation. Suddenly nauseous she glared at her mother in disbelief.

'He said he loves you so much Barby he said he is so proud of you... ' her words trailed off as she broke down sobbing.

Sharli lent forward placing an arm around Louise's shoulder in an attempt to comfort her. Then, with the help of another nurse, they lead Louise away.

Babette was given a sedative and the nausea subsided as she stared at the hospital ceiling knowing that her life had changed forever.
Monday 10 March 2014

Xing Saga Part 10 - The UFO

Jane Russell

Mount Barker, SA

In which the noble BodWilf is first introduced to the Xing community on Earth...

It was very dark that night; no stars could penetrate the clouds, the new moon had not yet risen, and would probably not be noticed if it had. Polly swivelled his horned head around then turned to go back inside when, out of the corner of his vision he saw a flash. He turned quickly and saw a small group of lights proceeding steadily across the sky. Definitely not a shooting star. What if it was a UFO? Aliens! He ran to tell his Mum.

'Mum, mum, come quickly. I've just seen a UFO!'

'Don't be silly dear. I'm sure aliens would have far more sense than to show lights when checking out the planet, it's probably just an aeroplane.'

She grudgingly came out, just to keep Polly quiet. As they looked up, the lights winked at them.

'There, you see? It's a plane.'

'What if it's a UFO that's pretending to be a plane?' persisted Polly. 'What if it's someone from Xing, looking for us? Would that be good or bad?'

'Hmm,' muttered his Mum. She had serious doubts that a rescue party from Xing would approve of their current situation. They would hardly overlook tampering with the Metalbot MRA. Xing was a very conservative society and change was not something they embraced willingly. The extent of bot genetic experimentation now rife on Earth would be regarded as Heresy, at the least. She bustled Polly back inside and called an elder for advice.

'Hogar, is that you? Have you seen the lights in the sky? What do you think, could it be from Xing?'

Meanwhile, happily causing such speculation and confusion, a spoiled lordling in his pleasurecraft was enjoying his subterfuge. BodWilf read the genetic display, amazed at the number of Xing lifeforms it registered. Many more than the remains of the original invasion force so long ago.

Also, only a small proportion of them displayed as true Metalbots, the rest had a different signature. So, he had uncovered a hotbed of Heresy--he could be famous! He could become Witchfinder General, or something. He wasn't sure of the correct appellation. He decided to check out the situation in person.

The flashing purple of console lights and a shrieking alarm distracted him from his musings; alerting him that he was about to hit something. He dashed to the display and peered at the proximity readout. There was no doubt; he was on a collision course with a regular airliner who would have no idea he was there as he would be invisible to any Earth instruments.

He dived low to get under any plane's flight path and was soon cruising over the landscape, viewing the trees and houses through night vision. He dared to go lower still and regretted it instantly, as his proximity alarm sounded too late. He collected a swathe of power lines and his craft flipped arse over elbow as he desperately clung on to whatever he could reach.

He made an ignominious landing the wrong way up and promptly threw up three days worth of delicacies all over the console.

'Clean that up, Grey!' he ordered, as a hooded grey servant shuffled out of the back of the craft to check he was okay. BodWilf retired to his room to clean himself up. It was annoyingly disconcerting as everything was upside down.

The next day, Xing Town residents were amazed to see a noble bot approach the gate, his silver body with red detailing was unmistakeable. A hooded grey bot shuffled behind him, eyes on the ground. The noble walked in like he owned the place.

The kids ran out to look at him and he stared at them, equally unbelieving. There were blue ones with yellow hair, pink ones, green ones with spiky heads, blue ones with springs on their feet, only a small number were the traditional red of their class.

'Take me to your leader!' he demanded, imperiously.

'Spin on it, nobhead!' shouted one cheeky imp. Another shot him in the face with a water pistol, and he felt his whole world grinding to a halt.

'Noooooo!' These abominations had no respect for their betters. He forgot that he was the first bot from a class other than their own that they would have seen before. They had killed him! He, who came from a noble family close to the Emperor himself, then he realised that an adult bot or two was helping him up.

'Don't worry, mate. You'll be right as rain,' one said. All he could reply was:

'Ughhhh!'

Some time later, he was surprised to find that he could move normally again. What had they done to him?

'You there!'

'Oh hello, are you feeling yourself again then? I'm Oggie ...'

'I don't give a flying dang who you are; you laid hands on a noble. I could have you dismembered for that.'

'Ah, well, if you're not happy being rescued from certain death, just say the word and we'll restore you to your previous condition.'

'Danged cheek!' BodWilf was confused. Where was the deference? What was going on in this Xing enclave so far from home? His underlying fear was that they had tampered with his genetic makeup, thus making him impure. This would seriously undermine his role as Witchfinder General, and where on Xing was Grey when he needed him?

To be continued...
Monday 10 March 2014

One Man's Point Of View

Vickie Walker

Orange, NSW

Whatever was he thinking competition entry

The call came in at dawn. 'Sergeant Paul Bryson. May I help you?'

'Mate, you gotta get down here!' the surfer babbled. 'There's a body ... a girl ... Rocky Head Beach. I found a young woman's body; face down on the water's edge. I turned her over; she'd been strangled.'

In quiet Sandy Bay, this was big news--in twenty years as a cop, drunken brawls were as exciting as it got. Sandy Bay was a close-knit community; I knew everyone in it, but I did not know this girl.

She was identified by her cousin, Sheree White, as Carole Grayson, visiting from the city. Sheree worked at the fish and chip joint.

'Don't know why she came, ain't seen her since we were kids,' Sheree told me. 'Turned up two days ago, said her mum was dead.' The evening before her death, Carole went out around 8 pm and didn't return.

There was a lot about Carole, that Sheree didn't know. Like a persistent bulldog, I dug into the dead girl's background, unearthing her personality. That was the key. At Sandy Bay Police station, my job was routine; I'd even considered leaving the force. Now I could use my abilities as a cop, my wits, my brain, my common sense. I would solve this, despite the detective from the city they assigned. He just sat in my office, ordering me around.

Carole was secretary for an accountancy firm. Her employer, Robert Downing, informed me she'd worked there for eight years.

'She was dedicated, bright, helped me run everything.' He sat down. 'I'm a plodder, she had get up and go. What will I do now?'

Her boyfriend of three years, Ray Baker, worked in the building trade. A likeable bloke, she pushed him to do more training, gain more skills, advance his career.

'Her mum died of cancer a few months ago, was sick for years,' he sobbed.

My digging was paying off. I tried to inform the detective but he felt I was on the wrong track. The fact I'd discovered massive costs Carole had to meet with her mother's illness, debts left when she died, didn't mean anything according to him.

Then Robert Downing called--company audits revealed considerable sums of money Carole had 'borrowed' from the firm. Robert was devastated. A history was emerging of a young woman in financial trouble. I had the clue I needed; this was exciting, a chance. The detective even had to admit that I might be onto something.

A warrant was issued; I found evidence of money being paid regularly into her account for nearly two years. They stopped, just prior to her death.

'Seems you know what you're on about Sergeant,' the detective said. I thanked him. My skills were being recognised finally. 'Now let's get a trace on those payments, see where they're coming from.'

The trace led to John Cooper, owner of Sandy Bay's Seafood Emporium, and Sheree's step-father. John married Sheree's mother a few years after her husband's death and took over the shop.

I arrested John Cooper for murder a month after Carole's death, the detective allowing me the honour as I had found the evidence. It was a proud moment.

The court case opened in Sandy Bay, everyone in attendance. Ray slouched near the door. Robert Downing sat on a nearby bench, head between his hands.

John Cooper, greying, eyes downcast, biting his lip, was led into the dock. He looked sad; I couldn't tell if he was remorseful or not; he'd said little since his arrest. Whatever was he thinking when he strangled the girl, he must've known he'd be caught.

I watched the men in Carole's life--her boyfriend, her employer, John Cooper. She had an effect on each of them in some way. Even on me, as I investigated her death.

The case lasted for two weeks. Details emerged of the events leading up to John Cooper's arrest.

Carole Green blackmailed John Cooper. Four years ago, Don White, Sheree's father, was in the city. While there he went fishing one night with John and Carole. Carole, sleepy, went below.

Waking, she heard an argument between the two men on deck. She went up to see what was going on and saw John push Don into the water. Don's head never surfaced. His body washed up two days later. An inquest at the time believed John's story of being asleep, to find Don gone the next day. Carole said nothing. A verdict of accidental drowning was brought in.

Lil White was grief stricken at her husband's death. John helped her in the shop. Eventually they married. Then Carole started blackmailing John. She needed money to help her mother and to pay back Robert Downing. John paid up--he wanted his good name intact in Sandy Bay, he wanted Lil and the shop. After Lil died, he continued to pay.

When he stopped, Carole arrived at the beach to argue it out. He lost his temper and strangled her, wanting her out of his life.

'Guilty.' The jury's verdict echoed around the walls of the courtroom. John Cooper was sentenced to life behind bars. He didn't react when the sentence was read out, just bowed his head in weary acceptance. As he was led away, Sheree cried silently; the crowd watched in stunned silence.

I leant on the railing overlooking Rocky Head Beach and reflected on the trial, on Carole Green and the men in her life. Carole developed intense relationships with her employer, her boyfriend, John Cooper. Strong, single-minded, she surrounded herself with men she could help to succeed, satisfying something within herself.

Robert Downing never got over her deception--he left his business, retired up north, no longer successful without her vitality. Ray also left his job, went overseas. I heard he was building homes in Papua New Guinea as a volunteer. John Cooper was to spend his life in prison.

Sheree White sold the shop and moved to the city. Sandy Bay held no more for her. She got herself a job, a flat, a new life.

The detective had kind words to say on my handling of the case. He even apologised for doubting my abilities. Next thing I knew I received a call offering me a promotion at a new station. I wasn't leaving the force after all.

I suffered, as did the locals, for a man we had all known held a secret, had murdered not once but twice. John deceived us and we would never forget. I was not sad to be leaving. I looked forward to a new challenge. Carole Green's murder had given me that chance. I intended to make the most of it.
Tuesday 11 March 2014

Xing Saga Part 11 - Whatever was he thinking?

Jane Russell

Mount Barker, SA

Whatever was he thinking competition entry

'Watcher-1 to base, watcher-1 to base, do you read me, over?'

'WHAT??' shouted his boss, 'I'm eating my lunch.'

'I've found the UFO, over.'

'Oh yeah? What is it this time? A shopping trolley with five wheels?' came the sarcastic comment from the head of an amateur group of UFO trackers near Leeds, UK.

'You can mock, but this time I swear it's the real thing!' blustered the indignant Tommy, whose record to date had been far from glorious, 'over.'

'Alright, what's its location, over?'

Tommy was triumphant as the ufologists led by his boss inspected the site. At last he had found what had to be, unquestionably a genuine, unmistakably alien space craft. He beamed as his boss tinkered amongst the wreckage.

'Go on, say it! It's real, isn't it?'

'It appears to be,' muttered his boss, unwilling to endorse the find just yet.

'I want proper recognition this time, I found it. It's only right,' insisted Tommy.

'Tommy lad, haven't we always credited you for all your finds?' replied the boss, gently.

Tommy grunted. He had indeed always been blamed for the useless pieces of junk he had incorrectly asserted were the remains of UFOs. But this time was different, he could see alien tech and all sorts of new things; wasn't that sloppy stuff vomit? Perhaps it would reveal alien DNA? The possibilities seemed infinite--perhaps he should demand royalties?

'The occupants have gone,' his boss sounded disappointed 'but wait, there's a trail leading to the wood.'

Three of the UFO hunters followed the trail, leaving the fourth to guard their find. After an hour or so, they came to the entrance gate to Xing Town.

'Well, I'll be damned! Remember those hopeless robots who tried to invade us more than ten years ago? Looks like some of them stayed. I wonder how many people know about this?' murmured the boss.

'Aliens! We've found aliens!' rejoiced Tommy, then thought 'hang on, what if they're dangerous? Shouldn't we just report this to the authorities?'

'Don't be such a wimp, Tommy, just leave the talking to me,' and the three intrepid UFO hunters approached the town.

Meanwhile, inside Xing Town, the two UFO occupants were suffering from severe culture shock. They were amongst their own kind, sort of. But all the metalbots who had settled on Earth were from the Xing worker class, bright red metallic life-forms; remnants of the original invasion force; whilst the newcomers were each from different classes: BodWilf was a noble and Grey was a servant.

Neither were accustomed to what seemed to be a classless society; a society which had evolved and experimented, dabbling in what could only be described as 'Heresy' back on Xing. They had tampered with the metalbot MRA to produce a variety of colours, abilities and strange features in their offspring. Offspring who were cheeky and rude when faced by the bombastic noble, but curious and kind to Grey.

'You don't say much. Are you noble too?' asked a cheeky young bot with hair like bedsprings.

'Goodness, no, no. I'm just a servant,' muttered Grey, keeping her hooded head lowered humbly. She'd never been addressed directly before and didn't quite know how to proceed.

'What's your name?' persisted the youth, and several of his little friends were interested too.

Grey had NEVER been asked such a question, even by fellow greybots. She was convinced that her master, the noble BodWilf had no idea she was even female, nor would it make any difference to him if he did. She did have a name though, she was sure, now what was it?

'Umm, it's Cobweb,' she whispered, as though pronouncing her name was the most shameful thing imaginable.

'Pretty, it suits you,' piped one of the youths, 'and you shouldn't hide your head under that hood!'

This was all too much for Grey, and she muttered something like 'I have to go now,' before she fled.

She had been BodWilf's personal servant since they were both children, back on Xing. He had always been wilful and adventurous. Accustomed to getting his own way, he had decided to fly his unsuitable pleasure craft all the way to the 'forbidden planet' just to see what it was like. She had of course accompanied him as ordered. What happened next was most unfortunate.

'Are there you are, Grey? Where have you been? I'm most displeased with you.' Came the familiar, grumpy voice of her lord and master. At this moment, anything he said was most welcome. As usual, he didn't expect a reply, he just gave her some trivial tasks to complete and waved her away.

As she worked, she thought back over the first few days of their arrival on Planet Earth. BodWilf had not so much landed as belly-flopped the craft into a tangle of overhead wires. The likelihood of repairing the mess that remained was low, so they were probably marooned. The metalbots in Xing Town, however, had been most welcoming, despite her master's bluster and insults.

She was sure that the culture shock was worse for him than it was for her. Accustomed to being treated like a lord, he was totally unprepared for the freedom and equality displayed in this enclave. Only the older bots had any experience of classes other than their own, though few had met any even on Xing. So both she and her master were oddities in their own way.

While he was struggling with the lack of proper deference, she was struggling with the open way the bots accepted her. The servant class were normally referred to as the 'faceless ones', all grey, hooded, interchangeable and shunned unless they were being given orders. No one struck up a conversation with a grey. No one EVER asked their names. The idea of going about unhooded, head held high, as 'Cobweb' both frightened and attracted her, but she dismissed it as an impossible dream.

She was shocked when later that day she came across BodWilf sobbing into his pillow.

'Master, what's wrong? What can I do to help?' she ventured, fearing he would be offended by her intrusion.

'Oh Grey, it's all gone wrong! I'm a failure! I came here for adventure and instead I find I'm just another different coloured bot, neither better nor worse than any other to these people. There's not even any proper food as these idiots don't seem to eat and their multi-coloured kids are downright rude to me.'

'There, there' she patted his head, daringly. He let her.

'Oh Grey, if you weren't here I wouldn't be able to bear it. Don't ever leave me, promise me!'

Grey's eyes widened in amazement. He must be aware not only of her gender but of her hero worship as well.

'Of course my master, I'm yours to command for all eternity.' Her enthusiasm and emotion struck a chord of alarm in BodWilf.

'What are you wittering on about, Grey. You're not my dang equal; you're a lowly servant. Behave like one!'

As she shrank away, stung by his rejection, her hood fell back revealing her rather lovely face. BodWilf stared. He'd never really looked at her before. He'd never thought of her as other than 'he' or 'it' and now it seemed she was a girl. He reached out to touch her, then he remembered himself. Whatever was he thinking? She was a grey, he was a noble, it could never be. But then, in the privacy of his own quarters, who would know? He reached for her again, and she let him.

Through the bliss of their passion they gradually became aware of a commotion outside. Something was happening. They reluctantly drew apart and went to see.

'It's humans, humans have come to visit us' shouted someone racing past.

'What the dang are humans?' BodWilf asked, but no one had time for him. He and Grey wandered down to the gate. Three strange beings, pale and soft, with flappy body-coverings and fur on their heads and faces were addressing the crowd of bots.

'Who's in charge here?' bellowed the boss, while Tommy and the other ufologist gaped at the sight of so many candy coloured robots of all different styles and sizes.

'Hello, I'm OggleBog,' said a pink robot with white spots. 'How can we help you?'

BodWilf bristled at the worker bot's presumption, but was reluctant to claim leadership himself. He and Grey stood towards the back of the group, watching warily.

'Are you responsible for the UFO that came down in Palmer's field last week? It's caused a lot of damage to power lines that will cost a great deal to fix up,' proclaimed the boss.

'UFO?' replied Oggie, puzzled, 'Oh, you mean the imperial pleasure craft that accidentally crashed while attempting a low-altitude fly-by? I put it down to pilot inexperience, myself.'

BodWilf had to be restrained at this point, his silver face glowing an unhealthy red.

'But then, the power lines weren't properly visible, so the occupants could sue for dangerous negligence on the part of the power company,' continued Oggie, 'Let's just call it an unfortunate accident and leave it at that, shall we? Luckily no one was seriously hurt.'

'Are the occupants here?' asked Tommy looking around, his curiousity overcoming his shyness.

BodWilf was appalled to see Oggie waving him forward, but it wouldn't do to appear cowardly, so without thinking he grabbed Grey's hand, not registering her small cry of alarm, and pushed through the crowd to the front. He stood straight and glared menacingly at the humans, then he realised he was touching a greybot and dropped her hand like a hot coal.

'Allow me to present the noble BodWilf, personal friend of the Emperor Po, and his servant Grey Cobweb,' said Oggie.

Both BodWilf and Grey stared at him for naming her publicly like that, then BodWilf addressed the aliens:

'Speak creatures! What are you called and what is your lineage?'

'I'm Johnson, the boss of the UFO Tracking Society of Leeds and these are my minions, Fred and Tommy,'

'I'm not an onion,' grumbled Fred.

'Shut up, idiot!' murmured Tommy, fascinated to be introduced to such an important alien and wondering if he'd like to buy his new invention: a hand-held smart device fuelled by bacon.

'What is this "UFO" of which you speak?' demanded BodWilf.

'UFO stands for Unidentified Flying Object,' said the boss.

'Well as it's been identified as an imperial pleasure craft from Xing, you can no longer refer to it as a UFO, and therefore it no longer falls within your purview,' asserted the noble.

'Is 'e insultin' us, guv?' asked Fred, who didn't understand any of what had just been said. 'Just give the word and I'll clock 'im one.'

'We're going,' said the boss to his men, and to the assembled bots, 'but don't think this is over!'

Watching the retreating humans, BodWilf restrained his natural impulse to abuse Oggie for his tactless remark, what's the point, he thought, he's probably right, also, his introduction had been more than proper. Perhaps this enclave was not a lost cause after all? He'd noted that there were several old soldiers that clung to the old ways. They could be rallied to his cause, he did not doubt. With a bit of judicious manipulation he could become the emperor's representative on Earth and ruler of Xing Town.

Then he remembered Cobweb. What was he to do about a thoroughly inappropriate relationship with a greybot? For now, it would just have to be their secret, as the idea of giving her up was unthinkable. Especially as, during their love-making, he had completely lost all sense of propriety and generated a baby bot. He knew that technically it was impossible to generate a child accidentally, so he had to admit that he chose to do so.

The idea of parenthood both appalled and enticed him. Within a week the whole town would know about it as he gave off the tell-tale scent of a pregnant bot. He wondered what Cobweb would say. He looked forward to telling her, tonight.
Tuesday 11 March 2014

The Black Hole of Dublin

Stephen Russell

Teringie, SA

Whatever was he thinking competition entry

The rain's coming down with that same hissiness, as if it's been coming down that way since the Jurassic. And come to that, it shows every intention of continuing into the post-homolithic, or whatever they called the NOW in scientist-speak.

I cared what scientists called things because I wanted to be one. Well, I had wanted to be one a half-lifetime ago.

'What do you want to do when you leave school, Glenn?' the careers officer had asked me in that annoying, cloying, I'm-so-kind, sort of way that made me want to puke.

'I ... I want to be a scientist.'

The look Mister I'm-so-effing-kind gave me said it all. Straight Ds, in the days when Ds were one place not so awful as E, and this pimply cream-flattened-hair loser wanted to be a scientist.

Well, pigs might fly to the Moon before this one is going to make it as a scientist. Whatever was he thinking?

'Nice ... Glenn. I wish you every luck. Umm ... NEXT!'

No discussion, just end of story. The guy was probably hard pressed to think of a single thing that might suit such unpromising soil. Soiled. Night-soil. A night-soil man. They earned money 'cause no other bugger wanted to do it.

Three o'clock in the morning down the back lane of our terrace house in Stoneybatter on the wrong side of the Old Cabra Road, on the wrong side of the Liffey:

'Hey Mister!'

'What the feck? Howz it yer out in the dark and the rain scaring the fecking bejesus out of honest folk? Get off with you before I bollocks you one.'

'Keep yer shirt on, Mister. I jest wanted to know how I can do what you do?'

'Yer joking me. No wait. It's a good trade, don't be getting me wrong, now. Just smells a bit, and the rain, it leaks into you. But no, come along with me lad, and I'll be taking you to the foreman, Jim O'Conner. We'll 'ave some tae, and talk it over, like.'

So we had our 'tae' and we had our 'talk it over,' and next thing I was carting shit for me troubles. Better wages than any of my kin. And even better, none would have any of my earnings if I offered it 'cause it smelled so fecking bad. But that was it you see, nobody would come near me. Money rolling punt after punt, and not a soul to spend it on. I stuck some under my mattress, as the bank'd have naught to do with it. The rest... well, I spended it on my passion--science.

I chucked in the job that winter, in the depths of winter when the frost froze the fingers and the toes, and breath came out in puffs. It was too much for me, and all the time thinking I wanted to be a scientist, and all the time wondering how to meet up with the girls.

I hadn't never done it with girls. Straight from school into the night-soil business.

The rain was coming down, as I said. So I stepped into The Hoggar on Manor Street. Nice traditional sort of café, full of smoke enough to kill, dim lights as if they were ashamed of the dark stains on the moldy carpet. The window seat next to the radiator, it was free, or sort of free, 'cause a black-haired lass sat there all alone, staring into her coffee cup. I brought my own coffee over.

'Can I sit?' I asked. She nodded with a twitch of her hair, a shiver, like the shiver of my back with the rain still trickling down. I sat. Looked into my coffee cup... it seemed the right thing to do. Steam from the thick blackness engulfed me, like the steam from the mug my Da would make me before school each morning. He wasn't one for tae, my Da. Coffee strong and black, bitter as the far side of Hades.

'You smoke?' asked the girl, looking at me through a curtain of hair, as if it protected her from the evil in the world, the evil that lay within this stranger who chose to sit beside her. I could have shook my head then--No thanks, I don't smoke. I could have done it, but I didn't. The urge to say no was so strong in me, but something made me answer different. _Whatever was he thinking?_ I could hear Mr fecking niceness saying, to himself, I hope from the vantage point of a well-earned front-row-seat in Hell.

'Yes.'

Just that, not 'thanks for offering', not 'my name's Glenn, what's yours?' Just 'Yes.' I didn't smoke of course. My Da, and all my uncles were dead from smoking their lungs to rags, and I didn't fancy bollocksing my own lungs. But she'd asked.

She handed me a Peter Stuyvesant filter menthol, white like a woman, like the skin of this woman as she leant over to offer me a light. I sucked in some smoke enough to burn my throat down to my toenails, and coughed my insides out, eyes streaming, her laughing as if it was the biggest comedy act this side of Duffy's Circus. Eventually we calmed down a bit. She tapped out another fag for herself, put it to her lips, red lips like new blood, and lit it with a Ronson. She dragged the smoke in, let a puff escape as she cooled it in her mouth, then drew it deep inside her, brown eyes suddenly present, there, looking into mine as if she wanted to see what kind of monster she was sharing a shard of her life with.

I took another drag, more successful, but still burning more than hot tea when you have to get off to work before cock crow. The cocks crow early in Dublin, God love them. Their noise kept me company all the years I spent down the back alleys ferrying filth to the waiting trucks. Them and the fecking dogs.

'Thanks for the fag,' I said.

'Welcome.'

'Sorry if I smell, but... '

She leaned across, her delicate nose twitching in front of my stubbled face. 'You don't smell... I'm Sylvie.'

'Nice name... I'm Glenn.'

She studied me, as someone studies a specimen in a museum, a Neanderthal, stuffed, carrying a lump of wood on their way to club a mate and drag her senseless back to their cave. It was a naked stare focused on my being, frighteningly primitive, barbaric, Vandals, Goths and Cybermen wrapped into one.

'Hi... Glenn,' the voice of an enchantress weaving a spell on her victim.

Still leaning over, she took a drag on her cigarette, and breathed the smoke into my face as if she were evicting the evil spirits. I dragged on mine, and blew a thin stream of it onto her cheeks, her forehead, her eyes with their long black lashes. She turned her head, brought it close and breathed the last of the smoke, the part from deepest inside her, into my mouth as our lips sealed the vapors into our joined bodies.

We took the number 37 bus back to her bed-sit in Ballymun, and made love on the floor in the hall. No time to get as far as the bed, a good three metres further on. Still wet from the rain, cold, clinging to each-other's half-naked bodies. I wasn't good at it the first time around, but she only smiled her sorcerer's smile, as she led me through round two...and three. Only then were we allowed another Peter Stuyvesant, sitting in the hallway, backs propped up against the dresser with its paint peeling off in ribbons, still dripping cold rain, sweat streaming, tears coursing down our cheeks from the laughter of it all.

'What will you do now... Glenn?' We were sitting on her unmade bed smoking a fourth cigarette, after having had a long passionate shower.

'I'm hungry. I'd kill for a chip butty.' She looked at me with those eyes, with that expression I already knew, as if I had known it all my life.

'Yeah, I don't know. It's like I've lived my life waiting for this moment. I've saved my money and I'm out of work. I could go to the college tomorrow and sign up for that degree in science I always wanted... you know, nuclear physics, or quantum mechanics or something. I could, but... '

'Butty. You need your chip butty, I know. Hang there lover boy, and I'll fetch us one. And coffee. You never touched the one in the café.'

We munched and drank, and smoked some more as the greyness of day faded down to early darkness. And the rain hissed outside on the window pane.

'So, will you sign up for it?' she asked, looking at my face, reading it.

'Not today ... perhaps tomorrow.'

'Saturday.'

'Monday then.' I knew it was a lie. I had come this far for nothing. What did people do when they found a black hole?

'What about you?'

'Me?' she asked, as if the thought had never occurred to her. 'I have nothing to live for. Look out the window. It'll never stop. Death must be better than this.'

'You know, I've been reading about black holes,' I said, mind on its way into space. 'They reckon you need a star sized lump to make one... and not just any star, like the Sun, a REALLY big star... like, I don't know, Beatlejuice.'

'Crazy man.'

'Yeah I know. But the thing is... I reckon I can make one. No, don't look at me like that. I've had plenty of time to think and play around with stuff in the garage in between shifts. I saw the calculation in a book, you know, how much force to squeeze matter into a black hole. Stephen... someone did it. And I had money, like. So I bought one of those ex-Star Wars super-high power lasers on the Net. You can get anything on the Net. And I made a sheet of buckyballs. They're really simple to make you know. Just burn up some cork in oxygen depleted atmosphere and you got them. I put gold atoms in the middle of mine to see if I could do it. If I used palladium, instead, and whacked it with three of those lasers... '

'Crazy man.'

Well, a month has gone by, and the rain just hisses on. We are standing in my garage, wet and cold, looking at the whole deal. Three monstrous lasers, each the size of a car, pointing down at a target of palladium buckyballs sitting on top of a pinhead. The cables from the lasers, inch thick pure copper, lead out to the nearest high voltage line, buzzing and hissing above our heads.

'You know, we only get one crack at this. It'll take all the power from this side of Dublin for a millionth of a second. They'll be onto us for damages, and fines and prison like flies on a dead donkey. Are you sure?'

She nodded, hair lank with wet, eyes bright like fever. We put on our protective gear, welder's shields, ear muffs, asbestos aprons.

I pulled the switch, big switch, like the ones they use to shut down a power station... or start one up. The light blasted through our visors, the bang sounded like the beginning of the universe. And somewhere in front of us the fabric of space started to unravel. Nobody knows what happens beyond the event horizon of a black hole. But I do.
Wednesday 12 March 2014

Bad Luck Honey

Shirley Burgess

Rosebud, VIC

Whatever was he thinking competition entry

It was an acrimonious divorce.

For fifteen years Ted thought he had an ordinary working marriage. True, for the last several years, his wife, Meg, had paid all her attention to their two children and little to him, but as they both doted on their children, he considered that quite normal.

Comfortably settled, the last thing he had expected in his life was a divorce. He lived in a large country town, had a good job, a lovely house, and a beautiful garden he had created; he had two wonderful children, Tony and Mandy, many friends, and, he thought until now, a normal happy marriage.

Then, one day unexpectedly, she sat him down and said: 'Ted, our marriage is a farce. I have someone else in my life now, and I'm filing for divorce. The papers are all signed at the solicitor's office, so I'm warning you--soon it'll be time for you to move out.'

Ted sat there stunned for a moment or two.

'What do mean "divorce"? I'm not moving out of anywhere. I worked my guts off to pay for this house so we would all be comfortable--don't think for one minute I'm moving out so someone else can move in, and that's final. How long have you had this boyfriend? You've been pretty sneaky about all this, but then, they say the husband is always the last to know. How could you do this to our kids?'

'What a stupid thing to say. Of course it won't "do anything to our kids". It just means you'll be living somewhere else and we'll stay put. I assure you, the court will give us the use of the house, and the better car, because of the children. My solicitor assured me of that. Try asking your own about it.'

'Who's Lover Boy? Anyone I know, by any chance?'

'No-one you know at all. He's a great guy. Someone I met through work. And that's all you need to know.'

He sat looking at his wife of fifteen years. How had it all suddenly come to this?

In an urgent state, he immediately contacted the solicitor always used by his firm and learned some very unpleasant truths.

Everything she had prattled on about was true. The courts would indeed grant every concession going to the carer of the children, and that would be their mother unless some kind of abuse could be proved. Even then it would be hard for him to gain custody of them.

'Also, she will receive half the value of your bank account and property. Even if your ex and partner marry, you'll still pay. Only if the ex-wife consents in writing could this be stopped--which very rarely happens--and if you go through the courts it'll cost thousands resulting in only a small reduction.'

He went on and on in this vein for ten minutes. He emphasised that his support of both children might have to remain in place until one post-secondary degree or diploma had been obtained. He finished with: 'Yes, it may appear grossly unfair, but get used to a pretty lopsided arrangement of divorce settlement, unless you're on extra friendly terms with your wife.'

Ted put his head in his hands. 'My head's reeling. She cheats on me; gets a new partner; I don't, yet I have to move out. He moves in to the house that took me years and years of work to buy; he uses all my gear; he drives the car I bought after years of saving. He doesn't even have to work, because I'm going to pay for his upkeep. Tell me this can't be true.'

'I've heard this reaction so many times before, and all I can say is I'm sorry, but that's the law. Now, you'll need a good lawyer to represent you in court. Let's start with that.'

Ted gave a small groan.

The spiteful court case that followed left many bitter memories.

~~~

'Well I'll be damned--here I am, only a few kilometres from home, and in front of me is my car, with Meg looking helpless beside it,' he chuckled. 'I can't resist this.'

He pulled his car over in front of the parked vehicle, and sauntered back to his ex-wife.

'Oh dearie, dearie, me,' he said sarcastically, 'what have we here? A puncture by the look of it. Why haven't you changed the tyre my dear? Oh yes, I forgot. You can't. You have a mobile still, I presume? Now what you do is, take it out of your pocket and you'll find little buttons on it. You press them one at a time to call the RACV or the Jones' Repair Centre in town, or even better, of course, Lover Boy, to come to your assistance.'

'The phone's battery's flat; and you know his name's Denis.'

While he jacked up the car and took off the damaged wheel he kept up a barrage: 'Am I listening to the same lady who used to call me "useless"? Another bloke, less forgiving, would have left you here. Out of the way, please, I've got to run this wheel up to the front there.'

'Oh, thanks Ted. I'm so grateful. The kids are waiting to be picked up and must be wondering where I am. It's good of you to do this.'

'Is this the same person who called me all those names in court? I couldn't recognise myself to be honest. Where's the wheel wrench? Ah, there it is. This person you were talking about in court was "over-bearing, rude, rough with the children and so callous you were sometimes in fear of your life," as I recall. What an utter rogue I am. The court audience was very impressed though. I couldn't believe the utter lies you told everyone in court that day, Meg. How could you have done that with a clear conscience?'

'It was worth it to get you out of my life at last,' she shouted at him. 'Life's fantastic without you around.'

'That does it,' he said. He lowered the wheel down on to the ground beside the wheel wrench. His final jibe over his shoulder while walking back to his car was: 'Do it yourself, or find your own way back to town. You might try walking. It's only five kilometres away. Bad luck honey.'

She chased him calling out, 'Come back Ted, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it.'

It gave him a certain amount of pleasure to gun the accelerator and take off in disdain.

The further he went the worse he felt. They could only converse in arguments nowadays, but when he remembered that their children were waiting for her--goodness knows where--he began to feel downright guilty. In town he stopped for a coffee while he calmed down, and then realised that he had to go back.

When he arrived at the scene Meg had gone. _I wonder what she did?_ He picked up the wheel and noticed the wheel wrench was missing. _Well, I can't put the wheel on without it_ , he thought.

He went looking for it thinking she must have thrown it at him as he drove away. As he kept searching a police car and two officers pulled a distance behind him.

'Who are you?' they asked. He told them but they asked for some ID. He explained his position and why he had returned. 'I don't know what happened to her,' he said. 'She must have thumbed a lift into town.'

'No,' said the taller of the two. 'We took her into town.'

'You did?'

'Just a short while ago we had an emergency call from a Mrs Meg Stevens. She was standing here at her car when another car with a single male driver pulled up, just where our car is now, and offered to finish the job. He pretended the wheel wrench was the wrong size, that he had the correct size being the same model car as this, and he could show her by comparing the two at his boot. When he opened his boot to show her, he hit her on the back of her head twice with the wrench, rendering her unconscious, bundled her into his car, drove a little way down there into a side road, and tried to rape her. As she regained consciousness she fought him off, suffering cuts to her face. In the melee, his cell phone fell from his clothing, and although he made off in his car, she remembered the registration and called us on his phone. She's been admitted to the hospital in town.'

'Oh my God,' he groaned. 'As if things weren't bad enough. 'Perhaps I can see her there do you think?'

'That's nothing to do with us, Mr Stevens. We're here to retrieve the wheel wrench he used to hit her. It'll have his fingerprints on it, and that'll clinch the case in court. Good job you hadn't found it and picked it up; that would have been a disaster for us. We'll be on our way.'

They walked to their car and quietly drove away, the wheel wrench triumphantly locked into a plastic evidence bag.

'Whatever was he thinking?' one of them said.

'Yes, I agree. Fancy leaving her stranded out here all by herself? Oh well, it takes all types.'

At the hospital Ted asked if he could see his ex-wife, if she agreed.

He tiptoed into her room.

'I'm only allowed to stay a minute, he told her,' stricken at the sight of the bandages and the several marks on her face, 'but I can't tell you enough how sorry I am for leaving you there.'

'Not your fault,' she answered unexpectedly. 'In every way, my own fault.'

He patted her hand and asked how she was feeling.

'I've several stitches in my head. That hurts, but they've given me stuff for it.'

'I've sent Jones' Repairs to pick up the car. I've paid for all of that already.'

'Thanks Ted.'

'Anything else I can do?'

'No, Denis will be in soon, but thanks for calling in.'

'I'd better make myself scarce then. Again, I'm so sorry.' He hesitated. 'Good luck Meg.'

'Goodbye Ted.'

Ted walked shakily out of the room, and as he approached the entrance he saw Tony and Mandy accompanied by Denis, approaching him. The two children rushed over to him.

'Dad,' they both cried, and burst into tears into his shirt. Mandy, still crying asked, 'Are you coming home with us, Dad?'

He stood there hugging them. 'No, I can't do that Mandy,' then, without rancour, looking at Denis he asked, over their heads, 'Is it a good thing for them to see their mother like this, do you think?'

'She asked to see them.'

He nodded. 'Right. I'd give the world to rerun this afternoon's events,' he said.

'Same here. I was missing too. My name's Denis Campbell, by the way,' and held out his hand in truce.

They shook hands. No words were needed.

Ted looked at his children and said, 'Don't take too much notice of how Mum looks when you see her. She has some bandages and things, but she'll mend pretty quickly, and be back to normal in no time. She's had a shock though, and will want you kids to look after her. I know you'll do that.'

The children nodded.

'And I'll see you a week from next Saturday, and we'll have a great time together, eh?'

'Yes, Dad.' He ruffled their hair, nodded to Denis and was gone.

_It's not about her --or him--or me,_ he thought. It's about them. They come first in all of this and I'll have no trouble remembering that in the future.
Wednesday 12 March 2014

Retribution

Susan Kay

Bellevue Heights, SA

Whatever was he thinking competition entry

Marie parked the vacuum cleaner outside the bedroom door. It'd been a month since the funeral and it was time to have a clear out. She contemplated Colin's side of the bed and sighed. His bedside table had always defeated her. 'Now,' she thought, 'I can clean it up and it will stay tidy.'

On the floor, underneath his bedside table, Colin had kept odds and ends that never seemed to come in for anything, despite his assertions that they would, one day. 'Well, I was right, wasn't I? They never had.' The top of the table was covered in pens. It had been for years. Crammed into old baked bean tins, stacked in piles and spread over the table top, not a space could be seen. No one would guess at the beautiful oak surface beneath Colin's collection of writing implements.

Marie dropped her eyes to the floor. Clusters of pens lay there, covered in years of fluff. Others nestled snugly in the orange, deep-pile carpet and in the folds of the purple, paisley curtains. 'Made those curtains myself just after we moved here. Remember?' said Marie to the wedding photo hanging on the wall above her own, pristine bedside table. 'Such a handsome bloke you were back then.' She sighed and tilted her head to one side. 'Who'd have guessed you'd be such a slob.'

She contemplated the pens once more. Where had he got them all from? And why had he collected them? He hadn't been writing his memoirs or anything. He just did sodoku's and crosswords. Shaking her head, she put her hands on her hips, and made a start.

She moved the pens around a bit, assessing the task ahead. 'Hmmm, mostly pens, some pencils, a sprinkle of markers and... ' She gasped. 'My white fountain pen! My favourite! You knew I was looking for it! Been missing for over a year. Just you wait till I get wherever you've gone, you old bugger. I'll stab you with it.'

Repairing to the kitchen, Marie poured herself a vodka and ginger ale. After two or three more, she began to calm down. Back in the bedroom she took a cardboard box from the wardrobe, emptying out a pair of sneakers Colin wouldn't need any more, and began to fill it with pens. But there were too many. They spilled over the sides of the box, and onto the carpet she looked forward to vacuuming. She put the lid on the shoebox and searched for another container.

'Ah, the box you kept your elastic-sided boots in. You won't want those any more. No need to impress those lady friends you went line dancing with every week. There won't be any more boot scooting for you.' Grimacing, she dumped out the boots. She found a roll of duct tape under the table and taped up a corner that had come to grief in a tussle with the shoes on the wardrobe floor, and started to fill the box.

She scooped and scooped but there seemed no end to the pens on the table. Forcing the lid on, she hammered it down with her fists and sealed the box with the duct tape. 'What did he do in the middle of the night with a roll of duct tape? Whatever was he thinking? I know what I'd do with it if he came back here that, that... fountain pen thief! Now, more boxes... '

In the wardrobe of the second bedroom she found several more. Emptying their contents onto the bed, she put them to work. An hour passed. Two, three, four and more boxes piled up against the bedroom wall. It was frustrating work and Marie sniffed to avoid crying. 'Where did all these pens come from? How long had you been collecting them, you old bugger?'

Looking up at the wedding photo she shook her head. 'I doubt the charity shop can sell all these.' She considered taking some of the boxes to the nearby depot, but she couldn't bring herself to stop.

She only left the bedroom to find more boxes. Cereal boxes, plastic boxes, cardboard boxes from the garage, the drawers from the dresser, all were emptied out and called into service. She even drove to the supermarket and raided the skip for packing boxes.

It was when she had half-filled the container the new fridge had come in that she burst into tears. What was she doing to cause them to multiply? It must be the way she was approaching the packing. Maybe she should separate the pencils from the pens? She thought about it for a minute and couldn't bear the thought of redoing the ones she'd already packed up, but began separating the rest into categories. Soon she had containers labelled 'Propeller Pencils'; 'Miscellaneous Pencils', 'Marker Pens', 'Click Top Pens', and so on.

In a small box that once held Colin's favourite biscuits, she placed the lone fountain pen. 'All those biscuits helped you gain weight and have that heart attack. You never could stop at one could you? Greedy pig.' Marie smiled, baring her teeth just a little.

By nightfall she was exhausted but she couldn't sleep. Her fingers were sore and cut from fixing containers with scissors and duct tape. Her aching knees made her groan as she stacked the boxes around the room. But still there was no end to the job. Separating the little devils had done nothing to decrease their fecundity.

The lady from meals-on-wheels knocked on the door around lunchtime and found it ajar. She pushed it open a little more, calling out as she entered the hallway. There was no answer. She searched the house and finally tried the bedroom door. Forcing it open she saw Marie lying on the floor, her right hand grasping a white fountain pen, which protruded from her chest.

The room was full of containers of every kind. They were stacked everywhere, covering the bed and most of the floor. After calling the ambulance she knelt beside Marie and gently removed an empty biscuit box from her left hand.

The autopsy report revealed that a white fountain pen had penetrated Marie's heart, but nobody had been able to remove the pen from Marie's grasp.
Wednesday 12 and Thursday 13 March 2014

The Green Ticket

David Anderson

Woodford, NSW

Runner-up!

Whatever was he thinking competition

The strange man had annoyed Bruce Franklin on the train all the way from Springwood to Glenbrook. His whole persona and attire harked back to a time that Bruce found hard to pinpoint, as he had never heard anyone ask so many questions about matters that any normal person would already know about.

What political party was ruling the country? Who is the Prime Minister? Had there been a major earthquake in the world lately? What is the population of Australia? What was Errol Flynn's latest movie? Finally Bruce had had enough. He threw down the newspaper the man beside him had been trying to read over his shoulder and gave him a stern look.

'Listen mate, just shut up will you. Why are you asking such stupid questions?'

The man replied as the train was just departing Glenbrook for Sydney.

'Because I've never been here. It's a whole new experience for me. You see, I've generally just gone backwards, but today I did a few adjustments and decided to go forwards for a change.' The man then tapped his sleeve near his wrist.

Bruce tried to deduce the content of the strange man's reply but was more confused than ever.

'Adjustments--adjustments to what, your watch?' The man looked surprised.

'In a way you're right. That's how I do it. I just set it where I want to go ... like date etcetera ... and next minute I'm there. Sometimes I move position a little bit, but never more than a few yards from my inception point. And before I use it I make sure the settings wouldn't find me arriving with my body joined to a tree or something.' He laughed. 'Or worse still, sticking out of a human being or a dog.'

Bruce became interested in this strange eccentric man. He softened a little and smiled.

'So you're telling me that thing on your wrist is a time machine?' The strange man looked confused.

'Well of course. I remember when I got the book _The Time Machine_ , when I was a child. I got this time watch as a payment for my kidnapping by the little green men and I ... ' Bruce nearly laughed out loud.

'You mean abduction--by aliens of course?'

'Aliens? I'm not sure I understand. No, these people arrived in a silver round thing from the sky when I was walking in the bush. They took me inside and did some tests with some queer machines and lights and gave me this watch, and then they flew off. They gave me a list of laws for using it; and I always ensure I don't break them. Let me show you how it works.'

Bruce thought he might as well humour this poor individual; then again, it was also a way of passing the monotony of the journey.

'Okay. Take us ahead an hour and we'll be in Sydney.'

The man smiled, rolled back his shirt sleeve and revealed what Bruce thought was really a very large, almost too large silver wristwatch. He began to fiddle with the buttons and the dial. Satisfied with his adjustments he grinned, pushed a button on the side of the watch, then grabbed Bruce's arm as the train entered the Glenbrook tunnel and the interior lights went out. Bruce jumped as this didn't normally happen on the train's journey through the tunnel.

Usually, the train exits from the other end in well under a minute with the lights on; but this time it seemed to slow down, and was much noisier than usual. Bruce was just aware of the unexpected smell of coal smoke, when the loud shrill scream of the train's whistle sent icy chills spinning around his head. The whistle was that of a steam train.

The train exited the tunnel as bright sunlight burned into Bruce's eyes, causing him momentary blindness. His body was tingling as if he had just touched a low level live electrical circuit. As his vision returned he didn't think of anything for a moment; he was too stunned.

He and the stranger were surrounded by passengers as before; but these passengers wore the clothes of the early twentieth century! He turned to the stranger who was just as startled as Bruce.

'What the fuck have you done you silly prick?'

People turned around horrified at such bad language. A burly man got out of his seat and grabbed Bruce by the shoulder with one hand and held up a fist in the other.

'Apologise to all the ladies here or I'll break your nose.' Bruce gulped, realising this loud outburst of language would not be too well tolerated in his own time period let alone one of a hundred years ago.

'I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to shout and swear out that loud.' A woman in the next seat broke into the conversation.

'You look well bred young man, but even to think such language shows you are a man of the extreme lower class.'

'So sorry. Please forgive me everyone.' The burly man grimaced and sat back down.

Bruce then realised that his clothing of tweed jacket and cap, together with brown moleskin trousers and boots, didn't look too out of place to be noticeable; although he looked a tad cleaner than some of the passengers, it gave him a certain air of security. He whispered to the strange man.

'Can you get us back to 2014, or isn't that possible?' He gave the strange man a worried look of appeal. The man held up his wrist and shook it.

'It always takes a few hours before I can use it again. I'm not sure what went wrong. As I said, I've never gone forwards before, so we'll have to wait.'

Bruce looked out of the window at the landscape, then noticed a newspaper, The Blue Mountains Echo lying on the seat across the aisle. He reached over and picked it up.

'Unbelievable. You've taken us back just on a hundred years to Saturday June 27, 1914. World War One has probably begun already.' He opened his backpack and began taking out his laptop to Google this information. The strange man promptly reached over and pushed it back.

'You mustn't let anyone see that. It's something from your time period.' Bruce realised his foolish mistake, realising that it wouldn't work anyhow; there being no internet in 1914.

The strange man took out a thick notebook from his backpack and flicked through the pages. He came to an entry and displayed it to Bruce and whispered.

'The assassination of Archduke Ferdinand isn't until tomorrow.' Bruce looked puzzled.

'You have information of that in your book?'

'Just the main events of the world's history.' Bruce realised what this meant to Australia and Britain.

'We should tell someone--maybe someone in the government.' The man shook his head with a look of horror on his face and a finger to his lips.

'And be arrested and thrown into gaol? They would suspect you as being part of something, and even so, if you wish to return, you must do it within four hours. And of course you must not change anything in the past, or indeed the future.'

Bruce sat back and let out a breath of frustration.

'You're sure we can get back? If we can I suppose we might as well have a look around. I'd like to see Sydney as it was in those... I mean... these days.' The man gave a blank look.

'I'm so sorry, but we mustn't go more than about twenty miles from our arrival point, or risk staying here forever. I'd suggest Penrith for a few hours and then head back by train to the tunnel for re-entry to your time.' Bruce nodded, and then felt sure he'd missed something.

'You said "your time", meaning mine and not yours? What time are you ... ' Bruce had a sudden flash of memory. 'When we first met, you said it was the first time you had gone forward. So does that mean you're from a time before 2013?'

The strange man smiled.

'Yes it does. I was born in 1895. My abduction was January 1939, and that is when I began to travel. I went to the library and wrote down all the events in my book that I thought might be interesting to visit.'

'Incredible. So today was the first time you had travelled beyond January 1939.' The strange man nodded.

'Yes. I was a bit too afraid to see what would happen in the future up until today.'

'I assume you don't know about World War Two?'

The strange man shook his head. 'There was a second world war?'

Bruce nodded in agreement. 'How many times did you travel back in time?'

'Three times. I went back to the camp where I'd joined the army in 1915 to see my mates; I lost most of them in the war you see. But then I realised it would be odd if the slightly older me turned up in the pub with the 1915 me there as well, so I came back.'

Bruce smiled and pushed the strange man further. 'Where else did you go?'

The man gave a sheepish grin. 'Just to see the opening of the Harbour Bridge and to my old house in Burwood in 1900. I knocked on the door to pretend to ask for directions.' Bruce was amazed at the strange man's charade.

'Bloody hell. What happened?'

The man's eyes were rheumy as he answered sadly.

'My father came to the door, drunk and belligerent as I always remembered him, with snotty nosed me at his side; barefoot and grubby. He didn't look as imposing now I was grown up, and I knew I could strike him down for all the beltings Mum and my sister and I had taken; but I just couldn't do it. So I apologised for knocking on the wrong door and left. I still have to stop myself from going back to the day of my sister's eighth birthday in 1898, and stop her from walking in front of that horse and buggy; but I know it wouldn't be right.'

He started to sob and Bruce put his arm around his shoulder, while a few people looked around in surprise at this display of physical emotion between two men. They sat in silence for a few minutes as Bruce realised there had been no stop at Lapstone, as it was only built in 1964, when the strange man began to cheer up as the train left Emu Plains.

'When I get some money I'll catch a boat overseas to Egypt or France and try going back further to see the building of the pyramids or the French Revolution. You have to be within the area you want to go to before you can use the watch.'

Bruce agreed. 'I'd go back to Galilee to see Jesus perform his miracles.'

They both laughed and sat still until the train arrived at Penrith. Bruce and the strange man walked towards a sour looking ticket collector at the gate when Bruce realised his modern ticket machine printed ticket wasn't going to get him through. Before he could attempt an explanation, the man reached into his coat pocket and produced a handful of silver, copper and some notes, and shrewdly explained their situation.

'Sorry. We had to jump on the train at Springwood and didn't get tickets.' He handed the porter a pound note and continued. 'Just give us single tickets back to Springwood and you can keep the change my good man.'

The porter's eyes bulged in amazement, and he was duly back with the green cardboard tickets in case they changed their minds. They made their way across the dusty road and the strange man laughed.

'That change would be more than a day's work for him. I always carry plenty of cash for my visits. I picked some up on my trip in 1915. I like to use the currency within the period.'

Bruce smiled as he saw they were heading for the Red Cow Inn. The building was built in a two storey Victorian Georgian style, and was much more beautiful than it was in Bruce's time, even with its recent restoration. Bruce was beginning to enjoy his trip after all.

Walking through the billiard room, Bruce felt a pang of remorse that many of the lean young men drinking and laughing as they enjoyed each other's company, would more than likely lose their lives in a futile war on the battlefields of Gallipoli and the Somme within the next few years--or even months.

They enjoyed a few rounds of Tooths beer when the strange man said he'd like to look around the town for himself and meet back at the Red Cow in a few hours; a request that left Bruce with an immense amount of doubt. He told the man of his uncertainty if he agreed to this request.

'I'm not saying I don't trust you, but what if something happened to you and we lost contact? I'd be stuck here forever.'

The strange man went along with Bruce's fears and decided to leave the watch with him until his return. He gave Bruce a demonstration of the workings of the watch and departed, agreeing to meet back at the Inn in two hours. Bruce then realised that the man had faith that Bruce himself, would not depart without him, and maybe that he'd thought Bruce would be too nervous to attempt such a trip. He decided to have a few more beers and talked to some of the locals. One old man asked him had he purchased the fine looking jacket he was wearing at Fulton's in Penrith.

'No. I bought it at Myers.'

The old man looked at him quizzically. 'Myers. Where is that?'

Bruce was under the effect of the alcohol and forgot his situation. 'Just next door in the Penrith Plaza.' Bruce realised his mistake as it left his lips. The old man walked away shaking his head. 'You're a peculiar person for sure.'

Bruce decided to leave the Inn and take a walk. It was only a hundred metres along the road that he met her. She asked him for money and Bruce assumed that she must have been a prostitute. He was given ten pounds in notes and coin by the strange man and that fact and that he was influenced by the alcohol, led him to be induced to go to her ramshackle residence with a bottle of whiskey he purchased at the Red Cow.

It was only when her husband returned to the house to find the pair enjoying their tryst in his matrimonial bed, that Bruce realised he had taken part in a lover's revenge. The woman's husband had been a philanderer and his wife used Bruce as her retribution. Luckily for Bruce the husband was weedy and drunker than himself, so he made good his escape.

The two hours up, Bruce made his way again to the Red Cow and made up the time with a few more beers. Talking to the locals carefully this time, he heard that some were worried about events in Europe, but thought it would all pass into nothingness, while others looked forward to the public holiday for the Prince of Wales' Birthday on the following Monday.

Meanwhile, Bruce was lost in visions of cannon and trench warfare, and how later that evening, the assassination of an Austrian Duke would be the precursor that would start the worst war the world had seen, when he felt a tap on his shoulder with the return of his companion.

The whistle of an approaching train motivated the pair to dash towards the station for the trip back to Bruce's time. The strange man ran behind Bruce as they crossed Station Street, and with his mind still clouded with drink, and on the foreboding events to come, Bruce didn't see the Model T Ford that came around the corner; it's view of the road blinded to the driver by the sun.

The strange man saw the Ford and pushed Bruce from its path, but then slipped on the horse manure on the road and disappeared under the wheels. Men streamed out of the Red Cow and stood around trying to see which way they could help. Two men pulled the strange man out from under the car and Bruce kneeled down and felt for a pulse. White and red tinged foam bubbled from the man's mouth, then his eyes fluttered and lay still. Bruce couldn't find a pulse and was sure there were serious internal injuries. He tilted the victim's head back and began to blow five quick puffs into his friend's mouth when two large men grabbed him by the collar and threw him to the side and yelled at a teenager standing gaping at the blood on the radiator of the Ford.

'George! Go and get the doctor for God's sake.' The driver meekly got out of the T Model and asked if he had killed someone, while his wife lay in a faint on the seat. Everyone glared at Bruce and pushed him away as he again moved in to help.

'What's wrong with his bloody mate? His friend's laying there dying and the silly coot is trying to kiss him!'

Bruce stood back out of the way as he could see it was no use trying to help the strange man any longer. Five minutes later the doctor and a policeman arrived and the doctor declared the accident victim dead. Bruce picked up his backpack and sidled away from the group towards the railway station. He knew the policeman would be looking for witnesses and this would mean he would be trapped in this time period forever.

Having the time watch still in his possession, he whispered a silent prayer for his lost friend and walked swiftly to the railway station. He hid in the bushes at the end of the platform until a train came to take him to Springwood, and sat in the carriage pondering on the past few hours in his life. He was saddened to realise, now that he had time to reflect, that the two of them had never bothered to exchange names.

Although Bruce had travelled in his time through the Glenbrook tunnel many times, he was more used to the speed of the modern interurban train rather than the steam train that laboured up the foot of the mountain, and without Lapstone Station to guide him, he was uncertain just where the tunnel began. He walked towards the front of the train where there were only a few passengers and opened a window.

He attempted to prepare the watch according to the strange man's directions and set the watch as near as possible to his departure date, when he saw the mouth of the tunnel in the distance. He waited until the engine had entered the tunnel, looked around and smiled at the few passengers as his carriage entered the gloom, and then pushed the button. The lights went out and he heard the steam whistle and smelt the coal smoke as it streamed into the carriage.

'Shut the window my good man please. I'm wearing white ... '

The voice of an angry passenger rang through the carriage and Bruce raised his hand to close the offending window, but the window was now solid. The smell of smoke dissipated and there was the whistle, or was it a horn? The sound of the train was now familiar to Bruce and with the blast of the horn of the modern interurban express, he realised it had again become his transportation.

The train emerged from the tunnel into daylight and Bruce looked around to see the familiar green interior of a modern day train, while a little girl looked at him in amazement from the seat across the aisle.

Her mother lay sleeping beside her. The little girl held up her hand and pointed her finger at Bruce. 'Where did you come from?' Bruce smiled and whispered.

'It's just magic. Don't tell.' The little girl beamed and held her index finger vertically upon her lips. Bruce kissed the watch and lay back and shut his eyes.

'Tickets please?' Bruce was awakened by the Transit Police making their rounds. He opened his wallet and laughed as he saw the very old green ticket. He took out the return ticket he purchased at Springwood that morning and produced it to the officer, who looked at it and handed it back.

'Sorry mate. That's an old ticket.'

Bruce gave him a puzzled look. 'But I only bought it this morning from the ticket machine.'

The officer looked at him sternly. 'I don't think so mate. Those type of tickets went out about five years ago; around 2014.'

'2014! What year is it now?' Then for some unknown reason he asked, 'Who's the Prime Minister?' The Transit Police looked at each other and then at Bruce with pity. Bruce shut his eyes and bit his lip. _Whatever was he thinking?_ The Transit Officer laughed. 'It's 2019 mate! The PM is Hockey. Where have you been?'

Bruce took out the green ticket and displayed it to them.'What about this one?'

The officer examined it and whistled. 'It's like brand new. If it's genuine you'd should put that on eBay.'

Bruce laughed. 'It's genuine alright. Only been used from Penrith to the Glenbrook tunnel. So what happens now?'

The officer took out his book. 'This will cost you four hundred dollars. But tell that silly story to the court and they might let you off.' They all laughed, except Bruce who realised the fine had doubled within five years.

'So how far are you going?'

'Springwood.'

The officer finished writing the fine and ripped out Bruce's copy and handed it to him. 'Thank you Sir.'

They began to walk off and Bruce began laughing as he knew his life would now be changed forever.

'But Galilee looks good at this time of year.'

The transit police turned around.'What was that mate?'

Bruce held up his hands. 'Just talking to myself I'm afraid, and planning my next trip.'

The little girl again across the aisle held up her index finger vertically to her lips and smiled.

Bruce had a sudden rush of panic and ripped open the flap on his backpack. He blew out a quite breath of satisfaction as he saw he still had his laptop. He also had the time watch and was sure the strange man wouldn't have left anything behind to change the past. He closed his eyes for a short nap, knowing he hadn't changed anything to break the laws of time travel.

What Bruce didn't know was that he had changed the past and it's result was actually within him. For how was he to know that when he had made love over a hundred years ago in a fit of lust, that he had made love to, and unintentionally impregnated, his own great grandmother--which made Bruce his own ...?
Thursday 13 March 2014

Natural Life

Judith Bruton

Lennox Head, NSW, Australia

Whatever was he thinking competition entry

Everyday is a little life

~ Schopenhauer

Olivia was pleased she had a quiet afternoon to write her latest story and realised peace was the greatest joy of living alone. As she sat at her computer desk re-creating one of the many quirky characters she knew, the tranquillity of the hot afternoon was shattered by the persistence of loud knocking. Angel her furry little Shih Tzu scampered towards the backdoor barking as if aspiring to be a Rottweiler.

_Damn_. Olivia looked up from her screen. Through the slimline blinds in her study, she glimpsed the lanky figure of Leif the lawnmower man in grease-splattered khaki overalls and work boots standing on the back veranda. She knew his old Ford truck would be leaking oil onto her driveway.

_Damn, Damn, Damn. This character description will have to wait._ She aborted the paragraph she was composing.

'I'll be there in a sec,' she called out. Hastily she pulled a red sleeveless jacket over her white shirt to conceal the fact she did not wear a bra on writing days, tidied her uncombed frizz of a hairdo, drew a curved line of crimson on her lips and shuffled along the hallway to open the door already guarded by her growling dog.

'Angel! Quiet! Sit! It's only Leif.'

'Hi Leif. I didn't expect to see you this month.'

'Thought I'd check in anyway. How're you surviving the heatwave?'

'Well, my lawn's almost dead. The drought, and now the water restrictions are killing off everything, but happily I'm alive.'

'Still writing stories?'

'Yes, still trying to write about the eccentrics I've met during my life.' Olivia appreciated Leif was always one for a friendly chat--a _long_ friendly chat. 'And how's the recession affecting your work?'

'It's thriving.' He beamed.

'I guess it takes more than the present economy to slow it down.'

'Right.' He chuckled. 'Been flat out lately. You could say people are dying to give their business.'

Olivia studied her unique friend as he chatted, lawn trimmer in one hand and blower in his other. _Perhaps the subject for my next story?_ she thought.

She had known Leif since he was a teenager who came to cut her lawn on a neighbour's recommendation. He was a naïve young man then. Over the past couple of decades his gardening business had expanded until he seemed to service almost every home in the southern area.

Since the drought began eroding his original trade, he had sought different employment but still visited her on the occasional weekend to check her garden and to keep in touch. Today, Leif at thirty-something appeared confident, almost worldly.

As the happy reaper put down his tools and leant over to rough up the now playful dog, Olivia recalled the day about a year ago when he had turned up clean-shaven, gelled hair, dressed in an immaculate white shirt, black suit and Polaroids.

_He looked so different spruced up, I barely recognised him_.

A state-of-the-art silver Mazda van with heavily tinted windows was parked in her driveway.

'Just finished an assignment,' he had said proudly. 'Came to show you the wagon.' Leif told her how he had branched out into the funeral trade, working his way up from general dog's body to collecting the deceased in a company van. He beamed as he slid open the back door of the vehicle to show the body bags--fortunately empty.

This afternoon, Leif continued to chat as if they both had plenty of time to kill, unaware Olivia was anxious to return to her writing. He loved to talk; delighted in telling detailed stories gleaned from his new occupation.

'You should have seen the accident last week... '

_Oh, God. Here comes another splatter of unsavoury images_. Olivia grimaced.

'The coroner even mixed up the legs of the two guys. Couldn't tell one from the other... and there was another pickup down south... body decomposing, full of maggots... '

Not to dampen the young man's zest, Olivia tried to appear interested with the occasional 'really?' and 'eek!' and 'oh, so tragic'.

'And the number of people topping themselves recently... hard to clean up. Especially the ones that jump.'

Olivia squirmed. She preferred to deny death's existence.

Leif did not notice her increasing displeasure. 'Our company did the one for that family massacred in the country last week; the parents were druggies, tats all over--'

'Er, Leif, I must--'

'Rotting flesh, couldn't tell what they looked like before--'

'Must go... am expecting an important call. Nice to see you doing so well.' Olivia swiftly handed Leif a ten dollar note, and left him to whipper snip what little lawn had grown during the summer months.

Pursued by her lively dog, Olivia retreated to the calm of her study to revive her latest character in words. She felt strangely relieved; very relieved Leif had only come to trim the lawn today.

What was that? In the blackest hours of the night Olivia awoke from a dream of a dark tangled forest. She raised her body from the deep indent in her mattress, covered her black lacy nightdress with a white dressing gown and eased her aching body down the dark hallway. Once in the living room she peered through the partially drawn curtains.

The taillights of a large vehicle parked in her driveway outlined three figures standing on the front porch. Without her glasses she struggled to see if she knew them. She had never seen the young female in the hat before, but the large stout man looked familiar.

It was Bob her next door neighbour, who usually kept an eye on her well being. The tall thin man also looked familiar. It was Leif. _But Leif always comes to the backdoor... and he did the lawns only today._

Olivia ignored the squeak of the unlocked door opening and the muffled voices, and stumbled back along the hallway to her bedroom. She burrowed her aged body into the hollow of the cool mattress wanting to return to the entwined forest of her dreams with its cast of crazy characters.

She stared at the ceiling imagining she was beneath the inky night sky. _Whatever was he thinking? Turning up at midnight, wearing a dark suit, with the company van reversed in the drive?_

Olivia closed her eyes and whispered to her sleeping pooch. _'Angel, I think we're in deep shit.'_
Thursday 13 March 2014

Chancing Paradise

Judith Bruton

Lennox Head, NSW, Australia

Whatever was he thinking competition entry

Paradise is exactly like where you are right now ... only much, much better - Laurie Anderson

Indie descended the bedroom staircase, crossed the open living area and folded back the glass doors. The sight of surf glinting with early morning sunshine elated her. The drama of the coastline with its pristine sand and lush palms was pure joy.

Gentle salty breezes drifted into their home and she smiled. _Whatever was he thinking bringing me here to live?_ Seven Mile Beach was as close to paradise as she could imagine.

Indie leant over the marble kitchen bench and listened to the ocean. Bic would be downstairs now in his study preparing for work and the morning was hers to play with as a kite its prey.

'I'll make a coffee before our walk,' she whispered to Wolfe the Mini-Schnauzer.

'I need to study the waves for my new painting.'

As the kettle boiled the words of a new friend from Byron Bay came to mind. _The universe certainly opened up for you when you needed it_. Indie relished the way many people in this area believed in karma, even if she remained sceptical. The decision to move had been difficult. So far the first two months in their new home had proven to be a smooth transition.

Indie nursed her drink to the balcony where she perused the coastline arcing from Lennox Point to the Cape Byron lighthouse. The waves were racing to shore like white stallions with long flowing manes. No surfers could be seen, only a few people walking their dogs. She wondered why the beach was almost deserted on such a sunny morning. Against the strong glare she glimpsed the silhouette of a lone figure wading in the distant shallows. The person was striving to remain upright in the buffeting waves. The tide was high and the sea booming.

The sun, the sounds of the ocean and the balmy breezes lulled her into a dreamy state. She stretched out on the sunlounge and closed her eyes _. Ah, this is the life._

Indigo's mind drifted back to the icy Perth afternoon last winter when she was at her computer uploading photographs and Bic at his. They shared a small cluttered study, annoying at times but part of their intimacy. She recalled Bic asking 'How'd you like to live near Byron Bay?'

'Whatever' she had murmured as one might respond to 'do you want fish and chips tonight?' She tolerated her husband's dreams and schemes and did not question his question, until weeks later when Bic beamed upon reading an official looking letter.

'Hey, I've been shortlisted for that design position in Byron.' 'What position?' Indie shuddered. Bic replied, 'Y'know, you said you'd love to live along the East Coast ... '

Indie winced to remember how she had gasped, 'I thought you were joking.' Although shaken she humoured Bic by saying, 'Oh well, give it a go.' She believed nothing would ever change their safe, cosy life of twenty years in the same suburban house.

A clap of thunder shook Indie from of her thoughts. Dark cinematic clouds were gathering over the sea. She focused her gaze upon the person now swimming against the current. The sky was inky and the beach deserted. Just a crazy bodysurfer, she reassured herself. She was becoming accustomed to hang gliders, jet skiers and other daredevils using the coast. Unconcerned, she recalled the enthusiasm of Bic's text the day after his interview-- _I was offered the job. Woohoo. B xx_

Indie frowned at the memory of her reluctance to change. 'Bic, you go by yourself to the East Coast in January. Check it out. I might join you at Easter, or... perhaps I'll stay. You could return to Perth regularly, like those fly-in, fly-out miners.'

'But I want this change for both of us,' Bic pleaded. 'The appointment is at the senior level I need... if I'm ever to advance.'

_Perhaps, just perhaps_... Indie had dared to muse. She secretly acknowledged her life was a tad mundane, if not completely boring. Bic was a considerate man and wanted the best for them both. But the unknown was twisted with uncertainty and doubt, and Indie preferred dealing with the known.

While deliberating the daunting reality of change, she awoke wailing one morning after a dream of fire consuming their home. As her heart pounded she envisaged her future alone, clinging to a mental construct of the perfect life, reaching for glass after glass of wine to fuel the delusion. _Why should I stay?_ Gathering her courage as if journeying to Jupiter, she burst into their study where Bic was about to decline the job offer. 'Okay Bic, I'm prepared to take a chance.'

In the days following her decision the slow burning fire of her dream appeared to nibble at the edges of their home, ready to devastate everything she valued. As if preparing to flee Indie selected random items to pack. At night the imaginary flames seemed to creep closer to their house, devouring the sky of deep blue, the summer stars, the cacti and the deck where she often sat with Bic and Wolfe to watch the sunsets.

She sensed the fire's fury, smelt its acrid breath. Forked tongues quivered and curled around the frames of her life. Laughing cherry orange, a tormented demon surrounded her by stealth.

She collected memorabilia; their shared photos, her poems and paintings of time past; archived what she could, edited items for storage. She bundled clothing into plastic bags for charity, and sold furniture, their record collection, her late mother's silver teapot and bone china on Gumtree. The heat of summer fuelled the slow burn. Nothing could stop the inevitable focus of fire, or change.

In another terrifying fire dream she was lying transfixed, waiting for her hair to singe, her bones to incinerate. She waited to perish piece by piece. Waking in a sweat, she knew what mattered--Bic, Wolfe and their life together.

Indie felt heavy drops of warm rain tap her skin. An unexpected downpour splashed onto the balcony and into Indie's reminiscences. Wild waves were devouring the beach. The swimmer appeared in difficulty.

'Paradise one moment, deluge the next,' she gasped to Wolfe as she glimpsed a limp figure being tossed into shore by an enormous wave. A small group of people began gathering around the apparently lifeless body.

Distressed, Indie locked the doors against the soaking rain and any further involvement in the apparent tragedy. She did not disturb Bic, as she knew there was nothing they could do to help.

After towelling herself and the patient Wolfe, she made a fresh coffee to carry downstairs to her new studio. Here she planned to paint all the images she had only imagined before. The magic of the coast plus her new openness to chance equalled new ideas. Bic always said 'you never know how good it can get'. _Some truth in that_ , Indie thought.

To lift her spirits after the morning's drama, Indie squeezed cyan and ultramarine blue acrylic paint onto a palette, added a touch of black, looked towards the now sunny coastline and back to her almost completed canvas. A single figure gazing into a misty seascape was her theme.

As she dipped her brush into the thick blue paint, a sudden, penetrating howl made her jerk. Jars of brushes and water scattered onto the tiles. Wolfe had his paw upon her thigh and was looking into her eyes with a sad what-about-me expression.

'Okay Wolfe, painting can wait.' Indie flicked back her unruly greying hair and extended her tanned arms towards her dog. On her right shoulder a recent tattoo of a sea eagle appeared to stretch its wings. _Why not_ was her new mantra.

Indie called across the hall, 'Bic, we're going for our walk.'

No answer.

' _Bic?_ Bic, do you hear me? Bic... where are you?'

Bic's study was silent and the screen door wide open to the garden--signs he had left earlier than usual for his morning swim.

Indie felt cold flames leap in her stomach. The indelible image of the lifeless body on the beach terrified her.

Wolfe stared at her, cocked his head, ears erect. He listened intensely. Next he wailed, woofed and scampered through the study to the garden and disappeared around the side of the house leading to the front gate.

Indie knew Wolfe only ever reacted this way to his master's return. She exhaled and ran after Wolfe to greet Bic.

Bic in his swimmers with snorkel and goggles in one hand and patting an enthusiastic Wolf with the other, was dripping with water and visibly upset. 'On the beach, a swimmer... '

'I saw.'

'Lucky man, he'll be okay.'

Indie wrapped Bic in her arms and whispered, 'Karma, or whatever... thank you.'
Saturday 15 March 2014

Rainbow

Connie Howell

Wentworth Falls, NSW

Rain fell lightly, wetting me slightly

Appearing majestically the sun dominated once again

I looked in awe at seven heavenly colours

Never before had they seemed so vivid

Before me was a miracle of nature

Of such beauty it made me gasp

Wanting nothing more than it should last
Sunday 16 March 2014

Awareness

Spiller

Bacchus Marsh, VIC

Where did this dialogue begin?

Intricate twists of language

And subtle kinaesthetic hints;

Impossible to digress from.

When you trust in

What you perceive to be truth,

Assuming you are right ...

Backing up what you mean

May be your biggest plight.

Books hiding knowledge with vagueness veiled,

Interpretation,

The key to greatness.

Centuries of ancient wisdom,

Condensed into a window.

Centuries of passed time,

Condensed into a pass-time.

An idea,

Inspiration from astrological alignment,

Assassinates the senses and proliferates defenses.

Collective phenomena ascends in the coming ages.

Consciousness guides the conscious,

Spirit guides the oneness.

Connected psyche finding significance in everything and insignificance in nothing.

Pure technology,

Applications issued for betterment.

What are the consequences?

Experience leads to hindsight and folly leads to foresight,

The human plight can be prevented.
Monday 17 March 2014

We Weep

Jessica Soul

East Keilor

As the moon and the stars shine against the night

One's heart murmurs against the light

It's a tough walk through the dark

But the fight is what is lit up inside

No more pain, just relief

But underneath

We see all the carnage and hopes and dreams

You seek to find the key

This one that holds the answers

For just the seeker to finally discover

And undercover

All these mysteries.

A love of a mother

That whispers against the wind

Chimes sound out all the possibilities

To her children who calls her name

'Mother' 'Mother'

In a brisk and fresh air

The life clings to the whirl of the panic stations

The hearts of the people cry out

And the knowledge that reaps ones soul

Is not given easily

But withholds under that lock

And the remains in a firm clutch of her hand the key.

In motion, the swaying of the elegant breeze

It slides over white ash skin, creamy and sleek

Her pain washed away

She is surrounded by endless love and respect

She's in everyone's heart

No one will ever forget.

Until we part ways

Without a choice

But one who calls your name to him

You will rise and go

You will follow

And with your last breath

We weep.
Tuesday 18 March 2014

The Jesus App

Robertas

Drummoyne, NSW

'Hello... hello... Jesus? Oh, hi God. Look mate... I've got this problem...'

'Hang on, hang on. Let's start off on the right foot... you don't call me "mate"--okay? It's "Lord",--call me Lord. Right?'

'Okay. Sorry... Lord.'

'Right! Now, what's your prob?'

'Well--it's a bit embarrassing. How can I put it... I... er... I... er, can't... I can't...'

'Yeah. Okay--gotcha. You can't get it up. Right?'

'Yeah. That's right. Like I said, it's a bit...'

'Embarrassing?'

'Yeah. But, how did you know what my problem is?'

'Crikey! I am omniscient ain't I! Anyway, it's the Most Frequently Asked Question.'

'Oh, good. So what can you do for me?'

'Do? I can't do anything for you. Well... I can, but I won't, is what I mean. I'm still fuming over that Garden of Eden thing. So, you can all sort out your own problems. In respect of "funny business" that is.'

'Oh. So what sort of things do you fix?'

'Nothing. None. I gave you all your DIY licences after Eden... Remember?'

'Well, what about some advice then. Just advice.'

'Advice. Let me think. Mmm... tried starch?'

'Starch?'

'Should stiffen it up, don'cha reckon? Well, it was just a thought. Hey, look... I gotta' go--there's another fifty million calls coming in.'

_Robertas asks: Is this the kind of thing all those with their cell phones stuck to their heads are talking about?_
Wednesday 19 March 2014

Pain

Toni Paton

Blackheath, NSW

Pain is invisible;

Except, in the eyes of those who bare it.

Pain can be inflicted physically,

Or from thoughtless words,

Hurtful actions, or accidental trauma.

Heartfelt pain seems unbearable--

Time, with strength and love from others

May help ease this ache.

Physical pain can be treated,

And usually repaired.

Intolerable pain from loss, in any form, lingers--

And sometimes never fades.

There are countless causes of pain--

We are each unique and vulnerable,

And suffer our own means of pain.

Pain is an invisible force that enters our lives,

And the being, of all living things.

If we are able to recognise pain in others

And reach out, and offer comfort,

Pain perhaps--could be less painful.
Thursday 20 March 2014

Mama Camilla's Cooking School

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, NSW

Sorrento sun splashed across the large marble table in the kitchen of the ancient villa. Four travellers gather around Chef Biagio this early morning to gain experience in Neapolitan cooking. Biagio Longo is internationally famous for his style and expertise in the kitchen. A giant of a man, they watch in fascination as his huge fingers knead the flour and eggs into dough.

All of a sudden a man in the group opens his mouth and sings. He has a tenor voice trained in Opera. As his voice rises and falls, the pasta glows as if absorbing the purity of each note.

As the group kneads and separates the glistening strands of dough, his wife tells a sad story. She is of Mexican-native American decent and can trace her linage back to a time before the white men stole the land and called it their own. Her operatic husband, Yuji Oshiro, is the only son and heir of the Japanese Chef Oshiro of Okinawa who owns the Caruso chain of Italian restaurants in Japan, Singapore and the Philippines.

The young couple came to Italy to learn from Biago so they could fulfill their dream of having an Italian Restaurant in California. It was a dream born from pain.

The pure bloodline of the Oshiro Clan is impeccable. Most Japanese families intermarry and it is considered great shame to marry an outsider.

Yuji made a decision to marry his American princess and so it was done. His father cut him off, would not attend the wedding, and forbade Mrs. Oshiro to have anything to do with the young couple. They were banned from ever visiting the family home and no impure child would be recognised and blessed with the Oshiro family name.

'When we open our restaurant,' Yuji explained, 'it will be named Hero after my son and it will become famous because my spaghetti will sing. The best pasta in Hollywood will strengthen our new dynasty of mixed blood.'

'Your father's loss,' sighed Biagio. 'I shall come to the opening, for never have I had a finer student, and your spaghetti sings like Caruso, too.'
Friday 21 March 2014

It Happens

Winsome Smith

Lithgow NSW

Mark's car swerved through the gate. From the verandah, Martha watched the front tyres crush her petunias in her well-tended garden.

'Sorry, Mum,' Mark mumbled, easing out of the driver's seat. He glanced at the garden and said, 'It happens.'

Mark entered the house with his mother following. In the kitchen, he poured himself a drink of water and, after a long swig, put the glass on the bench. As he turned, his elbow knocked the glass, sending it crashing onto the tiles.

Martha hurried to get the dust pan as Mark said, 'Sorry, but it happens.'

Mark, at thirty eight, was well and truly able to get accommodation for himself but since his divorce he had settled comfortably into his mother's house.

Martha had endured wet towels, smelly shoes, smellier socks, dirt tracked onto the carpet, unwashed dishes.

He sometimes apologised, adding his casual, 'It happens.'

The next afternoon when Mark arrived home he found his suitcases, his guitar and other possessions piled onto the front lawn.

'Mum, what's this?' he demanded.

'You're moving out, my son,' his mother replied firmly.

'But, Mum, it's raining.'

Martha looked up at the sky, 'Yes, it is,' she replied. 'It happens.'
Saturday 22 March 2014

Sent Out

JH Mancy

Tallebudgera, QLD

A child sent out into the world,

dreams aflame, hopes unfurled,

will find dust or lustrous pearls,

this child sent out into the world.

Caste not your pearls before swine,

endure trials, enjoy beauty, sublime;

remember to be generous with time,

oh, child sent out into the world.

Fortune favours not the slack,

the way is long, hold to the track,

and under pressure do not crack,

fair child sent out into the world.

Diamonds bright, form with pressure,

extol you then such priceless treasure;

that pain and heartache may be lesser,

precious child sent out into the world.

_JH Mancy says: This piece was inspired by a comment made by Graham Sparks when asked if he minded if I shared his recent poem The Mother Tongue (p.134). He replied: '... it is a child sent out into the world.' I thought this such a lovely concept that it deserved a few words. Here they are!_
Saturday 22 March 2014

Vampire

Craig Stanton

Wentworth Falls, NSW

It's night times now I feel alive,

When everything's asleep, nothing demands.

You are home; your blood sings

With the contentment of a day's work done:

Your unconscious interrogation weaves a garlic spell,

Drives me to a madness that I must control.

It seems I live forever, a mockery of life--

Stiff, forced and tired--cast out from all life's joys.

A shrivelled, paper-flower brain needs no intellectual paint

And wreathes funereal hazes of ancient scent;

Black-wire nerves need no stimulation

And an abandoned clockwork heart--

Overwound; used too much--

Grinds slower, counting long seconds to a stop.

Forsaken by a creed whose symbols burn my mind and flesh,

I withstand your questions, encoffined in my circumstance,

And hungering for your happiness;

Keen to find within your words

A motivation to pin to my heart

With wooden nails.
Sunday 23 and Monday 24 March 2014

X

Gareth Johnny P Williams

Rouse Hill, NSW

A young woman sits before a grimy mirror, her hands gently trembling. She steadies them by tying her hair back and catching a tear as it rolls delicately down her cheek. She smiles. More tears flow. Standing, she glances briefly at the chaos escalating in the courtyard below. Like mercury rising, the chaos continues to scorch its way up to her cell at the apex of the facility.

The woman turns from the window, smoothes the creases in her orange jumpsuit and approaches a chair in the centre of the room. She steps up onto the chair and observes her aggressors for the first time. They're wild, unhinged. They seem to be squabbling amongst themselves even as they beat at her door. She bows her head gracefully through a hastily knotted noose. Bracing to kick free of the chair, she meets eyes with one of her aggressors.

He's laughing.

A moment later the young woman is back down on the ground, waist deep in a pile of laundry. She pulls out a worn jumpsuit, sniffs it, reeling in repulsion. She wraps the jumpsuit around her arm and plunges it into the toilet, pumping it deep into the pan. She proceeds to wipe the sopping jumpsuit through every patch of mould, every build-up of dirt and grime in the room, through cobwebs and dust.

She turns the suit inside out and smears the interior with weeks of unpalatable rations. Desperately, hysterically, she tears off her clothes and rubs the filth on her naked body, between her thighs, across her chest, her neck, her abdomen. She weeps as she frantically hacks at her hair with a blunted butter knife, tearing out much of it in the process. She pulls the soiled jumpsuit on and scales the chair once more to a chorus of jeers and howls.

Rifle fire rattles down the corridor. A young guard sprints in the opposite direction, debris whipping his face. An explosion tears down the wall behind him. Bodies tumble in after it, tussling and grappling violently. A cloud of dust bursts forth with the young guard as he passes through the doorway into a multi-tiered hub of staircases and passageways.

Spread below him is a brutal collage of prison guards and inmates slashing, shooting and beating each other. Armed prisoners below spot the young guard and immediately open fire. He dashes across the landing, heading towards his captain who stands, resolute, beyond the door.

The captain tracks his approach but shuts the door on him all the same. Through the glass panel of the door the young guard looks on in shock as his superior shrugs, a wry smile upon his face. The captain raises the butt of his rifle and, in one powerful swing, smashes the security card console. The console lights flick off. The door remains tightly sealed.

The young guard turns in despair only to set eyes on a colossal prisoner, scarred, bleeding, enveloped in sweat and grime and rage, bearing down on him fast. The young guard is fumbling for his rifle when a fearsome colleague steps out in front of him. The colossal prisoner hesitates, until the fearsome guard discards his rifle and invites, demands, the confrontation.

The colossal prisoner moves fast, throwing punches left and right, but the guard is faster, stronger. He dodges and blocks each almighty blow before countering with a solid head butt and a barrage of rapid body blows. The colossal prisoner, having lost his balance and composure, is sent tumbling over the railing with a heavy two footed dropkick.

The fearsome guard whoops victoriously, pumping his adrenalin fuelled fists in the air. His celebration is cut short, however, as armed prisoners ascend and approach on all sides. The guard responds instinctively. He drops to one knee and unholsters his side arm in one smooth movement. He takes down the prisoners in a single breath. Meanwhile, the young guard has accessed another security door. He calls out to the fearsome guard who seems to be observing the young guard's presence for the first time.

'Come on, man. Through here!'

'You're armed, aren't you?' The fearsome guard reloads his side arm, without looking up.

'What?'

The fearsome guard whistles as he waves his side arm about. 'Armed? There's no sport in shooting an unarmed man ...'

He quickly takes aim and squeezes off two shots but the young guard reacts with speed, ducking behind and sealing the security door. He collapses against the door and catches his breath for a moment, his chest heaving. He frantically leaps to his feet, raises the butt of his rifle and bashes the card swipe console repeatedly, tears burning in his eyes, until the lights flick off.

Deep in the heart of the facility the chaos seeps through the walls as nothing more than a muffled whisper of its truer intensity. The lights flicker. Dust falls from the ceiling. An unconscious body is sprawled on the floor surrounded by broken glass, splintered chair legs; any accessible paraphernalia small enough to hurtle between the bars of the cell. The body is battered, clothes torn. A white mask is pulled tight around his head with its heavy wrinkled brow and distraught open-mouthed frown.

A golden stream of liquid splashes the masked face. The figure stirs, rolling onto his back. A group of uniformed prison guards stand outside the masked figure's cell laughing while one of their crew urinates through the bars.

'Most violent criminals?' the guard asks. 'The only thing I'm in danger of here is splash back!'

The laughter continues. The masked man props himself up onto his knees.

'I wonder if you might be of some assistance,' the guard says, zipping his fly. 'You see, we're glad we found you here, all by your lonesome, but we've actually come for that brother of yours. You know the one? Wears a mask like a fucking lunatic?'

The guard shoves his boot through the bars knocking the masked man to the floor once more.

'The problem is, looks as though we're not the only ones holding a grudge.' The guard gestures across the room. A cell door is wide open, a smudge of blood across the floor. He continues, 'Divide and conquer, huh? They've left you for dead, friend. Or perhaps they're coming back. We better make this quick, hey?' He turns, smiling at his colleagues.

The cell door is opened and the masked man dragged and cuffed at gunpoint. Wrists and ankles. They shove him to the ground at the centre of the room.

'How you managed to get processed without ever being identified is a mystery to me,' the guard says. 'No. Wait,' he continues, feigning astonishment. 'Your bro flayed Treadway's face during processing, a shard of glass,' the guard delivers a swift kick to the masked man's ribs as he recalls the incident. 'Spoiler alert,' he says dragging the masked man up by the collar. 'We're going to rip that mask off, and then we'll rip your face off.'

Without a moment's hesitation the guard viciously tears off the mask. They all look quizzically at the face beneath it.

'What's the big secret?' one of the guard asks. 'We supposed to recognise him?'

'Recognise him? What's there to recognise? A broken nose and a black and blue face?'

'You... morons...' the masked man gasps, spitting blood.

'Flattery won't get you anywhere,' the ringleader says as he brandishes his knife.

'It's me...you arseholes...' the man continues, wheezing from the blow to his ribs.

'Ravitsky...Mental Health...Technician.' The guards hesitate.

'They're already gone...who do you think...dragged him from that cell?' He nods towards the blood stained floor.

The guards are infuriated. They move to uncuff Ravitsky.

'Which way, Ravitsky?' the ringleader asks. Ravitsky, rubbing his wrists, gestures towards the opposite side of the room.

As the guards turn one of them hesitates, 'hold up, I saw Ravistky in the hospital wing--'

The prisoner pulls the guard's side arm from its holster. He clinically dispatches the guards, sparing the ring leader. He shoots the ringleader in the thigh and confiscates his knife.

'You're in danger of a little splash back here.'

A television, the only remaining source of light in the room, murmurs in the corner. Reruns from a different time. Guards and inmates alike are sitting around card tables, propped up against pool tables, slumped in chairs by the television; an implausible show of camaraderie.

The room is full.

Nobody moves. Nobody speaks. Nobody breathes.

The room is still.

A group of inmates enter, inmates from the psychiatric ward dressed in their uniform white pyjamas and straitjackets in various states of restraint. They look around the room in awe.

One amongst them, the pack leader, struts around nonchalantly, nudging the inert figures with a side arm.

'Are you Prisoner X?' he asks one such figure in a hushed whisper. He pushes the body to the floor with his foot and looks up at his accomplices.

'He's not much of a talker.' They smile, crooked smiles, their twisted faces torn between fear and delight. The pack leader continues his interrogation of the corpses.

Suddenly there's a sound, a movement--suddenly there's one less accomplice.

The pack huddle together, eyes sweeping the room in panic. Excitement.

'Seriously?! I don't have enough guys to spare!' the pack leader declares, talking to no one directly, no visible presence. He pulls a rifle free of a slumped guard and riddles the room with bullets.

Something between a laugh and a cry escapes one of his accomplices. Their missing companion leans on a pool cue, staring through them, a crooked grin across his face. His head tilted on an impossible angle.

'Cute,' the pack leader calls. 'Very cute.' He collects all the rifles and side arms in his path, tossing them to his remaining accomplices as he backs towards the door.

The room falls silent. The goliath stands over the lifeless form, fighting to catch his own breath.

Sardonic applause reverberates over the intercom. 'Choose,' the captain growls.

The goliath turns with some reluctance to face his fellow inmates. They shrink into the walls of their cells. A commotion escalates somewhere below. The captain leans over the communication desk and peers down at the source of the commotion. One of his guards has accessed the security console and entered his improvised arena

'Captain,' the fearsome guard casually salutes, a trace of a smile across his lips as he scans the room. Broken bodies litter the floor around him.

'You may be interested to know, I'm doing some recruiting of my own. Winner plays on. Winner chooses his opponent. However, you appear to have volunteered. I'm prepared to make an exception.'

'Very well,' the lieutenant replies as he examines the closest corpse.

The goliath makes no hesitation, picking up his previous opponent. He uses the limp corpse as a shield. Seeing this, the lieutenant places his side arms and rifle on the floor and slides them aside with his foot. The goliath moves fast, tossing the body at the lieutenant who instinctively catches the body as the goliath charges him down. The goliath dashes for the discarded firearms. As he reaches down for one of the side arms a blade buries itself deep in his wrist. The lieutenant saunters haughtily towards the goliath who screams in pain.

'Hey, now... I was prepared to fight fair,' he says as he reaches down for his other side arm.

'Well, we're both armed now,' he says to the onlookers. 'Excuse the pun,' he sneers, pressing the blade deeper into the goliath's wrist with his foot. He fires, point blank.

'Commendable,' his captain concedes. 'Choose.'

'Oh! I thought you'd never ask, Captain. I choose you!'

The room erupts in a cacophony of taunting and chanting.

Arguing. Shouting. Desperation. The young guard is shaken from his stupor.

'Just try-'

'I have, I have, it's no good.'

'Throw something at him!'

'He definitely had one, definitely. I know it!'

'Yeah, yeah, he used it to get in here.'

'He's our last chance, man!'

'You can't reach it?'

The young guard rubs his temples as the voices fight to be heard.

'Wait! Wait! Stop! Shut up!'

'He's moving again, shh, shh.'

'One of you, one of you!'

'A'ight, a'ight, I got it,' a confident voice rises above the rest. 'Yo, boy. Boy. You gotta let us out, man.'

The young guard makes no acknowledgement of those around him. He turns and heads for the door at the opposite end of the corridor.

'Wait, man. Wait. Jus' listen. Hear me out, man,' the voice pleads.

The young guard stops. There's a moment of silence.

'Man, they gonna do us in, right here. No fight. Fish in a barrel, yo! Giv's a chance! That's all we want, man. A damn fightin' chance.'

The young guard hesitates a moment, turning his security pass over in his hand. He continues towards the door. Pandemonium follows him down the corridor. The inmates hurl their bodies at their cell doors, hurl abuse at the young guard. He swipes his card and the door's lock hisses. He pauses, turns back and yells over the voices.

'You had your chance!' The inmates fall silent. 'You had your chance,' he repeats.

'Fear... the worst kind of disease,' a smooth voice comes from the dark. No one speaks.

'Deadly... worse than deadly. Transmission is immediate. Direct contact with the infected--not necessary.'

The young guard turns his head towards the voice. He sees a decaying corpse in a cell.

'Over here,' the voice says. A handsome yet ghostly pale man shuffles forward into the light.

'You'll have to excuse my roommate. He checked out weeks ago.'

'W-what, what happened?'

'It appears your colleagues don't much care that he's dead. Or that I'm still alive. The smell... The smell alone...' he trails off.

'I won't let you out. None of you,' the young guard announces, voice wavering. 'I let you out, you kill me.'

'Well that's reasonable to assume. I'm sure we're in the company of some pretty ruthless men. Hell, I'd probably take a stab at you,' he says with a smile.

'Man, he releases us you on the top of my hit list, motherfucker,' another inmate threatens.

'Honoured,' the handsome man jests.

'It's not a death sentence if I leave you all here,' the young guard says. 'You don't know that.'

'They say he's leaving with the last ten survivors!' another inmate interjects. 'They will come for us!'

'Fear,' the handsome man croons. 'Tears away the mask, shows us for who we truly are.' He holds the young guard's gaze.

'More than a man... That's what I keep hearing. More than a man,' the pack leader whispers as he presses a knife between an inmate's ribs. He looks the inmate up and down before releasing him to the floor. His swaggers casually down a corridor flanked once more by his fellow psych ward inmates, slashing and shooting the rioters with utter indifference.

'What about you? Got any special powers?' he asks in a hushed tone as he buries his knife deep into the back of a guard. He dons the guard's hat and coat before shoving him aside and kicking open the heavy double doors to the staff canteen. He opens fire on all present.

'Sorry to interrupt, I'm looking for a Mr X, first name "Prisoner"?'

The rioting is temporarily subdued. The groans of the wounded persist. The pack leader grabs a handful of food from a table.

He turns to one of his accomplices, 'I've dreamed of this moment!' His accomplice grins from ear to ear. 'Food fight!'

He hurls the food at a wounded guard, wipes his hands on his accomplice's straitjacket and heads downstairs.

Thrusting his bloodied hands and white mask under the water, the man watches as the red stream circles the drain. He traces two fingers over the open mouthed frown before pulling the mask back over his head once more. Turning, the masked man steps over the body of the prison guard suffering through his last breaths. The masked man drops the knife beside his victim and follows the smear of blood out of the room.

Bodies litter the hallway, a grotesque trail of breadcrumbs. Pillow cases pulled tight over the victim's faces. Smiles painted on each in the blood of the respective victims. The masked man reaches the top of a flight of stairs. He approaches a solitary cell. A noose hangs from the ceiling. A filthy woman sobs in the corner.

In the middle of the room sits his brother, battered and bleeding, his teeth gritted beneath the wide open-mouthed smile of his mask. He holds a bloodied knife against the cheek of a terrified inmate.

The inmates' chanting has fallen into step, bolstering its potency. The fearsome guard parades around the mock arena basking in his sense of self, flexing his biceps and beating his chest.

'Let us streamline the process,' the captain snarls.

The cell doors clatter open in unison, silencing the cavernous room. The prisoners hesitate before shuffling out uncertainly. Gradually they move toward the lieutenant, climbing over railings and down ladders to reach him. As they near him, he turns his back to them and faces his captain. The inmates stop when they reach the lieutenant and follow his gaze. The captain looks down upon the multitude of eyes trained solely on him.

The group of psychotic inmates emerge from the stairwell and enter a room full of crates. Food, weapons, medical supplies. And contraband. In the centre of the room is a rusted shipping container. Beside it sits a man, rugged, grey and muscular.

'Don't tell me ... Prisoner X?' the pack leader asks with a smile. 'No. Wait. No, no, no. I know you. Yes. Mad Mike Ellison.' He approaches Mad Mike with his rifle braced across his shoulders.

'Guilty,' Mad Mike replies, taking a long drag from his cigar.

'Now why has no one stuck you?' the pack leader asks as he continues forward. 'Reputation precedes you, huh?'

Mad Mike makes no reply. He continues smoking, unperturbed. The pack leader stops and stares at Mad Mike, his wide eyes squinting as he looks him up and down.

'I don't suppose there's a Prisoner X in that shipping container there,' he says without taking his eyes off Mad Mike.

''fraid not,' Mad Mike replies as he examines the label of a whiskey bottle.

'Hmm.' The pack leader nods. 'I can't help but feel a little let down,' he says, feigning disappointment. 'No one's seen the guy.'

'Perhaps we are "Prisoner X",' Mad Mike says with a smirk as he eyes the psychotic pack leader for the first time.

The psychotic prisoner nods. 'Well, whoever, wherever, whatever he is, he's only looking for a small crew, from what I hear. Best of the best of the best. I best do my part,' he says as he swings his rifle down off his shoulder.

Mad Mike takes another drag from his cigar.

The young guard leans against the door frame looking down at his security card. His hand shakes. He grips his wrist with his other hand to steady it.

'There is no 'Prisoner X', and all this,' he says waving a hand at the ceiling, inviting the echoing chaos into the corridor. 'This will be over soon, and order will be restored.' His voice is weak.

'They brought him here in a shipping container--left him to rot in the basement when they found out what he was... what he is!' an inmate shouts.

'We're all taught from childhood to believe the world operates with natural order and justice.' The handsome man's voice is calm, composed. 'Even when we learn that magic, the supernatural, does not exist, will not save us, we still hope that when we can't find the strength to stand up, that justice will prevail. Justice will prevail even when the system fails.'

'There's no one pulling the strings, here. It will be over soon,' the young guard utters with even less conviction.

'People are controlled by fear. You want to restore order? You must be the most feared.'

'Order will be restored,' the young guard says weakly.

'Look at us. The system has failed. Their sentence was exile, not death. Even the worst of us consider ourselves worthy of fair treatment.'

The inmates call out in agreement, their voices becoming hysterical. They begin to slam themselves against their cell doors once more.

'You really believe in justice, huh?' The handsome man speaks loud enough to be heard over the hysteria. 'You believe someone, somewhere is going to arrive in time to put a stop to all this, this violence?! You think lives will be saved?! You believe order will be restored. I believe in fear!'

Teeth gritted beneath the wide open-mouthed smile of the mask of comedy, he holds the bloodied knife against the cheek of the inmate. A flick of the wrist. A life extinguished. He reaches for a pillow case.

The captain looks down upon the multitude of eyes trained solely on him. He hits a button. The room fills with tear gas. He pulls a mask over his face, steps out of his refuge onto a balcony overlooking the gasping horde of inmates, and methodically opens fire. In the beginning, their screams are loud and innumerable. By the end, he's counting them off.

The pack leader adjusts his grip on the rifle and grins at Mad Mike Ellison.

'Best of the best of the best,' he says again, shaking his head mournfully. He swings the rifle around and guns down his accomplices. They don't have time to scream, to beg. He tosses the rifle aside and shrugs. And laughs.

The young guard takes a few cautious steps back down the corridor. He counts the men, looks into their eyes. They hurl their bodies against their cell doors until they bleed. The young guard swipes his security card. The doors slam open.

Silence.

The young guard raises his rifle as he backs towards the end of the corridor. All eyes are trained on him. Someone moves behind him. He turns, rifle at the ready. The speed is frightening. The handsome man covers so much ground in one single movement. His hands are on the rifle, the young guard hangs on tight. Their eyes meet.

'There is no justice in the world,' the handsome man says calmly. He leans close and whispers, 'Only fear.'

A few rounds fire harmlessly into the ceiling as the young guard is kicked full force in the stomach. He tumbles backwards down a laundry chute, the rifle still gripped firmly in his hands.
Tuesday 25 March 2014

A Place To Call Home

Robert Chancer

Petrie, QLD

The ringing in my ears seems somehow less loud.

No longer alone in this soul crushing cloud.

A voice born from kindness, no longer of dread.

Speaks into my ears instead of my head.

The voice speaks of care and of heartfelt concern.

Perhaps from this voice I have something to learn.

It pulls out the strength where before I was weak.

It soothes my anxiety, allows me to speak.

Though sometimes I feel I'd rather not be here.

This voice helps to show me there's nothing to fear.

No matter what happens or where I might go.

My heart has a place that it can call home.
Thursday 27 March 2014

as a child i

Ramon Loyola

Newtown, NSW

... spoke in tongues,

believing my own faith will save me

from the truth of the word

where my fate was foretold

as to the final destination.

here i am, then, still babbling on

with only meaningless words

to say.

... broke down in tears,

crying out my own fears that haunted me

with endless visions of a world

where pain is as intolerable

as the truth of existence.

here i am, then, still frightened

with only my shadows

to keep.

... thought of love,

feeling my own desires unfulfilled

where the lust swirled in my head

as my own drunken life swallowed me.

here i am, then, still whirling

with only my absurd passion

to live.

... felt for hands,

giving myself wholly that would consume me

where regrets brought me answers

as to the solitude i cherish.

here i am, then, still a child

with only the hope that i continue

to feel.
Friday 28 and Saturday 29 March 2014

The Toys of War

Madeline Ross

Winmalee, NSW

Timmy thought it was the best birthday party yet. He looked around at all his friends as they gathered around his mother, who was cutting a bright blue birthday cake adorned with figures of army men carrying rifles and machine guns. There was even a toy army tank on the cake, ready for battle. Timmy was turning eight and he was delighted to hear that his party was in the park.

He loved the park; its towering play equipment looked like forts and bunkers, and the swings made you feel like were flying in a fighter jet homing in on the enemy's fort. He loved to pretend he was in a battle fighting alongside Arnold Schwarzenegger, Sylvester Stallone, and all the action heroes he saw on the movies mum brought home on the weekends. He would imagine defeating evil drug lords and Nazi soldiers on the battlefield.

'Timmy! Come and get some cake darling,' his mother called, holding out a large piece of cake smothered in sky blue icing. He ran over to his friends, laughing and smiling. He also loved cake. He grabbed the cake and ate the sweet, spongy cake, a simple form of satisfaction swelling in his stomach. A slightly cool breeze whispered over his face. It was a good day for his special day. It was sunny and a cool breeze whispered through the leaves on the trees. Yep, it was a good day for his birthday.

After having birthday cake, the grown-ups begin to clean up all the leftover food. His mum had to clean up all the dirty plates and cups as well as a mess left by his friend Sandy; she had been sick because she had eaten too much food. Sandy had to go home, which was too bad because she'd missed out on playing the 'battle game', his favourite part of going to the park. Timmy and his other friends ran to the play equipment, the one with the extra big slide and a long tunnel bridging to another section of the play equipment. He gathered them up in a huddle, the group composed of about sixteen of his school friends.

'Okay everybody, we're going to play my favourite game. It's called _the battle game_. In this game the good guys need to get to the enemy bunker, which is that play equipment over there,' Timmy explained, pointing to the other towering play equipment, this one with a long, rickety ladder and a glassless telescope which Timmy liked to pretend was a machinegun turret.

'The people on the each team need to kill each of the other team and get to the fort to win the game. Okay?' Timmy said excitedly, looking to all of his friends. They all nodded back excitedly.

'Okay, I'm on the good side. Everybody split up into good and bad sides,' Timmy said, stepping to one side of the group. His friends all began to rush over to the good side, each one of them wanting to be on the good team. Timmy frowned.

'We can't all be the good guys. Someone has to be the bad guy or we can't play the game,' he said, pointing to Steven, one of his best friends.

'Steve, you can be one of the bad guys. You can do a good evil laugh, right?' Timmy said. Steve smiled and puffed out his small chest. He produced his evil laugh, which sent the group of children into giggles. Steve stepped over to the 'bad' side. After a couple of minutes of fighting, they finally sorted each other out on the good and bad side with eight on each side.

Timmy pointed to the equipment with the ladder and told the 'baddies' to go over to their fort. His group, the 'goodies', stayed on the equipment with the slide and the tunnel. The children looked at each opposing fort, determined to get to the other side's fort. Timmy felt excited. He could feel adrenaline running through his body, making his heart beat faster. He looked to his seven team mates.

'We need to get to the enemy bunker no matter what. Johnny, you guard the fort with this,' Timmy said seriously. He pretended to hand him a machine gun, which Johnny accepted happily.

'Cleo, see those swings over there? Those are fighter planes. Shoot the enemy down!' he continued. Cleo ran to the brightly coloured swings and sat on one of the seats.

'Sammy, see that seesaw? That is a tank. You go to the tank.' Sammy nodded and ran to the seesaw. She hopped on, pretending to push buttons and tweak levers.

'George and Hugo, you are the fire power. I will give you these grenades. Do not use them at close range,' Timmy warned, handing them invisible grenades. They nodded and took their positions in the tunnel of the fort.

'And finally, Duke and Derek. You are going to help me storm the fort. Here, have these guns,' Timmy said, handing them invisible rifles with wickedly-sharp bayonets on the end of each of them. They smiled, holding the invisible rifles tightly.

His army was ready for battle. Timmy wondered if Steven had prepared his army just as well. The only thing to do now was to begin the game. The wait was suspenseful. At last he couldn't stand the wait any longer. He tensed his body, ready to run as fast as he could.

'Let the battle BEGIN!' Timmy yelled. The response was a flurry of movement and battle cries. Timmy scanned the playground and saw that several of Steve's side had manned the swings. They begin to make loud, machine gun sounding noises. Cleo began to make the same noises, swinging her legs to gain momentum, making her soar further into the air. Sammy began to push the seesaw up and down with her legs, causing it to swing wildly. She made loud booming noises like the sound of a large army tank shooting its artillery shells over to the baddies fort. It seemed that Steve also had the same idea. One of his people were manning a rocking horse, pretending it was a large artillery gun. The child made a similar noise to Sammy.

Johnny began to produce loud machine gun noises as two of Steve's people approached the 'goodie' fort. One of them faltered and pretended to be hit by a bullet. He laughed and continued to approach. Timmy spotted movement out of the corner of his eye; it was Hugo! He came out of the tunnel and slid down the slide, pretending to pull a pin on his invisible grenade. He threw it towards the two baddies approaching the fort. He produced a loud explosion noise, ran into one of the approaching baddies and knocked him to the ground.

There was suddenly a loud cry from the boy who had fallen, one of Steve's people. Timmy recognised it as William. William began to cry, nursing a cut forehead. A single drop of blood flew to the ground. It sunk into the thirsty soil, leaving a crimson stain.

Suddenly, Will's mother rushed into the battle, interrupting the game. All the children stopped the war noises. Cleo stopped swinging, bringing the swing to a standstill. Hugo stood by William, scuffing the dirt guiltily. Will's mother led William to a nearby park bench, swabbing his forehead with a wet cloth. Hugo's mother came storming in, grabbing Hugo by the arm. He moaned and began to cry.

'Hugo, you shouldn't push people! That was very bad. No more playing for you. Come on, I want you to say sorry to William right now!' Hugo's mother scolded, pulling Hugo away from the play equipment. Hugo continued to sob, scared of his mothers scolding.

Timmy looked to the rest his team mates. Steve and he were down by one team mate each; the possibility of winning was still there! He looked to Steve and found Steve eager to continue the game. He nodded to Steve. Steve nodded back.

'Come on goodies! Let's storm the fort!' Timmy yelled. Cleo started the fighter jet. Sammy began to once again fire the tank. One of Steve's men started to rock the rocking horse frantically, firing artillery shells towards the goodies fort. Two more of Steve's men began to run towards the goodies fort, this time with a vengeance. Timmy had to act quickly. He looked to Johnny.

'Keep them away from the fort at all costs, even if you have to die for it! Watch our backs. We're storming the baddie fort!' Timmy said in a heroic voice, smiling happily. This was a fun game.

Duke and Derek followed Timmy down the slide onto the squishy bark of the playground where they rushed at the approaching baddies. The baddies raised their invisible bayonets and attempted to skewer them, but Timmy and his companions were swift on their feet; they dodged easily. Duke raised his bayonet and thrust it forward, stabbing one of the baddies in the chest. The baddie fell over, clutching his chest, pretending to fall down dead.

The other baddie cried out; Timmy looked over and saw that Derek had cut the baddie on the cheek. The baddie held his injured cheek, pretend blood splattering onto the bark. The baddie cried out in anger, thrusting the sharp bayonet into Derek's side. Derek wasn't so swift this time; the invisible blade punctured his side, entering Derek's lung. Derek laughed, pretending to choke and splutter on the blood gushing from his mouth. He wailed, exaggeratingly falling down. He curled up into a foetal position and pretended to be dead. Timmy couldn't stop to help Derek; He made a loud popping sound of a rifle and shot the baddie. The baddie fell down and played dead.

A loud cry made Timmy look to the swing set; Cleo was smiling, making the sounds of a crashing plane. She fell off the swing and an imaginary explosion erupted, covering Cleo in invisible flames. She cried out, burning in the invisible flames. She hung her head and suddenly became still. Timmy had lost more of his men! He couldn't lose his favourite game! He looked to Sammy, who was swaying the seesaw rapidly and firing tank artillery shells at the enemy fort. Timmy could see billowing smoke coming from the enemy fort, one of Steve's men crying out and coughing as flames began to consume the fort. Timmy called to Sammy, gesturing wildly.

'Sammy! Get the swings! Bring down the fighter jets!'

Sammy nodded, moving the seesaw, pointing the tank barrel towards the sky. She made a loud booming noise, an invisible artillery shell hitting the fighter jet and exploding in a fury of black flames. Steve's man, the one who was manning the plane, made a loud crashing noise and collapsed off the swing. He was still as the flames consumed his small body.

A loud explosion sounded from behind Timmy, a blast of hot air blowing over him. Timmy fell forward as the burning debris from Sammy's tank flew overhead. Timmy looked to where the tank was; the tank was obliterated. Sammy lay nearby, burnt and bleeding profusely from her head. His heart lurched. Sammy's hurt! He began to run to her but Duke grabbed his arm swiftly. He shook his head and pointed to the artillery gun.

'Timmy, we need to take out the rocking horse!' He yelled over the noises of machine gun fire and the whistling of the artillery shells flying through the air. Timmy nodded and looked to George in the bunker tunnel. George made eye contact. He looked afraid.

'George! Take the son of a bitch out!'

Timmy pointed to the artillery gun, who fired another artillery shell, this one hitting the 'goodie' fort. Timmy winced as the slide exploded, killing Johnny instantly and sending plastic shrapnel flying across the battlefield. George cried out, holding his abdomen. Flowers of blood began to stain his shirt where jagged pieces of shrapnel had pierced his body.

'George! No! Stay there George!' Timmy screamed past the noise of the artillery gun, holding his hand up, signalling for George to stay where he was. George looked at Timmy gravely and shook his head. He pulled the grenade out of his pocket and stood shakily. He moaned, holding his side. Blood dripped to the muddy, bloodied ground. He staggered to the edge of the fort and jumped from it. He fell. He pulled himself to his feet, crying out in agony. He began to stagger across the battlefield towards the artillery gun.

Timmy realised his plan and yelled out to George. Duke held him back, saying that it wasn't safe. George snuck up behind the artillery gun operator. George had always been a master of stealth. And despite the jagged shrapnel tearing into his internal organs, he grabbed the operator and pulled him off the rocking horse. The baddie pulled out a bayonet and stabbed George in the neck, spraying dark, crimson jugular blood onto the baddie's face. George collapsed, coughing and spluttering.

Timmy watched, traumatised and horrified. George took one last grave look at Timmy and pulled the ring on the grenade. Nothing happened for a couple of seconds. Then suddenly, the grenade exploded, obliterating the artillery gun and the bloodied baddie standing beside it. Duke pulled Timmy down, narrowly avoiding the flaming debris sharp enough to decapitate them both. Timmy began to sob hysterically. Duke's face hardened. He grabbed Timmy and slapped him hard. Timmy stopped sobbing, a large, red mark appearing on his cheek. He looked to Duke, hurt and exhausted.

'Timmy. Don't give up on me. Steven is the only one left. He is our final obstacle. If we take him out, we can storm the castle! We can win! If we take him out together we can come out of this alive and victorious.' Duke yelled, shaking Timmy firmly. Timmy wiped his tears away. He nodded seriously.

'Steven is in the enemy fort somewhere. Be careful Timmy. You know to never underestimate his strength or agility. You have seen him in action before. Come on. Stay aware.' Duke warned, pulling Timmy up. Timmy and Duke walked cautiously past the debris of the artillery gun and approached the enemy fort. It was still burning profusely, black billows of smoke leaving the burnt out structure of the fort. Duke pointed to the ladder,

'I'll go first. Watch my back,' he said, climbing the rickety ladder into the fort.

He disappeared for a second. Timmy feared that Steven had already emerged and attacked, but Duke called to him that the coast was clear. Timmy climbed the ladder into the fort. The acrid smell of burnt plastic and human flesh reached his nostrils. He looked to the most severely burnt platform of the fort and noticed the charred corpse of one of the baddies. He turned away from the sight, the image of the twisted, desiccated corpse burnt into his mind.

He followed Duke up another burnt, twisted platform. There was no one there. No sign of Steven. Timmy looked around frantically. Where had Steven gone? He couldn't see his body here so where was he? Duke cried out suddenly. Timmy turned to see Duke, looking down to his chest. Sticking out the front of his chest was a long, double-bladed bayonet blade. Blood seeped from the puncture wound, dripping to the ground. Steven ripped the blade out, Duke gasping sharply. Duke fell to his knees, gasping as if he had to say something.

'... K-Kill t-this b-bastard T-Timmy.' Duke gasped, falling forward onto the platform. Steven came forward, smiling down at Duke's body.

'So brave... yet so stupid. He thinks you can kill me. So naïve,' Steven smiled menacingly, glaring at Duke's body. He kicked Duke's body off the platform. His body hit the muddy ground below with a solid thud. Timmy gasped, holding his bayonet firmly in his hands. He swiftly thrust it towards Steven's throat but Steven was too fast; he dodged it easily, knocking Timmy's bayonet to the platform. Steven kicked the bayonet off the platform. He sauntered forward towards Timmy, the look of a maniac lighting his fire-blackened face.

Timmy swung at Steven but his fist was intercepted by Steven's stronger fist. Steven was physically stronger, stealthier, and deadlier than Timmy could ever be. Steven grabbed Timmy's throat, a vice-like grip crushing Timmy's windpipe. Timmy gasped, desperately clawing at his throat. His lungs were screaming at him for air. Timmy struggled, kneeing Steven in the groin. Steven released his vice-like grip on Timmy's throat, his hands holding his groin. Timmy fell to his knees, gasping and coughing. Blessed air rushed into his lungs, bringing clarity to his mind. He knew he had to take Steve's moment of weakness to his advantage.

Timmy spotted a long, wickedly-curved blade held to Steven's leg by a band of elastic. He quickly pulled it out and thrust the blade into Steven's abdomen. Steven gasped, his hands darting to his wound. Timmy stabbed again, this time in the lower abdomen. Steven cried out, falling to his knees. Timmy twisted the knife and dug it deeper, causing Steven to cry out loudly. Timmy pulled the knife out, watching blood gush from the fatal wounds he inflicted on Steven. He sat beside Steven and put the knife to his neck. Steven only smiled like a maniac. He began to laugh deep in his chest, a deep, evil laugh leaving his lips. Timmy removed the knife suddenly, the evil laugh sounding oddly familiar. Steven moaned in pain. He didn't have long to live now. He smiled, blood staining his teeth.

'You w-won Timmy. Y-you stormed the fort. But w-why are we fighting Timmy? Aren't I your f-friend?' Steven whispered, shuddering. His final breath hitched. He became still and lifeless. Timmy stared at Steven, not moving or speaking. He was dead. All of them were dead. Sammy, Johnny, Duke, George, Steven, all dead. Timmy looked to the bloody, debris-strewn battlefield. Bodies were lying everywhere. Something seemed to come undone within Timmy. He began to sob.

Tears ran down his face, leaving clear streak marks down his cheeks. What had he done? All his friends, his comrades were dead. Why? All his friends died to storm a burnt-out corpse of a fort. Timmy noticed that he still had the bloodied, curved knife in his hands. He threw it off the fort edge, crying hysterically. His hands were so bloodied! All this bloodshed was because of him. He looked to Steven. He was lifeless yet there was still blood in his cheeks. Timmy touched Steven's cheek softly, closing his eyes.

'I-I'm so s-sorry Steven... I didn't want to k-kill you! I'm s-so s-s-sorry!' Timmy sobbed hysterically.

'Are you alright Timmy? Why are you crying? It's only a game,' Steven laughed happily. Timmy's eyes opened quickly. He looked around frantically.

There was no bloody battlefield; no dead bodies and his hands were not bloodied. He noticed that all of his friends were standing around the play equipment, some of them looking concerned, the others looking amused. Timmy breathed heavily, wiping his tear-streaked face. What just happened? It felt so real, like he was in a real battle. He saw his entire company of friends die in horrific ways, ways in which no eight year old could ever imagine. He climbed off the play equipment, smiling weakly.

'W-who won the game?' he asked, not really caring. Sammy approached him, hugging him fiercely. Timmy hugged her back tightly, remembering the flames from the artillery shell, the sight of her burnt and bleeding body.

'We did, silly, the goodies. You defeated Steven and stormed the fort. You came out alive and victorious Timmy,' she whispered in his ear. 'You were very brave too,' she whispered, smiling. Sammy broke up the hug and held his hands. Did she see the violence too? Did anyone else see what he saw? He looked into her soft blue eyes. He saw no sign of conflict behind them.

'Alive and victorious.' Timmy whispered, holding her hand tightly. Steven wolf whistled. Timmy smiled, punching Steven lightly on the arm. Timmy's mum walked over, noticing Timmy's distraught appearance.

'Timmy! What happened? Did you get hurt?' She said, concerned. She examined him, looking for cuts or bruises. Finding none, she smiled, kissing him lightly on the forehead.

'You worry me sometimes Timmy. Come on, it's getting late. Time to go home okay?' she said, wiping some of the dirt from his tear-streaked face. Timmy smiled, feeling weary and upset.

The party ended very soon after the end of the battle game. All of his friends thanked him for the great party, especially for the 'battle'. Timmy was still haunted by the images he'd seen. He could still see how each of them died. He could tell that he'd have nightmares that night. Why did he see the vision? What did it mean? He didn't know, nor might he ever know.

Sammy was the last to be picked up. She thanked him for a great party, kissing him lightly on the cheek. Timmy remembered her burnt and cut face, crimson blood streaming down her ruined face. The horrific images still flashed in Timmy's mind like a broken record player, playing over and over again in his traumatised mind.

Once everyone had gone, his mother asked him what was troubling him. Timmy shrugged her off and helped her pack up the car. Just as he was about to climb into the car, his mum handed him the figurines that had adorned his birthday cake. Timmy took one look at the army tank and the men with the sharp bayonets and shuddered. He walked to the nearest garbage bin and threw the brightly-coloured, plastic figurines into it without another thought. He was done playing with the toys of war.
Sunday 30 March 2014

The Ostrich Complex

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, NSW

Undefiled the weather wild now dominates the Northern Hemisphere,

Jet stream winds blow and Arctic snow give rise to more inclement fears.

And have no doubt we are in the grip of drought; behold the farmer's tears--

Despite some patchy rain, there's no significant gain as high temps show oh so clear.

But... that's way too much information--how about another beer?

To hell with all strange isobars; no more cars to be built now I hear,

Jeez, how will I get to the footy? These are far bigger problems my dear.

But things will be beaut, for a few cans of fruit and cows to Korea we steer.

We'll get cars, utes and trucks and perhaps they'll be a few bucks nearer...

To my budget--assuming I've still got a job; struth things are queer!

Now more than ever we'll have to keep clever refugees away from here,

'Cause they'll be after me dole and upon my soul, that's nothing to cheer... about.

Clive wouldn't mind. He'd just send 'em off to the mine to work in nice flash gear.

Better they should develop our interior than fight a war in Syria; 'cept listen hear,

I'm not going bush, don't try to push that decentralisation mantra in my ear!

Tony has the nous you see--muzzle those lefties at the ABC, isn't he sincere?

He's checked it all out with George and Jonesy; what other expert comes near?

And Big Joe's got control of the dough, so, will Qantas get any cheer?

'No way' says Virgin Dickie, 'No more handouts sticky, economy is in the rear!'

But... that's too much information--in the atmosphere.

Aren't you glad there's a Royal Commission into unions with a frisson--the corruption panacea?

Get rid of all the squealers who spend our subs on porn and sheilas and other souvenirs.

Yes! It'll take a couple of mil but there'll be cash in the till when the carbon tax is repealed. We're...

Not going to panic 'cause I hear that Clive's lending the Titanic to return the refos left on the pier

I got the good oil from the Yackaman in the Tele--or so it appears.

But be careful in the city 'cause there's some pretty, nasty rednecks, who hit and domineer.

Talk about one-hit wonders; it's so easy to spruik and blunder and cause offence severe.

And Barry, finally, has decided you can't get a grog after three--pm. Hmm, that's rather cavalier.

And who's counting votes when they're out shooting goats with the other musketeers?

Don't ask, or you'll be taken to task--your life to scrutineer!

And the urbane Mr Packer, like a latter-day bushwhacker, has got the right idea!

A casino at Barangaroo will boost Sydney--a bob or two will silence those who interfere.

So now we're cookin' with gas, comes from the coal seam 'neath our feet and other profiteers...

Will cover more fertile ground with suburb and forget the rising hubbub--food security? I sneer!

We'll just build another... damn! Still too much information it appears...
Monday 31 March 2014

The Neighbour

Felicity Lynch

Katoomba, NSW

Walking along a very quiet street in a little closed-in country town, Matilda was always quite delighted when on her walk she passed by a dull looking cottage to hear someone shouting very loudly, 'Big bottom coming down!' Often too as she walked slowly by, she heard the same voice yelling, 'Shaddup!' repeated in a slowly ascending scale.

Matilda began to dawdle as she passed this cottage. She would lean down to tie a non-existing loose shoelace, or have a little hop, skip and jump. She also pretended to have a companion beside her to talk to and gestured in the air pointing to the blue sky above. Also, as days went by, Matilda began to do the stretches and exercises she was learning in her pilates class.

As the days passed Matilda became braver and her activities on the pavement more polished. People started to come and watch her and listen to the vulgar shouts. Matilda started to care about her appearance--she dressed herself in wonderfully vivid coloured floating op shop clothes every day and they added to her delight in what she was doing.

As days went by, Matilda was intrigued by how the formerly silent street was now attracting residents and others every day. It was becoming quite a festive gathering. Nobody seemed to know who was shouting and Matilda's routines on the pavement outside the cottage were watched with interest.

One day on her walk Matilda saw a car draw up outside this cottage and a young well-dressed couple leap from the car and shoot up the steps and into the cottage, giving her a wave as they swept by her and the crowd.

Matilda forgot her wayward behaviour and openly stared at the unusual goings-on with her so secretive but extremely loud-voiced neighbour.

What Matilda didn't know was that her stopping in front of this cottage every day for so many months and her own behaviour on the pavement was being filmed for a documentary on neighbours.

After a few minutes the young couple ran down the front steps, kissed Matilda on both cheeks and with arms around her they bustled her up the steps and took her into the cottage. Inside she was surprised to see so many people. She was sat down, a drink put into her hands and told to look at the film that was running.

Matilda, watching the film, was surprised to see herself over many days and months, walking down her empty street in her vivid odd-looking op shop clothes, doing her stretches and stuff she did in her pilates class, pretending to talk to her imaginary companion, different steps to different dances she'd practised for so many months on the pavement outside the cottage and of the crowds gathering around her.

Matilda had no sense of the many days and months she'd been doing this. She was still intrigued by the shouting that spilled out of the little cottage without one change being made. Watching the film Matilda saw in herself the sheer delight in doing what she did.

The people in the house told her that they hoped she didn't mind, but this film of her was the hit film at the Sydney Film Festival on at the moment and the media wanted to interview her, and to film her acceptance of an award for what they called her 'acting' over so many months.

Matilda was nonplussed by all the attention from people who had filmed her eccentric behaviour for so many months. For her life suddenly felt so exciting and colourful. These people liked her and were talking about another film being made around her. Also the street itself had become alive, with lunches being organised, children playing together, tips given to each other on cooking, gardening and friendships established.

Matilda thought that just by being herself, intrigued by the rather vulgarly shouted words that came spilling out of the cottage at the same time every day and of her reactions at this on the pavement, she had unknowingly been given a new life.

Matilda smiled at the anxious faces around her, who were afraid she could be hurt by the film they had made of her which she hadn't known about, and of which she was the star. But Matilda felt cherished and happy.

When the filmmakers realised Matilda wasn't cross or upset but delighted, Matilda was engulfed in hugs and kisses. She was a person who was admired and part of their lives even though she hadn't known about the filming, and they wanted to do another film set around her.

The people on the pavement outside the cottage cheered when Matilda and the filmmakers told them about the film of Matilda and their part in it. Also they were told of the award she was to get for her 'acting' and that they were all to be given free tickets to be guests of the Sydney Film Festival so they could go and see Matilda and themselves on the screen.

No explanation was ever given for the choice of the vulgar words 'big bottom' and 'shaddup' that had so intrigued Matilda.
Tuesday 1 April 2014

Frank And Mark: A Tribute

Gregory Tome

Burradoo, NSW

For these men no muffled drum or gilt letters carved in stone.

Out of tune with their style, their scorn for pomp.

_Frank and Mark were brothers_

They desperately clung to flotsam in a foreign sea

hopes focused on rescue, a long, long way from home.

Frank and Mark drowned in the China Sea, their grave

shared by many, a fellowship stretching back in time, so far,

so very far.

_Frank and Mark were my uncles_

My uncles fought in the war against the Japanese.

Sons of the soil you might call them--good men,

brave and strong--my uncles.

_Frank and Mark my father's brothers_

Prisoners of war they shouldered their shame

and worked on the railway of death.

Both were brave but Frank was strong

cared for Mark and many an other.

If they were sick Frank gave his food

worked their shift. A special man was Frank.

_Frank and Mark fond uncles of many_

I remember the day the sad news came

Frank and Mark drowned in the China Sea.

I remember the quiet; even the boards

of the old house where they had lived

dared not creak a sound. No word was spoken.

No sense was there

in a world without Frank and Mark.

_Frank and Mark shared a grave in the China Sea_

So many joined them, in a short few days,

their bodies wafted by currents below the surface

a mirror of life forces, of chance that took them

here and there--the water enriched in liquid lives

by the lives of so many.

_Frank and Mark drowned with so many others_

An old man facing the end of his days--decades, decades later,

Frank's memory lived in his head, he saw Frank's face;

in his head he saw Frank's strong face, an Italian face.

He heard his words, clear tough strong words. In his head

he heard Frank's words again. He tells a nurse.

_Frank and Mark an old man remembered them_

'Don't you die, you wretch. Don't let the bastards win.

You will live. You'll be home again. Don't you ever give in.'

Frank's words he tells to the nurse, a woman

linked to the family of Frank and Mark.

_Frank and Mark worshipped by an old dying man_

They survived the railway of death, their prize

a trip to Nippon to work in a factory there.

A ship was to take them to the Land of the Rising Sun.

_Frank and Mark boarded the Rakuyo Maru._

Down in the holds of this doomed ship

crowded together in the fetid dark

they waited and wondered, some feared.

No red cross signalled its special cargo

and the Americans sank it fierce.

_Frank and Mark floated there under a tropical sky_

The torrid sun beat down on the sons of the soil

lives lived long from the sea.

They clung to timber, they clung to hope,

kept their heads above the surface

of the always-hungry mighty China Sea.

'Don't give in. Stay awake. There'll be rescue soon.'

_Frank and Mark called to each other as they floated in the China Sea._

Two long days waiting; floating with them

faces they loved, images of home

of friendly sloping hills, of grey bushland.

They waited for rescue. Rescue so slow coming.

Then Frank was gone and the next day Mark

slipped away into the sea. So much more water

than they had ever known.

_Frank and Mark sank into the sea._

Rescue came. The Americans came

but Frank and Mark had gone.

Those still afloat were saved.

Some looked at where their dead friends

had been and wondered

at the way fate works.

A sad story repeated in mankind's long saga

the good die and the unjust thrive

just as the Book of Job says,

and those of us left ponder

the twisted way life on the old Earth works.

Frank and Mark live on for us

fortunate few who know their story.

Soon enough it too will fade

and disappear with them

beneath the waters of time.
Wednesday 2 April 2014

The Mechanism Of Our Demise

Graham Sparks

Bathurst, NSW

At the last election I thought I might vote National,

for the Nationals were the only ones to make a noise

in opposition to the sale of Graincorp,

and they had raised concern about the Cubby issue

where the Greens had been dead silent.

But then I found the local nat' to be a 'tard,

and now I find that even Barney's had a sniff at fracking in the Pillaga.

Wo ye shi shang our Kevin's had his little go,

for I have heard it said that an Australian consortium

was the highest bidder for the prize of Cubby Station,

but magically the Chinese offer was accepted.

Here Rudd did surely err at steering us,

and the sale of Cubby was the Swan-song of the notion of Australian agriculture.

Hmmmm,

methinks a serious investigation is in order, and a public 'expocution',

and perhaps a look into the meaning of the word we know as 'treasurer'.

Could it have morphed to mean, one who gives away our national treasures?

Then on the radio this morn I hear that Abbott and his minions

desire to have free trade with China, all within a year.

Surely this is national suicide,

Australia will be swallowed whole without a burp to signify its passing.

We'll go the way the Uighurs and Tibetans have,

and would free trade with China mean the same as with America;

in that if we hinder the interests of America,

they have the right to send their army in to sort it out,

a power given them by Howard.

Good Godly Tony

Serving OZ like a priest in a young boy's bum

Even as I write these lines they say he's overseas

signing away the sovereignty of us,

an agreement empowering foreign corporations

to sue Australia if their mercenary adventures misperform,

and who but the hapless citizen will pay, it surely won't be Father Tone?

It should be Him, He asked us not, so let Him reap the whirlwind.

Treason Treason Treason,

A word that seemes to be Forgotten.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

NEWS FLASH NEWS FLASH NEWS FLASH NEWS FLASH

Kim Kardashian expresses dismay at random lactation!!!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Of Him I've also heard it said, 'The plan is not to have a plan'.

In reply to this I'm moved to say,

If He is lacking in ideas, let us beget ideas by divination.

Invoke the instrument of democratic systems,

the fabled Referendum!

Has anybody ever seen one in the wild,

or even any in museums?

Has anybody ever seen a group of syllables so grouped

outside a word museum?

I do believe this word is now extinct,

and leaves a gaping hole within the genomes of the English language.

And here's another little thought;

He's acting true to His profession,

a lawyer has no creativity or vision, he sits inert within his office,

awaiting instruction from corporations,

or facilitates the wants of trillionaires.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

NEWS FLASH NEWS FLASH NEWS FLASH NEWS FLASH

Federal backbencher and member of the social drinkers party, the right honourable Ms Lydia Klaargschmazzeler, forwarded the motion in yesterday's sitting of parliament that in the interests of road safety, pastry chefs should have a year of university level mechanical engineering appended to their TAFE course in order to produce pie crusts with an Australian Standard of hull integrity. Ms Klaargschmazzeler said that too many road accidents have been caused by workers grabbing an expedient pie to eat for lunch whilst driving and have had the pie crust disintegrate, thus liberating the scalding liquid contents, which run down the fingers and onto the lap causing drivers to lose concentration. A Royal Commission is pending.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Methinks all hope is gone, there's not an honourable member owning honour.

In times gone by a man named Otto said,

'Politics is the art of the possible'.

Am I wrong to think our leaders have it misconstrued

and deem its subject to be graft?

We're living in the age of unchecked mammon.

I bang my head and bang my head and bang my head again,

and bang my head upon the wall then bang it yet some more,

when contemplating why the solids who have floated to the top

are giving OZ away.

Just why is it the proletariat,

although indignant at the mention of the state of play,

instantly forget the whole shebang and hide away in domesticity and sport?

I've bent my head around this thing and bent it straight again,

I've banged my head until a flat spot sports above my brow,

and finally now I think I've come to see

just what the state of things might be.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

NEWS FLASH NEWS FLASH NEWS FLASH NEWS FLASH

Football superstar James Smith has nocturnal emission in hotel room. Leaving an unmentionable mess on the sheets. Hospitality staff said they were disgusted and that their image of the game has been tarnished.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You see the convicts who arrived to crowd this land

were members of a hereditary British underclass

whose origins date back before the roman times,

and since most whites now populating OZ

can trace their line to convict blood,

would it not be sequiter to conceive their modus operandi

would be an artefact in echo of that underclass,

'Take what you find here now,

take and run and don't look back,

tomorrow is another day.'

It seems to me that I can hear their mantra old in new rendition,

orated less the cockney accent;

'Any'ow gub, 'oo are wee 'o question vere awfowi'ee'.'

Regardless of this mantra, and romantic notions of a brotherhood of class,

when shit aspires to power,

shit will tread on shit.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

NEWS FLASH NEWS FLASH NEWS FLASH NEWS FLASH

Graffiti discovered in bus shelter on 441 bus route at Birchgrove: 'J.Toson has a red car'!!!!! Experts are currently working on decryption.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And further,

the Zulus and the Boers, Indians and Americans, all rose up against the British robber-baron, all to good effect, but not the Aussie.

If we remove his spunky camouflage by replacing 'a' with 'p'

we find his true identity.

Let's diverge a moment to analyse a monarchy, that most hallowed institution in the world.

A royal line does find it's origin in the progeny of robber-barons,

crimes against humanity sanctified by time.

I hope this poem does contain some truth,

I suspect it harbours errors,

But how am I to ascertain what treacheries our pollies do behind closed doors,

beyond the bounds of public scrutiny,

beyond our very mandate,

and lubed with heinous bribes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

NEWS FLASH NEWS FLASH NEWS FLASH NEWS FLASH

Federal backbencher and member of the Heritage Doily Collectors Party the right honourable Vasishtha Puddingholm QC stated in today's sitting of parliament that legislation should be enacted such that meat pies containing chunks of meat over 5mm in size only may be designated as 'meat pies'. Pies containing a packet slurry with chunks of meat less than 5mm in size should be designated as 'slurry pies', and pies containing liquid in which meat has been boiled or processed in some other industry standard procedure should be designated as 'meat broth pies'. Failure to adhere to such envisioned ordinances would make the manufacturer of the aforementioned products liable to charges of false advertising and in reference to Ms Lydia Klaargschmazzeler's proposal of yesterday, liable to suit in the event of road accident.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This nation took its birth in servitude, and so it acquiesces now.

It's painful to prognosticate but I believe we're destined for eternal servitude.

And further yet,

could our leaders stand and face the void of things not yet,

without the buffer of a master?

So politicians of Australia all,

from the bottom to the top,

the time for pretence is long gone,

it's obvious this is a nation never been,

pay the people of this land a small respect,

inform us who's the choreographer

for whom you dance when told to dance.
Thursday 3 April 2014

Beach Fishing At Dawn

John Ross

Blackheath, NSW

The caravan is parked very close to the beach, and the sound of the waves as they pursue their relentless assault on the land ensured that I had a restful sleep. I am awake as the first faint light on the horizon starts its daily ritual of pushing back the darkness of the night.

I dress quietly, as to not awaken my still sleeping wife. Breakfast can wait, as I am keen to get onto the beach. My fishing rod is already rigged and all I need to do is retrieve the bait from the refrigerator, pick up my creel and I am on my way.

Outside the morning is already warm with the promise of a hot, sunny, summer's day to come. The grass is soft and wet with dew beneath my bare feet as I climb the small tree covered bank on the edge of the beach. I pause at the top to take in the view. The curving sweep of the sand is just visible in the soft light and is outlined by the darkness of the tree clad hills on one side and the long lines of almost luminous white of the breaking waves on the other.

It is low tide, and as I walk across the sand I marvel at the work of the small crabs that have once again cleared out their burrows, and rolled the small balls of sand out into a pattern around the entrance. The beach resembles a large yellow table laid with intricate lace doilies of every shape and size.

I am quickly ready for my first cast and as I walk down to the water's edge I glance behind me. There are no lights, no buildings visible, just lush vegetation reaching down to the edge of the sand: my footsteps, the only foreign marks on nature's pristine canvas. For a few moments I am the first man, back in a time when the world was new and its beauty untouched.

My line snakes out, far and true, out to the deep water beyond the breakers where the beautifully streamlined tailor and jewfish live and hunt.

I stand just back from the water, but am totally connected to and immersed in it. The unceasing sound, the tangy salt smell, the ever changing shape of the waves, my finger on the line feeling the vibrations and pull and push of the swell. The anticipation, expectation of that first tug on the line that is just that little bit different from the normal feel of the water's movement. Again my mind takes me back to a time when man had to fight nature and the elements to feed himself and survive.

This is a time to be patient, alert, at one with the line, instinctive, ready to strike: too soon or hesitate and the opportunity is lost.

A small arc of brilliant light appears on the horizon and a wide path of liquid gold leaps from it to end on the wet sand at my feet. Slowly the huge orb of the sun pushes itself up from its watery grave until its full fury is revealed. I will soon have to retreat to the cool shade of the caravan park.

The beach starts to come alive. First a lone jogger runs towards me; head bowed, wired for sound, oblivious to the sounds and beauty of the morning. Next an older couple walk hand in hand down to the water's edge, stand silently and gaze out towards the horizon; they see me watching and we exchange a smile; they are kindred spirits.

I am thinking of packing up, as breakfast and a hot shower is calling, when I feel that tell-tale pull on the line. I wait and count to three and then strike. The jewfish fights strongly, leaping and twisting, sometimes totally clear of the water, its body shiny, silver in the sunlight. It is a battle that lasts for many minutes and a small crowd gathers to watch. Finally the fish is clear of the water, struggling and flapping on the sand. One of the onlookers asks if I am going to have it for breakfast, and for a moment I relish the idea.

It has been such a magical, renewing morning that has cleared my mind and refreshed my soul that it would be wrong for it to end like that. So with the fish safely returned to the ocean, even though the deep seated hunting instinct within me said that I had earned it, and it was mine, I trudge back up the beach.

I fight my way through the oncoming tide of determined beach goers with their umbrellas, buckets, spades, balls, surfboards, towels and music machines. They will leave footprints, build sandcastles, carve intertwined love hearts on the sand but the next high tide will wash it all away. Tomorrow, at dawn a new day, a new beginning.

It is cereal for breakfast and from my wife, 'What! No fish, _again_?'
Friday 4 April 2014

Forget Me Below

Arthur Derek

Bridgeman Downs, QLD

I once cast a wretched shadow

On the pieces of me from before

I wanted to hide all the things

That I couldn't make forlorn

Reaching from deep within

I can feel the darkness grow

As I turn the pages backwards

Into the man I used to know

Crawling under the skin I feel

More hollow than I did past

Whilst substances could obscure me

I always knew they did not last

Each cut I made became a scar

Each scar became a memory

And I hold myself under this water

Hoping that you will forget me

Just know that whilst I may be gone

It was not of fault from you

My body can rot away forever

But it won't remove the truth

I kept a hole under my ribs

And it held all of my sorrow due

And whilst my vision was meant to be bright

All I saw were shades of blue

Keeping your sorrow buried deep

I knew I was not ever alone

I'm sorry it didn't change a thing

Just forget me deep below
Saturday 5 April 2014

A Day On The River

Eulyce Arkleysmith

Peel, NSW

A bright sunny day, not even a breeze

We head for the river some fish would us please.

The bag that I later would wear round my waist

On the deck of the kayak was carefully placed

The bottle of water to ward off that thirst

That happens when fishing o'er drinking comes first

Along with a cushion was placed in the cockpit

With skivvy, the lines and a tiny wee bucket.

No. I'll put on my skivvy to cover my arms

About those skin cancers I do have some qualms.

Oar in my hands, one foot in the vessel

And that's when begins an almighty wrestle!

I don't lose my balance that's later to come

When onto the seat I plonk down my bum.

And that's how the whole business goes all awry

The oar's in the water. The bags floating by

The sleeve of my skivvy gets soaked as I shove

My arm in the water to push me above

the tip over line while I grasp for the oar

And that's when I notice the bag just off shore.

By now the boat's upright I must get that bag

But now I look down and wish for a rag

For the bottle's tipped over and off's come the top

And down in the bottom is starting to slop.

I grab at the bottle and stand it upright

Not much water's left but that is all right

My friends have supplies so some I can cadge

A small drop of water they'd hardly begrudge

With the bag now on board I turn to set out

And that's when I find there's nobody about

They've all disappeared and are quite out of sight

No witnesses to my inelegant plight.

Thank goodness my boat entry wasn't perceived

For that little bonus I'm fully relieved.

I paddle down river and way past the bend

I spot a blue kayak--just the rear end

I paddle full bore and move along fast

Way, way ahead I can see them at last.

At first they go one way then back on their tracks

Going this way and that way there's heaps of kayaks.

I hope that they're there in the paddling throng

With all of these kayaks I could get it wrong.

At last I'm among them. They've now found the way

To see where the river goes out to the bay.

The tide's going out so it's easy work now

But going back up will be different I vow.

Two of us reckon we'd wait for the tide

'If we fish now then we'll have a much better ride'

And that's when the rest of the saga begins.

The line baited up with the prawn slightly spins.

Soon after I'd dropped the line overboard

A sharp tug. A sure signal I had just scored.

Now this should be simple to haul that fish out

But try it when tide and fish drag you about

On top of that problem the looming moored boats

On which every owner with haughtiness dotes.

Well as you might guess it was a certainty

A catamaran swiftly was closing on me.

I had the fish in but about to go under

The great structure keeping the two parts asunder.

The line I'd dropped out while I dealt with the fish

That was thrashing around with a splash and a splish

In the water that spilled when the bottle upended

Next thing I knew the movement suspended

The oar was entwined in a rope that I'd lifted

to let me float through and then out as I drifted

BUT now a hooked anchor and oar that was caught

In danger of hitting the hull I was fraught.

Disentanglement came with much effort at last

From under the massive hull joiner I passed.

But not giving up where there's one fish there's more

So back to the spot. Once again I might score.

This time I skilfully kept out of trouble

And managed to make it a fantastic double.

Excited about this I called to my friend

Everyone heard me from bay start to end

And each passing fisher demanded to see

What had caused such proclamations from me.

Despite all this time the tide had not turned

The wind that arose many big waves it churned.

We decided that we really should head upstream.

'gainst both tide and strong wind with effort extreme.

Why hadn't we gone when the going was easier

With head winds that seemed to be surely less breezier.

We got back to jibes about being such fatheads

We had the last laugh though 'cause we had two Flatheads.
Sunday 6 April 2014

Back-To-Back Facing Each Other

Sophie Andritsos

Vermont South, VIC

It was the kind of cold that made old bones ache. He padded towards the back door and winced as he reached up to shut the latch, a nightly ritual.

Most of the lights were already off inside and so he made his way in the semi-darkness from memory, seeing the room without having to look at it. The chill was biting but he continued. Checking the kitchen windows were locked, he ended his tour at the front door.

Part of him registered the irony of these old habits now. A watch dog jealously guarding nothing. He paused at the open door of the downstairs bedroom and was not surprised at his lack of feeling. The bright walls and neatly pressed uniform had faded. They seemed to jeer at him with their lifelessness.

_This room is a poisoned time capsule._

The thought came unbidden and weighed heavily on his mind. Like a sucker punch in the chest, the endless stretch of days before him made him breathless.

He shuffled up the stairs and the pain in his chest smarted more as it faded.

It expanded as it was shrinking like a black hole that refuses to simply swallow you but must turn you inside out until you are trapped inside your own nothingness.

Rounding the corner he steeled himself for the coldness of an empty bed. She was already in there, scrunched in a ball and trying to contain herself before she disappeared too. He climbed in gingerly and waited for a fitful sleep to take him.

'Richard,' she rasped, quiet in the roaring silence.

'Richard,' she tried again.

Richard turned to her and was surprised to see the sobs racking her body. It was a primitive, subhuman grief. He awkwardly reached out to touch her back. It was feverishly hot against his cool hand. She had always been brimful of the humming warmth of life. Always laughing. Crying. Alive, alive.

She turned into him like a child.

'Baby,' he said.

She sobbed harder.

'Oh, baby,' he said, holding her.

She sobbed deeper.

'Baby, baby, baby. Oh my baby.'

And when the weak sun rose over the green grass it found them tangled in each other. Sweaty and broken and whole.
Tuesday 8 April 2014

Mystery Lady

David Newman

Jacobs Well, QLD

Hey! Mystery lady, what you're doing to me.

Lady of colours, what do the colours mean?

My mystery lady, never known anyone like you.

Lady of colours, which colour is true?

You're my mystery lady!

There's just no one else for me,

and the greatest part is the mystery.

The colours of you, dear lady.

You have the power to bring me down, then nurse me back again.

Sometimes, you do crazy things, just to keep my attention.

Well now, my head is way above the clouds of the sky,

as you make those promises with your eyes.

I'm just glad you found me,

and I'll change!

I'll be what you want me to be.

It feels a little strange,

but I want you to stay with me, just stay with me.

Wherever we go, you always dress up so fine,

and I feel out of place, like I'm somehow lost in time.

My friends all think, I've forgotten the old days,

but I've just found some better days.

I hope someday, each will find a love that's true,

for everyone should feel the way I do.

Just knowing that you're mine,

until the end of time,

until the end of time,

leaves me so very warm inside.

What I have I cannot hide.

Mystery lady by my side--right by my side.
Friday 9 April 2013

The Burning

Judy J Newman

Rutherford, NSW

The wind was ferocious and hot, embers, like little fairies, danced across the sky

The sun blazed down, every bird on wing sought the coolness of the water

The heat took their breaths away, and their songs were now a cry

Embers drifted into trees, and grasses, setting all alight, but there was no water

The creatures of the land sought shelter, but many did not escape

Now houses and cars lit up, despite a valiant fight

The men and women of the fire brigades were exhausted in their efforts, make no mistake

Some fires were lit by callous freaks, who watched gleefully into the night

There are those who lost their homes, and those who lost their lives

And creatures, great and small, injured and dying, smoke fills the air

People are grieving, children, husbands and wives

Some because some idiots lit a fire, because they really do not care

In the sweltering heat, there is not much, if any relief

But the men and women of the fire brigades keep working, giving their all

And when it's finally over, and we have counted the cost, and the grief

We know those brave men and women will always hear our call

Endé
Thursday 10 and Friday 11 April 2014

Harry And Sweet William

Paul Humphreys

Oxley, ACT

Harry could be described as a larrikin or a scoundrel. It depended on what side of the fence your dealings with him were.

No matter what your involvement with Harry was, he always dealt in cash. He paid his debts in cash and received cash for services rendered. He was distrustful, to the point of a debilitating social paranoia, of banks and their ilk.

They did not find out till he died quite late in his life that he never paid taxes. His executor had to do a deal with the taxman to pay some token tithe that was justly determined by the limitations statute.

He was a man of short stature. His face was rugged and weather beaten with lines of anguish and glee intermixed in a strange residual mixture of bitter experiences and hopeful ambitions. His head sat on a short 'second rower's' neck and tight muscular body. There were many scars from past injuries across his arms and his legs.

On a good day he looked as if he had just stepped out of the ring after a ten round bout with a showground champ. On a bad day nobody saw him, as he failed to come out into the sun.

His grey, unkempt beard was permanently stained with residues of nicotine and food. At any time he was not a pretty sight. He had a strong disdain, bordering on a loathing, for females (four or two legged). Despite his overbearing nature towards women a certain homely, mothering type adored his gruff and unpolished ways and would go great distances to please him.

He lived, with his ageing mother, on a small dairy farm on the outskirts of Sydney in the late 1940s close to the settlement of St Marys at the base of the Blue Mountain escarpment alongside the Richmond River.

St Marys was a quiet town with the standard general store, a village pub and a petrol service station that also did mechanical repairs. The recent establishment of the St Marys munitions factory had created a mini boom within the town. Harry anticipated many opportunities to assist (for a price) the young families moving to the district for employment at the factory.

Beside the dairy cattle, the farm also had its share of assorted animals for fresh produce, a gaggle of chooks, a few ducks and a Billy goat named Sweet William. Sweet William was a big animal with a dark brown beard that was just as unkempt as Harry's. But Sweet William's beard stunk of goat's urine left over from his continual practice of pissing on all and sundry to mark his territory and the wiping of his face in it.

Harry had heard that there was a trend within the young families to prefer, for their children, fresh goat's milk. Something to do with allergies. Harry was not interested in the reason, he only saw an opportunity to make some money. So he rented sweet William to service all the nanny goats in the area. The service fee was a nominal and attractive amount and always in cash.

As Harry did not trust banks he always carried one thousand pound in notes in his wallet. His wallet was his constant companion.

On this particular day, in compliance with his daily routine of about forty years, Harry took his morning paper down the meandering dirt path to the little out house at the back of the house for his daily ablutions.

This particular morning it was the start of a bright sunny day and the dew on the grass overhanging the path lightly lashed his bare feet and ankles. The outhouse had acquired a slight lean toward the house and the lower sections of two adjacent weatherboards at the rear had sprung free from their nails. Grass was now intruding through this hole into the smelly interior of this drop toilet.

As was his routine Harry was in his one pair of dark blue overalls, his daily uniform. His wallet sat nonchalantly in the back pocket of the overalls. He always carried the daily paper with him to the outhouse and as the neighbours were some distance away he sat on his throne, reading his paper with the outhouse door wide open so he could soak up the morning sun. After a while he rose and moved outside to raise his overalls.

Sweet William moved close toward him as he ambled up the garden path. The goat quickly lost interest and returned down the path back toward the outhouse.

Harry moved inside the house where his mother was putting together breakfast from the contents of a variety of plastic containers. She sat at the kitchen table lost in her deliberations of quantities and variety.

'Sleep well?' he greeted her with the same question every morning.

'Yeh, how were you last night?' she responded. Her query was also an echo of her routine morning response for as long as she could remember.

'Bit cold, but slept like a log.'

'You'll need to cut some firewood sometime before it gets too cold,' her request was polite but with a subtle authority that she and Harry accepted was necessary if she was going to get any action out of Harry.

Harry stared past her and his features slowly changed, and he looked as though he was in deep thought about the firewood request. His hand suddenly moved to his buttock and slapped it decisively. He then quickly moved his attention from the rear pocket of his overalls and slapped his breast pocket with the same level of intensity. His expression was now changing quickly through anguish to panic.

'Me bloody wallet! Where?' He was now transfixed in the middle of the kitchen floor. His mouth was gaping, a small globule of spittle sat on the upper reaches of his beard. He was staring at the ceiling, forehead knitted with concentration, trying to recount his movements and the whereabouts of his wallet and the thousand pound.

'It must have fallen out of my back pocket down the back,' he cried as he quickly left the kitchen and ran down the path toward the outhouse.

He arrived at the outhouse a little puffed. Sweet William was just devouring the last of the ten-pound notes and had started to demolish the wallet.

'Well bugger me!' Harry exclaimed in a loud voice without any real aspiration to attract homosexual advances. 'You bastard!' he screamed at the goat. Sweet William looked back at Harry jumping around in a heightening frenzy without displaying any real understanding of his concern or what the outcome of the situation might be.

Harry was livid. 'Bloody shitty smelling goat. What have ya done! Me money, oh bugger!'

Harry and Sweet William remained stationary staring at each other for a short time. Then Harry's face became red with rage and he started to prance up and down like a person on hot rutile sand at midday at the beach. Then he stopped the prancing as quickly as he had started it. It was as though a new avenue of thought had revealed itself that reduced some of the pain of his loss.

He quickly ran to the shed and returned with a large sharp axe and before Sweet William knew what Harry had in mind he was dead. A sharp blow to the back of the head with the back of the blade. Harry was quick to operate on the body of Sweet William. The axe was too large to work efficiently so a quick trip to the kitchen he returned with a large sharp kitchen knife.

His mother who was still in the kitchen seated at the kitchen table with her breakfast half eaten looked up in surprise as he rushed in and rattled around in the knife drawer.

'Bloody goat!' was all he said over the noise of his rummaging.

'I have told you so many times not--' by this time Harry had a knife and had left the kitchen with another muttering of 'bloody goat''--to swear' his mother finished her sentence to the empty kitchen.

She returned to her breakfast and started to pour herself a mug of tea when Harry burst back into the kitchen and deposited on the table alongside her breakfast bowl a wet scrunched ragged ball of half digested ten-pound notes.

'Bloody goat ate me money! A thousand pound!' He sat down heavily at the table and a sudden wave of sadness and deflation visibly rolled over his demeanour and he hung his head in his hands. His mother thought he had lost his mind.

She carefully examined the damp money ball. 'All's not lost,' she said trying to cheer him up. 'The bank should be able to sort it out 'cause I can see most of the numbers of the notes.'

Harry quickly regained a little of his composure and was relieved a little at this possibility.

After a short period of silence between them Harry's mother got up and she then put the money ball into a brown paper bag she had extracted from the bottom of the second drawer where all the kitchen odds and sods were stored.

'I'll go down to the bank today if you like and make some inquiries.' She volunteered in part to subdue the fermenting rage that was still evident in Harry's eyes and behaviour. 'Now don't you worry it should turn out alright.'

'Damn goat,' muttered Harry. Then his mood changed. He smiled to himself and quickly departed from the kitchen heading back down the path toward the outhouse and the body of Sweet William.

It did not take him long to deal with Sweet William. Two heavy swings of the axe separated the head and that putrid beard. Then he made quick work to skin and gut the carcass. He wrapped it in a clean double bed blanket he had purloined from the linen cupboard. The blanket still retained a sickly smell of camphor.

He threw the shrouded remains of Sweet William into the back of the ute. Once the engine started he accelerated out of the property gate and headed for St Marys.

His brother Kevin owned the local butcher shop. Harry walked into the shop with Sweet William over his shoulder. He unceremoniously dumped the shrouded carcass on the butcher's block amongst the lamb carcasses and removed the blanket.

'Hey Kev, how much will ya give me for this goat?' he asked with just the minimum level of greeting and civility. Kevin was at first speechless and looked across at his son who was the apprentice. He raised his eyes to the ceiling in an attitude of disgust and embarrassment.

'I can't have that here in this shop!' he replied sternly. 'It's not been slaughtered in the correct place.'

'Oh, come on Kev the bastard just ate all me money and me wallet,' Harry implored. 'If I can get a bit for the carcass then it won't be a total disaster!'

'No! Take it away,' Kevin requested firmly

'Oh come on Kev, mate,' Harry responded quickly detecting in Kev's objection some small opening to compromise and a deal.

It was not long before Kevin had agreed to take the dead goat off Harry and paid Harry, in cash, for the animal. All the time Kevin was scratching his head wondering how he might use the meat. In a more confusing and broader comment on their relationship he wondered how he always seemed to acquiesce to Harry's deals.

'Thanks Kev, thanks mate,' was all that Harry could say as he left the shop with the money grasped in his hand and a broad grin on his face.

Kevin quickly regained his composure. He directed his son in an abrupt voice. 'Bone it out and mince the meat. We'll put it into the next batch of rissoles for the munition factory's order.' His voice echoed in the small interior of the shop. The words and their tone reflected his deflation at the turn of events.

Kevin was in a fortunate position being the only butcher for the district. He had started to supply the St Mary munitions factory in its early days of operation and the trade and the factory had steadily grown over the years.

Next day the order from the factory was for rissoles. Kevin and his son worked through the day preparing 500 rissoles. Sweet William was part of that batch of produce.

Kevin always delivered the factory order. The delivery allowed him to escape the shop for a short time. Maria was the cook at the factory canteen. Kevin enjoyed having a cuppa with her after he had made his delivery. He was a little fascinated with her Italian accent and also her cleavage, which was always cleverly displayed above her apron.

'They'll love these rissoles!' he assured Maria over the canteen table where they sat with the regulation white tea mugs in front of them. He had difficulty moving the focus of his eyes from her cleavage as she leant across the table and slapped his forearm.

'I'm a sure dat they will a like them.' Maria's broad toothy smile held Kevin's face in her gaze in a mischievous flirt. He broke off his concentration on her ample breasts, rose from his seat and said:

'I need to get goin', the young boy's lookin' after the shop.'

'Okay, see you tomorrow.' Maria's quick response broke the short spell of flirtation that they both seemed to enjoy.

'See ya,' he muttered over his shoulder as he headed for the canteen fly screen door.

Next day Kevin was eager to return to the factory to see how the goat rissoles went down. He assembled the trays of chops and headed out toward the factory. The sun was sinking low on the horizon as he swung the Holden ute through the factory gates.

He carried the meat trays in through the fly screen door and almost bumped into Maria who had seen him arrive and was walking quickly to meet him.

'Those rissoles a yesterday!' Maria exclaimed in a slightly high-pitched voice of distress and anger. Kevin put the meat trays on the closest table and turned to Maria with a solemn and interested face.

'Was there a problem?' Kevin asked timidly and a little nervously not sure of the reason for Maria's excited greeting.

'Some people, no like! They say taste awful!' she blurted out and for a split second Kevin thought that she was going to cry. Kevin wrapped his strong right arm around her and squeezed her to him in a gentle but insistent hug. Her breasts were squashed between them and pushed upwards towards his neck and he felt her hot breath on his left ear. Maria regained her composure as soon as she felt the strength and closeness of Kevin's body. Kevin felt his composure slip away with her closeness.

'There must be a reason for this.' He stated with little emotion and conviction. 'Let me see where you did the cooking, it might be a problem there.'

Maria led Kevin to the canteen stove. Kevin realised that this situation, unless handled correctly, could turn bad for him and the reputation of his butcher shop. He spent a long time examining the cook top and the associated equipment. 'Is this the fat you cooked in?'

'Si--yes,' said Maria, now intrigued with Kevin's forensic examination of the cook top.

'No wonder there were some complaints,' Kevin informed her with a serious look on his face as if he had just solved a serious crime.

'What's da matta?' Maria queried, now firmly locked into the intrigue that Kevin had deliberately created.

'Here, have a smell of that,' Kevin said pointing with one finger at a pot of fat and beckoning to Maria with his other hand. Maria bent over the cook top and smelt the pot of fat. Kevin could not help losing his eyes down the front of Maria's cleavage and resisted a temptation to give her another hug.

'Ya fat's off!' Kevin responded bluntly. 'Clean this lot out and I'll bring ya some new fat first thing tomorrow.'

Maria's face suddenly changed to a smile of gratitude and dependence and she moved slowly as though she was orientating her body and face to kiss Kevin. He moved back a few steps to avoid any embarrassment and announced, 'That should solve your problem.'

'Oh grazie, grazie! Ver buon. You're a good a help.' Maria then abruptly planted a wet kiss on Kevin's cheek and stood back smiling broadly at the butcher whose face was now a little contorted in a uncontrolled blush. The slash of bold red lipstick on his cheek added to the deepening reddish hue of his face.

Kevin shouted over his shoulder as he headed for the fly screen door, 'See ya ta morru early.'

The next morning he replaced the fat. Later that day he turned up again with the sausages for the next day.

'How'd ya go today?' he queried Maria when he had placed the meat trays on the table.

'No worry. No a body complain. You fix a da problem! I am so happy dat you help a me.' Maria's smile was broad and inviting. Kevin was not sure of his position but did not want to explore it any further. He returned the smile in a perfunctory way without providing any encouragement or hint of his true feelings.

'Grazie, grazie,' Maria repeated holding his hands in an overfriendly manner which further unsettled Kevin.

'Best be off. See ya ta morru.' Kevin released himself from Maria's grip and quickly opened the fly screen door and walked very quickly to the ute and in an instant he was gone.
Saturday 12 April 2014

The Postman

Shirley Burgess

Rosebud, VIC

Harry cycled along his well-worn route happily. It was a lovely day and his job as a postman meant that he could appreciate the outdoors better than most.

Harry had a stocky build, and was used to all weathers. Dressed in his regulation yellow uniform, he had eyes that noticed everything.

As he cycled up to the letterbox at No. 16 Oakmint Drive, he saw that a car was parked adjacent to the box, and the odd thing about it was, its motor was running. He noticed the number plate POC449--'COP' back-to-front and one short of 450 he thought to himself and that number was automatically registered in his mind. He also noted that the car was a blue Volkswagen.

That night at home when he was having a leisurely drink before tea, an item of 'breaking news' was announced. There had been a grisly knife murder at No. 16 Oakmint Drive, Burwood that afternoon--the very house where he had seen the car. He nearly dropped his glass on the floor.

What was he to do? If he rang the police he would be immediately involved and he didn't want that. His wife, Olive, didn't agree.

She was a strong person, and looked serious. 'You'll have to tell the police, you've no choice.'

Harry replied reluctantly, 'I suppose.'

At the police station he gave the information that the car was a blue colour, and one of the new 2012 model Volkswagen Beetles with Number Plate POC449. The police were especially appreciative of the details of the car and clear description

'We very rarely have the luck to get that,' said the main officer at the interview. Harry basked in the warm congratulations and was glad he had done his duty after all.

Then, nothing happened. The mystery at Oakmint Drive was not closed by vital evidence given, so Harry was puzzled.

Eventually the police rang him, and asked if he could come down to talk to them again. They wanted to check details, they said. This time the interview was not quite as friendly.

'We contacted the owner of the car with the registration you gave, but it's a different make, a different colour, and confirmation has proved that it was at its owner's home in Swan Hill at the time you saw it there,' he said. 'Are you sure about the number you gave us?'

'Yes I am,' said Harry defiantly. 'I own a Volkswagen of that make too, so I know the design very well. It must have been a false number plate--that's all I can add.'

They made him go over every detail again. Then asked him if he remembered anything else, looked at him sceptically and said that would be all. It was as though he were the chief suspect. He was glad to escape, wishing he'd never volunteered any information in the first place.

His face was burning with annoyance.

Senior Sergeant. Detective Guthrie opened the door for him, and then followed him into the passageway. Harry went to stride off in disgust when Jim Guthrie called him back. He introduced himself, and Harry remembered the quiet bloke at the back who didn't say a word throughout either interview.

'I wonder if you have a moment? Would you mind coming into my office--in here.' He held the door open for him. 'I have a couple of questions of my own. You might be able to help me out quite a bit,' he added quickly as he could see Harry was hell-bent on leaving and never coming back.

Harry hesitated. 'I won't keep you very long,' he cajoled.

'Okay.'

Quickly Jim Guthrie offered him a seat and was behind the desk in a flash.

'You said you own an identical model to the one you saw?'

'Yes. It's one of the 2012 new model Volkswagen Beetles. It's a great car, and was released in Australia in September 2012. Mine's white, but this one's duco was blue.'

'What sort of blue?'

With exasperation: 'I don't know. It wasn't dark and it wasn't light blue. Just blue!'

'Let's stay with mid-blue. Say, something like this?' Out of the papers on his desk came a picture of the very car Harry had been trying to describe.

'Yes, that's it.' At last someone believed him.

'You see Volkswagen has never produced a car that colour, so it means it must have been painted to order.'

Harry looked at him uncomprehending.

'What's the number plate of your car, and exactly when did you buy it?'

'It's RYB595, and I bought it in September 2012 as soon as they were available.'

'That's most interesting. At about that time a car hire firm bought several Volkswagens of your description, especially ducoed blue for their business, and with numbers similar to those on your numberplate. I'm thinking the letters could have been altered, probably with black tape. For instance, one of those hire cars had a numberplate RQO449. It could easily have been disguised as POC449, as you reported. This checks out with a car someone we know hired.' He paused. 'We're interested in this person in relation to that murder.' Harry's head shot up as it became clear.

'I said it must have been a false plate, but none of them in there believed me.'

'Well, I did. The trouble is if we're both right, it involves the son of a very wealthy individual who can pay all sorts of money to keep his wayward son out of trouble. I don't suppose you noticed anything else at all?'

'Well... they were all so rotten to me in there I was beginning to think they were trying to pin the murder on me,' he gave a short derisive laugh, 'so I wasn't going to say any more than I need, but, in fact, the next day on my rounds, I pulled into that drive, and went through it all again. I did remember seeing a coat, a man's short coat, on the back seat. It was charcoal in colour with silver buttons, sort of embossed somehow. It's not much I'm afraid, and it was only from a glance. I didn't notice anything else.'

'No, from the beginning we knew you weren't responsible. We knew that you'd finished your round on time.' Harry gasped in astonishment. Jim shrugged.

'It's standard practice to check anything and everything. Was the coat anything like this?' From under all the papers again he fished out a photo of a smart charcoal coat with unusually patterned silver buttons.

'Yes, that's the coat. That's it,' he shouted.

'How sure are you?'

'I'm totally sure. Fancy you having a photo like that.'

'It was from an ad at the time, and we've seen this coat in a certain home. Thank you Harry, I think you've done us a great service. That pinpoints our man to the spot of the murder at the time it was committed. You'd be willing to testify in court?'

Harry hesitated. 'No, I don't want to do that. What if he gets off? He'll be after me then. What if his wealthy father wants to do me some damage?'

'He won't get off. We've quite a lot of other evidence, and your whereabouts are not ever published. This guy is going behind bars at last. He's attempted something similar before, you know, and I think his dad will be more worried about what else we can dredge up.'

They shook hands. 'Thanks for all your help, Harry.'

Fifteen months later, there was a short court case, and Harry didn't have to give evidence after all. Sir Benton Yates' son, Angus, had pleaded guilty to murder in the first degree of his estranged fiancée, Ms Leonie Nankervis, after an argument at her home in Burwood, and it gave the date. Because of his guilty plea he was given a lesser sentence of eight years in prison, with a non-parole period of five years.

Harry read it out to Olive and commented: 'It was a pretty vicious murder with a knife, you know. After all that police work to catch him and then, taking off the time he's already served, he'll be out in less than four years--it just doesn't seem enough to me.'
Sunday 13 April 2014

Formica

Wendy Vitols

Foster, VIC

She told him, using a gesture he had rarely seen her use. Her hair swept her shoulders as her head tilted, wisely, to the left. Her eyes narrowed slightly as they searched his, eyebrows raised. The moment was lost as she turned and left, leaving him nothing but the scent of her perfume and the noiseless echo of his question.

Alone with his loneliness.

Again.

The void became bigger each time she went. It was almost at the stage where even if she had been standing or lying with him he would still have felt alone. At times he had to physically resist the urge to reach out and see if she was real, if his hand would actually touch her body or if his hand would simply move through her transparency.

He had to remind himself of who it was he had first met. She was younger. Slimmer. Funnier. They had laughed. And talked. He had felt known. Before she had sinned.

It was twelve years ago. A bus. A coffee. Ancient history.

He barely recalled the flip in his belly when he'd caught sight of her waiting for him on their second meeting. The details of that time were hazy now. He wondered if this suggested the problem. That perhaps they'd allowed it all to slip away by not recalling it, remembering it, grasping it. He'd stopped holding her body in awe and treated it as a part of his own. He didn't know anymore where her body started and his stopped and he at once loved her for this, and loathed her. He craved the first touch, he thirsted for her mystery and was unsated.

He drifted in and out of his thoughts. The coffee sat cold and frigid on the table in front of him as he lightly tapped his fingers on the laminate. His question still hung in the air, nestling up to the stale smell of cigarette. He leant forward and placed his head in his hands, glaring into his coffee. What had brought him to this point?

He stumbled through his work and had, he imagined, done so for some time. An accounts manager now, he'd clawed his way through. He had been focused and driven, motivated at one point. He'd wanted to arrive home to her with the spoils of his job in his hands, raised above his head like a sacrificial offering. Had she seen this? Had she noticed? When did the words asking him about his day stop meaning anything?

He had gone through the motions of being fit. There were times as he lifted his quota of weights that he wondered who he was doing this for now. It had been, in the past, most certainly for her. He remembered some times when she had traced his biceps with her fingertip as they had laid, entwined in the bed or on the couch. He had occasionally caught her eye as she had watched him dressing in the morning and known that it had been with pleasure, even a little embarrassment as she'd realised he'd seen her looking.

He had not met her eyes for months. He had not watched her watching him for longer. He acutely felt the absence of her interest in his body. He knew so well that it was the same for her--he had become merely (absolutely?) an extension of herself. Did she feel the same? Did she at once hate him and honour him for this?

He'd realised that he filled the days. He'd stuffed each minute with meaningless tasks. He was scared of the nothing that came with inactivity. Petrified of the truths that would crash through his normalcy when allowed the time to do so. They had brushed into each other of an evening. They danced a silent dance giving distant respect for each other's personal space and thought parameters. Childless, by choice, they had no buffer other than routine. To the moment, he could have predicted what they did and said based on days and weeks and months of repetition.

He knew the answer, even though she had not spoken the words. Just that tilt of her head. He had known the answer even before he'd asked it. As he surveyed the crumbs on the Formica he wondered what had compelled him to even ask it. What desire lurked inside of him that he chose to call an end to the charade, to the mimicry of happiness that they had survived on for years?

He was well aware of the effect of his rhetorical enquiry into her life. His intrusion? His interest? It didn't matter which word he used, the effect was going to be the same.

That would be it.

That even within the question had rested the answer. That forcing things out into the open would end it all. It would be like the removal of a splinter. Painful, necessary, inevitable. He knew this, and wanted it. He had also known the answer for some time. There were very small clues, little bits of routine that changed. A new scent left on her skin, in her pores. A new curve of her mouth. The occasional jaunt in her step.

He even knew who. A former friend who had drifted away from him. He had not realised until such time as it was apparent to him, who knew her better than anybody, what was going on. The realisation as to who it was came over dinner.

It had been with another question from him for her. A simple pondering. Where was he now, he'd wondered. She'd turned away from him to clear the plates. Eyes hidden by her hair. The beginnings of that tilt of her head, even then. She had stumbled an answer, non-committal. He realised the elusiveness of it. The deceptive manner in which she attempted to disguise her guilt with the clutter of the dishes against the stainless steel sink.

Anybody else would have felt it as the truth. He was a part of her and so he knew it as the lie it was. He said nothing. He allowed himself to absorb her betrayal peacefully. There was no eruption. There was no shouting (they never shouted, they rarely even spoke). There was no accusation or even outward annoyance. The acceptance was the same as everything else in their lives. Routine and silent.

They lived simultaneous lives, the three of them. This man who he had not seen for some time and had actually quite liked when they were friendly, his wife, and him. It was almost familial. Comfortable even. He'd hated the acknowledgement that there indeed had been some comfort in knowing of the affair and living alongside it.

Sordid? It never was. Dirty? He struggled with the word, refusing to align it with his wife, this woman he had chosen above all others, so classic, so refined, so damn dignified. So porcelain. He was cognisant that others would look into his life and judge her. He was cognisant that others would look into his life and judge him.

What action did he take? What preventative measures had been in place? Had she needed him to attempt to win her, to set up a futile competition in which he was required to romance her in ways unheard of in order to beat her suitor? He would never. Had she wondered if he knew? Had she cared terribly on the inside, refusing, like him, to allow her mask to slip?

He was an observer of his wife's affair. He monitored the progress of it as it took place before him. He did not emote. He did not involve himself. He was omnipotent. Non-judgemental. One part of him (obviously the part of him most like her) even understood why she was doing what she was doing. There was a part of him that acknowledged her quest to unchain herself from their ordinariness. He would never go so far as to call it courage--that was too positive--but certainly he understood the need for novelty, the need for desire. Had that excused it for him? He spent many months deciding.

He sensed she needed his enabling for the affair to continue until such time as she arrived at wherever it is she had sought to go, until such time as it suited her. She needed him to ignore it and to simply live with it. She needed him to accept it as a part of her. These things he did willingly and ably. Even with a touch of pride in his stoicism.

What had prompted the change then, what had made him speak up at this point knowing fully what the result would be? Knowing that in placing the truth on the Formica table between them he had betrayed her beyond how he had been betrayed.

Simply. It was time.

He had watched her sleeping the night before. A long, cold, dark period of observance. The room itself without comfort or homeliness. He knew she had met her lover in the morning of the day before--a tryst at approximately the same time as he had closed a deal with a major telecommunications company.

He suspected here, in this bed, with its stark white sheets. He hadn't bothered to telephone her to let her know of his success, such trivial matters did not rate highly in the minimalist communication they shared. Besides, he pictured her tangled in the limbs of his friend and knew it would make no difference.

One night, before he asked, he lay awake. As she slept he'd observed her deceit. He could smell the future for them, with or without the affair and had known it was turning rancid. He saw the lies tattooed across her face like the fake marble pattern on the Formica table in front of him now. He'd read the lies, and felt the distrust. He'd acutely felt the ticking that marked the smuggled time she'd spent with her lover.

The revulsion surprised him, such a strong, alien emotion, so mismatched to the life they had negotiated together. He was nauseous with realisation. The images of his wife moving together with another man were not new to him--he had been watching this like a screenplay in his mind for many months. He had even imagined he had heard the noises of their lovemaking. It was not that which brought about the repulsion he felt towards her, who he had once wanted so deeply and so profoundly he hadn't been able to contemplate breathing without her.

What was new?

The realisation that her betrayal and deceit were built on over a decade of such bitter loneliness. It encompassed him, the depth of this acid like contempt they had felt for each other. They both had need of escape. He, to his work. Her, to another man's arms. They had enslaved each other, sinned simultaneously. He had seen his compliance with her affair as loyalty, as commitment. He realised it was simply fear of change.

The extent of his cowardice shocked him. Sickened him.

The image of his compliance had sent him into the bathroom. Hunched vomiting over the toilet, he decided his action. She lay still, possibly not hearing him.

He'd framed the wording of his question between retches, between the violent hurling of his soul. It would be asked and answered at once. Doors would be closed then opened. The evidence of both his adoration and hatred of her, his wife, would be laid out before them.

He'd telephoned her from work the next day. She was surprised. He heard it in the edge of her voice, flirting with her intonation, revealing a secret need for him? He allowed himself to wonder this briefly, before shutting it down and reminding himself of the facts of both of their betrayal.

They met. A coffee. The question. The end.

Simply. It was time.
Monday 14 April 2014

The Spectators

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, NSW

Ride

out,

as sun

caresses

hilltop and valleys.

Find the best panoramic view.

Spread out the tartan rug and tasty chicken hamper.

Be careful with the chilled champagne,

purchased from the 'British Hotel'.

Built from driftwood, iron and tin, behind enemy lines.

Good for brisk business.

Mrs Seacole herself, not quite lily white, hails from

Jamaica. Taught by her mother, she heals with herbs.

She makes a quid with rum and wheat and comforts dying soldiers.

Many a sorry mother's son will need her care today as the battle rages in Crimea.

Set up the cannon, Russian foe.

Men will die in this foolish charge.

Wrong valley, it's said.

Poetic justice.

In two hundred and sixty four years' time, spectators

watch again the folly, dining

in their living rooms.

Live theatre,

replaced

by

NEWS
Tuesday 15 April 2014

Burdensome Youth

Spiller

Bacchus Marsh, VIC

I wasn't sure if it was a memory or a dream ...

It was neither.

It is both.

She sits at her desk which is just as cracked and worn out as she is. She compiles the evidence, makes lists and separates her thoughts from her feelings. She hunches, then remembers her posture, readjusts and stretches the tingling muscles attached to her aching bones and numb skin. Her life, appearing to her in cataclysmic flashes, aware of patterns of past and present, is currently up for questioning. The heartache of mourning repetitively only to learn the same lessons in a different context had become too large of a responsibility. Still unsure of the context of her grief, she seeks an answer to a question she does not yet know and cannot yet comprehend.

'Is the length of the human lifespan so long that we create for ourselves our own complex and layered expressions to pass time simply so we are not consumed by the thought of our inevitable demise? Awareness is an entity in itself, like a vortex to a dimension so darkly driven by primitive drive. The only consistent thing is chaos. And on chaos, I thrive.

'To move forward through time and space is paramount to experiencing chaos's potential. An internal burning, living an elusive existence, which transforms energy into matter and transmutes within the soul to manifest our created fictions outwardly. But the universe is spontaneous and ironic. Be careful what you wish for, for it is evolutions process that springs from thought.'

Musings and reflections, so necessary to thrust oneself forward have become a source of pain as truth radiates its transparent reality over her life.
Wednesday 16 April 2014

Inside The Mirror

Jessica Soul

East Keilor, VIC

Inside the mirror, there was a soulful image staring

Speaking to myself, the image that looks back, a gleam of hope sparked

Ignited the heart, and with all those glistering stars in the sky

Wished upon them that the right guy would come along into my life

With a thousand thoughts and pleads from my heart

A whispering voice echoes with shallow eyes and a widened smile that looks back from the mirrored image

This display envisions one's hope

A forever affection in the eyes of one lady

And a simple wish to ones hopes and dreams

What will become of that soulful image seen in the mirror...
Wednesday 16 April 2014

Goodbye Lucy

Julitha De La Force

Katoomba, NSW

Goodbye Lucy

Goodbye Sweetie

You were very special

To Mum and me

Our lovely gentle natured cat

You were such a special

Beautiful black cat

You were our beautiful baby

For fifteen years

When we had no choice

But to let the vet

Put you down

We shed many tears then

And still do now

You got so sick

It was so quick

We had no warning

It was so quick!

We love you Lucy

You'll be in our hearts

For eternity

May the angels cuddle you

And help you to fly free
Saturday 19 April 2014

A Secret Meeting

Lorraine Sanderson

Campbelltown, SA

It was in the local library their paths finally crossed. Anna had wandered curiously into the art space adjacent the checkout, attracted by the exhibition of wildlife caricatures on show. He stood in the far corner, absorbing the greeny-brown detail of what resembled a highly stylised toad.

Anna liked sketching and she kept a small collection of rudimentary efforts in her bedside cupboard. For a moment she discerned one or two of these gallery cartoons to be not unlike some of her own.

She recognised her fellow viewer as the person who had moved into her neighbourhood just recently.

Taller and a little older than Anna, there was something about this dark haired, olive skinned stranger that had fascinated her from the first time she'd heard his accented voice in the geranium filled garden a few doors away.

Now here he was, right before her! Suddenly aware of her presence, his deep brown eyes turned to face her and his smile was as bright as Arctic snow. 'Hello, my name's Carlos.' Anna felt instantly at ease.

In the space of barely three minutes, she learned that Carlos was from Chile. He was a keen cyclist and enjoyed outdoor adventuring. Both shared a passion for books and animals, and they found themselves speaking almost in unison as they enthused about their respective household pets.

Realising her family would be anxious to get home and feeling she ought not to have abandoned them, Anna hurriedly returned to the checkout flushed with the pleasure of this encounter. Always keen to share her highs, lows and daily news with her loved ones, she chose not to mention her new found friend. For today, Carlos was her secret.

With silky blonde hair that bounced gently to her every movement, Anna had always been someone who could light up a room. Her clothes were ultra-feminine and she had a certain look that could melt an assassin's heart. Her home was well appointed and she wanted for little in the way of gadgetry.

Yet for the most part she remained placid, dependent, lonely even, living a somewhat cloistered life and dutifully conforming to others' expectations. She did not drive, so it was rare if ever for her to leave the house unaccompanied.

By comparison, Carlos seemed such a free spirit with a worldliness that drew Anna in. Listening to him awoke in her a hunger for new freedom, experimentation and discovery. It fed a growing restlessness.

When they met again coincidentally at her gate a few days later, the conversation resumed as though they'd known each other always. Not only did Anna enjoy being with Carlos, she felt completely in his awe.

Their street abutted a secluded and seldom-used picnic haven. When Carlos suggested a rendezvous there the following day, her eagerness and anticipation were palpable, but running off to be with this charismatic neighbour was way outside what she knew to be right.

The longing and the logic began their tug of war.

It was just on 7 pm with the remains of dinner being cleared when the doorbell rang. Anna stood wide-eyed as a tall, dark and well-dressed woman was ushered into the lounge.

'My name is Isadora and I've come about your Anna spending time with my Carlos,' she said addressing no-one in particular. 'I am new to the area and Carlos is all I have. We had a lunch in the park planned for tomorrow, and I have just discovered he has invited Anna.' Anna stood motionless as the woman continued.

'I'm so pleased Carlos is starting to make friends. Tomorrow is my son's birthday--he will be eight years old. It would be so nice if you could consent to your daughter joining us. It will make his day more special.'

Anna's mother smiled. 'Little Anna is almost six and I'm sure she would love to come.'
Saturday 19 April 2014

Behind The Eyes

Evelyn MD

Newbridge, NSW

I travel through this conflict

I dream of us together

You pass

I wave

I want to give to you

Yet I cannot

My vows are to another

I have ignored your waves

I cannot look at you without

A longing feeling

To know you would be...

But I can't--

I want to stop now

In this imperfect world

Where people like

To care

No matter who you are

You care

Are my dreams only dreams?

As I drive home

I see a party at our pub

I am not invited

Do they care?

Do you care?

I return

To my family

Of four

And sit down to a BBQ

Perhaps it will only be

Us four

Michael

Alex

Lily and I as

My dream
Monday 21 April 2014

Bloody Long Lines

James Craib

Wentworth Falls, NSW

From the shadowy world of fact and fantasy, came a hero of antiquity.

His dark brows were gathered together and his thin lips were very close.

When he raised his head, the vision in his pale eyes swam.

It was pivotal moments like these that defined Achilles.

Morose; he was sated only by the glory of the hero's death.

The legendary Greek warrior-prince who was near invincible

His bloodlines were descended from Zeus, and his mother; Thetis--the water nymph.

'Twas no use; he gave not a damn for the carnage that he created by the battlements of Troy.

He had no further use for love or friendship when the dementia took hold.

It was told that his mother held him by the heel, when dipped in the river Styx.

But her zeal to make Achilles invulnerable was a trick. He was a demi-god only.

After Hector was despatched, Achilles fell to Paris who shot him with an arrow.

But the marrow of life continues and so fate decreed that Alexander the Great...

(descended through Neoptolemus--son of Achilles) became the original despot.

Alexander's tutor was none other than the grandest philosopher--Aristotle.

Alexander had a throttle hold of most of the Mediterranean.

When he died, poisoned in Babylon, his half brother--Arrhidaeus was left to carry on.

Now it might be invidious to suggest that a descendent of Achilles, eventually...

Crossed the sea to Britain, having first had the gall to defeat the Gauls.

Indeed Aineas, another survivor from Troy, was an ancestor of Julius Caesar.

Julius of course defeated the Celts and ruled Britannia. The Romans held on...

From AD 43 to AD 410. Then King Arthur arose to defend the land with sword and axe

Against the Anglo-Saxons in the late 5th Century... but was he a myth?

No matter--he spread his empire and conquered Northern Ireland... or did he?

Centuries later...

From the depths of Donegal, the Breslins went to Belfast on the Irish Sea.

By all accounts, Arthur Breslin was a prudent man who dabbled in amateur theatre.

His daughter--Annie Myra, married a Scottish man although he was a protestant.

Perhaps of Scandinavian descent, James Albert was from Glasgow.

Just returned from war in Europe; they had no hope of a home of their own.

And so they emigrated with infant son--James Arthur to Australia.

Sometimes known as Jesse, Jim or Arturo with a taste for Gaelic music, garlic, chillies...

He is not a warrior like Achilles. It is a rather long bow to suggest that bloodlines continue...

From ancient times, from ancient Greek to the mild and meek before you now,

And when considering the Trojan horse, Jimsy is sometimes thought to a horse's hoof--

Struth... no! But no mind the Greek warriors were kinder to each other than wife or concubine.

Thou canst see, however, that this boy hath the pale eyes and thin lips of the man who came with the thousand ships to Troy. It's all Greek to me!
Tuesday 22 April 2014

My Childhood Passion

Andris Heks

Megalong, NSW

It started as an innocent hobby. It turned into a capitalist venture.

Since around the age of eight in Hungary until I actually realised my dream and made it to the West, I was absolutely fascinated by the Western World: in particular, its wealth, its various consumer products and the freedom of Western people--including being able to travel freely.

There was a luxury hotel, called Palace Hotel, only a five minute walk away from our flat in Budapest. I lingered around that hotel for hours, at least three times a week, in the hope of meeting as many Western tourists as I could.

Fridays, were particularly good, because lots of Austrians tended to arrive then in their posh, deep-red Mercedes buses.

I would stand in front of the closed door of the bus as it pulled in to the curb to let off the tourists at the hotel entrance.

I held a brand new Hungarian box of matches in my hand and showed it to the disembarking passengers, while repeating the single English word I knew:

'Change, change!'

I don't know how, but most of them seemed to understand that I wanted to swap my box of matches for theirs, so they readily reached into their pockets to see if they could find a box of matches for me.

Often, they had no matches and then they sometimes gave me their own change; a foreign coin or two. I built up a collection of quite a lot of foreign coins.

But my real passion was the matchbox labels.

I generally scored 10-15 matchboxes per afternoon.

I took them home, cut off the tops of the boxes with the labels on them. I soaked them in lukewarm water until the labels separated from the carton tops. I then put the labels between sheets of serviettes and pressed them between the pages of heavy encyclopaedias.

The idea was to get the labels dry without wrinkles. However, the labels, after such operations, no matter how carefully pressed, tended to look second hand and crinkled. Nevertheless I put the labels in rows in a nice stamp album. I enjoyed looking at them.

The pictures on the labels were a personal way of educating me about the world beyond Hungary's Iron Curtain.

Soon after I began to collect the matchbox labels, an important development occurred.

I discovered that there was an actual club nearby for matchbox label collectors.

It took only a ten minute tram ride from my place to the club.

The first time I went, I was stunned by the great number of collectors there, the quality of their matchbox labels and the quantity of the labels exchanged or sold.

Most of them were in immaculate condition; often they were acquired by the collectors directly from the matchbox factories as collectors' items which never ended up glued to matchboxes.

They were from all over the world.

Most of them were released as series by the factories, just like postage stamps sold in series to the collectors.

Having every label in the set was essential for the value of the set.

Gone was for these club members the collection of crinkled, individual, used labels harvested from the top of matchboxes.

The emphasis was on the collection of complete set of immaculate matchbox labels which were never attached to matchboxes. To make a substantial collection of such beautiful sets was quite an expensive business.

Two further developments occurred, which helped me to acquire just such a collection. First, I was asked by the parents of a primary school student in my class to tutor their son in reading and writing for a couple of years. They put me on a good weekly pay for this job. I invested all my earnings in buying magnificent matchbox label sets from various parts of the world.

I also bought 30 copies of every sets of Hungarian matchbox labels issued by the national matchbox factory. I catalogued and kept them in boxes, exchanging some of them for foreign series in the club and keeping the rest as an investment which I hoped would become scarce in the future and get more valuable with each year passed.

Secondly, in one of my visits to the Palace Hotel, I happened to come across an Ukrainian professional matchbox label collector. I made a deal with him that I would send him several copies of every new Hungarian match box label set release and he in turn would do the same with the Soviet releases.

He and I became friends over the years, writing to each other in Russian. My Russian teacher at school was kind enough to translate his letters to me and translate mine for my friend. It was an amazing privilege for me to have this wonderful collectors' relationship and friendship with this man.

It was the more so, because he happened to be the chief trainer manager of the entire Soviet Gymnastic team, which in the late 1950s and 60s was the best in the world.

The Soviet Union used matchbox labels to showcase the beauty of Soviet statues and buildings from Moscow to Leningrad, the Soviet Olympic Games and the various achievements of the Soviet Union, including the sending of the first Sputnik, the first dog and the first cosmonaut, Uri Gagarin into orbit around the earth.

As some of these matchbox label series were very beautiful and glossy, I managed to exchange them in our club, for lots of fine matchbox label series from other countries.

By far the finest matchbox labels were produced by Japan. They were also the most expensive. Having been cashed up and offering beautiful Russian series to trade, helped me to build up a magnificent portfolio of Japanese match box labels.

I acquired the cream of match box sets produced by Japan. They included series of Japanese masks, traditional folk costumes, warriors, nudes, flowers and uniquely Japanese landscape paintings cleverly miniaturised in authentic colours on fine paper.

One of the most beautiful of these was the series of paintings of the Tokaido mountain region of Japan, consisting of more than 150 labels, each a triumph of Japanese colour photo, miniaturisation and printing technology that succeeded in turning matchbox labels into pieces of fine art.

I managed to bring my Japanese album with me to Australia in 1964 and now 50 years later these labels still look as splendid as they were when I acquired them.

Over my ten years of collecting matchbox labels, I managed to make a huge international collection of several thousand matchbox labels. In addition I bought up for investment tens of thousands of factory release Hungarian match box labels.

I hoped their value would multiply over the years. But when in 1974 I went from Australia to Hungary for a visit and tried to cash in my large number of labels, I was shocked to find that I could not make any money from them. When I tried to re-visit my old matchbox label collectors' club, I found the club, but no one was collecting matchbox labels any more. Serviettes were the latest rage.

Well, there went my childhood dream of eventually making a fortune from my huge collection. Matchbox label collection did not survive as a popular hobby, like stamp collection did.

Had I invested all those childhood earnings in stamps instead of match box labels, I would have indeed made a fortune years later.

But although my matchbox label collection did not turn me into a millionaire, the adventures and the fun I had in my childhood in pursuing my hobby were truly enriching experiences.
Wednesday 23 and Thursday 24 April 2014

Rommel's Gold

Henry Johnston

Rozelle, NSW

Cheap tobacco smoke swirled the length of McGinty's Bar, obscuring the faces of three red-faced conspirators who clinked their glasses in assent to my part in a quest to salvage a ton of Nazi gold from the Mediterranean Sea.

The scheme, hatched by drunkards incapable of ordering the next round, crept into our conversation before tumbling out with the lazy ease of too many pints.

Behind a guise of forced bonhomie, and a flourish of thigh-slapping laugher, my fate unfolded with the slurred logic of an alcoholic, hell-bent on finishing a final bender.

As the gloaming illuminates my disgrace, and cresting waves whittle my strength, I fear I shall succumb to the aftermath of war no matter how far or how fast from it I ran.

The quandary began the day my elder brother and I crossed the border to join the local battalion. The ease of transition from civilian to soldier, masked war's fearful prospects. I had no mind to fight for King and Country, and my short-lived enlistment passed with neither shrill of fife nor beat of drum.

I hungered for three regular meals, and the optimism of a few folded pounds tucked in my pocket, but not my brother. He loves a scrap. In the brief, chilly spring of military life, we met our three greatest enemies, war, warrant officers, and a quartermaster who measured us for suits designed by Howitzer & Sons. Two bewildered brothers, deluded fools marching in the wake of generations of ignorant big kids, eager for adventure in god-forsaken lands.

I watched young faces grow old, saw chests swell with swagger, and witnessed casual cruelty disguised by pride in regimental clan kilts, tam-o-shanter's or dusty emu feathers in slouch hats.

The Italians captured my brother at Tobruk alongside a mob of Australians. Their grand tour of Europe comprised flea-ridden prisoner of war camps in northern Italy, Austria, and Baden-Württemberg Germany, from where a group of 20 broke out on a winter's night. The poor bastard at the head of the single file trudge stood on a mine. His body disintegrated. A shard of shrapnel shredded my brother's upper right arm, but a _Wehrmacht_ surgeon saved his life. He says nothing about Germans these days, but nurtures a white-hot hatred of Italians. I am too scared to ask why.

The British Army shipped me to Egypt where I enjoyed more sun in one day than in my entire short, scrawny, life.

The air of Alexandria is pungent with unfamiliar odours. Minarets and mosques proliferate in this wondrous city, beloved of generals and megalomaniacs of yore; its namesake Alexander the Great Julius Caesar, Octavian, Mark Anthony and Napoleon Bonaparte. Now the Prussian grandee Erwin Rommel eyed the Suez Canal, and set about the task of taking it from my first and only employer.

I spent a rare barracks pass window-shopping Alexandria's brothels hidden in dark, mysterious _midaqs_. A local man followed me, but I confused him with a game of hide and seek, and confounded him with a loop-the-loop. I walked behind, and rabbit chopped his neck. He staggered. I dragged him inside a sidewalk café, and called for two cups of mint tea.

Sweat covered his face. He trembled with fear and pain. I smoked two Senior Service cigarettes, and watched the sugary mint leaves dribble the length of his long white garment.

I asked what he wanted.

We waved hands at each other. He tried to touch my head, but I batted him with my knuckles. He was a Berber, retained by the Moroccan royal family that fled south to escape the war. From what I gleaned, the chief of the court like me is a red head. Freckles cover my face and body, my eyes the colour of cornflowers, my hair deep ochre. My shadow assumed I shared a relationship with his master, and beseeched me to join the exile court deep in the Sudan.

With no mind for the future, I deserted.

I ditched my khakis for a dishdasha, wrapped a tagelmust round my head, and fell-in with a melee of carts, camels and cars.

I passed a dozen Tommy sentry posts in the first hours of the trek, but by midnight, Alexandria and the warring armies lay miles away.

Bursts of green light peppered the northwestern horizon, too far to hear the boom of the bombardment, but too close for me.

Civility collapses on the approach of rampaging armies. Modesty vanishes. Random sex acts in public are common. Men and women defecate in full view of each other. Privacy disappears. Fear is a cruel overseer, yet once it lessens, those in flight revert to normalcy as humanity reasserts itself. The fearful seek familiar faces to help rebalance, and yearn for the reassurance tomorrow will be better than yesterday.

I had joined a melange of people who called Alexandria home, and amidst that tumult of faces, I recall one above the timorous throng. His name is Felix Schonberg, and I first saw him lying naked, sunbaking by a waddy outside El Obeid.

Felix loves his golden, amber lager. He says my hometown stout bloats him, and he longed for the fizz of a genuine German brew. Felix goes by the name of Frank Berg to hide his identity. My pals realise he is German, but I know Felix is a Jew.

The landsers of the _Afrika Corps_ wore grey-green khaki, but not Felix. He kept his black tunic throughout our sojourn, and even without the Death's Head insignia, exuded the arrogance of the S.S.

As Rommel's top tax collector, Felix stole ancient Arabic texts, and kilos of rare Frankincense burnt by Heinrich Himmler during strange Teutonic ceremonies. He filched thousand-year-old Persian carpets, bucket loads of jewellery and gold, but mandatory participation in his own genocide got in the way.

Felix intercepted a letter from the Gestapo demanding he return to Berlin to answer questions about familial origins.

Spurred by fanaticism, Felix, as with millions of German children, joined the Hitler Youth, but zeal and acceptance into the _Schutzstaffel_ did not stop the meticulous record checking of ancient birth certificates, which posited accusatory proof of Jewish ancestry.

Felix took command of an armed escort aboard a fast torpedo boat moored in Tunis harbour. Ammunition boxes filled with gold, sat head to toe in rows on the port and starboard side of the upper deck.

The northbound crossing from Bizerte to Corsica, ended at Ajaccio on the island's south coast, from where the booty would be trans-shipped to Rome and Berlin.

Felix changed the game.

A few miles off Corsica, Felix ordered the boat back into the main shipping lane to avoid an attack by a British Swordfish aircraft flying low over Pointe de la Parata. Once out of sight of the Swordfish, the escort awaited the next high tide.

Felix shot the crew with a machine pistol, and dumped the bodies. He took a precise compass bearing, and then scuttled the vessel, which sank on an upright keel in the blue Mediterranean, thanks to the well-spaced plunder.

Ashore, Felix demanded a lift to Ajaccio, and reported the Swordfish killed everyone, but him. He commandeered a seat aboard a Dornier returning to Tunis to organise a military salvage crew, but upon landing, fled into the desert. Weeks later, he slipped into the caravanserai at El Obeid after crossing thousands of kilometres of war-littered sand.

Felix frightens me. I did not understand his motive at first, but as I fled war blind to all consequences, Felix yielded to an ancestral truth etched on the parched paper of a birth certificate of an unknown grandmother. The descendants of a thousand grandmothers in flight to an ancient land he said deserve a share of the gold he had stolen. I did not fault his logic, but if I am to be truthful, and I am far from honest, I am gulping seawater not because of Felix, but because of a woman.

Her name is Mian, and she is Australian. Mian grew up in the seaside village of Kiama. Her hair is the colour of mown straw, unblinking eyes sparkle grey and tanned skin reddens to a deep burnish after a swim.

Mian moved to England at the outbreak of war, enlisted in the Royal Navy, and spent her service defusing harbour mines.

Mian told me of a yearning for warmer, peaceful climes. I knew I had no chance, but basked in her reflected sunlight, and swallowed the honey bait Felix thought he had set for me.

Ruud. Dutch or South African, I am not sure, but he is Ruud by name and nature. I neither respect nor trust him, and stay back 10 paces if I cannot see his ivory handled dagger. Ruud is an engineer, and a master mariner. He is the chief salvager, mechanic, navigator, the tinkerer.

Felix, Ruud, Mian and I knew the whereabouts of a ton of gold, its value and origin, but the question was how to get it. First the hangover, then the plan. Buy a deep-sea buoy tender in Belfast, sail to Corsica, and winch up Rommel's gold. In the wild chaos of Europe, a year or so after the end of the war, the scheme had little hope of success.

'So what', I thought. 'It's a dare, and there's money to be made'.

A couple of gold bars meant an end to life financed by a bogus war pension.

Though the Allies had stopped shooting, chaos stalked Europe. People wanted freedom, not the thousands I joined at El Obeid, but millions loitering at every port, dock, jetty, wharf or navigable waterway, trying to buy a ticket on a Tramp steamer going anywhere in the alphabet of nations. Desperate men, women, and even children, give-up their gold to any tin pot Centurion who promises to help with a getaway.

England pretends to rule courtesy of its Empire, but by war's end, most colonial citizens, with a few exceptions, abandoned all notion of a triumphant Britannic return. Nevertheless tough-nut English armies of occupation, push and shove all who refuse to play by the rulebook of the new, new world order, which guarantees the sovereignty of neutral countries.

As for me, I exploited the benign neutrality of my country without qualm, for across a porous border, which I despise, lay tons of war debris, rusting on the docks of Belfast. This twisted tangle offered ideal cover for a voluptuous Royal Navy sub-lieutenant, and two Swiss businessmen, eager to buy a surplus naval vessel. The bigger the fore and aft cranes they said, the better. It did not occur to the naval officials Switzerland is land-locked, staring instead at Mian's legs, and gasping at her open briefcase with its trove of crisp, American dollar bills.

Days later Ruud, and a scratch crew steered the vessel into the Atlantic, and along the West Coast of Ireland to Cork. By the time the ship disappeared, a military court filed charges against the officers for handling counterfeit currency, which subsidised port and fuel costs. The lure of bogus Greenbacks proved irresistible to a greedy radio operator working in Cobh Harbour, who ignored a special ships bulletin to report an ex-Royal Navy tender en route to Haifa.

The evil eye of Mal de Mare snares me on my first day on the seasick Celtic Sea. How did this scourge earn such a romantic-sounding name? The sensation begins deep in the gut, and creeps to the brain where it twists, and gouges the grey matter.

Mian walks me to the deck, saying fresh air might help. I do not know if her laughter is worse than my loss of control, the instant I catch sight of a cresting wave. She says convicts sailing to Australia, coined a warning for poor wretches on lower decks, craning their heads as far as possible. Those likewise afflicted, but standing above, called out, 'watch under.' The phrase gained notoriety in Port Jackson when the settlers shortened it to 'chunder.'

I spend hours staring at the horizon, and with time, feel the salt tang ease the pain. Mian unscrews the top of a tiny canister, and daubs a forefinger into Tiger Balm.

The fiery unction penetrates points beneath my left and right temple.

Mian repeats the cure in cavities beneath each ear. I sneeze from the scent, and a resulting click crunches deep in my skull where the jawbone joins under the eye sockets.

I slept day and night, and in the morning woke to the splendour of the Rock of Gibraltar, lit by the first rays of a golden dawn.

The Mediterranean Sea though rough at times, is timid when compared with the Bay of Biscay, and as the biliousness passes, I pay attention to my fellow travellers. Ten or 12 young, fit, men and women, emerge from the maze of cabins below decks. A few approach to pass the time, but limited English stunt our conversations.

They call me _Irelander_ or _Irsch_ , and offer cigarettes and chocolate, but fall silent when Ruud comes down from the bridge.

Ruud acknowledges my presence with a sharp, upward tilt of his head, but expects nothing more. His dismissal frees me to gaze portside and starboard throughout the journey to Corsica, an island of which I know nothing.

We drop anchor near Torra di a Parrata. At sunrise and sunset, the nearby Sanguinaires Islands cast a reddish hue on the water. The landscape is enchanting, yet I am disconcerted, for I have no control over fast-moving events hatched during a drinking bout a few months ago.

Each morning, Felix rows ashore aboard a stout wooden boat accompanied by a moustachioed man named Arturo and his wife, Myrna. The trio return in the evening, the boat filled to the gunwales with coiled piping, hand and motor pumps and other items of chandlery.

Allied fighters buzz the ship, and snooping military vessels come by for a look, but the skippers are silent, and turn away seeking more appealing targets plying the sea-lanes. Squat old tenders laying buoys as approved by forged papers, are harmless enough.

The sea calms into a bright, sparkling Mediterranean morning, Mian and Ruud deploy the diving equipment, check the kit, flex air hoses for cracks, and test the lines for wear and rust.

Sputtering crane engines thump into sooty life to lift whatever might emerge from the deep.

The size and weight of the dive suit is a shock, for though Mian is muscular and fit, the lead boots, the hulking canvas outer garment, and the huge screw-on gloves dwarf her.

The dive team attach an airline to watertight sockets front and rear, then lower Mian into a cage, and ease it over the stern.

Mian steps off the transom. The deck crew is silent as the lifelines chart her slow progress in the turbid depth.

Three hard tugs on the safety rope signal finality. The helmet breaches first. The suit follows, cascading rivulets of water. Mian's head emerges. I read her blue lips mouth the word, 'nothing.' The crew pack away the day's disappointment.

A wet, gloomy morning follows. Arturo grim-faced, and the silent Myrna, climb aboard, and join Felix and Ruud below deck.

A crewmember speaking in halting English says the Corsican couple is French maquis.

' _Communiste_ , one of us,' he says.

I furrow my eyebrows for an explanation.

After a few moments struggling for the correct word, and with an encompassing sweep of the arm he says, 'defenders.' He points to my hair and asks; 'Ashkenazi,' but I answer his question with my own query.

'Are you thinking Ash Wednesday my friend?' My response is puzzling. He shrugs, and flicks a burning cigarette butt into the sea. For the second time, my hair colour identifies me as someone I am not.

Ruud, Arturo and Myrna emerge onto the wet deck followed by Felix, a swath of charts tucked beneath his arm.

The latitude and longitude are true, but Mian plunged on the wrong side of the island.

Ruud barks orders for departure and the tiny crag of Sanguinaires slip behind the stern as the ship edges out into the open sea.

The crew, spirits high, begin an excited banter, but I do not comprehend what they say.

Mian solves the mystery.

'We speak Yiddish. Each understand it to a degree, and it makes it easier to know what to do next. Today we raise the gold, and tomorrow we leave.'

'Will you stay with them?' I ask. Mian's grey eyes flicker for an instant.

'My last stop is Cyprus. I'll decide if I go to London, or back home to Sydney, or I might bunk with friends on Hydra who survived the war.'

Mian turns and walks to the stern to prepare for the second dive. Her life depends on a perfect mixture of air.

Military planes fly overhead as unseen vessels blast whoops on crash sirens. The buoy tender nudges around the last of the Sanguinaires for a short run to the correct location.

The squadron of warships emerge from the mist, sailing close-by a listing ex-Liberty ship and the damp air amplifies the shouts of unseen men and women.

Ruud sounds a deep, bass bellow on the sea horn as the buoy tender passes the flotilla close in-shore. Then as the Liberty ship looms, I see the faces of the voices.

Hundreds of people dressed in ill-fitting clothes, cram every deck. Many wear dun-coloured ex-Soviet army caps, others wrapped in bundles of blankets, crouch against the rails. One man wears a suit jacket with ragged short sleeves, and long pant legs rolled up at the ankles. Each person calls over one another, shaking angry their fists at the destroyer escorts, or leaning forward, silent and apathetic, deep-set eyes in hollow cheeks of crestfallen faces.

The young crewmembers on our ship cup hands to their mouths, and shout back. A young woman who shared a chocolate bar with me begins to sob. She points to the Liberty ship and says, 'Israel.' Rainwater flows through the deck eyelets. Goose bumps on my arms become one with my flesh. The spectral ship and the menacing flotilla sail on, and as the skirling sirens fade, I recall the silent flash of the Northern Lights on a mid-winter night

The buoy tender reaches the exact compass bearing, and shudders to a stop. Heavy chains rattle and shake as the anchor bites into the mud. Brilliant arc lights banish every nuance of shadow. Air pumps thrum. The diving suit envelops Mian and the lifelines pierce the meniscus of her vanishing helix. Felix as timekeeper, measures the plunge, calculating each movement against the varying gravities pressing against her. Deep sea diving is slow and dangerous. Decompression sickness is a killer.

Mian emerges as the morning edges closer to noon. Free of the helmet and sucking air, she raises a triumphant gloved hand, and thrusts a thumb skyward. She found the wreck.

Encased in the suit once more for a third dive, Mian slides into the sea following a rope that tethers a dirty grey buoy to the submerged prize.

Far below she threads the leading tip of a salvager's rope through the handles of the sunken boxes. A triplet of sharp tugs signals the dive's end. I imagine her helmet a strange, hard-shelled jellyfish emerging from the sea. Exhausted, Mian hands the rope to the salvagers who weave it to a cable suspended from the cranes, which begin to grumble and creak amidst a clatter of levers and pulleys.

Diesel motors burp black exhaust smoke, and as the ship shudders, a rolling swell exacerbates a slight, starboard list. Thick lubricant greases the length of the pinging wire, stretched taut by the weight, as the coiling fore and aft cranes groan amidst plumes of burnt fumes.

Ruud calls slow. A slimy daisy chain of barnacles and seaweed scrape the hull, and with a final winding twang, the iron cord broaches the deck, the skewered boxes hanging as a hideous necklace. Water spews from the canisters. Felix slips a crow bar beneath a lip, but the lid holds fast until extra weight and precise leverage snap the brittle metal grip.

I imagine a gold ingot the size of a house brick, but these, each stamped with a Swastika, are as thick as a cigarette packet, and the length of my outstretched hand. Stacked atop one another, lay glistening precise weights of North African gold, stolen from Moroccan princes and Casablanca merchants.

Uncounted places of worship crumbled to dust in the search for this treasure. Countless rings pulled from women's fingers, and gold teeth prised from the jaws of the living and the dead. How can I reconcile the gleaming shapes, as the substance so desired by Midas, for until this moment, my parents' wedding bands comprised the largest quantity of gold I had seen.

Tunisian Smiths skilled in the design of Damask filigree melted the bullion in crucibles that burnt night and day among the city's alleys. Then with a gun at their head, and in a blast of heat, they wove the alchemist's spell of transmutation into the hard currency of industrial murder.

The salvagers lever each bar, and stack them one by one onto stout, wooden pallets. A derrick lifts each canvas-covered platform, cunningly disguised beneath piles of ships' stores, and lowers it into the dark, cargo hold.

A distant ship's bell tolls three chimes of afternoon. Rising anchor chains clatter bow and stern, and as the engines hum, our ship traces a full circle to the start of its foaming wake at the mouth of the Gulf of Ajaccio. From here, beckoning sea-lanes flow east toward Palestine and the silhouette of the black ship with its dragoon of escorts, reappears in the afternoon haze.

'Time to leave,' Felix says, his straining forearm bulge from the weight of two gold bars tucked inside a duffel bag.

'These belong to you, but difficult to swim with them, yes?'

Felix points to the sea. For an instant, I wonder whatever was he thinking, and then in a romantic vision, Mian and I climb aboard Arturo's small boat, and row ashore. The fantasy vanishes as Felix approaches, and hands me the bag. I step aside, swaying from the weight of the sack, and the roll of the ship.

'If gold is a profit of war, then war is the victory of chaos. Do you swim _Irsch_ , or do you sink,' Felix says, reaching out as if to pat my shoulder.

The railing bites into my back. I smell Felix's pungent breathe, and as I move from his grasp, I fall.

The bag slips from my hand. My lungs empty on the jolt. Consciousness diminishes. I am beyond sight and air. I sense time's dilation as death approaches. My heart beats faster. I crave breath. I see my mother's face, and watch an unknown dead sister brush strands of hair from mother's gossamer forehead. I hear an unseen animal yelp, 'you are drowning,' and I surface on its yammer. Air and water pour into my throat. I sink again. Eyelids tear eye sockets, and as light shimmers and dances, I breach a second time gulping as if a stranded fish.

Senses return, and I hear the churn of a ship's screw pulsing nearby. I bump an object, scrabble and grab a life buoy, but it flips over as if a carnival hula-hoop. I push my right arm into the opening, and my torso fills the torus. Then as I squeeze my left arm past my cheek, I sense buoyancy and begin to float.

Three skeletal people high on the black ship's deck, stare at me. A woman holds a hand against her mouth in shock, an older man shrugs with hopelessness, but a third man makes an exaggerated arc with a raised left arm, his repeated movements are a semaphore of survival. Right forearm, then left, touches the side of his head. Right, left, right, left, a mimicked act of swimming.

I had watched Mian stroke the fluid Australian crawl, a propelling rhythm of arms matched by a triplex of beating legs and feet. The diminishing man seems to copy her movements, and I begin to kick as she had, beating my hands in a tattoo, matching the tempo with my feet.

I kick and crawl, and crawl and kick, and as I sense propulsion, I slow to keep pace with dwindling reserves of energy.

Arturo, alone in the rowboat, pulls toward the shore, but he does not see me, and I, too weak, cannot call his name.

I see words on the stern of the black ship, above and horizontal with the Plimsoll line. And as a child learns to read, I spell out each letter... _Haganah SS Exodus 1947_... and kick and swim, and swim and kick.

Notes:  
On May 14 1948, David Ben-Gurion proclaimed the State of Israel. In the same year, the Irish Taoiseach John Costello, announced Ireland would become a Republic. The author acknowledges the literary legacy of John Godley, formerly Lord Kilbracken of Kilegar House, Carrigallen, County Leitrim. John Godley renounced his peerage because of the Bloody Sunday massacre of 1972. While this story is fiction, a chapter in John Godley's novel Living like a Lord inspired Rommel's Gold.
Friday 25 April 2014

Artificial Sun

Robert Chancer

Petrie, QLD

Apocalyptic cold collision.

Smoke does rise, obscured vision.

Waves of terror, searing pain.

Vaporising heart and brain.

Rift is torn 'tween mind and soul.

Cling to that which life does hold.

Losing self and world as one, in the artificial sun.

Time is stopped then speeded up.

Man has drunk the end-times cup.

Lost within heavenly blaze.

Humanity lost, it now will fade.

Silence now in vacuumed space.

Human kind is now erased.
Friday 25 April 2014

Disintegrate

Arthur Derek

Bridgeman Downs, QLD

I feel everything disappear, including my hate

Slowly my body fails, beginning to disintegrate

Skin turns to dust, dust burns to ash

Still my heart is beating, it shall die last

Body burning naked, blood turns into mist

My soul to wander, mankind's eternal abyss

With a voice now like silence, a form that's to fade

Memories of sisters, mother and father, become now unmade

Bones shatter fierce, pierce away from form

My essence begot me, now is forlorn

Unlike life aside from me, returned to before

My body now broken, lost inside this moor

Casting aside life, remember my fate

No part of me remains, form left to disintegrate
Saturday 26 April 2014

Xing Saga Part 12 - Dog

Jane Russell

Mount Barker, SA

In which we meet the new addition to Xing Town - Dog

'Garn, get in the car you bleeding mongrel!' growled the hairy one, menacingly. Dodging his boot as it swung towards my bottom, I jumped into the back of the car. There was a wire grill separating me from the men's part, and I was glad of it. Hairy slammed the door shut on me, then he and the other one, who had a shiny head, got into the front seat and the car screeched out of the driveway, the back swinging madly. I crouched low to maintain my balance but was still buffeted from side to side.

I was afraid. Both men had been arguing and looking at me as though it was my fault. I tried to be good, I really did, but nothing pleased them. As we drove along they switched on the loud music with the booming beat, and I suffered in silence.

'Pull over, here!' shouted baldy, and the car jerked to a stop, flinging me into the side and banging my head. As I got up the back door opened and an unfriendly hand reached in, grabbed me by the collar and wrenched me out of the car. As I stood confused on the side of the road, hairy's boot caught me unawares and I flew headfirst into a ditch as the car sped away once more, showering me in gravel.

If I'd been really attached to one or the other of the men, I'd have walked all the way home again, but frankly I was glad to be shot of them. I sniffed the air, feeling truly free for the first time in my short life. Then, despite my bruised behind, I gambolled like a puppy through the long grass and rolled on my back, covering myself with the delicious smells of old cow pats and wild flowers.

Much later when my stomach reminded me I was hungry I followed a promising scent towards a small settlement in the woods. Odd-shaped children came to look at me. I sniffed at them and they sniffed me back. This was new. I whined a little to say I was hungry and a spikey-headed boy picked me up.

'Hello furry thing, what's your name? I'm Polly,' he said.

'I'm a dog, not a furry thing, and I don't think I have a name,' I whined and whuffled.

'Dog, eh? We'll call you "Dog" then,' he replied. That was new too. Most men had no clue what I was saying to them. I repeated that I needed to eat lots of meat as I was very hungry, and Polly told me not to worry, that he'd sort out something. I licked his face, it tasted different to the salty skin of men, it had a metallic tang, but it was nice. Polly took me to his home and carried me straight inside.

'Look Mum, this is Dog. He's hungry. Where can we get him some meat?' he said to a large, angular dark being, wearing a white apron. She came to inspect me and patted my head.

'Best if we get some dog food from the shop, dear,' she advised. So I played with the children while she went out, and before long she returned with all sorts of things, most of which were for me. I had my own dog bowl, new collar, leash, biscuits, treats and most of all, lots of cans of dog food. I was fed straight away and couldn't help my enthusiasm, devouring the meal in seconds. I had another bowl with pure water to drink, and a dog bed (the first I'd ever had) in the laundry. I couldn't believe my luck.

For the first few days I thought I was in Heaven. Then I met the grumpy one, BodWilf he was called. He was silver with dark bits here and there, and was trailed by a hooded grey being he called 'Grey' but who was really called Cobweb. He didn't like me on principle, so I kept out of his way. I reckoned that a kick from his heavy boot would probably kill me.

'He's not so bad, really,' assured Cobweb, 'you just have to get to know him.' She was visiting on her own and was quite happy to chat to a dog. 'I wonder if you wouldn't mind letting me take one of these cans of meat? He does miss eating so, and I think it might improve his mood.'

'Be my guest,' I said. I had a feeling that Polly's mum would buy some more. What strange creatures they must be, I thought, to eat dog food, of course to me it tasted pretty good, but usually men wouldn't touch it. Eventually I realised that only the children ate anything at all, and their meals tended to resemble the sort of spare parts one would find in a car mechanic's workshop. My curiosity grew about the strange grumpy being who preferred dog food.

I crept up to his hut, keeping out of sight and downwind. Cobweb was scraping out a can of LuckyDog onto a plate while BodWilf sat with a knife and fork in his hands. He tucked into the feast with obvious pleasure, with what could almost be called a smile on his face. Cobweb then served a plate of assorted car parts, and his face soured.

'Go on, you know you have to for baby's sake,' she admonished, and with bad grace he chomped at the metal pieces. Cobweb glanced my way, she must have smelt me. I slunk away. So that's why that grumpy one smelt different to the others. I thought it was a bit odd that a male creature could be pregnant, but then all these creatures were strange--what was one more oddity?

That night, while I was patrolling the perimeter and chasing off the occasional cat or badger, I heard less than stealthy footsteps approaching the town. I got down on my belly, crawling towards the sound. It was men, three of them, and they had no business being there. They were whispering to each other:

'You go round the back, Fred. Wait for our signal.'

'What signal was that?' Fred asked, to be answered by a sigh of exasperation from the boss.

'I'll blow a whistle,' said the boss, showing Fred the item in question. 'Okay?'

'What about me?' interjected Tommy in a rather loud whisper. 'What do I do?'

'You can carry the cans of petrol.'

At this moment, I got a whiff of the smelly stuff. I'd seen what it could do when I lived with the cruel men. If they put it into a car, that was all right, but when they tipped it out over their junk, they made a huge fire with it. These men were going to burn Xing Town!

Without thinking I launched myself at the three intruders, barking and snarling fiercely. I locked my teeth into Fred's bottom and he yelled. Tommy was yelling too, and I hadn't bitten him yet. The boss was swearing and trying to kick me. Then all the lights came on and Xing folk came out to see what all the noise was.

'Let's go, now!' growled the boss, pulling Tommy away. Tommy was terrified and had dropped the petrol cans. He'd also wet himself from the smell of him.

'What's going on here?' called Oggie and stepped forward. 'Ah, the UFOlogists again. How can we help you?'

'Our car ran out of petrol and we were just taking these cans of petrol back to it when we got lost in the woods,' blustered the boss. 'Call off your dog, this is assault!'

'It certainly is. Shall we call the police to sort it out?' offered Oggie.

Tommy was beside himself with fear. He wanted me to stop. He grabbed the whistle from the boss's pocket and blew hard. In response, Fred, despite having a dog attached to his behind, swung into action. He drew out a taser and fired it at the first figure he could see. It would have hit Oggie, but I swung Fred around so his aim was off. Tommy copped it full in the chest, convulsed feebly and collapsed. The boss looked appalled at the shambles this was turning into.

'What the Hell did you do that for, you idiot?' he yelled at Fred.

'You made the signal. I was only doing what you told me to.'

'The man's a half-wit, he's raving. Of course I didn't tell him to do any such thing,' gabbled the boss, desperately.

Unnoticed, I'd let go of Fred and was circling around behind the boss. As I thought he would, he turned to run away, but stopped short at the sight of my bared teeth.

The police arrived and failed to fall for the boss's excuses, or his attempts to shift the blame on the Xing people. All three UFOlogists were taken away, as were the taser and the cans of petrol as evidence.

'Well done, Dog,' said Oggie, bending to pat my head gently. 'I hope you decide to stay with us. You're an asset to Xing Town.'

My heart swelled with pride as I woofed my agreement, licking Oggie's hand. I'd found a home at last.
Sunday 27 April 2014

Backyard Morning

Samantha Elliott-Halls

Campbelltown, NSW

Birds in the air

Just don't care

The tinkering sounds

Of chimes

The sigh of the wind

Rustling leaves

Buzzing bees

There's a few of these

Plant leaves

Like tendrils lift

To greet the sun

Frost is gone

Warming has begun

Flowers open

Petals unfurling

Greeting dawn

Early morning

Seeking warmth

From the sun

Clouds swim by

Weaving across the sky

Insects humming

Lizards sunning

Woken

From their winter sleep

Timbers creak

Gathering heat

Clothes

On the clothesline flapping

Magpies hunting

Amongst on the lawn

Looking for something

On this early morn

Cat stretches

Languidly, lazy

Effortless

Dogs lift their heads

From their doze

Steam rises

Too hot to sip

Just got up

To this early heat

This backyard play

Always amazing

One to be seen

Nothing to pay
Sunday 27 April 2014

Lady In Red

Jean Bundesen

Woodford, NSW

She's a beautiful young lady

Dressed in brilliant red

Her sisters are the same

Growing in rows.

They have graced the fields of Flanders

Strewn on the streets

Of London to mark the end of war

And now

They are blowing in the wind.
Monday 28 April 2014

Learning To Fly

Kylie Abecca

Port Albany, WA

An open mind, a guarded wall,

Do not allow emotions to fall,

That bright smile to hide all the pain,

Only cry whilst in the rain,

Say the right words, but don't let them in,

Be sure you're alone to face the demons within,

Allow yourself time, be true to you,

Don't press on when you know you're through,

It may take a while, it won't happen today,

But soon you will see, there's a better way,

Trust in yourself, don't fear your reflection,

Don't be afraid to try a new direction,

Happiness is not about hiding the past,

It's accepting today and making it last,

You should not fear who you have become,

Have pride in yourself for all you have done,

Stand tall and be proud to be who you are,

Release your fears and brighten your star.
Tuesday 29 April 2014

B-Grade Blues

Greg Parker

Orange, NSW

Some things are too remote

Some things are too far above

If your love be a pinnacle

Then I have slid from its plinth

And if your love be a miracle

It's been bent through a prism

And missed me by an inch

You are a monster

You don't have horns or fins or scales

Your claws don't tear my flesh

You're just a rubber B-Grade monster, baby

You're so low budget and brash

And I used to love watching you after midnight

In all that boozy monochrome

The lights were dim

The smoke was thin...

And we were all alone

But something came unstuck

Something went awry

And it turned out to be my last trump

Thinking I had you in my spotlight

When it was really you who had me in your swamp

Yeah, down deep in that swamp, baby

Didn't we have ourselves a time

Living in our little love shack

You broke my back...

Ah, but you could not break my spine

You are a monster

You don't have horns or fins or scales

Your claws can't rip out my heart

You're just a rubber B-Grade monster, baby

And I should have known it from the start!
Wednesday 30 April 2014

Tomorrow...

Toni Paton

Blackheath, NSW

'Can we please skip today?' Bella asked her mum Veronica. 'I love skipping!' holding hands they decided to follow a winding track through the bush, which would lead them to a picturesque picnic ground.

'Yes, if you are careful you can skip and I will race you there,' mum replied. It was a glorious day for an outing.

The sun peeping through the trees cast an interesting dappled pattern across the path and on the ground. Bella's free will and imagination ensured many questions were asked, resulting in funny interpretations and stories.

Down the track they sighted a pond and hurried toward it. Swans and ducks glided serenely on the water's smooth surface. Captivated, they reached the surrounding bank and stood silently, taken in by its tranquil beauty.

'Mummy, I think it is raining, I can see splashes on the water.' Veronica jumped, shaken from deep thoughts, and realised the splashes were, in fact, her tears, falling freely.

Bella was quite unaware of her mother's pain. Their walk was Veronica's way of leaving home for a short while, where she hoped to clear her mind, away from surrounding memories. Sadly this was not easy, yet Bella's fresh happy mood was indeed precious to Veronica's soul.

When her mother didn't reply Bella looked up and saw Veronica's tears. 'Why are you crying mummy, why are you sad?'

Veronica took a deep breath and looking at her daughter replied, 'I am thinking about many things and some make me feel sad. You bring me much joy Bella, and I am very happy being with you. Let's go and sit on that rock over there and enjoy our picnic lunch.'

The next two hours passed pleasantly, Veronica concentrating on making sure their day was a memorable one.

Skipping home along the track, Bella's spirits were high but Veronica's heart grew heavier with each step.

'Wow,' Bella cried, 'doesn't our house look pretty and beautiful with the sun shining on it?'

'Yes my darling, it surely does.'

Veronica had not revealed to her daughter that tomorrow they had to leave this home and that their lives would be changed forever.

The tears that fell upon the pond,

Were tears of fear and pain.

Until her sadness disappeared,

Her tears would fall again.
Thursday 1 May 2014

Just Because

JH Mancy

Tallebudgera, QLD

Even though I am getting older

Be it said I still need a shoulder

Someone to listen and to share;

To really listen, show they care

To listen well we have two ears--

Eyes, the windows shed salt tears;

raining misty, or summer fast...

Surely this storm will quickly pass?

No! In its wake lies desecration--

Tears of mankind, tears of nation!

I grieve not just for lives now past;

I long for peace, such mighty task!

The news reports are so full of woe--

A constant reminder--ebb and flow

The tides wash up upon the sand;

Destroy hopes and dreams of man

Waves wash up pollution's slaughter

Goliaths of the sea dead in the water

Whenever will this destruction ease;

pray that it be whilst we still breath!

Heaven, it will be right here on earth

if we but contain this wretched curse

We and we alone must accept blame;

near extinguishment of bright flame

Too late, too late, the prophets cry,

Just a mite too late for you and for I;

Is there still a glimmer for us to see...

Oh dear earth, how I grieve for thee!
Friday 2 May 2014

Just A Tick!

Robertas

Drummoyne, NSW

Hang on!

Just a tick!

That's all I ask before you go.

You've read the piece

and I would dearly love to know

the view you've formed.

So just tick in the box below,

you've five to choose from.

And if none fits,

perhaps a succinct word or two

to guide and encourage me.

For I'm merely wasting ink

if you won't tell me what you think.
Friday 2 May 2014

War In A Forgotten Meadow

Madeline Ross

Winmalee, NSW

Silence echoes in a grassy meadow.

The shadows creep,

Where weeping willows lie,

Crying and wilting,

Roots buried in blood-soaked soils;

Remembering the age-old war,

Where men had fallen,

With hopes of brighter futures;

No bloodshed, no hatred,

Worlds without carnage and gore,

Of a long held grudge,

Forced down onto generations;

Told to die to avenge their elders,

Told that death in war is noble;

Told honour and glory lies

In sanctum halls of forgotten heroes.

The young orphans weep,

Lost mothers look to heaven,

Questioning war, pain, and religion;

The heavens return no wisdom.

The still, battle-torn corpses lie,

In overgrown fields where willows sigh;

Life blooms in flowers sprouting above,

Leaving little trace of the bloodshed beneath them.
Saturday 3 May 2014

Harassment Blues

David Anderson

Woodford, NSW

'You don't look happy. What's up?'

'I've had a shit of a day. As soon as I walked out the gate for my early morning jog, some mongrel in a car driving past yelled out that they'd like to feel my arse.'

'Bastard.'

'Yeh. It gets worse. I came home and got changed and caught the bus. This prick beside me kept running their finger up my leg and into my crotch.'

'I can't believe it. What did you do?'

'Just gave them an elbow in the ribs. How was your day?'

'Well, I got to that meeting on time and I was the last into the room. There wasn't any seats left and as I looked around, some jerk said that I was welcome to sit on their knee.'

'Unbelievable! What did your boss say?'

'It was my boss.'

'I don't think things will ever change. Even the white goods store idiot yesterday asked if I wanted them to carry my new microwave out to the car.'

'You? You could probably carry them out to the car, the way you work out at the gym.'

'The gym? Another sexist place. I'm sick of some muscle bound dumb arse asking if I need a hand loading up my dumb bells.'

'Hey! Can we have another couple of drinks over here? Yes, two vodka Cruisers please. Make them Raspberry. And don't call me sweetie thanks!'

'You get that here all the tim ... hey! ... Leave my arse alone!'

'I thought that cheeky bugger tickled your bum when they went past. Let's leave here after the drinks. I've got to get home soon, as the other half will have dinner ready. Here's the drinks.'

'Oh thanks. Keep the change. Did you see that? Blew me a bloody kiss. As if I go for something like that. Well Dennis, here's to you. Best of luck in the new job.'

'Cheers. By the way John, can you make it to the darts match tomorrow night?'

'Sure thing Dennis me boy--sure thing. It might make us forget all the bloody harassment we've had from all these sheilas the last few days.'
Sunday 4 May 2014

The Glass Eye Of The Beast

Winsome Smith

South Bowenfels, NSW

This letter, faded but still legible, has been in the McAndrew family for several generations. The envelope bears an Australian address but carries an English postage stamp.

Dear Cousin Lucy,

It is with great sorrow that I write to tell you of the sad passing of my father, your Uncle Frederick.

Out there in India, as you know, we British loved to hunt. You will have received several photographs of hunters posing with their kill, usually tigers. There is one photograph of several British hunters with an enormous elephant.

The walls of my dear father's study were adorned with these photographs and other mementos of hunting trips. Dear Father was a proud man, who did his job of training Civil Servants with skill and devotion.

Last year he took a party of British friends on a hunting trip that lasted for a few days. Father was so proud of the kill he brought home, a large tiger, beautifully striped and at the peak of its adult life.

Sometimes I felt pity for those majestic animals hunted and killed. I know my view was not a popular one. Such beasts can be a great danger, they are man-killers. I often heard that the hard-working British officials in India need recreation and exercise so I mostly kept my opinion to myself.

Father took the tiger to the taxidermist, who does a very profitable business out there, and got him to make a rug for our parlour. I must say, dear Lucy, that the taxidermist did an excellent job. The massive beast made a splendid rug, a real talking point when we held cocktail parties and receptions. That beautiful fur was symmetrically striped in those shades of yellow, gold and black. I must say again the tiger is a splendid beast. For eyes the taxidermist had placed two bright yellow glass marbles.

Strangely, at one of our cocktail parties, one lady said to me, 'Those eyes, they make me shudder. They are so menacing.'

I reassured her by reminding her that they were only glass.

Whenever visitors and officials came to the compound Father would say, 'You must see my tiger,' and take them straight to the parlour.

As you know, father was a prodigious worker and I often felt that he worked too hard in that unrelenting heat. He began acting in odd ways, and I suspected it was overwork. He sometimes remarked that the tiger's eyes seemed to be staring. Being practical and sensible, I scoffed at the idea but Father said it several times.

One morning the cleaner must have placed the rug in a different position and Father kicked at the rug several times to move it.

That night Father took ill. I got up and found him striding about the house, obviously with a high fever. I persuaded him to go back to bed but in the morning he had worsened.

I sent a servant to fetch the doctor but knew the British Army doctor would take days to get there. I did my best, sponging Father and giving him drinks. What an anxious day it was. Outside the house the brain-fever bird kept up its monotonous shrill cry until I wished we could block our ears. Towards the end of the day, Father began to cry out, 'The eyes! The eyes! They follow me everywhere.' Sadly I felt that his brain was affected.

Oh dear Lucy, they were terrible days. As Father grew more feverish and delirious the servants began to leave. When I asked why they told me in Urdu that they feared my father was mad and that they would not stay in a house with madness.

Can you imagine! I was forced to do household tasks! I tried to care for Father as day and night his fever worsened and he was terrified that the yellow glass eyes were haunting him. To ease his mind, I ventured into the parlour and dragged that rug out to the verandah where we could not see it. With the heat, the brain-fever bird, no servants and Father so ill, I became exhausted. One afternoon as I left Father's room I felt waves of blackness come over me and my legs would no longer hold me up. All became black.

It was hours later when I woke up to see the grey dawn sky outside the window. There was a gentleness and coolness in the air, typical of the early dawn in India. I staggered to my feet, noticing that as I had collapsed I had not closed any of the doors. Of course there were no servants to look after such matters.

Oh dear Lucy, I can hardly describe it. I entered Father's room and found his dear body covered with deep scratches. His bed was soaked in blood which had drained away and taken his life. At that moment the army doctor arrived, but nothing could be done. Father was gone.

I rushed to the verandah and found the tiger rug in an entirely different position from that in which I lad left it. Those yellow glass eyes were still staring and even I began to fear them. With courage that comes with grief and terror I dragged the rug and threw it into the back of the doctor's dray. The head hung over the side and those eyes still stared. I ran back into the house, crying to the doctor, 'Take that tiger thing when you go. Dump it anywhere.'

Now back here in peaceful Berkshire I can at last write these letters. The sun shines gently in the spring and birds sing cheerfully in the trees. I have one or two good friends. Life in England is pleasant, but, dear Lucy, never will I forget the glass eyes of the beast.

Your loving cousin,

Edwina.
Monday 5 May 2014

Psycho Bubble 1, Psycho Bubble 2

Susan Kay

Bellevue Heights, SA

Psycho Bubble 1

I'm going shopping. I have to. I need a new pair of jeans. Well I don't really, but I could use some just a slightly darker shade of blue than the 15 pairs I already have. You may think that's a lot of pairs of jeans. But you must understand my lifestyle and the pressures on me. My friends will think I'm a tightwad if they see me in the same thing twice, or if something doesn't quite match.

Case in point. I've got blue shoes. I've got lots of shoes, and boots for that matter. Ninety-five pairs at last count. That's boots and shoes combined, I'm not greedy. But none of them go with the jeans in my wardrobe. It's frustrating. I hate shopping for clothes.

Psycho Bubble 2

Can they walk any slower? There is no gap for passing. They're at their phones, tap tap, pause, squeal. The group swells and sways, like starlings they group and regroup, self-absorbed with no apparent locus of control, or is that locust in control? Nevertheless they manage to cut off access to whatever is beyond.

Two break away, stay behind for a minute, collude over a phone, drop hysterical into each other's arms. In with a chance, I make my move. Not quick enough. Two boys drop back, join hands with the girls, there is no escape.

Into a shop, brief respite until the insidious bap bap bap of rap music exchanges one form of torture for another. Out, out, I'm going nuts. I find the entrance, escape back into the slipstream of peak hour shoppers. Adolescent giggles leak back to me like a fart. I make a break for the escalator. Coffee, three aspirin, what did I come here for?

Eventually I find my car, ticket protruding from the wiper. Through the window, my shopping list taunts me from the dashboard. I can't find my keys.
Tuesday 6 May 2014

Thanks For Asking

Garry Harris

Bellevue Heights, SA

From: Garry Harris

To: Susan

Sent: Monday, August 01, 2011 8:35 PM

Subject: TELL ME HOW IT ALL WENT!!!

Well,

Thanks for asking.

The first issue was that the toilet was 'Hard' connected using solid water pipe, so I had a difficult job disconnecting the toilet.

I needed to buy a flexible (braided stainless steel) pipe so I immediately jumped into the car and drove to Mitre Ten but they had just closed (5.00 pm). Undaunted I drove on to Bunnings but they had just closed (5.30 pm).

Next morning ventured out again for 'Round 2', after the hardware stores had opened. I bought a flexible pipe just the exact length I required and proceeded on to Mother's (again).

I installed the bidet, but when I went to connect it I found the toilet was right-handed but the bidet was left-handed. The pipe supplied for the Bidet was just a fraction too short. If I had bought a longer pipe this would not have been an issue.

I debated with myself about returning the pipe and buying a longer one but I lost this argument.

So, instead, I dismantled the bidet and reversed all the plumbing connections--against the written instruction--and was just able to reconnect it.

I turned it on but nothing happened.

I checked the instructions. (I must have been desperate). Where is the remote control?

'I thought you had it,' etc. We searched everywhere. Through the packaging, on the floor, under the massage table, in the spa etc.

So that's it, there is nothing I could do without the remote control. Just as I was leaving, and walking to the car in the driveway, I thought I should check the rubbish (recycled of course).

There it was, a white remote in the white polystyrene padding.

The bidet beeped now but still did not work. Ah! The water pipe was twisted. I disconnected all the plumbing connections and carefully reconnected everything--again!

Still the bidet did not turn on. I rechecked the connections and the power but the bidet would not turn on.

As a last resort (the morning had now gone), I decided to re-read the manual cover-to-cover. I was tired and my back ached from bending in awkward positions, so I sat down. Whoosh, the bidet turned itself on and my trousers were soaked in the area of my private parts.

DING DONG, who is that at the front door? The Census lady delivering the census forms.

I think somehow this is probably one census form she will not come back to collect! 
Wednesday 7 and Thursday 8 May 2014

Exposed

Gareth Johnny P Williams

Rouse Hill, NSW

This is a follow up to 'X' published on narratorAUSTRALIA 23 March and 24 March 2014

'A sceptic, a paranoid schizophrenic and a religious nut walk into a strip club ...'

'Fuck you, Gracey.'

'Yeah, we've heard this one.'

'And how is my gleesome threesome?' Gracey asks as he slides in between three glamorous strippers in a plush booth. A topless waitress places a bottle of beer in front of him with a wink.

'Slut,' one of the strippers murmurs with a sly smile as she gently slaps the waitress on the backside.

'I see you're all taking a brief respite. And what better way to spend it than arguing. Let me guess the nature of this intense debate,' Gracey begins. 'You're blaming the imminent collapse of society on hysterical survivalists,' he says, pointing at the first stripper. 'You believe a bunch of latex clad super villains are about to blow down the wall and elaborately kill us all,' he points to the next. 'And you,' Gracey says pointing to the third. 'You wanna burn them all to prove they're just witches?'

'Huh, you know us so well.'

'Yeah, well I won't know you for much longer,' Gracey replies as he takes a sip of his beer.

'Ah, yeah, we've heard you been fraternising with the competition,' one of the strippers jumps in.

'What's wrong, we're not enough for you?' another says as she pushes her breasts up with her upper arms, feigning sadness.

'There's plenty of me to go round,' Gracey says, grinning.

'I'll say,' the third stripper says as she runs her hand up his inner thigh and softly kisses his neck.

'But you won't find me in another club. I'm skipping town entirely,' Gracey continues, ignoring the stripper's affections.

'So soon?'

Gracey stares vacantly across the room and takes a long swig of beer before continuing.

'I have a rendezvous with an important client,' Gracey responds indifferently, his attention focused elsewhere.

His entourage press him no further. The group falls silent.

'New watch?' one of the strippers inquires.

'Sorry?' Gracey responds, distracted. 'The watch. Yeah, no, umm yeah. I've had it for a couple of weeks now.'

'Not really your style,' another of the strippers jests.

'Yeah, no, it's shit,' Gracey agrees without really engaging the strippers. 'Is she new?' he asks, changing the subject. Gracey nods towards a group gathered around a young stripper in the far corner of the room.

'Makiyah, yeah, she's new to town. She was in some other line of work, sacked for being a misery guts from what I've heard. She came begging for a job.'

Gracey observes the despondent young stripper as an intoxicated group of men harass her. 'What, the no-touching policy isn't in effect tonight?' he smirks.

'Doesn't apply to Makiyah. They say her brother was responsible for that pirate raid up the coast last month. Moron led them straight to the district's supply of emergency rations. He's gone now.'

'And she'll take whatever work she can get,' the second stripper adds.

'Pirates,' Gracey laughs to himself, his eyes still focused on the stripper. 'Excuse me,' Gracey says pulling himself from the booth. He flicks lengths of hair over his shoulder and steps up to his full height as he approaches Makiyah on the small stage. The men around her take notice of Gracey and hastily choose this moment to lean back away from the stage, have a drink and order top ups.

Gracey slowly looks Makiyah up and down. The smooth mahogany skin of her thighs is punctuated by deep purple bruises. The skin of her wrists is raw. Gracey reaches out his hands and gently takes hold of her forearms. Their eyes meet. Gracey runs one hand up her arm and down her alluringly curvaceous body. He slides a handful of cash into the waistband of her underwear.

She awkwardly pulls her other hand free and folds her arms in front of her bare chest as she retreats backstage. She glances over her shoulder at Gracey one last time before disappearing behind the curtain. Gracey turns back to face his entourage. He kisses the index and middle fingers of his right hand, makes the sign of the holy trinity and offers them one last smile before departing.

Makiyah hastens past the other girls backstage and enters the shared dressing room. She dashes into the shower and ducks her head under the stream of water. As she slides her underwear off the cash from Gracey drops to the shower floor with a splash. Reaching down to pick it up, Makiyah sees Gracey has left her an excessive amount of cash. She dashes out of the shower, dripping wet and stashes the cash with her belongings before returning to the warmth of the running water. She begins furiously scrubbing her body.

Gracey shakes hands and shares a quick laugh with two of the bouncers as he heads out the door. A third bouncer, sullen and stony faced, stands tall with his overinflated arms folded across his over inflated pecs. His eyes track Gracey's movement towards the door. Gracey irreverently mimes a tip of the hat as he passes the hostile bouncer.

Gracey ascends a small flight of stairs and emerges on street level as the sun dips down over the horizon. The sky is illuminated red in the waning light.

'Red sky at night ...' Gracey says to himself, grinning.

An eerily warm breeze washes over Gracey, carrying with it the distant sounds of sporadic gunfire and unrelenting sirens. Gracey plunges his hands into his pockets and makes his way up the street, carefully navigating his way through a scattering of debris and litter. The street is alive with desperate people bartering in the dying light, ad hoc sentries changing shifts and blissfully ignorant children wreaking superficial havoc.

Gracey smiles warmly at everyone he passes. Just as a street vendor comes out from behind his stall to gift Gracey with a warm cup of soup, a group of teenagers approach. One of the teens throws simulated body blows at Gracey who strives to prevent his soup from spilling. The teen bringing up the rear leans in and whispers briefly in Gracey's ear. Gracey nods once in acknowledgment and passes the youth a roll of cash with his free hand before slipping off his watch and handing it to the youth with a wink.

Gracey continues on his way but, as he passes the very next intersection, a silver haired man casually steps out in front of him, lighting a joint. He inhales deeply and exhales in Gracey's face. Gracey is suddenly rushed from behind by a wiry, haggard looking man. His soup covers the silver haired man as the wiry guy wrestles him to the ground.

'Fuck!' the silver haired man exclaims exasperated. 'Clumsy motherfucker,' he kicks the wiry guy. 'Make it quick.' He flicks in vain at the soup on his coat.

'Where is it?!' the wiry man yells in Gracey's ear.

'What?' Gracey responds.

'Where is it?!' he yells again, much louder this time. The man pins Gracey to the ground with remarkable force, pressing his forearm firmly into his throat.

'I'm sorry, you'll have to speak up,' comes Gracey's choked reply. 'I appear to be going deaf.'

The wiry man releases Gracey, pulls him to his knees and tears his coat off. He then aggressively pulls back Gracey's sleeve exposing his bare wrist.

'Careful ... satin,' Gracey says, catching his breath. 'Nothing but the finest ... ' Coughing, Gracey steadily picks himself up off the ground. The silver haired man approaches and hands the joint to his wiry colleague.

'He doesn't have it,' the silver haired man says calmly. 'I'm not saying he didn't steal it. But it's clearly not on him now, and we've work to do.'

'That was all I had, Ljuban,' the wiry man says, pacing back and forth in frustration. 'I was going to pass it on to my son.'

'You kill him now and you'll be next,' Ljuban reasons. 'Briar, play this one with your head, not your heart.'

Briar continues to pace, taking drag after drag.

'So, are you going to give me a puff?' Gracey asks as he pulls his coat back on. Briar glares at him as he paces.

'You ain't putting a thing of mine near your mouth,' Briar says through clenched teeth.

'What have you got for us, Gracey?' Ljuban ignores their exchange.

'A hard on. No one's ever held me like that before,' Gracey runs his hand through his tangle of long brown hair.

'You're not fooling anyone, spending all your time and our money in those strip joints,' says Briar.

'We cannot miss our rendezvous,' Ljuban interjects. 'And we're not leaving this city empty handed, so cut the freewheeling bullshit, Gracey. Find their supply stash!'

Ljuban and Briar push past Gracey. There is hardly any distance between them when their phones chime simultaneously.

'Execution order ...' reads Ljuban in disbelief.

'You're not listening to me Jun! I saw one! It was right there ... and then it wasn't. These things, they are fucking real! They're something else ... '

'Hyeon, the other recons will be all over us any minute now. What have you done?! Tell me everything.'

'I was casing the cop shop, Jun. I've been there all week. Seems the obvious place to store the district's emergency supplies, huh? But he, it, seongjeog dochagja, whatever it was, obviously followed the same line of thought,' Hyeon pauses to peer through the blinds at the street below.

'So what, then? Why the execution order against you?' Jun presses. Hyeon looks back, the blood suddenly drained from his face.

'Jun, it was ... I saw it come in. It was shimmering, fuzzy. It moved so fast, like there was more than one. It tore the place apart. Thirteen dead! Butchered! Some chick cop winged it. And then it was gone.'

'So, no supplies ...' Jun mutters to himself.

'Jun, we're meant to hook up with one of these things and ferry it round at its leisure. Men bung, bad fucking idea!'

Gracey leads Ljuban and Briar up the side of the building. He quietly props a window open and waves Ljuban and Briar through.

'Shh!' Gracey reminds them as he, too, steps inside. Hyeon and Jun can be heard arguing across the landing. Briar nods affirmatively at Ljuban upon recognising the voices but Gracey blocks his path to the landing.

'Wait,' Gracey says in a hushed tone. Briar ignores Gracey and moves for the door but Ljuban quickly seizes him by the shoulder.

'You must come with me, nam dong saeng,' Hyeon places his hands on Jun's shoulders. 'I've made a contact in the force - the chick who winged that thing at Police HQ. I'm on my way to see her now. I only came back for you.'

Jun backs away from Hyeon, shaking his head, eyes turned to the floor.

'Hyeon, we can't leave. They will hunt us down.'

'No, no. We betray the others to the authorities, we'll tell them everything. The whole operation will be brought to its knees. We'll be safe. Hell, we'll probably be rewarded!'

'It's too late ... ' Jun replies, backing towards the door. 'They're probably here already.'

'We can stop them. We'll fight our way out, huh?' Hyeon moves to pick up his handgun, his head turning swiftly left and right as he scans the room for it.

Jun holds Hyeon's pistol in both hands, observing it closely.

'Jun?'

Jun ignores Hyeon's hushed plea.

'Jun Seo? Brother? Please!'

Jun gently caresses the gleaming handgun with his thumb. He does not meet Hyeon's eyes.

'Please ...' Hyeon whispers.

'Cho Hyeon Woo!' an authoritative voice calls.

A host of armed reconnaissance scouts simultaneously step onto the landing from the adjoining rooms. More make their way up the stairs. Ljuban and Briar cock their weapons and join their fellow recons. Gracey keeps his hands in his pockets and watches as Hyeon collapses back onto an old dirty mattress, defeated.

'We must obey The Captain,' Jun mumbles at the floor. He turns his back on Hyeon. 'We must obey The Captain!' he repeats at full volume.

'The Captain?' Hyeon says as he pulls a packet of cigarettes from his breast pocket. 'Some anonymous ssib saekki hiding under a blanket somewhere sending his commands.' Hyeon tosses his phone on the floor and places a cigarette between his lips. He then pats himself down in search of a lighter. 'Remember how we used to swim across the bay?' he directs his question towards Jun's turned back. 'We'd swim to the point and climb the oak trees. You were always too tired to swim back. But I was strong enough. Strong enough to swim us both back. I had to be.'

Gracey steps forward between his colleagues and tosses Hyeon a Zippo lighter. Hyeon nods in appreciation, his dark brown eyes filled with indescribable melancholy. He lights a cigarette as Jun walks away.

'Tell Mum I'm sorry, huh?' Hyeon calls out, nonchalantly. 'Sorry I couldn't save you this time. Na meon jeo gal kke, haeng syo.'

One of the men steps forward, pistol drawn. He aims the barrel at Hyeon's temple, point blank. Hyeon offers the man a cigarette as he takes one final drag from his own.

A solitary shot rings out.

The crowd of reconnaissance scouts quickly disperses. Gracey heads back down the fire escape on the building's exterior.

'Hey, this is my lighter! Gracey!' one of the scouts calls as Gracey makes his escape.

Gracey reaches the street as Jun steps out of the building. He casually falls into step with Jun, who makes his way through the labyrinth of backstreets.

'Man, The Captain can be a real Debbie Downer, hey?' Gracey says, slapping Jun on the back. As he wheels around, Gracey lifts Hyeon's handgun from Jun's trousers, unnoticed. Jun shoves Gracey repeatedly until his back is up against a splintered wooden fence. He points his finger at Gracey and holds it there a moment, quivering with rage. He says nothing, just glares furiously at Gracey before continuing on his way.

Gracey, now in possession of Hyeon's handgun, spins the pistol on his finger and mimes shooting Jun in the back, blowing invisible smoke at the end of the barrel. Gracey waves the gun at Jun as he storms off.

'Look, I'd love to stay and chat but those supplies aren't going to find themselves,' Gracey calls cheerily.

'Talk soon.'

Gracey sits staring out at the lights dancing on the rhythmically lapping water of the bay. He nurses a warm beer and watches the hotel patrons as they speak in hushed tones and maintain low profiles. The atmosphere in the bar is as tense as it is across the entire nation.

As if to illustrate the tension, the barman flinches at the sound of Gracey's phone. Gracey unlocks his phone and reads the message. He laughs quietly to himself.

'Too easy.'

Gracey pushes his beer away from him, picks up Hyeon's pistol off the bar and heads towards the elevators.

'All right, settle down.' Ljuban says calmly as Briar woops and cheers.

'He's mine, he's fucking mine!' Briar declares excitedly.

'Two execution orders in one day,' Ljuban mulls this over.

'Come on, I know where to find that thieving piece of shit!' Briar loads his handgun and hurries off, Ljuban close behind.

The hotel suite is relatively empty, the only remains are the bare necessities required to classify it as living quarters. The bleak emptiness is coupled with some superficial damage, fractured windows, stained carpet and a series of bloodied, fist sized holes in the wall.

Jun stands over the bathroom sink washing the blood from his knuckles. He dries his hands on a grimy towel and walks into the main living space. He discovers Hyeon's pistol, inexplicably positioned in the centre of a splintered coffee table.

Gracey steps forward dressed in a feminine pink robe and slippers.

Jun is momentarily stunned.

'Oh, I'm sorry. Were you gonna wear these?' Gracey asks running his hands down the terrycloth fabric of the robe.

Jun rushes for Hyeon's pistol then pauses. He picks it up slowly and confirms that it's empty. He puts the pistol down gently and menacingly unsheathes a knife from a strap on his thigh.

'Oh my,' Gracey says, dropping his robe. Underneath the robe, Gracey wears an assortment of firearms strapped to his body. 'The rest of your collection,' he casually draws a pistol and aims it at Jun as he reaches for some food nearby with his free hand. 'All right, Captain,' Gracey begins, mouth full of stale bread. 'We better get moving or we're going to miss the boat.'

Jun shoots a panicked look over to the bedside table then back at Gracey. Gracey puts down the sandwich, brushes the crumbs on his thigh and pulls a phone out of his pocket.

'I don't suppose you'll make this easy for me?' Gracey asks as he inspects Jun's phone. 'Getting past the lock screen is gonna take some doing.'

'Yeos meog eo,' Jun spits at Gracey.

'No? It's cool, I'll have plenty of time on the trip back.'

The sun begins to rise over a new day. Jun stares out into the breaking dawn as the waves slap the sides of the boat. Gracey reaches over and pulls Jun's gag off.

'You're going to shoot me and dump me at sea? Original.' Jun comments, sardonically.

Gracey smiles, 'Fitting for a seaman, don't you think?'

'Just shoot me,' Jun says, turning to face Gracey. 'Get it over with,' he casts his eyes back across the open expanse.

'Meh, I could use the company,' Gracey replies.

They continue along in relative silence, only the monotonous hum of the engine can be heard.

'You know, I'm not the first,' Jun says after a moment. He meets Gracey's eyes, 'The first Captain.'

'Oh, I'm sure,' Gracey replies. 'And I won't be the last.'

Silence again.

'Well we're here,' Gracey declares cheerily as he cuts the engine.

'What?'

Their boat approaches a small island that seemingly looms up out of nowhere. Jun looks back to the mainland. The lights of the coast are barely visible.

'What's this?' Jun says with some surprise, his eyes darting between the island and Gracey. 'You're not gonna kill me.' He states as a matter of fact.

Gracey helps Jun step down into the knee high water. Jun shuffles up the tiny beach. An esky lands beside him.

'Water,' Gracey explains.

'What are you playing at?' Jun asks.

Gracey throws Jun's knife in front of him and briefly scans the island.

'Here's your chance to prove you don't need that brother you so readily disposed of.'

Jun, already struggling with the knife to cut the zip ties from his wrists, glares at Gracey. Gracey smiles back.

'No oak trees but they'll be a blast, I'm sure,' He says, nodding towards the palm trees growing amongst the tree ferns.

Jun scowls, 'You don't think I can swim back, huh?'

The boat's engine starts up.

'Not without Hyeon,' Gracey tosses Hyeon's pistol to him. 'I put one back in the chamber for you,' he says with a wink before speeding back towards the mainland.

The sky is broken. The deep thrumming of the club music is barely audible over the crashing of the heavy rain against the street. Gracey huddles against the wall, Jun's phone in his cold wet hands. He finishes typing a message and presses 'send' before stowing the phone deep in his coat pockets. A moment later, his own phone reciprocates with a rhythmic vibration against his thigh. He nods, satisfied, and steps out of the shadows.

A loud crack reverberates down the street. Gracey falls to his knees clutching his chest. He teeters for a second before slumping forward into a puddle as the blood begins to drain out of him.

A spluttered chuckle finds its way to his lips. 'No way,' Gracey wheezes, smiling. He rolls onto his back as more bullets skip off the asphalt beside him. The rain washes lengths of hair out of his paling face. Gracey fights to draw air into his lungs.

He raises himself up onto his elbows and looks back in the direction of the shooter, still firing away as she storms towards him. As she clumsily works to reload the firearm a horde of teens rush out and pull the weapon from her.

'You still with us, Gracey?' one of the teens calls over as he pushes the shooter to her knees with ease.

'You think you can just throw money at the shit you cause?' the shooter calls out at him through heaved sobs.

'Makiyah,' Gracey splutters in recognition. The teens cautiously release her.

'You don't even care about the lives you destroy!' she screams. 'Where's my brother, huh? What happened to him? And who's gonna look out for me when those animals, when they-' she stops, gasping for breath.

'What's going on, Gracey?' The teens kick the unloaded firearm down the street and move towards Gracey.

'Oh, you gonna help him, right?!' Makiyah calls. 'And where they gonna bury you boys when he betrays you?'

'What's she talking about, Gracey?'

Gracey raises his index finger while focusing on his breathing. The teens wait for an explanation.

'Did - did you ... buy the gun ... with the money - money I gave you?' Gracey asks Makiyah before falling back onto the ground. He laughs slowly and takes a deep, strained breath. 'Gunned down by irony.'

'He's one of those pirate thugs,' Makiyah says to the teens as she wipes away her tears. 'He used my brother, Donnell. They came in and took everything, medicine, food, gas.' As Makiyah accuses Gracey, the teens draw their weapons and look to each other uncertainly. The rain continues to hammer down as they hesitate.

'What do we do?'

Gracey closes his eyes against the heavy droplets.

Guns are cocked.

A multitude of shots ring out.

Gracey opens his eyes. Briar stands over him.

'I was aiming for you,' Briar says, scanning the street where the teens stood moments before. 'Maybe next time,' he sneers at Gracey before stepping between the bodies of the teens.

'Well, you've been thrown a lifeline, you lucky bastard,' Ljuban kneels beside Gracey and helps prop him up. 'I'm sure you got the message. The Captain has put his faith in you. A stay of execution?' he says, expressing his surprise. 'We may have been ordered to protect you for the moment, but if you don't produce the goods...' Ljuban pats Gracey heavily on his blood soaked back. 'He's going to make it slow.' He points towards Briar, who is pulling Makiyah to her feet by her hair.

Gracey looks over the collage of lives he has destroyed. He watches Briar's hands aggressively exploring Makiyah. He crawls over to one of the teens and places his hand on the boy's chest as he breathes his last breath. Across from him, Makiyah moans and cries out.

'Leave her, Briar. We've gotta move,' Ljuban says. Briar obediently releases Makiyah, who stumbles off into the night.

Gracey reaches over and pulls the teen's sleeve down to conceal his watch as Briar approaches. Briar bends down and helps Gracey to his feet.

'The trucks are ready, just need to know where and what we're up against,' Ljuban says to Gracey. 'What can you tell us, Gracey?'

'The strip joints. There's one bouncer in each who works for the contractor. You can identify him by the bulge in his trousers.'

Briar turns and presses his gun to Gracey's forehead, 'I knew he was full of shit.'

'The bulge is his ankle holster,' Gracey continues apathetically. 'That's your guy. He has full access to the supplies. The rest of the staff have no idea. No one else is armed.' The colour has completely drained from Gracey's face. 'No one else needs to get hurt.'
Friday 9 May 2014

Hello Mrs Taylor

Graham Sparks

Bathurst, NSW

_South Durras, NSW south coast, 1975._

Mrs Noeline Taylor and Mrs Dulcie Morton live on opposite corners in the village of South Durras.

Mrs Morton is a widow living alone whilst Mrs Taylor lives with her husband Steve. Both ladies are in their early seventies, Mrs Taylor preferring a blue rinse to Mrs Morton's rose tint.

Steve Taylor is often away on important business... fishing with his cronies, leaving Mrs Taylor desirous of company.

Mrs Taylor is a brusque, curmudgeonly woman, taking origin in the working class western suburbs of Sydney, smug in her pastel green two bedroom fibro cottage, and who fancies herself a cut above the hoi polloi by virtue of her genuine crystal wine glass set, the purchase of which consumed a goodly portion of her personal life savings, the items residing in a locked display cabinet.

When occasion permits, mention is made of the Royal Trelawney Regency MK2 Lowboy that raises the tone of her bathroom, a very fine water closet.

Mrs Morton, on the other hand, has a diametrically opposite nature, a foil, a complex conjugate to Mrs Taylor if you will. Mrs Morton is a patsie's patsie, a person of natural acquiescence, a trait Mrs Taylor finds attractive.

When Mrs Taylor wishes to speak to Mrs Morton, she stands on her porch and rings a little bell, upon the hearing of which, Mrs Morton hurries to her door in order to receive the mandates of Mrs Taylor.

Such is life in Durras.

The great green wall of Gondwanaland stands sentinel behind the village, the depths ringing with birdsong as it's wild ragged extremities finger the sky.

The rolling surf is there to underpin each waking moment, although the thoughts of most locals rarely extend beyond the minutiae of their own and neighbours' domestic procedures.

An onshore breeze blows the spume of an eternity of ocean through those minutiae into an eternity of forest, the scent of ocean ever present.

Heady days...

Roy Darby lives about a mile away, north along the beach road toward the lake.

Although Roy is an entrepreneur of sorts and a self made man, he and wife Billie live in a ramshackle improvisation of a structure on twenty five acres of eucalypt and burrawang, with a couple of acres cleared for a handful of tumbledown holiday shacks and a market garden, which Billy tends, and ploughs with the rippers of an ancient D2, the squeal and clatter of whose tracks has ruptured many a balmy holiday reverie.

Roy and Billie are in their mid fifties but look a bit older due to their mutual love of the double malt.

Roy's only known mode of dress is an ensemble of faded blue King Gee work shorts, oversized in accommodation of his imbibers' belly, and a pair of thongs. A man of not inconsiderable charm, Roy is also rumoured to posses a very large penis, although nobody can individually claim to have seen the fabled item.

A wanker from Canberra bought a block just 'round the corner from Roy, and Roy's quote won the tender for building the wanker's house.

Me and my Dad got the job of helping to build it, my dad being a bloody good carpenter and me being a bloody good labourer, in that I was seventeen and straight out of the sawmills away in the hills.

We laboured in the summer heat to lay the slab and raise the Besser block walls. The front of the structure where the garage was to be was open to the street.

There we were, the three of us, squatting on wooden beams eight feet in the air, fitting joists to bear the floorboards, when all of a sudden, Mrs Taylor and Mrs Morton come into view, ambling by on a morning constitutional.

'Hello Mrs Taylor! Hello Mrs Morton!' chimed Roy in his most magnanimous voice.

'Hello,' replied Mrs Taylor frostily as the ladies glanced up, then quickly down, and then accelerated onward to the beach.

Whatever was he thinking, addressing two such fine ladies with fully seven inches of thick pink python dangling freely from his trouser leg in the briny morning air?
Saturday 10 May 2014

caught

Ramon Loyola

Newton, NSW

wrapped in the web of life

thinking of distant pasts

when coloured dreams become shades of black

chained onto pillars of afterthoughts

whispering sad verses of poetry

as the wind brings chills to the flesh pale and cold

locked in space

bellowing out chants

to relieve the pain that stings

when darkness pierces the eye

caught afraid in the halls of time

anguished

for the passage of seconds halts

just when I am starting to live
Saturday 10 May 2014

For Her

David Jenkins

O'Connor, ACT

I wrote a poem,

And the pen never lifted off the surface of the paper.

In the blink of an eye,

A falling tear.

She was always with me,

Always near ...

And the last sentence wrapped around the edges of it all,

because perfection is overrated.

And the notes of the guitar cascaded into the room,

Like white water gone into a waterfall ...

And I embraced my truth;

And it was okay again.

Just for now.
Sunday 11 May 2014

The Truth

John Ross

Blackheath, NSW

I am just about ready to give up on today and go to bed. I have a black eye, a sore shin, a suspected cracked rib and many other bruises and scrapes.

Yesterday at confession I admitted to the priest that I had told a few lies lately and as a penance he asked me to spend a whole day where I only told the truth; the whole truth and nothing but the truth. He said it would feel so good that I would continue to do it.

Well he was wrong - it feels bloody awful.

First thing this morning when my boss asked me what I thought of our latest product line, I told him the truth. It was ill conceived, poorly engineered and marketed. Then he asked me if I thought his judgement was flawed. I told him that he would not recognise a good idea even if it bit him on the nose.

An hour later, unemployed, out on the street, I ran into the next door neighbour's son on his way to school. He asked if I had enjoyed his innings at last Saturday's under 12 cricket match. I gave him a truthful critique of his style and told him he should take up netball with his sister. Continued on my way with a very sore shin.

Limped into a coffee shop only to be met by my mother-in-law who asked if I liked her new blue rinse. Boy has she got a strong right cross! I think my eye is not permanently damaged but it sure is sore.

Retreating from the streets into a quiet bar for a pick-me-up, the barman asks what I thought of the bloody referee's decisions in the footy game on the weekend where his team lost by a large margin. Again I had to tell him the truth. They were a hopeless lot of sissies and deserved to lose. The ref was technically right in every decision. Straight scotch can sting when it hits you in the face; especially on your newly damaged right eye.

Escaped into the local park to sit alone on a bench, lost in thought. Suddenly find myself surrounded by a mother with a pram, her husband and three other women all ardently admiring the baby. Before I can escape, and believe me I tried, the father asks me if his daughter is not just the most beautiful baby I have ever seen. I should have known from his build that he was probably a professional boxer. I must get my ribs x-rayed as soon as possible.

Well I think you get the drift of how my day of telling the truth has gone so far.

I'm in my pyjamas and trying to pretend to be asleep when my wife comes in dressed in her latest purchases. She asks that dreaded question. Yes, you are right! 'Does my bum look big in this?'

Weeelll I am going straight to hell when I die. The truth is not all that it is cracked up to be.

'Yes darling, those skin tight jeans look wonderful.'
Monday 12 May 2014

Pathetically Alone

Mark Fowler

Magill, SA

Pathetically alone,

I need somebody to love.

Mother loves me, not as much anymore.

I disappoint her with avant-garde attitudes and belligerent behaviour.

Annie loves me, but can't live with me anymore.

I demand too much and my salacious behaviour does her head in.

Only one solution ... 007-006-005

Hi Candy.

Hi Sebastian, same as?

Yes please.

Do you find me sexy?

Oh yeah!

Do you love me madly?

More than ever.

Do you want my body?

All of it and more.

Is that feeling good?

Sensational!

Do you love me?

Every single inch of you!

Thanks, Sebastian.

Will that be Visa, or American Express?
Tuesday 13 May 2014

Mum

Robyn Chaffey

Hazelbrook, NSW

My Mum

Gone twenty years

Never did find resolve

Life was harder than it should be

Rest now

Love hurts

Powerless child

Can't understand your tears

Longing to make your life alright

Don't cry

I grew

Carried your pain

Didn't learn how to laugh

Wished you could open to my heart

I knew

Your eyes

They showed the pain

You went through the motions

Denied your emotions too long

So strong

So now

I see your face

In my reality

Long still for your embrace denied

Through fear

With tears

Your memory

Seethes through veins to my heart

You cleared my paths e'en through strong fears

Fought on

My turn

I'm not so strong

Close my eyes to see you

Wonder if you see me also

Do you?

Eyes closed

I see your smile

That impish, cheeky smile

Telling us you were still in there

Hiding
Wednesday 14 May 2014

Sea Change

Julie Martin-Lock

Box Hill, VIC

Our holiday rental between land and sea

A longing begins, it's the place to be

Woken by kookaburras laughing above

During the day the salt air that I love

I say to myself, this could be for me

By the edge of the forest, across the road to the sea

King parrots fly in

Big as hens on the wing

Forest floor cover for a pair of blue wrens

Foraging for whatever their life depends

I marvel at nature, and wonder if I

Could only buy a place nearby

A lonely albatross flies into land

Gusts of wind whipping up sand

Sun kissed skin, after one week

Bees hovering for somewhere to meet

Still, I lament for my own patch of land

Sun, sea and sand

Leaving our holiday behind I sigh

I look back, take a minute to say 'good bye'

As I do so, I hear my daughter from the back

Say, 'Mum, I don't want to live down this track

At home we get better internet at least!'

Puts an end to my plans to live by the beach.
Thursday 15 May 2014

Revenge And Regret

Shirley Burgess

Rosebud, VIC

It was a huge fire.

In the early hours of Sunday, Dominic drove away quietly. A last quick glance showed him the flames were already through the roof of the house.

_Great_ , he thought. _Serves you both right. You were so beautiful, Jill, but you messed things up. As for your bitchy mother - she shouldn't have interfered. Now look where you both are. Nowhere!_ And with that he gave a short derisive laugh to himself.

He'd taken great care, and worn gloves. There would be no telltale fingerprints of his left behind. On the way home, he'd throw the petrol tins away in a rubbish dump a long way from this scene.

Finally, he docked his car in the street outside his home, closed the doors quietly, peeled off his outer clothes, shoved them in the neighbour's rubbish bin and covered them with rubbish. No-one would find his clothes in their own bin, and all the bins were ready for collection next morning anyway.

Then he crept up into his bed, where he would be able to swear he'd been all night. For now, he could safely gloat from a distance.

The fire was certainly spectacular. The fire brigade arrived quickly, but the ferocity of the flames had consumed every single thing. An unattached garage sat apart, seeming to look startled as the reflections of the ferocious fire next to it played eerily on its walls and roof.

'Was there anyone at home?' asked the newspaper reporter when he arrived on the scene.

'I understand there is a mother and daughter unaccounted for,' said the fire chief, 'but that's not official yet. At the moment, the house next door has all our attention. We've evacuated everyone nearby. Excuse me sir...' With that, he hurried off to direct a fire truck, newly arrived.

The reporter moved to an obvious evacuee, Mrs. Roper, as she stood in her dressing gown in an anxious state.

'Do you know the two people inside?' he asked.

'Yes. Jill's my daughter's best friend,' said a distressed Mrs. Roper. 'We hope they climbed out the back somehow.' She stopped to take a deep breath.

'We're so worried about them. The two of them live by themselves, you know. Francie Dalton's a lovely lady. She's my friend and we often have cups of tea together. Her daughter Jill's lovely too. The fire is such a big one ¬ it seemed to explode and next thing there's this inferno next door. It's so frightening.'

'You heard an explosion?'

'Well, that's what it sounded like to me. It woke me out of a sound sleep.'

The reporter looked at his watch. 'It's just on 3.30 am now, so the fire must have started about 3.00 am, would you say?'

'About then.'

Mrs. Roper turned away. She hugged herself in her anxiety. It was plain she didn't want to talk anymore, so the reporter looked for a further news source.

He spotted a policeman he knew and moved over to him.

'Any information on the woman and her daughter?' he asked.

'Yes, the firies have one of their men inside from the back now and he's found two bodies. Neither of them made it out of their bedrooms. That was some fire. There was an explosion immediately outside the two bedrooms, so it looks as though it's arson, but that's not confirmed yet.'

'Perhaps someone in there had an enemy?' suggested the reporter.

'We don't know about that.' His police contact turned to attend to someone else's query.

The reporter hung around while the fire was finally quelled, and tried to get more updates from various people, but no-one could give him any better information.

Eventually, a statement was given out to the press and TV reporters.

A fire at 14 Began Avenue began at 3 am this morning and the bodies of Mrs Francine Dalton and her daughter, Jill, have been found. The fire alarm had been activated, but the flames were so fierce, neither of them could have escaped.

The case is now in the hands of the Homicide Squad, and the forensic team has been called in.

Indeed they had. Mrs. Roper had spoken at length to the detectives and was full of information.

Jill had a boyfriend with whom she'd split recently, and he'd taken it badly. He'd harried the pair of them constantly, banged on their front door, stalked them, rung often, and was free with abuse on the phone.

Francine had told her that he'd sworn at her when she threatened him with police action if he did not leave them alone. She called him 'a control freak.'

She also told them about the interview the police had given the Daltons. After listening sympathetically to their complaints, they were told the police could do nothing as the lad had not physically harmed them ... yet.

'Well, he has now,' she avowed. 'He's a good looking young man but always surly. My daughter can tell you who he is and where he lives. She'll be here later this morning and can give you much more information than I can, for she was a confidant of poor Jill.' She was shocked and angry at the same time. 'Those poor souls,' she kept repeating, until finally the tears took over, and she couldn't talk at all.

Later that morning, Dominic heard his mother answer a ring at the front door and he was summoned for interview in their best front room.

He steeled himself to look innocent, swearing he hadn't left his bed all night; his mother would attest to that. Although he'd been upset about the breakup, he was well over all that now, he told them and he would never do anything so terrible as the event they were describing to him.

It was a convincing performance.

His mother said she would swear on a bible that was the truth. He hadn't left the house all night, she affirmed, although she didn't add that she always took sleeping pills each night before she went to bed.

To Dominic's astonishment, the police simply read him his rights, arrested him for the murder of Mrs Francine Dalton and her daughter Jill and although he protested loudly and kicked and wriggled for all he was worth, it was to no avail.

The garage had been untouched, it seemed. Inside, the detectives had found the lid of a petrol tin. Nearby was a hanky, apparently used to help a stubborn lid become unscrewed and they had been able to lift the telltale prints of the firebug from it. The DNA there matched their records of a time when Dominic had been arrested for his part in a fight, causing 'grievous bodily harm.'

There was also abundant DNA they could take from his own room to make a match. Already a search warrant had been issued to search for his clothes, hoping to find some with telltale accelerant on them.

His clothes were cleared, but they took away his shoes to be forensically examined.

Dominic was arraigned immediately before a judge, and then remanded into custody, bail being refused.

Sitting in that cold cell all by himself, Dominic started to feel sorry for himself. _It wasn't my fault, she drove me to it_ , he consoled himself. _She led me on, moved in with me, but wouldn't do anything I told her. She was the one who started things going wrong, not me. I loved her totally. Why was she always saying she wouldn't do this or that -- arguing all the time? She knew it was upsetting me._

His mother paid a tearful visit later that day, bringing him some of his favourite clothes and some special food that he liked, but cried all the time she was there, and he cried too. She had brought his cell phone and gave it to him.

His mother told him: 'from the start, I knew that girl would be trouble, and so she has turned out to be.'

After his mother had left, Dominic could now only think of the good times, the laughter and what good company Jill had been -- most of the time anyway. _She was such a good-looker_ , he thought, _and I was always proud to take her out and show her off._

He looked at his phone. It had a flat battery so he plugged it into the one power point in his cell and soon he found there was a message for him.

It was from Jill. He listened, shocked, to her voice:

Hello Dominic

I know we've had our differences, but I want you to know I really love you.

I've really missed you Dom and know you have missed me too.

Let's start again but some ground rules first.

I must be free to make my own decisions and not have them made for me. Also, I must be able to see my own family members whenever I want to -- just as you do.

Let's go to 'Spicers' Restaurant and have a proper chat -- no tantrums.

What do you say, Dom?

I do love you. Ring me soon.

He put his head in hands. 'Oh God,' he moaned, over and over.
Friday 16 May 2014

Judgement By Blind Jury

Judy Iliffe

Rutherford, NSW

For reasons not known to me, there are those whom believe

Believe I have no right to even think about her, my born child

Because I am no longer her mother ... does not mean I should not grieve

Grieve her loss, because of my own inabilities, grieve a child no longer my child

Because I gave her a real family, doesn't mean I stopped loving her

Doesn't mean I should forget her, as so many would have me do

I gave birth to her, I had dreams and hopes ... none of them were without her

Why should anyone forbid me memory, I can't stop, only my love for her knew what to do

Yet, you tell me that there could be no love, no love in my saying goodbye

No love in giving my daughter a real family, how could you say there could be no love?

How can you judge me so venomously, tell me to forget? My heart can't forget

For you to understand, would mean you having to give your child a new family, say goodbye

I don't want you to understand that pain and grief of heart ... only

Only to know love does not die, you can't simply forget, and shouldn't want to

Understand that love itself is not enough ... if only you could ... if only

If only you could see, it wasn't lack of love, only love knew what I had to do

Do you think it was easy to say goodbye to my beautiful little girl, my baby?

Knowing that I would never see her again, do you really believe I wanted this?

Perhaps you do, sadly, else why would you continue to anger that I didn't keep my baby

My dreams are always filled with her, I have always loved her, you can't see this

My born child, no longer mine, may never know me, and you, whom don't know me, can't forgive me

_Judy says: When I was very young, I had a baby. Unfortunately I was ill equipped to be a mother. I agonised then decided it was best to give her a new family. A choice not easily made, it tore me apart. I was berated for doing so for many years and made to feel I had done her wrong._
Saturday 17 May 2014

Fallen Angel

Fantail

Mount Barker, SA

_The angel suffers a fall ..._

'Agh! Nothing lasts anymore!' The woman grunted, as she tried to move the zip on her purse, snapping 'wait a minute!' at the child tugging her sleeve.

'Mummy, mummy, I want--'

'I asked you to wait! And leave my arm alone so I can open this wretched zipper. Talk about immediate gratification and zippers that don't last.'

An angel, sitting on the ends of his large, cream-feathered wings in an alcove high above the food court, chuckled quietly. 'The young on this planet are so entertaining. I hope the adults understand just how precious they are.'

Still reeling from the spin of the warped wormhole, he rested unnoticed, content to watch the people below. His special effects were on high so that a casual glance would reveal nothing more than a very bright sun shining through the translucent roof.

Hungry families and elderly groups taking advantage of quick, cheap food had replaced the mid-morning coffee drinkers. Noise increased and the angel began to notice a change in tone from quiet friendliness to querulous complaint.

A snatch of conversation drifted up from a couple eating sandwiches.

'Look at that child over there - hasn't looked up from his phone, except to stuff chips in his mouth. Just look at him! It's a wonder his fingers don't drop off!'

'Yeah.' The man glanced at the family his wife indicated. 'End up being a crook. Those games make kids violent.'

'And look at the girl, will you? Her fingers are even faster! Looks like she's texting or... what's that new thing ... Twittering?'

'Yeah. They reckon texting's killed spelling, and computers are turning us all into morons. S'pose that girl'll grow up good for nothing except to have a brood of kids and expect us taxpayers to support them. Lord, there isn't much salad in this sandwich. Must be too expensive.'

'Well, at least salad's better than the stuff you get in a packet. Full of chemicals. Saw it on the telly last night. Kill you quick as them mobile phones stuck to your ear.'

The angel was beginning to tire of this grumbling. He had grown hot, tense and disconcerted. 'These people don't realise how fortunate they are! They're intelligent; they live on a magnificent world; yet all they can do is whinge.' For distraction, he turned his attention to sparrows flitting across the floor in search of titbits and listened to their simple tweeting. But then another wave of complaints rose from below.

'When you retire, you need millions just to live.'

'We all work too hard and too long.'

'These days, you can't trust anyone.'

The angel's head began to ache. He'd never before experienced such pain and it was a horrible shock.

'Oh God,' he silently cried, 'why ever did you create this lot? You must have been having a really bad day on the sixth ... that's why you had to rest on the seventh, isn't it! Heavens! Did you stuff up!'

Suddenly, a woman's fat arm whipped out and slapped the face of a tearful young girl.

'Enough!' the angel roared. His words thundered around the food hall.

Terrified people stumbled from their chairs, left food, left shopping and fled. Bewildered children ran about, howling for their parents. Chips sizzled, mixers whizzed and oil smoked. Sheets of translucent roof disintegrated and tumbled. Sparrows flew up and beat their way through the jagged holes and someone screamed, 'It's the end of the world!'

The angel leapt to his feet but, in his hurry and fury, hadn't noticed the tip of his right wing caught in a crack. Wrenched off balance, he fell eight metres to the floor, landing with a 'whump' on his feather-cushioned wings. He scrambled to his feet, looking rather abashed, and then saw the terrified souls who, thinking that the second coming was upon them, had prostrated themselves on the hard tiles and were either mumbling prayers, begging forgiveness, or pleading for mercy.

'Ah, shit!' he muttered in a disgusted undertone. Turning his back, he picked up and examined the tattered end of his right wing. He'd be able to fly, but only just.

'Damn!' he growled, 'nothing ever lasts anymore!' 
Sunday 18 May 2014

Hollywood Sneakers

Virginia Gow

Blackheath, NSW

It was only when I was over halfway along the street that I realised that something was not quite right. A disconcerting quiet had settled over the area. The squeaking of my new, white sneakers was the only sound to catch the wind, as the hairs on the back of my neck electrified and my body stiffened with fear. I had taken a wrong turn.

In the absence of any streetlamp, blackness engulfed the street. I could barely see the boarded up shops and warehouses on the other side. A cruel wind whipped around my black leggings as I hugged my jacket and pulled its hood down over my beanie. Glancing around over my shoulder, I felt hidden eyes watching me, following me. At two am, this was no time for me to be out and about in this area of Los Angeles. No way could I turn and go back to where, in the distance, the dim glow of Sunset Strip beckoned and my motel awaited me.

Quickening my pace I headed towards the only lighted area ahead, a gas station. As I walked up to the window, a small Indian man gesticulated with his hands for me to go away. He stood behind a meshed bulletproof window. His face was pinched with fear. I smiled and asked him to phone for a taxi, as I was lost. The man read the signs on my jacket and paled. On the left was the emblem of the Federal Government of Australia embroidered in gold thread and on the right, 'War against Drugs', in silver thread. It glistened in the neon light. 'Go away, go away, no phone.' He was becoming hysterical waving his arms about. Beside his till I could see a gun, so I stepped back. Realising that he was incapable of helping me, I stayed in the pool of light surrounding the gas station and tried to reason out how to remove myself from this awkward situation.

A car pulled in. Perhaps these people would give me a lift? One look at the ugly, hard nosed, gold teethed gangster man and his blousy, flashy women and I knew that it would be somewhat dangerous to ask them for a lift.

Two men in their early twenties sauntered in to the gas station. One was a little white guy, in the obligatory outfit of a homy, the other, a large black dude, who looked tough. He was speaking on a mobile phone.

'Please, I am from Australia, and I'm lost. Would you ring a taxi for me?' I smiled and pulled out five dollars and held it out to them.

'Put your money away girl, don't you know where you are?' the big one whispered. He called for a taxi. It came by, slowed down, and took off again. This fiasco repeated itself again and again for an hour.

During this time we became quite friendly. One told me that he was a Jewish man from New York and he was here 'doing business'. I told them where I was staying. They asked about the jacket. 'Not good to dress all in black with new white sneakers around here.'

In the brim of my beanie I had placed two gold kangaroo pins from the Sydney Olympics. 'Please allow me to give you these for helping me,' I said, as I removed them and held them out.

'You wouldn't give us these if you knew what we do.'

I repeated, 'You are helping me.'

Looking left and right, they made another phone call, and then accepted my gifts.

Finally, a cabbie came. He appeared to know these guys. As I hopped in the cab, my driver explained that we would take the back roads because he was from Guatemala and didn't have a licence, but he would certainly deliver me safely to my motel.
Monday 19 May 2014

Be Still

Ruth Withers

Uarbry, NSW

When trouble is in every corner and around every bend,

Be still.

When discordant din grows loud and seems to never end,

Be still.

When conflict rains its fists upon your head,

And thunders madly in your ears and mind,

And flashes fiery lightning through your heart,

And to despair you feel yourself consigned,

Be still.

Be still and calm and think yourself an island.

Stay quiet and feel the gentle ocean breeze.

Take shelter in that part of you no storm can ever enter

And none can draw you from with all their pleas.

The storm may rage around you, but,  
Be still.  
Its malevolence may astound you, but,  
Be still.  
It cannot enter there within your shores,  
If you do not consent to let it pass,  
It will twist itself upon itself until,  
It falls away to nothingness at last,  
Be still.  
Be still.
Tuesday 20 May 2014

Battered Grandeur

Andris Heks

Megalong Valley, NSW

_9th of May, Friday:_

'Battered grandeur.' That is what I find so enchanting about the Budapest's old housing complexes. It is like the damaged ancient Roman statues and buildings.

They are made exquisitely.

Yet they are damaged now.

But would they be as captivating as they are if they were not damaged? I do not think so. It is this combination of perfection and decay that fascinates!

In the case of the 'pest buildings, such combination make them ooze with bohemianism. As if you could stage 'La Boheme' in every one of these houses. An absolute OD of bohemia!

I cannot have enough of it!

I love it!

This milieu is as integrally part of me as my flesh and blood. I grew up in one of these buildings: Rákoczi Rd 55. And I would not swap the experience for anything.

It was such a run-down building. But it still had a splendid exterior that shone through ever so quaintly through its decay. A 19th century lovingly sculpted building; now allowed to wear nearly to its bones. Riddled with bullets of the Second World War and the crushed uprising of 1956.

Yet neglect could not quite destroy past perfection. The latter shines through the decay, however mysteriously. And that magnificence, combined with deep wear, make Budapest utterly unique.

To me it is the bohemian capital of the world.

So, come over!

Hey, Gypsy, play your song, rip the strings to hundreds of shreds!
Wednesday 21 May 2014

Shattered

Rebecca Dodd

Woy Woy, NSW

There came a time in my life when I realised that my whole life had been somewhat of a lie. There came a time when I really looked at myself in the mirror, then looked at those who were my family and realised there was barely any resemblance; when I looked at photos and found none of me as a newborn or even a young baby. They explained that this was because they didn't own a camera, and so this was why there were no photos. In fact, it seemed like I simply appeared out of thin air at the age of one or two years old.

The fact that I have green eyes and dark brown hair but my parents and older sibling have blue eyes, pale skin and blonde hair should have been more of a warning sign to me. But I put it down to some kind of genetic inheritance from a grandparent or something. I would never have thought that I was actually of no relation to these people at all.

How I came across this revelation isn't anything uncommon really. I've always been bullied throughout my life but my mum has always said it was jealousy so I ignored it. But it's harder to ignore when a group of girls in my year at school grabbed me and dragged me into an empty classroom after school, with a newspaper clipping from 17 years ago. They wouldn't let me leave until I lowered my gaze to read the article. It was an advertisement:

**_Loving Adults, Looking to Complete Our Family._**

_In our thirties, we have been told we cannot conceive another child, yet there is a hole in our home that only another child can fill. Any gender, not particularly fussy on appearance, age up to 3 years old. Haven't been able to adopt through an agency as there is a long waiting list and we will be too old to be parents, any enquiries please contact Sarah or Damian on (02) 43..._

As soon as I read the article, they shoved another one into my face, dated a week later:

**_Loving Adults, Finally Completed Our Family._**

_We advertised that we were looking to adopt another child in this newspaper a week ago, and we were successful. Unfortunately we cannot thank the person because we don't know who they are. We found this little dark haired angel on our doorstep late in the afternoon with a note attached. After being examined and filling out the required paperwork we are proud to say we have completed our family with a one year old healthy baby girl. Thank you to the mystery parent, she is in a happy, loving home._

Below the article was a grainy, black and white newspaper-quality photo of a young child with a head of dark hair and big eyes. I looked up at the girls surrounding me and said, 'It's nice they found a child to fill the hole in their lives; what does this have to do with me?' They simply laughed and walked out, one calling, 'Have a nice afternoon, reject,' over her shoulder as I stood in the room, holding the two articles.

Walking home, I couldn't help but realise that the people who put the article in the paper had the same names as my parents and that the child they found would now be the same age as me. I tried to put the idea out of my head, so I put the articles in my pocket and turned up the music on my iPod, walking faster.

There was no one in the house when I got home, so I decided to get some homework out of the way before venturing into the kitchen to find something to eat. Mandy walked in with a rushed 'Hey Sis' before almost running into her room, only to emerge five minutes later in a new outfit, running out the door yelling 'Bye Sis!' as she left. I rolled my eyes to myself, '21 year olds,' I sighed.

It wasn't too long before I ran out of things to do and I was sitting on the lounge, still in my school uniform with a block of chocolate, staring blankly at a day-time drama on television pondering the articles. A piece of chocolate missed my mouth and landed on the floor beside the coffee table. As I bent to pick it up, I noticed the photo album on the shelf under the table. I grabbed the chocolate and picked up the album, setting it on my lap. I began idly flicking through pages, growing more and more bored with each page that I turned. Pictures of Mandy as a toddler, pictures of a grandmother I never met holding Mandy, Mum and Dad on their wedding day, one or two of me when I started school. Frustrated with my boredom, I dropped it on the ground and noticed a piece of paper that had come loose from the album. Carefully, I turned it over and gasped.

'It can't be,' I whispered to no one in particular. Rummaging through my pocket, I removed the articles that the bullies from school had given me and stared at the picture of the baby at the bottom of the second one. My mind was whirling as I placed the image from the article beside the colour picture of Mum, Dad and a baby between them. Sure enough, the one from the news article is a cropped image of the coloured one I had stumbled across.

I was still like that, the two images on my lap, side-to-side, tears flowing down my cheeks as I stared at them in disbelief when Mum and Dad came home together from work. They stood at the doorway to the hallway watching me, before walking over to see what I was looking at. There was an exchange of panicked glances before Mum gently sat beside me, gathering me into her arms. I'm not sure how long we stayed like that, but she eventually put me at arm's length and said simply, 'I'm so sorry, darling; this was never how you were meant to find out. Was it those girls from school?' I nodded, unable to trust my own voice to speak a comprehensible reply. I heard footsteps and Dad walked into the lounge room with a hot tea, placed it on the table in front of me and sat on my other side. 'Honey, please try and understand. You may not be our biological daughter, but we love just as much as we love Mandy, and she loves you just like a real sister' he said, putting a hand on my shoulder.

Lying in bed that night, I found it hard to sleep. I could hear Mum crying in the lounge room while Dad explained to Mandy what had happened.

I had been abandoned; my biological parents didn't want me. Was I an unplanned teen pregnancy? Where are my parents now? Do they have more kids? I felt so alone.

_12th April_

Today was meant to be one of the happiest days of my life; my eighteenth birthday. This was something I had been looking forward to for so long now. But looking in the mirror whilst applying the last of my makeup for the evening's party I couldn't find one shred of happiness or enthusiasm in myself. How could I possibly have a good time with these people who I now know aren't my real family, and my friends, and act happy when my world was shattered just two days ago? With a final glance in the mirror I accepted that it was the best I was going to look since I spent most of the past two nights crying, took a steadying breath and walked downstairs to where a few people who had already arrived had gathered.

_12th April_

She's 18 today. My little brown haired, green eyed angel would have been all grown up, our house decorated for the party we would have had and filled with music, laughter and happiness. I wonder if she is happy. I wonder if she knows. I wonder if she would hate me. I would love to just see her up close instead of from a distance, touch her, talk to her and explain that I had no choice but to give her up ¬ I thought it was for her own good. Tell her that she is always in my thoughts and heart and that I will always love her. But for now, I wrote all of this and more into a card and slipped it into the letterbox in hopes she will read it and understand. I felt like a coward as I walked away from her house, my hood drawn around my face just as I did eighteen years ago, but this time my baby will know I love her.
Thursday 22 May 2014

Regret And Reunion

Paul Humphreys

Oxley, ACT

'My God, you haven't changed one iota!' whispered Isabella into Hannah's ear as they hugged each other in a close embrace.

'How long has it been?'

'Eighteen and a half years,' replied Hannah into Isabella's ear as they continued to hug each other with an intensity of feeling and warmth that was an echo of times past.

'I'm so sorry about Oscar.' For Hannah, the statement was more a throwaway comment than an expression of real sympathy and regret. 'It must be hard to lose your husband suddenly,' she added as an afterthought.

Isabella picked up on this lack of real feeling and indicated her understanding by smiling at her friend, with her eyes closed.

'How did it happen so quickly?' Hannah asked.

'Oh, it was a night of heavy drinking and I sort of blurted out about us. You know, those delicious, uninhibited explorations we had together for the first three years at Uni.'

'You didn't!' exclaimed Hanna, colouring.

'Oscar was not impressed, in fact he went into one of his rages; throwing furniture and cursing everyone and everything. His rages continued to get worse and one night it got the better of him and he collapsed, the ambulance guy couldn't revive him.'

'Bloody hell, you must regret telling him!' Hannah exclaimed, a little dismayed at Isabella's frankness and calm.

'Yes, I do.' It was a perfunctory answer with little feeling. 'Oh, he would have carked it anyway because his rages were becoming more frequent and intense - and hard to live with!' Hannah noticed just how matter of fact Isabella was about the circumstances of Oscar's death, particularly as this was a small gathering for a memorial service for Oscar.

They stood together, face-to-face, holding each other's elbows in a fashion that was openly intimate, yet casual.

Isabella leant forward, pursed her lips and planted a kiss on the end of Hannah's nose. This had been a simple gesture of endearment between them during their university days.

A tingle of electricity flowed across the back of Hannah's neck as the kiss elicited volumes of happy, contented memories.

A young woman approached them. She was stunningly attractive, with an air and carriage that displayed a nonchalant but well founded confidence.

'Hi Mum, it all seems to be going well. I met some of Dad's friends from many years ago - they could not believe he had a seventeen year old daughter.'

Isabella greeted her daughter with a wide smile of joy and pride.

'Dear, I would like you to meet someone very special.' Isabella put her arms about Hannah and her daughter.

'Hannah, meet Hannah One, a very special and close friend, whom I have not seen for eighteen and half years!'

Hannah One blushed and stumbled with her greeting. 'So, so good to meet you. I didn't know about you, as your mother and I had lost touch after we left university.'

'It is so good to meet you, at last. Don't worry, she never stops talking about you, so I know a lot about you. Wow! So this is Hannah, my namesake!' She paused and then quickly added, 'I'd love to talk. I'll catch up with you later, after the mourning crowd has left, okay?'

'Sure, sure - look forward to having a good chat later.' Hannah One was now a little wistful, emotional and embarrassed and completely unsettled. She did not understand why those emotions were all there together.

'You make sure everybody has their glasses full and have enough to eat. Run along now, plenty of time to talk tonight,' said Isabella, as she bent forward, pursed her lips and planted a simple kiss on the end of her daughter's nose.
Friday 23 and Saturday 24 May 2014

Xing Saga Part 13 - Searching for BodWilf

Jane Russell

Mount Barker, SA

_In which characters from Xing come to Earth in search of the noble Bodwilf..._

The noble KobWilf approached the Emperor Po with slow, measured strides, his head bowed. He had requested an audience with the supreme ruler of Xing over an urgent personal matter. He was not pleased to note that the heir, Mo, a child of fourteen turns, and his workerbot companion 'SkippyDoo' he thought, or some such ridiculous name, were also in attendance. He gave the customary triple rotation of his head and then waited. Po grunted and KobWilf stated his case:

'Your excellence, most high majesty and ...'

'Oh get on with it, KobWilf, I haven't got all day,' growled the Emperor, crossly.

'I'm sorry, it's about my only son, BodWilf.' KobWilf faltered, as if unsure how to continue.

'Well? What about him. Has he got up to mischief again?' Po prompted.

'No, well yes. He's taken the family pleasure craft and gone off-world. We haven't seen him for 21 days. His other father, GobWilf is distraught.'

'So, what do you expect me to do about it?' growled Po, unhelpfully.

'I'd like to mount a search party to find him, with your permission of course.'

'Hmmm,' Po glanced down in thought-mode. Everyone was very still for the length of time this took him. As he was over two thousand years old, this was a long wait. At last, he looked up again and turned to SnoopyLoo at his son's side.

'What do you think, Miss Loo?'

Snoopy was gobsmacked. The Emperor was asking her, a humble workerbot, for advice.

'Er, it's probably a good idea, your highness,' she ventured.

'And you say that because?'

'Because there are very few bots now in the noble class due to their low birth rate. A compassionate response to KobWilf's plea would put you yourself in a very good light and the people need a diversion to distract them from their dull, everyday lives.'

'Exactly what I was thinking. Let it be so!' commanded Po, leaving the organising of the search to everyone else.

Mo ran after Snoopy at the end of the audience.

'Miss, Miss? Can I go too, please, please?'

'I don't know about that, Mo. If it involves going off-world the Emperor would be most reluctant to risk it.'

'He doesn't have to know. I can pretend to go on a trip to the other side of Xing to study. He'd never miss me.'

'When he does find out, because there's always someone who would make it their business to tell him, I'd lose my head!'

'Well, if you won't let me come, I'll just stow away, and that would be far more dangerous. If something happens to me, you'll still lose your head,' said Mo. Snoopy pondered the alternatives. She was inclined to go straight to the Emperor about it and make it his responsibility to keep Mo in line.

Later that day when the preparations to leave were almost complete, Snoopy begged an audience with Po.

'Your highness, I would like to recommend that young Mo join the search party.' Po's response was a gasp at her audacity, and a narrowing of his eyes.

'It would do him good to see what is beyond Xing. He would be under my supervision at all times, and such a step would impress the nobles and everyone else. You would gain their respect and gratitude at the same time.' Snoopy continued.

'I would expect that after two millennia I already have their respect, Miss Loo. I find such a suggestion offensive!'

Snoopy backtracked, her mind racing.

'I meant no disrespect your highness. What I was saying was that, after such a long reign people may, just "may" tend to take you for granted. It could be time to bring yourself back to their notice and in the best possible light.'

'Hmmph! I will consider your words. Leave me now.'

Snoopy made a rapid exit, saving her sigh of relief until out of ear and eyesight. If Po refused, she would then recommend that Mo be locked up until the rescue craft had left.

Po agreed and broadcast his decision to the masses. Mo was overjoyed, and Snoopy was his favourite bot for almost ten whole minutes. He insisted that Nanny Grey come with them and Snoopy was grateful for a second pair of eyes to watch him.

They travelled with both of BodWilf's parents, a group of combat bots, several grey bots to serve the nobles and Mo and his entourage. They took with them: food, tools, weapons, tracking devices and water protection spray, modified from the original WD40 brought back from Earth.

They searched the nearby asteroids and planets that the tracking devices said BodWilf had been to, but he had moved on. With a sinking feeling, Snoopy recognised his destination. That dang blue planet they'd unsuccessfully invaded so long ago. They scanned for his craft and located instead a wreck. This put his parents into a panic. Snoopy successfully landed and hid their own craft. The group doused themselves in water repellent and set off, following the GPS signal that indicated BodWilf was a good distance away from the wreck.

As they approached Xing Town, Snoopy marvelled at the changes since she was last on this planet, as a group of colourful, modified bot children ran out to meet them. Mo didn't mention he was the Emperor's heir and was soon playing happily with the strange children. Then a group of adult bots came to meet them. Snoopy recognised Oggie and several others from the invasion force. They embraced and she revealed the reason for their arrival. BodWilf was summoned to attend and came with bad grace, trailed by Cobweb. BodWilf gasped when he saw his parents, and then even more when he saw Mo. He and his family retreated back to his house to discuss the situation.

Oggie took Snoopy on a tour of Xing Town with the rest of the newcomers, pointing out their facilities, innovations and inventions. Some of the group muttered in disapproval, but Snoopy was enthralled, especially when she saw the reinforced group car and the panel beating workshop, set up on one side for the car but on the other for repairing dented bots.

'Oggie, how did your group come up with such novel ideas? Was it the survival instinct in action?' she asked.

'Thank you Snoopy, yes, we needed to change to survive. The different colours and features of our offspring were just playful experimentation. You must meet my twins, Flossy and Bubbles - they're adorable,' he added, proudly.

'I'd love to. I have three children, or at least my partner does, back on Xing.' She paused. 'I miss them.'

That evening there was a welcoming get-together with music and magic tricks. Polly showed off his anti-grav app and the twins Flossie and Bubbles, now three years old, did a cute dance routine with Dog. Food was supplied to the nobles and to Mo, and the town's one and only privy was in great demand.

The group enjoyed the hospitality of the town for a week and then regretfully made their farewells. A couple of Xing Town old-timers chose to return to Xing with them. BodWilf went with his parents without a murmur, Cobweb trailing along behind; a grey servant once more. He'd been using a special scent to disguise his pregnancy, and no one but Cobweb (and Dog) officially knew about it. Snoopy, Nanny Grey and Mo were at the head of the group, so they were the first to see the awful sight; their carefully hidden craft would not be going anywhere in a hurry. It had been destroyed. What on Xing had happened? The damage was even worse than first appeared, so the downhearted group trailed back to Xing Town. Oggie said he'd see what could be done about a repair, and they were all re-housed once more.

Back home, BodWilf proudly confessed to wreaking the damage himself. But Cobweb was not impressed.

'BodWilf! What have you done?' Cobweb shrieked. Her usual shy deference giving way to outrage.

'It was all for you, my love.'

'In that case it would have been better if you'd asked me first!'

BodWilf was taken aback. He experienced a stab of fear as things were not going anything like he had anticipated. She was berating him? Him? How dare she!

'I think you forget your place, Grey,' he said, coldly, expecting her to come to her senses and return to her accustomed blind devotion.

'No, now I see quite clearly where my place should be,' she paused, looking him straight in the eye, 'and it isn't here.'

BodWilf watched in helpless dismay as she gathered her few belongings and walked out the door. She'll be back, he thought, begging my forgiveness. Well, he'd keep her waiting for that. As the day drew on with no sign of Cobweb, he became anxious. Please come back my love, he thought. I'll do anything you ask. He spent a cold, lonely night regretting his words and his actions. The next day he went looking for her. She was staying at Oggie's and didn't want to see him, he was told. He suffered her absence for almost a week before he broke.

He called a meeting of all the bots in Xing Town.

'Fellow bots,' he began, and those who knew him were startled at this familiarity. 'I am here to confess to a terrible crime and to beg your forgiveness.' He had their complete attention now. He noticed with relief that Cobweb was hovering at the back of the group.

'It was I who sabotaged the spacecraft, stranding our latest group of bots on Earth, and I did it for totally selfish reasons.' There was an outbreak of angry chatter and stern disapproval, but he expected no less.

'I am in love with a grey bot.' He waited for the gasps of incredulity to subside. He noticed that Oggie and most of the long-term Xing Town residents didn't even blink. 'She, the lovely Cobweb, is my life. I'm having our child.' This time the gasps and hurrumphs came from his parents.

'If we went back to Xing, we would be separated. She may even be executed for treason. I would be forced to abort what they would consider an 'abomination' and my life and reputation would be ruined for ever.'

He paused. 'I couldn't let that happen. But I didn't take into account the disruption this would cause to the lives of the bots who bravely came on this rescue mission. I'm truly sorry. I will do everything in my power to restore the craft to working order so that those who still wish to return may do so. But...' he paused dramatically, 'they may have difficulty doing so, as I have to confess to another crime: I hacked your craft's pink box, sending back a signal that it had crashed with no survivors!' Oggie and friends had to restrain several of the newcomers as they surged forward in fury.

'This was to prevent a second rescue mission, you see. It was also to protect this town,' Oggie nodded as though he knew what was coming next.

'In isolation from your home planet, you survivors of the Xing invasion have developed many innovative ways to blend in with your alien neighbours. However, any word of this back on Xing and you would all be condemned for heresy. I'm sorry, but you know this is true.' He turned to the newcomers.

'As for you, with news of your deaths life will go on without you. The Emperor Po will generate another clone to replace Mo. So Mo can never go back or the new child will be killed. He can become Emperor here instead. Those of you with partners may find they have replaced you, and all of you have been genetically compromised with the compulsory waterproofing upgrade. Please look at life here in Xing Town, at its freedom, its amazing possibilities. Give yourselves time to appreciate it. Then consider if it is worth going home to possible charges of heresy or worse. That's all I can say, except to humbly beg your forgiveness. I will subject myself to whatever punishment you deem fit.'

Cobweb did not return home as he had hoped, but she did come up to him, take his hand and smile. That was enough for now.

Snoopy was one of the few from the rescue party who still wanted to return to Xing. Her whole family was there, she couldn't conceive of giving them up. It was she who came up with a suitable punishment for BodWilf: he must spend a month as a greybot, doing menial tasks, bowing his head, taking orders. He accepted the judgement nobly, inwardly welcoming it as a way of getting closer to his love, experiencing life as she had lived it, and cringing at the memory of how he had treated her.

Snoopy was one metalbot who would never forgive BodWilf.
Sunday 25 May 2014

The Vision That Is You

David Newman

Jacobs Well, QLD

If I could just describe the feelings inside;

To simply float away across a star studded sky;

And if I could just paint the smile of a child;

Who sees the world through clear, innocent eyes: -

They say, that a picture paints one thousand words;

That a song - a song - always lingers on;

But no song could ever match the singing birds;

And no picture could capture the vision that is you: -

To rest on a mountain, in the crisp night air;

Look up now, float out on these the heavens;

See below, a moonlit river fairly shimmers there;

It's just to witness all these things we've been given -

Sleeping flowers send sweet fragrance upon the breeze;

Green grass, tread soft, for there is a beauty here;

Night creatures play, while the angels sing;

For the vision that is you, is just oh! So dear: -
Monday 26 May 2014

To Love For Real

Kylie Abecca

Port Albany, WA

I met him when I wasn't free,

Picking up all the old debris,

I knew right from the very start,

He was someone with a good, kind heart,

Now here I am, he helped me to see,

Just who I really want to be,

I want to say so many things,

Let him know just how I feel,

But what if somehow I make a mistake?

Break apart this binding seal?

For once I want to do things right,

Not just pretend the way I feel,

Oh, please help me find the confidence,

To love this man for real.
Tuesday 27 May 2014

Citrus Dawn

Jean Bundesen

Woodford, NSW

In the orange light of early morning

There's a tangerine sky

Merging into a deep translucent vault.

Village people sleep.

Village lights sparkle

Like a Christmas tree.

Day dawns

Trees come to life

Lime green leaves appear.

Jacarandas still golden

New leaves are sprouting.

A silver birch shines.

Azaleas complement prunus

Shades of rose, pink, red and white.

Wisteria clambers over

Fences and trees - a vision in lilac.

Orange marigolds sprawl fancy free

Lemon yellow wattles frolic.

A radio softly plays 'Tangerine Dream'

On a bright new day.
Wednesday 28 May 2014

As Through My Own Eyes

Robert Chancer

Petrie, QLD

To see things as through my own eyes, I wish you could, and not despise.

There's beauty there beyond this world, and mysteries to be unfurled.

Those eyes that shimmer in the light, behold more things than just plain sight.

There's depth and strength below their surface. They seem to reveal all matter of purpose.

And that smile of cheer, of mischievous glee. It speaks more volumes than eyes could see.

It warms the soul and clears the air. The solution to all the problems there.

Voice and laugh not bitter or pained. A testament of strength and youth sustained.

It carries words of grace and love, ethereal as if from above.

Hands as delicate as a flower, despite their softness they hold great power.

They heal the sick and show care to friends. Their power, it seems to have no end.

Skin as soft as winter dew, in sunlight holds a pearlescent hue.

This softness, just like Mother Nature, expresses your ability to care and nurture.

To see things as through my own eyes. To see, and know and not despise.

I hope one day you truly do. Forget the pain, embrace the truth.

For there's beauty there beyond all measure. Discover yourself, your own buried treasure.

For it's not so deep as not to be seen. So open your eyes and see it gleam.
Thursday 29 May 2014

The River Mystery

AA Anderson

Bathurst, NSW

The slow rhythmic sound of the shardouf drawing water out of the river and the low hum of the bees cast a gentle feeling of contentment along the banks of the great winding ribbon of blue that was the great River Nile.

Mina, with her long black hair and soft white wrap, lay down her basket of rushes and sat quietly on the fresh green grass, listening not to the shardoufs or the bees, but to try and catch the first sounds of the swish, swish of the paddles, moving through the water that would signify the approaching of the Royal Barge.

This was no ordinary day and others slowly gathered on the banks of the big river. This was the funeral barge of the Great Pharaoh Memtis and as it came into view the crowd on the bank sank to their knees, their eyes downcast.

Who will be the next pharaoh and where would he lead the people of Egypt? This was the question on everyone's lips. Would it be feast or famine? Egypt had seen both.

Amines stood on the prow of his father's dhow. He was a tall, swarthy fellow with large, dark eyes and wore the typical brown loincloth of the day's workers. He would not be allowed to follow the barge, but he longed to see where they would take the body of the pharaoh to bury him. Would it be in the only half-finished tomb in the new pyramid or would his enemies stop the barge and take his body from it to further down river? Like pharaohs before him, he had made many enemies and tales were told.

After waiting for some time, Amines could wait no longer. He gathered his sister, Mina, from the lower bank and sailed along the same path as the royal barge. It was a fair wind and his boat made good time and was soon well out of sight of the onlookers on the shore.

Rounding the bend in the river, a strange sight met Amine's eyes. The river stretched in a straight line for miles before him, but there was no sight of the royal barge. It was a long way yet to the new pyramid for burial but it had definitely disappeared into thin air.

Amines and Mina were afraid. How could something that big and prominent just vanish? Amines decided to take the dhow along closer to the bank and creep under the hanging vines so as not to be seen.

Suddenly the sun caught a flash of colour hidden in the undergrowth some distance away. Amines anchored the boat and telling Mina to stay hidden, crept through the jungle. It was not long before he came across the barge hidden in the bulrushes, but no one was on board.

He heard voices further inland and thinking that they were probably robbers confiscating the late pharaoh's body, kept well hidden. 'There are many that would take my master's body and destroy it' the voice said, 'but no one will ever find it now, it will stay in the cavern that is being built under the great sphinx, no one will know there is even a cavern there, I have designed it thus.' Amines then knew this was the voice of the pharaoh's boyhood friend, the great Architect Zelton. The Pharaoh's journey to the afterlife would now be safe.

Amines returned to his sister. She questioned him about what he saw, but Amines knew it would be his secret until his life's end. What a true friend Zelton must have been to his pharaoh to construct such a plan, and how dangerous! Amines hoped that one day, he too might have such a friend.

The small dhow pulled out into the stream. Another day was coming for Egypt, with another new pharaoh, but the great River Nile would flow on, forever into history.

The year was 1923 and Professor Jonathon Zine, the archaeologist, excavated a small tomb not far from the mighty sphinx. As he deciphered the hieroglyphics on the tomb, he read _Zelton, a faithful friend_. 'Oh, no one of any consequence, probably some kind of worker,' he said and moved on.
Friday 30 May 2014

Of The Human Abyss

Arthur Derek

Bridgeman Downs, QLD

My scars in the mirror are constantly aching,

Never forgetting my soul always breaking,

As eyes sink ever further, skin has cracked more,

Your eyes deceived me, though forever I adore,

Am I forgotten as human? Pinpoint stars always screaming,

My face of decay, lost inside my own dreaming,

Of cold skin I caress, though my heart can detest,

With all sin locked inside, I shall never confess,

Eternal I am, carrion touch, though I feed,

Veins carry darkness, no blood do I need,

Invisible to your gaze, see my mist through the haze,

No afterlife to reject me, pinpoint stars ablaze,

Although you can't see me, can you feel I am there?

Hidden behind every veil, the black in your stare,

My name not of your tongue, thought it means nothing much,

When you meet your demise, you shall feel my touch,

My voice is like silence, my form like mist,

I am a creature only known to the human abyss.
Saturday 31 May 2014

This Walking Life

Lorraine Sanderson

Campbelltown, SA

I derive pleasure from many things: family, friends, food, wine and music all come quickly to mind. Working and even weeding are pursuits I could add to the mix. But walking?

Walking is good for me, according to my competent and caring GP. Wide research on the subject confirms a thirty minute brisk and challenging trudge every day has multiple health benefits, and all my desperate attempts to disprove that argument have, alas, thus far failed.

Walking will lower my cholesterol, nurture my arteries, burn calories and generally make me fit, firm and fabulous. When the doctor applauds my efforts, he concludes that I'm 'obviously enjoying it'. 'Oh, it's great,' I lie.

This new ritual, added to the already exciting daily to-do list; brush teeth, make bed, be nice to husband etc, began after a C minus at that dreaded time of reckoning - the Annual Medical Check-up. That time, when after reading your blood test results and saying 'hmm' three times over, the doc looks at you with the sweetest smile and pauses. In that instant, you know the report is telling him how much chocolate you've eaten in the past year, how many wines you've tippled and exactly what exercise you have avoided.

'Lifestyle,' he says gently. 'A balanced diet and plenty of physical activity. Walking is excellent.'

Now I pride myself in the ranks of those early morning fitness disciples I used to privately asperse. Who knows, perhaps they too are simply conforming to a doctor's orders, or they might truly enjoy it. Either way, I'm amazed at their discipline and my own.

To borrow from the 1950s film classic, 'The Thirty Nine Steps', the hardest distance for me at 6 am is from the side of the bed to the front door, but my husband is very supportive with his sharp elbow.

I often feel like the odd one out, strolling as I do sans canine companionship. I've contemplated getting a dog, but been deterred by everyone lately buying pets like salad servers, in a matching set! It's for the animals' companionship, I know, but I prefer to walk solo, letting my mind wander wherever it will, delighting in the sounds of the birds as they squabble over the day's first worm and that sweet scent of morning dew on the roadside grass, ever grateful that I am upright.

Pounding the pavement may not be my favourite pastime, but the good doctor was right, of course. I'm now fitter, firmer and as fabulous as my three score and ten years will allow. He says I might live to be 100, but I'm not sure the retirement funds will stretch that far. Anyway, do they make Lycra shorts for centenarians?

Might need to get another job - a pedestrian postman perhaps?
Bios and contact details

Arkleysmith, Eulyce

Eulyce Arkleysmith has written for and been published in, a variety of pint media under the names of Sunrise, Sunset and her own name.

Although she has had short stories published, most of her work has been old style poetry and it is often critical of political activity or of activities that result in unfair pressures on people who are unable to stand up for their rights.

Assumpter, Irene

Irene Assumpter is a budding writer based in Australia. In 2013, she was nominated for the Caine Prize for African Writing for her short story 'Odd Footy Boy', a story first published in narratorAUSTRALIA Volume 1. Her first novel 'No Bigger Mistake' was published in 2013.

Look out for Project Lokitaung Part 2 in Narrator Australia Volume 5.

Bruton, Judith

Judith Bruton, artist/poet, shades her stories with the deepest blues and warm subtle hues to highlight the quandaries of many a flawed character in search of love, meaning and authenticity. Judith writes fiction to dissect her past, deconstruct her recollections and decode the personalities and misadventures of her unsuspecting family and friends. Many stories have a few surprise twists. The taste of sea air and the nudge of a faithful dog are never far away. Judith's stories and poems are published in several anthologies and online, most recently Salt Breezes 2014 by Dangerously Poetic Press, and alfiedog.com. Please visit: judithbruton.com

Bundesen, Jean

Jean Bundesen moved to the Blue Mountains in 2003 from Sydney, where she had worked for many years. She is now the convener of the Mid Way Creative Writers who meet weekly in the Mid Mountains. Interests include reading, gardening and writing. While her first piece of prose, 'A Rock Pool' set at Caloundra, Qld. was published when she was 15, it was not until she attended a number of creative writing courses in 1999-2001 that she wrote her first piece of poetry, 'Give me a Dollar'. Jean continues to write prose and poetry, and has had a number of poems published in different Publications and has won several prizes.

Burgess, Shirley

Shirley Burgess comes from the seaside town of Rosebud, Victoria, and has been writing for a couple of years now, gaining help from a local writers' group. She has won a competition and although she has had approximately twenty-five short stories published, each manages to produce a thrill when one makes it into print. She is on Facebook at www.Facebook.com/ShirleyYBurgess

Craib, James

James Craib has contributed poems and short stories to narrator since its inception as a print magazine. In a former life, James was an office manager who later completed his Bachelor of Arts (Hons Eng) at UNE. These days, James describes himself as part-time musician, actor, writer and full-time dilettante. He delights in puns and will 'punish' you remorselessly! James also pleads guilty to telling dreadful jokes and using acrostic and/or anagram to confound the readers. James is presently the convenor of the Blackheath Writer's Group. Check out James' work at: http://biarcsemaj.blogspot.com.au/.

Derek, Arthur

Arthur Derek has always had an interest in writing since he was young. His love for writing and reading came from his family who have always been very supportive when it has come to creativity. Arthur also enjoys working with other artists in different mediums and hopes to release a graphic novel. In the future he will be working on a project with photographer Alpine Blood from Pretty Toy Images named 'Malice Through The Looking Glass'. To contact Arthur please email arthur.derek.au@gmail.com.

Hinschen, Corrie

Corrie Hinschen is a writer from Brisbane, Australia. He uses poetry to capture his neuroticism and express his feelings. He also composes dark narrative and Gothic inspired poetry. It is in the influences of his favourite writers that the darker element of his poems emerge; the likes of Edgar Allan Poe, Samuel Taylor Coleridge or Bret Easton Ellis, respectively. He has a BA, majoring in literature and creative writing.

In his spare time, Corrie enjoys reading, anime, films, and travelling.

Follow Corrie on Twitter: @CorrieHinschen

Humphreys, Paul

Paul Humphreys has written and told stories for his own and others' pleasure and enjoyment almost all of his life. He gets great delight from reading and writing fiction and faction stories. He is currently the convenor of a short story writing and reading group called 'The Write Stuff' based in the ACT. He gets a considerable thrill from language where there is a generous but, as required, a frugal use of words allowing a weaving of nuances and atmosphere around memorable characters and a credible story line. He has had stories published in all narrator Volumes to date.

Loyola, Ramon

Ramon Loyola is a lawyer, legal author, poet and writer. His fiction, non-fiction and poetry have appeared in various publications. He has worked as a pharmacist, a public and media relations practitioner, a magazine editor, a medical writer/reporter and a television scriptwriter/researcher. Ramon holds degrees in the sciences, law and creative writing. His first book of poetry, 'not poems, just words: on loving, living and longing', was a Finalist (Poetry) in the 2014 National Indie Excellence® Book Awards (NIEA) and is available at Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble, Apple iBooks and other booksellers. He lives in Sydney and blogs at http://www.ramonloyola.org.

Parker, Greg

Greg Parker believes passionately that the 'greater' and 'lesser' designations should be dropped from the genus horny toad as a matter of equity. Additionally, the designation 'toad' should be dropped because it is not actually a toad. Just call it 'horny' and be done with it.

Apart from contemplating issues of equity in the reptilian world, Parker divides his time between his family, researching and writing and running a small business. He is the author of 'Lee Harvey Oswald's Cold War: Why the Kennedy Assassination Should be Reinvestigated', available through Amazon and other major online book retailers. His website is http://www.reopenkennedycase.net

Russell, Jane

Jane Russell became involved in creative writing in 2012 and began the 'Xing Saga' in early 2013 after a particularly interesting dream about red robots. The stories and the characters took over from then on. Jane has lived and worked in London, Suva, Rome and Sydney and now lives in the Adelaide Hills with a large black dog. She spends her days walking, writing, painting, and she teaches Italian.

Smith, Winsome

Winsome Smith lives near the Blue Mountains in New South Wales. She has been writing stories, articles and poetry for many years and loves writing. Her latest book of stories, 'Tales the Laundress Told' is available from Amazon. Her website is www.winsomesmith.com.au

Walker, Vickie

Vickie Walker writes short stories and poetry, many based on her love of all places Australian. She has been published in several anthologies - 'Between Heaven and Hell' (ed. David Vernon) and 'narrator' Volumes 1 and 2 - as well as receiving a number of awards in writing competitions. She has published online through the Electrical Discounters' website, orangepost.com.au and storiesspace.com as well as abc.net.au/projects.
MoshPit Publishing, narrator and more

Why enter a narrator competition?

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The narrator competitions have two main purposes:

§ to help you develop an audience for your writing

§ to help you market yourself and your published works by giving you the opportunity to include a short bio with links to published works and/or your website or blog.

Regular reading of narrator entries helps broaden your awareness of 'what's out there', regular entry to the various narrator competitions helps encourage you to polish your writing, while regular publication will help increase your author profile.

Visit **www.narratorcentral.com** for more information.

IndieMosh self publishing (for longer works!)

For Australian writers who are thinking about self publishing a longer work, MoshPit Publishing can assist you via our IndieMosh self publishing facilitation service.

If you're unable to get a traditional publisher to take your book on, we offer a range of affordable ebook and print on demand packages to help you get into the market place quickly. All publications go out as 'An IndieMosh book brought to you by MoshPit Publishing' so they don't stand out as being self published. And because you take most of the financial risk of publishing your book, we pay a much higher than average royalty.

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One Thousand Words Plus

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