 
### Narrator Magazine

### Blue Mountains

### Spring 2011

### Smashwords Edition

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The copyright for each item in this publication rests with the author of that piece. Please contact us at Narrator Magazine if you wish to contact any contributor featured herein.

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**Cover:** 'Three Sisters' by Michaela Kyzyszton

'This work was created for my Higher School Certificate and was featured in 'ART EXPRESS 2008" at the NSW Newington Armoury at Sydney Olympic Park. It relates to a poem that my father wrote about my sisters and I, shown through the imagery and surrealistic qualities of the piece.'

If you would like to purchase prints please contact us at MoshPit Publishing narrator@moshpitpublishing.com.au

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

Well here we are again with a Spring edition of Narrator Blue Mountains—our first anniversary edition!

And to coincide with that, we are also releasing our first Central Tablelands edition this month, to encourage our writing friends from Bathurst to Orange, Mudgee to Oberon, to join the fun. If you know anyone out there who likes to write, please let them know they now have an outlet for their work!

Thanks to David Berger, our Guest Judge for last month's issue, for some timely advice about how to make the best of your submission. As Narrator is free online, we can't afford to edit stories, so it's in your best interest to have the spelling, grammar and punctuation as polished as possible.

If you haven't already joined our Facebook page, we'd love you to do so—it makes keeping you updated so much easier, especially when we had a little domain name hiccup a couple of weeks ago! Log onto www,facebook.com/narratormagazine and click 'Like' today!

The other good news is that we've started uploading our back issues in plain text format to Smashwords in America (at  www.smashwords.com) which allows us much wider coverage than before. Smashwords takes our raw files and then, using their proprietary _Meatgrinder_ technology, spits out a whole pile of digital files in different formats. This lets people with Kindles and Nooks and iPads and other types of ereader to download Narrator in the format of their choice for hand held reading. As at the time of writing (mid August) the Winter issue of Narrator Blue Mountains had been downloaded 116 times, and the Autumn issue an incredible 142 times!

Our next step is to refine the files according to the Smashwords Style Guide so that they get accepted into the Smashwords Premium Catalogue—this will then see Narrator distributed to Barnes and Noble, Sony, Kobo, Apple, Diesel and Scrollmotion—broadening your audience even more! Amazon is also on the list, but there are technical issues between Amazon and Smashwords that are still being sorted.

So it's all happening, folks! Thanks again for your support, and now, read on ...

### Jenny Mosher

September 2011

Caricature: Jenny Mosher's caricature (above) by local artist Todd Sharp. For more info, visit <http://www.toddasharp.com/>

### Winning Entries for Winter 2011

Our fourth issue, Winter 2011, was judged by former English teacher and author David Berger. David's final choices were:

First prize—$200 to Aristidis, Katoomba, for his story Henrietta de Chook and her Totally Awesome Adventure—'because apart from being very funny, witty and entertaining, it is reminiscent of Plato's Cave and the awful burden of having secret knowledge that you can't share with anybody even though that knowledge would bring joy to others'

Second prize—$100 to Cathy Tanaka, Blackheath, for her poem Spin Me Round Sky—'this is a lovely celebration of being at one with the universe, a timeless embrace between humanity and Nature, and the recognition of the intertwining of all life'

Third prize—$50 to Michael Burge, Leura, for his story A Quick Fix—'something entirely different .. which .. structured like a long email from a girl to her parents, it analyses prejudice with the biting logic of an unprejudiced teenager'

David also made special mention of:

Ode to Tony—'for its light-hearted fun and its range of emotions'

The Stranger—'a haunting story as well as being a nice piece of prose, but sadder and more ethereal'

From a Window—'a poem which uses a clever use of homophones and rhymes to produce an interesting word scape of Europe'

Where is the Female Tolstoy—'a thoughtful analysis of the place of women's writing today'

Wedding—'an interesting post-modernist fascinating and clever use of language to tell a story'

### A few suggestions for better writing, from our Guest Judge ...

Writers should use 'spell-check' and 'grammar-check' and also get a friend to proofread the final draft. Many writers use _it's_ (short for _it is_ ) rather than _its_ (for possession: _its fur_ ), or _who's_ (short for _who is_ ) instead of _whose_ (and vice versa). Also, there is no _of_ in an English sentence such as 'I could of seen it'. It should be 'have' and the error arises from speech when we say 'I could've seen it'.

Many articles are reminiscences and, although interesting, do not convey any story or something to make the reader go away and think about things. It's important that your story or poem has a purpose.

However, we have some great writers in the Mountains and I really enjoyed the privilege of having 'first view' of the Winter 2011 submissions.

### David Berger

David Berger is a former English teacher and is also the author of _Letters from Paris_ which explores the City of Light through the stories of ordinary people living there, by meeting these people on their own terms, and viewing their city through their eyes.

This is not your usual tourist guide, but an insightful and thought-provoking book about what makes Parisiennes who they are and Paris what it is.

_Letters from Paris_ is available from Written for Women at <http://www.writtenforwomen.com/> for $24.95 plus $5 p&h.

Congratulations to our People's Choice Award winner Stephen Studach for his piece The Sea Dog's Last.

### Poetry

A Moment

Another Day

Between the Lines

Candle in the Wind

Celestial Femme

Faustus

First Mother-in-Law

Gloria Davidson

Memories

Quiet

Taste of Beauty

The Leaping for Joy Girl

The Prickly Tree

What Cannot be Contained

### Stories

Anniversary

Devil Bone

Endings

Falling Over in Longlowe

Golden Eyed

Love in the Suburbs

Selling Green

Spectacle

Suburbia

The Facility

The Golden Statue of Lord Carnarvon

The Man Who Talked to Animals

The Tragic End of Anne Lid

Vide Grenier

What is River?

Golden Eyed – John Ross

'Dark they were and golden eyed', is the topic for this week at our creative writing group. Try as I might I could not get any inspiration and so turned to GOOGLE.

'Dark They Were and Golden Eyed' was the title of a science fiction short story written by Ray Bradbury and was originally published in the magazine 'Thrilling Wonder Stories' in August 1949. For some reason this information coupled with the words 'Dark' and 'Golden Eyed' jogged my memory about some news articles I had read about a real, or mythical, Blue Mountains Panther. Sometimes I worry about how my mind works, but usually just go with the flow. You surely remember the stories of people sighting these large black animals that resemble panthers. They have been sighted from Penrith to Bathurst.

Anyway last night, still lacking inspiration, I took myself off to bed. As usual when something is bugging me I could not sleep. Thoughts of things with 'Golden Eyes' and stories of wild animals ran like an annoying TV advertisement, round and round in my mind. Finally, exhausted, I rolled on my side and expelled all thoughts of such things and drifted off to sleep. 'Drifted off to sleep.' What a strange expression. Why don't we 'float off' or even 'undulate off.' See I told you that I worry about the strange sidetracks that my mind sometimes takes.

Well, I must have been asleep for hours when I suddenly became aware of a presence. It did not frighten me. In fact it excited me, with a feeling of tremendous power and energy. I was aware that my body was still lying asleep in my bed but my mind was telling me that I was outside the house. It was so real that I could feel the cold on my skin and the rough grass beneath my feet. I was hungry, with a deep, sickening, empty feeling that told me that I needed to eat very soon.

I felt young again. My body was tensed and I could feel my muscles flexing beneath my skin. Adrenalin was pulsing through me like small electric shocks. Danger was all around and the smell of my most feared enemy was strong in my nostrils. Normally I would not venture this close to where he slept but hunger had driven me out of the dense bush where I usually hunted.

The full moon escaped from behind a cloud and I froze fearing that I might be seen. The light was so bright that I could see the steam of my breath on the cold night air. I waited, poised for instant flight, but no shout of alarm came or any dog started barking. Slowly, carefully, I inched my way forward. Just in front of me was the strange den of some of the enemy. Carefully I looked inside. With a jolt that made my whole body spasm and paralysed my mind I saw myself asleep in my bed.

A noise outside the window disturbed me and for an instant my mind was in turmoil. Where was I? I sat up and looked outside. Bright moonlight, a dark shape and two burning golden eyes.

I tried to scream, to warn my wife but my vocal chords were frozen. I could not move. Invisible forces were holding me down, constricting my arms and legs.

A voice intruded. My wife's. Wake up! Wake up! You're yelling out in your sleep. It must be a nightmare. Wake up!

It had been so real; but it was just a dream.

As I was having my cereal this morning my wife who had been out picking some camellias for the house came inside and said, 'Come out and look at this.' Still munching on my toast I followed her out to the front path.

There were huge muddy paw prints everywhere ...

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Celestial Femme – Albany Dighton

An elliptical ray of light elicits the contours of quintessential beauty;

Shrouded in darkness and mystery, the seductive femme is a vision to behold.

A dominant force of eroticism and pleasure,

She'll snake and lure, destroy and conquer;

This body and soul exudes no mercy.

The danger unfolds beneath her slender expose,

As shadows lick between the thighs.

The wrists are coupled with passionate friction,

And her pneumatic breasts emanate soulful esteem,

Upon a spine that curves with a transgressional demeanour.

Waves of desire suffocate the voyeur,

Possessing the thoughts of innocent bystanders.

Sensual, sexual, the empress engulfs her captives with such finesse;

Her lovers witness to her subtlety,

She is but a shrine for her disciples.

The power of silhouette, her aura, her enigma,

Exhibits the sheerness, the rawness, the grace and the radiance

Of such a powerful energy, cascading in light,

Succumbing to her force.

Taste of Beauty – Jean Bundesen

Night slinks in thief like.

Air crisp and cold.

Full moon

A shimmering golden orb

Galleon of ages past

Floats above ink black trees.

Silvered moonlight

Silhouetted shadows.

A drop

Of water falling

Breaks the emptiness of silence.

Alluring scent of mown grass.

The beauty of this night

Tugs and tears

My heart.

A setting for romance

Though ...

It's just the dog and me.

The Leaping for Joy Girl – Alan Lucas

She is leaping down a sloping path in front of her mother,

Who strolls unconcerned

A few paces behind,

She leaps and jumps for the sheer joy being,

Seemingly floats, defies gravity,

Her mother calm, unconcerned,

Carries her school bag.

Perhaps she is demonstrating

Her new ballets steps,

Or perhaps the sunshine, a fresh breeze, the scent of flowers

Have coalesced to produce

Her moment of joy,

The sudden, unspoken knowledge

That everything is ahead,

That all her anticipated life is ahead,

And of a sudden the young girl is joyous,

Flying for an instant like an angel,

Like Nijinsky.

I drive by with the image still with me,

And remember a young boy

Who could leap like that,

And from the same kind

Of joy.

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Love in the Suburbs – Paris Portingale

Somewhere in Middle Europe ...

Vince Nazwisko, a Polish crane operator, arrives home after a day at work. His wife, Katarzyna, currently unemployed, but fully trained as a hair beautician (Warsaw Polytechnic – 1965) and, having been brought up on a farm, just outside Wroclaw, possessing a more than passing familiarity with tractor maintenance, catches a whiff of him as he goes past and exclaims, 'You smell like some woman's vagina.'

Shocked and surprise, Vince says, 'What woman?'

'I don't know,' his wife tells him. 'Clearly you're the one schtooping her.'

Vince raises an arm and smells but can find no trace of vagina. He says, 'What vagina?'

Meanwhile, Katarzyna has visited the kitchen, returning with a Sunbeam mix-master, which she now uses to beat Vince to the ground, alternating between swinging the heavy base on the end of its cord, and bashing the more than solid mixing bowl against the side of his head.

From the floor, Vince can see up Katarzyna's dress, and he stares till Katarzyna kicks him in the eyes. 'You are a vile, pervy piece of shit,' she tells him.

'Fuck you,' he tells her and she kicks him in the stomach and testicles. She is wearing her pointy stilettos, which are her best kicking shoes, a happy coincidence as she had no prior knowledge Vince would be coming home smelling of another woman's vagina.

Vince crawls off, managing to make it to the kitchen, and he wiggles himself under the table. Meanwhile, Katarzyna has fetched the mop-handle and, bending, is trying to jam it down his throat. Vince, being no man's fool, is refusing to cooperate and won't open his mouth.

'Open your mouth, you arsehole piece of crap,' she tells him, but it is falling on deaf ears. He has no intention of opening his mouth while she's poking at his face with the stick like that.

The phone rings at this point and Katarzyna tells Vince, 'Don't move,' and goes off to answer it. When she returns, she tells him, 'It's for you,' and when Vince gets out from under the table, Katarzyna takes advantage and breaks the mop handle over his head.

The call proves to be from a tele-marketing centre, which Katarzyna knew, but kept from Vince as she wanted the opportunity to get him in the head with the stick.

Vince would like to confront her with this deception, but doesn't, as, while rolled into a ball under the table, he has discovered he does in fact smell like some woman's vagina and would like the whole thing over as soon as possible, so they can move onto something more general and less confronting.

As Vince goes to hang up, Katarzyna takes that handset from him and strikes him on the side of the head with it. Vince goes down and Katarzyna takes the rest of the phone and drops it onto his face. It is an older style telephone, quite heavy, and Vince briefly loses consciousness.

When he comes to, some moments later, he finds Katarzyna now has one of the halves of the mop handle and is trying to get it inside his mouth and down his throat. He tries to tell her to stop, but the mop handle is making speech virtually impossible, and his exhortations of, 'Fuck off, you're choking me, you fucking bitch,' are just garbled streams of noise.

The phone goes again and Katarzyna is forced to leave the stick in Vince's mouth and answer it. Turning, she says, 'It's your mother,' but when Vince gets the handset it is the same call centre again, and Katarzyna takes the opportunity to hit him in the head with the other half of the phone and shout, 'Faithless bastard,' at him.

Vince holds up his hand for quiet, because with all the shouting he can't hear what the person on the other end of the line is saying, but Katarzyna keeps hitting him and notes absently that the phone, remarkably, retains its connection.

When she stops to get her breath, Vince hears, '...and so saving you $35.00 a month for the entire first year of the contract,' and Vince is forced to ask, 'What contract?'

The caller says, 'The contract I've just been telling you about,' and Vince says, 'Right. And is that American dollars?' to which the caller replies, 'No, Nigerian.'

Vince says, 'The Nigerian dollar is holding well against the greenback at the moment,' and the caller says, 'Yes, the whole deal would be greatly to your advantage.'

Katarzyna says, 'Don't agree to anything without asking me,' and, having got her breath back, begins striking him again with the other half of the phone.

Vince tells the caller, 'I'll have to ring you back,' and stupidly hands the handset back to his wife, whereupon she strikes him on the head with it till he falls again to the floor.

Any normal man would be dead by now, but it takes a lot of strength to drive a crane and Vince has many of the physical capabilities of oxen. However, even someone part man, mostly ox, has his limits and Vince feigns a coma, hoping the punishment will stop, which it does.

Katarzyna, having tired of the bending required to beat at a man lying on the floor, retires to the kitchen for a tumbler of vodka to steady her nerves. It is 'Golden Bison,' imported all the way from Poland in bottles. She has just finished half a large tumbler when the phone rings. Stupidly, Vince calls out, 'I'll get it,' and gets up and answers. He's hoping it's the tele-marketer ringing back, as he's keen to explore the new contract being offered, and the consequent savings, all in the exciting and exotic new currency of Nigerian dollars.

It is his mother, however, and he tells her, 'Get off the line, I'm expecting an important call.'

Katarzyna wanders in then and he mouths the words, 'My mother,' to her and she brings the half mop handle, which she's forward-thinkingly kept with her, down hard against his neck, causing him to drop the receiver and squeal in pain.

'Fuck your mother,' Katarzyna says, 'She is a slut and a whore-bitch,' and downs the vodka and throws the empty tumbler at Vince's head, where it makes contact and smashes.

***

Later in the evening we find Vince and Katarzyna discussing the movie, 'Casablanca,' during an advertisement break on the television. They start replaying a scene at random, Vince taking the part of Humphrey Bogart and Katarzyna playing Ingrid Bergman. It goes like this:

Vince/Bogart: Of all the gin-joints in all the world, you had to come into my gin-joint.

Katarzyna/Bergman: So, this is your gin-joint?

Vince/Bogart: Yes, it's my gin-joint.

Katarzyna/Bergman: Heh, how long have you had it?

Vince/Bogart: God, like for ages now.

Katarzyna/Bergman: Huh. Who's that over there?

Vince/Bogart: Claude Rains.

Katarzyna/Bergman: He looks shorter in the flesh. Is he drunk?

Vince/Bogart: Probably. Hey, I suppose a ride's out of the question?

The show is back on again now, and they return their concentration to the TV. In the next break they resume their replaying of the film.

Vince says, 'Okay, now I think we're up to the part where Sydney Greenstreet comes in.'

Katarzyna says, 'Right, so what happens now?'

'Claude Rains shoots him I think,' Vince says, and Katarzyna replies, 'Claude Rains never shoots him,' and picks up a large glass ashtray and throws it at his head.

Anniversary – Aristidis Metaxas

There are some who say that magic doesn't exist, that it is merely an illusion and that the real is what matters, and that the precious experiences we had in our childhood slip away as we grow older. This may be so for some, but as I think back over a few of the events that happened when I was a child, that strange otherworldly time when I seemed to be so much older and knew the answers to the mysteries, I know for certain that these very same events helped shape my life and are still with me to this day.

I remember even now this particular golden and warm summer's day, school was out for the time and the months were spent on a farm out in the country, 'Nana's Place' they called it, some of my happiest times and memories were there, and some of the strangest also. That day I was sitting in a meadow, watching the butterflies float by looking like golden empresses and their transparent wings shining in the sun. Me and Tinker the cat were playing with the flowers and sunbeams, watching the air traffic of bugs and beetles winging their way through the air, all kinds of tiny little flying machines making their way around the best they could, when suddenly I had the strange feeling that I had to get up and go into the house were Nana was preparing lunch. Don't know what came over me, I just had to get up and walk towards the big ol' house, for no particular reason. Lunch was still a while off and I really wanted to stay in that meadow for a little longer. Tinker the cat was looking at me kind of strange like, as if he knew what was about to happen, cats do that sometimes. He went ahead of me, tail up in the air leading the way, and me following behind him unable to shake the strange feeling that was growing inside of me...

As I entered the doorway of the house I had the oddest sensation that something was about to happen, something ordinary and yet so unusual and inexplicable that I would remember this very day for the rest of my life. I couldn't see Nana in the kitchen so I slowly went up the stairs to the top floor where the bedrooms were, hoping to find her there. Tinker the cat was in an odd kind of way meowing at me, trying to tell me something, wanting to come up with me but something made him stay behind. As I came to the top of the staircase I could hear Nana's voice humming softly from the bedroom. I nearly called out to her but, to this day I still don't know why or what, something told me to keep quiet.

I went to the bedroom where Nana was humming, the door was slightly ajar, and through the narrow opening I saw her all dressed up in her finest dress and shoes, she looked real pretty, with her silver grey hair done up in a bun and held in place with a golden pin. She had her eyes closed, her head was slightly tilted to one side as if she were listening to an inner voice, or perhaps she was remembering something from her past, some precious memory that had come calling unexpectedly and unannounced. She was clutching an old record to her heart, one of those 78s you see today in the junk shops for a dollar, and it seemed to me as if she was in a trance, she didn't see me or didn't even acknowledge me in any way, she seemed so far away, somewhere in an inner landscape that only she and children knew and had entry to. Do you know it?

After a little while she opened her eyes and looked at the record for what seemed like a long time, almost as if she were hesitating, then softly and gently wiped it with a silken handkerchief before turning towards the old grammy player and with careful hands turned the handle and placed the platter on the turntable. Music filled the bedroom, music – although a little scratchy and worn, music that I can still hear today, music that I haven't forgotten and can't get out of my head even after all those years. Nana had closed her eyes and swayed to the sounds coming from the old gramophone, and then, with small and careful steps began to dance, dancing as if she were with an invisible partner, her face shining in the golden light of the morning sun that was streaming through the bedroom windows, sun that seemed to mingle with the sounds of this strange and wonderful music.

Nana danced like this for what seemed to me a very long time, and then suddenly with a soft cry, as if waking from a beautiful dream she stopped in the middle of the room and looked around herself sort of bewildered. Her fingers touched her lips as if she had been startled and slowly she walked towards the dressing table and sat down before the big mirror. With a dreamlike motion she loosened her long beautiful hair and began to brush it, kind of absent minded as if seeing something that only she could see, when from behind the door appeared Grandpa, and he walked towards Nana softly as if he didn't want to wake her from a deep sleep.

He gently took the brush from her hands and began to brush Nana's hair, his strong brown hand resting on her shoulder, ever so lightly, ever so tenderly as if trying to reassure her not to be afraid, that there was nothing to fear. Nana, her eyes still closed, softly touched his hand and put it against her cheek, tears were rolling down her face, and after a while the music stopped. Grandpa put the brush back on the dressing table, kissed Nana on the forehead, whispered something in her ear, and before leaving placed a red rose in front of Nana right there on that dressing table. Nana opened her eyes and I could see that she wanted to call out to Grandpa, trying to say something to him, maybe asking him to stay a little while longer, but she kept silent and watched him walk out the other door leading from the bedroom down to the backyard.

Nana sat for a long time before that dressing table looking with love at the red rose left for her by Grandpa. After a while she picked it up, opened the drawer of the dresser, gently placed the rose into it, closed the drawer again and then stood up, fixed her hair and looked at her reflection in the mirror. She looked at once happy and sad, old and yet so much younger, a strange mix of emotions that we sometimes feel when we don't know whether our tears are tears of joy or sorrow, when we laugh and cry at the same time.

She walked through the same doorway that Grandpa had left open, softly singing to herself the same tune that had played on the ol' grammy. I waited without making a sound until I could hear her downstairs in the kitchen before I entered the bedroom. I could still feel Grandpa's presence in the room, I could smell the tobacco and the after shave he used to wear. I could smell the leather from his boots, all the familiar aromas that I had come to love and know of Grandpa.

To this very day I don't know what made me open the drawer of the dresser, but as I watched my hand slowly open it I became aware that what I was about to see would change the way I would see reality from then on forever. Inside that drawer were four roses, all neat and tidy like, resting on white tissue paper, three of them all dried up and the colour drained from them, but the fourth rose still fresh and full in bloom, its fragrance filling the room, filling my head, filling my very body and soul... The room began to spin, I felt dizzy and yet the dizziness turned into unbelievable joy, joy and reassurance that all was well, that everything was all right.

I never told anyone about this strange occurrence until now, there are some things better left untold, no one would believe me anyhow, and as we grow older and more grown up those times of magic fade into the darkness, and we begin to doubt and question our own perceptions and memories. If you asked me what really happened that day I can give no reasonable answer but I can tell you this:

Perhaps it is true childhood memories are for kids, that ghosts don't exist, that the dead are dead and can never come back to life, that we are told to leave childish things and imaginings. This may be so. But I know without doubt that I saw Grandpa place a red rose on that dressing table and I saw Nana put it into that drawer of the old dresser. I also know that I saw four roses in that drawer, all lined up. That in itself may be quite ordinary and nothing special, an old married couple celebrating their anniversary and a husband giving a red rose to his wife. Ordinary indeed one could say except for the fact that Grandpa had been dead for four years on that very same day.

I wish I had kept that record or taken notes of the tune that was playing, I never found that record again nor do I think I ever will, nor heard the tune on the radio except in my memories. Sometimes things like that are better left where they are, in that Kingdom where only children and old folks can enter.

Kind of makes you think, don't it...

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Gloria Davidson – Abena Gyemfuah

Here again, gone again

July winter wind chills cracked her skin dry.

Not knowing what awaited her home;

She gathers from the grocer and plans her folks' dinner, a routine so accustom to her, she dares not to ruffle.

Meanwhile, the house laid empty after a day long enough at work.

HE appeared from nowhere and then gone again in a packed car full of their memories – and for what?

Mother in her shock gathered her children and nestled them tight in her bosom, huddled up close in the couch;

Tears flooded them.

They moaned, they groaned, they wept, he's gone!

This can't be happening, our beautiful family, our sacred love withers.

Rejection and misery gripped her.

Yet she stood up straight, scurries up her feet at once, children to be fed;

She bestows love upon her children and comforted them, the way she had always done;

And together they were secured in that love, that warmth, again.

A year is passed, nothing ever the same, here again, gone again, pain ever so raw.

Vide Grenier – Samantha Miller

Monsieur Farfalu was bored. His lover had left him last week and he had finished his vin ordinaire the previous night. He was loath to start on his good wine, so he must go out into the village to stock up.

Taking his moto¹ from his back garden he putted into the local town to have a look around and buy much needed produce. As he drove along he noticed vide grenier² taking place outside the house of one of the mushrooms of foreigners that had been popping up in the last twenty years. He grunted as he passed taking in the two women at the stall.

Marina and Veronika had been at their stall since 6am sipping coffee and exchanging the desultory conversation of friends who know they will spend a whole day together and so are in no rush to make a gossip deadline. The stall was actually all Veronika's with Marina (a sporadic local) being drafted in to help and keep company. The coffee was good, the weather was fine and it looked like being a lovely day for it.

Being a Saturday all the locals were out in force. M. et Madame LeClare stopped to chat and snoop, but didn't really want anything. Some English people on holiday recognising a possible compatriot came over for advice on and directions to the local sights. A man approached looking at a set of four wooden folding chairs and asked to purchase them. He would check his house for the size and would phone Veronika to see if they were still available.

M. Farfalu backtracked on his moto, leaned it against a wall and approached the stall. Like the previous local, his eye was on the set of four folding wooden chairs and he was about to have a little fun. After not much thought Veronika had set a price of four euros each for the chairs with a combined price of €14 for taking all of them. M. Farfalu asked for one chair for only €3.

'If I'm to break up the set, I want my €4', said Veronika staunchly.

'Pah!' said M. Farfalu, getting into his stride, 'It isn't worth it for me.'

'So, don't buy it,' Veronika stuck to her guns.

M. Farfalu bargained back and forth enjoying himself immensely, but Veronika wouldn't budge. So off went M.Farfalu to do his shopping.

When Veronika was ready for lunch, she and Marina agreed to take turns for a break. M. Farfalu was in the area and saw his chance. He thought Marina was a fine looking woman and he was in need of a woman himself.

Sure enough, the coast being clear M. Farfalu wandered across to her and sat in the chair vacated by Veronika. Smiling his best smile and exuding the fumes of his time at the village bar, he offered her five euros for two of the chairs. Leaning a little back from him, Marina explains that they are not hers to sell and perhaps they are already sold anyway.

Disappointment etched on his face, M. Farfalu scans the stall. 'Do you have anything to drink?' he asks.

Mystified by this turn of events, Marina replies, 'No, this is a vide grenier stall, not a bar.'

'Ah,' he then says as if he has won a major point, 'then come to the village bar with me.'

With Marina declining this kind offer, M. Farfalu takes himself off to the village bar, humming to himself.

On Veronika's return, they discuss their recurrent visitor and decide that if he tries again for the chairs the price will be €4 for one chair, but he can have two chairs for €6.

M. Farfalu is down, but not out. Fortified by his next trip to the bar, he is ready to return to the fray.

'Two chairs for €5' he cries. 'You can bring them to my house, it's not far.'

'Of course, not,' Veronika says. 'This is a vide Grenier, not a shop.' She smiles and waves her arms dramatically at the items left on the stall. 'The price is €6 for the two chairs and you must take them yourself.'

'But Madam, I am on my moto. What would you have me do?' He pleads with a gleam in his eye, belying his attempts to look pathetic. 'How will you feel tomorrow, when you take up your newspaper to find I am dead by the roadside with the two chairs wrapped about my neck?' He gestures dramatically. 'Will you not then feel guilty and wish you had delivered the chairs?' Though M. Farfalu was very pleased with this visual, it didn't have the desired effect with both women stoutly declaring their lack of any finer feelings with regards to his safety in the matter.

The wind knocked out of his sails, M. Farfalu slumped a little, before sadly telling the women that he could get his van, but he really didn't feel like riding home and then driving back to pick up the chairs.

'What do you think is in it for me to drive to your village just to deliver two chairs for €6?' Veronika asked. 'It costs more than that in petrol and I won't be getting the chairs.'

M. Farfalu has another try.

'Oh, but I will give you a nice drink on my boat.'

'I don't want a drink,' Veronika replies.

'Cake then. I have just bought a lovely cake,' he offers.

'And how much did you pay for the cake?' Marina asks.

On finding the cost of the cake was the difference of the offer and the cost of the chairs, the two women fall about laughing.

'If you hadn't bought the cake you are offering us you could have paid for the chairs,' they say.

At that M. Farfalu perked up. An idea had so obviously implanted itself in his mind that Marina felt as though a light bulb should appear above his messy salt and pepper coiffure.

'It's too late now,' he says 'those chairs won't sell this time in the afternoon. You should just let me have them for €5 and deliver them to my house, or you will just have them left on your hands,' he warns.

Well, Veronika doesn't mind keeping the chairs and so after all this time, no bargain is struck at all.

M. Farfalu is pleased with his day. He has stocked up his supplies, had a nice drink and renewed his appreciation of the females of the world. He leaves with Veronika's address in case the chairs will fit under the shelf in his boat.

He smiles as he weaves away on his moto, Veronika's parting shot reverberating in his ears.

'Don't bother driving over if you aren't prepared to pay the €6.' m

¹A low cc motorbike or moped

²A vide grenier is a garage sale, as charming direct translation being 'empty attic'.

With thanks to my mother Marina for the original material that became this story.

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What Cannot Be Contained – Michele Fermanis-Winward

Each drop is absolute

it falls through space

holds life and captured light.

Repeated out of time

beyond the known millennia

to carve a chasm or a cave

within our rock and earth.

Locked into lakes

or swelling up from springs

a river's course replenished by ice thaw.

We halt its pace in tank and pipe

held tight for future use

until a washer fails

then it resumes the journey as before.

To fall through space

each drop marks time relentlessly

reverberates against unyielding iron.

Eclipsing other sounds

it carves a chasm in my mind

the silence broken by a dripping tap

that cannot be contained.

Another Day – John Egan

Who was this child

Who sat alone

Whom to many

Would not be known

Who stood behind

To brush the hair

Could be a mother

With loving care

Who's eyes were bright

And clear

But sometimes shed

A silent tear

Who made the frock

That fits so well

Why or when

No one can tell

Who gave the book

So dearly treasured

With stories of

Yesteryear

That cannot be measured

Who built the table

So sturdy in bás

It enhances

The tall ornate váse

Who arranged the flowers

All part of the day

Many will guess

But none can say

Who will look in adoration

Unable to use

Imagination

Who will read

Then walk away

Left with thoughts

Of another day

Once when on my way to visit a friend in the Southern Highlands of New South Wales I passed by a shop window and glanced at something within which caused me to turn back to take a proper look. Centred amongst a display of soft furnishings was a framed print. Portraying a child it revealed all the grace and charm of a bygone era.

Some weeks later I was in the same area, but not to visit my friend. I was surprised to see that self same print was still in the window. Being a person who likes to know the whys and wherefores of everything I ventured into the shop to make some enquiries. I learnt that it was a copy of the original photo taken in 1910. Furthermore it was the woman as a child that can be seen sweeping the floor in Tom Robert's oil on canvas entitled 'Shearing of the Rams'. That to me was something historical so I enquired, was it for sale, and yes it was, so I bought it.

After I wrote the poem I offered it and the print to my cousin. Offer of the poem was rejected but the framed print was received with gratitude. Placed in a prominent position in her house it remained there for many years, to be known by all as 'Emily'. As my cousin is presently being cared for in a nursing home the framed print is now in the proud possession of her granddaughter.

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What is River? – J-L Heylen

I want to tell you a story.

There were two parents, a mother and a father. They had two lovely sons and were pregnant with a third child. Knowing the wealth of research that had been done since the 1970s about how sexual stereotypes were all about what other people thought was true about how the xx or the xy chromosome determined a whole lot of social, physical and mental factors, these parents had tried as hard as they could not to inflict these gender stereotypes onto their sons.

Instead of deciding what their sons would wear each day, for example, the parents let their boys choose. Sometimes one or other of the boys would choose something pink. Each of them might, and did, on occasion, choose to wear a dress. The kids were also given complete control over what they chose to play with, and who they chose to play with. Whenever the boys jumped to a conclusion about someone's behaviour based on their sex, the parents tried to explain that those assumptions might well be correct, but not because the person was born male, or female, but rather, because they had been told they were that sex from birth, and that had caused them to act that way.

As the boys grew older and went to school, it became increasingly obvious that the values of respect and inclusion, regardless of gender, were being undermined in the school room and the playground. When one of the boys was told a story of little Red Riding Hood, he put up his hand and told the teacher that he thought the story was silly. Why would little Red Riding Hood need an axeman to save her? Why couldn't she reason her way out of trouble herself? he had asked. The teacher was angry, and sent him out of the room. The teacher had sent a note home to his parents saying Jess was a 'disruptive influence' in the classroom and that his tendency to interrupt all the time was symptomatic of a possible attention deficit disorder.

Eventually, the parent realised that if they wanted to maintain their 'gender-neutral' beliefs, they would have to take the boys out of the social system that perpetuated what they believed to be myths. For the next three years they home-schooled their sons. Then, they got pregnant with their third child.

The parents didn't want to know the sex of the child. They had already chosen a name for it, but that name was gender-neutral too, so no-one would be able to decide the sex by hearing the name. When the boys asked whether they were going to have a brother or a sister, the parents asked 'Why does it matter?' The boys had no good answer to the question. The older one, who was wiser in the ways of the world, tried to answer that he would like a little sister to play with, but his parents just asked again, 'Why does it matter? You can play the same games with a brother or a sister. You can help just as much with either, and your little sibling will need your help and friendship all through their life, regardless of their sex. Cody had to admit that this was true, as far as he had experienced. He was good at throwing and catching but Jess was rubbish at it. But Jess was really good at explaining stuff, and he wasn't, Cody thought. There was a heap of stuff that he was good at and liked to do, that Jess wasn't so good at or didn't like to do, and theirs was a heap of stuff that worked the other way.

When the baby was born, the parents looked between its legs and saw what sex it was. The woman's parents asked what they had, but the mother and father refused to tell anyone. The next door neighbours dropped in when they got back from the hospital, the parents, Cody, Jess, and River. They asked if River was a boy's name. They thought it sounded like a boy's name, they said. The parents refused to tell. No matter who asked, the parents refused to say what sex River was. People thought of the famous actor, and decided the child must be a boy. They brought around toys that they hoped wouldn't be offensive to the parents, who had made their views on gender as a social construct perfectly clear. Surely a jigsaw puzzle couldn't be a problem, they concluded. Indeed, River received many puzzles—and had two favourites. One was a picture of a train going over a bridge. The train was red, River's favourite colour. The other was a picture of a ballerina in a beautiful red tutu. It seemed River didn't care so much about the subject matter of the picture, as long as it had a lot of red in it. When she grew old enough to ride a bike, she wanted a red one.

The boys knew better by now than to ask either of their parents whether River was their sister or their brother. So one day, Cody offered to change River's nappy. Like I said before, he was wise in the ways of the world and knew how sex manifested itself in the physical make-up of his dad and him and Jess, compared to his mum. So, of course, as soon as he took the nappy off, he could see what River was. He immediately went running to his mother saying 'Mum, Mum, I know what River is.' He was disappointed at the lack of excitement his mother showed. She just said, straight back to him, just as she had before the birth, 'Why does it matter?'

This time Cody had his answer prepared. 'I just wanted to know, Mum.'

'Well, now you know, Cody. Please don't mention it again, because it doesn't matter, does it?'

Cody thought of the television show he had seen just the night before, where a boy had refused to play with his little sister because she wasn't good at climbing. The boy in the show had said she wasn't good at climbing because she was a girl. The whole family in the TV show had said nothing about this comment. They all acted as if this was a perfectly reasonable explanation and a perfectly reasonable response from the boy character. Jess had piped up and said 'That's not fair. She probably can't climb very well because she's younger than him.' Jess suffered from being less physically able than his older brother, and he knew how this felt. His parents glanced at each other knowingly. This was a good observation from their son, they felt.

Cody had thought about this for a long time. He also knew Jess was less physically able than him and he had always assumed it was to do with his age too. But maybe the boy on the TV show was right. Maybe Jess was actually a girl, inside, where it mattered. Maybe the fact that he had a penis and balls didn't matter so much as how he behaved. Boys climbed trees. Jess couldn't climb trees very well. Boys were good at throwing a ball and playing cricket and riding bikes, and Jess wasn't good at any of those things. Therefore, Jess must be a girl and I'm a boy, Cody concluded.

After the conversation about River with his mother, Cody started watching people a lot more than he had before. He watched how Jess behaved, and concluded that Jess must be a girl, because Jess liked lots of things that girls seemed to like. He concluded he was a boy because he liked lots of things that Jess didn't like, but which the boys that visited them did like. He watched his father, and noticed that there were some quite obvious differences in behaviour between him and his mother. They both shared the cooking, but his mum was terrible at cleaning up after herself. His dad was much more fastidious (although Cody said he was 'cleaner', because he didn't know the word fastidious!). From what he could tell, this would make his dad a girl. But his dad loved watching sport on Saturday, while his mum was in the studio painting, so this would make his dad a man, definitely.

On things like physical prowess, his mum and his dad seemed to be pretty much equal. His mum was just as capable and willing to jump on the bike with River in the baby seat and Cody and Jess in the buggy as his dad was. They both changed light bulbs, screwed in hooks, painted the walls, took out the garbage, and drove the car. So, Cody concluded, the jury was still out, then. It was hard to tell what sex his mum or his dad really was.

So then he started watching River. Even though he knew what was between River's legs, he tried to look at the behaviours – what River liked and didn't like. This didn't help. Cody just couldn't conclude what was going on in River's head. One minute, the ballerina was favoured and River would seek out the Barbie doll with the red ballerina dress to mimic the moves being shown in the jigsaw. The next minute the red train set would be dragged from the toy box and River would be pretending that the whole room was filled with steam and chuffing engines as the carriage made its way from room to room.

What's a person supposed to think? Cody wasn't sure. Still, he didn't say anything to his parents about his research. He thought they'd be angry.

In fact, this was exactly what they had hoped would happen. They had wanted their children to make their own minds up about things, rather than rely on the physical appearance of a person, or the role that society determined they should have based on what chromosomal mix they had inherited. The fact that Cody could go against the physical proof of Jess' genitalia to conclude he was a girl was a step in the right direction, they would have thought. But Cody had already worked out that genders had values.

This became even more evident to him one day when his mother's sister came to stay for a few days, with her two children. All the children were in the tree house, including River, who had been carried up by Cody because River was still too small to climb the big steps in the ladder. Thomas, who was the same age as Jess, more or less, was boasting about his jumping ability and daring everyone there to match him.

'I'm the best jumper here,' Thomas proclaimed. 'I bet I can jump out of this tree house and land way over there, near where the cat is standing.'

'Don't be stupid, Thomas!' Jess warned, 'That's dangerous.'

'Yeah, you'll break something for sure!' Cody assessed, sagely. He was the oldest, after all. He understood that large impacts caused things to break, and that bodies weren't immune from this effect, regardless of whether you were a girl or a boy.

'Better not, Tom,' his sister cautioned. 'If you hurt yourself, Mum will be upset. She's already got enough to deal with.'

'Oh, you're such a bunch of girls!' Thomas yelled at them and leapt up before anyone could stop him. He launched himself from the tree house and landed almost on the spot that he said he would. The cat raced off, yowling, and hid under a chair on the verandah.

'I am not a girl!' Cody screamed, and jumped after Thomas. He landed next to Tom with a bone-jarring thump. Thomas looked at him and grinned. Cody had bitten his tongue when he hit the ground, and now he tasted blood, but somehow he knew that showing any weakness now might endanger this frail camaraderie that was now showing in Thomas' admiration, so he said nothing.

Jess was angry that Thomas had called him a girl, because he knew he wasn't one, but he also knew he didn't want to jump out of the tree house. He was smaller than Cody and Thomas, and thought he wouldn't get away with it unscathed. The problem was that he could also see how important this challenge was to Thomas, and how seriously Cody had reacted. He could see he was stuck in a dilemma. Jess wanted people to like him. He wanted to get on with people. Jess had been enjoying sitting in the tree house talking, without parents listening or intervening to correct them or ask them to do the dishes when he had other things he wanted to do instead. Proving he was a 'boy' by doing something obviously perilous would make Thomas like him. Thomas clearly had liked Cody because he had jumped. On the other hand, Mum and Dad always said that being a boy was just the same as being a girl, so why had Thomas used the term as an insult, and why had Cody taken it as such? If boys are so special, and girls so bad, Jess, wondered, why wasn't having a penis enough to make you a boy without you having to break a limb in a death-defying endeavour?

Cody and Thomas had turned towards the tree house and were now chanting his name, trying to get him to jump.

'Come on Jess, jump,' Cody encouraged.

'Jess is a Jessie, Jess is a girl!' Thomas teased.

Jess felt humiliated, but he really didn't understand why.

Thomas's sister, Fiona, was so disgusted by this show that she had gone back to her book, and was trying to ignore all of them.

By the time anyone noticed River, it was too late. River loved Cody, and admired him. Everything Cody did, River tried to do to. This had meant that River's development had been phenomenal. By copying Cody's behaviour, River's physical abilities, mental faculties and speech were more advanced than you would normally expect from a four year old. But four wasn't old enough to jump out of a tree house. As River followed Cody down to the ground, the other children watched, transfixed. River hit the ground in a heap and immediately started to scream in pain.

Thomas and Cody, who were closest, both seemed unable to act. A small part of them knew this might be their fault, and they didn't know what to do to fix it.

Jess didn't even wait to see what happened when River hit the ground. As soon as River shot past him, Jess jumped after the toddler. In his mind, he hoped he could go faster and catch River in mid air. He didn't know enough physics to know this wouldn't work. He had acted through instinct. When Jess hit the ground, he tumbled once, and came up quickly, deftly plucking River up in one arm as he raced into the house.

River had to go to hospital, and Mum wouldn't let anyone go with Dad and River except Jess. When they got home, hours later, Mum was still crying. She cried the most when she had gotten a text from Dad saying River just had a broken arm, and they would be home in a few hours.

After that, Cody decided in didn't matter if Jess or River was a girl or a boy. He thought Jess was the bravest person he had ever known, because he had been scared to jump, but had jumped anyway, to save River. He also decided he didn't like Thomas very much, and spent much more time with Fiona after that. He was really glad when Thomas went home to live with his dad. They can have each other, Cody thought.

In the years that passed, Cody rarely felt any need to wonder again about what made boys boys and girls girls. He knew the difference physically, but he didn't really care as long as they were nice people. He grew up understanding, too, that it didn't really matter so much if people liked him because he was a boy, or because he wasn't a boy. It was more important that he liked himself, and he did like himself.

When he got to uni, Cody realised other people liked him too, especially girls. There was a certain type of girl, too, he realised, that seemed to like him more because he didn't make any assumptions about what they should or shouldn't do. He judged people based on what they liked to do, and girls seemed to find this refreshing. In fact, more than that, they seemed to find it extremely attractive. It wasn't long before Cody learnt how his male genitalia fit with girl's female ones. He never tired of the novelty.

Cody had thought his upbringing was strange. People who weren't his parents told him this all the time. As he got older, he felt more and more that they were right. His upbringing was strange. His parents had indulged themselves in a social experiment that everyone else said was misguided, or even damaging. Cody agreed that it had been weird, but eventually he realised that weird didn't necessarily mean wrong. Now, when he could see how popular he was with girls because of his unconventional views, he silently thanked his parents for making him different. It had been hard, but it had been worth it.

And what of Jess, and River, you might ask?

Jess found the same effect when he started to explore the world. He studied, and travelled, and was respectful to everyone he met who deserved it, and even some who didn't. When he was nineteen, he went out one night with his cousin Thomas, and realised that he really liked sex with men as much as he did with women. Thomas had a real problem with being gay, but Jess didn't. After all, why did it matter?

As for River, well, let's just say that River worked out soon enough what she was, and she never let it hold her back, because she knew it didn't matter.

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Endings – Linda Yates

'A cold coming we had of it,

just the worst time of the year,

for a journey, such a long journey,

the ways deep and the weather sharp,

the very dead of winter.'

T.S. Eliot

There were two deaths that morning; my father's and the bird's. Well, really there were three, if you count the loss of some uncharted part of myself. Three souls taking flight as if in resonance with each other.

Sunlight had been pouring into the hospice lounge room all that week. A pleasant, cheerful room exuding peace. My six year old daughter had spent most of her time there quietly alone and patiently dividing her attention between the resident canary and her activity books, as I waited for my father to die. Unusually calm, almost angelic, for her.

Nurses popped in and out now and again, as did I. 'Does the bird get enough shade from the morning sun?' I had asked one of them, feeling the intensity of the heat through the glass on my own skin. No longer used to the Sydney weather.

'Oh he is well fussed over,' came the answer.

It had not started so amiably, that week.

'You can't take her out of school,' the teacher had said. 'She has already been away sick a lot this term. It's so disruptive.'

'Watch me', I wanted to say. There were many things I wanted to say. Like ... disruptive of what? Disruptive ... like death? That school might be the only reality known by teachers, but there might be more important things at work inside a person which school had disrupted.

But, of course, I said none of these things.

Instead, I slunk away, guilty, beaten before I had started.

Mind you, I did it anyway. Had to. There was nowhere else for her to go except with me. Katoomba was a long way from Sydney and I was stuck without transport or willing baby sitters, even if she had been willing to stay with them.

My husband, her father, had not even answered me when I asked if he could take time off work.

The call had come from my sister earlier in the week.

'He's at St Vincent's. We brought him here because he was in so much pain.' Voice stiff with accusation.

There it is again, my failure, suspended, hanging there.

'She can't still be sick?' I try to ignore this. I had not gone down to visit that weekend as planned because of my daughter's asthma. It had been a filthy, damp winter and I had watched helplessly as the mould grew, unchecked, across the ceilings and down the walls.

'Is he ok?' It sounded feeble even to me.

'He might feel better if his favourite daughter would visit him.'

Again there were things I wanted to say, but didn't. This is how our conversations had been for some time now. Since motherhood had come between us.

My sister, 'Why didn't the doctor tell us he was that bad?'

Me, 'Because he had been hiding his pain, I guess.'

'Why would he do that?'

'Lifetime of habit, I suppose.'

'What do you mean?'

'A lifetime of being unloved, feeling that he was a nuisance.'

'Oh.'

Clothes and toys and the medicines that were a constant in our life were hastily thrown into a suitcase. I still do not remember the trip down. Everything is blurred. The family had already been gathered at his bedside for some time. We managed a hasty greeting, but my arrival somehow signalled their right to go, leaving me alone. Again. With him. Sudden panic, seeing their disappearing backs.

'Oh well', he said wryly, not giving an inch, 'Once they get the morphine into me, I'll be gaga again and that will be the end of any sensible conversation.' He was referring to his reaction when he had had his heart operation years earlier, when he had to be tied up it made him so delirious, calling out our names over and over, trying to climb out of bed to find us, though we were right there. John, Linda, Mary. Desperation in his voice. Lost in his own disconnection.

'Dad.' Clumsy, hesitant.

'Your sister will be bossing you all about now! Pity I won't be here to see you all fighting over the bric-a-brac.' Is it now only a trick of my memory that I have him rubbing his hands together?

'Dad.' I struggle with the words to say it. He is already being wheeled down the corridor. Yet another back facing me. 'I am sorry I wasn't able to... to spend more time with you.

'It is not enough. I want to add 'I did not know you were going to die so soon.' But that would have made it too frank between us.

His familiar shrug. Defeat in the raising of the shoulders and dropping them, as though he had never expected anything better. It was there in the slope of his shoulders. 'I have to get on with things now.' Dying he means, I suppose.

The week is spent going between his house, where my daughter waxes breathlessly in rapture over the cable TV, and the hospice, which is, ironically, round the corner from where we lived not two years before. We catch the train to Town Hall every day where it is de rigeur that we go into Woolworths, our old stamping ground. For her it is the excitement of new toys and books. For me it is the symbol of all I have lost in moving to the mountains.

It is still here, the bustle of Sydney. A kaleidoscope of familiar sights and sounds rushes in on me. The buses, the trains, which could take you to an entirely different sub culture in minutes. The traffic. Traffic lights! The planes going overhead. I never knew I would miss the planes. Hyde Park, with the broken fish fountain, as we called it, where my daughter and I fed the ibis until the day one of them stole the sandwich from her hand, putting her in a fever of permanent indignation towards them.

It is a week filled with nostalgia, loss and longing. And happiness too, oddly. 'Like before I started school', she says one morning. I do not add, 'and before we moved.'

My sister-in-law and I leave his bedside to go for coffee. I see that she is watching closely as my daughter starts to help herself to the packets of sugar, so tantalisingly laid out on the table. Restraining herself. Waiting. Soon, my daughter progresses to the salt and pepper.

'Stop that!' she pounces, in ambush. It is suddenly all too much for her.

'That is not how you behave in cafes!'

Perhaps she is remembering back to my mother's funeral six months before, when my daughter's high, fluting voice pierces the silence with 'Ha ha ha, grandma's dead.'

My daughter looks to me. I am frozen in space. The universe moves around me in slow motion. Then I manage a scowl at my daughter because it is easier than standing up to my sister-in-law. The waitress looks over, making me feel all wrong, as my daughter's querulous voice rises, so I squirm and scowl all the more at her.

Safe, back at the house, away from the weight of judgement, my daughter says, 'You never take my side. I wasn't doing anything wrong. I've been good all week.' I have no way to explain the complexity of my cowardice.

The next day I am in the room as a nurse tends my father. 'Pity he has such a strong heart or he would not be lingering on like this.'

I try to keep the edge of hysteria from my voice. 'Yes, pity about the by-pass.'

'He has such an unlined face. His skin is so smooth. His body is that of a much younger man. What a shame. He must have been beautiful.'

I look away.

As I leave the room, my daughter runs up to me in great distress. 'There is something wrong with the bird.' I go down to look. Yellow wings flailing hopelessly on the floor of the cage. I move it, but it is too late. I am there, an unwilling witness to his death.

'He'll be alright.' I usher my daughter quickly into the corridor, away from the bird, where I see my sister mouthing something to me. I rush back to my father's room, dragging my daughter with me. The nurse at the desk gives me a funny look. I am disapproved of again in some way.

I have just missed my father's last breath, but not it's effect. A spell of stillness over the room, a hushed cocoon, my brother bending to kiss my father's forehead in a way that speaks of a tenderness between them that has eluded me.

My daughter's voice again punctures the air. 'It's like the world has ended.'

I move quickly towards her where she is at the window, watching life going on outside. Putting my arm around her, I say, trying to reassure us both, 'Yes, but then it all starts over again.'

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Quiet – Felicity Lynch

One afternoon, gazing dreamily out of my window, not really thinking of anything, I heard a bird singing in the shadow of the trees, the notes pure and true.

He wasn't a very pretty bird, small in size but free and wild. In the purple shadows he stood and sang, a song from the heart that reached into my soul.

The song, in my quiet haven, spoke of the open sky, blue gum trees, windswept clouds, sadness, longing, happiness and laughter, memories and loss.

The bird reminded me that happiness is fleeting, like sunbeams glinting off drops of rain, small rainbows of hope and faith, beauty and harmony.

The bird sang of loneliness, to look inside oneself to know who you are, the music of intangibles, the seeking of eternity—all wrapped together in the bird's free born soul.

The sun was beginning to set as the bird flew away, flashing sun-tipped wings as still singing his wild bird song, he was swallowed in the immensity of the sky.

A sadness filled the space as silence once again descended onto this quiet mountain retreat, the gathering dusk swallowing the purple shadows so that only the memory remained, of the wild bird song—a roving spirit. All was now darkness.

A Moment – Sonia Ursus Satori

entrance me in the fall

emerge me in crimson

engulf me in ochre

free my longing for blissful encounter

of unknown delights:

split complementary tertiary triad

oh, how the brash, surprising

effect in clash colour schemes

touches my senses

as much as

your restrained, peaceful, monochromatic

expression in the outer shades

send me into a tranquil spasm

and soothe my meditative self

on occasion

i link with the stare

directed at me so

thoughtfully

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Candle in the Wind – Gregory North

I've rung about the contest advertised

on radio. I must say I'm surprised.

I've never heard of contests quite like this,

I shouldn't miss

the opportunity to show my skill.

The chance to be competing's such a thrill.

Have competitions run before today?

A long tradition in the bush, you say?

And are there diff'rent styles the fellas do?

What? Women too?

And even joonyers have a categ'ry?

Well, no excuse for me... No, I agree.

Yes, Sunday will be fine. That's near a week

to keep on training and be at my peak.

Yes, since I heard, I've practised very hard,

out in the yard.

Unless I'd seen, I wouldn't have believed

that I could do the things that I've achieved.

I'm eating candle sticks for ev'ry meal

I find the long and scented ones ideal.

Variety of flavour seems to suit

my need for fruit.

I break it up with beans and lic'rice sticks.

I'm gonna be a champ at crapping wicks!

What? Tricks you say? I hadn't thought of that.

I'm not sure I could twirl above my hat!

Hey? Send them side to side from where you stand?

One in each hand?

My God! It's much more complex than I thought.

But that's impossible with wicks I bought!

Allow for wind? Well, yes, I s'pose I do.

And smell's another thing we must consider too.

Depends upon the leather and the grip?

Did you say whip?

Now surely they don't whip themselves as well

as crapping out those wicks! Oh, bloody hell!

What? Cracking whips? You mean not crapping wicks?

Well, that explains the two-hand fancy flicks!

But there goes all my chances to impress

with my prowess.

I thought this was a way to fame and chicks.

I'll never get to show how I crap wicks!

The Tragic End of Anne Lid – Alexandra Smithers

Anne Lid lived in an unforgiving world, convinced it was nothing more than a murky swamp filled with parasites and cold-blooded predators ready to devour her at any given moment. She had left home at a young age, determined to make her own way, but had ended up floating from one relationship to another and then another. All too often, she found herself brushed aside like an insignificant worm or an annoying insect. Anne wondered if there was anybody out there, in her murky swamp, worth loving.

Unashamedly, there were even times when Anne took solace in the delicate, feminine touch. However, even these relationships did not last, and, once more, she would be thrown back into her murky world, wondering what went wrong.

Surprisingly, however, Anne was not a cynic of love, but a believer. She was a creature of passion. She longed for that simple connection between lovers. So, the day Max came swimming into her murky swamp, she was ready to try again.

Max was 6'2'', muscular, with beautiful bronzed skin. He was 34, but still had the scent of a man in his twenties. Anne decided in an instant that he was perfect.

In no time at all, Anne and Max seemed inseparable. She moved into his apartment, met his friends and neighbours, and quickly became an intrinsic part of his daily life. Anne's murky swamp had disappeared, replaced by Max, her fortress of strength. Life was wonderful.

Only a month passed when, one night, Max revealed they were to have dinner with his parents. Anne was speechless; never before had she come this far in a relationship.

The restaurant, a lovely little Italian place, was located on the corner of Fifth and Main. Anne could smell the pasta sauce before Max had even opened the door. His parents, already seated at the table, waved from across the room. And, after a hearty handshake and a warm hug, Max was quick to order a bottle of merlot from the waiter standing nearby.

'Not too much for me,' said Anne quickly, as Max filled each glass. 'I get tipsy very easily.'

'To retirement,' said Max, raising his glass towards his father. 'Forty years working at the refinery on the hill, that's quite an achievement.'

'Show Max the gold watch they gave you,' said Max's mother nudging her husband.

'Forty years is too long, I wish I'd retired a decade ago,' said Max's father.

'Only so you could go fishing every day,' joked Max.

'I'm not a fisherman, you know that. The garden's more my style.'

A waiter suddenly appeared, scribbled down everyone's order on a small notepad, and then hurried back to the kitchen. The conversation at the table tapered off, leaving an awkward silence. Anne shifted restlessly and Max scratched the side of his nose.

'How is Rachel?' asked Max's mother.

'Um, fine, I think,' said Max. 'I haven't seen her in a while.'

Anne's face took on a pink tinge. The nerve of Max's mother talking about Max's old girlfriend. What did she think Anne was—invisible?

Max drained his glass and then poured himself another. 'I think she lives in London now.'

Anne, about to add, 'He broke up with her six months ago,' was interrupted by the waiter returning with the entrées.

Max took a large gulp of wine and then started on his bruschetta, obviously just as uncomfortable with the conversation as Anne. When his parents were not looking, Anne squeezed Max gently in an attempt to calm him down.

Thankfully, by the time the main course was finished, the conversation had lightened up considerably.

'There's nothing quite like Italian,' said Max a little too loudly. He leant back, patting his stomach with satisfaction.

Anne, feeling as if she had had too much to drink herself, held in a giggle.

'We should do this more often,' said Max's mother, pinching his cheek and jiggling it.

'Well, take care of yourself, Son,' said Max's father, shaking Max's hand and patting him on the back.

'You too,' said Max warmly.

Timidly, Anne reached out to say goodbye. The wine certainly had gone to her head.

However, Max's mother, looking shocked, only blinked at her.

Anne faltered. Had Max's mother noticed she was tipsy? Surely, she wouldn't hold a few drinks against her.

'Is everything okay, Mum?' said Max, placing a hand on his mother's shoulder. 'Mum?'

Max's mother suddenly screamed and pointed straight at Anne with a shaky hand. 'Y-your face!'

Instinctively, Anne recoiled, terrified. What had Max's mother seen? Was there something wrong with Anne?

The restaurant fell silent; every head turned in their direction. Max, suddenly looking concerned, hurried out the door; Anne clung to him as if her life depended on it.

Moments later, they were in the car, racing through the traffic. Max did not say a word, not even when they stopped with a jerk next to the emergency sign of St. Francis memorial hospital.

'As long as Max is with me, I know everything will be all right,' thought Anne as they rushed into the foyer.

'Lay down,' said Dr Raman a few minutes later. He pulled the curtains closed around exam room 2. 'You say this just happened?'

'Yes, Doctor,' said Max nervously. 'My mother saw it. She nearly fainted on the spot.'

'Have you been swimming in the lagoon lately?' asked the doctor, pulling on some surgical gloves and then picking up a small torch.

'About a month ago,' said Max, sounding worried. Anne gave Max a squeeze and held on to him tightly.

'Ah, there it is,' said Dr Raman, looking at Anne closely. 'Just lie still. This may hurt a little,' he added, picking up a pair of tweezers from the surgical tray.

'Ouch!'

'What a beauty!' said the Doctor. 'I don't think I've seen an Annelid that fat before.' While unscrewing the lid of a specimen jar, he continued matter-of-factly, 'You shouldn't swim in the lagoon, it's infested with leeches. They're always looking for somewhere warm and cosy to live. And a person's nostril is as good a place as any. Plenty of food, you see.'

'That's been living up my nose for a month?' said Max, looking horrified.

'H-how come I didn't feel it?'

'Leeches are amazing creatures. They inject their prey with an anaesthetic. You don't feel them until they fall off. Then it itches like hell,' replied the Doctor, dropping Anne into the specimen jar and then reaching for a bottle labelled 'alcohol'.

As the clear cool liquid filled the jar, Anne wriggled helplessly. Her skin began to burn and suddenly she felt as if she was on fire. She gasped for air, but only felt the liquid flames rush down her throat and lick her insides.

'It'll be dead in a few minutes, but the ethanol will preserve it,' said Dr Raman,

handing the jar to Max, who looked at it with a mixture of revulsion and curiosity.

Anne could feel Max's pulse through the plastic; it beat of betrayal.

'You could keep it on your mantle piece or something,' said the Doctor, smiling. 'Tell your friends about it. It'll make a great story.'

'Yeah,' said Max, slipping the jar into his pocket. 'Maybe I'll get to tell my grandkids one day.'

Anne Lid became a broken heart in a specimen jar, placed on a shelf for all to leer at. Her life ended as one-sided love stories always do—in tragedy.

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Spectacle – Robyn Chaffey

It started out as a very ordinary day. It was the Queen's Birthday holiday and we were expecting a regular visitor for the day. When I dressed for the day in my favourite hot pink ensemble I had no idea just what a spectacle I was going to provide for the residents of our street, and many others, in a most unusual impromptu performance the like of which they (and I) would remember always.

We had lived some twenty years at the same address. There was not much of a garden. I had always dreamed of planting a lovely flower garden and had planned it all out in my mind's eye. The ground however, was hard compacted clay and I had never been able to turn the soil... that is until a few days ago after several weeks of constant heavy rainfall.

I had expected our visitor to stay most of the day. He usually did! We would all talk and have lunch, then walk or play with the children, finally eating dinner together before he left. I planned it simply. It was a fine and sunny, though cool day. For some reason I expected to be indoors for the most part of it. That is why I had donned my favourite, comfortable skirt and matching long-sleeved top.

The morning went very much according to expectations. However soon after lunch our friend announced suddenly that he would 'be leaving now'.

As we waved him off the children discovered that many of the neighbour children were playing in the street near our house and they were immediately absorbed into the games. My husband had gone off to do his own thing in the back yard and I looked about me for a new plan for the afternoon.

My eyes stopped at the newly turned soil. If I turned it over now, I could feed the soil and in a week or so I would be able to plant my longed for flower bed.

Still in my comfortable hot pink number, and wearing my favourite foot-ware... the ones God gave me at birth, I went to the shed and fetched the garden fork... the sharp toothed, dainty looking one which had belonged to my husband's grandmother.

I felt quite excited about my garden to be!

I waded in through the slimy, wet clay so that I could turn the soil from the fence line and work my way out to the edge. I plunged the fork in once and was delighted at the ease with which it cut through the soil now that it had been able to drink the rain water in. Down it went again and another sod was turned and the lumps beaten out. I was in a wonderful muddy heaven!

Another exhilarating plunge of the fork... just as my ten year-old son, Derek, spoke to me. I turned ever so slightly toward him to answer and I heard—I did not feel—the fork enter my toe!

It entered, and it exited... a good inch out the other side!

Well now I was well rooted in my garden! The first blooming pink flower! I was rooted well above my ankles in lovely mud and well staked! I was not in pain... well not so long as I didn't try to get out of the mud. Then it hurt! I could not hold the fork still and pick up my foot without pain! The thing was firmly attached and there was no way I could pull it out on my own.

'Derek, would you go and fetch Dad for me?'

'Why?'

'Cos Mummy has put the fork though her toe and I can't get it out on my own.'

Well off he ran quite dutifully, and in a very few minutes out ran my husband, all red faced from his rising blood pressure. He took one look at me and without uttering a word, he raced back the way he came!

'Well, I don't know where he has gone, but Derek, I think you had better go next door and get Uncle Reg!'

'Why?'

'Cos I don't think I will be able to sit still for Dad to pull it out by himself!'

Off he ran to fetch the unsuspecting neighbour! And off ran the neighbour children, in every direction, to fetch their parents and other kin!!

Now, here came uncle Reg with his wife in tow! You will never guess! He took one look at me and ran! He didn't say a word.

Now, the crowd was arriving for the show!

There was the beautiful little Becky who had fetched her Mum and siblings, standing, sobbing, 'Oh! Pooor Robyn!'... the extremely pregnant Debbie crying, 'I think I'm go'na faint!'...

'Please don't faint! I can't come and get you... and the men have run away!'

Suddenly, the scene has changed! Though I can't write (or speak) it thus you must use your imaginations because the two men came running back at precisely the same moment and spoke almost in unison. Urgently, and each over the other, my husband was saying, 'I've rung the ambulance, and they say don't pull it out what ever you do. Elevate the foot and we are on our way!' While Reg announced concurrently, 'I've rung the hospital, and they said pull it out and bring her up here straight away!'

My husband won the moment! He fetched two little stools and arranged them in the mud, one for my backside and the other for my foot (I was quite a bit lighter then), and we waited while the crowd continued to grow.

It seemed like an age, but I guess it was only a few minutes. The ambos arrived. They could not help the double take as they saw the crowd and the over-sized petunia which had drawn them. As they parked their vehicle outside, one man came in to see what the fuss was all about. I screwed up my face and said 'I'm so sorry you got called. I just didn't have the courage to pull it out myself!'

'Well, neither do I!' he said. 'It's off to hospital with you!'

'What! Fork and all?!!'

'Yes, fork and all!'

Well, they brought in to my muddy stage their lovely white-sheeted stretcher, and the one blue-clad knight waded into the mud and gently picked me up in his arms and lifted me, muddy feet and all, placing me on it without a care. Then they placed a soft white pillow between the fork and my leg.

By now the ridiculous humour of the situation had gripped me with full force. I was giggling uncontrollably!

My shining white knights in their blue tunics wheeled me out past my 'adoring fans' and into the waiting chariot and, as I had said that it only hurt when I moved, the lovely man who had lifted me on to the stretcher, knelt over me for the whole trip with his hands clasped firmly around my filthy foot and the fork in an effort to stop it moving.

The driver went so very slowly in order to soften any bumps and apologised profusely each time he was unable to totally avoid one.

I had a bladder-bursting fit of the giggles, made worse I must admit as the lovely man bent over me continually exclaimed, 'Oh! You poor girl! You are in shock! People often get the giggles when they are in shock.'

You might think this is the end of the story, but no, the saga continued!

I was taken to Mount Druitt Hospital which was fairly new at the time. The entry to the casualty section was L-shaped. There was a door far end of the long side of the 'L', which was where those who took themselves to emergency would enter. They would wait lined up on chairs along one side of that corridor. The ambulance patients normally were taken in the other door in the short end of the 'L'.

Today, for the further entertainment of the Queen on her birthday, my stretcher was wheeled in the people's entrance!

You will have seen what happens when dominos are lined up at regular intervals to form a pattern, then the first is given a little shove... how they fall against each other in a kind of Mexican wave.

Imagine that in reverse!

As this giggling, red-faced, hot pink robed, filthy footed, fork equipped, being was wheeled past for their inspection, each waiting patient half stood and leaned forward in turn, straining to get a better look, to check their disbelief.

Safely now in the emergency room, I was treated to... a nurse to hold my hand, another to pat my arm; one to hold a mask over my face, and one to hold my filthy foot, while the doctor pulled the fork out!

After an x-ray to check the bone was not chipped (I knew it was not as I had only heard the fork go in and was in no pain), I was made to soak my foot in disinfectant for half an hour, given no less than three needles and my toe was wrapped up to three times its normal size.

The entertainment now ended I was sent home on crutches... just to be on the safe side!

About Robyn:

'I am having so much fun writing over the last couple of years, and am grateful for the encouragement of our local creative writers group.'

Selling Green – Tony Dwyer

It had been a bad day for Peta Banshiel. OK, shocking was not an inappropriate word for the fortnight. If she had to rate the last thirty days in her worst ever months it would probably be in the top one. Her divorce had been finalised after two years of horrendous litigation. He got everything, the house, the shares, the yacht, and custody of their wolfhound. Not exactly how her friends had told her it would pan out.

The stress of the case had seen her performance at work deteriorate to such an extent that after failing to make it back from a particularly long lunch she had been sacked. So here she was, thirty-one years old, a former darling of the advertising world, reduced to selling electricity schemes door to door. Green power, mind you. Right on. Right.

It was commission only work, but it was the only employment she had been able to find that she was prepared to accept. Amazing how quickly friends disappear when the money stops flowing, she thought bitterly. Tugging unconsciously at her ponytail she looked up at the imposing house in front of her. Spanish in design, it had a heavy iron gate that opened into a courtyard with stairs leading to the front door. She detested doing these neighbourhoods in the stockbroker belt. The ostentatious displays of wealth flaunted by people with half her talent nauseated her. The day had been a catalogue of rejections from bubble headed gym bunnies or housewives racing to pick up their alpha brats. Peta thanked her lucky stars that at least she and Joel had not had kids. Take a big breath, she thought, last call of the day, focus. She brushed her jacket arms, checked her shoes and pushed through the gate.

Standing in front of the dark oak door she paused. She did a quick mental inventory of her surroundings, went through the spiel to herself and took one last look at her appearance. When she had taken the job she had been broke and running out of excuses with the landlord of the hotel. To her surprise, she had been very good at it. That was due to her intelligence, naturally. A careful examination of the job had shown that the look was critical. She was selling environmentally friendly power. People could access the grid without having to change a thing. It should be a no brainer given the current politically correct society. Hey, save the environment, feel good about your grand children's future and leave the budget untouched. You just had to get in the door. Then past the cynicism. Oh well. Appearance was critical. Peta's age was perfect, all she had to do was look like a reasonably well off lass who chose to make a difference in the world. Her strawberry blonde hair still shone and when she pulled it back into a ponytail with a bob fringe she had the appearance of someone committed to intelligent protest against the corporate destroyers of the planet.

Satisfied she was ready to do battle, Peta looked at the door again. She lifted the large brass knocker and thumped down twice, hearing the echo inside. At first there was no response, then she heard faint noises in the house. Oh God, thought Peta, at least have the guts to come to the door and tell me in person that you just aren't interested. She was about to try again, when she heard footsteps approaching. Peta stood back as the door opened and looked up at one of the most curious men she had ever seen.

He looked as though nature had taken the dominant features of a spider and put them into his DNA. Everything about him was long. Long legs, long arms, long fingers, just long. His high forehead swept up to a bald pate that appeared to have been cast in a centrifugal experiment. His eyes were dark brown with gold flecks that seemed to dance beneath thin brows. The only things that weren't long and thin about this man were his lips. They were the most amazingly sensuous lips Peta had ever seen, and when they smiled Peta found herself smiling back.

'Can I help you in any way?' the man asked, looking down at Peta's folder. He was dressed in neutral colours, the clothes were obviously well made, fashionable, but in a practical, nondescript way. The more you looked at the man the more he seemed to fade into the background.

A little off balance, Peta used one of her favourite tricks for getting back in to the driver's seat. Grovelling obsequiousness.

'I have no doubt that you can, sir, but,' she said, noting the small smile that her comment elicited., 'my name is Peta and I'm actually here to see if I can help you.' Let them ask the first questions, she thought, starting to feel good about this call.

'How do you propose to help me?' the man asked. His voice was pure velvet, with crisp pronunciation and an accent Peta could not place. She noted the man's body language. It was open. Peta smiled.

'Have you heard of green energy, sir?'

'Only what I've read in the papers, the usual stuff, wind farms, hydro electricity and all that.'

'You know more than most,' Peta replied thinking that the man deserved a Nobel Prize for tabloid awareness. 'I represent a company that allows people like yourself to support green power at no extra cost.'

'How interesting,' demurred the man. 'I am sorry, where are my manners, would you care to come in?'

The door was opened and Peta peered down a dark hallway. One of the secrets of the job was getting over the threshold, do that and you were half way there.

'Of course, sir, very kind of you, should I take off my shoes?' Peta asked, looking at the polished wooden floor.

'Don't worry about the shoes and please, call me Angel, I don't like this 'sir' nonsense.' The man smiled that gorgeous smile again before he turned and walked down the hall with Peta following. They passed two large rooms which both had floor to ceiling bookcases along one wall. Each room had a fireplace, a large central rug and leather chairs arranged around a coffee table. At gaps between the bookcases were pedestals with busts on them. The remaining walls were adorned with mediaeval weapons and huge canvasses of classical art. From the quick glance that Peta had she guessed that they were not prints. Great, she thought, I've got a chance to sell Green to the Addams family. She turned right at the end of the hallway and found herself in a large open kitchen with wide windows that looked out onto a superbly manicured garden. The contrast could not have been greater. Where the rooms she had passed were gloomy and arcane the kitchen was straight out of a modern living brochure, with natural pine paneling, marble surfaces and gleaming metal. A large square table was the dominant feature with a variety of pots and pans hung overhead. Angel was taking two mugs down from a cupboard.

'Coffee, tea, hot chocolate?'

'Uh, that's very kind Angel. Coffee please. Black, no sugar,' Peta said, again off balance.

'Tell me, Peta,' Angel asked while fussing about near a great kettle before clicking it on. 'Whom are you working for again?'

'Our company is called Green Scene. Basically they use the capital raised from customers to invest in and support green and renewable energy. By showing this to be a profitable way of doing business they hope to convince other organisations to do the same. Eventually it will put these forms of energy to the forefront, which will have enormous benefits for the environment. The company has the endorsement of several environmental groups. The cost to you is exactly the same as your current bill but it lets you do your part in helping the planet.'

'How ingenious, Peta. Who owns the company?'

'It's a publicly listed company, started by a group of students who believe the only way to make big corporations stop using fossil fuels is to show them that they can make a lot of money with renewable green energy.'

'Publicly listed? Presumably they have the same responsibility to shareholders as those big corporations they are trying to teach?'

'Er, sure,' Peta replied, uncomfortably.

'And they use the profits of the operation to invest in what you call green power?'

'Correct, things like wind farms, wave generators and low impact hydro.'

'Hmm, so they are still selling me power generated by fossil fuels, in effect, but are using the money I pay for that power to develop assets in green production facilities. This, in turn, allows them to generate electricity, which they can sell back to the grid while also gaining massive benefits in tax breaks and government funding. I would imagine that after a while this company would have a marvellous portfolio, Peta, don't you think? There would even be enough left over for some nice tax deductible donations to several environmental groups, eh?' Angel smiled whimsically.

Who is this guy? thought Peta bitterly. A retired Economics Professor with a penchant for the Inquisition? That was exactly it, though, with the company, and the old bugger knew it. Just as Peta was about to answer with a half-hearted defence the kettle boiled.

'Ah,' said Angel, 'let's have that cup of coffee.' He spooned instant blend into the mugs then poured the water. Moving smoothly to the refrigerator he added a small dollop of milk to his own before handing a black brew to Peta. He smiled again, and for some reason Peta was filled with hope.

'For all my scepticism,' Angel continued, 'I can see merit in the company's philosophy. How did you get involved in this, Peta?'

Again Peta had been mentally railroaded.

'I believe in the concept, I like going home at the end of the night knowing that I've made a difference, I...' she faltered. Angel's small smile stopped her recitation of the lie she told herself every day.

'I needed the job,' Peta said quietly. 'I've had a rough trot of late.'

'I'm sorry to hear that, I know what it's like and I hope that you're getting yourself back on top.'

Angel's tone rang with empathy. Peta realised they were the first genuine words of encouragement she had heard since her whole life began unravelling.

'I guess it has been pretty bad?' Angel asked gently.

'It has,' Peta began. 'Bloody awful, actually, I've gone through a divorce and lost my job. This was the only work on offer, but still people look down on me, as though I'm some sort of sub class.'

'Society has become horribly self centred, Peta, compassion seems to be a thing of the past.'

'Don't I know it, sometimes when I get home you can see tramps scrounging in the bins outside my hotel. Trying to feed themselves with our garbage. It's hard getting back on your feet. You don't realise how much of the friendship and support that you take for granted disappears when your credit cards are no good.'

'You live in a hotel?' Angel asked.

'Just while I get over this hump, it's cheap, filthy actually, what they used to call a Ladies Boarding House, but I do get to enjoy eight different forms of halitosis every morning in our communal bathroom.' Suddenly Peta stopped, aware that she was blushing. What had come over her? She thought angrily. Looking at the half finished coffee she realised that she had blown the sale. Damn! Blown it stupidly, through weakness, by letting her shield down. She prepared to make her apologies and leave.

'It's all right, Peta,' Angel said, as though reading her mind. 'For what it's worth, I believe all men and women experience slumps that have a profound effect on their future. Most cope and are doomed to a life of mediocrity. Others collapse and are sent spinning into a world of self-hate and loathing, the men foraging in garbage bins, for example. Then there are the rare few, so deeply shaken that they are brutal in their outlook. They seize this moment and rebuild themselves in a way that guarantees their future success. No pre-eminent figure in history arrived at greatness without first undergoing this metamorphosis.'

Angel had finished his coffee and placed it by the sink. Slowly he turned around.

'What will you make of this opportunity, Peta?'

Peta looked at her own coffee, swirled the last remnants and gulped it down.

'I'm sorry I've taken up your time, Angel, thanks for the drink, I'd better be going.' She placed her cup on the central table and began to turn toward the hallway.

'Wait Peta. I was serious about the company having merit. Leave me the form and I'll sign up.'

'You will?' Peta turned, unable to completely hide the surprise and excitement. 'Hang on, we can do this right now, if you're sure.'

'Just leave the form on the table, I assume that to get your commission you have to process the sale?'

'That's right, but we could do this right now,' Peta struggled to hide her anxiousness in closing the deal. 'It will only take three minutes.'

Angel looked at her calmly, even a little sadly.

'I know it's hard, Peta,' he said. 'But trust me. Just write your phone number and the hours when I can reach you on this pad,' he handed her a beautifully bound diary, opened at a blank page. 'Actually, put the address of the hotel there and I shall have the papers delivered to the Front Desk tomorrow. While you're doing that, please excuse me for one moment.'

Angel turned and walked out of the kitchen. Peta heard the footsteps disappearing to where she imagined the bedrooms were. Looking down at the form she shrugged and accepted that this was the best deal she was going to get today. Taking out her pen she wrote in the diary 'Angel, call me anytime,' and placed her mobile phone number beneath it. Then she wrote 'Peta Banshiel, Room 28, Hudson Hotel, 137 Mary Street'. She added 'Hope to hear from you soon, thanks for your kindness and generosity.' With a sudden jolt she realised that she truly did hope to hear from the man soon, not just for the business, but because she felt a connection. 'Stop that,' she muttered to herself harshly. 'This man and you have nothing in common.'

Peta turned around and stifled a scream. Angel was standing right behind her. She had not heard a thing.

'I'm sorry, Angel, but you scared the life out of me.'

'Please, I should be making the apologies, I really must make more noise, but I can't, force of habit, you see.' He placed a leather satchel case down near his coffee cup and took a plastic bag from it, which he held, turning it briefly, before replacing it. Peta glimpsed a magnificent baton, about 30 centimetres long, with a golden eagle head at one end.

'Peta, I see a lot of my younger self in you. I hope that you are one of those few who can attain greatness by overcoming your current hardships. Some people think of me as an eccentric,' he said, holding up a hand to quiet the protest. 'No, please, I know that I am. I want you to have this.' Angel gently passed the case to and fro in his hands as he continued. 'This is a Field Marshall's baton. Not just any Field Marshall, either,' he chuckled. 'This one belonged to Rommell. Have you heard of him?' Peta nodded, recalling the name of Hitler's desert fox, before a spark of sanity flickered.

'Angel, no, you're offering me this, but no, I couldn't, it must be worth a fortune.'

'It is and, fortunately, so am I. Listen to me Peta, carefully. I apologise for rushing, I have had a good life, but it is close to ending. I was recently diagnosed with cancer of the pancreas. It will be very quick and very final. I have a feeling about you, I want you to have this, get out of that hotel and make a new start. If you like, you can consider it as pandering to the good Samaritan in me. Don't ask me why, just do it to make an old man happy. Call me in three months and let me know how things are working out for you. I shall need good news in three months, I hope you can give me some.' Angel moved toward the doorway again, suddenly looking very tired. 'I have done very well in this life for myself. It is only now that I realise I have done nothing for anyone else. Take the baton and start again.'

Peta watched as the older man came back to the table and placed the leather satchel case in front of her. It was happening too quickly, she felt like she was in a dream.

'Tomorrow I shall send the Green Scene paperwork to you but I hardly think you should concern yourself with that. For now, I have placed a letter of provenance and the deed of ownership for the baton inside the satchel case. I have also included the address of a dealer I do business with. He has been hectoring me about this piece for years. The plastic bag containing the baton and the envelope have been sealed, don't tamper with them or the dealer will be annoyed. I am confident you will get more than a fair price for the piece. Now, please go, Peta, and thank you for this opportunity.'

Peta felt the hand on her shoulder like breeze, barely there at all, but directing her toward the hallway and back to the door. When it opened Peta noticed that the sun had just set. She stood again at the threshold and looked back at Angel.

'Do me one more favour, Peta,' he said. 'I like to tick off the boxes, so forgive me, make sure you don't do anything silly tonight, have an early evening, and in the morning you will be given the opportunity to start a new phase in your life.' Angel beamed at Peta and then quietly shut the door.

Peta walked out of the courtyard and did exactly as she was told. She returned to her squalid room and placed the satchel case on the table near the window. Then she took it back away from the window fearful someone would somehow scale the wall and snatch it. Finally she clutched the bag to her chest and lay down to sleep, eventually drifting off with thoughts of a comfortable penthouse and her own agency. Mixed with these were fantasies of revenge against all who had wronged her, oh yes, she would raise a glass of Bollinger over their graves if she could.

She was woken just before six the next morning by a hammering on the door.

'Peta Banshiel?' a gruff voice demanded. 'Peta Banshiel, this is the Police, open the door immediately. Do you hear me?'

Sitting up in bed she put the satchel case aside and began pulling on her dressing gown.

'I hear you, hang on, I'm just getting dressed.'

She had barely finished the words when the door came off its hinges with a splintering crack. Policemen poured into the room. Before she could properly stand Peta had been thrown to the floor where she felt her arms being pinned behind her and then heard the ratchet of cuffs on her wrist.

'What's going on?' Peta shouted, outraged. 'This is a disgrace, what are you doing?' Then she looked up at the satchel case. Oh Christ, she thought, don't tell me the bastard has claimed I stole it.

'Peta Banshiel?' asked the gruff voice again.

'Yes.'

'I'm placing you under arrest.'

'Look if it's about the satchel bag...'

'Satchel bag? Ms. Banshiel, we're talking about murder. You have the right to remain silent...' the rest of it trailed off as Peta's mind swirled. Murder? What was going on?

'Do you understand your rights, ma'am?' the gruff voice repeated.

'No I don't understand any of it. Murder? Of who?'

'For the murder of Mr Angelo Peguse, Angel to his friends.' There was something about the way he said 'friends'.

'But I didn't kill anyone, I met a man at a Spanish house, his name was Angel, sure but ...'

'The man you refer to, Mr Peguse, was a very well to do widower. I think you know that. His house was burgled last night, we found him bludgeoned to death at the scene after we received an anonymous tip off.'

'No!' Peta gasped, turning ashen. 'There was a man there. We had coffee.'

'A single coffee cup was found, it's being checked now for prints,' he turned and called to one of the men in the room. 'Get her shoes, we'll see if they match the footmarks in the hallway.' He looked back at Peta coldly. 'He was a man who enjoyed the occasional company of women who came from the wrong end of town. Apparently these women were well compensated. Just wasn't enough for you, was it?' He spat the last words at Peta before turning away. The officer was nearly out the door when a voice stopped him. One of the young policemen was holding the plastic bag with the baton.

'Look at this!' he said.

'Put it down you fool, that's evidence,' ordered the gruff voice. 'Get these morons out of here, Sergeant, and seal the room.'

As the young policeman placed the baton next to the satchel case Peta looked at the eagle's head and noticed the dark stains around the beak and the eyes. She saw hair sticking to the stains.

Peta heard the gruff voice trailing off toward the stairs.

'We'll find the other stuff she took. My guess is that she pawned them last night. This girl doesn't look smart enough to know a dealer. If the Prosecution could prove that she did, well they'd just about throw away the key.'

Peta remembered Angel's last words. 'In the morning you will be given the opportunity to start a new phase in your life.' She remembered the smile of the nondescript man and, as part of her brain began registering the end of life as she knew it, another part was sure it heard quiet, mocking laughter. It was equally sure the envelope in the satchel case would contain the name of a dealer.

***

On board an Air France flight a tall, angular man in Business Class sipped cognac. The Cote D'Azur was lovely at this time of year, the man thought. What's more, his contacts would appreciate the several exquisite pieces that he had packed carefully into his luggage. Pieces that, if found by a curious customs officer, could easily pass for gifts. He smiled to himself. You just had to know what to take, and never get greedy. Still, it was a shame poor old Angelo had come home when he was meant to be at his Bridge Club.

He picked up a newspaper next to him and saw Peta's face on the front page. Prosecution was asking for a life sentence. Dreadful shame, the man thought, smiling. Still, it appeared that the girl's ex husband, an aspiring barrister, was taking her case pro bono. He was sure that a good defence would get the girl off, and who knew what would happen after that? Perhaps the couple would reconcile. He shrugged and turned to the social pages, which were already covering the party season in Cannes breathlessly. There were rich pickings to be had, green pastures indeed.

This section brought to you by

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The Man Who Talked to Animals – David Bowden

A few years ago there was a humble man called Henry, who lived not so very far from here. He worked in the mailroom of a large media corporation, sorting through the many thousands of letters they received every week. It wasn't a particularly rewarding job but he decided that the best way to progress within the organisation was to ensure his service was of the highest standard possible, so set up a comprehensive system to make sure everyone got their letters on time. Now, normally this would be enough for Henry to be noticed and considered favourably for a promotion but he had a boss called Lucia who was a very demanding lady. It didn't matter how hard he worked or how much overtime he put in, she was never satisfied, always pointing out what he could do better or faster. Many would have told Lucia where to stick her job but Henry believed so strongly in the goodness of people that, rather than think she was being unreasonable, he became convinced that she had his best interests at heart and that all of the things she said about him being lazy and stupid must be true.

Henry lived with his wife Saskia in a modest semi detached house, on the outskirts of the city. They had a small garden and every morning while he was eating breakfast a small fairy wren would come and trill such a wonderful song that Henry would leave the back door open and ask his wife to stop whatever she was doing so that they could share in the experience. One day Henry remarked to Saskia, 'You know what I wish for more than anything in the world, my love? That I could know what he's singing about. I bet he's telling us something of real importance, I can feel it.'

Saskia smiled, 'You're a dreamer, my darling. These things are not for us to know, some mysteries are not meant to be solved.'

'I know,' replied Henry, 'but I can't get the thought out of my head.'

'You'd better eat up or you'll be late again. You don't want to get in trouble like you did last week.'

At this, Henry quickly emptied his bowl of cereal, brushed his teeth, put on his new shoes and suit and, with Saskia's best wishes for the day, raced down the road to catch the ten past eight bus from the end of the street. It wasn't the most reliable service, yet on most days two minutes was all he needed. This time, however, he left fractionally later than usual and despite a valiant sprint was only able to watch the back of the bus pull away and shrink into the busy traffic.

It would be half an hour until the next one arrived and he didn't want to upset Saskia by returning home, so Henry decided to visit a nearby cafe he often frequented. After ordering coffee he sat himself at a table as far away from the front door as possible. He liked watching the patrons come and go from a safe distance. Shortly afterwards, the door burst open and in shuffled an elderly lady in a fading, once elegant, black overcoat, dragging an overladen red trolley behind her. A small black and white terrier tried to follow her in, which drew the attention of the cafe's owner. After some negotiation, the dog was taken outside and tied to the nearest pole. From time to time he could be heard barking enthusiastically at passersby.

The woman returned, sat at a table not far from Henry, and began pulling items from her trolley. She began with a series of loose papers, most yellowed with age, holding some closely to her face as though the writings they contained were nearly vanished. Presently she started retrieving an array of crystals and aligning them in a very particular circular arrangement, all the while muttering and faintly singing in a language he could not discern to be English. She appeared to have no interest in coffee or tea and Jim, the proprietor, usually highly attentive to the needs of his customers, left her alone. After about five minutes of this, she carefully returned everything to her trolley and left. Henry had been too busy imagining the angry face of Lucia awaiting him at work to notice these goings on.

Realising it was time to get back to the bus stop, Henry swigged the last of his coffee, grabbed his suitcase and stood up. Only then did he realise that one crystal remained on the old lady's table. Thinking it might not be too late to catch up with her, he picked it up and pocketed it, paid for his drink and left. Sure enough, there she was, ambling down the footpath in the opposite direction to where he was heading. Henry raced after her and, on catching up, announced his presence loudly, 'Excuse me, I think you left this behind?'

She turned around with a swiftness that belied her age, stared at him intently and muttered something he could not understand. Henry thrust the stone into her hand. 'Here you are,' he said. The dog barked twice before the old lady quietened him with a guttural admonition. She stared at the stone with forensic intensity, as though she had never seen it before, then returned her gaze to Henry.

'Thank you, son' she said in a thick European accent, 'you are good man.'

Henry smiled and before he knew what was going on, found that she had wrapped her arms around him in a grateful hug. 'A good man,' she repeated, 'your wish come true. You not like others,' she added.

Henry took his leave of her and walked briskly towards the bus stop. He arrived just in time, too, since the eight forty pulled in five minutes early. Many would curse this inconsistency but not Henry, he just wanted to reach his destination as soon as possible.

The bus driver mumbled something to Henry as he alighted. Henry wondered how he got the job with such a poor command of English, but these thoughts vanished as his mind rehearsed fresh lashings from Lucia's sharp tongue. Arriving in the mail room, all was silent, dark, and no one else was present, so in a short time Henry arranged all of the mail and was ready to deliver it.

Just as he was about to afford himself the luxury of thinking he'd got away with it, Lucia stormed into the mail room and bawled something at him, while pointing to her watch. Henry recoiled and prepared for the daily dose of name calling.

'Joo joo besmiter grabble wibbit! Gool pergammon!'

What on earth was this? Henry had never heard her talk like that.

'Sorry, Lucia, I'm not following you...'

At this the veins on her forehead rose like sheets of sinewy lightning and she shrieked, 'Fopor Boohaa! Shilly toller!'
'I didn't know you were bilingual but would you mind using English, please?' Henry used his most diplomatic tone.

'Garsnibble snop! Joo git MARDLE!'

Lucia raised her right hand and pointed to the door. There was no mistaking this, she was asking him to go.

'I can work up the fifteen minutes this afternoon. The bus was early this morning and ...' Henry's voice trailed off as Lucia grabbed the phone, dialed and screamed something to someone. Shortly after a security guard appeared and minutes later Henry was back in the street, the cool fresh air biting harder than usual. He went without a struggle, but it was the only time in his life he thought about contacting a union representative.

Which way next? What would he tell Saskia? Henry was propelled to return down the street where he only minutes before had strode in conscious confidence of his troubles, now it was alien terrain. On every other day he always turned left at Dolphin Street. Today he did not, since in his mind it was not the same street, the same suburb, and he was not the same person. He walked straight ahead.

Soon the amount of traffic lessened, the office buildings became houses and oak trees lined the road. The change was gradual and given the recent events crowding his mind, it took a while for Henry to register the difference. Presently he came upon a large park, where only one person was walking their labrador, in an unhurried, dreamlike, way. Henry spied a bench under a Moreton Bay Fig tree far from the street and determinedly walked over, resolving to rest there, away from human contact, to make sense of Lucia's conduct. But no matter which way he pitched it, the answers would not come.

After sitting there for a while, suddenly, on his immediate left, he heard a rustle of old leaves and a tiny male voice say, 'Oh dear! No bugs here. It's not like when I was young.'

Henry peered down through columns of shadow into the browny froth of unswept leaves but couldn't see anybody, only a small magpie darting back and forth, seemingly unafraid of him. Then the voice spoke again, 'And people are no use! Once upon a time mothers brought their children down to the park to share breadcrumbs with us. Nowadays hardly anyone visits.'

Henry was certain the voice came from the same direction as the bird. What a marvellous pet, to remember all of that conversation. There was no one else it could have been.

'Hello, little birdy, who's a clever boy then?' Henry called out.

'Who do you think you're talking to?' the magpie replied, 'some brainwashed fool who escaped from a pet shop? Have you brought any bread with you?'

'What? No. How come you can talk?' asked Henry.

'I might ask the same of you,' answered the magpie, 'normally you people make your grunting noises and then move on, that is, when you're not wrecking the place.'

'This is incredible. What a discovery for science!' Henry exclaimed.

'You humans amaze me,' the magpie responded in an exasperated tone, 'you finally work out what's going on and then you claim the credit for it. Now, if you haven't got any food, I have a family to feed.' With that, he fluttered to the other side of the tree and kept foraging.

While Henry was still taking this in, tiny voices suddenly buzzed around his head, singing in perfect harmony. It was two dragonflies:

We love the sun,

we love the sky

It's a beautiful day

We don't ask why.'

And off they flew, gracefully zigzagging through the air, on their way to the lily pond.

He began to notice other voices too, the labrador he'd seen earlier, muttering to his master, 'Come on now, go faster please!' and a cricket calling out to someone. 'Els-s-s-s-s-s-sie! Elsie! Els-s-s-s-s-sie, where are you? Els-s-s-s-sie!'

Henry had to share these experiences with Saskia. It was time to head home.

When Henry got there, Saskia was in the garden, trimming her roses. She was very surprised to see him and this was when the realisation dawned. Neither of them could understand anything the other said. To Henry, Saskia spoke in the same mumbo jumbo lingo Lucia had used and, to her, he mumbled and whined incoherently. What was happening? Had he lost his mind? They were trying to resolve this situation when the fairy wren flew into the garden, sat on a branch, puffed up his chest and began to sing. Henry was astonished when he realised that this time the song had words.

'Hear ye! Hear ye! The time is currently eleven o'clock eastern standard time. Here is the news. Unemployment among pigeons has reached an unprecedented level. The Council Of Birds will hold an extraordinary meeting in Memory Park at 5pm this afternoon to discuss. All are welcome to attend.' He paused for a second, then resumed, 'The price of birdseed has gone up again and as a result our caged friends are doing it tough. If you have any surplus, please consider making a donation. Lastly, the Jones boy in 15 Scotch Street has taken up the slingshot again. We recommend that you consider this a no fly zone until further notice. That concludes today's bulletin.' With that he flew up and over the fence into the neighbour's yard and started all over again.

Henry began to excitedly explain to Saskia what the bird had said before remembering that it was futile. He looked beyond her questioning eyes and through the window she stood in front of. Something caught his eye. Letting out a yell, he raced indoors, leaving Saskia more puzzled than ever. This was all a little weird for her. Henry had spotted the letters written on a packet of cereal and realised that he could understand them. Maybe he could communicate by writing? Sure enough, when he scribbled 'can you read this?' on a scrap of paper and showed it to Saskia and she nodded, he knew he had made a breakthrough. He spent the next few hours writing down his experiences while she jotted little questions now and again. Saskia read his words incredulously, but knew that her husband was incapable of lying.

Later that afternoon, a friend from Henry's work came over to their house. Her name was Jenny. She was the office hippy and always talked about the spiritual dimensions of life. Many laughed at her behind her back for this, but never Henry. He always listened intently to what she said and learned many things from her experiences and studies. That morning she had heard Lucia complaining about Henry turning up drunk to work and knew this could not be true, since Henry never drank alcohol. He was so glad to see her and they conversed via paper. He told her what happened that morning and she seemed especially interested in the old woman.

'Did she say anything that was out of the ordinary?' Jenny asked.

'She told me my wish would come true,' wrote Henry.

'Did she have an animal with her?'

'A dog,' he answered.

Jenny nodded, 'I think you'd better come and see my friend, Josef. He's a shaman and may be able to help.'

Jenny took Henry to Josef's home, a large house he shared with three friends. Josef ushered them into a small room where he did a quick examination of Henry, feeling his pulse and looking into his eyes. Jenny explained to Josef what Henry had told her. Josef then turned to Henry.

'The woman you met before is witch. She put you under spell. You know where she lives?'

'No,' Henry replied, before asking 'how come I can understand you?'

'I study these things with teacher in Ukraine. You need find this lady. Paracelsus will help you,' Josef announced.

'Who is Paracelsus?' asked Henry.

Josef smiled and led them into the back garden, where a magnificent crimson and green King Parrot sat on a perch. Josef went over and whispered something in the bird's ear. It cocked its head attentively, made a few chattering noises then, in a voice as clear as any BBC announcer said, 'Be here at 8 o'clock tomorrow morning. We begin our journey then.'

Henry thanked them all and returned home. He was exhausted and soon fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Josef had asked that Henry wear the same clothes as the day before, which he did. Saskia had made him some sandwiches and thoughtfully provided some seeds for Paracelsus. After saying goodbye to Josef they set out at the appointed hour, on foot in Henry's case, Paracelsus perched on his shoulder most of the way but flying from time to time. It was agreed that they should start by returning near to the cafe where Henry first saw the old woman and that they would make enquiries with the local animals there. Paracelsus, wise parrot that he was, had a good idea where to start.

'She had a dog you say, hmmmm, those creatures simply never know when to keep their mouths shut. Let's try over here.'

They approached a garden gate with a 'Beware Of The Dog' plaque on it and were rewarded with the predicted hurricane of angry snarling from the Rottweiler who lived there.

'Get off my street! I'm thinkin' about takin' a piece outta your leg. You're just lucky there's a gate!' the dog seethed through impressively bared teeth.

'Oh do be quiet,' admonished Paracelsus, 'no one's coming to invade your precious slab of paradise. We just want to ask a few questions.'

'Like what? We don't like strangers askin' no questions round here!'

Henry piped up, 'Have you seen a little black and white terrier go by, with an old lady who pulls along a red trolley?'

'Yeah!' replied the Rottweiler derisively, 'I've seen that little pipsqueak, and if I ever get the chance, he's dog meat!'

At this point a languorous aristocratic voice called out from the direction of the house, 'It's no good asking Dougie anything. He's a dog. By definition that means he's stupid. Why don't you ask someone with a little more intelligence? Like me, for example.'

Looking up towards the source of the voice, Henry spotted a black cat sitting upright on the second floor balcony rail, licking his left paw and looking generally unimpressed.

'Why don't ya come down here and say that, Charlie?' barked Dougie.

'No thank you. And it's Charles, if you don't mind ... existentialist philosopher by trade,' the cat added for the visitors' sake.

'Lazy good for nothin' layabout!'

'It's called thinking, my dear, you may have heard of it. With these whiskers I tune into the cosmos, they're my antennae. Nothing escapes my attention.'

Paracelsus asked the cat, 'So what do you know about the old lady?'

The cat's eyes narrowed and he smiled, 'Come a bit closer, little bird, I'm having trouble hearing you.'

Paracelsus twitched and, looking decidedly nervous, sharply replied, 'Just answer the question, please.'

'Alright, keep your feathers on, I am a cat after all. The old lady lives somewhere out near Bannerman Lane. Take the third road to the left and follow the signs to the village of Elsewhere.'

'Thank you so much,' said Henry, 'but how could you possibly know that?'

'Elementary, my dear boy,' the cat answered, 'I've seen her pass by in the bus a few times and since the next and final stop is in Bannerman Lane and she also walks by on foot, I deduce that she must live thereabouts.'

'Amazing!' exclaimed Henry.

'You're not dealing with some shabby tabby here, you know,'

At this point a woman's voice could be heard calling out from the rear of the house.

Doug stood upright and shouted up to the cat, 'Charlie, the mistress is calling. We have to go!'

'I'll get there when I feel like it,' yawned the cat.

'But she's our mistress, we must obey!'

At this point Henry and Paracelsus left them debating and continued on their way.

Henry and Paracelsus followed the cat's instructions and soon found themselves leaving the town behind. They occasionally stopped along the way, either to talk with some of the animals they met or for Henry to eat his sandwiches and Paracelsus his seeds. It was a gorgeous day, with barely a cloud in the sky and the trees alive with the chatter of birds. Although Henry never lost sight of his mission, there were moments when a sensation of peace descended upon him. At such times he wondered whether he might prefer to never return to the world of men and their insatiable demands, then he thought of Saskia and the home they were working to pay off and his resolve returned with new vigour.

He learned much from Paracelsus, whom Josef had befriended while visiting the Mountains. Paracelsus spoke of the challenges facing the planet. Henry didn't understand all that he was told but Paracelsus was clearly just about the best informed, most intelligent person he had ever met and he was a bird! The way in which he spoke was very different from any learning Henry had experienced in his own schooling, read in any book or seen on TV.

Finally reaching Bannerman Lane, the couple were still unsure exactly where the old woman lived. As they walked slowly on the narrow curb they heard a strange groaning sound ahead. When they turned the corner, a donkey's head peered at them over a fence.

'Hello,' asked Henry, 'beautiful day, isn't it?'

'I don't see what's so good about it,' replied the donkey, 'it's just like every other one, as far as I can see. We're all just wasting time until we die.'

'That's very pessimistic,' said Henry, 'what about the beauty around you? Don't those daffodils there inspire you?'

'I'm sick of them,' said the donkey, 'and you'd be depressed too if you had a name like Delbert.'

Paracelsus, ever sensitive to the exploitation of his fellow beasts, piped up, 'You're oppressed by farmers, aren't you? What you need to do is escape!'

'Oh no,' said Delbert, 'they're ok to me, really, and I could get away quite easily since they never lock the gate. But what's the point? Where would I go? A few years back people were always asking me to give rides to their children but now no one comes. I don't think anyone likes me.'

'Why don't you come with us?' asked Henry.

'Really?' Delbert's ears pricked up, 'but wouldn't I get in the way?'

Paracelsus chipped in, 'We'd love you to join us.'

Delbert showed them how to open the gate and soon he was travelling alongside Henry, with Paracelsus on his back. It had been years since anybody had asked for his help and it brought a spring to his step. He knew exactly where the old woman and the dog lived and agreed to take them to her cottage. It was back from the lane, down a pathway which led to the edge of the wood. Finally they reached her gate and at this point Delbert refused to proceed.

'What's the problem?' asked Paracelsus.

'No offence,' said Delbert to Henry, 'but you said she's a witch. I'm worried that she might turn me into a human.'

Henry smiled and said, 'None taken. It's ok. You can wait here.'

So Delbert waited nervously on watch while Henry, with Paracelsus perched on his shoulder, walked through the gate, strode up to the door and knocked.

From behind the door they heard scampering footsteps approach before a small but ferocious voice bayed at them, 'What's the password? State your business or go away now!'

Paracelsus had some experience with dogs and knew what to say,. 'Good dog, we ask that you get your mistress for us. We have important business with her, friend.'

The sound of little feet running away from the door implied that these words had worked. Soon after the woman Henry had seen at the cafe opened the door and stared at them both. At first her face was inscrutable but once she had the opportunity to size up her visitors, she burst into a resounding cackle.

'You good man. You found a friend already!' she exclaimed in the same animal language Henry was using. Then she spotted Delbert outside the gate, trying to look inconspicuous, and this made her roar, 'Two! Hahahaha!'

Henry looked at her seriously and said, 'We need to talk about this.'

The old woman chuckled and drew both of them inside. She proceeded to tell Henry that she had been instructed by none other than the Grand Eagle himself to visit that cafe and set up the circle of magic crystals, always leaving one behind if a man sat nearby. The eagle told her that she would this way find the 'Special One', who would one day come to liberate the beasts from their bondage and save the world. She did this for months, mostly no one turned up, or the jewel would go missing, until yesterday, when Henry tried to return the crystal to her.

'What do you mean, tried to return it?' interjected Henry.

'Look in your top left pocket, darling,' the old lady replied. This Henry did and was astonished to find it nestled within. She must have tucked it there when she hugged him.

'This give you the power to speak with animals. Now I know you are the one since you find me so quick and bring your friends too!'

Henry cradled the stone in the palm of his hand, 'What did the Grand Eagle mean about saving the world?' he asked.

'He exaggerate a little, but only a little. Animals see things we don't, they know many weeks and months before disaster happens. Man needs to listen but they take no notice of old woman like me. Eagle tell me there earthquake in three weeks time. You tell men in power. You they believe.'

But, of course, they didn't believe. Henry presented himself to his local MP saying that an eagle had told an old lady to tell him that disaster was coming, in very specific detail. He was so intense, persistent and sincere in presenting his case that they immediately locked him up as a madman in the local asylum. Worse, they put Paracelsus in a cage at an animal refuge and put Henry's sacred crystal in a vault with all other items found on his person. To complicate things even further, when Henry gave Lucia as a personal reference she recounted the story of his disastrous last morning at work to doctors running this establishment. All evidence, they concluded, pointed to a nervous breakdown leading to a delusional personality.

It took Saskia days to find out what had happened. Desperate, she contacted Jenny, who tried to get hold of Josef but could not, since he was on a retreat. Between them they begged and pleaded with the doctors to let Henry go but to no avail. As a last resort they threatened to go to the local paper with his story. Doctors are generally tolerant of the behaviour of distraught relatives but rarely react well to blackmail, so unsurprisingly the two ladies found themselves thrown out when this suggestion was made.

Nevertheless, Jenny did get in touch with Boris, a journalist friend at the Daily Wire, and told him of Henry's story. He took some notes but then promptly filed them away, thinking them no more than new age claptrap. He'd only recently moved from covering minor traffic offences to political corruption and had no wish to ignite the ire of his editor by even mentioning the matter.

Meanwhile, Henry found himself sharing a room with a young man who believed that the internet was a spy network, that all mobile phones were mind reading machines and that the government were really aliens. Given the circumstances of his own imprisonment, Henry remained open minded. Needless to say, his neighbour believed every word Henry said.

Two weeks later, on the day predicted by the Grand Eagle, disaster struck. The earthquake measured 6.9 on the Richter scale, several buildings collapsed, essential services were cut, three people were killed, many more were injured. Chaos reigned. Never had such a blow been struck against the city and those in charge were utterly unprepared for the devastation.

Jenny's journalist friend was assigned the job of finding someone to blame for the slow response to this emergency. His editor had more than one axe to grind against the current state government, so Boris was given carte blanche to help deliver a knockout punch. In sifting through files on earlier leads he stumbled upon the notes from Jenny's phone call. It eerily detailed the exact circumstances they were in. Showing these notes to his editor he was given permission to run a story on how warnings were ignored and the whistleblower was incarcerated. Henry was recast as an amateur geologist to give the piece a more worldly angle.

When published, the article caused a sensation. Scientists from many disciplines around the globe clamoured to meet this maligned genius and learn of his secret. There were many red faces in the government when they learned of Henry's current predicament. A very public apology, replete with mandatory handshaking photo opportunities, was hurriedly arranged.

As the truth emerged from beneath the journalistic embroidery, the fascination with his story only grew. Paracelsus was rescued, the crystal was returned and demonstrations were arranged for all to see. It caused a revolution in thinking. It was around this time that the Department For Animal Relations was set up, with Henry in charge and from that day onward, animal rights were taken seriously. Talks between human leaders and the key representatives of the Six Tribes of Fauna (bird, fish, insect, mammal, spider, reptile) resolved a great many issues, bringing a new sense of global responsibility to all concerned.

Henry and Paracelsus became national celebrities, famous for their speaking tours. Now a highly respected member of society, Henry was able to pay off his mortgage and he and Saskia had two healthy sons. Josef and Jenny both came to work for him while Delbert got a job giving seaside rides to sick children. Boris became the editor in chief at his newspaper. As for Lucia, shortly after Henry's story came out she was attacked by a dog nobody in her neighbourhood had seen before. While in the hospital recovering Henry heard of her plight and paid a visit. He was quite annoyed. It was clearly a hate crime based on revenge and he made a point of going on television and in animal language pleaded for an amnesty against humans. Lucia found this very touching and from that day on was a changed person. She came to work for Henry too and proved a highly effective member of staff.

So that is how these things came to be.

The Golden Statue of Lord Carnarvon – David Anderson

'You've been on quite a few jobs with me now.'

'That I have, quite a few. Got any more lined up?'

Sean Murphy wiped the foam from his thin lips and placed his pint of Guinness on the table. Running his finger across the wet surface, he formed the shape of a pyramid.

'As a matter of fact, I have. I'm going to return to a place that I robbed two months ago. That archaeologist cove Carnarvon. He lives near Hyde Park. He's hoarding a lot of relics he found when they opened that Egyptian Pharaoh's tomb last year.'

'What did you steal that time?' Liam O'Bryan lit his pipe and waited for a reply. He was glad he'd run into Murphy. Last time they pulled a job together it had kept him in drinking money for months.

'A statue.' Murphy replied. 'Solid gold—about this high.'

Murphy held his hand above the table the height and a half of a pint mug.

'A statue of the boy king himself.' Murphy sat back smugly with arms folded.

Liam scoffed. 'Sure, and if you'd stolen that, why would you be begging me to pay for your pints?'

'Are you daft man?' Murphy looked sideways to make sure they couldn't be heard. 'I couldn't sell that. You'd only find it in the British Museum.'

'Then have you still got the little devil?' Liam looked doubtful.

Murphy laughed. 'That I have boyo, that I have. But he doesn't look quite the same as he did when those Egyptian fellows lay him in his grave and when Carnarvon broke into the tomb and lay his greedy hands on him.'

'What do you mean you daft sod.' Liam could feel the effects of two pints of Guinness on his senses and was sure Murphy was losing touch as well.

Murphy slammed his mug down and stated proudly. 'I'm going to Australia next week as a crewman on one of those merchant ships.'

Liam gave Murphy a pained look. Feeling sure he'd missed something he shouted out. 'What's that got to do with the golden statue you bloody clot?'

'Sh!' Murphy slapped his huge hand around Liam's mouth like a vice.

'Keep your voice down you daft fool, or you'll be out of the next job!'

He took a mouth full of Guinness and continued. 'I know a blacksmith who was with me in the Dardenelles during the war. Last week he melted the statue down into a roughcast nugget. I'm smuggling it to Australia; the customs are easy on merchantmen. Then I'll take out a lease on a goldfield somewhere, and...' Murphy laughed. 'Quite legally mind, I'll find a nugget of pure gold that will set me up for life.' He sat back smugly and drained the remains of his tankard, then slammed it down on the table and demanded. 'Right then Liam, me old Belfast friend—I'll have another pint!'

Liam was confused. 'But why tell me all this?' Murphy grinned.

'Because, I've got a job planned back at Carnarvon's house tomorrow night.' Murphy then whispered. 'I've heard on the grapevine there are still some relics that arrived after my last job that haven't been handed over to the British Museum yet. I'll need some help. Are you in?' Murphy belched.

Liam shook Murphy's hand, 'Just try to keep me out you curse of Belfast women.' Murphy laughed, stood up and slapped Liam on the back.

'Forget the pint,' he said. 'We'll go back to my hotel and I'll show you my plan.' Murphy winked. 'And me nugget.'

They rose from the table and reeled towards the door. Liam staggered and fell against a well-dressed man at the bar.

'Beg pardon Sir, my fault entirely.' Liam apologised as the man shot him a look of contempt.

Walking down the street Murphy laughed slapping Liam on the back.

'What's wrong with you, you daft bugger?' Liam asked.

'You haven't lost your touch. This job will go like clockwork to be sure.'

Liam was puzzled. 'What do you mean?'

Murphy slapped Liam's right chest. ' You picked that toff's wallet!'

Liam smiled and produced the pilfered item. 'Don't worry, I'll share it with you.' Murphy grabbed Liam's arm as a bobby rounded the corner near Murphy's hotel. Liam quickly pocketed the stolen wallet.

'Evening constable!' Murphy quipped.

'Evening gentlemen,' the constable replied warily.

They turned the corner and Murphy ushered Liam into the foyer of a decrepit hotel. Murphy's room was equally decrepit.

'I bet you can't wait to leave this lot,' Liam said contemptuously as he eyed the brightly painted orange walls.

'I wouldn't bring me good Catholic mother here to bless me self.' Murphy genuflected, then rummaged under the bed and withdrew a shoebox.

'Is that it?' Liam whispered. Murphy nodded and lifted the lid and Liam whistled removing his cap in respect. Shining up at him was a golden rough cast nugget the size of the average foot!

'Isn't she a beauty?' Murphy asked proudly.

'The Pride of Erin.' Liam smiled, then his face darkened.

'You should donate it to the cause you know. We need more guns and ammunition.' Murphy gave a look of contrition. Liam raised his eyebrows.

'I thought about that.' Murphy said solemnly, then grinned? 'But then I only thought about it for a minute.'

They burst into laughter as Murphy replaced the lid on the box and sat it on top of the bed. Murphy reached for a bottle of Bushmills under the pillow and unscrewed the cap.

'Would you like a drop of Irish then?' Murphy asked as Liam licked his lips in agreement, delighted that his pints for Murphy were being re-paid. Before Liam could reply a cultured English voice answered behind them.

'Yes thank you. Have you any ice?' Liam saw the source of the voice and gasped. Murphy turned to see the well-dressed man whose wallet Liam had stolen, accompanied by the bobby they had passed in the street.

The man walked towards Liam. Though the night was cold, sweat formed on Liam's brow. Murphy felt his heart trying to escape from his chest. The bobby's eyes were all over the room like a hound on a hunt.

'Liam O'Bryan I believe?' The man asked confidently.

'And who'll be wanting to know?' Liam replied nervously.

'Inspector Ronald Morris of Scotland Yard.'

Murphy's blood froze and he glanced at the box on the bed.

'What have I done?' Liam asked innocently. The inspector smiled.

'It's what you haven't done that worries me Liam. That is, you haven't let a week go by lately when you haven't committed a crime.' He smiled and offered his hand. 'My wallet if you please.' Liam sheepishly placed the pilfered item on it. Murphy glanced again at the box and interrupted.

'I only met him at the pub, Inspector Sir, I didn't know he were a common thief. Get him out of here, I don't want any trouble.' The inspector turned his attention to Murphy as his eyes roamed around the room.

'Are you sure you're not one of his Republican cronies? What is your name? Murphy licked his lips and foolishly eyed the box on the bed.

'Murphy Sir—Sean Murphy.' He was obviously nervous. 'Would I be a Republican and live in a room painted orange? No Inspector, these walls are painted the colour of the loyal Orangeman that I am.' Murphy's dramatics failed as the Inspector walked past him toward the bed and Murphy's box.

'What have we here?' He picked up the box, a frown creasing his face as he felt the weight. Murphy replied, a hint of panic in his voice.

'Nothing Sir, just lump of fool's gold to trick me friends with.' Murphy wished he had never ran into Liam and he felt his world begin to crumble.

Murphy tried another ploy. 'The truth is Sir... I lied. I brought that nugget back from Australia from the goldfields. I admit I was going to sell it to avoid duty on it but...' Murphy's defence ran out of steam. Placing the box on the table, the Inspector lifted the lid. He stared momentarily, then spoke.

'I'm afraid I'll have to place you under arrest also Mr Sean Murphy?'

Murphy was stunned. 'Arrest? Me? But I found the nugget quite legally, I admit I might owe sum customs duty on it but...' Murphy's words choked in his throat and all that came out was a strange gurgle as the inspector lifted the item out of the box and examined it. The bobby whistled. Liam tried to run, but his legs were incapable of motion.

'This is a solid gold statue of King Tutankhamen of Egypt which was stolen from Lord Carnarvon's mansion two months ago. It should be standing in the British Museum. A truly magnificent piece of craftsmanship—don't you think?' The Inspector held the statue in front of Murphy's face.

Just before Murphy fainted and fell back onto the bed, he felt sure he saw a faint smile on the face of the statue that wasn't there before the blacksmith had it melted down!

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Between the Lines – James Craib

The sun sets slowly in the west,

Blue Mountains fade from view.

How long have I known that my best,

Escaped and joined the queue?

Ecstasy is hard to find,

The years go quickly by.

Loneliness can be a bind,

We rue the cost... we cry.

In time, the dark clouds roll away;

Enticed by things anew,

No one cares if you go or stay –

Even, family tires of you.

Ever mindful of your mortality,

Not knowing how the chips may fall.

Spending your hard-earned currency,

Too soon 'Humpty' falls from the wall.

Be wary of those who pontificate,

Hold your cards close to your chest.

Examine closely the points they make,

Expect to be patronised at best.

Truth is an elusive butterfly,

Love can be a cover for deceit.

Whenever you see clouds in a summer sky,

Intense is the storm after heat!

Essentially, you must look behind;

Not to mention your third eye as well.

Expose vagabond lovers who rob you blind,

Excuses they proffer prove they smell.

Never let your guard waver, take heed of the signs.

Sacrifice no favour and read between the lines.

Memories – Robyn Nance

I remember with nostalgia the day was full of joy,

As the four of us drove home with our brand new baby boy.

I remember as he grew, what a happy child he was,

And how he'd played for hours with his favourite Lego blocks.

I remember his first day when he started infant school,

Proud in his uniform, trying to act cool.

I remember how he coped when we moved further north,

Just another adventure as we ventured forth.

I remember when the family travelled overseas,

Only a young boy, yet so eager to please.

His job to check the amenities when we made our stops,

'Drive on, Dad,' he'd say, 'they're only starting blocks!'

I remember the weekends on the hobby farm,

Of riding horses, the bikes and the fireside yarns.

I remember how sad he was leaving his best mate,

It must have been so tough to move interstate.

I remember how his olive skin turned a handsome brown,

As he spent days on Parramatta river, rowing up and down.

I remember when he said he'd found his true direction,

'It's only your first job', his sisters were quick to mention.

I remember when he brought that first young lady home,

So much in love, so happy to be grown.

How devastated he was when that fickle love died.

He'd thought it was forever and we held him while he cried.

I remember how thrilled we were for our only son,

When he later announced he'd definitely found 'the one'.

I remember the birth of his three sons over the next six years,

And held him again as he cried, but this time happy tears.

I remember those family times when we gathered all together.

Despite his father's illness, I felt our bond would never sever.

I remember how he seemed able to cope,

When I finally told him Dad had no further hope.

I remember with sadness the day he broke my heart,

And said of a united family he didn't want a part.

I wish I could remember when it started to go wrong.

I wondered if his Dad had been the glue keeping our family strong.

I'm hoping that whatever hurt has made him feel this way,

Will somehow disappear and I'll finally hear him say,

'I now remember Mum, all those memories that we shared,

Can I come back into the arms of the family who always cared?'

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Suburbia – Sonia Ursus Satori

I enter the property. Hesitantly. Finally I dare. A beautiful young girl and a brown dog greet me. Her dad isn't here, she says, but he sure would love to meet me, and I should come by tomorrow.

I return, eager to meet the man who creates this fantasyland that vexes me each time I spot the turrets poking over the pole-fence. A glimpse at the boat structure one sees when you press your face close to one of the spaces between the roughly-cut poles always makes me long for the Haida settlements and their totem poles in Northern BC, in Canada, that I used to know.

I wonder whether the man would vibrate with his creation, if he is likeable and communicative, and what the rest of his family is like. His daughter's name Savonaya is exotic and fitting, and find it exciting that he teaches at the local Rudolf Steiner school.

No-one seems to be home. How disappointing! Cosi the dog jumps up and around me, barking like mad. Don't know, will she bite and defend her place?

I'm so fascinated by this man-made environment. It's like stepping into a magical world that exists parallel to ours. There are many smallish, self-contained spaces sculpted into nature in which they are now absorbed. Are those mud bricks dug out from deep down? Strangely-shaped mud steps lead around little ponds that are tiled, for sitting in—I imagine father and daughter refreshing their bodies in summertime, covered up to their heads in a still, cold pool, with thousand-year-old trees looking on.

Around the bend a curious half-boat is jotting high into the air, standing upright (I was later told this was meant to become the entrance to the open-air art gallery, but council had disapproved). Like Alice in Wonderland I touch, I climb, I twirl, I am super tiny then very tall. I squeeze through jungle-like overgrowth as tight as a womb. I stand totally still in the darkest spot under the mightiest tree trunk you've ever seen. I laugh with joy. If there was a fly watching right now it would spot the happiest woman ever walked on earth.

A long, long swing (just like the one I always dreamt of) that sways a hundred metres sideways, unbroken, is covered in baby ferns growing in patches. The hammock high up in dismay and decay bespeaks of fun times long gone. (Later Ingmar told me he raised his daughter on his own, and this site had always been their favourite, and was built for him by his parents when he was born.)

Suddenly I freeze: I'm staring at a person. Myself! What relief; I must laugh out loud; how witty! Camouflaged by greenery near the entrance to an open shack with steps leading up, a large mirror stares you in the face, warning you, the intruder, to beware. I can't help it; I climb inside: paintings are stacked against all sides—an artist's studio, open to all seasons. Are they safe here?

What a happy, tranquil place to be. Can't stop long enough to look up at the enormous spruce that shuns out all sun-rays, and its bed of shed needles silences my step. I don't want to ever leave. I step into long flowering grass, along machinery and piled-up wooden planks. Rocks of all sizes and shapes make up several rock pyramids, sedately inviting you to lean against and linger. Spiral runes have been carved into elongated, spindly poles, half circling the workbench on which tools have been left behind. Fresh sawdust strewn onto bits of triangular pieces of soft wood. Aha! Work in progress...

I hold my breath. Then, my curious footsteps take me along a path that suddenly springs into view: laid into a series of curves increasing and decreasing in width it circles upward and ends as a central platform. Everything appears differently again. I'm amidst the lower tree tops and my eye travels on the sun rays that sprinkle every free space with sparkles, only contrasted with bold daggers of pure gold as if shot from a bow from beyond the universe.

There. I spot a circular open-air rock structure. A sanctuary! Within seconds I rush to it. It's like visiting a prehistoric site. Along the outer edge sit various altars, or shrines with pillows piled before each one. For meditation I imagine. In the shady area an irregular cave structure, formed like a loose number 6, holds all my attention. I can barely make out a shallow pool off centre, and half hidden from view.

I am in awe. This is a very private, almost holy place. I dare not enter. Flushed with joy and anguish I flee. My left hand crawls, fingering the outside wall. I half run, the last spatter of daylight right in front of me leading me on. I've been here way too long. I am violating sacred space that wasn't meant for an outsider to behold. How could I have been so carried away, trespassing? I must leave. I want to go home. How do I get out of here?

Where has the dog gone? I am all alone. Nightfall surrounds me. In a strong passionate defence: yes, I do belong here, I breathe in the cold air. One, two, twenty times. I have turned into a statue. I can't move. I want to melt into my surrounds. To be one with it, part of it, losing identity forever.

A chill rattles my reason. But to shake off mystery and wonder is another thing. This man who has created this enchanting world must be of such a beautiful mind, a true creator and worshipper of the essence of all that is worth living for. I love him.

I see him. Barely silhouetted against the very tall mud tower, the nesting home for 20 or so white peace doves who flutter excitedly around the man who is spraying seeds for them, he waves to me: come here! My heart leaps in shock. He takes a few steps toward me. And smiles. Hi, I'm Ingmar. you must be Isa. Savonaya told me you'd visit. I melt. A string of faint blue lights disappear in the direction we follow, side by side. He calls out 'Cosi!' Out of nowhere the dog flies toward him. 'Come to the house, Isa. We'll have some tea.'

And from the darkness a shape emerges: hectagonal, turrets instead of a roof. We glide through a stained glass opening. He lights a candle. The interior breaks my heart; the magic knows no end, beyond words. Silk hangings, exquisitely carved geometric shapes instead of walls, paintings, wood-stoneceramic beams, a ladder leading upwards to nowhere (I believe). A recently lit fire hurls its flames in a caress of light onto every feature that my eye takes in, in slow motion. I am overwhelmed with emotion. I sit and drink tea. He talks but I can't hear a word. Just smile and gaze.

It feels good being in his company. When I finally hear the words and speak myself, a curious passion beyond all spills out of me: I am with a soul mate, that's all that matters. How much have I missed this soul searching conversation over time. Twenty, thirty years? Surely, it can't be that long? (when I return to reality world many hours later, I fondly remember the other times, the other people: in the McGill student ghetto, one glorious summer, a golden-locked Islamic Studies aficionado, or the astronomer friend, and when I was swept off my feet by Edward, although we were not meant to trod on a shared path, and ... Ah! So many good memories.

How strange circumstances arrange us in life! I've got so much to share and talk about with Ingmar. So much to ask. Such a need for befriending, knowing and loving such a mind, this gorgeous man.

Millenniums later that night I leave, with a bouncing heart, my lifespan readjusted, my mind working perfectly, in complete sanity, and my exulting love and celebration of life restored. Tomorrow we'll go painting in the bush together. With the dog and Savonaya.

'It's alright, dear. Wakie-wakie Ms Isa, naptime's over. Bingo's starting soon. Now you wouldn't want to miss that, do you now? Here, I help you into the wheel chair. Off we go! Now, be a good girl. Were you playing in your magic garden again? Come on. This is so much nicer here. So much fun! Tomorrow we'll celebrate your 99th birthday. Everybody is coming. What? Ingmar? Still believing in fairytales, are we, Ms Isa? Don't cry, dear. You look so pretty when you smile.'

Devil Bone – Stephen Studach

The three silhouettes stood, upthrusting from the rock ledge pedestal, a part of it yet not. Big and gaunt and still they were, each a deeper more substantial shade of dark amidst the waning dark of morning. A dismal wind hummed sadly among them as the first mournful birds of day heralded another dawning.

There they stood, as they had stood for so long.

Stone, rock, implacable, unmoving and unmoved.

Waiting. Waiting ...

He walked to Echo Point again that morning.

It was the second time that Mike Fyndis, a young man in his middle twenties visiting Katoomba from the city, had gone to that popular spot to see those three tall, brooding sisters, and the other sights, since arriving in the mountains town a week earlier. So far he had thoroughly enjoyed every day of his stay. Almost every morning saw him leave his hotel and set off to explore some part of the region, unless he was in his room chronicling his journeys of the day before or committing to paper, poetry, prose or sketches inspired by the previous trips. For Mike Fyndis loved bushwalking and exploring and he revelled in arcana and things and dwellings of past times. He also delighted in exercising his imagination and had found that in the wilds surrounding the district of Katoomba and in the town itself his imagination was well worked, along with his lungs and legs.

He had read much of Machen and Lovecraft, their works of horror and supernatural myth being of an appealing type to him. He had found in Katoomba and its surrounds the same things he found in such writings. In the bush and foresty outdoors there were sets and scenes reminiscent of Machen; the wooded wilds were Machensian. Then one went into the elder parts of town and there was Lovecraft, in the older houses and steep railed backstreets and worn steps. Like the ancient chimney pots dotted here and there for those with a searching eye to find them, these things were there for anyone with the sight, the imagination, to see and appreciate.

One day he wanted to rent one of the interesting houses in the area and stay for months.

In his warm clothing, brown wavy haired head bare, he walked energetically along his most favoured of the streets leading to the Echo Point location.

The road he took ran along a high, sloping cliff view and he remembered an earlier walk down along a path which was reached via this particular road. He recalled that wet and misty day and the sights he had seen. Off in the rainy pall a mountain line's vast shadow had hovered like a cyclopean, frozen black wave in a limitless ocean of blue grey mist. The deep, mighty chasms with mist rising up like steam from a satanic cauldron. Valued images, along with other vistas that had held him enraptured, looking down, up or across, for long minutes.

Soon he was at the Point, still too early for the usual mass of sightseers. A few minutes walk along an alternate trail to the well-trod tourist path, and he had reached a fine vantage point to view the three imposing rock figures which he had developed a keen, curious fondness for.

There had just been a light rain and the newly burst sunlight from an uncluttered pale blue sky was bright on the wet bejewelled trees and ferns. Far off in the cerulean valleys low, thick mist lay whitely like sunken stratus clouds, giving a depthless, mysterious, fantastical look to the distant scene. And there, above the unrubbled, unbroken bush slopes They stood. The three unfortunate sisters of legend. Though Fyndis was not local to the area he knew of much of its folklore and history.

There was an Aboriginal legend. It seemed that long ago three native girls lived in the area with their father Tyawan, a witch doctor or kadaitcha man. Whenever Tyawan left to hunt or go off on walkabout he would leave the three young girls on a high rock ledge. For one of those dreaded creatures of Aboriginal myth, a bunyip, lurked nearby in a deep hole down below in the valley, and frequently awoke from his sleep to go forth in search of food. The monster's sustenance was, for the most part, moving and live and often black and screaming. One day, the legend told, Tyawan having gone off and left his daughters in the usual place, one of them had dislodged a rock by accident and it had tumbled down into the bunyip's hole, disturbing and angering the creature who, in a fury of powerful rage, bellowed forth from his lair and climbed to the very top of the guardian cliff, looming over the three frightened girls, and advanced upon them. However Tyawan, hearing the hideous being's roaring cries of fury, had returned swiftly to the ledge and seeing the situation was fairly hopeless, as the bunyip horror was almost upon his three daughters, he used the magic shinbone which he possessed and turned the three girls to rock, thus protecting them from the menacing creature. Thwarted, the giant beast turned upon the kadaitcha man and pursued him. Knowing the bunyip was gaining on him and would eventually catch him, Tyawan, with the assistance of his magic bone, turned himself into a lyrebird and flew into a small crevice in a rock face, safe from the monster who eventually slunk back to its hole.

But Tyawan had dropped the magical shinbone when changing into the lyrebird's form and could not find it. Therefore Tyawan was perpetually trapped in the shape of the lyrebird and the three sisters imprisoned in rock until the powerful bone could be found again. As with many Aboriginal legends there were several variations upon the myth, including white tamperings with black tellings. One had the three girls turned to stone by a kadaitcha for speaking to a dog, such conversation being strictly forbidden.

He believed that the version he was familiar with had probably been degraded by the colonisers and only held seed fragments of the original black lore. He'd even heard that it was seven, not three, sisters. He was sure that Kooris must do much head shaking when they read, hear and see their stories retold by non Kooris.

Continuing on, Fyndis was soon over the short bridge crossing of boards, bolts, pipes and wire and was standing at the base of The Three Sisters. However this did not afford a satisfactory view in his opinion so, seeing there was no one else about and being of an agile physique, he climbed a safety fence and within a few minutes was down between two of the actual rock towers themselves, looking upwards at all three of them, and wondering.

The fantasy endowed legends would have one believe that if the three sisters were returned to human form there would be a trio of young black girls on the bare rock plateau. But examining the three cracked, rough, lichenous rock figures with their mossy, dripping surfaces, some parts with small trees growing out of them, Fyndis considered that the sisters had aged much and would perhaps not be so pleasant to look upon were they cruelly returned from myth.

After a few minutes of contemplation amidst the triad monoliths he worked his way to a trail which did not know the tread of tourists' feet and was barely known by hikers. It was a path known only to those of a curious turn of nature and wound a course down to the valley below. He passed a deep fissure in a sheer rock face and briefly wondered if it were a bird's abode as there was a feathered smell from within it.

As the young man walked along through the surrounding green, black and white currawongs (themselves Koori named) and other smaller birds of multicolour and variety tumbled down through the trees. The broken laughter of the currawongs, the tinkling of winged bells and the raucous shrieks and croakings of parrots and cockatoos, both visible and invisible, were the constant melodies of the surrounding bush and accompanied his descent.

There were many fine viewing points along the circuitous trail and he took advantage of the spectacles they presented. He saw great areas where the green bush sprawled unmindful over the solemn, precipitous sandstone faces of the vast cliffs; the falls and trickles of water down those same faces, some like torrents of tears from the stone giants, others mere dampness upon their coarse textured brows. The sunlight reflecting off the water and forming rainbow patterns of blue, silver and golden yellow there across the glinting, mossy rock walls, the water falling, drops plummeting down to explode in golden death-life upon other shelves of cliff rock. The whole trickling and tumbling downwards to finally join the liquid life of tree-top-hidden gullies, creeks and rivers, and there whisper the secrets it had learned from the age wise rock as it travelled on to distant watery meetings and ocean vats of knowledge. The empty eye sockets of hollows and caves on high looking out upon a land that once harboured prehistoric creatures, that was lined with age and subtle mystery, bearing secrets perhaps older than known time. Reaching one natural, jutting lookout he marvelled at the congregation way down; the green, talus hordes worshipping at the very base of the stony gods. Turning he looked up at one such mighty totem which he himself stood at the foot of like some impudent bull ant, and he thought of all the other puny, mortal ants that crawled along the mountain trails, most not aware that they were in the crushing presence of elder gods.

Stepping closer and examining its surface he thought of the fossils that must be encoffined in the sandstock walls with their varicoloured striations of compressed rock.

He continued on and further down stopped at another glorious pinnacle. Looking up he saw above him rock ledges like jagged monster teeth. He put his hand against the rock and looking thought of the high towers and walls silently staring out over leagues upon leagues of green expanse that stretched to the very blue haze of human sight, and waiting, as they had waited for perhaps a million years, for, mayhap, The Old Ones to return across those miles of wild valleys and wilderness, to march forth and shake the earth with their coming. To finally topple those rock sentinels and free them from their prisoned service. He put his head against the rock and closing his eyes imagined the land, risen, Atlantis-like, from deep pre-ice age lakes. The great upheaval that brought the underwater land up to such vertiginous heights, bringing another world, and God knows what else, to the surface and the future sight of man.

After some time the way levelled out and, following the dwindling trail past a group of the naked ghost gums which at night haunted the bush with a spectral glow, he came out upon one of the regular tourist paths.

Today the adventuresome visitor decided to go a bit deeper and set out down to the very floor of the valley via a dried out watercourse.

Going down the dry waterway he had to traverse many fallen trees; toppled giants in a behemoth land of giants.

The sun was almost two hours older when he came out of the dry wash and continued his gently sloping descent through widely spaced trees over the rich, mulchy detritus of the shady, rainforest-like floor. Hearing a sharp rustling sound to one side of him he turned and saw a lyrebird digging in the fertile ground. Fyndis knew that this species was known as the Superb lyrebird, though currently this one did not quite live up to the superlative. Though larger and a sootier, darker colour than the usual reddish-brown and grey examples of such birds, the sweeping ruddy brown and golden lyrate bows of its two major plumes, with their curled black tips, which framed the fourteen white feathers and their delicate fan display of hair-like filaments, were flat and folded. 'Hello, Tyawan,' the young man said with a smile to the bird as he passed on. The lyrebird merely raised its small, dark eyed head, gave the man a cursory look, and then returned to its scratching.

An hour or so later Mike Fyndis had almost reached his goal of the valley floor, but, feeling weary and not wishing to leave his departure too late, he was about to turn back when something laying on the ground to his left caught his eye. As he approached it he saw that the object in the penetrating sun rays that beamed through the high tree canopies, had the whiteness of bone. Squatting and picking it up he saw that the curio was indeed a bone. As soon as he picked the relic up all the birds that were twittering and whistling in the trees nearby ceased their calls and a hushed quiet fell to baffle his ears. A brown and white, ruffle headed kookaburra whom Fyndis looked up at began a low, strangely mocking laugh, then leaned forward on the branch and with its black gleamed eyes gave him a concentrated stare. It was not the way a kookaburra should look or sound. It was, disquieting.

Suddenly Mike Fyndis felt, for the first time, scared in the bush.

Looking at the thing in his hands he saw that it was of great antiquity. The long bone was light with age and the knobbly ends were worn and crumbling.

Deciding it would make a good souvenir he took the bone with him on his ascent.

On his way up he saw the lyrebird or a lyrebird again. This time it seemed to take more notice of him, to stare almost. And as he climbed further to the tourist path he noted that it was following him at a discreet distance. For some reason he could not fathom this caused a mild apprehension within him. In spite of several rocks flung near the long plumage tailed bird it persisted in following him at a slightly lengthened distance. When he began to wend his way up the other, steeper trail from the tourist path to the summit, however, it looked as if the bird had ceased its tailing of him.

Meanwhile Fyndis was noting an unpleasant odour rising from the bone held in his hand. A noxious taint that increased as the minutes passed.

With his bony sceptre prize and renewed energy Mike Fyndis took his time on the rising trail, veering off several times to see other sights on alternate arms of the dirt track.

He passed a number of seats of rock seemingly carved for the place of who knew what demonic and monstrous beings; carved naturally or unnaturally dim ages ago for presiding over reverent, wonder-awed, pagan blacks and their worshipful rituals.

It was late afternoon when he approached the three solitary sisters once more. Malevolent faced banksias and skulking noncommittal 'black boys' monitored his passage. As he drew level with the unusual crevice which he had earlier guessed to be the haven of feathered dwellers, his assumption was verified by a rustling and the serpent head and neck of a quilled lyrebird appearing inside. Looking at the staring bird Mike Fyndis laughed at its comic appearance and wondered vaguely if it was the one that had been trailing him. 'Here you are, kadaitcha,' he said light heartedly and tossed the now unwanted bone into the crevice as he passed and walked off to the gathering, cold, breathing shadows round the mountain town.

That night there was a storm the like of which Katoomba had not seen for many a decade. People did not venture outside if they could help it. Dogs cowered, clothes that had been left on lines were snatched and sacrificed by the gale winds to the dark void, and those of a religious turn of mind wondered what insurrection had been made to cause such a wrathful attack. That night the talk round the flickering campfire of one group of overnighters, down near the floor of a certain valley, was stilled as the suddenly howling winds increased in magnitude and weird wailing tone and three huge shadows, like silhouette ghost figure shapes, were glimpsed, or imagined, gliding swiftly across the trees and the lighter shade of night sky, on their shrieking passage, to the south.

Very early, just on grey dawn of the next morning, Mike Fyndis returned to the Point as usual, a styrofoam cup of warming coffee from a vending machine in his hands.

He stopped at his usual scenic viewpoint and turned his head in an arc as he surveyed the ever-present, constant magnificence before him in the first light of dawn. The endless glistening trees and ferns were still there; Mike breathed deeply of the crisp, clean, biting air, the ageless valleys were still there; he smiled with the pure joy of the roving view, the unrubbled unbroken bush slopes were still there––he crushed the cup in his hand, unheedful of the hot liquid, stomach ridged, he shook once with a deep-seated tremble.

All those individual spectacles of the bush and vista were present.

They were all there ... But The Three Sisters were not.

About Stephen:

Stephen is a local writer who finds the wonderful Blue Mountains continuously inspiring.

This section brought to you by

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Child Centred Play Therapy

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Faustus – Alan Lucas

Doctor, you know

the way I am,

on this level, all things

are possible.

I will, as you have, always take

the underground,

and when we arrive Cerberus

will sniff at Hades gates

for our mortal sins.

Doctor, you also understand

how ancient images

are reimposed by modern

incredulity,

strangers are not met

for any particular reason,

and situations occur

within a similar context.

We know that Santos Vega

will always show up

for his contest with the devil.

The Christ was likewise tempted,

'ask for anything', he was told.

He refused, we do not.

The Prickly Tree – Julitha De La Force

Oh dear what can the matter be

I find myself stuck up a prickly tree

I'm just a little innocent black cat you see

And my name is Looossseee

Oh dear what can the matter be

I rushed up the tree to catch a birdy

But the birdy flew free

And I'm stuck up this bloody tree

Oh dear what can the matter be

Why does my mistress

Not come and rescue me?

Nobody loves meee!!!

Oh dear what can the matter be

It's not MY fault I got stuck up this tree

If that nasty bird didn't fly away from me

OHHH I JUST WANT TO GET DOWN FROM THIS DAMN TREE!!!

Oh glory be! There my mistress be!

She's seen me up this stupid tree!

Oh no... she's laughing at me!!!

I really want to be free of this prickly tree!!!

Oh lucky me

She climbed up the tree and got me free

Well she really does love me doesn't she

It's so heaven to be free of that prickly tree!!!

This section brought to you by

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Fantasy packages written specially for you!

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The Facility – James Tingle

We had all been miserable, trapped in a machine, to work an eternity. I woke up to the sounds of machines grinding and rumbling, and it frightened me. I woke up sometimes after dreaming of freedom, and being happy, only to hear and slowly realise that I was still in the machine.

Each day, I would arise from my steel casket, a pop-riveted thick steel pot in which to rest. From there, I would follow the others to the mines and begin to sift through the dirt for valuable compounds. It was the whole point of life here. To search and sift, and only once had I found something valuable. We were required to be checked for valuables before retiring to our steel pots rest, in case we had discovered anything unique.

I remember one time I had found something. A smooth, ovalish stone of some form, with a gorgeous bluish-purple vortex shape inside. The little vortex inside just swirled and swirled. I had wished so desperately that I could keep it, but reluctantly did my job and handed it to the nearest guard, who swiped it from me, spat at the ground and stomped off. Had I not given it straight over, I very likely would have faced the fate of other smugglers.

Should I have known that this certain day I was working was my last day of work, I would've celebrated, although for me, I was becoming truly exhausted and suffering from severe malnutrition. Our rations included a small pouch of a vague meat with liquid consistency, which seemed to do nothing to aid hunger, nor replenish strength.

This day in particular, I chose not to eat, instead throwing my pouch of rations straight into the waste lavatories. The waste lavatories actually provided an escape route, although due to the filth they had been stained with, we weren't sure if anyone had ever made it through. The pipes were incredibly narrow and claustrophobic, and began on a downward angle before curving forward and eventually ending outside near the waste facility. Anyone who had gone down would surely have been immersed by the putrid filth and most illness inducing bacteria. It was common for escapee's bodies to clog up these facilities.

The day was progressing slowly. I was sent to work in a small confined tunnel with little air intake. They'd sent someone down, and he hadn't returned, so it was my duty to go down and investigate the disappearance. One of the guards took me to a small cramped power vent that led straight into the wall, then directly down. I climbed in backwards and grasped the electrical wire, ready to descend. Tight spaces had never been my favourite place to be.

I held my breath as I slowly slid down the wiring. It would be difficult to climb back up due to the lack of space in which to move my arms. As I descended, I retrieved a tiny glow-rock from my knapsack and used it to guide my way down. I noticed an exposed power cord which needed sealing up. My feet touched the bottom of the duct, so I curled down and clambered through, into the darkness. The vent did not shake, rumble, or send vibrations, meaning that it was surrounded by solid metal or dirt. I had always been claustrophobic, and hoped that it wouldn't collapse.

An odd burning smell suddenly met my nostrils, perhaps the previous worker who had come down had suffered at the hands of the power wiring. I had to be extra careful not to touch any live areas. There was a faint humming that vibrated throughout the duct which felt as if it were getting stronger as I progressed. I took out my wooden digging stick for shiftwork and felt my way through until it clobbered something solid.

I illuminated the area with my glow rock. The body was clutched around a power line. The line appeared to have separated itself from the live areas as it had been entirely destroyed.

In the dark, I could barely see, I felt down to my cloth and belt, removing the utility tape and placing it on the floor next to me, I then used my digging stick to bring the two power lines into contact again. They connected with an extremely loud bang. I then began to use my tape to seal the lines together, slowly wrapping it carefully around and around until I heard the flow of the current pulsing through the wires without distortion. How I had done it without dying from a power surge still remains beyond me.

The intense work now over, I re-holstered my tools and scurried back up the vent, eager to leave the confines of the power duct. As I clambered out, the guards escorted me back to my station at the mineral resource centre.

It was a slow day. I recall almost falling into a slumber towards the evening. A guard appeared from out of nowhere and suddenly clubbed me across the head with a baton. I growled, and continued my work, my eyes scanning for any precious metals, gems or anything shiny within the pile of dust and rock.

Hours passed and I looked up. Everyone else had left. I had been so absorbed in my thoughts that I hadn't noticed everyone retiring for the evening. I stood up, angry and tired after another long, annoying, and pointless day.

As I was walking up one of the corridors towards our resting area, I heard a sudden scream followed by loud thumping noises. Such a noise was commonplace but the sound of a female in pain rather than a male somehow struck me as even worse.

I jogged up the corridor from which the source of the noise had come from, and rounded a corner to see a large guard clubbing a smaller female in the corner.

She looked young, perhaps 18 or 19, a few years younger than myself. I don't know why, but I could almost feel her terror and pain. My body tensed whenever I was in the presence of guards, my heart felt as if it were encapsulated in a tight metal lock.

It's a traumatising experience, seeing it happen. It sticks in your mind like gum to hair, and whenever you think of it, voluntarily or not, a cold nauseous feeling sweeps through your body.

Something snapped inside me. I was so sick of taking it easy. It wasn't as if complying helped make my job easier, or the guards job harder. I felt a sudden surge of adrenaline, strength and leapt forward, grappling the guard from behind and pinning his arms to his side. The worker on the floor leaped up and retreated to another corner. Another worker had entered, noticing what I was doing, and without hesitation, proceeded to hit the guard as hard as he could. I was anxious the whole time that we might get caught.

His punches seemed to land with resounding cracks, each one destroying the guards face more and more. The guard continued to yell and writhe, although his screams soon became mute, and his body limp. He had been knocked unconscious. I suddenly felt a hand on my shoulder, thinking it may be a fellow worker wishing to assist, only to turn and see a large object directly in front of me, and before I could comprehend what it was, I was seeing stars, and then everything went black.

***

I felt almost relaxed in the pleasant company of darkness and silence. You weren't always aware of the difference of whether you had been knocked out or sleeping when you were in these states.

I saw a faintish light and felt a sudden heavy feeling. I was regaining consciousness slowly, the feeling of sleep paralysis wearing off as my hands twitched. The feeling was akin to that of having one's arms encased in concrete blocks. I was in an iron case, strapped to the wall. For a brief second, I thought myself to be in the Iron Chambers, a series of large torture chambers.

Fortunately, I was only in a small, gritty room lined with dirty white tiles. There were other metal cabinets lining the walls, the faces of the victims inside obstructed by iron face masks. It was torture inside the iron casings, as they had been designed to force one to stand up, rather than be bound or able to sit, similar to the ancient device of the iron maiden.

My mind drifted to stories that had been told to me at a young age. The story of 'Earth' came to mind, although no one I had spoken to was sure whether it was even true or not. I always believed it was a true story.

From what our elders told us, there was a war many hundreds of years ago called the War for Earth. It was believed that there was a planet other than ours, called 'Earth', which had a population of millions. During the year 2067, there was a great war.

It is believed our soldiers had gone to Earth in order to acquire the land. The population of Earth fought back, until they were enslaved. Most of the humans were split up into races, the genetically weak were destroyed, where the stronger ones were taken captive and brought to our planet to be used as slaves.

Eventually our army had unleashed one of the most powerful dark-matter weapons believed to be in existence and obliterated most of Earth, leaving large countries in pieces. It is said many of the population retreated to uninhabited areas such as a large continent in the southern hemisphere known as 'Australia'.

The war lasted three days, each country surrendering after ten or so hours of battle. The death toll was incredulous, but the story that Earth put up such a valiant fight before being enslaved was somewhat inspiring. Perhaps I should remind my fellow workers of the War. Maybe one day we too could fight back. I always imagined that we would rebel, or our sons would.

A sharp rapping on the metal chamber around me bought me to my senses. I jumped, as a high ranking and extremely intimidating soldier looked in at me, just as fiercely as they would've looked at the commanders of Earth. The soldier had on him a mask with sharp red slits for eyes which seemed to be able to scan the entire room at any one time, an omnipresent gaze. He glared at me for a moment, before grunting 'Still alive ...' and slamming the metal face mask shut, blocking out all light.

Something felt odd. The temperature had changed. It was suddenly a lot colder than it had been before I was knocked out. I hadn't seen the outside world in such a long time, but I was almost certain it was The Freeze, our coldest season.

I seemed to drift into another state of sleep paralysis, half-asleep, and half-awake when I was brought to my senses again by the face-mask flying open, only to see a worker staring in at me.

'Come with me brother!' he said in a hurry, unsnapping the lock and freeing me from the chamber. It took me a moment to get my bearings as I landed on my aching feet, and for a moment I struggled to stand straight.

'The rebellion has started, just as it was predicted!' he said excitedly, turning and running from the room. I regained my composure and followed him out into the hallway.

Something had definitely changed, many lights were broken, and there was a buzz of activity, the sound of loud voices and thumping from further up. I looked around on the ground and found a piece of an old pipe, picking it up for protection, and continued up the corridor with my compatriot. We soon joined a large group of angry workers, who were charging up the hall.

A dozen or so guards rounded the corner at the top, rifles in hand, but they were no match for the large group of work-hardened slaves before them. The slaves were hungry, tired, beaten, and angry. There must've been about thirty of us at this point running towards the guards. At first I believed we had made a fatal mistake to run against the guns, then I realized just how outnumbered the guards were.

I was pushed forward by the crowd behind me as we slammed into the guards like a bulldozer, pushing them back and crushing many. Explosions and flashes suddenly went off below us as the rifles cracked away, killing many of the slaves in the first row. We began pounding the Guards with our fists and improvised weapons as hard as we could in an attempt to render them unconscious. I saw many of us fall at the front lines as they were shot with the spark rifles one by one.

I was successful in assisting the others in beating the group of guards. I reached down and picked up a small black device with 'SPARK PISTOL' engraved on the side, some kind of small weapon utilised by guards.

I wasn't sure how to aim properly but I believed I had it right. There was a large ring towards the back and a small thin spike protruding from the top of the end of the pistol. One of the group members began running ahead, we were going to escape this one time, as it was the only chance we had.

It was 5 am. I remember excitement and anxiety mixed into one emotion for myself. It was like the excitement and anxiety of war, the excitement of fighting and the fear of dying all combined into an adrenaline rush. Whilst most of us had headed towards the surface, we slipped past the medical facility towards the storage area.

The storage area was a large dark warehouse filled with metal storage crates and dim lighting. Guards often patrolled the area to ensure slaves wouldn't sneak out through an export crate. As I expected, there was one sneaking around the crates, looking lost. I waited behind the doorway.

I signalled for the others to halt. They nodded nervously and kept a careful eye on the guard from behind the crates. I motioned for one to help me get on top of the rusty old crate in front of me, A friend bent down at the base and allowed me to climb up on top and access the top of the crate.

As I reached the other side, I spotted the guard. I didn't know entirely how to operate a spark pistol, but it looked fairly simple. I aimed it at the guard and pulled the trigger. The pistol jumped in my hand, and the resulting electro-bolt that was fired had disabled the guard. I waved to the others to signal that the area was clear before jumping down. I suddenly heard a voice behind me.

'Hey, Mane?'

I turned to see the source. It was the young female who had been attacked in the hallways earlier by the guard. I was taken aback, she looked like she had recovered well. 'Faith?' I questioned, as I was certain I'd heard her name before. She nodded in agreement. 'Looks like we're together on this one.'

I had had enough of the underground gloom and suggested we head towards the surface. My fellow fighters were agreed, and followed Faith and myself as we ran towards the corridor which would lead us to the Outer-World. I had never seen it, but I'd heard it was definitely worth seeing.

As we neared the light towards the end of the tunnel, a deafening bang resounded throughout the facility, and all the power lamps went out. We all clumsily crashed into each other and fell to the ground in confusion. An ominous metallic clinking sound began to echo from further up the hall, and before my eyes, I saw a yellow ball of light, a globe, levitating in the dark and coming towards us.

I suddenly heard the familiar hissing sound of a steam-jet cannon. I'd heard of them being used to torture prisoners to death before. The steam-jet cannon would hiss as it heated up, and then project an incredibly concentrated jet of scalding hot steam, used to clear the immediate area of any living creatures. It was used as a vermin tool, or for crowd clearing.

'ATTACK!' I screamed in fear and impulse. Everyone scattered for the guard in the dark, one or two grunting as they fell again. I was at the front, being pushed towards the yellow globe, which dimly illuminated a tiny portion of metal around the iris.

I launched at the globe with my spark pistol pointed ahead, the base of the grip smashed out the yellow iris with a loud 'crack', and the room was once again pitch-black. I could not tell whether we had the upper hand or not.

PSSHHHHHHH

I felt and heard the frightening hiss of a steam-blast from the cannon. The blast scalded my left ankle and the rear of my lower leg. I heard someone yell 'RUN'.

Not thinking twice, we ran hard until we could no longer hear the sound of the hissing. The guards had more artillery, but we were stronger and more agile. 'Mane?' came the voice of Faith. She once again, had found her way to my right side. 'Mane, what do we do now?'

'Is everyone ok?' I asked loudly. I heard a strained 'Ouch!' from behind me to my left. 'I'm burnt! I'm gonna die!' came a strained yell from a fallen worker. I felt my way to his side in the dark and kneeled down. 'How bad is it? Where are you burnt?' I asked. 'All over! Aaagh, ouch!' came the reply.

'Carry him with us! We will find him some medical aid!' I said. To my surprise, two workers agreed and picked up the fallen youth. 'Let's find a way out, everyone grab hands, I'll lead and find the way along the corridor to where the end should be,' I said, taking Faiths' hand.

We formed a line; each of us connected to the next worker, and proceeded up towards where the end had been.

My head suddenly connected with cold pipe. Masking the pain, I maintained my composure and mentioned to the following workers that the exit must have been sealed in the explosion. 'We need to find another way. We can go back out via the abandoned hall exit!' came an enthusiastic voice from somewhere in the line. 'Right, whoever is at the rear, lead the way.' I called, and the line began to move again.

After hours of searching in the dark, we finally stumbled out of an old abandoned exit and into blinding light.

I saw the Outer-World.

It was just as I'd remembered the elders describing it to me; a giant expanse of land. Within it were multiple areas of the Outerland. There was the Hyper-Sphere where the planet's energy came from, and in the distance lurked the fearful Iron Chambers. Around them were vast cliff faces and tree growths, spanning as far as the eye could see. I looked down to the cliffs below us and spotted a way down.

I signalled to the others to continue following me, as we trod on. Our feet grew sore, and our throats parched from lack of liquid oxygen. We continued moving, down through the valleys, towards the Hypersphere, where the rift should take us somewhere safe, hopefully we could sneak past most of the planet's guards undetected.

***

The Sphere slowly grew closer with each step, the vista of the Chambers awaited just beyond it, separated by a mass of parched burning land. It appeared as if the ground were blue and cold, yet within the cracks, blue and red streaks would often explode out from inside, almost like the thunder from the sky. This was the energy of the planet escaping the ground.

The Hypersphere was so close to us, I began to run up the steps and jumped into one of the holes in the side as the others dived in after me. We all stood up to the majestic sight in front of us.

The light in the sky was glowing warmly as it cast rays through the large spherical canopy, sending beams of light into the sphere like light through a colander. There was a magnificently large rift in the middle of the room, like a tear in our vision. I looked at my compatriots and we all gulped and nodded in agreement, this was the Calabi-Yau manifold teleportation device.

Faith gripped my hand, we both looked at each other, then at the rift, and then we made a run for it.

Before I had even reached the rift, I could feel the world get sucked away from around me. A sudden blackness enveloped my surroundings, and I was thrust forward, my grip slipping from Faiths. I flinched and shut my eyes, waiting to slam into some sort of physical object, but the feeling never came; instead I was slowed down and dropped onto the ground in front of me.

As I stood up and looked around, I realised the others were no longer with me. I looked around. Dominating my vision was an immensely large landscape with a neon purple sky. I remained somewhat stunned and confused as I gazed at my surroundings. There was nothing for miles but parched wasteland and, in the distance, a line of mountains. I turned around and noticed that I was, in fact, standing behind a large group of rocks, blocking the horizon behind me. I began to climb up to where I could hopefully get a better view.

The view that awaited me at the top was unbelievable. It seemed to be two worlds adjoining each other. The Outer-Worlds' dark purple-bluish sky clashed with a roaring hot yellow sky. Beneath the yellow sky was the towering spire in which sat the Iron Chambers, surrounded by vast amounts of cracked, pale mud which was known as the wastelands.

I wondered where my compatriots had ended up? I could only hope they would continue their quest and relocate to the iron chambers, being the only location we had not investigated.

With no other choice, I began to climb down the mountain face.

***

The light in the sky was fading, the sun sinking onto the horizon, and soon the sky over the Iron Chambers would grow pitch black excluding the giant moon, casting an eerie shine off the metallic industrial nightmare. Greenish clouds and thunder had began to come in from the west.

As I stumbled down the mountainside, I noticed a large facility in the valley below me. I squinted to get a better look and realized what it was. Industrius, the power facility sat below me. I could only describe it as a vast industrial nightmare of buildings and generators. As I looked out at the dark pale-green sky that loomed overhead the buildings of Industrius like a cloud of poison gas, I saw the occasional thunderbolt strike the tips of the buildings as the flash lit up the sky. Perhaps the towers were harvesting the energy from the thunder?

I then noticed a small but long tunnel which led directly from Industrius to the Iron Chambers. Perhaps I could sneak through Industrius straight to the chambers? My friends and fellow workers surely would have grouped up there providing the rift had not destroyed or left them somewhere else? As I neared the gates to Industrius, I heard a loud voice.

'Mane!' came Faith's voice.

I turned to my left to see my workers attempting to open a side door at the gates. 'Where were you? We weren't able to find you once we passed through the rift! It's good to see you're alive,' said Faith, looking relieved.

I shook my head. 'I have no idea where you all exited the rift, but I was up there facing the Neon Valley. Regardless, I noticed a tunnel that could take us to the Iron Chambers, as there are shuttles there. Perhaps we could use them to escape?.'

The workers nodded and looked at me. 'Lead the way.'

***

Our entry to the Iron Chambers was composed of dirty white tiled walls which were dimly lit. Steel torture cabinets lined the walls, giving the room an eerie feel. The Iron Chambers were at one point in time a prison of some form although it had become an underground torture chamber of sorts.

There were large iron machines everywhere, thick reinforced chambers, pop-riveted cylinders, all with a somewhat intimidating appearance.

I gazed up at a particular machine. It appeared to be a large iron cylindrical object with a glass porthole on one side. It was cramped on the inside, and I could see a prisoner stuck inside the dark, cramped confines. I bashed at the iron lid, but to no avail, being reinforced by various pop rivets around the edge, it would not open. There appeared to be no way to free the prisoner from this device.

It was up to us to find out what happened in time, and why history went wrong. Why we were enslaved, and who had brought it upon is.

We walked further up a hallway which took us to a larger room filled with all sorts of devices and displays. We would hopefully soon be able to find a shuttle and take us home. I could feel the eyes of the others on my neck as I led them through the large gallery of devices.

I stopped to examine one particular little display. It was a small vacuum dome like many in the room which contained shrunken items for display and preservation.

We all stopped to look at this one dome, which contained some form of blackness, filled with billions of tiny white dots. I squinted and leaned in closer, only to realise they were not dots, but stars.

In front of us was a little blue planet, and underneath was a label which read 'Earth'.

First Mother-in-Law – Linda Yates

I was twenty-seven

and you fifty-seven.

Thirty years between us

thirty years ago.

We watch as Charles and Di

begin that most difficult

and, for them, as it turns out,

perilous, journey into marriage.

I see you grow misty eyed and sentimental,

and mustering all the fierce perversity of rebellious youth,

I laugh and tease and say

'It will never work, and you know it'.

I already knew that mine would not.

You reply only

that when I get to your age

I will understand.

And tonight as I watch Kate and Wills

begin that journey again,

I wonder where you are.

Are you eighty-seven,

looking back on fifty-seven,

looking back to twenty-seven?

And do thoughts of me

criss cross your heart?

And of what might we speak if

we were together now watching them?

I feel the tears already upon me.

My teenage daughter,

growing irritated with me,

critical and bored,

moves to another room.

Would we speak of the changes we have seen

between the two events?

Of those no longer with us?

Of the sweetness of young faces?

Of how our beginnings can never know our endings?

How pointless it is to envy the destiny of others,

especially those living in fairytales?

The tragedy of young lives

fore-shortened?

The harm done to innocents?

Would we speak of how the old

look to the young for

life's renewal,

hoping for a better outcome,

with each generation,

just as the hopes of many

are pinned on this young pair

for a better story ending?

Might we speak of

alliances and misalliances?

Deeds and misdeeds?

And, to borrow the words of another,

for the crying at weddings,

While (and) dancing on graves?

Of how we might grow

into wisdom,

through folly?

Through what repentance

might come redemption?

Through what atonement,

forgiveness?

Can the dead forgive?

What restitution made to them

through the living?

And would we speak of love and treachery

and how they too, might marry,

entwining in some strange embrace,

dancing together and changing places

until they are unrecognisable

each from each,

perhaps becoming one and indivisible?

Of traitors and betrayed?

And the feelings of each?

Of confusion in loyalties?

Of shifting alignments,

re-formations, remorses and re-conciliations

without and within

in order to be whole again?

The world watched as Charles and Diana

tumbled from grace

into tawdry spectacle.

And you watched as I

silently and wantonly

discarded your son's foetuses,

the better to shed myself of love,

which I felt would annihilate me

as surely as if I had been

turned to stone.

You said nothing,

but I knew that you knew,

for I saw you cry.

And even when it was all over,

and I had put the distance of

a country between us,

barely a backward glance,

we still wrote affectionate letters

to each other until

we slowly drifted apart.

So, just for tonight,

I weep.

For all these things,

for all the griefs and betrayals

I have caused and endured,

for the shortness of life,

to pay loss it's due,

for you and for me

and the passing of dreams.

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Falling Over in Longlowe – Paris Portingale

I was in Longlowe. I had taken a lot of drugs and fell over in the Longlowe supermarket parking lot and had to be helped up by a very fat woman named Olive. Olive was 'eating' a kebab at the time and was accompanied by her daughter, Jasmine, who had recently given birth to a child I couldn't help feeling looked like a malformed midget, fallen foul of some experimental dieting machine.

I took drugs for depression. I took Cyclonorm, which I got on prescription from my doctor, and dope and cocaine which I got from my dealer. I'd taken all three that morning, a dosage I felt I needed to hold at bay a particularly debilitating despondency.

So, I fell over in the Longlowe supermarket parking lot. It was disorienting. It was winter and cold; icy, biting cold, so I had a big coat on, and it cushioned the fall so I wasn't actually hurt. It was disorienting though and I was lying there for a bit, trying to get my bearings. I remember a couple of cars having to navigate around me. One of them sounded its horn, indignant at having to detour around a body lying in the road. Then Olive came along with Jasmine. Olive was wearing a smock with Olive stitched across the pocket. It was a large smock, probably XXXL but Olive's weight filled it out well. Jasmine was fat as well, and fattening, but not yet with the fantastic bulk of Olive. And there was the child. I think it was called Codey, even though it was a girl, and even though babies look fat normally, Codey was already looking fat-fat. The child was in a pram and there were supermarket shopping bags stacked towards one end containing packets of salted confections and various arrangements of sugar, coated in chocolate.

They stopped beside me. Olive couldn't speak initially because of the kebab, but her feet were free and she nudged me with one of them, possibly to see if I was alive—possibly to indicate she was there and would begin a bit of back-and-forth when she'd cleared her mouth.

When her mouth was cleared sufficiently for speech she said, 'You alright down there?'

I said, 'Yes.'

Olive didn't respond to that right away as she'd gone straight back to the kebab. When she did, her mouth was still half full, possibly as an indication of respect for not keeping a fallen man waiting unnecessarily.

Releasing small molecules of kebab into the air around her face, she managed to say, 'Wanna hand? Here, give him a hand, Jasmine.'

Jasmine returned with, 'Ma-umm, I've got the baby.'

Olive put her hand out and grabbed the pram's handle and said, 'There, give him a hand.'

Jasmine said, 'You give him a hand.'

Olive said, 'I can't get down there. Give him a bloody hand, Jasmine.'

Jasmine said, 'No, he might be drunk.'

Cars continued to go past. A large four-wheel-drive, driven by a monstrous woman who's face looked as though it could just explode at any moment, stopped to look. She wound down her window and said, 'What's happened?'

I remember thinking her voice sounded fat, but perhaps that's projection because I actually know a couple of very fat people and really, their voices sound quite slender if you're not actually looking at them.

Olive said, 'Don't know.'

The fat woman said, 'He's probably drunk.'

'See, I told you, mum,' Jasmine said, and she pulled the pram from her mother's grasp and moved away a couple of paces, lest the protective possession of the child be compromised again.

Another fat woman arrived, wheeling a heavily stacked supermarket trolley. She stopped and said, 'Has he been run over?'

The woman in the four-wheel-drive said, 'No, he's drunk.'

The woman with the trolley said, 'Well, can someone move him, I want to get through.'

Olive looked down and poked me with her foot again and said, 'Are you drunk or what?'

Another woman with a trolley appeared and stopped and, taking in the situation, said, 'He could have had a heart attack.'

Olive called down to me, 'Have you had a heart attack, dear?'

I said, 'I don't think so. I'm just trying to get myself together.'

Olive said to the heart attack woman, 'No, he's just trying to get himself together.'

The woman with the trolley made a big to-do of sighing and turning around and going off between two cars and really, to give things their proper due, any form of unnecessary detour for a woman of that bulk would have been a substantial burden, no matter what the circumstances.

The heart attack woman asked if she should call an ambulance.

I said, 'No ambulance. I'll be alright. Just tripped over. I'll probably get up now.'

The heart attack woman said, 'I don't think he's supposed to move.'

The woman in the four-wheel-drive said, 'Yeah, they say that on TV but then someone comes along and just moves them.'

'Should we move him then?' Olive asked.

The heart attack woman said, 'I wouldn't move him.'

The four-wheel-drive woman said, 'I'd move him.'

In an aggressively whiney voice, Jasmine said, 'Ma-umm, can we just go. I've got the baby.' I was starting to find her tone remarkably irritating and wondered about the type of person who could put up with it long enough to give her a baby.

I started to get up then.

Olive said, 'He's getting up,' and the four of them watched me start to get up.

At that point the baby began crying and Jasmine said, 'Ma-umm, the baby.'

Olive said, 'Shut up, Jasmine, he's getting up,' and Jasmine made an exaggerated sighing noise and started pushing the pram roughly back and forth which had the effect of sending the baby's cry up some number of decibels.

No-one tried to help me. They were content to remain casual observers and in a way I can understand that and to an extent sympathise. I doubt I'm not alone in seeing a person, fallen to the ground and apparently helpless, as tainted in some odd way. It's a psychological phenomenon, I believe, over which we have little control. I'm sure Darwin could explain it, possibly Freud. The fallen person somehow manages to occupy the same slot in the brain as someone dying of a terminal illness, in that you feel sorry for them, but you don't want to touch them. It's the same in the animal kingdom. Dogs do it with other dogs, I believe.

So, I managed to get myself up and everyone stepped back a pace, to watch, presumably, if I fell back down again.

I didn't though. Once up I staggered for a moment and the woman in the four-wheel-drive said, 'Uh oh, he's going down again,' and everyone stepped back yet another pace, but I managed to remain upright.

I said to everyone, 'Thanks for your help,' but the irony was lost.

The four-wheel-drive woman said, 'Anytime.'

Jasmine said testily to her mother, 'So, can we go now, finally?'

The heart attack woman said, 'I don't think he should have moved.'

Olive said, 'Well, it's too late now, he's moved.'

Four-wheel-drive said, 'Wait and see if he can walk.'

I could walk. I took a couple of slightly unsteady steps and gave a general thumbs-up.

Olive said, 'Will you be alright?'

Jasmine, who was keen to be going, said, 'Ma-umm.'

A car which had been waiting behind the four-wheel-drive sounded its horn but the fat woman ignored it. She was watching me, probably waiting for me to fall over again.

I said, 'I'll be fine. Thank you all for your concern.'

I took a couple more steps which put me beside the pram and I looked in. The baby was still wailing. Jasmine was rocking it on the spot. The vigorous back-and-forthing from before had spilled the contents of the supermarket bags and the baby was under a pile of packets of salted snacks and bars of chocolate confectionary. A large packet of something called 'Corn-Os' was obscuring its head and I reached in to move it but Jasmine pulled the pram away, saying, 'Mu-umm.' I have no idea what she thought I was going to do. Anyway, the packet of Corn-Os moved and I got a glimpse of the baby's face. It was red and it was screwed up from squealing and it had no teeth and the proportions were all wrong and as I said, it looked like a midget, shrunk down by some experimental machine, possibly designed for slimming, that had gone horribly wrong. I could imagine it being something like the machine in the movie, 'The Fly,' where Jeff Goldblum is turned into a large human insect.

I suppose it's normal for a child that young to look like that. I guess I just react badly to small, red, screwed up, ill-proportioned heads.

I left the small crowd and walked off towards the supermarket. I kept to a slowish pace, just for safety. When I looked back everyone was still there, talking. There was a short line of cars behind the four-wheel-drive. Occasionally someone would toot but the fat woman seemed oblivious.

Jasmine was nursing the baby now and another woman with a kart had stopped and was looking at it. She was smiling and chucking it under the chin, seemingly unconcerned by the disconcerting appearance of the head. I think they'd forgotten about me; no-one looked my way. I stopped there for a moment, resting against the hood of a sports utility with a dog and motorbike in the back, and watched the scene. I thought, eventually someone is going to get out of one of the cars blocked by the four-wheel-drive and eventually someone did, an older man in overalls and a baseball cap. He said something to the fat woman and she said something back and pointed down at the road where I'd been lying. The man said something else, then he went back to his car. A woman in the car behind him got out and tapped on his window and he wound it down and they had a brief conversation and then the woman walked down and banged on the door of the four-wheel-drive. It was an angry banging and it produced a similar response from the fat woman who opened the door and squeezed her immense, wobbling bulk from the vehicle. She shouted something at the other woman and the other woman shouted something back which provoked the fat woman to advance towards her and the other woman left for the comparative safety of her car.

I stayed to see the fat woman get back into her four-wheel-drive because I thought it would be interesting. It was in a way. The physics of the thing was interesting. The way she did it was, she lined herself up with the open door, grabbed the roof's guttering, hefted up and then slung in the first half of a buttock. Then, with her other hand clutching the steering wheel, she jiggled the other half of the buttock in, and then a leg. She then leant across and grabbed the other door and using a process of tugging combined with bouncing and pushing with the leg still outside, the second buttock was dragged in. That only left the other leg which was a doddle after all the other.

I kept watching until the group split up and the large woman wound up her window and drove off. When they got out onto the road, a couple of the cars that had been behind the four-wheel-drive drove off at speed, possibly to make up for lost time, possibly as a venting action to release a pent up frustration, although equally possibly to catch up with the fat woman in the four-wheel-drive to run her off the road.

When I got to the supermarket I went into the toilets and locked myself in a cubicle and rolled a joint as I could feel my THC levels dropping, possible due to the fall.

People were coming in and out. Halfway through the joint someone with a snotty voice said, 'I smell dope,' and did some exaggerated sniffing and then declared they were getting security.

I didn't care. I finished the green and flushed the butt and walked on out. Security were coming in as I was leaving but I just walked past them. They're not trained in dope detection. They can work out if you've got half a dozen pairs of trousers and a portable TV stuck up your jumper but that's about all.

I ran into Olive, Jasmine and Codey again about a week later. It was in the Longlowe supermarket itself and by an extraordinary coincidence the circumstances were eerily similar, although I was quite straight this time.

What happened was, I was turning into the dairy aisle and a tub of yoghurt had dropped onto the floor and spilled. I trod in it and fell flat on my face. When I looked up, there was old Olive and her daughter and granddaughter. I think we were all equally surprised to see each other.

Olive said, 'Oh dear.'

Jasmine said, 'It's that man again.'

Codey didn't say anything because she was gumming on an unopened bar of some confection from a mound of packets stacked in the pram.

I said, 'Olive, how nice to see you again.'

Olive looked at me for a moment, then prodded Jasmine in the arm and said, 'Help the man up, Jasmine,' and Jasmine said, 'Ma-umm.'

I said, 'It's okay, I'm alright,' although I could feel blood coming from my nose.

Olive said, 'Help the poor man up Jasmine.'

Jasmine said, 'But ma-umm, he's bleeding.'

I managed to get myself up onto my knees and Olive came over and held out an arm and I got myself up.

I got out a handkerchief and wiped the blood from my face and said, 'Thank you, Olive. We'll have to stop meeting this way. People will talk.'

Olive made a noise which may have been a laugh, or possibly something else. She was looking at the front of my trousers, the area of the crotch, which had landed in the yoghurt, giving me the appearance of someone possibly straight from the set of a porn movie.

I'd been carrying a shopping basket and it had fallen and the contents spilled out. I'd had a packet of toilet rolls and I retrieved it and opened it and unrolled a length and started wiping at the yoghurt.

Jasmine was as sweet as ever. She looked at me and said, 'That's disgusting,' then repeated her summation of the situation to her mother. 'Ma-umm, that's disgusting.'

I said, 'It's alright, it's only yoghurt,' but I noticed people going past looking with a variety of odd expressions.

Olive said, 'It's only yoghurt, Jasmine,' and Jasmine said, 'It looks like he's... ' leaving the sentence unfinished.

The wiping was just spreading the yoghurt around and Olive, who'd been watching me in a kind of horrid fascination, suggested I should just pat at it, which I did. I was patting at my apparently semen soaked crotch when security arrived.

There were two of them, big men. One of them said to the other, 'God, Ray, what the hell's going on there?'

Ray said to me, 'Wadda ya think you're doing?'

The other one, who's name I later discovered was Bob, said under his breath, 'We've got ourselves a bloody pervert.'

I said, 'It's yoghurt,' and Ray said, 'Wadda ya rubbing yoghurt over yourself for?'

I said, 'I fell over.'

Jasmine said, 'That's not the first time he's done it.'

Bob said, 'What, he's done this before?'

Jasmine said, 'Yes, last week, out in the car park.'

I said, 'Not with yoghurt though.'

Ray said, 'So, what was it that time?' and Bob said, 'Bloody pervert,' again.

People were beginning to stop. It was the car park again with the addition of security guards, and this time I'd risen from casual drug abuser to supermarket pervert.

They were a better crowd this time. Quieter, happy to just stand and watch things unfold. There was a man eating a packet of chips.

Someone said, 'Who is he?' and someone else said, 'A regular by the sound of it. Goes around doing it everywhere, apparently.'

The first person said, 'Still, they've got him now.'

Ray stepped up and grabbed an arm and said, 'Come with me sir.' It's not good when security starts calling you 'sir.' It's ominous. When anyone with any degree of power suddenly and unexpectedly stops calling you a pervert and adopts a frigid politeness it generally means trouble.

I said, 'Look, this is ridiculous. I slipped in spilt yoghurt.'

Ray and Bob weren't having a bar of it though and Bob came up and took my other arm and they started to pull me away. I said, 'Olive saw it,' and twisted around to call her but the trio were heading off, Jasmine in the lead, striding out with the pram.

I said, 'Oh, fuck it.'

Bob said, 'What did you say, sir?'

I told him, 'I said, I don't suppose we could go back and get Olive.'

Ray said, 'Nope.'

I was taken out a side door and down a corridor to the security office. There was an array of about a dozen monitors and equipment showing various parts of the store. On the other side of the room were two metal filing cabinets with a chair in between and I was pushed into it.

Ray said, 'So, what exactly did you think you were doing out there, eh?'

I said, 'I slipped on some yoghurt on the floor.'

'And landed on your dick,' Ray said and the reason for the furniture arrangement became apparent because Ray pushed me hard to the left so my shoulder and head hit a filing cabinet. He went on, 'This is a family store. Families shop here. Women with children and little babies. Do you think they want to see you wandering about with your cock out?' and he pushed me the other way and then back to the left again.

The head banging left my ears ringing.

Bob said, 'I'll call the police, will I?' and Ray said, 'In a minute, Bob.' He'd only just started on his torture routine. I don't suppose it was every day they caught a pervert red handed and Ray seemed out to make the most of it.

He said, 'So, what's your name then, Sonny Jim?'

'Sonny,' I told him.

Ray was possibly not the smartest guard on the force. He said, 'Sonny who?' and I said, 'Sonny Jim.'

He seemed pleased with my response. He smiled and said, 'Smart prick,' and gave me some more back and forths against the filing cabinets.

When he'd finished, Bob came over and gave me a quick push into the left cabinet and asked me if I'd like a coffee. I think they may have been starting a game of 'Good Torturer—Bad Torturer.'

I said, 'No thanks, I'm okay for fluids at the moment,' and Bob said, 'Ah, I'll make you one anyway,' and he went over to the corner where they had a kind of little kitchen and switched on an electric kettle.

Meanwhile, Ray continued his interrogation. He said, 'So, Mr Sonny Jim, do you have any identification on you?'

I said, 'Look, this is all quite ridiculous. It's quite simple. I was going around the corner into the dairy aisle out there and there was yoghurt all over the floor and I slipped in it.'

'Yoghurt,' Ray repeated. His tone had gone briefly from straight menacing to a kind of menacing patronisation.

'Yoghurt,' I told him. I must have been a bit light headed from all the head banging because I stretched out the front of my pants and said, 'Here, taste it.'

Ray said, 'I fucking don't believe this. Hey Bob, come over here.'

Bob had made the coffee by then and he carried it over. As he approached he said, 'Oh no, I think I'm losing my balance. I hope I don't...' but Ray butted in, saying, 'No, Bob, you'll spoil the evidence,' and Bob reluctantly put the cup down on a table and left it.

I said, 'I could sue, you know. Yoghurt all over the floor is negligence. An accident waiting to happen. I could sue the supermarket. Gross negligence. I could have hurt myself. In fact I did hurt myself. My knee is becoming very painful. And my hip. And it could have just as easily happened to one of your young mothers out there. Or, God forbid, one of their small children. A baby even.'

The talk of suing seemed to give Ray pause, so I took the suing ball and ran on with it. I said, 'I know the editor of the Longlowe Gazette. How do you think the supermarket would appreciate a headline in the next edition like, "Local Supermarket A Death Trap For Young Mothers And Babies. Children At Risk." Actually, I think I'd like to ring he police myself. Right now if you don't mind.'

Feeling his authority perhaps slipping away, Ray said, 'I'll decide if and when the police get called.'

I stood up and said, 'I want to phone them now. Where's the telephone?'

Ray said, 'Sit down,' but he no longer had his old confidence.

I said, 'The way it's going to go down is this. First I'm going to ring the police, then I want supermarket management down here. After that I'm contacting my lawyer, and immediately after that I'm off down to the Longlowe Gazette. You boys will get a mention as well. There may be photographs. What are your names again? You're Ray,' I said, pointing to Ray, 'And you're Bob I believe.' I gave Bob my smiling malevolent face.

Ray said, 'Are you trying to threaten me?'

I said, 'No, I'm just telling you what's going to happen if you continue with this ridiculous farce.'

Ray said, 'Yeah, well, we'll see about that,' but he didn't sound very confident.

After that, Ray and Bob went over to a corner for a discussion. Ray did a lot of pointing and gesticulating and Bob did some vague shrugging, and then they came back. Blank faced, Ray said, 'We're letting you go this time, but I'm telling you this, don't let us ever see you here again.'

'Or what?' I said.

Ray said belligerently, 'Or there'll be trouble. Understand?'

I said, 'It's like this, Ray. And you might want to listen to this too, Bob. If either of you ever so much as touch me again we'll see who plays the trouble card.' I added, 'Understand?'

Ray's cheeks reddened and I could see him gritting his teeth. He walked over to the door and opened it. He said, 'You're free to go.'

I walked out slowly. Ray kept looking at my soiled crotch. He clearly wasn't happy. I noticed his eye twitch a couple of times.

I went out and gently pulled the door closed and went down the corridor and back into the supermarket. I got a basket and held it in front of the yoghurt stain and went about my shopping. Every time I saw a security camera I made sure to wink into it.

To this date I haven't seen Olive and her daughter again. I keep an eye out for them but our paths have not again crossed. I occasionally wonder if our meetings were actually somehow caused by the act of my falling over and I think time will tell on that as I think the odds of my falling over again are pretty close to even money.

***

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

Find out more about Narrator Magazine at

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