narrator MAGAZINE
NSW/ACT Quarterly showcase of your region’s creative writing talent. This issue featuring contributions from: Rimeriter, Dianne Bates, Anthony J. Langford, Ashley Orr and more ...
ISSN: 1839-7999 Print
ISSN: 1839-8006 Online
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ISSUE
25% m o read re ing! Read part two of Art and the Drug Addict’s Dog— the world’s first breadcrumb novel—inside ... AUD $12.95
Autumn 2012
NSW/ACT Summer 2011 winners The NSW/ACT Summer 2011 issue was judged by Mark Dapin, popular Good Weekend columnist, blogger and book author. Here are Mark‘s choices … n First prize—$1,000 to Peter Tonkin for ‘A Portrait of the Artist as a Real Estate Agent’ Sponsored by The High School Survival Guide Mark’s comment on this story was: ‘original and funny, a good ear for language’. n Second Prize—$500 to Stephen Studach for ‘Brushed’ Sponsored by The MoshShop Mark found this story ‘displays a broad emotional range’. n Third Prize—$250 to Aristidis Metaxas for ‘Nightshift’ Sponsored by A Reader’s Heaven n Highly Commended—Mary Krone for ‘Cancer Loss’ n Highly Commended—Janet Ryan for ‘Alice’ n People’s Choice Winner—$200 to Stephen Studach for ‘Brushed’ Sponsored by MediKord
www.markdapin.com.au
Welcome to the Second Edition of
Narrator MAGAZINE NSW/ACT A few words from the publisher ...
Well, we‘re thrilled at the response to the first NSW/ ACT Narrator—it was so good that this issue has had to be 25% larger than any other Narrator we‘ve produced before—as you can see by the doublecolumn list of contributions on this page!
you further with the first Victoria/Tasmania issue this quarter, but chose the Summer/Christmas period to try to garner interest— you live and learn. We will try again over the coming months and hope to bring out the first Vic/Tas issue on 1 September instead. In the meantime, please encourage fellow writers to sign up for our newsletter, and send links to your friends when you receive yours—especially if you‘ve been published!
And don‘t forget, if you‘d like a hard copy, you can purchase an annual subscription for just $43.85 for four consecutive issues—a saving of 15%, plus it‘s delivered to your Sincere thanks go to Fairfax door. columnist, journalist and writer Mark Dapin for his But enough from me … generosity in being our first time for you to turn the page ‗nuswhacked‘ guest judge. and enjoy ... Mark‘s choices are opposite, Jenny Mosher and our congratulations go March 2012 to all the winners! We had hoped to challenge
www.jennifermoshereditor.com
Poetry 2 Dog Consciousness
3 Endearing
2 Mingling with Sand
5 The Funeral
2 Mural
7 Iced Vovos and Lamingtons
5 Come to Me 6 A Day at the River 11 The Black Hawk 12 Court Thought 13 Throw the Meat back on the Table
8 Gender Bender 11 The Human Condition 14 Writer‘s Block 1 20 Tight Ass 22 Firmino
13 Pollies
24 My Mother‘s New Friend
19 Save Joey
28 I Should be so Lucky
20 The Commuter
32 Queuing
21 Sting a Same Goes for a Name Debate
38 The Secret
21 Of Dogs 27 Ambitious Dream 27 Science is Fiction 35 Circus Family 36 Midnight Sun
41 Memories 44 Seeing is Believing 49 To Read Aloud 52 Creatures of Habitual 56 Interiors
36 Aussie Outback 37 Ode to Rocky 42 Citrus Dawn 42 intact
Essays 33 Seeking the Truth
43 Lunchtime at the Park 43 The Weeping Cherry
Caricature: Jenny Mosher‘s caricature (above) by artist Todd Sharp. Order yours at http://www.toddsharpartist.com.au
Short Stories
55 Dawn Kaleidoscope 55 Sydney Summer Slow
Breadcrumb Novel 57 Art and the Drug Addict‘s Dog—part 2
Cover: Horseshoe Falls by Linda Callaghan Linda emigrated to Australia from South Wales in 1978 and lives in the beautiful Blue Mountains. Linda says: ‗I have had a desire to paint for as long as I can remember and in 2008 picked up a paintbrush and never looked back. Painting has now become my passion! I enjoy using brilliant watercolours inspired by my inner thoughts and surroundings to create flowing, colourful, imaginary artwork. I also paint realistically and use all mediums in different styles, producing sweeping landscapes, flowers, abstracts and any subject that catches my interest. This allows me to share the enjoyment of my art with a wider audience. I exhibit yearly and was very honoured to receive the top award, the Rose Lindsay Art Prize, at the 2011 Springwood Art Show.‘ You can view Linda‘s art gallery at http://www.redbubble.com/explore/lindart or follow her on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/pages/LindArt/212209612129863
narrator
MAGAZINE is published by MoshPit Publishing, Shop 1, 197 Great Western Highway, Hazelbrook NSW 2779 MoshPit Publishing is an imprint of Mosher‘s Business Support Pty Ltd ABN 48 126 885 309 www.moshpitpublishing.com.au www.narratormagazine.com.au
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Dog Consciousness
Mingling with Sand
Alan Lucas Katoomba, NSW When I take the air to walk my walk, he's sometimes there and sometimes not. I‘ve made friends with the old dog, and with the old dog's lot. Oh once upon a time, I'm sure that he would have barked or growled, protecting his owner's house and yard, but now he doesn't have much left but trust and faith and dog type love, and he's learned the difference between cruel humankind, and others who appreciate an old dog's gentle look. And these he trusts in his old dog's way. With ever so slight a whimper of recognition of my voice when I say, ‗hello old dog‘, he shuffles rheumatically towards the gate, knows my look and demeanor, trusts a non-threatening face, and gets his pats and strokes in return for his old dog's wisdom. m
Allison Morris Downer, ACT I have been rocked, cradled in the reflection of a perfect sky— caught laughter, which skips across water like pebbles. I have wriggled into white sand so fine, it was like dust— hurled wet handfuls at squealing, brown-skinned girls who tried in vain to brush it off. Their sharp squawks of friendly outrage mimicked the too-white gulls swimming through the sky. I have been maliciously ground into the hateful rocks of the stormy undersea, airless and clenched in terror against a blue bloated fate. I have clawed and fought and hauled my body from the spray, shedding water in sheets— dragged air into aching lungs while salty blood and salty water poured down legs that shook, mingling with sand. m Image: Simon Howden
James McIntyre Leura, NSW
Mural
Wall wall. Wall surrounds me. Imprisoned. Boiling feeling in my stomach, arms, legs. Anger—rage—heat. Will I paint this wall? What is most important? Wall is glowing red with streaks of black. Weep with anger. I hate you—I hate you. Strong black lines on red. Sharp, threatening, dangerous. Flashing silver knives. Murderous serrated edges. Blood spurts out of severed arteries. And now there is a crack in the wall. Dare I feel hope? Rage flies free. It transmutes. Blue is the colour, signalling freedom. Freedom has strength. It is coloured blue and green and yellow. These colours appear in great waves on my mural. But hatred persists. Vindictive, hurtful, red and black on the mural. Can these join with the colours of freedom? I weep with pain. I‘m hurt. Why does this hurt so much? How can I transform my prison wall? My mural will bring this transformation. m
Darren Phillips Lalor Park, NSW
Endearing A woman is sitting on a train reading a book. Her mind keeps drifting as she reads the page and she keeps starting again.
The woman looks out the window to see where they are.
Man: Well. Judging from your lack of interest, I‘d say not a very good one.
Man: You still have several stops until you arrive where you need to go.
Woman: No. I meant that isn‘t a word one would use every day. And besides, the word ‗endearing‘ to me means a habit that at first you find adorable but will end up being the cause of arguments in 50 years when you scream at me for moving my lips when I read.
A man is watching the woman try to read the book. He chuckles to himself after the The woman looks back at him, shocked. fifth time she restarts the page, and Woman: And how could you possibly makes his way over to sit beside the know where I have to go? woman. Man: I was behind you at the ticket Man: That book must be really counter. interesting. Woman: So I see you‘ve added stalker to The woman looks up, a little startled, but your resume. concludes the man is no threat. The man just looks at her. Man: I‘ve watched you read the same Man: What page number are you stuck on page five times now. in your riveting novel? Woman: Do you often stare at people The woman checks the page. reading on the train? Man: See—now you have answered one Woman: 76. of the 10 questions in my head for me. Are you a woman who is cynical and believes everybody has an agenda? Or do you ignore the usual faux pas I have just committed by approaching a complete stranger on a train?
The man thinks for a moment.
Woman: Isn‘t that two questions?
The woman looks at him, shocked again, as she discovers he is quoting the book verbatim.
Man: Technically, yes. But there is only one answer ,so therefore it becomes one question.
Man: Page 76. It‘s not often that he found himself in this situation. He was always so careful. Diligent, in fact, as to not put himself or others in harm‘s way.
Woman: How are you doing that?
Woman: So how did I answer one of your Man: So here he was, about to step out into what only be called a kamikaze questions? mission. Would this really be the way he Man: By asking me if I usually stare at died? It was as good a way as any, he people reading on a train, I therefore supposed, and we all had to die someday. concluded that you are a cynical person Woman: (amused) Alright, stop it. How and believe I have some sort of an are you doing that? agenda. Woman: Well, from my experience, you Man: Check the author photo.
Man: 50 years, huh? Do you think we‘ll last that long? My writing may put you in a coma by then. Woman: Well then—let‘s just say that I currently find your writing, and your brash confidence, endearing. And speaking of your writing, haven‘t these books sold something like 20 million copies? Man: 23 million. Woman: Sorry, 23 million. So what on Earth are you doing riding the train with us common folk? Don‘t you have chauffeurs or whatever? Man: (sarcastically) And miss out on stimulating conversation and observations such as this? If I may ask a question, one that isn‘t one of the 10 questions, by the way; what made you choose to read my book? And I say ‗read‘ loosely as you clearly find it a page turner. Woman: I actually found this copy on the way to work this morning. Man: Sounds like another satisfied customer. Woman: Perhaps. Or they could simply have done what I have in the past.
often do.
The woman checks and laughs.
Man: Which is?
Man: Me personally? Or strangers on a train? Do you often get approached by strangers on a train?
Woman: Oh bloody hell, it‘s you! So did you come over to get a review?
Woman: Finish a book mid trip and then leave it as a gift for whoever finds it.
Man: No. I liked the way you slightly Woman: Is that one of your 10 questions? move your lips as you read. Man: Ha. No. So, what is your experience then? What has happened for you to conclude that I, like perhaps several strangers on a train before me, have, in fact, an agenda?
Woman: I do not! Man: Yes you do. But don‘t get defensive—I find it endearing. Woman: Endearing? You really are a writer aren‘t you?
Man: How kind. Any wonder there are so many starving authors out there. Woman: What do you mean? Man: Well with your little system I just lost a sale of my book; how many others are doing the same?
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Woman: Now who is being cynical?
Second man: Excuse me? Are you Luke Dean, the author?
Man: (changing the subject) What do you Man: (uncomfortable at the recognition) do for work? Yes. Yeah, that‘s me. The woman goes to answer but the man The woman notices how uncomfortable continues. he becomes. Man: No. Not one of the 10. Second man: Wow. So cool, man. I love Woman: I am a photographer. your books. Would you mind signing this one for me? Man: Oh yeah? Your specialty? Woman: Lately I‘ve been doing a lot of product shoots for catalogues, but my passion is people. Man: Why so? Woman: I love how every face is different, and every one of them has a different story to tell. Then when you get that perfect shot of them it somehow tells a thousand stories. Man: And you question why I ride the train? There is nothing more inspiring or intriguing than watching a person look out of the window of a train. When a person doesn‘t know they are being watched, their true self is revealed. I‘ve sat here countless times creating stories from watching people just like you. Wondering why someone randomly smiles when they are lost in thought, or wondering what it is that was on your mind to make you re-read the same page five times.
Luke Dean: Sure. Who do I make it out to? Second Man: Billy. This is so cool. Thanks, man. Luke Dean: No problem. Billy: Oh, I have such a great idea for a story. Luke Dean: (cutting him off) That‘s great mate, but legally I can‘t hear it in case a future story I write sounds similar to yours; then I‘ll have an unwanted lawsuit on my hands. Billy: Ah forget that crap mate, I won‘t sue you. Luke Dean gets more uncomfortable and nervous at this fan not listening to him. The woman notices. Billy: So anyway, your main character, Jack, is in Russia …
smiles. Woman: So I guess I just created question number 11: do I go around kissing complete strangers on trains? Luke Dean: (amused) Thank you. For that (pointing towards Billy). Woman: How is it you can approach complete strangers on a train, but get totally freaked out when approached yourself? Luke Dean looks out the window. Luke Dean: You missed your stop by the way. Woman looks out the window, anxious. Woman: Shit. I can‘t be late either. I‘m heading to a shoot. Luke Dean: (Pulling out his phone) Don‘t worry about it (pressing send on the phone and waiting for the other end to connect). Jeeves? Meet me at the next station. Luke hangs up the phone. Woman looks perplexed. Luke answers the question on her face. Luke: That was my driver. I have him follow me by car when I go on my people -watching trips. I‘ll make sure you make your shoot on time. Woman: (quizzical) I find you very endearing, Luke Dean. (holds out her hand) Ali Jacks. Luke takes her hand and shakes.
Luke Dean looks around for the nearest Luke: Ditto, Ali Jacks, ditto.m exit. The woman suddenly grabs him and kisses him hard on the mouth. Luke Dean, Darren Phillips shocked at first, responds. Billy stops Lalor Park, NSW talking in his tracks, then reacts to the Man: When you get lost in thought your kiss. lips stop moving when you read. Darren Phillips is a writer, photographer Billy: Damn, man, that‘s hot! So where The woman doesn’t know how to respond and film maker. was I … so the man continues. Woman: Billy. As you can see, Luke and The story above is currently being Man: It‘s OK, if you don‘t wish to produced as a short film and will be I have a lot of catching up to do and we‘d discuss it. I‘ve just found it so much entered in festivals worldwide, as well as really like some privacy. Would you easier to speak to a non-judgmental and being available for viewing at mind letting us be? random stranger. www.youtube.com/user/darphiimages Billy: Sure. Yeah. Sweet. Thanks for the Woman: Non-judgmental? Now there‘s a Visit Darren’s official site signature, dude. rare breed. www.darphiimages.net for previous Billy exits. Luke Dean sits in shock still work, upcoming projects and contact A man approaches tentatively with a from what just transpired. The woman information. book in his hand. turns his attention to him once again and Woman: What makes you think something was on my mind? I may have just not enjoyed your book.
John Ross Blackheath, NSW
The Funeral Lady Sarah Compton-Smyth was burying her fourth husband within the last ten years. Poor old James Smyth had been a business partner in our firm of lawyers, so I felt it my duty to attend his funeral. I had only met Lady Sarah a few times but had heard plenty of gossip about her. Three of her husbands, including James, had died of heart attacks and one of a burst blood vessel in his brain. The police had recently investigated, but all deaths had been attributed to over exertion in the marital bedroom. It was said that she never spent much time in mourning her losses but was on the hunt for her next victim, er, husband, almost straight away.
morning had started out badly when I could not get my car started and so had to call a taxi. I had also forgotten my umbrella and was trying to shelter under a large gravestone that was leaning over at a dangerous angle. During the minister‘s address Lady Sarah noticed me and gave a little wave and a smile.
chasing anything in a skirt till Lady Sarah had come along.
The service came to an end and we were all to file past the grave and throw in the usual handful of soil. Lady Sarah went first and the chauffeur handed her a little silver garden spade—she was obviously worried about getting her black kid I could not help thinking about some of leather gloves dirty. When she bent over the jokes that had circulated in the office. to throw the soil in the grave every male My favourite was, ‗She meets ‘em, eye was on her, well, a certain part of her marries ‘em, then plants ‘em‘. Just then anyway. The poor old guy in front of me another member of our office came over was so entranced that he missed his step and said, ‗Just as well she does not have and fell in to join poor old James. The them cremated as she would be running minister got his nice white cassock all out of room on her mantelpiece with all dirty trying to pull him out. The funeral was being held early in the those funeral urns‘. I tried very hard not Finally, to most peoples‘ relief it was all morning, on what was a dreary day, made to laugh as it was not seemly. An elderly over. Poor old James was at last to be left even worse by drizzling rain. Lady Sarah lady standing nearby must have thought in peace. had arrived in a limousine driven by a that I was moaning in grief as my young chauffeur who now held a large attempts at covering my laugh had come I was walking back to the main road to umbrella over her. I noted that he was out as a sort of splutter that had brought hail a taxi when the limousine pulled up standing very close. Lady Sarah was tears to my eyes. She smiled sadly and next to me and Lady Sarah opened the dressed, well almost, in a very small said, ‗He was a very nice man taken door, revealing way too much of those clingy outfit that, let‘s just say, was very before his time‘. She must have been long, shapely legs, leaned over and said, revealing. Oh! It was black though! My joking. Old James at seventy six was still ‗Would you like to ride with me?‘ m
Toni Paton Blackheath, NSW
Come to Me
With arms old and scratched, a body that‘s faded, I‘m a comfort to all, the sad, sick and jaded. I locate in a corner—ready to please; Folks are drawn to me, I put them at ease. For aching bodies, for moans and groans Relief is with me—pleasures unknown. I hear many stories, of highs and lows, Observing in silence—where nobody goes. While many things change I know I‘ll live on, Remaining the same, whilst others have gone. My purpose in life is just to be there, A comfort to all—a beloved rocking chair. m
Apologies We had a gremlin in the works last issue and owe apologies to the following people, and thank them for their patience and understanding: Stephen Studach—we initially labelled Stephen‘s work ‗Brushes‘ instead of ‗Brushed‘ James Craib—we initially had the wrong stanza break up on James‘ poem ‗The Game‘ Toni Paton and Samuel Cooney—we initially credited Toni‘s poem ‗Come to Me‘ as Samuel‘s story ‗I Should be so Lucky‘. We have reprinted Toni‘s poem in this issue (above), and bring you Samuel‘s story ‗I Should be so Lucky‘ on p28.
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A Day at the River A bright sunny day, not even a breeze We head for the river some fish would us please. The bag that I later would wear round my waist On the deck of the kayak was carefully placed The bottle of water to ward off that thirst That happens when fishing o‘er drinking comes first Along with a cushion was placed in the cockpit With skivvy, the lines and a tiny wee bucket. No. I‘ll put on my skivvy to cover my arms About those skin cancers I do have some qualms. Oar in my hands, one foot in the vessel And that‘s when begins an almighty wrestle! I don‘t lose my balance that‘s later to come When onto the seat I plonk down my bum. And that‘s how the whole business goes all awry The oar‘s in the water. The bag‘s floating by The sleeve of my skivvy gets soaked as I shove My arm in the water to push me above the tip over line while I grasp for the oar And that‘s when I notice the bag just off shore. By now the boat‘s upright I must get that bag But now I look down and wish for a rag For the bottle‘s tipped over and off‘s come the top And down in the bottom is starting to slop. I grab at the bottle and stand it upright Not much water‘s left but that is all right My friends have supplies so some I can cadge A small drop of water they‘d hardly begrudge With the bag now on board I turn to set out And that‘s when I find there‘s nobody about They‘ve all disappeared and are quite out of sight No witnesses to my inelegant plight. Thank goodness my boat entry wasn‘t perceived For that little bonus I‘m fully relieved. I paddle down river and way past the bend I spot a blue kayak—just the rear end I paddle full bore and move along fast Way, way ahead I can see them at last. At first they go one way then back on their tracks Going this way and that way there‘s heaps of kayaks. I hope that they‘re there in the paddling throng With all of these kayaks I could get it wrong. At last I‘m among them they‘ve now found the way To see where the river goes out to the bay. The tide‘s going out so it‘s easy work now But going back up will be different I vow. Two of us reckon we‘d wait for the tide ‗If we fish now then we‘ll have a much better ride‘ And that‘s when the rest of the saga begins. The line baited up with the prawn slightly spins.
Eulyce Arkleysmith Peel, NSW Soon after I‘d dropped the line overboard A sharp tug. A sure signal I had just scored. Now this should be simple to haul that fish out But try it when tide and fish drag you about On top of that problem the looming moored boats On which every owner with haughtiness dotes. Well as you might guess it was a certainty A catamaran swiftly was closing on me. I had the fish in but about to go under The great structure keeping the two parts asunder. The line I‘d dropped out while I dealt with the fish That was thrashing around with a splash and a splish In the water that spilled when the bottle upended Next thing I knew the movement suspended The oar was entwined in a rope that I‘d lifted. to let me float through and then out as I drifted BUT now a hooked anchor and oar that was caught In danger of hitting the hull I was fraught. Disentanglement came with much effort at last From under the massive hull joiner I passed. But not giving up where there‘s one fish there‘s more So back to the spot. Once again I might score. This time I skilfully kept out of trouble And managed to make it a fantastic double. Excited about this I called to my friend Everyone heard me from bay start to end And each passing fisher demanded to see What had caused such proclamations from me. Despite all this time the tide had not turned The wind that arose many big waves it churned. We decided that we really should head upstream. ‘gainst both tide and strong wind with effort extreme. Why hadn‘t we gone when the going was easier With head winds that seemed to be surely less breezier. We got back to jibes about being such fatheads We had the last laugh though ‘cause we had two flatheads. m Image: Wiangya
Iced VoVos and Lamingtons ‗Land!‘ The call went rippling around the old fishing boat, raising hope in the desperate faces of the people crammed onto her leaky decks. Mai Le lifted tired, sad eyes and clutched her two small daughters more tightly. Their thin, wasted bodies snuggled against her. ‗Land,‘ she told them. ‗We‘re near Australia. Everything will be fine now.‘ She tried to sound positive. The trip from Vietnam had been long and dangerous. Terrible storms tossed the over-crowded and fragile boat around; several of her fellow shipmates drowned. Food and water were scarce. Mai could barely manage to obtain rice for her daughters, let alone herself. Twice, they were lucky to dodge pirates, intent on stealing their few possessions. Mai feared they‘d all die out on the lonely and endless ocean. So many doubts assailed her, so many questions. Had she been right in leaving Vietnam and her family? War had ravaged her country and their lives under the Communist regime had been dangerous, yet she was unsure what awaited in this new land. Mai sighed. At last the long journey was over and they were alive. She hugged her babies and watched the harbour of Darwin come into view. A cheer resounded around the boat from her fellow travellers. A new life beckoned.
her father, her sisters, to try and give her daughters a better life. When her husband was imprisoned for ‗subversive activities‘, he made her promise to get out of Vietnam. Australia seemed a different world, a safer world. When he died in prison, she kept her promise. With difficulty she purchased space on the boat to come to Australia. She was in an unfamiliar city, struggling to survive. ‗It‘s not like I thought it would be,‘ she confided to her friend, Linh. Both were hunched over their sewing machines. The light was dim in the windowless room, a few dull yellow bulbs illuminating the space. ‗What else do we do?‘ Linh asked. ‗This is the only job I can get.‘
Vickie Walker Orange, NSW Mai figured there was nothing left in Sydney for her, so she may as well try somewhere new. She arrived in Wongabbie on a warm, spring day. The daffodils were out, a bright spot of colour. They were the first things she noticed as she stepped off the bus. She was met at the bus stop by a smiling, friendly woman, who took charge of the children and Mai. ‗Welcome,‘ she said, taking Mai‘s hands in her own. ‗I hope you like our small town.‘ She led them to a car. ‗We‘ve put you up in a hostel to start, with other women and children. I hope you‘ll be comfortable.‘ Mai felt her spirits lift. This was a welcome she hadn‘t expected.
‗Not much of a job. I barely have enough *** to feed the girls and pay my rent. And I have to leave the girls with a neighbour.‘ Six months later the children were Mai peered at the shirt collar she was chubby and healthy. Mai had a job stitching. ‗I hardly see them. They‘re working in the local library and accommodation in a small flat. The children went to school and were rapidly making friends. The refugee support group was helping her apply for permanent residency.
A large ship intercepted their boat and asleep by the time we finish here.‘ voices boomed over the water. Angry men shouted and waved rifles. The ‗What are you two doing?‘ A loud, fierce Australian coastal patrol had found them. voice boomed. ‗Get back to work you lazy sods!‘ Both girls sighed and bent *** their heads to their work. If the boss thought they were slacking off, he would Fourteen months later, Mai and her daughters were finally granted temporary sack them. Then where would they be? protection visas and allowed to leave the Mai had been in Sydney six months when Darwin detention centre. Her two police raided the sweat shop. The women daughters were now nearly five years old. were taken to the station to be All they knew was a life behind high interviewed. A refugee support worker fences, with rules and regulations. As was brought in to offer them support. Mai refugees, they were in limbo, waiting for and the other women were frightened, the powers to decide their fate. She had thinking that they would be sent back to escaped one form of persecution for Vietnam. another. ‗No! No! Of course not,‘ the worker Mai headed to Sydney and to the assured them. ‗But we must do Vietnamese community she heard existed something; you need work and a decent there. Friends found her a job in a sweat place to live. Maybe out of the city, there shop and a room in a crowded fibro are one or two country towns that are house. She despaired of ever finding the desperate for workers.‘ carefree, happy life she had thought Most were apprehensive, not wanting to Australia promised. leave behind the friends and contacts they She‘d left behind her family, her mother, had in the city, and decided not to go.
Mai didn‘t want to go back to Vietnam. Her life was here now. In a year or two she might be able to sponsor her sisters or parents so they too could come to Australia. *** Lamingtons and iced VoVos were piled on a white china plate. Minh Le tucked into a lamington with gusto. Her sister eyed off another plate of sausage rolls, while their little friend nibbled chocolate cake. All around them stood the families of Wongabbie. The hall was decorated with Aussie flags and balloons. It was Australia Day and Wongabbie was celebrating. For Mai it was a double celebration. She and her children had been granted permanent residency. Her new friends toasted her and her children; the mayor made a speech welcoming them to the community. ‗Cam on rat nhieu,‘ Mai smiled gratefully. ‗Thank you very much.‘ Australia was home to her and her daughters. They had the new life that she had risked so much for. Wongabbie residents had seen to that. m
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Amber Johnson Townsend, NSW
Gender Bender Mud-splattered ballet shoes trudge into my bedroom; their occupant stares at me pleadingly. The echoes of shattered spirits radiate from emerald irises, paralysing me into a numb silence. It is impossible to ignore the freckle dusted cheeks, which are stained both with cool rain and heated tears; they are battered to a shade of blue. Slender arms are gripping the stomach of a shredded tutu. They are attempting to conceal the crimson flow that peeks through the rips and tears of nylon and flesh, but we both knew that hiding was futile. ‗You‘re bleeding!‘ I gasp, trying not to cry. An unsteady groan from quivering lips responds to my shock. ‗Who did this to you?‘ I snap. ‗It was those boys that live down the street, wasn‘t it? I am going to rip them apart!‘ My mind is an emotional juggling act, as I cycle through concern, sympathy, fear and rage. ‗I‘m sorry, Sissy.‘ ‗Oh darling, I‘m not angry at you; this isn‘t your fault,‘ I sigh sympathetically. ‗It is my fault; I shouldn‘t have worn your dress,‘ he whimpers, throwing himself into my arms. I cradle his little head and hum soothingly; he still seems like a child to me even though he is edging on adolescence. My aunt once told me in a stale breath of White Ox tobacco that ‗he should have been a girl‘. Sometimes I think it would have been better that way; he wouldn‘t have to suffer Atlas‘ burden or pretend that he has no scars. ‗Let me look,‘ I insist as I shift his delicate body away from mine for closer inspection of the damage. He grimaces and bites his lip, as I gently peel the material away from his wound. The depth of the gash makes me wince and cover my mouth to suppress the scream building in my lungs. I hastily strip pieces off my shirt and press them against him to slow the bleeding.
pleads; his eyes widen in fear. ‗Look at you; you need stitches!‘ ‗Please sis, I don‘t want Dad to know. He‘s more likely to kill me than this will,‘ he begs with a grim laugh. I can‘t help but smile, even though I want to weep. I know he is right … Our father is a former officer-general who never learned how to use his insidevoice. He is a hardened veteran who barks like a dog and has a sullen demeanour at the best of times. I recall the slapping of skin through the walls of my room late at night, the silent cries so faint as if never from a victim; the screams of ‗He‘s just a child!‘ and dismissive he‘ll-grow-out-of-its still puncture my mind with empathy. We share a collective memory of violence, though I will never grasp the hardships faced by a twelve year old who wishes he was a girl. My brother‘s secret or his life; there is no hesitation in which I choose. ‗I am driving you to the hospital.‘ ‗Sissy, please, I need your help.‘ ‗I am helping you.‘ I know he feels betrayed, like a criminal whose best friend turned them in. He glances at the floor with crystallised eyes. It pains me to see him disappointed but I can‘t see an alternative. ‗What are we going to do about this?‘ I ask. I feel the hot blood seeping through the rags of my shirt. I won‘t be able to stop the bleeding much longer. ‗Well you‘ve done first aid haven‘t you? Why don‘t you do something?‘
hold his shoulder and lead him to the passenger seat. ‗There is no time for that; get in.‘ He remains completely silent as I speed through the grim, overcast town. The swishing of the windscreen wipers wash away the liquid bullets that beat against the blue, metal shell. From the rear view mirror, his vulnerabilities are seen. Beneath the bruises lay deeper scars. They are bottled up torments that swell within him. The valve needs to be opened; the pressure is becoming overwhelming. Something needs to give. ‗I‘m a horrible person!‘ he bursts out crying. The shattering of his crystalline stare released the flow of pain trapped inside of him. His tears bring the relief to the anguish he cannot express. ‗You‘re not horrible, Jacob,‘ I sigh, as I rest my arm on the back of my chair so he can take my hand. ‗Yes I am,‘ he sniffed. ‗Everyone calls me a faggot. I don‘t even know what that is, but it sounds really bad.‘ ‗A faggot is a really mean word for a boy who likes other boys,‘ I explain. ‗But I like girls! They have pretty clothes and hair; I just want to be like them. I don‘t like boys! Well at least, I don‘t think I like them. There is something wrong with me.‘ He struggles to map out the contrasting places that exist in his world. ‗There is nothing wrong with who you are, Jacob.‘ I squeeze his hand a little tighter.
‗Everyone else thinks there is. Even ‗I learnt how to do CPR, make splints and Mummy and Daddy,‘ he mutters. bandage wounds; this is a completely ‗Well, I think you are wonderful. You different ball game.‘ He frowns at me in a have such a beautiful voice and you are a blend of confusion and irritation. brilliant dancer.‘ I smile at him through the mirror. He returns the gesture weakly ‗Just wrap it up or something.‘ before returning to contemplation. I stop ‗The cut is almost an inch deep! I can‘t for the second intersection in a row, just bandage it and hope for the best; get leaving the engine to purr at the adjacent in the car,‘ I demand. He knows that he rush of cars. The traffic lights are not in ‗Bubba, we need to get you to a hospital!‘ doesn‘t have a choice. my favour today. ‗No! Please, don‘t send me there,‘ he ‗I need to change first,‘ he insists, but I
‗Are faggots evil?‘ Jacob asks. ‗Johnny told me that faggots go to hell. Does that make me evil?‘
fingers in my face like she would to a dog.
‗No!‘ I yell. He pulls his hand away from mine and whimpers. ‗I‘m sorry, bubba. I didn‘t mean to yell. It‘s just … ‘ The loss of words is excruciating. How do you explain the debate of morality to a child?
‗What do you want?‘ I growl. ‗What is your name?‘ ‗Samantha Edwards,‘ I say, watching her pen dance across the government-issued clipboard in a series of scratchy pirouettes.
‗Honey, there are stupid people in this world—cruel and stupid people. There is ‗What is your relationship with the nothing you can do that will remedy their victim?‘ she enquires in a tedious tone. narrow minds,‘ I say, as we pull up in the ‗He is my brother.‘ She nods while hospital car park. He doesn‘t respond. I fling my seat belt aside and jump out of the car to help my little brother out of his seat. He screams in pain and doubles over; blood splatters on my shoes as I rush to catch him. He looks up at me, paler than usual; his vision is blurred and unfocused.
‗Well, I will not tolerate you clicking in my face, like this.‘ I mimic her stiff tone as I click my fingers within an inch of her nose. ‗I insist that you go to the waiting room until you are summoned,‘ the secretary interrupts. She is not hostile in her approach, nor apathetic. The buzzing of fluorescent lights is the only sound between us, as I take a step back from the nurse. ‗While I understand your concern, quarrelling with staff members will not treat your brother any faster,‘ she continues. ‗Please come with me.‘
‗Don‘t you care that a twelve year old boy has been stabbed?‘ I snap.
‗Oh shit! Shit, shit, shit!‘ I bite my lip and lift him into my arms. I run awkwardly uphill, holding Jacob close to my chest. My jeans become drenched in seconds. I am thankful that Jacob weighs no more than seventy pounds.
scratching away at the page.
The nurse continues to fire questions about the incident and Jacob‘s medical history. Her words become a drone of reluctance that oozes from her tongue, leaving a repulsive mass of regurgitated sympathy lines at my feet. I am expected The secretary jumps as I kick open the to consume these words with relief and door. A large puddle forms at my feet as I gratitude. I am not a baby bird; secondscream ‗I have a stab victim; get the hand scraps of faux concern will not ease doctor NOW!‘ She picks up the phone as my anxiety. My frustration builds higher a team of triage nurses lead me to the with every second of not knowing emergency room. They sweep Jacob whether Jacob is okay or not. He has away from me on a wheelchair. never been in an operation alone, not ‗Can‘t I go with him?‘ I ask the nurse even when he had his appendix out. I‘ve always been with him for every needle who blocks my way. and every doctor‘s appointment; I hope ‗I am afraid not. The doctor needs to he isn’t afraid. Still the nurse rambles on clean out the boy‘s wound and check for and returns to her oppressive clicking. internal damage. You may see him shortly.‘ He glances back at me in panic, ‗Don‘t you care that a twelve year old but I assure him that it is going to be boy has been stabbed?‘ I snap. alright. ‗It is simply protocol, Miss Edwards. All ‗I‘ll be there soon; I promise,‘ I run up to staff must remain apathetic to maintain him and whisper. We embrace briefly focus,‘ she says indifferently. She dares before I feel his head droop in my arms; to raise her eyebrows in a narrow-eyed glare, as if I were composed of the same he is almost unconscious. murky debris that clings to the hem of my ‗I am going to need to record some rain-soaked jeans. details about the incident,‘ the nurse says, stepping in front of me. I ignore her and ‗There is a difference between glance over her shoulder to watch the ER professional distance and being an doors swing shut. God, I hope he is okay. imperialistic bitch,‘ I growl.
I follow the echoes of her stilettoes on the polished floor until we reach a room filled with padded steel chairs. I am ushered into one of the merciless seats. The icy metal clings to my body, feeding my fears rather than comforting them. An out-dated television set crackles and hisses from the shelf it is mounted on. A few people appear mesmerised by the flickering of soap operas and cooking shows, but I can tell that it is only an escape from the dreaded possibilities that claw and wail within their minds. The room feels plagued with the lingering scent of stress and panic. The padding on the end of my armrests has been indented with a previous grasp. My fingers caress the compressions curiously. I visualise the white-knuckled grip of all the former occupants; I share their trepid anticipation. The stench of waiting-room memories is more potent than the chemical sterilisation. As the clock ticks away I find my thumbs are at war. Each hand is nervously fighting for conquest, as my feet pound away at the unseen pedal of a bass drum. A doctor walks in the room with a clipboard in his hand. Everyone in the room is alert; we are all hoping that it is our name that he calls out. ‗Samantha Edwards?‘ he asks, looking around the room. I see a few people slump back into their chairs in disappointment as I jump up on my feet.
We walk into the emergency room where Jacob lay on the bed. The leotard has ‗Excuse me, miss?‘ She clicks her fingers ‗That is verbal abuse, Miss Edwards, and been cut away to expose his recently stitched up knife wound that runs to get my attention. I frown at her I will not tolerate it in my workplace,‘ diagonally, from the centre of his rib rudeness as she continues to click her she says stiffly.
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‗Sometimes, but it wouldn‘t feel right to lose my sense of identity. Even though ‗Hey, sissy,‘ he mumbles, holding out his I‘m not perfect, I am happy with the way arms. I walk over to him to give him a I am,‘ I admit. cuddle as gently as I can. I brush aside ‗But what if you weren‘t happy with his auburn curls and kiss his forehead. yourself? What if you thought anything ‗Your brother shows no signs of organ was better than what you have?‘ damage, but he seems to have torn a few ligaments just below his rib cage. He has ‗What do you mean, Jacob?‘ I ask. He lost a substantial amount of blood and he looks deeply disturbed by a moral will need to remain under observation dilemma. overnight,‘ the doctor explains. ‗I don‘t feel like I belong in the skin I am ‗How long do you think he will need to in. I feel like I wasn‘t born right, and that‘s not just because of what the other recover?‘ I ask. kids say.‘ ‗He will need appropriate rehabilitation to recover the muscle tissue. There will ‗I love you, Jacob; you are perfectly fine be a ten day period before his stitches can the way you are.‘ be removed, in which time he will need ‗You don‘t understand! I‘m not fine and I adequate rest and limited movement. am never going to be happy like this,‘ he After the stitches have been removed, cries. Jacob will need four to six months of progressive movement and strength ‗I am going to file a police report tonight. exercises. Until then, he is not to I am sick of those boys doing this to participate in any strenuous activities or you.‘ do any heavy lifting.‘ ‗No!‘ he yells. I blink at him, trying to ‗Will I be able to keep going to ballet suppress my rage; it hurts so much to see practice?‘ Jacob cuts in. him in such strife. Jacob gulps and takes ‗Unfortunately, you can‘t dance until you my hand. cage, to his hip.
have recovered,‘ the doctor replies.
‗It wasn‘t the boys who did this to me,‘ he whispers ‗They punched me in the ‗But that‘s six months away!‘ he protests. face, but I stabbed myself once they had ‗You need to listen to what the doctor gone. I got scared of the blood so I ran says, bub,‘ I say as I rub his shoulders. home to find you; I need your help.‘ ‗I need to see another patient now. Just press the buzzer if you need assistance,‘ the doctor informs us before exiting the room.
My heart drops with a heavy thud to the pit of my stomach. I feel pale and ill. Why would he mutilate himself like this? I grip the bedside table to prevent myself from falling.
am talking to him about this. ‗Are you serious?‘ he asks excitedly. ‗Yes, but it is something that you have to be very certain about doing. It isn‘t something that you can change back very easily. If you ever had the operation, you would be stuck that way for life.‘ ‗I wouldn‘t want to come back. How do I do it?‘ He is eager and I feel a twinge of regret for putting the idea into his head. ‗You need to be 18 or have your parent‘s permission. It also costs a lot of money.‘ ‗I didn‘t know you could do that— change to a girl, I mean.‘ ‗If it is something you really want to do, then maybe you should think about it. As hard as it is for me to accept, you are not a baby anymore. I will help you no matter what you decide to do.‘ He pauses for a minute with a miserable look on his face. ‗What‘s wrong, bubba?‘ ‗You‘d still love me if I were a girl, right?‘ he asks fearfully. He withdraws his head from my shoulder and braces himself for rejection. ‗Of course I would! Oh darling, don‘t think for a second that I wouldn‘t. We will talk about this more in the morning. You need to get some rest,‘ I say as I stroke his cheek.
‗Don‘t worry; I‘m not going anywhere.‘ He sighs and cuddles up closer as I lean over his bed. I feel his little heart beat against my arm; it has a strong and Jacob is disappointed but his emerald determined rhythm. I know that one day eyes have solidified again; he is ‗W-why would you do that?‘ I ask in Jacob will rise above the chrysalis that unwilling to show any weakness. His shock. My throat feels dry and tight like a restrains his true beauty. Until that day, thick gypsy lashes batter away any burning lump of coal is clogging my he will always have my support and pending tears. airway. protection. m ‗I don‘t like my body; I never have. I ‗It‘s okay, you know,‘ I tell him. want to be a girl.‘ Amber Johnson ‗What is?‘ ‗But why go to the extreme of stabbing Townsend, NSW ‗It‘s okay to cry.‘ I smile reassuringly. He yourself?!‘ I choke. Everything still feels sighs and shakes his head; we are both so surreal. more stubborn than we care to admit. I Amber Johnson is a 19 year old social nudge him gently and blow in his ear, ‗I didn‘t know what else to do,‘ he admits work student. After leaving a violent, shamefully. There is a tense moment of neglectful and socio-economically causing him to giggle. silence before I try to think of what I can disadvantaged home, she moved 15 times After a moment of hesitation, he asks, while studying her HSC. Writing was her do to help. ‗Do you ever wish you were somebody escape from the harsh reality she was ‗There is an operation that can turn you else?‘ faced with. into a girl,‘ I say slowly. I can’t believe I
The Human Condition His laugh is like a whisper, a quiet kssssssht of tongue against teeth. His hands are sandpaper, all callouses, skin stretched too tight over broad knuckles. His hair is dark and soft, curly at the ends. I used to wonder how it must have felt beneath those rough, calloused hands—but then, I doubt he ever noticed. He never did pay himself much attention. It was just him, I guess. Marlboros and faded jeans, a big smile with a chipped front tooth. His gentle demeanour and the family he never talked about. He was quiet, reactive; prone to long silences that made you wonder what you'd done, think that maybe he'd never want to speak to you again. It'd be a couple days later before he'd wander in and pour a glass of juice, make some God awful joke—(‘Hey, this orange juice sure is appeeling!’) like nothing had happened. We didn't talk much about anything. Nothing important, anyway. Shit from TV, maybe. But when he'd smoke cigarettes on the back porch in the dark, because the bulb
over the door had blown, when I'd turn my nose up at the proffered pack and pretend like I didn't want one more than anything, when his lips would twitch like he knew it all—he'd tell me how he was scared to sleep, because it felt too much like dying.
Sam Morris Downer, ACT without him. Don't get me wrong. I miss him, sometimes. I thought I saw those soft curls ahead of me in the line for the train only a few days ago. But he never did like trains.
I do wonder if he still laughs like rushing water, if his hands are still so coarse and I'd nod like I understood, but his laugh, gentle. I wonder if he's got someone to sudden and sharp, would tell me he knew notice those things about him. better. Lately, especially, when I catch a whiff He told me other things, too, over those of cigarette in the night air, I wonder if months. It was as though he'd give over a pieces of someone are returnable—if I tiny piece of himself, surrender it to me, could even bring myself to give him with every night we spent on that back back. m step. I only remember one or two of them now. Funny, how something so important to someone else is so easy to disregard, forget. People are born to be selfish. We come into the world knowing only what we want, and nothing much changes. That's why it isn't surprising that things worked out the way they did. Life goes on; I won't flatter him by saying things are that different now
Tracey Smith Sawtell, NSW
The Black Hawk As I look upon the mountains blue, I see a large Black Hawk Alone he‘s on a quest for food, he has no time to talk For with beauty and precision, I see him soaring there So natural in his gracefulness, his eyes are everywhere For ‘tis he who‘s on a mission, to him, his purpose clear And as I watch him in that bright blue sky I feel that Heaven‘s near … m
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Court Thought
Gregory North Linden, NSW
While driving through the city I was taken by the thought: what kind of crimes and cases do they hear in carpet court? Are carpet layers prosecuted due to shoddy work? Do over-charging salesmen give a bribe and wear a smirk? Do carpet courts decide on stain resistance guarantees; or work out who‘s responsible for plagues of mites and fleas? Perhaps I simply read it wrong, ‘cause that would surely thwart investigations as to what goes on in carpet court. ‗You‘ve been found guilty, since you‘ve no contrition or regrets, of owning cars and treating them as if they were your pets. As subject of the vehicle psychiatrist‘s report, you‘re guilty of a litany of crimes in car-pet court.‘ Perhaps there was a space I missed when making out the sign. It could have been the viewing angle or its bad design. But was the space located near the r or near the p? It could refer to courts that hear of eaten fish, you see? Could owners of a cat get sued for every plate and cup when neighbours boasting garden ponds have had their carp et up? Or maybe it‘s a family court with victims wall to wall, where custody of rug rats then becomes a judge‘s call. Adulterers are called onto the carpet where they sag, and drag their feet admonishing that warm, inviting shag. But one bloke can‘t abstain from his addiction and insists on telling of his carpet burns from graphic, kinky twists. The carpet court may cause a rich embezzler‘s face to blush explaining why his manor house interior‘s so plush; and when his magic carpet got pulled out and made him fall just why his mate, the Persian, made a runner up the hall. Then later he might reappear, but in a different group— attempting unsuccessful, suicidal cut and loop. Are carpet baggers carpet bombed with rugs of deeper piles? Are toilets in the carpet court all lined with carpet tiles? Are court rooms decked out differently depending on the case? And do red carpets get rolled out for dignitaries to grace? Are carpet beaters sentenced on account of what they dealt? Are marriages annulled if down below is under-felt? I have to find some answers. Something‘s missing—I‘ve no doubt. It‘s probably been overlooked and sucked right up the spout. Or else it‘s been swept underneath the carpet—yes, that‘s it— a nylon-wool conspiracy that lawyers won‘t admit. All thoughts I‘ve brought have come to nought. I‘m fraught, caught short, distraught! What kind of crimes and cases do they hear in carpet court? m Gregory North won the Australian Bush Poetry Championship in 2008, 2009 and 2010. He is extremely entertaining, and his original poetry works, plus original interpretations of many classics, can be enjoyed on his DVDs if you can’t catch him in person. Buy these or find out more about this modern day poetry legend at http://www.gregorynorth.com.au
Throw the Meat back on the Table
David Anderson Woodford, NSW
Throw the meat back on the table, put the milk back in the fridge We don‘t live near Nimbin, we live near Lightning Ridge Things have just got out of hand, since you went down there Those hippy flavoured health foods, have led me to despair
I went to see the doctor he said ‗Nothing‘s wrong with you Your stomach‘s clogged with muesli, I‘ll tell you what to do Go out and build a fire, throw on some snags and steak Wash it down with full cream milk and a piece of chocolate cake‘
My missus went down to the coast to see her brother Roy He‘s fifty and a hippie and his favourite food is soy When my wife came back to town, she‘d changed her farm life ways She‘s cooking all that health food, I ain‘t had a feed in days
I‘d rather have a beer or two than a glass of wheat grass juice And for those herbal potions, I‘ve no further use I‘ll take those soya sausages and throw them in the bin And have a plate of cornflakes and live a life of sin
Chorus She‘s brought back to our old town a recipe or two The trouble with the food she cooks, it doesn‘t bloody ‗moo‘! When I got a backache, my wife needled me She says that milk clogs up my nose then looks at me so coy She said that acupuncture would set my spasms free Then pours a glass of awful stuff that tastes like mud called soy I told her if she pricked me more I‘d stick one in her bum My usual antidote then worked—a nice big glass of rum Chorus Throw the meat back on the table, put the milk back in the The future of our planet, to save it I‘m sincere fridge That‘s why I eat those cows and sheep, to me there‘s one thing We don‘t live near Nimbin, we live near Lightning Ridge clear Things have just got out of hand, since you went down there They emit far too much methane, way up into the sky Those hippy flavoured health foods, have led me to despair If we don‘t eat a lot of them, the ozone layer will die Last night while I was drinking beer, she was making sprouts She said they‘re full of vitamins, but I have me doubts Give me a steak and onions, carrots and a spud That‘s the stuff that builds a man, those health foods are a dud
Chorus m
Kenneth Massingham Chisholm, ACT
Pollies Some red, some blue, green is seen, a few of a different hue, a raucous caucus of pollies preening themselves, trying to catch the eye, flying free, back and forth among the treetops, coming down to earth only to use their sharp tongues on a fallen nut or two. Cackling, rattling on, preening and posing, drawing attention to themselves, whilst muttering meaningless advice to any audience they can find. Now and then a weaker speaker tries to keep order, his plaintive pleas lost in the racket of restless parrots. m
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Jane Higgins Molong, NSW
Writer’s Block 1 Nothing ever happened in Dustbowl. Ross turned to his daughter Sarah. She seemed so young and vulnerable; the signs of her youth and beauty had not faded even though she had just given birth to a beautiful little baby boy. She unconcernedly made herself a coffee and asked him if he wanted one too. She was so thoughtful. Not like his other daughter.
‗What do you think she sees in him?‘ he asked. A concerned father talking to his more mature daughter. Even though there was little more than a year between them Sarah had always been the mature one. I guess she had to be. The poor little kid. I mean, her mother taking off with the head of the football club when she was only four. The Bitch!
loony from next door! She wants to see you!‘ She left the neighbour at the door. Ross groaned, but only inwardly. He walked to the door and met his daughter in the hallway. ‗What‘d you tell her I‘m here for?‘ he hissed.
Sarah didn‘t. ‗Dad! She‘s a bloody old busybody and she should be shot! You know she looks through the glass and she ‗Where‘s your sister, Bron?‘ he asked, ‗It must be in his pants, Dad, because listens in to our conversations and I bet more interested now she had actually he‘s just a buttfuck.‘ she replied, not you she has the place bugged.‘ She placed the cups and the milk and sugar all looking up from the newspaper. ‗Why do walked off unconcernedly. within her reach. It seemed like she was you buy this shit Dad? It‘s the same old going to make her dear old Dad a cuppa same old. There is no news in Dustbowl. ‗Alex! How good to see you. What an after all. Sarah flicked the long burnished It‘s just a buttfuck.‘ unexpected surprise. What brings you hair away from her face. Brown eyes here?‘ he asked, not unkindly, as she He took his coffee over to his typewriter smiling. The child slept. She rummaged pushed past him in his own hallway to and started writing again. ‗Succinct, she‘s around in the back of the cupboard. the kitchen. sure succinct,‘ he muttered to himself ‗What are you doing love?‘ he asked, getting up.
sipping on the contents of his cup, wondering where he had gone wrong. He had done well at school. He had worked ‗Where‘s the Chocolate Chip Cookies?‘ hard at uni and gotten himself a degree in she demanded to know. Moving her hand accounting and then when he had the along the bottom of the cupboard door money he bought the farm, fulfilling a expertly. lifelong dream. ‗You ate them,‘ he replied patiently. The courtship of the lovely Marlene. The Turning on the kettle by habit and putting wedding. He pulled back from the table the coffee and sugar in the cups and briefly, thinking back over the waiting until it boiled to put the water remembrance of the wedding night. and then the milk in it. Unusually in a man, or so his friend Sarah sat and waited for her father to hand her her cuppa as she took his chair and turned the page of the newspaper he had been reading. She lit a cigarette and started smoking it while he stood there wondering how she did it every time. ‗Sarah?‘ he inquired. ‗Yeah?‘ she replied, not even looking up. ‗What?‘ Flicking the page again. ‗Where‘s your sister? She was supposed to see me before she left. You know I don‘t like her going out with her boyfriend.‘ He spoke to her as an equal. She was all he‘d had for such a long time. Since ... he was lost in thought. He turned to her. So like her mother. ‗She‘s gone to the footy at Rabbit Trap, with the boofhead,‘ she replied. He leaned on the back of the chair with his hand and asked her father to daughter.
‗You think that I don‘t hear you, don‘t you, young lady? But, I know what you‘re like! Here you are, just sixteen years old and you are already a mother of a small life. Totally dependent upon you and I suppose you think that I will be teaching this child of sin!‘ She raised her arms dramatically. ‗Good God! Alex!‘ Ross expostulated.
Sarah was more blunt. ‗You‘ve got that right you old bag! There‘s no way my boy is going to put up with you like I had Gwen said, was that he had any recollection of the night at all. Gwen. My to!‘ one stroke of sanity in this bloody place. ‗How dare you talk to me like that!‘ she shrieked. ‗I will not be spoken to like that Suddenly there was a knock at the door. in my own home!‘ ‗Can you get it, love?‘ Ross asked. ‗I‘m ‗First ...‘ Ross never got any further trying to write.‘ because he was cut off by the sound of a Complacently she went drifting towards police siren and it sounded close. He the door at the front of the house, the pushed Alex unceremoniously out of the outline of the visitor clearly visible in the house making her walk through from the long glass doors. The banging started back yard, which he hadn‘t mowed for again, more insistent. ‗Hey! I saw you do some time. Since he heard that his little that! I saw you pretend to come to the fifteen year old daughter was going to door and then walk away! I will not be have a baby. taken in vain! You come here right now, ‗I can‘t get through here, you know that!‘ young miss!‘ she rasped. He pushed her along ignoring Sarah had reached the door and pulled it her. open and turned to the area in the kitchen He said nothing. Every time he heard a where her father had his typewriter. She siren there was usually trouble for him or called out with the door open without acknowledging the visitor. ‗Dad! It‘s the his family. ‗Oh, why, God?‘ he asked as he pushed Alex through the rough
underbrush to the front which had been mowed recently. Sarah was outside on the back steps calling her father now. ‗Dad! The Cops! What do they want?‘ By the time Ross had disposed of the busybody neighbour, he‘d had a chance to spy around the side of the house and to see the local copper get out of the car and shut the door. He walked purposefully towards the door. Ross gave Alex a final shove through the side gate that was there before when his neighbours were friends of his and the kids had played together.
cop shop is right behind the house just the other side of mine. This was a thriving district once and it was a proud place and the people were proud to live here. Some even had relatives in big places like Wheathalle. Still, even now we could field a footy team and that is what kept us all together. ‗Ross! You coming?‘ The footy‘s gonna start in a few minutes and I want to get a good spot!‘ Pete called.
‗No-one will go and camp in your spot. Not since you put that forensic plastic around the spot where you park so the sun doesn‘t get in your eyes,‘ Sarah said. ‗Ross! You old cock! How‘s things?‘ the Pete suddenly turned to her. Where did copper asked him. ‗Are you coming the kid get that shrewd in a Godforsaken tonight? It‘s the Grand Final between place like this, he wondered to himself. Dustbowl and Rabbit Trap. They should ‗It‘s still a crime scene,‘ he said be getting nicely tanked by now.‘ importantly. ‗You know the rules. Not ‗Yes, yes of course,‘ Ross mumbled. trespassing on a crime scene which is still ‗Hang on a minute while I get my esky.‘ being investigated by the Law.‘ he The copper leaned against the fence in a reminded her. relaxed manner. After all, it was ‗Pete! You put it there at the beginning of Saturday, and every Saturday they went every home game. No-one takes you to the footy together and then went to the seriously. Bart moves it every time the pub for a few coldies. Sarah came out to dog trials are on.‘ she responded have another cigarette and said, ‗G‘day,‘ unconcernedly. Her father had gotten his to Pete. No-one knew what his real name Hawaiian shirt on and it didn‘t fit was but he liked to be called Pistol Pete. properly and so he had to leave a couple He‘d come from the big smoke and noof the buttons near the bottom open. His one knew quite what to make of him. shorts were more of a success and the
there before they run out of beer.‘ Ross asked Sarah if she would be okay on her own. ‗Of course, Dad! What happens in this Godforsaken place?‘ So Pete pressed the doodad which opened his door and Ross and his esky were put in and then Pete handed the baby to him to place on his lap. Ross looked at him as it was against the law and Pete reassured him that it would be alright, it was just up the road. So they went and Sarah left to watch TV for the afternoon. Pete put the siren on as he never went anywhere without putting the siren on. Brad started screaming but that wasn‘t Sarah‘s problem anymore. Rozzi from the paper would be there. After all she was the roving reporter and she had to tell everyone what was going on in town, even though everyone contributed to the paper and they were all at every meeting across the road for every committee in town. Sarah had tried to point out to Rozzi that the paper needed a new outlook. Anything practically, she told her. Something happened then that was actually newsworthy in Dustbowl, but of course everyone except Sarah and the loony from next door was at the footy. Even the publican. He had to be there because it was his biggest day of the week and they needed someone who had a licence to run the bar at the footy.
thongs, well, who could fault the thongs? After all, they were the consummate Sarah had just relaxed when she heard an unfamiliar sound. It was like a truck fashion statement out here in the scrub. pulling up and talking to someone. She ‗You finally ready, old man?‘ Pete went wasn‘t sure at first, even though they to move towards the vehicle. were on the highway, as there was no Suddenly there was the sound of crying. more town really. A few houses and the church and the town hall. They didn‘t ‗Dad! The baby!‘ Sarah rasped at him. even have a war memorial, so it was just He dropped his esky at the copper‘s feet as well that there was no-one to The pub was the main attraction here now and went back into the house and let his memorialise, except now her husband all the mining was done with, and the lift know that he‘d be a few more minutes John, whom she had married with the wheat and sheep farmers weren‘t going as he took the boy child and his kit to the whole town present for such an occasion so well now. They had been on the footy too. ‗To give Sarah a bit of a even though the shotgun was clearly receiving end of some very large taxes break,‘ he told everyone. But it was visible in the front row in her father‘s and very short rainfall. Most people had mainly to convince himself. hands. moved out and now in their street, Pete waited and then it seemed that Ross John was the very first soldier they had in Mungally Street, it was said that there and the grandson Brad were ready to go, town since some of the lads had headed had once been a big festival and people but of course he would have to be off to the Second Boer War. He was a came from miles around for the picnic changed first and they decided to do that nice lad and he had promised to care for races and the Whingeing competition. while they were there because they might Sarah. So the wedding went off without a Now before you laugh, remember that be able to fob him off on his aunty if they hitch, or very nearly, and if you pay the this street has the pub on one side of the could find her. ‗We‘ll find her, mate. right amount of money I may just tell you road and three houses on this side and the She‘ll be right. C‘mon! I want to get He was long and lean and they suspected that he wasn‘t as old as he had put on his form. He had chip blue eyes but when he was in a good mood no-one noticed. ‗You going to the footy with Dad?‘ Sarah asked, even though she knew the answer. After all, what else was there to do out here? It wasn‘t a very big place. More of a speck on the map than a place.
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what really happened. The rig pulled up and the sound of talking was unmistakeable. Sarah had gone out to the front step for a cigarette and so she heard the whole exchange. ‗Thanks mate.‘ She pondered the meaning of the words in her mind over and over. The rig took off. It was a big Road Boss with double stacks and a 44ft skel. It didn‘t have wheat on the back either like you would expect around here. She was intrigued. It was a man. A very nice looking man and it made her heart quiver. After all, John had been away for some time. He went to the pub and even though she knew that there was no-one there she let him go to see what he would do. He wandered to the hotel and saw that it had been locked up. After all you couldn‘t be too careful about that sort of thing out here. He wandered along the length of the
veranda and she heard the distinct clatter of his boots on it. He tried to see through the windows which had the blinds closed too. There was no sign saying, ‗Gone to the Footy‘. Everyone knew that and there were no strangers here now that things had slowed up. She watched. He turned perplexed. She stood up and he caught the movement out of the corner of his eyes. He came over and he introduced himself. ‗Hello! I‘m Andrew. How do I get a room at the hotel?‘ he asked her. ‗Everyone‘s gone to the footy. No-one will be back for about three hours,‘ she candidly told him. ‗Will I be able to get a room?‘ he asked concerned, ‗or do I get the next bus back to civilisation?‘
school bus here for a generation before I was born!‘ She broke into fits of laughter. He seemed discomfited. ‗What do I do then?‘ he asked concernedly. ‗You can go to the footy and watch the game and wait until the publican and his missus get back and then get a room ...‘ she replied. ‗So, you think I‘ll be able to get a room at least?‘ he asked her. ‗Shit yeah! I can‘t remember when the last visitor we had was but it was a long time ago.‘ she laughed. He held out his hand and she took it and shook it. He dropped his backpack and she asked him if he‘d like a coffee while he waited and then she‘d take him to the footy to introduce him to the publican or his missus who was the local reporter.
Sarah laughed. She‘d never met anyone He waited on the front step and they had who was an optimist before. She had their coffees and talked for a while and of grown up here. ‗A bus? We haven‘t had a course the loony from next door came to
her window and had a look.
his proffered arm.
Andrew noticed and he turned to Sarah and she realised that the neighbour was up to her old tricks again and she turned her back.
They strolled the four blocks to the footy field. The full length of the town. You could hear the shouting from the steps at home, she‘d told him, so technically she hadn‘t missed a game in years.
‗Does she do that often?‘ Andrew asked.
They arrived and of course everyone stared. She saw her father and the copper so she avoided them and then her sister came up behind her with boofhead. Sarah introduced them and Bron eyed the talent ‗Of course.‘ he replied. ‗They‘re like that off. ‗Andrew, this is my sister and her boof … I mean boyfriend Mark. He‘s in where I‘m from too.‘ IT.‘ ‗Where are you from?‘ Sarah asked him, ‗Oh, what do you do?‘ he inquired more comfortable now. politely. ‗Kilkenny. County Cork,‘ he replied. ‗Oh, yes of course! She‘s a case. She‘ll be telling everyone all sorts of stories tomorrow. She‘s just wicked.‘ Sarah laughed. ‗No-one takes her seriously.‘
‗Oh,‘ she said, unsure of how to answer him. ‗I‘m backpacking around Australia before I go back to uni,‘ he proffered. ‗What are you studying?‘ she asked shyly. After all, he was very handsome, she didn‘t meet too many strangers, and the last time she did she ended up marrying him. ‗I‘m studying to become a doctor.‘ He grinned at this as if it was comical.
except for the next shout. After the game Sarah took the stranger to the front of the pub where everyone would be going too. Rozzi came to greet her and asked her what she thought of the game. She then introduced the stranger and left him with her to get a room and went home before anyone missed her. The police siren was screaming and making so much noise that even the hurled abuse from the spectators who went back to the pub for the customary punch-up was drowned out. Pistol Pete jumped out of the car, menacing in his uniform. He went everywhere in his uniform because people took him seriously. No-one asked him why he was wearing his uniform on Saturday afternoon when everyone knew it was his day off. He always came to get Ross and take him to and from the footy in full uniform complete with capsicum spray and cuffs and gat. He never went to the footy without his gat.
All the townspeople and the visitors came to the pub and turned it on even though they had given it a pretty serious nudge before the game, and of course at it, and that was just the players.
‗Wow!‘ she replied. She‘d never met a ‗I am in Intel,‘ he said knowingly and doctor. Not since she‘d been pregnant, touched his nose. and then it was just a midwife at the base Sarah grabbed his shoulder and walked hospital in far flung Jericho. off. ‗What does he mean by that?‘ he ‗You mean to tell me that there‘s a town asked. called Jericho out here in the country?‘ He was amazed. ‗How do you get there?‘ ‗Don‘t ask,‘ she replied just as knowingly. ‗See ya later Bron! Boof!‘ He was curious now. ‗Sarah! Sarah!‘ Ross called her ‗Oh, it‘s out t‘buggery!‘ she replied, frantically. grinning. He didn‘t believe her so she
Every Saturday evening after the game he would repair to the pub with his best mate Ross and they would get into a shout and then he would drive him home again. Or if Ross had driven to the pub himself then he would let him get there and then book him. No-one knew why Ross still drank with him. Ross didn‘t fully understand it himself.
All the townspeople and the visitors came to the pub and turned it on even though they had given it a pretty serious nudge before the game, and of course at it, and that was just the players. The spectators were of course serious drinkers and they didn‘t like their Saturday evenings wasted at the cop shop. Being shopped and copping it when they got home, if showed him on the map. He laughed ‗Quick! Over here! He won‘t be able to they made it. Some were required to stay then. see us from here.‘ Sarah guided the in the pub by law or they would risk newcomer to the place she had always getting drink driving or drunk and They heard the siren from the footy oval hidden as a child whenever her father had disorderly, so they stayed. and it sounded half time. He asked her, been looking for her. ‗Would you like to see the second half of Paul, the publican, always gave free the game, since we‘re stuck here for a ‗Who‘s that?‘ he asked. drinks to Pete on Saturday nights and if while and we don‘t have anything better he wore his uniform then everyone would ‗It‘s my Dad,‘ she responded. to do?‘ now there was law in town even if no-one ‗Don‘t you want to speak to him?‘ he took the order side of it that seriously. By ‗Shit yeah!‘ she replied. So she shut the asked. the time he realised that he would have to front door and made sure it was locked and then pronounced that she was ready. She never got to reply because there was buy his own drinks he was pretty drunk a message over the intercom for a Sarah himself and so he had to put it all on the He was surprised that she took so much to report to the police vehicle right away. slate. Ross put his on the slate too then care about security out here. ‗Do you but he had an arrangement with Paul that have much trouble with break-ins all the ‗You come here right now young lady!‘ they went on Pete‘s slate. Then he was heard throughout the entire arena. way out here?‘ he asked her while they remembered why he drank with him. were walking around the corner. ‗Shit! Shit! Shit!‘ Sarah spat. They had Brad with them but he‘d been ‗Oh, no. It‘s just to stop the interfering It was okay then because the game started given some port to calm him with all the old busybodies.‘ She laughed and took again and everyone forgot everything noise and then they put him on the bar so
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they could find him later. One time they left him on the pool table and he‘d been racked up. When, sadly, it was time to go, Pete drove Ross home. He waved to him and said goodbye and Sarah was there to greet him and make sure that someone put Brad to bed.
‗That‘s no good. Even on his own volition he needs five hundred dollars,‘ he replied.
Ross was willing to negotiate and he hoped Pete was too. After all, if he kept the kid he wouldn‘t be able to let him go until after the court hearing on Monday ‗How was the game, Dad?‘ Sarah asked morning and that wouldn‘t be until well after three o‘clock in the afternoon until unconcernedly. the paperwork cleared. He put his money ‗Good, Darl,‘ he replied and went to give on the fact that Pete just wanted to get her a peck on the cheek before he fell back to the pub and not have any more exhausted into his bed. ‗How are you?‘ grief. ‗I‘m fine Dad. How‘s Brad?‘ she asked ‗I haven‘t got five hundred bucks,‘ he him. said, surly almost. ‗What about a slab of VB?‘ ‗He‘s fine.‘ he replied. ‗Oh, so where is he?‘ she asked him. ‗Oh my God!‘ He just sobered up. ‗He‘s still on the pool table!‘ He rushed over to the pub to pick up the child who had been taken to missing persons at the cop shop. Or at least that‘s what the barman told him.
because if he‘s not I‘ll throw the book at you.‘ Ross nodded and went into the cells to get the child, who had managed his ordeal quite nicely, passing the time by doing Sudoku. Pete commented and said, ‗That kid‘s pretty smart you know. He‘ll go far someday.‘ Ross walked off. On his way the copper passed him with the counter top open for him to walk through. ‗And when you put him to bed make sure you come straight back here.‘ ‗Why?‘ Ross demanded. ‗I‘m gonna book you for drink driving,‘ Pete calmly announced.
‗Is that a bribe?‘ he replied scowling. ‗Because if it is it‘s pretty piss poor. Is that the best you can do?‘
Ross jumped into this vehicle and went straight to the cop shop looking for his grandson. He walked into the cop shop, and the boy had been processed and put on a charge of drunk and disorderly.
‗Is that a bribe?‘ he replied scowling. ‗Because if it is it‘s pretty piss poor. Is that the best you can do?‘
‗And how much is that gonna cost?‘ asked Ross, who was getting just a little sick of this. ‗How much you got?‘ Pete replied calmly. He wanted a drink and he was out of money. ‗I‘ll get the malt,‘ he replied.
‗Make sure you do,‘ Pete said letting him go.
Ross drove back with the baby and ‗I‘ve got a bottle of eight year old malt you can have too, but no money,‘ he said dropped him off tucking him into bed and singing a lullaby. He picked up the malt squaring off. and two glasses and walked to the cop ‗Where is he now?‘ Ross demanded. ‗I‘ll take your ute for a security.‘ Pete shop. said. ‗That‘s my last offer.‘ ‗He‘s in the cooler. I‘ve processed him Knocking on the door ... ‗In!‘ Pete called and he‘s in no fit state to go home. He ‗What? I can‘t let my ute go! What the out. can‘t even speak properly,‘ Pete said. hell am I supposed to do?‘ said Ross, ‗I‘ve got the malt,‘ Ross said setting the getting furious now. After all how is a ‗Good God! He‘s only three weeks old! glasses up on the counter. Of course he can‘t speak properly. I want man supposed to go in the country without a ute? All his mates would laugh ‗Pour yourself one too,‘ Pete said, feeling to see him now!‘ Ross screamed, which wasn‘t much like him at all. He was such at him. magnanimous now he had something to a quiet and unassuming bloke, and his ‗Mate! I only want it for tonight and then drink. He did. They sat up talking about friend said that might have been the the footy and then there was a phone call you can have it back,‘ he said a little problem. at about three in the morning. drunkenly. ‗I can‘t let him go unless he‘s bailed. Can you bail him?‘ Pete demanded because really he didn‘t want the kid overnight. He couldn‘t do nappies and what if the kid chucked? Besides, what if those dogooders heard of it? ‗How much?‘ Ross asked suspiciously. He looked in his pockets and pulled out three dollars and twenty five cents. He put it on the counter. ‗It‘s all I‘ve got,‘ he said.
‗What do you want it for?‘ he asked suspiciously. ‗I‘ve been invited pig shootin‘ by the boys from Rabbit Trap,‘ he replied. ‗That could be a mistake,‘ Ross tried to reason with him. ‗Look. Just give me the kid and I‘ll get you a slab tomorrow ok?‘ Pete was getting tired and needed to sleep. So he got the kid and told Ross, ‗Make sure the kid is in court on Monday
Pete answered it. A voice on the other end said, ‗Dad! The baby needs changing!‘ Pete handed it to Ross saying, ‗Mate, it‘s for you.‘ m Jane Higgins Molong, NSW
Cassandra Primavera Lawson, NSW
Save Joey I was inspired to write this poem when I became aware of the legal, cruel disposal of joeys by licensed commercial kangaroo shooters. Section 5 of the current Code of Practice* stipulates that joeys be decapitated or have their skull crushed to destroy their brain. Approximately 440,000 joeys are ‘disposed’ of every year. The annual quota* for roos to be commercially slaughtered has been 4 million since 2004.
Thousands of roos are shot each night while we sleep. The hunters kill them for the profits they reap. If our national emblems you want to cherish and keep Then surely knowing of this would make you just want to weep. If you have heard that they are pests then please understand … Kangas are native fauna, they don‘t damage our land.
Shame on the cafès with roo steaks on their menu. Surely such a serving should really be taboo! Macadamias or bush herbs can add Aussie flavour To restaurant dishes for all our tourists to savour. And our kangaroos should all be left running rife For tourists to enjoy them as unique wildlife.
*Australian Federal Government website: When they slaughter a mother roo they take not one life but three. www.environment.gov.au/biodiversity/ Her terrified at-foot joey into the desert trade-use/wild-harvest/kangaroo/ will flee. index.html With his caring mother no longer alive Alone, on his own, he will never survive. Her in-pouch joey has no better luck. With an iron pipe his head will be struck. Dying mum hung on the side of a truck. What a sickening way to earn a buck! So will you buy their fur or eat the flesh of roos? The lives of two joeys may depend on what you choose.
So that our kangaroos do not end up a mere legend Upon consumers‘ choices I‘m afraid they do depend. With your purchasing power their slaughter you know you could end Just think of those joeys when your dollars you spend. Will hunters stop killing roos while their fur and steaks sell? Never! If we don‘t stop this trade now we may lose our icon forever. So if the persecution of our kangaroos tears at your heart, In the purchase of their hides and meat you may wish not to take part. m
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Felicity Lynch Katoomba, NSW
Sitting in the Blue Mountains train With a pounding migraine
People looked uncomfortably aware But nobody did more than stare
A mobile user was a fright As she shouted to a friend about a fight
As detail after detail Of some abusive male
That her husband had left her And nobody loved her
Who‘d threatened her with a knife Even though she was his wife
Her kids had been taken by welfare What busybodies they all were
She was on the train Hoping to meet up with the guy again
I was taken aback by her youth And her need to tell her truth
Otherwise she thought That she ought
I wondered that such a pretty girl Had found herself in such peril
Slip under the train To kill herself to stop the pain
She was well dressed But she certainly was obsessed
Still none of us moved at all Waiting for someone else to take the call
The train moved along the tracks Dropping off commuters in packs
Reading the paper the very next day There was a story about a lady
Nothing interrupted this lady‘s wails As the train clacked along the rails
Who‘d been killed when she fell Alighting from a train at Central ... m
Tight Ass
Sonia Ursus Satori Medlow Bath, NSW
You gormless sob! If you persist in this folly keeping past due date leftovers under wraps, serving re-defrosted titbits, rehashing sour milk in dessert recipes—granted, doesn‘t taste too bad—nonetheless it puts a mantle of shame over you. If you weren‘t such a tight ass you could keep a pig. For crying out loud, get rid of these Tupperware miniature containers; they are fucking up your mind. No, it‘s not an environmental issue. It‘s your nasty small-mindedness and an absolute ignorance about healthy living. That explains your permanent nausea, the sneezes, the runny nose and your disgusting looking slimy eye balls. What you eat is what you are, man, and there ain‘t no smorgasbord in your closet. And one more thing: that‘s not a butt, it‘s a clumsily fashioned filter made from the ALDI box. No wonder your fingers come in rich-glazed hues of shit-brown. And you smell bad. Working class origin‘s got nothing to do with it. You are a stinger, a nouveau riche prick. No, one doesn‘t save the planet by not buying deodorants. You are a living dump stinking up the ozone. Don‘t give me that post modern cerebral crap about expediency! I‘m outahere. Find another sucker who wants to live rent-free with you in your shit-hole. I‘m off. There‘s a free lunch at the RSL. No, I won‘t bring back leftovers and ciggy stumps from the ash trays anymore. You are on your own, mate. By the way, my off-shore dividends just came in. Picked up a couple of high-rise in Chinatown—dirt cheap. m
Of Dogs
Sting a Same Goes for a Name Debate Citadel Lewis Leura, NSW He sniffed all smell from the world. Didn't exhale. Watered the One with the elocution of Two And symbolised—with wise, old wisdom—words. Refraining from poetry is for your pets and your teachers: An act of apples for the dapper folk back home. Delicate intricacies froth up and foam his hidden face from beard. A bard, I ain't; nor quaint, nor painty little pictures. I shy away from dandies, turn against all titles, engaging trifles only for the stifling of the stars technology. Cos I was a cowboy, a cud-chewer; No fewer than five we were, at our peak, Riding through parched, deserted pastures ... ... This had better last ya's. Only an informal, unchosen few have gained the necessary textures, Lost all overtures and assumptions—that weak compunction Meaning most of all. Come seek our screaming luncheon! And with mad saliva-crumbs careening through the air, Dare establish true manners to the table. m
Ruth Withers Uarbry, NSW Battered and bruised I come to you, To bring to you a different view Of DOGS. They yammer and yowl and cry for attention, So you release them from their detention. You feed them up and have a game And still they yowl for more of the same, But you must get on; you‘ve much to do. You‘ve washing to do and cleaning too. They drag at you and trip you up, Saying ‗Play with me; I‘m a cute little pup.‘ Well, that‘s a statement I‘d like to refute. I‘m here to tell you there‘s nothing cute About being tripped up as you walk in the door And falling quite heavily on the floor, Cutting one hand as you drop the log You‘re no longer carrying, thanks to a dog. It‘s not cute at all to have your poor shin Bashed by the screen door as you‘re falling in, Nor to have the thumb of your other hand Smashed by the said log as it lands. I‘m battered and bruised and feeling blue And, for now, I‘ll leave kind thoughts to you— Of DOGS. *** The little black bitch—she did it. ‗Guilt‘ was written across her rear, As she fled from the scene of the crime With her tail ‘twixt her legs in fear. I bellowed and swore and I almost cried, As I lay in a heap on the floor. I removed my thumb from under the log, And I bellowed and swore some more. Then I picked myself up and I aimed my voice At her fast-disappearing bum, And I bellowed and swore and swore some more, ‘Til I swore myself quite dumb. m
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Edward Cooper Mona Vale, NSW
Firmino I am yet to come across a better fruit for tales than overseas travelling. Those profound moments or misadventures of your big trip to Europe, South East Asia or America are worth 100 days at home in conversational value. However, among the glee and new discovery of self there will always be the spice of a horror story or two. Pick pockets, Gypsies gassing train air vents and the usual ‗I got on the wrong train and ended up in Switzerland instead of Peru!‘ This is my entry into the bad book of travelling. The story that serves as a reminder to choose your hostel friends wisely and avoid pornleaning Farmville advocates whose idea of privacy deeply compromises the comfort of shared living.
occupant. Introductions were made and somehow the discussion turned almost instantly to the exchange of Facebook information. I have since learned that such a quick request for exchange is a clear indicator that the requestor is usually burdened by some serious social problems, so as to lock you in as a Facebook friend before they reveal their fascination with (affection for) Axolotl genitals, for example (true story).
farm life, but that I was clearly engaging with another quirky South American I could add to my tally.
However my excitement, along with my comfort, with this early rapport was quickly rubbed out. About halfway down the Brazilian‘s blue blanket there appeared movement at the station. It appeared the word had been passed around from his brain to his colt .45 that there was no need for future regret to get With the discussion turning to Facebook in the way. He had decided that a brief my new Brazilian friend jumped on the hostel acquaintance (me) was going have opportunity to detail his blossoming to endure some open masturbation; the Farmville career. I‘m no conversation Farmville discussion was too much. At engineer but, like any polite man, on first first I had played it off as some prolonged meeting a fellow man/woman I like to rearrangement of his fruit bowl, perhaps a sneaky mangina. But the intensity I had just arrived in Hamburg alone grew, and the precise, vertical after spending a while in Berlin. nature of his strokes confirmed my Christmas was spent successfully fears. I‘m also yet to encounter a with four Columbians I had met in stare with that intensity. This was a Berlin hostel in the previous no bug, stink or evil eye. He was week, so my immediate goal for looking deep into my eyes, not with Hamburg was clear in my head: anger but pure confidence and make some more weird friends. assurance that he was going to The hostel room was bare on finish and it was OK to keep arrival, empty, but for one discussing Farmville. More backpack and a small Brazilian flag elaborate plots of acquiring farm hanging from a bottom bunk hostel coins were detailed, all the while bed with a glued-on face of a multitasking with his right hand. It balding Brazilian man. Nice touch, became clear he was not going to I thought. A welcoming initiative excuse himself; he was very, very of a seasoned hostel guest. comfortable. So I did myself, stating However my prospective friend had discuss something they are interested in that I had to ‗unpack my bag‘. clearly gone out for the day, so I did early to build rapport. I learnt about I exited the conversation and entered the myself and trotted around the city growing and harvesting crops, trees and little ‗room within a hostel room‘ that I determined to meet said bald Brazilian on bushes, about raising livestock and was sleeping in. It was sort of a threeplowing land. It became evident that his my return. walled little inlet within the hostel room, digital agriculture was more to him than On my return I was welcomed by the real with one set of bunk beds, which gave a an activity; rather it had become a deeply life man I had earlier dreamed of little extra privacy. Much needed privacy important part of his lifestyle and selfmeeting. He lay on his side under his in this instance. I sat on the bottom bunk worth. What became more evident was blanket in the late afternoon, elbow at a faintly staring at the wall to gather my how excited he was becoming telling me 90-degree angle propping up his rather thoughts. I decided I had two options. about it. The pace of his broken English gigantic pumpkin head. The standard Fondle around with my bag pretending to rapidly increased from our earlier Lionel Ritchie or male porn star pose. be busy until he left the room, or introductions. Conjoining words were no I‘m not ashamed to say I‘ve studied both immediately grab my stuff for the night longer necessary; his formula on forms. It was instantly recognisable that I and march out of the room. Being quite acquiring farm coins could be had encountered an odd bod, a fruitcake. nervous at this point I became very communicated in dot point form and My kind of man. He was not reading, on indecisive, fumbling my clothes briefly would be done as such. I myself was the computer or filing his nails, just before a change of mind, then standing excited, not by the prospect of ever being staring blankly towards the dorm room bolt upright ready to walk out the door involved in this digital abomination of door waiting for his fellow dorm room and finally returning to my hostel bed
when I realised I didn‘t have the confidence. It was not until I was again sitting staring at the wall that I noticed the noises coming from the main section of the hostel room. The ruffling and panting of a small mouse it could have been, had I not early witnessed this South American sleaze sullying his surrounds with strokes of his snake. His confidence would be admirable if it wasn‘t so vulgar. So I sat and waited, like a son waiting outside a brothel for his deranged father to get his 50 bucks worth. I waited, he climaxed, and I put my head in my hands. By now I had new resolve. I could not remain in this murky room a moment longer. I heard him changing, so I stood up and attempted to pace right past him. Out the door I would soon be to my freedom. But as I attempted to pace by him, head down with purpose, I was halted. ‗What are you doing for dinner?‘ he asked. No! No Firmino! There was no acknowledgement of his prior deed. His brazen question completely threw my resolve, leaving me wobbling at the knees attempting to respond to this powerful statement of shamelessness. Being a solo traveller I evidently had no plans, or at least I was not quick enough to create an imaginary friend I was to meet at dinner. So with all the confidence of a school girl responding to inappropriate advances
from a teacher I responded ‗No plans‘. He was, again, in charge. ‗Okay, well we can go to this Turkish place I saw when I was walking to the hostel.‘ So, after I had waited for his pants and shoes to be put on, we walked along the cold streets of Hamburg until we reached what actually seemed a friendly little Turkish place. On entering the restaurant I was at pains to discover the only available two-person table was about the size of a kindergarten school desk. We sat down, knees touching, his weapon of defilement but centimetres from touching me. I wasn‘t sure how much longer I could sustain his close presence, so I ordered an entrée sized Mozzarella pizza. ‗Are you not very hungry?‘ he asked. ‗Not really,‘ I responded. Can‘t think where my appetite went. To my astonishment and disgust he ordered the hot and cold buffet. The nerve on this man. He was bathing in my suffering. I was no longer interested in his Farmville discussions, nor his past life or future. We sat in virtual silence as he licked hummus and tzatziki from his lips, thriving in the awkwardness. To this day I am certain the prolonged sight of him eating that Turkish food is what ensures I will always throw up after a kebab. It has little to do with the alcohol I may have consumed beforehand.
After 2 more helpings to the buffet he decided he was full. We paid and briskly walked back to the hostel. To my relief we were greeted by a group of new international hostel guests having a drink at the bar—Norwegians, Columbians, Brits and Australians. I quickly dissolved myself into the group, seated as far from Firmino as possible. Later that night I came to understand, for the first time, the phrase ‗drink away the pain‘. The group, Firmino and myself spent the night in the Reeperbahn. At some stage we split up as Firmino and another Australian left for a gay bar, while myself, the Columbian and another Australian chose the bar with ‗free Tabasco shots‘. I left the hostel early the next morning for Amsterdam and never did see Firmino again. Nonetheless, until deleting him as a Facebook ‗friend‘ for the benefit of this blog post, for the past 18 months I have received regular updates from his Farmville account each time he has acquired new livestock or new land. Every time I logged onto Facebook I was reminded of his rearing pumpkin head as he pumped away downstairs to the sound of his own voice discussing the game he truly loved. m Edward Cooper Mona Vale, NSW
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My Mother’s New Friend If I was not enrolled in the children‘s ski classes organised by the Hotel Fournier, I would accompany my mother on her village shopping excursions. Afterwards we would stop at a little café, Chez Vivien, for hot chocolate and almond At that time we lived in London, and for biscuits. I loved these times alone with three weeks every winter my father took my beautiful, serene mother. She would the family on holiday to Chamonix. We smile at me across the table as I chatted always stayed at the quaint and relatively happily, sometimes reaching over to wipe modest Hotel Fournier, situated in the chocolate from my top lip. centre of the village. *** My father, originally from the West Coast of Scotland, was a fervent and Dinner at the Hotel Fournier was a formal skilful skier. In Chamonix he always affair. The tablecloths and napkins were skied on the most challenging slopes, and white linen, and the waiters, mostly usually stayed out until darkness fell. I young Italian men on working holidays, would sit in the large claw-foot bath in were obsequious and stiffly dressed in our hotel room, anxiously looking black. through the bathroom window as the I was often bored during the evening shadows fell on Mont Blanc, hoping that meal. The three courses were slow in my father would return safely. He always coming. Usually I had no further appetite did—clattering into the hotel, his wiry after I had finished my soup. But my auburn hair damp and flattened down, his father frugally insisted that I order all face rosy from the cold mountain air. courses. After my older brother Toby became a ‗It‘s already paid for,‘ he explained. ‗No tall and exuberant teenager, he would point wasting money.‘ accompany my father each day to the steeper ski slopes. Gradually he became a He and my brother, always ravenous better, faster skier than my father ever from their vigorous day‘s skiing, would was. My father‘s reaction to this then share my main dish. My appetite metamorphosis was a mixture of rallied when it came to the dessert. I indignant surprise and parental pride. always had raspberry ice cream served in a small silver dish. I would blush with My mother was a less-enthusiastic skier, pleasure when this dark pink delight was and in no way as robust as my father or placed before me with a flourish and a Toby, so she often stayed away from the wink from the handsome young waiter. slopes. Instead, she would spend the When I was eleven years old, my mother met a fascinating and unusual man who would become her lifelong friend. This extraordinary friendship began at a resort in the French Alps.
mornings writing postcards to her friends, *** or reading one of the many novels she The year that I was eleven, something always brought with her on holiday. exciting happened at the Hotel Fournier. Following lunch at the hotel, she liked to On the second night of our holiday, just browse in the shops of the village. as we had sat down in the dining room, a Sometimes she would buy small items as tall, muscular woman came in and sat at a gifts for her friends back home: gaily table near to ours. She was curiously painted ceramic egg cups, costume dressed: black vinyl mini-skirt, pale lilac jewellery or dainty chocolates wrapped in blouse and white high-heeled shoes. Most cellophane and tied with ribbon. Once of the other female diners, including my she bought me a plum-coloured woollen mother, were dressed in après-ski hat which had a long scarf attached to it. I clothing: slacks and soft woollen wore it nearly every day that year, jumpers; some were wearing fur ankle believing myself to look wonderfully chic boots. in it. I slid my eyes towards this woman and
Judith La Porte Monash, ACT studied her shyly. She had handsome features, if a little coarse and weatherbeaten. It was obvious that she was wearing a wig—stiff and shiny blonde. Gold earrings swung from her ears. She hunched forward at the table. Her hands, bunched on the table-cloth, were large and tanned. So strikingly odd was her appearance that some of the other diners stared openly. One man swiveled in his seat to rudely gape, his eyebrows raised comically. The waiters were agog, smirking and giggling as they turned their backs to return to the kitchen with their empty trays. My mother looked across at this newcomer and smiled warmly. The woman cheerfully smiled back at my mother and then stared straight ahead. My father leaned towards my mother, his eyes wide, and whispered in awe, ‗It‘s a man.‘ *** Later that evening in our room, Toby announced in a pompous, scathing manner which I disliked: ‗That weird woman, who is really a man, is a tranny.‘ ‗What do you mean?‘ I asked, puzzled. ‗He‘s a cross-dresser—a man who dresses as a woman.‘ I absorbed this information for a moment. Then I put my hands on my hips and narrowed my eyes at Toby. ‗Well, just because some people are different, that does not make them wrong,‘ I said, vaguely echoing a sentiment of my mother‘s. *** The next evening we came down to dinner to find the double doors to the dining room closed. We were too early, so we went into the sitting room to wait. I was startled to see that the cross-dresser was there, alone, seated in a large floralpatterned armchair. That night he was dressed in a green knee -length skirt made from some shiny material, and a yellow turtleneck jumper.
His feet in the same white high heels were firmly planted on the floor; his knees were slightly apart.
was open. Daisy walked in ahead of us, trimmed hood. His skis were enormous. his wide shoulders swinging slightly from If he noticed my mother he would grin broadly and wave a thickly-gloved hand side to side. at her. Except for his choice of clothes and the ‗He‘s a freak,‘ Toby muttered. blonde wig of shoulder-length curls, there Occasionally my father and Toby would My mother frowned at Toby, and put her was no attempt at femininity. However, catch sight of him on the steepest ski finger to her lips. She hated it when he in the dim light of the pink-shaded lamps, runs, weaving his way down the slope was bad-mannered and unkind. his face was striking, almost beautiful. with speed and grace. Even Toby gushed His teeth were white against his tan. He with admiration when describing Daisy‘s My mother was always nice to people, seemed to be about my mother‘s age, even if they were strange or unlovable. style and daring. maybe younger. She often invited my father‘s Uncle ‗Do you think he just dresses like a girl as William to Sunday lunch, despite the fact ‗Hello,‘ said my mother, smiling. ‗I‘m a joke?‘ Toby inquired of my father one that he mumbled a lot and always smelt Margaret and this is my husband John, evening. of alcohol. She was friends with Miss and my children Anne and Toby.‘ Stengel, who lived in a gloomy two‗No Toby, he‘s not joking, that‘s just the storey house at the end of our street. Miss way he is,‘ said my father. ‗Yeah, hi,‘ he said. ‗I‘m Daisy.‘ Stengel was very old and had four cats. His voice was deep and polite. He stood The proprietor of the hotel, M. Bellard, Toby claimed that she was a witch. and shook hands with all of us. I was was a garrulous man, not averse to a little ‗She‘s a dear, really,‘ my mother would harmless gossip. He liked to get to know surprised by the strength of his grip. his hotel guests. He often talked to my say. He gazed at my mother. He seemed to be fascinated by her earrings. They were beautiful: gold circles with a bright green stone on each hoop. She had bought them that day in the village. As I sat wide-eyed, Daisy chatted to my parents in a relaxed way. Toby had moved to a sofa at the other end of the sitting room and had picked up a magazine. Although he could not speak or understand the French language very well, he pretended to be engrossed. Occasionally he would look up and glower in our direction. My father was happy to learn that Daisy was an experienced skier from New Zealand, who holidayed in the French Alps as often as possible. They discussed in detail the best local areas for I wasn‘t so sure—when I accompanied downhill skiing. my mother on her visits, Miss Stengel Daisy told us that he had worked as a ski would peer at me in an unfriendly way, instructor in the Austrian resort, and hiss at me if I tried to stroke one of Obergurgl, when he was younger. I stared her cats. at him, longing to ask if he was dressed then as a man or a woman. His green *** eyes shifted across to mine as if he had On our way to breakfast at the Hotel read my thoughts. He grinned in a Fournier, we often saw Daisy setting out friendly manner and raised his eyebrows. to catch the early hotel shuttle-bus which Eventually we heard the gong being struck, announcing that the dining room
took skiers to the various areas. He wore a pale-blue ski suit with a white fur-
mother when she was passing by the reception desk. I think he may have been a little in love with her. My mother learned from M. Bellard that Daisy was a computer technician. ‗He had been married at one time, but divorced now of course,‘ said M. Bellard, sadly shaking his balding head and rolling his eyes. He lifted his shoulders and pursed his lips, in classic Gallic style. ***
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When my mother invited Daisy to sit at our table one evening, my father was pleased. Our waiter, Mario, if a little surprised by my mother‘s request to lay a place for Daisy, nevertheless set about the task quickly and efficiently. He pulled out the chair for Daisy with exaggerated servility.
cheese, fell onto the tablecloth. At one point, my mother dropped her bread into the pot and, as tradition dictated, was required to kiss the man to her left. It was Daisy. She hesitated a moment and then quickly leant towards him and kissed him on the lips. Daisy responded enthusiastically. A blush suffused my mother‘s face and neck as she suddenly pulled away. Daisy smiled widely at her. My father looked a little astonished at my mother‘s uncharacteristic behaviour, but I clapped my hands with delight.
It became a permanent arrangement, and dinner-time conversation from then on consisted mainly of exchanged tales of ski exploits, and the merits of various ski areas in the Alps. Toby, at first annoyed and embarrassed by Daisy‘s presence, was soon swept into the lively talk. Daisy Afterwards in the hallway outside the was a witty and charming raconteur who dining room, my father shook hands with had travelled extensively. He always Daisy. included Toby and I in the conversations. ‗Great to have met you,‘ my father said My mother would sit contentedly, passing bread rolls to Daisy and refilling warmly. his water glass. Sometimes she and Daisy discussed fashion and jewellery. Daisy often complimented my mother on her clothes. On the other hand, I think my mother was quite alarmed by Daisy‘s garish dress sense, but, of course, never let on. Neither my father nor Toby ever noticed that Daisy sometimes wore earrings of my mother‘s, or her slender silver bracelets. ‗They look nice on you,‘ I heard my mother whisper to Daisy. I was no longer bored during the long meal times. I looked forward each evening to Daisy‘s arrival at our table, wondering what he would be wearing, and joyfully anticipating the effect his presence would have on the other guests, particularly new ones. Some looked across at us with curiosity, others with disapproval. But neither of my parents noticed, or else they did not care.
My mother hugged Daisy tightly, unable to speak, and patted his cheek. ‗I‘ll miss you, Daisy,‘ I cried, tears pricking my eyes. I felt sad to be leaving, not just Chamonix, but Daisy as well. I liked him—he was my mother‘s new friend. Daisy had kissed me on my cheek, and turned to Toby with his hand held out. ‗Bye, mate,‘ he said. Toby had grinned and squeezed Daisy‘s hand. ‗See you on the slopes next year,‘ Toby and Daisy said in unison. As it turned out, that was to be our last family holiday in Chamonix. ***
Over the ensuing years, my mother and Daisy kept up regular contact, although *** they never actually saw each other again. Our last dinner at the Hotel Fournier was He always rang at Christmas from festive. Daisy and my mother had dressed wherever in the world he was. lavishly—my mother wore a dark-blue The occasional photograph would velvet dress which accentuated her slim accompany Daisy‘s letters or, in later waist; Daisy shone in a loose silver and years, be attached to emails, including an black tunic. Both wore bright red lipstick. astonishing one of him on a beach in My parents drank several glasses of wine, Fiji—bare-chested, wigless and bald, while Daisy sipped water from his glass. towering over his companions. My father had ordered a cheese fondue *** for our table. We laughed loudly whenever a piece of bread, dripping with A year after I had moved to Sydney with my Australian husband, I received a letter
from my mother. It contained sad news: Remember my friend Daisy, my mother wrote. He was killed while skiing in Chamonix. After his death, Daisy‘s sister had found my mother‘s address amongst his things. She wrote to let her know. He had skied into a tree and broken his neck. It had been an instant death. I thought of my father who had died ten years previously, after a fearful battle with bone cancer, and how he would have preferred such a death as Daisy‘s. I imagined Daisy in his last minutes before the impact: a powerful figure in powderblue, joyfully speeding down a sparkling white slope, his doll-like blond curls flying back, his earrings whirring and flapping against his neck. I felt sad for days afterwards—for Daisy, but mostly for my mother who had lost her friend. m Judith La Porte Monash, ACT
Ambitious Dream
Science is Fiction
Ariette Singer Canberra, ACT When my fatigued and aching body cries out for rest, I flop to watch TV, choosing discriminately, the best! And of all the lamps, that caught my alert eye on screen, The most successful of them all is certainly, the green!
Eddie Blatt Pottsville, NSW Einstein and Fermi and the great Max-Planck, All got together for a bit of a wank. They said space was different to what we presume, A thousand foot ladder could fit in a room. They said time would change according to speed, That Newton was wrong, we just had to concede. They said space was curved and time could go back, And we could obtain what we once thought we lacked.
This hardworking set prop will firmly remain at the top— Its film and TV screen career is guaranteed not to flop! Take note of all the close-ups of that shape and sheen— It‘s the most confident lamp on screen I‘ve ever seen! It is eager to accept all jobs; soaps, ads, films or crime, No wonder its popularity has grown in record time! With admirable assertive shape, and truly glorious green— Her well established presence will never leave the screen! So elegant, usually unlit, in that unfading spring green hue— Perish the thought of seeing other lamps in grey, pink or blue! All Props Departments are smitten with this green, it seems! Hmm … does this smart lamp bribe its way into all scenes? With such a wide exposure, it has achieved the status of a star! Could anyone ever predict that a green lamp could go so far? Is it this lamp‘s ambitious dream to dominate world screens, Or … is it used to send the subliminal message to ‗Go Green!‘? m
They said that all moments existed at once, And we ate breakfast at the same time as lunch. That muons and bosons and atoms and such, Jiggled and wiggled, and waggled as much. But I tell you now that science is fiction, In whatever language, in whatever diction. Those guys were all crazy, their minds were all muddled With theories and proofs that only befuddled. I know this is true because I have been, To a place so wondrous, alive and serene. Where physics and science are acknowledged to be, Just fancy ideas, but not the real key. Where joys of the heart are beyond one‘s reason, Where love sustains each and every true season. Where people know that within and without, What reality is, is without a doubt. For here and now is the place that‘s revealed, Where love and joy are no longer concealed. A pity that Einstein and the rest of the throng, Got the science right; the meaning they got wrong. m
Image credits FreeDigitalPhotos.net
11 Sky: Jennifer Mosher
2 Simon Howden
19 Joey: Supplied by Cassandra Primavera
6 Wiangya
42 Fiji sunrise: Jennifer Mosher
21 SOMMAI and photostock
43 Japanese tree: Jennifer Mosher
28 jscreationzs 30 Renjith Krishnan 34 Robert Radford iStockphoto.com Pages 5, 7, 11, 12, 13, 16, 22, 25, 26, 27, 32, 36, 39, 44, 47, 50, 53, 55, 56
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Samuel Cooney Haberfield, NSW
I Should be so Lucky heretofore accompanied H the nicknaming THE ONLOOKER – independent and of genes—like the invented ‗skinny‘ gene innovative web journalism that is only a or the hoax ‗frog-toed‘ gene—as little bit fabricated FFTB128 is now undeniably and scarily bona fide, scientifically speaking. In short: it exists.) The discovery has been the catalyst for violent public riots, the I Should Be So Lucky centre of month-long arguments in parliaments, the logjamming focus of So, it now looks as though the universal every judicial system, the crux of every humanities and science university course, wheel of fortune is in fact anything but and the talking point of every smoke random – actually, it’s rigged, and break and dinner party. rigged good. We asked The Onlooker’s resident intern to suss out the For those of you who have been living ramifications of the recent discovery of a under a boulder—and without a TV or a human gene that bestows good fortune wireless device with wifi—FFTB128 is upon those who carry it. the latest human gene to be fully Like, it’s gotta be totally unfair, right? posted on 31/02/2012 at 10:34am What if the time you didn‘t get that job, or the time you just missed that train, or the time you inadvertently drank that urine in that juice bottle because it definitely did look like iced tea—what if none of these could be put down simply to bad luck? Or, like, what if it was bad luck, but not in the way you believe? What if the very definition of the term ‗luck‘ was upended, in the space of one press conference? What if you were predestined, prewired, fated to be unlucky? The discovery last month of a human unit of heriditary for ‗luck‘ is making waves in our notion of the gene pool. Quite frankly, it‘s caused the whole world to go completely troppo. Stop it everyone! You‘re all acting batshit, mad as bananas, stark raving bonkers. It‘s like we‘re living in that Lord of the Flies book, but on a worldwide scale. Crazy! The gene—the official scientific nomenclature designates it as FFTB128—has been quickly and popularly nicknamed the ‗lucky‘ gene by pretty much every media outlet still with at least a single reader/viewer/listener. (Admittedly, this latest example of nicknaming actually bucks the irksome trend for cock-and-bull that has
characterised. Revealed last month by the gung-ho geneticists at Chengdu Polytechnic, it is in many ways like any other gene: made up of a distinct sequence of nucleotides (building blocks that are the basic structural unit of nucleic acids such as DNA) which in turn constitutes part of a chromosome (the classic double helix; see Spielberg‘s Jurassic Park), the order of which determines the arrangement of monomers in a nucleic acid molecule which a cell may synthesise. Or in layman‘s terms, FFTB128, like all genes, is a unit of genetic inheritance that is transferred from parent to offspring and contributes to the characteristics of the offspring. Ipso facto: you are your parents, and/or also their parents, and/or also their parents‘ parents, ad infinitum. (You are also a product of your environment; as scientists are wont to say, the genetic template you are born with doesn‘t function in a vacuum.) Your lineage is a great big slippery slide, with parts and pieces slewing straight from your ancestors to you. You have freckles? Because of your parents. You have big feet?
Because of your parents. You love cheesy
foods and watching unexpectedly-axed sitcoms, just to try and see if you can spot the reasons as to why the sitcom was cancelled, using your nonspecialist knowledge of sociodemographic considerations and cost-cutting budgets? Probably because of your parents, although also probably nothing to do with genetics. Still, the point is that although FFTB128 is a gene possessed by everyone, only a small percentage of people have the specific allele (the particular mutation) of the gene that means it will be active, and now that we know about it, now that it‘s no longer hiding quietly between genes DEFB370 and SMAR884, it‘s wreaking havoc like no other gene before. So, what makes FFTB128 so extraordinarily new, and also so repercussive? Well, primarily it‘s all because it is the first gene discovered in humans—in any living species of plant or animal actually—that acts upon its vessel in a constant, physical, manifest, and most importantly, instantaneous way. Like, all other genes shoot their wads early, say at conception, and slowly too, but FFTB128 keeps shooting its wad, over and over and over, rapidly, throughout the duration of the carrier‘s life, meaning that it is an active agent in the second-to-second existence of said carrier. And on top of this, although geneticists can now comprehensively outline what
processes the FFTB128 genes trigger, and can watch at a microscopic level the genes as they trigger together, none can say what outside influence actually triggers them. For now, for all we know, FFTB128 seems to function either completely on its own, or—and take careful note of this—by receiving signals from somewhere that are at this Image: jscreationzs
moment is: by ‗rattling‘. The genes oscillate, or ‗rattle‘ when the person closes in on the decision that is the most propitious or auspicious for them, and the genes will fall silent if the person moves away from that decision toward any other option. It sounds a tad absurd at first, almost like that game of ‗Hot or Cold‘, where one person lets someone else know whether they are getting ‗warmer‘ or ‗cooler‘ in their attempt to locate something. Except this occurs at a microscopic degree. The rattling occurs all the way down at the level of the nucleotides; these nucleotides rattle in unison so as to gently vibrate the whole From Christianity to Buddhism, Islam chromosome, and this vibrating shimmies to Jedi, religions around the world up the nucleic acid chain so that a person have scrambled to claim FFTB128 as on the crest of making the most the much-awaited proof that backs up personally advantageous decision is their long-held faith, proof that the almost literally humming with subliminal sacred exists not on an astral plane or and subcellular good advice. Just why we inside the mind, but physically within would unconsciously obey the chordal us (or at least the ‘chosen few’ amongst rattling of a coterie of genes is as yet us). Yet for all the initial religious undetermined, but the new reality that squabbling, disparate denominations now seems as though it must prevail is do now seem to be in agreement that that at least some of us will have to the discovery of FFTB128 heralds a relinquish our belief in the autonomous new dawn for spirituality. And process of decision-making and realize strangest still: thus far there haven’t that we are actually under the sway of a been any dissenting opinions from the Stasi-like molecular constabulary. To say mouthpieces that typically challenge that this is discomfiting is an religious championing. Whether nonunderstatement. believers are simply gob-smacked (or god-smacked) is not yet known, but so So, this is what we know: the active far the expected war-of-words over the variant of FFTB128 persuades people, ‘lucky’ gene has been a wholly (holy?) pushes them on a microscopic but incredibly forceful level, towards one-sided fight. circumstances that will benefit them (12/12/2011, ‗Jesus, individually. Such circumstances can Muhammad, Siddhartha & differ greatly: they could be tangible Skywalker: Carriers of the situations occurring in the ‗real world‘ ‗Lucky‘ Gene?‘) that you and I inhabit, or they could be FFTB128 works like this: when a person completely cerebral, and simply involve who has the active variant of the gene is thought patterns and decision-makings faced with a choice, be it an everyday one taking place inside a person‘s head. But (e.g. what to eat, when to sleep, will I cut the point is, the number of the my toenails now or later) or a momentous infinitesimal biological scintillas that hitherto make you you purely in a one (e.g. should I quit my job and become a yoga teacher, will I murder my physical sense now also make you you in boyfriend because his nose whistles when a metaphysical sense. In the same way that one ancient Egyptian on his own he sleeps, should I push this button to launch the nuclear missiles) the multitude couldn‘t possibly construct the Pyramids or carve the Sphinx, but hundreds of of that person‘s FFTB128 genes all immediately ‗switch on‘ in such a way as thousands or even millions could, and did, one nucleotide or molecule mightn‘t to influence the decision in a way that be able to cajole a person to do or say or advantages the person. But how? Well, think something, but millions of them the term that seems to fit best at the working in harmony could—and time imperceptible to the most sensitive of scientific equipment. It‘s a mystery. The genes are not triggered by organic proteins, nor by electrical current, nor by chemicals, nor by naturally occurring radiations of the body. This is why FFTB128 is known by nicknames other than ‗lucky‘, nicknames to do with religion, faith and spirituality. Some have started calling it the ‗divine‘ gene, or the ‗holy‘ gene, or even the ‗god‘ gene. And what‘s even curiouser is that it‘s becoming increasingly difficult to argue with them. As the New York Times reported recently:
evidently—do. Exactly how the genes ‗know‘ which option will benefit the person the most is still a total mystery to scientists and intellectuals alike. As yet there are simply no clues to be had. Just how can one explain how a squadron of dispersed but allied genes are, in just a few microseconds, able to comprehend the almost-infinite possible futures of a person and recommend the best course of action? It‘s very possible that the realm of science is not the place to which to look for the answer to this and such related questions. What is known is that the genes have been correct 100% of the time they have been put to test. It‘s remarkable. Just think about how many times a day you make decisions, at home, at work, everywhere. Now think about the possibility that you have a vast molecular chorus that exists inside you, a silent chorus that sings out clues as to the best option to every decision you make. Note that you would never be conscious of the guidance your FFTB128 genes are giving you, but that you would always follow their lead. Always. If you have any thoughts about fate or destiny or free will, now would be a great time to, uh, revisit them. Now: the hot potato topic. Early figures indicate that somewhere between four to six percent of the world‘s population possesses the mutant ‗lucky‘ allele of the FFTB128 gene. At this stage this allele has been classed as non-threatening and it has not been listed as a genetic disorder. (Actually, if you think about it, of course it‘s non-threatening—it‘s threat-reducing, really. And it‘s the opposite of a genetic disorder, but I‘m not sure what the opposite of that is, if there even is a term. Like, if a genetic disorder is an impediment, then is FFTB128 an empowerment? If a disorder is a disease, is FFTB128 a nourisher? An enabler? A godsend?) Of course, pop culture is trying to get its foot in the door. Some celebrities and other people in positions of power (both alive and deceased) have thus far been tested (both voluntary or otherwise), and the results are astounding, although maybe not surprising. These VIPs and dignitaries have been shown to possess
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the FFTB128 allele in a much higher frequency than the average, at somewhere around seventy to seventyfive percent of their subset population (remember, compare this to the general population, in which carriers of FFTB128 make up four to six percent). So, what does this say about the essence of concepts such as fame, popularity and democracy? Some current über-popular celebrities, in a misguided attempt (but probably not misguided, as far as their FFTB128 genes are concerned) to quell the tumult have made public their genetic test results. Those who have tested positive to having an active ‗lucky‘ gene include (but are not limited to): Ashton Kutcher, David and Victoria Beckham, Oprah Winfrey, Paris Hilton, Jon Bon Jovi, Heidi Klum, Germaine Greer, Natalie Portman, Sarah Palin, Jonathan Franzen, Lady Gaga, Bill Clinton, Anna Wintour, Silvio Berlusconi, every member of the Osborne family (Ozzie, Sharon, Kelly, Jack), Julia Roberts, Harrison Ford, and Werner Herzog. Moreover, a joint raid by the hacktivist groups 4chan and Anonymous resulted in the mass infiltration of confidential US government files in which the health records—and more pertinently, the genetic coding—of every US president in history was stolen. The files suggest that almost ninety percent of all US presidents had the mutant FFTB128 gene, and generally particularly ‗rattly‘ types of the gene at that. (I‘ll give points for guessing just which few presidents didn‘t possess an active form of the gene, although you‘d be surprised, for it‘s not as obvious as you think.)
Still, it is technically possible for a person to have two ‗lucky‘ parents and not be ‗lucky‘ themselves. They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
strong ‗lucky‘ allele. Thus they survive what would ordinarily be fatal errant decision-making and go on to make choices that affect others in an extremely harmful way. We all know these human beings. We know their names, their faces, their deeds. They are infamous in our histories, for they are the tyrants and murderers and malefactors that we have tended throughout the ages to brand as ‗evil‘.
Groups like white supremacists, ardent nationalists, perfervid misogynists and other racialist and sectarian blocs have claimed that the mutant version of FFTB128 is more likely to be found in their chosen race, sex or creed. This claim has not been substantiated with any Another revelation, this time by the scientific proof. palaeontologists working at the One intriguing stream of tangential Smithsonian Institution in Washington, research that is coming out of Deakin DC, is already causing—forgive the University in Melbourne, Australia has cliché—history books to be rewritten. found that there is a particular category of Ancient human history, that is. You see, people who have possessed active it looks as though a particular structural FFTB128 genes and yet have somehow idiosyncrasy of the DNA of Homo neanderthalensis meant that it never developed the FFTB128 gene. At this stage this piece of information may prove to be the key to the puzzle as to how and why Homo sapiens became the dominant humanoid species on Earth. Unlucky bastards, those Neanderthals.
Unfortunately, not all FFTB128-related revelations are resulting in such constructive reconsiderations. Many societal institutions are struggling to adjust to the Image: Renjith Krishnan discovery, including all legal systems, as well as corporate had the ability to unintentionally ignore and government bodies. Cases of total the guidance their genes are giving them. breakdown are becoming common. Civil This means that they are unconsciously courts around the world are backlogged choosing the ‗wrong‘ option for just with cases whereby people without the about every decision they face, but each ‗lucky‘ gene are suing for discrimination. decision is ‗wrong‘ in a way that is As such, here follows a random sample ‗right‘ from a nefarious and immoral of examples: a former bank employee in perspective. Each member of this tiny Scotland successfully sued his employer Like all genetic material, FFTB128 is subset therefore benefits from being for unfair dismissal by blaming his hereditary, although it is not entirely ‗lucky‘, but simultaneously enjoys a self- unluckiness (lack of the active FFTB128 consistent. Still, it is rare for ‗lucky‘ determination that allows them a rare allele)—not his poor mathematical parents to have offspring with dormant type of independence. Whereas the vast ability—as the reason why he kept FFTB128 genes. (There is speculation majority of people who make a ‗wrong‘ accidentally giving out too much money that this is because of the FFTB128 gene: choice are those without the ‗lucky‘ gene to bank customers. A shopper in Cape from early analysis of ‗lucky‘ parents, it and thus they quickly end up dead (most Town, South Africa successfully sued a has been propounded that the FFTB128 likely as potential contenders for the department store after it was found that genes actually push people together who Darwin Awards), this category of person the claimant (who doesn‘t possess an are highly likely to produce children who is disposed to making the most ‗wrong‘ active ‗lucky‘ gene) purchased a pair of will also have active ‗lucky‘ genes. of choices whilst also being a carrier of a quite expensive pumps from a particular Keeping it in the family, so to speak.)
bouffanted salesperson, and found out a week later that a (former) friend (whose ‗lucky‘ gene is active) had received a significant discount on an identical pair of pumps from the same salesperson without even having to ask. An ongoing industrial strike in Canada by the National Sewage Workers‘ Union sits mired in court after it was revealed that not one member of the 2000-strong union possessed active FFTB128 genes, the union thus positing that the only reason all 2000 sewage workers actually work in the human waste industry is because they are genetically ‗unlucky‘. A burgeoning posse of indignant Wellington, New Zealand citizens are suing their local supermarket for not delineating special ‗unlucky‘ parking spots for those genetically unlucky people who have to drive around the car park seven times before finally finding a parking spot as far as possible from the front entrance of the supermarket. A Facebook group called ‗Don‘t You Hate It When You Drop Your iPhone Once And The Screen Cracks But Your Friend Drops Theirs All The Time And Their Screen Never Cracks?‘, which had just over 4500 members before the news of the ‗lucky‘ gene, has now launched a class-action lawsuit against Apple for not immediately moving to provide additional safety features (i.e. stronger screens, foam padding, a bouncier shell) for ‗unlucky‘ customers (the group‘s online membership now numbers 3.8 million).
case you aren‘t aware, even without this ‗lucky‘ gene there are some real doozies out there as far as mutant genes go, with clever-cruel nicknames to match. There is the ‗tinman‘ gene (where an embryo is missing the gene from which eventually sprouts its heart); the ‗cheap date‘ gene (this results in a hypersensitivity to alcohol); the ‗Van Gogh‘ gene (this leads to a peculiar swirling hair pattern); the ‗amontillado‘ gene (this affects poultry only, in that eggs are unable to hatch, as in Fortunado from ‗The Cask of Amontillado‘, who was walled-in alive); the ‗Maggie‘ gene (where a person‘s development is arrested, à la Maggie Simpson); the ‗Methuselah‘ gene (where a person lives a lot longer than average); and the ‗Lilliputian‘ gene (where a person will be very, very small). But they all occur rarely enough so as to never gain the limelight. Now, because of FFTB128, there seems to be a worldwide and preordained two-tiered genetic hierarchy: the ‗lucky‘ ones, and then the ‗others‘, who are not so much ‗unlucky‘ as ‗just not as lucky‘. We are seeing global segregation. It‘s Us versus Them. The Blessed versus The Ignored. The Rattlers versus The Quiet Ones.
A solution that has been proffered— although it might actually create an even larger problem, if one thinks about it—is that we go down the path of widespread gene modification. This solution proposes that anyone with non-rattling FFTB128 genes can choose to have the gene stimulated in some way as to activate it. Note: these few examples are just the tip Some medical groups are already lobbying to have the procedure—when it of a very large and angry iceberg. is developed, and that will be sooner The root of the problem seems to be that rather than later, it would seem—to be people are not quite sure who to be angry classed as gene therapy, meaning that at, and are subsequently turning on each those without the ‗lucky‘ gene would be other. Everyone suspects everybody else classified as having a genetic disorder. of being more lucky than themselves, and But what happens when a much larger thus a worldwide feeling of bitter percentage of the population suddenly sullenness prevails. In the past, genetic becomes ‗lucky‘? Is there a balance that alleles were rare enough to not really would be upset? Is it even possible for impede societal workings. They were that many people to be ‗lucky‘ at the always either blamed on something (e.g. same time? What would society and the alcohol, drugs, the misbehaviour of world look like? nuclear energy companies) or were just put down to misfortune (e.g. instances In the course of researching and writing like: people born with ugly feet, or three this piece, I, the author of this article, nipples, or ginger hair). Cases like these have in fact been genetically tested for were not deemed harmful because they the existence of an active ‗lucky‘ allele. I didn‘t really affect everyone. Like, in won‘t keep you in suspense: I tested
positive. I possess a beautifully rattly bunch of FFTB128 genes. Now, this might not come as a surprise to you, dear reader. You might have already assumed that I am ‗lucky‘. Maybe it‘s because I am only fourteen years old and yet somehow I‘ve managed to procure this highly sought-after internship at the most respected news outlet published online. Maybe it‘s because you‘ve heard of my recent massive success as an amateur broker for one of the largest hedge funds in this country. Maybe it‘s because you‘ve seen me recently in tabloid rags and society pages on the arm of one very popular and good-looking star of the cinematic world. But before you commit judgment—whether you think of me as unfairly fortunate or as a member of a necessary elite—stop for a moment and consider how a ‗lucky‘ person like me might feel. Like, there are questions no one wants to be forced to ask themselves. Has anything I‘ve ever achieved been so because I earned it? Could I even fail, if I wanted to? Is this proof that God does really exist, and if so, why have I been favoured? Is that faint humming coming from me, or from my computer? I choose—nay, I suppose my FFTB128 alleles choose—to write and publish this article in the hope of bringing some measure to a dialogue that has thus far been anarchic. Because right now, with all the madness, I‘m not sure if a single one of us, ‗lucky‘ or ‗unlucky‘, is feeling fortunate. And that‘s just not a world I want to live in. Please offer your thoughts in the comment box below. Thanks!! m Samuel Cooney Haberfield, NSW
We apologise to Samuel for inadvertently using the title of this piece on Toni Paton’s poem ‘Come to Me’ when we first released the Summer 2011 issue of Narrator. Ed
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Queuing
Sallie Ramsay Torrens, ACT
Someone to talk to, was what she needed. The first glass of red was followed by a Nice and clean. No more upsetting Someone she didn‘t know. She dialled second and a third until she found herself people; no more upsetting me. It won‘t be messy, I‘m not going to jump off a bridge the number. staring at two empty bottles. or throw myself under a train. I‘ve ‗You have reached ―Support Line‖. All ‗At least I‘ve drowned those bloody decided to use the exhaust from my car: our lines are busy so your call has been voices, haven‘t heard a peep out of them it‘s quiet and painless with a minimum of for a while. Best get to bed Cat, before placed in a queue …‘ mess. Definitely the way to go, they sober up. Try Support Line again. ‘ preferably in some nice quiet spot in the She slammed the phone down. ‗You have reached Support Line ... lines bush.‘ ‗Bloody queues, I spend my life stuck in busy … blah blah …. placed in a queue ‗The way for you to go, you mean. Have telephone queues. Telephone queues …. blah blah ...‘ she intoned as she you thought of the poor sods who find much worse than queues you can see, at disconnected. ‗Make a space for some you? ‘specially if they don‘t find you for least then you know how far you have to other poor sod in the queue.‘ go. They all tell me how much they value a few days in this weather.‘ my call, if they really value it why the She got to her feet unsteadily, filled a ‗I‘ll text the police or something so they hell don‘t they talk to me or at least play glass of water and put it on the bedside can find me.‘ decent music while I wait?‘ table. ‗How considerate! I don‘t want to hear The cat, always a good listener, settled ‗Gotta drink lotsa water when you drink any more about your plans for topping red wine. Did you know that Cat?‘ she himself comfortably on her knee. yourself, I‘d rather go back to sleep. Why slurred flopping onto the bed. don‘t you call Support Line or ‗Trusted him; wrong, wrong, wrong; messed it up again. Nothing is going to ‗Shakespeare said something about sleep something? They are the experts, they change, may as well accept it.‘ The cat knitting up the ravelled something or can help you.‘ other? Well, I‘m so bloody ravelled, Cat, yawned. ‗They placed me in a queue hours ago. it would take more than a bit of Anyway, I don‘t need help or advice. I ‗My God it‘s hot, Cat.‘ knitting ... I was placed in a queue ... told you, I‘ve made up my mind.‘ She pushed the cat off her knee, stood up whoopee.‘ ‗Then why are you talking to me?‘ and headed for the shower. She moved restlessly. The cat was The cat glowered at her over its shoulder purring in her ear; go away Cat, go away. ‗You answered.‘ She tried to think, but thoughts oozed and stalked off up the passage. ‗Why do you want to kill yourself?‘ slowly through the sludge that had She turned the shower on full strength replaced her brain. Wasn‘t the cat? What ‗I don‘t want to talk about it.‘ gasping as the icy needles hit her skin. then? The phone, of course, it was the Fragments of conversations tumbled ‗Then why are you on the phone at some phone. She reached out, groping in the about in her aching head like clothes in a dark, the glass of water on the bedside ungodly hour keeping a perfect stranger washing machine. Each time they started table fell to the floor with a crash. She to make some sense, something shifted didn‘t remember saying anything but the and what seemed so sensible moments voice on the line was clear enough. before, made sense no longer. ‗I‘m going to kill myself.‘ She turned off the shower and, without bothering to dry herself, pulled on the ‗Well, don‘t let me stop you.‘ caftan hanging behind the door. Sweat Some of the sludge cleared; she began to began to trickle down her face and body think as clearly as could realistically be once more. expected at three o‘clock in the morning She opened the fridge, pulled out an after the two bottles of red. avocado and prawn salad left over from a ‗No! That is, I mean, don‘t do it, no one few nights ago. The avocado was brown needs to kill themselves.‘ and soft and the prawns dull and listless. She sloshed ‗no-fat‘ dressing over it, ‗I do. I‘ve made up my mind.‘ opened a bottle of Rutherglen red, sat ‗Don‘t be stupid, that‘s really stupid ...‘ down at the kitchen table and began poking aimlessly at the salad with a fork. ‗I‘ve never felt more intelligent in my life. Finish everything. End it right now. ‗Prawns are probably lethal by now …!‘
awake?‘ ‗I don‘t know. It‘s better than being kept in my place in a queue. It‘s … it‘s all so pathetic really, so damned pathetic.‘ ‗Why don‘t you just start talking? You, what are you like?‘ ‗Me? They say I am a success. I have a great job, enough money to do most of what I want to do and good friends.‘ ‗All good reasons to top yourself! If you weren‘t going to kill yourself, what would you do next Sunday?‘
to have someone, someone special to ‗Your friends will too, if you give them share things with. Anyway, one thing led the chance; maybe croissants by the lake to another. He was so nice; we arranged with a friend this Sunday?‘ to meet.‘ ‗That sounds good. Thank you for being ‗Go on.‘ there.‘ ‗He was very up front, told me that he was separated from his wife and shared custody of his kids. We had some really great times, nothing particularly romantic, just fun, picnics, a bit of theatre, galleries that sort of stuff. We laughed a lot.‘ ‗And?‘
‗Next Sunday? It seems so far away; what would I do? Maybe sleep in, have brunch at the new café by the lake; they have the best croissants and coffee ... buy some Christmas presents. This is ridiculous; I won‘t be here next Sunday. I‘ll be dead.‘
‗We had lunch today and he told me that since he‘d met me he had learned so much about himself and been able to share ideas and feelings in a way he never had before. He said our friendship had given him the courage to try and give his marriage another go. I feel such a ‗And everyone who knows you and cares fool, a gullible stupid fool.‘ about you will be miserable. Asking over ‗Stop! Stop right there! What are you and over again what they should‘ve done blaming yourself for? You didn‘t do to stop you. Blaming themselves for your anything wrong! You‘re a great person, a selfishness. Good one!‘ really good person who helped someone
*** She woke early, her mouth dry and her eyelids gritty but feeling alive and ready to face the world. ‗Shove over Cat. Water, that‘s what I need. Damn, I knocked the bloody glass off last night.‘ Reluctantly cranking her eyes open, she turned stiffly towards the bedside table where, within easy reach, a full glass of water was catching the morning sun. The voices in her head were silent. Her phone lay on the floor giving the busy signal. m Sallie Ramsay Torrens, ACT
Sallie Ramsay is a grandmother who lives in Canberra with her husband and ‗My selfishness! I‘ll be out of the way, no feel good about themselves. Did he laugh cat. She has many and varied interests one will have to worry about me anymore at you, humiliate you or lie to you?‘ and has always enjoyed writing but it is and they can just get on with their lives.‘ ‗No, he was wonderful, he thanked me … only since she retired she has found time to turn ideas into stories. She enjoys the Damn him!‘ ‗A funeral is a really great way to start process of writing itself: letting her ‗But it hurts, it really hurts doesn‘t it? the festive season, but at least they‘ll imagination run free, watching And sometimes the pain takes over so it have something to talk about.‘ characters come alive as a plot develops, seems there‘s nothing else. It's not fair; but says she still has much to learn about ‗It was a man.‘ you do something good and end up with punctuation. When others enjoy the pain.‘ ‗Isn‘t it always? Go on.‘ something she has written she regards it ‗A chat room on the internet. I said it was ‗You understand. You really understand.‘ as an added bonus. pathetic. I thought how good it would be
Big Amazonian Kambah, ACT
Seeking the Truth Introduction
and that made it affordable and widely used.
Because technology changed the methods Painters did not have to paint super-real of art—artists changed society! anymore, because photography did this instead. So painters wanted a different realism to photography. Artists became to Body experiment with different techniques seen Daguerre‘s (camera) and Talbot‘s first in landscapes and portraiture. fixable image (the photograph) were Instead of studio-produced paintings, invented and came together in the early 1800s. Because it was quick and easy to landscape Impressionist painters painted quickly ‗open air‘ to keep up with the produce with super-real results—it truth—with accurate lighting and colour. became popular (Daguerrotypomania)
Compare Monet‘s two ‗Haystack‘ paintings. The same scene is painted at two different times of day with different results. Portrait painters went from super-real ‗miniatures‘ to a resembling likeness with expressive character lines. View Van Gogh‘s self-portraits. These reveal his emotional torment with mental illness. For the first time, art became interesting for its introspective. When painting came to have less
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Download our rates sheet here then call Jenny Mosher on 1300 644 380 to find out about our latest specials commercial use it now had artistic worth because of its new style! Art now had a new subject matter too—dreams, thoughts and the future! Not just stories, religion and myths. First the rich and poor. Joseph Durham 1857: ‗Photography is an enormous stride forward in the region of art. The old world was well nigh exhausted with its wearisome mothers and children called Madonnas; its everlasting dead bodies called Entombments; its wearisome nudities called Nymphs and Venuses; its endless porters called Marses and Vulcans; its dead Christianity and its deader Paganism. Here was a world with the soil fainting and exhausted; worn by man in top bareness, overcrowded, over housed, over taxed, over known. Then all at once breaks a small light in the far West … and a new world slowly widens to our sight— new sky, new earth, new flowers, a very heaven compared with the old earth. Here is room for Man and beast for centuries to come, fresh pastures, virgin earth, and untouched forests; here is the land never trodden on by angels on the day of creation. This new land is Photography. Art‘s youngest are fairest child; no rival of the old family, no struggler for worn out birth rights, but heir to a new heaven and new earth, found by itself, and to be left to its own children. For Photography there are new secrets to conquer, new difficulties to overcome, new Madonnas to invent, new ideals to imagine. There will be perhaps photograph Raphaels, photograph Titans, founders of new empires, and not subverters of the old‘.
of Paris. He expresses the vast differences evident between the rich and the poor and the poor were not just poor—society is what made them poor! The French Royal Family fell by Napoleon‘s revolution because the public thought they were accountable for not helping the poor. Painting did not convey this. Some artists were still painting the rich. Impressionist artists Monet and Caillebotte move away from Realism to portray high class society in their paintings of the Boulevard Des Capuchins in France 1873. Notice that their work does not show the slumbers there too. Because of the invention of the photograph— for the first time in history, the poor were being documented through images in
their absent dear ones‘. By the 1850s, no painting miniatures were shown at the Royal Academy exhibition (photographs only). This caused a rivalry between painters and photographers. Photography replaced painting in portraiture and painters would not accept photography as an art form. By the 1880s photography had status in portraiture but not as art. Photography regressed in its attempts to be accepted as an art form. Photography was easy to produce so the popular assumption was that the artist had been able to exert some kind of control over the process. This is a reasonable view considering art is a product of the imagination and the skill to translate it. It was considered a ‗bona fide art‘—of mechanical agent. Jaromir Funke 1920: ‗A camera is to us as what a brush is to a painter or a pen to the poet … We do not compete, just as we are not painters, for our position is dramatically different from them, yet we stand on the same line. Our relation to painting is based on our desire for independence of both media‘.
So photography developed new techniques to prove it portraiture and history. The photograph was an art form with the early first revealed the reality of society movements—Pictorialism and worldwide—sad and happy. Photography Naturalism. created modern day Photo-Journalism to The ‗Pictorialism‘ movement was expose the new world. photography‘s desperate reaction to Female photographer ‗Carol‘ captured attempt to be accepted as an art form by portraits of the homeless (Beggar Girl using extensive hand rendering 1859). Portraits like these became techniques in the developing process. recognised as art-portraiture for exposing View Oscar Gustave Rejlander‘s ‗The 2 among the first glimpses of humanity of Ways of Life‘ which uses 32 overlapping France in the 19th century. negatives. This image has the same religious topic as ‗Renaissance‘ painting Mrs. Carlye: but in a Modern technique. Then painters ‗Bless the inventor of Photography. perceived photographers to be copying I set him above even the inventor of their art techniques. Before photography, Baudelaire‘s ‗Eyes Chlorophyll! It has given more of the Poor‘ was a French 18th Century Their attempts to make photography an positive pleasure to poor suffering poem that revealed the existence of humanity than anything has cast up art form were rarely successful. It was slumbers among the rich who entertained not necessary to prove its complexities. in my time, or is like to this art, by themselves in the ‗Boulevard Des Photography was confused by not being which even the poor can possess Capuchins‘—the central business district themselves of tolerable likeness of allowed to develop in its own right. Image: Robert Radford
Imitation paintings obscured the judgment of many gifted photographers. It arose from the misdirected ambition to win recognition as artists.
Design (text with mixed media) evident in Paris event poster design (Toulouse).
The Modernism movement became PostModernism in the 1970s because of the The ‗Naturalism‘ movement first thought and aesthetic oppression of the established photography to be an art; Second World War when books and art where in the photographer‘s act of were destroyed or stolen. Now framing the subject in the way the eye photographers and painters were not composition and not interfering with the compromised as artists in their subject subject with natural light—justified it matter and technique (photography and was an involved process. Emerson‘s Pictorialism). Artists became more demonstrate this with photographs of the courageous with Picasso‘s ‗Guernica‘ landscape and the country folk of Norfolk depicting the Spanish Civil War and Otto and the working class (moving stones out Dix‘s protesting images of Hitler‘s of a growing field of potatoes). regime in the 2nd World War. But this purist point-of-view denied ‗Pictorialism‘ as an art form. Emerson wrote ‗Death of Naturalistic Photography‘ (not published) that renounced his views on Naturalism because it had no personal expression.
Berman: ‗The heroism of modern life that is due to modernisation (which accompanies many changes) the modern artist was faced with the challenge of being able to portray his heart and soul in an artwork which simultaneously adapting to new changes in society and technology. Social changes cause artists to feel less restricted in their artwork‘.
Unknown author (Gersheim): ‗Light is the silent artist. Without the aid of man. Design on silver bright. Daguerre‘s immortal plan‘. It was considered God‘s work—not the artists! Although photography‘s initial experimentation sent it backwards, Pictorialism became another commercial enterprise (before it was considered an art form in the 20th century) in Graphic
Photography changed art because it revealed the true state of society to people, who together, began to change these circumstances—beginning with linking Post-Modernism with all world movements.
Circus Family Between heaven and hell we walk a tight wire. We leap into the air hoping to land on some safe and distant platform. We poke chairs at tigers, try getting bears to dance, elephants to tiptoe, dogs to stop barking, monkeys to be wise. We juggle weighty clubs, breathe fire, choking on kerosene, balance on fragile pyramids of chairs trusting their thin legs.
Conclusion Images provide us a way of looking at ourselves and the world. Photography first revealed the poor. Then painting showed the mentally ill and the feelings of war. These images became art because it first revealed and shocked society into helping the less fortunate. The people like Hitler murdered. Art is not what it is—it is what it does. Photography, the new technology, changed art. Modernism stopped aesthetics from evolving (through medium, technique and subject matter) so Post-Modernism replaced it to validate these from critics. Now Art does not necessarily document reality as we see it—but more importantly how we feel it. And despite this oppression—Painting and Photography have survived and have shown themselves to be many things. History is now more accurate with acceptance of different forms of opinion. Artists since have the freedom of how they interpret, reflect, and document themselves in the world. Art became interesting because the truth is that everyone has their own interpretation and portrayals of what society is! Be an individual! m Big Amazonian Kambah, ACT
Brendan Doyle Wentworth Falls, NSW
We spring, we vault, we soar at times, rebounding off the frayed trampoline. We gamely dive through hoops, leap over a dozen barrels, sometimes colliding with number twelve. One day the animals escape their cages leaving the ringmaster and the clown to slug it out. m
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Midnight Sun Joanna Panagiotopoulos Mittagong, NSW
Aussie Outback Rimeriter Lansvale, NSW Rough and rugged winding coastline, between the oceans and the sea, lost and lonely is the outback, lacking sustenance to share.
Through the winter within— sombre with dolour, counting on shapeless Time till the spring— I am moved, thrust by the faceless, un-lived. Tall tops whistle and throng in trumpeting winds, mounting, clashing the walls. Weeds, loose and long tangle the air, lingering in shades between the paling Sun— It is gone, it has deceived us. I wait for the promise behold the Sun at the midnight hour! I hunt for the light without ending, lifting the skies, as mothers (grey and mourning for God— once held between, blading His light within their breast)—wring themselves of grief and trace their tears in stars that launch themselves to earth. Once fallen, the last flicker dies into the dust. But what a wind that stirs it! Wind, as a gentle hand lifting the deed, polishing the unseen. Whipped off earth, flung in the hearts of us, Death I lay in its garden, lifts my gaze to its loving hand, caressing landing in green, leaf, and twirling stem, luminescent to my sight, pulsing with sound— revealing the rose in the (now falling) airstream — the silent chorus of invisible feasts, of the free. m
Arid plains and ancient mountains, in a land remote and free, our Australian island continent has an outback sparse and bare. Duned and stony in the centre, fine grained sands and stones so red, stained with ochre, sifted softly through the Dreamtime endlessly. River channels, seldom water. Drying salt lake. Wildlife‘s dread. Monoliths and quartzite outcrops being sculpted, ceaselessly. Spinifex. Pincushion patches. Tombstones worn from sandy shale. Giant wheel ruts of the ages. Meandering waterless dry bed streams Bleached dry bones in nature‘s grave site. Moon at night provides the pale. Old and ancient. Myths and legends. Born in mist. Retained in dreams. The Red Centre. Australia‘s heartland. Forlorn face in need of rest. Enjoy her beauty with her splendour. Our island continent … The very best. m
Ode to Rocky Rocky, even though You‘re a figment of my imagination I had a dream about you last night Which was such a sensation You knew that at school I always felt the fool You came up to me one day Extended your hand And said g‘day You knew what it was like to not fit You were gay and so could not sit You were forever cast out a bit Two outcasts together We were definitely birds of a feather I wasn‘t gay but was never Destined to fit in at school ever One day you had to be in court Accused of assault Seems you took a shovel out Gave one of the school cleaners an almighty clout Well I knew in my heart it couldn‘t be true So I agreed to stand as witness for you You were there for me in every way Though my days at school were hell In every way Turns out the cleaner Was at fault So you were cleared of Charges of assault
Julitha De La Force Katoomba, NSW The cleaner had goes at you Every single day Thousands of potshots For you being gay You put a good face on it Every single day But one day You just gave way You slapped him across the face Not because you were filled with hate You just wanted desperately for him to Stop having potshots at you every day Anyway the truth came out The cleaner was totally bawled out Ended up being charged For making false claims As he was led away He hung his head in shame As I said, all this was only a dream So Rocky, even though we never met Because you never existed, yet … We made a good team in my dream And that I‘ll never forget Thank you Rocky. m
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Dianne Bates Woonona East, NSW
The Secret The ceiling is off-white, a crack shaped like a question mark above where she lies, and a bruise of mould near the naked light bulb. It is stuffy in the room that holds nothing but the double bed and two wooden chairs with chipped paint, one on guard at either side. She continues to look up, tracing the outline of the crack, trying not to think about what is happening. She is transporting herself to another place, away from the sweaty smell of bodies and dusty mattress to the seaside, running across the sand, free as a gull. She can go anywhere—and often does. She has been to America and walked the streets of New York, has been feted by pop stars, appeared in tabloids—on a front page no less—has eaten at the ritziest restaurants and spent an entire evening lying in a bubble bath listening to soothing music. But the trip to the ocean was the best, spending happy hours bobbing about in the water, lying on the sand afterwards with not a worry, feeling the sun brown her body. There was noone to whom she was responsible; there was only the company of kind people, nights sleeping undisturbed and waking to days that were welcomed and that she wished would never end, though of course they did.
see the livid scar on his chest, a war injury, he once said. Perhaps someone fired a bullet and tried to kill him. Often she lies awake on her narrow bed in the room next to his and imagines herself tiptoeing in the darkness along the hallway, taking the rifle which is perched against the refrigerator there, and sneaking into his room where is sleeping and aiming at his head. Imagines herself squeezing the trigger and watching his body jerk, watching the life draining from him as his blood seeps on to the bedding. ‗Hurry up,‘ he snaps, turning away.
to do, whether or not to invite her in. She senses him standing behind her and turns. He is looking at Jan, his face blank. There is a long pause while the two adults survey one another. ‗I‘m Jan Christie,‘ the woman says, offering him a business card. He does not take it. ‗From the children‘s holiday home.‘ He knows who she is. ‗I called into the school to check on Nancy. And when I found that she was absent, I thought I‘d come by to see if she‘s okay.‘
When he is gone, she dries herself and dresses in shorts and T-shirt. Then she pads into the kitchen where he is standing Jan sounds so professional, so full of at the sink, looking through the window confidence and charm that the girl relaxes. at the paddocks beyond. Another pause. The woman is waiting for ‗Put the kettle on,‘ he says. an invitation into the house but none is It is then that someone knocks on the forthcoming. front door. They are not expecting visitors. In fact, they rarely have visitors ‗Would it be all right if I speak with and then only on weekends, never during Nancy?‘ a weekday like today. He nods acquiescence but his glance at He turns and nods at her to see who it is. the girl is a warning. Maintain the secret, it says. Shut the fuck up. She is frightened, thinking perhaps it is
the police. She wills it to be her parents, come to get her. She often dreams of her ‗Go wash yourself,‘ he says later, and she true mother and father and of them does. She always does what he says. If coming to release her from these people she doesn‘t obey there are consequences, whom she knows abducted her when she a smack with his open palm across her was a baby. Her heart thumps wildly. face, a punch in the stomach, a kick in the head when he has felled her. So now she She pats down her uncombed hair and adjusts her face to greet the caller. crouches over the chipped enamel bowl on the bathroom floor and splashes water ‗Jan!‘ She is shocked to see the woman onto her private parts. He is standing in whom she knows lives a long way away the doorway watching her, looking down and whom she never thought would visit. at her budding breasts, the nipples small And she is fearful. Can Jan read her and puckered, her flat stomach, her pubis mind, know what she is doing here; know with its fine hair. what transpired earlier? He has put on a pair of shorts and she can Jan smiles. The girl does not know what
The girl is so happy to be allowed out. She follows Jan, admiring her sensible shiny shoes, her matching skirt and jacket, the leather handbag slung over her shoulder. She wants to hold Jan‘s hand, to let her know how delighted she is that she has travelled so far—100 kilometres perhaps—to visit her. But she is also filled with trepidation that Jan will ask questions, difficult questions that she will not know how to answer. They sit in the car parked at the side of the road under eucalypts which are shedding long strips of bark. The car smell is familiar—leather, and Jan‘s scent. Lavender, perhaps.
‗So now you know where I live,‘ the girl says.
authority, and having deflected a tense stand-off then with humour, she observed the girl warming to her. Since the girl left They look across the road at the forlorn the home she has written to her from time fibro house, no more than a shack, in a to time. She likes her, appreciates her weed-filled yard. intelligence, her ambition. She senses the ‗You weren‘t at school,‘ the woman says. girl has no role model, no friends, and today, seeing her circumstances knows The girl can‘t think of what to say so says she is struggling against poverty and nothing. ignorance and even, perhaps, against hope. She wants to help the girl to realise ‗What were you doing when I arrived?‘ her potential. This is easy. ‗Would you like some chocolate?‘ She ‗Putting on the kettle.‘ opens her handbag and rummages within ‗You‘re not sick?‘ ‗No.‘
The girl glances away, looks ahead through the windscreen at the lonely road. ‗Why?‘ she asks. ‗He was interfering with her.‘ The girl gives no sign of having heard. ‗Do you know what that means?‘ ‗Yes. Of course.‘ ‗Do you think she should?‘ ‗What?‘ ‗Testify against her father. For interfering with her.‘ The girl shrugs. ‗I don‘t know,‘ she mumbles.
The social worker is looking askance. The girl wishes she could read her mind. She cannot look at her face for fear the truth is written in bold, capital letters in her eyes, or across her forehead, nor fear that the truth will leap from her mouth. She wants to tell, but fear is a powerful deterrent. Besides, even though she feels something akin to love for this woman, she has no experience of trust, and so her lips remain tight. She fiddles with a loose thread from her shorts and wonders how to change the direction of the woman‘s inquisition.
Once again it is as though an invisible but powerful shield has been dropped between the two of them. There is no way the girl is going to talk. If there is anything to talk about, to reveal. They chat for a while about school. And then it is time to part. The girl yearns to go with the woman. The muscles of her heart ache, as though they are straining to breaking point. She feels betrayed, somehow. She wants to plead with the woman, to go with her. Instead, she farewells her politely, standing by the side of the car, talking through the open window.
‗Why are you at home, if you‘re not sick?‘ This is so much like school— difficult questions and inescapable corners.
‗Tell your father I said ―goodbye‖,‘ the woman says.
‗My dad wanted me to stay home.‘
‗Sure.‘
‗Why?‘ Oh, if only she could tell! But not knowing the consequences of truth is too huge, too unknown, to contemplate.
her father.‘
it.
And then the car bearing hope is ripping away into the distance until it becomes nothing but empty road.
The girl relaxes, and for the first time lifts In the house the father is pottering around her head. ‗He wanted me to help him.‘ the kitchen. ‗How come you went to my school?‘ she The thread is getting longer, pulling apart asks. ‗She gone?‘ he asks. the stitching. She wants to break it off, ‗Yes.‘ but knows it will unravel even further if ‗I was out this way,‘ the woman lies. Truth is, she had no reason to visit the she does. ‗What did she want?‘ girl. Just instinct. And now she feels there ‗Help to fix the car,‘ she adds when the ‗She just asked about school.‘ is something going on which is wrong. length of silence becomes too long. She tries to make light conversation but ‗Why you weren‘t there?‘ He has a mug This answer is true: before that—before she cannot recapture the camaraderie she of tea poised in front of his cruel lips. and the girl shared when the girl was the bed—the girl had helped her father She nods. staying at the home. change tyres. ‗And what did you say?‘ She talks about another girl. ‗Betty ... The woman is used to dealing with lies remember her?‘ and secrets and subterfuge. She knows ‗That I was helping you mend the car.‘ her relationship with the girl is tenuous. The girl nods. The girl feels as though she will She remembers their first meeting at the burst. She wants to be alone, to ‗She‘s going to court. To testify against home, when the girl challenged her
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cry, to berate herself for not telling the truth, for letting her only hope drive away.
She keeps running, faster, faster, faster!
Under the fence she throws herself. Does not feel the wire rip into the flesh. Only ‗She‘s a fucking lesbian,‘ her father says. feels the bullet ripping her open. Up and on, into the bush, past trees and shrubs, ‗No, she‘s not!‘ running, leaping, moving, getting away, The words are out of the girl‘s mouth fast, fast, fast! before she knows it. A dreadful, cold fear How much later it is that she stops, she clenches her insides. He is never to be cannot tell. She is out of breath, bending challenged. Never. over and panting, the blood pounding in her head, her chest hot and wheezy. At But instead of reacting harshly, he‘s smiling. Sneering. ‗She‘s a fucking last she has outrun him. lesbian, if ever I saw one.‘ She falls upon the ground, curls into a She cannot help herself, she must defend foetal shape and sobs. She wants her mother. Her true mother. The mother she Jan. Her friend. The only person who seeks all of her days, the mother who will cares about her. hold her close, promise her protection ‗No!‘ She cries the word aloud, angrily. eternally. She sees her mother now, And he does what she knew he would. He dreams her into existence as she has done swings and smacks her across the face. at other times when the man has terrified her. This is a mother who is stronger than She sees stars. him. Stronger than any man, stronger ‗Fucking lesbian!‘ than the world! ‗She‘s not!‘ She cannot stop denying it, Time passes. The crying time has passed. she needs to defend Jan. She needs to. She is alone now, deep in the bush and But he is repeating it again and again. wondering what she should now do. She ‗Fucking lesbian!‘ And she‘s yelling at cannot go back, for he will, without him. And he‘s whacking her. She‘s on the doubt, murder her. As much as she hates floor, sobbing, hurting, saying ‗no, no, her life, she does not want to be no, no, she‘s not,‘ over and over again. murdered. What she wants is Jan. Why And now he‘s kicking her. Kicking her didn‘t she tell Jan when she had the stomach, her head. And she squirms and chance? She could have driven off in the wriggles. Away from him. Away from car with Jan. Could have escaped the man his ramming foot. And now she‘s who says he is her father, who is no running. Running down the hall, around father, who is the most terrible of all the corner, wrenching open the back terrors. door, flying across the landing, onto the Her mind calms. Her breathing is now ground, across the yard. Running. And controlled and she is no longer anxious. screaming. And sobbing. And he‘s shouting, calling at her to come back. But In fact a calmness has come over her. There is only one solution: she will find she‘s not coming back. She‘s going and Jan and tell her and trust her to know she‘s never coming back. what to do. Across the paddock she flees. Her feet don‘t touch the ground. She doesn‘t feel She stands and, her feet bleeding, she limps through the bush, heading in the the dirt underfoot, the rocks, the twigs, the thorns. All she knows is fear. She has direction in which she thinks the main road to town leads. She doesn‘t know answered him back, questioned his authority. She has welcomed death for he how to get to where Jan lives, nor does she know how to get to the holiday home will kill her if he catches her. She is where Jan works. But now she has nothing but fear and movement, she is devised her plan, she is confident that the running fast, fast, fast! way will become clear. Something whizzes past her. A bullet! It takes some time, but eventually she She half-turns as she runs and sees him, leaves the bush and walks across lumbering after her with the rifle. He‘s paddocks and finds the road. There is not going to shoot her, fell her, end her life.
much traffic at this time of the day, but surely someone will pick her up and drive her into town. From there she will catch a train to the city. And from there ... ? She‘s still not sure. But she can do it, she must. A car is approaching. She hooks her thumb for a ride but the driver ignores her and speeds past. She plods along, still limping, exhausted. Another car passes her. And another. For a long while noone else travels the road. Then she turns at the sound of an approaching engine. It is her worst nightmare: it is him and he‘s speeding towards her. She wants to run again but all of a sudden her energy deserts her. She is tired, so tired, tireder than she has ever been in her life. And trapped, too, trapped by years of being his victim. He pulls up alongside of her. The window is down. ‗Get in,‘ he says. She shakes her head, limps on. He cruises alongside her. She glances into the car. She cannot see the gun. ‗Get in,‘ he repeats, braking. His voice is a magnet that says he must be obeyed. She opens the door and slides into the seat. Her head is throbbing. She cannot look at him. There is something she must say, something she has never said before, though she cannot think why not. ‗If you ever touch me again, I will tell the police.‘ Her voice is soft but loud enough for him to know she is speaking the truth. He does not answer, makes no signal that he has even heard. He turns the steering wheel and drives back in the direction from which he has come. m Dianne Bates Woonona East, NSW Dianne (Di) Bates is a well-known Australian children's author who lives in Wollongong, NSW. Her website is www.enterprisingwords.com
Bob Edgar Wentworth Falls, NSW
Memories Marco Graham was considered a good man, having devoted his time on earth to the pursuit of enriching the lives of those around him. He would give of himself expecting nothing in return, yet often he would receive a smile or a ... ‗Thank you Marco‘. This was reward enough for a man who considered himself blessed that he was, at least, able to help his fellow human.
throughout Africa and India leading safari tours, his body was tired.
withdrew the thorn before losing consciousness.
He thought that he had given enough of himself to humankind and animalkind. Yet he received not so much as a pat on the back, or a wet nosed kiss in return.
Forty years later Marco had retired, he had lost his Theodore, and he had lost faith in all living creatures. Could not his kindness be remembered by at least one of his menagerie?
Epitomising his selflessness was the time he was separated from his very first safari tour. For two days his machete slashed a path through the jungle growth, with only the image of Theodore keeping him Our fellow humans however can be quite strong. Collapsing from exhaustion on disagreeable, to the point of rejecting any the third day, he rolled down an embankment into a clearing. He opened show of kindness toward them. his eyes to behold an elephant‘s paw When Marco encountered such hovering above his head. Marco slammed disagreeable humans, he took refuge in his eyes shut to hide the death about to his love of the animal kingdom, as he had befall him. done since childhood. His first pet was a tortoise, a tiny ugly creature that only a An eternity in seconds passed before his mother could love. A mother, and of brain forced his eyes open, and still the course, Marco. gnarly paw was inches from his face. His beloved tortoise ... Theodore, had recently died at the age of eighty three, leaving Marco feeling quite lonely and reflective. Having worked at the city zoo for fifty years and travelled extensively
Marco glanced to his side to see an adult elephant lay dead. This would be a baby elephant about to crush his head. Then this giant baby whimpered, and Marco saw the huge thorn protruding from the paw. Reaching up Marco whispered ‗There there ... there there.‘ as he expertly
Then, as if by design, a circus came to town and Marco felt compelled to attend the Saturday matinee. He wore his tattered safari suit and sat in the front row feeling as though he were the main attraction. Shuffling through the sawdust were ten aging elephants connected trunk to tail. Suddenly one broke free, trumpeted loudly and charged the front row. People scattered in terror, but Marco sat calmly. The rogue elephant stopped inches from Marco, raised its paw and whimpered. Marco, with a tear in his eye knelt down and whispered, ‗There, there ... there, there.‘ Whereupon the elephant crushed his skull like a melon. Wrong bloody elephant. m
Maximise your chances of getting published and winning a prize Here are some tips to help you increase your chances of getting published in Narrator Magazine: n Ensure that your file name includes either your name, or the name of the piece. e.g. jennymosher.doc or mybigdayout.doc. Better still, include both: jennymosher_mybigdayout.doc. n Make sure that when your document is opened, your name and the name of the piece are at the top of the page. It makes it much easier for us to match the entries with the entrants! n Get someone else to proofread your work first. We don‘t have time to edit, only a minor proofread, so work which is littered with spelling errors, typing errors and grammatical errors simply won‘t get published. We want to present the best that you can do. n Use single quote marks instead of double quote marks, and single spacing between lines and sentences instead of double spacing, in keeping with current Australian formatting standards. n Format in Times New Roman or Arial. Simple fonts are best as we strip most formatting from the documents received so that Narrator has a consistent look. Only extremely individual pieces, such as the occasional poem, should take any special formatting. n Don‘t write memoir. Narrator is about creative writing, not reminiscences. If you want to write about the time Grandpa took you to the zoo, make sure that the tale goes off and tells us something creative, such as how the lions escaped from their cages and you jumped on a gorilla‘s back to escape, swinging through the trees, followed by Grandpa riding a zebra. Entertain your audience! n Sometimes, we just can‘t fit everyone in, and we also have to ‗rest‘ regular contributors, so if you miss out on getting in one issue, don‘t despair, because you may find yourself in the next one.
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Citrus Dawn
intact Jean Bundesen Woodford, NSW
In the orange light of early morning There‘s a tangerine sky Merging into a deep translucent vault. Village people sleep. Village lights sparkle Like a Christmas tree. Day dawns Trees come to life Lime green leaves appear. Jacarandas still golden New leaves are sprouting. A Silver Birch shines. Azaleas complement Prunus Shades of rose, pink, red and white. Wisteria clambers over Fences and trees – a vision in lilac. Orange Marigolds sprawl fancy free Lemon yellow Wattles frolic. A radio softly plays ‗Tangerine Dream‘ On a bright new day. m * ‘Tangerine Dream’—a German electronic music group created in 1967 by Edgar Froese. This piece was playing on the radio when I was writing this poem.
Robyn Lance Yarra via Goulburn, NSW sucked into the void where absence of light means black‘s back crawling to a pinpoint of sanity ‗til knees bleed sanity sanitation sani-man dunny can in the shit life‘s bits hit it and revolve centrifugally flung it drips off white coats and keys bunches of keys me in them out and about with clout and calm balm for the balmy flashpoint to a self reconstructed with bandaids fragments fly to the fan splat slide crawl back a brave new man clad in filo layers brushed and baked until flaky and ready for another crack at life. m Robyn’s many poetry achievements include having poems stencilled on metal plates for the 2012 Poetry The Indelible Stencil project, NSW, a poem commissioned for Canberra’s ACTION buses, the 2010 David Campbell Poetry Prize and the 2009 Jennifer Lamb Veolia Creative Arts Scholarship. Robyn’s poetry has been extensively published in Island, Quadrant, Five Bells and AustralianReader.com to list just a few.
Lunchtime at the Park David Bowden Medlow Bath, NSW Spellbound by delicious Heat, You unwrap those Gulliver strings That tie you to The world And rush, Lazily it must be said, Into a beautiful, forgetful Stupor Like a religious Convert Smouldering beneath the Rays Our ancient sun Casts Generously, serenely out. The mind empties Through some invisible Plughole As if An ocean Robbed of Sea Salt Fishes Whales Plankton Mines Sunken submarines etc In the same way a TV screen Will reduce to a single Dot its crescendo of stories Squashed into Silence. You are a castaway On October grass, Lolling Alongside the other Strutting Strolling Running Exercising Sitting Sunbathing Geniuses Who share in This rich wisdom.
And pigeons swoop Over, So close You could pluck them From the sky Like ripe, plump Apples from the Branches of the sun. They have no fear, Landing nearby Lost In their odyssey of Forgotten crumbs And fantasies of Uneaten seeds Before fluttering away To elsewhere. Now is not the Moment for any of us To concern ourselves With Business. That will come soon Enough. Now we are children Out of class, Swallowing knowledge Through our skin, Adrift in a sea of Games No other world Could conjure. This afternoon We are in paradise With only clocks To smear The picture. m
The Weeping Cherry Barry McGloin Holder, ACT Once more she is a Spring princess in her gown of bridal white cascading delight from top to toe and she astounds in her audacity yet each year I am enthralled to see such self-effacing dignity and now the bees at ease come a-courting with simple courtesy and each flower will open to each whispered suggestion of consummate honey the princess bride weeps not for sadness but in pure sweet joy when each year finds her beauty reborn. Mother danced in the hive of love, so she said a bridal princess amongst the troops gaiety, nylons and cigarettes never the same one twice she laughs then winks significantly, those were the days hey now look at me, I'm eighty three, what happened? God almighty! Once more she is a Spring princess in her gown of bridal white cascading delight from top to toe in movement and symmetry aligning the earth to planetary purpose to the heavenly tap tap tap perhaps perhaps And what music plays to this courtly season? The skeletal tinkling of water on stone ... or perhaps an eternal elemental drone? The melancholic mystery of the duduk call or Glen Millers' swing ... hey ... the Wood-Choppers Ball? m
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Beatrice Ross Winmalee, NSW
Seeing is Believing The new apartment was simple, perfect for Christian Mayfield‘s needs. It had been the most affordable option for him at the time. In fact, it had been suspiciously cheap. He, being a fond reader of horror and thrillers, had had the tenacity to ask the real estate agent whether someone had died in the house. He had stopped laughing when the agent didn‘t answer, a tight-lipped expression of distaste settling on the woman‘s face.
underneath the window. He disappeared for a moment, heading for the lounge room. He reappeared, strafing forward foot to foot in an almost comical manner, his arms straddling a large, taxidermied mountain lion. He set it down on the floor, exhaling loudly. It was heavy, even for Christian‘s lightly built body, which had been accustomed to weight training. He stepped back to examine his gift. It was a beastly, four-foot animal, reaching
He sat in a leather chair placed in the centre of the room, eyeing the unpacked boxes. It would take a deal of time for him to adjust to the smaller living space. This was his first place. He had been living with his parents, working small, local jobs to earn pithy cash. His mother was relieved to see him go. She had been nagging him persistently, collecting newspaper cuttings of properties up for rent and slipping them under his nose. He had pushed them away, insisting that the right house would come to him. And it did; in a newspaper dated back to 2011, stating the sale of a well-known author‘s apartment. It was quite coincidental considering that he was a freelance writer himself. It was here, in the creatively charged atmosphere of the house, where he suspected his work would harbour the long-awaited success it deserved. He wandered the rooms one by one, imagining how he would fill them. By far, the study, situated at the end of the hallway, held the most potential. He plotted out the room mentally, positioning two bookcases for his eclectic taste in books and his collection of magazines (in which he had been published), a writing desk beneath the window for his laptop and a spot on the floor for a peculiar antique his father had generously given to him as a house warming gift. He stood in the doorway of the study. It was bare, the smell of fresh paint still lingering. The desk, relocated from his old room, had already been put in place
breaking free from his hands and clothes where he had held the animal. He gave it one last admiring look and chuckled. ‗You look nasty. Luckily for me, you‘re long dead.‘ *** Sleep came well for Christian that night. He pulled himself back to consciousness at eight o‘clock in the morning. He sat up in bed, peering around the room he now called his own. He couldn‘t bring himself to believe that this was all his. Being twenty five, he had craved freedom. With the apartment, he had just that. He didn‘t have to wait for his mother to get out of the bathroom; here, there were no queues. He didn‘t have to follow any house rules other than his landlord‘s and his own. He pulled the sheets over, placing his feet on the carpet. He ran his fingers through his mousy brown hair, pulling himself from the bed.
just below his waist. It was covered head to foot with bristling tan fur, which darkened at the tip of its tail. It was permanently settled in a prowling, hunting mode; its head lowered, and its legs set in a saunter. It was snarling, displaying scythe-like teeth. Its retractable claws, sharp enough to slice through leather, were raised like the hackles on its shoulder blades. Its paws were the size of small dinner plates. The intelligent, greenish-amber eyes of the creature had been replaced by glass copies. His father, being a taxidermist, believed in giving the gift of nature. Christian brushed himself down, dust
He could walk around the house wearing only his pyjama pants without his mother to tell him otherwise. He opened the door, concentrating on the idea of food. As he stepped forward, his attention was stolen by a blaring car horn outside. He was too busy peering behind his shoulder to notice the obstacle in his way. His foot caught on the bulky form of the mountain lion. He stumbled forward abruptly. The ground rushed up meet him. The lion went down beneath him. Thump! He recovered slowly, uttering a low moan. He placed his hands either side of his body and slowly lifted himself from the ground. The push-up like manoeuvre caused his head to spin. At the old house, he didn‘t get to trip over a mountain lion? He sat up, leaning back on his heels. He stared dumbly at the mountain lion,
blinking the sleep from his eyes. ‗I didn‘t leave you here,‘ he mumbled, reaching out to stroke the lion. It was cold and stiff. It smelt like moth-eaten leather. He peered down the hallway to the study. The door was ajar. He had closed it last night. Settling on his knees, he reached over to prop the animal upright. He patted its head, scratching it behind the ears.
brain buzzed and emitted a low humming inside his temple, he sensed the arrival of nothing. The flood had stopped; the river had run dry. The perfect idea was still searching for him. The air was stale, as if it were sucking him dry. The long dead author‘s vibes only heralded writer‘s block.
the beast warily. ‗H-how did you get there?‘ he stammered, still recovering from the scare. The mountain lion stared at him with glassy eyes, still prowling, its face permanently set in a snarl.
‗What the hell am I doing?‘ he growled, He took a moment to collect himself leaning back in his chair. ‗Who do I think before getting to his feet. I am? Stephen King?‘ ‗Hmm … You sleep walk?‘ ‗I put you in the bedroom. I closed the He tapped the keys lightly, typing before door.‘ He looked to it as if he were expecting it reclining back in his chair. to speak back to him. He realised how stupid he must have ‘All work, no play makes Jack a dull appeared talking to a taxidermied animal. After a long minute, he gave the cat one boy.’ last bemused smile and got to his feet. He It was dangerously still. There was a left the cat to stand in the hallway, tangible tension within the air, as if a padding to the kitchen. He stewed it storm had left behind an electric over as he searched the fridge, static. grabbing the milk carton from shelf He took a breath. He knew this was in the door and retrieving a glass, no dream. It had moved from two pouring himself some milk. He rooms as if it were alive. replaced it, walking to the lounge room. He stopped in his tracks, his He approached the big cat, kneeling cheeks bulging with a mouthful of down beside it. Studying it, he milk. He swallowed hard, eyeing the noticed a piece of material snagged spot where the lion once was half a on one of its fangs. Inhaling deeply, his minute ago. It was gone. The door to the Having nothing else to think on, he hand edged towards the dagger-like teeth study was closed. He shook his head, as recalled this morning. Before settling in of the animal. He plucked the material, if he were trying to wake himself up from the study at ten o‘clock, he had taken the backing away instantly. time to reposition the mountain lion in his a dream. He wandered to the spot, He raised it to his eyes, examining the bedroom. The occurrence this morning looking back to the study, eventually slip of blue cotton. He turned it from side had somewhat unsettled him; he swore shaking his head. to side. As he rubbed it between his the beast had been watching him. His ‗That didn‘t just happen,‘ he mumbled in disconcertion had taken him so far as to fingers, he noted how familiar it felt. It blank disbelief. resembled the cotton doona on his bed. close the study door. The thought came quickly, and when it He headed for the lounge, intent on He sipped a mug of coffee, appreciating did, it clicked into place. watching the morning news before the warmth of the liquid as it trailed getting to work. down his throat. He placed the mug down He peered past the lion and into the hallway. A steady trail of blue, torn on the desk beside him. He locked his *** fingers together and placed his arms out cotton tufts and foam appeared to have He stared at the computer screen with a been scattered down the corridor, issuing before him, stretching his stiff fingers, flustered determination. He kept telling and then repositioning his fingers to from the bedroom. himself to write. But his attention crack his knuckles. ‗No. This isn‘t possible,‘ he mumbled. wavered to other objects too frequently to He heard the sharp creak of a floorboard type the first sentences of his new novel. He threw the lion one last look before behind him. He ignored it, staring It was the act of procrastination which hugging the door to shuffle past it into intently at the screen. The floor board brought him to hate the sight of a blank the corridor. He followed the trail to the creaked once more, this time complaining page. bedroom, stopping short in the doorway. with greater volume. He casually peered His eyes scanned over the carnage of his His eyes scanned around the clutter behind his shoulder. He jolted, almost bed. The doona, sheets, pillows and which had settled around him. He had falling out of his chair. His heart lurched mattress had been torn to shreds. White situated his notebooks of ideas, a bundle in his chest. He froze, his body going foam and twisted coils split from the of unused line paper, pens and pencils cold. The door was wide open. The mattress like a gutted animal. around him to accommodate for the range mountain lion stood in the doorway, of story ideas which hit him frequently silently watching him. He uttered a ‗Holy shit,‘ he breathed. and often unexpectedly. But now, as his profanity beneath his breath, watching He picked up a relatively unscathed
He took a breath. He knew this was no dream. It had moved from two rooms as if it were alive.
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pillow from the ground, running four fingers down a set of deep claw marks. It was as though a vicious, enraged animal had been set loose in his room. ‗I must be going insane,‘ he muttered. ‗I need a drink.‘ ***
lowering the bottle from his lips. He raised the green bottle to his face, squinting into it. It was empty. He emitted a rattled, rasping noise as he exhaled, pressing the bottle to his lips to scrounge the last drops. He was peculiar when he was tipsy; clumsy, mawkishly cheerful. Without alcohol to loosen him up, he was too serious.
Christian shook the memory from his head, his eyes finding a trail of blood on the floor. It would tell him where it came from. He followed it, side stepping to avoid the trail as he gradually linked the course. It ended at an open window at the far end of the lounge room.
just above the floor. He hopped over to the doormat where he scraped off the blood and fur. Whilst he was preoccupied with this, Roy, apparently unperturbed by the blood, plucked the cat up by its tail, raising it into the air to dangle pathetically.
‗I need to check something.‘
‗It came through the window,‘ he grumbled, running his forefinger over the Christian twisted the doorknob, opening window sill. He drew back his finger, the door slowly. The breath paused in his revealing traces of blood and dirt. throat. The door swung open, revealing a ‗It looks like a dog killed it.‘ darkened room. He scanned the room quickly, his eyes adjusting to the dark. Roy had knelt down, continuing to prod it His hand crawled against the wall, with the bottle. reaching in to flick the light switch. He ‗Will you quit touching that thing,‘ found it. The room was flooded with the Christian growled in exasperation. filmy glow of the fluorescent lights. He ventured one step, but stopped short as He met him at the body, examining it his foot pressed down into something from afar. His stomach gulped, heaving. warm and squishy. He recoiled, shifting It had been bitten, but by larger jaws, the weight from his foot and stepping teeth and claws more pronounced. The back. He peered down. tabby, he recognised as his neighbour‘s Christian watched as Roy Halaway ‗What the hell?‘ cat, hadn‘t been gnawed in a chewing climbed the driveway to the apartment The body of a tabby cat was lying at his action, rather, it must have died with one building. He and his friend Roy had bite. He was beginning to have a bad feet. It appeared dead; mauled beyond visited the local pub to drink their worries death. His stomach heaved at the sight of feeling about what he was seeing. It was away. However, he was far from being in impossible. blood; areas of its fur were coated in the mood at the time, especially with the congealing substance, droplets marking ‗Please, take it outside before I vomit,‘ he events of that day playing out in his head the carpet around it. Raising his foot up muttered. like a video tape on loop. to glimpse at the sole of his shoe, he ‗Why me?‘ Roy exclaimed. gagged, lowering his foot so it hovered They were heading back to Christian‘s The escape from the apartment had eased his mind. It made him realise how irrational and crazy the events of the day had been. A stuffed animal couldn‘t move from room to room. It can‘t rip through a bed and tear it to pieces without a murmur of life pulsing through its body. Maybe an intruder was the cause of this madness. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. The intruder could‘ve entered the house, placed the big cat in different rooms and also shredded the bed with a knife. He made a mental note to check over the house for any sign of forced entry.
apartment, taking the elevator to the fifth floor. They walked down the corridor and stopped at the door. He fumbled through his pocket, searching for his keys. All the while, he tolerated his friend, a man in his early twenties with an outcrop of dusty-blond hair, a lanky build and brown eyes, as he leant casually against the wall drinking a bottle of Tsing Tao beer.
Christian looked up from his feet, crinkling his nose in disgust.
He unlocked the door, his hand poised on ‗Geez Roy, put it down.‘ the knob. There was a loud bang from inside. He hesitated at the door, stiffening Roy smiled, poking the corpse with the warily. Roy sidled beside him. empty beer bottle. He laughed. ‗What‘s wrong?‘ he grunted. ‗I heard something.‘
‗Looks like my mum‘s boyfriend.‘
Christian rolled his eyes, snatching the cat from Roy and dropping it. It landed His earlier assumptions about the intruder with a wet slap. He shuddered. He had made him cautious. His imagination never been a fan of blood. He assumed it planted a killer behind the door, holding a was the time when his guinea pig was run knife. The killer would be cloaked in over by a car. His older brother, seeing darkness—a menacing silhouette. He how squeamish Christian was around the would be hiding, waiting to pounce. gore, had speared the corpse with a stick ‗I‘m sure it‘s nothing Chris,‘ Roy sighed, and chased him around the yard with it.
Christian left for the hallway. He quickened his pace, heading for the study. He stopped at the door, finding it ajar. He took a deep breath, giving the door a gentle push. It swung open, revealing the room. The mountain lion stood in the centre of the room. He approached it cautiously. Something about its gaze sent a shiver tingling down his spine. It was crazy; he half expected it to spring to life. He knelt down before it, examining its jaws. His heart skipped a beat. This had to be a joke; a terribly convincing practical joke. The scythe-like fangs and teeth of the lion were stained with blood and fur. Its muzzle, curling over its teeth, was coloured with blood. ‗Hell no.‘ A taxidermied animal had killed his neighbour‘s cat. His voice narrowed down to a whisper.
‗How am I going to explain this to Mrs Beven?‘ *** The mountain lion was inanimate. It‘s cold, dead heart had been extracted, along with its other organs. Blood didn‘t course through its body. It couldn‘t shift from its prowl. It was dead, yet it had moved from room to room, shredded his bed and killed a cat. There had to be a better explanation, but it was the only answer that occurred to him as he locked eyes with the big cat. ‗If it‘s a staring competition you‘re playing at, I don‘t think you‘re going to win.‘
sidled past his friend, stopping at the door short at the entrance of kitchen, peering and barring the way. Roy halted abruptly. into the room. The screaming stopped. ‗The couch is that way,‘ Christian blurted. He wouldn‘t know how his friend would take the sight of the pile of coils, foam and torn cotton sheets that used to be his bed. ‗Huh. The couch it is,‘ he grumbled in quick defeat. He was too filled up with grog to care. As Christian left for bed (a small, blow up mattress on the floor), he locked the mountain lion in the study. However crazy his theory was, it was plausible. It was hard to argue with teeth and claws.
Christian‘s focus was stolen. He peered behind his shoulder. Roy leant casually against the doorframe, releasing a yawn. He had helped himself to a beer from the fridge. He sipped at it, the sleepiness wafting from his body.
‗You‘re right,‘ he blurted. If the inanimate mountain lion could kill a cat, it was perfectly capable of tearing out his throat. His hand immediately flew to his neck. He rubbed it, his eyes set on the raking claws and teeth of the cat.
He dumped the lion across the room, attending to his friend. Roy sat up, pulling his shirt over his head and slipping it off. He placed the shirt in his lap, examining his chest. There were shallow puncture marks where the claws had penetrated his skin, drawing blood.
Roy appeared puzzled. He emitted a weak half laugh, shaking his head.
‗I wish it were.‘ They walked into the corridor. ‗Man. I need sleep,‘ Roy grumbled. He headed straight for the bedroom door. A memory clicked in Christian‘s head. He
‗Is it dead?‘ Roy exclaimed, his gaze flickering from the cold, hard eyes of the beast to his friend. The lion had shifted positions completely, it‘s jaws lowered dangerously close to Roy‘s throat. Its paws were splayed, placed on both of his shoulders, holding him down. Its claws had retracted, pressing into his flesh.
‗It was never alive in the first place,‘ he breathed, creeping to Roy‘s side. He placed his hands on the beast, lifting it. He did so hesitantly, afraid the beast would spring to life and attack him too.
The breath caught in Christian‘s throat. He recoiled, steeping away from the fangs of the beast.
He remembered that Roy knew nothing of the mysteriously active stuffed mountain lion. He met his borderline tipsy friend at the doorway, mumbling inaudibly to himself.
Christian treaded the floor lightly, his gaze scanning the lounge room. He stood before the lounge where Roy had settled to sleep. He froze, temporarily paralysed. A pale, gasping Roy was frozen, pinned to the floor by the heavy mountain lion. The lounge pillows lay around him, torn to pieces. Roy looked to him with widened eyes.
The colour drained from Christian‘s face.
‗Watch out, it might spring to life and tear off your face,‘ Roy chuckled.
‗It was a joke man.‘
‗Holy shit,‘ a loud, ragged voice gasped. It was Roy.
*** ‗Bad Kitty! No, NOOOO!‘ The screaming was enough the make the house shudder. It was long and piercing. It infiltrated Christian‘s sleep like a persistent invader. He jumped from the mattress, racing out into the corridor. His foot lost grip instantly. He slipped, landing solidly on his rear. Ignoring the wet, sticky substance clinging to his feet, he pulled himself to all fours, launching himself into the lounge room. He stopped
‗And I thought the hangover would kill me,‘ he grumbled, prodding the cuts one by one. ‗What the hell happened here?‘ Christian demanded. He knew what it looked like; he just didn‘t want to believe it. Roy, still breathless, looked up from his wounds, answering in dumbfounded astonishment. ‗That bad ass cougar of yours tried to eat
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me,‘ he insisted. ‗It‘s not a cougar, it‘s a mountain lion—‘ ‗Same thing. It could have killed me.‘ He got to his feet, brushing himself off. He watched the lion in the corner cautiously. The sleepy drunkenness had been sapped from his body. Christian rubbed his eyes, brushing his hands up his forehead to run through his hair and settle at the nape of his neck. He checked his watch; it was three o‘clock in the morning. No more sleep would come to him this morning. He wished he could just shake this all away and pretend that it wasn‘t real. ‗But that‘s impossible. It‘s stuffed. It‘s dead.‘ ‗Well it seemed alive to me. It was about to rip out my throat before you came.‘
turn on him within seconds. He couldn‘t guarantee his own safety anymore. He shifted his toes, aware of an uncomfortable stickiness. He raised his leg to peer at his foot. It was covered in what appeared to be jam; the substance he must have slipped on this morning. It dawned on him. He looked up. ‗The kitchen,‘ he breathed. ‗Oh no.‘ He followed a trail of jam paw prints to the kitchen. He groaned loudly. The fridge had been raided. A jar of jam had
Christian and Roy hesitated at the boot. The noises had stopped completely, replaced by a pregnant silence. For pragmatic reasons, they decided one person would carry a baseball bat and the other would drag the animal by a chain set in a stranglehold loop. Roy readied the bat, poising it over his shoulder. Christian took a deep breath, opening the boot. There was silence. Nothing stirred. They peered into the boot space. Christian uttered a frustrated groan. The interior of his boot had been torn to shreds. The big cat was still again.
Christian tried his very best to ignore the heavy, violent bumping and growling in the boot of his sedan.
Roy picked up one of the mutilated pillows and tossed it at him. He caught it, stepping back as it spewed crumbling foam all over his shirt. He had seen this damage before. Serrated claw marks had torn the material. Now it had not only destroyed his bed, but also his lounge. Insurance wouldn‘t cover damage inflicted by a taxidermied animal.
been shattered all over the floor, bottles of beer were strewn in glass pieces, vegetables lay half eaten and packets, once containing steaks, were torn and empty. ‗Dammit!‘
He remembered the study door. Down the hallway, the door was ajar. The deadlock had been shattered. Upon closer With the cushion in hand, he slumped inspection, the inside of the door had down into the last undamaged chair, a red been scratched viciously, metre long recliner. scratches now decorating the wood. ‗What happened?‘ he sighed.
Down the desolate country road, Christian could see an opening in the wall of bushland trees. Through the dusky, early morning light, it was only just visible. He turned off onto a dirt road, stopping halfway down the road and parking in a small clearing. He had heard of this place. It was a umping ground by the name of ‗Hyde‘s Gully‘.
He could feel his hate for the beast rising. This wild cat was getting dangerous and His friend began to pace, occasionally expensive. There was only one answer: locking eyes with the beast. he had to dispose of it, and quick, before ‗I was sleeping and I heard noises coming it killed him and destroyed his house in from the kitchen. So I looked over the process. towards the kitchen. I leant over too far *** and I fell off the lounge. Whatever was in the kitchen heard me. It approached me. ‗I swear, that thing is moving back there.‘ It watched me for a moment, as if it were Christian tried his very best to ignore the trying to work out what I was. Then the heavy, violent bumping and growling in massive thing pounces on me like a hell the boot of his sedan. He was driving to a hound, snarls and attacks me. I used the small gully on the outskirts of town. Roy cushions to block its blows, but it pinned had chosen to join him on the premise me down,‘ he explained gesticulating that he could beat the beast if it decided wildly. ‗I thought it was all a dream. But to spring to life. Christian however, just I knew I was wrong when the pain was wanted to see the creature sink and too real.‘ drown. He had been promptly reminded by his friend that stuffed animals couldn‘t Christian watched the mountain lion with drown, by which he answered: ‗This one a cautious expectancy. It was can.‘ dangerously sporadic. The beast could
‗I‘m sick of this,‘ he growled, reaching into the boot. ‗You‘ve done enough damage. ‘ He slotted the chain around the mountain lion‘s neck and tugged it. He dragged the lion along the torn material of the interior. ‗It‘s you who needs to be destroyed you worthless piece of—‘ His sentence trailed off abruptly. The lion‘s eyes had begun to glow a vivid light green. It‘s glassy, plastic pupils constricted to a pinpoint. Its barrelling chest began to expand with breath. Its claws retracted. Hot exhalations spilt from its open jaws. A growl rumbled in its chest. ‗Shit.‘ It exploded from the boot, tackling him. The beast‘s heavy paws latched on to his shoulders, driving him into the ground. The sheer weight of the creature knocked the breath from his lungs. Opening its jaws, it snarled, its hot, rank breath pouring over his skin. His arms automatically flew to shield his face. He couldn‘t catch enough air to scream. Roy was temporarily stunned. He stood back, the bat hovering over his shoulder.
‗Don‘t just stand there,‘ Christian gasped. The beast batted his arms with one swipe of its paw. He emitted an injured cry. It lowered its jaws and bit into his arm. He screamed. The scream woke Roy. He took a run up to the beast. He swung the bat. It slammed into the big cat‘s spine. It shrieked, turning on Roy in an instant. It snarled, prowling towards him. Christian crawled away to the base of a tree, cradling his bleeding arm. Roy swung the bat. It missed. The beast lunged. It sunk its claws into his chest, closing its mouth around his shoulder. The bat dropped to the leaf litter. He screamed, his hands trailing to its head. He poked it in the eye. Its jaws loosened. He dropped to all fours, clutching the deep, bleeding wound on his shoulder. He scrambled for the baseball bat. It was gone.
the cat. ‗Let‘s play ball.‘
keeping this between Roy and himself. ***
The mountain lion, blinking through a bleeding eye, broke into a run. It lunged. Christian swung the bat. There was a loud smack as the metal slammed into the big cat‘s skull. Its heavy body crumpled to the ground with a loud thud. It uttered a strangled yowl before falling quiet and still.
Roy and Christian left for the hospital, leaving the mountain lion in its final resting place. Christian doubted it would come back after being tied to a chain and rock and being dumped in the gully. As Roy‘s wounds were cleaned and bandaged, Christian mentally pledged never to willingly receive any of his father‘s taxidermied gifts, let alone enter Silence filled the clearing. his father‘s establishment. As he Christian prodded the mountain lion with imagined what kind of damage a bear or a wolf could do, he heard his phone go his shoe. It was dead. It had to be. He off in his pocket. He answered it. He was looked over to Roy, who was sprawled on the ground, breathing raggedly. He met with his father‘s voice. was clutching a deep wound to his ‗Your mother tells me you ran into a bit shoulder. of trouble?‘ He attended to him, kneeling by his side. Christian hesitated, deliberating briefly.
It was over. As he hauled Roy to his feet, He sighed in exasperation. a grimace inched to his lips. What would ‗You wouldn‘t believe me if I told you.‘ Christian was standing over him, holding he tell his landlord, Mrs Beven, his m the bat over his shoulder, rotating it as if mother, his father? They would have to Beatrice Ross he were expecting a throw from a pitcher see the damage and the lion itself to believe him. For once, he was happier Winmalee, NSW from afar. In a gruff voice he shouted at
To Read Aloud ‗Ah, Thomas, what are we reading today?‘
highway from Sydney in the ‘69 HT Holden; the engine roared alive. God he missed that car. Good, solid cars, those ‗Great Expectations, if it pleases you.‘ days. His daughter Georgie hit it twice, with not a scratch on the duco. Her ‗Of course.‘ Capella wasn‘t so lucky. Would she even They met beneath the cover of well-worn remember the trip? Probably not. pages. Corners slick with finger-licking. Funny now, that he should spend so Over the years the lives of characters became intertwined with their own. The much time memory-gazing at those bells. Odd choice for a present, but that‘s the act of reading opened the sealed Poms for you. It‘s a damn sight better envelopes of their minds. Years of memories, before they had met, like old than an eagle-topped telegraph pole. photographs curled and yellowing at the Looking out across the lake, toward edges. Henry, a widower; Thomas, ever- Russell, Henry wondered if it had been cleared—a blue-green algae outbreak had searching for a bird. They took comfort kept the rowers away for a week. Those in each other‘s aloneness. dingy paddleboats, breaking though Light filters through stained-glass congealed gunk, were nowhere to be portholes as the Carillon sing-songs its seen. Sometimes, when it was still and way through morning. Henry hot and dry, the lake would seethe, the remembered taking his missus there long smell of rotting reeds circling up through ago. Desperate to see the white-grey the air. monolith, she begged him to take the Henry sat down on the metal bench. The weekend off. Bloody long way to go to cold bars bit into his bum. Wind see some bells, he‘d thought. Down the
Ashley Orr Wanniassa, ACT animated his broad-brimmed hat as he fought with one arthritic hand to grasp it. Thomas never was much of a timekeeper. After years of factory work, Henry had learnt to be punctual. Another chime in the distance, another quarter hour; there he was, strutting toward the bench, in a hue of brilliant blue. ‗Morning!‘ Tom was chipper, not even aware of his lateness. ‗Nearly arvo, Tom.‘ ‗Oh? Henry, I‘m ever so sorry,‘ he said with a flourish. ‗Just get on with it.‘ ‗Very well. My father’s family name being Pirrip …‘ Thomas read til early afternoon. The sun‘s reflection on the library ahead made their eyes squint, so that Tom‘s looked beadier than ever. Heat radiated off the walls and mingled with the smell of freshly cut lawns. Its white columns
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became almost translucent. A wedding cake someone forgot to put the top on. Grey-white and windowed, it matched the other national institutions—courts, galleries, Parliament House versions one and two. Even the buildings were bored. Unless you count the orange bendy-straw museum façade—and most don‘t. The poplars began to malt, showering Henry with fluffy snowflakes. Tom sneezed as the pollen tickled his nostrils.
paperbacks. He treated such tomes as though the popular were contagious. Using a quick, clawing motion, he‘d touch the brittle, tea-stained pages— sandpaper-like on his skin—for as little time as possible.
death threatened to undo the tightlywoven threads of deceit. Now, when he needed to read a sign on the bus, he pretended to be missing his glasses, despite his 20:20 vision. A whippersnapper, taking pity, would usually give him a hand. He worked hard to memorise ‗I‘ve always found Dickens rather the library opening times. He felt such a agreeable. Austen, however, is trying. All fool standing by the library‘s automatic that ―Mr Whats-it won‘t marry Miss doors, peering at the text, which jumped Who‘s-it‖. Henry, how do you find our and moved about whenever he tried to lady Jane?‘ focus. ‗May I enquire as to your wife‘s favourite ‗Ah, well … I‘ve never read her.‘ Thomas read years into existence while novel?‘ Tom asked. ‗Now Henry, that just won‘t do! I‘m not Henry listened; only occasionally ‗Elsie? She‘d read anything, mate …‘ nodding off. Upon rousing, his back partial to the lady but she must be read. would ache for hours, the imprint of the Tom‘s face twisted into an expression of Why don‘t you start?‘ metal seat indented on his spine. distaste, as though he‘d eaten some rather *** Occasionally, Tom would arrive in a stale bread. He was well-read in the huff, having had yet another to-do with classics and had a particular penchant for Henry never did start. With a series of the Victorian era. With his Pommy airs well-placed compliments, he managed to the library staff. Skittering across the gravelled path, he muttered nearand posh voice Henry often wondered if avoid reading altogether. Thomas heard obscenities—‗Oh dithering‘ all the way Tom had travelled in time from just such ‗Oh, but your voice so lends itself to to Henry‘s bench, with a copy of their a place. No wonder he scoffed at penny reading‘, even though the actual phrase current read. Henry often wondered was more often where he got them all, when the sour‗You‘ve a beaut faced librarians consistently refused his voice for membership application. speaking‘. One ‗Discrimination! Prejudice!’ Tom might suppose Henry did it out of snapped. He followed such outbursts with kindness—Thomas a dissertation on the literary world‘s exclusion of so-called undesirables. The did so enjoy the illiterate Henry could join any time he sound of his own pleased, but for those of a different voice. To be feather, like Thomas, it was decidedly truthful, his English elocution difficult. He stood out—coloured chest, read Dickens just all green-blue and shimmering, a beakas well as the man ish nose and wearing tails of a thousand eyes. He is not one of us. himself. Tom‘s unusual good Thomas would often attract curious looks served only glances from passers-by. Henry, as his to fuel his vanity. companion, drew a few quizzical looks A good friend, he himself. On their stroll round the lake, was nonetheless some would near walk into it, forgetting self-absorbed, and to redirect their gaze on the path ahead. all-round not a Revelling in any attention, Tom would very perceptive parade around, fanning his tail this way fellow. So it was and that. Some ‗oohed‘ and ‗ahhed‘, with ease that others offered scraps of food. Thomas Henry kept his hated that—said it made him feel like a secret safe. Elsie circus animal. Or worse, a ‗commoner‘. allowed for his He beseeched the good people to bring shame and read for him novels. Instead, they sniggered and him without threw crumbs. Some muttered about protest. Even his Henry‘s sanity, chatting away to such a children learnt to creature. Tom, peering down his long talk of it in nose at them, ruffled his feathery whispers. Her waistcoat and read on.
Thomas brought as many people to the library as the books themselves. Though his chest puffed slightly with the gathering crowds, he paid them no more heed. Instead, he carried on nattering about General Tilney or Magwitch as though Henry were his only audience. The local paper even had a naming contest for him. Though pleased with the publicity—he spent hours perfecting his stance for the photo shoot—he preferred to keep his birth name. The political significance of the chosen ‗Andrew‘ was lost on this Englishman. Tourists flocked to see him. He and Henry fought off their fair share of animal libbers too. Poor habitat for a peacock, no mating prospects. He must be moved. And move him they did. Accompanied by a rent-amob and placards, they took him to the Botanic Gardens. The wattle weed and bottlebrush aggravated his hayfever and he became thoroughly unpleasant. Though there were more visitors to admire his plumage, Tom missed Henry dearly.
metal. Thomas, too, was getting on, for a peacock. At nearly 20, he had spent 15 years of his life conversing with a stranger, who then became a friend. Their voices were company in quiet lives. The tourists died down—Tom was no longer a sensation. At first he was a little miffed—the loss of popularity is troubling even to the humble man. In time, he forgot he was ever famous and took to his reading with a renewed vigour that belied his years. To Henry‘s relief, this meant less requests for reading, until Tom‘s reading began to slow and headbent, his beak grew ever-closer to the page.
the sweat of his palms, Tom softened. He understood now that it was all for him. Every day, for the past 15 years, Henry spent $1.10 on a broadsheet he could not hope to read, in the hope that his dearest friend would see him as the literary companion he so desired. Thomas considered this carefully planned manoeuvre and, finding himself quite impressed, gave Henry a wink and handed him a book. ***
Henry underestimated his friend. Loyalty was an important, if not frequent, aspect of Tom‘s disposition. He had all the shallowness of his species with a twinge ‗Henry, I‘m afraid it‘s my eyesight. Will of almost-human compassion. Each you go on?‘ morning, Tom arrived with an old Everything—bird, man, secret—has its favourite, so battered that the plastic lifespan, thought Henry. He had hoped coating peeled from the edges of its Tom‘s would run out first. You‘d be cover. And so the bird spent the last years forgiven for thinking he wished his dear of his life teaching Henry to read. He friend dead. This is certainly how it began with the alphabet, moving on to sounds. Let us not forget his pride and syllables and sounding out, spelling and worse than that, his fear—that upon grammar. When he considered Henry finding his friend unable to read, Tom sufficiently advanced, for he was a quick Henry sat by the library for days waiting might leave him in favour of one who learner, he talked of character and theme. for Tom. After several more he began to could. Would he be hurt? That his years Thomas, blind now, taught Henry from question his certainty that Tom would of literary dissection had fallen on the only text he knew by heart: Great return—perhaps he preferred the uneducated ears? Henry had played the Expectations. It was not until Thomas gardens? Yet a week later, there he was, conversation over and over in his mind heard the old man read, fluently, and with sitting beside his friend once more. It all this time—imagining various a trace of his tutor‘s accent, the last took so long, he said, because the damn reactions on Tom‘s part. When he was line—I took her hand in mine, and we libbers settled in to guard him. So he feeling hopeful, he imagined Tom giving went out of the ruined place; and, as the hatched a scheme—asked his mate him a good-natured flick of his tail and morning mists had risen long ago when I Arnold to swap places with him. When sending Henry to hire an audiobook. But first left the forge, so, the evening mists the sentry nodded off, Tom scaled the the more he thought about it, the more he were rising now, and in all the broad high-vis barrier and left Arnold with his was sure his revelation would cost him expanse of tranquil light they showed to book, for good measure. Of course, once me, I saw no shadow of another parting the only friend he had in this city. they realised he was gone, they arrived from her—that he parted, closing his eyes back on the steps of the library. They Tom narrowed his beady eyes and cocked for the final time as Henry snapped the tried to take him again, but Tom bit half a his head. Realising he‘d been silent for cover shut. m dozen of them, just so they knew their some time, Henry swallowed efforts were not appreciated. So they uncomfortably and said: ‗Can‘t, mate. Ashley Orr went on to the next cause—a kangaroo at Never learned to read.‘ Wanniassa, ACT the courts, perhaps. Tom and Henry were allowed to resume their journey through Thomas had never considered it odd that his friend declined to read. In his wisdom Ashley Orr is a uni student who wishes the gloom of Northanger and Miss he knew that many who enjoy the she wrote more stories than essays. Havisham‘s mansion. pleasures of novels have no wish to read Despite being a city girl for most of her *** aloud. And yet, now he considered it, he life, she loves to write about country never had seen Henry read, much less so Australia. Lately she’s been The pages of Austen and Dickens, and aloud. Henry carried the daily paper but it experimenting with the genre of dirty countless more in between, lemoned with sat forever crisp and unopened on the realism and hopes to begin a novel over the curse of age. Henry‘s greying hair bench. At first Tom was angered by such summer. became snow. His knees creaked as he deceit but as he turned to face Henry and lowered himself onto the bench and saw him rubbing the newspaper between rested a knobbly walking stick against the arthritic fingers, smudging the text with
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Creatures of Habitual You never quite know when and how much your life will change, no matter how much it’s dominated by routine.
As she read the front page of the local mid-coast paper she had to smile. Her partying days were well and truly over and wasn‘t that a blessing. The article in question was about two paramedics that had been attacked whilst on the job. They were attending to an assault victim in the town centre late on Saturday night when they themselves were set upon. She shouldn‘t really smile. It might not have anything to do with her but it was a terrible situation and a sad reflection of where many of today‘s juveniles were at. Youth had never respected authority and the commentators were fooling themselves thinking that they had, but there did seem to be an increase in alcohol related violence. No one thought anything of a group setting upon one person or attacking someone with a glass or bottle. In her day, you would be a labelled a coward for such an act. A fight was one against one or a gang against another gang. The article reminded her of teenage days of trouble, tears, tantrums, confusion and heartbreak. Oh yes, plenty of heartache. An ocean of pain, the emotions as swirling and unpredictable as the currents. She was glad that it was all behind her. Today her life was the polar opposite. She was sixty three and had become the person she swore she‘d never be, just like her mother. If anything, her life was even more structured than the other. Her days went like this: She rose at 6:45 a.m. after one hit on the snooze button. She let the cat out, His Majesty Fernando, and made breakfast which she ate at precisely 7:30 a.m. She washed the dishes and had a shower. She put on her makeup and left the house at 8:40 a.m. and not a minute later. She walked to the corner store and bought the paper. She could have it delivered but she likes the walk and the nice man who runs the store, Mr Plumpton who, while not overly chatty, is polite and knows her name, which in itself, warrants the
journey. She walks home, lets the cat in, makes a pot of tea, enough for two cups and reads the paper. At 9:45 a.m. she begins her housework regime which takes precisely one hour. She dusts, vacuums (those cat hairs), makes her bed and a quick once over of the bathroom (it‘s already spotless). Monday the bins go out, Tuesday she returns the weekly DVDs and rents a new batch (always three), Wednesday is lottery day, Thursday is lunch with the girls at the quaint little café near the mall (the RSL is for drunks and gamblers) followed by a library visit and Friday is lawn bowls. If possible, depending on the weather, she will sweep the concrete paths around her house, if not, a little polishing of the items in her cabinet, the animal figurines, souvenirs and family photographs. Though she had never had children, there were many slightly faded shots of her nieces and nephews and now, some of their children.
Anthony J. Langford Croydon, NSW were DVD nights. There were many more things, such as reading in bed for twenty minutes before sleep and others so exacting that she no longer needed to rely on the eight clocks spread throughout the house even though she scanned them meticulously anyway. Such is habit. The evening came about, a Friday, DVD night. She had stayed up later than usual, which was no accident, as her precise bedtime was determined by the movie‘s length. Live a little. Tonight‘s film was an Australian drama about ten years old with the usual Aussie characters and woes (why do they have to swear so much?). The stories may change, but it appears to her as though they were all made by the same people. Perhaps they were. A comforting thought. However it was over two hours long and she was very tired. Something felt out of place.
The cat. ‗Oh no, Fernando! Poor love.‘ He would be waiting for her at the door and probably had been for some time. Lunch is a simple ham and salad She slid open the glass door, expecting to sandwich with a side plate of cut up fruit see His little eyes staring up from the step (apple and banana), though in winter she so much so that it took her seconds to makes a tomato or pumpkin soup with grasp that He wasn‘t actually there. She could make out half the yard with the bread. light leaking from the kitchen, but the Somehow or other, twenty three years rest was in darkness. She called out His before, she had stumbled upon one of the name but He didn‘t come. She figured He prominent early afternoon soaps and had was probably sick of waiting for the silly become deliciously hooked. She doesn‘t woman and had wandered off feel as though she must watch it, it‘s somewhere. Should she leave the door more like visiting old friends. The open and hope that He would return? But characters gave her a sense of warmth, how long would that be? She decided to even if their behaviour was often fetch the torch from the bottom of the questionable. pantry behind her garden shoes. She discovered that the shoes were a tad Following that, it was off to the local shopping district by car where she would grotty and in need of a good wipe. Mess buy groceries and pay bills and whatever was not best. else required her attention. She came She slides the door closed behind her and home, fed Fernando (the first of two flicks the torch on. She plays the beam meals as he prefers to eat late), and had a over the backyard. The light brings cup of tea and a wee slice of cake, which momentary respite to the gloom but her she makes on a Sunday, a spot of reading, glasses don‘t really help. They are her a good old fashioned mystery and then it short distance glasses, but she is was onto dinner preparation by five, impatient. She calls out to Him, treading dinner at six, washing up, ABC News, a across the perfectly cut lawn, (she has a change into her nightie, a variety of her garden man come every three weeks), favourite shows, spread throughout the stopping in front of the small trees and week, though Friday and Saturday nights
bushes which line the back fence. She swings the light over them, the shadows thick and floating. There is life in there. A little frightening. Fernando with his dark fur could be in front of her but she wouldn‘t be able to see Him. Yet He always comes when she calls. So it is logical that He is not here. She turns and walks down the side of the house, where the path leads to the gate and out onto the street. The gate remains shut, which of course, means nothing. It wouldn‘t be the first time He has jumped the fence.
invigorating, but has to focus on the cat. The dog barking increases in intensity and ups her anxiety, but as she gets closer, she realises it‘s merely one of those tiresome yappy mutts that would howl at a bird fluff. She walks on, reaching the end of the street. It‘s more illuminated at the next cross street, a busier road. Perhaps He was attracted by the noise and lights. It seems an awfully busy and dangerous place for a wee cat. As she walks, she remembers that it is Friday night, which would account for the traffic, but still, she has never seen it so busy. The streets have certainly changed over the years. She is The street light beckons. It is brighter out there and she should tempted to go back home, but can‘t return without Him. She get a clear view. She pulls her nightie tight around her and keeps calling for Fernando, but is disheartened by the young opens the gate. She surveys the front yard calling softly to people going past in their cars ogling her. Some beep, some Fernando. She doesn‘t want to scare Him away nor disturb the laugh and one cheeky young lady yells out; ‗Hey grandma! neighbours, lest they think her odd. This is not like her at all. Where‘s ya wand? Woo-hoo!‘ Such disrespect. And she is no The torch does not reveal any clues and the surrounding houses one‘s grandma either. She isn‘t even that old. Perhaps she isn‘t appear quiet, save for a barking dog further up the street. She young anymore, but is still middle-age thank you, with many hopes that it is not barking at Fernando. He could be backed up years left. That‘s if she doesn‘t catch cold from being outside. against a fence, frozen with fear. Perhaps she should take a What was she thinking being out at night in her nightie no less? look. The street is quiet, save for the muffled sounds of And yet the breeze on her cheeks and the faint salt sprinkle of televisions and bluish flickers from beyond the curtains. She stars above make her feel lively. There is an energy in the air, a treads slowly up the pavement, her slippers soft on the slight hint of adventure too, a feeling that she has not had since concrete. She has to have her Fernando home. She will not be being young so long ago, when she was, literally, a different able to sleep without Him. person. The street is different in the dark. It‘s like another world. She She is so preoccupied looking in every shadow for Him, that can‘t remember the last time she had been out at night. It‘s she doesn‘t notice them until they are almost on her. It‘s a almost as though she‘s walking on the moon, an explorer. The young group, four male and one female and nearly all of them Arctic Circle, without the ice. She finds it strangely drinking. She stops but they are curious. They quickly surround her, looking her up and down as though she belongs to another species. ‗She‘s pretty hot hey!‘ ‗Ha ha. You idiot.‘ ‗Maybe she‘s lost.‘ ‗Escaped from the old people‘s home.‘ ‗Cool. On the run, hey.‘ ‗She must be crazy.‘ ‗She‘s bananas. In pyjamas!‘ They laugh, encouraging one another. One elbows another. ‗See if she‘s up for a shag.‘ They explode in a cauldron of splutters and fall over themselves in a tirade of teenage limbs, each aiming to impress the other. ‗Please. Have you seen my Fernando?‘ ‗You‘re what?‘ More giggling. ‗Wait, she‘s trying to say something,‘ says a boy. ‗My cat,‘ she says. ‗He‘s lost. Have you seen Him?‘ Another boy says, ‗She wants to know if you‘ve seen her pussy.‘ They all laugh and one boy pushes another towards the sixty-three year old. Operating on instinct she swings the torch as the boy flies at her and there is a coarse crack and the boy drops. Some of them chuckle at first, but she immediately knows it‘s bad. She backs away as the girl and a boy go to the injured teen who has not moved. For a moment they think he‘s kidding as there is no blood. But it‘s no joke.
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‗What‘dya do that for?‘ ‗Hey you bitch!‘ She takes a step back. ‗Where do you think you‘re going?‘ The girl on the pavement screams, ‗Call an ambulance!‘ Two boys walk towards her. Hate on their faces. She holds out the torch to them. ‗I didn‘t mean it. I‘m really sorry.‘ They call her names that she has not heard for decades, apart from in films, occasionally in the street and that unfortunate time inside the butcher when a customer argued over the price of Italian sausages. She drops the torch. One of them picks it up and holds it back like a cricket ball, ready to hurl at her like she‘s the stumps. ‗Maybe I‘ll do it to you, old bitch!‘
It‘s too late. It was a mistake. It had all been a silly mistake. Just one slip up in a vacuum sealed life. Why hadn‘t she stayed home? She hears a siren, enlarging. An ambulance? A third boy rapidly approaches the others. ‗Come on guys. She‘s just an old woman. She didn‘t mean it. Did you lady?‘ She shakes her head, unable to speak. ‗Come on. I‘ll walk you home. Do you know where you live? Where‘s the hospital?‘ He lightly takes her by the arm. ‗This way is it?‘ The other two look to each other for guidance, but find none. They merely stand, waiting for someone to tell them what to do.
The ambulance pulls up. A young man and a woman get out, but they hesitate. They personally know the paramedic who She pictures her house, her chair, her kitchen, her clocks, her bed; all she wants was recently attacked. He remains in is her bed. And that stupid cat, Fernando. serious condition. For all they know, it‘s This is His fault. ‗I‘m sorry. I‘m so the same group of teenagers. sorry.‘ And then she recalls the ‗Step away from the victim,‘ says the newspaper articles. The assaults, the woman. vicious beatings, the lack of respect, society seemingly without rules and she The girl cradles the injured boy‘s head knows she is doomed. She has no and indicates with her own, that she will recourse, she has handed them an excuse not obey. on a platter. She will be the one in the The young woman points. ‗We‘re not next day‘s papers, and someone just like coming over there until you back away. her will read and shake their head and The lot of you.‘ wonder what the world was coming to and then put the paper down and have a The male paramedic becomes aware of cup of tea or watch TV, perhaps her the elderly woman in her flimsy nightie favourite soapie and simply forget. That‘s with another teen gripping her arm, about all she‘ll be, a scant few lines in the local to or having already done, who knows rag. She doesn‘t even have children. what disgusting thing, all in the arena of There‘ll be a funeral of course, some pubescent entertainment. Sick little shits. faint dabbing beneath the eyes with a The man charges at the boy, who barely handkerchief, a wake with tea and has time to speak as he is tackled to the biscuits and a missing spot in the bowls ground with full force, almost bowling team, but that will be filled quickly and over the sixty-three year old. The other that will be it. Gone. As though she was two boys rush in to help, fists and feet in nothing. And all those years sticking high rotation and the female paramedic is rigidly to her schedule would count for calling on her radio and the older woman naught. Did her routines ever do her any in her pyjamas rights herself and runs, good? yes, she actually runs, which is the first time for many years and she isn‘t that fast The two lads circle her like a pair of but is a lot faster than she thinks possible hungry lions, wondering which piece of and perhaps the bowls has been giving flesh to rip off first. her some exercise after all and in no time She is rigid. There is no point in crying. is back in the darkened streets more
familiar to her and is astounded that no one is pursuing, instead detecting another siren, one she recognises as from a police car and she slows as she is reunited with her street and her bosom heaves as she tries to catch up on oxygen and is soon at her side gate, spluttering, her throat dry and her temples clobbering and staggers into her backyard and the light on the steps by the back door paints Fernando like a celebrity, waiting but indifferent to her state. She squints as she gets closer. He licks his lips, anticipating food. That‘s all she is to Him, a source of food. A Living Dispenser. A Private Chef. A Walking Supermarket. A Portable DriveThrough. Her throat is raw from her toil, but still she screams, ‗You fucking little bastard shit of a cat!‘ With adrenaline still surging she kicks Fernando and he scissors backwards into the glass door, bounces off, rotates in a blur and bounds screeching off into the night. She opens the door and slides it shut behind her, locking it with a sense of finality. She stumbles panting to the cupboard and seeks out a bottle of whiskey which has been there for over a year thanks to her nephew who insisted it be left there, no doubt to tolerate the boredom of visiting her. Well fuck him too. She stays awake until the sky is blue and gets drunk as a maggot in a beer vat. She sleeps most of the next day, neglecting her breakfast, the dishes, her shower and forgoes buying the paper and therefore not discovering the outcome of her ordeal in a small paragraph on page four but is successful in eradicating her routines forever more. Without Him. m Anthony J. Langford Croydon, NSW Anthony grew up in country Victoria but after several years travelling now lives in Sydney with his baby daughter and three step children. He has had numerous stories published and his novella ‘Bottomless River’ will be published by Ginninderra Press in early 2012. He publishes a blog at www.anthonyjlangford.com
Dawn Kaleidoscope Robyn Chaffey Hazelbrook, NSW I stood mesmerised in the entry as the heavy cedar door swung slowly open to reveal breath-taking dancing light-plays dawn-kaleidoscopic as the first warm rays of the new rising sun eagerly pierced magnificently textured and coloured lead-light windows It was as though freshly dew-kissed angels in their finest autumnal robes danced in joyful celebration upon every sacred surface of this tiny God-blessed hall transforming without effort the cold and lonely chapel to a place of peace and joy
Sydney Summer Slow Susan Adams Dangar Island, NSW After lunch we slow midday heat expansion melts glue of joints and cells leaves us formless wobbling edges of infinity pools, packs reason into sandwiches for later snacks. We surrender. Cicada burst of swarm jerks us to our smaller selves as touch to anemone, acid to wound, we contract to fear and alert with jab of adrenaline a jet plane revving up to a stop so sudden its scalpel to air hung as sky fences around us until silence shuffles sounds back to startled vacuum. The moment moves forward, hush heavied curtains unfurl. m
I had risen very early just to mop the floor ‘twas my duty ‘twas a chore there to dust the furnishings but touched this morn unexpectedly perhaps miraculously by this seldom seen illusive autumn dawn display I was heart-transformed would now face each morn with joy as I ran to catch a moment of tiny dancing kaleidoscopic angels few but me were ever blessed to see m
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Miranda L. Payne North Coast, NSW
Interiors The white door opens to reveal an interior that ever impresses itself upon me as not so much a room but a velvet cave. She is seated, as always, on the crimson divan facing the door as I enter. Often she wears silk or velour. My favourite is an iridescent turquoise shawl. As always, on the coffee table, to my right, which runs along the wall between her divan and the chair opposite, where I sit, is the vase I have given her and in which, like any true devotee, I will place my offering of flowers; forget-me -nots, camellias or roses, depending on the season. Above the coffee table hangs the tapestry her guru has given her. And, as always, the room is infused with the smell of incense. The cream lace curtain behind her billows lightly in the breeze. To my left, along the wall, are the shelves which house books, which seem to me to contain the very answers to life‘s mysteries. Or at least the mystery of my life.
too important to me. ‗You are late.‘ she said. And then, ‗I thought you might not come.‘ ‗I‘m not sure I was going to come.‘ I replied. And so began the first of visits I can no longer count. Into this room, on some strangely pilgrim and sacramental journey, I drag my cracked and desert
not know were missing, in order to mend my brokenness and become whole, to find the centre from which I have become dislocated. Dislodged from self, I am fragmented, unloosed, unhinged, unmoored, washed up, dried up, stranded on arid and alien shores. A shipwreck of myself, I have foundered on life. Castaway, cast off, mere flotsam and jetsam. It is a vessel upon the sea of my perilous subconscious, she at the helm as guide, with charts and compass. She is shaman, priestess, bridge to the gods and demons of the deep where I must go, as well as anchor to bring me back. She is launch and safe harbour. She is womb wherein I am rocked and cradled, my barren spaces filled while I wait to be birthed into new life, waters breaking over desolate wasteland to make an inland sea. She is mother and midwife both. And I am withered no more.
Later on, when we became lovers, and this room our meeting place, in it I learned that there was no secret There are some cushions on the floor, I knowledge to be found in the think, and a few stuffed animals. But it unveiling of a mystery or the breaking is the books that my eyes always linger of a taboo, only bitterness and on. Perhaps they can decode me. recrimination, the inner sanctum hollow after all; that in the shattering On the bookshelves is a statue of of trust which came with desire made Lakshmi, an Indian goddess of healing. carnal, the sacred had been made It is a room that invites and holds the profane and the shrine of my healing a telling of secrets or stories, which are heart to unburden itself of its griefs and place of betrayal, temple desecrated, safe sometimes the same thing, as well as emptiness and the shelter, acceptance and harbour now treacherous water, Madonna offering silence and mystery and communion I find here become a turned temptress, wise woman witch, promise. And it seems to me that once I soothing balm for its wounds. Grace for priestess falling from on high and cross the threshold, I have entered sacred my soul and my soul's salvation. No drowning with me, sucking the world space; the world outside suspended. I am longer parched, the inner realm comes to inside out and flinging it apart. I knew the tabernacled here. life, bringing the world back into colour. quest to be ruined, my soul violated, heart Life is once more coherent with meaning. again trampled and forsaken, fleeing for Her green-gold eyes also hold the same safe keeping to more securely sealed compelling invitation and promise, and I often wonder how many others' souls recess while ever yearning for release. some arcane knowing, and, to be honest, are similarly held within this room. I don‘t remember which I noticed first; I learned of the tears shed for prayers In it I am launched on an epic voyage to the room or her presence; and perhaps answered instead of not, because I got navigate the cavernous chambers of my they came to be the same thing. what I thought I wanted instead of what I turbulent and secret heart, to plummet the needed. And I learned that maybe there The first time I went there I was aching chasms of the void within, in are some things not for sharing and some deliberately and nonchalantly late, to search of lost parts of myself, which I did interiors best not entered. m show that I was not going to let her be
they lack a basic sense of humanity and any idea of adventure. I could have I‘ve never smoked cigarettes. I‘ve always followed it up, gone to another chemist, been too afraid of cancer of the lung, but I lost interest. Anyway, Alex told me cancer of anything really, but cancer of some time later how a friend had given the lung would be bad. You only have to him one at a party and he put it on and it hold your breath ‘til you have to stop to made his head spin and he threw up on an get a feeling for how that one works, electric hot plate which was on and the because that‘s what it‘s like, dying of smell of the bubbling vomit made him cancer of the lung. Like you‘re holding throw up again on the floor. It‘s a terrible your breath, but it just goes on and on, drug, nicotine, as addictive as heroin. asleep or awake, until your lungs can‘t get enough oxygen processed, or the ~~~ secondaries get you. I was in a chemist‘s The next day I had to take my StopRite once, buying something, and I saw a SG87 stun gun to Alex to have it poster for nicotine patches stuck up serviced. At two o‘clock Fletcher and I behind the counter. arrived at Alex‘s house. He had a ‗Do people ever buy them just to get a workroom underneath with shelves and shelves of racked electronic equipment, buzz? Non smokers?‘ I asked her. mostly without cases so you could see the ‗I certainly hope not,‘ she said. wires and boards and softly glowing red lights that intimated something was ‗I suppose it‘d be hard to tell. It‘d be a happening in there. There were screens, hard one to police.‘ different monitors, old TV sets that had ‗They‘re a drug, they shouldn‘t be been converted to do something else, new mistreated. They can cause all sorts of flat panels, everything had extra wires, problems. People have died.‘ and nothing was standard. There were also tea and coffee making facilities. ‗Really?‘ I asked. I got out my wallet. Everything was clean, in an unfussy ‗What‘s a good brand?‘ way—there was no dust, the air ‗Why?‘ conditioner was double filtered and, summer or winter, set to an ‗Nothing. Just thought I might buy uncomfortable cold, like an early Russian some.‘ autumn, Alex said. ‗Do you smoke?‘ She looked at my I gave him my StopRite. He said, ‗NASA fingers for signs of nicotine yellowing has confessed to suppressing the UFO and I took my hands off the counter. sightings by the Apollo 11 team‘. He had ‗Maybe,‘ I said. the slightest accent; you could only just ‗They‘re a drug. We don‘t just sell them catch it. ‗Thirty years they sat on it. We had a right to know! What did they think to anybody.‘ we were going to do, panic and ‗What if I said I smoked a hundred a stampede? When I told my mother I‘d day?‘ seen a UFO she didn‘t run around the house screaming, waving her hands, She ignored me. I said, ‗I smoke a smashing things, breaking the furniture. hundred cigarettes a day. Full strength. Have you got a cigarette? I‘ll show you.‘ She told me to ―Shut up and go to bed. You are talking crap‖.‘ They can refuse you things, pharmacists, Fletcher was on his side, half under a like if you ask for a hundred packets of bench, his eyes almost closed. Alex was cold tablets. If they think you‘re a drug addict or an idiot they have the power to finishing soldering something. There was refuse you what you want. They‘re a lot a resiny smell to the air from the flux, like doctors— they say they‘re all about and a little ozone too, and the tang of the thin oil you spray on things rusted shut. the community and easing suffering but CHAPTER FIVE
He put the soldering iron down and filled the electric kettle and turned it on. He didn‘t ask what I wanted. We had tea. He spoke at length of conspiracies, government, public and private sector plots, serious things being withheld, important facts buried, files destroyed, people murdered, the joke that the Freedom of Information Act had been from the very start. He had the StopRite in pieces and he took a new part from a drawer, a battery, and soldered it in. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt. I asked him if he was cold. It was freezing in there as far as I was concerned. ‗No,‘ he said. It was like a Russian autumn to him: brisk, a hint of the winter to come. ‗Have you ever been to Russia in the winter, Art?‘ he asked. ‗No, I never have,‘ I said. ‗It can be a lot of fun. There is a big park in the centre of Moscow, Gorky Park, named after Maxim Gorky the famous writer. In the winter the stone paths flood and freeze over. Everywhere there are Russian vagrants in big overcoats, passing the time. The style is to have a bottle of vodka in each coat pocket. The vagrants wander about. Often one will slip on the frozen path and fall and then get up and stumble away leaking blood and vodka. The blood freezes. It happens frequently, trails of blood and vodka here, and more over there. It‘s dangerous walking on frozen water if you‘ve been drinking vodka out of the bottle since six a.m.‘ ‗I can imagine,‘ I said. ‗I don‘t think so. It can get down to minus thirty degrees Celsius in a good Moscow winter. It takes more than a big Russian overcoat and two bottles of vodka to get you through sleeping rough. You should try it, then you could say ―I know‖ instead of ―I can imagine‖, which I know for a fact you can‘t.‘ He had the stun gun reassembled now. ‗Maybe one day,‘ I said. ‗I think not, Art,‘ he replied and patted
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my back and I knew he was right. I‘d never spend a night in a Russian winter, rough or in a hotel with gold cutlery; it wasn‘t in my charts. I put the gun in my pocket and left some money for him in an envelope. He didn‘t open it, just threw it in the drawer he got the battery from. It contained a thousand dollars. He saw us to the car. I buckled Fletcher in and as I put the Torqueflite into drive I waved and called out the window, ‗Keep your stick on the ice!‘ It was an American saying, perhaps Canadian, and the only thing I could think of even peripherally associated with what we‘d been talking about. He didn‘t understand it but it didn‘t matter because by then he was thinking of something else altogether. ~~~ Lyn Hoskins used to ride a horse. Recreationally. She‘d ride it down the hill from the abattoir where she lived, round to the back of our hotel in Penolva, to the car park, usually to collect her father but once to try to get me to take something out of her shirt pocket. Her father owned the abattoir—it was all his, from the slippery-slide rides for the sledgehammered cows to the huge circular saws they used to rip open the stomachs of the animals hung up on hooks. His name was Dave Hoskins and he was worth a lot of money and a lot of meat. Being the local hotel we used to get meat cheap from Dave, massive cardboard boxes of meat from the variety of different animals that Dave slaughtered up on the hill. There was so much meat, everyone was a walking coronary. So, Lyn Hoskins had a horse, probably because her father worked a lot with animals. She‘d be up on its back in the hotel car park chatting down to me and I‘d be down at ground level, looking up at her, nervous and edgy, wondering what she was going to do. She took me on the back around the yard once, me behind her on the horse‘s rump with my arms around her waist, tight, because it was a long way back down. I was surprised how soft she was and it caused a solid erection which lasted until someone arrived in a car and parked in a cloud of dust and
startled the horse so that I nearly came off. It was frightening and awkward and embarrassing because before I slipped sideways my erection was pushed into her back in a way that was alarmingly unambiguous. It went down almost immediately and I‘ve never ridden any sort of animal since. ~~~ I was packing my kit, getting ready for my second visit to Mr Seager‘s. I had the telly on quietly in the background. Someone was interviewing Americans in the street. The country had been sliding ever since the end of the Cold War. Standards had been compromised by the sloth of creeping complacency. The country had put on weight, punched another hole further along its belt and started breakfasting on beer and cake. When the race is on to match Inter Continental Ballistic Missile with Inter Continental Ballistic Missile, nuclear this with nuclear that, you have to stay on your toes, keep more to your fighting weight. You‘ve got to be in the ring there, practice-sparring pretty much every Saturday afternoon and at least one night mid-week. The interviewer was asking passers-by what they thought about Leonardo De Vinci and an attractive but heavy girl had just been saying how he was just so smashing in ‗Titanic‘. A short, round middle aged woman got the closest to a neatest correct entry by saying he should have his mouth washed out with soap and water for that statue he made of that boy with his privates uncovered and she was all for burning all the art books that had pictures of it because what if children got a hold of one. She was referring of course to Michelangelo‘s quite lovely statue of David but she got marks for being aware of anything that happened so long ago and in a totally different country altogether. I‘m sure there is intellectual sinew aplenty in the United States of America but it formed no part of this show‘s duty statement. So I was packing my kit. In a large leather holdall with a zip top I had the following items which I‘d checked against a list:
Folding shovel, of the type used by the soldiers to dig holes during a war StopRite SG87 stun gun A packet of six StopRite cartridges at forty dollars each unit (but you generally only need one) Roll of duct tape Some rope Balaclava A small case which stylishly displayed my set of lock-picks Gloves of the softest leather—kid, stripped from the body of a goat A torch that can float Spray can of black paint A digital camera A fresh pad and biro A magazine with an article about how once one major disease was knocked on the head another more frightening one took its place, so providing the world with balance and harmony A packet of Pork-O treats for Fletcher Pork-Os have a cartoon drawing of a happy pig on the front wearing a sailor‘s cap, looking through a ship‘s porthole with the words ‗Pork-Os Aweigh‘ tracing the bottom of the curve. If you look at any pork product on the supermarket shelf that has the picture of a pig on it, they all look really excited about being part of the product, happy as happy can be, often wearing something crazy like a pork pie hat or a red and white polka dot neck scarf or bib and brace overalls, or in the case of a bacon flavoured bar purportedly eaten by astronauts, a space suit. I also threw in: A spare battery for the camera The way the StopRite works is this: you can fire it off either with or without a cartridge. If it‘s loaded with a cartridge when you pull the trigger two small electrodes with little barbed ends are fired using compressed nitrogen. There‘s probably some reason it‘s nitrogen but I don‘t know what it is. The barbs are attached to the weapon by thin wires
which shoot down a burst of special electricity which has been adjusted in some way to stun, or disorganise, the brain‘s synapses to the point that the victim loses interest in whatever it was he was doing that annoyed whoever it was holding the weapon and he‘s down pretty much immediately, or becomes ‗stunned‘ as it says in the pamphlet. If you don‘t have a cartridge in it when you fire, the thing produces a spark of the same synapse disorganising electricity at the end of the muzzle and if you happen to be holding it against someone‘s neck, say, or any other exposed flesh, you get a similar result. Mostly the thing stuns but if you get someone with a history of heart problems or who‘s over seventy, or just isn‘t cut out for that kind of activity, it can occasion death, as the police like to say. Alex said that in America, the land of the personal weapon, you can get them in zebra stripes or a range of stylish colours, and I believe him. The StopRite Corporation believes that, to make things fair and get some sort of level playing field going, everyone should have a StopRite, in the same way Henry Ford saw a world where everyone was driving around in one of his T-Models, and I can understand their reasoning and, more importantly, their sense of fair play. ~~~ Fletcher and I were in the Torqueflite, heading north for our evening meeting, Fletcher curled on the front seat, quiet, chewing Pork-Os. He‘s not a barker—he prefers to size a situation up. He‘s a thinker. He thinks about things. A teacher, a man more wise than a small public school in Penolva deserved, once said to me, ‗Art, think …‘ and he paused for a second, ‗… then release‘. It should be on the sides of buses all over the nation. It should be a national motto. Think … and release ... because so often we just release and no matter how much or how hard you think after that, it‘s often too late.
because it‘s going to usher in a whole new age with a whole new set of problems that only people like Stephen Hawking and Bertrand Russell would have started thinking about yet, only not Russell, obviously, because he‘s been dead now for sixty years or so and I only used him as an example of the type of person who‘d be thinking about it. She said I was being flip so I said okay, in a thousand years there‘d be no human race and the dominant species would probably be one of the insects, maybe the cockroach as you couldn‘t kill them in a microwave and she said I was being flip again so I asked her what she thought the world would be like in a thousand years. She said she could see it being similar to the way it is today, only with more people which would mean narrower supermarket aisles and longer queues for just about everything.
you today on behalf of the Church of Jehovah, to share the good news of Christ‘s imminent return.‘ I moved Fletcher‘s lead to my left hand and pulled the StopRite from my pocket and, aiming roughly for his chest, pulled and held the trigger. There was a dull pop and the little electrodes darted out of the muzzle in a rush of gas and flew across the ten or so feet that separated us, the little barbed ends penetrating Mr Seager‘s shirt, going through into his flesh, one above and one below the left nipple. The special electric current buzzed down the wires then and Max expelled air and jerked and fell back into his Ford to lie across both front seats. He was unconscious I think, but I pulled the trigger again and held it down for the count of five to make sure and in the middle of the shaking he evacuated his bowels.
He must have been lying on the gate remote because the two gates started opening again. We got to the car and I ‗Not exactly,‘ she said. put my gloves on and bent and reached in We were quiet for a bit after that until she and felt under his shoulder for the little box. The smell from Mr Seager‘s bowel looked up and said, ‗Heaven help the movement was unpleasant and even universe if we take to the stars‘. though I held my breath it was still ‗Aliens are looking into that already,‘ I getting in somewhere. told her. The gates were shutting again when I ~~~ found it and I stood up and turned and pushed the green button and the We parked down from Mr Seager‘s at about four thirty that afternoon. I got the mechanism made a grinding noise, then spray can out of the bag and put the lead they started to open again. on Fletcher and we did another lap of the I flipped the cartridge out of the StopRite block, coming down the last straight from and rolled the wires up and threw the coil behind the security camera so that as we onto Max‘s chest and then Fletcher and I passed I could give the lens a quick got the Torqueflite and drove it in and spray. Then we were back in the car parked it beside the Ford, with the boot ready to go, sitting quietly, waiting for right up next to Mr Seager. Fletcher Max to come home. stayed in the car while I got out and ‗Not a brave new world then?‘ I asked.
The StopRite was in my right trouser pocket and I had the gloves rolled up in the left. The rest of the kit was still in the bag, waiting for phase two. Fletcher was on his third Pork-O when Max pulled his high-end Ford up across the pavement. I saw him fiddle with something then ~~~ throw it on the passenger‘s seat and the electric gates began to slowly swing The last time I saw Minnie Fielding she asked me (and I don‘t remember how this open. came up) what I thought the world would Fletcher and I got out then and crossed be like in a thousand years. We might the road and walked up the grass verge in have been discussing the long term time to slip through as the gates began to prospects of the human race, but it‘s close again. Mr Seager was getting out of possible it was something else entirely— his car and I waved and called hello. He you can‘t reverse engineer it from the stopped and turned towards us and I said, question. Anyway, I thought about it for a ‗Hi there,‘ and gave another little wave. bit and then told her I believed that in a ‗I‘m Art,‘ I said, ‗and this is Fletcher.‘ thousand years dogs will have advanced Fletcher was a pace ahead of me and I to the point where they‘ve learned how to shook his lead to show Mr Seager I was open doors by themselves. And, I said, referring to the dog. ‗We‘re calling on heaven help us when that happens
opened the boot and pulled and rolled and heaved Mr Seager until he was lying on his side in the back and then I used duct tape to bind his limbs and cover his mouth. I checked him again for a pulse then closed the boot and got in the car and backed out onto the street. I closed the gates with the remote then tossed it over the fence, into the shrubbery, and we set off on phase two. ~~~ We drove west for about four hours. Max‘s bowel release was finding its way into the front so I had the front windows down. I stopped once to fill up and let Fletcher out for a pee and to stretch his legs and we had a sausage roll each from a greasy bain-marie next to the cash
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them up. I‘ve never met anyone who‘s made up a joke and no one I know has met anyone who has but there must be We drove on and eventually I turned off people out there doing it, unless Alex is the highway and drove for a while, then right and they‘re aliens. Alex says aliens turned off onto a track and drove until are using them to undermine the fabric of after about fifteen minutes it just our society and it‘s an interesting theory suddenly stopped. providing you have no trouble believing It was flat and dry and scrubby and by the there are aliens, or that a joke can actually undermine the fabric of a light of the three quarter moon I got Mr society. Anyway I‘ve included my effort Seager out of the boot and dragged him below. The pivotal point revolves around five hundred metres off to the right, the elephant‘s supposed perfect long term helped by Fletcher who had hold of a lapel of his coat. Max was still out. I got memory, which I‘ve tried humorously to cast into doubt. There are two elephants the Second World War folding shovel and unfolded it and Fletcher and I dug a in the joke, one which you eventually discover is named Max and a second, hole. whose name is never revealed. Ancillary We climbed out, and with something characters are Peter Wilmont, a bartender resembling a golf swing I struck Max as and Trevor Parsons, a figure from Max‘s hard as I could on the top of the head past. The joke is set initially in New with the flat of the shovel. Fletcher York, and then towards the end it moves growled a little low growl, with his head to Philadelphia. You‘ll see how it all fits lowered, looking at Max, and I checked together as you read on. again for a pulse. There was still Two elephants walk into a bar in New something there so I hit him again and York. The left elephant (if you're looking that seemed to stop it but I hit him once more because I can think of nothing more from the bartender‘s point of view) says, confusing or unsettling than one minute ‗Two beers please, bartender‘. talking to a nice Jehovah‘s Witness and The bartender says, ‗We don't serve his dog and the next waking up in pitch elephants here,‗ and this really gets up black, buried alive somewhere. But the left elephant‘s nose and he starts probably about then God would have stomping about the place, busting tables been setting up Mr Seager‘s infinite black and picking up customers‘ drinks in his void for him, smoothing it out, patting trunk and throwing them around the down any wrinkles so that it was place. There‘s smashed glass and perfectly flat and black and infinite. splintered wood all over everywhere.
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register and Fletcher licked the sauce off his before he ate it.
altogether and moved to Philadelphia where they started a peanut importing business. (Now, here comes the tag. It’s not a punchline as such but there is an inherent irony that makes it funny in the inward smiling kind of way.) It seems that one day Max was on a bus going to an open day they were having at the Philadelphia Museum of Contemporary Art and this guy gets on at Ash and Fifth and sits across the way from Max. He‘s staring at Max and starting at him and eventually he can't help it and he reaches over and pokes Max in the trunk and says, ‗Hey, you‘re Max aren‘t you? Remember me? Trevor Parsons—I used to shovel out your cage when you were with Butler Brothers, back there in ‘94 I think it was‘. And Max just stares straight through him. For some reason, Minnie never used it and eventually came up with something herself about a caterpillar and a sloth that I can‘t remember. ~~~
I‘d seen Mr Seager on the Wednesday. On the following Friday I sent an email to Mr Dean. I put nothing in the subject or message areas, just attached one of the better photos I‘d taken on the Wednesday night, somewhere out west there in the middle of pretty much nowhere. None of them were all that brilliant but if you knew him you‘d see it was Max, Meanwhile the right elephant has been So, we dropped Max in the hole and I particularly if you put your finger over straddled it and took a few shots with the talking quietly to the bartender. The left the top of his head to obscure where it camera. Fletcher kept jumping in and I‘d elephant pauses to get his breath and the right elephant beckons him over with his had been pounded. Later that day I have to haul him out and take a quick checked my bank account and fifteen trunk and the left elephant comes over snap before he jumped back in again. thousand dollars had been deposited Dogs have a different reaction to smells, and there are two beers poured for them listing Dean Enterprises as the and Mr Seager was giving off something on the counter. The right elephant says to contributor. Thanks Mr Dean. the left one, ‗Hey Max, remember this pretty pungent. guy?‘ and he puts his trunk around the ~~~ We filled the hole in, Fletcher doing bartender‘s shoulders. more digging than filling but he was Three weeks later, a little hard on the Max looks at the bartender and after a working with me and it was good for heels of the last, there was another second says, ‗Oh my God, it‘s Peter both of us I think. I patted down the envelope under the door. This time it was Wilmont, the guy that pulled the thorn ground and flicked it with a branch of a plain A4 manila envelope, sealed with out of my foot all those years ago. It is scrub and we packed everything up and Mr Dean‘s spit and not string and at a got in the car and found our way back to you isn‘t it Pete?‘ and the bartender nods guess I‘d say you‘d buy them in packs of the main highway. I doubt I could ever and says, ‗Yup, I am that man‘. twelve for three dollars or less. When I find Max Seager again. Maybe Fletcher Well, they have a fine old reminisce and checked, there was an email in my inbox could, at a pinch, but not me, even if for after that, to pay their old friend back, the with another photo. some unimaginable reason I should ever two elephants would come into the bar ~~~ want to. every Friday night and do their old circus There‘s a night floater that Alex mentions routine they used to perform when they CHAPTER SIX from time to time, a Faustino Arroyo who were with Ringling Bros, back in the Minnie Fielding needed a joke for nineties when a dollar was a dollar and a fought in the Spanish Civil War. He was something she was writing once. She was circus was still a viable proposition. They a pilot and flew a Gourdou-Leseurre, a having trouble and I tried to help. If natty little plane with a single wing and were very popular for quite a while, but you‘ve ever tried to make up a joke an open cockpit. Faustino Arroyo then the act got stale and they started you‘ll appreciate the difficulty involved enjoyed flying his Gourdou-Leseurre missing a Friday here, and another one and the talent of the people who do make there, ‘til they finally stopped coming in around the Spanish countryside, shooting
at people on the ground, trying to kill them. Sometimes he dropped bombs. He started throwing them over the side but it was hard to accurately hit anyone like that and a Spanish bicycle mechanic designed a thing to go between the landing wheels so the bombs could be released by pulling a lever in the cockpit. His technique was to fly the plane in a steep dive, aiming at the largest group of people he could see and at the last minute release the bombs and level out to strafe whoever was left. It was work for daylight hours only, which left his nights free to drink and excite the pants off attractive women with his tales of shooting and bombing. I mention Faustino Arroyo here because of the irony of his demise. A good irony can be quite an entertainment. The ground forces had yet to work out the trick of shooting at aeroplanes (you have to actually aim at a spot ahead of the plane which was somewhat counter-intuitive at the time) and he flew his Gourdou-Leseurre over a hostile Spain for four years without a bullet coming within pissing distance. Faustino Arroyo died in 1947 outside Lisbon, Portugal when, steering with palsied hands, his car collided with a moving train, just two weeks before he was due to die of syphilis. ~~~ It‘s a sadly overlooked and underrated war, the Spanish Civil War. People came from as far afield as Russia and Mexico to be in it, and you could see the attraction—it had aeroplanes and Ernest Hemingway, two exciting forces lacking in many earlier conflicts. Over two hundred thousand lives were nipped in the bud and Alex‘s friend Faustino Arroyo had a finger in quite a number of those little popping buds.
The idea of the list goes thousands of years back into history. God knew about lists from day one. One of the earliest and possibly heaviest lists of any note was of course the Ten Commandments, which Moses jotted down on a couple of stone tablets he happened to find that time on the top of Mount Sinai. He must have known something was up when he climbed up there because he took a chisel with him and a lucky thing for history he did too as it turned out. Ten commandments, two stone tablets, five commandments a tablet.
But I‘m getting off the point which is that the list has been an important concept for as far back as anyone can remember. It would be interesting, I think, to put together a collection of famous lists, make a little book, illustrated perhaps with shots of the lists‘ compilers. Alexander the Great‘s list must have been massive, seeing he was going off to conquer the whole known world (which even an optimist like himself would have seen taking a bit of time), particularly as around then you could never be sure of getting anything like a new pair of underpants your size in places like Babylon or Carthage.
People spoke of the Comfort of the Faith but God knew a second and possibly superior comfort, the Comfort of the List. And Hannibal‘s list for when he was going off over the Alps to invade Rome There are a couple of rules regarding a which, if he‘s anything like the list maker good list and the most important one is I think he was, would have had at the this: Keep your hottest item for last. If bottom, appearing almost as an you can, always end your list with a afterthought, ‗38,000 infantry with zinger. elephants‘. Boom, boom, big finish. Take God‘s final zinger of a There‘d be many, many others, equally as commandment—now there was a deity interesting. Napoleon‘s—when he was who knew how to make a list. ‗Thou shalt packing his trunk for the stay on the not covet thy neighbour‘s wife.‘ There island of Elba, exiled for being a naughty was a lot of that going on around about emperor and such an idiot at Trafalgar. that time and you can see the attraction. Neil Armstrong‘s—getting ready to leave Everyone‘s living pretty much in the the spaceship for the first time to have a desert, there‘s not a lot to do and very look around the Sea Of Tranquillity. little entertainment, so it was a pretty attractive proposition to while away the I bet Albert Einstein knocked out a few evening hours with a bit of a covet of corkers too. Being a mathematician and your neighbour‘s wife, or the other one, theoretical physicist his lists almost four doors down with the big wobbly certainly would have been numbered. breasts. But it wasn‘t on as far as God Glasses was concerned and He stuck that one down the bottom for the big climax, the Copy of ‗Time‘ with me on the front show-stopper: ‗No coveting your Spare handkerchief neighbour‘s wife!‘ Change of underwear I think the second last one, ‗Thou shalt
not covet thy neighbour‘s house‘, was a bit of a non starter and should have been further towards the middle, maybe ~~~ between ‗Honour thy father and thy mother‘ (another kind of lame one) and The Comfort of the List. ‗Thou shalt not commit murder‘ (where Have you ever noticed what a comforting we‘re starting to get into a more thing a list is? It could be a list of interesting area). If you look at the type anything really—things from the of accommodation there was available in supermarket, things to do, places you‘d the desert at the time it was pretty basic like to go, people you‘d be more stuff, dirt floor, no glass in the comfortable about if they were dead or in windows—I can‘t see a lot of house a prison or somewhere. A piece of paper coveting going on, but there you are, who with a series of individual items, each on are we to question what was going on in its own line, probably starting with a God‘s mind? capital letter.
Theory of Relativity (Big one last again.) Man‘s existence is inextricably linked to the list. It always has been and always will be. We have a bond— we‘re the only species on the entire planet capable of making one. m Paris Portingale Mt Victoria, NSW Join us again in the next Narrator for part 3 of Art and the Drug Addict’s Dog
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Narrator Magazine is a free online, quarterly, regional magazine from MoshPit Publishing. It has been designed as a vehicle to provide an outlet for writers and their short stories, poems and essays of less than 5,000 words and cartoons. When
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The magazine is produced quarterly and as well as being online, a limited number of copies are printed for sale. It is generally available from the first day of each season. During the eight weeks following publication, readers are encouraged to go online and vote for their favourite item as part of the ‘People’s Choice’ award. Only one vote per valid email address is allowed. Prizes Each quarter a secret guest judge is asked to review the contributions and nominate those three they think most worthy. These three are then awarded cash prizes of $1,000, $500 or $250, for first, second and third most worthy works and their ‘wins’ publicised in the next issue of Narrator.
Contributors must be aged 18 or over. The act of uploading a submission via the Narrator website or in any other manner implies that the contributor is the owner of the work, that the submission is their original work, that it has never been published before, that they are a resident of the region and that they are 18 years of age or over. For validation purposes, all writing and artistic contributors must provide full contact details including home address. These details will be suppressed from publication. All contributors may choose how to have their entry credited, but will be required to offer a name and village/ town e.g. Jenny, Hazelbrook or a pseudonym and village/ town e.g. MoshPit, Hazelbrook. Contributions will generally not be edited, save for a light spelling, grammar and punctuation check.
The publisher retains the right to refuse publication of any submission without explanation. Items deemed offensive The ‘secret judge’ will be someone with a literary or writing or potentially offensive, or items deemed to be background or interest and will be revealed in the propaganda will not be published. No correspondence will following issue. be entered into. After publication The People’s Choice prize is $200. Other than the four prizes mentioned above, all contributions are unpaid. The magazine is an opportunity for writers and artists to gain exposure for their previously unpublished works. Winners’ names are published in the next issue and awarded their prizes then. Copyright All contributors (writers and artists) retain full copyright in and ownership of their contributions. Advertising Advertisers must reside in or service the region. The cost of the magazine is subsidised by advertising. Each page is available for sponsorship, and a maximum of one advertisement per page is allowed. The remaining portion of each page will be dedicated to content. Advertisers are ‘first come first serve’—the sooner an advertiser reserves and pays for space, the closer to the front of the magazine their ad will appear. In the downloadable PDF, epub and online versions, advertisers’ websites will be hyperlinked to their ads. Opportunities for local artists Local artists are invited to submit images to appear on the cover. These will not be paid for. Writing contributors may also submit an artwork (theirs or another regional resident’s) to accompany their submission when published. The publisher reserves the right to print the submission without the accompanying artwork. Restrictions Contributions must be no more than 5,000 words each. Contributors must reside in the region tow hich they
With the establishment of other regional Narrator magazines, a ‘best of the best’ will be published annually showcasing the overall winners. Winners have the right to refuse permission for their submission to be included in this compilation. There will be no payment for inclusion in the annual compilation. How to submit Upload your story, poem or essay in Word, .txt or other MS Word-compatible format via the Submit pages at www.narratormagazine.com.au You will be required to each submission as a separate document. Prizes Judged prizes will be awarded to the three entries (across all categories) as chosen by that quarter’s ‘secret judge’ as follows: 1st prize—$1,000 2nd prize—$500 3rd prize—$250 People’s Choice voting will open on 1 March 2012 at
www.narratormagazine.com.au/ vote.php Voting will close on 30 April 2012. Only one entry per valid email address allowed. $200 will be awarded to the entry which receives the most votes. Winners’ details will be published in the Winter issue due out 1 June 2012 and on the website at
www.narratormagazine.com.au