Endings And New Beginnings

help, or I could’ve sat with Connie and been there to tell her it was all going to be okay.

The early morning hustle and bustle of the streets is awake by the time I stumble back into our house from the Hustings. It’s quieter inside though, with Ma out to run the errands, without the smell of breakfast on the stove, and Connie not there to tell me to brush the dirt off my shirt. Ma’s back quickly though, muttering rapidly under her breath before she sinks into a chair and her eyes become all glossy and shinier than the shilling Mr Husting gave me.

‘I let them both go,’ Ma whispers, almost too quiet for me to hear, ‘In the morning when I woke up, I didn’t even know and then we were off, and it was done barely before the day was out.’

I sit down next to Ma but I’m not sure what to do. She hasn’t spoken this softly since Dad died. Her voice quivers and she clutches my hands tight, looking into my eyes with such a strong gaze I don’t even believe my Ma is behind them anymore. Then her words tumble out in sobs, just like the tears down her face, ‘I let two of my own blood pass before the war even let out! In one day Kip, it was in one moment that I decided to take her and now look where that’s got her!’

I whisper, ‘it’s ok Ma,’ but I don’t think the words leave my mouth.

Connie’s gone, and whatever Ma is scared of the world knowing won’t take long to escape either. You can’t keep secrets around here – we don’t live in Toorak.

The cakes started coming in yesterday. There’s less here than when Dad died but still, it feels just the same. My life is quieter though, now there’s no-one to remind me to untuck my collar or sneak me a piece of bacon. Ma doesn’t even bother with the little things anymore; she’s stopped reminding me and asking me and telling me off for doing, or not doing, something. It’s like she’s not even there anymore, maybe the darkness has already swallowed her in. Francis walks in, he treads on my foot silently and nicks a piece of bacon, but I don’t call him a pig or ‘his royal highness’ for it. For all I know Francis could be pulled into the darkness next and then I can’t imagine how quiet the whole world would become. He’s talking about how I should probably get a proper job at The Argus, now that he’s truly the man of the house and has got to keep working for our small family. I can barely hear him though, his voice is just like a blur, muffled by the wind. I’m just thinking about Connie again, who in a few days is going to be put into the ground, somewhere about where Dad and his hat with the little black hairs all over it are. The big hole in my chest hasn’t swallowed me whole into it yet, but I still feel the darkness everywhere. My life feels different without Connie, smaller.

Even though it’s been a month since Connie was put into the ground, I still feel like she’s up here with us somewhere. She’s not cooking the bacon or hanging up the washing, but I don’t think she’s walked out of Rowena Parade really. The darkness still follows me sometimes; when I’m brushing down Charlie, or watching the brilliant, bright sun rise. But I can have fun too sometimes – Francis and I even make jokes together now. He tells me about what happened at school. We laugh about the tales he tells of the other boys there. I still feel an ache in my chest and the darkness still blankets our house sometimes, but I’m not Jesse Owens anymore. I’m not Jesse Owens because I’m not running from the darkness, or I’d be running from Connie. I’m staying right here, with Francis and Ma, and Dad and Connie.

Wheelahan

Crrrack… BOOM! I jolt awake. Rrrrumble . Cripes, the thunder is bloody loud. In a half a mo’ it’ll be bucketing. I tiptoe over to the window to take a peek and CLAP ! Another bolt of thunder. Something tells me all isn’t well with the world today…

I walk down the hallway and gently push open the door, only to be met with the most frigid breeze I’ve ever felt. It’s almost as if it could sweep me right off my feet and take me away to another time, another place… away from here. From school. From everything. To a lush green field with beautiful animals, earthy smells and sunshine. Nature is what makes life truly beautiful, if you ask me.

I look up with hope, praying for the nonstop, frighteningly powerful thunder to come to a halt and for a light spritz of peaceful raindrops… But no, clearly the sky has other plans in store for me today. The thick, smoky clouds are beginning to roll in like boulders, ready to crush anything in their way. The darkness is purely engulfing. And then comes the rain. … and yep, it’s hailing. Righto, I better head back inside unless I want a black eye on account of a hailstone like the one Francis got at cricket yesterday arvo, thinking he was Bradman.

Phew! I shut the door behind me, blocking it all out. Walk around the tiny space some may call a living-room, but I would say that’s a stretch. Walking up and down the hallway. Can’t keep still. Perhaps a cuppa and a book will sort me out. BINGO! Francis got one of those comics last Sat, couldn’t believe his luck. The Living Shadow! And so, I decide to sit down, back against the wall and try to snuggle up with the only blanket we have, and enter my own little world.

‘… For it was a message from the man he called The Shadow. ’ Can’t believe my luck at being able to get a hold of a Shadow comic. I hastily flick the page over, heart pumping a million miles a minute, on the edge of my seat waiting to find out what happens next. All of a sudden, I am lulled out of my fantasy world with a pat on the head. It’s Dad. I glance up and immediately… the smell. It smells like yellow. Not the warm yellow of plants and sunlight or straw but a sick sticky yellow that hangs in the nose. Acrid and dead. The smoke blocks my throat, and I feel a cough coming on. ‘See ya son. Really gettin’ into that book of yours, aren’t you?’ He ruffles my hair affectionately. ‘Mm,’ I reply, eager to return to The Shadow’s universe.

It’s too early for it to be this dark outside. Can’t believe it’s been pitch black skies and buckets of unrelenting rain since dawn. The few hints of sunlight have long since said goodbye to the curtains, and it’s cold and dark inside and the whole house is silent save for my breathing. I make my way through the door, bleedin’, rotting produce from good ol’ Vic market in hand… hang on. This silence… the absence of the usual plumes of cooking smoke, of the freshly fried bacon…. No one is here to greet me. It’s eerie.

BAM! The front door slams open and all of a sudden, my hopes soar sky high, but then I realise… it’s just Francis. He makes such a racket every time he comes home, the clank, clank sound of his boots on the floor, and his cricket bag bumping into every wall and table possible, the sounds echoing through the house. Everyone make way for Saint Francis!

‘I’m home! Guess how many runs I made today? Coach’s saying that if I keep going like this there’ll be plenty of scouts buzzing around here before I know it.’ Huh. I’ve seen Francis play and trust me when I say he’s got Buckley’s chance of attracting any scouts.

But that doesn’t stop him from continuing to go on and on about it.

I hear the sound of him dumping the bag in our room. He pauses for a minute, wondering where his little fanfare of praise is, I suppose. ‘Kip?’

‘Back here!’ I reply.

The doorbell rings at last! Might I tell you; I was beginning to think something serious had happened. But nope, all good. Everything will be alright.

‘Connie!!!’ I yell out. I run up to her and give her a big hug.

‘What mischief have you been up to, my little scoundrel? Hope you’re not getting too many ideas from those comics…’ she gives me a peck on the cheek.

‘Scoundrel he is alright. Kip, did you get the chicken for dinner? I hope everything is laid out on the kitchen bench…’ Ma raises her eyebrows at me expectantly, but something about her expression lets me know she thinks I’ve let her down. Just like Ada Hustings from next door, she thinks me no better than a boy who squanders his opportunities. Well, I’ll prove her wrong.

Ding-Dong. The doorbell? At this time of night? I reckon it’s nearing 7pm. Later maybe. No one stirs at this hour in the neighbourhood. All busy eating dinner with the family. I wonder who it could be… Connie rushes to get it, and I discretely tiptoe into the hallway, peering out from behind my bedroom door. All of a sudden… my heart is in my mouth. I begin to sweat, droplets soaking through my muddied white school shirt. My chest is pounding. I can smell… something rank and pungent, mixed with a tinge of sickly sweetness. What is going on?

I peer out and… there’s a policeman. My blood runs cold.

‘Madam, I’m terribly sorry. But there’s nothing more that can be done now. Is there someone else at home? I suspect you’ll need some help carrying…him.’

Him? What is going on… I honestly don’t want to know. I’ve never felt so… overwhelmed with this sense of… it’s inexplicable. I knew something was coming from the moment I woke. I steady my breath and try to calm the panic. I feel like I’m losing myself in some type of haze… the room is spinning. I’m going to fall. I can sense it.

I wake from the haze to the sound of Ma’s heavy footsteps, pacing towards the door. Ma and Connie, heading my way. I flinch back. Do I want to take a closer look? I take a quick peak… and… they’re carrying something? No, that isn’t something . That is someone . And that someone is my father. I inhale the scent and collapse backwards. This can’t be real. This isn’t happening.

Ma is crying. Howling I’d say. I’ve never heard such a loud noise in my life before, and it shakes me to the core. My mother? Strict as ever, no nonsense, practical, all logic… weeping?? I haven’t even been able to comprehend what is going on. It’s all a blur. I’m in a state of complete and utter disbelief. Connie’s face is as pale as a sheet, I’ve never seen her so faint and helpless. Running around, getting Ma tea and hot washers and the cheap tablets we have… I can’t believe this is how it ends.

My brain stutters for a moment and every part of me goes on pause. Eventually, I step from the shadows, and that’s when I realise. Francis. He hasn’t a clue what is going on. Oh my… how will I tell him? I’m lost. Lost… because of everything. I stumble over to

Francis’ room and gently push the door open. Inside, he is nestled under the covers, torch beside him, The Shadow comic in hand.

‘F-f-Francis?’ I stutter.

‘Kip I’m trying to read! Do you realise how important an education is to me? I need literacy practise whenever I can get it.’ He has no idea.

‘Francis, dad’s gone. Gone for good.’

‘What on earth do you mean gone? On a work trip? I didn’t think we had the money… huh.’

‘Francis, please. He is dead.’

I struggle with my delivery. What if… he doesn’t really care? No, that can’t be right. But what if… I look up, and his eyes are tinged with tears. Moist, but not overflowing. They look… lost. After a few seconds, he looks straight back down at his comic and roughly pulls the covers back over him, disappearing into a mound of faded white.

I rush out of his room, and out the front door. I collapse into a soaking wet bed of grass, the thunder rumbling around me, shaking the earth, the threatening sky demanding my attention. No. I close my eyes, hands over my face, and all at once, I realise. What have I done? My father, he is gone forever. Vanished. Never to be seen again. And just this morning, I… I barely looked up to see him go. I didn’t even say goodbye to him. On account of a stupid comic book.

Jean ava dluZniak

Gossip and glares. A powerful combination, one that drives me out of this corner store before I even get a chance to buy my bloody meat from the butcher! Usually I can take it, brush it off like dust on my shoulder. It’s been happening for years. There never is an outing without a subtle frown or mumbled remark. But not today. Not on the anniversary of her death.

My eyes begin to sting as I march back onto the street, desperate to get back home. I dab my nose with my handkerchief; I’ll be darned if I let these ladies see me make a fool of myself! I won’t give them the satisfaction.

The wind from the tram flying past is enough to make the hairs on my head fly up. My heart still races every time that happens, memories of Tom’s death still fresh in my mind. The panic, the confusion, the exhaustion. The wishing and praying to God every night that he could be back, beside me. Even just for a moment, to embrace him, and then slap some sense into him! I would crouch low, just like I used to when scolding the kids, finger raised and eyebrows furrowed, and question, why did you do this to me?

I approach the rickety front gate, which hangs off its hinges, courtesy of Kip’s attempts to ‘fix up the place.’ My foot! We both know he should be making an honourable man out of himself, serving the country, he never had the brains like Francis. Yet he stays here, aimlessly working around the house, looking after his Ma. The embarrassment of it all, my grown son caring for me! But as I open the gate, I hear the excited buzz of chatter, and turn my head to see the bright eyes and smiles as white of my polished floor from a bunch of lively young girls. This bunch never fails to remind me of her, my Connie.

I’m winded by the impact of it, the thought of her. I thought I could go through the day without thinking about what happened all those years ago today. I was kidding myself. I relive that day endlessly, constantly considering what I could have done to change the outcome. Living with the guilt of it slowly but surely destroys me, like the dying tree out the back, whose branches droop miserably and leaves wilt in the hot summer’s sun.

In dark times like these, Kip reminds me to try and find the light when the darkness is overwhelming. So, I try to replace the image of her pale, ghostly face that’s burned in my mind of happier memories. Her eyes always focused on some spot in the distance.

She was imaginative, always creating games for the boys to play or stories to tell. She was what I always wanted as a first child, nurturing and generous with the boys. She would have made a wonderful mother. And her laugh, oh how I remember her laugh! It was the type that turned up the sides of my mouth, no matter how furious I was.

It is that joyous, belly laugh that I focus on as I pick a bunch of tulips, her favourite, and head towards her tombstone. As I lay them below her headstone, a tear trickles silently down my cheek. But it is not the regret and despair that fills my eyes. It is the love I have for her, and the hope that she is at peace in heaven.

Jean

The world around her begins to fade. Charlotte’s gaze is fixed on the hypnotic motion of the twirling pendant as her heart hammers within her chest. The leaves around her almost rustle from the beating force.

She wills herself to move, her limbs heavy with doubt and fear. Twigs jut into her palms as she pushes herself up. Charlotte stretches up breathing in the earthy smell of petrichor. She looks up and brushes her fingertips through the leaves. She plucks one and traces each vein that lines the fragile leaf, feeling the life present within. Fresh growth on a tree whose roots extend throughout the yard and into the Hustings’ next door.

Charlotte’s gaze shifts towards the house. She loves this house, she feels safe in this house, but somehow things have changed. As she makes her way to the back door she stumbles over a longabandoned broom, its bristles mildewed or missing, but her mind is elsewhere.

Charlotte slides the door open, a rush of warm air enveloping her. The buzz of chatter would normally cut through the walls but now there is silence. Charlotte walks to the living room but she falters at the door, the sharp silhouette of her father in the centre of the room, his shoulders slumped and head hung low.

‘Dad?’ Charlotte whispers.

He startles at the sound, head flicking up. ‘Char, you gave me a bloody fright!’

‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to! Um, where’s everyone else?’ Charlotte asks.

‘They’re all upstairs.’ Kip says. ‘Me, mum and Stanz are gonna stay here for the night. But I was getting worried about you, sitting outside in the cold like that. What were you doing outside for all that time love? Is everything alright?’

‘Um yeah…’ Charlotte hesitates, gnawing at her lip while trying to string together words, but all she can manage to mutter is ‘there’s a baby.’

Kip’s body stiffens, his brows furrowing as the clock ticks on the mantelpiece, the air in the room growing cooler by the second. They sit in silence for what seems like an eternity before Charlotte speaks up.

‘Dad, I know you’re mad, but I’m sorry!’

‘I’m not mad.’ Kip exhales then gingerly kneels on the floor beside her, his knees cracking.

‘Of course you are! You were flying off the damn wall that night of the Year 12 Formal! Isn’t this worse?’

‘Charlotte honey, you know I regret that. I never meant to lose my head, I just… I was worried about you. I am worried about you. What if what happened to Aunt Connie, happened to you? Then what?’

Charlotte frowns, surprised at the mention of that long past tragedy. ‘But things have changed. Things don’t have to be the same.’

‘I know, I know. There’s just this constant voice inside my head reminding me of everything that happened, of everything that I lost, of everything that she lost. It’s just a part of me. But, at least I’m not chasing anyone with a golf club this time.’ Kip chuckles at himself, at the memory of it all.

‘Yeah, thank God!’ Charlotte says laughing. ‘Thanks though Dad, for not flipping out.’

Kip wraps his arms around Charlotte and mumbles into her ear. ‘I love you, always. No matter what you choose to do.’

I can see the crumbling old photograph sitting precariously on the edge of the table – about to fall, surrounded by those God-awful biscuits they give us on account of them thinking that when you get old, you lose your tastebuds as well your hair.

Don’t worry, Connie. I won’t let you fall. This picture’s one of the last parts of you that I have left, crumbling between my fingers. It makes me feel old. I remember taking it. This was some of my best work. I was run down with guilt when I finally found out how you died. I thought maybe I coulda done something to stop you that day, or at least said goodbye before I went on my jolly way. But I guess after all these years it has taught me a few things. You’ve taught me a few things.

Should I be ashamed to think that there was some good that came out of your death? You’d probably be happy that there was some sorta silver-lining after all. You remind me of the tree in the backyard in Richmond. Ma used to say it was an eyesore, but that doesn’t sit quite right with me, I reckon the tree was messy like we were. Messy like the tangle of our relationships, held together by love and the determination to withstand time. The tree used to drop its red berries everywhere, leaving dark and stubborn stains. Red like your blood. I suppose you are like the tree on the concrete, don’t ya reckon? Strong and supportive, and you always had my back. I knew you loved me. I never had to ask. I guess that I know now how important that is, to have loved, and to not let it go. I can feel tears welling up even now thinking about you.

You’ve been watching over us. I know you have. I can feel it. A sense of support, strength and love being sent from above. I know it’s you. You have seen, just as I have, how wonderful it has been to see our messy family grow. Losing you taught me how important it is to hold on to them – and hold on bloody tight. To always take them in your arms and kiss them goodbye like it’s the last time. To love them, and show them just how much every single time it makes me feel more at ease, and less on edge like I am about to tip. I reckon that’s the most important thing in the world. Love. The strongest too, cause even though you’ve been gone so long, I love ya to bits and always have. It’s brought meaning to my life, knowing that at any moment it could end. I wish I could kiss you goodbye one last time, hold you in my arms and never let go. Never. I guess love also brings pain in that way, the pain of longing for a lost – yet vivid –memory. It’s hurting real bad right now.

Love is the root of everything in my life. I can see that clear as day. Joy, pain, life, death, your death, all because of love. Passed between people like a shilling, from one pair of hands to another. From one beating heart to another. I’ve known this for a while –since your death, actually. You may think that there’s other bits of life, and you may be right, but I wanna pass out as many shillings as possible before I come and join you up there. I really believe that that’s why God put me on this earth. I never want anyone I love to have to wonder if I love em, even if that means giving up my most prized possession or standing in the road all night, throwing a ball with Alec. They must know how much I love them.

The photo falls out of my fingers and flutters down to the floor quickly. My hands are too slow to react. Bugger. Leaning down to pick it up again hurts like hell on account of my back’s not been so good lately. I’d better put the photo away somewhere to keep it safe. It’s getting late anyways. I feel protective. It needs a nice spot to sit, not just some dusty old shelf. Perfect. Sitting on top of the dresser drawers, with a view to the window and t’ us. I know you’d like it. Goodnight, Connie. I will see you soon.

The Higher The Fence, The Harder They Stare

minduli Weeraman

My dearest William,

It feels somewhat futile to be writing a letter to you, but I do not have anyone else to turn to. I know you won’t write back to me but perhaps this will allow me to pen my thoughts. I am infinitely lost, William. The solitude is suffocating. I am drowning in the dark waves of disillusionment.

When I was younger, I lived a well-cultivated, cultured, and civilised life. ‘The three C’s that make up a woman,’ my mother would say. According to her, marriage was of the utmost importance if I wished to sustain this lifestyle. As a young woman, I traversed this world as a lone figure, desperate for love and stability. However, that all changed one night at the Soda Rock Diner, where you sat in front of the piano and played the most enchanting song! Your melody broke me out of my lonesome reverie. You were the first man to look at me and not through me. Before I knew it, you slid the gold ring onto my finger and vowed to love me until death did us part.

Yet the war rolled in too quickly, off you went in your military uniform. When you returned, all that was left was a fractured soul in an empty shell. Never again did music pervade our household. The William with whom I had fallen in love was gone. To this day, I will never understand the inconspicuous scars you bore. You locked me out of your beautiful mind and tossed away the key. I tried to reach you but day by day, you drifted further away from me like a lone boat on an endless sea. Everyone around us noticed your pain. The neighbours could see the struggle in your eyes, but they looked away. They turned a blind eye to your trauma, leaving you to fend for yourself. Eventually, I gave up on us. Our relationship was past the point of salvation as your mind wandered further, irrevocably, into the darkness. You left me behind to pick up the pieces of my broken heart.

The years that followed were like layers, each year covering the next. I was a sad-eyed wanderer. I saw you everywhere I went. In the sunrise, in the moon glow, on the lonely stairs, I climbed. I made you dinners you would never eat and used the candlesticks from our honeymoon. Yet the empty seat across from me deepened the void in my heart knowing that you’ll never come back. The wick burned out long ago, the candle wax slowly dripping onto the tablecloth, the food going cold.

My mother insisted that I remarried. Society demanded that I remarried. I was hardly the image of a perfect woman if I was unmarried and childless. Reluctantly, I attempted to find my new ‘Prince Charming’, primping the hair, smearing on lipstick, flashing a smile. Gentlemen, welcome to the show starring Martha Garland! But that’s all it was. A show. I became an expert at giving them what they want to see. A damsel in distress in need of being rescued by the hero. Yet no one stepped in to save me. They simply shielded their eyes when the sorrow became too much. I was the Mona Lisa , a cold and lonely, lovely work of art. The lady with the mystic smile, one that tempted a lover but also hid a broken heart. Oh, it was all fruitless, William. Many dreams have been brought to my doorstep, and they just lie there, and they die there.

When you are surrounded by dysfunctional relationships, it’s difficult to maintain hope. Our marriage ended untimely. My parents’ marriage broke down with my father’s alcoholism. Oh, and the neighbours! Despite living in such proximity to each other, we live worlds apart. Each window showcases a unique, unfamiliar story. There are no efforts made to break down the barriers, tear down the fences or shatter the windows. They are strangers. I see them around sometimes, when I am gazing outside of my window to escape the monotony of my pitiful life… that’s harmless, right William? I learn so much about each character living around me… I’m getting to know them! One is a photographer who broke his leg, another is a sculptress, and there’s a pianist who thrashes at his piano all day long. Lovely to meet you all! It all fascinates me. I am surrounded by an abundance of creativity. But what is the point of artistic expression if there is no one to share it with?

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from living here, it’s that while people are capable of watching, they cannot listen or feel. They’re just here to watch the show. There is no interest in being on the outside of the window together. They just watch furtively from behind the safety of their glass with their peeping eyes, looking out for the Reds, ‘doing the community some service’… too busy to notice their neighbour trapped in her mind. Blind to suffering. Take the photographer who lives across from me, peeping through his camera lens – he can zoom in as much as he likes but he will never be able to truly capture my internal emptiness. Perhaps I should smile for the camera!

The Higher The Fence, The Harder They Stare

The Higher The Fence, The Harder They Stare

Gosh, William, my apartment used to be the place where I felt safe. Where I could escape the misery of the outside world, the judgement of others, the empty pity of those who were ‘looking out for me’. Where the pale pink walls of my apartment sheltered me from the impotent role I played in the spectacle of life. But now, the prying yet blind eyes of my neighbours have penetrated my sanctuary. Robbed me of my privacy and peace of mind, robbed me of the empowerment I felt as a woman who had a sense of control in her own home. The higher the fence, the harder they stare. The walls I built to protect me from the cruel world are now crashing down, debris flying everywhere, powerless against the dirty eyes and violating camera lens. I’m no longer in charge of my narrative. I’m now a simple side-character in a peeping Tom’s fiction.

Oh, but William, I’m no better! I too cannot help being roped into my neighbours’ lives even when we are separated by walls. The married couple upstairs were ceaselessly quarrelling day and night, it was exhausting! With their incessant nit-picking and arguing at 3am, I was suddenly sharing their marital problems without a husband of my own. And what could I do, William? I couldn’t march into their apartment and tell them off like a schoolteacher! I just had to ignore what was happening in that tumultuous marriage. They seem to have resolved their issues though, it has been quiet ever since! But is this what marriage is about: the complete absence of communication and bliss? Is it all really for convenience and to fit into society’s cookie-cutter mould?

Oh, forgive my mind for jumping around so erratically, William, but this sense of hopelessness reminds me of the dog. After I found his mangled, bloodied corpse, my faith in humanity withered away. How could anyone take the life of something so innocent, the only ‘good neighbour’? What shocked me the most was the other neighbours just standing around like fools as the poor neighbour wailed. They did nothing, William. Only watched. The death of that sweet dog was the death of humanity’s capability to love. What happened to the world we used to live in, where people cared? Where people connected as human beings in shared humanity, where we were told to ‘love thy neighbour as thyself’? It is not war that will cause humanity’s destruction. It will be disconnection.

In a world plagued by hostility and indifference, Death can seem to be your one true love. He’s the one you can depend on to make all the demons quiet, and silence all of the voices of doubt and pain. He does not care if you are a pitiful, lonely woman who is well into her years, Death smiles as he proposes a marriage void of the hurt and alienation that life brings. The ultimate holy matrimony.

Oh, William, my mind is a tempest of emotion. As I write, red pills are scattered out in front of me, their scarlet hue engulfing my vision. Let me offer you some mental nourishment from the shadow of a woman who has always been looked through. Reality is merciless, it cuts you like a shard of glass, and you bleed. A waterfall of rich crimson blood, mixed with salty tears filled with the ruthless realisation that these siren-like fantasies of euphoria that human connection, love, and friendship offer are merely delusions that turn into your nightmares. No matter how large the crowd of people around us is, in the end, we die alone. Many dreams ago, I dreamed of waiting for my true love to appear each night. My dream of living happily ever after surrounded by people who cherished me… it now lies shattered, among the pills and the pools of tears.

I am ready to swallow these capsules of death and reunite with you. Death will not do us part.

Oh, William, I had to pause writing to you because I was in the presence of God’s music. The trickle of notes is a translation of my soul, the melody is swimming through my mind like a wakeful dream calling to my entire being. It is my genesis. Oh, it is medicine delivered most divinely. The music seems to be coming from my neighbour’s apartment! He’s a musician, just like you, almost like a younger reincarnation of you. Oh, all the neighbours are looking outside of their windows, hypnotised by the music. Perhaps one day, we’ll be able to step outside of our cocoons and enjoy the music together. Is that your music, my darling William, are you calling to me? To think that I was truly alone in this world! I see you, my love. To see you is to love you, and you’re never out of sight.

Rest peacefully, my dear. I love you, and I’ll see you, in the same old dream tonight.

Yours truly and forever, Martha

The Higher The Fence, The Harder They Stare

These Marital Façades

jaCalYn kellY

Photos of faces with no stories… welcoming me to the door above a turned-around chair, two broken legs and a camera, looking out the rear window.

The rain from the night before suffocates the air, as my back is warmly embraced by the soft sink of the chair … careful not to let my lipstick stain my pants. Gosh, these pants, uncomfortable things really…. why Jeff can’t appreciate a nice dress is beyond me.

My eyes begin to stare aimlessly into the crimson vines creeping through the sky. Washing the darkness, making way for the light.

Jeff will be up soon I suspect, eager to fuel his insatiable hunger for curiosity. Oh, but I suppose this is what life would be like… a life with Jeff that is. A marriage… one like all the rest, I’m sure.

Gosh, but I hope not, have you seen marriages these days? Fragile as china, really. Well, can’t say I’m too shocked, you see the real fairy-tale ending begins from a young age. From the very start, we girls are taught to act ladylike, buy elegant clothes, wear nice shoes and a small handbag for our belongings. Taught that, in order to please the male eye, to … settle down, we would have to appeal to the one thing that a man values most in a woman.

My goodness, I remember so clearly, a young lady in school gazing out the classroom window, I could never catch the attention of any young man, really. The girls, setting out a nice picnic for a strapping fellow of their own, whilst I sat…watching… wondering if I would ever be pretty enough for a man’s attention. Why it was there that I knew what I ought to do to catch the male eye. Marched down to the nearest milk bar and bought five shillings worth of Bazar magazines. Never did I look back. Though I must admit, while it’s really quite despairing, a woman dressing for a man’s attention, there is something quite grand and powerful about dressing with style and is perhaps what drew me to fashion in the first place. A career that is much to Jeff’s disapproval, I’m quite sure.

Oh but a marriage – a binding commitment. How could something so significant possibly last if the basis of what men care about lies in how attractive we women are… on the surface?

Us ladies have substance, intellectual value…feminine intuition, as they so often say. Men really must try to see past the surface for there is so much more underneath. But my, the secret to a happy marriage…why, it certainly isn’t our beauty!

The crimson has faded, leaving a faint trail of blue. My eyes glance over at Jeff …the covering lens of his camera still resting in his hands and a small bead of sweat inching its way down his forehead.

Oh, but I’m sure he thinks it’s all a game…a losing game, he doesn’t like the cards he’s been dealt and perhaps he never will. Gosh, I’m sure his views on an everlasting commitment are ones for the ages, ones shaped and influenced by those neighbours he watches day in and day out.

Cupping my face in my palm, I capture a glimpse of a young man and woman bathed in the sun’s morning glow. The soft embraces, stealing glances, ah, the life of the newlyweds. The stove alight with two eggs dancing in the pan, a husband and wife, reading the newspaper in between sips of coffee. Gosh, how nice it would be to have someone like that. Someone to love. Someone to hold. Someone to share those moments of everyday life with.

Why, I suppose Jeff could be that someone… is that someone. I just, well…have to make him see that I’m worth it. That’s all really.

Oh, how happy they look together. How happy indeed.

Well, so they appear…for I can only see so far, only see one frame. That’s the problem with this window, always looking in one direction, always showing you what it wants you to see. Can’t be trusted to show what’s real.

My eyes trail off, finding their way into the empty apartment directly across from me. Dark. Abandoned. A place where a marriage flourished only to fail. The constant bickering, fighting, disregard echoing through the walls, through the window. No wonder Jeff thinks it’s all a trap.

But why does he only let the negative aspects of one marriage pollute his mind? Why can’t he look at a different angle …notice all the light radiating from the apartments above?

Oh gosh, look at me… watching you, analysing you. Have I, too, become the diseased person that I once condemned? My, but this all seems so innocent, almost… human nature. Surely, it’s not as horrible as I have made it to be in my head, oh it can’t be…not if everyone does it! Though… do you suppose it’s a crime if we all commit it?

But now really, how can Jeff not see what he has right in front of him? A woman built with class, dignity, elegance. A woman who’s wondering if she’s ever going to be enough for you, Jeff. Oh, how

These Marital Façades

These Marital Façades

naive I was to think that a picnic, two eggs on a stove or a nice dress would make you see what you could have. Oh, how I was wrong, how that window – those neighbours – deceived me!

But alas, you sit there, infatuated with the world around you and not with the world you have right in front of you. Attached to that camera, that window, as if they’re some kind of drug…some kind of addiction.

Your blatant obsession with watching people only feeds into your fear of commitment, Jeff. Don’t you know that what you see in other people’s marriages isn’t a reflection of what ours will be like? That you can’t determine the fate of our relationship based on how others look? Oh, if only you could look in my direction. If only that camera you hold so dear could show you how I truly feel, how our life could truly be and not just fragments of those neighbours’ lives, whose image is judged and distorted by your mind. If only.

Finally, the serenity of the night is intercepted by day, the moon bids farewell giving way to the sun and awakens the neighbourhood, and Jeff’s insistent curiosity, from its slumber.

Picking up the book beside me, I flip to a random page. Jeff will never even notice…he never does.

And so, it begins: ‘Beyond the High Himalayas’.

The welcoming, deep, brown bottle stood open, its long neck housing the wine, which was darker than the darkest red. The woman paced, her steps to and from the bottle, eyes darting around the room. No, she thought, I cannot be drunk before I even show up to the restaurant. Life Magazine said that men prefer women who present themselves in a feminine, precise way.

The candle flicker from the table brought her back to reality, where she continued her production. A careful dress rehearsal of how she would present herself for the next potential suitor. This charade continued before she finally surrendered, her quiet sobs still managing to echo through the apartment and into the square. Laura was all too aware that her sobs would fall on deaf ears, the people of Greenwich village were too obtuse, obsessed with their own lives to notice hers. She knew that the man in the apartment, high in the sky, across from hers took absolutely no notice of her. Why would he? The blonde who paraded around his apartment was hard to miss; she looked like a leading lady. Perfect.

Tears dripped down Laura’s nose, painting spots on her table. Jealousy fuelled these tears, a desire to live the life that the man across from her lives. To be given the privilege to chase her hopes and dreams. The blonde came and went as she pleased, once, Laura swore she saw her bring in dinner for the man. Laura would want that if she could have it, but she was also aware of the marriage above hers. That one was less ideal. The man and his wife were constantly at opposite ends of their apartment arguing with each other. It seemed as if there was never a moment of peace between them. Sometimes Laura grabbed a glass of her favourite liquor and listened, trying to discern what a quarrel was about. Like her own personal soap opera. She felt guilty, but what else were neighbours to do? So intertwined yet distant with each other, it only felt right to implicitly peep into their lives, they lived so close, it was hard to avoid it. It reminded her of the days when she and Lindsey spied on other neighbours.

Her eyes flicked to the closet where her most prized possession was held. Reaching into the forgotten dusty corner, Laura pulled out a tattered box with hidden treasures inside. Cold pearls lay limp in the box along with the faded photograph which had deteriorated past its use by date. The happy girls beamed at Laura, limbs tangled together as they lay in a bed of flowers, the pearls

Charlotte Sammartino

There Is No Such Thing As A Happy Marriage

draped around the other girl’s neck. Laura could still recall how Lindsey’s dark brown eyes pierced her own, she could remember her touch, her sound, her smell, her taste. How could she forget the only person who had ever truly understood her in her life. Laura and Lindsey used to talk about their future together, where they would get married in secret and be as gay as could be. They were misfits though; their dreams were a fantasy. That future was dead, Laura had never seen any couple of the same sex in any media. Laura reached around her neck to clip the pearls around her neck. She exhaled deeply. Showtime.

The quiet ticking of the clock echoed through the dark cluttered living space. A half-drunk bottle of whiskey lay open on the counter. The clock read half past 10. Exhausted, Laura tramped through the door. At least he wasn’t as bad as the last one, she thought. The bruises from the last date refused to fade, serving a harsh reminder of her potential future with a man she didn’t love. She collapsed onto the vanity and began dismantling her perfectly pinned hair. The cold cream covered her face, soothing her tired skin, wiping away the expectations of society to reveal her true self. She reflected on the date as she did this, thinking about all the pre prepared answers she managed to say. She hoped that made a good impression on the guy, she heard that they preferred women who were organised. Just another way in which she was unable to prove herself worthy of getting married.

Laura knew she had to marry a man, to uphold the image she had presented to the world. However, she couldn’t help but wonder if it would be easier if she could find a man who was like her, one that couldn’t marry who he wanted to. Someone who also wanted to hide in the shadows, away from judging eyes. That way they could both present as acceptable to the outside world. A lavender marriage, they called it. Probably the only way she would be able to feel like herself still. That way both would be able to be accepted, and on some level, understood. A gentle melody made its way into Laura’s complex, filling her with warmth. There he goes again, the bachelor composer. Constantly filling his apartment to the brim with gorgeous music and lavish guests. But somehow, always alone. Laura saw herself in the composer, his interests didn’t match those of a typical man. He didn’t have a prima donna in his apartment like the man with the tall apartment did. Maybe he didn’t want one. Maybe this was Laura’s chance for happiness in a marriage. Her very own lavender marriage. Time to open the window.

There Is No Such Thing As A Happy Marriage

Sarah lardner

I ought to say, I shoulda said somethin’ to Mr Jefferies when I saw him with that big ol’ camera of his. Poking his nose in places it don’t belong lookin’ at God-knows-what. He ought to know there aren’t any windows in the workhouse. And now with that messed up leg of his, that boy’s got another reason to pry and meddle with the daily lives of God-fearing working folk. Mr Jefferies ain’t got regard for what I says anyways. Don’t stay up all night in that chair, I says. Your back will get all twisted, I says. And do you know what happens? Course, I come in the next day to find knots and buckles all down Mr Jefferies’ spine. What’d I tell him, hey? Been bandaging and fixing up proud people and the like all my life, and they still think they’re the wiser. That’s what’s wrong with people nowadays. Run of the mill folk thinking they’re all clever. Too grand to ever accept such a lowly thing as neighbourly compassion.

I suppose with all that travelling Mr Jefferies did in the war, to those exotic islands and such, it’s almost no wonder he wants to look beyond his four walls; concrete America ain’t a prize to look at when you’ve got that amazon in the back of ya mind! Probably drives the poor fella mad, having all them faces looking out from their arched patios. Mr Jefferies ought to feel like some sorta animal in a zoo in that apartment, caged and gazed upon. Not that he can talk with all that prying and meddling he does – but I suppose all windows that look in can also look out.

Speaking of meddling, giving a handsome girl like Lisa such commotion about marriage. Any man without a log in his eye and a pumping bloodstream would run at the chance to so much as kiss the back of that woman’s hand. That girl hangs on every word Mr Jefferies says, she does, and with such fair skin and those eyes, what else could a man want? Mr Jefferies ought to return from that playground of his, and he ought to marry the girl. She is respectable, even got a name for herself at that magazine place of hers. I reckon it’s a welcomed change to see one of Mr Jefferies girls workin’. The girl can’t cook much, I’ll give him that, but at least by ordering food Mr Jefferies can guarantee it’ll be cooked; better than some of that charcoal stuff I’ve fed my fellow over the years.

Men, I says. Got about as much of a clue as those politician type people around today. Those big fellas on the news with their big words and dark suits fooling people into having some confidence in what they’re saying. A lot of yapping on about nothing, if you ask me; I coulda told ya that we’ve been having trouble with Bulgaria based on their damn shoes. Men with straps for war boots certainly ain’t gonna be too chuffed ‘bout the States takin’ back the eastern trade. Course, the suited men blamed it all on each other, turning neighbour against neighbour; ratting on their own kind accusing them of supporting the reds. With my husband hearing a thing or two during the war – mark my words those reds certainly ain’t your typical neighbour folk.

My ol’ misfit husband has never been much of a charmer. We’re more simple folk; say what we means and means what we say. Happy enough together to not care too much ‘bout that romantic type wish-wash. Served his time in the uniform and such, got all such claps and commotion for doing his part. Mind you, no one’s given me a medal or a bat of an eye for my years and sleepless nights sewing up hanging limbs and blood splatter in military tents and the like. Saw a bit in my time too, not that anyone would take any notice. Ya hear things as a nurse you know, men just don’t bother to hide all that political talk about the reds from the likes of me. Of course, women like me can’t understand all that talk! Well, I’ll tell ya, women can just about get anything from a fella. Give ‘em a pretty blonde who plays with her hair and watch as that honest fellow tells her the whole lot. Clever little things us girls can be, boys too proud to even consider they’re being used.

Now I’ve always considered myself a God-fearing woman. I works an honest living, add my fair piece at church and never get too caught up in the gossip of them women lunch groups. But as much as I don’t care to let the words pry my tongue, I will say there is a certain attraction in that big window at Mr Jefferies’s place. I’m not proud to admit it but when Mr Jefferies asked for some privacy to finish up his male business I had a sneak peek through those binoculars tempting me on the bench. A few couples and whatnot, but what caught my eye was a mother and her little ones. Hard to see clearly through those bars though, and in this heat? The poor woman wasn’t able to work I tell ya, not with all those crying little things around her. Looked downright miserable. And with all those women at church prying through my windows and asking me why I didn’t have children, yapping on about how I’ll never be happy. Happy? Huh! I get a good night’s rest and more money in my back pocket, and I’ll say I’m better for it. I don’t want for such pity, gossips ought to keep busy and keep their nose and mouth to ‘emselves.

Tell ya who does deserve some of that women’s lunch group pity though – that poor woman below the glazed glass. What was it that Mr Jefferies called her? Ah yes. Lonelyheart. Setting the table and wine out for someone’s ghost, no doubt. Someone oughta check in on that girl soon or try to match her up with another unlucky chap who married a girl for her looks too young. Now that poor doll ain’t had much luck with the men type; poor soul looks miserable.

Well as I always says, count ya blessings and continue to work an honest living. Prying ain’t never gone unpunished.

Park Avenue evenings have always been predictable, yet here I am with the vagaries of New York’s suffocating weather threatening to unravel my curls and sweat the rouge off my cheeks. As I step to the edge of the sidewalk and outstretch my hand, a mustard automobile pulls up and its driver lets me inside. A grunt of acknowledgment follows my bidding him good evening. I feel eyes on me before I meet them, from the pavement and now inside the confines of the taxicab. I suppose I’ll never truly be able to hide if they are always seeking. Wolf whistles follow me inside as I smooth down the black pleats of my dress. Is that all I am? Simply an accessory to satiate lust and boredom? Perhaps I should be grateful. So be it if that is all there is. Maybe I don’t have more to offer. The sounds of leering men bleed into a cacophony of blaring radios, revving vehicles and inarticulate conversations. Show’s over tonight. As I sit within the confines of tin walls, rattling along on wheels, I blindly trust a stranger to navigate me safely to Greenwich Village. I may as well put my life in his hands. As muggy air rolls through the four open windows, a pair of calloused hands grip the steering wheel and madly blare the horn. New York.

My driver distractedly adjusts the rear-view mirror after an effusion of profanities, his piggy eyes lingering a second too long on mine. I recognise that gaze all too well. It seeks to ravish and devour in ways I would prefer not to mull over. I stare back at my reflection in the mirror, her blue eyes framed with black liner. Oh, I really must be some sort of fool... all this for Jeff? All dolled up for a man whose attention is wed to some strangers across the way. I look down at the nakedness of my fourth finger, longing for it to be heavy with the weight of a diamond. I very much doubt that Jeff and I would be on the same page about this. I know he doesn’t see me like that. It is almost like he refuses to. My fairy-tale is his life sentence. I’m beginning to think that the only way he would allow me to keep up with his ‘daredevil’ lifestyle is by taking out a subscription to his magazine. To watch his life through frames. Ah, I suppose it is natural for Jeff to turn to the safe windows of his neighbours, inexorably ogling and speculating as he is accustomed to with his camera. But at what cost? My feminine intuition tells me that something is not quite right. Jeff has overstepped and I fear it is no longer just a distraction from his boredom but an obsession. A compulsive one at that. Jeff and his camera. Inseparable. Fused together with the substance that the sculpturist is always handling. He’s wheeling himself in and out of the shadows making wildly nonsensical claims as he intrudes on a secret, private world. So much so that he wakes with bloodshot red eyes! I don’t believe I’ve gone and fallen for a peeping Tom. If only Jeff would take a closer look at me and my world instead. I can feel a gaze preying on me again long before I meet the pair of eyes. In the rear-view mirror the driver looks on shamelessly, his reflection obscured by the smoke from his cigarette. As we come to a slow at the intersection, I shuffle closer towards the window to inhale anything that will overcome the sickening scent of smoke and sour breath. Dusk is quickly falling over New York, swallowing the depth of its many buildings, and setting off amber lights across the city. I know I will attract an undesirable gaze regardless of whether I am on the interior or exterior of this cab, questioning my safety either way. I feel rooted to the sticky leather seat. My taxi driver only averts his eyes from me once he is prompted by a flurry of horns.

I don’t want to accept the realisation that lobster thermidor from 21 , champagne or $1100 dress off a Paris plane would never run Jeff over. It’s all fruitless efforts when Jeff is off flirting with the idea of a neighbourhood murder or gazing lustfully at that dancer across the way. I know I could satisfy him if he’d just let me. I suppose there is a certain thrill he gets from the forbidden gaze that I simply couldn’t provide. That’s Jeff. He is hopelessly in love with the rash and the reckless. I’m standing here foolishly with my heart on my sleeve, confessing my love for him while his lens and shutter are off penetrating another existence. I’m more than a little confused. I guess I’m not the girl I thought I was. I wonder if Jeff sees me for who I truly am – Lisa Carol Freemont.

Isn’t it Jeff who should be chasing me? After all, I’m the one in heels. My two-tone Chanel slingbacks can only take so much. No... what am I thinking having these expectations? Jeff couldn’t even differentiate colours as separate as the black and white on my shoes, so how could I possibly expect him to understand let alone appreciate any of this? Sitting at the back of the taxicab, I am dressed as classic and timeless as I look in his portrait of me. It is framed below his wall of glory, featuring all the photographs he got himself half killed for. Sitting beside them on his sideboard, I look all skeletal and vacant in the undeveloped negative. Why Jeff chose to be reminded of me like that I couldn’t tell you... but I suppose I should be grateful to have a place at all. The rickety clanking of the windows rolling up arouses me from my thoughts. My driver only manages to pull his up to halfways. I cough pointedly in a polite attempt to keep them down as a puff of his cigarette smoke hits me in the face. with my eyes stinging, I clasp my hands together and breathe shallowly. We shouldn’t be too far from Jeff’s now.

The inside of the cab is eclipsed with faint red light. Another intersection. New York is full of them, and tonight it just feels like a threat to my safety with the rear-view mirror allowing my driver to stare even more so. I want to ask him to pull over, but I know we’re only minutes from Jeff’s now.

As we weave between still streets, muted by brick walls and heavy air, the humming of the radio drifts to the backseat.

‘See the market place in old Algiers, send me photograph and souvenirs. Just remember when a dream appears, you belong to me...’

‘Miss, I’ve seen you on the covers of those magazines before. My kid loves you she does.’

I glance up at the crushed cigarette butt on the dashboard. ‘She does? What’s her name?’

Jo Stafford’s voice drowns and resurfaces under the soundtrack of a New York evening, gently competing against the driver as he talks of his daughter.

I retouch my lips and spritz my neck with Chanel N°5. Won’t he pay attention to me now?

A hook hangs off the wire

Below a bird sits

On a broken-down fence

In between pages of books

A bird-feather mark the pages

Creating a slash across the paper

Around a campfire the children sleep

Soothed by bird song

Drifting softly away with a smile

My darling

There’s more to life than this

The ways we are pitted against each other

The trajectory of this love

Won’t you dance with me?

Your ankles hang over the edge of my bed

I will brush your hair

I will braid your hair

The sheets stained and unchanged for the better What else does she carry in the back pocket of her Levis?

You and I both know there’s more to it than just

Shame

But my darling

I will remain an insufferable teenage girl

Even if it’s the last thing I do.