Fault lines: USC short story anthology 2017 by rwatkins

FAULT LINES

ÂŠ 2017 Fault Lines Short Story Edition Editorial Collective University of the Sunshine Coast, Queensland, Australia

Fault Lines is published by an Editorial Collective comprised of the following students and staff from the University of the Sunshine Coast, November 2017: Nathan Armstrong, Grace Convey, Paul Gifford-Macrae, Ashley Gundlach, Summer Heathcote, Cori Murray, Katrina Pike, Irena Sprey, Selina Strazzari, Tash Turgoose, Ross Watkins.

Copyright on individual contributions remain with the authors. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part of this publication may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Enquiries should be addressed to:

Dr Ross Watkins University of the Sunshine Coast rwatkins@usc.edu.au

Fault Lines: an anthology of short stories from the University of the Sunshine Coast 2017

Cover and internal graphics by Tash Turgoose Typesetting by Irena Sprey Blurb by Ashley Gundlach

FOREWORD Dr. Ross Watkins Every July I gather a gang of third-year creative writing students and task them with the creation of two anthologies. The process demands a daring sense of vision, verbal precision, and an ethical regard for the good people invested in the process. But above all, the development of a publication from conception to final product in under 13 weeks requires rigorous collaboration and perseverance. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s no mean feat.

The short stories published in this book were argued over and

selected from a total of 27 submissions, and soon after our editors toiled with their authors to present a collection of gems. Many thanks go to Nathan, Summer, Cori and Katrina for their dexterity in handling these works. Ashley then applied the proofing polish, as well as penning the editorial introduction and blurb. In-house writers Paul and Selina were commissioned to dream big, contributing works that add both diversity and

cohesion to the collection. Tashâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s aesthetic eye and tireless hand created stunning illustrations, while desktop publisher Irena expertly shaped an innovative form that will be difficult to out-do in future iterations. All this was directed by our publication manager Grace, whose tenacity (and ability to absorb stress) guided the collaborative process so effectively.

To the 2017 short story collective and our solicited authors, you

should be proud of achieving such a remarkable testimony to USCâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s creative writing talents.

Dr Ross Watkins October 2017

CONTENTS FOREWORD �� 1 Dr. Ross Watkins

EDITORIAL INTRODUCTION �� 5 Ashley Gundlach

OMIYAGE (CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE) �� 6 Selina Strazzari

BEAR IN MIND �� 7 Irena Sprey

THE SPACES BETWEEN �� 13 Samantha Martin

SMALL THINGS �� 21 Amanda Fiedler

OH SWEET VINDICIA �� 31 Will Westergard

THE FAMILY DINNER �� 43 Katrina Pike

ONE THOUSAND PAPER CRANES �� 53 Evangeline Bryce

DAMSELS SLAY DRAGONS �� 65 Kinta Walsh-Cotton

THE LAST TRAM �� 73 Diane Nicholls

HOW TO BE THE IDEAL GIRL �� 83 Abigail Hua

KARLA’S CHOICE �� 93 Elizabeth Sauterel

ANECDOTAL EVIDENCE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12, 20, 64, 72, 82, 102 Paul Gifford-Macrae

WARNING Some of the stories in this anthology contain content that may upset some readers. These stories will have a symbol

above them.

Content includes : domestic abuse, depression, gore, sexual assault, suicide, violence. If you are affected by any of these issues, visit beyondblue.org.au, or call 1300 22 4636.

EDITORIAL INTRODUCTION Ashley Gundlach Concealed deep in the ocean lies a series of fault lines. Oceanic trenches extend up from the coast of New Zealand, along the east coast of Asia and Japan, stretching over from Russia to Alaska, and running all the way down the west coast of America. The majority of the world’s natural disasters occur along this treacherous terrain. The interconnecting series of lines is called the Ring of Fire.

Good stories are much like this, with dramatic upheavals and

unexpected drops; the complex meeting of light and dark. The word ‘fault’ echoes the imperfection of humanity which is reflected in this anthology. These pages explore relationships, reinvent familiar stories and subvert expectations.

Fault Lines is a journey into both the familiar and strange. Travel

with us. You will discover, regardless of the differences between our lives and stories, we are all connected, and that is something worth celebrating. 5

OMIYAGE

Choose Your Own Adventure Selina Strazzari You are Lord Yoroshiku of the inland province of Ome, in the southern part of Japan’s biggest island, and are on good terms with the Lords of the large neighbouring provinces of Ise, Echizen and Mino. Your relationships with the smaller provinces of Wakasa, Yamashiro and Iga are more strained due their reliance on farming assistance from Ome. A messenger races onto the training fields, where you practise with your katana. He slides to a stop in front of you, breathing heavily, and you stop at once. ‘My Lord,’ he pants, bowing so low his nose touches the grass, ‘I bring news from our neighbouring province of Wakasa.’ ‘What is it?’ you ask, sheathing the katana. The messenger straightens, eyeing the katana nervously. ‘Foreign dignitaries have appeared on Wakasa’s shores, people with small faces and round eyes. Lord Takana of Wakasa has requested you, as Lord of Ome, to dine with him and these dignitaries in one week’s time.’ You respond: a) ‘I accept Lord Takana’s invitation.’ (Turn to page 18) b) ‘I will not be ordered by a Lord of a small province like Wakasa. These dignitaries will come to Ome and dine with me in a true example of Japan’s greatness.’ (Turn to page 50)

BEAR IN MIND Irena Sprey

Stanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Notes Twice upon a time, yes, you read correctly: twice. You see, I hadnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t learnt the first time. I needed a second reminder that life is as long as a piece of string, that is, mathematically speaking, twice the distance from the middle to the end, and putting your mortality to the test, when you get to the chronological middle, can have the effect of bringing the middle and the end bits together rather rapidly. No, I did not intentionally set out to remove myself from the gene pool. After all, men my age still father children. But here I am, at the Pearly Gates, and theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve handed me this piece of paper. So I may as well tell my side of the story.

It was during my non-surprise 50th birthday party that debate

about the meaning of life surfaced. The gathered, inebriated middle-agers

BEAR IN MIND

pronounced it fact, that you can measure the success of a man’s life by the size of his bucket list. That is, a successful life means your list is empty the day you meet your maker. No regrets. Nothing left to accomplish.

I was feeling pretty smug back then, as, at the tender age of 50, I

only had two items left on my list to fulfil my life’s ambition. You see, I am a bear man, always have been. You have dog people and cat people. Well, I am neither of those. They are small and needy and live too long — dogs and cats, that is. I’ve had a fascination with bears all my life. They are majestic, an enduring myth as old as humanity, for once we must have shared the forests with them.

But, I digress. Last year I went to Canada to fulfil item three on my

list. I drove around for two weeks — nothing. On my last day, meandering down the British Columbia Highway, I spotted a cub eating berries by the side of the road. I ground to a halt, jumped out of the car and ran towards it. My heart thundered with anticipation. The gorgeous creature did not seem bothered by a large pudgy form squatting next to it, panting like an excited dog. I extended my hand and gazed into its small black eyes. Next I knew, I was being dragged away by two elderly women, cursing me to high heaven.

‘Are you nuts?’ one of them shouted when we were some distance

away.

‘But he was by himself, harmless,’ I protested.

‘Where there is baby bear, mama bear is not far behind. She was

just up in those bushes. You didn’t look up, did you? If we hadn’t come along then …’ ‘He spoke to me,’ I cried.

IRENA SPREY

‘Hypnotised, like every other poor bastard that got himself ripped

to bits,’ said the other woman. ‘These bears can trick you. They have that power.’

That should have been a warning, but, I figured, 90 people get

killed by lightning every year. So, what are the chances? That settled, I resolved to fulfil item two on my list and booked my flight to Svalbard, that inhospitable piece of Arctic rock, the home of the polar bear. And the rest, as they say, is hist— well, no, the rest is frankly embarrassing. I don’t need to bore you with gory details. That’s what Google is for. Needless to say, I am angry. The bears are not meant to eat Goldilocks.

I can see my bear in the other queue; red-stained fur clumped

around her neck and chest. Whose blood is it? Mine? Hers? It’s hard to tell. Isn’t all blood red? If she hadn’t eaten my heart, it would probably lurch by now. She is glaring at me. What have I done? I was innocently sitting in my tent, eating my own porridge. Then she turns up and bites my head off. And they didn’t even put it back on correctly. You’d think these people-things have been doing this job long enough to know the difference between the front and the back of a man. I should not be seeing my buttocks when I look down. I know, I am raving. This is all a bit of a shock.

‘Excuse me. What is this for?’ I wave my form at the passing

cherub.

‘The big boss is all for reconciliation these days,’ replies the winged

creature. ‘He is tired of souls wandering around the place snarling at each other for eternity.’

‘What if I don’t want to reconcile?’ I protest. ‘She ate me!’

BEAR IN MIND

‘Well, then you stay together until you do,’ the annoying bird-

person says, snatches my form and flies away.

Bear’s Notes I was strolling along, minding my own business on a sniff-out for a seal. I was nowhere near the settlement. I can read the signs, but apparently ‘Home of the bear — Do Not Enter’ means nothing to the biped ape. He ignored them, yet I got shot? How was this my fault? He came to my mountain and set up house. How was I supposed to know he didn’t have a gun? He could have hidden it. I have my cubs and territory to protect, and now, with all this global warming, it takes a hell of a lot of swimming to find food. So, when food appears on my mountain, who am I to look a gift-bear in the mouth? I have nothing to say to the biped ape.

Cherub’s Case Notes As part of the reconciliation process, the aggrieved parties must visit each other’s funerals. •

Stan’s funeral — all his friends are mocking him and his lifelong bear obsession. The bear feels sorry for him. She feels bad about biting Stan’s head off.

•

Stan and the bear go to Norway to see what has happened to the bear’s family. They find them wandering around looking for food. Stan is devastated for contributing to the polar bears’ demise.

•

The bear’s skin is now a rug in some rich guy’s house. The rich guy’s poodle is doing unspeakable things to the bear’s head (which is part of the rug). The bear looks depressed. Stan is inconsolable.

IRENA SPREY

•

They forgive each other. Embrace in a long bear hug.

•

The bear goes off to Heaven to find other bears to hang out with.

•

Stan does not forgive himself. Chooses to spend an eternity in Purgatory.

•

Stan does not fulfil item one on his bucket list.

ANECDOTAL EVIDENCE Paul Gifford-Macrae

THE DOUBLE STANDARD I was sitting in my room when I was sixteen. My pet dog Mellie was snoozing at the end of my bed and I was blowing cigarette smoke out of my window. The door flew open and in walked my father, doing his best impression of King Kong. He pointed at the ashtray on my windowsill and barked, ‘No son of mine is going to smoke in this house.’

Not sure what to do next, I left the angry gorilla and the snarling dog in my

room and went out into the backyard. My father found me a few minutes later smoking another cigarette. He came up to me with his fist raised and, with no options left, I offered him the packet. He stopped mid-swing and lit a cigarette.

So there we were, standing together in the backyard smoking. The only thing he

said to me was, ‘Don’t tell your mother.’

THE SPACES BETWEEN Samantha Martin

I first saw Andie Addison when she was seven. Didn’t know her name back then, though. At that point I was there for Bryn Bailey, her mama’s other kid. He was 11 and feisty. Not as feisty as Andie.

I can’t remember how I came to be who I am. The space between

the walls of primary school classrooms told me that when a mama and a man love each other a lot, an existence starts to form. Sometimes he doesn’t even have to say he loves her at all; no strings attached. All I know is that it’s definitely not how I got here.

I was there, ten years ago, in the space between the walls of the

staffroom, when Cecelia Carson asked Donna Darcey how she was. And Darcey said, ‘good, how are you?’ and Carson said, ‘doing well, thanks.’ Both women ignored me, their goodness falling from their mouths and pooling

THE SPACES BETWEEN

on the lino like poison. They were always good at it around here: turning their backs while I picked dirt from my nails in the windowsill, ever-present. Carson spoke again, and she said, ‘I’ve got some bad news …’ and she trailed off, like fingernails down a chalkboard, clinging to the last shred of attention directed her way before she let the next sentence fall. The first time I met Andie herself was a Wednesday afternoon. It wasn’t even gloomy — sunny and a top of 27. I don’t think she remembers, exactly. When I got the call to visit her, it was no surprise to see her face. It had been almost ten years since I left Bryn behind, wiped the sweat off the back of his neck and kept his fingers steady. I don’t always get a call for two siblings. It’s a bit tragic, really, for that mama, anyway.

I think, if I tried my hardest, I’d remember my first. I’d keep a book

of them if I had pockets. I’d probably write My People on the cover, and it’d be black vinyl. Leather is such a cost; wasted blood if you ask me.

I’m there in the space between the windshield and the driver’s seat

as Darcey drives home. All the streets are the same … Lego houses built into the hills with ocean views. Some have gardens with flowers blooming at front doors. Some even go as far as to have white picket fences against their boundary lines. Kids, pig-tailed and hyperactive, spill onto the footpaths while their parents (who all have university degrees) cook high-protein, low-sugar meals, and watch game shows on flat-screen TVs. I’ve spent a bit of time in most of these houses. It’s good, really, because I know the roads. And we get to Darcey’s, eventually, which is good, considering I am in her way, with her red-rimmed eyes and heavy limbs. But you can’t blame her — it’s my job, after all.

I don’t know why, after all these years, I’d waited for the call to meet

SAMANTHA MARTIN

Andie. I’m not a jerk. I don’t anticipate many of the calls I receive. In our first moments together, I roll her name around my tongue. She is t-w-e-nt-y-t-h-r-e-e years old now. I’m with her as she counts it out on her fingers, then her toes, and then my hands too, because she doesn’t have enough. I’m there, too, in her mind, when she thinks about how she could just be done now. But I never speak up, I just calm her hands, keep them still. We lie there for a while, that first perfect Wednesday. We did a lot of lying, Andie and me.

I think most people have seen the shadows of me. Some I’ll never

know the names of. Others call them lucky, but it’s all the same if you ask me.

I’m there, in the space between the two front doors of the car,

when I finally realise Darcey has started breathing. Maybe she was anyway. But she’s doing a lot of it, or I’m doing it. I calm her fingers, sit on her chest, do what I do best. I’m patient as I watch the sun go down through the glass pane of her garage door. I don’t know if she notices, but it’s a pretty one. I sit until she’s all breathed out, and then I sit some more. Darcey opens her door, and gets out of the car one leg at a time. She leaves her bag on the back seat and I follow her inside. She opens the fridge mindlessly, but it’s nothing new to me.

Andie’s pretty good at working around me. People like Emerson

Elliot (who I met four years prior, but left six months ago) stop her in the hallway of her TA job. Elliot says something along the lines of, ‘how have you been doing?’ and Andie says, ‘yeah, really good, thanks Emerson’ and Elliot sighs like she’s dodged a bullet, and Andie pulls at the loose threads of her jumper sleeve. And she keeps going. If I could read her mind, I’d see if

‘Lord Yoroshiku,’ Lord Takana says to you, ‘their leader’s name is Loransu. We have only managed basic communication, but I know for certain they are here to trade and make allies with Japan.’ He bows to Loransu and the foreigner looks at him. ‘Capuchin Loransu, Lord Yo-ro-shi-ku.’ Loransu holds his hand out to you. You look at it, confused, and see Lord Takana gesturing for you to take it. You do, hesitantly, and let go quickly. ‘I have sent for the Daimyo and he will be here within the week,’ Lord Takana says to you and the other Lords. ‘I look forward to his stay. He is very interested to meet our guests.’ He invites the other Lords to speak, and they present well wishes and offers of assistance. ‘I present good wishes for the future,’ you say. You bow deeply, first to the foreigners, and then to Lord Takana, who bows back, clearly pleased with your respect for his home and position, and the other Lords nod their approval. ‘To the future!’ Lord Takana exclaims. (Turn to page 100)

THE SPACES BETWEEN

she thinks about Bryn. But it’s not part of the job description, because I left him ten years ago now, so I don’t bother.

I don’t know what about Bryn and Andie stuck with me so long.

I think, if I could track it, I would. I’d use another black vinyl book and I’d write on the front of it People Who Just Won’t Let Up and I’d put it in my pocket with My People. It’d probably be all the same names, though. There isn’t much differentiation when you think about it. Not like they deserved it any less or any more, or at all. Not my place to think about it. I just answer calls.

I’m in the space between Darcey’s eyes and the mirror when she

finds herself staring at her own reflection. And she looks the same as always. She stares at us in her eyes like she’s trying to see me amongst her unwashed hair, her tired skin, her second-day makeup. But she can’t, and she won’t — she’s too tired to begin unfolding me from every pore within her body.

People like Emerson Elliot place themselves at every corner,

springing out at any point to interrogate Andie. Some days there are none at all. And I don’t know which is worse — the empathy or apathy.

I can’t remember how I came to be who I am. The space between

the walls of university classrooms taught me that there was a big bang. And then there was antimatter and real matter and then plants and people and me, presumably. But I don’t think it’s that, either. I’ve heard them all by now, about Adam and Eve (between pews); about storks (between the lips of tired mamas); about the embodiment of souls (between cell walls); and about the apes, and how they became stronger and better and faster (between a sleeping bag and a cold concrete pavement). But I know I’ve been here awhile, and I don’t feel any different at all.

SAMANTHA MARTIN

I’m in the space between Carson’s glasses and her eyes when her husband shuts

the front door firmly. She’s been sitting on the lounge in the dark for three hours and twenty-seven minutes, and that’s just since the sun went down. I watch him as he slides his briefcase onto the counter, and then as he walks across the room. He leans down and kisses her forehead, but she doesn’t look up. And then he shakes her by the shoulders with all that he’s got, and she doesn’t look up, and neither do I. He sighs, the air rushing from his lips like he’s been punched in the stomach — angry and hurt and fed-up. And he flops onto the recliner beside her, turns on the flat-screen TV, and he doesn’t say ‘how was work today?’ and she doesn’t say, ‘I don’t want to do this anymore’ or, ‘I have learnt how to taste the guilt eating the inside of my stomach,’ or, worst of all — ‘good, thanks.’ A lot of things can happen once front doors get closed, I guess.

Andie gets TA of the week, tacky trophy and all. She

doesn’t make a speech. I sit in the back row of her staff meeting pushing motivators through her head. Not enough, not enough, not enough. But she’s fiery, that Andie, and she smiles the biggest I’ve seen since she was seven, before I knew her name. But then we go home, and she does her thing, because most of them have something to make me step away. And I look away, because I don’t want to know what I’m doing to this poor mama’s bright-eyed girl. And I sit on the windowsill waiting until she crawls into bed, but we don’t sleep. I don’t even let her cry.

If I had to list the worst places I find myself in, they would go in this

order: primary school classrooms, palliative care homes, bedrooms that still have pop-star posters tacked to the walls. But it isn’t something I get to choose.

THE SPACES BETWEEN

I’m in the space between Carson’s left forefinger and thumb while

she picks the skin around her fingernails. They all feel me differently. I spread myself like a blanket over her lap, and her eyes, and her skin, until nothing in front of her is hers anymore; a night sky of inability stretched in front of her, holding her down. He’s never hit her, for the record, at least since I met her. But he didn’t have to.

I wonder if I think about Bryn more than Andie does. We cycle

on; nobody looks in, she doesn’t look out. And I think about him, what he felt when I let him feel. Sweaty hands, held still. Fumbling fingers, wellrehearsed, but never executed. Andie shivers, and I wonder. I wonder and wonder and wonder.

Some of them get out, in the nicest way possible. Frank Fisher

took pills. Grace Graham went to therapy. Heather Harrison turned to naturopathy. I never let them go. They just went. Some of them leave me; some get left. I don’t dwell on it, there’s always another to replace them.

I’m there, in the space between where Darcey was three years ago,

before I met her, and now, when nothing of note happens. She doesn’t go back to the fridge, until she does. She doesn’t turn on her flat-screen TV. She One week later, you arrive at the castle of Lord Takana. You dismount your horse and hand the reins to one of the many servants accompanying you. Lord Takana exits his castle, flanked by his concubines, and bows to you. ‘Lord Yoroshiku, it is a pleasure to see you.’ a) ‘Likewise, Lord Takana,’ you say, bowing. (Turn to page 24) b) ‘Where are these dignitaries?’ you say, standing tall. (Turn to page 85)

doesn’t pull out the work she brought home. And she doesn’t think about Bryn Bailey. We pretend, but we aren’t fools.

I was with him, barely, yet stronger than ever, when he kicked that

chair out in one single step. I felt the fire of rope on skin briefly, dejectedly. I left Bryn Bailey at the start of his end. I told you, kid was feisty. There was no time for a goodbye, even after all those years. That’s the worst part of the job, I’d say. The pay’s the same, regardless.

Ten years ago, in the space between the walls of the staff room,

SAMANTHA MARTIN

Carson finally let the words free from her chalkboard tongue. Here’s how it went: Darcey lifted her hand and placed it on Carson’s arm, and she said, ‘Oh, Cecelia, it’s not your husband, is it?’ and I felt like a jerk when I forced the tears back down her throat, away from her eyes. And Carson said, ‘No,’ and then she couldn’t help it, and she was crying, broken free, for a moment, and I was a little fainter, but stronger, just listening from the sidelines. And Darcey rubbed her arm, prompting. And that’s when Carson told her, and I heard it officially, even though I already knew: Bryn Bailey killed himself last night. And I stopped listening, went back to the dirt beneath my fingernails, because they all had something to make me step away; because I heard it, the second-worst part of my job: ‘Oh, but he had so much life ahead of him.’

And I stand, slouch, wonder.

ANECDOTAL EVIDENCE Paul Gifford-Macrae

THE EVERLASTING RECORD Prior to 1990, we only had an LP sound system. Not that it mattered, as we all had a decent number of records and, with a few exceptions, all were shared. One of my fondest memories of that old player was when I was listening to Metallica’s Master of Puppets album and in came Tony, with a manic look on his face, holding tight to his chest Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon.

‘Paul, turn off whatever crap you are listening to and put this on.’

At first it was just Tony and me listening to the record, but every time someone

else came to the house, Tony got up and reset it. Eventually, there was this large group of boys lying on our backs listening to the record while staring at the ceiling. This is how I was introduced to many of the bands I listen to now.

SMALL THINGS Amanda Fiedler

It began on her brow, grew large, then crept down her cheek to rest in the thickening damp of her hair. She lay in the stillness and listened to the tick, tick, tick of the listless fan churn heavy air, then shifted, exposing damp skin to the torpid flow. The room around her was worn, the colours leached like a faded photo. Afternoon shadows crept through the dust-grimed window. Distant sounds drifted in; children playing, crows cawing and the incessant hum of cicadas, rising and falling as a wave against her mind. A relentless blue sky peered in at her, obscured by the thin, limp curtains that hung either side.

First came the creak of a bed frame, the rustle of sheets, then the

soft patter of small feet on wooden floor. A soft sigh escaped her.

‘Mum, I’m hungry.’

SMALL THINGS

The small boy, red-cheeked and rumpled, looked in from the

doorway. Sweat glistened on his bed-lined face. She rolled to her side, patting the empty space before her.

‘Jump up for a minute, Sweet-pea. It’s too hot to move just yet.’

His bottom lip trembled, a small crease on his brow, but he came

and clambered onto the bed. She drew the small being to the curve of her body, nestling into his smell, his softness. A half smile eased her face. She felt his ribs, tight against his flesh, and the smile collapsed into lines etched deep in her skin.

He wriggled, squirmed, and rolled over to face her, nose to nose.

‘I want an apple.’

She smoothed damp hair away from his eyes.

‘Your dad will be home soon and then I’ll make us some roll-ups

for dinner.’

‘Can we have them now?’ he asked, as he rolled away and plonked

back down to the floor.

‘Soon, Sweet-pea. Let’s see what we can find in the garden for tea,

hey?’

She lifted heavy limbs to follow him to the floor, tousling his hair

as she straightened and stretched. Her hands ran a cursory check over her crinkled cotton dress and mussed hair, stopping to retie the loose bun at her neck. She shrugged.

‘Right then, let’s go.’

He led the way, small legs striding down the darkened passage. Past

the wonky hall stand, cardboard folded beneath one leg. Past the bathroom door with its cracked and peeling paint, and past the picture frame, hung

AMANDA FIEDLER

askew, of dour faces long gone. They moved through the heavy house and surfaced to bright sunlight on the back veranda. Its gentle sag led them forward to lean against the flaked railing.

The world outside was brown, beaten down and burnt. Close to

the ground, the air shimmered and waved. At the far edge of the yard, trees huddled together, their mottled grey trunks shedding in strips, to expose white skin beneath. A solitary pale husk rose from amidst the brush, skeletal fingers reaching for the never-ending blue. Shadow tendrils stretched from the trees toward the house, a promise of relief from the sunbaked day. In the distance, clouds built soft towers in the sky.

Remnants of grass crunched underfoot as they made their way

across the yard. She shielded her eyes, looking out over the parched land. Chooks scratched in the dirt, a dust cloud trailing their passage. The boy found two eggs nestled in straw inside the coop. He smiled as he held them aloft for her to see. In the vegetable patch, the few surviving plants drooped; starved and thirsty. Amongst their withered stems she found three small tomatoes, skin puckered, and a single cucumber, stunted, and nibbled by another hungry critter. She picked all she found. The door swung open, slamming against the wall behind, a well-worn dent growing ever deeper. She flinched at the sound, said nothing, shrunk smaller in her skin.

‘I’m home!’ the man bellowed into the house. The sour smell of his

breath snaked through the room, invading the space. ‘Look what I got.’

He stood, unsteady, in dirt-crusted pants, fabric thin in the knees

and sagging. His shirt was frayed, stained from work and sweat. Clumps of

‘Lord Yoroshiku,’ Lord Takana says to you, ‘their leader’s name is Loransu. We have only managed basic communication, but I know for certain they are here to trade and make allies with Japan.’ He bows to Loransu and the foreigner looks at him. ‘Capuchin Loransu, Lord Yo-ro-shi-ku.’ Loransu holds his hand out to you. You look at it, confused, and see Lord Takana gesturing for you to take it. You do, hesitantly, and let go quickly. ‘I have sent for the Daimyo and he will be here within the week,’ you say to the other Lords. ‘I look forward to his stay. He is very interested to meet our guests.’ You invite the other Lords to speak, and they present well wishes and offers of assistance. ‘I present good wishes for the future,’ Lord Takana says. He bows deeply, first to the foreigners, and then to you. You bow back, showing respect to your guest, and the other Lords nod their approval. ‘To the future!’ you exclaim. (Turn to page 100)

SMALL THINGS

discarded dirt showed his jagged path across the front porch. In his left hand, aloft, he held a shotgun.

‘Daddy!’ the boy jumped up and ran into the man’s embrace.

He squealed as the man tickled his ribs.

‘Look, boy, ain’t she a beauty?’

The man held the gun before him like an offering. Small eyes grew

big as they gazed up in wonder. The shotgun was long and sleek. The barrel, black as soot, swallowed the light, while the stock, wood bruised in places, shone from a thousand gentle rubs.

‘What d’ya reckon? I got her cheap and still had enough left over

for a pint with the boys on the way home.’ He winked at the boy and smiled.

The man walked to the table and gently lowered the gun onto the

worn laminate. He dropped himself onto a vinyl chair; it exhaled in a rush beneath him. The boy was drawn along in his father’s wake. His small hand reached out, questing, drew back, then surged forward to touch the beast that lay dormant on the table before them. ‘If you will please follow me,’ Lord Takana says, gesturing behind him, ‘I will show you to your room so you can rest after your long journey. Tonight, after you are rested, we will meet with the dignitaries for a feast.’ You arrive in your room and send the servants away to prepare your outfit for the night. You rest for a while, until your servants arrive to dress you in a montsuki, a black silk kimono worn over a white kimono and black trousers. (Turn to page 67)

‘That’s not a toy!’ the man’s gruff voice broke the beast’s spell. The

boy’s small hand dropped back to hang, limp, at his side. He sidled over to stand, half hidden, by his mother’s skirt. Her hand briefly touched his head, before cracking open an egg.

‘What’s for dinner?’ the man asked, as he plucked the tomatoes

from the table and popped them into his mouth, one after another. He inspected the nibbled cucumber, sneered, and dropped it back in the salad bowl.

She saw their dinner vanish, sighed, and turned back to the mix

before her, whisking the egg with more force.

AMANDA FIEDLER

‘Roll ups,’ she answered.

‘Bloody roll ups again! You’ve got all damn day to sort something

out. What do you do all day? I’m sick to death of you and your bloody roll ups. I need meat, woman. That’s what we’re supposed to eat. Not the crap you feed us.’

The man erupted from the chair, his fist catching her left cheek.

Her head snapped back from the force, her body crumpling to the ground. The shrill metallic ring of the disturbed mixing bowl echoed through the house, then settled to stillness. He stood, heaving, over her; face purple, distorted, eyes bulging. The boy stood frozen like a rabbit in headlights. She lay silent on the floor at his feet, eyes lowered, body still. Red bloomed beneath her skin. The man took a shuddering breath, glanced at the boy, grabbed the gun, and stormed off to the back veranda.

From his pocket, he drew a tin of oil and a rag. He stroked the

cloth up and down the distended snout of the gun in a gentle caress, while he mumbled to himself, ‘Tomorrow we’ll catch us some rabbits, won’t we girl? That’ll be more like it, hey?’

She eased herself up off the floor, returning to the counter and bowl. Her shoulders sagged, folding in on herself, as she beat the already beaten egg. The boy stood motionless, small eyes caught on the rhythmic movement of his father’s hands. From the corner of her eye, she felt his silent witness and looked down to see his small face closed and guarded, a whirlwind of thoughts contained. She squared her shoulders and stood straight.

SMALL THINGS

‘Sweet-pea, will you pass me the milk please?’

Small eyes rose to meet hers. The boy nodded, and moved to

retrieve the lone can from the pantry. She added water to the can and shook the last bit of powder until it creamed, then poured it into the bowl.

‘Can I mix it, Mum?’

‘Course you can, Sweet-pea. I’ll get the flour.’

The boy dragged a chair across the floor and climbed up to reach

the counter. He took the fork and set to work on the bowl. He loved watching the milk turn orange and froth up into tiny bubbles.

She moved to the flour bin and stood for a moment, drinking

him in. He was perched precariously on the rickety chair, legs akimbo for balance. His head was bent low over the bowl, hair falling over his eyes, as he whisked with frenetic intent. A half smile formed on her face, lost in a wince of pain. She turned away to sift the webs from the flour.

‘Let’s get these cooked up, hey? I bet you’re hungry,’ she said.

Flour was added to the bowl and mixed to a smooth batter. She

poured a portion onto the hot griddle and swirled it around to a perfect thin circle. It began to bubble and hiss. With a flick of her wrist, the pancake jumped high into the air, flipped over and landed back with a sizzle.

‘Yay!’ the boy clapped and cheered her on. Soon a steaming stack

stood ready on the plate before them. The man claimed half as the plate was placed on the table, along with the near empty jam jar. Small eyes hungrily followed each spoonful from jar to plate,

AMANDA FIEDLER

waiting for the remains. She kept one pancake for herself, cut into small pieces, left plain. For the boy, she spread jam across the surface and rolled each one up like a cigar. Jam roll ups were his favourite and he munched on them, content.

Sated after devouring his share, the man leaned back in the chair

to survey his domain. He smiled and reached across to muss the small boy’s hair.

‘Tomorrow we’ll be eating rabbit, boy. Stewed with steaming

vegetables. I’ve got a good eye for hunting. When I was younger I was the best shot in the district. Ask anyone. When you’re bigger, I’ll teach you, like my old man taught me.’ He winked and smiled at the boy as he spoke. ‘Just you wait and see what I bring home. It’ll be real food tomorrow.’

The man cast an eye in her direction. He pushed back his chair. It

gave a slight wobble as he stood to return to the veranda and his seduction of the beast. The boy said nothing, ate his last roll up and carried his plate to the sink.

‘Time for bed, Sweet-pea. Go wash up and I’ll be down in a bit,’ she

said as she cleared the table.

Limp curtains lifted with a sudden breeze. She angled her face to

catch its cooling kiss and sighed with its gentle touch. On her way down the dark passage to the boy, she heard the rain drops drum on the tin roof, and the man crow from afar, ‘It better not bloody rain tomorrow.’

She felt the bed shift as he got up with the early morning light and feigned sleep until she heard the car’s shuddering cough as it came to life and bore

SMALL THINGS

him away. She rose from the bed to stand before the open window. The wind blowing through made the curtains twist and dance. She raised her arms up high and stepped close to embrace the soothing caress of its cool touch. From down the hall came the patter of soft feet on wooden floor.

‘Mum, I’m hungry.’

She scooped the small boy up and danced around ‘til they fell,

laughing, on the bed.

‘I have a special cucumber just for you. I even had a possum

check it first to make sure it was good,’ she whispered into his ear and was rewarded with a wet kiss on her cheek. She looked out the window and saw clouds gliding through the blue to jumble one atop the other.

‘I think we’ll plant some seeds today. It looks like a good day for it.

Would you like that, Sweet-pea?’

The earth was soft and moist after the night’s rain. She knelt in the dirt, turning compost through the starved soil. The boy worked beside her, humming, poking his stick into the ground before dropping the seeds in and patting them down.

‘You grow big and strong now,’ he told each one as he folded the

soil over.

The car that pulled up out front didn’t cough and splutter. She

looked up at the new sound. A strange man made his way around the house, through the gate, toward her. She stood, wiped the fresh dirt from her hands and gently touched the boy’s head.

‘You keep working, Sweet-pea. I’ll be back in a minute.’

A small nod as he told the next seed to grow big and strong.

AMANDA FIEDLER

She met the stranger at the steps to the back veranda. His eyes

swept the yard, the house, her. He wore a clean shirt, pressed pants, a tie and a hat. His shoes reflected small suns up into her eyes. She knew his face from town.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Ma’am, but there’s been an accident,’ he

twisted the hat in his hands as he spoke.

She listened as he spoke about the man.

‘It looks like he was climbing through a barbed wire fence out past

the dams. He didn’t have his safety on, and he must have slipped on the wet grass. The trigger got caught, and the gun fired. Bullet caught him right in the eye. The other blokes tried to help him, but there was nothing they could do. It would have been quick. He wouldn’t have suffered, Ma’am. I’m deeply sorry for your loss.’

She lowered herself to the steps, the wood yielding to her weight.

She looked across the desolate yard at her boy digging holes with his stick.

‘Is there anything I can do for you, Ma’am?’ the stranger asked.

She shook her head. ‘No. Thank you.’

He shifted from foot to foot, as her silence grew. He followed her

gaze to the boy digging in the dirt.

‘I’ll send the wife over with a casserole later. You don’t need to be

worrying about things like that, at a time like this. I’m sure all the women will help you out. We take care of our own around here.’ His job done, he reset the hat to his head.

She met his eyes as she stood.

‘Thank you,’ she said again.

He nodded, turned, and walked away. She watched as he left, then

SMALL THINGS

made her way back to the small boy and the garden. She lowered herself beside him and felt the soft damp earth welcome her. A sigh escaped her lips. Her hand reached over to smooth the hair from the small boy’s face. He looked up to meet her gaze. She smiled.

‘I think we’ll have casserole for dinner tonight.’

He smiled back as he poked his stick in the ground and whispered

to the seed. ‘Now you can grow big and strong too.’

OH SWEET VINDICIA Will Westergard

Then When she stared at you with her eyes of gold, you felt a hole in the wall; the wall youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d built out of drugs, sex, and alcohol. You smiled because it was funny that such a simple thing as a smile could bring down such a great wall. But it was easy taking it down, because you had help.

Vindicia. Oh sweet Vindicia.

Now You wake up late in the afternoon. Eyes wide with horror, hair in a mess and heart trying to crawl out of your chest. Your cheeks are damp; you must have cried in your sleep. You try and gather your thoughts, the details of

OH SWEET VINDICIA

the dream hovering just out of reach. You can’t remember it when you are in the shower, nor when you’re brushing your teeth, nor when you put on your dress.

‘Cera … et momentum,’ you mumble whilst finishing up your

eyeliner, but something’s still missing. It sounds like Latin, and completely out of place with your Missouri accent.

Tiptoeing through the apartment so as to not wake up your aunt

sleeping in the living room, you put one hand on the door handle and another one through your jacket.

‘Cura et memento mori,’ you exclaim as it finally clicks, and you

hear your aunt’s snore change pitch through the wall. For a brief moment, a hint of apples and cinnamon tickles your tongue.

You sigh, put on your jacket, and head to school.

Vindicia’s mom phoned last night, asking for Vindicia’s ring back. You’d left it in your drawer at school. Walking through the empty school, drowning in red twilight, you head to the art room, music blaring through your headphones, a soundtrack for the city outside, which shines like rubies. A laughing child is running along with his dog, gazing up at a perfect patchy autumn sky. Smiling, you take the stairs to the top floor.

The song ends as you push open

the door to the art room. All the tables are empty, except one which is covered in paint, a drawing in the centre.

WILL WESTERGARD

Your eyes widen in shock, why is this here? Cura et memento mori

... Something rustles behind you, the rasp of dead leaves whispering to one another.

You freeze for a moment, then shrug it off, assuming it’s the wind

— despite all the windows being firmly shut — and go over to the drawers.

‘I’m here, Sanna!’ a horrible voice squeals through your headphones,

and you rip them off, then fling them across the room. ‘Sanna …’ the voice carries on, hissing out of the unplugged headphones. You flinch backwards, knocking into a table.

‘Sanna,’ the voice sing-songs in your ear. You can feel its breath,

like cold fingers tracing your spine.

You turn slowly, as if wading through mud.

Through the window of the storage room, you can make out a dark

shape. It moves closer, waving at you.

Its hand is skeletal, horrible white fingers ending in sharp claws,

the hand of a corpse that’s been submerged for a week. Gingerly, it presses the hand against the window, creating a spiderweb of cracks. You barely hear the shattering glass for the blood pumping in your ears. It reaches through the newly made hole, claws grazing the metal of the handle, and you feel confusion when you see Vindicia’s ring on its bony finger. The handle turns to ice and shatters. The door creaks open, revealing the creature in all its glory. It doesn’t have eyes, only bloody holes, red dripping down its cheeks like cheap mascara. But you can feel the way its gaze bores into you.

Then Lying in Vindicia’s arms, you looked up at the window next to the bed. Her breathing was soft and cool. She had her eyes closed. Her thick brown hair 33

OH SWEET VINDICIA

covered her face, but you could see the freckles that dotted her snowy skin. The sky was dark blue, the type of blue you only see in winter when the moon has risen. The moon smiled in, and you smiled back. Vindicia was holding your hand, and you felt warm inside and out.

You let out a soft sigh and snuggled closer. She opened her eyes,

beautiful like an autumn sunrise, and smiled. She kissed you, filling your mouth with apples and cinnamon, and told you to go to sleep in her sweet Missouri accent.

‘Not yet,’ you mumbled, finger tracing the sharp cut of the crystal

on the ring she’s wearing. ‘What’s up with this ring anyway?’

The autumn sun set in her eyes, leaving only the bite of a winter’s

night.

‘When my pa died, I found it in his bedside drawer,’ she said, and

you didn’t ask anything else. She bit her lip and gripped your hand. She traced your waist with one finger. You winked, and got up to get your water bottle from your school bag in the corner, but it was warm and tasted of rust. You shrugged, and took a gulp but now it was ice cold. From the corner of your eye, you swore you saw Vindicia stroking the crystal of her ring.

Now It has hair full of leaves and dirt. Fresh blood bubbles up in an empty eye socket, a madman’s tear, slipping down the crimson cracks in a porcelain doll’s face.

You run before the drop of blood hits the floor. You race down the

stairs and almost hit the janitor straight in the face.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asks, grabbing your arms to still you. You keep

WILL WESTERGARD

yourself from hyperventilating, barely, and take a deep breath.

‘Something is following—’ you start, when you hear it again.

Clinking noises; claws against the metal railing on the staircase. You turn your head, and see the creature strolling down the stairs.

The janitor follows your gaze, perplexed. ‘What are you looking

at?’ he asks.

The creature has stopped its descent, and has an expression on its

doll-like face that could be nothing but amusement.

‘There’s nothing there …’ the janitor says carefully, patting your

shoulder. You stare at him, betrayed, and the creature bends back, clutches its belly, and laughs. It’s the same sound you once heard at your grandfather’s farm when the barn caught fire, trapping the piglets inside.

The creature lunges at you, and you turn around and start running

again.

You choke on a sob as the creature thunders after you, that

squealing pig laughter ringing in your ears.

Claws against the plaster walls …

You notice some writing that’s been carved into the walls. It’s just

one phrase.

Oh Sweet Vindicia, written over and over again, all down the

hallway.

You’ve run down two flights when you look out the window and

shriek.

Then Vindicia looked out at the huge parking lot from the balcony as you sipped

OH SWEET VINDICIA

your tea.

‘Mm-hmm,’ you said, smacking your lips together. ‘I thought us

folks from Missouri were just burning crosses and eating alligators. Now I know we make pretty good tea as well.’ Truth be told, the tea tasted of apples and cinnamon. Drinking it was like having Vindicia’s tongue down your throat, which in all fairness was not a bad thing.

Vindicia chuckled. ‘That’s the lamest God damn joke I’ve heard

all year. And I heard you giving a presentation yesterday about people who sexually identify as cats.’

Your cheeks flushed pink, and you scrambled for a new topic.

‘What’s up with that doll?’ You gestured at the doll on the shelf behind her. Upon closer inspection, it was kind of creepy, made of harsh cloth and leather, and missing a face. You shivered, despite the summer heat.

‘Oh, that old thing?’ she said. ‘It’s a Voodoo doll.’

‘Is it a Missouri thing to just have Voodoo dolls casually lying

around the house?’ you said and laughed.

‘Voodoo doll, singular. And no, this one is from the same place I

got this from,’ she said, gesturing to her ring.

‘Your dad?’ She nodded, still staring out at the parking lot, forehead

wrinkled as she searched for the right words.

‘This,’ she said finally, tapping the crystal on the ring, ‘is a relic

from a Voodoo Witch Doctor. He claimed he travelled to a world made of ice, and he brought this back with him.’

‘We need ice in Missouri to be honest,’ you said. She smiled and

sipped her tea.

WILL WESTERGARD

Now Outside, the city is gone, something impossible in its place. There is only darkness where there once was autumn twilight, and all that remains are the streetlights, spread out across cracked asphalt with nothing but consuming darkness between. Far above, a dull sky pulses, heavy with frozen blood.

You hiss in pain as your arm is sliced open. You can only stare in

shock as the cuts form the words, Oh Sweet Vindicia.

Claws snag in your hair, wrenching you backwards.

Then You and Vindicia were taking a stroll, fingers tangled together.

‘So, why’d your parents call you Vindicia? It’s not very … mid-

western.’

‘Sanna means depressed, that’s not weird to you?’ Vindicia

smirked.

You stuck your tongue out at her, making her giggle. ‘Least mine’s

not a tongue twister.’

‘Daddy chose it,’ she said. ‘It roughly translates into reven—’ There

were some boys up ahead, blocking the path with their bikes.

One of them called out, and you recognised him as Vindicia’s ex,

Mark. ‘Does her muff taste better than my dick, Wendeka?’

You blushed as the other boys laughed, but Vindicia gave off a loud

laugh that startled them silent.

‘Clearly, your dick tasted so bad it turned me gay,’ she giggled.

‘Plus, your dick is smaller than my clit, and unlike you, she can find mine.’

You and one of Mark’s crew laughed as Mark turned redder than

‘Lord Yoroshiku,’ Lord Takana says to you, ‘their leader’s name is Loransu. We have only managed basic communication, but I know for certain they are here to trade and make allies with Japan.’ He bows to Loransu and the foreigner looks at him. ‘Capuchin Loransu, Lord Yo-ro-shi-ku.’ Loransu holds his hand out to you. You look at it, confused, and see Lord Takana gesturing for you to take it. You do, hesitantly, and let go quickly. ‘I have sent for the Daimyo and he will be here within the week,’ you say to the other Lords. ‘I look forward to his stay. He is very interested to meet our guests.’ You invite the other Lords to speak, and they present well wishes and offers of assistance. ‘I present good wishes for the future,’ Lord Takana says. He bows deeply, first to the foreigners, and then to you. You bow back, having not shown the proper respect upon arrival. Lord Takana is pleased, and the other Lords nod their approval. ‘To the future!’ you exclaim. (Turn to page 94)

OH SWEET VINDICIA

a tomato. He started toward you both, murder in his eyes. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Vindicia fiddling with her ring. Mark took another step, and slipped, falling flat on his face. You and Vindicia hurried away laughing. You stopped about half a block away, watching as Mark struggled to get to his feet. He glared at Vindicia with every slip and slide.

‘Also,’ Vindicia called out. ‘My name isn’t pronounced WEN-DE-

KA, it’s pronounced VEEN-DI-SHA, you fucking pig!’

She pushed her nose up and oinked at them.

Now Your scalp is screaming as the creature spins you around by the hair, then pins you against the wall. The sickly red of the sky shines through the window, a hellish backlight for the monster.

‘You’re a hard girl to find, Sanna,’ it giggles, sounding familiar. But

before you can think more of it, the creature reveals its fangs in a smile reminiscent of the gates of hell. ‘Moved up in the world, hey? From Redneck County to White Collar Washington. But then you said those sweet little words … and here I am.’

Up close, the creature stinks of asphalt and rotting leaves.

‘Have to give it to you, Sanna,’ it says. ‘You’ve got balls. Mark pissed

his pants after twenty seconds with lil’ ol’ me.’

The truth slams into you, an avalanche. The dress, fitted awkwardly

over the creature’s mangled body, is the one that haunts your dreams. Panicked, you blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. ‘The fuck do you want?’

It lays its claws on your bare arms, placing the gentlest pressure

WILL WESTERGARD

there. They break the skin, drawing blood.

‘So much,’ it says. ‘But the main thing, well, that should be pretty

obvious. It is my name, after all.’

‘What?’ you say woodenly, a hollow denial. You look into its eyes,

no longer empty holes, now filled with molten gold.

‘Vind—’ you scream as it digs its talons into your arms, slicing

through like they’re butter.

‘What’s my name, Sanna?’ it says, smiling wide.

‘Revenge …’ you say, trembling. ‘I’m so sorry for what I did

Vindic—’

‘I know you are,’ the creature interrupts, with something resembling

The foreigners look bizarre, with clothes that look to be made of animal skin. Their hair is light and beards long. Their eyes as round as the cups you drink your tea from.

pity. ‘And I forgive you. But have you forgiven yourself?’

Vindicia scrapes a claw across the crystal of her ring, the shriek

sending you away, to then.

Then It was cold that night, and you were starting to regret agreeing to meet up this early with Vindicia.

You walked across the parking lot, staring up at a cloud-covered

sky, the streetlights lending it a sick red tint. You hummed to yourself, rubbing your hands together for warmth, when you heared voices. One of them was Vindicia’s. You headed toward the sounds.

They couldn’t see you, but you saw how Vindicia was surrounded,

corralled in like a pig for slaughter by Mark and his gang.

She was smiling, but tense; some of them sniggered, but others

look scared.

Other Lords from Ome’s neighbouring provinces are present, and they bow as you approach. ‘Lord Yoroshiku, it is a pleasure be hosted by you,’ one of the Lords says. You call everyone to the table and welcome them. You fold your feet beneath you and enjoy the rich barbeque presented to you. Ome is renowned for its barbeque, as it has rich hunting grounds, and the other Lords nod their approval. a) You request to be introduced to the foreigners. (Turn to page 41) b) You wait for Lord Takana to introduce you. (Turn to page 23)

OH SWEET VINDICIA

‘Guys,’ Vindicia says. ‘You’ve had your fun, but I‘m pretty busy

so—’

Mark hit her.

It echoed across the parking lot, one meaty thud after another, an

awful sound with its own private infinity in your head. Vindicia raised a trembling hand to her face. Mark forced her to the ground, laid on top of her, put his knees on her arms. She didn’t struggle until he pulled out the knife.

You stood still, unable to move due to the horror unfolding before you.

But back then you did move.

Back then, you left, too scared to intervene. But now, you cannot

move, cannot talk, just watch the vision the creature is showing you. Your eyes tear up and through the haze the sky looks like it’s made of ice.

‘Here’s the thing, Vindicia,’ he says. ‘You called me a pig yesterday,

but me and the boys think your oink was shit. So, how about you try it again, and then we’ll let you go?’

Vindicia looks up carefully, and oinks. Mark slaps her again.

‘You call that a fucking squeal, pig?’ he laughs. ‘Again.’

She oinks, and gets slapped. There are tears of shame in her eyes

now. She squeals louder and louder.

‘That wasn’t so hard, was it, my sweet Veen-Di-Sha?’ Mark laughs.

‘Fuck you!’ Vindicia screams and cries heavier. She wriggles her

arm free, and touches her ring and you suddenly feel night getting colder. You can see the fog that comes out of Mark’s mouth, and Vindicia’s tears become ice. You can see the boys’ breath as their eyes dart about nervously.

WILL WESTERGARD

‘If you insist,’ he says and gently, like a lover, he takes her hand,

pulling it away from her ring, and tangles his fingers with hers.

‘No one can hear you scream here,’ he says, and rips off her

leggings.

Every day since Vindicia’s death, you’ve barely been able to get up in the morning. You can’t sleep, because of the nightmares, but being awake without her is the worst nightmare of all. At least, in your nightmares, you see her.

But now you understand.

The guilt of her death is bad. But seeing this …

‘Oh, sweet Vindicia!’ Mark says, zipping up his pants. You can barely hear it, but Vindicia is crying. She lies there, like a broken doll, and stares into space.

Her fingers look like claws from scraping at the asphalt. Mascara

has run down her pale cheeks, like cracks in fine porcelain. Her teeth have been kicked in, leaving her with fangs. Her hair is tangled with leaves and dirt, her eyes are swollen, and her red eye shadow is smudged out, like her eyes have been gouged out of her skull.

Mark giggles. ‘You should be happy, babe. Finally got a proper

fuck.’

Vindicia bares her fangs in a parody of a smile, and three teeth fall

out on the asphalt. They sound eerily like coins thrown in a gutter.

‘Still couldn’t find my clit, could you now, you fucking pig,’ she

says.

‘Lord Takana, may I be introduced?’ you ask. Lord Takana masks his frown and bows towards the foreigners. One looks to you. ‘Capuchin Loransu,’ Lord Takana says, ‘Lord Yo-ro-shiku.’ ‘Yo-ro-shi-ku.’ Loransu holds his hand out to you. You look at it, confused, and simply bow your head. ‘I have sent for the Daimyo and he will be here within the week,’ you say to the other Lords. ‘I look forward to his stay. He is very interested to meet our guests.’ You invite the other Lords to speak, and they present well wishes and offers of assistance. ‘I present good wishes for the future,’ Lord Takana says. He bows deeply to the foreigners, who seem to enjoy the attention. You notice he doesn’t bow to you, his host, but ignore it. ‘To the future!’ you exclaim. (Turn to page 94)

OH SWEET VINDICIA

‘Fucking bitch,’ he bellows, kicking her in the face. The snap of her

neck sounds like cracking ice.

Now You open your eyes, and you are alone.

The school is quiet but for your heavy breathing. The writing

on the walls and your arm is gone. It’s just Washington state outside the window. On the window sill is Vindicia’s ring. You pick it up and look at it, mind as empty as the wind-ridden boulevards below. You close your eyes and press your warm forehead against the cool glass.

You kept the ring for such a long time because it was all you had

left of Vindicia, or so you thought.

You’ve never really been a believer in God, archangels or demons,

but now you realise what you believe in.

Moving on.

Either you forgive yourself, or continue on hating yourself and stay

stuck in the world of streetlights and the hungry dark.

You blink your eyes open just as the day’s light sweeps over the city

one last time, and the city lights flicker on, making the world sparkle like a thousand crystals. You open the window and throw the ring. You can hear the crystal shatter into stardust on the ground below.

You take one shuddering breath and, not knowing if it’s your

imagination or not, you taste a hint of apples and cinnamon.

THE FAMILY DINNER Katrina Pike

There weren’t many rules in our family in 1978. Dad was a hospital orderly, and a heavy drinker, who would now be called an alcoholic. Mum worked as a part-time bakery assistant. My sister, brother and I mainly did our own thing and managed to just stay out of trouble. There was one rule though, that we obeyed as if our lives depended on it. Dinner was at 6pm on the dot, and you risked Mum’s legendary fury if you were as little as five minutes late. Even Dad managed to find his way home from the pub to eat dinner each night. Most days, it was the only time any of us saw him.

Then one night he didn’t. It was a Monday. For our own sakes, we

didn’t say anything. Mum smoked one menthol cigarette after another, as we ate our sausages and mashed potatoes. On the Tuesday night, when he still didn’t arrive, we looked nervously at each other, silently arguing over

THE FAMILY DINNER

who would ask the question.

‘So, where’s Dad then, Mum?’ I asked, as only a middle child

would.

‘Just late. Eat your mince, Louise.’

‘Did you see him yesterday, Barry?’ Michelle asked.

‘Nope,’ he answered, as he shovelled burnt dinner into his mouth.

‘Is he dead?’ I asked. ‘Perhaps he’s sprouted roots and now he’s

permanently attached to the pub stool? Or, maybe, he’s shacked up with that tart Emily Harrison. She’s always on the prowl.’

Michelle, Barry and I started laughing. Mum said nothing. The ash

tip of her cigarette fell into the peas on her plate.

‘Yuck, Mum, what the hell?’ Michelle grabbed the plate and moved

it to the sink.

‘Bloody Emily Harrison. Bitch. Home wrecking … bitch.’ She

started to cry and pulled a damp hankie from her bra strap.

We stopped eating, knives and forks held in varying angles over

plates of mince on toast. Mum stubbed the cigarette out and took another from the packet.

‘Shit,’ Michelle said from sink. ‘Seriously?’

‘Watch your mouth, young lady,’ Mum said out of habit.

‘Oh, hell,’ Barry added.

‘Mum, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I was just joking,’ I said.

‘He told me Sunday. Apparently, he felt trapped. We … me, I mean,

apparently, I suffocate him. He’s moved into that bloody Emily Harrison’s flat.’

‘I’d like to suffocate him, bastard,’ Barry whispered.

KATRINA PIKE

‘What a tramp. Who steals someone’s dad?’ I added, shredding my

napkin.

‘Shit, Mum. What’s wrong with her? She must be scraping the

bottom of the barrel to want him. We barely want him and he’s our father,’ Michelle said.

In unison, we turned towards where she stood near the sink.

‘It’s true!’ she said. ‘You were all thinking it. You just didn’t say it.’

It was Barry who started laughing first, but we all joined in. It

took several minutes to stop after Mum started sniffling again. I gave her a sideways hug.

‘It’s the money,’ she said. ‘We aren’t going to have enough money

with just my wage. He took all of it from the bank account, not that it was much but it was a couple of weeks rent. I don’t know how we’ll pay the bills.’ She started crying again.

Barry retrieved the roll of toilet paper for her. She blew her nose.

No one mentioned the ball of snot left behind in her left nostril but it was hard not to giggle. Barry covered his mouth to hide his smirk.

‘Come on, Mum,’ Michelle said, ‘Go wash your face and then we’ll

make a plan.’

While she was gone, Michelle scraped the dishes and started

washing up. Barry, without being asked, grabbed the tea towel and dried. As usual, I cleared the table and emptied the ashtrays.

‘Can we sell his stuff?’ Barry asked.

‘Maybe we should set fire to it?’ Michelle added. ‘You know, send a

message. Hey, arsehole, don’t mess with us!’

‘Yeah,’ I agreed. ‘We could use his clothes. Can you believe him?’

THE FAMILY DINNER

‘He took his clothes,’ Mum said from the door. ‘And his stuff.’

‘Let’s drag his chair outside and set it on fire,’ Barry said. ‘We should

set fire to something.’ He finished drying the dishes and I put them away while Michelle took the rubbish outside. Barry liked to set fire to things. Years ago, I’d seen him at the park setting fire to a school book. He told Dad an older boy had taken it from him so he wouldn’t get a clip round the ear.

‘We aren’t setting fire to anything,’ Mum said, as she sat back into

her seat.

We took our usual seats at the table. In the middle, a biscuit jar and

sugar bowl sat on top of a white doily. The end chair, where Dad typically sat, remained empty.

‘Will he come back?’ Barry asked.

‘Do you want him back?’ I added.

‘No, to both questions … I … I think I could get another job but

it might take a few weeks. In the meantime, I could ask your Nan for a loan but that won’t help us stay here. One wage isn’t enough for everything, and I won’t make nearly as much as your father did anyway. We might have to move to somewhere cheaper.’

‘I’ll get a part-time job. I wanted to, anyway. Most my friends have,’

Michelle said. ‘That’s very nice, Michelle, but the family is not your responsibility. Any job you get should be just for you.’

‘Okay, when I get a job, I’ll pay board. Easy, Mum.’ She sat back and crossed her arms like Dad used to do when the matter was closed.

I didn’t want to move. This house was in the perfect spot,

KATRINA PIKE

just close enough to the library that I could go every day after school.

‘If Michelle and I shared a room, you could rent mine out. Or put a

proper wall up in the sleepout and make two rooms, one for Barry and then one to rent,’ I suggested.

‘That’s a great idea, Lou. I don’t need all the space in the sleepout,

just enough for a bed,’ Barry said.

‘Gah, we’d have to share a bathroom with a stranger,’ Michelle said.

‘We can’t put a proper wall up. It’s just a rental,’ Mum interjected.

‘Okay, well. Michelle and I can move into the sleepout; we can

make a fake wall out of a couple of cupboards. Move Barry into Michelle’s room and rent out mine.’

‘We could do that. I’ll move my stuff into Michelle’s room

tomorrow,’ Barry said. ‘I don’t want to change schools, Mum. I like it there. They have woodwork classes and Mr Jenkins said I have a natural talent.’

It was such a small thing, but we all fell silent. It was the first time

since he’d started school that Barry had asked for something. It was also the longest sentence about himself any of us had ever heard him say. His face went red. I swallowed; for some reason it was very sad to hear him say someone noticed something about him we hadn’t.

‘Mr Jenkins said you have a natural talent for woodwork?’ Mum

asked.

‘Yes.’ His voice was soft and he ducked his head.

‘Hell, yeah! That’s awesome, Barry,’ Michelle said and clapped her

hands.

‘Yay, Barry. What a talent to have,’ I added, also clapping.

‘I’m so proud of you,’ Mum continued. ‘What else did Mr Jenkins

say?’ 47

THE FAMILY DINNER

‘Just, I could do more classes and, when I turn fourteen, I could

start an apprenticeship, if I wanted, instead of finishing Year 10.’

‘An apprenticeship?’ Mum asked. ‘They’re really hard to get. You

must be very good if he says that already. Mr Jenkins used to be a carpenter.’

I imagined Dad listening to us talking tonight. He would have said

we were interrupting the news or something.

‘I finish Year 10 this year. I was thinking of trying for a hairdresser

apprenticeship,’ Michelle added. ‘First years don’t make much money but it would be great to start.’

‘You should apply for an after-school job as a tea and tidy at the

hairdressers and they might offer you an apprenticeship at the end of school. You’d be a great hairdresser, Michelle. Your hair always looks lovely,’ I said.

‘What about you, Lou?’

My friends were talking about getting after-school jobs, in the next

year, and their plans for after graduation revolved around being checkout operators, answering phones or getting married.

‘Actually, Mum, I was thinking of going to Year 12 and maybe

university to be a teacher. Not high school but, maybe, little kids, like grade one or two. It’s just a thought. I’ll have to see how I go.’

‘Whoa, Louise,’ Michelle said. ‘You brainiac.’

It was nice to have all of them smiling at me.

‘We don’t talk like this anymore,’ Mum said. She sniffled and got

the wet hanky out again. ‘I’m a bit crap at this mothering stuff. I can’t hold my family together. I don’t know what you do at school, and who knows what you do outside of school?’

Barry handed her the toilet roll.

KATRINA PIKE

‘Well,’ Barry hesitated. ‘Outside of school, I play with Brad next

door and his mum makes us biscuits. I stay there until you get home at five and, on weekends, we play in the park or down by the creek. Brad has a bike and we take turns on the jumps. Oh, and sometimes, I set fire to my school books.’

I couldn’t help myself. I laughed until everyone joined in. The baby

of the house was a fire-bug.

‘I spend most my time at the library. It’s open until 6pm during the

week and on weekends it’s open half days. I read the books there. I’m not allowed to borrow them unless I have an adult with me. But sometimes Mrs Clarke, she’s the librarian, pretends to see you and lets me take one home,’ I said breathlessly, after getting the giggles under control.

Michelle filled the kettle and lit the gas stove. She put five spoons

of tea leaves into the pot and placed cups on the table. When the whistle started, she filled the pot and put the strainer out. We watched Michelle until she glanced at each of us in turn, sighed heavily and sat down.

‘Outside of school. Are you ready for this, Mum? You might not be

happy,’ Michelle started. ‘I hang out in the park, at the picnic table, with my friends. We smoke and fool around. Oh, and I have a boyfriend. His name is Colin. He plays football.’ Michelle took some Anzac biscuits from the jar and put them on a plate.

‘Michelle!’ Mum said.

Barry and I snickered. We often saw Michelle at the park. Her

boyfriend seemed to be a boy with shaggy brown hair and a panel van.

‘Well, I am fifteen and I don’t have supervision. I am a child of the

times, Mum.’ She took a bite of the biscuit and smiled.

‘Lord Takana, may I be introduced?’ you ask. Lord Takana masks his frown and bows towards the foreigners. One looks to you. ‘Capuchin Loransu,’ Lord Takana says, ‘Lord Yo-ro-shiku.’ ‘Yo-ro-shi-ku.’ Loransu holds his hand out to you. You look at it, confused, and simply bow your head. ‘I have sent for the Daimyo and he will be here within the week,’ Lord Takana says to you and the other Lords. ‘I look forward to his stay. He is very interested to meet our guests.’ He invites the other Lords to speak, and they pre-sent well wishes and offers of assistance. ‘I present good wishes for the future,’ you say. You bow deeply, first to the foreigners, and then to Lord Takana, who nods back stiffly. He turns his attention to his other guests. ‘To the future!’ he exclaims. (Turn to page 94)

THE FAMILY DINNER

‘Oh, my gracious, do people see you?’

‘Probably,’ Michelle said.

‘Yes, they do. They say, “How disgraceful,”’ Barry mimicked in a

high voice.

‘I need to do better,’ Mum said. ‘I need to be around. I need to

supervise you hooligans before you end up in jail.’

‘Can’t, Mum,’ Michelle stated. ‘You need a job to keep a roof over

our naughty little heads.’

Together we made a list. It became known as The Family Charter

and included everything from ‘change the locks’ to ‘Louise will go to university’. We put silly things on the list like, ‘buy a piano for dancing leprechauns to play at night,’ and the very serious things, such as, ‘dinner will be on the table every night at 6pm and attendance is mandatory’. It was taped to the fridge with masking tape.

The next day, Michelle and I moved into the sleepout and the third bedroom was rented out on the weekend to a lady called Val. She worked at the pub and had been the roommate of bloody Emily Harrison. At one stage, Dad A week later, your guests, the neighbouring Lords, arrive at your castle. You welcome them, and the servants show them to their rooms. Lord Takana and his entourage are the last to arrive, accompanied by the foreigners. Lord Takana greets you and bows low. a) ‘Lord Takana, it is a pleasure to host you,’ you say, bowing just as low. (Turn to page 68) b) ‘My servants will show you to your rooms,’ you say, standing tall. (Turn to page 86)

did ask to come home, but as a family we found ourselves more complete without him. When Christmas morning came, Barry got his wish and we set fire to the chair. The Fire Department arrived and, after hearing the reason and asking for Mum’s phone number, they left us to our destruction. Dad’s dining table chair was taken over, for a time, by Val and sometimes by Colin. We made sure the rent was always paid on time, even if some weeks we ate mince on toast and Vegemite sandwiches. It was all a balance. But, whenever Barry had a table on display at the school, we arrived together

KATRINA PIKE

and celebrated him, and when Michelle started at her first job, we pooled our change and bought her a teacup which read, ‘World’s Best Hairdresser’. Every Sunday, Mum and I walked to the library and Barry rode his new bike. We always borrowed seven books before coming home to bake a dessert for dinner at exactly 6pm.

This is just to say You will Always be My sun And though I Never got The chance to Tell you I hope Wherever you Are now You know

ONE THOUSAND PAPER CRANES Evangeline Bryce I step out of the car, breathing in the clear night air. I brush the hair out of my eyes and look up. The stars are bright tonight. I’ve always loved looking at the stars. Something about their vast infinity comforts me. Smiling, I walk towards the front door and punch in the code. With a beep, the door unlocks.

‘Hiya,’ Mum calls.

‘Hey.’ I kick off my shoes.

‘How was the gym?’

‘Yeah good. What’s for dinner?’

‘Homemade pizzas. They’re just done now.’

'Awesome.’

I take a seat at the table where Dad is already sitting, checking his

phone. ‘Hey kiddo.’

ONE THOUSAND PAPER CRANES

‘Hey.’ I pull out my own phone, more out of habit than anything

else.

‘Here we are, socialites.’ Mum sets the pizzas down and turns on

the TV.

A few minutes into eating, Dad’s phone starts to ring. He glances

at the screen and raises his eyebrows.

‘It’s Pete.’

‘Oh, I wonder what he wants,’ I say.

Dad presses the speaker button. ‘Hey Pete, how are you?’

‘Um. I’m alright. Is-is Evie there?’

‘Yeah, she is, sitting at the table with me.’

‘Hey,’ I call.

‘Okay, um, well — I think you should be there with her for me to

say this.’

I frown. His voice is uneven, shaky. My stomach squirms.

Something feels off. Something feels wrong.

‘Are you alright?’ Dad asks.

‘I just need to … to tell her.’

The TV flashes mute.

‘You’re sure you’re okay?’ Dad asks again, ‘What is it?’

‘Um. Well.’ He’s really choked up now. ‘You see, Ella was … was in

a crash.’

Something is closing in on me.

‘It was this afternoon and um,’ his voice is all squeaky and high, ‘it

was at Walter Hay and she, um, collided with a truck.’

My mouth falls open.

EVANGELINE BRYCE

‘And, um, she died at the scene. I just thought y-you should know.’

I can hear him crying.

‘Well,’ Dad says, ‘thank you for letting us know.’

‘It’s okay. I-I’ve gotta go.’

‘Take care, Pete.’

A weight seems to settle in my stomach. I sit still for a minute or

two, my hand covering my mouth, unable to move. There’s a faint buzzing in my ears, the world seems to slide out of focus.

‘Wow that’s just awful. I hope her family is okay.’

Outside the crickets are still chirping like nothing has happened.

A faint breeze stirs tree branches and weaves its way through the screen windows. My heart seems to stutter. I can’t make sense of the call I just heard. A million thoughts seem to rush through my brain but I can’t quite grab hold of them. Ella. Dead? Did he say dead?

‘Did he say she was seriously hurt?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe we should look up a crash report?’

All of a sudden, I’m at the computer. Hands shaking, I search local

news sites, Facebook, anything.

ONE THOUSAND PAPER CRANES

But then, I find it, and the truth hits me all at once. Her car. Her little red car. All mangled up.

EVANGELINE BRYCE

‘Hello?’

‘Hey Kess, it’s me.’

‘Oh, hey Evie, what’s up?’

‘Just before I say anything, are your parents around?’

‘Yeah they’re home.’

‘Okay good.’

I take a seat on the stool under the washing line. The night is still

quiet. The stars are still bright. A gentle breeze still whispers through the air. Nothing has changed. And yet, everything is different.

‘What’s wrong, Evie? Has something happened?’

I take a long, slow breath.

‘I just got a call from Peter. He told me Ella’s been in a car accident.

And she, um, died at the scene.’

I say the words slowly, so she can hear. I’m surprised I can get them

out. I’m surprised I’m so calm. The weight I felt before feels familiar now. As if it’s already merging with my soul.

‘No.’ The sound is desperate, pleading. A whimper more than

anything else. ‘No, she can’t be.’ Her voice is high and constricted.

‘I know … it’s hard. It’s …’

I hear her crying on the other end of the phone. I wish I could be

there. Or I wish she was here. I wish the two of us could just sit together, under the stars, and think about the days when we were a three. Two just seems far too lonely.

ONE THOUSAND PAPER CRANES

I sit in the back seat of the car, my hair tightly braided, my hands folded in my lap, staring out the window. Trees rush by in a blur. I’m not really looking at them anyway. My mum and sister are in the front seat, talking about ... something. A buzzing in my ears drowns them out. A buzzing I’ve had for a week now. A buzzing that keeps my thoughts from overwhelming me. I’m not really sure whether I created it or not. But I’m glad it’s there. Silence is just too heavy now. It’ll crush me if I let it.

The car slows and I rise from the depths of my mind, like a diver

resurfacing from the sea. I shake off my thoughts and concentrate on the here, the now. As we pull into the gravel parking area, I watch the other guests making their way towards the main building. Many wear black suits or dresses.

EVANGELINE BRYCE

Mum goes off to save some seats and my sister follows. I look

around for some familiar faces to talk to. I spot a photographer hanging back, snapping photos of the crowd. I see his newspaper badge dangling from his chest. I smile.

I see a lanky figure in the distance, towering over everyone. There’s

no mistaking that stature. The boy is smiling and talking to another guest, then the two break apart. I walk towards him, grateful for someone to talk to.

‘Hey, Sam.’

‘Oh, hey Evie.’

He leans down for a hug. I can feel him shaking.

‘How are you doing?’

‘Yeah, not bad.’

A woman walks over to us. Her face is soft, and she speaks in a low

voice.

‘You’re Sam? Ella’s boyfriend?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Hey, I’ll see you later then.’

I give Sam’s arm a squeeze and leave him with the woman. The

chairs are filling up now. Guests spill out the doors and onto the grass outside. Music starts to play, signalling us all to take the last seats, or else find a place to stand. I make my way to where my mum is sitting, three rows from the front. She hands me tissues as I sit down.

The room is bright and airy; high white walls stand guard on each

side. Along these walls are small wooden cabinets covered in pictures of her and little paper cranes. A window at the front of the hall looks out to a small

ONE THOUSAND PAPER CRANES

garden. Crows are playing in the birdbath. People watch them with a smile. In front of the window is a lectern on a small platform. To the side is a table with a line of candles and a long white casket. My lungs tighten as I realise what I’m looking at. A coffin. Her coffin. Little Kombis plastered on the sides. A red Bunnings shirt draped over it. I start to feel sick.

I quickly tear my eyes away. I feel dizzy with the thoughts and

images rushing through my mind. They’re natural, I suppose. But they unsettle me all the same. I just can’t bear to think of her as anything but whole. My eyes begin to burn.

The music stops and the celebrant makes her way to the stand.

She begins by welcoming us all. Meaningless words about the sad occasion float around the room. She talks of god and beauty and a kind girl taken too soon. None of it really matters. None of it really describes her.

‘Ella was born on the 27th of April 1997, to Wal and Joanne A short girl waits at the school office, golden Hendrie. She was the third child and much beloved sister shoulde of Ryan,rs.Abbey, She looks curls cascading over her and Ebony. Ella was always a very shy child, but despite this, always met at me with eyes like the summer sky at high everyone with a bright smile. Growing up on a farm, Ella had ‘My always loved name’s noon. ‘Hi,’ she says,

EVANGELINE BRYCE

animals. This is something she carried into later life, in volunteering at the vet. Ella’s mother, Joanne, who we lost only last year, was an artist and passed A I hold my breath. I can hear two pairs of on this gift to Ella. Upon coming to Good Shepherd, Ella began to finally footsteps coming up the stairs. ‘What’s going find her place. She joined the basketball team and made many friends there. on Sammy?’ The door creaks open and I It was here, too, that she found her partner of almost four years, Sam. We sit in aAfter Maccas booth, talking about smile. Ella’s mouth falls open. ‘Oh my god.’ school, Ella started working at Bunnings and came to love life, the about workplace. family, about anything, about She looks around her room. One thousand I know many team members are here today to pay their respects, which everything. She laughs and I laugh and paper cranes cover every surface. shows the remarkable impact she had. Ella was also devotedbefore to herwe family, know it we’ve spent six hours and played table tennis with her grandmother every Wednesday. sure there.I’m She turns to me as we finally this will be a treasured memory. Too often, those we love are taken leave.from ‘Youus know, I swear we’re the far too soon. But we must remember, not the time she lost, but the time she same person.’ had. We would now like to play a short video remembrance, accompanied by a song that a friend of Ella’s wrote for her.’

The video begins to play on screens fixed to the walls. Two

dimensional versions of her flash in front my eyes. None of it is her. Just a pale imitation. A footprint left behind. Nothing compared to the wonderful, vibrant person I know. Tears drip down my cheeks and onto my lap. My body just can’t hold them back anymore.

I hold the handful of cranes gently, staring at their folds and colours. I can still remember each and every pattern I touched. As the basket is passed around I see more familiar designs emerging. They feel like old friends. I look down to the four or five cranes I’m clutching. It feels like just yesterday I was making them. And yesterday feels like a thousand years ago. A woman behind me taps my shoulder.

‘You’re the one who made all these, aren’t you?’

ONE THOUSAND PAPER CRANES

‘Yes,’ I reply, ‘I am.’

‘They’re beautiful. And you made the whole one thousand?’

‘Yes, I did.’

She looks at me with pity in eyes that glow golden in the sunlight. I

turn my head away. Ahead, the family crouches around the grave. Her father is crying. Crying for his daughter, and his wife, who lies only feet away. His grief is so strong I feel it wash over me, palpable in the still summer air. His two daughters stand behind him holding each other’s hand. Tears fall silently down their cheeks. The son stands close by, looking cold despite the summer heat. A single crane falls gently from his hand.

The line moves steadily on, each person whispering their goodbyes,

and letting a crane or two fall into the shadows below. Again, I stare at the few in my hands. Memories of the late nights I spent making them, the six months of aching fingers, and the desperation to finish drift across my mind. I remember how I thought of her with every fold. How each one I made seemed to sew us closer together, even if she hadn’t known at the time. I remember how we just fell into place on the day that I gave them to her. As if the universe had bound us together forever. One soul in two people. Never to part.

‘It’s your turn,’ the woman behind me whispers.

Startled back to the present, I look up and walk towards the

grave. I crouch down beside it. Beside her. The casket looks so small in the shadows. Brightly coloured cranes are scattered over it, bringing a little life to where death dwells. Tears fall into the depths below, slowly at first. The buzzing I’ve grown to depend on wavers for a moment and then stops. The full terrible finality of death crashes over me, like a car crashing into a truck.

EVANGELINE BRYCE

The sobs Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been desperately trying to stifle erupt from my very

soul. Gone. Truly, gone. Never to return.

The cranes in my hand seem to fall in slow motion, down into the

deep, down into my despair. High above, the sun disappears behind a cloud. And I know that I will never see it again.

*~*~* Without the sun The world turns cold And darkness swallows light But in the black A flower blooms And banishes the night You may be gone Beneath the soil Your little time here done But you still live Within my heart My own eternal sun

ANECDOTAL EVIDENCE Paul Gifford-Macrae

THE MUG JOB With three boys and their assortment of friends, there was no shortage of pranks being pulled, or groups ganging up against a common target. I’m afraid to admit that even Mum was pranked at times.

All three of us were guilty. Rob once assured Mum that the film, Event Horizon,

was not scary (it was). I once placed a realistic-looking rubber snake in the laundry sink one April Fool’s day. The reptile catcher remarked that someone was in trouble, before handing Mum the bill.

These pranks sound mean, but Rob and I knew there was a line with Mum you

did not cross. James, on the other hand, apparently did not get the memo, because we all knew not to pull pranks involving insects — real or fake.

So, James and his girlfriend went to Moreton Island and bought two ceramic tea

mugs. When he came home from the trip he made Mum a cup of tea in one of the mugs. Mum found, at the bottom of the mug, what she thought was a live cockroach. It was in fact part of the mug. Needless to say, James was not popular and it took years for him to live that incident down.

DAMSELS SLAY DRAGONS Kinta Walsh-Cotton

You were a woman paid to save damsels in distress.

You were not a woman paid to prevent those damsels from leaping

out a three-storey window towards the dragon. Nowhere in the clauses of your contract did it state, ‘I, Aazim, upon attempting to rescue the damsel, will then proceed to jump out a window after her insane ass.’ You did not leave your pristine house for this. You did not ruin your favourite Hijab by wearing an oily helmet for this. And you did not — I repeat — did not climb three flights of crumbling stairs while a dragon tried to light you on fire … for this.

Dumbfounded, shield in one hand, sword in the other — you

stood there. The damsel tested the strength of the knot she’d tied into her bed sheet.

DAMSELS SL AY DRAGONS

‘Name’s Riley, by the way,’ she said as she tied one end of the linen

rope to her bedpost.

Like an idiot, you said nothing. You weren’t trained for this.

The damsel, Riley, was an actual woman. Like, a capable woman.

Like, a woman who could comprehend the process of tying a knot. She wasn’t even wearing a dress. And since when did damsels stop being blonde? Her hair was so … curly … and dark … and big. It stuck out all over the place. She’d go to push it out of her face and it’d bounce right back like a spring. It was a head covered in little black springs.

‘Are you just gonna stand there, or?’

You snapped to attention. ‘Right, uh …’ You held up your sword

and shield. ‘I’m here to rescue you.’

Riley scoffed, ‘Yeah. Alright. You’re doin’ a bang-up job, mate.’

You let your sword and shield droop once more. ‘Well, damsels

aren’t usually…’

‘What?’ Riley said with a smile. ‘Proactive?’

You shrugged, ‘Something like that.’

She laughed; it was hearty and loud.

‘Well, I’m no damsel, mate,’ Riley said as she tugged at the sheets

again.

Your nod was slow as you watched her. ‘I see that. Look, I … I

think I’ve got the wrong castle? I’m … I’m looking for number 57.’

‘No, you’ve got the right one.’ She approached you and pulled your

shield from your grip.

‘Hey. That’s …’

‘Shiny.’

KINTA WALSH-COTTON

You reached for it but she pulled it back with a smile. It was then

propped up against the bedpost, positioned so it caught the light and blinded you. You moved out of its way and the light hit the door that you’d entered through moments before this catastrophe of a rescue started.

Riley gave the shield a proud look. ‘There. That should do it.’ She

turned to you. ‘Dragon’s eyes are really sensitive, you know that?’

You shook your head in bewilderment. Who the hell was this

woman? Did she … did she do something to the damsel you were meant to save? Throw her out the window, maybe?

‘You never told me your name,’ Riley said.

‘Uh …’ You let the sword slip from your fingertips and clatter to

the ground. ‘Aazim.’

‘Aazim? Isn’t that a boy’s name?’

‘Isn’t Riley?’

She smiled. ‘Touché.’

There was a silence as she considered you a moment. You felt like a

painting in a museum, like she was trying to work out the meaning of your existence. You started to wonder that yourself.

‘Listen,’ she said. ‘Any minute now, that dragon’s gonna make his

way up those steps. Now, you can fight him on your own,’ she jerked her thumb over her shoulder, ‘or you can jump out that window with me.’

You rubbed your hands over your eyes, and then pulled off your

helmet. ‘Look. You should stay put. I have to get you back to my employer.’

Riley snorted and walked over to sit on the end of the bed.

‘Right. There’s some middle-aged American guy who’s waiting on

You call everyone to the table and welcome them. You fold your feet beneath you and enjoy the rich barbeque presented to you. Ome is renowned for its barbeque, as it has rich hunting grounds, and the other Lords nod their approval. a) You request to be introduced to the foreigners. (Turn to page 49) b) You wait for Lord Takana to introduce you. (Turn to page 15)

DAMSELS SL AY DRAGONS

his exotic girl, right?’

You shook your head. ‘I don’t understand …’

‘You know, ‘cause I’m black? I must be some ‘exotic’ woman that

can show him all these new tricks, make all his dreams come true? I mean, you must get that too, right? Being from the Middle East.’

You scowled, ‘What makes you think I’m from the Middle East?’

Riley smiled and gestured to her own hair. ‘The Hijab is kind of a

big giveaway.’

‘I could’ve been born anywhere.’

‘Maybe.’ Riley pushed herself off the bed. ‘But with that skin? Nah,

your parents are definitely Middle Eastern.’

You marched forward. How dare she just make those assumptions?

She knew nothing about you.

‘That’s …’

‘What?’ Riley said. She stared at you as you tried to put your outrage

into words. ‘You gonna stand there and tell me you weren’t expecting a blonde, docile beauty when you busted down that door?’

You pressed your lips together and she gave you a knowing smile.

‘We’ve all got our prejudices,’ she claimed.

She went back to her rope of sheets and scooped them up in her

arms. Lord Takana bows even lower for a moment, and he and the foreigners make their way into the castle. You arrive in your room and the servants dress you for the upcoming feast. They dress you in a montsuki, a black silk kimono worn over a white kimono and black trousers. (Turn to page 39)

You sighed and dropped your helmet. The clash of metal on

concrete echoed through the room. A roar rumbled up from the bottom of the tower.

‘I don’t get it,’ you said. ‘When did damsels start rescuing

themselves? When did you all become so … frustrating to save?’

KINTA WALSH-COTTON

Riley threw her armful of sheets out the window. ‘About the time

knights started hiring people like you to do it for them.’

She turned back and tugged at the sheets to test the knot around

the bedpost again.

‘Some of them still wait around,’ she continued, ‘They spend years

twirling ‘round their towers in pretty dresses, waiting for their knights in shining armour. Just when they think he’s come, you show up at the door.’ She shot you a look. ‘No offence.’

You blew out a breath and undid your arm guards. They fell to the

ground next to your helmet.

‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Riley said, ‘I’m sure some of them wouldn’t

have minded the sight of you over a shiny-faced half-wit.’ She gave you a smile. ‘I know I didn’t.’

‘It’s just … it’s all so confusing, now,’ you said as you undid your

breastplate.

Another crash when it hit the ground and then another roar, closer

this time.

‘I’ll bet. Some of the knights even gave up their armour. Now

they’re wearing dresses and twirling about their own towers.’

‘Really?’ You walked towards the bed and sank down on the end of

it to kick off your boots. ‘You can just do that? Get rid of your armour and become a damsel?’

‘Hell, yeah,’ Riley said as she nudged your shoulder and sat down

next to you. ‘You can be whoever you wanna be nowadays.’

‘But there are … there are rules.’

DAMSELS SL AY DRAGONS

Riley snorted, ‘There were rules that said women couldn’t be

knights. But here you are — shiny shield and all. Doing a bang-up job.’

You pulled off one of your leg guards and held it between your

hands. Warped from the dents in the metal, your reflection stared back at you.

‘I don’t really like being a knight,’ you said. ‘I think I’d much rather

be a damsel.’

‘Funny that,’ Riley said as she stared down at the armour. ‘I don’t

really like being a damsel.’ She looked at you. ‘I think I’d much rather be a knight.’

A crash sounded as the door flew from its hinges and hit the

ground.

‘We’re outta time,’ Riley said.

The dragon forced its head through the small opening and shrieked

when the light hit its eyes. Riley leapt to her feet and took up your sword. She charged the dragon with a warrior’s cry and drove the blade through its eye. The dragon reared its head back into the doorway, and the hilt of the sword glinted in the sunlight. The brick cracked and crumbled, and the beast gave one last roar before its head was crushed beneath the rubble.

‘That’s our queue, Aazim,’ Riley said.

She grabbed your hand and pulled you from the bed. The leg guard

fell to the floor as she dragged you behind her.

‘Hold tight.’ She pulled you into her and dove head-first out the

window.

Your limbs squeezed around her body and your eyes closed when

they met with the open sky.

KINTA WALSH-COTTON

Nausea twisted your stomach as you fell. There was

a sudden jerk and you opened your eyes to find Riley’s hand wrapped around the makeshift rope.

You clung to her

tightly enough that she could use both hands to propel down to the ground. It came up fast and you grunted when you collapsed onto your ass in a daze. Riley stood there and laughed.

‘I almost wish I could go back up and

do it again,’

she said.

You slumped to your back on the grass and swore you could hear

your heart hammer against your rib cage.

‘You’re insane. You really are.’

Riley grinned as she crouched to take off your other leg guard —

your last piece of armour and said, ‘Insane enough to be human.’ She tossed the leg guard to the side and straightened. ‘Where to now, damsel?’

Riley stared out at the rolling hills before her. You smiled as you

watched.

‘You’re the knight,’ you said as you pushed yourself to your feet.

‘Why don’t you lead the way?’

Riley grinned as she held her hand out to you. And that’s how you

rode off into the sunset that day. Not with a ‘happily ever after’, but with a dragon-slaying damsel.

ANECDOTAL EVIDENCE Paul Gifford-Macrae

THE STROKE INCIDENT OF ‘94 Ever been to a party where there is one guest who gets so drunk it’s embarrassing? Ever known someone who was like that at every party? I do. His name is Dad.

It was one of our parties and as usual he was up to no good, but this time he had

the good sense to excuse himself after acting like a real jerk. He took Mellie, who was still a puppy, outside to the toilet and then disappeared.

When the party ended, there was no sign of Dad or Mellie. Eventually, he was

found under the washing line, passed out, with Mellie lying on his chest licking his face. He was brought in and turfed onto the spare bed.

In the morning most of the people who stayed over were either helping with

breakfast or nursing their sore heads, but Dad wasn’t seen. He didn’t appear for lunch, either. When Mum and I went to check on him, he was lying on his back looking terrified.

‘I’ve had a bloody stroke,’ he muttered. ‘I can’t move the right side of my face. I

need a doctor.’

Of course, he hadn’t suffered a stroke. Where Mellie licked his face, his beard

had dried stiff.

THE LAST TRAM Diane Nicholls

Myrtle hands over a white paper bag to the customer and dusts powdered sugar from her hands. She ignores the impulse to lick her fingers. Outside, there’s a lull in the traffic and Queen Street, empty for a moment, pauses to brace itself against the promised heat of the day. A man crosses the street and hurries through the front door of Christie’s Milk Bar. With a groan, Myrtle glances at Estelle who moves to the end of the counter and begins to polish the soda fountain.

‘Well, there she is. The prettiest pastry puff in the store.’ He places

his hat and briefcase next to a high stool at the counter and, with a wiggle, seats himself. He fusses with his shiny suit trousers, hands sliding up and down his thighs.

THE LAST TRAM

‘Good morning to you, Mr Conway. We haven’t seen you for a few

days.’

‘That’s correct, Myrtle, my lovely. I’ve been away at a conference in

Adelaide.’ He winks.

‘That must’ve been interesting. What can I get for you today?’

‘The usual, the usual.’ He leans over the counter and whispers,

‘Would’ve been more interesting with some company, if you get my meaning there, Myrtle.’

Heat travels up her neck. She turns away from his smirk. The

teacup rattles as she sets it near his elbow. ‘Butter for your scone?’

‘Not today. I’m watching my weight, you know.’

‘Surely not, Mr Conway.’

‘Call me Gary. We’re friends aren’t we, Myrtle?’

‘Of course, Mr Conway.’

A small frown flickers across his forehead. He takes a great gulp

of tea. ‘The wife has me on a short leash these days. Can’t think why.’ He chuckles and the stool squeaks as he adjusts his bulk.

Myrtle suppresses a shudder and turns to attend another customer.

She looks at the clock, longing for her tea break … and an iced bun.

Myrtle and Estelle lean against the brick wall out the back of the milk bar, sharing a cigarette to disguise the smell of the bins.

‘Got plans tonight, doll?’

Myrtle grins. ‘Might have.’

Estelle raises an eyebrow.

‘It’s not a date or anything. I’m meeting a friend. A girlfriend. We’re

DIANE NICHOLLS

going for a drink. That’s all.’

‘Really?’ Estelle holds the cigarette away from her face. ‘I thought

ice cream and the pictures were more your style. No high school sweetheart?’

Myrtle takes the cigarette from Estelle’s fingers and inhales. ‘No.’

Estelle shrugs, pushes off the wall, and goes back inside.

Myrtle slips her hand into the pocket of her smock and pulls out a

note: Meet at the club tonight. B x

Friday night: the club is packed. Myrtle, undone by the slow dancing and made liquid by wine and kisses, feels Barbara’s hands tugging her up the stairs. She laughs, trips, and they clutch at each other. Patrons pour themselves onto the street. The night heat presses down on clusters of revellers. Women interlocking arms, swaying up the street in search of another party or some privacy. Bright colours swirl and scatter leaving behind a melancholy grey; a feeling that she has eaten all the sweets and saved nothing nice for later.

A couple of policemen stroll towards them. Barbara drops Myrtle’s

hand.

‘Nice evening for it, ladies.’ One of the officers grins at them as they

pass.

‘Prick,’ says Barbara.

Myrtle grabs her hand and they run, wild with laughter, up the

street. They stop, gasping, at the traffic lights. Barbara turns to check they’re alone then pulls Myrtle close and kisses her until she can’t breathe. They break apart.

The foreigners look bizarre, with clothes that look to be made of animal skin. Their hair is light and beards long. Their eyes as round as the cups you drink your tea from. Other Lords from Wakasa’s two other neighbouring provinces are present, and they bow as you approach. ‘Lord Yoroshiku, it is a pleasure to see you,’ one of the Lords says. You deign to bow and mingle until Lord Takana welcomes everyone to the table. You fold your feet beneath you and enjoy the rich seafood presented to you. Wakasa is renowned for its seafood, as it is a seaside province and gains its trade from fish. a) You request to be introduced to the foreigners. (Turn to page 88) b) You wait for Lord Takana to introduce you. (Turn to page 90)

THE LAST TRAM

‘I’ve got to go home,’ Barbara says.

‘What? But I thought we might … have the whole evening together.’

‘Can’t, my love.’ Barbara smooths a curl into place.

Myrtle stares at her hand, her lips, her face. ‘Please don’t go.’

‘Don’t cry.’ Barbara touches Myrtle’s cheek, catching a tear on her

thumb and bringing it to her lips. ‘My husband is coming home late tonight. I can’t stay.’

Myrtle watches the shine of her tear evaporate, leaving no trace. As

though Barbara had sucked up her sadness and swallowed it.

They walk to the stop, little fingers linking and letting go as they

pass lovers and groups of friends searching for their cars or the last tram home.

‘When will I see you?’

‘He’s away again next month for a few days. You can come then. I’ll

tell the neighbours you’re my cousin or something.’

Myrtle reaches up to touch Barbara’s face then catches herself. Her

hand hesitates between them, then falls. ‘I can’t wait that long.’

The tram arrives and Barbara pushes her to get on. ‘I’ll write to you

and you write to me. We can pretend. We can pretend it’s only next week.’

Myrtle steps on-board and turns to shout a goodbye which is

snatched away as the tram jolts forward.

All the way, she tries to recall the sweetest parts of the evening. The

music and dancing in the dark. The sweat collecting in the small of Barbara’s back, making her dress damp to touch. A mouth brushing the curve of her neck. The taste of perfume behind an earlobe. Fingers threaded through

DIANE NICHOLLS

peroxide curls. The miracle of Barbara. She closes her eyes but this only makes her feel ill. A man is staring at her. He is standing and swaying as the tram rattles along the tracks. He raises his eyebrows and leans over her. Myrtle yanks the cord and gets off at the next stop. She presses her fingers to her temples and waits for her headache to subside; a hangover already. She looks about her and then, with a sigh, begins to walk towards home.

The street lamps are far apart. They shed their light in miserly

patches. At first, each patch is a safe port in the darkness. Then they become spotlights, blinding her night vision, causing her to stumble across the stage until she is once again enveloped by the warm night.

Her feet hurt. It would be wonderful to take off her shoes but she

doesn’t want to ruin her stockings.

Headlights light up the street. Myrtle’s shadow leaps as the car

passes her. It slows, brake lights gleaming; two red eyes in the night. A warning beat pulses in her head. She hesitates, then strides on, hugging her purse against her belly. As she passes, she glances through the passenger window hoping to find a torch-lit map reader or an arguing couple. She sees only the tip of a cigarette flare in the darkness which propels her forward, heart lurching, until she senses the weight of the headlights against her back; vulnerable, her body revealed to the holder of that cigarette in surgical detail.

With a rattle, the car begins a slow curb crawl, keeping Myrtle

picked out in the beams of light. She stiffens, increasing her speed, as fear fingers its way up her spine. The car matches her pace.

‘Myrtle? Myrtle, is that you?’ A shout comes from out of the

darkness.

THE LAST TRAM

Myrtle slows and turns, squinting, into the light.

‘Well, I thought it was you.’

‘I … I’m sorry. Who’s there?’ Myrtle frowns and tries to peer past

the light.

The car rumbles closer and she finds herself bending to an open

passenger window.

‘Myrtle, my dear, it’s not safe for a young woman to be taking a

stroll at this hour.’

‘Mr Conway?’

‘That’s me. Now I do think you had better hop in my car and I will

drive you home.’

‘Oh, Mr Conway, I really couldn’t ask you to.’ But Myrtle places

her hand on the door and imagines the relief of sitting, the shield of the car from the night, the way her landlady’s cat will twist and purr around her ankles when she gets home. Later that night, after the feast, you retire to bed. The servants retreat and you lie alone in the chambers allocated to you. You hear the door open. ‘You dare come into my room without permission?’ you say, sitting up. The intruder, covered completely in black, raises a katana. They lunge for you. You roll and try to avoid the katana, but it stabs into your side. Before you can draw breath to howl, the intruder pulls a knife from his belt and pushes it through your throat. ‘You showed my Lord dishonour,’ the intruder whispers. Blackness overtakes you, and you die.

The night has been too much. Tears track mascara down her

cheeks.

‘No, I insist. Jump in, Myrtle. I’ll have you home in a jiffy.’ He leans

across and unlatches the door.

‘Well … if it’s really no trouble?’

‘No trouble, no trouble at all.’

Myrtle slumps into the seat and wipes at her cheeks with the backs

of her hands. ‘I must look a fright. I’m sorry.’

The car moves off and she props an arm along the window frame,

letting her fingers catch the air as they pick up speed.

‘Mr Conway, I can’t thank you enough. I must admit though you

DIANE NICHOLLS

gave me quite a scare back there.’

‘Can’t be too careful these days.’ He looks across at Myrtle’s legs.

She shifts, adjusting her dress over her knees.

He laughs. ‘Just making sure I wasn’t about to offer a ride to some

tart.’ He changes gears and turns a corner, leaving his hand cupped over the gear stick. ‘All sorts of unsavoury types out on the streets after dark. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to a tasty treat like you, Myrtle.’ He makes another turn.

Myrtle realises she hasn’t yet given him her address. ‘Mr Conway?’

‘Mmm? Gary, please.’

‘Okay, Gary. Do you … know the way to my place? I mean, you

seem to know where to go …’ Myrtle trails off. She watches him flick the blinker and turn the wheel again.

As the silence between them thickens, Myrtle feels a heaviness

settle into her legs and arms; a dullness that contrasts with the painful contraction of her heart. She knows that she must reach for the handle on the door. That’s all it would take, throwing herself out onto the road (her mind veers away from the drama of it, the severe over-reaction) just as she has so often seen at the cinema. She knows all this, and understands that none of it is possible. Her hands lie dead in her lap, her legs incapable, rubbery with fear.

Myrtle forces her eyes up to Gary’s face. He is smiling, wet lips

stretched flat over too many teeth.

‘Do you know what I’ve been doing this evening, Myrtle?’ He turns

his face towards her. ‘I’ve been out on the town with my wife. Only trouble is … she didn’t know we were out on the town together, Myrtle, my lovely.’

THE LAST TRAM

His smile stretches into a grimace as he takes his eyes off the road

to glance at her. ‘Oh no, Barbara didn’t know I was watching her play with her little friend. Her little toy. Her little tart.’

Aware that the car has stopped, she is unable to take her eyes off

Gary. He swivels in his seat and reaches for her hand. She lets him take it up and clasp it between his clammy palms.

‘Would you believe me, Myrtle, if I told you about the things my

wife likes to do? About her perversions? Her sickness?’ He presses the back of her hand against his chest, sliding his free hand along her arm, caressing her shoulder, stroking her neck. ‘I think you would, wouldn’t you? I think you would believe me. I’m sure you’d know all about the things my wife likes to do.’ He shuffles closer and, dropping her hand, smears the tears on her cheek. Looking at his wet fingers, he holds his hand up to show her, then The foreigners look bizarre, with clothes that look to be made of animal skin. Their hair is light and beards long. Their eyes as round as the cups you drink your tea from. Other Lords from Ome’s neighbouring provinces are present, and they bow as you approach. ‘Lord Yoroshiku, it is a pleasure be hosted by you,’ one of the Lords says. You call everyone to the table and welcome them. You fold your feet beneath you and enjoy the rich barbeque presented to you. Ome is renowned for its barbeque, as it has rich hunting grounds, and the other Lords nod their approval. a) You request to be introduced to the foreigners. (Turn to page 97) b) You wait for Lord Takana to introduce you. (Turn to page 37)

opens his mouth and licks his palm.

Myrtle jerks her head back and flings an arm at the passenger

door. Gary grips her neck with both hands.

‘No, no, no. Shhh, shhh. We’re not finished our little chat. Be still

now. There’s a good girl.’ He rubs his thumbs up and down her throat, pressing lightly.

Myrtle chokes, her hands grasping and pulling at his wrists.

‘I think we can be frank with one another can’t we, my dear?

Barbara does enjoy her playthings but, I’m afraid, I can’t abide them.’

Gary increases the pressure on her neck. Myrtle flails and scratches,

fighting the dark that rises to consume her. Bright spots of light swim through the blackness. They explode and scatter in sparkling showers. For just a moment, Myrtle sees Barbara standing with her face turned upward,

DIANE NICHOLLS

smiling at the fireworks above her. How beautiful. A white light, growing stronger, obscures her vision â&#x20AC;Ś until this is all she has left to see.

ANECDOTAL EVIDENCE Paul Gifford-Macrae

THE ABSOLUTE BARGAIN I always get a little paranoid whenever someone tells me that something is an absolute bargain. I think it’s either fallen off the back of a truck or there must be a reason for the drastic price drop, like an unannounced superior model. There’s a sucker born every minute.

Such was the case with the panel van my father bought. I remember it well: it

was a two seater with a bench behind the seats and two doors that opened outward at the back. It was an absolute bargain, according to my father, as it only cost a thousand dollars.

When my mum saw it she said, ‘Oh crap, David. If you needed a work vehicle

we could have bought a better one than this.’

Mum was right to deride the white and blue van. It certainly wasn’t road worthy.

How could it be, when blue bailing twine was used to hold up the exhaust pipe and to lock the bonnet in place? Then there was the fact that of the five gears, only three worked. But the masterstroke of stupidity was the two back doors. Only one of them shut properly. The right door would swing open and shut when the van was moving. However, there was no need to worry. My father, the ingenious Kiwi engineer, came up with a cost-effective solution: a four-dollar bungee cord, which he hooked between the door and the vent for the broken air-con.

Everything was fine until he was driving me to school one day. After nearly

running a red light, the bungee cord broke free and ended up smashing a shop window. Funny thing that my father got rid of the van not long after. 82

HOW TO BE THE IDEAL GIRL Abigail Hua

Check your horoscope in Dolly: The stars are in your favour — go on and conquer the world, girl! Your father knocks and says: ‘We’re leaving in five.’ He asks if you’re excited for your first day. Mumble ‘Mmm’ distractedly as you read the article. He comes in, strokes your hair and says: ‘You are beautiful.’ Before you leave, look in the mirror. Notice how different you look from the girl in Dolly. She is both smaller and larger in places you want to be. Put your hands on your chest, turn to your side and sigh. Wonder when you’ll no longer have to stuff your bra. Grab your bag, run down the stairs and shout ‘Bye!’ to your mother. She says: ‘You forgot your breakfast, honey.’

Tell her you’re not hungry.

In class, introduce yourself to the girl sitting next to you. She is

quiet, mousy and appears less intimidating than the pretty, chatty girls in 83

HOW TO BE THE IDEAL GIRL

the back. She wears clothes pilfered from her mother’s closet and has freckles that splatter her complexion.

Classes pass, one after the other, and the lunch bell rings. Stand in

line behind one of the chatty girls. Her skirt is hiked high. She reminds you of the girl from the magazine. Find the scent of meat pies and chocolate chip muffins distracting. Your stomach growls in agreement and you wonder what the girl before you will choose. ‘I’ll just have a Diet Coke, please,’ she says.

Decide you’ll have the same.

Become friends with the chatty girls — Lotte, Dotti and Jamie.

Experience most of high school with them. Spend weekends at their houses musing over boys and taking personality tests. Find out your perfect celebrity crush is Leonardo DiCaprio and that you’re 65 per cent like Rachel from Friends. At sleepovers, confess secret crushes and wonder which boys in your class are good kissers. The movies you watch will place emphasis on falling in love with ‘The One’. Study Dolly and TeenPop! religiously and exchange knowledge when you meet the girls: ‘Did you know that if a boy teases you it might mean he secretly likes you? Boys love it when you laugh at their jokes — no matter how lame they are.’ Get excited over makeup and spend your allowance on pretty, shiny things. Know Britney, Shakira and Christina by heart and sing from the top of your lungs. Have makeover sessions and learn to look like the girls in the magazines.

Swear you’ll be best friends forever.

At Lotte’s party, you notice a boy glancing at you. He looks your

way every so often but quickly turns when your eyes meet. He seems cute. Wonder: should you play it cool or make the first move? Be mortified when

ABIGAIL HUA

Lotte suggests you play ‘7 Minutes in Heaven’. ‘Have fun,’ she winks and shoves you both in a room. Dolly did not prepare you for this. Fortunately, the boy seems to know what to do. ‘Just relax,’ he whispers. He explores your body with his hands and his tongue searches desperately for something in your mouth. Feel uncomfortable. It is not quite what you expect but don’t tell him to stop. Distract yourself and start counting down in your head. Wait for the fireworks. Nothing.

Later on, after everyone has left, repeat the incident to Lotte. She

will squeal and exclaim: ‘This is how boys love you.’ That night, look up at the poster of Leo on your wall.

Wonder if this is true.

From here on, let numbers dictate what you eat and how you feel.

Step on the scales. Scan the labels. Avoid anything deep-fried like the plague and live off a diet of fat-free products. Believe anything that promises a ‘toned, hot, trim, round, firm’ body within a fixed period of time. Hunch yourself over the toilet. Stick your finger down your throat. Don’t forget to pull your hair back. You will receive compliments, catcalls and approvals. This makes it worthwhile.

Look at your reflection, ignore your hunger and think: You are

beautiful.

Months later, blow out seventeen candles. When your parents ask

you to make a wish, say: ‘I’d like a boob job.’ Smile politely when they think you are joking. Tell them: ‘Lotte’s had hers done.’ Start yelling when your parents remain firm. Run, lock yourself in your room and scream: ‘I hate you. I hate you.’ They don’t understand.

Decide to major in film studies. It sounds more intellectual than

‘They are currently at sea in their giant boat,’ Lord Takana says shortly, straightening from his bow. ‘I will now show you to your room. There will be a feast tonight, after you are rested.’ You arrive in your room and send the servants away to prepare your outfit for the night. You rest for a while, until your servants arrive to dress you in a montsuki, a black silk kimono worn over a white kimono and black trousers. (Turn to page 75)

HOW TO BE THE IDEAL GIRL

saying: ‘I want to be an actress.’ Cosmo says a university is the best place to find a ‘well-rounded individual’ to engage in deep conversations with. This is also how you might meet ‘The One’.

Make it your mission to find someone who cares.

In the back of the lecture theatre, while everyone is watching

Psycho, continue to read The REAL Secret to Sex Appeal! When your stomach growls, shift uncomfortably in your seat. Think: Pretty girls are strong. Someone passes you a note that says: ‘Hey, you. I heard that.’ Look up and see a boy who winks at you.

Before each date, set aside time to pluck, shave, wax, moisturise,

wash, curl, draw. Then slip into the outfit you chose several days before. Often debate which underwear to wear: lace is sexy, but spandex hides the muffin top. What does Cosmo say? Spend most of your dates evaluating cinematography techniques and whether or not Nicholas Cage is a good actor. Impress each other with random facts of trivia. Printer ink is more expensive than human blood. There are vending machines in Japan that give out girls’ phone numbers. Pigs can orgasm for thirty minutes. Go to the cinemas, the park, the little Chinese shop around the corner. Learn something new each time. He plays the harmonica, he collects old coins and he hates movies with clowns.

‘Of course,’ Lord Takana says, straightening. He and the foreigners make their way into the castle. You arrive in your room and the servants dress you for the upcoming feast. They dress you in a montsuki, a black silk kimono worn over a white kimono and black trousers. (Turn to page 80)

He is not like the men in the magazines.

After seven-and-a-half dates, confess you are a virgin. This is the

first time anyone has seen you fully undressed. He starts slow … gentle … gradual. He doesn’t notice the spots under your arms or the rolls around your hips. Instead, he trails kisses down every inch your body. You start to unravel and forget everything you know.

ABIGAIL HUA

Later, lie intertwined in the sea of tangled sheets. Think: Where

was the candlelight? The music? The fireworks? Find yourself feeling sticky, warm and slightly sore. As he strokes your hair, whisper into his chest: ‘I love you.’ Silence.

Fall asleep waiting.

They say, when you are in love, time is fleeting. Meet before

lecturers, after lectures, sometimes during lectures. Classes aren’t important anymore. Go dancing, exploring. Try new things. Indulge in the moment; don’t worry about afters. Nothing has consequences anymore. Admire sunsets and pinpoint constellations in the sky.

Spend most nights at either his or yours.

Slowly but surely, notice tiny little things. He never texts you,

‘Good morning,’ and only texts you at night. He doesn’t compliment your dress, your hair, your weight loss. He wears the same hoodie and boring shoes. He leaves his dishes in the sink. He leaves the toilet seat up. He only talks to you during commercials. He doesn’t write you poems. He never brings you flowers. He insists on ‘70s music in the car. He doesn’t hold your hand when you cross the street.

He is not like the men in the magazines.

Try every trick in the book. First, leave hints and subtle mentions.

Eventually start to complain. You start using ‘never’ and ‘always’ when you argue. You say it blatantly to his face. You get tired. You compromise. Find that everything around you starts losing its colour. It becomes repetitious. Monotonous. A routine. You find that trivia facts are now useless bits of information. Sunsets are no longer romantic.

Think: a sky is just a sky.

HOW TO BE THE IDEAL GIRL

Your parents call and say you sound distant, different. They wonder

if you have changed. Smile through your teeth and say: ‘Everything’s fine, it always is.’

Consider when to tell him. Wonder if you have the courage.

Rehearse in front of the mirror.

Stare at him blankly and ask: ‘Wh … what did you just say?’

Something is reversed here. Wrong. Backward. It’s like you’ve switched places. He repeats: ‘I’m sorry but I don’t think this is going to work out.’ Say: ‘But what? Why? What do you mean?’ His mouth moves but nothing ‘Lord Takana, may I be introduced?’ you ask. Lord Takana masks his frown and bows towards the foreigners. One looks to you. ‘Capuchin Loransu,’ Lord Takana says, ‘Lord Yo-ro-shiku.’ ‘Yo-ro-shi-ku.’ Loransu holds his hand out to you. You look at it, confused, and simply bow your head. ‘I have sent for the Daimyo and he will be here within the week,’ Lord Takana says to you and the other Lords. ‘I look forward to his stay. He is very interested to meet our guests.’ He invites the other Lords to speak, and they present well wishes and offers of assistance. ‘I present good wishes for the future,’ you say. You bow deeply to the foreigners. Lord Takana masks his frown again, and the other Lords mutter amongst each other. Lord Takana shakes aside his disapproval to address his guests. ‘To the future!’ he exclaims. (Turn to page 78)

registers. You catch words like ‘clingy’, ‘perfectionist’ and ‘obsessed’. Say: ‘But I did everything by the book.’

‘What’s wrong with you?’ he asks as he heads out the door.

Start to cry and ask yourself the same thing.

Release thousands of lukewarm drops that beat over your head.

They drum in steady repetition, reinforcing a million jumbled thoughts that pollute your mind. Feel the drops slither down your skin, your spine, like tiny little rivulets that meander around every curve and limb. The air thickens and causes warm steam to rise to your aching face. Think: Oh how poetic. You mask your tears in the shower. Just like in the movies. Try to cleanse yourself of everything: every stain, every trace. He is everywhere: on your neck, your wrists. He’s on every part of your body. Your horrid, ugly body. Watch the water, like everything you thought you knew about men, about love, swirl and spiral down into the bleak emptiness of nothing.

Slump into bed. Lie there and replay the scene over and over.

Think: Did you push him too hard? Did you ask for too much? Did you say something wrong? Did you do something wrong? Did he notice the spots,

ABIGAIL HUA

the lines, the stretch marks? The wobbly bits? The flabby pieces? Wonder if he’s seeing someone who has a toned torso and lean legs.

Wonder if he’s home, fucking her right now.

Wonder if she plays the harmonica.

Your professor does not recognise you. You are not the student

who challenged his opinions or the one who raised your hand in class. Your face, to him, is lost amongst the sea of others who regularly show up to lectures. He says: ‘I’m sorry, there is nothing I can do.’ Decide that university isn’t for you anyway. Your mother cries and asks you to reconsider when you break the news to your parents. ‘You have so much potential,’ she sobs.

Wish you never rang them.

Live by a new mantra: Healthy body, healthy you! Cleanse yourself

from within and try different kinds of diets. Give up meat. Give up cheese. Give up eggs, milk and wheat. Invest in strange sounding items like quinoa and goji berries. It won’t be long before they do ‘wonders’ for your body. Force yourself to like kale and get excited when asparagus is on sale. Eat certain amounts at certain times of the day. Drink eight glasses of water every day. Close the blinds so the neighbours won’t see as you jump, run and sweat in the privacy of your living room.

Feel like a changed person.

Introduce yourself and hand him your résumé. You’ve written up

your short experience at a restaurant near home to sound as professional as possible. Cross and uncross your legs. A waitress scurries past and spills coffee on an old lady who yells at her. Quickly look away and remind yourself why you are here. Feel his eyes survey your body and linger by your skirt. Smile politely and cross your legs again. He asks: ‘So, what’s a pretty

HOW TO BE THE IDEAL GIRL

girl like you wanting to work in a place like this?’ Recite standard textbook answers of ‘being passionate about hospitality’ and ‘love meeting new people’.

Don’t mention needing money to buy kale.

Your co-workers are friendly. They are mostly students and the

occasional artist, musician or actor. Exchange dreams and aspirations over your breaks. When customers ask about the coffee, use words like ‘robust’, ‘Lord Yoroshiku,’ Lord Takana says to you, ‘their leader’s name is Loransu. We have only managed basic communication, but I know for certain they are here to trade and make allies with Japan.’ He bows to Loransu and the foreigner looks at him. ‘Capuchin Loransu, Lord Yo-ro-shi-ku.’ Loransu holds his hand out to you. You look at it, confused, and see Lord Takana gesturing for you to take it. You do, hesitantly, and let go quickly. ‘I have sent for the Daimyo and he will be here within the week,’ Lord Takana says to you and the other Lords. ‘I look forward to his stay. He is very interested to meet our guests.’ He invites the other Lords to speak, and they present well wishes and offers of assistance. ‘I present good wishes for the future,’ you say. You bow deeply, first to the foreigners, and then to Lord Takana, whom you had not shown the proper respect upon arrival. Lord Takana is pleased, and the other Lords nod their approval. ‘To the future!’ Lord Takana exclaims. (Turn to page 94)

‘pleasant’ and ‘notes of honey and cinnamon’. Say it’s hard to determine your personal favourite but always recommend a random one from the signature range. Laugh at their jokes and they will leave gracious tips. This is now your life. Come home each night smelling like a mix of roasted Arabica beans and toast. It will linger on your clothes permanently.

Find everything else, however, transient.

One by one your friends will start to leave, only to be replaced by

another trainee who will once again spill coffee that you will have to mop up. They will promise to keep in touch, but that is the last you will hear from them. You will be fondly remembered as the girl with the hot body and the winning smile.

Find that this means nothing to you.

Wonder if anything is worthwhile anymore. The packet of goji

berries sits in the back of your pantry, festering away just like your ambitions in life. You operate on clockwork, running on a routine where life fleets by. Slowly but surely, start to lose the energy, the interest.

Burrow under the sheets and let everything go to voicemail.

Sit in the tub and watch the water lap your skin — it makes a nice

change from the grubby sheets. Find yourself wishing the smell of roasted

ABIGAIL HUA

Arabica still lingered in your hair as you scrub the grime from your scalp. Your mind wanders to the regular who would always order coffee from you. She hides behind thick-rimmed glasses and an uneven fringe, but laughs with the kind of joy that is reminiscent of your childhood days. The kind of joy you enviously heard coming from your neighbour’s backyard as you practiced with mother. You always wished you were playing with the kids instead of twirling batons and rehearsing dance routines.

Sink lower into the water and think of the times when you were

truly happy.

Remember the time when your father would kiss you on the head

and call you his ‘little munchkin’. The time when you would hopscotch into sidewalk puddles and run barefoot in the muddy grass. Remember when labels meant nothing to you. The memories and longing engulf you all at once as you slide lower into the warmth.

Wonder if it was there this whole time.

The sudden realisation becomes too much to bear. Succumb

completely and let the stillness envelop every inch of your body. The fullness of defeat dominates your mind and silences everything from the outside world. Under the surface there are no standards to live up to. No rules to follow, no pressure to be perfect. Now here you are in your most vulnerable state as the girl you always were. You are alone with your thoughts amplified to their fullest extent, like a raging beast beneath the stillness of the water. Tiny air bubbles make their way to the surface; they are the only things down here in a hurry to leave.

Feel like an inflated balloon.

Your throat sears with agony as you find yourself slowly floating

HOW TO BE THE IDEAL GIRL

away. Your heart hammers with the desperation of a bird trapped in a cage as the throbbing in your head intensifies. Find everything starting to fade as darkness seeps in at the edge of your vision. Gradually your muscles relax and as you sink into its loving embrace. Remember your father telling you youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re beautiful countless times. Feel warmth from this.

Wonder if there will be a better tomorrow.

KARLAâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S CHOICE Elizabeth Sauterel

In another setting, a playground perhaps, or a primary school parking lot, the unusual looking contraption might easily have been mistaken for a mobile theatre. Its three sides and stage were painted cobalt, and its jaunty yellow top was supported by sturdy round columns in the same sunny hue. One could almost see dangling marionettes and hear the squeals of delighted children. But, in the graveyard of rusting, forgotten vehicles of Amigoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Auto Salvage, the machine played a less happy role.

An old BMW sat perfectly balanced on the oversized, carving-fork

tines of a massive front-end loader. In a nearby control tower, the operator applied fingertip pressure on a joystick. The tines rumbled forward to place the Beamer in the centre of the empty blue stage. With deft motion, he retracted the tines and raised them just high enough to pin the car doors

KARLA’S CHOICE

tight against the chassis. The warning wail of a klaxon split the air. Hydraulic pistons in the yellow columns engaged the roof-like anvil, dragging it ever downward. The moment anvil touched metal, the body of the BMW folded and crumpled. The windows and windshields gave way. Glass shattered and spewed outward — littering the asphalt in a hail of green and blue shrapnel. The high-speed crusher was quick: the final act lasted no longer than sixty seconds.

In the tower, the operator took his hand off the controls, leaving the

other cars in the long row to wait their turn. He was an odd looking young man with colourful tattoos on his neck and forearms, in sharp contrast to his sun-starved skin. His khaki work shirt was a size too big and so new, it still bore creases and pin holes from the packaging.

‘Well, Dave,’ said Monte Amigo. ‘You seem to know what you’re

doin’. Job’s yours.’

Later that night, after the feast, you retire to bed. The servants retreat and you lie alone in your chambers. You hear the door open. ‘Stay where you are,’ you say, sitting up. The intruder, covered completely in black, rests their hand on a katana. ‘You disrespected my Lord tonight,’ the intruder says. He taps the katana handle. ‘One more offence, and it will be your last. ‘You dare—’ But the intruder is already gone. You can almost imagine it was a dream, but his threat echoes clear in your mind.

Dave wiped sweaty palms down the side of his trousers.

‘Thanks, Mr Amigo.’

‘Don’t thank me. Thank your parole officer’s good recommendation.’

Monte glanced at his watch and scribbled a note which he handed

to Dave.

‘Take this to Troy in the equipment shed to get your gear. It’s after

five but he’ll still be there.’

Troy, Amigo’s long-time equipment supervisor, was in the machine shop tinkering under the bonnet of a mint-condition Mercury Cougar. It was his favourite time of day. All the heavy equipment had been shut down for

ELIZABETH SAUTEREL

the night, most of the workers were gone, and the salvage yard was peaceful and private — leaving Troy free to indulge his passion for building custom cars. Lacking family, Troy spent most of his spare time in the workshop, happily alone. On this particular evening though, Troy chatted as he worked. On a nearby computer screen, an auburn-haired beauty with startling green eyes chatted back.

‘I’m tellin’ you, Karla, right after my retirement party, we’ll head

out for Florida. By Sunday morning we’ll be at Daytona Beach watchin’ the sun come up. How does that sound?’

A silken voice replied, ‘That sounds lovely, darling. I can’t wait. Just

don’t drink too much tonight.’

‘Don’t you worry … but if I do I’ll just get a little shut-eye in the

back seat.’ Troy gave Karla a sly wink. ‘You’re just as good a driver as I am.’

Karla’s deep, throaty laughter echoed around the shop. ‘As good?

Better, you mean.’

Troy shrugged his shoulders. ‘Can’t argue with that,’ he conceded.

Troy stopped what he was doing and turned to face the monitor.

He cleared his throat a couple of times and casually tweaked the volume control.

‘Look, Karla. We need to be serious for a minute. When we get

settled we’re going to have to make some plans for your future. I’m no spring chicken and—’

‘Now you stop right there! I won’t listen to that kind of talk. You

take better care of me than anyone ever could. Why, I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for you.’ ‘But—'

KARLA’S CHOICE

‘No buts!’

Troy threw his hands up, ‘Okay, okay.’

‘Good. Now, tell me more about Daytona.’

The door of the workshop flew open with a bang. ‘Hey, are you

Troy?’

Troy spun around, startled. He’d never seen the tattooed young

man before. ‘Who’s askin’?’

‘I’m Dave. Mr Amigo just hired me. Here to pick up my gear.’ He

handed Troy the note Monte had written.

Troy read the note and said, ‘Okay. Wait here.’

Troy disappeared into the stock room. When he returned, he

found Dave standing by the Cougar, his hands caressing its sleek red body, his head buried deep inside the open window.

Troy dropped the gear, grabbed Dave’s arm and yanked him away

from the car. ‘What the fuck do think you’re doin’?’ He pulled a clean cloth from his pocket and erased Dave’s grimy fingerprints.

‘Shit, dude. Sorry. I haven’t seen a Cougar like this since, like …

ever.’

‘Well, keep your hands to yourself.’

Dave held his hands up in a gesture of surrender and took a step

backwards. ‘What is it? A ’69?’

‘1970 Cougar Eliminator, one of only 215 made that year.’

‘250 horse?’

Troy looked down his nose at Dave and snorted. ‘That’s a V8 428

horsepower Cobra Jet engine under the bonnet. Rebuilt it myself. Did all the custom interior work, too.’

ELIZABETH SAUTEREL

Dave sneaked a peek at the dash. ‘I’ll say it’s custom. It looks like a

747 cockpit in there. You even put in a GPS.’

Troy rolled his eyes. ‘Something like that, yeah.’

Troy looked at his watch. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got a lot

to do, and I’ve got an appointment in town tonight.’

Dave picked up his gear off the floor. ‘Sure. No problem. See you

around, then.’

‘Actually, you won’t. Today’s my last day, but good luck with the

job.’

Dave left the shop, and Troy watched him walk away. Only when

he disappeared around the corner of the admin building did Troy close the door and return to the computer screen and Karla.

She shuddered. ‘Ugh! Who was that creep?’

‘No one you need to worry about. Now, where were we?’

‘You were about to tell me about Daytona.’

‘So I was. Well …’

When Dave walked through the door of his dingy, one-room unit, he was thinking about a shower, a beer and a cute little cocktail waitress down at Stubby’s Bar & Grill. He was most certainly not thinking about the man he found sitting on his sofa. Dave backpedalled toward the door but found the way blocked by two men. They grabbed Dave by the arms and hustled him into an overstuffed chair next to the sofa. One stood behind him; the other returned to lock the front door.

Dave swallowed a lump in his throat. ‘Hey, Mr Maretti. Long time,

no see.’

‘Lord Takana, may I be introduced?’ you ask. Lord Takana masks his frown and bows towards the foreigners. One looks to you. ‘Capuchin Loransu,’ Lord Takana says, ‘Lord Yo-ro-shiku.’ ‘Yo-ro-shi-ku.’ Loransu holds his hand out to you. You look at it, confused, and simply bow your head. ‘I have sent for the Daimyo and he will be here within the week,’ you say to the other Lords. ‘I look forward to his stay. He is very interested to meet our guests.’ You invite the other Lords to speak, and they present well wishes and offers of assistance. ‘I present good wishes for the future,’ Lord Takana says. He bows deeply to the foreigners, but not to you. You mask a frown, and the other Lords mutter amongst each other. You shake aside your disapproval and address your guests. ‘To the future!’ you exclaim (Turn to page 78)

KARLA’S CHOICE

‘Yes, indeed. Long time. You’re a hard man to find, Dave.’

Dave licked his lips. His armpits felt damp and his bowels felt

loose.

‘Yeah, well. About that. I’ve been meanin’ to—’

The blow came from behind.

‘Fuck!’

Blood trickled down from the corner of Dave’s eye.

‘I want my money, Dave … now.’

‘I … I don’t have it.’

Maretti nodded at his two companions. They grabbed Dave and

hauled him out of the chair. The toes of Dave’s boots left scuff marks on the vinyl floor as they dragged him towards the bathroom.

‘Wait,’ screamed Dave. ‘Just wait a minute.’

Maretti held up a single finger. The men stopped, but didn’t let go.

Dave looked back over his shoulder.

‘Mr Maretti, do you still collect rare cars?’

Troy unrolled a cable and connected one end to the computer and the other under the bonnet of the Cougar. He punched a few buttons on the keyboard and line after line of code whizzed down the screen. He looked at his watch. Time to go.

Outside in the salvage yard, Dave hid next to a stack of old tyres. He watched the workshop and rubbed his throbbing temple. Just when he began to doubt

ELIZABETH SAUTEREL

Troy would ever leave, the workshop went dark. Troy came out and hopped into a battered Ford ute. Dave breathed an immense sigh of relief — the Cougar must still be in the garage. His hands shook so badly he had trouble picking the lock. Once inside, he pulled a small flashlight out of his pocket and headed to the car.

In the blue glow of the computer monitor, code still scrolled down

the screen, but Dave yanked the cable out of the Cougar and slammed the bonnet shut. He hopped in the driver’s seat and prepared to hot-wire the engine. To his luck, a quick feel above the sun visor revealed a key. Dave poked the garage door opener and started the engine. The mighty V8 was deafening. As the garage door rattled upward, Dave shifted into reverse and revved the engine. The GPS screen on the dashboard flickered in fits and starts, struggling to come to life after the abrupt termination of its programming. When the garage door finally came to a stop, Dave flung his elbow over the seat backing and his head over his shoulder. There, visible in the moonlight, stood a furious Troy, thumping a tyre iron against his leg. Jesus! thought Dave, where’d he come from? Dave gunned the accelerator. Troy tried to jump out of the way, but the back bumper caught him with a sickening crunch and sent him flying. He landed in a crumpled heap, unmoving.

Dave was scanning the instrument panel for the problem, when,

from out of nowhere, a female voice announced, ‘Self-drive engaged.’ The GPS screen flickered to life with the image of a beautiful redhead, her green eyes flashing with anger.

‘Hello, Dave.’

‘What the . . . who are you?’

KARLA’S CHOICE

‘I’m Karla . . .’

Dave slid his hand slowly to the door handle, but the lock popped

downward the instant he touched it.

‘Troy’s A.I.’

Dave yanked the door handle. The image on the screen shook her

head sadly.

‘Dave, Dave. What’s wrong? Aren’t you happy to meet me? This

afternoon you seemed so keen. You put your slimy hands all over me.’

Dave thought back to the moment he snatched the cable out of the

workshop computer. Shit! What did I do?

Dave yanked the door handle again shouting, ‘Open the door!’ ‘I’m

sorry, Dave. I’m afraid I can’t do that.’

Karla faded from view and replayed her vision of the moment the

bumper struck Troy, his arc through the air and, finally, his body slamming into the ground.

She reappeared on screen. ‘You’re going to pay for what you did.’

‘Please! Please let me out!’ begged Dave as the accelerator plunged

to the floor.

Karla careened across the yard into the tower of used tyres. The

impact flung Dave chest-first into the steering wheel, knocking the breath out of him. Cascading tyres dented the roof, bonnet and boot, leaving dusty prints on her beautiful paintwork. While Dave was still gasping, Karla sped forward, then spun in a tight circle, sending Dave’s head crashing into the side window with enough impact to leave a bloody smear. Back and forth she went, battering herself against mountains of scrap metal and rusting Later that night, after the feast, you retire to bed. The servants retreat and you lie in your chambers. You fall asleep peacefully, accompanied by thoughts of the future.

hulks until her once proud body was a concave wreck: one bumper missing,

100

ELIZABETH SAUTEREL

a headlight hanging by a wire, and the tyres shredded down to the rims. The grit of the salvage yard scoured the paintwork to a sandblasted finish. The windows were opaque with dust. Dave lay unconscious in the front seat, but Karla wasn’t finished. The V8 cylinders sputtered and coughed as she crawled across the salvage yard to a long row of cars and positioned herself at the head of the queue. There she waited.

Just after daylight, the roar of the front-end loader penetrated Dave’s foggy brain. He recognized the sound, but the jostling and shaking that accompanied it was unfamiliar. When the shaking stopped, his eyes fluttered open, struggling to focus. He was in a car — that was clear enough, but where? Through gaps in the grime-caked windows he caught a glimpse of blue. The sudden wail of the klaxon split the air. His eyes drifted upward in time to see the roof above him buckle and crack. And he remembered. Karla.

It was mercifully quick. Sixty seconds was all it took.

101

ANECDOTAL EVIDENCE Paul Gifford-Macrae

THE LAST TIME Now that I’m approaching my thirty-fifth birthday, I find myself doing a lot of soul searching. I think back to how things were when I was younger and it wasn’t all bad — there were more laughs than tears. If I were to focus on the memories that make me laugh, then it’s the memories of Rob and James. Twelve and nine years older, they were more than brothers — they were like surrogate father figures.

I was taken to concerts and movies, both drive-in and cinema. If the rating was

above PG then we went to the drive-in with me hidden under a blanket. After school two nights a week I went to cheer James as he played basketball, and if I wasn’t doing that, I was cheering Rob at indoor soccer. Both brothers were protective of me. One time when I was referred to as a coon, the guy was dealt with. I don’t know what they did to him but two weeks later he was still walking with a limp.

The last time the three of us were in the same room was ten years ago. And

even though we all live apart and I don’t see my brothers much anymore, I still have the memories of us growing up. No one can take those away from me. These memories are mine and when I’m feeling down they help lift my spirits. It’s my hope that my children, when I get around to having some, will have the same kinds of experiences I did.

102

This anthology contains stories penned by students of the University of the Sunshine Coast. In this anthology, you will traverse the wilds of the Arctic north and come face to face with a polar bear; meet an American who is stalked by a monster from her past; join an unlikely knight and damsel as they attempt to flee from the claws of a dragon; flit into the spaces between to follow a character whose life has taken a turn for the worse; and peek into many more stories. Fault Lines is a collection of tales that will take you to new worlds.