her voice girlish and whispery.
At three I saunter down the hill
to Pixie’s for my arvo coffee fix.
Better than the crap at foodie.net
even if I have to go out for it. I come back with two frothing cups
but Waverley’s asleep, snoring.
20
At five p.m. I stop, the shrimp report
complete enough to soothe the board’s
sensibilities. I wish it wasn’t about money
but it always is. The sky is dark already,
cloud-bruised. Kids banter in the streets.
—More light, I say.
The universe obliges again. I dip my fingers
in tank water, give Waverley’s cheek a flick.
She moans. I drip some water on her neck.
—Hey Waves, I say.
—Piss off!
—Coming?
—Nope, she says. Waiting for Jill.
She yawns a white-toothed yawn.
I grab my satchel from the sill.
—Hang on, ’fore I forget, she says, lifting her head.
Some bloke dropped in before. His name was Geoff…
no, just a sec…shit, was it John? or George? or Jack?
Part 4: Skin
Angler’s Bay, 2025
The ocean is tonic incarnate for the technological world.
Winifred Snow
1
—Look, said Finn to Cello and me.
We were in our room with Cello’s
new dog, a robotic retriever that
was almost real. We fed it Lego,
and one of my socks. But our game
soon stopped when Finn announced,
—Look! I’m all spidery in here. Look,
Northy, where I do my wee.
And peeled back her labia to reveal
the fine webs of skin growing inside it.
Mine didn’t have these. Nor did Cello’s.
I checked with her. She checked with me.
—Your sister’s a freak, she said.
—A freak, I agreed, not knowing quite
what that word meant but I felt betrayal
cling to it. Sun through tree branches
fell on the bed. We looked between
our outspread legs, and kept on looking
till Mum came in.
2
—Look, Mum, more webby things! said Finn.
Her thighs were pale as uncooked fish,
like rockling or flounder, now extinct.
—Hush girls, said Mum. Just let me see…
In bed that night I heard what’s long
been curlicued by time.
—There’s nothing to be done, said Mum,
that’s not cosmetic.
—Flora, Dad said, perhaps Jo’s right.
A cut to separate the membranes…—No!
—Would stop the chances of infection…
—No!
—Flora…
—No, Northy, no, Finn mimicked.
—Shhh! I said. Just go to sleep.
But both of us kept listening to the clods
of our parents’ argument. I fell into
a tepid sleep long before my sister did.
3
And dreamt a recurring dream
of a river trailed by weeds, its banks
as soft as cake, and crumbling.
It is always soft, and always I fall.
My skin transformed by scales.
My cheeks clefted with gills.
My coccyx elongated into a tail.
Finn beckons from the open sea
in a language I almost, not quite,
hear. The current draws me in.
4
—Itchy neck! Itchy neck! my sister said,
and scratched with a fork at the back
of her head. We were five and it was
January, with our first school year
about to commence. Mum parted
Finn’s white hair at the neck. Kinder
had been plagued by nits. I kept eating.
Dad’s spaghetti was a favourite.
—Shit, Richard, said Mum. Just look at this!
—Ten bucks in the Swear Jar, dear, he said.
— Shit, Richard, said Finn.
I took up the chant.
—Shit, Richard, Shit Richard.
—Shush! Mum said.
5
Barnacles clung to the back of Finn’s
head; grey, hard-shelled and filigreed
like those found on rocks when the sea
retreats.
—I’m a beach! Finn declared, jiggling
her knees. I banged my fork in unison.
—Bedtime, said Mum. Go brush your teeth.
But I delayed, sopping up my sauce
with a chunk of bread.
—Go on, said Mum. You too. Now get!
I went, snail slow, but not before
I heard what she said.
—Just wait until Jo Green hears about this.
—She won’t, sighed Dad.
6
Our town was small and, despite
its new skin, clung to the demeanour
of its origins. Most people were fond
of my sister. But with the barnacles
there came a shift, slight as an insect
vibrating. Perhaps Cello or some friend,
even Finn herself, had mentioned it.
She was unfurling now into a happy,
if exotic, kid with hair that tendrilled
from her head. But our mother knew
by the sliding sideways looks what
others said when she wasn’t there
about her kelp-eating in pregnancy
and her disregard for standard tests.
—So maybe that’s why Finn…
As if blaming my mother changed
anything.
7
Finn, to me, was not strange or weird.
She knew how I felt without saying it
and often sang what was in my head,
a rhyme from Playskool or Sesame Street.
If I banged my knee, her own knee bled.
If I felt sick, she vomited. I didn’t find
anything odd about this, though the gap
would widen as we grew. In my sister
Finn I have always seen what others
saw much later than me: something
intangible that dissolves swiftly
on the perimeter of thought beyond
place or speech, like a word that strays
beyond utterance or name, outside
memory.
8
Finn’s sleep remained ragged.
In time she required even less of it.
A bath settled her as it always did.
Our mother received a Water Permit.
But full moons drew Finn seaward,
her feet paddling the bedroom wall,
which wouldn’t yield to the ocean’s call.
In sleep she banged her head against
the window near my bed. I’d get up
then and reel her in.
—Mum! Mum! She’s doing it again!
I woke late after nights like this,
fogged by fatigue and broken sleep.
Finn rose at dawn as she always did,
to read or watch a 3DV till the family
stumbled o
ut of bed. Of the waking
hours given each of us, Finn used
hers up while we all slept.
9
School arrived, leapt into our lives
and took over them with uniforms,
green-checked, too long, our mother
sat up late to hem. Our new shoes,
beetle-black, white socks, ibooks
and new lunch boxes sat neatly
on two kitchen chairs that final
eve of our preschool years.
We bounced upon our beds,
keen as kelpies, fresh-bathed,
skittish.
10
At the classroom door, Mum
kissed our heads and dissolved
into the fray of a hovering mob.
I recall parts of that day, though
not the whole: our teacher’s red suede
boots, a freckled boy who cut his leg,
my green school bag slung way too big
on shoulders wing-budded, exhilarated.
I swung on jungle bars, my heart
an elated, singing thing.
—Northy, said Finn, tapping me
but I hung upside down persistently
until she retreated to the bench
and snapped sticks into little bits.
Her knees protruding from her dress
looked lonely, but I kept swinging.
11
—Girls, said my mother.
How was school? Did you paint,
or draw? Who did you play with?
Did you make any friends?Jam biscuits on a floral plate
I crunched sweetly with sugary teeth.
Mum’s questions swung like ropes
too high and hard to catch.
I tried to answer, gulping milk.
Then Finn spilt hers. Mum grabbed
the cloth. The door opened and Dad
walked in. We leapt into his arms
and kissed him with our milk-wet lips.
Part 5: Cake
Angler’s Bay, 2050
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’
Gleams that untravelled world…
Alfred Lord Tennyson
1
It’s Sunday, early evening
and I’m sitting at my desk
enjoying a stack of things
I’ve trawled: fractal genes
and half-browsed bio zines.
A scrag comes in from Gen Pets:
Mini-Pig Sale! Variegated!
Then Cello cybes. The message
glimmers in the lobal space near
my right ear: North, come for tea?
I s’pose. There’s not much here
to eat. My habit gene kicks in
and finds the familiar slot,
grinds into gear.
2
Cello lives a half hour drive away.
I take the sea road, my Flute humming
across a ribbon of bitumen. Black sky
above, water beneath. Bear rests his jowls
upon my knee and sleeps. The distant city
is domed, cream-lit. I drive distractedly,
thinking how much can change in a week.
Jack’s name floats in and I can’t shake it.
Sure, Waverley was fuzzy with lack of sleep
and coming off Gallopers is no picnic.
It was probably a colleague who dropped in.
But the thought persists as we drive
on through salt and darkness,
the dog and me.
3
We get to Cello’s about six-thirty.
Bear licks my hand and whumps
his tail soon as we turn into her street.
Cello’s lawn is Krystal Grass; hot pink,
synthetic and sparkling. Bear leaps
from the Flute straight onto it,
leaving a trail of pink paw prints.
—Just me! I call.
—Coming! she says.
Behind the flexi screen I see Cello’s
large shape, swathed in a clinging
mauve fabric. Big Cat nudges her hip
gently and aims a lazy hiss at Bear.
The dog retreats into pink veiled dark.
We go inside and leave him there.
4
Cello is nine months pregnant
and five days overdue. Her mother,
Jo, is in a spin. Even now we hear
Cello’s skinfone zing.
—Bloody Mum, she says.
Big Cat purrs steadily through
all this. He’s a lion-tabby cross;
fifty kilos of purring thunder
with a tawny pelt and mane.
Cello strokes him. The fone falls
silent once again. The living zone
displays her flair for home design.
Cello’s business is flourishing,
with celebrity clients on her list.
5
I go into the cold zone, grab
a Toxic City beer and slug it
at the kitchen bench while Cello
feeds Big Cat. I watch her lug
goat meat to the cat’s large bowl
out on the deck. Each slab is heavy
as three bricks.
—I’m pregnant, North, not sick, she said,
last time I offered to help with this.
But lately she’s been right off meat.
—Urgh! she says, and dry retches.
Stuff it, I think, and drink my beer.
6
Cello is massive; swollen, thick-limbed.
Her feline charm submerged beneath
the bulbous form of her unborn infant.
The pony tattoo on her arse no longer
prances prettily. Her hands are all puffy.
Her discarded rings sit in a gaudy heap
on the eye table gazing up at me,
blue and unblinking.
I present my sticky offering:
a triple layer chocolate cake.
—North… says Cello, I can’t eat that!
—Come on, I say. You skinny thing.
7
Cello’s house is zero carbon
and expensive, with a ten star
eco-rating from the government.
Pink light shines from the sun unit.
Her walls curve; no sharp corners.
I chug my drink and watch Big Cat
gulp down his meal. He swallows
deftly and emits low roars, shaking
the meat to ensure it’s dead; sole
remnant of his lion instinct.
8
Raoul arrives home from his shift
in a chef’s apron and offers me
a boyish grin, his hands replete
with leftovers from his restaurant
for us to eat.
—Hello, North! Good to see you, yes!
He plonks the parcels on the bench
and wraps his arms around Cello’s
breasts. I study my Toxic City beer.
—She grows like peach, North, he says.
You think?
Cello unwraps his arms, slowly.
—How about dinner, for North and me?
—Cello! I say. Raoul’s just got in…
—No, no, it’s fine! he says. She just
needs heat and a salad, maybe.
If you crossed a terrier with electricity
you’d get Raoul: dark and wiry, eager
to please. Each day he makes Cello
sandwiches and garnishes them
exquisitely. I’m unreasonably
jealous of those sandwiches.
Cello’s lunchbox is a masterpiece.
9
We sit on Cello’s retro couch,
bestowed by an auntie, dead but rich.
Big Cat’s mane shimmers against
Cello’s dark hair; the predatory
in cat and girl repressed.
Cello sips her orange juice.
—Urk, I’d kill for a coffee, she says.
—But the baby, ma cherie! Raoul calls.
He’s in the food zone, slicing zucchini
with a tenderness inappropriate
for vegetables, I think.
10
We eat dinner. I go to clear
the plates but Raoul says—No, North, please! You go. I clean.
He gathers up the cutlery,
singing something Parisian.
So I retrieve my cake instead
and take it to the living zone,
which looks towards the city.
I’ve spent a few too many summer
evenings here getting slowly pissed
as the sun sets in a polluted haze;
electric-orange and green. Tonight
the sky is winter dark and glitters
through the glass with stars
and distant lights. The cake sits
plumply on its plate. Cello grabs
the biggest slice.
11
And in this moment of almost peace,
my friend undoes her purple wrap.
—Hey, quick, she says. Feel this!
She takes my hand and places it
on the vast curve of her whale belly.
Nothing at first and then I feel it:
a slow rolling. The foetus turns
and wheels as if in sleep
beneath the drum-tight skin.
The Sunlit Zone Page 4