by Неизвестный
‘Of course I will.’
‘Okay, it will be in the letterbox in ten minutes, sharp.’
‘Affirmative … oh and Sacha, you’re a really good friend, you know that don’t you?’
‘Yeah.’
Suckage #5: The word ‘terminal’. Because I feel like it has two meanings that feel the opposite; one of them is like an airport terminal and that’s exciting and feels like it’s the start of something good, like a holiday. The other meaning is the end of something.
Ngata came back to school after lunch on Friday. They were doing a study on amphibians in class. Sacha was in the Warty Newt group and Ngata was in the Poison Dart Frog group so they didn’t really get a chance to talk. When the groups were presenting what they had achieved that afternoon, the girls sat close together on the floor. Ngata slipped a note into Sacha’s hand.
Do you want to come to my house for makeovers and junk food tomorrow? Mum says we can have whatever we want.
p.s. I think Pōtiki is a nice one for Sam.
p.p.s. I love you too.
At ten minutes to three, Ngata’s mum arrived in the classroom. Sacha knew something was strange because Mrs King always waited in the car, or she would let the girls walk home together. Mrs King looked tired. Mr Newman stood by her at the front of the class and they whispered while the girls chatted amongst themselves. Sacha told Ngata she’d love to come over tomorrow and Ngata squeezed her hand and got up to stand next to her mum. Mr Newman explained to the class that Ngata would only be coming to school on Friday afternoons from now on. Mrs King would answer any questions. Nobody had any questions.
Mum/Mrs King: Māia, because she actually is the bravest lady we know.
Mr Newman: Tukemata, everyone knows why.
Saturday was a great day for Sacha. Her mum said she could stay the night and Mrs King said it was okay as long as she was prepared to go home at any time of the night if needed. Ngata told her to bring the notebook with the names in it. She said she wanted to make sure they finished a name for everyone she knew.
Suckage #6: Warty Newts. I know so much about them, and I’ve spent so much time on them. But they’re only found in Europe, and I don’t have enough pocket money to get to Europe just to see a Warty Newt in its natural habitat.
Ngata made it to her Poison Dart Frog presentation the following Friday, much to her group members’ relief because she was the only one who actually knew anything, the rest of them just read aloud from the poster. Then she made it to four Fridays after that. The girls spent whatever time they could together. Sacha always brought the notebook with her.
Suckage #7: The worst part about finishing any project is that I’m supposed to just empty my head and start a new one. But I can’t stop thinking about the old one. I don’t think it’s fair how everyone just expects me to move on to the next one so quickly like my brain is made of rubber or something.
Ngata’s tangi started on a Friday. Sacha’s mum said she couldn’t get the Friday off work, but Sacha could go with the Kings. Sacha didn’t put much into her overnight bag, but she emptied the entire contents of the ‘cool stuff’ box into it. Friday and Saturday seemed to go so quickly. When Sunday came, Sacha was tired and a little sore, but she had even had fun with some of Ngata’s cousins and told some stories with her aunties. Sunday was the day that everyone would come. Sunday was the day for the serious talk. That morning Sacha went quietly to her bag; she got out one of the sparkly pencils from Ngata and sharpened it and felt closer to her. She made one final entry into the notebook. It seemed like hours of song and talk and tears went by in an instant for Sacha. She was frozen in time. Her mum was numb from the waist down and was rubbing Sacha’s lower back in circles repeatedly, over and over. Mrs King suddenly got up and sort of stumbled over to them. Her hair was out and flying wildly everywhere. Her voice seemed to croak like a Poison Dart Frog as she whispered in Sacha’s ear.
‘Ngata wanted you to speak; she knew you’d say no. But will you do it?’
Sacha stared out into the swimming faces. She knew her eyes looked like she’d been in a fight and a string of snot had glued a strand of hair to her face. She had no idea what to say. She said, ‘Hello, my name is Sacha,’ and then froze again. She looked down at the notebook she was clutching with white knuckles and knew what to do. Sacha did the unimaginable. She did what she swore she would never do. She told everyone the secret. At first everyone was confused, but when she started reading out the list of names, each person’s face lit up as she said them. By the time she reached Jonathan’s nickname, some of the audience were giggling. By the time she got to aunty Molly, a few people were howling and holding their sides with laughter. Sometimes, like when she read out Mrs King’s nickname, people just sighed, and smiled and looked at her as if to say ‘we agree’. Slowly but surely, every single person who was standing on the ātea heard their name, then their nickname; love it or hate it. When she was finished, Sacha felt less heavy, like she’d been laughing with Ngata all this time. The secrets of the notebook were out; all but one.
When it came time to say goodbye for good, the Kings invited anyone to come and add whenua. Sacha came around and when it was her turn, she tossed the notebook into the hole. Nobody said anything. Mrs King smiled weakly.
Dear Kata (hehe)
This is the last note in the book. I just wanted you to know I finally came up with a name for our secret club. I think we should call it Aroharoa, because you are my best friend and I will love you forever and ever. What do you think?
Love Kāpō.
Kingdom of Maisey
Aaron Ure
There was no reason for optimism. I knew that from the moment she entered our home. However, I did not expect such cunning and duplicity from a stupid four-legged animal. The truth is, I had no expectations at all, other than adhering to the four basic routines that cats like their humans to be trained in: feed me, stroke me, entertain me, now leave me alone. My experience with cats had informed me a long time ago that anything outside of this narrow idolised worship is neither warranted nor accepted behaviour. Therefore, cats and I generally avoided each other, and I thought this would remain as the unspoken understanding with felines, until Maisey arrived.
Maisey came to our home from the SPCA, a momma cat, thin and rangy looking, who had recently weaned four kittens. Despite her rake-like form and indifference to me, as she purred about my wife’s feet and nosed at my daughters, I thought she would make a good addition to the family. Well, truthfully, our daughter had fallen in love with her. The moment she saw Maisey, her eyes glazed over and she fell under the influence of an ancient Egyptian spirit. She cooed and awed, along with my wife, and before I knew it, plans were made for a pickup in five days’ time.
Now, as you may have figured, I am not a great fan of cats. I find them to be arrogant, exclusive, and extremely fickle in their loyalties. A cat will leave the property when she likes and roam far and wide until she is ready to come home and order her humans’ attention on demand. A cat will attack your feet as you sit on the edge of the bed at the end of a hard day. A cat will ignore you and your every entreaty until you give up and focus your attention elsewhere. Then, and only then, a cat will push you and meow, gently writhing around you until you lose focus and supply it with attention. Then, ten seconds later, it will walk away, nose and tail in the air, haughty and oblivious to your existence.
My dog, Jack, on the other hand, is willing to be dominated and trained and will lovingly wait for me to notice him. He is never demanding or discriminatory in his attention; any hand will do, but only one voice rocks his world – my voice, to be exact. A simple whistle, a word that sounds anything like ‘Jack’, such as stupid, fatso, dumbass, or a simple nod of the head, will bring him running, eager eyes pleading for a moment of attentiveness. Hell, he even tolerates the cat in the house, purposefully giving it a wide berth so as not to cause a domestic dispute. In return for his generous nature, he is ambushed and swiped. All because he did not cower low enough as he
passed Maisey.
Like my dog, I am reasonably placid and embracing in nature, so when my wife and daughter fell in love, I fell in line. Fair call, mind you. Maisey is beautiful, her perfect white ankle socks accentuating her paws before rising to the jet black of her fine, sleek body; the expansive white star on her chest and the irresistible crisp white moustache over her left upper lip setting her apart as unique – and she knows it.
Still, the family was happy and that was the main thing. Time moved along and Maisey treated me as she did the dog: with contempt and indifference. We became nothing more than obstacles to her plan of world domination, and even as obstacles, we were not exactly insurmountable. Jack’s training was very easy; a swipe here and there did the job. Soon those occasional swipes disappeared, replaced by a stern, frigid look, which turned his poor heart to ice. He would lower his head, turn to the side and make his way from the room. At times, Maisey would sit in front of his bed, forbidding him entrance and rest before banishing him from the room.
Damn, she’s good, I would think. Despite her efforts, though, I would not let her get the better of me. After all, I am an adult male and I run the house, not some upstart animal one twelfth of my size, if that. No, not me. The rest of the house, my sons included now, may fall for her devious tactics and bow to her beneficence, but not me. Hell no, I am in control here, and I love my poor browbeaten dog. I have to stay strong for his sake, so that although he’s neutered, he still can learn how to act as if he is in charge, even if he’s not. Acting like a dog would be a start.
As the head of the home, I allowed Maisey the ruling of my wife’s chair in the lounge, her bed, and her side of the wardrobe, along with the same items in my daughter’s room. Then, of course, she had natural rule over every windowsill and tall item of furniture. I could live with offering these tributes in order to bring domestic harmony, and for a long while, this was enough to placate her. It was some months later that I found that her plan for my home went far beyond the boundaries I had set. She was merely passing her time while the bigger plan was being set in motion. That demon had her eyes set firmly on total domination.
As the family entered their fourth month of servitude, Jack and I stood resolute. Actually, I stood resolute while Jack rolled over and faked sleeping sickness. Still, even if I’m on my own, I can be formidable and unyielding if my rights are under challenge.
One morning, Maisey decided to step her plan up to the next level and invade the sanctum of my bed. Having showered, I returned to my room, hair still dripping, wrapped in my bright yellow bath sheet. Walking through the door, I noted that the bed was still unmade and the crumpled nature of the blankets looked for all the world like an animal. I was musing at how that could happen so randomly, when the pile of sheets and blanket began to move. First one fold of blanket and then another. Eventually the whole middle of the bed churned and the underbelly of the Cat Mafia was exposed. It was black and white, stretched out across my kingdom and shedding hair profusely.
In shock and disbelief, I fixed my gaze on the bed and verbally tore into her. I screamed, half-hoarse from singing in the shower, ‘Not on my bloody bed you don’t madam!’ Then I whipped off my towel and flicked it in her direction. Had I been standing in front of the mirror, I would have scared the crap out of myself with all that flesh flying. Maisey just stretched one more time, then looking my way with her usual disdain, walked to the head of the bed. With another glance, she plonked her bum where my head rests and waited a moment before alighting onto the windowsill.
My sanctuary of sleep was defiled. The fine cover of black fur overlaid with white bristles formed a royal nest in the middle of what was once my only place of peace. My precious pillow, whose humps, hollows and punched-in corners caressed my head all night, now sported a ring of bum fluff, dead centre. She may as well have defecated in my slippers or scented my pyjamas. To add insult to injury, she sat in the window striking an arrogant pose with her face to the sun, while I verbally harangued her some more. Unfortunately, she was relentless and ruthless in her campaign of terror.
Daily the attacks came, though often unnoticed until night, when the tickling strike of a bristling hair from my pillow would jab at the soft lining of my nose. As my masculinity was slowly seeping into my cat-fur-lined socks, I had the sense of needing to dig a hole in my garden, fearful that my last room of refuge might also fall. I had nothing else left. My lounge chair, bought to soften my aching bones in the evenings, was mine only seventy percent of the time. My expensive new cream, formic computer table now sported a fancy design across it: brown paw prints. My graduation teddy bear had become a focal point for practising surprise attacks, and a coarse tongue had lapped my mug of cold coffee. Even my solitary shower time morphed into meat market, as Maisey crept in through the bathroom window then sat on the sink top, glaring at me as I attempted my self-care routines.
My last hope was the one room small enough for one!
In the privacy of my privy, I would sit and contemplate how peaceful life was inside my little space where I tended to life’s bigger questions and pondered the meaning of all things.
It was during one such afternoon retreat when my world changed. ‘Changed’ is not the right word, really. It was more a case of full-on Pentecostal-style conversion. One moment I was sitting relaxed, elbows on knees, my chin resting in my hands, lost in thought on how a gnarly knot in the floorboards could look like so many different things, when it struck me. The door struck me. Dazed, I sat up straighter and shook my head. Unsure how I had managed to fall so far forward as to bang my head on the door, I fixed my gaze forward to find the most amazing revelation.
I was not alone in the universe. At this revelation, my sight became blurry as my eyes filled with tears and all the stress I had held in my body for months flushed from my system. Overwhelmed with peace and contentment, I sat and allowed my newfound sense of freedom take control. My worries were gone, and the doubting voices I had carried for so long were now silent. I was not alone in the universe; I was not even alone in the toilet.
Maisey, not content to let any part of my life escape her, had pounced on the door as I contemplated life, ramming it into my head, awakening my soul, and forcing me to realise my true path in life.
My life, now so very different from before, has taken on a new emphasis, in a life-giving way. With deep thanks, I accept the forty-five percent of my bed allotted for my sleeping, and rejoice at the exotic form stretched across my chair. I rise early and wait silently at the door, my ear attuned to the light patter of royal paws as she makes her way to my side, before leading me to her dining room where she sits and awaits her breakfast.
Jack sleeps outside now; after all, he is a dog.
River Mouth
Aaron Ure
George rubbed his eyes, spreading the waxy residue across his lids. Giving his face a vigorous rubdown, his hands, smooth and loose like satin sheets, slipped and folded in and out of each crevice. Finishing his waking routine, he let rip a trumpet of wind to warm his bed and a belch to dispel the stale night air from his lungs.
The room flooded with light as his daughter entered and drew the curtains.
‘Oh, crap! Morning already,’ he blurted out as he watched Sheila busy herself around the room, picking up his clothes from yesterday, setting out clean clothes for today. Grinning, he recalled how much like his late wife, Myrtle, she was, musing over the way they tested each other’s tolerance and daily energy as they played with words, purposefully baiting each other. In the end, they would look at each other and burst out laughing, knowing it was all part of the game, part of staying connected.
Yawning wide, George rolled onto his side and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Perched like a sparrow on a wire, he stretched his arms as high as he could manage – which was not far, thanks to the arthritic joints he used to call his shoulders. Arching his spine sent a grinding pain through his mid back. Wincing, he continued. Though painful, the movement was necessary if he in
tended to get up today. Grimacing through the pain, George managed to move more today than he did yesterday, but less than he could manage a month ago.
George’s grin widened, pushing his ears up like a naughty sprite’s as he considered testing the waters with Sheila this morning.
‘Anything specific on today, girl?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘If not, I thought I might just do a spot of fishing down by the river mouth.’ Counting to three as he rocked himself forward, George pushed himself upright. Breathing heavily, he felt the pulsating headache start and grabbed at the dressing table to steady himself.
Sheila looked on, shaking her head in disbelief, caught between a sigh and a smirk. ’Let me see, Dad,’ she said, her hands planted on her hips and her head held high. After a third late shift at the freezing works, Sheila was tired, but not too tired for this game. ‘You want to go fishing today.’ Her voice was strong and steady with a hint of mocking, as she swept his clothes up off the floor. Changing tack she introduced a topic of her own, a pet hate to divert his conversation. ‘I see you’re wearing that hole-ridden singlet and old Y-fronts again. They need to go out to the wash this morning, or better still, into the bin!’ Her tired, steely, cold eyes probed the distance between them like a blowfish about to burst. George said nothing. ‘As for going down to the river, well, let’s see if you get through breakfast without wheezing or needing a nap first, eh!’
George lowered his head, trying his best to hide his glee at getting the anticipated reaction. Bites just like her mother. I miss that woman, the way we’d bait each other to keep the spark going.
Resisting the urge to have another crack, George took a long studious look at his ageing but comfortable underwear. ‘Of course, you’re probably right sweetie. It’s about time for some new ones, maybe tomorrow after I wear these one more time,’ he suggested, his jaw jutting to one side.