narratorAUSTRALIA Volume One

by narrator AUSTRALIA

  ~~~

  The front door was open when I got home. I went upstairs and there on the floor were the remnants of his black socks and matching tie. Cut to pieces. All his clothes gone.

  Well you don’t have to have a degree to work it out.

  Ed: Ordinarily we would be looking for ‘proper’ punctuation in the form of quotation marks around speech, but this piece has been styled not to take them. As such, we’ve published it as is – enjoy the difference!

   

  Sunday 29 July 2012

  To Tea Or Not To Tea ‘Answered’

  Alexander Gardiner aka The Auld Yin

  Bullaburra, NSW

  The ultimate taste in tea,

  as it should always be.

  There is tea and there is the perfect cup,

  make perfect tea? Yes, for all to sup.

   

  Right! Now we can start,

  making perfect tea to warm your heart.

  Warm your cup and your kettle boil,

  no tea-bag yet or you will despoil.

   

  Sugar in your cup to begin,

  aye! Sugar or whatever is your sin.

  Next boiling water you may add,

  still no tea yet, not one wee tad.

   

  Stir your sugar until dissolved,

  your perfect cup is nearly solved.

  Now! Only now place your tea-bag,

  let it sit there, let it lag.

   

  Leave thirty seconds then jiggle your string,

  Straight up and down, no wiggling.

  It’s up to you how many dumps you do,

  the more dumps and the flavour will accrue.

   

  Warm cup, boiling water equals 82 degrees,

  The flavour will always be, just the bee’s knees.

  Never pour boiling water on any tea-bag,

  ’cos the flavor will be just blidy, blidy sad.

   

  Now taste your tea minus the ‘tannin’ shock,

  You’ll notice the difference, like cheese from chalk.

  Many thousand cups of tea I have drank,

  Use this recipe and you’ll have me to thank.

  Monday 30 July 2012

  Isobel

  Robyn Chaffey

  Hazelbrook, NSW

  A lovely, jolly lady was my Spanish friend, Isobel. Her heart was warm and her friendship loving. She spoke several languages fluently but her use of the English language often made us smile ... like the day she told me she had been to see the ‘Grand Pricks’ at the weekend. I explained that I thought she might mean the Grand Prix.

  ‘Oh! Is that how you say it?’ she laughed.

  I couldn’t resist the urge to comment that it was okay, because I had known a few who behaved like ‘grand pricks’ in my time. The comment was not lost on Isobel.

  We all loved her for the fact that we could play with her in this way. She would laugh out loud in her infectious way. It made us all feel comfortable and lightened the mood for everyone around her.

  One example of this has continued to bring a broad smile to my face often for sixteen years now.

  We were mature aged students together. Often she and I would get together with another lady of our own age to work on group projects. On one such occasion we were making preparations to run a workshop to be presented to the general public. There was a lot of research to do and much work in preparing for the soon coming presentation day.

  We arranged to meet at Isobel’s home. Each would bring something to be shared for a picnic lunch. We’d work hard at it for a few hours in the morning, then go to a park for lunch and a breath of fresh air. After lunch we would return to her home and work through ’til late afternoon.

  The morning’s work progressed really well. Sitting around comfortably on the Persian rug in her living room, our papers and books looking like a productive nest around us. We were more than pleased with our efforts but truly glad when lunchtime came around.

  Isobel suggested Jellybean Pool as a good place for a break and she offered to take us in her car. As she drove we chatted and laughed, studiously avoiding any mention of our work.

  At last she pulled into the car park. As we climbed out of the car and looked around us at the pool and the wonderful trees and greenery, I stretched my back and commented, ‘Ah! Now we can sit down in peace.’

  Isobel’s tone was one of utter shock as she exclaimed. ‘What!? Did you say we can sit down and piss?’

  Stifling the urge to laugh, I said quietly, ‘No! I said, now we can sit down in peeeece.’

  ‘Oh!’ said she. ‘Do you know? That’s why I always say bed linen! I never use that other word!’

   

  Tuesday 31 July and Wednesday 1 August 2012

  The Funnels

  Stephen Studach

  Katoomba, NSW

  It was day. The group of eight men moved as men who have work to do often move; leisurely but assuredly. They had left the tarred road of the estate cul-de-sac, made their way between two homes with insect proofed ‘soak’ timber style fences, crossed a track of defoliated ‘spray-cleared’ ground, and were now walking through the short bushes, scrub and trees beyond the cleared and Protec-sprayed area; behind the fresh brick and anti-rust, portable compac-homes of the new estate.

  Not all the men in the group were old hands at the job. They all wore the company’s grey coveralls and some had repel masks about their necks, but a few of them were fairly new. The newest; this was his first ‘job’; was a young man of neat appearance and early twenties age. As he walked up front of the newly set formation line, near the big, balding leader, he felt excitement at the approach of his first day of practical work, and a little fear, the two being close kin. The latter was also an occupational inheritance, or curse, of the profession the young man named Martyn now found himself in.

  No more theory lessons. This was it.

  It was mid-afternoon, and there were funnels waiting.

  The thickening formed leader, some fifty-odd years old and with ten years experience in his present trade, continued the conversation he’d been having with Martyn – ‘the new boy’.

  ‘Some blokes can’t hack it. They just sorta go into a shock when they see one of ’em or they get all weak and sick an’ lose heart, you know.’ The leader sucked on a cigarette stub some more, held teensy between the yellow nails of his stained fingers. A burning low cigarette seemed to be a constant prerequisite of his person.

  Yeah, Martyn knew. He also knew that they liked to weed out those blokes, preferably before they got out in the field. He didn’t intend to let these men down.

  ‘Can’t say I blame ’em,’ the boss continued between drags. ‘Some people are scared o’ dogs or train travel.’ With squinted eyes he looked into the thicker bush ahead of them. ‘With these bastards, for all the trainin’ ya get, ya never know how you’re gunna react, before ya see one fer real.’

  The men walked on.

  They all wore protective clothing to varying degrees; leather padding and light body armour, though most sacrificed full gear for the ability to move quickly and fluidly. Any protective layers were more for peace of mind than safety. Martyn remembered what the leader had told him not too long back. ‘Nah, blokes have gone torchin’ in shorts an’ thongs. Some just don’t bother, see. Those fangs’ll go through any light protection like nails hammered in, burnin’ nails from a nail gun. That’s if the bloody mongrels don’t take you apart first.’

  An offsider had said, not entirely jokingly, ‘What you really need is a suit of armour like the old knights use’ta wear.’

  A truck stood waiting back at the cul-de-sac. It would be called on by radio if they had any luck in their search. It couldn’t roll in yet because the noise and the vibration of the wheels gave warning to the prey.

  The men continued on. The low mutters and light talk had ended for the most part back at the road. Martyn felt the dry, summer-sucked ground, hard and stony bu
t fairly flat beneath his boots. He, along with some of the other newer men, looked about the flat bush area, eyed scrub and trees. Imagining. The older, more experienced men less obviously looked. They didn’t bother to imagine. They knew better.

  Martyn felt a type of pride, moving confidently along with the well-armed contingent. He wasn’t carrying any squishy-packs of burn-oil or ‘match packs’ upon his back and he had no gun slung over his shoulder, but he felt secure in that rank of men who did have such necessary burdens, along with the weapons of seasoned experience. If it were not for such men, the place would be overrun. Already people did not dare to go out at night, but if not for the controllers they wouldn’t be able to risk emerging in the daytime either. As the new developments, of necessity, encroached more and more into the bushland the risks became greater. Most new home ‘pioneers’ had protective screens up on their houses. Some utilised electronic shield and barrier systems as well, though the jury was still out on the full effectiveness of those measures. Bushwalking had become a thing of the past because no-one in their right mind would venture forth into such areas, where the funnels lay. Also, junkyards and tips that bordered bushland were strictly controlled by regimented military, law enforcement and council bodies.

  The funnels owned the bush and the night.

  Martyn had been unemployed for four years since leaving university/adversity and finally took a job as an ‘exterminator’, as there were plenty of vacancies in that trade, and the pay was fairly good, it being one of the few jobs that was not totally machine or computer orientated, and the one job that truly should have been. He had completed his three months training routine – theory and practical, but nothing with live funnels, for funnels could not be domesticated nor captured – and now that he had been briefed and familiarised, he was ready. Ready to cleanse the earth. Ready to kill.

  The group moved further into the bush, where the funnels waited.

  First indication. The pulsing summer symphony in the hot bush of multitudes of insects had ceased. A textbook case, Martyn thought, as he stopped with the others and listened to the non-sounds; seeing, hearing; theoretical training become practical reality. The leader checked a painted white arrow on a tree and then gestured the others to follow him onwards. The lack of natural insect and bird sounds meant that the funnels were near.

  Five minutes later and they passed a warning red arrowed tree and the men with shotguns brought them from their shoulders to hip level. The men split from one line into two rough formations now.

  Martyn had earlier voiced his comments on using flamethrowers and the leader had stated, amongst other reasons, that flamethrowers caused too many uncontrolled fires. ‘Nuh, they don’t use flamethrowers ’cause someone – in the panic, you know, if the things are above ground – some people would panic and everyone’d get burned. We got one fire spitter for emergencies but ole Roy’s got that and he knows what to do. Only one bloke per team has the spitter.’ Martyn looked across at Roy, the short man with the compact flame spitter on his back, the metal nozzle held ready in his hands, all the time.

  They were crossing another semi-cleared piece of ground when Martyn looked to one side and saw his first. ‘There’s some!’ he said, pointing, and realised his mistake as all the men quickly turned to one side, weapons raised. One never suddenly declared their presence like that. If nothing else, it jarred the nerves. But the leader didn’t say anything. He was a good bloke.

  There were three rules on exterminating parties. No drinking or drugging. No talking in occupied areas (there was a type of superstition amongst exterminators that the quarry could quite easily hear men speaking from a ways off, which had not been substantiated or dismissed so far). And never split off on your own from a group.A few yards away to the right of the group, Martyn and the rest all saw the holes in the ground. Rounded funnels ranging from paint tin lid to dinner plate size and a couple a little bigger.

  ‘Is that them?’ Martyn asked, looking at the holes and not the leader he questioned.

  ‘No, they’s just the little ’uns, the real ones are that size again. A lot twice that size. Some’r s’big as manhole plates.’

  They began to move on.

  ‘Biggest I’ve ever seen,’ the leader reminisced between puffs on a newly diminishing non-filter, ‘you coulda dropped a mini car down it.’

  Martyn had heard some wild stories about exterminators. ‘Is it really true that they have bets about putting their arms down the holes?’ Martyn asked as they walked on. A few of the men laughed at this and the mostly bare-pated leader, whose name was Fred, grinned.

  ‘Well, I don’t know, mate,’ he indicated one of the small holes. ‘You tell me – would you?’

  One younger man behind Martyn spoke up. ‘One guy with an artificial arm used to.’

  ‘Old bald Nobby,’ said the leader with a wry smile. ‘Yeah, he used to laugh about it all the while as he did it.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said the other. ‘Till one bugger took his plastic arm off at the shoulder and pulled it down its hole. Nearly took old Nob with it.’

  The men laughed. Some of the laughter was nervous.

  Because of the seemingly non-stop rise of infestations throughout the land, groups of men such as Martyn and his comrades were sent off to burn out the funnels’ holes. It occurred to Martyn just then what a handy party topic his job could be. ‘And what do you do for a living?’ ‘Oh, nothing much, I just go round with a bunch of guys and burn out giant funnel web spider holes.’

  Martin knew what had caused the curse of the funnels of course; everybody knew, though the blame was always being shifted. Till, over the years people just accepted it and the true origins were forgotten or discarded or uncared for, left covered in the layered dust of old theorems and past news. The accused: the spray companies, the scientists, the politicians, the householders – Mr and Mrs Citizen, the repellent laboratories and firms, had eventually stopped being accused and stopped accusing one another and got on with doing something about it. Then there was the global warming theory. Way back in the early 2000s the first signs were there (some even making the connection with climate change) when the antivenene began to fail, becoming ineffectual against funnel web venom. It was like the war – who really started it? Who cares, just get on with fighting it. The cause of the air pollution, traffic accidents, street crime, inflation? Who to blame? Just keep breathing it, cleanin’ ’em up and paying it out. But Martyn knew about the funnels. ‘Atrax Robustus.’

  The insecticides and pesticides and antivenenes got more and more advanced and stronger over the years and with each new one hundred percent spray and overkill system, the next year the bugs were back stronger and bigger than ever and eating last year’s repellent for brunch. The old ‘Super Rat’ theory of the 70s and 80s applied. The pests got bigger and more robust and grew hardy and resilient to the poisons, actually appearing to thrive on them. Super breeds were formed. While the one good natural weapon humans had, the birds and lizards and other insectile, natural enemies of ‘the baddies’, fell by the wayside from the same random shotgun spread, scattering effects of the noxious poisons. You’d knock out a field of grasshoppers and bad bugs one season (who would be back the next) and totally eradicate a species of bug-eating bird into the bargain for good. And once more you’d have to come up with another spray to stop the next generation of bugs who would be there laughing at you as they merrily munched on the next year’s crops. Vicious circle. Vicious, hungry circle.

  Who needs the birds and the lizards and the good bugs. Man has his intelligence, his vast scientific intellect. Man has his poisons.

  Man has the funnels.

  Another interesting sidelight to this cumulative genetic nightmare was something the leader had made him aware of.

  ‘Things were gettin’ outta the CSIRO that shouldna bin. An’ knockin’ over fences as they did. After a few knocked over fences they made sure nothin’ could escape. But it was long gone too late by then. The horse, or whatever, had bolte
d.’

  For the burnings the men used torches and drums of synth oil or agri-gas produced from natural elements for the last few decades since dwindling supply had dried the world’s wells. The torches were like big inflammable matches about three feet long that you knocked on the ground or any hard surface to ignite. The leader had clearly defined the extermination process: ‘You locate the buggers, pour the oil down the holes then burn ’em out.’ The men had shotguns too.

  ‘Have they ever taken a man?’ Martyn asked of Fred as they moved along.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said the leader, between unfiltered puffs. ‘Cats, dogs, oh, you hear stories. But mostly lower order animals. Still, a little girl has disappeared from nearby here.’

  Martyn had a sudden mental picture of a white-limbed, blue-clothed rag doll being pulled down a hole by a black horror.

  ‘I’ve seen ones that could drag a calf off,’ the leader continued, mopping sweat from his bare brow with a handkerchief. ‘Tribes have a lot of trouble with ’em up North. They have huntin’ parties to go out an’ kill ’em. Blue Mountains are bastards. Biggest and nastiest aggressive bastards I’ve ever seen. And damned bloody hard to kill.’

  Another long drag on the cigarette. ‘They can run as fast as a horse. They’re powerful creatures. Bloody hard to kill. Fire’s the best, short of puttin’ yer boot on ’em. Ha ha.’

  The man behind Martyn pointed ahead. ‘There.’

  ‘Ow! There we are ... ’ said the leader matter-of-factly and the whole troop stopped. Martyn saw the first hole, about the size of a forty gallon drum top. It was the most forbidding thing he had ever seen. Not far off, scattered around the bush, there were a half dozen or more of varied sizes, each holding its darkness, some covered with white tacky webbing, others free of the sticky silk from recent entry or exit. Thin networks of web ran along the ground in every direction; snares, trip line alarms for the funnel denizens. Standing clear, Martyn tried to look cautiously down one hole – ‘Is anybody home?’ he thought. Deep in another he caught the dull, multiple shine of dark eyes peering up and a restless movement. He backed off without comment, carrying a chill that he tried to control.

  As the group prepared, Fred volunteered a bit more information. ‘The bigger they got the more subsurface they went. They became burrowing spiders, in particular the females. It’s mostly males you’ll be killin’, but the females will have a go too. Usually the ladies stay in the burrows, to protect the young. We also think that they’ve ceased to be the solitary creatures they once were. You see how close the holes can be clustered. There may be a kind of pack behaviour goin’ on.’

  The truck was called in. A flat-bed, covered cab, eight tonner loaded with forty-four gallon drums of flammable liquid.

  The burning began.

  Whilst a pair of the armed men watched the holes, drums were rolled and dropped off the truck, caps unscrewed and the drums positioned over larger funnel mouths to chug their black, oily contents in.

  With smaller four gallon drums, men poured sumpish oil and naturally derived petroleum mixtures down the spider holes. Other men, drawing the waterproof, three foot long match-torches (known as E.B.R’s, Extra Big Redheads) from their backpack quivers, would thump or scrape the red phosphorus, sulphur nitrous-coated heads against ground, rock or tree then drop or spear the flaring torches down the holes, which would instantly ignite and billow flame and smoke. If the dread denizens were not smothered by the oil then they were burnt by the flames, or, more rarely, asphyxiated by the toxic smoke. Martyn watched, and participated, head full of assumptions of destruction. Other men stood by with pump-action shotguns at the ready. Each tubular magazine packed with sixteen shells of hard load scatter-shot.  

  Martyn helped another man pour a drum of oil down another truck wheel-sized funnel, and looking down he saw the gleam of eyes staring malevolently upwards from the darkness of the lair. But as the oil flowed, the gleamings retreated further into the funnel’s depths. A third man stepped forward with a flaring torch and hastily plunged the ignited wrist-thick stick down the hole. One special drum was placed over an accordingly sized hole and the wheel upon its bottom turned, sliding the down-tilted top open and releasing half of the drum’s inky contents into the hole, then the metal hand-wheel was spun again, resealing the drum, the keg removed and the hole duly fired.

  Not one spider did Martyn actually see except for an incident when he heard some commotion off to one side and saw that a spider, with a body about four feet long, not including the legs, had sluggishly emerged from its oil-drowned burrow. It came out dying, covered in viscous black oil that glossily gave back a reflection of their torches, and just crouched there, hunching and pulsing up and down and moving its ‘boxing glove’ palps up front near where the wicked, hinged hypodermic mandible fangs lay. The exterminators were more than happy to complete the job. It was shot to bits and burnt by the men. He was interested to see the bluish ‘blood’ that it had within it, along with the other thick and poisonous looking yellow and green fluids.

  Another creature had tried to emerge from its lair, tentatively putting forth its hairy, long boxer’s palps, ready for a quick spar, but it received a charge from one of the single barrel shotguns and was blasted back down into its den to die.

  They left the smoking field of decimated holes as it was just starting to get dark. Twelve funnels in all, and Martyn felt a great satisfaction and a sense of accomplishment in having participated.

  The truck went on ahead, back to civilisation. Normally they would ride back in the truck cab, but, because of the missing girl, they’d been told to go back on foot, just in case they found a wandering child or any sign of her. However unlikely that was. (Nobody wanted to find a sign of the girl if the spiders had gotten her.) So the truck had pulled out with a wave from the driver, and the men set off on foot.

  Martyn walked along with the boss. He got on well with the leader and Fred offered him a smoke, but being a non-smoker Martyn had to refuse. To compensate, he asked the big man a few conversational questions. This led inevitably back to the funnel webs.

  ‘Don’t get it wrong, they’re still scared of men. Unless they get you in a favourable predicament,’ stated the leader seriously, butt smouldering between his fingers. ‘I’m all for using bulldozers on the bastards but they reckon it’s ineffectual.’

  ‘Think that’ll ever change?’ asked Martyn.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The fear.’

  Fred thought for a scant few seconds. ‘Well, put it this way, another year or two and I don’t think we’ll have to go lookin’ for them.’

  ‘They’ll come looking for us.’

  Fred simply nodded.

  The sun had disappeared in silver and gold lambent glitterings, fragmented by the thickening trees it hid behind. The late afternoon shadows elongated and spread, widening, creeping out from the tree bases and the skirts of the bushes, into quietly thriving things of the night.

  The leader knew of one other small field which they were scheduled to wipe out. They could do it tomorrow or clean it up now. He asked the men. Fired with the former well-done job, most were enthusiastic and in triumphal spirits. It was agreed that they proceed to the nearby funnels and eradicate them.

  There was a discussion about whether or not they should have the converted fire truck brought in, with its tanker and hoses to pump oil directly down the next lot of funnels, as they only carried a few half empty drums and backpack squishies. But it was decided to move forward and have a look at the site first, so the affectionately named ‘spidermobile’ or ‘spider truck’ was not called upon.

  There was some trouble with the location however; the maps didn’t agree with the marked trees. As the group of exterminators moved deeper into the bush, total darkness fell and they were forced to break out and use electric battery powered lamps along the line, one to every second man. Martyn held one lamp.

  Most of the men had flashlights, but they could be cumbersome when handling firearms.
A few of the shotgunners had electric torches bracketed or roughly taped to the barrels of their weapons.

  It was very quiet in the nighted bush and the lamp lights never seemed to extend their illumination far enough. Some of the men became quietly uneasy. Fred the leader halted the group on a flat, gravelly area and it was decided they would turn back.

  Then the full import of the silence struck everyone. Lamps were held aloft, the light spread a little bit further …

  Not a word was spoken as they saw the predicament. But a lot of blood drained from a lot of faces and a few Adam’s apples became jammed in throats like out-of-order lifts in elevator shafts.

  Martyn looked around, feeling the chill dripping from his scalp.

  Holes.

  Black gaping allsorts! Funnels. All around them. Dozens and dozens of them. Some a scant few yards away, the unsteady lantern lights causing the darkness within the openings to shift, as if in preparatory eagerness. Blackness mouths.

  They had walked into a minefield of them. And They knew, at least everyone suspected, They could hear them from under the ground. Settled there in the dark, hearing their every step from above.

  The spiders. The spiders would know the men were there.

  Martyn was scared. Sooner or later one would come out. And then …

  Spiders were nocturnal hunters. They emerged at night for food.

  Suddenly. ‘Oh, shit,’ somebody near-whined.

  ‘Christ!’ Somebody else.

  ‘Now don’t panic,’ Fred tried to relay calmly. ‘And above all, keep quiet.’

  ‘Still, and quiet,’ Martyn whispered, to himself.

  ‘Look at ’em all!’ someone else said.

  ‘Shut up!’ hissed the leader.

   Then somebody yelled. All heads turned – something, something black, blacker than the surrounding darkness and with a hard malefic gleam to it, crawled quickly from one of the larger holes. It stopped only for a moment, staring at the invaders, and then it hurried towards the men. Shots were fired. Some screamed, others yelled. And the other spiders began to emerge.

  The group began to break up under the spiders’ attack. The rapid, abrupt attack.

  Martyn, hands empty save for the lamp, looked all around him at the confusion. The leader was yelling instructions but everyone was in a panic and doing their own thing; lighting match-torches, firing shotguns – one man’s hair caught fire, another took a shotgun blast in the hip – most were yelling or screaming.

  Terrors of shadow flew along the ground from the flashing, swinging lanterns and flaring E.B.R.’s, and terrors of substance scurried and lunged there also, darting from their funnel lairs.

  A nightmare shot along the ground, rapidly scuttled almost silently by less than three yards from Martyn. The man it was running at screamed. There wasn’t much else you could do. He died screaming.

  One yelling man went down leg first, up to his hip, into a small hole. He was struggling and screaming; it didn’t seem to want to let him go.

  A pale-faced Martyn walked mindlessly along through the milling men. He saw a horror as it crawled swiftly up one man, toppling the screaming victim with its noisome black weight.

  Another solidly plump, shiny black arachnid reared up before a man who pumped a shell into his breech preparatory to blasting the awesome horror, which had its frontal legs up and its dripping black curved fangs drawn for the stab.

  And ole Roy wasn’t a damn bit of good. Because through the boomings of the twelve-gauge guns and the drifting smoke and the flaring heads of the ignited matches randomly thumped upon or swept across the ground, Martyn could see Roy’s still body; his legs and back with the square fire spitter pack upon it, being dragged away, further into the darkness. Destination unknown and, although it was not beyond the reach of imagination, unthinkable.

  Martyn ran. He pelted. Dropping the electric lamp. He jumped, leaped things that were there and not there. All he wanted to do was get away. Alright, so he was scared. Scared shitless. God only knew how scared he was. He had to get away, get clear of those alien, horrible things! He ran through the brush on his terrifying flight, arms flailing, mouth open. The shots and sounds of confusion died out a little behind him. God help the poor bastards!

  Then in his headlong rush he hit something – a stump?! Christ knows what! He tripped! Stumbled, flipped right over – and fell downwards –  

  He fell straight down a hole. Tearing through fibrous web. And became stuck part of the way down.

  He was dazed for a moment, in his crunched up, bent sitting posture. His knees barely six inches away from his face, his arse the lowest point of him, jammed in the cylindrical tunnel tube. Martyn looked to either side of him, then upwards. His sluggish thoughts quickened with squirts of adrenaline in frozen crimson ice.

  He had fallen down a hole – a funnel – oh God. ‘Christ. Oh Shit! Jesus Shit!’

  And at any moment the spider – the spider would return!

  ‘Unless they get you in a favourable predicament.’

  He wasn’t even given the waiting time to fear.

  A heavy rustling sound nearby, above. From a flickering fire’s light up there he saw a shadow. The spider returning, ready to crawl down – towards him! The shadow grew larger, blocked the funnel.

  The leader yelled out. ‘Martyn! Martyn, are you down there?! Is that you, boy?’

  Martyn pissed himself. Until then he’d been too scared, his system frozen with terror. He heard the leader from above. ‘Give me some light.’ A rope was lowered down as the funnel was partially lit by electric and flame light, hurting his eyes, an exquisite hurt that he revelled in. ‘Tie it round your waist, boy.’ He was hauled up, clinging with both hands to the fibre-plastilon rope; digging and kicking his boot toes and heels into the funnel’s dry earthen sides. Then he was back with the others, web clinging to him like spectral shreds, the brief nightmare of millennial duration over.

  The crew had recovered quickly enough to follow the leader’s shouted instructions and had made a fuel fire defence circle about them. That rushed strategy had saved them.

  Not being able or daring to risk moving off immediately, a ring of match-torches was set up around the remaining five men. Oil was poured and then a torch thrown down the large hole that Martyn had been rescued from. Still in a state of shock, kneeling on the ground, Martyn looked down into the flare-lit hole. He saw, as in a nightmared demon fantasy, the funnel bore lit up in flickering light for an instant, saw the off-shooting tunnel and the monstrous claw-cluster of fangs, palps and forelegs, the multi-eyed bulk of the creature that lay lower down, vague in the funnel, below the scuff marks of where he had been wedged and trapped.

  Before the thing retreated along its den tunnel, another torch was dropped and the funnel filled with fire and belched slow, misty smoke. The leader posted two men with shotguns around the hole in case the thing tried to crawl out, with instructions that, if it did, to ‘Blast it back down.’

  In radio conference with their control unit back at the estate, it was decided that it would be too risky a business to send the fire truck in. Apparently on its return from another nearby field assignment, the eight tonner had been lost with all crew. The story was that the ground had simply given way beneath it in a collapse and the truck had dropped down more than fifty feet into a funnel web den network. No-one was going to risk a converted fire truck on five fools who’d stuffed up a tour.

  Through the night of rustlings, scurryings and black shadows set against blackness they replaced the upright torches and waited for the light.

  At dawn the five surviving men moved off cautiously, starting to relax only as they approached the estate area. Martyn felt a little better after some talk and some restricted stimulant from the leader’s hip flask.

  Flanked about with armed men, the leader and ‘the new boy’ walked back towards the road. Everybody had been discreet about Martyn’s damp pants and the odor. Constant, perpetually burning cigarette between his lips, Fred the
leader rambled on to the younger man, who was starting to get some colour back into his skin.

  ‘You should see the trapdoors. Not to mention the redbacks, the cockroaches and the rats. Why once … guy … .arse and guts eaten out … termite … praying mantis … ’

  The voices faded as the men left the wilderness and approached the first road into the estate … and civilisation.

  In all they had gone one mile into the bush.

   

  Thursday 2 August 2012

  The Prisoner Of Pilatus

  James Craib

  Wentworth Falls, NSW

  We had journeyed from Firenze; we were in frenzy too.

  For I had almost lost the battle, succumbing to the ’flu.

  Our European adventure reached a climax in Lucerne.

  There were still some awkward lessons that I was yet to learn.

  A cold wind blew across the lake, our launch, buffeted, and tossed.

  But we were not in danger for Pilatus gazed across.

  The mighty mount – Pilatus, regardless, of the season

  Stood ominously; its snow-capped peak defiant of all reason.

   

  The meal arranged that evening, though billed ‘die wunderbare’,

  Was disappointing tourist fare; a band played oom pah pah.

  The fondue was predictable, insipid was the wine.

  Performers clad in lederhosen contrived to undermine

  What was left of my propriety, whilst blowing alpenhorn.

  My blood awash with CO2, my brain began to scorn,

  ‘I find no bliss in all things Swiss, it’s hell here in Helvetia!’

  We repaired to our hotel room but sleep was lost in apnoea.

   

  So in a state of somnolence, next morning in a valley,

  I gazed at mountains all askance expecting soon to rally.

  The horses dragged our carriage back to where our charming hosts

  Served cakes, and coffee laced with schnapps, and cheese fresh from their goats.

  Pilatus lured but I demurred, I grasped the last of sanity.

  Its altitude discouraged me, I sheltered my anatomy.

  Alone my partner took the ride by gondola to the summit.

  Whilst in the hotel room I tried to curb impending plummet …

   

  Into darkness, my laboured breath was probably lung failure.

  Would I ever see my family, friends, once more in far Australia?

  My friend’s time on Pilatus was exhilarating, frightening.

  In delirium I strayed on Pilatus too, repentant and … expiring.

  There is a legend: Pontius Pilate was buried on the slopes,

  Of that icy mountain above Lucerne, at peace, one can but hope.

  And speculate if Pontius, had been conscious, of the furore

  His abandonment of Jesus Christ had caused eons before.

   

  To mollify rising discontent among Jerusalem’s clergy

  Was Pilate’s aim; his lasting shame was to leave behind an effigy:

  A man nailed cruelly to a cross. He caved in to the masses.

  He’d said, ‘I find in him no fault at all;’ and washed his hands, alas ...

  That brings me to my predicament that played out in Lucerne,

  Pilate the pirate took my breath away, suddenly it was my turn.

  Der Doktor in the city clinic looked grave and said, ‘You must,

  Be taken to ze ‘ospidal, first pay my bill!’ They rushed …

   

  An ambulance to collect me, and deflect to Kantonsspital.

  Now I’ll admit to guilt of hubris, yes, pride goes before a fall!

  With oxygen forced into my lungs; secured fast to a gurney,

  Firmly tied, but not crucified, for that ominous last journey,

  I thought about my life thus far and the ones I love the most.

  Sixtieth birthday passed in Belfast, before long to pass the ghost?

  Terrified, I heard and felt a pulse within my head,

  I wailed aloud, ‘Where are you Wendy?’ ‘I am here my dear,’ she said.

   

  My arm was punctured like an addict’s with catheters inserted.

  Intensive care swung into action; surgery narrowly averted

  Because, an embolism suspected, then rejected as cause of panic,

  Was proved at last not to exist; I would not sink like the ‘Titanic’.

  Too much carbon, the harbinger of doom – the surgeon declared:

  ‘Ve must re-train your brain, mein Herr, your breathing is impaired.’

  Thus, much the same as a car’s engine, by an engineer, is tweaked.

  An air machine controlled my sleep, at night, when danger peaks.

   

  My grey matter was induced to batter my lungs around the clock.

  From the fourteenth floor of the hospital ward, I gazed upon the rock

  That bears the name – Pilatus, whilst the status of my respiratory

  Condition, was closely monitored by an unusual intermediary.

  A Celtic cross, a crucifix was fastened to the wall.

  Spiritual thoughts assailed me, an avowed agnostic after all!

  The vision that I experienced that first night of intensive care,

  Saw me sailing through the cosmos, golden stars were everywhere.

   

  Chemically induced no doubt, upon awakening I shouted: ‘Where,

  Have we been … to see the Queen?’ ‘Of course!’ A nurse declared.

  They were amused; I was confused, to have woken from the dead.

  The golden stars were simply shards of light above the bed.

  ‘The Lord moves in mysterious ways;’ a time honoured cliché.

  But Nietzsche said that ‘God is dead,’ moral values are decayed.

  Others had faith and prayed for Christ to look on me with favour.

  Indeed it’s true, I do, share initials with the one that some call saviour.

   

  The days passed by while nurses tried to converse as best they could.

  Some spoke awfully good English that I barely understood.

  Said an elderly lady patient, ‘I speak no English,’ leaning on a crutch,

  Paused to converse with me, I replied, ‘nicht sprechen sie Deutsch!’

  We both laughed; I pondered on this strange verbal anomaly.

  Neither spoke the other’s language yet we communicated intelligibly.

  I wandered through the pleasant gardens of the Kantonsspital.

  Whilst my poor wife, in trouble and strife, with bureaucracy did battle.

   

  Though physically and spiritually my life returned to normal,

  There were pressing matters secular; a barrier to our formal

  Departure, now enraptured with life in lucid, calm Lucerne.

  We struggled with Australian banks for funds for our return.

  Swans on the lake, in hundreds make, a Tchaikovsky dreamlike ballet.

  ’Cross Pontius’ pond we gazed beyond the mountains and the valleys,

  To negotiate reluctant escape we resorted to verbal excreta

  Yet, the very air seemed clean, pristine, serene ... heaven in Helvetia.

   

  When at last, most troubles past, we journeyed to Zurich by train.

  To catch a flight to London and board another Oz-bound plane.

  The path through Zurich airport was a game of snakes and ladders,

  Bewildering directions and petty objections to things that scarcely matter!

  The flight was uneventful, yet further heartburn at Heathrow;

  More red tape to circumnavigate, until at last – we were free to go.

  The tears flowed freely from us, flight attendants were concerned;

  Oblivious to their safety lecture should the plane have crashed and burned.

   

  We made it home, no plans to roam though we have no crystal ball.

/>   We contemplate our souvenirs, odd fears and tears recall

  My strange near-death experience and I’ll tell you this for gratis:

  I’d rather be a sinner free than a prisoner of Pilatus.

   

  Friday 3 August 2012

  A Moment In 1974

  Graham Sparks

  Bathurst, NSW

  Standing on the lip of southern coastal mountains facing east,

  the sky a deep translucent blue,

   lit by wind strewn wrack aflame from morning sun as yet unborn.

  Looking down through cloudbank into almost nothing,

  hazed magnetic indigo, and the ocean, twenty miles away,

  the little hanging river valley at my back

  and scent of coast upon the breeze.

  Beneath my feet, Murrengenburg, whose earth my heart is made of.

  All the moments leading up to this were dress rehearsals,

  would the world yet touch me so before my time.

   

  Graham says: When I was 17, I was working at Monga Sawmill, near Braidwood, which is no longer there. On a Saturday morning, my friend and I walked the 10kms up the Mongarlow River Valley, crossed the river over the remains of an old log bridge, and walked up the turtle fire trail to the very edge of the coastal mountains.

   

  Saturday 4 August 2012

  Pollies Pay Rise

  Eulyce Arkleysmith

  Bathurst, NSW

  A pensioner was interviewed on the TV last night.

  This is the summary with some licence:

  ‘Look how much I’ve saved,’ he said,

  ‘That’s why I am not in the red.

  To bet in lotto would cost dough

  The numbers I’d have never show.

   

  Another way to save some dosh

  Is limit all those times you wash

  In winter just two baths a week

  In summer; four or you will reek

   

  Keeping warm on colder days

  Is solved in inconvenient ways

  Sit all wrapped in blankets thick

  Always hope you’ll not get sick

   

  To bed at sunset saves on power

  (In winter – an ungodly hour).

  It’s ages ’fore you get to sleep

  No benefit from counting sheep

   

  Grow veges is the way to eat

  But one gets tired of silver beet

  When other crops are late or slow

  And some just seem to fail to grow.

   

  One sheet of paper for each wipe,

  Right choice of toilet paper type,

  This can save on grocery bills.

  Another way is take no pills.’

   

  And if you find you’re short of cash

  Despite these methods very rash,

  Remember parliamentarians ‘care’

  About your plight that’s quite unfair.

   

  Per fortnight extra dollars – SEVEN

  In March the ‘generous’ rise was given.

  There’s little money in the coffer

  that’s all that to you we can offer

   

  Yet only just some months away

  Bills passed for raising all their pay

  Many thousands were awarded

  For politicians, it’s afforded.

   

  Sunday 5 August 2012

  Nevada Desert

  Andrea Payne

  Salisbury North, SA

  Blue sky, hard, bright, enamelled ...

  Golden ball of fire scorches the earth

  and the multi-toned sepia landscape,

  flat,

  stretches towards infinity.

   

  Small brown shrubs.

  No trees here ...

  But from a distance

  the Joshua trees

  could almost be ...

   

  And in every direction

  the mountains, jagged,

  reaching toward the sky ...

  stretching ever upwards.

  Look so close; the clear, pure air

  distorts perception of distance.

   

  The highest tips still crowned with snow

  that the sun in all its power cannot melt.

  White, like the salt pans

  that look so pure ...

  In reality just a crust

  concealing the muck beneath.

   

  Mine shafts piercing the earth.

  Deep black pits

  where Man has torn apart

  the mountains, the plains ...

  Taken his booty and gone,

  leaving behind never-healing wounds.

   

   

  A harsh, a desolate scene,

  but with its own, wild beauty!

  The springs, the life-giving water

  that the scarred earth still provides ...

  An inhospitable place, monotonous.

   

  Nevada Desert

  I love it so ...

   

  And the skies turn pearl-grey

  tinged with black.

  Fluffy clouds –

  the first signs of softness

  in my harsh world.

   

  The winds sweep chill,

  leaching all warmth from the land

  All colour, too, is gone.

  No sepia – just shades of grey

  No sound; a hush to hurt the ears ...

   

  And softly, silently,

  the first flakes fall.

  Covering the ground

  with a blanket of purest white.

  Covering the mountains,

  covering the plains,

  covering the valleys,

  until the land and the sky become one.

   

  Deeper and deeper,

  softer and softer ...

  The grey tones, too, gone.

  Just white and black.

  The scars stand out so clear

  and the snow falls down.

   

  Nevada Desert

  I love it so ...

   

  Monday 6 August 2012

  From Billions Of Years Ago!

  Andris Heks

  Megalong Valley, NSW

  Oh glorious infinity!

  I worship thee, I worship thee!

  Just who are you to me?

  You’re in me, right in me!

  You’re my mother, father, ancestors and the dust

  Handed to me through a long chain of family trust

  Over many millions of years;

  A feat so great, it drives me to tears!

  Fancy being ancient like the Wollemi pines,

  In my genes lives eternity from timeless times!

  I was born so many years ago,

  Me, tiny me; it blows my ego!

  Yet I’m also a titan from times immemorial,

  In a perpetual story; an endless serial!

  My brain has kept evolving: now I am Homo sapiens!

  A mystery as strange to me as a bunch of aliens!

  Oh, the human brain! Fancy, I’ve got one!

  It just keeps exploding like a living sun!

  (It backfires on me, that son of a gun!)

  Every time I dare to think: ‘Hey, I might be smart!’

  It burns me to smithereens, it tears me apart.

  My brain has got me, but I’ve got no brains,

  Revelations whiz, like computer games.

  But who is playing with me? I really don’t know!

  Could it be the charged Void from billions of years ago?

   

  Tuesday 7 August 2012

  Train To The Airport, 10 September 2011

  Brendan Doyle

  Wentworth Falls, NSW

  The city looms
:

   

  cold towers of capital

   

  wink in dawn smog.

  Tastes a lot like coke,

  says the machine on platform 2.

  Vast streaks of pink and grey

  over the gunmetal harbour

  could win the Mosman art prize.

   

  Ah, the airport, so clean, so upgraded, so

  safe, even with all those foreign-

  looking people walking around.

  Explosives check sir?

  says the swarthy face

  with cheesy politeness.

  Sorry?

  May we check your luggage for explosives?

  Sure, I say, good idea.

  We always ask your permission of course.

  But if push came to shove …

   

  The airport: pallid satisfaction of being

  a westerner with a credit card.

  All this was made for you, after all, wasn’t it?

   

  I look about the departure lounge

  surrounded by James Lovelock’s

  tribal carnivores.

  At least the security guy didn’t say

  Have a nice nine-eleven.

   

  Wednesday 8 August 2012

  Content In Misery

  Emma Hall

  Canterbury, VIC

  He still didn’t know.

  Eight years it had been, and

  Eight years was a long time to live in

  Ignorance,

  Blissful Ignorance,

  but Ignorance all the same.

   

  How many times had she considered telling him?

  She’d even planned it all out;

  how she’d sit him down, somewhere familiar, comfortable –

  their favourite café perhaps? –

  buy him a coffee and let the words

  sink in.

   

  Or maybe she’d skip the coffee, because like

  the lie

  she’d worn as a second skin,

  unwilling or unable to take off,

  he drank his coffee black.

  She’d told herself – two thousand nine hundred and twenty two times – that

   

  she kept

  the lie

  for him, to protect him, to preserve that

  trust in his eyes and the warmth in his smile.

  But the Truth – not lyrical, but jagged –

  was that she needed it:

  it was as much as part of her as

  her dark deceitful heart,

  beating

  just a little harder

  every time he looked at her and she was suddenly certain that,

  finally,

  he knew.

   

  Thursday 9 August 2012

  The Weave, The Weft, The Warp

  Lynn Nickols

  Griffith, ACT

  Their marriage had been going well up until about six months ago. Well, Andrew thought so, anyway. It had been a fun ride for almost five years. The excitement of meeting on New Year’s Eve at a party at a mutual friend’s place, the whirlwind courtship. Then they had lived together for a year, while trying to save some money from their new and interesting jobs. Patricia had been noticed in her final year at the Fashion Institute for the outstanding originality of her design. Her graduation showing was a triumph and she had been offered work with the House of Wentworth immediately, where she was now learning even more new tricks.

  His accountancy studies and information technology expertise proved to be a useful background, and he had taken up a position in an IT company which was rapidly gaining recognition in the web world. He was soon helping to move their business forward. They were both extremely busy, but loving every minute of their work and social lives. They had a few tiffs, but nothing serious; he wanted a dog, but she pointed out that neither of them would have time to exercise it; she bought red satin sheets and raved on about their sensuous smoothness. He thought they were slippery and hot and he felt like he was always falling out of the bed.

  Mostly, though, they were thoroughly enjoying each others’ companionship and fervent lovemaking, so eventually they made the big decision to marry and a grand occasion was arranged in a rainforest and enjoyed by all. Of course Patricia’s gown and the bridesmaids’ frocks were photographed for all the women’s magazines, and started a string of new orders for the House of Wentworth.

  By now Patricia was more confident. She took the big step of setting up her own couture business, Patricia West. Andrew worked out a business plan for her and she rented some reasonable premises.

  She was thrilled and worked longer and longer hours for her repeat customers. Word of mouth was bringing more and more wealthy customers wanting something unique for a special occasion. She had now hired an administrative assistant. The only times Andrew and Patricia seemed to make time to meet up or talk was on Friday nights for a meal and lots of drinks. Weekends were often spent by both of them finishing work projects and doing boring chores around their apartment.

  What really seemed to trigger a downturn in their relationship was supposedly a great thing: Patricia was invited to present at Fashion Week – the top event of the season’s calendar. Here was her big chance to compete in the upper echelons of her field. She sat up till all hours thinking, drawing on her iPad, changing her mind, ringing overseas regarding availability of fabrics.

  Andrew was getting fed up with all the piles of collections of fabrics in every available cupboard, shelf and corner of their apartment. He thought she should keep them at her work studio.

  ‘But I need them around me, don’t you see? To inspire me. Look at this – feel it.’

  He dutifully touched it.

  ‘Mmm. Yes. Very fine.’ He couldn’t really get too excited about it.

  ‘It’s superb, Andrew. The best silk in the world.’ She proceeded to give him a full lecture on the history of cloth and clothing, the warp, the weft, the weave of it. She tried to explain her passion for fashion. By the time he retired to bed his head was spinning. Her passion obviously didn’t extend to him. She stayed up late again, then slept in when he went to work. This was becoming a pattern and he hated it.

  He noticed that since she’d been invited to Fashion Week she seemed to have become obsessed. She was often very late home in the evening. A few times it was well after midnight before he heard her car in the driveway. He became suspicious that she was having an affair with James, the assistant, and confronted her one night when she came home.

  She actually laughed for once.

  ‘Andrew, no! Sweetie, James is gay you know. Oh, sorry you thought that. I know I’m not there for you lately. It’s all my fault.’ She gave him a big kiss, showered, came to bed and then tried to make up to him for weeks of neglect.

  But he still felt he was becoming a mere accessory to her life – a handbag if she actually went out somewhere. This wasn’t what he’d expected of his marriage.

  He thought about the situation and actually mentioned his problem to one of his friends.

  ‘Yeah, they get a bit like that, mate. The thing is, you might have to get a bit more romantic yourself. How long since you invited her out to dinner, eh?’

  True. He should have a look at himself, he realised. He would indeed ask her out somewhere special next Saturday night. He bought some roses, arranged them on the dining table with two champagne glasses, lit a candle and waited for her to come home.

  He waited and waited. Had a quick snack. Fell asleep in front of the TV. At 2 am he woke, startled and alarmed. Still no Patricia. He rang her office. When there was no reply he rushed out to his car and drove the twenty minutes with great trepidation. He found her asleep with her head on the desk and scissors in one hand. He carefully removed the scissors, then her glasses, woke her up, took her by the hand and drove home in silence.

  He realised they rarely got to talk to
each other. She was becoming so introspective. She didn’t speak much and when she did it was always and only about clothing. She could talk of nothing else, it seemed. When he mentioned some small successes at his work, she gazed off into space and he knew she was conjuring up another outfit in her mind. He felt insulted, bored, frustrated.

  Patricia was always too tired for sex, not interested, not cooking – in fact she was rarely in the house. He was getting depressed.

  The only good thing was that she had seemed quite delighted when he had asked her out to the best restaurant in town to celebrate their wedding anniversary. Maybe this rare night out would lift both their spirits.

  It certainly started well. A balmy, sparkly summer evening – cocktails on a balcony with a superb view. She touched his hand and thanked him.

  ‘We should do this more often. I suppose we’re both working too hard and taking each other for granted.’

  Maybe it was the alcohol, but he was starting to feel more relaxed than he had for months. They chatted about different subjects for a while. She even seemed to understand some of his dilemmas and ideas. He was becoming quite voluble by the time they were shown their table for two.

  They had just finished their delectable entree when several other groups of people arrived, amongst them some of Patricia’s old colleagues from the Institute. They were delighted to see her, as they had been following her stellar career in the tabloids. They invited Andrew and Patricia to join their large table. She spent the rest of the night talking fashion and fabrics. He felt completely ignored and increasingly frustrated. In a crowd like this, he realised he felt lonely. Someone near him politely asked what it was that he did, but he could tell they weren’t particularly interested.

  The Fashion Week organisers had scheduled Patricia West for 11 am on the first morning – quite a prize pole position, before lunch. Her models became alarmed when she hadn’t shown at 9 am as planned. No-one answered her home, office, or mobile phones. At 10 am Lucille, one of the co-ordinators, called at her office address, where the assistant had just arrived. He gave Lucille Patricia’s home address. On arrival, she found the door locked and there was no response to the doorbell. She left, dismayed. Their entire modelling schedule would be thrown into disarray.

  As Andrew boarded the plane for Brazil, some remnant of guilt made him ring 000 and leave an anonymous message.

  When police officers arrived and battered down the apartment door, they found not much blood on Patricia’s naked body, except a little from the wound where the dressmaking scissors were still protruding from her chest. There were ripped shreds of cloth and clothing everywhere. As her eyes were wide open, seemingly staring, an officer gently closed them. She had been strangled with beautifully textured black pantihose. They noted that her mouth was tightly stuffed with what looked like silk knickers she may have been wearing. Gaily protruding from every other orifice were multicoloured strips of cloth and bright ribbons.

   

  Friday 10 August 2012

  Dr Who In The Kitchen Of My Childhood

  Marina Byrne

  Wakerley, QLD

  The kitchen of my childhood was a white hot, tight hot box that hoarded heat and ants and blowflies.

  Mottled green glass of the lone casement window above the sink turned the sun's rays into sickly fingers of wet heat.

  It was the wet heat of the tropics and it pressed into you. Stuck things to you.

  Stuck your hair to you.

  Stuck your shirt to you.

  Stuck your loved ones to you.

  Dreams were surrendered in that kitchen. Wearily folded up along their worn edges and simply put away.

  Family bonds were forged and cracked, mended and gouged over a thousand sinks of crockery and cutlery.

  The kitchen of my childhood tells a story.

  On that door jamb. Childhood heights etched with a blunt butter knife.

  The dark confines of the pantry, a confessional. The memory of stealing chocolate still shames me.

  No room in that white hot, tight hot box. Five paces from the door to the cupboards opposite.

  A memory rises.

  A childhood game played there during a late night washing up.

  Daleks.

  Arms outstretched, knees locked into robotic gait.

  Five paces back and forth, back and forth.

  ‘Ex-ter-min-ate. Ex-ter-min-ate.’

  Desperate giggles.

  Darkness outside.

  The wail of the curlews muffled by the giggles.

  Desolation hushed for a moment.

  In the kitchen of my childhood.

   

  Saturday 11 August 2012

  Beguiled

  Michele Fermanis-Winward

  Leura, NSW

  The sky

  straight from a tube

  of undiluted blue,

  emerging leaves

  electrify the trees,

  as days expand

  and ease into their warmth.

   

  Our homes

  wrapped tight against the cold

  throw off their coats

  and let a breeze sift in,

  while pinks of every tone

  illuminate the streets.

   

  We form a link

  with blossom and perfume,

  beguiled

  presuming storms have passed,

  and all their scars

  will now be healed,

  the picture coloured in.

   

  Behind our smiles

  the fears we blend

  define a season’s hue,

  of summer skies ahead

  with columns of black smoke

  which rise in storms of red.

   

  Sunday 12 August 2012

  Blackshield

  Robertas

  Drummoyne, ACT

  We are a Viking longship. Black shields, lined along our beam, fend off the missiles hurled by howling enemies.

  But the shields are flimsy – tokens only. And we’d need two each for full protective cover. We each have one to save our heads, but legs and feet are unprotected. And I dare not risk an eye to peer over the parapet to gauge the distance we have made between ourselves and our assailants.

  We lift our pace – no more pretence of nonchalance. Our black shields move in unison, protecting now our backs until we’re well ahead. Beyond their range? We dare to hope. A look confirms it. We are safe. Their missiles drop a distance off. None will reach us.

  ‘Bastards!’

  ‘Little Shits!’

  ‘Bloody little savages!’

  ‘LitBastShitsardsBloodsav...’

  We babel-chorus, all together, each with his own expletives – frustration of defencelessness. They can attack but we can’t retaliate, nor reason with them to stop.

  This is their land. This is their road. And we are easy game – not fair game, but easy. They know we’re impotent. If we had returned their fire, their big guns – rough-robed swarthies wielding sticks – would have sunk our little ship.

  It leaves a sour taste. This place is unsafe – uncivilised. We cannot trust these people.

  On we go, our shields now furled. A parody of city gents, with our black walking sticks we strut. You can’t beat a British brolly on a rainy English day. But we became the five-shield longship when rocks and laughter flew our way.

  The laughter struck, but thanks to luck the rocks did not. Some bounced close around our feet, and small ones tested our black shields.

  Now, far beyond the savage-spouting mud-brick huts we wait. A bus will come.

  Our shields, unfurled again, protect us from the savage sun. That’s really what we brought them for – pretty sure there’d be no rain.

  Savage village kids aside,

  the sun is our sole enemy.

  Beating down from clear blue skies.

  But that comes as no surprise here

   – in Morocc
o.

  Robertas says that hitchhiking in third world countries can be fun … but sometimes …

   

  Monday 13 August 2012

  Perry's Lookdown

  Alan Lucas

  Katoomba, NSW

  From the topmost viewing spot,

  the scene is magnificent,

  making me wish I had the wings

  to drop straight to

  the valley below,

  but I must take it step by step

  to the Blue Gum forest

  at Perry’s Lookdown.

  Every step is carved into living rock,

  or built by hand, with no

  level spots to rest my trembling legs,

  and the trail is often too narrow

  to stop or too wet with moss to sit.

  I reach the crevasse base,

  carved high above

  from thousands of years

  of wear from water

  and heat, rain and flood.

   

  I seem to have been swinging

  from rock hold to tree trunk

  for the past hour,

  almost straight down

  for an hour.

  At last I rest, exertion

  has created sharp observation,

  a chirruping tree hopper

  bounces from branch to branch,

  and here in the crevasse

  falling water begins to speak.

  Among the giant ferns and rocks,

  there is song in the sound,

  and words that I cannot

  decipher, yet something

  is being said.

  I eat some food, drink

  from my bottle and listen

  with closed eyes, a kind

  of meditation taking over,

  time no longer exists, and when

  I re-enter the world,

  there, laying amidst the fallen leaves

  and bark in front of me

  is the face

  of a forest daemon,

  not resentful of my intrusion,

  but not pleased either,

  not even curious,

  just looking at me.

  These must be the little folk

  that the Irish speak of,

  or perhaps

  it’s just my imagination.

  I glance away for a second,

  and then he is gone,

  the talking, singing water

  continues on.

   

  Tuesday 14 August 2012

  Baggage

  Robyn Lance

  Goulburn, NSW

  I travelled all the way to midnight

  and beyond

  but tired of the trip

  so sat down in an N

  at the edge of the sea.

  No-one switched the moonlight off

  and waves fell apart on the sand.

   

  My baggage flew open

  memories escaped

  and streaked to the cliff top cemetery,

  punk-haired,

  where more

  already buried

  have been exhumed.

   

  Wednesday 15 August 2012

  Fabulous Fairy Floss

  Amber Johnson

  Highgate Hill, QLD

  No other reel of childhood memory lights up the veil of my past quite like the magic of the Manly carnival. To my four-year-old eyes, the carnival seemed like a fairy tale exploded into life. A mere bus ride through the bleak concrete jungle transported me to a place where vibrant colours burst through the seams of reality, and opened the portal to a place of wonders. My mother would mimic my eager anticipation, and grin in such a way that meant that we would thwart the Sandman in a sugar-filled delirium.

  We would giggle in whispers at our own little rebellion of being up past bed-time, and dive into the carnival crowds. The adventure always began, and ended, at the fairy floss stand. I watched in awe as a bearded man with a missing tooth swirled a stick around in a machine. It was his magic wand that spun sugary webs of pastel pinks and blues.

  Next, we would wander where ever the neon rainbows lead us. I was often too scared to try the bigger rides, but my love for the Ferris Wheel trumped my fear of heights. As our carriage reached the peak of the wheel, I watched the rippling harbour. The city lights that danced across the surface were mesmerising.

  On our way out, we would thank the fairy-floss man.

  Fifteen years have passed since that day, and yet I still recall the giddy excitement with such vibrancy. It is one of the fragments of comfort that I could anchor my hopes to after all else drifted apart. A void had swollen within me, so deep that I feared it would consume me. Ever since my mother sought escape through the bong and the bottle, my film of memory has become tarnished by violence. I was thrown into the deep-end of life, and floundered to stay out of homelessness. I couldn’t help but to seek out the dregs of a drained childhood.

  I took a train to Central, and a bus down to the Quay. The first encounter I had after my reunion with the city was smog and crowds. As I awkwardly waded my way through the sea of white-collar suits, I realised Manly was not the fairy-tale I had imagined. It was nothing more than a tin of corporate sardines.

  Beside the harbour, I found the desolate site that once bore my fantasy land. The midday sun scorched the rusted gates, that led to a broken-down Ferris Wheel. The paint had flaked away from the scaffolding to reveal a harsh metallic core. It felt like some omnipresent being was performing a cruel satire of my life in this one silent scene. The symbolism struck too close to home. As I walked away with nothing but a wasted fare and a bitter taste in my mouth, I kicked the fallen sign that read ‘Fabulous Fairy Floss’.

   

  Thursday 16 August 2012

  The Dying Game

  Bob Edgar

  Wentworth Falls, NSW

  Harry was a likeable rogue, the kind of fellow you would trust with your car but not with your wife.

  Harry’s identical twin brother Oscar was also likeable, however he was no rogue. Straight as a die he was. Some even thought of Oscar as sensitive.

  That cold overcast day that Harry was sent down for a bungled jewellery heist, was like a death knell to Oscar.

  They had never been apart for more than a few days, and Oscar couldn’t begin to imagine how he would bear the seven years’ separation from Harry. They had even purchased a ‘double depth’ grave so that even in death, only a few inches of dirt would separate them.

  They had clasped hands in the courtroom affirming their bond as Oscar made a vow to Harry that he would visit daily. The handcuffs tinkled as the court police broke them apart. Harry was gone.

  Oscar kept his promise and visited Harry at Wormwood Scrubs every allowable day. Harry was of stronger character than his twin brother and although prison life was wearing him down, he could see after a year of incarceration that it was Oscar’s health deteriorating. Oscar’s stutter was also noticeably worse.

  Eighteen months into his sentence Harry confided in Oscar that he had a plan to reunite them. Oscar had to follow a fitness regime and resume his football refereeing. This was essential to the plan, and Oscar had to be strong, in body and mind. Oscar trusted Harry implicitly and embarked on a ‘toughening up’ training schedule and resumed refereeing local football matches.

  Meanwhile Harry, already a trusted inmate, had ingratiated himself with the prison governor who just happened to be an avid football fan. Harry had banded together a half decent team and had challenged the prison staff team.

  The game was to be held on the Wednesday before the week-long Christmas holidays, this date being crucial to the plan.

  Seven days before the game Harry revealed to Oscar how it would go down.

  ‘Oscar, you have been booked to referee the game next Wednesday. We will meet at halftime behind the row of lockers and swap clothes. I will blow fulltime ten minutes early, and in the ensuing confusion I will head for yo
ur car and make my escape. After the counting of inmates you will confess to playing part in a practical joke only.’

  Oscar agreed that the plan was simple and foolproof.

  ‘Now listen to me Oscar, listen very carefully, and don’t forget what I am about to say to you, no matter what happens. Do you understand?’

  Oscar was bemused by the serious tone that Harry had set, and yet agreed to read a message that Harry would leave in the overnight bag that Oscar would bring to the game.

  ‘Read the note immediately after you leave the prison Oscar, no matter how you feel, read the note!’

  ‘All right H-H-H- Harry, as soon as I am outside the p-p-prison, I’ll read the note, I won’t forget.’

  That night in his cell Harry wrote the note for Oscar.

  ‘My dear Oscar, stop fretting as I am not dead, I repeat, I am not dead. I stole some Pentralinium Oroxide from the infirmary and injected myself, to all intents and purposes I appeared deceased. I will be buried in our plot tomorrow, the day before the holiday break. The drug will wear off within 48 hours and I will have sufficient air for 72 hours, by which time you will have dug me up. I will therefore be considered not an escaped felon – but dead and buried.’

  Harry lay in his tomb not knowing exactly how long he had been unconscious, but confident in being freed by his doting brother. He mused, ‘I couldn’t have told Oscar my real plan, he never would have agreed, and I would now be an escapee.’

  Harry’s eyes widened in excitement as he heard shovelling, the weight of death being levied from his coffin. His mind screamed for release from this stifling confinement. His body spasmed in anticipation. The digging ceased. Three terrifying seconds of silence, then muffled voices.

  ‘No other family apparently, and what with the holidays starting today, best to get him into the ground straight away I reckon. What happened to him, anyway?’

  Harry felt the thud of the coffin smother his life as he heard the reply.

  ‘He’d just started refereeing a football match, when he was told his twin brother had died. Dropped dead on the penalty spot, he did.’

  The End (for Harry)

   

  Friday 17 August 2012

  Peer Pressure

  Tom Zaunmayr

  Carine, WA

  My mates told me to do it. They told me it was good, they told me it was harmless. My mates told me nothing could go wrong. They told me it’s what all the cool kids were doing, they told me it would help my social life, they told me it was grown up but above all they told me nothing could go wrong, that this is how life should be lived.

  And who was I to doubt them? They had been right about how to dress, they had been right about how to act, and they had been right about which girls to go for. My mates taught me everything I know today. They broke me free of that mummy’s boy I was in year six; that was six years ago now. They raised me as if we were family. My mates taught me how to behave and how to pick up. They showed me how to spot the easy girls and avoid the grenades. Wow, they treated me well.

  They got me to where I am today …

  I went from being an 11-year-old loner to the king of high school; year 12 was all about me, and it felt good. One major moment of my life was my first sip of the holy nectar … beer. TED’s was my favourite back then, still is now. I remember going to the beach with the guys, sitting around the fire and reminiscing on our lives.

  We’d go to parties too. Four of them and I was king of the dance floor, all the chicks dig that. They were all over me. I still remember the first time I got drunk. I had seven beers at Mickey’s 15th and I was out of it. I couldn’t even finish off the slut I scored with. I passed out for the first time at my ex’s party. That was when she dumped me. Four days and she dumped me, what a bitch!

  The first time I had sex; that was a great night. The guys and myself had a little wager for bragging rights over who could get the home run first. James reach third that night, he’s still searching for the home run. Dungers was the first there. He got it at my 15th party with an absolute stinker. I was slow off the blocks. I reached first base in the Gold Coast playing a game of truth or dare; she was dared. I got to third with the bitch Cass, my ex.

  The home run was just a few weeks ago. Janie Doyle was her name. She was my new girlfriend. It would’ve been our one-month anniversary tomorrow. That was a perfect night. I wasn’t even drunk! We walked down Glamarama beach, climbed the rocks and found a sweet spot overlooking the Pacific. We stayed there all night; it was just perfect. We’d planned to go back there for our anniversary.

  My mates and me had another bet going. I won this one. We all put in $20 and whoever had the most points at the end of the season got the bounty – $520! We were all playing rugby of course, all the cool guys here do. My school is the best of them all, five titles in a row this year.

  Anyway, I scored eleven tries for the season and had an almost perfect conversion rate. That’s a PSA record. My name goes down alongside the greats, only I would’ve been better. I was going to be a Wallaby when I got older, and a Waratah. It was all planned out, and last season surely got the selectors attention.

  All this was thanks to my mates. I love them for it. The beer, the girls, and the sports – I couldn’t have done it without them. My mates are the best people in the world bar none! I got my P-plates a few weeks ago, with the encouragement of my mates of course. I was the last to get them and boy was I excited. I could finally kick Mum out of the car. My 1994 Mitsubishi Lancer was my second love, first being Janie.

  Two days ago we played the final match for the trophy. My overtime conversion won us our fifth straight title 21-20. The afters were at Ben’s house. I bought Janie along to show her how we party; she didn’t hang out with many cool people before meeting me. There were eskies full of beer everywhere. I went straight for the TEDs of course. She had Cruisers. Two hours later we were blind stinkin’ drunk, in some shed somewhere, and nude. We did it … again. The afters wrapped up around 4 am. I had to drive Janie home.

  That’s how I ended up here. Me, Tim Bradley – the most popular guy in high school – in hospital. Some of my mates have visited, some of them haven’t. I killed Janie; the love of my life is gone. She took most of the impact. I’ve been told I’m dying too. When I wonder how this happened I could only seem to come back to one culprit; my mates. They had been so good to me though. How is this possible? My mates told me nothing could go wrong. I had everything, God damn it. Why me … why me? I thought nothing could go wrong. My mates told me nothing could go wrong …

  As a 21-year-old male uni student Tom says he is always amazed at the effect peer pressure within certain social and friendship groups can change people. Sometimes for the better, but more often than not for the worse. This story reflects the worst of what he’s seen peer pressure do to innocent young people.

   

  Saturday 18 August 2012

  Knitting In Green

  Sallie Ramsay

  Torrens, ACT

  As always she felt a glow of achievement and satisfaction when the end was in sight. A couple more rows, cast off and it would be done; another piece of knitting finished. She looked at the work spread out across her knee and felt pleased with the way it had turned out, although she wasn’t really happy with the colour; a bright emerald green; but it was all they had.

  Clear as if it were yesterday, she remembered her first knitting lesson. She was six, sitting in the big armchair by the fire, convalescing from measles, when she asked her mother to teach her how to knit. She could still hear her mother’s voice, ‘Needle into the stitch; wool around the needle; turn, hook wool through the gate; pull it off.’ She remembered how her fingers felt so clumsy, she thought she would never get it right, but she did.

  By the time she went back to school, she was so proud she told the teacher, ‘I can knit!’ That afternoon in ‘Craft’ her teacher handed out needles and balls of cotton yarn and announced they were going to knit a face washer. She could hard
ly wait to start but found she hated the feel of the cotton yarn, the way it squeaked and was hard to move along the needles. She had put the knitting down on the desk. She remembered her teacher raising her eyebrows and saying ‘I thought you said you could knit!’ She remembered saying she couldn’t knit with cotton and the teacher replying, ‘It is a poor workman that blames his tools.’ She struggled with the hated face-washer, gritting her teeth and muttering that it wasn’t real knitting; for real knitting you needed wool.

  She remembered the doll’s blanket made out of squares she knitted from the rainbow of odd balls of wool in her mother’s knitting basket. She spent hours choosing the colours and even longer, arranging the squares into a satisfying pattern and she remembered pictures in her mother’s pattern books, dreaming of the day when she too could make the wool twist and turn under her needles and how, one day, she did.

  She remembered knitting a scarf for her boyfriend when she was at boarding school; it was creamy white with a heavy rib pattern and bands in his school colours at each end. When it was long enough she wrapped it around her neck as she knitted, imagining it wrapped around his neck. He ‘dropped’ her just before the scarf was finished, but being a practical country girl; she unravelled the end and knitted in the school colours of the nice boy she met on the train going home for the holidays.

  Right from the beginning she kept a record of each project in a leather bound ledger her grandfather gave her. She recorded everything from sweaters of heavy greasy wool to cosy shawls and baby clothes, so delicate it seemed they would blow away if anyone so much as breathed on them. The dates started and finished were entered; there were very few blanks in the ‘date finished’ column but behind each one there was a story; perhaps an estrangement, a death or a change of mind. She sometimes made notes: ‘Jane’s first babe’; ‘S.D’s 40th birthday’; ‘For Royal Melbourne Show’ (Best in Show)’; ‘Cricket sweater (Long Sleeves)’.

  She smiled remembering the hot summer afternoons, sitting in the shade with her mother, the afternoon tea basket at their feet, knitting and watching the cricket. Her three brothers and her father all played with the local team. She remembered cricket sweaters, heavily cabled and some with bands in club colours; most were sleeveless, only serious friendships warranted the time and effort needed for long sleeves.

   She remembered how she knew it was really love when she knitted a cricket sweater for a young man who insisted that it have no pattern, not even coloured bands. For her it was a labour of love because there were few tasks she hated more than plain knitting. After they were married she celebrated by knitting a navy sweater with an Aran pattern so complex, it took her nearly six months to finish. He was wearing it the day they told her he wouldn’t be coming home after a boating accident, the year after they were married.

  When money was scarce she knitted samples for knitting books and remembered how much she hated ‘other people’s’ patterns. She liked to knit to order, but only to the most imprecise orders: ‘A jumper for each of the kids’; ‘A bed-jacket for Mum when she’s in hospital’; the finished work always fitted the wearer’s personality to a tee.

  She knew some worried sure that she knew nothing except knitting. She thought how little they knew. Had they never looked at her knitting? Really looked at her knitting?

  As her needles wove heather-soft blues, mauves and pinks into a delicate Fair Isle pattern she heard the skirl of highland pipes blowing on the wind. A Roman mosaic unearthed from a villa in Colchester provided the inspiration for a jumper for her sister. She knitted the nets, the fish and ropes of generations of Irish fisherman and travelling the world unimpeded by restraints of time or space each time she began to plan a new project.

  Special pieces she put in the cedar chest alongside where, carefully packed in tissue paper, lay the unfinished layette started for the unborn baby who died within days of its father, all those years ago.

  She didn’t remember when her hands, with fingers swollen and twisted like the gnarled branches of an ancient tree, could no longer move as she wanted.

  She didn’t remember the day she was moved out of her home of seventy-five years to a small bright room with a comfortable chair by the window where she began to knit again. She would be surprised to know the knitting from the cedar chest in her house was now on permanent display in the Museum of Fine Arts.

  Pleased with her morning’s work, even though that emerald green was not at all to her taste, she began to cast off.