narratorAUSTRALIA Volume One

by narrator AUSTRALIA

  *** Editor’s Pick ***

  Scabby Dawn

  Hettie Ashwin

  Portsmith, QLD

  Dawn’s not what you would call drop dead gorgeous. She’s more what you would call comfortable. She was never a beauty queen or anything but then I didn’t marry her for that. I don’t really know what I saw in her over 30 years ago, but now it doesn’t really matter because we are sort of made for each other. You really get to know a person when you have been living together for all that time. I mean, really get to know all about them. Dawnie says it’s kinda uncanny the way we just know what the other person is thinking. But don’t get me wrong it’s not all jam tarts and cordial. There are things that ... well that get on my nerves. But that’s just Dawnie.

  I think it all started when we had our Jeffrey. He was a great lad. We used to take him to the park, the swings, the pond, all that sort of thing. Then one day he had a rather bad fall and scraped his knee. Well kids do that sort of thing but after it healed Dawn kept the scab. She said it wasn’t morbid or anything and she put it with his little teeth and his lock of hair and his umbilical cord. Sort of a human album of his childhood.

  Lots of people keep things from their kids. It’s quite normal, Dawnie said. Still, I didn’t quite know how to take it. I’m not particularly sentimental. I do like things neat and tidy though. We both do really. The bench tops in the kitchen are what you would call sparse. No coffee machines, no mortar and pestles or spices lined up like soldiers. We like things clean looking. Although if you asked me where it all goes, I’d probably say the spare room. Sort of one of those rooms that just sucks up our cast offs and we just shut the door. Dawn says I’m a real bargain. Not many men are as finicky as me. We are very much alike in that respect. Stanley, Dawn would say, you are a real gem.

  Not long after Jeffrey started school he had to have his appendix out. It wasn’t a really big deal. These days it is in one day and out the next. The doctors were marvellous about it all but when Dawn asked for the appendix in a jar, they said they didn’t do that sort of thing these days. Regulations and the like. Anyway, later on, she kept Jeffrey’s stitches. All eight of them. She put them in a little box and that was the last I saw of them. I never asked where she put them or what she needed them for. It was just her little hobby I guess you would call it. Just Dawnie being Dawnie. Jeffrey had a few scrapes after that as he grew up and Dawn’s little collection grew. I asked her once was she going to present all the bits and bobs to Jeff when he turned twenty one, sort of like one of those roasts they do on the television for the movie stars. And here is Mr Appendix or something, although like I said, Dawn didn’t manage to keep that particular body part. Dawn looked at me quite queer. I mean I know her inside out but I had never seen that look. A sort of incredulous type of look, kinda like if I had asked her if I could just borrow her liver because I was expecting a late night at the pub. And then she let out one of her little laughs and I wondered if I had just imagined it all.

  We are quite a demonstrative couple. Dawnie likes a kiss and a cuddle. I like the way she rubs my back and she does my feet a power of good. She really spoils me with the foot pedicure and all the trimmings. Jeff used to come upon us when he was in his teens and just look the other way. I guess it looked a bit ... well a bit sensual, but Dawnie really does a sterling job. We start with a warm soak in some crystals then a brisk rub with a herbal soap and a defoliating scrub with apricot kernels or similar. Then she brings out a warm towel and after a rinse she pats the old plates of meat dry. Then Dawn brings out her little manicure set and gets to work. She picks, pokes, prods and preens my nails and cuts and files. It’s just magic and I feel like I am walking on pillows for about an hour afterwards. It’s our little ritual, about once a month. Well the other day Dawn had just finished my feet and was packing up and scooped all my clippings, you know the nails, the filings, the dead skin, the cracked heel skins and just popped then in a little zip lock bag. We usually keep the zip lock bags for small things like dried apricots, seeds for planting and that sort of thing, but I watched Dawn and she just carefully popped all my droppings in a plastic bag and zipped it shut. I was about to say something when the phone rang and so I went to answer it and when I came back Dawn was putting the kettle on like nothing untoward had happened. I should have mentioned it. Should have just casually said, Oh, Dawnie, what did you do with all my bits? or something, but really how do you broach the subject of your toe nail clippings without sounding like a right idiot? Anyway it was Jeff on the phone. He said he had a small break in his university studies and was coming home for a week for our 35th wedding anniversary. It will be nice to have him home. And so we began to plan what we might do when Jeff arrived.

  It’s hard to imagine we have been together for 35 years. After all those years you skirt over the annoying bits. But there are annoying bits. Dawn has a habit of shaving her legs and leaving the hairy ring around the bath. It’s not a big deal really, except I have to clean it before I have a bath. And she flosses a lot. She is always pulling out a metre of floss and having a go at her teeth. We could be driving to the shops and at a stop light she will be pulling the floss like she is auditioning for the string section of the local orchestra. And then she pops the string into one of our zip lock bags and puts it in her handbag. I don’t mind really, after all her teeth are quite clean, and it is only a bit of floss, but all the same, it is just a small annoyance. And then there are the cotton buds. Dawnie has about a million of them. I swear she buys them in bulk. Like a standing order for one million every three months from the local chemist. She pokes them in her ears mainly, but they do duty in all her creases. She must have the cleanest ears this side of the planet Vulcan and Dr Spock. I don’t think she sees me watching her, but she goes at her ears like they were making wax for the Vatican. It is almost an art form. And then she keeps the bud in ... you guessed it ... a zip lock bag.

  I wonder sometimes if Dawnie isn’t whittling herself away. She is always picking at herself. One day I’ll go to find her and she will be in a variety of zip lock bags. Anyway it’s not really that bad. And I’ve put up with it for 35 years so I guess I’ve kinda got used to it really. I’m sure I do things to annoy her too, though I can’t think what off the top of my head.

  Dawn had to go into hospital last week. They said she had a bowel obstruction. I went to visit her of course. I said, trying to make light of the situation, that she wouldn’t be keeping that little gem, but she didn’t quite see the funny side. She said the doctor was worried about it and needed to take some tests. It would be about two weeks she said. Jeff rang. He wanted to know did he need to come home again, but I said your mother said not to worry. We will call if anything develops. Just a matter of wait and see. So I have the house to myself for the duration. There is still a bit to do, to keep the place clean. But I began to think on those zip lock bags. Where would someone keep those bags if they were collecting them? I couldn’t sleep because of those bloody zip lock bags. Dawn said I looked worn out. She assumed it was all the to and fro to the hospital and I must admit it does take a bit out of you with all the travel and parking and the like. So she said praps I should just come in every other day. I could have asked her while she was laid low. Could have just said, Oh Dawnie, by the way, where do you keep your zip lock bags cause I have a scab that is just about ready? Or Dawnie, just wanted a bit of cotton bud kindling for the fire. They will burn a treat with all that wax. What I really wanted to say was ... where the bloody hell are those god damn zip lock bags!?

  Dawn is still in hospital. The doctor said she needs an op. Nothing major he said. Nothing too drastic, just routine. But it will be a month the doctor said. And then plenty of rest. No lifting. Nothing strenuous. I think he thought I was one of those husbands that don’t do anything. I don’t know what Dawn had said to give him that idea, but still, I got the distinct impression. Jeff rang. I said he wasn’t to come home. Just routine. Nothing major I said. But I couldn’t let Jeff see the mess I was
in. I started in our bedroom. Under the bed. In the wardrobe, in the bedside tables, in the blanket box, in the dressing table. No luck. Then I tried pulling all the draws right out, nothing. So I pulled all our clothes out of the built-ins. Nothing either. Then I got the step ladder and tried the top of the built-ins. I found Jeff’s train set and a collection of old knitting patterns and a small army of silver fish in a cardboard box full of net curtains but nothing resembling Dawnie’s horde.

  Then I thought I should be a little more systematic. So I made a list, and then did the math. By my reckoning 35 years of zip lock bags might just weigh in at around 30 or so kilograms. That is a hell of a lot of plastic.

  I pulled the dressing table out from the wall not really knowing if there would be a trap door or something akin to a James Bond movie escape hatch behind. Of course there was nothing more than a big ball of fluff and a dried out lipstick. As I sat on the bed I had a brain wave. I had seen a movie where they kept the loot in the mattress. So I ripped off the quilt and the woollen underlay and started to feel about. It did make a crackling noise. It felt quite spongy. A sort of scrunchy, scrabbling sort of sound so I fetched the manicure scissors and just dug a little hole in the corner. The scribbley sound was more in the middle and by the time I had tracked it down to the plastic sheeting and remembered we had paid quite a bit extra for the bug barrier it was too late. The mattress looked like a bloated beached whale with half its intestines hanging out.

  Dawnie was sitting up in bed when I visited this evening. She had just finished her dinner and was getting ready to watch the television. We chatted about this and that but when you know a person really well as we do, she knew something was up. She didn’t actually say Stanley, what have you done? but it was there just hovering over me none the less. I must have looked a bit sheepish because she indicated that she knew something was going on. Sometimes one gets a real burst in the ol’ grey matter category and so I said I had a little surprise when the doctors tell her she can come home. Dawnie loves surprises and that seemed to mollify her somewhat. She clapped her hands and said she hoped it wasn’t that vacuum seal lock contraption she had spied at the kitchen shop in the high street. Because Stanley, she said drawing herself up in her bed, they are awfully expensive even if we could think of a myriad of uses. I sort of shuffled my feet and then the nurse came in with her medication and I left telling her not to get her hopes up about the vac-u-seal. Well I rushed right out to Bartlett’s in the high street and bought the darn thing. It was a small price to pay for my sins. I gave it a go just now and my cheese sandwich looks like a little brick, but I’m sure Dawnie will like it.

  I’ve just been through the spare room. If ever there was a room that needed a good going over it is our spare room. Just about everything ends up in there eventually. Probably the Vac-u-seal will be consigned to the shelves in the wardrobe in the future. I found the flip-0-matic recipe holder, the dip’n’dunk fondue set, the sponge carousel which was a dud from the beginning and our stash of toasters from our wedding, eight in all. It was quite a productive afternoon sorting out all the things and I almost forgot my quest as I rummaged through the old photo albums, but then I found a little box. And there they were, eight little sutures. Jeff’s. That really buoyed my spirits and I must admit I became a little frantic thinking I had hit the jackpot but around 9 pm I had missed the visiting hours at the hospital, cut my finger on the ergonomic electric can opener with left or right handed operation and demolished just about every stick of furniture in the room. I will ring Dawn in the morning. She will understand. After all when you have been together for years one missed visit is kinda neither here nor there really.

  I said, Dawn I fell asleep. Not really a lie, but not the exact truth either. She said she had seen the doctor and he said she was well enough to come home. IN TWO DAYS. I said now Dawn are you sure? Are you ready?, but she just skirted over my questions and said she was looking forward to her little surprise. Yes, a surprise I said and hung up. God, IN TWO DAYS.

  Sometimes I think I’m a little thick. It all seemed really obvious. The shed. Dawn was always nipping out to the shed. I’m not really the handyman and keep a few tools but if anything really needs fixing well we just call in a little man to do it. That is the luxury of having been in a well paid job all one’s life. The shed seemed the spot and so I put on my gardening trousers and my old shirt and went exploring. It seemed we had collected garden paraphernalia like we had acquired kitchen gadgets. Kneeling boards, leaf scoops, wonder blowers, hedgers and step ladders which had copulated with abandon and multiplied were stacked ten deep. I rolled up my sleeves and got stuck in. God knows where or why we collected all the junk. There were things I’d never seen. I thought we always shopped together and discussed our purchases, but it seemed Dawnie had been holding out on me. I mean when did she have the time to buy a stuffed fish the size of a small child on a wooden back board, and what is the stuffed toad thing all about? When did Dawnie take up taxidermy? I made a mental note to ask her about the fish. If I just put it up in the front room and when she came home she’d see it and then well, she’d have to tell me. I spent all day in the shed, and really I kinda forgot what I was looking for as I discovered all sorts of things. Things like a jar of pickled octopus and Dawn doesn’t like sea food. Things like a picture of Doris Day signed by Doris Day, a bar of soap used by John Lennon authenticated by an official stamp and a pair of Princess Diana’s shoes authenticated by Sotheby’s. It was a treasure trove. Dawnie would have some serious explaining to do. I went to bed but I didn’t sleep much.

  I collected Dawn in the morning bright and early. She was sitting on the bed all smiles, like she’d never seen a stuffed toad or a first edition of Agatha Christie. All ready I said and we walked to the car. She said, I am looking forward to going home. Not a trace of pickled octopus on her lips or a dried piranha from Africa on a plaque. Yes I said. Well I had done my best to tidy up but the house didn’t quite look the same and she noticed right away. What?, I said and she just gave me one of her looks. A sort of strangled, mangled squashed orange look. Look I said, we have a cockroach problem. I had to do a bit of ... a bit of cleaning and then she saw the piranha, which I had forgotten to take back to the shed and she turned on me as if I was the one that had caught the darn thing and expected her to use it as a bottle opener for guests.

  Stanley? she said. And I brought out the Vac-u-seal. If I ever get to heaven it will be only because of Bartlett’s in the High Street and the makers of Vac-u-seal. Oh Stanley Dawnie said. Oh Darling she gushed. Honey bunchkins she cooed. She really liked it. It comes with an extra roll of plastic I said. And you can make your own size bags. Dawn tried it out and I showed her my sandwich. Still fresh after a couple of days I said. You want to do my feet Dawnie. I’m sort of hankering for it I said. It has been a few weeks. Oh Stanley she said you are a real gem.

  It’s nice when you really know a person. Hobbies are a good thing to do together. When Dawn came home she said she was just going to rest. Take it slow and easy. Do her hobby, so I said oh, what hobby expecting it to be taxidermy or something but Dawn showed me the internet. And eBay. It’s amazing what people will spend their money on. One man bought a house with a paper clip. You can buy and sell just about anything, rubber band balls, pickled octopus, Paris Hilton’s nail clippings, Brad Pit’s scabs, David Beckham’s stitches, just about anything as long as they are ‘authenticated’.

   

  Sunday 2 September 2012

  Miss Understood

  Nene Davies

  Thornlands, QLD

  For a girl from the tropics, the weather in Melbourne was positively arctic. If she’d been born anywhere close to the Northern hemisphere, she might have realised that it wasn’t actually that cold in South Yarra. But for a Queenslander, raised among the steamy palm fronds and simmering heat of Port Douglas, it may as well have been Alaska. The seeming austerity of southern winter weather sent unfamiliar slivers of chill and discontent trickling coldly down
the nape of her neck, across her young shoulders and around her slender ribcage.

  She stood miserably at a tram stop in the wet grey murk of a late July morning, stoically twitching her handbag more securely onto her shoulder with a practised shrug and changing hands with her weighty Country Road umbrella, for something to do as she waited with a pavement full of other people, for her tram into the city.

  She felt like an alien. People were giving her funny looks. She wasn’t like them and they knew it. Her features locked and she became a hard-faced girl with a chip on her shoulder. In truth, nobody had even looked her way; too focused on their own lives, and problems and iPods and mobile phones. She wasn’t used to wearing so much make-up; at home, the humidity and heat played havoc with carefully applied foundation, which tended to slide down her face like runny cement, sometimes before she even got to college. But here, in this bleak place, she felt plain – ugly even – unless her cheeks bloomed Barbie-pink and her blackly coated lashes flapped, Bambi-esque, over thick lines of kohl. Her pores felt clogged, her lips too loaded with colour and gloss to risk smiling and dislodging it all.

  Her new job petrified her. She felt like a provincial hick. Shy, hesitant. Her colleagues in the cold-coloured concrete office building on St Kilda Road were terrifying, larger than life characters to her. Loud, confident, trendy, thin. Hatchet-faced young men, with clever haircuts and spray-on jeans, winklepicker shoes and jaunty scarves, brayed and gossiped at the water cooler, while glamorous girls in tottering heels, with brutally straightened hair pulled back into severe buns and obedient ponytails, cast what she saw as languid eyes and superior smirks towards her, as she awkwardly shuffled papers and turned beetroot at the photocopier. The other girls exchanged glances with one another. Their attempts at kindness, snubbed again. They resignedly turned away.

  They hate me, she thought.

  Withdrawn, barely speaking, aloof, she found herself alone. The after-work drinks invitations of the first couple of weeks, withered on the vine. She couldn’t accept, didn’t know how. The thought of socialising with these self-assured young things made her sick with fear. She told herself she wouldn’t know what to say, how to act, what to wear. A curt shake of her head each Friday afternoon, yielded looks of puzzlement and then annoyance and then indifference from workmates.

  She hates us, they thought.

  She retreated, looking frosty, and spent lonely weekends trawling for shoes, clothes, bags, accessories to make herself invisible. The shopping trips brought fresh unhappiness; memories of easy laughter and girly chat with friends up north. ‘Don’t leave!’ they’d said, gazing at her in disbelief. Leggy lovelies in short-shorts and Ugg boots, surviving the ‘winter’ on sun-kissed beaches under a sapphire and whisper-white sky.

  She stood now in the rain at the tram stop as homesickness bolted through her again, like a mouthful of bile. Hot tears tracked through the blusher. Her bid for independence, so defiantly sought, so ill-thought-out. A drama-queen flouncing off because Mum and Dad were so unreasonable, so controlling. Her parents’ sad smiles of acceptance. Of remembering their own youth perhaps. ‘I’m outta here!’ she’d thrown at them. And for what? A minor rebuke? A mild pulling into line by caring parents had given rise to a classic ‘It’s my life!’ tantrum, thrown by a girl who regretted it now to her core.

  She’d met him at college; tanned, dangerous, fast, rebellious. Who wouldn’t fall for him? The Olds disapproved of course – so much the better. Her thrilled, awakened pulse zinged with excitement. Her first true love, she gave him everything. Everything. A pain not unlike burning steel rods pierced her mid-section at the mere memory of his heartless indifference, just months down that adrenalin-fuelled, senseless track of flattery and desolation. And on he strode; bounding, unrepentant, to the next leggy lovely in short-shorts, while her own little heart splintered in disbelief.

  She’d show him. She’d show them all. Small-time, small-town losers. She never even really convinced herself. But stubbornness packed her bags and embarrassment boarded the plane with her. Loneliness became her constant companion. She multiplied her single mistake. Really, what was the point in running away?

  She spent solitary hours obsessing. Was she a failure? Was she pathetic? Was it wrong to yearn for home so much? Was this whirling city really what she wanted? Of course not. She doubted a single soul there even knew her name.

  Still she stood on the pavement, amid the teeming rush-hour roar. The umbrella swapped hands again. Her tears rolled unchecked, her nose ran. People started gravitating towards the kerb. The tram was approaching, lumbering noisily up the slight incline towards the stop; the screechy rails, the comical bell. Fractious travellers hovered impatiently in the rain.

  She had no inkling of the next few seconds so was completely unprepared for what happened next. Like a single staggering bolt of understanding, in a split-second of clarity, she suddenly saw her world through unclouded eyes. Her taut body relaxed and her face broke into her old dazzling smile. Turning her back on the swishing dirty road, she pulled out her mobile phone, urgently prodding at the screen, as she started to run towards the train station.

  The phone in North Queensland rang only once. And then an anxious voice. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mum?’

  A beat, and then a splash of indescribable delight. ‘Amanda!’

   

  Monday 3 September 2012

  Politicians Care (A Follow Up To ‘Pollies Pay Rise’)

  Eulyce Arkleysmith

  Bathurst, NSW

  Remember that we care for you

  You know we do. We truly do.

  This, often we reiterate

  So you with us associate

  The message that we care for you

  We really, really, truly do.

   

  Your problems we do understand

  And we’d do nothing underhand

  That might make life more arduous

  For retirees and pensioners.

  Remember that we care for you

  We really, really, truly do.

   

  To budgets we must strongly cling

  So when your needs you loudly sing

  There’s no more money we can see

  In the federal treasury

  But you see we care for you

  We truly, really, truly do.

   

  Seven dollars rise was there

  Fortnightly pension. That is fair!

  No more than that could there be found

  We must be sure the budget's sound.

  Remember that we care for you

  We’re sure we really, truly do.

   

  Some months now passed so now we will

  Legislate and pass a bill

  That to ourselves will be awarded

  Many thousands is afforded.

  Remember though we care for you

  It’s not enough to dosh eschew.

   

  Tuesday 4 September 2012 8 am

  Un believable (Sudan 2010)

  Sandra Renew

  Dickson, ACT

  Previously undisclosed and contra-indicated,

  the plans for the South to separate

  into a new country,

  appear inexplicable, if not unlawful,

  to those in charge in the capital.

   

  The groundswell of audacity and self-belief

  rolls with the fine, brown dust through southern villages and towns,

  secreted and sweltering in the low scrubby hills,

  until it manifests in young men and boys,

  with a range of outsized and unwieldy weapons,

  held unsafely, discharging into the air,

  from the backs of unroadworthy pick-up trucks,

  as they drive in ill-disciplined convoy

  up and down the un-made streets of Juba.

   

  The disbelieving authorities,

  in the limitless sand-dunes of the north
ern deserts,

  parade their President and their power,

  exuding threats and violence in a crazy dance

  in the shimmering streets of the capital,

  under a fly-over of two disreputable military planes

  showing the remnants of government insignia.

   

  Authority and power, lost by some

  and gained by some,

  while the outward manifestation of changing times

  is the utility loads of young men,

  firing into the southern sky and the northern dust,

  magnifying their menace

  with cheap, reflective sun glasses

  and fingers on triggers.

   

  Tuesday 4 September 2012 4 pm

  An Extraordinary Woman

  Connie Howell

  Wentworth Falls, NSW

  On a cool morning in May, Claire entered the world of two people once hopelessly in love but now bitter strangers.

  He, the father, had seen too much war, too much pain and too much suffering. He numbed the memories with too much alcohol.

  She, once the happy bride, now the mother of her fourth child, bore no resemblance to the vibrant woman she once was or hoped to be.

  Such is life.

  For Claire life began in an ordinary town, in an ‘ordinary’ family with few hopes or dreams of ever being anything other than, well, ordinary.

  The unspoken rule was blend in, don’t stand out, have no real aspirations just in case they aren’t realised and try not to inspire anyone else.

  Looking back as a sixty year old, Claire was amazed at how from those beginnings she now understood that her life was far from ordinary, indeed she led an extraordinary life full of adventure and amazing opportunities. She, in fact, was extraordinary. Without ever having realised it she had become someone who did inspire others, who did have dreams and hopes and who helped those she came in contact with to rekindle their broken imaginings of who they could be and what they could achieve.

  Over the years of growing up her obvious talent for writing and love of words had been stymied by clichés that had been invented to discourage real effort just in case failure ensued. Maybe they were designed to protect her from such failure but unknowingly they created a constant theme of under achievement.

  In a burst of creative talent in her forties Claire did break out of the fog of disbelief for a short while and wrote a book. After many endeavours to have it published and being rejected over and over she bought back into the illusion that she obviously did not have enough talent, being told things such as ‘your work doesn’t have the necessary thumb print’. What the hell was a thumb print anyway?

  Having dipped her toe in the infuriating realm of literary genius of which she fell short she moved on. Moving on was something she had become proficient at especially in the area of personal aspirations yet something constantly nagged at the back of her mind wanting recognition, expression and expansion.

  Maybe she didn’t have a book in her but perhaps she had wisdom to impart in small doses. Hadn’t her mother always said ‘good things come in small packages’? Claire felt the sense that of all the women in her family she had the most obvious potential and opportunity to fulfil some of her deepest desires and that she could honour her ancestors by doing it for ‘all of them’. She knew that her mother and her grandmothers all made sacrifices in their lives and that somehow she needed to break the mould of suffering and become magnificent and shine. She needed to prove, if only to herself that no matter what your background is everyone has a talent unique and special to them and if not shared and expressed it remains a seed starved of growth and so is only ever a potential that never sees the light of day.

  Life is short and unpredictable.

  Both her parents had died at an age not much older than what Claire was now so the urge to live life was uppermost in her thoughts. She resolved to be healthier and more alert to the wonders of the world. She had witnessed their lives full of shattered beliefs, broken promises and bitter disappointments. Claire for many years of her life had headed down the same road, making the same mistakes, feeling the same sorrows but somehow within her lived a strength that saved her from total destruction and mindless living and she saw meaning in the suffering and learnt from it.

  Life is for living.

  To embrace life with all its facets is remarkable in itself. To accept the good the bad and the ugly and yet still find beauty in every day is to know forgiveness and feel forgiven is one of life’s most beautiful gifts.

  After a recent trip to South America, one of the many special events in her life, Claire began to realise that far from being ordinary her life had taken many turns into the realm of extraordinary to wake her up and remind he that she is not the ordinary person she had always believed herself to be. What a revelation. How could she have lived in denial for so long? How effective familial programming can be!

  She had met Inca Shamans in Peru, seen the Pyramids and Sphinx, meditated near a vortex of energy in Sedona and received a momentous healing at the foot of Glastonbury Tor.

  Healing is possible. In fact you have to try really hard not to receive healing in all its many forms, but then you might have to wake up and participate in more than daily routine.

  No, life itself is no ordinary event, Claire is no ordinary woman and every day is a goldmine of extraordinary moments, for everyone.

   

  Wednesday 5 September 2012

  The Lunatic – Prologue

  Paris Portingale

  Mt Victoria, NSW

  Cochran and Estermyer were over in a corner of the Day Room. Cochran was in the middle of trying to talk Estermyer into having his fortune told. Cochran had his cards out and he was flicking the deck.

  Estermyer was saying, ‘I don’t want to know, Cochran, I’m not interested.’

  Cochran said, ‘Come on, Estermyer. I’m going to do it for free. Just for you. Just this once. Won’t cost you a thing.’

  ‘I don’t want my fortune told. Go and tell someone else their fortune. Look, there’s Anderson, go and tell him his fortune.’

  Cochran shook his head. ‘Anderson won’t let me.’

  ‘Well, do Vickers then.’ Vickers was on the other side of the room in his wheelchair, drooling.

  ‘Even Vickers won’t let me, and he’s not even conscious. You’re my last chance, Estermyer.’

  ‘No,’ Estermyer said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t want to know.’

  ‘That’s crazy. Of course you want to know.’

  ‘No I don’t.’

  ‘Why, because you’re afraid it’ll be something bad?’

  ‘Amongst other things.’

  ‘Okay, how about this – if it’s something bad I won’t tell you.’

  ‘Cochran, if I let you read my fortune and you don’t tell me what it is I’ll know it’s something bad, clearly.’

  Cochran considered this for a moment, then said, ‘Okay then, how about this – if it’s bad I’ll make something up. Like I’ll say you’re going to win the lottery.’

  ‘You’re an idiot, Cochran.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because now, if you tell me I’m going to win the lottery, I’m going to know you’re making it up and it really is something bad.’ Estermyer wiggled in his chair. ‘This is ridiculous. Look, Roylston’s just come in. Go and tell Roylston his fortune.’

  ‘He won’t let me. Please, Estermyer, you’re my last chance here.’

  A new stack of magazines had just come in that morning and Estermyer had pulled out all the ‘Scientific Americans.’ They were in a pile on the table beside him. Estermyer had a disorder that included, among other things, alternative personalities. He had three others in there with him and one of them was a person called Cosmo and he was giving Estermyer a hard time because he wanted Cochran to fuck off so he could have a look at some article on particle physics.

  Estermyer said,
‘If I let you tell me my fortune will you fuck off?’

  ‘Fuck right off. Fuck straight off, I swear.’

  Estermyer sighed. He said, ‘Okay then. Make it quick though.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Cochran told him and he dealt the top card of his deck onto the table, looked at it and said, ‘Oh fuck,’ and went over into the corner and threw up his breakfast.

  All this happened on the Thursday. Fenstermacher the Nazi was due to come in the next day, the Friday. The day before Fenstermacher came in was always a bit of a nervy day because nobody knew who he was going to work on. It was always a sort of lottery, with Fenstermacher in charge of all the little numbered balls. Nobody liked having to see Dr Fenstermacher. He was a Nazi in the last war, in charge of psychological experiments, he had all the signs. He called himself Dr Bethlehem because it sounded Jewish and he thought it would throw people off the scent, but I knew his name was really something like Fenstermacher and he was a Nazi. I actually wanted to kill him, and I mean that in quite a real and literal sense …

  This is the opening chapter of a novel entitled ‘The Lunatic’, written last year and sitting at the moment in the second to bottom drawer of Paris’ desk, waiting to be discovered and awarded a Pulitzer prize, or at the very least a Nobel for the advancement of literature. Paris has promised that if you want to know what’s in the very bottom drawer, and you are not a person easily made queasy, then you can email him at parisportingale[at]bigpond.com. He assures you, at the very least, you won’t be disappointed. We beg to differ and take no responsibility for anyone who takes him up on this offer!

   

  Thursday 6 September 2012

  All Quiet In The Bell Tower

  Anthony J. Langford

  Belfield, NSW

  It was one of those hot days where you can see the air rising up out of the ground yet being the holidays, people braved it nonetheless. A blonde haired woman in her early thirties came through the gate into the small fenced playground, which held host to three children, their supervising father and his sister and another man not connected to them who was gliding gently on a swing with his one year old daughter on his lap. The little girl was as thrilled as could be.

  The well-dressed woman in her early thirties was not alone. With her was her young German Shepherd. She said, ‘Ooh, let’s play.’ Her boyfriend or husband hung back by the gate, dutiful but ill at ease.

  ‘Come with mummy,’ she said, trying to get the dog to scale a metal latticework that led to the mouth of a slide. Was this to be her target?

  One of the children, a girl around eight, seeing that a large animal was on its way up, hastily went down the slide, not enjoying it the way she had planned.

  With not a small amount of rear thrusting from its owner, the bewildered dog scrambled to the platform, the woman almost frothing as she joined it. ‘Oooh, let’s go down the sliiiiide!’

  The children, the adult siblings and the man on the swing watched on, quietly stunned, if not a touch troubled, but the baby girl, oblivious, continued to enjoy her rush through the breeze though it was at a more languid pace than moments before and daddy had ceased all of his entertaining sound effects.

  The dog bobbed its head, hesitant about going down the slide at all, but its owner was insistent. ‘Mumsie’s right behind you sweetie! Mumsie’s here. Off you go now.’ The dog, having no choice that it could discern, half scampered, half slipped down the metal embankment, happy to reach ground unscathed as Mumsie, ‘Weeeee’d’ behind it.

  The daddy brought the swing to a halt, a dagger in each eye. The little girl thrust her legs, wanting more.

  The woman led the dog on a fast trot around the inside perimeter of the playground, either enjoying the attention or completely unaware of it, her grin euphoric as she finally traversed the gate, where the sign clearly stated, ‘No animals’. The dog was overwhelmed to be out and her partner tailed listlessly behind as she continued on her suddenly not so merry way. Just before they were lost from view behind a hedge, the woman was heard by all to say to her partner in a tone not far removed by that to a naughty pet, ‘Will you hurry up? Mum and Dad are waiting!’

  There was a lingering lifeless legacy at the playground, except for the baby, who had given up kicking her legs and now slumped forward, defeated.

   

  Friday 7 September 2012 8 am

  Shadows

  Ruth Withers

  Uarbry, NSW

  Who brought the shadows here again?!

  They’re back! They’ve come back!

  They breed. They brood.

  They slither and slide across

  The fields of Sanity.

  They ooze and bleed from

  The trees of Stability.

  They seep through the bandages of normalcy

  To infect the raw wounds of Decency.

  The sun is defeated again

  And as she flees, she cries

  Acid tears on which the shadows feed.

  They slurp. They bloat.

  They burn. They sludge.

  They disfigure and deface

  The visage of Wisdom.

  They smother and rape

  The mind of Knowledge.

  They strangle the children of Loyalty

  And violate the body of Love.

  The shadows have won forever

  And as we die, we cry.

   

  Friday 7 September 2012 4 pm

  Resignation

  A.J. Reed

  Knoxfield, Victoria

  Who is that odd man who sits at the corner table in quiet solitude? The barman and other patrons cast an occasional glance in his direction. Why does he sit there, alone, studying the empty glass in front of him like it was an intricate work of art? He’s been doing that for close to an hour. What is he thinking? Their glances, and thoughts, however, are only occasional, and brief. They quickly lose interest, and return to their conversations.

  The object of this mild curiosity, having tired of studying his finger nails, returns his attention to the glass in front of him. He has an empty stomach, though he has no desire for food, and the whiskey has gone straight to his head. Once again, he considers ordering another one, and, once again, he resists the temptation. Not that the temptation was that great to begin with. Yes, he could drown his sorrows. But to what end? What would he gain, other than momentary relief? What would he have to show for it the next day, other than a headache and an empty wallet? The emptiness, the loneliness, and the bitter frustration would still be there.

  Besides, he has seen, first hand, what drink can do to a person. He has seen what it has done to her. He thinks of her now. A weak, pathetic shell of what had once been a human being, completely governed by her fears and her destructive addiction. The love he had once felt for her has long since been replaced by a curious mixture of contempt and pity. And abhorrence. He is governed by many of the same fears as she, but is quietly determined to rise above them. He is determined never to turn into that. Of all the many fears that govern his existence, that is probably the single greatest one of them all. With furrowed brow, he lowers his head, and closes his eyes.

  An explosion of raucous laughter from the far end of the bar jolts him out of his melancholy reverie. He glances at the half dozen or so men, still in their fluorescent waistcoats and steel-capped boots, beer in hand, celebrating the end of another working day. He is supremely jealous of them. He has almost forgotten what it is like to be happy and carefree, enjoying the simple pleasures of life.

  In a way, he looks down his nose at them. Why? Because they are happy with their simple lot in life, content to live life day-to-day, with little concern for the world outside the sphere of their immediate friends and family, with no dreams or aspirations for something better. In a way, however, he also admires them. Why? Because they are happy with their simple lot in life, content to live life day-to-day, with little concern for the world outside the sphere of their immediate friends and family, with no dreams or aspi
rations for something better. They aren’t constantly tortured by the potential of a better and more fulfilling life, tantalisingly just beyond their reach.

  His eyes return to the polished wooden surface of the table. He picks up the cardboard coaster, and idly toys with it. His mind wanders back to that afternoon, and the bitter sweet cup of coffee he had shared with an old friend. There is a genuine bond of friendship between the two men, yet, simultaneously, an impenetrable wall between them. Both men have their own problems to deal with, and their own lives to lead. He has many friends. Or, rather, friendly acquaintances. He works hard to make people like him, and he generally succeeds. There are even a select few who genuinely care for him. Why, then, is he so desperately lonely?

  Smash! The barman drops a glass. Laughter, and the inevitable, ‘Taxi!’ He is thankful, at least, that the depression that had been weighing him down for so long has finally lifted. Though, instead of the optimism that he had been hoping for, it has instead been replaced by a solemn resignation. He has yet to abandon his dreams. They may still be within his grasp, although it will be a very long time before he will be able to fulfil them. But he has accepted the fact that they are, perhaps, just a little too lofty and unrealistic. Perhaps he may have to accept his limitations and settle on second best. If this happens, life will go on. He will learn to laugh and smile again. He will learn to enjoy life again. But there will always, in the back of his mind, be a twinge of sadness. And sometimes, in the dim twilight between wake and sleep, he will think of those old dreams of so long ago, bury his face in his pillow, and, in his large and lonely bed, weep silent and bitter tears, heard by no one but himself, as he mourns the loss of what might have been.

  He glances at his watch. Once again, he’s lost track of time. He rises slowly, and, unnoticed, walks towards the door. ‘That’ll be eight fifty, thanks, mate.’ The barman holds out his hand, while a slightly inebriated customer hands him a ten dollar note, and looks up just long enough to notice as the unknown man opens the door, steps outside, and is quickly swallowed up by the black night. An odd one, all right, he thinks, as he rings up the cash register. Wonder what he was thinking?

   

  Saturday 8 September 2012 8 pm

  Lightning Ridge

  Rimeriter

  Lansvale, NSW

  Opal

  was first collected

  as being pretty, colourful stones

  picked up from on the surface near bleached white animal bones

  close to the Queensland border near a town called Angledool,

  by a woman – Mrs Ryan, then it was Charlie Nettleton’s rule.

   

  These fields can call the fossicker to seek a fortune still,

  you need plenty of perseverance and the old-time strength of will

  but you'd better take your camping gear, or at least a swag

  because back there in the early days it was just a hessian bag

  to provide some with their comfort or at the least some ease,

  the modern times adventurer is bloody ’ard to please.

  So continue your exploring, there is a place to rent,

  it ’as some creature comforts that’s if you’re intent

  to visit this piece of history, this dusty outback town,

  learn about its reputation,

  why

  some never wear a frown.

   

  Sunday 9 September 2012

  Ma Wee Pawky Thing

  Alexander Gardiner

  Bullaburra, NSW

  Fur aw the Scots at hert

  an’ aw those yins that would like tae be:)

   

  Hello yea bonny wee pawky thing,

  sittin’ there tuggin’ at ma hert strings.

  Aye yer wee, an’ oan yer oan yer hard tae see,

  niver mind wee thing jist let it be.

   

  Withoot you, we wid hae a scunnered land,

  aye wee thing yea think yer oanly a wan man band,

  Help tho’ is niver sae far away,

  life's dramas are nae a’ways dark an’ grey.

   

  Yer mair important than yea think,

  mair important than oanything that’s gone extinct.

  Withoot you an’ aw yer like kind.

  this wurld wid be in a massive bind.

   

  So wee thing get rid o’ that pawky look,

  yer really a giant in oany history book.

  Since the beginning, you have been there to provide,

  so yer wee sel’, behind a bushel please dinny hide.

   

  Yer no’ stonnin’ there oan yer oan yea ken,

  yea hiv hunners an’ hunners o’ ither frien’s.

  Oan iv’ry country an’ continent yea hav’ many kin.

  fur eons an eons that’s a’ways bin.

   

  Dayin’ yer very very important job,

  so ma wee courin’ thing dinny sob.

  Be a happy pert o’ this wurld sae great,

  yer up there in lights, aye wee thing, that’s yer fate.

   

  Yer fate tae provide fur aw this world’s life,

  withoot yer life givin’ skills, we wid be in strife.

  Naw!! No’ in strife, cos wee widnae be here,

  so ma bonny wee pawky thing, ston’ up an’ cheer.

   

  Ston’ up ston’ up, fur heaven’s sake,

  Ston’ up ston’ up, a great bow, please take.

  Nae langer be a wee quiet gentle pawky thing,

  cos great nourishing life you duly bring.

   

  Oh ah ken it’s no oan yer oan yea achieve sae much,

  miracles oan yer oan there is really nonesuch.

  But wae aw yer mullins an’ mullians oh kin yea have,

  yea kin feed them aw, like the proverbial fatted calf.

   

  Yea see noo, yer nae langer a wee pawky thing,

  wae aw yer greenie pals tae the world, greatness yea bring.

  Taegither yea will clan, an’ nae langer be a wan man band,

  wae aw yer kin an’ their amazin’ skills at hand.

   

  Aw yea amazin’ wee verdant clever thing,

  yea ken noo join wae yer pals tae bring.

  Feed the masses aw aroon the world,

  let yer flag of knowledge be unfurled.

   

  Yea thocht yea wir jist a wee singular thing,

  but now yea ken yer pals arrr around, tae bring.

  Aye, aw yer pals, arr’ a touch o’ class,

  nae langer ma wee thing are yea jist wan wee blade o’ grass.

   

  Monday 10 September 2012

  Illusion

  Robyn Chaffey

  Hazelbrook, NSW

  The rock upon which he sat was arm-chair shaped. It was as though nature’s forces over the years had known that any man who had made the effort to come here would feel the need to sit long and to contemplate; to dwell first upon the awesome wonder of the vista which surrounded him, then … almost without exception his thought would meander as he looked inward then considered those ‘others’ he had known … does now know … on then to the life he has lived … would wish to live … his actions and their repercussions … his place … indeed, his purpose on this planet.

  The cool, granite armchair was a natural formation. None was ever better carved or placed.

  Such a place was this!

  It felt as though one were upon the very pinnacle of the world. More than that! It felt, from the moment one arrived there, as though the very earth had gently formed itself around him in a gentle embrace.

  Though the climb to this point had been made in company, the occupier of the ‘chair’, without any choice or care, had been sucked into an illusion of absolute aloneness … at-one-ness … a spirit fusion with the deep things of Earth’s being.

  He was, in heart and mind now, in a momentary state of transce
ndent oblivion to all, human or otherwise, which might pierce the force-field of his focus. Slowly and involuntarily his head turned from one side to the other and back again. Without conscious command at times it stopped to allow his eyes better to drink in the serenity and the wonder of some specific aspect of this kingdom … and this would cause his heart to swell and his lungs to swoon at the fresh fragrance of the joy … the peace … all of which was always there in life yet seldom felt or tasted in this cacophonous living we’ve developed.

  From his elevated throne, borrowed from nature for the shortest time, a metamorphose had begun … a healing.

  He could see, it seemed, for ever. The world below looked like a painting composed by some world class artist. The outlines of its features softly smudged and blended as though to suggest that no one element could, or would ever wish to exist without all others. A world at one!

  Could it, the question rose within his being, actually include the man?

  Tuesday 11 September 2012

  Poem For New York

  David Anderson

  Woodford, NSW

  Some left home alone or a kiss at the door

  Walked, car or by train like often before

  After coffee and small talk they rose to the sky

  Sadly not knowing it was their last goodbye

   

  The morning began there was much work to do

  But not far away there was fear in the crews

  Of four jet airliners diverted in time

  To be turned into weapons of infamous crime

   

  The buildings were shattered, the horror began

  How could humans do this to their fellow man

  Terror then spread to every floor

  Their families and friends would see them no more

   

   New York New York we’re bleeding for you

   But we know your spirit will see you through

   New York New York you’ll all join your hands

   And rise up together to make a stand

   

  Again terror struck, this time from the South

  ‘The Pentagon’s Hit!’ cried from every mouth

  We surely are dreaming as we rubbed our eyes

  But this nightmare is real as death rained from the skies

   

  Near Pittsburgh brave men fought for control

  This one’s lost its aim – they saved many souls

  As people ran down the towers to flee

  Bold men climbed up, to help and to free

   

  The first one, the next one, a terrible sound

  The twin towers crumbled into the ground

  Manhattan to Staten from Harlem to Queens

  People will never forget these cruel scenes

   

  New York New York we’re grieving with you

  But we know your spirit will see you through

  New York New York, you’ll all join your hands

  And rise up together to make a stand

   

  But the New Yorker spirit you never can breech

  As the President said, and the Psalm it did teach

  Though ‘the shadow of death’ may pass by our heart

  We’ll show no fear, it can’t tear us apart

   

  While we’ll never forget the souls that were lost

  Justice will triumph whatever the cost

  Though you are weary and tired to the bone

  Many homelands lost loved ones, you won’t pray alone

   

  New York New York, we’re crying for you

  But we know your spirit will see you through

  New York New York you’ll all join your hands

  And rise up together to make a stand

   

  As the Statue of Liberty raises her hand

  We’ll mourn the dead, then strike up the band

  Then turn to ‘Old Glory’ and sing no retreat

  And walk closer together when we meet in the street

   

  New York New York, we’re crying for you

  But we know your spirit will see you through

  New York New York you’ll all join your hands

  And rise up together to make a stand

  David says: On the morning of 9/11, I was working with the public on Hazelbrook Station. I had a TV in the Waiting Room and had to deal with everyone’s grief throughout the day. I arrived home shattered and picked up my guitar. The song poured out as fast as I could write and only took about fifteen minutes.

  Editor’s Note: To our friends in the US, you may think that David is exaggerating about dealing with everyone’s grief that day, and while we ‘Down Under’ acknowledge that most of us were certainly not as tragically impacted as you or your fellow countrymen, 9/11 was a day when the world stood still for us, too, and grief certainly was one part of the equation here.

   

  Wednesday 12 September 2012 8 am

  Nature Study

  Brendan Doyle

  Wentworth Falls, NSW

  Ring-tails

  mating in the rhodos.

   

  She watches me,

  a bit anxious.

   

  He’s oblivious,

  gripping her from behind,

  slowly pumping away.

   

  She suddenly looks

  more nervous,

  disengages,

  jumps onto a higher branch.

   

  He just sits there

  looking dazed,

  licking his privates.

   

  Wednesday 12 September 2012 4 pm

  Fox Encounter

  Barry McGloin

  Holder, ACT

  The fox sprang down from the hill to my right

  barked at my intrusion and bounded

  onward downhill, leaping over the ground

  gracefully, its magnificent tail

  flagging disdain,

  towards the suburban citadel.

   

  I laughed and yelled oh yes surprised and jolted

  from reverie, as the fox had been jolted

  momentarily from flash descent

  and sharp intent

  the distinct scent of purpose

  perhaps of prey

  or mischief,

  focussed from brain to snout

  snout to tail.

   

  And as I descended I heard a clamour

  behind the fences

  as dogs aroused from sunny slumber

  had sniffed the scent of intent

  the full brush of wildness from

  the bush beyond

  as the fox just stood there proud

  and taunting

  and they sensed it in themselves

  and they envied the fox,

  and howled.

  We all did.

   

  Thursday 13 September 2012

  Fifteen, Homeless And Hungry

  Amber Johnson

  Highgate Hill, QLD

  The midday bells chimed through King George Square as I followed my fiancé like a shadow. I had to stay close as we waded through the sea of people or I risked getting caught in the wave of bodies that pushed in the opposite direction. As we reached the crossing, the signal blinked red.

  ‘Damn,’ I sighed. ‘We just missed it.’

  I glanced around and observed the scene around me. Across the road, a busker sang off-key to an old guitar. The few people who did drop change into the case were either masochists or deaf. Beside me, a group of Chinese girls were gibbering excitedly. Their hideous maroon skirts and broad brimmed hats indicated that they were seniors on their recess break. In the middle of the intersection, three plump women were handing out fliers, much to everyone’s inconvenience. They were positioned in such a way that it was impossible to dodge them. Everyone else stared across the street, waiting for the gree
n beacon like sprinters waiting for the pistol.

  I glanced around as I felt a tug on my shirt. Kevin’s hand rested on my side. His expression was grim.

  ‘Quick, empty your pockets and give me your change,’ he said frantically. I burrowed through my pockets and presented two silver coins.

  ‘Why?’ I asked, as I held out the change. He took my hand and dragged me back through the crowd. We were pushed and shoved as we squeezed through the temporary gaps between suitcases and shoulders. I yelped as a boot crushed my toe. The man glanced down then kept walking without a word.

  ‘Asshole,’ I muttered as Kevin pulled me aside. ‘What is it?’ I asked as we shuffled along the wall. He pointed until I followed he gaze to a stone stairwell. It blended into the walls like all of the display windows of stores beside it. A skinny boy sat on the third step back and watched the people wander by. By his feet was a piece of cardboard with ‘15 homeless and hungry’ scrawled in black marker. The plastic bucket he held in his hands had barely enough coins to line the bottom. Whilst his positioning ensured that he wouldn’t be trampled, he wasn’t overly visible to the passer by so donations were scarce.

  The boy glanced up at us as we approached. His pale blue irises shone with uncertainty. His muscles tensed as if he were ready to run. I glanced around, careful to dodge the crowds and dropped the eighty cents into the bucket. He smiled weakly and let his dirty locks fall in front of his eyes.

  Once I reached the crossing, I waited for the lights. His smile haunted me. It was only eighty cents but his chapped lips still parted in gratitude. It was a battle to force that smile when such overwhelming sadness choked him into silence.

  ‘I wish we had more,’ Kevin said, as if reading my mind. I nodded and followed the crowd across the street. I glanced into my grocery bags. Most of it was perishable and not really suitable for a child. I saw a block of chocolate at the bottom and pulled Kevin into a side street, out of the way.

  ‘Do you think we could give him the chocolate?’ I asked.

  ‘Sure, we could ask.’

  ‘I have to see if he is allergic first. I don’t want to make him sick,’ I added.

  ‘Let’s go back.’

  I didn’t want to wait for the lights so I jaywalked hastily. Horns sounded at me furiously but I kept running until I reached the steps.

  ‘Hey, do you like chocolate?’ I asked. He nodded slowly. I frowned to myself for not being clearer. ‘What I mean is, you’re not allergic or anything, are you?’

  ‘No,’ he mumbled meekly.

  ‘Here you go,’ I said as I handed him the block. His fingers trembled as they brushed against mine. He read the blue label and flushed red in the cheeks. That chocolate will barely last him a day. I frowned to myself as Kevin put his arm around me, reassuringly and led me back to the crossing.

  ‘He was nearly crying when you gave him the chocolate.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Then what’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s not enough.’

  ‘Yeah, but what else can we do?’ Kevin sighed. I thought about the possibilities. He doesn’t have a home and most likely dropped out of school. It isn’t right.

  ‘I wish I could help him find somewhere to stay,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, so do I.’

  ‘But it’s against the code of ethics to interfere unless the client actually asks for help finding accommodation.’

  ‘He’s not a client, Amber.’

  ‘I know,’ I said, ‘but it helps me to think in that kind of framework.’ I stopped in my tracks and smiled.

  ‘Can I go back to the shop and get him some things?’ I asked eagerly.

  ‘Sure,’ he said slowly, ‘but don’t get too much. We only have sixty dollars for food for the next week.’

  ‘Sure,’ I agreed. ‘I won’t get anything that will go off either.’

  ‘Get him some bread and something to put on it.’

  ‘I don’t know what to get though,’ I said. ‘I can’t get peanut butter in case he is allergic and he might not like Vegemite.’

  ‘Just get him some strawberry jam and make sure you get some plastic knives so he can spread it on the bread. I’ll wait out here.’

  ‘Okay!’ I yelled as I ran to the store.

  I ran down the escalator until I reached the bottom floor. My shoes squeaked as I bolted through Woolworths and navigated the aisles. Hanging from the ceiling were large aluminium boards that listed an assortment of items beneath a number. The sixth one listed bread, confectionary, and spreads so I took a sharp right. I scanned the shelves as I ran and grabbed the first loaf I saw. A few paces further, I found the jam and swiped it without pausing.

  The next aisle contained pasta, rice, and sauces, all good options for and cheap and easy meal. I dashed down the aisle and plucked a packet of spaghetti from the shelf and scooped a large bottle of pasta sauce into my arms. I juggled everything around to make sure nothing would fall and grabbed a packet of Cup-o’-soup as I went. I should have grabbed a basket, but there is no time for that, I thought.

  ‘Now I just need cutlery,’ I said to myself. None of the aisles nearby seemed to accommodate my need. Frustration brewed within me as I passed three more aisles. I couldn’t see them. Before giving up, I stalked around for an assistant. Their uniforms are a pale green shirt and black pants, I told myself as I scouted the area. That guy looks like … oh wait! Never mind. It’s the wrong uniform.

  As I paced the fruit section, a blonde clerk slowly drifted in my direction. She was staring idly at the wall until I jumped in front of her. She blinked.

  ‘Hi, do you know where the plastic knives and forks are?’ I asked. She took a moment to register what I said before she sluggishly turned around.

  ‘Um, I think it is that way. Right up the end in aisle err … ten I think.’ Before she finished her sentence, I had already taken off.

  People jumped out of my way as I ran past them. I was on an urgent mission and wasn’t going to stop for anyone. Gasps and startled whispers followed me throughout the store as I sped towards the bold number ten. Once I grabbed plastic forks, knives, and plates I dashed to the check out. A couple who were indecisively analysing the waiting time of two of the servers based on the line up and items presented were shocked as I jumped into the one on the left. I flashed a smile and packed my items onto the conveyor belt and ignored their indignant cries.

  As I waited for the woman in front to pay for her goods, I drifted into thought. Fifteen, homeless and hungry. The kid has got a way with words. There is something about its simplicity that is thought invoking.

  ‘Next please,’ the server said with a smile. ‘How are you today?’

  ‘I’m good thanks.’

  ‘Do you have a rewards card?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘That will be thirteen fifty. Do you want any cash out?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ I replied. ‘I would like to borrow a pen though, if you have one.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said with a smile and handed me one from his pocket. He watched me as I waited for the receipt.

  ‘I just need to write something once that prints out,’ I explained.

  ‘Oh! No worries!’ He handed me the receipt and I begin to scribble my name and number hastily. The cashier glanced over my shoulder and smiled eagerly.

  ‘Thanks!’ I said as I returned the pen and pocketed the receipt. He frowned in confusion and disappointment as I skipped out the door.

  As I headed back to the stairwell, I flipped my phone out of my pocket and pressed auto-dial.

  ‘Hey, honey. I’m outside.’

  ‘I’ll meet you there then.’

  ‘Okay. Bye.’

  I swerved in and out of the crowd. People walked straight at me, no matter what side of the path I walked. Bloody hell! Doesn’t anyone know how to keep left? I thought as I jogged towards the stairwell.

  ‘I’m back again,’ I puffed between breaths. I sat beside him and smiled. He watched silently as I put two bags of g
roceries in front of him.

  ‘It’s not much,’ I admitted, ‘but it will get you through a few days if you’re careful. I got some jam, bread, pasta and a few other things. I also wrote my number down on this receipt,’ I said as I handed him the scrunched up piece of paper. ‘If you need help, please call, okay?’ The boy blinked and reached out for my number.

  ‘Th-thank you,’ he whispered and examined the curly scrawl.

  ‘It’s a bit messy.’

  ‘I can read it.’

  Kevin walked over and glanced up at us. He smiled warmly at the boy and waved.

  ‘Okay, well I have to go now,’ I said.

  As I walked away, I glanced over my shoulder. The boy was rummaging through the silver plastic like he was tearing wrapping off Christmas presents. His cheeks shone with tears and his smile was genuine. I smiled to myself, but I knew it wouldn’t last.

  A week later, the food was gone. He still slept under bridges and begged for money in the square. Nights were still filled with silent cries as he pined for a mother to hug him and tuck him in at night. My aid may have eased his aching belly and helped him battle through the week, but it wasn’t enough. He still was fifteen, homeless, and hungry.

  Amber wrote this to bring us a confronting experience of homeless youth in Australia.

   

  Friday 14 September 2012

  A Child's Windows

  Alexandra P

  Kallaroo, WA

  I’ve opened up my windows,

  so you can see what lies within

  But your windows have security screens

  that keeps reality from peeking in

   

  If you cannot see inside me

  Then I’ll play you a little song

  Then maybe you can hear me

  And notice what is wrong

   

  The melody has played a while now

  It must be too soft to hear

  I need to keep turning it up

  so it increases with my fear

   

  Seasons keep on changing

  the wind is blowing strong

  I keep turning up this music

  The windows won’t stay open long

   

  Can you not feel the vibrations?

  Or see the walls of my heart shake?

  I can’t turn this volume up any louder

  It’s too loud for me to take

   

  How can’t you hear this screaming song?

  that’s playing from my soul

  the beat is thumping faster now

  I don’t think these walls will hold

   

  The music has stopped playing now

  As dead silence fills the air

  I’m sorry I couldn’t get you to hear

  The song I tried to share

   

  I’m closing up these windows now

  and shutting the curtains to my soul

  I couldn’t keep the windows open anymore

  The wind just got too cold

   

  I’ll open them again one day

  But first I need to plant some seeds

  and I’ll play my music once again

  When the seeds have turned to trees

  This is the first poem Alexandra has ever written about her childhood of sexual abuse. It’s about her screaming from the inside to look deeper and see what is happening; about giving up trying to tell someone and holding onto the hope of one day having the courage to try again. Alexandra says she has always loved to write but only started poetry ‘today’ – the day she wrote this poem.

  Ed: Thanks to Alexandra we’ve been alerted to the existence of Bravehearts – an organisation which aims to (from their website):

   

  ‘Break the Silence’, provide healing and support, engender child sexual assault prevention and protection strategies; advocate for understanding and promote increased education and research.

  For more information or to help this worthy cause, please visit the Bravehearts website at https://www.bravehearts.org.au/

   

  Saturday 15 September 2012

  Believing In Ghosts

  Judith La Porte

  Monash, ACT

  ‘This must be your haunted house,’ said Gerry to Eve, slowing the car and turning it into the gravelled driveway of Bayleton Guesthouse. He pulled up beside an ornamental pond in front of the house and peered through the windscreen.

  Neatly pruned rose bushes grew against the wooden fence bordering the house; the patchy yellowing lawn had recently been mown. The late afternoon sun shone weakly on the purple and white flag lilies lining the red dirt path to the verandah steps.

  Eve got out of the car and leaned against the bonnet. She was a tall pretty woman in her late thirties, dressed in jeans and a white long-sleeved cotton shirt. Removing her sunglasses she gazed at the elegant two-storey house.

  Built in 1885 near the small rural town of Bayletonville, the house had been a private residence to several families over the years. The current owners, Enid and George Lund, had renovated extensively and transformed it into a comfortable and well-maintained guesthouse.

  ‘What do you think, Rick?’ said Eve, turning to Gerry’s 15 year old son who stood beside her. His curly auburn hair shone in the sun.

  Rick’s pale green eyes scanned the upstairs wrought iron balcony with intense interest. Eve could sense tension in his slender body.

  Suddenly he grinned. ‘Sweet,’ he said, tucking his hands into his jeans pockets.

  Both she and Gerry had been surprised when Rick had asked if he could accompany them on their weekend’s stay at Bayleton. Eve, a freelance journalist, was researching an article on Australian ghosts and hauntings. The house had a reputation as a haunted dwelling − there had been several sightings by the owners and guests of ghostly figures, and reports of other supernatural manifestations.

  Gerry, an atheist and a ghost sceptic, had offered to share a room with Rick, in case he felt apprehensive. But his son had refused.

  ‘I’m not a little kid, dad,’ he had said.

  As Gerry was removing their luggage from the boot, the Lunds appeared at the front door.

  ‘The Addams Family,’ whispered Gerry to Rick, and snapped his fingers twice.

  Enid, a small trim woman with grey curls, smiled at them shyly. She nervously smoothed down her crisp floral apron. Towering over his wife, George gave each of the arrivals a welcoming handshake.

  Eve stepped into the cool dark hallway. A striking antique brass light hanging from the ceiling caught her attention. The dark-blue floral wallpaper looked relatively new. She tilted back her head slightly and breathed deeply. The atmosphere was palpable. The obvious cleanliness could not quite dispel a faint stale and mouldy smell.

  Eve shivered slightly. There is a presence here, she thought, and a feeling of profound sadness.

  Although never having encountered any ghosts herself, Eve was a firm believer in the existence of spirits. She hoped that something ghostly would happen during the weekend, and not just because of the article she was writing.

  Her Irish grandmother, Kathleen, had held an unashamed and innocent belief in ghosts, banshees and even leprechauns. In rural Ireland, where Kathleen grew up, the supernatural was not something to be fearful of, but a normal part of the scheme of things, like death. It sat comfortably in Kathleen’s world, alongside her unquestioning religious faith.

  As a child, Eve loved to nestle in her grandmother’s lap and listen to her tales of spirits and fairies.

  Eve glanced back at Gerry coming through the doorway with their two small suitcases. He was there for her sake only and thought ghosts and hauntings were, as he put it, ‘a crock’.

  She smiled at him fondly. Gerry was so practical and down-to-earth. A widower of two years when they had met last year, he always seemed a little overwhelmed, dealing with a teenage son still grieving for his dead mother. His handsome face l
ooked tired as usual.

  ‘Dinner at seven,’ said Enid, as they prepared to follow her up the carpeted stairway to their rooms. ‘In there.’ She pointed to a doorway off the hall. ‘You are our only guests tonight so we will join you.’

  ‘Take this,’ George said, handing Gerry a brochure which he had taken from the cedar hall table. ‘That’ll give you a brief history of the place, including a description of our resident ghosts.’ He winked at Rick. ‘Don’t worry, mate, all friendly, like Casper.’