narratorAUSTRALIA Volume One

by narrator AUSTRALIA

  ~~~

  When Eve came into the breakfast room she was holding a small book, its cover mottled and tattered. Her brown-framed spectacles were perched on the end of her nose.

  Gerry and Rick sat at the oval-shaped breakfast table. Rick’s face was slightly puffy but held a goofy grin.

  Gerry appeared shaken and bewildered. He had decided not to tell Eve, and certainly not Rick, about his strange experience in the parlour. The whole incident had been a bizarre illusion, he concluded. He must have been hallucinating. He had been feeling unwell since the previous day. Or more likely it had been some elaborate trick set up by George because of his vocal scepticism about their ridiculous ghosts.

  The sound of clattering dishes and the murmuring voices of the Lunds came from the kitchen.

  Eve held up the book. ‘This is so interesting,’ she said, failing to notice the unusual demeanours of both Gerry and Rick. ‘I found it in that bookcase on the landing. It’s called The Visitor of Death and Other Ghostly Manifestations. Published in 1952. One of the stories is about a woman called Mary Donnelly who lived in Bayletonville in the 1930s.’

  Gerry looked up sharply.

  Eve continued. ‘Mary was the wife of the Bayletonville undertaker. Apparently she was feared by the locals because, if anyone was ill, she visited them, dressed in black and stared at them. The sick person usually died shortly after her visit. The word in the village was that she was hastening business for her husband.’

  Eve went on, unaware of Gerry’s mounting agitation. ‘She had two different coloured eyes. According to superstition that indicates a person has the evil eye. Since her death her ghost has been seen occasionally in Bayletonville.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘She must be the Staring Woman mentioned in the guesthouse brochure!’

  Then she saw the look of fear on Gerry’s white face.

  None of them noticed George Lund standing silently in the doorway to the breakfast room, holding a laden tray. He was looking at Gerry and shaking his head sadly.

  At that moment the sky darkened and the rain that had been threatening all morning began pelting down noisily.

   

  Sunday 16 September 2012

  My Plea, My Son

  Kai Maddever

  Baulkham Hills, NSW

  To my Son

  and the world,

   

  At about the time most boys learnt to tie their shoelaces into a knot, one boy learnt to write. He wrote in a language only understood by him. This communication was founded within the innermost emotions of his heart, transformed into letters and sonnets reverberating the complex harmonies of life. These letters were smeared with the ink of heaven, yet he did not write a word. It was the rhythm of his fingers that could spark knowledge, love, passion and freedom; for in a pair, his mind and his talent were one in the same. He was not his own. God ruled the mind of this one, for there was no doubt this gift, as large as the world was given ears, would mature to be his greatest blessing and his greatest curse. He was many things, but for the sake of the ink produced by my quill, he was most importantly my Son.

  His first three years, his breath ran parallel to ours, his life was ours, he was in our world and he was one of us. Like many, I had developed skills throughout my life as both a father and an arts instructor. It was these skills that I intended to utilise to bring forth the unique character imbedded within my Son. Little did I realise how truly unique he really would become.

  On his third birthday, as if the Divine had played a chord, the realms within his cranium erupted with a fascination for music. He would sit, legs dangling, grin beaming at me, in front of his three-legged voice. The black and ivory would be splayed out on the end of the mahogany wood, like soldiers, distinct, and the same. Each one served a purpose, each one a tool for the master of five years of age to manipulate and to serve.

  He played, taught by his eyes and ears, educated by watching his sister's fingers. I would have no choice but to sit and soak in the living mood that swept through my house. Like the plague, it was infectious. The pure sweetness of pride that I tasted while I listened came not due to the honey flowing through my ears, but due to the pleasure I received asking him to slow down so that I could transcribe what mysteries the heavens would have flood my house.

  This abnormal growth within him trapped his mind and body from venturing outside his comfort and his house. From this seclusion, his talent grew like the plants do from the sun. He would play over hours. Like Shakespeare, time was lost, and every sound became alive and relevant. I would never have dreamt such genius would manifest itself through such small fingers, especially from my own blood, my own seed.

  It was about the time he was ten when I realised: Where were his companions? His allies? The only ones he wrote, listened or talked to were the ivory soldiers stretched out before him. Conversation was negligible when music was not the primary focus and any mutter of other people or social necessities purged a shiver both down his spine and the music from his keys. As if all social connections were replaced by his genius.

  It was not as if we were out-cast by fault of our financial status, in fact, we were drawn in by society because of our wealth and his fame. Fame ... of all the greatness to be hyper-sensitive to … he chooses FAME! There was so much pride in my heart for my Son and for who he was but something wasn’t right. Something I couldn't see.

  I took him to see professional people, people who could fix his way of thinking, change who he was. However, something even worse diseased the air that he breathed. I organised gatherings and music groups but like-minded and like-skilled kids were extraordinarily difficult to come by. I forced him to read about fictional characters brought into life by men who had skill with paper and quill, to withdraw the inner adventurer I so desperately wished was not asleep, trapped inside him. But he never woke up, never came out. Was there even one at all?

  His unparalleled abilities took him beyond the skies. As he grew up and left home, I couldn't help but wonder how he would get through life without knowing how to relate to others in a way they could relate to him.

  Tears swelled and blurred the base of all my sight as I pondered how the world could know him, appreciate him, accept him, yet he did not know, appreciate or accept the world.

  He was approached by many famous writers and performers and I occasionally played with him on the violin. I became old, and he kept playing, but it never came through to me why he was not prepared to change to benefit himself, or society.

  The interviews were curious things. As if the individual on the other side of the questions had been transformed into a soldier, his communication skills brightened up. Of course, the talk was almost unquestionably music related but there was communication never the less.

  It has taken me 68 years, to realise my Son is My Son. He is who he is. If the Supreme Being would have him disabled in the ability to communicate in language he was most certainly compensated with the rare, immortal gift of communication through music.

  So upon my deathbed I apologise to my Son, for everything I did to reverse what I was clouded into believing was alienation. When upon actual matter, this seclusion and anti-socialism was his, one seat, transportation into immortality within the music that he created by the quill protruding from his hand.

  Leopold Georg Mozart

  Salzburg 1787

  Kai wrote this ‘letter’ for the HSC when he was just 17 years old. Kai loves literature just as much as he has a passion for music – he feels like they slip together quite well as far as creative writing goes. The challenge proposed for the above asked for a piece with a theme of belonging. He hopes he achieved it.

   

  Monday 17 September 2012 8 am

  Dainty Daisies

  Linda Callaghan

  Bullaburra, NSW

  Pretty faces and white petals surround

  dainty daisies growing from the ground.

  Spring has sprung and the show begins,

  flo
wers bloom and a bird sings.

  Time to celebrate what we see,

  the beauty is there for you and me.

  Daisies push and twist their way to the top,

  And greet the day, they do not stop.

  In all their splendour they put on a show,

  and gracefully exit as others grow.

   

  Monday 17 September 2012 4 pm

  Becoming Colour

  Michele Fermanis-Winward

  Leura, NSW

  A tinge is seeping in,

  the shadow on a veil,

  diffuse as mist

  that floats and drifts

  eludes what can be named.

   

  It flows into a form

  where tone can be defined,

  builds from a shim,

  solidifies, becomes a shade

  that ripens into hue.

   

  Flushed delicate to bright,

  then blazing as it saturates,

  continues into tertiary

  devours what had been light

  and claims itself as black.

   

  Tuesday 18 September 2012 8 am

  Adequate Time

  Aaron Carl

  Springwood, NSW

  When you remember things you have done

   And the things you want to do

  Admit your failings and success

  And to yourself be true.

  When the shadow of death calls out your name

  As you stand there in the line

  Simply say ‘put a hold on that’

  You see it’s not my time.

  Set your mind on friends that you’ve had

  And thank them for all they have done

  And as I look around this room

  I thank each and every one.

  We are all a part in that cog that turns

  Helping, others to live

  The wealth I quote is not what a person has

  But what they are willing to give

  When was the last time you

  looked at the stars?

  Or felt the moon upon your face,

  When was the last time you felt brand new

  And won that final race.

  When was the last time you gave it all you’ve got

  And relaxed just feeling proud

  Or had a picnic by a river

  Making faces out of clouds.

  Time is short so live it

  And let those troubles be

  Believe me; put your heart in it

  And each day is beautiful, just see.

  Aaron says he has written about 800 poems, and that 10 of them are quite good. ‘Adequate time’ said quickly may sound like ‘’ad a good time’. Aaron has cancer so on his 60th birthday he ‘donated this little verse’ to a small group of friends.

   

  Tuesday 18 September 2012 4 pm

  In My New World

  Felicity Lynch

  Katoomba, NSW

  The moment is lost

  The silence resounding

  Regrets camouflaging

  The heart’s yearning

   

  What of the future?

  Thoughts rise and vanish

  Like the mists in the Mountains

  Dreams lost in daylight

   

  Memories litter

  But nobody’s there

  No weary heart beats

  No passion lurks there

   

  No tension exists

  Between what might be and what was

  The real and the virtual

  Reality lost

   

  This moment. This time. To live in the present

  Time’s relentlessness challenges

  Wreaking a path of destruction

  We drift among the vanishing

   

  Goodbye to the past, the present is now

  The self is lost to the future

  Silence enfolds

   

  Wednesday 19 September 2012 8 am

  Send In The Infantry

  Graham Sparks

  Bathurst, NSW

  A force of foreign soldiers

  bent on doing mayhem

  has landed on our shore.

   

  But dear oh dear the government

  has sold off all our arms,

  or gifted them in tribute.

   

  We’ll send in two year olds with popguns

  to melt their retched hearts,

  and teach ’em not to mess around

  with Australia’s infantry.

   

  Graham says this is a joke, but only just.

   

  Wednesday 19 September 2012 4 pm

  Diary Of A Meph-Head – An Extract

  Mark Govier

  Warradale, SA

  1. ‘Roads to Ruin’

   

  The Road to Ruin, preordained? Ancestors/

  Too many, expiring without a question in

  Invisible half way houses, without name

   

  The end of this story? Pause/ I know not/

  A red river/ Brains shot out

  Birds feeding on suburban pavements/ Again

   

  Peace bomb, blowing the back of my head out/

  A silent rain/ The unseen breeze

  An elixir called spring/ The scent of decay

   

  The Forest within/ The same in all directions/

  Paths without end/ But no way of knowing

  If there is a centre/ Pause/ No way

   

  Shaking like a leaf in the chemical winds/

  Hands and mind tremble/ Nervous agony

  Is this really, another nail in the coffin?

  Fingers down the throat/ Helping/

  It all come up/ Collapsing on a plastic floor

  Please call an ambulance, for I am alive

   

  The Door is open, but who wants to leave?

  Life as an Institution/ Being patched up

  Watching TV in nursing homes/ Til you’re gone

   

  Free as a Poet/ I can say what I want/

  Within the confines of Law/ Nobody listens

  No one cares/ No money, no weapons, a cipher

   

  Dope fiend, getting wasted on the latest/

  Poisons/ High as a vulture circling his own dying

  Body/ He savours, every crumb

   

  Slept on wooden floors or cheap carpets/

  For years/ Out of choice/ If he offers you a place

  In his dismal realm/ I’d be careful

   

  The witching hour, without witches/

  No broomsticks/ Just long lines/ A promised

  Land for those without promise/ Here, now

   

  Treble vision/Burnt out before I was born/

  The Womb of Terror/ The Masque of the White

  Death/ Closer, always closer

  Your head in the mirror of this strange/

  Design/ The rest lies on a stained mattress

  In a distant land/ Rented by the hour

   

  Where’s it going, this world, this/

  Whatever it is? Old corpse talking to the Moon

  The Silver One listens, but that is all

   

  You opened your mind/ The cat ran out/

  Never to return/ You left it open/ Now ghosts

  And monsters fill your house

   

  Wandering in a cave of light/ Coming down/

  Falling asleep at the wheel/ Passing through walls

  Unseen/ For tomorrow is already here

   

  Still life/ An un-arctic wind/ Trees rustle/

  Clouds of pointlessness/ Mouldy fruit

   Another Miscreant opens his eyes

   

  Chopped down trees/ Dog Waste/<
br />
  Too many prams/ A paradise for the trapped

  Leaves bristling/ An afternoon in, hell

   

  Banal bus commentary, on what passes by/

  Floating serenely on a pool of filth

  The clotted remnants/ The things, unsaid

   

  Leaving a subway tunnel, not knowing/

  That I had entered/ The blast of morning

  Light/ Vague hoverings of voices, unseen

   

  You have problems, I have time/

  Fields of old brickwork hide in the darkness

  Chanting from a church, that never was