~~~
The fire swept over the hill, taking all in its path: sheep, cattle, the homestead and him. When she returned to the smoking ruins, a flash of colour caught her eye, a fragment of the yellow cup. She found the diary, stained but recognisable in the charred remains of her bedroom. Of
the wooden box there was no sign.
‘Grabbed it on the way out,’ her father said a few days later. ‘Forgot all about it. Stuffed it in the glove box of the ute.’
A life time later, Jane opened the box her grandmother had been holding when she died, peacefully sitting in her chair on the veranda, her early morning cup of tea cold beside her.
Its contents, a fragment of yellow china and, what Jane thought, were probably the remains of a charred diary, meant nothing to her but she felt, somewhere, hidden deep within it were memories, precious memories that, although not her memories, had value beyond price. She replaced the box on the mantelpiece after the funeral knowing it was where it belonged.
Thursday 27 September 2012
X Marks The Spot
Rosemary Baldry
Winmalee, NSW
‘X’ marks the spot
on yellowing pirate maps
from childhood parties.
‘It was only yesterday’,
Shelley always led the search.
But breast cancer
sought her out.
Now ‘X’ is a cross,
Shelley’s ashes
buried treasure ...
The letter ‘x’ was suggested as a writing subject to members of the Blue Mountains Branch of the Fellowship of Australian Writers. This is Rosemary’s favourite from the many pieces she wrote stimulated by the topic.
Friday 28 September 2012
Darkness
JAC
Kilsyth, VIC
It’s so dark, a scary sort of dark. It’s been this way for so long that you no longer remember what light looks like. In fact, you don’t remember much of anything. Your once vast vocabulary has been reduced to a couple of desperate words that you scream out whenever you sense someone or something close. And numbers. Counting helps you keep away the demons. Counting quickly, counting slowly, counting in even numbers, odd numbers, multiplication tables. Whatever keeps you occupied. But, now you actually think about it, there is one thing that keeps you sane. Whatever sane is. Apart from counting. The feel and the sound of the chilling metallic chains that almost seem to extend from your very flesh. They’re cold, restricting and smooth. If you listen carefully, you can hear the links clanking as they brush against each other. You think they chain you to the walls of this place – that is, if there are walls. For all you know, the chains could just go on forever.
All of a sudden, your entire being is flooded with a strange feeling, one that is almost, almost frustrated, you scream. A short, high scream that would drive dogs mad. However hard you try, you can’t think of a word for the new feeling. You can feel some sort of door in your mind opening. The very same door that keeps you from going insane. Completely insane. You locked your personality, your inner self, behind it almost as soon as you found yourself in this wretched place a long time ago. The strangeness starts off as a prickle all over your skin, but the feeling soon grows in intensity until you are screaming in pain. To anyone else, it would be only a fraction of the sun’s heat they feel every day, but to you it is as though a blazing inferno is raging across your sensitive skin.
Then it stops, just like that. You continue to scream hoarsely, but it is not from pain anymore. More from relief … and maybe loss? You probably would have begun to cry if you could remember how. Or if you could even remember what crying was. After a short while or it might have been years, for all you could tell, you stop screaming. You can’t tell if your eyes are open or closed, so it’ll be a little silly to try and describe the changes in your surroundings thanks to whatever it was that had happened. An undeterminable period of time later, you can sense the feeling returning. The previously locked door in your mind creaks open just a little, allowing you to put a name to the feeling. Warmth. Other memories began to creep through.
First, a strange scent. It is tantalising, enticing. There one minute and gone the next. Jasmine, your hazy mind supplies, along with the feel of soft petals and the knowledge of warm, sunny days. After such a long time in hibernation, you mind isn’t too sure of itself. It seemed almost like a separate entity to your awareness. As you realise this, another memory resurfaces. The gravely growl of an unidentified animal assaults your ears, and you flinch. Surprised at yourself, you examine the sound, racking your newly returned memory to find a name to associate with it. As you try, the now comforting warmth leaves you, slamming the door closed. Just before this happens, you remember the animal’s name. It’s a dog.
During the period between the warmth leaving and returning again, you keep the smell of the jasmine and the sound of the dog’s bark with you. They are reminders that something has happened, you aren’t alone and you’re not imagining things. You’re still unsure about whether or not the warmth will return. Wearily, you open and close your eyes and begin to recite your multiplication tables. One times one is one, one times two …
Just as you reach eleven times seventeen, the pulsing heat returns. It’s almost like a heartbeat, caressing your numb body. With a strange shaking motion, a glimpse of something, you’re not really sure what, flashes in front of your eyes. With a start, you realise that they are open, sort of, and had been for quite some time. As you try to recall what it was that you saw, a sharp jab of pain sears through your skull. You scream with anger at the unfamiliar invasion. Soft strains of music from your memory soothe you, and you relent.
But the music is gone as though it had never been, and you are left alone with your dog’s bark and your jasmine scent. You begin counting once more, this time in odd numbers. You get all the way up to 7453, when you are enfolded in the comforting warmth. It brings pain with it again but the pain seems to be more localised. It is focused in your chest area. And again, a glimpse of something flees across your line of sight. You’re still unsure, but your mind identifies it as a colour, and tells you it is probably a dark green or blue.
You feel helpless as, once again, you count. After all, what else is there to do? Until the warmth returns yet again, it is even more centralised. You think that it is coming from somewhere around your heart. You gasp shakily, drawing in a breath of polluted city air, and your eyes fly open. Really open this time, you can see the cheery blue sky and fluffy white clouds above you. Everything comes back to you in a flash of remembrance playing touch footy in the backyard underneath the jasmine vines, hearing a dog growling and barking, getting distracted from your games, the trellis with the newly wound vines falling, seemingly out of nowhere. Then everything goes dark. So dark.
A smiling face looks down on you. You are still concussed from the fall and subsequent revival, so you think that you are looking at an angel. Then the angel looks away and shouts to someone you can’t see. ‘He’s awake!’ The voice is filled with joy, and is oddly familiar. That’s when you recognise her, your best friend. Fuzzily, you remember that she took a first aid course a few months ago. You had made fun of her for it and now she has saved your life. Now that is irony.
A siren blares outside in the street. The men lift you carefully onto a glaringly white stretcher bed and place you gently into the ambulance. Your mother called the ambulance when she and your friend had found you lying under the trellis, as pale and cold as death. You slip into a blissful sleep, not hearing the doctor tell your mother that, with the amount of time you spent unconscious, you probably have very severe brain damage. He then asked your mother to come in the ambulance with you, and try to keep you awake. If you did fall asleep, there was an 80% chance of death.
The darkness claims you again, this time with a promise to never let go.
One, two, three …
Saturday 29 September 2012
Reality Bites
Subroto Pant
Brisbane, QLD
Life is a funny thing. I used to have a job and now I am a stay at home, surfing the internet kind of person. I used to have a partner too and now I just live alone. But who knows, all this might change and I’ll find myself the centre of attraction all over again. Unlikely!
Oh, did I mention that I used to have an affair too? Yeah I think not. That’s the part I had been sitting on for a while. Well eight months, twenty-five days and some hours but who’s counting? My life was perfect. Well don’t know about her but to me it was.
I said partner, didn’t I? Actually she was my wife, and we had been married eighteen years when it started. Eighteen years – that is a lifetime of faithfulness in today’s world. Yes I know my guilt is not as strong as it should be. ‘Emotionally Barren’, that’s one of the terms thrown at me, all a part of the other psychobabble that floated around.
She blamed the internet, too, stopping short at including Tim Berners-Lee. Said I had started neglecting her, was constantly on the computer instead of spending time with her. I thought I had spent enough time with her already, time that I cannot get back. It’s not like there is a ‘Customer Service Counter’ for your life.
‘Hello! How can I help you?’
‘I’d like to reclaim some time back please.’
‘Certainly. What time period are we talking about?’
‘Well the entire 1995 actually. Now that was a total waste of a year.’
Then you would sign a few forms, maybe write in the reason for claiming it back and bingo! You have your life back again. Though there is a minor version of it already and it’s called ‘Divorce’ but that comes with a hefty price tag. Tell me about it. I am still paying for it.
I digress, what was I talking about again? Ah yes, using the word ‘partner’ instead of ‘wife’. Technically I don’t call that cheating. I mean the word ‘partner’ could be anything. Maybe I am just trying to be politically correct by ignoring the ‘W’ word, which if you turn upside becomes the ‘M’ word. But that’s all irrelevant because the word on the internet forums and meeting sites is ‘attached’, along with this whole heap of acronyms like ‘NSA’. That’s ‘no strings attached’ not ‘no smoking area’ by the way. ‘CRO’ or casual relationship only – is there any other kind?
It’s a world of its own this internet ‘looking for lurve’ area, a very discreet area for those who wish to avail of the services. And that’s another word you pick up: ‘Discreet relationship’, as opposed to the ‘Bang up loud in your face relationship’. Or the ‘Look I am still smiling even though I am married’ kind of relationship. There is even the ‘Oops! I forgot I was attached’ relationship.
So that’s where I met her, you know, the person I was busted with. Had to go through five other women before I met some I felt connected to. Hmm, that’s not entirely true, the attraction was sealed by the fact that she had a place of her own as opposed to the ‘rent-a-room’ rendezvous. It wasn’t love but she said we connected. Yeah, sure, whatever, I just go with the flow.
At that time my ex-wife did make a comment on how much I used to walk around grinning like the cat that got the cream. Let’s ignore the obvious pun there and let me state that sometimes you can have one’s cake and eat it too. I said I had no guilt, didn’t I? Looking back now I think maybe there was a teeny bit there and it was manifesting in the gifts I was buying for my ex-wife. She never really returned them you know. Maybe she just erased the memory of the buyer while keeping the Hermes bag and other designer gifts.
Ah, the dammed Hermes bag. That’s the gift that started the unravelling of the web that I had so carefully spun. I should have stuck to the discounted ten-dollar flowers from Coles or Woolies. I didn’t earn that much to be buying these designer goodies so I had to get creative with the company vouchers. Did I mention that I am suspended from my job pending the complete investigation? No? Well it doesn’t matter now.
It turned out that my internet buddy got careless and her partner and a camera from a reality show followed us. The name of the show is ‘Cheaters Australia’ if you want to look it up. I don’t even know as to why these trashy American shows are making our shore. I say, let’s leave the trashy reality TV to the Americans. They’re 10 times better at it than we are and they are kind enough to share it with us. Of course I had never realised that my wife loves these trashy shows. Just goes to show you can be with one person for so long and still not know what their likes and dislikes are.
I am fine you know. I had a backup plan and had put away enough money using another accounting stream that has not yet been discovered. So when this all blows over I’ll be fine. American reality TV shows I tell you. Should be totally banned from our shores.
Sunday 30 September 2012
Shadow Watcher
Virginia Gow
Blackheath, NSW
Ever taken a stroll along the boardwalk from the ferry wharf at Manly? If you travel east, you gaze at the lengthening shadows cast by the afternoon sun.
Rob watched his shadow walk, in large, black-bubble sneakers. He thought he walked like Charlie Chaplin, an old-fashioned silent movie star.
On this eventful afternoon, the tide was particularly high. Floating in the tide were all sorts of plastic rubbish, a blue milk carton, a red bread tray, bits of bark and a sculptured lump from a tree.
The sea would have been rough and scary earlier, surging up against the seawall.
Allowing it to be dictated to by the August winds, the wash had hurled itself against boats and sand, spilling over onto grass, dragging debris from the shoreline into its depth.
Covered in bark and seaweed, long black fizzy hair was barely visible to the onlooker on shore.
As Rob concentrated on the lump covered in slime from the sea, he now saw, between each wave motion, more of the gruesome human relic that was being washed ashore. Like a fish gasping for air, the mouth gaped open, but even from the wall he could tell that the eyes, glassed and dull, had ceased seeing anything,
Still, the body appeared fresh, like a doll someone had accidently dropped overboard on the last Manly ferry crossing.
Now, this was something he did not see everyday, a freshly minted corpse.
He grasped his mobile and pressed three zeros.
This was way out of his league.
Virginia created this piece of flash fiction for Manly Poetry Society and it allowed her to ‘purge some demons from my psyche’.
Monday 1 October 2012
Happiness All The Way
Jean Bundesen
Woodford, NSW
We drive along the road
Sinuous as a black snake
On our way for lunch
At Lithgow.
Laughter echoes.
Sky deep blue
Squiggly, white wind clouds –
As if daubed by a giant paint brush
Sail across it.
Laughter echoes.
Tall peaks of Lombardy Poplars
Like molten gold, in the sunshine,
Line the roadside. Reminding us
That winter is on the way.
Laughter echoes.
A group of dark green pine trees
Where Kookaburras nest
One flies across
Lands on a post by the roadside
Laughter echoes.
Near where the earth meets the sky
Fluffy white cumulus clouds
With pearly grey shadows, float.
We hope it won’t rain.
Laughter echoes
A rare breed of black cattle
With rug like white
Band
s around their bodies
Graze in nearby paddocks.
Laughter echoes.
In the background
Are the misty blue ridges and peaks
Of the Blue Mountains
Grassed paddocks in the foreground.
Laughter echoes.
Our car’s tires drum on the road
As we hurry onward
To the Workies Club
Dreaming of a roast beef lunch.
Laughter echoes.
Tuesday 2 October 2012
Mirror Mirror
Connie Howell
Wentworth Falls, NSW
Samantha sat at her dressing table gazing at her reflection in the mirror. She saw an ageing woman with a map of her life drawn on her face. She could see the joys and the sadnesses etched around her eyes and mouth and the once supple and firm skin of her face was now sagging as a result of losing weight then finding it again. What once were cheeks now seemed to be jowls. It saddened her to think that her youthful looks had disappeared and that she couldn’t remember exactly when it happened. Did she pay so little attention to herself that what must have been a gradual maturity over several years seemed to have occurred over night?
Her body, long past its prime, had succumbed to gravity with a passion. She remembered seeing the movie Shirley Valentine where Shirley’s lover kissed ‘her jiggly bits’. If Samantha was Shirley she would be showered with a thousand kisses: there weren’t any bits left that weren’t jiggly.
Sam, as she was often called, had grown children, long gone from home, so she had a lot of time to ponder on things. She was glad she wasn’t bringing up a family now in these days of technological advancements, which left her way behind, and she was too set in her ways to ‘get with the program’ – she preferred to do things the old way. Then there were the drugs and the binge drinking problems, all of which she was relieved to know were beyond her parenting days. She couldn’t understand the mentality of drinking for the sole purpose of getting drunk; she had never been drunk in her life and for many years had not even touched alcohol. And as for drugs she had to push herself to take pain killers for a headache.
As much as age caught her by surprise she was glad that she didn’t have the anxieties of youth any more. The loves lost, the hormonal rages, the curfews, the rules, the mistakes. But then on the plus side there was the never ending energy and lust for life that promised to be there forever.
Life for Sam was different now, slower and less exciting perhaps, but on the whole it was a good life. She was reasonably fit and could out walk many people in her age group. She had a kind and gentle husband who loved her very much and though the future was unknown there still appeared to ‘be’ a future. There were many things to be grateful for.
She wasn’t unhappy but she did need to grieve for the woman her mind still believed her to be but who the mirror couldn’t find. If life was a fairy tale and she was Snow White her mirror would tell her that she was the ‘fairest of them all’. But life isn’t a fairy tale and she is no Snow White, but perhaps tomorrow she would go to the shopping centre and look for a new mirror anyway!
Wednesday 3 October 2012
It Hurts How You Love Me
Melanie Lee
Avoca Beach, NSW
It hurts how you love me
Do you even care
Have you lost perspective
from your high horse up there
I am not a puppet
And this is not a game
I have a heart and soul
A face and a name
I toss and turn, I bend and break
All in good time, all for love’s sake
Wrapped in your warmth
Is what I wanted to be
Instead I lie bleeding
For the whole world to see
I ached for affection,
hope and direction
Instead I am lost
amongst your dark intentions
All your wrong doing
Yet I’m left to blame
My world now warped
And drenched in your shame
I’ll break down these walls
And escape from this cage
Heaven help you
When I unleash my rage
You’ll twist and you’ll turn
You’ll bend and you’ll break
With you lies the blame
They were all your mistakes …
I will find freedom
And grow from this pain
Your demons will eat you
While my demons are tamed
You’ll twist and you’ll turn
You’ll bend and you’ll break
Then I will sleep easy
While you lie awake.
Melanie believes in shining a light into the very darkest of places, finding healing and peace out the other side of the wreckage and pain.
Thursday 4 October 2012
Tudor Tonight
Hazel Girolamo
Ulverstone, TAS
Welcome to Tudor news tonight, the only Tudor news program to bring you the latest, the most exclusive, the hottest claptrap that passes for news in this realm. It’s Sunday the 18th of March, 1534.
Tonight, we reveal the results from our latest poll: Katherine – was she a right royal god-given queen betrayed or was she an opportunistic, greasy, spiteful hussy on the make?
Pollsters, having scoured the country or as far as Norfolk, say the peasants are divided, as they often are when results are not to Henry’s liking.
Henry’s people have issued a statement that he is not in reconciliatory talks with Anne’s people and that any such talk smells strongly of treason and the chopping block awaits. It’s been freshly washed and ready for action, much like Henry himself.
A close friend who prefers to remain nameless not headless, (Sir Jasper Falmouth), secretly revealed that the bewitching Anne has bewitched the king no more and all her bewitching has come to an end. The unnamed bigmouth Falmouth continued to spill the beans and the mead and the mint sauce all over the palace as he reckons Henry has the hots for another cutie? This raises a serious issue: is Henry a serial cheater? Will he stop at three? Or is a fourth wife out of the question?
But we interrupt with the breaking news of a spit fight at the palace. Jane and her ladies in waiting apparently met Anne and her ladies in waiting (i.e. euphemism for awaiting their turn at being queen). Anne spotted Jane wearing some serious bling and Anne apparently went ballistic, spitting the dummy big time and proceeded to call her a mealy mouthed, whey faced simpering, poor excuse with a bovine posterior and a few other unladylike things I cannot repeat. Oh what the hell, then she called her a festering pile of poxed flapdragon cony catching miserly hold on the chamber pot’s content that is Henry’s miserable lying cheating heart, all the while trying to scratch out her miserable rival’s eyes. Anne’s spin doctor is down playing the whole sordid episode saying he finds it extremely suss that Anne would put her good self in such a position and let that measly base born howden point score off her but he then went on to say that he wouldn’t put anything past that same base born whelked candlewaster and that it would be just like her to go crying to the king trying to put the kibosh on any reconciliation with his legal, faithful, kind-hearted, devoted good lady wife slash queen.
All of which has the Seymour family begging Jane: ‘Don’t lose your head over him! Dump him before it’s too late!’ But the rumour mill is working overtime and cranking out the latest spurious rumours of a royal bun in a rather common oven and that even as we speak, a French swordsman is hot footing it to London to bring an end to the king’s little problem of a second lit
tle wifey who won’t conveniently die of some ladylike malady and free him to continue on his merry marriage go round.
So join us tomorrow when we take you inside the tower, where Anne will spend her final days and where we will have exclusive access to the execution. You will hear Anne’s final words. Will she beg for her life or confess to the sins she has been accused of ? Will she name names? Only we will have the answers.
Plus we reveal, hot off the loom, the first tapestry to feature Henry and his newest queen. And has Henry changed the title of his love ballad to ‘Queenleaves?’
That’s on the morrow, so until then have a fine and dandy day and god bless the king, and the queen … whoever she may be.
Friday 5 October 2012
Little Retro Cave
Chloe Loughran
Brunswick, VIC
Come near
One and all
Party in my little retro cave
In this room we aren’t allowed
So let’s be quiet and behave
I cannot leave
This condemning cage
So you’re invited to my little retro cave
Won’t you shut out the lights?
You’re not allowed here
Take fifteen steps back
You’re not allowed near
I cannot dance or walk
Into the sun or moonlight
So won’t you come dance with me?
Party in my little retro cave tonight
Let’s have a little ghost shindig
We’ll cremate our souls
Nothing too big
Let’s dance to my planned death
Toast as I take my last breath
We can paint our pain away
Onto the canvas there it stays
Blue for tears and sadness
Red for hurt and madness
Now let’s paint a little girl
With flowing black curls
Paint a dying rose
Paint a German nose
And hang it on the wall
To observe it
You must stand tall
Now you keep your height
And your head
Then you walk away
And go to bed
‘Little ones
I cannot come out tonight
I've got a date with the prison guards
The facts are never hard
I’m a virgin tying her own noose
’Cause she’s got nothing left to lose.’
Saturday 6 October 2012
The Inheritance
Sonia Ursus Satori
Medlow Bath, NSW
So much for childhood memories. This is the right house? Can it really be? I stumble up the verandah and notice right away that the kitchen window leading onto it is still broken. I look through it. The far end of the kitchen opens on to a spacious hallway with stairs leading up to the top floors.
Is my mind playing tricks on me or did I really use to spend endless hours roaming in the attic, playing hide and seek with my cousins on rainy days? The fun we had sliding down the staircase banner, again and again. Until the day when mother came back home from hospital without the newborn baby we were so impatient to see.
Everything changed.
Then, during all those long, lonely years when only father and mother and myself lived there, never a visitor, and I, not ever again, allowed outdoors, I read every book in the library: Culpeppers Color Herbal; The Poisons and Antidotes Source book; My Will. A Legacy to the Healthy and the Sick by Sebastian Kneipp; Textbook of Acupuncture; Meaning and Medicine; Treat your own Back; The Illustrated Encyclopedia of Herbs; Practical Homeopathy. I still can recite them all at will.
The only book I wasn’t allowed to touch was The Holy Bible. Only father. He used to read it out loud every night before he started cursing the world we live in.
Mother was kept upstairs, locked away. I only heard her cry when I strained my ears, and after I had stopped crying for her, myself. I was not anymore granted to sit with her, or go mushroom picking in the woods, like it used to be. I never heard her laugh again. Father did not speak to me. He would lock doors when he left the house, and I was locked in the library. On my tenth birthday I crushed the heavy Holy Bible over his head. He was a thin man and I had the advantage of standing on the kitchen chair which I had placed next to the library book shelf without him noticing. He fell instantly to the floor. I kept pounding the Bible until it was in shreds.
I ran upstairs calling for mother. No answer. She must have been dead a long time. I left the house through the kitchen window, broken glass cutting into my palms and knees.
My teenage years were sad. I never said ‘no’ to anything or anybody. All I wanted was being talked to, looked at, smiled at. Even if there was very little to look forward to each morning. One day I was picked up by police in a raid on our squat. They couldn’t identify me. And I wouldn’t talk. Health professionals tried to pry out of me who I was but by then I decided I wouldn’t speak anymore. I was put in the insane asylum where I spent all my adult life. Never spoke a word again.
Last week was my fiftieth birthday and I was granted the wish to travel on my own, by public transport (see, I’m not considered dangerous nor retarded) to visit the countryside. I wanted to go back in time to those happy early childhood years before making an important decision: to talk again, to hear my own voice.
I’ve come to realise, after I have seen the place, that memories have a life of their own, and our state of mind, when memories form and when they are relived, the physical surroundings don’t account for much. As a matter of fact, I didn’t feel a thing when I stood before the house, just a little while ago.
Back in town I decided to linger awhile. I sat down at the park bench overlooking the river. A grey-haired, fragile looking woman slowly approached and sat down next to me. I turned toward her, pleased for the company. I looked into her kind face, so much wanting to speak again, and yes, this was as good a time as any: I am going back to life and to the living!
It didn’t feel right and it didn’t feel wrong, nor happy nor sad, neither was I surprised when I realised that she was my mother. As beautiful as then, only old. The phantom-memory of her, that had kept me sane enough to show a minimal interest in life until now, melted. Morphed. In an instant. There she was in flesh and blood. Alive! I won’t need to carry around a new memory, I have done away with the old ones. I didn’t say a word. We smiled into one another. After a lifetime I stood up, pressed my hand gently on her shoulder, and walked off, to the train station.
We are both quite alright, I thought, the way things are. Life’s good.
Sunday 7 October 2012
In Clear Felled Fields Kookaburras Sit On Wires
Susan Adams
Dangar Island, NSW
I might go outside and hang my breath
on the sharp hooked cold
when the frost turns green
it’s too late to see the sun rise
A weak sky waits its ice.
Greased mists couch on indolent ponds
a syncope of tails pumps air
as Wallabies speed their startle
Space is my prayer
and I am in its temple
all points are my mecca
I fold where I face
there is always the day
Two King Parrots stripe red
across windscreened eyes
tears prick the smile
a sign
I am alive
it will be alright
Monday 8 October 2012
Reality In A Heartbeat
Yeshe Thubten
Totnes Valley, NSW
Coarse sand rubs like broken bottles
And he moves swiftly,
Pushing through the trees.
A twisted branch cracks hard
And breaks hard
On littered earth.
She wakes like a cat
A stretches into air
Followed by her
Jade orbed eyes.
Her hair smooth and coloured like the grey gums
Standing guard over her.
A pulse like a race car,
Forced blood behind his eyes,
Pushed into his lungs,
Burned into his throat.
Her memory like a siren song
Urging him through the air
Forcing itself against his damp skin.
Folded legs held fast by violet arms
Her knees against her chest
She knows it is inevitable.
His will is more than distance
His might is harder that sandstone.
The cold of night clings to her eyelashes.
The cold of fear breaks in her heart.
Then the scream
Like a knife edge
A tragic opera of noise
Forcing her to her feet.
She knows it’s him
And she knows she will wait
And will take what comes.
He drags the world behind him
Taking her to the edge
Broken against the horizon.
‘I made you’, she whispers
Not hoping for an end
Or even a glimmer of recognition.
He spends an age in a second
Paused in pain and strength
Her shell a fallen snowflake
Face white like a porcelain doll.
‘I know you’ he whispers
‘And you are not real’
And he crumples into eucalypt and stone.
Tuesday 9 October 2012
Will Time And Tide Remember Me?
Robyn Chaffey
Hazelbrook, NSW
Time and Tide they say will come to all men.
There is no escaping either though we try to ignore them.
Once I was unsure just what it was they meant
Though I felt for sure I’d know should e’er the need arise.
Looking back, I know I felt it day by day.
When I was young Time felt a mite too slow;
I found myself longing for it to pass away.
Yet there seemed so much for me still to do.
The Tide of life tho’ always ebbed and flowed …
Gently for the most part, and little felt by me.
As I aged, both seemed to gather speed.
Each year seemed so much shorter than the last.
Tide at times lapped gently at my feet,
Then storms of life would rage and rant …
Build foaming waves that buffet strong …
Send me reeling … leaping Time;
Then both would slow allowing me to deeply breathe.
Yes, Time and Tide they have both come.
They’ve hustled me through my long life …
Hassled too at times … yet have they been my friends!
Both have in their own way fed and nurtured me.
I’ve grown on them and they on me.
Soon I must leave them both and they’ll move on
To meld with other souls … to torture or befriend …
To lead or to hold back … to teach.
Will they … will Time and Tide remember me?
Will they bear a small imprint of me to pass along?
Wednesday 10 October 2012
My Solemn Promise
Ariette Singer
Palmerston, ACT
Summing up empty hours, filled with tears,
Wasted time – for too many years,
Emotional shopping, to dull the pain …
I’ll never allow myself to be hurt again!
My mistakes were best teachers – growing up
I’ve become so smart – I can now teach the Art
Of Preventing Major Emotional Traumas!
And perhaps, some day I will! For I strongly feel
The demand for my teachings will be enormous!
And when putting my ‘emotional house’ in order,
I’ve made this solemn and unbreakable promise:
Right! Never again will I squander my feelings!
And you’ll not catch me uselessly lose my mind!
Falling in love ‘thing’ has become more pragmatic –
My New Man must be brilliant, mature and kind!
As well as: cultured, exuberant and witty,
Tolerant, loving, sensitive and warm!
Practical, rational, open minded and quite pretty …
Well, if not pretty … then not like TV’s lazy Norm!
His SOH must, of course match mine, or be better!
And he must definitely be artistically inclined,
A very wise man, gentle, loyal and refined,
And I take it for granted – he’ll love me for my mind!
I’ll make absolutely certain he’ll be tactful, caring,
Health conscious, and psychologically aware!
Most understanding and never overbearing –
A man like this will surely never make me swear!
And when, at last, I’ll find this precious gem,
This absolute marvel of rarity of rarities …
I’ll purr … and purrrr … and purrrrrr!!!!
Thursday 11 October 2012
The Last Day
Sallie Ramsay
Torrens, ACT
Sometimes you know it’s the last day; the last day of school, the last day of the holidays, the last day of your cousin’s visit but often when it’s important, really important, for you to know it’s the last day, you don’t. The afternoon Mum and Dad told me they were splitting up, I knew then that the day before had been my last day of us being a proper family. I thought, maybe if I had known before, I could’ve done, well, at least tried to do something to stop it happening. If I’d known that day down at the Bay was the last day Gramps and I would go fishing together, maybe I wouldn’t have whinged so much about having to lug the gear up to the car; maybe I would’ve asked him to tell me more stories about when he was a boy, that was something he really liked to do. A few months later he was dead of a stroke; if only I’d known it had been the last day.
The twenty-fifth of January ringed on the tide chart in the kitchen of our holiday cottage was the last day of the holidays, the last day of the best summer ever, perfect weather, surf in the bay running true and regular day after day. Summer: burnt sausages, ants in the sugar, sand in the sheets, Rob’s nose peeling, walking to the store for the milk and paper. Friends and relations coming and going and as ever the cottage managing to expand to accommodate everyone. My little sister proudly announcing the day before had been the last day of her whole life when she couldn’t swim!
The last day of the holidays, tomorrow we would be heading for home, the city and school ... but that day was mine; a perfect beach day, not a cloud in the sky, the surf was up with a good even break.
In the fading light I saw it, a real bastard of a wave, too steep, too shallow. But I was fourteen, impatient, indestructible; so I took it on. They told me later I looked like a doll in a washing machine just before I smashed on to the sand.
Close my eyes, in my head, I crack an awesome wave; now on the crest, now roaring down the face, leaving my stomach behind, racing to the beach.
I didn’t know that perfect day was the last day for feeling the sand burning under my feet, the icy waves breaking over me as I headed out for first wave of the day ... the last day for
walking. Had I known ... ?
Friday 12 October 2012
Ode Tae Bonny Lass’s Braw
The Auld Yin
Bullaburra, NSW
Ah luv aw’ lass’s braw,
no jist heilan’ lass’es’, Naw!
Aw’ wee hens frae far an’ wide,
an’ a jist luv ma lass ma ain wee bride.
Redheads, dark, broon an’ fair,
nae matter the colour, ah dinnae care,
Lass’s Bonny wae great conviction,
nae need tae speak wae Scoatish diction.
Lass’s, Bonny wee things, God’s creation,
a’ways the same, aye, withoot inflation.
Wise wee things wae gentle thoughts,
a’ll nae mention tho’, they talk a lot.
Oh Bonny lass’s a luv yer smile,
a’ways genuine an’ nae wae guile,
Except whin wantin’ tae buy mair claes,
that smile kin hiv a wee bit guilie glaze.
Oh a luv aw’ lass’s jist the same,
aw’ lass’s tae me, need not hae fame,
Cos’ their fame is a built in gift,
that geis aw’ man’s herts a luvin’ lift.
‘A man’s a man fur aw that an’ aw that’, Rabbie did say,
Weel me? Tae aw lass’s their due a’ll duly pay,
If this poem had a mullian wurds writ doon,
writin’ anither mullian wid niver be too soon.
Remember Lads a Lassy wis yer mum,
aye the bonniest lassy an yer very best chum.
A’ways there fur yea, fightin’, nae matter whit the cause,
Just fur the luv of yea lads, needin’ nae applause.
Aye an yer Grannie or Nan are in the same braw class,
that bonny, bonny, aye that bonny Lass.
Auld an’ wise but stull there fur you,
Efter a hunner years their luv wid stull accrue.
Sae ah hope the message is gettin’ thru’ by now,
Aboot lass’s, single, married, Senora, Mrs. or even Frau.
oh! ah luv aw’ lass’s braw,
ivery Bonny wan a’v iver saw.
Tall yins, wee yins, skinny an’ fat.
Tae be Bonny disnae mean aw’ o’ that.
Bonny means, gentle, luvin’ an’ a carin’ lass.
Beauty means nuthin’ doon deep, a’d lit beauty pass.
A Bonny lass’s beauty is nae jist skin deep,
look intae their gentle eyes an’ hae jist a wee peep.
You Lads, aye you lads, am speakin’ tae you taday,
get tae ken yer lass an’ aw her ways, please be ofay.
The rewards Bonny lads wull be paid in full,
Aye! Lads, tak notice whit a say, nae a’ways be a fool.
Find the real beauty in a Bonny lass.
If yea do that Lads ye’ll a’ways be at the tope o’ yer blidy class.
Saturday 13 October 2012 8 pm
Killing Painting
Mark Govier
Warradale, SA
I fell upon a darkened room/ black window staring out,
Onto a field of darkness light/ a vast and uglied crow fed there,
I went, I saw, I flinched, I ran/ for what it ate was me.
I woke in mortal terror/ from this dream of gloom
And stared upon the empty frames/ which papered my huge room,
A canvass here, a canvass there/ an exhibition near,
But nothing to protect me/ from the cynic’s sneer.
With terror of the hunted/ I did attack the white,
But nothing, nothing came to mind/ I blanched in morbid fright,
Until in desperation/ I fell down to the floor,
And prayed upon my only muse/ to show me a new door.
As in every other time/ the world did sway and warp,
I hurtled down a spirit road/ a dream filled water course,
Until I came unto her cave/ as black as death itself,
And fell down there upon my knees/ mere echo of myself.
And there she was, my only muse/ eating the remains
Of some poor soul who’ wandered in/ a creature cast in chains;
‘Oh muse’ said I in deep respect/ ‘what am I to do?
My reputation is at stake/ but I have nothing new.’
‘Oh’ said she tossing down/ a head all cold and bloody,
‘Art is short for artifice/ now don’t you find that funny?’
And with a flick of bony wrist/ she turned a wall to white,
Spat a gob of rotten blood/ which tricked out of sight.
‘Go’ said she, ‘find frame of mine/ in which to hang my spittle,
then reputation shall you keep/ in art create your ripple’;
I bent to kiss the rancid hem/ in homage to the one,
But fell into that pool of whirl/ from which all image comes.
Spittle, blood, upon pure white/ from eating my own meat,
In one short day I covered more/ than in a score of weeks,
And when it came to putting forth/ I called it ‘Killing Painting’,
Received most high the laurel wreath/ for which I had been panting.
Sunday 14 October 2012
Tim Tam Temptation
Demelza
Taroona, TAS
for Moira and me
I knew they were on special
But I was well prepared
I’d skip the bickie aisle
Buy some fruit instead
But they stacked them in the entrance
With the veg – by aisle one!
And they jumped into my trolley
The battle had begun
It was well past breakfast time
But nearing morning tea
I found myself in aisle four
Devouring number three
I threw in cans of mushrooms
I threw in sauce and pasta
My self control had left the store
My mission a disaster
The fourth one got me by surprise
When I was looking for some bread
The baker gave a knowing smile
And my face grew rather red
So now I felt embarrassment
Guilt and mortal shame
The Tim Tams had the upper hand
They were better at this game
And as I opened up the freezer door
I nearly shoved them in
But I felt the floor staff stalking me
So I grabbed for chicken without skin
I carried on down aisle nine
Tooth brush, tooth paste and foam
Nappies, pins and medication
Was then I heard my phone
And in that moment of distraction
I picked up one or two
Now five and six had crossed my lips
And I hardly had to chew
As I hurried to the check out
My plight had left me three
Would they make it to the car park?
Tune in next week and see!
Demelza thinks she may have a problem with self control. But she figures that if there’s already a couple gone from the pack and half a dozen kids at the other end of her shopping expedition, why create a bigger problem? Bring them all home … or none at all!
Ed: And they question women’s logic!! Makes perfect sense to me :D
Monday 15 October 2012
The Morning After
Joe Massingham
Chisholm, ACT
Crumbs of greying granite icing
left from last night’s celebrations
lie beside roseate beaded wine stains
– or are they blood? – spilled in last night’s
altercation between thunder and the hill
over who was stronger.
Misty curtains hamper the sun’s
surveillance of the scene, as if afraid
of his reaction. A distant neighbour
surveys the scatterings from behind
an unkempt hedge, musing loftily,
‘Springs ain’t what they used to be.’
Tuesday 16 October 2012
Bird
Paul Humphreys
Oxley, ACT
‘I’m glad that you both could make it here on such short notice.’
‘Oh we are very concerned about our daughter, Doctor Miller, and as you may have some news we could not delay getting here.’ Susan wrung her hands nervously while her husband stared suspiciously into the space behind the doctor’s head at the other person in the doctor’s surgery.
‘Oh I’m sorry, Mr and Mrs Ling, let me introduce Dr Shultz. I have consulted with him on your daughter’s condition.’
There was a moment’s silence as everybody settled and became more familiar with the situation in the surgery.
‘We have identified and have a detailed report on the marks and skin eruptions on your daughters back.’ Dr Miller leaned forward directing his statement predominantly toward Mrs Ling in an attempt to engender some settling and comfort for the worried mother.
‘Before I get on to the details of that report could I just confirm some details of your health record Mrs Ling. May I call you Mary?
‘Of course. What information do you need from me?’ Mary said nervously.
‘You had a bout of flu just before you became pregnant is that right?’
‘Yes. But I don’t see what that has to do with my daughter’s condition.’
‘Well Dr Shultz believes that it may have been Avian flu.’
‘It was five years ago! I cannot remember what it was diagnosed as!’ Mary become a little distraught and anxious.
‘Can we get on with what you have found please? We are both very worried about this whole matter.’ Mary’s husband Allan was a little nervous but also frustrated with the delay in finding out about his daughter’s condition.
‘The result of the investigation into the condition is something that is quite astounding,’ said Dr Shultz in a direct manner that also hinted at hidden authority. Allan picked up a distinct American accent in these first words from Dr Shultz.
‘The mark and skin eruption on your daughter’s back are the start of what can only be described as a complex integumentary structure dissimilar to her own skin. To put it in simple terms your daughter is growing feathers on her back.’
Mary and Allan both suddenly stood up from their chairs. A look of shock and disbelief had drained the blood from their faces and, after a brief gasp of air, they hugged each other.
‘How could? I don’t believe it!’ Allan was now becoming angry and frustrated.
‘It appears that it may be related to the avian flu that your wife had; there may have been some genetic modifications happening.’ Dr Shultz’s statement lacked emotion and there was no trace of empathy for the Ling’s position.
‘WE need to investigate this situation further.’ It was not a request but sounded more like an order.
‘WE? Who are WE Dr Shultz? You are talking about our daughter!’ Allan was now starting to become angry.
‘I am not a medical doctor. I have PhD in Ornithology and Molecular Biology. I work for the US Strategic Arms Development Command.’
‘You are not going to experiment on our daughter, Schultz. I don’t care who you work for. You have no authority.’ Allan was now aroused and very angry at Shultz and Miller.
Shultz’s face conjured up a slight smile and he just said, ‘This is too important to delay.’
Paul likes to let his imagination take flight (no pun intended). His group of U3A writers select a subject each month for a short story and this is his ‘simple science fiction piece’ as a result of a recent effort.
Wednesday 17 October 2012
Broken Vases
Peter Goodwin
Warilla, NSW
After you left me,
I did not know what to do
with my hands.
I carried them with me
like broken vases.
I wanted to bury them
in the dirt,
these hands that would
not work.
I wanted to be rid
of them forever.
They were no good to me,
you lost, no labour,
these hands not darkening
pages.
When people came near me
in the street,
I hid them in my pockets.
At night, alone,
I placed them on the desk
as though they were
not mine.
Thursday 18 October 2012
Bright Morning Full Of Hope
Graham Sparks
Bathurst, NSW
The future is full of light and hope
and the shimmering haze of distance
and all of space imbued
with the imminence of unborn things,
for I feel the cosmos is still in spring.
A backward glance
reveals old broken baggage,
dark superstition
and the scab of religion,
formed on the wound
where man cleaved himself from all
by the action of untuned mind.
Friday 19 October 2012
Underground Melody
Bob Edgar
Wentworth Falls, NSW
Coal mines of the nineteenth century in South Wales were of desperate, miserable means. Daffyd Morgan had endured fourteen years underground, eking out a meagre living standard for his growing family.
The siren of March 1876 signalled the pit collapse that took thirty eight lives of men and boys, and also took Daffyds’ legs.
Daffyd’s first born child Rhyss, would go underground at the allowed age of twelve.
The first six months of Rhyss’s working life were dismal. Six days a week before dawn he would close the front door; and with head bowed, shuffle down the lonely path to the black pits in the valley below.
Returning after a twelve hour shift, Rhyss was exhausted, famished and forlorn. Daffyd would wheel himself to the front door every working day, clasp his son’s head in his hands and kiss his cheek. The sight of his Da’s blackened lips always brought a smile to Rhyss’s tired face.
The night Daffyd presented Rhyss with the harmonica of his dreams, was indeed a happy one.
‘It’s grand isn’t it? Thank you Da, thank you Mam, can the little ones play it?’
‘Sure they can son, and I’ll even have a go meself if I might.’
Long into the night silly tunes were blown, and sugar candy was snapped.
narratorAUSTRALIA Volume One Page 60