narratorAUSTRALIA Volume One

by narrator AUSTRALIA

  ~~~

  When I finished high school, I lost my purpose. There was no longer a need to wake up at 6 am, or schedule my time into 50 minute blocks. I was waiting for the day that, amongst the pile of rejection letters, a job offer would emerge. I thought it would be easy. Just send out a ton of letters with my resume attached, and then presto, I’d have a job. Until then, I was free to do whatever the hell I wanted.

  The welfare payments I received would stretch just far enough to cover the bills and rent of my small home. My room was nothing spectacular; just large enough to fit a single bed and a desk for my computer. In that sense, the room fit me perfectly. It was bland and humble, just like me. I was never a ‘girly-girl;’ trinkets and make-up were never high on my priority list. I didn’t really care that I had scarce few possessions. As long as I had money for food, I was content with owning a single pair of worn-out sneakers, three shirts, and a pair of old jeans.

  During the transition between high school and the work force, my days began at 1 pm, and nights lasted until feeble lights broke across the eastern shoreline. My pyjamas became a second skin that was shed sparingly, and only when the washing machine demanded it. I could do anything I wanted. There was so much freedom and opportunity, completely unhindered by parental intervention. I could eat ice-cream for breakfast, and skip the veggies at dinner.

  At night, I felt like the only one alive. I’d listen to the echoes of my footsteps, as I’d routinely walk the empty streets at 2 am. There wasn’t much to do here in the country side. Most kids indulged in the drinking scene, and guzzled down every bottle of grog they could get their hands on. I chose to steer clear of that path to avoid the slurred words and vomiting that pursued.

  To adjust to my nocturnal habits, I supplemented my water intake with caffeine. Under the influence of this revitalising drug, my judgement of space and time became clouded. Morning and night blended together like the Arabica beans in my coffee grinder. Only the cream could differentiate light from dark. The date was merely a number, not a symbol of commitment, or a ticking deadline.

  But what was the point? In the end, what did it matter if I stayed up all night? I had no purpose.

  It wasn’t long before the irritation of boredom brewed and bubbled to the surface. Time would alternate between knocking me off my feet in a speedy rush to sunset, and blocking my path like a deaf lady on a walking frame.

  It can’t be only ten minutes since I last checked. The watch must be fucking broken.

  My impatience grew rapidly as thoughts riveted within my skull. It seemed like little imps were bouncing around my head. They chewed on my nerves and scratched at my reflexes. I twitched and I paced, as my head whizzed, and scanned the net for something to do. As much as I hated to admit it, I missed going to class.

  I need something, anything to distract me, and ease the boredom. I scoured through my meagre supply of novels and devoured each one. They became stale and bland after the fourth or fifth read. My nightly walks around the block quickly became repetitive, and music only fills the silence. As a kid, I used to swim in the ocean a lot, but now the twiggy blondes have claimed it as their dominion. Just before graduation, they stole my clothes and my towel while I was out in the water. I had to walk home in my swimmers as they called me Shamu the whale. Since then, I haven’t gone back, even though it has meant being bored at home. All that was left was my computer: the gateway to a new life.

  It began with browsing through various comic sites, and funny pictures, until I eventually drifted into the vast realm of MMORPGs and social networking sites. I embraced this method of entertainment and communication willingly. The internet served to fill the developing cracks in my lifestyle by allowing me to explore and connect with the world far beyond my own. Several times a day, I would get a notice saying: ‘Ding! You have (1) new friend request!’ It no longer mattered that I was in a desolate coastal town. I always had someone to talk to online. I would never have to leave this social crater they call The Clarence; I could find all the friends I needed with a mouse and a search bar.

  It became my new ritual to log on to specific games at certain times of the day. Digital prizes were up for grabs if I made sure to log on every hour. I felt like it was crucial to water my Farmville crops, and feed my Ocean Party fish. All hell would break loose if I wasn’t there to collect my loot on World of Warcraft. It felt like my life depended on it.

  Compared to my old life, my virtual reality was a substantial upgrade. In the schoolyard, I was the prey of countless students. Threatening glares pierced my flesh wherever I walked. There was nowhere to escape from the torment. The same cluster of girls would stalk me to all my classes, and breathe derogatory threats in my ear.

  ‘What’s the matter, fatty?’ they’d giggle. ‘Want another slice of cheesecake?’

  The longer I pretended to be oblivious, the more fiercely they pushed.

  ‘Don’t sit there; you’ll break the seat,’ one of the girls said, as she shoved me off the chair.

  ‘You should leave before you cause an earthquake.’ Her friends all cackled at my expense. Their bleached hair and excessive black eye liner made them look like a cupboard of anorexic pandas. Somehow society found appeal in chemically induced beauty.

  When online, I always had an escape. If someone became vicious or cruel, I could simply hit those handy little buttons: block and delete. No one could see that I was a red-head pushing close to 190lb. All they could see were the sexy curves on my scantily dressed avatar. I could look beautiful without plastering my face with cosmetics. I was a goddess.

  Before long, the glaring white screen became of paramount importance. I never wanted to leave my pixelated friends. They were the only ones who cared about me. My whole life became absorbed into the omnipresent monitor, and I no longer cared about my physical form. All that mattered was that my avatar looked perfect. Everybody loves me in the games; what could possibly go wrong?

  I’d click away at the keys long into the night, until I became unable decipher meaning from the blurred walls of text. Often, whilst I rested in my bed, I stared at the ceiling and watched the aftermath like a strobing rave. The screen burnt patterns into my retinas. They flickered behind my eyelids for hours before I could sleep. It seemed normal to me.

  As days turned to weeks, the more numb and unconscious to the real world I became. My eyes remained open, but they did not see; I didn’t register the full extent of my surroundings. My hand was programmed to move the mouse back and forth. The reflex to collect falling gold on a virtual game is hardwired into my mind, yet my lips had forgotten how to smile. When did illusion become stronger than reality?

  I became so absorbed into this new life, that I lost touch with what it meant to live. I forgot the importance of eating, and that of sleep. Sometimes I forgot to shower, or to brush my teeth.

  ‘What’s the point?’ I’d ask myself. ‘I am isolated and alone; no one is going to see that I haven’t shaved my legs in weeks.’

  Then one day, it hit me. I was level grinding by improving my lumbering skills, one virtual tree at a time, when I jolted back to consciousness.

  Why the fuck am I doing this? I blinked in confusion. I stared at the screen for what it was: an animated sequence of LED lights. Why was this thing so important to me?

  You’re doing it to get to level 39. You only need to cut down 54 more trees, another voice replied, internally.

  But why do I have to get to level 39? What is the point?

  Are you fucking stupid? You need to level up so you can open that new area, and get some new armour. Don’t stop now; it will only take a few more hours, the voice replied impatiently.

  ‘Great, I’m talking to myself,’ I sighed, and stood up. As I lifted from the chair, a surge of blood pounded against my skull.

  ‘Ow, fuck!’ I groaned. My head throbbed like a hangover after a bad binge. I couldn’t help but wince in pain as the matrix etched into my eyelids flickered aggressively.

  My legs felt li
ke rubber as they tried to reacquaint themselves with motion. I walked over to the full length mirror. It reflected something unrecognisable. My waistline had shrunk beneath yards of fabric that once fit snugly. At first, I was pleased. Finally, no more fat jokes. I examined my reflection, until my gut protested violently against the borderline starvation. I couldn’t supress the cry of pain that gurgled in my throat. My insides were knotted in an internal cinch. I gagged and doubled over into a foetal position on the floor. My stomach heaved and churned, until my mouth foamed with gastric acid. It was so empty that I couldn’t even throw up. My body knew that I had finally realised the destructive pattern I had formed.

  My clothes were littered across the floor. The dishes were piled into a staggering tower, as high as my knees. The strong odour that lingered around the plates indicated that many of them had been there for weeks. I was dumb-struck, like a stunned mullet plucked from the sea. I struggled to process the information.

  ‘What the hell has happened to me?’

  I scanned through my floordrobe. Garments were scattered in crinkled, balled masses in no apparent order. I tried to make some sense of it by haphazardly tossing them into ‘clean’ and ‘dirty’ piles. The rest of the day, I tidied up my home in a bewildered state. It seemed so alien to me. Nothing about this place felt like home.

  I turned to the dishes. Flecks of butter chicken were caked along the surface of a bowl.

  I don’t remember eating that, I thought, as I dumped it in the sink. My stomach growled at the mention of food. How long had it been since I last ate? I tried to count the hours and days, but it was so hard to keep track. It wasn’t until I reluctantly walked back into my room, and browsed the computer, was my question answered. Ninety-six pages of forum posts later, I discovered my last meal was over two days ago.

  ‘No wonder I threw up,’ I groaned, and cradled my core. ‘How could I do that to myself?’

  I cut the throat of the mechanical beast, by ripping the power cord from its socket. The drone of the cooling fan whirled to a stop, and the electronic cicadas stopped humming. I waited. There was no more static crackle, just silence. It had lost its hold over me.

  ‘Was that it?’ I scoffed at the simplicity. The computer was never silent, not even when I slept. It provided me with a buzzing lullaby, as uTorrent ran through the night. Its absence was so foreign. I liked it.

  I turned to the dusty curtains that shielded external light. They had enclosed me in my cave and kept me safe. Safe from what exactly, I did not know. What was I afraid of? I thrust them aside. The sun napalmed my eyes until they watered.

  ‘Fuck, it’s bright out there.’ I squinted into the glare, until shapes and colours started to differentiate from the whiteness.

  Glorious hues of blues and greens came into focus as I gazed over the river. From here, I could see the sunlight shimmer on the rippling veil of the water. I had forgotten how close that river was, or how I used to sit there every afternoon, watching the pelicans skim across the surface. It was mesmerising.

  I found myself drifting out the door barefoot. My toes clenched at the feel of the dewy lawn caressing my feet. It was wonderful. It didn’t matter how long it would take; I was going to reacquaint myself with the world.

  As I wandered down the street to my favourite picnic table by the willow trees, I thought this town isn’t as horrible as it seems. The gulls swooped down eagerly in a quest for some scraps. I laughed at their desperation, the first time I have done so in months. I continued to walk along the bank, picking up shells as I went. It wasn’t until I reached the sandy dunes, did I realise I had reached the river’s rendezvous with the sea. I smiled at my accomplishment. It's not much, but it is a start.

  Amber wrote Virtual Obsession as an observation piece that focuses on the negative impacts of internet addiction.

   

  Bios and contact details

  Ashwin, Hettie

  Hettie Ashwin has been widely published in magazines and online. Her writing includes humorous column style articles, short stories, novels and non fiction boating pieces, which is handy as she lives on a boat in Queensland, Australia. She has had short stories included in anthologies in the UK, USA and Australia. Hettie has won several writing competitions and her speculative fiction and thriller novel (a competition winner) were published by Morris Publishing. Hettie also self published a humorous novel and a collection of short stories in 2010.

  Hettie has a healthy ego, a fertile imagination and a robust work ethic. As the proud possessor of an enlarged funny bone, she’s bound to say it has a marked influence on her writing style and her life in general.

  For more about Hettie visit her at https://www.hettieashwin.blogspot.com/ and don’t forget to bring your sense of humour!

  Assumpter, Irene

  Irene is a 29 year old who walks around with a pen and a note book, even if it means just scribbling. Irene has written a novel titled ‘No Bigger Mistake’, to be published in late 2012.

  Beer, Don

  Don Beer has taken to writing fiction late in life. He is a member of a vibrant short-story writing group in Canberra.

  Blatt, Eddie

  Eddie Blatt has worked as a research scientist, musician, web-page designer and teacher. Over 30 of his research papers were published in science journals. He has also had essays published in magazines and online. He lives on the coast in northern New South Wales where he is writing a memoir.

  Brooks, Nicholas

  Nicholas is a creative writing student at the University of Wollongong who is inspired by the writing of Bret Easton Ellis, Don DeLillo and Roberto Bolano among others (of course!).

  Callaghan, Linda

  Linda Callaghan is a Blue Mountains artist who released her creativity late in 2008. She exhibits yearly and in 2011 won the Springwood Art Show prize. She uses a wide range of mediums and paints many subjects inspired by her surroundings and emotions. Linda also enjoys writing inspirational poetry to accompany her works.

  Chaffey, Robyn

  Robyn is a writer who says she is ‘still on her ‘L’ plates’. She enjoys experimenting with different types of writing as well as the camaraderie of the writers she is coming to know.

  Davies, Nene

  Ten years ago, Nene emigrated from Wales to Oz with her husband and three lovely children. Enchanted by Australia from Day One, Nene’s icing on the cupcake is the freedom these days to write full time. It may sound corny, but it really is a dream come true!

  Doyle, Brendan

  Brendan is often inspired by the Blue Mountains, west of Sydney, where he lives. Follow his poetry blog at https://bdwordsmith.blogspot.com.au

  Edgar, Bob

  Bob is the author of the young adult adventure novel, SOS from Rhodon Valley, as well as the newly-released Tom Tuff to the Rescue for the younger child.

  Tom Tuff tells the story of a little tug boat with a big heart. It has been beautifully illustrated by Todd Sharp (https://www.toddsharpartworks.com.au/)

  For more about Bob, visit his site at https://www.robertedgardauthor.com/

  Fawdry, Merlene

  Merlene Fawdry is an award winning writer and poet, author of The Little Mongrel – free to a good home, The Hidden Risks, and several books of poetry, who has had short stories and poetry published in literary magazines in Australia and overseas. Her strong interest in social justice is reflected in much of her work.

  A qualified editor, she offers a professional writing service, mentoring beginning and emerging writers to develop their manuscripts. She maintains a blog @Merlene Fawdry at https://merlenefawdry.blogspot.com.au/ and welcomes comments on her posts.

  Fermanis-Windward, Michele

  Michele finds that poetry allows her to step out of the day-to-day and into a playground of words where she can follow the sandy footprints of her imagination.

  For more about Michele and her writing, visit her blog at https://www.michelefermanis-winward.com/

  Gardiner, Alex aka The Auld Yin
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br />   Alexander Gardiner (aka The Auld Yin) is situated in the beautiful Blue Mountains of New South Wales, Australia.

  He creates sculptures and poetry in the scenic town of Bullaburra. In real life he manages a small wholesale nursery in the Blue Mountains, propagating everything from African violets to maidenhair ferns and all other sorts of exotic plants.

  He hopes you enjoy his passion, in this case for poetry in the Scottish vernacular.

  Govier, Mark

  Mark grew up in Port Adelaide, went to Adelaide University, and ended up working for Long Bay Prison, Sydney, and in many other court and government positions.

  Mark’s first novel, The Trials of Nian Gao, is a SciFi book. Set in 2084, in a China run by a sinister Party, it follows ex-criminal Nian as he tries to oppose the Party, before managing to escape.

  Heks, Andris

  Andris has a background in political journalism and social work. He has written many poems and articles, a few songs and two plays including ‘Ai Weiwei’s Tightrope Act’ that recently premiered at UTS in Sydney. You can find his music on YouTube and his written works across the internet by Googling ‘Andris Heks’.

  Hollins-Cliff, Annabel

  Annabel is a photographer who writes for fun. Find out more about Annabel and her works at https://solitaryphotographic.com/

  Howell, Connie

  Connie is a western shaman who loves to write stories that inspire others, especially women. She has worked in the arena of ‘energy healing’ for thirty years and continues to expand her awareness which then helps those who come to her.

  Ince, Frank

  Frank Ince is a short story writer with many awards and publications to his credit. He lives with his wife and a boisterous dog in a town cottage in Caroline Springs, Victoria.

  La Porte, Judith

  Judith began writing short stories a couple of years ago. She usually bases her stories on personal experience and then allows her imagination to take hold.

  Lance, Robyn

  Robyn has had the following achievements:

  2012 – Poems stencilled on metal plates for ‘Poetry – the Indelible Stencil’ project, NSW

  2011 – Commissioned poem on Canberra’s ACTION Buses

  2010 – David Campbell Poetry Prize

  2009 – Jennifer Lamb Veolia Creative Arts Scholarship

  and more in Best Australian Poems 08/05; Island, Quadrant, FourW, Five Bells, Poetrix, LiNQ and AustralianReader.com.

  Langford, Anthony J.

  Anthony grew up in country Victoria but after several years travelling now lives in Sydney with his baby daughter and three step children. He has had numerous stories and poems published, including in the Verandah 25th Anniversary Edition. His novella Bottomless River is out now through Ginninderra Press. For more on Anthony, visit his website at https://www.anthonyjlangford.com/

  Martin, Denise

  Denise is a visual artist who lives in the beautiful Macedon Ranges, Victoria. She has always been inspired by the natural world, and enjoys writing about it, and interpreting it through her artwork and poetry.

  McGloin, Barry

  Barry is the current convenor of a vibrant U3A Canberra short story group. He is compiling his second book of short stories and poems, called Old Mates. His blog is at https://barrymcgloin.blogspot.com.au/

  Pant, Subroto

  Subroto is based in Brisbane and blogs infrequently at https://subrotopant.blogspot.com.au/

  Paton, Toni

  Toni is the author of Whimsical Verse, an illustrated poetry book for children aged four through to 12.

  Payne, Andrea

  Andrea is a South Australian born and bred, and has also lived for some years in Darwin, Sydney and Albury-Wodonga. She also spent seven years living in the high desert of Nevada, USA. She is currently working on a novel based in Ireland and South Australia, in the 1800s.

  Find out more at Andrea’s website, https://andreapayne.com or her blog, My Kat’s Eye https://andieweb.com/andiekat/mykatseye.php

  Portingale, Paris

  Paris Portingale is the author of the novel Art and the Drug Addict’s Dog, The Trouble with Daleks, several other unpublished novels, and many, many short stories.

  You can connect with Paris at https://www.parisportingaleauthor.com/

  Pratt, Tamara

  Tamara’s short stories have been published in e-zines and anthologies, both in Australia and the USA. She has qualifications in professional writing, has placed in the Glass Woman Prize twice, and was selected to stay at Varuna, The Writers’ House in a professional residency program with author Marele Day in October 2011.

  Tamara’s website is https://www.tamarapratt.com and you can follow her on twitter@tamarapratt

  Renew, Sandra

  Sandra lived in the fascinating country of Afghanistan for three years, working with children affected by armed conflict, and worked in other war-affected countries for many years. She is now attempting to capture and share some of her memorable and significant experiences.

  Rimeriter

  Rimeriter (aka Jim Spain) is a writer of rhyme, havin’ a good time. He has dedicated himself to the craft of Rhymed Verse, specialising in topical rhymes for Aussie times. This Lansvale poet has been writing since 1979, sparked by an inner need, and spurred on by a community course.

  Jim loves travelling, finding inspiration along the road for his verse.

  He is deeply passionate about Australia and all her idiosyncrasies and frequently draws on this sentiment in his work, which numbers over five hundred (500) individual pieces from which to select.

  Alternatively, by being collected into groups, they are available in Booklette format. For more on Jim and his works, just enter ‘Rimeriter’ in your search engine.

  Ross, John

  John lives in the beautiful Blue Mountains having retired from a management position in the airlines. He enjoys writing short stories, sunrises, gardening and science fiction.

  Sargent, Susan

  Susan is a registered nurse and midwife in country New South Wales. She has always been a writer of sorts, but never brave enough to try publishing before ... her hard drives are full of unfinished pieces!

  Singer, Ariette

  Ariette is a performance poet/singer/composer who loves to entertain live whenever possible with her tongue in both cheeks poetry and songs, or make her readers and audiences think. She performs live and on community radio, has won national poetry competitions, and her work has been published in anthologies and online poetry magazines in the USA and Australia.

  Smith, Winsome

  Winsome Smith lives at Lithgow at the edge of the beautiful Blue Mountains, New South Wales. She has always been a writer and a story teller.

  Thubten, Yeshe

  Yeshe Thubten is an unschooling mother, Buddhist nun and a writer trying to make sense. She is hoping to finish her first novel – a children’s book which will hopefully become a series. Find out more about the Valoura Karuna series here: https://www.valourakaruna.blogspot.com.au/

  Walker, Vickie

  Vickie enjoys writing short stories and poetry and has had some minor success in competitions. She loves to travel and uses her travels often for inspiration.

  Witham, Ted

  Ted Witham has been writing since his teens. He now lives in retirement in the south-west of Western Australia, enjoying the beauty of Geographe Bay.

  Yuen, Kathryn

  Kathryn is an emerging writer, poet and playwright. She thought it might be time to start sharing a little of what is in the drawers of her ‘writing chest’. She says that if it’s at all reassuring, she can write funny too!!

   

  July 2010 to now

  A brief history of narratorAUSTRALIA

  Hazelbrook, NSW

  It was a dark and stormy night …

  Actually, it wasn’t stormy, but it was certainly dark and cold in the Katoomba laneway where we had gathered to shoot the cover of Paris Portingale’s Art and the Drug A
ddict’s Dog. As we were wrapping up, Paris’ lovely wife said to me that she felt he should publish a collection of his short stories. My first thought was: Who reads short stories? Well, apparently, lots of people!

  The wonderful thing about being in small business is that you can make a decision, and then execute it. No committees. No arguments. Screw it, just do it. (With apologies to both Nike AND Richard Branson!)

  Ten days after that photo shoot, we ran an ad in the local paper, and seven weeks later released the first quarterly issue of narratorMAGAZINE Blue Mountains.

  A year later we released the first issue of narratorMAGAZINE Central Tablelands, as part of our plan to have many regional issues across the country. What we hadn’t counted on was the effects of the GFC – getting advertising was impossible. Trying to produce two quarterly issues without funding was beyond us, so we rolled them into what would be the bigger, better, all new, shiny, singing and dancing narratorMAGAZINE NSW/ACT, with plans to bring out other state issues.

  Again the GFC beat us, and in March/April 2012, we figured we were dead in the water. The decision was made to pull the plug, and then, in the dark of night, an idea floated in out of nowhere, thanks to The Sandman. And so narratorAUSTRALIA was born – as a daily online publication, supplemented by a half-yearly print on demand version. It makes us so happy to be able to use modern technology to adhere to ecologically beneficial practices (digital and print-on-demand publishing) to reach across the country on a daily basis and connect with so many wonderful writers.

  Thank you all – readers and writers alike – for your support. Without you, this book would not exist.

  Jennifer Mosher, AE

  Editor-in-Chief