narratorAUSTRALIA Volume Two
Page 13
~~~
The sunrise brings new light to the previous night’s darkness. The car unlocked on the side of the highway is all that remains of the night’s unexplainable mystery, and many logical minds will have more questions that remain unanswered.
Tuesday 18 December 2012
Disconnect
Susan Kay
Bellevue Heights, SA
she wakes, remembers, sighs
selects a cardboard face
from her collection in the bathroom
pads to the kitchen
puts on coffee
leans heavy on the counter edge
morning peace spoiled
by anticipation
of an early jetlagged footfall
a flush, a running tap
she steels herself
adjusts the face
smoothes something at her waist
turns full-toothed upon her guest
hiding a snarl
behind a Californian greeting
drowning intimacy in exaggerated
Hail Fellow
her guest wonders
is her host planning
to eat her for breakfast
washed down with Arabica beans
Wednesday 19 December 2012
The Truth At Last
Bob Edgar
Wentworth Falls, NSW
Albert Collector was turning 100 years old today and the Lilac Nursing Home was decorated to the hilt. Today was the 17th March 1998, and Albert was the first resident of Lilac’s sole aged care facility to reach the century. The home’s managing director had invited the small country town’s most influential people to attend his birthday party.
Head nurse Patricia Smalling had planned the big day with precision, right down to a magnificent cake adorned with 100 candles.
Albert was well aware of the fuss within the home, and the fact that he was the centre of attention. He was an intelligent, alert man who had kept an almost silent countenance since arriving two years earlier.
Although having been born and raised in Lilac he had no known family or friends. Albert had for many years been known as the sad man who dwelled in the house on the hill.
For two days now Albert had been unusually edgy and snapping at the nurses. Just this morning he had shouted at a young trainee nurse and twice thrown cups of tea to the floor. Although out of character for Albert, Patricia was not overly concerned. She instead focused on the party, and wished for the day to be over.
Patricia became a little agitated when informed that three candles had gone missing from Albert’s cake. Petty, maybe, but enough to put her on edge.
Patricia had planned on presenting Albert with the telegram from Queen Elizabeth at the party. However, she reasoned that if she gave it to him now he would be in better spirits for his guests.
Finding Albert sitting on the side of his bed, Patricia proffered the telegram to him with a caring smile. Albert opened the envelope and read the message for two seconds, before tearing it in two and flicking it into Patricia’s face.
‘Albert Collector, behave yourself! You are 100 years old today, we have a party in your honour and you should feel proud of yourself.’
Albert stood defiantly before the head nurse.
‘I’ll be cursed if I allow you or any person to celebrate my life. Who are you to say I am 100 years old? Who are you to say I should be proud of myself? Get away from me, leave me alone!’
‘Please calm yourself Albert, I’ll send in a nurse to sit with you.’
Patricia retreated from the room and made for her office to peruse Albert’s personal file.
Albert shuffled across the room to confide in his catatonic roommate.
Albert’s voice quivered as he spoke.
‘I need to tell someone; Please listen, please forgive me. 1916 was the last time I had a friend. His name was Walter, he was my best friend and we were very young. He didn’t want to join up, he was frightened. Didn’t want to leave his Mum.’
Albert suddenly clutched, then cradled his left forearm and groaned.
‘I made him join. I wanted my friend to be with me. Walter was killed on his first day on foreign soil.’
Albert slid to the floor, confessing to himself.
‘We were only 15.’
Thursday 20 December 2012
Information Simply Given
Jill Pierce
Curtin, ACT
Caravanning
allows glimpses into others’ lives,
provides an intimate space
chance encounters
people never seen again.
Grey Nomads, families on travelling holidays,
local people in dusty towns
outback dwellers.
A couple pull in to the Warrumbungles,
walks provide magnificent views
volcanic rock plugs and scrub-covered cliffs
steeped in eucalyptus vapour.
The husband cannot venture far.
A lifetime of smoking led to emphysema,
he quit, but ‘trouble with his son’
sent him reaching for the tobacco.
Information simply given
as we walk to the toilet block.
Kangaroos watch warily.
Edna and Joan mind the local museum,
ten to twelve each day,
health permitting.
Their chairs set to catch the morning sun,
both in their eighties,
watching for the weekly cattle train.
Edna’s husband, now ten years dead,
built models of the old town,
with local mulga and a chisel
proudly set up the dusty displays.
Edna carries on his work, keeping history alive
‘But who will take over when we go?’
I swim out to a raft on the Roper River
one other woman, her husband off fishing.
We cleave through the clear water, refreshed.
Then lie on the pontoon,
baking, chatting.
They sold their house for the travelling life
after her husband had a heart attack.
Their son was a keen horticulturist,
Passionate about plants,
but ‘all a waste’.
He died when he was twenty-five.
The words drop like stones in a pool
Solicitude ripples,
questions hang in the still hot air.
A bright red dragonfly lands,
the cabbage palms lean in.
Tomorrow we move on.
Friday 21 December 2012
Maya
David Anderson
Woodford, NSW
Working hard, saving dollars
Only one thing on my mind
Palenque – got to go there
Find the spirit of the Mayan kind
People say they are no more
Nothings further from the truth
Maya people – everywhere
Cry it out from the temple roof
Maya – the future the stars
You set our course long ago
Two thousand and twelve will reveal
A future of joy or one of woe
In the Forest of Kings the people danced
As the galleons arrived on the Yucatan coast
They conquered, but Mayan culture survived
And their spirits still taunt Avendano’s ghost
Saturday 22 December 2012
Following
Ben McCaskill
North Balgowlah, NSW
Running numb through the cold
I follow the swaying crimson
It’s all I know, all I’m sure of doing
The world changes
Heat from other drifting souls from every direction
A deafening, disorientating noise engulfs me
Creates the aura of surrealism
I cannot tell how long a
go lucidity made its evanescence
Senses are distorted, patterns change
My eyes avert, I scan the sea
The stockings catch my eye
They stand out like a bride at her wedding
I stand fixated, waiting,
She turns
We meet eye to eye
An invisible force as real as the wind draws us back together
Our hands clasp
A rush of excitement, a release of joy
Alone at last
I don’t waste time
I yell the whisper in her ear
The response is a tug on my arm
She leads me down whatever path she creates
Again I follow
Suddenly, the force of her legs around my waist
Light reveals her shining emerald eyes in flashes
My eyes close, all I have is touch
Our lips meet
I want to smile, I’m happy
My wish has been granted
All yearning, all hoping, becomes real
My mind is as always untamed, I ponder more
Now the floor moves, it’s tilting
The room is spinning
Stumbling, contact remains but our embrace is broken
I covet the last second’s moment again
A moment of magic, but it must end
We’re not ourselves
A poison has brought us here
Through the haze the voice of truth remains clear
Battling the desire to remain a prisoner, I announce for a conclusion
I’m met with her wandering gaze
The gaze of a shell left behind by its occupant
A hand squeezes mine tightly
Through the swarm of heat and confusion she leads me
I follow
Sunday 23 December 2012
Losing The Chance To Choose
Arielle Windsor
Nakara, NT
Sunday was flat out. Stretched across the sheets, her head lay centred unnaturally on the pillow like a porcelain doll set neatly in a cradle. Her level of consciousness was dead-flat too. The shallow indentation of her chest and the slight rasp of her exhale were the sole things that showed the life behind the pale skin.
It was time to make a choice. There were multiple possibilities, but none felt right. Nothing had felt right since I woke up to discover my brother Sam would never wake again. And that his girlfriend Sunday was to be suspended, neither waking nor sleeping, merely lying there, flat.
Even before the incident, it didn’t feel right. Not when my brother stole my best friend. When he took the only person I felt comfortable around and slung her round his neck like a trophy. Not when Sunday only talked of Sam and Sam only boasted about the things they did together. It wasn’t wrong, exactly ... but it wasn’t right.
It was the two of us, Sunday and me, who then became three when my brother decided that girls no longer gave you germs. When they got together it felt like I was at the centre, squashed between them, wanting to separate them but instead left suffocating and in need of space to breathe. Now I’ve got the space I wanted, but it’s a lonely, guilty place. I’ve become so hollow that I’m empty. Devoid except for the hope that Sunday comes around again.
The choices lay like the distasteful Cherry Ripes at the bottom of one of many Favourites boxes on Sunday’s beside table. There was not even a thin layer of sweet-talk coating to make them easier to swallow. There was the option to flick the switch and pull the plug, but Sunday was always arguing with me about the injustice of euthanasia. That choice would definitely be a wrong one. The doctors had said it was possible to leave her in the coma and simply wait for a natural recovery, but there was a hesitancy and doubt to their tone, as though they were wishing it to become true. Sunday had no patience and always tired quickly of playing patient. It felt wrong to make her wait, like I was holding her back for myself. That left the last two. Stimulating her brain to arrive at consciousness through a physical procedure involving 12 hour surgery, a small lobotomy and shocking her nervous system would have freaked Sunday out. It was apparent, then that inducing consciousness through newly developed medicinal drugs was the best option for Sunday. There were side effects, the doctors explained to me, such as increased sweating from the postulate glands, skin irritation, nausea, migraines and fatigue. There would also be a slight risk of the inability to recall past events from the temporal lobes, although this was rare, and highly unlikely due to Sunday’s current stability.
Sunday had no relatives, which is why she lived at our house for most of the year, sharing our food, our clothes, our bath and our bedroom. When we started at Ennui High, she moved into the barn, but we all still shared secrets, games and laughter. There is nothing I wouldn’t share with Sunday.
So I shared my hatred and my fear about her future whilst she lay upon the bed, hand loose in mine, even though the doctors said pessimism was forbidden. Sunday had been on the stimulants for a month now, and the flickers of neural activity had been detected. If she had never heard a word I said, it wouldn’t bother me, as just talking to her left me feeling calm and reassured. As long as one of us was benefitting then it didn’t really matter. I was staring at the texture of the plain white wall as I contemplated the past, when I felt Sunday’s fingers twitch. I turned, and her eyes twitched too. ‘Sunday ...’ I managed to whisper, before she fell back into her comatose state.
After that I didn’t want to leave her side, but the doctors convinced me to leave for dinner at 11.30pm. On my return, I sat by her side and we slept like that, hand in limp hand.
A movement in my hand woke me with a start. I opened my eyes to a falsely dark room which suggested night from the slightly dimmed lights. It was Sunday; eyes open wide in the dimness.
‘Sam?’ she croaked in her unused voice
I leant in closer so there was no doubt she could see my face. Even in the poor lighting, it was easy to tell between Sam and I – he was good looking and I was definitely not.
‘Sam – it is you isn’t it?’
The memory loss, low risk, only three in every thousand, new technology, facial recognition, never retraceable, prosopagnosia ... a hundred thoughts flashed across my mind ...
‘Yes, Sunday of course it’s me.’ I held my eyes steady. It would be best for both of us, right?
‘You liar!’
My mouth dropped.
‘You said, you said we’d go home.’
I shut it.
‘You said we’d find Dave, you said you tell him we’d split. You said, “Let me do the talking”. You said, “He’s not going to take this lightly”. “He’ll hate you”, you told me. You said “You’re wrong to do this you know”. You said so much that I never got to talk. To tell you that I’d realised that everything I ever liked about you was something that I saw first in Dave. That it’s not you I love. It’s David. I never got to say it. The car swerved, and after that I don’t remember. I made a wrong choice Sam. I have to make it right. Where’s Dave, Sam?’
I stumbled for some words. I choked back tears.
‘The Dave you knew is gone forever, Sunday.’ At least that much was true.
Sunday screamed, but her voice snagged. The scream kept pouring out of her, silently contorting her face into a grotesque image of pain love, sorrow and loss. Her body shook, from the emotion, I guessed, but when I went to touch her gently, she began convulsing in giant shudders. A night warden came running with the defibrillator, I stood back.
She followed the cues, a paddle on each side of the chest. A shock. No signs of life. The voltage was switched to high, all red lights and automated voice. A second shock rippled through Sunday like she wasn’t even there.
The nurse turned it off, sagged into a chair and hid her face beneath her hands.
Sunday was gone.
I’d thought I could save her with a white lie but I’d killed her with a half-truth.
I’d made a choice.
It was the wrong one.
Monday 24 December 2012
Christmas Performance Report
John Arvan
Underdale, SA
Whoops!
Someone left the door ajar
And Santa snuck back in
Resplendent in his shorts and thongs
And snow-white bearded grin.
So let me now review your year
He breathed with too much pleasure.
We’ll talk about how good you’ve been
Performance is my measure.
No – we cried in unison
’cos life’s a bit too short.
We’ve revelled in some indolence
of deed
and want
and thought.
Ok said Santa
I accept
that sometimes you’ve transgressed.
That wine and beer go hand in hand
with good folk that are stressed.
But what of all those cakes and pies?
And I’ve logged all your ’lil white lies.
The cash foregone far better spent.
That crazy road rage incident.
When you wee’d in the swimming pool.
Unseen, you thought, your doggy’s poo,
and I can tell ... you think I’m fat!
I’ll have to give an ‘F’ for that.
Please Santa! Stop!
we’ve had enough.
The neighbours may be woken up
and if you haven’t brought your sack
the year’s a waste but for Barack.
Then Santa smiled with too much glee.
Out to his sleigh invited we
and there on that hot summer’s night
with moon a-glow and stars a-bright
he rummaged round in his great sack
the games and dolls he did attack
until he found it
just for us ...
... and bellowed
MERRY CHRISTMAS!!
Tuesday 25 December 2012
What I Really Want For Christmas
Demelza
Taroona, TAS
What I really want for Christmas
Is a housemaid for a year
One who washes dishes
And cleans up everywhere
But I’ll be happy with a tea towel
’cause I know the money’s tight
And you’ll stand close by and watch me
As I use it every night
What I really want for Christmas
Is a cruise on a big ship
Where I can put my feet up
And watch the dolphins dip
Where exotic lands can pass me by
Or I can go ashore
And watch exotic dances
And eat exotic boar
But I’ll be happy with a basket
A melon or a peach
And you can watch me carry it
Up and down the local beach
What I really what for Christmas
Is a new and shiny car
One that’s really sporty
No rack or towing bar
But I’ll be happy with the bus pass
That you buy me every year
And I know it saves us money
Yes I know that cars are dear
What I really want for Christmas
Is a man to prune the roses
To spread a bit of compost
And fix up all the hoses
But I’ll be happy with a spade
’cause I know you’ll buy the best
And you say, ‘It’s good to be outdoors
– a change is like a rest!’
And now I’m saving money dear
Look what I’ve bought you
Some tickets to the movies
And my mother’s coming too!
Wednesday 26 December 2012
Burnt Toast
Virginia Gow
Blackheath, NSW
Would you offer a guest who has travelled far
Burnt toast from yesterday?
If it’s all you have, then this will do.
‘No way,’ I hear you say.
Would you rather offer a sheer delight,
Creamy buttery bread
Still smelling of baker’s dough?
‘Yes, Yes,’ you answer low.
All care should then be taken
With a serving for the soul.
Line up the poet’s recipe
In a wabi-sabi bowl.
Each morsel, a sliver of ‘bacon’
Crisp and tender to the ear,
Golden, egg-ripple interplay
Resembles the wandering seer.
Slow cooking, play with one line,
For an hour, a day, or a year.
Unique ideas are a breakfast feast,
Researched and sifted through.
The ego has no place in rhyme.
Who will offer a serving to you?
Wednesday 26 December 2012 4 pm
Lacuna
Peter Goodwin
Warilla, NSW
No words placed me here,
on this wooden bridge, above a dark pond.
There was no invitation to accept,
no meeting to decline.
It is a place where I come
between sentences.
It is silent here, surrounded by meadows,
absent of birds.
In this season, the clouds dim the sun,
most of the time.
Charcoal shadows are cast
as though someone is sketching me.
It is a place where I come
when there are no words.
Thursday 27 December 2012 9.55 pm
Hypothetical Machine
Graham Sparks
Bathurst, NSW
Imagine there’s another place
where simplicity reigns supreme
the measure of a machine
would be its density of function
divided by complexity of system.
And so I feel a poem is in analogue
a word machine.
Density of concept over textual complexity
would give a reading of its overall efficiency,
and conceptual units non aligned with rhythmic ones
avoids the bane of modularity,
and gives the whole cohesion.
Verbosity dilutes the power of the words.
Friday 28 December 2012
Secrets
Sallie Ramsay
Torrens, ACT
‘Can you keep a secret?
I don’t believe you can.
You mustn’t smile,
You mustn’t laugh,
Just do the best you can!’
I hate that rhyme; I hate being tickled and that rhyme always ends with me being tickled. No matter how hard I try not to wriggle and giggle, by the time they get to ‘You mustn’t laugh’, my body is jangling and jiggling and ready to break into a fit of unfunny giggles.
My cousin Susan is four years older than me, she is the worst. Other people tickle me too but they just do it as a joke and don’t understand how much I hate it, they aren’t ticklish of course but then ticklers never are. Susan knows exactly how I feel and just enjoys upsetting me. She creeps up behind me, pounces on me, rushes through the rhyme before tickling me really hard.
‘There, you are laughing again!’ she shouts in triumph. ‘You can’t keep a secret!’
I can keep a secret, I keep lots of them. I keep secrets about Christmas presents and special surprises; I keep the secret about where Uncle Ron hides his bottle of whisky in the garage and I know that my brother keeps a packet of condoms in his pocket, just in case. Just in case of what I don’t know. I’d never tell what my big sister Jane and her boyfriend do in her room when my parents are out. That is such a big secret not even Jane knows I am keeping it. So I can keep a secret no matter what Susa
n says.
The only thing I can do is to try and learn not wriggle when someone starts ‘Can you keep a ...’ It’s very, very hard, my arms and legs shake, my face goes red, my eyes fill with tears but little by little I’m learning not to seem ticklish. That nasty rhyme is less scary now, people have stopped pouncing on me; it’s no fun to tickle someone who isn’t ticklish. Of course I’m still ticklish, but I’ve learned to be ticklish so that it doesn’t show on the outside.
I told my parents about what Susan does but they thought it was a joke and told me not to be a sook. Somehow Susan found out I’d told my parents. She grabbed me by the arm and pushed me up against the wall, she drew her finger across her throat and glared at me and said if I ever told tales again ...
‘Tell tale tit,
Your tongue will split
And all the little puppy dogs,
Will have a little bit!’
Even Susan stopped tickling me but now she does other things. Yesterday she chased me with a big spider, I think she likes to frighten me, she really enjoys making me cry, although I try very hard not to. This morning something strange happened. I was looking out my bedroom window when I saw Susan coming up the street. Just before she got to our house a car full of what my brother called yobbos from the pub pulled up next to her. One got out and pulled Susan into the car. I think she was screaming; I couldn’t hear anything but she looked as if she were screaming. One of the yobbos looked up and saw me at the window; he shook his head and drew his finger across his throat just like Susan did to remind me something bad would happen if I said anything.
My life since Susan disappeared has been much nicer. Everyone is very puzzled about what happened to her. The police have asked me lots of questions but I’ve said nothing. If there is one thing I’m good at its keeping secrets and Susan taught me never to tell tales ...
Saturday 29 December 2012
The Demon Hunter
Des Pensable
Kirrawee, NSW
I was a scientist from a parallel dimension exploring a new world just recently discovered. I came from a society where we valued knowledge, reason and logic above all. Our science had advanced to a stage where we had detected multiple realities and could travel to them. I was sent out to one to collect information and study the inhabitants. This was my first mission so I was quite excited.
My avatar body had been bioengineered to look like them. I had taken a study course in off world etiquette and I had an artificially intelligent universal translator device implanted which could quickly learn any new language and translate it for me. So I felt reasonably confident that I could blend in with the locals and learn about them.
They had a society based upon the use of fossil fuel as a source of energy. Logically it would run out eventually and their society would have to change and adjust otherwise they could destroy their world and a large proportion of their population in the process. It had nearly happened to my world but in the end we were saved by science and a popular uprising against the financial monopoly that controlled the world. I was going there to investigate whether they were aware of the danger.
My avatar entered their physical reality a few kilometres from a small farm located several kilometres from a rural community and approaching the people working there I asked if I could do some work for them to earn some food. They seemed quite happy to accommodate me and soon had me working at harvesting one of the grain crops.
The other workers seemed quite happy and talkative. We all sat around a fire in the evening whilst a story teller told tales of great heroes and imaginary monsters and we all had a good laugh.
I shared a common room with several other males each night and we chatted about which female we liked and discussed their virtues. It was here that I learnt that one was particularly interested in me. Her name was Sara.
One morning I woke at the normal time to find that my co-workers had all left the room. At first I thought that I must have slept in so I hurried outside but they were nowhere to be seen and there was no activity in the fields. What I did see was a person approaching wearing a uniform curiously similar to an ancient one from my own dimension. He had a serious look on his face.
‘So you’re the new worker are you? I’ve heard that you’re not from around here. That doesn’t give you any excuse not to be at the temple at dawn to give thanks to Our Lord for the fine harvest,’ he said.
‘Oh, sorry,’ I replied. ‘I didn’t know the owner of the farm held a service to honour his benevolence or I would have come. It’s certainly lovely working here.’
‘Not the farm owner you idiot, the Lord, our god, Zexon.’
‘Oh, your god Zexon. I don’t believe in gods. I’ve seen a lot of amazing things but I’ve never seen a god in all my travels,’ I replied honestly.
‘You don’t believe in Zexon? Who makes the sun rise? Who makes the crops grow? Who brings the rain? Who gives us love and children? Are you mad?’ he queried.
‘I had to take a battery of psychology tests before they let me visit here. If I was mad I’m sure they wouldn’t have let me come.’
‘Hmm ... so not believing in Zexon means that you won’t want to pay the 15% tithe on your earnings. Is that what you’re on about? You want to visit our country and not pay your dues to Zexon?’, he asked.
‘Oh no, not at all. If they are normal taxes I don’t mind paying and I’ll go along to your service if you want. It should be interesting. I don’t want to upset anyone. It’s just that I don’t believe in gods,’ I replied.
‘Hmm ... you can’t come to the service or even work here on the farm unless you’re devoted to Zexon. It’s against the rules,’ he stated emphatically.
‘But I won’t be able to eat unless I work,’ I pleaded.
‘That’s not my concern. If you’re not one of us you don’t exist. You’re just another animal like all the others and our god said quite plainly that we have dominion over all the animals.’
‘Oh. I don’t want to be declared an animal. That doesn’t sound like a good option,’ I replied. ‘So what are the good and bad points about joining your religion?’
‘That’s not a very positive attitude to start with. You should be happy to have your soul saved by Our Lord Zexon,’ replied the priest, a little annoyed.
‘What’s a soul?’ I asked.
‘You really are ignorant of the glories of our faith aren’t you?’
‘Sorry,’ I replied.
‘Well, in a nut shell you are made of two parts, one is flesh and the other is spirit. The flesh part of you is bad and will do all sorts of nasty things if it gets a chance but the spirit part is there to advise it not to do those things and watch over it. It also keeps a record of all your good and bad deeds throughout your life.
‘When you die the spirit part of you will go to a place in another dimension called heaven where Zexon lives and present your record sheet to him. If he thinks you’ve been a good servant to him and mainly kept by his rules then he’ll let your spirit stay with him to serve him there.
‘On the down side, if you break his rules and let your body rule over your spirit then he’ll send your spirit to a place called hell where it will live in pain and agony for all eternity.’
‘So the spirit part of me is to stop the flesh part of me from having fun, otherwise it won’t have fun after the flesh part of me dies. Is that the concept?’ I asked.
‘That is a very selfish way for your flesh self to think. You should be ashamed to even suggest that!’ he said quite annoyed.
‘I know my flesh part can feel pleasure and pain. How do I know my spirit part will feel pleasure and pain after my flesh part dies?’ I asked becoming quite interested in this novel concept.
‘We don’t ask questions like that. We have faith that what the Lord has said is the truth,’ he replied.
‘How do you know all this about Zexon if he lives in another dimension?’ I asked curiously.
‘He has sent his servants here to tell us,
of course. It’s all here in this book.’
‘Can I have a copy of the book to read?’ I asked.
‘It wouldn’t do you any good. It’s written in a strange language that only people like me can read. I actually went to college for several years to learn how to understand Zexon’s holy words,’ he replied indignantly.
‘Did you learn other knowledge like mathematics, science, philosophy or perhaps even art?’ I asked, wondering about their universities.
‘No. Why should I? This book contains all the wisdom that a person needs to live a happy life in the service of Zexon,’ he replied. ‘So are you going to join our faith or not?’
‘Umm ... can I think about for a few days?’ I asked.
‘I’m not unreasonable. You have until next week. I want to see you at the dawn service and ready to sign up to our easy pay deduction scheme. You won’t even notice the money gone,’ he replied with a smile as he left.
That evening the young female named Sara came and sat beside me while we were sitting around the fire drinking some of their local brew and chatting.
‘I’ve heard that you come from a place where they don’t believe in Lord Zexon,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ I replied, intoxicated by her beauty.
‘That seems strange not to believe in a god. What makes the sun come up and who put the stars in the sky? I love to know more about everything that God has done. It all seems so wonderful,’ she said with a happy smile.
‘Well, I could tell you a few things, but you probably wouldn’t believe me,’ I suggested.
‘Try me!’ replied Sara. ‘I have an open mind.’
I guess I should have known better and followed the instructions of the field guide to trust no one. But she was beautiful and seemed so innocent and wishing so fervently to learn that I opened up a little.
‘Well, for a start your world is a ball shape not flat as it might seem, and it revolves around the sun up there in the sky, not the other way around. The earth spins so it only seems that the sun is rotating around the earth. The stars are other suns just like your sun only a very long way away.’
‘That’s sounds so amazing. Is that what they believe where you came from? They must be all very primitive. It sounds like you should learn about our Zexon and go back and tell them about his wonders.’
We discussed other concepts as well. After she left, the discussion around the fire was quieter than normal that evening, so I went to bed early that night thinking that it might be prudent to move on as the priest might get the owner of the farm to tell me to leave unless I join their cult.
I had only been asleep a few minutes when I was roughly awoken by several males wearing hoods who bound me and gagged me then dragged me down the road for about a 10 minutes to where we met Sara the demon hunter, wearing a robe with the logo of one of the fossil fuel companies from my home dimension emblazoned across her back.
‘So here you are, unbeliever. We don’t like you demons in this dimension,’ she said as they bound me to a pole on top of a pile of logs and stood around smiling as the she lit the fire.
‘You come here from another dimension to try and corrupt our faithful. I am going to send your soul to meet Zexon. Soon you will believe in our god. This will teach you to meddle where you’re not wanted. I’m also going to send a prayer to Zexon who will probably contact your boss about this intrusion into our affairs and I might even get a promotion for catching you.’
As my avatar body was wracked with unmentionable pain from the fire, I woke up in my own body in the university’s extra dimensional travel machine.
Field work can sometimes be dangerous when you’re a scientist. I certainly should have read that section on the dangers of alternate world religions in the field manual.
More importantly, we hadn’t realised the oil barons had got there already. Another world in another dimension is already being exploited! What the rich will do for more wealth is unbelievable!
We haven’t found any evidence of any gods in our multiverse yet, only demons in the form of greedy banks and giant fossil fuel companies. They nearly ruined my world. It looks like they’ve moved elsewhere to ruin other worlds. I wonder how long it will take the people to learn that Zexon’s dogma has enslaved them and only science and reason can free them.
I had better write up my log book about this experiment. I’m due out again early next week. I’ll make sure to read the field manual fully and next time I’ll keep my mouth shut!
Sunday 30 December 2012
You Slipped Away
Robertas
Drummoyne, NSW
Machines misled us when they said
You would be here another day
It was not true
They fooled you too
And while you slept
You slipped away
Or did you will it?
Did you dread to live in pain
And be wheelchaired all your life?
Did you yearn to meet your loved ones
In a better place than this?
Did you deprive us of our farewells
And of our last loving kiss?
Well sleep you now
And sleep you soundly
Sleep you quiet, as you lived
But feel our sorrow
And our sadness
See the tears that fill our eyes
Hear the grief in our cracked voices
And our keening lullabies.
Monday 31 December 2012
Tae A Flea, Wee Courin’, Beastie
Alexander Gardiner – The Auld Yin
Bullaburra, NSW
There is a couple o’ wee swearie
wurds in this poem be warned.
Stoap ya wee courin’, sleekit’ thing,
Tae ma Erse an’ aufie itch yea bring,
Crawlin’ aw aroon ma private parts,
Ya disgustin’ broon wee abhorrent fart.
Nae bigger than a blidy flea,
noo that’s nae surprise, cos’ that yea be.
A scaly lang legget hoppy thing,
An’ a bite that causes an aufie itchy fiery sting.
Why dae yea prefer aw ma dark wee bits,
causin’ a fiery crazy itchy itch?
An’ a’ways oot o’ ma reach fur me tae scratch,
this Auld Yin yea seem tae catch.
A wis at the doakturs surgery jist last week,
fed up, an’ jist starin’ at ma honds an’ feet.
Aw aroon wir patients waitin’ thare,
Patiently, jist waitin’ an’ eyes a stare.
Oh, oh no, oh no a feel a flea aboot,
sinkin’ its slavery wee jaws in this auld coot.
Oh wheeshed, ah wull jist ignore it fur a while,
ah tell yea this, it took a lote o’ guile.
Wid yea believe it? Right between ma ain bum crack,
nae kiddin’ the wee bitey thing did jist that.
Wisnae sae bad fur a moment tho’,
slowly, very slowly that itch did grow.
Noo remember aw aroon me, ither patients waitid,
while tha’ wee sleekit beastie ma Erse it fated.
Tryin’ tae wiggle ma bum slowly, jist fur a start,
unfortunately it caused a wee sqeekie fart.
Aw patient’s eyes noo fixed on me,
oh a silently cursed that courin’ sleekit flea.
Noo the wee flea has bit ma richt wee He-Haw,
oh agony, am’ noo jist aboot climbin’ the blidy wa’.
Richt, ah wull hae tae go to the loo,
as that blidy itch startid’ tae accrue an’ accrue.
Ah wull get that wee broon sleekit bitey thing,
an’ rub ma He-Haws tae ease that fiery sting.
Aw naw!!! The doaktur has cawed me in,
an’ me jist aboot daein’ the blidy hielan’ fling.
What’s your problem today my man?
I will do my best to help, if I can.
Oh Doaktur!!!
! It’s jist that ah hiv an aufie itch doon thare,
ah said, as a kept ma eyes fixed firmly oan the flair.
Ah droaped ma pants fur him tae see, (sigh)
not too bad my man it’s just a little flea.
Oh that’s a relief doakter a thocht it might be wurse,
ah thocht it might be the blidy curse.
Weel, ah shot oot oh that doaktur’s place,
wae ma wee He-Haws as rid rid as ma blidy face.
Cost me fifty bucks fur that doakturs fee,
aw cos’oh tha’ wee broon courin’ sleekit flea.
Stull niver foond that wee fleaie bastard yet.
an’ a real diagnosis fur that doaktur’s visit, av stull tae get.
Tuesday 1 January 2013
Slides
Sharon Hammad
Winmalee, NSW
We sit together sorting slides
Of people, places, ‘times and tides’.
On table top our lives displayed,
The tender memories replayed.
White plastic frames held up to light
Show dated hairstyles, faces bright.
While babies grew and dear ones died,
We chose to travel side by side.
The years like minutes slipping by,
I hold you closer as we lie
And darkness magnifies my fear
That all too soon the end is near.
We sit together sorting slides –
Though colours fade, true love abides.
The beauty of the view expands
The further off the viewer stands.
Tuesday 1 January 2013 4 pm
Insects
Connie Howell
Wentworth Falls, NSW
Insects crawling, hurrying scurrying,
This way that way, carrying food.
Big ones, little ones, funny shaped black ones
Withering, dithering, finding mates.
Ants and beetles, flies and mosquitoes
Flying things with big fat wings,
Busy busy, always busy,
Getting on with nature’s way.
Eating, feeding, sometimes misleading,
Insects can be annoying things.
Exploring toes, and legs and dresses
Tickling, itching here and there,
Giving me moments of interest and mystery,
Wondering about their history
Back I go to watch some more,
Insect habitats on the floor.
Wednesday 2 January 2013
My First Love
Julie Lock
Box Hill South, VIC
I was 15 years old and I loved him.
I saw him peek around a corner. He looked straight at me. My heart leapt at the sight of him. My knees went weak. Then, very casually he strode into full view. He was very handsome. I think the first thing that attracted me to him was his stunning athleticism. He was tall and strong with thick golden hair which shone brightly in the sun.
Although our first meeting was brief, I decided my family should meet him, confident they would approve and they did. The minute they laid eyes on him they could see he was a gentle giant and more importantly to my father – he seemed trustworthy. So he was warmly welcomed into our clan.
I remember Dad saying, ‘Don’t you let him break your heart.’
We shared so many good times and adventures. We spent hours exploring my family’s property together. He quickly became my best friend.
The farm, on river frontage, was covered in abundant native scrub, fallen logs, lignum bushes and was alive with rabbits, kangaroos, emus and mobs of livestock – this was our playground.
In the country, neighbours are kilometres away and they always welcome unexpected visitors. He and I loved to pay surprise visits, and we were generally offered a glass of milk and home cooked biscuits before we made our way home. We were both born and bred to the land, but even knowing it as well as we did, there were hazards.
Some seasons, after heavy winter rain filled the dams to capacity, the decision would be made to open dam gates in the catchment. Gushing water would make its way down the creeks and rivers. Often the volume was too much for the systems to handle and the swollen creeks and rivers would burst their banks and overflow into lower lying paddocks, turning them into small lakes.
We headed off together armed with a picnic lunch. The creek was up and as we headed down the muddy track my dad called out behind us, ‘Make sure you take the stock route across the creek. You know – where the two gums grow together.’
Dad was always concerned for my safety and I trusted his advice. However, unbeknown to us, the torrid flood waters had taken out part of the crossing. Halfway across it dropped away from under us and we were both swept into deeper water. He was incredibly strong and a good swimmer. Luckily I managed to take hold of him and he swam us both to safety.
I then had to spend a couple of years away at boarding school and I missed him terribly.
When I finally returned, he was standing there to greet me. He looked even more handsome than I remembered. I ran up to him and gave him a huge hug. I sensed he had missed me too.
I was looking forward to spending some time together.
One day, my father went to collect him but returned without him. I could see Dad’s face was grey. He had to break the news to me. Dad assured me it happened quickly.
‘It was his heart – it just stopped!’ he said ‘There was nothing I could do.’
I cried for a week.
His large frame was too much for his heart. We believe he may have been born with a genetic weakness.
I will never, ever, forget him: ‘Luther’, my Palomino Quarter Horse.
Thursday 3 January 2013
‘Baffling’ Bill Letts’ Magic Billets
James Craib
Wentworth Falls, NSW