***Editor’s Pick***
Robert Farther lived a turbulent life. Aged 26, he thought he had it all: a beautiful wife, two gorgeous children and a manageable mortgage on a brick veneer house in Dulwich Hill. His universe was ordered and secure, his future optimistic. He was not prepared for the day his world exploded; the day his son died.
Kitty lived a tragic life. Adopted at a young age, she grew up in Woolloomooloo, overlooking Sydney harbour. She was lavished with cuddles and kisses, her every whim pandered to. Her universe was adorned in extravagance. She was not prepared for the day her world exploded; the day she fell pregnant.
When Robert lost his son he started drinking and, like a domino effect, all the good things in his life began to topple. He lost his job, his house, his family and inevitably his mind. Without a home, he drifted to the inner city and made Hyde Park his residence. There, on countless occasions, he was robbed, bashed, laughed at, ignored, thrown money, thrown food ... The man Robert Farther slowly faded like a photo left out in the sun too long. Years later, the city’s vagrants and local missions referred to him only as Father Bob, an appellation whose comical element they had long since forgotten. So, finally, even his name was stripped away, leaving nothing but a shell of a man sitting on a lone park bench in a busy city that never stopped.
Kitty’s family were horrified at the prospect of a teenage pregnancy. They quickly decided she was not worthy of their love, that she was not one of them. Thrown out of the house, she started a life on the streets. But she was much too young to be pregnant and miscarried late one night in a small lane off Market Street. She would never be the same. Constant hunger in her belly drove her to do things she was not proud of. Food, once handed to her on a platter, she now found by raking through bins or stealing. She roamed the inner city at night, never sleeping in the same place twice. Raped and beaten many times, her face, once refined and beautiful, now looked much older than her years. Her youth lay strewn on the city’s streets.
Kitty and Father Bob met one cold, rainy night at Town Hall station. Kitty’s tired eyes rested warily on Father Bob’s unkempt figure, his greying beard and tangled hair. Her thin frame shivered as he quietly sat down. He held the remains of a burger, thoughtlessly discarded by a man in a business suit, hastily boarding a train bound for suburbia. He offered it to her. Too hungry to refuse, she ate. They didn’t speak. They didn’t judge. Instead, side by side, they listened to the city’s blustery weather howl in indignation. For a brief time they were safe from the streets.
Kitty and Father Bob’s exploding worlds collided by chance for a fleeting moment. That night at the train station these two homeless souls, rejected by society, shared a kinship. He showed her kindness, and in so doing, she restored his humanity. By sunrise, their worlds had separated, and they never saw each other again.
Father Bob died on his park bench in the early hours of the morning, some years later. His hand clenched an empty brown bag, the bottle, which had been inside, was nowhere to be seen. The City Coroner deemed Robert Gerard Farther’s death to have been caused by liver failure; he was only 52. They held his funeral on a Saturday. A few people from the street and the local missions mourned his passing.
Kitty died alone in an alley, behind a dumpster. She was not discovered until four days later, when a kitchen attendant from the nearby restaurant decided to investigate the foul smell wafting through the rear entrance. The remains of her once beautiful fur coat still clung to her thin, bony body. Underneath her pale skin, flies and other insects were eagerly emerging from their pupae cases. While pinching his nose with one hand, the kitchen attendant picked Kitty up by the tail and tossed her into the dumpster. No one mourned her passing.
Ed: We all love a good twist in the tale (tail?) and this story embodied that really well. When we got to the end, we had that same feeling you get after watching a movie like The Sixth Sense – you immediately scroll back over what you’ve learned, looking for clues.
What we also found interesting was that the writing style for this piece didn’t appeal to us initially, but once we reached the end, it seemed very logical to use such a style in such a piece. So a vital lesson was reinforced here: don’t be too quick to judge – explore the whole package before forming an opinion!
Sunday 31 March 2013
The Time Travel Machine
Paris Portingale
Mt Victoria, NSW
The device was still in its prototype stage. There was no gleaming chrome or smooth hydraulics. Instead there were cords and electronics spread everywhere, and the parts that needed raising and lowering were operated by ropes on pullies. Particle distributors were hanging on wires and the stand for the test subjects was an upturned milk crate.
It was finally ready for testing though, and James Schnelling had offered his assistant, Arthur, the honour of being the first man ever to experience travel through time.
Arthur, a rather short and nervous man, while pleased to be given the extraordinary experience, was also a little apprehensive. It would be the first time the device had been used on a human being and the outcome was still uncertain. Various inanimate objects, and James’ cat, Arturo, had been sent whirling back through the corridor of time. They had crackled inside the halo of tachyon particles and disappeared, but their fate was yet to be determined.
‘Someone has to be first. If it’s not you, Arthur, then it’s my mother, but I worry about her ability with electrical devices. She has only just mastered the television, and any understanding at all of the video recording device is still quite some way off indeed.’
‘But what if something goes wrong?’ Arthur asked.
‘What if something goes wrong indeed, Arthur? What if something goes wrong indeed?’
‘That’s what I asked you, James.’
‘That is what you asked me indeed, Arthur.’
‘But …’
‘You will become part of history, old chap. You will be the Neil Armstrong of time travel. One short man’s step through time, one giant leap through time for all humanity. Actually you should say that when you arrive, when you burst through into … when was it we decided to set the thing for?’ James checked his notes and said, ‘1902, the square root of the sum of the right angle time axes squared. The safest jump to begin with. Nothing can go wrong, dear Arthur. You can put your mind quite to rest on that.’
Though not quite fully convinced, Arthur eventually accepted the role of first man through time, and prepared himself for the journey. As proof of his delivery back to the year 1902, it was decided Arthur would have his photograph taken beside a news stand bearing a date and a headline of the times and, in case objects from the past could not be returned directly to the present, it would be placed in a box and buried in a specific place, to be unearthed on his return.
There was a second, smaller device, also ready for testing, which would be used for the return to the present. James handed it to Arthur as he stepped onto the milk crate.
‘Now, I’ve explained how you use this. It’s quite simple but I will run through the operation one more time. The large red button there with “BACK” written underneath, when you’re ready to return, simply press that. You will arrive approximately two seconds after you left.’
‘Press BACK. Yes I think I have that.’
‘Good. So, are you ready to begin the big adventure?’
Arthur checked his bag. ‘Sandwiches, check. Thermos and mug, check. Map of London 1902, check. Spare socks and underwear, check. Camera, check. Box for burying photograph, check. Trowel for burying box with photograph, check. All in order, James.’
Extending a hand, James said, ‘Good. I wish you luck. I’ll see you back here in a couple of seconds,’ and he pulled the cord with the wooden toggle, taken from his motor mower, which started the machine. Seconds later, in a hail of faster than light particles, Arthur disappeared.
When, after half an hour, Arthur had not returned, James took a spade and went out to the section of gard
en where it had been arranged Arthur would bury the box and began to dig. The box was there and James picked it up and opened it. Inside was a note, saying:
Your stupid ‘BACK’ device didn’t work. I’ve been pushing the wretched button for 10 minutes, and nothing. I’m stuck here in 1902. Please send back someone with a proper, working device. I’m very annoyed and have eaten the all the sandwiches.
Arthur.
Over the next day and a half, James designed and built a totally new return device, based on a new set of principles. Happy, and more confident in the new approach, James confronted his mother, a dithery and easily fuddled woman, to convince her to enter his time device and take the new model back to Arthur.
‘You want me to do what, dear?’ she asked.
‘Take this piece of equipment and travel back to 1902 in my time travel machine and give it to Arthur.’
‘What is Arthur doing in 1902?’
‘It’s all part of an experiment I’m conducting.’
Looking at the device James was holding, his mother asked, ‘Is that for the television? For changing the channels? I don’t understand, we already have a perfectly good channel changer. I don’t want to have to spend another two weeks learning how to use a new one when we already have a perfectly good channel changer right here.’
‘No, Mother,’ James told her. ‘It’s for bringing Arthur back from 1902.’
‘This is all very confusing. I didn’t think they had television back in 1902.’
‘They didn’t.’
‘Well, what is the point of …’
James cut across her and handed her the device. ‘Just hold onto this and come with me,’ he said and led his mother out of the house and across the garden to his backyard laboratory.
Crossing the lawn, his mother stopped and said, ‘Why on earth is there a hole there? Did you do that? And look, you’ve just left the shovel lying there, waiting for someone to trip over it. That’s just asking for an accident. And if you really must dig holes …’
James took his mother’s arm and guided her on down to the laboratory where she was immediately overcome by the mess and began trying to clean up.
‘I honestly don’t know how you can work with your shed like this, I really don’t,’ she said, and James took the broom from her hand and guided her up onto the milk crate.
‘Just stand here and in a moment you’ll feel a little tingle and then you’ll be back in 1902. Arthur should be there and I want you to give him that piece of equipment.’
‘The channel changer?’
James sighed and said, ‘Yes.’ Looking around, he found an empty sweets tin and he handed it to his mother. ‘Give him that as well, for the photograph.’
Taking the tin, his mother looked down at the crate and said, ‘So that’s where the milk crate went to. I’ve been looking everywhere for that. I’ve had to put the bottles out in your father’s old army foot locker. Heaven knows what the neighbours have thought. We look like we’ve turned into a family of old rag and bone men.’
James gave a very sharp pull on the toggled cord and his mother disappeared.
Years earlier, back in 1902, James’ mother appeared with a pop and a small rush of air. Arthur was standing some yards away, holding a trowel and looking annoyed and impatient. When he saw Mrs Schnelling he visibly brightened.
‘Mrs Schnelling,’ he said, ‘what a relief to see you.’
Holding up the return device, Mrs Schnelling said, ‘James has sent me with this for you. I think it’s a television channel changer.’
Arthur walked over and took the device from Mrs Schnelling and, turning it over in his hands, said, ‘I hope this works better than the first one, which was completely useless.’
Mrs Schnelling said, ‘I don’t know about that, but I can tell you this, James has made a terrible mess of the lawn and his work shed is a disgrace.’
After waiting over an hour for the reappearance of Arthur and his mother, James went outside to check the hole in the lawn. The sweets tin was there, a little rusted now, and he picked it up and opened it. Inside was a note.
This stupid thing is useless as well. Your mother and I are very annoyed. We’re booking into the Chelsea Regent and will be staying there until you get the wretched thing right. I shall be expecting complete recompense for this and other assorted sundries.
Arthur. (Very annoyed indeed.)
There was also a second note, this one from his mother. It said:
I want to see that hole filled in and your shed tidy when I get back. And I want the milk crate put back where you found it.
Mother.
James spent the next week and a half designing and constructing a new return device. It was based on the concept of a reverse polarity field, an idea James had come up with in the bath one evening, watching the bubbles rising after a flatulence event. Confident this one would work, he decided to take it back himself. In his laboratory he devised a system of pullies so that he could pull the lawn mower cord from the milk crate and, clutching the latest device, gave the toggle a strong pull.
When James appeared in 1902 he found himself alone. Getting directions for the Chelsea Regent, he set off to find Arthur and his mother. When he got to the hotel he discovered the pair in the dining room. They’d just settled in to a fine meal of roast spatchcock, pommes dauphinoise, Kahlua carrots, Belgian truffles, two different wines and a bottle of 1876 French champagne. Crossing to the table, he found the pair in high spirits and more than a little tipsy.
‘Ah, James,’ Arthur said, then gesturing expansively, ‘pull up a seat old chap. You’ve missed mains but we’ve got petit fours and a wonderful croquembouche coming up for sweets. The pastry chef, monsieur Gaston Vichie, is a French marvel.’ And capturing the attention of a passing waiter, said, ‘A glass for Mr Schnelling, garcon, if you will, and double the order of petit fours, my friend has had quite a long trip.’
In an act of unusual foresight, before leaving, James had checked the archives of the London Times and jotted down the winners of a number of the horseraces of the time, as a precautionary measure against the slim chance that his third return device somehow also managed to fail, leaving his mother, himself and Arthur stranded in 1902 without any means of support.
So it was that, after the third device did in fact fail, Arthur booked himself into the Chelsea Regent with Arthur and his mother. They spent their time enjoying pleasant and fruitful days at Ascot, Epsom Downs, Newmarket and the other grand racetracks of the time, and in the evenings, wining and dining extravagantly in the luxury of the grand hotel, enjoying the seemingly unending array of wonderful treats from the kitchen of their new friend and French marvel, monsieur Gaston Vichie.
On the morning after James’ arrival in 1902, over breakfast, James’ mother had asked, ‘James, tell me truthfully, did you put the milk crate back where it’s supposed to be?’
‘Yes, mother,’ James replied.
‘And you filled in the hole in the lawn?’
‘Yes, of course, mother.’
‘And tidied the shed?’
James nodded.
And so, with those matters resolved, they settled comfortably into the slower, more orderly and altogether pleasant routine of their new life in the year 1902.
Monday 1 April 2013
Landed
Peter Shankar
West Ryde, NSW
It made a most unusual noise as it landed
I grasped for breath but it was too fast
A bright light shined through
The look on her face was enough to overthrow Greek gods
She demanded an explanation!
My dad kissed her on the neck, in a desperate effort to disarm her every move
Her eyes were piercing through my heart as she held me in her arms
She was looking between my legs
I couldn’t hold it any longer
I cried …
The doctor yelled out ‘It’s a boy!’
Th
is item formed part of our ‘it made a most unusual noise as it landed’ week.
Monday 1 April 2013 2 pm
It Made A Most Unusual Noise As It Landed
Demelza
Taroona, TAS
Her belly large to nearly popping
She waddled in her slippers flopping
As she walked
Her husband talked
This is it! There is no stopping!
He let her stand to huff and puff
He filled in forms and other stuff
She screamed too late
It’s coming mate
This labour’s not been long enough
All eyes were quick to turn and poise
It made a most unusual noise
As it landed
Lungs expanded
Sounds spilled out like plastic toys
Receptionist all aghast
Called to the midwife ‘HURRY FAST!’
It’s a boy!
Dad shouts with joy
As visitors just scuttle past
They settled her for after birth
Put up a screen for all it’s worth
Mum at rest
Babe at breast
Father settling back to earth
A room was very quickly found
Peaceful hush now spread around
Mother stated
We should have waited
Father’s face turned to a frown
My dear if we had left it later
You could have birthed in elevator
She gave a moan
Why not at home?
No thanks! I’ll fix accelerator!
This item formed part of our ‘it made a most unusual noise as it landed’ week.
Monday 1 April 2013 6 pm
Possum’s Pride
Alexander Gardiner
Bullaburra, NSW
Gorging all night in a cherry tree,
tummy stretched to the nth degree.
Rotund like a barrel full of gas,
a possum now an ungainly mass.
Feeling taught but in a relaxing way,
toilet etiquette this possum is not au-fait.
Dreamingly scratching its nether parts,
causing many wee silent squeaky farts.
Presupposing it was wind if felt,
and with a squeezing of both eyes and its furry pelt.
That thought though really was never valid,
it made a most unusual noise as it landed.
At least a kilo and a wee bit more,
rocketed fiercely to the garden floor.
Now changed from a cherry red as it voided,
it made a most unusual noise as it landed.
Now being an innocent possum an’ all,
let go of his perch and began to fall.
Falling down at a pace quite languid,
it made a most unusual noise as it landed.
So if you come across a possum with a brownie-cherry arrrr’s,
Just think about this, this stupid farce.
A possum that’s pride was sorely wounded,
When, it made a most unusual noise as it landed.
The lesson here is for all to see,
never presuppose what will be will be.
Any spectator to this scene would say if he was candid,
it made a most unusual noise as it landed.
This item formed part of our ‘it made a most unusual noise as it landed’ week.
Tuesday 2 April 2013
Pride And Presents
Hazel Girolamo
Ulverstone, TAS
Christmas festivities at the local village church took on a less than festive air yesterday when Santa stumbled over a suspected deliberately placed foot (believed to belong to a local urchin who can expect a lump of coal this year, having already been on the receiving end of a quick thump behind the ear), and lost his hold on his bulging sack. It made a most unusual noise as it landed and out tumbled not the gaily wrapped presents that the excited waiting children were expecting, but a man’s body, all trussed up ‘quite like a Christmas turkey’, as Father Reed was overheard saying. The mystery of the man’s identity was quickly dispelled when Miss Gwendolyn Murray uttered a piercing shriek that it was her Herbert, before fainting into Father Reed’s arms.
Dr FitzHerbert Lyons-Byron Symon-Jones was recently seen out walking with said Miss Murray amid rumours their betrothal was to be announced at Gwendolyn’s 21st birthday party to be held at Featherington Manor next month. It was expected to be among the social highlights of the new year, with rumblings of royalty being among the guests invited by Miss Murray’s mother, Dowager Duchess Marjorie Mainwaring Mountbank, who refused to confirm or deny.
As Father Reed later stated to the newspaper reporter who had been dutifully covering the nativity festivities, having found himself on the other end of a scoop that he fervently hoped would lead him to a promotion over that ‘Neville No Nose’ as he privately referred to him (just because he was the boss’s daughter’s current boyfriend’s cousin), Father Reed said he had last seen Herbert a few days previously over a private personal matter that he had no intention of divulging to either the cub reporter/photographer or to the readers of his illustrious well distributed rag, at which the reporter took a final snap of the buxom beauty of Miss Murray being fanned back to consciousness by Father Reed’s cassock.
Miss Gwendolyn declined to comment. The police are investigating what happened to the missing gifts. Anybody who can shed light on this matter is cordially invited to contact Scotland Yard.
This item formed part of our ‘it made a most unusual noise as it landed’ week.
Tuesday 2 April 2013 2 pm
Federer vs Murray
Andris Heks
Megalong Valley, NSW
It was a night that must have felt shallow for Federer.
It is not that he did not do his best to try to dig deep within himself; to try out every trick in his incomparable repertoire that he accumulated through his career as a tennis player who broke every record in tennis. But this time his past was not good enough to empower him to beat his nemesis, Andy Murray, nearly ten years his junior.
I watched Federer’s last few matches that led him to his showdown with Murray in the 2013 Australian Open. Once he won a set, he tended to simply overwhelm his opponents, no matter how good they were.
As long as these opponents were not among the top four in the world.
For Federer, remarkable as it is, at the veteran age of 31, by when tennis players tend to retire from competition, was fitter than most of his much younger opponents. Add to fitness the fact that he is by now the most experienced tennis player ever in the world and you indeed get a package in him that is simply too much to his less experienced opponents.
Watching him through the tournament was like watching tennis perfection in motion. His movements, dance, hits and overall behaviour have been always graceful. His is not just tennis. It is a kind of natural tennis ballet. The ease of his play is so mesmerising that it is tempting to see him as a guru; a master player who is seemingly ageless, perfect and immortal.
But after all, he is mortal; he can be beaten. We, of course, know this from statistics. Even though he holds the record for the tennis player with the greatest number of weeks to have been number one in the world, he has not ranked number one now for some time. But when one watches him in the games he wins, it is easy to forget that he is no longer the world number one.
Having seen him play Andy Murray in the semi-finals, I realised why this maestro is being dethroned by the world’s top younger tennis players. It is to do with power: such as the power of his first serves in comparison with theirs. No matter how devastating his first serves are, they are not as powerful as his strongest opponents’; hence it is much harder for him to return their serves than it is for them to return his. Secondly, in games where he keeps missing his first serves, his opponents can even more easily return his second serve
s. Against the top four players of the world he would just about have to be able to get his first serves right at every service game, to have a chance to win. And of course, the higher the tension in a match and the longer it goes, the harder it is to get the first serve to be both powerful and to be in.
So watching him haemorrhage in slow motion faced with an upcoming top player in the world who was ranked just below him until now, Murray, was rather sad. It was not that he did not play well, rather, that his opponent’s power simply prevented him to play his very best and even in those short periods during the game when he was able to play perfectly, he was mostly neutralised by his younger and more powerful opponent who was able to step up a gear and match his magic.
Indeed, as every new generation of tennis players has more physical power than the previous one, it is easy to see that the older players cannot keep up with them once the younger players mature enough to be all-rounders.
Hence Federer, like all kings of the game before him, had his crown taken from him by the upcoming top princelings.
In the decisive fifth set Murray brought up two match points. He was denied the first one.
But then Federer hit a forehand ball that was heading outside the court. It made a most unusual noise as it landed, detonating a sound bomb. The audience exploded in a roar as history was made. For the first time in a grand final, Murray beat Federer.
Nevertheless, I am yet to see Murray or any of the other pretenders to Federer’s throne demonstrate grace anything like the one this greatest tennis player of all times consistently exudes.
This item formed part of our ‘it made a most unusual noise as it landed’ week.
Tuesday 2 April 2013 6 pm
The Peacock
Vickie Walker
Orange, NSW
Bob put an arm around his wife’s shoulders. ‘It’ll be okay Christine, you know that don’t you?’
‘I suppose so, it’s not what we expected though, is it?’ Christine lowered her head.
‘Perhaps not.’ Bob linked his other arm to his daughter’s. ‘Come on, Kate, let’s get you both home.’
Kate ran her fingers through her straight blonde hair, ‘It’s not fair, Grandma’s not that old.’ The three walked slowly down the concrete path towards their car. ‘Maybe the doctors are wrong.’
‘I wish they were,’ said Christine, close to tears. ‘Six months! It’s not enough time.’
‘How can we let Justin know, Mum? He was really close to Grandma,’ asked Kate. ‘We don’t even know where he is.’
‘Your brother hasn’t been a part of this family for several years,’ her father said sternly. ‘He didn’t even bother speaking to us before he left, just that note. That postcard from India is the only contact since. And when was that? Over a year ago now. Let’s go home. Justin is the least of our problems.’
narratorAUSTRALIA Volume Two Page 29