narratorAUSTRALIA Volume One

  ~~~

  Pelican fish where cattle died; the skeleton of a roo almost hidden under a mass of flowers lies just beyond the fence.

   

  Monday 28 May 2012 8 am

  Memories

  Jean Bundesen

  Woodford, NSW

  Of days long gone

  When pine trees grew tall

  And Aborigines

  Walked through

  With reverence

  To the Ancestors’ Spirits.

   

  There were many pathways

  Leading to the Bunya Mountains

  And back to their sacred site

  Where they held corroborees.

  The meeting place of different tribes

  Feasting on the Bunya Pine nuts.

   

  They have all gone

  But the memories linger on

  At the sacred place

  Where they once met.

  Now fenced in, with a monument

  To these proud people …

   

  The people who once walked

  Across Granddad’s land

  Never to return.

   

  Monday 28 May 4 pm

  The First Journey

  Peter Goodwin

  Warilla, NSW

  In the end, the distance we travelled

  was modest, a few hundred miles or so,

  but it was our first journey.

   

  Do you hold fast to your first journey?

  Does it mark you still?

   

  Were you alone when you set off

  or were you with another, a friend,

  a lover, a companion of the road?

   

  Did you have a destination,

  an old port town, a walled city,

  an ancient ruin, a sacred shrine?

   

  Do you recall the names

  of those you met on the way,

  those that gave you shelter in bad weather,

  direction when you were lost,

  comfort when you could not go on?

   

  Did they invite you to the feast,

  offer you a night of laughter and love

  and then send you on your way?

   

  On your return, were you so changed

  your family and friends did not recognise you?

   

  Did you stand before them in the doorway

  covered in the dust of old roads,

  your eyes dark from all you had seen,

  your voice a whisper from all you had said?

   

   

  Did you sit on the floor by the fire

  eating and drinking as you told your tales

  to those gathered around you

  or were you silent and withdrawn

  already preparing for another journey

  from which there may be no return?

   

  Tuesday 29 May 2012

  Left Upon The Steps Of Salvation

  Stephen Falconer

  Melbourne, VIC

  It was August and as such it was cold, damn cold, and today it was wet. That slow wet that falls heavily, hits with a splash and soaks you more than your clothing label would lead you to believe. Not the sort of day anybody wanted to be anywhere, let alone here. Wet, cold, and out on the pavement in front of that rather bland but ever-present church, this particular one belonging to St John of the Cross, a lesser cross bearer I guessed. Had any other circumstances conspired to bring me here, now, I would simply have turned to the nearest watering hole and warmed myself from the inside out and being Melbourne there was always one handy. But it was that tendency that had been my most recent downfall, and those ‘court appointed appointments’ were awful hard to get out of. So here it was that I found myself.

  The church stood boldly in front of me. That’s how they build these things; a catholic schooling had taught me a few of their tricks. The steeple could be seen for miles around or used to be till greater monuments to different desires were erected around it, but the building itself was still impressive enough. Large would be the first word most people would use to describe it, as it had no other great features besides its steeple. A steeple that drew the eye up from the mass of the building in front of you, past the old facade of the church to the call of the peeling bell, to the vision of the great sky and the sun worshipped since man could. But today the bell didn’t ring, and the sky wasn’t its usual brilliance. In fact for some reason I muffled a chuckle just thinking of this grand building and looking up at its great monolith before me, pointing the way towards a heavenly damp that now made its way down, in a kamikazeed barrage towards my feet. Some feeling held me with a bitter amusement, anything to make myself feel better I thought.

  The smell of the musty air lit by burnt coffee grounds, the staleness and dust aroused by the motion of those inside the church. It was time, more than time. I pulled my collar up in one last gesture of defiance to the weather, and walked into that church. A church built with bricks and sparse mortar, a church that I, like so many others, was prone to dismiss as just another gravestone used to spout some misinterpreted epitaph. I didn’t give much regard to the people it represented, the people who built it out of respect and whose hearts lived in it in worship. I used to think a building was a building, and a person was a person, though all things I guess come together in time and all will grow to reflect another. As I walked under the monolithic steeple and through the main archway entrance to the foyer, the atmosphere grew dark despite the fluorescents. I began to see signs that someone or something was affecting this grand building or this gravestone was affecting someone more than any single person could, or should. The old timber frames seemed to bear more weight than the walls would suggest, with its sealed grain aged black and a little weary in parts. The walls of a darker brown brick than those used for the facade of its exterior seemed to cluster in tonal groups along the siding, creating strange waves throughout the church walls. This and the people around me seemed to turn the air, just a little. These people seemed even more sombre than I expected a group of reforming alcoholics to be but I noticed one odd feature, those that mingled stood limply around as if waiting for something other than more coffee while the others, the more sullen looking people, didn’t mingle and seemed to avoid any sort of contact as they routinely rifled through Christian propaganda pamphlets and paced the corners of the room.

  Despite my unconscious misgivings about the crowd, I instinctively moved through the throng and headed for the snack table; my basic desires had never failed me in such circumstances before. The table was arranged with the urn on one side and the biscuit dish on the other, both being bordered by more assortments of Christian propaganda. No recycled paper stamp I noted.

  As I tried to decide between the wheat germ and the ‘SAOs’, I heard a very calm but present voice behind me in the hushed fray. I turned to see a slight but imposing man speaking to one of the quiet ones with a hand on their shoulder, his fingers pressed just a little pale against the shoulder pads of the meek little lady whose face I couldn’t see. Come to think of it, I cannot recall her at the church anytime other than that first day, hers or many faces of those others not in my group. Blame my deteriorating memory or the flock’s lack of remarkability, but the priest’s face was clear. Nothing particularly striking about it except the strength of expression. He looked like someone easy to confide in as he possessed such a placid countenance though the lines in his face suggested something of a character. One that this quiet crowd, reluctant as they were to make the slightest contact with such strangers, were almost clamouring over each other to stand around him. Though I guess ‘God’s’ stamp of approval would evidently help.

  As I looked over this cloistered, humbly draped priest amidst his disciples, wheat germ and stale coffee in hand, he must have noticed the attention and raised his head to my direction. Just turning th
en at the sound of his voice, he seemed to respond to me fairly quickly. He returned my attention with a small, wry smile and looked back to his current audience. I couldn’t hear what he was saying but evidently his little gathering hung on his every word. Returning to my crackers and coffee and my introductory ice-breaker held by one of the reverend’s ‘self-confessed saved’, which consisted of two very PC jokes, a short, rehearsed talk about the history of the church and an offer of some of the better cookies from the reverend's private stash. After ten very long minutes and a Kingston biscuit later we were herded into the ‘open discussion room’, or room two as the door led us to believe. Seating ourselves on what looked like school chairs, arranged in crescent moon formation with one chair standing out separate, at the focus of the other attended chairs. One very comfortable chair, I noted as I struggled to find a sitting position that didn't cut off the circulation to my legs. In a short, settling moment the father walked into the room and set himself down on the chair, with all reverence for the occasion. The group fell silent at his entrance and all turned to watch who would be judging us, to be worthy of the title ‘sober’.

   

  Wednesday 30 May 2012

  Material World

  Samantha Miller

  Faulconbridge, NSW

  Struggling back to consciousness, Paula Johnson was surprised to find she felt no pain. The noise and lights had been terrifying. She felt herself shudder as she looked around.

  Vaguely aware of her surroundings, she drifted down a corridor and through the doorway at the end of it. The door shut with a thud that seemed heavier than it should be. Turning back, Paula found she was unable to open it. Now she that she felt a little more awake, she was concerned and disorientated.

  Surveying the room she was in was confusing. It was packed with stuff, like the treasure nest in some kind of dragon’s lair. So much stuff, Paula couldn’t believe somebody would leave all these things here. It rose from the floor in overflowing boxes and crates. There were clothes, shoes, kitchen appliances, books, so many books, cosmetics, accessories, ornaments and even boxes of chocolates.

  Somewhere, through all the skyscrapers of debris, Paula could see the far side wall and the door set in it. Perhaps the only exit.

  Squeezing through the mountain of things, she brushed against a pile of coats and as they fell down towards her, she caught hold of a woollen duffel in cherry red. It was a nice coat, but just not the right shade of red she looked best in. Turning it around, she saw a label sewn into the lining. Purchased by Paula Johnson 20th March 1999. Really? She thought, this is mine?

  Checking another coat she saw a similar label. Once more it had her name and the supposed date of purchase. It soon became apparent that all the coats were labelled as hers, but she didn’t remember a single one of them. Furthermore, even though at first sight, the coats were quite attractive, she found as she tried them on there was something wrong with each of them. Not quite the right colour, fastens funny, a bit short, a bit long …

  On inspecting the shoes, Paula found the same situation. All labelled with her name and date of purchase. There was one pair that seemed a little familiar. They were an adorable pair of oxfords with a leopard pattern top. She’d had a pair like that, but they had never fit her properly and she didn’t quite know where they’d ended up.

  The clothes, books, cosmetics; all the rest were labelled. They were all hers and they were none of them quite right.

  Paula pushed through eventually to the door, only to find it locked. A note stuck to the door told her that when she found the key, she could open the door.

  ‘Well, thanks Captain Obvious,’ she said to nobody.

  The urge to get through the door overcame Paula’s irritation and so she began to search. Again the shoes, the pockets of the clothing, the tea pots, cups and appliances, all were checked and all began to look more and more familiar. Paula slowly began to realise that she had indeed bought all this stuff at some point. However, it had all been rejected after a very short time for not being quite right.

  It was quite a sobering thought that here was so much stuff she’d bought and didn’t want. What was it all doing here?

  The door swung open, and seeing it, Paula made a quick exit, leaving the rejects behind with some relief.

  Paula had entered another room. This one was quite bright and comparatively empty and just as she was blinking in the glare, she heard the door slam.

  ‘Got me again’, she said, ‘but this time I know there will be another door.’

  As her eyes adjusted, she could see a table set for tea just in front of another door. Paula decided this door was her obvious goal. Feeling a little like Alice down the rabbit hole, she approached the table carefully and studied the tea set in case it was one of her rejects.

  It certainly wasn’t one of hers. The colour, shape, size and pour were perfect. This one was beautiful, just beautiful and she wished it was one of hers. The tea was hot; there was milk in the jug, but no sugar bowl. Paula didn’t worry much as she didn’t take sugar, but it did seem a shame that such a beautiful set was incomplete.

  Also on the table was a cheque for a huge amount of money. Made out to Paula Johnson.

  She sat down heavily on the chair and stared at the cheque. Why would someone give her all this money? The signature was unclear and the cheque provider was a high street bank anyway. The identity of her benefactor was certainly secret. One thing was for sure. In order to cash that cheque, Paula would have to get out of that room.

  Looking at the now predictable note on the door Paula could see that Captain Cryptic had been in that room.

  ‘Know yourself and you will open doors,’ it read. There was only one thing for it. Drink the tea and think about how to spend the money.

  As Paula considered what she could buy with all that money, she thought about all the glossy magazines she had been reading and the internet shopping sites she had drooled over. The fabulous clothes seen on the It Girl of the moment, the face cream with magical properties advertised on the TV. How about new mobile phone that has a touch screen, or those crazy motorised shoes in the paper, or the ‘must-have’ bag of the season?

  Now that she thought about it, there might be a bag a bit like that in the reject room. That’d be something, what if she took that cheque and bought all the same stuff she’d rejected all over again. How much money had she spent on all that?

  The door swung open. Paula grabbed her cheque, emptied her tea cup and bolted through the doorway just before the door thudded behind her.

  Outside the room, it was dark.

  ‘What now?’ Paula wondered, feeling her way along another smooth wall.

  ‘There must be a light switch somewhere, or how will I read my notes? How will I know what this next crazy room wants from me?’

  Her hand found a string which she pulled on, gently revealing a door with window panes depicting a wondrous scene. Laid out before her in all its glory she could see a fabulous department store, open and ready for business. Beautifully presented, artfully lit and charmingly displayed on shelves, mannequins, chaises and stands were all the items she had been fantasising about. Smartly dressed staff were waiting with wide smiles and trays of champagne to welcome her and her large cheque.

  The light from the store penetrated back into the gloom of the corridor where Paula stood, and turning to one side, she could see another blind. Unable to resist the possible delights that lay in wait through the second door Paula tugged the other blind open.

  Through this door she could almost see a bright light and almost feel the dry heat of not much at all. Squatting on the ground was a man wearing what seemed to be a dirty white kaftan. He was making something out of a piece of discarded wood. When he was finished he handed it to a small child who set it down beside her into a basket which contained a small pile of similar objects. Both people were small, dirty and very skinny. Even though she wanted to, Paula couldn’t look away. With her eyes fixed on the scene, she backed
away from the door in horror, in case it opened.

  Turning desperately towards the soft light of the other door, Paula looked again toward the beautiful sight of shiny consumer goods that beckoned her into the transient warmth of their glow until she felt the soft breeze of air-conditioning and inhaled the many layers of seductive designer fragrances.

  As she grasped the handle of the door, she paused as a tiny thought battled its way to the surface of her consciousness and grew at speed into an idea.

  Turning away she muttered to herself, ‘Oh now I get it, I really get it.’

  Paula Johnson awoke from a coma in extreme pain after being crushed and trampled during an incident in the winter sales of the Damascus Emporium. She is expecting a large settlement cheque for damages.

   

  Thursday 31 May 2012

  Love Is A Verb

  Sonia Ursus Satori

  Medlow Bath, NSW

  Now you tell me.

  And I thought all along it is

  Some thing

  We know we experience we want

  Not an abstraction of a ‘doing word’

  So to speak.

  When I love

  Or you love

  We are on cloud nine

  On top of the world

  Smiling chuckling skipping.

  He loves me!

  I am in love!

  With you, him, her.

  Always forever

  He loves me not

  I am devastated

  Without you life is meaningless!

  If love is a verb (just a verb, ha!)

  Then dance is too.

  Dance to the music and you know this is for real.

  You gotta stop for a breather once in a while

  You huff you puff

  Your spasms glow in rhythm with body soul and sound.

  Love is a verb – give me a break!

  What about Romeo and Juliet – they knew better.

  And ladies’ hearts pounding for Casanova

  Each night every night until

  They get dumped. Swoon and doom. The end is nigh.

  Love is not a verb. Love is life love is death.

  Love is me love is you.

  And we are not just nouns, are we now?

  Imagine a noun like the abstract you (!) walking talking

  Sleeping eating drinking thinking spitting

  Wondering pondering swallowing farting.

  Get the drift?

   

  Friday 1 and Saturday 2 June 2012

  Odd Footy Boy

  Irene Assumpter

  East Vic Park, WA

  The phone rang at 7am on Sunday. Sunday of all days. According to my upbringing, Sunday is a holy day. The message it brought us was nothing holy. They say when we depart we go to heaven. Sure. Whatever. All I know right now is that my friend is no more. God did not call my friend. Someone said my friend had to go. My friend is bleeding. My friend is smiling at me. My friend is wearing a stained footy jumper …

  I am screaming in my sleep, competing with the sound of the phone. Usually, this phone sounds like it has crickets in it. Now it sounds like the crickets have just married weaverbirds … wedding ceremony in session.

  The phone is definitely ringing. It is my bloody housekeeping agent on the other end. The one with the jah name.

  ‘Hotel Sanova. 8am. Double pay today, Nyanyai. Double pay.’

  I rub my eyes, tired. I want to sleep more.

  ‘Nyanyai!’ she shouts. ‘Nyanyai, you there? I said double pay. Don’t be silly!’

  ‘I heard. I am not silly. I am sick. You know, women issues.’

  ‘Uh?’

  ‘Yes. Uh. That bloody time of the month. Literally.’

  ‘Disgusting, Nyanyai. Very disgusting!’

  I shrug.

  ‘Take Panadol. Nyanyai, double pay. What I do now you go say no-huh? I call other girl. You … ’

  This Serbian woman never gives up. Wait. I forget a little detail time and again. She ain’t no Serbian. She made that clear. Marija is a Macedonian woman who grew up in Serbia. I am tempted to smile at the thought of how special she always feels in her secondhand suits. I finally do when I picture her shiny staff badge. ‘Housekeeping Manager’, it says. God knows Marija could dance nude along the Great Eastern Highway to have ‘Housekeeping’ taken off that badge.

  Marija talks a lot. She told me she was a virgin when she got married. That was on my very first day at Hotel Esprit. I do not know who married the virgin Marija. I just know they are not together. Marija called him a loser. Now Marija has an English surname. She even loves footy. She drinks that beer-brand with an Australian State name quite a bit. I doubt she realises her perfume cannot disguise its smell in her little office at the basement. Last year when I was seventeen, Marija told me she did not drink because she grew up in a moral Greek family. Alcohol is for hooligans, she had said.

  Marija somewhat likes me. She tells all the girls at the hotel I am the only one who knows how to pronounce her name. She is interesting. One time a friend and I saw her at Good Sammy’s. She pretended not to have seen me, even as I looked closer at her. Two weeks later at Hotel Suraya, I heard her telling the blonde hotel receptionist she bought the suit at Myer for just under six hundred dollars. I had been tempted to scream five-bucks-ninety-nine-cents. I think I may have laughed out loud instead.

  ‘Nyanyai! Double pay. Sunday. Public holiday!’

  ‘Jesus, Marija!’ I exclaim. ‘I gotta shower at least, right?’

  ‘Good, Nyanyai. Smart girl. You know how to call my name. Nyanyai, one day we have coffee. I got good story …’

  I hang up. I have to. Marija Wales finds it difficult to shut up. Most important though, I need that bloody double pay of hers.