~~~
It’s a couple of days later and I’m nervous about returning to Bangla Road. I want to see Areva again, to find out if what I felt the other night was genuine without the compromising effects of alcohol, and whether she feels the same way. After downing a light beer in the Honky-Tonk Bar, I walk along Soi Easy and see Boom-Boom seated on a stool at the Soccer Bar. I take a seat beside her.
‘Hello,’ I say.
‘Sa-wat-dee Kah,’ she replies, using a common Thai greeting. ‘Where girlfriend?’
‘Girlfriend? I not have girlfriend’
‘Areva.’
‘Areva?’ My face tightens. ‘Where Areva?’
‘She gone home.’
‘Home? Where home?’
‘Isaan. She go Isaan.’
‘You know where in Isaan?’
‘No.’
I break out in a sweat as my mind explodes with possibilities. Did Boom-Boom ask me if I was with my girlfriend because Areva told her how she felt for me? Did Areva go back to Isaan after less than a week in Patong because our time together changed her feelings about being a bar-girl? Or did she have a bad experience with another man after our night together?
‘Why Areva go home?’ I ask Boom-Boom, my chest tight and my stomach in knots.
She shrugs her shoulders.
Getting detailed information from someone with only a modicum of English seems like a hopeless endeavour but I persist, trying another tack.
‘How you know Areva go home?’
‘She get her things.’
‘She say why she go?’
‘No.’
‘So why you say she my girlfriend?’
Boom-boom looks into my eyes, but doesn’t respond. I can’t tell if she is making a flippant comment about Areva being my girlfriend or she doesn’t want to tell me what actually happened. Either way, I feel like a coward. I let Areva go without expressing how I truly felt, even though the financial arrangements and brevity of our time together would ordinarily not warrant such a declaration. Pursuing her to Isaan at this point in time, without having an address and without speaking Thai, would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack blindfolded, so I let that idea go. Yet, as sad as I now feel, I take some comfort in Areva having departed after less than a week in Patong – working in the sex industry for long periods can cause major trauma. She probably left early enough before the work could adversely affect her.
I get up from the stool, say goodbye to Boom-Boom and make my way slowly back to the Amethyst, oblivious to the people and the noise of Bangla Road.
Sunday 17 June 2012 8 am
J
Scorpio
Uarbry, NSW
There you sit and smile at me;
I cannot bear to look at thee.
I cannot bear the pictures in my head.
They tell me that I’m very strong;
I want to scream at them ‘You’re wrong!’
But they’ll feel better if it’s left unsaid.
They needn’t know that in the night
The thought of sleep fills me with fright,
Lest you should come to visit in my dreams;
That even in my waking hours,
Thoughts of thee cause me to cower.
Let them be content with how it seems.
The pain you knew transfers to me.
I think that this must ever be.
Who now could ever heal this world of mine?
Who can tell me why it’s so?
And would it just be worse to know?
Would it unhinge my battered, fragile mind?
Why must I continue on
When you have chosen to be gone?
There isn’t any point to this existence.
This life’s a storm that buffets me
And I’ve no strength to break me free;
No power to put up even mild resistance.
Sunday 17 June 2012 4 pm
The Leaping For Joy Girl
Alan Lucas
Katoomba, NSW
She is leaping down a sloping path in front of her mother,
Who strolls unconcerned
A few paces behind,
She leaps and jumps for the sheer joy being,
Seemingly floats, defies gravity,
Her mother calm, unconcerned,
Carries her school bag.
Perhaps she is demonstrating
Her new ballets steps,
Or perhaps the sunshine, a fresh breeze, the scent of flowers
Have coalesced to produce
Her moment of joy,
The sudden, unspoken knowledge
That everything is ahead,
That all her anticipated life is ahead,
And of a sudden the young girl is joyous,
Flying for an instant like an angel,
Like Nijinsky.
I drive by with the image still with me,
And remember a young boy
Who could leap like that,
And from the same kind
Of joy.
This is the way of all young animals,
The sudden promise of life,
Arriving as a gift
Regardless of what the future might hold,
Or even because of it.
Monday 18 June 2012
Recognising The Signs
Kate-Michelle Von Riegen
Hazelbrook, NSW
I know the signs by heart now. It happens so often that I recognise the signs. It starts with a distant rumble of discontent growing and growing until it explodes into a thundering storm, the high strung screeches of domestic dispute echoing through the house’s shell.
The air around us is filled with countless meaningless platitudes. Everyone’s trying to spin the threads of their lives into some insincere quotable phrases that they can sprout out when they feel like their dreams are being sucked down the drain. They try to believe in them. To cling onto their supposed meaning like the lines of a parachute, stopping them from plummeting the thousands of miles into the dark hole of reality.
Everyone’s an artist. Artists of deception, hiding behind the fake comfort of the two storey, five bedroom mini-mansions, cherry-red Ferraris and countless beachside estates. In a world where everything is measured by the perfection of the lie they can build for the outside view, their hidden fears are held at bay with their plastic smiles and show of content.
‘Human beings, like plants, grow in the soil of acceptance,’ the rich corporate robots recite, trying to convince themselves that they’re talking about their own lives. That they’re that little seedling everyone loves. That everyone takes the time to water with sincere praises and goodwill. That they sprinkle with appreciation, fertilising their soul until they will eventually grow into a towering oak with some great purpose in life. A purpose that will one day be fulfilled and lead them to be prized beyond all doubt for their contribution to this Earth.
It’s all utter crap. They may say that we grow with acceptance, but it’s what they don’t say that really matters. Sure, some people may get the acceptance they need to grow to their true height, but for the rest of us, those denied the recognition we so desperately crave, we don’t have a hope in hell. Instead, we’re left to fend for ourselves. To shrivel up in the harsh glare of scrutiny and judgement that comes from those above.
The truth is, I see it in my parents everyday, cracking under the stress of keeping up that worn façade of happiness and perfection, whilst inside their inner soul rots with the disease of unuse. They weren’t always like this though. I remember them when I was younger, before their joy gave way to this life of despair and anguish. Back then they had hopes. They had dreams. Dreams for a better, more beautiful future.
Back then they didn’t see the world like other people. To them it wasn’t about what it was, but what it could be. Every
morning they’d wake up at 7 am, getting into their stiff, starched suits and walking to the office to begin their eight hour day. To the untrained eye they may have looked just the same as all the other corporate robots droning away in the two by two cell, but even as young as I was, I knew better.
Underneath their respectable costumes their hearts were filled with hopes for the future. As they slaved away under the grim gaze of their CEO they dreamed of the day they could rip off their material bonds and paint their own canvas. Gone would be the dull concrete greys and toneless blacks that plagued their world, and locked them in, giving way to the bright splashes of euphoric freedom that could only be found in their deepest desires. But those colours never came. The bright splashes of golden salvation were never found, always just out of reach from their desperate grasp.
After years of peddling the same tired jobs, they began to change. That individual spark that had made them the unique ‘painters of their own great destiny’ as Dad would say, was eventually quashed under the expectation of a dark, hypocritical world. Soon their starched costumes became more. They became a second skin, turning them into part of the mob; the part of society that was accepted.
They learnt to be perfect. To put on the mask that would protect them from the harshness of the unforgiving outside world. What they didn’t realise though, was that this mask offering sanctuary and room to breathe, was actually slowly suffocating them. The world’s rejection of who they really were was wilting their hearts and alighting their bright dreams into ash, trapping them in a prison of their own making – one they can’t climb out of. Now they are captives in that world of forced conformity, striving towards an artificial perfection but knowing deep down that they don’t belong with it, or in it.
It’s not just them though. I see it every day in other individuals. A striving towards an acceptance that is supposed to help you grow, but rather ends in a harsh rejection killing the soul from the outside in. It happens so often that I know the signs by heart now. I’ve seen it so much that I recognise the signs. They’re branded within my memory, and every time, it starts with just a distant rumble of discontent.
Tuesday 19 June 2012
Power Drunk
Ted Witham
Broadwater, WA
Her small hand looked pale as the sun shone warmly on it into the lounge room. A large diamond glinted in the light. The band looked too big for her finger. Her hand moved along the big glass-fronted cabinet. She watched it closely as if it were someone else’s hand, and once more hated herself for her inability to stop it. The white fingers turned the key and plunged inside. The hand half-grabbed, half-caressed, the neck of the decanter. She realised her right hand, the other hand, had been carrying a large tumbler, a Vegemite glass. She placed the glass on the cabinet shelf and quickly filled it and brought it to her lips.
The rasping self-hatred surfaced again, and she hesitated. But the insistent, astringent aroma of the sherry overcame all her hesitation and she drank deeply. Within seconds, the glass was empty, but the woman was not satisfied.
‘I shouldn’t,’ she thought briefly, but still re-filled the glass and drained it. The wine felt sour in her gullet like reflux, and the emotional pain in her head felt like it was beginning to cloud and soften.
The third glassful went down more slowly, and she thought of the decreased pace as a more civilised way of drinking.
‘It’s okay,’ she said aloud, ‘I’m on top of it.’ There was nobody in the big house to hear her.
With the decanter in one hand and the tumbler in the other, she walked over to the new lounge chair, swaying slightly on her way, and sat heavily in the chair taking exaggerated care not to spill a drop. The wall clock chimed three times, and she began to congratulate herself on waiting so long this day to answer the imperative call of the glass-fronted cabinet.
‘To me!’ she slurred and lifted the glass to her lips.
The decanter was empty when the clock struck four, and Brenda drifted in a fitful sleep.
This was the part of the day she hated – the memory would wake her and prevent her from complete oblivion. Every day it jerked her back to reality.
She was back on the podium in the State Convention Centre, behind the lectern draped with the Fabian Party banner. She could feel the warmth of the hand-picked crowd applauding her speech. A good performance tonight, and chances were she would be the next Premier. She caught her Dad’s eye in the fourth row, and saw there a gleam of pride.
At the back of the crowd, she saw two delegates talking. The first one had the West Australian folded open. ‘What is 4 Across?’ he asked his neighbour, ‘the clue is ‘bizarrely re-prime for first in State’.’
Back at the podium she remember how sharp she was in questions and answers, so the Party minders had agreed to a short session after the speech.
The man was dressed in an open-necked green knit shirt and taupe trousers, contrasting with the uniform suits and power dresses. In her memory now, the man was holding a knife as he slowly approached the floor microphone. She smiled encouragingly, wanting to be in charge.
‘Is it true, Ms Berndale,’ he asked, and she could hear the self-assurance in the familiar Geordie burr, ‘that you and your father were members of the English New Nazi Party?’ A gasp from the Party faithful. The camera closed on the woman’s face and caught that moment of horrified hesitation. In a moment she stuttered, pointed at her father, and said, ‘My father was. Not me. I was never ideologically aligned. He was. But not me.’
But the questioner was well-prepared – he must have had friends in the Party office – and with quiet scorn spoke again in to the microphone. ‘Then you had better watch this. You had all better watch this.’
As they looked to the big screens, the woman’s face dissolved to be replaced by the scene of a noisy crowd, the dark towers of York Minster the backdrop. Another stage, another microphone with a younger Brenda Berndale, hair tightly cropped and shouting, ‘This cowardly Government has failed to keep out these dirty Ottomans!’ This English crowd cheered, but the Party audience watching in the auditorium in Australia was stunned. Then an angry buzz arose from the front seats where her front bench colleagues were seated. They walked as a group to the podium and pushed the woman outside into the darkness. The audience jeered.
Back in her lounge chair the woman was crying. Again. She swore at the empty decanter.
The door-bell sounded; at first far away, but then pressed again, it sounded more insistent. Brenda Berndale was not inclined to stand and respond. But it rang again, and Brenda got to her feet feeling full of confusion and anger and walked slowly to the front door. She peered through the spy-hole. There were two Aboriginal kids calling, ‘Mizz Berndale, are you alright?’ Brenda knew she had seen these kids before. They lived in the next street. The other neighbours chased them away, but Brenda had once passed glasses of Coke out to them. It was early in her campaign when she was seeking out every favourable voice she could muster.
Brenda was about to turn away, but on impulse reached out to the snib and opened the door. ‘Are you alright, Mizz?’ the younger child, a boy, asked again. Brenda was aware of their appraising eyes, and looked down at herself, and saw the tumbler still in her hand. ‘Not good drink,’ the boy said flatly, as if from experience of others.
‘No,’ Brenda replied softly, ‘No.’ Tears spilled down her face. The familiar wound in her head throbbed less doggedly. She held out her hand across the threshold. ‘Come in, kids. Can I get you a glass of Coke? Please stay and talk to me.’
Brenda stood aside and watched two little strangers obtrude upon her territory, and she had to admit to herself that it felt good.
Wednesday 20 June 2012 8 am
Down Reigate Hill
Robertas
Drummoyne, ACT
ROAR! A demented lion, inches from my ear – knocks me sideways across the narrow footpath. It flashes by – black, but dazzling daylig
ht off chrome muffler and spokes.
Black leather jacketed, black helmeted. Low, like a swimmer lunging at starter’s pistol-crack; he is joined to the machine.
Down the hill he flies.
He’ll kill himself. The road vanishes at the bottom of the steep; an impossible bend. He has no chance. He’s a madman.
An identical dozen roar by. All black leather madmen.
All doomed.
At the bend he throws the bike into a shower of sparks.
He is gone.
But I hear no skid. No crash.
His other selves spark-shower in hot pursuit.
All gone. And all now silent.
Silent the world and silent my scoured mind.
Wednesday 20 June 2012 4 pm
Lovers And Liars
Emma Hall
Canterbury, Victoria
She drank milky coffee and
wore pink lipstick and
after we made love
she’d stroke my back and tell me stories.
But I left her.
For the girl
with long brown curls who
never called me by my name and
after we made love
she’d loosen the ties on my wrists and go to make herself a black Russian.
And she left me.
For the guy
who bought her things that sparkled and
told her she was more fun than his wife and
after they made love
he promised she was the only one.
And she believed him.
Until she saw him with the girl
in the short short skirt with
the big blue eyes and (she was sure)
after they made love
he promised she was the only one.
So she left him.
For a boy
who wore his sleeves rolled up and
smiled with his mouth open and
after they made love
he panted ‘you’re amazing’ and she waited until he left so she could finish herself.
Then he left her.
When he told her
‘I love you’ and
she turned away and lied and said there was someone else
until he, heartbroken,
left her.
Thursday 21 June 2012
Fame
Ridley Heard
Redhead, NSW
The glass door of the medical centre gave a sharp, clean clang as Marco shut it behind him. The sound seemed far too high pitched compared to the deep wooden thud produced by most doors; this was due to the metal border which held the glass panel in place. The sound produced was the kind of distraction that, in most situations, would go unnoticed by most people. However this was a waiting room, a place where people almost begged for such minor commotions to alternate their crawling boredom. Lifting his head sheepishly, Marco noticed every set of eyes pointing in his direction.
The voice of Marco’s mother was soft, warm and flavoured with a European twist, as it always was. ‘Come on Marco, take a seat, I will sign you in.’
Sinking into one of the cushioned couches Marco suspiciously examined the people around him. A majority of them had already exhausted the little entertainment the newcomer had provided and were either staring at the ground, the walls or fiddling aimlessly on their mobile telephones. He examined one middle-aged woman who had even taken solace in plucking miniscule pieces of fluff from her dress. However, the ones he was really worried about were the people who were still looking at him, the few who had followed him with their eyes the whole way to his seat. Had they noticed him? Did they know who he was? A person of his popularity could hardly go about his everyday activities without being noticed by at least one person. Yet, this was different. This was not an everyday activity, and he had put extra care in ensuring he would NOT be noticed.
One particular girl, who he guessed to be either his age or slightly younger, stared him down with big eyes. The kind of eyes that said, ‘Is that who I think it is?’ He tried shifting his gaze, only to make eye contact (from behind his shades) with a man who had already been watching him. He was significantly older than Marco and a hell of a lot taller. His torso was adorned with a large black trench coat, one which seemed unneeded in junction with the heating of the waiting room. Marco now focused on the coat with an un-trusting gaze. What was he hiding under there? A camera? Would he leap up at any moment and snap the photo that would make the front pages in tomorrow’s paper? Scanning him upwards Marco saw the man’s harsh facial features and the ‘oh-yes-I-know-who-you-are’ expression he was conveying.
His thoughts were finally interrupted by his mother, who sat down next to him. ‘Dr Phelps is running a bit late but you shouldn’t have to wait too long.’
Every adolescent Marco’s age would have been to the doctors with their mother at some point; even the famous and critically acclaimed. He pondered however on how many would have to see a psychologist. Depression was common enough he supposed. Perhaps he was just making a big deal out of the whole situation; the kind of big deal that rich, spoiled and particularly famous kids always seemed to make. He had never wanted to become that cliché, never. This is normal, he told himself in his head, a great number of stars suffered depression at some point in their career; in fact now that he thought about it a majority of them did. So what was the big deal? He still did not feel comfortable enough to take off his shades, or his hat, or his large worn sweater that was prompting the pits of his underarms to accumulate a decent amount of perspiration. His clothes made him feel as if he was being displayed as inferior, as less prestigious than he truly was. However that was all part of his plan.
Every time Dr Phelps would emerge from wherever his work was taking place, every person in the waiting room would look up in anticipation. One man would even cough loudly to make himself seem apparent, driven by the belief that the psychologist was picking the patients by hand and not a systematic order. Who knows how long Marco waited in that room. He himself had no idea, but was more than relieved when Dr Phelps finally called his name. Rising from his seat and heading over to the psychologist Marco examined Mr ‘Oh-yes-I-know-who-you-are’ with his peripherals. There was no jumping out of his seat to capture the star and the psychologist in the same frame, in fact there was no movement at all. Not yet.
When finally in the quaint room where Dr Phelps went about his work, Marco found himself engaged in a quite lengthy conversation with the Doctor which, as Mr Phelps had explained, was aimed at ‘working out where you are at’.
Eventually Marco was prompted out of the room with a warm comforting smile, one which Marco guessed had been perfected over years of professionalism.
‘Now if you could just wait here,’ Dr Phelps gestured to a small armchair across from the room he was just in, around the corner from the main waiting room, ‘I am just going to chat with your mother.’
Marco’s mother rose from the armchair he would soon sit in and followed Dr Phelps into his room. The door was gently shut and Marco soon found himself in silence.
The talk with the psychologist was good he supposed. It allowed him to vent some issues he wouldn’t usually share with people, and looking back he was surprised with how willing he was to tell this stranger private and somewhat provoking information. His post-mortem was suddenly interrupted by a warm sensation, like a bucketful of warm sand crawling down his entire body. The camera was positioned in the top corner of the room, its red light and unblinking lens gazing at him steadily. A security camera. He recalled seeing footage somewhere in a vast career of television watching of celebrities caught in the act
on security cameras. He hadn’t gone to all this effort to be caught out by one lousy security camera. He rose from his seat and moved towards the door which supported a gold plate reading ‘DR. PHELPS’. As he reached it he turned back and was comforted instantly as he realised he was out of the camera’s sight. Muffled murmurs seemed to be coming from the room which he stood outside of. Feeling somewhat guilty Marco leant his ear against the door.
‘This is beyond my qualifications to deal with Miss Margarelli,’ Doctor Phelps spoke. ‘These delusions are quite common in severe mental disorders. We call them delusions of grandeur; the patient can perceive themselves as highly important, as famous and even to have special powers and abilities.’
‘What would you guess is wrong with my boy?’ Marco’s mother’s speech had a shaky element to it, as if she was close to tears.
‘Schizophrenia seems likely at this stage. Marco requires psychometric medication to deal with these delusions. I can give you the name of a …’
‘I don’t want my boy to have to live his life like that. Drugged up constantly. Are you positive there are no alternative solutions?’ Marco noticed his mother now actually was crying.
‘Nothing else that will be anywhere near effective I am afraid.’
Friday 22 June 2012 8 am
Creative Places
JAC
Kilsyth, VIC
Eyes closed pretending I was all alone
No-one near for me to see
Without vision of colour or object,
Resided a dark world in me
A point inside my mind
Where I existed on my own
Growing images of myself
And ideas I only saw alone.
There, creation comes to life
And thoughts began to rise
They brewed and raged,
Always heard, never asking the ‘whys’
Words written turned from secrets
And lyrics turned from memories
Spoke loud were my opinions
With only me to disagree
Closed eyes were then awaken
And before the thoughts could fray
I met with pen and paper
It was time to mould that clay
At the end of day, I will
Lose sight of other faces
Then I know it is time I visit,
Those dark and creative places
Friday 22 June 2012 4 pm
Once Upon Mt Wilson
Virginia Gow
Blackheath, NSW
Sunlight splits the dew from yellow leaves and draws forth a brilliant day out of folds of fog. A Sydney bound train whistles a Sunday holy hello as it rumbles over Blackheath rail crossing. It will be a fine day for an autumn picnic, Ginny thinks as she joins The Visitors in their black four-wheel drive. Bellbirds chime in the early morning as someone says, ‘Autumn is the very best time to visit Mount Wilson!’
The Visitors are intrepid travellers and have explored the heritage garden village before. There is no town water supply. People are requested to bring their own drinking water. The residents gather their household needs from water tanks. Gardens are fed from dams and streams. They know to bring their own food, water and wine because there are no shops in Mt Wilson’s village.
Fresh buns from the Blackheath Bakery still carry their early morning ‘hot out of the oven’ smell. Sliced ham ‘off the bone’ from the butcher’s, smoked salmon from the fishmonger’s lie between slivers of white paper. Fresh iceberg lettuce and roma tomatoes have just been gathered from the greengrocer’s. Homemade chutney, stuffed olives, soft Brie and tasty hard cheddar from the deli now nestle down in the picnic basket on the back seat. A thermos of hot water for tea or coffee holds its own basket, with mugs, on the floor. Ginny brings a bottle of local Mudgee wine, along with water and milk, in a cooling bag as her contribution.
As the basalt-capped peaks on the northern edge of the Blue Mountains come into view, the road is a carpet of orange, yellow, red and brown leaves. Autumn tresses of the weeping cherry and liquid ambers are superb in their hues having fed off the rich volcanic soil of this cool temperate rainforest. These deciduous trees seem to delight in shedding their treasure but warn of winter’s chill.
The landscape is sprinkled with world famous gardens. Charles Moore, a former Director of the Royal Botanic Gardens in Sydney, began one garden in 1877. This colonial garden, set on 20 acres, surrounds a classic old colonial sandstone homestead. Bronzed ‘bird of paradise’ fountain leads to a leafy avenue. Here purple Sycamore weeps in splendor, there an ‘old man’ cork tree peeps out at the waterlillies. Imagine standing in a grove created by the one giant redwood and feeling the hush of a sacred space. This giant Sequoia is over a hundred years old and in its branches a boy’s midnight dreaming may be protected. Walk down to a sculpture garden where bronze nymphs hide in a waterfall glen. Shift along a high stonewall to discover an elaborate 15th century Spanish doorway leading to a secret garden.
‘Peek through the ancient Spanish iron barred window at a walled world of verdant green grass, a wisteria arbour, a thriving herbaceous border,’ says the mistress of the house. ‘Catch a sunbeam dancing on the handsome ornamental pond.’ Ginny recognises this lady from her weekly life-drawing classes and they smile at each other as if they share a secret. This elegant lady escorts them around her beloved garden then invites them for tea. Thus an extra layer is added to the enjoyment of Mt Wilson as The Visitors sip warm sweet tea inside the solid sandstone walls, warmed by the kitchen hearth.
Mt Wilson is where, as a boy, Patrick White may kick a stone along the road. Hands in pockets, he is already storytelling. Follies, those architectural monoliths, sit in isolated splendor. A wedding couple gambols over lawn, as a photographer arranges his child model on an old wooden fence. In a summerhouse a scene from a new movie blockbuster is being shot, the stars looking incongruous in their heavy makeup and costumes as the director calls ‘action!’ It is all about the dapple of the leaves.
At a fork in the road a wooden picnic table stands with its attendant benches ready to receive a cloth, picnic baskets, cooling bag, The Visitors and Ginny. A gentle wind plays a melody with the fallen leaves. They dine in a manner rather refined, and bask in the rays of the noonday sun. Laughter and chatter mingle with bird song. Time allows the shadows to lengthen and friendship deepens with them.
The journey over, Ginny waves farewell to The Visitors. She settles back in the cosy Blackheath cottage, a video of Mt Wilson playing in her thoughts. The melody of leaves with wind is soundtrack to the graceful images. A sigh escapes as she remembers to press ‘Save’.
Saturday 23 June 2012
Marionettes Of Despair
Amber Johnson
Highgate Hill, Queensland
He licked the blood off of his blade and savoured the rusty salinity that coated his tongue. His gloved hands reverently slid along the hilt of his switchblade. Beside him, a woman clicked her tongue impatiently as she watched him toy with a corpse. The man shrieked with delight as he saw his victim’s limb twitch.
‘Oh look; this nerve is still functioning!’ he gasped, prodding flesh with the knife. Each stroke was made with precision; every droplet that coloured the tip was an object of marvel – only blood made dying real.
‘Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to play with your food?’ the woman huffed. Large reptilian wings extended from the middle of her shoulder blades. Her wings’ scaly tendrils were separated by a webbed membrane; each tip tapered to a claw. Kizor grinned beneath his shock of red hair.
‘What would be the purpose of this vicious slaughter if I denied myself the pleasure?’ he whispered. A swirl of playful malice seeped through his slitted pupils. She flicked her hair behind her ears without response and left him to his maniacal scrutiny.
‘
I can’t quite grasp how you find enjoyment in killing; they are just petty humans,’ she added indifferently. Kizor closed his eyes with a smile, re-enacting the experience within his mind.
‘Their pleas excite me, as I fondle with their fears and memories. I taste of their very life-force the moment their eyes glaze over and they choke on their last silent scream,’ he explained.
Serena oiled her way into his arms in a slick, fluid movement.
‘I love it seeing you so passionate, even if she was only a weakling,’ she nodded towards the dead woman in front of them.
‘You should know by now that I do not discriminate simply because they are weak,’ Kizor laughed. ‘I don’t care whether they are human or hybrid, black or white, young or old; I am quite happy to kill them all.’
Serena folded her wings back in a swift swoop.
‘Your current preference for the mortals has caused quite the controversy between human and hybrid relations,’ Serena simpered. Despite her attempt to appear neutral, a trace of concern laced her words.
‘I would hunt more of our kin, had the senate not decided to ostracise those of “non-human status”. It is a rather dismal attempt to stop my hunt; human laws don’t apply for us,’ Kizor scoffed. He stood up, kicking the body aside.
‘You found one to play with about a week ago, didn’t you? A nymph if I recall correctly,’ she asked curiously.
‘Your memory serves you well however, I had a little too much fun. The vessel was destroyed a few hours ago; his mind couldn’t handle the intrusion.’
‘Hmm, that sounds a little troublesome,’ Serena sighed.
‘No matter; there are other ways to satisfy my thirst. Shall we find another?’ Kizor held out his arm. He enticed the succubus to partake with a smouldering stare. Serena smiled and entwined his fingers around her own.
‘Sure, but only if you’ll spend a bit of private time with me later,’ she growled seductively. Kizor shrugged off the charm that would have clouded the minds of lesser men.
‘We’ll see,’ he said, apathetically. Serena’s wings batted once, as if to stretch weary muscles, before she followed the puppet-master.
They strolled confidently through the streets, completely aware that people watched them, too horrified to emerge from the shadows. Skulking down alleys and secluded lanes, they scanned the night for their next victims. Serena’s ears perked up at the echoes of jingling keys and heavy boots. As Kizor stepped forward, chuckles amongst the bantering men ceased; all three wore cobalt uniforms.
‘What business do you two have this late at night?’ one of them asked as another raised a torch. The silhouette of webbed wings was illuminated in a glossy gleam.
‘What the hell is that?’ the third guard gasped. Serena flexed her deltoids and bared fangs as the torch bearer shouted, ‘They’re wings! Shoot the bitch!’
An ear-piercing screech escaped her lips as the succubus beat her wings threateningly. Two of the guards flinched, while the third advanced cautiously. With a forceful strike, the approaching guard was knocked off his feet. From the ground, the breeze agitated his face; it tingled where he was struck. The first guard rushed to aid.
‘Dave! Are you okay?’ David gagged slightly in response. Two deep gashes, one across the forehead and the other over his cheek, swelled rapidly.
‘I wouldn’t touch him if I were you,’ Serena chimed.
David howled; his skin sizzled and blistered. His hands flew to the wounds as he hoped for some comfort but within seconds he withdrew them. Waxy flesh melted away from his fingers as he watched in horror. The first guard stumbled backwards in panic.
‘Help me!’ David gurgled. Sickening screams and tortured sobs were choked into silence. His cheek decomposed and the tongue fell to the concrete beside his exposed jawbone. Both of his comrades were helpless against the venom that dissolved through David’s torso. His legs remained intact; they were attached to a mass of skeletal remains and the muscle tissue that clung, in gooey clumps around his rib cage.
‘Well that was fun,’ Kizor chuckled. ‘It’s my turn now.’
The guard, who had backed away, drew his pistol with an unsteady hand. With a shark-like grin, Kizor’s gaze pierced through the mind of the second guard. So your name is Michael, Kizor echoed in a sinister whisper. The hybrid’s lips remained drawn back like sanguine curtains and exposed the sadistic ivories; they had remained motionless. Boo! Kizor roared mentally.
Before Michael could draw his gun, a swarm of wasps droned and buzzed around him. He swatted at the air around him, which only proved to provoke a bombardment of stings. Sharp, throbbing jabs struck at his skull; tiny needles were felt prickling his grey matter. Kizor cackled out loud while his victim dropped his gun and pressed his fists over his ears, much to the bewilderment of the captain.
‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ he growled.
Michael’s muscles petrified; fear gnawed away all sense of logic. The wicked smile branded his mind with permanent torment. He knew if he survived the night, that grin would taunt him forever. The master of manipulation delved deeper into Michael’s darkest memories. He scratched at the surface and scraped out the greasy debris of long-forgotten sentiments. The chill of Kizor’s presence was amplified as he flicked through the scrapbook of memory.
Michael fell to his knees, groaning in mental anguish – for even the most sheltered minds host putrid fragments. Whether they have been swept under the carpet, frayed with guilt, or lurk in neglected cavities, Kizor will drag out the worst experiences he can find.
‘David is dead. I know he was your mate, but if you don’t get your ass off the ground, you will be too,’ the captain barked. ‘Get up!’ Michael did not respond; he was absorbed into the depths of regret.
Completely ignorant to the other man, Kizor locked his gaze with the tortured lamb that writhed and groaned before him. Don’t look away.
‘Stay away from him! Get back, you mongrel!’ The captain tried to maintain his composure as he shuffled closer to the hybrid. Serena took an intimidating step forward; Kizor signalled for her to stop. Both Serena and the captain paused as the puppet-master remained locked in mental conquest. Michael’s arm abruptly swung around and gripped the captain’s shin.
‘What the fuck is wrong with you! Let go of me!’
Michael squeezed tighter as his captain squirmed to get free. The captain noticed Michael’s hazel eyes changed to a ghastly blue – akin to those of his captor.
‘Mmm, I wonder what your knee tastes like,’ Michael wheezed. The blue, cotton trouser leg was ripped open like a plastic bag in Michael’s fist. He giggled and dragged his tongue over the captain’s knee cap. The captain struggled in disgust and gave a swift boot to the side of Michael’s head; it produced no reaction. Michael sneered idly without the devotion that was required. His features were hollowed and barren.
‘Bleh your knee is hairy. Do I have hair stuck in my teeth?’ he asked and displayed his teeth for inspection.
An icy chill ran down the captain’s spine. The sudden realisation crept over him that, to these monsters, possession was a sport and he was the game. Once they disposed of Michael, he would be next. What would it be like having those … things in my head? The captain looked down at the pitiful shell of his subordinate; he was no longer recognisable. The shadow of Michael’s former self flickered through the bars of his cage, though he lacked the strength to break through Kizor’s iron grasp.
What must he be going through? The thought made the captain shudder. I can’t fight them; I need to get away! It felt as though his heart was being constricted within his chest as the foul creatures inspected his reactions.
‘He has caught on to us,’ Kizor droned. ‘His analysis taints his blood with an alkaline taste; I can smell it from here. It is hardly worth the effort to season him with fear. I gave him too long to think and now he has gone stale,’ he said and clicked his fingers. Michael let go of the captain and gripped the dagger that was dropped into his hands.
/> ‘What a pity. Kill him,’ Kizor shrugged.
Michael ran forth and lifted the weapon above his head. As he was about to drive the knife down, his muscles cried in protest. Every fibre of his being fought against Kizor’s control. He squeezed his eyes shut to focus on his internal struggle. With a tug of will, the incontrollable urge to plunge the dagger into his superior’s throat vanished. All was silent and still. He cringed in anticipation.
A warm gush at his wrist confirmed the worst; he couldn’t bear to open his eyes. Open them; take a look at your hand. A squelching gag rattled through the air as Michael’s eyelids were peeled back. The hilt remained firmly in his hand as his eyes skated over the train wreck he had wrought. Michael’s fist had penetrated through the captain’s throat; the knife had severed the captain’s brain stem.
He tried to let go but his hand stubbornly gripped tighter. A rebellious plunge was followed by the crunch of metal against bone. Whenever he tried to look away from the brutal disfigurement, his glance was unwillingly snapped back. Now look what you have done. That man was your friend. He was helpless, the spectral tone murmured. You’re a murderer.
‘No! I – ’
‘You killed him,’ Kizor interrupted. Electric-blue irises radiated toxic quantities of self-loathing into Michael’s mind. Every shred of confidence he once possessed was plucked from him; it left him hollow. The void was quickly filled with remorse and disgust until the baneful emotions leaked from his pores. The whole world seemed to contract around him. Unseen eyes and silent tongues scorned him.
‘Just fucking kill me already!’ he spat.
‘You have the means,’ Serena replied. She nodded towards the dagger twirling around Michael’s fingertips. He paused. Is this a trick? He knew it would end the pending torment and night-terrors. Would they be merciful? Maybe they want to see me crumble. He closed his eyes and braced himself.
One … two … three.
An explosive projection of images burst into his mind. Illusion blended with reality as memory reeled and flickered. The warmth of his kitten as she kneaded his stomach, the sound of his mother’s heartbeat from the womb and the texture of Vick’s VapoRub being smothered on his six-year-old chest, all coaxed him into a false sense of security – the thoughts blotched away his guilt. He lowered the dagger to his side.
‘Isn’t that nice?’ Kizor chirped patronisingly. With a stamp of his feet, spur-like razors emerged from the toes of the boots.
‘Don’t come any closer!’ Michael waved his weapon threateningly. His palm opened involuntarily and allowed the metal to tinker on the road. Kizor clicked his tongue.
‘Tsk, you should know better than that.’ He walked over and brushed spidery fingers across Michael’s cheek. Unable to move, the man tried to ignore the glacial prickle against his stubble.
‘It seems you need a shave. Here, let me give you a hand,’ Kizor breathed. With inhuman speed, he leapt off the ground. The hybrid spun in a whirlwind of motion and delivered a tornado kick that peeled away the surface of Michael’s chin. Michael cried in agony, his raw sinews burned in the breeze. He turned to run.
‘Are leaving so soon? Why don’t you stay a little longer?’ Kizor sneered. Michael managed to reach the road before Kizor launched at him and slashed at his hamstrings. The guard plummeted to the bitumen. His body, grazed and bruised, thrashed against the invisible weights that pinned him face down. Kizor walked up slowly. His kick-blades smiled dangerously in the glimmer of street lamps. In an instant, he sliced open the the cobalt guard’s uniform. The night air flew up the legs of exposed satin boxers. Michael yelped – that was a little too close for comfort.
‘What are you going to do to him?’ Serena asked eagerly. Kizor ignored her and blew a billow of air over the nape of his slave’s neck. Michael shivered. The sting of a razor trailed right down to his thighs. Fists were clenched and teeth were ground as Kizor’s foot traced cross-hatch patterns over his prey’s rump. The movements were smooth and slow like those of a scalpel, until it was ripped away.
The blade was thrust into Michael’s colon. Screams could be heard from miles away yet no one dared interfere. The puppet-master twisted his ankle back and forth; his kick-blade scraped against the torn rectal tissue with each turn. He yanked downwards and carved through to Michael’s testicles. With a cruel leer, the manipulator hacked through the man’s scrotum, and swung his foot to Michael’s throat.
‘It was fun while it lasted,’ Kizor admitted before he stomped down and stifled the guard’s last groan.
Blood splattered against his ashen face in delectable contrast. He kicked repeatedly into the motionless heap at his feet and watched the life ooze away from the source. Puncture wounds draped the body in a curtain of red. He giggled in a fit of ecstasy as flesh squished and squirted with every punt.
The puppet-master gleefully continued to disfigure the remains until a hiss caught his attention.
‘Killing humans is rather dull,’ Serena huffed as she observed the aftermath. ‘The thrill extinguishes too quickly. Mine didn’t even put up a fight.’
‘I don’t believe the taste of fear will ever get old,’ he replied.
‘We best return before dawn,’ the succubus sighed wearily.
Having consumed their fill of blood and slaughter, they slipped into the shadows leaving only carnage in their wake.
‘Marionettes of Despair’ is a horrific excerpt from Amber Johnson’s fantasy novel ‘The Rouge Oppression’.
Sunday 24 June 2012 8 am
Lost Illusions
James Craib
Wentworth Falls, NSW
Love can be wonderful
Obsession can be a curse
Seduction is so glamorous
Treachery is far worse
Infatuation is a two-edged sword
Licentiousness can be the result
Languorous exchanges hang on every word
Ubiquity brings lust to a halt
Society demands certain standards
Instilled from an early age
Overtime one expects more candour
Now’s the time to start a new page
So consider the following ~
I pray for you ~ I prey for you
I need of you ~ I feed on you
I love you ~ I loath you
I adore you ~ I abhor you
I worship you ~ I worry you
I seduce you ~ I reduce you
I desire you ~ I despise you
I console you ~ I control you
I stroke you ~ I strike you
I caress you ~ I curse you
I kiss you ~ I kill you
I flaunt you ~ I haunt you
I want you ~ I taunt you
I respect you ~ I reject you
I salute you ~ I refute you
I repent you ~ I resent you
You amuse me ~ You abuse me
You engage me ~ You enrage me
You entice me ~ You incite me
You connect me ~ You correct me
You impel me ~ You impale me
You expect me ~ You infect me
You mesmerise me ~ You terrify me
You compel me ~ You repel me
You complete me ~ You defeat me
You excel me ~ You expel me
You delight me ~ You deny me
I have much confusion ~ You have lost illusions.
Sunday 24 June 2012 4 pm
I Couldn’t Stay For The Celebration
Sonia Ursus Satori
Medlow Bath, NSW
I couldn’t stay for the celebration. I am a cop, and there are bad guys out there.
Somebody’s gotta clamp down on those pimps and narks. Before you know it they’ll gate-crash any party. You don’t wanna put up with that vulgarity mob on your wedding day! I know what I’m talking about: they’ll drag along the other whores. God knows what t
hey are sniffing these days. Raided the cathouse last night; couldn’t fit them all in the paddy wagon, fornicating bastards. Pimps galore, I tell you. Can’t do enough for their lecherous clientele. You should have seen the lawyers and CEOs scramble for the doors.
Hah! Didn’t wanna spend the night in jail so they coughed up. The pillars of society! No messing with me, sir. Fat-bellied ogres saturated with Viagra and high on coke. Give me a decent drunk anytime.
Why did you have to insist on Eddy-the-nark for best man? The double-crossing jerk he is. Loaded with the stuff. On him. I spotted Pinky in the congregation. He scared the shit out of me. What was he doing there? He’s had an eye on me for some time. The other copper’s dead stoned – me being the only one there with a clear head. I had to split. Did it for you, babe. No one besmirches your honour, being pregnant and all, if I can help it.
So what if it didn’t come to the vows. I’ll marry you another day.
Monday 25 June 2012 8 am
Great Spirit
Claire Turner
Mona Vale, NSW
Sing to me Great Spirit
As whisper in the wind,
Show to me the gateway
That leads to within.
Shine your light brightly
Like the warm sun’s rays
As I mould within your likeness
And tread within your way.
Watch as I transform my lord
Like the blooming of a rose
As I learn to rejoice in everything
And accept how my life goes.
To see your hand in everything
Your love the joining thread,
My last wish is of oneness with you
As upon the pillow I lay my head.
Monday 25 June 2012 4 pm
Bathed In Sunlight
Chloe Loughran
Brunswick, VIC
You know it doesn’t turn away
It doesn’t wait
For the time to pass
This happiness can only last
Now if the sun shines through me
I will be alive in you
That is all I need
And if these grey skies we painted
Some day turn blue
Then the sun will shine through you too
Letting go isn’t what we want to do
It's then we feel the loneliness flow through
But each day that sun rises once again
That's when I'll come to you my friend
And I’m sorry
That this world is much too hard
But together we will play our cards
Connected arm in arm
And every time the sun can’t be seen
You will always have me
And together we will be
Bathed in sunlight.
Chloe has been writing short stories and poems since she was 15 years old. When she was younger, Chloe had a close friend, based on their mutual feelings of depression. When Chloe started to get better, her friend felt left behind, so Chloe wrote this poem for her.
Tuesday 26 June 2012
Saving My Butterfly
Tamara Pratt
Mount Gravatt, QLD
Sometimes I think my sister’s life was as fragile as the butterflies she tattooed on her hip the day before she died.
It seemed just as fleeting.
I hear the resignation in my father’s voice when I make the comparison – when I talk about the few days a butterfly has before it perishes, and the thousands of days Emily lived.
He says an insect doesn’t choose its time of death – it’s a victim of nature.
A victim. When he says that, it’s like he is accusing my sister of being selfish; saying she was no better than our mother, leaving us without warning.
I imagine my sister now, with her sea-green wings fluttering in quick succession, escaping from something I cannot see nor understand.
If only I understood what scared her the most, I might have saved her from falling.