*** Editor’s Pick ***
Nervous Tic
Robertas
Drummoyne, NSW
Tock – tock – tock – tock – ...
That’s better.
I couldn’t stand that pesky tick.
It never was quite right.
It had a sort of nervousness that penetrated every room.
I couldn’t sleep at night.
I plugged my ears with cotton wool.
Alas, to no avail.
It found its way into my head just like a driven nail.
I took the back off
peered inside
and twiddled with the cogs
identified the ticky-thing
and threw it in the rubbish bin.
The hands move sort of funny now
but it still keeps good time,
and now the nervous tic is gone, the tocking is sublime.
I ’spose I could have thrown it out
and gone electric.
They don’t make a sound.
But even though the tick was wrong
and drove me close to tears,
the tock is beautifully rounded,
music to my ears.
I love that tock so much
I rigged a gizmo up
to project the sound throughout the house,
and amplify it in my room.
Now I sleep in aural bliss.
I have sweet tocking dreams
and every day awake refreshed
and super-full of beans.
I do so love my tocking clock,
another one I’d like.
So Santa dear, when Christmas comes
and I hang out my stocking
will you please just remove the ‘s’
and leave me with the tocking.
Ed: We enjoyed the clever adaptation of the term ‘Nervous Tic’ and the amusing and entertaining tale that followed. We hope you did, too!
Sunday 23 September 2012 4 pm
School Daze
Bob Edgar
Wentworth Falls, NSW
First day of school. They think they’re so smart, but I’ll show them who’s best
Look at him, crying like a baby. Look at her, mumbling and dribbling down her vest
My Mum is so proud of me, I can tell
She said to me this morning, ‘Go girl, give ’em hell.’
I’ve been preparing for this day for five years
Never though, have I seen so many tears
The day was long, the day was traumatic
If I were not so young
I would remonstrate emphatic
Instead, I will cry and say to my Mum
‘I don’t want to be a bloody teacher.’
Monday 24 September 2012
It’s The Small Things
John Ross
Blackheath, NSW
PC Jonathon Smith was pedalling his bicycle slowly back towards the village. It had been his habit, for the last fifteen years, to ride the short distance out to his modest cottage to have his midday meal with his wife. He was just passing the gates at the entrance to the Fitzgerald-Smyth Manor House when he noticed that they were open. Thinking that this was rather unusual, he looked down the winding lane that wound through a thick grove of trees. The Manor House was completely hidden from the road and he could only see as far as the first bend in the lane. He was considering whether to ride down and tell Lord Fitzgerald-Smyth about the gates when suddenly the quiet of the warm summer’s day was split asunder by the most horrific blood-curdling scream. Birds flew, startled into the air, and PC Smith got such a shock that he lost control of his bicycle and ended up in a heap on the grass verge of the road.
The scream had come from beyond the first bend in the lane that led to the Manor House. Remounting his bicycle PC Smith peddled furiously down the lane blowing his police whistle as hard as he could. There was nothing to see as he rounded the first bend but, around the next, there in the middle of the road, lay the telegram boy. He instantly recognised him because of his khaki uniform and the peaked cap that now lay in the dust of the lane. Dismounting, PC Smith bent over young Peter Ewsdale, as that was the lad’s name. Without touching him he could see that he was dead. The back of his head was a tangled mass of blood and bone splinters. Beside the body lay the murder weapon, a piece of wood with blood and hair on one end. Careful not to disturb the crime scene more than was necessary he inspected the body, the satchel that was used for the telegrams and the surroundings. When he was satisfied that he could do no more, he then decided to ride down to the Manor House. He knew that it was only about two hundred yards further down the lane and he also knew that there was a phone there. He must contact the sergeant in Upper Swansdale as soon as possible.
The Manor House was large with a huge oak door. PC Smith had been knocking for some time before the door was opened by Lord Fitzgerald-Smyth himself who apologised for keeping him waiting as he said that the maid was on a day off and the butler had recently resigned. There was no sign of Lady Fitzgerald-Smyth and village gossip had it that she had left months ago for places unknown. Having explained that he wanted to use the phone on police business the Lord led him through the house and into the huge day room with its numerous leather lounges and oversize fireplace. Before using the phone he asked if the Lord had received a telegram today. The Lord hesitated and said, ‘No one has come to the house all day. Please make yourself at home. When you are finished I will be in the kitchen making my lunch.’
PC Smith took a step towards Lord Fitzgerald-Smyth, laid his hand on his shoulder, and said, ‘Just a moment Sir. I am arresting you on suspicion of murdering young Peter Ewsdale.’
The Lord jumped back and pulled away from the PC ‘How dare you touch me. You are talking rubbish man. I have not been out of this house all day. How can you accuse me of such a thing?’
‘I believe I can accuse you Sir as I believe the evidence will support the accusation.’
The Lord turned away and said, ‘I am not going to stand here and listen to your fairy tales. Get out of my way you country clod as I am going to ring your superiors and report your insolence.’
PC Smith pointed to a chair and said, ‘Sit down. I believe this is what happened. Peter came to the house to deliver a telegram. He used the contents of the telegram to try to blackmail you. You gave him money, but then had second thoughts and chased after him, taking a short cut through the woods. You caught up with him and bashed him over the head with a piece of wood. Hearing my police whistle you took his bike and rode quickly back to the house.’
Lord Fitzgerald-Smyth sneered, ‘As I said a fairy tale. You have no proof and I will ensure that you never work in this county again you …’
The constable interrupted him before he could continue, ‘There was no telegram in Peter’s satchel which meant that he had already delivered it. This is the only house down this lane and you admit that you are the only person here. As you know telegrams must be hand delivered. You say you have not been out of the house but there is a maple leaf stuck in the cuff of your pants; the trees along side the lane are maples.
‘The length of wood used to kill Peter was a cut piece of pine exactly the same as the wood stacked here in the fireplace and, by the way, he still had your fifty pound note tucked into his shoe. I bet you were frustrated when you could not find it.’
Looking slightly less belligerent Lord Fitzgerald- Smyth said, ‘Well if I took his bike where is it now?’
Smiling PC Smith replied, ‘Who builds a fire in the middle of summer and also does not put kindling under the logs? You were busy loading all those logs in the fireplace when I came to the door. You still have soot on the back of your hands where you brushed against the side of the fireplace. Where is the
bicycle? The bicycle is in the fireplace under those logs!’
Tuesday 25 September 2012 8 am
Something Of Nothing
Nicole James
Narrandera, NSW
I am here in a time and place,
Yet I am really nowhere at all,
Standing on the edge of nothing,
Bracing myself for the fall.
I see life bustling on around me,
I reach out but it's too far away,
I scream, still nobody hears me,
Drifting unseen through another day.
Little by little I am wilting,
While the rest of the garden grows,
My life is fading into this nothing place,
And nobody even knows.
My heart is too heavy to carry,
My eyes are too tired to cry,
So here I sit in this nowhere place,
Just watching the world go by.
Nicole has suffered from severe depression for 20 years and her writing is an expression of her feelings in a world that chooses ignorance over awareness.
Tuesday 25 September 2012 4 pm
I Did Nothing Wrong
Mel G
St Clair, NSW
A part of me has always known
that I did nothing bad.
Yet since so small the seeds were sown
that made me feel so sad.
Self hate and shame have both consumed
destroying my self worth.
To live in hiding I felt doomed
since placed upon this earth.
But now I’ve found the strength to tell
about those secret sins.
To share the shame was hard as hell
but healing now begins.
The part of me that always knew
that I did nothing wrong
now pulls the poison vines that grew
from where they don’t belong.
Mel is 36 years old and in the process of healing from the effects of child abuse. This poem is about how sharing your secrets can help you to heal.
Wednesday 26 September 2012
The Box
Sallie Ramsay
Torrens, ACT
As long as Jane could remember, it had sat on the mantelpiece over the fire place in her grandmother’s sitting room: a roughly made wooden box; a misfit in a room full of delicate antiques and highly polished surfaces.
She asked her grandmother what was inside it, why was it there? All she got in return was a smile and a shrug. Once, when she was about six, she dragged a chair over to the fireplace and was about to climb up when the front door banged and she barely had time to drag the chair back to its place. Somehow she knew that the box was not for her and that her grandmother would not be pleased if, as she used to say, Jane was caught sticky-beaking.