narratorAUSTRALIA Volume Two

  Part takers, dignitaries

  And spectators,

  Skipper and deckies

  Brave seamen, welcome all!

  And the Mayor goes on.

  Ahoy! Ten minutes

  To the starting gun,

  Maneuver the craft

  On long reach helmsmen,

  Watch out starboard

  For pushy upstarts!

  Starter’s gun off,

  Hell for leather

  From hereon;

  And it’s free for all

  No handicap rating

  Either sailing in NT.

  In quick step as one,

  We charge down wind

  On the spinnaker leg.

  Alas, without spinnaker,

  Blooper or big genoa,

  Propelled by our own feet

  We run through heat

  And choking dust,

  All the way to the finishing line.

  Winners to be showered

  By deafening jubilation, crowd

  Some already on turps,

  Here in Alice Springs NT,

  World’s one and only

  Regatta on river sand.

  Tuesday 26 February 2013 4 pm

  What A Day!

  Jean Bundesen

  Woodford, NSW

  A cyclone rages along the Queensland coast, but in NSW…

  We are driving across the mountains

  Tires drumming on the highway

  Surrounded by clouds

  Light rain is falling.

  A Sage in a long grey woollen coat

  Could describe this wet weekend

  His coat shrouds the scene

  Trees snuggling up.

  Approaching car headlights glisten golden

  On the glossy road

  Like the shiny buttons on the Sage’s coat.

  Visibility’s reduced cars ahead are

  Just greyish shapes, in misty rain.

  It looks like everything is asleep until

  Sulphur crested Cockatoos screech.

  Bright yellow Wattle blossoms

  Add a spot of cheer.

  Our windscreen wipers slip-slop back and forth.

  Off the mountain clouds lift –

  Theatre curtains rolling back,

  Leaving sullen grey clouds above

  But no rain.

  Groups of Lombardy poplar trees

  Turning gold along the highway

  Banks of Brunswick Green pine trees

  In the distance.

  We have gone far enough; home is calling …

  Wednesday 25 February 2013

  The Creak/Creek On The Stairs

  JH Mancy

  Tallebudgera, QLD

  The apartment felt lonely now that Bill was gone. It made noises which sounded remarkably like weeping. The taps did weep. They dripped constantly, depriving Mary of sleep until the early hours. When finally she did drift into an uneasy slumber in the wee hours she woke just a few hours later. Usually she willed herself to rise, to get her day started.

  Lately Mary had been feeling a little unwell. She’d have to ring the doctor to make that appointment. The one she’d been putting off for weeks. She’d thought her tiredness was the result of Bill’s sudden death. The funeral arrangements had been taxing on her. She’d had to contend with disagreeable in-laws and their snooty offspring.

  Then there’d been accommodation to arrange. Her small house had overflowed with people she hardly knew. They offered help, trying to ease their own grief in any way they could. She’d appreciated their efforts, but found it stifling. She and Bill had led a quiet life – they were not used to fuss. They’d avoided it whenever possible, preferring each other’s company.

  After the visitors had departed for their various homes, amid promises to keep in touch, Mary had the house to herself. The first few days were a blur. She simply was too depleted to attempt anything, let alone sort through Bill’s personal effects. It was a small comfort to be surrounded by his things. Reminders of his interests were everywhere. They’d been unable to have children, so there would be no-one to pass them on to.

  To please a well meaning friend, Mary decided to see a grief counsellor. The time was set for mid-morning. It will be the shortest session in history, she thought ruefully.

  The receptionist was all smiles and welcoming. Having given her details Mary was ushered to a chair. She immediately felt at her ease. The décor was restful and calming, none of those garish colours seen in some more modern waiting rooms.

  The clients were a mixed bag. For the most part they seemed relaxed, apart from one lady, who was tearfully wringing her hands. Mary surmised her lost to be quite recent – and settled down to wait her turn. By the time her name was called she had perused most of the ancient magazines in the waiting room.

  The counsellor was a spry looking man in his mid to late forties. His hair was beginning to thin at the temples. Just a touch of grey was visible. His gaze took in her neat appearance.

  He’d not had time to read her history, apart from a cursory glance when he’d had a few moments to spare. It had been busy this morning, but the waiting room was almost empty now. Many of his clients had chosen early appointments as they had jobs to go to.

  The woman sitting before him was of retirement age, which meant he could grace her with a longer consultation. He’d wave the extra charge this one time in the name of good customer service.

  ‘Mrs Black, may I call you Mary? My name is Kerry O’Connor. Kerry to you. Tell me about yourself. What brings you here?’ The mark of a good counsellor is to listen and this he did with great patience.

  Surprisingly at ease with this stranger, she unburdened herself about things she hadn’t consciously thought about in a great while. Things previously only shared with Bill in their quieter moments together. O’Connor sat passively, only interrupting occasionally in order to clarify some point or encourage her to continue.

  Counsellor O’Connor was well pleased. Mary Black’s initial session had been revealing. No further appointments were necessary. A pity. She could have proved a rich source of income. He thought of her parting words as she’d left his office. ‘I won’t be needing you again. I only came because a friend was worried about me. I’m staying at her house tonight – she insisted. I’ll be able to tell her what a great help you’ve been. Knowing her, she’ll soon be sending more business your way!’

  Mary fully intended to visit her friend that evening. She’d had to cancel as she once again felt unwell. She was rather tired and looked forward to a quiet night in her own bed. Sarah would understand.

  She made her way up the stairs of her two story apartment, her feet dragging with every step. Nearing the top, she felt an urgent need to use the toilet, but couldn’t summon the energy to make the extra distance. Such a short distance, such an effort of will. It was all too much. She was exhausted!

  Mary’s bladder opened, releasing a warm stream of urine. The creek on the stairs became a flood and with it flowed her dammed up emotions.

  Counsellor ‘Kerry to you’ O‘Connor, with impeccable timing, chose this very moment to put his plan into action. He’d taken time after Mary’s session to read her file. Deciding the recently widowed woman was rich pickings, he worked on a plan to share some of her perceived wealth. He let himself carefully into Mary’s home. It was surprisingly easy.

  A quick scan revealed nothing of value in her small living room, apart from various models, signifying many interests. There was a large record collection which might be worth a second look. He could do that as he was leaving. He’d need some sort of bag to carry them. He should be able to find any number of them in the house and decided to try his luck upstairs.

  At first he did not see Mary sitting on the step. She was doing her best to be quiet, but could not stem the gush that issued forth. She held her breath and observed him until, reaching the halfway point, his foot slipped from under him and he landed in a heap at t
he bottom of the stairs.

  Mary could not contain herself. The more she laughed the more relief she felt. Her relief grew in volume and a yellow river rained down upon the would-be thief. The step on which she sat creaked in rhythm to her swaying. It was punctuated by hysterical laughter and sounded like a strange eccentric band.

  Based on Mary’s description police apprehended a bruised, foul smelling, soon to be ex-grief counsellor. Dishevelled and shamefaced, he was led away between two burly law enforcement officers.

  Following this encounter Mary’s demeanour underwent a change and she found herself smiling at the oddest moments. The local Police Citizens Youth Club may appreciate Bill’s many models and hobby paraphernalia, she decided. Bill had supported their cause for many years. The association had become more than just a voice on the telephone over time. It had meant a lot to Mary that some members had attended Bill’s funeral and offered ongoing support.

  The recent adventure sustained Mary. She thought of the times Bill had endured her nagging when things needed fixing about their home – glad now that he had not found time to mend the annoying creak on the stairs. In her imagination she could hear his booming chuckle reverberating from another realm.

  Thursday 28 February 2013

  Fly Bys

  Toni Paton

  Blackheath, NSW

  We make quite a noise as we buzz through the day,

  Surviving on refuse, on rubbish tossed away.

  We are not averse to fresh food, if, perchance we find,

  Food not covered, morsels left behind.

  Never welcome, rejected where ever we go,

  Disliked with a vengeance, this we know.

  Yet – we are here for a reason,

  Excelling in the summer season …

  When the sun is shining, the days are warm,

  ’Tis time to swoop, in abundance swarm.

  We are drawn by aromas repulsive or sweet –

  Places to multiply, substance to eat.

  No place is immune, to ‘we’ nuisance flies.

  ‘They are even here,’ everyone cries!

  To ensure our species shan’t become extinct,

  Survival relies on natural instinct.

  Depositing eggs, when threatened, in strife

  So they can survive, create a new life.

  Though we’re disliked, not welcome, we say

  Take note, believe us – we are here to stay!

  We’ll work on your rubbish, help manage the mess.

  We thrive on this planet – couldn’t settle for less.

  Thursday 28 February 2013 12 noon

  Encounter

  Michele Fermanis-Winward

  Leura, NSW

  Without a shock

  or sharp intake of breath

  the snake and I connect.

  Late afternoon

  when I presumed

  it safe to wander out.

  There by the door

  among the clogs and boots

  it eyed my little dog

  and she unsure

  what action best

  stood anchored to the ground.

  While I admired

  the beauty of its scales

  black as a polished shoe

  with muted red below

  so I could name its kind.

  I turned,

  scooped up my dog

  and praised her reticence.

  Tomorrow I will raise my boots

  upturned upon a bench.

  Thursday 28 February 2013 2 pm

  The Follies Of Formicidae

  Amber Johnson

  Annerley, QLD

  As the tiny soldiers make an epic journey, following the promised scent, their beady eyes fall upon the crystalline mountain that towers above them. Ebony plates cover their bodies in natural armour ask they trek onward. In a single file regiment, they scale vertical heights like they were born to climbing. No safety rope or harness secures them from the fall, only tough feet and the strength exceeding that of men keep them secured to the walls. Team work keeps them going along with the trust in the brave soul who dared venture first. Should the scout break formation and retreat, the company’s morale will diminish.

  Once they conquer tapering cliffs, the fumes that rise from the caldera become intoxicatingly potent. At the very rim of the volcano, the regiment halts. They no longer march in the orderly fashion that they followed throughout the climb. A caldron of emotions bubbles within them until anarchy breaks loose. Some pace nervously around the lip, watching others surpass them and plummet to their demise. It is the cautious ones that survive the longest. Once they have gained the courage to make a steady descent into the hazardous pit, the amber nectar beckons them closer. Only when their eyes fall upon the pool of molten gold do they realise that they are not alone.

  They were not the first to find this sacred site, and they won’t be the last.

  Legions of fallen kin litter the citrine surface with twisted bodies. Their shiny black corpses float along the lost sea like a fleet of sunken ships. A few survivors struggle to pull themselves from the depths, pleading for help from the new-comers. Some of the adventurers heed the warning cries and scramble in a hasty ascent towards the exit. They will not risk their lives for this madness. Others have travelled too far to return empty handed. They know that this will be their last journey should they fail.

  One dares perch above the sacred liquor. They pay no regard to the fact that the pool is tainted by the flesh of their kinsmen. The desire to quench their insatiable thirst is too strong. Feet cling to the slippery walls as his lips send ripples across the surface. Taking note of his method, others began to follow suit.

  Two opportunists fish their comrades from the aureolin sea, dragging them up the steep ascent. Whilst it may appear that they are respecting the dead this is not the case. In a barren land where each meal could be your last, you take no chances. Regrets are for the weak and protein is scarce.

  It is often not the journey there but the one home which is the hardest. I have watched countless victims fall prey to madness, consumed by the giddy thrill of the hallowed syrup. They never leave, forevermore lingering at the surface until the jitters kick in and they drown in sickly bliss.

  Those few successful enough to survive the quest return with protruding bellies, filled with sweet triumph. Their opaque skin reveals the amber fluid stored in their rumps in preparation for harsher days whilst they scurry away from the mass grave that rests upon my desk.

  Friday 1 March 2013

  Pancakes

  Ashwyn Kale

  Moonah, TAS

  My relationship with pancakes is as follows:

  My first job, real job, paying more than odd cents in the strawberry-juice-stained palm of a summerlabour pimpleton, was in a pancake restaurant. It was located in the centre of Melbourne in the flagship Bourke Street Mall. It was called ‘The Pancake Parlour’ – despite parlour being a known euphemism for illegal brothel – and its logo featured the image of a wavy-haired dryad saying ‘Lovely!’ as if she were ripped on magic mushrooms marinated in avgas.

  I started as a dishwasher and finished, maybe seven months later, as a dishwasher. In between I washed dishes at a furious pace and eventually became known as the Gun Dish-hand of Bourke Street. Not really.

  There were Chefs (chef is an English word meaning university dropout who can flip pancakes), Waitstaff (waitstaff is a Hindi word meaning unemployed foreigner) and Dishwashers (dishwasher is an Australian word meaning Untouchable). The system was such that Waitstaff would approach Customers pausing at Please Queue Here sign and guide them to slimy booths. Orders would be taken, written in triplicate – one for Chef, one for Taxman, one for God of Abysmal Lunches – and the Customer urged to purchase a drink, example: white coffee for listening, black coffee for talking. Drinks were good business. Cup for Regulars, mug for Punters Having Nervous Breakdown. Next, Waitstaff would clear dishes from vacant tables and return them to wash-up
area with such violent disdain that parfait glasses would break and slash hands of Dishwasher. This, according to a manager who had such a long moustache that it covered his name tag and I never found out who he was, was unfortunate.

  Meanwhile Chefs were busy cooking. This mysterious art involved swearing just loud enough for customers to wonder if Scriptures were being invoked, required the regular splatter of batter upon a hotplate and orders being called as they were fulfilled. As I have never in my life achieved any kind of substantial fulfillment, I reminisce about this time with some nostalgia. Shinta – short stack with mushrooms! Shinta was Waitstaff with pertness and Asian heritage and at the time I was very interested in same. Music to my ears, from what I could hear above the whirring of the dishwashing machine. Alfonso – cheese special! Mary – buckwheat with whipped butter! Shinta – tall stack twice! Shintaaaaaaaaaaa! I can see her still as she dumps another tray upon the stainless steel bench, shattering plates with her intensity. Perhaps it was contempt. I pull the handle again. Another load goes through. The machine whines. I discard another pair of useless latex gloves and bleed into a bin of half-eaten pineapples and irradiated marshmallows. The nameless, faceless shift manager comforts me. ‘It’s not your fault,’ he says. I never knew Shinta’s other name. She exists only in jeans, regulation waitress-fade, t-shirt, lovely yellow, stoned, blue pumps, squidging on the grease that had accumulated on the tiles come late-shift, and the fear of too many fulfilled orders cascading over the front counter.

  If only I had had Hindu god pedigree, or a glossier vinyl apron, I might have stood a chance.

  I just realised, while looking in the mirror at the hairdresser, that my left eye doesn’t open as widely as my right. I’ve noticed it in photos before but thought it might have been a squint, a funky angle, whatever. It’s not. Now that I think about it, it’s most likely the result of being kicked in same during a soccer game in 2002. No-one has ever commented on it. Does no one look into my eyes anymore? What have I done?

  Friday 1 March 2013 4 pm

  Spirit Of The Sea

  Hazel Girolamo

  Ulverstone, TAS

  Somewhere in Italy a statue of Juliet has a well rubbed left breast, presumably for luck in love. In America, Lincoln has his nose regularly shined by passersby for luck. Kissing the Blarney Stone supposedly gives one the gift of the gab. Could this be the saving grace for the much maligned Spirit of the Sea? A bit of the old urban myth and legend?

  Think of Nelson’s column and St Marks square with their pigeons, Copenhagen with Mary and the mermaid.

  Amid concerns about artistic integrity and cultural merit and vandalism and nudity confusing small children notwithstanding, we need to think outside the mould. After all he is being touted as our next tourism drawcard. Instead of worrying about vandalism, encourage locals and visitors alike to rub a certain part of his anatomy. If rubbed the right way, what miracles may befall us!

  The pulp mill waiting lists reduced, rebates for cyclists on maternity leave, old growth pensions decimated, proper pipeline parking, pay as you go politicians, backhanded baby boomer bonus and safer bowling for all.

  Despite the portholes of public opinion, art is relative depending on your point of view. Head on, it’s Lance with No Pants, side on, it’s Leer from a Pier, and when you’re completely past it, Unfrocked by the Dock.

  Proper spin doctoring of his assets will soon have his image engraved on all manner of cheap tacky imported souvenirs, t-shirts, car bumper stickers, rubbers and rulers and erasers.

  Slogans like:

  ‘I rubbed raw on the foreshore’

  ‘In the buff by the bluff’

  ‘Starkers by the water markers’

  ‘Is my bass strait?’

  Although a change of stance may be in order. Instead of looking like he has just gotten a nasty bite from a jack jumper or been run over by a rabid log truck driver, have him prising off the odd art critic or two currently clinging to his plinth. Have him brandishing, aloft, in triumph, a fox carcass as a customised advisory service as to what one actually looks like.

  Incorporate a siren at his feet, to beckon any reluctant visitors to our fair shores. It will also come in handy if Tassie ever decides to join the state footy league.

  In order to placate all those not in favour of the current artist further benefiting from the taxpayer’s purse, plans can be placed on a turntable to enable the critics to turn the other cheek.

  But if he has no cultural connection to our region, why would we want to give a foreign pagan refugee any street cred?

  Well, ancient Greece had their Colossus of Rhodes, so why not our very own Colossal Waste of Money?

  Have him and his trident astrident across the Mersey. Let the great spirits glide between his legs, and give the tourists something to really aim their camera zooms at.

  Get big businesses on board, they’re currently gunning with enthusiasm to expand our horizons. Split the cost of his erection with the public sector. There will be no room to harbour a grudge when his public and private parts are hoisted aloft for all to see. Have the Greens labouring on one side and art critics tugging on Merseyside, and the rift between rich and the shore will come together in a rare show of nudity unity for all to admire.

  If a certain part of his delicate anatomy were to be subtly altered to include a bell, he could really ring out the changes of tide and fortunes of man in these troubled times. Devonport residents could pause in their toasting of the new day and know that the spirit is really with them.

  Ask not for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee and me and our ‘Spirit of the Sea’.

  Saturday 2 March 2013

  Redemption Poem

  Carly-Jay Metcalfe

  Highgate Hill, QLD

  Refusing to cry for your past

  I usher you into a softer place.

  Falling like confetti out of happy hands,

  you stop, drop and claw at the ground

  like you’ve lost something precious.

  Dipping back into that wound,

  a blanket of goose bumps as big as horns

  cover my shinning bones

  but don’t worry – you’re young, still have your milk teeth.

  It won’t hurt as much for you.

  A procession of ants – slow to love the sun, yet fast enough to leave.

  That’s how I want you to be –

  to shoulder the silence; lean into it so you’re comfortable with my cause.

  You are:

  Nosebleeds and flowers

  The early bird that breaks its wing

  Offering more wisdom in silence

  You are more and you are less

  where you talk about everything, yet know nothing.

  The sheet falls about my neck like a cowl.

  Soon it will be festooned as I fight sleep, but for now

  it is gentle and limp

  like your mess mixed with your mirth, unfolding like wet origami.

  Old trash doesn’t glitter when it rains.

  After it’s rained and cops a spray of sun,

  that’s when you hear old trash bleating in the stinging heat.

  You tell me we’re home

  and I look for my feet in the water.

  You tell me the ocean will do the teaching,

  to slow us down to a tidal pace,

  but all I got was salty water and a rusty hook in my heel.

  Saturday 2 March 2013 1 pm

  Secrets

  Paul Humphreys

  Oxley, ACT

  Derek woke with a jolt. Memories of last night tumbled into his waking consciousness like a rockslide of mud and rocks.

  He decided to rest awhile in bed to recollect his thoughts, to sort the mud from the rocks from the avalanche of information pouring into his mind about last night. His Hong Kong hotel was well appointed and close to the venue for the Restaurant and Catering Conference.

  Mr Sammy Lee had been courteous, highly excited and a little push
y at his banquet table at last night’s reception after the Conference. The Mai Tai (54% alcohol) flowed freely and all those around the table were feeling merry and it appeared delightfully uninhibited.

  Derek was more interested in Grace Weng who was sitting to his left. She was a slight, young Asian lady with doe-like eyes and sensual, petulant lips that some Hollywood stars pay thousands for. Derek was immediately attracted to her and spent as much time as Sammy would allow engaging her in conversation.

  Sammy, who was on Derek’s right, was a fat ebullient Chinese man of small stature. He spoke English well and tried to dominate the table conversation. Each time he smiled, which was often, a gold filling in one of his front teeth gleamed. The filling matched the small gold stud in his left ear. Small beads of perspiration were a constant feature on his forehead and four or five small tendrils of a grey beard hung precariously from his lower chin. He was probably 60 plus years old and reasonably well off.

  ‘I give you vely special material for cooking,’ Sammy said in a loud voice at some point during the banquet looking directly at Derek.

  ‘CSS7I – good stuff, addictive – customers come back to your restaurant many times. If you like I supply much to you.’

  Derek owned a very successful restaurant in Double Bay, Sydney. Affluent patrons, big mark ups – he was doing well. At the time of Sammy’s offer he thought this new ingredient, whatever it was, might be an opportunity for future expansion. This morning, lying in bed, for him the rest of the night was a blur.

  He sat up on his elbows and realised that Grace had left the bed and the room; when, he would never know. He turned on his side in the bed and a small plastic bag of white powder pushed into his chest. It was stamped in black ink ‘CSS7I’. He turned the plastic pack over and over in his hand as he contemplated the possibilities.

  ‘God, if this works and it is addictive it could be a god send for the business,’ he muttered to himself.

  ‘What did CSS7I stand for? Was it important?’ He again was talking to the vacant room. He knew that he and Sammy had discussed it numerous times over the course of the evening. But at this time in the morning, after a heavy night, the meaning of the cipher was secreted in a residual alcoholic fog covering the border of his conscious and unconscious mind.

  ‘It will come to me!’ he blurted in a gruff frustrated voice the retort aimed at the opposite wall of the room.

  It was not until he was approaching Sydney on QF88 in business class that he started to become really agitated about the quandary that almost certainly would confront him at Quarantine clearance at the airport. A sealed, clear plastic bag of white powder would not be easily explained.

  A statement ‘It’s a cooking ingredient’ would not go down well he was sure.

  Could I be suspected of being a drug mule? This thought flashed through his mind and he thanked his lucky stars that he was not landing in Indonesia as memories of the Bali nine surfaced in a mental panic of the realisation of his desperate situation.

  ‘Where can I hide it?’ he asked himself, as his pulse and breathing quickened with nervous anticipation of what may lie ahead in Quarantine. The prospect of giving it up did not cross his mind. This could be a big money earner for his restaurant.

  Then he had remembered the meaning of the cipher CSS7I: Colonel Sander’s Secret 7 Ingredients. If it works for KFC it should work for him. He decided that the best way to proceed would be with the plastic bag of white powder in his business coat pocket. He planned to declare the samples of the rare Chinese teas that he was also carrying back from the conference.

  ‘The teas should divert their attention – I hope!’ he muttered to himself in desperation as the quandary and the reality of his situation loomed large in his mind and imagination.

  ‘Empty your pockets please.’ The quarantine officer’s request was polite but firm.

  ‘So sir, what is this?’ His demeanour was now changed and Derek had the impression that he had raised his body up a few inches and was now looking down on Derek’s red face as he turned the plastic pillow of white powder over to examine the cipher CSS7I.

  Derek knew, just as he stumbled over the words in his reply, that it was the wrong thing to say, but it came out any way.

  ‘It’s a secret.’

  Saturday 2 March 2013 6 pm

  Forbidden Fruit

  Bob Edgar

  Wentworth Falls, NSW

  Reunited after an absence of eight months, the very core of my being longs for you; nay ... lusts for you. Caressing the smoothness of your skin, feeling the slight imperfections as my fingertips absorb the warmth of you. You have been basking in the sun, and only now are you willing to offer your sweet flesh, for me to devour.

  I am flushed with expectation, as this is only my second time. Those with more experience have suggested I treat you as I would a good book.

  Allow myself to be enticed by the cover ... but don’t be deluded, as the body of work may disappoint. Imbed myself within your allure; commit!

  I will do all that for you ... and more.

  I remove my shirt and hold you close to my heart; peeling away your exterior, I decide to have you in the shower.

  First mango of the season ... awesome!

  Sunday 3 March 2013

  The Boy On The Tracks

  Alison Gibson

  Newtown, NSW

  The weak, winter sun is gentle on the back of his neck, reaching him through a hazy mist leftover from the early morning fog. The metal of the railway tracks is cold and damp on his cheek and somehow its metallic taste has crept into his mouth. The bars support his body in odd places: his forehead, his last ribs, the top of his thighs, his kneecaps. He feels mismatched, uneven. His stomach hangs down like a pot-belly. He pushes it out, trying to get it to touch the dirt between the bars but it doesn’t quite reach. He imagines the vibrations a train would make as it neared the small country station, out of use now for twelve years. The vibrations, he thinks, would be barely perceptible at first. Vague tremors like his blood is shivering in his veins. A few seconds and they would be too strong to be internal. His teeth would chatter, his ribs would bruise as they jolted against the metal. A wall of heavy, metal-on-metal noise, a rush of warm wind, scented with coal, his body flattened into long metal strips, the weight of the carriages rolling over him in a one-two, one-two limp. And then release, his lungs fill with air.

  He digs his toes into the dirt. The fresh, cold smell of earth surrounds him. How does smell have a temperature? He reaches his hands up and grasps the furthest bar he can reach. He holds it tightly, his fingers slipping slightly with the damp. Gravity, he thinks, is all that stops him swinging as though he were on a ladder. He squeezes his eyes shut. The world, with Australia hanging precariously at the bottom, and Tasmania just barely holding on underneath. And there is the train track, empty but for a small boy who swings back and forth, bumping into the earth. His stomach swoops as he pictures himself stuck on the bottom of the world, the only thing between him and space is an unseen force which pulls at him. He kicks his legs out and imagines them flying through the air before bumping back against the ground. If gravity were to soften suddenly he would still hold on. All those other people, walking around, would tumble into space, but not him. His hands grip the metal bar tighter.

  ‘Boy!’ Mr Johnston, station manager since the forties who now likes to sit on the empty platform, has spotted him. ‘That ain’t no playground, boy. Get yourself home!’ The voice cracks with age. The boy on the tracks rolls over, his bum hits the dirt and the metal digs into his back with a harsh bite. Mr Johnston is waving a walking stick at him as though at a rabbit, trying to shoo him away. The boy stands and starts slowly hopping along the tracks, balancing on the bars, avoiding the dirt. A few more words yelled from the station platform and he veers off to the side, leaving the empty metal tracks behind him.

  The noise from his house carries through the still air and reaches him as he makes his way down the hill. He stumbles over
his feet as the slope propels him forward. Baby Harry is crying, the boy knows his cheeks will be flushed red in fever. A sodden bib, brown and grey swirls showing its age, will be hung around his neck. His little chest will be fluttering with attempts to breathe and scream at the same time; his fists will be mashing the air, trying to make contact with anything solid enough to resist his despair. Sally will be trying to prod food into the baby’s mouth between cries, her own dress soiled from having food spat back at her. Their mother will be yelling instructions from the kitchen, her face red and sweating from kneading the dough for the day’s deliveries in front of the hot oven. By lunchtime they need to be heading out to deliver the bread to restaurants and cafes in the nearby towns, but right now, a sick baby and uncooperative dough are the only things on her mind.

  The boy circles around to the back of the house. He doesn’t want to go inside. He sits on the ground by the side of the house. The shade from the house engulfs this spot for most of the day. He leans against the thin white boards of the house, facing south into the great valley. The boy digs his fingers into the ground, it’s cold and clumpy and when he withdraws them his skin has turned a dark, dusty colour. He looks up, watching the mid-morning sun pull itself through the watery clouds. Everything will stay damp today. The boy’s stomach grumbles. His legs are cold, the thin cotton of his pants is pressed into the damp earth. He can hear his mother and his sister having an argument, their voices shrill with anger. He stands up, slapping his legs to shake off the clumps of dirt. He starts walking, trying to get some blood moving into his frozen limbs. He’ll circle back around to the tracks, he thinks, a few hundred metres north of the station to avoid Mr Johnston.

  The grass is long and his shoes are full of water, squelching with each step. He wraps his arms around his body as he walks. He pushes himself up and over a rise and looks down the two metre drop to the train tracks. A mixture of gravel and dirt lays either side of the metal. He normally walks further towards the station to where the rise peters out, and the gravel gives way to soft dirt. It is still morning though, and Mr. Johnston will be on the platform. He jumps, his legs spring down to cushion his landing but his foot catches the side of a rock and he sprawls to the side. His head knocks into the ground with a clunk, gravel digs into his elbow, cheek, thigh. The soft sun glints down at the boy’s sleeping form, his cold skin and bent legs.

  He is dreaming of the noise a train would make, hauling itself along the tracks towards him. The giant machine emerges from around the corner with a burst of steaming noise, crashing past him with a hot, wet breath of air. He climbs on top of the great screeching hulk as it roars by him, his arms pull at their sockets but he is quick. The metal burns against his hands, smoke billowing in his face, warm and sticky. He climbs up the steep wall until he is lying on his back on the top, the warm metal shudders beneath him. The rhythm of the train becomes the rhythm of his blood, the wind pushes his skin, his cheeks engulf his eyes. He stands slowly, then balances easily on top of the roaring train. He waves to the rolling hills, the valleys with dots of houses hidden in them, the boy who rides trains.

  ‘Hey. Hey.’ An insistent voice as his arm is shaken. A strange boy is squatting near his head, his hand poised, ready to continue shaking the thin shoulder in front of him. ‘Whatcha doin’?’ The boy lifts his head, trying to see who is asking but the sun is too strong in his eyes, the figure is nothing but a silhouette. He tries to form words but his lips don’t move very well. He reaches a hand up and touches the side of his head. There’s a large lump, the skin burns in pain when he presses it, thick liquid oozes against his fingers. ‘Shit, boy, you’re bleeding pretty bad.’ The strange boy sounds impressed. The wind whistles around them, the morning mist has been blown away but the sun has no warmth in it. The strange boy stands up and looks down the tracks. ‘Where does this go, then?’ The boy on the ground pulls himself to a sitting position, then, slowly, leaning heavily against the rise off which he jumped, he stands. Nausea rises and he turns, retching against the stones. ‘You’re hurt pretty bad, aren’t you?’ The strange boy’s voice is a soft statement. The boy presses a hand to his head and nods slowly. They are the same height, looking eye-to-eye. The boy shields his eyes from the sunlight. He could be looking into a mirror. Their hair is the same pale blonde, their faces are narrow, their eyes the same dark brown. The strange boy, though, has longer, danker hair; his skin has seen more sun and his body is slighter, though he looks strong. The boys stare at each other, eyes narrowed in confusion.

  The strange boy turns and starts making his way down the tracks, his interest waning. The boy coughs to find his voice. ‘Where are you going?’ he calls out.

  The strange boy half-turns but doesn’t stop walking. ‘To the horizon and beyond!’ He flings his arms out wide.

  Warmth, the boy thinks vaguely, would be over the horizon. ‘Wait!’ he shouts.

  The strange boy pauses uncertainly. The sun glints up at them off the metal at their feet. The boy catches up and they start walking side-by-side. The strange boy is walking quickly, half-skipping over the tracks. The boy stumbles over the rows of metal, his steps constantly out of sync with the space between the bars. ‘C’mon, we haven’t got all day.’ The strange boy is impatient.

  The boy stumbles, his hands catch him before he hits the ground, and when he gets up again the strange boy is several metres in front of him. The boy has a stitch in his side, his head feels like it’s full of thick fluid, the sun is too bright. ‘Wait,’ he coughs, bending over and wrapping his arms around his body. In the distance he can see where their train track meets the main line. The strange boy is twenty metres away and going faster. ‘Wait!’ the boy calls again, his voice echoing back at him from the surrounding hills. In the distance he hears the loud honk of an approaching train, the air around him starts vibrating in preparation. The strange boy has started running towards the main line. The boy sinks to his knees, yelping in pain as his kneecap strikes the edge of a metal bar. He tries to crawl over the bars, his stomach filled with the need to get to the strange boy, the boy who is going somewhere. They will ride trains throughout the world and leave the cold of this place behind.

  The strange boy has stopped at the point where the new and old train lines meet. He is standing, hands on his thin hips, staring intently to where the train has appeared. Black and maroon and a thick column of smoke is curling its way around the bend. The strange boy glances over his shoulder. He raises a hand and cups his mouth, creating a funnel through which to yell. ‘C’mon!’

  The boy manages to get to his feet and stumbles a few steps forward before collapsing to his knees again. ‘Wait!’ The train is too fast, the noise is ricocheting around his head. He closes his eyes, trying to block it out. The whistle of the train is loud and long. ‘Too slow!’ The voice is barely perceptible over the rush of wind generated by the train. He opens his eyes. The strange boy has disappeared. The boy’s eyes follow the train, searching. A small black figure is moving its way along the side, spider-like in his grip of the steep metal walls. The figure pauses and one long thin arm rotates in a giant wave, then he is gone, swallowed by the black smudge of an open compartment door. The boy on the track sinks further into the ground. His stomach aches in disappointment. His nausea comes back to him in a wave, and he retches between the bars. He closes his eyes, sinking further into the ground.

  He wakes with the taste of dirt and metal in his mouth. The sun is in his eyes, he doesn’t know how long he has been asleep. He gets unsteadily to his feet and starts to run, his legs wobbling, towards his home. His chest is heavy with a disappointment he finds hard to place.

  As the house comes in to view he sees Sally leaning against the front post of the verandah, her arms crossed. She calls out to him when she sees him approaching. ‘Where the hell have you been? You’re in so much –’ She stops mid-sentence, her mouth hanging open in surprise. ‘What happened?’ Her voice is quiet in reverence for the blood which has dried down the side of his fa
ce. She opens her arms wide as he comes up the steps, and pulls him close to her. ‘Oh Jim.’ She turns his face to the side so she can study the injury. ‘Come inside.’ With her arms still tightly around him she leads him into the kitchen. ‘Mum! Jimmy’s hurt!’ she yells, and Jim shudders at the noise in his ear.

  Their mother appears, her face white in panic, her arms already outstretched towards him. ‘Jimmy, Jimmy, what’s happened?’ She pulls him away from Sally and holds him close to her aproned chest.

  ‘I fell,’ he mumbles against the mound of soft fabric in his face.

  She leads him in to the bathroom and sits him on the edge of the bathtub. Carefully she mops his face with warm water, trickles of it run down his neck and under his shirt. ‘That’s it, that’s it. It’ll be over soon.’ She mumbles under her breath as he winces at the disinfectant she applies. Sally is standing at the door, baby Harry on her hip. Both of them are staring at the clean-up operation in front of them, mouths slightly open in concentration. It only takes a few minutes, though his head is still tender where the large lump has formed. ‘You go sit on the couch now, Sally will bring you some tea and toast.’ Their mother glances over her shoulder at Sally, as though daring her to make a fuss, but Sally merely nods and disappears back to the kitchen. Jim is led to the soft brown couch which sits in the afternoon sun. The fabric is warm and slightly scratchy to touch. A blanket is tucked around him. A large mug of milky tea and a plate piled high with toast appears. His mother and Sally stand over him, their faces still furrowed with worry. He grins at them and shoves a large piece of toast in his mouth. His mother smiles, and Sally moans in disgust. The warmth is finding its way through to his skin, his bones. Riding trains, he thinks, would be a pretty lonely adventure.

  Monday 4 March 2013

  Extract From Diary Of A Mephisto

  Mark Govier

  Warradale, SA

  You opened your mind and the cat ran out/

  Never to return/ Now ghosts

  And monsters fill your house

  Your head in the mirror/

  The rest lies on a stained mattress

  In a distant land/ Rented by the hour

  The forest within/ The same in all directions/

  Paths without end/ But no way of knowing

  If there is a centre

  Dope fiend getting wasted/ The latest poisons/

  High as a vulture circling his own

  Dying body/ Savouring every crumb

  Free as a poet/ I say what I want/

  Within the confines of the law

  Who listens? Who cares?

  The door is open, but who wants to leave?

  Endlessly patched up to watch television

  In nursing homes, without end

  Shaking like a leaf in the chemical winds/

  Hands and mind tremble/ Nervous agony

  Another nail in the coffin?

  Suitably nullified/ The Great Boredom/

  Becomes bearable/ All ignominious thoughts

  They start to fade

  Peace bomb, blowing my head out/

  A silent rain, the unseen breeze

  An elixir called spring/ The scent of oblivion

  Haze so thick you could cut it/

  Walls, ceilings, inner and outer

  And the block could last for days

  Man having a fit/ Frothing, shaking/

  Who is he? Where is he?

  A film I saw two days ago

  The end of another story?

  A red river/ Brains shot out, mince like

  Birds feeding in suburban pavements, again

  Tuesday 5 March 2013

  Barbra Streisand Would Love This!

  Ariette Singer

  Canberra, ACT

  Text on LIBERTY EGGS packaging:

  Barn laid. These eggs come from hens that are:

  * Free from hunger and thirst

  * Free from pain and injury

  * Free from fear and distress

  * Free from discomfort