~~~
‘That’s it,’ said the Time Team photographer. ‘Yes, a bit closer and turn it slightly.’
‘What a lucky find!’ declared the archaeologist, hardly unable to control his excitement. ‘We were looking here in the right place all along.’
‘Yes,’ agreed the historian. ‘This is late Anglo Saxon. Not the richest of jewellery, but practical in the typical Anglo Saxon way.’
‘This is where the manor house would have been,’ replied the archaeologist, ‘and this place has been undisturbed for centuries. We’ll put our first trench in here – and we were going to dig over there behind Lion Hill – what a mistake that would have been! Here’s where we’ll find the artefacts, the treasures we thought were elsewhere.’ He waved his hands. ‘Okay, boys, bring the machinery over. We can’t waste any more time digging in the wrong place. The manor house is not over there; it’ll be here.’
With renewed enthusiasm the Time Team members gathered their spades, trowels and brushes and stepped aside for the diggers.
Sunday 17 March 2013
She Stole My Pen
Thomas Gibbs
Sydney, NSW
I couldn’t believe it. I lent my pen to April, and she didn’t give it back. I was very slow to realise. The bell was ringing, and I hadn’t forgot about my pen, but I was stuck on the last question. My eyes were sinking into the page of my dilapidated maths textbook. My field of vision was blurred, as if I had stared at the sun too long. They hurt, and to close them made them feel heavy. When I closed them hard, I could feel a dense liquid draining into the fat tissue in my eye orbit.
‘Miss? I’m having trouble with this last question ...’
The teacher walked to the back of the classroom. Her manufactured gait indicated a lack of enthusiasm. It was supposed to be lunchtime, for students and teachers. But I had been staring at this maths problem for 20 minutes. I wasn’t about to get up and leave, without an explanation. I didn’t care much for this teacher. Maybe, that was because I didn’t care much for mathematics. She was boring. This would have been okay with me, if she could teach. But, she always seemed to be more interested in showing off her repertoire of theorem derivations, and calibrating students’ minds for the purpose of turning simple problems into more complex ones. This always left a bad taste in my mouth. It’s not necessary, I thought. Why not just teach us the easiest methods? It’s always the same answer. Isn’t it the answers we’re looking for?
‘What question would you like me to help you with?’
‘This one.’ I pointed at the last problem on the bottom of the page.
Question 14: Sketch the function y = 1/x.
‘Oh. Okay ... let me ask you something. Do you know what an asymptote is?’
‘No,’ I replied, unsure why she was answering my question with another question.
It’s so frustrating when people do that. She is supposed to know the answers. She is the teacher, not me.
‘I’m not sure,’ I said, vaguely, shielding my impatience.
‘Imagine a curve that comes closer and closer to a line without actually touching it.’
‘Okay.’ My eyes wandered off, to affirm that my mind was indeed imagining.
‘Can you picture it?’
‘Sort of ...’
‘Draw what you see.’
I took pen to paper. This was my second choice pen. A cheap biro. My Parker Pen, given to me by my grandmother, had been stolen in front of my own eyes. This pen could be refilled with ink, when it became empty. A never ending pen. The pen I had in my hand could not be refilled. Once it was empty, it was rubbish. It had no value in the long term. The tip of my pen was resting against the paper of my maths grid book. I had an x-axis and y-axis drawn. I tried to think in logical steps. It is a curve, I said to myself. And, it gets closer and closer to the x-axis without actually touching it. I drew a curve starting near the y-axis, declining steeply at first, and then approaching the x-axis. As soon as I committed pen to paper, I realised that the curve must past through y=1 and x=1, at the same time. This satisfies the equation. I adjusted my curve and presented it to the teacher.
‘Is it something like this?’ I said, pretty certain I had the correct answer.
She had turned away, twiddling her thumbs like she was busting to demonstrate her alternative solution.
‘Yes, that’s exactly right. I need to go to a meeting now. Can you close the door on your way out?’
‘Sure.’
I packed up my schoolbag and headed out. As the sickly green wooden door slammed behind me, an anger swelled inside. I remembered that my pen had been stolen. I had to see the principal. For any other matter, it would have been appropriate to confront the teacher on duty. But, this wasn’t just any pen. This was my Parker Pen. My grandmother had given it to me.
I walked into the administration office. It was customary to check whether the principal was available, or to make an appointment in advance. This was too urgent. I didn’t even want to imagine what April must have been doing with my pen. I knocked on the door. It was slightly open. A deep voice muttered: ‘Come in.’ It sounded like his head was buried in a pile of papers. I walked inside. He put his reading material down and lowered his head.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘Somebody stole my pen.’
I felt stupid. I should have mentioned that it was a Parker Pen, for dramatic effect, I thought. The principal looked concerned. Perhaps, he was mirroring the concern that was radiating from my face, or sensed I had omitted a vital detail.
‘Do you know who stole it?’
‘April,’ I replied, as if I was taking a lie detector test.
‘Okay. Can I get you to send April to me next period?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, satisfied, as he wrote something down on a green slip of paper.
‘Hopefully, we can settle this and you can get your pen back.’
He handed me the green slip of paper. It had torn edges and the school emblem was watermarked in the background. In the middle of the slip of paper I could read, ‘April to see me ASAP – Room 1 – Admin.’ His signature was also scribbled underneath. Finally, I thought. All I had to do was to show this to my teacher next class, and I would get my pen back. Like a soldier who had seen too much, I sat outside the admin office, eating my rations, waiting for the bell to ring.
The bell sounded. My heart skipped a beat as I paced towards the classroom. It was Modern History. I liked history. It made much more sense to me than maths. History was useful, I thought. We learn things from the past. We were studying the Cold War. I found it so interesting to learn about the all the personalities, and to study the events that occurred. The different periods of the Cold War were fascinating. For instance, the intensity of the Cuban Missile Crisis, the period of detente, the reawakening of the cold war, and the eventual economic reform under Gorbachev. This reform was called Perestroika. It’s literal meaning meant ‘restructuring’. I would always get full marks on my history essays. It wasn’t that I had superior knowledge of the details of the past. I had a firm grasp on the themes that connected the past, to the present time. I knew that something big in history, like the Cold War, leaves a mark. A mark that doesn’t diminish completely. Like memories. Energy doesn’t disappear, it just transforms into something else. This is why I didn’t get asymptotes. They don’t end. But, they should. It’s just maths.
I handed the slip of paper to the teacher, as soon as I entered the classroom. April hadn’t arrived. As I sat down and stared at the blackboard, I closed my eyes for a little while, and tried to picture the graph I had drawn. If every one unit across, the distance between the x-axis and the curve halves, where does it end? The teacher said the answer was infinity, but she stopped short of explaining what this meant. She said it continued forever. But forever is the same as infinity. That’s not explaining it. That’s just re-wording it. A bad taste entered my mouth again.
April walked into the door. The teacher
handed her the slip of paper. I couldn’t help but smirk, as her eyes filled with concern, and she reversed out the door. It was last period. I was really hoping that I would get my pen back before it was time to go home. I wasn’t listening to the teacher. His low drone didn’t register. I needed my Parker Pen. I felt as if I had reached my limit. Without my pen, I couldn’t concentrate. I couldn’t work with any confidence. With my Parker Pen, there seemed to be no limit. April probably knew this already. I stressed my brain again. How can a line get closer and closer to another line over time, and not touch it? What can be halved, with the answer being zero? The teacher said that for all purposes, it was safe to assume, after a certain period, that both lines touched. But, I didn’t have any purpose, other than to understand the basics. How can we assume the line continues on towards infinity, if we can’t visualise it? If you can’t think it, it’s just maths, I thought. It’s useless.
April returned and walked towards me. The pen was in her hand, and her eyes were defeated. I almost felt sorry for her. She looked depressed. Her head was hanging limp off her neck, like a stork of old celery. She placed the pen carefully on my table, and took her seat, on the other side of the room. I was about to say thank you, but I held back. I don’t need to thank her, I thought. She stole my pen. I picked up my pen. It was warm. It didn’t look damaged, and it still gripped well. The anger inside me was quenched. I held the pen to my mouth, thinking, as the teacher walked outside the classroom. Everybody started talking. I sat there in silence. I had just endured my own Cuban Missile Crisis. It was a close call. From now on I would have to be more careful, and more strategic. The day was nearly over. The bell was just about to ring. I pictured myself, walking along the curve of an asymptote. The line hadn’t quite touched. There was a long way to go. It left a bad taste in my mouth.
Monday 18 March 2013
Mask
Vita Monica
Southbank, VIC
Who is the girl, made so wonderful?
Beauty surrounds her like universe
Lips with sweets, eyes with pleasure
The world recognises her as the woman of excellence
Fame and prestige belong to her
Who is she that her mien does not show her?
In the midst of young, she sees no more
The natural splendour, a high esteem
Her glittering world
Close-meshed the glory
A heavenly bride should not be hidden
An honoured request from the king
‘The fairness of the queen is herself’
Here she is
The one longed for has finally come
A lady shines as bright as sun, moonless expression
Purity against pleasure, enlightened heart
Eyes with lights, beauty of lightning
Slowly she ambles, her palm passing the light
Softly
An uncovered glory exceeds beauty
The fairness of the queen is herself
Monday 18 March 2013 4 pm
Life Choices
Jadei Brown
Edgeworth, NSW
Out with the old
In with the new
How do we make this true?
So many thoughts
And habits
Connected to the old
Yet so many dreams
And hopes
Longing to be the new
Going from one to the next
Seems so hard
It’s the unknown path
That is so scary
The new seems so clean
The old is getting weary
But it’s where I’m safe
Safety or happiness
Oh what will we choose?
Out with the old
In with the new
It’s all up to you.
Tuesday 19 March 2013
Red
Claudia Wood
Glenfield, NSW
It was dark, misty, still. The trees gave shadows and the wind brushed leaves. A chill rippled through the air. She walked. Weaving around the shadows on the moonlit path. A full moon. It shone, dimly. She kept walking, her red hood lightly flailing against her back. Her face, fresh with innocence and beauty.
He crept. Crept through the shadows, away from the light. Hungry. Saliva forming as the smell of her skin and hair wafted through the breeze. Growing near and disappearing as she followed the light. Claws, gripping the bark; hair standing on end. Delight. Hunger.
He emerged. She smiled. Red dress and red lips. Provocative yet untouched. They spoke. She was coy, but naïve. She refused him. He smiled, accepting her answer. He already knew where she was going. She continued. He faded into the shadows. She was unsuspecting. He was cunning. He knew a quicker path.
Still creeping, he reached the dull cottage. Candles flickered in the windows, lighting his dark, hairy figure. Yellow teeth and yellow eyes. The door creaked. His large frame shadowed the old woman. He was excited by her fear. Her eyes were wide. Her grey hands froze. No scream. Silence. He gripped her neck. He crushed it and sliced her open. Blood drained from her haggard body. Her head barely attached, eyes glassy and open. Blood speckled her cheeks and dripped from her mouth. A pool of red surrounded her on the floor.
Too easy. No struggle. No fight left in her. He tried to provoke her. A cry at least. He slashed her legs and her stomach. No attraction. She was old. She was dead. He pushed her under the curtain and sucked up her blood. Unsatisfied.
He waited. He could smell her before her saw her. Fresh, flowery, pure. He peered through the foggy window. Her red dress was appearing through the mist and trees. Saliva dripped from his blood stained jaw. He let out a low growl. He crept upstairs and waited. Impatient.
She appeared in the doorway. Stunned. Red dress and red hood. Her basket dropped. He lunged. Her big brown eyes filled with fear. His greasy, blood drenched hair touched her skin. He held her in his grip, claws penetrating her. He urged her to make a sound. She stayed silent. She was young and fresh. He enjoyed it. His razor sharp claws ripped into her legs. She screamed. He couldn’t resist anymore. He tore her throat and pulled her flesh from the bone as she flailed, then stopped. Dead. Her meat was tender. Her left her head. Red lips and red blood.
Wednesday 20 March 2013
Only
Lynette Arden
Norwood, SA
People mainly seem to be interested in one’s interactions with other people and I have none of those. My voice is rarely raised except when imploring the few clouds that drift over this god-forsaken place to squeeze out a drop or two of rain, or in imprecation at the wind when it whips up a day of red dust from the western desert.
Sometimes I fancy my vocal chords may wither away from lack of use. In the long winter evenings, I call the kelpie and we both crouch in front of the small pile of kindling in the hearth. He watches me and pants, as the kindling flickers into flame and licks around one of the logs I have chopped up and hoarded against the bitterness of the season. Wood of any size is scarce in this place of hard angled rocks, but a moderate walk will take me to a cleft in the hills where mallee scrub flourishes along a dried creek bed.
I set out the beacon then, even after all this time, in the odd hope that someone will return.
Usually I concentrate on what lies around me. In the shed, I have erected shelves to hold the myriad specimens I have collected over the years. Most of them go only under names I have invented. A drawing and a full description are carefully filed with each specimen. Of what use they may eventually be I don’t know.
They left provisions that could suffice for a hundred years. ‘You can have all of ours,’ they said, as they left. There are days I curse them for their consideration.
Through the split carved in the shingles that serves as a window, I can see movement along the horizon. What we once called a ‘murder of crows’ flaps furiously up from the scrub just where the rough track disappears from view. The kelp
ie pricks his ears and I pick up my shotgun.
lightning
trees on the far ridge
send smoke signals
Thursday 21 March 2013
Arrive Singing At Les Folies Bergère
Fayroze Lutta
Randwick, NSW
Chère Kellie La Merveille,
I stopped singing the dirty Delta blues. I hope that I have found some resolution between the sheets. I am tired of chasing dreams. I want to put a spell on him because he is mine, didn’t Nina once soulfully moan all that jazz? He is mine for now. I am his always. I stopped stabbing the keys, just a gentle tap, a léger tinkle.
The lady on your postcard holds a letter close to her heart, the caption reads, ‘La Lettre Brûlée. Elle est brûlée. Ah c’était fou!’ Translated it says, ‘The Burnt Letter.’ She is burned. Oh it’s madness! I hope you have not burnt all my raving mad postcards.
I can hear the joyous laughter, cackling and youthful uplifting singing of girls leaving Les Folies Bergère théâtre.
This man of mine seems to be always singing Gainsbourg and his song and tune he hums is, ‘Je suis venu te dire que je m’en vais’ (I just came to tell you that I am leaving). Alone I sing like Gainsbourg and Boris Vain’s song, ‘Je Bois,’ (I Drink). Like the blithering-blind-drunk young man from the night before. It took him a half hour to navigate my street hardly 500 metres in length. In his drunken stupor people turned on their lights from all floors of these eight storey Haussmannien apartment buildings. Asking him to be quiet, as if that could contain him, I guess it was nearing midnight. I felt sorry for his girl, who could not quieten him or hasten him. I laughed to myself as he sang in his slurred French vocal stylings.
Perhaps I am singing more the likes of darling Ella (Fitzgerald), her and me together, ‘Sippin’ Black Coffee’. Love’s hand me down brew, and from one o’clock to four all we do is talk to the shadows then pour. Never knowing a Sunday in this weekday room.
Without your voice, I suppose nothing is possible, and you are bound nowhere. The lesson from the imbibed gentleman from the night before and his noted appearance on my street, late night on Rue de la Boule Rouge, the only sound to make is to arrive singing.
We must all sing if just for ourselves, to ourselves as we all hold a song in our heart of hearts. Let it be it the low down blues or a hypnotic schizoid scatting number to hopefully sing the world back into vivid being. A choir of solemn songs creating a soundscape that gives the universe a soul that has a rhythm, that beats like an animal skin drum in line with our own heartbeat.
This city can show itself to be beautiful in the sun but oh what the sunlight masks. However I am just a bleeding-open-wound-paper-cut in this postcard town, I rang this city it answered the telephone and called me here. Although it can be mean spirited and however how cruel it is, I am still keen.
I draw open the curtains leaving them wide apart on the fifth floor so all of the ninth arrondissement can see that I have company tonight; so all of Opéra and the people of Les Grandes Boulevards know that I do not sleep alone tonight.
Love,
Fayroze.
Friday 22 March 2013
Unholy Futility
James Craib
Wentworth Falls, NSW
Between the heartache and the healing,
Why not partake of tea Darjeeling?
Rest awhile upon the terrace, gather strength.
So I sat, admired the roses,
Whilst the scent assailed my nose,
And I wondered: where on Earth my life has went?
Between inheritance and harassment,
(And much to my embarrassment!)
There is much unfinished business left to transact.
Even roses demand maintenance,
But alas I lack the patience,
I’m still looking for opportunities to circumvent ...
Between the Arctic and Antarctic,
There’s much that’s so cathartic.
The fragility of life just weighs me down.
So now my children have flown the coop,
And as my body begins to droop,
In all humility: there’s a futility we carry around.
Between the fatuous and florid ...
Politicians who seem quite horrid.
There’s precious little who seem worthy or inspired.
They all just drone on endlessly,
About the damned economy,
And dig another enormous hole into the ground.
Between recruitment and retirement,
When your dear career was everything meant ...
To sustain you, entertain you: the cornerstone of your existence.
With hindsight now ... it becomes apparent,
Those paths we trod were quite abhorrent,
We work to live or live to work: it’s all perplexity.
There’s endless heartache and minor healing,
(Gee darling I’ll have another Darjeeling!)
Just live in the moment and forget about the rest.
Even the Pope has chucked the towel in,
And now begins the pontifical howling,
Whilst agnostics, ever caustic, voice their disdain with dexterity.
Between the black smoke and the white smoke,
Will the Cardinals pick a real bloke?
There’ll be lots of argy bargy; dare we say pell-mell?
First we had an Aussie saint,
Struth, it’s enough to make you faint!
It would put you off your tea – Georgie Porgie at the unholy see.
James says that this is a bit of a strange rage about heartache, healing and life in general, mixed in with an observation laced with bits of black humour about the changing of the guard at the Holy See.
Saturday 23 March 2013
Camping Trip
Joanna Rain
Nelson Bay, NSW
Pull out the map
A five cent piece,
Chuck down the coin randomly,
This time next week
This is the place we will be –
Somewhere between Hawks Nest,
Coffs Coast and ... TAREE!
TAREE? WHAT THE HELL
Never heard of it, CRIKEY!
Pull out the old gear excitedly,
We’ve got the tent, chairs and fishing gear.
We’ve got the camp shovel to dig our bog,
Dear lord, don’t forget the grog!
Our budget holiday is supposed to save us dough,
Already our wallets are running low.
But we have petrol in the tank and in the jerry,
The stress kicks in,
‘Let’s go before we get off track’
With this many adventures under my belt,
You’d think by now I’d have the knack.
We hit the road with the GPS,
Hubby packed the car
So the car’s a mess!
20 kilometres into the trip,
The GPS has directed us into a ditch!
‘STOP THE CAR, GET THE MAP’
We’ve gotta plan our next attack.
The trusty five cent piece gets the toss,
This time old Queenie won’t get us lost!
‘Right, that’s it, we’re going south,
Down the coast, to the river’s mouth.’
We swap drivers at half past five –
With hubby’s fatigue it’s amazing that we’re still alive!
The petrol tank is getting low,
I hope we find the campsite before my panic grows!
We’re getting cranky, we’re getting stressed,
We’re tired and we’re uninspired,
Just then we see the glow of campfires.
‘HOORAY’ we yell enthusiastically,
Jump out of the car and kiss the ground ecstatically.
Hubby downs a six pack in record speed,
Whilst I wrangle by torchlight with the tent,
‘Where the hell are the pegs?’ I yell
He’s darted off into the shrubbery,
‘Hold your horses, I’ve got to pee.’
At last the tent is up,
We’ve made the beds.
The fire is lit,
Beer in one hand,
Cards in the other,
We play our fave game
‘Shithead’
And drift to sleep in our chairs.
Awake at 4.30 am
To the sound of kookaburras cackling.
Covered from head to toe in morning dew,
From last night’s indulgences, a little spew.
Hubby does the coffee round –
Local ’roos are on their morning bound.
We whittle the day away peacefully,
With games of cricket and cups of tea,
Immerse ourselves in nature blissfully –
‘Ah’ we sigh contently
This feels like home –
This is the way it should be.
Saturday 23 March 2013 4 pm
Vita Brevis
Amber Johnson
Annerley, QLD
Some would consider it masochistic to live in the mountainous caldera at our age, but my roots run too deep to leave. This town is the keystone of my history and where I have lived all of my life. Five generations of Wilson descent have resided here. Even bones that ache with age won’t discourage me from living out the rest of my years in this climate.
From the lounge room window, I saw the first frosts reap the May leaves from their boughs. It was hard to imagine that only two months prior the yard flourished with orchids and roses. At that time of year, it resembled a barren wasteland more so than a garden. Winter arrived early that year and it was as merciless as ever.
We were well prepared for the battle against Jack Frost. Slippers, coats, and woven rugs were our armour and our defences were fortified by the fire that crackled in the centre of the room. With a rug over his lap and a mug in his hand, my husband was quite content in his favourite leather chair.
‘Is the fire hot enough?’ I asked him.
‘Yes, dear,’ he replied.
‘I just noticed you shiver.’
‘I’m fine,’ he said as he sipped the mug of Ovaltine.
As I lifted my mug to my lips, I glanced over to him. Even though his hair had faded from ebony to ivory, he was still a handsome man. His eyes were a stunning cornflower blue, akin to the sapphire on my finger. Perhaps the likeness of his irises explains my fondness of the ring. When he spotted my gaze, he shot me one of his cheeky grins.
‘What’s on your mind?’ he asked.
‘My mind is just straying into memories,’ I said. ‘It’s not important.’
‘Perhaps we should make the bed,’ he suggested. As he lifted from his chair, his eyes appeared unfocused.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.
‘I need to sit down.’
‘That’s fine, Jack. I’ll go make the bed,’ I said as I slipped past his chair and drifted into the bedroom.
When I entered the room, I glanced at the portrait above the bed frame and chuckled. The lord, Jesus Christ, wore the same expression that he always did. His humble gaze reminded me of a father reminding me to tidy my room. The quilt at the foot of the bed was twisted and tossed aside carelessly from a rough night’s sleep.
‘I better change the bedding,’ I said to myself. ‘This one is too light for winter.’
As I began to fold the summer blanket and return it to the wardrobe, I heard a cacophonous gargle through clogged pipes.
‘Jack, did you hear that sound?’ I asked. ‘I think we have a problem with the plumbing.’ The gargling was cut short by a choking splutter.
‘Jack!’ I shouted and rushed to the lounge room. There I found him in a heap on the floor, clutching at his chest. His twisted form jerked in agony on the Peruvian rug. Every muscle in his face contorted in a tortured grimace as froth bubbled in the corner of his lips. I grabbed the phone from the table and dialled triple zero. An operator prompted me.
‘Ambulance,’ I said as knelt by his side.
‘Please hold,’ she said. A recording of Beethoven’s fifth symphony played through the speaker. The track was swiftly cut short but the melody remained in my mind.
‘Hello, what’s your emergency?’
‘I think my husband is suffering a heart attack.’
‘Is he still breathing?’
‘No, he’s not.’
‘Do you have neighbours?’
‘Yes.’
‘I want you to stay on the line but go next door and ask for help.’
Tears streamed down my cheeks as I tried to soothe Jack’s spasmodic jerks. The horrific brutality of his anguish shook me to the depths of my soul. I didn’t want to leave him, but I did as I was told. My slippers slapped against the concrete as I ran as fast as my legs would carry.
‘Bethany!’ I yelled as I reached next door’s porch. A startled woman answered the door.
‘Anna, what’s wrong.’
‘It’s Jack! Help me!’
‘George! Come quickly. Anna says there is something wrong with Jack.’ A man raced through the door when he glanced at my watery eyes. Without further explanation, I rushed back to my home with George at my heels.
I swept my arm towards the lounge room and watched George kneel beside my husband. His hands flew to Jack’s chest, rhythmically compressing his rib cage.
‘I think I can get a pulse,’ he said. My heart fluttered with trepidation and a twinge of hope. Maybe he’ll be okay. This might just be a bad scare. The sound of approaching sirens pierced the air, announcing a fleet of white and red vehicles that pulled into my drive way. Paramedics unloaded stretchers and medical gear and shuffled me aside.
I watched anxiously as they examined the body. Some took notes on their clip boards whilst others checked for vitals. Meaningful looks were exchanged.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked as they began to pack away their gear. Most of them left without a word, like poltergeists moving on. I needed to know what they thought. One of the emergency response crew glanced at me and returned a grim look.
‘Things are not looking good, Mrs Wilson,’ he said. My heart sunk within my chest as I swallowed my prayers. He was gone. I slunk into a chair, haunted by Beethoven’s crescendo. Numbness ebbed over my skin as I tried to process what they said. I don’t understand. How did this happen? George’s fingers slipped around Jack’s wrist. He shook his head. It still didn’t feel right. This can’t be real. I don’t know what to do. Anxiety gnawed at my nerves as my eyes prickled with tears. Bethany placed her hand on my shoulder. It felt alien rather than comforting. Jack’s body was the elephant in a room that seemed to grow smaller by the minute. His azure irises iced over like the frost that laced the windows.
‘Come with me,’ Bethany said sympathetically. ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea.’ I focused all of my energy in placing one foot in front of the other. Lift then drop. Left then right. Never in my whole life had this task been so hard. There was just too much weighing me down. I couldn’t think straight but I just needed to try.
We sat in silence as we each tried to process the grief in our own way. Every now and then she would try to give me words of comfort, but nothing she said eased the pain. Death ripped my husband from my arms and left me as a helpless spectator. We still had plans. It wasn’t fair.
‘Mrs Wilson?’
‘Yes?’ I asked, and glanced up at the two men who stood in the walkway. The gleam of the handcuffs clipped to their belts caught my eye.
‘My name is Constable Laurence and this is my partner Constable Jones. We need to ask you some questions,’ the first officer said. His platinum blonde hair was tucked neatly under his cap and he wore a blank expression.
‘What kind of questions?’ I asked.
‘We need to know exactly what happened here and what role you had in your husband’s death,’ he explained b
luntly. His words were like a vice on my heart.
‘Excuse me?’ I asked, mortified by his accusation.
‘Please just co-operate.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘We need you to tell us the truth, Mrs Wilson.’
‘I w-won’t l-lie,’ I stuttered. The blonde officer raised an eyebrow.
‘Is there a problem, ma’am?’
I glowered at the table, furious at my inability to speak steadily. No matter how hard I tried to control myself, the words wouldn’t slide from my tongue. After a few deep breaths, I managed to speak again.
‘If I hesitate, it’s not because I am trying to be deceptive,’ I explained slowly. ‘I have lupus and so I have a hard time vocalising, especially under pressure.’
‘Is that true?’ the officer asked my neighbour.
‘Yes, it’s true,’ Bethany said.
‘Why do you look so shocked?’ Constable Laurence asked suspiciously.
‘I just wasn’t prepared for the question,’ she replied earnestly.
‘How long have you known Mrs Wilson?’
‘I’ve known Anna for over twenty years. We go to mass together on Sundays and have afternoon tea together once a month.’
‘And did you see what happened?’
‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘Anna knocked on my door asking for help. My husband and I came and saw Jack on the floor.’
‘Did Mrs Wilson seem distressed to you?’
‘Yes, very distressed.’
‘I understand,’ the officer said, turning towards me. ‘Can you tell us what happened, Mrs Wilson?’ Constable Jones asked.
‘I left the room to change the sheets and heard a terrible noise. When I came back, I saw my husband having a heart attack on the floor. He died shortly after I called the ambulance.’
‘Were there any signs prior to his death that indicated that he was dying?’ Constable Laurence asked.
I paused. ‘No, he just told me that he wasn’t feeling well,’ I said grimly.
‘And how did you react?’
‘At the time I thought nothing of it. He often complains of minor ailments.’ My heart plummeted into my stomach as the realisation struck. What if I had taken it more seriously? Maybe he wouldn’t be dead.
‘I understand. Now, Mrs Wilson, Have you moved anything?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Why would I move anything?’
‘May we see your bedroom?’
‘Why do you need to see my bedroom?’
‘It is where you were during his time of death. Please step aside, ma’am.’ His words were more forceful yet not hostile. Although I didn’t understand the procedure, I knew I had to comply. My mind whirred in confusion. Maybe they thought I was responsible for Jack’s death. What if they found me guilty? I shuddered at the thought.
As we entered the room, the officers fired questions faster than I could respond. The jumble of wheres and whys knocked me off my feet and left me feeling disorientated. All the while, the only thing on my mind was Jack. I asked questions concerning his body, only to receive vague replies doubled as questions.
I watched the police rummage through my bedroom and dig deeper into my wounds. Although they searched with delicate precision, the embarrassment of young men examining my delicates was profound. Tears pricked my eyes as it all overwhelmed me.
‘I just don’t understand.’
‘We are just trying to do our jobs,’ Constable Jones explained, noticing my distress.
‘But I don’t understand,’ I repeated weakly. No matter how many times I asked, no one ever explained. Were they accusing me of murder? Did they think this was my fault? I didn’t do anything. But maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I should have known something was wrong. Maybe I should have stayed with him.
‘You’ve provided us with the information we need. We’ll be in contact with you within a few days.’
Two days came and went and I was graced with a letter of apology from the police department. It detailed how their rampant questions were all part of protocol and they meant no disrespect and was stamped with a generic condolence and the signatures of the supervising officer. Needless to say, it swiftly found its way into the fireplace. As I watched the paper scorch and contort in the flames, I thought about their insensitivity. They didn’t have the gall to tell me in person. Even if they did, it wouldn’t help. You can’t medicate this degree of anguish with an empty apology. In my darkest hour I was swept into befuddlement by officers who just needed to do their jobs. There was no room for grievance, nor for understanding.
Once the letter had been reduced to a pile of embers and ash, I examined the lounge room and scene of my husband’s death. On a superficial level, everything looked the same. The house was intact and everything was in the right place yet remnants of Jack’s memory haunted me. His leather chair held the mould of his body and he smiled from portraits on every wall. The Peruvian rug was now stained with his vomit and his last breath clung to its fibres. How could he be gone when so much of him remained? Even when I hid the pictures and rolled up the rug, a fragment of his existence lurked behind every sock and every spoon.
People don’t understand that losing a lifelong partner is an on-going trauma. It’s not something that just fades away with time. Nearly two years after his death, the soul of this town still torments my waking hours. Recurring visions of his death plague my dreams no matter how many pills I take. There are days when I stare at my gaunt reflection for hours until a thought I would never have fathomed crosses my mind: Maybe this isn’t the place for me. I knew that the void would never be filled, but the concept of a new start made the pain seem less omnipresent. Sometimes the best way to move on is to do so physically as well as emotionally. Life can be cut short at any moment and I don’t want to wait here while it happens. I don’t want to be alone. As I rang my financial advisor to discuss my options, I thought, Maybe it’s for the best.
Sunday 24 March 2013
Kites And Heart Strings
Jennie Cumming
Blackwood, SA
High tensile rods
light rip-stop cloth
strength in design and construction.
More strength comes from setbacks
from slips and from crashes;
resilience grows with repairs
and with patches.
The longer the cord
the higher the kite flies
and the greater the tug on the heart.
Sunday 24 March 2013 4 pm
Masks
Crystal Lee
Adelaide, SA
I’ll use a broodoo for my courage
Hoodoo for these violent tunes
Paint me in black until my skin is without hue
I dance to fear in a phantom waltz
And bury myself in an open sky
Nobody knows me here
I exist where memories lie
I’ll wear a kabuki for my tears
Masquerade for my pain
Blacken all my years until I’m left without blame
Bless the soil below my head
While I dance to denial’s song
Wrap me up in grace and love
Carry me home
I’ll wear a facade for my flaws
And bind us with these broken strings
I crawl through fields of despair
Unlocking doors to leave
I immerse myself in dandelions
Wrapped in wind and rain
They carry all my hopes and dreams, in vein
Masking my love, my pain, my rage
I lock myself inside of fear
I’m dancing in dark corners
In a faceless dream
Under this skin, nobody knows me ...
Monday 25 March 2013
Great Aunt Maud
Felicity Lynch
Katoomba, NSW
The elderly face peeked up at me. Her bony hands
poked me in the ribs. She gave a snort. ‘Where have you been? Haven’t seen you for a bit.’
Great Aunt Maud was living up to her feisty reputation. She was quite a handful for her family, even though they loved her.
She had been a great beauty and even now so frail and old she was still beautiful. Men had flocked around her and still continued to court her.
A beautiful woman, she was the toast of the town. She had buried three husbands. But she was still an amusing flirt. Young men loved her. She was tender towards them.
Having loved and been loved all her life she could see no reason why, even at what was considered a ripe old age, she now had to change and be quiet.
But it was the older men she treasured as they also, like her, were old. She remembered how dashing they looked and so bold. Together they relived their lives and adventures, drank gin and tonics, and remembered the laughter, the women they loved, their scent and their smiles and desires. With Great Aunt Maud, again they strode back through the years so many of them they normally hid.
A splutter of laughter came from the group in the corner; holding audience was Great Aunt Maud. The occasion, today, was her ninety-ninth birthday.
Monday 25 March 2013 4 pm
The Fly
Connie Howell
Wentworth Falls, NSW
Oh my said the fly as it sat upon the ceiling
That human on the chair down there is looking quite appealing
Perhaps I’ll buzz and flap my wings
And let him know I’m friendly
I know that humans don’t like flies
So I’ll land on him quite gently.
Oh my said the human as he watched the fly come over
He didn’t quite know what to do so he tried to duck for cover
But the fly was quick and agile and landed on his nose
And the human watched in awe then he momentarily froze.
So eye to eye or nose to nose the two of them were silent
The fly was calmly sitting and the human wasn’t violent
He was amazed as both they gazed into each other’s faces
And both of them began to think what fun if they’d trade places.
Tuesday 26 March 2013
The Third Eye
Andris Heks
Megalong Valley, NSW
There are three of me, though I’m rarely number three
I yo-yo from one to two, yet only three’s free!
Only three is balanced, only three is true
One is always sky high, two is always blue
One doesn’t want to know two
And two is ignorant too
One’s sight’s fixed on heaven, two eyeballs hell
Three looks through the third eye and guides me well
In three I watch the pair seesaw, I stay still in the centre
I see every move they make as they exit and enter
One pulls me towards cloud nine and two towards abyss
In three I see through them both and what I see is bliss!
Hey, hold your horses, this sounds ever so neatly yogic,
But real life, you might agree, is more toxic than tonic!
Isn’t bliss just another form of the number one addiction?
Why don’t you rather develop the power of your convictions?
Why don’t you accept yo-yoing as the core of your nature
And the search for some ‘nirvana’ as a means for self-torture?
Why don’t you just trust yourself and quit the yogic addiction?
That will indeed develop the power of your convictions!
For no matter how blissful, the lone third eye can’t fly,
But when two wings swing, even a sparrow can swoop and soar high!
… Yes, but not without number three, the third eye!
That lone third eye is never lonely
One and two belong to it only!
It takes good care of these flapping wings
Under its guide they no longer swing
Rather they just glide with the grace of god
For three is the spirit, lest I forgot!
Tuesday 26 March 2013 4 pm
Raw Cuts
Jean Bundesen
Woodford, NSW
A Crepe Myrtle grows
like a gangling youth
by the boundary fence
in my garden.
Graceful beauty.
Crimped rose blossoms,
harbingers of Autumn,
when quivering leaves
turn to gold.
Pink and blue evening skies
air crisp and chill
a tonic after summer.
He said, ‘I’ll trim that bush,
it offers no protection.’
He couldn’t wait.
Electric trimmer hummed
chainsaw slashed
leaving the carcass of my tree.
Wednesday 27 March 2013
Cuba
David Anderson
Woodford, NSW
The women are brown as I walk by the pool
To spend Cuban pesos from a bar room stool
In Havana bars drinking Cuban rum
Then warm my body by a hot Cuban sun
Dance charanga francesa at the Dupont Mansion
Talk of Castro and Che, were they right or wrong?
How the world held its breath back in ’62
Then we’ll dance all night playing Mongo’s songs
Cuba – the colour the sound
Cuba – I want so to stay
But for many freedom’s a heartbeat away
Across Florida Straits to Miami Bay
Smoke a Monte Cristo and blow the smoke high
Into a deep blue Cuban sky
That’s gazed down on slavery and revolution
Where Fidel read Marx to find a solution
Hot Cuban days and warm Cuban nights
I’ve drunk my fill of exotic delights
Believe me now people – hear what I say
I want it all – except Guantanamo Bay
Cuba – the color the sound
Cuba – I want so to stay
But for many freedom’s a heartbeat away
Across Florida Straits to Miami Bay.
Thursday 28 March 2013
One Lazy Sunday Afternoon
Bob Edgar
Wentworth Falls, NSW
One lazy Sunday afternoon Galileo Galilei, Aristotle, and Hans Christian Andersen lay upon their backs on a grassy hillside, chewing the milky latex from dandelion stalks whilst contemplating a cloudy sky.
‘Forsooth Galileo, tell us of what you perceive in the cloud formations as you gaze into the skies above,’ Aristotle enquired of Galileo.
‘Aristotle my philosophical adversary, as I peer through my perspiculum, to ascertain a more accurate assessment of the visible masses of water suspended at altitude, I see a glimpse into the mechanics of the universe. In the clouds I envisage an almighty collision between science and religion, culminating in my own descent into a sightless cenotaph. But pray tell, Aristotle, I beseech you to enlighten Hans and myself with your interpretations of the cloud formations?’ Galileo concluded.
Aristotle responded thoughtfully, ‘Teleologically having disembodied the whole, I feel that all things in nature, and their parts, are inherently purposeful to life on earth. Therefore the clouds are both ethically and reasonably changing form, to adhere to Mankind’s thinking.’ Aristotle sighed and sought from Hans Christian Andersen, ‘Hans, you of infinite imagination ... buoy us with your visionary concepts within the clouds.
‘Well, I was going to say that I see a duckie and a horsie.’
Friday 29 March 2013
Of Might And Mouse
Linda Yates
Katoomba, NSW
Once I had a little mouse
that lived inside a wooden house.
Well he was not all so small as that,
In fact he was a m
ouse so fat,
most people took him for a rat!
But this verse is not about his size,
or the colour of his eyes.
Perhaps a tale for the would-be wise
about might and love and their disguise.
His tail was long, by the way.
His eyes were red, anyway.
His coat was soft and white as snow.
All of this you may as well know.
And that his body rests where live things grow,
In an underworld place not far away,
hidden from the light of day,
buried in a pot of clay,
in which fond flowers bloom and sway.
Red-rimmed eyes full of rage
if I dared to keep him in his cage.
A zest brimmed heart so full of life,
He was always getting into strife.
A great big heart brimmed full of zest?
Could it be contained in that little chest?
But now you’ll think my tale a jest!
I used to let him go about.
He wandered in and wandered out
of favourite places here and there.
I found his nests most everywhere.
When he’d had enough, he’d come back home.
He did not always wish to roam.
Dare not disturb through all the night –
My god he had a mighty bite!
Sometimes he’d come and sit with me,
climb up my leg, get on my knee,
but never there would stay for long.
Some restlessness would stir him on.
Sometimes he’d seem to look at me.
I did not know what he could see.
Was I just a familiar object there
beside the books, the shelves, the chair?
From a creature so very small
It was really hard to tell at all.
Was he mine to have and hold
that little creature oh so bold?
Was I the gaoler in his life?
His protector from all strife?
The ethics of it worried me.
Should I keep him in or set him free?
Can one own a living thing?
Is it a right or a grievous sin?
There was the time he got away.
I searched for him through all the day,
worried ’til my heart grew sore.
Then I found him in the drawer,
sleeping there without a care
while I was driven to despair!
The time he ate the Valium,
I thought for sure he was really gone,
but he swayed for a bit and slept for a night –
’twas only me that got the fright.
But from then he lived on borrowed time.
I knew that soon he’d not be mine.
Would my handbag be the lethal place?
The endless browsing in the bookcase?
Those weighty tomes on mighty things
Could it be the Freud would do him in?
I won’t be long, the tale is told,
that little mouse was growing old.
That sleek white coat and the fat were gone
And now my tale is nearly done
About a life so small and brief
that one should scarcely pause for grief,
except that mouse contained within
some living, being, spirit thing,
some restless, reckless thing about
defying measure from without.
Something that made itself be shown,
some presence let itself be known.
Sometimes I think that it had grown
beyond the cage of that small home.
And in the end it had its way.
I knew it could no longer stay.
Sometimes I see it lurk at night
that wicked, wanton, wayward sprite.
That playful thing still visits me.
It’s just there is no mouse to see.
And if you at all have any doubt,
It made me write this poem out!
That final day I hurried home.
an inner feeling urged me on.
I found him lying in his bed,
I moved my hand across his head.
It was then I sat and cried
for he crept into my hand and died.
Then I knew for sure this time
that little mouse had been truly mine.
Saturday 30 March 2013
Kitty And Father Bob
Alexandra Smithers
Katoomba, NSW