~~~
I met Damon in Year 10, just after my brother went interstate. He managed to con his way into a job at the mines. Mum had left by then and dad’s time was divided between his job and his solitary, obsessive carpentering, so I guess I kind of gravitated towards Damon. He was pretty harmless at the time, just a weedy halfwit. He made me laugh though. That was enough back then. Damon’s complete lack of shame made him the funniest guy in school.
When I caught up with Damon in the kitchen I tried to listen for signs of life in the house, but Damon was thumping around carelessly. He had an upturned pot on his head as he inspected the contents of the fridge. He took a bite from an apple and tossed it across the room. After helping himself to a bottle of juice he wandered away from the fridge, leaving the door wide open. His innate arrogance eased my tension somewhat.
When we were in high school, this little rough-as-guts Italian kid used to give me a hard time in Science. It was stupid little things like knocking my books off the desk or flicking cut up bits of eraser at me. Retaliation wasn’t worth the trouble it’d heap upon me, so I ignored it. Damon didn’t. Without uttering a word he strolled behind the guy, grabbed his bag and walked out the room. No one even noticed him. It was all so casual, so smooth. The teacher was still talking out the front, the students were still making notes and that fat shit was still flicking water at me from the dripping tap on his bench. And then Damon appeared, positioned perfectly, right outside the window where the class could clearly see him but out of sight of the teacher. He must have sprinted around the building to get there so fast. He was holding the bag upside down and thrusting his groin at the contents as they tumbled out.
I followed Damon into the living room where he was rifling through a drawer. He shot a sly smile at me and winked as he took something up in his hand and held it tightly in a clenched fist.
It was Damon’s face that made his antics so funny. While thrusting at the falling objects he had a look of intense pleasure spread across his face. Then, when the bag was empty, he tossed it aside with complete nonchalance and strolled back around the building and into the room. He sat right across from the Italian turd, who didn’t have the guts to take Damon on. No one did. He was in with all the hardest kids. He had this infectious way of rallying the troops and garnering support. Most of what he said was utter garbage, but it was how he said it, that way of repeating himself once or twice, or repeating certain words and phrases. ‘You’re gonna sit on the back seat?’ he’d say when we got on the bus after school. ‘On the back seat?’ he’d repeat after a moment. And even as the offenders moved obediently to a more agreeable section of the bus, ‘the back seat?’ he’d say one final time, with a hint of incredulity.
‘Well, we’ve struck paedo, mate,’ Damon called across the room.
‘What?’
‘Paedo, mate. Paedo,’ he said holding up a framed photo. He chucked the photo to me before moving off to continue his pilfering. I looked down at what was clearly a picture of a grandfather and granddaughter on some kind of family outing. I shook my head and laughed as I returned the photo to its place. This was the reason I was here instead of on the job site. After all, we weren’t going to walk away with anything of great value. Damon’s backpack wasn’t big enough.
I know what I was getting out of the relationship but I never understood Damon’s motive. It’s strange really; I was the only person ever spared from Damon’s unpredictable roguishness. Perhaps I was the exception that proved Damon’s rule, Damon’s dominion. I suspect my mild disposition and the amusement I showed in his antics contributed in some way. I certainly had nothing to offer him, or to be taken for that matter. Either way, he always had an inexplicable loyalty towards me.
There used to be a group of us back in the day, ditching class and lifting magazines and junk food. School didn’t really do it for us. And I suppose we didn’t really do it for school. At any rate, there was no real effort on their part to keep us coming back. And Damon had always been resistant to any kind of authority or institution, all to his own detriment. Truancy, loitering, vandalism, shoplifting. Miniscule ripples.
It was a nice old house, truth be told. Whoever this guy was, he’d certainly put the hours in to have established such a respectable abode. The décor was outdated and the furniture had clearly seen better days, but I finally understood what people meant when they described a place as ‘homely’. It had a warmth, it had character, stories to tell. The drawers alone, the ones Damon had just ransacked, were full of history and heart. There was a stack of letters and papers spread throughout the drawer. I skimmed over a few lines of one at random:
… whistling that sweet tune. It stopped me in my tracks. I was completely and utterly captivated. Over a whistle! I have never felt so powerless. It was the way you rose and fell over the notes, carrying them gently and bending them at your …
I flicked through a couple more, all in the same vein as the first, riddled with gushy sentimentality. There was an assortment of trinkets, tickets stubs and polaroids floating around the drawer. I picked up the photo frame again, brought myself face to face with our victim. I had done a lot of stupid shit in my time, engaged in a lot of underhanded practices, but this was a first.
Looking around, I had to admit my place was a rat’s nest by comparison. I shared a flat with three other guys, meatheads stuck doing menial labour by day and glued to their respective game consoles by night. But no matter how pitiful my situation was, I took solace in the knowledge, the empirical evidence, that it could be worse. Damon never left the nest.
His dad was an okay bloke but he and Damon shared more of a mateship than a father son relationship. His dad didn’t work and the apple didn’t fall far. The closest Damon managed was a week on the back dock of one of those generic retail giants. He spent the bulk of the week smoking and taking shit-breaks to avoid any real work. He couldn’t get his head around the invoices and every unsupervised minute saw him riding the pallet jacks or messing around with the stock. They sacked him when one of his bosses caught him and another dropkick duelling with those long tubular fluorescent light bulbs. They’d pop and burst into tiny pieces when they smashed. Damon repeated several lines from Star Wars as they escorted him from the premises. ‘Aren’t you a little short for a storm trooper?’ he said, quoting Princess Leia. ‘A storm trooper,’ he repeated bluntly, oblivious to the gravity of the situation. From that day on Centrelink was his home from home. He filled in the rest of his time wreaking havoc on the community.
When I saw Damon burst back into the room, the pot still upturned on his head but now with the old guy’s underwear pulled up over his trousers, something inside of me clicked. All the dignity and humanity in the drawer had been upturned in a single act of idiocy. I didn’t laugh. I couldn’t.
‘Let’s go, Damon. Take that shit off,’ I insisted. Damon had found a cane at this point and was shuffling around with a hunched posture, knocking over all the furniture he could.
‘Sh-orry, old boy,’ he said with a doddering voice. ‘You’ll have to sh-peak up, me King Lears ain’t what they used to be.’
Some men were born for this world, content to live for their work, bleed in their toil and be at peace with their lot. Some, like me, were born with a kind of restlessness, not content to punch in and punch out, determined to break free of the mold and experience something else, something intangible, elusive, inescapable. There are those who give without hesitation, those who struggle against unforgiving circumstance, and those who simply yield. And then there are those born with a kind of emptiness. The sociopath. The anarchist. The agent of chaos. Irrational. Unfathomable.
‘Seriously, Damon,’ I said grabbing his arm. ‘Drop your shit and let’s go.’
‘Say what?’ he continued in the feeble voice. ‘You want me to drop my shit? Well, I usually wait ’til the nurse shows up, but–’ I yanked the cane from his hand and knocked the pot off his head.
‘We’re leaving,’ I demanded.
r /> ‘Fuck off, nig,’ he said with some surprise, pulling free of my grip. Those were his last words. He turned around and it hit him. It sounded like a roast chicken being dropped on the floor, cartilage and bone compacting under the blunt base of a sailing trophy.
‘Oh, oh no. No. I– I– I– I didn’t mean to hit him so hard,’ stammered the elderly gentleman in the doorway. The blood drained from his face almost as quickly as it drained from Damon’s. He fell back into the doorframe as Damon dropped to his knees. The trophy clattered to the ground.
‘Damon?’ I didn’t expect an answer. Damon slumped back onto the floor, his arms falling limply by his sides. He looked up into my eyes, spluttering. As the sound of sirens tore their way up the street towards the house, Damon unclenched his fist. A gold watch slid free and fell against the cold hard tiles.
Editor’s Note: This is not a ‘nice’ story – the main character is not redeeming, yet does he really deserve his ending? But without his ending now, where would his story go, and would we really want to know? Perhaps we sense relief at his ending – this particular problem has been solved. But at what cost? How can we be pleased with the outcome when, after all, a human life has been taken? We found this to be a very stimulating, well-written and thought-provoking piece.
Saturday 10 November 2012 4 pm
Let’s Get Metaphysical, Physical
Mikhail Mathias
Bathurst, NSW
Everything is everything, and everything matters.
There are still things that we do not understand. And that’s something which we should never lose sight of. Our big unanswerable questions, our existential crises, both personal and shared, those questions have answers. There are ways in which existence works, ways in which we are connected, that are not yet apparent to us. When and if they become apparent, they will hold keys to our questions.
What about when you’re thinking about someone, and your phone lights up and dances with their name? That phenomenon only came about with the advance and availability of communications technology. Does it prove anything? No, but it’s interesting. Little indications of things beyond our comprehension are what keep us going. A world without magic and mystery is a dead world. Today, we have the language and the knowledge to explain away the feeling of love in terms of biology and psychology. Why, then, do we hold on to its mystery? Why do we continue to contemplate and wonder and look at love as though it is something ethereal, something that we will never understand? It is because we crave mystery. So long as there is mystery and magic, there is something to strive for.
As a human race, we strive. That much is certain. What we strive for is up for debate. And probably up to the individual. It comes out to the same thing though – whatever we strive for, we are pushing the boundaries of human knowledge. Pushing forever outwards. Not everyone is on the edge, not everyone directly affects the expansion of human knowledge. This is reserved for those at the top of their fields, those explorers of the unknown. But these people stand atop a pyramid whose structure is composed of all mankind.
There is an undeniable arrogance that is deeply entrenched in the composition of our souls. We are fortunate enough to live in an age where we understand the vastness of the universe. Qualitatively at least, we can place ourselves on the universal scale and know how small we really are. We know all this, yet we ignore it. We are convinced of our ultimate importance. We are omnipotent and impotent all at once. It is this internal power, tempered with our innate feelings of inadequacy, that produces drive and ambition, that decides our trajectory on the path to enlightenment.
The knowledge that there is more – that there is always more, is both a help and a hindrance. Humankind has at many times reached what they thought was a conclusion. Thought they had learned all that there was to know. We have built the tower of babel more than once, only to have it blown apart and scattered. Cycles of boom and bust are not reserved for economic systems. They are apparent in all facets of life, both on a small personal scale, and on a grand universal one. We build up to be broken down.
There are still things that we do not understand. In truth, the more we know, the more there is to know. As soon as we solve one mystery, a hundred others open themselves to us. This is our gift and our curse. This is the way the world works.
Sunday 11 November 2012
Behind The Door
Robyn Chaffey
Hazelbrook, NSW
My sisters One, Four and Six
Each blessed with raven hair
Long and straight, easy to fix …
I was the one who missed out
Simply, I could not be there
When that blessing was tossed about
I was behind a door somewhere
Siblings Two, Three and Seven
With our young brother, Nine
Were first in line when hosts of Heaven
Granted talent for usage of words
In stories and poems sublime
Describing awesome valleys and birds
Behind that door, I didn’t get mine.
Sweet sister Eight got best
Multiply blest with great talent
To paint or draw as well as the rest
Though in the garden she couldn’t compete
Brothers Seven and Nine scored that bent
Behind that door my lacks to complete
’twas I who missed out, I resent
The crowds were fearsome that day
Inherently small and shy was I
The jostling game I could not play
Soon I was cornered right by the door
When the door opened I wanted to cry.
Trapped there behind and left talent poor
… Behind the door while the talents flew by.
Robyn created this an exercise with the Blackheath Writers’ Group to write a poem using the following rhyme sequence:
a
b
a
c
b
c
b
It makes it very interesting to read as the usually predictable rhythms aren’t there!
Monday 12 November 2012
Waiting
NaNaG
Springwood, NSW
Young man riding by on tandem, solitary,
alone through Belmore Park this fine crisp Autumn morn,
my thoughts reach out to you.
Turn, turn again, embrace my waiting heart!
‘Some mystic magic drew me back, my lady, hast thou need of me?’
‘Sir Galahad I’ve waited long for this, The New Beginning!’
‘Come Eleanora mount my trusty steed.
Together we will travel through the streets of Sydney,
and on and on to where the cool stream glistens,
and currawongs delight us with their song,
and on and on to freedom and beyond.’
‘Sir Gal, you send me spinning with your wondrous words!
My heart’s aflutter with the skyward birds.
I’d no Idea my magic wove so well.
( I find myself alas twixt heaven and hell!)
Cruel fate has offered little time for us, I must away.’
Here comes the blasted bus.
Tuesday 13 November 2012
In Each Other’s Heart
JAC
Kilsyth, VIC
For one brief moment
in the great sea of eternity
We have met
We’re both small drops of seconds
in the river of time
Like a single pebble
I’ve caused a ripple
in your cool pond of serenity;
While you’re the soulful wind
that kissed the splendid pearl
from out her shell ...
I remember the beautiful name you gave
You must have loved me then, somehow
A treasured pearl
could I really be that
way for you?
Whatever that lies between us
then and now
Is like raindrop from heaven
so refreshing and sweet.
Yet life is still far from crystal clear
The pain of silence torments
and we’re both sad
For one brief moment
in the great sea of eternity
we have met
but I know
Immortal we’ll always be
In each other’s heart.
Wednesday 14 November 2012
Shooting Star
Graham Sparks
Bathurst, NSW
Love is like a shooting star,
a thing of wonder, and ephemeral.
The head that penetrates the heavens
is made of blinding white hot stuff,
and the gravity of lust bends space and time alike,
and reconfigures structure in the mind.
Entrained behind , the afterglow,
a tail that stretches for a life in special cases,
composed of stardust
and reverberations of the violence of ignition.
In the case of lucky ones,
machineries are embedded
for the processing of maintenance sex,
but some like me abstain
although a warm and glowing fusion yet remains.
Thursday 15 November 2012
Piece Of Meat
Ben McCaskill
North Balgowlah, NSW
On the stool she waits for the sight of white skin,
When he passes she calls, she calls after him
Offering, willing, and tempting his lust
To listen and look, to his brain it’s a must
Just one little glance is all it takes to arouse
He sees the skirt, the young face and the skimpy little blouse
Making a turn he heads straight for the girl
His intentions are clear, his lips make a curl
Taking a seat, his hand, on her leg it will lay
He’s older than her father, but as long a he’ll pay
That doesn’t matter not by any bit of measure,
She will be his object, his medium of pleasure
At the end of his drink he asks for the price,
She tells him with a smile and doesn’t think twice
Together they leave, he leads the way
To their destination they walk, to the place where they’ll lay
Her heart beats faster when they arrive at the door
She knows what’s next, she’s done this before
But every time she does she breaks deep inside,
But she cannot show this, from the rich white man she must hide
He’s the one with the money, it’s his little treat
The person to him is dead. She’s just a piece of meat
When it’s over she leaves and remembers being a child
So innocent, so happy, when she could run wild
Playing with friends and not worrying about tomorrow
Oblivious to the life which would evidently follow
A tear rolls down her cheek and she asks the sky ‘How’
How did this happen, I want to stop now
But she needs this job, or how will she live
She has no choice, the world she won’t forgive
The lights of the bar glimmer not far away
She wipes away the tear, it’s her only way
Friday 16 November 2012
Stockholm Sponge
Amber Johnson
Highgate Hill, QLD
A harsh florescent light flickered on as I heard approaching footsteps. After isolation in this dank metal cell, his presence was comforting. The snap of elastic echoed around the basin as he slid the rubber on. I wasn’t sure whether to feel grateful for his consideration or insulted for the lack of intimacy.
He remained silent as he pinned me down forcefully. He pushed me harder than usual but I didn’t protest. I knew what happened to those who did. He once possessed another who he kept safe in this little den. She had a rough side to her that was edgy and abrasive. He loved how hard she fought back so he pushed until she reached her limits. One day she just couldn’t scrub up like she used to. She lost her edge and so he disposed of her like his silicon sheaths. I didn’t want to end up like her. I wanted to stay with my master.
After he was satisfied with groping and squeezing my body, he yanked me in the air and held me over the tub. The room filled with white noise as the water trickled into the basin. This was the sound of our reunion. Nothing soothed me more.
As he lowered me into the basin, I lathered myself up in bubbles. With a gentle hand, he guided me towards the circular glass walls that lined the edge of the tub. He pressed me firmly against the glass and watched as I rubbed my body against it. All of the bubbles rubbed off as I cleaned the screen by grinding and rubbing in vigorous motions. It pleased my master when I danced like this.
Once he grew bored with the glass wear, he led me to the porcelain. I thrust myself against the surface as he guided my movements. I felt like Viva von Tease as I spun around the breakfast bowl. I imagined that it was her famous martini glass that she swirled around. But that’s not how he sees me.
Each day I fear that he’ll think I’m too old and will dispose of me like the others. I am no longer fresh and vibrant like I was when he first brought me here. My body is weak and I am turning grey. I still push myself as hard as I can bear just to stay here a little longer. I couldn’t bear losing him. I can’t break down.
When he is done, he tosses me aside in the steel cage where I spend most of my days. Sometimes I wonder why I still service him, but the sad truth is that despite it all, a part of me still waits for his return each day because without him, I am obsolete. That’s why no matter how rough he treats me, or how dirty it makes me feel, I’ll always be waiting in this enclosure until he needs me again.
Sometimes it is interesting to view things through the perspective of an inanimate object. In this short piece Amber Johnson tells the story of a kitchen sponge who is a victim of Stockholm Syndrome.
Saturday 17 November 2012
Tits Should Be Out and About
Des Pensable
Kirrawee, NSW
My good friend Barry at the bar a month ago last night,
told me of some tits he'd seen that gave him great delight.
I went home sober that night thinking I was missing out,
they sounded quite glorious and should be out and about.
A few days later I was as determined as I could be,
that pair of beautiful tits were perfection that I really had to see.
I woke early before dawn, it would be a lovely spring day,
with binoculars and a thermos of coffee I was off and on my way.
I crept carefully through the brambles getting stuck once or twice,
in the darkness every sound was a snake or possibly just mice.
I fell over a few times, tore my shirt, and got dirt upon my face,
but finally after cursing a few times I arrived at the predetermined place.
On the bank of a creek at the back of the new housing estate,
just down from the national park and near the ranger's entry gate.
I took up my secret hide overlooking a backyard fence,
the mist was just on rising but still far too dense.
I cleaned the lenses on my viewers as they'd received a little mud,
and had a swig of hot coffee to stimulate my blood.
As the new day dawned and the haze began to clear,
I saw those two lovely blue tits in a cage hanging quite near.
They belonged to an ornithologist that had lots of caged-up birds,
a prison for these lovely tits made me quite lost for words.
I climbed over that backyard fence and snuck up to their cage,
I released the ca
tch on their little door in a mood of pique and rage.
I watched as they flew up high to their freedom at last,
then fled back through the trees and bushes running very fast.
Breathing heavily and covered in sweat, I returned back to my bike,
a ranger was waiting there. 'Son' he said, 'come on let’s take a hike'.
We've had a complaint from a customs officer living near,
you've released illegal birds in this National Park we hear.
They'll breed like bloody sparrows and soon become a pest,
they'll displace all the natives and block up gutters when they nest.
European tits like Aussie boobies should be free to fly not in cage,
but we must care for our environment in this modern day and age.
The place for tits to be free is in their native country side,
like Aussie boobies that flourish at the beaches where we reside.
The magistrate let me off on a good behaviour bond,
and a warning about foreign birds of which I'm always very fond.
I was at the bar with my good mate Barry, he's wondered where I've been,
he told me about some beautiful caged parrots that he'd recently just seen.
I went home sober that night thinking that they were missing out,
they sounded quite glorious and should be out and about.
Sunday 18 November 2012
A Wee Adventure Past
Alex Gardiner aka The Auld Yin
Bullaburra, NSW
Peter an’ Lynda hail frae a local toon,
an’ Peter at the moment is neither up nor doon.
Peter had a wee operation oan his nether parts,
oan the opposite side o’ his boady frae whare he farts.
Aye!! Roond aboot the place whare yea need tae pee,
an’ fur Peter a region whare it’s hard tae see.
A wee shunt intae his waaater storage place,
a divert frae his operation tae keep it safe.
A wee wee tube if yea furgive the pun,
now am no writin’ this tae hiv sum fun.
Jist gein’ yea the basic faqs,
an tryin’ tae use a wee bit tact
Weel Peter dis aw his ain bandigin’,
a chore that kin be a wee bit grim,
Lynda heard Peter shout frae ben the hoose,
ignorin’ him cause he is a’ways cursin’ an lettin’ loose.
Mair cursin’ frae Peter made Lynda investigate,
lookin’ intae his room to see whit wis his fate.
A wis tidying ma bandages whin a cut ma wee tube,
noo am leaking aw o’er the place a hope am no rude.
Lynda didnae ken whither tae laugh or cry,
nae wurries Peter yer no gonna die.
Whit wull a dae hon, what wull a dae?
Whit wull a the blidy nurses hiv tae say?
Noo wae wee leakin aw o’er the place,
an’ Peter gittin ridder in the blidy face.
Hoo kin a stoap ma wee thing frae leakin so?
Aw jings it’s oaf the the hospital a’ll hiv tae go.