narratorAUSTRALIA Volume Three
Touch the wonderful forest’s bark,
See swifting by the gentle lark.
Listen to the rib-it rib on the forest floor,
As frogs go about their daily chores.
Oh my that gentle musical sound,
As the stream caresses the rocks in a gentle pound.
And the morning mist gently disappears,
As the sun’s hot breath gets into a higher gear.
As I grow old in a bodily way,
In nature’s love, I hope, I will always be au-fait.
This entranced feeling of nature’s unselfish gift,
Always there to give one’s heart a joyful lift.
Wednesday 22 May 2013
Grey Dawn
Mitchell Walker
Pascoe Vale, VIC
As the grey morning rays of dawn penetrate the heavy red curtains,
I run my fingers ever so softly along her cheek.
The warmth of the fur sheets heats me externally,
Her smile in reaction to my touch sets off a nuclear reaction internally.
Safe, secure, calm.
For once, I need no distractions, merely, finally, just content to be.
I feel her skin stand on end, I pull her closer into myself.
That sought after state where nothing else but this moment matters.
Her natural scent wafts inside me, converting deserts into gardens.
Never have the words been truer: ‘The tragic and exquisite are the same to some degree.’
In reflection, a single, solitary tear runs down my cheek, but not in sorrow, rather in an uncontrollable joy at the beauty of life.
Wednesday 22 May 2013 4 pm
Ocean
Ben McCaskill
North Balgowlah, NSW
Translucent emerald and sapphire, dancing on energy
Pushing down on my craft, it rolls and rumbles over my back
There’s a bond, a spiritual union
Ocean is creation, as is man
Innate attraction between the two
Gliding along the smooth surface, weightless
Euphoria envelops me, spirals up my spine
Dark craters of worry are replaced by rays of celestial light
A connection is made
The ocean cries its own song, the song of perpetuity
Full of life, yet it does not own one
Shelter and exposure
A mother and a murderer
Gentle and powerful, emotive yet apathetic
Random and unforseen
The metaphor for life
The Ocean
Thursday 23 May 2013
Another Character
Paul Humphreys
Oxley, ACT
He was a round ball of a man. He looked as though some one had constructed a frame and then thrown a mass of play dough over the top and it had gradually settled over the frame, shaped by gravity and the weight of the dough. He had difficulty in walking fast so seemed to ‘swim’ with an abbreviated breaststroke action as he hurried from one appointment to another.
His haste was energised by the prospect of meeting someone, anyone really, where he could talk, converse, communicate, reply and enjoy.
He was fascinated with conversation and people. He could listen and converse with anybody that cared to spare him the time.
It really was more than a fascination: it was an essential ingredient in his life force. In fact he relished these snippets of social intercourse as though they were delicate and delicious pieces of gourmet food.
His face shone always with a smile; smile lines fractured all the contours of his face in a pleasant happy puppy sort of expression. As he indulged in the repast of repartee, the dialogue of dining on words, his deep brown eyes would sparkle and send a secret message to those that were receptive that he was really enjoying the degustation of discussion, the giblets of gibberish, the gleanings of gossip and the kneading of knowledge.
Each word, phrase, morsel of the interchange activated an energy in his body and mind that produced an immediate response. His stomach would quiver and his shoulders relax, a small tear of perspiration would appear on the tip of his nose and he would immediately respond to the repast of words with his own menu of phrases and conjunctions that would keep the pot boiling.
He was always searching for new ingredients and recipes to assure that the conversations he had were memorable, satisfying and wholesome.
The feast of nouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs, clichés, phrases, anecdotes and theories satiated him on a daily basis.
The smile would disappear if he had not had his usual intake of nutritional dialogues. The smile lines would become downcast, his lower lip would drop and there would appear a sliver of saliva as though he was hungry or thirsty and in need of sustenance.
It appeared unusual at the time but he lost some of his weight. No one could really provide an explanation, until one of his regular raconteurs noticed that he was going deaf, and so the smorgasbord of snappy phrases and the buffet of banter were slipping from his life menu.
Friday 24 May 2013
The Old Man In A Boat
John Ross
Blackheath, NSW
He was sitting so still that for a moment I thought he was asleep. The surface of the river was like glass. The boat sat on its reflection in the water, motionless. The seagulls floated, quiet, without a ripple.
He was looking down at something in the bottom of the boat. A large, floppy, cloth hat hid his face from me. A long thin fishing rod was propped against his shoulder. I could see that his shirt was old and stained. It had once been blue and many of the buttons were missing and the sleeves had been torn off.
As I watched he stood up, still looking down into the boat, reached into the pocket on his shirt and took out a packet of tobacco. I could now see that he was wearing jeans that had been roughly cut off well above his knees. With a great deal of skill he rolled himself a cigarette using just one hand, retrieved matches from his jeans and lit up. Exhaling a thin stream of smoke he took off his hat, wiped his brow, and looked up directly toward me.
It was only then that I realised how old he was. His hair was startlingly white, long and curly. White stubble on his chin contrasted vividly with the deep mahogany brown of his face. Bushy white eyebrows jutted out over his eyes, which were almost as blue and as deep as the water beneath his boat.
His arms and legs were deeply tanned and surprisingly muscular for someone as old as he. As I watched he placed his hands on his hips, straightened up and stretched. It must have hurt him as his face contracted in pain and he massaged the small of his back.
Picking up his rod he expertly cast his line well out from the boat and settled down again on the seat. He held the rod in his left hand and with his right occasionally took the cigarette from between his lips to shake the ash over the side of the boat. His actions were slow and deliberate as if time meant nothing to him.
After many minutes I was just about to turn away when he put the rod down, reached behind him and picked up a small lunchbox with a thermos fastened to the top. He poured himself a drink in an old, battered, enamel mug and took a thick sandwich from the box.
I had my busy life to return to and had to go but as I walked away he was sitting, quietly gazing out at the horizon. It occurred to me that he was completely satisfied with what he had and where he was.
God I wished I was!
Saturday 25 May 2013
Death and Taxes
Shane Smithers
Katoomba, NSW
He told me I was going to die, but everybody dies. What he didn’t tell me was that he was going to kill me. I wish I knew what he meant, you know, before it happened. I would have avoided him. I would have gone away. I certainly wouldn’t have leant him my gun. Not that it matters, everyone dies sooner or later. Some people would rather it happened sooner rather than later, especially when they’re thinking of someone else, someone annoying, but most people try not to think about death. And bec
ause we don’t like to dwell on death we don’t seem to know much about it. Maybe that was my problem. I didn’t want to think about my own death. I didn’t want to consider the possibility of dying. I certainly didn’t want to think he meant straight away, right after he told me that I was going to die. I didn’t want to believe that he wanted me dead; or that his words were more of a threat than a comment on the nature of mortality. So I ignored it, he shot me and I died.
It’s funny, you know, I remember the moment I first realised that I was going to die. I was about four, maybe five. It was before my grandfather died. He had cancer; maybe the family was talking about it. Maybe they were talking about someone else. I can’t remember exactly, not that I would have known what they were talking about. Adults always talked about stuff I didn’t understand. Anyway, my father said something about death and taxes and it dawned on me.
So I said, ‘What do you mean? I’m not going to die.’
And my father replied, ‘Yes you are, everybody dies. We get born and then we live for a while and then one day we die. Everybody dies.’
I got a little upset. ‘Are you going to die? Is Mummy going to die?’ I asked him.
‘One day, a long time from now,’ he said. I started to cry. He picked me up and sat me on his knee. ‘It’s all right, you’ll be all grown up by then,’ he said.
Dad got in trouble off my mother, he just couldn’t lie to make me feel better and as my realisation grew, I realised that my brothers and sister were going to die, my dog, Bambi, and everyone else, Nanna and Par, everyone, even me. Everyone was going to die. I couldn’t stop crying.
Then one day, my grandmother came to our house. She was upset and then my father went away with her. After lunch I asked my mother where Daddy was. She said he went to sit with Granddad. I thought that was strange. He never went to sit with Granddad before.
‘When is he coming home?’ I asked.
‘Daddy’s upset, because Granddad died today,’ she said softly.
‘Did Granddad die like the pups?’ I asked.
‘Kind of, he was very sick and he died.’
‘Has Daddy gone to look at Granddad?’ I asked.
‘Daddy has gone to say goodbye.’
‘Oh.’ I thought a moment. ‘Can you say goodbye to dead people?’ I asked. What I really wanted to know was whether dead people could say goodbye back.
I remember that our Corgi, Bambi, had pups and some of them died. We went out to play with them, but some of them were cold and still. My brother ran to the house, and my mother came back running with him. She took the dead puppy off me. He was my favourite. He had a white patch on the back of his neck. I was upset when she told me that the puppy had died. His tongue was sticking out, I remember that. My pup was the first person I ever loved that died, at least the first one I can remember dying.
My mother used fly spray in the house. She had a green pump spray thing with a cylinder at the front that you filled from a bottle of poison and then pumped the handle, like a bike pump, and a fine mist of fly spray came out the front. I remember my sister, she was maybe a year old, picking up dead flies and eating them. I went to stop her, it didn’t look right, eating dead flies off the floor, but she was insistent. Then she offered me one. I thought about it. She seemed to like them. Mother was not happy when she found her sitting on the linoleum, about to put another dead fly in her mouth.
I said, ‘She likes eating them.’
Mother was mortified. I didn’t say anything but my older brother used to get them for her. He liked watching her eat dead flies. Mother told me that he used to feed me garden worms before I realised that dirt didn’t taste that good. Apparently he used to dig for them with a spoon and then scoop them up and feed them to me, dirt and all. I was a baby so I have no memory of the worms. There’s no point asking me what they tasted like.
Anyway, I never thought of the dead flies as dead animals, or that my mother would have committed genocide on their entire race if she could have. They were just black buzzing things and then they fell to the floor, skated around in circles buzzing furiously, and then they stopped. I suspect babies don’t have a good understanding of what is food and what is a dead insect. But who knows, it may be cultural. Some people eat insects. The Israelites ate locusts, apparently ‘God’ told them to. Locusts are insects. I remember seeing the Prime Minister on the telly and a fly crawled into his mouth. We were laughing so much that we didn’t see if it came back out, but he never waved it away. I never understood why people on the telly let flies crawl all over their faces.
Over the years I saw some death, people who died in accidents, people who died from too much drink, cancer, heart attacks and that sort of thing. People look very different after they die. When I was 16 my other grandfather died. I had only seen him an hour before. I could hardly recognise him: his eyes looked different and his teeth looked too big for his mouth. It was awful. He was the first human person I ever saw after he had died.
I never knew anyone who was murdered, other than me of course, but you can’t really know yourself, because you are yourself. You can only know other people, which is ironic really, because you never really know other people, only yourself. Anyway, all the people I knew who died, died of natural causes, smoking, or in road accidents or when things went wrong at work. None of them got shot. Then I got shot and died. So everyone I knew can say, they knew someone who was murdered. I don’t think I’d like that, knowing someone who was murdered. What they didn’t realise was that most of them also knew someone who had committed murder. They still don’t know and no matter how hard I try I can’t tell them.
You know how people say stuff about giving them a sign to prove the afterlife? Well, all of that’s a bit of a waste of time. I gave a friend several signs, but he was an atheist so he didn’t think anything of it. Another woman, a spiritualist, was always going about saying that I was speaking to her, or that she could see me, but she was always looking in the wrong direction. When I did speak to her she couldn’t hear me.
The funny thing is, I know that I’m dead, I know that there is nothing I can do about being dead, but I still want to do something about it. I want justice. I wish I could come back, finish a few things off. Clean out the shed, shag the lady across the road, organise my finances, cut some people out of my will. I wish I could have had a funeral where only people I liked turned up. I wish I didn’t have to hear their fake condolences. But what can you do? There’s not much point in being dead. It’s kind of like before you were born, kind of like nonexistence, you can’t do anything.
Descartes said, ‘I think therefore I am’ or ‘Cogito ergo sum’, if you prefer the Latin. I used to think he was right, but now I’m not so sure. I can think, but I’m not, or should it be I’m dead, ‘So I think but I aren’t’. No, that doesn’t sound like proper grammar, but I can’t think of the opposite to ‘I am’. Maybe there is life after death. Anyway, ‘therefore I am’, just doesn’t sound very definite, if you know what I mean. Maybe another word would have helped. ‘I think therefore I exist’, almost works, except for the fact that thought is not a requirement of existence.
In The Philosopher’s Song, the Monty Python boys interpreted Descartes’ dictum as, ‘I drink therefore I am’, which makes just as much sense. A French bloke by the name of Destutt de Tracy said, ‘I sense, therefore I exist as a sentient being’, which makes much more sense. At least it has parameters. I always thought the problem was that Descartes didn’t really understand the nature of existence, or life for that matter. You know … you’re alive, you’re alive, you’re alive, then you’re not alive. You’re dead. If you’re a tree, you’re a living tree, you’re alive, then you’re a dead tree. A tree doesn’t think, but it’s alive, it exists.
If Descartes was a tree, he wouldn’t have said anything, because trees don’t talk or think, but if he was a tree and we applied his dictum it might have been ‘I transpirate, therefore I am a tree’. It’s not very catchy, but it would have been true. Th
e trouble is that this stuff doesn’t really help us understand life or death or existence for that matter. But it’s a shame Descartes is dead, because you can’t argue with dead people. They don’t say goodbye back and they don’t defend their philosophy either. But, it’s more of a shame that I’m dead, because no-one will remember me. At least Descartes has his crappy dictum, even if the ordinary person doesn’t really know what it means, or why it’s wrong.
Being dead is not fun. Immediately after I was shot, I stumbled and fell, I clutched my chest, blood gushed out. I managed to say, ‘You bastard’, then everything faded away. I could feel the pain for a while. I heard distant voices calling me; my eyes flickered open, there were people gathering around, shock was setting in, all the sounds were high pitched and everyone was bathed in bright light. I felt cold. But I was still alive. I realised I was in shock.
Then my heart stopped, the light faded and I died. Nothingness. My brain would soon die and I would be dead for all eternity. There was no tunnel of light, no angels to accompany me to heaven or snarling shadows to drag me down a storm water grate like in Ghost. There was nothingness, peaceful nothingness. Then there were flashes of memory, the shooting, my contemplations of death, the pups and the dead flies and all sorts of theological crap that I easily dismissed. And there was an incessant beeping I couldn’t get to the bottom of.
I opened my eyes two days ago. I had a tube stuck down my throat so I couldn’t talk. Apparently paramedics were close by when I was shot. They arrived just in time, managed to stem the flow of blood, fill me up with fluid and got my heart started. The mind plays funny tricks on you. Not when you’re dead, that was the nothingness part, but when you’re in a coma your mind works overtime. All that stuff about talking to people and giving signs was my overactive imagination trying to deal with the shooting. For the record my childhood memories are an accurate telling of my first encounters with death.
So what now? Identify the killer – tick. Get better and shag the lady from across the road. If I’m lucky she’ll succumb to my sophisticated seduction. (Just kidding, I’ll be lucky if she will have me.) Then maybe I should clean out the shed and fix my finances. I think I should start on the bucket list as soon as possible, nothing too strenuous to start with. Getting shot, dying, and being brought back changed my perspective on life.
No matter how long life is, it’s too short. Don’t sacrifice living today for some imaginary prize in the afterlife, live today, live a full life, love, don’t hate, that’s what I am going to do. Too many times I hear people say they regret the things they did not do, not the mistakes they made. So live a life and don’t be too afraid of taking chances or making mistakes. Remember, life is fleeting, death is permanent. So make the most of life. I will.
Sunday 26 May 2013
The Piercing Cold
Thomas Gibbs
Refern, NSW
Lenka searched the hospital room for something intriguing. Her father was asleep. He was in the kind of sleep that is painful to watch. His face was very pale, so much so that it drew attention to a large, yellow stain on the thin bed sheet that was ever so gently tucked under his chin. The air in the room was akin to the stink of an old, used bandaid. On the other side of the room there was a window from which the tops of trees could be seen. This window was never open. It was left closed for the reason that the cold air might intrude and cause a cold. Lenka’s father had late-stage emphysema.
During his first few weeks in hospital he had been able to talk. Now all he could manage was a long blink of the eyes to acknowledge Lenka’s presence, after which Lenka would nod to her father and converse with him. Her words reached him, but she could see that each one was like a time bomb that caused utter confusion in his mind. Her visits became longer and more frequent as it became clear to her that her father had little time left.
It was of no surprise that the cause of her father’s current condition was his smoking habit. Lenka’s face now seemed to mirror her father’s acceptance of death, as they looked at each other with caring eyes and relived the past through photography. She would bring to him family photo albums and deliver postcards from relatives. The bright colours seemed to weaken him as much as they gave him warmth. Her father looked at them with sad eyes that managed to somehow keep the sadness to themselves. A nurse was often called when the coughing could not be controlled with his daughter’s touch, and when specks of blood appeared on the bed sheet from as much as a sneeze.
Lenka felt empty inside but tried extremely hard for her father to inject herself with life during his dying days. He had not yet passed, but the memory of him was already taking its place and Lenka was unsure how to react. She was the only family he had. It was not yet confirmed that Lenka would be alone, but as she waited by his bedside one night she wept for him. The tears shed were just one form of release. Lenka reached into her pocket and raised a cigarette to her mouth. She walked over to the window, opened it slightly and blew chains of smoke into the cold air. When she turned around her father had awoken. She immediately disposed of the cigarette out the window and slammed it shut. The look in her father’s eyes was piercing, but it was the final rush of blood to his cheeks that caused her pain.
Monday 27 May 2013
She (Part II)
Alexandra Smithers
Katoomba, NSW
When she left (… again), as a departing gift, she handed me an explanation – a shallow bowl of emptiness to catch my tears. I retched in it.
Bio: This story is the continuation of Alexandra’s original story, ‘She’, published on 4 May 2012 and appearing in narratorAUSTRALIA Volume One.
Like Part I, it is written in only 140 characters (including spaces this time), keeping in line with the maximum allowed for Tweeting.
Monday 27 May 2013 2 pm
Kiss Goodbye
Jordan Black
Cloncurry, QLD
‘You’re really sweet.
I like you.
We should be friends,’
she says.
With an icy movement
of skin in her face,
baring pearls within,
or serrated shark teeth,
‘It’s not you, it’s me,’
she says with a lie.
I didn’t even get a kiss goodbye!
Monday 27 May 2013 6 pm
An Ode To Music (My Dearest Friend)
Crystal Lee
Adelaide, SA
I will embrace you
Pull on your heart strings
I won’t speak of you unkindly
Or leave for better things
I’ll sing while you listen
Some days I’ll make you smile
But I’ll still bathe you in sadness
Just once in a while
I’ll sway you to sleep
And sing in your ear
I feel what you feel
Without unlocking the veneer
I’ll never let you down
Right here I’ll forever stay
And when no-one is around
I’ll love you just the same
I’ll play you a melody
Sing you a harmony
Soft and blissful
Slow and melancholy
Tuesday 28 May 2013
One’s Imagination
Rachel Branscombe
Quakers Hill, NSW
One’s imagination
The best place in the world
Where anything can happen
And dreams come true
Where the darkness never comes
And the sun is always shining
Where one’s heart is never broken
And childhood fantasies remain
One’s imagination
The best place in the world
Tuesday 28 May 2013 2 pm
Rose
Virginia Gow
Blackheath, NSW
In
soft
garden
gently grows
/>
a fragrant yellow
climbing rose keeping company
with daffy dandelions and lusty little lizards
solid dry stone wall keeps safe this majestic flower perfect in her thorny bower
whispering perfumeries to autumn’s brisk breezes
slowly discards each silk petal
to nestle softly
in the ground
decays
fades
gone
Memory of a fragile essence lingers still.
Tuesday 28 May 2013 6 pm
Shedding Light On Life
Deborah Stanbridge
Douglas Park, NSW
Shedding light on life
Moments of time captured
In haiku for you
Stupid alarm goes
Beep beep hit it and snooze
Running late again
Solid round red rock
Standing proudly protective
Dad meets the new date
Hungry and needy
Comforted with chocolate
Full and satisfied
Sunlight shining bright
Hot and sweating turning red
Sunburnt out my head
Singing with arms up
United before the band
Tonight we are one
At shops choosing line
Person in front needs price check
Selected wrong one
Sip the warm chai tea
The light spiced drink goes
Feeling refreshed
Hope you enjoyed
Moments of time captured
In haiku for you
Wednesday 29 May 2013
Water, Water, Everywhere
Judith La Porte
Monash, ACT
Owen Lockley shielded his eyes and gazed down at the reservoir, his muscular legs balancing on the rocky edge. His shoulder-length, beige-coloured hair was tied back into an untidy pony-tail. The still-intense late afternoon sun stung his bare arms.
So easy, he thought, grinning and slowly shaking his head.
He moved closer to the brink and leaned forward. Swaying slightly, he stared into the water’s dark blue depths. Also so easy to put an end to his own pain.
The betrayal, rejection and humiliation that he had suffered overwhelmed him momentarily. His eyes pricked with sudden surprising tears. He brushed them away with the back of his hand.
He stood up straight. No way. He was an integral part of this plan. It had taken months to organise and he was already feeling the exhilaration of seeing it come to fruition.
The four of them had filled the two large rented trucks with the barrels containing the deadly cocktail. They had arranged to meet at this isolated spot late that night.
Owen mentally repeated the mantra he had been taught after his conversion: destroy your enemies from within.
Abruptly he turned and walked to his rusty and dented Toyota. With one last glance out of the rear window at the sparkling water, he revved the engine and drove away quickly. The tyres crackled on the dry rocky track.