~~~
The two women waited alone for the bus. They had sat silently for an hour past its scheduled arrival time, only occasionally shooting furtive glances each at the other, each one smiling only inwardly at the determined flamboyance of the other, while at the same time admitting just a little admiration.
The bus was very late and the depot getting awfully cold. Furthermore, the silence was becoming deafening!
Madge spoke first, much to Ruby’s relief.
Ruby answered in her usual defiant way but immediately regretted it.
Madge seemed not to notice! There was a worldly acceptance in the older woman; a deep sense that each person had the right to choose for themselves how to navigate the world. She took out the biscuits she had bought earlier and offered them to ‘the child’.
‘Wodya call that colour?’ Ruby asked flippantly, jerking her head toward the old woman’s.
‘Ruby wine,’ Madge answered. ‘Wish the bus would hurry up! My backside will be frozen to the seat soon! I’m Madge by the way. You going far?’
‘Far as this bus will take me if it ever comes,’ the younger answered. Then her face came alive with a cheeky grin as she said, ‘I’m Ruby … like your hair.’
That was five years ago.
Now Ruby stands at a fresh graveside smiling at the memories of a conversation that took on a life of its own … and just seemed to continue from that chance meeting till the last few weeks. She cannot be sad! Her friend lived a full and happy life. She left no worldly goods. Yet she left a legacy of infinite value. She passed on to a new generation’s woman her wonderful talent for living each day to the full, allowing no ongoing regrets, nor fears for tomorrow.
Thursday 6 June 2013
The Abandoned Ballroom – The Xing Saga part 2
Jane Russell
Mount Barker, SA
Autumn leaves drifted across the ballroom floor, gently stirring in the breeze from the partly broken window. Heavy cobwebs hung in ropes from the ceiling. Rays of sunlight, dancing with dust particles, intruded into the huge, silent space, caressing the delicate crystal chandelier and making it sparkle like raindrops.
A field mouse scurried through the dust to gain refuge in a cracked skirting board, while pigeons cooed and warbled from their long-established nests in the room’s corners. Where the window glass was missing, vines crept inwards, claiming the structure for their own.
The immense oak doors leading to the rest of the house were ajar, warped into immobility. Standing at the threshold was a young woman. She seemed as ephemeral and unreal as the ancient ballroom. She was small and slender, dressed in layers of flowing silk like fabric: green, orange, brown, a flash of red. Her auburn hair hung long and wild. Below wide green eyes, freckles dusted her pixie face, and her lips were red and sensuous. She seemed lost in thought.
‘Ahem!’
She looked up towards the source of the noise. At first she didn’t see him, then he moved and she jumped.
‘Sorry to startle you,’ he continued, reassuringly, ‘I just wanted you to know that I’m here too. You’re not alone.’
She just stared at him, eyes wide with surprise. Then she seemed to pluck up courage, asking, ‘What are you?’
‘Part of a 200-strong advance guard of metalbots from the planet Xing,’ the being intoned, in a voice scratchy with disuse. ‘We dropped in to set up the invasion of Earth. Unfortunately it all went horribly wrong!’ If a robot could display emotions, he would have looked sheepish. ‘I’m one of the few who survived our invasion debacle, and I’ve been hiding out here for a while.’
‘How long’s “a while”?’ the girl asked, wondering why she had never heard of this ‘invasion’.
‘Well, when I first got here, there were hundreds of humans dancing in this room.’
‘So, what happened?’
‘Oh, the usual: they ran off screaming and I had the place to myself. For 10 years now.’ His voice sounded rather forlorn.
‘Can’t you get home to Xing?’ she asked.
‘That would be nice,’ he mused, as wistfully as a metal being was able, ‘but I don’t dare go outside – I’ve got aquaphobia!’
‘Don’t you mean agoraphobia?’ she corrected.
‘Also ombophobia,’ added the robot.
‘What’s that?’ she was feeling out of her depth.
‘Fear of rain – I mustn’t get wet you see.’
‘Why not?’
‘All my joints will seize up and I’ll be stuck!’ he confessed.
‘What if you coat yourself in waterproof grease, like Vaseline?’ she offered.
‘Oh, I didn’t think of that. Would that work, do you think?’
‘If you want to get back to your spaceship, you’ll have to take some risks.’
‘I suppose.’ He didn’t seem convinced.
The robot moved creakily around the room, keeping his distance from the broken window. A startled pigeon shat on his head. He stopped and looked up at the fragile glass of the chandelier. ‘Pretty,’ he murmured. He looked over towards the girl, wondering if she had brought any ‘Vaseline’, then visibly started when she spoke into the silence.
‘What’s your name?’ she asked, adding, ‘mine’s Faye.’
‘Ogglebog.’
‘Eh?’
‘Oggle bog,’ repeated the robot, more slowly.
Faye stiffled a giggle. ‘I’ll call you “Oggie”,’ she offered.
‘Okay.’
‘Are all of you pink with white spots?’
‘We’re supposed to be a glorious red, but I’ve faded a bit over the years. The white spots were donated by the pigeons.’
There was another long period of quiet. The pigeons resumed their cooing, and a couple landed on Oggie’s shoulders.
‘I wonder what you’ve been doing all these ten years, poor Oggie?’ Faye asked, almost rhetorically.
‘Oh, I keep myself fit, moving about, exploring where I can. I admit I was somewhat surprised that no one came to challenge me. In fact, I haven’t seen any humans around these parts for many years, now.’ He moved slowly down the middle of the ballroom once more, the pigeons hanging on, doggedly.
‘When last I tapped in to the wi-fi internet there was all sorts of warlike talk. And they weren’t talking about us!’ he reminisced. ‘Then, all of a sudden, the signal dropped out. One minute I was updating my status to “Bored now!” and the next, all my 742 Facebook friends disappeared. If the signal’s been upgraded to something I can’t sense, then the human race is more advanced than we’d been told!’ He sounded peeved.
Faye had made up her mind. ‘Oggie, I’m a fairy and I think I can help you get back to your spaceship.’
The robot paused, perusing all the data in his memory banks about ‘fairies’. The consensus seemed to be that they were capricious, fond of playing tricks, and often malicious. ‘Aah,’ he began, ‘should I be worried?’
‘I’m a good fairy.’
‘Well, in that case it’s very kind of you,’ he replied, then paused: ‘But aren’t you at all concerned about me being an invader and everything?’
She looked at him pensively, then said in a low voice, ‘There’s nothing to invade anymore. The human race became extinct five years ago. Most of the planet is now a radioactive wasteland.’
‘Oh dear, I hope it wasn’t anything we said?’
‘No, they did it all themselves.’
‘So,’ he resumed, thoughtfully, ‘a bit of a plus for fairykind?’
‘It wasn’t my fault!’ she bristled. ‘I thought they understood how double bluffs worked. They watch the same movies I do.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I disguised myself as a virus and released some highly sensitive information to the public domain, it was just a prank.’
‘Oh yes, the US anti-Chinese attack plans, I remember seeing those. I thought it was odd at the time. Them being top secret and that. The Chinese were very cross about it.’
??
?They were even crosser when I released their plans as well. Some people have no sense of humour! After that things just escalated out of control. Somebody pressed a button and the world ended within a week.’ She looked at him, sadly. ‘I didn’t mean anything by it.’
‘Thanks for the offer of help, but I think I’ll pass.’
From the way her bottom lip pouted in response, he knew he’d made the right decision.
Friday 7 June 2013
The Resin Diaries
Douglas Radcliffe
Collingwood, VIC
I’m waiting for her by the front of our house. I suck the sweet nectar from the joint and as I exhale I feel sad because I can’t just blow away my problems. My addiction is my problem. I don’t know why I’m waiting for her as I don’t enjoy her company these days. I have to tell her about the job falling through. She won’t be happy, she never is. And I can feel my mind swirling ideas of how to pay Kobe the twenty I owe him. And how do I pay Cole the half ounce I got on tick? And my PlayStation keeps telling me to hock it off, to get real and feel the sting of some interest fees for a few months. Level out brother. Gets paid and oh yes you shall be laid. These days are a swirl of pirated movies and vacuuming and washing dishes. And when the dishes aren’t completely done she photographs the remaining dishes and posts them on her page for her little network to see. She doesn’t fathom the finality of the act, that such strange actions are set in stone now. Published with emoticons in the Multiverse. It is yet another silent nail in her dream relationship’s coffin. She wanted me to house sit two suburbs away. In an analogue house with no food, tobacco or weed.
‘Oh yes he’s a handsome one. Or he used to be. He put on weight since he got married. He couldn’t keep a job see. Ah, but they are separate points, ho yes.’
‘That’s the main artery right there. If we sever it we can kill it.’
‘Oh look at him there whimpering and jonesing. As if he could ever keep up with the Joneses.’
After a while the Jones’ became distant islands of solace. They were my only relations in law, my first such foray into the formalities of getting older. And I prayed they would be my only relations by marriage. But oh yes they were by far the best friends I could have in thanks to them keeping their distance. They forgot my name on numerous occasions. They would call me Robert, my wife’s ex-boyfriend’s name. It was all by some freak accident of course. The elders muscle for supremacy but are always defeated by their own cognition, their very intent grip being lost on the fabric of time, space and of course the many names they had to remember. And they only mourned what talents that were shown so long ago, back in the proverbial day. They saw a shining light in me once. The whole world did once. They would ask me about the band. And I would tell them I destroyed the band. I was sick of the same people not showing up or being too hung over to give total commitment. And they would frown sadly. Don’t ever disrespect the sanctity of alcohol when in the company of a Catholic. It’s not yeast’s fault. It is the flesh that is weak.
Other friends in her network would tell me to audition for some talent show. Show off my singing and lyrics. What a fucking joke. Dreams are manufactured. They gulp it down hook line and sinker. They have had hard lives. They deserve to dream. I’ve been burnt too many times in the furnace of reality to buy into some rocket ship off shit island. I’ve eaten a lot of shit sandwiches. And as is customary with any paid work, I grinned and winked at the boss man with my pig rat kin. And we swirled around that nine to five nursery suckling at the bitter teat of regret and crotch rot. And we all fucked ourselves in our own little way between shifts. I would smoke the herb. Susie three seats down is on the shards. Mike two rows down on performance management, such a sweet boy, hopelessly hooked on the smack. We all fucked ourselves over because that’s what we think we are worth. And we have the pay cheques to prove it. We are all dead so we may as well start internally. The new world order wants us to eat bugs so I am brushing up on my insect husbandry. What is evident now is that insects taste better then metaphoric shit.
It’s cold on the streets today. White concrete foot paths dotted with detritus and evil paraphernalia. It’s not a bad street to live on. At the end of the street are factories and artist studios. The graffiti is like a living mould expanding and contracting across everything. Shoes hang from the phone lines, Nike and Adidas hanging there like some odd couple share house. The street art is like a friend when I feel lonely. When I am very drunk sometimes I walk my street barefoot, running inches away from syringes glinting with flecks of red and the orange of tetanus inducing rust. We never see the junkies but they can see us. They only come out late at night, like worms. There is a needle exchange at the end of our street. I remember seeing a mid nineties station wagon with four ruffians in it all excited and chatty. They were parked illegally in someone’s drive way. I stopped directly behind them and watched as they prepared their doses in unison. And almost like some elaborate choreographed dance they all cooked their blackened teaspoons to render the dose, and as one they drew the poison into the dropper’s head. It was a clock-work symphony like rifles resting on the shoulders of young soldiers. I kicked the car’s rear bumper and told them I had called the police.
‘You’re dead, cracker!’ was what the driver yelled at me as he took off at four kilometres an hour down the street. His mind mashed into the feeling of his brain disconnected and placed in a plastic bag to be put on a commission house’s roof to go rotten in the midday sun like some unwanted prawn.
Nobody ever threatened to call the cops when I smoked joints in public. They would just give a knowing smile and if they were a guy they would come over and get a toke themselves. Sometimes strangers would be flabbergasted by the quality of my herb and want my number so I could give them grams and fifties when they were down on their luck and couldn’t reach their man.
I was not a dealer though, just a guy trying to make it on my own and meet new people with random wants and needs. I left the dealing to the DSP clans. Vast sections of society who couldn’t keep a job but could shift pounds of marijuana and make thousands in weeks, not months. What strain were we smoking? Nobody knew and nobody cared. Weed either got you high or got you frustrated. There was no strain obsession like in America. There was no Canada around to prop us up. The Golden Triangle only shipped in ice and heroin. There was no hashish like in Morocco and Nepal. It was just medicine, a social sleeping medicine.
I remember once five years ago I was coming down off acid and not in my right mind. So I went to junkie central in need of some weed. The dealers would all peer into my eyes intently, trying to read my thoughts. They were trying to envision a monkey on my back.
‘Are you chasing?’
‘No my name is not Jason.’
‘Can I hook you up?’
‘What you got?’
‘You dumb fuck, there’s only one thing rolling this street, fuck off cunt!’
I asked a girl with pock marked face who she knew who could hook me up. She wanted twenty dollars for the favour. I declined. Then two guys came up to me and offered me a quarter for a reasonable price, a fat kid aged about seventeen and his friend who was in his late thirties, tall and dangerous looking. I was completely out of it. They took my money and said they were weighing up the weed in their ute. I heard the ute’s engine start so I jumped into the tray and wedged myself beside a concrete mixer. The ute stopped ten metres down the road and the scum bag seventeen year old in the passenger side got out quickly and lunged at me with a dirty serrated steak knife. His face was twisted with rage. I calmly asked for my money back and he stabbed the air in front of my face again. I jumped off the ute and he got back in and they drove off.
There were many occasions where I had to survive and learn not to do stupid things.
Saturday 8 June 2013
Cockatoos, Rats and Venus Flytraps
Stephanie Adamopoulos
Burwood East, VIC
Grandma was always a mystery to me. At eleven years o
ld, my world was turned upside down when she had a fall at her home and was given the choice of either living with my adoptive parents and me or going to a nursing home. She opted for us, she said, because she couldn’t stand the young nurses who chewed gum instead of talking and listened to their iPods for so long they forgot to bring their patients their meals while they were hot, or left them sitting on the toilet or in the shower whilst they gossiped about nonsense, although she disapproved of my parents. A lot.
Deja and Atlanta were a lesbian couple who adopted me when I was seven years old and I have never had a problem with not having a father. Grandma, however, could never understand how Atlanta could possibly love another woman and then impose this idea upon me, when I had come from a rickety background like her. She liked me for that. She liked puzzling over our past lives, noting any similarities and differences with relish, as if I was a young star shining just for her.
Along with Grandma and her prejudices, came her habits and her wonderful pets. Forty Venus flytraps kept our house at the top of the hill free of insects and spiders in every corner of the house and I’m pretty sure it deterred any would-be burglars who sneaked past our house at night time and rattled our metal bins in a search of left-over scraps. But we didn’t ever have any. Grandma’s pets took care of that. She didn’t care for cats or dogs, in fact she preferred to hit them or even eat them once they had been cooked well (she had eaten both overseas once).
Socrates filled the house with his cockatoo chatter constantly, which surprisingly made Atlanta smile when she was reading her comedic short stories to us that she wrote for the local magazine. He was the perfect critique. He told her exactly what he thought of her writing and knew when to laugh. Grandma taught him; although some of what she taught him was so bad he learnt it in Norwegian so no one could understand him except Grandma and Atlanta. Common phrases and words in English he used included ‘Rubbish!’ and ‘I’m about to be sick!’ although he could sometimes compliment her with a few grumbles like Grandma.
Socrates however didn’t like Templetomb, so called because of her uncanny ability to scare sparrows to death with a snarl and a mean face. She was a rat, after all. Whenever strangers approached the house, however, both pets would take off down the corridor, weaving past those foolish enough to stand in their way as they attacked the front door viciously. If the door was opened even a crack, Templetomb squeezed through at lightning speed, racing up the leg of the intruder before finding the best places to sink her teeth into. Of course Socrates couldn’t be left out of all of this, swearing in Norwegian, batting his wings against the door and clawing into the wood: we had to replace it five times after Grandma arrived.
Being brought up in a hard-knock life with barely a dollar to rub together and enough to eat, I likened Grandma to old Mr Scrooge, such was her mentality that absolutely everything could be reused in some form or another. Deja would sometimes secretly sneak into Grandma’s room when she was in the back yard, usually pinching pot plants from the neighbours’ gardens over the fence as pay back for being so nosy about her private affairs, whilst I was look-out until Deja had removed anything musty, mouldy and moth-eaten that even the op-shops couldn’t re-sell.
One time we found an old fire-fighting hose that surprisingly was still able to be hooked up to the fire hydrant outside our house. However, whenever Grandma found out, she usually climbed onto the kitchen table and waved her stick at us, threatening to walk out of the house and never return if we didn’t respect her more. Atlanta usually scolded her for having such seemingly childish tantrums in front of me and how she was setting such a terrible example. I neither pleaded guilty nor not guilty. I just imagined what Grandma would do if she ever left us for a better life outside of our neighbourhood. She would probably join the circus, as she had always wanted to, however I was quite sure she would positively drive everyone mad through her array of weird and wonderful acrobatics that no eighty-something-year-old should be able to do; her constant critical analysis of even the temperature of her soup (it had to be 38.7 degrees Celsius exactly or she dumped it on the waiter in the restaurant) and of course, her pets and Venus flytraps. I have never seen a photograph of her when she was young, apparently cameras weren’t around in her part of Norway when she was my age, although my history teachers disagree and say she probably doesn’t want to be jealous of her young, vibrant self. I never want to grow old!
Grandma sure could hold a grudge. After three years of living with us she still complained about Miss Disaster next door, a young woman in her twenties who once accidentally dropped a cactus on Grandma’s head. They were on either side of the fence pruning their roses and grape vine respectively, when a potted cactus toppled from a shelf onto Grandma’s head. She looked like a porcupine! Poor Miss Disaster didn’t even realise what had happened until Grandma began roaring like a pride of teenage male lion cubs competing for the loudest and scariest sound. By then Miss Disaster had fallen off her ladder into her vegetable garden, squashed her prize pumpkin whilst sending her watering can and clippers flying over the fence. The clippers whistled past Socrates but the watering can landed on his head! What a sight it was, Readers, with Miss Disaster squashing just about every other vegetable in her garden as she squelched to the safety of her back gate, whilst Grandma and Socrates retained their constant complaint. Their relationship has never been the same since. Grandma always grumbles whenever Miss Disaster waves and casts a cheery hello over the fence and will never let me forget how that ‘walking disaster’ nearly killed her.
By now I guess you would have a fairly good idea of just how strange and wonderful Grandma could be. With Deja and Atlanta as my parents, I thought I was on top of the world.
The door had been replaced for the first time after two years and starting high school and just fitting in was my biggest worry. To help out, Grandma insisted Socrates and Templetomb accompanied me. In a pick-up truck with the forty Venus flytraps in the back we clunked and rattled to outside my new school. Before I could thank Grandma, she leapt out of the truck and dragged me up the steps.
‘Quickly, Theresa, hide! That dreadful man over there cannot possibly be your teacher!’ I glanced back to see an older gentleman looking not unlike a typical farmer from the outback striding up the steps towards us. I couldn’t detect anything wrong with him but Grandma whisked me away to my classroom. See, she went to this school too and so had Atlanta and Deja so they figured I should go too. It hadn’t changed since it was first built, except for a few modern adaptations. This strangely included the allowance of pets as companions, particularly for boarders. Grandma gave me a quick hug and presented me with a Venus flytrap. ‘If he speaks to you, don’t tell him you’re related to me.’
‘Why Grandma?’
‘Because he once took me on a date to the dumpiest restaurant you could imagine! He was filthy, unhygienic and had the worst sense of humour I’ve ever come across. Then he had the nerve to try and hold my hand at school! Let me tell you something Theresa, if you ever find yourself on a date, don’t ever let them try to hold your hand unless they’ve washed it with eucalyptus.’ Then she hurried away, peering into the classroom and pulling faces at the children.
I entered my room with Socrates on one shoulder, Templetomb on the other and a Venus flytrap in my hands. Reader, would you believe me if I told you as soon as I stepped in a kangaroo bowled me over? And I thought I had crazy pets! There was every kind of pet you could name, from your average dog to a Mexican walking fish, scorpion and of course the kangaroo. Thirty teenagers and a multitude of pets was probably the most amazing class I had ever come across. Grandma, I learnt later, had had a hand in it. She brought her pet cockatoo to school every day like I had, and had through learning and repeating phrases to her, had improved her work ethic so much the teachers begged the Principal to allow all pets into the classroom. Eventually they agreed, once Grandma had left super glue on the Principal’s chair and gumballs in the hallway as well as a variety of other pranks until she got
her way.
Another year later and we had gone through two more doors thanks to Socrates and Templetomb’s even feistier daughter, Devil. Deja and I had done another clean-up of Grandma’s assortment of trash and treasure. Unfortunately for us, she found out and there was a travelling circus in town. She packed her bags and just as she stepped outside, Miss Disaster struck again. Being a bit of an experimenter, she had filled a blow-up paddling pool full of jelly and placed it on large block of ice to see if she could make the biggest bowl of jelly for the record books. Unfortunately for both of them, Grandma hurled a stone at a potted rose on the fence which fell into Miss Disaster’s yard. It punctured the paddling pool. Now Miss Disaster had used a large pump for her pool, so when it was punctured, it shot off into the air. Have you ever seen a flying paddling pool of jelly, Reader? Unbelievable as it was, it was true. It soared above our house, looking not unlike a flying saucer with Socrates in hot pursuit of it, determined to puncture it more. Did I forget to mention Devil was riding on his back? She pounced and bit the plastic securely. It dropped like an anvil in the cartoons. Onto Grandma. Covered in jelly she was, from head to toe with the pool hanging off her head like an enormous floppy hat.
‘Miss Disaster! Will you keep your experiments away from respectable people like me?!’ Before the poor woman could answer, Grandma had jumped onto her skateboard and raced away towards the circus.
We arrived in the pick-up truck just in time to buy tickets for the show. There was no time to look for Grandma, so we just forced our way through the crowd to our seats and hoped Grandma was alright. We needn’t have worried too much. The first items were the usual, clowns, juggling and trapeze artists but we still couldn’t see Grandma. Then, lo and behold, she appeared at the top of the tightrope with Socrates on one shoulder and Devil on the other. Atlanta just laughed at our horrified faces.
‘Don’t worry, your Grandma used to hop along fence posts for fun when she was your age. She’ll be fine.’ And she was. You should have seen it. Grandma wore a brightly coloured leotard and balanced perfectly. She somersaulted, jumped, hopped and pranced her way across. Sometimes she stopped and hopped on the spot a few times, lengthening her pauses between them. Deja smiled and squeezed my hand.
‘Morse code. She says, “I love you”.’ I grinned back and waved as Grandma executed her final jump across before bowing and disappearing down the pole and backstage. I never doubted she could run away with the circus ever again.
By the time I was seventeen, our fourth door had been installed and Devil was on her last legs but still feisty. She still managed to scramble up strangers’ legs and ensure they never returned. Miss Calamity had also taken on a boarder, a nineteen-year-old university student called Tristan. Instantly, he began following me around while Grandma did the opposite and avoided the mysterious farmer-like teacher and gave me odd advice on how to deal with boyfriends.
Unfortunately for Tristan, I already had a girlfriend, Rusalka. Often we’d sneak into my bedroom up the fire escape Grandma had insisted on being built once I started learning to cook because she was convinced I would burn the house down despite Deja’s careful teaching. I’m sure Deja and Atlanta knew about what we did up there but they never let on to Grandma, who was convinced I was avoiding Tristan because I was shy. He was up to her standard though, unfortunately, so imagine my surprise when he turned up on my doorstep with tickets to the movies. I couldn’t pluck up the courage to crush his hopes so I went. However, I did notice a note with the tickets in Grandma’s hand writing.
It wasn’t until after the film that it went wrong for our relationship as a couple. Tristan hugged me close outside the theatre and before I could stop him, kissed me. Seriously, Reader, it broke my heart to carefully push him away and admit squarely that there was no future in our relationship because I already had a girlfriend and Grandma had put him up to it. Surprisingly, he just laughed.
‘I’ve seen you sneaking upstairs with a girl most afternoons but I just wanted to be sure. Can we still be friends?’ I just hugged him, before he began telling me the latest about living with Miss Disaster. He told me about how Miss Disaster had accidentally poured honey all over the floor one afternoon and forgot to clean it up. Later she fell in it, got stuck and because the back door was open, a swarm of bees flew towards her sticky outline and ended up stinging her so much she promised she’d never have honey in the house again.
That night when Grandma interrogated me about the date I told her the truth. She nearly exploded on the spot. ‘Are you serious Theresa? You’re telling me you planted the idea that I sent those movie tickets? Why Theresa I am offended you could possibly think your dear Grandma would scheme like that.’ As reprimand for accusing her, Grandma proceeded to set about stealing as many pot plants as she could from the neighbours until I withdrew my accusations, whereupon she began throwing them back to their original owners so they smashed and made an astounding mess. I learnt another lesson about Grandma: her word rules.
In hindsight I should have been sadder about replacing our front door for the fifth and final time. But I wasn’t. Rusalka and I were playing badminton in the backyard while Socrates commentated for us. He sat perched in the middle of the net, making it sag as well as becoming a target for our shots.
‘Rubbish!’ he squawked at me as my shot narrowly missed knocking him off his perch. Rusalka just laughed and sent one over his head.
‘Socrates, if everyone was as open with their opinions as you, we would all be at war with each other.’
Socrates replied, ‘Get off the field!’ just as my shot knocked him squarely in the chest, toppling him momentarily so he hung from the net upside down from his talons. Devil’s son Dragon was busy chasing the other native birds and the neighbour’s cats along the fences, hissing viciously and lunging at them to taste the creatures he was stalking.
By now Grandma, Deja and Atlanta had followed the fun outside, until Miss Disaster began to bulldoze her garden bed next door. She’d hired the machine just yesterday but she seemed to be having fun, whooping like someone on a bucking rodeo horse or bull. The Venus flytraps were enjoying the sun as well, all forty of them. Just as Rusalka beat me for the fifth time in a row; we heard an ominous crunching sound. We turned to see the back wooden fence cracking and splitting as something heavy leaned its weight on it. Suddenly the bulldozer with Miss Disaster riding in it appeared, bringing the entire fence down around her.
‘Hello everyone!’ she exclaimed just as she hit the side of the house where the forty Venus flytraps were residing. They all flew into the air, smashing into the windows and onto Miss Disaster. Grandma screamed and fell backwards, onto the concrete steps leading up to the back door, hitting her head like a hammer on an anvil. She was silent for the first time in her life. Atlanta quickly grabbed the phone and called an ambulance.
She died in hospital that night from excess blood in her brain. We all stood by her bedside, Socrates and Dragon included. Surprisingly, she seemed to be smiling as she passed away, as if she wanted to burn a happy thought in our minds. Every year Rusalka accompanies us to her grave on her anniversary, and we have never had to replace our front door ever again. Socrates, Dragon and his descendants just never tried to destroy the door to chase away strangers. I think they only did it to please Grandma once upon a time.
Sunday 9 June 2013
The Butterfly Tattoo
David Anderson
Woodford, NSW
My fondest memories from my teenage years are of my three closest friends, Peter, Jamie, and Colin. They called themselves The Three Musketeers, Athos – Porthos and Aramis. I was accepted into their gang and became known as D’Artagnan. Everyone had difficulty telling Peter and Jamie apart, even their parents. Even Ellen, the boy’s sister, said it was only Peter’s silly laugh that gave him away. Good times were on the beach a stone’s throw from our houses, or rainy days in the bedroom absorbing the latest music and the small talk of the local kids. Bad times I try to forget; like th
e vicious beatings I received from the Morgan brothers. Being the smallest of the ‘Musketeers’, Jamie and Peter both protected me when they could. And on more than one occasion Peter beat the living hell out of them.
We’d often discussed our future careers. Peter a lawyer, Jamie a naval officer, Colin an engineer, and myself a doctor, and our scholastic achievements suggested we might well succeed in our ambitions. It was because of my interest in medicine that one day Peter decided once and for all to settle the question of whether I had the nerve to perform any type of surgery.
‘Go on. Do it, Steve.’ Peter rolled back his sleeve and winked at Jamie. He was wearing me down but I was resisting, and I groped for an excuse.
‘Your Mum will kick my arse from here to Palm Beach if she sees it.’ Weak, but it worked.
‘Okay, chicken head.’ Peter stripped off his shirt and held up his arm. ‘Put it here – in my armpit.’ As usual D’Artagnan gave in to Athos, and I spent the next hour with my crude tools and inks tattooing a rough design of a butterfly into Peter’s armpit. We’d been drinking vodka to boost our courage and I splashed it occasionally on my work, and this may be the only reason Peter never developed septicaemia. This incident caused me a sleepless night with worry, but it was only a prelude to the terrible event that took place the next day.
Peter always blamed himself for Jamie’s accident. Perhaps he did push him too far, although nobody ever held him to blame.
‘You want to join the bloody Navy but you can’t swim past the breakers. If you want to pass the entrance test you’ll have to be a strong swimmer.’ Peter stood over Jamie who held his head between his knees, close to tears. He sprang up and, grabbing Peter’s surf board, ran down the beach, half crying, half yelling out in anger at his brother.
‘Peter the hero! You think you’re so good. I’ll show you, smart arse!’ He ran into the water and plunged into the boiling surf. Peter stood with his hands on his hips, a grin on his face.
‘This will test the little prick.’ But he could see Jamie was never going to get far, just swinging his arms through the water and getting nowhere. He ran down to the sea and swam out to Jamie who motioned him to stay away, but Peter grabbed the back of the board, kicked his powerful legs, and together they swam out past the breakers. Peter gave Jamie some elementary surfing instruction and joined a friend on his board while Jamie attempted a solo run. I felt the apprehension in my chest as he caught a wave and rose to his feet. He stood shakily for a moment and seemed in control, but I knew the sea that day was only for experienced board riders. I cursed Peter for his lack of sense, and this was proven when Jamie tumbled head first off the board and into the boiling surf.
Peter had hitched a ride back on a surf ski and was running up the beach looking back for Jamie. But Jamie hadn’t yet surfaced from his fall and the board was see sawing in the crashing waves.
‘You silly bastard! You’ve killed him.’ I lost control and didn’t stop yelling at Peter until the surf rescue dragged a limp Jamie back to the shore. He’d been too long in the water and near death. He hadn’t regained consciousness even when the ambulance drove him away, with Peter crying uncontrollably by his side. Jamie was in a coma for a week, but when he awoke, his damaged brain, suffering from cerebral hypoxia, leaving him intellectually disabled.
So, for a time the Three Musketeers were blown apart. Aramis, or rather, Colin, moved up to Cairns and died in a fishing accident. Peter didn’t talk much to me anymore, or to anyone else for that matter. Jamie left high school for a special school for his disability, and my father was transferred and we moved to the country, so I lost touch with Peter and Jamie for the rest of our school years.
The next time I saw Peter, he was my roommate at university. He’d noticed my advertisement on the noticeboard for someone to share my digs. He moved in, and for a time everything appeared normal, unless I mentioned Jamie. Then Peter withdrew into himself and dropped the subject.
Peter’s debut on the university review stage was stunning. He’d joined the review as a release from the pressure of his studies, but I had no idea of the impact he would have on an audience. He was a natural, and transformed himself into his characters so completely that I forgot it was Peter on the stage. I was now in second year medicine, the only one of the ‘Musketeers’ to fulfil his ambition, as Peter failed to pass his law grades owing to his commitment to acting. Within two years he had graduated from stage to screen without any formal training and was given the lead in a major Australian film.
I felt sure Peter had himself sorted out and was unaware of any problems until Ellen confided in me at a party to celebrate the twins’ twenty first birthday. She asked me to walk with her to the beach and our conversation made me confused about Peter’s wellbeing. We reminisced about the old days when I suddenly saw Ellen now as a grown woman, more than as the twins’ kid sister. I found myself fantasising about making love to her when she turned to me, her eyes brimming with tears. She sat down on the sand and broke down.
‘I’m so worried about Peter. He’s not as happy as he makes out, and still feels bad about Jamie.’
I put my arm around her shoulder to comfort her. ‘But that was five years ago. Surely he’s over it now? He can’t change things.’
‘Jamie idolises him and this makes him feel guilty because his life is going so well and Jamie seems to be getting worse. Did you know he’s thinking of dropping out of this movie and giving up acting?’ This meant Peter was willing to sacrifice his career for his guilt.
‘I had no idea he was feeling like this. He certainly doesn’t show it.’
Ellen took my hand. ‘Please talk to him Steve, and try to help him sort it out. He loves you like a brother.’
I told her I would, and wanted to make love to her there on the beach, and felt a pang of remorse that I felt for her in that way while she was so upset. I gave her a hug and we sat for a while saying nothing at all.
I talked to Peter about Jamie, but he was evasive, and said that the expectations of him to succeed were getting the better of him, as other formally trained experienced actors were jealous of his overnight success. He promised to take a well earned break when the movie was completed.
A week later I stood on the movie set. Peter had invited me to see him execute a fairly dangerous stunt that the producers had agreed they would let him perform. He would drive a stunt car along the highway for about a kilometre while a remote camera filmed him inside the car. Accelerating towards a pre-arranged smash involving a low loader truck, he would then stop, as a stunt car driven by a professional stunt driver would finish the sequence by running up the ramp of the low loader, along the cab and back onto the highway.
In the movie, Peter’s attention would be diverted from the road to the CD player and he would apparently run up the back of the low loader and onto the road. Editing would see Peter perform the whole sequence, thus creating the illusion of reality. I still recall the excitement I felt that day, the slight envy at the attention Peter was receiving, and the admiring glances from the female members of the crew. I still remember his promise as he shook my hand.
‘As soon as we wrap up the movie I’ll take a week off and we’ll pick up Jamie and head up the coast with the boards, just like the old days.’
He spun the car around, roared up the road and disappeared over the crest of the hill. The director gave orders to Peter over a two way radio. The crew began to light a fire on the back of the low loader.
‘Peter? This is Arnold. Are you ready?’
Peter’s quirky laugh crackled over the air. ‘Yes Arnie baby. This is the big one. Get those cameras rolling. Remote camera on ... now.’
‘Right Pete.’ Arnold winked at me. ‘Let’s get the show on the road.’
‘Stuff it!’ Peter’s voice crackled over the radio. Arnold frowned. Peter’s camera switched off.
‘What’s up Pete?’ Arnold was obviously trying to hide his displeasure as Peter replied.
‘Sorry to hold up the sho
w Arnie, but I’m afraid I’ll have to get out and have a pee.’
Arnold lost his temper and gazed up at the setting sun. ‘Well bloody hurry up! The sun’s getting lower and we can’t afford to shoot this scene more than one day.’ He threw the microphone down and ran his hands through his sparse hair.
‘Peter, signing off for a widdle minute.’
Arnold shrugged his shoulders and grinned. The crew walked around the low loader with CO2 cylinders and put the fire out.
‘I suppose he’s right. It’s dangerous to drive with a full bladder. I’ll be glad when we wrap. Pete needs a break, his workload is wearing him down.’
‘We might head north for a holiday,’ I said. ‘A few weeks surfing will fix him.’
‘I don’t think he’ll be in that.’ Arnold lit a cigarette. ‘He’s got a phobia about water since Jamie’s accident I reckon. He’s lost a few good parts because of it.’ I was confused about this after Peter’s parting remarks.
‘Pee pee completed and ready to roll.’ Peter was all set for the take.
The shoot sequence elements proceeded and Arnold called for action. A trail of petrol which led to the low loader was lit and a large flash of flame erupted from the wreck as a thick column of smoke rose to the sky. Arnold rapped out orders like a general in a battle.
‘Stunt car two. Are you ready?’ The stunt driver acknowledged. ‘Stunt car two. As soon as Peter pulls up, you accelerate and finish the stunt. And don’t forget to switch on your remotes, both of you. We don’t want any slip ups. Peter, are you there?’
Peter replied, ‘Peter here. Switch to remote ... now.’ Peter’s head appeared on the screen in front of Arnold and I could hear the revving of the powerful V8 stunt cars in the distance.
‘Everyone ready? This is a take.’
‘Sound.’ The boom operator was ready. Arnold glanced around the set, and nodded to the clapper.
‘Okay. Mark it.’ The clapper held up the clapboard slate. ‘Scene fifteen, take one.’ He snapped the clapper shut.
‘Rolling.’ The cinematographer was ready. Arnold picked up his microphone.
‘When you’re ready Pete ... action!’ Arnold sat back in his chair biting his nails. The roar of Peter’s V8 was drowned out by the squeal of his tyres over a kilometre away. Peter was heading in our direction. A smoke bomb’s trail rose beside the road where the stunt driver would take off and Peter would brake and pull up. The stunt driver revved his engine. My stomach churned at the electric thrill of it all as Peter’s car appeared over the crest of the hill, headlights blazing, the engine screaming on acceleration. Arnold threw down the mike and glared at the TV monitor. Peter was staring straight ahead, his eyes covered in dark sunglasses.
‘What the hell? He’s supposed to be fiddling with the CD player and he’s still wearing his sunglasses the silly bastard! Can’t anyone follow a script around here?’ He turned away in disgust. But my attention was diverted from Arnold’s outburst to Peter’s fast approaching car. My stomach dropped. He wasn’t going to stop, I was sure of it. His car roared past Stunt Car Two and the smoke bomb. Arnold turned and his face froze. Everyone held their breath as Peter’s car headed at full speed towards the flaming wreck. The only words I heard before the impact were from Arnold.
‘Jesus, no!’ Peter’s car collided with the low loader at 120 kph and exploded in a ball of flame. It hurtled up the ramp and disintegrated, its parts scattered around the road.
I broke the news to Peter’s parents. Ellen was away on holidays but returned for the funeral. I found Jamie on the beach in tears, looking out to sea. He said he’d known something was wrong as he had a strange feeling that led him to the beach, a place he had avoided since his accident. He cried on my shoulder and we talked of the old days until the sun set and the beachgoers packed their belongings and headed home.
A coroner’s inquest gave a verdict of death by misadventure, as a problem was found in the accelerator system. Peter’s ashes were scattered from surfboards by his friends at the beach we’d loved since childhood. I saw a lot of Jamie, and even more of Ellen in the following two years, when we announced our engagement. Jamie’s moods fluctuated from extreme elation to dark depression and we gave up hope of his full recovery. Now, two years after Peter’s death, we were celebrating Jamie’s birthday.
I can’t recall the thoughts that raced through my mind that day, or in which order they came. Was it disbelief – revulsion – pity, or admiration? All I know is that my world collapsed completely, and it isn’t until now, one year later, that I can put the facts into perspective and relate the full story.
We were relaxing, and were fairly inebriated after lunch in Jamie’s backyard, when I decided to stretch myself by doing some chin ups on the pergola. I started to wilt when Jamie laughed, and jumped up on the beam.
I then realised how far Peter’s tortured mind had driven him, and the evil he had dealt on his brother. He was a far better actor than any of us had ever imagined. I know now that he had lost his mind long before it was apparent to us. Riddled with guilt for Jamie’s accident and of how Jamie still worshipped him, his mind had snapped and he had planned Jamie’s murder.
He would take Jamie’s place; poor retarded Jamie. A complete method actor, he would apply Stanislavsky’s teachings, and not simply ‘act’ the part, but actually ‘be’ the part of his character. He became Jamie. And so I learned how he had driven earlier with Jamie to the starting point of his stunt, dropped him off and getting him to wait in the bush.
Later, while commencing the stunt, he used the excuse of relieving himself to trade places with Jamie and put him behind the wheel. Jamie was still an excellent driver, but in his simple state, Peter persuaded him to do the stunt himself, so he could be as famous as Peter. He told Jamie to drive straight towards the low loader at the crash site as fast as he could, that this was a special movie car with a computer that would perform the stunt by itself when it reached the truck. Poor Jamie had believed him.
Peter had spoken into the microphone, then told Jamie to press the remote switch. He made him wear dark glasses to disguise his simple look, and the rest was easy. The car had a full tank of petrol as it was not supposed to be involved in the final part of the stunt. A few adjustments to the carburettor linkages while he was waiting for the shoot meant that when Jamie put his foot down, it wouldn’t release, so the car forged ahead to destruction.
Who related these events to me? Peter told me. Peter told me as he was playing the part of Jamie, a part he had been tragically playing to perfection for two years. A part that his tortured brain told him was his punishment for Jamie’s condition and a way of ending his brother’s broken life. He told me after he stripped off his shirt, did a few chins, and dropped to the ground, and I ran to him screaming.
‘Murderer! How could you kill your own brother?’ He broke down and told me the whole story. He knew that the alcohol had made him lose concentration and make a mistake. I had seen then that this was not Jamie. How? Because I was the only other living person who knew the secret that four young boys had shared many years ago. It had been me who had crudely etched the tattoo of a butterfly onto Peter’s armpit.
Monday 10 June 2013
Just Another Day At The Office
Leonie Bingham
Katoomba, NSW
Where does she go at lunchtime?
Where does she go at lunchtime
every working day?
I watch her taking notes, she
stashes them away;
she eats nuts and wholemeal bread
umpteen times a day,
though she never
joins us
in the meal room.
Perhaps she’s worried we’ll ask too many questions …
She has no photos on her desk, or makeup on her face,
no two inch patent heels or clutter in her space.
Where does she go at lunchtime?
She’s only gone an hour.
I know she isn’t wor
king out because I’ve checked the gym:
at five to one her mobile rings, she answers looking grim.
She scurries to the kitchen, talks in whispers then she leaves,
and shields her pallid face behind her batwing sleeves.
Today her handbag spilled onto the floor,
I saw handcuffs, pill bottles and more,
Now you can’t buy those at the corner store.
Where does she go at lunchtime?
I hear she lives at home though she’s almost thirty
and her previous job involved something dirty:
classified, they say –
perhaps some secret government department.
Where on Earth is she going at lunchtime?
She’s not one for conversation,
cursed with verbal constipation,
she bolts at one o’clock, across the shipping dock
and down a seedy, littered lane.
Past the brothel, tattoo shop, then she disappears – we stop:
she’s gone and
outsmarted us again.
Who is it that calls her at five to one,
and where does she go at lunchtime?
It’s time I invited her to dinner …
Tuesday 11 June 2013
This Is Goodbye
Jessica Soul
Avondale Heights, VIC
Traces of your face
Outlined while you sleep
My fingertips glide over your creamy white cheek
And the touch of your plump red lips
My heart flutters and pursing my own lips apart
My tongue swirls gliding over them
And moistens the tension that appears like salt
My awe is on you while you sleep
In my own heaven
My thoughts of you
Make me rise up and into the blue
Where my heart is racing and sounding the alarm
To be the luckiest lady
Having you on my arm
And now you lay perfectly still
Simply beautiful in my bed
Last night meant forever
Those thoughts stuck in my head
But when you are beside me
Knowing this may not be so
My heart begins to bleed
And my eyes begin to see
And now having to let you go
So, this is goodbye.
Wednesday 12 June 2013
I Dreamt Of You
Mary Krone
Glenbrook, NSW
I dreamt of you
An erotic dream
that woke me warm
I wear a glow
As I go about the office
We barely speak
An hello or hey
Should we pass
Most days I don’t see you
Rarely a conversation
How was your weekend?
Nice weather
Will I blush when next I see you?
Will I absentmindedly trail my fingers over your bum?
I sit at my desk and think of you
My mind has been intimate with you
My body wants to follow
I have a secret about you
It is secret from you
Thursday 13 June 2013
A Chip Off The Old Block
Bob Edgar
Wentworth Falls, NSW
Danny was sixteen years old and keen as mustard
Not averse to hard work, and never flustered
His Dad had lined up for him, an apprenticeship
Plumber just like the old man, akin to a fellowship.
‘It’ll toughen yer up son, you’ll be nobody’s fool,
not like Bert’s boy, he’s goin’ to hairdressin’ school.’
That night in the shower recess
Danny was resigned, more or less
To becoming a plumber just like Dad,
not to mention following in the footsteps, of his brother Brad.
As he contemplated a life among drains
His eyes settled on the meshed hole, covered in stains
His mind’s eye followed the drain to the pipes outside
Soon he’ll have shovel in hand, with nowhere to hide.
He thinks, ‘What goes down the drain, this suction at my toes?
Body hair all black or grey, some may be blonde, who knows?
Mucus from the apertures, snot from the nose
That last pimple I burst, away it flows.
Was that a fart? I hope so, still ... no matter
What comes out, goes down ... pipes grow fatter.’
All clean and dry, Danny, now pyjama cladded
Says to his Father, whose dreams are soon to be shattered
‘Dad, as your son and heir, I assume the role of confessor ...
to tell you I will be joining Bert’s boy, to become a hairdresser.’
Friday 14 June 2013
Praise For Penny (And Her Poise)
Demelza
Taroona, TAS
I read the ad on the side of a bus
About women one in three
Who are subject to experiences
That would disable you or me
The reasons they may vary
But the outcome seems the same
A puddle on the floor
And a face hung down in shame
But Penny’s got the answer
(Names here have been changed
Places dates and photographs
Have all been rearranged)
Now Penny’s got the answer
She always comes prepared
In case she has a coughing fit
Or chokes on garlic bread
She doesn’t cross her legs
Or race out to the loo
Cause Penny’s wearing Poise tonight
And that, she says, will do!
Other brands are common
But Penny says inferior
‘You’ve got to get the Poise, dears
They really are superior.’
So if you’re scared to sneeze
And you’re the one in three
Think of Penny and her Poise, dear
Go buy a pack and see!
Saturday 15 June 2013 4 pm
The Countdown
Emma-Lee Scott
Callaghan, NSW
Ghastly.
Shut up.
Unseemly.
Be quiet.
Broken.
I know.
One.
Two.
Three.
Seeping,
Swimming,
Weeping.
One,
Two.
Three.
Falling,
Forever,
Deeply.
Listen.
No.
Open.
Closed.
Masked.
I see.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Turning,
Hurting,
Burning.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Trying,
Stopping,
Crying.
Why?
Because.
Why?
Because.
Quiet.
Because.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
Hiding,
Pretend,
Begin.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
Break down,
Give up,
See the ground.
I wonder.
What is?
I wonder.
How come.
I choose.
Ten.
Sunday 16 June 2013