narratorAUSTRALIA Volume Three

It Never Goes Away

  Ruth Withers

  Uarbry, NSW

  It never goes away. Never.

  It dulls – yes. It becomes reminiscent of a large, deep bruise or a tender scar.

  You’re always aware of it. It’s sore all the time, but it doesn’t incapacitate you – not now. You learn to live with it – to work around it. Then, from time to time, you bump it and it brings the tears to your eyes. It throbs. It lives.

  Sometimes you even poke it on purpose. I don’t really know why.

  Maybe you want to see if it still hurts as much. It always does. It always should. Because if that bruise – that scar – disappears, so does all you have left of those pieces of your heart, your soul, your being that were torn from you – however long ago.

  Don’t tell me I should have forgotten. I never will. I choose not to.

  This is the third of Ruth’s short pieces on the loss of a child which we published across the day. Ruth said that while it had no rhyme or rhythm, she couldn’t bring herself to mess with it. It is what it is and she called it a poem simply because she couldn’t call it a story.

  Ed: The loss of a child does not fit with the natural order of things – we are supposed to go first, our children to outlive us. Sadly, this doesn’t always happen, and the one thing that is a fact, is that you never ‘get over it’. This piece expresses this concept in such a raw, honest understanding of the situation in a form which is, as Ruth says, not a poem, and yet it is poetic. The defiant ending beautifully reinforces the strength of this piece.

  Monday 29 July 2013

  Of Raspberry, Yoke And Yoga

  Andris Heks

  Megalong Valley, NSW

  The grass is up to my neck. Wherever I look, there is wild grass and a few old oak trees here and there.

  It’s June 1954, Cool Valley, Hungary.

  The summer sun wraps the whole field in golden yellow light. It’s warm. Not a cloud above, just the vast blue sky arching from horizon to horizon.

  As I move forward some grasshoppers are disturbed and go airborne only to duck for cover again before the hungry swallows can swoop on them. The air is filled with the smell of grass.

  The perennial bee flights ensure that the whole field resonates with the sound of humming. Lots of white cabbage butterflies hover over the grass; some even land beside me.

  But I am not interested. The butterfly net in my hand is for another exclusive purpose: to bag the elusive swallow tailed butterfly. They are magnificent with their huge vermillion fake eyes decorating their double tails which stretch out like the ribbons of colourful kites. The fake eyes surrounded by decorative multicoloured fancyworks are reminiscent of peacock feathers.

  The swallowtail is much bigger than the ordinary cabbage butterfly with huge gracious wings which can stretch to 10 centimetres across. Few children with a butterfly collection could resist the temptation of trying to catch at least one of them even though they are protected. So hunting them has that extra excitement of acting like a wicked poacher.

  But it is not just a swallowtail that I am after. I would also love to lay my hands on a stag beetle, preferably with huge double stags. And if I could also find a shed snakeskin, well, that would really make my day. I know these are all here somewhere in this vast field, hidden out of sight in the tall grass.

  I reach a clearing with a stream. I quench my thirst with crystal clear water and soak my feet in it. My hot red feet tingle and steam in the ice cold water. I look up at the branches of a tall oak tree towering over me. I feel the gentle breeze stroking my face.

  I am thoroughly contented. In fact, I am so relaxed that I decline the temptation to climb the oak tree to steal the eggs from a bird nest that I just sighted not too high up in the tree. For a moment I couldn’t even care if I did not catch a prized swallowtail or a staghorn beetle. I feel like a jungle boy protected and nurtured by the tall wild grass around.

  I recall the famous lines of Petőfi’s poem that I learnt in year two of my primary school in Budapest just before we broke for this summer holiday.

  Oh, nature, oh glorious nature. What language could compete with you? How great you are and the more you keep quiet,

  The more eloquently and the more volumes you speak!

  I am starting to feel hungry, but I didn’t bring lunch and I don’t want to return home. I survey the scene.

  Some 250 metres away not far up on a hill I spot strips of long red rows. My guess is that they are ripe raspberries. My mouth waters at the prospect of checking them out. So I head for the hill in a hurry. At its bottom, there is a winding dirt road leading up to the gardens. There is an ox, yoked to an old cart with an even older man driving it. He offers me a lift uphill. It turns out that he owns the raspberry farm. He invites me in for a taster. To make sure I seem polite, I tell him I haven’t got money on me.

  ‘Never mind,’ he laughs kindly. ‘Have as much as you like.’

  Well, that’s all I needed to hear! He probably has no clue as to how hungry I am.

  When we get to the raspberry rows he lets me off and stops his ox. He leaves his cart and walks leisurely to his farmhouse.

  Now it’s just me, the ox, yoked to its cart, and the raspberry fields.

  I invade the bushes like a hungry fox let loose in a chookpen. I eat so much raspberry that I can barely move. I stagger to the ox.

  I never saw a yoked animal before. But the image of this yoked ox remains clearly etched in my mind to this day. The yoke ensured that the cart and he were inseparable. Wherever the driver directed the ox, the cart had to follow too.

  Twenty-two years later when I started yoga, I learnt that yoga means ‘yoke’. It would yoke my character to my soul so that I would go with it without deviation. The memory of the generous farmer, the ox and its yoked cart helped me to understand the magnificence of this concept.

  The old man’s raspberries eased my hunger. Like every delicious yoga session.

  Tuesday 30 July 2013

  Faith

  Vita Monica

  Southbank, VIC

  It begins with a plot

  A plot to laugh

  A plot to love

  A plot to hate

  What is behind a smile?

  Or behind this self?

  Friends

  Family

  Am I with the air inside me, or is this who I am?

  Is the world really a good place?

  I am between the trees

  The most wicked one

  People ...

  People that I loved

  How do you see ‘a girl left by the most beloved one?’

  Laugh, love, hate, jealousy, rushing emotion

  Can you still decide?

  ‘Cry’ whispered of my heart.

  In the world of darkness, I am searching for a light

  Will there be a single light

  That is strong enough to break this shadow?

  The shadow of the one that does not exist

  I am behind the shadow

  Even death will not see me

  To where I belong

  I am a shadow

  What if reality is not reality?

  What if the things we can’t see is the true reality.

  Then we are living in the shadow

  Faith

  Tuesday 30 July 2013 4 pm

  Liberate

  Joanna Rain

  Nelson Bay, NSW

  I feel I’ve woken up from death!

  Come out the other side –

  To see that I am still somewhat alive,

  In no particular place and no particular time.

  This new existence is not even close

  To what I came to expect,

  Every fathomable hurdle has been met –

  I face two paths now,

  One leads to freedom and one leads to regret.

  Love becomes too painful to be contained –

  And the vibrancy of life dies –

  If in mind’s cage,
love remains.

  The pain grows stronger, it does not relent –

  There will come a time when love

  Will not allow itself to be repressed.

  From one small drop love expands, it infiltrates –

  Everything it contacts, every connection it creates –

  And if it perceives a barrier –

  It will just apply more pressure –

  And under its pressure it will cause debris,

  As it creates a path and reigns supreme.

  So in spite of love, I can no longer fight

  And from it I can no longer run –

  And by trying to deny it –

  PAIN is what my existence has become.

  Love would create a path to my last breath,

  If it meant that love could be expressed.

  Wednesday 31 July 2013

  Murder Me Before I Die

  David Anderson

  Woodford, NSW

  15 March 2035, 09.00 hrs.

  ‘Welcome back. So you proved you can do it.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d actually do it. You must have baulked for a second or two.’

  ‘I didn’t hesitate. I just aimed and pulled the trigger; right between the eyes.’

  ‘Did you get the DNA – hair, fingernail clippings, and blood?’

  ‘No problem, they’re right here. Here’s his wallet as well.’

  ‘That might prove handy. Okay, I’ll get them all tested and then we can publish. You’re sure that your brain cancer is incurable? It will be hard to explain why we are publishing the fact that you have murdered him and that you’re admitting guilt.’

  ‘The doctor says I have maybe three months at best.’

  ‘Good. The DNA tests may take around two weeks. I’ll call you when I get the results. So you aren’t having any problems after the trip?’

  ‘No. I feel perfectly fine. If I didn’t know this bitch is about to explode my brain open soon, I’d say I never felt better.’

  ‘Well then, I think we’ll leave it at that.’

  ‘Very well. I’ll wait on your call. Goodbye, and thank you once again.’

  ‘No, I surely must thank you. Our work will be more involved now than I thought. But publishing will make it all worthwhile.’

  21 March 2035, 14.45 hrs.

  ‘I thought you said the results would take around two weeks.’

  ‘Yes. That’s right. I wanted the analysis to undergo every test available to obtain the maximum result.’

  ‘But it’s only been a week.’

  ‘There’s been a problem. I’m afraid you won’t be able to take further part in the program.’

  ‘Why? What’s happened? After what I went through with all that training – not to mention the pain, and that it might be a one way trip?’

  ‘It wasn’t easy to find anyone who could carry out such a mission in the first place.’

  ‘Right! And I did carry it out. He was a bastard. He raped and murdered at least five women. You know the newspapers printed how the police ran his fingerprints after he ... actually ... after I murdered him.’

  ‘True. I’m not doubting for a minute that he was a monster. It’s legally proven, and granted it was for the better.’

  ‘Then why can’t we publish. I’ve been there, done the deed, and came back for you. What’s the problem?’

  ‘The problem is in the fact that both your own DNA tests came back in a week, instead of two.’

  ‘And ...?’

  ‘The tests came back sooner because the man you killed was legally ... but ... this is very hard for me to ...’

  ‘I can take it. I could even go back if you ...’

  ‘No. That’s not possible. It will take at least three years to arrange another trip and by then you’ll .... you’ll ...’

  ‘Be dead. So what’s new? We’re both aware of that. Stop stuffing me around and explain to me why we can’t we publish?’

  ‘Because your grandfather’s and your own DNA do not match.’

  ‘What? How is that possible? What about my Dad? He must have my DNA.’

  ‘In all probability he does.’

  ‘Then I don’t understand. It doesn’t make sense ... unless ... surely she couldn’t ...’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. You must face the fact that your grandmother was an adulteress. I’m sorry to have to say it; but this is the only answer.’

  ‘So you can’t publish, because I didn’t kill my grandfather?’

  ‘Well he was your grandfather as far as society saw it, and probably as you yourself knew him; but yes, he was not your blood relative.’

  ‘It’s going to be hard to get someone to kill their grandfather if he wasn’t a prick like mine.’

  ‘Yes, very hard indeed. Let me shake your hand, as you’ve been the pioneer for the next time traveller.’

  ‘You can’t mention me at all?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. It wouldn’t deem very important in our thesis. We were going to prove that it wouldn’t be possible to kill your grandfather if you went back in time; as you wouldn’t have ever existed to travel back and do the deed.’

  ‘The grandfather paradox* you explained before I left?’

  ‘Correct. I thought that something, anything, would most probably prevent you from killing him, and that you would come back disappointed. I did indeed have my doubts that both your DNA samples would really be a match after you gave them to me.’

  ‘Well, at least we rid the world of a monster. But I suppose I did change something in the past, and that breaks one of the rules. Well, good luck with your work. I’m just sorry I’ll never live to see the results.’

  ‘I can live with the fact you changed things for the better. We’ll certainly study that aspect. Well, I’m sorry we haven’t perfected the future yet, or we could send you ahead and maybe cure your disease. Goodbye – and good luck.’

  ‘Goodbye – and thanks for making the end of my life a bit more interesting.’

  25 October 1968, 01.15 hrs.

  ‘So, you were sitting in the laneway by the side of the hotel when the deceased walked past you?’

  ‘That’s right Mr Detective Sir. Then there was a bright blue hazy light ... and suddenly a bloke was standing just near me, and he yelled out to the poor prick under that sheet.’

  ‘And what did he say.’

  ‘He said “Hey! Grandpa!” And the other bloke turned around.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘He shot him – right through the head. I didn’t even hear much of a bang. And then ... Jesus help me ... he cut the poor bloke’s bloody finger nails, cut off some of his hair, pulled out a needle and took his blood. Then, that bloody blue flash happened again ... and he was gone.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll contact you if we need further information.’

  ‘I’ll always be here officer. My bed’s just over ...’

  ‘Yes, I’ve often seen it there.’

  ‘So do you believe his story?’

  ‘Some of it. He probably saw the murder happen; but the haze was in his head I’d say. That smelly bugger is always pissed. Blue light? I’d go for cheap plonk to create that I reckon. A murderer cutting fingernails and hair and taking blood off the victim? What for? Stay here constable, and keep everyone away. I want the crime scene examined fully before the ambos take him to the morgue. Fingerprints might give us a clue though.’