narratorAUSTRALIA Volume Three
Coffee and Carbs
Shannon Todd
Empire Bay, NSW
No carbs after 3pm, no carbs after 3pm …
I glance at my watch for the hundredth time and groan. I have precisely eleven minutes to reach the head of the queue, place my order and then devour it before the self-imposed deadline.
‘I will not break another diet!’ I mutter to myself, whilst jiggling on the spot like a toddler desperately waiting to use the loo.
Hurry up, hurry up, hurry …
‘Welcome to –’
‘Skim milk decaf latte and a blueberry muffin,’ I gasp, slamming my coffee card on the counter.
That’s when I catch sight of the Adonis in the ‘Coffee King’ t-shirt.
‘Need a caffeine hit?’ He grins.
‘Err …’
He’s waiting for a reply – say something!
‘I … err …’
Complete sentences would be preferable!
‘Um …’
Anytime now!
‘Carbs!’ I manage to squeeze out.
Adonis chuckles and relays my order to the barista. I scurry to the other end of the counter and take shelter behind an old man on a walking frame.
I lose three precious minutes waiting for Adonis to call out my name. When he does I bolt for the counter without even bothering to glance at the note I’m pulling from my wallet.
‘Keep the change.’
Adonis frowns. ‘This is a $20 note.’
Perfect!
‘Keep it.’
‘That’s a $16 tip.’
I flap my hands as if it’s nothing before retreating to the opposite side of the coffee shop. Then I collapse into a vacant chair and virtually inhale my muffin, all the while wondering if my inability to resist carbs is somehow genetically linked to my aptitude for embarrassing myself.
I survey Adonis over the rim of my coffee mug – he glances up from the customer he’s serving and catches my eye.
Damn!
I casually take a sip of my coffee and gasp as the scalding liquid sears my throat.
Double damn!
By the time I’ve recovered, Adonis is serving another customer. I continue to study him surreptitiously.
Eventually Adonis catches my eye again and grins knowingly. In spite of my blazing cheeks I manage to smile back.
He hesitates and then sidles around the counter. I almost drop my polystyrene cup.
Oh my God! He’s coming over …
Don’t be stupid …
He’s definitely walking this way …
Wishful thinking …
He’s looking straight at me …
I flick my hair and manage to find my voice, ‘Hi!’
Adonis doesn’t reply but leans towards me. The musky scent of his aftershave envelops me as he rests his hand upon my forearm. My heart da-dums painfully in my chest as he moves his lips towards my ear.
My lungs scream for oxygen but I can’t remember how to breathe. Instead, I close my eyes and wait.
And then I hear them – six little words that cause my entire body to tingle and my stomach to somersault into my chest.
‘You’ve got blueberry in your teeth.’
I’m NEVER eating carbs again!
Ed: We are always on the lookout for items which surprise and entertain, and they don’t have to be long, or particularly involved or intricate. This story is well told with a strong storyline, the reader can empathise with the protagonist, and we have a bit of a surprise ending which tempers the horror of the let down with a good chuckle.
Saturday 28 September 2013
Annie
Robyn Chaffey
Hazelbrook, NSW
We had bought the house, sight unseen, because it was in such an out-of-the way place; and we knew we needed somewhere, a building of some sort, to put our belongings and to lay our heads at night.
It was imperative we move immediately and we knew the land alone was well worth the price. A new house could be built once we were there, and even if the house was rougher than imagined … we were both good campers!
It was a perfect opportunity for both of us to have the peace and space to do our own work. On the internet we had seen pictures of the surrounding landscape and knew it would provide inspiration in abundance both for his painting and my writing.
The property was almost fifty kilometres from the nearest township and fourteen from the nearest neighbour, so we knew we would not have many uninvited visitors.
We found the house was dilapidated, but not impossibly so. We had sufficient ingenuity between us and would manage to make it clean and useable till we could arrange the building of a new, eco-friendly one.
Most of the work we would be able to do ourselves. The rest might provide some employment for local tradies. We wanted involvement with the community as early as possible. For now, we would ‘make do’ with the help of our camping equipment and the things we had brought with us. There was plenty of food and so we would be able to focus on cleaning for a few days.
A few days became almost a fortnight!
We were very satisfied with what we had achieved.
There had been a few odd sounds in the house at all times of the day and night. They did seem to be more prevalent at night but we assumed it was because we were relaxed and our quieter moments made the sounds more audible.
What such aged and dilapidated house would not creak and bump?
There was a tremendous overgrowth of foliage on the property, especially in the house yard. Someone at some time had been a wonderful gardener here. Many of the plants were very interesting to me. Though I knew little about plants (I am the iconic accidental gardener) I could see that there were many flowering trees and a variety of sprawling vines with interesting leaf shapes and amazing colours. These vines had been screaming for attention by growing wildly and were covering, indeed smothering and choking, each other as well as the other plants.
Clearing some of this was the hardest work of all during that first fortnight. Yet it did seem to have fallen largely on my shoulders to clean this section.
I did enjoy working out there though. It gave me thinking time; and as I worked I was able to scribble down ideas for my writing. My trusty notebook is never far from me. Whatever I am doing, wherever I go, I have learned to keep it close.
At times while I was engrossed in my pursuits, there would be a rustle or a thump in the foliage surrounding me; or I’d hear a scratching sound in a tree or a shrub which would draw my attention to another job in need of doing. I thought nothing of this! The world bumps and scratches continuously.
After two weeks our supplies were running very low indeed. It was time to make the journey into town and introduce ourselves to some of the locals, replenish the larder and … face the incredulous reactions of the locals to our purchase of this dilapidated property.
We were prepared for ridicule and for being treated with suspicion by country folk unused to strangers. However, we were not prepared for the extent of their shock that anyone would buy that place; or for their stories of how and why our ‘new’ home had been vacated.
The house, they said, had been built almost a century ago by a lovely exuberant young couple, Peter and Annie. Both had been born and raised in the area and were popular amongst their peers. ‘Country born and bred!’ they delighted in saying.
Annie’s father had helped them with the building of the house when they were first married. They had raised four children there, and hosted many holiday parties for the children’s friends and their families.
All too soon though the children had grown up and moved away to make lives and families of their own. The couple continued to live in the house for many more years. They were thoroughly involved in the community and well liked and respected.
Then one dark dismal day the husband, Peter, was murdered. It was truly gruesome! He had been shot several times at very close range.
Because the house was so isolated, no-one had come near f
or several days. It was said that he had been dead at least five days when a neighbour came by to keep a pre-arranged appointment to help Peter with some heavy fencing work on the property. When he couldn’t raise the couple by knocking and calling, he felt a dreadful foreboding and carefully tried the door.
The poor man almost retched when he came into the living room. He found Annie all covered in blood, sitting, rocking and babbling incoherently by Peter’s decimated corpse. She’d had a total breakdown … simply come unglued!
After a thorough investigation the police had found no evidence of an intruder. They came to believe that Annie had shot Peter though none could attribute any motive.
Interrogation was impossible as Annie’s mind had gone. The court case was mere formality really; it seemed simply to assume her guilt though none of her neighbours could comprehend the possibility. The final determination was for incarceration in a hospital for the criminally insane in the city.
It was rumoured that none of Annie’s children ever visited her.
Five years later she died and it was said that she had simply given up the ghost.
It was only a few short weeks after her death that some young people who had, for some time, been using the property as a hang out away from the older folk, came galloping into the neighbour’s yard looking quite ashen. They had, they said, ‘seen the old lady in her hospital gown wandering through the garden as though she was trying to fix it up.’ They were chided for their foolishness and told they ought to ‘stay away from that place!’
Weeks went by and an amorous young couple who had thought the place would be ideal for privacy had their evening abruptly cut short. They had broken into the house and begun their canoodling when the old lady suddenly appeared from one of the bedrooms. She was, they insisted, waving what they thought might have been a gun. Panicked, they did not wait to make certain but got out of there as quickly as they could, leaving behind them their rug and picnic basket.
There were several more reported sightings over the next few years. It did seem to the community that Annie had come back to claim her house and wanted not to be disturbed there. The stories had grown and Annie had become a local legend. She was thought to have been badly done by, and few to this day ever entered her property. It was not fear that kept them away. Rather it was respect. ‘Let her alone!’ folk would say.
We were absolutely fascinated with the stories! Talk about grist for our respective work!
The locals were just amazed the property had been sold. They had heard nothing of the family in all those years. ‘Of course,’ they mused ‘it must be the descendants who have sold it … would have had to be sold through a city agent and only city folk would buy it!’
We felt suitably put down! However, the stories did not dampen our enthusiasm for the property.
Months passed and we continued to work on the property while now also making time to paint and write. Still we heard the bumps, scratchings and other sounds from time to time. It was only to be expected!
At last the building began on our new home. Timbers were being delivered and tradies coming in to help from time to time.
I had grown quite fond of the old house though, and had decided to maintain the garden and keep the old house as a sort of studio. It seemed such an inspiring place to work.
Our new home was nearing completion just in time for Christmas and I was organising the furnishings in both houses. One morning after breakfast I walked into what had been the living room of the old house, and there quite visibly stood a woman!
She had seemed not to hear me come in and was gazing pensively through the window. Suddenly, she started. She turned from the window, the gun in her hand! The look upon her face was one of sheer terror, as though she had feared me as a serial tormentor … one indeed to whom she was determined to put a stop!
Annie lifted the gun with two shaky hands and pointed it right at my face. She hesitated, her eyes telling me she did not want to shoot. I saw a trickle of red on her chin and realised that she had been biting down hard on her lip.
A moment later recognition registered and Annie lowered the gun. The slightest smile curled her lips and her big eyes brightened. A frail hand extended to beckon my gaze from herself to the renovated garden. She’d been admiring it through the window. The old lady turned to catch my eye and she nodded her approval as only the very elderly can. Then, suddenly, she was gone!
I stood, glued to the floor for what seemed an eternity. Had I really witnessed this scene?
We have lived here now twenty years and have never regretted our purchase. Our home and studio have grown and changed with our needs; I have enjoyed learning to care for the garden and we both have taken much joy and inspiration from it. It remains quite serene.
The old house still stands strong but does not creak or thump.
I can only guess at what happened that fateful day between Annie and Peter, but I know that I learned to love Annie early in my stay. I would have been happy to go on sharing the garden with her. However, I think she was somehow glad to hand it over to me.
We have made a bold, bright sign to hang above her door. It reads simply, ‘Annie’s House’!
Sunday 29 September 2013
The Old Pooncarie Road
Marilyn Linn
Darlington, SA
Uni was finished for the year and the long summer stretched ahead.
‘What do you think, Sarah? I reckon we could drive up to Wentworth. We could have a play on the pokies while we were there, might even win a few bucks! Then we could go up to Broken Hill for a few days, then back to Adelaide.’
A smile spread across Sarah’s face. ‘You know what, Becky? I reckon we should.’
The twins laughed in their own conspiratorial way. The twenty-year old girls were good friends as well as sisters and three days later, with basic supplies, sleeping bags, tent, a few changes of clothes, maps, water and high excitement, they loaded their old Kingswood station wagon and headed off. Clear of the city’s restrictions they relaxed, chattering and laughing as they sped along, slowing only for towns until they were over the border into New South Wales.
A visit to several clubs in Wentworth netted them a tidy reward – enough to fill the petrol tank and some left over to pay for a motel room for the night. As they cleaned the windows of the Kingswood and checked their tyres at the petrol station, the friendly attendant asked, ‘Where you girls off to then? Looks like you plan on camping out?’
‘We are going up to Broken Hill for a day or two,’ Sarah replied.
‘Which way are you going – on the Silver City Highway or the old Pooncarie Road?’
‘What’s the old Pooncarie Road? Don’t know that one,’ responded Sarah, her interest obvious.
‘Well, most of it is dirt, but it’s okay. Goes by the river. Nice scenery, lots of wildlife,’ he answered. ‘Got a map? It’s on there. Here, let’s show you.’
They made an early start next morning and soon found the turn-off. The road was rough, but had been recently graded. It followed the Darling River, crossing over and back several times. In patches it was dry and dusty, in other places it was wet and sticky. Sarah, the more experienced driver, took first turn at driving. Progress was slow.
After sandwiches for lunch, Becky took the wheel for her driving stint. At a branch in the road, their confidence wavered as they wondered which way they should go. No sign posts to help them. Becky decided that to the right would be the most likely, as that felt right to her. Rapidly the road deteriorated, becoming little more than a track.
‘Turn around Beck. Let’s go back to the turn-off,’ pleaded Sarah.
‘Nar, we’ll be okay. I know this direction is okay. Must go somewhere,’ Becky replied obstinately.
A patch of water covered the road ahead but Becky drove on, sure that it was only a puddle from recent rain. She drove into the puddle slowly, then, horror of horrors, the car refused to move.
‘Back out Beck. You can’t go forwards.??
? Sarah’s voice was tinged with hysteria as the car refused to budge. ‘Rev it up a bit more.’
The back wheels tossed sloppy clay out behind and sank further into the mud. ‘We’re stuck,’ declared Becky, stating the obvious. ‘How are we going to get out? How far back was that last house we saw? Do you think we could walk back and get help?’
‘You know the rules. Dad told us a hundred times. “Stay with the car, no matter what”, so I want to stay here,’ said Sarah, her anxiety making her tone stern.
‘So how often do you think anyone uses this goat track, wise guy? You can stay here if you like but I am going back. It wasn’t very far.’ Becky reached for a bottle of water and her backpack and got out of the bogged Kingswood. The clay slop grabbed her shoes, almost causing her to fall.
‘Get back in the car, stupid,’ yelled Sarah. ‘You’ll get covered in mud!’
‘No. You get out. See if we have anything we can dig with. Maybe we could dig a trench behind us and back out,’ suggested Becky, hopefully, not really wanting to walk anywhere.
‘We’ve got that empty ice-cream container. Would that work?’
‘I’m prepared to try anything, Sarah. I have another suggestion too. Remember when we went camping with Mum and Dad, every time we stopped for a “pit stop”, a car would go past. I’m prepared to give that a try.’ The girls laughed.
They took off their shoes and climbed out of the car, found the plastic container and, after the ‘pit stop’ drew no passers-by, began to dig. Sarah tried to reverse the car several times but all she succeeded in doing was spinning the wheels, mud flying out around the car.
Exhausted and frustrated, both girls were almost in tears. They continued to dig and try to reverse.
Conversation was limited to insults.
‘It’s your stupid fault,’ snarled Sarah.
‘It is not. You didn’t have any better ideas,’ snapped Becky.
‘Shut up and dig, idiot.’
As evening was closing in, a flock of ducks landed in the water, just a few metres away from the car.
‘Cheeky buggers, you might end up as dinner,’ Sarah told them.
‘Oh sure,’ said Becky sarcastically, ‘and who is going to catch them? Not you.’
‘Let’s try again to back it out. Go forward a bit first, then go back as fast as you can. I’ll stuff the cardboard from the food box under the back of the wheels. It might work,’ Sarah was desperately hoping.
‘You drive. You know everything.’
‘Suit yourself, moron,’ Sarah answered.
‘Come on car. Let’s get out of here,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Right?’ she yelled at Becky.
‘Right as I’m gunna be,’ came the answer.
‘Okay. Here we go!’
Sarah revved the motor, dropped the car into first gear and prayed. ‘Please go.’ The car rocked, giving her hope. Then she stopped and changed quickly to reverse gear and revved hard. She ignored the uncontrollable slipping and sliding from the rear of the car, keeping her foot pressed firmly to the floor. The Kingswood responded, a backward jolt, then out of the bog, surprising the girls as it went.
Ten metres backwards Sarah stopped the car, well clear of the mud. Both girls burst into tears and sat in the dust beside the car. ‘See? It just takes an expert,’ Sarah said through her tears. They laughed, relief flowing over them.
They backtracked for three or four kilometres before they found the only homestead for miles around. The farmer listened to their story and offered them a shower and the dirt patch in the front of his house for a campsite overnight.
The next morning they returned the way they had come and continued their journey to Broken Hill via the Silver City Highway.
‘Friends again?’ asked Sarah.
‘What do you think?’ smiled Becky, as they drove on, enjoying the feeling of freedom and adventure.
Monday 30 September 2013
One Life’s Detritus
Gregory Tome
Burradoo, NSW
In Memory of Ann
Aged 47 years
Such simple words. A life reduced
to such words lined in stone.
All that love
reduced to this;
companionship over decades
reduced to this;
heartaches, sorrows, joys
reduced to these twenty one words
weathered in stone
by the arrogance of time.
Beloved Wife of George
Yet there is more.
Away from our eyes
contained in the best local timbers
bones and dust in that capsule
somewhere below the stone words
a distillation of so much.
Powder once flesh on arms grasped
by so many friends. Bones
once arms that encircled George –
her loving George.
Died March 23, 1883.
Flesh now dust: flesh once
stroked, caressed, held,
irrigated by blood quickening
at the sound of his footfall.
All these, so much has filtered down
to this, a small space in a small forgotten place.
Thy Will Be Done
Tuesday 1 October and Wednesday 2 October 2013
The Snarler
Henry Johnston
Rozelle, NSW
Characters:
Walter Bugden - The snarler (young, violent, criminal enforcer)
Frank Bugden - Walter’s father, and Starting Price (S.P.) bookmaker
Mick Vaughan - Sergeant NSW Police
The Bumper - Senior detective NSW Police
Murray Dwyer - Newsagent, gambler, criminal
The Fireman - Gambler, gunman
Guest appearances - Hollywood George Edser, Bea Myles, Arthur Stace, the Kingsgrove Slasher, Guido Culletti
Location: Sydney in the 1960s
Warning: Strong language. Violent imagery.