Narrator Magazine
Blue Mountains
Winter 2011
Smashwords Edition
narrator MAGAZINE is published by MoshPit Publishing
Shop 1, 197 Great Western Highway, Hazelbrook NSW 2779
MoshPit Publishing is an imprint of Mosher’s Business Support Pty Ltd
P: 1300 644 680 ABN 48 126 885 309
http://www.narratormagazine.com.au/
The copyright for each item in this publication rests with the author of that piece. Please contact us at Narrator Magazine if you wish to contact any contributor featured herein.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This ebook may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to Smashwords.com to discover other books by this publisher. Thank you for your support.
Cover: ‘Self Portrait Drawing on iPhone’
Christina Frost Clayton created this image on her iPhone using an application called Brushes, while her husband drove the car along the F3 during a wild and frightening storm. What a great distraction for a terrified passenger! To understand WHY Christina was so frightened, read her story, Knock ‘n Roll, online in the Autumn 2011 edition.
You can view other art by Christina Frost Clayton on her website: http://www.frostclayton.com.au/
A few words from the publisher ...
Welcome to this, our fourth edition of Narrator Magazine, Blue Mountains!
First of all, thank you to all contributors without whom we wouldn’t have content—you support is greatly appreciated. And second—a special thanks to Diane O’Neill of Blue Dragon Books for so willingly reading through all contributions, without illustrations or formatting, as our second judge.
I’ve had an interesting time over the last four weeks, having enjoyed a long-awaited holiday to the west coast of America. From the deserts and canyons of Arizona and Nevada to the hustle and bustle of San Francisco and Los Angeles to the flash and razzle dazzle of Las Vegas, it was certainly a great experience.
One of the big thrills I had as a publisher was to be able to purchase a Barnes and Noble ‘NOOKColor’ e-reader. I have long held the belief that while books, magazines and newspapers are wonderful to hold and read, for a sustainable future we must start looking to electronic publishing as the norm, with print publishing for those things that are special, that should be kept.
As well as being able to purchase ebooks from many different websites and load them on my NOOK from my PC, I can also put music and videos on it, as well as acquiring many ‘apps’ and accessing the internet via the NOOK—so it’s almost as good as an iPad, but cheaper.
As you can tell, I love technology, and was thrilled to received the image for the cover of this month’s issue—a totally new form of art, created digitally on an iPhone. What we can do these days without wasting paper never ceases to amaze me.
Which brings me to my next thought—Narrator being online. We do hope that you’re enjoying being able to access Narrator online more quickly than before and that you are forwarding your friends and relatives links to the electronic versions so that they can see your words in print!
And as a result of now delivering Narrator as a free, online magazine, we have reduced the print run each quarter to 120 copies, so first in, best dressed—and the environment wins again.
Well, that’s my spiel for the quarter. Happy reading, tell your friends, and if you know someone who’s thinking of sending in an entry, encourage them—the more people we can reach, the more sustainable the magazine will become.
Jenny Mosher
June 2011
Winning Entries for Autumn 2011
Our third issue, Autumn 2011, was judged by Blue Dragon Books owner Diane O’Neill, Diane’s final choices were:
First prize — $200 to Mary Krone, Glenbrook, for her poem Scarred — ‘a simple and elegant way to convey strong emotions’
Second prize — $100 to Aristidis Metaxas, Katoomba, for his story Ticket — ‘gets the reader involved with the characters — nice twist at the end’
Third Prize — $50 to Robyn Chaffey, Hazelbrook, for her poem The Wind At My Door — ‘wonderful imagery!’
Diane also offered high commendations to:
Greg North, Linden, for his poem Stick It! and
Christina Frost-Clayton, Woodford, for her story Knock ’n Roll
A few words from our Guest Judge ...
I started with quite a long list of stories and poems that I liked—and it took quite a while to finally cut it down to just three. It’s always hard to put personal preferences aside, but I think I ended up with a good mix. I hope you enjoy them too!
Diane O’Neill
Table of Contents
Poetry
Heartbreak – Julitha De La Force
I Feel Like Writing Today – J-L Heylen
Mercury Rising – Albany Dighton
So You Think Your Truth Trumps Mine – Karen Lane
Spin Me Round Sky – Cathy Tanaka
The Sea Dog’s Last – Stephen Studach
Untitled – Christina Frost Clayton
Short Stories
Cut Grass and Disco – Sam Miller
Henrietta de Chook and her Totally Awesome Adventure – Aristidis
Locked in the Corridors of Hell – Karen Easton
Mrs McGinty’s Secret – Felicity Lynch
Searching For Sarah – Sharon Hammad
The Cost of Doing Business – David Bowden
The Day I Skipped School – Robyn Chaffey
The Monasteries of Mardan – Bruce Nenke
With Love comes Blood – Elizabeth Diehl
Essays
Where is the Female Tolstoy? – Natalie Muller
This section brought to you by ...
Sunergy Design
Specialising in the design of solar homes across NSW
Visit Sunergy on Facebook at:
http://www.facebook.com/sunergydesign/
I Feel Like Writing Today - J-L Heylen
Problem is, I’m not sure what to write.
I could write more of my book, but I’ve stalled a bit in terms of ideas. As per usual, my characters have taken themselves off at a tangent and now the story has diverged rather radically from the careful and thoughtful outline I wrote before I started. So, I keep looking at the outline, then looking at the narrative, and concluding that I don’t know where to go next. Maybe my characters do, but they haven’t let me in on the secret yet, so ...
I could write a love-letter to my wife, but she might wonder why I suddenly did this after 15 years of verbal expressions of affection and lovely messages in birthday and Christmas cards. Not that this is necessarily a good excuse for not writing to your wife. I love her very much. She knows it. I could write and tell her, but it wouldn’t take very long, and it wouldn’t satisfy my need to write today.
My need to write today is a big need. It’s a burning, seething, rocking-tectonic-plates need. It won’t be satisfied with just any old thing, you know? It’s not satisfied now, for example. It keeps whispering to me ‘if you’re going to write this sort of drivel, just go back to work, will you?’
What am I to say in response?
‘Bugger off, I’m trying to help you!’
Or,
‘Your commentary is not appreciated at this time, please call back later’.
Or,
‘I’m not at work, you goose!’
The possibilities are endless, but one thing is certain. That little voice of the critic is probably right. I am writing material which is of no earthly use to anyone right now, except, perhaps, me.
And let’s face it, without me, the critic, the characters and the outline wouldn’t have a hope in hell of getting written.
Furthermore, my lovely, beautiful, creative wife would miss me.
Mrs McGinty’s Secret – Felicity Lynch
Mrs McGinty, a small colourless woman, lived in a narrow colourless street, in a deadly boring town in the Blue Mountains.
Every morning, if her neighbours had bothered to look, they would have seen Mrs McGinty, seemingly dressed in the same colourless clothes with a capacious handbag, leaving her house and walking out of the street.
However, if anyone at all had been interested, they would have seen around the next corner, little Mrs McGinty stepping into a luxurious silver limo, with dark windows, being kissed very affectionately, by a most handsome man.
If they had then followed the limo down the Western Highway, they would have seen a small elegant woman being escorted from the limo to disappear into a large office building in the Sydney CBD.
Mrs McGinty had vanished. The only remnant of the colourless Mrs McGinty was that this woman too was small; but this woman’s hair was styled into the latest small dark cap, she was beautifully made up, dressed in an elegant suit, with slim legs and high heels – her capacious handbag nowhere to be seen.
Mrs McGinty had a secret. She was in fact the famous author of the Blue Mountains Mysteries, seen often on TV. Being interviewed, she never talked about her private life.
Mrs McGinty wasn’t her real name and no one in the street who had read her books associated their colourless neighbour with the glamourous portrait of the author on the book covers.
Mrs McGinty had set all her novels in the most boring town’s most colourless street. Her intricate plots and dastardly murders were based on the residents. As they were totally uninterested in her they had no idea of this.
Mrs McGinty had been there for many years living this double life. However, her forthcoming wedding to the much loved and wealthy Baron De Rothschild meant big changes.
A sign was placed outside her house stating that it was to be auctioned. Moving vans were seen with men carrying many boxes. The house was emptied of everything very quickly. Nobody in the street noticed anything, even though Mrs McGinty had lived in this house for many years. The people in the street were indifferent to her.
The day that Mrs McGinty was to be married, the journalists discovered Mrs McGinty’s secret. The story was blazoned on the front pages of the main newspapers and T.V. It was reported that the books would be filmed.
Mrs McGinty’s secret was out. It was rumoured that as the baroness she would visit the street and meet the residents there. Meanwhile the journalists interviewed the residents who really had very little to say. They expressed great surprise. Who would have thought …?
The people in this very boring street began to talk to their neighbours. Lunches were arranged. People were trying to work out who was who in her novels. They emerged from their own secret boring lives and plans were made to celebrate their new found fame. It was resolved to be more aware of others in the street. Houses were painted, lawns mown, children played outside in the street and neighbours talked to each other.
No one could describe or could remember talking to Mrs McGinty. But the new-found notoriety of the street pleased those who lived there. They forgot how they had ignored her altogether and enjoyed their new-found fame, as they tried to work out who was who in her stories of murder in the street.
Mrs McGinty was rather bemused by the fuss. She was asked if she would continue to set her novels in the street. She declined to comment.
Felicity Lynch
This section brought to you by ...
St Flour and Associates – Business Advisors
“We will help you improve your results”
Spin Me Round Sky – Cathy Tanaka
Make my feet of clay and stones
My legs of craggy, weathered bones
My belly form of wooded splendor
My hair of breezes, keen yet tender
Stain my hands heath black with night
Reaching out for endless light
Bejewel my fingers, one by one
And press my nose to stars that hum
Though my heart in trepidation
Echoes ghostly excitations
For hurrying spirits tremble still
And long dead elders haunt your hills
Becalm my mind with dulcet breath
Through the teeth of rugged depths
And raise your arms of ragged trees
To issue expirations to appease
For constellations gathered here
With breathless glimmer beckon near
And trembling, lilting harmonies
Charge this restless joy in me
So, spin me round
Oh, spin me round sky
On my heels, arms flung high
Etch my soul with midnight sighs
And spin me round, spin me round
Spin me round sky
It’s a Bloke! – M Grace
An endeavour to pay back Conan McKenney’s debts to redeem his unfavourable behaviour is something to be desired and a matter stemming from any reasonable understanding of how the situation is leading to Conan’s destruction; he is his own worst enemy. Unaware how deep Conan can sink into desperation, he might as well sink in quick sand – it might be kinder. Getting drunk is not the way to do it; running away is not going to do it either, nor will hiding behind his mother’s apron to pull him out of his financial woes.
‘I want to help you,’ said MacGyver, ‘but being friends doesn’t give you license to expect me to save you every time you decide to go on a debt-drive. I’m done with you, Conan,’ as he leaves the apartment in anger.
‘I’ll remember this MacGyver,’ Conan shouted after him in frustration. ‘Who needs friends like you, anyway?!’
Conan searches for his diary without success. He has everything going for him except his spendthrift attitude. Loving the high life is one thing, paying back what you spend is another. In frustration Conan threw his temper at a vase nearby, recklessly smashing it on the floor.
Conan looks out his window of his 14th floor apartment and observes people going about their way through life. ‘People look like sticks walking on two legs,’ he thought. Conan couldn’t endure the scene any longer, picked up his car keys and drove out to the country - anywhere but where his troubles were. Country people were considered backward and uneducated once upon a time, and now they are considered the lucky people living away from the rat race of the city. Conan could do with some luck. Nevertheless, it still takes money to live out in the country. These days country properties can fetch prices as high as those in the city and as the suburbs, if not more. He wondered if a change of scenery would get him back on track, if not settle his debts. Conan’s apartment in Sydney would be worth a small fortune; he could sell up, pay his debts and have enough money to buy a small weatherboard house, at least if his calculations are to go by. His antique furniture and items would be more in keeping in an old house than his soulless modern apartment, anyway. The more he thought of this idea, the more his enthusiasm became part of him and lifted him to a new level of conscience. Keeping up with the Joneses can be exhausting; it ruins romance to say the least. Is it not a person’s right to want things – too much of a good thing has its drawbacks, but you cannot have your cake and eat it too. Selling up and living in the country meets with his approval.
Before Conan knew it, he had returned to Sydney, sold his apartment, paid his debts and a few months later, bought a weatherboard farmhouse settled in two acres in a country town called Rydal, a few miles outside of Lithgow. Conan’s antique furniture and items fit in like they own the place. The village recorded having at least eighty people - now eighty one with Conan moving in. The pretty village has a hotel and two churches, but no shops. The hotel could be Conan’s downfall; too close to drink, but he realises that to make his new life work, moderation has to be in play. Having no shops is a good thing. A drive to Wallerawang about ten minutes away would be a treat.
As time goes by, bored out of his wits, Conan is beginning to wonder about his real intentions wanting a new life in the country. Conan wonders if maybe has he lost sight of the dream. Basking in the sun in his rocking chair in deep thought, Conan overstated the force of the chair, hit the tree at the back of the chair, flew off it from the force, rolled down the grass and landed with his ass facing heaven, and his shorts down around his knees showing off his red underwear on display for all the world to see… completely unaware of his neighbour arriving to introduce herself.
‘That’s no way to greet your new neighbour,’ said Susan. ‘And what man wears red underwear? It doesn’t do you justice.’
Conan scrambles to his feet, pulls up his shorts and apologises to the lady.
Offering her hand of greeting; ‘I’m Susan Bates, by the way. Your new neighbour.’
‘I’m Conan McKenney,’ as he shakes her hand.
‘And what are you doing here?’
‘Absolutely no idea.’
‘Well, that’s a good start. You better tell me all about it over a cup of tea.’
‘Tea? You only want to drink tea?’
‘Don’t be surprised! We country people like our tea or coffee, but I prefer tea.’
‘I’ll see if I can accommodate you.’
They talked all afternoon, finding out they have a lot in common like books and antiques. Susan, about Conan’s age in her early thirties, was brought up in Rydal as a farmer, had spent many years on and off in Sydney, but prefers the country.
‘I better get back to the farm,’ says Susan. ‘I’ll drop in tomorrow to check on how you are going.’
Susan drops in tomorrow, the day before and so on.
As time goes on, Conan realises his boredom won’t subside. It’s not as romantic as he thought it might be, and though Susan replaces that idea, he decides to move back to Sydney, and lease his house to an arts and craft business venture with Susan in charge; something she always wanted to do.
Conan goes back to working in the advertising industry, organises a mortgage to buy a small apartment in Balmain and returns to Rydal in the weekends to a thriving business. So much so, a café is put in place not only for the tourists to enjoy, but the locals. Conan’s belongings settle in Susan’s farmhouse, as did he when he went to visit. Only time will know how that will work.
M Grace
This section brought to you by ...
The Turning Page Bookshop
Books for the Community
http://www.theturningpagebookshop.com.au/
Searching For Sarah – Sharon Hammad
‘The hardest thing in the world for a mother is to give up her child. That’s why I have to look for Sarah.’ I broke the news to Greg as gently as I could. Not every man is happy to be confronted with his wife’s ‘past’.
Naturally, he had reservations about my decision. After all, Sarah didn’t share his genes, wasn’t part of his history. ‘What’s done is done. Why do you have to drag it up now?’
‘I don’t know. Somehow, I feel ... incomplete.’ Immediately, I knew that this was the wrong thing to have said.
‘What about our family? Aren’t we good enough for you, Lisa?’
‘Yes of course. This isn’t about us. It’s about Sarah. I have to know what happened to her. Was she cared for? Was she loved? Can’t you understand?’
Greg wore his I’m-too-stubborn-to-admit-it look. ‘What if you can’t find her? What if you spend your life looking? You might uncover things you’d rather not know. Wouldn’t that upset you more?’
‘At least, I won’t die wondering. For heaven’s sake, this all happened long before we met. It won’t affect our relationship. You needn’t be jealous, you know.’
‘Jealous? Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not jealous.’ Greg slammed his coffee mug on the kitchen bench and stormed off.
I could hardly blame him. Since our children had grown up, Greg had had me pretty much to himself. Perhaps, needing to be needed, I’d spoiled him. And now I expected him to share me with someone that, until recently, he never knew existed.
‘Don’t worry about Dad,’ Amy, our youngest, advised. ‘He’ll get over it. Don’t you think he’s being a teeny-weeny bit selfish?’ This from one who believes replacing an empty toilet roll is an act of mercy. ‘It’s great you’ve finally got something else to think about. Maybe now you’ll stop hassling - I mean worrying about - us.’ She floated off, all dark wisps and flashing blue eyes, and I couldn’t help wondering how much of a resemblance, if any, she bore to Sarah.
Whatever. I didn’t need anyone’s approval. I had already decided which way to veer at this particular fork in the road and I wasn’t about to change my mind.
***
The agency guaranteed to charge like a celebrity chef, even if the proof of the pudding wasn’t necessarily edible. I had dresses in my wardrobe that were older than the consultant, but she appeared professional in a power-suited, high-heeled, hair-in-a-bun kind of way. She warned me it was a difficult case. She’d run a search: births, deaths, marriages, court records, immigration. There was a strong possibility Sarah had changed her name. Not everyone in her situation wanted to be discovered. If she had left the country, there might not be anything to find. Overseas investigation – well, that was another kettle of smoked salmon. It might be painstaking. I must understand there could be ‘additional costs’.
‘I’ll pay whatever it takes,’ I promised.
Better not to think that way. Hope for the best. I left, feeling as if I’d just been diagnosed with a potentially fatal disease.
On the way home, I questioned whether or not I was being taken for a ride. Desperate people often are. At this stage in my life, I had no idea why I was suddenly so obsessed with finding her, craving the smallest hint about what kind of person she turned out to be. For so many years I’d told myself not to think about it, to focus instead on what was important at the time, rather than worrying about things I couldn’t change. But lately, the truth about what happened to Sarah – whether or not she had died somewhere, alone and afraid, with no-one to turn to - had become my holy grail. After all, she was my flesh and blood.
But what if Greg was right? Could the harsh circumstances of Sarah’s early life have turned her into some sort of hardened criminal or ... killer? No, surely not that. But what if, despite everything I did to find her, Sarah had seemingly disappeared off the face of the earth, just like all those missing persons who could not be located, even with the help of modern technology? Clues disintegrate, documents fall apart, writing fades, memories die with their owners. It becomes more difficult to trace someone with each passing year. How much of our life savings was I prepared to risk just to have my hopes crushed like fruit in a blender?
No mother gives up her child willingly. There are always reasons, pressures that others don’t understand. The privileged don’t have to wonder where the next meal is coming from, unlike a young woman sent away to a strange place without support, forced into giving up a child that she loves because it’s the right thing – the only thing - to do. People say it’s a choice but, in fact, the notion of choice just doesn’t exist.
A surge of emotion transported me back in time and space. I was that desperate young mother, alone and friendless, unable to provide for the tiny being who relied on me totally. I couldn’t bear to see my baby suffer - to be the cause of her suffering. It was an agonising decision. I handed the infant over, turning away quickly in case I changed my mind. This I must not do, for it would mean murdering my baby’s chances in life.
As I fled the scene, I told myself the child didn’t realise what was happening. Hopefully, she’d be looked after by people who wouldn’t hold her responsible for her humble beginnings, who’d let her grow strong and clever. And when she was old enough to know the story of her birth, she might learn to forgive the poor wretch who thought of her the first and last moments of every day.
Somewhere inside me a voice whispered, Why not search for Sarah? Every person has the right to know where she comes from, where she belongs. Once, it was called identity crisis but nowadays tracing your family had become the height of fashion. When Greg and I were first married, we’d struggled to make ends meet, and I’d done my share of going without. Now it was my turn to realise a dream I’d nurtured all of my adult life.
It took weeks: weeks of waiting, checking my emails several times a day, wondering about missed calls from unidentified numbers. I’m ashamed to admit, I almost lost my nerve. Then, finally, the call came. ‘Good news. We’ve found Sarah.’
I was too emotional to take in much detail, so I arranged a meeting with Ms Additional Costs for the next day. She had collected the evidence and could prove beyond a reasonable doubt that the person she’d found was my Sarah.
Amy was suitably impressed that her long lost relative had been located. ‘Go Mum! I want to know everything.’
‘Well -‘ I began.
‘Gotta run right now. Catch you later?’
So when Greg arrived home from work that evening, I hurled myself at him like some sort of desperate housewife. ‘If I’d known finding Sarah would have this effect on you, I wouldn’t have been so negative,‘ he said.
I stroked his face, despite the scrape of his five o’clock shadow. ‘You and the kids are my first priority. But Sarah is part of our family too.’
Greg nodded. ‘I see that now. Come and tell me all about her.’ We sat on the sofa and I nestled into his arms while I filled him in on what I’d learned so far.
‘I’ll find out more tomorrow. The main thing is we’ve found her. After all this time, we know what happened to her.’
‘What did happen to her?’ Greg asked, tentatively.
‘That’s the best part. It’s what I was hoping for all along.’ I sat up and beamed at him. ‘She ended up with Mary.’
‘Mary?’
‘Her daughter. The one she gave away. Don’t you see? Mary must have forgiven her.’
‘That’s important to you, isn’t it?’
‘Of course it is. Sarah wasn’t a bad person, only poor. When her husband died, she had no-one to turn to when she couldn’t manage to bring up her child on her own. Imagine what it would feel like to have to give up our Amy.’
‘Mm. I’ll bet you’ve been doing a lot of imagining, haven’t you?’
He knew me well. ‘Oh Greg, it must have been awful for both of them. It helps to know that they were reconciled in the end.’
‘Your great, great grandmother paid a high price for stealing that loaf of bread back in the Old Country.’
‘Poor Sarah. I can’t help feeling grateful that she did. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here.’
‘You’re not the only one who’s grateful,’ Greg said, drawing me towards him.
Sharon Hammad
This section brought to you by ...
Maber Business Services
Tax Returns ~ Accounting ~ Loans ~ Insurance
With Love Comes Blood – Elizabeth Diehl
You cut me; tore open my throat and it feels like you ripped out my heart; you’ve destroyed my soul. With eyes closed I did my best not to think about you or hear your voice in my mind; for better or worse we belong together; can’t you see that? Why do you do the things you do to me; are you that broken yourself that you feel the need to bring me down? You walked out the door without a backwards glance and left the pieces of me on the floor. I couldn’t move; couldn’t speak or even moan out loud. My heart and throat were burning with the pain and my body screamed out for you to come back and put me back together. It seemed like hours but it was probably only a few minutes as I remained there; ridged with fear on the floor; cold and starting to feel nothing in a room as silent as a graveyard at midnight.
As I felt the room spinning out of control, memories of when I had drunk too much flooded back to me. An angel looked down on me; she was moving slowly towards the room and I knew just knew that you had sent me to my death once and for all. You cut my throat open almost like a professional; have you done this before; did you break their heart too? I let you know the real me and you betrayed my trust in the worse possible way. I changed so much of myself for you, you never really let me in and now I know why, all those secrets, lies and late nights. So many broken promises so many days spent crying over you and for what; to have it end like this?
I can see my unfinished paintings in the room and I try to cry out at the senseless waste, and the regrets I have. Was I a random victim or did you stalk me like a cat stalks its next meal? You stretched out on the lounge most days like a cat and purred like a kitten when I stroked your hair; was it all an act? I was putty in your hands; those eyes of yours pulled me in and melted me to my very core. I wish now I had of taken off my blinkers and seen you for who you really are; but it’s too late now isn’t it, or is it? Love is a strange and wonderful thing.
We spent countless days out on the open highway free and easy riding on your Harley and I never once suspected you were looking for the right place for me; not us. You told me we needed ‘our’ very own private haven; but it was solely for me wasn’t it? We used the money from the sale of my house and my inheritance to buy it, you said we would start a new life; and I believed you. I wanted to believe you so much. I hung on to every crumb you ever gave me and wiped up the mess you often left as the screen door slammed behind you and the sound of your bike tore at my heart as you rode off; leaving me to wonder what I had said or done to make you so mad. Little did I know then that you were always pretending, holding back the real you and play acting with me to get from me what you wanted. The wonder of you has had me spell bound for a very long time. You towered over me with those dark good looks and bedroom eyes; the softness of your touch melted me that very first time I saw you. Do you remember that night; I do; like it was yesterday. I looked up and there you were holding out your hand silently asking me to dance.
How could I resist you? The women in the room would have given anything to be me. You moved smoothly like a cat onto the dance floor with such ease; like you have done it all your life and you have, haven’t you? That first dance is so vivid in my mind; you put a hand in the small of my back and pulled me into you with such softness and tenderness I had never known. I felt your thigh brush mine and I let out a sigh, I had come home in your arms. When our hands and fingers touched they melted into each other as if we were one and I wrongly thought we were meant to be together. I felt the thrill of the electricity running through my body as we moved around the dance floor like there was no one else and for me there wasn’t. I lost myself in you that night with no hope of ever recovering.
We danced like that for hours and then you took me outside and made slow sweet love to me; on the bonnet of a car right there in the car park under the stars and moon. It’s there you promised me that you would get them for me along with the sun, remember? We loved each other from top to bottom all night long in your bed and I knew for sure I had been lost but now I was home. I whispered in your ear; ‘where had you been all my life’ and you laughed that beautiful laugh of yours and said ‘waiting for you my love’ and I believed you. I was in love with you from the very first moment I looked into your eyes.
I want scream out to you to stop and come back. I want to beg you; don’t leave me this way, but you don’t hear me and who would in this isolated place or above the roar of your bike. But none of these words come out of my mouth it’s all in my head. You have thrown me out like the baby with the bath water many times never giving a thought to how I feel; each time making me beg you to let me come back into the house. I pleaded with you to hold me, and never let me go and you did. My family and friends are all gone; you blamed them for trying to break us up. I put my mother into a nursing home because you convinced me she would be better off and I would get more rest. It was your way of getting everyone I loved out of my life; they have given up on me now. I’ve lived an isolated life with only you for company. You took the words out of my mouth; I have never been allowed to have an opinion of my own; I lost all self respect and confidence in myself a long time ago. You wouldn’t let me work; I had to look after you. With the inheritance from my favourite Aunt money was never a real issue for me till you came along and spent it all. I had to give up being a vegetarian to cook you those ‘bloody’ steaks night after night; always feeling sick at the sight of them. I cleaned up after you because I never dare complain for fear of you and your temper. You didn’t allow me to even go to the hair dresser; you said I was fine the way I was and that it was a waste of your money. But you seem to forget it was my money till you came and took over my life. I used to look forward to my weekly visits to the spiritual church and meditation, you said it was all the devils work and you would have none of that around here so that stopped too. If only I had have known then that I was living with the devil himself.
I had many dreams and now they will never be fulfilled because of you; you killed those ages ago. You have been working towards this very moment for a long time; taking pleasure in my displeasure; why? I try to scream out again but no sound and one comes; I can feel the life inside of me draining away and the warm sticky blood spilling out of me, onto the carpet. Once this would have bothered me but now I feel nothing but regrets for all the time wasted on you and for all that should have been. How many people out there let life slip past them and then on their death bed have regrets for the ‘love’ they should have had; for the ‘life’ they wanted but never went after; afraid to step out of their comfort zone and afraid to take the chance. I was afraid but you convinced me that we were right together and after all you had offered me the moon stars and sun.
Now I lay here with the life draining from me and wish I had side stepped you and gone on that trek I had been meaning to do for years. You convinced me it would be a waste of money and time; time you and I needed to get to know each other. I can hear a phone ringing and it takes me a moment to realize that it can’t be ours you had it cut off saying we didn’t need the intrusion of the outside world when we had each other; so it must be in my head; I am going crazy; like you have been telling me? I can’t move; not a muscle. You have taken care of that haven’t you? Please I beg you come save me? No one is coming are they? We are so remote not even the postman comes here.
Waiting for me are several angels and I want to scream out to them that I am not ready to go, please don’t take me. I haven’t lived and loved properly; I need to live. We all walk around in a daze never fully living and loving; always too afraid to let go and experience life to its fullest. Why do we humans create wars and starve each other of love? Why?
I hear a song; it is playing in my ears and I hum silently to myself, ‘another one bites the dust’. Is it really music or am I imagining it? Oh please let me live; let me know ‘love’ and I promise I will not waste a precious moment of any day. I will wake up with enthusiasm for each and everything I do. No more moaning about my lot in life; just let me live.
How many nights did I soak in the bathtub only to have you come into the bathroom with that nasty look in your eyes and tell me I was getting fat and had better do something about it? In reality I was all skin and bone, you hardly ever let me eat. When you had your dinner and I had cleaned up I would sit down in the corner of the kitchen to eat any leftover food and you would throw it on the floor and accuse me of eating what belonged to you so I went to bed like a starving wounded animal. Cringing and praying you would pass out in the living room and leave me alone.
I can remember the anticipation of our love making when we first met; the thrill of your touch on my skin and when you climaxed I would shudder and come with you delighting in it all. You taught me to do things solely for your pleasure, I never minded because I loved you and I think I still do in a sick kind of way.
Your kisses could transport me to another world and I believed you had given me the stars, moon and sun after all. But then one day the tender soft touches turned into beatings and the slow delightful love making became a nightmare.
I’m broken dying and remembering too many things that I would rather not remember at all. When you die; you relive your life and as the last breath leaves your body you meet your maker; am I ready for that? I think not.
The angels are smiling at me now and I know the time is getting nearer and the room will go completely dark and I will be gone. Oh please don’t leave me here to die alone? Even though you cannot hear me I want you to tell me, why me and why now? Wasn’t I enough for you, didn’t I give you enough pleasure, enough money and didn’t I give it all up for you just as you asked? Anything you wanted I would do for you; I was bewitched by you. My life was on hold and then you came and changed it, and I thought my life had finally started. Our love is a sick kind of love I know that now but it is too late. They are coming for me and I can feel their wings touching me and I can feel the love surrounding them. It is pure bliss; I feel no pain and I’m not cold anymore; I cry out please I want to live. The angels are asking me if I had it all to do again what I would do differently. If I could turn back the clock what would I say and do? This is not such a tough question because I know; I should never have let you into my life, but I can’t say that. I thought you had taught me all about love, but it was not love for you; you took away my friends, family and my life.
Who will mourn for me and who will find me here alone in a pool of my own blood? If I had my time again I would wake up each day and say a prayer and thank ‘God’ I am alive. I would eat fresh pasta and drink chardonnay in Italy. I would cherish and love my family and friends without conditions. I would smile more; laugh often and love deeply and purely. I would dig in my garden and plant flowers and sit back on the verandah and watch them grow. I would climb mountains and swim in emerald green oceans and I would learn to live all over again and I would never ever moan about my lack of. I would paint like there was no tomorrow and make sure I stopped every so often and smelt the roses. I would make a list and systematically work my way through it, not from the top to the bottom as you would think; I would close my eyes and pick one and get on with it.
Is that laughter I hear; I try to open my eyes but they are heavy now and I am feeling colder. Have you come back to taunt me or am I imaging it all; maybe it’s just another dream or am in hell? The laughter grows dimmer as does the room and I feel like I am fading away and I try with all my might to hold on to stay here and live again. I hear your voice close to my ear, ‘baby it’s time to go’. I cringe inwardly trying with all my might to stay alive.
I call out to the angels and ask them ‘where are they taking me and is it time now’ but they just smile and wait patiently for me to finish my thoughts. I ask them again; ‘why me’? The answer is whispered on the wind; ‘why not you’ and then it’s time to go.
I hear sirens in the distance, they have come too late. When they walk into the room I’m laying there with blood all around me with a smile on my face; and they question each other as to what would possess someone dying such an ugly death to smile in this manner? They start taking photos of me and I wish they wouldn’t do that.
I stand very close to a police officer and try to tell them about you, who you are and what you did to me. No one hears me, no one sees me. That’s when I notice you standing in the corner of the room with a satisfied smirk, arms folded across your chest and blood trickling down your face.
A shaft of white light beams down and you scowl moving towards me, its then I notice for the first time those black menacing figures standing either side of you. They take an elbow each and start moving downwards and your screams are enough to wake the dead.
My sister and another police officer come into the room and her cries of anguish as she looks down at my crumpled lifeless body is heartfelt. The officer mentions the fatal motor bike accident down the road that occurred some hours before. I can hear them speculating that I must have died around the same time as the accident. He thinks today is not such a good day with both these deaths. But to me it is a good day after all; it’s just a shame our love has turned to blood.
Elizabeth Diehl
This section brought to you by ...
People Like You
Tales about overcoming adversity to achieve
The Monasteries of Mardan – Bruce Nenke
Mardan is a town; an area in the North-west Frontier Provence of Pakistan. It sits on the first foothills of the Hindu Kush above the Punjabi plains; gateway to Swat valley. The Swat River runs into the Indus not far below. In its hills one of the largest Buddhist monastic complexes ever built lays in complete ruins. It housed 20,000 monks in its day and rivaled the capitol Taxila in size and industry. Here Ghandharian Art had reached its apex but that is about all we know of a long forgotten Greek Buddhist Kingdom. Founded by the good king, Meander, who by staging a debate had chosen Buddhism as the state religion. The winning argument being; ‘They are all lying and so am I’. In a debate about 'Truth' Meander could pick an honest man. Long before Dharumsula; when Lhasa was a backwater, Mardan was the place where you heard Buddhist doctrine debated; Mardan was the place where you made your mark.
I tried to visit this place once. The guide book said you had to stop the bus; i.e tell the driver to stop ‘Bus Gardi!’, somewhere non-descript, somewhere along the road between Malakand and Mardan; walk five miles, walk back and then try to hail passing buses to continue. I am sure nothing has changed but whether there is a Monastery there or not I don't know but I know in my memory I did this. As above, in a debate about Truth; honesty wins out. By the time I had figured it out, I'd already passed the place; so I missed out. Below this complex was the world's largest Buddhist Stupa. Before St Paul's Cathedral in Rome it was the largest dome on the planet built by the Kushan Kings. It contained a relic; the finger bone of the Buddha 'Gautama Siddhartha'. The Kushans spoke Aryan; they had to learn Sanskrit and Pali. Under the Kushans India was the wealthiest country on earth. There was Pax Romana in the west; Historian quote these times as being an endless summer of prosperity, for one hundred and ten years the world was at peace with itself. Rome, Persia, India and China traded peacefully with each other and before the Silk road Kingdoms; the Kushans were at the centre of this global trade. They were the ones who built the biggest Buddhist statues in Afghanistan, the ones the Taliban bombed; these students may now regret this but this is the attitude of Muslims. To them it's pre-history; before the coming of the light, it has nothing to do with them, ‘Of interest to you.’ They would say to me cynically; meaning Japanese and English speaking tourists. If it's not in the guide book it was probably a Japanese Tourist who told me about the place; they were the only ones travelling in Pakistan at that time who were just there to see ancient Buddhists sites. They knew something Western travelers didn't; they had a different guide book. So it is in Mardan I am setting this story, in this big emptiness of a lost Buddhist world; a void of history. Their word for such stories as this is 'Apocryphal' but Ghandhara fell long before Islam arrived. Unlike Nuristan the neighboring Kingdom, originally Kafirstan they were never converted by the sword they had already fallen on their own. The story from now is called 'The birth of Zen'.
The Birth of Zen
Most people don't know this but there actually was a 'Zen', a personality; a person. He was the Master and founder of the Orphanage at Mardan Monasteries. In truth only a third of the boys were orphans, most were just from poor families but to them he was 'Master Zen'. Zen was a Persian; a Zoroastrian convert with an accent but to the boys he was foreigner and the butt of all their jokes. One might construe that the boys being Greek by descent were racist in their humor but Greeks and Persians though traditional enemies were both Aryan; they realized they were cousins. The boys may have been bigots but Zen had gotten to expect it at the Monastery where he was the odd one out. Zen was only ever going to be a simple Monk, it was his Karma; incarnated Buddhists Monk's 'Lamas' have Buddhist mother's.
Zen was a strict Father; every boy knew the sound of one hand clapping that was the sound they heard Zen make with his right hand every morning as he woke the boys before dawn. Though Zen picked on all the boys, one boy got it more than any other; he was dyslexic and because of this he was Zen's whipping boy. The boy use to call the teacher 'Zen Master'; this was the first time the term was ever heard. ‘Master Zen!’ Master Zen would point with his finger; ‘Master Zen!’ slap. Zen with that one right index finger from that hand in the air would lecture the boys. ‘You can't be a Buddha by being late’. ‘You can't be a Buddha with dirty finger nails’. ‘You can't be a Buddha by climbing trees’; someone was caught climbing a tree. What the boys basically did was clean the toilets for 20,000 monks. ‘It's your Karma’; Zen would lecture them with the finger. The boys were scared of that finger they had heard stories of where it had been; apocryphal stories.
One day Master Zen had got an invitation to watch a debate. Finally someone in the hierarchy had noticed his good deeds with the children he thought to himself; his work with the Orphanage had accumulated merit. This was an important day for Zen, a day that was written in the stars. The kids would have to manage by themselves; unsupervised, he'd be off for three hours. ‘It's your Karma, Good luck’; he wished them at the same time wishing it on himself; but when Zen got to the debate somehow everything had gone wrong. His chair had been taken by another student, he was told to sit outside where he could hear the debate but not see it. So Zen chose to go home; back to the Orphanage. Poor show thought his peers.
The boys were cleaning the vast complex's kitchen floors when Zen walked in. They didn't expect him back so soon and there was the dyslexic boy pointing with his right index finger, imitating Zen's accent perfectly, saying ‘It's your Karma; You can't be a Buddha... ‘. Zen immediately interrupted the Boy and shouted ‘You can't be a Buddha by imitation!’ The children laughed, they thought the Master was in on the joke, so well had the boy imitated Zen's lists of don'ts but who knows what was in the Master's mind at that moment. Anger, humiliation; humor was a concept that this most conceptual of Buddhists was unable to grasp. Within a sixth of a second it seemed he had picked up a meat clever and cut off the boy's finger. The boy was immediately 'Enlightened' and in gratitude to his Teacher he grabbed the meat clever and cut off the Master's offending finger saying ‘Now!! It is you who will imitate me!’ In the Master's head all he heard was 'Now' but he was 'Enlightened' and the boy was banished from the Monastery and this is where the story should end but there's more. If humor be the opposite of anger maybe revenge is the opposite of justice.
The Boy's Journey
The Boy now basically unemployed gravitated to the Stupa outside the Monastery walls. A thousand pilgrims a day, he thought to himself; if only each threw an Anna that would be a thousand Anna a day, divided amongst a thousand beggars he realized, so he became a beggar at the greatest Stupa in the world. But at this Stupa he saw people he had never seen before, new people. They dressed in green. 'Chillum Worshipers'. 'Malangs', they smoked hashish and ate meat. ‘People of bad Habits’, pious pilgrims would comment. ‘They eat meat but not flesh; so they say’; the comments continued. When you live in the Punjab it's easy to criticize non-vegetatarians but what do you expect Eskimos to eat and to them these Sufi's were as alien as Eskimos. They didn't belong but neither did the Boy so it was amongst them he made his friends. They really were the poorest of beggars, their cotton and wools were rags within a week. Once they put on a piece of clothing they would never take it off; as if it became part of their skin but they were the most generous of their breed. To the boy they were the Kings amongst Thieves. When the boy had told them the story about how he lost his finger, they were indignant, sad, sympatric and hurt themselves. They confronted Buddhist pilgrims saying ‘Buddha has stolen this boy's finger, when will Buddha give it back’. Passing pilgrims threw coins rather than be faced with the Boy's stump or answer the question. The Boy started making money and he saved it carefully, like the 'Butterfly'.
One day someone turned up with lots of sparkles and tinsel. The green guy's Guru. They treated him as a saint and they told him the boy's story. It was a night by the Sufi's fire. Their Father prayed and the Stupa cracked in half as Buddha's finger bone lifted out of the centre of the dome and drifted on to the Boy's stump. His finger had been restored with Buddha's relic. ‘A Kingdom Falls at its Apogee’; was as all Mr. 'No-name' said to them as he walked out into the night back west into the darkness beyond the fire.
The next morning the pilgrims were shocked; the Stupa had been split down the middle from north to south. Only an earthquake could have done such damage and yet no-one had been awoken by a tremor last night. The 'Pujaris', the Monks in charge of the Shrine rushed to Mardan to get the Monastery’s Oracles to see if they could make sense of what had happened. The main Oracle possessed by the deity whirled in the centre of the divided Stupa which was now empty. He looked east at one half of the broken circle and west to the other half. East and then west, he started babbling as if the whole contents of Kali Yug were rushing out of his mouth. Most of it nobody there wanted to hear. ‘The Death of a Buddha’, 'Babble'. ‘The Death of Buddhism’, 'Babble'. ‘The Death of the King’, 'Babble'. ‘The 'Death of the Kingdom’, 'Babble'. ‘The death of 'Babble, babble, babble’. They stopped listening at this point. The last thing the Oracle said before he collapsed was ‘If it comes to war between East and West; East will win’. The people looked to the experts; the ones who had accompanied the now sleeping man and were taking off his heavy head dress. The oracles of the Oracle one might say, heard 'East will win'; om? this was reassuring they thought. It was a time and a place where three generations of Ghandharians had never seen or known war. The only enemy they could imagine was the Persians but India had never gone to war with Persia nor Persia with India. Unlike Asoka; Ghandharian Kings had never engaged in wars of conquest. They had inherited most of it from previous Kings and Conquers and what they didn't own, belonged to Buddhists too. India was Buddhist, China was Buddhist, even the War-like Tibetans had gone Buddhist. The Mongols were still a threat on the far horizon but when Kublai Khan held a debate like Meander; he too choose the honest answer. The only difference being that at this debate in Xanadu there was a Christian representative; blue eyes and a roman nose.
Download this book for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-26 show above.)