Narrator Magazine
Blue Mountains
Autumn 2011
Smashwords Edition
narrator MAGAZINE is published by MoshPit Publishing
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Cover: ‘The Board Meeting, Circular Quay’—Donald Martin McLean, watercolour on paper.
‘The characters of the City of Sydney are favourite subjects of mine; not just those who perform to catch the eye, but the quiet, out-of-the-way folk as well, like these three old gentlemen sitting in the winter sun at the Quay, solving the world’s problems’.
To contact Donald, call 02 4758 8191.
A few words from the publisher ...
Happy New Year everybody—we do hope you’re over the summer heat (we certainly are!) and ready for the turning of the leaves.
Congratulations to all our ‘judged’ winners of the summer issue—as per the inside cover, opposite. And congratulations also to our People’s Choice winner, Rebecca Langham for her short story Three Dollars and Thirty Cents.
It was very exciting for us to have Greg Bastian as our first judge—and all very top-secret in an undercover sort of way! All contributions were delivered to Greg in plain text format, with headings but no author names, and no graphics—he was working merely on content. He made his choices, and then we wrote them down on paper and locked them away for the summer. Only once Greg had made his choices did we start distributing the summer issues across the Mountains—we certainly weren’t going to let him have any clues as to who had written what!
As publishers, it always fascinates us to see what sort of items are going to land in our virtual ‘collection box’. This issue attracted a high proportion of very brave and honest items dealing with loss in more ways than one, as well as several fantasy-type items. The mix is always interesting—and always challenging for us to lay out. Do you put two sad poems together, or do you pair each one with something serious, happy or whimsical instead? Are you watering down the mood of two disparate items when you pair them together, or is it too much to have two of the same type together? And is there a correct answer? Who knows?!
As always, deepest thanks go to our page sponsors, because without them none of us would have this magazine. If you know anyone with a business which services the Mountains, please feel free to show them the latest copy of Narrator and ask if they would be interested in sponsoring a page. Rates are $55 per quarterly issue, full-colour, or $176 for four issues (a full year) which is a discount of 20% per issue.
And now, it’s time for you to start turning the leaves of this, the first autumn issue of Narrator Magazine Blue Mountains. We hope you enjoy it!
Jenny Mosher
March 2011
Winning Entries for Summer 2010
Our second issue, Summer 2010, was judged by published author, manuscript assessor, editor and creative writing teacher Greg Bastian. Greg‘s final decision was:
First prize—$200 to Samantha Miller, Faulconbridge, for her poignant story, Paris Match
Second prize—$100 to Joan Vaughan-Taylor, Faulconbridge, for her moving poem, Fly A Kite
Third prize—$50 to Linda Yates, Katoomba, for her insightful story, The Loaf of Bread
In fact, Greg couldn‘t stop there, offering two Highly Commended mentions to:
Sue Artup, Lapstone, for her story, Daniel and
David Bowden, Medlow Bath, for his poem, Opinions Vary
A few words from our Guest Judge ...
So many fabulous pieces of writing in the Summer issue – choosing the best and brightest was like choosing a new hairstyle – not everyone is going to like the result! Of course, as guest judge, you hope that the winning entries will be so far ahead of the pack as to be obvious to everyone. Not so in this case. Of the thirty-six pieces submitted, all were impressive. Another judge could easily justify a different order of merit.
All the stories were sent to me before publication and all were anonymous. I narrowed down the choices to what I considered the best ten. In the end it was the perfect pitch and delicate tone of Samantha Miller‘s story, Paris Match, that got her across the line first. A close second was Joan Vaughan-Taylor‘s resonant poem about a boy learning to construct and fly a kite, which captures so effectively that marvellous sense of achievement through perseverance. And finally, in third spot, Linda Yates‘s beautifully constructed character portrayal of a woman embittered by the prejudice of those close to her. The two highly commended authors, Sue Artup and David Bowden, came very close, both pieces having a raw, heartfelt appeal.
Congratulations to all the authors in the Summer Edition.
Greg Bastian
Blue Mountains
Writing Services
visit http://www.gregbastian.com.au/
manuscript assessment ~ book reviews ~ general editing line editing ~ proof-reading ~ literary project planning ~ technical writing ~ composition ~ advertising copy for brochures and flyers
Greg Bastian's latest novel is The Goldseekers, published by Harper Collins and short-listed for the PFP Children’s Literature Peace Prize. Greg is a popular mentor at the NSW Writers’ Centre and teaches at UTS and writers’ centres around the country.
Poetry
A Minute’s Silence – Jean Bundensen
A Personal Poem About Procrastination – James Craib
And the Crowd Went – James Craib
For My Father – Joan Vaughan Taylor
I’ve Always Wondered – Sonia Ursus Satori
Mourning (Cancer’s Aftermath) – Denise Newton
Somewhere to Play Cricket – Rosemary Baldry
Sophie Rose Yates – Linda Yates
Soulful Longings – Jean Bundensen
The Bottom Line – Sonia Ursus Satori
The Music Room – Josephine Adam
The Wind at My Door – Robyn Chaffey
Two Tight Tales in a Sonnet – Joan Vaughan Taylor
Short Stories
A Comic in Therapy – Paris Portingale
All the Worst Jobs – Michael Burge
Empress and Vanity – Jordan Russo
Fertility Goddess – Samantha Miller
Knock n’ Roll – Christina Frost Clayton
Once a Pretty Maiden – John Egan
Quick Brown Fox and Lazy Dog – Paris Portingale
Tahnee’s Tales: The Mouse and the Showbag – Nana J
The Art of Love – Kate Santleben
The Memory of Old Blackfish – Rebecca Langham
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And the Crowd Went – James Craib
I blundered lonely, as a crowd went cheerlessly to their appointed tasks.
I wondered forlornly, ‘Why do they bother’? They wear no smiles, just their corporate masks.
They speak on mobile phones and devices, eyes devoid of signs of life.
An unruly high school brat entices all others about to cower in strife.
I once was of that generation; we haunted trains and caused dismay.
Foul language bounces off the windows; in vain, you wish they’d just go away.
I conjured up phoney images of loud shirts and neckties wider than tablecloths.
They’ve plundered, knowingly, market stalls and op-shops – old clothing I see now worn by Goths.
Others flaunt ghastly tattoos and piercings – metal in eyebrows, noses, ears and lips.
Inked designs on arms, legs and faces: daggers, skulls, roses, butterflies and sailing ships.
Now there is no veneration; feet are on seats and vandalism prevails.
Graffiti assails you in every direction; succumbing to the clatter of the rails ...
I pondered coldly as a cloud went greyly over the valley outside.
I’ve squandered boldly on all things frivolous; no time to waste on foolish pride.
Perusing now old photographs and images, I barely recognise the person I was.
Remembering too old lovers and scrimmages, I’d descend the mountains because ...
I was in need of vindication, though friends were daunted by the things I’d try.
Fatuous remarks are all I have left, to make amends; it makes me cry.
He saunters, mouldy as a shroud, the ghost that was my former self.
I laundered adroitly all things embarrassing, including, loss of better health.
My breath is diminished but I’m not finished, it just takes longer to get around.
World events have lost their meaning; little things have gained in ground.
I don’t need further interpretation; it now just passes over my head.
Leave politics to poltergeists, let’s try magic tricks instead!
So yonder slowly went the crowd to find their way back home again.
Not under wholly the blackness of despair, we managed to escape the train.
The rain lashed at the platform station, we climbed the stairs at Wentworth Falls.
‘How are ya’? Rasped some crass antagonist, and remember as Wordsworth recalls ...
(If in need of verification), ‘The child is father of the man’.
This is the last gasp of humanity into the fire from the frying pan
Comfort Zone – Albany Dighton
Of money laundering, billowing leather
Slack seconds, loose minutes,
Intoxicating Jack Daniel hours
Assuage the non
La vie est bonne
Sensational – M Grace
Claw of hands surrounding the item with enthusiasm, entice to surprise. To relish into relinquish seem natural. Sublime state to find origins to one’s feelings over an item. It may sound dramatic, inner sensation equal to height of an orgasm.
Following strange feelings is ludicrous. It has sense of adventure more poignant. Joy of such journey and it’s endless wonders continue to amaze one’s senses; crossing the line to be incisive. It is an indication a valuable lesson to give yourself permission to maintain the sensation.
Endure success; don’t astray and be absolutely sure to enjoy the item. Efforts to obtain the sensation not to escape it. Talking about it don’t do justice. It requires strict instructions to oneself to always delight your senses to consume this item. Claw of hands reaching for another to consume and in amazement as equal to the first attempt.
The original sensation is bit as good as the first round and flat out to sustain the sensation. Conscience of this delight capture in a room of your brain is fitting. Be kind enough to admit consuming with height of excitement relevant to familiarity of good taste. Don’t resist for a moment to have other one.
Self indulgence is acceptable in consuming not with anything else. Be liberal with food, not just with drink.
Guest to test to consume the third time around; three is a loose number. By this time settlement of the senses demands to click on board and photograph in your brain of the sensational taste for further references.
After all it’s only chocolate truffles.
The Art of Love – Kate Santleben
Rowena stood before her National Trust calendar counting the days until her birthday. Only ten days to go. What would Robert give her? Last year it was box seat tickets to the Sydney Symphony; the year before an excellent lunch at Berowra Waters Inn. Always thoughtful, always caring for her: that was her Robert.
‘You’ve trained your husband well,’ her late mother would often say, often in his hearing.
Robert had a calendar in his study. It was one of those gung-ho Defence Forces ones, all action boys and girls. Exactly a week before her birthday his neat handwriting noted ‘Organise Rowena’s birthday’. Every year, exactly the same. Touching really.
Rowena made sure she didn’t disturb anything in his study. One day she’d put a vase of freshly picked David Austin roses on his desk. He’d been quite cranky. But he was pushing retirement age. Then again, that recent promotion to Brigadier had perked him up.
‘Rowena, it’s not the roses, I love them. And I love you but this room is mine. Understood?’
‘Yes Robert.’
You’d think I was one of his soldiers. But there was one thing her dear and darling husband didn’t know. She’d hugged the knowledge to herself for years. He knew nothing about the key she had to his safe. The key she only used once a year to peak at whatever he’d brought home a week before her birthday. She would quickly glance across all the boring sealed envelopes labeled ‘In the event of my death’. How melodramatic. Her eyes were seeking gift bags.
Only three more days now, she thought as she left the study.
Those three days’ passage were marked by Robert’s comings and goings ably assisted by his new driver. Pretty little thing she was, in a vapid sort of way. What was her name? Ah, Cherie. Mmm, circa 1989. Cherie kept calling Rowena ‘Marm’. Made her feel like the Queen.
Robert always took his briefcase straight to his study when he arrived home. No tell-tale rustle of gift bags could she detect tonight but that was usual. He always managed to spirit her birthday ‘surprise’ into his safe.
Rowena waited for Robert to emerge before suggesting they have dinner in the conservatory.
‘How lovely my dear. May I say, Rowena, you’re looking positively chipper tonight. Anything special happening?’
She almost giggled. He was such a tease. Said this every year exactly a week before her special day.
‘Oh no, nothing special. Like a glass of wine?’
***
Early morning came with an apricot streaked sky. Genghis Khan, Robert’s Burmese cat, lay hidden in the undergrowth waiting for prey and Cherie had already picked Robert up for an early start. He was off to inspect troops somewhere.
Robert’s study, bathed in early morning light, was still. The old iron safe squatted in the corner. It’d taken two burly men to shift it when the house extensions had been done.
Swinging the handle down, Rowena tugged the door open. Sitting pertly right on top was a gift bag with ‘Ooh La La’ on it.
‘Ooh La La’. What/where was that? Pulling the bag out she spotted the word ‘Lingerie’. Well, well.
She opened the bag. Red items lay within. Very red. A bold red. Slowly she eased them out. A matching bra and knickers in beautiful, luxurious, red satin. Size 10. Rowena rocked back on her heels. She hadn’t been a size 10 for forty years.
Who were they for? Who was size 10? Cherie. Who else? Oh Robert, I am appalled. What to do? Coffee first and think.
She carefully returned the items to the bag and into the safe. Swinging the door shut, she locked it and slowly backed away before fleeing to the comfort of the kitchen. Normality. Her domain.
Sipping slowly, Rowena pondered her options. What was the name of Robert’s favourite book? The Art of War, that was it. She’d never read it but could relate to it. This was war and she’d had over forty years of mastering the art of winning over her husband’s affection. She wasn’t going to lose her house or see her children’s inheritance divided over some size 10 Cherie. Besides, she loved Robert. Always had, always would.
Rowena bided the week until her birthday. The house shone and ran with effortless precision. She filled their social calendar with like-minded, useful people and she continued to smile graciously to all before her. Inside she could feel her stomach dripping acid.
Red lingerie indeed.
The day of her birthday dawned and the doorbell rang. She heard ‘Special delivery for Mrs. Langdon,’ and listened to Robert saying thank you.
He came to her bedroom door bearing an armful of long-stem roses. Deep-red roses.
‘Robert, they’re beautiful, thank you. They’re so … red.’
‘I chose them just for you.’
Red roses for her; red lingerie for whom? She thought.
Did he know she knew? How could he?
She glanced away … thoughts of the art of war swirling.
‘Rowena, I have to run; dinner tonight at seven? Would you choose somewhere? I can meet you there.’
He kissed her quickly on the cheek.
Leaning against her pillows, Rowena pulled the cream coverlet protectively to her chin.
Flowers from Robert – unusual. Asking her to choose the restaurant – unheard of.
She eyed the roses. They were blood red and enclosed in sheets of red cellophane with cascading fat, golden ribbons. An image of her bleeding severed head on a golden platter flashed before her. Were the roses some sort of imaginative warning from Robert?
No, he wasn’t capable of such subtlety. Or was he? Did she really know him any more?
The phone rang.
‘Happy birthday, Mum – not ringing too early?’
‘Thank you, Hugh darling, and no, it’s not too early. How’s work? How are you and Sophie?’
‘The usual, too long hours, too little time spent with Sophie – the hoops I jump to be a partner one day. But I’ve bought something nice for Sophie.’
‘Good, but you love your work. Even when you were little you’d be judge and jury to everyone’s misdeeds.’
Laughing, he asked, ‘So what’s the old man organised for you today?’
‘I have some lovely roses.’
‘Dad bought you roses? That’s … different.’
‘He asked me to choose somewhere for dinner and he’d meet me there.’
‘Oh. Is Dad alright?’
‘Hugh, I think he is but … How long is it since you and your Dad have had a really good talk?’
‘I saw him briefly only last week; he’d wanted to talk with me about something but I had to run. Dad said it could wait. Before that would’ve been the BBQ at my place. He chatted about fishing.’
‘Fishing!?’
‘Yeah, surprised me too but he said he’d always wanted to go trout fishing in New Zealand. He even had a picture of that megabucks fishing lodge you see advertised. He talked about fishing flies and the different types. Seemed to know a lot about it. Anyhow, I’m due in court so have a great day. Love you.’
Trout fishing.
Rowena Googled ‘Trout fishing New Zealand’ and clicked on the first hit. She studied the beautiful house, the gracious gardens, scrolled through the glowing reviews.
Sydney to Christchurch was less than a three hour flight. If they flew out tomorrow, they could stay three nights and fly back Tuesday.
Checklist:
Robert’s work diary possible to clear?
Flights and accommodation available?
Airport accommodation and dinner reservation?
Passports and packing?
Cat looked after?
Send SMS to Robert ‘Dinner at 7 @ Airport Hilton. C U XOX’?
Paula, Robert’s long-term PA had been such a sweetie.
‘Rowena, happy birthday’, she’d said and when the New Zealand plan had been shared, had assured Rowena that she would ‘get the diary sorted’.
Rowena had been so tempted to ask Paula about Cherie but had stopped herself. Knowledge is power but Rowena had her pride.
The art of war; the art of love. Bring it on Rowena thought whilst walking into the restaurant that night. She carried one of the red roses and strode over to her husband who stood up when he saw her.
‘Robert, the roses were so beautiful I brought one along,’ she explained in response to his look of surprise.
As they settled, a gentler look came over his face and he took her hand in his.
‘I’m glad you did. David Austin’s The Knight roses are not easy to find. I wanted to get something you’d really enjoy. I liked the name too. It gives me hope for the future to think chivalry is not extinct.’
‘That’s important to you Robert?’
‘Yes, of course. It can be hard at times to view oneself as … Oh, I don’t know the words. I’ll think on it. Anyhow, tell me Rowena. Why the Airport Hilton?’
‘Ah. I’m glad you’ve asked,’ Rowena almost purred. ‘I wanted to surprise you by organising something special; something I think you’ll really enjoy.’
‘But it’s your birthday – not mine.’
‘Of course but I felt … I felt we’ve drifted apart. Just a little,’ she quickly added in response to his look of wariness. ‘So, I’ve organised a trip to a fishing lodge in New Zealand. Here’s a printout of what we’re doing and you’re not to worry about work. According to Paula, it’s all sorted.’
‘Rowena, I don’t know what to say. This is so unexpected and so very thoughtful of you.’
Robert looked at his hand still holding hers.
‘Rowena, I …’
‘Robert, this will be a chance for us to spend time together doing something you’ll enjoy. How do you feel about that?’
He looked up into her eyes.
After so many years together she could recognise the look of love he had for her. Rowena could also see the guilt. But the look of love was stronger.
‘I am so very much looking forward to this trip with you Rowena. Thank you.’
‘Just like this rose Robert, you’re my knight.’
Kate Santleben
Somewhere to Play Cricket – Rosemary Baldry
as Amy comes to bat.
Always a nervous starter, she waits
in the simmering heat.
It’s a sizzler!
She strikes and
it’s over the fence for six.
Shattering glass.
One of the neighbour’s windows
Again!
The back-yard cricket kids shuffle in with apologies
and listen once more
to the old Digger’s stories
of cricket in the trenches.
Now, backyards are too small.
Amy’s kids
play cricket in the street.
It’s a good way
to get to know the neighbours.
Kev in the ute tells the torturous tale
of the ball bowled underarm.
Armchair champ, Charlie,
coaches from the shade of his verandah.
‘Keep your eye on the ball!’
‘Classic catch!’
City streets are too dangerous
to play cricket.
Too many cars. Too many people.
Developers provide token greenspace
Allowing: no balls, no bikes, no fun.
But Jonno’s kids
play rooftop cricket
with a bird’s eye view of the world.
Mourning (Cancer’s Aftermath) – Denise Newton
The sun shines clear in the bright sky
An autumn wind tosses leaves like dice
My son’s guitar sings from his room
And I am bruised inside
My hand trembles when I think of
What has happened to me
I have a new creature in my life
It crouches on my shoulder
And whispers, whispers
Everything has changed
Nothing like it was
My view once reached comfortably
To the horizon
Now I see dust
I am mourning, mourning:
What is lost
Will never be restored
So many questions
Must remain unanswered
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The Hairdresser – Sue Artup
When I was a little girl I used to curl up in my mother’s arms and smell her hair.
I loved her hair. Everyone admired her hair. But the smell of her hair was not to be shared. It was my special thing! The olfactory surety that she was mine. It connected us, mother and first-born - it lingered on her combs and about her dressing table. It comforted me when she was away. It was she.
In her dotage her hair is a perfectly shaped cloche of silver-grey.
One day she makes the ill-advised step of allowing a barber to cut her hair. Hacked! Mauled into a non-descript colourlessness. I will not go out with her until it grows long enough to be fixed by a proper hairdresser!
I tell her to dig out a photograph of her lovely head so there can be no mistaking the look we must re-capture.
‘I can just look in the mirror darling!!!’, she quips, deliberately missing the purpose.
She leans over the contents of her handbag, strewn over her bed. ‘ I must go to the bank afterwards and cash a cheque.’ A dog-eared piece of signed paper worth $1,000. ‘ I’ll stick it just here.’ Nice and secure, attached with a rubber band to the outside of her wallet.
‘Won’t it flutter off when you go looking for your Visa card ?’ Good point – damn elusive Visa card. She settles on her change purse – both cheque and card – can’t go wrong there!
In the hairdresser’s she reflects: no, that cheque is better off in the inside pocket of her handbag. I point out that she has shifted the cheque around three times now. She swings at me: ‘ I have not!!! Don’t you make things up! Don’t you try to put one over! And in public!’
Never argue with your mother.
Summoned to the washbasin, I try to fill the hairdresser in on the debacle of the last haircut. Mum takes her arm, pulling her away from me and muttering in her ear. The girl turns to me and says: ‘Oh, are you a teacher?’
‘That was supposed to be our secret!!’ exclaims Mum to her new ally, who has already betrayed her by almost exposing the secret I can only guess at.
The haircut is beautiful. A bit coiffed, a bit floosy - but, we have style!!
Lunch in the shopping centre is a celebration. We flutter and chatter and order our chai lattes – so warming that she is far too hot in her woollen singlet, banlon spencer, silk blouse, short-sleeved jumper, long-sleeved jumper …..’ If I just undo the buttons of my blouse…’
Hands dive and writhe under two layers of jumpers.
Still hot.
‘I’ll just wriggle out of this little jumper …’ Oh my God, the short-sleeved one under the long-sleeved one. She manoeuvres her arms like Houdini and sits momentarily still to catch her breath from the effort. With a last hunching of the shoulders my straight-jacketed mother attempts to yank the under layer down around her waist.
Not happening.
The under-jumper and the outer-jumper meet at elbow level. I look up from my chicken and avocado toasted Turkish to see a Vital Call button staring me in the face. A Vital Call button sitting atop a woollen singlet, banlon spencer, and curtained by an unbuttoned silk blouse.
Mum looks down at her exposure and back at me. We shriek with laughter, drawing even more attention to the contortions she is still, red from mirth rather than embarrassment, trying to master.
‘Just pull your jumper over your head, quick! Do the buttons up!’
With one swift movement the outer-jumper is off. Then the under-jumper – but not before she realises with a moan of horror : ‘ My HAIR!! Oh no, my HAIR!!’ clasping her head with both hands, trying to salvage the remains of her coiffe.
At home we settle down with our wine and the quotidian word puzzle, trying to save brain cells even as we kill them. Since my last visit she has tidied the place up. Nothing is in reach anymore, least of all her pens. ‘Someone keeps taking my pens. They are never where I leave them.’ I take out my ubiquitous pencil case, and gently goad her : ‘These are mine.’
‘Well mine look just like that.’
‘You didn’t have yellow pens on Sunday.’
‘I know what colour pens I have! I don’t know who has been shifting things around!’
Mr Nobody.
Later when scavenging for an emery board I find her pens tucked away amongst the letters and cut-out recipes and handy hints and scribbled notes on everything from the names of opera singers to the treatment of Alzheimer’s.
We restrain ourselves and leave enough wine in the bottle for her dinner tomorrow.
‘Leave it on the floor in the pantry, darling. That way if I have to crawl I can still get it.’
Heading off to bed we scream with laughter again.
‘I love you so much, my daughter.’
I push my face into her hair. And she is there.
Sue Artup
Quick Brown Fox and Lazy Dog – Paris Portingale
Once upon a time, in a glade in a forest somewhere in the Cotswolds, which is in England, just to the left of the middle and down a bit, the quick brown fox came across the lazy dog. The dog was taking a brief nap, lying on his side with his legs sticking out in the way dogs do when they’re totally at ease with everything about, but he had an ear to the ground and when the fox approached, he opened an eye and stiffened slightly.
Each had taken the other quite by surprise and there was a moment of uneasy tension until recognition and the facts of the matter settled themselves more easily in each animals awareness and they both breathed out and relaxed.
Lazy dog’s tail stirred and he said, ‘Ah, quick brown fox.’
Quick brown fox said, ‘Lazy dog, as I live and breathe.’
‘Pleased-to-meet-chah,’ dog said and the fox replied, ‘Likewise. How fine it is to come upon you at last. I’ve heard so much about you.’
‘All good I hope,’ the dog said, and they both laughed as, in the case of lazy dog, it would be quite impossible to talk more than half a sentence about him without saying something rather good. And a similar position could be taken for quick brown fox, for that matter.
Dog squirmed himself into his sphinx position, flat, with his back legs tucked and forelegs stretching out front, and the fox sat on his hind quarters and scratched a single scratch down his jaw and over his whiskers and gave a little snort to clear his breathing passages and so get a better sense of lazy dog’s current disposition and attitude and all the other myriad aspects relating to his condition and present frame of mind and feeling towards all things in general.
Lazy dog said, ‘So, quick brown, what brings you to this neck of the woods?’ and fox said, ‘Ah, just on the trot, old boy. Just on the trot.’
Dog said, ‘Hmm,’ and fox, sensing some kind of propriety could possibly have been overlooked said, ‘I’m sorry, you can smell my bottom if you want,’ and started to rise, but dog said, ‘No, no, not necessary, don’t get up. Please dear chap, remain seated there,’ so fox settled himself down again, saying, ‘I thought that sort of thing was, ah … de rigueur with … ah …’
Dog said, ‘No, no. Superficial stereotyping, old chap. Silly generality. Bumbling pigeonholing of an entire species. Not true at all.’
‘Ah, quite so, quite so,’ fox said and wrapped his tail more firmly around himself.
‘So,’ lazy dog said, taking the conversational tiller and steering the topic upon a different tack altogether, something a little more nor-nor east and closer towards common for both parties. ‘What direction and destination is your trot taking you this fine afternoon, quick brown? Something jolly and japish no doubt. Out and about, foxing things up. On the trot, looking to this and that. Eh, I shouldn’t imagine?’
‘Oh, I’m just on the trot,’ fox told him.
‘You’re welcome to join me for a mile or two if you have a mind. We could talk about the weather. Or the price of jam, if that’s more your cup of tea.’
Stretching, dog got to his feet and shook himself in the manner he used to shake off water after a swim, and it cleared the last of the cobwebs, formed during his afternoon snooze. ‘I’d be more than happy to join you,’ he said. ‘You take the lead, old chap. I’ll follow. Which way are we heading?’
‘That way, there,’ fox said, indicating the direction with a turn of his nose, and he got to his feet himself.
‘Right you are,’ dog said. ‘What do you know about cucumbers?’
‘Nothing at all,’ fox told him, happily, to which dog replied, ‘Myself neither,’ and they both laughed and fox took to the trot with dog following a respectful six paws behind.
They talked of the weather, naturally, and dog spoke of how he’d once been out on a boat, on the river, and had put his head over the side to drink the river water as it ran past, and fox explained why horses are always found at the front of carts and never at the back. Dog said, ‘Oh, really, is that why?’ and fox asked him if the motion of the boat had made water go up dog’s snout at all, which it had. And they trotted at a briskish pace, side by side now, as the six paws protocol was rarely ever extended beyond a hundred yards or so.
And before a half mile had passed they found themselves beside a fallen trunk, come down in a wind some time previously, and now a little mossy on the leeward side, away from the sun. There was a patch of reddened grass beside it and a furry thing they smelt some time before they saw it. On closer approach it turned out to be a dead rabbit, its entrails having been torn from its body and laying black and rubbery on the ground beside it. They sniffed it with a cautious curiosity and noted the blood crusted around its half open mouth and its eyes, glassy and staring at nothing, certainly nothing in this world, and they both gave a little shudder, as to each, it was like a small window on their own possible future and ultimate demise.
Dog said, ‘But for the grace of God.’ and fox said, ‘Amen,’ and they left the body without further comment or consideration and jumped the log together and continued on their trot.
While no longer holding any conscious thought of the rabbit, a lingering sense of the mist of death was still in the air and dog said thoughtfully to the quick brown fox, ‘What do you think happens after death, quick brown? Is there something else, do you think? Because surely, when you look at the size of the sky and all, and what must surely lay beyond it, I find it hard to imagine there not being a little corner somewhere for us, where we could consider all that we’ve seen and all that has been.’
‘I don’t know,’ said quick brown. ‘It’s a tempting consideration and something I’m sure would be a comfort in those final moments, but …’ He trailed off as his mind began wandering through the forest of possible ways a fox could meet his end and none of them were pretty in the least and he took a moment to shake himself in the way dogs and foxes do when their fur is tickely, or their minds are laboured under unpleasant considerations.
‘Well, I prefer to think there is, quick brown. If there were nothing else, do you not feel that all this here now would be rather pointless?’
‘I’ve never been one for philosophical thinking,’ fox told him. ‘It does tend to take one into dark and uncomfortable places, and there is enough dark and discomfort in our real world here to go around twice I’m afraid. Yes, my dear dog, all the way around twice and with still a string of tail to hang loose besides.’
‘That’s true, quick brown,’ dog conceded, as he himself had known his share of the dark and discomfort the world seemed intent on throwing up, and no species spared. ‘Perhaps we should talk about cucumbers instead, then, for as neither knows a thing to do with the subject, we are bound to agree on practically each and every aspect.’
‘They’re green, I believe,’ fox said, and dog told him, ‘So, you do know something about the cucumber then, you sly old devil. Hiding your light under a bushel,’ and, inasmuch as a fox can blush in humbled pride, fox did just that.
Paris Portingale
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Two Tight Tales in a Sonnet – Joan Vaughan-Taylor
I’m portrayed as the villain of the piece
In fairy tales recounted then and now.
If frenzied lies and rumours are to cease
My version of the stories, you’ll allow.
That not so little girl walked in the wood
All dressed in red, the colour that inflames.
She skipped among the trees. I really should
Have known that she was only playing games.
Three porcine kids got in a building mood
Without a local licence from the town.
Their houses looked unsightly, cheap and crude.
I had to help the council take them down.
You’ll see from this that I am much maligned,
This wolf will never understand mankind.
Sophie Rose Yates – Linda Yates
Nineteen years ago, today, you died,
and were born, small daughter of mine.
The nurse tried to warn me, as she
placed you in my arms; the shock
of your red hair in stark contrast
with the blue of your skin.
Funny little piccaninny.
Searing pain and merciful morphine.
Six days into the New Year,
when the trees and decorations come down,
the festivities officially over,
as mine now certainly were,
and traditionally the day of the epiphany,
the three wise men bringing their gifts
to the infant Christ.
What gifts, wisdoms or epiphanies
from your small death, I wonder?
Unless it was this melting
of the heart that joined me in tender
communion with all who suffer loss and grief.
A softening of my hard edges.
A knowing that every life is precious
and one can never be replaced by another;
that every life might carry it's own crucifixion.
Hubris curtailed, an almost belief in providence,
the script already written,
acquiescence, with or without grace,
our only choice.
I certainly learned never to count chickens before hatching.
But these were for me.
I can’t think what was in it for you.
Your father named you,
having earned that right by being the
first to see your face and your
last heartbeat on the monitor, while I
in ignorant slumber lay;
the name spoken of such a short time before
as we sauntered up to the hospital that hot summer night,
thinking only, or trying to, that you might be early
and the flat a mess in the middle of painting
for your intended appearance.
I had wanted to call you Lily Rose
and then stood laughing in the middle of the street
when I thought of the surname, with it’s
Yates ‘ has everything a garden needs’
and I wondered if people might laugh.
Afterwards, I wanted a garden of babies,
Daisy, Poppy, Marigold (Goldie for short) and sweet William
for a boy.
So you became Sophie Rose,and a fine name that is too.
My lily swapped for a little wisdom.
Our arrival at the hospital produced a flurry of activity.
Bright lights, monitors beeping, cords attached.
Still protected by denial, I couldn’t work out what all the fuss was for
and felt a bit guilty at putting everyone to so much trouble.
I was being rushed down the corridors to surgery.
I laughed and made a joke about it being like Ben Casey.
I did not know they had seen your heart stop beating.
Ever one for a bit of drama
I found it exciting.
This’ll be one hell of a story to tell’.
Bang, crash into theatre.
The nurse complaining ‘she hasn’t been shaved’.
‘No time’, said the doctor.
‘She still has her rings on’. The nurse, in horror.
‘No time’, said the doctor.
No time to tell me either that I could not
be given the full anaesthetic
until they had you almost out.
Felt the unbelievable pain
of the knife
slide in
but could not move to tell them.
Made immobile, I lay there and thought of vivisectionists.
Or did that come later?
Knew I would soon be asleep or dead, it did not matter which.
It might have been around now, I guess,
that I stopped thinking it was funny.
They made your father tell me
you were dead.
I did not tell them that I wanted to
fling you across the room in
rage at your leaving of me and
scream at them for the uselessness of
giving me
a dead baby.
Wisely, they left you with me anyway.
Sometime in the night after watching
your oh so still profile in the bassinet
I relented,
climbed out of bed,
took you in my arms,
looked you over,
held your tiny hands and feet,
now gone cold,
and marvelled at the impossibility of you,
of your being here, or your death,
I cannot say.
Wished I had picked you up earlier
and held your warmth for longer.
'You will have another', the nurses said,
trying to be kind.
But I did not know that then and besides
I would never have you.
Long night's vigil
I saw before me all the
birthdays you would never have, all
the schoolbooks,
lunch boxes
and bags that would never
bear your name which adorns only
your gravestone,
this now poem and
the small box
where I placed the keepsakes I had gathered:
a lock of your hair,
your hand and footprints,
the sympathy cards,
the funeral flowers that I pressed,
all the labels I cut from my maternity clothes,
the ovulation chart with bingo circled in red,
marking the day of your conception.
(Never one to leave anything to chance
I had been recording those charts for months,
as a kind of talisman or charm
with which I might conjure you up
by the strength of my will and desire and magic.)
In fact I felt you arrive
before the pregnancy test told me.
I dreamt of buns in ovens.
I kept too, the ultrasound picture
with the clear image of your hand
waving to me as though from afar.
I remember how when I first saw it
I had the odd thought that
no matter what happened
I would always have that greeting from you,
now frozen in time.
The nurse had made me look at the screen
because you were turning somersaults
and we laughed at your joy
in being alive.
Week by week
I had looked at the baby book, now my bible,
for the pictures that showed what you looked like
and I imagined your growth unfolding inside me.
Then the surprise I felt at the first fluttering of you
moving within.
Buoyed up with optimism because I was bringing
new life into the world,
I danced you round the flat to the strains of South Pacific.
You were 'younger than Springtime',
while I was 'no longer a smart little girl with no heart'
Instead I was a 'cock-eyed optimist'.
I was 'corny as Kansas in August,
high as a flag on the fourth of July'.
I was 'stuck like a dope
with a thing called hope'
'in love with a wonderful guy'.
Small white coffin, satin lined cradle
I relinquish you unwillingly into the earth’s embrace,
too short a time in mine,
your bluebird of happiness pinned to the dress
I had just finished making for you
before that fatal walk.
I had begun making that dress before you were even conceived,
as though I could weave you into being,
stitch by loving stitch,
each holding my dreams and blessings for you.
So, when they asked if I had anything to bury you in,
I knew it had been waiting for you all along,
your destiny different from the one I had intended .
It had been a slow dawning, this call to motherhood,
which had then arrived with a clunk one day as I heard
my biological clock chime loudly
that the end was nigh.
I dreamt that I had lost twenty years and was sixty
and without children.
I took this for an omen.
I found myself in the baby section of department stores
buying things which I put away, as gifts to give,
but which I could never part with,
until one day standing there
amidst all the pinks and blues of baby hues
it came to me that I wanted them
for my baby.
And once this knowledge had escaped
there was no moderation as I set about
with diligence,
ferocity
and desperation
the reckless, some might say, making of you.
And when you did come you brought with you
serenity and purpose and peace with the world.
Then soon, ancient superstitions and primeval fears
stir within. Signs and wonders everywhere.
Portentous misgivings prevail.
I felt stalked by deep forebodings
that I would lose something precious,
there would be debits demanded of me,
a price to be paid,
forfeits to be made,
untendered tithes called in,
a toll exacted,
ransoms to be delivered up.
A sacrifice required for the gifts given.
I never thought it would be you.
I consulted the book which said irrational fears were common.
I dreamt that you were floating away from me into space,
umbilical cord stretching into the distance. And I thought
that if anything were to happen to this baby,
I would run screaming through the streets
and never be able to stop.
But, of course, when it came down to it,
I didn't.
I couldn't even cry.
I dreamt that you were being
dragged down by dark beings
into a black pit,
in a tug of war with me above,
and you slipped from my grasp.
I remembered that irrational fears were common.
I started to baulk at the thirteenth row on the knitting counter.
In slips of the tongue,
I called my wedding garland
a wreath.
Towards the end, I stood in the shower,
despair like molten lead
washing over me.
I could not feel you move.
The book said this can happen as the growing baby
runs out of room.
But then we walked to the hospital and you were gone.
Later, the obstetrician told me,
reading the autopsy report,
that he could not work out
how you had lived as long as you did.
But I knew why;
we did not want to be parted.
He wanted to know why I wanted the report.
Because, there being so little of you to keep,
I wanted to have all of you,
even your suffering,
though that was before I read of it, of course.
For you did not 'go gentle into that goodnight'.
Here I read of your long slow suffocation
as your heart gave out,
and of your tenacity as you struggled for your life.
All recorded, word for painful word.
Medical words, clinical terms,
but enough to paint the picture
of your own personal holocaust.
Perhaps it was just as well
and you had not the heart,
for worse holocausts that
might lay in wait for you,
for I read here too that you were trisomy 21,
(that's Down's Syndrome to me and you),
and I'd had a taste of things to come
when I refused the test saying that
I did not care if I gave birth to a two headed goat
as long as I became a mother,
alarming the midwife, who packed me off
to see the social worker, but not before
I heard her utter the words
burden on the state.
Better too perhaps to go before
I might prove unworthy of your love,
though I like to think not,
seeing in you the embodiment
of my body's betrayal and failure.
No one can know.
Such a small flaw.
An extra chromosome on the twenty first set,
like an extra stitch in the knitting,
the fault magnifying row upon row,
as layer upon layer of you was created.
The weaving all awry and out of kilter after all.
I asked a friend to do an astrology chart for you.
Not meaning to be cruel, she said she could not,
because you had not been born.
Stillborn.
The word does not do justice to your life,
because for 207 days,
you were alive in me.
I counted those days on the calendar.
Would have counted the hours too
if I could.
I just wanted the moon and stars
to bear witness to your brief but momentous being,
the heavens to take note of you,
to give a sign you say you had been here,
the universe, itself, to shift and shudder and shake
in resonance with the enormity of your death,
your life writ large as it was for me,
that there be a rent in the fabric of the cosmos
to mirror the one in my soul.
Another friend obliged.
'It's a funny thing', he said,
'but when I looked at the chart,
all the planets fell below the horizon'.
And so they did.
Just as all that came after was eclipsed
by the shadow of your passing.
Linda Yates
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Ticket – Aristidis Metaxas
When I was young my father would, sometimes on a weekend for a few hours, take me to his place of work, and while he was busy doing what adults would do in their office I would be left to wander freely in the big International Terminal. Life was so much more simpler then and the ever present eye of fear was something yet to come in a future time. All the busyness, the comings and goings of travelers to destinations yet unknown to me instilled a sense of longing for far off places in my mind.
Over time I would get to know most of the people working there, and I remember one man in particular, who was almost like a fixture at this Airport. There was something about him, some might say ‘other worldly’ which drew me to him and somehow he became, second only to my father, the most important influence in my life. Sometimes we would sit and talk, and sometimes we would just sit. His name was Mr. Jones, and this is his story:
Mr. Jones was a well known figure at this gateway of departures and arrivals; he had been around the place for, some say, nearly 20 years or more. Nobody really knew who he was, where he came from or much about his life, he was just known as Mr. J, and as far as everyone was concerned, part of the place. It seemed that he had nowhere else to go to, and had been living at the Airport as if it were his home. All the people working there got to know him really well, nobody had the heart to throw him out, kindhearted people gave him free coffee and often a hot meal, there was no one who was unkind to Mr. J as he ambled daily around the terminal. He became like a good luck charm to the place.
Often what he liked to do mostly was to pretend that he was about to depart on a overseas trip, or had just arrived, carrying a battered old brown suitcase held together with a leather strap, a suitcase not seen these days what with all the shiny new fangled fancy trolleys and slick looking cases Mr. J and his suitcase looked like a real curiosity from times past. But it suited him, like himself it was old, worn, nearly falling apart, had seen better days, had seen much and carried many things. Now, it just contained a comb, a toothbrush, and old photograph of his wife long gone and picture of his children, as well as an old faded Bible.
Somehow for reasons still unknown to this day Mr. J was able to walk freely around the terminal, walking past the police, immigration, customs and security checks, but nobody ever tried to stop him or seemed to mind. Sometimes, when the place wasn’t too busy with passengers he would even hand in his suitcase at the check counter, and then whoever was on duty would always with a smile put it on the conveyer belt, where it would disappear and somehow, minutes later would reappear at the arrival carousel. Mr. J would then walk through the gates and on the way tell other travellers nearby that he was going to all kinds of exotic places, Tahiti, the Caribbean, America, Hawaii or Europe. Or he would get his case from the carousel and tell how he just arrived from overseas and chat about the wonderful places he had been to and all the sights he had seen. It was even said that Mr. J at one time long ago was a professor of Art and History and so he really knew, as they say ‘a lot’ about the places. Occasionally it would happen that a new security guard or official would, not knowing Mr. J that well, become overeager and try to move him from the terminal, seeing him more of a nuisance than anything else and a bother to the many passengers, but other staff would soon reassure them that Mr. J was just who he was and harmless. And so days and years passed.
It was one of those warm late autumn afternoons, when the light was really golden and shining fully into the terminal, giving the place a warm glow and softening the harshness of chrome and glass efficiency. The old man was resting on one of the seats in the departure area, feeling a little tired that day and not quite himself. He sat there wondering what his life had been all about, and he was sunk deeply in his memories and thoughts when suddenly a voice on the Address system made an unexpected announcement: ‘Attention please, Mr. Jones, Mr. Jones, would you kindly come to the Customer Courtesy Desk.’ He heard the voice and the name but was sure that it wasn’t for him, after all who would want to see or talk to him, he wasn’t important.
But again, this time with more urgency the voice announced: ‘Your Attention please, Mr. Jones, calling Mr. Jones, please come to the Customer Courtesy Desk urgently.’ He thought who could that be, funny that someone here would have the same name as him, but then again Jones was a common name so it wasn’t that unusual. Then he heard someone else call his name and as he looked up he could see Mr. Dekker walking towards him, he was one of the long time airport administrators who had known him for many years, he was a good man who never spoke a harsh word to anyone. He was a strikingly tall, over 6ft 5, it was said that his ancestors in a different place and time had been Tribal Chiefs in Africa. Mr. Dekker smiled and said: ‘Hey there Mr. Jones, I think that important announcement may just be for you, why not go and see what it’s all about. Can’t do any harm’. He helped him on his feet and watched him as he walked towards the service desk in the distance.
Mr. Jones arrived at the desk and the woman behind the counter, although she was unfamiliar to him and had never ever seen her at the Airport in all the years he had been there, smiled as she saw him as if she were greeting an old familiar friend and said: ‘Mr. Jones, how good to see you, look what I have for you, someone handed this to me just a moment ago, it is a Ticket and Boarding Pass for you.’
‘For me?’, he asked in surprise, ‘But how, who, who on earth would …’ He took the ticket, it was an extraordinary colour, golden like with a shimmer that made it hard to focus on the writing, nevertheless he tried to read the ticket, Departure Gate: 44, Flight no: 44. Passenger: Mr. Jones. Seat: First Class. But there was no destination. ‘Surely this must be a mistake’ said Mr. J, ‘This can’t be for me’. The woman smiled again and said: ‘A lady came and handed it to me insisting that it must be given to you and no one else. Please hurry or you may miss your flight. ‘Bon Voyage, Mr. Jones!’
Something odd happened to the air as Mr. Jones looked at the ticket again, it was like the air was bending, shifting, like on those hot lazy summer days when you get a heat haze and things go out of focus. He looked around at the people milling about him in the airport, they all had faces all right but he couldn’t make out any of them clearly. ‘My eyesight must be going’ he thought as he looked at the departure board which was usually full of all kind of announcements of departing flights but to his surprise the only departure on the Board was Flight 44, boarding now at Gate 44. He held on tightly to his old battered suitcase and walked as quickly as he could through the Departure gates, handing his ticket to the attendant who put it though the Check in and wished him a pleasant trip. Nobody asked for his passport or identity, nobody checked his suitcase, it was all happening so quickly and in slow motion. Mr. J now walked even faster, in the distance he saw Gate 44 and he hurried towards it afraid that e may miss his flight or that perchance he would after all wake up and find that this was just a dream..
Mr. Dekker was watching his old friend from a distance feeling that something was not right, he couldn’t put his finger on it exactly but he sensed that Mr. J was acting rather peculiar today, this was not his usual imaginary journey, and when he even passed an offer of a coffee from a nearby worker, Dekker felt that this was extremely odd, the old man never ever refused a tempting offer like this. A momentary shiver ran up his spine and as he turned away he thought: ‘something out of the ordinary is about to happen’ but immediately brushed it aside, Airports were no place for superstition.
Mr. J had finally reached Gate 44, running along the gangway and entering the plane. Stepping through the doorway he heard a sound like electric static in the air, a hissing sound and something closing behind him but he was too astounded at what he saw before his eyes. Something took him right back to his childhood, he had never ever been on a plane in his life before, all the soft lights, the beautiful shining interior, there was a softness warmth and gentleness in that space that made him feel so filled with happiness and joy that he almost cried out loud. He sank back into the comfortable seat and closed his eyes.
Someone brought him a cushion and gently covered his body with a blanket. Kindness thought Mr. Jones, what would our lives be without loving kindness. He still had no idea as to where he was going but somehow it no longer mattered. All he could feel was a tremendous sense of love enveloping him and he felt that he had, after all these years, come home. Soon after he was seated the door closed, and as he opened his eyes again to his astonishment he saw that he was the only passenger on the big jetliner. He could hear the voice of the captain through the speakers saying quietly: ‘Flight 44 requesting clearance for takeoff’.
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