Narrator Magazine
Blue Mountains
Summer 2010
Smashwords Edition
narrator MAGAZINE is published by MoshPit Publishing
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http://www.moshpitpublishing.com.au/
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Cover: ‘Bejewelled the Glassy Palace Vibrates’ - Jennifer Gabbay - 2009, oil on board
‘This painting is from a series of works on Venice - a city unique in its canals, architecture and masked balls. Reinterpreting the life and colour of Venice through imagination and illusion, I have endeavoured to imbue the works with an emotive spirit and an expression of movement and rhythm via fragmentation and distortion.’
To contact Jennifer Gabbay, please call 0425 224 890 or email jennulla@aapt.net.au. Website will be coming soon.
A few words from the publisher ...
We are thrilled to bring you this second edition of Narrator Magazine.
We are also thrilled with the kind words that people have sent in and with the general response to the first issue. Most newsagencies across the Mountains have been incredibly supportive, as have several of the independent bookstores—so on behalf of us here at MoshPit Publishing and the contributors to the first issue, a big THANK YOU!
The good news is that Narrator now has its own website at http://www.narratormagazine.com.au/. This means that you can now upload your stories, poems, essays and artworks directly to us via the ‘Submit’ page on the website, and no longer have to send us a separate declaration. By uploading your submission you are agreeing to the terms and conditions on the website, which makes it easier all round.
We also have a Facebook page, so please join us on Facebook for regular updates regarding submission close dates, new issue dates etc.
The other good news is that due to the response to the first Blue Mountains issue, we will be introducing other regional issues over the coming two years, as well as what we are calling our ‘Genre’ issues. If you like to write in a particular genre, such as romance, horror, mystery etc, you can contribute to one of our Genre issues. These will be made available nationwide, right across Australia, so if your piece is chosen to go in that particular Genre issue, you will receive nationwide exposure of your writing! For more information please go to the ‘Genre’ page of the website.
One of the issues with Narrator Magazine that troubled us from the start was the knowledge that to feel free to publish stories with adult themes and language would mean restricting contributors to the age of 18 or over to avoid any nasty repercussions. This led to a couple of emails from disappointed, but keen, under-18s. In an initial attempt to provide a forum for our youngsters, one of our first Genre editions will be the Youth Issue—specifically for under-18s. If you know of any under 18s anywhere in the country who would like to have a shot at getting their writing published, please refer them to the Genre page at www.narratormagazine.com.
As a result of feedback, we have decided to invite guest editors and writers to award the prizes for each issue’s contributions, and use the voting system for a single People’s Choice Award. Details are on page 34.
But now it’s time for you to start turning the pages … enjoy! Thank you for purchasing this quarter’s copy of Narrator Magazine, and best wishes for a safe and enjoyable summer from all of us here at Narrator.
Jenny Mosher
December 2010
Winning Entries for Spring 2010
Our first issue, Spring 2010, was well received and voting quite frantic on some days. The eventual winners were:
First prize—$200 goes to Zoya Kraus of Blackheath for her touching poem ‘Bright Spark’
Second prize—$100 goes to Robyn Nance of Valley Heights for her entertaining poem ‘The Liberation of Ted Farmer’ and …
Third prize—$50 has had to be doubled as we had two third prize winners! Tying for third place were Elizabeth Diehl with her intriguing story ‘Everything Seems to Broken’ and Greg North with his clever poem ‘Black Future’.
The poems certainly struck a chord last issue! Congratulations to all winners, and also everyone else who contributed to the first issue. Simply having the courage to send your work in speaks volumes.
Table of Contents
Poetry
Aggifanakapan – Joana Na Na Goanna
Alone Together – Sonia Ursus Satori
And Noise Kills Empathy – Michele Fermanis-Winward
Breakfast at the Stockmarket – Alan Lucas
Death of my Grandson - Mary Krone
Fly a Kite – Joan Vaughan-Taylor
Spirit of the Mountains – Reginald Reid
What I Wish I Could Be – Robyn Chaffey
Short Stories
All About Ticker – Mark Riches
Autumn Katoomba Moon – Sandy Mac
Fluid Notions – Sonia Ursus Satori
George the Enchanted Tortoise – Nana J
Guests to Ghosts – Arthur Gray
Memories of the Creek – Axel Williams
My Lovely Garden – Taffy Campbell
The Horse Hair Shirt – Mark O’Flynn
The Last Flight of the Cockie – Aristidis Metaxas
The Loaf of Bread – Linda Yates
The Tin Boats of Opoutama – Peter Benson
Three Dollars and Thirty Cents – Rebecca Langham
Essays
Classic Hollywood and DW Griffith – Albany Dighton
Oh Christmas Tree, Oh Christmas Tree – Rosemary Baldry
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Three Dollars and Thirty Cents – Rebecca Langham
This late age of the world’s experience had bred in them all, all men and women, a well of tears. Tears and sorrows; courage and endurance; a perfectly upright and stoical bearing.
- Virginia Woolfe (Mrs. Dalloway - 1925)
Gina sat silently staring at the starkly cold kitchen bench. She rested her elbows against the pebbled laminate and sank her face into her palms as though searching for a different, more pleasant, reality inside her own hands. She lifted her head—it felt heavy upon her stiff neck. She rested her chin against the backs of her entwined hands.
Gina’s eyes wandered across the surface of the bench. It was worn, faded, in need of rejuvenation, much like her life. Each small blemish had a story behind it, some from before her time in the three bedroom house in Lawson, but many more had appeared since she and her family had moved in three years earlier. It had been so exciting, galvanising, and special. After living in a caravan with a baby and her husband for almost a year the space in their new home was so liberating, it had refreshed her and made her once again thirst for domesticity and family life—a thirst that had all but dried up as the aluminium walls had started to slowly suffocate her. The moment she moved in she had wished, for the first time, that she and her husband earned more money, or that they would miraculously win the lottery (despite never buying a ticket) so she could have a little fun with the space. She planned the landscape of the front garden in her mind before settlement had even been completed. She had picked out different tones of green to create a magnificent feature wall in her eldest daughter’s room, pinks for her youngest as she was more prone to fancies of princesses and tiaras. Gina would put her display unit, full of trinkets and baby photos, over in that left corner of the dining room (and what a joy it was to have a dining room, rather than a paltry booth crammed in next to the refrigerator in the caravan). Her husband never let her buy the display unit though and the paint in Kelcie and Samantha’s rooms peeled from the ceiling like flakes of skin from an especially sun burnt child.
Gina touched her index finger to a small cut on the bench top. It was around three centimetres long and quite fine, probably not even noticeable to most people. It was the most recent. She had been cutting up carrot sticks to give to the girls. Samantha was at an age when she enjoyed trying to feed herself, though it usually resulted in a rather spectacular mess. Gina, that day, had felt somewhat at sea. She cut the carrots instinctively, having done the same thing every day for several months. Her mind, however, was awash elsewhere. She floated in a deep, dark sea surrounded by an impenetrable mist that blocked out everything but the soft sound of water lapping against an invisible shore, too far off to see, but which she could sense was there, nonetheless. Her peaceful and lonely floating had been rudely interrupted when the screen door had opened loudly, sending vibrations through her hands and causing the knife to slide along the edge of the cutting board and slice into the bench top. She had rushed to push the board along to cover her indiscretion before Mick saw what she had done. Before they had married he had only ever laughed playfully when she was clumsy like that as she often had a tendency to lose focus. Now, however, he took such lapses in concentration like an assault on him personally and though he never hit her, he had other ways to make her pay.
Gina looked away from the bench and down at her eldest child, Kelcie, who was playing quietly on the tiled floor. She had her legs crossed neatly beneath her small frame and was using her thin fingers to twist the dial on a plastic telephone. Kelcie was an especially quiet four-year-old. She rarely cried or had tantrums and she was more empathetic than your average pre-schooler. On one occasion she was concerned that her sister, three years younger than her, was getting cold. So in an attempt to warm her and keep her safe Kelcie had delicately lifted the bunny rug from the floor and placed it over the heater in the belief that making the heater warmer would thus warm Samantha. And naturally, the resulting fire warmed the entire living room. Gina had laughed after she had put out the small flames in a panic, finding her daughter’s concern endearing. Mick, however, sat Kelcie alone in an empty bathtub for over two hours so the toddler could supposedly think about what she had done. Samantha remained sleeping throughout the entire incident—totally oblivious to the developing family dynamics.
Gina picked up her faded purple wallet from the bench and began turning it over cyclically in her hands. She knew what she would find inside but inevitably she opened it up anyway, softly slipping her fingers underneath the lip and applying pressure upward until she heard a soft click. A photograph of both of her daughters, smiling and happy, sat inside the yellowed plastic window that covered the coin purse. It had only been taken about eight months ago—Kelcie stood next to her sister’s stroller, leaning in to wrap her arm around the soft neck of the baby. Samantha was suckling a blue pacifier. Kelcie had never liked pacifiers. Inside Gina found three dollars and thirty cents. That was all that was left of her allowance. Mick had taken over all of their finances since moving into the house, ‘To make sure we can keep the house now that we’ve got it, baby’, he claimed. All of her earnings from her part-time job went into a joint account. She scoffed just thinking about it. Joint, right. He had sole access. Although her name was on the top of the statement alongside his, she could not remove any funds without his signature, but he could do what he liked without hers. Each week he gave her what he perceived to be the absolute exact amount of money she needed to buy groceries. If you count sanitary pads that felt like a surfboard in your underpants and generic brand baby wipes which were little better than squares of sandpaper as groceries, that is.
Every so often Gina would go without something she needed so she could buy an ice cream for her girls. She did this as her way of shielding them from the unhappiness in their home that hung above their heads like a heavy curtain that had gathered dust from years of neglect. Not that anyone else could see it but Gina. Though, in all fairness, she didn’t feel that way all of the time. Her girls gave her genuine moments of pleasure (she certainly hadn’t gotten any of that—in any form—from her husband since their second daughter was born), and the postcard view of the Blue Mountains from her backyard yielded a particular type of calm she could achieve nowhere else. So, in order to make sure her daughters experienced similar moments of contentedness, she would wear out her underwear until they crumbled between her legs, so that she could use the money her husband issued her with to buy a replacement to treat Kelcie and Samantha—though for many children these treats were merely normality. And there was certainly no danger that Mick would discover the state of the fabric that strained to cover her privates.
Three dollars and thirty cents. Not quite enough to buy the loaf of bread as well as the three litres of milk they needed. She felt a wave of frustration surge through her. She knew damned well that there were thousands in their account. Why was he keeping it from her? All she wanted was another bloody dollar, that’s it, one dollar! She sighed, letting the frustration escape from her body; she refused to let this same weekly battle destroy her spirit yet again. And Gina had quite a spirit. Though not quite enough at that moment to remember it was her birthday.
Rebecca Langham
Daniel – Sue Artup
A few years before The Phantom got sick I went away for the weekend and when I returned he had been to an auction in Burwood. He came home with two artworks, a huge suitcase, a set of kitchen knives and two cars—a little heap of a Honda and a huge vehicular beast—a black Charger.
‘Collector’s item!’ he insisted, as I made fun of his purchases, which he had hidden in the shed and which I gradually discovered over weeks. What the …? Oh, the auction.
The Charger though was pretty obvious. Mostly it sat in the shed and he would just worship at it. Temple of the Road. Of Youth. Of Freedom.
One weekend we went away to the mountains with friends and it was a hoot. People would say ‘Hey, Charger!’ and make the ‘V’ sign at us as we roared up Govetts Leap Road.
The Charger was a symbol of masculine force. In particular it was a metaphor for my hero’s strength. The beast idled in the shed. Potential with power. Everyone knew how formidable were those engines when revved. Yet they were better known for their purr! In the end the strength was to have little effect—only to maintain the life that remained, but useless to prolong it.
The day my hero sold the wheels of the Charger to replace them with the wheels on a chair, a little of my heart was wrenched out. Yet he sat so brave, so accepting, so silently strong as he gave up this part of himself. It was not just a car, it was his life he was letting go, making way for his death.
I cried watching that car drive away up the street. There went part of my life, our life.
Youth drove away that day. A young man called Daniel sat at the wheel. He had to modify the car to drive it—he was a paraplegic. The irony of selling the Charger to a man who could not walk was at once warming and chilling. It signified hope, and the lack of hope.
Daniel arrived at our place in a four-wheel drive, opened the driver’s door, hurled himself onto the ground, hoisted his ‘chair’ out of the back seat and pulled himself up onto it. One, two, three. No-one would wheel this man. He was strong! And his conveyance consisted of a plank with a wheel either side. No arms for a wheeler to hold onto! His upper body was toned, tattooed—and he was young, he was vital. And my hero was hanging onto his body, his vitality, just barely. Similar restrictions, yet the prognoses couldn’t have been more different.
Daniel. He gave us advice about wheelchairs, pulled himself in and out of our not-yet-modified house on his backside, quizzed us about the car, and bought it. How wonderful for him to have it!
Now, five years or so on, I have seen Daniel again. I was out to dinner in the mountains. He was at a table on the pavement having a smoke. I wasn’t sure it was him, but I kept wondering, and I thought I would talk to him anyway. He was going through some documents, and was whizzing back and forth, for a smoke, to get a drink—he seemed to know a lot of people. I had my card ready. I was determined to make contact. When I was leaving, I went up to him and asked ‘Did I sell you a black car about five years ago?’ Yes! I told him The Phantom had died, and he said ‘Well, he would be happy.’ That was the best thing anyone could say.
So we chatted about life, the car—and he said when he gets it back on the road, he will come by and take me for a spin. I said I would like that. And he was hot!
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Oh Christmas Tree, Oh Christmas Tree … - Rosemary Baldry
Can you imagine Christmas without a Christmas tree? It is one of our most loved and recognised Christmas symbols. The Christmas tree as we know it has evolved over centuries; a mixture of pagan and Christian customs.
The evergreen tree played an important part in pagan festivals. Romans decorated trees with candles and trinkets during the festival of Saturnalia. In England and France, the ancient Druids honoured their gods of harvest by decorating oak trees with candles and fruit. Long before Christianity, the Celts, the Vikings, the Romans, and the Egyptians used both whole evergreens and clippings to decorate their homes during the harsh winters. This was a strong symbol of life; a reminder that spring would return and crops would grow again. Evergreens were also used to keep away evil spirits, witches, ghosts and illness. They were an integral part of the pagan Winter Solstice rituals.
Legend tells us that in the 7th century St Boniface, an English monk, explained the difficult concept of the Holy Trinity to the Germans using the triangular shape of their native fir tree. By the 12th century fir trees were being hung upside down from ceilings at Christmas as a symbol of Christianity.
The first documented use of a Christmas tree as we know it was in Riga, Latvia in 1510. We know little about this tree.
Legend says that men wearing black hats used the tree decorated with paper flowers as part of a ceremony. They burnt the tree after their ceremony. Martin Luther is credited with being the first person to add lights to this form of the Christmas tree later in the 16th century.
In western society there has been much resistance to Christmas trees, particularly the decorated variety, due to the strong link the Christmas tree has to pagan values. In 16th century England, the Puritans forbade the observance of Christmas while their German neighbours were busy developing the art of Christmas tree decoration. Fortunately for Christmas tree lovers, Queen Victoria married the German Prince Albert. In 1846 the Illustrated London News showed Victoria and Albert photographed, with their family, around a decorated Christmas tree. This photo popularised the Christmas tree with the British and had a flow-on effect in America. The Christmas tree was embraced by many Americans but President Teddy Roosevelt refused to have a Christmas tree in the Whitehouse. He could not concede a tree being felled for use as a temporary decoration.
When Queen Victoria died the Christmas tree fell victim to the mourning. It became smaller and artificial trees became popular. Germany invented the Goose Feather Tree while in America the Addis Brush Company used their toilet brush machinery to create the first brush trees. By the early 1900’s Japan and America were exporting Christmas tree lights. During the Second World War, large trees in public places were used as morale boosters.
Today families choose their Christmas tree from a vast collection which includes real trees, aluminium trees, plastic trees, pine scented trees, themed trees, aesthetic trees, and delicately balanced trees with fantastic decorations to suit every taste and lifestyle. The modern Christmas tree is a product of society, history, politics, religion, conservation, technology and marketing. Despite this, or maybe due to it, the Christmas tree remains one of our most cherished and popular Christmas symbols.
Identity – Karen Maber
The Principal’s office loomed large as I approached with trepidation. The door was open and I was told to go in, sit down and wait. I swallowed hard watching the door. ‘Not long now,’ I thought, trying hard to convince myself that I hadn’t done anything wrong and that everything would turn out okay. Even so, I had no idea how I was going to make it through. This was unknown territory for me and I was scared. I looked around at the certificates and photographs on the walls. These optical giants pompously displayed in their wooden frames with their superior rim of gold trimming. They stared at me with a deliberant gaze that mocked my presence. This was their place.
I thought of my mother and what she would say. She never understood why I got myself into these situations. She was one to play it safe and not make trouble. ‘Don’t bring attention to yourself,’ she always said. I fidgeted in my chair and rechecked my posture several times; back straight, hands in lap. My palms were clammy and my chest tight. I fumbled in my bag for my puffer and sucked in the chemical in one deliberate gasp, trying to convince my sensitive airways to relax and accept the situation. I was used to fighting my emotional battles in this way and diverted my attention to something outside of my inner struggle. There was a magnolia tree sapling just outside the aluminium window and I gazed at it intensely. Its first buds seemed desperate to break through. Longing to open and release its beauty, it seemed caught up in hesitation. Waiting to be and knowing it must not disappoint.
Suddenly the silence was broken. ‘Ah, there you are!’ boomed the voice. He muttered something about having to attend to something urgent that had come up and had required his immediate attention. ‘Now let’s get comfortable and down to business,’ he continued in a friendly but firm manner. Comfortable? I was feeling many things but comfortable was definitely not one of them. ‘Not long now,’ he declared with authority. Perhaps it was the look on my face, the fear in my eyes that changed his tone so unexpectedly. In a lowered voice he continued, ‘I can see that you are nervous but you’ll be fine.’ The warmth in his voice triggered an involuntary smile to seep across my face as I looked up to see understanding in his eyes.
The moment was broken by the appearance of a young boy at the door. ‘We’re ready for you now,’ he politely said. Although the fear within me remained unabated, there was a strange tinge of comfort as I stood up and reassured myself that the sooner it began, the sooner it would be over. My heart was racing as I followed the Principal towards the school hall. Humiliation was surely on its way. It was obviously too late to offer any polite excuses or use sickness as an excuse but there was always the stairs. Perhaps I could trip up the stairs!
As I stood on the stage, taking refuge behind the thick red curtain, I was joined by the Assistant Principal. His stout frame struggled to stay contained within his unfashionable blue suit as he gave me last minute instructions. ‘The Principal will give his address and then it will be your turn,’ he said abruptly, avoiding eye contact. ‘He’ll give his speech, you’ll then talk,’ he continued. ‘Got it!’ he grunted. The knot in my stomach tightened. Yeah, I thought to myself, I got it alright.
The Principal began to address the children. The murmuring immediately began to die down as the children forgot their itchy noses, uncomfortable positions and grumbling tummies. One by one the final coughs subsided. All eyes were centre stage. The issue of having pride in yourself and your school was raised. The Principal made particular reference to the school cleaner. He informed the assembly that she left her young children shortly after dawn each morning so that cleanliness and order could be restored to each and every classroom. He appealed to the students to look out for Mrs Malone and take the opportunity to thank her for what she did for them each day. ‘Perhaps you could pick up a piece of rubbish yourself to improve your own environment and show that you appreciate her efforts,’ he added. I was touched by his sensitivity and my thoughts turned to my grandmother. She had been a cleaner at the local hospital many years ago. Her heart held many secrets. Her eyes were full of stories that would never be told. My grandmother was one of the most troubled people I knew with a floor that shone like diamonds. The Principal continued on but my attention was suddenly diverted elsewhere. From just outside the stage door I heard an insistent call. The branch of the little magnolia tree was bending under the weight of a small black bird which called to me again. It flapped around a little, securing my full attention before it proudly and confidently, in full voice, shared its song. I was instantly at one with that little black bird, totally inspired by its sense of confidence and identity.
‘And now, it is my great pleasure to welcome today’s special visitor, Mrs Matthews.’ I stepped out from behind the red curtain. Looking into the sea of young faces I was struck by the similarities we all share. 1975..... 2000, still, I wondered, how much had really changed? My mind was racing; swinging between yesterday, today and what it might mean for the future, I took a deep breath and began to tell my story.
It was during my primary school days when I really became aware of being different. By age ten I was searching for who I was and where I fitted in. Feeling different is an awkward experience, especially at a stage when just being ‘one of the gang’ was a kid’s right. During the 1970s primary school was all about making friends, keeping friends and ot getting caught for picking all the mulberries off the local trees. The serious stuff, the grown-up stuff, was saved for high school and beyond. Standing out for anything other than your sporting abilities was to be avoided at all costs. It was seen as a definite misfortune to be too tall, too short, too fat or too thin. Oh and if you had red hair you could expect to be addressed only as ‘blue’ or ‘carrot-top’ from most students and more often than not, complete strangers. The stock standard ‘Aussie kid’ living by the coast had blonde hair and blue eyes. Brown hair and brown eyes were always considered ‘second best’. The colour of a person’s skin wasn’t an issue because living in a seaside suburb during the 70s it was considered your Australian duty to get a tan. No problem for me, when I got a tan it lasted all year. The Slip, Slop, Slap campaign was unheard of and so some of my friends seemed to be in a constant state of peeling. Our school only had a handful of multicultural families. These included Italians, Greeks and Maltese; although if you came from another State, sometimes even another suburb, you could also be considered ’foreign.’ I always got on well with these families. We had more in common than just our dark complexions.
I loved school. My Mum always said that I was lucky to go to school and I never missed a day except for illness. There were times when I had scratched myself so severely through the night that my bleeding legs stuck to the bed sheets but I always turned up for school the next day . . . sometimes bandaged from toe to thigh. Being seen as ‘different’ could be difficult but, for me, NOT being seen was much worse. I remember one pivotal incident, at just twelve years of age when I was caught between being seen as different and not being seen at all. It was mid afternoon and our class were seated on the floor in front of the television waiting for our usual weekly half hour ABC broadcast to commence. Within moments we were all confronted with images of naked Aboriginal people hunting and gathering somewhere in the Australian desert. I sat on the floor mesmerised by their sense of purpose and enchanted by their unique songs and language. Each week I would sit observing these special people in their magical places. Each week I desperately wished that I could understand why they did the things they did and what it was they were saying to each other. Each week too came the predictable comments from what seemed like the whole of my class. Every time an animal met its demise by way of a spear or a quick strike to the head, the reaction was always the same. Within seconds the room would instantly unite and erupt into a chorus protesting cruelty and condemnation. Week after week the pattern remained unaltered as week after week our teacher offered little information or explanation. This particular day, however, changed all that and it changed me forever. Perhaps it was pent up anger having been seated beside the loudest, most obnoxious boy in the class who today seemed hell-bent on ridiculing every aspect of the noble people on our screen, or perhaps I just didn’t get enough sleep the night before, but whatever it was the next thing I remember was my clenched fist connecting firmly with his protruding chin which resulted in him being sprawled across the floor. I can still remember the dazed look upon his face as he looked up at me, his mouth open in silence. I also remember my own feelings; a mix of shock and dread. I was terrified of what my mother would say, terrified of what my favourite, much loved teacher would say and felt ashamed and confused that I had hurt someone. My heart was racing and I felt breathless as I looked around the room. All eyes were upon me and like a volcano unable to contain its powerful force, ‘I’m Aboriginal!’ I avowed with thunderous conviction. In the moments before my teacher reached me I sat there stunned but fortified by my declaration. I steeled myself in readiness for the punishment which would surely follow. Her eyes were now firmly fixed upon me as her arm extended towards me. I closed my eyes as I felt the weight of her hand upon me. ‘Don’t worry,’ she assured me with a gentle pat on my head, ‘No one would ever know.’ I was shattered.
Looking up from the comfort of my notes I blinked away a tear. Once more all eyes were upon me and once more I felt very small in the silence of the room. A moment felt like forever and my heart was pounding from reliving the memory. I thought of that spirited little black bird delicately balancing on the magnolia sapling. Suddenly the entire room erupted. The children’s smiles said it all and the long, loud and lovely applause filled the thirty five year gap. I was smiling too as the Principal congratulated me on being such a special part of their 2000 NAIDOC celebrations.
Karen Maber
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And Noise Kills Empathy – Michele Fermanis-Winward
it was the latest thing
the neighbours in
we crowded round
there was so much to see
clowns for the kids
a quiz, some news
a bit of sport
then after tea
the music and amusing men
although a bit risqué
they put on quite a show
this fun and fantasy
a good end to the day
each year that passed
it grew and grew
we gulped it down
you’ll all go blind
they used to say
to watch so much TV
more news, more views
the ads and sports
it changed each day
with new ferocity
and appetite for speed
we sat enthralled
as murder, vice
deceit and crime
became reality
we entertained
as death and war
the world’s brutality
played out, set to
a music score
when people ask
why violence grows
with callous bullies
for our kids
and rage upon the street
I see a little box on legs
that sang at first
then shouted out
became a scream
to stifle care
and noise kills empathy.
Memories of the Creek – Axel Williams
I remember a day, when my father drove my brothers and I to the local creek. It was a hot summer’s day, the kind where there’s a bluish haze from eucalyptus evaporating into the air. At eleven, nine and seven, our sweaty, sun-screened bodies lined up and stuck to the backseat of the commodore, I remember the old car bumping along the gravel road. I remember my father, with his cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, driving with a forearm resting in the empty window.
In summer, the creek was a popular location due to the local pool being closed down. A small billabong, the sun shone through the canopy of the gum leaves, bouncing off the surface of the murky water, disallowed to penetrate. We parked the car in the dirt and us boys leapt out quickly to dive in. My father calmly strolled over to a sunny rock, unfurling a towel to relax.
I remember my first leech bite; I was submerged and the bastard latched onto the sole of my foot. I broke the surface, gasping. It was then that I noticed another car roll to a halt along the dirt track, with two-middle aged men and two young girls hopping out. One of the men was holding an inflatable doughnut with a smiling Loch Ness monster head, and a small white dog bounded along behind them all. I hoisted myself onto a nearby rock, and was amazed by the slender black sliver hanging onto my foot; by now, I was expecting it to be fat, thumping and happy. Later, I would be amazed at how easily a leech bite gets infected, especially after just yanking the bastard out.
It was then the little girl approached me.
‘What’re you doin’?’
A strange looking girl, she looked about nine, like my middle brother if I remember correctly. With thousands of freckles and a wandering eye, she was homely at best. I opened my mouth to speak before she yapped interruptions.
‘Who are you?’
‘You look handsome!’
‘Would you kiss me?’
I remember, even at that age, being put off by the strange little girl. I probably still thought girls were all icky.
‘No. Get away from me.’ I quickly replied.
‘Why don’t you like me?’ she yapped. She had an irritating tone in her voice, and when she whined it strained. She began to run circles around me, squealing:
‘Kiss me!’
‘Kiss me!’
‘Kiss me!’
Eventually, I shoved her away, into the creek, where she continued her ritualistic chant with each of my younger brothers, swimming with the other girl who seemed more normal.
There was not a cloud in the sky, and the sun shone brighter throughout the day as if to coax the cicadas into drumming their rhythms louder and louder. On any other day I would have enjoyed myself to no end, swimming gleefully and sunbaking with just the men of my family. But I remember the girl had put me off these activities and had ruined my day. I clambered onto the rock where my father was perched. He was sitting in a kind of thinking man position, his head bowed so as to focus on the mole on his thigh he was picking at. He was smoking another cigarette, a dirty white cylinder dangling from the corner of his mouth. I remember he could roll his rollies in his pocket with one hand, and that he found a way to smoke during his morning shower. I remember how he would smoke a cigarette; the cigarette would never leave his mouth in ‘drags’; he was always breathing smoke. Oxygen would have to find another avenue. He wanted that nicotine, and in years to come, it would be the death of him.
Having been rejected by my younger brothers, the little girl followed me up the rock. I rolled my eyes as I saw her climbing up, her little fingers barely grasping the slippery ironstone, the white dog following her carefully. I turned to her supposed guardians, swimming without care or notice of their ‘daughter’s’ interactions with us boys. I sat and watched silently as the girl continued her ritual with my father.
‘Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me!’
A grown man of forty, and married, my father spoke my thoughts.
‘Calm down, sweetheart. I’m an ugly old man; you don’t want anything to do with me.’
With the smoke pouring from his lips, he brushed her off, like a man might flick an ant off his shoulder.
Even at age eleven, it was then that I knew something was wrong with the little girl; maybe not with her, but maybe something that had happened to her in the past. I remember her, rejected, sitting slightly in front of my father, picking up her small white dog in order to pat it. But instead, she held the dog’s spine to her chest and began to manipulate the little furrow of fur and flesh on the dog’s underbelly, whilst cooing in its ear. She did this disturbing act in a seemingly practiced manner, seemingly oblivious to mine or my father’s presence. Maybe she was telling us something about herself, her own experience. It was then that I knew something was wrong, something specifically wrong with her.
Now, looking back, I wish we could have done something.
I wish my father had grabbed her, shaken her, asked:
‘Who did this to you? Who’s “touching” you?’
I wish my father had jumped down off that rock to rip those two men apart.
But he didn’t. I remember, he didn’t even take the cigarette out of his mouth.
Axel Williams
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George the Enchanted Tortoise – Nana J
It was many, many years ago, around 1969, when we found George in our backyard. My sister and I were excited, a tortoise of our own! Dad drilled a hole through the back of George’s shell and put a chain through it which he pegged by the willow tree at the far end of our yard. The willow was circled by a small stream and, all in all, George had a wonderful home. I spent many hours there talking to George and dreaming. Mum eventually told Dad to unchain George, it was cruel not to leave him free. George was happy without his chain and he seemed content living with us. He stayed in the yard by the willow tree for several months. Then he disappeared. He had wandered off to an enchanted forest.
***
It was the day of the grand ball in honour of the Fairy Godmother. Everyone in Fairyland was busy preparing for the ball. George enjoyed watching the preparations as he crawled here and there, greeting friends everywhere he went. After a while he crawled off to a favourite pond to rest before the ball. He soon fell asleep in the lovely warm sun. While George slept everyone had left for the ball. Well, almost everyone. One fairy was late because she overslept. Her name was Karma. She had a quick wash, donned her pretty new party dress, made especially for the ball, and hurried off.
Small fires had been lit in clearings throughout the forest to show the way to the ball. Karma stopped at one of the fires, entranced by the flames wavering in the gentle evening breeze. She danced around the fire, delighting in its colours and warmth. Karma’s wings fanned the fire as she danced and a spark alighted on them. Karma called out in fright. A big black moth who’d been watching Karma dance flew over to help her. He beat the fire on Karma’s wings out with his own, singeing them in the process. The moth was tired after putting the fire out. Karma’s wings were gone, but the moth had saved her from serious injury. Both Karma and the moth were sitting, stunned, when George ambled along. He’d finally woken and was on his way to the ball.
George was sad for Karma and the moth, whose name was Shammon. George offered to carry them both to the ball.
‘I am slow’, he said, ‘but my back is hard and strong.’
‘Thank you very much’, both Karma and Shammon replied, too tired to say any more. It was a slow journey to the ball. George was tiring but he kept himself moving and finally they were there. George stopped in front of the Fairy Godmother, exhausted. The Godmother ordered refreshments for George, Karma and Shammon. After they had eaten and drunk their fill, Karma recited their story and gave heartfelt thanks to Shammon and George.
Smiling at all three, the Fairy Godmother stood and said to Karma, ‘You have been very fortunate Karma. I will give you new wings, but you must not play with fire again.’ With the spoken word, sparkling, shiny new wings appeared in place of the burnt ones.
Turning to Shammon the Godmother said, ‘I want to reward you for being so brave. I will change your blackness to brightness.’ Shammon’s black wings turned sky blue with markings of yellow and the outside edge of his wings were lined in a glossy, velvet black. Lastly the Godmother turned to George.
‘You are very strong, George, but you crawl very slowly. I know what an effort it was for you to bring Karma and Shammon here. I think that a strong pair of wings will prove quite useful to you. Whenever you need them, your wings will appear.’ George was ecstatic—he tired so easily that wings were just what he needed.
The party started again and everyone had great fun feasting, dancing and singing. The party ended at dawn and George was utterly exhausted from all the merrymaking. He felt that he needed his wings to get back to his pond and yes, his new wings appeared, strong and luminous. It took George a little while to work out his balance and steering, and he flew into more than one tree I must tell you, but he eventually got the hang of it. George finally made it to his pond. He fell asleep and dreamt of his home by the willow tree. George was much loved in Fairyland. He gave rides to the fairies and pixies and he would amble through the forest visiting all the animals. Despite his wonderful life though, George grew homesick for the family and home he’d left behind.
George paid a visit to the Fairy Godmother and told her about his problem.
‘Dear Godmother’, he said. ‘I am very homesick for the family I left behind when I came here. I wish to see them again and my home by the willow tree. But I love Fairyland very much too. What should I do?’
The Fairy Godmother replied, ‘As much as I and everyone here loves you George, I will let you go. If you come back to Fairyland every half year, we’ll all be happy and you will have both of your homes.’ George was delighted with this solution. He thanked the Fairy Godmother and went off to say goodbye to all of his friends.
***
I was sitting on the front steps of our house when I saw George coming up the path. I picked him up and took him inside to show Mum and she found the hole in his shell that Dad had drilled. Mum declared that it was George—he’d come home.
After that, George disappeared for six months every year. Mum would say that he’d gone into hibernation, but he always came back from wherever he’d gone.
Nana J
Alone Together – Sonia Ursus Satori
Jacky, on my left shoulder
Nibbles into my ear.
Yes, I know.
You were frightened last night
When I climbed out the balcony
To give you comfort on your
Branch in the tree.
The excitement of danger
Is gone now.
It’s only the wind
That’s what storms are all
About.
Take the spit from my lips
There, there.
I hop on my bike
Racing along the edge
Of the pine forest.
Claws dig into my jacket
Wings spread open wide.
We tumble in the grass
Run, jump, leap, lie
Nothing to be afraid of.
Cuddle, cuddle, kiss, kiss.
Would you fly away
With the clouds
If your wings weren’t clipped?
I’d come with you
To foreign lands
High above the snow fields of the Alps
Across the seven seas
All the way to the end of the world.
Best of all
We’d live amongst the giant turtles
On Galápagos Islands
Feeding only on fish
You like so much.
The sun’s going down
Hold on tight, Jacky.
This is another fast ride.
We must be back home by 5
Or Mum won’t let us out tomorrow.
Untitled – Margaret Dighton
Where my heart lies.
I’m as lost as I can be,
In this race we call society.
I can’t love myself, if no-one cares
Where you are or where you lie.
I feel weak, I feel alone, I feel solitude,
For not reaching out when someone calls,
And life goes on regardless.
I want to be loved for who I am.
If you see my soul, then you see me.
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Blue Denim – John Egan
Inspired by a visit to Kings Cross where I sat in a park for quite some time, before conversing with a teenage boy sitting on the end of the same seat. I had not previously met the boy, nor have I seen him since.
One summer’s night
not very late,
I sat in a park,
down from Kingsgate.
People passed by,
oblivious of me,
as I sat alone,
one leg over knee.
A fountain of beauty
not far away,
caught me occasionally,
with its delicate spray.
The traffic nearby
moved slowly along,
as the red light said ‘Stop!’
The green one, ‘Come on’.
For quite some time
I sat on that seat,
watching young couples,
crossing the street.
T’was a beautiful night,
not a cloud in the sky,
I almost fell backwards,
when someone said ‘Hi!’
There on the edge
of the very same seat,
sat a boy in blue denim,
no shoes on his feet.
I answered his greeting
in the same tone of voice.
What else could I do?
He gave me no choice.
This boy had fair hair
and white pearly teeth;
when I asked him his name,
he said ‘Just Keith.’
He came from the West,
walked all the way,
he didn’t seem to care that
it took him all day.
He had no job,
so lived off the dole
his future was grim,
he had no goal.
We talked for some time
having nothing to do,
but sit on that seat
and admire the view.
I asked him to coffee,
at first he declined,
but whin I insisted
he said, ‘You are kind.’
This story has
no ending,
It can only
begin.
For no one can tell,
what the future
will bring.
*Kingsgate: A 5 star hotel at Kings Cross
*Fountain of Beauty: El-Alamein Fountain
*The West: Western Suburbs of Sydney
Balloon Trip – M.Grace
Point of contact, home to balloons in Canowindra, where many who own their balloons take off for trips in the sky. It’s funny that Canowindra means ‘a home’ in Aboriginal language. A concept the organisers should have been aware of when choosing this place for regular events. If they were not aware of this, it is possible they were led to Canowindra. Gwen Bates was aware of the meaning of the town as was her friend, Dale, who owned their balloon and took people on board—for a small fee—to join them. That day there were no clouds to be seen and the signal to take off was given. It didn’t enter Gwen’s mind that Dale would arrive late or that an organiser would accidentally untie Gwen’s rope. Off she went into the sky.
‘Oops!’ said Gwen. She took it in her stride and got on with it. She was not perturbed by this and continued to work the balloon like a professional, off on a balloon trip on her own, which is not in the rule book or recommended, as anything can happen.
The wind started to flare up and the balloon began to be difficult to handle. It was taken along with the wind as if the wind had a mind of its own. The point of contact was beginning to disappear from Gwen’s sight. The wind felt as if it had hands guiding Gwen’s balloon in a direction not familiar to her. A moment of distraction led her balloon to be caught in a whirlwind—a merry go round. Gwen sat in the basket holding on tight like her life depended on it. The wind subsided as if Gwen was finishing off a pirouette. Coming out of it, she was quite dizzy from the spin. If she was pirouetting, she would have used the technique of spotting and not suffered being dizzy. Gwen, under difficult circumstances in her state of confusion, lowered the balloon the best she could. The balloon lost its impetus for a soft landing and Gwen rolled out of the basket as it fell onto its side.
A few seconds later, Gwen raised her head from the ground to find midgets surrounding her amongst trees which she thought were a rainforest. Gwen raised herself off the ground slowly, concerned for her safety. The midgets never said anything to her but escorted Gwen to a pathway. She seemed to be under arrest. Gwen, a little shaken from her fall, observed the unknown rainforest. Through an opening appeared what seemed to be a red castle surrounded by water. By this time Gwen was thinking that she may have hit her head harder than she thought and was definitely dreaming, even though it seemed quite real.
It was a good twenty minutes before they arrived at a bridge to cross the moat and then into a wide hallway surrounded by ironware stuck to the stone walls, then into a ballroom with a colourful marble floor. At the end of the room sat a middle aged woman on a throne, beautifully dressed with a crown, staring at Gwen seriously. The midgets bowed to the Queen and stepped back away from Gwen, leaving her to face her consequences.
‘I guess, I’m not in Central West anymore,’ said Gwen as she landed on one knee and fell sideways in a faint, leaving the Queen and the midgets staring at her, confused.
Gwen woke up to find herself on a huge bed in a room resembling a Victorian bedroom, with an open fire, window seat and a maid to attend to her.
‘Good morning, miss,’ said the maid with a smile.
‘Good morning,’ said Gwen and, in too much haste to sit up, found her head hurt.
‘I guess I did hit my head harder than I thought,’ she said as she looked around. ‘What is the name of this guesthouse?’
‘This is no guesthouse,’ chuckled the maid. ‘You are the guest of Queenie, to her dismay.’
‘I’m not too happy being here either. I guess I’m not dreaming, am I?’
‘If it makes you feel better to think so.’
‘But, where am I? I don’t understand any of this.’
The maid poured her a drink, handed it to Gwen and said, ‘When you are able to get up, Queenie wants an audience with you, if not sooner.’
Gwen stood in front of Queenie, as she was fondly called, and others including Queenie’s nephew, Chippy, who was a good looking sort and about the same age as Gwen, who was in her twenties. He stood beside his aunt, a little reserved, though looking courteously upon Gwen.
‘We are not in the habit of accepting strangers intruding into our kingdom. What have you got to say for yourself?’ demanded the Queen.
‘I am not in the habit of dropping in unannounced, let alone in a balloon. This is no treat for me,’ Gwen said, annoyed. ‘If you would allow me to return to my balloon to see if I can get it back in the air I could get out of your lives. I am sure this is some sort of joke. As you can see, I am not laughing. This has got to be some sort of film set.’
‘Do you know what this young woman is talking about, Chippy?’ said Queenie.
‘I’m sure I don’t, aunt,’ said Chippy as he gave a little bow to Gwen so as not to offend her by his response.
‘So, this is not a film set … lot … thingy?’ said Gwen as everyone nodded no. ‘Well, I never! This is like the Bermuda Triangle. Ships, planes, people go missing without a trace. Right in the middle of Central West. Who would have thought it.’
Gwen stood on a stone, spiral staircase, looking out of the castle when Queenie interrupted her line of thought.
‘What did you think of my nephew?’ asked Queenie.
‘Sad sort of person. He adores you though. I gather his parents have passed away?’
‘Very observant of you. What gave him away?’
‘Body language. Talking about language, do you have any books I can read?’
‘A collective of thoughts and imaginings. It is best to occupy your time getting to know your new environment,’ Queenie said and she climbed the stairs out of sight before Gwen could ask what she meant. Before she knew it, Chippy appeared quietly, standing a step away from her.
Gwen turned to face him and said, ‘Is there any way for me to get home?’
‘We have no means to return you.’
Gwen retreated to the bedroom she had first woken up in, with Chippy’s last words going over and over in her mind, not sure if the situation she found herself in was a positive or negative one. The maid entered with Chippy. She stood at the door as Chippy approached her, carefully.
After a pregnant pause Gwen said, ‘There are a lot of people looking for me right now. In time, when there is no sight of me, I will be classed as a missing person.’
‘And if they didn’t find you, would that not be a good thing? You didn’t have a choice where you were born or choose the family you were born to.’
Gwen was taking in what Chippy said. She had no problem with where she was born but her family was a pain in the arse—except for a handful of her big family—they would miss her, but at the same time be happy for her to get away. Gwen smiled with satisfaction and considered herself a lucky person to be given a second chance at a new life the way she would like to live it. And having the Queen’s nephew as an ally had all the ingredients to make the whole picture come together. Gwen said softly, but loud enough for Chippy and the maid to hear; ‘What a balloon trip!’
M Grace
sun divulges
afternoon expectations
brute anxieties
blur
into birdsong
distant dog bark
sucked into the
sculpted spaces
of the valley
too much beauty
for sky to contain
molecules
hammer against true silence
clouds swivel
& cavort
your tears
mean nothing
to the gumtrees
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