Painted Words 2013 - 9th Edition

2013
PAINTED WORDS
An anthology of writing by Bendigo TAFEs Professional Writing and Editing Students
2013
PAINTED WORDS
Painted Words 2013 is Copyright 2013 Bendigo TAFE Bendigo TAFE 136 McCrae Street, Bendigo VIC 3550 Telephone: 1300 554 248 www.bendigotafe.edu.au Copyright is retained by individual authors. The moral rights of the authors have been asserted. All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act. First published in Australia in 2013 Printed by: Griffin Press 3749 Browns Road, Clayton VIC 3168 Ph: (03) 9265 8252 web: www.griffinpress.com.au
ISBN 978-0-646-91171-7
Cover illustrationSarah Wallace-Smith. Burning the Stubble, oil on canvas, 2013.
Painted Words 2013 | v
Foreword
eaching in a professional writing program has required me to ponder the true nature of creativity. A teachers job is to set up an environment in which creativity can thrive for as many students as possible, but what exactly is creativity? In contemporary Western societies creativity is usually linked to (confused with) concepts like innovation and originality. This is one symptom of the increasingly blurry line between the kind of creativity historically nurtured by the creative arts, and other types of creativityfor example the kinds nurtured in industry and the applied sciences. There is an ideological dimension to this blurring. For many there is comfort in the illusion that applied scientific and industrial forms of creativity are similar to artistic forms. This is not the case. Historically we might speak of two major types of creativity fundamental creativity (as practised by innovative artists and creative thinkers in other spheres) and functional creativity (a kind of goal-directed creativity that avoids questioning too deeply the social and cultural context of creative activity). Economic and political elites are usually much more comfortable with manifestations of functional creativity, and often see outbreaks of fundamental creativity as threatening. This is because fundamental creativity often involves a holistic apprehension of the human context for the proposed innovation. This tendency to apprehend holistically cannot be controlled, pigeon-holed etc. according to narrow economic, political or scientific agendas, and
vi | Painted Words 2013
systematic forms of oppression are often exposed and questioned during outbreaks of fundamental creativity. The above aspects of what Im terming fundamental creativity are evident beyond the realms of the creative arts and humanities. In Chaos, Creativity and Cosmic Consciousness Rupert Sheldrake, the renowned biologist, speaks of evolutionary creativity and links the human imagination (the presumed source of creativity in the creative arts) with an imagination working through the whole natural world. The implication of such an insight is clear: manifestations of fundamental creativity assist the life force. A further insight follows: much that we currently classify as creative would not count as examples of fundamental creativity. However innovative the creation of a nuclear weapon capable of wiping out large numbers of people may be, it is hardly an example of fundamental creativity since its nefarious consequences impede rather than progress the creative, survival-oriented, goals associated with genuine human evolution. Id like to suggest that attempts to restrict/repress/control fundamental creativity invite mass outbreaks of stagnancy, decay, declinethe life force is trumped by what the Freudians call the death instinct (thanatos). This often unacknowledged law of the cosmos is the real reason authoritarian, oppressive and life-negative regimes inevitably collapse. They ignore cosmological principles associated with the workings of fundamental creativity across the Multiverse. If we are to believe the quantum physicists and cosmologists, fundamental creativity is ally to the uncertainty principle, quantum fluctuations and other exotica programmed into the cosmos billions of years ago. The usual home for manifestations of fundamental creativity is of course the creative arts. I have a theory that you can assess the general health of a society according to its encouragement of fundamental creativity among its populaceespecially in the creative arts and humanities. Of late Australia has been
Painted Words 2013 | vii
falling behind in this area. Our policy makers prefer functional, conformist creativity and as a consequence pathologies of the socialdehumanisation, inequality, oppression and cultural inflexibilityproliferate. In such a climate it is more important
than ever to encourage and celebrate manifestations offundamental creativity.

Literary journals have long exhibited work featuring examples of fundamental creativity. Though but a humble offering to the programmer consciousness that first invented fundamental creativity billions of years ago, our 9th edition of Painted Words packs a cosmological punch way above its terrestrial weight. In this edition you will encounter 280 pages of well-crafted poems, short stories, flash fiction, creative non-fiction, novel extracts etc. All work included is by students enrolled in our Professional Writing and Editing program and many pieces were birthed, nurtured and edited in classes taught by Tru Dowling, Tom McWilliam, Peter Wiseman and myself. Students were also involved in the journals publication, especially those enrolled in the Diploma-level unit Project Management taught by Peter. They diligently carried out a range of tasks including: calling for and assessing submissions, copyediting, assisting with design, costing the print run and, finally, launching the journal. Theyve done a magnificent job this yearably guided, as ever, by their teacher who must again be commended for the excellent overall design of Painted Words 2013. A decade ago teachers in this course predicted the decline of the paper book due to the rise of the e-book. We stand now, however, on the edge of a new precipice (a new stage of creative evolution for books?). First generation e-books (PDFs, Kindle e-books etc.) are gradually giving ground to interactive books-apps. PWE teachers are doing their best to stay abreast of these new developments. The goal, as always, is to equip our graduates for the real world of contemporary publishing. I have no doubt whatsoever that
viii | Painted Words 2013
many of the writers featuring in this edition of Painted Words will achieve marvellous things in the very near future. Whether they end up writing traditional print books, e-books, book-apps or some yet to be invented mutation of the book, on the evidence of this publication, many are ready to (Spock voice please) Boldly go where no cyber-scribe has gone before. Which is to say: The Multiverse awaits their contribution Dr Ian Irvine Co-ordinator, PWE Program
Painted Words 2013 | ix
Contents
Foreword . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . v
Flash Fiction
Workshopping . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2
Louise Wardle
The Footsteps Behind Me . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4

Di Fisher
Excuse Me . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
Judith Church
Our Recipe for Time . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6

Kim Leithhead
So Heavy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
Kim Leithhead
Thats Why Smoke Detectors Beep . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8

Kim Leithhead
Doras Goodbye . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10
Lynda Graham
The Sleeper Awakes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13

Lynda Graham
Pickled Tongue . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15
Mark Slattery
True Love and the Blue Fish . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17

Phoebe Ward
2am Saturday Night, Bendigo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19

Robyn Miller
x | Painted Words 2013
Short Stories
Little Red Beanie . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22
Anne Reid
Rhinocehorse! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31
Daniel Fowler
Entitlement . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35
Louise Wardle
The Calling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39
Louise Wardle
Why the Hell Cant They Leave Me Alone? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43

Louise Wardle
Deep Water . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47
Gail Remnant
The Mirror and the Bath . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52

Izzy Perley
Boys, Friends, and Everything in Between . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61

Jan Bayliss
The Tale of Rudi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70

Joan Aspinall
Timeless . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74
Joanne Gould
My Blood, My Skin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78
Judith Church
Waltzing on a Sixpence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80
Judith Church
A Comforting Hand . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84
Kim Leithhead
Painted Words 2013 | xi
The Proving Grounds . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88

Luke Poulter
Moorings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 92
Lynda Graham
Concrete and Steel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96

Mark Slattery
The Bed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100

Mark Slattery
Y . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 104
Mark Slattery
Montmartre 1894 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114

Robyn Miller
Alexander Tale . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 118

Shantara Johnstone
Dead Flowers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127

Toby Bainbridge
Reunion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 136
Toby Bainbridge
Poetry
Put Another Nail in the Coffin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 146
Cathy Curtain
The Journey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 148

Cathy Curtain
All that pale fragility . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 149

Chris Scriven
Birds are nesting in their throats . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150

Chris Scriven
xii | Painted Words 2013
The storeman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151

Chris Scriven
A Dying Breath . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 152

Colleen Gale
Pondering tomorrow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 155

Daniel Fowler
Euphoric Taint . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 156

Colleen Gale
Spider Fright . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 158

Di Fisher
A Cup of Tea . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 160

Louise Wardle
The Wrinkles on Your Face . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 161

Di Fisher
Bank on View . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 162

Gail Remnant
Little Yellow Vase . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163

Gail Remnant
awakening . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 164
Gena McLean
bliss . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 165
Gena McLean
waiting to inhale . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 166

Gena McLean
winter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167
Gena McLean
Haiku untitled #1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 168

Jan Bayliss
Painted Words 2013 | xiii
Haiku untitled #2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 169

Jan Bayliss
I smile, He frowns.
Kim Leithhead
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 170
JUNE MOON solstice June 2013 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 171

Judith Church
You are I am . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 172

Judith Church
Lament . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 174
Lynda Graham
Doubt . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 175
Mitchell Roberts
Good ol Jack . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 176

Mitchell Roberts
If then . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 177
(a surrealist experiment by the 2013 Poetry & Lyric Writing Class)
Out of your sight, out of my mind . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 178

Mitchell Roberts
postcards from hong kong . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 180

Natalie Loves
Dope Trials . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 182

Robyn Miller
Madness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 183
Robyn Miller
Smashed eggs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 184

Robyn Miller
An Idea of Everything . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 185

Shantara Johnston
xiv | Painted Words 2013
Bugs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 186
Shantara Johnstone
The Royal Bud Ball . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 188

Shantara Johnstone
Novel Extracts
An Unfortunate Encounter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 192
Daniel Fowler
The Caretaker . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 196

By Donna Bridgeman
In Darkness Lies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 204

Izzy Perley
Fading Echoes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 210

Jaime McDougall
The Gentle Art of Doing Bugger All . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 217

Mark Slattery
Introspection . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 221
Tom Levett
Screen Writing
Her Fear . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 230
Luke Poulter
Non-Fiction
The Role of Nature in Ecocriticism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 242
Louise Wardle
Book Review . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 252

Louise Wardle
Painted Words 2013 | xv
The Power of Poetry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 256

Gena McLean
This is why I write . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 260

Gena McLean
The Song of Roland and the Lay of the Cid . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 263

Izzy Perley
The F-Word . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 271

Jaime McDougall
Hemp: Australias Environmentally Friendly Cotton Replacement . . . . . 275

Jaime McDougall
The Visual Language of Rick Amor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 280

Joan Aspinall
Sacrificial Sentinals . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 283

Judith Church
Jack in China . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 286

Mark Slattery
The English Canon: Calibre or Bore? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 292

Mark Slattery
Flash Fiction
2 | Painted Words 2013
Workshopping
Louise Wardle
need to write a short story for workshopping. Once again, Ive left it to the last minute. What the hell do I write? I hate creative writing! There are no boundaries. No guidelines. I dont possess one imaginative brain cell. Why the hell am I even doing this class? Good grief! I didnt think this through! As George would say, Thats the keyword. Think! Hmm I wrote some stuff in Year 10 Maybe I could use that? Nah! That was over thirty years ago. The others would guess that it was written by a kid. Huh! I could save it and publish it as my juvenilia when Im a famous author Haha There goes that flying pig again! Okay. Serious discussion time. Write about our cat, Tad, and what she gets up to when she dodges coming in at night. Yeah. Right, George. As if I could do that. That takes imagination. Write about something you know, says George flippantly. Hey, wouldnt it be funny if someone rewrote a Biblical story? I laugh. Thats a great idea! If anyone can do it, you can, says George. Hmm I did study Biblical stuff
Painted Words 2013 | 3
Which story? Adam and Eve? Been done. The tale where Jesus goes berserk in the Temple and chucks everything around? Nah Thats already an awesome story. Methinks its time for some research. Ah Thats the book I want. Christian Mythology. Gee whizz! I think I would have done better going through the Bible. The contents of this book are confusing. The Place of the Skull? Lives of the Virgin Mary? Visions of the Afterlife? The Necessity of Myth? I think its talking about myths rather than Biblical tales. God! Damn! It! Wheres an illustrated kids version of the Bible when you need it? Sigh. Create new word document. Bloody hell! This new laptop and operating system is going to be the death of me! Patience, young doofus. Patience Yoda, youre never around when I need ya. Okay. New document created. Times New Roman. Twelve point. One and a half spacing. Headers and page numbers inserted Save as workshopping week 1. Now whats going on with my Facebook friends? Wonder if my Fairyland garden needs attention? I could do with some more gold Just a quick peek Oh, my God! Grumpy Cats so cute! No! Stop it! Homeworks not gonna do itself! Rassum, frassum. Rassum, frassum. Rassum, frassum Snort Gotta love Yosemite Sam. Sigh. I need to write a short story for workshopping.
The Footsteps Behind Me

Di Fisher
he footsteps behind me quickened their pace as I quickened mine. When I turned left to follow the footpath around a corner, so did the footsteps behind me. When I paused at the intersection to wait for the walk signal, so did the footsteps behind me. The footsteps behind me slowed, when I slowed at the fence to smell the roses invading my space on the footpath. The footsteps behind me followed me through my front gate and sloshed through the puddles at the side of the house. They followed as I rushed to the bottom of the steps at my back door. The footsteps behind me stomped up the steps to the door while I fumbled with the key. I pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold onto the wooden floor and the footsteps followed. As I dropped the shopping onto the kitchen bench, the owner of the footsteps behind me, wrapped his arms around my waist, and said, That was the best follow the leader game yet, Mum.
Excuse Me
Judith Church
xcuse me, you have just taken my handbag from that chair. Excuse me, but that is my handbag. Excuse me, Im sorry, but this is my bag, it is deep red with a silver chain and clasp. Excuse me, my bag is burgundy, has a silver chain and clasp. Excuse me, but I have letter from my husband in my handbag, he is away working at present. Excuse me, I have a letter in my bag from my fiance, who is coming to holiday with me. Well, excuse me, Ill show you the envelope from my husband and prove the bag is mine. Excuse me, youll find there is a letter from my fiance in that bag. Excuse me, I am Mrs Louis Leroy, my bag has a letter from him. What! Well, excuse me, I am the fiance of Louis Leroy and in that bag is a letter from him. We are taking a cruise. Excuse me madam, our waiter has found your bag under the chair. Excuse me, heres the letter from my husband. Excuse me, here are our travel arrangements for our holiday. What! Excuse me, MY husband is your fiance? Excuse me, my fiance WAS your husband. Excuse me, well see about that. Excuse me, I have to pack.
Our Recipe for Time

Kim Leithhead
our of us in the kitchen, girls pamper time. Beautiful silky grey mud from the dam perfect for cooling face masks. Eight big turkey eggs to whip up for hair conditioning. A small tub of local Manuka honey to rub into our calloused hands and feet. Lemon Gum leaves to boil in water on the wood stove to clear the dust out of our sinuses. And four gentle friends to share this yummy time with. Sitting around the old pine table soaking up the smells and feelings. Quiet, except for the pot bubbling on the stove. Stolen Time, Sacred Time, Womans Time, Our Time!
So Heavy
Kim Leithhead
ooking up at the glass faade I think its not enough that Ive got to get my enormous gut up these steps but Ive got to carry all this extra stuff on my own as well. Maybe it wouldve been better just to stay at home. But I dont really have a choice. If I need a surgeon then I have to come here, well not here exactly, but this is the closest hospital. As I stand at the bottom of the stairs my escape taxi gone I try to think about the rosy future I have planned ahead of me. It was my choice to do this and I may have made that decision months ago but I always knew that I would end up like this. It would have been nice to have a hand to hold climbing those stairs. But my mum said she couldnt support me and David said he needs some space; this is a chickens way of saying that he thinks he can come back when everything is done without him. My cankles are aching and its hard to walk. If I sit down I will have to ask a stranger to help me up. Breathing as deeply as I can, Come on, you can do this, you want to do this. You have everything you need, your trusty tape deck with Cat Stevens ready to play and your teddy bear.
Thats Why Smoke Detectors Beep

Kim Leithhead
mell is an invisible force that can attract, repel and confuse. The sweet bouquet of roses, the lingering, tugging smell of BBQ snags and onions and the subliminal attraction of pheromones. On the other hand, we have the stench from the bottom of a wheelybin left out all day or likewise a teenage boys joggers also left out in the pore opening hot sun all day. Being able to smell can save your life. You can be alerted to the toxic fumes of unguarded fuel, or the pungent oiliness of rotten meat that may still look rosy pink. I have grown up without being able to smell. I have a nose, but thats just for looks. To understand the invisible force of smell, I have only had my meagre sense of taste to relate to. In a group or crowd I pretend so that I dont look stupid. At work they think Im a saint! I have learnt to interpret the universal body language for Yak. The hand covering the nose and mouth, the wrinkled nose and watery eyes, the skin colour draining and dry retching of those who are really suffering. Curiously my not being able to smell has not increased my other senses. I dont see or hear any better than anyone else. But I can do things that others cant and I can go places that others cant! I can nurse people with fungated bits and an outbreak of gastro
at our hostel just looks messy to me. I can fart to my hearts content, never worrying about the meatiness of that enjoyable act. I can drive with my windows down; that fetid stench from fly-bloated corpses on the side of the road earning no more than, Whoa, that must have caused some damage. Freshly painted rooms are instantly inhabitable, all cars can have that new car smell and even stinky flowers and stinky people can be my favourites, just because they are purple or yellow or blood red. At one time I thought an animal might help me in case of a gas leak or whatever. I took in Sylvester who was house trained and homeless because Hildy died. A week later a friend dropped in and very quickly told me that my house stunk of cat shit. We found a delightful pile behind my couch in the lounge, the same couch that I had napped on all week. Sylvester left. I love advising my friends about perfume when out shopping. Even with the best of them, it takes a few minutes for them to remember my altered reality. An altered reality that I invite you to share when you are asleep. Thats why smoke detectors beep.
Doras Goodbye
Lynda Graham
he weather had remained absolutely perfect all day. We were enjoying that golden period in late afternoon, when fading sunshine bathes natures colours with a depth and glow unseen at any other time. It had been longer than usual since my last visit to Aunt Doras tiny weatherboard home in the Dandenongs. Id missed her and her invitation to spend the weekend was timely and very welcome. Id had an extremely busy time at work for the last few weeks. The face in the driving mirror, as Id travelled up the previous day, reflected a not-unattractive woman in her early thirties, but one who had two small, rapidly-deepening lines developing between her eyebrows, and a tired pale complexion. I loved being a teacher in the inner city, but sometimes it took every ounce of dedication and energy, and then some. What a simple pleasure it was to be in this worn little kitchen, slowly washing up Doras delicate rose-strewn china. Straightening up from finishing the last of the dishes, I looked out of the small kitchen window and watched Dora dozing in her old wicker chair, shaded by an ancient cherry tree, planted too long ago to remember by whom. Like her, it had always been there, and this years fragile, pink blossom still clung to its boughs, the occasional wind-disturbed petal floating to the ground at Doras
feet. Dora and her cherry tree, companions in the final chapter of their lives. Turning away, I looked around the bright, neat cottage and felt, as I always did, a great sense of peace. I loved my single life but my days were crowded with noise, activities, paperwork and student issues. Home was often just a place to sleep, recover and prepare for the next round. Dora and her home were a sanctuary, a spiritual pause button in my busy world. Time seemed to stand still here, and whenever I came back I always experienced a deep feeling of comfort, of homecoming. If age could bring this then each birthday would be a truly welcome event. We had always been close. Dora was my mothers elder sister by many years, and when I lost my mother as a teen, she became my surrogate parent, reaching out to me with all the love she had never been able to give a child of her own. As I stood there the years rolled away, and I became fifteen again; standing, clutching my suitcase in this same kitchen, exhausted by grief and surrendering to the bear-hug that my aunt welcomed me with on that first of many visits. You seem miles away dear. Doras voice startled me back into the present. I hadnt heard her come in. I swung around. I was just thinking how much I cherish the peace here and how much I love coming to see you. I know. She said. Which is why I ask you more often than anyone else, and why I want you to have this house when I she hesitated, when I leave. Overwhelmed by what she had said, tears blurred my vision and I couldnt speak. I just looked into her wise loving eyes, eyes that knew exactly how much her gift, and her love, meant to me. She reached out and lightly patted my arm. I feel rather tired, she continued. Its time for me to rest. Ill say goodbye now as I shall be asleep by the time you go. Goodbye dear. Still silent and with a lump in my throat, I could only nod and
moved to hug her, but she suddenly seemed so fragile that I settled for brushing a gentle kiss across her papery cheek. I watched her walk slowly out of the kitchen and toward her bedroom. I stood in silent contemplation for a few seconds before taking a deep breath and turning back to once again look out at my aunts beloved garden. There, still bathed in late afternoon sunlight, I saw Dora slumped in her chair, her arm hanging lifeless, beneath the cherry tree.
The Sleeper Awakes

Lynda Graham
oseph couldnt sleep. He had tried, oh how hed tried, but the voices wouldnt let him rest. They gave him not one moments peace. Why cant you stop? he cried. Leave me be. But they continued, unaffected, unhearing, an insistent murmuring that intruded upon his tired and tortured brain, involving him in their haunting presence. He could bear it no longer and slowly opened his eyes. He clutched at the bedclothes in terror as he saw the pale, wide eyed, questioning faces. His body froze in a paroxysm of fear as they began to move closer, shuffling their feet in an unholy rhythm that echoed through the room. What do you want? he screamed aloud. WHAT DO YOU WANT? But they couldnt hear him. The awful parade continued with seemingly no beginning and no end. He had to get away, they were coming closer, growing louder. It was unbearable. Joseph struggled from the bed and pressing his back against the cold hard wall he edged his way around the room. The ghastly apparitions seemed not to notice him as, gasping for breath and sanity, he found the door. He turned his back and felt a violent chill encase his spine as he heard an echoing voice begin to speak.
And now He started to run. He ran as fast as his shaking legs would carry him. Along the corridor and down the stairs, out into the garden and away, away from that terrible house And now The line of faces ceased moving forward and stopped, crowding together at the end of the four poster bed. And now ladies and gentlemen, we have Sir Josephs bed. Legend has it, said the guide, that he died here of a heart attack after seeing some awful apparition. To this day locals report having seen a ghostly white figure running from the house. Several visitors have also felt a cold draught rush by them as they stood at the bedroom door. And now, if youll follow me into the corridor
Pickled Tongue
Mark Slattery
er boots were mud-logged when she stumbled through the door, arms bulging with grocery bags. She kicked the boots off into a corner of the kitchen. The effort it had taken. Next time, shed remove the boots before chopping the feet off. Even with the laces undone and the tongue hanging out, she had barely been able to get any leverage. The ankles had been slick with blood and could not be gripped. Shed had to force one hand down inside each boot, wriggling her fingers under the instep and, by slow degrees, with little twists and turns, had finally managed to ease the heel up and out. It was no less difficult with the second boot, though quicker. They were good, sturdy boots and would clean up well. She padded across the hard-packed dirt floor and heaved both bags onto the kitchen table. As she turned to grab a knife, she heard one of them toppling and just missed grabbing it. It fell on its side and a head, severed at the base of the neck, fell out and rolled bumpily across the table. She lunged for it, barely catching a few long, black hairs between the clawed fingers of her left hand before it toppled over the edge. It dangled heavily in tiny pendulum arcs. She could feel the hair strands oozing slowly through her fingers, slicked as they were with blood and sweat. Clutching tighter only hastened the slipping. With a desperate effort, she kicked both legs forward under the table, all weight resting on her arms. The head
fell and thumped heavily onto the toes of her left foot just as she collapsed painfully on her arse. Staring at it across the floor, under the table, she was happy to see it had settled on the ragged flaps of skin and half torn scraps of muscle around its neck. Its eyes and mouth were shut but the tongue, swollen to twice its normal size, had forced its way out and snaked down the chin before crawling an inch or two along the dirt. She wanted that skull and she wanted it intact. The tongue would pickle nicely, she thought, getting up from the floor and rubbing at the pain spreading across her bottom.
True Love and the Blue Fish

Phoebe Ward
hen her husband, Folau the Fisherman, was eaten by a giant fish, Leilani was secretly pleased. In fact, the mere possibility of such an occurrence was actually the real reason that Leilani had married him in the first place. Leilani was a pretty girl. Everyone from Police Chief Malo to the children underfoot agreed that she was the prettiest girl on the island. She could have chosen any single-man she wanted, and no doubt many of the married ones as well. Even Old Toku the Shopkeeper, who was known all over the island as such a serious man, had been seen falling to his knees, silhouetted by the fiery light of sunset, down into the powdery white sand by the waters edge, begging Leilani to choose him. But Leilani had married Folau, the poor fisherman. His skin was black as soot from the sun, and he always smelled of gutted fish, but he loved Leilani dearly. And Leilani, who was a true romantic, could think of nothing more poetic than a husband being taken by the sea; stolen from a young bride who would then spend the rest of her days in her lonely little hut, sitting at the window and pining for the sea to bring her man home again. When the giant, spangled blue fish came from the deep to eat him, Folau the Fisherman was not really surprised. Blue Fish was well known to the fisherman of the island, although no one in living memory had ever seen him. But the story of Blue Fish had
been passed from boat to boat, sung over the seas and the fires, for as long anyone could remember. He will only eat a man who is truly in love, the stories went. And since Folau knew that he really was in love, he could not be surprised. The blue fish was first seen as a dark shadow through the turquoise water. Naturally Folau thought it was a shark at first, but as it got closer he could see that it was far too fat to be a shark. It was as solid as a grouper, with a beak like a parrotfish, but it was when Folau saw the iridescent blue scales that he knew that there was only one fish it could be: Blue Fish, the Fish of True Love. Blue Fish rose from the depths, sun glinting prettily off its back. It leapt into the air over Folaus little canoe; its giant body soared easily over Folau as though it were a sailfish. All the fisherman in the little fleet saw it, they gasped and pointed and cried their dismay, but they knew already that this was the end for Folau. When Blue Fish splashed back down on the other side of Folaus boat, the canoe rocked wildly from side to side, and Folau was flung into the ocean. There was just enough time for Folau to let out a haunting, gurgling scream, before Blue Fish sucked him down in one giant gulp. The giant fish disappeared into the ocean depths as quickly as it had appeared. None of the other fisherman said a word, they just quietly reeled in their lines, and turned their canoes back towards the island. They paddled home, and as they did, a fierce dread took root in the heart of each man. Soon they would reach the island, and when they did all the women and the children and the old men would learn about how Folau the Fisherman had been taken that day, by the Blue Fish of True Love. Then Folaus lovely young wife would throw herself onto the shore and cry with despair. Every other wife, the fishermen feared, would look at her own husband with a frown, shake her head a little, and wonder why he was still there.
2am Saturday Night, Bendigo

Robyn Miller
he night clubbers poured onto the footpath to get a breath of fresh air. Some gathered to smoke. Their bodies were black shadows thrown into relief by the garish lighting of the clubs on the street. They threw their heads back and exhaled the smoke upwards, like so many human chimneys. Ya right, mate? said Dave to his friend Steve, who staggered and sat in the gutter. Yea, Ill be orright, the last word burped from his belly. If I have a spew Ill feel better, then I can have another drink. He belched again in a long groan, dropped his head beneath his knees and vomited into the gutter. Dave turned his head away as he felt the bile rise in his own mouth, but he managed not to throw up. Aargh, thats better, said Steve. Now wheres that chick I was after? Cant see her, said Dave. Do you reckon we should go home? Nah, its only two; got hours to go yet, replied Steve, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He could see gobs of mucus on his fingers, so he flipped his hand down the front of his shirt, tucked the shirt in, patted his hair into place and looked about. He soon spotted the girl. Aw, there she is. Whos that bloke with her?
I dunno! said Dave. Weve never seen either of them before tonight. Oim gunna sort him out. Steve said in a semi-shout. He pushed his sleeves up and marched with splayed legs towards the couple standing slightly apart from the crowd. Oi! Mate! Waddya think youre doin? he yelled. Startled, the couple turned to see Steve lurching their way. Dave trailed behind he wasnt sure about this. He yanked off a loose paling from the fence surrounding the building site next door. Dave was big. You could rely on him in a fight. Steve was now face to face with his hapless victim, yelling and spitting. He had the young mans shirt front balled up in his hand. His other arm was swinging wildly as if to throw a punch. The girl was crying, fixated in horror. A few of the crowd turned in vague interest and yelled encouragement. Girls started screaming, .Yer a fuckin idiot!, Call the cops!, Wheres the fuckin bouncer when you need him? The frightened couple cowered as Dave took several steps towards them with the paling raised high. He brought the paling down across Steves shoulder and caught the back of his head; he didnt want to hurt his friend too much. Steve crumpled to the ground. Dave reached down and pulled Steve to his feet, and gave him a push in the back in the general direction of where their car was parked. Dave sighed. You always were a fuckin idiot Stevetime to go home.
Short Stories
Little Red Beanie

Anne Reid
ebecca hurries her way along the narrow pathway between the house and the fence. Droplets of water drip from the bushes, gently sprinkling her face. She brushes aside a jasmine vine with her hand and places the front door key in its usual hiding spot. In the garage, the water has flooded onto the dirt floor. Rebecca opens the car door and is about to step gingerly across the puddle when a loud jangle of music and vibration emanate from her bag. Startled, she misses her footing and the muddy water splashes up onto her pale blue uniform. She drops into the front seat, scrambling for the phone. Tanya here, from the bakery. Can you stay on until six tonight, Jeanette has a dental appointment? If I say No shell probably take me off the roster, thinks Rebecca as she fishes for a tissue with her spare hand. Yes, that will be fine, she responds, dabbing at the wet patches on her skirt. She clicks off the phone and with a sigh, and pulls out her notebook to write a note for Penny. *** Theres the sliced wholemeal loaf. Will that be all sir? Have a nice day. At last, a break. Rebecca taps the shoulder of her co-worker and points her finger towards the back door. Outside, Rebecca sips at her take-away coffee and dials Auntie May.
Im really sorry Aunty May, but could you mind Penny after school? They asked me only this morning to extend my shift to six. You know how I dont like to refuse, having said how much we need the job and extra money. I tried to catch you earlier but you must have been out walking the dog. You dont mind at all? Oh youre a darling, thank you. I dont know what I would do without Aunty Mays help. I feel so guilty about leaving Penny with her so often. Its so hard in a new town and having so little money. Theres so much needs doing and paying for. Life was so less complicated back in the city. The house was modern and didnt leak. We had friends to help and to talk to. Sometimes I wonder why Matt was so keen to make the tree-change. Rebecca texts Matt asking if he could run Penny around to Aunty Mays at four oclock. *** Penny waits as the bus door creaked its way open and clanged with a slight thud. Then, she jumped down the two metal steps and onto the footpath. She waved to the driver, hoisted her school bag onto her shoulders and turned the corner into her street. The wheels of the bus go round and round, round and round, she sang as she skipped her way along the gravel path. She wound her way up the slight incline and could soon see the rusty, red iron roof of the cottage she and her parents now called home. The front garden is small and the overgrown shrubs hang down across the stone flagged path. Penny drops her bag on the worn weatherboards of the verandah floor and raps on the door with the heavy metal knocker. No answer. She listens, with her red beanie pressed up against the door, for the familiar footsteps of her mother stomping down the hall. All is quiet and the door remains still. Mum must be out. Penny fishes under the cushion of the old couch by the front window. She pulls out a folded note. Hi Penny, I will be a bit late back from work. Go straight over to Granny Mays. OXO Mum.
Penny picks up her bag and is about to go back out the gate when she remembers her skipping rope. She quickly runs down the shady side path to the back garden. She spies the cat curled up in his favourite spot on top of the bricked-over well in the courtyard. Ding dong dell, Marmadukes on the well. Penny reaches the garden shed and feels for the key on a hook by the doorway. *** Pennys skipping rope is trailed across the back of a kitchen chair. She picks it up and wanders outside. Marmaduke twitches an ear at the sound of the rhythmic slapping of rope against bricks. Hi, low, jolly pepper. Penny loves the regular clapping of her feet as she moves in time with the rope and her chant. Maybe Mum will come home early anyway and she wont have to go across to Granny Mays. Its not as though she is her real Nanna, shes just Mummys old Auntie. Her real Nanna lives back in the city, back near her old home and her school. Penny misses the school with all the great new play equipment. She misses her friends shes known since Kindergarten. Granny May has been kind, though. She makes pikelets and banana smoothies, lets her water the vegie plot and has a swing in the garden under the mulberry tree. At the thought of the pikelets, Penny began to feel hungry. Maybe shed better head over to Grannys now. *** Penny decides to follow the narrow track across the diggings which will save her going up the hill and back along the footpath. During the last few months she and her mother had often taken the track across to Granny Mays. A track that meanders over numerous old mullock heaps, through hillocks that have become overgrown with gorse, thick clumps of strong native grass, and dotted with the occasional wattle and stunted scrub. Penny notices a waft of smoke coming from the chimney of Granny Mays cottage, floating
its way across the valley. The landscape is webbed with thin, sandy walking tracks made by the constant travels of native wild life. Many armies of ants march in formation, some carrying bits of food and dead insects, all feverishly and single-mindedly intent in their endeavours. There are large mounds of ant castles into which they disappeared. Penny had asked her mother what it was like inside an ant hill and what did all the ants do there. They had stood and intently watched as the ants with their huge burdens disappeared into the tiny black holes. Today though, the dry, dusty terrain was transformed. The bushes were moist and glistening and cracks and rivulets had formed from a recent deluge of rain. Bright, white, glistening pieces of quartz jutted here and there. Penny remembered the downpour a few nights ago: the storm, the overflowing of drains and gutters, parents hurrying to the bus stop armed with brolleys and raincoats for the children, cars spraying the sidewalks and skidding as they hurried their way homeward. The rain had pelted down in a continuous roar on the corrugated roof. Overnight the trickling stream of the local creek had been transformed to a raging monster that tore across the countryside at a tremendous pace, churning and frothing as it overflowed its banks leaving fallen saplings, piles of twigs, leaves and debris in its wake. *** Penny negotiates her way down the now muddy, greasy track, her black school shoes becoming caked with yellow clay. She almost slips and reaches for a bush to steady herself. Finally she attains level ground. Ahead of her is an astounding sight and she is mesmerised by the abundance of water in the usually almost empty creek bed. When she gains sight of the wooden footbridge Penny is surprised to find it partly submerged and a portion of the rail lying torn and
floating by the rocks next to the bank. She steps tentatively onto the largest of the stones which surround the creek edge. She spies something bright and red and pokes with a stick between the stones until she levers up a shiny piece of red glass, worn smooth, in the shape of a coin. She stands listening to the mysterious, beckoning sounds of bubbling and gurgling as the water spills over a large, fallen log. *** Down by the river down by the sea, Johnny broke a bottle and blamed it all on me. A grimy, yellow layer of froth crusts the edges of the bank. Penny can see Granny Mays house on the hillside across the creek. She doesnt want to turn back and start her journey again. She slips the glass pebble into her pocket and decides to walk across the creek. *** Matt is packing his gear into the ute when he hears the alert beep on his mobile. He pulls it out and reads the message from his client, an elderly gentleman, who wants to discuss his quote for a new side fence. He sees another message and scrolls down to open it. It was from Rebecca. Can you take Penny around to Granny Mays after school, I am stuck at work till late? Damn! This is going to make me late for the meeting. He dives into the car and takes off. At the roundabout he makes a right hand turn and heads out of town towards home. He parks on the gravel road at the front of the house. The wrought iron gate squeaks as he passes through and up the path. Anyone home? Matt calls down the hall as he closes the front door behind him. He wanders from room to room but all is silent. So Penny must be out the back, he thinks and goes down the laundry steps. He pokes his head into the garden shed that Penny likes to use as a cubby, that Rebecca wants as a chook house, but at the
moment still houses a load of unpacked boxes from their move. He leans over to check the key hook and one of the boxes catches his eye. Lying at the top of the open box is the old wooden framed photograph of his grandfather that his mother had given him long ago. Matt picks it up and, not for the first time, remarks on the uncanny resemblance to himself. Grandfather Clive had also been a tradesman and had worked in this part of the country. He had in fact grown up in this town. It had been the old mans reminiscences that had fostered Matts secret desire to get away from the city and explore the possibilities of a rural life. Matt returns to the kitchen, puzzled that Penny still hasnt returned from school. It was then that he noticed a crumpled note on the table. He rings Granny May but she hasnt seen Penny. *** Matt hurries out of the garden and sprints along the gravel roadway. There is no sign of Penny ahead. His eyes sweep across the valley, a barren, rugged and desolate place. It is hard to imagine that once, years ago there were hordes of miners working along this very spot, shovelling and picking their way through the rough earth, tearing the land apart as they burrowed like dogs after a hidden bone. There would have been numerous scattered huts and tents and women coping with families in the rough and harsh conditions. Children left to their own devices playing in the dirt and stones, wandering carelessly through the bush, unaware of the potential dangers all around. Matt suddenly spies a small but bright flash of red down in the valley Pennys red beanie. He calls out but his voice is carried away in the wind. As he stares at the bobbing beanie he feels a strange sense of dj vu. A creeping fear that for a moment paralyses him. His panic suddenly transforms into action and he quickens his pace, leaving the road and running down to the narrow pathway. He trips and skids a few feet down an embankment. He recovers his footing and hurries on. Matt can see that the track near the creek has been flooded over by the
heavy torrent of rain. The creek is now full and flowing fast. He runs towards the footbridge. *** Penny has unbuckled her shoes and taken off her socks. If she tries to stay on the big stones she wont get her dress wet. The water is cold and the stones rough and sharp beneath her small feet. The rocks are much deeper below the surface than she had anticipated. With her next step she is surprised to feel the water swirling around her legs, gripping her knees like a giant hand. As she moves forward her toes become caught in something sharp and spiky. She tries to disentangle herself and loses her balance. Her legs give way and she feels herself being dragged and pulled into the cold water. Everything is black and there is a rushing sound in her ears. The force is too hard to fight and as the torrent engulfs her, Penny feels the dark seize her, drawing her down, sucking her into its giant cavern. Suddenly she feels something hard clasping her arm. Something is pulling at her, pulling her up out of the darkness, wrenching her away from the clasps of the monster, dragging her back towards the light. *** Matt carries her across to the other bank. He lies her on her side as she wheezes and gasps the air back into her lungs. Between gasps Penny manages to whisper, Dad, dad. She begins to shiver as the wet from her clinging clothes begins to penetrate. Matt carries her up the path towards Granny Mays. The old lady runs to meet them halfway down the hill calling out, Thank God, thank God. Granny May takes off the wet clothes, sits Penny in her armchair by the fire and wraps her in a warm rug. Penny stares into the embers of the fire silently. Granny May retreats into the kitchen to butter a batch of pikelets. Matt slips out onto the verandah. With trembling hands he dials Rebeccas number. We very nearly lost Penny. He tells his story
and Rebecca begins sobbing at the other end. Oh no. Oh no Matt. How terrible. Thank God you got there in time. Im coming home right away. Matt trudges back down to the creek and recovers Pennys shoes and socks. He untangles her skipping rope where it is caught on a log further upstream. There is no sign of the red beanie. He suddenly remembers his client and the proposed meeting. Rather than ring him, he decides to drive around and explain his lateness in person. Penny is happily devouring the pikelets, a banana smoothie on the table beside her. Will you be alright for a while with Granny May? He hands her the rope. Mummy will be here very soon. *** Matt stops the ute a couple of kilometres up the road outside a large brick home. With his dripping trousers and muddy work boots he makes his way into the front yard. He finds the old man digging in the garden. Matt recounts the story of the near tragedy and he listened intently You can never trust the weather in these here parts. the old chap stated. One minute its as dry as a tinder box, the next theres storms and flooding. You know, as you stood there telling of your ordeal, for a moment you reminded me of someone. He studied Matt again for a moment. I know, he said, it was old Clive Wilson, when he was a young man of course. He and I were friends and workmates for years. Went through school together we did. Clive Wilson was my grandfather, responded Matt, rather surprised. Well now, that explains the likeness, said the old man. He had his priorities right just like you. Family comes first, he always used to say. Matt finished making the quote and climbed back into the ute. As he gripped the steering wheel his hands started to tremble and he felt slightly nauseas. He sat for a short time thinking about
the old mans words and the strange coincidence. Finally he reached for the ignition and made his way home. *** Matt, Rebecca and Penny finish their dinner. Ill go and fetch Marmaduke in. Penny wanders out into the backyard. At the back fence she pauses and looks between the pickets across the valley. The sun has already set and the pinkish gold is rapidly fading into black behind Granny Mays cottage. Penny suddenly feels the dark pressing in around her. The familiar trees and bushes become obscure, shadowy giants waving their large, leafy hands beckoning and pursuing her. She turns and runs quickly down the path towards the kitchen light and the silhouette of Marmaduke waiting on the back steps.
Rhinocehorse!
Daniel Fowler
oratio strode into the Flowing Tankard tavern, an alcohol dispensary well known for having an extremely generic name. Peering through the smoky common room, he spotted his friend in the corner and made his way through the tangle of tables and drunken patrons. Sitting himself down in front of the other man, he threw a small, bulging bag to the round, wooden table. The chinking of coins sounded from within. I found one, I actually got one! he said excitedly. The other man, going by the name of Dudley, looked at Horatio sceptically. Youve only been gone for ten minutes, and it looks like you still have all the money, he said, gesturing to the bag in front of him. How could you possibly have found one? Well, I left the tavern and was sort of wandering around aimlessly, and there was one right there. Youre telling me that you were just walking down the street and found an alicorn? Are you sure it isnt just a horse? Nowell, yes. Im sure I found one but Ive decided that alicorn is a stupid name, they are called winged-rhinocehorses now. Dudley raised his eyebrow. You cant just do that. Rename something I mean. I dont see why not. Horatio snorted indignantly. Rhinocehorse makes so much more sense. Its a horse with a
horn. Stanley agreed with me. Stanley? The rhinocehorse, he was in full agreement about the name. At this point Dudleys left eyebrow was raised so high it was no longer visible from underneath his hood. So you walked out of the tavern, stumbled across one of the rarest creatures in existence out on the street, and then you both agreed that the name of its species should be changed to winged-rhinocehorse? Horatio nodded excitedly, a large grin on his face. Dudley peered closer at his friend. How much have you had to drink tonight? Not much, maybe a bit. Listen, it happened, I can go introduce you. Oh? Where is the creature now? I left him out in the stable so I could come in and tell you. Dudley sighed, figuring he would play along with his obviously drunk friend. There was no arguing with Horatio when he got like this. Okay then, lets go take a look at this He sighed again Rhinocehorse. Horatio jumped to his feet and his grin grew wider. Alright. Remember though, his name is Stanley. Dont be rude to him. *** Dudley shivered as he stepped through the tavern door into the cold night air, pulling his grey cloak around his short frame. He followed Horatio around the side of the building and into the adjoined stables, looking around for anything strange of an equine nature. The stable was dark and smelled heavily of horse, which made sense as there were quite a few of them in there. After a brief look to confirm that none of the horses had either horns or wings, Dudley turned toward his companion. So now were in the stable, where is it? Horatio peered around, looking confused, when a voice came
from the stable entrance. Have you lost something? What is it? Im pretty good at finding things! Both men turned to see the head of a horse staring at them from around the stable door. It was wearing a top hat. Hello chaps, the horse said as it trotted into full view, its large white wings becoming apparent. Im not interrupting, am I? Hey Stanley, I thought wed lost you for a minute there, Horatio responded cheerfully, as if he werent speaking to a talking, winged-horse wearing a hat. I simply left for a quick stroll, Horatio my boy! Is this your friend Dudley? Very nice to meet you. Dudley shuffled closer to Horatio. Why is the alicorn wearing a hat? he asked in a low voice. We are called winged rhinocehorses now, chortled Stanley, apparently having very good hearing. And the hat is to hide my horn. Clever disguise I must say, it was Horatios idea. I cant say Im surprised. Dudley muttered. Louder, he said, so have you told, uh, Stanley here about the plan? Horatio had begun staring vacantly at the far wall, saliva beginning to ooze out the corner of his mouth, before snapping back to attention. The plan? Oh yeah, the plan, I told Stanley all about it. And a brilliant plan it is! exclaimed Stanley in a very horsey sort of voice. There is but one simple issue. I am currently ill equipped for such a venture. I shall need some time and money to prepare. We have some money, said Horatio, grabbing the bag from Dudleys belt, where it had been tied earlier. Now now, dont complain, he said, to stifle Dudleys protests. If this plan works, then this much money will be like pocket change to us! Besides, we expected to have it spent in the course of finding a winged rhinocehorse to begin with. He handed the bag to Stanley, who used some skilful
rhinocehorse manoeuvres to stash it within his top hat. Thank you gents. The dapper creature whinnied. I shall begin my preparations immediately. We will meet outside this tavern at dawns first light, and our adventure will commence! With an elegant flap of his wings, Stanley turned about and cantered out of the stable. *** The next day, Horatio stood holding his hand above his eyes as he looked at the sky, judging the time to be noon. He glanced over to where Dudley sat on the ground with his back to the outer wooden wall of the flowing tankard tavern. You know what Dudley? I think that winged rhinocehorse might have robbed us. Dudley just glared at him from beneath his hood. I hate you so, so much.
Entitlement
Louise Wardle
eads turned as he swaggered into Centrelink. His hair was oily and unkempt, kept in check by a raspberry beret. He was dressed in a whitish button-up shirt with ruffles down the front and at the sleeve cuffs. His pants were of a purple paisley print and looked like something MC Hammer would wear clothes that looked like they came from an op shops remnant bin. To complete his ensemble, golden genie slippers adorned his feet. A man dressed in a suit and tie, holding a clipboard and sporting an ear-piece, raised an eyebrow and took a deep breath before approaching the newcomer. How can we help you today, sir? enquired the suit, barely able to stop his nose from wrinkling in an attempt to quash the natural bouquet that exuded from the newcomer. I want to apply for a benefit, responded the newcomer, whilst wiping his nose with a shirt sleeve ruffle. Name? the suit asked automatically. Randall Lovelace, sighed the newcomer. The suit scribbled on his clipboard. Do you know your CRN? Nope. I dont even know what one is, Randall gulped. Okay, Randall. Ill let someone know that youre here. In the meantime, please take a seat over there and wait to be called. Turning his back on Randall, the suit pressed a button on the wire
connected to his earpiece and mumbled something. Bewildered and slightly miffed that the suit didnt drill him for more answers, Randall swaggered off in the direction of the aforementioned seats and flopped down to wait. Randall gazed around, taking in the busy front section of the office floor. He mentally noted that the majority of the office floor was taken up by desks, chairs, and computers not being used.. What a waste of space and money, he thought as he tilted his head back to look at the ceiling. Bloody typical! Huge lines, three waiting areas four, if you count Medicare No free phones No free computers... A complete waste of my time and energy After what seemed like an eon, a disembodied voice intruded upon Randalls reverie, Randall Lovelace? He glanced over and saw a middle-aged woman peering around his waiting area. Randall Lovelace? Randall slid his foot closer to the chair leg, placed his hands on the chair arms and pushed himself into a standing position. Yep. Randall? Im Peach. She turned and started walking towards a desk. This way. Please take a seat, offered Peach. Where the feck do you want me to take it? I mean, it doesnt even match my dcor Now, Randall, I understand that you are applying for a benefit? Peach asked. Yes, Randall was taking in Peachs profuse ring display. Each finger sported a gold ring or two. Most had an intricate diamond setting entwined with some other precious gem. Her thumbs were constricted by the gold bands; so much so that the flesh had puffed up on either side. By God! She must have some dough? Surely theyre glass! Feck me! She dont need no job! The old tart should be at home tending her yappie mutt instead of taking jobs away from people who need em. Bet her holidays are spent in exotic locations
Do you have a job? She didnt even glance at him. Stuck up bitch! You may as well be talking to the screen. Im over here ya git! No. Why do you think Im here? Randall replied tersely. Are you studying? Peach had the routine down pat. No. Are you married to or living with anyone? No, Randall replied through gritted teeth. How much money do you have in the bank? Peachs monotone was starting to get to Randall. Look! I understand that you have to ask questions but wanting to know how much money I have! Thats personal! Sir, we dont want to overpay you, Peach placated. You dont have to tell us now. She hurried on so that Randall couldnt respond. Just go to the bank and bring back a receipt showing how much you have in your account You have fourteen days to let us know or your application will be considered null and void and youll have to reapply. Peach paused, expecting an outburst from Randall before continuing to bombard him with questions. Now, you do realise that you will have to look for work? Attend your job network meetings and report to us every two weeks? Oh, and tell us of any changes to your circumstances? Feck you! And ya feckin questions! If you must know something personal about me, Im wearing a puce g-string and lime green socks! I have my lattes with plenty of spice! Randall clenched his fists. Something, my dear, that youre completely lacking! You could drive a train through Peachs mouth. She sat there in stunned silence, rapidly blinking at Randall. Randall had abruptly risen from his seat, Hold on! When in the feckin hell am I supposed to find time to paint and write! Sir? Please sit down. Peach quickly composed herself, Randall.
Please sit down or I will call security. If I call security you will be banned from this office for quite some time. If you are banned you can not apply for a benefit Randall squinted as he mulled over his options. Feck me if she hasnt got me over a barrel Damned if I do and damned if I dont He slowly slid back down into his seat, resting his hands on the tops of his thighs. He clenched his fits so hard that his nails pierced his palms. The pain strangely soothed him, Okay. I agree to your terms.
The Calling
Louise Wardle
ugustine Fink-Nottle knew she shouldnt be there. She was obsessed. An unfathomable force had both coerced and urged her on. ***
Edgar, Rhys, Danni and Clover pulled up in the makeshift car park it had been created by the proprietors for the curious unpacked themselves from the cramped car and waited patiently for their guide to appear. Edgar and Clover were a middle-aged couple and Rhys was their eldest son. Danni was in her early 30s and had met Rhys and Edgar through a local writing course. Edgar leant against the car. Lighting a cigarette, he offered one to Danni and then fished out his mobile phone. Meanwhile Rhys and Clover rubbed their backs, flicked their achy legs and took in the formidable landscape. The fortress perched precariously on a craggy hill top. A long stone bridge spanned the gorge that separated the fortress from the rest of the mountain range. The tower tops were lost to low brooding clouds and mist. Climbing vines vied for foot-holds in the walls while thistles pushed through cracks in the rock. What lay beyond Mystle Toe Holds rusty portcullis was hidden in shadow a perfect place for a horror writers retreat. Danni walked up to the high, padlocked wire gates placed
to stop people traversing the bridge stuck her fingers through the wire and rattled the gates. She stepped back, drew heavily on her cigarette and exhaled. Bloody hell! This place is creepy! She smiled sardonically. Im gonna love this weekend! Putting his mobile phone away, Edgar joined Danni. Speaking loud enough for Clover and Rhys to hear, he relayed his phone conversation. Nates gonna be later than expected but Adam should be here soon. What? We have to wait? Rhys scowled. I want to explore as much as this place as I can before dark. The sooner he gets here, the sooner this crap will be over with. Clover was not looking forward to the Mystle Toe Hold experience for a trillion different reasons. I bet that glows in the dark. Rhys nodded his head towards the grey van that pulled up beside Edgars car. It had Local Ghost Tours painted on its sides. Adam alighted the van and approached Edgar. Edgar? Yeah! Adam? Yep! A mutual bro-greeting of handshakes, pats on the back and awkward smiles ensued. Ferreting around in his pockets, Adam pulled out a bunch of keys and went through them until he found what he was looking for. Ill unlock the gates if ya wanna gatha ya gear tagetha an follo me through? *** As if driven, Augustine rushes across the stone bridge, glancing sideways at the cold stone walls. She reaches the portcullis but cant find a way of opening it. To the side is a door made of metal bars. Its slightly ajar. The inner sanctum draws her on. In front of Augustine is a road with several tracks branching off it. These tracks lead to other buildings. Quickly, Augustine takes in her surroundings. The large building on the left, near the far Hold wall, would be a kitchen due to its chimneys. The other building, on the right, would
be the stables. Therefore, the smaller hut-like buildings were possibly huts for the Holds serfs. However, at the end of the road, without a doubt, stood the Keep and beside it, the chapel. That just left the building near the kitchen. She shrugs. Augustine hesitates. This isnt what she expects. It is not that she has a clear image of what a fortress would look like in her mind just well she expects it to be grander. To be richer. She draws a deep breath and lets her instincts guide her. At first walking at a fast pace, then breaking into a trot, she finds herself at the door of the only building she couldnt identify. A cold sweat breaks out upon Augustines brow. Her legs and hands tremble, her stomach knots and her mouth becomes dry as she reaches out her hand towards the wooden door. She pushes it open and inwardly cringes at the audible squeak. Then Augustine hears it. A voice calling her. Enticing her to go further. *** By the end of the day other guests had joined Edgar, Rhys, Danni, Clover, Adam and Nate at the horror writers retreat and had set up mattresses for the night vigil or to sleep (if one dared). Clover, Rhys and a couple of the other guests had spent the day investigating the buildings housed in the Mystle Toe Hold. Opening doors that werent locked.Learning the labyrinthine passages and tunnels. Getting a feel for the place and a sense of what the night may reveal. Rhys was really keen on some night investigation. Hey, Nate? Which buildings the best for paranormal activity? The Keep! Definitely the Keep! Nate enthusiastically replied. Some of the Keeps bedrooms have cold spots, some shadow people. In the dungeons you often hear stuff. He paused. I guess it all depends on what youre looking for? Clovers eye twitched as she pursed her lips. Um Is there somewhere not quite as busy as the Keep but still recognised as a hot spot? Try the storehouse. Some visitors have reported seeing a woman,
others hear a whisper. Nate nodded his head in confirmation. Rhys and Clover grabbed their torches and headed off towards the storehouse, Rhys nervous but excited, Clover with trepidation and fear. *** Dust swirled around Augustines feet. The sunlight filtering through the gaps in the shutters allowed for a vague impression of the buildings layout. Room after room contained recesses and shelving, a few bags, crates and barrels left on the shelves and on the floor. Further. Go further. Augustine goes further. She discovers a small wooden door. She opens it and steps down. The temperature drops as she descends. She reaches the bottom of the stone staircase. She feels compelled to turn and look up. Looking down at her are a young man and an older woman. Augustine can feel their energy. She reaches out to them. If you can hear me, Augustine asks, Please tap once? *** The storehouse door had been left open from the days investigations. The dust swirling in the breeze caused by bats and by Clover and Rhys footsteps. They move past the many storage rooms and head to the back of the building where they remember seeing a small door and a staircase down to a basement. Shit! Look at that! Rhys points down to the bottom of the stairs. Clover followed the direction Rhys was pointing in with her eyes, Oh My God Clover and Rhys were awe-struck. Looking up at them was a woman. If you can hear us, asks Rhys, Please tap once?
Why the Hell Cant They Leave Me Alone?

Louise Wardle
brace myself. Here we go! My mum has dropped me off at my cousins place. Shes in the same year at school as me. I cant stand her but my mum wants to do the right thing by my aunt. I really dont know why she pretends to like my dads sister and her family. My cousins brother is okay but my cousin is one of those girls. Shes popular. Shes blonde. Shes rich. Shes skinny. The boys like her. Shes perfect. Im lost in my own little world as my cousin, her brother and I walk to her friends house. Its the middle of summer and the sweats pouring off me. Why the hell do we have to walk? This is hurting my thighs. I stand behind my cousin as she chats to her friend at the door. Her friends brother comes racing from around the back of their house with a towel around his neck and hes holding a bag. Shit! I feel the butterflies flit in my stomach as I realise that both my cousins friend and her brother are coming with us. I hang back, trying to cover my physical and mental uneasiness, while the four of them laugh, joke, talk , skip, swagger, walk up the middle of the road. I waddle along behind with my head down, not wanting to make eye contact with any of them.
Why did I agree to this? Why do I do things to please my mum? Cant Mum see what my cousin and her friends are really like? I dont belong here. I can hear the laughter and the splashing coming from up ahead. God no! Its packed! I pay my money and then push through the turn-style last as usual before heading for the female dressing room to change. I race to the edge of the olympic-sized pool, throw my towel off onto the grass and pin-drop into the cool, blue-tinged water. Ahh... that feels better. I peer around at the other swimmers, trying to look casual. Geez, I hope nobody saw me. Oh my God! What if they have? What must they be thinking fat slob; bet she eats like a horse; what a pig; look at that jelly wobble? I mentally cringe and slip a bit further under water, nose just above water level, reliving each embarrassing nanosecond of changing in a public dressing room. At least here no-one can see me properly. The water changes my shape; it makes me look like a funny image you see in an amusement park mirror. Luna Park anyone? I giggle at my own joke. At least no one can tell what I really look like while Im under water. I begin to relax, to lose myself in the coolness of the water. White clouds drift idly across the azure sky. The sun beats down as I focus on the golden tipped ripples. All noise bar the lapping of water comes to a stop. I close my eyes. No one can hurt me if I dont let them in. They dont exist. Theres just me. I feel a hand clamp down upon my head. What the hell? The pressure on my head increases. The water rises. Im frightened! What if I cant hold my breath? Why isnt someone helping me? How do I get out of this? I cant stand water in my eyes! I cant feel the bottom of the pool. I frantically kick my legs out; trying to feel for something to stand on. I thrash my arms about
in the water, either in search of the body attached to the hand or something I can use to pull myself above the water. The hand is holding me in place. Who the hells holding me down? Whys this happening? I cant breathe! The hand is gone as quickly as it came. I freeze for a short time before I fight to the surface. Water is running down my face, mixing with my tears. I look around the pool to see a ginger-haired girl swimming towards the ladder at the deep end. She turns to glance at me. Treading water, she sneers, and then is gone. Who the hell? Whatd I do to her? I numbly wade towards the middle ladder and pull my bulky body up and out of the pool one rung at a time, trying hard not to think about what had just happened. As I struggle with my weight, I become aware of my bathers creeping up and wedging between my bum cheeks. I drop my head as I feel heat spreading across my freckled face my eyes blurring from another lot of tears and catch sight of a nipple sticking out over the top of my bathers. My throat tightens in an effort to stifle my sobs. I take one hand off the ladder rail to quickly pull the top half of my bathers up. I grow even more self-conscious of my fat body as I imagine how everybody must see me. My thunderous thighs squelching as they chafe. My big bum wobbling like jelly. The flab on my upper arms swinging back and forth. My double chin hiding my neck. The car tyre I carry around my waist badly disguised by my mums friends discarded bathers, bunched up in all the wrong places. Please... Nobody notice that these bathers used to have boob holders. Please... Dont look at me. I sniff, swallowing my tears. Now out of the pool, water streaming down my body, I adjust my bathers. My eyes fixed on the concrete path in front of me Im suddenly fascinated by the ants scurrying to pick up crumbs not wanting to make eye contact with my cousin or her friends. Hey! Youve got nice tits!
I jerk my head up and look straight at a boy standing in front of me my cousins friends brother. The smirk he wears tells me he isnt trying to be nice. I can hear my cousin and her friends giggling. I again drop my head, feeling a familiar heat spread across my cheeks and the stinging of unshed tears. I reach down for my towel, hoping desperately that the earth will open and I will fall in. Why the hell cant they leave me alone?
Deep Water
Gail Remnant
helsea, Melbourne, Australia 1957 We go down the steps, down again, and again. When I step down with my foot on the boards that are smooth and shiny and gritty with sand, I slip! They go down, and when I lift my foot up, they go up! I do it again. Hurry up Gailie Girl, dont you want to go for a paddle? Do you want me to carry you? I shake my head. Hold my hand. My feet in white leather sandals sink into the sand and the sand goes under my toes. I dont like sand under my toes! I sit down and tug at the metal buckles. My father bends down and undoes them, then swings me into his arms and then over his shoulders. I cling on limpet-like, with my hands around his forehead, and away we go. I like riding up high; I can see the sea going all the way to the sky. We find a place on the sand and Mummy spreads a blanket out. I have on my bathing suit with frilly bottoms and a white cotton hat. There is my spade with the wooden handle, and my bucket to make sand castles. But I dont want to make sand castles. I have a new ball with colours that go stripey when it rolls along the sand. It is so big I need two arms to hold it. It is light and it goes fast in the wind away from me. I run to catch it. I pick it up and throw it. I do it again. Look at the shells in the wet sand.
I squat down, head forward, with both arms entwined behind my back as I have been taught when seeing something new: eyes first, hands last! The shells are pretty, white with greeny-pink pearly colours inside. The little waves tickle my toes They leave a white froth on the wet sand. The sand goes pale when I stamp on it. I look up: My ball, where is my ball? Oh, there it is, the waves are playing with it. Its going away. I run to catch it; my feet splash in the water. Its cold! I bend down to pick up my ball, but it goes away with the waves. I run after it, and the birds with red feet fly away from me. They squawk! Again I chase my ball into the waves And again. Two arms encircle me and lift me off my feet and high into the air. My ball! Dont worry about your ball. I look into my fathers face. It is tense, yet half-laughing. Swiftly he carries me up onto the sand that squeaks as he walks. Culburra Beach, New South Wales, Australia 1976 We were staying with my in-laws on the Coast that summer, the sun heated in a cloudless sky. Married just five months, it was the first holiday my husband and I had taken since our honeymoon. We went down to the beach that afternoon for a swim. The white, shell-gritted sand driven by the wind stung unprotected skin, and reflected the brilliant light. My husband and his brother took their boards out to the deep, still, water, while my father-in-law and I body-surfed through the white-capped waves closer to shore. As I did not count myself a strong swimmer, I had developed a healthy respect for the sea, and was far more comfortable if I could feel sand beneath my feet. The surf was good that day, bringing the board riders in from beyond the breakers with one long, smooth, sweep, consistently running the boards onto the sand. Over and over again, the boys paddled back out to wait for a suitable swell, and after catching it rode it in, passing us in a flurry of foam.
Time passed. The wind was growing sharper and my body temperature was dropping. I had just decided I would let the next wave take me right in to the shore when the sea fractured around me, and a powerful force pummelled by body. It was definitely time to leave! I attempted to gain purchase on the sea floor to push off with the next swell, but encountered nothing but water. Water so deep it had a false solidity. Behind me, a large wave was rolling in; it would break just as it reached me. I took a deep breath and tried to propel myself above it, but was swamped by a wall of water. Spluttering, I tried to take in air, but another wave came in just seconds behind the first and I could barely free my nose and mouth to breathe. Then another wave came in, then another! The swells were coming in quick succession in sets of three, and I realised I didnt have the physical strength to fight them. I fought down rising panic; the situation was too serious for that! It was not just my life at stake; I was three months pregnant. My father-in-law was closer to the shore, but three metres away from me; just too far away to be of any help. I tried to tell him what I intended to do, but he couldnt hear me over the sound of the wind and water. When the first of the next set of swells reached me, I took a deep breath and pushed down underneath. I waited until I felt the third wave pass me, and kicked up. As the salted water cleared from my eyes, I caught the expression on my fatherin-laws face tense with anxiety, as he strained to keep me in sight. I took another deep breath before the next set of waves came through, and out of the corner of my eye saw an object cut past me and race straight up onto the beach. My husbandwith surfboard, totally oblivious to the situation, while my father-in-law waved his arms, signalling frantically. I repeated my strategy with the next set of waves, and as I broke free from the water heard a shout to my left. Grab the board and hold on! It was my brother-in-law. I gained a good grip on his
surfboard and was given an exhilarating ride in to shore. Minutes later, I clambered up from knees caked with sand and turned to look out over the water. The sea was as flat as a billiard table, so becalmed, it was hard to believe I had just experienced such ferocious power. Eaglehawk Swimming Pool, Bendigo, Australia 2007 It was late in the afternoon and high summer; pavements baking in the brilliance of the sun reflected their heat into the faces of anyone walking the city streets. High time for a swim! My daughter-inlaw and I had been working on the computer most of the day, and the prospect of a splash in cool water was a welcome one. When my son arrived home from work, we collected the necessary paraphernalia; towels, thongs, bathers - two small versions in fluoro colours, so easy to see - and two pairs of water wings in various shades of lollypop. Strapping the girls into their car seats, we set off on the short trip to the local swimming pool. As we turn the corner into the street running along the frontage of the indoor complex, my youngest granddaughter, just eight months old, realises where we areand makes unintelligible sounds of pure excitement. She loves the pool, and will soon begin the process of being drown proofed. Ten minutes later, everyone is dressed in bathers except for me, who came on todays visit unprepared for swimming. I sit with jeans rolled up, cooling my feet at the edge of the pool with the youngest member of our party sitting in the crook of my arm, while my daughter-in-law coaches her elder daughter in the finer points of the Australian Dog Paddle. My son is in the water, but stays barely a metre away, and we exchange a few shouted remarks over the cacophony of sound bouncing off water and echoing against the roof enclosure. The pool is very popular today, and the level of noise is almost deafening. I watch my small charge as she splashes her hands in the waves of water created by all the activity, her tiny head swivelling from
right to left and back again as she observes the older children jumping and diving into the pool. Then, in a split second, she propels herself, head first, straight into the water. My son swoops and grabs her, and lifts her up, choking and spluttering, high into the air and I realise why he had never taken his eyes off her. She does that he said, his matter-of-fact manner contrasting with the expression of concern on his face as he patted his tiny daughter on the back. And in that moment the years peeled away, and I remembered that look on my fathers face.
The Mirror and the Bath

Izzy Perley
lass shattering in a silent room. Crystalline fragments that catch the light in a thousand thousand rainbows. Red peaks on fluffy white clouds. Sharp shards that cut and lacerate. Memories that slip lazily away into oblivion like splotches of paint sliding down a wall. A bluish mottled hand floating grotesquely on the surface of a bathtub. Strands of seaweed hair. *** She is standing before a full length mirror, her swathe of goldenbrown hair tumbling riotously around her shoulders. She is wearing a deep red velour dressing gown that smothers her frame, so that only a pair of bird-like ankles and small brown feet with startling pink toes is visible. The light in the bathroom is a dim luminescent yellowy gold, kindly lent by the down lights buried in the charcoal grey ceiling. A huge white spa dominates the room, independent of the mirrors, opulently embedded in dark tiling, sparkling with a clean, startling iridescence in the deliberately sensuous dimness of the room. Dark tiles cover the floor, almost black but with flecks of gold that catch the light and wink with myriad cats eyes. The dark shiny floor reflects the light in neat pools and has an almost mirror-bright sheen. Decadently soft white towels are draped luxuriously over the chrome towel rack. The shower recess is modern, with a shiny
silver-coloured shower head that adjusts the velocity of the water on demand. There are heat lamps nestled among the down lights, which radiate pleasantly unnatural warmth. Around the white, porcelain basin is a shiny black bench top, dappled also with gold flecks and decorated only with a neat white soap dispenser and toothbrush holders. Above the sink, the great mirror begins to take over a large portion of the wall between the sink and the shower recess. The red-clad figure is dwarfed by the monstrosity of the mirror, and yet her red is dazzling. She is staring at her face in the mirror, just her face for now. Her hands are shaking uncontrollably, more of an innate tremor, a permanent fidget that possesses their thin, blue-veined tremulousness. The nails are somewhat yellow and brittle, and bitten to the quick so that the tips of her fingers hurt sometimes. She is not thinking about her fingers now. She traces her tiny fragile jawline, feeling with distaste the light covering of hair over her bones. Her light blue eyes seem to protrude Chihuahua dog eyes she thinks, but the colour is nice, like the sky in summertime. Sans mascara they look even worse, pale and pink-rimmed with dark, bruised-looking flesh pocketing beneath. Her thin nose looks pinched and has a permanent redness to it; there is a prominent blue vein pulsating rapidly on her forehead like a frightened heartbeat. She continues to trace her facial contours, crinkling her thin nose, feeling the cadaverous pits of her eye sockets and the somehow comforting bones of her jaw and skull. At last she smiles, shyly, her dry lips stretched in a grin that is more grimace than smile, a death rictus, revealing stained teeth that are too large for her face. Her smile seems to alarm her; one fluttering hand reaches up to close and cover her mouth. She stands still, irresolute for a moment, and then slowly lifts her hands to her head once more. This time they are on her hair, buried in its paradoxical whimsy. Then she lifts the golden brown
tresses, and it is a wig that she holds. Her heart is beating too fast now, and she gives an irrepressible shudder at the object in her hands, her revulsion written on her spare features, the ghastly eyes popping redly. She is looking with abhorrence at her own head of hair, seemingly appalled and mesmerized simultaneously. Wisps of mousy hair are clinging tiredly to a wizened scalp, and she mutters something inaudible under her breath. Her slow hands are exploring her scalp now, in what could almost pass for a lovers caress. She has put the shining wig beside the basin, where its beauty provides an inauspicious mocking contrast to her own measly locks. Her scalp is thinly covered with draggled limp strands of hair, and there are a few obviously balding spaces that she cannot tease the tired hairs into covering. The balding is around her temples and in the nape of her neck, and it is these spots that her hands flutter to, time and again. Moistening her dry lips, her hands are moving involuntarily faster now, frantically circulating the crown of her head. A barely whispered curse breaks the silence followed by a dry moan. The hands have come to a still and are being observed before her like unrepentant sinners. They are full of handfuls of hair that has parted ways with her scalp. She lays the handfuls of her own hair beside the wig, a pitiful emblem of herself, an offering of impunity. She is almost ready to take her shower now it is time to disrobe. She slowly undoes the cord of her red dressing gown, liking the artificial softness of the fabric between her fingers. She wonders idly what real velvet would be like beside her skin but frets that the heaviness of the fabric would make her too tired. The velour has a comforting softness and is light-weight, besides. It bears the sweet sickly scent of her body. She eases the garment off her shoulders and it cascades softly into a cushiony pile around her feet. She confronts herself in the mirror now, a rigorous practice of ritualistic significance that she must go through each day. She
bites down on her dry nether lip so hard that the skin splits and a blob of crimson blood emerges. She licks the blood with a nervous tongue, liking the iron tanginess against the desiccated interior of her mouth. She is not afraid of blood. She carefully examines her small neck rising delicately from her collarbones. She likes her neck, although the floppy skin is somewhat repulsive. She smiles her ghastly-blood lip smile as she softly strokes the translucent baggy skin. Her hands explore downwards to feel the familiar bumping in and out of collar bone ridges and ribcage. She cups her small, blue veined, somewhat withered breasts almost tenderly, caressing the petal softness of her insipid pink nipples. Downwards is her stomach, a tight, concave drum between the two pointy cliffs of her jutting hip bones. Down further is her other secret, hidden valley and her pale cheeks take on a garish blush as her hands hover uncertainly, not quite touching. She reaches her thighs now, with a grim purposefulness. She squeezes the flesh with a thin lipped unforgiving severity. The flesh is cold and pale, a sort of mottled grey. She can feel the stiff prickle of hairs that she has inadvertently missed during the tiring process of shaving, but she has other, more pressing concerns. She squeezes again, distaste and despair at war on her face, pinching mercilessly. She has started snivelling, self-pitying tears welling in her hideous eyes. At last she speaks. It must have been the piece of cheese I ate yesterday. *** Jeanie. A cold masculine voice is resonating from the kitchen. Moments later, there is a firm, relentless pounding on the bathroom door. Jeanie has finished her shower now, and she carefully re-wraps her fragile figure in the red velour dressing gown. Coming, she says softly and then, Alright, Im coming, more firmly.
The beating at the door stops and she hears the footsteps receding down the walnut coloured floating timber floorboards. She goes again to the mirror, this time the one over the sink so that she can apply her makeup. She brushes lightly tanned powder over her translucent skin and reddens her thin lips with a brilliant crimson that matches her gown. Black eyeliner gives her Chihuahua eyes an even greater prominence but to her they have the lustre of film-star eyes now. She carefully paints her brittle, pale lashes with mascara and dashes a hand over the radiant wig that has become her hair again. Jeanie, the voice calls again, irritated. She clings momentarily to the bathroom cabinet as if seeking strength from its solidity, trying to breathe evenly and gain some control over her rapidly palpitating heart. *** In the kitchen, Shane is pouring cereal into two balls. He glances up at the shuffling walker. Hey Jeanie. About time, he says, and the inflection in his voice suggests his annoyance. She silently watches him pouring the cereal, fascinated by the mundane routine of it. Her Chihuahua eyes are glistening with pre-emptive tears as he slams the bowls down onto the table and splashes milk onto the cereal. Some milk has slopped onto the table. Shit, he mutters, pushing her bowl towards her so that she has to catch it quickly before it falls off the edge of the table. Catching her breath sharply, she squeezes her bluish hands together in a futile attempt to stop the shaking. Beside her, Shane is deliberately oblivious to her almost tangible anxiety. He is deliberately spooning cereal into his mouth with one hand, while the other flips through the sports section of the newspaper. Carefully gelled spiked brown hair decorates his strong tanned face and his jaw bears the shadow of yesterdays stubble. You eating? he grunts carelessly. He gulps a mouthful of
orange juice and noisily sluices a hand over the lower region of his face. Yes, she lies, filling her mouth with cereal as he watches one dark eyebrow quirked. She masticates with painful slowness, and losing interest, he turns back to his newspaper. She carefully expels the mess from the inside of her mouth into the safety of her table napkin; sure that she has not swallowed anything. Tremulously she takes the napkin and her bowl and transports the contents of both into the chrome kitchen bin. Although the bitten interior of her mouth feels sullied she has won the breakfast battle. That was quick, Shane remarks, looking up from the newspaper to scrutinize her figure as she stands hesitantly before the stainless steel dishwasher. Must have been hungry. She leers at him, smiling her ghastly smile. *** It is time for Shane to go to work. A powerful arm smothers her in an embrace and her body tenses in response, her heart beating wildly like a caged bird. She doesnt like to be held tightly. It makes her feel trapped and vulnerable. See you this evening, genie in a bottle, he says flippantly and places a kiss on her withered crimson lips. Bye, she whispers and watches as he leaps energetically down the porch steps to the garage. She goes back inside, careful to ensure she leaves the walnut framed French doors open to let in the fragrant early summertime breeze. She loves the smell of summertime and the way the gentle breeze cradles her, embraces her with soft gentle invisible touches, ruffles her hair. She relishes the sensation of the cool slate kitchen floor beneath her feet and the contrast as she crosses onto the plush softness of the beige living room carpet. She puts a CD in the player, Beethovens Moonlight Sonata, which she loves. The tempting, teasing, rippling notes hover about her and she laughs
and turns the volume up higher until the sound is a cascade, a tide. She allows the music to engulf her, swallow her, drown her. Back in the kitchen she tidies away the breakfast dishes and carefully wipes up the slops of milk and cereal. She folds the newspaper precisely and stores it on the granite bench top. It is important to that everything is tidy and organised. Life is manageable when there is order. There is order in her housekeeping and in her morning routine. There is order in Shanes job as a car salesman. But today is different. Today she has been planning for a month. She is tired of battling with her body for supremacy. Today it is her will to dominate. She is determined to master her weakness. There is order to her plans. So far everything has gone according to her plans. Her body is purged. Shane is at work. The house is immaculately clean. There are no milk slops on the table now. The music swells around her like a physical presence. It is the only lover whose embrace she does not dread. She holds herself tenderly for a moment, pressing her sharp nails through fabric to grip and claw at her shoulders. It is a farewell embrace. It is time. Now she is back in the bathroom. She is naked in front of the great mirror. Her lips are drawn back in an ugly grimace, her pinched nose is redder than ever despite the makeup and tears that are streaming listlessly from her bulbous eyes like a lazy river. Scars of mascara and eyeliner are decorating her wasted cheeks but she doesnt notice. She lifts her hands. Be strong, Jeanie, she says. The sound seems to ricochet off the walls, bounce around her. It is like a bizarre new accompaniment to the music. The discordant jangling and smashing adding an unexpected dimension. Glass fragments are raining down around her, a painful sharp rain. Some of the fragments catch upon her naked skin, but she is laughing through her tears now, a high pitched, hysterical laugh that has the ring of insanity.
Crack! A final swing of her hairbrush and another sheet of glass separates from the mirror. The fragments are dappled with rainbow where they reflect the light. A thousand thousand rainbows. She is shaking while she is laughing. Her breath is coming in ragged gasps. Usually Shane would shake her, if her were here. But he isnt. There are sparse brownish hairs tangled in the brush. It falls from her limp fingers into the sharp snow that lies thickly about her feet. Lifting a shard of the mirror, she contemplates her narrow reflection peering back at her. The shard is dagger sharp with a ragged edge. It makes her feel powerful. Behind her the bath is full of fragrant water, frothy with bubbles. The temperature is just right, she knows because she has tested it with her wrist, the way she was taught when she was a child. She likes baths. Baths that wash away touch and taste and sound and smell. Baths that purge and purify. She has lit the small red tealight candles which permeate the air with a musky rose scent and filter their soft fickle, dancing light through the gloom. The music plays on and it is like the caress of a great tide, enveloping her, consuming her. She eases herself in to the tub, sighing and closing her eyes as the warm water embraces her deliciously. For one moment, she doesnt wish to be anywhere else or to be anyone else. Contentment is a foreign invader upon the territory of her wounded soul. She shudders. Contentment is a feeling she fears may become an addiction. She reminds herself she is not worthy of contentment. Resignation and loathing are as familiar as friends. She submerges her head and hair. Once she had her own luscious swathes of hair and it would swirl around her like seaweed. Shane had called her a mermaid then. He would bury his face in her fragrant hair, grip the back of her neck, pull her head back for a kiss. She hates that. Emerging from the bubbles she shakes droplets of water from her stringy hair. They fly around her like myriad diamonds, tiny flecks that reflect the light. She knows she is procrastinating. Some tiny part of her wants something. Wants
to be something. Wants to be anything but what she is. Wanting anything, though, almost inevitably leads to disaster. Wanting has led her here, at any rate. She sighs. She opens her eyes and picks up the shiny mirror-dagger that she has placed carefully on the edge of the pristine whiteness of the tub. She watches mesmerized as the first drops of crimson blood dapple the white peaks of the bath foam. *** She can sense lights cutting into her eyelids, sharp as knives. There is a pain in her head and a dull merciless throbbing in her wrists. The discordant jangle of busy noise around her is piercing and relentless and forces her to peel back her eyelids and look. There are people standing around her. She knows that the smiling lady in the crisp white shirt is a nurse. Hello, youre awake, says the nurse with enforced jollity. Jeanie says nothing; spears of screaming crimson pain are jabbing relentlessly at her brain. A bone-deep weariness has taken possession of her so that movement is impossible. Speech is beyond her; if she opens her mouth to speak she fears that she will cry instead and maybe she will finally drown in the tide of pain and hurt and grief that threatens to spill out. I love you, genie in a bottle, says Shane, embracing her firmly. She is in a blue hospital gown that drowns her tiny figure, and she silently observes the contrast between its pale blue and the dark blue of the tribal tattoos that decorate the bulging biceps of Shanes upper arm. Things are back to the way they were. It seems even the best plans can fall apart. It seems as though she has fallen apart too. She wonders dully what has become of her mirror and her little shred of glass. Dont scare me like that again, Shane is saying for the nurses. Of course the nurses smile at his kindness. Maybe she should, too. Maybe its time to construct a new plan. She tries to relax into the uncomfortable embrace and telling herself that this time, everything is going to be alright. It has to be.
Boys, Friends, and Everything in Between

Jan Bayliss
t first I dont recognise him. Its so unexpected, seeing him here only a few feet away. I recognise the sound of his voice, recalling the mellow, sensual quality of it. Its Lee! Hes standing with his back to me and leans over to kiss the woman in the bed. Others come in, family probably. A woman is beside him. She lifts the child pulling at her arm, supporting his weight on her left hip, and rocks gently from side to side to pacify him. I cant see Lee now. Hes moved to make room for others and the curtain is in the way. . . *** Its my first time at one of these dances. I split up with Rick a fortnight ago and Megan and Sarah have convinced me to come out with them tonight. Megans got her mums car, a taste of freedom that compensates somewhat for the awkwardness of not having a boyfriend. Its not been a good start though. As we pull into the makeshift car-park, Rick is there with some mates. They mimic each other, standing with one hand wrapped around a stubby, the other shoved into a pocket, or slouch against utes that are fitted with bull bars and the high-powered, halogen lamps they use for spotlighting.
Rick pretends not to notice me as he and his mates amble down the gravelled car track towards the hall and the fire. Its a congregation point for those who dont want to dance and we have to pass them to get to the door. Rick still pretends he doesnt see me but his mates throw me covert looks as we walk by. Theyre here to support him; hes here to spoil my night. The music is loud as we shuffle inside. The only lights are the coloured beams that flash through the darkness and over the dancing mass in the centre of the hall. Were checked at the door, a stamp on our hand and were through, the anticipation of the night ahead making us giggle. Sarahs spotted Jared hanging around the entrance with his mates, and is already moving away from us. Theyve been going out for a month now. Megan and I circle around the hall, edging our way around the netball teams and the guys from local footy clubs. There are heaps of kids hanging around in groups for support, eyeing each other. Boys stand against the wall drinking and checking out the girls, who huddle together in their own groups both on and off the dance floor. Megan yells something inaudible in my ear and I catch drink, but Im lip-reading in the semi-darkness. I nod and sidle around bodies, following her to the bar. Its a footy do, and the committee puts on a dance once a month during the season. There are sandwiches and chips on a table near the stage, so we grab a few chips. Its an opportunity to do something and look around to see who else is here. Megan doesnt have a boyfriend, and so we venture onto the floor for a couple of dances and join another group from our class. Lee arrives, edging through the crowd with his mates and a few girls in tow. Lee is so cool. Hes left school, hes a good footballer, and very popular. He comes into the shop after training or after a game, but never says much, just asks for what he wants and leaves. Hes always with Chris and Stubbsy, who throw me a quick look of recognition as they pass by, but I dont know the others and they
ignore me. Theyre two years older than us. They move further around the hall, disappearing into the darkness. Theres a constant movement of people circling to find friends, or buy drinks. We keep dancing and a few of the girls move close to yell into my ear, Youre a good dancer! Thanks, I yell back. I love dancing but Rick didnt, and when we went out it was mainly standing around talking and drinking. Tonight Im going to enjoy myself. I have natural rhythm, the beat floods a sense of freedom through my body, pumping in unison with my blood. I forget about Rick and start shaking off the last fifteen months Ive spent locked away in his life. I lose myself in the dark and the beat of the music. We girls are dancing in a loose circle, when its broken by male intruders. Mike Grogan makes his move on Megan and he and a couple of mates push their way into our midst. Megan smiles encouragingly at Grog and they just kind of, pair up. I move aside a little and then Lee is there, grabbing my hand, pulling me close to him. Hi, youre Jess arent you? Ive seen you in the shop. Yeah, I yell back, trying to act normal. My stomachs doing weird flips, and Im having trouble breathing, Good dance! Yeah! Now my heart is pumping as loudly as the music. Its a reason to get close. We concertina, close, apart, close, apart, exchanging small talk as we dance together. The music stops and he smiles down at me. See ya later. And hes gone, moving back to his own friends. A couple of his mates grin at him and one slaps him on the back. He swigs on a stubby but doesnt approach me again. During supper the lights go on and I see him again. There are more girls hanging out with them now; one is leaning against Lee, her hand on his chest. A few boys from our class approach, grin, and make various suggestions. We give as good as we get, and hang out together
for a while. Other guys are eyeing us over as we move away from the tables, but Im not encouraging anyone, so I dont make eye contact. Sarah comes in from outside and stands on tiptoe to see where we are. It takes her some time to circle the hall to reach us. Giving Grog a quick look, she leans close to me so no-one else can hear. Rick, says he dumped you . . . Really! I guess thats why hes been ringing me. You havent told us . . . I dont want to talk about it. Ricks saying . . . I dont care what Rick says. He hasnt even got the guts to come inside. Hes only here because he found out I was coming. Just thought you should kno-ow! Its over, Sars! I want to forget about it. Sarah looks down at my right hand, and I realise Im rubbing the spot where his gold ring used to be, a circle of ownership. Sarah hangs around for a few dances, then returns to Jared and his friends. As the night proceeds kids are pairing up more. Grog is still hanging around, but Megan wont abandon me and Im grateful. We remain on the floor; Im not going to miss a single dance, it makes me feel alive. The DJ announces the last dance and people are moving close together, pairing up while others move to the side. Before I can move off the floor Lee appears again. Mine, he says softly, moving close and pulling me to him. I dont resist. Its a slow dance and we sway together in rhythm to the music. Lees looking at me like he sees right into me. He bends down and touches his cheek against mine. Its a chaste kiss, a friendship kiss, cheek on cheek in the dark. As he draws slowly away he brushes his lips against the corner of my mouth. Then the lights are on, dispelling the atmosphere. We move outside with everyone
else and hes saying good bye and jogging over to his mates. Megan and Sarah are beside me, eyes huge, questioning, but its not the place for intimate girl talk. One brief encounter isnt enough to name what happened with Lee, and anyway, I dont know that I want to. I concentrate on breathing, to control the thumping inside my chest. Come on, says Megan nudging me. Lets get to the car. Ricks not by the fire, and I cant see him in the dispersing crowd. Has he gone? I feel relieved. The night air is freezing and we huddle together against the cold. The boys from our class reappear and walk with us to the car. They invite us to some party but Im the only one free and Im not going. Sarahs fallen behind us, arm in arm with Jared whos taking her home. Grog is tagging along as well. Were parked near the track and cars are filing out slowly. As we approach the car I see Rick is there hovering a few cars away. He backs off a few paces when he sees how many of us there are. A couple of his mates are there too. I watch with growing concern as they whisper to him and one raises his hands. They have stubbies and my stomach jolts. I was afraid of something like this happening. I ignore Rick and hope that the others will too. A scene with Rick is the last thing I need, especially in front of a crowd. I look down and walk, if I can just get to the car, just get out of the grounds! My stomach lurches again as car lights flash over Rick. Hes moving towards us. Jess! I ignore him. Jess! I wanna talk. I hear anger in his voice. I steal a quick look towards him. His jaw is set. Hes going to push it. I feel eyes on me, the guys, Sarah, Megan, other people. Hey, Jess, do you want us to get rid of him? Steve asks. No, leave it. Im embarrassed and I want to go home but Grog
and the guys decide to make a stand. Hey, mate, just piss off will ya! Grog yells. Yeah, piss off, Steve adds, pulling open the front passenger door. People are looking at us. Ricks mates, who had been hanging back, step forward. Ricks scowling as he steps towards us and my heart starts pumping madly. A car stops and I see Lee get out of the drivers side and walk over to Rick. The car lights highlight both of them, but the shadows are weird too. We all watch, but cant tell whats going on or hear whats being said. Rick stares at me for a moment and then backs off. Lee comes over to me. You OK? Yes! Thanks Lee. He gives me that smile again as he turns back to the car. The boys want a lift back into town. Three of them cram into the back seat, and Im perched awkwardly on Steves lap with his arm around me. Were all talk and laughter, all school mates except Grog, whos driving. Its a noisy trip home. The next week its a different dance and Lee is there. He smiles but doesnt move away from his own group all evening except to dance with one or two girls. I see him watching me sometimes. Once a mate catches me looking at them and he nudges Lee, who looks around. Im embarrassed and turn away. Just before the last dance he materializes out of the darkness. Mine, he says again and hes holding me in his arms. The next time Lee has to look for me, pushing his way through people to find me. People are starting to notice and look around. Im flattered when he ignores the advances of another girl. Megan is right beside me as he takes my hand. Tonight we dance close. Lee holds me to him, one hand in the small of my back, turning in a tight circle, a semi-waltz. Im blushing as I feel his knee between my legs. After the music stops, he gazes into my eyes for a moment, a smile curling one lip. Tonight he teases my lips with his. When we break I see his friends watching us. Do they sense somethings
changed? I cant fathom Lee. Im flattered that he seeks me out, confused that he only does so at a dance. I think about him, compare him to Rick, thoughts chasing each other round and round in my head. My emotions pull this way, that way. I want Lee to ask me out, want him to take the next step, scared he will do so. Scared it will all fade. I know I dont want a boyfriend yet, after Rick I want freedom. My friends say hes teasing me, using me. But I dont understand, using me for what? It happens this way all season, at every dance. When Lee comes into the shop he smiles and stands close to the counter. If Im not busy we talk for a few minutes. Once footy finals are over there are other parties, water skiing on the river, and barbeques. The Saturday night dances stop. I see Lee at the club sometimes, but hes not always there. When he is, its always the same and his friends stare openly now, the girls in their group frown and look resentful. He doesnt make any other moves towards me and we dont see each other except at dances. Its become a recognised oddity, this connection between us that goes nowhere, but I dont care. As Lee makes his way to my side, everyone knows they dont intrude, the last dance is ours. One evening Lee is waiting for me after work. We sit in his car talking in the semi-darkness, as the heat rises from the pavement, the metalled road, the inside of his car. After the air-conditioned shop, its oppressive, and its not helped by the blood pounding in my ears. I feel breathless and awkward; we dont really know each other. A car pulls up in front of us and my hand moves to the door. Sorry, my sisters here. I have to . . . Jess, wait a sec. Lees reached over to stop me opening the car door. His voice is urgent, then he takes my hand, and places a small ring in my palm. Taken unawares, I stare down at it. Its just a friendship ring. You know? Nothin serious! But I dont know. Yeah, I understand. Ummh! Thanks I can barely think. I want
to stay, to talk, to unravel and understand whats between us. I lean in and kiss him, feel him respond, but theres no time for anything, just this brief moment. I feel like Im walking through a vacuum to my sisters car, Lees ring clenched tightly in my hand, the universe conspiring against me. I put Lees ring on a chain and wear it around my neck. A few days later I hear hes moved away. I smile and work, and ponder this circle of loneliness, where something should have happened but didnt. It was a beginning and an end at the same time. Theres no explanation, no reason, just this strange time slip with me laughing when Im out with the girls, aware of a black emptiness I cant talk about. *** I hear chairs shifting as the little group of people gathered around the opposite bed stand and begin to leave the ward. I push the covers back, get out and stretch my legs. Standing gingerly on my feet, I reach out and pull my curtain to block the view of my bed. Through the doorway I can see Lee walking along the corridor towards the ward station, the woman and child beside him. Turning the other way, I limp towards the end of the ward, deciding to attempt the stairs despite the surgical boot. I need a trip to the hospital foyer for real coffee. Theres not much in the way of magazines, and after two coffees I walk back through the main foyer to the lifts. Theres a ping and the door slides open. Lee emerges, giving me one of those quick, impersonal smiles strangers give as he passes. My stomach flips as I stand there, just watching him as he strides swiftly away, turns into the foyer and disappears. Im stepping into the lift waiting for the doors to close, staring into the space hes just vacated. Suddenly he reappears in the corridor, wearing a puzzled expression. As our eyes meet, his expression clears and hes smiling at me, the way he used to at the end of the dance. Megan comes in the next morning to check on me. We chat for
a few moments while I eat breakfast, then the morning rush starts. Megan swallows the piece of toast shes nicked from my plate and bustles off to attend to other patients. Im waiting around till pharmacy sends up the antibiotics and the discharge papers are completed. There are voices at the desk, louder than usual. I hear Megans voice. Are you sure? Ill check it. She sounds surprised. Then she appears with a young guy trailing behind her. Youve got flowers! Im as surprised as she is. I stare at the large arrangement, aware of Megan standing at the end of the bed, arms folded. Are you Jess? asks the young guy, looking at me sideways around the flowers. Yes! Theres a tense pause as the delivery guy leaves and Megan pulls the curtain around us. I sense shes not happy. Theres a card! she says tersely, but Im already searching. Its a sealed envelope, with Jess written on it. You know who that is opposite you? She hisses with a backward jerk of her head. Yes, I answer defensively, my hands shaking as I tear open the envelope. Have you seen him? I ignore her question and stare at the note. On the reverse is a phone number. My hand reaches to the chain around my neck and Lees ring.
The Tale of Rudi

Joan Aspinall
udi really didnt have a tail. Sometime during his puppyhood his breeder had cut it off, but that didnt stop him from going around and around in circles trying to catch it. He came to me as a very special Christmas present in 1985 and that determined his name: He was named after Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Rudi was just 6 weeks old and born on 11th November. As that is Remembrance Day, I never had any difficulty in remembering his birthday. There was a lot about him to remember. He might have been a tiny wee pup but he made up for his size in noise, mischief and tricks. At the time I had two vehicles, one a small sedan and the other a large van used for business. I used the sedan to bring him home and he cried, and yowled and struggled for all 70 kilometres. That was the beginning of his hatred for the sedan. He would never approach it even as it stood in the carport, let alone get into it. Yet he loved the van, that was Rudis car, and I dare not go anywhere in it without him. In spite of all my efforts to lock him on the verandah, he quickly learnt to climb the vine growing over the balustrade, and by the time I had reached the street corner, he was there beside the van, barking furiously and accusingly to be allowed in. Did I have a choice? Eventually I gave in; it was easier than dealing with my neighbours concerns and complaints that Rudi was going berserk, crying and barking all day, and my own sense of guilt at
leaving him. Henceforth Rudi came with me everywhere down to Melbourne and suburbs, out to outlying country towns. That van was his! If he was introduced to the person I went to visit he was friendly and well mannered, BUT if I left him in the van he turned into a tiger, guarding HIS van with a ferocity that could have been funny for a dog his size and cute appearance. One step nearer quickly dispelled any thought of a friendly pat. My goods were quite safe in his care, unless of course any opportunistic thief had brought along thick padded gloves up to the elbow. Rudis diet was unusual to say the least. A bowl of porridge in the mornings when I had mine, and whatever meat and vegetables I prepared for my evening meal. Carrots were his bones in the early weeks and when his teeth grew sharp and strong, carrots became his treat. He adored the winter months as he could lie under the chestnut tree, a chestnut still in its green, prickly coating between his paws. He was more adept in removing that green layer and then the hard inner shell than any two legged friends. And then, the choice nut meat inside delicious and very precious. I made the mistake of trying to take it away from him once, thinking it may be dangerous, but I was quickly put in my place. However, Rudi was a self-regulator, and he knew when he had had enough. Rudi thought that if I was eating something, then it must be good for dogs too. It was hard to find enough red currants, blackcurrants or raspberries to make jam Rudi would beat me to it. When the peach tree boughs drooped to the ground, laden with ripe fruit, Rudi could be found under it, the juices coating his chin and hair. The pear tree was an old one with fruit from high branches on the ground when ripe; yet another tasty morsel. And what was it about the maraschino cherries I couldnt eat them because they were too bitter, but Rudi learned quickly to nibble his way around the pip. I frequently offered him gin and tonic to go with them, but no thank you, water would do. The potatoes and onions in my pantry were never safe. Rudi learnt to pick up an onion by the little knobbly bit at the end and carry it about with him sometimes stored under my bed! He never ate them, but perhaps he thought
they were balls! Some onions seemed bigger than he was. I replaced onions with tennis balls as he grew, and Rudi, from that moment on, always had a tennis ball safely parked somewhere he could quickly snatch it and present to a visitor. He loved visitors and always beat me to the front door when the doorbell rang. His ball was later replaced by a gathering of soft toys, and my request to him to go and get a present for his visitor always brought forward his favourite for the month out of a little cache known only to him. Rudis sense of timing was perfect. At exactly 15 minutes to 8 am every morning, he would come and wake me. A gentle tug on a hand or blanket would become a lick on the face if I was a little slow in meeting his demands. He would then watch to see what clothes I put on Ah, good! Its gardening today. Anything out of the wardrobe meant a hasty breakfast and a hasty exit to the carport where I would find him waiting for me to insert the key in the van door. If it was a stay-at-home day, we would go outside to collect the morning newspaper. Rudi could carry this with great pride, and with great difficulty when he was a pup, as far as the back door whereupon he would look at me and take off. Around the lemon tree, back the other way, around the chestnut tree and full pelt around the side of the house. Never the same route twice. My neighbours had no need of entertainment they got it for free just watching me try to catch Rudi to regain my paper. He would eventually give up; that was all part of the game, or did he think I needed the exercise? Four oclock in the afternoon meant walkies, and again I had no choice. His lead would be brought to me and deposited at my feet. Rudi was a good jumper, and he found that I could not ignore him if he jumped and jumped and jumped, always with that look in his eye that said mischief. It was always his decision as to which path to take, and from day to day it was always different; the decision taken on a sniff of the air at the front gate. Holidays were the exciting times. He had his very own little crate marked Rudi the Jet Setter and the freight staff always recognized and fussed over him. Once he was accidentally left in
the airport terminal in Brisbane, but my anxiety was misplaced. The freight staff knew him and just put him on the next flight; all the more fun for Rudi, as he was allowed out of his crate and fed and cuddled by his adoring fans. A flight to Brisbane meant games with the children next door to my mothers. A ride in the dolls pram, no problem. A pretty bonnet for his head, well OK. After all, they are only children, and they are not attacking my van, or eating my fruit, and it all meant a nice sweet biscuit at the end of the play. Rudi would sell his soul for a biscuit. Onto his bottom and back legs, with front legs clawing the air in front of him in the typical begging position; and how could anyone refuse? When Rudi really wanted to make an impression, he would find his own special pair of sunglasses, and with them in place, he would sit beside me and read the newspapers. Well, of course, his Mum needed her glasses, didnt she? The years flew by. Rudis sense of fun never diminished. He had been my constant companion for so long he knew my thoughts. But his hair was getting a little grey, and his legs began finding it difficult to complete his walks. One horrible day, his spirit was willing him to get up but his muscles, bones, and loving heart proved too weak for the effort. I began to carry him about wherever he wanted to go, but his eyes, those lovely big brown eyes, would look deeply into mine and I knew what he was telling me. The fun was over - it was time to say goodbye. I could not bear to let him suffer. He had given me such joy. Rudi is still with me. I buried him in my garden with a properly marked gravestone and I frequently visit his spot and have a chat. His ghost occasionally appears and I see glimpses of him disappearing around a corner, always with that mischievous grin and his little stumpy tail turning like a propeller.
Timeless
Joanne Gould
he sun gently bathed his tawny-gold head as I patted him. Autumn was drawing to a close and I wanted to soak up this shining day by the dam, this landscape of flame-coloured leaves and drifting birds. His warm, brown eyes beamed up at me. Eyes that always saw the beauty in simple but rich moments like this one. Ducklings glided past exploring their new world and I thought of his younger days. My mind wandered back to a boisterous, sturdy fellow bounding around paddocks with reckless joy, then slamming on the brakes and skidding wildly along the gravel path, leaving clouds of dust in his wake. I recalled his fondness for reducing rubber toys to mangled amusements destined only for the wheelie bin. I can still see him now eyes dancing as he proudly clamped that sunken, defeated basketball in his toothy mouth. Sometimes before walks, he would morph into a whirlwind of excitement; yelping and leaping and bouncing into my side. Were not playing football, mate, I would say, like a Kinder teacher unable to hide the amusement in my voice. Even on chilly days, his enthusiasm would light the way. Off we would go; me in an oversized winter coat and he in his maroon dog jacket. Heading off down the driveway, he would stride out in front of me with his nose in the air like the master of some highly
important mission. These days, he would come for a wander down the country driveway and sit down on his hind legs when he had had enough. Sometimes he would wait and watch intently from the houseend of the drive, completely absorbed in my random attempts at power walking. He took life at a slower pace now, but was still eternally involved. The everyday rhythms of life had always been so fascinating to him. Putting clothes on the line How interesting! Watering a plant Wow! Let me get involved! He still had that glimmer in his eye as we sat on that autumn day. A crimson leaf drifted onto water and my thoughts floated back to summers by the dam. Birdlife would soon scatter as Mister Exuberant crashed into the shallows, slapping the water with his paws and snapping at flying diamond drops. Swimming was not his thing, but this hypnotic ritual was an endless wonder. Shock waves would ripple across the dam until a soggy, puffing dog was finally lured from the scene. Todays activities were more laid back as he settled by my side for another pat. I wondered what it was like to have such an uncluttered mind, free of the jungle weeds of the human kind. In difficult times, knowing eyes would gaze up and comfort me like a burst of sun on a bitter day; a rainbow sitting high above the minefields of human behaviour. This wise, faithful fellow was certainly versatile: a wound easer, a mood booster, a closet therapist. He turned and stared down the miniature ponies in the neighbours paddock, their heads poking over the fence in an attempt to be sociable. Just remember Im in charge here and this is my territory, okay? he seemed to be saying. He had always been protective something ingrained into his breed. When unsupervised, he would watch over his domain from inside the patio enclosure. And at the hint of a newcomer, the four-legged enforcer would spring from his Mollycoddled Pets bed and
erupt with guttural barks. The meter man must have grumbled to himself, not this rowdy bugger again! *** Its all right mate, be quiet, one of the family would say. So he would stand observing, statuesque and inquisitive with tail and ears high in the air. Although well-trained, strangers often saw him as gruff and overly concerned with policing his beat. They didnt see the layers: the loving sides, the comical sides, the moments when this half-Rottweiler, half-Mastiff was making the squeaky, sooky noise for entertainment purposes only. Hes had a good innings, I thought. Reflecting on youthful scrapes, I recalled the day his sizeable, bandaged head grinned from the car window after an unfortunate encounter with a grass seed. Always the optimist, he seemed to be thinking, Great, thats over with and Im home again! Later he would face steeper hurdles and emerge from the shadows each time triumphant, invincible. The Dog with Nine Lives, I had labelled him. On a few occasions, so caught up in dog-investigations, Inspector Clouseau had wandered too far. Innocent curiosity then sparked desperate search parties and a rising hollow ache. It stung to think of his empty bed what could have been. Or that gut-wrenching Cup Day he was raced to the vet, the remains of a beady-eyed brown snake scattered on the patio bricks. Mister Resilient would later overcome another obstacle when a huge benign tumour was removed from his abdomen. Recalling those low-key days of recovery, I suddenly laughed at the thought of his personally tailored bodysuit: a pair of altered girls bathers to cover the dressing. You were so brave, werent you mate? His tail swayed haphazardly at my latest hypothetical question. These days his tail could not wag as vigorously but he was not fussed about it. It was so amusing the way his frantic, swinging tail would once thud! thud! thud! Against the side of the house.
Whats that thumping noise? people would say. Lately I had been Googling dog strollers. Maybe when he grew tired of walking, I could wheel him around in one of those? I wished there was a way I could hinder time. Obstruct the circle of life. I didnt want to dwell too much on the inevitable I looked down at his mellow brown eyes and smiley mouth. Never mind mate, well just enjoy now, wont we? *** This land will always be his home. He now rests peacefully by the dam bank. Time will never fade the essence of him. I still see him trotting around corners, reclining under trees, waiting at the end of the driveway. I still feel his presence in the flow of every season. From the crispness of winter to the lively blossom of spring. From a vivid summer sunset to a gentle autumn breeze. Echoes of his love and light are everywhere.
My Blood, My Skin
Judith Church
in this winter holding, pine trees weep frozen tears, Cumbrian wolves sing celebratory songs all I have to offer you is this scrap of parchment and a sliver of black carbon as fragile as my life here I guard this fort, this wall, this bastion against those who would take it and my life ...in the chill and dark the candle flame leans closer, together we watch the thin line of black move across the roughness of the parchment, catching on aged fibres, the marks waver as wavelets on a shoreline, cloud shapes in brighter skies than these, leaf blown scribbles on a pavement warmed by southern sun this scrap of carbon and fibre is telling you what I cannot, the candle flame and I breathe together, we tell you of this alien landscape, we tell you of our thoughts and longings cold and dark beat on my back the walls of this bothy stone upon stone on stone, fear upon loneliness on despairthe candle flame leans closer, a tiny breath of warmth this dark sliver warms in my hand, I tell you that the silvery words mark the parchment as my blood, the scrap of fabric is my skin I lay my blood upon my skin, my words coming out of my warm beating heart, my words flow on and over until there are no more I fear myself becoming as flinty and brittle as the walls of this
rocky hold the coals in the fire fade, the candle flame sinks, the parchment scrap is warmed in my hand, the sliver of black has crumbled into dust shadows creep across the turf to my feet, I wait for the bleak dawn that ends the wolf songs, wild geese wind strings across the sky slipping south, I go with them, to you when when you hold the scrap of my skin and blood, feeling it warm your hands, reading my yearning, remember me, until
Waltzing on a Sixpence
Judith Church
alter built a cottage for Millie on the edge of town, under a stand of slender gums and wattles. A patch of pale grass
lay outside the door, nibbled down to smooth sward by wallabies and rabbits. The first time Millie saw the cottage was from the window of Walters truck. Her heart sank, while his face was bright with enthusiasm and love. Spring wattles were flowering, their golden branches drooping, bright yellow confetti drifting onto the cropped grass, rolling gently over the sandy track leading to the cottage. Look Millie, the wattles are bloomin to welcome you home. The walls were slabs of adzed wood, bark shingles formed the roof. The window shutters were covered with oil cloth, the door a slab on leather hinges. Millie blinked back tears, took his strong brown hand in hers. She stepped on to the sandy floor, her feet wanting the patterned lino that lay on the creaking wooden floor in her mothers house. Itll be orright love, well get some stuff from town. Im gunna make you a floor to waltz on. Like waltzing on a sixpence. Walters mates from the saw mill arrived with aged, hand built furniture found in a shed; they cheerfully dusted it down and set in a wood burning stove, the iron chimney bending out through a
wall. Look, its like the Queen Mary. Heres ya bed love, ask Walters uncle about the mattress, it used ta be his horse. Heres ya water tank. Wally can top it up from the creek. Dont mind the taddies, gives ya tea some taste. Their young voices rang through the golden air, set gum leaves quivering. Millie sat on a tree stump, blinking back tears of disappointment, hopes, love. Her mother gave bedding, curtains, crockery, her mouth disapproving - Hell never give yer nothing, love, just like his father. That first summer, Walter drove home with termite mound and ant bed in the back of the truck, ants swarming up Walters arms, eggs stuck to his skin. He mixed the ant bed with water in an old bathtub, made flat slab bricks to dry in the sun. He laid the slabs on the raked sand floor, smoothing wet mud between the cracks. At the door, he held her waist with muddy hands. Now well have a floor to waltz on love, not much bigger than a sixpence, but a floor to waltz on. Walter mixed up foul smelling stuff in a bucket, something dark like blood, cow manure, clay, and spread it over the floor. The surface dried smooth, hard and shiny. He polished it with a handful of hessian. Walter waltzed Millie over the ant bed floor, cool and smooth under their feet. Most nights after work he danced Millie around the floor, their love adding a patina to the surface. *** Millie cared for her cottage, Walters shirts flapping on the line, the wood stove warming them at night. Walters face was bronzed in the firelight. He added a tiny bark roofed verandah, the posts gnawed by rabbits. On hot dry summer nights, they rode Walters old bike down the track to town for ice cream, lights from the little store spilling
out across the sandy road. Millie perched on the crossbar between Walters arms, her hair in his face. As he pedalled he sang, his voice echoing through the still gumtrees, their drooping leaves spicing the air, wheels crunching over drifts of dry leaves. They rode to Old Time Dance nights, Millies full skirt clutched around her knees, Walters jacket rolled up on the handlebars. In the Shire Hall, they spun around on the old wooden floor, glass smooth with the wear of years of leather boots. Sepia photographs of young men sent to battlefields hung high on the walls. Behind the glass the young faces looked on, pride and excitement had brightened their eyes. Millie glanced over Walters shoulder at hopeful faces of girls sitting along the wall, as they waltzed to music that broke hearts or kindled hopes of love. One night Walter drank beer, Millie had sipped a shandy; the bike wobbled and fell, Walter lying on his back in the dry grass laughing under the full orange moon, Millie sitting on the sand laughing until she cried into her skirt. Their shadows falling across the soft furrows of the road, they loved, slept. Baby George learned to crawl and toddle on the ant bed floor, sitting, wet-bottomed, staring in wonder as his parents twirled around the floor. *** Pots were dropped on the floor, milk spattered it, a possum fell through the shingles, its scrabbling claws leaving delicate comb swirls in the ant bed as it fled out the door. Lizards pattered across the floor, footsteps wore a gentle track over the surface, rain washed a corner away. Walter repaired it with more mud, smoothing marks away, adding another layer of love. *** Walters mates drove his truck home. Walter lay in the back of the truck, killed by a widow maker a falling branch. The young men
stood hesitant, unwilling to tell her, to let her see. Come on love, come home with us to your Mums place. Millie sank down onto the ant bed floor, smoothing it with her hands, her tears leaving a confetti pattern like wattle blossoms. *** Millie and George left the cottage. The bush breathed out, stretched tendrils to the cottage, began to claim it. Wall slabs fell, shingles slid from the roof. The bush breathed harder, cottage timbers failed, slowly sank to the leaf scattered sand. The ant bed floor lay open to the sky. Kangaroos sunned themselves on the slab, wallabies claimed the grassy patch. Lizards skittered over the floor, a wombat began to burrow under it. The ant bed floor gently subsided into the earth ants tunnelled passages, dispersing its heart and soul. The floor took with it the love that Walter had given to Millie and George, and his love of waltzing on a sixpence.
A Comforting Hand
Kim Leithhead
y dearest friends, I am leaving this letter so that everyone can understand my reasons for cutting my wrists rather than live in this skin with a stranger. Twelve months ago I was trapped in a building that had broken itself down into simpler elements, no longer resembling the threestory sweatshop owned by Mr Singh. One minute Mrs Singh is berating us girls over our clumsy sewing, the next she is silenced by a chunk of concrete that bears a shocked upper floor worker still sitting in front of her overlocker. This still makes me laugh when I think of the look on Ranjids face as she landed with a whump in a cloud of dust. The red silk underwear she is working on still clutched in her hands. A blink of the eye and we are all falling. The noise is like a giant tap gushing mountains of water, flushing us all away. I was confused and perhaps concussed; I wasnt scared until I heard the silence. Now I surround myself with noise, even at night I have my blessed radio speaking softly to me. Before those days I was a solitary person, now I panic if I am ever alone. That silence felt as heavy as the blocks of rubble that surrounded me. Over the next few days I got used to my saving space. I remember thinking of it as my cubby hole. In it I feel like a child, safe in my
snug hiding spot, knowing that I had been clever and that no one can find me until I want them to. Then I realise that I am going to have to work hard to get someone to find me here. I can move my legs and feel with my fingers. The space around me is generous; the new ceiling above allows room to sit up. But doing so and sneezing out dust brings on my first moment of panic. Perhaps it isnt dark, perhaps I can no longer see. I push my fingertips against my closed eyelids until I can see strange colours and shapes, thank my gods. And even more cheering is the realisation that it is relatively easy to breathe. There is a current of fresher air coming from somewhere. Mother Earth is calling out to those in trouble with her breath of life. It is now I begin to think of all the others. Was it an earthquake; are all the town buildings now unrecognisable? I dont remember feeling anything before it happened except eagerness for our next chai break. If it is only our building the searchers would have started, if not then I will have to wait. I am used to waiting patiently and hunger is not a new challenge. But dehydration is a real danger. I have to find some liquid if I am to survive for several days. I have always been a practical person; I look at a situation, sum up the problems and then find ways to solve them. Since the event I have surrounded myself with noise, light and people. It has been a year since the building collapsed but I cant face my demons yet, they still need me to condemn Mr Singh. For now my solution is distraction, my gods wait for my remorse. I only have to relax my thought vigil a little and I am right back there at the worst times. I rest and listen, the creaks, cracks and groans of a building still dying scare me. I call out, Is anyone there?, and listen for a human response. Nothing, I lie down and sleep deeply for I dont know how long. I dont dream. Perhaps a living nightmare robs the sleep
genies of their powers to disturb; no surreal imaginings could equal this reality. I am awake. I call out again. Hello is anyone there? Can anyone hear me? What was that? I shuffle closer to a wall and scream when a hand slaps my face. Creeping forward again I wave my arms in the pitch black and I catch hold of a hand. I laugh I have found you and reach forward to find only an arm to the elbow. A wall of debris separates me and the arm from the rest of a person. I yell Who are you? I have found your arm. Very faintly I hear answering laughter. All this time the hand and I have been clutching each other. I am thirsty and tired. I try to move some of the debris. In fact, I am desperately trying to find the person this arm belongs to. But the wall between us will not give way to a sobbing girls effort. I curl my body around the arm and stroking it, I calm myself. I must sleep before I try again. This time there are nightmares. I wake choking. My tongue has swollen and almost fills my mouth. I try to work up some spit by sucking on a small piece of smooth rubble. With one hand still clutching the arm, I lower my other hand between my squatting legs. I know that urine works for stings; now it has to save me. I can only manage a small handful. I suppose my body has already absorbed as much as it can. I sip and then lick my hand dry. Temporary relief, and I doubt if there will be more where that came from. I must wait, holding this others hand. Surely a day or two has passed and they are looking for us. I give the hand a reassuring squeeze. It responds more slowly than last time. Is it dying? Is the body it belongs to dying? It is then that my true suffering began. I thought about the hand, I thought about the blood in that arm, that precious life giving liquid. I had always considered myself a good person, someone who went out of their way to help and not hurt others.
My religious beliefs have always come as easy as breathing. All these tangled thoughts are the demons I have been keeping at bay. I remember finding a sharp piece of rubble. I use it to make a cut on the inside wrist. The arm tries to thrash but I hold it so very tightly. I smell the blood and start licking it up. I stop, knowing that I must ration my precious supply. I put pressure on the cut. The thrashing has stopped and I can still feel a pulse. I mouth sorry at the wall, sobbing at both of our losses. I cradle the arm, trying not to waste any fluid with crying. I dont know how I will explain this to the searchers. If they only find me I will not tell them about the arm. I just know that I have done what I need to do. At last, today Mr Singh is to find out how long he will live in jail for the death of 347 people when his building collapsed twelve months ago. His claims of merely being frugal during construction, when the cement he used had more crumbly elements than strong binding ones, went unheard. They dont need me anymore to testify for the lost ones. So now I am sentencing myself to face my demons in death. Perhaps I will meet that other person who held out that comforting arm to me. Goodbye.
The Proving Grounds

Luke Poulter
s I reach the end of the beaten down old track, I catch my breath and look around to see the lake in the distance. The trees that surround the lake sway back and forth against the breeze. Uncut grass creeps along the edges of the rusted old train tracks that go underneath the gates and into the factory grounds. I walk toward the fence line, looking for the perfect spot to enter. I see, only metres away from the gates, a section of fence with a sizeable gap between the top of it and the bottom strand of barbed wire attached to the fence. Im not a criminal; Im just proving to the guys at school that I am brave. I peek around, careful not to make any noise. I climb over the rough edges of the chain link fence keeping my head low, wary of the jagged barbed wire above my head. I slip each leg over and jump down to the ground. I look side to side and head towards the abandoned trains and freight carriages that are rusting away in the factory ground where they have been left to die. I choose to enter the old train, actually two of them joined nose to nose,; one is yellow and green, the other fading to pink with unreadable graffiti on both sides. Walking up the stairs leading to the pink one, I enter quietly, leave a little tag of my initials and quickly move outside. I stick close to the train, sneaking up to the end of it. I peek around, see the coast is clear and walk towards the target, with more than
enough paint left to do what I originally came here for in the first place. The wind picks up behind me, sending a huge gust over my shoulders as the loose dirt whirls along the ground. I decide to pick up a rock as big as my fist and throw it straight at a shed in front of me. The rock hits the tin shed on the first bounce and makes a loud thud that scares off a couple of birds. I worry about being caught, so I run to the fence line and hide amongst the long grass. I catch my breath, wondering if anyone heard or saw me throw the rock. I poke my head up from the grass and look around; I see on one of the freight carriages the words SEACONE, then drop back down into the safety of the grass. I look again and see nothing. I look once more and move, sticking close to the fence line just in case, ever closer to my destination. Looking straight ahead, then behind me, I turn back around and look to the right, then finally to the left, where I see hanging from the second last strand of barbed wire a small bird hung from its feet. Decomposed and rotting away slowly, its lifeless head rests against the top of the fence. My eyes are fixed on the bird just hanging there, and I start to feel sick. The poor bird is caught up there, but I cant bring myself to untangle it. I quickly continue past the passenger carriages, each one covered in more unreadable tags. I swap sides on the last carriage right in front the factory and see a well-known tag, the letters B.S.K. *** Careful not to make any loud noises, I pull out the bolt cutters I stole from home and cut off the lock to the side door of the factory. I bust off the rusty door knob, open the door and walk into a hallway with spider webs along the walls. The only remaining items left are an old desk covered in a thick layer of dust and some old paperwork scattered on the floor. Going through the hallway and into the locker room, I can see the warning signs that used to greet the workers in days gone by:
Wear Protective Equipment at ALL Times and Beware Forklift in Use. Finally I reach my destination, walking into the huge empty train workshop, prepared to leave my mark. Never again will anyone ever dare to question my courage or heart after today. They have never broken into a factory to do this. Anyone can tag a train, but I am sending a message. I look around the factory walls to see if maybe someone else has been here, but the walls are bare as the factory floor. I walk over to the other side of the work shop and shake the spray can, swapping it from hand to hand, my arms getting tired and sore. I search around for a place to tag, looking up and down and side to side. I find the perfect spot: a wide open patch on the wall. I stand tall, feeling strangely calm at such a big moment. Shaking the can faster than before, I take the lid off, let it drop to the ground, and walk right up to the wall. I raise the spray can above my head and press down on the nozzle, the black paint hitting the wall. My arms moving upward, then to the left and then right, I go back to the centre and repeat the side to side motion at the bottom, ultra-careful not to make any mistakes as the paint drips down with every letter. Breezing through the letters, the paint smell getting stronger, I go over each word with a fresh coat of paint so it will stand out more and be a lot harder to get rid of. My arms are weary, I finish up writing and step back to look at my message: I AM NOT AFRAID. I hold my head up high and stare at the wall. I have delivered what I set out to do. I am happy with the job I have done. I decide to leave, and get rid of the spray can, throwing it as far I can across the factory. The near empty can lands just over halfway making a loud clang with each bounce. What are you doing in here kid? Dont you know that you are trespassing on private property? A security guard is standing not too far away, at the other side entrance. He has black bug eyes and an overgrown beard like the grass outside. Dont even think about Hey.
I sprint back to where I came in, through the locker room and down the hallway. Outside I spot a stack of tyres just near the door. Maybe I could hide behind them. But I think better of it and keep running. Stop, you little punk! Ill get you then Im taking you to the police yells the guard, not used to chasing anyone. I pass the B.S.K carriage and see the dead bird again. I realise that could be me if Im caught up in the fence. I turn around and look for another way out. In the distance I see the factory gates. I risk getting caught but pray that the gates will open so I sprint toward them. I see the security guard has locked them. I freak out until I see that the gates have a wide enough gap to fit two of me through. Slipping easily through, I run up the track, passing a tree littered with empty beer bottles and cans. I look again and see the guard is not behind me, so I hide behind one of the old freight carriage wheels and pray that I dont get busted. Where are you? I dont have the time to deal with a little bastard like you. The guard is still looking for me. I sit quietly and hope he will leave. Youre lucky this time kid. So you better not come back because if you do, God Almighty Himself wont be able to save you from me. The security guard turns around and walks back to the factory. I get up and wander back on to the track. The suns glare is reflecting off the lake. Looking away from it, I see a black rolling cloud to my left. I turn back to see a crow sitting on top of one of the freight carriages, the sky a beautiful backdrop. I pick up my pace as the crow flies past me. Near my house on the back fence of the car yard, theres a plastic bag caught in the barbed wire just like the bird. Again I think how that could be me. I get home, lock the front door and retreat to my bedroom, still a little nervous and excited. I cannot wait until Monday, I know those guys are not going to believe me, but all they have to do is go to the old train workshop and see it for themselves.
Moorings
Lynda Graham
he champagne flute no longer felt cool and clean under his fingertips. The cultured hum of the gallery had become a chainsaw buzz, defeating the somnolent effect of the wine and the pre-show scotch hed knocked back in the pub. The room was stuffy, too many people jostling, networking, being seen. Frank felt irritated suddenly. He couldnt work out why exactly. You dont have to have a reason to be irritated he thought, sometimes you just are. It had been happening a lot lately. Better try and work out why then, and perhaps he could enjoy the evening. After all he was an invited guest at this viewing. Yeah right. Invited? Hed received notification by email. Guest? He was an art critic, this was a new gallery, he was being courted for the umpteenth time in his life because of his job. Nothing personal. He looked around the room. The usual suspects were there, a few fellow journos, various gallery owners, the men in chic coloured shirts under establishment jackets, conformity with the appropriate level of style. The women were equally uniformed, members of the Toorak militia, sleek hair topping a variety of taupe outfits. Why was that? Why so much black and beige in a gallery whose walls were bursting with colour. It never ceased to amaze him that an industry thought to be the pinnacle of creativity was largely managed by the traditional elite.
It hadnt changed in the twenty odd years since he had travelled his own works unsuccessfully around town, and he doubted it ever would. They had been challenging, those early years, waiter by night and artist by day. He hadnt minded being hungry a lot of the time, there was something almost pre-ordained and fulfilling about being a struggling artist. Navigating through the crowd, he caught his reflection in the glass gallery doors. No look of starvation there. He unconsciously sucked in his stomach. When did I become so middle aged? He thought, and with a jolt he realised he looked just like everyone else in the room. How disappointing. Hed morphed into one of them. God, didnt they have an air conditioner somewhere? The room was becoming almost unbearable. Frank ran his finger around the inside of his turtle-neck sweater and prayed he would find an open window. Meanwhile the crowd was getting louder as the wine flowed. Names were called and gestures made over the heads of others for more drinks as the canaps ran out. Air kisses abounded in the room. People circulated enthusiastically, greeting each other, knowing everyone, knowing no-one, a flash flock wheeling and gathering, feeding on the new, communing and changing direction on cue. He took another sip of lukewarm champagne, now even more disgusting than it was ten minutes ago, then turned back to the art works. This show was going to be a real challenge, after all how much can one say about a series of concentric red circles on a white background? Obviously the artist was going through his Target period. Frank smiled to himself thinking of the current mocking French mispronunciation of the retailer, Tarjay maybe hed use that. He used to be confronting, didnt he? Isnt that why he was so successful in his early years as a critic? Three kids in private school, a mortgage and an established lifestyle later, and hed lost that edge.
Assume the position. A smile here, a nod there, a stepping back with arms folded across chest, forefinger and thumb clutching chin, due respect paid to attendees living and painted. The ballet continued. Comments made to fellow gazers, all seekers of truth and deeper meaning. Oh good, a fresh champagne. The cold liquid sparkled. It should sustain him for the last room. In the years to come, Frank couldnt tell you why the picture had such a profound effect on him, but the memory always filled him with gratitude. It wasnt a great picture, just one of a small group by an unknown local artist tucked away at the end of the gallery and probably hung to fill space. It was almost nave in approach painted in primary colours with blurred outlines and crude brush strokes but the subject drew him and rooted him to the spot. Offered a birds eye view by the artist, he found himself looking at a cluster of rowboats tethered to a small jetty. On the edge of the group, a figure in a small yellow dinghy was pushing away from the cluster, captured at the point of turning outwards. The picture transfixed and transported him. He could feel a light breeze, hear the splash as one of the oars bounced on the water. He could smell the seaweed. Warmth radiated through him, igniting a longing he didnt know he possessed. Slowly placing his glass on a nearby table Frank turned and made his way out of the gallery, now noisier and busier than before. The press of bodies impeded his exit but, apologising repeatedly, he pushed through. He heard his name called but did not look back. He found himself almost holding his breath against the tide of expensive perfume, alcohol and wilting smoked salmon crepes still being trayed through the crowd. A small group of latecomers entered and gratefully he made his way out of the open door and into the autumn evening. Lifting his face towards the sky, he inhaled the cool night air
letting it fill and cleanse his lungs. He imagined he could smell the sea, the coffee on his work table and the oil paints ready for use on new canvasses. He imagined he heard seagulls cawing in the distance and his wife humming in another part of the house. He began to walk in the direction of home, his speed increasing as he broke into a jog.
Concrete and Steel

Mark Slattery
trail of ants ran up and down the long concrete path that divided the back yard into two almost equal rectangles, long lawn to the left, a car-port, squash court, sheltered bike rack and hills hoist to the right. It was two-way traffic, with occasional travellers veering into the opposite lane. Collisions were sudden though never fatal; two ants would stop face to face and caress feelers before rounding each other and resuming their journeys. Forays off to the left and right were common but it was difficult to tell if any of the wayward ants returned. A closer inspection of the lawn revealed little holes in the soil where emergence and disappearance alternated with small, polite pauses. The lawn spread wide to a pale-straw coloured, crimpedmetal fence, along and over which, for half its length, trellised cherry and tomato plants flopped and the bristled tops of corn swayed erect. On the final stretch the fence rose abruptly, seamlessly becoming the side of a carport. From its end, at right angles, a corrugatediron fence, galvanized-silver, supported at each end and in the middle by rust-red painted steel poles, rippled along the bottom of the yard before being interrupted, at the edge of the concrete path, by the smaller of a set of home-made metal and wire double-gates.
The two gates were simple frames of tubular steel bent roundly at the corners, a single welded seal, almost impossible to discern, marring their rectangular perfection. The frames enclosed wire woven in a diamond pattern most commonly seen around public tennis courts. A single horizontal bolt at chest height secured them and another, vertical, at the bottom of the leading edge of the larger gate, fitted snugly into the specially drilled hole in the very last inch of the concrete path; though they were rarely closed anymore. Past the gates, the fence continued for a short stretch until its termination against another carport mirrored its beginning. Back along the concrete path, about half-way, just onto the lawn, the short, thick trunk of a walnut tree quickly bifurcated. The lesser boles angled away from each other, and rose a further two metres before splitting into thick branches, each splitting again and again, thick to thin, before miraculously merging from wood to plant, grey to black to green, branch to twig to leaf. A large oval scar, covering half the height of the trunk facing the path, was all that remained of a third bole. It was removed to allow construction of the squash court, its rectangular concretebricked wall organically rising from the opposite edge of the path. Once a fathers pride and joy, it sat solidly in the middle of the right-hand rectangle, full of stuff, a derelict museum to barely remembered delight. To the left, the carport adjoined it, while to the right, in front, facing the house, leaned the small shelter, under which seven bicycles used to rest in the home-made steel bike-rack. The final parcel of land, opposite the lawn, between the shelter and the back of the house, boasted the hills hoist from which had flapped thousands of copper-washed, hand-wrung nappies on permanent display for over a decade. A narrow tributary of concrete, etched with names worn down, discernible now only to the writers long gone, all but one, ran to its base. Just along from where it branched off, the first or final length of the concrete path rose on a convenient and sympathetic
angle before flattening onto a square platform one step below the back door. Along one side ran a weatherboard wall while the other supported a sturdy steel hand-rail. *** The rear door opened from within and a woman stepped onto the top step, the other foot hovering over the concrete platform. There she hesitated, holding the outer screen-door ajar, not looking back. An elderly woman emerged behind her, just catching the screen-door as the first woman took off down the long sloping concrete ramp. The elderly woman had a door in both hands and, backing into the screen-door, pulled the inner one shut. With the habit of years she turned out, allowing the screen-door to slam behind her, and tottered down the ramp. She had one arm crooked around her hand-bag and the other stretched to the hand-rail. Once on level ground she hurried forward on brisk, incautious steps, past the washing line, the rusted bike-rack, and along and past the wall of the huge concrete shed. The first woman had paused at the end of the concrete path, past the incinerator made from the same brick as the shed, just outside the gates. Staring at the garden across the lane, she lit a cigarette. As she smoked, she tapped her right foot. The elderly woman caught up, a little breathless having almost tripped on a join in the concrete. She did not pause but turned right just outside the gates, squeezing herself in a little to get through as if only the smaller gate was open. Just past the corrugated-iron fence the carports automatic roller-door was slowly ascending. She stopped and waited, looking down. The cigarette was sucked to the filter through thin, line-drawn lips, flung to the ground and stomped on. The smoker raised her right hand again and clicked the remote releasing the car-door locks. Both women walked to the front doors and got in. As the car backed out and drove down the lane, the elderly woman could be seen still struggling with her seat belt.
Half an hour later, the car returned and the two women performed the same motions. The younger exited first and stood again at the back gate, lighting a cigarette, staring across at the garden, puffing furiously. The elderly woman emerged from around the car and squeezed through the gates, hand-bag crooked in her arm. There was no haste in her walking, her steps slow, resigned. Only the padded leather armchair and hastily discarded newspapers awaited her return. At the bottom of the ramp, she grabbed at the hand-rail for support and paused, looking back. The other woman had not followed, not turned. After a few moments the older woman pulled herself onehanded up the ramp until both feet were secured at the top. She opened her handbag and inner zip pocket and searched for her key. Then she opened the screen-door, letting it rest against her back as she fumbled the key in the lock and struggled to turn it and the door-knob at the same time. Without a further look back she entered, allowing the screen door to slam before firmly shutting the other.
The Bed
Mark Slattery
he fire rages all around her, the bed releasing its history in acid fumes. ***
She remembered her first encounter, pulling back the duvet and sheets to reveal an expanse of talcum powder, thickly layered from side to side, top to bottom. It must have been three tins at least. How theyd laughed, still drunk on champagne, as she pulled out the vacuum cleaner and sucked it all up. Most of it. The scent had covered them all night. In the morning it had disgusted her. Shed stripped everything from the bed sheets, pillow cases, even the decorative ones that had been dumped on the floor, the duvet cover and valance and put them through the wash twice. When shed gone to collect them from the clothes-line the first time, she could not tell whether the smell lingered in the sheets or her mind, but washed them again anyway. Every morning for forty years after hed left for work, or golf, or the club, she could not begin her day until every symptom that it had ever been slept in was tugged away. First shed pull off the top layers and strip the pillow cases. Not the decorative ones, the second set that would be propped against the finely polished headboard at precisely forty-five degrees, those she only changed weekly along with the valance and duvet cover.
Then she would examine the fitted sheet, minutely scouring it for any stains. A single blemish, even if imagined, would consign it and the top sheet into the wash with the pillow cases. They were mostly tears on one side and drool on the other but often, far too often, it was the horror, dry and rancid, in the middle. After the first year and the first child shed ceased her daily examination and simply stripped the bed bare every morning, remaking it with fresh linen. If the room required dusting or vacuuming, she would do it then. She would not return to the room again until sleep and duty demanded it. The children had come and gone, though not once had they joined her in bed. If she woke during the night to find one of them standing beside her, fearful from dreams or simply not tired, she would get up and, as quietly as possible so as not to wake the sleeping form next her, encourage them with whispers and tender nudges back to their own beds. There she would sit and stroke their hair well after theyd returned to sleep. The very thought of breakfast-in-bed, so common in other homes, especially on Mothers Day, brought her gorge rising. The children left as soon as they were able. She couldnt encourage them to stay and never once experienced disappointment at their absence. Even if they had not all moved overseas, she understood there was nothing for them to return for, however briefly. It had never been a sick-bed until his stroke. Even then she never visited during the day, all his needs, his feeding, bathing, rolling, the stripping and remaking of the bed assigned to the nurse who attended daily. She could not, however, stop sleeping there. She found his immobility comforting and had slept soundly at last for the first time in their forty years together. After the funeral she had returned home alone. There had been no wake, no announcement that the handful of neighbours or excolleagues at the service was welcome for refreshments anywhere.
There had been no cards, or letters or phone calls. For the first time in her life she stood in the bedroom during an afternoon. She was still dressed in black but had his old tool case with her. Kicking off her shoes, she stripped the bed barer than it had ever been. The polished head and footboards faced each other across the steel-framed base. She opened the tool box and selected a wrench. The bolts were tight and the wrench bruised her palms, but all of them came loose eventually. The head and footboards were surprisingly light and she manoeuvred each out of the bedroom, along the short corridor, down the stairs and out the back door without much difficulty. The base was heavy and uncompromising. She eventually worked out that it could slide along the carpet on one edge, but its weight kept twisting it out of her grip. It took an hour and several deep scratches joined the bruising on her hands and wrists. When she walked back up the stairs for the tool case, she passed small tears in the carpet and great gouges of plaster out of the walls as well as chunks of wood missing from door-frames. Once she might have smiled, if only inwardly, at such terrible damage. Now she hardly noticed. Re-attaching the boards to the frame was much more difficult than their separation, but it didnt need to be exact. It all wobbled slightly but she was satisfied it would hold together long enough. Half-way down the stairs with the mattress she shed her first tears of the day. It seemed impossible. It seemed to fight against her. It seemed deliberate. Obdurate. Vengeful. Yet even so it was no match for her own determination. When she finally managed to tumble and push and tug it into place on the base it was covered in small tears and grassy stains. If she could have felt anything she might have felt good about that. The long afternoon was becoming evening when she returned with the bed clothes. She was exhausted from the effort, yet that exhaustion barely touched the sneering contempt that exhilarated
her from within. There lay her true exhaustion, a dead compressed weight of submission defined by his brutally self-centred constancy. Today that congealed mass had unleashed itself in black energy and compelled her, muscle, sinew and bone, into feats beyond her usual abilities. With the bed finally remade, exactly on the lawn as it had been upstairs in the bedroom, she completed her preparations and lay down on her side of the bed. Even as the first coughing fit convulsed her, she realised she would feel no pain. She was more than empty. She was nothing. He had consumed her totally. *** A cold dampness disturbs her. As she wakens and rolls onto her side, she realizes she is naked, lying on cold, dewy grass. The sun is yet to rise above the trees along the back fence leaving her, for the moment, in shadow. The grass around her is green. There is no sign of the bed or trace of the fire that consumed it. She feels for her hair and finds it full, untouched. She looks at her hands and wrists. The bruising is gone, the scratches healed. She hears voices coming from inside the house, distant yet familiar, calling for her. As she sits up two heads pop out from the gloom of the house now bathed in sunshine. Mum? they say in unison.
Y
Mark Slattery
ave you had the dream? Laurel almost wasnt going to ask. She didnt want to be the last. Kate looked at her with a start.
No, what made you ask? I thought you had the look. Oh. What were you thinking about? Nothing. I just havent woken up properly. Didnt you sleep well? No, how can I? Yeah, I know. The two girls sat on a bench inside the mall. It was empty at this time of the morning. To the left and the right of them, glazed folding doors remained closed. The effect was that of a massive, brightly-lit corridor, smooth polished-stone floor below a ceiling punctured by ventilation ducts and fire sprinklers. The tall facingwalls were divided equally into great glass squares, uniform in size and purpose. Better get to school, said Kate. Kate and Laurel stood and started walking right, past windows full of black unlit space. Reaching the intersection with another mall, they waited patiently behind a white beam of light at waist
height, a metre back from the huge square gap formed by the junction. This was the Main Street II elevator shaft. Fifty metres across the gap, the mall continued into the Entertainment Zone, which they only frequented on week-ends. Left was Sports and right, Contemplation. I wonder wholl be gone today, said Laurel. Its freaky, isnt it, said Kate, not for the first time. Mom says its nothing to worry about. Happens to everyone. Eventually. I know, said Kate, but dont you think its weird no-one ever talked about it? The next elevator-platform of Main Street II could be seen slowly descending out of the square black hole above, just as the heads of those on the platform below were swallowed up. How can we talk about what we dont know? Oh yeah, said Kate dully, realizing the bleeding obvious. As the elevator-platform reached the half-way point above them, Kate and Laurel could see some girls standing along the edge closest to them. They looked to see if any displayed the slack faces of those exposed to the dream. Look, there, Kate said pointing to Arlene, who was standing alone towards the left hand corner. Arlene was dressed in the standard blue shoes, trousers and blouse of the Aligning, just as Laurel and Kate were. She must have heard them as she immediately smiled and waved. Obviously just half-awake like you were, said Laurel. As the elevator-platform drew closer they could see other Alignings in small groups talking, with only two standing idly, hands slack by their sides, blank looks on their faces. The white beam of light blinked out. Kate and Laurel stepped onto the platform and walked over to Arlene.
Are they gone? asked Kate, pointing to the two still figures of Jess and Angela. I think so, said Arlene. I tried talking to both of them but they were completely unresponsive. How can that be? said Laurel. Its never happened twice on the same day before. Maybe it has, said Kate. Ill ask Mom. Laurel wasnt convinced. She walked over to the nearest, Jess, and jabbed her hard in the shoulder with a knuckle. Ow! said Jess, reaching with her hand to rub at the pain. Angela burst out laughing, which caused everyone else on the platform to laugh as well; they were all in on it. The elevator continued its slow descent, the level it was passing pitch black in all four directions. That wasnt funny, said Kate, arms crossed, which made Angela laugh even louder. Jess just smiled. How come you two are up so early anyway? she said. Couldnt sleep, said Kate. Worried about the dream? said Jess. Arent you? Kate responded. Mom says its normal. Nothing to worry about, said Jess. Yes, I know. But she also said well come back after treatment. Correct, said Jess. But whos come back? said Kate. Jess opened her mouth to reply but realized Kate was right. Noone had come back. It had been three months since the first signs of the dream had shown themselves and dozens of Alignings had disappeared. None had returned. They might have, said Jess finally. They could be anywhere. Surely one of us would have bumped into at least one of them. Well its been nearly that long since Ive last seen you, said Jess smugly. I think Ill ask Mom, said Kate.
Ask her what? said Jess. Where theyve gone, said Kate. Angela and Laurel had been standing quietly beside Kate and Jess, barely listening. The platform had begun to emerge below the black walls of the shaft. But, at Kates last words, Jess, Laurel and Angela just looked at her, eyes wide, mouths open. After a while, they recovered and stood a little further distant, any further conversation stilled by such an unnatural thought. As the elevatorplatform reached the Education Level, Kate and Jess moved towards the Orthodoxy Mall, Laurel to Performance and Angela to Behaviour. *** Plugging into Mom, Kate felt a sense of unease shed never experienced before. Life was good. Life is good. She was on her way to becoming Aligned. As the Words of Opening moved across the screen she recited automatically, without hesitation, her voice blending crisply with the three thousand other girls tuning into Mom. With perfect enunciation, each word was released into the air as from one throat, every inflection identical, rhythm and cadence precisely synchronized. No threat No blame No right No friend No vow No want No love No thirst No lie No calm No other No harm No guilt No error No foe No duty No need No pain No hunger No truth No order No self
As the last word stilled to nothing, a single chime echoed throughout the room and all eyes turned to Mom to begin their separate communion. It was with Mom that any deviation from their monotonously routine lives was experienced. Though the thirty thousand Alignings lived as a monomorphic mass, individual traits naturally emerged; temperaments, emotions and predilections. Almost all were, over the years, massaged towards conformity; though some, a tiny few, managed to maintain robust notions. These were special. Very special. *** Speak, said Mom, the only alternative to Listen. Kate hesitated, her sense of unease refusing to leave her. Hesitation bloomed into silence. Mom waited. Kate looked directly at the image before her, a girl, just like herself, dressed in red. How can I be certain you exist? Kate finally asked, knowing a question was an abrogation of todays greeting. Mind. You question whether I am simply an idea, an object of your perception. Good question. What is your answer? I have used I and you in the question prejudging separate selves. Good answer. Do you experience joy from my response? Affirmation. Is that yes to joy, or counter? Counter. What if I said you do not exist? I would deny it. Proof? Impossible but for my denial. Denial of non-existence! Excellent analysis. You are uneasy. A statement, not a question.
Kate was taken aback at this sudden interruption of her discourse into the mind and the self which Mom had set for her last week; four hours of instruction after Listen. She had left then bristling with ideas and, over the week, sifted them into primary and secondary, proposed and discarded hundreds of causal patterns, reclassifying some ideas as objects or things and synthesised her response. Last night it suddenly occurred to her that all that was relevant was the conclusion which she had just delivered, paraphrased into a conversation. She had anticipated Moms responses fairly accurately and had been about to level her final question as an accusation. Momentarily confused she instead asked, When will those who have had the dream return? What is the dream? Moms indirect reply increased Kates confusion. She knew the correct response but another question, long withheld, would not let her speak it. As if sensing this Mom supplied it. You do not know, Mum said. Still the question refused to subside and she blurted it out. Where do they go? You do not know, Mom repeated. Suddenly Kates anxiety receded as Mom delivered her back to her knowledge. She intoned gratefully, What is known is known. Continue. But she couldnt. Her final question now seemed stupid. Instead she decided to revert to her original response. Mind and self. Whether considering Mind in a material or nonmaterial environment, the question of Unity remains perplexing. How can thoughts arising in non-contiguous entities enjoy simultaneous integrity? Various Ask your last question. Kates words choked off. A sudden panic swept through her, an emotional response she had not known before. Her heart was
pounding, sweat moistened her palms and upper lip. Numbly she stared at Moms implacable face. Time stretched out, Kates mind dissolving into a single tight circuit, the question ringing round and round, occluding all other thoughts. How come you exist? Had she spoken it? In thinking that, the spell on her thoughts broke, the feeling of panic dissipated, and her gaze refocussed on Mom. Why do I exist, said Mom. That better frames your thought. Y, thought Kate, Y? Its not even a word. Sweet dream, Kate, said Mom. Her face was replaced by a strange tumbling series of images, some static, some moving, all mesmerizing Kate couldnt look away. And didnt. For hours. That night she dreamed. *** A white fog through which glimpses of forms could be seen, forms with suggestions of heads, arms and legs. The forms moved, flowed, forward and back, or across as if walking in circles. They were dressed in colours; the blue of the Aligned predominated but there were others: pinks, which seemed the smallest and slowest, yellows and greens. Then, suddenly, the fog was gone replaced by two flat planes, one green the other, above, blue. She was alone. Everywhere she turned, the green she was standing on expanded outward flat and smooth until it met the blue, also flat and smooth, which returned to her and sailed overhead, sealing her between two limitless discs. She felt she could touch the blue and lifted her hand. The green around her rippled, rising and falling away from her, leaving rounded hummocks. The movement ceased where the green met blue. This edge, the boundary, was now uneven in places, jagged, yet elsewhere it remained a smooth line. She focussed on a jagged part and the green was washed away, downward, replaced
at first by white, then grey, then black. To the right of this rising jagged place, the blue-green line faded into silver and began to bleed towards her. It seemed to rush as fast as it widened, yet also that it would never reach her. She felt as if she was staring down at a massive, expanding pool of water. She had never been in a place so vast, could not have imagined it. As the water, for she could only think of it as water, stopped, the green on its left, at the furthest limits of her sight, swarmed with movement. It flowed from the boundary towards her, mimicking the passage of the silver and she saw that things, green things, were erupting. The movement stopped immediately in front of her and she saw that the things were all one thing, but each was unique. And they were not all green, just the tops of them. Each one was tall and cylindrical, and tapered yet, halfway up, it split and split and split into smaller and smaller widths, each split like a manyfingered hand. At the end of the final fingers, and there were hundreds of them, more green things, though small flat and shaped like hearts, fluttered as if breath moved through them. She turned to see if the things surrounded her but they were gone. The fog had returned her to a nothingness of white. She began to hear sound, faint at first, flowing towards her as if from the boundary It possessed a single tone reminding her of the Words of Opening but, as it increased in volume, the cadence was lost in shrill outbursts, screaming, scaling upwards, almost beyond hearing. More shrills replaced them, doubling in intensity, merging into a single unbearable shriek, as if from all the voices she had ever heard, threatening to shatter her skull from within. Instead the shriek itself shattered into a tumbling caterwaul of noise; groans, screams and mad laughter. It would not stop. She ran through the
fog but the noise, babbling and incessant, seemed focussed directly on her. At some stage she became aware of another noise gruffer, harsher, deeper rising and merging within the first, louder and louder seeking to dominate. As the noises rose and fell over and around one another, voices separated into a semblance of words but there was now so much pain she was beyond understanding. All was fear and madness. Suddenly she gagged. The stench of blood and faeces thickened the fog around her, cloying and damp, inescapable. When the images began, her mind rebelled and attempted to flee, but there was nowhere to go within the fog. Under the weight of the unendurable horror it collapsed into unconsciousness. *** Later, a lesser dream emerged, all familiar yet still disturbing. She was moving through her world, as if it were yesterday, but she could not speak as if, even in her dream, she were dreaming. Girls spoke around her, to her, but she felt numb to them, distant. Even so the normality, so welcome after the horrors already fading, relaxed her, calmed her, lulled her back into blissful, dreamless sleep. *** When she finally awoke she was in a small room, smaller than shed ever seen. She was in a bed, just like her own bed, but there was just one. She had never been alone before. Was she still dreaming? A familiar chime sounded, at a distance, and in her recognition she knew she was awake. She climbed out of bed and noticed she was not even wearing her usual pyjamas. Instead she was dressed in a simple, white shift. The chime sounded again and when she looked up she saw a doorway. She looked around. The room was square, the doorway at her left, another directly in front of her, and a set of double-doors to her right. All that was in the room was the bed.
The chime sounded again and she followed the fading note through the first doorway. The room she entered was the same size. In the middle was a narrow, padded chair facing away from her. Before it, covering the entire wall, were row upon row of monitors. Only the central monitor was lit, showing her a girl, just like herself, dressed in black. When the chime sounded again, she sat down in the chair. Listen, said the girl. Kate listened. When the screen went black, she returned to the room with the bed in it and opened the double-doors. Dressed in red she returned to the chair and sat in it. All the screens came alive at once.
Montmartre 1894
Robyn Miller
arius had moved to a squalid one room pied--terre in a grimy alley off the Rue des Abbesses in Montmartre. He found his lodgings suitable to his disposition none too clean. The mistress of the house was sluttish and foul mouthed and she didnt mind who he brought to his room or what they did there. He had followed his wealthier friends artists and writers - to Paris, hoping to gain some recognition as one of the group. It was useful for him to be where they were, as it allowed him to have some luxuries amidst the general shabbiness in which he lived. They included him in their riotous dinners where he ate and drank well. Occasionally they even passed on clothing and their used women when they tired of them. Normally Darius could rely on his coterie for extra funds when his meagre allowance ran out, which it did quickly. He was tolerated because he was talented. However, he often tried their patience, unless the absinthe flowed and they were all drunk together. Then the entire group was the best of friends. When Darius annoyed them, their bonhomie vanished and they ignored him, which he couldnt bear. It pushed him out into the streets. When this happened, he headed for the seediest parts of the city. Although Darius appeared downtrodden, the poor of Paris could see and sense that he was one of the unwise foreigners who ventured into dangerous areas. He was pretending
to be one of them - and would inevitably be robbed and beaten. He would then make his way slowly back to his room. At last! I feel truly alive! he said aloud as he struggled to clear off the blood from his most recent beating. The small cracked mirror allowed him to see only a part of his face at a time. He dabbed at it with a filthy cloth dipped in cloudy water. When in England and beginning his painting career, Darius quickly became bored with the pre-Raphaelite style, which had held sway for forty years. He felt the French Impressionists were pass also. He was after something much less romantic, something which revelled in base instincts. In Montmartre it was easy to find the base, which he found glorious. He scoured the street for the saddest looking prostitutes and took delight in making them scream with pain. The other tenants sometimes shrieked with delight when they heard him at it, they would clap in time while he ground his latest slut against the wall. His quarters were well placed; he was near the Moulin Rouge. He hoped to learn from Toulouse-Lautrec about the new methods of lithography. He was fascinated watching Henri produce his works - they were so bright with slabs of colour, and done so quickly on anything which came to hand. Henri could afford the best, but he believed in the transient, the ephemeral. A piece of cheap cardboard would do - he had to work quickly to catch the expressions of the dancers, which so often were a combination of ecstasy and pain. It was clear to Darius that one of the dancers was a favourite of Henri. Her name was Jane Avril. She was skinny and nervous; she danced jerkily with a look of misery on her face. Darius couldnt see anything attractive about her; however, she stirred him in a strange way as those other downcast women did. He watched Henri and could see the slavish fascination on his face as his hand captured Janes movements. Henri showed her as angular and dramatic; Darius wanted also to be able to catch the essence of a
subject in a few hastily sketched lines. After his evenings of debauchery, Darius would wake about midday, stumble around in his room, dragging on bits of grubby clothing, but always finishing off in style with a colourful cravat. He would make his way onto the streets of Montmartre looking for a place where he could sit and watch the passers-by and practice his drawing. He would look for a cosy spot with a little sun to warm himself and settle in. He would smoke and draw for a while, then move on, following the path of the sun in the narrow cobbled streets. This particular night was wet under a constant drizzle. As Darius made his way through the greasy streets under dim gas light to the Moulin Rouge, he hatched a plan. He wanted Jane to sit for him. He wanted time to be with her. It tickled Dariuss twisted sense of humour to think of making Lautrec jealous. He sat with Henri at his usual table. Lautrec was working while he downed absinthe continuously. Darius watched Henri in fascinated admiration. Jane had finished her cancan and came to the table. Darius said, Jane, you are so lovely when you dance. Will you do me the honour of posing for me in a portrait? He sensed Henri wince, but he said nothing at first. Then Henri managed, Yes, good idea, Darius. It wasnt done to be jealous in this milieu, but Darius was satisfied that Henri was suffering already. Jane, meanwhile, was looking down at her hands in their black gloves, colour flared in her cheeks, but she nodded assent. They arranged for Darius to collect her from the Rue des Moulin brothel where she lived. *** Jane sat stiffly on the edge of the soiled couch that Darius had placed under the streaked window. He lit some extra candles to throw light onto her pallid skin. The corners of the room were pools of blackness. The stale smell of smoke and liquor hung in the air. He asked her to remove her clothing, which she did reluctantly.
Monsieur, I thought this was to be a proper portrait! She felt betrayed. She had worn her finest clothing, hoping to be captured at her best. However, she didnt bother with any false modesty. She didnt hide behind the furniture, but threw her clothes off in a resigned fashion. Henri had given his approval - her feelings didnt matter. She left her stockings on, with colourful garters above the knee, but was naked otherwise. Darius arranged her so she was lying on her side, her left arm draped backwards around her head, her other arm beside her. He began sketching an outline on the canvas, talking to Jane all the time, encouraging her to relax. She was cold and could hear the desire in his voice, which made her nervous. He came and sat by her side, in the small space made by the curve of her figure, and began patting her raised arm as if to calm her. Surely Jane, you have been naked many times, before many men? Darius leered at her. She lay still as his patting became stroking. He ran his fingers down the tender underside of her left arm, clasped her left breast, bared his teeth and lent over to bite the nipple. Janes right arm was just free enough for her to reach into the stocking. Her fingers found the garter. In one move, she pulled out a small dagger, arched her back away from the grimy cloth of the couch and stabbed him in the shoulder. Darius fell screaming to the floor as the blood ran down his arm, soaking his shirt and dripping to the floor. English pig, she screamed as she kicked him in the side. She struggled into her clothes and ran, leaving Darius writhing on the floor. *** Authors note story inspired by the following web entry regarding Henri Toulouse Lautrec http://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/ jonathanjonesblog/2011/aug/17/toulouse-lautrec-moulin-rougepaintings
Alexander Tale
Shantara Johnstone
hen Father left us to go to France, Mother went very quiet. She had cried a lot during his last week at home, and I think
she lost her voice somewhere amongst all the tears. I searched everywhere for her words. I even looked under the house, but I didnt find any traces of them. But it wasnt only her voice that disappeared. She started forgetting to do lots of ordinary jobs like the laundry and cooking. Father had entrusted me with the task of watering the garden and feeding the chickens, and I could put the empty milk bottles out the front of the house each day, but I didnt know how to do any of the other work, so it didnt get done. When I asked Mother if she would please make me breakfast, she would sigh and give me some bread with jam, then vanish into the study without even looking at me. I thought that she must have been ill, which worried me a little, but I didnt bother her further. When I finished eating I put the plate onto the steadily growing pile of dishes, and then sat near the front window where my dolls and tea set were waiting patiently for playtime. My Aunty Mira arrived almost a week after Father put on his uniform and said goodbye. I saw her through the window and hurried to open the door. I wasnt supposed to open the door for
anyone, but I decided this was an exception because Mother was mysteriously ill, and I was so happy to see Aunty Mira. She was straining to carry her large suitcase up the front path, her forehead wrinkled with effort, but when she saw me at the door she smiled brightly. She dropped her belongings in the hallway before bending down to give me a big warm hug. Then she drew away to study my face. She had this way of knowing lots of things about people just by looking at them. Father said she was psychic, but Mother always replied that she was just good at understanding people. Without the usual fuss over how much I had grown or the state of my clothes, she just said, I knew you would need me here. She looked down the quiet hallway. Is your mother home? I nodded and took her by the hand, leading her through the house and to the door of the study. It was shut, as always. Shes in there. I stared at the plain wooden door, thinking I could see right through it if I tried hard enough. I wasnt allowed in this room, and I had never seen what it contained. I wasnt sure what a study was for, but it sounded very important, especially if Mother needed to be in there all the time. Aunty Mira said, Thank you, dear. I just need to talk to your mother for a little while, and then we can do something fun together. Her polite smile told me to go play, so that is what I did. Aunty Mira was an adventurer. Whenever she came to visit she had a new story about a place she had been to or people she had met along the way, and she was always very excited to share it with us. Mother said she was exaggerating. I thought she was just leaving out the unimportant details. She had climbed over mountains and had tea with the King, and secretly she told me how she fought goblins and kissed a frog because she thought he looked like a prince. She never married, but she was always on the lookout for her Prince Charming.
When Aunty Mira eventually came out of the study, I was busy telling my dolls about these adventures, and how one day Id be old enough to go with her and see the world. When she saw me by the window, she smiled and put her finger up in the air as though she had a great idea, which was often the case when I needed to be cheered up. Its such a lovely day outside, so lets go for a walk, she said merrily. It will do us both some good. Okay, I replied, and ran off to fetch my hat and shoes. It was always fun going for a walk with Aunty Mira. She would often get lost, and blame those pesky elves for moving the rocks under our feet. Then she would turn her sweater inside-out to confuse the little folk, and wed find our way home again without further trouble. She looked so silly with her clothes on the wrong way, but it always worked and I never teased her for it. She seemed convinced that such creatures existed, so I believed her, but Id never seen one with my own eyes. Aunty Mira, I said as we walked hand-in-hand down the long road into town. Is it possible to catch a fairy? Why would you want to do that? she replied. Maybe, if I looked after it well enough, it would grant me a wish. What would you wish for? To keep dad safe and bring him home as soon as possible. When I looked at her face, she appeared suddenly solemn. For a couple of minutes she didnt say anything. When she spoke again, her voice sounded different. It was more grown-up. Did your dad tell you why he went away? she said. I thought for a moment. He never did tell me why he left, or for how long hed be gone. He only ever said that he had a job to do which was awfully important, and that he would think of me every day. Then he gave me enough hugs and kisses to last a lifetime. I think hes gone to do a very important job, and maybe if he
told me what it was, I would not have let him go. It must be very dangerous in France, but hes going to make it safer, and then hell come home. Aunty Mira looked at me with surprise, and then she smiled and gave my hand a shake. Eleanor, have I ever told you how very, very clever you are? Then she told me, Your dad is a soldier. That means hes fighting against bad things to protect all the good things in the world. And we should all be very proud of him and pray that hell make it safely home soon. She sounded very stern, so I promised to pray for him and be as proud as I could be. We made it into town and home again without getting lost, and I was a bit disappointed that we didnt see any fairies. Then I thought that maybe they had already gone to France to help fight the bad things. Maybe one of them was looking for Mothers voice. We did find some mushrooms dressed in red with white spots, and Aunty Mira told me the mushrooms were a sign that fairies lived nearby. Aunty Mira went on to put her things in my parents room, and then completed all the housework that hadnt been done in the last week. She made us all dinner and Mother came out of the study to eat with us, though her mind seemed to be elsewhere. After the dishes were all cleaned and put away, Aunty Mira helped me get ready for bed and tucked me in before offering to tell me a story. I dreamed about Father that night. He was in France, following a trail of blackened ground. He held a great metal shield and a shining sword. Several other soldiers were walking behind him, all wearing their brown and green uniforms. They travelled past the smoking remains of a village and into a barren valley where they came upon a cave. Darkness lurked like a monster inside it, but it was only a warning for the real monster they were about to face. The soldiers got into a line around the entrance before shouting and hitting their weapons against their shields to lure out the beast. A deep rumble like thunder sounded within the darkness,
soon followed by an explosion of flame. They had tracked down a dragon. It came stomping out to meet the soldiers in fury, and its appearance was so terrifying that I awoke, my heart in a panic. I fled from my bedroom to escape the dragons wrath, and found myself outside the study, my head dazed. The gap below the door was glowing, and I wondered again what the room was for. Then I remembered a story about a witch who studied spells in a tall tower. It seemed quite possible that my mother could have been a sorceress, for she was fairly mysterious, but why wouldnt anyone have told me? If mother did have magic, then she could find out how to defeat the dragon, and everything would be alright. I had to make sure. I reached up for the handle and tried to turn it as quietly as possible. As the door began to open, soft footsteps sounded behind me. Eleanor? I turned to see Aunty Mira with her hands on her hips, expecting an explanation. I bowed my head and stepped away from the door. I had a nightmare. She beckoned me back to my bedroom and tucked me in again. I told her about the dragon and my fear that it would defeat all of the soldiers, including my father. She just smiled and said, Dont you worry, dear. This whole time youve been awake, those soldiers have been fighting valiantly to send that dragon far away, never to bother the people again. When you go back to sleep youll see that everything is alright. Trust me. *** Weeks passed and everything started to seem happier with Aunty Mira around to take care of us. I could go to her whenever I was worried and shed tell me a story to send the worries back to sleep. Mother came out of the study more often to eat with us, and she even joined us on one of our walks. I looked for signs that shed
been practicing magic, but she didnt give me any. Her voice was still missing, and her mind seemed to be in another world entirely. One evening, as I was watering the garden just before dark, I discovered mushrooms growing amongst the flowers. They were dressed in red with white spots. I wondered if there were little folk making a home nearby and pushed apart the flowers to look for any burrows. My search was interrupted as Aunty Mira called out for me to come into the house. I was going to tell Aunty Mira about the mushrooms, but they were forgotten when I entered the living room. Resting on an easel was the most beautiful painting I had ever seen. It was a picture of Father, so lifelike that I could only figure that magic played a part. I couldnt stop my jaw from dropping. Aunty Mira laughed. I think she likes it. Then I looked at my mother, and she was smiling, which was a sight I hadnt seen since Father left us. And yet, with his picture in the room it felt like he had returned, and I wanted to smile too. His eyes looked on me kindly as I stepped closer to the easel. Up close I could see how much care had been put into every tiny brushstroke as though the painter could settle for nothing less than perfection. I gazed at the portrait for a long time, unable to tear my eyes away from it. Then I saw the artists elegant signature in the bottom corner: Tiana Alexander. That was my mothers name. I turned to look at her in awe and, seeing the paint stains on her old dress she wore, I understood that she truly was a sorceress, and she had been working magic in the study to try and bring father home. I wanted to reveal to her all the thoughts that flooded my head in that moment, but all I could manage to say was, Its beautiful. Mothers eyes lit up, and she showed one last magical miracle. Thank you, darling. She spoke, and I almost couldnt believe that she had found the
words Id been looking for all this time. Full of joy, I gave her a loving hug, and everything was okay. *** Winter was on the way and it got very cold. Aunty Mira knew how to chop wood, which I thought only fathers could do, but she was very good at it. Id help by carrying the chopped wood into the house for the fireplace so in the evenings we could sit cosily in the living room and tell stories. Fathers portrait was hung on the wall so it felt like he was listening to the stories too. Mother still wasnt speaking as much as she used to, but the few words she said were more than enough to make me happy. A few more mushrooms grew in the garden. Somehow they were connected to the magic of that other night, and I kept an eye out for any other signs of the fairies responsible. Then one morning my mother received a telegram, and before she even opened it, all the colour drained out of her face. Her hands were shaking as she started to read, and a moment later she fell to the floor, sobbing. As much as I tried to get her attention, she wouldnt look at me or say anything. She just cried, and I started crying too, for I knew that the world was suddenly, impossibly falling apart. Aunty Mira came rushing out to see the commotion. She picked up the telegram and read it. What she saw froze her whole being. After what felt like an eternity of confusion, Aunty Mira managed to put Mother to bed and sat me on her knee in the living room. She dried away my tears and spoke to me in her most gentle voice. Her ever-ready smile had disappeared completely. Eleanor, she began, making sure she had my full attention. Do you remember the tale I told you about the duckling who was separated from his parents, and how strong he was as he tried to find his way home?
I nodded, also remembering that there were other birds who helped him as best they could. In the end, he found his home in an unlikely place. Well, dear, I need you to be as strong as that duckling, because weve just received some bad news. I was so confused. What bad news would make Mother crumble like that? Please, I said, What did the telegram say? She stuttered a little as she said, Your father cant come home, dear. Well never be able to see him again. Horror filled my mind. Did the dragon kill him? She looked startled. No, of course not. She stopped and took a deep breath. Then she continued slowly. He cant come home, dear, because hes been taken to a faraway land where all the heroes go, where they continue to fight against bad things and watch over their loved ones from afar. We cant talk to him, but he will always be around to watch you grow up, right there. She pointed to the painting on the wall, And in here. She pointed to my heart. He once told me that hed do whatever it took to protect you and keep you happy. And he always will. Does that make sense? It gradually did make sense to me, and I felt a little better, but I missed him terribly, and there were many more tears to come. I was very proud of what hed done, and yet I wanted him safe at home more than anything. The next day I went out into the garden to water the plants, and I talked to the fairies. I still couldnt see them, but I knew they were there, and I told them all about Father. I asked, if they ever saw him, to tell him that I loved him to the end of the world and back, and to always take good care of him. The fairies didnt give any sign that theyd heard me, but I thought I heard soft footsteps as they came closer to listen to my request. Some time later we had a small gathering to remember what my father had done for us. A few of my relatives came and we all wore
our nicest clothes. Mother came out of her room for the event, but she had left her words behind again. I wore a bracelet that Father had given me for my birthday, and before the day was over I went out to the garden to put the bracelet amongst the mushrooms. It was a sort of payment for looking after me and my family. I also put on a pair of gloves and pulled a mushroom out of the ground. I took it carefully to the stone someone had carved Fathers name into, and placed it at the bottom. Sure enough, a whole ring of red and white mushrooms appeared around the stone soon after. *** Aunty Mira never left us. I was glad for her company because it took a very long time for Mother to find her old self again. I never stopped waiting for Father to come home, for I always believed he would one day. Mother really did use magic to save him, for she painted such a beautiful portrait that I could look at it and feel that he was still around. If you look very closely at the painting, youll even see the fairy on his shoulder, protecting him from harm.
Dead Flowers
Toby Bainbridge
hat was when I noticed the dead flower on the floor. Im sorry! Thats not a good way to start my story, is it? People say that the best place to start any story is at the beginning, but where is the beginning? Is it when I was born, or perhaps when Stephen and I got married? Or, perhaps, earlier this morning? Perhaps the best place to start is last March. The twenty-first of March to be exact. That was the day that Stephen took me out for dinner. Then, just as we were leaving the restaurant, he whispered in my ear, Tonight is the Autumnal Equinox so now I am going to get you pregnant! I giggled as only a good girl can and announced in my best stage whisper, You should be so lucky! My period has just started! Stephen looked crestfallen. You mean I just wasted a good meal on a wife who says No? I wasnt sure just how much he meant it because he can be such a tease at times, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt. I will be wanting you in a week or so. Will you wait? I suppose Ill have to, wont I? We could still snuggle tonight, if it is not too hard? He put my hand just there and asked, Is it too hard? Again I giggled as only a good girl can and said, Not at all! Now just hold that thought!
We drove home and snuggled that night. Some days later, I suggested that he take me out to dinner. Then, as we were leaving the restaurant, I said, Now would be a good time to get me pregnant, if it is not too hard? My hand gave me the answer I was hoping for! Now back to my story. Over the last few weeks I have felt our baby wriggling and jiggling as he or she grows well. The antenatal visits have shown us that all is well and that we are about to have a healthy child. I have asked not to be told the sex of our baby: all I want is a healthy child. Early on in my pregnancy a friend had wished me a happy, healthy, bouncing baby to bring us both great joy. His wish was the nicest thing that anyone had said to me since I fell pregnant. So, when I woke this morning with a scream that frightened Stephen, I felt that the bottom had dropped out of my world. He dressed rapidly then drove me to the hospital as quickly as possible. I went into the emergency entrance while Stephen parked the car. Soon I was talking to a doctor. She introduced herself as Jenny. I explained that I was nearly six months pregnant and that my pain seemed to be in my uterus. An ultrasound showed that my baby was not moving. No, not my baby, our baby! Stephen was just as much a part of this baby as me: he had got me pregnant and he had supported me all the way through. After all those times when he got up to help me with early-morning sickness he has shown that he will be an excellent changer of nappies when the time comes. By now Stephen had parked the car and joined Jenny and me. I introduced them, then Jenny explained that the best thing to do was to induce our babys birth. The only other option for removing our baby was a Caesarean Section: an operation which could cause too many difficulties. Both options meant that I had to be admitted to hospital. Jenny found a room, a wheelchair and a nurse to push me in
the wheelchair to my room. The nurse produced one of those awkward, backward hospital gowns and I was dressed, badly, and asked to get into bed. It was as I was getting into bed that I saw the dead flower. Stephen gave it to the nurse, who removed it. We were alone for the first time since arriving at the hospital. For the first time since waking I could admit that I was both frightened and ashamed. Again Stephen showed me just why I was glad to have chosen him to marry. Hush! You have just been through every womans worst nightmare. Your first child has died and is just about to be stillborn. We hugged and I had my first cry; my first cry of many for this lost baby. Oh! I sat up suddenly and exclaimed, Today is the Spring Equinox! The twenty-first of September! My birthday! Our wedding day! Why did this have to happen to us on this day, my favourite day, of all days? Stephen held me and rocked me. As every woman knows, there are times when a man should not speak, when he should just hold his woman. Stephen apparently knew this without being told. Again, I realised just how much I loved this man. At this point, Jenny returned to explain what was going to happen. Alex, because you have been pregnant for more than twenty weeks we have to perform what is called a medical termination. This means that you will be given drugs which help your body mimic the normal processes of birth so your baby will be born as naturally as possible. This process can take up to three days but, in most cases, it lasts only twenty-four hours. As usual, you will have to sign a consent form; I have it here. Do you have any questions? No. Lets get it done now, as soon as possible. Both Stephen and I signed the form, then I was given my first injection. Nothing was going to happen for at least twelve hours. Stephen, please go home. Youre tired, and you will have to let
work know what is happening. Please ring my boss and tell him what is happening. Of course. But will you be OK? Go, you wonderful man! The people here will look after me, and I need to know that you will look after yourself. And thank you for looking after me so well in the beginning. Stephen went home, I fell into a fitful sleep and the injection took its normal course. Stephen returned after work with flowers (live ones!), fruit and chocolates. I ate the fruit, he ate the chocolates and we talked. Jenny came back and checked to see how I was coping. She examined my cervix to check on the process of my delivery and announced that all was proceeding normally. Her reassuring way of dealing with her patients made me feel completely safe with her. Stephen felt the same way. Jenny gave me another injection and said that she expected the birth to begin in an hour or two. When this process, my first birth, started, it was both good and bad. Good because I felt that I would soon be on the way to being normal again; bad because I had been so looking forward to holding my baby, our baby, in my arms and doing all the motherhood things. I have, for such a long time, wanted to join the motherhood club and prove that I am all woman. After following all the stages correctly and in order, my baby was born. She was small and appeared normal, and I wanted to hold her and hug her so that I knew that I had had a baby. Stephen also wanted to hold her, and we both cried for what could have been; for what we had both lost. Jenny then explained that we would get a death certificate and that we had the option of a cremation at the hospital or a normal burial. Stephen and I looked at each other. I told him that I wanted a normal burial to acknowledge the part that she had played in our life. He agreed.
We then had to agree on her name. Eventually we settled on Autumn Spring because she had been conceived in the Autumn and born in the Spring. When I was allowed to go home, Stephen came to collect both me and Autumn Spring, who was now in her tiny coffin. We dropped her off at the undertakers; her funeral and burial would be held the following Saturday. That is the end of that story. I will now fast-forward to today and the second part of my story. There I was, sitting in my favourite chair in my favourite room, next to my writing table. This is my space: my space for thinking, my space for reading, my space for writing. In my mind, I was going over the wonderful fortnight that Stephen and I had just spent in the Blue Mountains. We had had the best twentieth wedding anniversary trip that I could possibly have organised. Stephen, of course, had organised it all but it was really my trip. I had wanted to make this such a special time: we now have two wonderful children, aged fourteen and sixteen, who had stayed with my sister while Stephen and I played in the Blue Mountains in the springtime. Our wedding anniversary, 21 September. My birthday, my special day, the Spring Equinox. It was bliss! I took so many keepsake photographs while we were staying there. Photography has become important to me now, especially since I started using my new digital camera. I have used it to document as many of the changing seasons of our family life as I can: our girls growing up and doing all the things that girls do; our family growing up and doing all the things that families do. We have been back from that trip for some three weeks now. Even now I find it hard not to pinch myself when I think of that trip and the days when we just did what we fancied: the days when we planned a day trip and it just fell into place; the days when we gloried in just being a couple sitting in the sun and watching the
world go by; the days when it rained so hard that we sat inside by the fire and held hands in silence. In short: we gloried in the days that we had together. Just us. Nobody else. The photographs that I took were a joy: looking at them and remembering all those days, hours, minutes together. This was the trip that I had needed for so long. Somehow it feels right that Autumn Spring did not arrive alive; that she died. That thought surprised me! This is the first time that I had felt that way about her. I sat up and wondered what was going on. In the past I have felt so bereft when I thought of her but today I feel at peace for the first time while remembering her. I wonder why my thoughts have changed so much. I change the flowers here, in my space, my beautiful space, every few days. I had recently changed them and the new, fresh flowers were a delight for both my eye and my nose. The vase was sitting right next to my chair and I sat there, looking at and enjoying the fresh spring flowers. So many flowers to choose from, so many flowers to enjoy. As I got up from my chair to start my computer so that I could look at the photos of our trip again, I noticed a dead flower on the floor. I slumped back into my chair. This time it did not give me the support that I felt that I needed. For some reason, I was reminded of the dead flower that I had seen when Autumn Springs birth was induced. I felt sad; sadder than I had ever felt since Stephen and I were married. The sadness overwhelmed me. I cried, then. I cried for all the lost time without Autumn Spring. At the time, I did not notice the way my thoughts about my first child had changed in such a short time. Sitting there, in the gathering gloom, feeling keenly the loss of my first child, I wondered if I had ever really got over the loss. Does anyone ever get over that sort of loss? How do you get over such a loss?
It was at this moment that I longed so desperately for Stephens arms around me, comforting me. He was out, and now I wanted him beside me. I started, then, to wonder about Stephen. Had he felt the loss of Autumn Spring as keenly as I had? Had he had the sort of support which he had given me? Did he talk about her death with his friends as I did with mine? Men do not seem to have the emotional support that we women have, and it is at this sort of time that I wish that I could support him in the way that he has supported me. Have I been as good a wife as I could have been? How could I help Stephen more? Is now the time for us to start to talk about Autumn Spring and how we can help each other? How do I bring this subject up? What is the best way for me to help Stephen? What is the best way for a wife, any wife, to help her husband? All sorts of funny thoughts running round my head. I giggled at the thought. I remembered a poem that my Dad had often read to me when I was a little girl: Halfway down the stairs Is a stair where I sit. There isnt any other stair quite like it. Im not at the bottom, Im not at the top: So this is the stair where I always stop. Halfway up the stairs Isnt up, and isnt down. It isnt in the nursery, it isnt in the town. And all sorts of funny thoughts Run round my head: It isnt really anywhere! Its somewhere else instead! Time just stopped. I just stopped. After some time I got up from my chair and started my computer so that I could look at the photos of our recent trip. They were a real comfort to me and
I so enjoyed the memories which they brought back. One of my favourites showed Stephen lying back in our bed with the sheet just covering his essentials and a wicked grin on his face as his hand beckoned me to join him. Another favourite photo, taken by a fellow guest using my camera, showed the two of us sitting on the balcony in the morning sun with a look of peace on our faces. There is, there really is, a moment when one can become overcome with panic. I knew that panic when I discovered that all my photos had gone. I couldnt find them anywhere. All the photos that I had taken of our familys life, of our trip to the Blue Mountains, all gone. This was one moment when I really needed Stephens help. Just then I heard his voice as he returned from his Stephen day with the boys. Darling! I need you NOW! You sound awful. Whats happened? Ive just lost my photos! All of them? Yes. Let me look. Stephen took command as he so often does. He checked the computer. He looked in the Recycle Bin to see if they had been deleted by accident; he checked to see what photos there were on the computer and only found the standard ones which come with Windows. The next step was to copy all the photos from my cameras memory card to the hard disc to find out where they went. They were all in the correct place because he had followed my instructions and I knew what I was doing. Still no photos. Now we were both beginning to realise that perhaps the photos had been lost permanently. I will take the computer to our tech at work and see if she can find them. That is the only thing that I can suggest.
Please take the computer in tomorrow. The sooner the better, I think. The following evening, when Stephen returned with the computer, he told me that Sandra, his computer tech at work, had not been able to find any photos. They had just died. This is the worst day of my life. To start with, I lost my first child to a dead flower and now I have lost the photos of my familys life to another dead flower. I never want to see another dead flower again!
Reunion
Toby Bainbridge
t was market day, so I started early to make sure that my stall was ready when the market opened. There was the covering to erect,
the table to lay out and then all my photos had to be displayed so that people would buy them. Before I was quite ready, I had my first caller. She surprised me by saying, Hello, Peter. Do you remember me? I was dumbfounded. I didnt recognise her and told her so. She said, Im Stephanie. We havent met since that party at your place thirty years ago. I have never forgotten you, and how we parted. Stephanie, I gasped, standing stock still while my mind whirled. I did remember that party: I had behaved badly. Very badly. It hadnt occurred to me that she would want to remember me. When I had regained some of my composure, I said, Stephanie! again. And Its so good to see you. She just stood there, not quite laughing at my discomfort. She said, coolly, calmly, collectedly, Perhaps we could get together after the market for coffee or lunch? I pulled out my phone and asked for her name and number, and told her that I would ring her when I had packed up. She gave me her details, then winked before turning and sauntering away,
her legs, hips and shoulders weaving in unison. My mind was in turmoil. The rest of the morning passed in a daze, my attention wandering back to Stephanie even as I was talking to my customers. I caught my mind wandering after seeing her in the crowd when suddenly a voice at my elbow jerked me back to the present: Excuse me, can you tell me where the toilets are? I pointed the speaker in the right direction then, at the memory of Steph, my mind wandered again. I caught glimpses of her several more times during the morning. Each time I saw her I noticed something more about her, and each new vision brought back another memory, another distraction. I was wondering if she was doing to this just to play mind games. Perhaps it was just me playing mind-games with myself. Every time that I thought of her, I wanted to go back in time to erase the hurt. It was such a stupid thing to do, and I was still kicking myself for my stupidity. Im sure that I missed many possible sales because of these distractions. When it came time to pack up, I realised just how low my sales had been. Stephanie had enslaved me yet again, and I was looking forward to our time together. She reappeared just as I finished loading my car. She must have been watching me. I had been looking forward to this moment while dreading the embarrassment of reliving my bad behaviour from all those years ago. Hi, I said. Would you prefer lunch or a coffee? Anything to postpone the inevitable, as I saw it. The inevitable recriminations. You choose, she said. Lunch, I replied. We could go to the pub for a roast meal, but I think the local bistro will be better. Daccord, she said, slipping into our mangled French. I locked my car and we started walking. As we did so, she
slipped her hand into the crook of my elbow. I was both surprised and relieved by this familiarity. Yet again, as she had often done so many years ago, she took me by surprise. After we had reached our table I said, Stephanie Anne Miller, and and dont call me Steph, and and dont call you Sam. We both laughed at the memories. She had always been particular about how she was addressed: she had never liked having Stephanie shortened to Steph, and calling her by her initials was an easy way to ensure that I slept in the doghouse that night. So you do remember me? she asked. No. Then Ouch! as she elbowed me in the midriff. What was that for? That, she said, will teach you to lie to me. I didnt lie to you! I just wanted to see if you were listening to me. Dont do it again! she commanded with a laugh in her voice. No, Maam. We ordered lunch then moved our table into the sun. Sitting on the veranda, sipping wine and talking, was an easy way to make the years slip away. She told me about her life: quite normal. Her marriage, her children and grandchildren, her husbands death a few years ago from a car accident. That must have been painful for you and your children? Yes. A pause. Fortunately he did not live long in pain. A drunken driver drove straight through a pedestrian crossing and knocked him down. His head hit the pavement and he died a short while later in hospital. It is at moments like this that I have always been at a loss for
words. Im sorry. The words sounded trite even as I spoke them. It was a long time ago, now. Most days I do not even think about it, but here you are again, one of the most important men in my life. Yet again she had rendered me speechless. Thank you. Trite again! Tell me about yourself. *** Like a fool, I asked her if she had forgiven me for my bad behaviour at that party. Her face crumpled and she said that she had cried herself to sleep for many nights afterwards. I moved my chair towards her and gathered her into my arms. She snuggled there for a moment before pulling away and wiping her eyes. You bastard! Yes, I was a bastard, and I apologise for that. I hope its not too late. If you had apologised that night it would have been too late! I never wanted to see you again, and now here I am after looking you up on the Internet. I was surprised, but it did explain why she had appeared, out of the blue, on a market day. Are you are still living in Melbourne? No. I moved to Castlemaine some months ago. I got sick of the rat-race and decided that enough was enough. What about you? When did you move to Maryborough? She had done her homework! About fifteen years ago. I was taking forty-five minutes to travel twenty-two kilometres to work each day. Then, in one week, four sets of traffic lights appeared in my route and that was enough to make me spit the dummy. I hesitated. Go on. After you left the party I got married, then divorced, then I met
my daughter and You have a daughter? I had no idea. Tell me about her. We talked for hours, until the waitress came to tell us that they were closing and would we mind leaving. It was at this time that I realised that the sun had started its slide towards the horizon and that we were both a bit cold. I paid the bill, then we walked to her car. There was no way that we could both leave in the same car: the distances were too great for walking. She invited me back to her place in Castlemaine and I accepted willingly. She drove me to my car then I followed her. It was the long way round to get to Maryborough but, as I realised during the drive, I had been thinking of Stephanie on and off for a year, or perhaps even longer. All too soon, we reached her place. It was a small weatherboard house, tucked away behind some trees for privacy. There was a welcoming light shining through one of the windows, and another light which came on over the front door as she drove in. There was room for my car next to hers so, as I parked my car, I wondered who was waiting for her inside the house. It was then that I realised that I was jealous! This is ridiculous! I thought. We havent even talked for thirty years and already I am feeling that she is, and always has been, mine! Where is this taking me? *** The first thing that I noticed inside her house was just how warm and welcoming it was. Stephanie led me towards her kitchen, asking if I would prefer tea, coffee or perhaps something stronger. I opted for water to balance the wine with lunch. That was some hours ago, I realised: it had been light when we started lunch and it was now well past sundown! We had covered so many topics that afternoon: I had caught
up with her life and she with mine. There was still a long way to go but, perhaps, the pain of my stupidity all those years ago was being erased. I had realised that the light was on a timer switch and that we were alone in the house. All my jealousy was slowly melting away. She had told me that she, like me, was single again and here was the proof, that she had not lied to me. We sat in her comfortable living room and talked. We were sitting close together and the inevitable kiss followed. After a pause, we started talking together: Should we be doing this? and, Are you sure that you want this? You first. No you first. Paper, rock, scissors to see who goes first? I suggested. She won: her paper, my rock, so she started talking. I A pause. We Again she hesitated. Perhaps Do you regret our kiss? No! That at least was definite. Are you, like me, wondering where to go from here? Yes. Its been so quick. I hadnt expected anything like this. I laughed. You mean that you wanted to go on hating me for what I did when we last met and now things havent turned out quite the way you expected? Her, Mmm, and her blush came together. Has anyone ever told you that you are very kissable? No. And dont you start! You are very kissable. May I kiss you again? Her no was not quite as definite as the previous one. We kissed again, and then the talking began. I have always found talking like this very hard, and have always felt so inept when doing it.
Steph, I started before being elbowed again. Please dont take this the wrong way but I would like to go home now before we get in too deep. We only live a short distance apart and I would like to get to know you again before we get too involved and later regret something we have done. I agree. Perhaps it would be better if you left now. Do you have my phone number? Yes. And your email address. And your home address. Big Sister is watching me! And dont you forget it! We walked out to my car. After I had opened my car door, she stood on tiptoe and gave me a hug and a kiss. Still hugging me she said, Thank you for being so easy to find. I was more surprised than I had expected. It had been so long since we had met and I had not expected her to look me up. Even more unexpected was her reaction once we had gone to lunch. How could she manage so effortlessly to make me lose my balance when I was near her? What was her magic touch? After a pause which, from the expression on her face, had lasted too long, I said, Thank you for taking the effort. I have thought about you over the years, especially after my marriage broke up, and wondered how you were getting on. Thank you also for this hug. It feels like a Please come again goodbye. It is. And dont take so long to ring me this time! No, Maam! This would not be the last time I saw Stephanie. We saw each other a number of times, and each time I wanted to get to know her better. I told her about being on the IVF program and how it had, eventually, driven Jenny and me apart; she told me about her husbands obsession with fast cars and how his driving frightened her. I told her about my life change to photography and writing; she told me about her getting involved in community life
in her adopted town. The time came when she invited me to dinner at her home. This was, perhaps, an acid test: would I pass muster? She provided food, I provided wine. The evening passed all too quickly before I proposed to her and she accepted. This is, perhaps, how events would have turned out thirty years ago if I had not been so stupid. That kiss lasted for a long time!
Poetry
Put Another Nail in the Coffin

Cathy Curtain
The suns rays danced with bright colours of hope On beating hearts with love so bold But time long passed the light grew dark and grim The storm winds soon did gather in Put a nail in the coffin The knifes sharp edge stabs at the happiness It bleeds in unjust bickering Love taken for granted promises gone What happened to a love so strong Put another nail in the coffin The labour pains bore the love out in vain Sorrow is all that now remains The childrens heartbreak crying out loudly In broken songs of lullabies Put another nail in the coffin And when their tear-filled eyes happen to meet The pit is now too very deep The sun will no longer shine in the dawn The withered trees have broken boughs Put another nail in the coffin
The bed of deaden flowers lay in dust A monument to love and loss The poison insecticide can take blame For all thats left is saddened shame Put another nail in the coffin Blindly the system takes away the mind The judges hammer falls down harsh In the hands of others to tear apart No mention of the broken hearts Put another nail in the coffin The house is left cold now, an empty nest The spiders webs can tell the rest The fires hearth of ashes in a mess Corridors of shattered wills left Put another nail in the coffin The hole that swallows up the last remains Of broken dreams and teary eyes Its sad to say the happy story ends Its time to leave and let it rest Put the last nail in the coffin
The Journey
Cathy Curtain
I remember the dark of the early morn I remember the cold and dreary dawn I remember the station of old Preston town I remember the grey stone all around I remember the strain on my fathers face I remember my aunts warm embrace I remember mums tears upon her cheeks I remember the whistles tooting shrieks I remember my family boarding the train I remember my relatives waving goodbye I remember thinking would we see them again I remember our sorrows were all in vain I remember the suitcases all that we had I remember isnt this a holiday? Dad I remember the wonder in my brothers eyes I remember the sun creeping through the sky I remember the steam as we pulled away I remember the clicker clack on the way I remember the tear in my own little eye I remember.
All that pale fragility

Chris Scriven
All that pale fragility those meringue wings flaking white from heaven falling and this glass of water filled with wings of angels
Birds are nesting in their throats

Chris Scriven
Birds are nesting in their throats Laying their songs to sleep In the soft pink down of their insides Where everything that matters Is a secret Birthing in the wombs of throats In a language We discover some nights In dreams And burst suddenly awake Knowing everything and nothing
The storeman
Chris Scriven
Master of the intricate. He counts bolts, washers, nails, screws commits their size and shape describes them in knife-accurate code. Universes of parts in shallow cardboard boxes, wooden trays and boxes of tin. His shelves stretch the ceiling. All known, indexed. In her chest a cell broods, divides, multiplies beyond his ability to decipher. A code gone wrong, something misplaced. They make him file her in the labyrinth of the dead. Her stone a blunt label; his days a confusion of stacked memories. Each night he dreams her: maps the blue veins in her palms, catalogues the fine bones of her feet. He renders her perfect Again.
A Dying Breath
Colleen Gale
the mirror recedes; her breath held in the calm. flecks of light shine through her long, braided hair the water enmeshed in pools of rotating swirls, combing the surface of memories held in pockets deep. she winces, her body held back amidst confusion. as an afterthought she rummages through the dresser, unlikely to find what she most dreams of and desires. she searches deeper, and deeper, probing her centre. the faucets of the bath are attached tightly. she unscrews the top drawers of the dresser, underneath the broken shards of wooden pile, where she stacks her thoughts pressed down in piles of rags.
where the curtains hang below the waters edge, she peels back the foaming edges of plastic, caught between the inside world and the outside world; she pulls heavily at the sides of the gaping bath. narrowing her eyes, she opens another layer of herself. she taps at the edges of the cascading flow of water, as she spills her emptied dreams in gallons grasping for one last momentary flash of hope. rocking back and forth, her knees bending in time, the flow of water gently subsides her small body aching for stillness; the pure essence of time sheltering her thoughts, her senses, her mind, as a loud crackling sound emerges.
lost in a dying breath, her body is shaken then stilled; the mirrors vision fogged with her last curling, crying breath. she longs no more; her nakedness addressed utmost. the lightness of water and her vision, no more perplexed.
Pondering tomorrow
Daniel Fowler
Yesterday I thought tomorrow was the greatest place to be But now Im here, Ive got to tell you, that it really seems to me That tomorrows not much different from the day that came before And this seems to bring to light a fact I just cannot ignore. For if todays tomorrows yesterday and both days are the same Then I cant tell for the life of me why I should ever aim To head toward tomorrow, considering all Ive got to find Is a rather very similar thing to what Ive left behind.
Euphoric Taint
Colleen Gale
The drip on her tongue is sweet. She licks the salt clean and she licks The back of her hand clean The taste is sweet also. She kisses the sweetness Between her lips the dryness She licks smooth her lips, her mouth Both smooth, salty, and dry. She closes her eyes tight, As she hears a light breath A sound as soft as a night breath, Dark and whispering in her ear. She curls over still tasting As if tasting a whole breath, but sweet; Her face moulded in the darkness, Of light against night.
She imagines riding alone over hills, Bare back across dry, desert scapes Her mouth tantalized by the Desert air smooth, salty and dry. She recalls a distant humming. She awakens from a night dream; The venetians clanging and her mouth Salted and sweetened. The cooling air with freshness, Sweeping in spills across her face, where Flickering light glistens over her pores; Her skin dappled in hues of pinkish-reds. Her desert memories come back to her, In a wave of cutting, lifelike ambitions, Where her avid senses are compelled to draw in A familiar existence of reality once more.
Spider Fright
Di Fisher
Driving down the winding road On my way to work, I pulled the sun visor down The bright sun to divert. But what do I see to my surprise Right before my eyes? A giant spider on the visor All hairy legs and eyes. The road is windy I cant stop I worry he might fall, A spider landing in my lap Would be the biggest shock of all. I finally found a patch of road Where I could safely stop, I waste no time in jumping out My heart felt it would pop.
You see - these hairy critters No bigger than my hand, Terrify me like no other Creature in the land. I finally found a plastic bag I could hold beneath the visor, While I pondered what next to do Into it dropped the spider. Im normally not a litterer And so I cringe to admit it, I threw that spider in his bag By the road to be rid of it. Its not the first time Ive had this fright Its happened other days, So now I spray the visor With long lasting surface sprays.
A Cup of Tea
Louise Wardle
Parched and thick, Is my tongue. The kettle has been filled and placed upon the stove. Sandpapered and shrunken, Are my eyes. Tea leaves are placed in the ceramic pot. Clammy and wrinkled, Is my skin. Boiling water poured into the tea pot. Crusted and raw, Are my nostrils. A flowered teacup placed upon a saucer. Befuddled and tired, Is my brain. First tea, then a splash of milk. Waxed and sensitive, Are my ears. A cup of tea to cure my ailments.
The Wrinkles on Your Face

Di Fisher
The wrinkles on your face tell The story of your life, Portray the happiness and laughter Bear witness to the strife You may wish the lines away To have a smoother look, But a face without its lines is like Blank pages in a book.
Bank on View
Gail Remnant
A two-laned street flowing past balustrades of lace, grey, hewn buildings stepping down the hill with feet of stone. At its base, horses spew falls of water from graven throats. Banners holding pillows of air flutter, strain against moorings of moulded iron. Tall trees with figured bark throw dappled shade over tables of slatted wood. One enters on terrazzo tiles of tan, yellow-gold, lounges near braziers spreading clouds of warmth, or settles in a lamp-lit corner under floral clusters picked out in jewel-bright colour. When arrives a chocolate bake and strong, dark brew aroma curls in air and flavour evokes a muse. As sipping, tasting, the poet takes up the scribes implement and begins to write
Little Yellow Vase

Gail Remnant
A yellow vase on wooden trestle squats, amid the jumble of cup, plate and fork You cannot sell that! She replied Why not? For many years it was part of my life on sill, or tank stand. Just there, never used, never valued or thought of, but always just there. A squat little pot coverd in paint. Small coins changed hands, and I carried it home And stripped it and buffed it with soft, fine steel wool. Character began to emerge, its shape, of delicate rim with finger marks still imprinted on white clay, but fired long ago. With moulded motif of apple, twig and leaf, its all I have that my great-grandmother touched.
awakening
Gena McLean
lids flutter at the speed of slow the breath silent journeys inward then out I sit steady as the stillness lingers watching listening feeling awake for the first time
bliss
Gena McLean
hands cold but covered corpse-like surrendering to the stillness breath by breath each moment merges seamlessly into the next the breath barely breathing every second sinking deeper into stillness stay the distant whisper stay and from the stillness a symphony of blooms opening one by one bliss erupts contentment found there is nothing to do but be
waiting to inhale
Gena McLean
its a two-cup kind of morning tired eyes wander without purpose as I move aimlessly from room to room I sigh and wait for the next breath that never seems to come Im not lost just far from home so for now to kitchen and cup and the tea that I trust
winter
Gena McLean
winter has made itself right at home the light of my spirit fading grey after grey is it too much to ask for just a little sun
Haiku untitled #1
Jan Bayliss
in winter sunshine man and dog hurry past these old gravestones
Haiku untitled #2
Jan Bayliss
Autumn delights! There amongst the blackberries white nerines.
I smile, He frowns.
Kim Leithhead
In his white-walled kingdom he thrusts with words Cutting jaggedly, Ripping my reality. He proclaims and it is truth His truth But only a slice of my truth. He claims lives Families He demands loyalty Fealty Slaves vulnerable to his bidding. His words But words wear Time wears I smile, Enough. He frowns, Never.
JUNE MOON solstice June 2013

Judith Church
this June moon over full tonight spills a skirt of light across the road up the fence a small cat tiptoes eyes star-bright paddles in the pool of flooded moonlight its shadow mirror-slides along the path a bird asks from under its wing is it too soon to sing? the moon snared in a cats cradle of bare branches slips up, over and away catches the small shape following its shadow dazzled stars blink following the moon path down the sky into day.
You are I am
Judith Church
You fell into the spell of Central deserts colours leapt up from the sand spilled down from skies. You had not seen this before born to goldfields bushlands blues green quartz ridges miners cottages, sandy roads little country shops. You watched amethyst ranges roam along curved horizons broke spicy mulga branches picked purple mull amullas You saw dark shapes flicker through spinifex, golden cassias You met the true keepers and carers of this country. Ai, look yu whitepella Ai, look yu tjulkurru. You walked with little black kids heard the bird-like flitter of their voices sat in sandy creek beds let a dog pee on your foot.
You took the love of deserts to Darwin found shallow seas warm as wee moved in humidity thick as fog moved among trees too green sleepless nights full of mating frogs mornings opened damp curtains to heat call of the desert in spilled sand in the corner of your suitcase, a sandstone pebble you packed damp books, a coconut a cyclone blew you back south. You found other little black kids another dry sandy creek bed you kicked sand on dog pee dug bush yams, picked bush berries learned to track a lizard You slept at night under Southern Cross glass-bright stars you watched then turn over You were in thrall to the deserts You still are I still am.
Lament
Lynda Graham
News whispered on wire Dead, dead Nicotine assassins Nurtured Triumphant
Betrayed Where was your promise? Laid cold with you in white satin
Regret laces the night, cobwebs the memory
I loved you
Not enough
Doubt
Mitchell Roberts
Doubt is the worm within The maggot that swells succulent Growing fat on the flesh of future forseen Doubt is the cancer the flayer of hope reason turned foul Doubt is doom unborn In doubt given life are all things ended
Good ol Jack
Mitchell Roberts
I tells ya I saw im ovr cross the way Twas good ol Jack I tell ya headin out ta play Hes already dead, so ya say Well I heard that one too but aint it strange, dntya think twas not one Jack, but a few Couldnt decide who ta blame this much is bleedin true they couldnt work out between em if twas prince, painter or Jew Im a drunkard so ya say, well that me sirs is true But I used ta be a cop and when I saw good ol Jack I hadnt touched a drop!
John Pizer, a local Jew who made footwear from leather, was known by the name Leather Apron and was arrested, even though the investigating inspector reported that at present there is no evidence whatsoever against him. He was soon released after the confirmation of his alibis. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ Jack_the_Ripper)
If then
(a surrealist experiment by the 2013 Poetry & Lyric Writing Class)
If rainbows were forever then fire engines would be my favourite things. *** If planets spun out of orbit then bells would hum instead of toll. *** If stars could come and visit wed never watch TV. *** If I was born a boy my beat would be silver. *** When it broke like an egg in a dogs mouth the Maenads joined a knitting circle. *** If petals loved to dance on the wind the world would be ablaze with colour.
Out of your sight, out of my mind

Mitchell Roberts
You are inside a sound-proofed glass box There are no doors only glass, unbreakable, unmoving glass. But this is no police drama; You can see them, but they cant see you they WONT see you. Your box is sparse a disconnected phone child-safe crayons and 10 year old crossword or two. Sometimes others enter your box some wailing tears of frustration daydreaming of an end, any end. Relief denied by the deaf and the blind. Many more hold to silence or mumble quietly things of meaning to those who would just listen All obvious killers in waiting.
Demagogues of justice, freedom, equality know their words will never be heard or heeded for unlike a virtuous politician all know they are simple delusional. Never mind One moment please
Out come the needles Off to the naughty corner a box within a box hidden further from reality. Please calm down
Keep quiet do what you arent told dont make too much of a fuss or too little. Youll be fine Just ask the other happy residents.
postcards from hong kong

Natalie Loves
1 near a pile of ancient clay roofing tiles each shaped over the curve of a womans lower thigh coiled the fabled serpentine black mamba thicker than a mans upper arm 2 a stooped and gnarled old woman with a scythe in her hand and a funereal hat on her head tended the family vegetable plot framed with bamboo thatching and fed with human excrement 3 the 300 year-old wishing tree was fenced off after the last crepe-paper wish rolled up and weighted with an orange snapped a bough and killed a man
4 in a shopping centre amongst the forest of towers with its ice-skating rink and american-chain ice-cream shop a woman in the rest rooms greeted me with a bow and wished me a good day 5 after the sudden dump of monsoonal rain crackled shards of ancient pots part-patterns of cherry blossoms and butterfly wings pink on blue yellow on green rose above the creamy mud
Dope Trials
Robyn Miller
Allegedly Unknowingly Accidentally Deliberately Injected What was in that? you asked Oh, its not on the banned list; it will do you no harm. No need for alarm
No one will know. We dont think it will show. But if it does, we are here to protect you. The club will support you. away. Well be here for you today. (after that we cant say.) Really you are on your own. You know youve been a fool. I told you so. You know when you signed for this sport; you gave your body
Madness
Robyn Miller
Madness Raging While we slept__________________ 3am Lights on Startled__________Awake! Cupboards wrenched wide Linen flying___________________________ Chaos_______________________________ Brooms stand sentinel Watching__________ Medication? Tablets emptied into a colander washed clean under the tap Chaos_______________________________ Certified______________________________
Ambulance____________________________ Cackling; tied down and carried away at dawn_______ Undisturbed, suburbia wakes to a new day.
Smashed eggs
Robyn Miller
I collected and washed the eggs for grandma She was laughing; she pulled the tea towel closer, the eggs, hidden inside, hit the floor and smashed. She laughed again. My grandma tossed her head. Were I at home, my mother would have clipped my ear until it rang, my eyes, blurred by stinging tears, my nose, running with snot. But grandma laughed. Her flowered apron, rounded by her shape, and trimmed in colour, was lifted to her eyes. She cried and laughed. I watched surprised; my fear deliciously released.
An Idea of Everything
Shantara Johnston
Somehow by a miracle did I take a first breath, so how was I not to think miracles commonplace? Someone under a full moon read to me romantic tales, so I have always believed in fanciful nonsense. Somewhere across the world are two inseparable birds, so I wait naturally patiently for something called love. Someday it will all make sense, somehow, someone, somewhere. Until that time comes I have a lot of dreaming to do.
Bugs
Shantara Johnstone
There are bugs in my bed They arrive in the night And slip into my head Disappear out of sight Not a gross sort of bug One that offends the eye Like a spider or slug Centipede or blowfly Ive never really seen Any bugs of this kind But Im sure they are clean And are rather refined The reason why I think There are bugs in my brain I wake with a new link In the memory chain When Im up in the morn I am full of ideas Something else must have worn The words into my ears
There are different bugs Who have different plans One oft hides under rugs And another bangs pans The sort I value best Are affectionate types They are shy in their quest And are soft on their pipes But great tales are expressed Like adventure and love I try hard to digest Every detail of There are bugs in my bed They arrive in the night And the things they have said Give me something to write
The Royal Bud Ball

Shantara Johnstone
When the king of the court leaves his summer abode All the flowers escape from their beds To assemble inside the great palace ballroom As the moon shines upon all their heads When the roses in their golden crowns come inside The red dahlias line up and bow low The blue violets then waltz with the hyacinths sweet And the tulips chasse in a row The campanulas flit with a merry appeal And the daisies hold leaves as they spin Not a petal is left out of the greatest dance Even poppies and peonies join in
The piano is played by the lily of gold Its the lowest and sweetest of sounds As she plays, her face nods from one side to the next Through the palace her music abounds You have only to peep through the window at night To see blooms lightly spring to and fro Its a marvellous game and a beautiful view Very few of us humans will know When the moon goes to bed for the coming of dawn All the flowers wish each other goodnight And return to the garden to dream till the sun Bathes the palace in his golden light
Novel Extracts
An Unfortunate Encounter
Daniel Fowler
For generations the Empire has remained separate from the uncivilised tribes and unnatural creatures in the uncharted wilds. This is due to a mysterious force that prevents magic from functioning within the imperial borders and stops imperial tech from working beyond them. Without warning, this force has disappeared, and the implications are huge. Seeking to protect the Empire and gather information, the Emperor has ordered anyone manifesting signs of magic to be captured. When ten-year-old Valissa discovers she has the gift for magic, she and her family find themselves fugitives in their own country. Unwilling to live their lives in hiding, the only hope for her family to stay together is a desperate journey across a hostile land to pass the border into the untamed wilderness.
ir Bren shifted in his saddle, trying to ease the ache in his backside. His horse snorted softly as it trotted along the worn dirt path. The dappled shade cast by the trees lining the path moved gently in the light breeze. Vibrant birdsong mixed with the chirping of insects and clopping of the horses hooves. Bren found himself thinking the trip would have actually been enjoyable were it not for its importance and the fact he had to wear his damn armour the whole time. His hand fell to the pouch at his side; within were some of the most valuable materials in the empire. Bren carried not gold or jewels but samples of a rare, newly discovered plant. The scholars at the capital felt the juices of the plant could be used in combination with the powerful new weapon being developed at Krennig Fort near the border. In Brens opinion, with the magic returned it was
only a matter of time before the border settlements came under assault by all manner of spell-casters and uncanny beasts. In such an event, any advantage the imperial guard could get would be welcome. Thats why Bren now found himself playing the role of courier; his package was too important to trust to any of the usual merchant companies. He sighed. In years past, he would have been able to travel these parts without fear of harassment. Not that he was afraid. Though many of the guards had been summoned back to the capital, the rabble now plagued the roads posed little danger to a warrior such as him. After all, one doesnt come third in the Kings Tournament of Arms without possessing enormous skill. Granted, Brens mentor Sir Perryl hadnt been present at the tournament. Nor had that other one, that mysterious Nostrum fellow who did so well in prior tournaments. Regardless, he was undoubtedly one of the best fighters in the Legion. Bren shifted again and rolled his shoulders, freezing halfway through the motion when he noticed a figure leaning against a tree farther up the path. One hand went to his sword hilt, the other reined in his horse. He scanned the surrounding trees for signs of ambush, but saw none. Confident in his ability to defeat a single foe, Bren drew his sword and pointed it at the figure. I am Sir Bren, Lord of Yll province, High General in the Imperial Legion and he who broke the siege at Llanower Castle. Announce yourself and your purpose here. The other man stepped away from the tree, a smirk on his face, and walked to the middle of the path before turning to face the lord. I know you Bren, he said, almost spitting the name, and I dare say your purpose is far more interesting than mine. Care to share it with me? The man did not seem concerned at all that he was showing such disrespect to a lord of the Empire, and that alone caused Bren
to examine him more closely. The stranger seemed completely at ease with the situation, his arms crossed in front of him. Besides being slightly tall with a short sword sheathed at his waist, he looked entirely nondescript. He had short brown hair, a clean shaven face and was dressed in the drab brown clothes one might expect from a farmer. One look into the mans cold, hard eyes told Bren that he was no farmer. Bren couldnt see the telltale glow of charged equipment emanating from any part of the mans clothing nor any armour. Convinced the mans confidence was born of ignorance, Bren urged his horse closer. What I do is no business of yours, scum. Now move aside before I strike you down. Listen Bren, the man said. I know what you carry. Give it to me if you wish to leave here alive. Bren laughed, trying to hide the sick feeling hitting his gut. It was supposed to be a secret. No one was supposed to know. Bren drew his sword from its sheathe. It matters not what you think you know; you may not threaten a lord of the Empire and expect to live. He moved to spur his horse forward when the man shouted out again. Coward! I thought you were a champion of the Empire, yet youd run me down on your horse rather than face me in honourable combat? Are you afraid to face me on foot? Bren smiled. He felt no fear; he just wanted to be on his way quickly. Thinking on it, he realised it might not be such a bad thing to get off his horse and stretch a bit. Keeping the other man in view, he dismounted and took his sword in both hands, facing the stranger in the middle of the path. With a deft motion, he twisted the pommel of his weapon. It locked into its new position with a click, activating the charge within and causing the blade to crackle
and hum with the power of lightning. Hot, white sparks danced along the entire length of the sword, highlighting the grin on the face of its wielder. I hope youve made peace with your god, fool. Bren charged the other man, thinking to cut him down with a single powerful swing. He approached quickly, experiencing a moment of confusion when his opponent didnt draw his weapon. Then he was in reach. Swinging his blade, Bren found himself stumbling when his attack met nothing but air. He recovered quickly and spun to find the man behind him, sword still sheathed. A lucky dodge, he snarled, and leapt forward to attack again only to meet with the same result. Bren turned to face his opponent again. The man was quick, but it didnt matter. Bren wouldnt charge wildly again. The man would die. He raised his sword to attack but his opponent was gone. Bren blinked, surely he couldnt just disappear. He spun, but the man wasnt behind him. Weapon raised, Bren turned slow circles, but his enemy was nowhere to be seen. Eventually, he lowered his sword and yelled toward the trees at the side of the path. Who is the coward now? You are right to be afraid! He waited a few seconds before turning toward his horse, shutting off his sword to cease its constant crackling. As he began to take a step, he felt an incredible burning pain rip into his back and chest. He stared in astonishment at the hole that had appeared in his breastplate and at the blood gushing from it. As he watched, the blade which had pierced him shimmered into view. The man could use magic! They were already within the Empire! Horrified, he tried to take a breath but realised he couldnt. Then he was on his knees, and a voice spoke from behind him as his vision began to fade. Why would I be afraid of a dead man?
The Caretaker
By Donna Bridgeman
The Caretaker follows the journey of fifteen-year-old Sophie, whose family moves into an old miners cottage in the early 1980s, a time before mobile phones and social media. As her parents begin to renovate their crumbling home, the caretaker of the house is disturbed: Izzy, the beautiful ghostly inhabitant of Sophies bedroom who died in 1917 when she was sixteen. Sophie is, at first, very frightened when she realises she is not alone but soon discovers Izzy is not so different from herself. Izzy is unable to leave the house and needs Sophies help to break the curse which binds her there. She desperately wants to be reunited with her former suitor who now lies dying. Sophie catches the eye of Tom Bailey, the great-grandson of Izzys love, and finds herself wondering if its co-incidence that has brought her and Izzy together? Or has fate intervened and Sophie entered Izzys life for a purpose?
CHAPTER 1.
enovators Delight, cursed Sophies dad, Gavin, to his wife, Linda, as the hammer he wielded crashed through the floor of Sophies bedroom. Sophies family had moved into the old miners cottage, built in the Victorian era around 1890, a few weeks before. Her parents, Gavin and Linda,planned to transform the crumbling, faded house into a restored and functional family home. The old house had
been advertised as a Renovators Delight, which translated asin need of heaps of work, loads of money, time and patience. Her bedroomdesperately needed some paint, as the walls were a strange mauve colour and the timber work and cupboards were a dirty cream. One of the features of Sophies room was the disused fireplace,which dominated the wall adjacent to the window. The old fireplace also let much of the outside weather into Sophies room,along with droplets of rain and other uninvited guests such as flies and mosquitoes. Sophies parents had decided the fireplace and its tiled hearth had to go. Sophies bed, which was normally in the middle of the roomon the wall opposite the window,had been shoved against the wall behind the door so as to not get in the way of the demolition. Sophie sat on her bed and pretended to watch what her parents were doing. She actually admired herself in the mirror, behind her bedroom door, from her new vantage point. *** Like most fifteen-year-old girls, Sophie spent a fair amount of time in front of her mirror styling her medium length, straight, sandycoloured hair. Her blue eyes were framed by long, dark eyelashes whichwere the envy of many girls in her class who had to battle with their mothers about the use of mascara. Sophie considered herself to be reasonably pretty, and she was of average height and had a slight build. She asked her parents if she could have a fulllength mirror in her room so she didnt have to spend so much time in the only bathroom in the house. They quickly obliged, and the mirror had been hung behind her bedroom door in the first week they moved in. Not a bad achievement, considering the list of jobs her parents had of things which needed doing. As Gavin carefully tapped away with the hammer to remove the tiles, a large hole appeared and this was the reason for the cursing. Great, thought Sophie as she dragged her eyes away from the mirror, it has to be my room which has a hole in it.
Gavin continued to tap away and confirmed the worst to Sophies mother,Linda, and Sophies younger brother, Jamie, who were trying to peer through the hole as Gavin worked. Theres absolutely nothing under there!saidGavin.I have no idea what this floor is even sitting on. Perhaps we should take a look under the house and see what is going on around the chimney, suggested Linda. They all trudged outside, and Sophie lagged behind as she really didnt want any more bad news. The family waited beside the chimney whilst Gavin crawled through the tiny access door to get under the house for a closer look. Nothing but old rock and rotten timber under here,but I dont think it will take too much to fix it up, called Gavin, as he struggled for air in the enclosed space.Ill add this to the list of things the builder has to do when he gets here tomorrow. I hope it doesnt scare him off. Sophie could hear her dad move underneath the house; he tested out stumps and floor boards as he made his way back. There is quite a lot of interesting stuff down here, he said.Old paintings and tins with old-fashioned labels. Hey Soph, missing a boot? he asked as he flung something in Sophies direction throughthe access door. Ew, yuk, said Sophie, jumping backwards and screwing up her nose as she looked down at the old, dusty, brown leather boot at her feet. Oh look, exclaimed Linda as she bent over to pick it up.I wonder what the girl who used to own the boot was like. Have a look,Soph;its like something from Gone with the Wind or Little Women. Sophie reluctantly went over to her mother for a closer examination. It was an old fashioned girls boot, the kind that would have laced up above the ankle back in its day. Sophie took
the boot from her mothershand and turned it over. This mustve been down here for a hundred years, said Sophie excitedly. I wonder what the girl was like, too; did she live in this house, did she go to my school? Is there another one there, Dad? Not that I can see, said Gavin, still under the house.Oh wait. Whats that? Sophie listened as her dad shuffled around. Soon after, another object came flying out through the access door. Oh how cute! exclaimed Sophie and Linda in unison. Sophie bent over to pick up the much smaller boot her father had lobbed out from under the house. What is it? asked Jamie as he brushed his dark curls out of his eyes.Can I have a look? Its another boot, said Sophie,but its much smaller than the other one. Sophies mothertook the smaller boot from Sophie and examined it herself. I think this boot wouldve belonged to a girl about four or five years old, said Linda. Sisters? asked Jamie. Or they couldve belonged to the same girl as she got older, said Sophie.Can I keep these please Mum and try to clean them up? Of course, said Linda.There is some saddle soap in the shed that should do the trick, but you will need to give them a good clean to get the dust and mud off them first. It would be nice if you could do it outside. Great, I wonder if there is somewhere we can get some information about the people who used to live in the house, Sophie said to Jamie as they hurtled off in the direction of the shed. *** Sophie sat on her bed, now back in its usual place, as she waited for dinner to be ready. She and Jamie had cleaned the boots that
afternoon,and they had tried to breathe some life into the old leather. The boots were remarkably well preserved considering the amount of time they mustve spent exposed to the elements. The metal fixtures were a little rusty, but all the nails were still in place. Sophie thought if she put another coat of saddle soap on the boots and then oiled the leather, they would be almost as good as new. Shehad placed the boots on her window seat and now she stared at them. Shetried to ignore the piece of tin and bricks on the floor, which covered the gaping hole. She imagined two girls in pretty, long white dresses with lace trim and blue ribbons in their long, straight blonde hair. She listened to her motheras she clattered in the kitchen and thought of telling her friend Lily all about the boots tomorrow at school. Lily likes old fashioned things, she thought. Maybe she can come over after school tomorrow to have a look. Sophie had chosen this room to be hers, as she liked the big window which overlooked the overgrown yet pretty garden. The flowers were choked by other plants and weeds that competed with each other for the sunlight, but she particularly liked the climbing rose that wove its way thru the garden and up under the veranda. The rose would often tap at Sophies window whenever there was a slight breeze. She could smell its sweet scent whenever she sat on the window seat under the big window in her roomand would watch as the climbing rose beckoned her outside to fully enjoy its perfect white blooms. *** Sophie! Tea, called Linda, interrupting Sophies thoughts. She took one last look at the boots, and hurried down the barefloorboards of the passage towards the kitchen. *** Sophie and her family watched television in the lounge room after
tea, and when Sophie went to her room later on, she didnt bother to turn on her light as she retrieved her pyjamas from under her pillow. It wasnt until she had said goodnight to her parents and was about to climb into bed that she noticed the boots were no longer on her window seat. Jamie! What did you do with my boots? yelled Sophie as she stomped across the passage to Jamies room. Jamie also had a bedroom at the front of the house with an equally nice view of the garden, but the climbing rose hadnt yet made it to his window. Sophie flicked on his light, and he rubbed his eyes as he sat up in bed. Sophie again demanded a response as to the whereabouts of her boots. I dont know Soph, I havent seen them, said Jamie. Mum! Jamie took my boots!bellowed Sophie so her mothercould hear her in the lounge room. What is going on Sophie?askedLinda.Why have you woken up Jamie? Hes taken my boots. No I havent, I havent seen them since before dinner. Well I havent seen them since before dinner either, said Sophie with her hands on her hips.Hand them over now! Thats enough Sophie. Have you seen the boots, Jamie? Linda calmly asked Jamie. I told you, I havent seen them since before dinner when Sophie took them into her room. I left them on the window seat and they are not there now, so someone must have taken them. Lets go and have another look,said Linda wearily. Sophie returned to her room,andher mothersettled Jamie before turning off his light and walking across the passage to Sophies room. See Mum, they arent here; someone has taken them. What is all the racket about? asked Gavin as he appeared in
the doorway.He peered over his wifes shoulder. You are making enough noise to wake the dead. Sophie told her dad about the missing boots as she searched her room, looking under her bed, in the cupboards and either side of the window seat. She was tempted to lift up the bricks and tin to check in the hole under floor but thought better of it. They were definitely gone. Well they must be somewhere, said Gavin as he wandered back down the passage to his comfortable chair in front of the television. They will turn up, love, Linda said as she helped Sophie into bed. They cant just disappear. Sophie lay in bed and stared at the dark ceiling for what seemed like hours. She tried to work out what couldve happened to the boots. Jamie mustve taken them. Its not as though someone would break in and steal two old boots and touch nothing else. Yep, Jamie definitely has them; Ill search his room in the morning. *** Sophie eventually drifted off to sleep and began to dream of the two blonde girls in the long, white, lacy dresses she had imagined earlier. They laughed as they ran up a hill, surrounded by tall sundried grass and purple wildflowers. Sophie noticed one of the girls was older and much taller than the smaller girl. The tall girl had long, straight hair down to her waist. She had beautiful features with porcelain skin and the bluest eyes Sophie had ever seen. The younger girl had a similar length of hair, but it was a darker blonde and had a slight wave in it. She too had beautiful features and striking green eyes, but she had dark shadows under her eyes. The girls stopped when they reached the top of the hill. The wind blew their hair in their eyes and, as the girls held hands, they each tried to keep the hair out of their faces with their free hands.
The scene changed. The girls now sat on a bed in a room that seemed familiar to Sophie. The old fashioned wrought-iron bed faced a window with a window seat underneathwhich overlooked the garden. On the adjacent wall was a fireplace where a small fire crackled as the girls chatted and laughed. In the dream, Sophie stood in the doorway, opposite the fireplace. The girls paused their banter and turned to face Sophie as if they noticed her for the first time. The girls faces suddenly lost all expression as they said in unison, Get out of our room! *** Sophie awoke gasping for breath. As she stared at the dark ceiling once again, she tried to understand why the dream had frightened her so much. She became aware of the strong scent of the climbing rose and its tap, tap, tap on her window. Sophie began to feel something wasnt quite right as the hair on the back of her neck began to rise. She leaned over to switch on her bedside lamp and the last thing she remembered as a scream erupted from her throat was the sight of the two old boots in their place on her window seat.
In Darkness Lies
Izzy Perley
On Livys 29th birthday she receives a mysterious parcel: a red duffel coat. The coat opens up a series of repressed childhood memories of physical and psychological abuse. Livy begins to search for the truth and learns of the existence of her mother, the stunningly beautiful and dangerously psychotic stage actress and dancer, Simone. In order to find the answers she needs, Livy must sift through tantalising and often terrible memories. Her journey unlocks some astonishing discoveries and tests the relationships of those closest to her.
Chapter 32 At Last
hat happened? The words tore out of her. She had no time for a greeting or civilised chatter. No time for tea. No time for scones. You have to tell me what happened! Calm down, said Noreen. Calm down. Whats all this about? The railway station, Livy said, words tumbling out faster than thoughts. She choked, nausea rising, and fought it back down. Please, please tell me what happened that day. If you know you know, dont you? Noreen nodded. I was there, said Livy. I remember the noise, and the smell,
and her, Simone, standing on the platform beside me. And she let go of my hand and she walked away. We were running away to France; thats what we were doing! Only we never made it there. I dont know why. There was an old lady, a smelly old lady with a trolley and she she smelt like those peppermints you always have. And she was kind to me after Simone went away. Why did she go away? We were going to France together! Why did she leave me behind? Oh Livy, said Noreen. She didnt leave you! Not for more than a moment. I dont understand. I was there. On the platform. I remember she was beside me, and then she let go of my hand. Come. Noreen patted the spot on the sofa beside her. Livy sat, pressing her shaking hands tightly together between her knees. She didnt leave you. She was planning to take you to France! Only, it didnt work out that way *** Olivia, quickly. Come quick. The voice penetrated her thoughts and roused her with a suddenness that left her breathless, heart racing. Simone had come back! Not that she had been worried, really. Her mind had been on the queer tasting peppermint sucker that the odorous old grandma had given her. She turned around and saw Simone, her mothers cheeks flushed pink from the chill air and breath coming in short excited gulps. She had never looked more beautiful. Somewhere, somehow she had lost her beret and her rich dark hair lay free about her shoulders. Her crimson lips were parted as she panted. Please, Olivia, she said. What is it maman? asked Livy, choking a little as the juices from her sweet tickled her throat. We must go. At once. But why, maman? You said a train and an aeroplane and France so we can be together. Olivia, I will explain later. There is no time now.
I wont go. She stuck her bottom lip out. Simone looked behind them, nervous. You must, she said, her voice shrill. She tried to grab Livys hands, but Livy tucked them firmly beneath her red-coated armpits. Livy knew several tricks for evading would-be capturers. She could make her whole body go limp so it was almost impossible to move her, and she was good at kicking her hard feet. Her mother had promised an aeroplane. She had come with her to the train station. Everything was going fine. Then Simone let go of her hand and went away somewhere. Now she was back and suddenly they had to go somewhere else? No! Livy was good at saying no. She wanted the train and the aeroplane. She wanted to go to France. Mostly she had created a picture in her mind of France where there was magic and dancing and just the two of them, happy. Nobody was going to take it away from her now. As Simone pleaded and pulled, shooting fearful glances around them, passers-by looked at them curiously. Most chose to lower their eyes. One dark man in a grey suit paused long enough to frown and say, There are CCTV cameras here. Just so you know. Another woman screened the eyes of her toddler and muttered, Some people shouldnt be allowed to breed. Simone stopped tugging at Livy and turned away with tears in her eyes. She scanned the station once more, satisfied that for now at least there was no recognizable threat. She drew in a ragged breath and swiped impatiently at her eyes. In the moment her back was turned, Livy had inched carefully away and now stood over the yellow painted strip of safety line, perilously close to the edge of the platform. When Simone turned toward her once more, her eyes widened. Olivia, she said. Come away from the edge of the platform, mon cherie. It is not safe there, and the train is coming. Livy sensed a sure victory. Wont, she said, pouting. She glanced behind her and saw that her heels were close to the edge of the platform. She shuffled backward a little, fearlessly. Ill come away if you promise to take me on the train like you
said. She teetered a little on her heels. Otherwise Ill jump off, maman. Simone reached for her, but Livy shuffled back further, so that the heels of her boots stuck a little way over the platform and she swayed. I mean it, she teased. The roar of the train drew nearer. A security guard yelled, Move! Move, little girl. Somebody move that child now! The train came closer. The piercing shriek of the iron wheels rang. Other voices joined the security guards. Livy decided it was time to move away, but a part of her still needed confirmation from Simone. She opened her mouth and said, Maman, but the noise swallowed her voice. Suddenly Shaun was there running toward her! He was yelling something, but she couldnt make out the words. She knew she would be OK, now. Maybe dad was coming to France too. He would know how to fix things. He always did. He would tell Simone that she oughtnt to break promises. He would make sure they got to France. She knew it. Her grandparents stood behind him. That was weird. She knew they wouldnt all be here to come to France. Nanna and Grandpa didnt like Simone. And they hardly ever came to visit, come to think of it. And there were three uniformed police officers, too. She was confused. Maybe this was like that other time. The policemen had taken Simone away then. She wouldnt think about that now. Thinking about it made her frightened. Simone didnt like it when she was frightened. Simone cried and called her name. The old lady came toward her. She clearly heard the scrape of the little plastic trolley wheels across the platform and the flap of the loose vinyl pocket. Here was someone who didnt want anything from her, and Livys lip quivered in an uncertain smile. She couldnt see her father anymore or her grandparents. She could see Simones black eyes filled with tears. Poor little thing, said the old woman, letting go of the handles of the trolley and taking a stumbling step toward her. Poor little girl. And then Simone was there too, but she was scary again - all-black eyes in a white face, crimson lips parted in a snarl, big white teeth hungry
like they would devour her. Little Red Riding Hood flashed through Livys mind; Simone was the wolf. Simone was screaming at her, but she couldnt hear the words. White hands bit into her, red taloned nails pinching. A second set of hands were on her, age-spotted hands, and about her wafted the pungent odour of old age, decay, and peppermints so close she could almost taste them. The faces above her seemed to blur and morph into one; luminous black eyes in an ancient face, demon red lips cackling a witch laugh, black, red, tweed, heady perfume intermingled with impending death. It was like the other time! Something terrible was about to happen! The hands on her shoulders were pressing down. They hurt. It felt like she was being pulled and pushed about. Stop! she wanted to say, but when she opened her mouth, no words came. A rough shove from Simone left the old woman seated on her bottom. The look on her face would have been funny under other circumstances. The train was coming closer, a giant bee humming along the railway tracks. Simone crouched before Livy so that their eyes met. Simones eyes were still angry. There were tears on her cheeks, too. Curiously, Livy wanted to touch one of the shiny tears. The train was coming closer. Simone opened her mouth to speak and Livy placed a finger there on her lower lip, to silence her. The platform shuddered with the vibrations from the train. Simones hands were on Livys chest, flat palmed. The train was almost there. Everything around them seemed to melt, so that there were only Simone and Livy and a train left in all the world. Maman, Livy whispered, her words snatched away. Olivia, Simones lips shaped her name. For a moment she bowed her head, her hair falling about her face. When she looked up again, her eyes had a sad far-away look. It was the same look as before, when things had gone so terribly wrong. Before when she had looked through Livy like
she didnt really see her at all. Before when she had done things and said things that were scary; things that had to be locked away deep in Livys mind so that bad dreams wouldnt come. And then seemingly effortlessly, Livy was soaring through the air. Im flying, she thought and almost laughed. The voices and the noises blended into one roar through which she heard an endless, eldritch, high-pitched keening, and then everything went black. Burying her head in her hands, Livy sobbed uncontrollably. She choked and gasped as she moaned. No. Oh no, no, no. Maman.
Fading Echoes
Jaime McDougall
In a town full of werewolves and legends, Charlotte Peterson is unique. As the first pure-bred werewolf in Echo Falls, she struggles to fit in even amongst her pack. When Dr Adam Baker arrives in town, Charlotte is forced to balance their growing friendship with her need to keep the packs secrets and her own. But she is not the only one keeping secrets and Adams past could threaten them all. That is not the only danger. Compass, the genetic research company intent on isolating the werewolf gene, will do whatever it takes to gain the final advantage over all werewolves. Compass CEO Calvin Stephens has a very special plan in mind for Charlotte Time is running out for Charlotte and the pack as Calvins plans near completion. In a town where secrecy is the key to survival, can Charlotte trust Adam to help her? Or has she revealed the deadliest secret of them all?
rder up! The kitchen bell rang and Charlotte glanced at the swinging door before turning back to the four people sitting in the booth in front of her. So that was one cappuccino, one latte, two lemonades, two kids chicken nugget meals and two Sophies Specials. At their nods, she smiled. Charlotte ripped the order off her order notepad and walked toward the kitchen, enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sunshine streaming in through the floor to ceiling windows along the front of the cafe. She liked the time after the lunch rush. Things were usually a bit slower - even if they were a bit louder to her sensitive ears - with moms bringing their children in and tired shoppers
looking to relax after wandering Echo Falls city centre. But many of them only ordered coffee and sweets. Customers with bad moods or bad attitudes rarely came in during this time, and usually they were the workers who did odd shifts and needed sleep. Unfortunately, today was one of those rare days. The man had come in ten minutes earlier and ordered only a black coffee. When he moved to a booth, a feeling of dread pooled in Charlottes belly, but hed waved her off when shed asked him if he wanted to order anything else. After a brief explanation that her name wasnt babe, he seemed content to drink his coffee and stare out the window with no more interaction from her. Now, as she walked by, she heard the man mutter sugar before feeling his hand on her backside. Without thinking, she spun around and grabbed his hand, squeezing it. Hard. His cocky smile melted away to a mixture of fear and pain as he stared down at her hand squeezing his. One knuckle cracked and then another as he tried to pull free from her grasp. Sweat began to bead on his already shiny forehead and he shook as she leaned down closer to him so he could hear her whisper. Ive already told you: my name is not sugar or babe or sweet thing. You can call me miss or Miss Charlotte if you want. Two choices. Got it? He looked up at her, pale and shaking as he nodded. And you never, ever, touch me. Even if someone tells you that you can touch me, dont touch me. Ever. Got that? He nodded again, glancing down at his hand. His fingers had turned deep red - almost purple. For a moment, she wanted to squeeze even harder to make sure he never touched a girl without her permission again, but she released him instead. She stood straight and forced herself to smile. Would you like anything else? He shook his head just as the bell rang again.
She all but raced to the kitchen. Sophies chef, Otto, arched an eyebrow but said nothing as she raced past him. She ran to the sink, turned on the water and loaded her hands with soap. She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her jaw, trying to take deep breaths as she scrubbed her hands. Stupid mistakes, Charlotte. Stupid mistakes. I think theyre clean, love, Otto said after a few moments, when her scrubbing - and her breathing - had slowed. She opened her eyes and stopped washing her hands. He smiled and winked at her, and she couldnt help but smile back. This wasnt the first time hed heard about one of her mistakes out in the diner. That he always took her side made her value his friendship all the more, but that didnt stop her from feeling silly when she told him. She sighed and used the water on her hands to smooth back the blond hair that had broken loose from her ponytail. Looking around the kitchen full of stainless steel, she found peace in the calm, clean order of the room. Both the owner, Sophie, and Otto kept very high standards. It was no surprise that Sophies Cafe had been running for more years than Charlotte had been alive. She walked over to the salad bench, dug the order out of her apron pocket, and then hung it on the front of the bain marie. Stupid mistakes, Otto. I keep making stupid mistakes. The guy grabbed me. I know I shouldnt have overreacted, but he... and I just... He shrugged and then tossed a vegetable stir fry in the wok. Every woman has a right to defend herself. Its his fault for insulting a super wolf. He winked at her and she smiled. When shed turned twelve years old, Charlotte had become a fully-fledged, shifting werewolf. She had to learn all the things that every young werewolf had to learn, the most important being keeping the one secret that linked them all together.
But the difficulties of having her bloodline had started long before then. The daughter of two werewolves who were born rather than bitten, Charlottes birth had been a first for the Echo Falls werewolf pack. No one had thought anything special about her birth until she was six months old and her eyes had settled permanently into the golden yellow other werewolves only got when they were feeling intense emotion. Shed been wearing colour contacts, which made her eyes dark blue, for longer than she could remember. As she grew older, her senses became sharper and she became stronger as well. Managing her senses and being careful of exposing the pack became her life. On the night of her first shift, some of the pack expected something amazing to happen. To her relief, the transformation into a werewolf appeared to be the last change she had to deal with. Most called her a pure bred, but she liked that term as much as she liked customers who grabbed her backside. Otto never called her pure bred. It wasnt his fault. Not really. She let out an explosive breath and crossed her arms over her chest. Im twenty years old. I shouldnt be doing anything that draws attention. I need to be in control. Always. No one is always in control. Not even me, and Im a lot older than you. A full half a foot taller than her and easily topping three hundred pounds, Otto looked like the last person you would ever want to be out of control. But beneath the muscles and tattoos he had earned both in jail and on the road, Otto remained a man who dreamed of being a world famous chef. That dream had been killed nearly twenty years ago, before shed been born, when hed been bitten by a werewolf. In a short time, hed gone from promising young chef to having done jail time and later joining a motorcycle gang. Charlottes
father, Will, and the Echo Falls pack leader, Aidan, had caught him drunk driving in Echo Falls about fifteen years ago. When they discovered he was a werewolf like them, they offered him two choices: a job and a pack or more jail time. Otto chose the first and became a true pack member when Charlotte was seven years old. Theyd been firm friends since the day shed started work as a waitress at Sophies. Dont worry about it, he said. We all make mistakes. Just dont let one of them be letting the orders come out late. She reached into her apron pocket and took out the vial of mint oil she always had with her. She rubbed it on and around her nose. The cafe and the people in it were too overwhelming to even tempt her to try to go without. Okay, she said and walked over to wash her hands again, but Sophie is going to have my neck if she sees I lost her a customer. Knowing Sophie, shed rather not have him, he said, bringing over the meals ready to be taken out. She grinned and took the plates from him. Ill tell her you said that. By the time she walked back out of the kitchen with the next orders, the man had gone. Hed left a generous tip, and guilt washed through her as she put it in her apron pocket. Some of the other customers looked at her strangely, but the true cafe locals thought nothing of her putting a customer in line. They had seen Charlotte take care of herself before. She delivered meals, served drinks, and smiled when she needed to for the rest of her shift. But in the back of her mind, she replayed the incident over and over. Shed wanted to break the mans fingers. The trouble was that she could have done it. Easily. If she ever gave into temptation How many times had her father lectured her about keeping a handle on her abilities? How many times had she been forced to fake being unable to lift or carry something or pretend not to have
heard something that should have been impossible for her to hear? Her sense of smell had created her own private torture until shed discovered the mint oil. Stop lecturing yourself, she thought, tossing her apron in the laundry at the end of her shift. Youve heard it all before. But if Dad finds out... She paused, thinking about how much shed earned on bets. If there was anything she didnt want him to find out about, it had to be the fights. Luna held them once or twice a month, depending on how many people wanted to take her on, but any other werewolf from either town would happily skin them all if they were found out. She kept a lot of secrets from her father. Andrea, another waitress who was starting her shift, smiled as she tied her apron around her waist. Tough shift? Charlotte shrugged. Table thirteen will be gone by the time you get out there, so youll be starting almost completely new. Sophie hasnt had any problems with keeping up the coffee and cakes. Its pretty slow right now, really. Andrea pursed her lips. Slow afternoons always sounded like they should be a blessing, but the busy shifts made the time go by faster. She quickly smiled again and gave Charlotte a little wave like she always did before starting. They went in opposite directions when they walked out of the kitchen. Charlotte watched her for a moment, wondering how Andrea always seemed to be in a good mood. She walked over to Sophie at the coffee machine and sat down on one of the bar stools closest to her. Though she couldnt say exactly when she started, shed gotten into the habit of never leaving before having at least a small chat with Sophie. Only when Sophie had a line of customers and Charlotte had somewhere to be did she leave with a simple goodbye. Heading home, Charlotte? Sophie asked.
The long way, she said. Tom said hes fixed my laptop and my parents invited me over for dinner. Beautiful. Sophie said, her smile lighting up her entire face. Not for the first time, Charlotte admired Sophies seemingly effortless beauty. She always dressed in loose, flowing cotton clothes from her flower child days, keeping her midnight black hair in a pixie cut and always wearing at least three pieces of turquoise jewellery. She used to wear silver jewellery until a strange twist of fate brought her both a chef and a waitress who had severe allergies to silver. In fact... Sophie walked behind the display desserts and plucked out some of Charlottes favourite sweet: macaroons. She put them into a paper bag and then handed it to Charlotte. Tell Tom I said hello. And remember to share. I will. She looked at the brown bag and then smiled at her. Thanks, Sophie. Dont worry about it, she said and winked. Charlotte got the feeling that she was talking about something other than free macaroons.
The Gentle Art of Doing Bugger All

Mark Slattery
Nigel Darknor Ponsonby is, at fifty-five, professionally charming, intelligent and cunning. He has been able to rise quickly through the ranks of a number of organisations, but an inability to fully anticipate consequences has seen all of his plans miscarry. This time it will be different. The Research Institute Into the Gentle Art of Doing Bugger All has attracted some of the worlds most powerful people to Nigels resort-style, de-stressing clinic in the Malaysian jungle. Nigels program is unorthodox he will use drugs, subliminal messaging, luxury depravation and brainwashing. It will all go badly wrong. Gilbert is a bonobo, the alpha male of his tribe, and Nigels right-hand man.
ilbert looked up from the back of his first mates head, his tongue foraging along his teeth for the last gritty bits of ticks and mites. The sounds of a being thrashing madly through the jungle came closer again, and Gilbert half expected it to stop for a while before teetering off in yet another direction. The noise did cease, and Gilbert resumed the careful grooming, but only for a moment. A new sound rose from the edge of the clearing opposite them, a gibbering half-cackle-sobbing which drew a grudging sigh from Gilbert and caused him to push his mate away. He called his tribe down from the trees where they had been enjoying several hours entertainment. Madness was not known among them. The sight of any creature tripping, dragging and crashing its way through the undergrowth would normally threaten confusion and panic.
However, this creature was a known entity. Far from understood, but known. It was George. Shortly after, Gilbert, his tribe dutifully behind him, watched as the naked, dirt-encrusted, bloodied form of the unlikeable human staggered out of the jungle and fell to its knees before slumping onto its haunches. A tittering of amusement began behind him which Gilbert silenced with a snarl, barely turning his head. It was an unusual situation. These beings rarely travelled singly. All through the morning, as its movements caused a ruckus in the usually melodic bird noises, Gilbert had expected more of its kind to follow, recapture the thing, and return to their nest. Instead, here it was in theirs and obviously in need of care. There was no need to move. Any animal so wounded would eventually collapse into sleep and be safe to approach. Until then, Gilbert would keep his tribe safe behind him. As the sun continued its slow decline from high overhead to the tops of the nearest trees, the tribe settled back into its habitual grooming. George remained motionless except for the slight rising and falling of his chest, and the slow lengthening of his shadow. An unfortunately mistimed pluck dragged several hairs by their roots from behind Gilberts left ear, startling him into a vicious back-hander sending the plucker rolling backwards. It also brought Gilbert out of his docile reverie, blinking and staring about until his eyes fell on George. There had been no change in his posture and it was getting late, the last of the sun slanting shadows through the tops of the trees. Gilbert motioned to two of his lieutenants and bounced with them across the clearing, stopping short of Georges slumped form. Gilbert leant forward and began sniffing about for the scents of a sleeping thing casually discharged farts, stale breath, dried sweat when Georges hand struck like a cobra. Screams erupted from behind him as the tribe panicked, urged on by the two lieutenants
rushing around towards and away from Gilbert, desperate to save and helpless to attack. Gilbert had had no time to move as a huge fist closed around his neck. Gilberts bulging eyes looked across the strong, straight, fixed arm, over the rock of shoulder, the neck, jaw and cheek into eyes just as bulging as his. Stuck in the grip, slightly raised off the ground, Gilbert calmly accepted his death and closed his eyes, allowing his body to go limp. Apart from the increasing pain and the awful din of the tribe, nothing happened. He risked a crack between his left eyelids. Georges right eye seemed to be staring directly back at him. Gilbert changed cracks. Georges left eye, its gaze parallel with his right, stared blankly past Gilbert. Not a predatory gaze, Gilbert thought and relaxed even further. What now? The shrieking around him brought command back and he raised his arms out silencing it. Without knowing where his lieutenants were, he simply motioned his hands, fingers clawed in twice in a come-hither gesture. Instantly they appeared at his sides, confirmed by quick peripheral glances. He brought his hands to Georges and mimed loosening the fingers. His aides leapt forward and peeled the stiff, barely-yielding fingers away from Gilberts throat. Like a disengaged robot, the digits opened one by one until Gilbert was able to drop to the ground. Instinctively he rolled out of reach and stood facing George, prepared to run. Georges arm remained outstretched, fingers pulled apart revealing a palm as open and immobile as his bulging eyeballs. Fascination overcoming fear, the tribe moved forward forming a circle, transfixed by the image of power set in stone. And so they remained as evening slunk through twilight into night. *** Back at the resort, Nigel had had no time to notice Georges
disappearance. What had begun as a day of quiet contemplation including meditation and yoga had descended into scenes of Boschlike proportions. All the guests were displaying very disturbing signs of weirdness. As he stared about some were rolling naked upon the lawn outside the meditation hall. Worse, some were enthusiastically evacuating their bowels and rolling back and forth across the mess. Where the fuck is Gilbert? Nigel thought. Day Three, described in the brochure as Ayurvedic Infusions, was all about drugging the guests into a pliable stupor. It had seemed to have gone well. Even George and Ambrose, notably at each others throats, had sat quietly numb, eyes vacant, and jaws slack throughout most of Nigels rambling discourse. Everyone had to be carried to bed. The 5am start to Day Four was intended to continue that sense of disorientation. As each guest was woken from their slumber, dressed and led complacently to their mats in the Meditation Hall, the overall plan appeared to be entirely on track. Once all were seated and the days first infusions were placed before them, Nigel had dismissed Gilbert and his helpers, confident that none of the guests would be capable of movement. Apart from sipping their drinks, which they did, slowly and quietly. Nigel had prepared his morning well, beginning with many ohms and structured breathing. The first disturbance was a series of coughs scattered throughout the room, which eventually died down. They were too intermittent for Nigel to pay much attention to, but later he realized that they were the start of the end of his day and quite possibly the end of everything else as well. An hour or so later the giggling started. These were less easy to ignore and spread more rapidly than the coughing. Two hours into the morning and nearly every mat in front of Nigel was deserted, the guests rolling around the room in fits of hysterics. Nigel was more than perplexed he was no longer in control. Nevertheless, he continued talking, hoping that, like the coughing, the giggling would settle and his guests would resume their mats. They didnt. Things got worse.
Introspection
Tom Levett
After going through many trials and tribulations, Janus van Basten has finally reached his wedding day to the love of his life, Elendra Yokata. Janus and his best man, long-time ally Jack ORiordan, discuss Januss change of identity as they prepare for the big day, while Elendra waits in the church with Januss sister, Joanna, and his boss, Gallagher. Many events led up to this important day, while some nearly resulted in it never coming at all.
anus stood in front of the mirror in his hotel room, dressed only in the trousers of his new black suit and a pair of socks which had been darned a few times. He looked at his reflection and ran his hand down the long scar on the right side of his torso before losing himself in reverie about the wound that caused it. How many times have I made it home by the skin of my teeth? he thought. The day I got that scar, and countless other times, I almost didnt make it. I mean, for a long time I never thought Id be in this situation, and Im glad I am, but it scares me to think of how many times I nearly wasnt here at all... Is that your outfit for the ceremony, or is there more to it? Janus smiled and turned to face the speaker. Jack had taken his usual pose in the doorway leaning back, the brim of his trilby hat down over his eyes and a cigarette on the go. I bet the scar will be a real winner in the fashion stakes, Jack said drily. Trust me, Jack; I will be wearing the whole suit. I was simply
lost in thought for a while, Janus said, collecting his shirt from his bed. Not getting cold feet, are you? Jack didnt move, but Janus could tell by his smile that he was just teasing. Not a hope. Ive earned this day, and I intend to enjoy it. Jack blew out a wisp of smoke and stood up, brushing cigarette ash off his suit. Youre pretty lucky, you know. Im sure you know full well not many people get to leave the business the way you are now, he said, holding out a small box covered in red velvet. You spent enough on this, and damn near got yourself killed trying to pay for it. Janus took it from him after finishing his shirt buttons. I know all too well. He opened the box and looked at the diamond ring within it. Im fortunate those stupid risks I took saving up for this only left me with this gruesome scar. He paused and closed the box, staring at the mirror once more. Jack didnt say anything, but instead looked at the mirror with him, cigarette smouldering to a stub. After a couple of minutes silence, Jack walked onto the balcony and placed his cigarette in the ashtray provided. He then called out to Janus. Youve changed a lot over the past years, Janus. I cant help but wonder about it. When you look closely at yourself, what is it that you see? Janus ceased his contemplative staring and his brow furrowed. Well... thats hard... He put the box with the ring in his pocket and started stroking his chin. Give it some thought Jack said. He retrieved his lighter from his right trouser pocket, then pulled out another cigarette from his battered case and lit it. Ill be out here, so come and tell me when you find the answer. Janus stood and looked at himself in the mirror for a full five minutes, struggling to come up with something worthwhile.
I know what I used to be... I was solitary, cold-hearted, cruel and bitter. I did what I had to do to succeed at my missions; I was driven by the money I earned. I followed the bosss orders, gave everything up for the mission. I might have been the perfect mercenary, but I was far from human... I was no more than a marionette, really, and much of that was my own fault. I wasted seven years of my life, perhaps more, behaving like I did. Its a shameful thing, though it has strengthened me in the long run... But what am I now? Who am I now? He started to get bored with failing to come up with an answer and began to fidget with his suit, making sure his shirt and trousers were just right. As he did so, he brushed against the box with the ring in it, and the answer rushed into his mind. I am a survivor. The scar I bear is testament to that, but its not all I am. I am a mercenary no, was a mercenary. My job will no longer define me. I am a friend to people now, but friendship is not the only thing I have to give. I love someone who loves me in return, but its been hard-earned. I have much in my past to be ashamed of, but at the same time its helped me change my ways and Ive learnt so much. I cant believe how brutal and savage I used to be, even if I did have what I claimed were reasons. They seem petty now that I look at them being ostracised for possessing Dark-element powers and seeking revenge on the world. Becoming a mercenary and dragging in the broken corpses of criminals was one way to get that revenge, and seeing the scum of the world run amok was such delicious fuel for my hatred. But that was still no excuse for what I did to Elendra. It was like I couldnt accept her, like I couldnt handle positive emotions. I wanted to keep her safe, but I just couldnt or maybe didnt want to relate to her. Everything I was then shaped me into what I am now. We learned from our mistakes and we earned each others respect, friendship and finally love. In the end, then, who I really am... Janus picked up his suit jacket and put it on, before getting his tie and walking out to the balcony.
Jack, can you give me a hand with my tie? Oh, sure. Jack flicked his cigarette butt into the ashtray and set about fixing Januss tie. By the way, Janus, did you find out your answer? I believe I have, Janus said. Jack finished the tie and looked over Januss suit, giving a nod of approval. You actually manage to look right at home in a suit. Now come on, hand over the ring and lets get you to the church. Were late enough for your wedding. Janus smiled. My wedding Never thought Id say that. Lead the way, best man. *** Elendra Yokata stood at the altar of the church in the centre of her hometown, looking slightly nervous. She had been waiting for this day for a very long time a bit over nine years. It had been that long since Janus had walked into her life, and hed had a profound impact on it she had fallen in love with him at first sight. There had been a significant difference to the typical love story, though; Elendra had spent six of those nine years chasing the vagabond mercenary down. Hed walked out on her in the middle of the night a few months into their relationship so he could return to his job. Not only that, but, unbeknownst to him, she had been pregnant at the time quite a startling revelation for him. When shed finally found him, trouble had erupted. Janus had refused to leave his mercenary work, and she had stubbornly tried to drag him back with her so he could take responsibility for everything hed done. Neither of them had made the others life very happy during that time. I feel embarrassed when I look back on the road which brought us here. How long did we spend fighting each other? How long did we hurl insults at each other, demean and belittle each other, argue pointlessly for hours on end? And yet, now were taking such an important step in our lives.
How did that bond grow so strong out of such hatred? Hes bloody late. Punctualitys a basic courtesy, and he should know that. Elendra was startled out of her reverie by Gallagher. He was standing in as the father of the bride, as Elendras parents had refused to have anything to do with Janus at first and then all but disowned their daughter for the incidents following her reunion with Janus. Though it was meant to be a happy day, the occasion had not mellowed him. Elendra knew that he was usually a benevolent boss; he just did a good job of not showing it. Janus will be here, I know it. Hes promised not to run away from anything again, and I believe him. Januss sister Joanna nodded her agreement. Due to the decision of Elendras parents, Joanna had accepted the job as Elendras maid of honour. My big brother wont miss this, Mr Gallagher. Bloody well better not. If this was a job, hed be docked pay for being a slack-arse. Gallagher grunted. Turn up late to a job and things could already be fu- Mr. Gallagher! the minister interrupted, drowning out Gallaghers profanity. Please show more decorum. This is a church, after all. Gallagher, this isnt a job, so please relax, Elendra said soothingly. Janus will get here. Hed bloody better. As the minister started admonishing Gallagher for his bad language, Elendra drifted off into her thoughts again. Though she was lost in reverie, she could hear Joannas additional teasing, the admonishing making Gallagher even more annoyed. Janus claimed he didnt care about me, but he wouldnt let me die. I abused that mercilessly just to make him pay attention to me. I cant help but feel guilty for it. I put him and so many other people in danger just so I could feel better about myself. At the same time, Janus only knew how
to push me away, even when trying to show concern for me. His spiral of hatred had destroyed his ability to relate to people. It got worse when I messed up trying to help him. Elendra looked down at her hands and shivered; the pure white of the wedding gloves did not feel right on them. Janus yelling at me used to be my greatest worry; compared to the mistakes I made, the lives I destroyed, it seems trivial. And then when I heard my son Vincent had run away because he felt his parents had abandoned him... A few tears fell down Elendras cheeks. Vincent was the child she had conceived during her initial tryst with Janus. She had wanted to bring Janus home and make him raise Vincent with her, but she had been forced to leave Vincent with her mother during her years of searching and only saw him during her occasional visits home. The day after Janus had snapped and banished her after she messed up, nearly getting Jack ORiordan killed among the other lives lost by her errors, shed learned Vincent had run away. He was still missing without a trace, presumed dead. The only person who noticed her cry was Wolfram Haas, the company marksman. Elendra had found the ace sniper to be a good friend from the start; his girlfriend had designed her wedding dress. Whats upset you? he asked. She dabbed at some of her tears, trying not to wreck her makeup, and sighed. Oh... I was thinking about everything that happened leading up to today. There were too many hard times... Wolfram smiled and wiped some of her tears away with a handkerchief before looking startled on realising hed smudged her makeup. Er... Sorry about that, he said, blushing. I still managed to smudge it... Oh, its fine, she said. I dont think Janus will care, really. At least, not about that, he replied. Youll feel better if you
think of all the good times you have had. Your faith in each other was repaid, wasnt it? Many times over. I still believed in him doing the right thing, even when I felt I couldnt. I was distraught, almost in denial, afraid to face my failings. Afraid to face reality. I nearly hanged myself because I couldnt face what Id become. Janus saved me from death again. He was ultimately honest about his failings; I was afraid to be because I thought hed push me away again. Instead, despite the fact I cost lives and nearly ruined him, he accepted me. He gave his utmost to heal my tortured heart, to make me feel human once again. In doing so, I found what I needed to heal his heart as well, to give him a place in the world. Weve changed each other for the better at last. At first people said we would make a great couple because we were equally horrid to each other now they say we look just like true lovers. I dreamed about this day, but I never thought it would come. Ive learned so much since coming to the mercenary company; Ive become more compassionate and less stubborn. And now, as a symbol of how far weve come, our hearts will finally be joined. Its taken nine long years of change but its worth it. I cant wait to get married and to finally have a new child to love. This time, there wont be any mistakes. Elendras thoughts were interrupted again, this time by a loud creaking sound as the church door opened. She smiled as Janus walked down the aisle, looking very handsome in his new suit. Jack followed him, a cigarette still on the go and his hat on. When they arrived next to her, Jack took off his hat, hung it over the side of a pew, and stubbed out his cigarette on the font, earning him a black look from the minister. It didnt faze him, and he made a little gesture indicating he had Elendras ring. Joanna held up Januss, and everything was all right to start. As the minister began his initial speech, Janus took Elendras hand and looked into her eyes, smiling. He had finally found the answer to who he was. Everything he had gone through, every
trait of his, added up to one ultimate conclusion: He was the one who decided where his life would take him. He was Janus van Basten, soon-to-be husband of Elendra Yokata, and that was all that mattered to him.
Screen Writing
Her Fear
Luke Poulter
HER FEAR is a drama set in urban Victoria with realistic themes, characters and plot. The self-discovery of a mother and the way she deals with her problems will help her deal with the baggage that she carries. HER FEAR is the story of Julie, who overcomes the overwhelming fear triggered by a traumatic accident she witnessed during her childhood. HER FEAR deals the emotions and worries that all mothers, indeed all parents, go through and can relate to. As well as deal with the grief from a childhood tragedy and how understanding and inner resolve can help heal old wounds. Adapted from the Short Story: Fears of a Mother by Luke Poulter
FADE IN SCENE 1 EXT. CAR PARK - MORNING A car pulls into the swimming pool car park. Inside the car is a young family (TRENT, JULIE and TRENT JUNIOR). TRENT parks the car close to the pool entrance; camera zooms out from a close up of family in the car, to a medium shot outside of the car. CUT TO SCENE 2 EXT. CAR PARK - MORNING An overhead shot of the swimming pool. Camera zooms in to see people swimming.
CUT TO SCENE 3 EXT. CAR PARK - MORNING Camera angle shot at eye level. The family is getting out of the car and walking toward the entrance. Shot behind the family at waist height, following them into the pool grounds. CUT TO SCENE 4 EXT. SWIMMING POOL MORNING RANDOM VOICE Cannonball! The family pays their entrance fee; JULIE is holding JUNIORS hand as they walk through the entrance. JULIE Are you excited? TRENT SR (Cutting in) He seems fine. TRENT JUNIOR Yeah, Mum, sure am. I cant wait. Both parents are looking around the pool. CUT TO SCENE 5 EXT. SWIMMING POOL MORNING TRENT JUNIOR is looking around the pool with his parents who are looking for a spot in the shade;
JUNIOR is getting anxious to swim. JULIE I hope that sunscreen doesnt wear off him. TRENT SR Nah, it should last all day. TRENT JR Can I go swimming now? BOTH PARENTS Not just yet. CUT TO SCENE 6 EXT. SWIMMING POOL MORNING The family finds a spot in the shade where TRENT SR gets his son to put his towel on the ground. JULIE has a look of concern and fear on her face. TRENT SR Put your towel down there, mate. TRENT JR Where? TRENT SR Right down there mate, put it on the grass. Thats it mate.
CUT TO SCENE 7 EXT. SWIMMING POOL MORNING JULIE drifts off into a dream sequence flashing back to past. FADE OUT VOICEOVER: JULIE Have I done enough for him? FADE IN SCENE 8 EXT. OLD SWIMMING POOL MORNING At a Swimming pool set 12 years ago, we see a young JULIE, 12 years old, entering the pool grounds. She runs to the fence line of the grounds, gets changed and jumps in the pool. CUT TO SCENE 9 EXT. OLD SWIMMING POOL MORNING JULIE is walking around in the pool checking out guys. CUT TO SCENE 10 EXT. OLD SWIMMING POOL MORNING A scream comes from the end of pool. The camera pans to where its coming from. DROWNING KID Help! I cant swim! Please help
CAMERA PANS TO SCENE 11 EXT. OLD SWIMMING POOL MORNING A five-year-old kid is drowning. A LIFEGUARD dives in to rescue him, grabbing the kid from the bottom of the pool. CUT TO SCENE 12 EXT. OLD SWIMMING POOL MORNING The LIFEGUARD drags the kid up to the surface and starts trying to resuscitate him with CPR at the pools edge. LIFEGUARD Kid can you hear me? Breathe Cmon breathe. CUT TO SCENE 13 EXT. OLD SWIMMING POOL MORNING As the pool patrons gather around to watch, JULIE is joined by her FRIEND. FRIEND Hey JULIE, whats going on? JULIE (Worried) A little kid was drowning. The LIFEGUARD dived in to get him and now he is trying hard to save him. The LIFEGUARD is getting nowhere.
LIFEGUARD Breathe BREATHE DAMN IT. BREATHE. JULIE is starting to get really fearful for the Kid and her hands start to tremble. JULIE (To herself) Cmon kid, you can make it. CUT TO SCENE 14 EXT. OLD SWIMMING POOL MORNING PARAMEDICS arrive to help the LIFEGUARD but its too late to save the kid. The pool falls silent along with the LIFEGUARD who is white as a ghost and shocked. JULIE is visibly upset and starts crying uncontrollably. The camera zooms out and we see the scene of a still crowd and pool grounds. FADE OUT/IN SCENE 15 EXT. TREES AT SWIMMING POOL MORNING - PRESENT DAY Back in present daydreaming. day TRENT interrupts JULIEs
TRENT SR Did you have fun in lala land, dreamy head? JULIE Shut up TRENT.
TRENT JUNIOR Can we go swimming now mum? JULIE (Concerned) You can go swimming real soon, ok honey? Your Dad will take you instead okay. TRENT SR Hang on why do you want me to take him? He wants you to take him. JULIE (Trying to change the topic) Its nothing; dont worry about it, ok? Ill catch up with you two soon; I just need a minute to myself. TRENT SR Alright then, you take it easy and Ill take him then, because he really wants to go swimming now. TRENT SR and JR go off to the pool; JULIE composes herself and follows them preparing to reveal her painful memory.
DISSOVLE TO SCENE 16 EXT. CHILDRENS POOL MORNING TRENT SR and JUNIOR are at the pools edge. The camera tight on Both TRENT SR and JUNIOR TRENT SR You ready to get in mate? Yeah? Let me hop in first then. CUT TO JULIE joins them at the pool; the camera follows JULIE from the tree to the pool where she meets up with TRENT SR and JUNIOR. JULIE Wait I have to tell you something. TRENT SR Okay darling, shoot. JULIE When I was twelve years old, I witnessed a young boy drown because he didnt know how to swim. TRENT SR Oh, shit. Did you known him? JULIE No. I had never seen him until that day. Thats
why Im extremely anxious about JUNIOR swimming. JUNIOR stands waiting, TRENT SR responses to JULIE a little defiantly, but tries to reassure her. TRENT SR We have gone swimming together many times before Junior was born and there werent any problems, so why are you so worried now? JULIE Because, TRENT, what if it happens to JUNIOR? TRENT SR These days lifeguards are properly trained, and there are stricter regulations in place now, not like it was in our day. JULIE But it didnt stop that kid from dying that day did it? Most kids dont listen to the lifeguards. And just because there are more rules today, it still wont stop any kid from drowning will it?
TRENT realises how serious this is to JULIE and takes a sombre tone. TRENT SR So did you know how old the kid was? Also was he there with his folks watching over him? JULIE The little boys parents were not there with him, and I read in the newspaper that he was five years old, the same age as JUNIOR. JULIE has an epiphany, realising why she has been so fearful. With the camera close up, focused on her facial expression changing from being scared to relief. JULIE is suddenly overcome with relief knowing she is there for JUNIOR. JULIE I will never let that happen to our boy. I will protect him and always be there for him. She looks down at both TRENT SR and JR, smiling at both of them. As she is about to speak again TRENT SR cuts in.
Look!
TRENT SR
JULIE braces herself and looks to see JUNIOR splashing about in the pool. The camera focuses on her proudly smiling at JUNIOR. FADE TO BLACK
Non-Fiction
The Role of Nature in Ecocriticism

Louise Wardle
hat is the role of Nature in ecocriticism? Whilst pondering this question, several other questions immediately sprang to mind: What is ecocriticism? What does it have to do with literature? What do fluffy white clouds, open fields and rolling hills have to do with ecocriticism? In an endeavour to answer these minor questions, in regards to the bigger question of the role of nature in ecocriticism, I will provide a broad definition of ecocriticism and working definitions for the purpose of this essay of nature, human and non-human. I will explore and compare William Cronons brand of ecocriticism with that of Timothy Mortons. I will also analyse William Wordsworths Written in Early Spring a poem from the Romantic Era using both Cronons and Mortons versions of ecocriticism before applying my own thoughts to each concept. Hannes Bergthaller describes ecocriticism as a relatively new way to analyse literature. He suggests that it emerged in the 1990s as a response to the Global Warming Crisis but has far-reaching roots; as far back as the Romantic Era. Ecocriticism is based on the interaction between and the distinction of the human and non-human worlds. It engages with sociology, philosophy, ethics, science and environmental history. Due to the diverseness of ecocritical theory it is known in some fields as environmental/
ecological literary studies, green cultural studies or, as I was first introduced to it in my political ideologies class, ecologism1. The Free Dictionary website defines nature as natural scenery or elements of the natural world: mountains, rivers, flora, fauna, etc. It also states that the natural world exists apart from humans and/ or civilisation2. The website defines a human as [a] member of the species Homo sapiens; a human being3 and non as meaning not4. Therefore the definitions I will adopt for this essay are: Nature is the natural scenery that exists without the presence of mankind. Human is our species or mankind. Non-human is NOT mankind, or other than human (animal, vegetable, mineral). In The Trouble with Wilderness; or, Getting Back to the Wrong Nature, William Cronon states that Nature is not quite what it seems. He suggests that Nature does not stand apart from humanity but is a human creation. It hides behind a mask of naturalness, but is really a reflection of human desire and longing. Cronon suggests that Nature is mistaken as a solution to the problematic relationships with the non-human world (69). He argues that even though Nature is a human construct, there exists an aura of profundity, and Otherness (70). Further to this, Cronon implies that an association with eighteenth century ideology and the King James Bible had produced a fear of the wilderness. Wilderness meant isolation, savagery and barrenness; a place of moral temptation and despair, somewhere one was forced to go against ones will (70). By the nineteenth century this view began
1
Hannes Bergthaller, president of EASLCE, gives a brief but all-encompassing introduction to Ecocriticism in his article What is Ecocriticism? on the European Association for the Study of Literature, Culture and Environment website: http://www. easlce.eu/about-us/what-is-ecocriticism/.
2 3
nt definitions for the purpose of this essay: http://www.thefreedictionary.com/nature.
The Free Dictionary provides many definitions for human. I have utilised the most relevant and simplest definition for the purpose of this essay: http://www. thefreedictionary.com/human.
4
The Free Dictionary website for non: http://www.thefreedictionary.com/non.
to change due to a growing number of American citizens wishing to see those areas designated as raw and beautiful. The terror that the wilderness once evoked began to wane (74). Cronon claims that ecologism stems from romanticism and postfrontier theories (71). He infers that the Romantics had the notion that God could be found within the wilderness and that these powerful landscapes could evoke a variety of emotions leaving humans feeling insignificant and aware of their own mortality (72). He implies that nineteenth century writers like John Muir, Henry David Thoreau and William Wordsworth, introduced the idea of Nature as a direct connection to God. This notion contributed to the mountain as cathedral myth (74). Cronon states that Nature as Gods own creation provided an escape from the historical Judeo-Christian values (78). He also suggests that the romantic notion of Nature is perpetuated by urban people who spend their time gathering food from restaurants and supermarkets rather than living on the land. Further to this suggestion, Cronon intimates that only urban dwellers, totally alienated from Nature, would uphold the notion of living in the wilderness as an ideal human state with little to no thought as to how they would make a living from the land (79). However, for this notion to work, Nature would have to be and remain in a pristine state; untouched and removed from humanity. This is far from the truth, Conon states, for it is on record that man has manipulated and intervened through various projects, both big and small with Nature throughout history (81). According to Earth First! founder, Dave Foreman, before man developed agriculture they lived in the wilderness and were a part of Nature. With agriculture came permanent villages, crop surpluses, irrigation ditches and roads; man was using Nature for their own purposes, thus becoming separate from Nature. Foreman claims that the only way in which human beings can hope to live naturally on earth is to follow the hunter-gatherers
back into a wilderness Eden and abandon virtually everything that civilization has given us (82). Cronon claims that [t]he wilderness dualism tends to cast any use as abuse, and thereby denies us a middle ground in which responsible use and non-use might attain some kind of balanced, sustainable relationship. Further to this, Cronon believes that only by exploring this middle ground will we learn ways of imagining a better world for all of us: humans and nonhumans He adds that the middle ground is where we actually live. It is where weall of us, in our different places and waysmake our homes (84). Cronon proposes that, in order to preserve Nature, man must embrace and honour the Other in all of its incarnations our gardens, parks, forests (both near and far) and respect what incorporates our homes (87). Alan Watson agrees with Cronon in that very little can be done about our environmental crisis until man stops viewing Nature as a possession that can be exploited and/or converted (Watson, 47). Robert Wess is also of a similar opinion. However, he puts the blame for the exploitation of Nature squarely on the shoulders of modernity; man does not see himself as an inhabitant of the Earth, but as something else (Wess, 4). Timothy Morton is a prolific writer on ecology. He believes that there is more to ecology than global warming, recycling, alternative power sources and the relationship between humans and nonhumans. Morton, in Critical Thinking, suggests that ecology encompasses human emotion, mental illness, capitalism, anxiety about the future, scepticism, irony, pain, space, time, beauty (2) He implies that ecology is more about human constructions and experiences race, gender, class, ideologies, culture, and society than about the environmental crisis (12). Further to this, Morton infers that ecology is about reading, writing and thinking; about being conscious and aware, and how one perceives themself; in other words, totally subjective (2). But most importantly, ecology is about coexistence. Human beings need other human beings
as much as human beings need their environment (4). Morton suggests that past thinking has placed Nature in a permanent, material position separate from humans. Nature is thought of as being in the wilderness, in the mountains, over the other side; away from civilisation (3). It has been painted as something far away, pristine and ideal; a special kind of private property (5) Nature has become a myth of epic proportions. It has become the pinnacle of all metaphors, for the concept of nature has evolved into the Mother of everything (7). In his essay, Ecology as Text, Text as Ecology, Morton claims that modernity has damaged, not only the environment, but the way in which man thinks (Ecology as Text, Text as Ecology, 1). Morton suggests that ecological thought is not just what you think, in regards to ecology, but how you think about it; the actual thought process (4). He further implies that this kind of ecological thought is both an internal and external practice and process by which humans need to be aware of and fully accept that they are connected to non-human beings (7). Morton proposes that in order for our species and our planet to survive, man must forego the romantic artificially created notions of Nature that allows the use and abuse of the planet. Instead, humans need to be more openminded and be prepared to think outside of preconceived and outdated ideologies normalised by Romantic literature (Ecology as Text, Text as Ecology, 11-12). According to Robert Wess, an issue of New Literary History dedicated to ecocriticism defines ecocriticism as having its hermeneutic horizon nothing short of the literal horizon itself, the finite environment that a reader or writer occupies thanks not just to culturally coded determinants but also to natural determinants that antedate these, and will outlast them (Wess, 1). This definition supports Mortons ideology of ecocriticism; that is that Nature does not exist within itself but within an all-encompassing ecological system. As does Greg Garrard, for in his article Literary Ecology
and the Ethics of Texts, refers to environmentalism as a cultural ecology (Garrard, 851). Culture implies a human construct, as ecology implies coexistence between the environment and mankind. In order to gain a better understanding of Nature and to what role, if any, Nature plays in ecocriticism, let us further explore Cronons and Mortons concept of nature by analysing the romantic writer, William Wordsworth and his poem entitled Written in Early Spring1. Cronons notion that humans seek refuge in Nature is supported by I HEARD a thousand blended notes/ While in a grove I sate reclined (stanza 1, lines 1-2). The person who is in the grove is sitting back listen to the sounds of Nature; the wind through the leaves, the cracks and creaks of branches, the myriad of bird song, the calling of animals. The first stanza continues with In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts/ Bring sad thoughts to the mind (stanza1, lines 3-4). These two lines allow for man to enjoy the emotions that Nature evokes and to pause for reflection. Morton would argue that this stanza reinforces mans thought process and imagination. Man perceives he is seeking refuge but it is all in his mind. Lines 3 and 4 from stanza 3 And tis my faith that every flower/ Enjoys the air it breathes anthropomorphises Nature; it introduces the idea of a flower breathing the air akin to humans breathing. Morton would argue that the anthropomorphism of Nature is a human construct whereas Cronon would perceive humans affiliating themselves with Nature therefore standing closer to God. Perhaps Cronon would go as far as to say that the personification of Nature evokes the feelings of empathy and nurturing. Cronons concept of Nature being profound and Otherly would be demonstrated by: If this belief from Heaven be sent/If such be Natures holy plan (stanza 6, lines 1-2). Wordsworth is alluding to Nature being created by God; that it is beyond the human realm. Morton would probably shake his head and comment with, Just more proof of a
human construction. What man has made of man? (stanza 2, line 4 and stanza 6, line 4) is repeated twice. Wordsworth is questioning the destructive nature of man. Both Cronon and Morton would suggest that this line is very troubling for it shows that the problem of our ecological climate has been noticeably problematic since the industrial revolution and that if humans cant seek some semblance of balance; to learn to coexist with Nature they will not only destroy themselves but the environment. After assessing Cronons and Mortons concepts of Nature and exploring a Wordsworth poem in relation to both concepts, I shall now compare the two critics. Both Cronon and Morton believe that Nature is a human construct. Cronon reasons that the JudeoChristian religion promoted a fear of the wilderness through the reading of the Bible. He indicates that the Bible has painted Nature in a rather negative light for it has portrayed Nature as a place of temptation, of barrenness and hostility. According to Cronon, this notion of Nature was to change. He hints that Nature was brought to the fore and explored through the eyes of the Romantic writers adding a new way to view Nature. The concept of Nature became something profound and Otherly. A place to be revered because of its closeness to God: how better to connect and communicate with God than in his own garden; his own creation? The only explanation Morton offers for his belief of Nature as a human construct is that humans have created the concept of Nature through their thoughts short, simple and to the point. Cronon proposes that it is this romantic notion of Nature that has led to the human belief that Nature is something separate to man. This line of thinking leads to its division from humans and objectification of Nature, which in turn, leads to thoughts of possession. The next logical human step, as stated by Cronon in regards to possession is to use it as one sees fit. Mortons concept of Nature is similar to that of Cronons, except that Morton does not think of Nature as something real and tangible. Rather, he sees
Nature as an element of an ecological system just as man is an element. However, he does blame mans thought processes for placing Nature apart from man. Like Cronon, Morton believes that the concept of Nature is derived from literature of the Romantic period, therefore nature is a human construct thus it is not natural. Morton claims that this thought process tends towards separateness and an excuse whereby man can manipulate, use and abuse nature to their own means. To address the current anxiety about climate change, Morton proposes a change in thinking whereby humans forego placing Nature apart from man and by adopting the idea that Nature, humans and non-humans need to coexist. He states that this is the only way in which this vast ecosystem can function harmoniously. Cronon suggests something similar, but insists that Nature will always stand apart from humans and non-humans. He claims that humans and non-humans will always stand apart but as separate entities; all will contribute to an ecological balance. Cronon, with his concept of Nature, sees Nature as playing an important role in ecocriticism. He sees it as a human refuge from industrialism and capitalism; somewhere man can go to remind himself of his own mortality and to connect with the divine. Whereas, Morton sees Nature as a human construct. He argues that Nature does not exist within itself; therefore it has neither value nor role in ecocriticism. Morton states that Nature is a part of the bigger universal picture. William Cronon and Timothy Morton are both ecocritics; however they provide two very different concepts of nature. By exploring their concepts, utilising my working definitions of nature, human and non-human, and by using Mortons and Cronons ideas to analyse William Wordsworths poem, Written in Early Spring, I have been able to ascertain the role of nature in ecocroticism. That is that nature can be seen as a wilderness and
separate from humans but it is, essentially, a part of the ecology of this planet; nature and humans co-exist as one giant ecological system. Bibliography
Bergthaller, Hannes. What is Ecocriticism? European Association for the Study of Literature, Culture and Environment [Accessed: 6 June 2013] http://www.easlce.eu/about-us/what-is-ecocriticism/ Cronon, William ed. (1995) The Trouble with Wilderness; or, Getting Back to the Wrong Nature Uncommon Ground: Rethinking the Human Place in Nature. New York, W.W. Norton and Co., pp.69-90. Farlex Inc (2013) The Free Dictionary [Accessed: 6 June 2013] http://www. thefreedictionary.com Garrard, Greg (2011) Ecocriticism The Years Work in Critical and Cultural Theory 19: p.46-82 [Accessed: 31 May 2013] http://ywcct. oxfordjournals.org Morton, Timothy (2010) Ecology as Text, Text as Ecology The Oxford Literary Review 32.1: p.1-17 [Accessed: 28 May 2013] http://www. eupjournals.com/olr Morton, Timothy (2010) Introduction: Critical Thinking, The Ecological Thought. Cambridge, Harvard University Press, p.1-19. Watson, Alan (2010) Ecology and Literature: Two Encounters with Nature, The Journal of Environmental Education [Accessed: 27 May 2013] http://www.tandfonline.com/loi/vjee20 Wess, Robert (2003) Geocentric Ecocriticism Isle: Interdisciplinary Studies in Literature and Environment 10.2 [Accessed: 31 May 2013] http://isle. oxfordjournals.org Wordsworth, William (1999) Written in Early Spring Bartleby.com [Accessed: 3 June 2013] http://www.bartleby.com/106/272.html

1
Written in Early Spring
William Wordsworth (1888) I HEARD a thousand blended notes While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind. To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man. Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle traild its wreaths; And tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. The birds around me hoppd and playd, Their thoughts I cannot measure, But the least motion which they made It seemd a thrill of pleasure. The budding twigs spread out their fan To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there. If this belief from Heaven be sent, If such be Natures holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?
Book Review
Louise Wardle
Cooper, J.C. Yin and Yang: The Taoist Harmony of Opposites. Wellingborough: The Aquarian Press, 1981.
in and Yang: The Taoist Harmony of Opposites explores the concept of balance and harmony by uniting two opposites to create a neutral single entity, or to put it simply: two halves uniting to make a whole. There are infinite combinations of opposites that can occur in both the universal realm and the personal realm. They arise
... in the physical and mental, the positive and negative, intellectual and emotional, male and female, Sol and Luna, reason and intuition, height and depth, light and shade, outbreathing and inbreathing, the dynamic and static, action and thought, attraction and repulsion, existence and non-existence... (16)
The list goes on. Yin represents the feminine, dark, horizontal, inertia, square, passive, receptive, Earth and the elements of water and earth, whereas yang represents the masculine, light, vertical, energy, circle, active, creative, Heaven and the elements of air and fire. Opposites connect and work together to bring about an equilibriuma stabilityto man and the world around him. If opposites are not in harmony or in balance, things will not function well or last very long due to the resulting friction caused by unevenness. In man this friction may manifest as frustration and violence resulting in the breakdown or the destruction of
peace and happiness, both within the microcosm of man and the macrocosm of the world around us or Nature. In Taoismwhich yin and yang are an integral part ofman is seen as the harmoniser between Heaven and Earth. If man is in balance or in harmony then that balance will affect the harmony of Heaven and Earth. Therefore the importance of mans ability to maintain good mental, physical and spiritual health is crucial to the wellbeing and harmony of the universe for not only himself, as an individual, but to all those around him and the world he lives in. For this to occur, man must first love and respect himself before being able to show love and respect to society and the world around him. Once this is achieved, a balance is attained and thus reflected into the universe. That which is below is like that which is above, and that which is above is like that which is below for the performance of the miracles of the One Substance (123). This reflection is one of the basic teachings of Taoism: macrocosm and microcosm are reflections of each other, making One a whole rather than two parts. The Chinese garden is also seen as Nature in miniature; the micro is a reflection of the macro and both yin and yang are represented with their mountains, valleys, lakes, rivers, etc. The mountainin a Chinese gardennot only represents yang in the form of Nature but also symbolises the axis of the world. The yin is represented by the water surrounding the mountain or rock. This rock is usually placed in the centre of the lake or pond and represents stability and eternity, whereas the water represents movement and all that is temporary. As Cheng Pan chiao said: The enjoyment of life should come from a view regarding the universe as a garden... so that all beings live according to their nature and great indeed is such happiness (50). Yin and yang is an integral part of the Eastern religion known as Taoism. Taoism focuses on the here and the now, rather than worrying about a future that may or may not happen, nor does it
cling to a past because of its familiarity, nor dwell upon regrets that cannot be changed. Taoism teaches that it is far better to live in the present because this allows man to see a problem clearly, as it arises, rather than letting the problem become tangled and blown-out of proportion due to the anxieties and worries of a hypothetical future. While Taoism urges man to leave the past in the past and not to be apprehensive about the future, it also encourages man to laugh and to have a sense of humour, ... to live in the present and to enjoy life... Taoism promotes the need for balance and harmonyyin and yangwithin man himself. However, man should not rejoice in his prosperity nor should he despair his misfortune ... for the one can turn into the other at any moment (106). Yin and Yang come into play because man is seen as the microcosm and the universe or Nature as the macrocosm. Therefore, if man can stay in harmony and take the middle path between his past and his futurethe presenthe can remain balanced. This balance and harmony is then reflected onto Nature, thus allowing Nature to be balanced and to be in harmony; to function correctly and smoothly. Man is seen by Taoism as ... the source and means of balance and harmony... (108) and the mediator between Heaven and Earth and that mans fate is his own responsibility. By taking care of himself he is taking care of Nature. Yin and Yang: The Taoist Harmony of Opposites has both reinforced and further expanded my personal beliefs that man is present in this world to interact with and to look after Nature and keep harmony upon Earth and in Heaven. I also found that I practice with difficultythe idea of living for today, of letting go of my past and to count them as experiences that have gone into making me who I am today. The part that I have trouble with and dont fully understand is the future. How can you not be apprehensive of the future? Plans and goals need to be put into place if one is to move forward. This is an area I need to do a lot more research in.
Upon reflection, I found the first five chapters of this book to be very informative, interesting and easy to both read and understand. The concept of yin and yang are simpleopposites connecting to form a neutral and balanced One. However, once yin and yang was placed within the context of its religionTaoismI became confused and found most of the concepts difficult to comprehend.
The Power of Poetry

Gena McLean
rose is my preference. I have filled numerous notebooks with my blue Kilometrico, at times my hand moving so fast that the scrawl is almost indecipherable. Pages of unanswerable questions and outpourings of pent-up emotionthis therapeutic purge is a sort of sanity-saver as I ride the rollercoaster of a difficult-todiagnose disease. A welcome distraction from my affliction is my part-time study at Bendigo TAFE. Each year the Professional Writing and Editing course that Im enrolled in publishes an anthology of students work titled Painted Words. Not all that confident in my ability to write (I was only doing the editing class!) I ignored the call for submissions until it got the better of methat part of me that loved to work with words was crying out to be read. So I gave in and gave myself a platform, but what form would I use? The mind is a poetry making organ. Sigmund Freud Although the adventurous part of me looked for opportunities to step out of my comfort zone, writing any type of fiction was going to be a stretch. And time was not on my sideleaving things to the last minute was another tendency of mineit added to the thrill of the quest but in a somewhat stressful way. With Poetry the only category left as completely unchartered territory for me, and with the mistaken belief that surely it wouldnt take too long to
churn out a few poems, in I divedto the deep end. In the spirit of the journey, and as an avid reader and diligent learner I went straight to one of my favourite places for helpthe town library, to the 808s. Not one to walk by the 158s without a look (I love to read wisdom literature and hate to miss out on a possible beauty) I had a quick scan of the shelves and soon erupted in goose bumps when I saw the title of a book Id not seen before: Being true to LifePoetic Paths to Personal Growth, by David Richo. Excitedly I turned to the list of contents and was literally flooredmy bottom unconsciously planted itself on the library floor as I read the heading of the introduction: The Healing Power of Poetry. More goose bumps. I went directly to page one: This book is based on the captivating and delightful idea that writing a poem can be a powerful tool for self-discovery and healing. In writing a poem about something that touches us we access parts of ourselves, our feelings, and our motivations that other types of language or exploration often leave hidden.(Richo, p.1) I didnt read anymoreI didnt need to, nor did I make it to the 808s. Without a second thought I left the library with Richo tucked under my arm, and in that moment began my apprenticeship in poetry with Being true to Life my self-prescribed text and David Richo, my teacher. Once home, I went straight to my stash of notebooks, carefully selected the right one and declared it my Poetry Journal before settling in to my first poetry lesson. I didnt get far before realising that this loaned copy was extremely inadequatesentence after sentence of insight and resonance had me wanting to highlight every other line! Lesson one on hold, I jumped online and bought a copy to make my own. And boy did I! Flicking through it now while writing this piece I notice the vast number of pages marked with underlining and arrows and stars in margins. David Richo
is indeed a very good teacher. He brings his interest in mindfulness to the writing of poetry, encouraging us to be present, to notice what were experiencing moment by moment. This practice of bringing our attention to the present through our writing is likely to affect our ability to be mindful in other aspects of our lives. The farthest horizons of our hopes and fears are cobbled by our poems, carved from the rock experiences of our daily lives. Audre Lorde As mentioned earlier, I have some debilitating health problems that are at times, extremely difficult to deal with. And although I was writing my heart out, the stream of consciousness that would magically appear on the page before me would leave me exhausted, flat, lost. Chapter by chapter I went through Being True to Life and did every exercise that I thought would help me write something of substance, something that would leave me feeling satisfied, something worthy of submission to the Painted Words Team. A poem, like a heart, tells more than words can say. (David Richo p.93) And I did. Many poems were birthed during this intense period of exploration and mindfulness which transformed much of the suffering I was feeling. Numerous insights and understandings came from writing those poems. They helped me to accept and heal. I bravely submitted three poems, and to my surprise and delight, two were selected and published in Painted Words 2011. A poem begins in delight...and ends in a clarification of life...a momentary stay against confusion. Robert Frost I understand that we are all on our own journey and that this book may not do for you what it has done for me, but Being True to Life offers many tools, tips and takes on life that will assist any poet or writer, to access their deepest truths and find their authentic voice.
Reference
1. Richo, D (2009) Being True to lifePoetic paths to personal growth, Shambhala, Boston.
This is why I write

Gena McLean
confess! Im a lover of wisdom a seeker of truth, knowledge and understanding. I have for years, taken Socrates suggestion to know thyself as a personal directive. It all started when I was sixteen. I can remember lying in the backyard of a friends place staring up into the night sky with innocence and awe, wondering why am I here? The meaning of life, purpose, passion, happiness, humanness these matters have always invited intrigue, and my lifes path fuelled by the desire, the longing, this craving to know. I have been searching for answers ever since that night on the lawn and over the years have devoured hundreds of non-fiction books on psychology, personal growth, spirituality, metaphysics and lately, Buddhist teachings. It is these great works, this wisdom literature, that has had a profound influence on me and my life; why I write and what I write. You can heal your life by metaphysical lecturer and author, Louise L. Hay, was the book that paved the way. It was my initiation into the nature of spirit, encouraging me to put my faith in that which cannot be seen and to trust the wisdom within. Wayne Dyer was the next teacher to positively affect my life. I loved what he had to say, so much so, that I read almost every one of his books. While his
earlier works were psychology-based, his writing has evolved and he now draws on the wisdom of the old and wise as he skilfully explores the themes of purpose, inspiration, happiness, and innerpeace. Legendary quotes have also inspired me to write. The wisdom of Thoreau, Rumi, Rilke, Ghandi, William James, HH the Dalai Lama, Aldous Huxley, Deepak Chopra, Lao Tzu and C G Jung to name a few. Writing in response to their powerful and moving words became a necessary and valuable step along the path. In 2007, after years of gathering wisdom and gaining insights from life, I felt the overwhelming urge to write a book. An event or situation would be the catalyst for reflection and aha!it was like someone turned on the light within, and I would be compelled to write these transformational moments down. This went on for months and before I knew it I had a 50,000 word manuscript that would fall into the creative non-fiction category. Writing in this way was extremely therapeutic for meit helped me to process and assimilate what I had learnt from the experience, and with each piece of writing, I would learn more about myself and a more open, peaceful and authentic me would emerge. While I still love to read Louise and Wayne and others of that ilk, the search for answers has become more intenseit is now a matter of health, not just happiness that drives me to want to know. The poor health I have experienced over the past five years has proven difficult to managephysically, mentally and emotionally. Desperately searching for ways to cope, I was drawn to the teachings of the Buddha, with Pema Chodron and Lama Surya Das, just two of the incredible authors who have influenced my journey and therefore my writing. I now consider myself a student of lifeI learn from my experiences. Nothing is wasted. Whatever life throws at me is an opportunity to learnabout myself, about the human condition and about the mystery of life. And for me, writing about such
things is extremely beneficialit helps me make sense of the world and brings meaning, acceptance and peace to the health crisis I am currently living. When I write, I write for me; writing is like therapyemotions can be safely aired, difficulties can be acknowledged and possibilities can be explored. Healing happens. But I am also writing for humankind. I have this yearning to share, and if I can do so through my writing, I may just experience more glimpses of purpose, fulfilment and contentment. The Buddha said that life is suffering, and if the creative non-fiction that I write could ease the suffering of others then I know I will be answering the call. Socrates and I are definitely on the same pagethe unexamined life isnt worth living. This is why I write.
The Song of Roland and the Lay of the Cid

Izzy Perley
his paper examines two heroic poems: The Song of Roland and The Lay of the Cid, placing both in its historical context and analysing the ways in which each presents Crusade ideology. The Song of Roland from the late eleventh century and The Lay of the Cid from the mid-twelfth century, are both representations of Crusade ideology. The Crusades were the struggle for the dominion of Christianity. Both Roland and the Cid are legendary figures who are illustrative of the ideals upheld during the Crusades. These ideals centred on the fight for faith; a fight that transcended campaigning in that it was Gods war. Loyalties to the Christian faith as well as fidelity to family and fatherland were essential; in addition it was vital for a knight to demonstrate both courage and prowess in battle. Both the figures in these legendary ballads epitomize the Crusades as upstanding Christians who assert themselves above and beyond their contemporaries. The Lay of the Cid was written sometime during the mid-twelfth century and is about the notorious Rodrigo Diaz de Bivar, a figure of legendary proportions. The Lay is centred on the events from Castile during 1081-1099, in which the Castilian hero, known as the Cid, played an essential role. The Cid was responsible for the capture of Valencia, which was previously held by a rich Muslim kingdom. In building his legendary status, the Cid singularly
managed to hold Valencia. (Seldon Rose & Bacon 1997) His image as a valiant knight of Christ is untarnished in the poem, his might unquestionable:
Were with the Cid four thousand les but a score and ten, They came gladly to battle against fifty thousand men It seemed good to the Creator, and they threw them into flight. With the lance the Cid did battle, hand he set to sword as well. So many Moors he slaughtered that there numbers none might tell. (The Lay of the Cid, Cantar II 61)
As prevalent as the spread of Christianity became, the Cid was nevertheless the first Christian leader to defeat the Almoravids, a warlike group of Muslim devotees from Northern Africa. (Seldon Rose & Bacon 1997) In terms of portraying the Crusade ideology, the Cid is a heroic entity whose imposing personality and valour render him comparable to Robin Hood. The Cid is a story of cumulative exile and return, moulded by his relationship with the king. Like all Crusade heroes, the vassal-lord relationship is essential to the story of the Cid, and fluctuates with the ebb and flow of the kings demands. (Lineham 1987) The graciousness and Christian ideal that the Cid epitomizes are perceptible in the poems beginning, with his response to his first exile:
And he spake well and wisely: Oh Thou, in Heaven that art Our Father and our Master, now I give thanks to Thee. (The Lay of the Cid, Cantar I 116-7)
In 1031 the Caliphate of Cordobas authority collapsed, leaving alAndulus disjointed and exposed. This meant al-Andalus became easy prey for the strong kingdoms of the north, in particular Leon, Castile, Navarre, Aragon and Barcelona. (Lineham 1987) Tribute in gold was paid by the north and south, which allowed both Fernando I and Alfonso VI to profit immensely. (Lineham 1987) In 1085 Alfonso VI annexed the old Visigoth capital of Toledo, whereby the Muslim kings of the south summoned the leader of the Almoravids for protection. (Lineham 1987) The ensuing peninsular warfare lasted until 1248, and was the inherited milieu that allowed the Cid to flourish. Religious sentiment remained
predominant, and offered the perfect pretext under which fighting and warfare were legitimized. (Lineham 1987) Always re-focusing on the fundamental context of the spread of Christianity, the theme is reiterated continuously throughout the Lay of the Cid, appropriating each battle scene or otherwise significant event:
At length the night was over, and came the break of day. And mass they heard, and after away they rode at last. (The Lay of the Cid, Cantar II, 54:LXX)
The central focus of the Lay of the Cid is concerned with the relationship between King Alfonso VI of Leon-Castile and the Cid. The Cid shows the breakdown of the vassal-Lord relationship in response to flaws inherent in the lord, Alfonso VI. The poem vacillates between Rodrigo addressing the situation and attempting to achieve a resolution. The spirit of the poem embodies Crusade ideology both in its use of suitably descriptive and fervent language and in the consistent reiteration of the Christian ideal maintained throughout. The Cids relationship with Alfonso VI, though unpredictable at best, is given constant attention and illustrates the Cid as a Christian idealist whose religious zeal and loyalty drive him to excel:
Now a boon, King Alfonso. Thou art great and glorious. For my lord Cid the Campeador do we embrace thee thus. He holds himself thy vassal; he owns thee for his lord. He prizes high the honour thou didst him accord.(The Lay of the Cid, Cantar II 65)
The wonderfully poignant and evocative language lends the career of the Cid an evanescent brilliance, a transcendent quality that takes him from mere mortal to the realms of the Heavenly. Such is the response to his exile in which a child steps forth to offer him these words:
Campeador in happy hour thou girdest on thy sword may God with all his power support thee in thy pain. (The Lay of the Cid, Cantar I 2:IV)
Throughout the poem, like the sword in The Song of Roland, the Cids relationship with his horse Babieca is a constant. At the end of
the poem, the Cid offers his horse to Alfonso, but the gift is refused on the grounds that only the Cid should ride it. (Lineham 1987) Once again, the theme of the all-conquering and romanticized epic hero is evident. With the rise and fall of his exiles and returns, the Cid is captured as a magnetic personality throughout the poem, an embodied Christian soldier whose tenacity and perspicacity win him a cult following. Loyalty and fidelity, and living a Christian life are constantly reiterated among the tales of bravery and camaraderie:
Ah Cid I kiss thy hands again but make a gift to me Bring me a Moorish mantle splendidly wrought and red. (The Lay of the Cid, Cantar I, 7:X)
Volatile and courageous, the Cid is the essence of Crusade ideology. In pursuing his career the Cid lived in service to both the Christians and the Muslims, but his Lay encapsulates the Christian mantra of fidelity to country and family, to Christ and liege. The Song of Roland is an extravagant rendition of Crusade ideology, vacillating between the fight for the honour of family and fatherland and the personal pride of Roland, who, as a Christian soldier must determine not to bring shame to his country through failure. The poem demonstrates the ideals of the Crusade era, firmly established as an epic. (Crosland 1976) The language and descriptions in the poem glorify Christianity; the sense is that the methods of procuring a Christian following are far outweighed by the successes when achieved. That is, that the warfare and violence were entirely justified by successfully initiating more followers of Christ:
Bid ye for me that Charlemagne, the king, In his Gods name to shew me his mercy; I will receive the rite of Christening, Will be his man, my love and faith swearing (The Song of Roland, Verses I-LXXXVII, 1180-85)
The poem outlines the discrepancy faced by Roland, who as a Crusader must resolve that France not lose her good name because of him; the virtue of allegiance is again established, whereby a
vassal should suffer his liege. Lest shame taint the nature of their legacy, Roland and his friend Olivier discuss their strategies with Olivier concurring:
I know not how to seek; Rather Ild die than shame come of this feat. (The Song of Roland, Verses LIXIVIA-CLXI, II1700-1701)
As a Christian soldier, moreover, Roland prays both for his self and for his peers. Ultimately, like the Cid, the poem climaxes with Roland destroying his sword so that it will not fall into enemy hands. (Jones 1963) The poem is infiltrated by the recurring themes of both Christian sacrifice in terms of the ideal of devoting life to Christs cause and Holy War. That is to say, both ideals uphold the notion that the Christian knights were prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice of their own lives in order to spread Christianity. (Sholod 1966) The Song of Roland further demonstrates the Crusade ideology through its adherence to heroic idealism. The cause for the Crusades was generated by the ideal of loyalty to ones religion; in the poem Roland is striving to achieve this in order to satisfy his contemporaries and establish a purport for his own existence. His actions appear to be as much motivated through fear of his own shame as by the promise of Heavenly reward. (Jones 1963) One prevalent ideal that continued throughout the Crusades was that the soldiers of Christ fought not for themselves, but for the sublime cause. This inherent altruism was evidently tempered by the human need for glory; the knights were romanticized afterward for their valiant efforts. The losses, when knights were killed in the foray, were losses for cause and country. In the moments of his final confession, Rolands last thoughts are for sweet France and for Charlemagne. (Crosland 1976) This speaks volumes in terms of the cultural nuances of the poem; whilst the myth of continuum generated the ideology, in terms of the fighting it is apparent in both the Cid and Roland that personal prowess played an inordinate role. Moreover, the
Christian religion itself did not perpetrate the Crusades; rather an idealistic medieval society was spreading the religion to infiltrate supposedly heathen cultures. As a Crusade representative, Roland leads his men into the foray of battle; the poem illustrates the courage and charisma of the Christian knights and their determination to succeed. Rolands men willingly die for him in battle, showing the melodrama and emphasis on legendary feats prevalent during the Crusades. Roland too is ready to follow his men into death, brandishing his sword, a glorified hero of epic proportions:
Then says Rollanz: Strong it is now, our battle; Ill wind my horn, so that the king hears it, Charles. (The Song of Roland, Verses LXXVII-CLXI II1714-1715)
First the bodies of his men must be recovered for burial. Roland must prevent his sword from falling into enemy hands so that his image is preserved and his actions not rendered futile by being tainted with shame. (Jones 1963) Another complex subject that arises in Roland, like the Cid, is the confrontation that arises between Charlemagne and Roland. Like the Cid, Roland maintains the Crusade ideology of fealty to his liege, but is driven to react when Charlemagne seizes booty and accepts gifts from neighbours to buy the loyalty of his warriors. (Jones 1963) Roland advises Charlemagne to refuse the gifts and to avenge the envoys, once again demonstrating his own Crusade legend. Valiantly affirming his duty to the emperor, Roland is yet unafraid to speak his counsel:
I conquerd you Noples and also Commibles Traitor in all his ways was Marsilies; Their heads he took on th hill by Hatilie. (The Song of Roland, Verses I-LXXXVII II196-209)
The Crusades gave rise to epic heroes, Christian men who, as devout followers of Christ determined to do both themselves and their countries proud by facilitating the spread of Christianity. More valuable to Roland than life itself is his honour and reputation as a Crusader that will live on after his death. The glory of the cause
and the help he may offer to others is transient: always the poem returns to the possibility of his tarnishing his reputation which urges Roland to achieve. Additionally, to be accused of cowardice is equally perturbing and so Roland must continue to fight bravely and adhere to the culture of the Crusade ideals. Emotions are heightened throughout the poem, to lend credence to its epic tale of courage and conviction, of passion and fidelity. When justice prevails at the poems conclusion, and Christianity has been received by the enemy, all that remains is one final evocative image, rife with Crusade symbolism:
God! said the King: My life is hard indeed! Tears filled his eyes, he tore his snowy beard.(The Song of Roland, Verses CCXXXIV-CCXCI II400-401)
Overall, the Crusades took place in a time of heightened emotion, where the passionate desire to spread Christianity prevailed. The legends that were created throughout the Crusades were done so for valour and commitment and the ability to excel. Both Roland and the Cid are fine examples of the type of epic hero that arose from the foray; both epitomize Crusade ideology. This means that not only were the heroes illustrative of the bravery and courage needed to spread Christianity among heathens, but both importantly also upheld the standards of family loyalty, of fidelity to their respective lieges and unwavering commitment to country and cause.
Bibliography:
Moncrieff, CS translated The Song of Roland, http://sunsite.berkely.edu/ OMACL/Roland Seldon Rose R & Bacon Leonard translated The Lay of the Cid & introductory material, http://sunsite.berkeley.edu/OMACL/Cid Crosland, J. (1976) Medieval French Literature, Westport CT: Greenwood Press pp165-194. Jones, GF. (1963) The Ethos of the Song of Roland, Baltimore: John Hopkins Press pp96-159. Lineham, P. (1987) The Cid of History and the History of the Cid, History Today vol. 37 August 1987. pp26-32. Nicholson, H. (1994) Knights and lovers: the military orders of the romance literature of the 13th Century, in: Malcolm Barber, ed. The Military Orders: Fighting for the faith and caring for the sick, Aldershot: Variorum. pp340-345. Sholod, B. (1966) Charlemagne in Spain: the cultural legacy of the Roncesvalles, Geneva: Droz. pp134-151. Switten, M. (1992) Singing the second crusade, in Gerves, M ed. The second Crusade and the Cistercians, New York: St Martins Press. pp6776.
The F-Word
Jaime McDougall
hen I was a child, there were five words we were not allowed to say: the a-word, the b-word, the f-word, the h-word, and the s-word. These words took on an awe-inspiring quality and not even my older brothers would use them. Of the five, the f-word was the worst. We were not even allowed the occasional frack or fricken because mother knew what we really meant. Perhaps it is only appropriate that, as an adult, I am interested in the word fuck. Fucks long history and present popularity help it to stand out amongst a plethora of other obscenities. However, its many verbal and non-verbal uses make it the most versatile obscenity in the English language. Most people in the Australian publishing should be familiar with McKenzies Australian Handbook for Writers and Editors in which we find the eight parts of speech: noun, pronoun, adjective, verb, adverb, preposition, interjection and conjunction (2010, p.3). For the purpose of this paper, I have broken verbs down into two parts of speech: transitive and intransitive. The clearest way to demonstrate fucks versatility is by showing how easily it fits into most parts of speech. For example:
Noun: I hope you give a fuck about my topic. Adjective: Tom kicked the fucking table. Verb Transitive: Bob fucks Shirley. Verb Intransitive: Bob fucks.
272 | Painted Words 2013 Adverb modifying a verb: Tom fucking kicked the table. Adverb modifying an adjective: Tom kicked the fucking battered table.
Fuck works as a noun, adjective, verb, adverb, conjunction and like all obscenities as an interjection. One might argue that there are a limited number of conjunctions, and the list does not include fuck. This is where the interfix often-forgotten third partner to the prefix and suffix comes into play. Because becomes be-fuckingcause. Wherever becomes where-fucking-ever. The possibilities are far from endless, but fucks common use as an interfix goes to further demonstrate the versatility of the word. Fitting into six of the eight parts of speech is impressive, but that alone is not enough to grant fuck the title of most versatile obscenity. However, fucks versatility does not end at the eight parts of speech. Fucks use further extends to compound words. In The Little Red Book of Very Dirty Words there are fourteen fuckrelated words listed, including an apparent Australian favourite fuckwit and fuck-you money (often shortened to fuckmoney) which is defined as money that buys you enough freedom to do what you like (Munier 2009, p.70). There is also the compound motherfucker which earned a place on comedian George Carlins Seven Dirty Words (Erenkrantz 2010) a cult classic that still resonates today, maintaining a perfect five-star rating amongst iTunes customers (Bella 2013). Fucks versatility extends beyond the technical side of word usage and into practical application as well. Using fuck or one of its variations in a sentence can increase the emotional impact of a sentence. For example, I was cheated at the used car lot has a lot more impact if one uses fuck instead: I was fucked over at the used car lot. I dont understand verbs is polite, but I dont fucking understand fucking verbs more clearly demonstrates ones frustration after studying McKenzie for three hours, only to find a sentence which muddies the already dark waters of the verb-usage lake. Fucks placement within a sentence can also change the
emphasis and emotional intention of that sentence. I am almost fucking done with this paper is different to I am almost done with this fucking paper. The former implies a sense of happiness at the prospect of finishing, while the latter implies a negative view of the paper by the author. Fucks use extends beyond the spoken word to the unspoken, commonly used gesture: the extended middle finger. Giving the bird or holding up ones middle finger to someone is a gesture that communicates fuck you to anyone who sees it without requiring the person making the gesture to speak. This simple one-finger salute exists outside of Australian Sign Language. The ASL equivalent requires a person to place the back of his/her hand under his/her chin and then flick his/her hand forward. Arguably the simplicity of the middle finger has played into its popularity and wide use. The most impressive example of fucks versatility comes not in the area of its function as a part of a sentence but in its ability to relieve pain through its use. In the article Why the #$%! Do We Swear? For Pain Relief, Frederick Joelving (2009) suggests, Dropping the F-bomb or other expletives may not only be an expression of agony, but also a means to alleviate it . Multiple studies beyond the one cited in the article have shown that people report less pain and are able to endure pain longer when they swear. There are no studies comparing the influences of individual obscenities, but that does not exclude for pain relief as one of the many ways fuck can be used. All taboo words hold a certain fascination for me, but none so much as the word fuck. When it comes to the versatility of fuck, The Little Red Book of Very Dirty Words says it best: Fuck is arguably the most versatile and functional obscenity in the English language. The many fucking ways in which you fuckers can fuck with the word fuck are unfuckingbelievable. (Munier 2009, p.67) Whether it is the eight parts of speech or putting emphasis into a word or sentence, the word fuck goes above and beyond to fill those needs. Verbal or non-verbal, fuck can help you communicate
with a flourish no matter what the situation. Fucks variety of uses goes above and beyond that of any other English language obscenity, easily earning it the title of most versatile obscenity. Bibliography
Bella, Timothy (2013) The 7 Dirty Words Turn 40, but Theyre Still Dirty, The Atlantic, viewed 19 May 2013, <http://www.theatlantic. com/entertainment/print/2012/05/the-7-dirty-words-turn-40-buttheyre-still-dirty/257374/>. Erenkrantz, Justin (2010) George Carlins Seven Dirty Words, Justin Erenkrantz, viewed 19 May 2013, <http://erenkrantz.com/Humor/ SevenDirtyWords.shtml>. Fairman, C (2009) Fuck: Word Taboo and Protecting Our First Amendment Liberties, 1st edn, Sphinx Publishing, Illinois. Frederik Joelving (2009) Why the #$%! Do We Swear? For Pain Relief, Scientific American, viewed 13 June 2013, <http://www. scientificamerican.com/article.cfm?id=why-do-we-swear/>. Fuck: A Documentary (2005) motion picture, THINKFilms, United States. Lawson, Mark (2004) Has swearing lost its power to shock?, The Guardian, viewed 19 May 2013, <http://www.guardian.co.uk/ media/2004/feb/05/broadcasting.britishidentityandsociety/>. McKenzie, M (2010) Australian Handbook for Writers and Editors, 4th edn, Woodslane Press, Australia. Munier, A (2009) The Little Red Book of Very Dirty Words, 1st edn, Adams Media, United States. Online Etymology Dictionary (2013) fuck (v.), Online Etymology Dictionary, viewed 30 April, 2013, <http://www.etymonline.com/ index.php?search=fuck&searchmode=none/>. Sheildlower, J (2009) The F-Word, 3rd edn, Oxford University Press, United States. Ted (2010) 100 Ways of Saying Fuck You, StandardMadness.com, viewed 19 May, 2013, <http://www.standardmadness.com/100-waysof-saying-fuck-you/>. The Word Fuck (unknown) audio recording, Archive.org, United States.
Hemp: Australias Environmentally Friendly Cotton Replacement

Jaime McDougall
ince the invention of the cotton gin in 1793, cotton has increasingly become a regular part of human cloth production. However, the oldest proof of human industry is not cotton but, rather, a piece of hemp fabric from around 8000 BC (Hemp Australia, 2010). Hemp has been a part of humanity for thousands of years, providing everything from medicines to food products and cloth. As recently as 1938, Popular Mechanics Magazine stated that [hemp] is use to produce more than 5,000 textile products, including cloth (New Billion-Dollar Crop, 1938, 238). Cotton may claim to be The fabric of our lives (Cotton Incorporated), but hemp is most certainly the fabric of our history. Yet in the first half of the 20th century, as nylon, silk, and cotton grew more popular, hemp fell out of favour. Hemps downfall was further encouraged by pressure from the US government and its anti-hemp policies. Cotton became the plant of choice for processing into fabric. We live in a time when we are focusing more on being environmentally friendly while trying to make a profit, and hemp is the key. Growing hemp is more valuable both environmentally and economically than growing cotton.
For farmers growing cotton, the most important and immediate need is water. Cotton requires regular, adequate water to produce a yield that is profitable to the farmer (Savewater!, 2005). Water is a need for any farmer, especially in a country as dry and drought prone as Australia. However, cotton is a thirsty plant in comparison to nearly all others, but especially in comparison to hemp. Per season, cotton needs 50 percent more water than hemp (Palmer, 2011). In a country where water use is so important, switching from cotton to hemp could save the eight megalitres of water per hectare that cotton uses per growing season (Savewater!, 2005). This would come to a water savings of over 4,000,000 megalitres per year. The city of Melbourne uses nearly 380,000 megalitres per year (MelbourneWater, 2012). Therefore, stepping away from cotton could support Melbournes water usage for over 11 years. Hemp also has water needs, but at half the requirement of water for cotton, millions of megalitres can still be saved per year. This also means that, in some areas, hemps water requirements are more than taken care of by rainwater alone (The Hemp Comeback, 2012). Along with needing significantly more water than hemp, cotton also needs more chemicals to yield a good crop. Cotton is an attractive plant to pests, with cotton farmers needing to deal with over 100 different kinds of insects that attack cotton (Cotton Australia, 2012). Needing to protect their crop from so many pests necessitates the need for a lot of different chemicals chemicals that can be dangerous not only to the environment but to the farmers who use them. Even supporters of growing cotton, like the Organic Trade Association, acknowledge that the chemicals used to grow non-organic cotton are a problem:
Cotton is considered the worlds dirtiest crop due to its heavy use of insecticides Cotton covers 2.5% of the worlds cultivated land yet uses 16% of the worlds insecticides, more than any other single major crop. (Organic Trade Association, 2011)
Hemp is again an environmentally-friendly alternative to cotton. Although hemp is not completely immune to insect attack, its rapid growth rate and vigorous nature allow it to overcome most of these attacks without the use of pesticides (Hemp.com, 2012). Currently Australian hemp farmers are growing their crop with no inputs no fertiliser, no pesticides, no herbicides, no fungicides. Their needs are met by sunshine and rain (The Hemp Comeback, 2012). Hemp is a non-toxic renewable resource that can help suppress weeds and regenerate soil naturally (Huff, 2010). So not only does hemp not need any of the chemicals required by cotton, it can be used to negate the need for some of those chemicals elsewhere. The environmental impact of replacing cotton farming in favour of growing hemp cannot fully be realised on paper alone. Numbers clearly show that hemp is a much more viable and smart choice economically as well. In land size alone, current farmers could produce more by planting hemp instead of cotton. Cotton needs approximately twice as much land as hemp does per ton of finished textile (Palmer, 2011). It is then logical to say that farmers who move away from growing cotton to growing hemp will end up with twice as much crop to sell. This increased yield in less space is also a bonus for hemp growers. Thousands of hectares of their land can be freed up for other crops if desired, but supplementing with other crops in addition to help is not required for growing to be financially viable. A one hectare crop will yield about one and a half tonnes of seed, which is worth up to $6000 (The Hemp Comeback, 2012). Seed is also only one of the products that can be harvested with hemp, so farmers have more flexibility rather than being locked into one outcome from their harvest. Also, with such a relatively small amount of land needed to produce a crop, hemp could revitalise small farming in Australia. Farmers would also be able to harvest more than once per year, increasing possible profits. In 90 days, a crop of hemp can grow
four metres tall and is ready to harvest by that time (The Hemp Comeback, 2012), as opposed to cotton, which has a six month harvesting cycle and is grown only once per year (Cotton Australia, 2012). With additional savings from not needing chemical inputs and little to no need for irrigation, farmers could stand to be a lot more financially comfortable. In conclusion, as more farmers around Australia begin to embrace growing hemp, it becomes ever more apparent that, in comparison with cotton, hemp delivers an environmental and financial benefit to farmers. As nylon, silk and cotton grew in popularity in the 1900s, now it is hemps turn to once again provide humanity with an easy and fast to grow source of not only cloth but of food, building materials, plastics and more. Growing hemp instead of cotton will save millions of megalitres of water, reduce Australias environmental impact by reducing the need for harmful agricultural chemicals, and increase Australias large and small farms economic viability. Hemp is superior to cotton in many ways, leaving open even more possibilities should Australia drop cotton and embrace hemp.
References
Cotton Australia (2012) Cotton Australia, Australia, viewed 6 November 2012, <http://www.cottonaustralia.com.au>. Cotton Incorporated (2012) Cotton Incorporated, United States, viewed 7 November 2012, <http://www.thefabricofourlives.com>. Hemp Australia (2010) Hemp Australia Pty Ltd, Tasmania, viewed 1 November 2012, <http://www.hempaustralia.com.au>. The Hemp Comeback (2012) television program, ABC, Australia. Hemp.com (2012) Hemp Incorporated, United States, viewed 8 November 2012, <http://www.hemp.com/hemp-university/growinghemp/diseases-and-pests/>. Huff, Ethan (2010) Hemp History Week: a look back at Americas hemp heritage, Natural News Network, viewed 5 November 2012, <http:// www.naturalnews.com/028852_hemp_history.html>. MelbourneWater (2012) MelbourneWater, Victoria, viewed 5 November 2012, <http://www.melbournewater.com.au>. (1938) New Billion-Dollar Crop Popular Mechanics Magazine, vol. 69, no. 2, 238-239 & 144A-145A. Organic Trade Association (2011) Organic Trade Association, North America, viewed 5 November 2012, <http://www.ota.com>. Palmer, Brian (2011) High on Environmentalism: Can hemp clothing save the planet?, The Slate Group, viewed 1 November 2012, <http://www. slate.com/articles/health_and_science/the_green_lantern/2011/04/ high_on_envienvironmenta.html>. Savewater! (2005) Savewater! Alliance Inc., Australia, viewed 5 November 2012, <http://www.savewater.com.au>.
The Visual Language of Rick Amor

Joan Aspinall
hen Rick Amor had his first solo exhibition in 1974, the art critic Ronald Millar described him as having a singular vision. He sought a painting highway that led him on a detour away from what was currently fashionable, and away from conventional forms. From the age of 12 years his essential process of discovery would enable Amor to develop over 50 years a unique vocabulary of recurring symbols and motifs. Early schooling at Caulfield Technical College, being aimed more towards a teaching career, did not fit in with his personal visions. By 1966 he enrolled at the Melbourne National Gallery Art School where John Brack was pre-eminent in his influence on Amors determination of presenting an independence of mind. Although Brack insisted on the traditional methods of teaching, he never discouraged Amors growing belief that his paintings would depict a very personal journey, one which he was reluctant to adapt to meet the expectations of modern trends. Amors visions were never backward-looking, nor was he anxious to forgo his oil paints for the modern acrylics. When I first saw images of Amors paintings many years ago, they immediately prompted feelings of despondency, nightmarelike fears, solitude, and perhaps sorrow, yet they appeared to reflect no death, though Amor himself says most art is about death and
the inevitability of decay. However, to see Amors finished works now is to startle feelings of discovery - not necessarily recognition of the scenes depicted, but a deep reflection and understanding of Amors intentions, his prophetic visions, his wit, perception and wisdom. Just as the best of our authors are able to make us see and understand the human condition with words - Amor allows us a glimpse into his world and its inhabitants with his penetrating insight. To anyone unfamiliar with his work pattern (which Amor calls plodding) it is of value to see his process. He makes preliminary pencil sketches, then charcoal drawings, followed by a watercolour, gouache or print, then a half-size painting in oils in which he appears to trial his colours and composition, and finally the full-size easel canvas on which he appears to devote his obsessions with perfection. The public never sees his imperfect efforts. Amors subject matter may be an ordinary city alley or lane, which he is able to imbue with a unique and extraordinary atmosphere. The faade of a building or the construction of a bridge may suggest hidden, lurking mysteries. A gale lashed beach may stir up emotions or unhappy memories. A shadowy nun in a quiet garden at dusk may indicate to the viewer the loneliness of a vocation that allows little time for a private life or wishes. The quietness of a dog on a beach may disguise the turmoil in the beach house nearby. Amor displays his wit with a small glazed painting of a man looking through a window of a train, giving the viewer the dubious pleasure of being a deviant peeping Tom. Amor frequently adds a tiny figure of an unidentifiable man, usually seen running away. Is this how he sees himself - an escapee from society into a world of his own making, of personal visions? Many of his paintings appear to be very still. This encourages you, the viewer, to be still long enough to allow the subject matter to speak to you; to interpret its meaning according to your own life experiences. In his art Amor has given us one answer to the age-old question,
why do we need art? We need it, not necessarily to gain wealth, or to occupy idle hands, but to reflect back at society, now and in the future, glimpses of mans foibles and strengths. Art has been a part of human existence since we lived in caves. Was this for pure decoration or for a more prosaic reason? Without it, we may never have understood how man has evolved. Has art evolved like all living things, or is it quintessentially human? Mankind has the motivation and intelligence to make ordinary reality extraordinary. Art is not always simply a pretty picture or portrait: it is an attempt to make manifest an underlying meaning or tell a story. It isnt something that is just contemplated in a museum somewhere. Each individual looks at a painting with different eyes and interprets its meaning to a personal formula. Artists compose repeat motifs, colours and patterns; they can exaggerate or downplay all these. Whether by design or unconsciously, every artist attempts to manipulate expectation. Not all art is something we recognize - it can be confronting, open to interpretation, or just give us a moment of pleasure. Rick Amors art gives us all, not just a glance into his visions and understanding of the human condition, but an opportunity to interpret and decide for ourselves why Art has a place and purpose in society, not just a cash value.
Sacrificial Sentinals
Judith Church
he other day I read about sentinels. You think of sentinels as sharp-eyed, square-jawed alert young soldiers, all senses quivering for any sign of something lurking outside the perimeter of their care. They are protective and defensive. We feel safe however, these sentinels are chickens, yes, CHICKENS. ChooksHenny Penny, Little-Red-Hen type chook-chickens. I immediately imagined a squad of chickens robed as Roman soldiers rather in the style of Nick Parks superb clay-animated chickens in the film Chicken Run; these stalwart stout-hearted creatures, garbed in leather tunics, helmets, carrying lances and lined up behind their standard proudly bearing their legions crest of a cockerel in full feather. (Doherty 2012) No. These chickens serve a far more deadly-serious purpose. These sentinel chickens play a largely unknown role in detecting viruses. Peter Doherty, an Australian vet. (and Nobel Prize winner for research in the field of medicine) explains the sentinel chickens It refers to the chicken flocks or little groups of chickens that epidemiologists keep scattered around the country. The idea is that the chickens are bitten by mosquitoes which carry the viruses that also infect us.(Doherty 2012) Well, here they are, contented little chooks pottering about,
scratching the grassy soil for a morsel of grub or worm, clucking to each other, appreciative of daily food and water placed for them so they may continue their happy little lives and bearing the vicious stabs and bites of mosquitoes with fortitude and forbearance thats what a chooks life is, scratch cluck and Ouch, nasty sting that one, hope thats not a Ross River Fever virus. Peter Doherty explains furtherthe infected birds develop antibodies to the viruses, scientists come along and take a blood sample to check whether the chicken has been exposed, this way they know if the virus is spreading. In Australia we dont have many human beings in a lot of places, sentinels are used to follow Murray Valley encephalitis in America sentinels are used to track West Nile virus, which is currently causing human disease at the moment, and has killed enormous number of birds in North America, corvids particularly. (Doherty 2012) Right, whats a corvid? A Garden of Birds by Graham Pizzey tells me that a corvid is a raven or crow. I suppose our corvids are safe from West Nile virus, but lets say, in a swampy bit of the United States, an infected mosquito bites a bird such as a Tahitian Splay Footed Petrel that traverses oceans bearing the infected blood, sets up house in a nice suburb in urban Australia, gets on with the neighbours, takes part in Neighbourhood Watch, joins clubs, follows a footy team and one night, is bitten by a gate crashing mosquito who reels off into the night to complain to a sympathetic chicken and in the course of a comforting wing around the shoulderbites the comforter, who is, a sentinel chicken. Our valiant sentinel chickens armed with good Aussie robust health but ignorant of deadly virus dispensing mosquitoes continue their simple little lives in the sunshine until they are visited by a heavy, boot-footed scientist. The human hands catch, lift, stab with needle Ouch again, thats as bad as that hairy- legged mossie who
hung around all last night soft talking me and getting his sticker in when I wasnt looking. The test shows a virus; our sentinel chickens have filled their purpose. A case of Avian paramyxovirus near Shepparton, Victoria was discovered in September 2011. This affected the pigeons, racing, cooing, and others; they became housebound, however a vaccine against the virus was developed and all feathers were preened ready for action again. Does a retiring sentinel chicken receive a golden grain handshake, a nice home with dedicated elderly carers or a retirement village with other esteemed sentinel veterans swapping virus stories around the grain table and water fountain? I think not, but I like to think they experience gentle chicken euthanasia at the hands of a grateful scientist. Reference
Doherty, Dr P (2012) Sentinel Chickens: What Birds Tell Us About Our Health And the World, Birdlife Melbourne Newsletter, Sentinel Chickens Interview Volume 1 Number 3, Melbourne University Publishing.
The Kangxi Emperors Southern Inspection Tour, Scroll Three: Jinan to Mount Tai, Qing dynasty (16441911), 1698 Wang Hui (Chinese, 16321717) and assistants Handscroll; ink and color on silk 26 3/4 x 548 1/2 in. (67.8 x 1393.8 cm) Purchase, The Dillon Fund Gift, 1979 (1979.5)
Jack in China
Mark Slattery
n February 1689 the second Qing dynasty emperor Kangxi (aka Ai Xin Jue Luo Xuan Ye) and his entourage travelled from the city of Jinan to Mount Tai, the cosmic peak of the East in Shandong Province. His purpose was to show that the Qing court had been established by the grace of the God. After kowtowing to the God of Mount Taishan he then took the pains to climb to the top to worship heaven. From its heights, over two thousand years earlier, Confucius declared, The world is small. In 2002, finally at the top after some 6,000 steps, my nine-year-old son Jack was not
impressed. Standing at the foot of a tiny staircase to the second floor of our restaurant, hands on hips, uncaring of who heard, he exclaimed Not more bloody steps. We were half way through a two-week business trip. Jack was a bright, unusually independent child. I imagined the sights and sounds of so foreign an experience would be enthralling and enthusiastically embraced. The steps were as much shock to me as they were to him. It had all started so well. The first week was spent in Shanghai at the 2002 Shanghai TV Festival where we were luxuriously shuffled between fivestar accommodation and the equally glamorous venue. The TV Festival occupied two floors of a large, modern exhibition centre with several other business exhibitions being concurrently staged on a further three floors. Jack had met the daughter of an English delegate and, together, they had the run of all five floors. The sight of two guilo (white ghost) children wandering the aisles of a serious, formal business convention would have provoked a generous, warm-hearted response from most of the Chinese delegates, guards and staff. Almost none would have seen western children in the flesh nor had a chance to engage with them directly. Over the three days of the exhibition Jack and his friend would disappear for hours, usually returning with armloads of giveaways from the different stalls they had been encouraged to visit: logo-emblazoned pens, sweets, pennants, small plastic figurines, pamphlets, flyers and, on one occasion, two Frisbees. This was fun. But that all changed the day we boarded the small eighteen-seater bus for the two-day trip to Beijing. Two days are not required to travel from Shanghai to Beijing but my Chinese business partner had a surprise. Rather than pay for an extra night for his five-star guests (Jack and I) Leland had planned a unique visit to one of Chinas holy mountains, before continuing on to Beijing. Without any warning, explanation, or dinner, we were hustled aboard the bus and took off. Jack was
unhappy to be leaving his new-found friend behind and as the bus ground on into the night his mood deteriorated. By the time we arrived at our hotel it was already after 10pm. It was only then we learnt of the plan: we were half way up Tai Shan, and tomorrow we would rise early to enjoy a pleasant stroll to the top. Everyone else gathered in the dining hall with huge enthusiasm and Im sure the meal presented exceeded their expectations. But not Jacks. Not a single plate or bowl contained anything resembling food. He refused to eat and became distressed, so I took him off to our room and waited till he fell asleep before re-joining the group. The remains of dinner had been cleared and replaced by large cardboard boxes full of Chinese slippers. Apparently these were to be our walking shoes for the climb. For the next hour I was lost in translation for some reason, maybe foot jokes are popular in China, maybe Western sexual connotations of feet size are oriental exports, whatever, every short, sharp burst of words was met with hysterical laughter. It was impossible to resist and before long my sides were also aching though I understood not a word. It was well late when the party ended and the 7.30am start to begin our trek upwards saw us all a little subdued. On the other hand Jack, without breakfast fish flavoured porridge, congee, being the outstanding option seemed refreshed and happy. Despite the language barrier Jack had made some solid friends in our small group during the week and on the bus trip. Though considerably older they were delighted in Jacks easy manner and worldly confidence. He was not a clinger and moved easily amongst them. As well, he was surprisingly adept at non-verbal communication, happy to mime his questions or simply throw someone a look that suggested he had understood every word. He had awoken among friends and another exciting day beckoned. A wide dirt path at the back of the hotel was our beginning and we met the first of many old, statuesque Cyprus trees. The walk is spectacular. Occasionally the mountain rises quite steeply to the
right of the trail and falls away at a rakish angle on the left. The landscape is rugged with many outcroppings of granite-like rock. It is defiantly masculine. The centuries old pine and Cyprus have a rough, deeply fissured bark and a dark green coverage ending in spiky scratches at the sky. Gnarled branches, twisted oddly attest to incremental wins and losses against the short (to them) cycles of hot dry winds and fierce gales of snow and heavy imposts of ice. The granite is not the smooth rounded soft forms which sit like massive eggs on Australias gentle slopes. They are stele uprights with sharp, uneven edges and hard crystalline surfaces. Even lying flat they discourage sitting. Tai Shan sits among many peaks and the views are of a land blasted upwards from the earth. It is dynamic to the eye. We cross many small bridges over thin fast flowing rivulets and spy instant waterfalls in straight single tress descents. The fierceness of nature in the detail flows into the whole, beguiling the eyes with freshness and clarity, at once new-born and ancient, angles and planes stacked towards the horizon, Heaven meeting Earth like jagged dentures. Initially such vistas were hinted at as the path meandered along the mountain side. Like me Jack doesnt talk and walk but he eventually asked a question that had been gathering in my mind how far to the top? Surprisingly, our colleagues, close and attentive for a week now, our every whim anticipated, had removed themselves, enjoying their different paces. We had to catch up to pose the question. The response was unusually precise three hours. Not about or less than. Quite definite. As if of course. It woke me up. I realised this was not, for them, just a sight-seeing trip. Regarding them anew they appeared wholly transformed, transported into a cultural realm beyond my understanding. Years later I understood. We were ascending by the east route, the Imperial Route. Since ancient times, emperors had ascended Tai Shan to legitimise their
authority and pray to heaven and earth for their ancestors. It is close to the birth place of Confucius and his burial site. Even Mao Zedong had a crack. This was hallowed ground, outstripping Christianitys claim to holiness by a thousand years. No wonder Jack and I were no longer treated like princelings. We were also informed that the path contained eighteen bends, presumably significant, but in the next half hour we easily counted off eighteen, reaching the high twenties. The significance of the true bends eluded us and not soon after, the delight in being alive, at one with nature, died in our knees. The steps began. It is interesting how the mind appreciates a set of steps finite. It is a comforting thought. The reality on Tai Shan is punishing. Jack and I congratulated each other after the first set and the second, entirely unaware of the trials ahead. The views were quickly forgotten. These were not regular steps, each hand carved out of the local granite and placed with perfect imprecision as to height and depth. It actively defied an autonomic climb with every step requiring increasingly intense concentration. Of the last two flights, the first is deceptively inviting at only around three hundred and seventy steps. The second, acerbically named The Road to Heaven, was in each of its one thousand six hundred and thirty tortuous small, steep steps hell. I do not know how Jack made it; he was no longer in my thoughts. It is said that you will live to see 100 years if you climb this sacred mountain. Bloody well-earned I say. In Heaven at last we staggered to a large plaza looking out onto a spectacular landscape of jagged peaks, cliffs and valleys, and joined our entourage, all equally tired but profoundly overawed. Eventually Leland gathered us together and we headed off for lunch. And that other set of stairs. Jack had a look when angry. Not black, I called it his navy blue look a very dark glower, but in so young a face, difficult to take seriously. Not any more. Thank the gods for rag noodles, ripped sheets of pasta floating
in a rich, meaty broth. For half an hour or so, he was indeed in heaven. During lunch I quietly expressed my concern to Leland of the prospect of another three and a half hour trek down the mountain. He laughed, Well take the cable car. Cable car? Theres a cable car? When I could finally speak I simply said, You can tell Jack.
The English Canon: Calibre or Bore?

Mark Slattery
he front page of the Herald-Sun on Thursday, May 23rd, 2013 was dominated by a very violent act writing. A woman had
had a social incident with Buddy Franklin. When she got home she explored her deeper feelings and posted them her account, her opinions and her reasons for them on Facebook. Many people wrote back in support. Franklin apologised. The article was a summary of events and a litany of quoted posts. Yet, despite its front page status on Victorias leading daily newspaper, it wasnt news. It was nothing more than a report of a spat, after which one person felt aggrieved and expressed this to her Facebook friends. These were not newsworthy people. Their exchange, entirely usual on Facebook, was not newsworthy. And it can be argued that a bloke, a footballer, even an AFL footballer, even Buddy Franklin, mouthing off after a few drinks is not newsworthy. Why all the fuss? Well yes, Buddy Franklin. Why the report? Availability, it was handy. The number of Facebook responses indicated it was topical; it had value as it ticked all the boxes for popular newsworthiness. It was cheap; there was no expenditure required to judge its value. And there were no copyright or attribution issues. As a bonus, it was exclusive. Is this the world of the writer today? For many of us it is. Thanks
to social media everyone can be a writer and be guaranteed an audience. However, despite the soul-baring there is no soul at the centre of social media content and, despite what post-modernists might contend, it is not literature. It is to notions of the soul, what it is to be human, and examinations of it in literature that the writer who aspires to be regarded as a writer must attend. Let us then dismiss the egalitarian view of a writer and make some statements about our writer. Our writer wants to understand the craft of writing so as to be able to tell stories, write essays and articles, which amuse, entertain, inform, and, perhaps, challenge and question the status quo. Our writer wants a flexibility of skills to be able to adapt stories to differing formats and different audiences. As well, our writer would like to be recompensed for the effort and recognised as a writer. Our writer understands that certain proficiencies and formal standards must be achieved and accommodated in pursuit of those goals. But, what are the proficiencies and from where the standards? As a starting point, why not a canon of great books. The very idea of a canon has stirred up a huge amount of commentary: lucid, informed and thought provoking. An argument that a canon cannot or does not represent the viewpoints of many contemporary societies around the world deliberately misses the point in an attempt to impose an equally arbitrary judgement on what literature should do. Bloom was most particular about this, The study of literature, however it is conducted, will not save any individual, any more than it will improve any society. Shakespeare will not make us better, and he will not make us worse, but he may teach us how to overhear ourselves when we talk to ourselves. (Bloom 1995, 30). Thus, we are concerned here with what literature is. To understand that, it is essential to pursue a vigorous, scholarly approach, to wit, what do scholars think?

The Canon of English Literature Canon: n., from the Latin canon or rule. Originally, an ecclesiastical code of law or standard of judgment, later any standard of judgment, usually based upon determinate set of authorized texts, like the canonical books of the Bible, Torah, Quran, or Sutras. In modern literature study, the best or most important or most representative works of secular literature which anchor the study of English and American literature. In literary studies, the canon of an author also is a name for those works known to have been written by her/him. (Goucher College 2013).
The most important lesson that a canon delivers is that we do not write in a vacuum. We write within an evolving process. While modern humans, Homo sapiens, have been roaming the earth for around two hundred thousand years, writing itself only came into being around five thousand years ago, the alphabet as we know it around three thousand years and the English language a bare fifteen hundred years ago. Somewhere in there, along with the alphabet, literature was born. In the context of human evolution it is a surprisingly recent development. Within literature, styles of writing have also evolved: from the epic poems of Homer and the tragedies and comedies, and philosophies of Ancient Greece, through the religious and philosophical writings of St Augustine, to the modern tragedies and comedies of Shakespeare, and the essays of Montaigne. Even the novel had to be invented which Harold Bloom, in his The Western Canon, ascribes to Cervantes Don Quixote. And with that evolution comes influence. There can be no strong, canonical writing without the process of literary influence, a process vexing to undergo and difficult to understand. (Bloom 1995, 7) In the Preface and Prelude of The Western Canon Bloom states: Thus, I have begun the Aristocratic Age with Shakespeare, because he is the central figure of the Western Canon, and I have subsequently considered him to nearly all others, from Chaucer to Montaigne, who affected him, through many of those he influenced
Milton, Dr Johnson, Goethe, Ibsen, Joyce, and Beckett among them as well as those who attempted to reject him: Tolstoy in particular, along with Freud, who appropriated Shakespeare while insisting that the Earl of Oxford had done the writing for the man from Stratford. This sentence is typical of Blooms long-winded and interreferential style and, without a rude familiarity with the writers and their works, the profundity (or otherwise) of his claims cannot be fully realised. Yet his central point is clear enough all good writing cannot but fail to be influenced strongly by good writing which precedes it. Even claims of originality must acknowledge such influence. Of Beckett, Bloom says, [Beckett] did not confuse himself with either God or Shakespeare, although Hamlet, The Tempest, and King Lear are all revised in Endgame, which has as great a relationship to Shakespeare as Finnegans Wake did. (Bloom 1995, 468). In this quote Bloom links Joyce to Beckett, having previously noted strong Joycean influences in Becketts first novel Murphy. As well Bloom restates his case that both owe a debt to Shakespeare. Then Bloom continues, I cannot think of any other twentieth-century work of literature composed as late as 1957 that is nearly as original in achievement as Endgame. (Bloom 1995, 469) Here, Bloom touches on the evolving process of both writing and us as humans. Whilst we cannot deny influences of past writers and past generations, we can use what we have learnt to be original in what we achieve. And the linking of literature to humanity is central to Blooms choice of canonical authors and texts. Hoi polloi take note, Blooms exaltation of Dante, primarily through his creation Beatrice, is difficult to comprehend for anyone who hasnt read the Comedy. Or read it at least twice. Nothing else in Western literature, in the long span from the Yahwist and Homer through Joyce and Beckett, is as sublimely outrageous as Dantes exultant Beatrice, sublimated from being an
image of desire to angelic status in which role she becomes a crucial element in the churchs hierarchy of salvation. (Bloom 1995, 72) The point seems to be that Dante, writing very much within a sacred age, and at all times, therefore, subject to stringent religious precepts of heresy (through Gnosticism), still managed to destroy the distinction between sacred and secular writing. (Bloom 1995, 77). Bloom writes that Dante achieved this through pervasive irony: Everything that is vital and original in Dante is arbitrary and personal, yet it is presented as truth, consonant with tradition, faith, and rationality. Here Bloom asserts that, through Dante, the way writing could achieve acceptance (and greatness) changed and paved the way for Dantes progeny: Petrarch, Boccaccio, Chaucer, Shelley, Rossetti, Yeats, Joyce, Pound, Eliot, Borges, Stevens, Beckett. (Bloom 1995, 75) A small aside. Searching for elucidation in the matter of Beatrice I found an online copy of The American Catholic quarterly review. v.17 1892. The article seemed to be an episode of an ongoing argument as to whether Beatrice was a historical figure or entirely fictional and, more importantly, allegorical, and more important still, allegorical of Theology. What was most striking was finding Harold Bloom foreshadowed: That Dantes beloved plays a part, at least, chiefly allegorical, is admitted by the best critics of ancient and modern times, while the merely historical character is defended only by romancers, realists, naturalists and sensualists. But, if she is chiefly allegorical, why not altogether? Why make her change her character at the caprice of a critic? This is, at best, a cheap way to solve a difficulty. (Conway 1892) Of Chaucer, Bloom rhapsodises over his Wife of Bath. What is awesome about the wife is her endless zest and vitality: sexual, verbal, polemical. Her sheer exuberance of being has no literary antecedent and could not be matched until Shakespeare created
Falstaff Chaucer is plainly fascinated by her he knows these two characters [the Wife and the Pardoner] have broken loose and uncannily course on by themselves, miracles of art representing grotesques of nature (Bloom 1995, 108). Bloom is no less ecstatic with Falstaff, it is inadequate to say of Falstaff that he provides a magnificent role; he is a cosmos, not an ornament, and holds up the mirror not so much to nature as to our outermost capacity for fresh life (Bloom 1995, 490), and credits Chaucers burgeoning secret of representation the effect of self-hearing in allowing Shakespeare to vastly expand that effect upon all his greater characters, and particularly on their capacity to change. Bloom goes on, There I would locate the key to Shakespeares centrality in the Canon. Just as Dante surpasses all other writers, before or since, in the emphasizing an ultimate changelessness in each of us, so Shakespeare surpasses all others in evidencing a psychology of mutability he not only betters all rivals but originates the depiction of self-change on the basis of over-hearing, with nothing but the hint from Chaucer to provoke him to this most remarkable of all literary innovations. (Bloom 1995, 46) It is extraordinary, therefore, to find a near contemporary of Shakespeares, one he was aware of but whom was not aware of him, applying this same innovation, not onto a fictional character but to himself. Of the father of the Essay, Montaigne, Nietzsche said, Cut these words and they would bleed; they are vascular and alive. According to Bloom, Montaigne changes as he reads and revises his own book; more perhaps than in any other instance, the book is the man is the book. No other writer overhears himself so acutely as Montaigne perpetually does; no other book is so much an ongoing process. (Bloom 1995, 138) It is in Montaigne that the fusion of processes of the evolution of writing and the evolution of humanity are supremely expressed. The freshness and vitality, as well as the rewards, nay, the necessity
of re-reading, so essential to Blooms criteria of canonical status, are exquisitely revealed in but a couple of quotes: If you dont know how to die, dont worry; Nature will tell you what to do on the spot, fully and adequately. She will do this job perfectly for you, dont bother your head about it. (Bloom 1995, 144) We must learn to endure what we cannot avoid. Our life is composed, like the harmony of the world, of contrary things, also of different tones, sweet and harsh, sharp and flat, soft and loud. If a musician liked only one kind, what would he have to say? He must know how to use them together and blend them. And so must we do with good and evil, which are consubstantial, with our life. Our existence is impossible without this mixture, and one element is no less necessary for it than the other. To try to kick against natural necessity is to imitate the folly of Ctesiphon, who undertook a kicking match with his mule. (Bloom 1995, 145) As writers, it is difficult to deny Blooms exhortations to engage with his choices of literature, purely through his promise of a deeper, penetrating comprehension of, not only what it is to be human, but also how to express it most authentically. Accept the influences, he cries, drown in them, not to mimic but to engage in a more deeply personal communication. For what is a writer first and foremost but a thinker? How better to improve ones thinking than to explore critically, yet openly, the writings of the best thinkers humanity has produced? Blooms argument for a canon is not entirely proscriptive (unless you are Alice Walker and her ilk, and/or writers of the period piece). The choice of authors here is not so arbitrary as it may seem. They have been selected for both their sublimity and their representative nature: a book about twenty-six writers is possible, but not a book about four hundred. (Bloom 1995, 2). In his Introduction to Appendix A, Bloom does limit inclusions to writings that are themselves of great aesthetic interest (Bloom
1995, 497), though remains stolidly presumptive as to what constitutes aesthetic interest, aesthetic values, aesthetic supremacy, and even aesthetics themselves. One hint is that the aesthetic and the agonistic are one, according to all the ancient Greeks, and to Burkhardt and Nietzsche, who recovered this truth. (Bloom 1995, 6). Possibly a visit to the ancient Greeks will prove more illuminating. And, I hope surprisingly, it is George Orwell (Eric Arthur Blair) who will lead us there. Nineteen Eighty-Four is an example of writing which, as a theme, analyses the dangers of thinking through an examination of what connects and what divides. And it does this through a precisely ordered construction of words. Our writer does not need guidance from literary criticism to understand the import of the novel, nor to comprehend how the novel was constructed. Character, setting and plot are clearly accessible. The language is clear, simple, unembellished. The opening pages set the scene and the main characters place within it. This view is broadened to include all levels of the society, their roles, expectations, and the rules which govern them. Within a couple of dozen pages the context of the story is clear; the experiences of one individual living under a brutal totalitarian regime. There is a lot of introspection at the expense of plot which is relegated a minor part. The introspection, while expanding the psychological environment imposed on the citizens of this society, is as well a commentary of human existence within any hierarchical society. Our ability to understand Orwells intent relies upon his placement of common objects, common views, and common human traits on each and every page. He provides the reader with easy access to his vision. Then, with a fully visible sleight-ofhand, he distorts the context, placing our common understandings within a bleaker, more confining atmosphere. The common, still before us, has had its attendant familiarity replaced with pregnant
foreboding. Along with the degree of discomfiture this provokes, emotions are stirred and our own sense of psychological security is undermined. We become uneasy and, in seeking an ally, are forced to identify with Winston. Thus unsettled, knowing all the rules, acknowledging alongside Winston that no-one can be trusted, we cannot help but view OBrien as inimical. We know from the beginning that Winstons faith in him, through a phantasticallyimagined relationship, is both false and doomed. Nevertheless, and Orwell understands this, on a first reading there is always hope. We may be wrong but we need to know. We are hooked. There is not genuine hope, however. It is entirely manufactured by the events unfolding, the facts revealed, and the potential for Winstons foolish self-destruction. Having planted the seed Orwell nourishes it by positively advancing Winstons relationship with Julia. We get to see Winston happy and are very grateful. That hope is further nourished by Winston and Julias meeting with OBrien. Yet even here only the guileless reader could continue to imagine hope seeing out the story. And very soon afterwards, after a briefly delicious sojourn in happiness and sunshine, all hope, Winstons, Julias and ours, is crushed. An astute reader might understand at this point that he or she has been toyed with. Emotions within the story are given scant exposure, hidden under weighty political observation. But they are glimpsed, the reader connects, and the very human drama is comprehended within the litany of a pseudo manifesto of the appropriation of power by oppression. A surface reading of Nineteen Eighty-Four presents a contemporary analysis of the very real threats unchecked power poses to any society and a warning to all of the dangers of complacency. Yet a familiarity with the Western Canon illuminates Blooms process of literary influence. In The Republic Plato established the template for the very society Orwell depicts. The major point which informed Platos thinking was that
since virtue, to be deep, involved the higher knowledge, including geometry and the dialectical inquiry into the arrangement and hierarchy of the Forms, not excluding the ultimate and unspeakable vision of the Good, there is need of a ruling class of wise people. Philosophers shall thus be kings.(Smart 1999) Beneath these kings would be the guardians, chosen from the elite, the auxiliaries, to rule the city-state. At the bottom, the general population: farmers, carpenters, merchants, and so on, akin to Orwells proles. Orwell did not need to bridge two and a half millennia to be inspired by this idea. It had inexorably crept towards him. Though not the first to run with Platos template, St Augustine, via Plotinus, adopted and adapted it, replacing Forms with Godhead, specifically the Trinity, and Philosopher kings with the rule of the Catholic Church, a structure which continues to this day. Bloom might just have had Orwell in mind when he wrote,
Great writing is always rewriting and revisionism and is found upon a reading that clears space for itself or that so works as to reopen old works to our fresh sufferings. (Bloom 1995, 10)
Orwells achievement, his originality, is twofold. The first is the largest drop punt in recorded history (and a tacit acknowledgment that this originality is paying its dues). The all too real depictions of life lived within a constrained society, such as that in The Republic, is a direct kick to the face of Plato and his paternalistic ideals. The second, more striking achievement is Orwells prophetic warnings to the future: Big Brother, thought crime, doublethink and Newspeak. Almost seventy years on from its publication these words, from fiction, have obtained very real ramifications (and cause MS Word no problems whatsoever).
References
Bloom, H. (1995) The Western Canon, 2nd ed., The Berkley Publishing Group, New York Conway, J (1892) Beatrice and Other Allegorical Characters of Dante Alighieri. The American Catholic Quarterly Review, [Online]. Vol. XVII, 260. Available at: http://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/t?id=mdp.390150209 12591;seq=267;view=1up;num=253#view=1up;seq=274 [Accessed: 11 June 2013] Goucher College, Department of English (2013) The Canon of English Literature. [Online] Available at: http://faculty.goucher.edu/eng211/ canon_of_english_literature.htm [Accessed: 11 June 2013] Smart, N. (1999) World Philosophies, 2nd ed. Routledge, London

Painted Words 2013 - 9th Edition

Загружено:

Сведения о документе

Авторское право

Поделиться этим документом

Поделиться или встроить документ

Параметры публикации

Этот документ был вам полезен?

Это неприемлемый материал?

Авторское право:

Painted Words 2013 - 9th Edition

Загружено:

Авторское право:

2013

An anthology of writing by Bendigo TAFEs Professional Writing and Editing Students

Cover illustrationSarah Wallace-Smith. Burning the Stubble, oil on canvas, 2013.

Painted Words 2013 | v

vi | Painted Words 2013

Painted Words 2013 | vii

than ever to encourage and celebrate manifestations offundamental creativity.

viii | Painted Words 2013

Painted Words 2013 | ix

The Footsteps Behind Me . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4

Our Recipe for Time . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6

Thats Why Smoke Detectors Beep . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8

The Sleeper Awakes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13

True Love and the Blue Fish . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17

2am Saturday Night, Bendigo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19

x | Painted Words 2013

Why the Hell Cant They Leave Me Alone? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43

The Mirror and the Bath . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52

Boys, Friends, and Everything in Between . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61

The Tale of Rudi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70

Painted Words 2013 | xi

The Proving Grounds . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88

Concrete and Steel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96

The Bed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100

Montmartre 1894 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114

Alexander Tale . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 118

Dead Flowers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127

The Journey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 148

All that pale fragility . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 149

Birds are nesting in their throats . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150

xii | Painted Words 2013

The storeman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151

A Dying Breath . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 152

Pondering tomorrow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 155

Euphoric Taint . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 156

Spider Fright . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 158

A Cup of Tea . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 160

The Wrinkles on Your Face . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 161

Bank on View . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 162

Little Yellow Vase . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163

waiting to inhale . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 166

Haiku untitled #1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 168

Painted Words 2013 | xiii

Haiku untitled #2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 169

JUNE MOON solstice June 2013 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 171

You are I am . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 172

Good ol Jack . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 176

Out of your sight, out of my mind . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 178

postcards from hong kong . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 180

Dope Trials . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 182

Smashed eggs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 184

An Idea of Everything . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 185

xiv | Painted Words 2013

The Royal Bud Ball . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 188

The Caretaker . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 196

In Darkness Lies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 204

Fading Echoes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 210

The Gentle Art of Doing Bugger All . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 217

Book Review . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 252

Painted Words 2013 | xv

The Power of Poetry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 256

This is why I write . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 260

The Song of Roland and the Lay of the Cid . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 263

The F-Word . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 271

Hemp: Australias Environmentally Friendly Cotton Replacement . . . . . 275

The Visual Language of Rick Amor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 280

Sacrificial Sentinals . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 283