Narrator Magazine Blue Mountains Spring 2010

Narrator Magazine

Blue Mountains

Spring 2010

Smashwords Edition

narrator MAGAZINE is published by MoshPit Publishing

Shop 1, 197 Great Western Highway, Hazelbrook NSW 2779

MoshPit Publishing is an imprint of Mosher’s Business Support Pty Ltd

P: 1300 644 680 ABN 48 126 885 309

www.moshpitpublishing.com.au

www.narratormagazine.com

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This ebook may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to Smashwords.com to discover other books by this publisher. Thank you for your support.

Cover: This issue’s cover image is courtesy of local Dungatti artist Blake McHugh. Blake’s ‘Art Stops’ is a most confronting, yet honest, artwork. It featured recently in his exhibition at the Olde Block Factory Gallery (OBFG), Faulconbridge.

For more information about Blake, please contact Robyn Caughlan, curator at the OBFG on 0413 231 831 or via robyncaughlan6@gmail.com A3 posters on 220gsm paper of Blake’s image are available for $20 + P&P from the MoshShop at

http://www.moshers.com.au/moshshop

A few words from the publisher ...

Thank you for your interest in this new initiative!

We’ve had a fantastic response to three little advertisements which we ran in the Blue Mountains Gazette in late July/early August and are very pleased to bring you this great collection of poems, essays and short stories from your fellow residents.

As well as literary contributions, we also have a few contributions from local artists and agreement from Paris Portingale (known to most as the author of very many amusing letters to the Gazette) to be our ‘writer-in-residence’ for the first three issues.

We live in a great area—not just from an environmental point of view—but from a social point of view. Since moving here 19 years ago, I have been constantly delighted with how supportive Mountains residents are of each other and their efforts to lead better lives. This little magazine is one fine example of that.

Although the seed of an idea was only planted in July, it has sprouted and borne fruit much more quickly than I would have thought possible a year or so ago. And that’s thanks to the people who have seen the same opportunity that I did—an opportunity to help residents get samples of their work out there, without some corporate boffin ‘being the judge’.

But with all due respect to corporate boffins, the businesses which have advertised in this magazine have also made it possible—so if you have a need and one of these wonderful businesses can help, then please consider using them first!

This first collection is uncensored* and virtually unedited, save for a basic spelling, grammar and punctuation check. Our aim is to bring out your work and then sit back and let the people speak. So don’t forget to vote!

If you’ve ever had a piece of your writing published, or enjoyed the thrill of a picture you painted being hung in an exhibition, then you would also know the tummy-churning feeling of ‘putting your work out there’—it’s like standing naked in front of crowd.

So to all those contributors who have taken the brave step of ‘standing naked’ in front of their fellow residents—I thank you for your trust and goodwill.

Enough from me! Please, start turning the pages, and enjoy this collection in the spirit with which it was made.

Jenny Mosher

September 2010

Table of Contents

Poetry

Bright Spark – Zoya Kraus

The Liberation of Ted Farmer – Robyn Nance

Saturday Glory – Margaret Dighton

My Ancestors – Karen Maber

A Descent – Frances Sherlock

The Good Politician – Greg North

Save Catho – Dee Dee Graham

Hanging Rock, Blackheath – Dee Dee Graham

Fatality at Warrimoo – David Berger

Black Future – Greg North

All Mine – Ryan O’Shannessy

Out of the Mist – Jean Bundesen

Stories

Carving – Jordan Russo

The Playground – Alexandra Martinez

Fresh Milk – John Egan

God’s Shout – David Berger

Yes Mum, Why? – John Egan

Journal Extract: The Red Rattler – Nana J

Canine Wisdom – Janet Richardson

The End? – Robina Cranston

Lifewreck – Linda Campbell

What Have You Lost, Old Man? – John Egan

Gathering at Unaminka – Kate Matthew

The Spirit and Ghosts of ‘Catho’ – Dee Dee Graham

Beyond the Oak Door – Arthur Gray

Aunt Agnes – Peter Adams

Everything Seems to be Broken – Elizabeth Dight

Jules and Aime – Paris Portingale

Essays

Prominence in the News: The Age of the Celebrity – Albany Dighton

The Main Event is the Country’s Future - Beverly Elizabeth Taylor

This section brought to you by ...

Maber Business Services

Tax Returns ~ Accounting ~ Loans ~ Insurance

http://www.maber.net.au

Carving – Jordan Russo

‘What should we carve?’ thought a man in a long dark brown hessian cloak, as he looked upon the mass of jagged rock. A woman dressed the same way, smiled next to him and cocked her head. Her light hair blew in the gentle breeze in time and in the same direction as the light green grass blades. The man and woman both looked down at their belts of chisels, mallets and gourd water bottles. The bright azure sky hung over the green fields, stretching out for miles around them and the light green grass swayed in the wind, changing direction with every breath. The man walked out ahead and moved around the large rock feeling its rough pale grey surface. He reached into his belt and took out a mallet and large wide chisel. He hesitated, looking along the huge uneven rocky wall. Then he locked his eyes on a random spot and placed his chisel. Clouds overhead moved along their unhurried endless journeys and the sun began to gleam through the big trees behind the rock mass. All the while, the scraping, the ringing and the beating echoed throughout the day.

‘I’ll start here’ he called around the corner. He began chipping across the rock smoothing and shaping its ragged surface. The woman stuck her head around the corner. The man looked across the long tall grey wall of rock at the woman as she smiled at him, ‘I love you,’ she whispered. The man smiled and went back to his work. ‘You big muscular boofhead,’ she said, and disappeared back around the corner as the man snapped his attention from the rock to where she had just been. The man scowled and then broke into a silent chuckle. ‘I will start on the opposite side to you and then we shall carve our way to meet up,’ she called from around the corner. He worked tirelessly all day. Between each placement of the chisel he could hear the strong soothing chipping of the woman - and feel her passion.

His feet rustled the grass as he adjusted his footing throughout the work. At the end of the day as twilight seeped in, he and the woman would leave for home. In the mornings on one occasion he and the woman went together to the market to buy new chisel sizes. On many occasions they would shop for food together and help take care of their sick family members. The busy city streets were filled with people, the tapping of their steps sounding on the cobble stones, carts grating their wooden wheels across bridges over human made waterways and sellers yelling out over the murmur of people wearing all sorts of garb. Some people sat on fences staring into space. Others played lively tunes on their flutes while sitting on the streets for hours. The smell of tobacco smoke mixed with hot spices, filled his nose.

Whenever the man left the city and stepped once again onto the spacious plains, the powerfully fresh air charged into him and then freedom set in with that. Months circled by as the man chipped into the rock wall and then smoothed out its undulations. He moved from the now smooth wall to the top and began chiselling that. He opened a bag of small granite stones onto the surface and ran a big rectangular sander across the top smoothing it out. Sometimes he leant over the edge on his stomach and smiled at the woman. ‘Get to work you boofhead’ she would say, whenever she saw him. Heat rippled the air and the man pulled his sleeves up. The man had to keep drinking from his water and decided they had best finish for the day. The next day he got exactly what he wished for, cooler weather, so cool it rained for a few days. It became uncomfortably cold. Then warmer weather finally fixed that, but funny enough the woman seemed to prefer the heat when he preferred the cold.

The man switched to a finer pointed chisel to inscribe fine details. The stone was smoothed out entirely. It was a stone that now looked like a man and woman. With their arms around each other, their faces looked triumphant with bright smiles. They wore simple robes. The carving’s muscular arms showed even the veins and scratches that could only be so meticulously crafted by passion and skill. It was the man and woman’s interpretation of the good side of humanity, the good in individuals using their minds as much as their hearts. The man was aware that some people believed what they thought were undeniable facts. So their experience was to them, the way of the world - a lack of intellectual faith. The man turned around and saw their home city engulfed in an angry orange blaze.

Bright Spark – Zoya Kraus

‘This poem is something I wrote for my son after he/we lost his little sister Lila. I wrote it in support for him but, a creative outlet for myself through grief, and as a way of reaching out to other people in grief. It feels pure and innocent and real to us. I’d LOVE to share it.’

Hello White Cockatoo

I’ve been waiting for you.

My night was long, lonely and dark

Now here you are, Bright Spark.

I feel warm, joyful and light

When I see flashes of your yellow and white.

You have come to me every single day

Since the moment my sister passed away.

I KNOW you are her, she is you

That’s why I love you White Cockatoo.

One day her heart stopped beating

Her time with life was brief and fleeting.

I feel scared and sad, that’s the truth

But then show up and give me proof

A fallen feather, a mighty screech

A smile creeps in, you’re both in reach.

My sister is free and with you now

Look after her, look after me somehow.

Now that I can see her in you

I KNOW she lives on, White Cockatoo.

The Liberation of Ted Farmer – Robyn Nance

Charlie was sitting on the Royal’s

verandah

With his old mates, Pete and Bill

When they saw Ted Farmer’s trusty ute

Come chugging over the