narratorAUSTRALIA Volume One

Foreword

It is with great pride and pleasure that we bring you this first collection of short stories and poems from emerging and established writers across Australia.

From its humble beginnings as a locally produced quarterly print publication, what started as narratorMAGAZINE Blue Mountains is now narratorAUSTRALIA – a daily digital edition representing talent across a nation of more than 21 million people. This volume contains 215 poems and short stories written and submitted by 107 emerging and established writers published at www.narratoraustralia.com.au during the six month period 1 May to 31 October 2012.

As I was formatting these entries into this compilation, it was wonderful to revisit so many of the items which had brought me so much pleasure on first reading. It is amazing how, as you age, you tend to forget more than you remember!

You will notice as you read through that a few of the entries received Editor’s Pick awards. I am sure that for some of these items, many of you will agree wholeheartedly, and that for others, some of you will disagree with equal intensity! Each Editor’s Pick was awarded for the reaction the item provoked in us on first reading. These reactions weren’t always related to our emotions – sometimes they were related to how we were left thinking – so it may have been a case of thought, not emotion, which resulted in the award.

Looking back at these pieces now, I am still happy with the decisions, but there are other items which, perhaps, deserved something, a Highly Commended, or a Well Done, You! But I don’t want to turn narrator into a circus of teacher’s gold stars – it’s about having a collection of the best writing the country can deliver. And if there is the occasional standout piece (in our minds) then we will highlight that.

I need to assure you that these are not the only submissions we received. We ask for properly edited pieces, and only publish those that we feel have something original to offer, or which say it in a slightly more original way than the next writer might. So this is not a collection of everything which was submitted, only those pieces we felt deserved publication.

I also need to mention that while we give each piece a light proofread for more obvious errors, and try to format all to a reasonable consistency, time constraints dictate that there will be the occasional issue with spelling, punctuation or grammar. For these I can only apologise, congratulate you for knowing better, and remind you not to make the same mistake when submitting your work to publishers!

In this compilation you will find long poems and short stories, and long stories and short poems. Some have illustrations, some have explanations, others are just as they are. They have been published in date order, and there is a list of contributions by author at the back. Sometimes we published more than one item in a day, and on these occasions, you may notice a time stamp next to the date. If no time stamp, then the item would most likely have been published at 8 am Sydney time.

So please, turn the page and start reading … and when you have a moment, feel free to visit the website, or our Facebook page, and let the writers know if you enjoyed their work, and why.

And if you feel like submitting to narratorAUSTRALIA yourself one day, we would love to hear from you!

Thank you for your support of narrator and of the Australian creative writing industry.

Jennifer Mosher, AE

Editor-in-Chief

Copyright reminder

Please remember that every item in this book is the copyright of the attributed author.

Please do not even think about plagiarising these works or using them without permission.

If you wish to gain permission to quote from these works, or to use them elsewhere, then please contact us via our MoshPit Publishing website at http://www.moshpitpublishing.com.au/ if you can’t easily find contact details for the author in question.

The above also applies to the images supplied by the authors to illustrate their artworks.

Thank you.

Index

Author

Item name

Adams, Susan

In Clear Felled Fields Kookaburras Sit On Wires

Alannah

The House

Anderson, David

How The Bagpipes Were Invented

Poem For New York

The Barcoo Flood

The Last Hunt

Arkleysmith, Eulyce

Politicians Care

Pollies Pay Rise

Ashwin, Hettie

Black Socks And Matching Tie

Scabby Dawn

Assumpter, Irene

All Crystal

I Will Call It Solace

Odd Footy Boy

Baldry, Rosemary

X Marks The Spot

Beer, Don

Music

Blatt, Eddie

Bangla Road, Patong

Bridge

Untouchable Me

Brittain, Ann-marie

The House On Weary Traveller’s Way

Brooks, Nicholas

Shelf Life

Bundesen, Jean

Happiness All The Way

Memories

Railway Tracks

Byrne, Marina

Dr Who In The Kitchen Of My Childhood

Callaghan, Linda

Autumn Love

Dainty Daisies

Keeping In Touch

Carl, Aaron

Adequate Time

Chaffey, Robyn

Illusion

Isobel

My Name Is Gertrude …

Will Time And Tide Remember Me?

Compton, Ronnie

My Ward

Please Move Again

Craci, Theo

Dog

Craib, James

A Banquet In Venice

Back To The Future And Forward To The Past

Lost Illusions

Old Seadogs

The Prisoner Of Pilatus

Would You Like (F)lies With That?

Davies, Nene

Miss Understood

Demelza

Tim Tam Temptation

Downs, Noel

Best Friend

Doyle, Brendan

Nature Study

Train To The Airport, 10 September 2011

Edgar, Bob

In The Orange Light Of Early Morning

It’s Only A Myth

School Daze

The Dying Game

Underground Melody

Yuletide

Falconer, Stephen

Left Upon The Steps Of Salvation

Letter To The Editor From A Vampyre

Fawdry, Merlene

Oblivion

The Pain Of Missing Her

Traces Of Glitter

Fermanis-Winward, Michele

Becoming Colour

Beguiled

Mountain Climbing

Freedman, C.G.

Re-Offender

G, Gordon

Picture

G, Mel

I Did Nothing Wrong

Gardiner, Alex aka The Auld Yin

Ma Wee Pawky Thing

Ode Tae Bonny Lass’s Braw

To Tea Or Not To Tea ‘Answered’

Whales In Motion

Gibbs, Russell

Still Mind Wanders

Girolamo, Hazel

Tudor Tonight

Goodwin, Peter

A Poem Written On A Window

Broken Vases

The First Journey

The Picture Frame

Govier, Mark

Diary Of A Meph-Head – An Extract

Killing Painting

Police Report On The ‘Dr’

Reactions 1

Gow, Virginia

Blackout At Blackheath

Once Upon Mt Wilson

Shadow Watcher

Hall, Emma

A Love Song

Content In Misery

Killed A Man

Lovers And Liars

Sami’s Babies

Heard, Ridley

Fame

Heks, Andris

From Billions Of Years Ago

The Ghosts Of Megalong

Hit, Vague

tyrannosaurus hex

Hollins-Cliff, Annabel

Tales From The Tall Man

Howard, Emmett

I See Darkness

Tangible Thinking

Howell, Connie

An Extraordinary Woman

Mirror, Mirror

Humphreys, Paul

A Slip To Eternity

Bird

The Boy’s Birth Night

Ince, Frank

Melanie Rents A Home

JAC

Amanda’s Fairytale

Creative Places

Darkness

The White House

James, Nicole

Something Of Nothing

Johnson, Amber

Fabulous Fairy Floss

Fifteen, Homeless And Hungry

Flustered

Gravity

Marionettes Of Despair

Tourism Australia

Virtual Obsession

Krone, Mary

Frangipani Galaxy

La Porte, Judith

Believing In Ghosts

Lance, Robyn

Baggage

Big Moon Rising

Langford, Anthony J.

All Quiet In The Bell Tower

Lee, Crystal

I Ain’t Saying Goodbye

You Were Gone

Lee, Melanie

It Hurts How You Love Me

Loughran, Chloe

Bathed In Sunlight

Little Retro Cave

Nicole

Two Hours Till Sunday

Lucas, Alan

Mountain

Perry’s Lookdown

The Leaping For Joy Girl

The Legless Frog

Lynch, Felicity

In My New World

Rain

To My True Love

Maddever, Kai

My Plea, My Son

Mancy, JH

Not This Little Yellow Duck

Martin, Denise

Autumn

Seasons Of The Day

Massingham, Joe

Dispirited

The Morning After

McGloin, Barry

Faith

Repast

Fox Encounter

McMillan, Colleen

Heat

Merryjack

Mean Streets Dolly

Miller, Samantha

Material World

Miller, Samuel

Old Granny Nullius

Morgan, Jonathan

Taking Tea

Nickols, Lynn

The Weave, The Weft, The Warp

O’Flynn, Mark

Morris Minors

P, Alexandra

A Child’s Windows

Pant, Subroto

Reality Bites

Paton, Toni

You Can’t Go Wrong

Payne, Andrea

Nevada Desert

Reveille

The Missus

Portingale, Paris

Fealty – Or, The Art Of Being There For One Another

God’s Other Son

Purgatory

The Lunatic – Prologue

Pratt, Tamara

Saving My Butterfly

With Your Guitar

Ramsay, Sallie

Goin’ South

Knitting In Green

The Box

The Last Day

Twins

Reed, A.J.

Resignation

Renew, Sandra

Green Eyes In Afghanistan

Un believable (Sudan 2010)

Ridley, Pat

One Day

Sensible Fools

Rimeriter

Bluehole – Come Share With Me

Lightning Ridge

Two Lovers

Robertas

Blackshield

Down Reigate Hill

Five Thousand Galaxies

Is

Nervous Tic

Ross, John

A Floral Wreath

A Mid-Winter Sunrise

It’s The Small Things

The Veggie Garden

Russo, Jordan

The Reflection

Sargent, Susan

To Borrow Freedom

What We Leave Behind

Satori, Sonia

I Couldn’t Stay For The Celebration

Love Is A Verb

The End Of The Beginning – The Beginning Of The End

The Inheritance

Scorpio

J

Scott, Emma-Lee

The World Of Growth

Untitled #18

Singer, Ariette

Batting Eyelashes

My Solemn Promise

Our Chronic Problem

Smith, Tracey

Beyond The Glass

Smith, Winsome

Comfrey

Smithers, Alexandra

She

Soul, Jessica

Bird On A Wire

Sparks, Graham

A Moment In 1974

Bright Morning Full Of Hope

Chicken Dinner At The Roadhouse

New Xin Zhang

Send In The Infantry

Sing Me There

Studach, Stephen

The Funnels

Tanaka, Cathie

Between

Thubten, Yeshe

Reality In A Heartbeat

Weatherbeaten

Todd, Shannon

Eternal Devotion

Time

Turner, Claire

Great Spirit

Von Riegen, Kate-Michelle

Recognising The Signs

Walker, Vickie

So Many Grains Of Sand

Witham, Ted

Power Drunk

Withers, Ruth

Grandpa Dan

Shadows

Yuen, Kathryn

It Starts With A Big C And Ends With … Er

Zaunmayr, Tom

Peer Pressure

Tuesday 1 May 2012 8 am

Autumn

Denise Martin

Gisborne, Victoria

Autumn scents hang in the air

Cool crisp mornings, days are fair.

Tumbling leaves of red and gold,

Orange, amber, brown unfold.

Piles of faded beauty smoulder,

Days are perfect, nights now colder.

Charred remains of autumn splendour

A winter coat for seedlings tender.

To rise again in spring to bloom,

Dispelling winter's chilly gloom.

Tuesday 1 May 2012 4 pm

Still Mind Wanders

Russell Gibbs

West Perth, WA

I rolled my smoke, lit up and inhaled

Each exhalation came in a burst of three

And between each puff of smoke

I licked my lips, without knowing why

Truly I tried to sit in the sun

And to think of things happy and bright

But my mind just kept returning to

‘fuck my life’ ‘fuck my life’ FUCK MY LIFE’

I wanted to be able to share with you all

The desire to find a dark cool corner

And sit and cut myself till the knife turns red

And stills my own small voice and its despondency

But apparently that’s just a cry for help

For attention, for sympathy; a pathetic cry

So I load up a needle with ink

And set to work defacing myself privately

Apparently the permanency of the ink

Is better than the fading red lines of blood

But at least I get the sensation

Of something, anything, and my mind sits still.

I still wish that I had something to rage

Against machine, man, injustice or hatred

But I am too self absorbed and introspective

And the only enemy I find readily is me ...

Russell says that at 29 years of age, and discovering that a life of music does not fulfil all artistic desires, he has adapted to turning phrase, ignorantly and inadequately trying to express what cannot be spoken.

Wednesday 2 May 2012

Twins

Sallie Ramsay

Torrens, ACT

It is a comfort to know that it’s more than probable that the next time I see her she will be dead. Watching her across the room, she’s so full of life. Laughing, tossing her head; flirting, showing Jonathan Service enough of her firm tanned breasts to set his blood racing. He is flushing under the acne he has had since adolescence and no doubt will carry into his dotage. Biggest thrill he has had for years as she leans towards him, breasts shaking as she laughs. It’s too much for Jonathan who hastily heads crabwise towards the door. She catches my eye, raises her eyebrows slightly, a faint smile crosses her face but is gone so fast I wonder if I imagined it.

My twin sister is outrageous and brilliant. You know the sort, always in the right place at the right time. Serendipity was invented with her in mind.

We share some interests and, coincidently, the same initials. I don’t think it was a deliberate decision by our parents; more likely they were so stunned by the arrival of two babies where one was expected they didn’t think at all. Now and again our mail gets mixed up but other than that there really isn’t a problem.

We live in that new development next to City Park and although we have keys to each other’s townhouses, for the most part we live separate lives.

You’ve probably seen my sister on one of the celebrity cooking shows, making enormously complicated recipes look so simple that anyone with half a brain, a wooden spoon and a primus stove could whip them up in nothing flat. But I will say this for her: she is one helluva cook. When the spirit moves her she fills my freezer with delicious goodies. I’ll miss that; pity.

I enjoy the finer things in life and despise those who don’t. I like my wine and women full-bodied. In addition, the women should be financially independent, compliant, appreciative of my skill as a lover and temporary. I find once women feel secure in a relationship they begin to express opinions on a range of topics about which they know nothing and, as a result, become irritating and boring.

Recently, I had the misfortune to fall foul of the family of a particularly full bodied, extremely compliant and appreciative woman. While spending a pleasant evening at one of the well-known nightspots owned by her family I, foolishly as I now know, accepted an invitation to join a friendly poker game. I pride myself on being a poker player of more than average ability but this night and, on a number of nights following, luck deserted me. I lost a small fortune, a small fortune I don’t have.

I recollect the exact moment when, through a haze of cigar smoke, I realised that this was no friendly game and that I had a large problem, a very large problem. I did my utmost to distance myself from her and from her family, but, just when I thought that bygones were indeed bygones, an embarrassing encounter in my favourite bar reminded me quite emphatically I remained very much in their debt. Remaining in this family’s debt is simply not a viable option, particularly if I accept the dictionary definition of viable as ‘capable of living’ and apply it to myself. It’s that kind of family.

When we were kids my sister and I were left a large block of land by a distant uncle. The only access was by a narrow sandy track crisscrossed by washouts deep enough to provide a challenge on the Paris to Dakar Rally. We camped there a couple of times years ago but a block covered with scrub leading onto a barren windswept beach certainly didn’t appeal to me. Neither of us went there or even thought of it for over ten years. Then, a couple of years ago, the local council approved what had been labelled ‘a pie in the sky’ proposition for re-zoning. The price we were offered for the block was impressive, very impressive, but when I suggested we sell, my sister, after making some very uncomplimentary comments about environmental vandals in general and ‘bloody developers’ in particular, refused to even consider it.

I spoke to her again yesterday about selling the block but received the same response. And later in the day I was reminded, by a visit from two of the biggest gorillas I’ve seen outside a zoo, I was still in debt to their keepers.

Yesterday, a letter meant for my sister landed in my mailbox. I opened it and skimmed the contents before I realised my mistake. She had had some tests done; something to do with sensitivity to insect stings. I remember when she was a kid she had a bad reaction to a bee sting; gave everyone a nasty fright. The tests results show she’s exceptionally sensitive to European wasps. Nasty. They are such unpleasant aggressive little beasts; very short tempered and my salvation. Trapping some won’t be a problem; the glass of coke I left on the table by the window should do the trick. I must remember to put the letter back in her mailbox

~~~

Slumped on the couch she watched the men from the coroner’s office carry her brother’s body from his apartment.

‘Now then, take your time and tell us what happened.’

Her voice was trembling and barely audible:

‘The buzzing, I’ll never forget the buzzing ...’ She pressed her hands over her ears as if trying to shut out the sound. ‘The window was open, there was a glass on the table, surrounded, covered by wasps. And he ...’ Her voice broke. She raised a tearstained face. ‘I should’ve done it straight away but I thought it would be alright.’

‘You should’ve done what?’

‘Warned him about the wasps ...’

‘You knew about the wasps then?’

‘Yes. No.’

‘You knew about them or not?’

‘That is, I knew wasps could be a threat but I didn’t know there were wasps here.’

‘Go on.’

‘I had some tests done.’

‘Tests?’

‘Yes. Bee stings can kill me.’

‘But these are wasps.’

‘Yes, the tests showed I’m very sensitive to them too.’

‘And ?’

‘My GP told me I must warn my brother because these allergies can run in families.’ Her voice shook, ‘I thought there wasn’t any hurry, especially as I was going to see him tonight anyway.’

‘Why was that?’

‘I was going to tell him that I’d changed my mind about selling some land we own.’

Thursday 3 May 2012

Tangible Thinking

Emmett Michael Joseph Howard

Kambah, ACT

What the fuck just happened?

Two minutes ago I’m getting a professional massage, and now I’m freezing cold and it’s pitch black.

It is way too cold here.

Wait.

WAIT.

O god, I’m flat.

How am I supposed to roly poly now? Okay, okay, get a grip. Let’s work this shit. It’s cold, pitch black, and somehow I’m flat. I’m in space. No wait, there’d be stars.

I got sucked into a black hole. That would explain everything. Wait no, I’d have been super compressed into dark matter …

… I feel too light and fluffy to be dark matter. Unless that’s what dark matter feels like? A hard outer shell with sweet, smooth chocolate on the inside.

Is that what I learnt about dark matter? Fuck, no that’s M&M’s. DAMMIT. I’m going to die. Ahh, no, I’m definitely not in a black hole, smells too much like over processed meat and stale pasta.Everyone knows you can’t smell anything in a black hole.

I think.

Okay, time for some simple algebra. Why didn’t I think of this before? Alright, if X is where we are, then A is the coldness, B is my flatness and my being split apart, and C is that lingering combination of odour.

A black hole in Norway?

No this doesn’t feel Norwegian at all. We’re in a dark, smelly, corrosive hole. That just doesn’t sound right, think I forgot to carry the one.

Fuck maths.

WHOA. What’s that … I’m moving!

It’s like the great moon has reached down with his elegant crater face and plucked me from this eternal exile with his own hand. He’ll show me the light.

Any minute.

What’s that grunting?

What’s that ringing and cluttering? He’s trying to deafen me.

That’s not right.

What is that ignorant beeping? It’s penetrating right through my very core. I can feel it. Must be some sort of dark magic. 

Buzzing, bumping, sizzling, slapping.

I’m in some sort of murder house. Oh no, I knew it. I’m in the hands of those dirty sleazy shouting wheezy bipeds.

All they do is ruin perfectly beautiful things like me. Once I saw one slice a tomato clean in half.

Disgusting.

I can still smell the citrus juices seeping along the bench …

Fantastic! I’m not moving anymore. Still life. Suspended with nothing but home-made white noise to fill my ears.

I think I have ears.

So what do I do now? Wait. My brother’s clearly dead. He probably gave away my whereabouts. Those savage bastards would do anything to get their hands on me.

AH. LIGHT!

Darkness lifted to reveal this rainbow of stained yellow tiles and mould, plaster roof.

So much bacteria. Am I crying?

Now I’ve lost it – I’m crying about bacteria.

I need to get out of here. At least I can see, and I’m not half frozen.

-Hi friend.

Why, hello neighbour, why are you so thin?

-I don’t know, but this guy keeps patting me. I feel like a tame leopard.

I met a leopard once. Same day I learnt not to pull tails of those I just met.

-What’d it do?

Bit me.

-Gnarly.

Yeah was pretty rad. You’re really skinny. And greasy.

-I know it’s ’cause of this lad.

Reminds me of a joke. Blind elephant and a blind frog are walking in the jungle. They bump into each other. ‘Sorry!’ says the elephant. ‘Say, could you feel me and see what animal I am?’ The frog replies promptly, ‘Of course, I am also blind, so you can return the favour’. The frog feels around for a while. ‘Hmm’ he says. ‘Trunk, big ears rough skin, I think you’re an elephant.’ ‘Yippee!’ squeals the elephant. ‘I’ll do you now. Slimy skin, long legs, small penis. I think you’re a human.’

O dear. My dear friend seems to have died. So much blood. Maybe I said it wrong, I’m pretty sure it’s a human he thinks he is …

Either that or a Serbian, whatever that is …

Now what’s this guy doing. Look at him. Smug little asshole, shouting orders. Would be nearly bearable if he had a functioning voice box. Sounds like a trumpet in a tornado.

Look at that pimple in between his eyes. It’s so big it’s draining sweat away from his eyebrows.

Gross.

Shit, don’t pop it now. You little weasel don’t you da-

It’s all over me! Sweet Jesus I’m going to suffocate this kid. As soon as I develop a nervous muscular and skeletal system, he’s gone.

Now what’s he doing.

NO, not the blood … wait that’s not blood.

Smells like chewed tomatoes mixed with oregano picked out of faeces … what is this torture?

It’s not too bad actually; it’s warming me up for one. I’ve got a feeling it’s not supposed to be this warm, but I’m not complaining.

I will control this place soon. They will all lick me a path to slide along. HA, they’ve already started acknowledging my prowess.

‘Soopreem.’

Must be the word for ‘king’ or ‘master’ in their spastic language. God those red wiggly things in those mouths are weird.

Like a bleeding leech …

How ironic.

And now, more praise. They are blessing me with more insulation. Small yellow chucks scattered across my being.

I must be their messiah.

Here we have it, my badges of glory and heroism. They must have heard how brave I was to pull that leopard’s tail. Such a proud majestic body.

Eight circles of their most pungent of meats. A ring of rings to encircle their faith in me. Couldn’t have done it better myself.

They need my guidance. Poor obsolete race, perhaps they’re just mis-understood.

Or stupid.

No they have to be somehow intelligent to have noticed me as their leader, even though it’s not hard.

Now with the emerald shards, glimmering on my palette from a flickering insect light.

That thing’s zapping too much for my liking.

And now the gold, beautiful! It’s about time too.

Soggy chucks scattered a top me. Why so wet? They must have just harvested it from a river. The lengths these people will go to please me.

It’s nearly sad ...

Strange fleshy slices. What could these symbolise? I bet it’s their own flesh. Yes, yes, that’s it. Pink, red, brown, throw it all down. 

Heady.

To polish off my royal uniform, pink and white robes draped elegantly all over me.

Confetti to cease the festivities.

Yes lift me higher, HIGHER.

Upon my platform I have been placed, so they may always look up to me.

Is it moving?

Very warm here.

Must be a coveted throne.

Ah my guard has been brought to me. Tell me garlic bread, is your armour uncomfortable? It’s wrapped very tight.

-Shut up.

Well I never. How dare you speak to your king in such a way!

-You’re not a king, you’re just a classic supreme. Idiot, we’re both about to die.

I know not what this ‘classic’ word means, but I am supreme, I am these creatures’ messiah. A being so superior as me can never be killed.

-No supreme is just the combination of foods on top of you. Without it you’d just be dough, like I’d just be bread without the garlic. We’re being prepared to be eaten.

BLASPHEMY!

-Whatever.

Could it be true? The temperature is rising, rapidly. My precious fluids are fleeing my soul. Look at them rise to my surface.

They betrayed me. Those deceitful, manipulative pigs.

Can’t believe I trusted them. I’m better than that.

I can still escape this. I wish that muscular system would evolve on me already.

Will they eat me or just burn me to death? They couldn’t waste such a glorious specimen like me!

I’ve got it! If I can make myself as disgusting as possible they won’t eat me. Think repulsive thoughts.

Faeces, mould, dirty places. Sweat, mud, greasy faces. Spilt blood, murky flood.

I must be absolutely sickening right now. Maybe even more than you garlic.

You smell weird.

HAH! Quick rub yourself on me, maybe this will get us both out of this.

-No, I believe in reincarnation. I’m coming back as an eagle.

More like a slug ...

-What?

Nothing, that’s good for you, but a life as valuable as mine should not be wasted.

The light we came from is closing. The next one is opening. Fast.

Stick a fork in me – I’m done. There’s no denying it, I smell delicious. My sweet juices are simmering and soaking into each ingredient. Oily, savoury and sweet. Spicy and crunchy. God, I’d eat myself right now if I could.

Can I do that?

Some tribes do it. Maybe garlic bread does it. Better not ask – he seems a bit shaky.

My juices seem salty. I didn’t even think I had sweat glands. It’s way too hot in here. I’m turning such a delicious brown.

Fantastic! I find out this beautiful feature of my body and I don’t even get to use it. What a day.

The light’s growing brighter; I guess this is inevitable. Wonder what it’s like on the other side? I might get to meet Buddy Holly.

I can see his eyes. He’s sweating too, beads dangling off his pointed nose.

Nearly like a river from his brow, these creatures get more and more revolting.

The river was drawing closer. I could hear emerging condensation. Flowing, glimmering. To think this might be the last thing I ever see.

He’s waiting for me.

Watching.

Smiling.

I’m the last one. The Pièce de résistance. Their final sacrifice. Filthy murderers they are. I wonder if he’ll eat me himself.

Maybe they’ll take me to their leader for him to feast on my splendour. Seems fitting.

Feed their king with another king.

Light flows all over me now. My wet surface reflecting the insect light even stronger than before.

His clamp draws closer. Too hot for your little pansy hands?

He surges me towards him, pausing briefly to scan my perfection.

Whoa! Flipped off my greasy platform with his flat implement, he slaps me down to an absorbent brown bed.

Free. Since I woke up this is the first time I’ve been free, and I’m about to die.

Why is he smiling? Oh, God. Here it comes, his curved blade. Must be mandatory to use such a strange weapon in a sacrifice as significant as this.

Crunching, tearing, squishing, glaring.

It’s the end. I’m dead. Wait, why’s he in heaven with me?

That’s not right, how dare he invade my sanctuary.

Wait who’s that next to me … I’ve got a twin! And another one!

He wasn’t killing me, he was re-populating my kind!

What a wonderful turn of events! I’ve been spruced up, divided into eight more of me, and that pessimistic garlic bread’s probably been eaten now. He never believed in me.

What should I do with my new friends …?

-We could play Scrabble.

No too tedious.

-It’s getting darker.

O no not again, darkness draws closer …

Caged yet again. At least I have company.

Jostling and bumping. Being thrown around this box is less appealing than first thought. Where are they taking us? Was I split up to feed to eight kings?

I’m starting to doubt this thing’s intentions again.

He’s too shifty.

We’re stopping. Me and my brothers are thrown against the now also greasy wall.

Gravity is released once more. The creature’s grip manhandles us, guiding us to our fate.

Step, step, step. Bump, bump, bump. 

More ringing. Why do they constantly use that ignorant tone?

Grunting and hissing. Wasn’t clear over the noise at our last location but this is obviously their language.

So primitive.

Flung against the box one more time, perhaps they traded us for valuables.

-Maybe we’re extremely valuable resources.

--Or we’re being transported to a utopia.

---Have you thought that we could be models off to be photographed and we can’t stay in the light because it would damage our delicate bodies?

I’m clearly the only rational one.

Light explodes onto us, revealing four excited faces. Gleaming at our presence, and so they should.

One reaches out. NO! Not number six!

Actually I didn’t like him anyway. Too arrogant.

Four and seven were next. Ripped from our grips ruthlessly like gum from a shoe.

It was just a matter of time.

Gnashing, gnarling, shredding, snarling.

Animals they are. Merciless in digesting my siblings.

Especially the little one who took two, ripped him up before it ate him. Sick, sick beings.

Eight clung tight to the box but was too weak for them, and was manhandled into the fat one’s mouth. His guts sticking to the sides of that beast’s opening. I think I’m going to be sick.

Five and three were the last ones left. Five trembling.

Five, stop it, don’t draw attention to yourself.

Too late.

Three and me.

I somehow knew it’d be us two left; we were always the strong ones. He was least good looking, too. I’d say I was in that category too but let’s not be ridiculous.

I’d tell you that I love you and that I’ll see you on the other side, but I really don’t feel we’ve become that close. Maybe you could try to get eaten first to fill them up and spare me?

It could have been a plea for help, or it could have been a profanity that seeped from him as three was thrust away me.

It really won’t be the same without him.

This is it. The final frontier. All four of them glaring down at mine. As if they’re better than me, deciding on which way to end my life. One looks to the other. Muttering obscure noises.

End me now! Stop the suffering.

I begin to feel cold.

One pokes me. Another leans closer for a sniff. They’re toying with me, the sadistic freaks.

A yawn roars. Cloth wipes my own life blood from their faces.

Hey, where’s the fat one going?

And the little one too, are they going to desert me here?

This lifting is finally getting to me. Where could they possibly be taking me? This was an ideal place to be eaten.

Am I not pretty enough?

A clang sounds. How can they live with such a nauseating smell …?

It’s like decaying fruit mixed with singed plastic.

I’ve smelt this before, on the way out of the cool room. I’ve seen them throwing dirty things into that giant bucket. No. NO. They’re discarding me!

After all I’ve been through, the preparation I undertook to please them. They just throw me to the streets like common McDonald’s leftovers.

Gravity strikes again. I fall.

Slow motion takes over as everything becomes a vivid blur.

Soft landing. Clang. Darkness. Silence.

Fate has brought me here at last. My eternal resting place. Rock bottom.

The king has fallen. He will not be eaten today …

Friday 4 May 2012 8 am

Mean Streets Dolly

Merryjack

Leura, NSW

‘Allo dahlink, my name Olga, you look for nice, warm Moscow girl on cold night, ya?’

By the time I heard the husky voice from a doorway, I had almost passed her by, as I trudged through the ankle deep snow glowing like shaved ice on a long vodka martini in the moonlight. The shadows cast by the mercury vapour lamps on Dzerzhinsky Square threw crazy shapes across the mush, and I sensed the goons from the Lubyanka were still on my trail.

Could she be my contact or just another painted toy put there to trip me up? Kate Bush was screaming incessantly in my ears and my head swam in the fog of her cheap perfume. She wore a cute little red chapeau over bottle blonde hair and there were snow flakes melting on her scarlet lips. The shoulder wound had opened up again and I could feel warm blood trickling down my back. I pulled my coat tighter against the icy wind that bit like a rabid ferret on smack and decided to take a chance.

‘Ok Doll, what's the score?’

From the ‘Toy Stories’ series.

Footnotes:

1. The Lubyanka building on Dzerzhinsky Square was the headquarters of the Russian secret police, originally the Cheka, later the KGB, named for its founder Felix Dzerzhinsky, whose statue was erected in the square in 1958: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lubyanka_Square

2. Kate Bush: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Babooshka_(song)

~~~

Merryjack says: This is from my Toy Stories series, small vignettes of a linked image and text with included footnotes, suitable for soncreen publishing. These use images of childhood objects to stimulate imaginative writing. Each explores a different fiction genre.

Friday 4 May 2012 12 noon

In The Orange Light Of Early Morning

Bob Edgar

Wentworth Falls

Murtula loved Crystal from the moment of her birth, loved her as any mother would love their first born child.

Naming her Crystal was as deliberate as all things were that she did in her life. Crystal would be expected to be atomically stable, either all things occurred correctly, or else nothing occurred at all.

Crystal was a disappointment.

Murtula felt no compassion, as she punctured the suitcase whilst muttering for forgiveness.

In the orange light of the early morning she flung the suitcase into the water.

Along with her soul, it hesitated on the surface before sinking into an abyss.

Friday 4 May 2012 4 pm

She

Alexandra Smithers

Katoomba, NSW

She left. The twine of time mended my heart with delusions of indifference. She returned and my heart beat anew, breaking each thread without considering the consequence.

This story is written using only 140 characters, the maximum allowed for tweeting.

Saturday 5 May 2012

Tales From The Tall Man

Annabel Hollins-Cliff

Leura, NSW

Once upon a time, there was a Tall Man. He was a dour man too, which was a word usually associated with miserable people. But he wasn’t miserable because ‘dour’ also meant ‘obstinate’ and this is what he was.

In his pocket, everywhere he went, the Tall Man carried a tiny matchbox. Tucked inside the matchbox was a gift – five tiny dolls from Guatemala.

The Tall Man carried the tiny dolls because once, many years ago, a girl he had loved had given them to him. She told him they were ‘worry dolls’.

In the note with the dolls, it was explained that every night, the Tall Man should whisper his deepest worries to the box and the dolls would take them away.

Where the worries truly went, no-one really knew, except the dolls. It was their secret.

It was said that the dolls were extremely effective and powerful. They had brought good luck, health, happiness and prosperity to many.

Every night, the Tall Man opened the box and whispered to the dolls and they took his worries inside them. Then he slid the box closed, placed it under his pillow and slept soundly.

The Tall Man secretly loved the dolls in the matchbox because he had once loved the brown eyed girl who had given them to him. By keeping them with him every day, he also kept the young girl with him. This way, he never had to think about the end of their relationship. She was still with him every day and it gave him joy to think that he could just reach out his hand and find her there, still pressing against him like she had done the first night he had kissed her.

As the years went on, the Tall Man continued to whisper each night into the box. He did it so quietly that even his wife wouldn’t hear him. One morning, when his wife was changing their bed linens and he was in the shower, she found the tiny box under his pillow. When she asked what they were, he tossed them casually into a drawer as if they meant nothing.

When his wife left the room, he snatched the drawer open and whispered his apologies to the tiny dolls until he knew that they were once again happy.

One day, the Tall Man’s wife left him because she was tired of coming second to the beautiful girl with the brown eyes. The Tall Man whispered all night and all day into the box.

The dolls became anxious. There were only five of them in the box and whilst they knew how to dispose of the worries of one day, they did not know how to cope with the worries of fifteen years and the hatred which poured day and night out of the man’s mouth.

‘Please stop,’ they begged, but the man did not stop because he was obstinate.

Every time the Tall Man opened the box, he thought of the beautiful brown eyed girl and then he thought of how much he despised his ex-wife.

He whispered to the five little dolls about his wife, pouring out his hatred.

The dolls became ill and one of them died, but the man didn’t notice anything.

‘Please stop,’ cried the dolls again. ‘We can only take your worries, not your hatred.’

Still the man did not hear them.

The four remaining dolls wept for their sister in the matchbox.

Now dealing with the man’s hate became even more difficult and each doll became sicker and sicker.

The Tall Man carried on taking the matchbox with the dolls in it everywhere he went. Then one day, he noticed how much heavier the matchbox had become.

He opened it and looked at the little dolls, but they still appeared the same although one doll at the end looked somehow corpse-like but he supposed it had always been so.

There seemed to be no reason that the box should be heavier and so the man thought about the beautiful brown eyed girl and how she had loved him and then he thought about his ex wife and how much he hated her and he slid the matchbox back into his jacket pocket.

Eventually the matchbox became so heavy that the Tall Man developed a stoop. No matter how hard he tried to sit straight, the weight of the box pulled him down.

The Tall Man went to see a doctor about the stoop, but still he would not take the dolls out of his pocket because the girl with the brown eyes could never be far away. The doctor ordered exercise.

Every night and every day, the Tall Man whispered and whispered into the box and every morning, he took the box and placed it into his breast pocket so that the beautiful girl with the brown eyes would be closer to his heart.

The Tall Man tried to exercise but his stoop made it so difficult that he stopped and over time, his back hunched over and he gazed at the world through hooded lids, straining to stand tall whilst the weight of the little box pulled him to the ground.

One day, the Tall Man realised that he wasn’t tall any longer. The box had so bent him over that he needed two sticks to keep himself upright and he shuffled along the ground as if he were a turtle looking out from under a shell.

Inside the box, the weight of the man’s hatred was so heavy that the four remaining sisters died one by one, each passing the mounting debt to the other until they all lay there, corpse-like in their little Guatemalan dresses and hats. There were no more tears to be shed.

And the man kept the box in his chest pocket so that the beautiful brown eyed girl would be forever close to his heart.

Sunday 6 May 2012

The Veggie Garden

John Ross

Blackheath, NSW

‘I’m going to start a veggie garden,’ she suddenly announced one Sunday morning last spring.

I was in the middle of the cryptic crossword. I always attempt the one from the weekend papers and this one was proving to be very vexing. So, without looking up, I said, ‘Yes dear. That would be nice.’

I was still struggling with nine across, ‘A consumer of workers, eight letters,’ when I became aware of a furious banging on the back sliding glass door. She was waving her arms about and looking excited and so reluctantly I put the paper aside and went out.

‘I have found the perfect spot,’ she announced. ‘You won’t have to move many plants at all, and I have worked out how to build the beds around the trees.’

Three hours, and three cups of tea later, I had managed, with my usual skill in such matters, to persuade her that mature azaleas do not transplant very well and that terracing a veggie garden down a steep slope was not such a good idea.

I was in the car on the way to the hardware store before I started to have the feeling that I had somehow been outmanoeuvred again. The position and structure of the veggie garden was now all my idea. Or was it?

I arrived back home, very late for lunch, with a rather large visa card bill and an order form for timber, galvanised nails, two tonne of garden soil and all the pieces needed for a drip irrigation system.

Enquiring as to what was for lunch I was told, ‘You know I don’t do lunches.’ So after a snack of unappetising sweet corn eaten straight out of the tin I was just getting into the crossword again when the doorbell rang. Yes, you guessed it. It was the delivery from the hardware store.

Having supervised the unloading I again retired to the lounge and my crossword.

‘There are still three hours of light left so why don’t you start on my veggie garden,’ she said as she went off to put a colour in her hair.

Three days later the garden beds were finished and two tonne of soil wheelbarrowed from the front lawn and put in place. I had just finished my shower and was looking at nine across again when she announced, ‘If we hurry we can get to the nursery before they close and choose my veggies.’

It was very dark and rather cold by the time I had unloaded the last of the tubs of ten different types of lettuce, cherry tomatoes and endives from the car. Does anyone know what an endive is?

It took me a whole day to do the planting to her satisfaction. I only had to rearrange the Cos lettuce plants three times. She could not actually help, as it was her book club that night and it is, ‘so hard to get your nails clean after digging in the soil’.

Water restrictions were introduced a week later so we could not use the watering system, and as the watering can was too heavy for her I found myself with a new afternoon chore.

Three weeks later, I was again settling down with the weekend crossword when there was a scream from down near the veggie garden. Snails had attacked in force. Of course they had good taste and had laid waste her Cos lettuce.

Straight up to the hardware for yours truly, for the latest in anti snail warfare.

One week later it was the attack of the birds. It appears that they love green cherry tomatoes.

Up to the hardware again for more timber and wire netting. This time she insisted on coming with me, and spent nearly an hour choosing miniature garden implements. The type with little decorative wooden handles and a plaque where you can engrave your name. They hang in the garage, undisturbed, where I was instructed to put them, beside her new gardening gloves, and above the decorative watering can.

Exactly one week later, yes you are right again, Sunday morning, a rather large thunderstorm passed over. No it did not rain. It was hail, only small but lots of it. I thought she was going to make herself sick with worry about how her veggies were faring. So down with the crossword, up with the umbrella. When I returned with the good news that her veggies were okay I was told to stop whingeing as I was only wet from the waist