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    The Unfulfilled
    The Unfulfilled
    The Unfulfilled
    Ebook139 pages1 hour

    The Unfulfilled

    By David Francis Jeffery

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    About this ebook

    Mary has a history with her mother. She also has a history with Chris, the priest. Mary's mother and Chris have a history with the Bible. Julie has a history with Mary, her magazine and Mary's writing. Mary has a history with writing; so does her mother. Jacob is Mary's father; he has a history with alcohol. So does Mary and Mary's mother. In the end, this all makes some sort of sense. At least to Mary.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDavid Francis Jeffery
    Release dateApr 7, 2013
    ISBN9781301353224
    The Unfulfilled
    Author

    David Francis Jeffery

    David Francis Jeffery is a writer living in Australia with his wife and daughter. He has a had a few things published here and there and has self-published two chapbooks and a literary magazine in the early '00's. He writes everyday but not everyday does he write something worthwhile.

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      Book preview

      The Unfulfilled - David Francis Jeffery

      The Unfulfilled

      David Francis Jeffery

      Copyright David Francis Jeffery 2013

      Smashwords Edition

      Smashwords Edition License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      Table of Contents

      One

      Two

      Three

      Four

      Five

      Six

      Seven

      Eight

      Nine

      Ten

      Eleven

      Twelve

      Thirteen

      Fourteen

      Fifteen

      Sixteen

      Seventeen

      Eighteen

      Nineteen

      Twenty

      Twenty One

      Twenty Two

      Conclusion

      ONE

      And so, here it is my confession to you. Bless me father for I have sinned: this is my first, last and only confession.

      19 January 1968 – I remember the time of my birth very well. Arms like table legs, eyes like sweat and a voice like rain – that’s me but you’ll never see it. Who are you to judge my consumables? Make it - don’t make it, it’s your choice – if I have no say in your body, you have no say on my mind. This is my death we’re talking about. When I was young, I used to walk around the house eating breakfast and pretend that if I hadn’t finished the set task in the time it took to finish my mouthful, my energy would run out and I would freeze where I was. Do you feel that way? I’m cold. I used to be a saint but there’s no need for saints in this existence. Pure thought, that’s the new ghetto.

      This is so much about my mother, you wouldn’t believe. Chance plays the finer rule – I don’t think so. Regrets aren’t just meant to be, they are. And so there’s no regret but my father’s death. I rush, I know, I rush. Where to begin?

      My past. My past is a nothing, a boredom upon the story and of only minor importance but a place to start.

      My past is a cord wrapped around the thighs of three men: Jacob, my father: my best friend’s brother Christopher and God. It is with God that we are most consumed, most laid bare. So like putty in the hands of an artiste, our relationship did not sever repentance. My father.

      I, I was born on the date you see above, the daughter of no wealthy parents – not into a stable was I born either. A small place my hometown, a city wishing it weren’t a rural town, a rural town hoping it’s not a city. I have no tragedy in my early life to regale you with, no hint of the future, no disruptions from the past – as I’ve said – boredom. I was not early to read, nor late to talk. I could walk and run but was no sports captain; my schooling was not alternative, I was not and am not a genius. I remember nothing radical of my schooldays – no severe taunting, no excess of friends, no life-enervating moments. No, perhaps I lie. There is one story that has stuck with me since primary school, one incident that I do not wish to claim as life altering – it’s just something I remember from time to time.

      One particularly boring afternoon, 1978, I was in grade five. Our principal, whose name I forget, walks into our class for reasons unexplained – I believe it was his habit, just checking classes. He was a tall, thin, emaciated looking man; with dark rimmed glasses and no hair – altogether rather manic. I’ve always imagined in this story, that we were studying history but that could be spurious – we may have been taking maths. In any event, after talking to our teacher, Mr. Dunn, the principal launched into one of his war stories. It affected him terribly, the war, I’m sure of it; he was a complete madman and not in a joking sense either. His story, in the main, was a justification for the bombing of Japan and my vague memory recollects it thus:

      :My friend and I were on patrol in the jungle, just the two of us and were on our way back to camp, having found no soldiers within our vicinity. We had seen no one for a couple of days and so, were glad to be heading back where the silence was not so great. Upon arriving at the site, we saw our unit around a fire, weapons beside them, eating what was left of their rations. My friend and I were in full kit and just happy to be back amongst others when the most unusual thing happened. Out of the jungle and into our site ran two Japanese soldiers, wearing nothing but shorts and armed with no more than short planks of wood. There was no doubt in their eyes – they were intent on killing us all, however, their chance never came about. A fully armed platoon finds two minimally armed soldiers no threat and consequently the Japanese soldiers were killed. We had to; they left us no choice. And so it was with the bombing of Japan, they would leave us no choice, they were never going to surrender, and we had to do what was done. You see kids? You understand? They were never going to stop, we had to:

      The look in his eyes told the story – he was pleading for our understanding, perhaps even forgiveness. We were nine years old. The war affected him savagely, just a story I remember.

      So, the life of an only child, I was no seeker. I expected no more, no less than I had, I did not feel alone, I did not wish for siblings. I enjoyed the rare solitude; I fed on my parents company but did not rail against their own time alone. I imagined an ordinary life - I couldn’t see the difference between mine and my friends who boasted brothers and sisters – I felt normal. Indeed, I can explain it no other way – I grew up normal. There was only one seemingly unusual aspect to our lives, unusual because it was commented on so often, the amount of books we had. I did not deem it strange, I rather liked it, though some of my friends thought it almost perverse: How can you live with so many books?: I could not imagine a life without them. I don’t remember how we came by most of them, I’m sure my mother had much to do with that but I do remember the importance of them. Many hardbacks, paperbacks, magazines, newsletters – anything with writing in it we had. Mum was a terrible hoarder and threw almost nothing away; consequently, we had bookshelves full and books stacked up beside them like ancient pylons. All writings were important to me, it’s where I obtained expression, but only one book was the most important to my mother – the Bible. Not a day went by that she didn’t read something from it – depending on her mood. Kings was a bad day, her namesake better. Ruth was my mother’s name and she loved that book. A real Old Testament girl she was too, not that she never read the New but the Old – that was indeed her persuasion. Begun with the death of her parents, Ruth turned that book into a lifestyle choice. Break out into a new experiment and you’ll forget what the original taught you. She was an original, my mother.

      Our books, what true grace they held for us, even as a family. My father was not a great reader and therefore, only ever read the greats. He insisted on reading only works that proved worthy – over time and consequence – of being read; bits of here, pieces there, sometimes completed works – as I said, not a great reader but a savage force against mediocrity.

      My mother read early but became less contemplative. She also read some of the best but her thirst for books was often the books themselves, not always the words that she longed to hold. Nowadays all she longs to hold is her Bible.

      She took her own pension in the arts did my mother. She was a writer of sorts, and I don’t mean that to sound at all as cruel as it does. I’ve seen her work and it remains some of the more insightful use of language that I’ve yet come across – I only say ‘of sorts’ because, even in these enlightened times, travel journalism is often confused with being a writer – ‘of sorts.’

      Influenced by all she read, though primarily by the premature deaths of her parents (within three months of each other), Ruth became a traveller. Fed for a period on the meagre inheritance left by her kin, she soon grew to know the harsh necessities of a travelling lifestyle – work. She waited, cooked, drove a taxi, was even a jillaroo on a cattle station in Narrogin for a short time – once she’d proved she couldn’t ride worth a damn they paid her to care for the horses. Upon saving enough money to leave, she would do just that. She’d travel as far as the money would take her, where the process would start again. It was a healing process as much as it was an enjoyable route to maturity and, like those she'd read before, every so often she would write about where she was and what she had been doing. Not so much a diary or even a journal – it was a method of remaining

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