CONTENT WITHIN FOR A MATURE AUDIENCE

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Eclecticism E-zineISSN 1835-5528

Issue 8, April 2009

Published by Eclecticismwww.eclecticzine.com

Made in Australia - Incorporating the World

Edited and Designed by Craig Bezant

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TEXT:

EDITORIAL Copyright 2009 by Craig Bezant.

IT’S IN THE PLASTIC Copyright 2009 by AliceGodwin

LOOKING FOR SOMETHING Copyright 2009 byDianne Dean

CONSPIRACY FACILITATOR Copyright 2009 byPeter Tonkin

DODGING TRAFFIC Copyright 2009 by NicholasMessenger

A MATTER OF THE HEART Copyright 2009 byJacqui Dent

SHE SHOWED ME HER BREASTS Copyright 2009by Keith Nunes

HOLY FOOL Copyright 2009 by Emma Furness

QUICK FIX Copyright 2009 by Melissa Mercado

ARTWORK/IMAGES:

(COVER BACKGROUND IMAGE) SPACY Copyright2009 by Iris Scherer

ORGANIC UFOs Copyright 2009 by Stefan Fergueca

RAVEN CONSPIRACY Copyright 2009 by Demitasse-Lover

FAVOURITE GETAWAY Copyright 2009 by ClydeGrauke

Additional Photoshop brushes from: StephanieShimerdla, at: www.obsidiandawn.com

Copyright of Background Images acknowledged onrelevant images/pages.

CONTENTSECLECTICISM - ISSUE 8

33

APRIL 2009

p.18 - 19: LOOKING FOR SOMETHING

p.20 - 27: CONSPIRACY FACILITATOR by PETER TONKIN

p.30 - 32: A MATTER OF THE HEART

p.34: SHE SHOWED ME HER BREASTS

Pages 8 - 28

CONSPIRACY!TH

EME:

Poetry

THEME CONTRIBUTORS:

p.9 - 17: IT’S IN THE PLASTIC by ALICE GODWIN

p.29: DODGING TRAFFIC

by NICHOLAS MESSENGER

p.35 - 38: HOLY FOOL by EMMA FURNESS

OpenShortFictionby DIANNE DEAN

by JACQUI DENT

by KEITH NUNES

p.40: QUICK FIX by MELISSA MERCADO

FEATUREDFEATURED ARTISTARTIST

Demitasse-Lover

44

PAGE 33

In my quest to bring you an eclectic rangeof art forms, I chose this month's FeaturedArtist, Demitasse-Lover, for their simple-

yet-effective Manga-type designs. Thisimage in particular, 'Raven Conspiracy'

caught my attention upon first sight, andlends itself well to the theme (just what arethose raven's conspiring to?). Plus, I havean inclination to dark works, and if you

view more of the artist's work you will seesome innocently disturbing characters.

Wonderful!

You can view the work of Demitasse-Loveron DeviantArt at:

hhttttpp::////ddeemmiittaassssee--lloovveerr..ddeevviiaannttaarrtt..ccoomm//

AAUUTTHHOORR BBIIOOSS::

55

Alice Godwin lives in Sydney, Australia. Her stories have been published in various magazines, andonline, at Drops of Crimson - Blood & Roses Issue 3, australianreader.com.au and Three Crows Press e-zine Issue 1. She won the Australian Horror Writers Association 2008 Short Story Competition and is published in their magazine Midnight Echo Issue 1. Her story ‘Hood’ was short listed in the 2008 AeonAward.You can find her webpage at http://www.oneworldoneart.com/profile/AliceGodwin

Dianne Dean is pleased to present another story for Eclecticism readers. Her work has appeared in a number of anthologies, including the soon-to-be released 'Short and Twisted 2009'. She voluntarily maintains a website for Australian writers that you can find at www.austwriters.com

Jacqui Dent is an emerging writer and editor living in Sydney. With a degree in Creative Writing from theUniversity of Wollongong, Jacqui has had fiction published in Short and Twisted, TIDE, Tertangala and INK,and had her work read on radio. Jacqui also spent a year as the DVD review columnist for Hills toHawkesbury Living and publishes regular feature articles for Vibewire.net. In 2009 she won second place inthe FAW Angelo B. Natoli National Short Story Competition. She currently works at the NSW Writers'Centre.

Stefan Fergueca (Mexico City) has been working as an independent photographer and film maker for thelast 6 years. Stefan's work has been published and exhibited in Europe, Mexico and Australia, mainly infilm festivals, magazines and galleries. Last year, Stefan worked as a small producer on documentaries aboutsocial and environmental issues as well as indigenous realities. Stefan works with performers and musicbands as a photographer and video maker.

Stefan is currently developing a course with Aboriginal descendants' teenagers, the plan being to make anexhibition for November 2009 with the photos taken by them during this course. Stefan is hoping to meetAboriginal photographers like: Bishop Mervyn, Croft Brenda, Rea, Riley Michael (any help contactingthem would be appreciated).

You can view Stefan's work at http://noisy-tv.blogspot.com/

Emma Furness lives in Aramoana, a coastal village in Dunedin, New Zealand. She teaches yoga as well aswriting and has had work published in 'Bravado', 'Viola Beadleton's Compendium of Seriously Silly andAstoundingly Amazing Stories' and 'A Fine Line', with a story to be published in the upcoming issue of'Takahe'. She has had two stories short-listed in national competitions.

AAUUTTHHOORR BBIIOOSS::

66

Nicholas Messenger had his first poems published in New Zealand as a schoolboy. He won the Glover Poetryaward in the 1970’s. In recent years he has had work published in a good number of online magazines. He has written plays for children, fairy tales, short stories and five novels which await a publisher.

He was born in 1945, completed a degree at Auckland University, travelled extensively, and lived at varioustimes in France, England and Japan. He has worked at many jobs, including seaman, security guard,demolition worker and laboratory technician, and for a long time made his living as a teacher, of science, art,and languages, in High Schools in New Zealand, and of English in Japan. Lately he has been running ahome-stay business in Hokitika, but is currently living in Nelson. He has been married twice and has twogrown-up children.

Keith Nunes lives in rural Bay of Plenty, New Zealand, with an odd family and spooky animals. He has beenpublished in a number of poetry journals including Landfall and Takahe in New Zealand and overseas. Hecounts himself fortunate to have been published in Eclecticism before.

Melissa Mercado is an aspiring poet based in Canberra, Australia. A graduate in Public Relations and completing a Bachelor of Arts (International and Cultural studies), she works for not-for-profit organisations,such as UNIFEM and Relationships Australia, with the hopeful aim of aligning professional goals with herpersonal values.

Melissa developed a passion for poetry and writing at the age of 14, yet opted for a "sensible" career in PublicRelations. She hopes to one day make a living out of what she loves - as a published poet, novelist and academic in Communication and Arts.

Peter Tonkin lives in Sydney amid the shadowy forms of assorted works in progress. Thanks largely to thepatience and support of the other members of the Hurlstone Park Writing Group, the odds of at least someof these mutant brain-children making it out the door and past the recycling bin in the foreseeable future arenow on a par with those of global economic recovery. The beginnings of 39 Degrees to the Horizontal werepublished in The Adelaide Review, while Chapter 1 of Crime on Earth can be viewed atwww.crimeonearth.com

Clyde Grauke is a digital artist, photographer, and writer. He was born and raised in West Texas. He enjoysexpressing his creativity in a wide variety of forms and genres. His art and photography have been publishedin Ascent Aspirations, Cella’s Round Trip, Cezanne’s Carrot, Eclecticism, Fickle Muses, and SacramentoPoetry, Art, and Music. His literary works have been published in Hoi Polloi, Sacramento Poetry, Art, andMusic, Bitterroot International Poetry Journal, and American Review Lifestyle Journal. He and his wife areretired and live in a suburb of Dallas, Texas.Visit his artwork at http://cgrauke.redbubble.com/ or http://clydegrauke.imagekind.com

EDITORIALConspiracy theories. They're everywhere,aren't they? You cannot let a week pass without hearing at least one conspiracy theory. The Global Recession? Conspiracy bythe banks and retail outlets to get you tospend more. The shooting of the cricketers inPakistan? Conspiracy linked to the police,because why did they leave 5 minutes laterthan every other day when they should havebeen protecting the team? And so on.

I love conspiracies. They are part of the urbanlegend rainbow of tales that make you thinkabout the lives we so readily accept. For themost part, conspiracies simply arise when thetruth doesn't make sense, when somethingelse would make more sense than the truth.Or, perhaps, to cover the truth. Utter theterm 'Conspiracy theory' about a subject andhalf the room will instantly switch off ('Oh,here goes another nutter talking about con-spiracies'). There you go, truth buried intolegend.

The best thing about conspiracy theories isthat some of us will have several explainedduring our lifetime. Thanks to laws of copy-right/keeping government documents/etc,files such as 'Roswell/Area 51' will be madeavailable to the public soon. But then, won'tmore conspiracy theories arise from theseinstances? They won't be the real documents -the government changed them to protect us,to cover the truth. Those Americans. Alwaysprotecting us with conspiracy theories. Theyhave the real Spear of Longinus (Destiny),you know? Never gave it back to Rome. Theywill use it to rule the world again, one day.

Oh, but I happily digress. I recommend youall go to your library, get out a book on conspiracy theories, and have both a laughand a deep ponder. But before doing that, Iurge you to read on, to enjoy this, the eighthissue of Eclecticism E-zine. There's a lot instore - a Conspiracy theme, of course, withthree short stories; and an open section withtwo short stories and three works of poetry,not to mention the work of three fantasticartists.

And whilst I want to largely focus on thisissue, I briefly draw your attention to the following edition of Eclecticism E-zine,because Issue 9 marks the second anniversaryof the little zine that could. The balloons andbooze will be out (well, for me at least), so forthose of you readers who are writers, I urgeyou to get those submissions in now, and forthose readers who are… readers, well, you'llbe in for an absorbing weekend read.

For now, though, enjoy the wonderful workswithin Issue 8. It has been a great issue tomake and I hope you catch the enthusiasmwithin. If not, well, alien life forces are block-ing the part of your brain that feels enjoy-ment - it's all a cooperative plot with theworld's governments to get everyone to bemindless workers, in preparation for an alienoverthrow.

Until the next issue,Enjoy your quarter,Craig Bezant.

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"Please don't start up on all those conspiracy stories,you know they freak mum out."

I slammed the car door shut. My brotherZane pulled a face at me.

"It's her birthday, remember. She's too oldto hear about all of that. It just makes her anxious."

"Okay," he muttered."Here," I said, thrusting a wrapped present

into his arms. "This is from you.""What is it?""A Cashmere blanket. You can pay me back

later.""Thanks, Tasha." He even managed to look

contrite.

I flicked the fringe of his hair away from hiseyes, forever the big sister. "Haircuts don't cost thatmuch, you know?"

He poked his tongue out at me. We wereback to being five and six again. It was always likethis when we came back home.

The lunch went smoothly, I only had tokick his shins twice under the table. The secondkick had been hard; I'd seen the wince. Sometimeshis black humour was a little too much. But mumwas happy and that's what counted after all. Sheloved the cake, a real over-the-top concoction I hadbought, too rich and gluttonous by far; but guiltoften makes you do things like that.Overcompensation for the things you haven't done.Like visiting more.

As always I ventured upstairs to my oldroom. It had hardly changed, dusted and fresh asthough it was waiting for me to return once again assome cynical know-it-all teenager. I lay on the bed -the doona cover faded with swirly retro flowers -and let my stomach try to digest more food in onemeal than I usually ate in a whole day.

Zane walked in without knocking, as always,I was fiddling with the long blonde hair of one ofmy dolls. Her name was Tuesday, who knew why.She was dressed like some leather diva on her way toMardi Gras. Bizarre. I was trying to recall if she had

IT’S IN THE

PLASTIC

BY ALICE G

ODWIN

1100

come in that outfit or whether I had bought it separately. I reinstated the black studded cap ontoher perfect head. She smiled at me. She neverstopped smiling, ever.

Zane's look was nothing short of disgust.He seemed to recoil from her even as she smiledsweetly in his direction.

"You know what they say about them, don'tyou?"

Here it comes, I thought, one of his wackyparanoid delusions gathered fresh from the Internet.

I sighed and shook my head."Nano technology. In the plastic. Toxins." "And they do what?""Infertility." I laughed. Looked into her still-happy face.

"You mean to tell me that all ba…" he interruptedbefore I could finish

"Don't say the word. The B word." Hishand was held up like a policeman stopping traffic."They could be listening."

I stared at him incredulously. "I think thebatteries would be dead by now."

"You can never be too careful." I noticed hehadn't come any closer.

I thought about what he'd just said. "Theyare a toy company, Zane. They want to keep sellingthese to children. So it is utterly preposterous that

they, even if it were possible, would make a girl,who then becomes a woman, infertile. They wouldbe killing off the next generation, their market. Itmakes no sense." I was angry with him. Whyshould I be wasting my breath answering such astupid statement?

"Well that's why they get away with it, yousee. No-one would think they would do it. It's avery long term plan and it's about making evenmore money."

"Really?" Suddenly our mother called us down. Zane

retreated, giving one long disdainful glance at the Bdoll. I placed her back on the bookcase with theother remnants of my childhood - the mangledteddy, the chewed-ear rag puppy and the very special Zulu designed hippopotamus that AuntieLottie had posted to me from South Africa, still inalmost immaculate condition. I picked him up andcontemplated bringing him back to my apartment;he would fit in quite well with my Nuevo tribaltheme. Apart from the sleeping baby doll missingone eye now, Tuesday was the only other doll; I hadnever been really into dolls but had thought therehad been at least one more.

I tucked Hippo under my arm and wentdownstairs.

As soon as we were in the car he started

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back up on the topic. "It's all over the Internet, youknow?"

"I think you need to go out more. Out intothe real world."

"Tasha. Seriously, it makes sense. These peo-ple have their fingers in so many pies. A vast net-work. And it's all connected."

I wondered if he had some mild form ofschizophrenia.

"Infertility is rife. It's a growing twenty-firstcentury phenomenon, along with the decliningbirth rate. You know, in some countries they are innegative population growth. It's happening in thewealthy industrialised countries. The places withhigh disposable incomes. Japan for instance, if thebirth rate keeps declining in two generations they'rewon't be anymore Japanese."

I stared at him. He took that as a consensusto continue.

"According to what I have read, it's all in theplastic. Nano technology, cutting edge stuff. It infiltrates the body, slowly. It's cumulative, so noteveryone gets it to the same degree. It all dependson how many dolls you had and how often youplayed with them. Some females won't be as affect-ed. Some will. It's a much higher problem here inthe west; we buy so much, endless toys for the children. In the third world its not an issue at all."

"You know Infertility is a really complexproblem, Zane. And it's heartbreaking for thoseinvolved. Not to mention very costly."

"Exactly, that's why they have done it.Worldwide they own all these fertility clinics. Themoney involved… it's like having your very ownmoney tree."

"It's not only women," I countered, notbelieving that I was actually debating this with him."Men are the ones that have problems in that area aswell, low sperm count, etcetera."

'Yeah." He nodded. "It's the plastic. It's inthe cars and trucks that the boys play with. Totally."I was tempted to go on with 'What about the dogs?'but I was sure he had some reasonable explanationthere as well. Plastic chewable bones no doubt.

"It's impossible, Zane. It's just delusional."We had stopped outside his apartment block. Heactually looked hurt; his long blond fringe hid hiseyes but I could see the pout on his lips.

"Tasha, you're a journalist. Why don't youdo some investigating?"

"I'm not that sort of journalist. I work for awomen's magazine."

"Perfect. Why don't you just ask around thewomen that you work with? There would beenough. See what you can find out. You could do asurvey. Who had dolls, how many, how often did

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they play with them? That sort of thing. See if thereis even a smidgeon of truth there. And amongstyour friends. It's a small sample but you should seesome results. If there is absolutely nothing, well,what have you lost? A little bit of time."

"It's silly."Zane stared at me. "Maybe you need to stay

in more. Maybe you need to read some of the reallydisturbing stuff that people have gathered. Andposted up so everyone can read it."

"Yeah, the Truth is out there, Mulder."He laughed. "See you later. Hey how much

do I owe you?""It's okay. Buy me an extra big birthday

present."He waved as he typed in his security code

and disappeared into the building.I drove away with the X-Files music doing

laps in my brain.I forgot all about it for the rest of the week-

end, but come Monday morning as I sat at my deskfiddling with my In tray, I remembered the conver-sation and decided to do it. At the very least itwould be something that I could wave in his facewhen I disproved it. I wasn't that busy so by thetime the end of the day had come I had devised asimple survey. With multiple-choice answers so itwould be quick. I knew from experience people

loved filling these things out, I had done this sort ofthing before for the magazine so it was pretty fast.How many dolls? How often did they play withthem? Between what ages? Did they want children?Where they in a relationship? Did they have chil-dren? Where there any fertility problems? At theend I hinted at a pseudo scientific reason for thesurvey - gender studies and biological disposition. Itwas amazing what you could do with a few choiceunpronounceable words. I emailed it to all mywomen colleagues and most of my friends.

Within two days most surveys had comeback. I stayed late one night and printed out theresults and then put the answers onto a spreadsheet.Halfway through I was starting to see a really weirdtrend. By the time I had gotten to the last survey itwas pretty obvious that something was going on. Ihad kept the survey anonymous, I mean I could goback and find out who had emailed which formback but in terms of the printed forms I had no ideawho had written what. But there was a definite correlation between the girls who had the most dolls(over four) and played with them longest and thosethat had fertility issues. The women who hadn'tbeen that into dolls (one or less) and rarely playedwith them were the only ones that had grown up tohave children easily. I went back through to check Ihad put the answers in the right spot. It was well

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after midnight but nothing was wrong. I still won-dered if I was seeing results that weren't there. Iquickly sent an email off to a friend of mine whowas good at this sort of stuff and asked if he wantedto do lunch.

I gave Jamie my spreadsheet and asked if hecould look at it, analyse the results, and give mesome statistics to go with it. His eyebrows shot up.

"Where did this come from?"I muttered something about confidentiality.

"It's only a small sample. Thirty-five people really," Imumbled. "Probably not enough to really give anyproper indication."

"Amount isn't that important. Are all thesewomen in the same age group?"

"Well, they are all between twenty-five andforty-five." I guessed.

"Reasonable parameters. I'll send you somestats, then."

I was starting to feel really uncomfortable.And then it got worse. When I arrived back at mydesk there was a message for me to present at theEditor's office. I was usually way below her radar.When I entered her plush office there was anotherman sitting there. He looked vaguely familiar. Shecut to the chase. She handed over one of my surveys.

"What's this about?"

"Just a survey I thought might be suitable atsome point for the magazine. I was doing a testrun," I murmured vaguely.

"Where did it come from?" "Just made it up, actually. There was some

article I was reading in a scientific magazine aboutwomen who were very girly, who played a lot withdolls and then grew up to have fertility issues. Andvice versa, Tom boys who seemed to have no issues,"I babbled.

"So this survey didn't come from a particularorganisation, then?" the man spoke, his voice likeice.

I shook my head. "I thought maybe I coulddo some sort of tie-in with declining birth-rates,western world, Japan." I was really gabbling.

"You're not paid to think," the editorsnapped. "You're paid to do articles which we havealready decided are suitable for this magazine. That'swhat you're paid to do. That and nothing else."

I looked at the floor and nodded. "I don't want to see you wasting any more

of the magazine's time and resources on these stupidthings. Or else." The threat hung there like a forgotten piñata at the end of a party.

I left her office feeling about twelve. The restof the afternoon I kept to myself, I felt like I hadbecome a pariah. Jamie sent an email with a graph

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and his statistics. They looked overwhelmingly con-vincing. I forwarded it on to my brother with aquick note asking him not to email me at workabout any of this. I forwarded on all the surveysomitting any personal details and then deleted every-thing.

Zane rang me at home that night. He wasexcited. I was exhausted. "But this proves it."

"It's too small a sample." "Then we get a bigger sample. Seriously. I

can set one up. I'll use your survey; add some extraquestions, age and demographics, geographical locations. We'll go worldwide. It will be easy. We willhave to set up some seriously secure sites, run themthrough various servers and web providers so wearen't traced. But this could be it. With enough datawe could really be able to prove something."

I mumbled something."What's wrong?""I don't know. I'm not convinced. Jamie said

there needed to be more information about theirsocio economic and ethnic backgrounds for it tohave any real validity."

"That's what we'll do.""I'm not doing any more."I could feel the silence. A tangible entity

between us. "That's fine. I'll be working with others.We can sort it out. Maybe I can get Jamie involved,

to make sure it covers everything."I hung up not knowing why I was feeling so

weird. Maybe it was because somehow I had slippedinto Zane's world. I had wanted to disprove it, notprove it. If it was true than it was horrible and insidious in the extreme. My whole childhood wastarnished, everyone's was. And our beloved toys anddolls were some awful contaminating weapon thatinfected us. It was too evil to consider. I didn't wantto. If this Truth was out there I didn't want to knowabout it. And the man in the office. There was some-thing about him I found really disturbing. I went tobed and dreamed terrifying dreams.

The next two weeks I lived in denial, I laterrealised, just head down, did my job that was over-whelming, as I seemed to have been lumbered withthe workload of another colleague who was on holidays. I guessed where that directive had comefrom, there was barely time to think and onlyenough to go home and sleep and be ready foranother day. It was a strange two weeks becauseunderneath where I had buried it I could feel theanxiety.

I was called down to the foyer by the securityguards at eight-thirty one night. I was annoyed at theinterruption; I just wanted to go home. When Iarrived two uniformed police officers where waiting.They were polite and gentle; I realised later, too

1155

gentle. It took me a few seconds for the words to sinkin, like an echo that followed those nanosecondslater; I felt every part of me sink as though I was inquicksand. Sinking fast. Zane was dead, a hit andrun. I would need to identify the body. Could I comewith them? Would they like me to ring someone else?Was I up to it? I just nodded, kept nodding. They ledme to their car. I was on automatic. I sat andwatched the buildings go by, brightly lit levels ofempty offices. Kept thinking about all that electricitygoing to waste. Watts of power churning through thenight, dinosaur bones turned into glowing balls ofartificial suns. It seemed very wrong.

He didn't look asleep like they say, he lookedvery pale and cold, I could feel the iciness emanateinto the air around him. He was lying on a steel slaband everything seemed metallic. Metallic and cold.And dead. He was empty, an empty shell of flesh andbone. I remember the thought struck me hard like aslap. He wasn't there anymore. Zane was gone. Onlyhis body remained. Organic meat being chilled. NoZane. Not ever. Gone.

I identified him, filled in some forms, signedin the places they pointed and said I'd arrange for afuneral home to come and pick him up in a few daysafter the coroner's report had been filed. My voicewas calm, quiet, and sensible. They offered to driveme home but I refused. I walked around for a while

in a daze and then my bus came by and I jumpedaboard. Just another day. I decided not to ring Mumup at this point it was nearly eleven and she would beasleep. A last night of undisturbed sleep was what shedeserved. I didn't really sleep. Sat and watched television but what I watched I couldn't say.

The next day I drove to mum's and did thehardest thing I had ever done. After that everythingseemed much easier. Together we arranged thedetails, the funeral home, the death notice, the con-tacting of friends and relatives. I went to his apart-ment to choose some clothes, the funeral director hadmentioned a suit but I picked out his favourite T-shirt showing the movie poster of the film, AClockwork Orange - I knew he would have wantedthat one - and some faded jeans. His place was muchtidier than I had imagined it would be. I lookedaround the space and realised I had never visited himhere. It was that moment when everything crashedon me, freeing all those weird niggling doubts andqualms that started surfacing. But even then I stillheld back from facing the ultimate truth.

It was Jasper who said it and made me face it.After the funeral he had approached me; I had nevermet him before. He was an illustrator, like Zane. Heinvited me over to his place where a bunch of themwere going to have drinks. Mum was going to spenda few days with her sister so I accepted; it filled in the

1166

hours for me, and that was what I was doing. Fillingin time.

Jasper made me a drink, whisky on ice. Iknew a few of the others, not well but enough to talkto; but I couldn't bring myself to do chitchat.Everything was frozen inside as though Zane hadbreathed one last breath on me when I was in thatmetal ice chest and had frosted me over. I stood onthe balcony; the day was chilly and grey. Jasper stayedwith me after he handed me the drink, he was silentand serious. I stared at him and realised that was hewas rather good looking. It was a weird thought andit made me blush.

I finished the drink, only the ice cubesremained clinking against each other. They remindedme of the buoys out in the harbour, every time theymoved with the current they would set off an eerielow chime, a warning to boats, a warning of danger.

"We need to talk." I looked at him. His eyes were stormy blue."Not here. Come."He led me to a room that seemed to be his

studio, half-finished drawings covered the walls andtables. He shut the door, went to the window andturned a funny black box on.

"Jamming device. No one can hear us now."The rabbit hole opened up at my feet and in

I fell.

"It wasn't an accident, you know?"The falling wasn't so bad; I had thought it

would be worse. There was something almost peace-ful about it. I felt his arms hold me up and help meto his chair. It was an expensively designed one to fithis body, ergonomic, made to relax and refresh hismuscles. It had moulded to his shape and I felt like Iwas disturbing the contours, reshaping them by sit-ting there.

I stared into his eyes. "I've been helping him, the website is up. I

put the finishing touches to it last night. He droppedover his laptop. He dropped over pretty much every-thing connected with this before it happened. Hehad been feeling watched, had felt his phone wastapped. Strange things were happening around him.He was going to go away the next day. A trip downthe coast."

I nodded."You need to be careful."Me?"He nodded this time."We all do."I stayed with him that night, there was an

attraction there between us but we held back. Thatfirst night was comfort. I slept the best since before,before this all began. It was the first day of the rest ofmy life, as they say. After that I packed it all up, my

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life and Zane's. Packed away in boxes, storage takingup space in our old rooms. Then Jasper and I left.Headed up the coast. Dropped off the radar, or atleast that was what we hoped. The website hummedaway like a hive building up its honey supplies forwinter. People were noticing it, talking about it. In away it was out of all our hands.

We're having a baby, Jasper and I. We arestarting the quest for non-plastic toys. It's hard butwe'll try. It's all we can do. And this bit is the hardbit. Because I have to end this and I don't really wantto say what's next.

If you're reading this, well, it's not good newsfor us. My story, this essay, is sitting in a special Outtray. Every four days we have to sign in and the emailwill just sit there. If we don't, well out it flies. Off tovarious places, people. Because it's all we can do. Passon the story. Keep it out there. Keep the truth outthere. And maybe someone else will take up the torchand run with it.

.

.

.

.

.

.

She looked up and noticed his face looked ghostly, lit by all the computer screens and thetwilight that was dimming the day outside. Heseemed distracted as well. Something on hismind.

"What do you think?" he asked."Not sure.""Bit overwrought. Melodramatic. It's obvi-

ously fantasy.""Is that what you think?""It's a hoax. Positive. We print this and we'll

be laughed off the street. Maybe sued for slander."

"We could check it out.""Waste of time. Just trash it."He left. She was surprised. He was usually

more open. But she didn't trash it, she passed iton to someone she knew who looked at thesethings. What else could she do? She'd been on afertility program for months and knew exactlyhow many of those B dolls she had once had.Nine. She had been obsessed as a child. Part ofher makeup, this need to consume and collect.She still did, only the toys were bigger and moreexpensive. But it did make her wonder. All of it.And she needed to know more. A lot more beforeshe just let this fall into that virtual wastebasketsitting at the edge of her screen.

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"Shhhh … don't say anything, don't look at me."His voice was lowered, the sound just audible

above the traffic noise. I couldn't help it and darted aglance at the man sitting beside me. Elbows on his thighs,long fingers cradling his forehead, his face in shadows - Iwas surprised to realise that this was my Uncle Frank.Thinner, greyer and frayed at the edges, but still the uncleI remembered from my past.

"Uncle Frank! Where have you been?" I exclaimed."Hush, hush, hush." His knuckles tightened over

his head, the skin stretching whitely. "Don't look at me.Don't look at me!"

I swung my head around and stared blankly at thecars rushing past. This was Uncle Frank! I hadn't seenhim for … what? Three years? I was studying for my Year12 final exams so, yes, nearly three years ago. Actually, noone has seen him since then. No word since the cryptic e-mail sent to his mother, Frank's sister: "Gone looking for

you-know-what. Back later." Mum professed not to knowwhat 'you-know-what' was. Just muttered about the menbeing unhinged in the Jackson line.

"They're watching, you see, always watching." Themuttering was for my ears alone.

"Who, Uncle Frank?""Them, boy … Them. Hasn't Sammie told you

anything?" He grunted when I shook my head, "Damnthe stubborn girl. After everything Dad told us! Too stubborn, too scared."

Now, I thought my Granddad had died before Iwas born in some sort of car accident. I never really askedexcept once when we were doing that family historyassignment in Year 7. Mum really clammed up, wouldn'ttell me anything except that he died in an accident. I'dasked what sort? A car? A sharp nod, folded arms and acarefully blank face that was tight around the mouthstopped me asking any more.

"What are you talking about, Uncle Frank?""Don't have time to explain, boy. They are

watching, you see, using them little cameras they have allover the place. Can't talk anyhow, they got lip-readers andcomputers that can almost work out what you're gonnasay before you say it."

Carefully I glanced around the intersection. Ijogged this way every day and had never noticed howmany security cameras festooned the poles until now.Well, I supposed it was a popular clubbing area, so thatonly made sense.

"Where have you been?" I asked again, wonderinghow I was going to convince the nervous man to comehome with me. I was convinced he needed serious qualified help. Not to mention a shower.

"Can't say, can't say. They might question you. ButI've been watching you, know you run this way. I've left a

LookingForSomething

ByDianneDean

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package for you. All my notes, all Dad's notes. Here."He leaned forward to tie up a shoelace, sliding his

foot across until it touched mine. I felt a scrap of foldedpaper being pushed into my trainers, down beside the sock.

"That's where it is.""Why me, Uncle Frank?" Poor old fellow, he was

really gone. I thought I'd better humour him until I had achance to ring Mum."

“‘Cos they're on to me, boy. I'm only half a step infront and as soon as I trip they'll be on to me. Now, son,it's up to you. Don't let me or your Granddad down."

He shifted awkwardly on the bench."Give Sammie my love. Look after her. Tell her I

miss her," he sighed. "Damn it. I am so close, too. Now,boy, don't pay any attention when I leave. I'll know if youwatch. So will they."

I hid a smile as he straightened up and stood. I haddecided to wait a few moments and then follow him so Icould find out where he was staying. Innocently I let mygaze wander around, watching the pedestrians move past.Something wasn't right, though, and a chill struck when Iidentified what was worrying my subconscious. Every oneof the security cameras were moving in unison. Each onewas tracking my uncle as he walked, carefully casual, awayfrom me. Unable to prevent it, I turned to watch him, too.He walked around the corner and was gone.

My eyes were dragged back to the cameras and thechill solidified to ice. Each of the cameras were now point-ed directly at me, the blank round apertures somehowmenacing in their stare. The hard square of paper rubbedagainst my ankle.

~

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Hi. My name's Ross Kirby. I'm a conspiracy facilitator. To giveyou an idea of the sort of service I provide, let me tell you a littlestory about how I managed to help one of my clients. I'll callhim Arthur, although that's not his real name. He's a bloke inhis fifties, thinning on top and thickening in the middle.Wears a suit that probably looked pretty smart in about 1995.

Arthur came to see me about six months ago with a problem. He wants to know if his name is on the list. You know,the list. Now this leaves me between a saltie and a great white: ifI admit I don't know what list he's talking about, I lose credibility. On the other hand, if I try to bluff and tell him Iknow exactly what list he's referring to, he might think I'mreading his mind, and that could really put him offside.

So I decide to meet him halfway.I ask him, "Would that be the Emu List, the Gecko List,

or the Quokka List?" "I don't know. It's the list of so-called paranoid people."

"Ah, the Gecko List.""Is that right? What are the Emu List and the Quokka List,then?""Trust me mate - you don't want to know.""You're probably right. I've been losing enough sleep just think-ing about this one.""Any particular reason why you should be on it?"

CONSPIRACY FACILIT

ATOR

BY PETER TONKIN

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"Because I refuse to get a credit card, for one thing.""You're worried about being defrauded?""Too right I am - in more ways than one!""You mean identity fraud? I agree, it's a real worry

these days.""And there's so many angles to it. It's not just personal

information they can gather and use against you. You knowwhat happens when you stick a card into an ATM?"

"Well, I know about the way they can skim the magnetic strip, and so on."

"Yes, but do you realise how much of you is in thatstrip?"

"How much of you - in what sense do you mean that?""Well, over time, if you carry that card around with you

all the time, it gradually absorbs more and more of your per-sonal magnetic field. And the machine can read that when itskims the strip, and whoever gathers that data can recreateyour magnetic identity, or your soul if you like."

"And you're concerned that once they have that, theymight…"

"Sell it to the highest bidder. That's one possibility.""Ah yes, a black market in souls, just like the one in

organs.""Exactly. That's why I refuse to get an ATM card either.

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I may spend a lot of time waiting in queues in the bank, but atleast I know it's me in the queue; whereas a lot of people don'thave a clue who they are or what they're doing. And that's whyI'm concerned that I might be on the list, making me a target."

"I see. Well I can certainly find that out for you.""Good. How long and how much?""About a week, and $500. If it's urgent - 48 hours and

$750.""No, I can wait a few days." He pulled out his wallet and

counted off ten fifties. "Shall I call you when I know?""No, it's okay. I'll call you on Friday afternoon, say,

three o'clock?""Fine." I give him the card with only the office landline

number on it. A guy like him wouldn't trust anyone with amobile phone. He squints at it, nods, and puts it in his breastpocket. Then he leaves.

Come Friday he rings me, dead on three. "Is this a secureline?"

"Absolutely. 128-bit encryption.""What's the report?""Bad news, I'm afraid. You are on it.""Bastards! I knew it! Can you do something about it?""I can. It will be difficult, but not impossible. It will take

another week and cost you $2,000, with a 10% discount for

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cash.""You got it. Need the money now?""No, it's okay. You can pay me when it's done.""All right. I'll call again in exactly two weeks."And he does just that. When I confirm the job is done he

sighs louder than a willow forest in a gale. Five minutes later hewalks in and gives me the money. I write out a receipt and neverhear from him again. Until last week. Same routine: he ringsfrom the phone box round the corner and walks in five minuteslater.

He's planning to get married, he says.Congratulations, I say."Hold your horses," he says. "Congratulations may not be

in order. I'm beginning to harbour suspicions about my fiancée.""You think she might be one of them?""Have a look at this."And he pulls a photograph out of his inside jacket pocket

and hands it to me. I'm expecting a picture of his bride-to-may-be, but it's something else. It's a fridge. A big shiny one, withtwo doors and a brushed chrome finish.

"What do you make of that?" he says. Now I'm thinking this looks like a very nice fridge, and

if it's any reflection on the lady in question, she must be quitea high achiever, and you will probably be marrying into a higher income tax bracket, which you might have some issues

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with, but this is clearly not the kind of response Arthur is looking for. So I furrow my brow a bit, like I'm subjecting thisfridge portrait to some serious appraisal, and limit myself tosaying, "This is her fridge, I presume?"

"Yes. Notice anything unusual about it?"All I can see is it's got a drink dispenser in one door, but

that's hardly unusual. "You don't have a picture of the interior and contents, do

you?"He groans with impatience and jabs at it with his finger."No! Don't you see? The fridge magnets!""Ah yes, of course I see them, but I'm afraid I can't read

what's written on them. You don't have a close-up shot? Is theresome cabbalistic message written on them?"

"No! Look at the way they're arranged! Can you see thepattern?"

"Ah yes I see, it's kind of a figure-8.""More like an infinity symbol, wouldn't you say?""Now I'm with you. Yes, definitely. And this is your

fiancée's preferred arrangement?""Yes, it's her doing. I have made absolutely sure of that.

I'm afraid she might be part of the conspiracy to build a magnetic vortex of infinite power, which will eventually causethe whole planet's magnetic field to flip, with catastrophicresults. And she's tapping into my personal magnetic field like

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a vampire taps into its victim's arteries."Now it's not my business to tell a client that he's got as

much personal magnetism as a bucket of raw sewage, and we'retalking plastic bucket, not galvanized iron. So I don't go there.But I do ask him a rather personal question.

"Excuse me for being so blunt, Arthur, but have you consummated your relationship with, what's her name?"

"Helen. Not exactly. I've kissed her, and that's when Ibegan to sense the danger I was in. It's like Marlowe said,

Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss, her lips suck forth my soul…That's just how it felt. So I decided not to take it any

further until I, I mean we, I mean with your help…""A wise precaution, Arthur. I'll make some enquiries."

I start by doing a bit of background reading. Now as part of myongoing personal self-improvement program, I keep a book ofquotations on my bedside table, and I always make a point ofreading at least one before I go to sleep, and memorizing the really good ones. I find a well-chosen quotation adds value toconversation and presentations and thereby enhances my brand,brand Ross Kirby. I find the one by this Marlowe character, andbefore the bit Arthur quoted, it goes:

Is this the face that launched a thousand ships, and burnt the topless, yadda yadda yadda?

So the next day, late in the afternoon, I go to see this Helen in

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her workplace. She owns and manages a travel agency, and onelook is enough to confirm the impression created by her fridge.She is a fine lady, very well presented, and would be a real catchfor Arthur. And I'm a prospective customer, interested in bookinga cruise. One of those big classy boats, Sapphire Princess orsomething like that. Money is no object. We chat for a bit, aboutthe joys of visiting exotic places and how travel broadens themind and all that, and then I point out that it's gone five thirty,and ask her if she would like to have dinner. She hesitates for amoment, then she agrees.

I take her to the best Thai restaurant in town. They knowme there and always look after me and my guests.

After we've ordered, we make a bit of small talk, then Idecide to get to the point.

"So Helen, have you launched a thousand ships?"She laughs and says, "Well I've lunched on a few."I press on with the frontal attack. "Topless?""Well, once or twice. But they were yachts rather than

ships, and there was just the captain and me, a safe distancefrom land and prying eyes."

"Didn't get burnt, I hope?""Well, you might just have to judge that for yourself."And judge I do, later that evening. Fortunately there is no

trace of sunburn, just a rosy glow from head to toe. She may wellbe the reincarnation of Helen of Troy, for all I know. But

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anyway, I'm starting to think Arthur is in no real danger. Imean, as far as I can tell, my soul is still in the same place italways was.

But my fridge magnets are another story. When I gethome, about midnight, I find them scattered on the floor in frontof the fridge. And for the life of me, I can't get them to stay onthe fridge again. They are no more magnetic than poor oldArthur. Luckily none of them has any particular sentimentalvalue for me, it's just the plumber's calendar and stuff like that,so I just stick them all in a sandwich bag and label it 'Exhibit A'.

And in my report to Arthur I advise him that there is substantial evidence of Helen's involvement, wittingly or otherwise, in the Great Magnetic Conspiracy. And it's clearenough from his reaction that wedding bells will not be ringing.End of story.

It's not the first time I've had to put my body on the linefor a client. And I dare say it won't be the last.

And of course I offer a range of other services, includingStrategic Conspiracy Management and Counter-ConspiracyNetworking, but I'll tell you about those another time.

~

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by Stefan Fergueca

2299

DODGING TRAFFICby Nicholas Messenger

She flies across the city in a way I cannot follow,

finding gaps between pedestrians and moments in the flow

of cars and buses going in both directions. Gradually our bicycles

get out of touch with one another, she in front and I behind.

Pram-pushing pensioners advance so slowly icicles

grow out of us, or doddering zigzags on the foot path

unpredictably cut time in tiny pieces. I can never find

my way around them. Vehicles lurking in illegal places

dart into the holes I thought I’d find in the aftermath

of signal changes. Yet unbothered by impediments she traces

an ethereal track. I bleat like an abandoned calf to her

but, truth be told, it is my chief joy to run after her.

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The beating of fair lady's heart stopped abruptly when a stray shard of wood, flying from the prince'slance, embedded itself in the back of her head. Damn and blast - she thought to herself, falling lifelessto the floor - if it wasn't frightfully inconvenient. To be struck dead at the very moment the charmingprince, her accidental slayer, had favoured her so graciously with a gentle tilt of his visor. It was at leastfortunate that she had chosen to turn her head away from the joust at that instant, else the splinterwould surely have buried itself in her face - a disfiguration far more difficult to overcome. Even as herbody hit the ground, the impact of the fall jammed the splinter of wood deep into her skull and thiswas satisfactory. It would barely be visible.

Nevertheless, as footsteps and concerned voices surrounded her, fair lady did experience a flick-er of distress. It was true that she admired the prince and had intended this - his moment of triumph -to forge an attachment. Yet she found herself wondering if he would not be somewhat perturbed byher present condition. For whilst it was true that an ivory hue was much becoming, she could not denythat a mortal head wound was not.

Yet surely her beloved prince would be able to see past the inconsequential matter of herappearance. For it was not the body that loved but the heart. And though her physical heart may haveceased to function, her spirit was heart enough. Fair lady would not allow this impediment - the smallmatter of her death - to stand in her way.There is no obstacle to our love, she told herself as arms hoisted her back into her chair. He will lookpast this mortal casing, she repeated firmly as hands fanned at her. The face of the prince peered withconcern into her eyes.

By Jacqui DentA Matter of the Heart

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'The lady must have swooned,' the prince heard someone say as he pushed his way roughly among thestalls and knelt at fair lady's side. She was once more seated in her chair, though still looking ratherpoorly, and the prince called angrily for the crowd to be cleared, that the lady might be given room torecover from her faint.

He sat himself down beside her, careful to keep an arm about her shoulders - lest she fall intoanother swoon, of course. The prince would never encroach upon the honour of a lady, and she didseem to him very pale.

They sat together in thoughtful silence until the crowd dispersed and they were alone. Then hedrew breath. Now was his moment.

'Fair lady,' he began, 'you may find it forward of me, but I must speak to you on a matter thatfor some time has been close to my heart and, I do sincerely hope, close to yours.'

The prince explained to her his honourable intentions, holding her silent and attentive gaze.She allowed him to speak uninterrupted of her charming disposition, which it was only right of himforemost to mention. But as he moved to the subject of her incomparable beauty, her hand fell to hisknee, and he sensed he had gone too far.

'No, don't speak,' he told her. 'Fair lady, I adore you. I would never presume to know your mind,yet I cannot but hope -' and here he broke off, tightening his grip about her shoulders.

There was a terrible pause, and then the prince felt fair lady slide towards him, her head comingto lean against his.

'Oh, sweet joy,' he breathed, and with that reached over and plunged his tongue into her mouth,thrusting himself upon her as she tilted precariously backwards. His hands slid across her back,supporting her frame, grasping her to him. They were pressed so close he fancied he even felt herheartbeat against his chest.

The prince moved his hand to the back of fair lady's head and snagged his finger on the jaggedpiece of wood protruding from her skull. At this he withdrew his arm in some confusion and

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momentarily released her from his clutches, whereby she fell senseless to the floor, revealing to himthe bloody smear that graced the back of her head. The prince sprang to his feet in some alarm.His lady? Perished? Oh, mortal agony!

And yet, was this not the creature that had so filled him with ardour just now? True, she wasnot in quite the state he had first imagined. But he could not deny that in the few moments he hadshared with her, he had come to desire her company above all other women. Even now as she laylimp and docile on the ground, he felt his passion stirring.

With a furtive glance about him, the prince scooped the object of his affections from the floorand hurried towards the back of the stalls. After all, he told himself, a man must be true to his heart.

~

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Featured ArtistDemitasse-Lover

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She Showed Me Her Breastsby Keith Nunes

11She showed me her breasts while her boyfriendEntertained my girlfriend back in the restaurant

The stars beamed; the moon laughedWe talked of passionate nights and happy endings

We kissed through the vomit; above the commitments

2227 years of affairs and here we standHolding onto each other beleaguered

Cropped hair and crimped livesWe now offer the stability we once despised

33The grey slips past the dye The spread is middle-aged

There are lines leading to linesSags and tags but no regrets

44In the cloistered halls they whisper

Over here, short of a dollar, weCall across grand canyons andBless icons tattooed on ankles

55Sometimes we cut and tip the pills

But there are no facadesWhat you see is what we gotAnd still the elevator goes up

ORIGINAL BACKGROUND IMAGE COPYRIGHT 2009 by IGNACIO LEONARDI

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Sally sat at the back of the classroom, her nose in a hefty book, trying to ignore the huddle of gigglingconfidences in front of her. It was lunchtime, but too cold to read outside, under her favorite plumtree, and the librarian had come down with the sniffles so that safe haven was closed. Sally tucked hercrossed legs under her and tried to sit up straight - not an easy feat when on a wooden chair at a desk.Her book was about Eastern religions and on every second page was a picture of somebody thin sit-ting cross-legged with glowing lights or flowers running up the middle of them. Sally tried to medi-tate last night and had managed to sit still for thirty seconds before she was bored stiff. She closedher eyes now, imagining herself transported somewhere warm and friendly. Fiji, no not Fiji because ofthe coup. Vanuatu, yes, mmm, warm blue seas full of dolphins swimming up to meet her, sensing howspecial she was, open skies full of endless possibilities, honey colored people dancing on the sand…Sally realized the room was silent and opened her eyes to see everybody staring at her. Had she madea noise? Maybe she had been singing? Heat swooped through her.

'What are you doing?' Sarah-Jane's pretty blue eyes were wide and she was holding the backof her chair as if she would leap over and pounce on Sally.

'I'm meditating,' Sally said haughtily.The girls looked blankly at her, then turned slowly around exchanging glances. Sally got up

and took her book outside, willing herself to stand straight and not look back. She sat under the plumtree, amongst the fallen crimson leaves, and pulled her jersey over bent legs, resting her cheek on thebook on her knees. She squeezed her eyes closed and made a wish for something to rescue her. Shemade a decision - she would open the book and there would be an answer for her, to help her withstand this mundane and shackled existence she was forced to endure.

She opened the book. There was a painting of a naked man dancing; a strategically placedshrub covering his privates. He had long grey hair, his ribs were poking out of his skin and his eyeswere rolled back into his head. Ringed around him was a group of horrified-looking individuals,whose expressions were close to the ones Sally had seen moments ago. 'Holy Fool' was the title. Sallyexperienced a tickle of inspiration in her belly and read on eagerly. A holy fool acted mad on purposeto gain spiritual freedom. He took off his clothes, or behaved in other socially unacceptable ways toprove to himself and others that he wasn't buying into the same cultural and materialistic crap thatthey were. One famous mystic had even covered himself in excrement to prove to others that he washappy and content no matter what shit happened. Excrement! Sally was impressed, although shewould never cover herself in excrement. But she could do something to prove to everybody that shewas way more onto it than they were. More mature. Maybe then they'd appreciate her 'differences' a

HOLY FOOLby Emma Furness

WOMAN IMAGE ‘MONDAY’ IN BACKGROUND COPYRIGHT 2009 by JYN MEYER

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little more. Her mum called them her 'differences', always looking a little worried and pleased at thesame time. She touched them now with her fingers, wishing again they weren't so obvious.

The bell rang and Sally leapt up quickly. This class was History, her favorite, and her teacherwas the long, lean Mr. MacLean. She saw him strolling into the class, his lanky figure seeming a stepbehind his bowed head, and she ran to catch up with him.

'Afternoon Sally, I hope you enjoyed your lunch.' His dark hair was flopping into his eyes,which were smiling at her.

'I'm reading about Holy Fools.' She opened her book up at the page her thumb was marking.Mr. MacLean leaned in to examine the picture.

'Ah yes, the Fool. You'll love Shakespeare when you get to him.'He patted her on the head and swung into the classroom headfirst.After school Sally cycled to the Public Library to investigate Holy Fools. She discovered there

were Christian, Muslim, Tibetan and Hindu fools; all trying to shock people out of their humdrumexistence by running off to the desert to live on nothing, or being nude, or gluttonous; some fools evenseduced innocent maidens to prove their point. Out of all the options, nudity seemed to be the mostaccessible to Sally. She worried about her 'differences' being openly on display, but they could alsostartle others into a realization - that she was unique. The library was such a warm, comforting placeto be. She looked at the people cruising lovingly between the aisles, taking books out of shelves andfrowning at them; could this book be the 'one'? She could take her clothes off here; jolt them out oftheir overheated reverie. A familiar librarian smiled at her as she put her books through the self-serv-ice machine, and she knew she couldn't be nude here. She needed to come back to this place.

She cycled home, her books in a wicker basket on the front of her bike, as the sky slowly dark-ened.

'I was worried about you.' Her mother had her coat on.'Sorry, Evelyn. Got caught up at the library.' She tried to sound as casual as her Dad. 'Can I

have some tarot cards?''What? No, why? Why tarot cards?'She closed the front door and took off her coat. 'The Fool - I need to know more about the

fool. It's for a school project.'Her mother looked at her for a long time, and then went into her bedroom. Sally followed her

in, waiting with crossed arms as she searched for something; her sizable bottom poking out of thewardrobe. Eventually she pulled out an old brown suitcase and opened it up, rummaging inside forsomething. Tarot cards, in a black box. Sally opened the box and pulled out a black velvet bag with ayellow ribbon. Inside was a glossy set of cards with arcane pictures on each one. She shuffled throughuntil she found The Fool, dancing a timeless jig with knowing merriment in his eyes. Sally held herbreath and stared back at him.

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‘I’m meant to be the Fool,' she told her mother.'In a play?' her mother asked, kneeling down opposite her.'Everything is a play, isn't it? Nothing is really real.' Sally fondled the card.'You're real,' her mother said softly. 'And so am I.''How do you know?' Sally asked. 'How do you know I'm real? I mean, your senses could all be

wrong, you could be mad, or asleep…''You were part of me once, that's how I know you're real. I grew you.' Her mother looked as

though she was going to mist up with sentimentality, so Sally stood and left the room without anotherword. In her own room she lined the cards along the floor and crawled over them, peering at each onein turn. 'Death' frightened her while the beautiful goddess made her happy. She slept that night with'The Fool' under her pillow.

The next morning she showered and covered her body in her mother's expensive lotion. Shepulled an old satin dressing gown out of her mother's closet - it so wouldn't fit her anymore- and put itover her naked body. It was quite cold out so she added socks and gym shoes as well as a woolly hat.It was important to keep your head warm. Her mother was bustling in the kitchen, listening to herfather talk in a bored monotone about work. Sally slipped past the kitchen door, holding the robeclosed, and out into the morning. She plucked a rose and picked off the fat thorns with her fingernailbefore sliding it behind her ear. Now she felt like The Goddess in the tarot pack. Her stomach rumbled but if those blokes in the desert could go days without food, she could do without Weet-Bixfor one morning. She got on her bike, taking care to tuck the robe around her properly - she didn'twant to reveal anything too soon - and rode to school. Several people stopped and stared at her alongthe way and she waved merrily back at them, hoping she was causing them to question their own existence. The nerves started when she approached the school gates, where groups of girls gathered.The high-pitched chatter and laughter came to a gradual stop as Sally dismounted from her bike andpushed it through the gates to the bicycle stand.

'You forgot to get dressed,' somebody called out, but Sally concentrated on her bike lock andkeeping her robe closed. She was embarrassed and nervous, but she supposed that was why it was sohard to be a mystic, why so few chose the path to enlightenment. She turned to face the gatheringcrowd and was heartened to see Mr. MacLean approaching, bent over in deep thought.

The gaggle of girls called him over - 'Mr. MacLean, Sally's forgotten to get dressed!' - whileSally climbed ceremoniously on a bench lining the walls. Then everything went silent, all eyes on Sallyas she rolled her eyes back in her head - quite difficult to do - and let the robe slip from her shoulders.After a silent second the girls erupted into laughter and screams, running away from Sally in horrifieddelight, and leaving Mr. MacLean standing with his mouth open.

'Put your robe back on, Sally.' He covered his eyes with one hand and waved the other one at

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her. Sally gave up trying to roll her eyes. Girls were in groups, staring and pointing, at the other end ofthe playground, and Mr. MacLean was scarlet with embarrassment and not looking. Other teacherswere running towards her, one with the school banner in her hands, apparently ripped from the wall topreserve what was left of Sally's modesty.

'It's only a body,' Sally said loudly, 'it's not real.' 'Heavens above,' Mrs. Taylor said as she wrapped Sally in the school banner, which still had sta-

ples in it. 'We've called your parents, they'll be here in a minute.' Mrs. Taylor and Mr. MacLean ledSally into the principal's office to wait for her parents. Mrs. Taylor couldn't meet her eye, and Mr.MacLean couldn't help laughing every time he looked at her, head angled forward and his face squeez-ing rhythmically.

'Mr. MacLean,' bristled Mrs. Taylor, 'I really don't think it is appropriate to laugh.''Actually I disagree, I think laughter is really the only appropriate response,' Mr. MacLean said,

shaking out another round of laughter. He put his hands together in a position of prayer, bowed deeplyto Sally and left the room.

Mrs. Taylor eyed Sally with a raised eyebrow. 'You've got very big breasts for a girl your age.' 'I know,' Sally said, smiling at her in what she hoped was a beatific way.

~

WOMAN IMAGE ‘MONDAY’ IN BACKGROUND COPYRIGHT 2009 by JYN MEYER

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by Clyde Grauke

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One pill to give me iron,

Two pills to stop the aches.

Cream to cover the spots,

Two pills to keep me sane.

Hair dye to hide the grey hairs,

A pill to freeze birth.

More pills to stop the hurting,

To stop me digging the earth.

Pills, pills, they keep me fighting,

So many pills, hard to keep track.

White, brown, blue and green,They hide the things I lack.

The pills, do they fix anything?

The pills are like Band-Aids, but not.

They hide whatever is happening,

The happening is then forgot.

QUICK FIXBy Melissa Mercado

THETHE THEMETHEME FORFOR THE NEXTTHE NEXT ISSUEISSUE IS:IS:THROUGH ANIMAL EYES

Have you ever patted your pet, looked deep into its eyes,and wondered what life it’s truly led, perhaps before yourescued it from the shelter? Or what about an animal inthe wild - what do you think it feels about the constantdestruction of its homes, of the death of its environ-ment, of the looming extinction of its species? Well,you’ll find out some strange answers in the next issue...

Eclecticism hopes there is no conspiracy surrounding the enjoyment you had with thisissue. Next up, the e-zine will celebrate its 2ndanniversary! This will mean a big read, folks - avisual and literary feast. So clear your calendar

in the last week of July, and stay tuned...

All constructive comments are appreciated - e-mail them to:

eclecticism@westnet.com.aueclecticism@westnet.com.au

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ISSUE 9TO BE RELEASEDJJUULLYY 22000099

www.eclecticzine.com

Have you read every issue of the Eclecticism E-zine?

ISSUE ONE

THEME: Horror

CONTRIBUTORS: Lucas Aguirre & BramVanhaeren (Featured Artists), Glen Canning,

Mariusz Pocztowski, Denis Dack,Mark McAuliffe, Brian G Ross, Craig Bezant,Codoban Mihai, Sarah Mitchell, Keith Nunes,

Natalie JE Potts, & Eric Grayson.

ISSUE TWO

THEME: Secrets

CONTRIBUTORS: Brian Andrews,Janet Beard, Amanda le Bas de Plumetot,

Mark McAuliffe, Brian G Ross, Catriona Annis,Tim Hamilton, Amy Mackiewicz, Ian C Smith,Dimitri Castrique, Talulah belle Lautrec-Nunes,

& Rodier (Featured Artist).

http://www.eclecticzine.com/backissues.htmlThey’re all available to download, for free, in the Back Issues section:

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ISSUE THREE

THEME: Weather Extremities

CONTRIBUTORS: Dianne Dean, SimonJames, Ben Kooyman, Brian G Ross, Kyle Foley,Sarah Mitchell, Syd Monkhouse, Keith Nunes,

Eril Riley, Brian Andrews,& Loish (Featured Artist).

ISSUE FOUR

THEME: World/s of the Past or Future

CONTRIBUTORS: Brian G Ross, Myra King,Simon Petrie, Julia Brannigan, Anton Ansford,

Amy Mackiewicz, Sally Franicevich,Chris Major, Penny Davison,& Sofia E (Featured Artist).

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ISSUE FIVE

THEME: From Our Childhood

CONTRIBUTORS: Mark McAuliffe, PeterLingard, Lawrence Salani, Amy Mackiewicz, Syd

Monkhouse, Keith Nunes, Ian C Smith, LesWicks, Richard Butler, and Jessica Madden

(Featured Artist).

ISSUE SIX

THEME: Getting Away With It

CONTRIBUTORS: Julia Brannigan, LouisaDavin, Dianne Dean, Kate Gordon, Simon

James, Myra King, Tyson Young, Keith Nunes,Ian C Smith, Les Wicks, Clyde Grauke, Talulah

Belle Lautrec-Nunes, Ilona Nelson,& Dave Burke (Featured Artist)