narrator magazine central tablelands spring 2011
DESCRIPTION
The inaugural issue of the Central Tablelands version of Narrator Magazine, an Australian creative writing competition/publication.TRANSCRIPT
narrator MAGAZINE
ISS
N: 1839-4
06X
AUD $9.95
Quarterly
showcase of
your region’s
creative
writing talent.
Central Tablelands
This issue featuring contributions from: Rebecca Wilson, Paul Phillips, DJ Peters, JE Doherty, and more ...
Spring 2011
Welcome!
To all our new readers, contributors and sponsors, congratulations on being part of Narrator Magazine!
You‟re probably asking right now—what is it, and why?
In short, Narrator Magazine is a forum for people to display their creative writing—short stories,
poems and essays.
What Narrator aims to do is encourage people to write by providing a place for them to display their
writing. There are plenty of exhibitions and competitions for visual artists to display their work, but it
is becoming increasingly difficult for aspiring writers to hone their skills in an open forum.
By providing Narrator as a free online publication available from various sites, writers can email the
links to their friends, relatives and writing associates and spread the word more quickly. By providing
a limited number of printed copies, those who choose to read the print version can do so, and those
who appear in the magazine have the opportunity to purchase something to keep for posterity—and
their grandchildren!
And why are we doing this? Because more and more people seem to want to write, but the old
publishing model isn‟t working anymore. While the new digital technologies such as iPad and Kindle
make it easier for you to get your word out there, it is also becoming harder to be heard. By
aggregating short stories from a variety of people in one issue, we are helping introduce as many
people as possible to an audience. Your short story or poem collection or new novel might not get a
second look if you published it without a following, but if someone sees one or more of your items in
an issue of Narrator, and then sees that you‟ve also released a book of short stories or poems, or a
novel, then they might be more inclined to purchase that item if they‟re already familiar with some of
your work.
So Narrator is a ladder—with rungs at various levels of the game. As we aggregate materials from
contributors and get a feel for what they do and who their audience might be, we are already in touch
with them to help them take that next step toward publishing their first book or anthology.
And if you‟d like to be a contributor to Narrator, here are some tips to help you „make the cut‟:
Does your item fall into one of these categories: short story, poem or essay? We don‟t accept
articles or promotional items and we also discourage memoirs which are simple re-telling of
stories. Narrator is about creative writing—making people think, stirring their emotions, whether
you want them to laugh, cry, or simply fume! So if you wish to write a memoir, will it do this,
and can you write it with some creativity, not just a re-telling of an incident in your life?
Is your piece less than 5,000 words?
Have you proofread your piece?
Have you used single quote marks, single spacing between sentences and the word „and‟ instead
of an ampersand (&)?
Have you had someone else proofread your piece? This is very important—we don‟t edit your
items. They‟re your work and we are presenting your work, not what we think it should be. So
it‟s up to you to make it the best it can be.
Does it have a beginning, a middle and an end? Generally speaking, unless it‟s a poem, it will
need some form of structure for the reader to make sense of it.
These points won‟t guarantee submission, but they will certainly help.
Central Tablelands
narrator MAGAZINE is published by MoshPit Publishing, Shop 1, 197 Great Western Highway, Hazelbrook NSW 2779
MoshPit Publishing is an imprint of Mosher‟s Business Support Pty Ltd ABN 48 126 885 309
www.moshpitpublishing.com.au www.narratormagazine.com.au
A few words from the
publisher ...
Welcome to the first
edition of Narrator
Magazine, Central
Tablelands!
It‟s certainly exciting being able to spread our wings beyond
the Blue Mountains and we hope that this
is the start of a bigger, wider audience for
both Narrator and for your writing.
If you‟re only just finding out about Narrator now, then you may like to join
us on Facebook at www.facebook.com/
narratormagazine and read more about
how it all works on our website at
www.narratormagazine.com.au/
The main aim of Narrator is to help provide an outlet for creative writing, and
to help people develop their creative
writing skills by competing with each
other.
Cash prizes are awarded for the best three entries ($200, $100 and $50) as judged
by our „secret judge‟, who is revealed in
the following issue, along with the winners and their entries. We also have a
$50 People‟s Choice award.
In time, we hope to bring you a „best of
the best‟ issue, where we bring the best
entries from both Blue Mountains and Central Tablelands issues for the prior
year.
So start writing—get those fingers on the
keyboard and think about sharing all
those poems, essays and short stories that have been swirling around in your head
over the years!
And if you belong to a writing group, or
take classes in creative writing, or know
someone who does, please make sure you let them know about Narrator—the more
contributors, the better the quality of the
reading, and the better it will be for
everyone.
So that‟s it from me for this inaugural
Central Tablelands issue. Time for you to start turning the pages and see what your
fellow residents have contributed!
Jenny Mosher September 2011
Caricature:
Jenny Mosher‟s caricature (above) by Blue
Mountains artist Todd Sharp. For more info,
visit toddasharp.com.
Welcome to the First Edition of
Narrator MAGAZINE CENTRAL TABLELANDS
Poetry
Stories
Cover: „Trapped‟ by Aida Pottinger
I am interested in exploring images which
arrest the eye, and creating drawings and
paintings that are arrived at spontaneously. I
work from life and landscape and also use
inspirational photographs and drawings of
people and landscapes, and manufactured,
made and built objects as a jumping off point. I like to push the source material to capture an
atmosphere or mood visually echoing
memories and emotions. My work emerges out
of a memory I may be working on and is a
subconscious recognition of how the earth
gives birth, nurtures, sustains and eventually
reclaims the life on it.
Please visit me at:
http://theambiguityofhorizon.blogspot.com/
Please note that as contributors are aged 18 and over, some contributions contain language
and concepts that may be considered offensive.
2 Nasma
3 Questions
4 Always the Children
6 Treasures
9 The Portrait
10 The Waiting Photograph
11 Bidding War
12 Re-Kindled Love
16 The Dancing Suit
18 The Eyes Have It
22 Public Performance
23 Why?
24 Drifter‟s Ridge
26 The Little Tear
27 The Journey
I was very, very excited. I had promised
my friend Nasma that I would „drop in
for a visit‟ now that she had returned
home to Lebanon and now I was here. As
we flew in to land at the airport, I saw for the first time the Mount Lebanon Range
that rises high and suddenly from the
coast. The number and density that made
up Beirut were startling to me as I viewed
the city, nestling in the coastal plain, from
the sky. Making my way with the rest of
the passengers, from the plane to the
tarmac and onto the bus that took us to
the bullet-ridden shack of an airport, I
had to stop myself from staring at the
soldiers with very big guns who were
standing or strolling about the place.
So why was I here? Back in Australia in
1994, I had completed a Volunteer Home
Tutor certificate course run by the NSW
Adult Migrant English Service (AMES).
AMES had set up the program because it had identified that the free English
tutoring available to Australian migrants
precluded people (predominantly women)
who were housebound, were mothering
young children or unable to travel to get
to the classes.
I joined 25 other potential tutors and we
were given as much guidance and
encouragement and as many teaching tips
as possible. My first student was Nasma.
With no experience or idea of what to
expect (I reckoned that as a trained and
experienced actor I could always „act‟ my
way through any sticky moments. I felt
my few years as a mime artist would
really come in handy).I threw myself into
the unknown world of trying to teach
English conversation skills.
My first lesson, I remember was pretty
nerve racking for Nasma and myself.
Based on the typical student profile I was
expecting a 20 year old married woman,
not long in Australia and pregnant with her first child. I had brought along simple
anatomy and physiology illustrations on
pregnancy and birth written in both
English and Arabic that I found in the
AMES library—I had thought myself to
be sensitively and thoughtfully prepared.
I don‟t know what Nasma was expecting
but I do recall she kept apologising for
not being able to speak English.
Nasma had led me into the small salon at
the front of the house in the working class
industrial suburb of Botany where she
lived with her husband. Her small son,
Ali was nearly one and her husband or jowsik, Majed was running a Lebanese
take away food shop in Kings Cross. The
house was always full of people, and as
we progressed with our classes I realised
most of them were family members. Our
classes were always interrupted. It
seemed Nasma was the only one able to
answer some particular question, pass on
information, take a phone call or soothe
Ali like only a mother can. Nasma
seemed to organise everyone and keep
the extended family in motion. She was bright, funny, beautiful and intelligent.
Also, I think the rest of the family liked
to interrupt to check me out. Who was
this morrshd?
Majed‟s parents Abu and Em Ali arrived in Australia with their eight children in
1975, following their eldest daughter who
had migrated here in the early seventies.
The family left Lebanon at a time of
escalating violence with the outbreak of
civil war.
Keesing‟s Contemporary Archives has
this entry for August 18-24 1975, the year
the Nasrallah‟s came to Australia.
„Serious fighting occurred in Beirut from
mid-April 1975 between militia of the
right wing, predominantly Christian
Phalanges Party (Kataeb) and Palestinian
guerrilla groups based in Lebanon,
causing the resignation of M. Rashid
Solh‟s Government on 15 May. The crisis
was regarded as the most serious since
the 1958 civil war, it being estimated by Lebanese sources that up to early July
2300 people were killed in the fighting
and over 16,000 injured. Throughout the
remainder of the 20th Century Lebanon
experienced extreme political turmoil.
There was ongoing fighting between
militia including Christian Phalanges‟,
Shiite Muslims, Sunni Muslims and
members of the Druze community, the
Iranian backed Hezbollah, the Palestinian
Liberation Organisation (PLO) and the various military including Israeli Armed
Forces (IAF), the Israeli backed South
Lebanese Army SLA) and the Syrian
Army. The fighting led to the deployment
of the UN Interim Forces in Lebanon
(UNIFIL) and the Multinational Forces
(MNF), civilian oppression and countless
deaths. I knew Majed‟s family were
Sunni Muslim‟s and not part of any militia group or involved in militia
fighting but one of the sons had been
picked up on the street, „detained‟ and
tortured by Christian militia. So the
family got out.
Thomas Friedman, an American Jew who had lived in Lebanon for many years and
loved the place and the people, describes
in detail the politics and violence of this
1975 civil war period in his 1989 book
From Beirut to Jerusalem—One Man’s
Middle Eastern Odyssey.
I read this book with fascination but the
life Nasma used to tell me about during
our late night chats was a very different
one of happy domestic scenes and family
fun. We got to know and like each other
despite the lack of a common language
and we spent lots of time hanging out,
eating, looking after babies and chatting
at her home. I learned about her family
who were still in Lebanon and who had
lived through the war—her mother Layla, father Abu Habib (younger brother to
Majid‟s Father) and her seven brothers
and sisters—Ali, Souad, Hussein, Rudda,
Widian and Khoudda. Nasma was the
oldest at 22. I too had seven brothers and
sisters. We decided that her Muslim
upbringing and my Catholic one had lots
of similarities. Religion was a major force
in how our families were structured and
how we behaved. Both our fathers were
the „head of the household‟ (actually her
father was the head of four households, having taken four wives). The sons were
feted and the daughters expected to be
chaste, modest and hardworking in the
home. Muslim girls took the scarf and
similarly I could remember when lace
mantillas were still worn in church. A
seed of friendship was sown. I loved
hearing about her family intrigue and
drama and Nasma looked forward to the
news of my life „outside‟.
Three years and another baby later (for
Nasma) I had kept my word and was
mounting the stairs to her apartment in
Torl just a couple of kilometres north of
Nabatieh (the scene of some of the worst
2
Nasma Christine Sweeney
Moorilda
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3
The look that‟s buried behind your eyes as you tell me who is right.
As if you know what has happened‟s wrong, though still putting up a fight.
Resisting tears I gulp my pride and start off with a plea.
We‟re going round in circles here—don‟t you know your hurting me?
I don‟t look ashamed, embarrassed, upset as you spit out words of hate.
And looking back on generations I can‟t help but think … is this my fate?
What have I done so badly?
Your exterior is so tough.
Every time I‟ve apologised … isn‟t this enough?
You tell me all the time about how you never cry, yet behind the yelling, screaming are you breaking down inside?
I‟ll smile yesterday‟s thoughts away as if they didn‟t matter.
Though piece by piece as I laugh away everything begins to shatter.
I try to make some sense of it; it‟s hard to let it be.
Is this making me stronger for things I‟m yet to see?
I know that you‟re aware yourself, like many have said is true.
Why are we making each other bleed?
Open your eyes; I‟m just like you … m
Questions Alexandra Nagy
Bathurst
fighting in South Lebanon).
I had read the Lonely Planet Guide to
Lebanon and had prepared a list of places
I wanted to visit and things we would do
together. These plans for the main part
were abandoned in the wake of what was
to follow. The first week, every member
of the extended family visited (they
visited each other incessantly anyway) to
meet „Nasma‟s friend from Australia‟.
The following weeks held weddings,
cooking, family visits, changing babies‟
nappies, cooking, late night chats (this
time with fresh Lebanese ice cream),
shopping at the souk, cleaning, swapping
each other‟s clothes, cooking, washing,
cleaning and most of all getting to know her family. I was not destined for any
tourist spots (well, we did visit some, but
that is another story) or souvenir
shopping. Mine was an odyssey of the
interior, domestic life.
Nasma‟s mother Layla, and her family
took to me immediately. Layla was a
Christian and felt we had a bond because
of this—whether it was the reason or not,
I felt the same. I could see this person
was where Nasma got a lot of her
personality and warmth from, her fantastic cooking skills and her
generosity. Towards the end of my visit
Layla said, „Why don‟t you stay here—I
will look after you. You are welcome in
my house as one of my daughters.‟ For
me this was the one statement that made
me howl inside. Without words she had
known I wanted what she was offering. I
wanted to say „yes.‟
I returned to Lebanon a year or so later in
1998 (this time with my own car and
itinerary), met more new babies and
attended more weddings and shall go
again. For me the friendship I have
forged with Nasma, a woman from a
place very different from mine, with a life
very different to mine and from a country
that is very different to mine is to be
treasured.
After a rare moment of disagreement,
raised voices and stand-offs, Nasma and I
were sitting in silence. I looked at her and
said „Well I have to say, your English is
very good.‟ She replied „I have a good
teacher.‟ m
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I make the coffee strong though I know
sleep will be hard to find even after the
long drive home. The station is quiet
except for occasional buzz of the radio and
the tap-tap-tap of the keyboard. I pull the last of the paperwork from the printer,
hurriedly scrawling my name at the bottom
of the page. After a quick glance, I toss it
into the filing tray for morning. I hesitate at
the door, and then return to check the
roster. Of late it has a habit of changing
almost magically from day to day.
I should have
walked out
when I had the chance.
The roster has
changed.
Tomorrow,
I‟m working
with the Ogre.
Now, not only
will sleep be
hard to find,
but waking
will be even
harder.
The Ogre is a
formidable
woman, a
sergeant who
before
coming here,
spent her
entire
working life lecturing school kids on stranger danger
and road safety. She had never faced an
angry man, never done a real day's police
work in her life and she isn't about to start
now.
When you greet the prospect of the next
day's work with genuine dread, you know
it‟s time for a change.
***
The house is dark but I don‟t turn on the
light. The familiar halls prove no obstacle.
A soft warm glow peeks beneath the back
room's door. The hinges sigh as I creep
inside. It‟s strange how such a boisterous
child can ware such an angel‟s face in
sleep. I brush aside a wisp of hair and
gently touch my lips to his brow.
„Sleep well little one.‟
Clare is standing at the door when I turn.
Through the net of shadows I can see her
tired smile.
„I love you,‟ she whispers, kissing my
cheek before returning to bed.
The room is dark enough that it doesn‟t
matter if my eyes are open or not. I stare at
the ceiling through closed lids, waiting for
sleep to come.
***
„What have I told you about leaving the
kitchen in a mess?‟ The Ogre waves her
arm at the unwashed coffee cups in the
sink. „And the filing is supposed to be done
before you go home.‟
„I knew I was back this morning.‟ I push
past her into the sanctuary of the male
locker room.
Last night, I had a premonition today was
going to be bad. So far nothing has
happened to change my mind. Quick shifts
are a drain at the best of times but with a
forty five minute drive home and back …
That leaves only five and a half hours to squeeze in some sleep before you are back
on the job.
Rap Rap RAP! „We've got a job.‟
I splash water on my face. Technically, we
don‟t even start for another fifteen minutes.
Why am I always right? This is definitely
going to be a bad day.
The ambulance pulls into the driveway just
ahead of the patrol car. I curse my luck.
With a dead'n this early in the shift and no
way known-to-man to prise the Ogre's note
book from her pocket, it looks like I‟m in
for a busy day.
As soon as I walk through the door I know.
This is no ordinary
deceased.
The mother is crooning to
her baby, eyes red
rimmed and as lifeless as
the child.
Why is it always the
children? I ask myself. I
look hopefully at the Ogre but she stands as
emotionless as ever. I
fumble with my pocket
and take out my note
book, trying to swallow
down the lump in my
throat.
It is hard to offer comfort
to someone when you are
facing your own worst nightmare. I have never
been overly religious but
each night since my baby
was born, I offer up the
same simple prayer.
‘I do not ask for much.
Just see my baby safe tonight.'
As the ambulance officer moves to take the
child, I touch her hair and her mother's
hand.
„I am truly sorry. If there is anything I can
do ...‟ What more can you say?
She howls animal-like, all wild eyes, leaning away and pulling the baby tight
against her chest, sobbing kisses onto the
tiny cold face. „My baby … my baby …
Don‟t take my baby …‟
The Ogre taps her watch.
I talk softly, touching her hand, sharing
some of the pain. „I‟ll take care of her.‟ I
Always the Children JE Doherty
Eglinton
pry her fingers loose. „I promise‟
Her arms fall away and she sinks back into
the chair like she is deflating.
If they‟re already dead, the ambos usually
hit the road with a smug, „Sorry guys, job
for the contractors.‟ I am surprised when
they take the baby from me and gently
wrap her against the cold and carry her out
to the ambulance.
I sit in the car, hand trembling on the
steering wheel. „Sergeant? Can you do the
PM tomorrow?‟
„It's your job.‟
„I would really prefer someone else to do
it.‟ I am pleading now.
„You are doing it, and that is the end of the
matter.‟
***
„Come to bed Tony,‟ Clare whispers from
the door.
„I'll be in soon.‟
„You said that hours ago.‟ She watches me
stare into the cot but returns to her bed
when I make no reply.
The rocking chair presses hard into my
back but my head nods forward in a half
doze. I snap awake, straining to hear my
Jamie's quiet breathing, one hand seeking
the comforting warmth of his body.
I wake stiff and cramped, trying to rub the
twinge from my neck. The slight rise and
fall of Jamie's chest makes me smile. The
electric jug rumbles in the kitchen and I
can hear Clare humming quietly as she
waits for the water to boil. I push myself
out of the rocking chair and shuffle into the
hall.
Clare frowns as I walk into the kitchen. „You should have come to bed. Your eyes
look haunted.‟
Sleep wasn't going to change that.
Clare loves my eyes; she tells me they are
my most striking feature, clear grey-blue,
bright like diamonds. Diamond eyes, she
would say. I can see it hurts her to see my
fear.
***
The room basks in fluorescent brightness.
White tile walls reflect chrome and shining
steel. The bench and slab table are buffed
to a mirror shine. Rows of refrigerated
lockers line the wall through the double
plastic doors. The smell of formalin is heady, almost nauseating but it can‟t mask
the stench of the dead.
Ted Greige, the orderly, is balding and
stooped, more suited to a torture chamber
than this sterile antiseptic room. Although
it is very clichéd, he is known to the police
as Eigor. That he enjoys his work is plain.
There is always an eager glint in Eigor‟s
eye. After a slurp of coffee and a bite from
a sandwich slathered in red jam, he smiles.
„Slept in,‟ he apologises tossing his
breakfast on the bench.
The refrigerator door opens with a hiss and
he carries the plastic wrapped bundle to the
table. Eigor unzips the over sized body bag
and places the child on the table. She looks
so small and pale, like a porcelain christening doll. Her blue tinged lips are
curled in a pout of sleep.
But it‟s not sleep.
After another slurp of coffee, Eigor lays
out the tools of his trade. They gleam
bright like the room.
The Government Medical Officer sweeps
through the plastic doors, absently leafing
through his paperwork.
„Occurrence pad ... P.79A Coroner's
report ... identification statement ... All
seems in order.‟ He looks up. „Ah,
Constable ...‟ he asks brightly, noticing me
for the first time. „Is this …‟ He rifles
through the papers again. „…Catherine
Norris?‟
I look at the child and draw a deep breath. I
touch her icy hair again. „Yes.‟
„Ok Ted, lets get started.‟ The GMO looks
long at the child then moves to a large
whiteboard and begins to write.
External and General
Appearances: Female child of
stated age. Very cyanosed lips,
fingernails, soles of feet, and
palms. Post mortem lividity
fixed to back, upper half of
abdominal wall and anterior
chest wall. Head
circumference ...
Doctor Stanton wields his tape measure
like a builder, cold and business like.
Eigor moves to the child. His scalpel traces
a thin red line from the hollow of her throat
to her pubic bone.
The wet tearing sound pulls strings in my
stomach, but I‟m frozen. I can‟t even look
away. I feel the colour draining from my
face and grip the bench for support.
„Doc, you hear about that footy player?‟
„Which one?‟
„The one up for rape.‟ With clean, deft
strokes, Eigor flays back her skin to expose
the ribs.
„Must have missed that one.‟
„Yeah, apparently she was all for it till he
stuck it up her backwards.‟ He works with
a professional, grisly ease. „Split her open.
That‟s when she cried rape.‟ Eigor picks up
a small set of bone cutters, still too large
for the work they have to do.
Snap goes the first rib.
I squeeze shut moist eyes. This is not the
child, only the cloak she wore, I whisper to
myself.
Snap. Snap. It’s not the child.
Snap.
But all I see is the child. Like my Jamie.
Snap.
Small and helpless.
Snap.
I promised to look after her.
At that moment I realise I could kill them
both, Eigor and the doctor, but I know if I
let go of the bench my legs won‟t hold me. Still, I can‟t keep my eyes shut, can‟t look
away, and that frightens me most of all.
Eigor pries out the rib cage and sets it aside
to reveal the child's inner most secrets.
Heart: No congenital
abnormality. Heart valves and
muscle normal.
Aorta & Branches: Normal.
Lungs & Air Passages: No
foreign body in air passages.
No fractured ribs. Lungs
cyanosed. Otherwise normal ...
As the doctor sorts and dissects the tiny
organs, Eigor turns his attention to her head, slicing the scalpel around her hair
line. My eyes are drawn to the baby's face,
the only part that is still the child. I clench
my jaw against a nausea that threatens to
choke me. As I stare, it is no longer the
face of Catherine Norris. It‟s my boy, my
Jamie.
When Eigor peels the baby's face back to
expose the skull, I stagger from the room. It‟s all I can take. I shut my eyes to the
horror but that death's-head mask is burnt
into my brain. Nothing can scour it clean. I
clutch the basin, retching as the sound of
the bone saw echoes from the other room.
***
When I walk in the rear door, Clare's worry
is evident. She is holding Jamie. I walk towards them but I stop. I have to look
away. I can‟t face my own son without
seeing that raw, death's-head mask. If Clare
thought my eyes were haunted this
morning, what does she see now?
They feel empty. Cold. m
5
6
„Where d'ya hide the suitcases?‟ Her back
is rubbing gently on the gritty clay and
bits of rock are falling with the
movement. His jeans are down and her
legs are wrapped around his hips. „I told you already,‟ he says into her neck, „you
don't need to know.‟ A loud thud bangs
the ground above their heads. Twice.
Three times. They look up to the edge of
the steep creek bed, above the exposed
tree roots and pieces of corrugated iron
that hold the bank together. Roo. Just a
roo. They pull away from each other. A
large canvas bag sits at the foot of an old
peach tree that has grown in the middle of
the creek bed. She picks the bag up and
throws it over her shoulder and it hits her side softly. „Did you put the key back?‟
They both scramble to the top of the bank
but he moves quickly, so she can't see his
face.
„Did you put the bloody key
back?‟ She wants him to turn
around and look at her.
„I couldn't remember exactly where
it was s'posed to go.‟
„What?‟ He stops and turns to look at
her, both of them angry with each
other, for different reasons. He puts
his face down to hers. Her voice is
quivering and her face is red as she asks
him slowly, „So, exactly where did you
put it, Jonno?‟
„Shit! Jenna, we don't have time for this
now. The job's done and we need to meet
that guy in half an hour. Where's the
goddamn 'cruiser? And give me the
keys.‟
She pulls the keys from the back pocket
of her jeans. Her brown crusty hands
slam the keys into his as she cuts him with daggers from her eyes. „It's up near
the old sale yards, like you friggin' told
me.‟
Silence. They walk separately, angrily, up
the red road. Dust is picking up in the
wind at the back of his heels and it blows
back towards her as she storms behind
him. He starts the car. The sun's
reflection off the clay is alive with pink
and purple that radiates indigo mist, they squint their eyes and lower their visors.
He swings the 4WD around, stopping
suddenly for the Eastern Greys that are
heading to the empty grassy space that
sits in the middle of the old mining town.
They pass the pub and head out on the
only road that takes anyone in or out.
He thinks carefully about where he put
the key. 'They won't be onto me until at
least next Tuesday anyway. Tom and Gail
said they were definitely outta town 'til
next Tuesday. And they won't go up to
the cottage for a while, not 'til the next
boofhead artist comes in anyway. They
will notice the missing paintings though,
it's just a matter of time.'
He looks sideways at Jenna and continues
to think. 'We meet the guy, get the
suitcases and make the deal.
After that we're free.
We'll be
outta town
before anyone
notices a thing.' He lights a
cigarette with one hand while the other
holds the vehicle to the left as the sharp
corner swoops and a sea of yellow and
black arrows points the way around the tight bend at the top of the crest. And
what about Tony? He'd better keep his
end of the deal and keep his mouth shut.
„So, how did it go?‟ Jenna is calmer now,
but not relaxed by any means. „Did you
get the bloody paintings or not?‟
„Yes. They're in the suitcases.‟
„Did anyone see you?‟
„Would I be here driving the friggin' car
if they had? For God's sake Jenna. I got
the key, I got the paintings, they're in the
suitcases and we're nearly at Sofala, so
relax.‟
They swing to the left in a hurry and he
accelerates up the hill that looks down on
the small village. He swerves off the road
and behind the trees a red Mercedes waits
with a pale, thin man at the wheel. Jonno
walks over to the passenger seat and
jumps in. They talk for a while and Jonno
comes back to Jenna and whispers,
„You've gotta get in the car with him.‟
„What?'„
„Get in the car with him, now.‟
„What the hell is going on Jonno?‟
„Jenna, just get in the car so I can go get
the suitcases.‟
„No. I'm coming with you.‟ The man in
the car beeps the horn.
„Jenna, what you don't know can't hurt
you. Get in his car. And don't tell him a
bloody thing.‟
She walks over and thumps herself into
the leather seat. They nod at each other.
Jonno drives quickly back onto the road
and continues until he reaches a dirt
track. He follows it until he has to stop to
move the branches and rocks that he'd
used to deter any visitors. He makes his
way through the scrub, dodging trees in
his Landcruiser until he reaches a small cleared area. Out of the car, he walks
behind large rocks at the base of a hill,
to an old mine shaft where he shuffles
down the ladder. At the bottom, he uses
his torch to recover the stashed suitcases.
He pulls them up to the surface one by
one, sweating. He chucks them in the
back of the vehicle, under a blanket.
Jenna is leaning on the Mercedes,
smoking a cigarette as Jonno pulls in swiftly, streaming light across her face
from the high beams. Jenna walks over to
him, her heart is racing. Jonno simply
tells her to get into the driver's seat and
keep the car running.
Jonno shows the man the contents of the
suitcases and waits for the money. The
driver indicates over his shoulder, where
a small box sits on the back seat. „Put the paintings there and take the box.‟ Jonno
grabs the lid off and counts the cash.
„You do realise what scandal will
eventuate when they discover these have
disappeared, don't you?‟
„What are you talking about?‟
„These paintings are very well known,
Treasures Rebecca Wilson
Hill End
young man. They are considered national
treasures, my friend. There will be a lot
of heat on this, so lay low and don't do
anything 'unusual', or they'll be onto you.
I am offloading these this afternoon and washing my hands of the whole thing,
you never saw me ... okay? Stick to the
deal.‟
Jonno tips the cash into the canvas bag
and throws it behind him. He swings the
suitcases onto the seat. The driver
watches Jonno in the mirror, his hands on
the steering wheel, poised to exit, fast.
Jonno doesn't close the back door. The
driver turns his head away from the mirror to see for himself what this man is
up to. Before he can speak, silver cuffs
have encircled his wrists and he is locked
to the wheel. The pale man struggles and
yells. „What the hell do you think you are
doing? What's wrong with you,
boy? The deal is done! You want
to keep those paintings and try to
sell them again to someone else?
You are a fool. Someone will find
me here and I will tell the police every detail I know about you,
you little cretin.‟
„Don't worry grandpa, I just need
to buy a little time. My mate will
be along shortly to unlock you.
Just don't over react and
everything will be fine.‟ Jonno turns the
radio on for the driver and closes the
door, walking to his car with the money
and the paintings. „Drive woman, drive!‟
***
Back in the old mining town, Tom and
Gail have arrived early. Gail gets the dog
some food while Tom talks to the guy
from Sydney. She hasn't met him before.
„Why was Tom so insistent that he invite
this horrid man, “Roland”? We weren't supposed to come back here until next
Tuesday. And that bloody BMW that he
adores!'‟
„Something to drink, gentlemen?‟ She
pours them both a beer and says she
needs to unpack and freshen up.
The men stay at the table.
„So what do you think you can get for
them?‟ Tom asks.
„The problem is being able to get rid of
them. They are very well known, much
harder to offload.‟
„If that's the case why the hell did I bring
you here?‟
„Now, now, Tom. I didn't say impossible,
just a more limited market, my dear. And
besides, I need to see them before
anything can happen. You know how it
works.‟
„Let's go there now.‟
„Gail!‟ he calls out, „we'll be back in a
while, I'm taking Roland to the cottage.‟
No reply.
At the cottage, Tom picks up the rock
near the concrete path. Not there.
„Strange.‟ He picks up the next rock.
„There.‟ Relief. „Jenna must have moved
the key.‟
The men make their way to the front door
of the cottage with walls that whisper
stories of art history. Through the old
kitchen and small hallway, into the
lounge. „Holy shit, I don't believe it!‟ He
runs from room to room, looking at the
empty walls.
„My dear Tom, someone has beaten you
to it!‟ Roland laughs arrogantly. „I
suppose I shall just have to enjoy your
hospitality for the evening and then be on
my way,‟ he says as Tom falls into the
closest seat.
„This is disastrous!‟
„I'll make my way back to tell your wife. Best that I'm not here when the police
arrive.‟
***
Gail sits on the couch in the cottage,
holding her husband's hand while the
constable asks a lot of questions. „Who
has access to the cottage?‟ The policeman tries to sound like he knows what he is
doing.
Tom wonders to himself. Jenna? „Jenna
knows where the key is, she cleans here
every time an artist has finished their
residency. But she's so sweet. Couldn't be
her. She wouldn't know how to sell them
anyway? No ... What was the name of
that artist who stayed here last June,
Gail? That man, the sculptor. You know the one that was screwing all those young
wannabes?‟
„Oh … Jeffrey?! Don't be ridiculous,
Tom! I think your jealousy is twisting
your mind! Darling, who else knew
where the key was?‟ Gail asks her
husband.
„Really it's down to Jenna and any of the artists that have stayed here. But Jenna? I
doubt it.‟
„Let's get her on the phone, get her over
here, in case she saw anything
suspicious.‟
„No answer.‟ Gail sighs. „Try the pub, she
might be up there.‟ She dials and chats,
hangs up. „No, Cara hasn't seen her since
yesterday morning.‟
„Where the hell is she then? Try her
mother's,‟ he snaps at his wife.
Again she makes a call. „Rosie hasn't
seen her tonight. Tom, that's not good.
That's very unusual for her. I'm a bit
worried now.‟
***
Jenna drives flat out down the hill
again. „Pull over. I'm gonna drive.‟
Jonno gets in and heads the vehicle
back to the small town from which
they came.
„What the hell are you doing?‟
„Okay Jenna, here's the plan. We
can drop these paintings back. No
one will know they were ever taken
and we can piss off and have a
good life for a while. Start somewhere
new. If we head back now, we haven't
really done anything wrong. Kind of ...‟
Jenna sits silently. „You've stuffed it all
up. It's not what we planned, Jonno. We
planned to sell them and skip. That guy
will track us down or give us up to the
cops and we'll be screwed.‟
„Jenna, if we go back now, put the
paintings back up, no one will know.
Tom and Gail won't be back yet. We can
take this cash, it's heaps of money and we can disappear. What's that guy gonna say
to the police? “Sir, they took the money I
was using to buy stolen paintings?”‟
Jenna sighs and silently nods her head.
***
The young constable of the town is quite
excited by the case. „Things like this just
don't happen „round here. This is a big case. This could be promotion material.‟
The policeman bids goodnight to Tom
and Gail. He gets in his car and drives out
of town but slowly heads off the road and
lowers his lights. He can see Tom and
Gail's place from where he is placed. He
will wait and watch.
The ambitious policeman sees the couple
make their way up the drive and head into
the house. „Who is the third person at the
7
„You've stuffed it all up. It's not
what we planned, Jonno. We planned to sell them and skip.
That guy will track us down or
give us up to the cops and we'll
be screwed.‟
8
table through the window?‟ He calls in
the vehicle plates. „Dodgy. Roland
Fischer. Never convicted but well known
for “handling” things people need to “get
rid of”. Surely that is too obvious, to call me in before he has even left with the
goods. Possible, but so risky.‟ The
constable decides to stake the house out
for the night. „These snobs from Sydney
won't take the Mickey out of me. A bust
like this could be very good for my
career, very good.‟
***
The town is covered in a blanket of black,
there is no moon. At the cottage, in the
dark, Jenna can‟t find the key.‟ It‟s
bloody gone Jonno, where the hell did
you put it?‟
„Under that bloody rock is where I put it
… shit! We‟ll have to break in.‟ Standing
in the darkness he holds his jacket over
the window and cracks it with a shifter. The glass makes high pitched clinks and
he puts his hand through the window to
open the lock. He jumps through the
window and asks Jenna to pass the
suitcases. „Shit! I don‟t remember where
any of these go, do you?‟
„God, Jonno, you and your bloody ideas!
Let me in, you‟ll have to turn the lights
on so we can figure this mess out.‟
„No Jenna, someone will notice.‟
„Jonno, how the hell am I gonna put them
back up in the dark?‟
„Ok, but just a lamp!‟ They light a small
lamp in the corner of the room and
unpack the „treasures‟.
***
The constable outside Tom and Gail‟s is
snoring in the driver‟s seat. Tom creeps
slowly around to the back of the vehicle
and puts nails into the tyres. Well and
truly drunk by now, Tom is outraged that
the policeman has been watching him.
„Son … bitch. Treat me .... criminal,
bastard … teach him ...‟
After committing his deed of revenge,
Tom walks alone, stumbling over rocks
and bumping into fences, lost in the dark,
towards the cottage. Sobbing to himself,
grieving over the money he intended to
make, to get him out if the trouble he‟s in.
Bouncing through the back fence, he
thinks he sees a light. And now a shadow,
two shadows, moving in the cottage.
„What the hell is this?‟ He shuffles
drunkenly to the verandah and tries to see
through the window, not too close, he‟s
having trouble staying upright. He can‟t
make out who it is but decides that he must act quickly. But do what? Run back
to the policeman whose vehicle is now
defunct? „Shit! What have I done?‟ As he
stands in the cold, panicking, he can hear
footsteps. He flops down just below the
verandah and watches a man come
around the corner to the window. The
man has a balaclava over his head and he
stands very close to the window, calling
out someone‟s name. Tom‟s not sure
what he said.
From inside the dimly lit cottage Jonno
exclaims, „Shit! Tony! What the hell are
you doing here?‟
„That goddamn guy you left in the car is
dead.‟
„What?‟
„You heard me, man, dead.‟
„How did you find me?‟
„Your car is across the road, idiot!‟
„Awright, smardarse ...‟
„Man, I went to uncuff him just like you
asked. You musta gave „im a heart attack.
I‟m not dealin‟ with that on me own.‟
„So where is he?‟
„In his car, mate, where d‟ya reckon?‟
„Jesus Christ!‟
Tom is terrified. He must get help. He is
moving as quickly as he can but he is like
a blind kangaroo, knocking into things,
grunting and puffing. His head is swirling
with alcohol and fear. Back to the
sleeping constable he tries to find his
way. Tom can‟t see. His pulse is
galloping, he thinks his heart will explode. He trips on rocks and his jacket
gets caught on fence wire. He struggles,
he‟s rushing. He pulls himself out of his
jacket and it hangs, lonely on the wire,
ripped and abandoned. He feels that he
has gone off course, he can‟t get his
bearings. He falls over and stays down.
Tom is crawling now, so he can feel his
way across the gravel, dirt and rocks.
***
Jenna, Jonno and Tony speed away from
the cottage. The pictures are up on the
walls. „Maybe not how they were, but
close enough.‟ Jenna thinks. They pull up
at the red Mercedes. The two men pull
and push the driver into the passenger‟s
seat and Jonno takes the wheel. Jenna
follows behind.
Out through the winding roads and along
steep cliff edges they weave their way.
They pull over at a clearing where the
road ahead has a sheer drop that no
vehicle could return from. The body is
strapped back into the driver‟s seat, a
heavy rock is placed on the accelerator.
Jonno turns the key, releasing the brake
as fast as he can and jumping away from
the vehicle. The three of them watch as the car flies off the edge of the road and
plummets through the air. They watch it
destroy itself against the rocks until it
ignites and booms.
***
The sleeping constable is nowhere to be
found as Tom, on hands and knees, feels the earth disappear from underneath him.
The missing ground is a shaft. He sails
and bounces from edge to edge, too fast
to even utter a whimper. The rock floor
greets his body and the last air from his
lungs is pushed with force and exits from
the back of his throat with a grunting
gush.
***
Gail is desperately worried about Tom.
Lying in their bed, she knows he was
drunk when he left but he should‟ve been
back by now. Looking out the window
she can see part of the police vehicle
from behind the trees. „He is still there,
for goodness sake! What on earth does
that young upstart think?‟
***
Jenna and Jonno drop Tony back to his
car. „Not a bloody word mate, to anyone,
or we are all in deep shit.‟
Jonno stares into Tony's eyes, Tony looks
down, echoing his words, „… deep
shit ...‟
Jenna is at the wheel. „Jonno, let's get the
hell outta here. C'mon, let's go.‟
Jonno hands Tony a big wad of cash,
„Tony, not a word mate.‟
He nods. „Not a word, Jonno. Not a
word.‟ m
Rebecca Wilson Hill End
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9
I started visiting the elderly at Springvale
Lodge. An article in my local paper stated
its desperate need for volunteers and as
my only child had just started at school I
was at a loose end. At thirty I was also beginning to feel that I wanted to
contribute to my community in some
way.
At first I worked with several other
volunteers and we ran craft sessions and
played cards with the residents. Most
seemed to enjoy our activities and I had a
good time also. Most of the residents I
came in contact with had physical
difficulties moving around but mentally they were as sharp as ever. Each of the
residents seemed to have a particular
favourite among the volunteers, but I kept
my distance. I didn‟t think it was a good
idea to get attached. After all they were
old and some were sick. Often we‟d come
in to find one had died. I didn‟t need or
want the grief of becoming too close to
any one there.
Then a new patient named Helen entered
Springvale. I met her on my next visit.
The nurse had advised me that the woman
had dementia, my first encounter with
such a condition. Her family had cared
for her for a couple of years but it had got
to the stage she needed medical care.
I saw Helen every week. Usually she just
sat and stared into space; she didn‟t join
our craft groups or play cards. Her communication was limited, usually an
occasional vague murmur that made little
sense. The nurses had to watch her
constantly; she wandered off to the
gardens sometimes and couldn't
remember how to get back. They fed her
because she forgot to eat. Helen didn‟t
appear to notice anything people did for
her, a fact which I found disturbing.
Her family came to visit regularly I was
told. I never saw them as they came on
weekends when I could not come in. She
didn‟t even recognise them according to
the nurses. To me, she was a pathetic
woman. Being thirty and healthy, I didn‟t
even bother with the fact that she might
once have been different. I kept my
distance and just involved myself with
the practicalities.
One day however she took me to her
room. She had never allowed any
volunteers in there before, so I felt odd.
She handed me a portrait. It was of an
elegantly dressed old woman seated in a
comfy chair. She wore a tweed skirt, soft
white sweater and knitted vest. The face
was lined but full of character, the hands
gnarled with age. In her eyes was the
alertness, the brightness of a much
younger person.
I looked at Helen and then at the portrait.
It was her—only a few years ago, no
more. The faded blue eyes of the
dementia sufferer stared into mine.
Behind the blankness I sensed her trying
to reach back, to tell me something. It
was too hard for her and she replaced the
portrait on the bedside table.
Over the next week the portrait kept
popping into my head. The woman had a
past life; I needed to find out more about
her. I arranged to visit Helen on the
weekend, when I knew family would be
there. The nurses introduced me to Anne,
Helen‟s niece.
After chatting for a while in Helen‟s
room, I mentioned the portrait and how
Helen had shown it to me. Anne picked it up from the bedside table and sighed
softly.
„Aunt Helen had this done a few years
ago; she was eighty and wanted it for her
birthday. It used to sit in her lounge room
until she had to move out.‟
„There must be something about it—she
tried to tell me, but the fog‟s too much,‟ I
told Anne.
„She was so alert then, such a wonderful
person, full of go. Eighty was the last
birthday before dementia set in.‟
„It‟s a beautiful likeness, showed me a
side of Helen I didn‟t even think of, a
past.‟
„Aunt has a past all right—a life of
tragedy and happiness, of great warmth.
In the War she was a nurse and worked
near the front lines. She saw horrendous
things. She married a pilot—the love of
her life—he was shot down and killed.‟ Anne‟s eyes misted over. „You‟d think
that‟d knock most people off their feet
but she stayed and finished her job. After
the War she nursed all over the world, in
countries where she felt she was needed
most—Africa, India. With the poorest
people.‟
„You‟d never know to look at her now,‟ I
said, patting Helen‟s hand. She sat on the
bed gazing fixedly out the window,
appearing to pay no attention to us at all.
„Aunt retired when she was sixty and
came home.‟
„Did she ever marry again?‟
Anne shook her head, „No, after she lost Peter I think no one ever measured up.
She had her nieces and nephews, her
sister and brother, friends. And when she
came home she took an active interest in
her town. Charity work, stacks of
volunteer stuff. She was a caring,
unselfish person, warm.‟
It was difficult to imagine the Aunt Helen
Anne had known when all I could see
was the vague lost soul of dementia.
„She‟s only eighty three,‟ was my
comment.
„Yes, she had a terrific eightieth birthday,
cake, party, the lot. The portrait was
done, probably her only self-indulgence
in her whole life. It was my, so
wonderful, Aunt Helen. Over the next
year her mind slipped. She forgot simple things, didn‟t eat. It got to the stage she
came to live with me. She and I had
always been close and I had the time to
care for her. But it got worse; she was a
danger to herself so we had to arrange for
her to come to Springvale. I felt so
awful.‟
„I‟m not sure she understands much of
what‟s around her anyway,‟ I comforted
Anne.
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The Portrait Vickie Walker
Orange
10
The photo hangs in the big old hall
In pride of place on the northern wall
A wedding group from days of yore
Stand resplendent near a door.
The bride is smiling, proudly beaming
The groom looks worried, nerves are telling.
The bridesmaids happy, pretty maids
The groomsmen cheerful, likely knaves.
Dresses flowing, flowers trailing
Morning suits with tails regaling
In the thirties it must be
For clothes like these we never see.
A story strange I now must tell
About the bride who fell unwell
She passed away not long ago
Leaving family full of woe.
But strangest thing her daughter told
A mystery will now unfold
A puzzling thing, a scary tale
The smiling bride is looking pale.
Each day she fades a little more
The others stay same as before
Must she go from us completely
Body, soul and photo neatly?
Her daughter tells me every day
Her image seems to fade away
Whatever can be causing it?
With normal sense it does not fit.
I think it‟s sad that go she must
But to a place that‟s good I trust
Will she come back to see us all?
The photo waits upon the wall. m
The Waiting Photograph Jill Baggett
Mudgee
„I don‟t know,‟ the reply came rather
sadly. „She doesn‟t recognise me
anymore. Maybe there is something from
the past—she did show you the portrait.
Maybe she was trying to show you
something.‟
„Maybe,‟ I said. I went home that day
with some compassion in my heart for
Helen.
Over the next months I spent a lot of time
with Helen. She didn‟t change, never
spoke much or indicated she knew me.
The portrait remained in her room. I often
glanced at it to remind myself of the
person who used to be.
I began to care for this woman and felt useless to help her. Medical science
couldn‟t lift the fog from her mind—what
could I do? I sat with her, talked, rubbed
her hands, made her eat and drink. Such
small things. She didn‟t seem happy or
sad so I wasn‟t sure if I was doing
anything to comfort her. But I kept
visiting.
Anne phoned me one night at home.
Helen had died that afternoon in her
sleep. In her hands they had found the
portrait, clasped to her chest.
I wept. I wept for the woman who, maybe at her last, remembered something of who
she had been. I wept for myself, for I had
lost a precious gift, a woman who had
taught me never to take people at face
value. m
Vickie Walker
Orange
Bidding War Alexandra Nagy
Bathurst
I sit up on the metal bars, my number in my hand.
Watching the lines enter the pens.
Some are silent.
Some demand.
Lines littered with pasts forgotten.
Potential thrown away.
Mindfulness disregarded here in this place that loyalty‟s frayed.
Sunken spirits haunt the bars.
The cages holding in,
The faded thoughts of humanity.
The goodness from within.
People drift and not a glance,
The frightened and confused;
Hide away in agony,
Until what they think—we prove.
Numbed in preparation for the unsightly of affairs.
Looking back at others.
Shaking with despair.
The naive they curl up to the hungry.
The tormented run walls scared.
The brighter follow all the eyes,
Hoping to be spared.
The innocent stand bunched together,
The first time on these tracks.
And the older walk in silence.
Hoping never to come back.
With one hand in my pocket,
Stroking greens and reds and gold‟s.
Wishing I could tell them all, something they haven‟t many times been told.
The ruckus starts, the bidding flows.
The subtlety of nods.
I sit up on the metal bars.
Impossibly playing God. m
11
It was a hectic Christmas and New Year
period in the James‟ house. Mandy, a
forty-five year old mother of three, had
played host to the family gathering with
her husband Barry, a forty-eight year old computer technician at a genealogy
research lab in the city.
When the extended family had gone
home, only Mandy, Barry and their
youngest daughter Anna were left. It was
finally time for Anna to pack up and head
off to Uni. Anna had received excellent
results and was heading down the coast to
study Marine Biology.
Mandy drove down to the uni campus
with her daughter to find accommodation
before „O-Week‟. It was a pleasant three
hour drive along the coast.
Anna found suitable accommodation in a
large dorm. She had a single room with a
bed, a desk and a small fridge. She would
have to share cooking facilities, but that
was no different to living at home.
The last weeks of the summer holidays
were disappearing quickly. Mandy
dreaded the thought of her little baby girl
going off into the big bad world. Her
children were her whole life. She warned
Anna about the dangers out there, as she
helped her to pack her bags.
Mandy slumped down onto the bed after
zipping up Anna‟s last bag.
„What am I going to do?‟ she asked
rhetorically.
„What do you mean?‟ Anna enquired of
her mother.
„What am I going to do with my time?‟
Mandy rubbed her forehead as she
thought aloud. „Your father‟s off at work
or out in his shed all the time. The others
all have lives of their own! You‟re
leaving now!‟ She waved her hands in
exasperation, „I‟ll just be left with the
house!‟ She sounded downtrodden and
disappointed.
„Why don‟t you get a job like you used to
have? You said you loved working at the
research lab before you had us!‟
Mandy thought about it for two seconds
before deciding to do it.
Anna left that afternoon. Mandy was in
tears, but looking forward to finding a
new life for herself. She was proud of her
children and all of their accomplishments.
When Mandy told Barry later that night
about going back to work he said that
there was a lab assistant‟s job where he
worked that she would be perfect for.
They could go to work together.
Mandy woke early Monday morning to
prepare for the phone call that would
change her whole life. Barry had a quick
breakfast with her and wished her good luck before giving her a quick peck on
the cheek and heading off to the train
station down the road to go to work.
Mandy picked up the receiver and placed
it to her ear, dialled the number to the
genealogy research lab were Barry
worked. It rang once before she began to
wonder if she was doing the right thing or
if she would even get the job.
It rang a second time. Mandy‟s heart
began to beat faster. This is what she had
decided to do. It would be a new
challenge in her life. She had to do it.
The phone rang a third time. Mandy had
just changed her mind and was about to
give up, she began to move the receiver
from her ear when a woman‟s voice could
be heard.
„GeneTech Genealogy Research
Laboratory, Sydney administration. How
can I help you?‟ The woman‟s voice
woke Mandy from her daze and she
brought the receiver back to her ear.
„Ah. Hi … umm … my name is Mandy
and I was told you have a lab assistant‟s position available,‟ Mandy almost choked
as her throat was so dry. She couldn‟t
believe how unconfident she felt. It was
like her very first job interview. A
disaster.
„I‟ll put you through to Human
Resources. Please hold.‟ Music played as
she waited.
Mandy emailed her resume through to the
Human Resources Co-ordinator before
lunch. It took her most of the morning to
type it up as all of her qualifications were
more than twenty years old and she
hadn‟t had to have one since she left
work all those years ago.
She sat down on the couch to watch the midday movie with a tuna salad sandwich
for lunch. Before the movie finished the
phone rang. It was the administration
women‟s voice from the lab.
„Hi. Mandy?‟
„Speaking.‟
„George at Human Resources was
wondering if you would be available for
an interview this week?‟ Mandy finished
the conversation by saying that she‟d be
there by four pm.
She hung up the phone and went to her
walk-in robe in her bedroom. She looked
at herself in the full length mirror. She
didn‟t know what to wear. In the end,
after several outfit changes, she was wearing almost the same outfit she started
with. Mandy slipped on her shoes and
grabbed her purse as she walked out the
door.
Barry arrived home that evening to see
Mandy sitting on the veranda sipping
some wine. There was a second glass
waiting.
„Care to join me?‟ She motioned towards
the other glass.
„How‟d you go?‟ Barry asked as he sat
down.
„Excellent. I‟m celebrating! I start on
Monday of next week.‟
„That‟s excellent. Congratulations!‟ He
was very pleased for her.
A week into the job Mandy received a
call from the retirement village where her
father lived. He had had a stroke and was
taken to the hospital. She organised to
have a few days off work to visit him.
A nurse led Mandy down the corridor and
into the palliative care ward where her
father was resting. He turned his head as
she entered the room and mumbled her
name. She dropped her bags and gave
him a big hug.
„Are you alright?‟ she enquired of her
father.
„Not so good dear,‟ he managed to
DJ Peters
Bathurst Re-Kindled Love
12 Up to date and down to
earth advice for love, life, home, work and school. Coming soon!
13
mumble back. The nurse had informed
Mandy that he was resting, but not to
expect too much as he had had another
stroke since arriving at the hospital. They
didn‟t expect him to last the week out.
Mandy offered to make her father more
comfortable as he was unable to move
anything on his right side. His speech was
getting worse. Mandy was his only child
and his wife, Mandy‟s mother, had
passed away a few years before.
„There‟s
somethin‟ I ‟ave ta tell
you.‟ Mandy
leaned in
closer, as she
held his left
hand, to hear
more clearly.
„Don‟t want
you to get
upset, but it‟s
about your mother!‟ He
struggled with
every word,
almost in
tears.
„It‟s alright
Dad. You just
rest and get
better.‟
„I ain‟t
getting‟ any better!‟ He tried to yell at
her.
„Yes you are Dad,‟ she tried to reassure
herself more than him.
„Doesn‟t matter anymore. And besides
I‟m ready to be with your mother again. Just listen to what I‟ve got to say. It‟s
important. We should have told you years
ago.‟
„Told me what?‟
„About your real mother!‟
„What are you talking about Dad. Mum‟s
dead!‟ She scowled.
„I know, but your mother and I couldn‟t
fall pregnant. Your mother‟s ovaries
didn‟t produce eggs the doctor said.‟
„But … What are you saying Dad?‟
„Your mother‟s best friend Amanda
donated an egg and you were conceived
in a Petri dish. Not much fun for me I‟m
telling you! Don‟t get me wrong, the egg
was implanted into your mother‟s womb
and she carried you to full term without
any complications. And we had you. Our
little angel,‟ he paused to catch his breath.
„Didn‟t you ever wonder where you got
your name from?‟
„Well I thought I was just named after
Aunty Amanda, like Mum said.‟ The penny dropped when she realised who her
aunty was.
„Amanda and your mother were best
friends from high school and when she
heard about our problem conceiving she
offered her eggs. Your mother was so
excited and Amanda always wanted
children, but could never find the right
man.‟
„You‟re joking aren‟t you Dad?‟ She
queried.
„I‟m afraid not,‟ he informed her, „Your
Aunty Amanda lived nearby and your
mother and her hung out all the time.‟ He
coughed and caught his breath. „But I‟m afraid Amanda disappeared after a falling
out with your mother, over an abusive
boyfriend. She left with him when you
were about five years old and we never
heard from her again.‟
Mandy just sat there stunned, trying to
take it all in. Her father took a deep
breath and closed his eyes for a rest.
Later that day Mandy was talking with
her father‟s doctor after he had seen him
for a check-up.
„So will he get any better?‟ Mandy asked
the doctor. She needed to know.
„I‟m afraid it doesn‟t look good. We‟ve
given him some pethidine and made him
as comfortable as we can. He‟s not responding to any stimuli on his right side
and he is losing feeling in his left leg.
We‟ve done all we can do for him. It‟s
just a matter of time now. I‟m sorry.
We‟ll make him as comfortable as we
can,‟ the doctor consoled her, with a pat
on the shoulder that didn‟t make her feel
any better. Her father was dying.
Wiping the tears from her eyes Mandy
needed to know how long her father had
left. The doctor said, „He might last the
week out or he could just stop breathing
and go to sleep at any time.‟ The doctor
tried to sound like he cared, but came off
a little blunt.
Mandy stayed with her father,
she held his
hand and talked
to him until his
chest stopped
moving later
that night. She
stood up and
touched his
face, gave him a
goodbye kiss and pressed the
buzzer for a
nurse.
The next
morning Mandy
organised the
funeral details
and called her
family.
After the grave
side service everybody gathered at his
local bowling club for drinks and stories.
All of Mandy and Barry‟s children
brought their families to celebrate the life
of their grandfather, who was half Irish.
So that entailed many stories and a lot of
drinking to the man‟s life.
Back at home Mandy told Barry what her
father had told her about her „egg
mother‟.
„So you don‟t know her last name. You
don‟t know where she lives. How are you
going to find her? That is if you want to
find her! Do you?‟
„I think I‟d like to know more about her.
So, yes!‟ she said as she nodded her head.
„Where do you start?‟ Barry asked.
Mandy thought about it for a minute
before asking for Barry‟s help.
„All we need to do is use the government
DNA database at the lab to search for a female with the first name of “Amanda”
that has some genetic similarities to me.‟
„So we match up your DNA with the
database. That‟s brilliant!‟
„I‟ll need you to figure out the technical
side of it Barry. I‟ll take a sample from
myself first thing Monday morning. Do
you think it will work?‟
„Of course it will work. As long as we get
permission from the lab or we just don‟t
tell them. We could run the comparisons
at night after knock-off.‟
„Excellent Barry. Thank you very much!‟
She gave him a big hug and a long kiss,
something they hadn‟t done in a very
long time.
They woke up early the next morning,
had breakfast together and went up to
their room to get ready for work. Barry
was in the shower first. Mandy walked in
on him and dropped her robe to
the floor.
„Mind if I join you?‟ She said
with a smile on her face. Mandy
hadn‟t felt this good about her
life in years.
Startled at first, Barry opened
the shower door.
„Come on in. Although there‟s
not as much room in here as
there was twenty years ago!‟
Barry replied.
After their long steamy shower
together they dressed for work
and walked hand in hand to the train
station, like a couple of school kids in
love for the first time.
„I had a few ideas on how to set up the
search to run after hours last night. I‟ll
program it during my lunch break. If you
can get your DNA breakdown file to me
by five pm we can let it go over night.‟
„Wonderful Barry!‟ She squeezed his
hand, „I can‟t wait for the results.‟
„There‟s a chance that she‟s not on the
database. Like you she may have never
given blood, or had major surgery in a
hospital, or been arrested. And even if she has she may not have used her real
name,‟ Barry was an optimist, but always
looked at the facts.
„I know, but I‟d like to think that my egg
mother is an honest person. Who knows
she might even live close by.‟
„She might live on the other side of the
world by now and we only have access to Australian DNA records. Without federal
approval and months of paper work, oh,
and a very good reason, the search will
end with the Australian database.‟
„We‟ll cross that bridge if we get to it.
Ok?‟
„Ok. Fingers crossed then.‟
„I love you Barry!‟ Mandy was beginning
to remember why she fell in love with
him in the first place. Barry was a kind,
caring and thoughtful person who was
dedicated to his family as well as his
work.
Mandy ran her sample through the
analyser first thing after arriving at work.
The process had been simplified in the
last couple of years using the latest
technology developed by GeneTech‟s
American Research and Development
department. Mandy was able to download her DNA breakdown file to her husband‟s
removable USB thumb drive and take it
to him to be compared to the database.
She got the file to him during her
afternoon break at four o‟clock.
„Here it is!‟ She handed the thumb drive
over, hopeful that this would work. The
desire to find out who she really was, was
becoming stronger.
„How did you go?‟ she asked Barry of his
programming.
„All under control. I‟ve set it up to start a
half hour after knock-off and it will stop
an hour before anyone comes in
tomorrow.‟
„So we just have to wait till the morning
then?‟ Mandy was excited, but anxious at
the same time.
„Not really. I‟ve also programmed it to
email the results, if any, to my work
account and I‟ll set up the computer at
home to check it automatically.‟
„You‟re brilliant Barry! I love you so
much.‟ She held his cheeks in her hands
and gave him a powerful kiss. A
colleague walked in and disrupted them.
„I‟ll see you at knock-off time!‟ She told
him as she headed for his office door.
The remainder of the afternoon dragged
on and Mandy couldn‟t concentrate on
her work for checking the clock and
daydreaming all the time. Eventually the
clock rolled around to five thirty. Mandy
had finished everything she felt like
doing fifteen minutes ago and was just continually re-tidying her work space.
She walked straight back to Barry‟s
office.
„Are we ready?‟ She asked him,
implying the database search and
not just being ready to leave
work.
„Good to go!‟ Barry had finished
early too and was just waiting for
knock-off time and Mandy.
On their way to the train station
Mandy suggested they have
dinner out at some fancy
restaurant. Barry thought that it
was a wonderful idea as they
hadn‟t eaten out together, alone,
in years. Mandy used her mobile phone to make reservations at a little
Chinese restaurant near their home. They
both loved to eat Chinese. Their first
official date together had been at a
Chinese restaurant followed by ten-pin
bowling.
During dinner Barry had asked if Mandy
felt like going to a movie or out bowling.
To which she replied, „I‟m too tired and
besides it‟s a school night,‟ reminding him that it was still only Monday and
they both had to be at work the next day.
Upon arrival at home Mandy went into
the kitchen.
„Do you want a cuppa?‟ she called out to
Barry.
„I‟d love one. Just need to go to the little
boy‟s room first,‟ he told her as he
walked upstairs.
Mandy finished the drinks and carried
them up to their room, placed them on the
tall-boy chest and began to undress for a
shower.
Barry walked in on his wife lying on their
14
Barry called Mandy to the
computer and opened the message. It was a plain text message,
supplying basic information. It
listed a name, blood type, Medicare card number and current address
and phone number. Mandy read
aloud over Barry‟s shoulder.
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15
bed, partially covered by the sheet. She
seduced him with a curling finger, calling
him to her.
They both forgot about their, now cool,
drinks of tea on the tall-boy.
Mandy woke early the next morning and
prepared some scrambled eggs and toast
for breakfast. She carried a tray with
some juice and the eggs and toast up to
the bedroom where she gently began to
wake Barry.
„Morning sleepy head,‟ she whispered as
she shook him, „time to rise and shine.‟
Barry woke and immediately apologised
for not checking his email as he had
promised. Mandy assured him that it was
ok and that it was bound to take a couple
of days before they had any luck. They
enjoyed breakfast together, then she
kissed him. When she let him up for air, Barry grabbed her by the shoulders and
took several deep breaths.
„Sorry love!‟ he said. „I don‟t mean to be
a spoil sport, but I don‟t think I can do
this again. I‟m a bit out of practice, you
know!‟ He indicated his groin area with a
nod, „I think I might have to see a doctor
if you keep this up!‟
„That‟s alright. I just missed having you
all to myself. And with everything that‟s
happening I kind of feel young and sexy
again. Like a young Jane Fonda! How
about a long, hot and steamy shower
then?‟
Before going to work Barry checked his
email, there was nothing new. He would
have to check that his program was
working properly.
After a candle lit dinner on Wednesday
night Mandy and Barry sat down on the
lounge to watch a movie. The email they
had been hoping for arrived. It may have
been an error or the first of a possible few
matches, but the chances of there being
more, were slim.
Barry called Mandy to the computer and
opened the message. It was a plain text
message, supplying basic information. It
listed a name, blood type, Medicare card
number and current address and phone
number. Mandy read aloud over Barry‟s
shoulder.
„Amanda Anne Watkins. A positive.
Medicare card number 2522 54968 6. 34
Acacia Drive, Alice Springs, Northern Territory 0870, Australia. Ph. (08) 8956
7603.‟ They both made eye contact,
stunned.
„I‟ve found her!‟ She sighed, „You‟ve
found my egg mother for me. Thank you
Barry. I love you.‟ Mandy‟s eyes began
to swell with tears of joy. She rubbed
them, „Are you sure this is her?‟ she
asked Barry.
„I doubt there could be a better match.‟
„Amanda Anne Watkins.‟ She repeated
the name again. „That rings a bell.‟
„Well you did know her when you were
younger. Maybe your mum or dad used
her full name?‟
„No. No that‟s not it,‟ Mandy thought for
a moment, „Amanda Anne Watkins …
A.A. Watkins … I remember now! They
had an article on her in The Australian
Women‟s Weekly a few months ago.‟
„What? This Amanda? Your Amanda?‟
Barry questioned her.
Mandy ran down stairs to the coffee table
in the lounge room, where she pulled out
a pile of magazines, tossing some aside
until she found the right one. Amanda
was on the front cover, the caption read,
„Brilliant new Australian author A.A.
Watkins reveals the secret behind her
new best seller “The child I left behind”.‟
Mandy ran back upstairs with the
magazine to show Barry.
„I remember thinking how sad it was that
she left her daughter behind. I‟m that
daughter!‟ She opened the magazine to
the article, laying it on the table on top of
the keyboard for both of them to read.
„Her story sounds just like yours. It has to
be her,‟ Barry said after finishing the
article. „What do you want to do now?‟
„I guess I call her to see if she‟ll meet
me!‟ Mandy sat down on the edge of the
table, hands by her side. She turned her
torso to reach for the phone.
„Are you going to call her now?‟ Barry
asked. She nodded and began to dial the number. „Alice Springs is half an hour
behind us,‟ Barry reminded her, „so she
should be awake.‟
The phone began to ring.
„What am I going to say?‟ Mandy thought
aloud. After the third ring a woman‟s
voice answered.
„Hello.‟
„Hi ... umm ... Aunty Amanda?‟ Mandy
stammered and looked at Barry.
„Who is this?‟ the woman‟s voice on the
other end asked back.
„Sorry, I‟m looking for Amanda Watkins,
do I have the right number?‟
„Who wants to know?‟ the voice
demanded.
„Umm. My name is Mandy James. It used
to be Mandy McLean. I‟m looking for my
aunt.‟ The sound from the phone was
muffled as if the woman on the other end
was covering the mouth piece. Mandy could just make out the conversation on
the other end.
„AMANDA. There‟s a woman on the
phone asking for you. She says you‟re her
aunt, but you don‟t have any nieces. Do
you?‟
„I‟ll be there in a minute!‟
The woman removed her hand from the
mouth piece to reply.
„Just a minute. She‟s coming inside now.‟
„Thank you,‟ was all Mandy could say.
Amanda was indeed Mandy‟s aunt and „egg mother‟. They talked for nearly
twenty minutes about their lives before
Barry began to search for flights from
Sydney to Alice Springs on Saturday
morning with a return on Sunday
evening. Mandy agreed and asked
Amanda if they could visit her. Barry
booked the flights and left Mandy to chat.
When Mandy finished, she caught up with Barry on the lounge watching a Star
Trek DVD.
„Thank you. Thank you!‟ This was the
best day of her life. „Barry let‟s
celebrate!‟ Mandy grabbed the remote
from the lounge pressing pause on the
DVD and sat over his legs, like mounting
a horse saddle, grabbed his face and
kissed him.
After Mandy had fallen asleep, with her
head on his lap, Barry was unable to
move or close his eyes. He pressed play
again on his Star Trek DVD,
remembering to turn down the volume,
and set the TV sleep timer to turn off
after the end of the episode.
The next few days of work were a blur for Mandy and Barry. They were very
busy and always thinking about the trip to
Alice Springs. Their home life was great,
Barry even helped with some cleaning
around the house. This only helped to
increase Mandy‟s libido and Barry was
enjoying their re-kindled love as well.
After they got home on Friday evening
and finished packing their bags for the
trip, Mandy went out again to get some
DVDs and pizza.
Anna came home from uni late on Friday
night for a surprise visit with her parents.
The lights were all out, so Anna assumed
her parents had gone to bed. She opened
the front door very quietly and carried her
bags across the threshold, closing the
16
As Robert Benfield removed the lid of the
old cardboard box, the card slipped out
onto the bed covers.
Deceased Estate of Rupert Maxwell
$50.00
Robert didn‟t know why he was doing
this. He had two left feet. He loathed
dancing. As a matter of fact, he hated
socialising.
Beckett had
talked him around again.
How did he
always manage
it?
Robert glanced
at the seven
faces printed on
the sheet of
yellowing newspaper. They
were all raven
haired girls,
similarly
attractive, but
definitely not his
type. Blondes?
In a pinch. No,
Robert‟s tastes
ran more to the
classic Irish
beauty, flaming red hair and a
spattering of
freckles. The
mental image of Mary Willis made his
cheeks burn.
„Perfect,‟ he said, laying the newspaper
aside.
He fingered the suit lapel. Black tails complete with silk shirt—so white it
shone blue under the harsh fluorescent
lights of the New Haven apartment—a
silk bow tie, vest and tastefully chunky
cufflinks of onyx and gold. The suit had a
slight musty smell and an almost invisible
brown stain in the right sleeve of the coat
but it fit like it was tailor made. He
thought the tie would cause him some problems but to his surprise, as he looked
in the mirror, he couldn‟t find any fault
with the bow. Strange …
His confidence soared. At nine o‟clock
this morning, he was ready to call Beckett
and cancel but now, Robert couldn‟t stop
smiling.
He smoothed back his sandy hair at the
temples.
„To die for!‟
***
Beckett stopped in mid conversation as
Robert entered the hall. There was no
sign of his usual hesitance; all the
clumsiness was gone, replaced by a slow,
confident glide. His shoulders were
square, no customary slouch, his chin
high.
„Well, well,‟ said Beckett. „I hope you
don‟t change into a pumpkin at
midnight.‟
Robert spun about, trailing a toe, sliding
into a Fred
Astaire
pose. „Not a
chance, pal.‟
„Where on
earth did
that come
from?‟
„I have
absolutely
no idea.‟ Robert
didn‟t know
if Beckett
meant the
„pal‟ or the
dance move.
Either way,
the answer
was the
same.
The string
quartet took
the stage
and gave
their instruments a final cat-screech
tuning. For someone who hated dancing,
Robert couldn‟t wait to get on the dance
floor. He strode up to the first vacant girl
he could find.
„Would you care to dance?‟ He asked
with charm that surprised even himself.
„Why not.‟
The cello sighed a slow bass as they took
JE Doherty
Eglinton The Dancing Suit
door behind her. She spotted some
candles still burning on the mantle in the
lounge room. As she approached to blow
them out she noticed some items of her
parents clothing laying on the floor and the TV was on. Her parents were asleep,
tangled in a doona on the floor. The title
menu of an adult DVD „Desperate and
Dirty Housewives‟ was rolling on screen.
Embarrassed, but excited that her parents
were having fun, she crept out of the
lounge room blowing out the candles on
her way into the kitchen. Anna made
herself a snack and snuck up stairs to her
old room to go to sleep.
Mandy stirred to a noise in the house, she
thought it came from the kitchen. She
noticed that the candles were out, but
didn‟t hear any more noise. She spotted
one of Anna‟s bags near the front door,
turned to Barry who was still asleep and
whispered into his ear.
„We‟ve been busted,‟ she smiled.
Mandy reached for the remotes, turned
the DVD player and TV off, falling back to sleep instantly next to her husband
Barry, happy in the arms of the man she
loves. m
DJ Peters
Bathurst
17
the floor. The viola and violins joined as
Robert‟s hand slipped around the girl‟s
slightly pudgy waist. They almost skated
around the dancefloor; their steps were so
smooth, gliding between the other couples like phantoms. Pachabel‟s
‘Canon in D’ built toward a crescendo of
twirling satin on silk, ending in an
extravagant dip with the final fading note.
The girl was breathless but Robert
touched his lips to her hand and was off
to look for his next partner.
„Seriously,‟ Beckett said, „Rob‟s got it for
you, bad.‟
„He‟s never even spoken to me,‟ Mary
Willis replied.
„That‟s because he‟s shy.‟
„Yeah, right!‟
They both looked to the dance floor where Robert lorded with
yet another partner.
„Around you, at least.‟
„He hasn‟t stopped.‟ Mary
sighed.
„Well, he‟s usually shy. I don‟t
know what has gotten into him
tonight. He hates dancing.‟
When Robert saw Mary, a
flush spread across his cheeks and he
almost stumbled as he approached.
„Now, that‟s the Rob we‟ve come to
know and love,‟ Beckett drawled.
Robert‟s cheeks reddened even more. He
was slipping further into his customary,
insecure self. The cast of his eyes
dropped and his shoulders began to stoop.
„H … hi.‟
Mary‟s quirky smile brought Robert‟s head back up. Her teeth were slightly
crooked, but that small imperfection only
heightened her appeal. Robert couldn‟t
force his mouth to work.
„Told you he was shy,‟ Beckett laughed,
slapping Robert‟s back.
„Would you like to dance?‟ Mary finally
asked him.
At that, something clicked in Robert. He
bowed with a flourish of hands.
„It would be my pleasure, Mary.‟
„I thought you didn‟t like to dance?‟
Beckett joked.
„It‟s the suit,‟ Robert replied. „I can‟t
seem to stop.‟
He took Mary‟s arm with confidence.
There are green eyes, and there are green
eyes. Most were misty, more grey than
green. Clarity was the best word Robert
could find to describe Mary‟s eyes. They
were sharp, gem-bright and clear. Robert
was lost and he had never been happier.
They danced and the music played on.
Robert caught a flash of dark hair for the corner of his eye. Mary was talking but
he couldn‟t seem to focus on her words.
He turned as the dancers reeled about
him, his eyes following the girl with the
long black hair and white carnation
threaded above her left ear. His arm slid
away from Mary and the tide of dancing
swept them apart.
Something was nagging at the edge of his
mind, but everything dissolved, the
music, the crowd, Mary …
A ball of anger and desire welled up from
the pit of Robert‟s stomach. He cut
through the dance floor like a shark. His
face was serene, charming but a glint like
shattered ice, hard and sharp, edged his
eyes.
Mary stood with Beckett. They both looked on in disbelief as Robert and the
dark haired girl with the white carnation
and satin blue dress left the hall.
The girl was raven haired … similarly
attractive … And something inside
Robert burned.
***
Mrs Benford was
annoyed. She was
always telling Robert
to turn off his light
when he left the room.
He didn‟t pay the bills.
She saw the scattering
of clothes on the floor
and the box and papers
strewn over the bed. If it wasn‟t for her, her
son would be living in
a pig sty. She scooped up the clothes and
began stuffing the papers in the box.
One sheet caught her eye …
Another body found
When will the killer strike again?
Under the pictures of the seven dead
girls, the story detailed the atrocities they
were subjected to before they died.
Mrs Benford shivered as she closed the
lid on the box. m
BURNISHED: BURNSIDE LIFE STORIES
A Collection of life accounts from residents of
Burnside Children’s Homes, Sydney
Compiled by Kate Shayler
www.kateshayler.com www.moshpitpublishing.com.au
Beckett stopped in mid conversation as
Robert entered the hall. There was no sign of his usual hesitance; all the clumsiness
was gone, replaced by a slow, confident
glide. His shoulders were square, no
customary slouch, his chin high.
18
Strangers weren‟t new to the area—at
least Bobby Hammett didn‟t think so. He
had worked for the Sheriff‟s office for
over ten years (since he had finished
school) and had seen all sorts come through town. Peddlers, hawkers,
gypsies—yes sir, Bobby had seen just
about every type of itinerant traveller and
lonesome wanderer known to man; there
was that tall dude who blew through town
last year that Bobby still hadn‟t been able
to label—he was a strange one all right—
fancy suit, but no tie or shoes. If you had
tipped the guy upside-down you could
have used his long, stringy hair as a mop.
And the stench—Bobby figured that
rolling around on the mounds of rubbish up in Belmont‟s dump for a week
wouldn‟t have come close to the odour
this guy had given off. Bobby had
laughed when his nephew had said that
even skunks would have turned tail and
run. That was one strange dude.
***
Dust devils danced around the legs of
startled horses and the gentle breeze
helped push them up the near-deserted
dirt strip that the locals called the Main
Road. Evan‟s Bluff was a small town—
even by Midwest standards—that
comprised a central road that contained
half a dozen not-so prosperous shops, a
telegraph station, the Sheriff‟s department
and a saloon (which is usually where you
found the officers from the Sheriff‟s
department.) A few hundred people called Evan‟s Bluff home—and many
other, not so nice, things—and those
families had lived here for generations,
most of them unsure of what lay out past
the giant cacti and the swirling dust.
Evan‟s Bluff wasn‟t exactly a hive of
entertainment or action—the most
exciting thing to happen in the town in
the last five years was the mass evacuation of the saloon when the beer
had dried up: old Cooper had plain
forgotten to order in the new barrels (so
he said) or he had been too drunk to get
the telegram off in time (which is what
the rest of the townsfolk said). Either
way, the regulars hooked up the wagons
and took a trip into Waterfall (a most
unfortunate name—hadn‟t seen rain there
in over two years) and loaded
themselves—and the wagons—up with
enough booze to last them another five
years.
It was into this town—this town—that
two strangers walked and the arrival of
two strangers in town was always going
to cause a stir of interest in these parts.
***
Those who saw them thought the man
and the boy were related (those who saw
them come in, anyway—Mrs Riddles
claimed that she was the first one to see
them but she works for the Sheriff—
make of that what you will). No one
could really say why—something about
their manner; the long effortless strides as they strolled down the sidewalk of High
Street side by side—like gunslingers
coming into town, revolvers at the ready.
They didn‟t carry revolvers, of course—
people would have noticed. No, they had
no weapons of any sort—at least none
that were immediately obvious. And
obvious they would have been—both of
them were wearing only old, torn denim shorts and dusty singlets, once white but
now a reddish-brown from the desert
sands. Worn leather boots covered their
feet with a hint of material poking out the
top that at one time might have been
socks. The older of the two carried a
knapsack over his shoulder—it, too, was
coated in dust and was wearing thin in
small patches around the bottom. It had
obviously done as much travelling as the
boots on their feet.
***
Most of the townspeople didn‟t
immediately notice the newcomers; they
were either in the saloon or in their own
homes when the strangers made their way
through the centre of town—it was left to
Deputy Sheriff Bobby Hammett to
approach them and strike up a conversation. Sheriff Longman had sent
him out to do the deed—he himself
hadn‟t seen the talk-of-the-town with his
own two eyes but he didn‟t trust strangers
and he reckoned if anyone was going to
get killed in town, it was better for it to be
a Deputy than himself.
Deputy Hammett stepped out from the
shade of the awning of Grant‟s saloon
where he had been enjoying a game of poker with the Newsome brothers (all
three of them—they were dumb as
horseshit but loaded with silver and cash)
and a quiet beer. He crossed over to the
Western Land Bank, nodding to Mrs
Turner who was trying to appear not in
the slightest bit interested (but the pencil
and writing pad on her lap said otherwise)
and he waited beside old Allan Banville‟s
Savings and Loan.
The Deputy eyed the two as they
approached him; the young boy didn‟t
seem to be of concern. However, Bobby
instantly felt the hair on the back of his
neck stand to attention when he examined
the older man—a massive slab of muscle,
bone and sinew, skin unblemished as you
would normally see on forearms that
would have been better served loading
lucerne and hay onto the back of wagons,
not swinging loosely by the sides of a
drifter. A waste of strength and muscle, Deputy Hammett thought to himself (not
that he was going to find out for sure just
how strong the guy was, nosiree.)
Hammett hitched his britches and tipped
his hat back to greet the strangers.
„Howdy, boys—what brings you two
fellas to town?‟ The sun chose that moment to hide itself behind some clouds
and a breeze picked up. Deputy Hammett
could have sworn he felt the temperature
drop in that split second. The clouds
cleared, the sun reappeared but Hammett
still felt the chill. „You boys got names?‟
Silence momentarily fell upon the street;
the usual chit-chat and everyday sounds
of a small town faded away, as if even the
birds and horses were waiting with baited breath on the answer. (Mrs Turner leaned
forward on her old cane chair—any
further and she would fall and wouldn‟t
that be embarrassing? Not to mention ill-
timed.)
„Yessir, Sheriff, we do have names ...‟
The man squinted, trying to read the
shiny silver badge that sat slightly off-
kilter on Hammett‟s worn-for-the-second-day-in-a-row shirt. „Sorry, Deputy
Sheriff.‟
Hammett cringed at the emphasis and
didn‟t like what the stranger was
implying.
„My name is Watson, and the boy‟s name
is Parsons. We be looking for a certain
somebody, Deputy, and we would sure appreciate it if you just stepped aside and
let us pass.‟
Hammett could feel the stares of the
townspeople on him. He could also feel
the weight of expectation (get them out of
town, we don’t need strangers here, get
them out) bearing down on his shoulders.
Worse still, he could feel the eyes of the
The Eyes Have It Paul Phillips
Lithgow
strangers boring into his head, could
almost feel the tendrils of something
foreign searching through his head;
pulling at his thoughts and raiding his
memory. He shook his head in an effort to clear his mind—he was partially
successful.
„See here, boys, we have a problem. I
can‟t just let you be running loose in
town, getting into other people‟s
business, and hurting folk. That just
wouldn‟t do.‟
The older man swept his arms in a wide circle. „Nobody here needs to get hurt but
I promise you, Deputy, if you don‟t get
out of my way by the time I get to ten, the
only thing you will be stopping is the
worms from going hungry.‟
For a time, Deputy Hammett looked like
one of the Newsome brothers: slack
jawed, eyes wide in disbelief. A few moments later, wits collected, he stepped
toward the pair, chest out. He wasn‟t
going to be spoken to like that.
„Now, listen here fella, no need for that
tone. Was just doing my job.‟ A horse
whinnied behind him. He jumped like he
had been stuck with a cattle prod. „Who is
it that you be looking for? Maybe I can
help?‟
The youth had been silent for the duration
but now found his voice; deeper than you
would expect from one so young. „We
come for my pappy, Billy Parsons.‟
Hammett had almost forgotten the
presence of the younger boy—he had
been completely aiming his attention at
the man before him. He glanced at the
boy, who was crouched down, seemingly
tormenting the ants that were criss-crossing the dirt road. The boy—Parsons,
the man had said—had the brim of his hat
pulled down over his face as he played.
He slowly raised his head, tilted back his
hat and his eyes searched and settled on
the Deputy‟s. Hammett felt ice crawl up
his spine as the boy‟s face came fully into
view. Beneath the dirt, dust and grime
that caked the young Parson boy‟s face,
Hammett could see the ridges of an ugly red scar, just under his left eye and only
recently healed. His breath hitched at the
sight of it—and then he felt like his chest
would explode when he saw the black
cavity that was his eye socket, sans eye.
***
Hammett choked back his revulsion (and
obvious questions). „Son, you are a tad too late. We hung that bastard up good
and proper three weeks ago, come
Wednesday. He‟s deader than a dead
thing.‟
The two newcomers remained unmoved.
The older man spat phlegm at the feet of
the Deputy.
„He ain‟t dead—at least not how you
think he is.‟
The Deputy started laughing, he couldn‟t
help it. He was holding his sides for fear
they would split and all that beer he had
spent good money on would leak out the
gaps.
„What are you talking about? I saw him—
swinging from a branch like the
pendulum in that big clock down at the
carriage station that Mr. Burns keeps
polished real good—he says that ...‟
„Enough.‟ The man‟s voiced boomed
from his lips, shaking the ground (and
Deputy Hammett). „We have had enough
of this game. Either you move, or we
19
20
move you ourselves.‟
The Deputy shook his head and laughed
once more—albeit a quiet chuckle this time. „I keep telling you—he is dead. We
hung him. I even kicked his carcass into
the hole up at the cemetery.‟
The younger boy leaned in real close to
the Deputy—close enough for Hammett
to catch the scent of something horrible
on his breath. „You don‟t understand,
mister—you can‟t kill what is already
dead.‟
***
Mrs Turner watched the Deputy closely;
his hand strayed to his gun holster a few
times and she was sure as shit that he was
gonna pull that shiny pistol and blow
someone‟s head off right there in the
street. She wouldn‟t say it out loud—
there are appearances to be kept, after all—but Mrs Turner knew that if Deputy
Hammett pulled that pistol, there would
be a damn good reason for it and she, for
one, would applaud him for it.
***
„What exactly does that mean—already
dead?‟ Hammett looked from the Parsons
boy up to Watson, who stood with his arms folded across his chest. „What in the
hell is the boy talking about? That‟s crazy
talk, right there.‟
Watson gestured for Hammett to sit
down, right there in the middle of the
road. The Deputy took a few looks
around to make sure he wasn‟t in any
danger of being trampled by horses or be
the victim of some other unfortunate
accident while his ass was gathering dirt. When all seemed fine and dandy (as fine
and dandy as sitting in the middle of a
dirt road can be), he made himself
comfortable.
„Now, Deputy, there are a few things that
I am going to tell you that may sound as
loony as a bat flyin‟ ass-up and shitting
on its own head, but they are true. Show
me the proper respect—as a man of the badge—and let me finish my tale before
you start peppering me with questions.
Does that sound fair to you?‟
Hammett shifted his backside on the hard
road. He had sat down directly in a wheel
rut from the carriages that passed through
bringing dry goods from Breakers Point
off to the north. When he was sure he was
comfortable again, he nodded for Watson
to continue.
„Alright, this could take a some time ...‟
***
Sheriff Longman couldn‟t believe what
he was seeing—his Deputy was sitting,
cross-legged, in the middle of the road. I
don‟t remember that in law enforcement
classes, Longman thought. Just wait until
you are finished out there, Deputy—you
and your lunchtime drinking—you are
going to be finished alright.
***
„If I am going to tell you this story, I best
be beginning at the start—seems like as
good a place as any to go from.‟ A
crooked grin spread across the old man‟s
face. „It ain‟t a pretty story, it ain‟t no
lullaby. Sure hope you don‟t have a
squeamish stomach, Deputy.‟
Hammett smiled thinly. „I‟ll be okay—I
have seen plenty in my time, mister. Just
tell the story.‟
„As you wish ...‟
***
The three of them sat in a rough semi-
circle; Watson in the middle with his
hands placed in his lap, seemingly
undisturbed by the fact that at any
minute, they could all be trampled and
killed; the boy Parsons was still laying in
the dirt, chasing ants with his chipped and
bloody fingernails; and Deputy Hammett
sitting bolt upright, hands by his sides—a
study in concentration and attentiveness.
„To begin,‟ Watson started, „we have to
trace back old Billy Parsons to the night
that young boy there was conceived.‟
Watson reached into his knapsack and
removed a small container that Hammett
suspected was water, but wouldn‟t be
surprised if it was something just a little
stronger. „Old Billy was a drunkard—no doubts on that score. When he worked
over at the slaughterhouse in Jackson
County, they had to terminate his
employment due to the fact that he either
didn‟t get his fat lazy ass out of bed in
time or he was a mean bastard at work
when he needed a drink. Reports were
that he once took a guy out back and beat
the living daylights out of him and stuck
one of those big hooks through his
shoulder blades just because he was
talking about having a beer. The man was
a bastard, that‟s for damn sure.‟
Hammett started to speak but Watson
held up his hand. „You said you would let me tell the tale. Be a good fellow and just
keep your questions to the end.‟
The Deputy nodded and gestured for him
to continue.
„One night, Billy rolled in the front door,
absolutely off his trolley. He had finished
work early and got straight into the ales,
went home and, well, no really nice way to say it so I will just tell you the truth—
he raped his wife and gave her a good old
fashioned beating while he was at it.
From the stories I hear, Mrs Parsons
stumbled into Doc Carpenter‟s in a rough
state; her face was a bloody mess, her
clothes were ripped and covered in her
own blood and she had a limp that she
never got over before she died … it‟s all
part of the story. Just wait.‟
A strong breeze picked up and blew down
the road and all three of them covered
their noses and mouths until the wind
died down again. Hammett noticed for
the first time some large black
thunderheads off in the distance. They
had appeared suddenly and seemed to be
moving fast. Watson cleared his throat to
get the Deputy‟s attention again before
continuing.
„Anyway, a few men got together and
chased the bastard out of town when he
did that. They threatened to kill him—and
from what I understand, it was no idle
threat. One of the men was Billy‟s
brother-in-law and he didn‟t like what
had happened to his sister—didn‟t like it
one little bit and he swore that if he ever
got his hands on Billy that he couldn‟t
promise that he wouldn‟t do something
stupid.‟
The younger Parsons looked up at the
mention of his uncle and a distant smile
flashed across his lips before he put his
head back down and continued his torture
tactics on Evan‟s Bluff‟s insect
population.
„No one heard from him again—sure, there were rumours from distant towns of
similar occurrences throughout Jackson
County but he never showed his face
again in town—until a few months ago,‟
he pointed at the boy, „until he did that.‟
Watson stopped talking and the echo of
his final words hung between them like a
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foul odour. Hammett stole a look over his
shoulder to look at the Parsons kid to find
him staring straight back at him (as well
as he could with no eyes). The Deputy
closed his eyes and took a few breaths
before looking back to Watson again.
„Billy found out about the kid somehow
and came back to town to look for him
and his mother. Reports vary on just how
drunk he was but there was no doubting
his intentions. He killed three men in the
saloon who had overheard his plans and
tried to intervene—stabbed ‟em right
through their bellies, numerous times if
the stories are to be believed. Then marched right on up to the house, kicked
the door clean off of its hinges and
charged into the house like a wounded
bull. He found her in the kitchen—she
was putting some water on to boil for her
evening tea—and he just sliced her from
ear to ear. No talk, no bullshit—just
killed her where she stood.‟
„What about the boy? What happened to him?‟ The Deputy couldn‟t help
himself—he was so caught up in the story
that he couldn‟t keep quiet. Watson
smiled at him—it was a warm smile but
contained traces of agony, like the story
was being told for the first time and
Watson was watching it play out all over
again. Hammett figured that this wasn‟t
the first time that the old man was
reliving the events but he could see just
how much it pained him in the telling.
„I was getting to that, Deputy.‟ Watson
leaned over and put his hand around the
boy‟s shoulder—it was a tender touch
and the boy flinched at first, and then
leaned in towards the makeshift embrace.
„Billy had flipped out—his brain was
floating around his head and he wasn‟t
thinking right. He kicked open the rest of the doors in the house and found the boy
huddled under the bed, sobbing silently
and chest heaving as he struggled with
fear of his father and his fear of dying.
Billy grabbed the boy‟s arm and dragged
him across the room. I saw what you did,
the boy said. Billy pulled the knife from
the waistband of his pants. You will never
have that problem again, boy, was the
reply.‟
***
The silence inside the Sheriff‟s office was
broken by the rear door slamming; the
wind had grown quite strong over the
last—well, Sheriff Longman didn‟t know
how long it had been. He had been
watching Hammett sitting out there in the
dirt; the occasional hand gesture being
the only clue that his Deputy was in fact
still breathing, so still was he sitting.
Once, Hammett had looked over his
shoulder towards the Sheriff‟s office (a
few small children were playing just
under the window and the sounds of their laughter may have caught the Deputy‟s
attention) and Longman had tried to get
his attention but to no avail—the Deputy
had turned back just as quickly. Alright,
this has gone on quite long enough, the
Sheriff concluded. Time to get out there
and put an end to this ridiculous scene
(what would the people be saying about
the Deputy in the morning?). A quick
glance up to the heavens gave Longman
even more reason to hurry—the clouds
were a-gathering and, if he were any judge, them looked like tornado clouds if
ever he had seen one. Time indeed to
clear the street and make sure that
everyone was home, safe and sound. This
could get ugly.
***
A mixture of fear and pity flooded Hammett‟s face as understanding took
hold. The boy‟s own father had disfigured
his son, leaving him to the fate of the
Gods. He look at the young boy, felt bile
rise once more in his throat, burning and
bubbling on the way up—just like that
volcano he had read about in the
newspaper the other morning—scared a
lot of people and did a shitload of
damage. He felt that this was gonna be
just a carbon copy of that.
A hand fell on his shoulder and made him
skitter forwards. He turned his face
upwards and felt the wind and dust
assault his face, slide down his throat and,
for a moment, he thought he was going to
choke. His eyes fell upon the Sheriff,
looming over him like a statue—a statue
that had spent a bit too much time at the
feed trough, but a statue nonetheless. The
Sheriff‟s rough hand grabbed the front of Hammett‟s shirt and hauled him to his
feet.
„What in the blue hell do you think you
are doing—sitting in the middle of the
road, waving your arms around like a
scarecrow in a tornado?‟
The glaze that had been in Hammett‟s
eyes slowly began to clear and the flicker
of recognition filled his whole face.
„Boss, I was listening to the story of those
two travellers. Did you know ...‟
„What travellers, Bobby?‟
Hammett spread his arms to show the
Sheriff who he was talking about and stopped in mid-gesture. There was
nobody there. Nobody sitting on the road.
Nobody, in fact, in the whole damn street.
Bobby rubbed his eyes roughly, like a
man just waking from sleep and trying to
rid his memory of a terrible nightmare.
He looked again and saw that nothing had changed. There was not a single person in
sight—other than his rather annoyed
looking boss who appeared to be ready to
throttle Bobby at any moment.
„Bobby, you have been sitting out here, in
the dirt, for the last two hours. Normally,
I wouldn‟t have given two craps but
seeing as that storm is just about to touch
down and wipe out everything that isn‟t
nailed down, I thought it best to come down here and get your ass somewhere
safe.‟
„But they were there … the boy who had
his eye taken out by his father—his very
own father—and the man who was
looking after him. They were searching
for the boy‟s father. They wanted
revenge, but we had hung him, Boss. It
was very ...‟
The Sheriff had heard enough. „Deputy, I
don‟t know if you have been drinking too
much or smoking a bit of the old wacky-
weed but there ain‟t been no-one there
since you sat down.‟ He shook his head
and a faint look of pity stole across the
Sheriff‟s face and was gone as quick as it
had appeared. „Son, why don‟t you git
inside, get your gear and head home and
look after your mother before that storm hits. In fact, take the rest of the week off
and have a break. You really look like
you could use it.‟
Before Bobby could reply, the Sheriff
nodded once more towards the office and
Hammett dusted off the seat of his pants
and headed inside.
***
Two small boys were sitting on the porch
of the Sheriff‟s office when Sheriff
Longman came out.
„You boys better start heading home
before the rain starts.‟ The boys made no
move—like they didn‟t hear him at all. „I
said you boys better ...‟ One of the boys lifted his head towards the Deputy
slowly. With a growing horror, Longman
saw two shadowy cavities … where the
boy‟s eyes had once been … and realised
that his Deputy‟s story had been true all
along.
„Hey, mister, you can‟t kill what is
already dead ...‟ m
Paul Phillips
Lithgow
21
Public Performance Jill Baggett
Mudgee
My experience with theatre started when
I was three years old and my mother took
me to see a film for the first time—
Bambi. I still remember my horror at the
huge screen throwing colour at me and culminating with Bambi‟s mother being
shot and killed. I still see the blood
oozing from her. It was the last image I
saw as I spent the rest of the afternoon
under the seat. My mother vowed she
would never take me to another film, a
vow she kept, which I still feel was
unreasonable of her.
We lived in a block of flats at Lavender
Bay in Sydney. Our upstairs neighbour,
Aunty Ethel to me, obviously thought my
artistic education was being neglected
and she took me to the Christmas
pantomime the following year. Miss Four
Years Old that I was I sat enthralled with
the story of Aladdin and his Magic Lamp
until the stage suddenly went black and then was lit brilliantly to reveal Aladdin‟s
wonderful cave being ransacked by the
evil robbers, who were intent on
capturing the youthful, and, in my mind,
all things good, hero and imprisoning
him. The ultimate horror was when the
genie magically appeared from the lamp,
amidst ear splitting crashes, bangs,
lightning bolts and, most terrifyingly,
blue and green smoke. A huge, half naked
man appeared, shouting maniacally, „Tell
me what you wish‟. My wish was to leave immediately and, finding Aunty Ethel
non-compliant, I started a loud wailing. I
later heard her telling my mother she
would not take me to another pantomime.
Should I add here I was an only and very
protected child?
Inevitably I was sent to school at four and
a half. One of my kindergarten classmates
was cast as a fairy child in a play „The
Bluebird of Happiness‟. My unwilling
self was dragged once again into a theatre. I remember my heart beating
frantically and butterflies vying for a
space in my stomach. But the production
this time was beautiful, the music
enthralling and I remember how the story
line absorbed me.
Other than an occasional nerve wracking
visit to a circus with my father, where I
always expected to see someone fall from
the trapeze, or be eaten by a lion, school
plays, boring black and white films,
symphony concerts with the occasional
light relief of Gilbert and Sullivan, and all
judged suitable by the nuns at the boarding school I attended, were the only
theatrical experiences I knew in the
coming years. I found books a much
more enjoyable escape and rarely had one
out of my hands and mind.
However, when I was 14 Dad took me to Sydney Stadium to see Buddy Holly, and
Paul Anka. A young Australian was to
open the show and change my view of
theatre forever. Johnny O‟Keefe exploded
into my life, running down the aisle and
leaping onto the stage in one bound. He
was dressed in orange velvet with leopard
skin trims and I saw how an audience of
thousands can be captivated by
personality, witty dialogue and backing
music. Most importantly that was the moment my female hormones burst into
life! I was hooked.
I began my nursing training at the Mater
Hospital at Crows Nest in 1960. To
attract an audience to their dress
rehearsals the Ensemble Theatre at Kirribilli and the Independent at North
Sydney sent free tickets to the nurses‟
home for all their shows. I revelled in
these performances, saw dozens of plays
and thought of the Theatre as a wondrous,
magical place that I could only ever look
on as an outsider.
I spent 1965 in Broken Hill, at that time a
dusty, man‟s town, to my mind the end of
the world, but it was also the venue for
the best play I have ever seen. They had a
very active Repertory Society and one of
their offerings that year was Ruth Park‟s
„The Harp In The South‟. I went and
watched it night after night and decided
then I wanted to be a playwright.
When Reg Livermore was at the height of
his popularity and entertaining Sydney
with his one-man extravaganzas, he had a
show at The Riverside Theatre at
Parramatta called „Big Sister‟.
By this time I was married and my
husband and I were looking forward to
travelling to Sydney for a night of
entertainment. A couple of days before
the big night my friend, Denise from
Epping, rang and I told her what we were
planning. „I‟ll come too,‟ she sounded
excited, „it doesn‟t matter if we‟re not
sitting together.‟
She rang me back soon after,
disappointment evident in her voice. „It‟s
been booked out for weeks, I can‟t get a
ticket,‟ she said. „They‟re going to ring if
there‟s any cancellations, but said they
didn‟t expect me to have any luck.‟
We decided she‟d come and have dinner
with us in Parramatta anyway. At least
we‟d have a chance to catch up.
So, we had a pleasant couple of hours
with her, then said our goodbyes and
walked with her to the bus stop. Her car
was out of action and being repaired at
the time. We waved the bus off and
carried on down to the theatre.
The theatre was indeed packed out. We
were excited and filled with expectation
of a great show. We fumbled our way to
our seats just as the lights began to dim
and vampy music filled the room. I was
aware the seat next to me was vacant and
thought it was nice we weren‟t the last of
the late arrivals. As the stage lights came
on someone sat in the empty seat and clasped my hand. Startled I pulled away
and turned to give the perpetrator a piece
of my mind. Instead I was confronted by
Denise‟s laughing face. „Can you believe
this?‟ she blurted out.
As it happened the bus had been blocked by the traffic jam outside the theatre. On
the spur of the moment Denise had
decided to get off and see if there were
any last minute cancellations. The ticket
seller told her there was one only. „That‟s
all I want,‟ she‟d said and bought it
thanking her lucky stars for such luck.
That piece of luck paled into
insignificance though when she‟d sat
down and realised the one cancellation in
a theatre holding 750 patrons happened to
be the seat next to me. What were the
chances against it happening? What were
the chances of the bus being stopped right
outside the theatre? What were the
chances of my usually level headed friend
making such a spur of the moment decision and hopping off the bus between
stops?
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Just when everything seems to be alright,
and life is back on track ...
You think somebody loves you,
and then they take it back ...
That someone has invaded,
that space inside your heart ...
But now the pain is back again,
to tear all that apart ...
You wonder, Why? And doubts flood in,
you need to start to heal ...
Instead the walls are back to stay,
the pain is much too real ...
All you want is honesty,
instead of this deceit ...
Is there no one left who plays it straight,
you are tired of life‟s defeat ...
You wonder if you'll ever find,
a total love that stays ...
Or go through life, always alone,
to face another day ... m
At interval we told the man on the other
side of Denise what had happened. He
said his sister had been coming with him
but had been called interstate
unexpectedly that afternoon, leaving
Denise a very lucky ticket.
Twenty years or more later we went to
see a dinner show Reg had on at The
Clarendon at Katoomba. He was
mingling with people in the bar
afterwards and I told him the story. He was intrigued and said he was often
surprised at the stories people told him
about events that had been going on in
the audience during his shows. I said it
would have to be a good coincidence
story to match mine though.
He agreed.
Years passed, life passed, and then in
1993 I decided to do a creative writing
course. One of the assignments was
playwriting. What could I write a play
about, a mere mortal like me? There was
a ghost story that fascinated me about an
Egyptian mummy, supposedly shipped to America on the Titanic. I‟d written a
short story about her and was quite
pleased with it, so decided to try and turn
it into a play.
Once I started I was amazed to find the
set, the scenery and music, the lighting, the accents of the characters, the whole
production, leapt into my brain and I only
had to write down what I saw. This was
no doubt a legacy from the Ensemble and
Independent Theatre days. I wrote all
night and it was daylight when I finished,
thrilled with what I had written.
My tutor‟s assessment was „a good
effort‟. I was disappointed he didn‟t tell
me I had written a masterpiece. A month
or so later Newswrite Magazine
published an ad for a Sydney Theatre
company, TheatreSonge. They were
looking for short plays to include in 10x10 2002. What the heck I thought and
sent in „Lullaby For a Princess‟. Two
days later I received the most exciting
phone call of my life. Director, Jeremy
Johnson, rang to tell me he was including
my play in the next seasons‟
performances.
It didn‟t end there. I‟ve written five plays,
all of which have seen a stage.
Bambi was screened on the Disney
Channel earlier this year. I began to
watch it but turned it off before Bambi‟s mother was killed. Whoever decided it
was suitable viewing for children
anyway?m
23
Why? Cheryl Ianoco
Lithgow
It was meant to be the day of rest, but the
chestnut Arab gelding cantered along the
riverbank on a narrow track that the rider
obviously knew very well. He glanced at
the sun confident he would not be late.
As the river gurgled to the right the able
horseman took the path that veered left up
a steep rise and he gently pulled on the
reins and slowed his mount. He hoped
she would be there when he arrived. His
heart started pounding when he had the
traumatic thought that she might not be
able to make it to their secret rendezvous.
The more he thought of her the more
intense became his love and desire.
All his passion was for the present,
however he always had a nagging notion and worry of what the situation may be
like in six months time, which was the
limit of his future thoughts.
Great, she had made it, his mind
overflowed with joy and he became
transfixed with her flowing fair hair
and the narrow waist of his goddess. The sparkling eyes and the smile all
came towards as he imagined a
personification of heaven to be.
He dismounted trying to act composed
and tied the reins to the usual tree branch.
She floated towards him and they kissed
each other with deep affection until it was
time to relax and get their breath back.
„How is my princess?‟ he asked with a
smile on his face as he took her hand and
they walked into a shaded position
overlooking a section of the valley.
„My father believes I should marry,‟ she
remarked coyly, as she knew this news
would not be appreciated by her
paramour. He was resolute, with a
disappointed expression on his face, as he
thought of a rational response.
„You know I want to marry you, but not being of the landed gentry I don‟t have a
chance. This is a problem.‟ He stared
across the valley with a blank expression
on his face but his mind was racing like
the wheels of a steam train.
„We could elope, but it is not much fun
being married to a shearer who spends his
life going from shed to shed, and is rarely home,‟ he stated as he glanced across the
valley her father owned. He knew he
could not expect her to live on the wage
he could earn and almost bowed his head
in defeat.
„Father is very excited about the
mechanical shearing machines. He said
that at Dunlop they had just finished
shearing with all the wool taken off with
mechanical shears. The first shed in the
world,‟ she remarked to change the
subject.
„I‟ve just learnt to use the blades, now
I‟ve got to adjust to a new handpiece.‟
„It‟ll be easier won‟t it?‟
„I sure hope so, but that doesn‟t help our
position does it?‟
„I‟ll tell father I want to marry you and all
the potential son-in-laws are not wanted.‟
She smiled and the only man in her life
grinned and had to agree it was a good
idea but he was unsure of the result.
„He should agree to give us a block of
land to help us get started. My God he
has enough. That‟s the answer then.‟
David laughed to himself as their future
now appeared to have more hope in this
society bound by class. Without her
brothers he would eventually own the whole lot which appeared an unbelievable
idea. That is, if her father would accept
him.
After a couple of hours together she leapt
into her side saddle and galloped away
with her hair flowing in the breeze. Dave
walked his horse home knowing the future was becoming more secure. Two
or three thousand acres would make his
life easier and as he thought about it, it
was almost a fait accompli.
It had been an interesting week‟s work
with all his workmates talking about
mechanical shearing and how it would
affect their lives. Some were optimistic,
others thought it a flash in the pan.
On Saturday afternoon he decided to
mention his plans for the future with his
mother, however the response was not
what he had anticipated.
„You cannot marry Cynthia, that is totally
out of the question.‟
„Why?‟ queried Dave with surprise as he
assumed this rise in his social status
would be welcomed by his mother who
had had a hard life.
„I thought you were visiting one of the
girls in town on your Sunday excursions,
not going in the other direction.‟
„She is the most beautiful girl in the
district, probably in the world for all I
know,‟ skited Dave still not sure of his
mother‟s problem. This working class
environment she lived in had not stopped
her encouraging him to pursue whatever
goals he chose.
„Where do you meet her on your Sunday
jaunts?‟ asked his mother which came as
a surprise.
„Up on Drifter‟s Ridge,‟ he replied and
his mother laughed to herself before
becoming more serious.
„I went up there a fair bit about eighteen
years ago.‟ She paused for a moment,
„You and Cynthia share the same father!‟
she whispered in a subdued manner
hoping Dave would not despise her for
having told him his father had died in an
accident on the goldfields.
Dave slumped in his chair and realised
now how he had so much in common
with the love of his life.
„My God,‟ he mumbled and walked out
the door.
On Sunday he walked his horse up
towards Drifter‟s Ridge not sure what had
happened with Cynthia. She was there but
not bubbling with happiness. They
walked towards each other.
„Stop!‟ he screamed, „Don‟t move. A
snake!‟ They both stood motionless as the
killer slipped towards Cynthia. Dave
moved and attracted the snake‟s attention.
It struck his leg.
„Dave, oh Dave, you saved my life!‟ she
cried. „You‟re not dying are you?‟
„I‟m already dead,‟ he sighed. m
24
Drifter‟s Ridge Ross Stephenson
Molong
If you have a friend or loved one suffering from depression, trauma or anxiety, read CJ’s
story to grasp of how an ordinary person can be rendered helpless as a result of trauma.
Running Over a Chinaman by Blue Mountains author Julie Thredgold Jones
Ebook and limited first edition copies available at www.themoshshop.com.au
Dave slumped in his chair and realised now how he
had so much in common
with the love of his life.
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magazine.
So please, drop us a line on the Contact page of Narrator at www.narratormagazine.com.au/contact.html
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Image credits
Cover: „Trapped‟ by Aida Pottinger
Pg 1: Jenny Mosher by Todd Sharp
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All other images purchased from iStockphoto.com
Each quarter, merit prizes are awarded to the three
pieces judged most worthy by our Guest Judge for
that issue.
First prize: $200
Second prize: $100
Third prize $50
Winners are announced in the following issue.
If you would like to sponsor a merit prize,
please contact Jenny Mosher at
Judging and Voting People‟s Choice
People’s Choice Prize
Don’t forget to vote for your favourite piece at:
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Voting opens on 1 September 2011 and closes 31
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please contact Jenny Mosher at
25
26 Ruth Withers
Uarbry The Little Tear
A little tear at play one day began to feel a
trembling.
It soon became a roiling, a boiling and a
dark‟ning;
A sad and heavy fright‟ning.
„Fear not,‟ her mother softly said, „it is the Host
a-calling.
All big tears must gather now, ready for the
leaving—
Must head toward the bright‟ning.‟
With scant goodbye she turned away, „You
cannot come,‟ a-whisp‟ring,
„Your turn will come to follow and you will join
the gath‟ring
And pass beyond the light‟ning.‟
The little tear, bewildered, sat and watched her
mother leaving—
With many others rushing, to obey the urgent
calling.
She felt her fears a-height‟ning.
And every day, for many days, returned that
awful trembling,
And every day more tears marched past to join
the silent gath‟ring,—
None smaller tears enlight‟ning.
The little tear, with little friends, gathered in the
dark‟ning,
Confused, afraid and watching; alone and
always wond‟ring—
What waits beyond the bright‟ning?
„Oh, Host,‟ they cried, „We‟re so few now and
full of dreadful fearing.
What lies beyond,—and must we all be gathered
for the leaving?‟
In answer came but tight‟ning.
The little tear spoke up at last. „Well, where‟s
the point in staying?
What‟s here for us to keep us here? There‟s
nothing but the dark‟ning,
The sadness and the fright‟ning.
„Tomorrow when the trembling comes, I too
shall join the marching.
What lies beyond cannot be worse than this
place is becoming.
I‟m going to the light‟ning.‟
„You cannot,‟ cried her little friends, „You must
await the calling.‟
„Who says I must? Who is here for doing any
telling?
Who comes to ease our fright‟ning?‟
The new day came and found the little tears all
sadly waiting,
But no big tears came marching by; there came
no dreadful trembling—
Yet nearer came the bright‟ning.
„I think I understand,‟ she said, „Our time, too,
is coming.
There isn‟t any trembling; no big tears left for
marching;
Yet still the ever tight‟ning.‟
Fearfully they waited, all close together
clinging.
Nearer to what lay beyond they felt themselves
a-drawing—
Ever nearer to the light‟ning.
One by one they passed beyond—never murmur
making.
One by one, „til only one—the little tear—was
waiting,
Her lonely fears still fighting.
„Little tear, be not afraid. Your journey is
beginning.‟
She passed beyond and found herself on narrow
ledge a-sitting—
Enveloped by a white‟ning.
„Brave little tear, you are the last. I‟ve no more
tears for shedding.
I beg you, take my message to the place where
you are going—
Far, far beyond the bright‟ning.‟
And so began the journey. m
26
27
The Journey
The little tear sat all alone upon her narrow
ledge.
She heard the message in a sigh and gave her
solemn pledge,
Then slowly she began to slide toward she
knew not what.
„Stay little tear. You need not go. Linger
here with me.
I‟ll take you in and keep you safe. I host the
Host, you see.‟
But the little tear continued, saying „Thank
you. I cannot.‟
The gentle Breeze came wafting by and
cooled her with a kiss.
„My brother the Wind could pick you up and
take you far from this.
He‟d carry you off to a garden and set you on
a flower.‟
„No,‟ said the tear; „I must go on.‟ „Why so?‟
said the mighty Sun.
„When I could lift you to the sky—to a world
of warmth and fun.‟
„Please,‟ cried the tear, „I must not stop, al-
though you have such power.‟
Then down she fell, and down, and down.
„Have a care,‟ growled a fly,
As she passed close by. „Leave her be,‟ said
a wandering butterfly;
And the grasses and weeds only nodded their
heads and wondered what they had seen.
Into the bosom of Mother Earth she fell
without a sound,
Then she gathered herself together again to
take a look around.
And the tiny children of Mother Earth asked
where she‟d lately been.
„Far I‟ve come and far must go, but I‟m so
small and weak.‟
„Our strong friends the rocks will help you
find that which you seek.‟
And she rode with them on an earthworm to
beg the rocks for aid.
„Good rocks, I must not fail my host.‟ „Then
you will not,‟ said they.
And she passed with ease from rock to rock,
„til on cool wood she lay,
Too weak to gather herself again, too tired
from the journey made.
„I‟ve a message for he within your walls,‟
she whispered to the wood,
„But I am spent and can‟t go on. Would you
be so good
As to ask of him the question that my host
bade me to ask?‟
„It will do no good,‟ replied the wood, „but
I‟m prepared to try.‟
„Then ask him, please, as I was asked, “Why,
why, why?”
Then I can dry in the knowledge that I have
carried out my task.‟
***
From the wood to the rocks to the tiny chil-
dren, through Mother Earth to the trees,
It murmured forth and was carried aloft by
the Wind and his sister, the Breeze.
It muttered and swirled from the flies to the
birds to the bright-winged butterfly.
Storm clouds gathered to hear, but the
mighty Sun just took himself away,
And the Host and her host, if they heard at
all, had nothing to say that day.
What reply could they give to the muttered
reproof—„No reply, no reply, no reply‟? m
Ruth Withers
Uarbry
with PARIS Portingale
Designed with the artist, rather than the humorist, in mind, this concept turns the usual
„best caption‟ process on its head.
Instead of captioning an existing cartoon, you‟ve been given the caption, and no image!
It‟s up to you to interpret the caption creatively and come up with an appropriate—or
completely bizarre!—cartoon.
Scan your cartoon, complete with caption, and email it to
[email protected] and we will print the best interpretation in the
next issue.
Rory knew the consequences of not swallowing every last
mouthful. There was no spitting out; he'd seen what
they'd done to Piggy Williams.
What
Narrator Magazine is a free online, quarterly, regional
magazine from MoshPit Publishing. It has been designed as a vehicle to provide an outlet for local writers and their short stories, poems and essays of less than 5,000 words.
When
The magazine is produced quarterly and as well as being
online, a limited number of copies are printed for sale.
It is generally available from the first week of each
season.
During the eight weeks following publication, readers are
encouraged to go online and vote for their favourite story, poem or essay as part of the ‘People’s Choice’ award. Only one vote per email address is allowed.
Prizes
Each quarter a secret guest judge is asked to review the
contributions and nominate those three they think most worthy. These three are then awarded small cash prizes of $200, $100 or $50, for first, second and third most worthy works and their ‘wins’ publicised in the next issue of Narrator.
The ‘secret judge’ will be someone with a literary or
writing background or interest and will be revealed in the following issue.
The People’s Choice prize is $50.
Other than the four prizes mentioned above, all
contributions are unpaid. The magazine is an opportunity for writers and artists to gain exposure for their previously unpublished works.
Winners’ names are published in the next issue and
awarded their prizes—$200, $100 and $50.
Copyright
All contributors (writers and artists) retain full copyright in
and ownership of their contributions.
Advertising
Advertisers must reside in or service the region.
The cost of the magazine is subsidised by advertising.
Each page is available for sponsorship, and a maximum of 10% of each content page is reserved for advertising. The remaining 90% of each page will be dedicated to content. Advertisers are ‘first come first serve’—the sooner an advertiser reserves and pays for space, the closer to the front of the magazine their ad will appear.
In the downloadable PDF and online versions, advertisers’
websites will be hyperlinked to their ads.
Opportunities for local artists
Local artists are invited to submit images to appear on the
cover. These will not be paid for.
Writing contributors may also submit an artwork (theirs or
another regional resident’s) to accompany their submission when published. The publisher reserves the right to print the submission without the accompanying artwork.
Restrictions
Contributions must be no more than 5,000 words each.
Contributors must reside in the region.
Advertisers must deliver goods or services to that region,
but may be located outside of it.
Contributors must be aged 18 or over.
The act of uploading a submission via the Narrator
website or in any other manner implies that the contributor is the owner of the work, that the submission is their original work, that it has never been published before, that they are a resident of the region and that they are 18 years of age or over.
For validation purposes, all writing and artistic contributors
must provide full contact details including home address. These details will be suppressed from publication.
All contributors may choose how to have their entry
credited, but will be required to offer a name and village/town e.g. Jenny, Hazelbrook or a pseudonym and village/town e.g. MoshPit, Hazelbrook.
Contributions will generally not be edited, save for a light
spelling, grammar and punctuation check.
The publisher retains the right to refuse publication of any
submission without explanation. Items deemed offensive or potentially offensive, or items deemed to be propaganda will not be published. No correspondence will be entered into.
After publication
With the establishment of other regional Narrator
magazines, a ‘best of the best’ will be published annually showcasing the overall winners. Winners have the right to refuse permission for their submission to be included in this compilation. There will be no payment for inclusion in the annual compilation.
How to submit
Upload your story, poem or essay in Word, .txt or other
MS Word-compatible format via the Submit pages at www.narratormagazine.com
You will be required to go through the Submit process for
each individual submission.
Prizes
Judged prizes will be awarded to the three entries (across all categories) as chosen by that quarter’s ‘secret judge’ as
follows:
1st prize—$200
2nd prize—$100
3rd prize—$50
People’s Choice voting will open on 1 September 2011 at
www.narratormagazine.com.au/vote.php
Voting will close on 31 October 2011.
Only one entry per email address allowed.
$50 will be awarded to the entry which receives the most votes.
Winners’ details will be published in the Summer issue due out
1 December 2011 and on the website at
www.narratormagazine.com.au
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