Jungle Land
David J Keegan
Paddington, QLD
The lights in Jungle Land are being switched off. Not all the lights, just the white ones that illuminate the ticketing booths and the food stands, the menus, the prices. Little patches of black appearing here and there. The lights from the attractions and the rides remain. In pulsing patterns and dazzling colours they light up the atmosphere. A canopy of light that glows above the darkening underbrush. In the distance, night time is inking things darkly. The air is so still, so thin that I feel as though the lines of my body have become soft, are smudging. This is the time of day that you loved the most. I used to watch from the southern entry, the one behind the little pool we called your river, watch you tense your muscles, fluff up your fur and swish your tail. Your eyes were open wide against the fading light. This is the time of day when you would stalk your prey, the food that I tried so hard to find exciting new places to hide. We called it prey, but it was dead and safe and guaranteed. When I hid your food, sometimes I would have visions of you out beyond our fences and over the ocean. Out where you would prowl, silent despite your size, and your claws would prickle with excitement and your teeth would show and your eyes would burn through the darkness and you could hunt, really hunt.
I am sitting here on the little hill in your enclosure and the grass looks purple in this light. This is where I sat with you the day you arrived. You were a ragged thing and too thin. Your mother had died in a zoo near Adelaide and you made the trip all the way over to us by yourself in a cage. It was your ribs so clear through your pale fur that upset me the most. Your ribs reminded me of Joanne’s cheek bones. The dips in your side were the gaunt falls in her face. The way you lay in my lap with no fire inside you was the way Joanne lay in the hospital bed.
My cheeks are sore from the tears and the tingling cool air—they burn and sting. So do my eyes as I rub them. Little waves of anger oscillate over me, coming at odd times, suddenly rising. I sniff my nose and shake my head, trying to clear the last image of you from my mind. Your eyes were only half closed. I could see the citrine and I am so scared that you were conscious, that your eyes were open because you were watching me.
My leg itches on the grass and I dig my finger into the rivulets of shiny skin that run down my leg. That is where you got me. I was so angry at you that morning. You weren’t eating, weren’t walking or moving or reacting. I looked around at the blank faces of the other keepers, like a fish had been found dead in one of the fountains. There is no other way to explain it, I saw through your body then, into your heart. I could feel its beat through the steel of the door and the glass of the windows. You were so furious inside. I threw the door open and the other keepers took a long time to react. I was in front of you, heaving the goat carcass and yelling before Sammy started into the enclosure after me. Stop, I told her. I remember someone yelling at me, telling me to get back behind the door, asking what was I doing. When I stopped in front of you, you barely acknowledged me at all. I remember the noise in your throat, it was desperate. It had only been a week since Joanne died and I saw it in your eyes like I had been seeing it in mine every morning. The questions—why bother getting up, why bother breathing? I slapped you, right in your face. I slapped you and you were on your feet in a heartbeat, baring your teeth at me, and I slapped you again. Come on, come on, I said it over and over again. Remember? I threw the carcass at you and then picked it up and threw it again. There was another keeper, Jim, I think, behind me, and he shouted something. He saw you tense. I didn’t. I didn’t see you moving because it was what I wanted. You sprung and knocked me flat and then there was pain in my leg and yelling. It’s okay, it’s okay, I shouted over and over as they dragged me out of your enclosure. God how I had to fight management after that just to keep you. I won’t ever forget the blood on your cheeks and the way your tongue flicked and smoothed your whiskers and just how ferociously you tore that carcass apart.
The light has faded more now and the auras off the amusements are plunging into the sky. Stars are smiling far away from me, and with my neck craned all the way back I can see them watching. The Python Pillar is bright yellow and green over the tree line. Its top wobbles at its zenith—you notice it when you are on the ride, at the top where you pause before you get dropped and you feel like your insides are crawling into your throat. The colours of the rides blur and I can see the wet patches on the orange and cream of your neck as we sat in the early morning. I can see the shake in my hands as I tried to get you to play with your toys, to burn some energy and work up an appetite. I feel like I have stepped off the edge, like I’m at the top of the Python Pillar and I am about to free fall. I lie down, exhale, and try to feel the earth’s rotation underneath me. I turn to my side and it doesn’t surprise me that I can see you sitting next to me. I sit up and turn to you. You are watching the distance, the way you always did, like you could see into the space between things. I reach over and touch you.
I blink and I am in the hospital. My mouth tastes alkaline, like I haven’t eaten in days and I haven’t slept in days. My lips are stuck together. Joanne’s mum and dad are holding her and crying over her body and there are sounds coming from their mouths. A doctor is standing in the corner of the room. He is a sketch, white coat like an angel’s folded wings, long black legs like Death’s. He is blurred, he only exists in halves. I can hear the metronome rhythm of the machines, the mechanical momentum, sterile, cold, in perfect time. There are more sounds but they come through water. My feet carry me as far as Joanne’s bedside.
I blink again and I am back on the mound of grass. You are watching me. I can see you lying on the steel table. You have a green coat over your body. It was stained black in patches. There are clamps holding open a surgical incision in your side, there are sections of your organs on a steel tray. Kym is shaking her head and then she looks at me and I look down. In my hands are your drip and a syringe.
I am back in the hospital. The room seems faded, as though a fog has slithered through the windows. The steel railing of the bed is hard and cold and it hurts because I am pressing my knees and shins into it very hard. I am squeezing Joanne and saying things like, I’m sorry.
Now there is fur in my hand, a huge clump of your neck held tight in my fist. On the tray behind me is an empty syringe. The beeps have slowed and then they stop. No sound comes again and the room disappears.
Night is everywhere and the lights of the rides are brighter against the absolute dark. You are glowing now, no longer black and orange and brilliant cream, you are vaporous and blue. I want to tell you that it was me that did it, that I was the one that squeezed the poison into your drip and sent you away forever. I am talking out loud and you look at me like you understand, but I am wrong, you don’t understand, you already know. You know that it was me, you watched me do it, watched my thumb press down and watched my eyes close. Through your transparent form I can see Joanne lying still. She looked like she was in a film, like someone had done her make-up, made her look much older, much paler and frailer and skinnier than she really was. Now it is like a movie for me. I have tried to remember being in my body but I can’t, I wasn’t there. I was hovering in the distance, watching my body lean over Joanne, watching it squeeze and squeeze her and beg the life to come back into her, watching my face press against hers and then watching my body do something I could never have done. I watched it turn to the ghost in the corner and nod. I watched the white shape with its slash of black move like a haunting and press a button or a switch, and then I am back inside of me and I feel something move underneath me, like the thing I was holding was suddenly lighter, like it weighed nothing at all. That is just how you felt, like you were suddenly gone, like you were lighter than I could believe.
I can barely see you at all. The lights from the park have made the tree line of your enclosure sharp and eternally black. The firmament is glowing on all sides from the lifeless roller coaster, the towering and still rides. There is a sound behind me and I lis
ten as I hear steps slowly crunch through the grass. A voice asks how I am doing. Tells me that they are moving your body, they ask me if I want to come and say goodbye.
I watch myself stand up after how many hours lying across Joanne. Stiff and moving on strings, my body finds its way outside and into the hall.
I open my eyes and try to clear my vision as I watch the shimmering form of you dissolve. I watch it catch in the wind like a globe of dandelion seeds, watch the breeze snatch you and carry you swirling upwards. Your light mixes into the glow of Jungle Land and I watch it rise up and up and up, into the sky and towards the stars.
Ed: As I sat wiping away my silent but copious tears after reading this, my husband looked across at me, smiled, and said, ‘The power of the written word, huh?’ I think that says it all.
Saturday 20 July 2013 4 pm
Dry
Craig Stanton
Wentworth Falls, NSW
So, my world has become a dull run of days
And I find as each passes I bear it and grin;
White-knuckling down through a beige-coloured haze,
My resolve black and grim as ever it’s been.
My rote explanations, demurrals well-learned,
Are keeping me sober while giving folk pause;
It’s hard not to feel that a good drink is earned
When I’m working so hard to be true to the Cause.
It’s not the temptation that’s pulled me off-track,
No ‘snake-in-a-bottle’ that’s luring me in;
But grinding exhaustion is hauling me back
And caffeine’s a bitter replacement for sin.
I’m thinking of all the resolve I could drown
Whilst sitting here dry in a damp, drunken town.
The billboards around me all loudly proclaim
That icy-cold beers are on hand to be had:
Those sun-kissed, gold beauties all seem to declaim
That beer’s what they like, most of all, in a lad.
Their siren-song tears through the night from the bars
(The Agincourt’s full and seems ready to burst):
The drinkers all stagger through puke and past cars
While I watch them and cradle an odious thirst.
This city is nursing a dry, dusty heart
Shriveled and sere as a dead paper flower;
A simple libation will cause it to start
And pump, double-time, all through Happy Hour.
A gurgling bottle’s a terrible sound
When you’re all alone dry in a damp, drunken town.
I’m certain a Meeting’s the best place to be
When I’m feeling so flat, so hemmed-in and so thin;
But a Meeting feels too much like failure to me,
An admission that something’s got under my skin:
I’d sit there avoiding eye-contact with those
Whose stories are worse than mine ever will be
And wait for an hour and the last prayer, to close
A teeth-grinding session of ‘poor me, poor me!’
So I’ll think of my shrink and my last rehab stay;
Run through my mantras and see which ones stick;
Go home and watch TV; I might even pray
And hope that a sheer force of will does the trick.
Or sheer desperation: It’s wearing me down,
This abstinent life in a damp, drunken town.
Meanwhile, on Broadway, the lights are all bright:
The groups of young men who linger to watch
The girls on stilettos’ wild sway through the night
As the DJs crank up the downbeat one more notch,
Are suckling from bottles and glasses and bags –
A feverish consumption with no time to waste –
Ignoring the spillage that wets their glad-rags;
An intake that strives for effect and not taste.
And oh! To be with them; to enter that crowd,
Belly-up to the bar and screw my resolve;
Grab a quiet drink while the music gets loud
And feel those God-damn’ good intentions dissolve ...
But my bus comes; I get on; I quickly sit down;
Pull away from the heat of this damned, drunken town ...
Saturday 20 July 2013
A Jolly Saturday
Virginia Gow
Blackheath, NSW
Wild
Rain
Lashes
City streets
Prancing umbrellas
Tap-dance on tessellated tiles.
Beat exciting rhythms in the creaking lacy lift.
Floor Three, QVB, just the place for a High Tea!
Jolly round table set with crisp white tablecloth, matching napkins placed on eager laps.
Cousins slip into easy conversation as they
Enjoy champagne and savouries,
Sip exotic teas
Munch on scones
Freshly
Baked
Then
Spread
Jam
Juicy
Raspberry
Sublime clotted cream
Dainty cakes on tri-leveled dish
Royal Albert Fine bone China Roses, elegant gold leaf handles on full-bodied cups,
Our Grandmother set her table with the very same!
Family history sharing
Propinquity
Amusing
Daylight’s
Deft
Hours.
Sunday 21 July 2013
Majestic Drivel
James Craib
Wentworth Falls, NSW
Damn it James C (and that indeed is me!), has your sword gone rusty in the scabbard?
Still got nothing terse to say; no weighty insights on the way; no skeletons left inside the cupboard?
The topic is majestic, in name only quite eclectic – how about the Hydro Majestic Hotel?
Or there’s Her Majesty the Queen – I wonder ... does our Betty eat tinned sardines?
If she consumes too many then undoubtedly she will smell!
This is such majestic drivel and to be sure I could well shrivel into my shell; becoming dafter,
And not write down another word, but that would be absurd and so what comes hereafter ...
Is yet a further anagram, (I did warn you I’m a sham!) I am known as the mad civil jester.
What a tragedy to have been the bearer of prose bordering on obscene!
There’s a canker in my plastic soul beginning to fester.
And yet there’s something quite convivial to an evening spent on the trivial with the odd folk.
A night out at the rubbity; answering questions about the absurdity of life – that eternal joke.
Abandon all hope of sagacity or basic veracity, James’ drivel tic is enough to make you sick.
Perhaps it’s right and proper that The Phantom of the Opera has played on Broadway ...
For twenty five years, my peers, at the theatre Majestic.
HMS Majestic became HMAS Melbourne and struck HMAS Voyager upon the sea.
As a lad, when in the cubs, I toured the Voyager, long before it was scrubbed out ignominiously.
The Melbourne also struck USS Frank E. Evans; heavens: nothing majestic there at all.
Never fired a shot in anger did this stalwart carrier but clearly that was no barrier to service hectic.
The Chinese bought the old ship for scrap, but before she left the map; they studied her intensely ...
Bow to stern. There was much to learn; they said she arrived ‘afloat, proud and majestic’.
So just what is electric about the term – majestic? It hints at something grandiose and splendid.
Such as The Majestic Plastic Bag that drags itself across the Pacific to a plastic heaven so fetid?
It’s an area bigger than Texas where plastic forms a nexus; wildlife ingests pieces – it’s tragic!
So now there’s plastic
in the food chain, or so this film insists, listing such a litany of woe ...
But a word before I go, plastic sardines are great you now know: verily they’re majestic.
Monday 22 July 2013
Pearl Fishers
Henry Johnston
Rozelle, NSW
A Greek diver told me the lustre of a pearl is born upon the sheen of evening clouds and dusted with tiny droplets of rain before scattering amidst high winds. When caught by the rays of the setting sun each drop, as if a gem, floats across the curve of the clouds, streaming points of colour in its wake in a coalescence of pale greens and blues.
In the days after the bombing of the Koolama the diver, one of Broome’s Snub-Nose Porpoise clan, said a pearl is a droplet of Hera’s breast milk fallen from the sky then hidden from the mortal Heracles among the stony shells of oysters.
Diving the depths in search of the pearl oyster, he said, is a task bestowed by Heracles upon his clan. Each pearl won from the sea must be polished and mounted as befits a jewel, and worn around the neck or breast of women as a love token of Heracles for his divine mother.
Hera, he said, is the wife of Zeus.
The diver Achilles rescued Sid and me from the mangrove swamps of Rulhieres Bay. We remained aboard his pearler in the weeks after the Koolama sank at its mooring in Wyndham harbour.
Achilles’ ancestral village is Soli, which once nestled in Cilicia, due north of Cyprus from where his latter day clansmen sailed to Western Australia.
At night at sea, after the day is done, the divers of the clan scan the Milky Way seeking changes within the display of the constellations. The stars never rest, he said, and the dark bowl of night presages the fate of the following day.
Every sign speaks of fair wind or foul, a fine catch or famine, another day of life or the Siren’s song before death on the rocks of Hades. A native of Soli named Aratus codified these signs, and every sailor of the Snub-Nose Porpoise clan knows them by heart.
‘If we are to interpret the mind of a god we must first learn his alphabet,’ Achilles said. Then he sang in the Rembetiko style and translated the words for me thus:
‘For Zeus must never leave unspoken.
For every street, every market place is full of Zeus. Even the sea and the harbour are full of this god.
Everywhere, everyone is indebted to Zeus, for we are indeed his offspring.
For Zeus set the signs in heaven, and marked out the constellations, and for the year devised what stars should give to men the right signs of the seasons.’
‘What good is a knot if the timbers they clasp are rotten? What use a sail if the wind is still?
‘Know the signs,’ Achilles said, ‘and your ship shall hold fast and her sails be always full.’
After a Zero buzzed the pearler I asked Achilles if he feared the Japanese and if he would fight them. He said no for he had many Japanese friends in Broome.
‘I dive in the hard hat and breathe air pumped down a line, but the Japanese are more nimble and seek the pearl in shallow water. The best among them are women who dive bare breasted and hold their breath for minutes beyond human endurance and yet never fall prey to Caisson disease.
‘We Greeks and Japanese fished for pearls for years before my birth. I have drunk their Saki and them my Ouzo, and together we sing our native songs around great fires lit along the beaches of Broome. If a Japanese fell into the sea I would throw a rope and take him aboard, for to save a sailor is to be blessed in the afterlife’.
Achilles taught me the art of sail; how to tack port and starboard, to bear away, the difference between leeway and leeward and the hazards of pinching the eye of the wind.
As I stood beside Achilles at the tiller I watched heel and gybe, and with Sid’s help trimmed the sails and set course to the mission at the mouth of the Drysdale River and eventual repatriation to Perth. But I would not go back, I would not return to Nazareth House.
My muscles took shape from the pounds of fish and potatoes, from milk by the quart, from loaves of bread and pats of butter. And all around me the skirl of war, as fearful as the clouds of mosquitoes, as sharp as the tang of salt on my face, as rapid as the run of the tide.
My first ship had sunk, and my contract as a kitchen hand void, but now I was a sailor. Thousands of boys of my age served in the Navy, so why not me?
Sid dreamt of learning navigation, of mastering the sexton and compass. He would read the maps and charts of Cook and Jacobsz, and the best way to learn he said is to join the Navy.
There are no roads south from the Drysdale River, and the priests at Kalumbaru Mission pressed Achilles to evacuate the Wunumbal women and children to Wyndham or even as far as Darwin.
One girl who came aboard was a year younger than me. An orphan Kanaka from the far Pacific, she is Leila Leilani and I have loved her since the first day I saw her. We have children now and are to marry, but in February 1942 Japanese patrol boats prowled close by us in the Timor Sea while their bombers sought out and destroyed the Allied war ships moored in Darwin Harbour.
Achilles loaded as many people as he could carry, sailing south by night, leery of the treacherous shoals, the tangled mangroves and the red eyed salt-water crocodiles. I took the night watch by his side and told him of my plans, and as I spoke, Achilles pointed to Canis Major and the fish which faces Cetus.
‘See how Piscis Australis glows red. Now follow the path of Arcturus and watch sharp for the rise of Altar.’
Sure enough, each star as described by Achilles passed through the night as our bow rose and dipped again and again into the oncoming swell.
‘This night, this ancient night now weeps the woe of men. For ships in trouble pain her heart and other signs in other quarters she kindles in sorrow for mariners, storm-buffeted at sea.’
Tuesday 23 July 2013
Frightened Night Child
Rachel Branscombe
Quakers Hill, NSW
Even now I hear the weeping
The poor girl crying herself to sleep
She knows not why she cries
But tears come anyway
She’s frightened but does not know
What scares away her sleep
Maybe it’s the darkness that fills her fear that steals her slumber
A noise fills her ear and she shakes with fear
What could the noise be?
It is the tree outside her room
She hears as a howling monster
Wanting to eat her
She leaps from the bed
and runs down the hall
Her parents none too pleased to see her
Another night of unrest
For the child afraid of the night
Tuesday 23 July 2013 4 pm
The Dark Garden
Felicity Lynch
Katoomba, NSW
One afternoon, gazing dreamily out of my window, not really thinking of anything, I heard a bird singing in the shadow of the trees, the notes pure and true.
He wasn’t a very pretty bird, small in size but free and wild. In the purple shadows he stood and sang, a song from the heart that reached into my soul.
The song, in my quiet haven, spoke of the open sky, blue gum trees, windswept clouds, sadness, longing, happiness and laughter, memories and loss.
The bird reminded me that happiness is fleeting, like sunbeams glinting off drops of rain, small rainbows of hope and faith, beauty and harmony.
The bird sang of loneliness, to look inside oneself to know who you are, the music of intangibles, the seeking of eternity – all wrapped together in the bird’s free born soul.
The sun was beginning to set as the bird flew away, flashing sun-tipped wings as still singing his wild bird song, he was swallowed in the immensity of the sky.
A sadness filled the space as silence once again descended onto this mountain retreat, the gathering dusk swallowing the purple shadows so that only the memory remained, of the wild bird song – a roving spirit. All now was darkn
ess.
Wednesday 24 July 2013
You And I
Sammy
Glen Waverley, VIC
There is white all around me, a colour as innocent as snow but as deadly as poison. It is a contrast to the black of my attire. But it isn’t only me that shares this sight, there is also him. I crouch behind a thick wall of polished stone, listening out for sounds.
You move your feet ever so slightly. It can’t see you but neither can you see it. It can’t hear you but you can hear it. You need to be careful. The best and quickest way to attack is to distract the opponent. That is what you’ve gathered from your other fights. Pzzhhh. You shoot a laser beam to your left. It goes straight through a wall of polished stone. That is your distraction. Now you have to find it.
It’s him. I’m sure of it. I see the laser beam. It is pointed several feet away. I’m lucky that his aim is poor. Now, I can track down the laser beam’s origin. My eyes follow the path of the beam and squinting, I mark out a dark silhouette. Slowly, I lift my gun to the eyepiece. This might be my only chance.
Brmmm. A cold sensation spreads throughout your shoulder. It hurts but it awakens your brain. You carefully raise your hand to touch your shoulder. You can’t let any rocks slip as they would echo and alert the enemy. Your fingers touch something warm and sticky. It is crimson red. Blood? Suddenly there are flashes of black in your field of vision. You can’t afford to become unconscious. You would become an easy prey.
All of a sudden, my eyes start flittering like a struggling butterfly. My vision splits everything in two. I can only think of my beautiful baby, Marigold. Her little hands wrapped around my neck, begging me to give her a piggy back. Faith would laugh in the back. Oh, Faith, my lovely wife. I wish they could be here to give me the will power in this desperate time. Arhhh. I don’t care if the person hears me. The pain is slicing through into my brain and I feel something trickling on my shoulder. Perhaps it’s blood but I don’t recall getting shot at. My eyes close with thoughts of Faith and Marigold in my mind.
You have to hurry up. You’re hurt but you need to use the situation to your advantage. You move carefully. The pain is searing upwards. There is a gigantic rock wall behind you which you lean on. Deep breaths. Just take deep breaths. This is becoming another endless ritual of the hunter and the hunted. You look around for your laser gun. Where is it? You should be winning. Why isn’t anything working for you? The pain is rocketing throughout your upper body. The enemy mustn’t hear you, no matter the pain.
My eyes open. I am staring at the smooth surface of the white rock wall. It is so smooth. I take a big gasp of air even though I am not choking. I think of Marigold. Then I think of it. Using the arm that doesn’t hurt I stretch my neck. All I can see is white rock walls and structures. The only defecting part is where I am laid. Where could it be? I look around for my gun but it is nowhere in sight. It doesn’t matter. I am nearly dead. There is a heavy rock on my knees, my shoulder is bleeding heavily and I have to kill a person that is trying to kill me. Why am I here? I furrow my brows in concentration. I can remember faint memories. I was in a centre. There were doctors, scientists and researchers around me. They were telling me to kill an enemy. He was the most dangerous person the police had ever encountered. He was in the underground stone room. Then I went in to kill him. Who is the enemy? Why was I sent? They never told me anything. If he was so dangerous, how did they catch him for me to kill? I stare around the rocks. I notice the room looks a lot smaller staring at it from ground level. Above the stone there is a thin sheet of a plastic-like material. I raise my head up for a better look. Abruptly something moves in the corner of my eye. I retract my hand almost as quickly. A strange feeling encloses me. I slowly raise my hand. Again I see the movement but it is longer and slower. What is going on?
I lift the rock of my body. It requires a lot of strength. Now I can see the edge of the two stone walls right in front of me. I want to see the left side, where I saw movement. I grab the crevice in the rock structure next to me. I heave my body upwards but it is too painful. I will have to crawl.
There he is, standing right in front of me. He looks as astounded as me. I need to know why I am here and he is the only person I have contact with. Slowly I inch closer, never taking my eyes off him. No. No. This can’t be right. He is doing the same thing I am. I move my right arm and his left arm moves up in the same position. It can’t be. I stand up; my attention is only on this. Adrenaline is seeping through into my blood stream. This is the only way to find out. I reach out and his hand is at the opposite position as mine. Our eyes stare at each other with horrible truth. Moving my hand closer all I feel is cold plastic.
He is my reflection. I was destined to kill him. I was here, destined to kill myself.
My head feels 1000 tonnes. The world is spinning faster and faster. Nothing makes sense as my head hits the cold hard ground. So does his. At the same time I see the team running from behind my reflection.
A doctor is sitting with me in a lounge room. His eyes are deep set with circles around them. His hair is dishevelled and his coat is covered with coffee stains. He has explained to me that he was observing the fight between me and my reflection. He also told me an obscure story that apparently I was the CIA’s best agent. During one of my field jobs, a spy attacked me with a special virus to make me reveal the CIA’s well kept secrets. My body resisted the virus but it caused havoc in my memories. The spy tried another method to collect the information. She built a story in which I was a father and her husband. As the story developed, she linked topics of the secrets to what was happening. When it was the birth of my child, she lured information about the birth of the new war machine. How it worked, what powered it, its speed and technicalities. The problem was as she was developing this fake storyline, my brain was splitting itself into two personalities. On one hand, I was a jolly father with a lovely family and on the other, I was a CIA agent. The CIA agent personality was turned into an evil, hollow machine who, when it had a goal, did anything to achieve it. After getting the entire secret, the spy left satisfied and not sorry for what she had done to him.
It was a believable story but I knew deep down that lovely Faith and Marigold were real. I didn’t care about the CIA agent story but I knew there was no denying the love for my family.
The doctor spoke again to continue his tale. ‘You were found the day she left you. You were a troubled man and you still are,’ stated the doctor. ‘They couldn’t reveal the truth then as you wouldn’t know what your reality was and greater damage would’ve occurred to your brain. Instead they continued the story of the father. A doctor here was your fake wife, and your niece, Candice, was your fake daughter. The fake wife took notes and steadied your mind with mental therapy. It was good until a few weeks ago. You had run outside like a madman, trying to locate the spy, who took the secrets from you. You were terrorising the streets and it was scary for the public. It was also at this time that your fake wife resigned from her position. You needed to be kept so we, the CIA’s private team of doctors, took you in our special home care. No therapy or action we took was working. It was like you were losing your battle between the father and the hungry evil agent. Your mental health was deteriorating and we couldn’t let you roam the streets. You had to be terminated. And I think you know what happened next ...’
My mouth hung in shock and horror. I knew that the part about my wife and daughter weren’t true but the rest ...What had happened with my life? I had no life. I should’ve been terminated earlier. Yet even with this attempt I managed to break free. Why didn’t I just die already? My life was in ruins. How? What had I done? I stare at the lounge room in the centre. It all started because of that spy who ruined my life, family and my reality.
All around me there is white, white as innocent as snow but deadly as poison. Dark clouds loom in your head. A vicious plan is designing in my head of what you will do to her. You will have to kill her. That is your goal. You will have to track her down.
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br /> Thursday 25 July 2013
The Quiet Carriage
Michele Fermanis-Winward
Leura, NSW
Our country train waits to depart,
the guard with flag in hand
and whistle to his mouth
is stamping feet
against a wintry night,
impatient for his cabin
and its coffee flavoured warmth.
Passengers rush through the gates
the guard knows they would chill
another hour if he can’t wait.
The last to board,
a mother with a toddler
jangling from her hip
and baby in the pram
she’s battling to push.
Her face is flushed,
her breath is short with strain,
the glare of carriage lights
expose her parlous state.
She unclasps a little girl
dark skin and curling hair
broad face, enchanting eyes.
I attempt to praise the child
above the rattling roar,
she cannot hear, her mother sighs
they wait to operate
upon the girl’s blocked ears,
She tells her, please,
just go to sleep,
we have a long ride home.
Tight faced with rage
a man appears, stands over us
and shouts into her face.
Against the rules, she raised her voice,
the power his badge confers
will put her off at our next stop,
he moves away to rouse the guard,
so he can chide us all.
I mutter words of my regret
about abuse and NAIDOC week,
she tunes out, curls in upon herself,
has heard it all before,
from men like him, and worse,
those empty sorry words
like mine.
Thursday 25 July 2013 4 pm
The Battle Of Stirling Bridge
David Jenkins
O’Connor, ACT
And near the Stirling bridge,
Scotland’s brave and blessed few.
Stood fast; and unyielding,
In morning’s frost and pitiless dew.
And when Longshank’s army there amassed,
Our Wallace carried to them a shrill fight.
And beyond mere numbers reason;
Wallace sent the heavy English to flight.
And no traitor to Scotland was he;
Once all was said; and all was done;
That this the flower of Scotland was led,
By this; Scotland’s most valiant son.
Friday 26 July 2013
The Art Of Nothingness
Judith Bruton
Lennox Head, NSW
sky on water
water on sky merge
pure blue stillness