I said to him. ‘Mate, now I understand.’
And smiling, I hugged his huge hairy hand.
‘We’ll get your story on Sydney TV,
when people meet you they will plainly see ...’
Then I stopped, and knew that if this I tried,
My new found friend would be crucified.
In a lab, by scientists and ASIO
There must be more safer ways for us to go.
Well I tried to think of what I could do
I don’t want to see him in Taronga Zoo
So I brought him some things to enjoy a new life
A fridge, plates, spoon, a fork and a knife.
A solar panel for electricity,
a satellite dish, a colour TV.
Laptop with broadband, a stove that he’ll brew
A nice pot of tea, and some wallaby stew.
He’s even on Facebook, as large as you please
Aussie friends by the thousands, and some overseas.
Makes girls want to meet him and see the real deal
But wait till they meet him – and his photo is real!
My friend the Yowie, he’s nine feet tall.
You’d hate to face him, in a bar room brawl
But now he’s happy, ’cause I’m his best friend
And he’ll never face loneliness, ever again.
Friday 22 February 2013 4 pm
I Am Desire
Graham Sparks
Bathurst, NSW
To think that I could ever be a Buddhist,
or ever be a Daoist even!
To think that I could shed desire,
desire for anything,
desire for female flesh,
desire to clothe conceptual bones of dreams
in flesh that I could touch and feel,
and bring those dreams to life.
To feel them being born through me.
In the past they said I was a cunt,
I cannot prove them wrong,
The world is flesh and I’m its man.
Saturday 23 February 2013
The Billet
AB
Kanimbla, NSW
‘Out here,’ the woman said as she walked to the back of the house and gestured towards a closed-in verandah. With the twin iron bedheads against the wall, they reminded him of hospital beds – white sheets, white coverlets – except for the thick, homemade crocheted throws at the end of each one.
‘This is nice,’ the young soldier said politely.
‘Spare blankets in the wardrobe. It gets cold at night when the sun goes down.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ the young soldier reassured her. ‘I have to learn to rough it, Missus.’
The woman smiled tiredly. ‘I’ll call you when tea’s ready.’ She turned and left abruptly.
The young soldier shrugged. Not your motherly type, is she? Feel like I’m imposing. A bit rough when I’m off to fight for my country: I thought country people were friendly. He stared out at the acres of thirsty soil; three granite boulders huddled together near the chook house in the backyard.
‘I wouldn’t be too hard on her.’
The young soldier spun around, his slouch hat flying out of his hand. Opposite him, sitting on the spare bed was a soldier in muddy, ill-fitting khaki.
‘Where’d you spring from?’
‘Me?’ he laughed. ‘I’m always around. Keeping an eye on things. Making sure Mum’s alright.’ He smiled wearily at the newcomer. ‘Me mum’s had a rough trot. Don’t be too hard on her.’
‘I didn’t know she had a son.’
‘Only one. Me! The bad boy.’
‘Bad? How?’
‘“Wilful” she calls me. Ran away to fight. Her best bad boy: I know what she thinks, always thinking about me,’ he said idly pulling at the wool of the crocheted throw. ‘Anyway, what’s your name?’
‘Tommy!’
The weary soldier laughed. ‘That’s a shame. Tommy! Bet you get ribbed a lot.’
‘Why?’
‘You know, tommy gun. Maybe your parents knew you’d go to make a soldier some day.’
Tommy shrugged then asked, ‘What’s your name?’ as he held out his hand.
‘Len,’ he said, shaking the proffered hand. Abruptly he said, ‘When do you go?’
‘Two days,’ Tommy answered, eyes sparkling, his boyish face full of hope for adventure. ‘I volunteered. Off to France!’
‘Muddy place, France.’
‘You been there?’
‘Yeah! Dad was there too.’
Tommy looked surprised. ‘When?’
‘The last war,’ Len laughed bitterly. ‘The Great War! “The war to end all wars”. At least, that’s what everyone hoped.’
Tommy asked cautiously, ‘Did he make it back?’
Len’s face took on a strange expression. ‘Would have if he hadn’t got lead poisoning.’
‘That’s a shame,’ Tommy said, head bowed.
‘Yeah! More like a family tradition. His father went the same way.’
‘Lead poisoning? ’
Len nodded. ‘Occupational hazard if you’re a soldier.’
Tommy looked blank and then laughed. ‘Oh, you mean bullets.’
Len shrugged. ‘Well, young Tommy: not yet blooded.’
Tommy blushed under the soldier’s gaze. ‘I know it sounds funny but sometimes I think I’ve already been to war. Sometimes, I’m sure I hear gunfire and smell cordite.’
‘Maybe you were always a soldier. Maybe you were a soldier in another life. Some people believe that. Learning that fighting doesn’t win the war.’
Tommy grinned. ‘That’s a mad idea. You mean, soldiers just come back as soldiers until they refuse to fight any more?’
Len smiling gently shrugged again and stood up. ‘Maybe. You should take a look at our granite boulders before you go off fighting.’ He looked keenly at Tommy but Tommy just smiled back uncertain. Changing the subject, Len said quickly, ‘Look, it’s almost teatime. Do me a favour. Don’t tell Mum you’ve seen me. It’d only upset her. Alright?’ He stood up and hurdled over the spare bed, disappearing around the corner of the verandah.
Tommy shrugged. Odd family! Why wouldn’t I tell her?
Just then, Len’s mother walked out to the verandah. ‘Alright?’ she asked, echoing her son’s last word. Briskly, she said, ‘Bathroom’s first on the left.’ She pointed outside. ‘Outside dunny: drought’s not broken so don’t waste water. You from the city?’
He smiled pleasantly. ‘Erskineville! All my life.’
She nodded. ‘Tea’s ready.’ She walked back to the kitchen, Tommy following.
They sat opposite each other, lamb, gravy, roast potato and pumpkin, peas, and slices of thick bread on a plate in front of them. They ate in silence. When she’d cleared the plates and put them in the sink, she said, ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’ Placing the teapot on the table, the woman sat down heavily, staring into her cup.
‘Very nice tea thanks Missus,’ Tommy said. She nodded shyly. ‘Do you get some help on the farm?’
She sighed. ‘I do most of it now with help from my neighbours at harvest time. My son used to help.’
She looked up at him and smiled her tired smile. ‘My bad boy.’
‘Bad? How?’
‘Wilful. My best bad boy! Sorry,’ she said suddenly. ‘I’ve forgotten your name.’
‘Tommy!’
She shook her head. ‘That’s a shame. Tommy! Bet you get ribbed a lot.’
‘Why?’ he asked slowly, feeling his scalp tingle.
‘You know, tommy gun. Maybe your parents knew you’d go to make a soldier some day.’
‘That’s just what …’ He stopped himself in time.
The woman glanced up at him and then back into her teacup, as if she would find an answer there.
‘You know Tommy, mothers have sons and fathers dig graves. The men die of warring. And the mothers die of grief.’
Abruptly, Tommy stood up, his chair fallin
g onto the kitchen lino. ‘Those granite boulders out back – I think I want to see them.’
She nodded slowly. ‘I’ll show you.’
With his heart beating wildly in his chest, Tommy followed her onto the verandah and out to the backyard. Without looking at them, she waved him forward.
Slowly, Tommy squatted down on his haunches, staring at the weathered face of the rocks in front of him. Taking his time, slowing his breathing, he began to read the inscriptions:
Leonard Albert Frost, died 1899, Boer War, of wounds sustained.
Leonard John Frost, died 1916, the Great War, of wounds sustained.
Leonard Frost, died 1941, World War II, of wounds sustained.
And then, further down, he read:
Mary Frost, died 1942, mother of Leonard Frost, of grief.
‘That’s right,’ she said softly. ‘I’m buried with my son.’ Turning to the young soldier who rose pale before her, she asked, ‘You’ve volunteered, Tommy. Will you still go off to war?’
Sunday 24 February 2013
Julian And Cecilia
Jenny Kathopoulis
Wodonga, VIC
Present
My name is Julian and I am scared. Cecilia will not leave me alone. I am in the bathroom, hiding from her at the moment. I go to the mirror and look at my reflection, my pale face and huge scared eyes stare back at me. I quickly go to the door and lock it because Cecilia can get violent at times and she’s very strong. She’s becoming more and more demanding. I told her to leave me alone and I’ve been ignoring her. She hates it when I do that. I need to get rid of her or she will ruin everything. Livy must not find out about her, never. She’s getting reckless and appearing when she shouldn’t. It’s like she wants us to be caught! I can’t believe it all started so innocently all those years ago.
Seventeen years ago
I am nineteen years old and in the throes of another beer buzz. The nightclub is crowded and the smell of smoke and sweat overrides everything else. I’m on the dance floor, dancing and laughing while enjoying the sensation of the floor spinning underneath my feet until I taste bile mixed with alcohol in my mouth. I quickly leave my friends and enter the toilets rushing to the basin. I splash my face with water and close my eyes in an attempt to make the nausea go away. I can feel my breath becoming shallow, fast and my heart picking up pace to match my breath. I fill with dread as I recognise the signs of a panic attack.
‘No, no, not now, please.’
‘Awww, what’s the matter? Is the poor little boy feeling sick?’
My eyes fly open. In the mirror I can see a woman standing just inside one of the cubicles. She is blonde, mannish with watery blue eyes. I spin around to face her.
‘Wh-where did you come from?’ I stammer.
‘Been here all the time, sweetness.’ She moves closer to me. She oozes sexuality. I feel the stirrings of sexual attraction but also revulsion at the same time.
‘So what’s got the poor boy all worked up?’ She is brushing up against me, her finger tracing the sweat running down my face. I can smell her fermented breath breathing into my mouth. It turns my stomach.
‘Ummm, nothing. Just drank too m-much,’ I say pulling away, but she moves with me, leechlike. ‘I, umm, better get going, gonna go home. I feel like crap.’
‘Well, I have just the thing for you,’ she says, pulling a small vial from her top, being sure to flash bare skin. ‘Here, take this. You’ll feel better in no time. I promise.’
I stare at the vial with its green liquid in it. I remember all the panic attacks of late, the stress, the constant tightness in my chest. I want to relax. Just for one night. I take the vial from her.
‘So what’s your name?’
‘Cecilia.’
‘Well, here’s to you, Cecilia,’ I mock salute her, before downing the liquid.
Cecilia laughs slyly.
‘Thata boy. How about you show a girl a good time now, huh?’
This is the last thing I remember of the night I first met Cecilia, but since that night, we are inseparable.
Twelve years ago
I am twenty-four years old and Cecilia and I are at a party. We are both high and a little out of control.
‘Hey Jules, this is Ari. Isn’t he scrumptious?’ Cecilia squawks. She has draped herself over Ari as they sit on the couch.
I sit on the arm of the couch, trying to keep some distance between myself and the loved up couple, pretending not to notice Ari’s hand on Cecilia’s thigh. Cecilia notices my disapproval.
‘Come closer, silly,’ Cecilia stretches out her hand. ‘We don’t bite ... much,’ she coos as her hand glides up Ari’s leg, obviously enjoying my possessiveness. Suddenly I feel tired, tired of all the mind games.
‘You ready to go Cill?’ I stand abruptly.
Cecilia’s eyes narrow. ‘Ari, honey, can you get me a drink?’ Ari stumbles, clumsy in his effort to impress. ‘What the fuck is your problem, Jules?’
‘Nothin’, just wanna go. Not really interested in watching you lie all over some guy. It’s getting old,’ I say, the drugs fuelling my confidence.
‘Yeah, well you’ve become a bore lately, haven’t you?’ Cecilia’s voice is getting louder. I know she does this on purpose because she knows I hate scenes.
‘Whatever, Cecilia, whatever. Go have your fun with Ari. I’ll be here.’
‘You could join us,’ she says, running her finger down my arm, her face inviting.
‘Not tonight, Cecilia.’
Her face closes and she stalks off.