* Free to express themselves
Wow! Free to express themselves?! Barbara Streisand would love it! I can just hear her belting out these words to the tune of People who need people!
Chookies, lucky Free Range chookies,
Hens, that lead happy lives in their barns!
Where they're free from hunger and thirst,
and from injury, pain and distress,
Lucky chicks, that are free to express!
Because they are Free Range chookies!
lucky Free Range chookies!
Are the luckiest chookies in the world!
It would be the best kind of promotion for the world’s hen farming community, encouraging all to follow these high moral attitudes to adopt these hens’ unique existential arrangements, which improve their psychological state, resulting in superior quality of eggs.
So … just how does the Liberty Eggs company really know if and what their hens ‘express’? All clucking sounds Greek to me! Why should I believe the advertising on the packaging?
For all we know, Liberty Hens could be bitching about a boring menu, or that grains are past the Expiry Date, or that drinking water is not spring water. Or, indeed, they might be expressing their eternal gratitude to the enlightened, health conscious, caring humans!
A thought! Could it possibly be … that I’ve gained my powers of expression thanks to these Free Range, well-cared-for birds? I mean, I’ve been a long-time convert to the Free Range eggs ... my burning curiosity is killing me!
I’d really love to find out how, exactly, these chooks feel! That is, apart from those high-jumping, vociferous model chooks, in Toyota Corolla ads. Were they paid in choice, organically grown grain, for their unforgettable performance? Hmmm ... I wonder why there are no more ads seen with these energetic chooks? Did they become more assertive and refuse to appear in more ads, due to bad working conditions?
But how would I check the veracity of claims made by Liberty Eggs, and other free range egg producers?
Assuming I’d learn their ‘language’, will they cluck to me from my first ‘hello’? If not, I’ll have to eavesdrop, somehow. Or perhaps, befriend one trusting chook, convey my good intentions, and persuade this hen to cooperate with me on my research, by assisting with interviewing volunteers from the barn. She might be seduced by the opportunity of being in a photo with me in a newspaper ...
Of course, it would be so much simpler if Dr Doolittle was available ... and, if he’d do it for free – out of the goodness of his heart – to serve humanity.
I know, it sounds like an impossible dream. But imagine if I persist and succeed ... I might even receive the Nobel Prize for Originality of Research!
Wednesday 6 March 2013
Time Remembered
Felicity Lynch
Katoomba, NSW
The cicadas sang outside the window. Freshly mown grass scented the room. The sun moved slowly over the garden, lighting the shadows as it slipped beneath the blinds and lit the photographs on the dressing table and the woman in the bed, whose face was wet with her tears.
Ellen had suddenly found herself weeping. It was on such a beautiful day as this, that her husband had taken the children and herself to visit his parents at Yamba.
It seemed to Ellen at this moment she stood still in time – remembered, a busy, loving, noisy, laughing time when she was young and beautiful, when the present still stretched into an unknown but happy future. Time itself hugged them all, promising them a future together forever.
Loneliness stalked her now. Time so relentless had swept them all away, leaving her with a broken heart and memories that took her breath away.
The young nurse held Ellen’s hand and gently wiped her tears away. She knew Ellen’s ghosts were with her today.
The nurse put her head on the pillow beside Ellen’s head and cradled her in her young arms, crooning a song to her that Ellen’s mother had sung to her and Ellen had sung to her children when they were small.
Oh, Ellen loved this young nurse. Smiling she whispered that for her she would enjoy her party, for to be 100 years old and still be loved, as she was by this nurse, was to be celebrated on such a beautiful blue-sky golden day.
Wednesday 6 March 2013 4 pm
Of The Mind
Emma-Lee Scott
Callaghan, NSW
Drifting space of empty thought,
Floating in the image of the eye,
Vengeful, wrathful and evil fraught,
Shimmering, swimming, yes I do spy.
Bleeding tears of deep fears,
Seeping through the thin veneer,
Staining, ripping and stripping bare,
Torn, tattered, no don't stare.
Ravaged memories of days gone by,
Burning through the guilty crack,
Festering, cursing and ready torn,
Blackened, born, yes draw back.
Itching skin of the broken veil,
Revealing the story of time's tale,
Long, twisted and stones that glisten,
Harsh, hurtful, no don't listen.
Darkened voids of caverns heave,
Growing with the silence of the return,
Breathing, sighing and quiet leave,
Lost, afraid, yes I do yearn.
Words laid in a book of complexity,
Frowns formed in dense perplexity,
Puzzled, pained and easily hidden,
Defined, different but no I won't be forbidden.
Speaking louder are words of new,
Shuddering forth in steady flight,
Telling, true and in plain view,
Disjointed, damaged, if only for the night.
Thursday 7 March 2013
Townsville
Phillip A. Ellis
Tweed Heads South, NSW
The light of the buildings
crowds out the stars
in the river, spreading
like cane fields across the water,
jostling each other
like the crowds of tourists
when the schools are out
and the children are gathering.
There is talk in the restaurants,
there are gatherings of people,
even of hens’ parties,
but the river is silent
and it is so dark that the shore
cannot be heard from the city.
Thursday 7 March 2013 4 pm
Shallow Night
Virginia Gow
Blackheath, NSW
A sallow knight came riding in
No whiskers bore him on his chin
No helmet drew upon his head
Nonsense rattled round instead
So tell us, how you came to be
Banished here, in misery.
‘Oh, I am famed,’ he replied
‘Up and down the countryside.’
‘I am the most deliberate bore,
All around, I hold the floor,
Never shut my mouth all day,
Though I have but naught to say.
‘I love the sound of my own voice,
Polite people have no choice.
I have never met discernment,
Or the silent sweet lament.
‘Tis a shallow night when I come to call
To slip and slither over all.’
Friday 8 March 2013
Wedding Secret
John Arvan
Underdale, SA
it wasn’t much to go by,
just a hint or two
of something that may happen soon,
but few were those that knew.
depended on the planets
you know how they align?
the cycles of the summer moon
and if the weather’s fine.
love and marriage happens
at least where laws allow.
a complex of emotions
dreams
kisses
life-l
ong vows
congratulations david
regina’s made for you
but where’s my bloody invite??!!
you know i love you too!
Friday 8 March 2013 4 pm
Flaky
Susan Kay
Bellevue Heights, SA
Silvery flakes drifted down, glittering in the bright moonlight.
‘I must do something about this dandruff,’ mumbled Julia, ‘or stop wearing black.’
Shaun began to flick, flick at the shoulders of her black pashmina, but the scale stuck stubbornly to the cashmere fabric. Julia wanted to tell him to stop it but this was the closest they’d ever got to an affectionate interchange. He was so intent on flicking and picking at the white patches that the frown line between his eyes became deeper and deeper. She imagined falling into the crevasse developing there. How silly, she thought, one falls into a loved one’s eyes, not between them.
Julia knew she should pull away from him before his obsessive-compulsive disorder kicked in. If it did, he would insist on removing every bit of scurf from her scarf. She couldn’t afford to be there till morning; she had a job to go to. Gently she touched his arm.
‘Let’s go for a coffee, Shaun. Next time I’ll wear my white shirt.’
Saturday 9 March 2013
The Photograph
Shane Smithers
Katoomba, NSW
I saw a photograph of a person I had never seen before; I still don’t believe it was me. He was different somehow. He had a different attitude, the way he stood, the way he carried himself was not at all like me. The photograph haunts me still.
Maybe it’s not the photograph, or the man in the photograph that torments me, but the fact that other people believe that the man in the photo is me. I’m not sure. Not being the person in a photograph is no big deal, I’m not the person in most photographs. But, the unwavering belief of the people who say that I am the person in that photograph needles me more than you can imagine.
I feel shallow. What other people think shouldn’t bother me, but it does, and that bothers me. That’s not all; I never thought that I cared about what other people thought of me, but I must. If I didn’t care about what they thought of me, I wouldn’t care about the photograph, or the person in the photograph; whoever he is. I certainly wouldn’t care about that person being mistaken for me.
The fact that I’m bothered about caring about what other people think of me makes me think I’m neurotic. Who cares if I’m shallow? Who cares if I care about what other people think of me? For that matter, who cares if I’m neurotic? As long as I’m not some kind of narcissist, I’m okay. Right? Why am I asking you? I shouldn’t care if you think I’m okay. Maybe you think I’m a narcissist, maybe you think the guy in the photo is me. So what? You can think whatever you like. What you think about me is none of my business.
I’m okay. Really! I just don’t understand why people think that that other guy is me. That’s what bothers me. The fact that they think I’m like him; the fact that if they think I’m like him, or that he is me, they don’t really know me at all. That’s what bothers me. It shouldn’t but it does. No one wants their friends to think that they are someone else. We all want our friends, or at least someone, to know who we really are and love us anyway.
The difficulty is that the more I look at the photograph, the more confused I become. Don’t get me wrong, the guy in the photograph is definitely not me, I don’t care who he is. What I’m confused about is that I’m not really sure who I am, or why. And the ‘why’ really makes me question the ‘who.’
‘Who would you like to be?’ is the most ridiculous question anyone can ask. Because, in a world where that other person already exists, if you were them, the ‘real you’ wouldn’t exist. So the question really asks you whether you would rather not exist. But people don’t understand the question so they say, ‘Brad Pitt’, ‘Meagan Gale’ or ‘Captain Jack Sparrow’. It’s similar when your friends think some person in a photograph is you, only that it’s not you saying you would rather not exist, it’s your friends saying that the real you doesn’t exist, that you are someone else.
The more I think about it, the more the whole neurotic thing plays on my mind. I mean people can’t really know who I am on the inside, can they? Oh crap! There I go again asking you, as if I care about what you think. No. No, this is not a question about what either of us thinks; it’s a question about existence, existentialism. If a tree falls in the forest and there is no one there having a picnic, what do the ants eat? I really wish I studied philosophy. Maybe I should have studied psychology, at least that way I could figure out if I was neurotic or not. Self-diagnosis can be a problem though.
It’s no surprise, the photograph made me think about who I am, about how I became me. I don’t think I had much choice. I don’t want to blame society for who I am, because I don’t think ‘blame’ is the right word. It’s too emotive. ‘Credit’ is not the right word either. But I do think society has had a major influence on both the real me and the ‘me’ other people think I am. If I was born into a different community I could have been a Buddhist, or a communist guerrilla. I could have been an accountant. Chances are I’d be a different me.
No, I am who I am because society had certain expectations, certain possibilities for who I might have become. Maybe that is what those people saw in the photograph, someone they expected to be me. The problem is that expectations are matched to class, gender, sexual orientation, political bias, age and taste in music among other things. People use a crude taxonomy to find the right box and then they dredge up the set of expectations that match the box you fit into and measure you against that. It’s hardly fair.
Expectations be damned. The problem is that the real me, and the ‘me’ that people judge me by don’t match very well. And besides, the real me doesn’t comply with society’s expectations. And that, in a nut shell, makes me deviant by definition.
There is one more complicating factor. Not only do I want not to be the man in the photograph, I don’t want to be the me that I actually am. And because there is no point wishing I didn’t exist, I can’t bring myself to wish I was someone else. No, that wouldn’t do. Instead, I wish that I was a different me.
Drinking a whisky, wishing I had a nice Cuban, I thought about being a different me late one night. That night I dreamed about being a different me. The next night I dreamed again. The second time I wasn’t the same different me as in the first dream. Neither of them was me. I didn’t think I could ever be like either of them, nor did I want to be. The more I think about it the more I think I am stuck being me. And that’s not so bad, it’s not so good either, but I wouldn’t want to be anyone else. I like existing, for now.
I looked at the photograph again. I studied the man that those people said was me. I showed the photograph to my wife. I love her, she loves me. She said, ‘It’s a photograph of you, but it doesn’t look like you.’
‘Who does it look like?’ I asked.
‘Someone that looks like you,’ she said.
‘But it’s not me?’
‘No. It is you, but you don’t look like that. You look different, more like yourself.’
I was grateful for her honesty. I hadn’t thought of it like that before. Maybe the reason I didn’t recognise the man in the photograph as being me was because it didn’t look like me, because sometimes I look like someone else that kind of looks like me.
Maybe I’m not actually me, maybe I am someone else. Maybe I’m delusional, maybe I have multiple personalities and at that time I was someone else. But that doesn’t make any sense. I might be neurotic, but I’m not delusional. The more I thought about it the more I thought she might have been onto something. Let’s say that I was playing up, say I was nervous and was playing the part of the extravert; anyone who knew me as that guy, that outgoing party animal would recognise the man in the photo as me. But because that was not really me, because he was very different from whom I really am, I
can’t recognise him as me. If only I could remember. But, I can’t remember the photograph being taken.
I looked at the photograph. I looked intently. It wasn’t me. He didn’t look like me, but he had the same kind of watch as me, and that scar on his hand looked a lot like the scar on my hand. I looked at the background, the other people. The photograph was taken at a party. The man in the photograph had a glass in his hand. There were at least half a dozen glasses on the table in front of him. He was circumcised. He had his pockets turned out in an elephant impression. Everyone was obviously inebriated, laughing, hands covering mouths, others cheering.
I thought about the photograph, and about how I didn’t do impressions. I looked at all of the empty glasses on the table. I thought about how foolish he would feel being shown that photograph of himself with his old fella hanging out like that. It wasn’t very impressive. The more I thought about it the less neurotic I felt, the less I cared about what everyone thought about me or the bloke in the photograph, for that matter. In the end I decided to cut down on my drinking.
Sunday 10 March 2013
Departures
Robert Cox
Pawleena, TAS
‘It’s not cowardice, old chap,’ Hamilton said, subdued but earnest. ‘At least I’m pretty sure it’s not. I’ve given the whole show a lot of thought and I don’t think you could say we’re running away.’
‘I’m sure you’re not,’ I murmured.
‘After all,’ he went on, not quite convincingly, ‘a handover is only so much talk at the moment. It might never happen. But what with one thing and another, we just felt it was time for us to get out.’
Overhead, the public address system boomed into life, announcing the imminent departure of another flight. There seemed to be so many nowadays. The announcement, ricocheting around in the ceiling’s concavity, was hardly intelligible and conversation ceased as people strained to comprehend it.
Two armed security men strolled past. Hamilton watched them until the announcement was over. ‘It wasn’t the tension, either,’ he went on. ‘God knows we’ve stood that for long enough. Mind you, it hasn’t done a lot for the way we look.’ He grinned quickly, almost apologetically, and ran his hand through his thinning grey hair. ‘Funny, but it was just the other day, immediately after we’d finally decided to pack it in, that I really looked at Libby for the first time in years. Gave me a hell of a shock to realise how much the poor old memsahib’s aged since this terrorist nonsense got really bad. It was almost as though I’d refused to notice it before – as though I were afraid of what I might see and be forced to pack the whole thing in.’
The waiter, a black, drew near, and Hamilton fell silent until the man was past and out of earshot. Poor beggar was probably harmless enough, but it was one of the precautions one took nowadays.
‘I think what finally got to me,’ Hamilton continued, ‘was not knowing whom we could trust. I was pretty certain of our boys; most of them had been with me for years after all. But there was just no way of being sure. All the rest of it – having the dogs and sleeping with a ruddy great Smith & Wesson under the pillow – was bad enough, but I could never get used to the idea that if I did have to shoot someone, it could be a boy I’d known and trusted for years, perhaps one I’d grown up with, even played cricket with. I still trusted them, mind you – at least as much as I dared after what happened to poor Reggie Poole. We’d no choice but to trust them, but after poor Reggie ...’
Never a loquacious man, he began to look abashed at his own garrulity and wiped his damp face and neck with a handkerchief to cover his embarrassment. But it was obvious he hadn’t finished talking. He seemed to be thinking aloud, as if he were trying to justify his decision to leave the country for the safety of England. ‘I’ll tell you something else,’ he said, stuffing the handkerchief back into his pocket, ‘something I’d never have dared mention at the club. In an odd way I sympathise with their cause. I’m no bloody radical, of course, and I certainly don’t condone violence as a means to an end, especially against women and kids. Don’t know that I fancy living under black majority rule either, to be perfectly honest. But I can understand their fighting for it.’ He glanced up, as though expecting condemnation, before he continued. ‘It’s taken me quite a while to come around to that point of view, let me tell you. I suppose those of us who were born here find it hard not to think of the place as ours – you know, grandfather carving the farm out of the bush and all that. But when you think about it, it was inevitable that they’d want the place back sooner or later. I’m not denying our own rights, mind you; a lot of European sweat and blood has gone into making this country what it is. But to be perfectly frank, I don’t know that I shouldn’t be fighting too if I were in their place.’
‘How long have your people been here?’
‘Well, they came out soon after Rhodes in ’98 and it’s ’71 now, so, um, seventy-odd years.’ He looked up and smiled as his wife returned from the ladies’ and sat beside him.
Elizabeth Hamilton was a late-fortyish and still-handsome Englishwoman. Only the olive of her skin and, more recently, a weary alertness suggested two decades spent in Africa. ‘Guess who was in the ladies’?’ she asked, and immediately answered her own question. ‘Lucy Geyer. She and Allan are on our flight.’
Hamilton made an expression of distaste. ‘Off to London to whip up support for the great white cause, I expect. It’s a wonder that he, of all people, would dare leave his farm at a time like this. I should have thought he’d be an obvious target.’
‘I expect three adult sons minding the place are deterrent enough,’ Elizabeth said.
‘I expect you’re right.’ He shrugged and drained his glass. ‘I say, it was decent of you to come and see us off, old man. Didn’t really expect anybody. Don’t know that I’d have dared leave the farm just to see someone off.’
‘I couldn’t let you go without saying goodbye,’ I said. ‘Besides, I’m absolutely certain my boys are loyal.’
He nodded. ‘You know, I believe this terrorist nonsense has been their biggest mistake. This whole country was built on a simple matter of trust – had to be, distances and communications being what they were. Our people trusted each other, of course, and we all relied on our boys. But regardless of what happens now, whether we win or they do, trust has well and truly gone out the window; doubt we’ll ever get it back. I expect you’ve heard the rumours that some of our people are helping the terrorists? Rotten business, if it’s true. Can’t imagine what they hope to achieve – favour with the inevitable black regime when it comes, I expect. But it seems to me that if a chap’d do the dirty on his own people, he’d do the dirty on anyone, so I can’t see them trusting him when they get in. They’re human. They’ll use him for as long as he’s useful and then drop him well and truly.’
The public address system boomed again, and Elizabeth Hamilton, after cupping her hand around her ear and tilting it slightly towards the ceiling, touched her husband’s arm. ‘Johnny, that’s our flight.’
‘Is it? Well, we’d best be off then.’ He stood, a russet farming man bulkily uncomfortable in suit and tie. ‘You know, the more I think about it, the more certain I am that we’re doing the right thing. It was getting me down, being suspicious of people we’d always trusted. Libby’s poor old Dad died just in time; without his money we’d have had to stay, or walk off with nothing.’ He smiled a little wanly and thrust out his hand. ‘Well, goodbye, old man. And all the luck in the world.’
‘Goodbye’, I said, shaking his hand. Elizabeth hugged me and kissed me on the cheek. ‘Goodbye. Good luck.’
‘Best of luck,’ I said. ‘Keep in touch.’
They picked up their cabin bags and strolled towards the departure gate, which was flanked by two armed soldiers, and joined the queue just behind Lucy and Allan Geyer. I watched the four of them until they passed between the soldiers and disappeared through the gate. I liked the Hamiltons and was sorry they had to go. The
y had always been the best of neighbours.
After that I wandered up to the observation lounge to watch the takeoff. I was hoping to find a table right at the big observation window but they were all occupied, so I had to sit at one some little way back. There were quite a few people there seeing others off, and a couple of them were had gone to stand at the window, somewhat impeding my view, but by shifting my chair around a bit I was able to get a clear sightline and could look down at the Hamiltons’ aircraft loading below. It seemed almost close enough to touch. I could see the pilot’s and co-pilot’s faces quite clearly; each had a trim moustache and neatly trimmed dark hair. I ordered a whisky and soda and waited, checking my watch from time to time.
Loading seemed to go on interminably. When I found I’d finished my drink, I ordered another. Eventually the companionway was removed and the aircraft’s doors closed. I checked my watch again as the aircraft began to move. Loading had taken so long that I thought takeoff would be late, but it was actually a few minutes early. As the aircraft turned towards the main runway, I found myself looking at my watch again. Then, unexpectedly, an alarm began to ring, and a few seconds later the aircraft stopped. Something seemed to have gone wrong. A door in the fuselage was flung open and an escape slide was thrust out, but at that moment the aircraft disintegrated in a single enormous ball of flame, shattering the glass wall of the observation lounge and slamming me backwards onto the floor. I must have been knocked unconscious for a few seconds and when I came to, people nearby were moaning or shouting for help, and somewhere behind me a woman was screaming. More than a little stunned, I lay still for a short time until I’d gathered my wits. There was blood on my face and hands and blood was seeping through a rent in my coat sleeve, but I seemed to have suffered nothing more than a few cuts from flying glass or debris. Nothing felt broken. I used the overturned table to lever myself shakily to my feet and looked around.
The observation lounge was a shambles of glass and bodies and upturned furniture. There was a strong stench of aviation fuel. Black smoke was pouring in through the gap where the observation window used to be. Where the aircraft had been there was nothing but an enormous fire, which emergency vehicles were streaking towards with shrieking sirens and flashing lights. I felt weak and my ears were ringing from the blast, but shock impelled me forward. I staggered through the bodies and wreckage and out of the observation lounge to try to find out what had happened.
Something had indeed gone wrong. The bloody morons in the organisation had tipped off the media too soon, made the charge too big, and set it to explode too early. My God, thirty seconds sooner and it would have totally destroyed the terminal and everyone in it, including me. Johnny Hamilton was right. Nowadays you just couldn’t trust anyone.
Monday 11 March 2013
Murray Bridge
Marilyn Linn
Darlington, SA
The river is wide at Murray Bridge,
flat and dirty brown –
at the end of a ribbon of bitumen
flung, like a lure, from Adelaide town.
The bridges that span the waterway
were placed with precision and pride.
No computers to aid those intrepid men
in 1879.
Cattle graze on flood plains,
silos guard the hill,
Mobilong Prison stands sullen,
its inmates feel the chill.
Summer brings the tourists,
with jet skis, boats and booze –
their buzz like angry bush flies,
sedate houseboats take a cruise.
Old stories tell of a Bunyip
that ate wayward children at night –
for two dollars you can see it now,
tourists’ cameras click in delight.
Come to The Bridge at your leisure,
munch hot chips in the flash new park –
stroll the banks of the Mighty Murray,
but leave – before it gets dark.
Tuesday 12 March 2013
Multitasking
Demelza
Taroona, TAS
Dedicated to Caroline
Doing one thing at a time
It is not!
Taxing on the brain?
Yes a lot
We wake up every morning
With such a lot to do
Set the bread
Make the bed
Put the baby on the loo
Kids here
Kids there
Washing hanging everywhere
Fold it up
Stack it high
Hang it out and let it dry
Meantime read the storybooks
Sweep the floors and
Feed the chooks
Check the mail and
(While still on line)
Flick through the site that’s selling wine
Burp the baby
Change his pants
Find the Wiggles
Let’s have a dance
And while we do
We’ll pick up toys
Cook some muffins
Enjoy the noise
Watch the babe with the back of our head
Stir white sauce
And slice the bread
Think about tomorrow’s meals
Check how hot the bath tub feels
Listen to them learn their tables
Check their spelling
Make some labels
Fed the baby on my knee
Wow!
Let’s all stop for morning tea.
Wednesday 13 March 2013
Radox Hair
Robyn Chaffey
Hazelbrook, NSW
After years of life-rules and caring
Which include a stint of child-bearing
My energy died!
I just felt tired!
The need for change was just glaring.
I wanted some joy and some laughter
Before I must greet the here-after.
I’d really no clue!
Got a lop-sided do
To my stuffy acquaintances fluster.
I made for myself a new rule
To now and then play the fool.
I took a rest!
Gave it a test!
A soak in the bath might be cool.
The water I ran full and warm …
Added crystals to act as a balm.
Green water so sweet!
I sank head to feet!
Just lay there until I felt calm.
Too abruptly my luxury ended
As the front door noisily opened.
Hubby was home!
My hungry gnome!
With no dinner he’d be offended.
Hair dripping green salted water,
I now had no time for a shower.
Quick grab for towels!
Utter rude vowels!
I’d thought his trip home would be slower.
Soon dressed, from the bathroom I ran …
Towel wrapped my head like a turban.
Did what I must!
Finished and just
Collapsed on the couch to unburden!
Next morning I woke with a fright.
I’d worn that towel through the night!
Slept on the couch!
Yet couldn’t grouch,
Only giggle at thought of the sight!
Well … perhaps I’m no longer anal!
Early dementia may well be causal.
Towel-shaped Radox hair …
Throwing away all care …
’twould be fun to depict in a mural
Reminder of freedom, quite choral!
Thursday 14 March 2013
Rainbow Tornadoes
Tamara Pratt
Mount Gravatt, QLD
When you come for me in the middle of the night
like a rainbow sprinkled tornado and
I bend with fright
at what you might say
that seems so silly and so sad and
when I see it’s too far to send you back on your way
I dabble with the direction you might head next
and whose life you might make brighter.
When your sparkling stardust rains down on me like
a thousand tiny fireflies
and the skies turn black and the moon smiles with delight
at what you have done and where you have been
I see that it’s never been your intention to stay
because to stay would mean
you’d have time to play.
When the dazzling diamonds pin-prick the sky and
allow me to peek, just a quick peek, into your world
and I hear the laughter, a chuckle that pops in my ears
and you slip away back through a vortex of fun
where you start to sing with bling and
your sweet features fade with pain
I want to chase after you.
You, my rainbow tornado, you brush by above our heads
without fear or trepidation and
the giant bang when you touch time
or the soft dash when you tip toe through the clouds
is like ice-cream on a hot melting day
where you’ll stick to me forever
and drip down my fingers
all gooey and delicious
and I’ll giggle and you’ll say
your fun is bigger than a carnival.
When you come for me in the middle of the night
my rainbow tornado
with your big smile like a blazing sun
and the words singing in heart that this is fun
I’ll follow you with springs in my soul
and chase you
through and through
until we sink into one.
Friday 15 March 2013
The Wind
John Ross
Blackheath, NSW
Darkness had long since settled over the city. The night was dark, humid and the sky was full of the threat of a summer storm. Now, however, the wind was so gentle that it made no noise as it ever so softly meandered through the back yard of the large house. The leaves on the tall gum tree near the back fence hardly moved apart from those on the very tallest branches. Even here one would have had to watch very closely to detect any movement. Two large white towels on the clothesline hung perfectly still; in the darkness they appeared like two dim windows into another dimension. A large spider had strung its web between two pot plants on the back porch and now it carefully investigated a leaf that had fallen and become entangled in the web. The leaf was slowly swinging back and forth in the gentle breeze.
Inside a man sat watching a football replay on the television, a half empty bottle of beer beside him. In the kitchen a women was washing dishes in the sink and listening to classical music on a radio. The man turned towards the kitchen and said, ‘You coming to watch the telly?’ The women replied that she would be in as soon as she had finished.
Minutes passed and now the wind had become stronger. It made a rustling noise as it pushed its way through the yard. The leaves on the gum tree had started to dance to its tune and those at the very top were carried back and forth as the smaller branches moved under the influence of the breeze. The white towels on the line now swayed in unison like twins performing at some macabre ceremony. The spider had realised that the leaf was not its hoped for evening meal but now crouched at the centre of its web believing that the breeze might bring it an unsuspecting insect. A small lady beetle flew dangerously close to his web.
The man, starting to get annoyed that the woman had not come out of the kitchen, yelled in her direction, ‘What on earth are you doing there woman and where is that bloody cup of coffee that you promised me ages ago?’ He then settled back and opened another bottle of beer. The woman visibly jumped at the sound of his voice and in her haste dropped the cup of coffee on the floor.
Even stronger now the wind made a loud whistling sound as it forced its way through and around the objects in the back yard. The gum tree had now become a living thing as its branches yielded to the force of the wind and the occasional leaf gave up its grip and swirled away into the darkness. The towels now gyrated wildly, giving up any semblance of unison as they strained against the pegs that held them attached to the line. The spider clung grimly to the centre of its web. He was now in danger of being blown away but still had the strength to try to move over to the lady beetle that had been blown into his web. He knew that this might be his only chance of a meal that night.
Finishing another bottle of beer the man was now constantly yelling at the woman to bring him his cup of coffee. When she did not reply he got up and went to the kitchen door and said, ‘I want my coffee now and if I have to ask again you will be bloody sorry.’ Seeing the woman still trying to clean up the spilt coffee he kicked the dustpan out of her hands and when she cringed back dropped the empty beer bottle on the floor and said, ‘Clean that up. That’s all you ever do, clean, bloody clean. Now get up and get me my coffee.’
Outside the wind was now a brutal force as it howled through the yard threatening to smash and dismantle anything in its path. The gum tree was now bent over by the winds power and its branches thrashed madly as leaves and even small branches were blasted away and sent crashing into the back fence. The towels unable to break free were being torn and shredded by the wind’s fury. The spider still concentrating on getting to the lady beetle in its web did not notice as the leaf in its web was torn away and sent spiralling into the darkness. It did not see the large piece of debris that smashed into its web and carried it away into oblivion.
The man, his anger now in full flow, was cursing at the woman and trying to drag her to her feet. When she resisted he slapped her hard across the face. At first she shrank back trying to protect herself but when he continued to hit her she picked up the empty beer bottle from the floor and hit him with it as hard as she could. The bottle smashed as it crashed into his skull.
Suddenly the wind died away to just a whisper. The gum tree quickly returned to normal; standing tall and majestic in the bright starlight that now washed over the yard. The two white towels, although tattered and torn, had survived all that the wind could throw at them and now shone like two welcoming beacons in the yard. The spider would never see the small lady beetle as it broke free of the last strands of the shattered web and flew away.
Saturday 16 March 2013 4 pm
A Lucky Find
Winsome Smith
Lithgow NSW
Edith stooped slightly as she entered the one-room cottage. It was slightly warmer inside than outside where the late autumn winds swept across the meadows. She adjusted her rough woollen shawl to bring it closer around her shoulders but she only had a long thorn to keep it together around her and it needed a stronger fastening.
She had left the field earlier than usual because the babe inside her was growing heavier and her body demanded rest. She had toiled for hours in the long strip of the field that her brothers rightfully owned but as it had been their day to work for the lord it was necessary for her to do the farm work. Not that she minded; this was her life as a peasant and she knew no other way of living.
The fire had died down to a few embers but the pot of barley gruel she had prepared earlier was still warm. With her customary brisk movements she threw some more wood onto the fire and gave the pot a stir. Her brothers would appreciate a hot meal when they returned. The fire, as if thanking her for the extra fuel, sprang into life. She contemplated making some dumplings but their meagre supply of coarse flour had to last them through the long winter yet to come and it had not been a good year for the harvest. Instead she quickly peeled and cut two onions and added them to the gruel.
From outside she could hear the many sounds of the village. Children shrieked as they played and women chatted at their spinning. A carpenter was hammering nearby and she heard the sou
nd of someone sharpening a scythe. Hens cackled, announcing the great achievement of egg laying and she heard a donkey braying, Work went on in the village until well into dusk as there was much to do.
She sat on a little three-legged stool and held her hands to the fire. The baby inside her stretched and rolled into a more comfortable position as she wondered about its future. That it was the child of the lord’s son gave it no advantage, except for handsomeness and vigour. Like all children of the shire, it would live its life working in the fields, but that was not an altogether gloomy prospect. It would enjoy such things as hay making, harvest festivals, May Day, celebrations for the end of brewing and the feasting of Easter Sunday. In good years there would be the celebration of Christ’s mass with stored apples and pears and dried fruits. And there was always the good ale to ensure the child’s health. It would surely bring joy into the wattle and daub cottage and it would be welcomed among the villagers as babies were.
She knew well that throughout the shire there were other children related to the lords of the manor. For generations the rich land owners had had their way with local women. The custom was accepted; perhaps here more than elsewhere, as the present lord was a kindly and just man. He kept law and order himself and listened to grievances of the local people.
A wave of unaccustomed sentimentality swept over her as she thought of the lord’s son. Theirs had been no rough tumbling among the grasses; there had been a gentleness about his lovemaking and always a reluctance to leave her, when it was over. Always she had been aware of the perfume of the honeysuckle and the gurgling of the nearby stream, as well as the strength of him and his unique odour. She put such thoughts from her and prepared to rise and collect more sticks for the fire.
As she pondered, a shadow appeared in the doorway. She looked up to see himself, the lord’s son. He stooped, and without ceremony, entered the cottage. As she stood, her shawl fell from her shoulders and she attempted to gather it together. He took her in his arms and said, ‘I see the child is growing.’
‘Of course,’ she replied, slightly amused at his unnecessary statement.
‘Are you well?’ he asked. She nodded, surprised by this unusual question.
He bent down and picked up a bag he had brought, ‘Here are some apples and a string of onions. I have ordered a man to bring some wood for the fire.’
He placed the bag on the floor beside her. ‘There are also two loaves.’
They sat together on stools near the fire and he held her hand as they talked of the usual things: the seasons, the harsh winter that had been foretold, the doings at the manor that she loved to hear about. Edith had heard about the gowns the women wore, the walls hung with rich tapestries, the silver goblets and bowls, the jewellery. She felt no envy, only wonder at the richness. She would never see these things as the manor was two miles away, beyond the hill known as Lion Hill because of its shape. Here in the village among the strips of ploughed land her life was complete. She heard from outside the stamping and occasional snorting of his horse and she knew her visitor had ridden to the village.
‘The shadows are getting longer,’ he said at length and rose to leave. As she stood up he put his hands on her shoulders, bare now as the shawl had fallen to the floor. As he looked into her eyes she detected something strange, a tenderness and longing he and his family never displayed to the villagers. There was depth in his eyes that she recognised as love.
She remembered that he had stroked her hair which he said was acorn brown. He had said that her skin was like cream on the top of the milk and her breath was as sweet as cider. No lord’s son had ever spoken to a peasant girl that way.
Involuntarily she shivered as the evening was drawing in. He picked up the shawl and draped it around her shoulders. ‘Stay warm,’ he said then he took something out of his pocket. ‘This is for you,’ he said as he held out a shawl pin. It was made of bright metal with a sharp spike on the back and a small intricate design on the front.
She sprang back as if he had cursed her. She put up her hands, ‘No, no,’ she cried. It was an object from the manor, never something owned by a peasant and the penalty for theft was loss of a hand.
‘I am giving it to you and my father knows,’ he tried to reassure her.
She pushed him away and said, ‘I dare not take it.’
‘You accepted the onions, the apples and the loaves,’ he chuckled, almost teasingly. ‘This is just as necessary.’
As she hesitated, he said, ‘My father and I administer justice in this shire and nobody else. I will not have my child or its mother dying of the cold.’ Then he added, with mock sternness, ‘Anyway, I am from the manor. You dare not refuse me.’
He tenderly gathered the shawl around her and pinned it before he left.