Narrator Magazine
NSW/ACT
Summer 2011
Smashwords Edition
narrator MAGAZINE is published by MoshPit Publishing
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Short Stories
A Portrait of the Artist as a Real Estate Agent
Just Wait Until I Tell My Mother
Rikki, Nikki and Connor Transmedia
Breadcrumb Novel
Poetry
Corporate
Last issue’s winners: Blue Mountains
Last issue’s winners: Central Tablelands
Advertising and page sponsorship
From the Editor …
Thank you for your interest in Narrator Magazine, whoever you may be. You’ve opened the cover and that’s what counts. We hope that over the coming quarters, word will spread and we will be able to bring you an even greater variety of the creative works of people from New South Wales and the Australian Capital Territory—or ‘nuswhacked’ as we’ve affectionately come to think of it in this office!
The purpose behind Narrator Magazine is to provide a showcase for people’s creative short works. When you’re an emerging writer, it’s hard to get your works out there to see what response you get. With Narrator, you can develop your writing skills, get published and perhaps begin to build up a following. Then when you’ve worked out what readers do and don’t like, you can look at publishing an anthology or a longer work, either through MoshPit Publishing or another publisher.
And by doing it online, you can send a link to anyone, refer to it when entering other competitions, or submitting to other journals etc.
Here at MoshPit Publishing we are always on the lookout for original and interesting new writing to help us develop our Australian ebook and print-on-demand collection, so we can’t wait to see what you’ve got going on in your heads!
Enjoy these contributions, which have been secretly ‘guest judged’ by SMH Good Weekend columnist and writer Mark Dapin, and we hope that if your work is not in this issue, it will be in an issue soon!
Jenny Mosher
December 2011
Caricature:
Jenny Mosher’s caricature (above) by artist Todd Sharp. For more info, visit http://www.toddasharp.com/.
Cover: ‘Tram Graveyard, Sydney’ by Steve McLaren
Steve McLaren is a multi skilled artist, curator and mentor. He is currently Vice President at Tap Gallery, Darlinghurst, the oldest artist run initiative in Sydney (23 years).
Steve was a short listed finalist in the 2007 National Aust indigenous Reconciliation Art Award, 2007 and 2008 runner-up in the Australian Environmental Art Award and the Australian Ethical Art Award, and a finalist in both in 2009, as well as being the 2010 Winner of the Australian Ethical Art Award for Environmental Art with his work ‘The Murray River Gums’. Steve’s works are held in numerous collections in Australia as well as New York and Singapore.
He has been selected to co-curate a show with Cherry Hood for the 2012 Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras, and to expand the Mardi Gras to the country and the nation’s capital with a show called 'Wylde in the Country’ featuring works from selected gay and lesbian artists and which is due to open at Goulburn’s South Hill Gallery on 11 February 2012.
Steve’s passion is changing to encompass photography and the cover photo represents one of the last images which will ever be taken of Sydney’s Tram Graveyard, soon to be demolished to make way for luxury apartments. For more about Steve, friend him on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/stevethebodymechanic/
A Portrait of the Artist as a Real Estate Agent
Lakemba NSW
The porch of the weatherboard house creaked beneath Norbert’s weight. His practised eye scrutinised the faded, peeling aqua paint, the gaps between the grubby window panes and the warped frames, and the spider webs festooning the wrought-iron work under the roof. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and summoned words of praise:
‘Rustic charm, ideal vehicle for market entry, opportunity for first-time investor, realise your dream of home ownership ...’
‘Sorry, what did you say?’ asked the old woman in the floral print dress, fiddling with her hearing aid.
‘Nothing, I was just trying to think of the best way to describe your lovely house, so as to make it most attractive to potential buyers.’
‘So what do you think it’s worth?’
‘In today’s market, about 450.’
‘450 what?’
‘Thousand.’
‘Really? This old place? Fancy that!’
Norbert drove back to the office, rearranging the words in his head.
After mounting the kerb and running a red light, he decided that he’d better stop and write it down.
‘All the charm of a bygone era combined with the convenience of inner-city boutique living,’ he scribbled on his note pad. Then he gave the road his undivided attention. He made it back to the office without further incident and sat down at his computer to do the listing for the property.
‘Did you say something?’ said Megan.
‘Who—me?’
‘I thought you said something about a boutique.’
‘Oh yes, I was just thinking: ―boutique living‖. What does that evoke for you?’
‘You don't live in a boutique. You shop there, then you go home, to your house, unit, caravan, whatever.’
Norbert sighed. Why did Megan have to take everything so literally? But he soon forgot her quibbling as his fingers scrambled across the keyboard, struggling to keep up with the torrent of words welling up from the fount of his imagination.
Megan stomped into the manager’s office on high heels and in high dudgeon.
‘It’s sexual harassment and I won't put up with it!’
Steve craned his head up over his computer screen and his gaze followed Megan’s outstretched arm to where Norbert sat, his lips twitching.
‘No, of course not, why should you? As I’ve made clear to everyone, this company has a zero-tolerance attitude to sexual harassment and, umm ... do you mind telling me exactly what it was he said? Or did?’
‘He called me ―a renovator's dream‖.’
‘I see. Well of course that’s totally unacceptable, and I’ll deal with it in accordance with our harassment and bullying policy. So, if I could just get you to fill in the form and give your account of what happened, and then, while I sort it out, why don’t you take the rest of the day off?’
‘OK. Thanks, Steve.’
When Megan had left, Steve called Norbert into his office.
‘Look Norbert, I think you've been working too hard, and it’s starting to impact on your interaction with other team members. Why don’t you take some time off? You’ve accrued almost four weeks—why don’t you use it and, like, chillax?!’
‘I'll think about it,’ was all Norbert said.
Norbert didn’t want a holiday. He loved his work. It was varied and stimulating. He got out and met all kinds of people and saw all kinds of properties, each one presenting a unique challenge to his powers of description and persuasion.
He knocked off at half past five and went home. His mother had baked a steak and kidney pie for dinner. Norbert sniffed the meaty aroma and looked up at the cornice, the picture rail and the teardrop light fitting. They lent the dining room an air of classical elegance that made it eminently liveable and desirable. He beamed cherubically as he took it all in.
‘Over my dead body!’ snarled his mother.
‘What was that Mum?’
‘You'll have to wait until I’m laid out cold in my grave before you try to sell this place! Now will you pass me the dead horse—if you’ve finished playing with it?’
Norbert squirted some tomato sauce onto his pie and handed the plastic bottle over. Classical elegance. It would be good to see more of that. Maybe Steve was right. Maybe he should take a holiday and get away for a bit. He’d saved enough money for a decent trip. He could go to Europe and see all those beautiful old buildings. It would be inspirational and uplifting. London, Paris, Rome: unreal estate. Yes, he would go.
The next morning he confirmed the dates of his leave with Steve. He visited a travel agency during his lunch break and booked flights and hotels. He broke the news to his mother over a post-prandial glass of sherry. She took it more stoically than he could have hoped.
A week later he was standing before Buckingham Palace with his notebook and camera. After the Changing of the Guard, he went back to his hotel room, fired up his laptop and wrote:
PRISTINE, PRIVATE AND WHISPER QUIET
You will love the wonderfully relaxing ambience of this quiet and spacious property! Instantly liveable with opportunities to enhance and create your own personal style, there is nothing to spend and everything to enjoy. With plenty of character and light-filled rooms, you can easily lose yourself in poetic rhapsody as this is not just your typical urban home—this is ‘Buckingham Palace’!
In Paris, he watched the shadow of the Eiffel Tower creep like a giant sundial along the Quai Branly. Then he wrote:
LIVE THE DREAM!
Picture yourself waking up to spectacular views of the City of Light every morning! Located right in the pulsating heart of Paris, this unique all-steel structure features an innovative multi-level open-plan design that adds to the light airy feeling of this home. With 100+ years of charm and everything you expect from a vibrant city life!
In Athens, he climbed the Acropolis and heard the Muses sing:
RENOVATOR'S DELIGHT!
A unique challenge for a renovator with the drive and vision to restore this classic building to its former glory! Featuring an innovative design with timeless appeal, this distinctive property represents an exciting opportunity to live/invest in a most desirable location and offers breathtaking views of the Greek capital with myriad possibilities for gourmet open plan indoor/outdoor entertaining.
The last stop on his European tour was Moscow. He gazed at the Kremlin till its onion domes seemed to float in the sky, while the words circled them like hawks, buoyed aloft on the feverish thermals of his imagination:
FORGET THE COMMUTE!
Only a few properties enjoy such a privileged position and now this could be yours! Strategically located on Moscow's trendy Red Square, this soulful, charm-filled home effortlessly blends traditional style with modern comfort. Offering supreme convenience, it is located just moments from the metro, station and shops. Best of both worlds: old time character without the maintenance!
Norbert was pleased with his work and wanted to share it with the world. He uploaded the texts and images to his Facebook page. A stimulating conversation with other netizens ensued. Momoko sent a photograph of a replica of the Parthenon covered in neon, and attached a haiku. Floyd referred him to the Featurist Manifesto and asked for his comments. Meanwhile Barbarella wanted to know the asking price for the Kremlin. Norbert groaned. Hadn’t she heard of poetic licence? He couldn't be bothered explaining the concept to some philistine. Instead, he just typed ‘100,000,000 roubles’, thinking that would discourage her. Then he closed his laptop, put on his Spiderman pyjamas and went to bed.
In the middle of the night, three men burst into his hotel room. Norbert woke up just in time to smell the chloroform on the rag shoved into his face. When he came to, he was sitting up, blindfolded and gagged, with his hands tied in front of him. He was in a car, travelling fast. He could hear the roar of the engine and the occasional squeal of tyres. The car slowed down, turned right and stopped. He was dragged out into the cold night air and marched across cobblestones, his bare feet slipping on the damp stones. He stubbed his toe when they went up some steps. A door creaked and slammed behind them. Then they went down a flight of wooden stairs and through another door. The blindfold was ripped off. A spotlight dazzled him. He felt like a rabbit, frozen in the hunter’s sights.
A man’s voice roared out of the darkness, just to the right of the light. ‘So you want to own some valuable Russian real estate? Well, we would like to help you to do that! Unfortunately Kremlin is not available, but you can have your own private corner of Lubyanka.’
Harsh cruel laughter echoed around the room. Another voice croaked, ‘Do you know why they say Lubyanka is tallest building in Moscow?’
‘Because from cellar you can see Siberia!’ snarled another, and more demoniac mirth erupted. Norbert didn’t get the joke. He had heard of the Lubyanka, but he couldn't remember what it was famous for. If he could only explain to these men that it was all an innocent misunderstanding and that he had a flight to catch the next day, surely they would let him go.
The first man barked, ‘Who are you working for?’
‘I work for Real Deal Real Estate, but I'm on holiday at the moment.’
That answer did not satisfy them. They grilled him for hours, then threw him into an unfurnished room with white walls and no windows. There was no sound except a constant loud electric hum. It seemed to come from the bare light bulb that never went off. It was impossible to sleep. From time to time some disgusting swill was shoved through a flap in the door. Hours passed, maybe days. One thought connected him to the outside world, painful though it was: what would they be saying about him at the office?
***
Megan was saying, ‘Look Steve, I didn’t want Norbert to get the sack. I’ve got nothing against him; I just wanted him to stop bugging me with all that kinky innuendo.’
‘Honestly Megan, I didn’t sack him, I just told him to go and get some counselling. And to take a break if he thought that would help, which in the end he agreed to do. He was supposed to be back at work today. I’ve rung his mother, but she hasn’t heard from him since the middle of last week.’
‘Gee, maybe you should call the police.’
‘Actually, they rang about half an hour ago and asked if he worked here. When I said he did, they said not to worry, they were looking into it.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Yeah, I thought it was a bit odd.’
Meanwhile Norbert’s writing had provoked lively discussion in literary circles. He had been hailed as the pioneer of a new style called ‘estate realism’. Rumours of his detention had gained traction after being officially denied. PEN and Amnesty had taken up his case, and three Nobel Prize winners had signed a letter to the President of Russia, calling for his release.
Meanwhile the FSB continued to interrogate him using sleep deprivation and truth serum, but finally concluded that he wasn’t a threat to national security and transferred him to a prison for common criminals. It too was cold and spartan, what little food he received was inedible, and the guards were brutal. But at least they let him sleep at night and go out into the courtyard for a couple of hours each day.
One day a guard growled something at him. Vassiley, his cellmate, translated for him.
‘Visitor. You have visitor.’ Norbert followed the guard to the visitors’ room, but saw nobody he recognised. A tall blonde woman with a bulky shoulder bag smiled at him and sat down at a long table. He sat down on a rickety wooden chair opposite her.
‘Mister Norbert?’
‘Yes, that's me.’
‘My name is Svetlana. I am also a writer, of sorts. I have brought you food and books.’
‘For me? Why?’
‘I admire your work, as do others. With your permission, I would like to translate some of your poems into Russian.’
‘Really? Sure, I mean, that’s great! But what’s going to happen to me?’
‘Have courage! We are working for your release. We will find a good lawyer for you.’
The visit was soon over, but Norbert felt more optimistic and eagerly devoured the cheese, sausage and rye bread that Svetlana had brought him. Three days later a lawyer did come and discuss the charges against Norbert. The prosecution’s case against Norbert was flawed and the evidence largely circumstantial. However, contesting it would prolong the proceedings, during which time Norbert would have to remain in prison. Sergei recommended that he plead guilty but with extenuating circumstances, in which case there were good prospects for a non-custodial sentence and the soonest possible release from the somewhat less than salubrious conditions in which Norbert found himself. Norbert agreed to this stratagem. In the meantime he tried to keep busy. He learnt a little Russian and began to take an interest in the real estate pages of the local newspapers that he came across.
Three months later he faced the court. The judge found him guilty but took into consideration the fact that no money had changed hands and gave him a suspended sentence. Pale and gaunt, Norbert stepped out into the feeble spring sunshine and a barrage of questions from the journalists assembled in front of the courthouse. He stood there, speechless with bewilderment, until Svetlana grabbed his arm and guided him to a waiting taxi.
The next day he was at a cocktail party in London, being lionised by the literati. But amid the rapier wit and the ambient groove, the shouts of the guards still echoed in his ears and blinding lights glared from his martini. He excused himself and retreated to the rest room to wrestle with his demons. From that titanic struggle emerged the first draft of what most critics now consider his finest work: Lubyanka.
OWN A PIECE OF HISTORY!
This prestige property has been meticulously maintained and is ideal for the security-conscious owner-occupier or the prudent investor looking for a low-maintenance asset. Extremely private, it blends cleverly configured layouts and storage solutions with quality finishes and a heritage facade. Steeped in history and oozing character, this property will not stay on the market long, so act fast!
Peter Tonkin
Lakemba, NSW
The Deadly Game
Blackheath, NSW
He was still in the house. I could not see him. I could not hear him, but I just knew he was still there. It was like some sixth sense. Call it a feeling in my gut or call it whatever you like but it had saved me a number of times before.
I stood just behind my bedroom door, straining all my senses, trying to pick up the slightest noise or vibration. Was he just outside the door in the hallway, or had he retreated further into the house?
The pistol was cold and heavy in my right hand. I adjusted my grip and took up more pressure on the trigger.
I glanced back at the bed where I had been asleep just moments before. The evidence of his two shots was plainly visible as dark marks on the whiteness of my pillow. I had been very lucky. They had missed my head by mere millimetres as I had thrown myself sideways at the last moment. Being a light sleeper had saved me once before. He was good though, and so he should be, as I had trained him myself. I had not heard his approach until it was almost too late. In my younger days I would have been aware of his presence before he had even entered the room.
I stood as still as possible for what seemed like an eternity. No sound except for the creaking of the house as the sun rose further and warmed the tiles on the roof.
There was no choice; I had to go out through the door. I could not wait any longer. So taking a deep breath, and keeping as low as possible I jumped out into the hallway. There were only two ways that I could face first, either left or right. I chose right as that way the hallway led deeper into the house.
Nothing. The hallway was empty. I swung around as fast as I could but the other way was also empty. So far, so good.
I again waited to see if I could hear anything. The crash of a garbage tin lid in the laneway beside the house made me jump and half turn towards it before I realised what it was.
Nothing! So I began to slowly make my way down the hall towards the kitchen. Trying to remember my training from all those years ago I moved my weapon from side to side and kept it extended, gripped in both hands, in front of me. I knew that ten years of retirement and soft living had slowed me down but I still felt the adrenalin pumping and the same old excitement coursing through me.
Pausing just outside the open entrance into the kitchen, I again tried to listen to see if I could detect any movement inside or even the sound of his breathing.
Hearing nothing I stepped inside. It was only a small kitchen with a breakfast bar that opened onto a family living area. There was no one there.
Then I heard it. Just a slight scratching sound that came from behind the breakfast bar. I strained my ears but the sound was gone. Had I really heard it, or were my nerves getting the better of me? Then it came again, slightly louder this time. He must be crouched down behind the bar. It was only about waist high and extended halfway across, dividing the two areas.
Had he heard me enter the room? Was he waiting for me to make a move or was he going to suddenly leap up and fire hoping to catch me off guard?
I could not remain where I was. I had to make a move. I really only had two options, retreat or attack. What to do?
Before I realised that I had made a decision I was in motion. Three quick steps and I was around the end of the breakfast bar. There was a blur of movement and I fired. It was the cat. I had shot my Persian cat.
Cursing myself for having given away my position I was about to turn around when I heard the door of the pantry behind me crash open.
I knew I would be too slow and that it was hopeless but began to turn anyway. I was not more than half way around when the shot hit me full in the back.
He laughed and said, ‘I got you good that time, Grandad.’ Then he fired his water pistol at me again.
Alice
Petersham, NSW
When last I saw her
She was garbed in arid brown
Parched clay below the fissured skin
Dark veins describing where the lifeblood ran
Across her dried up body long ago
No plants to decorate or soften
She was dying
Drought can do this
And now today
She wears a gown of shimmering green
Displays sly glimpses of red flesh beneath
Bright silver streams cascade along
Slaking the thirsty earth on either side
Wild flowers flaunt as sequins to her dress
She is arisen
Flood can do this
The Game
Wentworth Falls, NSW
Now look, I don’t want to monopolise your time,
And it’s true that my words are often in a scrabble.
Ok ... I got a bit tiddly; winking at all the girls,
Sometimes, I haven’t got a clue; do not believe all the babble—
I come out with, and really there’s no need to check, mate.
This is not just a trivial pursuit; I’m deadly serious about junk too,
I’m prone to the domino effect, a house of cards and fate ...
Decrees I slip down ladders and climb up snakes, try kung fu
That I learnt from the Chinese; chequered career though it may be,
Perhaps I don’t need to pass—go on, tell me what you reckon.
Don’t be cryptic, a cross word won’t upset this baby,
My ace of spades has been trumped, a new deck on ...
The table, but I’m snookered; the balls won’t drop.
I’d jump through hoops my sweet croquet … or is it coquette?
When you get to the bottom of the helter skelter—climb to the top.
Life is a slippery dip ride, a see-saw—what’s the etiquette?
Fifteen love and it’s your serve; I’ll just putt for par,
My last bowl was a toucher, it’s so good to kiss the jack.
Nothing like a bullseye and a fresh drink from the bar,
And I haven’t lost my marbles, they’re rolling ‘round in back.
What’s the game we’re playing—Pokémon or yahtzee?
It’s a bit like playing twister, with your sister, on the carpet.
Spin the bottle or tic tac toe, Truth or Dare? And lastly ...
Backgammon or Baccarat, I’ll try to bridge—or I’ll forfeit.
On Waking
Uarbry, NSW
You came and sat beside me;
You touched my face and warmed me;
You told me that you loved me;
You embraced me and you healed me.
Then I awoke.
I will never sit beside you;
I will never feel your touch;
I’ll not hear a loving word from you;
And I will not be healed.
Why must I awake?
Pirates
Lawson, NSW
He’d been popping pirates off the horizon for twenty-four hours
from the 12th floor flat of a beach fronted friend
waiting for the rain to stop
his mum in a sleep deprived stupor
tossing words in the sheets, astir
the sun came out
as if to mock them kindly of all their fears
and they walked right across the sand to the sea
a small boy with his pop-gun tucked into the elastic of his pants
an answer to a never-ending question ‘should I be afraid?’
she stuffs him into his wetsuit
and he runs down to greet the waves, apprehensive and eager
he runs at the water’s edge, along the wings of the waves
pendulum running
punching at the waves, hands clenched, toes flicking up sand in arcs of light
she stands still arms folded, thawing
it’s all there, the beauty of it
she speaks aloud ‘it’s a beautiful day’
the words sound empty and she knows they’re not
they ask her;
do you ever run just for the sake of running
try it, down on the beach with a small boy
take your hands out of your pocket
and your eyes off the surface of the waves made more liquid by the silvery sun
and run
all the while
a three masted ship full sail moving slowly north over the horizon.
Molly’s Gift
Faulconbridge, NSW
My name is Molly Davies and when I was a young child, I was taken by dogs—scared the bejesus out of my mother.
This is how she tells it.
I was a happy little baby who would just sit on the floor and play with blocks and teddies and things. ‘No trouble,’ she says with a dopey look. My dad rolls his eyes at this point.
So there I was sitting on my rug gurgling to myself, when Mum went out the back to hang out some washing.
We have a pretty normal type suburban Aussie house. It’s the same shape as many others I have seen, as if somebody, somewhere decided that is how a house should look this decade. It has a front door opening onto a living area, open plan around the corner to the teeny tiny kitchen. There is a sliding door nearly opposite the large front window, so if the curtains are open, or in the wash, you can see right through. You can take a circuit through the kitchen, the laundry and back to the living area again. Then if you turn around you go down a corridor to find your three bedrooms and bathroom. I have been in so many houses like this all over the country. If you woke up in the night, you could always find the bathroom in the dark.
So, I’m in the little area off the kitchen, Mum’s out the back and Dad’s ... well, who knows where he is … when the doorbell rings.
Max starts barking at the door. Max was our lovely hound dog. He was really very pretty for a boy with plenty of eyeliner around his big brown eyes. Mum named him after Max Factor, but Dad always said he was named after Max Gillies.
It’s late summer and the front door is open with the screen door closed for flies, but nobody ever could decide if the screen door was locked that day. Mum comes tearing through from the back yard to get the door. I don’t know who she thought was going to be so exciting. If it was anybody we really knew she’d have known they were coming and just called out to them to go around the back.
As soon as she opens the door she sees there is nobody there. She swears she saw them through the fly screen. Then, when she turns around to talk to me—I’m gone!
Well, all hell breaks loose at this point. This is where Dad starts to look a bit sheepish as he missed most of the action. Mum is calling out looking under the furniture, checking all the rooms and even looking in places I couldn’t possibly have got into. Mum loves telling me this, but she always maintains it’s the scariest thing ever, to not know where your child has gone.
Next she calls around to the neighbours’ and gets Mrs Johnson involved. They are looking in the all the same places they have already looked when Mrs J goes into the garden and calls Max. When he comes trotting over to greet her, she asks him ‘Where’s Molly?‖ Max just goes and lies down at the front of his kennel. Mum says he’s a useless hound, but Mrs J, she comes up to Max and crouches down and when she looks past him, she can see me in the kennel holding a piece of fabric.
After mum and Mrs J have settled down and enjoyed a restorative cup of tea they begin to wonder how I got there and where the piece of fabric came from. The fabric was like a silk handkerchief in the most amazing colour of green. The weirdest thing was that it was embroidered MD for my name. To this day Mum is still speculating. It’s not as if I could remember at all.
The time line is all wrong, she insists. There wasn’t time for me to crawl there. Nobody came past her at the washing line. She certainly doesn’t think Max was strong enough to carry me. So there I am—a child of mystery.
So we come to my fifteenth birthday when I discovered my gift.
I had some girlfriends around. We ate cake, sang along to CDs and talked about boys at school and boys in bands. When it was time to go, Sui Lin was really upset as she couldn’t find her new iPod and her parents would be so mad at her if she lost it.
We all looked through the house, especially my room and the garden where we had done most of our socialising.
Just before Sui Lin’s parents were due to arrive, I heard someone suggest that we look down the back of my sunlounge in the sunroom. So I rushed off to check and sure enough, it was there.
Sui Lin was so happy and wanted to know how I thought to look there. She had only sat there for a second to drink some squash while we were mucking around outside. I told her someone had suggested it, but we couldn’t work out who it was.
Later that night, as I snuggled up on my bed with my whippet Rudi, I heard her say, ‘That was a fun party; can we do it every year?’
So, that is my gift. I hear dogs. Nobody else in my family does this and they all think I’m bonkers, but not in a bad way. I don’t have the kind of parents who will rush me off to the psych office or the counsellor for hearing dogs. After all, they reckon in every other regard I’m quite normal, even rather useful.
I only wish I had known about the gift a little earlier. I would have loved to have asked Max about the day we had a visit from my Fairy Dogmother.
Bushfire Battlefield
Chisolm, ACT
At first just a haze on the horizon
as if some stockman
was driving a mob of cattle home.
Then the rumbling thunder of the guns,
the army in the sky,
the sappers tunnelling through clouds
in their sun coloured disguise.
The echoing hooves of
Hell’s cavalry, with
molten gold breastplates shining,
starting up scarlet clouds of dust.
Leaping and slashing,
flickering swords
routing all in their path
leaving behind
only scorched earth and
rivers full of heaven’s blood.
Distorted shapes and despairing residents,
ill-prepared, ill-equipped defenders
of blackened skeletons
crucified along the skyline,
Acrid smoke in one’s nostrils,
emptiness in what’s left of life.
She
Downer, ACT
I know that when the years are draped around her
she will shear off her ocean of hair, dark and sweet as
molasses, or her perfume.
A vision of seduction preserved,
she will sip scotch
(neat, she’ll say with a wink, a touch of the hand)
and slyly, sidelong, whisper
odd snippets, non-sequiturs and unsettling propositions
to uncertain young men.
She will suck on her dark chocolate laughter and watch
as they sidle away politely, the punch-lines of her little joke.
I will laugh with her later,
impressed by her bravado, the carelessness
of children, or nudists,
because I will always fear
the laughter of strangers.
Caterpillar’s Crusade
Blackheath, NSW
I've come to understand of late
How caterpillars navigate:
With down right course and sense of candor,
And just a touch of mere meander,
They plot their course from shrub to bush
From end to end they seem to push,
Each prods the comrade next in line
While pushed as hard by one behind,
In single file, from first to latter,
A fuzzy, rippling piece of tatter.
Now, a caterpillar's walk perceived
Is more than odd, I must concede;
Hindmost parts with speed propel
But front and middle do not well
Keep pace, and so with consequence
(It seems such blatant common sense),
To arch the back and then lie straight,
And continue this ungainly gait,
Until the journey's reached its end;
Its wrinkled body’s bound to bend.
Now one fine day I did behold
This caterpillars’ legend told,
Full garden-wide to old and young
In colloquial larvae mother tongue;
Of derring-do so fraught with danger
Between the hawthorn and hydrangea -
The darkest tale of feared expanse
(It's beyond pre-pupae cognisance
To understand a thoroughfare);
Just who would risk the perils there?
That fateful day the vanguards came
To firm the line and fix the aim,
And in their wake, the surging cluster,
The eager throng; it pressed to muster.
Indeed it was a grand event
When from the shadows forth they went,
And each took hold of the behind
Of the fellow next in line,
With rumba rhythm at half pace
They ventured out across the waste.
In Indian file their ranks extended,
From curb to curb as first intended,
With tandem form so well deployed,
They could do nothing to avoid
The car with growl malevolent
Announcing timely mal-intent -
There was no time to run for cover
Or offer aid to one another -
And on the brave, besplattered dead
Were epitaphs of Dunlop tread.
The cry went up, a silent shout,
Felt more within than heard without:
‘Hey, Joe's been hit! And Marty too!
And over there—can that be Hugh?!
So many mates that devil slew—
Come, there's nothing now that we can do!!’
And with no mind for devastation
Or indeed, resuscitation,
They rearranged and consummated
That at outset contemplated.
So when the legend’s now retold,
In glory-glow of deeds so bold,
Wide-eyed larvae thrill to hear
Of how that monster hovered near,
And when by evil overtaken
All forged ahead, resolve unshaken;
Then voices praise the glorious dead,
And none will weep or hang a head,
For all hold dear with admiration,
That light of lights: determination.
Cathy Tanaka
Blackheath, NSW
Cathy wrote this poem after watching caterpillars on a mid-summer’s day
Plaster Angel
Dubbo, NSW
I never believed in angels. Not until I met Carissa. She was standing on the footbridge that led over the freeway into town. She seemed to watch me from the moment I set foot on the bridge. As I drew nearer I saw how expressionless she was. How lifeless. Like an amazing toy whose batteries had become flattened. When I was within speaking distance, she gave a half smile from beneath the curly fringe that dangled impracticably before her eyes, and she seemed to spark back to life again.
‘Are you smart?’ she said. ‘You look smart. I need help with maths.’
I'd seen her at school before. She was a year or so below me and we had never spoken. I never saw her speaking to anyone much. I hated maths, but I said, ‘Sure. I'll help you out.’
We arranged to meet the next day at her house on the outskirts of town. It was big. One of those old homesteads with the verandas that surround three sides of the building, but internally, it had been brutally divided into two. Carissa told me that another family lived in the other half of the house, but they never came outside. She thought they were serial killers.
‘The house is quiet,’ I said.
‘The olds are at church. They're looking for something to fill the void inside them.’ She picked up a plaster statue of Mary from the mantel above the fireplace. ‘Look how lifeless she is. God, I hate church. It'd take more than sermons and wishful thinking to fill the void in me.'
She never got around to pulling her maths books out. Instead, she showed me her music collection—thirty or so CDs of light rock. A couple of Christian bands. I’m not sure why I expected something heavier. The denim jacket with the obscure patches, perhaps. Beneath it she wore a grey singlet and black leggings that hugged her contours. It was her eyes that drew me in, though, hiding behind those too-long locks. Especially when we sat by the river, with the bright autumn sunlight illuminating every colour in her irises. Blue. Green. Brown. Yellow. The only thing that threatened to spoil the image was the sight of my reflection, with its nose fish-lensed into a bulbous eyesore. To stop her from looking at me, I leaned in to kiss her.
When our lips finally parted she said, ‘Some people are afraid of dying.'
‘Most people, probably.’
‘I'm bulimic. My mum thinks it’s my way of committing suicide. Really slowly. She doesn't understand anything about it. Or about me. I’m not afraid of dying, but when I go, I’ll probably want to go quickly.’
Carissa told me that she was all that remained of her mother’s brief, horrible first marriage. Her father lived in a flat in the centre of town, but never ventured any further than the small supermarket a block away. And the pub on the adjacent corner.
‘Do you visit him?’
‘Sometimes. I knock quietly. If he hears me, he’s probably not drunk. Otherwise I just leave him alone.’
Late one night I was awakened by a tap at my window. I raised the curtain to see her huddled in her denim jacket, peering through her hair. I quietly opened the window for her to slide in, but she asked me to go for a walk with her instead.
‘I can’t sleep. Hope you don’t mind.’
It was so cold that I wore my ugg boots and footy scarf. It was the first time I had taken them out of the house since I got them. I didn’t know where we were going, but she hardly spoke, and something told me not to complain about the cold or my tiredness.
Half an hour later, we were on the footbridge over the freeway. A few, sparse head lights flashed beneath us. The wind bit through my jacket, and even my
toes stung from the cold. Carissa faced the wind with squinting eyes, her locks swept back from her forehead. It was more prominent than I had realised.
‘Remember when we first met?’ she said. She had to say it twice for me to hear her over the wind.
‘Of course I do. It was only a couple of months ago. On this bridge. I never expected to meet someone like you.'
‘Like me? Who do you think I am?’ I could barely distinguish the words that escaped her mouth, it was trembling so much from the cold.
I took my scarf and tried to wrap it around her neck, but she fought it from me and threw it. The wind carried it away and it caught on a post a few metres downwind. I raced to collect it before it vanished in the darkness and when I turned back to Carissa, she was standing on the hand railing, legs trembling like those of a new born foal. She looked over her shoulder at me and almost lost her balance. For a moment her legs stabilised, and she stood as motionless as that statue of Mary. She looked at me and her plaster eyes seemed to say goodbye. Then she fell.
I saw a pair of elegant dove like wings magically unfold from her back, lifting her into the air. She smiled down at me, with a look of satisfaction as though her mission on this earth had been completed. I searched inside me to find the lesson she had imparted. I knew it was there, somewhere in that void inside me. A void that I had never even noticed before. It had to be there. It had to.
Tyres squealed below.
David Stein
Dubbo, NSW
Childhood Dream
Blackheath, NSW
Cootamundra, my home town,
My childhood memories still abound ...
Precious times, with childhood dreams,
Of rolling hills and flowing streams ...
Riding bikes, and climbing hills,
Enjoying life, with all its thrills ...
Dancing, music, being free,
Laughing, crying, finding me ...
Mother, Father, family and friends,
Hoping life will never end ...
Memories full of colour too,
Blossoms pink, and sky so blue ...
Summers hot and winters cold,
The wattle's yellow, bright and bold ...
Alas, my childhood now has gone,
But memories always linger on ...
My family life was full of love,
Hand down from God above ...
Now that life seems far away,
But the memories still stay ...
Now and then I wander back,
Still looking for those things I lack ...
Looking for my childhood dreams,
For nothing now is what it seems ...
My children now are growing tall,
They turn to me, and ask me all ...
I hope their childhood dreams come true,
For them there's still so much to do ...
Hang onto your childhood dreams,
Your memories of flowing streams ...
Memories of life, love and more,
Go live your dreams, open life’s door ...
The Tribunal
Blaxcell, NSW
Part 1: The Portal
Zyrin stared at the teleportation portal. It didn’t look very impressive: it was a large, grey, rectangular box with indicator lights and an LED screen. He slid the door open. There were circuit boards and wiring covering every wall, hinting at the complex science behind it.
A sign nearby read: ‘This teleportation device has been used by the Australian Space Exploration Program for the last ten years. It is routinely used to send scientists to the Microbial Research Centre on Mars.’ A 3D video showed a space-suited scientist stepping inside and closing the door. The lights flashed briefly and the door re-opened to show that the scientist was gone. That was it. No footage of the research centre or the scientist returning.
Zryin went over to the information booth, which was staffed by a gangly, pimply-faced boy who looked about 15 years old.
‘How does it work?’ Zyrin said.
‘A return ticket is 5000 credits. You can go to the International Space Station and stay half an hour. You can’t go to Mars. It’s closed to the public,’ the kid recited in a bored tone.
‘But how does it work from a technical point of view?’ As a journalist, Zyrin needed to know the facts.
The kid shrugged. ‘I just sell tickets.’
‘Ever tried it yourself?’
‘Nah, you have to be over 18.’
A middle-aged couple approached, holding hands.
‘Two tickets, please,’ the woman said. Judging from her expensive clothes, jewellery and watch, the price wouldn’t be of concern to her. The attendant stamped her and her husband’s hands with a holographic ASEP logo. They entered the portal and stood inside a white circle painted on the floor. The woman looked nervous, but excited.
‘Can’t believe we’re doing this,’ her husband muttered.
The door slid closed and the screen showed ‘IN USE’. Indicator lights flashed on and off three times. There was no sound. After a few minutes, the screen displayed ‘READY’.
Zyrin sat down on a bench nearby and waited. Many people walked past. Some paused to look at the portal or read the sign, but nobody bought tickets. Finally, the device beeped and the screen changed to ‘IN USE’ again. Then the door slid open and the middle-aged couple emerged, beaming.
Zyrin went over to them. ‘Zyrin, blogger for Wired In. What was it like?’
‘Amazing!’ the woman said. ‘The station’s so big—I couldn’t believe it. And the view! The Earth looks like a giant globe.’
‘Quite remarkable,’ her husband mumbled. ‘Never seen anything like it.’
‘What did the teleportation feel like?’ Zyrin said.
‘Do you know, I don’t even remember it,’ the woman said. ‘One moment we were here and the next, we were there.’
‘Didn’t feel a thing,’ the man said.
Zyrin had been studying them, trying to find some clue as to what had happened to them, but they looked and sounded exactly the same as they had before. The woman smiled at him and they walked away, hand in hand.
There was only one way to find out what it was like. Zyrin went over to the booth and bought a ticket using his corporate credit card. His editor might cringe at the expense, but a story like that would attract new readers. Many reporters had written about the device, but as far as he knew, none had actually tried it. The attendant stamped his hand. He stepped inside the portal and the door automatically slid shut.
‘Stand still in the middle of the circle,’ a recorded voice said. ‘Scanning is about to commence.’
A screen on the wall lit up, showing another box-like portal in a large, bare white room, presumably on the International Space Station. There was no other visual clue that anything was happening. However, a faint humming noise emanated from the circuits on the walls.
A glint of silver caught Zyrin’s eye. It was a watch lying outside of the circle. It looked expensive. Hadn’t the woman had one just like it? Yet she’d still been wearing it when she left. He reached down and picked it up.
‘Synchronisation error,’ the voice said. ‘Please stand still in the middle of the circle. Restarting scan.’
‘Stop! I’ve changed my mind. Let me out.’ Zyrin tugged at the door. It didn’t budge. He pounded on it and shouted, ‘Help!’
‘Scanning complete. Deconstruction commencing,’ the voice said.
Zryin grabbed the nearest bundle of wires and pulled. They came loose with a shower of sparks.
‘Hardware error X2198B,’ the voice said. ‘Unable to process command. Aborting.’
The humming died away and everything was silent. Zyrin was reaching for the door again when movement on the wall screen caught his eye. The door to the
space station portal had slid open. Someone stepped out—himself! An identical clone, wearing similar clothes and dangling a silver watch from its hand. Zyrin watched in horror as it walked across the room.
The door to Zryin’s portal slid open and he found himself face to face with two serious-looking men in dark suits. The ASEP logo was embroidered on their jackets.
‘What’s going on here?’ one of them said.
‘Look,’ Zyrin gabbled, pointing at the wall screen. The clone had stepped out of sight. ‘It was me—it created me—but it’s not me—’
‘Did you vandalise this device?’ The ASEP agent looked at the dangling wires.
‘It wouldn’t stop—it wouldn’t let me out—’
‘Damaging government property is a serious offence. Come with us.’
The two agents grabbed Zyrin’s arms and dragged him out, ignoring his protests. They hustled him towards a car waiting at the kerb. He struggled futilely, still trying to understand what had happened.
Part 2: The Right to Life Tribunal
‘The tribunal is now in session,’ a robed attendant said.
Zyrin stood on one of a number of white pillars rising from the floor of an enormous, domed chamber. His lawyer (actually, Wired In’s) stood on a pillar near him fiddling with her portable computer. An ASEP lawyer glared at him from across the chamber. Three judges sat in chairs on the tallest pillars in the middle, rotating slowly as a group. Only the head judge looked old enough to be respectable. The other two looked like they were barely out of high school. They all wore dull grey robes.
The public gallery was empty apart from a cluster of ASEP executives in expensive-looking suits. Nobody from Wired In had turned up.
The head judge said, ‘Counsel for the Australian Space Exploration Program, please state your case.’ Her shrill voice echoed around the chamber. Her tanned, lined face bore an inscrutable expression.
The ASEP lawyer’s pillar slowly rose to the same level as the judges’. ‘Kolmogorov, representing ASEP, your honours. The facts are as follows: on day 154 of this year, the person of interest, Zyrin, while in Sydney, Australia, purchased a ticket for the device known as the ‘portal’, currently being used to access the International Space Station …’
Zyrin glanced at Tereda. She was studying her computer screen intently and didn’t appear to be paying attention.
Kolmogorov continued. ‘Due to Zyrin’s wilful vandalism of the device—’
‘I object,’ Tereda said, her pillar rising suddenly. Evidently, she had been listening after all. ‘The alleged vandalism is a matter for a criminal court to decide. y client has not been charged with, or convicted of, this offence.’ Her pillar sank again.
‘Upheld,’ the head judge said.
‘Due to a technical malfunction—’ Kolmogorov said, glaring at Tereda, ‘—the process was not completed and extraneous genetic and other material remained in the device. Two ASEP security guards later discovered it.’
Zyrin realised, with a shock, what he meant by ‘extraneous genetic material’. ‘You can’t call me that! I’m a person!’
‘Please refrain from addressing the tribunal directly,’ the head judge said. ‘All comments must be directed through your lawyer.’
Tereda’s pillar slowly rose again. ‘Could you explain the teleportation process to the tribunal?’
Kolmogorov pressed a button on his computer. The circular wall around the chamber lit up with a diagram: numerous boxes and lines annotated with mathematical formulae and acronyms. Zyrin stared at it in bewilderment.
‘This box represents the device on Earth,’ Kolmogorov said, as a red dot appeared on the screen. ‘And this is the device on the International Space Station. The transmitting device uses proprietary technology to scan a user’s DNA and encode it in digital form.’
Zryin glanced around the chamber. The ASEP executives were studying the diagram intently, as if somehow they could understand it all.
‘The data is transmitted through space using Speed of Light Transfer Protocol—SOLTP. It’s not literally at the speed of light but it’s close—’
‘We’ve all heard of it. Move along,’ the youngest judge said impatiently. He didn’t look much like a judge. He had green and blue tufted hair and a seahorse tattoo on his cheek.
‘The receiving device reconstructs the user and their clothing and belongings using atomic matter stored in a tank under the floor. The process is commercially classified, so I can’t provide any further details.’
Tereda said, ‘And what happens to the user in the transmitting device?’
‘The cellular material is no longer needed, so it’s deconstructed and stored in the tank there for future use.’
‘That’s murder!’ Zyrin shouted. ‘You’re not teleporting people, you’re killing them!’
‘You must not address the tribunal except through your lawyer,’ the head judge said impassively. ‘This is your second warning.’
Tereda spoke again. ‘From the information you’ve given us, counsel, it appears this is a replication device rather than a teleportation device. Is that correct?’
‘You could say that,’ Kolmogorov admitted. ‘It is scientifically impossible, at this time, to transmit physical matter through space and recreate it. Therefore, the device transmits only data.’
‘Yet ASEP calls it ‘teleportation’ in its publicity material. A sign near the device on Earth reads: ―This teleportation device has been used by the Australian Space Exploration Program for the last ten years …’
‘I object, your honours,’ Kolmogorov said. ‘It’s not the tribunal’s responsibility to consider matters of misleading advertising. Counsel should take up that complaint in the relevant court.’
‘Upheld,’ the head judge said.
Tereda studied the notes on her computer, looking flustered. ‘My client informs me that he became suspicious when he discovered an object inside the device that had belonged to the last user. It appears to have been replicated but not deconstructed. Could you explain how that occurred?’
‘I believe that was due to an unrelated technical problem. That will be subject to a separate investigation.’
An ASEP executive slowly rose on his pillar in the public gallery. ‘Your honours, we developed the portal fifteen years ago, and it has saved us significant time and money. We can send a scientist to the research centre on Mars in a matter of minutes whereas it would take months by spaceship.’
‘But you’re not sending them. That’s the point,’ Zryin muttered.
The head judge frowned at him.
The third judge looked at the ASEP executive thoughtfully while rotating past. He was tall and thin and his red hair was stylishly gelled into a wave. ‘You have only been using the device in your space program for ten years. Were there problems with it?’
The ASEP executive looked uncomfortable. ‘I believe there were a few issues in the early stages of development.’
‘Were there any situations like the current one? The user being left behind in the transmitting device instead of being ‘deconstructed’?’
‘Not that I know of. The problems were to do with data being mutated or lost.’
‘So those users died?’
‘Your honours,’ Kolmogorov said. ‘The people who participated in the early experiments knew the risks and gave their informed consent. We have video footage and signed documents to prove it.’
Tereda spoke up again. ‘But what about members of the public, like my client? Do they understand how the device works? Do they give their informed consent?’
‘The information is available on the ASEP website.’ Kolmogorov touched a button on his computer and the website appeared on the wall screen, with its spaceship logo and ‘Reaching for the Stars’ slogan. He navigated his way through various icons and links until he reached a page labelled ‘Technical Documentation’ then selected ‘Portal Device B783X5c version 522’ from a list. A page appeared with links to 128 documents with titles like ‘Extra-cellular matter analysis by degenerative hydrocarbon spectrography’.
Tereda said, ‘Your honours, I submit that the average member of the public would not find, read or understand these complex technical documents.’
‘The information is available,’ Kolmogorov said stonily. ‘I also submit that it’s common sense that any type of ‘teleportation’ would involve cellular deconstruction and reconstruction. How else could it be done?’
The red-haired judge said, ‘The issue here, as I see it, is that the devices are not reconstructing the same physical material that they deconstructed.’
‘With respect, your honours, it doesn’t matter. The clone is genetically identical to the original.’
Tereda said, ‘Your honours, I would like to show you the clone. He is still at the International Space Station.’ She touched a button on her computer and the image on the wall changed to a small room, painted white, containing a bunk bed and hygiene unit. The Zyrin clone sat on the bed leaning against the wall, looking bored.
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